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moodmother · 11 months

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Witch's Dozen - Part II

The woman’s legs are already straining to support her. As she begins to grow again, her knees--even buried as they are within deepening folds of fat--start to tremble beneath the relentlessly growing burden. She fears that they will give out, that her impossible weight will rend her joints. But behind her she feels something shift; the enormous swells of flesh that had been her buttocks have now reached the floor.

Her body continues to fatten in every direction. Her immense belly and legs, and her monstrous, impossible ass, flow out along the floor and heap up onto themselves. Her flesh itself begins to support some of its own weight, taking just enough strain off of her legs. Her feet have disappeared, smothered as her calves swell out and succumb to the tug of gravity.

The growth, the filling up, seems to last much longer. The sensation of it is becoming familiar. Because of this, the woman’s dread of it has blunted, dulled by anticipation. And the realization of this fact is a horror in itself.

Her cheeks begin to merge with the massive collar of flesh that was once her neck and chins. And that flesh, in turn, merges with the outward swelling rolls of her back, and sags out in front to rest atop the formless heaps that were her breasts. As the growth finally subsides, her hands have nearly been swallowed up by her impossible forearms, which are themselves overhung by the vast mounds of fat that were her upper arms. Her arms are truly useless now, far too heavy for her to move.

She can still turn her head a bit, and she looks this way and that across the expanse of her new body. She now dominates the interior of the shack. The table has been pushed across the room by her mountainous belly. Her sides seem very close now to the bed and kitchen. The shack has three windows that she can see: one on either side of the front door, which she faces, and one above the kitchen counter beside the hearth. Bright sunlight streams in, glittering off of dust motes and dappling her skin with little pools of warmth.

She tries to shift herself, to move in any way that she can. Her mass simply jerks and jiggles with the effort. Beneath her the floorboards creak. She is now fixed in place without the aid of sinister magic, held fast by the weight of her own bulk. Larger than any person has ever been before: over a ton, nearly a ton and a quarter of human flesh.

“Uncharted territory now,” the hag’s voice hisses into her ear somehow. The crone is perched on top of her, on a region that ought to be her shoulder. Cradling those biscuits in her apron, holding one of them toward the woman’s mouth. The woman can only gurgle in impotent protest as that fifth biscuit is crammed between her lips. Again, helplessly, she chews and swallows. She braces herself for the sensation of the growth.

It sweeps over her in waves, all the more horrible because, this time, it isn’t so horrible. There is even an awful pleasure in its intensity. The sensation seems to amplify as her mass increases, as if she simply had more flesh to feel it with.

The waves of pressure ripple again through every inch and particle of her body, and this time the filling up seems to last for hours. The floorboards groan as she expands outward on all sides. Gravity pulls the massive rolls of flesh down and down so that she spreads across the floor. The soft, monstrous blob of her body takes on the rough shape of a dome, fat oozing outward from her center like coursing lava.

Her calves, which have long since buried her feet, are themselves nearly overtaken by the enormous forms that were her thighs and hips. These impossible masses of flesh wrap around to merge with her vast buttocks, and continue to swell inexorably toward the walls of the shack.

Her breasts are cascades of fat pressed out against the top of her obscene belly. Her jaw has long since sunk into the mire of flesh; there is no glimpse of bone to define the shape of her face anymore.

Her hands finally disappear, swallowed up by her forearms. Her upper arms bear down with their own impossible bulk, two distinct hills of flesh that then begin to merge with the titanic swells that were once her chest and upper back.

The overwhelming thrill of the filling sensation is interrupted by a poke of external pressure: one of her sides is beginning to press up against a corner of the bed. On the other side, the edge of the fireplace draws dangerously close.

When this wave of growth finally ceases, she not only dominates but nearly fills the tiny cabin. Slightly wider front to back than she is from side to side, the edges of her belly and buttocks rest inches away from the front and back doors. The table has been shoved against a wall, and its legs poke into her soft, yielding bulk. Beneath her, the floorboards creak and groan, protesting the burden of her impossible body.

She can do nothing but rest there, “standing” suspended within her own gelatinous mass. In the momentary quiet, the only way to cope with the shock of being so huge, and so helpless, is to grasp at a frame of reference through which to comprehend her size. She weighs somewhere shy of two and a half tons now. As yet unheard of for a human being, but still fathomable. Roughly as heavy as a big wagon trailer, she reckons, or the pair of draft horses or oxen that might pull it. The size of an everyday thing.

“Not even close yet, dearie,” murmurs the hideous voice in her ear. “I reckon you’ll eat me out of house and home.” And a sixth biscuit is shoved into her mouth and down her throat.

She braces again. The pressure, the sensation of her whole body being filled, crammed full from some unseen and endless source, sweeps through her so powerfully that she gasps. Her form surges outward in an inexorable tide. Her outermost edges begin to touch the walls of the shack.

Amid the thrill of growth, panic grips her heart. Whatever is about to happen, she is helpless to do anything but grow. Steadily, maddeningly, she swells ever larger.

The table splinters against the weight of her titanic belly. The bed soon follows, crushed by the smothering mass of flesh that surges out and out, ceaselessly. Cabinetry and counters crumble. Underneath her, the floorboards finally crack. Out at her farthest-flung regions, she presses up flush against the walls. Unable, for now, to keep expanding outward, her flesh instead heaps up upon itself, creeping upward toward the windows.

Her face, the sole human feature that remains, adrift in a sea of flesh, is tilted upward. She stares dumbly at the rafters. Then, with another chorus of groans from the splintering floorboards, the ceiling seems to dip slowly closer. Her flesh, still multiplying, desperate for room, is filling in beneath her, pushing the buried core of her body upward.

When this endless, agonizing wave of growth is over, a mass of flesh fills the witch’s shack. The floorboards have given way, crushed between her bulk and the foundation underneath. The thing that was once a woman tries again to comprehend her own size, to rationalize and reassure herself. Six biscuits so far. And so how much does she weigh now? Somewhere shy of 5 tons. Not completely monstrous, surely. How big is an elephant? Could she be about the size of an elephant now?

Six biscuits. So there are six biscuits left.

#xwg #body growth #body expansion #extreme weight gain #weight gain fiction #moodmother #weight gain story

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scifrey · 11 months

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Keepsakes

A Plane Ticket: Destiny

Status: Complete

Series: the Hob Adherent series (this is the last story in the series. No, really, I mean it.)

Fandom: The Sandman (TV 2022) Includes some comics canon, and some cameos from the wider Gaiman-verse, but it’s not necessary to know to enjoy the story.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Discussions of grief and in-canon character death.

Relationships: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Characters: Dream of the Endless | Morpheus, Hob Gadling, Johanna Constantine, Despair of the Endless, Orpheus, the Kindly Ones

Summary:

Morph and Hob travel to Naxos for their honeymoon, but once there, Hob is tasked with a quest as Vassal of the Endless that will force Morph to confront and amend one of his greatest past cruelties.

Picks up directly after the epilogue of Cling Fast.

READ ON AO3 or below:

Part Four: Destiny

Only, it's not a breeze.

It's a gale, and it's inside the temple, circling and circling the table, whipping up their clothes and tossing the offerings on the altar into the corners of the floor, of the domed ceiling. The tapestries rip from their moorings, the blossoms scatter, the vases tumble and shatter. And in the centre of it all, Orpheus is utterly unmoved by the wind. His hair isn't even fluttering.

Hob clings to the windowsill to keep from being blown into the wall, bracing his shoes against the slick marble and reaching out to wrap one arm around Morph to keep his skinny arse from going flying.

"What the hell is this?" Hob shouts over the roar of the miniature tornado.

"The Kindly Ones," Morph says, voice barely loud enough to be heard, but too disconsolate to shout.

"Kindly… who?"

And then a woman appears. She stands behind Orpheus, halfway to the temple door, which is banging catastrophically. She is young… no, wait, she is about Hob's age and she… no, it's an old woman, he mistook her flying silver hair for a scarf and… no, she's…

She's three women.

They move around one another, swift and seamless, and every time he thinks that he's figured out what one of them looks like, he realizes he's seeing someone else entirely.

The Kindly Ones, Hob echoes in his mind, thinking they look nothing of the sort. They look furious. They look…

“Furies,” he says, feeling like a complete dolt for not putting it together sooner. His husband is, after all, the inspiration for the Greek God of Sleep. Morph's son is Orpheus. His ex-wife is a Muse. Of course the three every-shifting women before them are The Fates.

That’s just Hob’s life now.

"Dream of the Endless!" one of the women booms. Hob thinks it's the crone. "You know the rules!"

"Aye, I know them!" Morpheus calls back. "I know them, old witch!"

"And yet you seek to do this thing?" howls the mother. "This terrible, terrible thing?"

"I do!"

"By what right?" screams the maiden.

"By right of respect!" Morph challenges. "By right of compassion!"

The wind abruptly cuts out.

"You know the price," the three women ask, together.

“I know. And I shall pay it,” Morpheus says. He steps out of Hob's arms, raises his chin and thrusts out his chest like the miserable hero of a wan melodrama. “I shall spill family blood, and so die.”

“You what? Abso-fucking-lutely not!” Hob protests. He grabs Morph's arm hard, jostling the poison bottle. A little part of him wishes he'd made Morph drop it, but he's not spiteful enough to actively try to destroy it. “You’re not dying on our goddamn honeymoon.”

"When would you prefer I die, Hob Gadling?" Morph asks, raising an arch eyebrow at him.

"Never! Like you promised me!"

"And then when shall you have me release Orpheus from his suffering, as I promised him?"

"You—you can't—that's not… there has to be a way to… to have one without the other," Hob says, struggling and feeling like if isn't careful, if he doesn't watch his words now, if he fucks this up, it'll be over before he knows what's even happened.

All his happiness.

All he's fought for these last few years.

All he's ever wanted for the last seven hundred.

Gone.

Just like that.

“He’s not Endless!” Hob shouts, suddenly. He punches the air in his passion. Then again, he shouts: “He’s not Dream of the Endless!”

“He is not,” acknowledges the crone, reluctantly.

“And so isn't he exempt from the law that says he must be destroyed in return for spilling family blood? Orpheus’ father was Dream of the Endless. This man is not Dream!”

“But he is Morpheus,” the maiden answers sweetly. “If you’re keen to split hairs, then Orpheus is the get of this facet of Dream. And it is Morpheus’s loins from whom the boy has sprung.”

“Then…” Hob gropes for another solution, there must be one, there must. Hob's heart feels like it's about to crawl out of his mouth, the bottom of his feet itching with the desire to fight, to punch, and bite, and scream to save his beloved. “Ah! Orpheus has renounced Morph, claims they’re no longer family, surely that must mean—”

“Robert Gadling,” the mother says gently, pityingly. “A break in love and trust is not the same as blood. Your efforts do you honor, but the laws of creatures and worlds older than you can ever hope to become cannot be so easily reputed as that.”

Hob's life is shattering.

The sky is splitting, the earth is cracking open, the seas are boiling and nothing is actually happening for real because the Fates are cruel, not kindly at all. How can everything be ending when the sunset is painting the still, warm interior of the temple with the last rosy-fingered rays of sunlight?

How can the world keep spinning on so blithely while Hob's is ending?

"Don't do this to me," Hob pleads, groping at Morph's sleeve, petting his wind-tossed hair. "Please, please don't make me go through this again. I can't be widowed again... I can't lose you, I can't—"

Morph remains as regal and unmoveed as the Parthenon.

“Then…" Hob gasps, and he can't breathe, he can't get enough air. "Then I’ll… I'll do it."

Now Morph shrinks back, clutching the bottle to his belly. “Hob, no,”

“No, it’s fine, I can do it for you, for him,” Hob sobs, tears spilling over his lids and cascading down his cheeks, flooding up from the deepest chambers of his stuttering heart. "This must be what Despair meant. You don't mind, do you, my lad?"

"No," Orpheus says softly, his own eyes glistening. "I do not mind, stepfather."

"Give me the bottle, duckie," Hob says, holding his trembling hands out.

"Erasti, I would spare you this," Morph pleads miserably.

"And I would spare your life," Hob insists. "My darling, please."

“Your offer is noble, Hob Gadling," the crone cuts in gently. "You are a good man, husband of Morpheus the Abdicated Oneriomancer, spouse of the former Dream of the Endless. But you are family by marriage, and therefore party to the pact.”

"There has to be a way!" Hob howls, fists and teeth and eyes clenched hard on his desperate frustration. He turns to Orpheus. "Knowing the price, can't you… please, can't you stay? Can't you just try?"

“I am tired,” Orpheus gasps, his own tears finally falling. “You would not think it, having no body, but I hurt constantly. The pain is unbearable. I am so tired, father. I want to sleep.”

"And sleep you shall," Morph rumbles. "The Sandman bids it so."

He works the stopper out of the phial.

“Wait,” Hob says, throwing a hand out to block Morph’s advance. “Wait! Wait. Please!”

Morph waits.

“Sleep, you say?” Hob asks, kneeling before Orpheus, begging him.

Orpheus rolls his eyes. “As a euphemism for death,” the lad sasses. "Or is that not in common parlance any longer?"

“No, I’m aware that… no, what I mean is… listen,” Hob says, shuffling closer to keep what he says to Orpheus as private as possible when they’re surrounded by celestial and eldritch creatures. “What if you did sleep?”

Orpheus narrows his eyes—every bit as dark and moody as his father’s were in his Dream form—and purses his lips. “And then what?”

“Well, you’re the oracle,” Hob says. “ You tell me when human technology will be advanced enough to build you a new body from your own DNA. When medical advancements are such that nerves suffering from phantom agonies can be soothed. When it would be good, and kind, and beneficial to wake you. To give you back what you've lost?”

Orpheus gapes at him.

But that's not a no.

Hob can work with 'not a no'.

“Your father and I are human. Immortal, and human," Hob presses. "What if you slept, and when you woke, the world was such that you could have a body again? Hands to play a lyre, a heart to find new love, legs to dance?”

“I shall love no other but Eurydice,” Orpheus proclaims with a scowl.

Hob exchanges only the most fleeting of glances with Morph. They are both on their second deep loves. Hob has no doubt that while Orpheus adores Eurydice still, and will never stop aching for her—as he does Eleanor—that there is also more love in the lad to give, and more for him to receive. He doesn't say as much, doesn't want to diminish this moment or Orpheus's longing, nor scuttle his chances to make this work.

"There can be life again," Hob whispers shakily. He is mucousy and flushed, and sweating, and desperate. He is a poor pilgrim, come to pray with his palms up, imploring the god of this temple for sanctification and a single, really very little miracle. "But first, sleep. Just sleep."

Orpheus's mouth twists in a thoughtful moue, again so like Morpheus's own expressions that what's left of Hob's heart wrenches and burns. Then he huffs, like he's come to a decision, and his eyes roll back in his head.

Hob clutches at the edge of the altar, pressing his forehead against the edge of it hard enough to cause himself pain. Morph rests one hand on his shoulder and squeezes three times. The temple is silent, waiting for Orpheus's judgment, and Hob does his best to suck back his heaving sobs, to not disturb the hallowedness of that selfsame waiting.

The white shine of Orpheus's eyes finally fades.

Hob looks up, daring to hope and schooling his fluttering soul to bear the opposite.

For that is who Hob Gadling is, in all of this.

The Hope to every Dream.

Orpheus tilts his chin down to meet Hob's eyes. Brown-to-brown. Immortal Human-to-Immortal Human. One who has lost love-to-one clinging desperately to the one he has.

"I accept your terms, Hob Gadling," Orpheus says gently.

Hob's so relieved he actually retches. Every organ in his body surges outward, as his the very cells that make up his insides are desperate to shoot across the sky like fireworks, incandescent with his joy. He swallows back his gorge, once, twice, which leaves him shaking and panting.

"Thank you," Hob burbles. "Thank you." He scrambles to his feet, and after Orpheus nods to give his permission, stoops to kiss his stepson's face. First one cheek, then the other, then the centre of his forehead, all the while murmuring, " Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Morph pitches the bottle of poison out the window, and Hob laughs with giddy delight to hear the tinkling shatter of the glass against the talus at the bottom of the cliff.

"May I?" Hob asks, hands out, and again Orpheus acquiesces. Mindful of how gritty and tear-wet his hands are, Hob scoops a length of red silk off the floor, shakes it out, and gently wraps it around his hands. Then he makes a cradle of it between his arms, and turns to Morpheus.

"Help?"

"Of course, erasti," Morph says, catching on, and gently lifts his son and places him sweetly onto the soft, cool fabric.

Orpheus sighs in relief, and Hob guesses it must be very irritating to sit in one attitude for so long, no matter how plush the cushion was.

When Hob looks up to address the Kindly Ones, he realizes they are no longer there.

"Where now?" Orpheus asks.

"To the villa," Hob says firmly. "Then, back to London, I guess. And from there, we devise a good place to sleep until you tell us otherwise."

"A thousand years," Orpheus says.

"A thousand years, then, my son," Morph agrees, with his firm, deal-made nod.

It sounds so like the way that he told Hob that he'd meet him at the White Horse in a hundred years that Hob can't help another relieved, giddy giggle. Together, they pick their way over the broken crockery and tangled fabric, and Morph pushes the dangling splinters that are all that's left of the door.

They step out into the cool gloaming, and pause.

The Endless, all seven of them, stand in a single line to the right of the path.

"Siblings!" Morph gasps, stepping close to Hob's side.

"Little brother," Death says, from her place at the head of the line. "Nephew."

Hob, knowing his role as Vassal in this pageant, steps forward and presents Orpheus to her. With Orpheus's catlike eye-squint of permission, she lends down and busses a kiss off each of his cheeks.

"I am sorrowed that my help brought you to this," Death says. "And more sorrowed still that I could not have circumvented Eurydice's death. But oh, my nephew, I am pleased that you are giving life a second try."

"Thank you, my aunt," Orpheus says.

Death steps back, and Hob presents Orpheus to the next in the honor guard.

Destruction, too, offers kisses and condolences, and regret that his help led to this. Orpheus forgives him, thanks him for trying. Next in line, Delirium reaches out, pinches something invisible from the top of his head as if one would pluck out a hair. When he pulls her hand away, Orpheus shudders and groans in relief.

"No PaIn WhILe YoU SleEp, NePHeW," Delirium promises, and offers her own kisses to his cheeks.

Despair is next, and she too plucks something away from him. "No misery while you sleep, either," she promises, and kisses his cheeks.

As Hob moves to the next in line, Despair pinches the trailing length of red silk as they pass, and gives Hob a knowing look. He glances back over his shoulder and gasps. In their wake, in all the places the tail of the swag touches the grass, the not-poppy flowers from his dream spring into existence.

Next come Daniel, in a small, very pudgy child-Dream of the Endless form, clasped on Desire’s hip.

"Well done, Handsome Hobsie," Desire purrs. Hob shakes his head, demurring. Right now is not about him. "I suppose I'm the last of the three good fairies to bestow a gift, huh, nephew?" Orpheus makes a confused noise. "Don't worry, I'm sure Dream here will catch you up on all the fairy tales you've missed. As for me…" They pluck at the air above Orpheus's crown, and what little tension a disembodied head can hold melts away. "I take from you desires lost and thwarted. Do not spend your sleep in regret."

They offer Orpheus their kisses, and then tilt forward so Daniel can have his turn.

Daniel reaches out to pat one fat hand gently against Orpheus’ nose. Whatever silent communication passes between them, Hob is not privy to it.

“Well… that’s a blessing,” Hob laughs. He feels so full of love and lightness that he thinks he could fly if he just concentrated hard enough and took a step into the air.

“Of some sort,” Orpheus says, wrinkling said appendage. When Daniel paps it twice more, grinning with all of his charming childhood dimples and his three whole teeth.

At the end of the line, Destiny, his book dangling heavily from where it is shackled to one wrist, holds out a simply wrought stone cradle. Inside is a plush cushion.

" You do not go to London, my nephew. You sleep in my garden, cared for by my attendants, and doted upon by your family," Destiny says with all the sedate finality of one who already knows the future.

Hob holds Orpheus high enough for Destiny to kiss. Then, gently, Hob transfers Orpheus to the cradle, facing outward.

"I'm so happy," Hob says. "Thank you. I promise, my lad, it will be worth it, in the end. Death's a mug's game." He kisses each of Orpheus' cheeks again to the tune of Death's laughter.

Daniel raises his pudgy baby hand, and a very small silk bag of Dreamsand appears in it.

This, he offers to Morph.

“Sleep, my treasured son,” Morpheus says, accepting the bag and sliding the bow out of the drawstring, so the silk flutters down over his fingers, leaving the glittering sand in a quiet pile on his protected palm. “Find me in the Dreaming when you are ready, and we will honor and grieve Eurydice as befits my venerated daughter-in-law.”

“Venerated?” Orpheus repeats, hopeful.

“Venerated,” Morpheus confirms firmly. “And much missed.”

As apologies go, it’s a subtle one, but Orpheus understands.

The lad cannot nod, but he gazes up at his father warmly, a small smile curling into the side of his mouth. Morph kisses each of his cheeks, and then steps back, just far enough, raises his palm, and lovingly blows sand into Orpheus's face.

It's midnight by the time Hob and Morph make it down the mountain. Destiny departs for his garden at once with Orpheus, and despite what Robert Frost has to say about, Death cannot stop for any longer tonight. But the remaining Endless had accompanied them for the return walk, taking their turns making idle chatter and ensuring that neither human comes to harm on the darkening path.

Tenderly, gently, Orpheus's eyes slide closed, and he slips into his thousand-year sleep.

----------

They see Morph and Hob to their rental and make their goodbyes and Hob, with much good cheer, tells them all to fuck off and stay fucked off for the rest of his honeymoon, thank you very much.

The drive back to the villa is silent, but Morph rests his hand on Hob's thigh, and keeps it there the whole time. His other hand he uses to cradle his chin, as he leans on his arm, and peers out of the open window at the stars. His hair flutters in the breeze, reminding Hob of Matthew's long feathers as he soars over the city.

The solemn quiet lasts through Hob making them some decaf tea, and their drinking it wrapped around one another on a lounge chair. When his mug is empty, Hob sets it aside. Morph follows suit, then tugs Hob down into the pillows, before turning his gaze back to the sky. Though his eyes are blue, Hob fancies he can still see distant galaxies sparkling in them.

"We will see him in the Dreaming," Morph sighs, wriggling his way into his husband's arms. "I will walk with him, and talk with him, and grieve with him. We will visit his mother in her dreams, and we will… make it better. Fill it with grace, again. "

"I have every faith that you will, duckie," Hob says, throwing his leg over Morph's hip to squeeze him close, to weigh him down with the gravity of his love and the soft warm animal comfort of his body.

"This is not a happily ever after," Morph says mournfully.

"No, but it's not an ending, either," Hob whispers. He kisses Morpheus's cheek, the closest bit of him he can reach, and then his shoulder. "And I am so thankful for that."

"I was Prince of Stories," Morpheus admits. "I tried so hard to rewrite it. For him. For them. I thought, if I could change the narrative, if I could change the way people remembered it, told it, then the collective remembering would change it."

"But the old tales always return to their original forms?" Hob asks, remembering the faint sorrow with which Morph had told him that in 1789.

Morph nods. “I wanted to save him."

“You did, duck,” Hob replies, pulling a light blanket he'd discarded on the other lounger this morning blindly, only by touch. He pulls it up over their shoulders. “I promise you. You did. We'll wake him, when it's time. And it will be good.”

"It will," Morph purrs, sliding in close to steal a single, slow kiss. "After all, he has so much to live for."

the end

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unsleepingtales · 1 year

Text

Episode 19 reactions/freakouts/etc! Major spoilers ahead obviously!

Holy fuck that set is SO COOL

Did they fucking enchant Scheherazade.

Noooo Cindy.

Oh SHIT Zac nat20 right out the gateeeeee

What if they one hit ko raps. Insane.

No minutes at all. You have no idea. What her powers are.

Okay so she’s still gonna take damage. What an inSANE first turn.

SLITS her THROAT???

Tim’s mini is delightful

The mechanic of them having different diplomacy levels with different characters is so so good. So real. I need to have coffee with Brennan Lee Mulligan.

Oh my god I know it wasn’t on purpose but Cinderella saying As You Wish is giving me Thoughts

I feel like I’m in summer school top ten insane Ally Beardsley statements

Elodyyyyy

Gerard what are you DOING

Just be normal. Cmon.

Rosamund 40 points of necrotic damage off the bat holy shit. CIRCLE OF DEATH SPELL? What the fuck is that.

Miraaaaa I need to hug her

YES convince her please she needs to be ok

Oh that’s such a cool visual holy shit

Lou Wilson is so so good. He’s so good at what he does.

I DONT WANT MY STORY TO END HERE

Brennan going “Baba, what are we going to do?” Wild thing for him to do tbh

Everybody but me going to die here??????

(Pib clocks that)

“I love a crone” so true Emily

Saving Face is such a wild thing

ELODY THERE IS HOPE IN THE WORLD

You��re going to get a chance to tell your story. This is the end of everything and you haven’t been given your moment.

You can make a new most important part of your life. You can learn and grow. Things don’t just end!

It doesn’t have to be the way that it was.

I’m just gonna be a weird little guy and see what happens! So true bestie!

Rapunzel is so nuts btw

RED

Soooo saaaad

Oh my god the editing on that shot was incredible

I love things that make Brennan, the DM trying to kill them, go “oooh sick”

Telekinetic shove???? So cool

Telekinetic shoving someone into your arms. Saying we care for the stories. Not being able to break through. Oh my god. The emotions in this silly little dice game.

What a delightful interlude before Pib fucking dies.

Ally is just talking so well today.

STOP HURTING HIM. THIS ISNT THE PLAN. SOBBING.

104 HP. The books dealt 106 HP. Insanity. 18 d10????? The fuck Brennan??

Rosamund full dead? Rosamund full dead?? The dome did the thing. Rosamund full dead.

WHAT

New mini new mini

Hey Brennan quick q what the fuck

Oh NOW she gets her head in the game?

YES baba yaga

YOU MAHST WAKE AAHP (slap)

I love them fucking with his ruler

Elody the ally <3

Oooh Murph that’s such a cool ability.

SHE ONLY HAS 25 HP RN????

Zac facial expressions my beloved <3

Battle master is so fucking cool.

YES MURPH GET HER MURPH

My wife is my friend now.

Rapunzel talking to elody about her life choices as she’s being eaten was so funny for Brennan to do

It SPINS Rick Perry let me work for you I’m begging

Hyena???

God, the idea of Mira using her legs as weapons. Kicking Snow White in the head. So many thoughts.

Holy shit necrotic sleeping beauty killing necromancer snow white is so insane

Insane shit from Baba Yaga.

I love the dialogue choices Brennan makes for her

Oh god the faint whisper of Something Wicked This Way Comes before the faeries reveal. Wild.

See you in the stars I fuckin guess

Preview:

IS THAT A FUCKING INK HAND

Fireworksssss

Oh that was his Cinderella voice.

Oh my god the gems. Brennan what the fuck are you doing.

#neverafter #rick perry appreciation hours #dropout art team <3

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goddesstrolls · 1 year

Note

⏰️ Kas (from the caverns)

(TW for child abuse)

"Kasora!"

Kasora heard the head matron bark her name, and immediately bolted. She had once again neglected to do the extra duties assigned to her as punishment- She was in trouble no matter what.

She'd long since given up doing her best and listen and be obedient. Even when she tried, tried to follow in the steps of her praised peers, it just wasn't enough.

It took four matrons to find her, and one of the cavern guards to actually catch her, which was a new record. Kasora even made sure the guard regretted it by biting his hand hard enough to draw blood.

She was dragged into the dining room with two matrons, plus the head matron, and another guard leaning on the wall. They sat her down in a chair while the head matron began to yell at her.

How dare she run. How dare she bite one of the guards that kept her safe. Blah blah blah. Kasora let her attention drift to a beetle trundling along the dining room floor.

"Kasora! Are you listening to me?!"

"Yes, head matron." Kasora parroted for what felt like the thousandth time in her life. Apparently her tone wasn't quite right, or maybe it was because she looked away across the dining room instead of at the matron. Next thing she knew, the matron's old wrinkled hand shot into her peripherals and the old crone was smacking her across the face. The two other matrons in the room gasped.

That finally brought Kasora's gaze to the head matron. The old woman was jade in the face, small lips shriveled into an enraged little frown, jowls quivering as she shook with fury.

"You will fix that attitude of yours!" Snarled the head matron, pointing a bony, wrinkled finger in Kasora's face.

That was enough.

"You fix your attitude!" She snapped back, gripping the edges of her seat with tiny hands. "You hit me! You push me around and you don't care how I feel!"

"What you feel does not matter!" Roared the head matron.

"Why not?! How come what you feel is the most important thing in the world, but what I feel means nothing?!"

The head matron inhaled and Kasora prepared for another enraged lecture. But instead the old woman whirled around and stormed towards the door. "I am through with you."

As she passed by the guard leaning by the doorway, she spoke again. "Cull her."

"H-Head matron, let's not be hasty!" One of the other matrons darted over, laying a hand on the older woman's shoulder, but she would not be halted. Kasora stared, eyes wide at the head matron's turned back as she disappeared through the door, the other matron desperately trying to convince her to change her mind.

The guard waited for a few moments, and then sighed and straightened. He drew the sword on his belt, and the last matron raised her hands, stepping between the guard and Kasora.

"Let's- Let's wait, please- Not here- There are other wrigglers-"

"Orders are orders. She'll make a good example of what not to do." The guard stepped forward. The matron didn't move.

"Don't make me kill you, too." The guard tilted his head, adjusting the weapon in his hand. The matron hastily stepped aside.

Kasora jumped off the chair and attempted to run. She saw a cluster of other wrigglers peeking around the other door, crowding around each other, trying to see. A few of them ran when Kasora spotted them. The guard grabbed Kasora's ponytail and yanked.

Kasora screamed and batted at the guard's hand. She saw him lifting the sword, the blade catching the candlelight as he began to bring it down towards her neck.

She squeezed her eyes shut and willed a wall of stone to form from the ground around her, raising up so quickly that it bashed the guard's arm and forced him to let go. The rocks closed up around her, forming a small sealed dome.

Kasora curled up, hands over her head, sobbing. She didn't know what to do. He was going to kill her, as soon as she came out. Muffled, she heard the guard swearing and there came a few thuds on the dome.

She eventually heard other voices outside her dome, but she was too busy sobbing uncontrollably to listen. She cried until she couldn't anymore- And then it seemed like hours after that passed. Exhausted, thirsty, and hungry, she eventually fell asleep curled up on the cold floor.

Kasora woke to a loud thud on the side of her dome, rattling the whole thing.

She froze, immediately alert. There came another thud, and some rocks and dust rained down on her. She heard a muted voice from outside.

Kasora slammed her palms on the side of the dome opposite from where she'd heard the thud, disintegrating the stone with a touch and trying to run- Only to collide with a guard. Multiple trolls were gathered around, and it didn't take long for her to be collected and locked in some small room. It wasn't her own room, like they usually locked her in. This one was bare and dark.

She was left alone for another hour, and then finally the door opened.

One of the matrons came in holding a tray, shutting the door behind her. She knelt and set the tray down, watching Kasora. Kasora didn't move from her position curled tightly in the corner.

"Come eat, Kasora. Please." The matron seemed tired, but her voice was gentle.

There was a bowl of soup, some bread, and a cup of water on the tray. Kasora unfurled herself and slunk over, sitting down across from the matron to silently eat.

"The head matron has decided to send you to another part of the cavern instead." The matron began. "Please...Please mind your manners there, Kasora. We only want the best for you."

"No you don't." Mumbled Kasora bitterly, and tore a chunk of bread off the loaf with her teeth. "You just want me to do what I'm told."

"If you don't do what you're told," the matron said slowly, struggling to find the best words. "They'll kill you. None of us want to see that. Please, Kasora. Please just listen."

The matron reached carefully across the tray to take Kasora's hand. Kasora couldn't bring herself to look up at the woman, her pleading tone making it difficult to say anything back. She didn't move or speak until the matron finally let go of her hand, and then she continued to eat.

The matron waited, staring at her own hands in her lap, and then when Kasora was done she took the tray and left without another word.

#long post //#whoops this turned out Long #kasora ic #kasora shevir #kasora writing #bastdrabbles #child abuse //#i guess hdsfhg

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