#or rogue himself roleplaying

[rowanthestrange]

The Media Overanalysis (O)Mega Essay: Why Rogue Is The Bad Guy. Duh.

Code Mauve. Sorry, you’re a mutual and directly responded, so now you get The Post. It was bound to be someone eventually, and it was you. It’s nothing personal. You were just the first to dare my parapet.

@icantleave replied: rogue definitely isn't the master because the master is simply incapable of cosplaying someone this genuine and unlike himself, his disguises are always essentially very him with a few traits hidden or amplified.

Either there is a psy-op and Disney aired a different version of this or a solid quarter of you got brain broken by American Mr Darcy- no don’t try and run, get back here. The only running you’re doing is this essay equivalent of a 10k.

You are intelligent. All of you. And yet what the hell does this mean? “rogue definitely isn't the master because the master is simply incapable of cosplaying someone this genuine and unlike himself”

We’re going through this episode. All of it. This is not actually an ‘it is the Master’ post, it is a ‘but at the very least he sure acts like the Master would’ post, which is the above premise. But also just in general that Rogue is The Bad Guy.

Take it as the Master cosplaying Jack; a Pantheon member whose theme is Roleplay who like the others has watched the show and is deliberately filling the void daddy created and getting in by cosplaying the Master cosplaying Jack (has to be doing both to be skilled at Roleplay ala Maestro and the Toymaker’s skills in their areas, else he’d just be shittily cosplaying Jack); or literally he is just baddie Chuldur #6 fanboy who wants to bang the Doctor he saw on TV cus he’s sexy and they get Doctor Who out there as well as Bridgerton. All the concepts are adjacent:

Baddie fanboy roleplaying as Jack to fuck-slash-fuck-with the Doctor.

Places people. Let’s take it from the top:

-We start with a scene showing someone (Chuldur #2) who wants to roleplay as the bad guy because that would be fun.

-(Bonus: the writers talking about themselves - “Wonderful party, your Grace.” “Some are saying best of the season. A triumph. A new standard set. And I, of course, could not comment. But I think the real estimation of an evening is in the matches made.” I quite agree.)

-(We are also in Tredegar House, which you may recognise from The End Of Time, Spyfall, and other times in New Who. We like this place.

-There is electronic interference in Ruby’s earpiece. The Doctor scans this and finds it’s coming from Rogue. The Master is a frequent user of manipulative electronics both towards other people and to disguise himself. Put a pin in this, it’ll come up at the end. ✅

-The Doctor meets Rogue to the backing of hit pop song, Billie Eilish’s “I’m The Bad Guy”. The Master is a famous lover of fun pop, and being obvious to an oblivious Doctor. ✅✅

I wrestled with iMovie at midnight to put the lyric subtitles to this video and you are going to watch and appreciate it:

[If at any point you want out of this essay, all you have to do is come back to here and watch this video again while singing in your head along with the lyrics to receive a passing grade.]

-They deliberately work the lines around the music, not just thematically but so you can clearly hear what the backing song is. And made sure they kept the scene going long enough all the way into the next section just so they could keep the line: “I like it when you take control, even if you know that you don't, own me, I'll let you play the role, I'll be your animal.” Fuck’s sake. Most Thoschei song. Interchangeable freaks.

-Rogue is critiqued by the Doctor for not acting appropriately broody enough. The Master well known for being a fairly shit actor. ✅

-That is an American accent. This is a red flag for either being a Pantheon member, or the Master Dressing For The Occasion (which Rogue certainly has).

-“Do you practise in a mirror?” - him roleplaying would mean literally yes.

-“I didn’t know the Duchess employs a court jester.” - Alexa please search every time the Master has called the Doctor some derivation of clown. ✅

-“O…Kay…Rude. Lord-?” “Not a Lord.” Our last outing with the Master was all about his psyche-destroying discovery of being made from the Not-A-Time Lord Doctor; and if he is Pantheon The Rogue roleplaying as the Master, then just chef’s kiss line. But I will be magnanimous this early in proceedings, and let you go ‘technically a valid meta read is saying that conforms he’s not a Time Lord’. But the paragraph stands.

-He calls himself Rogue:

1. noun: a dishonest or unprincipled person. "You are a rogue and an embezzler" Similar: scoundrel, villain, reprobate. 2. noun: an elephant or other large wild animal living apart from the herd and having savage or destructive tendencies. "a rogue elephant"

If it’s the Master then straight up naming himself “The Bad Guy” is on brand. The Master is a Rogue Time Lord. That is what fandom has long called them - ‘Rogues and Renegades’. The Master is shite at names, if you haven’t had the pleasure of the Third Doctor’s company yet. Shitty anagrams, tenuous links to goals and character aspects, and crappy puns are the standard ✅. If Pantheon, then his choice in lifestyle that’s more about personally having fun (ultimately still Doctor compatible), with a group, in a non-competitive game which has no win condition other than enjoying the game, though rip to the NPC’s being played with as character, would definitely put him somewhat apart from the wreaking havoc on the universe others. If a Pantheon member, he literally did choose his own name from D&D.

-Just generalised throughout: Rogue is not actually suave. Some people find his secret awkwardness under the posh gear charming. The Master is not suave and is awkward, but desperately tries to style it out like he is anyway, that’s just his character. ✅

-We kinda feel like we’re going into some Karny Shobogony kind of cave area, we’re not, but just for the hitting home that this is another Upper Class Gallifrey mirror for the season. You don’t need to think the Master’s involved for this, don’t worry, wasn’t in Dot And Bubble was he, but that was a clear enough mirror. A person appearing as a servant forces their way up the social ladder. If you like some mirror play and are really deep in your TC ‘what kind of person would name themselves Master’, you’re having fun. Also I can’t see that type of death lightning without thinking of Simm!Master. Costly effect, but we went with it, and it does add some panache.

-Chuldur #5 is roleplaying Emily (this is used both in her disguise and out - potentially playing the same ‘character’. We’ll come back to this too, explore more later), who will be something of our Master this evening in the Gallifrey mirror if you’re going in for it. Also coincidentally is half the mirror pair with Ruby to the Doctor and Rogue. “Emily, please-” “But you consume me sir. I think of you every waking hour and I hate myself for it!” yeah we know babe… Anyone else hearing Dhawan!Master’s “I cannot bear that”?

-“I love these old skies” - all the stars makes it arguably sound more like a Flux reference rather than just light pollution. And we all know what event by who triggered that off.

-Finally we get more lines from Rogue, this has all been very one-sided. “Do you never stop chattering?” - a frequent refrain of the Master, who, fun fact has told the Doctor to shut up in every incarnation in New Who (and probably Old but this is the trivia I have) ✅

-If Rogue is supposedly wanting to stop the bad birdies, real weird he doesn’t give an appropriately flying fuck about the mysterious lone shoe. And simply says “I suggest look for the other shoe” like it doesn’t matter with a shrug. Because the Master is stupid and shite at keeping in-character. ✅ Makes sense if he’s on the bad guy’s team though. Also Cinderella. Noticing themes in today’s mirror subtext.

-They find it plus corpse. “And you knew. You didn’t even flinch.” Actually wrong, the Doctor can’t see behind him but we can. Rogue doesn’t flinch at the shoe, or coming up to the body, but when the Doctor says it’s the Duchess, Rogue does a slight ‘oh’ lean back, and then a sigh with a bit of a slump. To me this reads as a ‘oh you fucking idiots’ for doing it this blatantly, but I won’t mark it, cus you could argue that ultimately maybe a bounty hunter might care more about the death of the duchess in particular and sigh about it etc. (Or he is Pantheon roleplayer getting annoyed his gang can’t stick to a character and risking the outline going off-track and more bodycounty). “And you knew” - Rogue doesn’t keep eye contact but closes his eyes, opens them immediately up and a little to the side, thinking of what to say next style. ((This specific circumstance he couldn’t have known about prior, cus the murder happens while he’s inside))

-“This is a murder far beyond the technologies of planet Earth. It could only be done by someone brilliant.” “And monstrous.” [-horny flirting tone looking him up and down] “And ruthless.” “And contemptible.” Both: “You.” He is the Master and in with the bird gang. No bounty hunter with a heart of gold is calling the murderer brilliant because also, may have been easy to miss, but the Doctor hasn’t done anything brilliant yet unless you include owning a scanner and briefly infodumping about constellations. That is a Master talking about himself kinda line. ✅

-The Doctor thought Rogue was a murderer who was calling himself brilliant, and it only made him more horny, and proceeded to dance along with that little two-step. If I’m Master-brained, what’s he? Cus he’s usually only into one murderer. If that guy had snogged him instead of pulling the gun they’d have fucked right then and there, that scene has so much sexual tension that should not be there.

-Edit - courtesy of @katoska: “#though dimensionally transcendental pockets would explain where he'd hidden that big gun in that form fitting outfit.” - And why wouldn’t you have given him one of Jack’s guns, they’re all smaller? But they made Rogue a huge one.

-“So who do you think I am?” “I know you’re a Chuldur.” “The shapeshifters? Ha, I’ve heard of them. I’ve never met one,” *tilting head back towards Rogue and smiling* “Unless I have.” Please, if nothing else, come out of this thinking at minimum he is bad birdie Chuldur #6. Maybe we’re rewriting Frobisher. Heavily, heavily rewriting.

-“[his ship] cloaked behind that shed.” Calling the TARDIS a shed. It was Three that technically said it but the Master has repeatedly expressed his disdain for our beautiful police box before so that’s a Master-fitting line, be it intentional disdain or not yet. ✅

-Won’t call it a point, but he tells us he is a bounty hunter sent here to find them for the money. (Note: not kill - at the very least a bounty hunter would be bringing back the body to get, you know, the bounty). Aside from being a cheap and easy backstory it’s evidently morally bad, for all the Doctor literally goes ‘that is so…cool’ - which is absolutely not his usual position on bounty hunters.

-The thing he uncloaks the ship with? Same thing that controls the traps. How multitool. How sonic screwdriver. Or Laser screwdriver TCE as you prefer.

-His ship is a bird. It has wings, two eyes, and a beak. He is with the birds. He is The Bad Guy ✅. He is using and familiar with the bird ship; or at the insane alternative a TARDIS that completely disguised itself both outside and inside as neighbouring bird ship. There is no good guy answer for why he is in a bird ship. We never ask how the birds got here. But it was probably the bird ship. Bird ship.

-Meta so I can’t give it a point cus it’s beyond our scope but: “Oh you’re the Duchess! Of course, I should have scented you.” Not immediately recognising one of your own species when you should have sensed them thank god that’s not a mirror.

-His ship has an angular console in the middle of it with mirroring angular shape above it, the same taste in decor as the Master does with a TARDIS, like it’s almost designed to put you in mind of one, cute. ✅

-“This place is a mess.” Dhawan!Master’s TARDIS house and console room proper were a massive mess, these guys share housekeeping habits too. ✅

-“I live alone.” The Doctor notes this sort of ship would be piloted by two. Aw sad. Except he’s lying, he’s obviously lying, because he has dice on the table and he’s not playing D&D in his bird-shaped ship alone or with only two fucking people, is he? You need a group. Maybe of Bird roleplaying enthusiasts. Liar. Bad conduct. And failed to remove the evidence that contradicted the lie - dumbass Master behaviour. ✅

-Rogue declares “You’re a killer.” And the Doctor goes “Oh well,” before trying to sonic himself out of the situation, without actually defending himself against the charges. Maybe doesn’t feel the need to. For some reason.

-“What do those things do?” “It’s a trap. Triform on.” Now that could easily be a Master when he’s being sexier line, complete with his classic dumbass behaviour of declaring to the Doctor that something’s a trap before actually springing it. ✅

-He says he is going to send the Doctor to the incinerator. Why? ‘Uh he’s a bounty hunter’ Yeah. So why would he burn the evidence that would get him the money? Can’t just rock up and say ‘I dealt with it I pinkie-promise’.

-The Doctor attempts to sonic his way out of the trap before it finishes charging. Rogue says immediately that it’s deadlocked. The one thing that stops a sonic screwdriver. You can’t deny, that is the level of forethought the Master would manage to scrounge together. ✅

-Rogue scans the Doctor’s gadget, allowed in cus it doesn’t recognise it as dangerous device (oh the old ‘temporal grace field’ in the TARDIS, that’s a nice little mirror), and apparently the scans say it’s a screwdriver. I can’t prove this is a lie, but even we don’t think it’s a screwdriver, the last one with 14 literally was so much not a screwdriver it couldn’t unscrew screws, so unless it connects to the system with the name 15_screwdriver_1 again, feels too convenient. But a toxic Doctor fanboy would be able to identify what it was.

-I don’t know why we have a Sonic Monocular scene that cost us money and effort to produce when we could have just glanced across the table, but since all things that cost money in production have a reason, maybe the laser screwdriver style object we pan over? Point of interest but not a countable one, and either way the main argument is aligning character traits not convincing you he literally is the Master.

-“Roll for insight”, he cracked a smile, so surprising it uncloaked the Doctor’s full Scottish accent. This is the first positive character trait we have seen. We are just shy of halfway through the story.

-Telling the Doctor to “Roll for insight” after he sees the dice, is a dungeon Master’s instruction.

-of course he likes D&D, he plays it with the birds on the bird ship, he’s sent the birds he plays it with off out to continue the game in Bridgerton, he’s being their dungeon Master in real life too

-Seriously if you think Rogue is genuinely just a good guy bounty hunter and we should believe that uncritically, why would they tell us he likes roleplaying in D&D so much he picked his name from it? He roleplays. That’s one of the very few things we know about him. Why not chess? Or Minecraft? He could have liked Tetris? Why would he like roleplaying in the episode about roleplaying if him roleplaying isn’t relevant?

-The Master too adores roleplaying while also not being that great at it. Just putting that out there.

-“And it says that you’re wired for sound!” *sonics* ‘I Just Can’t Get You Out Of My Head’ by Kylie Minogue plays. *Rogue looks up in full wide-eyed uh-oh then turns to the Doctor* “Now this is a surprise.” - I mean, yeah, it is actually. I mean why would there be such anachronistic music playing in a ship owned by a guy from…well funny I guess he never said and the Doctor never asked. Well from a species like…well alright uh guess we didn’t do that either. Said ‘planet Earth’ that’s a pretty alien way of phrasing it. “Hey but in the Whoniverse Britney Spears’ Toxic is a traditional Earth ballad”, and maybe usually I’d let it go, but this is the second anachronistic bit of music we’ve heard, and the third we hear later is even more pointed to draw your attention to it. No. It’s weird. You know who it wouldn’t be weird to though? Our pop loving Master! And that’s the most Thoschei Thesis Statement song in Kylie’s repertoire! ✅ (Or Pantheon sharing daddy’s Spice Girls thing for 90’s pop). The Master would also absolutely have forgotten to delete his playback history before all this and pull an ‘oh shit’ face not from embarrassment but cus he knows this looks fucky because he doesn’t have a poker face he’s an idiot that panics the second anything in his plans ever goes wrong. ✅

-The Doctor mouthing: “Boy your loving is all I think about.” A sentiment that’s cropped up multiple times now this episode. Also in a Master mirror. Mhm. It’s a sickness babes.

-But hey we’re up to two positive character traits for Rogue so far - likes D&D and Kylie (both anachronisticly).The Doctor was willing to follow him out and blow him in the shrubbery for less, and honestly, respectable. “I just have a crush on prettyboy American Mr Darcy” is a defence, not a good one, but still.

-The Doctor and Master with one turning the music on and the other trying to turn it off would be a scene, you can imagine it, don’t lie, you’re imagining Missy and Twelve right now. (I think for annoyer-and-annoyed Three and Delgado could go either way depending on the episode. How appropriate for them.) ✅

-Also Rogue attempting to snatch the sonic screwdriver from the taller Doctor’s hand as he plays keep-away. Bitchy, gay, very character-breaking with the rest of the episode, deeply funny. The Master would. ✅ Then gathering himself, putting on the I’m In Charge voice and holding out his hand for the Doctor to hand it over and he does. (Huh, have you guys as a whole watched Delgado? Is this what creates the ‘the Master would never’? Cus actually if you’ve not seen these two just be a bit silly with each other and think that’s just fan characterisation that would actually explain a lot. Eh, but Missy and Twelve(/Clara) have some silly too, if not Three and Delgado level. Hm, to ponder).

-Psychic paper would also not work on the Master and he would say “it says ‘you’re hot’” to fluster the Doctor. Also we know he’s lying about it saying that, because he’s the one saying he’s seen it written, yet immediately follows up as the Doctor babbles with, Rogue: “Is it ‘you’re hot’, or I’m hot’?” Rogue would know which word was written the funny ambiguity is only from the non-seer’s side on hearing the other person say ‘you’re’. ✅

-“Suits you, flustered, it’s a good look for you.” Finally we get some fun confidence - which only appears the second he actually gets an upper hand with the Doctor on the back foot. Like someone else we know. Also yet again we have the phrase “a good look” for you in this episode all about shapeshifting. The phrase is applied to Rogue by the Doctor, to the Doctor from Rogue, and among the birds to each other. It establishes an equivalence between them, which is odd if Rogue is supposedly the only one not shapeshifting and roleplaying.

-The boss thing, callback to the Meep. Again this isn’t a ‘convince you it really is the Master’ thing, it’s character analysis that their traits overlap and he is a bad guy. But since we’re here, the Master is often technically working for someone else he intends to double-cross while thinking he’s ahead of them (nearly every time incorrectly), and we know he is/will be involved with the Pantheon — given this guy is a dice rolling gameplayer, the Master gambling and losing to the Toymaker, just vibes like it’d be out of order and future toothening imo — while there’s nothing to say our hidden ‘The Boss’ is Pantheon, I’m gonna Occam’s Razor and assume both those plot threads tie together, and for now that’s a reasonable way to explain how the Master got involved with the Toymaker at all.

-“I’m just so trigger happy.” Literally a Master line, and one we just had: “Oh, shoot. I should've said, somebody needs to cut you down to size, then zapped you. I was just trigger-happy. I'll use it next time.” ✅

-Floating Doctor heads literally the Master’s nightmare. Literally literally but I can’t remember where from and ‘master nightmare floating head doctor who’ gets you about as useless information as you’d imagine.

-Look. Rogue goes from confidently being about to kill the Doctor. The Doctor forces the scanner to show some other of his faces with the psychic paper, does his whole speech saying he’s “not a Chuldur. I’m something much older and far more powerful. A Lord of Time from the lost and fallen planet of Gallifrey” (this is a special surprise that will help us later) “Now, let me go, bounty hunter. We have work to do.” It is cringe, it is up himself and lording over others which is nearly always punished, the Doctor uses his special Deep And Majestic voice, and our stoic confident Rogue is suddenly wide-and-starry-eyed and breathily says, “Wow.” In the fakest response I have ever seen. Sadly I am not allowed more than one video. But oh my God, if you need a refresher it’s 18:14. And if you think it isn’t fake, yes you need the refresher.

You can’t be buying that OwO “Wow”. You think that was the turning point? I know I’m supposed to provide better analysis, but the writing is cringe, the acting is completely counter to what it was a moment ago for both parties, is over the top, and you think a bounty hunter would do a 180 from that?? Why?? ‘Oh you’re showing me the faces you’ve been before, yeah, I know, you’re a shapeshifter’. Nothing in the scanner says he’s a Time Lord, just the words from his mouth, why would he not be lying to save his own skin? And again, what would a Time Lord mean in the universe now? Who gives a shit, if you know what they are you know they’re all dead and reasonable shot you’re happy about that. Failing even that, Rogue is working for the same Boss as the Meep - if the word Time Lord rang a bell it’d be cus Fourteen caused problems last time ‘bring him to me’, surely. “Wow” uwu so cool! Really??? Nothing, not a thing Rogue has done so far, indicates he would be “Wow” to that. Not a damn thing.

Fakest response I’ve ever seen - Groff is actually a good actor so it’s supposed to be fake, at least one of the writers is award winning and may well be both, and Ncuti went out of his way to make it look like unnatural arrogance that doesn’t fit with the previous acting choices either in this scene or the whole show so far. So either all these people were crap at their jobs, or, it’s supposed to smell like bullshit. Would the Master look exactly as fake going “wow” because his character needs to have the heel-turn now? Yes ✅. And that you pulled this speech in front of him would complete its vast circle of cringe and roleplaying.

And what happens next? We cut straight to Ruby and Cosplaying Chuldur #5: [Giggling] “We can’t keep hiding like this!” You guys are smart, don’t pretend you’re not smart, if you follow me you know how good writing works, and are choosing to ignore the meta and mirrors and themes of the episode in a way you wouldn’t with a normal Rusty-written one that you’d sit and deeply analyse. Different writers yes, but smart and capable and award winning ones. These aren’t two disparate stories smushed together, they’re the same story in different keys, that’s the Rule One here.

Continuing, Ruby tries to convince High Society Lord- Lady that she doesn’t have to marry another Lord but could be a normal person, and then the Lady says “I’ll marry someone lesser, and smaller…it may not be love but perhaps a kindly smile at dinner…and then a shared grave” cus she doesn’t want a normal person, that’s what Ruby wants her to want, she wants to marry her kinda shitty Lord. Because that’s what this fantasy roleplay is all about.

Okay essay portion over we got out of hand, bullet points, re-engage.

-A motherfucking owl hoots, with the subtitle “owl hoots”, while Rogue recloaks the giant bird ship, giving us a second look at it again, making sure we get the full distance shot and shimmery cloaking effect to highlight the wings if they get lost in the shadows. Rogue. Is with. The birds. It’s a bird ship. There is no good guy explanation for the bird ship and its D&D equipment that can only be used by multiple people in our episode about obsessive-roleplaying birds.

-Rogue has now packed. ‘What?’ Rogue has now packed. He is now carrying a small bag, cross-body strap over his shoulder. We will not use anything from this bag or see him access it or acknowledge it at all. He’s just brought it with him. Perhaps like he knows he’s not going to be going back to the ship again. Curious.

Dice Bag propoganda post

-“You ready for this?” [low tone] “It’s not my first shed.” - woah woah woah, where’s all the sparkle of a minute ago babes, I thought you were ‘OwO wow’, if you know what a Time Lord is you know what a TARDIS is, but you’re not excited no mo? Or he’s doing it to deliberately make the TARDIS inside reveal cooler in contrast because he knows how much the Doctor likes this moment.

-“O my God” - haha namedrop. This happens to be Mastery behaviour cus this is just the Dhawan!Master pretending to be O entering the TARDIS scene. You were catfished by this before, come on babes. ✅

-“Come with me, and we’ll be, in a world of pure imagination…” - what are you imagining babes? Are ya roleplaying son? Cosplaying? Engaging in a bit of the old fantasy right now. No? He’s just feeling in a chocolatey kind of mood? Uhuh.

-“I’m in love!” - Now isn’t this a 180 on the character? From so reticent and ‘most serious man on earth’ to loudly declaring his love for the ship. Which just so happens to be the Doctor’s number one kink. And what does the TARDIS do in response? She growls. Rule one basic storytelling - the new boyfriend is evil, we knew cus the beloved dog growls at him. Rogue said he was in love and she growled. Gave Jack a bar, an ensuite, and let him tinker with her insides. But to Rogue she growls. Baddie. ✅

-The TARDIS lights are in a red-and-white checkerboard pattern. Our dimensionally transcendental TARDIS is literally a 5d chessboard. I won’t count it, but come on.

-Speaking of dimensionally transcendental, that’s exactly what Rogue called her. Yet didn’t anticipate a TARDIS thirty seconds ago. It takes work to argue he knows about dimensionally transcendental spacetime ships but not know of TARDISes that Time Lords travel in, but does know enough about Time Lords to be dazzled by them when he clearly isn’t of earthly Lords. Much easier to go ‘eh’ keeping the story straight when you’ve got extra knowledge you’re pretending you don’t have, but also need to come across as intelligent, is hard. We’ve all played D&D or at least Let’s Pretend. It’s hard. Lying is hard.

-After a quick “and so clean” back-and-forth, Rogue runs up the stairs, hand on the bannister and leans on the railing. The TARDIS growls again, louder, like a whale. Like she did in the episode with the Not-Things, and with The Maestro. (Arguably her ‘Pantheon’ noise?) Both of them notice. Rogue’s expression immediately turns from an awed open-mouthed smile to blankness, with a head tilt and turn, slowly coming back. “What was that?” The Doctor claims indigestion and she doesn’t like bounty hunters. Not true of the ones with hearts of gold. We’ve seen her with Jack, and River, and she adores them. “It’s the moral void - no offence.” So you’re admitting it. Stating it directly. He’s not got a heart of gold, the omnipotent spacetime ship can see that he’s a moral void. That is what you have said. ✅

-“And this, from the ancient and fallen world of Gallifrey…Where the hell is that?” *buzzer* Wrong. You tried to be clever and aren’t - that wasn’t the line. The line was ‘lost and fallen’ not ‘ancient and fallen’. Oh but Gallifrey is ancient though- *buzzer* He says in the same sentence he doesn’t know of Gallifrey. And yet, he got all wide and starry-eyed over a Time Lord, when he is saying he knows nothing about them. Why? Because he can’t keep his character straight pun intended, which is a character trait of another undercover ex-agent we know. ✅

-“Well I might take you one day.” - bananas response by the Doctor for multiple reasons. ‘I’ll take you to my lost and fallen homeworld’ ok what? Second, Fifteen has for once been very open about his loss in this regard, said repeatedly that it’s gone, and how much it hurts him. Said it to Ruby, to Carla, to complete strangers. But here he’s out of character. Why? Maybe he’s roleplaying one that doesn’t hurt. Maybe because he thinks it’s the Master and is fucking with him. But I’m going with the roleplaying and saying what this character feels. Fucky from the Doctor rather than Rogue.

-“In a few minutes it will no longer be a deathtrap, you are welcome.” [Rogue casually] “Why, what does it do now?” This is all important but also pause to reflect for a moment on whether the character we saw up to this point would have handed his essential survival and work gear to a shapeshifter who claimed to be a Time Lord with zero proof and let him just modify it however. ‘He’s just a very trusting bounty hunter, is all.’ I mean he wasn’t at the start of all this though, was he.

-Doctor boundaries: I can’t let you kill it, “So instead we will transport it to a random barren dimension, no-one to hurt, no way back.” Passing over the obvious, the Doctor is the one programming this. We agree we’re probably not literally installing a randomiser onto the device, we’re just randomly picking one and assigning those coordinates. How do you know it’s barren? Oh the TARDIS is dimensionally transcendental we just reminded people, so she can probably see, she’s picking it. Ok. …So there’s no reason she wouldn’t have a record of what she set it to. That’s information we should have. Ok. Which are the letters Rogue says. Ok. What about your bounty job? Not even a response to the no-killing? Or that this seems worse if anything? No. Just ok. We’re saying that a lot in this episode. Ok. Just going along with things. Ok. I know what that word means. Ok.

-“Who did you lose?” “How do you know?” “Cus I know.” Cus we covered this earlier actually when he mentioned the usually two-person’s for captaining an asteroid hopper. Forgot? No worries Rogue, been a long ten minutes. No attempt to make a proper backstory just stares at the Doctor like a cow looking at an oncoming train and goes, “There was- …Yeah. We travelled together, we had fun, you know. And then a day came along, and at the end of that day…I lost them.” Now if this was the Master you’d be saying no shit he can’t provide details and only parrot what the Doctor always says in these situations, he is a moral void, bro has one friend and only knows what it’s like to love that one friend obsessively, he can’t even empathise enough to improvise a backstory that feels realistic. Maybe only lies have details but you can argue my guy didn’t even commit to a gender. It’s also a valid read to assume he’s just short on words at losing his fellow they/them bounty-hunter crook friend. Maybe the OwO Time Lord thing is enough to make him open up a little even if the Doctor’s done nothing to earn that trust yet. But both work just fine, if it was the Master it’d be how he’d do it. ✅

-“What about you?” The Doctor’s expression hardens here. Maybe cus it just hurts. Maybe for other reasons. [coldly, we linger on him] “I lost everyone.” Rogue still with too-wide-cow-train eyes . “But at the party I saw you with that woman...” That tone. And how we immediately wave his ‘Best Friend’ aside. Look, again it’s a watch the scene. These two are good actors, they’re excellent. And down to the ‘huh’ head tilt before Groff’s line with every microexpression he is radiating a guy playing a role while still trying to poke his roleplaymate in his open wound with a stick. There has never been just one layer in anything in the show so far why would it start now in the episode about cosplaying people to death do you part, why? Why?? The one mirror everyone can accept is Captain Jack and he was literally a con man. This is a con man you are being conned. If you look at his face and think he’s being earnest you are extra weak to con men do not give strangers your credit card details. Didn’t you have jerk friends? We all had jerk friends. That is the expression the jerk friend made when they were just asking questions *blink* *blink* don’t get upset. Or Groff is a garbage actor. But he isn’t. Just the character he’s playing is crap at acting. Go back and watch O, the cow-eyes are textbook liar, any liar, but especially the Master ✅. They’re doing a scene, it is diegetic. The acting is diegetic.

-“You don’t have to stay a bounty hunter, [beat pause] Rogue.” You can say it’s just cus he knows Rogue isn’t his real name but the Doctor’s usually fine with that sort of thing. “You could travel with me[…]the worlds I could show you…” “And what if I like what I do? Would you travel with me?” “That is quite an argument. ((No it isn’t he doesn’t like bounty hunters)) I’ll tell you what, when we both get out of this, let’s argue across the stars.” This is the Doctor and Master scene, we do these scenes every incarnation all the way since half-share in the universe, you don’t have to think he’s the Master but we know these lines damn well are. ✅

-They nearly kiss but the TARDIS cockblocks them with a beep of being finished with the rewiring, because again, she doesn’t like the moral void, and does not want the Doctor to stick his dick in it. And what does the Doctor say as he steps back from their almost kiss? “The trap is ready.”

-[Rogue is sans new bag for the indoor scenes here, I believe this is just a costuming error that happened from them probably reshooting the dancing a bajillion times, it will come back when they’re back outside again and in every subsequent scene onwards]

-They meet back up with Rubes and Roleplaying Chuldur #5. Ruby asks a very good question. “Ok, but what does anyone get out of killing these people? I mean I know they’re posh nobs and all that, but we found the housekeeper dead. I mean why would anybody do that?” And the Doctor, instead of saying ‘it’s how they steal their bodies they’re shapeshifters’ says the meta-important answer first. “The dance. The drama. The emotion.” THIS IS ABOUT GALLIFREY. High society here is a mirror for the aforementioned fallen Gallifrey. The Master didn’t just genocide the Time Lords, he killed every Shobogon/lay-Gallifreyan without Child-stolen regenerations, he killed every TARDIS, every living thing on the planet. Why? The drama.

-“It’s cosplay. All of this is cosplay.”

-The Doctor turns to a non-plussed looking Rogue and says: “You said that a Chuldur comes to a planet and tries on people like outfits just for the fun of it.” …Wh- when? When did he say that?? (I’m being facetious - he doesn’t). Also does that seem rich coming from the ‘multiple costume changes per episode’ Doctor? Mirrors.

-(If the background music here is Vitamin String Quartet I don’t recognise it unfortunately. Fun Fact, I used them exclusively as background music for my own wedding, cus I thought it’d be fun for people to try and guess the songs if things got boring and it’d be a conversation starter. Ate my wedding cake to Poker Face. We like resonating with the universe here.)

-“Those TV signals beam out across the stars.” “What are these T-V signals?” I can’t add more than one video, so if you’re not willing to take the description on faith it’s 24:45. But watch Rogue here. He slightly turns to her with a little glare and that exact same frustrated little sigh he did with the Duchess corpse earlier. Dungeon Master’s stupidest soldier? Cus you’d think if he was annoyed she was being anachronismatised (real word), he’d have given the Doctor the shut up glare but doesn’t give him bother for it at all. Maybe he’s just a conflict averse bounty hunter. But that’s what the Master would have done, he has low lackey/idiot friend tolerance. Both reads valid. ✅

-The Doctor dances, we know what that’s a metaphor for and what episode it’s from. Good thing Rogue knows all the moves ahead of time.

-Just putting the reminder here cus there’s no clear place - I go with Master because Dungeon Master, I’m A Bad Guy, the mirrors *gestures at everything above* etc. but mostly because this is a deliberate attempt to cosplay Jack. Thus it requires someone who has watched the show. The Pantheon, the Master seems like a good bet, however, could admittedly be Chulder #6 (and they’re just supposed to be a very strong but purely mirror for the Master) and because of their different dimension-ness has watched the show on TV and has figured out how their self-insert is gonna bang the Doctor. But one way or the other, our baddie here has seen Doctor Who The TV Show in the same way the birds watched Bridgerton and this is an intrinsic part of this that shouldn’t be separated. That we have a fanboy who is deliberately cosplaying Jack and invoking him and references to that episode is important.

-Rogue: “So what is this ancient Earth tradition of cosplay?” No-one said it was ancient (twice now), no-one said it was Earth, no-one said it was tradition, even Ruby had to clarify ‘so you mean it’s literally dressing up and playing at Bridgerton?’ Rogue almost certainly already knows what it means. And we know the birds do. This is our baddie having fun. Because as the Doctor says next: “Oh, Rogue. It’s when fans dress up as characters that they like.” (Point to Pantheon, because roleplaying the Master would be dressing up as a character from Doctor Who that they like).

-General note again: both prior to but especially 13’s era really spent some subtext time building up the whole ‘The Doctor’ and ‘The Master’ are roles they play. If you know you know. We’ve been continuing on Chibs’s themes. Just reminding.

-The Doctor takes the male i.e. leading position judging by the other couples visible. As per traditional Thoschei.

-Lights dim in our usual diegetic/non-diegetic playing that we’ve been doing. Soft point to Pantheon - remember if The Rogue’s theme is Roleplaying it must be a double bluff for him to actually be being skilled at it, and he is cosplaying the Master cosplaying the Doctor, with the conceit that the Doctor gets this but not that it’s someone cosplaying the Master, thus he’s winning. If he is Pantheon this is the only potential evidence of fuckery besides having brought non-native-dimensional creatures into ours, which we do have other explanations for.

-“We need to have a big fight so one of us can storm out and the Duchess follow us.” “The Chuldur cosplay, not me.” Mhmm. You had D&D dice. But regardless if you buy that, we have now spontaneously swapped from engaging starry-eyed Personality B, back to Personality A: strong and silent.

-“How dare you my Lord! You would ask me to give up my title? My fortune? But what future can you promise me? *Rogue shaking his head, not good at deviations from the script, nor is the Master fwiw* ✅ “You cad! Tell me what your heart wants, or I shall turn my back forever!” “I…” Fifteen whispers, “Say anything.” If you are not internally writing the pre-show Doctor/Master fanfiction I cannot help you. Jo describing the Master like a jilted lover or whatever the hell it was. But at least here, with admittedly a little open-mouthed smirky smile, Rogue gets down on one knee and offers his ring. (From non-marriage hand, 4th finger, don’t completely see him pull it off but he was wearing it in the dance scene). If we are re-writing history with this cosplay, which given the Doctor’s reaction he certainly seems to consider it meaningful, that’s definitely what the Master would do here. ‘This is what I wanted you to do back then.’ ✅

-Obviously the Master has used that sort of flat-topped large round ring before, we’ve had the callback to it with the red-nailed woman and the tooth just recently. The insignia is not entirely decipherable. Most default I’ve seen is an angel (Master coding, especially if we’re wearing it upside-down hoo), I’ve also seen a ‘rod of asclepius with 3d coiling tails’ (A Doctor fanboy who has come prepared for this moment), and just plain bird of some kind given the little wings.

-The Doctor says a very genuine “Sorry I can’t- …I ca-” and runs off. (Which definitely happened the first time). This almost certainly isn’t River trauma, Twelve wore the implied wedding ring until it fell off when he regenerated. And we’re just supposed to be making a scene and this is an obvious way to do it - he’s already nearly kissed him and invited him, the Doctor put relationship on the cards, and could easily still be haha fun joke but you are still coming right? If it was just Yaz Making Everything Feel Like Touching A Hot Mind Stove then the near kiss feels like that would have been included in the trauma reaction. So presumably engagement based triggering specifically. Probably not from Cameca either. That had cocoa involved.

-Rogue seems a little surprised at this reaction. Fair all round, the Master might not have expected it either, but also the sort of thing a fanboy might not have been able to pre-empt - it wasn’t in the show after all.

-They actually join back together almost immediately and they run outside, so it wasn’t that overwhelming.

-“Oh, we must play them!” - no ‘aha’s’ from the peanut gallery, we already saw the birds can potentially not recognise each other in costume, and in the baddie camp (bird ship, he’s in a bird ship) we can be pretty sure that Rogue didn’t arrive here looking like Mr Darcy since none of the others were pre-costumed and just nicked people when they got here. (number 2 shows they didn’t pre-organise characters - “nice costume”). If Chulder #6 - nicked a guy. If Pantheon - conjured himself a bespoke Darcy form. If the Master potentially still body-stealing or simply we’re cloaked - remember the electronic interference from the start that pointed the Doctor to him specifically rather than the Chuldur? Dhawan!Master previously cloaked himself, plenty of scope there. (Why would the Master need to cloak? If the Doctor’s already familiar with his form. Either from other plans or the fact that, well, there’s a world where this could literally still be Dhawan!Master.)

-The Master nicks bodies by the way, for New Who-onlys. We haven’t actually done it for a while, and for earring interference reasons I don’t believe we’re doing it now, but it’s actually a Classic Who staple.

-“Now keep the Duchess talking, a Chuldur is strong, and if she starts to change you it won’t stop.” First, now that’s a meta, second, do we want to add a sketchy point for the gendering of the Chuldur? Cus we’ve seen one of them explicitly say they’re fine with different bodies (‘oh I wanted to be the Duchess’)? Hm. It’s an assumption on thin ice but I’ll allow it. We don’t ask Rogue why he knows so much about the Chuldurs considering they’re different dimension beings. There are non-problematic options there to be sure. But will say that Dhawan!Master was previously messing around with different dimension beings hoping to find out if they were what the Doctor was, got trapped in their dimension at the end, and these ones are literal shapeshifters. If it is the Master, he has plenty of reason to be here with them and know a lot about them. ✅ If he is a Chuldur, well, obvious reason.

-[Rogue now has his bag back on. This is why I believe it’s a costuming error it wasn’t on indoors just then - the TARDIS and real outdoor areas were obviously filmed in very different times and places, the fact the bag travelled to both is suggestive that it was clearly supposed to be a part of his outfit at this point. BTS: the indoor and outdoor scenes were obviously filmed at different times, (3 weeks of night shoots oof) they’re not actually walking in and out of the building. But it’s also a deliberate costuming addition after the ship because he wasn’t wearing it in the night scenes where he’s holding the Doctor at gunpoint or anything. Tl;dr - no bag before the “Wow” heelturn in the ship, carries bag after.]

-There’s not one but multiple of the Chuldur shapeshifters. A ‘family’ according to Rogue. (Who are playing two characters that are getting married. Oh Doctor-Master mirrors, never change). Something you’d think would be on the bounty hunter note - are you just getting paid for the first one? Can you claim extra if you make multiple runs? These are important questions. Or not.

-“I want to be the Doctor.” …How does she know it’s the Doctor? ‘Uh, the Duchess was introduced to him earlier.’ Yeah. The Duchess. Who died. Childur 1 was still the housekeeper when that happened. She knows who the Doctor is.

-Doctor-Master inverting with the “Run.” “I’m the one who usually says that.” Our beloved theme returns to us. Of course maybe it’s just the cosplaying self-inserting whatever could be any baddie by which i mean really only Pantheon or Chulder #6. Bird ship. The Master was literally cosplaying as the Doctor the last time we saw him, like physically in the Doctors clothes. And probably underwear. Does anyone in this essay smoke weed?

-“Breaking spines! Removing tonsils! Live vivisection!” Gallifrey Time Lords mirror previously engaged, re-engage plus Timeless Child. But we uh haven’t had them do any of that stuff yet and they already suck people dry (don’t. I think it’s meant to be a kind of bolus, if you know your birds of prey) so I don’t know why this line is here. Actually maybe I do - now they’re roleplaying playing scary beasts hunting prey, doesn’t mean they’re actually going to do any of those things. Removing tonsils stands out. …We have a rogue (can’t say that now. Odd?) line from Ruby at the beginning about falling over in front of a fit dentist, the Master’s in the Toymaker’s gold tooth, tonsils feel adjacent, it’s almost certainly just funny, and it is, but if that bangs any bricks together in someone’s head go to town.

-I think the “breaking spines! removing tonsils! live vivisection” line is there to showcase that they are roleplaying Baddies. Because while murdering, they have done literally nothing like that, and it’s the sort of silly thing a child would say when playing a monster trying to think of the nastiest things a monster could do). “We still have the big finale wedding to come. And then… London. We can play our games on a magnificent scale. Parliament first, then royalty. I can be King. And we can start wars with the French and the Spanish and the Portuguese, and everyone who doesn’t look British.” This is their spitballing Season Two. As another point to all being one character and that them being Secret Monsters may be accounted for in the game - Emily is always called Emily whether humanning or in bird form.

-The Doctor and Rogue hide in the carriages. (Matilda style). If you’re building that pre-show Thoschei story, hiding from Time Lords in a TARDIS was probably already there, but if it wasn’t, now it is. Or hurr durr hiding in a carriage is funny I don’t know.

-“Back to the house. We must advance with the wedding! That should get them out of hiding.” …Bestie? What does that mean? Why would that get what we were led to believe that you believe are ‘two random interesting people one introduced to you earlier as the Doctor’ out of hiding? They have skedaddled so as not to be eaten by birds, right? They’re gone, lassie, why would they come back? …Unless she already knew who a character called the Doctor was before they were introduced? And that the Doctor’s M.O. will bring him back? Cus they’ve been watching more than one show.

-We modify the transporter: “I can make this transport gate carry four.” “What if there’s more?” “Right…Six. Six maximum.” How convenient. Personally don’t feel that worry is realistic for the character to have (while acceptable to write), and that if Rogue was as he was originally portrayed, he would be saying “Worst comes to worst, I could always…” *lifts jacket* *Doctor has brief moment of distracted horniness* “Nobody is going to be shooting anybody.” But he’s so perfect pacifist for the Doctor so quickly, I guess he just never would. Of course if he’s on their side, especially if also a Chuldur, he’s not wanting to kill any of them.

-Also feels like a Dungeon Master-whisper in the ear the Doctor just goes with: What if there’s more birds? *sets it to 4* What if there were more. *immediately sets it to 6 skipping 5 entirely*. (We talked about Missy’s comment of there always being a way out being potentially meaningful re: the Master’s traps for the Doctor; and counterbalancing the Doctor giving them a way out ‘come with me don’t be evil’. This would be a fun thing to do with that. Trying to create and order a good story and satisfying conclusion based on the Doctor and other players’ choices - pure DMing work at its finest.).

-“And I thought I was interesting. A bookish little wallflower risking it all for a secret love… But you. You are wild, and brave, and rude, living a life of adventure” again you don’t have to be team Master to enjoy the Gallifrey mirror. The potential in these mirrors for the Master is mmm gorgeous and I’m so here for it. Going back in time to when One ran away with Susan and slapping him for not proposing because he would have come with you, we could fix the universe, we-

-Question, cus I’m bored and this has become sort of a general analysis essay: When the birds transformed there were at least some people inside who screamed, you hear them. …Why is the party still here and going on and everyone’s chilling. Eh maybe Dot And Bubble explained that. Or maybe it was delayed screaming at seeing the gays. That’d be a Time Lord mirror. A marriage proposal probably gets you arrested for public indecency.

-The birds speak English, French, and German. Or at least a few words thereof. Multidimensional telly and I’m surprised it’s got foreign channels? How anglocentric of me. *shakes head*.

-“This is the endgame, Chuldur’s leave no witnesses ((yes they do they just abandoned bodies everywhere)), they’ll slaughter everyone.” If he’s not a bad guy then why, why the fuck, did he spend about fifteen minutes fucking around and not shouting “If we don’t stop the Chuldur they’re going to massacre everybody the second they stop having fun! Yeah, I’m bringing the gun!” like you mention this now??? Of course he mentions it now, he’s building dramatic tension because he is like our favourite dramatic bitch. ✅

-R:“I’m sorry.” 15:“They got her.” Ruby cosplaying as a Chuldur cosplaying as Ruby (see you thought my Pantheon cosplaying as the Master cosplaying as Jack was too much - we did double-layering in the episode itself) enters the room. Rogue gives his line but immediately turns away and watches only the Doctor and his reaction (who stares for a moment then gets up and walks away). Autism collective that we all are, this:

is not an expression of someone whose heart is breaking for his new friend. Just so we’re clear. Which is an odd choice for a new love interest - no sympathetic pain, eyes closing, not even a pat on the arm. He’s just observing what the Doctor does, and then gets up and follows the Doctor out. ✅ If he’s a good guy (he’s not, bird ship) you’re not selling him well. And if he’s a bad guy turning noble, he doesn’t have that part down yet. (Also Rogue said he’d tried looking for Ruby but they’d locked the doors. They manage to get through the section they’re in just fine. YMMV. Not enough on its own imo).

-“Madam. Your Grace …Your Birdiness. I cannot sanction wedlocke…between creatures from Hell.” They let the vicar be the one with the banger line, damn. Only one with a spine. Dead obviously but getting a high-five from some angel out there. (Me turning that into a vicar’s reaction to being asked to wed the Doctor and Master, whatever the fuck they are.)

-Speaking of which, here we explicitly see a Chuldur kill a man and copy his outfit but not his face. The Chuldur. Have no difference. Between body. And clothing. *flashback the Not-Things, and Fourteen regenerating* If you weren’t sure they were mirrors, you should be now.

-“How long do they live for?” “Chuldur?” “Mhm.” *Rogue comes up from behind to stand alongside him where he can see him.* “They have a lifespan of about six-hundred years.” “Good, good. That’s a long time to suffer.” A slight negative in ‘this can be validly read as the Master’ behaviour, because this yields only a tiny expression change of a slight raise of eyebrows, not a wild-eyed smile, and I don’t think the Master’s been able to restrain himself that well since he was Delgado. God what that man could convey with an eyebrow. Also we’ve all agreed that the funniest thing is that the plan doesn’t even change, he just knows how long their torment will last now and is happy about it, and if you ever need to explain the horror underpinning the Doctor it’s that.

-Now this is a hell of a thing to reveal about yourself to your brand new love interest and companion. That you’re down for some serious torture. Thirteen went well out of her way to be a monster only when they couldn’t see her. (Works nicely as a soft threat though. ‘If you’re involved with killing mine, I will torture you til you die or the sun does’. Good to have boundaries in a relationship.)

-“Taste his inhuman scent.” - A) Nice double-meaning line considering *gestures above*, B) Confirmation she knew earlier the Doctor wasn’t human, and so combining that with the belief he would come back if they started the wedding…

-“And I am one of a kind.” “He is quite unique…” Hold this in your mind we’ll be back to it in just a minute. *

-The birds immediately recognise the transport trap, by name, and that there’s only one third of it. Which would make a lot of sense if Rogue and the birds’ ship are the same bird ship so they’ve seen it before. Can’t be that they’ve encountered Just A Bounty Hunter Rogue before - he ‘didn’t know’ there was more than one, there’s no visual recognition, and previously it led to an incinerator not something escapable from.

-That we don’t see presumably Rogue placing the other traps, not even a glimpse of someone shuffling in the background, is to me extremely interesting. Not only like with the Carla flashback scene, playing with the unseen, but perhaps critically that this certain someone might know where the cameras are…

-Were you going “why don’t they just take their shoes off” when they got stuck in the triform? Well makes sense that they didn’t now, right?! Cus we know now there’s no difference to them between their clothing and their skin! …Admittedly Ruby…hopefully is fine and as human…well maybe not human…hopefully she’s whatever she was at the start of the episode. I, uh, maybe would mark that down as a concern though.

-Ruby’s chemistry with Lady roleplaying #5 was rewarded by attempted murder as Emily sought to turn into her. That happens a lot here. Let’s not worry about them as the partner mirror for Doctor-Rogue. Or what just happened with Dhawan!Master and 13. If you consider ‘Poker Face’ to be obviously meta-relevant here but ‘I’m The Bad Guy’ not earlier, question yourself.

-* I told you we’d be back. “She smells like a Chuldur.” “Idiot! It’s a false scent from that cheap psychic jewellery!” - The Doctor smells unique but this doesn’t mean they aren’t palling around with the Master. We’re specifically given a reason for this to not be an issue and well, I guess that would explain why she gets earring interference when Rogue’s around huh? If they’re using the same technology. (Same goes for a Chuldur faking being a human etc.)

-Do I believe the Master could perform a fireman’s lift to yeet #5, yes surprisingly, he is actually physically strong, a fencer, rower, and it’s been noted before. (Ainley’s six pack haunts me still). Dhawan!Master in particular has lugged corpses. It’s only running he doesn’t do/have stamina for. However, do I think he would risk it in-situ just for cool points? Don’t know. However, for this free bit of mental torture to work, the final bird has got to be in the enclosure. If it’s not all or nothing, then of course the Doctor would release Ruby. To get the Doctor to have to choose either to kill his companion or the world? He would carry the earth like Atlas. ✅

And that’s what he immediately proceeds to do with no hesitation. ✅

“Doctor, press send. We’ve only got one chance.” “I can’t.” “Press. The button.” *The Doctor openly, loudly panicking* “It will send Ruby!” “No, Doctor, it’s fine.” “NO! No! No! No!” “If you don’t press send, the Chuldur will escape and Ruby dies anyway.”

The Rogue that you think is real is not doing this. Is not convincing the Doctor to kill his companion. He is taking out his gun, and shooting the struggling birds while they are still stuck to the glue trap. It’s not a nice thing. But it is the Heart Of Gold thing. But he’s not that. He’s just The Bad Guy. ✅

“They’ll kill us. Then this house. Then London. Then the world. You know that. You absolutely know it.”

He doesn’t. The Doctor doesn’t know a thing about the Chuldur other than that they are shapeshifters and what he’s seen. How does he even know what London is?? And he wasn’t there for the scene where the Chuldur said it themselves.

He can’t have logicked that out. There were a few deaths sure, but one housekeeper and a duchess not only isn’t ‘these are extremely dangerous and fast killing machines’-worthy, that leap doesn’t make sense.

It’s not even true in their possibly-just-roleplay Baddie Plan. ‘And we’ll start wars with x y and z and everyone who isn’t British! Bloodshed, cannons, gunpowder!’, like that is a lonnnnnnng plan. Like I said before this situation is no ‘we don’t have time to run away and regroup’ thing, they’re slow killers, and especially with Ruby with battle mode engaged she at least would be fine. But it’s that taking over London bit. Very specifically. He claims he hasn’t met them, doesn’t know how many there are, he’s not admitting to any prior knowledge of these guys. So the only way he comes up with that line is if he already knew what they wanted out of their campaign in the first place.

They have not yet proven any more dangerous than any human gunman, in fact less, they clearly can’t spray bullets, they kill one at a time and so far only people they’ve wanted the appearance of in some way. They have been in rooms crammed with people who survived the encounter. Are you going to have to leg it to the TARDIS to regroup? Yes. Would people die? Sure. But probably not her, she’s fast and has a battle bot controlling her movements. Multiple posh nobs have died already and we only got a little sad over the housekeeper. Our hearts will survive. The one putting the pressure on the situation is not the Chuldur. It’s Rogue. There is no time limit. No rush. It’s waiting for you to press the button on the Laser TCE- I mean control stick. But Rogue is not giving him a second to think. ✅

*Rogue approaches, step by step.*

“So can you do it?”

GUYS, your supposed hero is TORTURING the Doctor, who is fucking ugly crying his two broken little hearts out. ✅

“Can you lose your friend to save the world.”

‘I am very sane and staring at you in a normal way the normal amount. Choose to kill your friend yourself, or choose to allow the genocide of every person on this planet including her. I want to see you choose, choose, choose.’

“Ok, but what does anyone get out of killing these people? I mean I know they’re posh nobs and all that, but we found the housekeeper dead. I mean why would anybody do that?”

“Remember how we used to run through those streets as children? The alleys where we'd hide from Borusa as we skipped classes? All gone now. Come on, ask me why I did this.”

*Sobbing Doctor shakes his head, making his decision* [quietly] “No.”

*Rogue with hitherto unseen tenderness, wiping one of his tear away* “I know.”

No, he doesn’t! If he is a random fucking bounty hunter he does not in fact know that. He knows because he already knows the Doctor. From real life or from being a bad guy who just kind of likes to watch TV - which actually I guess does describe the Master✅✅

*Rogue kisses him. Because a tortured ugly crying Doctor is hot to him.* ✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅✅

(If I need to explain why the Master snogging the Doctor here, or the fact that he genuinely loves him in his own twisted way, you can’t be helped, or maybe were just a Ten viewer when you were 8 so missed stuff, and have watched nothing else in the show and just stumbled back in here - go watch Twelve there’s Simm!Master in it for you, and Thirteen’s second series onwards).

Live ‘About To Be Ripped Apart By Murderous Birds In Another Dimension If She Even Physically Survives The Trip’ Slug Reaction. Ruby straight up like ‘well at least he won’t be alone’, babes we’re gonna get you some sertraline, a psychologist, it’s gonna be ok, you’re worthy of life, we’re gonna get you help, we have a therapy circle.

The grin and hoppidy-skip jump Rogue does here when they break for air and he’s holding the Laser TCE/controller is a level of happiness we have yet to see from Rogue. A still cannot do it justice. (40:17 - though if you’re going, may as well watch the whole torturing scene from 39:00). It’s a bit more than a wee smile.

Then Rogue leaps over and knocks Ruby out of the triangle! Something he could apparently have done at literally any time before or during torturing the Doctor to his breaking point!

Why can he do this when she is molecularly bonded to the floor? We don’t know! It’s not explained! But he clearly knows his fucking device doesn’t he?! Why didn’t he tell the Doctor at any point that it would be possible to get Ruby out with a thing called a matter exchange? Who knows?! Maybe it slipped his mind til the last moment? The Doctor being the one to take her place would sure have been an answer, but oh well!

‘Maybe he didn’t want to risk his life for Ruby’s unless he really had to.’ - Then that’s shit hero and love interest behaviour isn’t it! But since it says “Matter Exchange” I’m pretty sure he could also have knocked Ruby out of the triangle using that vicar corpse on the floor a few feet away, then neither would have to die! So he must be real sure he’s gonna be ok! ✅

He’s so happy and chill. The music is happy too. Rogue jauntily throws the bouquet - ahh look who’s next to be married *wink*. This is the happiest and funnest and most genuine he’s looked the entire episode. Almost like he got exactly what he wanted! ✅

“Find me.” *click*

Ruby you’re such a dick, why couldn’t you be as happy as him? If you’d trusted the Doctor to find you instead of you die by bird and/or dimensional anomaly before he got there this could have been such a peppy scene the whole time. It’s almost like Rogue is absolutely certain he’s not going to die doing this. You know I know a character who’s been transported to a different dimension at the end of his episode before and got out of that just fine! ✅

Almost like this was the end of a live D&D session he was hosting. That’s a wrap everyone, great job. Just imagine what I’ve got in store for us next week. Good thing the car transports all six of us together! Well done for not panicking, screaming, or interrupting what I had going on with the Doctor at the end, and trusting this wasn’t going to teleport you into an incinerator. Thanks for playing along, excellent improv as always, I’ll be marking your RP points highly.

And then the Doctor screamed “I’ll find you! I promise I’ll find you!” it was very romantic, and then he got out the sonic and started scanning everything for traces, anything, he was still upset and panicky of course, I mean his new love interest had just snogged him and given his own life to save Ruby’s. But Rogue had believed in him to do this impossible impossible task so he would. So he and Ruby ran back to the TARDIS as fast as they could, maybe she’d picked something up or *gasp* she was the one who configured the trap in the first place so maybe there would be a record of what random dimension she chose! Except she wouldn’t let them access it for some reason and she kept growling and the Doctor was crying with anger and-

No wait, none of that happened, sorry, not sure why I thought it did.

Actually the Doctor went to comfort Ruby and her comfort him, sombrely put the bouquet down where Rogue was. (And left the trap technology behind. So got engaged and invented a glue/tarmac trap.) The Doctor remotely sent the Bird Ship to orbit around the moon, “so it can wait…as long as it takes”. In the 19th century. …Babe, you know they can see the moon, right? They have telescopes. This is a mavity waiting to happen.

(Genuinely choosing not to think about how we last left Dhawan!Master messing about with the two moons in the 1900’s, I’mma be real, I don’t know what was going on and when there, hope it doesn’t fit in actually because I’m not gonna get it. If he’s the Master he turns up, that’s all I ever need to know.)

-“Can’t we use the TARDIS and go find him?” Ruby asks. Good question. If the TARDIS can determine whether a dimension is uninhabited or not that’s definitely gonna narrow it down. Maybe she could outright search for him? If she, you know, didn’t hate his moral void.

-“There are as many dimensions as there are atoms in the universe.” *Ruby arm cuddles* “Anyway! It is what it is, so onwards, fine, next.” So is it ‘as long as it takes’ or are you not even going to try and find him? That and the bouquet really feels like you’re giving him up for dead and just hoping he finds his way back himself some day. It’s not what you were told to do. You can wear that ring and salute the sky with a smile all you like. He said “Find him.” Bad fiancé behaviour.

Cus the thing is, here is the ‘uwu small bean Rogue’ paradox. If this is just a normal guy, he’s not making it back on his own. He’s dying to the birds. The Doctor isn’t looking for him, and Rogue clearly didn’t think he could return on his own - he says “Find me” not “I’ll be back”. So if you believe we’re going to see Rogue again…he’s going to not be a normal guy, but be the type who can survive and make his own way back from a wrong dimension surrounded by free murderous birds. *piano rendition of The Cat Came Back starts playing* ✅

But luckily he’s not normal. He’s a man/bird with so much forethought he knew he wasn’t going to be coming back to his bird ship and took whatever it was that can save him from a teleport trap from the spaceship with him in that bag. Always have a getaway plan. That’s Masterful thinking. Unless you just think he wanted his wallet and keys on him ✅ (Point against Pantheon though - pretty sure being able to move reality around doesn’t require props. But then D&D. Maybe he just likes props.)

-“Doctor, you don’t have to be like this.” “I have to be like this because this is what I’m like.” And in our story about roleplaying, shouting out our longtime theme of the most important roleplaying of all, that we follow a character who’d rather be called Lulubelle playing The Doctor™. Doctor Who is a show.

-The fires whole and reflected and internal everywhere, like our Gallifrey mirror is on fire.

-Final additional literal-meta that may be of interest: the costume designer said Ncuti’s outfit is designed as a nod to Three - the original Thoschei pairing origin. We canonise Shalka!Doctor - famously and frankly exclusively known as ‘that animated one who made a robot boyfriend Master to be his Companion’, with lines in the episode Cornell said was indeed intended to suggest a relationship there and would have continued had that pilot been picked up. Relevant or not we’ll see.

And to all those who read that and yet still think that I am just very cynical and mean, and he really does have a single heart of gold, he’s just got flat affect and is socially awkward and autistic maybe and-

His ship IS A FUCKING BIRD. OWL HOOTS.

🎉 You did it! You read the full analysis! Great job! You passed Media Overanalysis, Rogue Edition. I told you it was a 10K. Look at how much you just read that had already been effectively covered in the first minute with just one thing.

“I’m The Bad Guy. Duh.”

(‘I am now convinced, but do you have a blessedly far shorter essay about why a Chuldur/Pantheon The Rogue perfectly cosplaying the Master cosplaying Jack would be the way to go?’ Why yes I do, strawman.)

Assorted later Additions:

Pantheon!Rogue: Why the bird ship?

Maybe that’s why the ship’s so fucky actually, DM’s love their props, this is about playing D&D In The Real World, so maybe he got one originally, short hop standard Asteroid Hopper. but now they’ve just kept (perhaps Pantheon-magically) editing it over time as the campaign and rule of cool needed. Appearance, better space travel, time travel etc. “It should look like a bird!” “…Yeah! It should look like a bird! Great idea Emily, we’ll work that in!” Of course if he’s a Chuldur this is just…their ship. Maybe classicly upgraded.

What might Rogue’s original plan for the Chuldur’s live D&D Session supposed to have been:

We know they were going to have a big wedding, but maybe that they’re also Baddies going to take over the world muhahaha! Cus they went into that monster-playing real quick and also they said that the panicking and screaming is their favourite bit - so there must have been a plan to include that after the wedding part of the game! They thought the wedding would lure The Doctor out so there must have been nefariousness in it or else why would The Doctor be drawn out? They were playing Baddies! So, thinking like what our lead bird would want for a moment, if you were to DM that, maybe he’s both playing the bounty hunter sent to catch them …But maybe also was going to do an “I Object!” scene too. Their faces in that scene, they’re so excited. Let’s say Rogue doesn’t know the Doctor was coming in advance. He’s already got ‘I’m The Bad Guy’ playing if this wasn’t a live magical edit on seeing him. Oh, maybe that’s why he chose to look like Mr Darcy. Maybe he was going to woo one of them - a good reason to already have the ring. Cus a big wedding can’t go right, that’s not drama, that’s boring. We know he’s probably cloaked - not only do they not recognise him but we have Ruby’s earring interference pointed directly at him (same tech frequency problems?) and even mention the psychic jewellery’s ability to mask a scent with a false one. So he was an NPC just meant to turn up and add some of their beloved drama. So he’d woo a Chuldur, he’ll object and then he would reveal himself as a bounty hunter with his Big Glowy Gun and trap! It was a dastardly trick! You knew he was a Rogue and a cad all along, you just let yourself fall for his deceit! *teleports to ship rather than incinerator* BRO. Even the bird’s D&D plot would naturally be the ‘I was tricking you and am actually your enemy’ twist!

Post-Empire, The case for the Chuldur Phoenix: Rogue being (unbeknownst to himself) the Master cosplaying a Chuldur cosplaying the Master.

[synthient]

So, uh. Could we assume that the "what if we were young lords, in an aristocratic imperial society with stifling social norms, and one of us wanted to run away together but the other was afraid of losing his inherited wealth" thing is relevant. And also perhaps read some of those reactions as "babe, is our breakup argument still the first thing on your mind?" / [can't roleplay without revealing that he knows too much about how the real argument went] / "babe, are you roleplaying me???"

[psychopomp-namine]

you know, I think neji would enjoy playing dnd. getting to write stories and play characters with no limitations, and having to improv with the other players because he would never have full control of where the story was headed? it would be a dream come true, and also therapeutic. neji would of course be the dm who would "yes and" anything his players want to do. the story would be something everyone has input on and would help shape. an adventure that neji himself couldn't predict or write on his own. also, just imagine him describing his setting and doing all his character voices, he'd love that so much

I think it would be a good exercise for quartz too, because they'd have to make their own characters and backstories and roleplay in character without a script to direct them. especially to kisa "transparent vessel" tachibana, who can act out any character but is afraid of letting herself be seen through them. similarly, kai as well, since he'd be in charge of his own character instead of propping someone else up

on the flip side, fumi would get to enjoy playing a character but not having the pressure to be the lead/spotlight of a story. he's there to play, not perform

sou would also LOVE dnd. I think he'd be really into the character creation and lore, and is probably the next person I can think of who can try being the dm when neji is sick/tired/wants to be a player. he's the player who takes down notes and remembers one small detail neji mentioned four sessions ago that becomes relevant to the current session. neji loves him because sou is the one who appreciates his world building the most

suzu and fumi would instigate so much in the adventure, which neji would love. suzu makes a character everyone loves (like hachipochi) and always brings snacks to the table

fumi has read all of the player handbook, and mitsuki has read maybe a quarter of it (only the relevant parts to his character and how some dice rolls and combat work). mitsuki is also the one who doesn't put much effort into his character's backstory but unexpectedly gets big character development during the adventure, surprising everyone in the table including both the dm and himself

otori is very good at both roleplaying and combat, has created a compelling character, and tries to go on solo adventures but eventually gets roped into the party because he can't adventure alone in neji's setting

[theoutcastrogue]

"[Dave Arneson] began running a heavily modified campaign about a group of feudal lords charged with protecting their fiefdoms from invading armies. Between battles, Arneson gave his players the option of exploring dungeons to fight monsters and find magical treasures, while he himself took on the unusual role of “referee.” Before long, players had gotten so absorbed in dungeon delving they began to neglect the defense of the realm. “Well, all that running around in the dungeons finally got the castle wiped out while our flock of heroes went looking for adventure and treasure,” Arneson drolly reported in his newsletter. “Our priest got drunk and engaged in a totally debauched orgy in Wizard’s wood while Swenson’s freehold burned to the ground.” Gygax thought this sounded like a game in its own right; his daughter liked the name Dungeons & Dragons.

The game was a massive success, especially among fantasy readers. But there was, as Gerald Nachtwey puts it, an aspect of ludicrousness in the fantasy role-playing game that the fantasy novel, if it could not eliminate it, had tried to discourage. Tolkien, in his 1947 essay “On Fairy-stories,” had written that fantasy was the province of literature, where the natural glamour of the written word could make anything plausible. Dungeons & Dragons was more akin to the Gothic plays put on by the March sisters, whose magical proceedings are undercut by amateur stage effects, collapsing scenery, and unintended farce. Theater, Tolkien felt, had no business with fantasy; the audience was already too busy trying to accept the “magic” by which the players disappeared into the most mundane roles. “It is a world too much,” wrote Tolkien. But this is precisely what Dungeons & Dragons offered that the fantasy novel never could: the chance to enter an imaginary world with one’s disbelief miraculously intact — to be Quixote and Sancho at once."

— Andrea Long Chu, "The Most Dangerous Game" (Vulture, December 2024)

Commentary

I think ludicrousness was very much present if not prominent in Sword & Sorcery, i.e. the sort of fantasy that mostly informed D&D's worldbuilding and overall vibe. "Our priest got drunk and engaged in a totally debauched orgy in Wizard's wood while Swenson's freehold burned to the ground" is from a Dave Arneson campaign, but it could easily be from a Jack Vance novel. (Replace "priest" with "rogue", and it IS from a Jack Vance novel, I'm positive Cugel the Clever did something like that somewhere.)

I also think Tolkien was comically wrong to claim the theatre has no business with fantasy, though I'm sure I'm missing some context on what he meant, exactly. Like, what? Where does that leave A Midnight Summer's Dream?

But the last sentence is REALLY on point. And of course it's not exclusive to D&D, it applies to any roleplaying game with actual rules (as opposed to fully freeform improv, where you can just get absorbed in the performance). You DO get to be Quixote and Sancho at once. Half your brain is immersed IN the story, getting carried away and ignoring reality, while the other half is decidedly OUT of the story, fully aware of the real world because it has to. It's got to operate the story-making machine (the dice, the rules, the math) from the outside. Plus, there are snacks.

[human-dog-pound]

Elliot Kane was a name that lit up marquees and magazine covers—a 32-year-old actor with chiseled features, tousled black hair, and a smoldering intensity that had made him Hollywood’s go-to heartthrob. He’d starred in blockbusters as brooding detectives, charming rogues, and tragic heroes, but behind the red-carpet smiles, Elliot harbored a secret: he was gay, and he’d spent his career carefully guarding that truth from the world.

One night, after a long day of dodging paparazzi, Elliot scrolled through his Instagram DMs, deleting the usual flood of thirst traps and fan gushing. Then one message caught his eye—simple, unassuming, from a guy named Ryan: “Hey, loved you in Shadow Line. That scene with the lighter? Killer. Also, fellow sci-fi nerd here—Blade Runner or 2001?” Intrigued by the lack of over-the-top flattery, Elliot typed back, “Thanks, man. Tough call, but Blade Runner. You?”

What started as a casual exchange about movies spiraled into daily chats. Ryan, a 29-year-old graphic designer from Pasadena, was sharp-witted and grounded, with a goofy charm that disarmed Elliot. They bonded over a shared love of old synth music, obscure comics, and greasy diner food. After weeks of texting, Ryan suggested meeting up. “No pressure,” he wrote. “Just two nerds grabbing burgers.” Elliot hesitated—fans could be unpredictable—but something about Ryan felt safe. He said yes.

Their first hangout at a hole-in-the-wall diner was easy, electric. Ryan’s hazel eyes sparkled when he laughed, and Elliot found himself loosening up, the weight of his public persona slipping away. Soon, they were meeting regularly—late-night drives, movie marathons at Ryan’s apartment, quiet hikes where no one would spot them. The chemistry was undeniable, and Elliot’s guarded heart started to crack open. He’d never let himself fall for a guy before, but Ryan’s warmth was pulling him in.

One evening, sprawled on Ryan’s couch after a Star Wars binge, Ryan grinned mischievously and tossed a popcorn kernel at Elliot. “Fetch, pup!” he teased. Elliot laughed, swatting it away, but Ryan kept going, ruffling Elliot’s hair and cooing, “Who’s a good boy?” in an exaggerated tone. Elliot rolled his eyes, but the playful affection stirred something unfamiliar—something thrilling.

A few days later, over beers on Ryan’s patio, Ryan got quiet, then said, “Okay, weird confession time. You know how I’ve been calling you ‘pup’? I’m… kinda into puppy play. Like, roleplaying as a dog and owner. It’s a kink thing, but it’s also just fun for me.” Elliot blinked, caught off guard. Ryan rushed on, “I don’t mean to freak you out! It’s just… you’d make a cute pup, you know?” He flashed a lopsided grin, but his cheeks were pink.

Elliot’s mind raced. He’d never heard of puppy play, and the idea sounded absurd—crawling around, pretending to be a dog? But Ryan’s earnestness softened the weirdness. “I don’t get it,” Elliot admitted. “What’s the appeal?”

“It’s like letting go,” Ryan said. “No stress, no expectations—just play. And for me, taking care of a ‘pup’ is sweet, you know? Intimate.” He paused, then added, “You’re an actor. Think of it as a role. No pressure—if you hate it, we stop.”

Elliot chewed his lip. He’d spent his life acting, slipping into other skins. Maybe this wasn’t so different. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll try it. But if I look ridiculous, you’re buying me dinner.”

Ryan lit up. He grabbed a spare belt from his closet, fashioned it into a makeshift collar, and knelt in front of Elliot. “Ready, pup?” Elliot nodded, awkward but curious, and dropped to his knees. Ryan scratched behind his ears, murmuring, “Good boy.” Elliot barked hesitantly, feeling silly—until Ryan’s gentle petting melted his self-consciousness. For the first time in years, he felt unscripted, free.

They started small—Elliot scampering around Ryan’s living room, chasing a thrown sock, nuzzling Ryan’s hand for praise. The more they did it, the more natural it felt. Ryan would snap his fingers and say, “Sit,” and Elliot would obey, grinning as Ryan fed him a treat (usually a pretzel). Soon, Elliot was bounding around on all fours in Ryan’s fenced backyard, barking happily while Ryan tugged a leash they’d upgraded from the belt. It was intimate, playful, and oddly liberating—Elliot could shed the polished star and just be.

Trouble came one crisp October morning. They were in Ryan’s yard—Elliot in a leather collar, leash in Ryan’s hand—when a paparazzo perched in a tree across the street snapped a photo. By noon, the image was everywhere: “Elliot Kane on a Leash—What’s He Into?” The internet exploded with memes, speculation, and crude jokes. Elliot’s phone buzzed with panicked calls from his agent, but he just sat on Ryan’s couch, head in his hands.

“I’m screwed,” he muttered. “They’ll crucify me.”

Ryan squeezed his shoulder. “Or… you could own it. You’re happy like this, right? So tell them.”

Elliot looked at him, heart pounding. Coming out as gay was one thing—he’d been inching toward it with Ryan—but as a pup? Yet Ryan’s steady gaze gave him courage. That night, Elliot posted a statement on Instagram: “Yeah, that’s me. I’m gay, I’ve got a boyfriend, and I’m into puppy play. It’s weird, it’s me, and I’m done hiding.” He hit send, braced for backlash.

The response was a tidal wave—some hate, sure, but more support than he’d dreamed. Fans cheered his honesty; queer communities embraced him as a icon. And Hollywood? It adapted. Within months, Elliot landed a role as a loyal hound in a fantasy epic, bounding across sets with a tail prosthetic and a bark that critics called “startlingly authentic.” More dog roles followed—a gruff stray in a drama, a goofy pup in a comedy—and Elliot nailed them all, his ease in the skin of a canine unmatched.

He and Ryan kept their routine, too. After shoots, Elliot would come home, slip into his collar, and curl up at Ryan’s feet, barking for a pat. The world knew him now—gay, pup, and proud—and for the first time, Elliot felt like the star of his own story.

[roxabellas]

Please Don't Go Any Higher

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

word count : 16,574

warnings : everything. angst, drug use (cocaine), other drug mentions (heroin & weed), relapsing, matt helders is there for quite a while (sorry), betrayal, weight loss, erectile dysfunction (he can't get hard), relationship problems, alcohol, roleplay (it's very awkward), masturbation (him, but he can't do it), he watches porn, insomnia. i think that's all

It had been coming up to two years of sobriety from cocaine for you and Alex. About a year and ten months. You'd both vowed to quit together, for each other and for your relationship. It wasn't the first time you'd both tried to quit, but almost every other attempt at leaving the addiction behind had ended in a late-night coke binge after anywhere from a couple of days to a week. The kind of relapse that left you reeling with the effects for days afterwards before falling back into your previous destructive habits of burning through one or two grams a day like clockwork.

But just when it had started to feel like you'd both finally overcome it, like you were finally sober for good, he got invited to his friend Matt's birthday over text.

He knew exactly what the party would be like, and he wasn't too keen on going. A typical house party with drinks, music, cigarettes, and likely lots of drugs. The last place a recovering drug addict should even think about going.

But then again, it was his friend's birthday, and Matt knew he was recovering. He would keep him away from the drugs all night, distract him. At least he should.

The night of the party was thick with smoke and haze, a sharp chime of glasses being clinked together in cheers ringing through the crowded rooms every so often, the high-pitched sound lingering and hovering until the next clink came along to take its place.

The faint vinegary, slightly acidic and distinct scent of heroin being smoked and cooked wafted through the air every so often, weaving in and out of between sweaty bodies like a needle through thin cotton and filling rooms with its harsh, almost suffocating presence. It clung to the walls, mingling with the stale smoke from someone's cigarettes, the earthy smell of cannabis burning in the corners, and the strong odour of spilled liquor.

Alex hadn’t intended on staying for too long, just turned up to show his face for his friend's birthday, maybe a beer or two. But when the shots had started to come, he decided to let himself loose just a little bit. Just one for old times sake, then another one because Matt insisted, then yet another one because it was rude not to. And before he knew it, his throat was warm and his tongue felt too big for his mouth, the alcohol spreading its warmth through his body.

At a point in the night, he found himself in the humid kitchen, the dim, flickering, yellow light bulb that was definitely way overdue a change giving off an uneven glow, casting shadows where there shouldn't have been any. Its tiled walls did little to muffle the echoing bass pulsing from the other rooms of the house, loud laughter and distorted conversations, reverberating across the tacky floors, coated with layers of spilled beers and fruity mixers.

His glass beer bottle with a rogue, now damp cigarette rolling paper stuck to the bottom vibrated in his hand from the sheer intensity of the volume of some grimy remix, so oversaturated he could hardly tell what the original song was.

The cluttered countertops were sticky with a substance he wasn't sure he wanted to identify as he rested his palm against the edge, premature guilt slowly thickening in his chest, crawling up from his stomach to the back of his throat.

The small, clear plastic bag sat opened and half empty next to Matt's dark green beer bottle, its powdery contents pale and shimmering like ground glass beneath the dodgy, flickering light.

He watched Matt as he chopped the fine white powder with his expired driving license on the messy counter, tapping it against the granite as he separated it into three thin lines.

“Just do one line, mate. It's not like you're gonna relapse,” Matt said, trying to persuade Alex into it as he slid his stained license across the counter, sweeping the line of cocaine with it to put some distance between the three.

Alex stared at the piles of small piles of white powder carved into perfect lines, the faint but sharp, chemical-like scent taunting him, luring him, a smell that used to fill him with promise, conviction, and security, now flooding him with an overwhelming sense of dread and disgust.

“I've been clean for almost two years, Matthew,” Alex tried to argue, but the double vodka shots he'd knocked down earlier in the evening had mostly clouded his judgement. “I don't want to get back into all that.”

Matt, more intoxicated than Alex, obviously wasn't going to let up, trying to appeal to that small part of Alex that still craved the rush that the drug brought him, the blissed-out highs and euphoric space-outs. “Just one line,” he tried to convince him, his hand fishing into the back pocket of his worn-out jeans for the five pound note he'd tucked in there earlier. “It's just for a laugh. You can control yourself now, can't you?”

He watched helplessly as Matt rolled up the note with a practiced hand, similar to how he'd roll up a cigarette, and leaned forward, one end of the note against his nostril as he inhaled.

His nostrils flared slightly as the cold, sharp sting of the coke travelled up his nose, biting at his sinuses. He stood up straight again, sniffing a few more times instinctively as if trying to pull the feeling deeper into his body, restless and impatient as he waited for the rush of the drug to hit. His hand came up to his face subconsciously, wiping his nose with the heel of his palm as if to try to get rid of the lingering burn.

He rested back against the countertop, carelessly knocking something over behind him with a clatter as he leaned back a bit too far, now facing Alex with a heavy, daunting gaze, a mix of challenge and expectation floating in his dilated pupils.

“Your turn,” he finally said, his voice smooth and coaxing. Alex's heart thudded in his chest, his whole body frozen save for his eyes, which were darting between Matt and the remaining two thin lines of cocaine.

He raised his eyebrows slightly, waiting, a small, mocking smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You know you want to,” he added, low and teasing, trying to remind him of something buried deep inside him, something he'd fought to forget. “Don't be a bore. It's just one. For me. Birthday and all that. You look like you need it, anyway.”

It was working.

Alex swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight as he felt the familiar but now dreaded ache of temptation seeping back into his veins, blurring into his bloodstream. He rubbed his face with his free hand, fingertips pressing hard into his eyes like he might be able to erase the need clawing behind them. 

He could almost feel it, the cold, biting rush followed by the practically heavenly high, and he craved it. The alcohol and all its warmth and deceptiveness swam through him, weaving in and out of between his ribs, tying tight knots around his lungs, and clutching his heart in its unforgiving grip.

He hated how much he wanted it. The bitter edge of the drug as it burned through his nostril lining, that sudden electric-like jolt that made him feel alive, the all-consuming, floaty high that followed just a few minutes after that made him feel like nothing else in the world mattered, and he started to forget how far he'd come and how hard he'd fought to stay clean. Some nights he dreamed of it. Dreamed of the routine that became ritual, burn, the rush. The silence that always followed after, and ringing echoing in his ears as the world stopped screaming for a moment. It never really left. It just waited.

“I won't be able to control myself if I do any,” Alex said with a low voice, almost brittle.

Matt didn't flinch. He licked the pad of his thumb and pressed it to the edge of the sticky granite countertop where some stray white dust clung like flour, and stuck it beneath his lip and rubbed it along his upper gum. “It's not a relapse if you don’t let it be one.”

Hadn't Alex whispered those words to himself before, when he was still drowning in his addiction? Muttered them under his breath while staring at his reflection in the mirror, eyes wide, cheeks flushed and nose bloody, vibrating with the lingering effects of his binge. It’s only a problem if you make it one. You’re in control.

That final string of restraint, of self control, of logic, threaded inside of him began to fray, withering away and wearing down more and more with each passing second that he allowed his mind to feed into Matt's persuasion, to the illusion that this would make him happy.

The backs of his eyes tingled as Matt held out the rolled up note between his middle and index finger, and Alex tensed up, his resolve crumbling under the weight of the overwhelming temptation.

One line. One tiny, thin, short line. It wouldn't do him any harm. He could stop after just one. He would stop. It would be worth it. Just one. 

His hand trembled and shook as he reached out, every fibre of his body screaming at him to stop, to take control of his urges, to remember how and why he'd battled so hard to curb his addiction for this long.

The weak, fragile voice inside him, the one of reason, grew quieter, drowned out by the deafening noise of his detrimental desire.

He inhaled shakily, his breath hitching as he brought the note up to his right nostril, the feeling of the cool plastic against the soft but miniscule hairs inside of his nose. It felt both alien and painfully familiar, a sensation he hadn't felt for so long, yet it settled back into place as if it had never left. Like a puzzle piece that had been missing for years, and when it's found a few years later, it's dusty, and a little bent out of shape, but still fits into its designated spot just right.

He shut his eyes, an attempt to blind himself from the moment, to block out the reality of what he was about to do.

With a trembling, hesitant hand, he pressed his left nostril closed, and with one swift motion, he inhaled sharply, the powder rushing up his nose. It felt like a harsh slap to the face. The cold bite hit him immediately, like someone had stabbed an icicle straight into his brain, causing the note to fall from his fingers onto the countertop as his hand flew up to rub his nostril as a futile attempt at easing the sting, as if he could somehow take it back, as if the damage hadn't already been done.

His vision blurred at the edges as his eyes watered, the burn now deep in his sinuses as the cocaine settled. It clung to the back of his throat, the bitter, chemically taste clawing its way through his body. He used to find comfort in the sensation, the suffocating, painful feeling bringing him a strong but faux sense of security, but now it only pulled up deeper into his endless pit of strangulating regret.

It crept up on him slowly, giving him enough time to think about how long he'd been clean, how deeply he's betrayed everyone who believed in him. Every beat of his own heart seemed to mock him and his pointless promises, the ones he'd made to both you and himself. The promises you'd rebuilt your relationship on after losing sight of each other through the dense fog of your addictions.

He stared blankly down at the countertop, his eyes vacant and focused on the pattern of the dark grey granite, his body frozen in place. His tongue tingled, a numbness plaguing his gums, making his teeth itch.

This is fine, he thought. I'll let the high hit, then after that, I'm done. It's just one.

Matt snapped him out of his bubble with a hard slap on his upper back with a loud laugh, almost sending him into the counter. “There he is! I knew you still had it in you, mate.”

Alex didn't reply, though his glassy and a little distant eyes stayed locked on Matt as he straightened up. He brought his hand up to his face and rubbed at his nose again, the skin reddening under his palm with the intensity he hadn't even realised he was rubbing it with. He looked around the kitchen with what little mobility his mind had convinced him his body had, and everything felt vivid. It didn't feel good, not yet, at least. Noises sounded brighter and colours looked louder. Colours leaked and bled into his central vision from his peripheral like wet ink on paper, smudging and blurring everything together.

He felt the guilt first, rising in his chest like a slow and oily tide, staining his ribs with his sin.

One year and ten months.

All that suffering, nights spent staring at the off-white ceiling with bloodshot, hollow eyes, wondering is it even worth it? The mornings spent waking up with a sweat, and pouring coffee instead of whiskey with shaky hands. How he used to cry when he was home alone, the overwhelming urges and cravings hitting him like sledgehammers. How hard it had been to stop, how much he didn't want to admit that he adored it, the rush. He hadn't let himself even imagine it for almost two years.

The beat of the music thudded in his chest like a second, third, fourth, fifth heartbeat, interrupting his inner turmoil. He could feel each thrum in his muscles, his pulse hiking up, making every inch of his body feel too hot.

A few minutes passed like that, dissociative, disorientating, dizzying, the limbo between snorting the line and the high hitting. He was unable to keep still, moving in slow circles around the kitchen, his restlessness evident in his hands as he drummed his fingers against whatever surface they could crawl to the quickest, then cracked them, then threaded them through the sweaty mop of strands that lay atop his head as his nose began to drip.

He felt it coming on strong, a tremor beneath his skin, his thoughts speeding up faster than his mind could keep up with. It spread from his nose, through his skull, down his body, seeping past his muscles into his bones until it felt like he was levitating. It felt like there were fireworks in his brain, and his jaw tightened once more as he turned his head to look around the kitchen with renewed clarity. The previously dull, plain, grainy kitchen cupboards and dusty walls now seemed extraordinary to him, illuminated by the blaring light overhead that no longer flickered, but sparkled.

The adrenaline ran through his veins, pumping around his whole body, all the way to the tips of his fingers.

Everything made sense for what felt like the first time in months. He felt fucking incredible, his heart racing in his chest. His vision felt sharper, every edge looking more defined, every colour more vivid. He looked at Matt, who was fumbling with his pockets and muttering something about where his lighter was, with a slightly lopsided grin and said, “That's fuckin’ good.”

Matt looked up at him at that, his own pupils blown wide and nose tinged red, and his lips pulled upwards in a smile. “I told you, didn't I? Fuckin’ told you.”

Matt nodded towards the remaining thin, white line of coke, and he said, his voice quieter than before, coaxing, “Have it. Go on. You've already had one, might as well go all in.”

Alex didn't need convincing this time around. Any thought that managed to make itself prevalent among the whir of his blurred mind was promptly drowned out by the irrational but insatiable urges of more. Of prolonging the high, of intensifying the rush, of getting so insanely beyond out of it to the point where he didn't even know what was real anymore.

He picked up the note he'd dropped after his first line and rolled it back up tight before holding it up to his nostril, pressing his other one shut as he leaned down again. He lined up the other end of the note with the edge of the line of powder before inhaling sharply, quicker this time, greedier, the powder rushing up his sinuses with that same cold sting, but this time, he welcomed it.

He smiled as he straightened up once more, blinking furiously and rolling his shoulders back, the tip of his nose still damp from the first hit. He felt alive, invincible, like the brightest possible version of himself with tingling skin and a surplus of energy.

He'd forgotten the promises, the sobriety, the hell he'd clawed himself out of, the small voice of reason rapidly shrinking underneath the need, the rush, the need for the rush.

He sniffed hard, trying to pull any last bits of powder deeper into him as the telltale numbness spread across the bridge of his nose, blossoming across the centre of his face until he could barely feel his skin anymore, his vision warping like an out of focus camera lens.

He cackled, feeling the cold sweat beginning to prickle and collect on the back of his neck. The music made the walls throb with the sheer volume, every colour piercing his vision, and he said, louder than he'd intended, “I forgot how fuckin’ good it was.”

Everything quickly spiralled after that second line. Each time they felt the euphoria start to taper to an end, Matt chopped up fresh lines to keep them both suspended in that dizzy, all-consuming high.

He kept telling himself this is the last one, that he'll just do one more, but whenever someone cut another line for him, it was like his body moved on its own. Bending over and snorting it greedily, desperate to keep the buzz alive, because heaven forbid he go five seconds without it.

He did three more lines. Maybe four. Maybe five. He'd stopped counting once he'd realised the numbers served as nothing but strikes on a tally chart in his mind.

At some point in the night, probably closer to morning than midnight, he ended up collapsed on one of the tattered settees in Matt's smoke-filled living room, strong weed, faintly vinegary heroin, and bitter cigarettes having flooded the room hours ago, festering in the corners and lingering on the walls. There were either half-naked or fully naked women everywhere. A few had pressed their bare skin against him periodically throughout the night, their fingers twirling his hair, their giggles hot against his ear, but he didn't engage with them beyond a crooked grin and a gentle nudge to show that he's not interested. But as he was sprawled on the couch, two girls who were almost as high as him that he hadn't known for much longer than five minutes curled up on either side of him, a hand on his chest, a bare thigh draped over his legs, both giggling and whispering slurred attempts at dirty talk.

Their floral perfume made his nose itch, so strong it was sickening to breathe in. Their hands on him felt almost painful, wrong, but he didn't move them, or shove them off like he probably should have. He didn't have the energy to move himself, let alone two other people. He laid there, staring at the ceiling, his mind making the blank, off-white colour seem far more interesting and intricate than it really was.

He let the girls beside him drift off into shallow, drugged sleep, their hands still sprawled uncomfortably on his body. He didn't even have the physical strength to move their hands off.

Sleep came in broken, jagged pieces, if it could even be classified as sleep. The grey morning light bled in painfully through the blinds that were stained with god knows what.

It was well into the afternoon when he finally stumbled out of Matt's house, squinting his aching, bloodshot eyes against the harsh noon sunlight. He was still wearing his clothes from the previous night, reeking of alcohol, cigarettes, and everything in between. He may as well have had a massive sign reading “I relapsed” in big, bold letters draped over him. It would've been less obvious.

He felt like he'd been hit over the head with a thousand glass bottles then been stuffed with the shards. There was a persistent, omnipresent painful throb behind his eyes, reverberating through his skull with each step he took.

His skin felt too tight for his body, like it was pulled taut across his bones, almost accentuating every regret from the night before. His hands trembled in his pockets, feeling hollowed out, scraped raw on the inside. The high was long gone, and now all that remained was a crippling soreness riddled with shame left in its place.

By the time he turned up home to the little house you share, it was almost 3PM. His keys clattered sharply against the door as he fumbled to slot the correct key into the lock before turning it, pushing the door open after hearing the quiet click of the handle unlocking.

He stepped inside quietly, worriedly rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, paranoid, as if there was some leftover powder dusted over his nostrils that would give him away. He heard the quiet simmer of the kettle boiling in the kitchen and the accompanying clink of a ceramic mug being set down on the countertop.

He dropped his keys onto the entryway table, trying to will himself into being normal, but his skin crawled, the ghost of the cocaine clinging to him like a filthy second skin. He took a few deep breaths, trying to convince himself you wouldn't know, couldn't know. You weren't there. He just had a lot to drink, that was all. He could not let you find out. It was just a one night thing anyway, he wouldn't let it become a pattern or a routine like it was before.

He swallowed hard before he stepped into the kitchen, his eyes settling on you pouring yourself a cup of tea, the searing sound of the boiled water being poured into the mug painfully loud for his fried senses.

As you turned around the fetch the milk from the fridge, you saw him stood in the doorway and you jumped, having not heard him come in over the sound of the kettle, and you said, startled, “Fuck off, you scared me. You alright?”

He let out a dry attempt at a laugh that morphed into a heaving cough. Seeing your smile sent a twang of pain through his chest. You didn't deserve this. You didn't deserve to be lied to. “I'll be fine, probably. Drank too much.”

You shut the fridge and crossed the room back to the counter and twisted the lid off the milk. “I can tell. D'you want a cup of tea?”

You were already pulling his mug out of the overhead cupboard before he got a chance to reply, a stupid-looking Back To The Future novelty mug you'd gotten him for his birthday a few years prior. “Please, love. Bring me back to life.”

You let out a small laugh as you filled his oddly shaped mug with the boiled water, watching as the tea leaves gradually seeped through the filter paper, bleeding into the water in thin tendrils and staining it a deep brown.

He let a half-hearted wonky grin infiltrate his face, but it felt stiff and foreign. You poured a splash of milk into his mug before giving it a stir with the same teaspoon you'd used in your own, the metal clinking against the ceramic walls before you handed the mug to him. “You smell like shit,” you added, only half joking.

He smiled and took his mug, flexing his fingers to properly grip the boxy shape before taking a slow sip, hoping the hot drink would replenish some of his aching soul. “And how do I look?”

You sat yourself down at the small kitchen table with your mug, and you said, “Even worse. Didn't know it was possible for you to be ugly.”

“Harsh.”

“Go have a shower.”

He took another long sip of his tea, almost emptying his cup in one mouthful before playfully arguing, “I just got in!”

“And you can just go and get in the shower,” you retorted, watching him dismally swirl the remnants of his tea in his mug, probably regretting drinking it so fast.

You turned your head down to the page of your magazine you'd just flipped open, the corner of the page folded down. He tried to catch a glance of which one it was, Cosmopolitan, Vogue, ELLE, but he couldn't work it out. They all looked the same to him. Overly-edited pictures of celebrities framed with bold, colourful text containing promises of ‘hot moves that drive a man wild’, the quickest ways to burn belly fat, and flashy gossip columns.

He set his mug down a little too close to the edge of the smooth countertop before lazily pushing it further inwards and making his way out of the kitchen towards the bathroom with slow, weighted strides.

The door shut behind him with a dull click that seemed to echo in his ears. He leaned back against the wood for a moment, eyes closed, his body aching in places he didn't even know could ache.

One hand came up to rub at his throbbing forehead in an attempt to ease the pain plaguing his mind. He dragged his palm down his face, rubbing his nose again, rubbing it until the skin was red and hot to the touch, trying to find anything to blame for what he did. Anything except himself.

He peeled his clothes from his body, his clothes dry to feel but drenched in the vile smells of smoke, sweat and booze, the odour so thick and strong that it was almost visible as it rose up off of the fabric.

He tossed it in the corner before setting his fingers on the task of undoing his jeans, a task that seemed like far too much effort for him. He shut his eyes once more as he tugged at the denim to pop the button through the small hole, followed by a whir of the zip being pulled down, and he tugged them down his legs and stepped out of them as they gathered at his feet.

He left them in a heap on the bathroom floor before slipping his fingers beneath the taut elastic waistband of his boxers and letting them fall to his feet as well.

He felt disconnected from his body, like he wasn't inside his own skin. He didn't want to look in the mirror, didn't want to burden himself anymore than he already was with what would be staring back at him.

He looked down at his body, smudges of dirt and lipstick he didn't even realise had gotten on him decorating his clammy, almost grayish skin underneath the harsh overhead light.

As he moved to turn the warm water on, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and something inside of him recoiled violently at the sight. He didn't just look like shit, he looked wrecked. And he didn't just look wrecked, he looked spoiled. Exhausted.

He reached over the bathtub to turn the temperature up even higher, up to a sweltering heat, almost scalding. Something for him to feel, to make him focus on anything other than the sickening guilt swelling in every inch of his body.

He stepped over the edge of the tub and under the shower head, the boiling hot water hitting his back like a hundred tiny whips. For a moment, he just stood there with his head bowed, letting the blistering hot stream beat down on his bruised body, hoping it'll wash away the smell, the taste, the shame that felt like it was permanently tattooed on him, inside and out.

But it didn't work. If anything, it seeped deeper into his bones, into the marrow, the guilt settling in cold and thick as it made it clear that it wasn't going anywhere.

How could you do this? After everything you promised her, after being sober for that fucking long. And you threw it all away for one stupid night.

He dragged the soap over his skin with harsh, angry hands, over his arms, his chest, scrubbing at his face until it stung, but it wasn't enough. He wanted to peel his skin off, crawl out of this foreign body, and start anew.

He let the water run over him, so hot it felt like he was going to shatter like glass, leaning his head back against the wet tiled wall and closing his eyes, his breathing shallow and broken. It replayed in his mind constantly. Matt's shit-eating grin as he cut up the cocaine with his debit card, or his driving license, or some random old loyalty card with scuffed edges and curled in corners, he couldn't remember. He didn't want to remember. The feeling of the cold burn shooting up his nose, sour and sharp, followed by the hollow high.

He thought about your face when he walked into the kitchen, so sweet and trusting, oblivious to how badly you'd been betrayed just the night before.

He wanted to cry, properly cry, cry the tears that had been building up in his ducts from the very moment he let himself set eyes on the cocaine, but they wouldn't come. He just stood under the burning heat, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack.

Eventually, he turned the tap off with his weak fingers, fingers that didn't even feel like they belonged to him, and he stepped out over the rim of the tub and onto the bath mat, his damp feet leaving small imprints on the soft fabric.

He looked up to the fogged mirror, his reddened silhouette thankfully blurred due to the steam from his shower, and he dried himself off mechanically, dragging the scratchy fabric along his weak limbs. He wrapped the towel around his waist, drawing it tight, and he reached for the door handle, but he paused.

He wrapped his fingers around the handle tightly, taking a few deep breaths, filling his lungs with the humid air, trying to remind himself that you didn't know.

And you couldn't know. Couldn't find out. Because he knew it would destroy you, and him, to find out he'd relapsed, broken the solemn promises you'd made to each other to stay clean. And worse yet, to find out he'd relapsed and not told you about it as soon as it happened.

He swallowed down the lump of sickness and guilt in his throat and pulled down on the handle and walked out, padding down the carpeted hallway, leaving a small trail of water droplets behind him.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his foot, the hinges creaking as it swung open, and he moved across the room quietly towards the chest of drawers and he tugged open the top drawer. He grabbed a folded pair of black boxers and pulled the towel loose from around his waist and tossed it onto the unmade bed you shared and stepped into his underwear, pulling them up to his hips.

He rifled through the neatly folded shirts and jeans piled in the drawer, the ones you always teased him about, saying he folds clothes like an old man.

He dragged a faded grey top over his head and worn pair of jeans up his legs. It felt like he was dressing a corpse. He kept his head down, not wanting to see himself in the mirror again. He didn't think he could stomach it.

He tried to pull himself together, raking a hand through his damp hair, willing himself to be normal. His heart knocked uncomfortably against his ribs, and there was a tremor in his hands. He felt like a jumble of mismatched limbs and organs all stuck together.

He didn't want to leave the room, didn't want to face you again, not knowing how long he'd be able to hide what he'd done. He wanted to stay in the dull, quiet safety of your bedroom, where he could pretend he hadn't fucked everything up, where he could forget that he was no better than he used to be.

He forced himself to stand up with a shaky breath before heading out of the room to find you, his fresh clothes clinging to a few still-damp parts of his body, burying everything deep down where he prayed you wouldn't see.

He walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, stepping through the doorway, expecting to see you still sat at the small kitchen table, or maybe stood at the sink washing up a few plates you'd let pile up, but you weren't in there. His geeky mug that he'd left on the counter had been washed and left to dry on the rack, perched beside the mug you'd used, and he smiled a little to himself.

He turned back around and moved back down the hallway to the living room instead. He poked his head around the door and saw you curled in the corner of the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, doodling on your hand with a pen that looked to be almost out of ink, a blanket his mum had given you for Christmas a few years before draped over your lower half. You looked up at him as he entered and smiled, “Hi, stinky.”

He let out a small laugh, trying not to make it sound too forced, and he crossed the room, the late afternoon sun casting a line right across the middle of the floor through the curtains, and he sank down beside you on the settee. “I'm not stinky anymore.”

He leaned into you, tucking you under his arm, and he pressed a kiss to your temple, swallowing the lump in his throat. His hand found your belly instinctively, gently rubbing his thumb against it as he nestled into you.

You shifted in his arms a little, tilting your head up to look at him, and you asked softly, “How was last night?”

He felt his body stiffen just a little, and a thin blade of panic sliced through his chest. His mind scrabbled for something to say, something believable, something that wasn't the truth, but not entirely a lie either.

He let out a rough chuckle, his hungover headache still pounding around his skull, and he said, “Was alright. You know, lot of music and drinks. Quite loud. Matt got really carried away.”

You smiled, and he continued, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze to try and distract you from looking any deeper into his words. “It was mad, really. Definitely drank too much, obviously.”

You let out a small laugh, your eyes lingering on him for a moment longer before letting your head drop back down onto the arm rest, and he felt his queasy stomach flip with guilt once more.

He still felt dirty, even after his scalding hot shower, the kind of dirty that couldn't be washed away, no matter how much soap he scrubbed himself with.

The rest of the evening passed quietly, tenderly, the kind that would've made Alex feel at peace if it wasn't for the acidic guilt gnawing at every inch of him.

You took care of him gently, making him tea and getting him water, and trying to get him to eat plain toast or just a few dry crackers, both of which he could barely stomach.

You knew he could sometimes get a bit dramatic when hungover, acting like an old victorian man with the bubonic plague, but if anything, it made you care for him more, trying to keep his exaggerated complaints at bay.

When you finally led, dragged, him to bed, you curled up around him while he swallowed down the bile of self-hatred. He held you close to him, your warmth anchoring him as he stared up at the ceiling in the dark. His thoughts kept him awake long after you'd drifted off, the haunting echo of last night's mistakes chipping away at his skull more than any hangover ever would.

The next day dawned bleak and grey, a subtle drizzle streaking the windows, mirroring the heavy fog that festered inside his head. Physically, he felt a lot better. He was able to walk without the floor tilting beneath him and able to eat more than a few bites of dry, plain toast, but inside, he was rotting.

Each time you looked at him with those soft, loving eyes, it felt like a twist of the knife. Throughout the day, as you moved around the house, he hovered behind you like a shadow, brushing his fingertips along your waist or pressing a little kiss to the back of your head, anything to help him disguise the desperation clawing inside of him.

It was sometime in the late afternoon when he heard a ping from his phone, and when he checked it, his throat tightened. Matt's name lay in his notifications, perched above a message reading House isn't a tip anymore. Fancy coming round?

He pursed his lips as he read it once more in his head. Part of him wanted to believe that maybe he was going to apologise for pressuring him to do the coke, but another part of him just knew that wasn't going to happen. He scratched the back of his head, his cheeks puffing slightly as he sighed. He heard you moving around in the kitchen, quiet and efficient as you started making whatever you had in mind for dinner, contrasting how fast thoughts were flooding his brain.

You should say no. You should stay here, with her. Have a night in with your girlfriend. Pray to every god that you won't fuck up again.

But his fingers moved faster than his mind could come to a solid decision. He typed out, Yeah mate, might pop over in a bit.

He sent the message before tucking his phone back into the pocket of his grey joggers. He was just being polite, he'll have a couple of beers with Matt, maybe they'll watch a couple films.

He pushed himself up off of the couch, reaching behind him and gently rubbing his lower back with his hand for a moment before walking into the kitchen where you were pottering about.

You smiled at him as he came in before tossing a few things into a pan. He couldn't quite work out what you were making, but there was a pot of pasta boiling, and whatever was in the pan smelled like something vaguely tomato-ey. He leaned back against the counter, his tongue pressing against his cheek, before he asked, “Matt's asked me to come ‘round again. Can I go?”

He's never asked if he can go somewhere before, he usually just tells you, and you're the same.

You looked over your shoulder at him, a bit confused, and you said with a small laugh, “I'm not your mum.”

He chuckled dryly, shifting his feet beneath him, and he said, “Yeah, sorry, just because I went out last night and all. I don't know when he wants me there.”

You turned back to the stove, getting back to stirring the pot, and you said, “Go after we've eaten.”

Dinner was fairly simple. He sat at the small kitchen table across from you, mindlessly twirling his fork in the spaghetti while you chattered about your week, the people who had been bothering you at work, and some headline you saw plastered across a newspaper.

Your foot nudged his under the table as you told him about some silly thing you'd seen on your phone. The late evening sun casted a soft glow on you through the window, shining perfectly on your features, while he sat in the shadow.

You leaned over when you were both done, pressing a small kiss to the side of his mouth before stacking the dishes by the sink to wash later.

He stood awkwardly for a moment, every nerve in his body telling him to stay at home, to choose this instead, but he swallowed it down just like he swallowed everything else, and cleared his throat before saying, “I'll be off now.”

You smiled at him, grabbing his cheeks and pulling him into a quick kiss. “Don't be back too late, okay?”

“I won't, love,” he smiled and you let him go. He left the room and grabbed his keys from the entryway table before shouting a final ‘love you’, slipping his trainers on, and leaving.

The walk to Matt's place was slow and chilly, the cold air biting at his bare arms and sending a ripple of goosebumps across his skin. He stretched out what would've been a ten minute walk to be almost twenty as he dawdled. The puddles beneath him slicked his boots with each step, the cool breeze blowing his messy hair back, and he nearly turned back half a dozen times, but there was something restless and forbidden gnawing its way out of his chest that kept him going.

Matt's house was tucked behind a row of terraced houses with a cracked path leading up to the front door, which could've definitely done with a better paint job. It was in a dodgy area, people smoking god knows what on every corner, but he wasn't one to talk.

Alex knocked on the door, and Matt answered almost immediately, the door swinging open with a squeak from the hinges, and he had a wide, wonky grin plastered across his face. He dragged Alex in before he even got the chance to say hello.

Matt kicked the door shut behind him before saying, “Looks better than Friday, eh? Did most of it myself.”

They sat in the lounge together, cheap beers in hand and a severely outdated film playing on the equally outdated TV, the omnipresent lingering scent of stale cigarettes floating through the air that would likely never fully go away.

The conversation was easy for a while, the kind you'd expect from two people who'd been best friends for years. Matt told him about a girl he'd been seeing, a job he was going to try and pick up, and a new band he'd started listening to. Alex mostly listened instead of talking himself. He preferred to listen.

After a long while of chatter and laughter, Matt slouched deeper into his tattered settee, absently scratching behind his ear, and he said casually, “Wanna do a few lines?”

Alex's heart stuttered painfully in his chest. He knew it was coming, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. He gripped the bottle in his hand a little tighter.

He wanted to say no. He should've said no. He knew that. He knew it with a bright clarity that almost made him nauseous, but the word no stuck like glass shards in his throat. Because hadn't he already fucked up? So what difference would it make now?

It's Sunday, he reasoned with himself. Sunday night. A fresh start tomorrow. He could draw a line under today, under this whole past week, pretend it never happened, and start over on Monday.

This terrible, twisted logic wormed its way through his skull and into his brain, using its sick, persuasive tactics to trick his mind.

He swore to himself right then and there that if he just let himself have one more night with it, then he'd stop for good. Again. Hiccups in recovery are normal, he told himself. It's normal to relapse every once and a while. He'll start again tomorrow, and it'll be like it never happened.

Before he knew it, he heard himself say, “Yeah, fuck it.”

Matt's face lit up and he grinned, and Alex forced a smile in return, trying to mimic the easy, casual one he used to wear a couple of years ago when he was the deepest in his addiction, when it was all just a joke to him, a bit of fun.

Within mere minutes, Matt was chopping out neat thin lines of the fine white powder with his expired driving license, just like he did on Friday. Alex watched, unable to take his eyes off even if he wanted to, his stomach clenching with that painfully familiar mix of anticipation and dread.

When it was ready, Matt handed him a tightly rolled up ten-pound-note, slightly scuffed at the edges, the plastic a little sticky, but with little to no resistance, at least no visible resistance, he leaned down, one end of the note pressed against the edge of his nostril while he lined up the other end with the edge of the coke line, and he sniffed it up sharply.

He squinted his eyes, his face screwing up as the icy burn tore through his face. He sat up straight again, holding the rolled up note between his fingers like a cigarette, and his free hand came up to rub his nose, trying to ease the bite.

He slumped back into the back cushions of the sofa, swirling the remaining liquid in his beer bottle around as he waited for the euphoria to begin. His nose stung fiercely, making his eyes water and his nostrils drip, and he felt stupid for a few minutes, like a child who'd just stolen a sip of their father's whiskey and were now waiting to feel drunk.

He pursed his lips and let his lashes weigh his eyelids down, and he tried not to think about you. About what he was doing, about what he'd already done, about the mess he was making of everything.

But it's fine, right? He'll start again tomorrow.

He brought his bottle to his lips as he started to feel the high begin to rise in him, wrapping his lips around the rim and taking a long sip as the static began to bloom deep in the marrow of his bones.

His limbs started to feel lighter as the drug worked its magic, filling all the gaps inside him with bliss. The threads of his thoughts slipped apart at the seams, dissolving and dissipating until he was left with just this soaring, almost orgasmic ease.

He peeled his eyes open, a smile curling up at the corners of his mouth, and Matt leaned forward to cut a few more lines. It was thin like icing sugar, spread out in delicate rows, glistening slightly like crushed glass in the dim light, mirroring fresh snow.

“This is good, proper stuff, mate. Not mixed with cornstarch or anything,” Matt said proudly. “The man said it was from Peru. Paid a fuckin’ fortune for it. Worth it, though.”

Alex nodded, almost dreamily, hanging onto every word that came out of Matt's mouth. He leaned forward, tightening the rolled up note that had loosened between his fingers. He snorted another, the powder scraping up along the delicate lining of his nostril. It felt like someone was holding a flame to the tip of his nose, painful but hypnotic, and the sweet, numbing pleasure that he knew would follow was too good to resist.

He rubbed some excess dust along his gums with his thumb to bridge the short gaps between each line to extend and heighten that dreamy state.

Matt reached over and clapped him on the shoulder before taking the note from him to do a line himself. The coke sat on the scuffed table like small piles of sugar, looking like something that belonged sprinkled across a child's birthday cake rather than chopped up into lines like small soldiers in some dimly lit drug addict's living room.

Alex watched as Matt hunched over, his spine almost forming the curve of a question mark, and lined up the opposite end of the tightly rolled cylindrical note, angling it just right, tilting it to optimise how much he sniffs up.

He watched as his face screwed up as the powder shot straight through him, watched him blink rapidly for a moment to try and stop his eyes from watering, only for his nose to drip instead, the cool, liquid sensation trickling out of his nostril.

Alex's vision frayed at the edges, every movement blurring and fading together, and every noise a little too loud for his alert ears. The small plastic bag sat perched on the table, a thin halo of stray white powder surrounding it, an open invitation.

There had been six grams packed into that small pack to begin with. It had looked like so much when Matt first pulled it open.

Alex lost count of how many lines he did. After the first few, counting became impossible anyway. Numbers were nothing more than straight lines jumbled up and arranged in different ways, just another tedious relic of the real world that he'd left behind once he'd snorted the first line. Like his mind had been rewired to only understand and register the scraping of Matt's driving license, the tapping of it against the wooden table as he sorted them into rows, and the sharp inhale whenever either he or Matt had another line.

The cocaine hit differently as the night dragged on, the early, first couple of doses fulfilling that craving for him, satisfying the part of him that itched for the dreamy, floaty release, but as he did more and more lines, it turned hungrier, meaner.

His jaw ached, throbbing from constantly grinding his teeth, his muscles spasming uncontrollably whenever he forgot to force them to keep still. He jittered restlessly, alternating between bouncing his left leg, then his right, while his heart raced beneath his ribcage.

He kept wiping his nose every minute or so, first with the back of his hand or a stray tissue he'd found in the windowsill, then later just smearing the watery snot across his face without meaning to, without entirely realising.

He laughed at something Matt said, a ragged sound that hurt his throat on the way out, but not really registering what he said or why it was funny, before he bent down for another line, the rolled up note long abandoned, the curled plastic forgotten on the floor.

It wasn't fun anymore, not really, not like it had started out like, but it felt necessary now. To keep the momentum going, to keep topping up, to keep the crash at bay, not wanting to face the comedown just yet, unable to cope with the nauseous repercussions.

By the time the bag was empty, just small sticky clumps left at the bottom, which they scraped together and chopped as fine as possible for one desperate last round.

As the cold sting mingled around the rim of his nostril, Alex glanced up at the clock on the adjacent wall, and he couldn't tell if the clock was out of sync or if it was just his eyes. “Does that clock work?” he asked with a scratchy voice, pointing vaguely in the direction of the wall it was mounted on.

Matt looked to where he gestured, like he'd forgotten he even owned a clock, and he clarified, his voice just as if not more croaky than Alex's, “Ah, no. It's a few hours ahead and the minute hand's all fucked up.”

“Right,” Alex mumbled, reaching for his phone he'd tossed carelessly aside earlier, fishing into the gap between the cushion to retrieve it.

He brushed a few pieces of fluff, some crumbs, and some specks of glitter somehow off his screen before clicking it open, and his blurry eyes widened when he managed to decipher the numbers. It had just gone past 1:30AM. He promised you he wouldn't stay out late. He bit the inside of his numb cheek before pulling down his notifications, seeing a few messages from you, and he read the top one in his head.

I don't mind if you're staying there tonight, just let me know x

He swallowed thickly, and it felt like the stem of a rose going down his throat. It took him a minute to read the words properly, but when he did, he clicked on the notification and slowly typed a message out, being careful not to make any mistakes, not to draw any suspicion to what he'd done.

He hesitated before he sent it, his finger hovering over the tiny paper plane icon.

He could stay here, sleep the high off and play off the comedown as another hangover when he went home the next day.

But instead, like the fucking idiot he was, clicked the arrow-shaped send button before he could stop himself.

No, I'll come home xx

He stared at the words on his marginally cracked screen, the regret flooding him instantly. What the fuck did he do that for? He wanted to come home, that was true enough, to be in your arms and let you smooth out all of his jagged edges, but not like this. He couldn't come home like this. Blasted off his tits, his pupils blown wider than his iris, every vein pumped full of the three grams of coke he'd shared out of the six.

You'd know.

You'd been deep in the addiction with him those years ago. Kneeling together beside the coffee table, snorting lines where you'd now only set mugs or magazines, kissing between each dose. You'd experienced the freezing fire setting alight to your nostril lining, the limbo between, the drug-fuelled rush, and the sickening comedown, all with him for the years you two were addicted together.

You knew the signs. Maybe you wouldn't be able to tell immediately, wouldn't want to believe that he'd betray you, betray the promises of sobriety you'd made to each other like that, but you'd find out. He knew you would. And then everything would collapse.

The way he couldn't sit still, his chewed-up nose, the clenching of his jaw, his hollow eyes. They were all dead giveaways.

He dropped his phone onto the wooden table with a dull clatter, his elbows on his knees as he cradled his head in his hands, breathing hard through his sore nose.

He heard a low mutter of Matt's voice, probably saying something unintelligible, but it sounded distant, sounded underwater, muffled by the waves of guilt, regret and paranoia flooding his body.

He dragged a hand through his hair before pushing himself up off of the collapsing couch, grabbing his phone, his legs unsteady beneath him. They didn't feel like they belonged to his body anymore. Nothing did.

His joints ached as he forced himself to straighten up, his head too heavy for his neck. The room tilted slightly on its axis as he shakily walked, not enough to topple him over, but just enough to make a subtle seasickness bubble in his stomach.

He stepped into the kitchen, the harsh lights overhead fluorescent and stinging his eyes as he squinted, trying to find something to focus on. His eyes settled on the far corner of the counter, where he'd relapsed for the first time after almost two years of being clean just the other night.

Practically blinded by the bright lights after being accustomed to the dim living room lamp for a few hours, he grabbed a glass from the sink, unsure whether or not it was clean, not really caring either way, and he swilled it half-heartedly under the tap before filling it to the brim with cold water, his shaky hands causing it to slosh and spill all over the edges of the tall glass, all over his hand curled around the sides.

He brought the rim to his lips, a few droplets dripping down onto his t-shirt, and he drank it down greedily, the coldness of the water soothing his raw throat. It felt good, for a moment, just like everything else, but it didn't last.

He drained the whole glass in three mouthfuls, gasping for air between each gulp, desperate to wash it all away, but the bitter residue of the cocaine clung to his tongue like a permanent film, and the water did nothing to shift it or even begin to break it down.

His stomach clenched in an uncomfortable lurch as the beginnings of the nausea began to settle in, and he stayed there for a minute, hands splayed on the counter with his head hung low between his shoulders.

The high was still in him, but the flame was dying out, a crackling, ugly descent back down to reality. Even lower than reality. The self-loathing, anxiety and the gnawing shame were going to start leaking through the cracks.

Another wave of dizziness crashed into his brain like a migraine, and he gripped the counter tighter, his knuckles bleaching white from his grip.

He stayed in the kitchen for a while longer than necessary, his chest heaving despite his shallow breaths. The high gradually began to peel away, layer by layer, taking parts of him as it went until he was left with nothing but the nauseating, aching emptiness.

He wallowed there for what felt like hours, though in reality it was fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, marinating in his self-disgust, in his guilt that was so thick, so grimy, it coated him like a greasy second skin.

When the comedown sickness was too much to ignore and he knew he couldn’t delay it any longer, he forced himself to move, his sore feet protesting with every step. He shouted something to Matt, something vaguely relating to him leaving now, but he could barely hear himself over his deprecating thoughts, let alone understand himself.

He stumbled out of the door, nearly tripping on the cracked pathway as he made his way out of the estate with uneven steps. His trainers scuffed along the damp pavement, the shallow puddles looking murky underneath the dark sky. His limbs were sluggish, every movement feeling like the weight of the world was pressing down on him. His mouth was dry, his throat raw, and his heart's beating mirroring the skittishness of a moth trapped in a jar.

His hands delved into the front pockets of his joggers and he tried to focus on keeping his breathing even, steady, normal, to try and pretend he was just drunk, even though he'd only had a few beers.

The whole grueling trudge home, he muttered words under his breath like a mantra, a manifestation.

I'll start again tomorrow.

A fresh start, fresh week.

Tomorrow I'll never do it again.

He clung to it desperately, the phrases comforting him, trying to convince himself that it's okay, and that what he did was okay.

As long as he started again tomorrow.

By the time your familiar street came into view, his legs were trembling with exhaustion, making each step forward feel like a battle.

He walked up the neat path, bracketed by rows of flowers you'd planted after deciding on a whim that you'd start being into gardening, and his key fumbled with the lock, his other keys jangling together beneath it as he tried to turn it with numb, uncoordinated fingers. It took him a couple tries to even get it in properly, but eventually, the door creaked open as he unlocked the door with a small click.

He stepped inside, his damp trainers making a quiet squelching noise from the puddle water they'd absorbed on his way home. He stood in the hall for a moment, swaying slightly, before dropping his keys onto the small table and pushing the door shut behind him, pulling off his damp shoes without bothering to untie them.

He made an attempt to tuck them neatly together beneath the entryway table, but he put them the wrong way around, the left where the right should've been, the tongues stained and flipped over the top, and the sweaty smell rising from them was something he didn't even want to think about.

He'd just act drunk. At least a little drunk. Like he'd gotten carried away with a few too many beers, and he was just a bit tipsy.

He climbed the stairs slowly, clumsily, the creak of each step beneath his feet punctuation the silence, even though he was trying to tread lightly.

He pushed open the bedroom door, careful and slow as he wasn't sure if you were awake or not, but he saw you curled up on the bed, the thick duvet covering your body and your hair a sprawled out mess on the pillow, and you lifted your head slightly at the sound of him coming in. You gave him a small smile, though it wasn't visible in the dark, and the pillow crinkled quietly beneath your head as you rested it back down.

“Hey, love,” he murmured but it sounded more like a croak, his throat like sandpaper, shredding every word that tried to come out. He coughed to clear the phlegm, trying to sound and seem drunk-tired rather than coke-shattered.

You extended your arm out lazily to him and he took your hand in his before climbing onto the bed, fishing his phone out of his pocket and setting it on the bedside table before getting himself comfortable beside you.

You wrapped your arms around him, wrinkling your nose a little at the faint smell of stale beer clinging to his soft shirt, and you mumbled, “Y'alright?”

You frowned slightly at how clammy he felt, but you said nothing, just rubbed his skin gently with your thumb. He closed his aching eyes, and murmured hoarsely, “I'm fine, just… A few too many beers.”

He felt you smile sleepily against him and you replied quietly, “You smell awful.”

He let out a small, brittle laugh through his teeth, and you curled your leg around his beneath the covers.

He turned his head to press a small goodnight kiss to your temple, his eyelids still closed, covering the thin sheen of tears glossing over them, pricking at the corners of his eyes.

He didn't deserve to be loved. Not right now. Not like this. Not by someone who had no idea all the promises he'd broken, not just once now, but twice.

But tomorrow, he'll have a clean slate. He'll start afresh.

The next few weeks dragged by like a heavy weighted chain.

It was never supposed to get like this again.

Never supposed to turn into a pattern again, or a habit, or a cycle.

He always started his excuses to himself in the same way. Something vaguely along the lines of I'll just start again tomorrow.

Whether it was him telling himself he'd wait until Monday to start again, promising himself that it's for good every time, or saying in his head that he'd start after the next weekend, after the next party, once his current bag was empty.

The idea of texting Matt, asking for a beer or for a chat, something innocent and harmless, began feeling less like an idea and more like gravity, because he knew how the night was going to go, that it definitely wouldn't stop at a couple of beers.

Some nights it was just a line or two, just something to take the edge off, lift the weariness from his bones to finish off a tough day.

Other nights, he'd burn through three grams, sometimes four, entire bags disappearing between the two of them. They'd sit hunched over on the couch, carving out row after row, snorting them intermittently until their gums were numb and their noses were bleeding.

The coke made it so easy to lie to himself. He wasn't an addict again. Addicts couldn't help themselves. He had control. He was just blowing off steam. He was stressed and needed a release.

At home, the cracks began to show, no matter how desperately he'd tried to keep them sealed. You'd started to watch him more carefully, the tremor in his hands when he thought you weren't looking, the way he blinked too much and too often, and how he moved too quickly, like his body was a few steps ahead of his mind, quite literally.

His pupils stayed blown out long after the sun had gone down, and you noticed how he sweated through his t-shirts even when the windows were wide open, and how quickly his moods changed, like a yo-yo, back and forth between showing manic affection to hollow, isolated detachment in a matter of heartbeats.

You noticed how he started to act more cagey around his phone, though subtle, avoiding leaving his phone alone around you and often concealing his screen with his hands.

You also started to see the way his body changed physically, the curve of his hips hollowed out, how his jeans hung a little looser on his frame and how he had to change the belt hole he used to use the most and tighten it to a different one that hadn't been worn down and frayed from a good few years of being relied on, and how his eyes seemed to sink in a little, looking almost bruised from the lack of sleep.

It was all disgustingly familiar to you. You knew what cocaine did to someone, did to him, did to you, and you didn't want to know it was happening. You didn't want to believe it.

He still loved you, still kissed you with chapped lips and cuddled you with his big arms, but in a strangely empty way.

You had questions, but you buried them, swallowed down the creeping doubt that rose up your throat every time he left for another night at Matt's with some half-hearted kiss and an even more half-hearted promise to "not be late." You told yourself maybe you were wrong. Maybe it was just alcohol, just stress, or maybe it was just bad sleep, or too much caffeine, or, god, just anything but that.

There were nights where he lay beside you in bed beneath the covers, wide awake with his heart rapidly pounding against his ribs, staring at the ceiling while you breathed slow and steady beside him, and he thought, just tell her. Just say it. Tell her before it gets worse, but the shame always strangled him at the last second before he could voice them.

Along with the jittery movements, uneven temperatures and lack of sleep never giving him peace anymore, it was starting to infect everything, every aspect of his life, seeping into places he couldn't control, places he'd forgotten it would affect.

He first noticed it one night with you, basking in the warm sanctuary of your bedroom, your lips on his neck and your hands threaded in his hair, something that normally unwound him instantly, but yet, nothing stirred or tingled inside of him aside from a detached sort of longing. He wanted to want you, yearned to will his body into being able to give you everything he could, but no matter how many times he closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in your gentle touch, his body just wouldn't let him succumb to it. It was like there was a wall inside of him now.

He was embarrassed, mumbling excuses about how he was tired, stressed, hungover, but you didn't push. You just whispered to him that it was fine, pressing kisses along his skin and reassuring him that it was normal, that you still love him, but he knew that for him, it was a lot less than normal, and a lot more than abnormal.

It gnawed at him, a fermenting humiliation that made his stomach twitch with guilt each time you so much as even laid a hand on his thigh. It wasn't just a one-off, either. It kept happening. Or rather, didn't happen. Every time you touched him or tried to get close to his crotch, he'd press his lips together, looking at you with guilt in his eyes. He knew it was getting to you, the sexual frustration, and he did his best to get you off without the use of his dick. He used his fingers, his mouth, a vibrator, all of which proved exhausting when he didn't feel any physical sexual desire himself, leading to him not doing them for you nearly as much as he should've been. Maybe once a week, if that.

The worst part was, he knew exactly why it was happening, and it was painful to conceal it with a different, slightly altered lie each time. He knew it was the cocaine clogging up his system, fucking with his head, his nerves, shrinking his libido until it was gone entirely, starving him of the things he knew would make him feel better, replenish his bruised soul, even if only for a little while.

He'd tried to get himself off, just to reassure himself that it wasn't him being not attracted to you anymore and was, in fact, just the drug use fucking with his sex drive.

You'd left him home alone one night to go out with your friends, and he took it as the opportunity to finally try and see if he could work out what was wrong with him, apart from the obvious.

He was sat hunched on the edge of the bed, his trousers and boxers pooled awkwardly around his ankles, and his phone glowing dimly in his hand.

It was embarrassing what he was doing. PornHub on his screen, a standard video pulled open of a girl with sultry eyes riding a guy, the artificial moans and feigned lust spilling out of the battered speaker on the bottom of his phone, muffled slightly by his thigh as he tried to prop it up against his hand.

The girl in the video mildly resembled you, which is why he picked it, hoping it would help, stir something in him, ignite that flame again, but just like always, his body betrayed him.

He stared down at his lap, humiliated despite it only being him there, his fingers curled loosely around his hopelessly soft cock, heavy and limp in his palm, willing it to react, even just a little, but nothing happened.

He tried to squeeze tighter, increase the pace, shift his attention from his shaft to his balls, but still, nothing.

He decided to change positions, lying back on the bed instead with his head on the pillows with his boxers and trousers unlooped from his ankles and discarded on the floor in a crumpled pile, his fingers wrapped around his dick as he tried to stroke it, but just ended up dragging his foreskin along his impossibly limp shaft.

He decided to change the video to a completely different looking girl, this time of the girl giving the guy a blowjob, but her moans were too loud and her eyes were a bit crazy, but he gave it a go anyway. Tugging at his hopeless cock, watching his foreskin roll over the head as he tried to squeeze even a drop of precum out of the tip, but to no avail.

He sighed, almost brittle, before he switched off his phone and let his head loll back, releasing his cock from his futile grip.

For once, he really hoped it was the cocaine doing this to him, and not him losing his interest in you. He really fucking hoped.

The day of your two year anniversary of being clean was just around the corner, daunting, mocking him for the milestone he never got to reach. As the day crept up on him, far too slow but incredibly fast at the same time, and you talked to him about how you wanted to celebrate two years, spending the day out together, dinner in the evening, maybe starting the process of adopting a kitten like you'd both wanted for a long time, the guilt rotted him from the inside out, viciously eating away at him.

You managed to reassure and convince yourself that if he had relapsed, if he'd been doing cocaine again behind your back, he would've told you. He would've confided in you, let you help him out of it again. You told yourself that he trusted you enough, and trusted that you wouldn't be angry at him, wouldn't ridicule him or break up with him. The words you told yourself comforted you, shielded you from what you didn't want to believe.

You'd been gentler with him, under the influence of what you believed he'd do. You brushed off all of his odd behaviour under the loose excuses of being stressed or being tired, blissfully ignoring the tension in his shoulders when he hugged you and the delay before his smile reached his eyes.

The morning of the two year anniversary of being clean woke him up stiffly, the morning sun bathing the bedroom in a glow that should've felt homely, comforting, but to him it just felt enervating.

He felt groggy, his eyes painfully peeling apart as he tried to open them, glued together from the sleep collected in the corners of his eyes. He grumbled sleepily as he propped himself up on his elbows and stretched his legs beneath the duvet, his eyes aching slightly from the lack of sleep.

He turned over onto his side, as you weren't awake yet, just watching you breathe peacefully, and it felt like his slightly bloated stomach was filled with wet concrete with how sludgy and weighted he felt.

Two years clean. At least, you were two years clean. For him it was more like two days clean. He was going to act normal today, do his absolute best to remember what it felt like to be sober and do an impression of that.

It was supposed to be a celebration, something he'd been looking forward to before he ruined it all for himself. Two years had been the main milestone for both of you, ever since the first day of recovery when you vowed to each other to never touch cocaine again, all throughout the highs and lows of the journey, two years had been the marking point where you could both be certain you were off the drug for good. You'd both made plans to buy a nice house out in the countryside, to go on holidays together, to adopt a pet, under the condition that they made it to two years.

He closed his eyes again, not to go back to sleep, but just to think without any visual distractions, think about when he's going to tell you, if he even should tell you, if he should just start his whole journey of sobriety again alone all while pretending to keep up with yours.

He let his mind hopelessly wander, thinking and dreaming about how he'd feel right now if he never did that first line, if he never succumbed to Matt's peer pressure, if he never even went to the party in the first place. How much more important the anniversary would feel, how light he'd feel, how peaceful. How he wouldn't have to worry about being caught in a lie he'd webbed himself in.

You interrupted his thoughts with a rustle of the bed sheets as you woke up, stirring with a soft, sleepy groan, and you turned your head to see him opening his eyes.

You gave him a small smile, your voice hoarse and a little croaky from rest as you whispered, “Morning, baby. Happy two years.”

He looked down at you, and his stomach twisted and his heart clenched. You looked so trusting, so heart-breakingly beautiful, and he kissed your forehead with trembling lips, forcing a gentle smile in return despite the brutal war going on inside of his mind, “Happy two years, love.”

After dragging himself out of bed and pulling on the same jeans he'd been wearing for almost two weeks straight that had been left crumpled in a pile on the floor from the last time he took them off, he headed downstairs with you, the hem of his ever so slightly too long jeans dragging across the floor as he made his way to the kitchen, just a couple of steps behind you.

You flicked on the kettle before turning around, your back against the edge of the counter, and you looked at him with a small, teasing smile. He knew that look, one he'd seen many times before from you, but before he had the chance to ask what was up, you started to speak.

“I thought we could try something new. Tonight, I mean. Sex. If you're up for doing something new.”

He paused, looking at you with uncertainty in his eyes, and his tongue poked against the inside of his cheek. “What do you mean?”

“Roleplay. I told one of my friends about your, or our, ‘problem’, and she suggested it. Said it'll be interesting for a change.”

His eyes widened a little bit, at both the mention of roleplay and the fact you told someone about his recent inability to get an erection. “You told your friend about my dick?”

You smiled, looking away from him and down at the floor. “Not really. I just said we hadn't had sex in a while and I didn't know what to do.”

“You can talk to me about that, y'know.”

“Yeah, and I tried. You've been saying you're tired or hungover or whatever the fuck else for, like, two months now.”

He sighed. “I have been. It's not your fault, honestly. Still think you're sexy.”

You let out a small breath of laughter before turning around right at the kettle ticked, indicating the water being boiled, and you grabbed two mugs from the cupboard. “Ask me about the roleplay.”

He tilted his head to crack his neck, grunting quietly as it clicked before he answered without a slightly strained voice, “What are we going to roleplay?”

You smiled excitedly to yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to stop it from growing too wide as you grabbed a couple of instant cappuccino sachets from the small box. “I bought a nurse outfit. It's meant to be coming today. You can be the patient.”

The air caught in his throat and he turned his head towards you. “What?”

You tipped a coffee sachet into each mug and you laughed. “I think it'll be fun. And relaxing, maybe, for you.”

“...Tonight?”

“Tonight, yeah. If you want to. Don't have to.”

He shook his head. “No, no, it's not that I don't want to, it's just… Well, we've never done anything like that before, have we?”

“That's what I mean. That's what this is about. We haven't done anything proper for ages, thought this would bring us back. Do you want to do it?”

He looked at you for a second as you stirred the hot water you'd just poured into the mugs into the coffee powder before you turned your head to meet his eyes. He hesitated for a second before saying, “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

You smiled, your eyes squinting slightly as you turned back to the coffees, trying your best not to let your excitement show too much. It had been so long without feeling him like that, that you just couldn't help it.

The day went as easy as it could for the two of you. After breakfast, you two headed out for a mid-morning/early-afternoon walk together, hands interlinked, you chatting excitedly about all the things you'd promised each other after being clean for two years, about a new house, a cat, talking about going on holiday somewhere in Greece, all while he just did his best not to burst into tears.

He nodded, smiled, chimed in when he was supposed to, painted over the rotting guilt with half-hearted dreams he was terrified he'd never deserve. Every time you looked at him, full of that devastating, unshakeable belief in him, it felt like another needle stitching shame into the lining of his skin.

You ate ice cream, sat at the beach and laughed at him when he got sand all over his bum on his jeans, and wandered aimlessly through the town, pointing out pretty, intricate details on buildings or smiling at an old, interesting car that looked to be from the 1930s that was somehow still allowed on the road.

Later, in the evening, you ended up at a restaurant you both loved, somewhere with simple food and a casual atmosphere, where the tables were scratched and the menus were printed on laminated card, every item typed in a generic font. He let you choose where to sit, and he followed you to a booth tucked into the corner, breathing in deeply, trying to let the warmth of the air heat him up from the inside.

You ordered a pizza to share, after a small, playful argument about the toppings, you trying to convince him to order one with pineapple on it, while he insisted it would've been a crime worse than manslaughter, and a bowl of chips for the two of you as well.

You talked about the stupidest things while you ate, the topics ranging from what breed of cat you should adopt to the shirts you think he looks the worst in. It was perfect. It was horrible. Because underneath all of the sweet, mindless chatter and the gentle kisses, was the truth he'd swallowed and buried and fed until it became a living thing, festering and gnawing at his insides.

You noticed the way his elbow protruded more than usual as he reached across the table for another slice, the bone more defined and visible. It wasn't a dramatic change, but you saw it. You noticed. From the years you'd spent touching, feeling, memorising his body, it was hard for you to not see it.

It didn't sit right. The way his jaw looked sharper, the bone so pronounced it looked painful to move, like the taut skin pulled over it could tear at any wrong movement.

His collarbones sat prouder, the dips and hollows of his neck, the bones in his hand all made him look fragile. Even just the way he held himself now, tighter, folded in, felt smaller.

You didn't mention it. Didn't want to make him feel guilty about his appearance, or feel unattractive, and you didn't want to ruin how good the night was going, so you pushed the thought down. Deep enough so that you could keep smiling, but shallow enough so that you could keep it in mind in case it got worse.

Later that night, back at home, you stood alone in the bedroom, staring at yourself in the mirror. The nurse costume was definitely a choice. The cheap fabric was thin, the arms a bit too tight and the torso a bit too loose, and you didn't even want to think about the tiny, stiff hat that kept falling off of your head.

Alex was sat in the kitchen at the table, a magazine in his hand that you'd made him hold for his “character” that he wasn't even bothering to read. He knew it wasn't going to be great. From the second you'd mentioned it that morning, he'd been dreading it, but seeing the look on your face, how excited you seemed to be for it, he just couldn't tell you no. It was a bit ironic, as this was meant to try and help his whole not being able to get hard thing, but he wasn't interested in it at all. He knew it wasn't going to help.

He heard the dull noise of your heels as you walked downstairs, down the hallway to the kitchen where he sat, holding a blank piece of paper you pretended to read off of. “Mr. Turner?”

He looks up at you and his eyes trail down your body, over the outfit, and he forces a small smile before you speak again. “If you'd like to follow me, please.”

He dropped the magazine back onto the table with a tiny thud before he stood up, adjusting his jeans a little before he followed you down the hall, into the living room. He sat down in the middle of the sofa and he looked up at you, fidgeting with his hands.

You folded the empty piece of paper and set it on the coffee table before your hand went to the toy stethoscope loosely looped around your neck as you said, “Let's check your heartbeat, then.”

You plugged the ear pieces of the stethoscope in before kneeling over him, one leg perched between his thighs while the other dug into the couch cushion beside his hip, and you looked him in the eyes as you pressed the disc to his chest, your fingers purposefully brushing over his nipples to try and pull a reaction from him.

Your tongue poked out to swipe over your bottom lip, dampening it as you hummed quietly in faux approval. You smiled a little, albeit awkwardly, and you said, quieter than you wanted to, “It's fast.”

It was a lie, obviously, not just because the stethoscope was fake, but you just wanted to keep the ‘story’ going.

You put your hand on his shoulder to steady yourself as you got off the couch, pulling the stethoscope from your neck and setting it on top of the folded paper on the coffee table.

“How's your temperature?” you asked, stepping back over to him and pushing his hair back to feel his forehead, tilting his head upwards slightly to look at you.

He chewed on his lower lip as he met your eyes, and you could tell he just wasn't into this.

You swallowed, trying to make it work, and you murmured something about him feeling a little hot. You pulled off your heels, dropping them aside with a dull thud as you said, doing your best to not let this be cut short, “Why don't you take your trousers off and we can take a proper look.”

He hesitated for a few seconds, his lips pressing together, before he stood up, popping the button through his jeans and pulling the zip down with a quiet whir, and tugging the denim down his legs, letting the soft, worn fabric lie loosely around his ankles.

You grabbed a small bottle of hand lotion you'd set aside on the table tucked between the armrest of the settee and the wall just before you started, and you squirted some into your hands and rubbed them together as you knelt down between his legs, as close as you could get with his trousers in the way, and you looked up at him, the hat a bit wonky atop your head now. “Have you been feeling any different down here, Sir?”

He swallowed, not really sure what to say, not sure what you wanted his ‘line’ to be, so he mumbled, internally cringing at himself, “I'm feeling a bit tingly.”

You gave him a small, almost encouraging smile, happy he was playing along even though you could now tell he wasn't into it. You adjusted yourself between his legs to get more comfortable on your knees and you replied, “How about you take your boxers off for me, and I'll see what I can do about those tingles.”

He took a deep breath in before sliding his thumbs beneath the elastic waistband of his boxers, embarrassed by what he knew, and you knew, was underneath.

He lifted his hips to pull the fabric from underneath him, letting them fall down his legs, joining his jeans around his ankles. You couldn't help but frown a little as you were met with what you'd been both expecting and dreading.

His soft cock lay draped on his thigh, lifeless, but you decided to persevere, to just give it one more try.

You scooped up his limp cock in your palms, massaging it, running your hands along the length as you tried to coax it to life, for it to give you any sign of it not just being useless.

The silence between you was filled with your heavy breathing, and the wet sounds of your lotion-covered hands gliding along his flaccid dick. You looked up at him every so often, hoping for some kind of reaction, even if it wasn't from his cock, but nothing. Each time you looked up, he was either staring at the wall, or looking down awkwardly at you.

Eventually, you took your hands off of him, resting your elbows on his knees, and you said, “I know you don't like it.”

He was quick to respond. “I'm sorry.”

“No, you don't need to be sorry, it's just… I don't know. I thought it would work.”

His lips parted, sucking in a deeper breath before he swallowed hard, “It's just not you. It doesn't feel right.”

You tugged the cheap hat off of your head, tossing it to the side as you muttered, “Nothing fucking feels right for you anymore.”

He looked up at you with his jaw hanging open every so slightly and his eyes a little wider, but before he could respond, you continued as you stood up.

“Always fucking tired, or hungover, or drunk, or stressed. Even when we do do stuff, your cock's soft. Is there another woman? That's why you can't get hard with me anymore?”

His eyebrows furrowed, struggling to take it all in. He tried to argue back, “No, love, what?”

“Then why don't we have sex anymore? We haven't had any actual sex for almost three months.”

He sat up a little, leaning forward to pull his boxers back up to his hips. “I've told you, babe, I've just been too tired for it.”

You raised your voice a little, “How have you been tired every single night for three whole months?”

He stood up himself to pull his jeans back up as he said, trying to keep his tone the same, “I don't know, I've just had… stuff. You know how easily I get tired.”

“Where's all this tiredness come from? I know you get tired, but not for three straight fucking months.”

He swallowed, clamping his clammy hands together behind his back as he left the front of his jeans open, and he whispered, “I don't know.”

It hurt him more than he could explain. Not just you getting angry about the sex, or lack thereof, but lying to you, how he has been lying to you for months. Betrayed you, sneaking behind your back, doing the exact thing you thought you were both done with for good.

You stared at him for a moment, before you sighed and left the room, your steps carrying a little more weight than you'd intended as you walked up the stairs, into your bedroom.

You practically tore that awful nurse costume off, the velcro getting stuck in your hair as you lifted it over your head. The cheap fabric felt vile against your skin.

You lay on the bed in just your underwear, as you weren't wearing a bra with that costume, hoping your cleavage framed by that cheesy costume would've been enough to get him going.

You didn't hear him downstairs for a while, presuming he'd either sat back down on the couch or was just still standing in place. You let your eyes close as you tried to calm down, and after a while of being alone, you started to feel guilty for having a go at him. You knew what it felt like to just not be in the mood, or just be too tired for sex, and you felt incredibly bad for shouting at him for it.

Just as you sat up and swung your legs over the edge of the bed to go and apologise to him, you heard your phone ding on the bedside table. You picked it up, switching it on and smearing a lazy pattern over the grid with your thumb to unlock it and you swiped down the notification to see a text from him.

Popping out.

You clicked on it to reply, and you typed out, Where?

You could see he read it, but it took him a minute to reply.

Just out.

You sighed to yourself, sending another message.

With who?

He responded a bit faster that time.

I'm going to Matt’s.

You swallowed, your eyes fixating on the screen. Fucking Matt. Ever since Alex had started going there more frequently is when he started to change.

You typed out another text.

Don't be home late.

You switched off your phone and tossed it aside, losing it in the sea of your thick, unmade duvet, and you stayed sat hunched on the edge of the bed, listening to him downstairs as you heard him moving about, the muffled sound of keys clattering followed by the front door closing shut.

He rarely left without a kiss, a hug, a proper goodbye or an ‘I love you’, but you tried to not let it seep in too deep.

His walk to Matt's slow, numbing, but had become his escape, in a way. His brain had tied all of the feelings, the euphoria, the rush, the high, all of them, to Matt's house. He just needed a line or two to help him calm down from that argument. It was barely even an argument, but he needed an excuse for himself, a reason to comfort himself so as to not feel as guilty for what he knew he was going to do.

Matt greeted him at the door, grinning, kicking the door shut behind Alex as he trudged in.

He gave Matt a brief summary of what had happened, how today was your two year anniversary of being clean, the argument which he exaggerated to try and validate himself and his reason for needing another hit, but he made sure to leave out the roleplay parts.

Not long after he'd gotten there, after only being able to do just about three lines, his phone switched to life with his ringtone, and your name lit up his screen. He thought about ignoring it, about just pretending it had ran out of battery, or he had his volume down, or he'd just fallen asleep already, but at this point, fairly buzzed and floating in the shallow euphoria, the thought of your voice in his ear cut through the high like a cool breeze.

He brought the phone up to the side of his face with a clumsy sort of care, and he motioned vaguely towards Matt, signaling him to shut up for a moment.

Your voice was quiet through the line when he answered. Tired, raw, almost. “Can you come home, please?”

There was no anger anymore, no accusations, all there was was a thin brittle film over your voice like a veil.

He wiped a hand down his face, pinching his nose as he sniffed hard. “Yeah,” he answered after a moment. “I'll come back.”

He ended the call after that, shame crackling in the back of his throat and tears whispering behind his eyes, threatening to spill over.

He wasn't sure if he was going to be able to hide it this time.

The walk home felt heavier, the cold air biting at his cheeks felt sharper, its teeth longer and pointier than ever before. The sharpening comedown had already begun scratching at the edges of his skull, threatening to spread and infect the rest of his head.

He reached your road, the street lamps flickering with their fluorescent yellow glow above him as he dragged his feet along the rough pavement with each step.

He rubbed his eyes with his hands just before he turned to step onto the path leading home, a final, half-hearted, futile attempt to shrink his pupils before he fished his hand into the pocket of his jeans.

Before he could pull out his jumble of keys, he looked up and saw the front door crack open, the hallway light spilling out onto the cracked front step.

He paused for a moment before stepping inside, pushing the door shut behind him with his elbow as you stood in front of him, studying him, and he swallowed hard.

He knew the second your eyes met his, he knew what you saw. The faint tremble in his limbs, the twitch in his nose and his blown out pupils that had remained wide even after his attempt to shrink them.

He looked into your eyes, the dim light shimmering against the faint sheen of tears glossed over them, and before he could say anything, string together some kind of unintelligible excuse, you spoke.

“Have you relapsed?” you asked, your voice brittle, but the words flat and gentle in the worst way possible. There was no venom behind them, it wasn't an accusation, just a question. A pure, unfiltered, heartbreaking question.

His mouth opened slightly, and instinct tugged at his jaw to say something along the lines of, no, of course not, what the fuck are you talking about, but nothing came, because he knew. He knew that you knew. You just wanted to hear him say it.

You knew that if he wasn't guilty, the words would've been flying out already, fast, defensive, maybe even offended, but instead, he just stood there, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of his breaths.

That silence, that dead, awful, painful pause, told you everything.

You didn't say anything else. You let the tears spill down your cheeks, and your breath hitched as you stepped forward to press yourself into his chest, wetting his shirt with your tears.

His body tensed up for a moment. All of the other feelings going on in his body, the nausea, the itching in his skull, the numbness across his skin, he didn't focus on them, couldn't.

He hesitated before lifting his arms slightly to loosely wrap around your waist as you cried into his chest, right over his heart, where the guilt had already started carving its mark long before you saw it.

He just stood there, his lips pressed together, holding you as you sobbed against his shirt, the broken trust, the regret, the overwhelming ache of sadness lurched through his body.

He lowered his head, resting his chin against the top of your hair, shutting his own eyes as your cries rang in his ears, as the weight of his betrayal finally sunk its claws in deeper than ever.

Neither of you said anything. There was nothing you could say. There were a million things he wanted to say, a thousand acknowledgements, ten thousand reasons, and a hundred thousand apologies, but there was nothing he could say that would ever take back what he did.

｡･:*:･ﾟ༓･*˚⁺‧͙ﾟ+..｡*ﾟ+˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚₊✩｡˚☽

i don't want to be too personal but i did base this on my own experiences with cocaine and how relapsing was genuinely one of the worst decisions of my life and it was a bit upsetting but surprisingly quite comforting to write. i tried to convey emotions i felt and how i imagine i seemed to my boyfriend at the time. also pretty much that whole part with the awful roleplay and he can't get hard part is heavily heavily inspired by the inside no. 9 (one of my fav shows, a bit like black mirror if you like that, has anyone watched season 7? i hated it) episode to have and to hold. but im 2 years clean from coke now who clapped!!!

[takaraphoenix]

April Schedule

Committing to the more detailed schedule on tumblr. This will be the first month in a while without Friday Ficlets though, because work picked up more and I have a vacation coming up at the end of the month!

As always, feel free to drop me an ask if you want to hear more about any of them ;)

04/02: To Build a Pack With Broken Pieces (Stargent)

Chris and Isaac leave Beacon Hills after Allison's death but on their search for a new pack for Isaac, Chris gets bitten by a rogue Alpha and kills the Alpha. Now, he has to gather a pack of his own and he decides to do so by collecting the pieces of the former Hale Pack.

04/05: Chapter 10 of The Clever One (Steter)

The final chapter of the story will focus on Boyd, Erica and Stiles in the Argent basement, wrapping the story up with an alternate take on the season 2 finale!

EDIT: 04/07: Sober (Stetopher)

The betas are all returning home from college, but Stiles has one condition to moving into the rebuilt Hale House with the rest of the pack: He needs all alcohol to be gone. To make this request, he has to share the one secret he'd managed to keep from them all for years.

EDIT: 04/07 04/09: Protecting Pack (Steter)

After the kanima take down, Peter decides to trail after Stiles and help the boy track down Boyd and Erica. While doing so, Peter makes the curious observation that Stiles might be in the process of making himself an Alpha, even human as he was, and Peter wanted to be a part of his clever boy's pack.

04/12: Chapter 2 of A Spark Into a Flame (Stetopher)

Peter enters the story this chapter, as we let the warehouse unfold. Peter takes note of Stiles' injuries, the aftermath of Gerard's torture, and wants to get to the bottom of it.

04/14: Peter's Little Mean Bean (Steter)

In this third and final installment of my Mean Bean-verse are we finally actually... having Peter and Stiles get together. Watch as Peter falls in love with a little coffeeshop and its owner, and see how Stiles adjusts to being part of Peter's pack as his new Emissary.

04/16: Magic Baby Making (Stetopher)

Chris, Peter and Stiles are in a happy long-distance relationship, with Stiles away at college. But whenever he is in Beacon Hills, they have a lot of fun. Including some breeding kink roleplay. Until Stiles goes back to college and realized that his belief-based magic might have accidentally gotten him... actually pregnant.

04/19: Chapter 2 of The Alpha Pack's Spark (Stetalion)

Now that Peter and Stiles found Boyd and Erica, it's time for Peter to bring them to a safe place. To Deuc and the Alpha Pack. And he is eager to see his mate again after all this time.

04/21: Two Left Hands (Steter)

After the Hale Fire, the Hale Pack moved one town over to get distance. They're removed from the plot of the show, but Peter, the pack's Left Hand, has certain feelings about the new pack's lax behavior about threats, since more often than not, he has to clean up after them. Until Stiles makes himself the McCall Pack's Left Hand and, when chasing a threat who escaped, runs into Peter.

EDIT: 04/09 04/23: West Coast Wolves (Stetaliopher)

Third part in my Visionary-verse! Chris and Peter are moving to the West Coast to open a new branch of Neckz 'n Throats... and to be closer to Deuc and Stiles, to see where whatever the four of them have could lead them.

04/26: Chapter 5 of Little Red and the Black Fox (Stetopher)

We're dealing with the aftermath of Allison and Stiles' kidnapping. The guilt Stiles and Chris respectively feel and the fact that it is now public knowledge that Kate Argent is not just alive but also the villain Blue Jaguar.

No fics on April 28th and 30th because I will be in Crete with @kimmycup and will be too busy enjoying my best friend and the beach to write, or post! ^-^

EDIT: Due to unforeseeable circumstances (a fic ran away from me), things got shuffled around a little! Coffee and Crime is pushed back onto May 7th!

[kittenintheden]

BG3 Fics & Drabbles Masterlist

thought I should probably start a masterlist. it's mostly being horny on main for Astarion lbr.

~clicky for art thou nasty etc.~

One-Shots

Where were you, when I was new? - 18+, Pre-Canon, Virgin Astarion, Law Student Astarion (plus bonus gift art by tavplum!!)

No Thoughts, Just Vibes - 18+, Post-Canon, Spawn!Starion, sex toys, holiday fluff

Closer to God - 18+, breeding kink, sex pollen-ish (everyone aware/consenting, just big horny), heat/mating, rough sex, but also tender sex

Professionals - 18+, roleplay, sex work, biting, blood drinking, oral sex, PIV sex

You Can Read Me Anything Part 1 | Part 2 - 18+, innocent Tav, illiterate Tav, secondhand smut via fake bodice ripper, first time oral, retell of the forest clearing scene, Astarion playing himself

Ethics Review - 18+, magistrate roleplay, post-canon, light BDSM, spanking, orgasm denial, dirty talk, light edgeplay, oral sex, PIV sex

How could I say no? - 18+, dirty talk, established relationship, AFAB F!Tav (3rd person), sexy kisses, teasing, orgasm delay, analingus

Poker Face Real Version | April Fool's Version - 18+, gender neutral Tav, quickie, semi-public sex, sex in a closet (sort of), wall sex, blowjob, penetration

Right Side of My Neck - 18+, female OC, oral sex, PIV sex, mirror sex, stoned sex, Ori and Astarion get high and Astarion gets the weed hornies

how to train your brat - 18+, future NYS sneak peek, Ori bratting, Astarion brat-taming, light BDSM elements, soft dom Astarion, dirty talk, light spanking, blowjob, PIV sex, the dorks being complete menaces

how to lose your mind - 18+, future NYS content, Astarion gets lovingly pegged until he's nonverbal, strap-on, anal, p-spot orgasm, multiple orgasms (male), established relationship, handjob, facesitting, oral sex, get loved losers etc.

hit the bricks - 18+, Oristarion, semi-public sex, wall sex, quickie, established relationship, tiny bit of Ori being a power bottom

I Slit the Throat of Your Confidence - 18+, Lae'zel/Astarion, hatesex-ish, fighting kink, blood kink, blood drinking, rough sex, rough oral, fingerfucking, PIV sex, orgasm denial, impact play, feral cats matching energy

When I Think About You - 18+, Astarion/Reader (You), masturbation, mutual masturbation (sort of), voyeurism, pillow humping, Astarion playing himself once again because I have a type and that type is simp in denial

Wanna Give You My Sugar, Baby - 18+, Astarion/Female Tav (3rd person), food play, oral sex, PIV sex, inappropriate use of both chocolate and mage hand

-

Drabbles (under 1k)

Sip the Tea - 18+, temperature play, blowjob

Devil Inside - 18+, Haarlep being an asshole, Astarion making it better

music to my ears - 18+, eargasm, ASMR, touchless orgasm, creaming pants

Mirror Image - 18+, oral sex, 69 position

Let Go - 18+, fluffy, gentle sex, disgustingly in love about it

Before Morning's Light - 18+, fluff, comfort after nightmare of the needy nighttime quickie persuasion

we're going down - 18+, Astarion/reader, cunnilingus

Here for Wyllstravaganza? Find all the Wyll Ravengard goodness here!

People send me Ask Box prompts sometimes - you can find all those here!

-

Long Fic

Not Your Sweetheart (AO3) - 18CHA bard Orianna vs 10CHA dumbass rogue vampire, slow burn, fluff, smut, angst, absurd amount of zingers & hijinks

It's Always Sunny in Nine Hills (AO3) - it's the crew we all know and love but they're modern-day dirtbag losers who live and work at a beach with big SoCal vibes

NYS Spotify Playlist - The playlist that accompanies Not Your Sweetheart, updated every chapter <3

Masterpost of Ori Art - The non-spoilery art I have of Ori (and Astarion, occasionally), with all artists linked

Header art of Ori by Freya

Icon art by @hamrikaa

[sanjoongie]

🅶🅾🆃🆃🅰 🅻🅾🆅🅴 🅰 🆂🅲🅾🆄🅽🅳🆁🅴🅻

🌠Pairing: Empire Admiral! Park Seonghwa x Rebellion Scoundrel/Thief! Reader (f)

🌠Rating: 18+, MDNI

🌠Genre: action, adventure, smut

🌠Au: star wars, sci fi, space navy, military

🌠Trope: enemies to lovers, star-crossed lovers

🌠Word Count: 2,819

🌠Warnings: Star Wars terminology!, restraints, roleplaying, seonghwa refers to reader as Star, verbal playfighting, glove kink, switch! Seonghwa, switch! Reader, spit kink, unprotected sex, spanking

🌠Summary: After causing some chaos (and having some fun), the admiral finds his lover in a cell, finally able to find some alone time with the one he shouldn't love.

🌠divider by @cafekitsune

🌠Author's Note: Happy May the 4th be with you!!! as a big star wars fan (peep i went to see ep 3 even the last weekend) it is my pleasure to mix my knowledge of the movies and the games together to provide a fun fic for us alllll. and perhaps iomt hwa hit a little too close to home. enjoy~~~

“Admiral…” 

“Speak up, Lieutenant,” Seonghwa barked from his chair. 

“One of our ships seems to be… acting weird.”

The admiral stood up and moved down the aisle to the bay windows of his ship. His shrewd gaze searched out the ship that did not belong with the others. It was easy, really. The rest of them were in lancer formation and this one was… seemingly doing the spins. 

“Get them on comms,” Seonghwa ordered.

“Beta-7, you are out of formation. Do you copy?” The lieutenant droned. 

“Am I?” A chirpy voice responded. “How odd.”

The lieutenant stared at Seonghwa like he didn’t know what to do.

Seonghwa slowly closed his eyes, lids fluttering due to the eyeroll he was attempting to hide. He knew that voice. He rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly.

“Lieutenant, inform squadron Delta that there is a rogue ship in the Beta squadron and it needs to be eliminated,” Seonghwa said.

The lieutenant radioed the command, looking uneasy. Someone had infiltrated their ranks? The empires???

Seonghwa noted the particular frequency Beta-7 had spoken on and took the comms himself. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Seonghwa hissed as he moved out of the bride with a quick, brisk walk.

“Having fun,” You said throatily.

“I told you to be discreet,” Seonghwa snapped. 

“Mmmm…” Your voice sounded like you were pretending to think about it. “That’s not really my style.”

“Star, please,” Seonghwa lowered his voice. “I’ve ordered them to attack you.”

“Oh goodie,” You replied, sounding eager for a fight. “I was wondering how long it would take until I got into a fight.”

The comms cut and Seonghwa let out a grunt of frustration. Some stormtroopers flinched at the angry sound coming from the Admiral. An angry admiral usually meant one of their heads on a platter. They saluted him and then quickly marched away. 

Seonghwa moved back to the bridge to watch the chaos unfold from his chair. You drove circles around the tie fighters that came for your bomber ship. You easily picked them off one by one. You had cut off comms with Seonghwa as you fought but Seonghwa knew your belly laughter in the middle of battle. It had mocked him more often than naught. 

You were a smuggler and a thief and a rogue and had been a pain in his side for years. Countless missions had been thwarted because of your cheeky gall to rebel against the empire. Or was it you simply enjoyed the chase? Either way, Seonghwa always lost to your schemes. 

It wasn’t until one fateful day, when you had finally abducted the Admiral under the guise of a stormtrooper for the rebellion, that you two had been stuck together. Your escape pod had been shot down in an attempt to stop you but it had only brought you two into a close proximity situation. 

During the time that you two had been stuck with each other, the admiral had the veil pulled back from his eyes. His confusion on which side was the righteous inevitably led to helping you take down the empire from within. It was a thin line to balance on, but Seonghwa wasn’t an admiral for nothing. 

Once you had rid yourself of all the tie fighters, you proceeded to make a beeline to the imperial destroyer that you were looking to bombard. Its shields had already been taken down by several x-wings, the rebellion’s ships, so it took nothing for you to use the empire’s own bombs to take down the destroyer. 

“Lieutenant,” Seonghwa said in a low voice. “Did you forget to radio to the other ships that we have a rogue bomber on the loose?”

The lieutenant swung around in his seat, eyes wide. “But Sir! I--”

Seonghwa punched the chair in anger, causing the entire bridge to curl their shoulders on themselves. Seonghwa’s rage was famous. Seonghwa smoothed a hand over his hair, his face now devoid of any emotion. 

“Lieutenant, you have cost us one of our destroyers we need to win this battle. You will be demoted and will now work in the engine room,” Seonghwa ordered.

“Yes, Sir,” The lieutenant said dejectedly, accepting his fate. 

“Sir!” Another soldier took over. “They’ve captured the rogue ship.”

“At last, someone is doing their job,” Seonghwa purred dangerously.

This was your typical behavior, after all. Cause some mischief, ‘get caught’, and wait for Seonghwa in a cell, only to slip away later. Ironically, it was the only time you two could get with each other now. 

“Admiral leaving the bridge!” One of the soldiers announced, as Seonghwa swept his cap, and made a rather dramatic exit. 

“What do you think he does down there?” One of the bridge soldiers whispered from his dash to another.

The other shuddered. “I wouldn’t ever want to be the focus of his ire, locked in a cell with him.”

Seonghwa stood in front of the cell with the red lasers, viewing you as you were. You were sitting on the bench of the cell, with your hands manacled, as if it was a nice day in the park on Alderaan. Your aloofness to the danger you continuously put yourself in only fueled the fire inside of his chest.

“I want this entire sector vacated,” Seonghwa commanded the stormtroopers that were standing guard of your cell.

But Admiral Park--the prisoner--she’s escaped several times already!” One of the troopers protested.

Seonghwa stared down the long line of his nose. “Are you questioning my orders?”

The stormtroopers saluted smartly and then all of them vacated the sector.

Seonghwa pressed open the button to deactivate the lasers and then entered your cell. “Prisoner.”

“Admiral,” You replied jauntily.

“Was this really necessary?” Seonghwa wondered. He slowly removed his gloves.

You cocked your head. “You said it was going to be another month before they recalled you back to Coruscant. And the gloves stay on.”

Seonghwa’s nose bunched up for a microsecond in annoyance and then his features smoothed out. “So what you’re saying is that you needed some more jail time to keep you going?” 

Your manacles jingled merrily as you recrossed your legs to turn in the direction Seonghwa was walking in. “You have to accept that this is who I am, Seonghwa. I will always risk my life and live for the thrill of it.”

Seonghwa slowly closed his eyes, breathing in and out deeply. “Then you must accept that my heart beats out of its chest in worry for you every single time you’re out there risking your life.”

“Deal,” You agreed merrily, a happy smile practically overtaking your face. “Now hurry up and chain my new bracelets to the ceiling. It’s been too long.”

Seonghwa promptly hit a button outside the cell that utilized a strong magnetic to link the apex of your chains to the ceiling. You were now hanging by your wrists, toes barely touching the ground. 

One of his gloved hands harshly gripped your face. “You put my heart at risk, Star,” Seonghwa snarled. “What sort of punishment shall I extract from you?”

A smirk slowly spreaded across your face. “You think I’ll supply you with the information for my own demise, Big Boy?”

Seonghwa tsked loudly. “I should send you out of here on an escape pod for your insolence.”

You let your mouth pout and your eyes tear up. “You’d waste our precious time together?”

With a snarl, Seonghwa slammed his lips against yours, kissing you fiercely. You let him take the lead, enjoying the taste of his lips against yours. His tongue pushed inside of your mouth, luring your tongue to play with his. When you did not, Seonghwa broke the kiss. His barely contained lust and anger played across his usually non expressive face. His chest heaved and a strand of hair full from his severe man-bun.

“You finally get what you want and you remain there like this is not something you desire?” Seonghwa raged.

Your eyes dance with merriment. “What can I say, I enjoy you falling apart for me. Look at you. You’re not a cold imperial slave; you’re a monster that is gnawing at its enclosure.”

Seonghwa smoothed a gloved hand over his hair to push the strand of hair back in place. “You make me this way,” he mumbled.

“And I would do anything to set you, and your passion, free,” You confessed.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow in question. “Anything?”

You look upwards to where your hands are chained. “Do you not agree?”

“Kiss me.” A desperate whine threatened to escape the back of Seonghwa’s throat. 

This time Seonghwa hesitantly pressed his lips to yours, unsure of your response. When your tongue followed the seam of his mouth, he sighed and opened up for you. The two of you kissed slowly and sensually. You wrapped your suspended legs around the Admiral’s tiny waist, drawing him even closer to you. 

Seonghwa’s gloved hands rested on lower back, absorbed in the kiss he finally was able to receive. His world began and ended with your lips. Whether it was from the quick quips you sent his way or how they could coax the most guttural, animalistic noises from his consciousness. 

The kiss broke and you boldly licked up the side of his face. Seonghwa’s eyes were blown already. 

Without another word, the admiral made space between you and began to pull off your boots and pants. He ripped open your jacket and shirt until there were barely shreds of clothes still covering you. And he, still head to toe covered in his imperial uniform. 

Still, you ached for him. He was utterly your enemy in every way and yet, you needed him. 

“Seonghwa,” You said throatily. “Why aren’t you inside of me yet?”

Seonghwas’ gloves squeaked as his hands curled into fists at his side. “Just let me enjoy seeing you like this for a moment.”

You rolled your eyes. “You do not need more spank bank material, Sir.” You said ‘sir’ like it was a derogatory term. 

Seonghwa’s upper lip lifted in a soundless snarl. “You’re the one hanging from the ceiling in chains, prisoner. I don’t think you have an option.”

His eyes skated over your form and you watched as his dick pressed against pants. Who knew what swirled in his mind. Perhaps he fought with himself, the lust he felt for you, who was both his lover and his enemy. Perhaps he enjoyed the disheveled way that he had torn you apart. Perhaps he knew that all he had to do is shove himself between your legs and there would be no resistance. 

“Seonghwa,” You growled. You shook your arms so that the chains rattled. “Enough.”

“Please,” Seonghwa corrected you. 

You smirked. “You don’t have to beg.”

“No,” Seonghwa snapped. He strode back to your form, gloved hands running up your outer thighs, hiking them around his waist again. “Say please.”

“Please, sir,” You huskily. “Put that pretty, curved, imperial dick deep inside of me.”

A small, micro smile pulled at his red lips. “Pretty?”

“If it wasn’t so pretty, I’d hardly beg for it to fuck my mouth, now would I?”

Seonghwa’s lips hovered across from yours, his breath hot on your lips. “We don’t have time for that.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, Seonghwa,” You growled again. “Fuck me so hard the chains rattle or we’re going to lose the precious time we have. I’ll go start another battle if that means another session.”

“No need,” Seonghwa replied simply. “I can give you what you want, since you asked so nicely.”

The admiral undid his pants and pulled the previously discussed curved, pretty dick out of his pants. He pulled aside your simple underwear and ran the underside of his cock against your slick folds. Your head fell back at the feeling of his cock running across your wet cunt. 

“That’s it, make those noises for me, prisoner. How my subordinates tremble as they hear my prisoner moan.” 

Seonghwa’s hand slipped over the curve of your hip to hold you in place so that he could push against your clenching hole. He had to bite down on his lip to keep in the groan that threatened already to spill from his lips. It was always a fight to get inside of you, despite how wet you were for him. Everything in you always fought against him, even the cunt that called for him like a siren in the dark deep space that he called home. 

“fuck, yes, finally!” You moaned. 

You rocked your hips, swung your body and allowed the chains above you to jingle merrily, as if they too celebrated that Seonghwa was finally inside of you. 

“Always so eager,” Seonghwa chuckled like only a man inside of his lover can, full of confidence that they are exactly where they belong. 

“Can you… blame me…?” You panted as Seonghwa’s cock slid in and out of you. “This cock was made for fucking. Your body is lost as an admiral.”

“In another world, perhaps I am the whore and you are the master,” Seonghwa mused. 

“mmmmm,” You moaned. “I bet I fuck you good too.”

“Star,” Seonghwa said your nickname like it was a sin. “You always fuck me good.”

You groaned and pressed your sweaty forehead to his. “Give me what I want.”

Seonghwa’s gloved hand slapped against your ass cheek loudly and you shouted in triumph. “Fuck you, Admiral.”

His other hand mimicked the same pattern. Then both hands clenched down on your ass cheeks. The casual way he had fucked into, allowing you to somehwat take control, was gone. He fully jackhammered into your body, making the chains rattle and moan with the motion. 

“You arrogant fucking fool!” You shouted, keeping up appearances that you were being tortured. 

“Now give me what I want,” Seonghwa ordered.

The admiral’s obscenely long tongue pushed out of his mouth and practically aligned with his chin. You gathered spit in your mouth and aimed it onto his tongue with a powerful push. Seonghwa took the gift and showily swallowed it. 

“God,” You laughed. “You are so fucked up.”

“For you, Star,” Seonghwa whispered reverently. 

With a loud guttural groan, you came hard around Seonghwa’s cock, being sent over the edge as his cock passed over the spongy part inside of you. His curved cock was practically made for pleasure. As your walls fluttered around Seonghwa, he quietly shot his seed inside of you with the reserve only a soldier of the imperial army could. Some days you wished to hear the whines and grunts from the days when you were in close proximity together. But that was not to be. Not until the empire fell, of course. 

Yoru breaths mingled as you both came down from your respective highs. A companionable, happy grin split both your faces. You could argue, bicker, and fight, but at the end of the day, sex always brought you together. 

“One of these days I will capture you forever,” Seonghwa vowed. 

“I’d like to see you try,” You raised your chin arrogantly. 

“A caged bird doesn’t sing as sweetly as a free one.”

Seonghwa’s eyes shuttered and he stepped back. Just like that, his imperial mask slipped back on. “The day will come. Either I will keep you as a consolation prize--”

“Or the Empire will be ashes and I refuse to let you get caught up in that wildfire,” You assured him. 

Seongwha kissed his gloved thumb and then pressed it to your lips. Your throat tightened with emotion. “You’re mine either way, Star.”

You breathed in and out deeply and then began to swing yourself back and forth until the chains had shimmied far enough that they broke from the magnet’s grasp. You pulled a lockpick from your hair and made quick work of the manacles at your wrists. They made a loud noise as the chains fell to the floor with them.

“Always a pleasure to watch you work,” Seonghwa chuckled darkly. 

You touched his nose cheekily. “I could always show you a trick or two. You never know when a rebel scoundrel might take you prisoner.”

“You already own my heart. There’s no escaping that,” Seonghwa shook his head. 

He made his way to the cell’s door and once he was outside, he pushed the button to enact the lasers once again. “At least wait until I’m partway to the bridge again. Last time you were gone so quickly I might have been suspected.”

“I’m sorry I’m so good at my job, Admiral,” You retorted jauntily. 

Seonghwa winked at you and then all you could hear was the click of his boots against the polished floor of the destroyer he commanded. But that wasn’t all that he commanded. The admiral may say that you had taken his heart as your prisoner but he commanded yours in return. 

[ninawolv3rina]

I post him a lot. If you’ve been on my blog for any amount of time for the past year, you’ve seen him. But who IS he? What’s his DEAL (or, more accurately, his problem(s)?) I’m so glad you asked.

Note: in this post certain words will be hyperlinks to art of the characters and scenes that I’m referring to

This is going to be a very long post, but I’m trying to keep it as clean as possible — buckle in!

Fae is a dnd character I’ve been playing for a little over a year now in a game called Overlooks and Owlbears. We meet bi-weekly on Fridays, and most of the weeks we don’t play I’m still thinking about him. I fully initially considered him a more ‘gimmicky’ type of character, mostly built to be easy to slip into during roleplay with not *that* much going on. His concept was pretty simple: I wanted to play an evil character, and I wanted to play an old character. That was it. Everything else came directly from ‘evil old man’ and spun out of control into the man he is today.

Fae is largely inspired by some of my favorite Latino characters from popular media, as well as my own family. When I play him he has what’s functionally a more masculine, lightly hispanic accented version of my own voice, but in my head he sounds like this

Art Gallery / Vibes Playlist / Backstory Playlist / Pinterest Board

At a Glance:

System: D&D 5e (2014)

Race: Half-Elf

Class: Rogue (Swashbuckler subclass)

Alignment: neutral evil

Sexuality: Bi with a strong preference for men

Age: 100ish

Pronouns: He/him

Personality: Sarcastic, mocking, I would go so far as to say ‘mean’. Calculating in social situations, impulsive in combat. Thinks of himself as more fun-loving than he really is. He strives to come off as devil-may-care and some of that may be genuine but deep down he is very task-oriented and will take control the moment it seems like things might even kind of go off the rails.

General Backstory:

Faedril “Fae” Silvarin is the son of two heads of separate crime families - the elven Kaemarises, and the mostly-human Silvarins. Fae’s mother, Camila Silvarin, was prepared to raise him without involvement from his father, but Llewel Kaemaris surprised pretty much everyone in both families when he decided to claim Fae as his own, and gave him responsibilities and authority within the elven side of his family as well. Not all the elves were super thrilled about this, but Fae was able to uncover a coup against Llewel and leveraged that to build himself a small group of loyalists and gain respect on that side of the family. On the Silvarin side, his authority is innate, and he’s never really struggled with it… which is part of the problem.

Fae is a half-elf, so he ages slower than the human side of his family, and faster than the Elven side. At about 100 years old at time of the game’s start, Fae had seen a lot, and he was kind of tired of it. Without exactly knowing his own motivations to do so, Fae dipped out on his life of crime and leisure and decided to try his hand at adventuring on his own. All he knew was that he was tired of his reputation and wanted to start over, as just ‘some guy’ out in the world. This has had mixed results.

Fae’s Family:

Faedril/Fae Silvarin: Our man in question (he/him)

Llewel Kaemaris: Fae’s dad, an elf, head of the Kaemaris crime family (he/they)

Camila Silvarin: Fae’s human mother, former head of the Silvarin crime camily (deceased) (she/her)

The Party:

Celosia Poincaré: Fire genasi artificer. Shares Fae’s mommy issues. Has a sick gun, Fae wants her to make him a sick gun. Member of the party he’s closest with. He understands her the best, though he doesn’t know how to express it. He knows they were both raised by people who ignored their autonomy. Whether he wants to admit it or not, he’s attached to her and wants to help her turn out better than he did. (She/her)

Laurence of Abury: Human fighter. Complete good-aligned teddy bear from a family of criminals who want him to take up the family business. Dating Celosia. Fae initially thought of him as ‘muscle’ that he could order around but now he admires the guy’s carefree mindset and slight naïveté (He/him)

Scrip: Kobold cleric of a god of mercantile. Do NOT leave him and Fae in a room together they will start a pyramid scheme. Has saved Fae’s ass in combat MANY times. (He/him)

NPCs:

Goggles: a deep gnome who recruited the party to help as body guards for diplomatic missions. Still alive, despite several failures to protect him on our part (he/him)

Drow/Drider Assassin: I think it’s fair to call this guy Fae’s rival. Fae has killed him multiple times and he keeps getting resurrected. Wants to kill the party real bad.

Madame/Priestess Bitch: a drow priestess, formally the Drider’s partner who now has turned on him and become the party’s ally.

The Sphinx: A sphinx librarian that, as of now, has stuck his neck out for the party on more than one occasion. Has a personal library that includes multiverses, as well as access to an infinite library

Fae’s Parents:

Camila had Fae fairly young, shortly after becoming the matriarch of the Silvarin family rather unexpectedly when her own father passed away. She had turned to Llewel Kaemaris for advice on how to command respect the way that he did — but obviously, that relationship developed into something more. After Fae was born, Camila often wondered if Llewel’s affection for her was genuine, or motivated by power. That never fully became clear one way or another. Though he both claimed Fae as his own son and engaged with Camila in discussions about potentially merging the two families she was never really sure if those were signs of respect and love towards her, or shrewd chess moves towards absorbing the Silvarins into the already-powerful Kaemaris family.

Before the Game:

Fae grew up mostly-loved by his parents, though Llewel did put him through some trial by fire to help him find his footing within the Kaemaris family without falling victim to the label of ‘nepo baby’. He was always closer with his mother, though. Fae really loved his mom, total Mama’s boy — he was her right hand man, and the two brought the Silvarin family into something of a golden age. He always knew he’d outlive her, with plenty of time to spare, but he had determined to make the most of the little time he had. That’s why it was especially shocking and hurtful when she died when he was still very young.

At the time Camila died, Fae and everyone else thought it had been an unknown health issue, but over time he became increasingly convinced that it was foul play. Specifically, he decided she had been poisoned. But by who? Camila was a crime lord with a lot of enemies. After a decade of trying to investigate, Fae let the trail go cold, though his interest in poisons remained. His thoughts on the matter are complicated — it’s been around 70 years since she died. If the person who did it was human, they’re long dead, and finding out who they are would do little for Fae except open old wounds. If they aren’t dead… he’s not ready to think about what that means.

In fact, he’d more or less thought that his anger over her death had died out completely — that it was a mystery he’d never solve, even though his old habits refused to die and he continued to test poisons to see if, just maybe, he’d be able to use their effects to determine at the very least the method of her murder.

After Fae’s mother died, most looked towards Fae to lead the Silvarin family, but he refused. He gently guided them towards another human leader and chose to take a more subdued role. this is a move he doesn’t regret in the slightest. No part of him ever desired to be in charge of an organization like that. In fact the longer that he worked as muscle for his dad and advisor for the Silvarins, the more his enthusiasm for organized crime in general seemed to wane until it all but completely vanished.

Fae was sick of diplomacy, sick of the way the Elves treated him like a weird elderly child on the brink of death, and the humans treated him like some legend beyond their limited mortal scope. It was a frustrating line to walk. Above all, he didn’t feel like a real person to either group. He finally gave up on changing that when he decided to leave without warning either side of the family, disappearing overnight to become an adventurer.

During the Game:

Fae met the rest of the party when an inn they were all staying in was attacked by monsters that escaped couriers of the wizard’s guild, an organization responsible for both experimenting on monsters and also transporting those monsters from place to place. After successfully assisting in keeping the in from being *completely* destroyed, Fae and the rest of the party agreed to hunt down the remaining couriers who had failed at their job, and were now legally required to be killed for their failure. After following the couriers to a cave full of more imprisoned monsters, the party did their job and also found an entrance to the Underdark via territory owned by a Drow organization/family that had some… less-than-friendly history.

The party wisely decided against going down that route.

We also, during this initial adventure, found out about an element called Delirium that has powerful magical qualities, and can be fashioned into weapons (we did acquire some here)

After a few more adventures, the party was approached by a Deep Gnome who goes by Goggles or Mr. Red. Goggles asked the party to escort him into the Underdark to where his nomadic people were settled at the time, emphasizing that there were some Drow who might be after him due to a long-standing blood feud between the two races. The party agreed, and off we went.

On our way to the Underdark, we stopped at a transition town still in the Overworld. In this town there was a library owned by a sphinx, where we discovered books from the real world (namely, Romeo and Juliet, and later I wrote a fic that retroactively brought in Call of the Wild and used it to frame Fae’s feelings about his role within his family). Fae also picked up some knives that had poison chambers in them, and then we were off to the Underdark.

On our way into the Underdark we were ambushed by a drow assassin and a drow priestess, who kicked our asses a little bit but we ultimately won! We left their corpses behind us, sure we would never see them again.

We managed to get Goggles to his people underground, and they contracted us for a little more work in return for refining the raw delirium we had acquired. During our work we found a Skinweaver (who made Fae some sick armor out of hook horror leather) and a cult of Kobolds worshipping a dragon that slumbers on veins of adamantine. While investigating the Kobolds, who the fuck should we find but THE REVIVIFIED ASSASSIN AND PRIESTESS who we killed a second time, and Celosia and Fae reached the conclusion that to keep them dead, we’d probably have to remove a body part. We settled on their jaws, which Fae collected.

Our last task the deep gnomes hired us for was to transport Goggles to the Duergar capital to ask them to ally with the gnomes. On the boat journey over, Fae recognized a member of his dad’s organization. Though he tried to play it off at first, he did eventually seek the man out — only for the man to be murdered seconds later. As the party scrambled to find out who had murdered the guy, they were approached by none other than Llewel Fucking Kaemaris, who said he’d come to the Underdark to try and form a partnership with the Drow (who, you may remember, don’t really like us all that much). Fae told his dad that uhhhh the drow don’t like us very much rn, and Llewel was less than thrilled. He also tried to pick Fae’s brain on one other mystery — why Fae had left the family in the first place.

Fae answered as honestly as he could. He said he didn’t know.

Fae and his dad’s relationship is complicated. No parent should have to outlive their kid but it’s even worse when you also have to watch them age and get elderly at a rate you can hardly imagine happening to yourself. Because of that, Llewel can’t possibly understand Fae completely. Fae knows that — doesn’t mean he doesn’t still resent the guy a little.

We managed to solve the mystery — it was that fucking Drow assassin and priestess who we had killed TWICE already at this point. Because we stole their jaws this time they’d been reincarnated which was why we didn’t recognize them. When we foiled their plan this time they managed to escape, unable to kill Fae’s dad (or him) like they’d wanted to. But they kept their jaws this time!

Upon reaching the Duergar capital we learned the man who had invited us, the prince, had disappeared while looking for a mythical library made of chalk. Using the delirium we’d acquired we were able to dig him out — but, this is where shit got unfortunately real for Fae.

In this library there was a cluster of Flumphs, psyonically powerful creatures with tentacles. And in the center of this cluster of Flumphs was a glowing red crystal.

We’d seen crystals like that before, and the party had been able to calm aggravated enemies by removing the crystal from their presence, so Fae thought it would be a good idea to just. Grab the crystal.

It was not a good idea.

Upon touching the crystal Fae was overcome by pure rage, got smacked with the mental image of his dad bleeding out, and was barely able to pull himself back together with the help of the cleric, Scrip. Even now the rage bubbles just under the surface but he’s doing his best to cope with it.

After the rage had simmered the party did as much research as they could in that library, and found that this particular gemstone houses a very, very angry dragon — one of three who have all been hidden away from the world for the world’s safety, though it’s said that one was hidden against its will.

Now attuned to the dragon in the gem, Fae has hung onto it since. He’s not the biggest fan of myth, fate, magic and dragons, so initially he wasn’t super thrilled about the situation, and he was determined to find a way to get rid of it as soon as possible.

Having rescued the lost prince and secured an allyship for the Duergar and the Deep Gnomes, we headed back the way we came. On the boat again, Goggles disappeared. We found a ransome note telling us to come to the front of the ship at 2am. When we did, we saw Goggles bound in spiderwebs, and Fae was surprised by a NAT 20 ATTACK from the SAME GODDAM ASSASSIN AS BEFORE, who was now a Drider, having asked Lolth for the power to fuck Fae up. “This time, I’m going to fucking kill you.”

He did not kill me. But damn! He got close!!! Fae was pretty much consistently at 1 health for the entire fight until he finally went down. But Fae lived, and he stole the guy’s jaw again, I’m sure that’ll be the last we see of him.

It wasn’t the last we’ll see of Priestess Bitch, though, who showed up and told us that she was tired of fighting with us and had decided to help us, informing that there are other drow on the gnome’s side, and telling us how to find them.

That night, Fae had a dream.

He dreamed that he was someone else, trapped inside a person, a person who was slowly dying. A person who he was KILLING. In the dream, whatever he was snapped and became enraged. Putting two and two together, Fae realized that in the dream he was the angry dragon — and the person who he’d been killing was his own mom, unaware of what was happening to her, or how to stop it.

As he woke up, Fae managed to get one last thing from the dream, and that was a clue to who had killed his mother: the symbol of the wizard guild.

Now with a personal attachment to the rage within the draconic gem, Fae’s priorities have shifted. He’s not sure exactly how everything connects — he had given up on finding his mom’s killers and now he has a serious lead. While he continues to help the party and the gnomes with their goals, his own thoughts lie heavily on the dragon and what it means for his past and his future.

AND NOW WE’RE ALL CAUGHT UP TO THE PRESENT!

He’s afraid of bugs

He doesn’t like fish

His full name is Androbal Marques Faedril Silvarin. Yes I have practiced saying that out loud in his voice repeatedly, it’s actually very fun to say when you get the hang of it.

His backstory wasn’t initially based on Hamlet but at some point I realized what was going on and decided to lean into it.

People have compared Fae to a lot of other characters and people, notably Pedro Pascal, ‘Lesbian Waluigi’, and Dorian Pavus

It’s rly funny that one of his inspos is a character from Sons of Anarchy, a Hamlet adaptation, but the inspo character is NOT the Hamlet analog

I run 5e game on Wednesdays called Illusa, and Fae is an NPC in that world! His backstory is a little bit different to adjust for a world I have full control over - he has a full-elf half brother named Lysander, who is the rightful heir to the Kaemaris empire. He also has Dove, a silent masked elf who is by his sides at most times. Besides that, what else… oh yeah I killed his dad! His dad got poisoned during a political event and now the party is investigating Llewel’s death. I can’t wait to see how that plays out for them ehehe

In Illusa, in addition to common, Fae speaks a fantasy version of Spanish I call ‘Queño’! I’ve actually built a whole hispanic culture within that world that he’s a part of, and I had a lot of fun fleshing out that side of him since I had the ability to build the world around him in this one.

The Illusa version of Fae has a slightly different personality, too. I’d say probably less prone to redemption than O&O Fae, but honestly it’s still pretty early to make that prediction. Again, can’t wait to see what my players do to influence his life and the world he lives in!

And that’s it! I probably won’t update this post until the game makes significant progress, so until then, hopefully this is enough context for the art I make from here on out. If you’ve made it this far thank you so much for reading and I hope you feel informed :3

[mydarlingbat]

Detective comics #779 #780 #781 I just read it, and lemme say this is my kind of comic. I enjoyed theses issue so much, but you know what i really enjoyed how Batman was incredibly hostile with his villains in these issues. Not only with villains but civilians too. He was so furious that he causes people to cry like children, however with the Joker. It was so different.

I love, love, the fact that he was actually enraged in theses issues i read. It wasn't pretend neither. It wasn't him acting angry. He wanted to hurt the Riddler. He was furious with Two face. He was being just cold with the rogues, but with the Joker; this is how he shows up.

Ummmmm!!! Where's the anger Batman? Do you see the difference here? And on top of that it's the Joker who suggested to fight with Batman.

What the hell even is that Batman? 'You're going to tell me what happened to solane, and you're going to tell me now' The fakest shit i ever encounter. What are you two about to roleplay or something? You know something funny too? It doesn't stop there, It continues to go further.

Batman slams the Joker head into the snow. First of all Bruce you obviously desired to dance with him. You could have talk with him in the cell like Two face, you know? But obviously you needed this as much as him. This doesn't even exhibits violent. This is intimate. The way Batman grabs at his hair, and loosens his fingers, gently grasping a strand while speaking with him. The whispering in his ear. The flirting. I honestly think this is also a way Batman flirts with the Joker. Another thing is Batman's cape is all around this man, while he lays helplessly on the ground there's no reason for Batman to still be grasping at his hair. Batman actually said he likes to see the Joker helpless in a comic i read recently.

The Joker then realizes he's out of the chains already. Then Batman indulges in this little dance of theirs as always. He informs to the Joker that we can dance now, in so many words. The Joker inquires questions from Batman. Batman answers it with no problem. God, the way he plays around with this man. It's crazy.

There's no denying that Batman shows no contempt or anger towards this man. There's literally nothing there. He's just chatting with the Joker, and People actually say Batman treats all his villains the same.

This isn't done to hurt the Joker badly. It's to play with him. He just needs to give the Joker enough pleasure to collect information from him, even so the way Batman lays his body nearly on top of the Joker isn't exactly needed. He could have still put the weight on his throat with his upper body up, yet he chooses to position himself on top of the Joker in a very intimate way. Again there's no type of anger present on Batman's face, but look at the joy on the joker's face?

And then they play even more, which got me thinking Batman knows exactly what he's participating in when he hurts the Joker. He knows the Joker enjoys it, yet he doesn't mind giving him just that in their dance, even if it's not bloody. This dance their doing is simple and light. It's not the usual violent dance.

Yes, because Batman is always distracted with the Joker. That's why he asked the Joker too distract him. It wouldn't have worked out otherwise, and On top of that Batman still shows no anger towards the Joker.

[deconstructthesoup]

Some thoughts for a Dead Boy Detective D&D AU:

Edwin: He would absolutely be a School of Necromancy wizard. Everything about him screams wizard, and I think him being a necromancer who uses his abilities for good would be pretty in-character for him. In fact, we could even go one step further and say that he's a Reborn (who are essentially the D&D version of Frankenstein's Monster, and they are insanely cool and fun from a roleplay stance alone). Maybe he got brought back to life after some time in Hell, maybe he was able to bring himself back... there's a lot of possibilities there.

Charles: Oath of the Watchers paladin, hands-down. I know, most people tend to peg him as a fighter, but hear me out---first off, he canonically fights with a magical weapon, and you know it would be cool as hell for him to cast Smite with his cricket bat. Second off, his whole deal as a Dead Boy Detective feels very Oath-of-the-Watchers coded, since they're all about guarding the material world from extraplanar forces. And third... he's a punk. Paladins are punks. Also, he's gotta be an elf. Probably a wood elf instead of a high elf, but elf is non-negotiable when you're putting Charles I-Have-Cute-Pointed-Ears Rowland in a fantasy setting.

Crystal: Aberrant Mind sorcerer, kalshatar. Because, well... *gestures to her everything* yeah. Also, Crystal deserves to go full-on eldritch entity.

Niko: I personally think that she'd be an amazing College of Creation bard---and this might just be because that's my favorite subclass for my favorite class, and she's my favorite character, but she feels very bard to me, and College of Creation is all about seeing the beauty in the world, appreciating life, and making the most out of any situation, which fits our girl well. Also, I think that Niko would probably be the group's token human, which fits nicely with her being the only non-magical member of the Dead Boy Detectives in canon.

Monty: Circle of Stars druid, kenku. Theoretically, a kenku who could actually converse with people instead of just repeating what he hears, but... astrology crow. What do you want me to say.

Jenny: She was tricky, but I eventually decided that she'd be your classic tiefling rogue---specifically, a Soulknife rogue, with maybe a level or two of fighter thrown in there for good measure. Jenny gives off the vibes of a slightly older adventurer who's kind of grown cynical about the whole thing, but she's still tagging along with a younger, more starry-eyed crew because somebody needs to keep them alive.

Esther: Now, while the temptation to make her a Green Hag is very, very strong, I think that might be doing her a little bit too dirty. So, instead, she's a Circle of Spores druid and a Great Old One warlock, and while she is a regular human, she's done a lot of messed-up stuff to keep herself alive and young. I figured that Circle of Spores fits with her necromancy shtick (and also, y'know, Teeth Face), and GOOlock fits with her deal with Lilith.

The Cat King: Trickster Domain cleric, tabaxi. No-brainer, really.

The Night Nurse: Her whole deal strikes me as very Protector aasimar-coded, if not straight-up Celestial-coded. Also, she fits the criteria for a Grave Domain cleric to a T.

[evenmyhivemindisempty]

Oooooh, pick me, pick me!

Ahem! What would the various Boyd characters play in a D&D game, and what would their play styles be like?

Steve Murphy: Steve doesn’t know anything about DnD, but he immediately studies up on the rules and after a thorough review and cross-analysis of the classes and species, he decides the most tactical pick is a rock-gnome artificer. He’s lazy about the name though and just calls him “Todd”. His gnome is lawful good, and Steve sticks to that religiously. He’s a very studious player who’s very into the gameplay mechanics, and really likes problem-solving in the game. He’s… often sort of obnoxious to play with, and can sometimes steamroll over other players.

Donald Pierce: Pierce plays a half-elf, true neutral warlock woman with a tragic backstory he spent three sleepless nights meticulously plotting out. He’s the type of player that’s sort of dragged into it semi-unwillingly by someone else (Gabby), but once they’re in, they’re *in*. He gets so into the game, and specifically the roleplaying/story elements. (He also LOVES being a warlock, having a patron looking out for him is Very Sexy.)

Cap Hatfield: Cap plays a Dragonborn ranger of indeterminate gender! Their alignment is lawful neutral, and although Cap is overall a casual player, he’s very serious about sticking to his alignment. He does have a fairly intricate backstory for his character, but it doesn’t come up super often. Cap’s a pretty quiet player, and tends to go with the flow in most sessions! He’d actually make an excellent DM one of these days.

Clement Mansell: Clement thinks DnD is GREAT. He has a blast with his bard; he’s a chaotic neutral tiefling man (Clement likes the idea of an “outlaw devil musician”), and he absolutely poured so many stats into charisma. He mostly just acts like himself when he’s playing. He’s sometimes kind of annoying, but he can also be super fun to have around.

The Corinthian: Corinthian plays as a male human, of course! He goes for a chaotic neutral rogue, and mostly just tries to have fun. He doesn’t really concern himself too closely with the rules or the gameplay mechanics, he just likes the story, and building on scenarios with other players. It’s sort of an exotic delight to get to participate in this type of story creation, even just as a player!

Eli Klaber: Klaber designs his character to be a drop-dead gorgeous elf woman, and has every freckle on her face mapped out. She’s a true neutral fighter: the mechanics for fighters are simple, and pretty easy to get into for a newbie. Honestly, Klaber mostly likes getting to roleplay as his character the best. He doesn’t really care too much about what his party does in general.

Ty Shaw: Ty rolls for a male, half-orc barbarian. Despite being a real bruiser Ty ends up actually just trying to talk his way out of problems. His character’s technically neutral evil, but Ty doesn’t actually do much that’s very evil at all.

Quinn McKenna: Quinn makes a character mostly as a concession to Nebraska, who’s running a game, but he ends up having a decent time with it, especially when he realizes how stat focused it can be. He is *such* an optimizer. He doesn’t get as granular during the character rolling process as Steve though - he mostly just fashions a character that’s… kind of just like him: a lawful neutral, human male paladin, who’s taken the oath of the watchers. He doesn’t like having to roleplay at all. When his ‘character’ talks, that’s just Quinn.

[hlficlibrary]

Looking for a fic that is a/b/o. All I can remember is Harry is a famous singer having to pretend to be an alpha when he's really an omega. He calls a sex operator line to be able to be an omega for a little bit and talks to louis on the phone. They end up meeting in person later on in the story. I've searched and can't find it again, so if you're able to find it I'd appreciate it!

Hi, anon! You're very welcome! I'm pretty sure this is the fic you're looking for:

Confessions of a Fabricated Alpha by @jaerie

Hearing it now almost made Harry hang up the phone, but he sighed and pressed one to be connected to one of their alpha operators. He’d already committed to this low point in his life and hanging up meant he couldn’t wallow in it and he was in a wallowing mood.

“You are being connected to alpha operator number forty-four. Rogue will be with you shortly.”

The name was said in a different voice like a voice mailbox someone might have on their office phone. It made him snort out a laugh at how stupid it all was. It felt like a budget sex line.

 or famous alpha Harry Styles has a secret and paying an alpha to roleplay a relationship with him over the phone is the only way he can be himself.

[barufisher]

okay i finally got all the companions last night. gonna write my current thoughts about the game under the cut (sorry it's long lol)

so far i've really enjoyed the gameplay the most. i like the combat (im playing as a dual wield rogue) and i really like all the new ways to move around in-game (ziplines, climbing, etc). i really love the maps and the way we can explore all the areas, this is what i've spent most of my time doing lmao and in general i'm having fun playing!

but this tone change in this game is Rough. there's a real lack of depth, there's no friction at all (for some reason every faction just loves Rook and trusts them completely) and so many characters and groups have just been completely defanged. there's this weird vibe of like... GOD i hate pointing it out cus it feels like i'm complaining about the game being "woke" but there's such a weird vibe right now where it feels like the factions arent allowed to be "problematic." the crows act like a found family rather than the brutal assassin organization we've learned about previously that buys slaves and tortures their recruits into perfection (in any previous game Rook's mistake as a crow would have resulted in their death or extreme punishment. but this time it doesn't even feel like it matters, you go back to the crows and everyone there automatically loves you. jacobus is being babied and protected when before they would have just let him get himself killed. there's just no power struggle, no competition, no urgency.)

i also noticed it with the lords of fortune. Taash making a point to emphasize that the lords aren't Thieves and they're sooo correct and return cultural artifacts to par vollen (and Isabela is a part of this for some reason despite the fact she can run off with the book she stole from the arishok in da2...?) there's this weird over-correction happening where past companions are having their flaws completely ironed out. you find various codex entries all written by Dorian arguing against slavery now (and to be clear. i have my own criticisms of his weird pro-slavery rant in inquisition, but this just feels so forced)

Varric has been completely stripped of his role (and personality tbh) and relegated to a mouthpiece that just constantly gives Rook positive affirmations and almost treats them like a child despite Rook at the very least being established in whatever faction they've come from. and then there's also Rook themselves...

there's barely any roleplaying allowed, Rook is just a Good Guy and everyone loves them and trusts them immediately and you're forced to be invested in fighting Solas no matter what, you can't even choose your own motivations. and you can't really be aggressive or "mean" (at least in inquisition you could resist the herald title and question the inquisition's existence). which i don't necessarily have a problem with on its own but why am i allowed to play a crow then? and why is Rook so naive and insecure when they clearly were headstrong enough to go against their faction in their origin? the first few hours are so "the power of friendship!!!" and it's very bizarre considering Rook doesn't know any of these people except Varric and Harding. if you choose to leave the mayor in dmeta crossing, Neve challenges Rook's decision (good!) but this causes Rook to go running back to Varric and suddenly be extremely insecure about their choice (bad!) my Rook is an assassin and has no qualms about letting some guy die regardless of whether Neve likes it or not.

but it's like the game won't allow there to be any kind of tension or friction between characters, no disagreements or disapproval... it's all just so BORING!!!!!! it feels so silly!!! why are we so worried about these factions being Right or our characters being Correct but then you still depict the qunari as this faceless bloodthirsty monolith that only want to Kill. the venatori are all evil and abuse their slaves (but dont worry, none of US have slaves now!!!)-- it's SO black and white. this is like, the opposite of what i play these games for... everyone is toothless and inoffensive and boring. and nevermind the fact that the game is still racist, anyways 😭

also . not as serious this is goofy but i can't even imagine how they're going to do the romance scenes in this game. so far everything has felt geared towards a younger, new audience (which doesn't make sense, this game has to feel nonsensical if you've never played any other dragon age game, so little is explained properly) and i can't even imagine romance scenes happening like they have in previous games. are there even any? lmao

[eponymous-rose]

So I've been playing Baldur's Gate 3 like everyone else and had An Incredibly Wild Combat Experience just now...

(spoilers under the cut for an early-game fight; if you don't care about the game, this is 100% parse-able as a d&d fight)

So there I am with my character Amisra (elf fighter), and a party consisting of Karlach (tiefling barbarian), Astarion (elf/vampire-spawn rogue) and Gale (human wizard). We venture into the lair of a hag to try to rescue this woman she's kidnapped and I'm getting a little blithe when it comes to spell slots and short rests - everyone's starting to look pretty rough, and then there's a long stretch of having to navigate carefully around traps, mostly via jumps that I actually remember to have Feather Fall on this time. "No problem," I think like every D&D player before me, "I'll simply take a long rest before the boss battle." And the game, in its DM-ish wisdom, says, "No, you can't long rest in the lair of an actively hostile enemy, what were you thinking???" and that's how I get into a fight that's way, way over my head.

I'm giving it my best shot, dealing with illusory hag-enemies and complicated terrain, but it's clear this is going to be my first total-party-kill of the game. Several characters have been knocked down and brought back up, and we've been in enough of a bad state that all of our healing potions are gone (leading me to the realization that you can craft in battle, which then leads to all of the crafted potions also being consumed).

The stage is set for disaster: the hag still has half her health (60-something points), and my whole party is out of all spell slots and fancy tricks. Astarion and Karlach are knocked unconscious on the other side of the room via Ray of Sickness, making death saves. Gale and Amisra are in some sort of necrotic zone that's dealing damage every round.

The immediate turn order: Gale, Hag, Amisra. Gale has 1 HP and will be unconscious from the necrotic damage after his turn. Amisra has a whopping 7 HP but is being held in the damage-over-time area by a Hold Person spell she cannot seem to save against. The hag has a perfect shot on everyone in the room.

So I'm sitting there like "well, it was a fun run while it lasted" and trying to remember when I saved last. At this point, I figure I might as well go for a little roleplay flair and try to think of what Gale would do for this, his final turn. Well, he'd look to magic. But, uh, sorry, those cantrips aren't going to deal 60 points of damage and get you out of your current predicament. Too bad.

Hang on. I've picked up so many scrolls, surely there's something there that might be a fun finish. Scroll of Flying? Nah, then I'll just die in midair. Scroll of Ray of Enfeeblement? Yeah, I'm sure she'll be real sad that her melee attacks do marginally less damage as she annihilates us with ranged attacks anyway. Scroll of Feign Death? Who's ever even used that spell successfully in a video game? What would you even--

Wait. Scroll of Feign Death. Resistance to all damage types except psychic, puts the target in a comatose state. Gale's going to be unconscious next round, but Amisra still has 7 HP...

So Gale, very dramatically, pulls out this scroll and casts the spell on Amisra, who Feigns Death very convincingly considering she's frozen on the spot and slowly taking damage. And Gale takes the last burst of damage himself and falls unconscious.

The hag absolutely doesn't stop there and keeps hitting Karlach, Astarion, and Gale until they're dead... but she never targets Amisra. She thinks she's dead. She actually thinks she's dead! And she might be right, as Amisra takes 2 HP and 1 HP of damage each turn, frozen in place...

And the hag just... stops. Everyone is dead, right? Yup, four bodies on the ground. Time to go and do whatever it is hags do for fun. She leaves the battlefield.

And Amisra finally saves against the damage-over-time with One. Frickin'. Hit. Point. Remaining.

I as the player have about 1 HP remaining myself as I fumble frantically to move Amisra out of the dangerous area and manage to remember how to use a mouse in time to cast a Scroll of Revivify on Gale. Two of us, each stumbling around at 1 HP, no other healing available, no idea where the hag is in her lair, the rest of our (very dead) party on the other side of the giant room, and a huge path of traps and treacherous drops to get back to the surface. What can we do but press on, deeper into the lair?

In the next room, which I have never seen before, I am shaking. If there's a trap, we're probably done. I'm too nervous to try looting anything in the room - what if she comes back? And then I see a sparkly fairy circle of mushrooms, looking an awful lot like an exit. No way. NO WAY.

I click that fairy circle so many times and just hold my breath as the two remaining party members stumble to the exit... and promptly appear back in the (slightly less dangerous) bog. The bog where, in its infinite DM-ly kindness, the game finally allows us to make camp, where I can resurrect Karlach and Astarion in peace.

And that's how we avoided a Total Party Kill with the most situational spell scroll use imaginable!

Edit: Also, a tip for when I did go back to fight the hag - a 2nd-level Magic Missile auto-hits up to 4 targets, so if you position Gale toward the middle of the room you can take down all 4 illusory hag-clones in one turn. Ahh, it was nice to have spell slots again.