#mucilage

[quotesfrommyreading]

This isn’t what I imagined global warming would look like. I was braced for bigger wildfires and rising seas; I wasn’t ready for sea snot. If the story of the Sea of Marmara in the summer of 2021 is a preview of what’s to come, the effects of climate change will be not only terrifyingly destructive but also weird, uncomfortable, and unbearably gross.

  —  Climate Change is Going to Be Gross

[baikinange]

A veritable plethora of paste

[dynamichealthinsights]

Breathing Easy: Unveiling the Science Behind Marshmallow Root's Soothing Embrace

Imagine this: a persistent cough rattles your chest, your throat feels raw and scratchy, and each breath is a reminder of the inflammation gripping your airways. You long for relief, but the thought of harsh chemicals and synthetic cough syrups leaves you hesitant. Fortunately, nature offers a gentle solution – marshmallow root, a time-honored remedy whispered about in ancient texts and revered…

[ligayagardener]

What's this goo in my tincture?

[divyankverma]

Structural Adhesives Market To Observer Major Growth By 2030: AMR

[whats-in-a-sentence]

In response to fertilization, the Arabidopsis seed coat differentiates from the cells of the maternally derived ovule integuments over 2 to 3 weeks (Figure 21.29). Cells in both layers of the outer integument and all three layers of the inner integument undergo a dramatic period of growth in the first few days after fertilization through both cell division and expansion (see Figure 21.29B). (...) By contrast, cells of the other two inner integument layers do not appear to differentiate further, undergo early programmed cell death, and are crushed as the seed develops (see Figure 21.29D and E). Cells of both outer integument layers accumulate starch in amyloplasts during the initial growth phase (see Figure 21.29B) before their fates diverge. The subepidermal layer (layer 2), which differentiates into palisade cells, produces a thickened wall on the inner tangential side of the cells (see Figure 21.29C-E). The cells of the epidermal layer (layer 1) synthesize and secrete a large quantity of mucilage (a specialized secondary cell wall that contains some pectin) into the apoplast specifically at the junction of the outer tangential and radial cell walls (see Figure 21.29C). (...) Following mucilage synthesis, a cellulosic secondary cell wall is deposited that completely fills the space occupied by the cytoplasmic column, forming the columella (see Figure 21.29D and E). (...) Proanthocyanidins are apparently released from the endothelial cells and impregnate the inner three cell layers during this period (see Figure 21.29E).

"Plant Physiology and Development" int'l 6e - Taiz, L., Zeiger, E., Møller, I.M., Murphy, A.

[rastronomicals]

6:32 AM EST March 3, 2023:

Wrong - "Mucilage" From the album Wrong (April 29, 2016)

Last song scrobbled from iTunes at Last.fm

File under: At the altar of Page Hamilton ---

[tubbscoffeeroasters]

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[quotesfrommyreading]

Slime in the sea is not inherently unusual. “Mucus is everywhere,” says Michael Stachowitsch, a marine ecologist at the University of Vienna. “There’s no marine organism that doesn’t produce mucus, from the lowly snail to the slimy fish.” But in healthy waters, mucus doesn’t amass to epic proportions. The current sea-snot outbreak can be blamed on phytoplankton, a type of algae that produces the small bits of mucus that turn into flakes of marine snow. When these phytoplankton receive an infusion of imbalanced nutrients from fertilizer runoff or untreated wastewater, they make an overabundance of mucus. Beads of that mucus accumulate into stringers, which accumulate into clouds, which accumulate into the unending sheets now washing up on Turkey’s coast.

But pollution alone doesn’t explain the appearance of so much sea snot—or marine mucilage, to use the scientific term. This much slime buildup also requires specific weather conditions: hot and calm. In spring and summer, the sun heats up the top layer of seawater, leaving a layer of cool, denser water underneath. (Salinity also plays a role in the density gradient: Saltier water will sink beneath fresher water.) Because of this gradient, the mucus will sink until it starts to float; then it lingers. The longer it stays, the more it accumulates. And without strong winds or storms, nothing creates turbulence to churn the water and rip the mucus apart.

Bacteria trapped in the mucus will eventually start to eat and digest it, creating air bubbles that ultimately float the whole sheet of sea snot up to the surface. In the Adriatic Sea, the arm of the Mediterranean just east of the Italian peninsula, the floating mucus can dry and toughen in the sun. Seagulls are known to walk on it.

Mass outbreaks of sea snot have appeared dozens of times in the Adriatic over the past three centuries, probably because its geography and calm winds create the perfect conditions for large sheets to form. Sea snot has had big economic consequences there. “The main problems are fisheries and tourism,” Michele Giani, an oceanographer at the National Institute of Oceanography and Applied Geophysics, in Italy, told me. Boats cannot go to sea at all because mucus clogs up the seawater intake that cools the motor. “A motor can have a meltdown within a minute,” Stachowitsch said. Fishing nets become slimy and heavy. And tourists, of course, want nothing to do with the mess. It doesn’t help that as sea snot degrades on the surface, its smell can turn quite nasty too.

The first description of mare sporco, or “dirty sea,” in Italian dates back to 1729. But in the early 2000s, marine mucilage started breaking out pretty much every year, which scientists, in a 2009 paper, linked to climate change. (Huge swaths of marine mucilage have also turned up near Turkey at least once before, in 2007.) You might think of the snot as a symptom of “ocean flu,” says Antonio Pusceddu, a marine ecologist at the University of Cagliari, in Italy, who co-authored that paper: The snot’s appearance is a sign of deeper sickness in the sea, caused by climate change and pollution.

The link between marine mucilage on the surface and the clouds and stringers underwater became clear during the 1980s, when researchers diving in the Adriatic first observed the unusual masses. Scientists had missed this phenomenon earlier, Stachowitsch said, “because the instruments that were used to bring up water samples from the ocean were quite brutal, so they shook up the water,” destroying the mucus. Humans could see it only if they went down themselves, either with scuba gear or in submersibles. Gerhard Herndl, an oceanographer now at the University of Vienna, told me that while diving in the ’80s, he mistook the first cloud of mucus he ever saw for a shark. Until that moment, he had not known that sea snot could grow to such behemoth proportions.

The mucus floating underwater was fascinating—even beautiful—but what scientists saw on the seafloor was disturbing. They already knew that unsightly layers of the mucus could float to the surface. Now they discovered that they could also sink, covering corals, sponges, brittle stars, mollusks, and any other unlucky creatures on the seafloor, cutting them off from oxygen. “They’re literally smothered,” says Alice Alldredge, an oceanographer at UC Santa Barbara. “Sure, it’s uncomfortable for us as human beings to have all this gunk at the surface. But the bottom-dwelling organisms are going to die.” An ecosystem takes years to fully recover from such a mass mortality.

  —  Why Turkey's Coast Is Covered in Sea Snot

[botanyone]

Study reveals ‘sticky situation’ for seeds in warming regions

A seed is a small package a plant uses to start new life. Inside it has everything it needs to flourish in a new location. This treasure store is also a tasty meal for some animals, that the plant needs to protect. Eric LoPresti and colleagues examined how some seeds defend their contents with stickiness. When wet, a sticky seed can attach to certain objects like rocks or the ground, and when its…

[thewertsearch]

TC: BuT WhAt i mOtHeRfUcKiN NeEd, My bRoThEr… TC: AsIdE Of pLoWiNg nOsE FuCkInG FiRsT InTo a bItChIn pAn oF TeNaCiOuS MuCiLaGe TC: Is tO ChEcK OuT WhAt sLaMs yOu cAn sTiCk iN My dUcTs!

Now, I’m not saying Gamzee’s definitely flirting here – but I am saying that if Gamzee was to flirt, this would be exactly the kind of shit he’d say.

TC: GoD DaAaAaAaAaAaAaMn. YoU ArE DeAlIn sOmE HeArTy rEpRoAcH ToNiGhT. TC: FlYiNg fUcKiN HiGh, MaN. TC: HiGhEr tHaN A LaUgHsAsSiN Up oN ThE MoThErFuCkIn gRiEf tRaPeZe. TC: HiGhEr tHaN A SuBjUgGlAtOr gEtTiN HiS WeEp oN FoR ThE VaSt hOnK I BeLiEvE In tO CoMe.

We have an almost immediate reference to subjugglation. I'm willing to bet that Gamzee is an amnesiac ghost - and it seems his memories are returning a lot faster than John’s.

Well, Gamzee? Are you proud of what you’re starting to recall, or ashamed?

TC: MoThErFuCk iT, mOtHeRfUcKeR! TC: PuRe mAgIc iS AlL WhEn tHeRe bE HaTcHiN Of gRuBs TC: I'Ve sEeN ShIt tHaT WoUlD ShOcK YoUr lOoKsTuBs TC: I PeEpEd oN A PlAcE Of 6 tRiLlIoN HeMoS TC: AlL Up aT OnE RoCk, BlEeDiNg aS EqUaLs

lmao, I just realized that this is probably the ‘worst rap-off in Paradox Space’ that we cut away from in early Hivebent. I bet the fandom was just clamoring to hear this one.

TC: It's eAsY To sEe iF YoU SeArCh aLl yOuR FeElInS TC: ThAt pEaCe hApPeNs fIrSt, AnD MuRdEr's tHe sEqUeL

I doubt if macabre lines like this featured in the original memory, though. Has Tavros noticed that something's up yet?

TC: WhEn wE Up aNd sTaRt tO KiCk aT ThIs rEd TeAm NoIsE, TC: YoU ShOuLd mAkE YoUr wAy tO GeT YoUr hAnG On aT My hIvE. AT: oH, yES, tOTALLY, TC: We cOuLd sPlIt a tIn oF ThE PiMpEsT SnEeZe i gOt oN HaNd, BaKeD Up aLl sPeCiAl fOr yOu. TC: AnD ThEn mAyBe mAkE OuT A LiTtLe.

Oh my god, haha

Was this part of the original conversation, then? Because it really wouldn’t be too surprising if Gamzee was into the guy. Like I said, they vibe extremely well.

Hell, that might even be one of the reasons why Gamzee lost his mind when he did. He snapped around the same time that Tavros was killed; perhaps the loss of his friend and crush was what finally pushed a soporless Gamzee over the edge.

Ahahahaha, he's considering it!

I mean, when your only other option is Vriska, literally anyone else would feel like an upgrade.

[drafthearse]

The aerial roots of Sierra Mixe maize secrete large quantities of mucilage between 3 and 6 months after planting. The mucilage is carbohydrate rich, with the composition dominated by arabinose, fucose, and galactose. [x]

[shesjustanothergeek]

His Love

|Aegon Targaryen x Fem!Reader|

Part Thirty-Three

Masterlist of Series

Summary: Being a bastard born in the slums of Flea Bottom was all you were known for. Not the streak of white you had in your dark hair, the violet ring around your pupils, or how your sharp tongue and skills with the blade resembled your father, Daemon Targaryen. You were just a bastard, nothing more, but to him, to Aegon Targaryen, you were everything. You were his love.

Author's Note: I just wanted to warn y'all that we're going to be getting into some messed up shit here. Even more messed up than assault, getting drugged, nearly raped, and peeing on yourself. As always, thank you so much for your patience with these updates, and I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Warnings: Graphic depictions of a miscarriage and related thoughts, vomiting, daddy Daemon.

The prescribed charcoal remedy had long dried on your stomach, cracking and flaking gray chunks into your sheets. Helaena had left with the sun low in the sky, leaving chaste kisses on yours and Aegon's foreheads. She went to ensure Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were comfortable, and they went down to rest.

Aegon refused to move when the Maester returned for the evening; his arm slung over your chest and nose buried into your neck. Orwyle did his work as if the Prince was not there, wringing a damp, woolen cloth into a bowl of cool water as he removed the hardened remedy from your abdomen.

He observed with wrinkled brows when he saw the Valyrian symbols above your womb, rocking the fabric over your malleable skin as he quelled the uneasy feeling in his stomach. He rinsed the material, the clear water becoming ash as he continued his duties.

Orwyle longed to voice his concerns regarding your health, fiddling with his fingers as he concocted another batch of charcoal and clay. You needed to wake soon so he could ensure your best chance of survival. The first forty-eight hours were the most crucial for those battling Poison Hemlock, and the fact that the Stranger had not taken you was a miracle. Animals who ingested the flowering plant died within a day of doing so, their lungs giving out or seized by convulsions.

The Maester believed you were more robust than he thought. The Mother had unquestionably blessed you with the strength of the Warrior to have you breathing for this long. Or perhaps, he thought, it was the Valyrian Gods of your ancestors, the dragon blood in your veins, that protected you.

The few interactions Orwyle had with you always left him with a joyful feeling, a small ray of light within his darkened quarters filled with dusty and ancient tomes. He tried not to care for your health more than that of a provider and his patient, but he found it challenging.

It was the dichotomy, he thought, of when you were awake, full of life, sparring with words and the swords against men who believed themselves better than you, to now, laying on your soft feather tick mattress with an emotionless, sallow hue to your skin. It caused him anguish. Orwyle was determined to find out who would do such a thing to you, uncharacteristically desiring them to be brought to the Father's justice, and resolved to remind Aegon of the need to do so when your two servants entered the chamber.

Once he finished making another concoction, Aegon waved him off, leaving with a firm yet uneasy bow to the room. The moment he left, Aegon stood, righting his rumpled tunic from his few restless hours of sleep, and addressed Fiora and Jeyne.

"What news have you?" he asked pointedly, gathering the ashy mucilage and brush to apply to your abdomen.

The maids shared a look, Fiora's eyes seeming to have never dried up as she cowered behind her companion. Jeyne inhaled a resolute breath. Her years of working for spoiled, impuissant palace goers was a typical occurrence.

"We have found a servant boy who claims to have seen the Princess's protector enter her chambers hours before your discovery. I believe that there is no coincidence to his absence at her door during that time," she relayed in one steady breath, hands clasped humbly over her lower abdomen.

Aegon grunted, disbelieving the credibility of such a statement. It would be the most obvious answer for Ser Arryk to be the culprit. He was heartbroken that his idyllic image of you shattered and the only one besides Aegon who could get close enough to slip poison in unnoticed. The answer was too simple, too straightforward to be true. A lowly kingsguard was the easiest to blame to save face within the royal family and protect whoever really did this. He still had the feeling within him that his mother had something to do with this. It was no coincidence that days prior, the Queen demanded you to leave, and now suddenly, you were at death's door.

Yes, heartbroken and ego-damaged men were a danger to those around them. Aegon understood that more than any, but Arryk would never go so far as to kill you for it. His oath was still to that of the King.

"Bring me this boy," Aegon said dispassionately, never looking in the maid's direction, simply painting your skin.

Fiora and Jeyne nodded, curtsying as was protocol, and headed for the exit until Aegon stopped them short.

"I'm sure you know that the Hand has barred any ravens from King's Landing to Dragonstone," he inquired, unamused as a sneer curled his lip. "Her family must know what has happened here. The more who know about this assassination attempt on a, perhaps this rat will feel pressured reveal themselves."

They both glanced at each other, Fiora gnawing on her lip as more tears emerged from her viridian eyes. Aegon ignored the servant's weeping and placed the bowl on a writing desk with the rest of the Maester's equipment. He pulled a piece of folded cream parchment from his trousers and hurriedly scribbled, fearing someone getting wind of his plan.

"Here is a letter meant for her father," he stated, flicking the paper between his index and middle finger. "You will not be able to send it through the rookery and must go to a brothel madame within the slums of Flea Bottom. Her name is Babette and she will ensure that my words make it to Dragonstone unhindered," Aegon instructed calmly.

They were stunned. Both maids stood in the doorway to your chambers with slightly parted lips, reminding him of a fish. They had never seen him act like such a... prince. He was raised within the castle walls and had the highest education of anyone in Westeros, yet he never seemed to take advantage of it. The maids heard rumors that Aegon was no longer seen at brothels or gambling houses, though they did not believe such a thing to be valid until now.

Fiora's gaze drifted to your listless form, fiery brows arched in disbelief, slowly drifting back to the white-haired prince. Jeyne was the first of the duo to compose herself and briskly walked forward, taking the wax three-headed dragon seal to her cracked hands. You had changed Aegon in ways that people believed impossible, and if she hadn't realized it until now, then who else knew?

If she, someone who saw you daily, did not know the effort and influence you had over a person, did anyone? The eldest maid felt a pang of sadness in her heart for you as weathered eyes lowered to the stone floor, the memory of her scrubbing away your blood and bile replaying as if she were there again.

Jeyne heard passing gossip that you had brought up concern for the small folk during a council meeting. It was fleeting, nothing more than a whisper of a feather drifting in the wind, and soon she forgot about it. What other accomplishments had you done that no one knew of? It was the plight of women, it seemed, to sacrifice one's soul to receive respect or recognition in the world. Once you awoke, she would tell you how much she saw and that your actions were not in vain.

If you woke up, she grimly realized.

A frown pulled at Jeyne's thin lips as she returned to Fiora's side. Her companion seemed to sense the elder's thoughts, placing a comforting hand at her back. Again, She faced Aegon, his violet eyes never leaving hers as she spoke.

"You are changed, Prince Aegon, and while that does not atone for the wrongs you have done, it shows that you are capable of being better," Jeyne expressed with a firm look on her visage. "It would do her well to know that."

Aegon needn't ask whom she was speaking of. He already knew, a sullen look coming over his face as he focused on the cracks of the stone floor. The memory of your limp body when he found you vividly displayed in his mind's eye.

Jeyne and Fiora exited with brief nods and bent knees, with two different goals in mind. The elder would get the servant boy, and the younger would go to the brothel, madame. They didn't ask why Aegon trusted this woman, but they knew it was useless to try. All that mattered now was ensuring your safety and justice.

A quiet groan caused Aegon to lose his collection of thoughts, swiftly going to your side as he watched your brows arch in pain. Droplets of sweat he had not noticed glistened on your hairline and ran down your temples, grabbing a cloth to blot at the excess perspiration. Your breathing sped, breasts rising and falling in a hypnotic rhythm. Seeing you more alive as Aegon rang the dampened fabric into the bowl was a relief.

Aegon slid into his place next to you, intertwining his fingers with your limp ones as he brought your knuckles to his lips, stroking the thin skin of your hand. His lips pursed in thought. Aegon knew the Keep was full of snakes ready to strike at any opportunity to raise themselves into higher power, no matter the cost. But in his mind, it was too risky to harm a member of the royal family, but others did not seem to share the same sentiment, and anger filled his hardened soul once more.

Aegon tightened his grip on your hand, harsh enough to bend their sides and crackle the bones.

"When you wake, little one, we shall rain dragon fire on who dared hurt you," he declared, sullen face now calloused.

You found yourself within a void, darkness surrounding your body clad in a simple white gown. You couldn't see the beginning or end of where you were, as if your eyes were shut, an unending blackness never touched by light. Your hands found their way to your face, fingertips touching your cheeks, the slope of your nose, and the sockets of your eyes to ensure you were, in fact, real.

If you wake...

Memories flashed within your mind, becoming the only thing you could see in the infinite darkness. You recalled voices, wet mouths talking and drinking, tongues licking lips and tasting something rancid and sweet, hands gesturing and twitching, crawling up your legs. Nausea churned your stomach, and pain rippled in your gut, causing you to fall to your knees. The ground was solid; it was real, and suddenly your eyes opened.

The world was still midnight, though you could see a man before you.

But it wasn't a man...

You weren't sure if it was a person, their face covered with an obsidian mantle and the seven-pointed star's insignia woven into their robes. Fear cinched your heart, and your chest rose and fell with quick breaths as you attempted to run, only to be flung back into your spot by an invisible force.

"Who-" you stammered, breaths coming in quick pants, "who are you? Where am I? I-I cannot see."

The being reached an arm in your direction, the fabric slowly drawing back to reveal its skin or lack thereof. Their finger slowly traced down your cheek, cold and warm, comforting and alarming, yet like nothing simultaneously.

"I am what I am," they stated, tone unlike anything you had ever heard. It sounded like the voices of many speaking simultaneously, men, women, children, and everything in between melting into one eerie noise.

"You're here to hurt me, aren't you?" The words did not sound like they came from a grown woman; instead, a young girl high-pitched and hoydenish with fright as tears lined your lashes. Your breath hitched as their fingers left your skin, fear scratching at your throat and squeezing your eyes shut. "Where am I?"

The being stepped backward, seeming to float on the ground as sparkles of white flashed in the air. Stars, you realized, twinkling in the infinite void. For a moment, you were put into a state of wonder, gazing at the bursts of light in awe as the being only stared. It made no movements nor breaths, allowing you to take in the amazement of your surroundings.

"Am I dead?" you asked, finally gaining the courage to voice the most prevalent question in your mind.

"You are in the world between worlds, child. Not dead yet not alive within the realm of your creation," they answered with not a hint of emotion.

You couldn't hide the aghast sob that left your lips at his revelation, your mind reeling. You knew what happened for you to wake here. You drank from a cup tainted with poison that caused your limbs to freeze and your brain to wave, but who did it was unknown. The only picture within your mind was a silhouette of a figure with short, mousy hair and a slouched posture, supporting their weight on something.

You knew who they were. You felt it in your bones, but your mind refused to let you see. Was that your psyche subconsciously trying to protect you, or did the poison affect your memory?

"I don't want to die! What did I do to deserve this?" you wept with blurred vision, looking at the unmoving being before you.

You felt them sigh, though they did not move, their chest not indicating if they had lungs. "New born babes should not be taken from the world before they can sin, yet they are."

An involuntary grimace pulled your face as you licked the briny water from your lips. The world was cruel and uncaring. It took children from mothers before they were ready and kind people into places of darkness. Life was bleak and hopeless and full of negativity. At times, you wondered if there was a point to living when life would always end the same—breathing, eating, fighting, and suffering until you died and were forgotten a hundred years from now.

"I know who you are," you spat, tongue thick as you swallowed tears. "You are a callus and heartless being who takes those undeserving while displaying yourself in a cloak of self-righteousness."

They did not seem angry about what you said and tilted their head in response, examining you like one of Helaena's pinned insects. Its unseen stare unnerved you, appearing like a statue you never prayed to within the Sept. Anger began to well in the place of your unease at their indifference, taking purposeful strides to them before your body was abruptly taken aback, nearly tripping over your feet.

"I am neither good nor evil, simply I am, and I have come to take what is mine."

It raised the same arm that stroked your cheek and pointed at you, causing panic to grip your chest as the shrouded hands shoved you to the ground, air knocking from your lungs. You struggled against them, the whites of your eyes visible as your arms and legs flailed in their vice-like grip. The being came closer, towering over your writhing form until you could see what hid underneath the obsidian hood.

A face not of this world looked down at you, half human and inhuman, alive yet dead. It was too much for your mind to comprehend as you released a scream, kicking your limbs as you desperately tried to escape from whatever fate awaited you.

The hands pulled at your hair, keeping your head down and unable to see the face of the Stranger any longer.

"No! No, please! I don't want to die!" you beseeched, throat raw from tears and screams as your wide-eyed stare found the Stranger at your feet once more.

"I was there in the dark when you spilled your first blood and I have come to take what is mine—one soul. No less," they repeated in an amalgamation of different tones. Your heart broke for the loss not only of life but of what might be.

The Stranger's accusing finger continued to point not at you but at your stomach, your misty stare flickering from yourself to them.

You knew what was to come next. They would rip your heart out before your very eyes, crushing your life source within the secular realm and the divine. You would never wake again, never feel the sun flush your skin or the wind whipping your cheeks on dragon back. Aegon would revert to his old ways of whoring, gambling, and drinking himself into unconsciousness, a crown forced on his head as the realm plunged into war and your kin were slaughtered. Every sacrifice would be for not all due to one simple drink.

Refusing to resign to your fate, you thrashed and screamed in failed attempts at breaking free. There was no escape to this realm—no beginning or end in the vast darkness. There was only you, these unseen hands pulling you into submission, and the Stranger, his digit still raised and pointed.

"What have I done to deserve this?" you wailed, feeling your limbs locked at the joints. "I-I know I was not a devoted follower of the Faith and have sinned, but I repent. I'll pay penance to the Seven each day forth from now on. I'll attend services in the Grand Sept. I'll-I'll refrain from any vices you so wish. Just let me live!"

Your bargaining with the faceless being went unheard, his arm slowly falling to its side as you felt the hidden fingers slither across your abdomen, tearing your nightgown down the middle. Your eyes grew wide with horror, attempting to pry them away with panicked movements only to be thwarted by the others pushing your limbs into the ground.

"Stop!" you screamed, voice cracking as your neck was whipped back, head cracking onto the ground as your vision flashed.

Though you couldn't see them, you could feel them. Their digits indented into your malleable flesh as it broke under pressure, blood seeping from the gashes as a searing pain tore like a thousand cuts of a hot blade through your skin. Blood poured from your stomach and down your sides, soaking your tattered porcelain nightgown into a stained crimson. Wailing in agony, your throat grew sore, limbs twisting and contorted into inhuman positions as you gave under their ravenous scratching.

"Blessed be you, the daughter of the Mother bound to suffer eternal through the sins of your father committed long before your conception," the Stranger prayed, words carrying over your cries. "Blessed be your whore mother, tired and angry, waiting with bated breath on a ferry that will never move again. Blessed be the children. Each and every one who have come to know their god through some senseless act of violence."

The exposed image of your essence caused your heart to become faint, the torment fading into the back of your mind as your vision fluttered and your head became light. It was a small mercy in the ruthless death that you could no longer feel the torture of your organs torn into, limbs twitching in subconscious reflexes.

"Blessed be you, girl, promised to me by a man who can only feel hatred and contempt towards you."

The squelching of your insides was sickening as silent tears leaked down your temples, confused as to how you were still alive. No human could survive being disemboweled; the blood loss alone would kill the most robust of men, yet the invisible beings continued to burrow into your insides, seeming as if in search of something.

The Stranger did not move from its place at your feet, observing as your intestines glistened in the twinkling lights of the void.

You felt betrayed by them and those who preached that the Stranger was not a being of good or evil. They were supposed to guide you into the afterlife, not watch as beings threw your organs to the side. They lied. No being would stand there and allow a daughter of the Mother to have her insides turned out. You never feared the Stranger yourself. Death was inevitable, but now you understand why followers of the Seven feared the Stranger.

Cries that were higher pitched than yours yanked you into reality, a single thread pulling your gaze back to your stomach as a babe covered in crimson, glistening with your essence, was ripped from your womb. Confusion, fear, surprise, and desperation surged through you, attempting to pry yourself from your confines again. The cord connecting the child to you still pulsed with blood through the purple and blue veins as it was taken and placed into the hands of the Stranger.

"What are you doing?" you questioned with a thick tone, panic seizing your limbs as you broke from their unseen grip. 

That was yours—something you made solely of your labor, and they were taking it from you. It belonged to you!

You desperately yanked at the fleshy cord still connecting you to your child, the babe's shriek piercing your ears and into your heart. "Please, give it back!" you sobbed, reaching out again only to be shoved. "No! No, please! Please give me back my child! They are mine! They don't deserve this."

You were unsure of what came over you. You had never met this creature before, though it was born of your flesh and blood; you did not want them taken. An instinct to protect the life of something so fragile and innocent lay dormant within your body, coming to fruition. The thought of sacrificing yourself in the babe's place nearly slipped off your tongue, but a sudden light blinded you, pushing the cries of your kin to fade as your eyes burned.

When you came to, you were no longer in an infinite void. Instead, within your chambers, thick, fragrant smoke choked your lungs as the same searing agony from before tore through you. Aegon stood over your writhing form, and his brows arched with concern as he saw your sheets become scarlet.

You stared at him, his eyes glassy and filled with an exhausted longing, as he rushed to your side, grasping your slick palm. "You're alive!" he exclaimed, unable to think clearly through his shock. "You're alive."

Unable to speak, you nodded, sweat and tears dampening your face as another wave of pain knotted within your lower back, forcing a scream. Aegon's violet eyes danced over you, seeing your blood now spread onto your top blanket as his cheeks became devoid of color.

An array of thoughts swirled within his mind like a maelstrom at sea, swiftly lifting the sheet away as he saw the crimson between your legs. His first instinct was to believe that, somehow, the assassin had returned underneath his watchful gaze, paranoia seizing his chest. But Aegon, still confused as to what was happening, gripped your hand impossibly tighter, causing a groan that rumbled in your lungs.

"The Maester," you managed to breathe through gritted teeth. "Get the Maester, Aegon."

He paused for a moment too long, and another cramp went through you, wailing with a clenched jaw and shut eyes as your body arched in pain. The prince did not need to be told twice as he watched the woman he loved beg the Gods for mercy, swiftly exiting your room as he ran to Orwyle's chambers, your cries becoming distant within the pale red stone walls.

The man in question opened the door with tired eyes to the Prince's incessant pounding. He did not need him to explain. He knew it had something to do with you as he hastily gathered supplies and the seven-pointed star necklace on his person. What Orwyle did not expect to see when he entered your humid chambers were you on all fours, grunting and straining with blood-soaked hands and bedclothes, sweat discoloring your once pristine nightdress.

He went quickly into action, ordering Aegon to summon your maids as he stood there listlessly, unable to comprehend the urgent words over the sounds of your shrieks. Aegon was unsure when he finally summoned Jeyne and Fiora, the pair looking perplexed before spotting their Lady. Both quickly went into action, following Maester Orwyle's instructions, scattering in and out of your chambers with different items.

Aegon could not think as he observed the events unfold before him. It was all too much. He couldn't process the abrupt chain of events. One moment, you were laying there, breaths barely audible, now suddenly panting and sobbing for an end he was not sure he wanted to see. Aegon did not know if this was an effect of the poison as his distant eyes met yours, lips mouthing something he strained to hear. He could not bear to lose you. He finally had love within his grasp after years of yearning only for it to be promptly taken away before properly basking in its warmth.

Aegon, who was so focused on the end of something, could not see the future before him, staring with violet-rimmed pupils within thick lashes, begging him to bring comfort. Finally, he could hear you, a rush of sounds and voices barraging his senses as you strained a grunt for him to come near.

You took his fist in yours, the other clutching the footboard as sweat ran down your neck. It felt as if your head was about to burst from your skull with each contraction, panting like an exerted animal.

"It's almost over now, Princess. You just need to pass the biggest part," encouraged Jeyne, a soothing maternal presence in a place that lacked it. "Come now. In through your nose and push out your mouth."

Nodding fervently, you did as told, inhaling deeply and growling with downward force, bringing your arm to wrap around Aegon for support. You needed the closeness and comfort a loved one brought as you went through this traumatic event.

Tears from above sprinkled on your damp hair. Streaks of wetness lined Aegon's cheeks as much as they did yours as another cramp rolled through you.

"What's happening?" he whispered against your cheek, breath uncomfortably hot.

Surprise dawned on your features as the pain ebbed for a merciful moment, resting on your knees. Your free hand grasped his silver roots in support as your other led Aegon down to your stomach, unable to speak. He stared with wrinkled brows and glassy purple eyes as you allowed him to apply pressure there. You need not tell him the reason in words as he glanced down. It could only be one thing.

"You are with child?" he questioned softly, tenderly stroking the area with his thumb.

You nodded, the cramps rising and commanding your body to gush more gelatinous blood. "I saw her. She was right there and they took her from me. Straight from my womb as she wailed."

"Who? Who took her from you?" he asked, free head tangling within your matted hair as you rested your forehead against his.

"The Stranger."

Aegon believed this to be the ramblings of someone in labor, the blood loss not helping to have a clear mind.

The death of a child, whether in this realm or within the womb, hurts immeasurably. The loss of something you could see and touch, something you formed a connection with, brought immense suffering to you and many of those around you, but it wasn't grief to bear alone. Having a life stolen from inside you created feelings of failure and doubts about your body's natural capabilities in isolation, morphing into self-blame and loathing of what could have been if only you were different.

But it was not your fault, not in this or any other sense. Your body did its natural process of protecting you, and even though you did not meet the child in its complete form, there was still a connection to mourn.

So deep within your thoughts, you did not hear the opening of oak doors, two pairs of footfalls storming into the room as your support was suddenly ripped away. Your fists balled into the crumpled sheets in compensation. Aegon struggled in Ser Criston's ironclad grip on his collar as you felt the sudden urge to push, push, push.

"Yes, Princess, yes! Keep going, more is coming out! You're almost finished," Fiora cheered, kneeling in Aegon's place as she clasped her fists around yours.

"Bring him back! I want Aegon!" you shouted. "I need him, please!"

At your cries, the Prince felt panic begin to take root, a terror and desperation to get to you that was so visceral that he did the only thing he could. Aegon growled and bit down on the fleshy part of Ser Criston's palm that met his thumb and forefinger, breaking the skin as blood stained his lips scarlet. The knight howled in pain, releasing the Prince on instinct as he attempted to return, only to have his mother stand in the way.

"Aegon, you needn't worry about her now. She is in capable hands," Alicent attempted to placate, her voice as gentle and maternal as when he was a child.

He paid no mind to her false coos and shoved the Queen out of his way, uncaring as she landed into a corner of furniture that stabbed her side. Ser Criston swiftly regained his composure at his Lady's shriek, once again grabbing Aegon by the fabric of his tunic and towards the exit.

"She is your Queen and mother! How dare you lay hands on her!" Criston admonished and struck the Prince with an armored grip upside his head as if he were no more than an insolent mutt.

You protested the action, begging the Queen, Ser Criston, the Maester, or anyone who would hear your pleas to bring Aegon back to you, but no one listened. The Queen was the highest authority in the room. Her word was law, and you were nothing but a lowly bastard dressed in fancy clothes and titles left without regard.

"Mother! Please, don't do this. She's with child!" the Prince beseeched, unruly locks of unkempt silver strewn across his pale face.

"Not anymore," Ser Criston jeered as his vision met the blood-stained sheets, dragging a raging Aegon away.

Alicent stood, righting herself and smoothing the fabric of her peridot gown with jeweled fingers. "You do not have the right to make such demands, Aegon. Leave at once. We shall discuss this later."

She couldn't stand to look at him, the shame of everything weighing heavier than all man's sins, as Alicent turned her brown orbs away from her son. He had sired bastards before, as had many Targaryen men, but one within his own house, with another bastard no less, was too much for the Queen's mind to comprehend.

The doors to your chambers slammed shut, rattling your bones as sobs of defeat tore through your throat. Your body did not allow you to mourn Aegon's absence, focusing your efforts as your muscles forcefully contracted, expelling the last of the thick matter out of your womb and onto the bedclothes. Fiora stroked your sweat-knotted hair as the pain subsided into dull cramps, reminding you of a particularly rough moon's blood, lungs slowly inhaling as your body relaxed.

Maester Orwyle began dabbing at your temples and neck as you sat, breathing heavily through your nose. "You did well, my lady," he praised quietly, glancing over his shoulder to Alicent, who stood staring into the hearth with her thumb in her mouth.

You sighed in acknowledgment, eyes briefly shutting as your fury gave you the energy to speak. "You are a cruel woman, Alicent." Your words were a dagger straight to her heart as you wiped your stained hands on your nightgown.

She turned to you and quickly placed her arms at her side, trying to put on an air of pomp that the situation did not need. "Tis hardly proper for a man to witness the pains of a miscarriage," she answered as if rehearsed.

"Proper?" you asked rhetorically. "I was dying and all you cared about was fucking propriety?" you snarled, rising to your knees with a wince, nerves alight.

The Queen did not dare say more, her conscience gnawing at the back of her mind like her teeth to her lip. "I know this was your doing," you spat, allowing Jeyne to help you onto your plush settee as the Maester began to clean your stained thighs.

The two women who had been with you since the moment you were forced to call the Red Keep a home gathered your soiled linens, stripping your bed without needing to be told. The sight brought warmth to your heart you had thought died moments ago. Through the brief time of Ser Dalton Greyjoy's presence to dutifully covering marks left behind from stolen moments with Aegon, Jeyne and Fiora's loyalty did not waver. Most maids would be eager to pass on gossip and rumors among the nobility for a chance at some coin. Or perhaps to provide themselves some entertainment in their less fortunate lives, but your two maidservants did not.

You were overwhelmed by a sudden gratefulness for them, longing to bring them into your embrace to sing praises and shout thank yous, but the Queen's looming presence forbade it. There was uncertainty about why she was here. Undoubtedly, the same woman who all but told you to leave King's Landing was not concerned for your well-being. You were hardly but an insect pestering her with your annoying, buzzing wings.

"Is it not enough that you've murdered the last remaining blood of my mother? Now you must take the life of my unborn child," you grunted, adjusting your position on the plush, emerald cushions as nausea struck through your core.

The Queen gasped, and everyone in the room looked weary, certain they were not supposed to hear this. "I would do no such thing, Princess," Alicent rebutted with a horror-stricken expression. "You are being unreasonable. 'Twas whoever snuck into your chambers and poisoned you that did this! Do not blame me for your misfortune."

A hollow laugh escaped your chest at her words, swallowing the bile that rose with the lingering cramps. "Oh, but how fortunate for you," you replied bitterly, the jab tasting acrid on your tongue. You wanted her to leave, to let you grieve the loss of a future you would never know, but she refused, implanting herself into the lives of others to ensure her gains were met. "Have I not earned my place here? Have I not sacrificed enough?"

"You know nothing of sacrifice," Alicent rejected quickly, snapping her avoidant gaze to yours.

"Don't I?" you chortled. The laughter sent your stomach into knots, but you pressed on, nudging Maester Orwyle away to stand upright, much to his concern. "Have I not done what you commanded of me? Kept your son from whoring and drinking himself to death on the streets of Flea Bottom? Do you remember the day you wrote to me? How you implored me to come to King's Landing and herd your son back to the Keep?" you sneered, tears of frustration and sadness welling in your puffy, bloodshot eyes.

No matter how desperately you wished to do so, you would not break in front of the Queen, heart empty as you spoke, blood trickling down your leg. "I have done what you asked and more. I've made Aegon understand the responsibility of his birth. He does not gamble or whore, gluttony is no longer a vice. He's become a better husband, brother, and father. He is everything you want him to be because of me!" Your voice wavered, barely containing a gag that pulled your lip muscles, threatening to become something more.

Realization struck you as you observed the Queen stand underneath your rage. All your life, you have served others to attain recognition in their eyes, whether to prove yourself competent or receive the love and acceptance every child craved. With your father, desperately eager to please him, to show him and all others that you were not the baseborn bastard daughter of a whore---that you could hold your own and make a name for yourself. Your desperation to prove yourself would be your downfall, but no longer would you allow yourself to be the subject of your insecurities. Worth was not dictated by what you did for others but by what you thought of yourself.

"Now that I no longer serve to further your schemes of putting Aegon on the throne, you see it fit to discard me as if I am nothing but a piece thrown about the board, sacrificed to achieve victory." Your anger was palpable, striking the Queen into her soul without physical action.

Alicent inhaled sharply, glancing at your maids and the Maester, who had all seemed to have halted their tasks. Your words were a mirror to her as anxiety began to flutter within her gut underneath so many stares. Hands once primly placed at her side were now picking at the skin of one another, a nervous tick she never broke. She did not know these people. She did not trust them not to run to the nearest lord, who was desperate for Rhaenyra's favor with word of treachery.

"What you claim is treason and not from a sound mind," she protested, her voice velvet. The Queen knew that if she spent a moment longer discussing secrets that had been unsaid, they would finally surface to harm the steps made to plant Aegon on the throne.

You opened your mouth to speak once more, but Alicent's smooth voice was quick to interject.

"Maester, I believe the Princess has gone into hysteria due to the poison. She is not thinking clearly."

You began to argue, but the feeling of nausea overcame you, and you quickly stumbled to your chamber pot as the little contents of your stomach exited. Fiora and Jeyne rushed to your side, holding your tangled strands from your face as the other rubbed soothing circles across your lower back.

"Her hysteria is dangerous to herself and those around her, Maester. I believe milk of the poppy will numb her mind enough until she is well again," Alicent said with pursed lips, staring down at your hunched back from under her nose.

Orwyle blanched, understanding that this was not a suggestion but a request. Who was he to deny the Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms? "Your thoughtfulness for the Princess moves me deeply, your grace. However, any attempt to sedate her now would put her at more unneeded risk. She has lost far too much blood, and I must monitor her health."

The Queen's jaw clenched, teeth grinding at the man's tenacity. What did you have that gave people such a steadfast honor to protect you? Unlike her, you could not give them titles, land, or money in compensation. She was the Queen. They were supposed to serve her and bend to her will. Yet, they tended to your well-being with unyielding devotion, even in the face of one of Westeros's most influential people. Why did they not stand with her? Did a Queen not offer more than a bastard? Why not her? 

Why not me? Why not me? Why not me?

Envy ran hot through her veins at the thought. 

The three servants knew what this was—an attempt to control the situation and narrative, to prove that Queen Alicent would remain the all-encompassing figure of power and dominance, not some young, pretty bastard girl who bewitched all those around her.

"I shall not allow another danger to lurk about my home, especially one that deceives. We already have her assassin to worry about." She ignored your scoff, her words velvet but holding an icy undertone.

When Maester Orwyle did not move, Alicent shifted, palms conjoined just below her heart as she raised a manicured brow. "Do it Maester or I will have my guards do it for you."

The air was cold on Dragonstone, with a salty bite stinging Prince Daemon's flushed cheeks as he stood on a brimstone balcony overlooking where Blackwater Bay met the Narrow Sea. The moons spent without his daughter chipped at his war-hardened soul, revealing the center he kept tucked away, though many did not see it.

He hesitated again, gaze flickering to your slouched one leaning onto your ladies for support. You gave him a solemn nod, conveying with a single look that you would not resist. If this would get Alicent to leave the four of you alone and allow you to mourn peacefully... so be it. It would be better for you and them. You would not have to think about what happened for at least a little longer, and perhaps the pain would be gone when you woke, and your beloved Prince would be at your side once more. But hope was a double-edged sword. Each side was as sharp and brutal as the other and cut equally profoundly.

People believed Daemon to be a cruel, calculating man deserving of the title "Rogue Prince." And while they were not wrong, it did not mean that the same sentiment traveled to the treatment of his family. He was devoted to his wife, stepsons, and true-born children, tending to them as a shepherd would his flock. He no longer cared for the war in the Stepstones or any battle, focusing his efforts on the future, a future for his family that seemed to grow more uncertain as his brother's health declined.

While he did feel guilt knock at his hollow chest when he thought about his eldest daughter, the life she was born into, the life she was kept from and forced to live, he did not have regrets. Daemon would, a thousand times over, accept you into his heart.

You were a part of him he did not know was missing, fitting so perfectly into his cracked soul that not even Rhaenyra's love could mend. You are as much of his blood as the young Aegon, Viserys, and the babe that grew stronger every passing day within his wife's womb. There was a special connection between the two of you that only a father of a girl could comprehend. He now understood why his brother passed him in favor of Rhaenyra becoming heir, for if he had the choice, you would serve to inherit all he had.

Daemon longed to have you at his side again, listening intently to whatever thoughts, happenings, and plans you had. The council meetings around the Painted Table grew increasingly irksome as he patiently awaited your next raven. Rhaenyra brought Jace along to more than one gathering with the pompous lords. Daemon admired the boy's fire and tenacity, yet he always seemed to lack the mature awareness you seemed to possess—no doubt a byproduct of your vastly different upbringings.

It had been a sennight since your last word, the longest Daemon had ever waited, and he grew antsy with each passing hour. He found himself pacing the sandy beaches across the island, climbing the same mountains and hills he forced you to in training. Memories were what he felt he had left of you now and that of the written word.

"My love."

He heard his wife's tender voice calling him inside. "You will hear from her soon. I know it."

Rhaenyra's soft hand found Daemon's, bringing it to the growing bump underneath her Myrish lace dress. The notion grounded him as much as her as they pressed their foreheads together, sharing a kiss full of all the longing and melancholy he kept hidden within himself.

It was not until late evening, as he and his wife retired to their chambers for rest, that a footman knocked, revealing a single piece of parchment atop a bronze platter. Daemon's heart leaped for joy, knowing it could only be one thing, and he hastily tore at the three-headed dragon seal.

Rhaenyra allowed her husband to read in silence, brushing out her long, snowy hair as she hummed a tune her late mother used to sing, absentmindedly stroking the life tucked below her breast. When her task was done, and she had secured herself within her thick nightdress, she turned to Daemon, his hunched spine facing her over their shared writing desk.

"What news does she have, my darling?" Rhaenyra sang, combing a fragrant oil through her strands. She prodded him further at his silence, eager to know what her chosen daughter said. "Has another lord insulted her again? You mustn't worry about it like last time. She is more than capable of defending herself."

Daemon did not answer, a strained, choked sound that his wife had never heard before emitting from his throat. Rhaenyra turned, swiftly walking to him as she smoothed a palm down the crown of his head to his nape. "Love?"

"She's dying."

"What?" Rhaenyra stammered, taking a step back.

"She was poisoned. The Greens have obstructed all communications with Dragonstone, and the sender is unsure if she will be alive by the time I read this," he answered, paper trembling.

The shock paralyzed all rationality. Rhaenyra didn't know what to think or feel. "Who sent this to you?" she ardently asked. The world around her became fuzzy, and her head went light as she braced herself against the wooden desk.

Daemon flipped the parchment over, searching for any indication of who the sender could be, but found none. "It has the royal seal, yet there is no signage."

His wife had no answer, dread beginning to take hold of her chest as tears collected in her amethyst eyes. A sob escaped Rhaenyra. The pain, the suffering you must have been through, was enough to make her faint, knees buckling as she struggled to stay upright—her poor child. Poor perzītsos dampened until they snuffed out her flame.

Daemon was lost within the confines of his mind. Fear, betrayal, sadness, and anger coursed through him, roaring the dragon blood to life in his veins. 

He felt powerless living on an island away from the daughter he loved, unable to fulfill his role as father and protector. It was a failure on his part not to see what the Hightowers could do. Their schemes and treachery reached from King's Landing to Oldtown, an ancient family with roots among the elites of Westeros. There was a reason they held onto power for so long, and it was not by allowing one unexpected person to throw them awry.

Swiftly, Daemon stood, throwing the sturdy wooden chair behind him with the force of his legs. He gripped the letter with an iron fist, wrinkling the parchment under pressure as he went for the door.

"Daemon," Rhaenyra called, struggling to steady her breath. "Where are you heading?"

The Rogue Prince paused just before the exit, turning on his heel to face his wife, crumpled paper raised high in his hand.

"To burn that green bitch and her cunt father," he proclaimed, a fire within his voice that assured he would keep his word. "They will pay for what they have done to our daughter." 

Rhaenyra understood that convincing him otherwise was futile, and deep down, she didn't want to. Despite not being her biological child, she held you in her heart as her own. She wouldn't stand in the way of Daemon's quest for retribution, knowing that he would spare no effort if their roles reversed. With a brief nod, she left him and settled into a cushioned chair.

Daemon stormed through the brimstone halls of Dragonstone, leather riding boots echoing his every step. He had only one goal, one in which he had no care for the consequences of as he reached the cave where his ride was housed. The Rogue Prince climbed the ropes of Caraxes as the Keepers struggled to untether the beast, mounting atop his dragon and fastening the chains in the saddle.

Masterlist of Series

The Blood Wyrm chirped with a puff of smoke through its nostrils as Daemon snapped the reins, sending the dragon forward and out of the cave. He did not care as the frigid wind cracked like whips against his exposed skin, flying higher—faster to his destination, death and destruction trailing behind beating crimson wings. His daughter would be avenged even if it meant the whole Keep would be nothing but ash and bone by sunset.

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Daddy's on his way, babies! Are we excited? I know I am!

I hope this chapter wasn't too sad for y'all. I've never had a miscarriage before or have been pregnant. I wanted to make the most accurate portrayal by talking with people I know who have had one or been pregnant. I apologize if I've offended or triggered anyone with what I wrote.

Thank you again for your understanding and patience while waiting for these updates. Life has been chaotic!

[fungusqueen]

Teleomorphs of an Ascomycete (this was a cup fungi but the term refers to any fungi producing spores on what is referred to as the ascus). These are shown under the microscope with Lugol's solution at a recent fungal microscopy workshop. My last fungal microscopy workshop was on Basidiomycetes and it was cool to see the difference in cutting pieces of specimens to make slides, and the difference in spore-bearing structures under magnification. Lugol's solutions and other reagents can loosen tissues and dissolve pigments and mucilage, making spores easier to observe. Reagents can also produce color changing reactions that can inform species identification

[red1culous]

Loved

“…but you see you would need to put into context those slugs against the slugs of the world.” She hears your voice through carried on the air. Careful to avoid the loose plank on the floor she keeps in the shadows as much as possible walking in the direction of your voice. 

“Like what?” A tiny voice asks and she hears you chuckle softly. 

Natasha shuffles to the threshold of the door. It stands ajar so she peeks inside. She sees you perched on the edge of Morgan’s bed hugging one of her elephant plushies. Morgan is tucked into bed propped against too many pillows it looks like she’s being swallowed by bedding. 

“Well…” you continue as you take the opportunity to bop her button nose, “have you heard of the banana slug?”

Morgan scrunches her nose in slight disgust and Nat has to hold back a giggle of her own. “Eww no what is thatttt?” She whines. 

“That, sweet girl, is a slug this big” you raise your arms out in front and to your side and Morgan’s eyes grow as wide as width of as your arms. She pulls the covers over her head and screeches in horror. 

You laugh and weakly wrestle with her trying to pull the covers back down. “You wanna hear some more?” You say with a pause as you ask softly searching the covers for her a glimpse of her face. “Or do you wanna…” you continue but she cuts you off with a loud “yeaaaa” followed by an even louder yawn. 

“Ok well,” you say as you tuck her back into bed and stroke her hair a few times, “this slug gives off slime, or mucilage as it’s called, that’s so thick and gelatinous,” you pause noting how her eyes start to droop, “unctuous you might say,” you smile running your fingers slowly over her eyelids forcing them to close, “that it can slide down a razor blade and be unharmed” you finish your sentence reducing the volume of your voice as you reach your conclusion. You wait watching her to make sure she’s really gone to sleep. Once satisfied you whisper as you leave a kiss on her forehead, “good night sweet girl”.

Gently you ease yourself off the bed and creep towards the door. When you get close enough Natasha pushes the door open wider and your eyes shine when you see her standing there. 

“Hi” she says taking hold of the hand you offer her. 

“Hi baby. How long have you been standing there?” You smirk when she pulls you in for a chaste kiss to the lips. 

“Long enough to learn more than I’d want to about slugs” she smiles as you lock your fingers behind her neck holding her there. 

You groan and hide your face in the crook of her neck. “You must think I’m such a nerd,”

She chuckles into your hair. “It’s a good thing I find nerds kinda hot.”

You turn your head slightly and start to kiss her neck. “Mmm” you moan, “you smell good”.

“And you shouldn’t be doing that here” she answers bringing her lower lip in between her teeth holding back a moan of her own. 

You bite down on the supple flesh of her neck and she digs her nails into the backs of your forearms. 

“Sorry” you soothe the skin with your tongue. 

She laughs. “No you’re not.”

“No I’m not” you repeat her words and place a kiss to her hot flesh. 

“Let’s get out of here” she untangles herself from you and leads you away by the hand, “you can tell me more about your slugs”. 

You wrap her arm over your shoulder letting her lead you down an endless corridor past wood panelled doors. “Or I could just show you the biggest slug…” you say wriggling your eyebrows at her. 

She cuts you off with a kiss to the forehead before you are able to finish that sentence, “you’re really disgusting sometimes, you know that”.

-----

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