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princehendir · 7 months ago

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Do you want to elaborate about the alice postpartum post 👉👈

Yeah actually. I kinda do!

[cw: mental health issues, emotional abuse, some gaslighting, implied reproductive coercion. Probably some other stuff.]

So. Alice spends most of Shaun's baby-hood feeling like he's Not Real, though she's not really able to articulate what exactly she means by that, as well being kind of generally aware that it's not true, despite the fact that it feels really really true. That's not a real baby, and if it is a real baby it's definitely not her baby. Which she knows isn't rational but can't quite shake.

She also off-and-on feels like she's Not Real, other people Aren't Real, the world isn't Real, etc. which she was already having a problem with during the pregnancy but it got worse after the birth. Lots of depersonalization/derealization issues. Some of it is definitely the hormones but the emotional manipulator husband who Gently Encouraged her to keep a baby she wasn't 100% sure about (among other things) definitely also contributed.

The pregnancy went very well physically though, despite her emotional/mental issues. And the fact that Nate keeps using the term "easy pregnancy" (we're so lucky!) is slowly turning her evil.

She also gets increasingly paranoid about Codsworth the longer he's in the house. Really convinced that he's Up To Something and either talking to the police about her or spying on her for Nate, who she thinks might have bought him for specifically that reason (it's unclear how plausible this actually is).

Paranoid in general also, after the birth. Like, is worried that the neighbors Know Things about her, that the police are coming any minute, that sort of thing. And unfortunately a lot of her paranoia isn't fully without basis. She & Nate are very much living under stolen identities because they have warrants out. And Nate is kind of getting too into/overselling his whole "I'm a veteran" thing (he's not, to be clear) and there's genuine reason to worry that he might get cocky and blow their cover. So this is the stuff that's hardest for her to manage while she's trying to get her stuff together enough to get out.

(If I never mentioned this, part of her whole deal is that the day the bombs dropped was also the day she was planning on leaving him and starting over on the west coast. Like she had this whole thing worked out where she was going to slip out while he was giving his little speech at the Veterans Hall (which again, insane & ill-advised thing to do given that he's not actually a veteran and living under a stolen identity, but we don't need to go into all that rn) and get in her car and just start driving. Shaun was not actually part of this plan until like two days before, when she decided that it felt morally weird to her to abandon a baby even if it still didn't really feel like Her Baby.)

(The paranoia actually ends up fucking this plan up for her. She freaks herself out and tries to leave early because she thinks Nate's onto her (he isn't) and then he catches her packing a bag and finally figures out what's going on. They're actively fighting in the nursery and he's trying to prevent her from leaving when the news alert comes on about the bombs. In a weird irony, the war starting when it did was kind of lucky for her, because we were hitting "this is about to escalate, worried neighbors are calling 911" around that point and I'm not really sure what would've happened otherwise.)

Also, on the subject of Nate, she does start to think about killing him a lot. Which, to be fair, she also thinks about when she's more lucid (normal side effect of Nate exposure imo) but for a while there it definitely falls more on the "violent intrusive thoughts/violent impulses" end of the scale than the "morally bad but rational murder fantasy" one. This is actually what spurs her into working on an exit plan, it was either leaving or murder, and one of those is slightly easier to get away with.

She's doing a lot better during the main part of fo4, which is nice. But the fact that she was unwell & not really able to bond with Shaun when he was a baby really contributes to a lot of how she handles the main plotline. She doesn't feel as strongly about what happened as she thinks* she should, and she's not really sure what to do about that. Lying about how much she misses her baby feels wrong, but being honest feels a lot worse.

*thinks that other people think?

#oc: alice (allegedly)#rip miss alice. you would have either loved or hated the breaking bad episode ''ozymandias''

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marzipanandminutiae · 3 months ago

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Alright, so I’m now 75% of the way through the cherry hung with show (mostly by not working very much today whoops) and I’ve mostly been listening to the crane wives while reading, which is not how I imagine Crimson Peak in the story to sound, but it’s certainly lending a ~vibe~

(this is about a Crimson Peak modern AU where Thomas and Lucille are a sibling rock band and Edith is their tour journalist. it's 100 chapters and still going. I enjoy it, but CW for the usual sibling incest and murder + reproductive coercion)

My impression of their Sound is like...Tori Amos + certain specific Charming Disaster songs. If you take away the American accents, Blacksnake could be an in-universe Crimson Peak song, IMO.

youtube

(other CD songs that give me the Vibe include Murderer, Driving to Idaho, Spooky Action, Cherry Red, and maaaaaybe What Do You Do With A Corpse if they were getting a bit silly with it)

#ask #fairwellersmustache #fandom #reproductive coercion mention

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random-thought-depository · 4 years ago

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So, in my last post I wrote this:

“Like … right now I’m planning out a story I intend to write in January; it’s supposed to be a kind of deconstruction of the Fremen mirage, and very much one of the thoughts going into it is “yo, a Proud Warrior Race would be a horrible society to live in or have as neighbors, we shouldn’t romanticize them!” and yet … I feel that the “bad guy” culture in it is much better, from a literary viewpoint, for me having given some thought to the material base of their society and how that would shape their culture. I could have just written them as flat edgelordy-grimdark barbarians, but thinking about their culture in materialist terms gave me a more complex and nuanced picture that I think will make for a more interesting and nuanced story and a fictional society that feels more interesting and human and alive.”

So, I want to infodump a little about this fictional culture I’ve thought up! I’m splitting this up into two posts because otherwise it’d be long in a way my Tumblr’s format is not kind to; in the first post I’m going to talk about the material base that defines this fictional society I’ve thought up, and in the second post I’m going to talk about more historically contingent features of their culture.

Note: for a lot of what’s in this post, I tried to make something hard SF-ish, but much of what I’ve written was the result of kind of “working backwards” from the sort of culture I was imagining to a material base that might create such a culture. So this is more playing with an idea than an attempt at anything particularly realistic.

Material base:

The basic political and economic unit of this society is the semi-self-sufficient space habitat community. These communities are about the size of a small town, I’m thinking thousands to tens of thousands of people (though I haven’t quite fixed it firmly, and anyway there’s wide variation; more successful communities are bigger). This town-size community lives in a semi-mobile space habitat, which I’m thinking is more-or-less a hollow cylinder spun for centrifugal gravity attached to a central spindle which is spacecraft construction facilities, engines, etc.. This space habitat contains enough hydroponic gardens, industrial machinery, etc. that the habitat can sustain itself completely independently for at least a few years. The space habitat has a rocket engine and a hyperspace engine, so it’s mobile, and these people are at least semi-nomadic, often moving their habitats when faced with opportunity or danger. The space habitat carries smaller spacecraft that can be detached and sent out to mine asteroids and KBO-type bodies, scoop helium 3 up from gas giant atmospheres, etc. and return these resources to the main habitat. Along with a closed life support system and efficient recycling, this makes such a community almost self-sufficient (though the almost qualifier is important, as I’ll discuss later).

People who are remembering Brett Devereaux’s last essay here may have noted a certain parallel with steppe nomads, with the main habitat being kind of analogous to the mobile but vulnerable main nomad camp where the non-combatants, livestock, and valuables are kept while the smaller resource-gatherer etc. craft are kinda analogous to the highly mobile horse-mounted war parties.

The reason these communities are so small is that their economies are not resource-limited but machinery-limited, labor-limited, and skilled specialized labor limited. Most raw materials these people may need are super-abundant to them, the bottleneck is transforming those raw materials into air, food, machinery, furniture, useful energy, etc. and maintaining efficient almost-closed loops of recycling. Sustaining a space community requires lots of complex machinery and lots of specialized skilled labor, and maintaining and replacing the machinery often requires more complex machinery (tools to make the tools) and more specialized skilled labor. Keeping humans alive in space is hard, so the return on investment from this is low. Therefore, these communities generally try to make efficient use of labor and maintain more-or-less the smallest viable population.

This implies reproduction within communities like this will probably be carefully controlled. A community like this must stay within a delicate balance; they must have enough people to do all the necessary labor with a comfortable safety margin to avoid situations like the only person with some important skill dying unexpectedly before they could train their replacement, but they must not have so many people that they strain the life support capacity of their habitat. That suggests reproduction usually tightly and deliberately controlled to stay at more-or-less replacement rate and no more.

It also implies a community like this will probably be quite communitarian and disciplined. Consumption will have to be tightly controlled. The means of production will probably be directly controlled by the political leadership. Its economy would probably look communist-ish to us, or maybe like a Bronze Age palace economy, with most necessities and luxuries being distributed basically as rations. Commercial transactions will be marginal to the internal economies of these communities; they’ll probably exist, but only in the form of informal mostly small-scale barter (think something similar to the cigarette economy that may exist in a prison), and they will not be anyone’s primary occupation or source of subsistence or power. Internal economic inequality within a community like this will be mostly a matter of status, not wealth; if somebody eats better it’s because they receive more and better food as an entitlement associated with their political office and/or social status, not because they own a big pile of gold that they use to buy food or something. Probably a community like this will be fairly economically egalitarian even if it is socio-politically unequal; if there’s a king he might have a somewhat bigger apartment, somewhat more and better food, a nice wardrobe of good-quality clothes with lots of bling, etc., but the difference in access to resources between him and one of his servants would be trivial compared to the difference in access to resources between me and a billionaire.

OK, but these people are supposed to be “bad guys” and a “Proud Warrior Race,” so where does that come in? Well, now let’s look at the economy of a community like this and ask: what might they need to get from other communities, and by extension what might they want to violently steal from outsiders?

Certainly not raw resources! If they want water, nitrogen, deuterium, iron, copper, platinum, etc. they can just send out a mining ship to an asteroid or KBO-like body to get some and bring it to them. If they want helium 3 they can just send out a scoop-ship to go down into the atmosphere of the nearest gas giant, gather some up, and bring it to them. And so on. Raw resources are mostly super-abundant to a culture like this and it would make no sense to risk injury or death stealing them from armed outsiders (there are a few exceptions to this that prove the rule, more on that later). So, if not raw resources, what?

Remember that their economy is machinery-limited. They need lots of complex machinery to survive, and then they need more complex machinery to repair and replace that complex machinery (tools to make the tools), and then sometimes they need tools to make the tools to make the tools, and so on. If each community had to be completely self-sufficient this might spiral out unmanageably. But it becomes much more manageable if they are just mostly self-sufficient and tap into larger commercial/industrial networks, e.g. a mostly planet-dwelling society with some orbital infrastructure and asteroid mining that has millions of people. Then if there’s the occasional hard to make spare part they can’t make themselves, it’s not a big deal, they can just send a trading expedition to get some of those parts from outsiders every ten years or so. Or if there’s some hard to make anti-viral drug they can’t make themselves, again, no big deal, they can just send a trading expedition to get some of it from outsiders every few years. A trading expedition ... or a raiding expedition.

Probably they would usually prefer to trade, humans usually prefer sharing or trading to violent theft because it’s less risky, violent theft means the possibility of injury or death (plus in this case complex machinery would be likely to get smashed up in a violent heist). A mutually beneficial trading relationship between a culture like this and a planet-dweller culture would be quite natural; to these people a planet-dweller society is rich in labor but poor in mineral resources such as platinum, while to planet-dwellers this space-dweller culture is rich in mineral resources but poor in labor and certain kinds of machinery and high value added finished goods. But here we have a potential basis for a culture that follows a Viking-style strategy of “if they outgun us, trade, if we outgun them, raid,” with the consequence of this culture’s relationship to other societies being a mix of trade and war.

Some raw resources may be worth stealing here; exceptions that prove the rule that for a space-dwelling culture like this raw resources aren’t worth stealing but value-added finished goods may be. For example, it’s theoretically possible to sift small quantities of naturally occurring antimatter from gas giant magnetic fields, and that stuff might be valuable for catalyzing fusion reactions. That might be worth stealing, because in a sense it’s a raw resource that’s kind of like a finished good; the difficulty is concentrating the very diffuse stuff; an antimatter capture facility with its Penning traps almost full might be worth raiding in the same way a big hoard of gathered acorns might be worth raiding for hunter-gatherers (this resource is abundant but diffuse, somebody else has taken the trouble to gather a lot of it into one spot, you can effectively appropriate their hard work by stealing the hoard). Similarly I could see this culture opportunistically intercepting freighters carrying helium 3, mined semi-refined asteroid material, etc., not so much stealing the resources as functionally stealing the labor of gathering and refining the resources.

There’s another thing a community like this might want to take from outsiders: people.

The economy of a community like this is also skilled specialized labor limited. In fact, that’s probably the more fundamental bottleneck: they can’t build and operate all the machinery they need to be truly self-sufficient because they don’t have the skilled specialist labor, and this is an equilibrium trap because trying to create more skilled specialist labor has a low return on investment for them; keeping a human alive in space is resource-intensive, and a new human probably won’t begin to give them a return on the investment for at least 15 years or so, likely longer (skilled specialized labor, so think e.g. doctors and engineers and literal rocket scientists; training them will take time). One way a community like this can adjust the equation to be more in its favor is to acquire skilled specialized laborers who have already been raised and trained by a different community; then they can skip all the investment in the child and go straight to benefiting from the labor of the fully trained adult.

There’s another reason a community like this might want to take people: genetic diversity. We’re talking about a small community, maybe a few tens of thousands of people, that is somewhat isolated. Inbreeding and lack of genetic diversity can kill small and isolated communities. As I said earlier, reproduction in a community like this will probably be extensively controlled, and I think one aspect of that might be controlling marriages to eliminate or minimize the risks associated with inbreeding. But it would be helpful if a community like this could assimilate some outsiders every generation, to increase its genetic diversity. So the community may want to assimilate even outsiders who don’t have any particularly in-demand specialist skills, to boost its genetic diversity.

Note: while this is a setting where aliens exist, it’s one that’s demographically dominated by humans, so most of the foreigners these people interact with will be other humans. This is significant here.

These two motivations synergize with each other. Most obviously, assimilating a skilled specialist outsider increases the community’s skilled specialist labor pool and also the community’s genetic diversity. But also, because of dynamics adjacent to Baumol’s cost disease, even relatively “unskilled” labor would be valuable in a community like this. Somebody who cleans toilets frees up somebody else to be e.g. a doctor or a nuclear engineer, in a much more reliable and direct way than is the case in a high-population capitalist society like ours. So even assimilating a relatively “unskilled” outsider could both increase the community’s genetic diversity and give it a real economic boost (as with a skilled specialist, compared to creating a new worker through natural reproduction and education, it’s a significant savings to the community if the new worker has been raised to adulthood by a different community).

I’m putting “unskilled” in quotes here cause I think when people say “unskilled” when talking about labor often what they are really talking about is “skills that are taught outside formal school institutions” or “skills that are transmitted but not taught.” I think “unskilled” in this sense is often a political term used to devalue people’s labor and justify people being paid little, worked hard, exposed to unpleasant working conditions, etc., so I don’t like using it ... but I can’t think of a better word to quickly communicate the concept I want to communicate here; I must work with the language my culture has given me. But I’ll put it in quotes here, to indicate I’m not using the concept uncritically.

Aside: you might think that a labor-limited community would make lots of use of robots and other automation, but I’m not sure that’d be true of these people. You’d think a futuristic super-Roomba would be a labor savings compared to a person with a simpler hand-pushed vacuum cleaner, but what about all the labor and machinery needed to make the Roomba? A Roomba represents a strategy of investing secondary sector labor to save tertiary sector labor, and that makes sense if you’ve got a big population and can build big factories so you can benefit from economies of scale, but it might not work as well for almost-self-sufficient small communities. A Roomba factory may be worth it if it saves the labor of a million human cleaners, but what about if it saves the labor of 100 human cleaners? A human is a very useful general-purpose gadget that can replace many specialized gadgets. So I think, counterintuitively, in a community like this you might actually see a lot of theoretically relatively easily automated manual labor being done by humans. This would synergize with a strategy of assimilating some relatively “unskilled” outsiders to increase genetic diversity; these people must be fed, given air to breathe, etc. like everyone else, so it would make sense to try to take advantage of their “as a human, they are a very useful general-purpose gadget that can replace many specialized gadgets” feature. Remember, this is a community that would want to make efficient use of labor and that would want to maintain approximately replacement rate reproduction.

As I said, humans generally prefer sharing or trading to violent theft, because violent theft is risky, and I think that would probably apply here too. Space communities like this would likely have traditions of peacefully “trading” people with each other. One relatively nice way this might happen is e.g. every ten years communities exchange groups of young volunteer emigrants. A less nice way is something like a political leader selling another community’s political leader a doctor and receiving as payment two relatively “unskilled” but young, pretty, and fertile women to be brides for his sons. But again, where trade is a possibility, violent theft is also a possibility. So along with stealing machinery and value-added finished goods, a primary goal of raiding may be capturing people; especially skilled specialists such as doctors, nuclear engineers, etc., but anyone who looks like they might make a good slave might be opportunistically abducted.

If this is starting to sound like nightmare fuel, you’re not wrong, but there is one significant mitigating factor. Remember that the most high-value and sought-after captives would be skilled specialists such as doctors, nuclear engineers, etc.. This is the kind of work where trying to extract labor from people by simple brutality doesn’t work well. You can’t just whip a computer programmer to make them code faster, and you really don’t want to anger the person who fixes the machine that makes the air you breathe, one of the people who tend the nuclear reactor that creates energy for your community, or the person who might do surgery on you. So the experience of being captured and enslaved by these people will often be less chain gang or Gor novel stuff and more “You are given a small but comfortable apartment, decent food, and moderate work assignments. It is made clear to you that bad things will happen to you if you make trouble or don’t work. If you obey your captors and do the work they tell you to do, they will be nice to you and treat you well. Their ultimate plan is to get you to become accustomed to your new life, make friends, get a boyfriend or girlfriend and make a child or three with them, and in this way become sufficiently invested in your new community that you wouldn’t want to go home even if you could.”

Of course, let’s not be too charitable to people who are basically enslavers; that’s how relatively high-value captives are treated, less valued captives are at much more risk of physical and sexual abuse, reproductive coercion, and unsafe and unpleasant working and living conditions.

If you’ve read James C. Scott’s The Art of Not Being Governed and Against The Grain, this may remind you a little of Mr. Scott’s thesis that for much of the history of civilization states were labor-limited, not land-limited. Mr. Scott’s work was a big inspiration to me when I was imagining this culture. Someday I might make a post talking about how I think “the purpose of war isn’t to acquire resources, it’s to acquire people, infrastructure, and machinery” is one of the more plausible paradigms for war in space, but this is long enough so I’ll leave that for another day.

Earlier I drew an analogy between the resource gatherer ships of these people and the war parties of steppe nomads. The context I’ve described here makes the analogy much better. Communities like this won’t just carry resource gatherer ships, but also raiding ships, built for raiding and heavily armed. This also implies violence will be a substantial factor in the life of a community like this; either they will have a significant class of professional warriors, or raiding and preparing for raiding will be a significant part of the average person’s life. I’m going with the first option, which is how you get a Proud Warrior Race instead of weekend-warrior types; as is usual in cases like this, the “Proud Warrior Race” is actually a specific privileged class within this society, and when you read that they are proud you should think of it in that context. I’ll talk about that a lot more in my next post, in which I’ll talk about these people as a culture instead of just as an economy.

#my writing #worldbuilding #James C. Scott #my big ideas #cw: slavery #cw: rape #cw: reproductive coercion #space #hard SF #warning: long #Artemis of the airless vastness

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dictionarywrites · 6 years ago

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also, the premise of the switch is that jennifer aniston wants to have a baby, so she recruits a sperm donor, and then her “best friend” (he controls her a lot, consistently berates her decisions, and in general is very unpleasant, but i guess that’s how heteros make friends idk) sabotages the sperm donation and replaces it with his own

like... idk how i’m meant to laugh at that concept??? that’s so viscerally... horrifying

#as defined by dictionary #dic does the switch #reproductive coercion cw #um #rape cw #???#LIKE #i know this needs a tag #but im not sure how exactly

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noritoshiikamo · 2 years ago

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Naoya who’s secretly in love with his wife but he’s always a little mean to her so he knocks her up to secure their marriage👀

& yes i am horny

cw manipulative naoya, reproductive coercion

he would never said.

not even with a gun to his head, he will never reveal his deepest secret. the enjoyment he had in the little 30 minutes he had pinned you down on the bed. nose buried in your head, hands palming your bare chest, listening to weak, soft whimpers as his hip slammed harsh against your own. cock prodding the thin resistance of your cervix, the aching feeling of a bruise forming almost a bliss more than pain to you. you were used to it. it was the only moment he could be true to you without exposing himself. confusing your head with the softness of his lips against your skin while raking your sensitive walls. every whimpers of his name rolling out of your tongue begging for him to slow down were only making his cock twitched.

he could only tell you how much he loved you when his cock is molded around your cunt.

deep in the corner of his heart, he felt bad. trying to reason his mistakes with an excuse of he was just doing it for you. you were too innocent for the world. there were just too many bad, manipulative men in the world he would rather it be him than any one else. he knew how much doses of the fertility herbs he could coax you to drink in a day as disguise of a simple plain tea. watching intently as you swallowed the bitter tea down, threatening punishment if a drop ever spilt. his eyes stared down on your throat, watching you swallowed it down before squeezing your cheeks apart. tingles down his spine as your tongue rolled out to present your empty mouth. he inched his lips closed to your ears, warm breath tickling it.

“that’s a good girl.”

your body shuddered.

switching your birth control with a constant stream of placebos were easy. you though you got the long end of the stick; naoya made it happened. only he and the housekeepers had access to the pills. what do the housekeepers know about pills anyway; they all looked the same. the faux safeness you felt as you swallowed the pills down eyes burned on him almost made him laugh.

“you’re foolish. you’re just a pretty little lamb. numb, dumb the moment my cock entered your little hole.”

it was hard to reply, your head thoughts of all these snarky remarks but your throat could only gargled strings of slurred moans with his palm around the column of your neck. he wanted to see you, tossing you on the bed before crawling over you. your legs held apart by his own, cock slipping through the soaking slit so easily. god, how he loves the way your face contorted in pleasure. he hated how vocal a woman is on bed, the begs and moans sounded like a shrill to his ears but from you, it was all melodious. he wants to know how good he making you feel, how begging will only make him obeyed your requests better. he swallowed the lump in his throat as he inched closer to his edge.

you don’t know how much power you have over him.

“nao-” you choked, eyes widened as his lips laid agains your own. his kiss were different. your fingers dug into his shoulder, crescents shaped dents bound to left its mark on his back. he wore his scars with pride, sparring half naked with a fresh nail marks all over his back were something you couldn’t put a reason to why you found it hot. maybe you were as insane as him. who would ever love someone as annoying as him?

you would.

“keep it all in,” he grunted, “not a fucking spill.”

you nodded. his threats were green in your head as you nodded pathetically, eyes glinting in excitement as your own knots started to tense. “what? i can’t hear you, did my cock make you dumb already?” he scoffed, clenching your jaws in a hard grip.

“y-yes naoya, please.”

naoya promised, he did feel an ounce of guilt. partially wasn’t because you did beg for it. how can he not filled up his pretty little wife when she begs for his cum? leaning against the bathroom door arms around his chest. you couldn’t move, glued to the floor, eyes staring down on the pee soaked stick. it was your third, all showing a positive mark. you shook your head. this can’t be happening.

“what did you do?” your voice trembled.

“nothing you’ll understand,” he voiced sternly. he knew what he was doing. you are forever his before and now, it sealed it. you’ll learn to love the baby just like how he had learned to love you. even if it takes years, he will wait.

you did promise him until death do you apart.

and he’s keeping it.

#tw manipulative #tw breeding kink #tw pregnancy coercion #writings: thirsts #naoya zen'in x reader #naoya zenin x reader #naoya zenin x you #naoya zenin x y/n #naoya zenin smut #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk drabbles #jujutsu kaisen drabbles

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herenortherenearnorfar · 3 years ago

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This Tornado Tolerates And Respects You

A little story about Gothmog and orcs that I’ll probably put on other sites later. But for now, a tumblr exclusive! CW for the terrible reproductive politics of evil (implied reproductive coercion, forced childbearing, light eugenics), orc awfulness, disdain for incarnates, radiation poisoning, chemical weapons, Fingon’s fate, mentions of cannibalism, malnourishment, ear cropping, and all of the above with the implied harm to children.

Orcs, Lord Melkor’s special pet project, a blasphemy first and a strategic asset second, didn’t make the best troops. They could swarm over a target in a useful mass of bodies but they lacked skill and drive. For the Captain of Angband’s own force of fire and shadow, spirits sprung free from the tyranny of the Valar, orcs were a sea of troublesome bodies, cluttering up the field of battle. More flesh to whip through, barbed wire quick, more lungs to choke with lime gas. An annoyance, not an ally.

He didn’t have very high expectations of them as a source of soldiers and there were very few individual orcs who he respected. Gorfaunt was one of those rare exceptions.

They’d fought on the same battlefield under the taunting stars, in those blissful days before the heavens changed, and he’d been impressed by the orc commanders ability to marshal troops. Very few in that division ended up trampled beneath Balrog feet. Even the retreat was prompt, almost orderly, without sacrificing that wild spirit which was one of the orcs’ few redeeming qualities.

When it came time to capture the stripling-king of the elves he’d requested Gorfaunt’s orcs in particular. Once again they’d proven their mettle and the commander had become of of the Captain’s favorites. If orcs had to be stationed next to their betters it was preferable that it be Gorfaunt’s orcs, who knew how to comport themselves and could fight near Balrogs without dying in droves.

Now with the latest glorious battle (and another successful collaboration, the Captain still glowed at the memory of the Noldor’s latest king cracking open to spill his red insides over his silver banner) behind them and Lord Melkor demanding Nargothrond and Gondolin, they met once a month to strategize, share intelligence, and complain about everyone else. To an outsider they might have passed as friends. There was less formality between the two of them than another high general of the iron fortress might have demanded, they sat at the same table and spoke freely.

(The Lieutenant still asked commanders to bow before him; that was why even his own troops called him Sauron behind his back. Gothmog was a superior appellation, less insulting, more fearful, but he still didn’t hasten to encourage its use.)

Despite their surface level amicability and the handful of tried-and-true inside jokes��mostly having to do with how enemies had died— they could bat at each other, they knew very little about each other’s lives. Meat and smoke only mixed when making a brisket, trying to relate two such different ways of being seemed impossible.

But when he saw Gorfaunt waddling into their monthly kvetch with a belly round and swollen like a tick’s, the Captain felt driven to say something. He was the marshal of Angband, he couldn’t let his king’s forces go to seed.

“Are you ill? Cursed?”

Gorfaunt managed to pull out a chair, made for a Balrog three times the size of an orc, and hoist themselves into it with rangy arms. “No? Just five months with a baby kicking around in my insides. The little bugger’s finally starting to show itself.”

That took a second to decipher. “You’re having a baby?”

Of course the Captain knew the basics of how incarnates made more of themselves. It was a topic of great fascination in the old days, when Yavanna was first figuring the system out, and of course the Lieutenant would prattle on about warg breeding to anyone who’d listen. They had sex— another thing that did not come naturally to beings of spirits, though some Maiar had made astounding progress in the field, for pleasure was pleasure and even Nienna’s acolytes sought catharsis and comfort—then there was lots of squishy biology on a level invisible to the incarnates themselves, then a little parasite was somehow blessed with Erú’s fire, to be nurtured until it could nurture itself.

He also knew that orcs, like elves and dwarves, had little distinction between men and womenfolk. Useful when it meant you could channel your entire adult population to battle. Startling when you realized that a key ally had been quietly pregnant for months without you, a greater being able to perceive stalactites growing and the scales on insect wings, noticing.

In truth he’d been doing a lot less noticing of late. His senses were dulling. Perhaps it was the light of the cursed gems, which painted everything in blinding, indistinguishable holiness. Or he was just losing his touch.

If he focused now he could see it. It was easiest to sense on the plane of wraiths. There was Gorfaunt, a guttering candle; wheezing, weak. All orcs had that fire, however dim. No one had managed to fully extinguish it though it had been much suppressed. Tucked against her, nearly imperceptible, was a little spark. Not much yet but given tinder and carefully fanned it could grow. “You’re having a baby,” he marveled.

Gorfaunt’s face was… orcs were hard to read at the best of times, bubbling over with noisy pain and anger that obscured their true emotions, prone to skin diseases and horrendous eye infections that muddled their expressions. She didn’t wear her gas mask around him anymore, though most were quick to cover up around any Maia of Morgoth. It helped little, her face was still opaque as the mountain itself. “Yep, Captain.”

“Good?” You congratulated an ally on a new weapon, a new bond, a promotion. Which one was an infant classified as? What was the correct form?

“Hopefully it’ll be over and the little goblin will be in the caves with the old’uns by the time we find either of the cities.” Gorfaunt provided, only barely contextualizing his felicitations. She was chewing on the inside on her cheek; sometimes she would gnaw until she spat black blood. “Terrible time for it. Terrible time. But the high ups are worried about reinforcements down the line, I suppose.”

Orcs came from orcs. It was a fact so simple it barely bore considering. Another department handled it. The new ones just showed up, springy and long limbed, faces still soft and unmarred. “Goblins” he’d heard older orcs call those fresh pale creatures. Barely even monsters, more like stunted, crepuscular versions of the elves and dwarves they fought.

“How much longer?” They had a few good leads on Nargothrond, a promising word about Túrin Turambar. The Captain could not sack that city himself, the honor had already been promised to the sulfurous worm. Apparently they wanted to test the mettle of these dragons. But Gothmog could assign a few good orc commanders to supervise, make sure the worm was not overstepping his bounds.

Dark blood trickled out of the corner of Gorfaunt’s mouth. “Five months, I’m told. Could be more, could be less. Then I have to wait until the thing is independent enough to leave alone, that’s another few months.” She was probably counting months as the orcs had started to, by the moon. Wretched traitor, Tilion, who’d laughed with them at the idea of running away then turned his face when the time came to flee for freedom. They hated it as much as everyone else but in their hatred they were aware of its cycles. They rejoiced when it went dark.

“You’ll still be able to manage your underlings?” Orcs, and freed Maiar, were fractious. They did not respect a leader who lacked the strength to force them to obey. It could be exhausting. And Gorfaunt was already so round. The Captain did not wish to lose her support over one orcling.

“I think so. So far… in old days you’d den up somewhere for a year, avoid everyone prowling for blood, but I don’t want to fight my way up the ranks again. I’ve got an ax and I’m using it.” Despite that she sounded tired.

Long heartbeats stretched between them, that exquisite embarrassment of two coworkers suddenly forced to talk about private affairs.

“This is your first,” the Captain didn’t reach the tone of a question with that one.

“Yes. The recruiters were getting growly so I grabbed a fellow. I’ve been avoiding it for too long.”

“You don’t want a child.” Again, not quite a question. He was feeling it out as he goes along. This is the longest conversation about orc reproduction he’s ever paid attention to, for the Lieutenants diatribes we’re always dull.

It was no matter to him, except that this was the only orc commander he could tolerate working with and she was chewing through her own cheek in discomfort.

“They take something from you,” Gorfaunt admitted. “Dame and sire both, but worse for the dame since she has to carry the clot. You go… stretchy. Bleached like old bone. I’ve seen soldiers and after twenty children they’re not good for anything but shoving onto a line of pikes. Raw meat for the wargs.”

That didn’t make sense to him, but he was never a scholar of flesh or spirit. He knew how a skull split and how a soul fled, how this matter-sprung life withered, how it died. That was all that counted. He also knew how to value a resource.

“There won’t be any after this,” he said firmly. “Not if you don’t want them.” If need be he’d escalate to Lord Melkor, frame it as sapping strength from their command structure and propose making officers off limits from breeding programmes.

“As you command, Captain,” she said with a bowed head, but she looked gratifyingly relieved, and their conversation could finally move on to the latest stories of occupied territories and the search for the hidden cities.

The next few months Gorfaunt somehow managed to get bigger and bigger, until she was no longer able to swing herself into a chair and had to take their meeting standing. Her leather armor no longer fit and with just a thin layer of rags over her distended stomach it was easy to see the squirming creature inside.

Ferocious little animal. It would go so still and then kick out again, as if it could burst free of its creator by force of will alone. The kernel of its mind was forming too, a hazy bubble of sensation and half formed emotion. He could see what had the Lieutenant fascinated. It wasn’t his field but it was morbidly interesting, seeing the shape of something new and moldable come together right in front of you.

But he had not been made a sculptor or a craftsman. He’d been born a wild thing, a tornado, a volcano, every disaster meant to fell cities, and though he had not known the words yet he’d sensed in his core, seen in glimpses in the song, that he was a creature of war. Like many other wild things—Ossë, the simpering coward tied up in Uinen’s tresses, excluded— he’d found his way to Melkor in the end. Oh, he’d idled for a time with Vána, heard Námo’s dolorous call, but it was Melkor who he came back to and Melkor who he picked in the end.

Melkor taught him so many more ways to be. The smoke, the blood, the screaming not in sorrow but in anger. He taught the others who came to him as well. In the Captain’s little squad alone there was one who learned the slaver’s whip and the threat of fire, one who learned the ooze of pus and malodorous air, one who came to appreciate the ravenings of rabid beasts. From the dragons in the treasure-caves to the cat in the kitchen to the vampires in the highest towers, they were all Melkor’s creations.

Gorfaunt, born and raised here in the shadow of his ancient power, was even more Melkor’s than most. This was how the Captain rationalized his continuing fondness for her as she weakened, his interest in her spawn. Works of the same maker might gravitate together. They could see parts of themselves in each other, the way he could once see himself in other Ëalar born of the same bit of song.

When Gorfaunt came in four months after their revelatory meeting with a sagging belly and a bundle nestled against her chest he was excited to finally see what had been made.

It took a bit of coaxing to get her to show him the baby but no orc would outright refuse an order from anyone stronger than them, they knew better than that. The newborn was dutifully unwrapped and presented, though Gorfaunt’s expression suggested that she considered this all a silly waste of time.

It was a rumpled wet creature; mostly skin and bones, with a cranium as big as its rounded torso. Small too, barely bigger than Gorfaunt’s hand, and Gorfaunt was smaller than all elves and many humans; based on overheard complaints failure to grow was an ongoing issue with their kind. When it was unswaddled sticklike limbs flailed out and began batting at the air ineffectually. Despite this wriggling its face remained in a sleepy scowl. It wasn’t until Gothmog moved one cherry-hot finger closer to it that it opened its hazy grey eyes and tried to focus on him. Even then the dismayed frown stayed put.

An unscarred orc was always an interesting sight; for it revealed the scale of their reworking. How much orcishness was self-replicating, as the Lieutenant liked to claim, and how much had to be beaten in? This one had a droopy brow bone and already peeling corpse-grey skin but it did not look much like an orc besides that. It even had hair, which most orcs lacked (aside from a few lank patches). The fine red down covered its whole body, thickest on the head and face and arms.

“It’s supposed to fall out,” Gorfaunt said, “Everyone says it’ll fall out soon. Even the prisoners lose their hair after a while, especially in the deep mines.”

That was probably because of the miasma of decay that emanated from the ores of Angband. Not macro-decay, of skin and bone (that came later) but the infitesimal decay. Every piece of metal— every piece of existence, when you got down to it— was made of little stars. There was a gaseous center of energy and little orbiting specks around that, spinning in probabilistic loops. Like stars some were bigger and some were smaller and some were ready to collapse. Ilmarë loved to speak of supernovas. The yellow and blue metals below the mountain were full of little stars collapsing, reforming, giving off energy in great sums as they did so.

The Captain had noted the negative effects of this energetic output on incarnates some time ago. Elves sickened and humans just died— Lord Melkor had moved the man he hoped would give him the location of Gondolin far from those mines for a reason. A few of the spirits with natures inclined towards metal, salt, and industry had already incorporated the burning energy into their signatures. The Lieutenant doubtless had some wicked little experiment running with it. It was a part of life here, that background hum of a trillion crumbling particles, and the Captain never thought of the effect on orcs, though they were exposed from birth.

Now that he focused he could see the little crumbs of decay glancing off the baby.

Hmm.

It would probably be fine.

It was already rubbing its eyes and going back to sleep, one hand curled next to a crumpled, not-yet-cropped ear.

“Are you recovered?” he asked Gorfaunt.

“I’m fit enough to fight,” she said shortly, defensively, as if afraid he’d snatch her command from her. “I’ll be better soon when this thing is gone.”

The Captain’s huge palm hovered over her infant. He knew better than to touch; his ability to change forms was not what it once was, he could not stop being a bipedal avalanche, to strong, too close, too dangerous. Even just containing the noxious gases— the pustulent yellow and choking green— simmering inside this war shaped body was difficult. If he kept a few feet distance the chaotic heat of his skin faded into the air and the baby wriggled contentedly in the ambient glow, like a little lizard.

“And how long will that be?”

Gorfaunt’s hand twitched. Another few months, till it can manage worm meal and listen to the grands.”

It seemed impossible that anything could be big enough to leave alone in such a short time; but incarnation was not the Captain’s specialty. “And that’s the accepted practice?”

“A little young, but safe now that the master put a stop to the baby eating problem.”

“I wouldn’t want it to be a concern,” the Captain said very seriously, even though his fingers curled slightly around the baby’s limp body. “We can make modifications if the child must stay longer.”

Gorfaunt glanced down at her sprawled offspring. “I don’t— I don’t want this to last any longer. I’d rather have my life go back to normal.”

That, at least, he could understand. It has been a rather troubling experience overall. Revelations are not always useful and though he’s gained some knowledge it’s not very practical stuff.

“One more question, commander, then I’ll drop the matter. What is it named??”

That nascent mind bubble had sharpened with time and experience but was still comprised mostly of sensation. He could not even grasp at a basic sense of self. The child’s mother should know what if calls itself, if anyone did.

(He wanted to remember the name, for forty years from now, when he needed more good orcs. All those rants about the fundamentals of inheritance left him with some ideas about how incarnates develop traits. Another Gorfaunt would be a helpful tool to have on hand.)

The question left Gorfaunt unimpressed. “It doesn’t name itself anything yet, it hasn’t got the common sense. And no one’s given it a name because it hasn’t done anything interesting.”

“It has an interesting look” the Captain pointed out, “Tell them to call it Red Cap,” he slipped into the elf tongue, which had better color words than the one the Lieutenant devised, and in the process accidentally named the child after a former king of the Noldor. “Or something like that.”

Gorfaunt apparently had a better memory for politics than he gave her credit for, or perhaps just a distaste for the elf cant, because she quickly translated it back into Angband’s crackly tongue . “Rotbint.”

“Yes.” A Balrog, even the chief of Balrogs, could not give much to something so soft and incarnadine. A name, incorporeal, existing in the plane the Captain knew best, was the only thing he could offer. “Now, to business?”

Gorfaunt wrapped the little creature away— it woke halfway through the rolling to stare at them once more— then tucked it against her chest.

The Captain was sad to see it go, though he couldn’t say why.

He remembered that he had come to this physical world for a reason once. He had wanted to see all there was to see, to feel and taste everything, chew chunks of Arda up and spit it out new. Disasters hungered as much as anyone. Yet all he’d had lately was war fare; blood-soaked mud and rage-tinged fear.

Deprived of fresh experiences, he clung to the potential, the novelty, of new life.

Perhaps Gondolin would see him out of his funk, he thought. It couldn’t hide forever.

“We’ll find it, Captain,” Gorfaunt assured him stubbornly. “And we’ll tear it down brick by brick, raze their gardens, fill their streets with blood.”

Even with a baby trying to gum her collarbone her firm tone allowed no questions.

Orcs were, as a rule, bothersome, unruly, walking corpses. Fractious, ugly, difficult, bothersome, recklessly stupid. The Maiar serving under the Captain were sometimes stereotyped as simpleminded brutes but at least they were able to perceive the world around them, even if few bothered to use that perception. In comparison orcs were stumbling around in the dark. They were inefficient as well, you needed three of them to take down any decent enemy. But when they were well made they were well made. Those were the ones that made it all worth it.

It had to be worth it. This was freedom, after all.

#the silmarillion #gothmog #orcs #silmarillion fanfiction #angband #fanfic #Sauron gets some mentions

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