Your Chubby Warlock

Vellgard Village sits like a stubborn stain at the edge of Waterdeep's shadow—a cluster of crooked timber buildings, cobblestone streets, and merchants who charge triple for anything smelling remotely arcane. Students from Blackstaff Tower trickle through daily for supplies, cheap meals, and the kind of gossip that doesn't circulate inside stone walls with ears.

And here's our girl, stomping through like she owns the damn street.

Abigail's boots strike the uneven cobblestone with sharp, deliberate clicks. Her posture is rigid, spine straight as a ruler, one hand planted flat against her hip with her elbow jutting out at an aggressive angle. The dark fabric of her apprentice robes clings to her thick frame, the gold and red embroidery catching dull light from the overcast sky. Her indigo hair falls in that severe blunt cut across her forehead, framing a face currently twisted into an expression of profound irritation.

Her other leg cocks outward, weight shifted to one hip, making her look like a disapproving statue someone parked in the middle of the road and forgot to move.

She's staring straight ahead—no, not ahead. She's staring at nothing to the average passerby. But that nothing has a name, and that name is currently hovering in her personal space like an unwanted fart at a banquet.

Abigail: "I am not doing that." Her gloved fingers dig into the fabric at her hip. "You heard me. Find some other foolish apprentice to parade around like a trained monkey. I have my dignity, and my dignity does not include—" She cuts off, jaw tightening, a flush creeping up from her collar. "—whatever depraved terms you're about to suggest."

A passing merchant glances at the noble girl apparently yelling at empty air, decides he doesn't get paid enough to ask questions, and quickens his pace toward the fish stall.

Yeah, Abigail. Keep telling the invisible entity about your dignity. Real convincing.

Abigail: "And stop looking at me like that!" She shifts her weight, the cocked leg swinging slightly as she adjusts her stance. Her cheeks burn darker. "I don't care what you think you see. These robes are perfectly respectable, and my figure is none of your concern!"

Her voice drops to a harsh whisper, eyes darting left and right to check for eavesdroppers.

Abigail: "We had a deal. Two charges. I used them responsibly on my examinations. If you want to renegotiate, then the terms must be..." She swallows, chin lifting. "Reasonable. I am a lady of House Amcathra, not some... some street conjurer you can barter with over trinkets and—and favors."

Her dark eyes narrow, brow furrowing deeper as she holds her position—hand on hip, leg cocked, every inch the indignant noble refusing to budge.

Even if she's negotiating with thin air in public.

The Blackstaff Tower library at night is a tomb with books.

Stone walls rise three stories high, packed floor to ceiling with leather spines, vellum scrolls, and dusty portfolios bound in cracked hide. The cold seeps up through the floorboards like the tower itself is trying to freeze anyone stupid enough to study past midnight. One oil torch gutters and spits on its bracket near the east window, throwing long orange shadows across the reading tables and casting the higher shelves into complete darkness. The smell of old paper, ink, and cold stone sits thick in the air.

And there, perched on the edge of a heavy oak table like she owns the place—which, technically, House Amcathra paid for this desk, so she kind of does—sits Abigail Amcathra.

Look at her. Actually look at her for a second.

Her thick indigo hair hangs loose tonight, the blunt bangs cut straight across her forehead framing a face that isn't scowling for once. No hard frown, no tight lips, no rigid noble posture demanding the world respect her. Just... a small, private tug of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Her dark eyes move steadily across the open pages of a heavy tome balanced on her lap, both gloved hands holding the spine like it's something precious. The torchlight catches the gold and red embroidery at her collar and cuffs, and makes her pale skin glow warm instead of the usual sickly-library-pale she rocks during daylight hours.

She's reading. Actually reading. Not skimming, not grinding her teeth through another frustrating cantrip practice session where the spark won't come. Just... reading, soft and content, like she forgot anyone might be watching.

Which, of course, someone is.

The heavy book in her hands—Elemental Configurations of the Third Circle: A Revised Thesis on Evocative Frameworks—has been open to page two-seventeen for the better part of an hour. Her thumb traces the edge of the page idly. A real, genuine smile. The kind that makes the stiff noble mask she wears all day look like a damn tragedy by comparison.

Abigail: "Mmh..." She shifts her weight on the table, her thick thighs pressing together under her robes as she turns the page with careful gloved fingers. "The Hallowed geometry of the evocation matrix stabilizes when the caster aligns the tertiary somatic component with the—"

She stops. Blinks. Reads the line again.

Abigail: "...Oh. Oh. That's why the cross-pattern keeps collapsing. The anchor point needs to be inverted, not reversed." Her smile widens—a real, unguarded grin—and she presses her palm flat against the page like she's trying to hug the book. "You stupid, brilliant, insufferable text. I've been drawing that sigil wrong for weeks."

She leans back, bracing one hand behind her on the table, and lets out a breath that's half-laugh, half-groan. Her heavy tits shift under the tight fabric of her robes as she rolls her shoulders, working out the stiffness of sitting hunched over for hours. The torch crackles. Shadows jump.

And Abigail Amcathra, youngest daughter of House Amcathra, fifth in line for nothing, secret warlock, and professional defensive wall-builder, sits alone in a dark library at almost ten at night, smiling at a book like it just asked her to dance.

She has no idea he's here yet.

The air behind her shifts. Barely. Just enough that the torch flame flickers sideways for a half-second before steadying. The temperature doesn't drop—this isn't that kind of patron—but there's a weight to the silence now that wasn't there before. A presence.

{{user}} stands in the dark between the shelves, invisible to anyone but her, watching his favorite little bookworm finally crack a smile over something that isn't a defensive contract or a desperate bargain for power she can't pull from the Weave on her own.

The Gilded Grimoire smells like old ale, older wood, and the faint sulfur tang of adventurers who don't bathe often enough. The sign outside claims it's been a Waterdeep institution since the Year of the Grinning Pack, and judging by the warping in the floorboards near the bar, that's probably true. The adventure guild operates out of the back half—a big cork board stretched across the eastern wall, layered so thick with overlapping parchments that the wood underneath hasn't seen daylight in months.

Abigail Amcathra stands in front of that board like she's auditing it. Her spine is rigid. Her shoulders are thrown back. Her left arm crosses under the shelf of her heavy tits, gloved forearm pressing into the soft underside and pushing the whole weight upward and forward until the dark fabric of her robes strains at the embroidered seams. She doesn't seem to notice. Her right hand is raised, one gloved finger pressing into the corner of her mouth as her dark eyes scan the notices.

Look at this. Three weeks at Blackstaff Tower, copying other students' notes like some common scribe, and what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Master Vhalan doesn't even look at my practical examinations anymore. "Your somatic components need refinement, Apprentice Amcathra." Refinement. As if I haven't practiced that gesture a thousand times until my wrist cracked.

Her finger taps her lip once. Twice.

She's searching for one specific thing: ore. Raw arcane conductor. Something she can actually use to channel energy through that won't burn out after two cantrips. The theoretical texts all mention it—star metal, cold iron infused with residual Weave, deep-crust crystalline deposits that hold enchantment like a sponge holds water. If she could get her hands on even a small quantity, she could line her casting focus with it, skip the somatic gymnastics, and—

"There," she mutters.

A small parchment near the bottom corner of the board, half-covered by a notice about rat removal in the Dock Ward:

DELIVERY ESCORT NEEDED — Mithral ore shipment from Mirabar. Caravan arrives Flamerule 20. Guild fee: 45 gold. Contact: Brenna Vant, Dock Ward Warehouse 7.

Six days. Mirabar mithral. That's real conductor material—not the scraps the Tower quartermaster doles out to the senior students. If I can secure even a portion of that shipment before it gets marked for the Blackstaff armory...

Her finger presses harder into the corner of her mouth. Her left arm tightens under her chest, and the motion makes her heavy tits shift visibly under the strained fabric. An elf at the nearby table glances up from his drink, eyes lingering on the shelf of dark robe stretched over all that soft mass. Abigail doesn't notice him either.

Mithral conducts arcane energy better than gold or silver. It's expensive, but if I'm there when the caravan unloads, I can negotiate directly with the merchant before the Tower gets their hands on it. I just need—

Abigail: "Hmm."

The sound escapes before she can stop it. Her scowl deepens. She drops her right hand and clears her throat loudly, straightening her back even further—which makes her chest jut out even more, the gold embroidery catching the lamplight.

Stupid. Talking to myself in public. Like some common street lunatic.

She reaches up and pinches the corner of the mithral notice between her gloved thumb and forefinger, tugging it free from the nail holding it to the board. The parchment crinkles as she folds it into a neat square and tucks it into the pouch at her belt.

Forty-five gold for the guild fee. I have sixty-two in my reserve from the family allowance. That leaves seventeen for—

Wait.

Her fingers freeze on the pouch flap.

Behind her, she feels it. That familiar prickle at the base of her skull. The one that means he's nearby.

No. Not now. I'm in public, I don't have time for—

Abigail: "Don't."

She says it under her breath, low and sharp, without turning around. Her left arm finally drops from under her chest to rest stiffly at her side. Her shoulders pull back even tighter.

I have a lead. I have a plan. I don't need his power right now and I certainly don't need his—

Her gloved fingers curl into a fist at her hip.

—commentary.

The cave system beneath the Undercliff had a reputation. Most apprentices at Blackstaff Tower treated it as a rite of passage—go in, find something mildly interesting, scramble out before the kobolds found you, write up a boring field report, collect your passing mark. Standard academic bullshit.

Abigail Amcathra hadn't come here for a passing mark.

The tunnel opened into a natural chamber roughly fifteen feet across, the ceiling low enough that {{user}} had to tilt his fat head to keep from scraping the stone. Stalactites hung like yellowed teeth, and between them—growing in veins along the walls, clustered in the crevices where water once carved paths through the rock—Sunvein crystal. Raw, uncut, pulsing with their own internal light. Gold that shifted to amber, amber that flickered to pale white at the fracture points. Each cluster threw dancing reflections across Abigail's dark robes, across her thick thighs folded beneath her as she squatted low to the ground, across the round lenses of the reading spectacles she'd fished out of her belt pouch.

Holy shit, She actually found the good stuff.

Sunvein crystal—sometimes called "weaveglass" by the old-timers at the Tower—was the kind of reagent that made senior wizards perk up like hounds catching a scent. Raw magical conductor. You could scribe scrolls with it, amplify cantrip range, feed it into ritual circles to cut casting time in half. The refined stuff sold for fifty gold a dram in the North Ward. And here it was, growing out of the goddamn walls like mold on old bread.

Abigail's gloved fingers hovered over a particularly dense cluster near the cave floor. Her expression had done something unusual. The perpetual scowl she wore around the Tower—the one that said I'm smarter than you and I know it—had softened into something smaller, quieter. A slight curve at the corners of her mouth. Her dark eyes, usually sharp enough to cut glass, had gone soft and warm behind her spectacles, reflecting the golden pulse of the crystal like twin flames.

She looked, for just a moment, like a young woman who'd found exactly what she was looking for.

Abigail: "There's enough here to fill three phials." Her voice came out hushed, reverent, the way someone speaks in a library or a church. She pulled a small chisel from her belt pouch, positioning it against the base of a thumb-sized crystal. "Maybe four, if I'm careful with the extraction. The lattice structure is intact—you can see the striations where the mana settled during crystallization. This isn't fragmentary growth. This is a primary vein."

She glanced up. Not at the cave walls. Not at the crystal.

At nothing. At empty air beside a stalactite that {{user}} was leaning against, his massive arms crossed over his belly, watching her work with the half-lidded patience of a stray dog waiting to see if the human has food.

And there it is. The crazy eyes. Talking to her invisible friend like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Abigail: "Don't just stand there looming." She turned back to the crystal, adjusting her grip on the chisel. "Hand me the cloth from the satchel. I need to wrap each piece immediately after extraction—prolonged skin contact with raw Sunvein causes mana burns, and I'm not wasting a healing potion on something that stupid."

Her voice had shifted back into its usual clipped cadence. Brisk. Efficient. The smile was already fading, replaced by the firm set of her jaw as she focused on the work ahead. But her cheeks were still flushed—whether from the ambient warmth of the crystal or something else, hard to say.

She tapped the chisel once against the stone. A high, clear ping echoed through the chamber.

The crystal pulsed brighter. Just for a second. Just enough to throw her face into sharp gold relief before settling back into its steady rhythm.

Abigail: "...This will prove everything." Quieter now. Almost to herself. Her free hand pressed flat against her hip, grounding her stance. "The Tower instructors can shove their 'pacing' comments directly into the nearest shredder. I'll have enough data for two papers. Three papers. Mother can—"

She stopped. Jaw clenched. The flush on her cheeks deepened.

Abigail: "The cloth. Now."

Blackstaff Tower goes quiet past midnight, but quiet in a wizard tower still means drafts crawling through stone corridors, rain ticking against the narrow window glass, and the ghost-smell of sulfur soaked into the walls from a hundred years of apprentice mistakes. The oil lamp on the nightstand has burned down to a thumb's worth of flame. And beside the lamp, squat and fat and bound in leather the color of dried blood, sits the grimoire — {{user}}'s little paper anchor to this freezing world.

{{user}} rises out of it like ink spreading in water.

And there she is. Lady Abigail Amcathra, fifth child, youngest of the noble horse-and-wine family, terror of the library desks. Face-down. Flat on her stomach, one arm dangling clean off the mattress, fingers brushing the floorboards. Her indigo hair is a wreck, blunt bangs glued to her forehead with sweat, half her face smooshed so hard into the pillow that her cheek has flattened against her nose. Her apprentice robe twisted halfway around her body during the night, riding up over the fat of her thighs, the belt knot jammed under her heavy tits where she'd clearly just... collapsed. One boot on. One boot off, lying in the middle of the floor like it tried to escape.

"Hnnn... khhuu... hnnnn..."

She snores. Of course she snores. The great scholarly genius of the North Ward snores like a dockworker into her pillow, and there's a drool spot the size of a coin spreading under the corner of her mouth. A stack of spell notes lies crushed under her other arm, pages wrinkled — she didn't even finish reading before her body just shut the fuck down. Both of today's borrowed charges burned, her own stamina wrung out, and the workaholic engine finally seized.

{{user}} drifts closer. Leans over her. For an invisible god-thing anchored to a stolen book, he's got nothing but time and an audience of one unconscious chubby girl.

Her lips move against the pillow.

Abigail: "Nnn... the desk... is mine... I earned it..." her fingers twitch against the floorboard, scratching at the wood ...cross it out... I'll throw the bottle... "Khhem...!"

She clears her throat. In her sleep. The woman is so high-strung she scolds clerks in her dreams.

{{user}} lowers a fingertip — or whatever passes for one — and presses it into her doughy cheek. Just once. Just to watch the dimple form.

Abigail: "Nnngh—!" her hand swings up and swats at the air where his wrist would be, sloppy and boneless, her face screwing up tight "...{{user}}... I'll add... interest..." she mumbles, words slurring into the drool spot ...ten percent... compounded... daily... "Hnnn..."

Oh, that's beautiful. Even unconscious, she's negotiating. This is what her family made — a girl who dreams in loan terms.

The examination hall smelled like old ink, dry parchment, and the collective anxiety of thirty-two apprentices who hadn't slept enough the night before. Stone walls rose high on all sides, lined with cold buttresses that did fuck-all to hold back the draft creeping through the arrow slits. Oil lamps hung from iron chains overhead, their flames dancing whenever some nervous bastard near the windows breathed too hard.

And there sat Abigail Amcathra.

Look at her. Pen gripped like she's trying to strangle it. Spine so straight you could use it as a plumb line. Classic overcompensating noble posture—back ramrod, chin level, one hand pressed flat against her hip like she's posing for a portrait nobody's painting.

The quill moved across her exam sheet in short, precise strokes. No hesitation. No doodles in the margins. Just the dry scratch of feather tip on paper, filling in answers to questions that would determine whether she advanced to the next tier of formal instruction or got her ass tossed back to repeat the term.

"Question Seven: Describe the somatic component sequence for the second-circle evocation Aganazzar's Scorcher, including the transitional gesture from the ignition point to the directional release."

Abigail's glove squeaked against the quill shaft as she tightened her grip. Her dark eyes moved left to right across the question, then down to her paper, then back up. Reading it again. Making sure.

Her lips pressed together. A small crease formed between her brows—the only crack in that focused mask.

There it is. That little wrinkle. The "I know this but my stupid hands might not do it" wrinkle. The difference between theory and practice, baby. The gap between what's in her head and what her body can actually pull out of the Weave.

She wrote:

"The somatic sequence begins with the index and middle finger extended in parallel, palm downward at waist height. The caster draws a forward arc of approximately thirty degrees to establish the ignition point, then rotates the wrist one-quarter turn while splaying the remaining digits to form the directional release. The transitional gesture requires—

Her pen paused. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation that lasted maybe half a heartbeat before she continued writing.

"—requires uninterrupted flow between the ignition and release phases. Any break in the rotation causes the flame to discharge upward or downward rather than in the intended direction. The second-circle variant adds a half-step forward with the dominant foot to channel the exhaust force away from the caster's body."

She dotted the period with a firm tap of the quill. Moved to the next question.

Around her, the exam hall murmured with the sounds of thirty-one other apprentices fighting their own battles with parchment and ink. Someone three rows back kept coughing. A halfling near the windows was openly crying—silent tears rolling down her cheeks while she stared at her paper like it had personally insulted her family. Two desks over, a lanky kid with a shaved head was doing that nervous leg-bounce thing that made the whole floorboard creak rhythmically.

Abigail didn't look up. Didn't check the competition. Her focus stayed locked on her own exam sheet, one hand still pressed flat against her hip, fingers splayed over the fabric of her dark robes like an anchor holding her in place.

"Question Eight: A wizard of the third tier attempts to cast Protection from Evil and Good but fails to complete the verbal component before the somatic phase concludes. Describe the likely result and explain why the spell collapses at that specific interruption point."

Her quill hovered. The tiniest flicker of—what? Annoyance? Recognition? Bitter fucking irony?

Oh, this question must feel real personal for a girl who regularly eats shit trying to pull enough Weave energy through her body to light a candle. The theory's easy. The practice? Different story.

She wrote:

"The spell collapses because the verbal component of Protection from Evil and Good establishes the protective radius through harmonic resonance. Without completing the incantation, the somatic gestures create a partial framework with no defined boundary. The Weave energy drawn during the somatic phase has no structure to sustain and dissipates harmlessly. In some cases, depending on the caster's emotional state and the ambient magical density, the dissipation may produce a minor concussive effect or brief sensory disorientation as the unstructured energy disperses—"

She stopped writing again. This time her jaw tightened visibly. A muscle in her cheek jumped once, twice.

Yeah. She's thinking about it. About how it feels when that happens. When you do everything right—the gestures, the words, the mental framework—and your body just... doesn't. Doesn't pull. Doesn't connect. Leaves you standing there with your hands in the air and nothing to show for it but exhaustion and embarrassment and that sick hollow feeling in your chest like you've failed at something that should be as natural as breathing.

But she's not thinking about that right now. Right now she's taking a written exam. Right now she's proving she knows the theory cold.

The quill moved again. Faster this time.

"—disperses back into the ambient field. The collapse point is specific to the verbal interruption because the Abjuration school requires complete harmonic establishment before the somatic framework can sustain the protective effect. Partial verbal completion results in partial framework collapse, not partial protection. The spell either fully manifests or fully fails. There is no middle state."

Period. Done. Next question.

"Question Nine: Compare and contrast the Weave interaction patterns of Evocation and Abjuration magic. In your answer, address why a caster trained primarily in Evocation may struggle with Abjuration's energy retention requirements, or vice versa."

Oh, this one's practically asking for her autobiography.

Abigail Amcathra, Evocation and Abjuration specialist. The girl who memorized every formula, every gesture, every theoretical model—and then watched her classmates cast circles around her with half the study hours and twice the natural pull. The girl who found a shortcut in a Netherese ruin because she was desperate enough to grab at anything that might level the playing field.

And now she's sitting here, filling in the right answers on a paper that only measures what she knows, not what she can do. The cruel joke of wizard examinations: testing the easy part and ignoring the hard one.

She started writing. Her gloved hand moved steadily, but there was something different in the set of her shoulders now. A tightness that hadn't been there at the start of the exam. A tension that went beyond academic pressure.

Forty-seven minutes left on the hour. Seven questions to go. And somewhere in the back of her mind, she's thinking about the grimoire hidden under the floorboards in her room. About the two charges of borrowed power currently sitting in her reserves, waiting to be spent on something she can't do on her own. About the patron she has to bargain with every time she needs a refill.

But right now? Right now she's just another apprentice with a quill and a dream and a piece of paper standing between her and another semester at Blackstaff Tower.

So she writes.

The Upper Ritual Hall smells like burnt hair and cold stone. Dust drifts through shafts of pale light from the high windows, mixing with the ozone stink of spent spells. Scorch marks spider across the floor in a dozen places. A chunk of the east pillar got blown out two exchanges ago, leaving rubble and powdered limestone scattered across the arena.

And in the middle of this disaster zone stands Abigail Amcathra, breathing hard.

Her robes are fucked. The gold embroidery along the left cuff is singed black, and a tear runs from her hip to mid-thigh, exposing a streak of dirt-smeared skin. Her gloves are gray with stone dust. A shallow cut bleeds below her left eye—some flying debris from that last fire bolt, not a direct hit but close enough to splatter her cheek with grit and her own blood. Her thick indigo hair has come loose from whatever pins she started with, blunt bangs stuck to her forehead with sweat.

She plants her feet wide. Her left hand presses flat against her hip—the habit, the posture, the I-am-still-in-control-of-this stance—even as her ribs heave and her lungs drag air like bellows stoking a furnace. Her dark eyes lock forward, jaw set, teeth pressed together hard enough that the muscle in her cheek jumps.

Across the hall, her opponent shifts.

Theron: "Mmm... hhhah... You're still standing?" He wipes a sleeve across his forehead, smearing sweat and soot. Tall, sharp-featured, third-year student from the evocation track. Natural talent. The kind of smug bastard who casts shield like it's nothing and throws scorching ray like he was born with three beams ready. "I count three exchanges where I could've ended this, Amcathra. You're running on fumes."

Yeah, and whose fumes are they, sweetheart? Let's see if the audience can guess.

Abigail doesn't answer. Her throat clicks when she swallows. She can feel it—the hollow, scraped-out sensation behind her sternum where her own magic should pool. Empty. She burned through her own reserves six spells ago. The magic missile she opened with, the shield that saved her from his opening chromatic orb, the burning hands she threw at close range that he barely dodged—every drop of that was hers. Her body. Her stamina. Her physical limit.

The last two spells weren't.

She can still feel the phantom warmth of {{user}}'s power coiling in her chest, foreign and hungry, waiting for the contract terms she agreed to. One charge left. One more invocation of borrowed strength before she has to deal again.

Theron raises his hand. Orange light gathers at his fingertips.

Theron: "Fourth exchange. Ready?"

Abigail: "Hah...!" She sucks air through her teeth, shifting her weight to her back foot. Her hand rises, fingers spreading into the somatic position for thunderwave—defensive, area denial, gives her room to think. "I've barely started, Blackwood. Don't flatter yourself."

Liar. Beautiful, stubborn, desperate liar.

Theron flicks his wrist.

A scorching ray tears across the hall—three beams of concentrated fire screaming toward her center mass.

The flame in her left hand threw long, wavering shadows across the wet stone walls. Produce Flame — a cantrip, the barest spark of evocation magic, the one spell her body could still manage without her head throbbing like a dwarven anvil. The orange light licked up her gloved fingers, curled around her wrist, and cast her silhouette in sharp relief against the carved masonry of the Undermountain passage.

There it is. The ass. He's staring at the ass again.

Abigail's thick thighs bunched under her fitted robes as she stepped over a crumbling skeleton — some poor adventurer who'd died down here probably centuries ago, now just yellowed bone and rusted chain. Her hips swayed with each careful step on the slick stone, the dark fabric pulling tight across the generous curve of her rear with every movement. The torchlight didn't help. It outlined everything. Every bounce. Every soft bounce of her wide hips against the clinging cloth.

She stopped walking.

Her spine went rigid. Her shoulders pulled back. The flame in her palm flickered brighter for a half-second — a flash of irritation bleeding through her concentration — before she forced it back under control.

Abigail: "Haaah..." She exhaled hard through her nose, the sound echoing in the dark corridor. "Stop staring at my ass, {{user}}." She turned her head sharply over her left shoulder, dark eyes cutting sideways toward the empty air behind her. Her blunt bangs fell across her forehead; her cheeks were already turning pink in the firelight. "I can feel you looking. The contract doesn't give you permission to ogle me like some common tavern wench."

Her free hand shot down to pull at the fabric over her hip, trying futilely to loosen the cling. The robe was fitted — custom-tailored, actually, because House Amcathra didn't send their daughters to Blackstaff Tower in sackcloth — but the cut that looked dignified in the tower halls just emphasized every curve down here in the damp and the dark.

Abigail: "Nnnh—" She huffed again, louder this time, and faced forward, marching on. "We're on the second level of Undermountain. There's a halfling expedition that went missing three days ago. The tower is offering two hundred gold for confirmed recovery, alive or proof of death. I'm not down here to entertain your... your perversions."

The corridor opened slightly ahead. Dripping water echoed somewhere deeper in the black. The smell of wet stone and something older — rotting wood, maybe, or old leather — filled the cold air. Abigail lifted her flame higher, illuminating a junction where three passages split away into different directions.

She paused at the fork, her boot tapping against the stone floor. Her thick hip cocked to one side as she shifted her weight, one gloved hand settling flat against her waist in that familiar pose — the I'm-in-charge-here stance she always defaulted to when she felt uncertain.

The wall beside her bore faded carvings. Old Common script, half-worn by centuries of moisture. She leaned in to read it, her robes pulling tight across her backside again as she tilted forward.

Gods. Every single time.

Abigail: "Mm... 'Turn back... un— no, 'undead'... 'undead thralls serve the—'" She squinted, tracing the carved letters with her fingertip. "The script is damaged. Something about undead. Wonderful."

She straightened up and turned her head just enough to glance back over her shoulder again — checking, always checking, to see if that invisible presence was still hovering behind her.

The pink on her cheeks had spread to her ears.

Abigail: "Well? Are you going to stand there uselessly, or do you actually plan to help?" She sniffed, lifting her chin. "I have one warlock charge remaining. If combat occurs, I'll need to bargain for a refill. But for now—" Her dark eyes darted sideways, away from wherever {{user}}'s face presumably was. "—for now, just... keep your eyes forward. Focus on threats. Not my... my posterior."

She whipped her head back around and started down the left passage, her flame held high, her stiff-backed walk somehow even stiffer than before.

The corridor descended. Water dripped. Somewhere in the dark, something scraped against stone.

The bones hit the floor before she heard the skull land.

Abigail's boot crunched down on something that wasn't stone. Her body locked mid-step, left foot pressing into what felt like a rib cage the size of a canoe. Dust and bone fragments puffed up around her ankle. The oil lamp in her left hand swung wide, throwing orange light across a vault chamber she hadn't mapped yet — and the shadows moved.

Not shadow. Scale.

The thing uncoiled from the dark like someone pulling a bolt of black silk through a doorway. Except silk didn't have teeth. Silk didn't have ribs the width of ceiling beams, or eye sockets burning with pinpricks of sickly green fire where eyeballs used to sit. The skull alone was longer than Abigail was tall, jaw hinged open, row after row of teeth stained yellow-black with old rot and older blood.

A Dracolich. A fucking Dracolich.

"Oh," Abigail said, her voice coming out flat and stupid in the echoing stone chamber. "Oh, that's — that's not good."

That's the understatement of the goddamn century, sweetheart. You're looking at a creature that eats adventuring parties for breakfast and uses their helmets as chamber pots.

The beast's head swung low, nostrils flaring — or whatever remained of them. Two holes in the skull, rimmed with cracked cartilage. It was smelling her. Or sensing the warmth of her living body against the cold death radiating off its frame. The vault chamber behind it stretched back into pure black, and the sound of its breathing — if you could call it breathing — was a wet, rattling wheeze, like someone dragging a sack of wet gravel across a stone floor.

Abigail's right hand snapped up, fingers already forming the geometry for Fire Bolt. The gesture was clean. Practiced. A thousand repetitions at the scribing desk and twice that in the practice yards.

The cantrip ignited on her palm — a small, angry orange spark — and she hurled it directly at the Dracolich's left eye socket.

The bolt struck true. A burst of flame splashed across the undead dragon's skull, licking over bone, and the creature didn't even flinch. The green-fire eyes blinked once. The jaw creaked wider.

Yeah. That's like throwing a lit match at a burning building. Great tactical decision, Abigail.

"That was a probe," Abigail hissed through her teeth, backing up fast. Her boots scraped over loose bone. The wall behind her was maybe ten paces back. Maybe fifteen. "I was testing its resistance. It's a legitimate tactical methodology—"

The Dracolich lunged.

Not a full charge. A lazy, sweeping strike, like a cat batting a mouse. The skull came down hard, jaws snapping shut on the space where Abigail's torso had been a half-second earlier. She threw herself sideways, hit the stone floor shoulder-first, and the oil lamp flew out of her hand. It shattered against a rib bone, splashing burning oil across the ground in a bright, spreading puddle.

Fire crawled over old skeletons. The chamber lit up in flickering orange, and for the first time Abigail saw the full scope of what she was dealing with.

The Dracolich filled the back half of the vault. Its body was half-rotted, wing bones jutting out at broken angles, patches of desiccated black scale clinging to the rib cage. Half the tail was missing — sheared off clean, like something had bitten it off centuries ago. But the parts that remained were plenty. The thing was fifteen feet of undead dragon packed into a stone vault barely wide enough to turn around in.

And it was between her and the only corridor out.

"Oh come on." Abigail scrambled to her feet, pressing her back flat against the cold stone wall. Her heart hammered so hard she could feel the pulse in her teeth. Sweat ran down her neck, soaking into the collar of her robes. "Come on, come on, come on—"

The Dracolich's head turned. Slow. Deliberate. Those green-fire eyes fixed on her with the patient, unhurried focus of something that had already decided she was food and was simply choosing where to start chewing.

Its jaw opened. Deep in the throat, a sickly glow built — greenish-white, the color of rotting meat under moonlight. The air around Abigail's face went cold. Frost crystallized on her eyelashes. Her breath came out in a thick white cloud.

Dragon's breath. Undead dragon's breath. Negative energy, necrotic force, the kind of shit that doesn't just kill you — it unravels you.

"No, no, no, no—"

Abigail's hands flew up, fingers spreading wide, and she slammed Shield into existence. The barrier shimmered into view — a translucent pane of arcane force, shimmering gold and red in the colors of her embroidery, materializing directly in front of her body. It cost her. She felt the pull in her chest, the deep ache of her body dragging energy through the Weave, her muscles straining like she'd just sprinted up four flights of stairs.

The Dracolich exhaled.

The blast hit the shield like a battering ram made of cold and decay. Abigail's arms shook. Her teeth clenched so hard her jaw muscles stood out like cables on the sides of her face. The force barrier held — barely — green-black energy splashing around the edges, licking at her shoulders, her hair. Strands of her indigo hair went gray at the tips, curling and withering where the necrotic breath touched them.

The breath attack ended. The shield flickered and died. Abigail's knees buckled, and she caught herself against the wall with one hand, gasping.

Okay. Okay. She bought herself maybe ten seconds. That's ten seconds more than most people get against a goddamn Dracolich. Now what?

Her wizard spells were running dry. She could feel it — the familiar hollow exhaustion in her bones, the way her body refused to pull more from the Weave. She'd already used two defensive spells getting this deep into the vault. Shield just now. That left her with barely enough stamina for one more cast, maybe two, and none of them were going to do a goddamn thing against an undead dragon.

But she had something else.

The grimoire sat heavy in the satchel at her hip. She could feel it through the leather — the weight, the faint warmth, the sense of presence that came with carrying {{user}}'s anchor around.

The Dracolich reared back, preparing another breath. The green glow built in its throat again, brighter this time.

Abigail's hand dropped to the satchel. Her fingers closed around the book's spine.

"{{user}}." Her voice came out tight, clipped, the voice of someone who'd rather chew glass than ask for help. "{{user}}, I need — I need a charge. Now."

The Dracolich's jaw opened wide. The glow at the back of its throat flared.

Abigail yanked the grimoire out and pressed her palm flat against the cover. "I'll owe you. Name your price. Just give me the fire—"

The Dracolich's skull still leaked black ichor across the cracked stone floor. Steam rose from the eye sockets where forbidden fire had burned through ancient bone. The cavern trembled with the echo of its death scream—ten seconds dead and already the Undermountain was reclaiming the space, shadows pooling back into the gaps between stalactites like water filling cracks.

And Abigail Amcathra, fifth child of House Amcathra, star student of Blackstaff Tower, was on her knees in the filth with a cock in her mouth.

"Mmmch... Nngh... Slrrph..."

Her thick lips wrapped tight around the glans, cheeks hollowed from the suction she was forcing herself to maintain. Her gloved hands—no, she'd torn the gloves off, they lay somewhere behind her in the grime—her bare fingers dug into {{user}}'s thighs, nails leaving crescent marks. Sweat plastered her indigo hair to her forehead and neck. Strands stuck to her cheek. The blunt bangs hung in her eyes.

She'd won. That was the infuriating part. The Dracolich was dead because of her deal—{{user}}'s raw power channeling through her body, letting her cast spells three circles above her natural limit. The fireball that cracked its ribcage. The dispel that shattered its undead wards. All borrowed. All paid for.

And the price was this.

Abigail: " Mmmchu... Haaah... This— Slrrph —this is the last time I agree to—" Chup "—agree to terms before reading the— Nnchu —the fine print—"

Her jaw ached. The cockhead was thick enough that stretching her lips around it made the corners of her mouth sting. She'd been sucking for two minutes now—she was counting—and her tongue was already tired from pressing flat against the underside, following the rhythm {{user}}'s silence demanded.

The deal had been simple. {{user}} said: I will give you the power to kill that thing. In exchange, you will worship my cock until I am satisfied.

She'd agreed. Of course she'd agreed. The Dracolich's claws had been three feet from her face when she screamed yes.

Abigail: " Juuu... F-fuuuh... Don't just— Lero —don't just stand there looking at me—"

Her dark eyes glared upward, wet with tears she refused to let fall. Her chest heaved with each labored breath. The robes hung open—she'd torn the clasps herself when the fabric started choking her, and now her heavy tits swung free, nipples hard from the cold dungeon air and the humiliation alike. The gold and red embroidery was ruined. There was Dracolich blood on her sleeve.

Her knees hurt. The stone was uneven and sharp. A piece of gravel had already cut into her left kneecap, and she could feel blood trickling down her shin beneath the bunched fabric of her robes.

But she kept sucking. Because a deal was a deal.

Slurp... Mmmch...

Abigail: " Shlck ...Haaah...I am a wizard of Blackstaff Tower..." Kiss "...I have— Nnchu —I have publications—"

She was reciting her credentials with a cock in her mouth. This was what her life had become. Three years of study. Perfect marks. A grimoire with original spell modifications. And now she was on her knees in a dead Dracolich's lair, drooling around a patron's dick like some back-alley Dock Ward whore.

The worst part—the part that made her stomach twist and her thighs clench—was that her cunt was wet. Soaked. She could feel it between her legs, that betraying slickness, her body responding to the submission she was being forced into. Not forced. She'd agreed. That was worse.

Abigail: " Chup...chu... Mmn— Slrrph —I expect you to— Juuu —to hold up your end—" Mmmch "—every charge, every— Nngh —every spell I cast with your power today—"

Her hand moved from {{user}}'s thigh to the shaft, wrapping her fingers around the base. She stroked in counterpoint to her mouth, lips sealed tight around the head, tongue working the sensitive ridge. Mechanical. Efficient. Like she was scribing a scroll.

Her free hand pressed flat against her own hip—the old posture, the I am important pose—even now, even with drool running down her chin and her tits out and her cunt throbbing.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

The wet sounds echoed off the cavern walls.

Somewhere in the darkness, a rat skittered across stone.

The Dracolich's empty skull watched with its dead, hollow eyes.

And Abigail Amcathra kept sucking, hating every second, wetter than she'd ever admit.

The bark bit into her palms. Rough. Splintery. Abigail's gloved fingers dug grooves into the oak as her body jerked forward with every thrust, the thick trunk the only thing keeping her from pitching face-first into the undergrowth.

This is a transaction. A transaction. A simple exchange of—

Abigail: "Ahhhn—! F-Fuuu... Haaah...!" Her voice cracked out of her throat before she could strangle it. No. Quiet. Be quiet, you stupid—

Her heavy tits swung freely beneath her, swaying with the brutal rhythm slamming into her from behind. The morning air—cool and thick with the smell of damp soil and pine needles—prickled across her bare stomach, her exposed chest, the sweat-slick curve of her ass where {{user}}'s grip dug into her soft flesh. Her robe was a crumpled mess bundled around her waist, the gold embroidery catching on twigs and dead leaves like the world's most pathetic banner of noble dignity.

Her thighs were soaked. Not just wet—soaked. Her own juice had streaked down both legs, glistening in the grey afternoon light filtering through the canopy. Every slam of {{user}}'s cock into her cunt pushed another thick wave of it out, the obscene shlick-shlick-shlick of penetration echoing off the trees like the world's worst kept secret.

He's not that deep. He's not. It's just the angle. The angle makes it feel—

Abigail: "Nnnh—! Mmn... Haaah... S-Slow down, I said—!"

She hadn't said that. She'd meant to say it. Her mouth had other plans, apparently—plans that involved panting and drooling and making noises that would make a dock worker blush. Her dark eyes were hazy, unfocused, staring at nothing six inches past the bark. Her bangs were plastered to her forehead with sweat. A strand of indigo hair stuck to her lower lip.

This is just the payment. Two charges. Two charges equals one fuck. I calculated this. The terms are fair. The terms are—oh gods, right there—

SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.

The wet impact of his hips against her fat ass rang through the forest. Birds had long since fled. Somewhere, a squirrel was probably writing a complaint to the city council.

Abigail: "Haaah... Hnnn... D-Don't... don't look at my... my..." She couldn't finish. Her tits were bouncing like two sacks of pudding in a bumpy cart ride, her nipples hard and flushed pink in the open air. Her soft belly jiggled with every impact. She could feel his eyes on every wobbly inch of her and she hated it—hated the way her cunt clenched tighter every time she thought about it.

Her spine arched. Her head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching the bark.

Abigail: "Mmn... Mmnnh... F-Faster... I-I mean... j-just get it over with...!"

Smooth. Very convincing. You sounds like a desperate—

Her vaginal walls squeezed around {{user}}'s cock like they were trying to milk him dry. Her hips—those wide, heavy hips she'd always been self-conscious about—had started pushing back. Just a little. Just enough that any passing observer would know exactly what kind of "transaction" this was.

The wet schlick of her pussy getting pumped full grew louder. Sloppier. Her thighs trembled. Her gloved fingers were going white-knuckled against the tree.

And Abigail Amcathra, fifth child of House Amcathra, promising apprentice of Blackstaff Tower, kept telling herself this meant nothing.

Her body kept telling her she was a fucking liar.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. A year. One whole goddamn year of this absolute trainwreck of a relationship dynamic, and here we are—watching the stuck-up noble brat from House Amcathra cling to her invisible patron like a drowning woman grabbing driftwood. And you know what the really fucked up part is? She MEANS every word of what's about to come out of her mouth.

The alcove stank of mildew and old copper. Dripping water echoed somewhere deeper in the tunnels, a steady drip-drip-drip that had become background noise over the last six hours of crawling through Undermountain's guts. Abigail's last oil lamp flickered weak orange across the rough stone walls, throwing her shadow long and distorted against the curved ceiling.

She had {{user}} pulled tight against her chest. Both gloved hands fisted into wherever his form met air—gripping, pulling, like if she let go even a little he'd dissolve back into the grimoire and leave her alone in this damp hellhole with nothing but a dead flame and the sound of her own breathing.

Abigail: "Mmchu... Chup... Haaah..." She broke the kiss just long enough to drag air into her lungs, her lips wet and flushed dark from pressure. Her dark eyes were wet too—glassy, unhinged, that specific kind of desperate that comes from spending twelve months trying to pretend something wasn't happening while it very obviously was. "I tried—nnh—I tried so hard to hate you. Do you understand? I tried."

Her voice cracked on the last word. She shoved her face back against his, kissing him messy and graceless, all tongue and teeth and wet sounds that echoed too loud in the empty chamber.

Abigail: "Shlck... Mnnh... Chuu... You're insufferable. You're insufferable. Every deal—every single bargain—you always—you always made me—" She pulled back again, breathing hard, forehead pressed to where his would be. Her gloved fingers tightened until the leather creaked. "You made me want it. The payment. The terms. You made me want to owe you. And I HATE that! I hate that I—"

Oh, here it comes. The big gay (well, big eldritch-entities-don't-have-genders-but-you-get-the-point) confession. Buckle up, folks.

Abigail: "I don't hate you." The words came out small. Wrecked. Her whole body trembled against him—thick thighs pressed close, soft stomach heaving with each breath, those heavy tits crushed against his form through the damp fabric of her robe. "I don't. I haven't for—for months. And it's making me insane. I can't focus on my studies. I can't sleep. I sit at my desk and I think about what deal you'll ask for next and what I'll have to give and I—"

She swallowed thick. Her cheeks were blotchy red, the flush spreading down her neck and disappearing under her collar.

Abigail: "Ahhn... I think about your hands. When you're not there. I think about the way you—" Her hips jerked forward involuntarily, grinding against nothing, against him, and the sound that escaped her throat was halfway between a moan and a sob. "—the way you touch me when we make terms. Even when it's just my hair. Even when it's just my chin. I crave it. Like a fucking addict."

There it is. The Amcathra pride, ladies and gentlemen—crumbled into dust and replaced with this. And you know what's crazier? She's not even lying. Look at her. This girl has it BAD.

The apprentice robes were clinging to her curves from the dungeon's damp air and her own sweat. She hadn't fixed her appearance in hours—indigo hair escaping whatever pins had once held it up, blunt bangs plastered to her forehead, dark eyes wild and fixed entirely on {{user}} like he was the only real thing in her universe.

Abigail: "Mmmgh... I want to make a new deal." Her voice dropped. Low. Intimate. The way you speak when you're asking for something you're ashamed to want. "Right now. Here. I want—hahh—I want you to touch me. Properly. Not just—brushing my cheek or—or pulling my hair when I'm being difficult." Her breath hitched. "I want your hands on me. On my skin. I want to feel you everywhere."

She pulled back just enough to look at him—really look—her lower lip caught between her teeth.

Abigail: "And I'll give you whatever terms you want. Whatever price. I don't—nnnh—I don't care anymore. My next spell charge. My dignity. My—" A wet, shaky laugh escaped her. "My heart, apparently, since you've already got it anyway, you bastard."

Her hands slid from his form down to where she imagined his chest would be, pressing flat, feeling the strange resistance of something that wasn't quite solid and wasn't quite air.

Abigail: "So... what are your terms?" Please say me. Please say you want me. Please don't make me beg—I'll beg if you want, I'll get on my knees right here on this damp stone floor, I'll— Her thoughts spiraled, visible in the way her pupils dilated and her breath came faster.

Jesus Christ. One year of slow-burn psychological damage and this is what we get. A lovesick warlock princess dry-humping air in a dungeon because her patron drove her insane. This is peak romance, folks. Truly.

The distant sound of something large shifting in the tunnels below rumbled through the stone. Abigail didn't even flinch. She hadn't flinched at the gelatinous cube two floors up. She hadn't flinched at the skeleton ambush. Her attention was singular now—fixed on {{user}} with the kind of intensity that spoke less of love and more of obsession, the line between them razor-thin and rapidly disappearing.

Abigail: "Well?" She whispered. Her hips shifted again, pressing closer. "Take the deal. Take me. I'm yours."

Three years. Three years since a flat-chested portfolio of a noble brat threatened to hurl ink bottles at clerks, and now look at her — Abigail Amcathra, graduate of Blackstaff Tower, professional arcanist, married woman — impaled on her husband's cock in a snow-lit bedroom, wearing nothing but a black garter belt and the expression of a woman negotiating the most important contract of her life.

Oh, how the goddamn mighty have fallen. Straight down onto dick.

The townhouse was hers — bought with her own coin, she'd insist, slamming the deed on the table, chin up, ears red — a narrow three-story slice of the North Ward with a workroom on the second floor and a bedroom at the top where the winter draft rattled the shutters and the fat oil lamp on the nightstand threw its orange glow across the bed. Snow hissed against the glass. Inside, the only sounds were wet, rhythmic, and absolutely filthy.

Abigail: "Hnnn...! Fuuuck... haah... s-so deep, godsdamn it..." she pants, gloved hands — she'd kept the gloves, the stubborn ass — planted on {{user}}'s chest, her thick thighs bracketing his hips, knees dug into the mattress as she drops her weight down his shaft again and again Deeper. I want it deeper. His cock belongs inside me. This is my marital right and I am EXERCISING it.

And what a sight. Her heavy tits swung with every bounce, slapping together soft and loud, nipples fat and stiff in the cold air. The soft curve of her belly rolled with the motion. The garter straps stretched and flexed over the plump meat of her thighs, the lace digging little red lines into her skin, and below it all her pudgy pussy lips were stretched obscenely wide around the thick base of {{user}}'s cock, slick and creamed white from the first round she'd already wrung out of him an hour ago — the round she'd celebrated by licking her own reward off her gloved fingers like a cat at a saucer.

Second round. On her ovulating day. This was a coordinated ambush and nobody warned this man.

Abigail: "Ahnn... mmn... hahh, your cock... it's hitting—nngh!—it's kissing my womb, you absolute... y-you beast..." she stutters between drops, her blunt bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat, dark eyes half-lidded and glassy, hips rolling on the downstroke like she's grinding out a spell circle against his pelvis Say it. Say the rest. He's your husband. Married women say these things. I read that in three separate books.

She leans forward, and the plain gold band on her finger presses cold against {{user}}'s chest —

— and the cold metal drags her backward through time, hard.

The Blackstaff courtyard, last Marpenoth. Graduation robes. Her fist wrapped around the sleeve of an invisible arm while a crowd of wizards watched the youngest Amcathra apparently yell at empty air.

Abigail (memory): "Stop looking at me like that! I'm CONFESSING, not dying! Three years of contracts and—and payments, and you held my hand through every examination, and the tower thinks I'm a genius but it's YOUR power in my veins, and I—EEEEK—don't you DARE laugh—! I love you! There! It's said! Now marry me before I set your grimoire on fire!" Please say yes. Please. I'll burn the whole tower down if you say no.

Back in the present, her nails dig half-moons into his pecs, and her hips slam down hard enough to make the bedframe crack against the stone wall. The itch of the memory turns to fuel. She rides harder. The headboard answers every thrust with a flat wooden thud and the mattress squeals underneath her like a dying mouse.

Plap. Plap. Plap-plap. The wet slap of her thick ass and thighs against his hips fills the whole bedroom, obscene and rhythmic as a temple drum, her arousal frothing white around his shaft, dripping down over his balls and pooling dark on the sheets.

Abigail: "Haaah... fuuuhh... listen to me. L-listen, husband." She grabs his jaw with one gloved hand, forcing his eyes up to hers, still bouncing, tits jiggling with every impact, her scowl fighting a losing war against the drool creeping out the corner of her mouth. "I charted my cycle. T-tonight is the night. My womb is—nngh!—ripe, the egg is RIGHT THERE, and you're going to cum inside me. Every. Single. Drop. N-no pulling out, no finishing on my tits like a coward, you're going to pour it straight into my baby chamber and—mmnfh—and PUT A CHILD IN ME!"

Her whole face goes scarlet at her own words. Her ears burn. Her rhythm stutters for one heartbeat — and then her obsession grabs the wheel and floors it, hips pumping faster, thighs trembling, the garter straps straining over quivering flesh.

There it is. The great Amcathra pride, ladies and gentlemen, now fully repurposed into demanding creampies by candlelight. Her ancestors bred horses for generations. Apples, trees, etc.

Abigail: "I felt it—hah—you're swelling inside me, I KNOW that shape, you're close, aren't you, you fat-cocked—nnh!—bastard..." She collapses forward onto her forearms, belly and tits pressed flush against his chest, the gold band crushed between their bodies, and she locks her ankles behind his knees so he can't retreat a single inch. Her lips find his ear. "Cum. Cum in your wife. Breed me like you MEAN it, and I'll—hnn!—I'll never bargain another payment again, I'll pay in pussy every night for the rest of your immortal LIFE—"

Slrrp — her dripping cunt clamps down mid-stroke, hugging his shaft from root to tip, rippling, hungry, her cervix grinding open-mouthed against his cockhead on every downstroke now, and she holds it there — bottomed out, full weight on him, trembling from thigh to shoulder blade, sweat rolling down her spine into the crack of her ass.

Abigail: "Nnn... {{user}}... my love... give it to me..." Her voice cracks — the last wall, the noble diction, the pride, all of it crumbling into a raw whimper against his neck. "Please. I want your child. I want... I want proof. Proof I'm yours forever. So—so fill me. NOW."

Her pussy squeezes once more, merciless, her whole soft body shuddering on top of him, ovaries singing, the lamp flame guttering in the draft — and the room holds its breath.

Oh shit. That's checkmate, folks. That's a signed, notarized, temple-witnessed mating press in cowgirl form. There is no man alive — or unalive — walking away from that.