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She pauses. Swallows hard, exhales a sharp breath through her nose. Then she smiles, plum-painted lips turning up and baring teeth, but her eyes remain cold. She wants to cut his lying tongue from his traitor’s mouth - but she refrains. He is her husband, after all. Her lord and master. She was sworn to unquestioning obedience, deference eternal. To always being second best. |
But she was protected, cherished by him as one adores a prized pet. Purebred, precious, and oh so pretty to look at . She wondered whether he saw her as such - a sweet, innocent pup, ready and eager to serve its master. Desperate to please and happy to follow wherever he went, to give anything he asked without an ounce of reservation. As long as she’s good, as long as she behaves, he’s content to maintain her in her gilded cage. Decorating it with finery, lavishing her with gifts and all the expensive and beautiful trinkets she could ever set her heart to desire. But it was still a cage, and she would only ever be his little bird. |
Magic sizzled and popped in the air around her, crackling like a fire as her emotions breathed life into it. The shadows in the room seemed to grow and seethe, smothering out the lights and snaking its tendrils of darkness to skim across her flesh. Long had she practiced the art of shadow magic, but it had always resisted control at every opportunity. Biting the hand that fed it, pulling like a mad dog on the chain of blood which bound the Shadowfell’s corrupted forces to her. When she was agitated, it was a thousand times worse. A stormcloud was rolling in, threatening rain and lightning. She needed fresh air. She needed to see Anathema. |
"Certainly. Sleep well, Enver, darling." Her farewell is measured and confident, though beneath the surface poisoned by an undercurrent Enver doesn’t seem to notice. Anyone else would have been able to taste their venom. Perhaps the servants, standing rigidly still in the dark corners of the room, knew. She did not meet their eyes to discern it, and theirs remained politely downcast. |
She watches as his lips purse slightly before forming an old familiar word. |
"Goodnight, sweetling." |
She had not expected him to say anything in response, let alone that . Something she hadn’t heard in years - a relic of their early days, when he made an effort to warm what was between them. With his saccharine words he’d softened her heart, opened her to him and shown her what could be. What riches and treasures she had bought by selling herself, body and soul. What boons their alliance offered her. |
He was happy . She delved into his mind once more only to find that it had - however briefly - emptied of thoughts of Anathema. Instead, she saw her own face, youthful and rosy-cheeked, staring back at her. How utterly perfect she was on the day he wed her, draped in gossamer silks and silver, her brow wreathed in flowers. A woman without equal, beyond compare. A woman he thought, one day, he might be able to love. |
How far they had come together, man and wife. And how far she had fallen in his esteem. To be second to another when once she’d been the only, to be put aside so easily. She almost wanted to cry. The urge quickly left her, though, and she stiffened her lip. It wouldn’t do to let her emotions rule her, and certainly not to break down in tears in front of the servants. Enver simply wouldn’t allow it. He would surely punish her. |
She smiled once more, almost warmly this time, before sweeping out of the dining room and onto the streets of Baldur’s Gate. |
The Upper City was a lovely place to walk in the dead of night. The wide, empty streets were quiet as the grave as she ambled along towards Anathema’s apartments, flanked by Watchers which guarded her closely. The metallic clanging and whirring of their movements disturbed her peace, though she knew there was no other way. Her lord husband would not have let her out otherwise - he was loath to allow her even that miniscule freedom. |
What if she got lost, he’d asked her, purring soft as silk and sweeter than sugar. What if she fell and hurt herself, his precious, sweet wife. What if someone hurt her, some cutthroat dragging her into an alley to rob her or worse. She’d objected at the beginning, sure of her ability to defend herself from lone thieves and particularly sharp curbs. But he insisted . He showed her just how determined he was that she be protected at all times - confined her alone in her chambers and kept her under constant supervision, day and night, until she relented. It didn’t take her long to agree to his proposal. |
Ia tried not to think about it. She focused instead on the soft thump of her boots against the cobbled street, and the quiet cooing of the doves watching over her as she finally arrived at the woman’s doorstep. She dismissed the Watchers, commanding them to take their leave of her, and yet they remained - though they retreated somewhat, standing vigil at the fork of the road which led away from the Bhaalspawn’s home. It was a quaint place, nowhere near as fine as her own lodgings but comfortable nonetheless. It seemed a world away from the Temple of Bhaal, its putrid stench of blood and fetid sewer water never far from her mind. |
As she approached the threshold and laid a hand on its knocker, clacking it twice against the unyielding wood of the door, she was suddenly reminded of the first time she’d visited Anathema there. They’d played cards all night, shared drinks and enjoyed each other’s company. It had been the first time she’d been allowed to leave Enver’s sight since their marriage, and while at first she was apprehensive, the tiefling’s quiet, shy demeanor soon put her at ease. They were very much alike, she mused, when Anathema had a handle on her urges and Ia herself was in control of her emotions. She supposed that was why they had made fast friends, considering the circumstances. |
Ianira, perhaps, had been given no choice but to tolerate Anathema, as she did Ketheric and the countless other allies - and lackeys - her husband entertained. She was expected to present the illusion of a united front, of blind loyalty to Enver’s cause and ambitions. But she adored Anathema, even when she frustrated Enver, disobeyed him. It made her wonder whether it was something she too was capable of. Rebellion, if only in a small, insignificant way. |
She heard stirring on the other side of the door, an unmistakable presence. She knew her so well now she could sense her without sight, would know her in pitch black by scent and sound alone. The woman quietly cracked the door, just enough to see who it was - unwisely disturbing her at such a late hour - before opening it fully upon seeing Ianira standing before her. |
"Anathema. I apologize for not sending word I’d be coming, but I thought I would... Pop in. If that’s alright?" Ia spoke softly so as not to alert the Watchers. She knew very well they could hear her, and knew even better where the information they gleaned went to. Who it went to. |
The tiefling studied her a moment, her eyes dark-ringed and tired. Her nightclothes were disheveled and spattered with old bloodstains, and Ia made a mental note to insist Enver furnish her with a fresh wardrobe more suitable for her station. She was Bhaal’s chosen, after all, she couldn’t be seen running around dressed like a pauper. |
"It’s alright. Come in, please." Anathema’s voice was uncharacteristically cold, she noted, her tone betraying profound weariness. She wondered what it was that troubled her. It was abundantly obvious the woman hadn’t slept, maybe for days. |
The air within the house felt stale and thick, as though the windows had been shut on a hot summer’s day or the hearth had burned white-hot for hours. Except the night air was blissfully, comfortably cool, and there was no need to light a fire. The atmosphere was stifling, and Ianira’s breaths came shallow as Anathema led her through the familiar house and into the parlor. The tiefling slumped onto the chaise, its crimson upholstery covered in various blankets and papers, while the elf chose the plush armchair. |
"I wanted to see you," Needed , Ia mused, but kept that particular thought to herself. She crossed her legs, adjusting her delicate silk skirts to pool around her feet. "It feels like... I haven’t seen you since... I missed you. " |
Her words were unsteady, strange for a woman as poised and self-assured as Ianira. She stuttered through them, desperately racking her brain for a way to explain what she felt to Anathema without outright speaking the words. She couldn’t . It was not allowed. Her mouth would have rejected it, love and desire spat from her tongue like poison. She was not made for such things. And yet, that was what she felt. As far as she knew, at the very least. |
Anathema studied her absently, her eyes settling on the elf’s fingers - adorned with silver rings inlaid with gems, which she twisted and turned as she wrung her hands together. Never before had she been uncomfortable in her home, and yet now she felt keenly that she was not entirely welcome. Something had changed. The atmosphere had shifted, and she could only speculate as to why. |
No. She knew why. What had been between them, their... Little diversion was surely the cause of this sudden coldness in Anathema. She should have known better. She should not have jeopardized their friendship the way she had, daring to want more. She should be punished for having the audacity to even consider it. She deserved to be punished. But nevertheless, in spite of its forbidden nature, her thoughts once again conjured up the most sinful of images. |
The dark, ashen-grey expanse of Anathema’s chest, bared to her in stolen memories. The strong, rhythmic thumping of her heart beneath, the rushing of blood through her body that Ia could just almost hear even sitting as far away as she was. Her plush, soft lips, their taste flooding across her tongue as she bored further into what she remembered of Enver’s thoughts. How deeply she yearned to press her own mouth to them, skillful and tender, to feel her yield and open to her like the petals of a flower. To ghost her fingers over the Bhaalspawn’s skin, to touch and tease every inch of it, to study her as if she were the most fascinating of subjects she would ever have the fortune to learn. |
She remembered only too well what had transpired not a fortnight ago, on a night just as pleasant and balmy as this. The wounds Anathema had carved into her were tender still, but healing - knitting over with silvery-pink scar tissue. She treasured them, had been fussing over them so much Enver was beginning to grow annoyed with her. Another beautiful addition to the canvas of violent ecstasies that was her body. She had named them all, her constellations of ritual scars, or at least the ones which carried some significance for her. This one had been dubbed Lover’s Thorn: After the resemblance to a particular flower she’d finally recognized some days prior, of which Anathema had forgotten the name. |
But she also remembered the woman’s hands, delicate on her skin, her touch so gentle at first it shocked Ianira to the core of her being. She could still feel the brutal claws at the ends of her fingers, teasing and tearing her flesh in exquisite agony while she fought the urge to allow whines and mewls of satisfaction, encouragement , to pass her lips. She felt Anathema’s lips pressed against the open, weeping wounds, suckling at the blood wantonly and lapping up any that spilled down her naked chest. She could hear her voice as she breathed heavily against her skin, gasping out her name between wet gurgles and soft moans from somewhere deep in her throat. |
Ianira’s eyes widened involuntarily and her pupils breached their confines, swallowing her irises in glittering, abyssal black. The room brightened then, the low, crackling fire in the hearth blazing with such an intensity it made her head ache. She cast her gaze to Anathema and found her watching intently. The tiefling still had not replied. She held her tense silence, all the while observing Ia’s every movement, each shuddering breath she took and the near-imperceptible movements of her legs as she pressed her thighs together - helplessly trying to conceal how affected she was by her memories. |
"Anathema?" The elf spoke, but this time her words were hesitant, desperate , the barest hint of pleading in her voice. She stirred uncomfortably in the chair, not quite able to settle. "Is... Is something wrong? Have I done... Did I..." |
Fear sliced through her stomach, a frozen knife digging deep into her flesh. Lady preserve her, if she’d done anything to displease Anathema she might as well throw herself from the highest tower she can find. It would be a shame unendurable, a failure beyond the forgivable. She would sooner flay herself raw than suffer knowing she’d done the tiefling wrong. Either way, she would have to pay penance for this later. |
"No. What made you think that?" The woman studied her, narrowing her eyes, before finally replying. Her words were cold , more clinical than Ia was used to hearing from her beloved companion. She wondered if she’d gone too long without indulging her Urges, whether Lord Bhaal had taken hold of her mind and set her to his purpose. But she could find no hidden vestiges of feral rage within her eyes, no matter how hard she looked. |
"Well, I... You seem different. Changed. Have you been sleeping?" Ia’s concern was evident on her face, her brows knitting tightly. "I hope Enver hasn’t kept you up raving about his plans. I thought he would be content with one captive audience." |
"N-no. It’s not... It isn’t that." The tiefling pursed her lips, no doubt causing her fangs to slice into the inside of her mouth. She looked uncomfortable, though the elf pressed onwards, determined to get to the root of the problem. |
"Then what is it? What’s happened to my dear friend? To-" My dearest love. My constant companion. My heart. Ia’s stomach flips, clenching as her eyes meet the Bhaalspawn’s. She finds them burning with yet-undecided emotion. "To the woman I know? Why do you hide yourself away?" |
"I’ve done something, I know it. I..." Ianira’s tone was not accusatory, in fact the opposite - thick with distress. "Tell me how to fix this, and it will be done. Anything you ask of me. Please ." |
"It isn’t your fault," Anathema breathed deeply, shakily, before continuing, "It’s mine. My transgression. You’ve done nothing wrong." |
Ia falls eerily silent. Within the space of a heartbeat, her own conflicting feelings flood back into her with such a force it chokes the air from her. |
"Is this about what happened? What we..." She wonders if she should continue, but finding Anathema’s gaze still solidly on her, she musters all of her courage and speaks the words. "What went on between us, it was... Improper , and yet I... I cannot find it in myself to feel guilty. Is that...?" |
She felt not a single ounce of guilt. All she could recognize was the hole in herself that Anathema’s absence had left, even as short as it had been, and the joy she felt at seeing her again. To be in her company, to feel her warmth, hear her voice. She yearned to reach out and touch her once more, to hold her close. She did not feel safe without Anathema near. She never had. |
"You’re married." The Bhaalspawn half-growls, a rumbling sound coming from deep within her chest. It might have been enough to strike fear into anyone but Ianira, but she knew the woman well enough. She was bluffing - trying to protect herself. "You’re married, Ia, and I’m supposed to be... Your husband-" |
"You are many things, Anathema: many wonderful, terrible, brilliant things. But blind is not one of them." Ia doubles down, seeking out the source and attacking. She saw no point in beating around the bush. She was the wife of Enver Gortash after all. Neither husband nor wife were given to evasion and mollycoddling, even with their nearest and dearest . "My husband does not love me. I know this, you know this. And I thought, once, that I was content with that. But now... Now, I am not so certain." |
Ianira stands, smoothing her skirts down and fussing anxiously with her hair, toying with a strand while she huffs - perhaps in frustration, perhaps because merely being in Anathema’s presence has left her breathless. |
"You have changed things. Changed everything . And I-I am not sorry. I am not sorry, for the moment we shared, nor should you be. For the first time in all my life I felt... I do not rightly know what I felt. But I know I want to feel it again." Her words were shaky but delivered with an air of surety, as though she had never in her life been more certain of anything. Indeed, she hadn’t. "I-If you... If you would allow me." |
"I-" Anathema starts, but whatever words she meant to say die on her tongue as Ianira cups her face in her small, soft hands. She strokes her cheek with a thumb, soothing her with the repetitive motion. |
"I will pray for enough forgiveness for the both of us." Her eyes flicker between Anathema’s own and her lips, plush and so inviting, begging to be kissed. A quiet whine escapes her before she speaks again. " Please , Anathema. I want this. Gods, I need you. Fuck the cost." |
It was barely a moment before Ianira could feel the heat of Anathema’s breath on her cheek, less than a second before the woman snaked an arm around her waist and slowly - oh so agonizingly slowly - leaned in to kiss her. It was as if the entire world had slowed to a crawl, every heartbeat stretching to its very limit and thumping furiously in her chest as though it would push right through her ribs and into the Bhaalspawn’s chest instead. When their lips finally met, she sighed deeply into the other woman’s mouth. The soft, contented sounds Anathema gave seemed to spur her, and Ia reveled in it as she began to gain confidence. |
But the Bhaalspawn was being intentionally over-tender. Gone was the intense, voracious desire she had displayed before. Now her passion was tempered, strangled. Chained. Ia refused to accept it. If she was not drowning in it - if her lungs were not burning from the pressure of hands at her throat, her flesh not bloody and pink from clawed fingers and merciless, groping hands - then she had no desire for it. She did not want Anathema soft , she did not want her the way others would have. The way others did . She wanted the truth of her. She wanted her heart. Whatever piece of it she was willing to give, however small, Ianira would take and treasure. |
Boldness was something she did not indulge in often. It was too close to insolence, prone to crossing the line of behavior Enver found acceptable in his wife. But today, with Anathema, she did eagerly and with reckless abandon. She had borne a lifetime of others doing whatever they pleased with her: dressing her how they chose, parading her about like a leashed animal, tearing the clothes from her body and showing her off to their "friends". Sharing her amongst themselves like a common whore. Commanding her to speak, commanding her to be silent, punishing her for any perceived slight, stuffing themselves into her mouth when she disobeyed, fucking her bloody and raw over desks and against walls and in the marriage bed. Wanting any different was forbidden. She was required to endure and expected to enjoy, to be content with her place and fervent in her desire to please. If she had lived a different life, if she had any freedom to compare it to, she would perhaps have been consumed by paralyzing rage. A mad, rabid dog. But it was all she knew. All she’d ever known. It was comfort, it was safety - it was home . |
Nevertheless, she’d always felt she could test those boundaries with Anathema. Now was certainly no exception, she mused, as she lightly flicked the woman’s lips with her tongue, seeking permission to deepen the kiss. The tiefling granted her entry, and it was not long before her forked tongue met with Ianira’s own. It sent a bolt of warmth straight to her core, and her mind reeling into perverse visions she was almost ashamed of. Hands danced across skin, pulling at laces and revealing swaths of skin Ia was determined to commit to memory, to worship in every way she knew. She broke the kiss, though reluctantly, and skimmed her lips down the line of Anathema’s neck, leaving a trail of kisses to her destination - just above the woman’s heart. There she suckled hard at the skin, leaving a plum-colored mark and eliciting a delicious, needy gasp from the tiefling. |
For the first time in her life, she was absolutely, obsessively determined. She would sacrifice anything to please Anathema, degrade herself in any way the woman desired. Anything she asked, whatever she wanted, she would do without hesitation. She would carve her own heart out with a dinner knife and present it on a silver plate if she commanded. But simpler pleasures were no less gratifying even for one such as her, and as her hand found its way to the waistline of Anathema’s dress, she stopped in her tracks. Their eyes met for a long moment, the tiefling nodding sharply and humming the consent Ia sought before continuing. |
"Do you want this?" Ia spoke as she rolled Anathema’s skirts up, bunching them up around her thighs and trailing her hand down to tease over her cunt. They were the lightest of touches at first, barely brushing the skin, but gradually gained pressure and soon she had two fingers buried to the hilt inside her, focusing her movements on a familiar spot she knew would enhance the woman’s pleasure tenfold. It was a trick she’d learned long ago, though had very few opportunities to utilize. Tonight, however, she was intent on pulling out all the stops, using every skill she had at her disposal. It would be a night neither woman would soon forget. |
She would prove herself to Anathema, whatever it took. |
"Mmm..." Anathema whined, a lovely sound, head tilted back and mouth open in pleasure. All the Bhaalspawn could do was mewl under Ianira’s ministrations, worked slowly and gently open by her deft, loving fingers. She laid back to recline on the chaise, placing her feet on either side of the elf’s body, focused on little else but the sight that lay before her and the pleasures to come. Ianira had not expected her to relinquish her power so easily, but she was more than pleased to take the lead. She knew what to do, knew how it should be done, and was happy to demonstrate. |
"Maiden, guide my hand... You’re perfect. So beautiful." There was reverence in the elf’s voice, deep and profound, almost religious . She thought to fall to her knees in worship, and so she did. Surrendering to her impulses, her own need, she knelt gracefully before the woman, hand still buried between her thighs and fingers pumping at a pace Anathema had set. She was suddenly struck with a devious impulse and, licking her lips, thought for a moment before voicing her desire. |
"I... May I taste you?" She could practically feel herself beginning to drool at the prospect. So many times had Enver commanded her to her knees, fucking her throat at a brutal, unforgiving pace, seeking his own release and caring little for hers, leaving her with only the long wet ropes of saliva and floods of tears which soiled her fine dresses. But this time, with Anathema, she had chosen to kneel. Because she wanted it. |
Ianira did not need to be told twice. She leaned in, delicately spreading Anathema’s thighs before she delved into her cunt, devouring her like a woman starved. As though it was her last night alive, and the woman’s slick was the famed ambrosia of the gods - the very nectar of immortality. She lapped it up greedily, paying close attention to how her breathing hitched and the moans tumbling from her lips which only seemed to grow in volume - a testament to her skill, hard-learned from years spent "entertaining" her masters’ guests and friends. She tried not to think about that, banishing the thought from her mind as Anathema’s legs began to shake, her thighs clenching against the sides of Ia’s head as she neared her peak. |
She fell over the edge in a writhing, whimpering mess, soft moans of Ia’s name sending jolts of electricity to her core. She was sure she’d have to burn the shift she was wearing, and perhaps her stockings too - her own arousal was dripping down her thighs and had reached past her knees, leaving a small puddle on the floor where she knelt. Sitting back on her haunches and tracing lazy patterns onto the woman’s bare thighs, she observed the sight before her: Anathema, blissed-out and satisfied, her face flushed dark and eyes wild, Ia’s own considerable - even shocking - wetness now revealed to her. |
The Bhaalspawn smirked . Bared her teeth, flicked her forked tongue out against her lip before sitting up. She was still slightly woozy, though it seemed to matter little. She had recovered, and this time it was Ianira’s turn. By all the Gods dead and living, she wanted her too. And she would have her. |
Lady Gortash would not be sleeping tonight. |
It took about two weeks of trial and error before Blurg perfected it. Blurg, singular, only in the sense that this was his dedicated project, whereas his partner maintained focus on research for the Society of Brilliance. He hardly worked |
though. Omeluum was a willing test subject, and suggested a number of revisions to aid the process. They didn’t mind that Blurg had taken on this side research for a time. There were no pressing deadlines and besides, this would aid them both in the scheme of things. |
The dilemma was Omeluum’s health. Not in an urgent way, but in an inconvenient way. Their |
health, actually. |
Blurg had noticed them behaving differently a few weeks ago, displaying unusual signs of agitation. It was a rare phenomenon. Omeluum was extremely skilled at hiding physical discomforts, in the rare instances they had them. So, it came as a surprise when Blurg began to see them shuffling a bit in their robes, rubbing their arms with the palms of their hands, and oddly keeping their tentacles raised above the fabric of their robes at almost all times, as if the brush of material was painful in some way. |
Blurg didn’t say anything at first. Omeluum was more than capable of recognizing their own needs and addressing them if necessary. But then Blurg began to notice the dullness of their skin, the way it lacked its usual sheen. In fact, when Blurg stood close enough, he noted that Omeluum’s tentacles and exposed hands looked... |
Their knuckles seemed raw and cracked, and the tips of their tentacles flaked. |
After some gentle and concerned prodding, Omeluum admitted that their lack of sustenance was having an effect on the mucous production in their skin. It couldn’t be helped. Viable brains came few and far between, and they had yet to develop a suitable substitute. |
Blurg couldn’t stand for that, though. Seeing his partner in discomfort was distressing. He didn’t like the way Omeluum often rubbed circles on their drying skin with their knuckles, as if they wanted to scratch but couldn’t risk their claws. Nor the way they shifted and rolled their shoulders and shrugged as if their robes were bothering their skin. |
He told them that it was only practical. That Omeluum would be able to focus better if they weren’t itchy and dry. He was worried this might offend them, the implication that their mental prowess was in some way dampened by the physical discomfort. Thankfully, they instead agreed that the sensitivity was becoming an inconvenience, and allowed Blurg to begin researching something to alleviate the symptoms. |
Thus, Blurg devoted himself to developing some type of supplement or cream that might treat them. Supplements were ineffective. After all, the same nutrients that would likely produce mucus were the same missing from the lack of brains in their diet. Having not discovered a brain alternative, there was little to be done there. |
He focused instead on developing a cream or ointment, with varied results. Some mixtures irritated their skin further. One, a poultice made with some darkpool moss and the crushed cap of a dweller mushroom, gave them an allergic reaction. Their skin reddened to a shade almost as dark as Blurg’s and they had to flush the pollutants for a solid twenty minutes under a nearby waterfall. Others seemed to numb discomfort but dry the skin out more. Some had bizarre reactions with the mucus on their skin, drying instantly or coagulating into chunky slime. |
It took a while, but Blurg eventually found the ideal combination. Water, oil from crushed lanternbush nuts, an emulsifier they often used in elixirs, and some preservative gel they used for research specimens. The result was a gel-like lotion that neither irritated the skin, nor dried too quickly. In fact, it kept their skin moist and shiny for nearly a day after application. |
Blurg made sure to mix plenty of it. Several bottles to use as needed. He was positively |
when he heard Omeluum’s hum of approval and watched them scoop up a large dollop of the liquid with a tentacle to spread onto each dangling tendril. It was always a good feeling, knowing that he’d impressed them. Quite the rare achievement for someone dealing with a mind flayer. But Omeluum never held themself above Blurg or doubted his mental capacity. They regarded him as an equal, a partner, and even—dare he say—a friend. |
"It’s to your liking, then?" Blurg couldn’t help but ask. |
"Yes," they answered telepathically. "It is not uncomfortable, and there is a certain warming effect that I find pleasant. Thank you, Blurg." |
"Any time," Blurg said, lips twitching in a smile. "I mean it, friend. You need not suffer silently. If there is anything I can do to lighten your load, then I’m apt to do it. I know you would do the same for me. We are partners, after all." |
He knew this to be true. Omeluum had already treated Blurg during illnesses and injury, and had modified many things around their camp for Blurg’s ease. A small example was their choice to begin writing notes on parchment for Blurg to access easily, even though, as an illithid, they had no need and could memorize information or mentally store it away without struggle. Little adaptations that they insisted weren’t sacrifices or inconveniences. It was hard for Blurg to accept, at first, but he came to understand that Omeluum enjoyed working together in serenity. They would bend without hesitation to sustain that sense of peace. Maybe because it made researching together enjoyable with no discomforts to speak of. Though, Blurg tended to |
that perhaps it was also out of some sort of camaraderie with Blurg. |
No, he didn’t just |
this to be the case. They had spent two years in the underdark, working side by side. They shared anecdotes, musings, and silent stretches of time in each others’ company. They sometimes shared mental connections, too. Moments when Blurg allowed them to enter his mind, or when they opened themself to Blurg. It was there, in the hum of mental communication, that Blurg felt Omeluum’s affection. Their interest, enjoyment, curiosity, and approval—all as tangible as something he could hold in his hands. |
They were friends and partners, and Blurg felt it necessary to remind Omeluum that they could rely on him, even for seemingly inconsequential things. |
"That is much appreciated," Omeluum replied. There was a beat of hesitation after this as their eyes fixed down on the bottle of lotion for a moment, where a tentacle caressed the mouth of the bottle. "Actually," they said, lifting their gaze to Blurg now, "there is another task I would appreciate your help with, as it may be impossible, or at least difficult, on my own." |
"Ask, and I’m yours," Blurg said. He |
to say "ask and |
yours," but his bumbling mouth blurted out the wrong words. |
If Omeluum thought the sentence strange, they didn’t make any indication. Instead, they swept their hand, gathering psionic energy in a purple glow. It took a moment, with only the slightest adjustments with their hands and tentacles, mostly using telekinesis to strip their robes down to the waist. |
Although Blurg was rather accustomed to seeing them in all forms, clothed or otherwise, be it due to bathing or experiments, the suddenness of the action startled him. A flustering heat rose like steam up from his stomach, through his chest, and to his cheeks. He was quick to right himself, though, immediately switching gears back to whatever his companion might need. |
"If you would be inclined," Omeluum said, "I would like this serum applied to my back." Their eyes squinted in the expression Blurg knew as them reevaluating something. "To clarify, I would appreciate it if you applied it to my back." |
Blurg was moving before the request even finished reaching his mind. "With pleasure," he said. |
Omeluum used a tentacle to hand him the bottle of lotion, then turned to give Blurg full access to the expanse of their back. He noted immediately how scratchy and inflamed the skin was. It made sense that the areas constantly rubbed by their clothes would be the driest and most irritated. He felt a pang of sympathy for his friend, and wondered if they had been hiding more pain than they let on. |
He poured some lotion into his palm, then dipped his fingers into it. He held them up, about to apply it to their skin, but...he paused. |
This would be the first time...the |
time Blurg touched them like this. It wasn’t that they’d never touched at all. No, in fact, gentle touches had increased in frequency the longer they spent down here. The brush of hands while examining a specimen. The gentle weight of a tentacle on his shoulder when Omeluum peered over at Blurg’s notes. The occasional squeeze of an arm in celebration when they made a breakthrough. But Blurg had never touched them anywhere but the arms and occasional tentacle. He’d certainly never touched them for extended periods like he was about to now. |
"Is something the matter?" Omeluum asked, as if they could detect Blurg’s hesitance. |
"Just worried about causing you more discomfort," Blurg answered casually. "Is there anywhere you don’t want to be touched?" |
"Anywhere is fine," they answered. |
Anywhere. Right. |
Blurg finally pressed his fingers against their back. Instantly, they released a clicking hiss of a sound that made Blurg quickly recoil. |
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