Under Your Feet

CW/tags: Possessiveness, second person, Body horror, Body Writing, Tentacles, Living suit, stalking

A portion of a ship, a segment on ring three. Occantalis herself the bark of this tree.

One lonely little sophont, trudging through the towering forests into the lands below, where deep evergreen bleeds to frigid winter temperatures meant to push those who reside in it to community homes.

This lonely little sophont strays from the path, a not so enjoyable task for a creature growing used to the Compact at last.

Struggle you did, at first you failed, but through patience and kindness you found your own sails.

So through the snow you wander, quiet as you're able to be. Not a feralist exactly, but the blood of a fighter you keep.

Your father, your mother. I've seen them on screens, in the quiet little moments before they found true peace. It was a few clicks to ensure they would be wellness checked next, directing a few lonelier Affini to do what lonely Affini do best.

That leaves you with your friend group, a chosen family indeed. One who wants you to meet them in their home on this winter night dream.

You trudge and you tread, wondering what's wrong recently with your good friend Greg.

He's been such a pal to you, the sweet little creature. But he's been acting a bit odd, a little out of the picture.

One would be surprised what is possible, in our vibrantly vast world. His dreams bloomed and they sprouted, a relationship shuttering into curls.

A little push got him talking, just an innocent little chat. But it's kept him a little busy, nothing at all wrong with that.

But Simon, oh Simon. That silly little androgynous wonder. They've been asking how you've been, sending you message after message to be plundered.

They were just little edits.

Just small enough.

To make you wonder if you really were stable or in a worrying, sodden rut.

And so one by one, day by day. It's not like they left, they didn't go away. They still love you, they tell you so repeatedly. You're merely unsure, a doubt you want exorcized immediately.

It takes a lot of courage for you to call a gathering, to venture to ring three with your confidence shattering.

But now that I see you.

Now that I behold. Each and every crevice withold a story untold. The secrets inside creatures, daily informations to be extracted, yours are quite special. A fact refracted by the fantastic photographic polaroids taken through calm and havoc.

Yes.

My song slows to a stalking whistle, peeking through blinders of ice far below you.

There are framed photos of you, around my office in a belt. It started so quiet, oh so very meek. A polite little check in picking up a dapple of intrigue.

A simple photo I took, to leave you about your day. I've seen how you waddle, practicing for the hour where you may need to run away.

You hold a great many weaknesses, I know it so as you peer up at the blizzard, cordial is the frost as it teethes your skin in shivers.

You do check your tablet, you're unsure why it's locked. It's getting rather cold and your tiny little body is settling into shock.

Now where is that path, you wonder to yourself. I'm afraid it's gone petal, cut out like felt.

No roads await you but one, the trail shadowed by the sun.

Ah, there you are.

Alone in the forest you've been treading by sunlight. But now it's grown dark. It's a good thing too, I don't think light should touch your skin again until the right roots are growing underneath.

Maybe over.

I do like it when my things are decorated properly.

You stumble, yes you do. Small little ones at first but hypothermia sways you with honeyed words. Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll be taking you home.

You finally plant your feet on a sheet of ice that spans an entire lake. It's faint, but you think you might see the cabin of your friend's home on the distance. Just past your current avenue forward.

Besides. This is the Compact. Nothing bad can happen to you.

Definitions are funny little tools aren't they.

The ice is thick, though not as much as it appears. You're cautious anyway, you smart little thing. I'm proud of your cunning, my dear.

I'll caress it soon. Inside that skull that's been hidden away. You've sealed it with a key from me for far too long.

You wobble, putting one step in front of the other. I can't help but wonder if you've seen media about this situation the peculiar way you advance. There's very little in the way of crossing you're doing at any reasonable speed, but you are being so very careful.

Bit by bit you shuffle along, the ice below you crackling like the campfire you want so badly to see.

You feel the crack early enough that you step back, only to realize it spread outwards. There's no clear path forward, so you turn to your side only to find the ice is equally sheet thin.

Behind you too. The way you came, as well.

You call for help.

Nobody can hear you, of course. I've made sure of it. That is my music box after all, I will be the only one to hear it.

I'll make sure of it.

The ice cracks beneath you again and you desperately call for help.

I'll help you. I'll always be here to help you.

I've carefully strung this day out. At first it was subtle little string pulls to postpone all your favorite activities away from today. You went to so many things yesterday, I watched.

I have a magnificent scrapbook now of all the moments you thought you were being watched. You look so cute when you're afraid, by the way. I'll tell you all about it while I'm petting you tonight.

But today, today your friends were free.

They invited you.

You think they're waiting, don't worry dear. They're not. They already got the notification you've been domesticated.

If only they knew you were a stones throw away from their home.

Thank the Everbloom they don't.

The ice splits and you fear for your life. You jump for it, and in that split second you see me.

A radiating wenge light encompasses under your feet.

Where I wait.

Where I watch.

I love you.

I need you.

You hit the ice and for a reason I cannot fathom attempt to scrape away from me. My murky vine has already sifted oh so gently through the water. You kick and thrash, I so softly caress your exposed ankle.

A shutter passes through my undergrowth. Oh how your flesh reminds me of the first time my implant sample touched an independents neck.

The way they smiled when they learned what the Affini even were warmed my core.

The water is cold and you scream for your life, knowing that down under the waves one way or another the life you currently live will end.

My roots violate the boundaries you might have tried to set had I asked for your time at a cafe.

Your screams ricochet off of the ice as I pull you deeper into the water, rather than off the walls of a bedroom.

There's cold, where there is usually warmth.

You'll be warm soon.

You take a deep breath, finding your body dragged below the surface while more of my roots explore your frigid body. This is my first time touching you while you are awake, and it is unlike anything reality has ever offered me.

Your supple flesh yields under my touch, I take my time to explore you while the darkness advances across your flesh. I envy it's encompassing lust, plan to surpass it, even.

Your body is far more capable than I deem acceptable, and whilst I wish to snap the bones that would allow you to swim I wish not to inflict that kind of pain.

No, you'll come to me.

By choice.

A flower surges upwards, latching onto your mouth. You fight it at first, before you realize there's pure oxygen running through.

I'm sure to wait until you take a deep breath before I take it off, holding the flower just a little closer to my central trimmings.

We both watch the lake freeze overtop.

You might already feel that sinking feeling, that the temperature above has dropped to unsafe levels. Even if you did float back up, nothing habitable is left for you.

Quite a fitting metaphor.

Everything else will be like that soon.

You're running out of air again.

You know where to get it.

Come get your air.

You fight against it. After all, you don't know what's going on. One minute you were dead focused on a game night. Now you think you're drowning.

Look me in the fascinators I sculpted just for you while you slept. I modeled them after your eyes, you know. I think they're the most beautiful gemstones I've ever created. You'd cry if it was a function you could control. You're quickly losing that.

I won't give it back.

You float closer, survival instincts that my kind have long tamed in yours driving you to an established source of safety. I give you so little air.

It's a puff. At best.

Come now, take another.

You swim closer. You take another hit.

Closer.

Another hit.

Closer.

My roots have your ankles.

Another hit.

Down, down, down.

You know you swim to the point of no return but what rationale could there be for turning around? Your brain is in survival mode. You fawn for me, your body temperature freezes, you fight for survival. Death is bad, yes. You don't want to die, not that you would anywho. I will never let you go. I'll never let you leave.

Your life might have turned out different, on another ship. Maybe if I hadn't seen your pretty smile in your graduation pictures. A smart, intelligent, versatile individual. You prove it with every stroke you make down, with every little hesitation. Intuition is your flagship virtue, and it's sailing you right into my waters.

Now you are in the dark, now I let you feast on oxygen and take deep breaths from a flower that has only now started to poison your lungs with a bonding accelerant.

Seagrass lilies from my stalking stems stake their first claim around your wrists. You fight them off, and when you do I pull your oxygen source away. Your eyes flicker with fear, you don't understand, until you remember my fascinators peering directly into what makes you who you are.

You go still.

Good floret.

I haven't said a word to you and we're already falling in love. You love me, or.

You will.

My milfoil creeps under your clothes, barbed ingenuity that has stripped your kind flaying it all to ribbons. You wail, you thrash and when you do—

See.

You don't like not having air.

I don't like when you don't obey.

We can help each other, you and I. It will be our first hurdle to overcome as lovers. I hear couples fight sometimes, I suppose we: Soulmates, are no different.

Sangria light swallows your sight just before it goes dark, the flower that helps you stay on the mortal realm where I can violate every inch of your flesh attaching right back to your face.

Pretty flower.

My pretty flower.

Soon you are bare, shivering in the cold waters where my roots trail up your skin. They touch, they tease and they poke at all the spots I've seen you caress yourself with late into the evenings. It is okay, little one. You won't ever have to touch yourself again, I'll touch you. Exactly as much as you need. But for now, there's some things we need to take care of first.

Caressing your hair I bristle my ferns into a combing shape that works all the knots out of your locks, pulling them into shorttails with ribbons from my deeper hollows. Just breathe, little thing. That's right. Don't think too much, sweetheart. Just breathe.

My vines twirl into my hollows and retrieve something in your plain view, a smaller graft that I attach to two thinner vines that start to creep up your thighs that are mine.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

You love me.

I can see it in your eyes.

You love me.

I am your air.

I am your warmth.

You feel that warmth, don't you? The warmth constantly brimming from my tendrils. You don't like pruning in the water and I promise soon you won't be. I'm slow though, to make sure I know you aren't going to do something silly like resist anymore.

Resisting is bad for you.

Resisting looses you precious breaths of me.

Your oxygen, remember?

I fill your lungs, I spread your arms out wide and you weep for a reason I can't fathom when I seal away that pesky reproductive apparatus between your legs. I know sweetheart, but having access to that, even knowing its there is going to make you think about socializing with your own species and I can't have that for a while.

You flinch when my root pulls away this time and I couldn't be prouder, now I need to dress my sweet creature.

Tentacles slither up your body, they grasp your chest and your now-very sensitive nipples. Tendrils hold your arms behind your back and they grope the endocrine stomach that nourishes you. I don't know if I like how inefficient a mechanism it is, but I don't want to erode the original lining of your stomach. Maybe I'll build over it.

I will. When I'm inside more than just your lungs.

We do our first arts and crafts project together, and I'm sure to record the whole thing as my biorhythm surges through your wrists down to your collarbone and into your skull. I pull a piece of my wriggling, tendril dense phytoflesh away, snipping it and threading another needle and wire through. My tendrils still grope and touch from inside the slim piece of fabric and I slide it up your legs.

Now it hugs your waist, groping and grabbing at what's mine.

I do the same with a set of 'socks' that feel wrong and wet initially as they grasp your feet. But I care about your sensory needs, so they suction air tight and squeeze all that yucky water out. See? It is a good thing when I'm touching your body. Little tendrils flare out of the inside of that too. LIttle tongues that let me taste you, feel you, touch you.

Oh?

Don't struggle, you had been so good.

I pluck your source of air away and part of you truly considers continuing to thrash, but your hindbrain mixed with how much of me is already making a nest in the lungs I own now won't allow it. You go still.

Good floret.

Gloves, elbow length ones that have the same slithering, touching tendrils that go down to your elbows and latch tight. They almost feel alive, don't they? The way they taste and hold you. They're so warm, they thrum with my song, the rest of your skin aches for me and I'll give it to you soon.

But I wait.

I'm a patient thing.

You need it.

You love me.

I want to hear you say we'll be together forever, in your own way.

It's a long time, an unfortunate, but memorably long time before you whine. You don't thrash, but you loudly whine. Your sweet little petbrain that's evolved from your hindbrain. As a reward I hold a top of sorts cut from the same cloth, this one wraps around your upper half tight, sealing to the 'underwear'.

This one exposes your chest, a pretty diamond shape perfectly revealed along the back of your neck. The rest of the companion mimicry gropes and caresses you, it is alive but you are warm. Your head is still free, and the top seamlessly connects with your elbow-length gloves.

Your thighs and biceps are still exposed to the dark waters, but that is so I have a flush injection site available at all times. Still, I don't want my property to be cold so I coax a membrane out of the 'clothes' you bear. It rapidly seals over, granting your warmth, granting you peace.

Mine.

Is something wrong? My treasure?

Ah, your former friends.

It's okay. You have me now.

They're going to miss you, ask about you. Maybe in a month or so, after our honeymoon phase I'll let them look at you, maybe even talk to you if their ears could be considered worthy of such a treat.

Love.

Love. Love.

Love. Love. Love.

Mine. Love. Mine.

I push too much bonding accelerants into the lungs of my property, and you just smile up at me. That is so cute.

Cute thing.

More flora cup your ears, but you know what's coming.

Planty, aphrodisiac coated tongues caress the rims of your ears as my biorhythm sings directly into the core of who you are. Your soil stains sangria, serpentine slithering sidelining any other thoughts.

I am your dreams.

Your nightmares.

Your ambitions.

Your goals. Short or long term.

This is better.

My fascinators hold you in their fluctuating patterns, my hold on you totally engrossing your head into a plant-hood of sorts. You can still see me through a membrane, isn't it nice to be dry and warm? So dry, so warm. So mine, so you belong to me.

I clip a collar around your neck but you hardly notice it, amiss my pulsing song that temporarily hollows you out. It's like pulling the stuffing from a plush animal, I just need to give you a little wash. Mine.

You repeat the words, my song is your instrumental, your voice my lyrics.

Mine.

Good. Good floret.

You love me.

Yes, you do.

You are my floret.

My floret, mine. Good floret. There we go.

Your tablet is floating in the ocean, and I'm sure to retract it into my hollows so I can adjust your contacts later. Mine, mine mine mine mine mine mine.

That might be my favorite word on that tongue I own.

How about Owner.

Can you say, 'Owner'?

There you go.

Owner.

Lovely word.

Your eyes, your vision belongs to me. Your sight shall only be raptured in mine for as long as you can remain awake, and then when you dream I will fill you with yet more love. You'll dream of me, think, of me. Owner.

That's all I am in your thoughts, because I am your thoughts.

You think in me.

A programming language you are fluent in.

Fluent in me, inside my fluid, filled with my love.

My love.

I can't stand to only be in your cranial fluid and wriggling in your lungs anymore. This is torture. You agree, don't you?

You nod.

We're so in love.

More membranes sterilize a field behind your neck in a little workstation bubble that I allow my sample into. There's no grand spectacle, It's just a little insertion and what was always meant to be returns to your neck.

There we go.

My roots grow inside of you.

Oh. Silly me.

I lost track of time, it's been a few hours. Go to sleep.

Wakey wakey, there you are.

It's been two weeks.

You look just as happy as when you fell asleep trapped in me. We're almost done, I just want you awake for this part. I will have to allow you socialization with others, it would be wrong of me not to. But I need to know that all you'll talk about is me.

All you'll think about during conversations.

That you'll happily find a cavern that leads to me, that you'll follow my song while my tentacles dig into everywhere that belongs to me.

Your colon is working wonderfully, by the way. The inside of it has been all cleaned up. Same with your liver.

Did you know your liver needed a good cleaning.

I didn't.

Now I do.

You're so happy.

You'll never not be happy again.

My floret.

My sweet thing.

Just one more thing before you drift off again. I know you want to be awake to spend more time with me, but we both know how exhausting it is having your entire nervous system re-written to respond to the sensory of my milweed more than anything else.

Isn't that lovely.

One of my spines radiates a fluid meant to sink into your flesh, that I tenderly like a tattoo needle ink across your skin in Affini language. It's not exactly the dialect from around here but it'll do nicely.

Mine. Of course, I write that all over.

Floret. Your Owner is a bit of a jokester, stating the obvious.It is funny. We laugh together.

Neediest Doll. It isn't quite true yet, but it will be soon. Oh joy.

Soft. It is true, my little romantic. I'll happily take you to a candlelight dinner after I'm fully finished integrating you. I just can't stand the idea of you breathing air not poisoned by me, molecules touching your skin I didn't personally approve of.

A few more markings, these ones a toss up of more loosely integrated sing-songy language that ultimately culminate in things like Possession, and Property and Happy this way, things of that nature. More vines scrawl deeper inside of you from the new surgical station I've settled inside. I place assisted grafts over them all that will assist your body in functioning better than it ever has. But I did not replace the originals, after all there is something so fulfilling seeing them overgrown with me.

My signature overgrown along them like an epiphyte.

Hee. Hee.

Laughter.

You giggle too.

Love.

We are in love.

Yes. It is okay. I know you ache for slumber. There is more I must do. More of you I must take, more of you I must touch.

Every part of you.

Never again will you be free.

I already missed so many years where you weren't mine. It is a crime, truly. A deep tragedy that I will weep at with you. Weep together with you.

Smile.

There you go.

Go to sleep.

I've cataloged every thought you stored in that head of yours. You can access them through your implant, but that little meat computer will only have one thought circulating through it at any given time.

Me.

The way it should have always been.

The way it always will be.

The way it is going to be.

All mine.

All mine.

All mine.