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The Lullaby"Your hair is really soft." Sophie said from her spot upon his back.
Erik didn't respond. The naga simply continued to lay there, resting his head on his arms which were crossed in front of him.
The air was humid and warm outside, but in the boabab tree, it was a little cooler. Especially for Erik, who was laying on the cool dirt. He was resting, not doing much of anything except listening to his little human talk while she played with his long hair.
"How do you keep it so soft, Erik? I've never seen you take a bath before." she added, rubbing a handful to her face. He barely felt it. She couldn't tell if he was sleeping or not, so she talked anyway, just in case.
"My Aunt Tilly used to tell me how soft my hair was when I was a baby and complain how stringy it is now. I never noticed. I like my hair, even when it's dirty and tangled."
She paused and looked to the entrance of the tree. The light outside was dimming. Soon it would be nightfall and it would be pitch black. She frowned and
Seperate Ways (Part 1)Erik smiled gently down at the tiny girl cuddling into his palm. She looked so cute, being so small. He knew he was more than capable of crushing her with his pinky. The idea of being so powerful made him feel like a god. He was the largest, strongest naga in the land, he had no competition for the best foods and the biggest tracts of land. His strength came from hill-sized muscles and his monumental size. He could take her life away with one careless move.
The huge naga tenderly rubbed her back, his finger pad completely covering her minuscule form. His eyes wandered from his thick, sinewy hand up to his mighty forearm. He lifted it up and laid his great arm against her back. He flexed it a few times, her body moving with the rise and fall of his rippling muscles. Why did he feel so affectionate for something so small? Sophie was only as big as his fingertip. Smaller than most humans he had eaten as a mere bite-sized snack. Yet, he hadn't made a meal out of her?
He rolled onto his sto
Seperate Ways (Part 3)It was growing dark. Sophie hated the dark. Monsters lurked in the dark.
The little girl huddled underneath the tree, her clothes still soaked. The wetness of her clothes made the night seem colder. She shivered and sobbed. She wanted to go home.
Not home to the baobab tree. She had vowed never to go back there. But she remember the life she had before she met Erik. With her Aunt Tilly and Uncle Ester…
They had lived outside the jungle, in the human town. Her aunt and uncle had said that her parents had disappeared long ago when she was four, and no one knew where they went, or if they were still alive. They had taken her in and raised her in their shop, selling wool, fur, and jewelry. Aunt Tilly said their village was built around a trading post. All kinds of creatures came and went in the village. Centaurs, driders, satyrs, harpies…mostly anthros and humans, though.
One night, the shop was being robbed, and the thieves had taken her hostage so the couple wouldn’t
Why we call it a Storage StomachSophie was bored. In fact, she was beyond bored. In the humid mid-day in the swamp, while Erik was napping under a beam of sunshine through the treetops, Sophie was pitifully, dreadfully bored. There wasn’t much to do while her friend was asleep. He didn’t like her leaving the baobab tree, for fear that she would get lost or something. So she was stuck in the hallow to the large tree, with nothing to do.
She had already searched out every nook and crane of the tree, all the secret cracks in the wall, all the underground tunnels made by the roots, every rock already overturned. There was nothing new to do. And she hated it.
Being only a child, Sophie was very lively and playful and fidgety. She couldn’t sit still for more than ten minutes if she could help it. And if she was sitting, she had to be doing something, whether it be yanking up grass or pacing around or humming and swaying to a tune.
She peeked out at Erik every two minutes, to see if he had woken up. He was
Seperate Ways (Part 2)At first, it wasn’t so bad. Sophie had found a nice, pointy stick, and used it as a weapon against anything she came across. The jungle’s swamp was full of all kinds of nasty creatures. Frogs and bugs mostly. Many of the bigger animals left her alone, since she seemed to be too tiny to make a meal out of.
This, unfortunately, made her feel bolder. She strode along, waving her stick, even challenging some things in battle. And that was how she got the attention of Noah.
Noah was taking a nap after just eating two large cranes. His bellies were nice and full, and he was taking a nap on a warm rock, sunbathing himself. He was a smaller naga than Erik, but still large compared to Sophie. She was about as big as his thumb.
The child was prancing around, playing pretend warrior princess, when she ran smack into his mud-colored tail. She scowled and jabbed it with her stick. “Who dares attack Sophie, the warrior princess of the jungle?” she snapped. At first, she thoug
The lost temple / Naga VOREWarning: This story contains vore...don't read if you dislike vore
Maybe, pretending to read newspapers wasn't the best strategy to secretly observe someone, at least not the most creative. I had waited for this guy for almost two hours in this bedraggled restaurant in one of the poorest parts of Manaus. The man I was observing wore a black attire, black hat and black sunglasses. He could have been a special agent in this outfit, but I knew he wasn't. He looked kind of nervous when he came in and looked around, sweat dripping from his forehead. I took another sip from my already warm beer and simply kept watching the guy, who was getting more and more nervous. Then I saw what I was looking for. A metallic suitcase. I raised my hand and waved. The man recognized and slowly stepped towards the small table I was sitting at. "Why so nervous?" I asked smiling and took another sip from my warm beer. He put his hat and his sunglasses down. His head was red like a tomato and full of hot sweat.
Conroy the Frost Naga (vore)Conroy was a 20-year-old frost naga, out sunbathing on a large but smooth boulder. Due to a birth defect, he was unable to maintain his body temperature like other nagas could, and he was literally cold bolded, having cold blood. Because of this, he usually likes to sunbathe like this or cuddle up with other creatures for body heat, trying to warm himself up. His blue scales glisten lovely in the sun, mixed with white scales that were on his under belly. On his left arm near his shoulder he has a blue rose tattoo, something that he can’t remember when and how he got. His hair was snowy white, short and spiky. Though his eyes were closed they were an icy blue, and he was able to see in the dark with them. He yawns, turning onto his stomach since his back was feeling cold, wanting the sun’s rays.
Rika was out at the lake. The feeling of the sun made her smile, but made her sweat as well. She put up an umbrella for some shade, and laid under it with a beaker of pink lemonade b
Un roti de Cupidon"Patron.. je suis pas sûr que ça soit une si bonne idée..."
Un bruissement d'ailes presque froufroutant sur sa gauche le fit se retourner d'un bond, mais il ne put percevoir qu'un bref mouvement du coin de l'oeil. Ils étaient rapides, bien trop rapides. Jamais le vieux ne réussirait. De nouveau ce bruit soyeux, semblable à des ailes de tourterelles, mais bien plus proche. Dans son esprit il pouvait les voir, tournant au dessus de sa tête comme autant de vautours prêts à la curée.
Le bruit assourdi des détonations résonna et tout autour d'Emmanuel une pluie de plumes commença à virevolter tandis que cinq bruits sourds accompagnaient la chute d'autant de corps autour de lui.
"Ramasse les, petit. On a encore du boulot."
Avec une grimace mi admirative, mi dégoûtée, le jeune homme se mit au travail, enfilant des lourds gants de cuir pour se protéger. Son sup
You're Not A PoetYou’re not a poet because of strung words
Together on row upon row again
Of blank verse or perhaps liberal rhyme.
‘Slam’ all you want, other poets wonder;
Your ignorance of couplets a blunder?
Yes! I speak harshly, but it’s no gross crime,
To point with honesty failed verse of thine.
No real poet discards upper case words;
Lets prose crawl on paper like listless worms.
You seek to free verse of those stern letters,
Sever away bleak capital fetters,
But it doesn’t sing of great speech sublime,
Rather, it sneaks of writing in spare time.
Wait! before you throw me in the icy Rhine;
It’s hard to put verse together in rhyme,
To make our dull words sound great all the time,
Hear them ring out loud, like a clear clock’s chime,
Heralding a poet’s summer prime.
Yet the sacred muses weep at your crime;
Your pentameter mangled thick like slime,
The subject not gilded in raiment fine;
Your bold ink font, crystal waters divine
Tastes bitter to the ton
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More