#dollfiction

[bunimalsfiberdolls]

           The room she was in smelled of disinfectant and lilacs, hints of hyssop and blood.  She kept her eyes closed and breathing even while she tried to place where she was.  The infirmary.  Her shoulder felt stiff and pain wreathed her hips – serrated-sharp cramps and a burning ache emanating from her lower back – above and beyond the persistent bone deep fatigue she’d almost grown accustom to feeling.  At least I’m not nauseous, for the moment.  She was grateful for that one small reprieve.  The murmured conversation between two medics became more distinct as they approached her bedside. 

- The Garden, Season 2

[bunimalsfiberdolls]

           Augustine pawed at his bottom lip.  Altaïr groaned and started petting him again.            “You are getting spoiled,” he informed his cat.            Augustine looked unimpressed.            “Spoiled and fat.”            Augustine blinked at him slowly and rested his paw on Altaïr’s lips. He blew against his cat’s foot. Augustine swished his tail but didn’t move his paw.  He blew again, harder this time.  Augustine lifted his paw, held it aloft for a moment before swatting Altaïr across the mouth and then folded his paw beneath his bulk.  Altaïr huffed a sharply bitten off laugh.            “I rest my case.”  He scratched behind Augustine’s ears and along his jaw and was rewarded with a deep rumbling purr.  “You have to lose a little weight, it’s getting embarrassing.  I’m going to be shamed for having a fat cat.  You don’t want me to be shamed, do you?”            Augustine staggered to his feet to stretch and then shifted up to resettle against the curve of Altaïr’s neck.  Altaïr smiled and rested his cheek against the cat’s soft fur.  Augustine started grooming his hair; he sighed.  At least my cat loves me. The Garden, Season 2

[lazuligravefield]

The room came into focus and i tried moving my arms and legs. Nothing budged, and i couldnt feel toes either. Ahead of me i saw wallpaper and a bed pushed up against a 

[q-posts]

Story unfolds visit dymoonadventures.com #americangirl #americangirldolls #americangirlfan #americangirldoll #ourgenerationdoll #ourgeneration #ourgenerationdolldoninstagram #dollstory#dollfiction#storytime #storytellingphotography #stories

[bunimalsfiberdolls]

           Altaïr…            Something wasn’t right.  He was in the morgue, in Syria.  The slabs were empty.  He was alone. A fly buzzed and bumped itself against one of the small high windows, futilely seeking to escape.  He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.            Why do you keep coming back here, my love?            He could feel her standing beside him, her scent of Madonna lilies and myrrh encasing them like a tissue-thin cocoon against the harsh smells of the morgue.  He wanted to hold her, touch her, feel her skin against his and taste her lips, but he stayed still, eyes closed, as his heart rate quickened and need prickled across his body.            I hear her calling me.  She’s calling me, Siro… He opened his eyes and there was a woman’s body on the closest slab, swathed in a shroud of mosquito netting.  She’s calling me here, back to where my world ended.            Sirocco hummed and stroked her fingers down his spine, her touch burning hot against his skin, even though the layers of his clothing.  She glowed in the phantasmagorical light, her fiery hair flowing gently around her, as though suspended underwater.  Her dress was pale beige, with the subtle sheen of silk, tight and clinging to her curves.  She leaned in to kiss him and he shyly lowered his eyes, recoiling slightly; it didn’t feel right to kiss his lover while standing before his mother’s body. She noticed his hesitation and turned from him.            There once was a man, in Damascus, who had stopped in a coffee shop to drink and rest from his travels. Glancing up, he happened to see Death seated at another table nearby, she said softly; the familiar words of the story his mother used to tell when she held him at night, the air between them close and heavy with the scent of their blood from the cuts his mother made with her tainted blade.  She stepped away from him, towards the body on the slab, her heels loud against the concrete floor, echoing off the tiled walls.            This cannot be my fate the man cried, and he ran from the shop to his horse and rode as hard and as fast as he can across the desert, all the way to Samarra, she continued, smiling back at him over her shoulder as circled around the slab.  Her eyes were liquid, molten copper, glowing like lamps in the gloam. His breath caught when she pulled the shroud down from his mother’s face.  He watched, limbs frozen in something almost like horror as Sirocco leaned over and pressed her lips to Aaliyah’s in a firm, purposeful kiss.  The droning buzz of the fly sharply cut out, almost as though a silence had been cast, and suddenly, in that horribly swelling silence, he heard the rasp of drawing breath.            When he dismounted, Death was there, waiting for him.  This cannot be, the man cried.  For I escaped you in Damascus, he breathed, as his mother’s eyes opened, death-clouded and glowing with golden fire.  She sat up, drawing the shroud around herself.            And Death said: I too was surprised to see you in Damascus.  For our appointment was always to be here, tonight, in Samarra, Aaliyah said, sliding from the slab to stand before him.  Her voice was rusty from disuse, rasping with the crackle of dry leaves crushed underfoot.  She plunged her fingers into her chest, sinew and bone separating loudly as she pulled them apart to show him a glowing golden sphere inside her chest, pulsing with magic like a mechanical heartbeat.  Altaïr, pearl of my body.  Release me from this prison.  Come to me, my treasure.  Come to me…              He unthinkingly moved towards her, instinctively responding to her command. Sirocco’s arms slid around his chest, restraining him, pulling him back.            Come to me…            No, my love.  Do not listen to her.  That is not Aaliyah; that is not your mother.            He hesitated.  Sirocco was right; there was something wrong with her voice, her words.  His mother hadn’t spoken Farsi like that.  He took a hesitant half-step back and closed his eyes.            Who is she Siro?            Not your mother, she answered softly.  She was kissing him, lips soft and tongue demanding.  He opened his mouth and clung to her, drinking in the heat of her kisses. His back hit his mattress and he was briefly confused as to how they had gotten to his rooms, how much time had passed and where the woman who was not his mother had gone, but then Sirocco was sheathing him and he didn’t care about anything else.            Siro, please.  Please, please, I love you.  Don’t leave me, he sobbed, clinging to her.  Feed me again with your love. I’m starving.  I’m dying without you-            We’ll be together, forever, soon Altaïr, she promised him.  My Assassin, my love, my Dreamer…  Her hips rolled against his and he thought he was ready for the release he could feel his body preparing, but the intensity of it staggered him and he gratefully melted into the warmth of his lover’s arms.  It felt so good to be held.            Altaïr…            His mother’s voice sparked against his soul, an irresistible pull he suddenly recognized had been lacking in the Aaliyah who had risen from the slab. He felt it in his blades, his blood and his bones.  She was calling him, and he never disobeyed.            Mother…            He woke up reaching for her, alone in his bed.

[bunimalsfiberdolls]

           Taline caught herself squinting and raised a hand to shield her face as she swept her eyes across the training grounds looking for Ezio, eager to share the news Yusriyah had only just confirmed to her earlier that afternoon.            They had both been disappointed when her monthly bleeding started a few weeks ago, but it had been light – mostly spotting – with heavy cramping, and had only lasted a few days, unlike her usual periods.  It was suspiciously familiar.  She hadn’t said anything to Ezio, not even when her breasts became tender and the unshakable, bone-deep fatigue set in; she wanted to be certain first.  She was afraid of disappointing him again.            The nearly constant nausea was harder to hide.  It helped that Ezio wasn’t particularly observant in the mornings, and they usually didn’t see each other again until the evening.  Probably just a touch of influenza, she’d told him a few days ago when he’d asked her if something was wrong.  She’d just returned from throwing up her dinner.  He expressed the appropriate concern and suggested she go to bed early.  She felt even guiltier for lying to him the next morning when she found an empty bottle of ararat beside him as he slept on the couch.            “Do you know what sort of training he had planned for this afternoon, Khanum?” Ramses asked as he stood beside her, also squinting and ostensibly looking for Ezio.  He was slouching, again.            “I hadn’t thought to ask,” she admitted, stifling the urge to prod him until he stood up straight.  “I had no idea the training area was so large.”

The Garden, Season 2

[bunimalsfiberdolls]

           He beckoned her back to the window.  “Then come play a game with me.”            “What sort of game?” she asked as she joined him at the window.            She looks nervous.  He vaguely wondered why.            “A hunting game.  My sister and I played it often as children when we were waiting for our mother to return from a contract,” he replied scanning the foot traffic on the street below.            “How do you play?”            “You pick a target-” a middle-aged, rather nondescript man scuttling across the street caught his eye “-and you construct a history for them based on what you observe.  Let’s use him,” he said, jutting his chin at the man.  “I’ll start.”            Altaïr studied the man’s clothes, his body language, before willing his eyes to slip into the second sight and looking even deeper.  He has no command of magic.  He is exhausted, hungry, anxious – why is he so anxious? He cocked his head slightly as he considered the man, watched the way he was craning his neck to search the faces of the people bustling around him.  The man was standing near a tram stop, but when a tram pulled up he made no move to board.  He’s looking for someone.  He exhaled slowly. 

-The Garden, Season 2

[bunimalsfiberdolls]

           The morgue was empty.  Silent. The air heavy with the smell of bleach and rotting meat and the hum of flies.  The flickering florescent light reflected dully off of glazed porcelain and cloudy metal.  He didn’t want to be there – wanted to be anywhere but there – but the Rafīk’s hand was hard on the back of his neck and there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.            Altaïr…            She was calling to him, calling him, and he didn’t want to answer, but she got so angry when he disobeyed and he was moving forward when every instinct was telling him to run away.            Altaïr…            The coroner looked like a ghoul, short and slight and skeletally thin, with unnaturally raven black hair and sunken eyes, sallow skin and a sinisterly straight pencil-thin mustache.  He was leading them down a nightmarishly narrow hallway, their footsteps echoing off the tiled walls and concrete floor, amplified and repeating into an army’s worth of marching feet and softly, beneath the noise, he could still hear her calling him.  The coroner stopped before an open doorway and then stepped aside, waiting for them to enter, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his once-white, splattered and stained lab coat.            “She’s just in there.”            He didn’t want to go in that room, digging the heels of the new shoes she’d bought him only a few days before into the smooth concrete floor as the Rafīk’s hard hand pushed him forward.            Altaïr…            There was only one occupied slab; a woman’s body obscured beneath a pale shroud of mosquito netting.  He didn’t want anyone to see her like that; he didn’t want see her like that.            “- and not a mark on her -” the coroner was saying, voice rusty and dry.            The contents of his stomach roiled – bitter black tea and the honey pistachio pastry she’d given him before she went out – his ears were ringing and his vision swam, dappled with darkness and anemic fluorescent light.            “- such a senseless waste of an extraordinarily handsome woman.  You said this is her son, yes?  He looks just like her-”            The coroner was reaching for the edge of the shroud and someone was screaming, jagged and raw like a lamb being slaughtered, and his throat hurt, his chest was burning, and the Rafīk was shaking him, shaking him.

The Garden, Season 2