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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmӯs (my heart) │Chapter 7: Betrayal (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Childbirth is the duty and dismay of all highborn women. Together, you and Daemon experience the trials, tribulations and triumphs of expectant parenthood. You learn the truth.

(Set post-episode 7, though Daemon never married Laena or Rhaenyra.)

Thank you to @angelqueen04, @evisnotok, @ewanmitchellcrumbs and @ajthefujoshi for holding my hand throughout the drafting, teehee!

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of pregnancy, discussion of abortion.

You dream in abstract.

There is no form to it—no faces to see nor words to hear in the fanciful void of your mind. Instead, it is shapeless, immaterial, washes of colour and vague impressions of sound like music in a far-off hall. It is a blessed reprieve from the convincing re-enactments of the day’s events your thoughts usually produce under the sway of slumber, and most certainly a relief in light of…

No.

A sensation enters your sleeping consciousness, one that does not fit the transience of those singularities swirling about in your head. It is far too concrete, unyielding, unrelenting to belong here. That strange feeling tickles throughout your body, coalescing low in your stomach and pooling warm between your thighs.

You sigh as you awaken slowly, as peaceful as the rocking of an infant in their cradle. Drowsily, you take note of your surroundings, the way in which you are propped up against the pillows with your shift gathered at your waist and your legs dangling over your uncle’s wide-set shoulders. You wonder absently how he always manages to rearrange you so without rousing you.

Why does he always choose to wake me with his carnal appetites? It seems to you that he has never once attempted to shake you or call your name.

It does not surprise you that he is once more availing himself of your particular assets, given his near unbearable persistence in proving that his inability to bed you previously was but a momentary impediment. You have considered hiding to discourage him from making this point yet again—but you do so enjoy the outcome of his efforts.

Your breathing must change cadence, for you are drawn further into the realm of awareness by his large, calloused hand smoothing a path along the side of your rounded belly.

“Sȳz ñāqes, dōnītsos.” Good morning, sweetling, Daemon murmurs against your heated flesh. His breath spools delicately across the puffed folds of your cunny. “Sh. Inkot edrugon jās.” Go back to sleep.

You mumble incoherently, lips curving up despite your reluctance to awaken. Your hand drifts down to pat against his, your smile widening when he flips his palm to lock his fingers with your own. Returning to his task and nuzzling inexorably at your yearning little bud, the stubble on his jaw rasps against your inner thighs in tantalising counter to the glide of tongue over tender tissue.

It is sweet, impossibly indulgent, with none of the bite of hurt that you have come to crave in your couplings. You are so sensitive these days that, at times, such contact borders on agonising. The blood in your veins thrums far hotter now that you are three dragons in one form, you and each of the babes in turn. But here in the quiet stillness of the morn, every swipe up the split of you or rumbling resonance through your responsive nerve endings or greedy suckle to your pearl tips you further and further to that golden finish. Your joined hands rest against your middle, stretched taut and full of your children. You send a silent prayer above in thanks that they are asleep as their father tends so amorously to their mother.

The release is a wave cresting to the coastline, gentle and buoyant and rapturous as it ever is. It is as though the ocean pulses out from deep within you, wetting the way for your husband’s return to the safe shores of your body.

“Daemon.” Tipping your head back, you let the surge take you. You hear the ruffle of fabric dropping and feel the press of skin against yours.

“Ah-ah,” Daemon says. “Open up, little niece.” Hands prying your knees from their clenched-together defense of your inflamed womanhood, he props your feet against the bedframe to force your legs wide, sliding the length of himself through your slick lips. “Your cunt is mine to use, even if you are already bred full.”

The velvet-steel line of his hardened shaft slips inside, a brief press to the scrunching firmness of your entry that gives way with a pop and a rush. He grunts as he cleaves you in two, the heft of his stones slapping against the skin of your rear being the only sign that he cannot invade any further.

You can do nothing but accept it, weighed down by your belly as you are. Arching your back, you let out a low whimper, feeling that terrible, wonderful overcrowding in your womb and in your cunny.

“Good girl.” He stills the discomfited shift of your hips with an iron grip. It is an abrupt taking—but like the curves of your figure, the efforts of growing his seed to their full has made you softer, rounder, more pliant. You blink hazily at him, mouth opening dumbly as you surrender to the tide. “Just lay back. Let kepa take care of you.”

His covetous gaze roams across the changes he has wrought in you; your plush thighs, plump cheeks, enlarged breasts and the sway of your distended middle as he pitches into you being but some of the most notable within his immediate reach. It is difficult to be self-conscious of these vicissitudes when his violet eyes fixate so zealously upon them, promptly trailed by the heat of his hands across those same places.

The sight of him—his silver hair rumpled from sleep, the prominent shelf of his brow and the exhilarated parting of his lips, the thrilling menace of his broad shoulders and thick-scarred skin, the flex of his arms as his hands seek new territory to touch—pools hot in your gut. The sound of your wetness being stirred with his every plunge into you is a churning melody that blazes beneath your skin.

You listen lethargically to the lustful affirmations spilling uncontrollably from Daemon’s lips. He is so terribly loquacious when his cock is in you, consumed by his ardour and forgetting any such difficulties he has in conveying the depth of his emotions.

“… so tight for me… barely any room left for my cock, but you just keep taking it, don’t you?… made to take me… fuck. I’ll fuck you forever. Keep you heavy and helpless like this fucking always…”

His obsession with your fecund form is flattering if a bit predictable. Grinning sleepily at his words, you yawn as you tug up your sleepwear to bare your breasts for him. Your nipples tingle as the cooler air makes contact, tightening them to hard tips. You smooth the pads of your thumbs over them to alleviate the sudden prickle.

His eyes zero in on the movement, ogling you heatedly.

“Play with your tits,” he says, holding the mass of your belly still so that he may speed the tempo of his cock inside you, thick and hot and catching against that high point along your walls that makes you clamp down uncontrollably. You moan faintly as you reach back up to cup the heft of your breasts. He makes an animal noise at the display. “That’s it. Are they sore, precious? A little harder—there.”

Tears spring to your eyes as you obey his command, squeezing the supple flesh, pulling at the teats just as your two babes will when they nurse from your body to nourish their own. They have been hypersensitive as of late. You are unsure if your own touch is painful or pleasurable. Regardless, the sheer strength of it is enough to reignite the familiar ember signalling a new climax.

Making a show of the ache, you wiggle down into his thrusts to feel the shudder ripple up your spine when he drives to the end of you. You are rewarded with a quickening of pace and the sound of his panting breaths as he exerts himself above you, flushed and sweating and entirely consumed by the welcoming clutch of your cunt. “Daemon. Can I pe–peak, please?”

“So well-behaved.” He chuckles, grinning wickedly as he watches a lone trail of liquid trek from your eye down your temple and disappear into your hairline. “I do love when you cry for me.”

You nod furiously at his words, blinking more stray droplets from your lashes. Eagerly spreading your thighs as far apart as you can, you yelp as the angle changes. Your uncle hisses at the sight, a hand disappearing below the protrusion of your middle; you cry out as he introduces his thumb to your bud, drawing back the hood and rubbing up in inescapable motions.

“I suppose you’ve earned it. Go on, then,” he says. “Come.”

As the obedient wife you are, you heed his wish. This time, there is little that is gentle about the way your walls constrict on him, making the rapid rock of his cock a near unbearable intrusion. The air flees your lungs and your limbs lock in place as the bliss washes over you, soundless in spite of the force of it.

“Thank you, thank you,” you say when you are able to catch your breath again, your grip upon your breasts becoming less of a cultivated show and more a necessity that keeps them from bobbing about wildly.

He ruts into you with jerky, uneven slaps, too fast and too hard for you to truly enjoy. You endure it—you have had your fill. Now, it is his turn.

“Are you going to spill in me, kepus?” you ask, falsetto pitch and airy tone, using what little leverage you have to push your lower body up into his urgent offensive. The burn in your thighs is immediate, but you will not need to hold this position for long. “I want you to, please, please—”

“Yes,” he growls, deep and dark, face contorted into something resembling pain and eyes closing in concentration, seemingly heedless of the spiel tumbling from his mouth. “I’ll come in this cunt, keep you in this bed fat with my heirs and leaking my seed, lick it out of you later—”

Your lip curls with feigned petulance, girlish and stubborn and exactly to his liking. “What if I cannot wait ‘til later, kepus?”

He gasps like he is winded by the suggestion of it, juddering strokes that begin to hurt, but you love it. You love how undone you can make him with such simple words, and you prepare yourself to deal the finishing blow.

“Maybe you should clean me up straight away,” you say coquettishly, nails digging into your skin to distract from the ache of him. “Taste us together and kiss me so I can, too—”

“Fuck!”

He moans, stilling inside, fully in your core, the spasms of his manhood pumping spend hot and thick into the very depths of you. His iron grip eases into inattentive pats across your skin as his stare refocuses on you, a look of such sheer relief on his face that you are momentarily overcome by the urge to laugh.

My poor uncle.

“Gods, this cunt.” Daemon hunches over you briefly, riding out the remainder of his release before withdrawing, catching sticky along your walls as he tugs away.

Your attention wavers when he rummages around out of sight for a cloth with which to wipe his shaft free of your mingled fluids, the tell-tale signs of breeches being yanked back up and laces being knotted easy to hear. Your legs close once more, an ingrained habit from the weeks and months of wishing your womb would do its work and catch your uncle’s seed. You shift uncomfortably at the unwelcome intrusion of reality into this sacred space.

The tea.

“Need help up, sweetling?”

You banish the disturbance from your mind. Taking his proffered hand, you allow your amused husband to assist you in sitting upright, again availing yourself of his geniality to lumber your way back into the arrangement he had facilitated you in achieving when you had gone to sleep the night previous. With your body fully covered and reclined, you flop on your side with an exhausted puff, already tired from your romp and the effort of moving about with such an unwieldy figure.

A dip in the mattress heralds his settling behind you, arm banding over your waist and palm coming to rest over your belly. “The babes give you any rest?” He punctuates this enquiry with an absent press of lips to your neck, breath humid upon your flesh.

You mumble noncommittally, distracted by the pulsating movements emanating through your middle. “I slept well enough—but you have gone and woken them.” You do not even try to conceal the complaint in your voice.

He laughs against your shoulder, hand tracking the activity under your skin. They are taking tumbling practice today, you think with some measure of vexation, though the exhilarated fascination remains ever near. You cannot help but to exult in the signs that your children are alive, that they are well, despite—No.

You will not think upon that night.

It is unhealthy to repress something of such magnitude. While you know this, you simply cannot indulge the thought of casting your memory back to the weight of that man bearing down toward your belly, the stink of his rotting breath and the sight of watery blue eyes wild on you, the warm stickiness of Miriam’s blood seeping from her cooling body through your sweat-soaked gown—

No. You shall not. The tears have come and gone. You have pandered to the urge to lay about in dazed silence for long enough.

“They’re lively little things, aren’t they?”

The urge to cry flows and ebbs in unpredictable rhythm yet again at the sound of Daemon’s quiet awe. Damn it all. You can even picture the expression he is sure to be wearing: eyes wide and dark, mouth parted with corners quirked, unblinking and trained steadfastly to the expanse of his babes as they wriggle and turn unknown within your womb.

“Does it hurt?” He sounds far too worried for such a simple query. Oh, Daemon. He might be asking about the babes’ movements, but you know what he really means.

‘Are you hurt?’ he wants to ask. ‘Are you safe? Are they safe?’

If the horrors of your time anew in King’s Landing have made you weepy and disconsolate, they have made him compulsive and paranoid, wholly preoccupied with the task of ensuring that even the slightest impediment to your peaceful confinement is removed post-haste.

“No,” you say. “It feels odd, but not painful. It… Oh, I cannot describe it right,” You turn to look at him. He is as always absorbed by you, hanging onto your every word. Taking his hand in yours, you tap your fingers across his skin, mimicking as best you can the sensation from within. “Like this—but on the inside. It does not hurt. It is just there.”

“Hm.”

You grumble as he tips you to your back, shuffling gracelessly down your body and bracing himself above you with his arms. The lower half of his face burrows into your belly so that all you are able to see of him is his violet stare and pale lashes and lined forehead. He rucks up your nightwear once again to lay his mouth upon your skin, something you usually catch him doing when he believes you asleep. The tell-tale vibrations of words spoken softly into flesh fizzle from the point of contact.

“What are you muttering to them down there?” you ask. “They are too young to become vassals for your unseemly behaviour, Uncle.”

“I’ll say what I like to my own children, little girl.” When his brows waggle with mischief above the crest of your middle, you kick him lightly in the side, the laughter bursting unrestrained from your lungs. “There are some things that ought to be kept between a father and his daughters,” he says, and you are sure he conceals a smile from beyond your view.

“If your sons take your guidance to heart, I shall not be dealing with the aftermath of whatever strife they decide to plague the Realm with. That is firmly in your hands.”

“If my daughters”—you squeal as he yanks you down by the thighs and parts them wide—“decide to follow in their kepa’s footsteps, you’re free to watch me teach them how to worm their way out of trouble.”

“Like you have?” Your voice is breathy, cracked at the end when you feel his fingers play with the seed that leaks from your raw opening, tacky and warm and squelching with each searching prod. “How many times have you been exiled again? Two? Three?”

You gasp as his hand strikes your mound, catching on your bud and your folds, hard enough to shock but not to cause injury. The feeling ripples out from its epicentre, slithering through your veins and lighting the tinder of desire anew. You sigh shakily as the sting sizzles along your skin.

“Don’t be naughty,” he says, breath travelling down, down, down along your bared flesh. “Impertinent brats don’t get rewarded.”

“Sorry, kepus. I’ll behave, I promise.” Silently, you bemoan how quickly he is able to redirect your changeable mood to one of lust. I want to sleep, you think.

“Good.” Daemon presses a wet kiss to the top of your womanhood, tingling with the blood raised from his slap. It is a sure sample of what is to come. “Now—I do believe you begged me to lick this little cunt clean before I left. I’d best give my wife what she wants, hm?”

Sleep can wait. You do so enjoy the outcome of his efforts, after all.

Though you adore him so, you are secretly glad for Daemon’s departure.

In the wake of the attack, he has become even more overbearing than before. When he is not embroiled in the business of searching out the architect of this plot—and truthfully, you know little of the details, partly out of desire to avoid as much mention of the event as possible and partly because he refuses to ‘burden’ you further—you are scarce to find a moment alone. It is not always a pretext for coupling, either, though that is in plentiful supply. Mostly, he watches you with intent eyes as you stitch gowns and bonnets and blankets for your babes, or rearrange the items you have procured for them, or nap out on the balcony in the late afternoon. You had been forced to put your foot down when he had attempted to accompany you to the privy. You hardly need his assistance in relieving yourself.

Remember what Ūlla said, is what you tell yourself each time he irks you with this irrational behaviour. You are impossibly grateful for the healer. If she had not dissuaded you from your anxiety after Daemon had stormed out in such a state, you might not possess any understanding of what induces him to linger so.

“He is man of control, Princess,” she had said to you. “So much control taken from him, so he cannot manage. He is very afraid. Be kind to him.”

She had been correct, of course. All of it—the untethered restlessness, the misdirected ire, the… performance issues—had very little to do with your own conduct and more-so his fear. You had comforted him as best you can, your beloved, stolid beast of a man. His fear has since taken on this new form. Truthfully, you are glad for such compulsive care, but you nonetheless welcome the opportunity to take respite from him on this day.

You turn your mind to your present task. “Thank you for coming,” you say to your sister.

Senna serves you and Helaena tea with shaky hands, spilling some of the hot liquid upon the saucer and the table. You do not reproach her for it. She has been nervous and withdrawn since discovering Miriam, in mourning for her companion as you have been.

Writing the letter to Miriam’s parents had been an incredibly difficult task. How do you convey that the girl in your service—a position that ought to be safest of all—was slain as an accessory to a greater scheme? Lord and Lady Butterwell had dolefully accepted your offer of a small monthly stipend, a mere pittance in comparison to the life that has been lost.

You nod kindly to your lady-in-waiting as she withdraws to the chaise to read, keeping to the background of your conversation should you have need of her.

Helaena glances hesitantly toward the tea before taking the handle in a delicate grip, sipping slowly from the contents within. “Of course. How are you feeling today?” Her attempt at a carefree enquiry falls flat in light of recent circumstances, her brow dipping in discomfort.

“I am well. The babes, too.” You watch her carefully for her reaction, and you are not disappointed. The wince at the mention of your children is slight, but it is there.

“I’m glad.” She takes another nervous mouthful, offering little else.

You sigh. It seems I must make the first play.

“We need to discuss it, Helaena,” you say, reaching out for her hand. She takes it, fingers trembling, a habit ingrained from years of doing the same. It generates a wistful sort of joy to know that you are still the only person she will so readily accept touch from. “You know we do.”

She had been far too hysterical last time, before. Before. You had scarcely discerned the truth of the matter before she devolved into weeping with such desolation that you had put all questions aside so as to console her. Knowing these details will not help you determine the culprit behind your enduring of so many barren moons, but it cannot hurt to learn where she has sought the concoction from. Perhaps her source and yours are linked.

Her eyes dart away from your face, and you squeeze her grip to catch her attention. You do not want her to retreat into her mind and escape from the present as she is wont to do.

She refocuses on you, timid and afraid. “What—what do you wish to know?”

You do not intend to press upon her reasoning further. The evening of the attempt upon your life, your sister had rambled on and on about ‘the time’ not being ‘right’. Any other may have claimed her mad, but you are certain that her mutterings are not the hallmark of insanity. No. Her decision is like to be driven by whatever signs and portents had been plaguing her dreams, the fractured visions of a child not yet meant to be. ‘Prophecy’ and ‘foresight’ are not words well-loved by the Faith, but her blood—that of Old Valyria—burns bright with magic lost to time.

Spool of green, spool of black; dragons of flesh weave dragons of thread.

You shudder at the recollection.

“How many times have you taken it?” you decide to ask. “Where are you getting it? Is it even safe?”

And that is the crux of the matter, is it not? One of your first thoughts had been anger toward her for risking her wellbeing so thoughtlessly. Moon tea, when brewed improperly, can cause all sorts of harm to a woman. You may not know much, but you do know this.

“I’ve taken a draught once a moon’s turn, partway between my blood’s expected coming,” she says quietly, eyes shining a little too bright to be anything other than tears. “I—the Maester has a supply.”

Your mouth parts in surprise. “Grand Maester Mellos? And he is giving it to you?”

It goes against everything you know of the man, far more concerned with his own perception of duty than that of offering succour to young Princesses frightened by the power of their own bodies. His maladaptive sense of obligation had led to your mother’s death in her childbed, scored open and bled out like a hunter’s prize game.

“No.” Helaena shifts guiltily in her seat, gaze flickering away again. She bites her lip. Her next statement rushes from her like a breaking dam. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

You catch her meaning immediately. “You are stealing it.” The judgement seeps out uninhibited.

“I’m sorry!” She clutches so tight upon your hand that you fear she may crack the bones. “I am not ready.” She sounds like a child. It is then that you remember that, for all intents and purposes, she is. “I want to be brave, like you. But I’m not.”

All at once, the ire departs, leaving little other than pity for the girl in front of you. To commit such acts as those Septa Marlowe had spent her entire life proselytising against—and you know this because she had subjected you to the very same—can only mean that she must have been very desperate.

My poor, sweet sister. You swallow the unpleasant acridity that hits your palate. It tastes like guilt.

“I should have fought harder. To stop your marriage, to—to take you with me,” you say. “It was awfully selfish of me to… let myself get caught up in my own life while you had to marry our deviant of a brother—”

She frowns. “I don’t hate Aegon as you do.” You had not realised your disdain for him was quite so vitriolic as to warrant such disapproval. “It is true that he is… not a good husband. We will never love each other like you and Uncle Daemon. But neither can we love each other as siblings should. Some days… I wonder where that leaves us.” She appears to have drifted off to some unknown part of her own mind, caught up in her convoluted thoughts and staring deeply into the polished oak surface upon which lay your refreshments. “But he is part of me, and I am part of him. Can that not just… be enough?”

If there had been nothing else to remind you that your place is no longer in the capital, this serves well enough. To hear her support for your brother is surprising, but perhaps it ought not to be. Too long have you allowed yourself to indulge the illusion that there is a clear separation between you and Aegon, that Helaena and Daeron had attached themselves to you while Aemond had traipsed about with his erstwhile brother, lines drawn and never to be crossed.

It is not so simple. You know this from experience.

“Alright.” You let the matter lie. There has been enough division amongst your family, and you are ashamed to realise how great a part you have taken in it as of late.

I must be better for Helaena’s sake, you resolve, taking your cup in hand and savouring the sweeter notes of the raspberry leaf tea as it percolates across your palate. It lacks the aroma that you have come to prefer in your hot drinks. Ire rises within you at the prospect of having become so accustomed to the taste of moon tea that you had developed a partiality to it.

It is then that an arbitrary thought crawls from the deep well of your mind.

Moon tea is by law a restricted substance. The Grand Maester is beholden only to the royal family. But then—

“Helaena,” you say slowly, searchingly. She looks back up from her own teacup. “The tea. Who is the Grand Maester brewing it for?”

She pauses, brow wrinkled. “I—I don’t know.”

“It has to be someone in the Red Keep.” You lean forward. The motion is hindered by the unwieldiness of your belly. “Your mother?”

You do not think your brother would care overmuch for preventing his seed taking root in another woman’s womb. Thus, if it is not Helaena, then it must be your lady stepmother. But Alicent is far too pious a creature to rid herself of a ‘blessing from the gods’, or so she would put it. Nor would it make sense for her to wish death upon her child before it enters the world, not after four previous successful births.

Though, you owe, it is entirely possible that she would request it made for any number of Aegon’s whores or maidservants or low-born companions after yet another eve of iniquity.

“Mother?” Helaena tilts her head incredulously. “What use would she have of it now?” My poor, naïve sister. You cannot bear to make implications as to her husband’s fidelity, and so you stay silent. She continues without noticing your turmoil. “Besides, she despises the very thought of it. She says that moon tea is an affront to the gods.”

A loud thump and shatter disturbs the relative peace of your conversation. You crane your head in the direction of the sound, startled to see your lady-in-waiting’s pale, pale face and her eyes wide with alarm. Her book is splayed on the stone floor, its pages soaking up the tea from the cup that is now shards of shattered porcelain before her.

“Senna,” you ask. “Are you alright?”

She looks as though she has seen an evil apparition or heard an unearthly echo from beyond the veil. “Yes, my Princess,” she says. Perhaps you would have been assuaged if not for the crack toward the end of her statement. Her lip trembles. She gulps. “I—”

Whatever she had intended to say does not come forth. Instead, she springs up from her seat, hastily sidestepping the chaos upon the ground and hurrying from the room through the solar door. You tug yourself from your chair using the edge of the table, glancing helplessly toward your sister.

“My apologies, Helaena—”

“Go see to her. I’ll stay here.”

You offer a brief appreciative smile before hastening after your companion, though admittedly your pace is slow and ambling. The weight of your middle tugs at your spine as you move. You grimace in discomfort.

Thankfully, Senna has not gone far. When you enter your solar—a room that you have not used once since being relocated—she is pacing through the weak light streaming in from the window, disturbing whorls of dust from the rug under her feet that dance iridescent in the glow. Her skin has taken on a ghastly pallor. It seems as though her lips have vanished from the sheer pressure at which she is pressing them together.

There is something deeply wrong here. You have never seen her so distressed.

“Senna?” You inch forward in unobtrusive increments so as not to startle her. “What is wrong?”

Your strategizing is for naught. She jumps in fright when hearing your voice echo in the stark chamber, entirely unaware that you had followed her through to relative privacy. Biting your lower lip, you ponder how best to coax a revelation from her.

You do not need to.

“I cannot keep this to myself any longer!” Clutching at her middle, you think Senna may have somehow injured herself—until she whirls to you, striding forward and sinking prostrate in front of you. “Oh, gods help me!” she wails, taking your hand as a penitent before a statue of the Mother. “Princess, please forgive me!”

A sinking suspicion settles in your gut. “Whatever is the matter?” you ask. A growing sense of foreboding looms near, one that leaches viscerally through your body, bitter and ashen upon your tongue. “I do not understand.”

She stares up at you with red-rimmed eyes, a contrast to the greyish hue of her flesh that is positively ghoulish. “I didn’t want to, I swear it! But you were so frightened about having children, and then you were married, and she told me that—”

Your stomach turns. The tea.

You no longer inhabit your body. Your soul has separated itself from its blood-and-bone prison and floats somewhere above, looking down upon this moment. There is an absurdity to the detachment, as though you are watching a garish pantomime or overdramatised spectacle designed for naught but sensationalism. It is not real. It is not real.

“It was you,” you hear yourself say as though through rushing water. You wonder if you might faint. “It was you?”

How long have I known her?

You had been but a youth when she first arrived to court, eagerly presenting herself for service to the royal family. Being so much more daring and adventurous and outspoken than you, the fact that you had become so close would seem unlikely to an outsider. At least, you had thought you were close. For her to have taken what little power you possessed over your own body, to steal any number of children that might have been before you had ever had the chance to know them, all at the apparent behest of another—

You swallow frantically, willing yourself not to expel the contents of your stomach.

“You know. Oh, gods. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” She weeps, tipping her chin down and kissing your hand. You fight the unwelcome intrusion of the desire to yank yourself from her grip, to slap her or throttle her for her treachery. “I promise I was thinking only of protecting you!”

“By making me think I was barren? By taking my chance to make a true family? By—” You shake your head to try and dispel the ache that has settled itself there like a heavy stone, solid and relentless. Taking a deep, even breath, you force your voice to say the words your mind rails so desperately against. You do not wish to know. “Senna. Senna, look at me. If you want to protect me, you will confess who is behind this.”

You had been right. The truth, pouring from the mouth of your friend-turned-traitor, is a knife to the heart. It is not real, the timorous whisper of the frightened girl you had been resonates noiseless throughout your hollowed form, a plaintive exhale into the air. It is not real.

You spend seconds or minutes or hours staring blankly at the city, huddled like a child upon the bench on your balcony. In the distance, you can hear the screeching protestations of Athfiezar. He had appeared in the capital a day or so after the attack—or so you are told, having been confined to your bed at the insistence of Daemon and Ūlla and thus unable to visit your boy in person—swooping and snarling and making a general fuss as he is so often wont to do when you are upset. If you squint, you think you can see the great black bulk of him atop the Dragonpit.

King’s Landing is abuzz with its usual frenetic activity. Yet, the sights and smells and the waft of coastal wind upon your cheek hardly register.

“I did not want this for you.”

It seems like so long ago that Alicent had helped you prepare for your wedding. She had voiced her concerns about the match even then. Perhaps such a thing ought to have made you even more anxious and fretful than you already had been, but the honesty had been refreshing on a day in which all had made deliberate prevarications as to their true thoughts. A frightful few had been genuinely congratulatory of your being given to your uncle as a wife, and Alicent was certainly chief among the naysayers.

Never would you have expected her capable of this.

Senna had told you everything—of how Alicent had pulled her aside after your wedding night, how she had pressed a batch of the tea into her hands and persuaded her to ensure you imbibed it the following day, how Senna had at first thought it a mere gesture of kindness from a stepmother to her beloved daughter. When she had discovered what the concoction did, she had been torn between duty and her love for you. She could not disobey a directive from her Queen, but at the same time could not abide the thought of harming you. From what you were able to gather, Alicent had discerned this conflict and swayed her into the belief that keeping your womb empty of a babe was the best thing for you.

“You were always terribly quiet after your mother was mentioned, and you avoided talk of childbirth wherever possible,” Senna had said through tears. “I wanted to help.”

A noblewoman receiving shipments from King’s Landing would hardly have been an uncommon occurrence for one stationed on Dragonstone. And so, it had been all too easy for the Queen to procure the tea from Mellos and send it forward to your island home, where you had regularly partaken in its consumption for moons.

You remember having expressed to Senna some wistfulness after spending time with the Princess Sarella Martell and her daughters in Dorne. Evidently, this had been all the motivation needed to finally risk rebellion. The tea had stopped, and Daemon’s seed had finally taken root within you.

Daemon.

What do you do? Do you tell him? Should you tell him? The questions swarm like a thousand stinging bees, loud and painful and frightening in their veracity.

He will kill her—he will murder the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, will wrap his hands around her throat and squeeze the life from her if he discovers what she has done—

But perhaps Senna is lying. Perhaps she is so overcome by her guilt that she seeks to incriminate another, to control the tale before her victim has opportunity to speak for herself. You do not wish to believe it, but nor can you bear the thought of the woman you had once felt such affection for betraying you in such a manner.

Alicent’s routine remains unchanged despite the summers that have passed since her ascension to your father’s side. Thus, it is with anxious resolve that you finally gather the will to drag yourself from your chambers and step out in search of her.

Ser Lorent Marbrand stands to attention just outside your room, hand springing to the pommel of his blade. “Your Highness?” Peering intently into the room behind you, he—like all others in your service as of late—is vigilant to the extreme. “Do you require assistance?”

“I wish to speak with the Queen,” you say, stepping forward. He moves to block your path. You frown up at him. “Please step aside, Ser.”

“My apologies,” he says, dipping his head, “but Prince Daemon has given me strict instructions to ensure you remain within these chambers until he retu—”

“If my husband discovers that I have elected to ignore his directive to you, then that is firmly my business and my consequence to contend with. I will be meeting with my lady stepmother. So, it is your choice whether I go alone or am accompanied by the Kingsguard assigned to my protection.”

The merest flash of temper, coupled with a deliberately-placed hand on your belly, is enough to make the knight quail. He takes his place at your back as you walk on, traversing the halls of your childhood home toward the Sept.

You reach deep to cling onto all the stubbornness you possess as the murmurs and gasps follow you through the Keep, the courtiers no doubt surprised to see you risk a public appearance. Though your father and his Council had done their best to quash any rumour that might have sprung to life, the news of your attack has spread like wildfire amongst those hungry for gossip in the capital. You are not brave, not in the way Rhaenyra or Daemon are, but you are more than these people see you as. It is time they learn that you can be just as resilient as those survivors of the Doom.

When you stop before the staircase leading to the Sept, steep and winding—and you remember climbing these same steps moons ago, when you were lonely and afraid and knew nothing of love—you contemplate giving up and returning to your chambers. Sighing resignedly, you make use of the overcautious Kingsguard to navigate the treacherous ascent, holding onto his arm to lug your ungainly form up and up. Ser Lorent says nothing, which you appreciate, merely proffers his bulk as resistance so that you may totter your way to the upper landing.

Your heart thuds discordant in your chest as you look upon Alicent, knelt before the effigy of the Mother with her head bent low in prayer. A thousand candles flicker golden in the chamber, giving the dark space an eerie, haunted atmosphere. The light ripples across her hair like molten fire. It is musty here, stifled from the windows being covered in times of disuse. For a place dedicated to the gods, it feels remarkably like how you would imagine the Seven hells. Given the task you have come to fulfil, perhaps the comparison is apt.

She startles bodily at the sound of your footsteps growing ever closer, echoing around the room so loudly it is as though someone far larger than you stamps onward. Rising from her supplications, her shoulders slump minutely when she sees that it is only you.

Alicent utters your name in surprise. “You should be resting after your ordeal!” she says, gliding forward to meet you. Her hand reaches out to take your own—and you notice that she carefully avoids your belly— a look of such matronly kindness on her face that you all at once feel ill again. You can barely feel her touch. “Are you well?”

“The moon tea.” It falls from your lips without conscious choice. You had intended to broach the subject cautiously, to manoeuvre her into admitting the deed under her own duress, but it seems your voice has other plans.

“I’m sorry?” she asks, brow knitting in an affectation of confusion. From the way her fingers tighten hard upon your flesh, a momentary squeeze then release, it is but a performance. She knows of what you speak.

You pull your hand from hers, stepping back when she pursues. Her mouth begins to part, concern forming on her tongue in consummate deception.

“Do not—” you start; pause. Swallow against the bile. Try to take stock of where your heart is, for it has escaped the cavity of your chest and swims untethered through your body, swooping and irregular. “I know about the tea, Alicent. What you asked of Senna. I know everything.”

There. It is said now, and it cannot be taken back. A strange sense of relief co-mingles with the terror.

Though she forces a bewildered laugh, you can see her eyes widen in alarm, shine with the fear she keeps contained with a resolve that is far stronger than even Valyrian steel. Puzzlement crosses her features, a politely baffled smile playing on her lips. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of, darli—”

“Don’t lie to me!”

It hisses from you like a flame, sizzling and incandescent. Your fury is near a tangible thing, an entity that seethes and writhes with a force you had not yet known you were capable of. The reverberation of it thrums in your toes, hangs upon the air and in your ears as though you are still speaking, though the chamber is silent.

Alicent lets out a quick, shaky breath. Few would notice—but your years of isolation have honed your observance to a sharp point, a weapon by any other name. The severe line of her jaw belies her clenching teeth, a woman hanging to the last vestiges of her decorum. “I think you ought to retire to your rooms. You are clearly overcome.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” The hurt, wounded creature inside you rears up, and you must fight the tears that spring up at her continued refusal to concede her wrongdoings. You have cried far too often. It is time for strength. “I have been a good and devoted stepdaughter these many years, Your Grace,” you say. “I have been your daughter’s chief companion. I am raising your son. If you have any affection in your heart for me, you will tell the truth.”

It is calculated, but it works. She wavers, and the veil of hostility drops, leaving something conflicted and unsure. This iteration of your stepmother is new.

She looks away, seeming to turn inward on herself, slow and pondering. “When I was your age, I had already birthed a child and carried another,” she says, the resonance of it like stray whispers on a breeze. Her eyes are glazed as she stares at some point beyond your own fixation, brown turned gold in the firelight. “I remember how… confusing and frightening it was, being so young and having such a burden laid on my shoulders. Mothering the King’s heirs… To be the vessel bringing forth more Targaryens is a weight I did not wish you to bear.”

The soft, sickening pulse of sympathy warms you. Though you love your father, it is true that he has not made for a good husband. Alicent is being kind by evading such an implication, but her marriage has been one of steadfast endurance, a stiff upper lip and staunchly-maintained silence.

Then you truly process what has been said. “To be the vessel… is a weight I did not wish you to bear.” It is an admission of guilt in so many words.

Something inside you breaks.

“That was not your choice to make.” Your mouth is moving and the words come forth, but you feel again as though you have been unclipped from your physical form and left to float elsewhere, distant and divided. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palm and threatening to draw blood. The pain moors you to reality. You clench tighter. “It is my duty as a wife to have my husband’s children. I felt like a failure each time my blood came—because of you.”

“That could not be helped,” she says, the tone so staggeringly at odds with the callousness of such a statement. “You are far too gentle a creature for the likes of Daemon. What he did to your assailant—”

“He protected me,” you snap, incensed. “He loves me.”

The rumours of what had taken place in the early morning hours after your attack have swirled for days. All who have come to your chambers to attend you have given your uncle a wide berth, gaping at him with fearful eyes and muttering to each other under their breath. You know not if he has heard the whispers that seem to be trailing him, though it is equally possible he simply does not care.

“He stabbed the man so many times that they could not tell it was a body at first,” you had caught a pair of maids muttering.

“The Prince gutted him and strung his entrails out of the window as a warning—”

“He cut the wretch’s head off and drank the blood that spilled—”

“He broke every bone in his body and left him there for his family to find—”

No doubt the brutality that had occurred in that establishment—an inn or a tavern or a brothel, each report differing in its account—had been truly obscene. Daemon is a vicious man, needing no provocation to inflict himself upon others. You cannot imagine the carnage that had ensued after his wife and babes had been terrorised. Nor do you wish to ask, truthfully.

You had felt an iota of guilt for being so accepting of his brand of justice, being so loath of it; you recall the time you told him how you “disliked violence”, how you would “not allow unnecessary savagery” should you consent to marry him. It did not last very long in light of the circumstances.

He loves you, and for that love he had put to the sword those who sought to take your life.

Alicent scoffs, snapping you back to the present. “He was supposed to tire of you, to put you aside and seek out whatever else he might wish. Perhaps then you would be free to marry a man worthy of yo—”

“So you wished for me to be disgraced? The laughingstock of the Realm?” You laugh, icy and piercing. “You desired my unhappiness. Somehow, you have convinced yourself that doing so means you care for me above all others.”

The Queen retreats behind her mask of wintry cordiality, expression closing off entirely. Her mouth opens and closes, a response gathering but not quite fully-formed.

There is no turning back from this. You think that you will never see her look upon you with warmth again.

“It is he who has corrupted you so,” she says finally, disdainful and disappointed in equal measure. “Never would you have spoken to me in such a manner before he sunk his claws into you.”

“You do not get to behave as though I have wronged you. You act as though my uncle is some sort of monster, when it is you who has violated my body and my freedom.”

“Violated?” She sneers down her nose at you. “I would think that feat should be recognised as another’s. ‘Tis a shame to see you so ruined, stepdaughter. I hope being Daemon’s whore is worth it.”

The slap rings sudden and strident, your palm burning. You do not remember striding forward. Alicent shields her cheek with a hand, looking upon you with indignant trepidation. An eye for an eye, a strike for a strike. Your scarred arm tingles at your side, the line where the knife had carved your skin open prickling with a memory that seems distant now.

“I would rather be his whore than your saint,” you hiss, squeezing and releasing your fist to work away the buzzing sensation.

Silence pervades following your assertion, the last notes suspended soundless throughout the room. The statue of the Mother seems to stare down at you both, the lit altar casting her countenance into something eerie and judgemental. That the flames dance still upon their waxen mounts is surprising. ‘Tis a reminder that the world remains unchanged despite your feeling that the ground has shifted beneath your feet, shaking and unsteady.

“I will tell Papa of what you have done,” you say, preparing to depart. You have earned your confession, but there is no victory to be won here. “Return to your devotions, my Queen. Pray that he will be lenient.”

“Tell him? Whatever will you tell him?” she asks loftily, arrogantly, her brow arching. “You have no proof.”

You frown. “I have Senna—”

“The daughter of a minor noble house, or the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? Who is the King likely to believe?” Alicent smiles unkindly, a mockery of the geniality she had once shown you.

She has a point. You cannot stand it. The moment the words had left your mouth, you had known your father will do nothing with such information. So determined is he to prevent conflict in his household that he will turn a blind eye to most anything to avoid the uncomfortable truth—that House Targaryen is breaking at the seams, each day bringing a new tear upon the fabric of what you imagine must have once been a true family.

It is too much. There is nothing more to say. The cards have been dealt, but the game is unwinnable. You are so, so tired. What is left for you in the capital? You want to go home.

I want Daemon and Athfiezar and Daeron and my babes. I want to go home.

“May the gods have mercy upon your soul for what you have done,” you say. “For my part—I hope you burn in the Seven hells.”

You leave her standing there alone in the Sept, the last refuge of a woman who has maimed all the love and affection that might have lingered from her girlhood years. Her effigies and her prayers and her piety are all that is left to her now. They will consume her from the inside out, scorch her to a shell of the smiling, tender-hearted youth you remember from so long ago.

Let her choke upon her airs of godliness, you think. One day, she will pay the price for her crimes.

You hope you are there to see it.

Read it on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/44058132/chapters/114901333

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Now in the comments!

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dovithedarklord · 22 days

Text

Stucked - Part 6

You're trapped in a game and a new threat is lurking.

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Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish x reader, Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader, König x reader

Tags: Mentions of death, Mentions of blood and gore, Blood and Violence, Sexual Scenes, Alternate Universe, No use of Y/N, Not Beta Read, AFAB Reader

Trigger Warning: Contains blood and gore, violence, injury, some body horror, description of grotesque creatures, some monster smut (light), and some dubcon (lightly). Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

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Author's Note

This part unveils a new evil!

There's a new threat, but your old friends are close by. Who knows what happens after...

Have fun! :D

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

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Like a faded picture that has been imprisoned in the depths of a drawer for decades, the vision is projected as faintly on the canvases of your eyelids. As if it were just a vision born on the plastic soil of a dream, nothing else, the memory that takes shape in your head seems so unbelievable. This horrible place has been holding you in its embrace hot with the stench of death for so long, that the images left from the real world seem to your brain like the remnants of a life that never existed. However, you're sure that the melodious children's laughter ringing in your ears is real, and you know that it belongs to someone who was once important to you. In this friendly fantasy world, there is no decay and no blood, only the inviting rays of the sun, which guide you to the surface with warm fingers, as you frolic under the cool foams, mimicking a mermaid. You paddle nimbly with your little hands as the princess of the secret underwater realm, and each tiny shell and grain of sand greets you as a subject of your kingdom as you swim above them. And when someone pulls you out of your adventure and lifts you back into the air, warm from the summer heat, you sulk and argue, trying to get free, but whoever the stranger is, they only respond with amused laughter. And your heart almost sinks at the fact that only blurred spots dance in front of your eyes when you look up at the figure who kisses the top of your little head and hugs you so tenderly. Because you know you should know her, but nothing breaks through the darkness in your skull apart from the feeling of loss that gnaws at your insides.

Although for a moment you don't understand why your own mind is turning against you, but even your frozen shock is penetrated by a faint recognition, that there is a reason why this is exactly the memory that arose in you after the many horrors you experienced. And it seems a very cruel trick from your subconscious that now, when an unknown force drags you deeper and deeper toward the bottomless pits of the icy water, it calls up this exact one out of the many mementos slowly fading to nothingness. Because you know that now the sun-tanned hand won't rush to your aid to save you from the frosty, otherworldly empire that is drawing you closer and closer to its gate made of torn bodies with each passing second.

And as if you just woke up from an unwanted slumber, you realize that no matter how much you want to linger on the soft lap of soothing reminders of the past, and no matter how much all your instincts protest against letting the false security of the images dancing on your eyelids slip away, you have other things to do. Oh, how easy it would be to let it end like this, rocking in the heavy arms of the cool water, finally die without rough hands trying to bask in the warmth of your still living organs. But you have work to do. And this ultimately breaks your body out of the shock injected into you by the unknown attacker, which pulled you under the surface, heavy with rot and death.

As soon as your resolve finally pushes you back from the temptation of the soft, shapeless drifting of unconsciousness, the shortness of breath tightening your chest reaches your senses, and your mouth opens in a desperate gasp before you can stop the reflexive movement. And as the cold water breaks through your lips and you feel the musty taste of mud on your tongue, your jaw snaps shut with such alarmed speed that you swear that you feel your teeth cracking. However, a stray sip of water that has gone astray still finds its way into your trachea, and as it pushes along the soft tissues like a thousand tiny blades, you would instinctively start to cough, but you're only able to ease the pressure of a force squeezing your ribs for a few pathetic seconds.

Your eyes open in fear, and you can see the taunting invitation of the moon's pale light even through the sting of the water blurring your vision, and you can almost feel how mockingly the silvery beams laugh at your torment. And as you become aware of with what frightening certainty the last faintly twinkling trace of the starry sky starts to disappear, your brain catches up with the facts, and even through the lack of oxygen, you understand painfully fast that the fragile thread of your life will soon come to a pitiful end and break under the cruel weight of the waves gathering above you. And because of this, your body, for the umpteenth time during the night, surges you towards action, and as the cocktail of stress hormones in your veins revives, you try to propel yourself upwards with almost instinctive movements. But no matter how you paddle with your hands, just as your legs would also join in the frantic work, the alien creature wrapped around your ankle tightens its grip even more, and the suppressed scream that is born in your lungs only echoes in your skull, when you feel how cruelly its spikes drill into your bruised flesh. You can sense, quite horrified, how the poison, similar to liquid fire, creeps through the boundary of the skin and muscles pulsing with agony. And you know that whatever this formless beast tries to inject into your body, soon it will help tip you back into oblivion so that you allow yourself to be driven into the predator's waiting claws with a willing daze.

Your hands rush towards the wretched monster holding your feet captive, and even you're surprised when you grab hold of the sleek extensions of a seaweed-like plant. And even though the army of thorns rising from the slippery tissue cut into your palm, you don't care about how the suffering radiates through your arm like a lightning strike, instead, gritting your teeth, you try to loosen your shackles, because it's only a matter of time before your luck runs out and you're back in that goddamn car again. Crimson drops of blood emerge like snakes from under the wounded skin, and the more fiercely you fight with the cursed seaweed, the cerise fluid surrounds you like a vague mist, casting your figure, wild from the fury of the struggle, into the midst of blood-red clouds.

All your nerves are occupied by the heat of your battle, because you feel it all too well how the merciless iron fist around your chest is closing, as if someone had thrown you into a press, and the metal plates weighing on you were trying to slowly drive your ribs into the living flesh. And you would swear that even through the gurgle of liquid against your eardrums, you can hear the horrible, almost insidious snapping of the hair-thin cracks running down your bones, as if a heavy boot were treading on freshly fallen branches.

But even through your despair, it occurs to you how strange it is that the crackles travel into your ears through the roar of the water so clearly, even though you know that nothing but the sound of bubbles could penetrate the chaos created by your panic. And when you catch a pale spot moving from the corner of your eye, like an uncertain vision dancing on the edge of your consciousness, you stop chasing your release for a minute. First, through the hazy clouds cast by your blood, you see a broken form unfolding, looking more like the dried remains of a wind-twisted and battered tree than anything else. However, when the tormented figure seems to be approaching, and the scarlet veil finally fades due to your immobility, then the shock cuts through even the tension of air that is stuck in your throat. Because your brain, fighting with hypoxia, understands that the creature is swimming closer to you with measured laziness, which may have previously feasted on the disintegrating corpses washed to the surface.

A pair of milky white eyes take shape from the dark, endless void with an almost otherworldly light, and the hunger looming in them paints the mouth so dreadful, which stretches into an impossibly wide snarl with cruel joy when it discovers in you its prey frozen in fear. As if the corners of its mouth were trying to get around the elongated head, splitting the dry, ashy skin on its skull like grotesque cuts. Yet, your eyes are immediately drawn to the pale gums and the sharp teeth protruding from them, stained a dirty brown by the rotting pieces of meat sitting on them. And as the twisted, thin body floats closer, a series of dim, tormented blots appear behind it, like an army of faithful shadows, which absorb the rays of moonlight piercing the water, bringing an ominous night to the desolate realm of the lake.

And it doesn't take much time, just a mere fleeting second, and you become sure that you have to flee, because these horrible devilish beings will clean the pliant network of muscles and tendons from your bones before suffocation has a chance to push you into the saving ignorance of unconsciousness. That's why the fierceness of survival awakens in you anew, and even you yourself can't believe the power that terror stirs in you, when you almost tear the tentacles of the stubborn seaweed from you, and the adrenaline that settles on your nerves doesn't allow the pain caused by the attack of the thorns stabbing into your palm to reach you. And if you'd have time, you would burst into tears of joy when the damned plant finally releases your ankle, but you have no time to be relieved, because you see the cautious advance of the distorted beasts squirming in the corner of your eyes, and you can feel the small waves on your skin that their excitedly grinding teeth create.

You're almost desperately try to swim towards the surface, and although the force of the pressure gnawing at your insides increases with each hasty movement, and small black spots slowly crawl into your field of vision, you don't care about the agony that crushes the soft tissues of your internal organs. When your hand finally breaks through the mirror-smooth border of the lake's surface for the first time, and your fingers are caressed by the prickle of the cold night air, then all the suffering that has tried to push you into the silky lap of another death disappears. And perhaps you've never been so happy to see the moon sprawled out like a divine being in the middle of this imaginary world, and you're not at all bothered by the sardonic glee with which its sparkling, silvery gaze follows how you begin to swallow the life-giving oxygen like a pitiful fish on dry land. Although you forcefully cough out the remnants of the water that have strayed into your airways, as soon as the first sip of air fills your chest aching with burning stinging, and the specks squirming in front of your eyes vanish, you have the strength to focus on the way out. And you know that you don't have time to hesitate any longer, because you can see the moving outline of the unknown monsters gathering below you.

You run your gaze along the landscape shrouded in dreadful stillness, and you feel your stomach flutter with gratitude when you discover how seductively close the line of the shallow shore stretches behind you. You only wildly hope that you're able to outrun these horrible creatures, as you put each of your tired limbs to work and start swimming without any delay, because it only takes one of these awful beings to catch you, and your remains will be reduced to tiny crumbs of bones and viscera. And despite the fact that you've met your end countless times, you know that each of your deaths would pale in comparison to being torn to pieces alive by these infernal abominations. Perhaps this is the motivation that breaks through the last barrier in your consciousness and helps to get your body to move with an unprecedented urgency, and this is what dulls the ear-splitting scream-like noise of the frenzy unfolding behind you.

The few minutes seem like millennia until you finally reach the swampy ground, and you stumble to your feet, yanking your shoes from the mud's stubborn grip with an angry cry as you clumsily drag yourself ashore. And as you finally make it to the edge of the wet sand, you drop to your knees, panting, allowing yourself a few meager seconds to rest before you're forced to run again from the evils that stalk you. Because you’re sure that whatever the tentacled creature was, it's still lurking in the depths of the abyss, and the two murderers can also be breathing down your neck thanks to the terrible sidequest you've fallen into. Almost instinctively, your hand sinks into the pocket of the soaked pants, and when you find the disconcertingly untouched map, you feel a heavy weight lift off your heart. All you have to do is to lie low a bit, and then calmly set off to look for the next clue, which can finally get you out of this ever-deepening madness.

But when that bone-shaking scream blasts into the silence of the night once again, you wince reflexively, like a startled animal that has finally realized that the predator will soon wrap its foul-smelling jaws around its neck. And although by now you should have gotten used to the fact that this goddamn place always lulls you into a mirage-like illusion of tranquility with the promise of a moment of ease, only to avenge its mercy all the more cruelly, yet now fear claws into your insides with the same force as if you were experiencing the terrors of this nightmare for the first time. Because when you glance back, you see the cloudy eyes break through from under the velvety, rippling veil of the water, like faintly looming ghosts that were vomited out by the mouth of the lake opening to the other world, to drag you with them into the pits of insatiable hell. One of the gruesome figures emerges from the waves rocking like liquid obsidian, and its sickly thin body straightens amid gut-wrenching crackles, as if every single bone would slide into place on top of another, crumbling under the withered tissue. But even though the beast looks ungainly, when its mouth full of sharp teeth opens and that high-pitched, whistle-like screech rushes out of it, you clamp your hands to your ears to try to dull the pain of the head-splitting sound, and with the pain piercing your eardrums, you realize that if you don't get away now, then those teeth will be painted ruby by your intestines next time.

However, before you can even move, the howling stops, and it takes a few moments for your mind to register what is happening. And when you discover that pair of glowing red eyes appear behind the enraged army of monsters, you wish these bastards would rip you apart alive, because maybe that would be a more pleasant death than what those smoldering irises have in store for you. Because there is such a hungry temper dancing in them that settles into the aggressive movement with which the stranger takes hold of the head of the menacing water creature about to attack, lifting it up into the air. His huge palm swallows its face green from algae, and the way his strong hand clenches around the abomination's skull seems almost pitifully simple, as if the wretch would be nothing more than a worm to be trampled upon. And you feel how your insides convulse with nausea when the stomach-turning crunch, with which the bones shatter into pieces, reaches your ear canals, and you desperately try to swallow back the bitter bile pooling in your mouth, as, after a wet splash, you see the soft, pink flesh spilling out between the hooded monster's long fingers.

It seems that this makes the other grotesque entities understand that something more terrifying than them has arrived, and they swim back to the protective shelter of the lake with such ready submission, as if they were trying to hide from the sight of their angry king, before he would erupt into a frightening rage. Through the dread slowly bubbling under your skin, you realize that maybe this man really is their ruler, since the horde of malformed forces living in the water turned against you after he first surfaced behind the sea of mutilated bodies. And perhaps there is some woefully obvious logic in this, since the game wouldn't have allowed this new location to appear if there hadn't been an even more horrible surprise waiting for you in it. When the last of his terrified subjects finally disappears, the giant starts towards you with lazy steps, and with each passing meter it becomes more and more noticeable, how the hard muscles weave through every terrible corner of his tall figure, and suddenly it becomes painfully clear to you that even the bloodthirsty shadows skulking in the forest would offer greater safety if you threw yourself into the arms of formless darkness now.

You try to get up shaking, because you understand that you're just hanging another death flag on your forehead with your hesitation, but as soon as you put weight on your wounded leg, a bitter pain shoots into your ankle, as if someone were trying to twist your foot around its axis with their bare hands, and from the stars dancing before your eyes, you helplessly let your knees buckle and help you fall back into the mud with a dull thud. And even though you try to relieve the persistent throbbing of the white-hot pain with the air inhaled through your nose, by the time your head clears enough to be able to get yourself to move, your body, trembling with agony, is already swallowed up by the all-consuming shadow of the man towering over you, and you know that you’re done for. You don't have to turn around to know that the hooded monster has finally stalked you down, because you can see the black blanket with which his large figure covers the ground decorated with small stones and plants washed up on the shore.

You don't even dare to move for a little bit, and you feel ridiculously stupid for offering yourself on a silver platter with your person immobilized by terror. As if you were willingly present your chest to him so that he can tear out your scared, beating heart, but you can't even twitch, because, with the pounding of your pulse in your ears, the fear spreads through every inch of your body, pushing every muscle fiber into paralyzed helplessness. And you feel how the blood freezes in your veins, when a terribly sweet scent snakes its way into your nose, like the smell of the juices of rotten fruit left under the rays of the summer sun, which at the same time enters your head and covers the frightened upheaval in your skull under some inexplicable hazy fog, and tightens your stomach in a death-tight grip. Although this strange smell brings you closer to dizziness, even in the confused daze that descends upon you, you can perfectly detect when an unknown creature glides onto your shoulder with a damp springiness, then slowly slithers its way up the graceful line of your neck like a curious leech. You're unable to restrain the reflexive movement that makes you cringe in alarm under the curious touch of the uninvited guest, and even though every fiber of your body turns to stone, you raise your eyes to the intruder despite the anxiety gathering in the pit of your stomach. And when you discover the pitch-black tentacle shining with a velvety light, and the purple suckers lined up on them, which breathe unsolicited kisses to the valley of your cleavage, you yelp and charge forward to try to crawl away from the monster with such panicked clumsiness, like a wounded wild animal trying to escape from the wolf with its last breath.

However, no matter how hard you try to break free, the fear raging in your body only leads to an uncoordinated shuffling, and you fall to your stomach on the fish-smelling ground, hissing from the ache that rips through your ankle. Your mouth fills with tiny grains of wet sand, but you don't mind the sour taste on your tongue, because it penetrates your terror much more clearly when you feel the searing heat of another body behind you, seeping through the thin material of your soaked t-shirt like a contagious disease. And you know that the end of the night has arrived, because when you see a giant hand sinking into the mud next to your head, you recognize, along with the horrible delusions flooding into your mind, that you already lost your chance of survival when you waded into that damn lake.

And the newcomer doesn't leave you a moment to recover from your shock, because you just got rid of the intrusion of the sticky organ, you feel the tentacle breaking under the battered fabric of your top, and you can't stop the terrified tremor that moves into your limbs in time, when the probing caress of the feelers passes through the tense arch of your spine. The tenderness with which he traces the small valley between your shoulder blades is almost stomach-churning, because you're aware that with one careless movement, he could unfurl the row of vertebrae from under your skin like fresh peas from their shell. And you know that he only wants to lull your vigilance with the fleeting gentleness with which the appendage moves towards the line of your ribs to try to migrate to your chest, like a lover who wants to explore the lush curves of his beloved's body. And your brain, stuck in the fear of death, is relieved a little when the sleek arm finds an obstacle in the moldy ground, but the small joy that takes hold in you is pitifully short-lived, because your attacker only grabs your hips with a frustrated grunt and pulls you up with such light carelessness, which you wouldn't be able to fight even if the horrors of the night didn't weigh on your every cell like a leaden blanket. And as his fingers sink into the soft flesh, you feel that following the touch of restrained power, the mark of his hand will soon be ingrained into you with a purple color.

Still, you’re much more horrified, and goosebumps run over every defenseless inch of your body, as the clammy limb reaches your bra on its path, and a startled squeak gets stuck behind your quivering lips that is elicited from you by the attack of the slimy organ burrowing under the soft material. You don't dare tear your eyes away from the pebble shining with a dull light, which rises orphaned from a small sand dune in front of you, because you're terrified that if you follow how the monster takes what your vulnerable body offers to him unwillingly, you will sink even deeper in the muddy swamp of terror. Yet every nerve ending in you is sharpened when you feel the cold, slick flesh sliding against the soft mound of your breast. And there is something repulsively intimate about how one of the suckers latches onto your nipple with an almost insatiable hunger, as if this monster wasn't holding you in the trap of his strong body for the first time. As if he's got his hand on a delicacy, the nectar of which he has tasted at some point, and now the longing for the tantalizing aroma on his tongue would drive him forward. But your brain cannot understand why this absurd thought awakens in you, because it's unable to focus on anything other than the involuntary shiver that runs along your spine when it sucks the sensitive skin that has become its prey with an almost playful lewdness. And this small act is enough for the miserable moan, that has been crawling up your throat on foul feet until now, to finally break through your mouth.

And as if this one sound would feed the horrible man's unquenchable greed, for you shudder in horror, as another tentacle wanders over the nervously heaving line of your belly with slow laziness, and for a terrible moment it just flirtatiously skims along the waistline of your pants. But his patience doesn't last long, because he pushes under your jeans with an almost violent want, and you don't even have time to react, the limb sinks under the damp material of your panties with such insidious speed. Your consciousness can't keep up with the siege on your body, but it still fills you with agony as the lush flame of desire flares up in your stomach, as one of the suckers closes around your clit. And the muddled whine that creeps up your trachea is unfamiliar even to your own ears, when the wet pressure increases around the sensitive bundle of nerves, because you would rather bite your own tongue in shame, but the shock that rolls over you is too strong to resist the pull of the sensation.

But when you feel the feeler gliding between the silky petals and almost curiously circling the entrance of your pussy throbbing with scorching heat, then the fire of protest rekindles in you, and you set your hands on the damp ground to brace yourself against the beast. But even though your unexpected opposition gives you momentum, it feels like you hit a concrete wall, the man's chest swelling with hard muscles press against your back with such unshakable confidence, and you become aware painfully soon what kind of fun you've made him have, when the hardness that bulges in his crotch pushes against your bottom. And he, perhaps mistakenly, perhaps on purpose, sees your pathetic attempt as an invitation, and the deep, throaty groan rings in your ears, with which he thrusts his cock against you with impatient fervor, like a damned animal ready to mate. And as his huge hand clamp down on your hips with an almost vise-like force, even the stray idea of escape suddenly seems like a ridiculously far-fetched dream, because his fingers will crush all your fragile bones to dust before letting you get lost into the night. But even though the icy poison of dread sneaks into your every brain cell, you know you have to take flight, since the goal hasn't changed. You have to survive. And if you stay here, you voluntarily count down the minutes until the moment of your death, which, no matter what sweet torment the game promises, you know it's coming.

And as if he would sense that he cannot drive away the stillborn idea of resistance from you with his insidious tactics, that hurtful, syrupy smell appears again, which fills your nose with such a vicious intrusion that you have no chance to understand what is happening, because as soon as the dark fog spreads over your brain, the burning tingle that sends liquid flames into your core saturates every inch of you. An almost drunken intoxication settles on you, and it's only a dull fear in the back of your mind that he might be using some kind of pheromones to deter you from running away, but even though you recognize the diabolical method with which he traps you, you're no longer able to pull yourself together. The desperate demand of lust stirs up in you too strongly, and suddenly it doesn't seem alarming at all, as the tip of the tentacle that ventured into your underwear teasingly slips into your wet heat just for a moment. And you don't even have enough common sense to understand how terribly pitiful it is that you willingly squeeze your trembling body against the stranger like a bitch in heat.

And if the hooded man didn't suddenly freeze over you, you wouldn't even notice what was happening around you, because his presence settles on every single one of your senses, as if someone would drip hot wax on you, slowly closing you in an impenetrable shell, condemning you to eternal lustful suffering. But as vehemently as he started, your attacker ends his torturous game as abruptly, and as the impenetrable veil of the treacly essence in your head is inexplicably replaced by the metallic smell of blood, then your consciousness is able to clear. And although it takes a few excruciating moments before your brain is finally capable of receiving the stimuli from the outside world, then you can hear quite well the pain-filled, enraged groan that breaks out of the monster's mouth, as a large knife lands in the sand with a dull thud a few short seconds later.

And there is nothing tender about the way the long appendages terrorizing you disappear and one hand smoothes on your back to pin you down to the ground, almost ramming you into the cold embrace of the wet soil, and for a moment the air is forced from your lungs, as his huge palm spreads between your shoulder blades with warning roughness. And you understand the silent instruction even without words, and the revived stabbing of fear escaping into your limbs helps to force you into corpse-like immobility. And that's when you hear the soft crunch of the autumn leaves, as something treads through them to sneak cautiously closer to you in the distance. Your frightened gaze is immediately fixed on the trees rising beyond the shore, but for a tense second, you see nothing but darkness shrouded in eerie silence. However, the man notices what you don't, and his robust figure towers over you so possessively, like a rabid animal protecting its prey, and you don't even feel like more than a piece of meat, which the cruel world of the game has turned into such an irresistible reward.

"Get the fuck back into the lake, König!" A deep voice breaks through the heavy quietness of the forest, and you would recognize Johnny's hoarse baritone out of a thousand, because you have been lucky enough to taste the danger of its deceptive bloodlust too many times. But now, as the outline of his body unfolds from under the black veil of shadows among the vegetation, you recognize the murderous anger, the icy tension of which sits in the line of his broad shoulders. And although you only see a distant figure moving out of the corner of your eye, the anxiety in the pit of your stomach immediately tells you that Simon is the one who stalks through the tangle of wild bushes like a big cat about to pounce. "She's ours."

And you can feel on your back how that angry voice resonates through the chest of the beast holding you down, with which he finally responds to the appearance of the uninvited visitors. And for a minute that seems like an eternity, nothing happens, and being stuck in this horrible anticipation, the panic awakens in you, which makes your brain finally able to form meaningful thoughts, and you can spot that tiny little detail that has been resting in front of your nose until now so happily. Because the man's hand is still resting in front of you, digging into the mud, and when you see the row of red beads adorning the thick wrist, the spark of recognition lights up in your head. After all, this terrible place doesn't place anything unnecessarily, and the crimson glimmer that brings the bracelet to life under the silvery rays of the moonlight cannot be a mere coincidence. This is a clue, and perhaps this whole horrible torture has prepared this moment. And you feel in your gut that you have to get it.

Therefore, taking advantage of the fact that the hooded creature is centering all its attention on the enemy hiding in the thick of the trees, one of your hands moves with cautious slowness to crawl toward the jewel, and every single one of your senses is keenly focusing to see when will the creature above you, who is becoming more and more furious, notice what you’re preparing in such great secrecy. And as your fingers get caught in the thin cord of the precious object, you look up in terror at the behemoth above you, and the pounding of your heart in your ears quiets down slightly when you see how unceasingly it scans the emptiness behind the thick trunks. And you only see it in your periphery, as something with a metallic glint shoots out from the infinity of the forest, and that's enough for the tentacles lurking above you to act on their own, wild with rage, certainly working to save their owner from an attack intended to be fatal. However, this one act unleashes all hell, because the monster suddenly loses its patience and launches forward with an aggressive roar like a demonic beast thirsty for blood, and he doesn't even notice how the bracelet is torn off him as he pushes forward toward his opponents who are hiding behind the vegetation.

And you know that you have no time to waste, because it's only a matter of time before the bloodshed unfolds and you become an unwilling participant, from which there will be no way out, only certain death and another miserable awakening in the back seat of the car. So, forcing the will into your limbs, you push yourself up onto your knees, and a series of dark spots swim into your vision, as a knife-like pain shoots into your ankle even from this harmless movement. But you swallow the scream that is about to escape your lips, because if you draw the attention of these scumbags to you now, all your chances of escape will be gone. That's why, overcoming the throbbing ache, you reach towards the pearls scattered in the sand, and as you collect the ruby spheres in your palm, they glow up in red, leaving behind a cool tingling sensation. The smoldering light travels along your arm, and as if guided by an invisible force, reaches your tortured leg, and you watch in amazement as the bruises drawn by the violence disappear from the skin in the wake of the faint glow. It takes a second for you to realize what has happened, and when you notice the sounds of the fight unfolding in the forest, you hastily put your treasure in the safety of your pocket. You'll have time to wonder what the hell is going on when you finally manage to disappear from your pursuers again.

That's why you just spring up nimbly and head towards the multitude of trees, hoping that the battle, drowned in increasingly violent shouts, will drag on long enough for them to lose track of you. Because the night is still long, and you're quite sure that no matter where your path leads, more horrors will be waiting for you, because this damned place will do everything to lock you in the glass cage of its fictional world. But with the map and the pearls in your pocket, the hope, that you might live to see the dawn and you get out of here, finally rekindles in you.

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15-lizards · 12 days

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Any headcannons for what Cersei would wear throughout her evolution? (from girl at Casterly Rock and Kingslanding to young bride to queen to whatever is going on at the end for AFFC) Love your stuff💕

Tiny Cersei was always dressed in the latest fashions, to the point that her clothes were cumbersome and heavy. She was more heavily dressed than most of the grown women at court, with her fancy brocade panels, pearl lined hoods, and large sleeves. Joanna was very adamant that she look like and behave in a way becoming for a young noblewoman, so Cersei was not allowed the relative laxity children are sometimes given.

As a teenager, Cersei started wearing the fashions of the Reach, as some minor act of rebellion because she found the stifling clothing of the Westerlands boring and prudish. She liked the low cut of the neckline and the excess of fabric in the sleeves and all the gilded lining and embroidery. And she definitely liked the way people looked at her in awe. She wore these until her early marriage too, and everyone copied the modern fashions of the stylish young queen.

Once Cersei starts immediately hating her life, she ditches the fashions of her teenage years and goes back to something more reminiscent of her childhood at The Rock. It's not the exact same, its far more frillier and angular than the smoothness of the clothing of her youth (think the transition from Tudor to Elizabethan fashion, or like mid 1500s to later 1500s), but the general shape reminds her of her youth and mother, and the sheer weight and discomfort of the clothing gives her some kind of sick comfort. Being the narcissist (affectionate) she is, she likes whatever can give her attention and spark jealousy in others. Heavy and patterned bright colored fabric, stiff lace collars, excessive beading, and large skirts for days. She dresses like this for most of the current timeline, and it gets increasingly more garish, until she's arrested at the end of AFFC

And after her atonement, she does a complete 180. Dressing like an old spinster from the stormlands. Her shaved head almost always covered, essentially all of her gowns are shapeless. The only thing that puts her apart from the septas is that her clothing is still decorated and colorful, but much less so than her old wardrobe. This shift is half forced on her by the faith and half chosen as a sort of security response after being harassed and humiliated.

#asoiaf hair and clothing #15-lizards is using the same Borgias pics in her fashion headcanons #likely thing for her to do #also sorry this is late I was kinda having a brain block about her teen fashion era

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feminismisstillahatemovement · 2 months

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Purely by chance found myself reading the "45 Current Communist Goals" list that was read out in the U.S. House of Representatives and into the Congressional Record by Democrat representative A. S. Herlong on January 10th, 1963.

Some of the stated goals are not so pressing since the end of the Cold War and the fall of the Soviet Union, but the following ones seem far more pertinent today, 61 years on.

I'd be tempted to dismiss the list as simply "Red-Scare"-era hysteria, were it not for the fact they've all, fairly undeniably, come true: --------------------------------

Get control of the schools. Use them as transmission belts for socialism and current Communist propaganda. Soften the curriculum. Get control of teachers' associations. Put the party line in textbooks.

Gain control of all student newspapers.

Use student riots to foment public protests against programs or organizations which are under Communist attack.

Infiltrate the press. Get control of book-review assignments, editorial writing, policy-making positions.

Gain control of key positions in radio, TV, and motion pictures.

Continue discrediting American culture by degrading all forms of artistic expression. An American Communist cell was told to "eliminate all good sculpture from parks and buildings, substitute shapeless, awkward and meaningless forms."

Control art critics and directors of art museums. "Our plan is to promote ugliness, repulsive, meaningless art."

Eliminate all laws governing obscenity by calling them "censorship" and a violation of free speech and free press.

Break down cultural standards of morality by promoting pornography and obscenity in books, magazines, motion pictures, radio, and TV.

Present homosexuality, degeneracy and promiscuity as "normal, natural, healthy.”

Infiltrate the churches and replace revealed religion with "social" religion. Discredit the Bible and emphasize the need for intellectual maturity, which does not need a "religious crutch."

Eliminate prayer or any phase of religious expression in the schools on the ground that it violates the principle of "separation of church and state."

Discredit the American Constitution by calling it inadequate, old- fashioned, out of step with modern needs, a hindrance to cooperation between nations on a worldwide basis.

Discredit the American Founding Fathers. Present them as selfish aristocrats who had no concern for the "common man."

Belittle all forms of American culture and discourage the teaching of American history on the ground that it was only a minor part of the "big picture."

Support any socialist movement to give centralized control over any part of the culture--education, social agencies, welfare programs, mental health clinics, etc.

Infiltrate and gain control of more unions.

Transfer some of the powers of arrest from the police to social agencies. Treat all behavioral problems as psychiatric disorders which no one but psychiatrists can understand [or treat].

Dominate the psychiatric profession and use mental health laws as a means of gaining coercive control over those who oppose Communist goals.

Discredit the family as an institution. Encourage promiscuity and easy divorce.

Emphasize the need to raise children away from the negative influence of parents. Attribute prejudices, mental blocks and retarding of children to suppressive influence of parents.

Create the impression that violence and insurrection are legitimate aspects of the American tradition; that students and special-interest groups should rise up and use "united force" to solve economic, political or social problems.

#communism #russia #politics #how we got where we are

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livingfast04 · 1 year

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Monster Au? (kind of)

**spoilers for Frankenstein??? I guess??** Part Two --- They read Frankenstein in the 9th grade, Freshman English, with their teacher who had read the book far too many times. She’d waxed poetically about injustice, and how Victor was a Victim. She spoke every sentence as if each and everyone of them had never read a book in their life.

Steve read Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein in 7th grade for a book report. His teacher had all but begged him to choose a different option- they read it Freshman year. See it with new eyes then Steve.

His mind was made up. Already 50 pages in.

There was no poor Victor. Steve hated him, hated the idea of his character, hated the very words spilled on the page. The creature did not ask to be created, it did not ask to live. Steve hated that he identified with the creature, someone seeking kindness in a world that hated the idea of him.

Devil, demon, fiend, monster.

Skin Eater, Skin Thief, Skin Stealer, Shapeless.

If Steve was capable of that kind of violence, he’d kill everything his parents loved too. If his parents were even capable of love.

So Steve sat bored out of his mind, and angry. In Freshman English, over a book he’d already read, over a woman, a human woman. Who spun sentences about the Human in the story, and cursed out the creature. As if the creature asked for anything.

Kick the dog, hurt the dog, starve the dog. The kind dog will bite.

Sink teeth into skin, tear flesh, feel the way their jaws lock around the white of bone.

He kept his mouth shut. In ways that the other monsters in the class didn’t, they huffed, and argued. The wolf at the front of the class snapped out about the logistics, the message Mary Shelley was trying to tell- how Victor Frankenstein was not the victim, but the Villain. It was about all the humans who had children with Supernatural, who abandoned them, who cast them aside, who turned the villages against them.

When the Witch at the back of the class snapped out about Shelley was a Witch herself.

Steve kept his mouth shut, when the Vampire boy from the front of the class shouted about how the creature just wished to be loved.

Not a single word for how much he hated Victor passed his lips. Because Steve was supposed to be just as human as the teacher, was supposed to agree with the teacher. A woman he couldn’t even be bothered to remember her name in the Spring Semester.

Steve was to keep his head down on all things monsters, keep his abnormalness to himself- and act like a human.

Freak, Freak, Freak

The Harrington’s were the only Shape-shifters in Hawkins, and that was a well kept secret. Only the Harrington’s were to know this fact. The world had come around to Supernatural in the late 1800s, just maybe.

Werewolves, Vampires, Witches, Gremlins, Fairies, Dragons, Ghosts, Animal Shifters, Sirens, Banshee, you know-

The human shaped kind.

They did not take kindly to Shapeshifters.

So they hid, they curbed their instincts and became human-like. Raised their young in private, they did not fight the oppression, they stayed quiet, and said little to how shape-shifters worked to themselves.

They don’t marry outside of the branch of Shifters, they don’t even think about it.

Steve’s parents married out of necessity. Keep the line of Harrington’s alive. They had Steve out of necessity too. They shouldn’t have, but it’s what it was. His father too scared to break the cycle made sure that Steve was aware he was an abomination.

A devil, demon, a creature.

Be human, don’t be anything else. Steve grew up knowing what his body should need, but never getting it. His “natural” body is already supposed to be thin, small, built for movement, and change.

Steve grew up, not really honestly. He tried to grow up. It took years of monsters, and years of exhaustion, and a skin that was wrong to even begin to grow up. There was no real transition, there was too human, and then too monster-ish.

Too much, too much-

And then there were real monsters. Not the human shaped kind.

Not the Humans. The regulars, the ones with the slurs, and shouting, the human shaped monsters who didn’t like wrong. The ones who were the same as him, who didn’t like themselves either-

Kick the dog, hurt the dog, starve the dog.

The dog bites. --- I, got the writing bug, for something other than my two WIP. So, weird way too much world building Monster Au that I had to get out of my head an on to paper before I lost it completely. Both my sanity, and the idea. (The Au is Steddie, there’s just a, well Lack of Steddie in this. For some reason- probably because I word vomited for 25 minutes- and this was all I could come up with, without writing 10k-) This was born because I’m reading Frankenstein praise be Mary Shelley. And I’ve got far too many thoughts to be allowed to consume media. So Stevie gets to suffer now- It’s okay tho, His Vampire Bf will make it better later down the line- :)

#steddie #steve x eddie #Liv is losing their mind #Stranger Things Au #steddie ficlet #stranger things #monster au???#steddie monster au?

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ranticore · 1 month

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Chapter 2 - To Be Human

for tdov i'll post my most trans coded character, more trans than any of the others tbh. obviously it's ishmael

---

Forward by the author | Chapter 1

In a bright white room with a single large round window, a young Ishmael sits on a bed. The edge of a rock ridge curves across the view beyond the window. Ishmael looks out through the window at the sheer sides, one hand pressed to the glass so that the light diffuses red through his skin. He is twelve years old and wears a shapeless blue and green garment that does not fit him, pinching tight around his neck but loose across his shoulders. A sipho nymph flies past the window and he turns to follow it.

Voice of Maris: What was that? Did you see it?

Ishmael: Not really. Too fast.

Maris: That was one of those – what are the zoologists calling them again? It’s a different name every time I hear it.

Ishmael: Exosiphonid.

Maris: I think they’re scary. Like giant dragonflies.

Ishmael: Did Surwan see it?

Maris: Who’s Surwan?

Ishmael: This girl in the biology class. She wanted to see an exosiphonid.

Maris: I didn’t know you were in the biology class. Was it good?

Throughout the video, Ishmael does not make eye contact with Maris or the recording device. He appears to hide behind a curtain of hair and hunch in on himself while he is not looking out through the window.

Ishmael: Dan said I could join next semester. I was waiting outside.

Maris: And eavesdropping?

Maris: I think it’s admirable to want to learn. What do you want to learn about? Is there anything that interests you? I’m no biologist, really.

Ishmael: Surwan likes the flying ones, like siphos. Callum wants to learn about leviathans.

Maris: That sounds exciting. Would you like to learn about leviathans too?

Ishmael: Lee doesn’t think they’re real. He said the betas wouldn’t get made if there were monsters in the water.

Maris: I don’t think Lee is a trustworthy source on that, if you want my opinion. Would you like to find out the truth? Imagine if you were the first to see a leviathan, they might name it after you.

——

The video transcribed above is a very typical example of Maris’s early sessions with Ishmael. He appears to resist all of her attempts to get him to submit an original thought, and repeatedly refers to the Human children instead, those who are undergoing a structured education about the zoology of Siren.

Maris’s notes echo my own understanding – that Ishmael struggled to articulate anything beyond a constant wish to be included with the other children, to the point of eavesdropping on classes he was not allowed to attend.

His passing curiosity about the wildlife around the settlement served only as a means to connect with the other children. And he was repeatedly shunned for these attempts, as Callum’s diary later noted. Those children whose likes and ambitions he carefully memorised did not think of him the way he thought of them. In fact, as far as I can tell, they did not think of him at all, because he was not a peer in any real sense.

This video also acknowledges the existence of the beta generation of Sirenians, who largely resembled modern phocids, though smaller and with shorter tails. It is important to state that although modern phocids descend from this beta generation, they do not descend from Ishmael. In fact, nobody descends from Ishmael, despite legends and myths to the contrary. This was stated explicitly several times by both Ishmael as an adult and Dan Loris, but made clear to Ishmael by Maris during these sessions.

“The other children are learning about how to make babies,” Ishmael announced at a session one day. “Dan wouldn’t let me stay. He never lets me stay.”

“You don’t need to know any of that,” Maris said. “You’re different to the other kids, remember? You don’t have a body that makes babies. Honestly, that’s a pretty sweet deal if you ask me. Can we swap?”

Her attempts at reassuring him seemed to fall on deaf ears, because reminders of his differences were often poorly received by Ishmael, or ignored. He paused to think about what she said, wondering how she could envy him when all he wanted in the world was to be like her.

“How do I get one?” he asked.

“A baby?”

“A body that makes them. I asked Dan and he said the betas can do it.”

“Well, yes,” Maris said, now wondering exactly how much it was appropriate to delve into he topic. “You don’t want to be like a beta, though, do you?”

Ishmael visibly shuddered. “No! But I want to be like Callum, can Dan do that? I’m getting better at being upright, so maybe if I practice more I can change.”

Thwarting Ishmael’s one desire was the absolute fact that his genetics were set in stone, and he could not be retroactively made fully Human. These sessions reveal a seam of anxiety, too, over the beta generation. At the time there were twenty of them, living in a separate location where they had access to a test pool.

Repeatedly, during the sessions with Maris, Ishmael brings them up as a potential bad ending for him, the inverse of his great desire to become like the other Humans. Those beta phocids were less Humanoid than Ishmael himself was. He believed that by mimicking the Human children he could become more similar to them, but the opposite could also be true, and the wrong actions might cause him to degenerate into a beta phocid.

Unfortunately for him, his efforts at being ‘upright’ did not result in any permanent bipedalism. When he was fourteen, his unpredictable growth had shifted his proportions away from the more Humanlike ratio he’d been born with. He was finding it more difficult to stand up straight, instead adopting a hunched and arched posture which still left him standing taller than the children of his age whose attention he coveted. The onset of puberty and these shifts in his body were tortuous, and it was a time that lasted until his mid-thirties when he finally reached his adult size and proportions.

But there was an improvement noted by both Dan Loris and Maris – despite repeatedly displaying signs of distress and depression in his sessions with her, he was no longer wordlessly violent, and did not give himself to his rages anymore.

Maris had provided him with the one thing he needed at the time – a safe person to talk to, someone who asked him how he was feeling without taking it as some scientific data point. She reported it all to Dan Loris, of course, but did not tell Ishmael that. He believed that she was his only safe harbour in the entire world.

Maris, in her own notes, says pretty much the same. And she was fond of him, too, revealing a genuine affection towards him alongside a deep abiding worry that she was not doing enough to ease his distress, and that she could have done more. She admits that she was not a trained psychologist, just someone in the settlement who had spare time and some textbooks. Her actual job was as a water quality specialist and she was acutely conscious that she had not the qualifications nor educational background necessary to help Ishmael properly. The settlement had a number of psychologists but they were not associated with the lab and did not volunteer their time.

To pre-empt the same problems with tantrums arising in the beta phocids, Maris was also supposed to spend some time with them, too. But she discovered that, with the exception of one, they were actually rather well-adjusted compared to Ishmael, likely as a result of their group all living together and being able to form a small close-knit community. Ishmael was deprived of this.

And, most importantly, the beta phocids could see themselves reflected in their community and use their bonds as a lens to make sense of themselves. Ishmael lacked this factor, and had no reflections or counterparts that he could use to understand himself. He was isolated by being unique, and by his inability to see the phocids as anything other than strange creatures he was embarrassed to somewhat resemble.

But it’s also patently clear that Maris, and Dan Loris and the other Precursors Ishmael was in contact with didn’t do much to raise Ishmael’s opinion of the beta phocids, as evidenced by the transcript above. Perhaps if they’d thought to assuage his fears by treating the beta phocids as people worthy of dignity and understanding, he might not have feared becoming like them.

The beta phocids, for their part, were born in a similar manner to Ishmael – the same deep dream, the same delayed birth, though their bodies were ten years old by the time they emerged from their dream and took their first breaths. Ishmael had been subject to numerous digestive trials measuring the suitability of his body for life on Siren. It was found that he was somewhat lacking in the production of a digestive chemical called an enzyme which would have allowed him to better deal with the high concentrations of silica present in Siren organisms.

He could eat and digest local plants and animals, but sometimes showed signs of digestive upset. Taking this information, Dan Loris was able to tweak his beta phocids before they were born, cloning and increasing the number of cells in their bodies which could produce the appropriate enzyme. He also took samples of Ishmael’s gut microbiome, which had taken years to properly develop, and implanted those samples within the digestive tracts of the beta phocids.

They were born as a group, though not all at once, allowing for correct monitoring of the newborns during the most tenuous periods. One suffered from the most common cause of death due to delayed birth; they simply never woke up, having rejected the dream at some point over the past several years. They were removed from the amniotic chamber where they passed on, a ten year stillbirth. We might remember the legacy of ‘Ishmael’, our Ishmael who was first born on Siren, but I feel it is only right to remember ‘Charity’, the first Sirenian to die here. They were given then to the assistants of Dan Loris who performed a post mortem examination.

The others suffered no more from the effects of delayed birth than Ishmael himself did. Although their bodies were more divergent from Precursor Humans than Ishmael’s was, at the time of his birth, and the discrepancies between their dream selves and their true selves must have been more jarring, this was offset somewhat by the communal nature of their upbringing. As soon as one was deemed fully awake, aware, and of sufficient health, they were placed in the boarding chamber with the other phocids and an assigned nursery worker. The birthing process took the better part of a year, so that the last born of the delayed-birth phocids was one year ‘younger’ than the rest, despite all technically being the same age.

Cherta, who gave their name to the wandering moon, was the fifth born beta phocid. There is very little to distinguish Cherta from the rest of the group, at this early stage, but I have on file their original description - “‘Cherta’, named for a sponsor of the project who donated three million nua*. Unisex ‘phocid’ of the Beta generation. Born age 10 years and 5 months, in [Year 3]. Melanistic colouring was chosen as protection against solar radiation, but it is expressed in heterogenous patches with a strong dorsal stripe. Length 5’1 nose to tailtip at time of birth and weight 54kg. Unusually violent birth, needed sedation.” In fact, Cherta assaulted Dan Loris’s assistants as they were born, reacting to the event as though it were an invasion of the bedroom of their dream. It was by all accounts an auspicious start compared to the others, and perhaps an indication that Cherta’s experience with the deep dream was not standard.

Cherta had fallen victim to another rare phenomenon of the incubator, referred to by Dan Loris as ‘dream rot’. This occurrence is a result of differences in the receiving brain, rather than the dream machine itself. The brain begins to understand, in some form, that what it is witnessing is not reality, and the structure of the dream begins to unravel.

At the time of Cherta’s delayed birth, the dream had been in the early stages of this process. If allowed to continue for too long, permanent damage to the psyche’s ability to judge reality is the result. Cherta would be haunted by this for the remainder of their life, but it was not severe enough to significantly alter their treatment compared to the other beta phocids.

The violence of their birth began to circulate in anecdotal form, eventually reaching the ears of Ishmael. He was curious – in fact, it was the first time he showed open curiosity about anything other than the opinion of a Human child. He asked Maris if she was going to speak to Cherta too, and she told him that she had spoken to all of the beta phocids, and had given Cherta in particular some extra guidance.

He did not take it well. The realisation that Maris’s time was not solely devoted to his needs was a source of distress, and likely another painful forced grouping with the phocids he feared. He would not participate in Maris’s sessions as he had before, and appeared afterwards to despise Cherta in a way that seemed quite targeted and personal.

Maris was forced to lie – she told Ishmael that she also spoke to the Human children, thus drawing him back under the umbrella of Humankind. In the following sessions, Ishmael revealed that he had greater knowledge of the beta phocids—and Cherta in particular—than anyone had previously guessed.

“Why do they look like that?” Ishmael asked. “They don’t stand up. They’re like animals.”

“They’re adapted to move in the water, like you,” Maris said. Her voice sounded nervous. “This means they had to have short arms and long, streamlined bodies. Like an otter. They’re very graceful in the water.” She had begun to introduce a less dismissive attitude towards the phocids, even praising them at times. Ishmael would tense every time she did.

“I don’t swim,” Ishmael said.

“Well, you’re not here to swim,” Maris said. “You have other things to teach us, so Dan didn’t wanna risk you in the pool.”

Ishmael was quiet for a long time. He rarely changed his facial expression, to the point that Maris often noted that she wondered if he heard her at all, or if his facial muscles had not developed properly.

“I saw Cherta playing with the floating ball at the bottom of the pool. In the water.” Ishmael sounded somewhat disdainful. “Like a child.”

“You’re all the same age,” Maris reminded him. “And I think you’re a child too. What’s wrong with having fun in the pool? Are you jealous?” She was fascinated by Ishmael’s sudden willingness to offer his opinion, particularly as discussion of the Human children never provoked this in him.

But Ishmael didn’t answer that one. At that point, he did not want to admit to any jealousy, and likely did not consciously recognise the feeling as such. Instead, he felt annoyance - he had to spend time in the lab doing work with Dan Loris, providing test feedback, having his organs scanned, letting himself be pawed all over by technicians who did not particularly care for him, only for what data he could provide. He did not endear himself to them, his quiet and obtuse personality proving difficult to grow fond of. But he still knew that it was work, he was producing data, and the phocids were just playing around in a pool all day, as far as he could tell. He was filled with righteous indignation at their laziness, at how easy their lives were, and wished that they knew what it was like to be him, so that they might stop looking so happy any time he peered in through the test pool windows.

I have recovered video footage of this behaviour, too. At odd hours of the day, with no real schedule, Ishmael would approach those windows. They were set in the side of the corridor outside the lab, affording an underwater view to onlookers. Access to the aboveground phocid enclosure was limited, so Ishmael only had the windows. He would walk there—painstakingly upright, though often with a hand on the wall to help support what was increasingly a difficult posture—and then sit on his tail and watch. The beta phocids spent most of their time in the water, as one might imagine. Ishmael would later learn that their lives were not as blissfully relaxing as he first thought, but it is true that they spent a lot of time playing in the pool, as teenagers will do. And he would watch them, until he heard an approaching Human, and quickly retreat.

The windows did not allow the phocids to look out. Cherta was unaware that they were the target of Ishmael’s most intense scrutiny. Despite a somewhat disturbing, moth-eaten childhood dream, Cherta was, on the surface, as lively as the rest of the phocids. They weren’t exactly easygoing, though, preferring to impress upon the others the importance of following rules, and of doing things the right way.

What Ishmael did not realise was that the phocids, as they swam together, built jigsaws and played card games underwater, were providing data too. They showed Dan Loris how their body plan could deal with the aquatic environment as easily as a Human could walk around on land. And so, when Ishmael and the phocids were fifteen, Dan Loris began to build his gamma generation of genetically engineered Humans, those who would be born on Siren without the use of a deep dream, and who could be introduced to the world outside.

Long days and nights spent in the lab occupied almost all of Dan Loris’s time, and his child Callum had nowhere to go after his classes but the lab itself. And with Ishmael and Callum once again forced into close proximity to one another, Ishmael would soon learn one of the most valuable lessons of his childhood.

*’nua’ is a form of currency

#ishmael is a dysphoria machine #setting: siren #writing tag

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fivekrystalpetals · 9 months

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Core of the Abyss and 'her' Children of "Misfortune"

(aka I can't stop thinking how the Core always welcomed and reached out to the Children of "Ill-Omen"— just some observations)

So, once again quoting Lacie's words from Retrace 101:

Yes, always alone and lonely...without even knowing what loneliness is. Still, 'she' kept yearning.. for someone to push through the cold darkness and reach her. —'She' longed for 'someone' who could do that.

[Anyway I am ignoring everything the Glen(s) and the Jury ever said about the Core of the Abyss or the Children of Misfortune (because I don't trust them at all) —and taking only Lacie's theory here to be the truth,]

so, a few theories:

1] Break would have been drawn into the Core of the Abyss whether or not the Intention wanted his eyes

When his illegal seal finished a full turn, Break reached the Core of the Abyss unlike other illegal contractors who fall into the Abyss.

I had assumed this was possible only because the Intention of the Abyss herself summoned Break there so she could pluck out his red eyes for her blind Cheshire before he turns into a chain.

Even the other dolls mention this situation as unusual. The Intention never lets a human/illegal contractor into her room.

You don't usually bring humans here when they drop into the Abyss.

Meaning, the other illegal contractors on completing their contracts get dropped into the abyss and turn into chains without ever meeting the Intention for whatever they wished of her. So much for going through all this trouble lol

So, I imagined that only those whom the Intention permits could enter the Core of the Abyss (that is, her lovely toy room);

But.

Vincent does "waltz" into her "room" without any problem???

Now, I don't think Vince entered her room to purposely antagonize her as he usually did, because he was pretty shaken by all the bloodshed and massacre he just witnessed at Sablier. It was a coincidence and even he seemed shocked he was meeting White Alice in her "other" room when he was sure "Alice" had died in the real world. In fact, he wonders if there being another Alice and all the madness going on in the toy room was his fault as well...

Secondly, this is a feat none of the other older and more experienced Baskervilles could achieve, right?

All the surviving Baskervilles got swept into the Abyss during the Tragedy of Sablier. Yet not one of them came in contact with the Intention. They were only able to traverse the Abyss and come out at various points of time. They did not know what the Intention looked like; neither do any of them talk about actually having met her. They merely repeat what Xai or Glen told them that it was the sudden appearance of the Intention that changed the very configuration of the Abyss as they knew it before.

That's why I think the Intention's words are only partially true (but I don't think she realized this either).

That is, she does have complete control over who enters the Core of the Abyss/her room—

Except for the Children of Ill-Omen.

Because the Children of Ill-Omen are specifically birthed by the Core and are very precious to 'her', the Core wants them to reach out to 'her' at the very depth. So that whenever a Child of Ill-Omen falls into the Abyss willingly*, they are directly led to the Core that used to be a dark shapeless form during Lacie's time, but took on the form of a toy room after the Intention became its vessel.

Lacie insisted that she could see "someone" at the depth of the Abyss and that the "someone" couldn't answer her—

but of course, the Glens and Jury only regard the Core as something not to be touched or approached unless "a serious crisis occurs"

and every time the Core produces another Child of Ill-Omen, hoping, waiting, over and over again that they will reach out to 'her' at the very abyssal depth... instead, they are meted out the punishment of being dragged down by Black Chains and left to die in the very Abyss that wanted to cherish their company. They are being "returned" to the Core because of the misinformation/falsehood that the presence of a Red-Eyed child is an accidental distortion created by the Core and pose danger to the integrity of the world

whereas the actual reason is that Core just wants someone to help her not be lonely anymore.

See:

How sweet is it that the Core loved her toy so much that 'she' gave it a tiny spark of life and trembled in grief when 'she' hears that Lacie will never visit her again? ;_;

The Core never asked for the "ill-omened" children to be punished for being born; on the contrary, they are the ones most precious to her.

That's why I think they inevitably end up in the Core to keep 'her' company, whatever be the reason they fell into the Abyss in the first place, whether the completion of an illegal contract or being swept into the Abyss.

(willingly*: I mean, when the Child of Ill-Omen falls into the Abyss by any other means than being held down by the Black Winged Chains. Because Lacie could descend into the Core by herself but held down by the Black Chains, she could only wait out her permanent death.)

(Since Gil was with Vince, he too winded up in the Core, but he was not cognizant of his surroundings so that's a moot point anyway.)

2] That Break listens and commits himself to the one and only request of the Intention of the Abyss

This is in continuation to the first point; hence, kind of a paradoxical situation—

Because only a Child of Ill-Omen could have ever reached to the depth of the Abyss; and so, only a Child of Ill-Omen could have ever got to listen to her request at all.

But by the end of the story, (thanks to Lady Shelly, by the way, because if not for her, would Break have lived on to pass the Intention's desire to the kids? I don't think so), everyone came to know what the Intention really wanted and worked towards the goal.

So that, knowingly or otherwise, Break did fulfill his role as the bridge between the living world and the Core of the Abyss before his death.

As Leo asked of Vince in Retrace 104:

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paganminiskirt · 1 month

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Something upsetting about Bulma’s reaction to Vegeta’s suicide - and it was a suicide, no matter the grandiose aims he assigned to it - is how it reflects the state of their relationship at the time of his death. That sacrifice is meant to be Vegeta’s first moment of real selflessness and maturity, growth which is contrasted by the way Bulma seems to almost regress when she gets word of it: she’s so consumed by her own ugly, undignified grief that she doesn’t react to Chi Chi collapsing about Gohan's death at all, as understandable as it is. In the anime, Bulma shouts “no,” and she shouts his name, but in the manga it’s just a shapeless, agonized wail. Reminds me of Vegeta weeping when he realized he couldn't beat Frieza. Vulnerable. Childlike.

And that comparison could almost make you think that the grief Bulma is expressing is, itself, shallow or childish. King Kai isn't there to explain the depth of her feelings, the way he was when Frieza tortured Vegeta. Bulma was introduced to Dragon Ball as a young girl, and her characterization back then revolved largely around vanity, pettiness and selfishness. When she wasn't acting that way, the story was demonstrating her precociousness and abnormal intelligence - and having adult men casually sexualize her, as if she were a grown woman.

If we've learned anything from the previous arcs, it's that slotting children into adult roles has disastrous, counterintuitive consequences. Gohan is forced to fight Cell at age eleven and almost loses the fight because he gets caught up in his own immature sadism. Vegeta is introduced to us with little to no detail on his face, making him look younger than he is, especially since he's under five feet tall. It's no surprise, when the story shows him slaughtering total strangers and old friends alike like he's ripping the wings off a butterfly. It's no surprise, when the story tells us that the whole time, he was a child soldier and a slave.

So there are themes that could potentially make you read Bulma as having stunted emotional processing skills as an adult. There's also the fact that, when Bulma and Vegeta's relationship first started, it was fulfilling needs for both of them that weren't especially healthy or mature. Bulma was breaking off a romance and potential engagement with Yamcha, which was likely somewhat codependent, considering they'd been together since youth and were each the other's first lover. Vegeta was coming off his aforementioned death-by-torture from a lifelong abuser, and Frieza himself had only just died. With that in mind, who could forget Puar and Yamcha gawping at Bulma as she gives Vegeta an order and he obeys her, trailing behind her like a pet, pouting, but doing it anyways. What’s the line in the original Japanese version? “Vegeta is completely under her control?”

So it didn’t start off particularly healthy. Bulma is feeling wounded and vulnerable, she wants some reassurance and to make Yamcha jealous. Vegeta wants reassurance as well, and underneath that, to be told what to do. The offset of their relationship has Vegeta using Bulma to soothe the part of him that still needed to be apart of that structure, that control, that obedience. He objectified himself to her, even if she didn’t know it.

But Bulma’s reaction to his second death rejects that reading of their relationship entirely. Rejects the idea that Vegeta’s self-destruction could ever be a positive thing, even though he was doing it in defense of her, this act of willingly placing his own needs behind someone else’s which a more self-centered personality would’ve gobbled up. Did gobble up. Vegeta’s fought for the sake of other people before! He fought for Frieza! It’s just that those acts of violence were exclusively destructive and exploitative, never defensive, and no matter the attitude Vegeta adopted while doing it, he wasn’t allowed to say no.

Like, I’m sure Goku told her that Vegeta did what he did out of love and altruism, but it doesn’t help. Because Bulma doesn’t want to hear that Vegeta loved her enough to kill himself. She just wants him to be alive.

#brutal. she grew up. they both grew up.#Bulma #Vegeta #vegebul #DBZ #suicide tw

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sothasil · 1 year

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hello my good friend and keeper of khajiit knowledge. I have an inquiry for you. How do khajiit babies start out? I've heard they all begin as kittens, which does make sense for most of the furstock, ease on the alfiqs, but I'm having trouble like. making logical sense of it (which I know is dumb for tes lore) and I was wondering if you had thoughts on the subject?

My biggest thing is just the sheer differences that would have to happen in the first few weeks/months/years (however long it takes for a furstock to develop in it's entirety) for the variances between just plain skeletal structure. Because if they all start as kittens, so four legged digitigrades, I cannot imagine the shift to two legged plantigrades makes for a pleasant infanthood. It's growing pains turned to full blast! There's gotta be differences in newborns between four legged and two legged and digitigrade vs plantigrade, and maybe they just start kitten sized, but not actually kittens?

sorry if this is a bothersome ask, you just know so much about khajiit/have amazing world building for them and I figured you could solidly set this into my brain besides just handwaving it and going "it's moon magic!" like everyone else has done rjgtkgjf

Hello Chance! I'll be answering this ask publicly just in case other people are interested - if you'd want it not shared, please say so and I'll lock RBs.

The short answer to your question is we don't know. Khajiit children, or depictions thereof, do not exist in TES. So strictly canonically speaking: we have nothing.

The longer answer: I have had the exact same train of thought before and came to similar conclusions. Not only do khajiit of all shapes and sizes have to grow into these shapes and sizes, but any shape of khajiit has to uh, get pushed out of any other shape of khajiit... For my own headcanon I have solved this with two ideas. The following is all headcanon!

The first thing: the furstock of the mother will in major part dictate how many babies they can have in a single litter. In real life biology, humans have it very complicated, because our hips, made for walking upright, work poorly to give birth. Following this, I think the more humanoid a khajiit is, the less babies they can carry at once.

In my own Khajiit OC families, this is why Ma'Jahrann only has a brother and they are both single litters, because their mom is an Ohmes. But the mom herself (Elaahni) is one of half a dozen litter-sisters, her mother being Alfiq-raht.

The second thing: all khajiit are born as tiny shapeless cat beans. The younger they are, the more khajiit look like each other in terms of furstocks. Some eventually stand upright and others do not. Here is some concept art based on this idea I did for Beyond Skyrim.

On top of growing into their adult body plan, I made them also grow into their coat, with some more humanoid furstocks staying relatively hairless for a khajiit (see my Ohmes concept art). While this makes for rapid, weird growing, this is arguably the case for many animals including humans, who go from quadrupeds to bipeds pretty fast!

For BSE, instead of doing a model per furstock for children which would be a hefty amount of work, we decided on only three at around the same young age as vanilla kids, to "sum up" all furstocks with three yet less defined body types: a quadruped very catlike one, a digitigrade fully furry one with a long tail, and a plantigrade type with a straighter neck; allowing for variety with limited ressources.

For my own OCs again - some older drawings I did of Rezad and Rakkan show them as having short legs and a very catlike baby shape, despite both of them being bipeds, Cathay and Cathay-raht respectively. Again, because as babies, their body plan is more muddy.

Rezad and his dad, both Cathay

This being said - I hope this is inspiring, but again, all headcanon! As with any unexplained lore area, it's your freedom to make your preferred takes out of it :) Cheers!

#khajiit #ask #the elder scrolls

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bitterkarella · 8 months

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Midnight Pals: Graham's Back

[mysterious circle of robed figures] JK Rowling: hello children Rowling: lisssten graham linehan hassss a new manifesssto coming out Rowling: i mean memoir Rowling: ssso it's very important Rowling: that we all pretend that he'sss really hot

Helen Joyce: dark lord? Rowling: you all know the terf deatheater code Rowling: "when you find a dude who agrees with you on transss genocide, it isss your sssolemn duty to act like he'sss jussst wildly fuckable" Rowling: i mean, thatsss jussst bassic feminissm right there

Helen Joyce: but dark lord---! Joyce: the graham linehan... Joyce: he sleeps in a racecar Rowling: i have sspoken Rowling: when he getsss here Rowling: you all better act like your dang pusssiesss are on fire

Graham Linehan: [practicing speech in mirror] "thank you for this award" Linehan: "it is a tribute to this great movement that a man once shunned as a deranged embarrassment could win back your trust"

Graham Linehan: i'm meeting the dark lord tonight, i better wear my best shapeless mom jeans, the ones that really show off my flat hollow ass Linehan: maybe wear it with a nice tent-like polo shirt, one that just hangs off my stomach like a blouse Linehan: now that's fashion!

Rowling: when he getss here, i want everyone to jusst act like he's god'ss gift to women ok Maya Forstater: but dark lord Rowling: maya you ran a hate campaign against a cartoon alien, i THINK you can at least do thiss

Graham Linehan: [wearing tinfoil hat] free masons run the country Rowling: wow it'sss weird how all the exact ssame sstuff he sssayss that ssounded insane to me 3 yearss ago now sseems really ssenssible and mainsstream Rowling: mussst be cuz i'm ssmarter now

#midnight pals #the midnight society #midnight society #jk rowling #maya forstater #helen joyce #graham linehan

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 1 year

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ñuhus prūmȳs (my heart) │ Chapter 7: A Betrayal PREVIEW (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Hey, all! Sorry for the delay on this one - I had some MAJOR writer’s block with the plot blocking, but I’m around (conservatively) half-way through. Aiming to have this out by Sunday at the very latest. Hope the (3000-word) preview is enough for now!

You dream in abstract.

There is no form to it, no faces to see nor words to hear in the fanciful void of your mind. Instead, it is shapeless, immaterial, washes of colour and vague impressions of sound like music in a far-off hall. It is a blessed reprieve from the convincing re-enactments of the day’s events your thoughts usually produce under the sway of slumber, and most certainly a relief in light of… No.

A sensation enters your sleeping consciousness, one that does not fit the transience of those singularities swirling about in your head – it is far too concrete, unyielding, unrelenting to belong here. That strange feeling tickles throughout your body, coalescing low in your stomach and pooling warm between your thighs.

You sigh as you awaken slowly, as peaceful as the rocking of an infant in their cradle, drowsily taking note of your surroundings. Propped up against the pillows with your shift gathered at your waist and your legs dangling over your uncle’s wide-set shoulders, you wonder absently how he always manages to rearrange you so without rousing you. Why does he always choose to wake you with his carnal appetites? It seems to you that he has never once attempted to shake you or call your name.

It does not surprise you that he is once more availing himself of your particular assets, given his near unbearable persistence in proving that his previous spell of flaccidity was but a momentary impediment. You have considered hiding to discourage him from making this point yet again – but you do so enjoy the outcome of his efforts.

Your breathing must change cadence, for you are drawn further into the realm of awareness by his large, calloused hand smoothing a path along the side of your rounded belly.

“Sȳz ñāqes, dōnītsos,” Daemon murmurs against your heated flesh, his breath spooling delicately across the puffed folds of your cunny. Good morning, sweetling. “Sh – āmāzīs ēdrugon.” Go back to sleep.

You mumble incoherently, lips tipping up despite your reluctance to awaken. Your hand drifts down to pat against his, and your smile widens when he flips his palm to lock his fingers with your own. He returns to his task, the stubble on his jaw rasping against your inner thighs in tantalising counter to the glide of tongue over tender tissue, nuzzling inexorably at your yearning little bud.

It is sweet, impossibly indulgent, with none of the bite of hurt that you have come to crave in your couplings. You are so sensitive these days that, at times, such contact borders on agonising – the blood in your veins thrums far hotter now that you are three dragons in one form, you and each of the babes in turn. But here in the quiet stillness of the morn, every swipe up the split of you or rumbling resonance through your responsive nerve endings or greedy suckle to your pearl tips you further and further to that golden finish. Your joined hands rest against your middle, stretched taut and full of your children, and you send a silent prayer above in thanks that they are asleep as their father tends so amorously to their mother.

The release is a wave cresting to the shore, gentle and buoyant and rapturous as it ever is. It is as though the ocean pulses out from deep within you, wetting the way for your husband’s return to the safe shores of your body.

“Daemon,” you breathe out, tipping your head back as you let the surge take you. You hear the ruffle of fabric dropping and feel the press of skin against yours.

“Ah-ah – open up, little niece,” comes Daemon’s chiding voice, hands prying your knees from their clenched-together defense of your inflamed womanhood. He props your feet against the bedframe and forces your legs wide, sliding the length of himself through your slick lips. “Your cunt is mine to use, even if you are already bred full.”

You can do nothing but accept it, weighed down by your belly as you are. You arch your back and let out a low whimper, feeling that terrible, wonderful overcrowding in your womb and in your cunny.

“Good girl,” he soothes, stilling the discomfited shift of your hips with an iron grip. It is an abrupt taking – but like the curves of your figure, the efforts of growing his seed to their full has made you softer, rounder, more pliant. You blink hazily at him, mouth opening dumbly as you lay back and surrender to the tide. “Just lay back. Let kepa take care of you.”

The sight of him – his silver hair rumpled from sleep, the prominent shelf of his brow and the exhilarated parting of his lips, the thrilling menace of his broad shoulders and thick-scarred skin, the flex of his arms as his hands seek new territory to touch – pools hot in your gut, and the sound of your wetness being stirred with his every plunge into you is a churning melody that blazes beneath your skin.

“… so tight for me, barely any room left for my cock, but you just keep taking it, don’t you?... made to take me… fuck – I’ll fuck you forever, keep you heavy and helpless like this fucking always…”

His obsession with your fecund form is flattering if a bit predictable; you grin sleepily at his words, yawning as you tug up your sleepwear to bare your breasts for him. Your nipples tingle as the cooler air makes contact, tightening them to hard tips, and you smooth the pads of your thumbs over them to alleviate the sudden prickle. His eyes zero in on the movement, ogling you heatedly.

“Play with your tits,” he demands, holding the mass of your belly still so that he may speed the tempo of his cock inside you, thick and hot and catching against that high point along your walls that makes you clamp down uncontrollably. You moan faintly as you reach back up to cup the heft of your breasts for him. He makes an animal noise at the display. “That’s it. Are they sore, precious? A little harder – there.”

Tears spring to your eyes as you obey his command, squeezing the supple flesh, pulling at the teats just as your two babes will when they nurse from your body to nourish their own. They have been hypersensitive as of late, and you are unsure if your own touch is painful or pleasurable. Regardless, the sheer strength of it is enough to reignite the familiar ember signalling a new climax.

“Daemon,” you grouse plaintively, making a show of the ache and wiggling down into his thrusts to feel the shudder ripple up your spine when he drives to the end of you. You are rewarded with a quickening of pace and the sound of his panting breaths as he exerts himself above you, flushed and sweating and entirely consumed by the welcoming clutch of your cunt. “Can I pe–peak, please?”

“So well-behaved,” he huffs with a chuckle, grinning wickedly as he watches a lone trail of liquid trek from your eye down your temple and disappear into your hairline. “I do love when you cry for me.”

You nod furiously at his words, blinking more stray droplets from your lashes and eagerly spreading your thighs as far apart as you can, yelping as the angle changes. Your uncle hisses at the sight, a hand disappearing below the protrusion of your middle – you cry out as he introduces his thumb to your bud, drawing back the hood and rubbing up in inescapable motions.

“I suppose you’ve earned it. Go on, then,” he goads. “Come.”

“Thank you, thank you,” you choke out when you are able to catch your breath again, your grip upon your breasts becoming less of a cultivated show and more a necessity that keeps them from bobbing about wildly. He ruts into you with jerky, uneven slaps, too fast and too hard for you to truly enjoy. You endure it – you have had your fill, and now it is his turn.

“What if I cannot wait ‘til later, kepus?” you whine, lip curling with feigned petulance, girlish and stubborn and exactly to his liking. He gasps like he is winded by the suggestion of it, juddering strokes that begin to hurt, but you love it. You love how undone you can make him with such simple words, and you prepare yourself to deal the finishing blow. “Maybe you should clean me up straight away,” you continue coquettishly, nails digging into your skin to distract from the ache of him. “Taste us together and kiss me so I can, too–”

“Fuck,” he moans, stilling inside, fully in your core, and you can feel the spasms of his manhood pumping spend hot and thick into the very depths of you. His iron grip eases into inattentive pats across your skin as his stare refocuses on you, a look of such sheer relief on his face that you are momentarily overcome by the urge to laugh. Your poor uncle. “Gods, this cunt.”

Daemon hunches over you briefly, riding out the remainder of his release before withdrawing, catching sticky along your walls as he tugs away. Your attention wavers when he rummages around out of sight for a cloth with which to wipe his shaft free of your mingled fluids, and you can hear the tell-tale signs of breeches being yanked back up and laces being knotted. Your legs close once more, an ingrained habit from the weeks and months of wishing your womb would do its work and catch your uncle’s seed, and you shift uncomfortably at the unwelcome intrusion of reality into this sacred space.

The tea.

“Need help up, sweetling?”

“The babes give you any rest?” He punctuates this enquiry with an absent press of lips to your neck, breath humid upon your flesh.

“Hm,” you mumble noncommittally, distracted by the pulsating movements emanating through your middle. “I slept well enough – but you have gone and woken them.” You do not even try to conceal the complaint in your voice.

You will not think upon that night.

No. You shall not. The tears have come and gone, and you have pandered to the urge to lay about in dazed silence for long enough.

“They’re lively little things, aren’t they?” Daemon exclaims in hushed tones, and the urge to cry flows and ebbs in unpredictable rhythm yet again at the sound of his quiet awe. Damn it all. You can even picture the expression he is sure to be wearing: eyes wide and dark, mouth parted with corners quirked, unblinking and trained steadfastly to the expanse of his babes as they wriggle and turn unknown within your womb. “Does it hurt?”

He sounds far too worried for such a simple query. Oh, Daemon. He might be asking about the babes’ movements, but you know what he really means.

Are you hurt? he wants to ask. Are you safe? Are they safe? If the horrors of your time anew in King’s Landing have made you weepy and disconsolate, they have made him compulsive and paranoid, wholly preoccupied with the task of ensuring that even the slightest impediment to your peaceful confinement is removed post-haste.

“No,” you reassure him. “It feels odd, but not painful. It… Oh, I cannot describe it right,” you say irritably, turning to look at him. He is as always absorbed by you, hanging onto your every word like a fanatic. You take his hand in yours and tap your fingers across his skin, mimicking as best you can the sensation from within. “Like this – but on the inside. It does not hurt; it is just there.”

“Hm,” he replies.

“What are you muttering to them down there?” you ask suspiciously, doing your best to prevent the hilarity from showing in the curve of your lips. “They are too young to become vassals for your unseemly behaviour, uncle.”

“I’ll say what I like to my own children, little girl,” he answers arrogantly, brows waggling with mischief above the crest of your middle. You kick him lightly in the side, the laughter bursting unrestrained from your lungs. “There are some things that ought to be kept between a father and his daughters,” he continues, and you are sure he conceals a smile from beyond your view.

“If your sons take your guidance to heart, I shall not be dealing with the aftermath of whatever strife they decide to plague the Realm with. That is firmly in your hands,” you tell him archly, affecting a moue of superciliousness.

“If my daughters” – you squeal as he yanks you down by the thighs and parts them wide –“decide to follow in their kepa’s footsteps, you’re free to watch me teach them how to worm their way out of trouble.”

You gasp as his hand strikes your mound, catching on your bud and your folds, hard enough to shock but not to cause injury. The feeling ripples out from its epicentre, slithering through your veins and lighting the tinder of desire anew, and you sigh shakily as the sting sizzles along your skin.

“Don’t be naughty,” he chides, breath travelling down, down, down along your bared flesh. “Impertinent brats don’t get rewarded.”

“Sorry, kepus. I’ll behave, I promise,” is your automatic counter, and you silently bemoan how quickly he is able to redirect your changeable mood to one of lust. You want to sleep.

“Good.” Daemon presses a wet kiss to the top of your womanhood, tingling with the blood raised from his slap. It is a sure sample of what is to come. “Now – I do believe you begged me to lick this little cunt clean before I left. I’d best give my wife what she wants, hm?”

Sleep can wait. You do so enjoy the outcome of his efforts, after all.

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