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Pickman's Whisper View File Pickman’s Whisper Continue Pickman’s legacy. Pick up the instrument of his art—his gift—and hear the voice of the blade turn the wasteland into your canvas, painted with the blood of anonymous NPCs that, all of a sudden, catch your eye. You know them. You even name them, because you know them like an old friend. Why do they not seem to know their own name? Is it because they are arrogant? Well, you’ll teach them the cost of their hubris. Haughty bitches. Why won’t the voices stop? Pickman's Whisper is a serial killer simulator. Not for the weak of mind or easily offended. It pairs well with Necromantic. This mod is under active development. Restrictions The mod requires an unmodified Pickman's Blade to function. Features Older Versions Submitter Oohtre Submitted 08/16/26 Category Sexual Content Requirements Required: Fallout 4 + F4SE Mod Configuration Menu (MCM) — every setting and status page lives here Garden of Eden Papyrus Script Extender (GoE) — actor scans, prop physics, and all config file reading Required for specific features: LooksMenu — corpse decay overlays and tattoos Fusion Girl + ZeX Extended Skeleton — the severed body and both props are Fusion Girl meshes. On another body the mutilated corpse won't match. The rest of the mod doesn't care what body you run AAF + BP70's Fallout 4 Sex anims (rxl_bp70_animations.esp) — only for the Slavery "Take Her" scene Corpse decay overlay packs — one per layer, all three for the full look: INVB_OverlayFramework_DeadOverlays.esp (ROF Dead Overlays) — wound overlays porcOverlays.esl (Porcupine Skin Overlays) — skin and pallor stages SFT.esp (Scripted Face Tints) — facial decay and beat bruises; nothing else can paint faces

View File The Abyss Above - Hyper Science The Abyss Above (TAA) is a loose conceptual framework meant to enable hyper kinks in Stellaris. Centuries of research into genetic modification has left its mark on the galactic community. As of 2200, most people are GMOs in one sense or another. A modification to increase dick size here. A faster pregnancy there. Someone might discuss genetically increasing their breast size by 3x with the same casualness of someone debating whether or not to go blonde. The discovery of HYPER energy - a seemingly infinite source of extra-dimensional power that genetic mods can tap into - will forever define the future. When the limits of biology and physics aren't an issue, what would you do to yourself? Your civilization? And would you have the restraint to stop? This is a sub-mod of that wider project. An independent little mod that focuses in on the scientific and exploration elements of Stellaris. It's meant to function independently of anything else and be simple to update. [What this mod currently adds] 16 Anomalies Stumble into the sexual experiments of long gone empires, and confound your physicists with impossible volumes of fluids. 6 Specimens Display your erotic curiosities in the grand archive, and stoke the imaginations of your own kinky bio-engineers. [What is planned for this mod] 19 More Anomalies 10 Specimens 5 Archeological Sites [Q&A] "What is this mod?" A self-contained (and hopefully fully functional) portion of The Abyss Above (TAA) focused on the Grand Archive, anomalies, excavations, and that's it. My original vision for TAA was extremely over-scoped and general. While I knew that at the time, I thought I could ignore that fact. I could not. I'd start working on traits, only to give up halfway through and swap to tech, only to get sidetracked with ideology tweaks. After a few months 80% of the mod was erotica with no mechanical hook and half the code was incomplete or busted. This is my way of keeping things tight while also forcing myself to engage with the lame part of mod making (mechanical implementation) more often. "Why release it if you've still got stuff planned?" So I can get feedback on whether or not the features actually work, plus I just kind of want it out there. So far this submod has taken me, what, half a year already? A handful of short, dedicated bursts of energy with months between them. I know I'm not the fastest modder out there, and I do feel guilty for saying "Oh don't worry, I'm still working on TAA :)" before disappearing for months without updates. So, here's something. "Can you remove X or release a version with only Y?" No ❤️ If a certain anomaly really bothers you, feel free to open the mod up and rip it out yourself. Content warnings are available below - both vague and specific - and if a majority of those bother you, then this mod probably isn't for you. "I'm experiencing an issue with this mod, can you fix it?" Hopefully. Let me know if you run into any issues. "Do you have anything miscellaneous to say?" Yep. I intentionally avoided gendering - either the player empire or alien empires - as much as I could. So if you're wondering why I opted for some strange phrase or awkward chunk of dialogue, it's because I wanted the mod to be applicable to mono-gendered/ungendered/transgendered empires. Absolutely no AI was used in the making of this mod, and it never will be. I'll swallow my pride and subject you to mouse-drawn stick figures a thousand times before I subject you to slop. If you've ever seriously thought about transitioning, you should take HRT. It's really not that scary. [Download Instructions] Unpack the .zip folder using your un-packer of choice Place both the .mod and the mod file in your Stellaris mod folder (Usually in Documents\Paradox Interactive\Stellaris\mod) Run the game's launcher, and add the mod to your current playset [Content Warnings] Vague content warning: TAA-HS deals primarily with hyper size kinks. Growing breasts the size of cities, coating planets in cum, being pregnant with too many babies to count, etc. If you're not into that kind of erotic content then this mod probably isn't for you. Specific content warning: [Acknowledgements] Me! And the Stellaris devs I suppose, since most of this mod came from copy-and-pasting their code. Submitter E V E Submitted 07/11/26 Category Stellaris Requirements Stellaris 4.4.6+ Stellaris: Grand Archive Story Pack

It has been five days since the last egg slipped free, and still I cannot bring myself to destroy them. Scientific rigor demands observation; sentiment—or whatever poisoned impulse now stirs beneath my ribs—demands preservation. I tell myself the former justifies the latter. I am not certain, but I believe it. In the hours immediately following the oviposition, panic lent me clarity. I gathered the eight pale orbs into a hastily lined satchel—soft wool scraps and a layer of oiled leather to cushion them—then forced myself to stand. My legs shook; the room tilted; the scent of mineral-sweet mucous still clung to my skin like guilt. I paid the innkeeper double what I owed, muttering something about urgent research that required solitude, and fled Whiterun before the market bells could ring fully awake. My own small house on the edge of the plains—more laboratory than home—welcomed me with the familiar reek of dried herbs and spilled reagents. I barred the door, shuttered every window, and placed the clutch in the warmest corner beside the hearth, where the fire could lick at the stones without scorching them. For the first day, they remained as they were: luminous white, faintly translucent, veined with the palest blue. I measured them (circumference 28–31 centimeters, weight approximately 1.4–1.7 kilograms each), noted surface temperature (warm, 2–3 degrees above ambient room heat), and sketched their positions in my field journal. No movement. No sound. Only the soft, almost imperceptible throb beneath the leather-like shell when I pressed a finger to one. Over the next three days, the change crept in slowly, methodically, as though the clutch itself were conducting an experiment on me. By the second morning, the pallor had begun to fade, replaced by a deepening taupe that darkened hourly toward rich brown. The shells stiffened—pliable kid-leather giving way to something denser, more chitinous, as cured boar hide stretched over bone. I recorded the progression in hourly increments: color shift from ivory to ecru to walnut; increasing rigidity (indentation under thumb pressure reduced from 4 mm to less than 1 mm); a faint, dry rustle when I held one close to my ear, as of sand shifting inside a sealed vial. On the fourth day, the first cracks appeared—not violent fractures, but hairline fissures radiating from the poles like frost on glass. I sat vigil through the night, quill in hand, flame low. The room filled with a new scent: sharp chitin dust mixed with the old mineral sweetness, now almost cloying. Hatching began at dawn on the fifth day. It was not dramatic. No explosive births, no screams. Only a slow, wet parting of shell segments, accompanied by a soft, chitinous click-click-click like pebbles settling. The first nymph emerged head-first: no larger than my palm, pale and glistening, its segmented body still curled fetal-tight. Six stubby legs unfolded, tipped with delicate hooks; mandibles—tiny, translucent—worked soundlessly. It paused, antennae quivering, then scuttled sideways across the floorboards and vanished beneath the bedframe. The others followed in quick succession. Eight in total hatched; six survived the first frantic scramble. Two lighter-hued eggs produced only malformed husks—thin, watery contents that evaporated almost at once, leaving brittle membranes. The viable six were darker, denser, their carapaces already hardening to a deep chestnut gloss. They scattered like spilled beads: under the bed, behind the alchemy table, into the rafters, into the shadowed gap beneath the wardrobe. For a full day, they hid, silent except for occasional faint skittering when one shifted position. I did not sleep. I watched. I noted. By the second day post-hatch, they grew bolder. Hunger drove them first: they returned to the discarded shells, mandibles rasping against the remnants, consuming every scrap of casing and membrane. The sound was intimate, almost polite—small teeth on leather, methodical, thorough. Once sated, exploration began in earnest. They ventured across open floorboards, climbed the legs of my chair, and investigated the mortar and pestle left uncleaned on the workbench. One perched briefly on the rim of my inkwell, antennae dipping toward the black liquid before recoiling. They do not flee from me. If I move slowly, they do not startle. Several have taken to trailing my shadow as I cross the room, keeping a respectful distance of a meter or two. One—the largest, perhaps the first-born—has twice climbed onto my boot when I sat motionless at the desk, remaining there for several minutes while its antennae brushed the leather in slow, deliberate sweeps. Not affection, precisely; no nuzzling, no warmth-seeking like a kitten against a hearth. But recognition. Acceptance. A quiet acknowledgment that I am part of their environment, and they of mine. I find myself leaving scraps of meat near the hearth—rabbit from the market, cut small. They converge upon it without quarrel, sharing in orderly turns. I have caught myself smiling at the sight. The smile feels foreign on my face. Beneath the observation, the other thoughts gather. At first, they came as flickers: a sudden memory of pressure, of rhythmic pulsing, of that impossible, drowning ecstasy that overrode terror. I dismissed them as trauma residue, as the mind replaying horror to process it. But the flickers have thickened into insistence. My body remembers the stretch, the filling, the release. In quiet moments—when the nymphs are still, when the fire has burned low—I feel an echo low in my abdomen: not pain, not emptiness, but a hollow readiness. A craving for pressure. For the purpose. I tell myself it is a hormonal aftermath. The gray fluid, the eggs, the rapid gestation—all must have altered my endocrine balance. I could test it: draw blood, compare to baseline samples from before the incident. I could formulate a counter-agent, purge the influence. Yet each time I reach for the reagents, my hand hesitates. The nymphs are here. They are viable. They are mine—in a way no conventional progeny could be. To destroy them would be to destroy data. To abandon them would be to abandon discovery. To return north… to seek another encounter… would be to gather more specimens. To understand the lifecycle fully. To perhaps—gods forgive the thought—ensure their survival in greater numbers. The largest nymph has taken to resting against my ankle when I sit at the desk. Its weight is negligible, yet I feel it like an anchor. Its antennae brush my skin in slow circles, and for a moment, the room fades. I close my eyes and remember mandibles pressing—not crushing, but holding. Steady. Purposeful. I tell myself this is science. I am no longer certain who is convincing whom.

It is with a trembling hand that I now set quill to parchment once more, for the events that followed my return to Whiterun have left me in a state of such profound disarray that I scarcely know where shame ends, and scientific curiosity begins. I write this not for posterity’s sake alone, but because if I do not record the truth of what transpired within these very walls, I fear my mind will fracture entirely beneath the weight of it. I reached my small rented room above the Bannered Mare just as the first pale light of dawn crept over the battlements. My legs gave out the moment I crossed the threshold; the door slammed shut behind me with a sound like a coffin lid. I collapsed upon the straw mattress without even removing my sodden boots, the bloated ache in my abdomen now a constant, throbbing companion. Sleep claimed me instantly—black, dreamless, merciful. When awareness returned, it came not gradually but with violent suddenness. Something moved inside me. Not the ordinary flutter of indigestion or the cramp of overexertion—no. This was deliberate, purposeful motion: a slow, rolling pressure low in my pelvis, as though several small creatures were turning over in unison, testing the confines of their prison. My eyes snapped open. My breath caught. The room was dim, the shutters still closed, yet I could feel sweat already beading along my hairline. I pressed both palms to the swollen curve of my belly. Beneath my fingers, the skin felt impossibly taut, stretched drum-tight over something alive. And then—gods preserve me—the leathery covering I had discovered in the cavern pool began to peel. It did not tear. It simply… separated. Like wet parchment lifting from stone, the strange, fused membrane lifted away from my groin in one continuous sheet. Beneath it lay raw, flushed skin, glistening with a thick, translucent mucous that oozed forth in sluggish ropes. The fluid was warm, faintly sweet-smelling, and carried with it the unmistakable mineral reek of the depths from which I had fled. As the last of the leathery patch sloughed free and fell to the floorboards with a wet slap, a fresh gush followed, soaking my thighs and the bedding beneath me. I should have screamed. I should have bolted from the room, naked and reeking, and thrown myself upon the mercy of the Temple of Kynareth. Instead, I lay there, panting, transfixed by the conflicting storm within my own body. Shock warred with revulsion. Revulsion warred with an obscene, unbidden echo of the previous night’s forced ecstasy. My flesh still remembered—traitorously—the rhythmic stretching, the pulsing arrival after arrival that had drowned terror in pleasure until darkness took me. And now that same body, traitor still, responded to the movement within me not only with fear but with a shameful, liquid heat that pooled low in my belly and made my thighs tremble. I knew. I knew what was coming as surely as any midwife knows the signs of crowning. There would be no stopping it. Whatever the Chaurus had planted in me had quickened, and now it demanded release. I rolled onto my back—slowly, carefully—drawing my knees toward my chest in the ancient posture of birthing. My hands clutched the edges of the mattress as though it might anchor me to Nirn itself. The first contraction was not pain, exactly; it was pressure, immense and inexorable, a deep rolling wave that forced my breath from my lungs in a low, animal groan. Then came the first egg. It emerged slowly, stretching me with a burning fullness that hovered on the razor’s edge between agony and rapture. I felt every inch of its passage: smooth, unyielding, yet strangely pliant—like the finest kid leather inflated just enough to hold its shape. When the widest part finally crested, a sudden slick release carried it free. It landed between my thighs with a soft, wet thump. White—almost luminous in the half-light—slightly translucent, its surface faintly veined with palest blue. It quivered once, twice, then stilled. No larger than a large apple, yet heavier than it ought to have been, as though some dense life pulsed quietly inside. Before I could draw breath, the next followed. And the next....Eight in total. Each one stretched me wider than the last, each one slid free with that same obscene blend of pressure and pleasure, until my body seemed no longer my own but merely a vessel, a conduit for something older and hungrier than mortal flesh. By the eighth, my voice had broken into hoarse, wordless cries; sweat plastered my hair to my face; the sheets beneath me were sodden with mucous and my own unwilling arousal. When the last egg finally slipped free, I collapsed back against the pillows, chest heaving, thighs shaking. For long minutes, I could do nothing but stare at the clutch arrayed between my legs—eight pale, leathery orbs, glistening, faintly warm to the touch. They did not crack. They did not move. Yet I swear by the Eight and the One that I felt them watching me. I have not yet decided what I shall do with them. I have barred the door. I have drawn the shutters tight. The smell of the cavern still clings to my skin, sweet and mineral and wrong. And somewhere, deep in the quiet places of my mind, a small, treacherous voice whispers that I should keep them warm. May the Divines forgive me.

My journey northward passed with little incident, save for a brief encounter with a hungry wolf. The beast's yellow eyes caught the first light of dawn, but a firm press of my heels into my mare’s flanks and a generous amount of panic spurred us forward, leaving the wolf behind in a disappointed blur of gray fur. I arrived at the entrance of the cavernous domain at midday, heart still beating fast but none the worse for wear. Setting up camp this time, I chose a spot a little deeper in the caverns than my last expedition, yet still far enough to avoid any unwanted guests in the night. The terrain was rocky but workable, with a view of the twisting, crystalline formations that adorned the deeper recesses. My hands, once steady and methodical, worked to unpack my supplies—vials, pouches, mortar, and pestle—all the tools of my trade laid out in a familiar arrangement. Yet even as I prepared my station, I began to notice an unpleasant itch. The lingering effects of a night spent at the tavern, perhaps, had caught up with me, and a discomfort itch bloomed across my groin, persistent and maddening. Suspecting scabies or some other skin irritation, I decided to concoct a remedy on the spot. Nothing out of the ordinary to prepare a remedy at camp, or while traveling. I reached for the ingredients I had packed: glowing mushroom, cave moss for its healing essence, and, of course, what I thought was powdered chaurus egg. My head still felt heavy from my recent indulgence, and I failed to notice the subtle difference in texture and scent as I measured out the fine, gray powder for the egg portion. Then I reached for the vial of suspended ejaculate for the customary pinch to accelerate the effects. I struggle…to wri…… Recalling sometime later to update my notes. I crushed and blended the ingredients with practiced ease, creating a thick, pungent salve. I applied it liberally to the affected area, noting the immediate coolness and then... an unexpected surge of warmth. My pulse quickened, a flush rising over my skin in an overwhelming wave. I struggled to keep writing, but the heat grew more intense, spreading like wildfire. Arousal, powerful and uncontrollable, gripped me as my vision blurred and my thoughts scattered. I felt my strength slipping away, the world around me dissolving into darkness.

After several months of meticulous experimentation in my lab, the confines of stone walls and the pungent aroma of ground herbs began to feel suffocating. Long hours poring over tinctures and thickening pastes had left my mind restless, time for a break - perhaps a night of revelry. I made my way to the local tavern, a familiar haunt where the warmth of a roaring fire and the laughter of fellow townsfolk could chase away any lingering fatigue. It is a dangerous thing to lose track of ones drinks, and perhaps I was too generous with the number of tankards I allowed myself and the company I kept. By the time I made my way home, the world around me swayed like the deck of a ship at sea, and my head spun with a pleasant, if muddled, lightness. I stumbled into my study, intent on preparing for the next expedition north to their domain. The task is best done sober, one might argue, but stubbornness has always been a close companion of mine. With a hazy mind, I began assembling the usual kit of necessities: glowing mushrooms, a few sprigs of luminous cave moss, and, of course, powdered chaurus egg. Or so I thought. My hands worked with muscle memory, scooping and measuring ingredients into small pouches. However, in my inebriated state, I failed to notice the vital mistake I made. Instead of reaching for the familiar, slightly iridescent powder of chaurus egg, my fingers grasped the newer, far more potent gray ejaculate powder—recently dried and finely ground. It was this foolish blunder that, had I been of clearer mind, would have never made. But the error went unnoticed, and I packed the powder away alongside the rest of my carefully chosen supplies. With dawn still a whisper on the horizon, I saddled my patient mare and loaded the saddlebags, making sure to check the secure placement of the glass vials and the waterproof leather pouches. The chill of morning air did little to sober me fully, but the excitement of another foray into the northern caverns set my heart racing. The chaurus awaits, and with any luck, more discoveries lie in store. My blunder, however, remained nestled in the depths of my kit, awaiting the inevitable moment it would reveal itself—an unforeseen consequence of a night spent with ale rather than caution.