Sir Toadvine and Lady Bathcat are the perfect heroes: noble, powerful, and insufferably arrogant. Trevor is just the "little shadow" they hired to pick the locks—a smudge in the corner of their glorious painting.
But deep in the Lich’s vault, Trevor finds something more interesting than gold. He finds a voice in the dark that understands his resentment. A voice that promises him a throne.
When Trevor breaks the seal on an ancient Succubus, the party dynamic shifts instantly. Now, the "Heroes" are at the mercy of the monsters. From a Paladin trapped in a prison of ticklish, laughing steel to a high-born Mage left bound and barefoot at the mercy of a thief’s lockpicks, Toadvine and Bathcat are about to learn that arrogance has a price—and it is paid in hysterical, helpless tears.
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 5,730
F/M | F/F | M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture
The rain hammered against the roof of The Rusty Flagon, but at the corner table, the atmosphere was even colder.
Trevor shifted on the hard wooden bench, nursing a tankard of watered-down ale. He looked across the table. They looked like a painting of "The Heroes," and he looked like a smudge in the corner.
Bathcat and Sir Toadvine sat side-by-side, their shoulders almost touching. They weren't holding hands—nothing so obvious. It was worse. It was the easy, unconscious familiarity of veterans.
"The Lich’s stronghold," the hooded patron whispered, sliding the map forward.
"Standard formation," Toadvine said, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to vibrate the table. He didn't even look at Trevor. He turned his square, handsome jaw toward the mage. "If I take point with the Shield of Faith, Bathcat, you can flank with—"
"—with a Cone of Cold to funnel them into the chokepoint," Bathcat finished for him, not looking up from the map. She adjusted her spectacles, her face illuminated by the candle. "Precisely, Sir Toadvine. Your shield radius complements my casting range perfectly."
Toadvine beamed, a blindingly white smile. "Excellent strategy, my lady. As always, your intellect is our sharpest weapon."
Bathcat didn't blush. She didn't giggle. She simply nodded, a curt, professional acknowledgement. "And your durability is an adequate wall. It is efficient."
Trevor cleared his throat. Loudly.
"Right," Trevor said, leaning in. "And what about me? You know, the guy who actually picks the locks? The guy you hired last week because you two kept stumbling into traps?"
Bathcat blinked, finally turning her cool, violet eyes toward him. It was like a librarian looking at a noisy patron. "You will scout, Trevor. Obviously. Just try not to pocket anything cursed this time."
"Ha!" Toadvine laughed, clapping a massive hand on Trevor’s back. It knocked the wind out of him. "Our little shadow! Do not worry, friend Trevor. We value your... skulduggery. Even if it is a bit underhanded for a knight’s taste."
Trevor gritted his teeth. Friend Trevor. Little shadow.
He watched as Bathcat reached out. Her pale, slender hand moved toward Toadvine. Trevor’s heart hammered—here it is, he thought, the caress.
Instead, she plucked a piece of lint off Toadvine’s pauldron, examined it, and flicked it away. Toadvine didn't even flinch. He just kept studying the map.
"The payment?" Trevor asked, trying to regain some ground. "The Patron said the vault is fair game."
"We are here for the artifact," Toadvine declared, puffing out his chest. "To cleanse the land of evil!"
"To study the pre-calamity architecture," Bathcat corrected, her voice dry.
"Right, right," Toadvine agreed immediately. "For knowledge! And justice!"
They shared a look—a boring, mutual nod of agreement. They were on the same wavelength, a frequency Trevor couldn't tune into. To Trevor's eyes, that shared look felt intimate. It felt like they had a secret language. He imagined them later, polishing armor and organizing spellbooks, laughing about the greedy little thief who only cared about gold.
He looked at Bathcat’s neck, the curve of it exposed by her high collar. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the map—with interest. With intensity. But to her, he was just a lockpick with a pulse.
"Fine," Trevor spat, downing the rest of his ale. "Justice, knowledge, whatever. Just don't get in my way when we find the gold."
"We wouldn't dream of it," Bathcat said, already turning back to Toadvine. "Now, regarding the ingress points, Sir Toadvine..."
Trevor sat back, the bitterness rising in his throat like bile. He felt like the fifth wheel on a wagon that didn't need him.
---
The air in the lower vaults tasted like dust and decay. It was a silence so deep that the clank-clank-clank of Sir Toadvine’s plate armor sounded like someone beating a pot with a hammer.
Trevor, moving twenty paces ahead in the shadows, ground his teeth. "Stealth," he whispered to no one. "We talked about stealth."
He rounded a corner, his torch illuminating a cavernous chamber carved from black volcanic glass. And there, in the center, was the anomaly.
It wasn't a cage. It was a pillar of amethyst light, a humming cylinder of pure magical force stretching from floor to ceiling. The sound it made was a low, vibrating thrummm-thrummm that rattled Trevor’s teeth.
Suspended inside, floating inches off the ground, was a woman.
She was bound not by ropes, but by chains of woven shadow that pulsed with a faint, sickly light. Her clothes were tattered silk, clinging to a frame that was dangerously curvaceous. Her hair, a cascade of silver, floated in the anti-gravity of the cell.
Trevor stopped dead. He lowered his torch.
"Help..."
The voice wasn't loud. It was a whisper that seemed to bypass his ears and slide directly into the base of his skull. It was warm, desperate, and terrifyingly human.
"Hold, thief!" Toadvine’s voice boomed from behind. The Paladin marched into the room, sword drawn, glowing with a holy white light. Bathcat followed a step behind, her nose buried in a floating spectral book.
The woman's eyes snapped open. They were wide, violet, and filled with tears. She pressed her hands against the barrier. Hiss-crackle. The magic burned her palms, but she didn't pull away.
"Please," she sobbed. "You... you look like heroes. Please. The Lich... he left me here to rot."
Trevor stepped forward, his hand instinctively going to his lockpicks. "She's hurt. Look at those chains."
"Halt," Toadvine commanded, extending a massive arm to block Trevor. The Paladin narrowed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. "I sense... malice. A distinct sulfurous undercurrent. This woman is not what she seems."
Bathcat didn't even look at the prisoner. She walked up to the barrier, tapping the glass-like surface with her staff. Ting. Ting.
"Fascinating," Bathcat mumbled. "Soul-Binding Runes. Fifth Era dialect. This isn't a prison cell, Toadvine. It's a containment unit for high-volatility magical entities." She finally looked at the woman, her expression clinically bored. "If we release her, the resulting magical backlash could destabilize the entire floor."
"But look at her!" Trevor snapped, gesturing to the weeping woman. "She's crying! She's begging! You're just going to leave her?"
The woman locked eyes with Trevor. She didn't look at the knight or the mage. She looked at him. She offered a small, trembling smile, a look of shared pain. They don't understand us, that look said.
"We have a mission," Toadvine said firmly, sheathing his sword. "The Phylactery is our priority. We cannot risk a variable like this. We leave her."
"Logic dictates we maintain the containment," Bathcat agreed, turning her back on the cell. "However... the ambient mana density here is incredibly high. It shields us from the wandering undead. This is the safest place to rest."
"Rest?" Trevor stared at them. "You want to sleep in front of the girl you're refusing to save?"
"It is efficient," Toadvine nodded, unbuckling his shield. "We shall camp here. I will take the first watch. Bathcat, you need your meditation."
Trevor looked at Toadvine "we are wide open here! Indefensible! This place would be suicide" he snapped at the knight.
Bathcat frowned and looked at them "he has a point," she murmured. "Hmm, it feels like the protection aura stretches quite a bit. Let's look for a safe room close by that is bathed in it."
---
The "Safe Room" turned out to be a dusty library about a hundred yards down the corridor from the woman's cell. The air here was still stale, but the oppressive purple hum of the containment unit was dampened by thick oak doors.
"Perimeter secure," Toadvine announced, barring the door with a heavy iron candelabra. He turned, his armor rattling. "We shall rest here for eight hours. Efficient and defensible."
Bathcat didn't answer. She was already clearing a space on a large, rot-resistant rug in the center of the room. She swept away centuries of dust with a casual wave of her staff and a muttered cantrip.
Trevor dropped his pack in the corner, near a drafty window. "Right. Great spot. Cozy."
He watched as Bathcat sat cross-legged on the rug, pulling a small copper kettle and a pouch of dried leaves from her satchel. She murmured a word—Ignis—and a small, controlled flame blossomed in her palm to heat the water.
The smell of chamomile and spiced orange filled the room. It smelled expensive. It smelled like civilization.
Trevor’s stomach rumbled. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a piece of hardtack that looked and tasted like a shingle.
"Tea, Sir Toadvine?" Bathcat asked softly, her voice losing that sharp, lecture-hall edge it always had when she spoke to Trevor.
"You are too kind, my lady," Toadvine beamed, removing his gauntlets to accept the steaming cup. His massive hands looked absurdly gentle holding the delicate porcelain. "This will fortify the spirit."
Trevor waited. He held his breath. Ask me, he thought. Just ask if I want some.
Bathcat took a sip of her own cup, sighed in contentment, and extinguished the magical flame. She put the kettle away.
She hadn't even looked at the corner.
Trevor bit into his hardtack. Crunch. It tasted like sawdust and spite.
"We should discuss the rune-structure on the lower levels," Toadvine said, settling down next to her. "I worry the structural integrity is compromised."
"I have analyzed it," Bathcat replied, opening a heavy tome. She leaned in so Toadvine could see the diagram. Her shoulder brushed against his unarmored arm. "The load-bearing pillars are reinforced with Abjuration magic. It is fascinating, actually..."
They drifted into their own world—a world of tactics, history, and shared competence. Trevor sat in the shadows, whittling a piece of scrap wood, watching the firelight dance on their faces. They looked like a painting of heroes. He looked like the smudge the artist tried to erase.
An hour passed. Then two.
"I shall take the first watch," Toadvine announced, standing up and stretching. His shadow stretched long across the room. "Sleep, Bathcat. You need your mind sharp for the rituals tomorrow."
"And you, Sir Knight," she nodded, curling up on the rug with her staff beside her. "Wake Trevor in four hours. He has the... night vision."
He has the night vision. Not "Trevor needs rest too." Just a statement of utility.
Trevor pulled his thin, scratchy blanket over his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out the sound of Toadvine humming a hymn under his breath, or the soft, rhythmic breathing of the woman he wanted, sleeping safely beside the man he hated.
4 HOURS LATER
A metal hand shook Trevor’s shoulder. Hard.
"Rise and shine, Master Thief!"
Trevor groaned, swatting the hand away. He felt like he’d been asleep for ten minutes. He sat up, blinking in the dim light.
Toadvine was standing over him, looking disgustingly alert.
"The watch is yours," the Paladin whispered, though his whisper was louder than most people's speaking voice. "The perimeter is quiet. I sensed... a disturbance earlier, near the prisoner's cell, but it faded. Keep your eyes sharp."
"Yeah, yeah," Trevor muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Sharp. Got it."
Toadvine nodded solemnly. He walked over to the rug where Bathcat was sleeping. He moved with surprising care for a man in plate mail, easing himself down onto the floor a respectable—but still intimate—two feet away from her. He placed his sword between them, like a symbolic guardian.
Within minutes, the Paladin’s deep, rhythmic snoring began. Honnk-shoo. Honnk-shoo.
Trevor stood up. He walked to the center of the room. He looked at them.
The fire had burned down to embers. The room was cold. The smell of the tea had faded, replaced by the smell of dust.
Trevor sat on the stone bench, his dagger spinning on his finger. Alone. Again.
And then, the silence broke.
"She didn't save you a cup, did she?"
The voice bloomed in the center of his skull, sweet and thick like warm honey.
Trevor sat on a cold stone bench, whittling a piece of drift-wood, watching them sleep.
Sir Toadvine and Bathcat were asleep in the center of the room. Her robe had shifted slightly, revealing the curve of her collarbone. Her satchel—the one full of dangerous, expensive things—was used as a pillow.
"She doesn't look peaceful, does she? She looks... waiting."
The voice slid into Trevor’s mind like oil. It wasn't a sound; it was a thought that wasn't his.
Trevor froze, the knife slipping in his hand. He looked around.
"Don't look at the walls, Trevor. Look at her. Look at what you can't have."
"Why is he the leader?" the voice purred, spiking Trevor’s jealousy like a vein of gold. "Because he is big? Because he is loud? You are the smart one. You are the one who gets things done. Imagine if they knew their place."
Trevor closed his eyes. The image bloomed in his mind, painted by the woman's magic. He saw himself in this very room, but he was sitting on a throne of gold. Bathcat was there, but she wasn't wearing those stuffy robes. She was draped in translucent silks, looking up at him with adoration, pouring him wine. And Toadvine? Toadvine was on all fours, wearing a collar, chained to the foot of the throne.
"I can give you that," she whispered. "I can rewrite the world, Trevor. I can make her love you. Madly. Obsessively. And I can make the Knight... heel."
Trevor opened his eyes. The hunger in his gut was a physical ache. "How?" he whispered to the empty room.
"The scroll," she answered. "In her bag. The one with the wax seal of the Broken Lock. You’ve seen her use them. Just rip it. Simple."
Trevor looked at Bathcat’s head resting on the satchel.
He stood up. He felt light, as if gravity didn't apply to him anymore. He crept across the floor, his thief’s training taking over. Silence. Breath control.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over the leather flap. Bathcat stirred, murmuring something about "runic syntax." Trevor froze. She didn't wake.
Slowly, agonizingly, he slid the satchel out from under her head, replacing it with a rolled-up blanket. She sighed and settled back down.
Trevor opened the bag. The smell of ink and old parchment hit him. He rummaged past the spellbook, past the dried herbs, until his fingers brushed leather. He pulled out a scroll case.
Scroll of Knock.
He didn't know the arcane theory, but he’d watched her do it a dozen times. Rip the seal, point the paper, boom.
"Yes," the voice purred. "Bring it to me. Bring me your future."
Trevor clutched the scroll to his chest and slipped out into the hallway.
The walk to the cell felt like a coronation march. He wasn't sneaking anymore; he was striding. He turned the corner into the purple glow of the containment room.
The woman was waiting. She was pressed against the glass, her silver hair floating around her like a halo. Her eyes locked onto the scroll in his hand.
"My hero," she breathed.
Trevor stood before the humming barrier. He felt powerful. "You promise?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly. "Bathcat... she'll be mine? And Toadvine will..."
"He will beg for your scraps," the woman promised, her smile widening. "You will be the Party Leader, Trevor. Forever."
Trevor nodded. He broke the wax seal on the scroll.
The magic surged through his hands—a hot, electric shock that made his hair stand on end. He didn't read the words; he just tore the parchment down the middle as he pointed at the rune-lock.
K-CRACK!
The sound was like a cannon firing. A shockwave of blue energy slammed into the purple barrier. The runes shrieked, sparked, and then shattered.
The forcefield dropped. The hum died.
Trevor stood there, chest heaving, smoke curling from the burnt scroll in his hand.
The woman stepped out. Her bare feet touched the cold stone.
As she crossed the threshold, the illusion of the weeping, broken girl didn't just fade; it burned away. The air around her shimmered, smelling suddenly of blood and brimstone. Her skin turned the deep red of hot coals and her rags fell away, replaced with a leather dress. Her spine arched with a wet, sickening crack, lengthening as two massive, membranous wings erupted from her shoulder blades, unfurling to span the width of the corridor. Obsidian horns curled back from her temples, crowning her in black glass. On her legs appeared a pair of thigh-high leather boots, the heel jagged and dangerous looking. Finally, a long, sinuous tail—tipped with a sharp, heart-shaped spade—uncoiled from beneath her dress, twitching with eager energy.
She walked up to Trevor. He puffed out his chest, ready for his reward. "I did it. Now make them—"
The Succubus reached out and placed her thumbs on his temples. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear.
"Sleep now, little king," she whispered.
She drove her psychic will into his mind like a railroad spike.
Trevor sat back on the velvet cushions of his throne. The room was warm and golden. Bathcat crawled into his lap, running her hands through his hair, whispering how strong he was, how clever.
"More wine, my Lord?" she purred.
At his feet, Toadvine whimpered, rattling his chain. "Please, Master Trevor... have mercy."
Trevor laughed, a rich, booming sound. He had everything. He had won.
The Succubus watched as Trevor’s eyes rolled back in his head, then snapped forward, glassy and vacant. His jaw went slack. A thick rope of drool spooled from his lip, dripping onto his leather armor. He stood with his arms hanging limp, swaying slightly like a tree in the wind.
He was gone. The lights were on, but nobody was home.
The demoness stepped back, looking at the drooling shell with disgust. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. He didn't blink.
"Good, my pet. I did promise you everything your heart desired, didn't I? I am a good mistress."
Trevor nodded slowly.
"Now, be a dear and go fetch the loud one in the armour. I wish to play"
---
Sir Toadvine awoke to a hand shaking his pauldron.
"Sir Knight. Wake up."
Toadvine sat up instantly, his hand gripping the hilt of Wavecrash. It was the thief, Trevor. The man looked pale, his eyes wide and staring into the middle distance. He was sweating.
"What is it, citizen?" Toadvine whispered, glancing at the sleeping form of Bathcat. She was still deep in her trance. Good. The mage needed her rest.
"I found... a ritual room," Trevor droned, his voice flat. "Down the hall. The prisoner... she escaped. She's waiting for you."
"Escaped?" Toadvine stood, his full plate armor clanking softly. He felt a surge of righteous adrenaline. "I knew that woman was a serpent! Stay here, Trevor. Guard the Lady Bathcat. I shall deal with this wretched creature."
Trevor nodded slowly. "Yes. Go."
Toadvine marched out of the Safe Room. He felt invincible. He was the Shield of Stormbreak. A single escaped prisoner, weakened by centuries of stasis, would be no match for holy steel.
He followed the hallway to a heavy iron door Trevor had indicated. He kicked it open.
CLANG.
It was an ancient training hall, empty save for the dust and the demoness standing in the center.
She looked different. Stronger. The air around her shimmered with heat. She wore no armor, only the leather dress, yet she stood with the arrogance of a queen.
"Finally," she smiled. "The tin man arrives."
"Surrender, succubus!" Toadvine bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He drew his greatsword, the blade glowing with white fire. "Return to your cell, and I may show mercy."
The succubus laughed—a soft, tinkling sound. "Mercy? I don't want mercy, Knight. I want a dance. Just you and me. No magic barriers. No tricks. Steel against flesh. If you strike me down, I accept my fate."
Toadvine narrowed his eyes. A duel? Honorable combat? It was the one bait he couldn't resist.
"Very well," Toadvine declared, assuming a high guard stance. "I accept your challenge. Prepare yourself!"
He charged.
He swung Wavecrash in a massive, decapitating arc, the greatsword crackling with divine energy. It should have cleaved her in two.
The demoness didn't block. She simply... wasn't there. She moved like smoke, ducking under the blade with supernatural grace.
Toadvine pivoted, thrusting. She pirouetted away like water.
"Too slow," she teased.
He swung again. And again. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Every strike hit empty air. She was toying with him.
"Fight me!" Toadvine roared, his frustration mounting. "Stand and fight, demon!"
The succubus stopped. She stood perfectly still, ten feet away. Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of predatory concentration.
"You want me to fight back?" she asked. "Careful what you wish for, Sir Knight."
She raised a hand. She didn't cast a fireball or a lightning bolt. She snapped her fingers.
"Tasha’s Hideous Torment."
A wave of pinkish-violet energy washed over Toadvine. It didn't burn. It didn't freeze. It passed right through his plate armor, right through his chainmail, and soaked into his skin.
At first, it was just a tingle. A small, electric vibration running up his spine.
"What... what sorcery is... pfft..." Toadvine frowned. His stomach muscles twitched. "Is th-this..."
Then, the sensation exploded.
It felt as though a million tiny, invisible feathers had materialized inside his armor. They weren't just brushing his skin; they were drilling into his nerve endings. Under his armpits. Along his ribs. The soles of his feet inside his heavy boots. The back of his neck.
"Gah! Hrk—!" Toadvine stumbled back, dropping his sword. CLANG.
"What's the matter?" The succubus purred, walking closer. "Armor a bit tight?"
"NO! S-STOP! IT'S—BWA-HA-HA!"
The laughter ripped out of him, violent and unbidden. It wasn't funny. It was agony. The sensation spiked—ten times more intense than any physical touch. It was a sensory overload that shattered his discipline.
"I COMMAND—HA-HA-HA-HAA!—YOU TO—HEEE-HEEE-HEEE!—CEASE!"
Toadvine fell to his knees. He clawed at his breastplate, his gauntleted fingers scraping uselessly against the steel. He couldn't scratch. He couldn't rub. The armor that protected him was now a prison, locking the sensation against his body.
"Squirm for me," Lillyth whispered, clenching her fist.
The sensation didn't just double; it burrowed. It felt as if the velvet lining of his greaves had turned into a thousand fluttery moth wings.
"BWAAAA-HAAA-HAAA! G-GODS! N-NO-HO-HO!"
Toadvine crashed to his knees, the impact ringing out like a dropped church bell. K-CLANG! He clawed at his breastplate, his gauntleted fingers screeching against the holy steel. It was a prison of his own making. The laughter boomed inside his helmet, deafening him, an echo chamber of hysteria.
"GET THEM O-HO-HOUT! T-TAKE IT OFFF-HAA-HAA-HAAA!"
He rolled onto his back, his sabatons drumming a chaotic, clanking rhythm against the stone floor—CLANK-CLANK-CLANK!—as his legs kicked involuntarily. He was a turtle flipped on its shell, vibrating with a torment he couldn't touch, couldn't block, and couldn't fight.
"I YIE-HEE-HEELD! BWAAA-HA-HA! M-MERCY!"
Tears streamed down his face. He was drooling, his face red, his lungs burning for air, but the laughter wouldn't stop. His body convulsed in spasms of pure, unadulterated sensation.
The demoness stood over him, looking down with cold amusement.
"You yield?" she asked.
"YES! YES! WA-HA-HA! ANYTHING!" Toadvine screamed, curling into a fetal ball of giggling metal.
"Good," the demoness said. "But I don't keep pets in heavy metal."
She waved her hand. Instantly, the heavy plate mail, the chain, and the gambeson evaporated into mist, leaving the Paladin shivering in just his breeches.
Exposure hit him like a physical blow. Desperate to protect himself, Toadvine jammed his hands deep into his armpits, clamping his elbows tight against his ribs to crush the invisible feathers attacking him.
"G-G-GOT... HA-HA-HA! G-GOT Y-HOU! ST-HO-HOP...!"
It was a futile gesture.
Toadvine’s eyes went wide with horror. The sensation wasn't skimming his skin; it was woven into his very nerves. The phantom feathers danced right through his biceps, teasing the deep tissue regardless of how hard he clamped down. He couldn't block it. He couldn't shield it. It was inside him.
"NO! BWAAA-HA-HA! IT’S DEEPER! I CAN’T BLO-HO-HOCK IT! AAA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
"My servants in Avernus will be more than happy to keep you entertained," the succubus smiled, watching him writhe.
She waved her hand again. The floor beneath the tormented Paladin turned molten red. A swirling vortex of fire and sulfur opened up—a Portal to the Nine Hells.
Screams of the damned echoed from the pit.
"No..." Toadvine gasped between giggles. "No... please... ha-ha..."
"Give my regards to the devils," the succubus said, and kicked his flank.
Toadvine slid into the portal.
"NOOOOO-HO-HO-HO-HAAAAaaaaa...."
His hysterical laughter faded into the distance as the portal snapped shut with a smell of brimstone.
The room fell silent.
The succubus adjusted her dress. Two down.
She turned toward the door. Ideally, the Mage is awake by now.
---
Bathcat stood in the center of the Safe Room, her breath coming in short, calculated ragged gasps. She had analyzed the situation.
Variable A: The Scroll of Knock was missing.
Variable B: Trevor was standing in the corner, staring at the wall, a line of drool dripping onto his jerkin.
Conclusion: Betrayal. Mind control. Immediate threat.
She gripped her ebony staff, the crystal at the top humming with stored mana. "Come out, demon," she stated, her voice trembling only slightly. "I have calculated your approach vectors. You cannot surprise me."
"Oh, honey," a voice purred from the doorway. "I don't need to surprise you. I just need to break you."
The demoness stepped in. She looked magnificent and terrible, wreathed in shadow.
"I have calculated your resistance," Bathcat announced, her voice trembling only slightly. She spun her staff, the crystal glowing with a blinding white light. "You are a succubus named Lillyth. You do not belong in this plane."
She slammed the butt of her staff against the stone floor. DOOOM.
"EXILIUM AETERNA!"
Bathcat unleashed a tear in the fabric of reality. A lance of pure, concentrated holy fire erupted from her staff—a blinding beam of white-gold radiance meant to burn a demon’s essence out of existence. The sound was like a scream of burning metal.
TSHHH-KRAKOOOM!
The beam slammed into Lillyth.
Or it should have.
Lillyth didn't flinch. She didn't dodge. She simply raised her hand, palm open.
The beam of holy fire hit her palm and... stopped. It hissed and sputtered against her skin like water hitting a hot skillet. Lillyth caught the spell. She held the roaring column of white magic, her fingers curling around the energy as if it were a physical spear.
"Bright," Lillyth murmured, her eyes glowing red as the holy fire dissipated in her palm. "But a little warm for my taste."
Bathcat didn't panic. Panic was inefficient. She stepped back, her mind racing through the Lexicon of Abyssal Physiology she had memorized at the Academy. Subject ignores radiant damage. Skin density implies high resistance to thermal variance. Weakness: Mobility. Ground the target.
"Observation acknowledged," Bathcat snapped. She slammed the butt of her staff down again, shifting her grip. She muttered a complex incantation in Draconic, the air in the room instantly dropping fifty degrees. Frost crawled up the walls.
"CARCER GLACIEI PERPETUA—PERMAFROSTIS VINCIO!"
She swept her staff in a horizontal arc. A wave of flash-freezing blue vapor roared across the room. It wasn't just cold; it was the absolute zero of the void.
The ice slammed into Lillyth. Instantly, the demoness was encased in a jagged, translucent block of blue diamond-hard ice. Her wings were pinned, her claws frozen mid-swipe, her smile trapped behind three inches of glacial magic.
Bathcat exhaled, a cloud of white breath escaping her lips. "Target neutralized. Cryogenic stasis initiated. Now, to—"
Krr-chk.
A spiderweb fracture appeared on the surface of the ice, right over Lillyth’s chest.
Bathcat froze. "No. That structure is magically reinforced. It cannot be—"
KRR-RACK!
The ice didn't melt. It exploded outward. Shards of frozen magic flew like shrapnel, pinging off Bathcat’s hasty shield spell.
Lillyth stepped out of the remains of the glacier. She shook her wings, sending a shower of ice crystals clattering to the floor. She wasn't shivering. She looked invigorated.
"Ooh," Lillyth shivered theatrically, dusting frost off her bare shoulders. "Now that was refreshing. You really know how to cool a girl down."
Bathcat took a stumbling step back, her back hitting the wooden beam. Her eyes were wide, computing the impossible data. "Radiant failed. Cryo failed. Mana reserves at 40%. Options... options..."
"Option C," Lillyth purred, closing the distance in a blur of motion. "I break your toy."
She lunged.
Bathcat spun, bringing the staff around in a defensive quarterstaff form—a maneuver Toadvine had taught her. She aimed for the temple.
Lillyth caught the staff mid-swing. Her hand wrapped around the ebony wood just below the crystal.
"A nice stick," Lillyth smiled.
She squeezed.
CRACK.
The top of the staff exploded. Wood splinters and crystal dust rained down. Bathcat gasped, the magical backlash knocking the wind out of her. She stumbled back, clutching the splintered remains of her focus.
"My calculations..." Bathcat stammered, backing into a heavy wooden support beam. "Impossible."
"Anatomy is never impossible," Lillyth whispered.
Before Bathcat could cast a verbal component, Lillyth kicked her legs out from under her. Bathcat hit the floor hard. In seconds, the demoness pushed Bathcat against a support beam in a sitting position, she bound the mage's wrists behind the beam with a coil of shadow-rope. Bathcat's legs were stuck out in front of her, her heels hammering on the ground.
"Now," Lillyth hummed, looking down at the helpless mage. "I took a peek inside your head while we were fighting. So many books. So many spells. And... oh my... such sensitive feet."
Bathcat went pale. "Release me! At once!"
Lillyth ignored her. She knelt and grabbed Bathcat’s left boot. She yanked.
Thump. The boot hit the floor.
Bathcat wasn't wearing socks. Her foot was pale, high-arched, and glistening with a sheen of nervous sweat. The air hit the damp skin, making her toes curl instinctively.
Thump. The second boot followed.
"Fascinating," Lillyth cooed. "Sweaty. You were nervous, weren't you?" Lillyth's forked tongue snaked forward and the serpentine prongs traced lines up Bathcat's impossibly soft sole.
"My my, someone really does look after her little piggies, doesn't she?"
Lillyth grabbed the broken shaft of Bathcat’s own staff. She lashed Bathcat’s ankles to the wood, spreading her feet wide apart.
Then, Lillyth stood over Bathcat. She placed her stiletto-heeled boots directly over the wooden staff, her weight pinning the impromptu stock to the floor. Bathcat couldn't move her legs. Her soles were exposed, vulnerable, and waiting.
"Please," Bathcat gasped, her composure cracking. "I yield! I can be of use! I can rewrite the containment runes!"
"Too late," Lillyth smiled.
Lillyth's long, sinuous tail unfurled and lowered. It had a mind of its own. The tip was smooth, muscular, and warm.
Lillyth's tail didn't just touch her; it explored. The spade-shaped tip was dry and warm, a horrifying contrast to the cold, clammy sweat coating Bathcat’s high arches.
It slithered between her big toe and the second digit, flaring wide.
"Nnnn—IIIIII-EEEEEEP!"
The sound ripped out of Bathcat’s throat, higher and sharper than any spell she had ever cast. She jerked her leg, but the shadow-ropes held fast against the staff.
"Not so stoic now," Lillyth purred. The tail began to flick, rapid-fire, against the ultra-sensitive skin where the toes met the ball of the foot. Swish-swish-swish.
"AHHH-HA-HA-HA! N-NYOOO! ST-H-H-HOP! III-HIII-HIIII!" Bathcat threw her head back, her glasses askew, her face flushing a deep, humiliating crimson. "TOAD-VINE! HELP M-HEE-HEE!"
"He can't hear you," Lillyth laughed. "He's busy in Avernus."
Bathcat’s eyes darted to the corner. The drooling thief.
"YOU!" She shouted. "Lowborn! Help me!"
Trevor didn't move.
Bathcat bit her lip, realizing her mistake. "No! I mean... peasant! Kind peasant! Please!"
Lillyth stopped the tickling for a moment, looking at Bathcat with mock pity.
"You called him 'Lowborn' first," Lillyth tsked. "And look at you. You don't even know his name, do you?"
Bathcat stammered. "I... Trevor! His name is Trevor!" She screamed "Trevor! Help me, please!"
"That," Lillyth said, stepping off the staff, "was your greatest downfall. Arrogance."
Lillyth walked to the door. She snapped her fingers.
"Trevor, dear?"
The thief’s head snapped up. "Yes, Mistress?" he droned
"I need to go check on the Tin Man in Avernus, make sure my thralls are giving him a warm welcome." Lillyth pointed a sharp claw at the bound Mage. "Be a good pet. Keep Bathcat entertained until I return. Don't let her get bored."
Lillyth vanished in a puff of sulfurous smoke.
Silence filled the room.
"Trevor?" Bathcat whispered, her chest heaving. "Trevor, listen to me. I can counter the enchantment. Just... just untie me."
Trevor stood up. He walked toward her. He didn't look like the Trevor she knew. His eyes were empty glass. He didn't speak.
He reached into his belt pouch.
Bathcat flinched. A knife? A gag?
Trevor pulled out his thieves' tools. He unfurled the leather roll, the metal glinting in the torchlight.
"Yes! Yes! Free me and we can save Toadvine!"
Trevor knelt. His expression was dead, but his hands were steady. He selected a 'City Rake'—a pick with a serrated, wave-like pattern usually used for setting tumblers.
He didn't stab. He didn't cut. He pressed the cold, saw-toothed metal against the dead center of her soft, defenseless sole.
"No..." Bathcat wheezed, her lungs empty. "Trevor... don't..."
He dragged the rake down. Fast. Zzzzip.
"KYAAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAAA!"
The metal teeth vibrated over her ridges, creating a sensation that was half-itch, half-pain, and entirely unbearable. Bathcat’s toes splayed so wide the joints popped.
"TREV-HOR-HOR! IT’S COLD! IT’S SO CO-HO-HOLD! EEEE-HEEE-HEEE!"
Trevor didn't blink. He treated her foot like a masterwork lock. He switched to a tension wrench, digging the blunt L-shaped steel into the webbing between her toes and twisting it like a key.
"UN-LAH-HA-HOCK MEEEE! AAA-HA-HA-HAAA!"
But Trevor just kept going. In his mind Bathcat was on her knees between his legs while Toadvine looked on jealously. He just kept working, the scritch-scratch of metal on skin lost beneath the Mage’s hysterical, broken laughter.
This story is based on this amazing piece of art by Deviantart user ChazTheWeasel
But deep in the Lich’s vault, Trevor finds something more interesting than gold. He finds a voice in the dark that understands his resentment. A voice that promises him a throne.
When Trevor breaks the seal on an ancient Succubus, the party dynamic shifts instantly. Now, the "Heroes" are at the mercy of the monsters. From a Paladin trapped in a prison of ticklish, laughing steel to a high-born Mage left bound and barefoot at the mercy of a thief’s lockpicks, Toadvine and Bathcat are about to learn that arrogance has a price—and it is paid in hysterical, helpless tears.
All characters are 18 or older
Word Count: 5,730
F/M | F/F | M/F | Feet Tickling | Tickle Torture
The rain hammered against the roof of The Rusty Flagon, but at the corner table, the atmosphere was even colder.
Trevor shifted on the hard wooden bench, nursing a tankard of watered-down ale. He looked across the table. They looked like a painting of "The Heroes," and he looked like a smudge in the corner.
Bathcat and Sir Toadvine sat side-by-side, their shoulders almost touching. They weren't holding hands—nothing so obvious. It was worse. It was the easy, unconscious familiarity of veterans.
"The Lich’s stronghold," the hooded patron whispered, sliding the map forward.
"Standard formation," Toadvine said, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to vibrate the table. He didn't even look at Trevor. He turned his square, handsome jaw toward the mage. "If I take point with the Shield of Faith, Bathcat, you can flank with—"
"—with a Cone of Cold to funnel them into the chokepoint," Bathcat finished for him, not looking up from the map. She adjusted her spectacles, her face illuminated by the candle. "Precisely, Sir Toadvine. Your shield radius complements my casting range perfectly."
Toadvine beamed, a blindingly white smile. "Excellent strategy, my lady. As always, your intellect is our sharpest weapon."
Bathcat didn't blush. She didn't giggle. She simply nodded, a curt, professional acknowledgement. "And your durability is an adequate wall. It is efficient."
Trevor cleared his throat. Loudly.
"Right," Trevor said, leaning in. "And what about me? You know, the guy who actually picks the locks? The guy you hired last week because you two kept stumbling into traps?"
Bathcat blinked, finally turning her cool, violet eyes toward him. It was like a librarian looking at a noisy patron. "You will scout, Trevor. Obviously. Just try not to pocket anything cursed this time."
"Ha!" Toadvine laughed, clapping a massive hand on Trevor’s back. It knocked the wind out of him. "Our little shadow! Do not worry, friend Trevor. We value your... skulduggery. Even if it is a bit underhanded for a knight’s taste."
Trevor gritted his teeth. Friend Trevor. Little shadow.
He watched as Bathcat reached out. Her pale, slender hand moved toward Toadvine. Trevor’s heart hammered—here it is, he thought, the caress.
Instead, she plucked a piece of lint off Toadvine’s pauldron, examined it, and flicked it away. Toadvine didn't even flinch. He just kept studying the map.
"The payment?" Trevor asked, trying to regain some ground. "The Patron said the vault is fair game."
"We are here for the artifact," Toadvine declared, puffing out his chest. "To cleanse the land of evil!"
"To study the pre-calamity architecture," Bathcat corrected, her voice dry.
"Right, right," Toadvine agreed immediately. "For knowledge! And justice!"
They shared a look—a boring, mutual nod of agreement. They were on the same wavelength, a frequency Trevor couldn't tune into. To Trevor's eyes, that shared look felt intimate. It felt like they had a secret language. He imagined them later, polishing armor and organizing spellbooks, laughing about the greedy little thief who only cared about gold.
He looked at Bathcat’s neck, the curve of it exposed by her high collar. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the map—with interest. With intensity. But to her, he was just a lockpick with a pulse.
"Fine," Trevor spat, downing the rest of his ale. "Justice, knowledge, whatever. Just don't get in my way when we find the gold."
"We wouldn't dream of it," Bathcat said, already turning back to Toadvine. "Now, regarding the ingress points, Sir Toadvine..."
Trevor sat back, the bitterness rising in his throat like bile. He felt like the fifth wheel on a wagon that didn't need him.
---
The air in the lower vaults tasted like dust and decay. It was a silence so deep that the clank-clank-clank of Sir Toadvine’s plate armor sounded like someone beating a pot with a hammer.
Trevor, moving twenty paces ahead in the shadows, ground his teeth. "Stealth," he whispered to no one. "We talked about stealth."
He rounded a corner, his torch illuminating a cavernous chamber carved from black volcanic glass. And there, in the center, was the anomaly.
It wasn't a cage. It was a pillar of amethyst light, a humming cylinder of pure magical force stretching from floor to ceiling. The sound it made was a low, vibrating thrummm-thrummm that rattled Trevor’s teeth.
Suspended inside, floating inches off the ground, was a woman.
She was bound not by ropes, but by chains of woven shadow that pulsed with a faint, sickly light. Her clothes were tattered silk, clinging to a frame that was dangerously curvaceous. Her hair, a cascade of silver, floated in the anti-gravity of the cell.
Trevor stopped dead. He lowered his torch.
"Help..."
The voice wasn't loud. It was a whisper that seemed to bypass his ears and slide directly into the base of his skull. It was warm, desperate, and terrifyingly human.
"Hold, thief!" Toadvine’s voice boomed from behind. The Paladin marched into the room, sword drawn, glowing with a holy white light. Bathcat followed a step behind, her nose buried in a floating spectral book.
The woman's eyes snapped open. They were wide, violet, and filled with tears. She pressed her hands against the barrier. Hiss-crackle. The magic burned her palms, but she didn't pull away.
"Please," she sobbed. "You... you look like heroes. Please. The Lich... he left me here to rot."
Trevor stepped forward, his hand instinctively going to his lockpicks. "She's hurt. Look at those chains."
"Halt," Toadvine commanded, extending a massive arm to block Trevor. The Paladin narrowed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose. "I sense... malice. A distinct sulfurous undercurrent. This woman is not what she seems."
Bathcat didn't even look at the prisoner. She walked up to the barrier, tapping the glass-like surface with her staff. Ting. Ting.
"Fascinating," Bathcat mumbled. "Soul-Binding Runes. Fifth Era dialect. This isn't a prison cell, Toadvine. It's a containment unit for high-volatility magical entities." She finally looked at the woman, her expression clinically bored. "If we release her, the resulting magical backlash could destabilize the entire floor."
"But look at her!" Trevor snapped, gesturing to the weeping woman. "She's crying! She's begging! You're just going to leave her?"
The woman locked eyes with Trevor. She didn't look at the knight or the mage. She looked at him. She offered a small, trembling smile, a look of shared pain. They don't understand us, that look said.
"We have a mission," Toadvine said firmly, sheathing his sword. "The Phylactery is our priority. We cannot risk a variable like this. We leave her."
"Logic dictates we maintain the containment," Bathcat agreed, turning her back on the cell. "However... the ambient mana density here is incredibly high. It shields us from the wandering undead. This is the safest place to rest."
"Rest?" Trevor stared at them. "You want to sleep in front of the girl you're refusing to save?"
"It is efficient," Toadvine nodded, unbuckling his shield. "We shall camp here. I will take the first watch. Bathcat, you need your meditation."
Trevor looked at Toadvine "we are wide open here! Indefensible! This place would be suicide" he snapped at the knight.
Bathcat frowned and looked at them "he has a point," she murmured. "Hmm, it feels like the protection aura stretches quite a bit. Let's look for a safe room close by that is bathed in it."
---
The "Safe Room" turned out to be a dusty library about a hundred yards down the corridor from the woman's cell. The air here was still stale, but the oppressive purple hum of the containment unit was dampened by thick oak doors.
"Perimeter secure," Toadvine announced, barring the door with a heavy iron candelabra. He turned, his armor rattling. "We shall rest here for eight hours. Efficient and defensible."
Bathcat didn't answer. She was already clearing a space on a large, rot-resistant rug in the center of the room. She swept away centuries of dust with a casual wave of her staff and a muttered cantrip.
Trevor dropped his pack in the corner, near a drafty window. "Right. Great spot. Cozy."
He watched as Bathcat sat cross-legged on the rug, pulling a small copper kettle and a pouch of dried leaves from her satchel. She murmured a word—Ignis—and a small, controlled flame blossomed in her palm to heat the water.
The smell of chamomile and spiced orange filled the room. It smelled expensive. It smelled like civilization.
Trevor’s stomach rumbled. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a piece of hardtack that looked and tasted like a shingle.
"Tea, Sir Toadvine?" Bathcat asked softly, her voice losing that sharp, lecture-hall edge it always had when she spoke to Trevor.
"You are too kind, my lady," Toadvine beamed, removing his gauntlets to accept the steaming cup. His massive hands looked absurdly gentle holding the delicate porcelain. "This will fortify the spirit."
Trevor waited. He held his breath. Ask me, he thought. Just ask if I want some.
Bathcat took a sip of her own cup, sighed in contentment, and extinguished the magical flame. She put the kettle away.
She hadn't even looked at the corner.
Trevor bit into his hardtack. Crunch. It tasted like sawdust and spite.
"We should discuss the rune-structure on the lower levels," Toadvine said, settling down next to her. "I worry the structural integrity is compromised."
"I have analyzed it," Bathcat replied, opening a heavy tome. She leaned in so Toadvine could see the diagram. Her shoulder brushed against his unarmored arm. "The load-bearing pillars are reinforced with Abjuration magic. It is fascinating, actually..."
They drifted into their own world—a world of tactics, history, and shared competence. Trevor sat in the shadows, whittling a piece of scrap wood, watching the firelight dance on their faces. They looked like a painting of heroes. He looked like the smudge the artist tried to erase.
An hour passed. Then two.
"I shall take the first watch," Toadvine announced, standing up and stretching. His shadow stretched long across the room. "Sleep, Bathcat. You need your mind sharp for the rituals tomorrow."
"And you, Sir Knight," she nodded, curling up on the rug with her staff beside her. "Wake Trevor in four hours. He has the... night vision."
He has the night vision. Not "Trevor needs rest too." Just a statement of utility.
Trevor pulled his thin, scratchy blanket over his shoulders and turned his face to the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out the sound of Toadvine humming a hymn under his breath, or the soft, rhythmic breathing of the woman he wanted, sleeping safely beside the man he hated.
4 HOURS LATER
A metal hand shook Trevor’s shoulder. Hard.
"Rise and shine, Master Thief!"
Trevor groaned, swatting the hand away. He felt like he’d been asleep for ten minutes. He sat up, blinking in the dim light.
Toadvine was standing over him, looking disgustingly alert.
"The watch is yours," the Paladin whispered, though his whisper was louder than most people's speaking voice. "The perimeter is quiet. I sensed... a disturbance earlier, near the prisoner's cell, but it faded. Keep your eyes sharp."
"Yeah, yeah," Trevor muttered, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Sharp. Got it."
Toadvine nodded solemnly. He walked over to the rug where Bathcat was sleeping. He moved with surprising care for a man in plate mail, easing himself down onto the floor a respectable—but still intimate—two feet away from her. He placed his sword between them, like a symbolic guardian.
Within minutes, the Paladin’s deep, rhythmic snoring began. Honnk-shoo. Honnk-shoo.
Trevor stood up. He walked to the center of the room. He looked at them.
The fire had burned down to embers. The room was cold. The smell of the tea had faded, replaced by the smell of dust.
Trevor sat on the stone bench, his dagger spinning on his finger. Alone. Again.
And then, the silence broke.
"She didn't save you a cup, did she?"
The voice bloomed in the center of his skull, sweet and thick like warm honey.
Trevor sat on a cold stone bench, whittling a piece of drift-wood, watching them sleep.
Sir Toadvine and Bathcat were asleep in the center of the room. Her robe had shifted slightly, revealing the curve of her collarbone. Her satchel—the one full of dangerous, expensive things—was used as a pillow.
"She doesn't look peaceful, does she? She looks... waiting."
The voice slid into Trevor’s mind like oil. It wasn't a sound; it was a thought that wasn't his.
Trevor froze, the knife slipping in his hand. He looked around.
"Don't look at the walls, Trevor. Look at her. Look at what you can't have."
"Why is he the leader?" the voice purred, spiking Trevor’s jealousy like a vein of gold. "Because he is big? Because he is loud? You are the smart one. You are the one who gets things done. Imagine if they knew their place."
Trevor closed his eyes. The image bloomed in his mind, painted by the woman's magic. He saw himself in this very room, but he was sitting on a throne of gold. Bathcat was there, but she wasn't wearing those stuffy robes. She was draped in translucent silks, looking up at him with adoration, pouring him wine. And Toadvine? Toadvine was on all fours, wearing a collar, chained to the foot of the throne.
"I can give you that," she whispered. "I can rewrite the world, Trevor. I can make her love you. Madly. Obsessively. And I can make the Knight... heel."
Trevor opened his eyes. The hunger in his gut was a physical ache. "How?" he whispered to the empty room.
"The scroll," she answered. "In her bag. The one with the wax seal of the Broken Lock. You’ve seen her use them. Just rip it. Simple."
Trevor looked at Bathcat’s head resting on the satchel.
He stood up. He felt light, as if gravity didn't apply to him anymore. He crept across the floor, his thief’s training taking over. Silence. Breath control.
He reached out, his fingers hovering over the leather flap. Bathcat stirred, murmuring something about "runic syntax." Trevor froze. She didn't wake.
Slowly, agonizingly, he slid the satchel out from under her head, replacing it with a rolled-up blanket. She sighed and settled back down.
Trevor opened the bag. The smell of ink and old parchment hit him. He rummaged past the spellbook, past the dried herbs, until his fingers brushed leather. He pulled out a scroll case.
Scroll of Knock.
He didn't know the arcane theory, but he’d watched her do it a dozen times. Rip the seal, point the paper, boom.
"Yes," the voice purred. "Bring it to me. Bring me your future."
Trevor clutched the scroll to his chest and slipped out into the hallway.
The walk to the cell felt like a coronation march. He wasn't sneaking anymore; he was striding. He turned the corner into the purple glow of the containment room.
The woman was waiting. She was pressed against the glass, her silver hair floating around her like a halo. Her eyes locked onto the scroll in his hand.
"My hero," she breathed.
Trevor stood before the humming barrier. He felt powerful. "You promise?" he asked, his voice shaking slightly. "Bathcat... she'll be mine? And Toadvine will..."
"He will beg for your scraps," the woman promised, her smile widening. "You will be the Party Leader, Trevor. Forever."
Trevor nodded. He broke the wax seal on the scroll.
The magic surged through his hands—a hot, electric shock that made his hair stand on end. He didn't read the words; he just tore the parchment down the middle as he pointed at the rune-lock.
K-CRACK!
The sound was like a cannon firing. A shockwave of blue energy slammed into the purple barrier. The runes shrieked, sparked, and then shattered.
The forcefield dropped. The hum died.
Trevor stood there, chest heaving, smoke curling from the burnt scroll in his hand.
The woman stepped out. Her bare feet touched the cold stone.
As she crossed the threshold, the illusion of the weeping, broken girl didn't just fade; it burned away. The air around her shimmered, smelling suddenly of blood and brimstone. Her skin turned the deep red of hot coals and her rags fell away, replaced with a leather dress. Her spine arched with a wet, sickening crack, lengthening as two massive, membranous wings erupted from her shoulder blades, unfurling to span the width of the corridor. Obsidian horns curled back from her temples, crowning her in black glass. On her legs appeared a pair of thigh-high leather boots, the heel jagged and dangerous looking. Finally, a long, sinuous tail—tipped with a sharp, heart-shaped spade—uncoiled from beneath her dress, twitching with eager energy.
She walked up to Trevor. He puffed out his chest, ready for his reward. "I did it. Now make them—"
The Succubus reached out and placed her thumbs on his temples. She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear.
"Sleep now, little king," she whispered.
She drove her psychic will into his mind like a railroad spike.
Trevor sat back on the velvet cushions of his throne. The room was warm and golden. Bathcat crawled into his lap, running her hands through his hair, whispering how strong he was, how clever.
"More wine, my Lord?" she purred.
At his feet, Toadvine whimpered, rattling his chain. "Please, Master Trevor... have mercy."
Trevor laughed, a rich, booming sound. He had everything. He had won.
The Succubus watched as Trevor’s eyes rolled back in his head, then snapped forward, glassy and vacant. His jaw went slack. A thick rope of drool spooled from his lip, dripping onto his leather armor. He stood with his arms hanging limp, swaying slightly like a tree in the wind.
He was gone. The lights were on, but nobody was home.
The demoness stepped back, looking at the drooling shell with disgust. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. He didn't blink.
"Good, my pet. I did promise you everything your heart desired, didn't I? I am a good mistress."
Trevor nodded slowly.
"Now, be a dear and go fetch the loud one in the armour. I wish to play"
---
Sir Toadvine awoke to a hand shaking his pauldron.
"Sir Knight. Wake up."
Toadvine sat up instantly, his hand gripping the hilt of Wavecrash. It was the thief, Trevor. The man looked pale, his eyes wide and staring into the middle distance. He was sweating.
"What is it, citizen?" Toadvine whispered, glancing at the sleeping form of Bathcat. She was still deep in her trance. Good. The mage needed her rest.
"I found... a ritual room," Trevor droned, his voice flat. "Down the hall. The prisoner... she escaped. She's waiting for you."
"Escaped?" Toadvine stood, his full plate armor clanking softly. He felt a surge of righteous adrenaline. "I knew that woman was a serpent! Stay here, Trevor. Guard the Lady Bathcat. I shall deal with this wretched creature."
Trevor nodded slowly. "Yes. Go."
Toadvine marched out of the Safe Room. He felt invincible. He was the Shield of Stormbreak. A single escaped prisoner, weakened by centuries of stasis, would be no match for holy steel.
He followed the hallway to a heavy iron door Trevor had indicated. He kicked it open.
CLANG.
It was an ancient training hall, empty save for the dust and the demoness standing in the center.
She looked different. Stronger. The air around her shimmered with heat. She wore no armor, only the leather dress, yet she stood with the arrogance of a queen.
"Finally," she smiled. "The tin man arrives."
"Surrender, succubus!" Toadvine bellowed, his voice echoing off the stone walls. He drew his greatsword, the blade glowing with white fire. "Return to your cell, and I may show mercy."
The succubus laughed—a soft, tinkling sound. "Mercy? I don't want mercy, Knight. I want a dance. Just you and me. No magic barriers. No tricks. Steel against flesh. If you strike me down, I accept my fate."
Toadvine narrowed his eyes. A duel? Honorable combat? It was the one bait he couldn't resist.
"Very well," Toadvine declared, assuming a high guard stance. "I accept your challenge. Prepare yourself!"
He charged.
He swung Wavecrash in a massive, decapitating arc, the greatsword crackling with divine energy. It should have cleaved her in two.
The demoness didn't block. She simply... wasn't there. She moved like smoke, ducking under the blade with supernatural grace.
Toadvine pivoted, thrusting. She pirouetted away like water.
"Too slow," she teased.
He swung again. And again. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh. Every strike hit empty air. She was toying with him.
"Fight me!" Toadvine roared, his frustration mounting. "Stand and fight, demon!"
The succubus stopped. She stood perfectly still, ten feet away. Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of predatory concentration.
"You want me to fight back?" she asked. "Careful what you wish for, Sir Knight."
She raised a hand. She didn't cast a fireball or a lightning bolt. She snapped her fingers.
"Tasha’s Hideous Torment."
A wave of pinkish-violet energy washed over Toadvine. It didn't burn. It didn't freeze. It passed right through his plate armor, right through his chainmail, and soaked into his skin.
At first, it was just a tingle. A small, electric vibration running up his spine.
"What... what sorcery is... pfft..." Toadvine frowned. His stomach muscles twitched. "Is th-this..."
Then, the sensation exploded.
It felt as though a million tiny, invisible feathers had materialized inside his armor. They weren't just brushing his skin; they were drilling into his nerve endings. Under his armpits. Along his ribs. The soles of his feet inside his heavy boots. The back of his neck.
"Gah! Hrk—!" Toadvine stumbled back, dropping his sword. CLANG.
"What's the matter?" The succubus purred, walking closer. "Armor a bit tight?"
"NO! S-STOP! IT'S—BWA-HA-HA!"
The laughter ripped out of him, violent and unbidden. It wasn't funny. It was agony. The sensation spiked—ten times more intense than any physical touch. It was a sensory overload that shattered his discipline.
"I COMMAND—HA-HA-HA-HAA!—YOU TO—HEEE-HEEE-HEEE!—CEASE!"
Toadvine fell to his knees. He clawed at his breastplate, his gauntleted fingers scraping uselessly against the steel. He couldn't scratch. He couldn't rub. The armor that protected him was now a prison, locking the sensation against his body.
"Squirm for me," Lillyth whispered, clenching her fist.
The sensation didn't just double; it burrowed. It felt as if the velvet lining of his greaves had turned into a thousand fluttery moth wings.
"BWAAAA-HAAA-HAAA! G-GODS! N-NO-HO-HO!"
Toadvine crashed to his knees, the impact ringing out like a dropped church bell. K-CLANG! He clawed at his breastplate, his gauntleted fingers screeching against the holy steel. It was a prison of his own making. The laughter boomed inside his helmet, deafening him, an echo chamber of hysteria.
"GET THEM O-HO-HOUT! T-TAKE IT OFFF-HAA-HAA-HAAA!"
He rolled onto his back, his sabatons drumming a chaotic, clanking rhythm against the stone floor—CLANK-CLANK-CLANK!—as his legs kicked involuntarily. He was a turtle flipped on its shell, vibrating with a torment he couldn't touch, couldn't block, and couldn't fight.
"I YIE-HEE-HEELD! BWAAA-HA-HA! M-MERCY!"
Tears streamed down his face. He was drooling, his face red, his lungs burning for air, but the laughter wouldn't stop. His body convulsed in spasms of pure, unadulterated sensation.
The demoness stood over him, looking down with cold amusement.
"You yield?" she asked.
"YES! YES! WA-HA-HA! ANYTHING!" Toadvine screamed, curling into a fetal ball of giggling metal.
"Good," the demoness said. "But I don't keep pets in heavy metal."
She waved her hand. Instantly, the heavy plate mail, the chain, and the gambeson evaporated into mist, leaving the Paladin shivering in just his breeches.
Exposure hit him like a physical blow. Desperate to protect himself, Toadvine jammed his hands deep into his armpits, clamping his elbows tight against his ribs to crush the invisible feathers attacking him.
"G-G-GOT... HA-HA-HA! G-GOT Y-HOU! ST-HO-HOP...!"
It was a futile gesture.
Toadvine’s eyes went wide with horror. The sensation wasn't skimming his skin; it was woven into his very nerves. The phantom feathers danced right through his biceps, teasing the deep tissue regardless of how hard he clamped down. He couldn't block it. He couldn't shield it. It was inside him.
"NO! BWAAA-HA-HA! IT’S DEEPER! I CAN’T BLO-HO-HOCK IT! AAA-HA-HA-HAAAA!"
"My servants in Avernus will be more than happy to keep you entertained," the succubus smiled, watching him writhe.
She waved her hand again. The floor beneath the tormented Paladin turned molten red. A swirling vortex of fire and sulfur opened up—a Portal to the Nine Hells.
Screams of the damned echoed from the pit.
"No..." Toadvine gasped between giggles. "No... please... ha-ha..."
"Give my regards to the devils," the succubus said, and kicked his flank.
Toadvine slid into the portal.
"NOOOOO-HO-HO-HO-HAAAAaaaaa...."
His hysterical laughter faded into the distance as the portal snapped shut with a smell of brimstone.
The room fell silent.
The succubus adjusted her dress. Two down.
She turned toward the door. Ideally, the Mage is awake by now.
---
Bathcat stood in the center of the Safe Room, her breath coming in short, calculated ragged gasps. She had analyzed the situation.
Variable A: The Scroll of Knock was missing.
Variable B: Trevor was standing in the corner, staring at the wall, a line of drool dripping onto his jerkin.
Conclusion: Betrayal. Mind control. Immediate threat.
She gripped her ebony staff, the crystal at the top humming with stored mana. "Come out, demon," she stated, her voice trembling only slightly. "I have calculated your approach vectors. You cannot surprise me."
"Oh, honey," a voice purred from the doorway. "I don't need to surprise you. I just need to break you."
The demoness stepped in. She looked magnificent and terrible, wreathed in shadow.
"I have calculated your resistance," Bathcat announced, her voice trembling only slightly. She spun her staff, the crystal glowing with a blinding white light. "You are a succubus named Lillyth. You do not belong in this plane."
She slammed the butt of her staff against the stone floor. DOOOM.
"EXILIUM AETERNA!"
Bathcat unleashed a tear in the fabric of reality. A lance of pure, concentrated holy fire erupted from her staff—a blinding beam of white-gold radiance meant to burn a demon’s essence out of existence. The sound was like a scream of burning metal.
TSHHH-KRAKOOOM!
The beam slammed into Lillyth.
Or it should have.
Lillyth didn't flinch. She didn't dodge. She simply raised her hand, palm open.
The beam of holy fire hit her palm and... stopped. It hissed and sputtered against her skin like water hitting a hot skillet. Lillyth caught the spell. She held the roaring column of white magic, her fingers curling around the energy as if it were a physical spear.
"Bright," Lillyth murmured, her eyes glowing red as the holy fire dissipated in her palm. "But a little warm for my taste."
Bathcat didn't panic. Panic was inefficient. She stepped back, her mind racing through the Lexicon of Abyssal Physiology she had memorized at the Academy. Subject ignores radiant damage. Skin density implies high resistance to thermal variance. Weakness: Mobility. Ground the target.
"Observation acknowledged," Bathcat snapped. She slammed the butt of her staff down again, shifting her grip. She muttered a complex incantation in Draconic, the air in the room instantly dropping fifty degrees. Frost crawled up the walls.
"CARCER GLACIEI PERPETUA—PERMAFROSTIS VINCIO!"
She swept her staff in a horizontal arc. A wave of flash-freezing blue vapor roared across the room. It wasn't just cold; it was the absolute zero of the void.
The ice slammed into Lillyth. Instantly, the demoness was encased in a jagged, translucent block of blue diamond-hard ice. Her wings were pinned, her claws frozen mid-swipe, her smile trapped behind three inches of glacial magic.
Bathcat exhaled, a cloud of white breath escaping her lips. "Target neutralized. Cryogenic stasis initiated. Now, to—"
Krr-chk.
A spiderweb fracture appeared on the surface of the ice, right over Lillyth’s chest.
Bathcat froze. "No. That structure is magically reinforced. It cannot be—"
KRR-RACK!
The ice didn't melt. It exploded outward. Shards of frozen magic flew like shrapnel, pinging off Bathcat’s hasty shield spell.
Lillyth stepped out of the remains of the glacier. She shook her wings, sending a shower of ice crystals clattering to the floor. She wasn't shivering. She looked invigorated.
"Ooh," Lillyth shivered theatrically, dusting frost off her bare shoulders. "Now that was refreshing. You really know how to cool a girl down."
Bathcat took a stumbling step back, her back hitting the wooden beam. Her eyes were wide, computing the impossible data. "Radiant failed. Cryo failed. Mana reserves at 40%. Options... options..."
"Option C," Lillyth purred, closing the distance in a blur of motion. "I break your toy."
She lunged.
Bathcat spun, bringing the staff around in a defensive quarterstaff form—a maneuver Toadvine had taught her. She aimed for the temple.
Lillyth caught the staff mid-swing. Her hand wrapped around the ebony wood just below the crystal.
"A nice stick," Lillyth smiled.
She squeezed.
CRACK.
The top of the staff exploded. Wood splinters and crystal dust rained down. Bathcat gasped, the magical backlash knocking the wind out of her. She stumbled back, clutching the splintered remains of her focus.
"My calculations..." Bathcat stammered, backing into a heavy wooden support beam. "Impossible."
"Anatomy is never impossible," Lillyth whispered.
Before Bathcat could cast a verbal component, Lillyth kicked her legs out from under her. Bathcat hit the floor hard. In seconds, the demoness pushed Bathcat against a support beam in a sitting position, she bound the mage's wrists behind the beam with a coil of shadow-rope. Bathcat's legs were stuck out in front of her, her heels hammering on the ground.
"Now," Lillyth hummed, looking down at the helpless mage. "I took a peek inside your head while we were fighting. So many books. So many spells. And... oh my... such sensitive feet."
Bathcat went pale. "Release me! At once!"
Lillyth ignored her. She knelt and grabbed Bathcat’s left boot. She yanked.
Thump. The boot hit the floor.
Bathcat wasn't wearing socks. Her foot was pale, high-arched, and glistening with a sheen of nervous sweat. The air hit the damp skin, making her toes curl instinctively.
Thump. The second boot followed.
"Fascinating," Lillyth cooed. "Sweaty. You were nervous, weren't you?" Lillyth's forked tongue snaked forward and the serpentine prongs traced lines up Bathcat's impossibly soft sole.
"My my, someone really does look after her little piggies, doesn't she?"
Lillyth grabbed the broken shaft of Bathcat’s own staff. She lashed Bathcat’s ankles to the wood, spreading her feet wide apart.
Then, Lillyth stood over Bathcat. She placed her stiletto-heeled boots directly over the wooden staff, her weight pinning the impromptu stock to the floor. Bathcat couldn't move her legs. Her soles were exposed, vulnerable, and waiting.
"Please," Bathcat gasped, her composure cracking. "I yield! I can be of use! I can rewrite the containment runes!"
"Too late," Lillyth smiled.
Lillyth's long, sinuous tail unfurled and lowered. It had a mind of its own. The tip was smooth, muscular, and warm.
Lillyth's tail didn't just touch her; it explored. The spade-shaped tip was dry and warm, a horrifying contrast to the cold, clammy sweat coating Bathcat’s high arches.
It slithered between her big toe and the second digit, flaring wide.
"Nnnn—IIIIII-EEEEEEP!"
The sound ripped out of Bathcat’s throat, higher and sharper than any spell she had ever cast. She jerked her leg, but the shadow-ropes held fast against the staff.
"Not so stoic now," Lillyth purred. The tail began to flick, rapid-fire, against the ultra-sensitive skin where the toes met the ball of the foot. Swish-swish-swish.
"AHHH-HA-HA-HA! N-NYOOO! ST-H-H-HOP! III-HIII-HIIII!" Bathcat threw her head back, her glasses askew, her face flushing a deep, humiliating crimson. "TOAD-VINE! HELP M-HEE-HEE!"
"He can't hear you," Lillyth laughed. "He's busy in Avernus."
Bathcat’s eyes darted to the corner. The drooling thief.
"YOU!" She shouted. "Lowborn! Help me!"
Trevor didn't move.
Bathcat bit her lip, realizing her mistake. "No! I mean... peasant! Kind peasant! Please!"
Lillyth stopped the tickling for a moment, looking at Bathcat with mock pity.
"You called him 'Lowborn' first," Lillyth tsked. "And look at you. You don't even know his name, do you?"
Bathcat stammered. "I... Trevor! His name is Trevor!" She screamed "Trevor! Help me, please!"
"That," Lillyth said, stepping off the staff, "was your greatest downfall. Arrogance."
Lillyth walked to the door. She snapped her fingers.
"Trevor, dear?"
The thief’s head snapped up. "Yes, Mistress?" he droned
"I need to go check on the Tin Man in Avernus, make sure my thralls are giving him a warm welcome." Lillyth pointed a sharp claw at the bound Mage. "Be a good pet. Keep Bathcat entertained until I return. Don't let her get bored."
Lillyth vanished in a puff of sulfurous smoke.
Silence filled the room.
"Trevor?" Bathcat whispered, her chest heaving. "Trevor, listen to me. I can counter the enchantment. Just... just untie me."
Trevor stood up. He walked toward her. He didn't look like the Trevor she knew. His eyes were empty glass. He didn't speak.
He reached into his belt pouch.
Bathcat flinched. A knife? A gag?
Trevor pulled out his thieves' tools. He unfurled the leather roll, the metal glinting in the torchlight.
"Yes! Yes! Free me and we can save Toadvine!"
Trevor knelt. His expression was dead, but his hands were steady. He selected a 'City Rake'—a pick with a serrated, wave-like pattern usually used for setting tumblers.
He didn't stab. He didn't cut. He pressed the cold, saw-toothed metal against the dead center of her soft, defenseless sole.
"No..." Bathcat wheezed, her lungs empty. "Trevor... don't..."
He dragged the rake down. Fast. Zzzzip.
"KYAAAAA-HAAAA-HAAAAA!"
The metal teeth vibrated over her ridges, creating a sensation that was half-itch, half-pain, and entirely unbearable. Bathcat’s toes splayed so wide the joints popped.
"TREV-HOR-HOR! IT’S COLD! IT’S SO CO-HO-HOLD! EEEE-HEEE-HEEE!"
Trevor didn't blink. He treated her foot like a masterwork lock. He switched to a tension wrench, digging the blunt L-shaped steel into the webbing between her toes and twisting it like a key.
"UN-LAH-HA-HOCK MEEEE! AAA-HA-HA-HAAA!"
But Trevor just kept going. In his mind Bathcat was on her knees between his legs while Toadvine looked on jealously. He just kept working, the scritch-scratch of metal on skin lost beneath the Mage’s hysterical, broken laughter.
This story is based on this amazing piece of art by Deviantart user ChazTheWeasel
