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Deep in the woods, among the chirping birds and rustling leaves, came a certain faint humming buzz. Arabellete flitted over the greenery even quicker than her eyes did; her diminutive form skimming over the strange foliage for a certain something.
During her wandering, and scrounging for food, she had heard talk of a certain festival approaching. When she had time to take a break, she would sometimes sit as a fly on the wall, and listen in on conversations of larger society. She gradually learned about the upcoming Pheramoon Festival; a time for declarations of love and displays of passion. As luck would have it, Arabellette had a certain crush of her own. Unfortunately, she hadn’t quite gleaned when exactly the festival was, but she’d been gathering exotic ingredients from all over, venturing into the areas where the forest took an unnatural turn. She had delved deep into the complex spirals of an orchid, whose sickeningly sweet secretions left her dizzy, and swabbed the oils from ruminants with antlers of the same shape. She had plucked the blossoms of vines that reached ever upwards, climbing on seemingly nothing. She bottled water from a brook that she swore was giggling, and pulled petals from a water lily that smelled like the longing of a forgotten lighthouse. Juice from the stem of a rose with thorns impossibly fractalled to coat its entirety. A single drop of sweat, from a fish that could not. She had crushed them over rocks that tumbled uphill, boiled and steamed them over a flower that burned with an unnatural crimson, and steeped them into a truly enchanting concoction.
A perfume.
Her perfume.
A perfume that would finally bridge the stark and impossible difference in their size, in their love, in their very essence. A scent whose perfect expression of her affection to that towering, muscle-bound fortress of a woman with her iridescent plates of carapace, and elegant craning neck, and the way sweat glistened as it traveled down her skin
and her generous hips…
and rippling abs…
the way her self-tailored clothes hugged her tits and ass, highlighting her curves, and sinking deep into her recesses in the way Arabellette only dreamed of…
Ara however, had decided that her love potion was missing one last thing. And so, flying through the undergrowth she was, searching for that perfect…
There.
She swivelled and whirled frantically, until she at least found herself in a clearing. And across the clearing, sitting proud, tall and imposing… Something about its scent pulled her in like she was snared by a thousand invisible strands of gossamer… To her, it might have smelled of that glistening sweat, but there was a hint of something deeper. It smelled of the unyielding, unrelenting, inescapable passion for her…
Her love…
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Myrioda awoke groggily from her slumber. Not quite ready to open her eyes, she rolled her pillar of a body onto its back, acclimating to her surroundings. Pushing herself up with one of her upper arms, she shifted her thigh slightly, before clutching her bloated stomach and venting some gas from her sweaty anus, groaning slightly in relief.
For the small beetle she had unwittingly trapped under her ginormous asscheeks while rolling over, this wasn’t nearly as relieving. Crushed by a creature it couldn’t even fully see, it wriggled under her, watching as the twin mountains that pinned it parted just enough to reveal a twitching puckered hole above it. It gazed upwards, with eyes that could not comprehend as the pucker widened, blasting it with a pressurized jet of burning stench.
Myrioda was, of course, quite considerate of those smaller than her. It was one of the things Ara had loved so fondly about her. But bugs were so very hard to notice, and so very numerous. How could she be blamed if a few bugs were accidentally harmed now and then?
As Myra came to, her pieces of memories of the night before slowly came back to her. Before she could fully consider these memories though, she became sharply aware of two certain pains. Slowly and carefully pulling herself up to her full height (Almost a full meter more than most of the wanderers and townsfolk she encountered, though of course she was aware of species that were smaller, and much smaller) she stumbled and swayed slightly as she was hit by the throbbing headache of her severe hangover. More urgent however, was the stabbing pain of her meters of intestine as they writhed and twisted around nearly a month’s worth of shit. She needed a bathroom and fast. Gripping her stomach and straining to clench her ass shut, she slowly began to trudge away from the expanding patch of wilting grass, and choking victim, before she realized…
She had no idea where she’d woken up.
Even worse, the destruction she was about to cause was going to be very messy, and very long indeed. Bracing herself on a nearby tree, she glanced around, realizing just how deep in the forest, (and far from any suitable infrastructure, or even an outhouse) she was. She was going to have to improvise. A hollow stump wouldn’t be enough to hold the amount she was packing though, and she hardly wanted to shove her dung down into some animal den, but her options were running low, and her time even lower. It was then that Myrioda pushed herself forward, clumsily stomping into the woods in search of a toilet.
In that moment, Myra chose to march down that path, trusting simple instinct, and infinitesimal perceptions. Maybe it was then, travelling that familiar road, not to Myra, but to the forest certainly, that Arabellette’s fate was sealed.
Was it doom Myra carried?
Or relief?
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