#to the tune of my friends: these are my hags...

[ashleyslorens]

AARON TVEIT & SUTTON FOSTER SWEENEY TODD: THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET

[justatypicalwizard]

Bakugo who eats you out because he lost a bet, smut

It all started with a bet. It was this specific chaotic type of bet that you throw over your shoulder when agitated. The one that comes pistoling out of your lips as soon as it comes to your mind, or even earlier, a fog of war limits your common sense.

This was often the case with Katsuki Bakugo who was world widely known as the most annoying person on earth.

Okay, maybe he stood on this podium only in your world (others deemed Denki as the most insufferable) but it was enough to fire the never ending quarrels.

The two of you were similar in many senses, none of which would ever admit. Despite you being way less aggressive, you had your ways of getting under other peoples’ skin when displeased. You had this fighting spirit and competitive nature that could tune well with Katsuki’s. Unfortunately it most often sang off-key.

It was hard to tell what he thought about you. On one hand you’d say he definitely disliked you, to some point maybe? If he did dislike you he wouldn’t keep you around the small circle of his friends. Katsuki proved that he could push away anyone he wished to, no matter the circumstances. That’s what happened with Deku.

So Katsuki Bakugo disliked the fact that he liked you. Or he liked to dislike you. Either way you fought, ebbed and always surged back. Oh, and bets?

I bet you won’t even make it halfway before the time is up. He throws when he passes you down the hallway, spotting you bending your back over a book, minutes before the exam.

I bet your lovely friend will come looking for you soon. You snicker leaving him in the kitchen of the house party you’re both at. He’s currently hiding from a bimbo who really tries to ask him out and doesn’t take no for an answer.

I bet your mum dropped you when you were little.

I bet Miruko will kick your ass over this.

I bet they’ll send this essay back. It’s shit.

I bet it’ll die in this sunlight.

“Huh.” He knit his brows together, throwing you a nasty look. “Old hag didn’t say anything. It looks like it needs light.”

You were currently in his dorm room, analysing a small plant his mother left him. It was tiny, in a small ceramic pot, with three juicy green leaves poking out of the fresh soil.

“Well, I bet it’ll die if you put it in this sun.” You threw, shrugging your shoulders.

“Okay. If I win you’ll shut the fuck up for a single day around me. No words, not even a squeak.”

With the eye of your imagination you could see Katsuki pestering you for a whole day while you’d be unable to fire back. Yet, you had nothing to worry about. The little dude on the windowsill will bear three of four days before wittering. It’s the type that needs more shade.

“Fine. And if I win you can eat my ass.”

He chuckled, throwing a not happening over his shoulder before ushering you to work you both had to do.

A week later you were back in his room. It was a pleasant place to work in - clean, quiet, and always stocked with tea and coffee. Unlike you, Katsuki had the luxury of a single room which always soured your mood when he rubbed it in your face.

You were resting in his desk chair, legs crossed and organising a bunch of sources you were about to use later in your dissertation. It was the least pleasant part of writing essays. Finding academic sources in the library or browsing for them on the internet was not half bad. One could get in the swing of it after some time. And it made you feel like a real student all book heavy bags in a spacious bibliotheca.

Organising them later though? A pain in the ass.

“-by the way.” You caught only the ending of his sentence.

“Huh?” Turning around you spotten Katsuki looking at something in the far end of his room.

There was a closet there, one that didn’t quite reach the ceiling but was massive in shape. Atop of it sat the little dude in his sweet ceramic pot. Unfortunately all that was left of his three juicy leaves was one stem fighting for its life.

You clapped your hands in satisfaction, cracking a victorious laugh.

“Told you.” Fake wiping a tear from your cheek, you turned back to the desk and searched for the box you were about to tick off the long list. “Give it some more water and time. It will be fine.”

“So.” You felt him standing behind you. His shadow disrupted your writing.

“So?” Once again you turned around in his chair, cocking your brow in question.

“You won.” He crossed his arms, tapping his foot on the soft carpet in irritation.

You nodded your head with a grin but still ruffled. “Yes, and?”

“And you told me I can eat your ass.”

“Oh yeah, stuff your stupid mouth full.” You laughed but he yanked you by the arm, standing you up.

He dropped to his knees, pushing your bottom into the rim of his desk. With a shit eating grin he slipped his fingers into the sides of your trousers, grazing the bare skin of your hips underneath them.

“What the fuck dude?” You cursed, grabbing his forehead like the one of a misbehaved dog, trying to pacify him.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” The grin never left his face as he waited for your words, digging his nails into your skin.

It would be a lie to say that you never ever thought of him that way. Of course he was pretty, with his naturally fair hair that gave him a punk kind of look. With his body carved out like a marble statue. With a grin that made people both want to slap him and fawn over him.

Yes, it did cross your mind that he would be a pleasant view in the bed. Who with a sound mind wouldn’t think of that. Maybe people who weren’t attracted to-

No, it was a normal thought to have, one that may occur when you’re alone under the shower or in bed. You just often appreciate the beauty of your friends. Mina’s also cute and Kirishima is bulked as hell. It was a rational train of thoughts.

So why wasn’t your rational mind telling your hand to push him away just now? Why were you looking at his face, so close to your clothed cunt and feeling excitement bubble in your veins.

Tell me to stop and I will.

And you never did. So he pushed you to sit on the desk, pulling both your trousers and pants down at the same time. You kicked the air a few times to get rid of them but they hung from one of your ankles. It didn’t matter because his face was at its place. God bless you showered before coming here because you could have second thoughts otherwise.

“Okay, whatever the fuck you want, psycho.” You breathed as he lapped at your clit, still looking up at you.

His fingers creeped towards the inner side of your tight and you slapped him over the head.

“Uh, uh. I told you you could eat me out, not finger me. Yesterday you didn’t seem like the one to take shortcuts.” You spat, drinking up his frustration and slight… shame? Like a kid who did something wrong and got caught red handed.

“Fine.” He muttered pushing his tongue inside you. “It won’t take long anyway.” The grin was back on his face.

It indeed didn’t take long as soon, your legs were shutting tightly around his face. You weren’t even looking down anymore, the sight was a turn on but you were already overdriven. Your competitive nature was in a bliss and your head played fucking Katsuki Bakugo, on his fucking knees, between my fucking legs over and over like a broken record. You didn’t want to spoil your fun by thinking he may be having a  merrier time than you.

Not now, not when you’re so close and his palms are grabbing your tights, fingers digging into your muscles so much it would hurt if not the tension. Edging your release, you grabbed his hair in a tight fist pushing him in more, crossing your legs like it would take an “open, sesame!” to undo them.

At last, with a final short breath you came chuckling and moaning. A Katsuki may have slipped past your lips but only once.

He tore your legs open, panting like he just finished a marathon. Looking down you covered your lips to hide the laugh. His face was wet, smeared all over with what was a mixture of you both. His cheeks were heavy with blood, an intense red cutting out on his pale face. Classically, his brows were knit together.

“Did you have to make such a mess?” The blonde stood up and went to his bathroom. You caught a glimpse of the bulge in his pants.

The sound of the faucet reached your ears.

“I’m not gonna say sorry. You asked for it.” And you were pretty good at it. No. Such praise would kill your ego.

The water stopped running and you heard him stomp back. You pulled your trousers on quickly, suddenly feeling awfully naked. What would happen now? Your casual friend just ate your pussy like it was his last meal before a death sentence, and you were supposed to go back to organising the sources.

You felt a hard push to the back of your head.

“Stop thinking about it and get back out.”

Eh?!

Time went on quickly and in a weird manner. A huge something was in the air but you couldn’t find a way to bring the topic up. Why did you eat my pussy out of the blue? Was it really just about the bet? Were you feeling horny and I just so happened to be there? Are we fwb now? Do you like me?

Scratch the last one. The man gave you a headache ever since his own head left your tights. Also, he was nowhere to be found. Katsuki didn’t respond to texts, he was absent from the gym during his usual hours, and his dorm room was closed. You couldn’t just go to Kirishima and say: hey, I’m trying to figure out why Katsuki gave me head, wanna help?

The moment you run into his fleeting ass, you're gonna squeeze out the answer.

An opportunity came soon when you spotted him sneaking into the laundry room. It was a cramped space with washing machines and dryers. Fortunately, you had little thieves around dorms so people usually left their washing while it was in progress. There was a big chance you’d be alone.

Running to the door you yanked them open and rushed inside. Indeed, it was only him crouched to the lowest washing machine, putting mostly black clothes inside.

“You’re here for round two?” He smirked and you gasped.

It took you by surprise, you expected yelling or awkwardness. Nevermind. You shook off your initial stumble.

“Can you explain what the fuck do you mean by all this?” You gestured in the air as if all this was a laundry basket and an empty bottle of washing liquid scattered on the floor.

Katsuki hummed, shrugging his shoulders. He dropped the halfway loaded laundry on the floor and crawled closer to you, gripping your hips in a familiar manner. This time, you were wearing a skirt. Your back hit the door.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” It fell from his lips as if he was asking whether you want vanilla or chocolate ice-cream.

Your mind ran in circles like a hamster in its ball. Start a fuss and possibly fight with Katsuki or let him do his thing and cum? Uhh.

He took your panties off completely, throwing them into his washing machine but left your skirt. Halfway in, when your chest was heaving and hips pushed further and further away from the door you heard a sound on the other side.

The doorknob shook and there was a mumble on the outside. You dug your feet into the ground and Katsuki put one of his hands to shut it closed. Yet, he didn’t stop what he was doing. Both of your palms also pushed into the thin wood making you unable to quiet the panting and loud gulps. You bit your lip and it would break if something wasn’t stuffed inside your mouth.

Taking a sharp breath through your nose, you smelled him. He stuffed your mouth with one of the shirts from his laundry. You threw him a dirty look from above to which he only smirked, going back down.

“It’s locked.” The muffled voice on the other side said.

“Maybe maintenance.” A different one answered.

When they were gone, you could finally cum, biting hard into Katsuki’s shirt. You steadied yourself on a drier afterwards while he wiped his mouth with a spare T-shirt before throwing all the leftover laundry inside the washing machine and starting it.

“My pants.” You breathed out, you were still coming back to earth.

“Ops.” He threw and with a single long stride, escaped the murder scene.

Your walk of shame in the short skirt, without panties on was long.

The third time you could talk to him happened only a day later.

You were studying with Kirishima, or more like tutoring him for free, in the library. Kirishima also had a single room in the dorms but his was far more trashy and you didn’t crave to spend time in that man cave. Instead you booked a private study room. It had a small round table, a few chairs and switches to plug in electric devices.

Halfway through your study Kirishima stated he needed to go to the bathroom. You nodded and the man left. Only after a minute did you hear the door open once more.

“A line in the mens’? Unbelievable.” You chuckled but upon looking up, you were met with a nasty grin.

“Kirishima told me you guys were studying.” He cornered you. “You know the deal.”

Katsuki slipped behind your chair as you whipped your head around to stop him. He placed both of his hands on your shoulders, surprisingly gentle.

“Just tell me to stop.”

Oh fuck you you pretty bastard. Is what you thought.

“Oh fuck you.” Is what you said and you wanted to add something but he pushed your upper half into the table simultaneously yanking the chair from under your butt.

It took a lick for your knees to get kinda soft and your morale to stumble between being a decent person or getting this unbelievably lucky chance for a third time.

“Can we at least do it after I finish with Kiri? I can come to your room as quickly as I am able to.” You whispered.

“Or you can call the dumbass and buy me a few minutes.” Katsuki muttered between your folds.

You cursed under your breath and grabbed your phone. Pick up, pick up, pick up, goddamn. Kirishima could be back any second. Although nothing terrible would happen if he came in on you, it would be embarrassing like hell. Finally, you heard his voice on the other side of the line.

“I’m just coming back, literally wait a second-”

“No!” You shouted into the device. “I mean.”

Katsuki seemed to slow down between your tights. Good, the bastard is not stupid and he cut you some slack this time.

“I’m sorry but I just really need a coffee, I thought you’d still be somewhere around the entrance.” You pieced together a makeshift excuse.

“I can go back. ‘Ts the least I can do for your help.” Kirishima laughed so genuinely it made you feel slightly bad for playing him like this.

“Yeah, uh, it really is boring like hell.” You laughed. The whole phone call made you unable to focus on Katsuki who was behind you and you really wanted to go back to minding him. “If I can be honest it would be lovely if you could bring me coffee from that cafe down and opposite of the library. You know which. I slept really bad and need their double espresso.” Kiri, please just say yes!

“Of course, anything for you.”

That sweetheart. Kirishima was really the perfect man, contrary to Katsuki who just now, at the very end of your call, decided to be an absolute asshole.

You felt two of his fingers push past your entrance and force your walls open. A breath got caught in your throat.

“Okay thanks, bye!” You smashed the end call button. “What the fuck are you do-”

But he was turning you around, lapping his tongue over your clit, moving his fingers in and out of your cunt all of which with closed eyes and a blissful look on his face. You gave in, because it felt so good.

After a while you finished all over his face, for the third time this week.

“I told you not to finger me.” You complained, dressing yourself in fear of Kirishima being too neat in his mission to get you coffee.

“I know and I didn’t like it. So I had to distract you.” He smirked, resting his hip on the table.

At that moment, Kirishima came inside with two paper cups, steam escaping the small opening in the lids.

“Oh, hi dude! I didn’t think you’d come here. I’d buy you coffee too.” Kirishima chirped.

“Forget about it, I was supposed to do something anyway. Just came in to say hi.” The blonde flicked his hand in the air. “Oh, and if you want-” He turned to you. “You can come to my room later and finish what we were talking about.” With that he slipped past the door leaving you with a grimace and Kirishima with a dumbfounded expression.

“What were you guys talking about?” The redhead asked.

“Nothing important, just about transplanting a small plant his mum gave him. I’ll help him later, he has already managed to nearly kill it.”

[crescenthistory]

Where Padfoot Lays His Head

Summary: Inspired by @thewriterghost's reblog of my last animagus!reader fic, this is just a sweet drabble of Whiskers comforting Padfoot:,)

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, your marauders/animagus name is whiskers, walburga black, black family dynamics and trauma, vaguely implied abuse, sirius spiraling into self-loathing, platonic physical affection, romantic!regulus x reader but platonic!sirius x reader is the main focus, background platonic!moonwater

Note: this is based on the same reader from Feline Touches, Sweet Like Honey and Padfoot vs. Whiskers, sirius' beloved almost-sister-in-law that he has frequent (loving) sibling squabbles with

Sirius pretended he didn’t feel the humiliation burning through his veins from his friends’ worrying looks.

Stop looking at me, stop caring so sodding much.

His internal begging was all for naught; this was apparently what he signed up for when he strolled into the train compartment that housed the largest smile Hogwarts had ever seen and his pack of make-shift slightly-fucked-up-but-lovable friends.

Most days, Sirius was grateful to the bone for the family he had been able to assemble at Hogwarts, stretching from his boyfriend to his boyfriend’s childhood best friend to his biological brother and the boys that became his brothers. However, on days that Walburga Black, the hag to end all hags, sends him a Howler berating him for leaving home over the summer, few sentiments besides anger, self-loathing and isolation remained in the young boy’s body.

When he eventually stops reeling and wallowing, all this attention would make him feel warm once more, especially when he sees they didn’t stop showering him in it even as he retreated perhaps a bit rudely from it. Right now, though, it just kept the wound open and Sirius was sure the infection would kill him this time around.

He was sure of that every time.

It became evident quickly that he would not be able to get away from his friends. James was practically glued to his side from the moment he left the Great Hall after Walburga ruined everyone’s lunch. His brown eyes were so wide beneath his glasses and Sirius was sure he could almost see tears in them as he swung his arm around Sirius’ shoulders and kept telling jokes like his life depended on it. Remus was not much better. He had learned by now not to soften his touches when Sirius was in these moods – on the contrary, harsh, direct touches helped ground him – but his hands rarely left his being, as if he would fall apart without him. Even Lily tuned down her playful banter with him, swapping it for concerned questions and checking in on him throughout the day. Sirius loved them all, but he hated it.

Even Regulus showed him more compassion than normal, though he didn’t say much. His entire being seemed to radiate I get you, I understand more than anyone, because frankly he did. Even as hearing Walburga’s voice must have rattled Regulus too, he didn’t show it, instead holding space for Sirius, carrying what was supposed to be his burden.

Humiliating. 

All of which to say, Sirius did what Sirius does best; he ran from them all, in the one form none of them would be able to hold a conversation with him in.

Padfoot had turned out to be a blessing that way. Sirius picked up on it from you, who only ever was in your animagus form when you felt particularly well or horrifically poorly. Difficult to ask how a dog is feeling, yeah? 

He laid in front of the common room fireplace, stretched out in a position that showed he was ready to pounce should anyone try to pet him. Around him, his friends were cuddled up on the sofas and armchairs, chattering lowly amongst themselves and playing the occasional game of wizarding chess. Padfoot had his head placed on his front paws as his gaze flickered all over the room, unable to settle. His nerves always seemed to transform with him, manifesting as the most anxious dog Gryffindor had seen.

Their stares were still on him, penetrating and with downturned frowns over their faces. Stop it, stop it, stop it. He couldn’t string too long sentences together in his dog brain – part of its fantastic appeal right now – but that sentiment remained steadfast.

You were sat in Regulus’ lap opposite the fireplace, murmuring something in his ear as you both intermittently looked at Padfoot. Your hands were playing with his hair, lips almost grazing his skin as you talked, even pressing the occasional kiss to his cheek, his jaw, his ear. Love. Padfoot loved love and he loved his little brother getting to experience it so wholly, even as he laid here, destroying the moment with the same misery that hunted any children raised by the Black family. He felt as if he was sucking the joy out of the room with his wallowing, yet he couldn’t stop himself.

Padfoot couldn’t help the low whine that escaped him at the darkness swirling around inside him. Upon fearing having to meet the gazes of anyone who caught the noise and see the goddamn sympathy and pity in them, he brought his paws up to cover his eyes, pathetically hiding within himself.

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.

In his internal chanting, he didn’t notice when the chatter died down a bit, nor did he see the glances exchanged. He felt the footsteps reverberating through the floorboards, suggesting somebody was walking away, but he didn’t register its true implications. Leave, was all he could think. Good, leave. Go.

What he did notice to its fullest extent was when a few moments later, soft fur collided with his own as something was rubbing against him.

A bit too quickly, almost too violently, Padfoot’s head snapped up from beneath his paws to see what this intrusion was – only to come face to face with a white-and-grey cat, blinking slowly at him. His mouth fell slightly open, and he thought a complaining bark may be on its way out, but then you – Whiskers – butted your head against the side of his neck, caressing him with your feline body.

The adventures of Whiskers and Padfoot were a running joke, especially one Remus and Regulus loved to team up to tell. Whether it was chasing each other around, hunting rats – preferably Wormtail, but any would do – and mice or playing with the house elves, you two loved to conduct mischief together in the one form you could never be properly caught in. There had been the occasion where you cuddle or pet one another, but it was rare and usually unspoken, attachment growing deeper and softer without either properly addressing it. 

So, this was not necessarily out of left field, but it surprised him nonetheless. He couldn’t say it wasn’t quite welcome, though.

You had started purring as you walked up and down his body where he was laid in front of the fire, soaking up the warmth he was bathed in and oddly calming the vibrating nerves within his own body. Whenever you reached his head, you bumped your snout against his, rubbing the space between your ears all over his face.

Cats are weird, Padfoot thought. Like it.

Mere minutes ago Sirius had been surveying his friends and his effect on them intently, digging himself deeper into his self-inflicted hole. Now, his attention was captured by the much smaller animal beside him, and he didn’t see how most conversation had stopped to witness the interaction. Lily and James looked at them in almost shocked awe, both having been snapped at and ran away from when they attempted to pet Padfoot themselves. Regulus and Remus, however, sat there with soft, knowing smiles – seeing the girl they loved most go for it with no fear and comforting their favourite dog. Remus would deny it to anyone who asked, but there were tears in his eyes.

The next time Whiskers came up beside his face, you stayed there, leaning yours against his. You laid your body down over the paws Padfoot had previously rested his own head on and made yourself comfortable in a position no one but a cat could possibly conjure up. From there, you began cleaning his fur like you were his personally-assigned cat mother, licking the strands in their correct direction. When his face was too far away, you lightly brought your paw up to his snout to bring him further towards you.

Despite being placed in front of a fire, warmth didn’t truly spread through Sirius before now. When he brought his head down, he laid it on top of you and let it rest there across your midsection, careful not to hurt you, as your upper body curled around his head. You continued cleaning up his fur as you purred loudly, easing the tension from Padfoot’s poor body.

A cuddle only animals could come up with, an embrace Sirius would deny anyone today, yet like this, it just worked.

When his eyes became heavy, Sirius let them fall. You continued your ministrations without hesitation, carefully and slowly tending to Sirius face, only stopping occasionally to nuzzle your forehead further into his fur and purr even louder. 

He didn’t quite fall asleep, he rarely did as Padfoot, too alert and awake in this form, but he let himself fall into a place of tranquillity. Walburga’s harsh words seemed almost funny in their anger now, and Sirius’ own spiral was becoming a thing of the past. 

Would he still be red-cheeked tomorrow and avoid his friends’ eyes for the first half of the day? Perhaps, but they would reel him into their arms and hearts regardless. Would he sputter and fall back into his evil cycle of thoughts if anyone brought this specific moment up? Without a doubt, but that’s why they would not, at least not before he settled. 

Padfoot was suddenly safe in the Gryffindor common room. He was safe with this warm weight over his paws and beneath his head, he was safe with love being quite literally carded into every strand of fur on his body. He was safe with the hearth behind him and his pack in front of him, quiet voices further lolling him further into a state of peace.

Padfoot was safe – maybe even loved.

Across the room, Remus and Regulus had gravitated further towards one another, as theirs were the only eyes who never left the scene of cat-dog-solidarity displayed before them. 

Regulus bumped into Remus’ arm with his elbow and whispered, “He doesn’t like cats, he says?” with a knowing smirk.

The other boy huffed a laugh at that, lips remaining softly upturned. “I believe he has an exception or two to that rule.”

[chronically-ghosted]

vivarium

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: ezra x f!reader word count: 8K summary: you request a vacation for your birthday. With the rain and a few drinks, you get a lot more than you asked for.  warnings: alcohol drinking, minor age gap (less than 10 years), oral (f!receiving), fingering, smut, possessive!Ezra, dom!Ezra, one booty smack, dirty talk for real, smut, pining, a bit of angst, referenced/implied orphanhood, made a religious sex pun and i'm so proud of myself a/n: so @morallyinept requested this and it turns out when I write for a boy for the first time, it can’t be less than 7K – whoops. i've gotten ezra requests from some moots before, so i hope this lives up to your expectations! **massive thanks to @toomanytookas for editing and providing the initial validation so i don't post in a mouth-frothy haze. I've never had a beta like you before and I genuinely feel like I've turned over a new chapter in my fic writing. thank you!

🤍Masterlist 🤍 Ezra Masterlist 🤍 AO3 Link

💜come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

Your feet in the clear blue water, the humidity like a wet tongue on your skin, you scratch a nail under the tab of a mustard yellow can, crack it open, and drink. The bite of alcohol dulled by the carbonation, you take several pulls, drawing out the mid-afternoon buzz from two other cans and whetting your mouth in the heat of the jungle day. You lean back on your elbows into the sponge-soft grass, and let out a massive sigh. 

A few feet ahead of you, on a repurposed inflatable reentry tube, your long-time privateer partner chuckles, the sound deep in the back of his throat as he floats by. Thick fingers and exposed heels dragging along in the crystal water, he greets the yellow sun like an old friend – arms wide, chest out, a lazy smile on his face. A damp rag – supposedly clean – sits over what you know to be dark-earth eyes, every other inch of him relishing in the inevitable sun tan. 

“I see your aaahhh, pet, and I raise you a mhmm.” The rubber squeaks as he adjusts, tips his scarred chin up to the cloudless sky and rests his head back. “Kevva said there’d be days like this, but I think the old hag mighta left out a thing or two.” 

You grin, the wet heat of Banu 8’s lowlands drawing sweat droplets onto your hairline at the back of your neck, settling thick behind your ears where it co-mingles with the drunk haze loping around in your brain. You watch Ezra with his bare arms, hairy legs, and prominent nose turned towards the divinity he’s so fond of invoking and the thought crosses your mind – again:

Shit, he’s so fucking hot. 

Oh, bad thought.

You drop your gaze, pressing the cold aluminum lip of the can to your mouth, drinking quicker than you probably should, anything to distract you from your partner as he obliviously floats by. 

For our sake, you silently beg the hungry little creature that whines and snaps at the image of a shirtless Ezra, please fuck off. 

While Ezra whistles a vaguely familiar tune, terribly off-key, you scoop up the cool lagoon water and dribble it over your hot knees, then your thighs, dampening the rims of your make-shift shorts just enough to cool them without leaving them vulnerable to a permanent state of moisture due to the high humidity. You flick the last drops of the water onto your chest, your white cotton bra choked to your skin. A final effect, you press the cool can to the thrumming pulse on your neck, closing your eyes with a relieved grunt, taking the time to enjoy the sensation of the cold metal against the rapid beat in your throat. 

From the water, you hear an unsettled grunt and you open your eyes to find that same shirtless Ezra staring at you, the rag now curled in one hand against the rubber float. He swallows, looks at something past your ear, and again tries to adjust in the sticky rubber float without flipping himself over, his hands falling into his lap. 

“Neptune, dear, would you do us the favor of tossing over one of those cans? I’m parched. I think my lovely skin is drying out.”

Neptune. His favorite nickname for you. You never got any real explanation from him as to why you got that name, other than after you’d officially joined his crew, you told him you came from a blue planet in a far off system. But that was often the way of things: Ezra did something and you didn’t question why. From that simple truth, you learned about how to repair and rebuild the entire electrical system from a drop pod. You learned, in excruciating detail, the parts and mechanics of a thrower, so much so that you could almost identify the model number at a glance. You learned about which corporate dig sites to avoid, which made for easy marks, and which would draw the eye and ire of entities hardly worth the trouble. 

Being out on your own since you aged up out of the orphanage had not gone the way you hoped and life had not been so kind as to teach you any other way to survive. Ezra had found you in the back of a red spice market, cornered and slurping down the last few of your credits from a muck bowl that you had vastly overpaid for.

For whatever reason, he offered you a job on the spot, despite you having nothing to offer him. and no experience in anything except cleaning prophylaxiams and staying out of the way.

And yet, he has been far kinder than life, or anyone else, had ever been to you. 

As a result, loyalty was only a fraction of what you felt for him. What had begun as overwhelming adoration had grown hot to the touch, slippery between your fingers at night, and perhaps – what you feared most of all – obvious. 

Yet when Ezra looked at you with a smile on his face, it was only comradery he wished to share with you, certainly not his bed. He shared it with practically every other bi-pedal humanoid you came across, but not you. And this you had to accept. And you did. 

But being a little drunk made it that much harder to remember where to keep your hands to avoid being burned.

“Sure, Ez.” You tuck your legs out from the cool water and dig around in the canvas bag at the base of the white nut tree. Most of the ice had melted into the bright green grass around the lagoon, but a few of the cans were still cold. You’d probably tease Ezra later for skimping on the insulation bucket the provisions store the port offered, but he had been so eager to get to the camp ground after spending an “exceedingly exorbitant amount of time stacked up against human drivel on public transportation”. One lopsided grin, and you’d give him the world. 

“Ez–,”

He lifts the rag, glancing at you over his shoulder, hands cupped as the can flies through the air. The cold metal presses against the overheated skin on his chest and he hisses. Eyeing the can ruefully, he cracks it open and drinks deep. You busy yourself with sliding to the edge of the pool again to keep from watching his throat move. 

Ezra finally pulls back, smacking his lips, with a pleased groan. He wets the rag again and dramatically flops it over his eyes. Hidden from his view, you watch the roll of water down his temples, his neck, his chest. 

“Name anything better than this, Neptune, I beg you. Free from obligation or assignment on commission. Where my only moral imperative is to drink as many of these as I can and remind you how beautiful you are. Which . . .” he tilts the bottom of the can towards you, head still tilted back on the raft and dripping rag covering his vision, “fantastic, by the way.” 

Having stifled your blush while under his watchful gaze about three or four other times today, without him looking, you flush so hard and fast you go lightheaded. Beautiful, he said. You drink more carbonated alcohol to choke back your rising heart, your eyes skim over the curve of his nose, a drop of sweat as it peaks on his forehead. You can’t linger over him too long; he has a six-sense about you – unable to know what you’re thinking but that you’re overthinking all the same. 

“Was this worth the trip on public transportation, Ez?” Your ankles stir the water again. 

“I could do this all day,” he sighs contently, bringing a warm smile to your face. “And definitely all night.”

Maybe you’ll both be so sun-drunk later tonight, you’ll fall asleep together on the pallet on the floor. Of course, by nightfall, someone will have to come to their senses and you’ll be tucked back into your separate sleeping bags, but maybe, as a present you couldn’t possibly ask for, you can just nap together.

With the bottom plush of your lip stuck between your teeth, you rim the metallic edge of your can with your nail, ankles spinning slow circles in the water. 

“Thank you, Ezra,” you say quietly, “for the best birthday I’ve ever had.” 

It began as a sort of joke one night on the volcanic hotspring moon of Wulkan after a twelve hour shift hunting through the black ash in search of fire pearls. The job was rather rushed, and Ezra had his reservations going into it, but fire pearls were a near certainty and you both needed a boost after a jump exchange had gone a little cockeyed. Sweat dripping from his temples, the provided water packs in the harvest suits doing just enough to keep him from passing out from heat exhaustion, he extended the skein of hydro-electric towards you across the narrow lane between your cots and asked you if you could be anywhere right now, any system, where would you be.

“Somewhere so cold I freeze my tits clean off,” you said with a sigh and wiped your own sweat-drenched forehead. You could smell yourself after two days of sweating profusely, but your stench in comparison to the rest of the crew, including Ezra, barely registered any more. You took a sip as Ezra laughed.

“A grievous crime against humanity and all its luscious gifts, but I get your meaning. Anywhere else?”

“Water.” This was said with more conviction, so much so it turned Ezra’s head towards you. “The few memories I have of my home planet and my parents, we were always near or in water. An ocean, maybe. I’m not sure. But I remember being really, really happy and I think being near water . . . it would make me happy again.”

You handed the skein back to Ezra, something unreadable in his gaze. He took it back from you, his fingers dark from the ash that clings to everything. On the other side of the tent, the rest of your crew and other teams mill about, yelling, with cutlery clattering as the camp gets ready to slow for the night, a graveyard shift picking up in just a few hours. 

Ezra’s eyes are as dark as the ash you’ve been shifting through the past two days.

“Then you shall have it, Neptune.” He said, quietly. “I’d give you the fucking galaxy if I could.” 

Those words often came to you in the crevice between sleep and wakefulness, when your mind was idle and the reins that tightly bound your affection for him loosened without a conscious grip. When you thought you weren’t being watched. 

The flat of his foot hooking behind your ankle breaks you from your reverie. Cast into shadow by the wide, rubbery palm leaves above your head, he looks at you curiously. 

“That look of deep consternation is giving me a headache. Spill.” 

With a faint smile, you gently bump his knee with your own. “Nothing, Ez. I’m just glad we get to take a break from it all. I can’t remember the last time I . . . the last time we’ve just had nothing to do.” 

He cocks his head as his gaze crawls up your ankle, your shin, to your knee. You think it might linger on your thigh before it bounces to your face. You tighten your grip on the hot, expansive feeling behind your ribs and stare back at him.

“Then that’s a black mark against me, as the leader of this clan.” His mouth curls, eyebrow arching as he talks, knowing that statement has been a point of playful contention between you two for years. “A good overseer knows when to crack the bullwhip and when to let it rest.”

“Well, a better overseer knows when to demand that her team rests, because sometimes they have no idea what’s good for them.” 

His foot rotates behind your ankle, his toes brushing against your calf, bringing your attention to your own body part in the water. Your legs are hairy, nearly as much as Ezra’s, and you haven’t shaved your pits in possibly a decade. Ezra once brought home a professional nightwalker, one from the Upper City, to the derelict flat you’d been sharing for two weeks as you offloaded your haul to the under markets. You never forgot how smooth her skin had been, shaved clean and smelling of moon lilies. That scent permeated the small space for weeks afterward. Even now, just the sight of moon lilies makes you nauseous. 

His aversion to you runs much deeper than physical aesthetics, even if you can’t help but wonder sometimes if becoming as smooth and hairless as the nightwalker might change his mind.

“Observational to a fault as always, Neptune.” The ball of his foot rests briefly between your legs before he pushes off from the spongy lip of the lagoon’s edge. He floats back into the sun, his head shaking slightly, a smile drained of amusement on his lips. He inhales as the sun crests over his forehead and he glances up at the blue sky. “I have no idea what’s good for me.”

Something about his tone, the way he turns away from you, scratches a very raw place inside of you – a place that fears and obsesses over abandonment. You wouldn’t survive it if he abandoned you, if he left you to fend for yourself one day. Logically, you know he would never do that – he has sworn up and down to your face that that notion is fundamentally ludicrous to him – but the anguish of him silently rejecting you from his bed again and again and again makes that fragile place inside you bleed red. 

You stand up, swipe another can from the bag, and move towards the waterfall. 

“I’m taking a hike.”

You feel his eyes on the backs of your thighs as you march towards the gentle incline.

“Be safe, Neptune,” he calls softly.

For a fleeting second, you wish he had made you stay.

The first fat raindrop splashes against your cheek and wakes you from a humid, irritated nap. You’re scowling by the time you open your eyes to several more wet droplets as they splatter against your neck, your forehead and you sit up, even more frustrated than when you fell asleep. The last sticky tendrils of dreams snap and pop as you pull yourself onto your feet, back hunched and arm held high against the steamy sprinkle. A crack of lightning, then a growl of thunder, and the sky splits open, drenching you in seconds. With a snarl of your own, you snatch up the empty can from the grass next to you and make for your camp down the hill. As you crest the top, you see a figure standing outside the tent, back tense and hand raised as if searching through the twilight gray downpour. 

Normally, the thought of warming up beside Ezra in your yellow tent fills you with something inexplicable, the grime and load of the day melting from your shoulders, but your buzz from earlier has thickened, made worse by the heat, the emotions in your heart all gummed up and smashed together. The sight of him cranks up your irritation high in your ears. With a huff, you concentrate on a smooth slide down the hill without breaking your ankles and not the fire rising in your gut. 

But the rain and the distance apart has only stoked his own outrage.

“Where the hell were you?” He snaps as you yank back the velcroed tent flap. He is dripping from head to toe in jungle rain as he follows closely behind you into your small space. You ring the water from your hair into a corner and scowl up at him. 

“I fell asleep. The rain woke me up. I came back as soon as I could.” 

His eyes narrow, water rolling off his bare shoulders as if he still stood out in the downpour. The droplets pat pat pat against the tarp floor as he snatches up a fiber towel and dries himself off, scowling all the while. 

“I searched for you, calling your name up and down this fuckin’ jungle and I didn’t hear a peep. What if something had gone wrong? What if you’d been hurt?”

“Then I would have fucking dealt with it, Ezra.” You stomp to your feet, neck hot from his patronizing gaze. Hands on his hips, you feel like you’re being scolded. “I can take care of myself.” 

One dark eyebrow arches mockingly, the scar on his cheek twisting in his scowl.

“And you expect me to lay about, twiddling my thumbs, while I wait for you to return or until you deem it appropriate for me to fret over your corpse?” 

That patch of blonde hair is a shade darker, drenched and pressed flat against his forehead. His bare chest is littered with scars and divots where chunks of flesh had been torn away. His skin is a reflection of the hard life he lives. You doubt you’d look any different if you’d seen yourself in a mirror. 

“We are partners, Ez,” you grind out between locked teeth. “Equals, alright? I am not your little sister for you to fuss over and you are not my keeper.” 

At that, the indignant swell of his chest deflates and the anger in his eyes flickers before fading out. 

“You are beyond capture,” he mutters, eyebrows down but gaze distant. “I’d never dream of keeping you, Neptune.” 

Again, it’s his phrasing that hurts most of all. You glance away, the backs of your eyes growing hot and tight, drying out despite the sticky moisture warming the inside of the tent. But then his hand around your elbow startles away the tears forming in the corners of your eyes. 

“You are the most important thing to me in the entirety of this world and the next,” he says softly, earth eyes searching your face. “I came on too strong, I know that, but the idea that you’d ever be gone from my side for any amount of permanence . . . well, it’s been a lifetime since I’ve felt fear like that.” 

His frown goes belly-up, a hopeless smile on his face. “I wasn’t aware I even still could.” His calloused thumb brushes your skin, skin that nearly catches fire from the rough drag of scar tissue, before he lets his hand drop. Your own curls into a fist at your side, a tremor rattling the bones of your wrist in an effort to keep from reaching up and touching that moon-shaped scar you dream about at night.

“I’m not going anywhere, Ez. You taught me enough to survive in a world like this. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

That smile goes wan, sickly. “That’s the problem, dear heart, I trust you with my life.” 

He swallows, as if suddenly bashful to make direct eye contact with you. He clears his throat before rummaging around in his canvas bag for dry clothes. He yanks a black, sleeveless shirt on over his head before setting up the materials for a flameless pocket fire. 

“Since my dreams of showing you something called a barbeque have been quite literally rained out, we’ll finish off the rest of the dredge pack tonight. But come first light, I’ll fix you breakfast so succulent, the smell alone’ll make your mouth water. How does that sound, Neptune?”

He barely slows to breathe as he seamlessly switches topics from breakfast to another meal made at camp without looking up or stalling in his prep for dinner, hands almost disconnected from the humming of his mouth – one so methodical, the other like a channel rat on fire. 

“– and the thing was no one was really sure enough what a squatter egg looked like when it goes bad. But being out in a cramped hold-out for two weeks where it was so dark, your own ass and someone else’s had no demarcation, well, there wasn’t a single peep of dissimilitude . . .”

Words strung together so quick and so melodic, it was always incredibly easy to fall into a sort of easy trance around Ezra. Sounds and syllables just sounded right coming out of his mouth and after a while, that trance became a state of repose, Ezra’s own sense of calm filtered to whoever was also in the room. But not to you, not right now.

After spending immeasurable time with less than half a space between you in cramped tents and in claustrophobic dig sites, you could read the tension on the lines of his body as well as the lines on the palm of your hand. 

“Neptune? You with me?”

Ezra glances up at you, always aware of you and your movements like the twinge on a spider’s web, a signature smile that has always seemed to shine a bit brighter for you plastered over his face. The anger was the only thing holding you up and with it gone, you can feel your bruised heart twinge as it folds over itself. 

“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m gonna switch out of these wet clothes before we eat, okay?”

He hums, nodding, eyes fixating on the steadily boiling water in front of him as you turn away to the other side of the tent, by your pallet and traveler’s pack. As further evidence that he feels nothing but companionship for you, you feel his eyes remain nowhere near you as you strip off your shorts and bra for a sun-warm suit. Then again, you’d like to think it’s kind of scandalous to be changing in front of him, but you’d both seen each other naked more times than you could count – there is no modesty in foxholes. The space between your hips and your thighs feel sticky from sweat and the slick rain, the curve of your spine warm and flushed. The zipper is loud in the silence. 

You’re braiding your damp hair away from your face when he sighs and the noise makes you look back at him.

“Answer me honestly, if you’ve ever cared for me a tick. Do you regret it?”

His eyes are sorrowful, worried, brow fixed down. Ezra is not, and never has been, a man prone to melancholy. His wrists rest loosely over his knees, gaze deep in the bubbling bone broth. The rain outside taps insistently at the tarp. 

“Regret what?” 

“Coming with me and taking on this life. It’s not an easy one,” he says quietly. “I should have offered you another choice, that day in the market. But one look at you and I . . . I was willing to trust you with my life, Neptune – far, far too soon. Even at my best, you make me irrational.”

You watch him, his broad shoulders moving, as he scoops up the hot, dark liquid into two bowls, and joins you by the entrance to the tent. You pin back the flap as he settles, the scent of humid rain immediately flooding your mouth, the pattering sound now twice as loud. Wordlessly, he hands you a spoon before digging into his own bowl. 

The heat of the soup burns away all the silly, impossible things sitting on your tongue. You sit in silence, his presence never rushing you to answer before you are ready. As you eat, you stare out at the dark lagoon, where you had both been only hours ago, the clear water murky beneath the downpour. 

“No, Ezra, I don’t regret it.” He stills, as if surprised you’re answering him now, mid-meal. He lowers the bowl to his lap, eyes trained on you. “You saved my life, more times than I can count.” 

Your words loosen the rigid lock of his shoulders. He grins. “As you’ve said, you would have been just fine without me.”

Your vision goes blurry. You pin him with such a stare, you watch the blood rush from his face.

“But it would have been only half a life.”

“Don’t kid about that, Neptune, it’s not –,”

“I’m serious.” You put your bowl down and rub your eyes with your sleeves. Of all the ways he hasd seen you bare and naked, he’s never seen you this vulnerable. “I don’t wanna do any of this without you. I want you, Ezra.”

“You have me, dear heart, you have me.”

“Not like that and you know it.” You watch as understanding rolls across his face. His lips part, eyes wider. He swallows and you stare at the ceiling, cheeks suddenly wet and hot. He said he’d never leave you, but what if this is the thing that finally does it? Could he work with you, knowing just how deeply you love him, and not feel an ounce of disgust? “You told me once sex is just a way to pass the time, but never, not once, have you ever even tried to pass the time with me.” 

He swallows, deeper this time, jaw locked, his eyes fluttering with the force of it. He brings his knees to his chest.

“Because it wouldn’t just be passing time with you.” 

In that moment, you’re grateful for the rain, for the sound of something to fill the silence. 

You stare at him, cross-legged in front of the open corner of this yellow tent, abandoned bowls growing colder, but he sits with his leg up, knee to his chest, as if to ward you off. Ward off whatever is growing in your gaze, under the flat bone over your heart in your chest. But whatever is stifling the air in your lungs, is warming his eyes past the point of comfort, barrelling towards expletives and the crass, the lewd and depraved. You cannot go back to having him look at you any other way. 

That look loosens every line in his face when you crawl into his lap, your knees around his hips. The backs of your thighs go damp, even through the suit, pressing down onto his still-damp shorts, and you think his breathing has quickened.

His massive palm hovers near your cheek, unwilling or unable to pull you forward or push you back, his oak eyes searching your face for signs of discomfort as if he had somehow dragged you across the tarp floor. 

“Neptune,” he mumbles as he focuses on the curve of your bottom lip, “this is unwise. You don’t know what you’re asking for.” 

You can feel the hard curve of his shoulders as you follow the lines of his arms and settle them on his collarbone. Nothing has happened that can’t be undone – not yet. Your perfect, vicious Ezra hasn’t pressed you flat on your back like you thought he would at the hint of sex. You could return with your dignity tomorrow morning, this moment never spoken of again, and he’d let you have that. The shake of his elbow with his palm against the tarp is the only indication that something might be unsettling to him. 

But it is your birthday after all. Maybe he’d let you have this one thing. He doesn’t know you’ll die without it.

“If you don’t want this . . . if you don’t want m-me, then say something. Push me away and I’ll never bring it up again.” You cup the sides of his neck as your hips shift forward, closer to him. The air in your lungs tightens, breath coming in shallow pants. Only then does he drop your gaze and fixate on your encroaching heat. “At least then I’ll know.” 

There. Out loud. It’s been said, heard above the deluge of rain against the tent and the jungle outside. 

His palm finally settles on your cheek. It brings a sense of wholeness to you like you’ve never known. Your eyes flutter shut at the sensation, a breathy exhale pours out of your mouth. His thumb catches the plush curve of your bottom lip and he draws it towards your chin, his own mouth open, enraptured. 

“Sweet thing, how have you not always known?” 

His mouth is humid against yours, as if he swallowed the jungle while looking for you, his thumb releasing your lip to capture with his own. The tip of his pointer finger massages the hinge of your jaw, just below your ear, and he manipulates your head until your mouth parts like he wants.

His tongue skims your upper lip, a tentative exploration into the unknown rewarded with a low groan that is warmed by the heat coiling low in your hips. You taste his tongue, a hot glide inside your mouth, and you feel his arms slip around your lower back, his inhale of breath sharp across your face as he brings you closer. He bites your lips roughly, the spark of pain and pleasure crackling across your face as if you’d brushed a live wire. 

His fingers wrap around your wrist, prying you from the back of his neck, just for a moment, his eyes heat-soaked. You suck your teeth, mouth open and seeking, and the hand around your jaw drops to your collarbone, the breadth of his palm nearly suffocating your throat.

The briefest pressure – the slightest touch – at the pulse at the bottom of your neck and your hips rock forward into him as he flattens his other palm to your ass, clutching you to him and pinning you to the pallet.

His teeth scrape against the curve of your ear, pinching the cartilage between his incisors, while his hands frantically search up and down your waist. His weight smothers you, his stomach breathing into yours, the flat plane of his chest rubbing your nipples raw against your suit, an unfocused lurch to his hips every time you tug on his hair. With every breath, every time you try to savor his touch, the taste of his mouth is like a wave, dragging you forward, wrapping a dizzy chain around your throat and squeezing.

Ezra’s greatest weapon has always been his mouth, that silver string spinning faster the longer he captivates you, spell-bound. Now he uses to decimate you in entirely new ways. 

The suck of his lips against the moist flesh below your ear distantly distracts from the afterburn of his unkempt beard against your jaw, your cheek. His lips alternate patterns of reward with a plush kiss and punishment with a stern nip when you try and stifle a moan. The edge of his shirt is damp from resting against his shorts when you slip your fingers underneath to palm the small of his back. He stills when you run your fingers around to the front of his trunks. 

His hand curls around a clump of hair at the base of your skull, his eyes darker than volcanic ash. The steady heat of his groin against your thigh is a sensation you’ll chase for the rest of your life.

“You know what happens when you touch a man there, Neptune?” He’s breathing hard, you both are, and the way he snags your hair in his fist has your head twisted at an odd angle, but you’d be damned to a Kevva-forgotten corner of the cosmos before you drop his gaze. You nod and that moon-shaped scar on his cheek twitches. “I know I didn’t teach you that.”

“L-learned it – somewhere else – Ezra.” Your mouth isn’t working properly, your lips swollen from his kisses, the slight pain in your scalp making it difficult to focus, while your cunt tightens hungrily. “Had to.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because you wouldn’t give it to me.” 

He leans back, his forearm tense and corded where he has you by the hair, a seemingly disinterested scowl on his face. But by the throbbing length pressed up against you, so far from where you need him the most, he is anything but. 

“So you’re saying this is my fault?” Without breaking eye contact, his chest raised inches above yours, his fingers snag on the blue zipper by your collar and your breathing nearly stops. He hums to himself, eyes following the path of the zipper as the material separates, click by click by click. When it reaches your belly button, he stops. 

“Ezra –,” it’s a whine and you can’t even chastise yourself for it. And neither, it seems, can he. 

Head tilted as if curious about the label of a box beneath colorful wrapping, he dips his wide hand beneath the edge of your suit. The heat that radiates from his palm against the curve of your stomach has you writhing underneath him, your knees drawing up to his hips, trying to catch any relief. 

But he takes his self-satisfied time. Callouses of a hard-won life snag and drag over the soft paper-thin skin that covers your ribs as he maps you in one hand. When he cups your right breast in his palm, the noise you make is a sob of gratitude. 

“You let another man besides me do this to you?” 

The snarling pit of your own thoughts slows as some awareness realizes he’s speaking to you. 

You swallow, clutching his bicep, begging for forgiveness before even opening your mouth to answer. 

“It didn’t mean anything, Ez, it wasn’t you – it meant nothing to me–,”

“But you let someone else touch what’s mine, hm?” That lazy, slightly irritated look on his face, he rotates his hand, squeezing the cup of your tit again, before sharply pinching your nipple. 

“Ezra–,” you choke out and his thigh shifts between your legs, just close enough to feel the heat but nowhere near close enough to grind against. His thumb rotates the raised flesh slow enough to capture and catalog every sigh it draws from you, his eyes catching between his hand and your relaxed face. 

He wears the same expression he does when sitting in the backs of blackmarket tea shops and smoky alebins. When the prospect of striking gold becomes all he can think about.

“Strip.” He suddenly commands. He lifts off you just enough for you to wrench your arm through the armhole, all the while keeping a rough palm on one breast, and then the other. You watch him massage your flesh and your ribs tremble with an unsteady breath. Only when a slightly cool breeze meanders over your bare shoulders and chest do you realize that the tent flap is still open, your head inches from the edge. A perfect and unimpeded view to anyone who wants to watch him hungrily grope your tits. Embarrassment peaks sharply, despite his hand pressing you into the tarp, you wrench your neck back and look over your shoulder through the window of the open tent as if you need to confirm that you are giving the jungle a floor show.

“Ez– shit, the flap–,” 

He finds that the skin beneath your breast had grown sticky and slick from sweat, the humidity still oppressive even with a breeze. He bends his head and licks that same sweaty path and your attention snaps back to him, nails curling against his scalp, his warm breath a high-intensity balm to your roughly-played-with nipples. 

“Not a soul in sight, Neptune,” he murmurs lazily into your ribcage, his nose running up and down the valley between your tits. “And if there were, let them learn a thing or two.” 

His teeth nip the swell of your stomach as he crawls down your half-naked body. Without his heat and hands, the tenderness from his attention on your breasts ratchets up to an ache, a minor preoccupation before he hooks his fingers around the rest of the jumpsuit and tugs. 

You are naked beneath him, swollen chest rising and falling, your knuckles scraping against the pallet as you search for something to grip with all your might. You smell of lagoon water and hot jungle air, of muggy photosynthesis and algae. The smoky scent of the black ash of that distant planet never really left Ezra and the dampness of the rain seems to stir it up. He towers over you, dark and breathing heavy. Smoke and brimstone.

He gropes your ankles, then your calves, hands gliding over the thick hair there – now grown soft in length – as he slowly spreads your legs, with a light you’d never seen before in his eyes. 

“Neptune, I revolve around you.” 

A wave of anxiety lurches up your throat when he brings his mouth to your cunt, the cloying, imagined scent of moon lilies threatening to tear you out of the moment – he won’t want you wild like this – but it’s forcefully yanked back down with a single stripe of his tongue. His previously casual, authoritative persona cracks when he buries his face into your unkempt curls and lets out a deep, overly pleased moan.

Your back bends and he’s gathering up your limbs in his arms to pin them down, nearly resting his forehead on your pubic bone. A few more licks, some deeper than others into where you drip for him, and your thighs start to shake. His fingers around your thighs squeeze roughly against your flesh and pull you further apart. 

Between the flush of slick seeping from you at an embarrassing rate and the wiry hair kept natural out of a certainty no one would see it, he must be drowning or choking, his tongue flicking and sliding, nose prodding your clit just enough to spread the sparks of arousal up through your spine. Feeling as though you’re losing your grip on reality, you sink your hands into his hair, thumb rubbing back that blonde patch, and tug. The moan he shoots into your cunt as he rocks forward into your touch has you whining helplessly. The tarp squeaks where he rubs his hips into it. 

His arms curled around your thighs, your hips shake with restraint against every lap of his tongue until he flicks your clit and your hips grind up against his obliging mouth, a sunspot of pleasure flaring brightly. But all too soon, Ezra lifts up onto his elbows, his hands smoothing across your stomach and he pops his mouth up from your wet folds. With an irate gasp, the swell of bliss fading, your gaze snaps down to plead with him, but he shakes his head.

Wordlessly, he takes one hand from your thigh and wipes his mouth clean with a swipe of his fingers. Then, with his eyes wide, the skin around his mouth loose, he crooks two fingers at the top of your mound before sliding them down where his mouth was seconds ago and presses them inside of you. That simmering in your low belly roars back to life and you toss your head against the unforgiving pallet, eyes slamming shut. He growls at the obscene sucking noise your cunt makes as he plucks at you, in and out. 

“Oleaginous,” he hums, so quietly, it might have been for him. He tongues your clit lightly, pushing his fingers as deep as they can go, watching you thrash. “Mine. Understand?” You remember that tone of voice from when he had you dissecting throwers on a workbench in front of him. You nod, eyes fluttering open, balancing on the precarious edge of release. 

You want to obey his every word. 

His thumb twists up, opening your clit to him and within a whispered breath of “good girl” he sucks your bundle of nerves and launches you into orbit. 

Your entire body goes stiff from the force of it, only to crash back down into his waiting hands, your voice wavering on a high-pitched, girlish wail that shrieks above the sound of rain. Waves of bliss lap at every nerve ending and your vision goes fuzzy for a minute, the only sound you can register is the pounding of your blood in your ears.

And then you register the steady, wet plunge of his fingers still dragging in and out of your pussy.

“Was that mine?” 

Your clit tingles from overstimulation, but you’d rather die than have him stop – you want to answer, if only you could pick up the pieces of your voice. You can only nod, whining. He presses a wet kiss to your inner thigh, the skin there smeared with your release.

“You did a bad thing, letting someone else touch what’s mine.” He scolds, rubs that spot inside you that makes your eyes roll back in your head, holds his finger to it until it burns. You cry, his punishment evident. “Now you have to apologize, Neptune.” 

You nod again, mouth wrenched open as he drags you back and forth across pleasure and pain. 

“Y-y-yes, Ezra,” the words are bone dry, cracked between your teeth. “I’m sorry.” 

Pure wickedness strikes those earth eyes and scorches them a singed black. 

“Unfortunately, atonement is a fickle thing,” Ezra tuts, dragging his lips across your thigh in a mockery of a kiss, “and I’m not quite ready to offer absolution. Despite your offerings,” he wipes his mouth with a stroke of his palm, “this godhead remains rigid.” 

You whimper. He grins with a mouthful of teeth.

Ezra pulls back onto his knees and shuts your thighs, his hand palming your ass as he indicates that you should turn. Your entire lower half still feels like jelly – no one has ever made you come that hard with just their mouth before – but you obey. You stagger onto your hands and knees in front of him. 

His wide palm appears beneath your chin.

“Spit.”

You do.

That spit-wet hand cups your still wet cunt, middle finger rubbing briefly against your clit, before it disappears. You feel him move closer, hear his slick hand pump himself a few times with a grunt. Hot lips drag up your spine, interspersed with the nip of teeth, and when he lays across your back, his hands overtaking yours and threading your fingers together, his bare chest presses up against the skin of your back and you shudder. 

He noses your temple, his throbbing cock coated between your folds. He bites at your jaw and follows your line of sight through the open tent flap. 

“Breathtaking, isn’t it? All that moisture, dripping and running over smooth rock and fern. All that heat coagulating in spaces it shouldn’t fit. All that . . . open field, for anyone to just wander into. Take a look around and smell the air. Could they smell you like I can, Neptune? The way you leak for this cock?”

As he hums filth in your ear, his hand settles again at the base of your throat, thick fingers squeezing just enough to threaten, before sliding down to your swinging breasts, rough palms catching your swollen nipples, then arching down your stomach and between your legs. 

He plays slowly with your clit; barely enough stimulation and he knows it.

“Ask for forgiveness.” He croons in your ear. The breeze returns for a moment, and between the heat of him mounting you like a feral animal and the hesitant touch of outside air against your sweaty chest, you shudder with a groan. 

“I’m sorry, Ezra. I’m so–,” his middle finger increases its pressure slightly and the words shatter in your mouth, “sor-ry.” 

“And for what?”

He continues to rub between your folds and the minute hitch in his breath is more intoxicating than anything he’s done so far. This is affecting him just as much as it does you. He kisses your jaw then tugs on the skin with his teeth. 

“For letting a-anyone but you t-touch me.”

Ezra presses his damp forehead into your shoulder, panting, your correct answers soaking the neurons in his brain. Your reward is the faster stroke of his finger. 

“And why was that a reprehensible thing to do?” His hips rut into yours, the scrape and rub of his cock between your slick lips and thighs almost enough to set you off. 

“Because it’s yours – I’m yours – f-fuck, Ezra, I’m yours, I only wanna be yours,” you sob. 

He’s suddenly gone from above you and the loud crack of his hand against your ass cheek deafens you for a minute, the sting skittering up your back and down your thigh. 

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

Your elbows shudder, the weight of his tone, his hand nearly forcing you onto your chest with your ass still in the air. You wanna be so good for him. 

He’s breathing hard and his skin is warm and damp where you feel his thigh press against the back of yours. There’s a measure of restraint he’s showing and it makes your heart pound in anticipation. You swing your hips back at him, as if you could catch yourself on his cock. 

“I wanna show you I’m yours,” you cry, nails curling into the pallet. “Please, Ezra, please!”

His broad hand settling on your spine draws a hiccup out of you, a sob. 

“Breathe . . . Good girls get what they need.” 

On an exhale, his blunt tip spreads you apart and he shuffles closer as he thickens inside you. His loud, unabashed moan overwhelms yours, when you think you might just be devoured by him. His hand, the one at your hip, squeezes you, silent reassurance. You can feel the knuckles on his other hand against your slick lips as he feeds himself into you.

“Neptune, talk to me. How,” your cunt tightens around his girth at the sound of his voice coaching you along and he grunts, as if suddenly dizzy, “h-how do you feel?”

“Amazing, Ez. Please keep going don’t stop I can take it–,” 

He obliges; something’s reconnected the wires in his brain enough to tell him to move. He huffs before sinking deeper and your eyes roll back in your head. He bottoms out and waits again, letting you both catch your breath. 

“Spent a hundred moons thinking about this.” The puff of breath against your shoulder is the only warning you have before he presses his mouth to your skin. His hand free of your clutch, his thumb softly rubs the muscle of your neck. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you, wherever he finds bare flesh. “Would wake up in the night, with you a few feet from me, looking like divinity made sin, made real, but I wasn’t worthy to touch you. You got me all tongue-tied, Neptune, all mucked up in the head. A silly boy,��� he purrs.

You glance over your shoulder, unsure which Ezra is going to meet your eyes, but wanting all of them. The man you feel most safe with in this world and the next greets you and you reach back and squeeze his hand. He chuckles softly, and with it, comes a gentle roll of his hips. You gasp, airily, your gaze slipping from his face to his chest, to the steady breathing in his stomach, and then to the growth of hair that fades as it reaches up his low belly. How many times did you sit across the room from him with your fists in tight balls, watching as he regaled exploits of riches and wonder, all the while thinking about how thick his cock is outlined in his suit – you’re so blinded by breathy dreams of what the musky scent of his cock must taste like that you miss that he’s pulled out farther, halfway now, and you are completely knocked senseless when he thrusts back in, a beat faster. 

“Later, Neptune. I’ll let you suck my cock later, but right now I’ve gotta ride this pussy to oblivion.” 

Your thighs quake at his promise, cunt squeezing him, and he huffs, picking up speed.

“I felt that. You really like sucking cock that much?” 

All you can answer him with is a whine. Your knees are starting to ache from the barest cushion the tarp provides, the palms of your hands sore, but you can’t find it in you to remotely care. With every stroke, he fills you up to a breaking point before riding you back out. Moaning gratefully, you finally drop onto your elbows, your cheek scraping against the pallet with every forceful thrust behind you. He tilts your hips up higher, on one knee to fuck down into you; he’s searching with his cock for that spot that made your brain numb. 

Like a flood, you feel bliss roll down your spine, his hands on your lower back pulling you up another peak, and you gasp, at the edge of a very, very long drop, the sounds in the tent as sticky and wet as the rain outside.

But Ezra’s sounds are loudest of them all. Grunting. Hissing. Moaning like he’s fucking the best pussy of his life. You open one eye, glancing over your shoulder and the sight drops open your mouth. Hips pumping forward, skin dewy with sweat, he breathes like a freshly broken-in stallion, relieved that something finally bested him. Chest full and tight with muscle, flushed pink with roaring blood. Stomach torqued with tension. His rhythm is caught between his hands pulling you onto him and his cock thrusting into you. A frantic beat that bounces wet and hot, mouth agape and eyes rolling shut, his head drops back between his shoulders. You push back slightly and he stutters, the hand on your hip tightening. 

“Not gonna last, Neptune–” he grits, his jaw locked tight. The image of him actively staving off an orgasm for you to finish first has been imprinted on your brain for the rest of your life. 

“J-just a little harder, Ez.” 

He obeys, submitting as you had for him, sweat curling around his neck and down his chest. 

As release barrels down on you, those mahogany eyes catch and hold yours in a second that lasts through infinity. They promise you things that you didn’t know you asked for, those eyes, made vows only your soul could hear. You see, in that instant before you are swallowed whole, that he’d die at your feet, if you asked him to. He’d give up every worldly treasure he won through grit and his teeth if you needed it or wanted it. If it made you happy.

His Neptune – in the crushing grip of your gravity. Willingly caught in the trail of your comet as you fill up his night sky.    

“Yeah, that’s it, right there – Ez-ra!” 

His face blown out in near ecclesial bliss is the last thing you see before your vision goes white. Your heart pounds in your ears so loudly, it's the only thing that exists for an instant. And then you shatter with a perfectly soft cry, bliss breaking across you like a heavy wave, and you succumb to exhaustion. 

Behind you, he groans, fucking you faster through it, snarling something entirely incomprehensible. 

You think you might say his name, you don’t know what your mouth is doing, but whatever you say, it breaks him and you are dragged through another low shock, the flood of cum deep into your achy cunt enough to contract your walls again, his harsh groan stuffing your ears just as full. 

The rain is barely louder than your desperate attempts to breathe. 

The tarp crackles as you slump forward onto your stomach, Ezra dropping to his side with half his body over yours. Panting raggedly, his hand curls up to the base of your neck, a reassurance of his presence and commitment when words have failed him. 

You lay like that for a long time.

And then, when feeling starts to return to your limbs, you turn your head, your nose rubbing against his. When you breathe hotly across his face, he grins a satisfied grin that splits into a chuckle. You laugh with him too, curling up into his chest, his forearm is sticky across your spine, and he kisses your forehead.

Staring up at the tarp, together you listen to the rain. 

In the long drawn out, buzzy silence, his nails scratch the base of your skull. And then, like he remembered something vital, he picks his head up and looks at you.

“Do you want this to change things for us?” 

“Yes.” You cup the muscles of his thick neck. “Yes, Ezra. I want this to change everything between us. Please.” 

He smiles, unguarded and open. 

“Wild horses never stood a chance . . . especially against these tits.” He nips at the swell of your breast and you laugh. “I had no plans of letting you go in any case . . . but we are bound from this day forward. You know that, don’t you?”

You nod. A stroke of heat passes over his eyes and  Ezra leans forward to kiss you, his hand on your cheek pulling you in close, as close as you can be, two sticky bodies, cum-dried and tingling.

“And if we’re going to spend every year of our lives together, I have a question for you.” he pushes away a stray strand of hair stuck to your face, nose tip to nose tip, “did you have a good birthday, Neptune? Are you satisfied?”

With a giggle that has his eyebrow arching playfully, you kiss his cheek.

“I already told you. This was the best birthday I’ve ever had.” 

+

[danielcain]

Ripe

In retrospect, I should have gotten fitted in-person for a pair of rubber boots. Ordering shoes online is always a crapshoot. The ones I had on were too big, they just collected water like a rain barrel and waterlogged my socks.

The texture was horrible. A disgusting sensation.

The foyer’s carpet squelched with every step I took. It didn’t help that I was carrying 120 pounds of dead woman.

“This always happens during the honeymoon phase,” said my friend Dan.

“You won’t want to leave the house. You’ll want to be with her all the time. The modern age enables this. Work from home, order from home, live from home, die from home…” He began to rant about how modernity. He always goes there, and I always tune him out. He married a female cop from the sheriff’s department. She came off gay when I met her. Funny.

I‘ve tried to explain my marital problems to Dan before. I had to leave out a few key details. I told him my wife was depressed, in bed all day, not contributing financially. He said wives “tend to do that” and that I make enough money, anyway. Not quite the issue.

The trouble was harder to explain; I’ve only been married to Liana for six months, and she’s killed and replanted herself seven times.

I trudged up the staircase in the loose boots. The way I carried her, the soil from her body fell before us, laying a trail like rose petals.

Creaking wood drummed up anxiety in my chest. I am not a large man. I usually make but a negligible amount of noise when I move throughout the house. That’s something she commented on when we first moved in. The word she used was unobtrusive. She liked this about me. She said we had that in common. In a lot of ways, we really were alike.

Unlike me, her cells interlocked with tightly-woven cellulose walls. She had organelles not found in over 99% of human beings: chloroplasts. When I first met her, her skin had a milky green hue. The first time I touched her, I balked. She was not hot to the touch like others. Not cold, but not hot. Her breasts, thighs, cheeks… remarkably, they had the tautness of an unripe vegetable.

I laid her down in the bathtub. The plumbing was sensitive, not terrible, but sensitive. An old house. Wood and cobblestone on the outside. Folksy, I’m told through clenched smiles of guests trying to be complimentary. Yeah, right. It looks better suited to house a coven of child-stealing hags. I tried to fix it up, stay on trend. Liana convinced me not to hire contractors. She convinced me to buy, too. “I’ve always wanted a house in the woods…”

Now I know why.

The replanting process is nothing short of a natural miracle. I will be the first to admit, it attracted me to her further. Liana could change herself at will. All it took was a little patience, two days of waiting, a 6 foot deep ditch in the backyard, some sleeping pills and vodka. I didn’t understand the science of it at first. What exactly she needed to do to push out the roots and reform her mass. When I finally found out, I was too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know she had to physically die each time.

She was always shy about the details, embarrassed, like it was some sort of bowel syndrome. I did not press her for details, but as her husband, I should’ve researched the condition. I did eventually. But not before telling her she would look good blonde. Telling her she would look even hotter upping her bra size by a letter or two…

She started to wake up.

First, the rattle. A great exhalation and inhalation. It always took me by surprise. Her facial muscles were always the second thing reanimate. Her nose twitched. Her eyes opened. They looked so dry. Matte. “Liana. This is getting dangerous.”

A couple seconds’ delay. Then, she smiled mawkishly. During this stage of regrowth, her skin is taut and verdant like the day I met her. (I once called her belle pepper as a pet name. She either didn’t get the pun, maybe.) With every hour, she begins to flush to her desired shade. She switches it up from time to time, never too dark or too white for most to notice, but I do. She carries Pantone swatches in her wallet.

She moved her lips, but couldn’t speak yet. I said nothing further. I picked up the detachable showerhead. The gentlest setting. I rinsed her body, avoiding the tender roots that twitched and protruded from the tips of her fingers and toes. I read somewhere that touching them at this stage feels like a pressing on a pinched nerve.

“I know why thish bophers you shoo much,” she gurgled, throat half-asleep. Her mouth was filled with soil and rainwater. It seeped from her firm, bloated lips.

I turned away. Washing her feet. She continued, most of the earth and excess sap that gagged her having dribbled onto her nightie.

“You like me like thish.”

I averted my eyes. I continued to bathe her, and stared at the peel-and-stick mauve tile accent above the tub. I had put it there the previous month to cover a stubborn decomposition stain.

“I like you all the time, Liana.” It felt like someone was slowly lacing my throat shut from the inside.

I didn’t have to look at her to know she was smiling.

“Buh you like… thish.”

[ladylaviniya]

Wails of Wedded Bliss

Masterlist || Chapter 2

Chapter Summary: Sherlock Holmes is forced to marry you...and it is clear...he does not appreciate the union...thanks Enola...

Pairing: Sherlock Homes x wife!reader

Chapter Warnings: 18+ Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Domestic r4pe, P in V intercourse, Forced/Arranged Marriage, Loss of Virginity, Loss of Innocence, Domestic Violence. Wedding crashing.

Word Count: 9k

Author Notes: This story has been published in the past on Tumblr on my old account @milknhonies-old-account since I have created a newer account and I am reposting it here.

11:35pm Monday 28th April 1890, 221B Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

“You know Sherlock, matrimony is not as wicked and cruel as you might believe,” said his companion one day beside the fireplace of their flat.

The detective was slumped in his chaise playing away at his violin obnoxiously. The terrible tune of Frère Jacques made the doctor wince as it hit his ears sharply. Sherlock Holmes had found himself in a mental state of his own man made dramatics...

“Et tu Watson?” Sherlock sighed and put the violin down before wiping a hand over his face, “My dear doctor, I have no desire to restrain myself to the shackles and torture you inflict onto yourself.” He rose to his feet with a lengthy groan and sat his instrument aside. The depressed sir stumbled over a pile of discarded books to get to the drinks trolley.

The wine bottle cork popped loudly as he tugged you open.

It was no mystery. Sherlock did not entirely approve of Mary Watson purely out of jealous spite influenced by the attentions of his friend. When the pair married Sherlock stood stiff and tight lipped. He reluctantly handed over the ring as John’s Bestman.

Over the engagement and even during the marriage, Sherlock did not cease his sly childish comments made from time to time.

John however had caught his wife in conversation and debate on numerous occasions with the detective. Mrs Watson and Mr Holmes were not friends by any means, but they tolerated each other under limited circumstances. They found smart enjoyment in each other.

The doctor had come to visit his friend under the revered request of the older Holmes brother...Mycroft. There was finally an expectation...Mycroft wanted Sherlock to make a male Holmes heir...Perhaps it was scandalous rumour but John wondered how true the gossip of the older brother was; being a pillow biter or an infertile gentleman...especially with the pressure to have Sherlock marry and procreate.

Sherlock poured himself a glass of wine and downed it quickly. He set the glass on the mantle and shook his head slowly.

John tried to smile, “Mary and I have fun.”

Sherlock scoffed jealousy.

John had been married and moved out of Baker Street for six months now. Sherlock dared not ask the condition of Mary’s pregnancy.

“What fun? With your lace doilies and Shepard’s pie?”

His friend smirked, “I enjoy Mary’s pie very much, Sherlock...” He pursed is lips and tapped his cane to the floor, “Perhaps you need a slice of your own?”

Sherlock glanced at his friend. He narrowed his eyes as he returned back to the chaise, careful to not trip again on the books and loose papers that laid across the floor.

“My own pie?” Sherlock crooned as he laid back into the cusions, “Why do I get the sense that we are not speaking that of a pastry?”

The doctor tilted his head and cleared his throat, staring off into the fire, “Mrs Hudson has confided in me that you’ve resorted to returning here with...friends from Mayfair Row of the fairer sex.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. The old hag of a landlady needed to keep her nose out of his business. He was making his rent on time, it shouldn’t matter who he kept his business with.

The detective groaned and rubbed his eyes, “Merely cases, dear John.”

The doctor bristled, “Do not lie to me Sherlock,” he waved his finger, “I know very well what you do with those women...it’s only a matter of time you ask me to check your pecker. God knows what they carry.”

Sherlock shrugged and sniffed loudly.

“For goodness sake man...” John scolded, “Have you no heart whatsoever then for the dear girl you are to marry?”

The detective rubbed his hands and laced his fingers, “Why should I?”

“Sherlock!” his friend hissed, “Have you not even considered the notion she might also resent the concept of matrimony as much as you?”

“Is that possible in women?” Sherlock quirked, “Good Scot! I sound like my brother.”

“Your own sister is still dragging her feet through her engagement to the Tewkesbury boy on what...a year almost now?” the doctor tapped his cane on the floor thoughtfully.

Sherlock huffed, “Enola is not a woman.”

In the eyes of the law she was...she needed only pick a wedding date and commit to it.

Sherlock wouldn’t have the luxury of a long engagement. The wedding was next week and he had quickly agreed to the contract. He would marry under the financial clutch of his brother...Mycroft threatened to cut off all entire bank in regards to Sherlock’s unpaid drug debts...

After the cold leads to the trail of Madame Moriarty...the detective found little sleep in the night...Sherlock befell the unfortunate antidote of cocaine to help him stay awake and opiates to keep him asleep...John loyally helped those sweating events and threatened to put him in an institute if he didn’t cease his regular consumption.

Perhaps, John wondered, Mycroft was intending to cease the draining of his pocket by using a wife to tame Sherlock’s spending habits. John decided then and there that Mycroft truly was an idiot.

“You’ve not told me her name...” the doctor said in the long silence.

Sherlock looked at his feet and sighed, “Y/N...her name is Miss Y/N Y/L/N.”

The surname was familiar to the doctor, however not personally.

John nodded gradually and scratched his moustache, “Mrs Y/N Holmes of Baker Street...it’s got a little ring to it. A simple lift to the breath don’t you think?” he mused.

The other man glared at him, he didn’t like John making fun of the situation he’d been coerced into.

He deflected, licking his lips, “Mary has grown fat.”

John cackled at the poor insult, “Swollen with my child. I’m glad you have finally noticed. I look forward to seeing your future wife just as ‘fat’ one day too.”

“Please John, my ingestion!” Sherlock shuddered, cupping his lips.

The cane tapped again at the floor, “Surely she isn’t so unsightly?” his friend asked.

“She is most plain,” Sherlock complained, before he peeled through the papers at his feet and held up a board of hard card to his friend, “Here...my brother thought it kind to send me a portrait, to invoke my eagerness, but as is clear...my mind is not swayed.”

John took the photo carefully and moved his spectacles from his pocket to his face, he gazed upon your printed face in the glow of the warm orange fire.

The doctor raised a brow and snorted, “This girl? Sherlock...I believe your disregard to the union prevents you from seeing her true potential. I think you will make fine and handsome children.”

Sherlock looked on to the fire and continued to shake his head stubbornly, “I need a case Watson...not a wife...”

The doctor felt his resolve failing, he donned his hat and scarf, “Perhaps she is your next case...after all why would anyone agree to marry you?” he stood and left Sherlock to ponder until the embers of the fireplace burnt out black and the last light of the room was succeeded by the wretched dawn.

09:00am Monday 5th May 1890 Saint Marylebone Parish Church, London, England.

A lengthy breath escaped your chest as your fingers pinched your pearly white gloves.

Twenty was a scary age...you walked a line of spinsterhood.

This was it...

You were lucky to be here. Lucky to have this offering...the circumstances were complicated. You were illegitimate but nonetheless still cared for by your father’s parents. They pitied you and your past. Good Christians with empathetic hearts, they chose to raise you when your father abandoned you for a wife who despised the concept of living beneath he same roof as her husband’s bastard.

You were grateful and honest and polite and strived to please your paternal grandparents. When they presented to you a engagement contract, you dared not waste or drain any more of their kind financial generosity.

You were amazed by the name also on the document...

You were being asked to marry The Sherlock Holmes, London’s notorious detective.

You were stunned. You accepted.

His brother, the dealer of the contract was a friend of your grandfather and had been the proposer of the deal. The two men seemed to always sit together in parliament house.

You hadn’t even met your husband to be...today during the ceremony would be the very first time.

As your grandmother fixed your veil in the carriage ride to the church, you caressed the front of the bible in your lap. You prayed to God this marriage was right and meant to be.

“You are not as pretty as my daughter’s, but as our ward after all these years I am sure you will be a suitable bride to Mr Holmes,” she muttered under her breath.

Her husband happily scolded, “Nonsense! Our granddaughter will be a perfect match to the greatest detective of London.”

He leant beside you and pinched your nose under the veil, “My little girl is the prettiest princess today,” his fingers laced with yours and kissed the back of your gloves hand with his silver beard covered lips.

“Thankyou grandfather.”

The corner of your lips jerked up. He was the warmer of the two...but it was confided that your grandmother who sat sullen faced in front of you was merely putting in a facade. Your grandfather told you early at breakfast that your grandmother wept last night, sad to see you off to be a true married woman of society.

The accomplished their task, raising a young lady of good standing and half decent breeding.

The carriage came to a screeching halt.

The cold breeze hit your face as your grandparents climbed out of the carriage door. Your delicate gloves fingers reached out and were supported by your grandfather.

You passed your bible to your grandmother who exchanged them for a modest bouquet of flowers and lace.

The chapel was massive but you knew there would be only a small audience.

Your feet climbed the stairs and patiently waited for your escort. Your grandfather’s wobbly knees had to rely on you and his walking cane. Your grandmother climbed behind him to insure he didn’t fall and hurt himself or drag you down too.

The wooden church doors were open a jar.

The whistling wind made you feel like you were entering a funeral rather your own wedding. You were not opposed to matrimony but the dead silence and stares at the front of the pews made you blood feel cold...

A gentleman you knew as Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the front pew and rose to attention as you were entering.

There was three other men standing at the edge of the room.

The priest, and the groom and his best man.

Your husband to be was handsome from the distance you could see if him. His lips remained stern in a flat line however and his brows appeared knitted, perhaps he was...displeased?

Sherlock Holmes was accompanied by his infamous companion...Doctor John Watson. A war veteran.

A woman you had never met was mirroring his position to the left side of the church, your chosen maid of honour...but as she turned the slight curve of her belly spoke out... pregnant. A matron of honour.

Your grandfather clenched your arm and kissed the side of your head. You began your steady approach down the island with your grandmother now leading in front to find her seating on the front left pew.

You tried to not share too directly at your future husband’s frown. Perhaps he was tired or not aware he was frowning at all and just deep in his thoughts.

You passed your bouquet to your matron of honour.

Your arms felt shaky, this was it...a lifelong commitment ceremony.

When you paused before the alter, the priest bowed his head and asked your grandfather, “Do you giveth this woman to be married to this man?”

He gruffly cleared his throat “I do,” and turned you to face him, his hands squeezed your arms gently before he carefully lifted your veil above your face and over your flower covered hair. He smiled softly, tears beaded in the corner of his eyes. He leant closer and kissed your cheek, in your ear he whispered gently, “God bless my darling girl.”

Sherlock was quickly removing his white glove and pocketing it in his inner breast side blazer.

Your grandfather turned you around to face the priest. He placed your right hand into the holy man’s who then carefully removed the glove you wore and passed your naked fingers into the warm clammy hands of Sherlock Holmes. His reaction to your bare face was out of surprise...you did not know if his wide dark blue eyes were a good sign or not.

The priest tied a small white ribbon around your wrists, connecting you and Sherlock in symbolism.

He turned back and floated up to the stairs of his stand. He opened his holy book and said out to the very small group witnessing, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man...and this woman in holy matrimony.”

You felt your throat tighten and your mouth dry as Sherlock’s thumb softly rubbed the back of your hand. Your eyes glanced over to his face...his frown had disappeared, he was wearing the smallest of smiles. Relief swept through you, he was happy for now and that is all you cared for.

As the priest continued his holy speech on the reason of marriage you thought about your duties as a wife. You would now look after your husband as you have cared for your grandfather. You would bring forth a hot meal for dinner and host luncheons with other married couples of society. You would rub his sore feet and shoulders and prepare him a bath when he required it after his days of long tiring work. And most importantly...you would lay back and take him within to create children. You would spend the rest of your life expected to make your husband feel appreciated and loved. You were to be his other half, his Eve to his Adam.

He had the important duty of caring for you financially and supporting your future children and their education.

If he was a detective you knew his intelligence meant you would make very brilliant minded babes. You would make society proud.

You had seen Sherlock face in the papers but they were of illustrations that did not capture the colour and humanism of himself

“-Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined,” the priest softly finished.

You felt Sherlock sigh and when his thumb stopped rubbing your hand, you tried to return the same rubbing onto his fingers.

It was a silent language of greeting and comfort...

‘hello, how do you do?’

‘I am well, thankyou.’

“Therefore, if any man can show any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.”

The groom glanced over his shoulder and his lips appeared to tighten...they fell into a frown and his hand grip loosened...was he...your heart deflated...was he not wanting to marry you?

You tried to restrain your emotions.

The priest peered down at you both, “Kneel.”

Sherlock and you with your hands still touching and bound slowly bend to your knees before the altar. The holy man pulled out a bowl and pinched his hands into the holy water.

He flicked both of your faces as he spoke, “I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgment when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it. For be ye well assured, that so many as are coupled together otherwise than God’s Word doth allow are not joined together by God; neither is their Matrimony lawful...”

There was no way you could mention how you were concerned Sherlock’s reaction might’ve been worldly. He remained silent to.

Your grandmother once told you how people who marry often do not love each other until years later. It happened to her, so you had within your heart the trust that as long as you put in the effort to be the perfect wife, Sherlock would eventually grow his love for you.

The Priest smiled at you both and nodded his head,

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes wilt thou have this woman Y/N Y/L/N to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

Your eyes glanced to his face, he appeared, flushed.

“Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”

Your groom looked over your hands and then glanced up at your face, his throat bobbed, “I will.”

His thumb rubbed your hand again.

You tried to smile...it was hard when he didn’t appear as enthusiastic about the union as you had hoped. It reminded you this was really just a contract between his brother and your grandfather.

“Y/N Y/L/N wilt thou have this William Sherlock Scott Holmes to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

Your eyes stared up at the Priest who was dictating the vow, “Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”

Your voice for a moment caught in your throat. You looked to the floor and nodded, “I will.”

The priest then stood away and proclaimed, “Now ye have proclaimed to god, now tis time you proclaim your vows to yourselves.”

You felt Sherlock tighten his grip and faced him still kneeling beside him, his voice wavered as he proclaimed, “I, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take thee Y/N Y/L/N to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

A pause in the air reminded you it was now your turn to repeat the solemn vow.

And for a split second...you wondered if agreeing would be a sin to god...you would do this all...but love...could you love a man who you did not know, honour a man who may not love you?

You nodded and properly looked into his eyes, trying to vow earnestly.

“I Y/N Y/L/N take thee William Sherlock Scott Holmes to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

He glanced away and his lips parted, it was if he wanted to say something to you...before he closed them and eyed the priest. Ah yes...you were still in a holy ceremony. Talking could come later.

The priest nodded to you both and gestured to your hands.

“Now the groomsmen may please administer the ring.”

Sherlock removed his other glove.

The man who stood behind him, John, stood carefully forward after stealing a small ring from his breast pocket and passed it to Sherlock.

The priest untied your hands and your groom delicately took your left hand. He removed your other glove and pocketed it.

“With this ring I thee wed,” He pinched your forth finger before sliding the cold golden band on, it felt slightly loose, “With my body I thee worship.”

You finally took the time to actually look at his full face as he vowed to you. His blue eyes were dark and sparkling like a night sky or a ravenous stormy sea. In the corner of his right eye was a fleck of brown...oh yes...the stony sea side by the waters, they were his solemn eyes covered by curtains of thick dark lashes.

“And with all my worldly goods I thee endow,” he trailed off softly.

His lips were thin, wet and soft...his skin flushed in a soft pink but not overly obvious, his neck was a shade lighter to his ears and cheeks.

You heard the distant hum of the priest standing above you both.

The groom cleared his throat, “In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The priest clapped his hands and joyously announced, “For as much as William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Y/N Y/L/N have consented together in holy Wedlock, and have witnessed the same before God and this company, and thereto have given and pledged their troth either to other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving of a Ring, and by joining of hands; I pronounce that they be man and wife together, rise now as Mr and Mrs Holmes. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Everyone in the church echoed the everlasting word...“Amen.”

Sherlock and you rose steadily back to your feet. He let go of your fingers. Your hands limply fell aside. You turned back to your grandparents and smiled.

You were now a married woman before God.

The holy man brought around the script of lawfully paper to sign your name and the names of your witnesses. The parchment was laid across a small serving table where there was a small ink well and pen waiting.

Out of necessity you went to the table first.

When you signed your maiden name and then scripted out your new surname, you were now under the law of man the wife of the British detective. Your eyes fluttered shut...it was done...you were no longer considered the poor bastardess soul that had been disowned by both parents...you were now The Mrs Holmes. Wife and a future mother of Holmes sons and daughters.

Your matron of honour came closer to your side and politely smiled, “Mary Watson, my husband is the groomsmen. You are most beautiful and I must demand Sherlock cherishes you rightfully.”

She was a beautiful. Her gown at a light blue cooled her wild complexion. With her blonde hair and rosy pink cheeks, she glowed in her motherly state.

You returned the grin, “A pleasure Mrs Watson, thankyou for being here on this special day.”

She leant across you and signed the paper before laying her hands on your shoulders thoughtfully. You looked over your shoulder at the man who was now your husband.

He was shaking hands among the male participants. He was smiling. Your souls felt relieved. When he looked at you, the was something strange...he looked you entirely up and down... His face dropped, back to his deep thoughts.

He bowed his head to you before he brushed passed you leant over the certificate to officiate his name, however before the pen could meet the paper there was a persistent cry.

“I object!” Screamed this mousy tone that echoed the chapel walls, “Sherlock! I am sorry I am late! Stop! Stop the wedding!”

The sound of running feet screeched along the stone floor.

Everyone’s face split into shock as a boy who was a little younger than you for appearance sake came racing down the pews.

Yet as the boy ran closer, you could see the hat fall of his head and a wave of beautiful brown locks flowed down their back...her back...it was a girl in dirty boys clothes. She looked a kin to a chimney sweep with the amount of spot over her face and her hands and shirt.

“Please!” she heaved onto her knees to catch her breath, “Do not continue!” she raised her filthy palms in praying pleas to the priest.

“What is the meaning of this!?” your grandfather said losing his temper at the foul interruption of a seemingly happy union.

“Enola!” the two Holmes brothers shouted in union. They looked to each other accusingly before looking back at the girl.

The young woman glanced between you and Sherlock and started shaking her head.

“Enola,” Mycroft hissed and grabbed the girls arm roughly, shaking her slightly, “look at the state of you! What is the meaning of this? You were not permitted to attend and yet you come here uninvited nonetheless!?”

You were frightful of the way Mycroft shouted at her and brutally shook her. The young woman appeared scattered, she looked at you and then to Sherlock again.

“You were too late Enola,” your husband frustratingly sighed, “Mycroft let her go, this is my fault.”

Too late...wait....what...

You were stunned...speechless and confused...

Did Sherlock...have another love? Did this young creature hold his affections?

Mycroft loosened his grip. She sprung away from the older Holmes, “You are married, perhaps before God who I know you don’t care for!” And dashed passed you and waved the certificate with only your name on the paper.

“What blasphemy is this?” your Grandmother now announced with annoyance.

“But see?” The young woman named Enola ignored her and ran up to Sherlock, “Your name is not here, so legally you are not married Sherlock, you can stop this!”

His nose flared and his face darkened to pink. You could hear how his knuckles cracked as he made them into fists. He was furious. His angry eyes flashed at you and back at the girls.

You felt stunted...this girl was right...

Your chest deflated...you were not married, no, you were still in fact Y/N Y/L/N the bastard daughter of a Lord who was not permitted the privileged respect of your legitimate cousins and siblings. You were not a honourable woman still...you were still covered and stained with your parents sins.

The comforting hand of Mary Watson touched your hand. You started trembling.

Your heart ached. Your hopes to be veiled in a honouring title as a wife were diminishing by the second.

“I can help pay off your debts when I marry,” she quickly spurted, “Do not let Mycroft rule over you like he has done all these years! Do not marry a woman you clearly do not love Sherloc-”

“Enola!”

You gasped. You jumped as his voice bellowed and boomed through your ears and throughout the stone walls of the church. This dramatic scene was incredibly unorthodox and the priest himself seemed amiss and confused on how to handle the audience of the church.

“Enough!” Sherlock angrily hissed and shook his head.

He tore the paper from her hands and slammed it down on the priests stand before gracelessly signing his name.

“There!” he spat and slapped the paper against the priests chest, “It is done!”

He proceeded to storm out of the church leaving you and the rest of those in attendance in shock. “Sherlock! Wait!” Mrs Watsons husband shouted as he gathered his hat, coat and cane from a pew and hobbled out hurriedly after him.

Your chest tightened...you felt a rush of air escape you. You felt rather like your entire body had been spun around too many times. The embarrassment you felt before the audience was horrible. Tears were watering up into your eyes.

You felt abandoned.

It was quite obvious to you and everyone in the church...

Sherlock Holmes did not want to marry you. Why were you so unlovable?

You felt your legs grow wobbly. Carefully with the kind support of Mrs Watson you sat down in a pew.

Your grandmother did not look at you. She stared at the cross hanging above the ceiling and sighed. Her wrinkled lips turned downward. She did not approve of your behave or his.

This wedding was a distasteful event.

Your grandfather was shaking and needed to also sit down. The priest and Mycroft helped him to the opposite pew chairs. His hand was strictly clenching his chest.

And everyone but yourself was glaring at the young girl in boys clothes...

“Enola,” your matron of honour mumbled, “I think it best you leave until you are ready to apologise to your brothers wife...”

Your breath hitched and you gasped out of shock.

So she was not a old girlfriend romantically begging for love from your now husband...no instead the name came ringing through your ear. Enola Holmes...of course...the less experienced Holmes detective...

You dared not speak. You knew your tongue might be venomous and hot as a flame. You were in shock and a state of silent rage and sadness. You could’ve slapped the stupid looking girl whose face was full of surprise and regret.

You weren’t entirely sure how to express yourself. You felt humiliated and rejected. All those years of silence and a straight face after what your father had said to you...it broke you...

Your own husband did not want you. We’re you that much unlovable? We’re you cursed to feel this way?

Your grandfather was the only man in your life left that you felt honest adoration from...and his time was coming soon to an end in his old age.

You muffled your sobs into you gloves as you heard Enola run out of the church.

It was your brother in law who then came to kneel before you and hold out to you a handkerchief, “My sincerest apologies dear sister. I dared not think Sherlock or my sister could be so wicked a pair until now. All I can beg is you accept your role and keep your sweet countenance.”

You wondered suddenly why he was not the brother you married instead. Before you focused on such a thing you remembered that lusting for another man, your husband’s brother, was a grave mortal sin and incredibly improper before a holy priest.

Taking the cloth you sighed and covered your face, “Th-thankyou Mr Holmes, I do hope to make your brother very...” you croaked and tried not to break into tears again, to avoid them you swallowed hard, “very happy.”

You took a cool deep breath and forced a smile onto your lips. It hurt. Your cheeks stretched and painfully ticked.

He nodded and smiled, “I am sure you will my dear, I am sure you will, allow me the opportunity to escort you to your cab, your grandfather...”

You both looked at the older man whose anger had made him out of breath, “is still unwell.”

You said your subtle goodbyes. You kissed your grandfather’s balding scalp and scratching softly at his beard. He kissed the inside of your palm. His eyes watered, he didn’t want this for you. He looked down with shame.

In your eyes now you understood be would be the last man to have ever loved you.

Nodding you accepted his arm and thus concluded the wedding...

11:23am Monday 5th May 1890, 221 Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

Mycroft had hailed you a cab as your husband so nobly left into the one that had been rented for the both of you.

Your brother in law loaded you inside and had said he would look after your grandparents to make sure they got back to their own home safe and soundly.

You closer the curtain to the window and let your heart sob.

A sad bride on her wedding day, how terribly melancholy and cliché....

You didn’t expect romantic puppy dog love found in frivolous novellas, however you never expected such humiliation and horror to strike you on such an important date. This would be something you’d never forget...

The abandonment of another person in your life.

You were in a state of utter distress. You clenched your skirts tightly beneath your fingers. Yoh violently tore at your veil and the pins in your hair that held the specific style.

As the carriage cam to a halt the driver called out your destination, you pulled the curtain back and looked at the street.

221 Baker Street...your new home.

You opened and slid out of the carriage by yourself. You lifted your skirts, avoiding the black mud that your shoes squished into.

You climbed the front stairs of the building gradually and knocked at the door.

You waited five minutes before resorting to desperately banging. The horse cab had taken off and there was no going back.

What you desired most was a chance to sit down again and collect yourself before you sobbed hysterically on the street in the public eye. You already held the strange case of some being still clad in your white wedding gown.

When the door finally creaked open you fought every bone in your body not to storm your way through inside.

A wrinkle hand pushed the door open, followed by a steady voice of an older woman, “Why, hello my dear!” she said, “You must be the new Mrs Holmes then?”

A woman with wide eyes too close together with glasses and a loud clattering chatelaine on her waist opened the way to you.

Her hand launched out and tugged you inside by your wrist.

“Come, come in, please!”

You let her pull you inside the building and shut the door behind you.

As she locked the front door she spun to welcome you in an unexpected hug.

You normally would be shocked by such impropriety of embracing a stranger so quickly. But in your state of distress you leant closer into her arms and sniffled.

She pulled away, “My dear,” she gasped, “It is your wedding day, why the tears?” Your wet eyes went round and round as she jittered about you, admiring your dress and pinching at the soft material. “I did not expect you to arrive here so early. Oh and where are my manners! I’m Mrs Hudson dearest, I am your land lady and housekeeper.”

You fiddled with the ring now solid on your finger. You bowed softly to her, “My name is Y/N I don’t expect you to call me Mrs Holmes, Mrs Hudson, please call me as you will be my name,” you mumbled and wiped your eyes. They were pink and puffy.

She clicked her tongue with dismay.

“I presume Sherlock has brought you to this state...” The elderly woman smiled sadly, her wrinkles spread out, she took your arm and led you up a flight of stairs.

“Darling, I am just happy you are here. Your husband can be such a bully sometimes, but don’t tell him I said so. Your belongings arrived early this morning and I was just finishing putting your belonging away in your room.”

“Mrs Hudson,” you whimpered, “thankyou greatly for I have had a trying day...”

She gave you a copy of the home key to the 221B door.

Inside you were received with a scent of ink and tobacco. A very masculine smell. Clearly this was the home of your husband.

“Sherlock can be quite the messy tenant so I pray you will be fast enough to clean up after him,” Mrs Hudson stated bluntly.

“He has all his things thrown around the apartment and his excuse is always it has been done for a bloody case,” she made a high pitch sound and quickly covered her lips, “Forgive me dear, I don’t usually swear.”

You smiled sweetly and sighed, “Do not ask that of me Mrs Hudson,” you shook your head. Your grandfather had a terrible habit of doing many deeds and saying many things unfit for the ears of a lady.

She sighed with relief and clapped her hands. By taking your arm once more, she guided you through the homestead and presented you the premises.

Here there was a fireplace in the living room, nearby a bathtub had been carried from one of the bedrooms, it’s linens already prepared and laid over the copper surface. A fresh bucket of coal and wood sat beside the fireplace layout. The floor covered in a fine carpet and the curtains were the thickest of velvet.

“Kitchen is down stairs, shared by us both dear but I supply most meals as is the tenancy agreement so you needn’t burden yourself with those tasks, I do ask you wash your own linens. We have a alley line out the windows.”

You nodded as the woman kindly spoke to you and introduced you to your new life.

It was when you passed two doors you realised there was two bedrooms.

“Sherlock is sometimes a overly private person. Especially to the contents of his cases and clients. He owns the only key to his bedroom so I’m afraid I cannot show you his room until he arrives. This one, where Doctor Watson once resided is now yours.”

You opened it up and noted the empty trunks around the room which Mrs Hudson had emptied earlier.

“Doctor Watson lived here?” you asked over your shoulder as you stepped into the quarters.

You visually took in the fine canopy bed and a small desk and wardrobe in the corner with a large window that led out to the alley wash line, a balcony area and stair case up to the roof above.

Mrs Hudson went around and closed the suitcases and trunks gently, one by one. You started to explore which drawers she had placed what undergarments and jackets and what dresses had been hung in the wardrobe and which books she had stacked onto your desk and where she placed your accessories on your vanity.

You were not surprised by the condition of a separate sleeping quarter. Your grandparents slept in separate rooms...but that was because your grandfather was a loud snorer and suffered from nightmares of his time in the wars.

This marriage, you worried, would also lack a lot of physical contact...

“I am going to carry these empty trunks up to the attic dear,” Mrs Hudson stated as she lifted the empty wooden boxes. Your eyes widened and before you could offer assistance she had moved spritely out.

You opened the window to your room, allowing light into the space. You sneezed. It seemed the particles in the light showed Mrs Hudson forgot to dust the area.

You opened the small doors. The noise of the outdoor city crept in. The smell of the salty mud in the street tickled your nose.

Intrigued to enjoy more of your space you came out to look more around your home. It was smaller than what you came from, that did not make you any less grateful. This would be better than living in the gutter of the slums, you were sure.

The idea you now had a home of your very own where you could independently invite people over for tea and luncheon was exciting, your husband be damned if he didn’t allow.

12:07pm Monday 5th May 1890, 221 Baker Street, Marylebone, Westminster, London, England.

When Mrs Hudson returned after removing the last suitcase and storage box, you politely requested she help you out of your wedding dress...

Her grey eyes widened at your request, “Did you not wish to await Sherlock’s return my dear? Traditionally the husband loves to take of this gown of all gowns.”

After his actions today...you were not sure you wanted to please him or suffer his very untraditional behaviour. You doubt he would be kind or patient enough to unbutton the line down your back.

You shook your head, “Thankyou for your suggestion Mrs Hudson, but my mind remains solid, I wish to resort to a dressing gown. I don’t intend to welcome any guests today other than yourself and my husband.”

Not willing to question your choice, she smiled warmly, “Alrighty dear, turn around then.”

Her wrinkly fingers pinched at your spine line of buttons starting from your neck downward.

“Forgive my prying dear...may I ask how the service went? I had expected you and Mr Holmes to have arrived together.”

You sighed and pinch the bridge of your nose. The moment you arrived you sensed this line of questioning would eventually occur...

“It was sorely interrupted by my sister in law...I believe she was attempting to save her brother from the wails of...” you smirked, and sarcastically drawled, “wedded bliss...”

You could hear the old woman cackle behind you, “Ah that Enola Holmes is a trouble maker and their mother if I might say so myself.”

“I did not witness his mother at the ceremony?” you noted openly, you presumed their parents had passed away.

“Oh no, probably not. Eudoria like a ghost in the walls some days. Very secretive that woman but good company I assure you, a comedian.”

How unusual to state so openly their mother was a trouble maker and yet good company...was such a thing possible?

“She...Enola...revealed his...true desires...or lack of...to be my husband...he left the chapel in a great frustration.”

Mrs Hudson’s worrisome tone opened out to you, “Oh no my dear, I am sorry to hear such a thing...I did say earlier some days he can be bully so I must pray he doesn’t treat you like that furthermore.”

You nodded sharply, “Perhaps my husband needs a bigger bully to tame his actions. Maybe he needs a good humbling?” you snorted a laugh. You felt a sudden pause in Mrs Hudson. You sensed her stepping away. Her sudden silence disturbed you

You looked over your shoulder to observe her but what came in view was a elderly woman gaping at a hard face man at the front door...Sherlock.

“Mrs Hudson, I do not believe it is a duty of yours to undress my bride and so I must find myself saying, I forbid you to touch her so intimately again,” he quipped as he shed his blazer and hung his top hat on the coat rack.

The room had become cold despite the bright sun shining into the apartment.

You felt exposed with your back flared out.

You turned your body for your front to face him.

The housekeeper snorted, “If you hadn’t abandoned her in the chapel this morning perhaps you would’ve been here to do it yourself.”

Your jaw fell open at her boldness. The man grimaced and smiled tightly with fire in his eyes, “Mrs Hudson?” he asked sweetly, “Get out of my apartment. Now.”

It was scary and yet so calm as he said it. His tone was full of a unspoken threat. The elder woman jerked up her chin and nudged him as she left the main room.

Sherlock swiftly locked the door behind her.

“So...Mrs Holmes...” He muttered bitterly, “You appear to be in need of a hand there with your wedding dress. Come here...wife...so I may relieve you of your strains.”

He spat the word ‘wife’ through gritted teeth. You did not feel safe...

“I...I’m sorry for what I said,” you mumbled, looking away from him as he stepped slowly closer to you.

He looked at you with a harsh face. His finger twirled in the air...silently demanding you turn.

He might as well have slapped you with the way you gasped. You bit your lip tightly to not cry now in front of him again. You turned away from him and began to pull down the bodice of your gown.

“Do not be,” he scoffed lightly, “You were merely stating what lay in your mind...”

You felt him behind you, hovering over you. You felt his fingers dug into the strings of your corset.

You pushed the bodice down to your hips. You untied the string of your bustle. When the springy cage collapsed, your white skirts fell passed your hips and down to your ankles.

“To this day,” Sherlock hummed, “I seek when women return to the corseting stays of only their chest. I don’t like pulling all these strings loose.”

You nodded slowly. You wanted to not disagree with him or voice your opinion. You had made the mood direly cold and you felt it was your duty to make him happy once again.

You stood from foot to foot nervously, “I had the means to merely shred my dress and not my underlings, you needn’t remove my corset-”

He cut you off blunt and brashly, “I want to see my wife naked and I need to pull these strings before I lose patience and cut them off, so please stay still.”

“Naked?” you gasped as he tugged roughly, making the whale bone loosen further around your waist and hips. You lost your balance and fell forward onto the lounge.

He twirled you around to face him, “Yes, naked,” and pushed the corset up and over your head. You felt suddenly like a trapped animal on the cushion lounge. The chemise was light and sheer...it did little to hide your breasts....

He got to his knees in front of you and started to unbutton your shoes.

“You know how to perform your wifely duties yes? You do not require an anatomy lesson I hope? A woman of sublime education should know how one copulates with another.”

You clenched your thighs tightly together, tol afraid to move as he stared up at you. Very tiny movement of your nodding made him hum approvingly.

You were feeling hot...sweat beading at the back of your neck. You were not sure whether you were ready to have him so carnally especially in the middle of the day. You were unsure if this was appropriate to be doing at all.

As he removed both your shoes...his hands tenderly pulled at your white stockings....his hands creeped up your legs and pulled at the ribbon garters... Your bare feet felt cold to the air.

You jumped as the feeling of his lips pressed to one of your knees.

It was the first kiss he ever gave you.

His hands were wayward and you frigidly laid still. You were still too scared to move. His hands cupped your covered breasts softly.

The breath in your chest was quickly stolen out in a gasp and a unpreventable shaking moan.

His face rose up and his nose nuzzled to yours. It was so intimate and sudden...you were frightened and turned your face away to shudder...

“W-wait,” you softly begged.

He pulled back and huffed, “Yes, you’re corrct, I am overly dressed as well it would seem.”

He pushed up to his feet and plucked at the buttons of his vest. His finger unkindly tore his cravat from his throat and thumbed down his trouser lifting suspenders.

You felt your knees rise up to your chest. You were unsure if he wanted you to help, if that was a part of the duties of the bedroom....you were still not in the bedroom however...

“I believe this copulation would be easier in the bedroom, my dear Mrs Holmes?”

You didn’t understand straight away what he meant...you were frazzled...surely men who hated their wives didn’t do this? Had you pleased him so quickly that he didn’t care about whatever you’d don’t to frustrate him?

He looked at you dumbly and tilted his head, glancing to your bedroom door.

His hand held out to you, “Shall we?”

Your mouth felt impossibly dry but your loins grew a buzz and you felt a need to self pleasure...was this lust allowed in a marriage bed?

You carefully rose to your feet.

He pulled you closer and closer to your room and finally closer to your own bed.

He gently pushed your shoulders down for you to sit on the soft mattress

He removed his shoes and pushed down his loose trousers. His breeches, he started to unbutton. You looked away from his face and up to the ceiling.

You heard his breeches hit the floor. You didn’t want to look at his intimates... He shed his shirt and started to pinch at your chemise.

“Lift your arms up.”

From the corner of your eyes you could see his bare chest.

You were trembling with your limbs above your head. You didn’t know this man...he was Sherlock Holmes the great detective but that is all you knew.

And you were letting him see you in a state of your most open self...

He pulled the material over your head and he groaned as he gazed at your totally nude chest. Your nipples hardened in the cold breeze wharfing through the open window. Your arms fell to quickly cover your chest, you were too cold and shy to be so exposed like this to him.

He noticed your shivering. He turned away and went to close the window and shut the curtains. With strange admiration you noticed his tight and strong backside and thighs.

You flushed and accidentally whimpered when he turned around and you saw his cock. It wasnt like the statues in the museum...nor the medical books you perused..

It was...larger, and brutish.

You bit your lip and clenched your thighs again.

Would be hurt you? You were curious as a young girl about sex like many. Among your friends you had heard that the larger the male member the more agonising coitus would be.

You quickly recalled a time as a girl your grandfather took you to a horse auction and a stallion had broken his way into the mares pen. The great black beast look the white squealing mare most violently.

Would Sherlock pin his body above yours and bite the back of your neck to keep you beneath him...

You gulped loud enough for him to hear.

His hand pushed your shoulders back slowly.

“Spread those pretty thighs Mrs Holmes, show me what is now mine...”

Your fingers dug into your arms as you held yourself. Pathetically, tears came creeping out the button ducts of your orbs and escaped down your cheeks.

You swallowed the sob building in your chest. You didn’t think this intimacy would be so frightful and terrorising...

He stared down at you with a mean smirk. He scoffed and shook his head. He touched your knees and helped force them apart. Your spread thighs revealed your hairy centre at the crease of your drawers crotch...

He hummed approvingly. He stuck two fingers into his mouth and sucked them loudly and lewdly...

You choked on your tears and covered your face with your hands unable to watch anymore...you felt everything nonetheless...

Those fingers trailed across your thigh and tapped at your peaking labia. Your eyes felt wide.

A light shriek jumped from your throat as his hot mouth latched to your neck and you gasped while his tongue tickled your flesh.

You felt a single finger wiggled its way around your pearl bundle of pleasure before trailing and prodding into the space of your body...the hole. Your vaginal entrance...

“A hairy pussy cat...I might need to change that...”

You didn’t understand what filth he was suggesting. You knew your pussy referred to your entrance but to change it made no sense to you...

His free hand gently pulled your wrists away and pushed your hands to sit above your head.

With his soft mouth he wetly trailed his tongue along your skin arouse down to your fuzzy covered underarm and across to the swell of your breath. You squeezed your eyes shut with difficulty as you felt the tip of his nose nudge your teat...

His hot breath covered your nipple.

It stirred a strange, painful warm down your belly and arousal between your legs. You felt the wet essences of pleasure seep from yourself...

You shuddered loudly and groaned into the head of his curly hair as his finger pushed inside, stretching you out. You blanched at the thought remembering his thick cock was worth four of his fingers at this moment.

The sound of his finger was squelching and wet.

His second finger flickered to get inside of you. You tore away your mouth and loudly groaned as he entered and spread your insides.

Your belly felt tight. You let out a moan.

He kissed along your jaw and pushed his mouth over your lips. You didn’t know what to do. It was like he was sucking at your lips and licking them with his tongue.

You felt your experience come to light. You and on some occasions of youth touched yourself intimately in the dead of the night when all in the manor were asleep...your soft sighs muffled by your own pillows were heard only by yourself. The scratching sounds of your hips rolling against a thick blanket between your legs were maybe mistaken for a skittering rat in the walls.

You urges would decease the touches when you were reminded by your own senses that your genitals were not your prize but your future husband’s to touch. It was a sin to steal what would belong to him.

And as you laid beneath Sherlock and recalled those desperate nights of silly humping you bucked your hips into the touch of his fingers filling and stretching your way.

It was good to be a virgin...you didn’t want to be a slut ...you worried he would see you as many saw you.... Like your mother a prostitute....

You kept yourself pure for this moment but for the first time you wondered if that was a good choice. Was the lack of experience...a good thing for men?

And after sometime of him thrusting his fingers in and out, you felt the soft hot skin of something touching your hole....the tip of his cock.

“Sh-sherlock,” you worriedly whispered, “Please...w-wait.”

Your husband grunted and lifted his hand away from your hole to run his thumb across your tear wet cheek.

“You are aware it will sting...nothing has been inside you like this before.”

“Yes,” you whimpered. He kissed your wobbling mouth and used the tips of his fingers to press on your clit. He rubbed you slowly and realigned his tip to your hole.

“Allow me to open your doors with my key, wife. Fill your home with children.”

You shouted up at the ceiling as he thrust hard and fast into your body. Your lower body felt like a hot poker was ripping up into you.

You gasped and choked on a silent squeak before a few seconds past and the air filled your lungs making you scream and cry out as your life changed forever...

It was like he had cut you inside. And the pressure had not left you. His cock was dug deep and snuggly buried inside your tight hole.

You hit him. Your fists banged his chest with the little strength you had left.

“Stop! Get off me!” you wailed.

With bruising grip he held your arms down either side of your head. He was too strong for you to pull and push off. You sobbed out for your grandfather, so scared this would kill you.

His hips pulled back. You both gasped.

You groaned at the sight of his dick leaving you, covered in dark burgundy blood. It yellowed his pale member.

You felt sick and turned your head away into your covers.

“Please,” you begged, “Let me go.”

He sighed and shook his head, his mouth latched to your ear, “No...you can do this Y/N...this is the price all wives pay.”

He sheathed back inside of you. This time the burn of your walls was a little less.

The smell of metal was in the room. Your blood scent hit your nose finally. You could taste it in the back of your throat.

The way his hip bones punched down and roughly scrapped your pelvis made you hiss.

His mouth forced it’s way onto yours again in a passionate kiss. You whimpered and begged him to stop again as he thrusted inside. It hurt too much...you whined and sunk your teeth into his lips and caught the tip of his tongue.

“Fuck!” he roared and pulled back violently. His lips and yours covered in bright red blood in contrast to the red waves between your thighs.

“Get off!” you screamed again. You tugged your arms weakly. You tried pounding your heels into the back of his thighs.

He rose his hand high and you squeezed your eyes shut waiting for a blow...it did not come. You heard him yell angrily and hit the blanket instead.

He tired himself out of you, the force made you choke. The taste of his warm blood in between your teeth had you spitting aside the covers.

He pushed off the bed and stomped angrily out of the room, slamming your bedroom door shut. You sniffled and turned onto your side, crying as the burn between your legs struck you. You felt empty and sore. Like his hand had punched inside your body.

This is not at all what you anticipated as a married woman...

Why would any woman ever love their husband after cause such agony as that in their beds...

You reached out for a pillow and tugged it to your face. Your nose rubbed deep into the soft goose feathers and let your tears meld with your snot.

You curled up and clutched your sore side...

It was a pain comparable to your menses.

You prayed for help or someone like your grandfather or Mycroft to come and save you.

HELPINES:

If you are a victim of sexual abuse, assault or domestic violence or know someone who is please reach out to these links that share helpline services, phone numbers or emails. Consent and respect is important in every relationship whether between friends, family or even strangers.

Australian Helpline Services

UK Helpline Services

American Helpline Services

India Helpline Services.

[writing-bakugo]

When You Know, You Know ~ Katsuki Bakugo

You experience a ton of firsts with Bakugo...including the moment you realized you wanted to marry him.

Warnings: self-conscious reader, Mitsuki does't like the reader

You? Yeah, you didn’t do change well. Back in high school, the first week of the semester you were often found in the bathroom puking up lunch. Something about change in the routine made your hairs stick up on your arms and your stomach eject its contents. 

You were dating for a week when Bakugo asked you to spend the weekend at his family’s home. Of course, you’d known Bakugo since freshman year in high school, but the sudden jump from giddy good morning text messages now that you were dating to “my shitty dad’s throwing a work party for my mom. On Saturday” was jarring. 

You didn’t know what to do. The thought made your mouth and throat hot and your head pale and sweaty. So, all week you interrogated your friends. Kirishima was first, obviously. 

“But like we haven’t been dating for long, Ei. Going to his parents? That's a big step...that's like you date for a year and then...you know?”

“He probably didn’t even think about it like that. It’s fine.”

Kaminari said, “yeah he’s an idiot. Don’t go. It’s only been a week.”

Then there was “OH MY GOSH! You HAVE to go” Mina. 

Thursday night arrived before you knew it. You gulped and decided to confess your anxiety to Bakugo. 

“That’s something extras care about,” Bakugo said. 

“I guess…” When it came to comfort, your boyfriend wasn’t exactly…tuned in. “I just—“

“Relax,” he huffed, “it’s only weird if you make it weird. My family isn't the kind of family to sweat that shit.”

Somehow the way his eyes were soft and pleading made you agree. Which is how you found yourself standing outside of Bakugo’s childhood home the next night with a backpack slung over your shoulder. 

“Katsuki brought a girl?!” Mitsuki couldn’t believe her eyes. Her son had a girlfriend?! And didn’t mention anything?! “Where’s Kirishima?”

“Who cares,” Bakugo huffed. He dragged you upstairs to his childhood room and you couldn’t help but giggle at the three All Might figurines sitting on his desk. 

“Who didn’t love All Might?” You asked aloud before the door slammed open. 

Mitsuki stood in a fit of steam and yelled, “I’m taking her, Katsuki!”

“Like hell you are, hag!” Bakugo yelled right back. 

But you found yourself standing in a spare room. It was large. Fabric strewn everywhere and clothes hung on racks. You didn't know what to say to Mitsuki, so you responded robotically with one-word answers.

Mitsuki wasn't impressed.

“It’s a work party,” Mitsuki said, “we work in the fashion industry so…let’s get you something to strut around in.”

You weren’t Mitsuki’s definition of worthy for her son. You weren’t drop-dead gorgeous like the models she worked with and you definitely didn’t have the personality she saw fit for Bakugo. 

In her eyes, Bakugo needed someone just as spit-fire as him. Of course, if she thought about it for too long, she might've seen the resemblance between her and Masaru and you and Bakugo. But to her? Bakugo needed a woman who wouldn't take his shit.

Your one-word agreements were entirely way too bland.

And when she made you try on a designer dress, one that she said she’s been working on for four months, you couldn’t help the knots that formed in your stomach. You’d never worn anything this…expensive before. Honestly, it draped on the ground and you thought it fitting for a modeling show.

Mitsuki frowned. “It’s too small for you.”

That struck a chord. You awkwardly laughed and tried to play it off. "Oh you're right!"

"You know, if you dieted I'm sure we could get this in you within aa month."

You knew she probably didn’t mean much by it. She was so used to being surrounded by starving models it probably was just a new experience for her too. You had a body carved of muscles and scars—not one that would ever see itself on the runway.

Plus, there’s no way she would’ve known an off-handed comment about your weight would’ve made you nauseous. 

She made you put on multiple dresses before you landed on one that you could squeeze into. By the time you were done, you’d felt completely out of steam and just wanted to curl up with Bakugo. 

Sure, you weren’t what Mitsuki had in mind for her son. But you were a pro and you had the body that came with the job. Same as Bakugo. 

The party was a similar train wreck. You were in an event center that you’d only seen on TV. Models galore draped themselves on a feral Bakugo. Steam erupted from his ears once, and you thought one of them was going to flop over dead. They didn’t stop coming onto him until he wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on your shoulder. 

The contact made your stomach flutter. He’s never held you like this before. His hot breath tickled against that scar on your neck (the one you received in a battle oversees in Manhattan) and he rubbed circles on your hip. 

You ate food you’d never heard of and drank cocktails you didn’t know existed. The entire time, Bakugo clung to you like a koala on a tree and glared at anyone who came too close. 

Then it was over. People streamed out of the event center and Bakugo dragged you to his car. 

“That shit gets harder every damn time," he grumbles under his breath before you were driving back to his childhood home. 

You were ecstatic when Mitsuki and Masaru left you both alone when they arrived home. It was 1 am in all fairness, and you wanted out of the tight dress. But you couldn't lift your arms past your collar bone, let alone try to twist around to unzip the clingy fabric.

"Katsuki," you whispered and stared at the ground, "can you uh...can you help me out?"

His fingers on your back sent shivers down your spine and the butterflies in your stomach took to the air and scorching saliva drenched your mouth when you pushed him away and ran to the bathroom. 

“The fuck?” He chased after you and stopped when you keeled over the toilet. Bakugo rolled his eyes and crossed him arms, watching as you unloaded all the expensive and unholy hors d’oeuvres into the toilet. 

It made you squirm even more with his crimson eyes beating against you like a falcon when you retched. The pressure built up in your eyes and nose and your throat seared when tears and bile dribbled into the toilet. 

“I think my mom has some nausea pills. Want one?”

“No,” you gasped and sat back in your feet. “Sorry, I just…I need to brush my teeth and lay down.”

After a few seconds, you pulled yourself up and rinsed your mouth before reaching for your toiletry bag and tugging out your toothbrush and toothpaste. 

Bakugo grunted and grabbed his toothbrush, pulled out his phone and set a timer for two minutes. 

“DIE! DIE!” Bakugo yelled in the mirror and you watched with wide eyes, your toothbrush falling limp in your mouth. “DIE! Fucking germs!”

Your laughter graced his ears and he piqued an eyebrow at you. 

Before you realized it, you were saying, “I want to brush my teeth with you everyday, Katsuki.”

The declaration made both your faces beet red. It was so simple and comforting, standing next to Bakugo while he yelled at his teeth. It was so…him. Watching him brush his teeth was the most Bakugo thing you witnessed since you started dating that even though it was so new, it was something you wanted to do with him always. 

Something your friends always told you popped in your head when you stared at him while he gnawed on his toothbrush:

"When you know, you know. You'll understand later."

You could marry him right here with spit on your chin and a fury in his eyes. You would wear this designer dress hanging off your shoulders and he'd wear his sweats and that was the moment you knew.

This was a type of intimacy you'd never experienced.

And that was a change that made you truly happy.

[the-tenth-arcanum]

9 people you'd like to get to know better

(lys sorry I re-liked your post a dozen times I was trying to keep it on top of my 2k liked posts otherwise I would never see it again. and then I got stuck on the very first question and I kept putting this off. but I'm doing this now! everybody clap)

tagged: @malinaa

tagging: @centurieslove | @fairyhagmother | @flowersandfashion | @tuttocenere | @herstarlight |

@stormsouls | @mayapleiades | @courtjestermerlin | @godmerlin

three non romantic duos:

Sam & Frodo! Who did it like them! "Don't go where I can't follow!" "Frodo wouldn't have got far without Sam"! And other such hits. Crazy. To be honest there's a few non romantic duos from LOTR that I could pick but I love Sam Gamgee to death so I'm going with these two. Three hurrahs for borderline homoerotic devotion

2. Jen & Jack (Dawson's Creek). Dating myself here but I was obsessed with this teen drama as a teen. I've not really rewatched it since then because I'm afraid it will not live up to my nostalgic memories (though to be fair it started sucking so badly around S5 that I dropped it at the time and only tuned back in for the last episode lol). Anyway is there anything more beautiful than the friendship between a gay guy and his fag hag bestie? They were the cutest I love them both so much. I love how this show was so consistent in the way it portrayed their friendship. they were ride or die. I WANT WHAT THEY HAVE

3. Gaius & Merlin (lol). Okay I agonised over the last one but I couldn’t think of a better duo (sorry women 😔). I'm sure there are others I can't remember right now, but I do love them to be honest so why not them. I might have mentioned it before on my side blog but their relationship is probably my favourite in the show. I like the Chosen Family trope, okay? And I love that their relationship was important, in the show. They care so much about each other and it comes up time and time again. And their dynamic is fascinating, they're so similar in some ways and completely different in others. Immovable object vs unstoppable force. Thick as thieves, a pair of liars. As I once said—they lie so much, to other people, to themselves and to each other. And I think that's beautiful. Grey morality ❤

a ship that might surprise others: can't think of any tbh. I'm sure there are fics I've read that might surprise others, but only because I do check out a bit of everything if the premise sounds interesting enough to me, even with ships that are a bit out there. I don't really count that as shipping though.

last song: 80s medley I need to learn for my choir

last film: I don't really watch films anymore tbh 😭 I think the last one was when my aunt came to visit me last month—How Do You Know, which she chose because Paul Rudd was in it and it's probably the only reason to ever watch this film.

currently reading: Bliss & Blunder!! "A modern reworking of Arthurian legend". Or, the one where King Arthur is a tech bro. I'm enjoying it actually! (Nell if you're reading this I'll post some thoughts soon.ish. but I'm not even halfway through)

currently watching: nothing? I started Wolf Hall but I've watched less than half an episode over three lunch breaks and then I gave up for now because I'm meant to read a book and I can only focus on one (1) thing at the time apparently. but I might resume watching it at some point

currently consuming: nothing. hashtag minimalism

currently craving: local close friends so we can go out for a coffee and a chat 😔

[thunderwavesolveseverything]

 Pick Your Friends Carefully

[Astarion x Named Tav]

“Oh dear, cheer up." Ethel mocked, eyeing Phayelynn inside her cage, "Take this as a lesson learned," she continued to taunt her, "You should have been more careful when choosing your friends."

Ethel wiped her hands, signifying the end of their conversation.

The sound of Ethel’s laughter echoed in the tiny space while Phayelynn slumped to the floor the realization hitting her. They abandoned her.

or....

Ethel, after kidnapping Phayelynn, convinces her that the others aren't coming to rescue her.

-

I think one of my few complaints about Baldur's Gate is the lack of companion/companion interaction. Like, I would love to be able to still play as Tav, but choose to play as one of the companions and leave Tav behind, and still get the same kinds of interactions between the party if Tav was still there. I think its sad that Tav is the only one to hold relationships with the party members. So this is me, self-indulging and making the party friends.

(word count:  7,110)

Read on AO3 or below :)

Masterlist for Phayelynn’s adventures here

 Pick Your Friends Carefully

The stench of decay and filth wafted through the air, emanating from the hag’s lair. The room was cluttered with various bottles and jars, each containing bubbling, foul-smelling potions. A slab of rock served as a makeshift table, upon which the bottles were arranged haphazardly. In the center of the room, a large cauldron bubbled and steamed, emanating a putrid odor that made Phayelynn’s stomach churn.

From her cage, she tried to hold back her nausea as she watched the hag, Ethel, moving about the room. Ethel, still in her monstrous form, bounced around the room in a twisted, almost dance-like manner. As she worked, she hummed a haunting tune, adding to the eerie atmosphere of the lair.

Phayelynn gripped the bars of her cage tightly, attempting to glimpse Mayrina through the doorway, who was imprisoned in a cage suspended above a deep ravine. However, her view was obstructed, and she could barely distinguish Mayrina’s figure from inside the room. 

Her face contorted in frustration as she scowled at her surroundings. Her fingers, wrapped around the cage’s bars, suddenly slackened and loosened as she was about to concede defeat. Ethel’s cage had managed to suppress her magic somehow. When she had been thrown inside, she had fervently attempted to unleash thunderwave, but the effort had been in vain. No matter how much she strained and exerted herself, nothing happened - not a flicker of magic.

Suddenly, Ethel gave a cutting whistle, then flowed back into the out-of-tune humming, causing Phayelynn to wince. She watched as Ethel poured two bottles of liquid into a teapot, creating a puff of pink smoke.

“Gods, your pitch is all wrong.” Phayelynn couldn’t resist the snide comment. 

Ethel paused, her hands hovering mid-air before shaking her head and continuing with her work. With a practiced hand, she opened a canister and scooped out a small spoonful of a thick, black mixture. Another cloud of pungent steam emitted from the teapot as she added it. Ethel stirred the mixture with a long, gnarled spoon, her eyes fixed intently on the pot.

“What is that?” As the aroma filled the room, Phayelynn couldn’t help but wrinkle her nose in revulsion. She opened her mouth to continue, but before she could say anything, Ethel turned to face her, her long, pointed nose scrunching threateningly.

“You’d best keep your mouth shut, girl,” Ethel warned with her voice sharp and biting. “I know it must be hard for ‘ya, but please, petal, I’m trying to work. Don’t make me sew your lips shut.” She wagged a finger at Phayelynn, her eyes glinting with a dangerous light. 

Phayelynn gulped, her heart racing as she realized that Ethel wasn’t joking. 

Ethel let out a long and tired sigh. “If you must know, it’s for another client who will be arriving shortly.” She turned around to put the lid over the teapot and placed it off to the side, taking a moment to stretch her aching back. As she faced Phayelynn, her expression changed; she looked conniving and dastardly, and she began explaining in a low voice, “A love potion - the poor dear fears her husband is having an affair and wants to keep his temptation for pretty things at bay. This potion will do the trick.”

Phayelynn’s stomach churned. She bit back a wince and held onto the cage’s bars to steady herself. She narrowed her eyes at Ethel and questioned, “And what’s in it for you? What’s the trick? I doubt you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart.”

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating, petal,” Ethel’s smile revealed her pointed, jagged teeth, sending chills down Phayelynn’s spine. “There’s no trick, cross your heart.” she continued, her voice dripping with sinister intent. “This potion will make him absolutely insane for her. I just can’t bear to see the poor girl heartbroken. She’s a sweet thing, really. She has manners, unlike you.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for not being more appreciative of the hag who kidnapped me!” Phayelynn spat sarcastically, heart racing with fear and apprehension. 

“You were being rude! I helped keep you alive. You should’ve seen yourself when you were brought to me,” Ethel snapped. She approached Phayelynn’s cage and said, “Rudeness must be punished.”

Phayelynn didn’t back down and nodded towards the door where Mayrina was being held captive on the other side. “Was that what you were doing to her? Are you going to force-feed me a pie?” 

“Hahaha!” Ethel cackled like a witch. “Mayrina is a stupid girl. She can’t take care of herself, let alone the child. She needs me.”

 “No, what she needs is to get out of this place and away from you. I don’t know what you promised her or why she came to you, but-” 

Phayelynn was interrupted by Ethel’s boisterous laughter. The sound reverberated through the room. 

“Hahaha! Petal, you don’t have a clue in that thick skull of yours about how hags are born, do you?” Ethel said, laughing even louder. 

Phayelynn’s face contorted with horror and disgust. She was taken aback by Ethel’s remark. “No, I can’t say I ever thought about how you,” Phayelynn motioned towards Ethel’s grotesque body, shuddering at the thought, “reproduce..” 

Ethel’s laughter rang out as she wiped away a fake tear. “Oh, deary,” she said, still chuckling. “I might keep you around longer than dessert. You are irksome, but you do make me laugh. We are born when another eats a newborn.” 

The thought of Ethel devouring Mayrina’s helpless baby sent shivers down Phayelynn’s spine. Ethel taunted her with a wicked laugh, her eyes glinting with malicious joy.

“Oh, don’t look so upset,” Ethel said, waving Phayelynn off casually. “Mayrina came to me. She wants me to take the babe off her hands.” 

Phayelynn’s heart skipped a beat, gasping in disbelief, and her voice trembled as she spoke, 

“What?” 

Surely, Ethel was lying. 

Ethel, on the other hand, snorted in response. “In exchange for the babe, I’ll resurrect her husband. His coffin’s right outside.” Ethel’s voice was cold and matter-of-fact.

Phayelynn was still struggling to understand why anyone would make such a deal. “She can’t do that. That’s her own flesh and blood. How could she?” “ she asked. Her eyes narrowed as she fixed Ethel with a mistrustful gaze. “There’s a trick, isn’t there? There’s no way she knows what her child will become.”

“I have already told her everything she needs to know,” Ethel replied with a sly smirk. “I will teach her child magic, and they will have a good home. Mayrina will get what she wants. And so will I. And you, petal, will make a fine dessert.” 

Phayelynn, trapped in her cage and facing the prospect of becoming a hag’s dessert, shook the bars with all her might while screaming, “You won’t get away with this! My friends will come!”

Ethel mockingly said, “And what? They’ll kill me? Ha, they can bloody try.” she continued to taunt her, “No, they’re still upstairs, arguing about what to do. The green one, she wants to leave you. The others are nearly convinced. I don’t know what you did to piss them off, but with that mouth of yours, I can’t blame them.” 

Phayelynn’s face fell as she struggled to think of a witty retort or a clever comeback to Ethel’s biting words. She couldn’t muster a response. 

Ethel wiped her hands, signifying the end of their conversation. She looked at Phayelynn with a last glimpse of pity as tears welled up in Phayelynn’s eyes. Ethel couldn’t help but laugh, “Oh dear, cheer up. Take this as a lesson learned. You should have been more careful in choosing your friends.” 

The sound of Ethel’s laughter echoed in the tiny space while Phayelynn slumped to the floor of her dirty cage, tears escaping her.

---

As they all huddled in the dimly lit room, Astarion felt a sense of unease creeping up his spine. The plan they had agreed upon was risky, but his survival depended on it. Finding the secret passageway behind the hag’s fireplace had been surprisingly easy once they had all come to a consensus. Even though every instinct in his body told him to stay away, he couldn’t ignore Gale’s argument with Lae’zel about leaving Phayelynn to the hag. 

Astarion’s concern wasn’t that Phayelynn was in danger; it was that he couldn’t let her be taken by the hag when the trust he had gained from her was invaluable. She let him drink from her last night. She had defended him against the Gur. She had nearly died for him. 

He knew he would never be able to attain the same level of trust with Gale, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel. 

If he wanted to survive this ordeal and maintain his position in the group, he had to save her. It couldn’t be Gale or Shadowheart. It had to be him.

“Careful where you tread here. A hag’s magic is not to be trifled with.” 

As they made their way down the creaky and rotting wooden steps leading into the hag’s lair, Gale’s voice echoed through the dark, eerie chamber. The air was thick with a pungent odor of magic and other unspeakable things that made Astarion’s skin crawl. 

Gale’s warning was not lost on Astarion, though he couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the obviousness of it.

As they descended the stairs, they stopped in their tracks. This was a wretched place, filled with twisted abominations that seemed to revel in their own depravity being put on display. Everywhere they looked, there were grotesque reminders of the horrors that had transpired in a hag’s lair. Astarion was used to witnessing countless atrocities in his two centuries as a vampire spawn. He found himself feeling a mixture of revulsion and fascination. Despite the overwhelming sense of dread that hung heavy in the air, he couldn’t help but be drawn in by the macabre beauty of it all.

It was as if he had descended into the depths of the earth, into some hidden cavern or forgotten tomb. The only light source came from a series of glowing green bulbs that cast an eerie pallor over everything they touched. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, Astarion began to make out the details of the room. To his left, he saw a mirror reflecting the image of the skull propped up by a tangle of roots from the ground, giving it an unsettling, otherworldly appearance.

Moving further into the room, Astarion saw an elf posed in terror. Her eyes were blown out wide, and her mouth hung open in a scream that had been frozen in time. In her hands, she clutched her own disembodied head as if trying to comprehend the horror that had befallen her.

The room seemed to go on forever, each new detail more unsettling than the last. It was as if Astarion had stumbled into a nightmare, one from which he might never awaken.

 Gale then let out a cry of pain and hunched over, grabbing his sides in agony. 

Astarion’s instincts kicked in, and instead of rushing to Gale’s side to offer aid, he reached down for his daggers, waiting for whatever trap Gale had triggered to reveal itself. 

Shadowheart’s eyes were filled with both urgency and concern as she reached out to Gale, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his chest, trying to help him stand. She asked him, “Are you alright? What happened?” with her face furrowed, trying to assess the situation.

Gale let out a deep sigh as he tried to stand up, his body still recovering from whatever had hit him. 

“Is it the tadpole?” Lae’zel hissed, ever-alert and ready to strike, and quickly reached for her weapon- if he so much as twitches, she narrowed her eyes. Shadowheart, however, shot her a warning look. 

“I fear it’s not the tadpole.”Gale attempted to give her a reassuring smile, but she kept her hand over the hilt of her blade. Gale took a deep breath before looking at Shadowheart, his voice slightly hoarse. “I--I’m alright,” he said, hesitating. 

 “What was that?” she asked again, her tone more insistent this time. 

Gale stood before the group, his eyes roving over each individual before him. He hesitated momentarily, unsure if he could trust them enough to reveal his secret. His gaze fell upon Astarion, who met his look with a steady, unwavering stare. For a moment, Gale felt a pang of resentment towards the vampire. But then, as he studied Astarion’s face more closely, he suddenly understood. Astarion had kept his own secret from the group, just as Gale was considering keeping his. 

Gale struggled to his feet with the help of his staff and raised his hand in a gesture of apology. “I am sorry, Astarion. I realize now that my earlier response was unfair. I must confess that I, too, have a particular appetite,” he said, his voice tinged with reluctance.

A look of dread crossed Astarion’s face as he let out a long sigh and leaned back. “Please don’t tell me you’re a werewolf. I had a feeling there was something off about the smell of your blood,” he said, his voice full of apprehension.

Gale felt a twinge of offense at the insinuation but quickly composed himself. “No, I am not a werewolf,” he said firmly. “But I must admit that there is something about me that I have never shared with anyone before except my cat. If we are to continue traveling together and trusting each other, I think it’s only fair that I tell you.” He took a deep breath and paused momentarily before continuing, “I have this condition... It’s very different from the parasite we all share, but it’s just as deadly.” 

A moment of silence followed Gale’s words, and Astarion cocked his head, his eyes narrowed with both curiosity and suspicion. Shadowheart, on the other hand, took a step back, her expression betraying a hint of fear and uncertainty.

“What kind of condition are we talking about here?” she asked. 

Gale sensed the unease in her tone and quickly reassured her, “Don’t worry, it’s not contagious. But to be honest, the specifics are rather personal.” 

Astarion arched an eyebrow. He tapped his foot and crossed his arms against his chest, jutting out his hip impatiently, “Come now darling,” Astarion exclaimed, “can’t you just get on with it? We don’t have all day. We’re kind of in the middle of something, you know.”

Shadowheart let out a sigh of frustration. Astarion’s impatience wasn’t helping the situation. 

Gale, however, seemed to understand the urgency of the matter. He appreciated her support but didn’t require it. “No, I understand,” he replied with a nod. “Time is of the essence. We must rescue Phayelynn as soon as possible, so I’ll be frank: Every so often, I need to acquire magical items and absorb the Weave within them.” 

Gale was met with silence. He let out a nervous laugh, feeling the weight of their confusion. He knew he hadn’t explained it well enough, but he didn’t have much time to explain thoroughly, and Astarion was right - now was not a good time for his condition to act up. 

“So, let me get this straight,” Astarion spoke up, breaking the awkward quietness with a skeptical tone in his voice. “you’re telling us that you’re addicted to magic?” His disbelief was palpable, but he was voicing what was on everyone’s mind.

Quick to correct him, Gale rushed to explain, “No, no, nothing like that. You’ve got it all wrong. Magic isn’t some kind of narcotic to me; it’s quite literally a life-saver! You see, I need an item that can absorb the Weave within, or else- let’s just say you don’t want to know what happens.” 

Gale’s tone was earnest, and it was clear that he was struggling to make the others understand the severity of his situation, and with what little details he spared, and he feared that their skepticism would only make things worse. 

Shadowheart let out a deep sigh. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility for a wizard to get caught up in some sort of trouble that resulted in them having to consume literal magic. She then gestured towards Gale’s bag of holding, prompting him to hand it over to her. A look of confusion crossed his face as he shrugged off the bag from his shoulders. 

Shadowheart began to rummage through the bag, pushing aside their packs and supplies until she found what she was looking for: a helmet she had found back in the blighted village. 

Shadowheart handed over the helmet to Gale.

 Astarion’s disapproval was visible as he raised his voice, “Seriously? You’re just going to give him something that could be useful in this fight we’re about to start with a hag?” He flared his arms around, “Wonderful. Brilliant. I can already see how this will end up. Better start counting up our gold while you’re at it. I hope we’ll have enough for all of us to get that old sack of bones to resurrect us when we inevitably get ourselves killed.” 

Shadowheart ground her teeth together. “Must you be so dramatic?” she asked him. “No one was going to wear that hideous thing either way. This is what friends do. They help each other.” 

Astarion’s laugh rang across the room, his sneer showing off his fangs. “Hah-” he chortled, “us, friends? That’s hilarious. Do you really think that’s what we are now? Friends?” His tone was biting and sarcastic.

Shadowheart’s face contorted sternly, “We need to trust each other,” she said, her gaze shifting from Astarion, then to Lae’zel. “We need all the friends we can get right now if we’re going to stand any chance at making it through this.” 

With a clenched fist and a warning sparkle in her eyes, she continued,  “Now, either you two get on board with this plan, or you can go off alone. But we don’t have time for bickering or squabbling.” Her gaze shifted back and forth between Astarion and Lae’zel. “Now, shall we go save our bard?” 

Astarion’s eyes narrowed as Gale thanked her for the help and started absorbing the magic out of the helmet. Astarion shook his head, his brows knitting together as he turned on his heels and walked further into the hag’s lair.

Friends, he thought bitterly. The irony of it all was not lost on him. Hilarious indeed. 

---

Phayelynn was curled up in a ball, her knees pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped tightly around them. She had been there for what felt like an eternity. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her ponytail was loose and disheveled as she leaned against a corner of the cage.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of something clicking, like a key jingling in a lock. She buried her head in her arms snugger. Ethel’s sharp claws would soon wrap around her arm and drag her out. Her body tensed up in anticipation, but nothing came. Hesitantly, she looked up, and to her surprise, she saw Astarion standing above her.

“You came... for me?” she stammered, wiping her tear-streaked cheeks with her sleeve, hoping to hide the evidence of her crying. 

Astarion looked almost insulted that she would think he wouldn’t come to rescue her. He let out a long sigh and rolled his eyes.

 “Let’s not make a big deal about it, now shall we?” he said, finishing picking the lock and pulling the creaky wooden door open. 

“But Ethel?” Phayelynn asked, slowly standing, her hands shaking as she tried to straighten out her clothes. 

“The others are taking care of her as we speak. Now, unless you want to be hag food?” Astarion replied with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. He stepped aside to give Phayelynn room to exit the cage.

Phayelynn nodded, feeling a little shaky and unsteady on her feet. Her eyes shifted towards a nearby table, where she saw her dagger and crossbow thrown carelessly. They had been taken from her when Ethel had captured her. She hurried to pick up her weapons. 

She could hear the battle picking up between the others and Ethel in the background. Her heart was pounding, still not believing they had actually come for her. 

She turned to face Astarion and gave him a warm smile and said, “Thank you for saving me. I thought I was done for.” 

Astarion’s face twisted into a grimace, and he shook his head. “Please don’t make me say ‘you’re welcome’ because I won’t,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of doing something good.

“Of course,” she replied with a soft giggle, her eyes glistening. However, her expression quickly turned serious as she gestured towards the door. “Shall we go help kill a hag?” 

  Astarion let out an embittered sigh as if this was the last thing he wanted to do in all of Faerûn, “Ugh, I suppose.” His shoulders slumped. With a deep breath, he followed her out the door, steeling himself for the battle ahead.

As Astarion and Phayelynn made their way out of the room, they were met with the cacophony of Gale and Shadowheart, unleashing a flurry of spells at Ethel. Ethel, in turn, had created two identical clones of herself, one of which was locked in a fierce battle with Lae’zel. 

With lightning-fast movements, the duplicate of Ethel evaded Lae’zel’s sword strikes with ease. It vanished into a mist, causing Lae’zel’s sword to plunge forward and embed itself in the ground. Lae’zel recovered effortlessly, hoisting her sword over her shoulder and scanning the area for any sign of Ethel or her duplicates. Her eyes flickered with grit 

“Chk,” Lae’zel’s disdainful expression was unmistakable as she spotted Astarion and Phayelynn and held her nose up to the bard. “Must you stick out your neck for every dimwit in distress?” 

Phayelynn blushed sheepishly but quickly regained her composure. “I think I’ve learned my lesson this time,” she said. She motioned to herself. “Action,” she explained, then gestured towards Ethel. “Consequence.” 

Astarion let out a derisive laugh, “I’ll believe that when I see it,” he said with a smirk, clearly doubting that Phayelynn had truly learned her lesson.

Ethel then let out a cackle, a fire bolt shooting out from her fingertips, and set Mayrina’s cage ablaze. Panic-stricken, Mayrina cried out for help and tried to flee away from the bars to avoid getting burned. The flames were growing rapidly, and Shadowheart immediately called out to Gale, hoping he could spawn some water to extinguish the fire before it was too late. 

“She’ll be roast like a goose if that fire isn’t put out!” Shadowheart called out, her voice cracking as she fought against the nausea. 

But Gale was unable to respond as he was also hit with a ray of sickness from one of Ethel’s duplicates, and his stomach twisted and churned, causing him to hunch over in agony. 

Astarion quickly reached for his bow, pulling out an ice arrow from his quiver. With expert precision, he took aim and shot the cage, and the icy tip of the arrow exploded, dousing the flames. He then moved his sights on Ethel and loaded another arrow. Just as the arrow was about to hit its target, Ethel disappeared.

Lae’zel carefully examined the group of Ethel’s clones, trying to discern which one was the real Ethel. And then, finally, she spotted it - a subtle difference in the real Ethel’s appearance, the slight shimmer of magic that surrounded her.

Without wasting any time, Lae’zel sprang into action, leaping forward and up onto a platform that overlooked the room. She landed behind the real Ethel, raising her sword in preparation for a decisive strike.

But Ethel was one step ahead of her plan. With a wicked laugh, she revealed that she had anticipated Lae’zel’s move all along. “Too slow, deary,” she taunted, and with a snap of her fingers, Ethel was gone. 

Suddenly, Ethel reappeared abruptly in front of Astarion and Phayelynn, causing Phayelynn to let out a loud scream of startled surprise. Astarion’s reflexes kicked in as he instinctively reached for another arrow, only to realize with a sinking feeling that his quiver was empty.

“Shit.” Astarion let out a frustrated curse under his breath as he threw the bow aside, opting instead for his trusty pair of daggers. He eyed the hag warily, reluctant to get too close to her. Turning his gaze to Phayelynn, he spoke up with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Darling, would you mind giving us some breathing room?”

Phayelynn was lost in thought for a few moments, trying to understand what was being asked of her. After a few moments of silence, it finally clicked in her mind, and she rubbed her hands together with excitement.

“Right, right,” she smiled mischievously, “De- damn it,” she started out strong, loud but the conviction in her voice faded as she caught herself going through the motions of holding an imaginary lute, “I really need to figure out this lute thing,” With a heavy sigh, she brought her hands too her chest and then threw them out, unleashing a wave of bright purple energy that flowed out of her, while she yelled the magic words, “De Torno!” 

As the spell hit Ethel, the sheer impact of it sent her flying backward, and she felt herself teetering dangerously close to the ravine’s edge. She flailed her arms, trying to regain her balance, but the ground beneath her feet was uneven and treacherous.

Meanwhile, Mayrina was frantically trying to get Phayelynn’s attention, reaching through the bars and waving her arms about. Mayrina’s voice was filled with fear and desperation as she screamed out, “No! Stop! Don’t do this! Leave me here!”

As Astarion and Phayelynn stood there, Astarion’s eyes narrowed with confusion. “Wait, I’m sorry, she doesn’t want to be saved?” he asked, his gaze darting towards Phayelynn. “What in the bloody hells are we doing here then?”

Phayelynn shook her head, a look of irritation crossing her features. “It’s a long story,” she said, “but don’t listen to her. We need to stop Ethel.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical, but couldn’t push the matter further as Ethel rose up straight, moving towards them both with a fierce look in her eyes. Astarion readied his knives defensively while Phayelynn began to focus her energy to attempt to conjure up more magic. In an instant, Ethel creates several duplicates of herself, each one fanning out across the room. 

“This is impossible.” Astarion jeered in frustration, eyes bouncing around the room, trying to locate them all. 

Ethel snapped her fingers with a sudden burst of power, and in the blink of an eye, Mayrina was no longer in her cage. With another snap, Ethel herself had disappeared. Phayelynn felt a flash of panic but breathed a sigh of relief when Mayrina reappeared. She looked bewildered and frazzled, her tear-stained face wild as she looked around. Phayelynn stepped forward to reach for her, but her relief soon turned into dread. Another Mayrina appeared to her right, looking just as petrified as the first. Phayelynn was flabbergasted as she looked between them. 

Ethel wasn’t done toying with them yet. 

Lae’zel jumped down from her perch, brandishing her sword and charging towards the first Mayrina that had appeared. She swung her sword recklessly, her eyes filled with ferocious purpose. 

 Phayelynn’s instincts kicked in, and she acted quickly, without thought. She reached out and pulled the girl towards her, out of harm’s way. She winced as the blade narrowly missed Mayrina’s body by mere inches. Phayelynn’s heart pounded with adrenaline, but she tried to keep her cool. 

 Gale, getting his bearings, his stomach finally settling from the spell, saw what had happened as he shot out an array of magic missiles, targeting the hags’ illusions as they appeared. His eyes widened at Lae’zel’s rash actions. 

 His voice rose to a shout, “Are you mad? She’s pregnant! We don’t know who is who!” 

 However, Lae’zel didn’t share his deep concern as she sneered at his worry. She was not fooled by the hags’ trick and could see the essence of magic she had noticed before on this Mayrina. She looked at Phayelynn, daring her to defend this Mayrina again. In a swift motion, Lae’zel ripped the girl from Phayelynn’s grasp and plunged her sword into her stomach, the blade sinking through to the hilt. The sight was enough to make even Astarion grimace as everyone else in the party let out a collective inhale of breath.

 Lae’zel smirked as the girl flickered, the illusion fading, and Ethel once again stood before her, sword deep in her gut. 

 The real Mayrina cried out in relief, her hands clutching her stomach. “Oh, thank the gods,” she exclaimed, visibly shaken. 

 The other watched silently as Lae’zel pulled out her sword, the hag releasing a strangled gasp. Her gasp quickly twisted into a laugh, finding it amusing that she had been caught- until she was pelted with a barrage of magic missiles. 

 “Pest!” Ethel smirked, body whipping around so fast it was almost a blur of motion as she looked towards Gale’s direction. She waved her hands, casting a hold person spell on him, then faced Lae’zel once more, mocking her as she slashed her claws against the githyanki armor, “What kind of botched portal brought something like you here,” she hissed. 

 Phayelynn’s eyes were fixed on Lae’zel, who clutched her head in pain after the blow.  Her mind raced to think of anything that she could do that would help. 

Lae’zel was still too close to Ethel, and she didn’t want to sweep her up in the blast along with Ethel if she cast thunderwave. She had learned her lesson after the fight against the Harpies with Astarion. She remembered cloud of daggers, but Ethel could easily step out of it. The energy she would use to conjure it up would just go to waste, and she could not afford that- not without her lute to use as a channel for her magic. 

 Her fingers twitched, and she looked to Gale, wishing she had his extensive range of spells and talent. She saw him still struck, frozen by Ethel’s magic. If only she had a hold person spell-

Suddenly, thinking back on the fight with the Harpies, she remembered something she could do.  Her eyes flickered with excitement and hope as she stepped forward and snapped her fingers, gaining the hag’s attention. A mischievous smirk spread across Phayelynn’s lips as she puffed out her chest and shouted the spell, “Rezum teniates!”

 The magic wrapped around Ethel. She writhed in agony as the spell made her throw herself to the ground. She curled into a fetal position, clutching her stomach tightly as if trying to ward off the pain that was wracking her body. And yet, amid it all, she couldn’t help but let out a chilling, maniacal laugh that echoed through the air. 

 As the hag’s cackles filled the air, Shadowheart’s eyes fixed on the scene unfolding before her. The hag’s duplicates had shattered, and Gale was finally released from her grasp. Shadowheart couldn’t help but nod in approval at Phayelynn.

 The fight was far from over, even as the hag lay sprawled on the ground.

 “Strike. Now, while she’s down,” Lae’zel’s commanding voice boomed, urging the others to take advantage of the hag’s momentary weakness. 

 Astarion smirked mischievously in agreement as he joined the final move against the hag. He deftly darted around Phayelynn, his daggers glinting under the ghostly green light, as he sought to land precise strikes in the hag’s most vital areas. 

 Lae’zel lunged, her powerful muscles propelling her forward as she sliced her sword through the air with tremendous force. Ethel was overwhelmed by the rogue and the fighter-dazed; she put her hand up shakily in surrender. 

 Lae’zel stood before her enemy with her sword poised to strike. She had fought countless battles and never once showed mercy to her opponents. Yet, she saw a flicker of fear and desperation in Ethel’s eyes, and her ruthless resolve to emerge victorious and end the battle warring left her in a gridlock. 

 These Istik’s were making her soft. 

 She halted her sword mid-air, listening as the hag started begging. 

 “Arge-wait, just a tick!” Ethel winced as she stood, keeping her hands raised. 

 Astarion took a slow and calculated step backward, daggers held securely in his hands. He kept a keen eye on Lae’zel, waiting for her signal. The gith wore a hard look, her muscular arms flexing as she tightened her grip around the hilt of her sword. 

 Ethel knew she had seconds to make her case before they continued their attack. She spoke up, trying to reason with them, “You may think you’re doing the right thing by killing me,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, “but killing me won’t solve anything. I will find a way to return. I always do.”

 As she spoke, she looked each of them in the eye, promising to make good on her threat. Her eyes landed on Lae’zel. Ethel pointed a finger at her and added, “However, it’s a rather unpleasant experience, so why don’t we be civilized about this?” Ethel then gestured towards Phayelynn, “You have your friend back, but I also have something else that I think you might be interested in.”

 Shadowheart, with a look of disdain on her face, took a step forward, her eyes fixed on the hag standing before her. She spoke venomously, “We don’t want your cure.” Her gaze shifted towards Lae’zel, with a frustrated expression. “What are you doing?” she demanded, “Just end this already.”

 Rolling her eyes, Lae’zel glowers at Shadowheart as if aggrieved that the cleric would think she would fall for such a ridiculous ploy to trick them all once more. She lowers her sword, only to get a better look at the hag, and points the tip towards Ethel’s chest. She firm as she speaks, “A servant of Vlaakith wants for nothing that her queen can’t provide.” 

 “Hold your horses! Just hear me out!” 

 Lae’zel, however, was in no mood for negotiations. With a murderous glare, she dug the sword’s tip into Ethel’s chest, causing a sharp pain. Ethel winced, feeling the cold metal pierce the first layer of skin. As she backed up, she stumbled into Astarion’s daggers, the cold steel pressed against her back. 

 “Let me leave with the girl and her babe,” she said to Lae’zel, her voice low and urgent, “and I’ll give you power. Do you want to be stronger? Tougher?” 

 Lae’zel’s expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of interest in her eyes at the mention of power. 

 The hag turned to Phayelynn, “Smarter?” she said, her tone dripping with condescension. 

Phayelynn gave the hag a glare.

 Gale had joined Phayelynn’s side. He shook his head at the hag’s miserable attempts to bargain with Lae’zel, his expression a mix of mistrust and jest. Crossed arms against his chest, he said, “If any power she could offer us were actually worth anything, we wouldn’t have been able to beat her so easily.”

 “Agreed,” Shadowheart nodded. 

 Lae’zel narrowed her eyes, piercing through the hag’s facade. With a sly smirk, Lae’zel titled her head and spoke in a low, menacing voice, “I know a beat opponent when I see one, and I have no interest in dirtying my blade with your kind’s blood, but I shall if I must. Give me this power of which you speak, along with the girl, and I will allow you to leave this place unharmed.” 

 Ethel looked around- the rogue and the fighter, each brandishing a set of sharp blades, the steel glinting in the dim light. The wizard, already conjuring a small flame in his palm, ready to unleash his fiery magic. And the cleric, gripping her heavy mace tightly, her piercing gaze fixed on Ethel. Even Phayelynn wore a determined expression on her face, her fingertips flickering with purple magic. 

Ethel let out a hardy laugh, acknowledging her inevitable defeat. 

 “You greedy little bollocks,” She wagged a finger at Lae’zel. Reaching up, she ran her fingers over her head, her claws digging through flesh, peeling off the outer layer of her scalp with a squelch. Ethel laughed at the disgusted faces and sounds they made as she threw the flab of skin, thin, weedy hair sprouting out of it, down at Lae’zel’s feet. 

 Ethel warned, “I will not forget this sweetness. You have my word.” 

 Mayrina stood in terror as Ethel began to cast a teleportation spell. Her mind raced in desperation. With tears streaming down her face, Mayrina stumbled forward and grabbed Ethel’s arm, pleading with her to reconsider, “But the deal!” she cried out, her voice trembling, “What about my husband? What’s going to happen to him?” 

 But Ethel was in no mood to listen. With a sudden jerk of her arm, she shook Mayrina off and snapped, “The deal’s off, you dumb cow!” She pointed an accusing finger at Phayelynn, who stood nearby, looking shocked and bewildered by Mayrina’s reaction. “And you’ve got her to thank for it!” 

 Without another word, Ethel vanished into thin air. The air crackled with the remnants of her magic, leaving a sense of unease in its wake. Mayrina felt a cold sweat break out across her forehead as she realized that her worst fears had just come true.

 Shadowheart’s eyes blazed with indignation as she clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. “Damn it!” she hissed, her gaze fixed on the spot where Ethel had just been. Turning to Lae’zel, she demanded, “Why did you just let her go? We could have killed her!”

 “We bested her in combat,” Lae’zel declared, her voice dripping with contempt as she sheathed her sword. “It would’ve been a waste of our time to engage further with such a weak creature.”

 Phayelynn’s face creased with concern, and she opened her mouth to speak. Before she could utter a single syllable, Mayrina lunged forward with surprising speed and shoved her with all her might. Phayelynn, caught off-guard by the sudden attack, lost her balance and teetered backward in surprise. 

 “Hey!” Phayelynn exclaimed, her voice filled with anger as she regained her footing and turned to face Mayrina. The other woman’s face was twisted with rage, her eyes blazing with acrimony as she glared at Phayelynn.

 “You bastard!” Mayrina shrieked, her voice ringing through the room. “You ruined it! You ruined everything!” Her feet thudded on the ground as she stomped in place, fists clasped rigidly at her sides with rage. Mayrina’s eyes blazed with vehemence, and her face warped with an expression of pure hatred.

 Phayelynn’s face turned red with anger as she bristled at Mayrina’s words. Her own fists clasped at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. She wanted nothing more than to lash out at Mayrina, to push her back and yell at her. But with one look at Mayrina’s pregnant belly, Phayelynn wavered.

 Instead, she barbed an accusatory finger at Mayrina and spoke through grated teeth, “You were actually going to give that hag your baby!” Her voice was lined with repulsion. 

 Mayrina’s eyes widened, and she took a step back, her own hands coming up in a self-justifying gesture. “She was going to bring my husband back!” she exclaimed, her voice shuddering with emotion. “Back from the dead!” 

 Phayelynn felt a wave of pity for Mayrina, but it quickly dissipated when Mayrina persisted. 

 “And now I’ll never see him again, and it’s all because of you!” 

 Phayelynn took an innate breath, fighting to keep her own emotions in check. Although they were strangers, Phayelynn could sense the immense anguish that was consuming the woman. But she also knew that giving up her own child to a hag was not the answer.

 Gale stepped forward, attempting to mediate the situation, recognizing the latent hostility steeping. “Let’s all just calm down,” he proposed.

 However, his efforts were in vain as Astarion, with his usual haughty brashness, only added fuel to the fire. He put a hand on his hip and looked Mayrina up and down with a condescending expression before saying, “You’re an ungrateful thing, aren’t you?” His words were like a dagger to Mayrina’s heart, causing her to lower her head in discomfiture.

 Shadowheart gave Mayrina a disapproving look, nodding her head as she agreed with Astarion. “We risked our lives for you and your child,” she pointed out, motioning towards Phayelynn. “I can promise you I wouldn’t have done that if it had not been for her. If it had not been for her, you’d be a hag’s stew.”

 Even Lae’zel couldn’t resist voicing her opinion, calling Mayrina’s actions “odious,” “cowardly,” and “dishonorable.”

 Marina regarded them with a sour look, her eyes brimming with tears, “Don’t act like I’m some monster!” she spat, “I have nothing left. My baby is now going to be raised in rags. Auntie Ethel promised to give this child a good life- to teach them magic even!” 

 Gale didn’t mince words. “You must know as well as I do that Ethel would have turned your child into a hag, just like her,” he said, his tone grave. The truth seemed to go in one ear and out the other as Mayrina stared inanely ahead, lost in her own thoughts and worries. 

 Mayrina’s voice was spiked as she glowered at Phayelynn. “Now I have to drag Connor’s coffin all the way back to Baldur’s Gate,” she wailed. “I hope you’re happy,” she added before shoving past Phayelynn and storming off. 

 Phayelynn stood in silence. They could’ve died putting their lives on the line to save Mayrina, and this was the thanks they got? How could a person be so selfish and cruel as to offer their own flesh and blood to a hag? The mere thought of it all made her blood boil, and she wondered how many other innocent lives had been sacrificed in such a manner.

 Gale approached Phayelynn, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. Concern was written all over his face. “Are you alright?” he asked quietly. “The hag didn’t you in any way, did she?”

 Phayelynn looked up at him, her stare unfocused and distant. She didn’t respond, unable to find the words to express her feelings. She simply nodded, hoping that would be enough to reassure Gale.

 Astarion, who had been watching wordlessly from the sidelines, stepped forward. “We’re done here,” he said tightly, addressing the group. “Let’s go.”

[lux-et-astra]

analysis of what each sink scene represents - session five

once again thank you tash for the reams of analysis material!!!! spoilers (obviously) under the cut

for reference, i'm calling fire/dry girl/narrator kate, and her victim/best friend birdie

all that jazz: a first reading of this scene would suggest that it's similar to scenes like beany hag and sonic the hog, where we're shown birdie's relationships degrading because of her lingering trauma over kate and the camping trip incident with amy representing birdie and simon representing her partner. however is this the only explanation? i argue no. amy seems utterly pre-occupied with the dangers of the shower (wet)!! this seems far more like something kate would say than birdie ("Until the shower runs – dry, and you’ve drunk it all, and, and you’re dead!") however later on we get a more classic kate phrase from simon ("I’m all dry.", "Dry. For the fire.") i'll be honest, as fun as this scene is, it's pretty impenetrable analysis wise! we get a little more to work with with some of amy's fears ("Some monster is not on the way to get me.", "No, it’s not about the birds…", "She’s a perfectly normal girl, alright? You just – have to just leave it. You have to just leave it. Some monster is not coming to get me.", "Oh, Simon… please, please don’t… take him away… Simon!") the emphasis on her being a perfectly normal girl feels more like a description of kate and a defence against relations who think kate is toxic - making simon birdie in this instance!! it's hard!! i don't know what's going on!! i' think maybe i'm putting a pin in this scene. ALL THAT JAZZ WILL RETURN.

snakes and ladders: finally, a scene that makes sense. this is pretty neat cause it feels very close to what actually happened!! as we get closer to the culmination of everything in session six i think we're getting closer to the truth. anyway this scene is very much kate&birdie being genuine friends and then a little bit of outside perspective! we can see how much they're in sync and how they seem slightly strange to an external observer ("Sorry, I’m – I’m still quite confused about all the snakes?" "Same!", "W– we love climbing. We love how high we’re going." "We love being up high!" "Yay!", "Fucking hell.") i think this is really valuable to show that kate and birdie were very much on the same wavelength! they seem so young here ("But fly, sort of.") and we can very much see that they're humans! we get no mention of dry/wet/fire in this scene, it's focusing less on kate's problems and more on how their friendship actually seems a little sweet. their closeness does seem to have some exclusionary effects - they're not listening at all to their other friend, in fact he tries to share something personal which gets completely overlooked ("Whenever I was, upset, or like, sad, my grandad would help me – [...] Won’t tell you that then.") so we can see that as in-tune with each other as they are, this leads to cutting off the rest of the world - it may seem to them that all they need is each other, a sentiment which they definitely seem to be embodying here, but we the audience know what that leads to. there's a little bit of dramatic irony here - if birdie had spread her social net a little wider, spent more time listening to other people, the camping trip incident might not have happened. but we can see that their refusal to play snakes and ladders in favour of birdman ("So you – you – you start outside. Right?", "We’re all birds though, right?") echoes kate especially's refusal to "play along" with society as it stands and to play her own game. in addition i think this is the first time we see birdman as a game!! it gives an explanation not only to all the birdman scenes but also the scarecrow scenes! the explanation kate gives ("When the scarecrow finds you, it scares you. And the last bird is scared so much, his bird eyes turn hot, and into little buttons, and then the last bird becomes the scarecrow. And then you start again.") is representative of the entire point of the podcast! birdie is about to be scared so much that kate wants to turn her into the scarecrow - and start again. in a sense the emphasis on "and then you start again" represents kate's desire for her relationship with birdie to be neverending - she wants them to keep finding each other and starting again, a cycle with very sisyphean feelings. the other interesting thing about this scene i think is kate and birdie's attempt to seem much more mature than they are ("Okay. Is it like, is it a commentary?") which actually shows how young they actually are. obviously it's neither a commentary on snakes nor ladders, but we can see how much they want to present themselves as adult and mature - old enough to run away from home. i think that image of themselves as adults ties into the feeling of not needing anyone other than each other, but we can very much see the folly in both those ideas. this is a little bit of a bittersweet scene! the girls feel about the right age for the camping trip, so it feels chronologically like it's very close to everything going wrong. this is one of the last moments we have of kate and birdie before the camping trip - and we can still see a little of that youthful innocence! and their other friend! it's sad to see what could have been, knowing what comes after.

birdman 4: the extra bit we get here is "One by one, it never stopped.", "It’s coming now! There’s nothing we can do, it’s a monster, Jim! It’s a monster, it’s coming to get us!". this feels very reminiscent of all that jazz (painfully for me) given lines like "Some monster is not coming to get me." which... i don't know what that means because as i have mentioned, all that jazz is impenetrable to me. rip. anyway this bit is very interesting! the use of "it" instead of "he" distinguishes the thing coming for them from the birdman, which had come to "warn" them. despite the fact that kate is playing the part of the birdman/scarecrow, i think there's an important distinction to be made between the birdman for john & jim, which is the birdman of birdie's dreams, a reminder that she needs to be watchful, and the birdman kate is playing, a real-life figure who is genuinely coming for birdie. obviously not using "she" delays the realisation until session six but also using "it" very much dehumanises kate - implying she has lost her humanity and become nothing more than the scarecrow she was pretending to be. the key thing from this scene is "it never stopped", i think - kate never stopped! she's still out there! birdie's dreams are doing a great job trying to warn her - the game of birdman isn't finished. it's still going. kate's still playing. ooh and i've just noticed!! "Jim, did a Birdman come to your school?" - this has been clearly juxtaposing the birdman with school this whole time! it's very much a schoolyard game and they've been suggesting that this whole time! wow i'm a silly billy for not noticing that immediately. the birdman is in the realm of children, not adults. i'll even call back a bit from birdman 1 - "Yeah, at the time, even the teachers –" here, they're suggesting it was odd that no one noticed that the birdman wasn't a man at all. i have a two-fold realisation here! on one hand - no one noticed that kate was going off the deep end. boring analysis. on the other - the birdman wasn't a man. he was a BIRD!! he wasn't a scarecrow!!!! he really hadn't come to scare you - the birdman isn't the scary thing! he's a reminder of the scary thing! ugh natasha hodgson your mind. you can't be scared of dreams, can you. the birdman is poor birdie trying to warn herself but she's just not remembering.

sherbet: the story of how kate and birdie met <33 honestly aside from the real laser gun action i have no trouble believing that this is entirely accurate to how kate and birdie met. it makes sense that birdie is getting closer to remembering the truth and this is a formative moment quite literally ("And right now, with – with her looking right at you, is the last moment you’ll, sort of, be alive. Because it – it was all a different life, after that. You were a different person now.") there's so much in this but i feel like for the most part it speaks for itself? like ("She was in the back, and she had to lean over the middle bit, and open the other side of the car. Just for you. Just for you. And so, when you see her, for the first time, she’s leaning over to open the door, and you look at each other, and you just think… oh no.") you get it you get the themes. if i were writing an essay on any of the scenes from the sink it would probably be this one if it couldn't be like. the whole of session six. like kate is crossing the gap to be closer to birdie literally closing the distance. which is what she's doing right now. closing the distance. ("You were a different person now.") she's not birdie anymore she's half of kate&birdie. that's genuinely how it feels in relationships like that, that you're not whole without the other person. even after you're separate again not a day goes by without you thinking of them. so yeah tash pulled it out of the bag with this one. ("You walk over with your see-through dolphin bag with three dolphins on, bumping on your leg. And she’s got a chewy stick from a sherbet fountain in her mouth, so her mouth is all foamy, like a beach.") i like how realistic this is. like we get all the details!! really hammers home how much birdie was her own person before she became kate's friend and before she was haunted by the memory of kate. also something something violent destruction - chewy stick in her mouth means gnawing down on it & we see immediately that act of violence in the innocuous facade of a child. anyway. ("And this is the last moment you’ll be… alive. Because, the rest of your life is, is just – playing it back. And back. Over and over, watching the yellow sherbet foam, and her leaning over the middle, and hearing the seatbelt click.") hits home when you think about how much birdie has forgotten, has tried to forget - and yet she's still playing it back over and over. every dream she has is playing it back. ("And most of the time, you’re you. When you’re doing it, over and over, in your head. And sometimes you’re her. Just to wonder – what she was thinking. Always. Always, you’re wondering that, and sometimes you’re the sherbet, being in her mouth. Lovely, wet, yellow. With her chin like sand.") this is most key as context for the whole of the sink. most of the time you're you and sometimes you're her and sometimes you're the sherbet. most of the time the scenes are birdie and sometimes they're kate and sometimes they're the birdman. INTERESTING that the sherbet in her mouth is WET. suggests that she's so so early on!! this is before she's all dry!! she's still a baby!! and then after the imagery of birdie imagining being in kate's mouth we get the somewhat violent penetrative image ("With her hand, like, just… just putting it in your body.") which is slightly creepy and represents the intrusion of kate firmly into birdie's life. this is imagery that gets picked up on later in session six and like. right now because they're children it's a little creepy but it's harmless enough. but when they're older it's more... like. putting something in your body. the ultimate intimacy.

hope you enjoyed - sorry about all that jazz but i do not have the brainpower to parse what's going on there!!! let me know if you have any thoughts (especially if you can shed some light on all that jazz lol) or if you just want to chat about the sink!!!

[shokuheshi]

a very long bg3 rant about the poor mask victims in auntie ethel's horror basement + how frustrated i was the game wouldn't let me save them all

im so unreasonably upset that theres no way to save all the people with the masks on in auntie ethel’s basement. i killed auntie ethel before she got to her basement (thanks to sneaking around, all party members being level 5, and volo's eye) so i avoided having to fight the masked servants but only 1 of them was able to have any sense to take her mask off when we saw them and she herself said the others were as good as dead bc they were too far gone 😭 i wanted to save the cute drow + tiefling girls i tried so hard to.

LET ME SAVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!

i cast friends, nothing. i cast charm person, nothing, i tried to fight them anyways to non lethal attack to take their masks and the halfling girl who already was saved and already spoke to us is forced to fight as well and dies every time despite not even being controlled anymore OR EVEN WEARING HER DANG MASK!? why was she fighting me we had a nice convo before about how she wants to go kill hags in the future! the game even gave me an inspiration for that. and i didnt want her dead because i read she appears in a later act of the game if u save her.

sneaking around and pickpocketing the others causes a fight to start with the same outcome and also there is no way to pickpocket the mask off them u can only loot it when theyre down AUGHHH

^ in a last desperate measure i had my handy bard astarion play a lil tune to see if thatd get them to leave auntie ethel's basement of horrors and funny enough they do like listening to music and threw gold at us and they liked it so much they didnt want to talk while he was playing! but directly after went back to yelling at us to go away and leave them alone/not believing auntie ethel was dead 🥲

mask of servitude girl i wanna give you your life back!!!!!! stop it!! oh well at least i gave her a nice tune to listen to before i left them all to their doomed trapped fate :( i left their gold on the ground if they ever break away from this hell they can use it. i feel terrible about all this and like i know if this was REAL dnd game i could ask the dm if i could grab the mask off their face and have to roll a dexterity or athletic or slight of hand check or something or hell have karlach grab them and carry them out i know shes strong enough to. they could use fresh air at least I KNOW I WASNT SUPPOSED TO BECOME FIXATED ON THIS i just hate that u cant save them

[ablubluh]

OC Reference sheet

there's a few of them so this'll go behind a read-more for my sanity and your dash

TTRPG OCs

Impetus - Tiefling Swashbuckler Rogue/Champion Fighter Twin of Patience, proud owner of a vorpal rapier, traveller of the planes, stabbed Commander Saturn from Pokémon non-fatally, lover of chaos, definitely killed a deva once

Samit - Vedalken Artillerist Artificer Quiet, well-read, enjoys working on his boat, cares deeply (platonically) for his work partner, works for an inter-planar society to avoid non-natives to any given plane causing trouble

Tommy May - Human (Hexblood) Wild Sorcerer His mama wished for a baby in earshot of a hag, he's a cobbler, the most average man in the world with 20 charisma, once exploded in the mouth of a big ice wyrm, thinks it's normal to pull your teeth out to act like walkie talkies with your friends

Roald Kromsson - Dwarf Battlemaster Fighter Used to be a cleric many decades ago, fell out of faith with his god while on a 'righteous' crusade, prioritises protecting his friends/party members to the point of putting himself in more danger than he should, ostensibly pacifist but once a fight starts his aim is to finish it as efficiently as possible

Achlys - Tiefling (Reborn) Wild Barbarian Contracted to work for the Witchlight Carnival, keeps dying in looney tunes esque accidents and being brought back to finish the length of her contract, isn't entirely aware that she's actually died a bunch of times and thinks she's just really lucky, WILL run head first into a situation

Chiara - Half-elf Necromancer (Dark Urge) Hates her own pain and gets faint at her own blood but doesn't extend this feeling to others, extremely trusting since she doesn't have the memory to shore up her own convictions, doesn't like getting her hands dirty directly, caffeine makes her a different person

Viscera - Human Swords Bard (Dark Urge) Worst woman you've ever met, loves to cause pain and chaos, will fuck your girlfriend, thinks everyone should do whatever they want forever

Alice Murray - Human Knowledge Cleric of the Raven Queen Blind, wanted to be a wizard when she was a kid, was told she wouldn't be able to maintain a spellbook without sight, was taught rituals by a traveling acolyte of the Raven Queen and entered her service in pursuit of knowledge of the arcane, has a raven familiar named Sealladh

Kakra - Khenra Zeal Cleric of Hazoret//Draconic Sorcerer//Beastmaster Ranger (not all at once) From a game where there are various AU versions of her at different times. The constant between them is her connection to her twin brother Atsu. As a cleric, she was one of the few remaining mortals alive on Amonkhet after Bolas' return. As a Sorcerer, she was a fervent follower of the God-Pharaoh. As a Ranger, she died and was Eternalised in lazotep and is discovering her ability to feel again with her soul inexplicably tied once more to her body (her beast companions are all also undead and embalmed).

Ragnarok - Human Scribes Wizard Incredibly dramatic emo boy who thinks he's a warlock. In actuality, his grandmother apprenticed to a tiefling archmage (@enecola's Eternal) and when he, as a child, approached the Cool Magic Fiend and asked her very seriously to grant him arcane power, she gave him a spellbook and a couple of basic lessons. So he thinks he has a book of shadows and a pact with a fiend. But he's in fact a nerdlord with negative charisma.

Sybil Susurrus Rowena Shadow Susu Terracot - Gnome Knowledge Cleric of Mystra/Gunslinger Fighter A very anxious and introverted gnome who ended up the keeper of the party gun and decided to spec into it. She's the kind of lawful neutral who prioritises the lives of her friends over the fate of the world, quietly, but intensely.

Kiaran [surname redacted] - Drow Draconic Sorcerer A daughter of a distant branch of a powerful drow family who prize their bloodline's draconic ancestry and the magic that arises from it. Only the main lines of the family manifest this draconic power, but Kiaran found a magical tome which had been used to seal away the magic of anyone deemed undesirable amongst the family, unlocking her own magic and painting a big target on her back, leading her to escape the underdark. She's a sweet girl but does find it hard not to apply drow morality in the overworld.

PKMN

Jeff Williams Half-Mewtwo half-human freak of science. He was working on the Mewtwo project with Team Rocket (initially my character for him was also Bill the PC guy, but I'm reworking him to be Fully OC Guy), and was one of the donors of human DNA to the project. Similarly to the Bill incident, Mewtwo was supposed to simply be transported, but instead got fused with this poor hapless scientist. He then got trapped in TR labs for some years and experimented on, before breaking free and starting his own Organisation, running it from the basement while refusing to show his face for fear of being seen as a monster.

Jason Mancarella World's soggiest Interpol agent. The child of two very powerful and high-flying Interpol agents who got him into the family business despite him having zero ambition or ability to take the initiative. His partner Pokémon is a Heatmor named Vanessa. He loves the Muppets.

Kelly McCuin Quartermaster with Team Rocket. Got recruited as a teenager. Not fully cackling evil, more the casual selfish kind of nasty that leads to a callousness and lack of introspection into whether her job is worth doing bad stuff in the world. Unabashedly Australian. Best friend is @kranberryjuice's oc Ted from Accounting.

[emmy-dekarios-bg3]

Heart of the Weave - chapter 35

Gale and I step into the building of the Inn after a fresh stroll through Waterdeep, which smells of freshly baked sourdough bread and blueberry muffins. Quite the pleasure to the senses, I must say. It reminds me of innocent days where my mother would bake me a delicious homemade breakfast twice a week before going to the temple to pray to Sȇlune. As we enter the Inn, I notice a couple high elves and a dwarf playing some morning tunes on the lute and flutes to set the mood for those morning people. Rolan is sitting down at a table alone with his cup of coffee. Rolan’s face lights up as he notices us approach him.

“Ah! My friends, come sit!” Gale and I accompany him at the table and immediately a waitress hands us our menus. “It’s good to see you both. And how nice it is to get away for a little while.”

“How has it been at the tower?” Gale asks with a welcoming tone. “Are you practicing becoming a master wizard? I wouldn’t doubt it if you’re there already.”

“Ah, you’re too kind. Unfortunately, I’m not where I want to be just yet. I’m only improving every day. I’m having to partake in my studies more frequently, as well as teaching Cal and Lia the wonders of magic. Just in case anything happens to me. Enough about my life story.” He studies our baby, smiling but looking rather perplexed. “Say, you’ve had your baby for a while now, right? Or am I going mad as a hatter?” Crap! We never told him our situation and that Jenevelle won’t ever age.

“Whew, it’s a very long story, but here it goes,” I mentioned, mentally preparing myself for his reaction. I go into detail with him about what happened with Jenevelle and how the devils needed her soul to destroy Raphael. How we were promised immortality and that the outcome would have been torture if we didn’t do what we did. As I explain, he looks rather astonished and I can’t exactly tell if he’s judging me.

“Oh Gods, I’m… I’m so sorry. That could not have been an easy predicament to be in. I’m glad it all worked out in the end, at least.” Abruptly, as Gale begins speaking to Rolan, the sounds around me become muffled and my vision fades to darkness, but like a cloud of smoke. This has happened to me before, ages ago…right after I had Jenevelle. Images of Gortash, Orin, and even Ketheric appear right in front of my very eyes, and it’s as if they’re actually here. Holy shit.

“Hello Emmy.” Gortash’s voice still sounds the same, though I can tell hatred is being spat right at me. I swallow the fear and horror as his haunting voice speaks to me. Tell me I’m fucking dreaming and this isn’t happening. I guess if mind flayers can change forms and hags can curse people, anything is possible.

“Well, are you going to say anything, or just sit there silently, mentally squirming at our words as we claw our way into your soul? You’re wasting every second that could be used to slaughter every breathing piece of flesh left standing,” Orin teases, flashing her bloody teeth as she smiles.

“Quiet, Orin. Emmy, dear, we’ve been watching you. My, you are quite the impressive specimen, killing not only all three of us, but the netherbrain itself. You even destroyed countless assassins of Bhaal. I’m impressed. It’s a shame you didn’t put that talent to use and dominate the brain like I instructed before. So inconsiderate and stupid.”

I try to speak, but I’m interrupted by Ketheric’s haunting voice.

“If you make a single sound, your husband, your friend, and everyone else in this building will hear you. Choose wisely,” he growls, smirking at me. I clench my fists, feeling rage flush through me as I fight off the urge to speak.

“Now, as I was saying,” Gortash retorts, cracking his knuckles. “Imagine all of the lives you could have saved by dominating the brain. You could have controlled all the Bhaal cultists –”

“No, no, no, no, NO! You tyrant, are you listening to yourself?!”

“Unlike you, Orin, I crave control. Power. Not the deaths and flesh of millions of people. Not the screams of the innocent begging for mercy.” This is absolute chaos. Why do they feel the need to harass me, even after their deaths? How is this even happening? They must have been the unsettling presence I felt last night; what else could it be? So many questions are rummaging through my head, gnawing at my brain like animals.

“You will pay for what you did. On the contrary…we are able to summon another elder brain,” Gortash adds. How I want to respond to his pathetic words, how I want to pin him against a wall and kill him again.

“If our gods are willing to provide the means of this happening,” Ketheric chimes in, his eyes practically staring Gortash down as a means of dominance, which is a foolish idea. They must not realize I’m immortal. If they do, they’re really good at pretending to be completely unaware. What I do know is that they know something I don’t; at least Gortash does. His disturbing and ominous smirk is hinting that he’s hiding some sort of secret from me.

“Oh, poor little baby, too afraid to speak. To cry. To do our bidding or ask questions.” Orin laughs as she speaks, licking her bloody fingers as she gazes hauntingly into my soul with her pale eyes. Gortash closes his eyes.

“We’ll speak again soon.” Those words alone were the most disturbing out of everything he said; what does he mean by that? I know damn well Gortash is keeping something from me, and it’s making me uncomfortable on every level.

My vision is back to normal and I can hear every sound around me now; was time somehow frozen? It appears Gale and Rolan are completely unaware of my temporary absence from reality. The waitress comes back again to take our order, just shortly after I zone back in, but I’m too stunned to speak.

“What would you like to eat, my love?” Gale asks with a kind smile on his face. I order the strawberry cream pancakes, which honestly sounds beyond incredible right now. I look down at Jenevelle, who is lying comfortably in my baby-wearing wrap. She reaches up at me, gazing at me with her sweet, angelic brown eyes as if she’s saying, ‘It will be okay mommy.’

I hate that I saw those three again. I hate that Gortash tried to guilt trip me for not dominating the brain. Why can’t they just stay dead like everyone else who passes away? I want to tell Gale about this, but will he believe me? It all sounds ridiculous when I think it through.

As we finish our breakfast, I hear the door open and, surprise, here comes Karlach and Wyll, who we seem to bump into a lot considering Waterdeep is a relatively large city.

“Rolan? Emmy? GALE?!”

“Karlach, why are you the most surprised to see me?” Gale questions with bewilderment. I stand up and bolt toward them. Karlach greets me with open arms, ready to embrace me with one of her famous hugs, but all I can think about is how anxious I am.

“Karlach! Listen, I need to talk to you. Could you and Wyll drop by later?”

“Sure thing, Em! Wait, what did you do?” I playfully roll my eyes and sit back down at the table. I let everyone chat to catch up, but Gale notices I’m not acting myself; he’s good at that. Damn it.

What pisses me off is that I had so many questions I needed to ask, but I couldn’t and those dead chosen bastards knew it. I’m not going to be playing their preposterous games. I need to let it go, maybe I’m overthinking the entire situation.

[polychaeteworm]

My abusive mother is finally trying to do family therapy and her therapist wants to talk to me on the phone first. I have no idea if this means I'm getting into a session with her but like, she's about to be exposed for not telling the truth if she hasn't already.

This gonna be soooo fun!(Genuinely) Happy birthday to me!

I wrote her the "Here's the facts about why I haven't spoken to you in a decade" email and told her to share it with her therapist. Because at this point, it's like, painfully obvious that she's enmeshed with me and has a number of tightly held delusions that she's good at masking... Until someone pokes holes in her story. Poke poke poke! I promise human mother you do not want me talking to this PTSD therapist that you've told a false story to, but heeeeere we gooooo.

We're talking about things like, she thinks I was kidnapped dispite being told by literally everyone she moans to that I left on my own. She doesn't think I can, she can't believe it, so to her, it simply didn't happen, even when it plainly obviously did.

She petitioned the court to hand her my autonomy and it got thrown out to the tune of her making up conspiracy theories about why they didn't think that was a good idea when there was no evidence that I was incapacitated.

She seemingly cannot process the concept of me disagreeing with her validly and on my own. Any time I hold an opinion she doesn't like, one of her "enemies" put it there. Or she blatantly steps around it like it's not there.

The time she assaulted my system, we were both alone in a supermarket. Nobody told me my mom grabbed and dragged me, nobody hyped me up and convinced me of that. I was not brainwashed, I was not hypnotized. it was a real thing that actually happened.

She claims my trans status is a surprise. She's finally calling me by my systems preferred name (not sharing for our safety) and acting like I just never told her. Which is both cool and absolute bullshit.

Even though she very clearly physically assaulted me for cutting my hair and full on dramatically feined heart attacks Stanford and son style when I tried to calmly talk to her about anything LGBT related, other people defamed her, it was other people, not her own actions.

It's very worth mentioning that this woman isn't your typical flavor of ignorant parent either.

She's a LOA new age cult entrenched hippie fag hag hanging on to her Catholic childhood when it comes to the concept of purity. She lost all her gay friends when they found out she was the "not my kid tho" type. She is a spiritual tourist that had a child(hi it's us) with a native man to trap him in a relationship.

She's charismatic and nice until you disagree.

I feel like something about my gender threatens her and I'm not entirely sure why but it's not my fault and not my responsibility.

I'm only planning on attending therapy with her to, as my therapist puts it, "say goodbye". She has stage four cancer and this might be the last time I interact with her. You hope for the best but I am not expecting the presence of a therapist to change her mind. This is just the showdown I owe to the young folk of the system.

They need to see me advocate for them in this exact environment. I've been waiting for these exact conditions and the spirits are definitely throwing out good signs.

[nugulover69]

Hey do you like j-pop at all? (asking because I recently got invested in a group of actual 40-yr-old Japanese idols)

Very causally yeah. A bit the AKB48, a bit of the Morning Musume, a bit of the Tackey & Tsubasa (a bit is accurate here since avex will not stop nuking their discog off the internet). I was also a love live enjoyer in high school bc my friend was if that counts

OH I do love Aira Mitsuki, Plastic is a banger album. Some of Meg's songs too they're also bangers. I know some Perfume songs and I've been meaning to listening to them more since electropop is my shit <- person who was 10-13 in 2010-2013

(may I ask who the group of middle aged men are. do you have tune recommendations. are they sexy. bc as a man who was motivated to get into H.O.T and Sechskies bc he wants Moon Heejun and Eun Jiwon carnally, if I get hooked on a hag its over)

[vicit-vim-virtus]

[ 08 ] a rowdy village tavern crowded with drunk, singing patrons [For Luran]

The rain walloped persistently against the window panes while the thunder rumbled furiously in the distance, yet neither affected the merry dispositions of the townsfolk and travellers who’d sought refuge from the storm in the local tavern. The ambience was lively and the patrons, despite being inebriated, were good-humoured — none harnessed malevolence. Some were entangled in precarious games involving gambling, spoke boisterously of adventures and recounted tales of yore; chanted and danced — not a sliver of inhibition left — while the band performed an energetic, yet rather repetitive melody.

There was food and alcoholic beverages in abundance, although the food lacked the absurdly high-quality the elf was accustomed to. Still, it could’ve been worse — at least, the cuisine served in this establishment was edible... The gaiety and warmth made up for most of the tavern’s shortcomings, and he’d always favour a crowded bar over the uninspiring walls of his study, whether the food was atrocious or not.

Although Luran did not personally participate in the merrymaking, he did enjoy himself, until the band was relieved by a human duo: a man playing the dulcimer and a woman who announced herself as the singer. She looked pretty, but that was about it. “Singer” was... too generous a term for someone with her “singing” voice — ghoul or banshee would probably have been more apposite. And to make matters worse, she was attempting to sing in Elvish, but she got every inflection and every conjugation — and basically everything else that had something to do with grammar — wrong.

Luran beheld the abject performance — if one could even call it that — with an expression of unadulterated horror; his features contorted in discomfort, as if he was suffering from a severe case of indigestion. Most of the townsfolk were too intoxicated to consciously register the poor quality of this performance and remained in a state of ignorant bliss — if only he had been so fortunate...

However, her screeching and erroneous usage of grammar did earn her some disparagements. A moderate choir of patrons booed her, and a man, seated behind the elf, grumbled: “Appalling...”

‘Get off the stage!’ a female voice yelled.

‘Shut up, you hag, it’s her debut!’ someone else sneered back.

A deep sigh escaped Luran’s lips while he picked up his tankard of ale — he was too sober to witness these kinds of shenanigans.

‘If only I could tear off my ears,’ he mumbled into his tankard, ‘but they’re two of my finest assets... Granted, I have other delectable assets that could easily compensate for their loss, but it wouldn’t be ideal...’

And just when he thought he’d weathered most of the banshee’s song, she whipped out a recorder flute and started to play, without hitting a single note, and always, always playing out of tune and offbeat.

‘I’m not one to tread on other people’s dreams and ambitions, but it’s moments like these that I wish I were. The aural torment,’ he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand and fortuitously locking eyes with the woman sitting adjacent to him. ‘I hope she’s not your friend, if she is... apologies, I intended for my criticism to sound constructive.’