This is a little short vignette that will be nothing to some people and very horny to others. The Duquesa du Araňa (Duchess of Spiders) is an NPC for Roomie's Changeling character and, I believe, a character mentioned in the Changeling: the Lost 2e corebook or a supplement somewhere. She's a Goblin Queen, and said to kidnap people (a major no-no for Changelings). Obviously Roomie doesn't want her mentor to actually be evil, but I thought I might play on the rumors. I also just wanted to write some bimbofication, but I didn't really get all that far. Duquesa feeds off of fear, like any good (former) Autumn Courtier and horrifying but sexy spider monster. But she takes that fear away, and takes away the people who want to leave behind their lives (and turns them into spider themed maids).
I actually threw this into ChatGPT to see if it could figure out that the character was trans. It surprisingly did. Then I asked it to continue the story and it had the Duquesa apologize for thinking the character was a woman. Such great technology, I'm sure it will revolutionize the world.
Revealing a hidden truth about yourself is always painful, especially when it radically changes another’s perception of you. Even if living the truth will make you happier, those you love will prefer the version that you’ve shown them, the mask. They don’t want the truth, they want the lie that they’ve come to love.
A young man walking through Golden Gate Park has just learned this lesson firsthand. It’s night, and no one is around. The woman he thought he loved can’t accept him, and now she knows the secrets he’s been afraid of. She found out and rejected it. What will he do? What if she tells everyone? His life will be over.
A thread vibrates.
The man walks the pathway to the fountain, the lump of fear in his chest growing. He stands there, a little away, and gathers up courage. The water is like a mirror after all. He looks down and sees himself.
“Despite everything, it’s still me…”
His hair is long, but in an acceptable way. He pulls it out of the bundle it’s been fighting it’s way out of for the last few hours and lets it hang. Brown, but bleached. He thought it would help. It didn’t. The roots had long since begun to show. A face that pushed his eyes away from it. He could never stare at that face too long. He’d been told it was an attractive face, but no matter what everyone said, it wasn’t her face. No matter how recently he shaved, there always seemed to be stubble. It itched. It made him want to cry. He hated that face. Especially the eyes, tears welling up in them. If only he could get away from that face.
Another thread vibrates.
Looking at the person he hates most in the world, the man fishes in his pocket for change and roughly throws it into the gentle waters. He wishes he could get away. Go somewhere else. Live a different life.
Out loud… the thread desperately wants to vibrate. But not yet. No, there are rules.
Whether the young man can feel that yearning from the silk or simply feels it himself doesn’t matter. With a breaking voice he whispers. “I wish I could just get away.”
The man breaks down sobbing, and slips to the ground in front of the fountain.
The thread, blissfully, vibrates.
There are doors with strange keys. It isn’t the words that unlock this one, it’s the feelings. Not sadness, nor fear, or even the anger that all of this has happened to you. It isn’t even simply a desire to escape. It’s all of them in a way. A weft and weave of turmoil. Complex, rich. Delicious.
You can never step into this door by accident, not truly. And the young man doesn’t realize that this one has opened around him. He is no longer in the park. But he doesn’t notice that it is now deeper night, or that the street lamps and trees have so many more spider webs. He’s too lost in his own sorrows.
“Oh my, what is the matter, señorita?”
The young man jumps so hard he hits his head on the concrete fountain behind him. He quickly rubs his face against the sleeve of his shirt and wipes his eyes. “N-nothing, sorry,” what is there to do but man up? “Work was stressful. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t correct the honorific. He never does. The woman will probably do it herself once she sees his face, all contrite and embarrassed.
A slender black hand reaches down and offers itself. “Please, girl, do not feel the need to lie on my behalf.”
One word there spins so many threads in the young man’s heart. He almost looks up, but can’t. He keeps his head down. Just a little longer. Be confused just a little longer.
“Sorry…” his voice is frail and weak. “I think I had a break up.”
“Oh, how dreadful.” The fingers waggle, hand still offered. “Come now, darling, let me help you up.”
Eventually the man relents, though he realizes with embarrassment that he’s taken the hand in a rather feminine way. But good lord, this woman is so strong. With no effort, she helps the man up, pulling him to his feet.
He’s taller than she is, and there’s no way he can continue pretending. He draws the knife across his own skin to spare her the embarrassment. “Also, um… I’m a guy.” It hurts to say so much. He can feel the blood trickling down his wrist. Little crimson droplets falling into spider webs that carpet the ground.
The woman chuckles, and she runs a finger across a face with stubble and a strong jawline. “That is not what you told Laura this evening, is it, Mathilda?” That finger guides the young man’s eyes to hers.
The face is not something out of nightmares. It is in fact gorgeous. High cheekbones and a round nose, with full lips. Her eyes were lidded and seemed half-closed, but so very alert. There were also eight of them in total, the other six smaller and spaced around her forehead. Her skin was dark and ashen colored, and her hair silver and luxurious.
The man hardly even noticed how strange she was, or the fact that her leathery black fingers were jointed like those of a doll. He heard the name. Her name. Someone said her name.
Terror was a distant second to the euphoria she felt.
“Do you mind if I call you Tilda?” The woman draws a long, slender finger along Tilda’s scalp, and it traces it’s way down to her jaw. “It’s such a pretty name for you.”
The finger comes away with a silken thread that grows fatter in the middle, like a little worm, and she felt a burden lift. The Duquesa let the squirming thread hang for a moment, the both of them looking at it, watching the fears and insecurities wriggle. The spider let it writhe around her eight jet black fingers and slid it between her lovely purple lips. It left a little slime on them, but in place of a tongue licking it off, little pedipalps slid from between her lips and wiped the residue away. She hummed, all of her eyes closed, as she swallowed.
Tilda simply watched, engaged by every little movement of the woman with too many eyes.
The Duquesa felt the threads sing to her, letting her know a meal would be coming. She loved that sound.
When the verge opened to the park, she was there. Waiting. At the fountain she could hear the sobs. Such a pitiful sound. But Maria Carmen Escarra had so much pity to give, even before her Durance.
She came upon the source of the sobs. A beautiful young woman. Oh, she might not look it. Shabby and masculine, looking like Kurt Cobain. But her years as Mistress of Gloomwood had given her sight beyond the linear. Not quite seeing the future, but that phrase would do.
Duquesa breathed in deep, the scent of memory in the air.
You can't do this to me! What will my friends think? What about your family?
Laura, please, I just can't live like this anymore, it's getting too much…
You've been just fine for twenty six years! God, Michael, what the fuck are you thinking? I'm not a lesbian, I can't be with a tr—
The next word caused so much pain. Lovely pain. But it was alright, because the Duquesa would feed on that pain and leave… she sniffed the air again, opening her mandibles to taste it. Ah. She would leave Mathilda—no, no, Tilda—so much happier than before.
That first morsel she drew from Tilda's lovely little head was a delight. Just a little taste. Insecurity. Fear. Just the things that would make the conversation flow better. Sometimes a struggle is half the fun, but this meal had come to her. She had a need she didn't even know about, and Maria Carmen would fulfill that need.