Let Bayous Be Bayous - A Fantroll Adventure

"Let's all up and start there - matesprit, huh? Up and sing her sweet praises to me, motherfucker." you grin, and do that gentle horn-bop to her shoulder again. "If I'm gonna be clade, I wanna know about your miracle mates, Appie."

It's still a little crazy to think that, that you might have inclade and not be so lonely any more. You're tentatively starting to hope, though.

 

You relax, and lean into this adorable gangle of troll a bit more. "Mintuu's my matesprit. We've been together for... three sweeps? Working on four." You pull up a picture of her on your palmhusk - her cute heart-shaped face and thorny horns (and also distinctly adult skin). "She's incredibly smart - she's much better at memorizing th- memorizing stories than I am, and definitely better at literary analysis. We've started talking about working together on a cipher project, but neither of us are quite there yet with our independent skillsets. Um. She worries a lot. She's very quick at adapting and learning?" You've never had to describe her to someone before, but you're kind of enjoying trying, even though you know you'll fall short.

 

You peer at the picture of her cerulean matesprit. Older, too, and with that hard blueblood look that reminds you painfully of Kholai. Still, anyone courting Appie flush has to be as far from your ex-kismesis as you can get, and instead you wonder what she'll make of you. You hope you make a good first impression if you ever do meet face-to-face.

But Appie's leaning up against you, and you wind an arm around her middle, cautious of squeezing too hard but wanting the contact badly, and you can feel that smile on your face hard enough to hurt. "You're all and singing what she does, not what she is. What's she like in motherfucking personality, palesis? What makes her and you all shaken up into pity and happiness?"

With you both sitting down, it's easy to rest your cheek against her hair and inhale the clean green smell of her. You feel incredibly relaxed. It occurs to you that while she's currently taller by a set of horns and some change, indigoblood physiology means you may well be able to carry her on your shoulders when you hit adulthood yourself. You laugh softly.

 

You feel yourself blush a little, and scrape the bottom of your pan for words. This has always been hard for you - it's why you've written so many songs for your matesprit, after all, to try again and again to capture what words can't. Still. You can try.

"She's brave." You stare at the picture on your phone screen. "She's so brave - and not in the story-hero kind of way, in the 'I am so worried about everything that could go wrong but I'm going to do this anyway because it's the Right Thing to do' way. And she wants so much to do things right." You laugh a bit. "She's a bit of a perfectionist. And she just - she wants to make things better. In little ways, and in big ways. She just wants to make things better."

 

"If having a capy-mother all teaches me anything, it's real and hella bravery that's facing something you're motherfucking upright horrified at and then doin' it anyway coz it's the right and shiny thing to do." you nod sagely, then grin. "Like the first time I came up on my first scalebeast."

You show her the deeply faded dents of ancient toothmarks ringing your elbow. "I was a real wiggler, not even two sweeps. Big old gatorbeast up and considers mom for a tasty snack, and I was shit-scared of this motherfucking monster all bearing down on us, but I was all more scared of losing my lusus. Got between 'em and stuck my boathook through the roof of that fucker's mouth. Definitely take it as my first great and straight-up miracle that he motherfucking died before he could up and take my arm off."

You think a moment, then nudge her. "I bet you got similar stories, what with your tiny chirpbeast lusus and all."

 

"I do." You're a bit distracted looking at the scars she pointed out, lightly tracing the marks with your fingertips. "You know you lose the scars at adult molt, though? So most of mine are gone." That was surreal to you, but then the entire experience of waking up a different size than you expect is kind of mind-blowing. "But yeah. Mom and I were always really good at hiding, but that didn't mean I didn't have to deal with predators - mostly bigger, carnivorous flapbeasts that find chirpbeasts to be snacks." You smile a bit bitterly. "It almost helps that she doesn't have enough meat to be worth the trouble for lots of more dangerous things."

 

"Yeah, these motherfuckers used to be a lot deeper. Only been this sweep I've had full use of this frond, too." you shiver a little at her featherlight touch on your skin, then smile. "When I hit my molt you'll be all kinds of bitty in compare. Horns'll be even crazier too, if research into history has proved any motherfucking thing."

You're a little uncomfortable at admitting you look shit up. Mirthfuls are supposed to take all life and motherfucking miracles at face value, and knowing the working of them is every kind of blasphemy. But you ain't never felt shit's less magic for knowing how waterdroplets form rainbows on bright nights, or how moterfucking fluffy baabeast clouds are formed. If anything it's moreso, but you know Mirthfuls teach that ignorance is bliss, so you don't know how your new friend might take a hint you ain't as dumb as you're painted.

 

"My horns got a lot sharper when I molted," you say thoughtfully. "It probably helps to do research first. I... well, I really missed a lot of schoolfeeds. Mintuu had to try to coach me on what was going to happen from memory." You shiver a little at the memory. That had been a stressful period in a very stressful time. You wouldn't recommend molting to anyone living wild, but you didn't exactly get a choice - biology did its thing whether you were ready or had enough food stockpiled or had a defensible position or not.

But hey! You survived. And now you are curled up with this adorable disaster of a troll, and everything is going to be okay.

 

((Whoops forgot it was my turn ^^;;;))

"Sharp, hell. I ain't even had use of my horntips since they all up and vanished under their fine and knotty selves." you laugh, reach up and feel the familiar flattened shapes where you can't see, the slight bumps you know will turn to spurs some day. Then you reach out with one hand, hesitate. "Could I up and have the privilege of be touching yours?"

The only other troll who has ever touched your horns was Kholai, and he was never gentle. You're kinda curious as to how her small neat scapel blades match up in texture to your big rough tangle.

 

((Wooo I am no longer primarily comprised of mucus and thus capable of writing coherently))

You blush, and you know you're blushing. It's awfully good she thinks that's cute. "Um... yes." You hold your own uncertain hand up. "Can I?" Sitting this close, you can see how rough and dry hers are, and it's taking a lot of self-control to not dig through your modus and offer up your horncare supplies, and maybe also pull out a brush and detangling spray, and-

Slowwwwww down girl.

 

((Glad that you're feeling better <> :D))

It's nice to know you're not the only one who turns colours like a motherfucking twelfth perigee's light when romantic shit goes down. You definitely think she's all kinds of hella adorbs when she's all blushy like that, but then, you're probably as purple as she is green right now. You grin a bit, laugh despite yourself. It ain't any kind of pretty, your laugh, but at least it ain't the hysterical berserk cackles of a born laughassassin. "Sure, though my nubs are all like to be motherfucking pinecones in compare to your cute little blades, sister."

You're gentle as you know how, with your big square paws. You reach out and carefully wrap your cool hand around one of her horns, cautious at first of their sharp tips, then all marvelling at how motherfucking smooth she is. You laugh again, this time a little self-concious. "Motherfucker, I can tell you ain't never spent as much time in the humidity like me. I bet these are way easier to keep upcare on, too."

 

Her hands wrapping around your horns sparks a moment of tension as you feel your hornsense being shuttered by the contact - instinct-level nervousness kicking in - but it fades so rapidly it might have almost not been there. You feel safe here because you are safe here, and her hands are cool and large and the fuzzy-blanket input from your hornsense is soothing away the last bits of uncertainty and remaining bits of tension from earlier that night.

"'S easier than it used to be," you say in response to her comment about horn care, your own fingertips brushing lightly over the roughened surface of her horns. You make a slightly concerned face, and rub the flats of your fingers along the edges, as if that will smooth them down. "Our hive is pretty dry for being near the sea. 'N before that, very dry."

 

Even her light touch on your semi-neglected horns - semi on account of you ain't never meaning to neglect them, they just seem to be more high-maintenance than you often have room for - makes you chirr and thrust your head against her palm like the touch-starved meowbeast you are. Your lusus ain't got no horns, or hands for that matter, and for all she's sweet as sugar you realise now you were desperately left wanting for this kind of contact.

Your hand slides off her horn, half because you're suddenly scared of squeezing too hard in your (ohohmorecontactpleasemore) and instead you just sort of cradle her head, thumb stroking just behind her ear.

You vaguely realise she said something, and words are a thing you probably ought to use. "Y-yeah, motherfucker, I heard salt air is what dries out landweller motherfuckers something fierce. Same with me, since I ain't enough fish to breathe water or any miracle madness like such."

 

Vastar's sudden surge of affectionate neediness is possibly the most pitiful thing ever, and you set to gently caressing her poor dried-out horns with infinite tenderness. "You are a miracle," you say, even if it doesn't make any sense conversationally, because those are the words your bloodpusher wants to say right now. "I tend to head inland when I'm aboveground, at home, so I guess that helps with more than just avoiding the oceangoing neighbors." Your fingertips get tangled in her hair, and you start gently teasing the tangles apart with your other hand.

 

You laugh breathlessly, mostly because you figure if you don't you won't be able to stop, and lean into Appie. "I been called a lot of things, pupa, but not ever a starshiny miracle like as what you're saying. Careful of the motherfucking fibre strands, mind. This pelt's known to eat up all manner of things what tried to tame it."

You're grinning against her shoulder, though. You been told in the past you oughta be proud of your untameable highblood mane, but you ain't got no harem of palemates like the Condence to keep it in some kind of nick, or the build to match it like the great grinning gallivant of your church, the Grand Highblood. You figure either you'll fill out some come adult molt, or just be doomed to look like a load gaper brush in silhouette.

You smooth your hand over her braid, winding it between your fingers. It's much finer hair than your coarse mat, and you say as much. "I'd all offer to return the favour on grooming likes, but I ain't got no knowing of these miracle knots what you've woven here."

 

You giggle at the thought of her hair eating your fingertips, and make little grabby fingertips and om-nom-nom noises at her scalp. Her hands petting your braid make you shiver, and you correct slightly, "If I was doing a proper job of grooming you, I'd dig out my combs and detangling spray and everything." You pet thoughtfully through the bit of hair you've gotten detangled and something approximating smooth. "I could try doing braids in your hair. 'S why I do mine like this, so I don't have to worry about it getting caught in things while I'm travelling, or brushing it out so often."

 

You laugh as well and butt your head a little into her fingertips, then lift your head to look at her, curious. "Detangling spray ain't a thing I ever got the hearing of, sister. I thought you just had like hair-soap and conditioner and you just motherfucking brushied it out when you got out of the ablutions trap."

You look at her braid more closely, thumb tracing the shapes of the woven strands, offer her a sheepish smile. "Takes forever to keep mine all unknotted, and I ain't got any patience for self-grooming more'n once a day - I seen them motherfuckers with the proper dreadlocks online, but I never figured out how to make mine all bitty threads like that without it turning into one unwicked mat."

 

"It's, um, kind of like a conditioner?" You de-log the bottle you have, with its handwritten label, and show it to her. "Only you don't have to rinse it out. It helps with the taking-forever-and-a-lot-of-pain to unknot things."

Somewhat more shyly, you admit, "I don't know much about braiding hair textured like yours. But I could... try to figure it out? If, if you'd like that." You bite your lip. "I might just make things worse."

 

You decide that it's entirely unfair that she should be so motherfucking adorable when she bites her lip like that, and almost despite yourself, you drop a kiss on her forehead, between her eyes. Then you take the bottle from her and study it closely, then pop the top and sniff it. It's unscented, and that's what decides you. "I'm all kinds of willing if you are, sister."

You realise that this might be moving a little fast, such a pale thing you ain't never done not ever, but all you know is that you really want her hands in your hair forever and always. You blush darker still, near a match to the clear night sky glimpsed outside through the leaves, and add, "Uh, you don't gotta if you don't wanna. S'just a mere suggestion and all."

 

You wiggle a bit, your unconscious expression of joy, when she kisses your forehead. When she speaks up again, you nod decisively. "I am!"

Of course, then she gets all hesitant and adorable and you didn't even know she could blush that deeply. You carefully lean in and nuzzle your cheek to hers. "I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want to," you say quietly into her ear, very close.