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lefteagleblizzard · 2 months ago

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ℌ𝔦𝔰 𝔴𝔞𝔶 𝔬𝔣 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 Joel Miller x male reader

Summary: you test Joel Miller's patience one too many times, desperate to prove yourself and when a reckless act nearly gets you killed, he shows you exactly what happens when you push a man like him too far. You wanted his respect. Instead, you get his full attention under the weight of his fury, pressed face-first against a crumbling wall, held down as he fucks you raw.

Tags: Set in The Last of Us Part I. Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. Angst. Enemies/friends to lovers. Age Gap. Protective Joel Miller. Feral Joel Miller. Some descriptions of violence. Some gore elements but not too much. Smut. Gay smut. Top Joel Miller. Brat tamer Joel Miller. Reckless bottom male reader. Size difference. Anal sex.

This was written with game Joel in mind, since I personally prefer the video game way more than the TV show in general.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 5000

The streets were waterlogged veins, slick with runoff and filth. Buildings leaned like they were exhaling their last breath, brick bloated and peeling from twenty years of rain and collapse. The air hung heavy of mildew, rusted rebar, and the sour stink of stagnant floodwater. Somewhere far off, a car alarm wailed half-heartedly. Closer, nothing but the lap of murky water against concrete.

An hotel loomed up out of the sludge. Hotel Grand, half its letters rusted off the vertical sign still clinging to the brick like a parasite. Green slime clung to the lower floor. Water had swallowed the lobby up to the waist.

The glass doors were shattered. The awning collapsed on one side. Beyond the lobby, darkness pooled like oil, lit only by the glow bleeding through the grime-streaked windows.

You swam through what used to be a valet lane, breaking the surface with a breathless sigh and shaking water from your silenced sidearm. Ellie rode a warped wooden slab, her hands gripping the edges, sneakers dripping. Joel swam with one hand, the other pushing her along, grimacing every time debris scratched his arms or bumped his ribs.

He grunted as he hauled himself up the marble steps into the flooded lobby.

The water inside was of the same green tone, thick with floating filth. Soggy furniture broke the surface like dead whales, mold clawed its way up the walls in dark veins.

You walked in front of the concierge desk. Ellie followed, boots squelching. Her eyes scanned the ruin, then her face lit up. She ducked behind the desk, poked her head up and cleared her throat theatrically “Good afternoon, sir,” she said, grinning. “Do you have a reservation?”

You grinned, adjusting your wet hair and holstering your gun . “Yeah. Name’s Badass.’ Suite, preferably. Got a thing for soaking tubs.”

She snorted, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Sorry, sir, we’re all booked. But if you’d like to wait on hold for fifteen years—”

Joel groaned from the base of the stairs, racking a round into his revolver. “Both of you, enough.”

“Party pooper,” Ellie mumbled.

You leaned down and offered her a hand up onto the higher ledge. She took it without question. Joel watched the exchange, jaw set, but said nothing. His eyes lingered on your hand a little too long.

You explored the edges of the flooded floor carefully, boots sloshing through what felt more like soup than water. Moss-covered tables leaned sideways. Chairs floated lazily past. Old room service carts lay overturned and rusted, linens eaten by rot.

Dozens and rapid splashes came from outside, in the water.

You froze, just like Joel.

Looking up from where you were, a section of upper flooring had collapsed over the years, exposing the next level up, a sharp edge jutting down like a broken tooth.

You backed up, boots hitting dry tile as you started to run.

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare—” Joel’s voice tore through the lobby, low, furious, but you were already mid-air when he barked those words, fingers scraping the jagged edge of collapsed floor and making it possible to pull yourself up, ribs burning.

You pressed yourself flat to the floor just as the front doors slammed open below. Water sloshed and footsteps thundered as some bandits stormed inside

Five of them all armed with rifles, bats and crowbars. A few had makeshift armor strapped on with duct tape and salvaged plate.

The floor beneath your elbows was warped and soft with rot, carpet peeled back to reveal splinters fattened by mold, soaked deep with twenty years of decay. Every deliberate crawl scraped damp grit along your knees, but you couldn’t afford any noises. One creak too sharp and they’d be on you.

You positioned yourself right at the edge of the collapsed floor, the ragged drop-off giving you a broken bird’s eye view of the lobby below, Joel was crouched near an overturned table with Ellie at his side, his revolver steady but his jaw clenched tight.

You spotted the first enemy slinking through the murk. Shoulders hunched, rifle out. His boots sloshed through the knee-high floodwater, one step at a time, muzzle twitching with every sound.

You watched Joel stiffen. He turned, caught Ellie’s sleeve and tugged her further into cover.

You exhaled through your nose, slow and controlled. Pulled your sidearm into position, the familiar weight of the gun settled against your palm, heavy from the custom suppressor bolted to the front. Your gloves soaked from the earlier swim and your breath drew in to further steady your hands.

Thwick.

The shot barely made a sound, but the result was instant.

The man’s head snapped back, a spray of dark red painting the mold-ridden pillar behind him before his body crumpled like a marionette with its strings sliced. The splash he made landing into the floodwater was much louder.

The others whipped around, they spotted the body and your next shot lined up.

Thwick.

The second man dropped like a bag of bricks, blood painting a slick trail across the surface of the water.

You pulled back immediately when one of them had seen the muzzle glint. The crack of a gunshot exploded past your ear and whined off the half-collapsed frame beside your head, splinters lancing across your cheek. You flattened, crawling fast across the broken space toward another patch of shadow.

“Second floor! Flank left, I got him—!”

He didn’t finish. Joel rose up behind the bastard the second his attention was on you, thick bicep wrapping around the man’s throat before he could even cry out.

His forearm flexed, bicep crushing upward. You barely heard the crunch produced by the man’s neck.

Joel didn’t flinch, he just lowered the body carefully into the water without a splash.

The others moved in, furious now, stumbling forward with rage-blind sloppiness. Ellie ducked low and lobbed a brick square in the temple of one of the two bandits, stunning him long enough for Joel to stomp forward and grab him by the throat.

You shifted to a better angle and took out the last man flanking the east wall, catching him in the shoulder first, off aim, but the second shot took him in the eye, dropping him clean.

Your cheek pressed into the warm, dust-caked floor. The reek of wet carpet and decaying upholstery crowded your nose.

Below, Joel kept his revolver at the ready, his back to a soaked pillar, scanning each flickering corner of the flooded lobby while Ellie stayed close, her knife in-hand, hunched and alert.

You exhaled slowly, hand reaching for your sidearm still warm from the string of shots you’d just landed. The silencer was hot. Burned your fingertips a little as you twisted it off to check the threading. Everything is fine and clean.

The tape you’d used to hold the makeshift suppressor firm was wet, but hadn’t loosened. You dragged a cloth across the grooves to clear the grime before pushing it back into place and clicked it securely, eyes still on the ruined lobby below. Then the mag came out, only two rounds left. You yanked a fresh one from your chest rig and slapped it in with a soft thunk.

“Holy shit. That was sick!” Ellie’s voice was clear and loud as she grinned up at you, her voice pitching higher with excitement. “Dude, you’ve gotta teach me how to shoot like that!”

You couldn’t help the grin that pulled at your lips, adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. “You got it, kid.”

“Ellie. Quiet.” Joel’s voice came in low, harsh and unforgiving.

Ellie deflated immediately, her shoulders tensing and mouth snapping shut like she’d just been caught mid-crime. Her brows twitched, but she didn’t talk back. Not when Joel was in that tone.

“There’s still more of ‘em,” he said, before his gaze cut upward straight to you, his hand flexing against the grip of his revolver like he was imagining something far less helpful in it.

“You stupid son of a bitch. You think you’re smarter than the rest of us?”

Joel’s voice cracked across the room like a rifle shot. He stood with his fist clenched at his side, shoulders squared and heaving with fury, eyes burning into you like twin wildfires. His jaw was tight, barely keeping the rest of what he wanted to say behind clenched teeth.

You stood your ground, chin tilted up, voice clipped and biting, trying to mask the dull sting behind your ribs with a poorly disguised air of confidence.

“I had the high ground.” It came out too fast and defensive. The words rang with more pride than sense, tone laced with a bratty sharpness, an edge carved out of disappointment.

You had hoped that Joel might’ve seen the good in what you did. That he’d look past the recklessness and see you not as some liability he had to babysit, but someone capable he could count on.

But the look on his face said otherwise. He saw a mistake, a near-loss.

Joel’s boot scraped the floor as he took a step closer, voice rising. “You had no goddamn idea how many were comin’,” he snapped, eyes wild. “Could’ve been a dozen more. Could’ve circled. You get your dumbass pinned up there, I’m supposed to leave Ellie to come scrape your corpse off the goddamn floor?!”

The air between you went cold from the way he said corpse, like he already saw it happen. Your throat felt dry.

Ellie stayed crouched off to the side, eyes darting between you like she’d seen this play out before.

Your voice was smaller now, but no less certain, heat still burning in your chest, jaw tight and fingers twitching from the adrenaline that hadn’t fully left your body.

“I was covering you—” you started, trying to force it out with calm, like maybe if you sounded sure enough, it would change the way he was looking at you.

“I don’t need cover from someone who don’t know when to sit the fuck down and follow orders.” His words cut sharper than any clicker bite ever could.

Your breath caught mid-chest, your teeth clenching to keep the sting from showing.

You stood there, wounded and unwilling to admit it. You wanted to impress him, earn something more than that constant, irritated scowl. You wanted his respect and attention so badly it made your hands shake.

A purposely long and loud sigh left your lips. “Fine,” you muttered, voice low, rising to your feet with the groan of old floorboards under you.

You caught Ellie’s glance, sympathetic but silent. Smart kid.

“I’ll see if there’s a way to get you guys up. Maybe I’ll find you a muzzle up here while I’m at it.”

As your eyes swept the half-collapsed upper floor, something caught your attention near the far corner of the room. Stashed behind a warped vending machine, just visible through the grime-coated glass of a shattered divider, was a folded set of portable stairs. Rusted aluminum propped diagonally on one leg.

Perfect.

You crept toward it, keeping low. The moment your fingers wrapped around the cold, corroded metal, you felt how stubborn it was, heavier than expected, the rust biting through your gloves like sandpaper.

A wet, slapping rhythm echoed behind you. Bare feet moving too fast. The sound of a body flinging itself across tile, uncaring of its own survival.

The kind of noise that made your spine stiffen before your brain could even register the threat. A guttural, snarled growl that raised every hair on your neck.

You turned but not in time.

A Runner bursted out of a side corridor and it hit you hard, shoulder first, with so much force that your feet left the ground.

Your body smashed sideways into the window to your left, the cracked glass from the neighboring hotel room gave instantly under your weight, shattering in a rush of splinters and light. A mix of glass and old rainwater exploded outward as your back slammed into the floor inside, the wind tore from your lungs.

The runner’s limbs scraped violently along the ground as it scrambled after you. Instinctively, you jammed your arm under its jaw, keeping it barely away from your neck as its head twisted, trying to sink teeth into your skin, screaming rage straight into your ears.

Your free hand scraped and grabbed something sharp and cold. A shard of glass from the shattered window that you immediately slashed straight across the side of its face, cheek to temple.

Red blood sprayed and the infected reeled back, screeching until it went still. One final spasm and then nothing.

You crawled out from under it, elbows dragging you across the other side of the room floor, breath heaving, heart trying to punch a hole through your ribs.

You staggered to the far wall, collapsed against it, eyes wide, gasping. The glass was still in your hand, palms and legs trembling.

You blinked sweat from your eyes and looked for your gun half-hidden beneath a broken shelf.

The second you grabbed it, voices echoed in the hallway. The remaining bandits were coming.

You ran fast. One room to the next. Shattered doors and tilted furniture, boots pounding across buckling floorboards. No time to think or stop.

Gun tight in your grip, trigger finger itching as the bandit came into view through the gnarled remains of a splintered wardrobe.

One shot and the silenced round punched clean through his temple. He dropped without a word, limbs scattering, weapon clattering to the soaked floor.

You caught the second one mid-rotation when he realized his buddy’s death. Two rounds in quick succession to the chest and to the neck. A third bandit appeared through the jagged crack in a doorway, a hatchet swinging wide.

You pulled the trigger once but it was now empty. As fast as possible you ducked, shoulder rolling under the wide arc of the blade, grabbing the man’s arm and ramming your elbow into his ribs with all the force you could muster, a technique you learned after observing Joel for so long.

He grunted, faltered and you plunged the butt of your gun into his skull twice before he dropped to the ground.

But then a body crashed into you from the side. The impact slammed you against the wall so hard your vision burst with white. The sound that left your chest wasn’t even human, more wheezing than scream, your shoulder bouncing off rotting wood.

You dropped your gun involuntarily, it skidded across the floor and out of reach as the bandit pressed his forearm into your neck.

“Fucking stay down,” he hissed, his breath hot and sour in your face, his fist drove into your stomach once, twice, three times.

Then came a hand to your throat, a tight pressure applied almost immediately. His fingers clamped down like steel, cutting off your supply of air. You clawed at his arms, nails digging into the fabric of his sleeve, but it did nothing.

You couldn’t even hear yourself anymore. Your vision had stopped making sense a while ago. Everything was dull around the edges, your lungs screamed, throat crushed under the force that didn’t loosen no matter how hard your legs kicked or how your nails dug at the man’s arm.

Your vision had already started to darken at the edges, oxygen choking off, but the pressure on your throat vanished in an instant.

A crack of impact tore through the room, the man’s head jerked sideways violently. There was a sick, muted thump beneath it, the sound of something soft giving way.

Your knees hit the floor, followed by your palms, sucking in air so violently it burned like fire down your throat.

The bandit staggered, half his jaw hanging loose, the side of his face caved in where Joel’s baseball bat had connected as blood poured down his chest like paint.

Joel swung again, a vicious, two-handed strike that caught the man square in the face. The bat shattered, splinters raining down as the bandit reeled back, blood gushing from his shattered nose.

You stayed on your hands and knees, gasping for breath, the world tilting sideways as you watched Joel step forward, chest heaving.

He dropped the broken bat without a word and lunged. His hands gripped the man’s jacket, yanking him forward, slamming him down onto the ground with a sickening thud, one knee pinning the man’s shoulder, the other digging into his chest and bringing his fists down over and over again.

Blood splattered up Joel’s sleeves as his fists kept slamming down. Each hit was fueled by something deep and wild. Joel’s face twisted, lips curled back in a snarl, his teeth gritted. His fists kept flying, blood spattering across his forearms, painting the broken tile beneath them red.

The bandit was limp by the third punch, his face already unrecognizable, knuckles cracking against wet meat. Blood smeared Joel’s knuckles, dripped down his wrists.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, half-slumped against the wall, ears ringing and knees buckling, but it felt like the bones in your legs were no longer yours. Joel’s labored breaths were ragged, shoulder brushing brick, his posture hunched and brutal in the aftermath of the kill.

You turned your head away, cheek dragging over the soot-smeared concrete wall, a cold smear left behind from the sweat on your skin.

Your vision swam, too many colors, none of them real. The edges of your sight bloomed in watery halos that faded in and out. The blood rushing in your ears didn’t stop and your lungs still weren’t moving like they were supposed to. Each inhale felt like trying to suck air through a collapsed straw, the burn still flaring where that bastard’s grip had nearly crushed your windpipe.

You didn’t remember deciding to move. Your feet did it for you, more stumble than stride, shoulders scraping the wall as your boots found uneven purchase on the ruined hallway floor. Your left hand hovered, ready to catch the wall if your knees finally gave out, the other still trembled at your side.

You made it to the first door. Hinges long gone. Just a splintered frame and a half-hanging panel of rotted wood that you shouldered through like a drunk man. The room inside was a snapshot of nature reclaiming disaster, walls overtaken by thick curtains of ivy, damp moss blanketing what used to be wallpaper, the floor cracked wide enough in places to let thin tendrils of green poke through.

The air was damp and fungal, your boots left tracks in the damp dust. Motes danced in the shafts of light leaking through shattered slats of the blinds. A queen-sized bed sat in the middle, the old mattress stained and gray with mold. The once-white sheets had rotted into stiff brown paper.

It didn’t matter at the moment, you collapsed onto it. The mattress sank with a groan. You could feel the damp creep instantly through your pants. You let your body drop sideways first, knees angled, back hunched, then slowly, as breath permitted, you adjusted your weight until you were upright, sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows braced to your knees, face buried in your palms.

The panting came back hard. You could hear the rasp of your own breath echoing in your hands. Every muscle in your back screamed in protest when you shifted, thighs trembling, ankles sore. Your ribs creaked when you inhaled too hard, your throat pulsed with angry red heat.

And in that stillness, one thought pushed through the haze like a flare: Where the fuck was Ellie?

You hadn’t seen or heard her.

Joel must’ve made her stay back. Probably barked it at her, harsh and firm, with that tone he saved for things that could end in blood and she would’ve listened. Because she trusted him.

God, you wanted him to really see you as someone who was capable, strong. Maybe not the strongest, not always the smartest, but brave. You wanted him to notice. But instead, you just saw that damn scowl and disappointment.

Your hands dropped from your face, fingertips brushing your thighs, legs screaming in protest the second you tried to push up. Knees quivering, calves unsteady, muscles like dead cords trying to pull you into a standing position and barely succeeding. You reached for the wall, both palms out like you were bracing for a blow, each footstep more a suggestion than a choice. When you finally got upright, you leaned into the nearest support beam hard, cheek pressing to the cool surface, one hand rising to your neck.

The door banged open behind you with the slam of wet wood on tile, your spine going stiff before your brain even caught up. You didn’t need to look to know it was Joel.

You could smell the blood and sweat and rain-soaked shirt, the copper tang of violence riding the heat radiating off his skin.

Whatever humanity had been left in them back in the lobby was gone now. His gaze burned through you like a brand, black with fury, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched so hard the cords in his neck jumped with every shallow breath. Blood dripped from his knuckles, long ropes of it trailing down his forearms, some of it wet, still warm, some already drying dark and cracked over his skin like warpaint. Some droplets of blood were caught in his beard.

“Joel—”

Your voice cracked at the edges, hoarse, so brittle you could’ve sworn it fractured somewhere in your throat. You hadn’t meant for his name to sound like fear. But it did and the second the syllable left your lips, something in him snapped.

He moved fast. He crossed the ruined floor with brutal speed, fists still flexing.

His hands slammed against the wall on either side of your face, trapping you between arms that still trembled with rage. His body closed in, caging you like prey. The blood on his skin smeared against the plaster. His forehead didn’t touch yours but it hovered close enough that every pant hit your lips like fire, his chest brushing yours with the shallow rise and fall of each breath he forced through his nose.

“This what you want?” he spat, voice a sawblade through gravel, eyes burning holes into your skull. “That’s why you keep fuckin’ pullin’ this shit?”

The words came out like punches, venom and heat.

Of course he fucking knew. He always had. In a world like this, a true survivor like him learns to read people’s body languages. He knew you were gone for him.

You spent every goddamn day trying to prove to him you were worth the risk. That you could handle yourself.

He dipped forward suddenly, a grunt tearing from his chest and your body jolted when he flipped you around, palms slamming flat against the wall. Your cheek pressed to the cold surface as his chest crashed into your back with a weight that made your knees threaten to fold.

One of his hands, calloused and massive, slid from the wall to your hip, fingers digging in hard, blood-slick and unyielding. The other came up and gripped your jaw, pulling your head to the side, exposing your neck like prey to the butcher’s blade.

His beard scratched against your throat, dragging over tender skin like sandpaper and honey, sting and sweetness, it made your hands curl into fists against the wall.

His breath was hot, still panting hard from the man he killed for you, the steam of it soaking into the crook of your neck, heating your skin from the inside out.

He grunted, low and guttural, right against your throat.

He shoved his hips forward and you felt the huge bulge pressing right against the cleft of your ass. Hard and thick. You gasped again, breath catching in your throat, jaw clenched as your knees buckled under the weight of that reality.

“Quiet now,” he rasped, voice like thunder in the shell of your ear, “s’funny how fast you shut the fuck up when it counts. All that fuckin’ attitude and now I can’t even get a sound outta you.”

His beard scratched along your collarbone now, lips brushing where neck meets shoulder, breath coming in sharp huffs.

Another grunt. He pressed his hips in harder, letting you feel every goddamn inch of the hardness grinding against your ass.

His hand was under your shirt now. Crawling across your ribs, sticky with blood and gripping your waist with bruising force.

Those hands traveled lower, blood smeared in thick streaks as he reached down and grabbed your ass hard. Fingers biting deep into the flesh, spreading and squeezing until your breath left your lungs in one short, shattered gasp.

He groaned behind you, deep and wrecked and still full of that fire that hadn’t gone out.

Joel’s spit splattered slick into his palm, you could feel the rough grooves of his fingerprints as he circled slow at first, teasing the rim.

The scrape of his beard rasped against your neck, a brutal kiss dragging across your skin, scratching a red path beneath the surface. His mouth opened against the hinge of your jaw, teeth grazing enough to warn. Breath steamed, thick with the copper tang of blood and sweat as he pressed harder.

He grunted low, a guttural sound that vibrated straight through your spine as his thumb pressed forward, circling tighter now, insistently, pushing into resistance and feeling you clench around nothing. You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth, fists balled hard enough to make your knuckles ache.

His other hand found your hip again, gripping hard, squeezing down to bruise. His thumb breached you in one slow, brutal push, the blunt tip forcing your hole open, your breath catching sharp as you felt the stretch, raw and insistent.

He worked it deeper, knuckle grinding into your rim, twisting, pulling a grunt out of your chest that you couldn’t stifle. His beard rasped harder along your neck, biting into tender skin as he pressed a rough, open-mouthed kiss there, sucking bruises into the curve where shoulder met throat.

“Shoulda done this a long time ago,” he growled, his voice a stormcloud rumble, full of ash and threat. “Shoulda stopped wastin’ my fuckin’ breath screamin’ at you and just realize that all you needed was my cock stuffed so far down that smug throat you couldn’t say a fuckin’ word.”

His breath fogged hot against your skin as he pressed another finger in beside the first. Thicker now, the stretch sharper, the burn deeper.

You shuddered hard, hips rocking instinctively away from the pressure, but Joel’s grip snapped your body back against him, holding you flush, making you take every inch he forced inside.

“None of that,” he growled, breath breaking against the shell of your ear. “Gonna open you up good to take every fuckin’ inch I give you.”

The blunt force of his words punched straight to the pit of your gut, made your cock twitch even as your body trembled against the intrusion. His fingers scissored wider, dragging at the tender rim of your hole, making room where there hadn’t been enough.

The press of his body behind you felt like iron, solid and unyielding, decades of muscle and violence caging you in, heat rolling off him in waves thick enough to drown.

His fingers twisted deeper, hitting that spot that made your hips jerk, breath stuttering, a raw noise tearing from your throat that wasn’t a word, just heat and need given sound. He curled his fingers inside, dragging along the tender bundle of nerves again, grinding that spot until your knees buckled, hands scrabbling useless against the wall.

You could barely speak, the burn of the stretch making your thighs shake, your breath coming sharp and ragged. Joel’s free hand dragged up your side, palm rough with calluses, smearing sweat and blood in its path, then gripped the back of your neck, forcing your head down, making you arch your spine and push your hips back into his hand.

His fingers pulled free slowly, dragging wet and sticky from your hole, leaving it twitching, pulsing with the need to be filled again.

Joel grunted, shifting behind you, the scrape of his belt buckle loud in the quiet, the wet squelch of fabric pushed down over his thighs, heavy denim dragging rough along his skin.

You could feel the press of him, thick and hot.

“Breathe,” he growled, the word rough and commanding. “Ain’t gonna be gentle. You want this, you fuckin’ take it.”

He didn’t wait. His hips thrust forward hard, the fat head of his cock splitting you open with one brutal push, the thickness of him forcing your hole wider than his fingers ever could. The burn tore up your spine, sharp and blinding, breath stolen clean from your chest as he groaned deep.

“Fuck—” Joel rasped, voice breaking as he felt how tight you were around him, the squeeze of your body choking him, resisting him. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you back onto him as he shoved deeper, inch by thick inch, forcing your body to stretch and take him.

The girth of him felt obscene, too much, scraping raw inside as he pressed forward, grunting with each shove, grinding his hips into your ass until you could feel the heavy drag of his balls against your skin.

Hips grinding slow to let you feel the full weight of him buried deep, stretching you open around the root of his cock. His beard scraped against your shoulder as he leaned in, breath panting hard against your skin, chest heaving with each ragged exhale.

His hips pulled back slowly, just the head dragging out, then slammed forward again, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward, cock grinding deep, rearranging you from the inside out.

Each thrust punched a groan from your chest, made your hands claw at the wall, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucked you harder, rougher, cock driving so deep you could feel the press of him against your guts.

His body loomed behind, weight anchoring you in place, heat radiating from his sweat-slick skin, hot breath panting hard into the crook of your neck.

His cock dragged out of you slow, thick and deliberate, every inch pulling free with a wet slide that left your hole clenching. You could feel the swell of his tip flare wide at the rim, the drag of thick veins scraping raw along your insides as he pulled nearly all the way out, leaving you empty for a breathless second before his hips slammed forward again, splitting you open all over again.

“Fuckin’—tight,” Joel snarled low, voice shredded raw at the edges, chest heaving as he buried himself to the hilt, every thrust forcing the air from your lungs, cock grinding against that spot that made your legs buckle, stretching your guts around his cock like he meant to leave you gaping and ruined, filled with the shape of him.

His hand snapped up, rough fingers curling hard around your jaw, wrenching your head to the side with brutal force and crashing his mouth against yours, lips bruising, beard scraping hard enough to bite.

His tongue shoved deep between your teeth, invasive and desperate, claiming you from the inside out. His lips pressed hard, swallowing the broken moans spilling from your throat as he fucked you harder, cock grinding deep with every thrust.

Joel groaned into your mouth, voice rough and thick, tongue twisting deep as his cock hammered into you, every inch grinding against that tender spot that made your knees threaten to give. His hand gripped your jaw tight, holding you still as he kissed you like he meant to devour you, tongue fucking your mouth with the same brutal rhythm as his hips.

You could feel him swell inside you, the twitch of his cock as it throbbed thick, grinding deep as he panted against your lips, every muscle pulling tight as he barreled toward the edge.

Joel groaned loud, hips grinding deep, cock pulsing thick inside you as he slammed forward one last time, burying himself to the root, grinding hard, body shuddering as he spilled deep, filling you with the hot rush of his cum, thick and heavy, flood after flood of warmth filling you until it leaked out around the base and dripping down your thighs.

Joel’s breath stayed ragged against your lips, the weight of him grinding deep inside, his cock buried thick to the hilt, body pressed flush to yours.

The last pulsing throb of his cock inside you made your guts ache as he stayed there for a long moment, body locked solid, his head bowed forward against the back of your neck, breath heaving, beard rough and scratching as he rasped against your skin. His fingers twitched against your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go.

He dragged himself slowly from your body, the stretch of it pulling wet and thick from your hole, leaving you aching, raw and empty in its absence.

Joel’s breath hitched again as he stood back enough for the cool air to kiss the sweat streaked across your skin. His hands dropped from your waist, dragged roughly down your sides before falling away completely, leaving you trembling against the wall.

“Get dressed.” A command, not an offer. Joel shifted behind you, the sound of him tucking himself back into his jeans loud, followed by the snap of his belt buckle.

You turned your head enough to see him out of the corner of your eye. That old familiar scowl carving deeper into the lines of his face, like what had just happened between you was something he could shove down, bury beneath anger and the weight of survival.

You pushed off the wall slowly, body aching, the mess of him slick between your legs, the sting at your rim sharp where he’d worked you open. Your hands fumbled for your pants, tugging them up with fingers that still trembled, pulling cloth back over skin that felt too raw to cover.

Joel watched, but his gaze never lingered too long, never dipped back down your body. He turned away fast, grabbed his revolver, checked the chamber with a sharp, practiced motion.

“We ain’t stayin’ here.” His voice was steady now, pushing past what had happened like it hadn’t cracked something open between you both. “Too exposed.”

You nodded again, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your hand, swallowing down the knot in your throat.

Joel lingered in the doorway, weight settling heavy in the frame, fingers flexing slowly over the worn strap of his rifle, jaw clenched so hard you could see the twitch in the muscle there, a silent warning.

“You so much as step outta line again,” Joel growled, voice rough enough to sand the edges off bone, “I’ll put you right back where you belong.” His stare didn’t waver. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Fuck if that didn’t drag up the old self, the cocky, reckless part of you that never knew when to leave well enough alone, a smirk creeping slow to the corner of your lips, small but sharp enough to cut through the tension between you.

You met his stare head-on, that grin flickering into place like a goddamn match strike. Couldn’t help it. Wouldn’t, even if you’d wanted to.

“Is that a promise?” You rasped, voice low, playful curling around the edges.

Joel’s brow twitched, the scoff that rumbled out of him spoke louder than any words.

There was a shift at the corner of his mouth, subtle as the ghost of a breeze, a smile threatening to break out. It tugged faint at the rough line of his lips, there and gone, but you caught it. That flash of satisfaction threaded through the ironclad control he tried to keep wrapped tight around himself.

He crushed it down fast, that jaw clenching hard again, eyes flicking away as he shook his head. “Always gotta have the last word,” he grumbled, voice rough, annoyed, but the edge of warmth tucked so far down you almost missed it.

It was over, for now, but that flicker of a smile said he wouldn’t mind one bit if you gave him a reason to follow through on it.

But that was just a theory you elaborated.

Time to test it.

350 notes · View notes

theclairvoyage · 4 months ago

Text

Homecoming (i)

Joel Miller x f!reader

Freshly divorced and knee-deep in debt, you take a part time job at a local dive bar to make ends meet, which introduces you to a sexy, mysterious contractor. The attraction between you two is instant and painfully obvious - where will it take you?

WC: 10k

Warnings: Explicit - MDNI! eventual smut, eventual romance, mentions of divorce, infidelity, betrayal, alcohol consumption, smoking, adult language, no outbreak AU

Folks - as someone who is newly divorced, making this story has been a great way to channel all the post-divorce laments and feels into something fun and healthy. And makes the single life a little more exciting. Hope you enjoy! It will be multiple parts, but I'm not sure how many as of yet. Please request/message me about anything you please :)

Divider by the lovely @cafekitsune <3

Summer 2024

A lot of things felt different today.

The usual comfy, pillowtop mattress in your bedroom now felt like a long slab of sandstone, cold to the touch from the icy night.

The sparkly, bragworthy princess cut wedding ring on your finger now felt like a heavy, rusty band of aluminum and cubic zirconia.

But most of all, you felt different.

In the blink of an eye, you made a decision that shifted everything. The carefully shuffled deck of cards had fallen onto the floor, strewn about like the once put-together buildings of a small, Midwestern town ravaged by a tornado.

You hadn’t even told your best friend yet, nor your family. This was unusual for you—but today, you felt like bearing the weight of this choice on your own. And it was heavy, a 20-pound weighted vest stitched to the seams of your skin, dragging your shoulders down with each step.

Ending a marriage is never easy. It’s never the end goal, from the time you say yes, to the time you say your vows.

Your mind races back to the first date you had with your soon-to-be ex-husband, almost a decade prior. The sweet, chivalrous gentleman who had been too scared to kiss you goodnight now seemed like a very distant stranger. Pictures from that very first date are still stuck to the walls of your living room. Oh, how you dread peeling those pictures off the wall.

And though the stone of dread was burning massive holes in your stomach, there was a glimmer of hope in the corner of your mind. You weren’t sure what it meant, but you knew you’d ride it out of this house and onto the next part of your journey like a magic carpet.

Fall 2024

Divorce was many things, but expensive is not the one you worried about the most. Until now.

Sure, you no longer had to split your paychecks into your personal account and the joint account, so it made it seem like you had more money, but that wasn’t the case. Rent, car payment, utilities, student loans, and the list goes on. And on. And one income instead of two hurts.

Your day job was cushy. But the debts of having to close joint credit card accounts with balances, lawyer fees, and furnishing a new townhouse had sucked you dry. It was time to supplement that income until the debts were paid off. Your family had given you a bit of change, but you threw it directly into your now-empty savings account.

Now, you find yourself scrolling through Google, analyzing the part-time jobs in your area. Cashier. Cashier. Clerk. Call center specialist. Customer service representative. Bartender. Cashier.

Bartender?

You click on the ad for a part-time bartender at a local dive bar, The Home Stretch. It’s one you’ve been to before, usually after a long workday or on a random Friday night with your friends. 15-20 hours a week, and not much other information besides “Call the bar and ask for Steve if interested.” It’s reminiscent of a Craigslist ad, which disgusts and intrigues you.

You scrawl the number on a nearby Post-It note and stick it on the back of your phone. I’ll do it tomorrow.

And you did. Steve is a gruff man in his early 60s eager for some help behind the counter of a dive bar he inherited from his father. “Preferably someone with a nicer ass than mine,” he’d said. You chuckled over the phone and mentioned you’d been to the bar many times before.

“Good, won’t need to show you the whole thing, then,” Steve had replied. “Just come in whenever you have time this week, and we’ll get started.”

“Sure thing, Steve. Thanks a lot,” you replied, not realizing until after that he’d already hung up.

Later that week, you show up at the bar around 8:30 PM after a long day at the office. The door swings open with a loud creak, alerting everyone in the vicinity of your presence. Less than 20 pairs of eyes, mostly from middle-aged men, dart quickly in your direction, forcing you to pause. You gulp and force a weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

An older bald man perched behind the bar stares at you a bit longer than everyone else. A pair of bent, yellowed reader’s glasses threaten to slip off the tip of his nose as he scans you. You see the lightbulb illuminate in his head as he recognizes you.

“Hey, I’m Steve,” he says brusquely, reaching a callused hand to shake yours. His grip is firm, but short, and you guess that’s how he is as a person, too.

“Hey, thanks for agreeing to meet with me,” you say, introducing yourself. He waves you off, like he had nothing better to do.

“Come back to the office and we’ll chat. Too many damn eyes out here,” he rasps, forcing a quiet chuckle from you. His reclusive attitude is a fresh shift from the fake cheery types you constantly deal with at work.

Steve leads you to a small office not far from the restrooms, a quick 20-step walk from the front of the bar. It’s stuffy and old and clearly hasn’t been updated since the early 80s. Wood panel walls, dirty linoleum floors, and a couple of file drawers stand out to you as you examine the small space. There’s no desk, but rather a cracked slab of countertop with three beat-up, green-cushioned barstools underneath. The only sound is the loud buzzing of the fluorescent lights above, which are caked with dead bugs and yellow stains. Gross.

Steve isn’t watching you but seems to read your mind as he shuffles some papers on the countertop. “I know, it’s a bit run down. It’s on my list,” he murmurs, chuckling quietly as he gestures at one of the barstools. You sit, expelling all the air from the cushion audibly. You can feel your cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Steve chuckles again. “Don’t worry, it’s not you, it’s the goddamn stools.”

A nervous giggle escapes your lips. Steve sits at the far stool and takes his glasses off before turning toward you.

“I’ll be honest, I have no plans to actually interview you. You want the job, you got it. You seem like a level-headed gal, and not to be weird, but you’re attractive. You’ll do just fine here.”

Confused, you tilt your head at Steve while cocking one eyebrow.

“Are you sure? I haven’t worked in a place like this since high school,” you hesitate, studying his face. He laughs again.

“I’m telling you, this job is a piece of cake. And you can pick your hours. Are you married?” He asks, nodding toward the tan line on your ring finger. You rub it absentmindedly as you shake your head.

“No, got divorced this summer. Tan line won’t go away,” you respond, giving him another weak smile. He sucks his lips into his mouth in embarrassment.

“Sorry. Glad I asked, though,” he says.

“It’s alright, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last to ask me that,” you say, smiling genuinely now. Steve lets out a bigger laugh, catching you off guard.

“In this joint? Yeah, that’s a guarantee.”

Your first few shifts at the bar were a little shaky, but easy, nonetheless.

Steve trained you on the POS system the first two shifts before handing you off to Jerrica, a middle-aged woman who reeks of cigarettes. She’s tall and thin, covered in tattoos, and has the brightest blue eyes, which are lined on the bottom with thick, black eyeliner. Her deep, raspy voice and serious face are intimidating, but you learn quickly that she’s a very kind soul.

She quizzes you on the POS system and where things are located around the bar. You answer seamlessly, impressing her.

“Smart as a whip,” she beams at you, flashing some yellowed teeth as she smiles.

“I have some good teachers,” you reply with a wink.

The next month or so is a breeze for you, and you’re raking in a lot of extra cash. The hardest part is balancing the two jobs—and the many men that frequent the bar. All of them stare at you, most of them are polite, and some brave enough to ask you for your number. Jerrica warned you it would be like this, though she knew you could hold your own if needed.

One chilly, fall Friday night, a group of younger men, likely close to your age, enter the bar. It’s pretty busy—Jerrica and you have been hustling nonstop since around 8 PM. You catch a glimpse of them as they shuffle in and settle at one of the pool tables.

One of the men meanders up to the bar, and you can feel him staring at you from the corner of your eye. Jerrica takes the lead and approaches him.

“Hey, sugar. What can I get for ya?” she asks, wiping down the counter as he surveys the selection of beer and liquor. He stops and snaps his gaze at you when you walk by with a bucket of ice, dumping it in the cooler next to Jerrica.

“Her, if she’s on the menu,” he quips, smiling at you, looking almost reptilian. You size him up and arch an eyebrow, your face screaming unimpressed.

“She’s not,” Jerrica and you respond in unison, and his sly smile quickly turns to an embarrassed frown.

“J-just kidding. I’ll take a couple pitchers of Coors Light,” he squeaks, looking down at his wallet as he fishes some bills out. His cheeks are bright red. You stifle a smile and return to the back to get more ice as Jerrica pours the pitchers for him. When you come back, he’s gone and facing away from the bar.

“Poor kid, guess we ruined his hopes and dreams,” Jerrica jokes, making both of you giggle.

“He’ll get over it as soon as he finds one of his regular type bimbos,” you say. Jerrica cackles.

“I’m gonna go smoke, be back in a few,” she says, patting you on the back as she slips out of the bar.

You scan the bar, surprised by how many people are here. College football fans flock here during the fall for the pitcher specials and greasy bar food, and there’s not an empty table in sight. Thankfully, most people have stuck with ordering the pitchers, so you haven’t had to mix a lot of drinks yet.

A grunt interrupts your thoughts, and you snap your eyes in front of you to a well-built, middle-aged man in a green and black flannel, hands shoved in the pockets of his worn Wranglers. Your eyes meet and lock for a second longer than you’d like before you clear your own throat, which has suddenly gone dry.

“Sorry. What can I get you?” you ask him, noticing the corner of his mouth quirk slightly.

“Eagle Rare, neat. Please,” he responds, silky voice making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Fortunately, you’re adept at hiding your emotions, so he doesn’t notice the sweat form on your hairline as you try to find the bottle and pour him a glass. Or so you think.

“Here you go,” you say, propping the glass in front of him. He doesn’t grab it, though, he just stares at you inquisitively. You force yourself to meet his gaze.

Oh.

You knew from his voice that he’d be attractive, but you didn’t expect this. He’s fine fine. Curly, chocolate hair, streaked with silver. Aquiline nose. Strong, square, clenched jaw lined with a patchy beard. Thick, tanned neck. Deep amber orbs staring into your soul. He’s stoic, yet the lines on his face tell you he’s experienced all the emotions. Your heart flutters in your chest, vibrating like the quick wings of a hummingbird. Your mouth opens before you can think of anything to say.

“You got a tab?” you sputter, breaking his hot gaze to return the Eagle Rare bottle to the shelf. You swear you see him smirk.

“Yes ma’am. Miller,” he murmurs, his voice a little deeper and quieter than before. He’s staring at you without a semblance of shame, and you can feel it burning into your back. You turn to enter everything in the POS system, taking deep breaths absentmindedly.

“Nervous?” The man asks, cocking his head to one side as he studies you. If you thought you were hot before, you’re feverish now.

“W-what? No… why would I be nervous?” You stammer, arching an eyebrow as you continue messing with the POS system, ensuring that you don’t make eye contact with him. Too bad for you, because he sits down on the stool in front of you and meets your gaze.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous. His eyes communicate so many different emotions to you; primarily, amusement. There’s a hint of mischief and something a little more dangerous, a little more smoldering behind it. He cracks a smile at you, revealing perfectly straight, white teeth. You need him to leave. Now.

He chuckles before answering you. “Just seem a little uptight, s’all,” he croons, smile reaching the corners of his Hershey’s Kisses-colored eyes. Their warmth is captivating and calming, almost as if they slow time. Ironically, that’s the last thing you want right now.

“Busy night,” you reply quickly, giving him a brief smile before pretending to organize the coasters and napkins next to the POS system.

“I’ll leave ya to it, then. See ya around,” he says, standing up and returning to his table in the back of the bar. You smile back at him, baring teeth this time, and nod before turning your back to him to restock the cooler.

It’s a good thing you don’t catch the way his eyes sweep your frame, lingering on your ass for a moment longer than he’d like them to. And your smile brought some heat to the back of his neck, so much so that he feels the need to cover it up with his hand as he saunters back to the table.

Dazed and confused, you barely register that Jerrica has returned from break until the stench of cigarettes threatens to give you a migraine.

“Hey, who is that guy over there?” you ask her, turning your back toward the man and pointing your eyes in his direction. She smirks once she sees him.

“Joel Miller, and he’s a hot commodity here,” she says, chortling quietly. Her eyes sweep back to you, and she lowers her head before continuing, devilish smirk on her face.

“You interested? He really doesn’t entertain any of the women here.”

Skeptically, you narrow your eyes at her before turning around to gaze at him again, which turned out to be a shitty idea because his intense eyes are already on yours. A quick panic sets in, and you whip around to face Jerrica. She chuckles.

“Oh, he might entertain you, though… just based on how he’s staring at you now,” she teases, trying hard not to laugh.

“Jesus. I’m taking my break,” you huff, snatching your phone from a cubby underneath the bar and walking toward the back patio before she can say anything else.

“I can help you with that!” Jerrica calls out to you, her voice drowning in the sound of the bar as the patio door slams shut.

Once outside, you close your eyes and inhale deeply. The brisk autumn air sooths your airways, and you can feel your heartbeat finally slowing to normal pace. The fire pit in the middle of the patio is calling your name. You plop down in one of the freezing metal chairs next to it and watch the flames dance, not noticing the squeak of the patio door as it opens.

“Mind ‘f I sit here?” A deep, rich voice asks, startling you from your trance. It’s that sexy rugged mysterious man, Joel Miller.

Fuck.

You shake your head and gesture to one of the chairs, not meeting his eyes. “No, go ahead.”

He half-smiles and pulls back one of the metal chairs next to you, sitting with an audible groan. You chuckle quietly.

“Somethin’ funny?” he asks, eyeing you inquisitively.

“Sounded like it hurt,” you tease him, still not looking at him. He laughs. Not only does it sound genuine, but it awakens something in your belly you didn’t expect. Something molten. You look at him, discovering that once again, he’s already looking at you.

“Finally,” he says quietly, almost an exasperated whisper, eyes traveling your face as he takes a sip of his whiskey.

“Hm?” you ask, confused. He finishes the glass before setting it on the empty chair next to him, swishing the spicy liquid around his mouth before swallowing. You study the muscles in his neck and jaw as they flex and groove. He turns to face you again.

“Y’been avoidin’ my eyes,” he says, tilting his head at you ever so slightly, as if silently asking you why.

The heat in your belly rises, enveloping your chest and neck. You scoot away from the fire to cool off.

“Oh, s-sorry. I try to keep my distance from customers. Makes work a little easier,” you stammer, hoping he’ll buy that. It’s not wrong, but it’s not the main reason you avoid his gaze.

“I see,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you that indicates he knows. His gaze flicks down to your hands, which are held up near the fire. “Are y’cold?”

The heat in your chest says no, but the shivering of your limbs says yes. You shake your head.

“I’ll be going back inside soon. I’ll be fine.”

He stands suddenly, and you wonder if you’ve upset him—that is, until you see him shrug off that green flannel.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Well-built doesn’t seem to cover what you see as he shows off his bare forearms and the muscles peeking from beneath his worn t-shirt. You can tell he’s done manual labor for a long time from the carving of his muscles and the scars that litter his tanned, freckled skin.

“Here,” he says, walking behind you to place the flannel over your shoulders. The act catches you off-guard, and you’re frozen in place. His hands smooth the fabric over your traps, sending electricity from the source to your spine. The scent of his flannel drapes you, also—a rich combination of amber, pine, and whiskey.

“Oh, that’s nice of you. Thanks,” you say, watching him as he walks over to the empty chair housing his empty glass. You smile at him once he makes eye contact with you, and his pupils dilate imperceptibly.

“Don’t mention it. I’m gonna order another whiskey, y’can wear it as long as y’need to,” he says, half-smiling at you again. You watch him as he re-enters the bar, paying close attention to how his jeans hug all the muscles below his torso and acquainting yourself with his confident saunter.

“Jesus,” you whisper to yourself, burying your nose in the collar of his flannel and taking a deep breath. The smell is so good, so unique—it’s not something you’ll forget easily.

You check your phone and notice that your 15-minute break is well over. Absentmindedly, you slip your arms in the sleeves of Joel’s flannel and head back inside. It’s still busy, but people have shuffled out, meaning the night is starting to end. Thank god.

As you step behind the bar, Jerrica smirks at you as she notices your new garment. You shake your head and roll your eyes at her before grabbing a pad of paper and pencil to take inventory of the coolers. She sidles up to you, giggling.

“Yeah—he’s interested in you,” she rasps, making your spine stiffen.

“He’s just being nice. It’s kinda cold out there,” you say, waving her off. She giggles again.

“Uh huh. You gonna keep it?” she teases. You shake your head before heading back into the kitchen toward the walk-in refrigerator, feeling his eyes on you. Your stomach twists and flips as you picture his face, arms, and hands from just moments ago on the patio.

When you come back with a basket full of beer, you notice his seat is empty. Disappointment rushes over you. You see a stack of cash and a receipt next to the POS system. Jerrica is pressing buttons on it.

“He left this for you,” she says, smirking at you again. She points toward the stack of bills and the receipt, which is flipped over. You notice some blue ink scrawled almost illegibly on the middle of the paper.

It’s a phone number; with an area code you don’t recognize. There’s a message underneath.

Call me sometime. Keep the flannel.

-Joel

Your chest feels tight, and your stomach is flipping in overdrive. You re-read the message probably 20 times before folding it into your pocket.

“I told you!” Jerrica says, pointing her index finger at you. “You better not let that one go.”

“I don’t even know him, and once he finds out I’m divorced, he’s probably going to change his mind,” you say, scowling at her. She huffs, irritated.

“He’s divorced, too. You forget he’s older than you. I’ve never seen him give his number to anybody in the 5 years he’s been coming here,” she says, impressed.

“I’ve been out of the game way too long, Jerr—I don’t even know how to approach this,” you admit, embarrassed. She grabs your hands and squeezes them.

“He’s a good guy. He’s not the frat boy type, obviously. Just call him and go from there,” she says, giving you a reassuring smile.

“Call him? What is this, 1995?”

She guffaws. “Honey, he’s old like me. He’s probably no good at that texting stuff.”

“I guess we’ll see,” you say with a snicker.

Later that evening, after a great close, you sink into the couch in your living room. The cushions envelop you, along with the borrowed flannel you’re still wearing. Joel’s scent is still clinging tightly to the fabric, entrancing you each time you inhale. That, and the lingering stench of beer and tobacco.

You check your phone. It’s late, and you need a shower. You sit up, rubbing your temples. Joel’s face invades your thoughts every few moments. Usually, when you meet someone new, you have a hard time picturing their face in totality—like you can only remember fragments. Your brain fills in the missing pieces with faces you already know, creating a strange amalgamation of a person.

Joel, though? Nope. You remember every detail, from his patchy salt and pepper beard to his tanned, lined forehead. You remember the way he looked at you, how his eyes bore into you like a laser beam. And each thought makes your stomach churn.

Perhaps it was too soon to get back into the game—though you were free now, and you had nothing but time. You enjoyed his attention and admiration—it was much different than the attention you didn’t receive during your marriage. And he was divorced, too, so maybe he had some words of advice for you.

Absentmindedly, you rub the skin on your empty ring finger. The tan line has faded over time, and you’ve grown accustomed to the absence of the once-heavy ring you wore. You turn on the shower and disrobe, tossing the stress on the ground along with the pile of clothes.

As you scrub the day away in your scalding shower, a thought emerges.

You step out, dry off, and reach for Joel’s flannel after moisturizing your bone dry, red skin. You button it up until you reach your chest, leaving a scintillating section of skin exposed. The flannel is long enough that it covers the most private parts of you, but the tops of your thighs peek out.

After checking yourself in the mirror 30 times, you pull your phone out and snap a mirror picture. You compose a message to Joel’s number, which is still unsaved, and type a quick sentence before attaching the picture.

I think I’ll keep the flannel if you don’t mind.

You crawl into your crisp sheets, put your phone face-down on your nightstand, and count sheep.

Saturday morning rolls around, and you’re squirming under the sheets. Not because you didn’t sleep well, but because a vivid dream surged through your mind. One that involved your hot, naked skin sandwiched between your sheets and the hot, naked skin of a familiar man.

As you lie there, you replay the montage of events in your head. His hot breath in your ear, whispering sweet praises. His teeth scraping the skin on your neck and chest, leaving little petechiae in their path. His strong hands gripping your ass as he plunges deeper into you, bringing you closer to the edge with each thrust.

You sit up and rub your eyes, grabbing your phone to check the time. It’s almost noon, and you’ll be back at the bar in roughly 4 hours.

3 new messages.

Suddenly, you aren’t groggy anymore, remembering the risque text you sent to Joel before you slept. Your stomach somersaults as you open the messages.

Joel: Jesus Christ.

Joel: Looks way better on you anyway.

Joel: What a nice way to wake up.

Your neck heats up at his compliments. You type a witty response.

You: Thank you. Surprised you can text more than 2 words at a time. You chuckle before putting the phone down and getting ready for the day, still clad in his flannel shirt.

Saturday night at the bar made Friday night seem like a cakewalk.

The place was packed wall-to-wall, teeming with drunk football lovers of all ages, races, and creeds. Jerrica and you barely had time to take your singular break—and Steve helped man the bar all night, which said a lot. One young bartender called in, and the other two showed up hungover, so they were worthless.

You half expected Joel to come, but he never showed up. You ignored the cold feeling of disappointment curling around your ribs, and instead reminded yourself that you really don’t know him, and he has a life of his own.

Now, it’s 1:00 AM, and the bar is starting to empty, lifting some weight from your shoulders. The place is filthy—bar food everywhere, chairs strewn about, trash littered on the floor and tables. Jerrica emerges from the patio, blowing the last puff of cigarette smoke out before stepping into the bar.

“I’ll clean up, hon’—you take your break,” she orders you, tone half serious, half playful. You nod, trading the towel you’d been using to wipe the counter for a bottle of beer. Steve doesn’t mind whether you have a drink or two toward the end of the night during your break, and you haven’t indulged until today. An ice-cold domestic beer sounded heavenly, like stumbling upon an oasis after trekking through the Sahara for days.

You step out onto the patio, plopping down in your usual chair in front of the fire pit. It’s cold tonight, but the heat from your sweaty skin keeps you from noticing. You kick your feet up onto a nearby chair and lean back, gazing at the stars while you take swigs of beer.

The patio door screeches as it opens, but you’re too tired to look up. Probably another patron needing a smoke break.

“Thought maybe y’weren’t here today,” a familiar, deep Southern voice fills the air. You snap upright in your chair, repressing the grin threatening to push against your cheeks.

“Could say the same for you,” you tease him, watching him approach you. He’s got a ratty, long-sleeved Texas Longhorns shirt on and the same beat-up Wranglers he had on yesterday. You take a slow sip of beer, catching the way his eyes lock onto your lips as they kiss the bottle.

“Watched the game at my brother’s. Figured it’d be a shit show at any bar within a 50-mile radius,” he says, swishing around the whiskey in his glass as he watches you.

“You’d be correct, sir,” you reply, tilting your head back to down the rest of your beer. Joel gulps audibly—hearing you address him that way and seeing your exposed neck do something to him, something he needs to stifle.

“Couldn’t resist stoppin’ by, though,” Joel says, ambling over to the chair occupied by your legs. The pitch and tone of his voice have changed, from friendly to raspy, almost sultry. Your pulse quickens. You raise an eyebrow at him.

“Why’s that?”

He chuckles lowly, his deep chocolate eyes transfixed on yours. The heat coming from them is enough to make you sweat, and his velvety laugh makes your core ignite.

“Think y’know why,” he responds, sipping his whiskey, eyes unmoved from you. The scenes from your dream emerge in your head, forming knots in your stomach. The hairs on the back of your neck prick your skin as they stand.

A few moments pass by before he sets his glass down on an empty chair. Hands free, he lifts your ankles up and sits in the chair, propping your feet on his lap. His thumb strokes the skin between your shoes and the bottom of your cargo pants, sending tiny sparks through the pores there. This is the second time he’s touched you, and both times it’s felt like mild electrocution.

“If you’ve come to retrieve your flannel, you’re out of luck. It’s not here,” you taunt him, steering the conversation where you both want it to go. His hand slips under the leg of your pants, stroking the skin on your shin and calves. You twitch at the new sensation.

“Ticklish?” he asks, stopping to grip your calf lightly. You shake your head.

“Wasn’t expecting that,” you admit, your voice quiet. The tension between the two of you is palpable, almost painful. The primal urge to jump onto his lap and kiss him has you in a chokehold. He grunts, interrupting your carnal thoughts.

“Heard you’re divorced,” he says, fingers massaging the tight muscles of your calf. It’s slightly painful, but the release of tension feels amazing.

“Is there a question in there?” you quip, raising a brow at him. With a laugh, he nods.

“Yeah, finalized a few months ago. Started working here to pay off some debt from the split,” you respond, trying to remain lighthearted.

“Been there myself. S’not a fun time. Got any kids?”

You shake your head. “Neither of us wanted them in the beginning, and then he changed his mind.”

He purses his lips, nodding slowly. “S’tough but makes the split easier when y’ain’t got any.”

“I take it you have kids?” you ask, curious. He nods again.

“Just a daughter. She’s in college now. Split up when she was real young,” he tells you, moving to massage your other calf. He lightly digs into your flesh, hitting a knot in your mid-calf. You yelp and grip the arm of the metal chair. Your reaction embarrasses you, and you clap your hand over your mouth. Joel’s pupils dilate ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth rising slowly in a devilish smirk.

“Sorry. That hurt?” he asks, switching from kneading to light stroking of your skin.

“Just tight, is all,” you reply, the heat from the back of your neck moving to your ears.

“Mhm. Don’t need that now, do we?” he says, increasing the pressure of the strokes as he tries to tackle the knot. His hands feel good, and you find yourself closing your eyes as he works the knot out. You resist the urge to moan as his fingers massage your tight muscles.

His fingertips slow their pace after a few minutes, stopping to rest at your ankle. You open your eyes and look at him.

“Reckon y’gotta get back in there,” he says teasingly, squeezing your ankle. You sigh heavily.

“I know. Thanks for the massage. What do I owe you?” you ask him, pulling your feet off his lap to stand. He watches as you adjust the waistband of your pants, accidentally revealing your navel to him in the process. He clutches the glass of whiskey in response.

“Another glass of whiskey,” he murmurs, before dropping his voice to add, “And maybe another picture of you wearin’ my shirt.”

Your heart jumps into your throat, and you force a swallow to shove it back down into your chest. You take a step toward him, and he stands from the chair. He’s a little taller than you, but not by much.

“I usually don’t send strangers multiple pictures of me… especially ones where I’m not wearing much,” you tease, watching the way his eyes trace your lips. You swear you hear a growl bubble in his throat.

“Guess I gotta work on that, then,” he says, itching to caress your lips with his finger.

“Well, you know where to find me,” you respond, sidestepping him to return to the bar, huge grin plastered on your face.

2:00 AM rolls around, and Joel’s still at the bar. You emerge from the office with your things to find him propped against the bar, chatting with Jerrica. He’s facing her, but his eyes move to you, sweeping up and down your frame as you approach.

“I’m heading out. You good to take me home, Jerr?” you ask her, clocking out on the POS system.

“Of course. Let me finish up here and we’ll go,” she says, squeezing your arm affectionately. She bids Joel farewell before finishing up her closing duties, leaving you two and the magnetism between you alone.

“I’ll take you, if y’want,” Joel offers, fishing his wallet out. He grabs a stack of bills and divides them, placing one half on the bar and giving the other to you. Warmth blooms in your chest. He tips you way too much, but it’s a kind gesture.

“Sure, I’d like that. It’s not too far from here,” you tell him, “Just let me tell Jerr.”

“Not a problem,” he says, hopping up, shoving his hands in his pockets as you walk over to Jerrica to tell her.

“Better get yourself a breath mint,” she whispers, pinching your arm lightly. You sniff your breath in the palm of your hand and wave her off.

“I’m good. Nothing will happen anyway,” you say, rolling your eyes. She giggles, pulling a stick of gum out of her back pocket.

“Just take it, and no tongue on the first one!” she teases you. Your neck flushes again, but you pop the gum into your mouth and make sure it’s chewed up enough to hide in your cheek before Joel sees.

You’re giddy as you exit the bar. Joel’s hand finds your lower back as he guides you out the front door and through the parking lot to a fancy pickup truck parked in the spot furthest from the door.

“You’re one of those people, huh?” you ask him. He chuckles.

“I could use the steps. S’lotta work fillin’ in paint chips from door dings, too,” he grumbles. He walks you over to the passenger door and opens it for you, offering his palm as leverage as you hop into the elevated seat. His hand is warm, and a little sweaty. You wonder if he’s nervous, too.

He trots over to the driver’s side and starts the truck, turning the volume knob down as Waylon Jennings croons over the speakers. You smirk at the small action, wondering if he’s embarrassed by his music choice or the fact that he was likely singing on his way here.

You guide him to your place, which is less than ten minutes from the bar. He’s a great driver—calm, smooth, and not too fast. His right elbow is propped on the center console, just inches from your arm, though you keep your hands clasped in your lap. Your nerves ignite as you get closer to your place, anticipating what may or may not happen once he drops you off.

He pulls in the driveway of your townhouse and parks the truck.

“I’ll walk you up, stay put,” he commands softly, getting out of the truck and walking to your door. He opens it, offering his hand again as you step down.

The knots in your stomach are so tight, it feels like you might throw up. You can’t remember the last time you were so nervous with a man, if ever. You let go of his hand once you’re on level ground, wiping your clammy palm on your pant leg. He follows you to the front door, hand locating your lower back once again.

“Do you want to come in? If not, it’s okay. I know it’s late,” you offer, gauging his face as you press the keypad to unlock the door. His flaming eyes and the clenching and rolling of his jaw say yes, but the stiffening of his shoulders betray his hesitation.

“Mind ‘f I use the restroom?” he asks, gaze flicking between both your eyes. You smile warmly at him and nod, not missing how his eyes lock onto your lips immediately.

“Not at all,” you reply, opening the door and pointing toward the bathroom, down the hallway beyond the living room and kitchen.

He saunters down the hall, hopefully not noticing the way you’re checking him out, marveling at how well his jeans fit him and that goddamn suave walk of his. He shuts the door, and you exhale deeply, pressing your back against the now-closed front door.

You ponder the next steps as he’s in the bathroom. One, he could just leave. Two, he could kiss you goodnight, and then leave. Three, he could… well, you can’t think about option three, which closely resembles your dream from the previous night.

As you hear the sink in the bathroom turn on, you scurry over to the kitchen sink to wash your own hands, giving you a quick distraction from your nerves. The door opens as you scrub your hands, fingertips pressing hard into your palms to relieve some tension.

His footsteps approach you just as you’re drying your hands, your back facing him. He gets closer until you feel the warmth of his body radiating behind you. He takes the towel from you and places it on the counter before placing a firm, strong hand on your shoulder and turning you toward him.

Fuck. This is it.

Hand still clasped to your shoulder, he stares into your eyes and moves in closer to you. The proximity of him and the realization of what’s about to happen has you seeing stars in the corner of your eyes.

After what feels like eons, Joel’s lips finally meet yours, softly and pliantly. The kiss is tender, but deliberate, like he knows exactly what he wants, but needs to make sure you’re at his level before progressing. The hand on your shoulder wraps around your upper back, and his other hand grips your waist to pull you flush to him. His warmth is hypnotizing, and you melt into him, completely at the mercy of his touch.

You respond, wrapping your arms around his solid torso, feeling his strength and the span of his back as he deepens the kiss. His scent overwhelms you, giving you a euphoric head rush. He tastes like whiskey and mint, and you wonder when he slipped an Altoid or piece of gum into his mouth between the bar and now, like he knew this would happen. Butterflies scatter throughout your body at the realization.

His firm hand on your upper back moves to the other side of your waist, and he hoists you effortlessly onto the kitchen counter, taking you by surprise. You squeak, and he breaks the kiss momentarily to laugh, the deep, silky sound shooting straight to your core. His palms rub on your thighs before traveling up to grip your hipbones, calloused fingertips grazing bare skin between the waistband of your pants and the hem of your shirt. You moan lightly at the touch, spurring him on. His hands reach further under your shirt, stopping at your sides, thumbs swiping at the soft skin surrounding your navel.

Joel’s lips travel down your jaw and land on your neck, teeth grazing and tongue swirling on the sensitive skin. You moan again, louder this time, as his mouth sends shockwaves of pleasure up and down your spinal cord. He groans in response, gripping you tighter and kissing up to your earlobe. Your legs are hooked around the back of his thighs, pulling him close, and you feel his arousal on your hip.

You’ve never been kissed like this before, not even the first time you made love with your ex-husband, or on your wedding night. It feels surreal, almost cinematic—like you’re shooting a love scene with a hot stranger, ignorant to the surrounding cameras and crew. Your body is aflame with passion, burning you from the outside in—the flames twisting around each vein inside you, heating the blood that travels back to your core.

Joel breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to yours, panting. Both of you exchange labored breaths for a few moments as you recollect the last few minutes.

“Think I better get goin’,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you gently before hoisting you off the countertop.

“Too much to handle?” you tease him, walking him to the front door. You hear him growl, and in the blink of an eye, he grabs your waist and pushes you against the front door before closing the gap between you, his hips flush with yours. There are only inches between your lips, but you can taste the hunger emanating from him as he stares into your eyes.

“You have no idea what I wanna do to you, darlin’,” he hisses, hands squeezing the globes of your ass as he leans in to kiss you again. You moan into his mouth before reaching up to tug at the curls on the nape of his neck, pulling his lips off yours. He sucks in a sharp breath.

Oh. He likes that.

Still clutching his curls, you rub your thigh against the erection threatening to bust his jeans. “I think I can guess,” you tease him, moving your leg up and down his length. His eyes close in pleasure, and he groans softly. You cup his jaw and bring him in for one more searing kiss.

“No need to rush things,” you coo, stroking his bottom lip with your thumb as he watches you, wrecked. He chuckles before letting go of you, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Alright then. We’ll take it slow,” he rasps, smoothing curls out of his sweaty face.

“Does that mean you want to see me again?” you ask coyly, batting eyelashes at him.

“I’m lookin’ forward to it,” he replies, kissing you one more time before heading out to his truck.

Fucking hell.

Only been a few hours, but it feels like days

Only been days, but it feels like months

Life moves fast when you’re doing what you want

I guess I’m doing what I want, hope you’re doing what you want

The next four weeks didn’t go at all how you expected them to.

You worked at least 3 shifts at the bar each week, and Joel didn’t show up once. Worse, he didn’t text or call you, either. You went from understandable—because he’s probably busy—to confused, then upset, and finally, bitter.

And then you sat down and had a real conversation with yourself about expectations. Were they too high? Were you out of the game too long to scrutinize this logically? Were you being too clingy? You’d only texted him a few times, noticing that the messages hadn’t delivered normally, like he didn’t have service or blocked your number.

The fiery kiss you two shared lingered in your mind every day. The morning after it happened, you’re positive you’d lied in bed for an hour just replaying each moment before daydreaming about how the night would’ve progressed had he stayed over.

The combination of his rough and soft touches had you aching for him—the firm gripping of your hips as he lifted you on the countertop, the soft strokes on your delicate skin. The way his lips and tongue moved so smoothly with yours and the flaming trail they’d left on your neck and jawline sent shivers up your spine. And left you unbelievably horny.

Each time you’d thought of the passion, the feelings of regret and embarrassment soon followed. Though that was the single life, you figured. It was time to accept the new normal.

Now it’s Friday night, and you’re late for your shift at the bar. You’d left the office late after enduring a chaotic day, which put you directly in the crossfire of rush hour traffic. That, and a perfectly timed late fall, early winter freezing rain spell had immobilized traffic and put you a couple hours behind. You called Steve and Jerrica—they were understanding, of course. But the stress of your day and the feeling of letting the bar down had you in a foul mood.

You roll in at 8 PM, more than 2 hours after you normally come in. Flustered and frustrated, you power walk to the back office to drop your stuff off, noticing that it’s busier than normal. Finally, you make it behind the counter. Jerrica is pouring some pitchers but glances your way with a smile.

“Jesus, Jerr. I’m so sorry. It was an awful day,” you lament, pulling your unkempt hair out of your face. You looked a mess, wearing a slightly small t-shirt and old, ripped jeans. Not exactly cold-weather friendly, but that’s what you get for giving yourself 5 minutes to change.

Jerrica chuckles as she hands the pitchers off to customers. “I understand, hon. Really, it’s fine. We’ve had a good crowd tonight.”

“Thank god. Need me to stock anything?” You glance at the cooler, noticing that it looks a little barren.

Jerrica nods. “Please, and I’m low on ice, too.”

Eager to fix the mess you helped create, you start to work. Four buckets of ice, several trips to the fridge and back, and one sheen of forehead sweat later, everything is stocked. The bar is still busy, but a rare quiet moment where everyone seems to have a full drink gives Jerrica an opportunity to take a smoke break.

“Be back soon. Don’t hurt ‘em now,” she teases you, squeezing your upper arm as she trots toward the patio.

You take a moment to scan the tables, nodding or waving at most of the regulars. It’s a relief to work in a place like this, where the majority of them are nice, blue-collar folks just trying to relieve the tension of the American work life, and you know they appreciate the work you put in.

Your heart stops when you see a familiar head of curly hair atop broad shoulders in his usual spot. And of course, as usual, he’s already looking at you. There’s a smile on his face, and fuck, he looks good. He looks a little fatigued, obvious by the faint, dark circles under his eyes and overgrown stubble, but nonetheless thrilled to see you. The curls on his head are mussed and flattened in certain spots, like he had a hat on for a while and hasn’t had time nor energy to fix them.

And then you remember you haven’t seen or spoken to him in about a month, and the polar vortex swirls in your chest. You smile at him, though it doesn’t reach your eyes, and distract yourself with organizing the cash drawer, hoping that he feels the cold front.

Jerrica returns from break, sidling next to you. She must feel the ice emanating from you.

“He asked about you,” she says, not looking up at Joel. “Said he’s been crazy busy with work and hasn’t had good cell service where he’s been. Some odd job a few hours away. He seemed real sorry, honey.”

A heavy, resigned sigh escapes your lungs. You close your eyes and lean your head back, inhaling deeply before facing her. She was the first person you told about the kiss and the subsequent ghosting. She then let you know that Joel was a successful contractor who’d been running a business with his brother for years, a detail he neglected to share with you. You knew you were probably being harsh, but a little communication would’ve put you at ease.

“I get it, just wish he would’ve told me. It would’ve taken two seconds,” you say, closing the drawer and turning to face her. She mirrors you.

“You look exhausted, girlfriend. Take a break and take a beer with you if you need it.”

“Fine,” you reply, feigning stubbornness. Jerrica laughs before handing you a bottle of your favorite domestic beer. You grab your sweatshirt from under the register and slip out back.

Thankfully, it’s empty out here, leaving you alone with the crackling flames of the fire pit. And though the beer is the same temperature as the air outside, it feels damn good as it washes down your throat. You sit as close as possible to the fire, propping your elbows on your knees as the warmth invades your space.

Like clockwork, the patio door swings open and out comes Joel. Your back is facing the door, but you know it’s him—the familiar scent and staccato of his footsteps give him away. Two hands lightly squeeze your shoulders, making your scalp tingle and chest tighten. He starts rubbing them softly.

“These are tight,” he murmurs as his hands work up your traps and neck, shrinking the knots embedded in the muscles there. His deep voice is raspier than usual, like he’s been yelling.

“Been stressed,” you respond, closing your eyes as he rubs the stress out of you. You want to be pissed, but don’t have the energy to put up a front anymore.

“I can help ya with that,” he murmurs. You puff out a quick breath, frustrated—at him, and at yourself for being frustrated with him. Joel squeezes your shoulders a little tighter, leaning down. His beard tickles the skin on your temple, and your pulse quickens.

“’M sorry,” Joel hums, lips close to your ear, “I shoulda called, or let you know what was goin’ on. Been busy myself.”

“I understand, Joel. It would’ve been nice to know. I thought maybe it was me,” you answer quietly. He sighs in response, letting go of your shoulders and plopping down in the chair next to you.

He places a hand above your knee and squeezes lightly. “You did nothin’ wrong. The opposite, actually. I ain’t been able to get you outta my mind since I left that night,” he admits, chuckling softly. Finally, you bring yourself to look at him.

He looks exhausted up close, the sharp edges of him a little worn, but still ruggedly handsome. His eyes are less amber and more muted brown, like they haven’t seen the light in a few days.

“You look tired,” you say, reaching up to fix some of his messy curls. He closes his eyes as you touch him, like it provides him with instant relief.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he murmurs, pulling your hand from his head toward his mouth, planting a soft kiss on the top. The gesture floods you with guilt. He smiles at you, a silent It’s okay.

“Wanna make it up t’you,” he adds, kissing your hand again before returning it to your lap.

“I’ll allow it,” you tease him.

“Let me drive you home. Tommy has my truck, and it’s slick out there,” he asks, squeezing above your knee lightly. The now serious tone of his voice indicates that this is not a request, but a soft command. You cover his hand with yours and squeeze in response.

“That would be great,” you respond. “Though I’m going to need a long shower—I didn’t have a chance to take one in between jobs.”

He raises an eyebrow as he removes his hand from your leg, jaw clenching as he imagines what your body looks like naked and soaked. He can only imagine it’s perfect, given how good you look in clothes.

“Gonna make the rest of the night difficult,” he laments playfully. “Guess I deserve it, huh?”

You shrug, doing your best to stifle a smirk. It feels like time to head back in, and Joel senses it too.

“S’alright, I’ll be waitin’ for ya when it’s time to go,” he says, scooting closer to the fire. He turns to watch you walk back into the bar, and you catch him as you glance back right before the patio door closes, his eyes glued to your ass. Your cheeks and neck flare with heat.

The rest of the night was filled with nervous anticipation. You went from telling yourself that you’d get a repeat make out session from the first night, to entertaining the possibility of having sex with Joel. The thought of it frightened and thrilled you—it would be the first person you’d slept with since your ex-husband.

After a smooth night, closing time rolls around. After several mop buckets and restocks later, you emerge from the back office. Joel is waiting for you at the bar, the usual stack of bills propped on the counter in front of him.

“I wanna know details,” Jerrica whispers in your ear as she walks up with you. Your cheeks heat up again, and you widen your eyes at her, an unspoken Shut up.

“You’ll be the first to know,” you reply, sly smile playing on your lips. She giggles, waving bye to Joel as she makes one last round of the place before locking up. Joel is watching you approach him, equally giddy and nervous as you. He’d been thinking about what would go down tonight, too—and boy, he was ready to give you everything you wanted. The electricity between you fizzes in the air, like a firework moments away from exploding.

“Ready, darlin’?” Joel asks, standing from the stool and shoving his wallet in his back pocket. You nod, the nickname charming you.

Joel walks you to your car, and again, his hand finds home on your lower back. It’s a gentlemanly gesture, but the feeling of his hand on you makes your core throb. He opens the passenger door for you, offering a hand as you shift weight on the icy pavement and get in your car. You have a nice sedan—one of the only things you purchased on your own during the marriage, much to your ex’s chagrin.

Joel handles the slick roads like a pro, never losing traction. He remembers exactly where to go to find your townhouse. Throughout the ride, you find yourself growing sleepier with each passing streetlight. You’re so tired, you hadn’t noticed he laced his fingers with yours on the center console. It was sweet and domestic, like you’d done it a thousand times before.

You arrive, and like last time, Joel tells you to stay put while he trots around to open your door. Your eyes fight to stay awake—the stress of the day is threatening to drown you. Joel notices.

“Tired, sweetheart?” He asks, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walk inside through the garage.

“Me? Never tired,” you lie, sleep already taking over your voice. Joel laughs as he helps you walk up the few steps that lead into the kitchen.

“Let’s get you to bed, huh?” Panic sets in. You don’t want him to leave, and through the blanket of fatigue covering you, you feel guilty.

“Joel,” you say, turning around and putting two hands on his chest. He looks into your eyes, trying not to laugh at how sleepy you look.

“Hm?” He responds, smirking at you.

“Please stay with me,” you ask. The smile fades from his face as he notices the expression on your face, like you’re worried about him leaving in the middle of the night. He cups your face in his warm, rough hands, marveling at how gorgeous you are, even in your half-asleep state.

“’Course. I’m not goin’ anywhere.” You wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He responds immediately, enveloping you with his strong arms, kissing the crown of your head softly. He hoists you up, searching for your bedroom in the dim lighting of your place. He finds it, nudging the door open with an elbow before gently placing you on the bed.

“Let’s get you some clothes,” he soothes, flicking one of your nightstand lamps on. The low light paints him in an amber glow, and though your eyes are half-open, you watch him amble around your room.

“Top drawer,” you mumble, pointing at your dresser. He opens it up and pulls a big t-shirt out.

“Wait, I need to shower—I ne—,” you stammer, before Joel shushes you.

“S’okay. Y’can shower in the morning. Let’s get you to sleep, sweetheart,” he coos, helping you sit up. You feel like a helpless baby, but you’re so exhausted. You’d have slept in your jeans if he wasn’t here.

He undresses you, peeling the sweaty shirt from your torso. His breath catches in his throat at the sight of your half-naked torso, dotted with tattoos and soft skin, mesmerized at how your old t-shirt bra complements the tone of your skin and the curve of your breasts. You’re beautiful, even in your rattiest clothes. He pushes the soft tee over your head, doing his best not to ogle. You unclip the bra underneath the shirt, pulling it through one of the arm holes. Joel chuckles.

“S’magic, how y’all do that,” he says, making you giggle. You lie back, ready to fall asleep. Joel pats your leg.

“Y’can’t sleep in jeans. What d’ya sleep in?”

“Panties,” you mumble, eyes closed. “Middle drawer.”

Joel clears his throat uncomfortably and opens the drawer, impressed with the variety of underwear he sees folded in it. He pulls a pair of blue cotton and lace panties and returns to the bedside, trying like hell not to imagine what you’d look like with these on. And though his desire for you is strong, he is ever the gentleman, wanting never to overstep your boundaries. He pauses next to you. You sit up, exhausted but aware of his hesitation.

“I’m gonna use the restroom, darlin’. Be right back,” he assures you, his soft, deep voice caressing your eardrums. He steps into the bathroom connected to your bedroom and shuts the door softly.

You take the cue and peel your jeans and underwear off, replacing them with the blue panties, appreciating his respect for you and your privacy. You lie back down and turn your lamp off, your tired eyes quickly welcoming the darkness that paints the room.

Half-asleep, you slip under the sheets on one side of the bed, back facing the bathroom door. Moments later, Joel emerges quietly, and the telltale clink of a belt buckle tells you he’s taken his jeans off. Though moonlight seeps through your blinds, it’s not enough to see him as he prods toward the bedroom door to shut it.

He gets into bed and reaches for you immediately, the warmth of his body cloaking you like another blanket. You reciprocate and wrap your arms around him, inhaling deeply as he nestles you against his chest. The scent of him is hypnotizing—amber, pine, cedarwood, and whiskey. A blend that is eclectic and brooding, yet warm and romantic. He strokes your hair as you melt into him, your legs tangled together under the crisp sheets.

He presses his lips to your forehead and whispers goodnight before sleep finally takes over you.

Part (ii)

Taglist: @burntheedges, @tuquoquebrute, @syd-djarin, @danaispunk, @anoverwhelmingdin <3

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #pedro pascal fandom

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sapphicandgraphic · 5 months ago

Text

Crash

Summary: An accident pulls you and Melissa further into each other’s orbit.

Chapter: 1/4

Melissa passed the crash on her way to school. By then, road cleanup services were removing shattered glass and twisted hunks of metal from the street. As traffic slowed and she maneuvered around the remains of the accident, she saw a bike that looked just like yours being loaded onto a tow truck. A sick feeling washed over her. She floored it the last few blocks of her commute, tires squealing as she turned into the parking lot of Abbott Elementary.

Classes hadn’t officially started back yet. Today was a designated teacher planning day at the end of winter break. Most of the staff would trickle in later, enjoying the relaxed pace of a morning with no students. But Melissa had left the house early. She wanted to grab a cup of coffee, gab with Barbara, ease into the new year. And alright, yeah, maybe she was also hoping to see you, swap a few family holiday horror stories (“trauma” as you preferred to call it), and make fun of whatever godawful healthy thing you brought in for breakfast. She didn’t usually trust school shrinks—any shrinks for that matter—but everybody knew she had a soft spot for you.

Melissa scanned the parking lot anxiously, praying to see your motorcycle tucked safely into its usual spot. You had been so protective of that stupid bike when you first got hired, she almost wrote you off as a ginzaloon gear-head. But once you realized how gah gah the kids went over it, you started parking right next to the playground—even occasionally caving to the demands of her excited second graders, revving the engine during recess as they cheered you on.

She had rolled her eyes at the time, but she didn’t mind the theatrics. She also didn’t mind the sight of your long legs straddling that leather seat. Had even indulged in a brief fantasy of what it would feel like to join you there, slipping her arms around your waist, nuzzling her face into the middle of your shoulders. That was before this morning, before she’d seen the mangled leftovers in the road. Before she decided she hated motorcycles.

Melissa locked her car and hustled into the school, past your ominously empty parking spot. As the school psychologist, you worked in a private office near the front of the building. It even had an en-suite bathroom, a fact which caught you major shit with the other faculty. Especially from Melissa, who had given you endless grief at the start of your first semester.

She pulled out her cell phone, trying not to panic as she made a beeline for your office. A dozen terrible images flashed through her mind. You crumpled on the side of the road; you being lifted into an ambulance; you lifeless on a cold slab in some distant part of the city. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

The redhead rounded the corner at breakneck speed in her high-heels, starting to dial your number with shaky hands. But the door to your office was slightly ajar and a dim light was spilling out into the hallway. She breathed an instant sigh of relief, calling your name as she booted her way into the room. “Jesus Christ, you almost gave me a heart attack—“

Melissa froze in her tracks. A bloody white t-shirt had been discarded on the coffee table, and your helmet sat on the little sofa beside your desk. Its visor was shattered and there were long, ugly scratches on the side. “Melissa?” Your voice sounded strange and faint from inside the bathroom.

She dropped her bags and sprang toward the door, jiggling the handle. “Open this door right now or I swear to god I’ll break it down.”

She heard the familiar huff of your laugh, cut short by a grunt of pain that made her heart clench. “Gimme a sec,” you said softly.

“Right. Now.” Patience had never been one of her virtues.

She shifted back and forth, willed herself to be calm. There was some shuffling, a few more agonizing seconds, and finally the click of the lock. Melissa pushed the door open carefully and you stepped back until your hips hit the sink.

Her hands were on you in an instant, insistent but soft, surveying the damage. You gripped the edge of the porcelain for support, blinking hard through an unpleasant wave of dizziness.

“You should see the other guy,” you said, hoping to ease the tension rolling off the other woman in waves. She ignored you, gently running her hands over your body as she made a thorough inventory of every bump, bruise, and bloody scrape. You swallowed thickly, unsure what to say. Finding yourself half-naked in front of Melissa Schemmenti had not been on this morning’s bingo card. Your heart hammered in your chest.

“I’ve been trying to put on a clean shirt for the past 10 minutes,” you explained lamely, gesturing to the oversized Abbott Elementary Field Day tee folded on the vanity. “But I’m moving a little slow.”

That was an understatement, especially now that the adrenaline was starting to wear off. The EMTs had diagnosed you with one or two cracked ribs, some gnarly abrasions, and plenty of bruising where your bike had slammed into the median. But mostly they had diagnosed you as lucky. Very, very lucky.

“What’s broken?” Her tone was clipped, still tight with fear.

“Nothing.”

She gave you a “cut-the-bullshit” look and you folded instantly.

“Maybe some cracked ribs,” you amended, trying to make this sound as breezy as possible. “It’s ok, really. It looks worse than it is.”

You sucked in a shallow breath as her fingers ghosted over the bandages on your side. Green eyes flashed up at you in outrage.

“It looks worse than it is?” she repeated softly. You shivered as she rested her hand on your hip. “Well, it looks pretty fucking bad. It looks like that tonto bike almost got you killed.”

You swallowed nervously, caught off guard by the absolute iciness of her voice. “It wasn’t my fault,” you tried to explain. “Actually, it was—“

“I don’t want to hear it!”

You flinched as she practically spat the words at you, splotches of red rising in the ivory column of her throat. Her legendary temper was something you’d seen in action plenty of times. But this went beyond angry.

“There’s no excuse for putting yourself in danger, capisce? It’s unacceptable to me!” She was shouting by now, eyes brimming, chest heaving.

You placed a tentative hand on her shoulder but she shrugged it off and turned away, pinching the bridge of her nose. This was a gesture you’d seen her make only a handful of times—during the always-tense active shooter drills and, on one frightening occasion, when they’d briefly lost track of a student during a field trip. Seeing it now, and being the cause of it, made you feel miserable.

Melissa had barreled into your life about a year ago when you first started working at Abbott. You liked her immediately. Leather pants, mischievous smirk, loud as hell. She was all rough edges and no apologies. More than anything, she was complicated. Guarded but generous, tough but tender. A dozen fiery contradictions that made your heart race.

She teased you from the first moment she laid eyes on you—for being the new kid on the block, for being a “touchy-feely” therapist, for being a millennial. Rather than making you feel ostracized, the attention lit you up. At first you’d worked your ass off just to impress her, to earn her respect. Then you saw what a dedicated teacher she was. You started seeking her out for advice about some of the more troubled kids in your care, going for drinks with her on Fridays, getting her to open up to you. By the time she realized what was happening, you’d slipped straight past her defenses.

“Sorry,” Melissa said gruffly, wiping at her eye makeup. “I shouldn’t’a yelled.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you said, shifting off the sink and limping toward her. “Why don’t you head down to the teacher’s lounge and get a cup of coffee? I can clean up here and meet you in a bit, you don’t have to deal with all this.”

She looked up at you defiantly. For the first time, she noticed a cut near your hairline. There were small butterfly stitches pinching the skin together. All the fight went out of her at once.

“You think a little blood is gonna scare off a Schemmenti?” She reached up and cupped your jawline. Tender.

“I ain’t lettin’ you out of my sight,” Melissa added with a growl. Tough.

She took a moment to drink in the full miracle of you, alive and mostly in one piece. And what a piece it was. Her gaze drifted down to your sports bra, your low-slung riding pants, the band of your boxer-briefs just visible on your waist. Melissa shook her head, withdrawing her hand.

“Need some help gettin’ dressed?”

You blinked, refocusing on her with considerable effort.

“Bet you say that to all the girls,” you said.

Again you felt a little ripple of shyness, exposed and disheveled in front of Melissa who looked good enough to eat—as always. Thick red hair cascading over her shoulders, clothes that hugged her figure in all the right places, gold necklaces with pendants of the saints cradled in the valley of her creamy cleavage. She smirked, unfolding the fresh t-shirt and giving you an appreciative once-over.

“You been working out?” she asked.

You chuckled. “Glad someone finally noticed.”

Melissa pursed her full lips and tilted her head to the side. “Not bad.”

You knew this was just a game to her. She was a flirt by nature and she loved to make you squirm, make you blush. Still, your stomach twisted pleasantly at the compliment.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she continued, noting your obviously pleased expression. “It’s a little dramatic as far as cries for attention go.”

“What do you mean?” you asked as Melissa guided your head carefully through the neck of the shirt, tucking a few flyaway strands of hair back into place. You shivered at the featherlight feel of her fingertips around the shell of your ear.

“Playin’ evil knievel,” she clarified. “Just for an excuse to take your top off in front of me.”

“Look who’s talking!” you fired back. “For all I know, you hired that guy to run me off the road so you could get me alone in a state of undress.”

Melissa, who had been grinning at you from under her long eyelashes and fussing with the hem of your shirt, stilled. The smile slid off her face.

“What’d ya say?”

You frowned, backpedaling. “Sorry, bad joke—“

“No, not that part.” She waved her hand, gold bangles clattering. “The part about someone ran ya off the road? On purpose?”

You nodded your head.

Her voice dipped back into a decidedly frosty register. “And you’re just now tellin’ me this?”

“Well, I tried to mention it a second ago but then there was all the yelling,” you explained. “And you know how I feel about yelling.”

Melissa rolled her eyes. “You feel that it ain’t productive,” she said, applying heavy air quotes around the last word.

“But I appreciate that it’s a cultural norm in many families,” you said. “I know Italian-American households—“

“Jesus fucking Christ!” she exploded. “Someone tried to fucking kill you! Do you appreciate that?”

You winced at the volume of the outburst, headache lurking in the base of your skull. “Yeah, I reported it to the cops who came to the scene, okay? They’re looking for the guy.“

Melissa placed a red lacquered fingernail under your chin.

“You’re never riding that death trap again, you hear me, kid?”

Her green eyes, challenging and possessive, bored into yours. You wondered what would happen if you defied her, told her no, refused outright. The only problem was…you so desperately wanted to give her exactly what she wanted. Not just today, but every day. Trying to please Melissa Schemmenti had become a kind of obsession, a thrill you chased at your own risk.

“Well you don’t have to worry,” you said, mouth suddenly dry. “The bike is totaled.”

She gripped your chin, intent on eliciting a promise. “I mean it.”

A shiver went through you at her low, commanding tone.

“Ok, ok,” you relented. “I’ll be a good girl, mommy.”

It was supposed to be a joke but the words came out as a desperate whine. You felt a flush of color rising in your cheeks as Melissa quirked an eyebrow at you—half scandalized, half delighted. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, the intercom crackled to life. The sudden noise made you both spring apart.

“All faculty please report to the assembly hall in 15 minutes.”

You hissed at the sudden movement, curling over slightly. Melissa’s hands shot out to steady you.

“You alright?” she asked. All traces of teasing laughter had vanished from her face. “What am I, an idiota? Of course you’re not alright. I should drive ya home!”

“No,” you said, waving the suggestion off wearily. “I don’t wanna be by myself all day. I’ll go crazy.”

“Look at youse,” she argued, concern clouding her eyes. “You can barely stand upright. Your helmet looks like it was in a blender, for chrissakes. You came this close to…to—“

She made a small choked noise, unable to finish the sentence. Her hand flew up to her mouth and she squeezed her eyes shut, clearly trying to block out some unwanted mental image. You intertwined your fingers with hers carefully, sweetly, and brought her hand away from her face.

“Nothing happened,” you said evenly. “I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re fine.”

“Don’t use your therapy voice on me,” she warned, dabbing at her eyes again. She looked down at your hands loosely joined together and brushed a finger over the back of your knuckles. When she spoke she sounded uncertain, none of her usual cocksure confidence.

“You swear you’re alright to stay for the day? You won’t…make yourself worse?”

“I’m fine,” you repeated. “Just hurts when I…”

“Move? Breathe? Blink?” she guessed, tone sarcastic once more. “Am I gettin’ warmer?”

You winked. “You’re red hot.”

A small smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “And don’t you forget it, baby.”

Melissa considered you for a moment. She didn’t like the way the skin around your eyes was pinched, or the protective way you held yourself. But she also didn’t like the idea of you being on your own all day. Better to keep you close.

“Alright, alright,” she said. “You can stay, but on one condition—you don’t overdo it.”

You rolled your eyes. “We work in an elementary school, not the ThunderDome.”

“No jokes,” she insisted. “I mean it, say you swear.”

It was a rare display of vulnerability from Melissa, who walked through life making demands rather than requests. You schooled your face into a serious expression. Looping your little finger around hers, you brought your fist to your mouth.

“I pinky promise,” you said. “Seal it with a kiss?”

Her eyes flickered down to your lips and lingered for a fraction of a second too long. Even a year into this dangerous dance with Melissa, you weren’t quite sure where the line was, or what would happen if (when?) you found it, crossed it.

“Millennials,” she said, but her voice was husky. “What’s next, gonna ask me to join your polycule?”

Slowly, you both leaned in. You were close enough to smell her shampoo and the bright citrusy lotion she used on her face. It made you swoon. Her eyes closed as you both planted chaste kisses on your fists, faces only inches apart.

The tacky sound of Melissa’s lip gloss making contact with the inside of her own hand sent an unexpected jolt of arousal right to the pit of your stomach. Suddenly, you found yourself lost in a little fantasy, wondering what it would be like to pull her close, to drag your fingers through her hair, to feel the inside of her soft mouth with your tongue. A familiar and ferocious longing—one that you worked very hard to neutralize during working hours—seized you, painful and roaring and undeniable. A longing for more of Melissa, for whatever she would give you.

The other woman cleared her throat suddenly, breaking the spell.

“You ready, hon?” She was gazing at you cautiously, like you might break apart. You shook your head, hoping you didn’t look as strung out as you felt.

“Sorry,” you said. “Let’s head down to the auditorium.”

She smirked, looping an arm around your waist and helping you out of the bathroom. “I’ll say this for ya,” she said, flicking the lights out and closing the door behind her. “You sure know how to start the new year with a bang.”

Chapter 2

#melissa schemmenti #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader

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chuubian · 9 months ago

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Kinktober week two:

Hot To Go!

Tags Boothill x fem saloon maid reader, his dick vibrates, drinking, semi-public

Summary A handsome cowboy walks into the saloon without any credits. Before you can kick him out and report him, he offers to pay another way.

The loud screeching of old hinges draws your attention out of your work and to the front door. A weird looking cowboy comes in. He's completely made of steel except for his pale face, it's like nothing you've ever seen before. His heavy boots bang against the decaying slabs of wood flooring, then he sits at the bar, staring silently— waiting for you to service him. Putting the glasses and rag down, you head over to him.

“Hello sir, what can I get you?”

“A double tequila, darlin’.”

You raise an eyebrow. That's it?

“Just tequila? nothing else?”

“I can handle it.”

You shrug, walking back to grab him a glass, pouring in two shots of the clear liquid and sliding it in front of him. He grins— sharp teeth taking you by surprise. Did he purposely sharpen his teeth? The man reaches for his glass, tossing it back and drinking the straight liquor easily. You cringe just watching him.

“You seriously drink like that in the middle of the day?”

“Oh it’s nothin’… ‘s like water to me.”

Nose scrunching in disgust, you recoil at the thought of it. It's like 2 pm who in the world would think to drink this. He chuckles at your expression, sitting up and leaning forward— cheek leaning onto his cold, metal fist.

“Shouldn't you be glad I'm here, darlin’? Good for business, isn't it?”

He looks around the empty room.

“I'm the only one here, that's money you wouldn't have made otherwise.”

So that's how he sees it huh…

“Then it's 30,000 credits.”

He pauses, eyes widening. The clanging of iron sounds through the room as he sits up straight.

“Ain't that a bit expensive, sweetheart?”

You cross your arms.

“That's the set price. If you're saying you can't pay, then I'm gonna have to get the sheriff over here.”

That seems to astound him. He immediately starts fussing, leaning over the bar to try and calm you down.

“Now, now dear… We don't gotta go that far! come on, I'm in town all the time, you know me right?”

“No i don't, I've never seen you here. I don't even know your name.”

Clunky metal fingers run through his black and white hair as he puts his hat down on the counter in front of him.

“Boothill. See? now you know me.”

“If you don't pay, I'm calling the sheriff over here. I'm not kidding.”

Sharp nails dig into the wooden counter— he leans back, thinking of ways to deescalate the situation.

“Why don't we find some other way to repay you huh? We don't need to get law enforcement involved in somethin’ so small right?”

You consider it. It's not like your boss would know anyways, it wasn't even that much alcohol.

“What do you have in mind?”

—————-

The wind gets knocked out of your lungs as Boothill drags his rough tongue over your clit. His sharp metallic claws dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, trying to keep your unruly hips still. A choked whine gets caught in your throat as he sucks harshly on the sensitive little nub— it's like barbed wire has been wrapped around your throat, constricting any sound that may escape.

“Aghh… f-fuck!”

The only response from him is a harsh bite to your inner thigh, before he dives back in. He's like a man starved, consuming you completely. A hot wet tongue makes its way down to your entrance, teasing and taunting, with the intention of pushing in.

Your fingers thread through his long, black and white patterned hair— pulling, out of necessity to keep your peace of mind. Boothill slips inside and an embarrassing squelch echoes through the empty saloon.

“Don't move.”

He warns, holding you up against the old bar. Practically all your weight is leaning on his kneeling form— your legs were trembling terribly, struggling to hold up properly. Gummy walls squeeze around his tongue, gushing out more slick. He lets out a low moan, enjoying the slightly bitter taste.

“Sooo good…”

His words slur together. One of his fingers finds its way up to your puffy, abused clit, drawing little circles. Sparks flash behind your eyes and guttural moans bubble past your lips.

“Nghh… B-boothill!”

This only seems to encourage him more. He drags his tongue back out of your entrance. Your pussy feels empty without him, clenching around nothing— already becoming used to the force against your walls. Tugging him closer, you grind your cunt down onto his lips, trying to get more. That's all you need, just a little more.

“Needy, huh?”

He chuckles, lips wrapping around your over sensitive clit, sucking and licking at it harshly. You double over, stomach and thighs tensing from need and overwhelming pleasure. His steel palms feel surprisingly warm against your skin, gently caressing instead of digging in like before.

“Mmmf..! O-oh god Boothill!”

Eyes watering, back arching, grasping and pulling at his long locks, you finally come undone. A loud ringing resounds through your head, leaving your brain fuzzy and confused. You don't even process what's going on until Boothill’s bulky hands are turning you around, pushing your chest down onto the old wooden bar.

“You ready?"

Icy metal presses against you from behind. His grip on your hips is painful— he's sure to leave marks and bruises painted across your skin. You open your mouth to respond, but before any words leave your lips, he pushes in.

You keen high in the back of your throat as his hips sink home. Squirming, you try to adjust to his cock. It proves to be an impossible feat- especially when you abruptly feel the vicious whirr or his dick against your walls.

"W-waaiit-"

You only manage to utter a single word of protest. As soon as it leaves your mouth, Boothill pulls his hips back and slams back in. Controlling himself is inconceivable at this point. He sets a brutal pace, grinding cock up into you, nails biting into your flesh.

All you could do was whimper and wail in garbled mumbles. He didn't stop even for one second. Your back arched, as your face was smushed against the counter— dragging against the old wood, scratching your skin.

"Fuck. sweetheart...."

He trails off, lost in the feeling of your cunt wrapped around his vibrating cock. Leaning forward, he nips at the shell of your ear. The sting only amplifies the feeling of immense bliss. Your legs shake with effort— it was like nothing you've ever felt before. Drunk off the sensation of him working himself in and out, your cunt clutching onto him- trying to suck him in.

It's all too much. Your eyesight is blurring and a lump forms in your throat. The knot in the pit of your tummy is straining and tensing. Boothill buries himself deeper, pelvis striking against the supple flesh of your ass. His cock is carving out a space for itself, pulsating against your walls.

"Hnngh.. B-boothil..."

His strong hand leaves your hips, settling itself on your shoulder, keeping you down.

"That's right sweetheart. Just like that."

All the blood rushes to your head as his dick thrust into your sweet spot. Your body is boiling— overwhelmed and about to burst. He doesn't stop, taking enjoyment in seeing you struggle. Slick is dripping down your pussy to the junction between you and the ruthless man. Your mushy walls make way for him, surrendering under pressure. All you can hear is a loud buzz, as your body focuses on the euphoria it feels under his expert touch.

Incoherent babbles erupt from your lungs. Your hips twitch, fucking themselves back on his cock mindlessly. He's getting desperate. Shocking cold steel presses against your back as the vibrations spread through your entire body. The knot forming in your belly bursts and fire flows inside your veins. The heat is sweltering and mind boggling.

Nails claw against the splintering wood, frantic for any way to hold onto your sanity. Your throat burns, lungs heaving and wheezing, desperate for air. Sweat drips down your forehead, glistening under the bright sunlight shining through the window.

The tremors in your thighs simmer down and Boothill pulls away, massaging your poor exhausted legs.

"How was that?"

You struggle to answer, but he wasn't really looking for an answer anyways. He helps you clean up— wiping the sweat and slick off your skin, dressing you tenderly. Making sure you look just as nice as when he first came in before anyone else walks in.

#hsr boothill #boothill x reader #honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #honkai star rail smut #hsr fanfic #hsr smut #boothill smut #boothill x you #boothill x y/n #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #kinktober

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stillfoodforguys · 1 year ago

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Trying out some new experiences, my boyfriend and I were looking for a dominant guy that we could both serve together. We found someone advertising themselves online as a ‘giant for hire’, which turned out to involve much more than just having a great physique.

He was at least a foot taller than us both, and all the muscle built around his broad shoulders and thick thighs made him bigger in every other direction too. But the service we’d paid for came with something extra that would take this to the max; he made us both swallow a pill that would supposedly cause our bodies shrink over time, making him truly a giant in comparison.

We sat either side of him and massaged his muscles, and after a while I could feel my body tingle as the shrinking pill took effect. After just a few minutes, my height had already reduced such that standing on the sofa only brought me up to his shoulders. I stretched my arm across one of his pecs, squeezing the massive slab of meat while suckling on his nipple that filled my entire mouth.

I kept getting distracted by the musk that wafted down from above, occasionally glancing up at his pits until the man took notice. He suddenly stuffed me underneath his arm and lowered it to pin me beside him, trapping my head inside a hot, sweaty chamber entangled by his musky armpit hair. As I continued to shrink, he readjusted his arms slightly to make sure I didn’t slip out, forcing me to keep inhaling his powerful scent. By the time I reached my final size, my whole body was pressed against his flesh using just his bicep, which repeatedly flexed and throbbed against me.

After what seemed like an eternity, he pulled me out into the fresh air, everything but my head wrapped tightly in his clutches. He returned my blissful grin with a cocky smirk of his own, gesturing his eyes down towards his lap as though he wanted to direct my attention there. My expression changed very quickly to shock when I saw his massive member, with a tiny pair of legs kicking around as they disappeared into his slit. I watched the squirming bulge travel all the way down his shaft, the left side of his sack swelling as my boyfriend settled inside.

The giant moaned at the feeling of his balls getting massaged from within, carefully stroking his cock and savouring the moment. He didn’t care one bit about my pathetic attempts to wriggle out of his grip, and even took the time to tease me as he brought me closer to his waist. “That’s one filled up, now for the other…”

My shouting and begging for him to stop was quickly quietened when my head was shoved into his cock, immediately coated in the precum that was being pumped out in response to my partner’s squirming. It sucked me in like I was being consumed by a hungry snake, pulling me deeper until my whole body sank into the sweltering pool of cum contained within his other testicle. The scent was even more overpowering than his musk, dragging out an intense horny feeling that mixed with my fear.

At first I could hear my boyfriend struggling next to me, but once he went silent I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I also met my end. Soon we’d both be fully melted down into a fresh load, which this hulking predator would no doubt enjoy shooting across our bedroom floor.

#gay vore #mm vore #cock vore #digestion

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marigold-hills · 4 months ago

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the moon statue part 2

(part 1)

The man’s eyes are the pretty amber-gold of the perfect cup of tea Sirius hands him. Rich and deep. They changed from wolf-yellow slowly. The hatred stayed the same.

On the table between them Sirius puts down one of the sandwiches he brought with himself, an apple and a bar of muggle chocolate. Dairy Milk, his favourite.

“Run out of slabs of raw meat did you?” The man asks, eyeing the food with mistrust. “Or are you finally going to do away with me? Could of done better for the last meal.”

His hands are slender and fingers scar-torn and calloused. He picks up the chocolate and turns it to have a better look, the purple wrapper crinkling in his grip. “What’s this then?”

The man has a slightly odd accent and speaks the way Sirius never heard anyone speak before. Sirius found him in a Manor he didn’t even know existed. Somewhere no one has been in many, many years.

Only the fact that the man doesn’t recognise the instantly recognisable chocolate tips Sirius to just how long he must have been there.

He takes it from his hands and rips the packaging, breaks off a piece, then one for himself. Gives one to the man and eats the other. It’s a bit cold on his tongue but that’s how he likes it best - the moment it starts to melt in his mouth and coat him with flavour.

The man takes it, eats it. Sirius sees it, plain as day, the moment he truly tastes it.

“I’ve inherited the Manor,” he tells the man, part to clear the air part to clear his conscience. “This is the first time I’ve ever heard of you.”

The man lets out something like a scoff. Sirius breaks him off another piece of the chocolate.

“Dear old Lord Sirius finally kicked it then? My condolences. May the devil dance on his grave.”

Sirius is third of his name. Before him there were two, his great grandfather and a great uncle before that. He remembers they were both born in the 18 hundredths.

“My name is Sirius, too,” he tells him instead.

“Of course it is.” The man reaches for the sandwich with a brashness Sirius sees right through. His fingers are shaking. “All about the family line with you lot. Are you the nephew then? Heard he had one named after him.”

Sirius the first, then. Four generations. Dead a hundred years before Sirius was even born.

The man finishes the sandwich, eats the rest of the chocolate with a hesitant kind of curiosity. “I won’t go back in there,” he tells Sirius with a surety betrayed by the waver in his eyes. “You’ll have to kill me,” this. Said without falter.

“I wasn’t planning on putting you back in there.”

It’s clear the man doesn’t believe him, and Sirius can’t blame him. A hundred years as stone and before that, the company of an insane man.

“What will you do with me then? Opening a circus? Potion ingredients?”

“You’re free to leave. But once you see the world as it is now, you might not want to.”

Sirius can see the words unlocking the realisation. “How long?” The man asks.

Sirius tells him and the man doesn’t react. He’s holding the mug and it stays firmly in his hands. His eyes don’t widen nor do they narrow.

“Steep price, your uncle took for what he gave,” he finally says and Sirius remembers, from those long-ago lessons on his family history, that they used to do this - offer help to the needy for indentured service.

“What did you need?”

“I asked make it so I’m human at the full moons. Didn’t expect him to make me a wolf on the rest of the month.”

Careful what you wish for, Sirius’ mother used to say when he was a child. You never know what the cost will be.

Careful what you give, his father would add, magic is your birthright. Get a payment worth the work.

“I’ll take care of you,” Sirius says, knowing that the price was already paid.

“And in exchange?” The man has learnt his lesson. A hundred years too late, but he’s learnt it. Sirius thinks of the thousand full moons between then and now and the transformation on the cold stone floor.

“Nothing,” Sirius says. “Just your name.”

Eventually, by the morning, the man tells him.

#wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #marauders #remus x sirius #dead gay wizards #fanfic #marauders era #marigold micros #R/s

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kirkwall-tourism-department · 7 months ago

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Dirty Chai Latte

Modern AU where Emmrich is an anthropology professor and Rook is a barista at his favorite coffee shop.

Thank you so much to @ziskandra for beta reading!

also shoutout to @emmg for solving the "what subject would Emmrich teach" question

An oppressive mist hung over the parking lot, waiting to be dispelled by the sun that was preparing to creep over the horizon. The only thing illuminating the area were the flickering streetlights hovering in the air, dim bulbs fighting a losing battle against the early morning haze. A thick blanket of leaves rested over the pavement, wet from rain the night before. Silence hung in the air thick as fog, making Rook feel like she was the only person in the world. The plaza was always empty this early in the morning, save for Rook and her prehistoric CR-V.

Locking the car door, she passed by the collection of shops that comprised the Crossroads Business Park: a calzone shop she was convinced was a money-laundering front; a computer repair shop so chock-full of spare parts you could barely see the floor; and her favorite, the liquor store. Reaching her own storefront, she grabbed the keys to the door from her carabiner. The door's advanced age made it maddeningly stubborn to unlock. She pulled the wooden slab towards her, pushing it up and then away, all while slowly turning the key in the lock. Once she satisfied its demands, the door groaned open, revealing the still sleeping shop. Shelves lined the walls, housing hundreds of pre-loved books. Mismatched wooden chairs sat upside down on tables, arranged haphazardly before the serving counter at the far side of the room, which was plastered with posters for avant-garde art exhibitions and shows of local bands.

She flicked on the neon light that hung in the window- The Lighthouse Cafe. It was the first step of her decade-long morning routine. Despite her nocturnal tendencies, Varric, the owner, had told her she was the only staff member he trusted to be able to handle the morning rush. Especially this time of year- school had started just a month before, the rapidly increasing difficulty curve of the classes now demanding students stay up later to handle the workload. Which meant hordes of demanding, caffeine-deprived college students who usually neglected to tip. She continued through the rote motions of her mornings, clicking on all the different lamps that dotted the floor and tables of the cafe. They filled the small shop with a warm glow, turning it into a refuge from the persistent gloom that haunted the town this time of year.

Making her way to the back room, she turned on the roaster and threw in a fresh batch of coffee beans. Waking up the ovens, she began to warm up the various pastries Davrin had made the night before, preparing them for the display case. If she could only smell one thing for the rest of her life, this would be it. The sweet smell of croissants in the oven, punctuated by the pleasant acidity of roasting beans was the perfect thing to start the morning. Walking back to the service counter, she began to pull a triple shot of espresso and foam some milk, an extra-strong latte being the only way she survived mornings this early. Pouring the fresh coffee into her favorite mug, she layered the milk overtop, forming a perfect heart design with a practiced hand. She leaned on the counter, nursing her drink, wishing she could be back in bed.

The bell over the door rang out, reminding her of the one upside to the morning shift. Professor Emmrich Volkarin, an anthropology professor at Northern Thedas University, was always her earliest customer. Emmrich had been a regular at the cafe for several years, and was by far her favorite. As they opened before dawn, it was rare for someone besides him to come into the shop before sunrise, meaning they usually spent at least an hour in the mornings alone together.

“Good morning, Rook,” the professor greeted her, unspooling the scarf that had been wrapped around his neck. He was always sharply dressed, radiating an aura of refined dignity, and never had a single silver hair out of place, meaning he stuck out like a sore thumb in this dive of a cafe. She never totally understood why he came here, besides how early they opened. When she had asked him a few years ago, he’d simply said that he liked to support local businesses, especially ones that made such good coffee. That had never felt like the full story to her, though.

“No such thing,” she laughed, starting to make his order before he could ask for it. It was always the same thing- a dirty chai latte, served in a mug she had reserved solely for him. She had found it at Target a year or two ago, decorated with little cartoon skulls and gravestones. Fitting, given that his area of academic expertise was funerary traditions from around the world. It was surprising, given his warm demeanor, that he would spend his life focusing on such a depressing topic. She finished her work, handing him the drink.

“Thank you, Rook.” He took the mug, giving her a warm smile. He handed her his card and, as always, deposited a significant tip in the jar next to the cash register. His generosity was one of the many things that made him number one in her customer ranking. Taking his drink, he walked to his usual spot in the corner closest to the cash register, moving the chair from on top of the table to the floor. He sat on it, bringing out a laptop from his bag and beginning his work in earnest. This was always how he spent his mornings- carefully sipping his drink, poring over a book or working on something for his classes. He wasn’t bothered when Rook hadn’t finished completely preparing the store by the time their doors opened, and she didn’t mind the extra company as she concluded her routine.

She finished her final opening duties, flipping over the rest of the chairs to the ground, organizing food in the display case, and grinding the freshly roasted beans into a usable medium. As she worked, she allowed herself to steal the occasional glance at the professor. In the best way possible, he looked like he belonged in a black-and-white horror movie. By far, the most anachronistic part of his appearance was the neatly trimmed mustache that she had never seen on another living human being. Somehow, he made it work.

“What are you working on?” she asked, peering over his shoulder as she walked behind him towards the cash register.

“Grading papers- the first of the semester.”

“What about?”

“My students simply had to choose a funerary practice not used within their own culture. Honestly, the true purpose of the assignment was to allow me to gauge their writing and research skills more than for their own edification. I hate to assign busy work, but it’s a necessary evil to learn where all my students are on their academic journey,” he sighed, staring at his computer screen with dread.

“You’re usually excited about new students. What’s going on?”

“Frustratingly, the administrators of the College of Humanities decided to add my global funeral traditions class to the list of courses that satisfy a general education requirement. Which means I have significantly more students, and very few who seem to actually care for the subject matter.” He rubbed his temples, clearly trying to hide the extent of his annoyance. It was obvious that he made a concerted effort to maintain his composed appearance. His eloquent manner of speech, his refined sense of style, his unwavering kindness all contributed to the image of a perfect gentleman.

“I’m sure once you show them how interesting it is, they’ll get more into it. I mean, I know I have,” she reassured him. Over their many years of friendship, she had learned a lot about funerals- arguably, a concerning amount. It had gotten her many weird looks at parties when someone said something that reminded her of some obscure, morbid trivia fact Emmrich had taught her.

“Rook, what I would give to have more students with your enthusiasm for learning, " he said, giving her a grateful look. Rook felt blush start to prick at her cheeks, wishing she reacted to praise from him in a normal way. As much as she hated it, she couldn’t stop herself from getting butterflies when he smiled at her, complimented her, or generally gave her any positive attention. She had never had a more out of her league crush in her entire life- but as hard as she tried, she hadn't been able to stamp out the flame she carried for him. Obviously, she knew nothing would ever come from it, but that didn’t stop her from trying to impress him. One morning, she had figured out how to make a skull design in the milk foam of his latte. Davrin had been working that shift with her, and had mercilessly roasted her for pitiful attempts to flirt with a man who was thirty years her senior. It had begun a constant deluge of daddy issues jokes. Her response, that it was impossible for her to have daddy issues since she never even knew her dad, only made the teasing worse. Thankfully, it was rare that their shifts overlapped.

“I see you made a new addition to your gallery.” He pointed to her wrist, seemingly oblivious to the reaction his complement got from her.

“Yeah!” Rook rolled up her sleeve, revealing the remainder of the tattoo that had been peeking out from underneath it. A griffon was perched on her forearm, its wings wrapping around the sides, the tips of the feathers reaching the sides of her wrist. It was nestled in a sea of other designs, ranging from a small blue dagger she had gotten as a Friday the 13th flash to the waterfall of coffee from a mug on her shoulder that spilled all the way to her elbow. “Left arm is officially finished.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, what compelled you to get that design?” he questioned, regarding her arm with academic curiosity.

“There was a storybook I loved as a kid about a griffon learning to leave the nest and fly. My mom read it to me all the time. I thought it would be cute and it was the perfect shape to fill in the last gap,” she explained, flattered by the genuine interest he showed in something as small as a tattoo she’d gotten. Admittedly, this was not the first time it had happened. He always pointed out when she got a new tattoo or haircut. She always assumed it was a side effect from the analytical eye he’d had to develop for his work as an anthropologist making him overly observant.

“Such an ancient practice. Comparing historical motivations to modern American attitudes towards them is quite fascinating. I recently had a colleague publish a paper on the tradition of Buddhist Sak Yant tattooing in Thailand- I’m sure you’d find it intriguing.”

“I feel like you overestimate my ability to understand stuff like that,” she joked, thinking back to how much she’d struggled to make it through the books she had been assigned back in high school English. As interesting as the topic was, she doubted she would be able to get anything from it.

“Quite the opposite, Rook. I think you underestimate yourself,” he responded, his tone serious. This happened every now and then- she would make an off-handed self-deprecating comment, and he would immediately refute her point, no matter how light-hearted it was intended to be. “I feel like you would excel, given the proper support in an academic setting.”

The blush returned to her cheeks as she imagined what exactly “proper support” could mean. Going to office hours, somehow ending up laying on his desk, him on top of her, whispering things in her ear that would make her do more than blush, pressing his mouth against her neck, traveling down to…

The doorbell rang out again, snapping her out of her daydream. Neve stood in the entrance, calm appearance belying the tangle of anxiety and stress that always lay just beneath her icy exterior. Neve had been coming to the Lighthouse since she was a freshman, and Rook had watched her caffeine addiction get worse and worse every year.

“Rook, I need a trainwreck.”

“Neve, you are a trainwreck.”

When Neve had started her master’s program for journalism, Davrin had added a modified red eye- swapping normal coffee for cold brew- to the menu just for her. Neve walked to the closest table, and slammed her shockingly heavy backpack onto it. She unzipped it, and a waterfall of textbooks that absolutely could be used as murder weapons flooded out.

“My god, Neve, what are you working on?”

“What am I not working on?” she sighed, exasperation weighing heavy on her voice, slumping in the chair and putting her head in her hands. Neve was more than a student- she volunteered all over the city, ran the journalism club, and worked as a TA. She lifted her head up to look at Rook, and raised an eyebrow in question when she saw who Rook was sitting with. “Dr. Volkarin?”

“You know him?” Rook questioned, surprised at Neve’s recognition.

“I know of him. I just wrote an article about him winning the J.I. Staley award for the school paper,” Neve explained slowly, still processing her surprise at seeing two wildly different people sitting at the same table.

“When did you win an award? Why didn’t you tell me?” Rook whipped her head around, Emmrich meeting her surprise with an embarrassed smile.

“About a month ago, and I can find much more interesting topics to discuss with you than my own achievements," Emmrich explained, before turning his attention to Neve. “And I read your article- you’re a very skilled writer.”

“I… Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re not my student- you’re welcome to just call me Emmrich,” he said, before his attention was drawn away by a small ding from his laptop. “Ah, I’ve lost track of time. If you’ll excuse me, I must take my leave. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Rook.” He packed up his things and stood, waving goodbye to her as he ventured into the fresh dawn air. As soon as the door closed behind him, Neve snapped her head to Rook, her brows furrowed in confusion.

“Rook. Why do you have a vibe with one of the most successful professors at the school.”

“What?!” Rook gave a laugh of disbelief, staring at Neve like she just told Rook aliens were about to invade the city. She had never fallen under the scrutiny of Neve’s investigative eye before, and she was not a skilled enough liar to obscure the truth that she deeply, desperately wanted Neve’s accusation to be true. “What vibe?”

“Oh my god, the ‘see you tomorrow morning’ thing?”

“He’s just a friendly guy.”

“Rook, someone like him would not come to a coffee shop like this without a special reason to.”

“Have you considered that I’m good at my job and make great coffee?”

“He could get great coffee a million different places in the city- but this is the only place he can get you.”

“Neve, if I get you your coffee, will you drop this?”

“Maybe. No promises.”

Sliding Neve’s trainwreck to her and leaving her to her work, Rook walked back behind the cash register, making herself look busy cleaning espresso machines to avoid any further conversation with Neve. Her comments stayed at the forefront of her mind, making it impossible to actually get anything done. What if Neve was right? Had Emmrich been flirting with her this whole time, and she had misunderstood it as a kindness he extended towards everybody? What if he was interested in her? What would a relationship between the two of them even look like?

As her thoughts started to get away from her, she dragged them kicking and screaming back into reality. Why would someone like him have any interest in someone like her? Emmrich was successful, handsome, and painfully kind. He wouldn’t have any interest in a broke barista with no direction in life.

Right?

#dragon age #dragon age veilguard #emmrich volkarin #emmrook #emmrich x rook #dragon age fanfiction

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simshousewindsor · 8 months ago

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The Royal House of Windsor: A Landmark Collection

ST LEO'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR CASTLE

St Leo's Chapel, Windsor Castle formally titled The King's Free Chapel of the College of St Leo, Windsor Castle, is a castle chapel built in the late-medieval Perpendicular Gothic style. It is located in the Lower Ward of the Windsor Castle grounds in Easton.

The castle has belonged to the monarchy for almost 300 years, and the chapel has been the scene of many royal services, weddings and burials, known specifically as host for the annual Garter Day service.

In a 1900 petition started by Edward I, St Leo's Chapel and the nearby Windsor Gardens superseded Westsimster Abbey as the chosen burial place for the Windenburg royal family.

Prior to then, members of the royal family were buried at Westsimster Abbey, and monarchs and consorts were buried at Windsor Gardens.

What is the Royal Vault?

The Royal Vault is the burial chamber located 14 feet beneath St. Leo's Chapel, and is situated beneath the chapel's alter.

King Edward I ordered the excavation and building of the Royal Vault in 1901, with construction on it being completed in 1906. The vault was designated as the final resting place for both senior and minor members of the Royal Family following its completion.

The stone-lined vault measures 70 feet long and 28 feet wide. There is enough room inside it to hold 28 bodies – 24 coffins on shelves along the vault's two sides, with space for an additional 4 coffins in the center. Its entrance is closed off by an iron gate.

Edward I became the first Windenburg King to be interred in the Royal Vault following his death on 18 May 1941. His remains were placed in the vault on 2 June 1941, after his state funeral.

There are currently 12 senior and minor members of the Royal Family – including King George, who died in March 2023 - resting in the Royal Vault. Over the last 70 years, several Royal Family members have been uprooted from their original burial grounds to be moved into the Royal Vault, such as Prince Albert, Duke of Hastings who was initially buried at Westsimster Abbey.

Where is the Royal Vault located?

During funerals, a slab of black-and-white, diamond-shaped stone flooring is removed to provide access to the vault. The coffin is then lowered through the hole in the floor into the Royal Vault by an electric lift.

Once the Royal Vault lift reaches the bottom of the shaft, the coffin is moved down a corridor and into the vault itself. The coffin is then interred in the vault, placed either on one of the shelves or on a plinth inside.

Can you visit the Royal Vault?

No, visitors aren't allowed inside the Royal Vault at Windsor Castle. However, the public can attend services - for free - at St. Leo's Chapel itself.

Monarchs & Consorts Buried at St Leo's, Windsor Castle

Edward I (Royal Vault)

Lara-Leigh (Royal Vault)

Edward II (Royal Vault)

Amelia, Princess Royal (Royal Vault)

Lord John Carmichael (Royal Vault)

Prince Albert, Duke of Hastings (Royal Vault)*

George (South Quire Aisle)

Monarchs & Consorts Buried at Windsor Gardens

Albert I (Crypt 1)

Isabella, Queen consort (Crypt 1)

Albert II (Crypt 2)

Adaline, Queen consort (Crypt 2)

Willam, Duke of Brindleton Bay (Crypt 3)

Cynthia, Duchess of Brindleton Bay (Crypt 3)

Laura, Queen consort (Crypt 4)

Prince William (Crypt 4)

Royal Family Buried at Westsimster Abbey

Princess Catherine, Princess Royal (Bay 2L)

General Sir Leo Hardy Jr (Bay 2L)

Prince Otis, Duke of Norfolk (3L)

Birdie, Duchess of Norfolk (3L)

Prince George, Duke of Newsoms (Bay 2R)

Princess Nina, Duchess of Newsoms (Bay 2R)

Princess Grace of Newsoms (Bay 5R)

Burchette Gates Sr (Bay 5R)

Princess Esther, Duchess of Hastings (Bay 7R)

#simshousewindsor #simshousewindsor ts4 #ts4 #simshousewindsor monarchy #sims 4 simblr #simshousewindsor landmarks #ts4 royalty #simshousewindsor royalty #simshousewindsor simblr #simshousewindsor royal residence #simblr #simshousewindsor history #the sims 4 #thesims4 #sims 4 monarchy

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zorilleerrant · 2 months ago

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Night Terrors

@flashfictionfridayofficial

“Talk to me,” David says, hovering over me with a probably worried look I’ve never seen before, not that that tells me much of anything. I wonder for a moment how he’s managed to perch on the top bunk that way, before realizing I’m on the floor.

Well. That explains why my head is pounding. “I’m fine,” I say, mouth still gummy from sleep and trying to sort out the borders between my sleeping and waking thoughts. They want to meander through each other so badly.

The walls surround me again, and I shudder, and then, with a deep sigh, I realize they’re the wrong walls. Great. Couldn’t just be the portentous declarations carved into walls I’ve grown used to, no, it has to be the cold cement slabs with the laser etched runes too fine to do anything but barely see.

In my dream they were glowing. After that initial flash, instead of fading back into obscurity, they just kept glowing. The glow got brighter, I think, and might have been flame. Everything burning up around me and I didn’t even have the power to run. Nothing pierced my back. No, I just had to be freezing to death inside an inferno.

David definitely looks worried this time. “What happened?” he asks, plaintively, reaching out for my shoulders and then pulling his hands back. I can’t tell if he’s trying to comfort me, or help me back up, or what.

“Just a nightmare,” I mutter, exhaustion clinging thick to the words, and try to muster up the energy to at least roll over. Step one to pushing myself off the ground. I try to shake off the itching sensation that the runes are running up and down my skin, like they followed me here just to bite me.

David touches my head, just gently. It stings. He hold his hand up wordlessly in front of me so I can see the blood clinging to it, tacky and bright. It takes me a minute.

I’m still trying to fight my way out of the cold, gray room, the labyrinthine exit spawning new twists and turns every time I try to run, and it takes me longer than it should to tell the blood is real, and mine, and current. I stare at it. I don’t have any new reaction to give it, though, so I just sigh again.

“Hype?” he says, carefully. He’s trying to do something. I wish he would just tell me what instead of staring at me like I’m going to offer up the answers to the universe. “Hey. Um. What should I do?”

Do? Why does he have to do anything? It’s just nightmares. They’ll wear themselves out if he leaves me alone long enough. I mean. I do have to get back into bed, but a quick glance at myself reveals the normal pajamas I expect to be wearing, so that’s one hurdle down, anyway. It would be easier if I could stand up.

“Okay, uh, I’m going to call emergency services,” David says, stepping out of view for a moment. No idea where he’s going. At least he’s got the right idea, though. I’ve got a killer hangover or something. Nightmares always leave me off my game, but it’s not usually this bad. “Is there anything I should tell them?”

I stare at him in disbelief when he pops back in to ask that. Like he’s grown that second head that keeps wavering in and out of focus. “I mean, generally just the usual diagnostic metrics.” My mouth still feels tingly, like it’s not moving quite the way I want it too – I’m only just starting to feel awake. I wish those stares wouldn’t follow me out of dreams, but I guess it’s better than the monster.

He stares at me some more. God, this kid. He’s going to get himself killed, if he keeps this up. By the TAs, if no one else.

I raise my hand, and trace a sigil in the air. He blinks at it in a worrying lack of recognition. I can’t believe no one’s cast this on him, or at least near him, before – especially given that he wanted to be a healer. He’s so behind he’s never going to catch up. I trace it slower, waiting for him to start copying me. The cement isn’t binding my magic down anymore, but it’s still probably better for him to cast it.

“I don’t get it,” he says, looking at the array of symbols and numbers and all sorts of things that should look familiar to him, if he’s looked into it, but that take forever to learn how to read.

“You don’t have to,” I reassure him. I reach out to pat his arm, but he’s farther away that I thought, and my aim falls short. “Just read off the top and bottom lines.” I point them out to him, for all my hand is wavering in and out of focus, just in case he doesn’t know what I mean. “I can’t believe you can’t cast a basic diagnostic.”

His lips are moving as he looks at all the information he can’t possibly decipher, trying to figure out what to convey over the phone. When he gets off hold, presumably – I can’t hear anyone on the other end of the line.

I twist my hand to page through the rest of it. No sense demonstrating less than the full breadth of the spell, if he’s going to keep it going. The worried look just gets worse as I move through different images and scrolling lines of numbers. We both freeze on the same one.

“Well,” I say, staring at him through the painfully clear image, “that’s not good.”

#look I said something #my writing #original fiction #original character #zorille's board certified necromancer #don't ask me what's going on here. I don't know yet. I was building up to the later parts of the story with the Event Prompts #but then I got so sick I haven't written in more than a week so I'm actually fairly lost about my place in the narrative anyway #I will get back to them and then let you know what the fuck happened to Hyperion's skull

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wholesomefluffdaddy · 4 months ago

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Service Wolf

After graduating Nevermore Academy Wednesday attends the prestigious Alighieri Institute to hone her psychic abilities as she continues her detective work. Enid joins her as her service werewolf; there to alert her of visions and try to keep her out of danger as much as possible. All characters 18 years or older. Wenclair.

—————————————————————

Chapter 7

"To greater woe now let us downward steer."

"Okay so like what if we just get you a new phone?" Enid suggested as she paced.

"Enid." Wednesday said as she sat on their bed.

"If there's no vision connected to that new phone then we know it wouldn't be related to you specifically." She bargained.

"Enid." Wednesday repeated.

"But if it is then-" She shook her head at the thought. "Then I'll just have to stay at your side at all times."

"Enid." Wednesday said tiredly as she held out her hand. Enid hesitated as she gripped Wednesday's phone tightly. "We won't know what fate lies in store until I'm allowed to have the vision in the first place."

"But Wednes!" Enid said, clutching her phone to her chest as if by doing so she could shield Wednesday from its harm.

"Enid, my phone. Please." Wednesday asked, keeping her hand out.

"Lay back on the bed completely." Enid said, pointing to it. "And-"

"-Recovery position, yes." Wednesday sighed as she did so. Enid repressed a huff and nodded. Wednesday waited patiently for Enid to check her over. Unable to find any more reason to delay the inevitable, Enid gently placed the phone in her hand. Wednesday's head jerked back and she began to tremble slightly. Enid whined and crawled onto the bed to lie next to her.

Wednesday opened her eyes to find herself laying on a frigid metal slab. Her head was pounding with an unimaginable headache. She grimaced and shielded her eyes from the bright overhead light as she fought to sit up. Her mind felt as sluggish and numb as her body currently was. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in an attempt to alleviate some of the pain and confusion she was experiencing. This wasn't typically how her visions went.

"E-Ennnid?" Her words slurred as she tried to call out. She grit her teeth as her head continued to throb. She let her other senses survey her surroundings as she dreaded having to force her eyes open to face the painful blinding light surrounding her. The smell of disinfectant and slowed decay filled the cold thick air around her. The abnormally loud ticking of a clock was the only sound that cut through the harsh buzzing of fluorescent lights. She had a pretty good idea of where she was but needed to look around to confirm her suspicions.

Wednesday grit her teeth as she slowly forced her eyes open. She was unsurprised at where she found herself; a morgue.

"Ennnd?" She slurred again as she swung her legs over the edge of the table. Her mouth felt dry. She tried to swallow but she had no saliva left. She gripped the edge of the table as she prepared to lower herself to the ground. Just as she started to lift herself she felt a long sharp pain in her neck. Hissing quietly she instinctively reached to touch the spot.

Her brain felt too disconnected from reality to process the dread that filled her. Her fingertips lightly and blindly felt along the length of the cut that had been made on her neck. She couldn't decide what was more unnerving, the fact that her blood felt cold or that she could hear footsteps returning. She glanced around quickly for a means of defending herself. The sight of seven other bodies temporarily distracted her.

The footsteps were closer now. Wednesday blindly raked her hand over a metal table beside her and fumbled with a scalpel. She gripped it tightly as she pushed herself off the metal slab. She fell to the floor hard and cursed. There was a jangle of keys just outside the door to the room. Wednesday tried to drag herself under the table in an attempt to find a more defensible position. She tried to remain as quiet as possible but her breathing was too labored.

Something lit up on the floor beside her. Her phone. The screen was shattered. Without thinking she reached for it just as the door swung open.

Wednesday nearly bolted upright as she came to but a strong pair of arms prevented her. She started thrashing about wildly as she attempted to escape her would-be attacker. She remembered the scalpel in her hand and tried stabbing at the arms now tightening around her, however it seemed to have vanished. A sharp pain in her neck made her nearly lose it completely. She was going to die. This was how she was going to die. But, she wasn't going to make it easy.

"Ow! Wednesday what the fuck!?" Enid yelped as the raven bit down as hard as she could on her arm. Wednesday barely had time to process her voice before she heard a loud snarl and felt an immense weight press down on her. Fur had erupted on the arm in her mouth and she hurried to spit it out. As soon as she had let go her arms were forcibly crisscrossed and held at her sides. A large set of powerful legs had also intertwined with hers to prevent her from kicking out.

She struggled less and less as she slowly began to come back to the present. Wednesday finally stilled but Enid refused to relinquish her.

"En-Enid?" Wednesday gasped as her heart continued to race. Enid growled softly and licked her neck. Wednesday flinched and tried to pull away. Enid stopped at once and whined. "I'm hurt! Don't touch it!" She said with a note of unreasonable panic. Enid whined louder then huffed in her ear.

"I'm hurt. I'm-" She said then trailed off. Enid was breathing slowly and steadily next to her ear. Wednesday closed her eyes and attempted to imitate. Enid inhaled and felt the small body follow along. She exhaled and felt Wednesday start to calm. She continued until she could smell Wednesday's adrenaline levels decrease significantly enough. She woofed quietly and finally released her.

"I'm sorry." Wednesday whispered as she kept her eyes shut. A hand shakily went to her neck. She breathed a sigh of relief as she felt nothing. Enid nosed her gently. Wednesday let out a small stream of self-directed curses. Enid whined again and Wednesday took a deep breath. "At present I am not hurt but I have obviously hurt you. Please, allow me to remedy this." She felt Enid's body shift partially behind her.

"Vision?" She awkwardly growled as her muzzle was between human and wolf. Apparently Enid wasn't comfortable unshifting completely yet.

"It differed quite significantly from my usual, hence my panicked state." Wednesday said, hugging Enid's arms and kissing the bite.

"How?" Her growl was low and gravelly.

"I saw the future. A future." Wednesday swallowed. Enid snarled softly. "I was in my body experiencing it. I was in a morgue. It was difficult to focus. I had evidently become injured." She shook her head. "However, I did notice seven other bodies. Considering the state of things I have reason to believe our killer is possibly a mortician or at the very least has access to a morgue."

"Hurt?" Enid snarled. Wednesday clenched her jaw. She didn't want to worry her. "Hurt?" Enid said louder.

"My neck." Wednesday said quietly as she motioned to it. "A long cut." She traced where it had been with a finger. Enid sniffed her over and huffed. "I don't know why or how or by whom." She said, disquiet seeping in. Enid could sense it too. Too many thoughts were racing through her mind. She had so many questions and things she wanted to say but knew that wasn't what Wednesday needed right now. She got up and pawed at Wednesday's side. Wednesday instinctively rolled onto her back to allow the large wolf to lay across her chest. Her heart was still racing but the pressure was calming.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62565664/chapters/162667567

#wednesday netflix #Wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday x enid #enid sinclair #wenclair #ao3 fanfic #archive of our own #wholesomefluffdaddy

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falsflooring · 6 days ago

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Why False Flooring is Essential (needed) for Data Centers and IT Infrastructure

Data centers serve as the backbone for any enterprise of substantial size in the advanced digital world today. As enterprises have increased their reliance and dependency on technology, it has therefore become essential for them to ensure the safety, efficiency, and extensibility of their IT infrastructure. One of the most valuable—but often overlooked—items that preserve this ecosystem is false flooring (also referred to as raised access flooring).

What is false flooring?

False flooring is a modular floor system placed on top of the original concrete slab that encloses a plenum or space for necessary services to be run. This space is used to run power cables, data wiring, cooling systems, or any number of devices while having the floor visible and functional.

💡 Reasons Data Centers Require False Floors

1. Effective Cable Management

Data centers have many thousands of servers, switches, and storage systems, and false floors provide you with organized cabling options from power cables and data cables to keep them neat and tidy while eliminating potential trip hazards and the burden of potential maintenance.

2. Improve Cooling and Airflow

A raised access floor is used to distribute cold air from below the raised false floor with airflow panels. It is essential to make cooling as effective as it can be by targeting racks or hot spots to keep areas cool and to reduce equipment failure from overheating.

3. Easy Scalability or Flexibility

Technology changes rapidly, and with this comes changes to cabling infrastructure needs. With a raised floorong you have easy access to cabling and components if you need to upgrade, change, or fix something without statically disturbing service within the facility.

4. Safety and Fire Safety

With everything neatly routed through the floor space, you will not have potential electrical safety hazards. Most raised false floor systems have some type of flame retardant feature to offer higher safety levels in critical facilities.

5. Aesthetics and Organization

Having a clean space free of clutter isn't just about appearances, it's about being able to efficiently work or service equipment when necessary. The raised floor hides unsightly arranging of wiring and HVAC systems to present a more organized and professional looking facility.🧱 Best Panel Types for IT & Data Center Use/best false flooring manufactures for data center.

HPL Panels – Durable, anti-static, and ideal for heavy equipment loads.

Airflow Panels – Perforated tiles for cooling airflow.

Vision Panels – Allow visual inspection of the subfloor without removal.

Bare Panels – Cost-effective for internal or unfinished environments.

📍 Conclusion

False flooring is more than just a technical solution, it is a tactical investment for any data center or IT operation. Whether you're containing heat and cables or quickly reconfiguring the IT infrastructure, raised access floors contribute to efficiency, safety and operational continuity.

In the next few years if your plans are to build a data center or upgrade your IT infrastructure consider that you need a viable false flooring system that meets your needs. For more info visit www.yemag.co.in

#artists on tumblr #architecture #data center #contruction #ceo #falseflooring #access flooring

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antaxzantax · 10 days ago

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Umbrella Pharmaceuticals / One-shot: Hollywood, Alfred Ashford, part. 1

youtube

The Ashfords moved from Malibu to Hollywood, Los Angeles. Unlike their mansion in Malibu, which became a summer residence, and Ashford Hall, a historic country house, their home in Hollywood was comparatively small but comfortable for living together and suitable for maintaining the privacy of its occupants, with no display of wealth or unnecessary rooms that would hinder movement from one wing of the house to another. Martin, now butler in place of Scott Harman, who accompanied his grandmother Elizabeth, was listed as the sole member and leader of a domestic service outsourced to a gardening company and a house cleaning company.

The house, like most of the place, sat atop a hill overlooking the vast Los Angeles skyline. Behind it, the Hollywood sign was silhouetted against the futuristic flat roof and the open pool in the middle of a garden with evergreen palm trees and other local plants. The sun reflected directly off the white walls and square windows, warming the Carrara marble slabs of the rooms’ floors. Alexander, a lover of the country, spared no expense or cultural sensitivity, making the home a direct reflection of the prevailing American spirit: grandiloquent, futuristic, optimistic; a monument in honor of his adopted country.

Alfred loved the house and Hollywood. His depressed state of mind was boosted by the idea of sharing the street with movie, music and television stars; with personalities from the world of business and high politics; with the opportunity to visit the most cutting-edge movie studios at any time and with the best luxury stores right down the street. In short, Alfred could not wait to enjoy his renewed, and much needed, lifestyle. The benefits of this radical change, on his father’s initiative, were in the improvement of Alexia’s mood and in the progress of her recovery. Alfred noticed them in himself as he found himself relieved after sitting alone on the bed in his room. The last two years had been chaotic and had nearly driven him insane. The destruction of the Antarctic base, Alexia’s attack, his father’s reconciliation, his grandmother’s departure to the Netherlands; events had been moving at full speed and, in his case, had come together with his frustrating inability to be there for his sister when she needed him and his shitty situation at school. Killing Jonathan... it had been wrong, but Alexander still had not scolded or chastised him about it; he had not reprimanded him at all, as if it had not happened. That made him nervous. It was as if he had been set up; too good to be true.

He spent the first day of his stay in Hollywood decorating and tidying up his room. He hung the three flags on the wall, one of Scotland, one of the Netherlands and the last one of the United States of America. He pasted up his posters of sports cars and frames with stuffed butterflies. He kept his sketchbook on the desk. He was glad not to see his school uniform hanging in the closet. He picked up Glock 17 from the suitcase. It was missing a bullet. He hid it in the top drawer of the nightstand, where Alexander, who hid a revolver and his favorite pair of American cuffs, had advised them. They set up a piece of furniture on which he plugged in a television to which he connected a VHS player and an Atari 5200 that had been given to him for his birthday and which he had not been able to try out until the summer of that same year. Once he was done, he started playing with the console. He was afraid to leave the room and found out that it was a lie.

He fell asleep on the bed with the console on.

“Alfred.” Alexander woke him up, shaking his hands with which he was still holding the controller. Alfred woke up suddenly, startled. His father was sitting on the floor next to his bed. His expression was neutral. Alexander stroked his hands. “We need to talk.”

Alfred rearranged himself in his bedside alcove. Alexander got up and sat on the edge. He was not angry, or upset, or raging, or anything resembling an irate mood; just calm.

“The first time I killed a man was in a roadside motel in the Mojave Desert.” Alexander continued with an absent expression. “It was during my last summer in college, working on my doctorate. I got involved in the hippie movement. We were doing drugs, fucking and doing immoral things. In that last summer, we decided to take a tour of California. We rented a van and stocked up on drugs. I got hooked on amphetamines. We needed dope.” Alfred raised his head, absorbed in the unexpected story his father was telling with utter disaffection. “Soon we ran out of money.” Alexander’s expression changed: he looked at Alfred with grim seriousness. “I prostituted myself. We went from motel to motel looking for interested parties in exchange for money to pay for gas and drugs. I slept with men.” Alfred shuddered. “One of these men tried to rape me. It was in a motel in Mojave, at two in the morning. I pointed my gun at him and shot. In the head. We dismembered the body and dumped it in a ditch. We never heard from him again. When I pulled the trigger, I felt nothing, or I thought I felt nothing. But I did feel: I felt an uncontrollable hatred, an immeasurable contempt for human life.” Alexander paused in his story, visibly affected. Alfred remained petrified in his seat. “Man is evil by nature. That’s what Grandpa Arthur always said. I guess he was right.” He leaned against the edge of the bed. “When you spoke to me on the phone, it reminded me of that. I can’t blame you.” He looked at Alfred. “I’d be being hypocritical. But... I don’t want you to make my same mistakes.” He lifted a hand to caress Alfred’s cheek. “I don’t want to lose you.” Alfred, impressed by his father’s speech, hugged him. They hugged each other tightly. “The world is full of evil people,” Alexander whispered to his son. “It is our duty to stand together and not succumb to our enemies... I will not lose you as I lost my father...” Alexander kissed him on the head.

The first night in Hollywood they dined in the company of Martin, who occupied the penthouse bedroom. Alfred was strange, as if he were gone. Alexia glanced at him from time to time, but Alfred paid no attention. Alexander chatted with Martin about the house and with Alexia about whether she liked her new house, then they talked about Alexia’s enrollment at the University of California for her doctorate and something about High School.

“Alfred.” Alexander caught her eye. Alfred woke up out of his sleep. “You’re going to enjoy going to school in this country, I assure you. There’s an ideal High School for you; we’re going to visit it next week. What do you think?”

The school in question was Hollywood Hills High School, a newly founded institution nestled in the rolling foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains. The school’s principal, George Kernell, greeted them with a fabulous smile. During the tour, Alfred became familiar with the facility and its attendees: majority white, minority Asians, blacks and Latinos; quite the opposite atmosphere from Jacob II. No one wore uniforms; he noticed no undue pressure for appearance; no prefabricated speeches and feigned friendliness; and there were girls, lots and lots of girls. In the principal’s office, he was asked about which course he wanted to enroll in. Alfred imagined the equivalent of the one in England, but his father interceded with another proposal: he insisted that he take the one that corresponded to his age, to enjoy to the maximum what could be the best stage of his life. It sounded good, but it did not convince Alfred. Then, something completely unexpected happened; a plot twist that no one in the room was able to predict.

“I wish to enroll in High School with Alfred,” said Alexia, and looked at Alfred.

Alfred chose to attend the grade that corresponded to his age, the ninth grade, popularly known as freshmen. Both twins enrolled at the same time. They would start in two weeks, at the end of November. Alfred did not dare ask Alexia why she had done that, sometimes his sister acted incomprehensibly, but it had happened. Fourteen years after they were born, Alfred and Alexia would go to class together for the first time.

#resident evil #alfred ashford #alexia ashford #alexander ashford #Youtube

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random-introverted-blog · 1 year ago

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His Star - His Queen [Chapter 10 - Hunted / A Heart of Darkness and Shadow]

You were never His anyways...

Summary: You and Astarion are reunited at long last! Now all you have to do is reach the house with the mirror!

...What do you mean you're being hunted?

[This chapter is LONG. Just shy of 16,000 words. No one expects you to read it all in one sitting. Please, remember to drink water, hug a loved one, walk your pets, eat and live in between. Don't linger on the toilet for too long. Remember to take breaks. Ascendant, Spawn Astarion nor myself, are going anywhere <3 ]

Link to the Tumblr Chapter Index

Warnings/Advisories: -Creepy/Obsessive Yandere TO THE MAX -Horror/Thriller vibes -Death -Action! -Blood

Spoilers below -Scarification/Torture

A/N: It's finally here. At long last. Sorry if I missed any warnings, I'll try and update/edit as I go from here on. I did the last of the editing while I was on vacation, before bed for 2-3 hours at a time. So if the editing quality drops near the end I do apologize. All I want is to create a story worth your time and patience.

Also, I'm not doing special edits like this for each chapter. But maybe special ones.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

You abruptly jolt awake, a sudden lurch propelling you upwards as your hands scrape against a coarse, rough surface. The world around you quakes and rumbles, disorienting you as you struggle to find your bearings. As you struggle to sit up, you feel yourself slipping against the cold, hard surface beneath you.

Gradually, your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and you realize your surroundings are completely unfamiliar. You notice the faint aroma of damp earth, giving you the impression that you're possibly underground. Beyond some cluttered shelves and scattered furniture items, the room appears strangely bare, devoid of any personal touches or signs of life.

Underneath you lies a cold, hard stone slab you seem to have been placed upon. A table stands against the sturdy slate wall, with an assortment of enigmatic tools scattered haphazardly across its surface. Your attention is drawn to the sight of a man's back, hunched over the table. Next to you on the table, a rusty, worn, but serviceable knife. Its edges not the sharpest, but better than nothing.

The weight of the small weapon feels good as your hand silently grasps it. Your light feet swing over the edge of the slab to find the cold, damp floor. Whoever this is, wherever you are, you will find answers. Last time you fell unconscious against your will, the Ascendant appeared to investigate. If he hasn't yet, then he's up to something... or he, somehow, can't find you.

Or...

Grumbling to himself, the man continues to sift through the tools before him, brushing some aside and tossing others.

The ground trembled again, mimicking the powerful roar of thunder that usually accompanies a lightning strike. The intensity of the shake is so strong that you have to cling to the stone slab to regain your stability. Determined, you creep quietly behind the man, small knife clutched and ready in your hand...

Emitting a luminous glow that pierces through the dim torchlight, a brilliant light emanates from your foot, casting vibrant hues across the room. The intense illumination catches the man off guard, causing him to swiftly pivot in surprise. As you follow the source of the light, your gaze descends to your right ankle, and a sudden realization dawns upon you - the captivating radiance originates from the shackle securely fastened around your ankle.

"It's never done that before." You mutter out loud, surprised by this yourself.

Frustration evident, the man flings his arms open wide, expressing his exasperation. "Done what? What is that thing? I've been trying to pry it off your foot since they brought you here!" He exclaims, shaking a small saw of some kind before he chucks it angrily to the floor and grips at the blonde hair behind his pointed ears. His dark skin and red eyes are reminiscent of other drow you've met.

Suddenly, the door behind you bursts open. A dwarf enters first, waving in a small cluster of other, taller people. Including one familiar high elf with curly white hair. "All in, block the door!" He calls out, quick to join another in grabbing a shelf off the wall, bottles and books falling to the floor as they move it in front of the door. "Where the hells is Jester and the others?" Astarion demands, turning to the dwarf.

Grunting, he hefts his mace onto his shoulder and grimaces. "Separated, I'm afraid. It matters little to us right now. We can't do anything for them with that monster on our arses."

"Durgan, you can't be suggesting—"

"I'm suggesting we live, then see about Glacius, Aric and them." Says the dwarven man, Durgan, firmly to one of the others, but he turns to face you. Regarding you a moment before tipping his head, seemingly in a nod of respect. "Elowen says you've a stout heart, and the lass has always had a good head on her shoulders." Taking a look at the poor excuse for a knife in your hand. "Now's the time to prove her right, aye?" And with that, he walks past you, toward the drow. Shouting for the others to grab from the nearby supply of lanterns.

Your gaze remains fixated on the dwarf as he traverses the surroundings until a pair of arms swiftly envelops you in their frigid, familiar embrace. "Finally..." He sighs in relief, only tightening his grasp, desperately yearning to sense the warmth of your presence pressed against his sturdy body, concealed by his armor.

Already you can tell the difference. That unmistakable scent of rosemary mingling with the invigorating notes of bergamot and a hint of brandy. No ominous or frigid undertone. The cold of his arms through the sleeves of his armor and his cheek against your head are a welcome contrast to the warmth of his imposter's embrace.

It's him. Not Godking Ancunín, Vampire Ascendant. But your loveable rogue, Astarion, with his right here with you at long last, mischievous smile, quick wit and all. Your heart races as you eagerly return his embrace, the cold metal of his chestplate pressing against your cheek.

You could soak in your Star until the sun turned black...

But all too soon, that commanding, burly voice calls out to Aster, the group he came in with all huddled by a corner of the room. Two of them clutch lanterns, their feeble glow casting eerie shadows on the worn stone walls. They faintly remind you of the lantern you took with you into the shadow-curse... at least until you let the pixie out. "We've got to move," Durgan declares, his voice filled with urgency, as he presses his palm against a large brick of slate. As if responding to his touch, the slate emanates a gentle blue shimmer and a concealed door slides open noiselessly, unveiling a pathway leading down into a foreboding tunnel.

"Keep the queen close, Aster," Durgan advises, his words laced with a sense of responsibility. Without hesitation, he takes the first step into the darkness, closely followed by a tiefling man with fiery red skin and a lantern clasped tightly in his grasp as the group descends into the secret tunnel.

"I'm not a queen," you argue vehemently, frustration evident in your voice as you throw your hands up in exasperation. Astarion catches one of your hands, his touch gentle yet firm, as he tugs you along. The door behind you, the same one they hastily ran through mere moments ago, rattles violently, its unsettling sound reverberating through the air.

"Let's move it, people!" urges the drow, his call reverberating in the expansive, damp space. His arm slices through the musty air, urging everyone forward into the tunnel. You quickly scan the group, counting heads. Five, excluding yourself, Astarion, the dwarf, and the drow. The sound of shuffling feet fills the air as the group begins to move, the faint scent of damp earth lingering.

One of them, a human with a bow and arrow, stays close, guarding your back.

As he looked around, his eyes were sharp and observant, capturing every nuance of his surroundings. The drow disappears into the tunnel as soon as he spots you and Astarion approaching.

A chilling darkness swallows the room the moment you both step across the threshold, emanating a tangible, icy hunger while permeating the atmosphere with an ominous presence.

With a trembling hand, the human mutters, "Oh gods, not again..." as he notches an arrow, pulling it back tautly.

Transfixed, you cannot tear your gaze away as the man is seized and his body violently jerked backward, accompanied by a bone-chilling shriek that reverberates through the air. It is as if the encroaching shadows themselves have become ravenous beasts, swallowing him whole, leaving nothing behind but a haunting echo of terror. The sound of his bow clattering to the ground echoes loudly in the eerie silence that follows.

"Tav, move!" Astarion shouts beside you, tugging at your arm. Your eyes quickly dart between the rusty knife clenched in your hand and the abandoned bow, weighing your options.

Suppressing your surprise and horror, you watch as the man desperately claws himself back from the depths of the darkness. His blooded hands dig furiously into the void, his wide, blown-out eyes reflecting sheer terror. You can almost hear the darkness itself, a sinister laughter echoing through the depths. It takes pleasure in toying with its prey, as scraps of the man's armor are mercilessly torn from his body by an unseen force, each rip accompanied by a sickening sound. The metallic scent of blood lingers in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of decay.

The weight of the man's quiver slips off his shoulder, crashing to the ground with a hollow thud. With a final, haunting cry, his voice thick with agony, he is violently yanked back into the merciless abyss.

"What are you...?!" Your Star yells, his voice filled with disbelief.

"Aster!" Durgan calls next as they watch you dart towards the spot where the man once stood. Swiftly discarding the knife, you crouch down, your fingers tightly gripping the bow and quiver, these weapons more familiar and effective to you.

In the dimly lit room, the faint glow of your shackle emits a feeble radiance. Even now, the menacing shadows seem to possess sharp teeth and poised claws, ready to snatch their next hapless victim.

Yet, they do not threaten you.

Not with bodily harm.

You're not sure how you know this. Feel this.

An icy hand firmly grips your shoulder, pulling you back with urgency and guiding you down the dimly lit tunnel. The metallic smell of blood and decay lingers in the musty air of the room as you leave it behind. Astarion's voice cuts through the chaos, "escape now, gawk at the nightmarish shadow monster later!" he hisses, scowling at you as he pushes you along.

You both pass Durgan, his calloused palm pressing firmly against an unmarked spot on the tunnel wall. The rough texture of the stone contrasts with his weathered skin. As he seals the way back, the sound of shifting stone grinding against stone echoes through the narrow passage.

A faint smell of damp earth lingers. "It won't hold him back forever. We must hurry," he orders, his voice filled with determination. With a confident nod, Durgan strides forward, taking the lead once more, the tiefling following closely behind.

Raising your eyebrow with a querying expression, you ask, "Him?" With a smooth, practiced motion, you sling the bow over your right shoulder, feeling the weight of the wood settle comfortably against your back.

With a grimace, Astarion takes on answering you. "It's him." He spits the words with a venomous hiss, as if they're tainted with a bitterness that seems to linger on his tongue, like he's just bitten into something so vile, it sours every word he speaks.

"No," you say sharply, the word slipping from your tongue with an unexpected swiftness. Even more surprising isn't just how suddenly you speak, but the razor-sharp tone that suddenly slices through your voice, as if they've been dipped in ice before they cut through the air. It's that startling sharpness in your tone that echoes a little too fiercely, swirling around your group like a chilly breeze.

"That's utterly ridiculous. I mean, why all the theatrics when he could just show up and stab us all into mince meat?" you assert, the words laced with incredulity. Your words reverberate, echoing off the walls. As you speak, you secure the quiver tightly against your back, feeling its weight press against your spine. A sense of regret washes over you as you lament the impracticality of the dress you were forced to wear, yearning for the comfort and functionality of a sensible pair of pants and a sturdy belt.

"It's to send a message, lass." Durgan replies, not looking back, his boots crunching on the cave dirt path ahead. "We've liberated his precious new queen, and he's none too pleased about it." Though his tone is serious, it carries a hint of pride. Whether it's because they've gotten you away from the Ascendant or that they've angered him, you couldn't say for sure.

"Apologies for the interruption," the drow interjects, his voice cutting through the air. "However, I'm eager to revisit my previous inquiry. May I inquire about the purpose of the peculiar band encircling your ankle?"

"I'm also curious." Astarion adds, his gaze shifting downwards to the shackle that now emits a gentler, subdued radiance.

Gods, how do you explain something you don't quite understand yourself? In all honesty, you've never asked the Ascendant or Malacai the purpose of it. You just assumed. "Honestly, I've never questioned its purpose to the Ascendant or Malacai. It was simply there when I first awoke," you say, your voice echoing softly in the dimly lit tunnel. The gentle drip of water from stalactites creates a rhythmic melody to your words. "All I know is that it compels me to remain seated on the throne and during meals."

You pause a moment, feeling the gentle pressure of it with each step you take. "It's not difficult to surmise that it allows him to track my movements, but I believe it also... somehow alerts him if I am injured or unconscious." Your words escape slowly, stealing a glance at your right ankle, which emits a soft glow, casting ethereal shadows upon the rugged walls of the tunnel.

A deep, rumbling grunt escapes from Durgan's throat. "That sodding idiot, Spellsong..." He quickly deduces with a small shake of his head.

"I did try to warn her..." you say with a wry smile, your shoulders lifting in a small shrug.

With a throat-clearing sound, the drow gets everyone's attention. "The research myself and my student have conducted over the past month may prove useful then," he says, his voice steady and composed. If Ancunín can track his runaway bride with that bracelet, then we need to deal with it before we reach our destination," he continues, his eyes focused and unwavering. The weight of anticipation hangs almost tangible, as everyone waits for his next words. "Our checkpoint along the way may have what I need," he concludes, his curiosity evident, yet devoid of any trace of concern.

"Very well. Only because it's on the way, Zylinn." Agrees the dwarf.

Beside you, Astarion's arm lightly grazes yours, a subtle gesture that manages to capture your attention. "It shouldn't be much longer now, darling." He maintains a steady gaze ahead and speaks in hushed tones, assuring you. "Once we reach their hideaway, we can slip away and back to the portal that will take us home."

As if the act could shatter your resolve, his piercing gaze subtly scans your body before locking onto your eyes. "I am acquainted with powerful people," he asserts, his voice carrying a hint of arrogance. "They most certainly possess the means to rid you of that insignificant trinket on your foot." Astarion's response answers the unspoken question in your eyes. "This will all be over soon." His icy hand brushes yours as you walk, catching you off guard initially. It's a stark contrast to the warmth you've grown accustomed to from the Ascendants, and you can't help but despise how accustomed you've become to his touch.

Not-Gale's words still linger in your ears about your plans to escape. What prevents him from coming after you again? If he is that shadow, then he's already silently trailing right behind you.

Could you really abandon these people, leaving them behind without a second thought?

It's not like you're devoid of problems in your own world, either.

Haven't you endured enough in the clutches of a monster parading around wearing the face of your lover?

Right now, there are no answers to any of these questions. Your sole focus has to be reaching safety...

"Oh, how fortuitous! It is you, my noble prince, arriving to save me!"

You tease, playfully grabbing onto his arm and giving him an adorable look with big, innocent doe eyes.

Astarion rolls his sharp, scarlet eyes, their mischievous sparkle betraying the faux annoyance he portrays. With his mesmerizing smile, he quietly laughs at your antics, a gentle hum escaping from his lips. "Charming, alluring, and hauntingly beautiful I am," his voice dances in the air with a hint of whimsy, "But a noble prince? Alas, that is not my crown to wear."

Once again, you are captivated by the intense hue of his eyes, shimmering like smoldering embers in the dimly lit space. The warmth that radiates from him, like a tangible presence, is a characteristic often associated with the Ascendant, but your Astarion embodies it in a way that is uniquely his own, beyond physical.

With a sudden surge of impulse, you slip your hand into his, feeling the texture of his cool, slender fingers interlacing with yours and eliciting a startled response as his gaze abruptly shifts downward. "I just... need to feel you," you whisper, your voice quivering with unexpected nervousness. In that moment, you question your actions, wondering if you are behaving like a child, craving attention, or if you are overstepping a boundary with him.

Instead, he gives you an even softer smile that melts away your worries, like warm sunlight breaking through dark clouds of your fear. His eyes, filled with understanding and comfort, twinkle like gentle stars in the night sky. The soft murmur of his voice reaches your ears, "I am here, my sweet," he whispers, his words wrapping around you like a soothing embrace. "And I'm not going anywhere."

Surveying the group with your inquisitive gaze, you notice the complete lack of acknowledgement towards you and Astarion, intensifying your curiosity. A stark contrast to the constant scrutiny you usually endure. Gods, you're so tired of your every move being watched and noted. "So, what have you been occupying yourself with lately?" you inquire, yearning to hear the voice of the real Astarion, to feel his presence, and lose yourself in the distinct presence that defines him alone.

"Well, after winning the tournament, I met with the Ascendant to have one wish granted. According to the resistance, it was to know the location of the previous queen's dust." He recalls, a weary sigh escaping his lips.

"And after carefully dispelling the tracking charm on the locket he gave to find it, we had begun to leave the city for her burial site. But then Elowen and you sent notice you were preparing to abscond from the palace..." His voice trails off, revealing his frustration at the belated revelation of the shackle on your foot.

His eyes meet yours momentarily. "Had we known of the collar around your foot sooner, I would have insisted on staying behind to meet you." His gaze conveying his regret for not having known earlier, a blend of emotions flickering across his face.

"I didn't tell you during the Festival of Gratitude because I... wasn't sure how to explain it. Back then, my understanding of the damn thing was minimal, with nobody bothering to offer any clarification, and as I delved deeper, it became increasingly difficult to put into words through the sending stone in just twenty-five words." You respond admittedly not fond of his accusatory tone. But you can hardly blame him for his feelings. You did leave him in the dark.

But you're going to change that. As best you can, starting now. "This morning, I sought out the Ascendant to secure his permission to leave.

"His permission..." Astarion sneers, his voice dripping with disdain, as his cold hand tightens around yours.

If the situation was less dire, a faint flicker of amusement might have crossed your chest, eliciting a small smile. As you pause to compose yourself, the air carries a subtle scent of anticipation. "He's planning something he called the sacrament," you say, your voice measured and deliberate, ensuring that every word is heard and comprehended. "And another called the ceremony." Once more, you pause, pondering your words and ensuring that you have overlooked nothing.

"The sacrament is happening soon," you continue, the weight of the impending event pressing against your temples. "But the ceremony... that will take place after the wedding and coronation." As your words echo through the tunnel, a heavy silence descends, filling the space with an air of unease.

"But for the sacrament," you explain, your voice taking on a hushed tone, "he needs this gem called the heart. A vessel of some kind to harness the power of a god."

As your eyes move towards the ground, you can't help but admire how the shimmering light from your shackle paints the rocky walls with beautiful hues. "And something called a Glyphblade," you add, the name rolling off your tongue like a whispered secret.

"He made a deal with the Sharrans, and they brought him a scroll. While the mother superior," you say, your voice growing softer still, "she is bringing the Sharran Glyphblade." The anxiety in the words lingers, casting a shadow over your thoughts and leaving an unsettling feeling in your core. A stillness settles over the room, broken only by the rhythmic thud of your own heartbeat reverberating in your ears, underscoring the significance of the situation for those who hear you speak.

"Then he nearly has all he needs to perform that godsforsaken thing." Zylinn, the drow, says abruptly from up ahead, his voice echoing through the dimly lit cavern. As he glances back over his shoulder, his piercing eyes lock with yours, filled with a mixture of concern and determination. The damp air hangs heavy with the scent of earth and mildew, while the distant sound of dripping water echoes in the silence. "All the more reason to get you as far away as possible," he adds, his words dripping with a deathly seriousness, before turning his gaze forward once more.

"You know what it is?" you inquire, your words threaded with an undertone of nervousness as the last echo of his voice dissolves into the charged air

Zylinn's shoulders stiffen under the dim glow of the lantern, his tension palpable. "Regrettably, yes... The Sacrament of Unanima. The kind of magic that has the power to touch one's very soul should never be treated as a mere plaything, even by a self-proclaimed godking," he says, his words accompanied by a sharp spitting sound, echoing the irritation in his voice.

Soul magic?

"Aster, a moment," Durgan's voice calls out, his voice reverberating off the tunnel walls. Astarion, his hand slipping from yours, nods gently before quickening his pace to catch up with the dwarf. You watch him for a moment as you walk along. Unbeknownst to you, a soft smile graces your lips, a rare moment of joy amidst the torment you have just endured. Being this close to him feels comforting after the hell you've just endured.

Of course, you still have to find a way to escape this place. And there's the looming presence of the Absolute and the wriggling tadpoles back home that you'll have to face. But for now, if you can shut your eyes tonight beside your vampire spawn, allow yourself to be enveloped in the chilling embrace of his arms around you, feel the coolness of his touch against your skin...

How can it be that in this brief span of time, the very thought of a world without him is an insufferable weight upon your heart?

You can tell him you love him now. Those three little words you should've spoken before the shadows of this nightmare sunk its claws into you...

Suddenly, your foot drags behind you, heavier now than your left, causing each step to feel like an arduous battle against an immovable force. It clings to the rocky floor beneath you, resisting your every move like an iron ball firmly anchored. Oblivious to your struggle, the others march ahead, their focus solely on pushing forward.

As you glance down at your foot, a somber sight greets you - the once vibrant glow of the shackle has faded, replaced by a muted shade of crimson.

Each successive step becomes more strenuous, as if the ground itself is resisting your progress. And you're fiercely fighting to keep it from firmly attaching itself to the ground, desperately exerting every ounce of strength into the struggle.

But it does.

And your heart sinks.

There's only a moment to panic before soft whispers that you can barely hear, but can feel graze your neck like the icy breath of death itself. Your head jerks sharply, eyes darting over your shoulder.

You're stunned when you see the way back is now engulfed in impenetrable darkness, inching closer like a silent predator teasing its prey with the final strike. It hangs in the air like a ravenous miasma, emanating a hunger that threatens to consume you whole.

You know it without a doubt now.

Him.

It beckons you. Though the whispering chorus is not coherent to your ears, you can feel it in your chest, a tingling sensation traversing through your limbs like an electric current. It courses through your veins, reaching your hands and feet, and finally settling into the very tips of your fingers and toes. Invisible and intangible, it calls to you, promising safety with an outstretched hand.

But not freedom.

The choice is to take its hand or be taken by it.

Summoning all your strength and determination, you fiercely contort your body, wresting control of your foot from the tight grip of the shackle. As you do, the metallic shackle glimmers with an intense brilliance, casting a luminous glow in the dimly lit tunnel. With a surge of adrenaline, you unleash a resounding cry; the echoes reverberating off the cold, damp walls. "Run!" you command, your voice filled with urgency and defiance. Swiftly pivoting on your heel, you embark on a mad dash down the tunnel, the rhythmic pounding of your footsteps blending with the symphony of your pounding heart.

Just ahead of you, Durgan and Astarion come into view, their faces now turned towards you. In that split second, a chilling instinct prompts you to swiftly duck, narrowly avoiding a tendril of darkness that whizzes past your shoulder, snatching an elven woman.

Her startled yelp reverberates through the air, her fingernails desperately clawing at a narrow crevice along the rough rock wall. A worn pack slips from her shoulder, hanging precariously around her arm. "Oh gods, please...! Please!" The plea in her terrified, trembling voice is heart-wrenching. Tears stream down her face as she continues to plead with the gods for mercy.

Despite her efforts, her fingers eventually lose their grip on the wall and the unfathomable shadows violently pull her in and a shriek that nearly curdles your blood pierces your eardrums. The distinct stench of decaying flesh begins to taint the air. Before you can fully process the horror that just unfolded, a hand grips your shoulder, snapping you back to reality. "What did I say about gawking, darling?" He growls as he drags you along, forcing you into a frantic sprint.

The two of you catch up to the others. Durgan is struggling to stay ahead of everyone, but amazingly, he manages. Zylinn is panting heavily and the other three unnamed members of your entourage, their faces glistening with sweat, pushed forward.

Finally, you reach the end of the tunnel and Durgan's calloused hand firmly presses against the side of the exit, sealing it shut with a resounding thud.

As you take a moment to catch your breath, a fleeting sense of relief washes over you. But as you slowly turn around, the relief quickly dissipates. Before you lies an expansive, ancient chamber, its walls weathered by time. At the far end, an immense gate looms, its iron surface marred by rust, reminiscent of the entrance to Baldur's Gate. Its jagged teeth are firmly embedded in the worn stone floor. The room itself is bathed in an ethereal blue glow, casting haunting shadows that dance along the walls.

Durgan growls loudly in frustration as the sealed wall violently shakes and cracks behind you. "Of all the sodding days to close the gate!" He shouts, his voice echoing through the vast space as he throws his arms up in exasperation, his dark, thick beard bristling as he tugs on it.

Racing against the clock, your eyes dart around the room, taking in the decaying surroundings. On your right, a wide hole in the dilapidated stone wall hosts a gaping hole, wide enough to accommodate two average-sized individuals, or perhaps smaller. Wherever it leads, you can only guess. Meanwhile, to your left, a staircase lies in ruins, shattered in the middle, creating a substantial gap that renders it utterly useless. As you gaze further, you notice the upper floor atop the stairs, and a room that seems to be the gatehouse.

"Who has the satchel with the scrolls?" Durgan barks, looking back at the other three remaining members of your group. Astarion stays close to you and Zylinn close to both of you.

"Kinley had it but..." the human woman replied, her voice trembling slightly as she fought to regain her composure.

Despite the immense pressure and his dwindling options, Durgan stubbornly scans each face in the room.

If you can sprint and leap the gap, perhaps...

"Durgan! Aster!" a voice you haven't heard before echoes through the distance.

As you lift your eyes, you immediately spot the source - a short gnome donned in sleek black armor, a black cowl draped over his head. He stands confidently atop the shattered staircase. The air is filled with the sound of hurried footsteps as a dragonborn couple, led by the imposing male silver dragonborn, swiftly enters the gatehouse. The gnome's voice carries a playful bite, scoffing at you, "You were meant to rescue the damsel, not become one yourselves!" his voice echoes in the chamber.

"The gate, Jester!" Durgan's urgent cry echoes through the air, the crumbling wall serving as a foreboding backdrop. "Now!"

"Glacius is working on it. Hang on." The gnome you now know is Jester answers back as the smaller, female dragonborn hurries back and forth from the gatehouse.

Just as expected, the gate, as if on cue, lets out a piercing groan, its rusty hinges protesting against the force needed to pry its teeth free from the ground.

It barely manages to budge an inch before it abruptly plummets back into the stone

"Away from the wall!" You command, the urgency in your voice evident. With a swift motion, you slide the smooth bow off your shoulder, feeling the cool wood against your skin. Your fingers wrap around the smooth shaft of an arrow, feeling its weight and balance in your hand. Astarion, ever vigilant, positions himself by your side, his daggers glinting in the dim light. He swiftly pulls them from his belt with a dramatic flair, the sharp clinking of metal against leather resonating in your ears.

Durgan reaches for his mace and shield, leading the others to the symphony of clinking armor and thudding footsteps as you all sprint for the gate. You hurried away from the tunnel wall, eager to put as much distance between you and its crumbling remains.

As the stone fragment breaks away and crashes down, darkness swiftly engulfs the area like a surging tide. It weaves a veil of impenetrable shadow that blocks any retreat, leaving only the distant echo of the collapse reverberating in the stillness.

Emerging from the black fog, faceless silhouettes resembling both walking corpses and armored knights appear, their movements shambling and stoic.

Astarion positions himself with the grace of a panther, every muscle coiled like a spring and his gaze sharp, glinting with the promise of challenge. The whisper of his boots, shifting across the earth, a delicate symphony to accompany the drumming of your own heart and a siren's call to your senses.

In one fluid motion, you summon an arrow from the quiver's embrace, cradling it into place and feeling the whisper of promised power sing through the bowstring beneath your eager fingertips. With every breath, you ready yourself to align with the unseen winds. You draw back; the world narrowing to a point as you find your mark, poised to release an arrow that yearns to dance to the mastery of your command.

"For Faèrun!" Durgan cries, charging toward the shadows.

Inspired, the other resistance fighters charge with him. Spells and swords at the ready. Already, they carve a swath through the faceless silhouette, each one bursting with shadow magic upon defeat.

Astarion is quick to react as a few stragglers get through and advance on you, digging his daggers into any who get too close. His footwork smooth like waves on water, those perfect white curls of his hair remain in place as a testament to his incredible form.

All while you aim and loose one arrow after another, almost reveling in the strain of your muscles as you pull the bowstring taut. Despite the dire circumstances, you've sorely missed this. Not just the thrill of combat, or the joy of making your body work.

Gods, you could lose yourself just watching Astarion's artistry at work.

You've missed fighting beside him...

Durgan's voice rings out, shouting "Left flank!" as he expertly dodges a warhammer, narrowly avoiding a potential blow.

Without hesitation, you skillfully nock another arrow to the whispering string, the world around you narrowing to the simple stretch and pull of your bowstring. The count of arrows released to the wind escapes you now, lost in the dance of flight and purpose. A quiet sense of pride kindles inside you, a flame that will not be quenched, as you ready yet another arrow to kiss the wind.

With deadly precision, one of your arrows finds its mark, piercing the black chest of your target. The shadowy silhouette shimmers ominously but refuses to burst like its predecessors.

Stumbling backward, it is promptly pounced upon by Astarion, his movements as fluid as air. Swift blow after swift blow, his daggers find their mark, relentlessly assaulting the shadowy figure until it finally succumbs, dissolving into inky black nothingness. Leaving behind a lingering scent of decay and darkness as the battle unfolds with a symphony of clashing steel, and the occasional grunt of exertion.

You catch his piercing vermillion eye, the color burning like a flame in darkness, the tip of his fang teasingly peeking out from his roguish grin.

He's missed this as much as you have.

You can't even remember all the different aches for him you've carried. From the gentle brush of his lips to that thrill of his fangs grazing your skin. Every tender moment that his shadow can only hope to whisper in your dreams...

But as another wave of shadowy figures emerges, their ominous forms jolt you out of your reverie followed by the piercing screams of your comrade being forcefully dragged into the encompassing abyss. Amidst the chaos, Durgan desperately calls out to him, but he too is besieged from all directions, unable to extend a helping hand. Helplessly, you bear witness to the pitiful soul's futile struggle, as he desperately claws at the coarse, grimy sandstone floor, yearning to break free from the clutches of the inky black tendril dragging him towards his end.

No sooner has he vanished, a serpentine tendril swiftly lunges out, With lightning speed, it snatches the other two companions, leaving only you, Astarion, Durgan, and the seemingly inept drow lingering behind you. What even is he...?

The scent of decay wafts through the atmosphere as you cast a glance over your shoulder. Catching sight of the drow whose hands, shimmering with an orange, arcane glow, clasp the gate's rusted ironwork. Pieces of the now-softened metal drip like wax, hissing as they meet the cold stone below.

Here...

Whispers dance from the hidden corners, beckoning you into the waiting arms of darkness. Through the shroud of fog, a shape takes form—a silhouette that strides with an easy, unhurried grace, known and yet veiled by the curtain of shadows.

Come...

Astarion appears beside you quicker than a specter, his stance poised and prepared, and his vampiric fangs unsheathed like daggers. From the ebony gloom, the Ascendant emerges a mere breath from Durgan. An embodiment of the abyss, his figure is swathed in darkness so pure it devours the light, a silhouette carved of void and malice. His eyes emit a fiery red glow, and his hair curls with an eerie elegance. "Fun and games are over, pet," he purrs, his voice a chilling whisper that carries the promise of cruelty.

Though it might seem like his voice, a nefarious presence hides—a presence both ghastly and alien to your senses. Twin whispers trail his words, one lingering a hair's breadth behind, and another hastily weaving in front.

It stirs memories of that peculiar intellect devourer you encountered amidst the twisting corridors of the nautiloid. "Dinner will get cold if you linger much longer, and what a waste that would be... wouldn't it, my darling queen?" The Ascendant's unnatural voice speaks calmly, but it only sends shivers down your spine, his hand extending slowly toward you. A serenity that belies the icy dread snaking through you, his hand inching ever closer—an offering or a threat, you cannot tell.

Astarion, with a disgusted sneer, scoffs. "Gods, what a wretched little creep," he mutters, his voice dripping with repulsion. "At least I had far more enticing ways of inviting you to dinner," he adds, his words laced with a blend of amusement and contempt.

"You never invited me out to dinner..." you quip back with a playful glint lighting your gaze. The friendly jest weaving effortlessly like a dance between you.

"Maybe not in the traditional sense...!" your vampire spawn huffs, throwing a playful scowl in your direction as his lips curl in a feigned offense. Pretending to be wounded by your teasing.

As you roll your eyes, the corners of your lips curl up into a subtle smile, revealing your genuine amusement at his absurdity.

You quickly survey the narrow opening in the crumbling wall. The gap appears just wide enough for you and Astarion to slip through, leveraging your nimble agility. However, it would mean leaving Durgan and Zylinn behind and hope that there'd be time for them to follow in after you.

There has to be a way... if you have the time to figure it out.

"I thought you capable of better obedience than this, my treasure." The Ascendant interrupts your thoughts, disappointment evident in the way he sighs.

As if mirroring your initial palace experience, the shadows creep towards him, merging in a hypnotic dance of darkness. Their ethereal movement envelops him, shrouding his figure in an impenetrable cloak.

A gentle whirling sound fills the air, as if whispers of the night converge with the shadows. Suddenly, the shadows explode in a burst of motion, transforming into a mist that hangs in the air like a delicate veil. And within this mist, emerges a taller and more imposing version of his former self, still concealed in the enigmatic embrace of his shadowy cloak.

But this time, as you gaze upon it from the front, a chilling sight awaits you. Rows upon rows of teeth gleam ominously, each one razor-sharp and menacing. Its wings, like swirling vortexes, move with an eerie grace, whispering a haunting melody through the air.

Its fingers extend into sharp, menacing claws like twisted talons. With lightning speed, it swipes at Durgan, catching him completely by surprise. A gut-wrenching cry escapes his lips as his body is propelled violently across the floor, crashing and rolling with a series of bone-jarring grunts as Durgan's body collides with the unforgiving surface.

"This way!" You urgently shout to Astarion. With a firm grip on his arm, you feel the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. The sound of your hurried footsteps reverberates through the vast chamber, while the scent of a winter frost fills and wafts around you..

With lightning speed, he catches on quick, his agile movements allowing you to let go and trust him to sprint alongside you. As you pause to retrieve Durgan, Astarion's firm grip grabs you, his fingers digging into your arm, forcefully pulling you away towards the gap in the wall.

You can feel the rush of wind as the Behemoth's massive claw narrowly misses both of you. "Astarion!" you exclaim, your voice filled with indignation, as you realize he wants you to abandon him to his fate.

A sudden crack of lightning pierces the air, striking the creature square in the chest, emanating a blinding flash from the direction of the gatehouse. The creature appears unfazed by the impact, but its annoyance is palpable.

It swiftly redirects its attention towards the source of the spell, its eyes blazing with fury. In an instant, two out of three scorching rays streak through the air, accompanied by the distinct smell of singed ozone. The first ray strikes true with a searing impact, while the third finds its mark with a satisfying sizzle. However, the second ray veers off course, leaving you uncertain of its whereabouts.

As you and Astarion draw close to the break in the wall, a slender beam of emerald light slashes through the air, biting into the ancient sandstone wall above.

The deafening crash rings in your ears and the impact shatters the wall, causing fragments of debris to cascade down in a chaotic freefall.

He launches himself at you with fierce determination, hurling you both to safety just as a shower of stones threatens to come crashing down and block your escape.

Your eyes catch a glimpse of the sturdy wooden beams that brace the ceiling, a surprising yet fleeting distraction from the danger that you two narrowly missed.

However, you're still a long way from being out of danger.

The breathtaking love of your life gently eases himself away from you, his movements as graceful as a shadow. "Are you alright, darling?" he asks, his voice brimming with a caring warmth that contradicts the usual chill of his touch.

Concern paints his features as his pale, icy hand delicately guides your face, turning it this way and that as his eyes, like shimmering pools of scarlet sky, survey you carefully. Ensuring you're unharmed from head to toe.

A giggle escapes you, surprising even yourself and catching his concerned look off guard. Lifting his hand, you press a grateful kiss to his fingertips, grinning broadly. "I am now... Better than ever, in fact." You tell him, the truth of it ringing in your heart.

Yours might not be the image of pristine elegance; your hair tousled, your dress torn... But he treats you as if you're the morning's first light, his palm cradling your face as if you were the most precious thing under the moon. His gaze momentarily lingering on your smile before meeting your eyes once more...

The earth shudders violently under your bodies, its quaking so fierce it feels as though the ground itself wishes to swallow you whole. If you hadn't been pressed against the ground, the force would have surely swept you off your feet. "We're not in the clear yet until we get back home. Let's go," Astarion urges with a determined glint in his eyes. His hand wraps around yours, tugging you upward, your trusty bow in your other hand.

You can't help but wrinkle your brow in skepticism as you hoist your weapon over your shoulder, a whisper of doubt escaping your lips. "It's never that straightforward..."

He casts you a glance filled with unwavering confidence, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Don't fret, my Star, we've made it this far..." Astarion says, a comforting note in his voice as he takes your hand, guiding you along the path paved with cool, ancient stones. Overhead, wooden beams crisscross against a backdrop of shadow, sparking a flicker of curiosity within you.

What is this place? Another tunnel? How many does the resistance have? Are you beneath Baldur's Gate? "Illyndra and Aeron will know how to take that bracelet off, and then we return to our world and deal with the tadpoles, the brain, Orin..." He trails off, his gaze drifting downward for a moment before locking onto yours. "Quite the list, honestly. Aha!" His laugh, light and fluttering, dances through the air accompanied by a smile so effortless it could charm the stars. That very grin that never fails to send a delightful shiver down your spine.

You sweep your gaze across the path that lies before you. Above, unwavering beams hold the ceiling strong, lined with makeshift levies holding chunks of rock awaiting the builders' hands. Yet, beneath your feet, a patchwork of rickety wooden planks whispers of uncertainty.

Through the slender gaps, you watch as the eager water plays tag with the light, its laughter a thundering serenade—a reminder of the depths that lurk just a misstep away. But a part of you can't help but feel a rush of relief, knowing that should the ground betray you, the river's embrace awaits to cushion the fall.

Barely a moment after you both start treading through the shadowy passageway, a shiver races down your spine.

The air turns frosty, making the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and your skin prickles with goosebumps. Whispers of your breath dance before your eyes, swirling like specters in the dim torchlight. "Astarion?" escapes your lips, your words quivering just like your chattering teeth.

Even in your captivity, the last month—or was it more?—spent in the deceptive embrace of an ornate prison, your sharpness, your keen edge of mind, remains unclouded.

It's more than a mere chill; it's bone-deep and malevolent, a spectral cold that seeks to worm its way into your very soul.

A quiver in your words must unsettle him, for his gaze whips around to meet yours with a sudden attention, his eyes wide with a touch of alarm. He takes in your trembling silhouette, swathed in the whispers of your own foggy breath. "He's already following us," Astarion concludes, his voice heavy with a grim certainty. The rhythm of his steps quickens, as if to outrun the unseen spectre lingering just beyond the veil of darkness.

Before you can hurry alongside him, a strange weight clings to your foot, as if it's ensnared by an unseen force, holding you back. It's as though your foot has forgotten it belongs to you, a traitorous part of you that refuses to cooperate.

Casting a hurried look downwards, you see your right foot bathed and ensnared once more in a crimson hue.

You look over your shoulder, admittedly a little startled, to see the shadows blocking the way you came. Creeping slowly along behind you, as if waiting for you to be fully separated.

Should you cross paths with that idiot halfling again, you'll clasp your hands around her throat until her eyes pop juicy red, akin to overripe grapes under the sun. Perhaps there was a sliver of a chance this plan might have succeeded, yet with her baffling refusal to listen and inadvertently alerting the Ascendant, she sealed its fate with certainty.

Nothing will save you from that gilded cage of a palace. Not this time...

But you can still ensure one thing.

Gripping your will tight, dragging your foot along the ground, caring not for your admittedly favorite shoes as you feel the rough ground beneath your foot, grinding against the dirt. Un-shouldering your bow, you're sure you can hear the shadows snickering in hushed tones around you, a mocking harmony barely audible. Astarion, oblivious or indifferent, remains focused on moving forward.

You spy with your little eye the perfect target, a slender thread of rope clutching a massive stone aloft, dangling like a strange fruit from the cavern's mouth.

With a swift dance of fingers, you draw out an arrow, one of the scarce few remaining in your quiver. A deep breath steadies your hand, you draw the string taut, take aim and release. The arrow, true to your silent command, cleaves the air and severs the twine with a whisper.

Down plummets the stone, colliding with thunderous might against one of the ceiling beams.

Jolted by the deafening crash, Astarion quickly spins around to face you. "Tav, stop!" he cries out, his eyes darting across the chaos unfolding.

Just as he realizes what's happening, a massive chunk of rock hurtles down, colliding with a scaffolding tile. You watch, heart in your throat, as the platform buckles. But with quick reflexes, Astarion manages to seize the lip of the floor as it gives way, hanging on for dear life.

A chilling gust skims across your skin, causing your hair to flutter and your skin to tingle, as the shadows stretch their arms wide to envelop you in their cold embrace.

The absence of light that follows is absolute, save for the brilliant glow emanating from the bracelet adorning your right ankle, the sole beacon in a sea of starless midnight.

You turn, heart pounding, to find the shadow-shrouded Ascendant materializing from the void as though woven from the night itself.

This time, the shadows peel back, clinging to him as if loath to let him go. Unveiling the truth of him—The Vampire Ascendant, your captor... your nightmare. "Tsk-tsk. So very... disobedient, my sweet," he coos, his voice a silken warning that pulls taut the air around you.

He straightens to his full height. Every movement deliberate, predatory, as he towers over you with an expression of amusement and scorn, eyes piercing from above that seem to drink you in, consume you whole. The silver studs on his obsidian leather armor flicker in the dim radiance of your shackle. His obsidian cloak cascades behind him like a waterfall of pure abyss.

"And just look at you!" he chides, the edges of his words sharp yet coated in honeyed venom. He twirls a lock of your hair, his touch featherlight yet unwelcome. "Drenched in filth, the gown I lovingly selected for you, had tailored specially for you—reduced to no more than tarnished, common rags." Lamenting with a tilt of his head, a smile playing on his lips, cruel as the edge of a blade. His disapproval falls around you, a tangible presence, and his eyes linger on you, an unnerving blend of possessive desire, eager to reclaim what he considers his own in this haunting mockery of the Faerûn you know.

"Ta-av," Astarion's breath catches, his voice trembles faintly, just over your shoulder. He's fighting to rise, wrestling for his footing and shield you from the monster that dresses its obsession in the garb of devotion.

A shard of ancient tile fractures beneath his grasp, and for a heart-stopping moment, he dangles perilously. Yet, defiant to the very brink, he clings with a single hand, his determination unwavering.

You steal another look downwards, making certain that should he slip, the water's embrace will break his fall. And if the enchantment he spoke of at the Festival holds true, mirroring the protections of the tadpole, then surely running water is included in that.

One truth rings clearer than any spell or enchantment: a leap of faith into the unknown is a far kinder destiny than the dark designs the Ascendant harbors for him. "I'm sorry, my Star," you murmur, your voice a soft breeze that he might not even hear.

Within moments, the disbelief paints a vivid picture across his gaze, just a breath before his grip falters. Your heart leaps into your throat as, right before you, your spawn plunges into the depths.

Straining your hearing, you pivot towards the Ascendant, biting back a scowl at the distant sound of what you pray is Astarion plunging into the forgiving embrace of the waters.

The bow you once gripped, a token of your fleeting freedom, is seized with an insidious gentleness from your grasp by unseen forces. The quiver follows, dispatched unceremoniously, its clinking demise a chorus to your fading defiance, its contents scattering with a reckless symphony upon the cold ground.

His gaze burns into you, smoldering with a dark intensity. Within the depths of those darkly glinting eyes, is a mingled twisted pride with disappointment at your earnest attempts for freedom. To him, your resistance is a game, a challenge to be adored and extinguished.

Oh, how he cherishes you, even as he schools you with an obsessive, possessive love—a love that will exact its price from you in whispered, intimate consequences.

With every honeyed promise, the reality blurs, and the terrifying truth takes root: you are perilously close to cherishing the very chains he binds you with. And the silent tears that threaten to spill—the ones you dare not show—are proof of the battle within, a heart both resisting and yielding to his insidious embrace.

He pulls you close, enfolding you in an unexpected gentle embrace. A shiver grazes across your delicate skin, his arms tighten around you as if you were the only fragile soul in all Toril. The crimson gleam in his eyes precedes the darkness curling protectively, hungrily, as though it were a living thing.

There's an unsettling tenderness in his touch, possessive and chilling, as though he would never allow the world to steal you away from the cocoon of obsession he's spun. That you belong to him—and only him—in this twisted fantasy of affection.

As the veil of shadows recedes, there you are, standing somewhere in the bloody palace you'd only just slipped from.

A scream simmers on the cusp of your lips, the desire to raze the walls of this opulent cage with nothing but the strength of your will, pulsates through your veins. To incinerate its every crevice with fury searing enough to challenge the infernal heat of Karlach's own fiery heart.

He yields as you thrust yourself from his embrace, your senses drinking in the eerie calm of the lavish bedchamber bathed in silvered whispers of moonbeam. "...And?" The Ascendant's voice slithers, a seductive murmur that curls around you from behind. His tone drapes possessively over your shoulders, an intangible caress. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

Your snarl is sharp as you pivot to face him, defiance etched in every line of your being. "Fuck. You. If you think I'll ever stop trying to pry myself out of your grasp, you truly know nothing of me." you spit out with venom enough to fell a wyrm.

Sighing deeply and with a languid, almost taunting cadence, he approaches. Each step measured to instill uncertainty as if to tempt you to back away or run. But you are steadfast, your hands clenched in silent defiance, even as he tenderly traces the line of your jaw.

Never could you have fathomed that Astarion's touch would repulse you, his warmth an unwelcome blaze. And yet, repulsion is your reality. "Oh, my pretty consort. My little spitfire." His murmurs are velvet, so softly you might have imagined the caress of his thumb on your blemished cheek. "You will be exquisite as my queen, my bride eternal." He coos tenderly, as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face.

"Then do it." You challenge, not daring to pull away from his touch just yet. "Drag me to the altar, shove the crown on my head, turn me already, right here." Oh, the delicious fantasy of driving your dagger deep into his back, unraveling him slowly, bit by bit—it dances through your mind like a siren's song. But you know provoking his ire will only backfire.

Yet the allure remains strong, calling to the very core of you. To bestow the gift of your urge upon one who truly merits such a fate.

A faint, disturbing chuckle escapes his throat, as a disturbing grin twitches at his mouth. "No, my pet. I've woven such intricate designs for you. And when the moment ripens, when our pulses in perfect harmony, I'll reveal to you a world of shadowed luxuries and forbidden delights, the kind that this realm reserves for its most formidable sovereigns." There’s an ominous tenor to his promise that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end, a warning that his words are just the surface of something deeper, something darkly intimate.

Out of nowhere, a whirlpool of shadows appears and from it, Ballar springs, his spine curving in a swift, respectful bow. "Your Almighty Majesty, your esteemed visitor crossed the threshold not a heartbeat before you and Lady Ancunín graced these halls with your return," he blurts, breathless with urgency.

The Ascendant's gaze sharpens, a flicker of intrigue as his hands come to rest at his sides, easy and poised. "Has she indeed? So soon?" he murmurs, pivoting smoothly on his heel to meet the eyes of the tall Elven man.

Ballar rose to his full height, his posture going rigid with formality. "She sends her deepest regrets for the shield of caution she's wrapped herself in, yet she stands by her need for such prudence."

"That can be addressed at a later time. Retrieve the heart and meet us in the Eventide Gardens." Commands the Ascendant to Ballar, who melts away shrouded in a swirling maelstrom of night. His eyes then burn into your soul with a chilling delight. "I had fancied the notion of luring you into the soothing warmth of a bath, but such luxuries must be postponed," The chilling twist of his grin pierces through you, a sensation more unnerving than any prior moment shared with him—and that truly speaks volumes.

The Ascendant drifts toward the dresser. Your ring is absent, but that scroll case sits there, looming with an air of foreboding. Intriguingly, he plucks a pair of gloves that lie nearby and deftly secretes a tiny phial into the belt around his armor. "Come along, my sweet," he beckons with a devil's allure, "our tale of power and awe awaits us to carve its telling into the ageless constellations."

Your brow creases into a frown. His ardor strikes a dissonant chord, more alarming than reassuring. Perhaps this is the rite then—the sacrament. Zylinn painted it in strokes of peril, too sinister for your meddling.

Yet, when has that ever stopped you?

If the danger is as real and stark as his warnings suggested, it cries out for intervention and it is in your hands to prevent it. Magic that can touch one's soul? Such things are uncommon whispers in the dark—the lore of soul cages and magic jars are known, but this... this speaks of a peril unfamiliar. And it must not be allowed to unfurl.

Shadowing his every move, your mind whirls like a tempest, you can't help but mentally sift through all the possibilities that come to mind for the items he has gathered. Robbed of your trusty bow and quiver, you feel a pang of frustration as you lament the fact that he stripped you of your bow and arrows.

With each passing moment, the gravity of the task at hand weighs heavily upon you. The surroundings seem to blur as you immerse yourself in the task set before you, and you know that without a weapon, your ability to put a stop to this will be severely limited. But there is no time to dwell on it. You'll have to improvise as you go.

In your mind's eye, you picture Astarion, and a hopeful whisper in your heart insists he's unharmed. He has to be safe; he just has to. The idea that his journey could be snuffed out so unceremoniously, so abruptly... it's unthinkable. Astarion, who's faced down shadows scarier than most could dream, who's outwitted fate time and again. Maybe not by the most moral of methods. No, he's a survivor, and survivors find a way through, always.

He said he wouldn't leave you alone... His heart, tarnished though it may be by shadows of the past, nevertheless holds a small, gentle glow, like the embers of a long-forgotten fire. Ever since he laid his soul bare that night in the shadows of Moonrise, confessing his deepest emotions, you haven't once doubted the sincerity that glows in his eyes, his affection for you.

He vowed he'd save you from the siren call of your own darkness. He's promised to help you retake your freedom. For better or for worse, you trust his word wholeheartedly.

Guided by the Ascendant, you step through an imposing doorway into a wonderland of vibrant flora and manicured shrubberies, all circling a majestic fountain that sings a crystal melody. Enveloped in an abyssal dome where not even a whisper of starlight breaches the darkness, you feel the void of the moonless midnight.

"Did the wonders of my realm charm you upon your arrival, Missy Superior?" he asks, a smooth cadence in his query pulling your focus from the wonders around and pulling you into the throes of the moment unfolding with each heartbeat.

With her eyes lifted in hushed awe and reverence, there stands by the fountain the honored guest, clad in unmistakable armor merging shadow and splendor. The kind of armor that could only belong to a dark justiciar. Etched in steel and kissed by gold, the deep violet scarf wrapped snug around their throat stands out. "Not a trace of moonlight to disturb the flawless obscurity bestowed by Lady Shar," she murmurs, almost to herself. Then, slowly, she pivots gently in your direction. Her gaze descended from the heavens, settling upon you with the weight of dozens of lifetimes.

You're beyond speechless. No, that's not even close. "Do you have it, Shadowheart?" Astarion inquires, his tone sharp and quick as a striking serpent.

Shadowheart greets you with a familiar, gentle nod and a gaze that defies time, her appearance untouched by time's march. Quite literally, not looking a day older than the cleric you left.

For a fleeting moment, you're nearly convinced she's the old companion you cherished, save for the night-shaded locks. "It's safeguarded," she assures you with a serene confidence. "And what news do you bring of the Heart of Darkness?" Her words flow gently. A serene harbor in the midst of your storm-tossed journey.

Astarion's expression remained fixed, his eyes flickering with unspoken thoughts. "The wizard was true to his promise. Ballar," he uttered, the name leaving his lips at the exact moment his fingers clicked like the sound of a lock springing to life.

As if out of thin air, he appears in a whirl of shifting shadows. Clasped in his hands, a jewel enshrouded by pale linen which he extends towards her with outstretched arms.

Shadowheart steps closer to accept it, her eyes narrowing with intrigue as her fingers brush the surface. "Truly? It... pulses like a heart as well?" she questions, wonder tinting her voice.

"Fascination abounds," Astarion breathes out, punctuating the air with a hint of boredom as he strides toward the fountain. He waves his hand carelessly, and a swirl of ebony mist sweeps the fountain away, unveiling a hidden stairway beneath. "Ballar, be on guard," he commands, the air frosting over with the severity of his tone, "We mustn’t suffer any disturbances."

Addressing with utmost respect, Ballar acknowledges, "As you have commanded, so shall it be, my Godking," his tone unwavering in loyalty.

Beckoning you to his side, Astarion abruptly stops and casts a glance back at Shadowheart. "Any chance you can work some of your magic on her, maybe a little prestidigitation to spruce her up? Sure, her gown's seen better days, but wearing the filth and grime of five realms of Faerûn? Intolerable." he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

The cleric shoots a glance that speaks volumes, yet with a resigned exhale that betrays her patience is wearing thin, she acquiesces. As she quietly utters the spell, a cozy, soothing sensation cascades across your skin as the spellbind lifts the dirt from your skin and dress, leaving you feeling fresh and spotless.

Your eyes lock with hers, and in those deep, mossy pools you're ensnared by the depths of her you've never seen in your Shadowheart before. You can't shake off the curiosity bubbling within you, nor the overwhelming urge to embrace her, to confirm she's real. She's familiar, yet... thrillingly foreign, and her eyes—those mirrors to her soul—reflected an eerie new intrigue in the way her eyes hold yours...

"Come now, pet, dawdling is not an option," Astarion's voice slices through the connection, impatience lacing his tone. With a reluctant twist in your chest, you pivot and continue to follow his lead, down spiraling stone steps into the cool shadows below. Shadowheart keeps pace, her presence a silent promise right at your heels.

Strangely, you find yourself stepping into an expansive cavern, its vaulted ceiling embraced by darkness and veiled by a creeping mist that danced upon the unseen floor. The flickering light from the torches positioned along the walls provided the only source of light.

He takes your hand in his—a clasp both gentle and unyielding, pulling you with a resolute force to the heart of this eerie hollow.

Thoughts of rebellion flutter through your mind—fleeing, resisting. Yet, unarmed and having glimpsed the dark reach of his power, you realize resistance may awaken a tempest. To provoke him now would spell ruin. For now, survival lies in the masquerade of compliance.

He pivots toward you, his touch lifts your chin, a claim disguised as a caress and the ghost of a possessive smile playing on his lips. "My pretty consort..." he murmurs, voice dripping with an obsession as pure as it is terrifying. "Tonight, you will glimpse but a sliver of the lengths I will go to keep the past's bitter hands from our future..." Heat from his thumb skims your skin with a gentle fire, while his crimson gaze latches onto yours. Ensnaring you, pulling you deeper into his spell...

Your limbs seize up, each one rebelling against your will like iron in frost. You try to burn him with your fiercest scowl, but it's no use-His smirk, a twisted crescent, is shadowed with a chilling intent that pierces deeper than the coldest night. "On." The word slides off his tongue as his hand retracting gracefully. "Your." With a slow, deliberate motion, he lifts his hand, his fingers curling inward into a haunting directive. Save for the solitary index finger. Pointed you earthward. "Knees, my pet." Purring the words, they curl around you like tendrils of a dark spell. His voice a velvet darkness, each syllable dripping with a love that is as cruel as it is compelling, drawing you into its depths and urging you to submit.

Desperate to resist, you grasp at the slipping shards of your will, but your body begins to betray you and begins the descent, a puppet ensnared in unseen cords. He waves his hand, and the fog parts like a curtain drawn back to reveal the stage, laying bare a ring of cryptic runes encircling you.

"Call her forth, Shadowheart." Astarion demands with an imperious turn. His ebony cloak ripples with the grace of nightfall, as though the very air around him was bewitched to follow his whims. Circling like a constellation moving through the skies, leaving you at the epicenter of this arcane ritual. Your eyes trace his path as he places a scroll case and then, delicately, a pair of gloves before you-an offering, or perhaps tools as you wait, poised on your knees.

As she drifts into your vision from the right, she circles you like the moon tracing its path in the night sky. Her gaze burns with a luminous violet. Dark vapors ribbon from her fingertips, dancing like spirits in the twilight.

With a voice that seems to weave through the stillness of the night, she says, "O Night's Mistress, Veil of Darkness, hear my call. In the shadow of your wings, I seek refuge. In the silence of your secrets, I find strength." Goosebumps rise on your skin, each syllable soaked in the fervor of her Sharran faith. A faith you know your Shadowheart had broken free from.

Guided by the gentle pull of her own steps, she edges before you, hands lifted to the unseen sky. "Before the shroud of your eternal dusk, I stand, a mere wisp of your vast darkness. From the depths of despair and the cradle of shadows, I call out to you, seeking the honor of your presence."

"You what??" tumbles from your lips, a startled echo. In a flicker, the flame from the torches is snuffed out, giving way to a darkness too dense to be natural.

The silence is almost a living thing, only pierced by Shadowheart's steady tones. "Let the nightfall be the bridge between your realm and ours, and grace us with the visage of your divine essence." A churning mist embraces the chamber, curling like an unseen tempest, barely visible in the all-consuming dark. Quietly, violet flashes of lightning fork through the mist and from the dome above.

"May the darkness manifest and the silence speak your arrival. Shar, I beckon you, not as a demand, but as the ultimate homage to your unfathomable depths. Reveal yourself, not as the light does, but as darkness enveloping all, a testament to your power and mystery." Shadowheart's ritual reaches its crescendo, her hand bearing the wound thrums with dark light, yet she shows no sign of the agony you'd expect.

The room's air thickens, dark fog coalescing at its farthest reach, where Shar, the Lady of Loss herself, materializes from the mist. Enshrouded in a cloak woven from the essence of night itself, she is barely visible, but unmistakably present. Her voice, echoing from the shadows that form her court, "At last, we convene," she declares with regal disdain. "Let us proceed. This child who fancies himself a sovereign has long since exhausted my tolerance."

As Shar's gaze pierces through the murk, she watches Astarion weave a mute path emerges from behind you, on your left. His eyes, alight with a cunning glint, study the shadowy visage before him for a long while, making a show of cocking his head from side to side. "Well now... this is a surprise. The wizard was right then. You truly do not know where the heart is." He mused, bringing his fingers to cradle his chin.

The air around you seems to crackle with Shar's displeasure, a biting cold that might very well frost the blood in your veins, a tempest barely contained and as palpable as the taste of iron during a storm. "Spare me your coy charades, child," she warns, her spectral gaze cutting through the umbral haze. "I have bestowed much upon you, and here you are seeking more. Heed this: my realm's bounty knows no end, but my leniency has its bounds."

"Of course, terribly sorry." murmured Astarion with an air of sarcasm thick enough to touch, his gaze flitting across the dim expanse to where Shadowheart holds her ground on his right, the other side of you, steadfast and resolute. "It just so happens I have become quite acquainted with loss over the last century and a half, as well as Shadowheart. The... sharp lesson you designed with Nocturne, lingers still. Does it not, dear Shadowheart?" His hand, once thoughtfully at his chin, now swung with nonchalance toward her.

"Yes... the same can be said for Dekarios, isn't that right?" Shadowheart responds with a lift of her chin, her head held high in stoic defiance.

In a sudden crescendo, a deafening thud pounds through the cavern's heart, bouncing off its ancient bones. Shar crumbles before us, her knees striking the stone with the weight of the ages. "Indeed," hisses Not-Gale, a cruel edge to Not-Gale's tone, as he looms behind the faltering deity. Arcane tendrils, alight with an eerie glow, lash out from his fingertips around Shar, a magic so intense, a power too monumental for your mind to grasp. It brings a blinding ache between your temples just to witness.

"You... you dare," Shar hisses, her darkness roiling around her like a tempest scorned. Yet, it betrays her, refusing to obey her furious demands. They danced away from her grasp, and her shock becomes a tangible thing, a rare, fractured shard of divine disbelief.

A wicked grin spreads across Astarion's face, dark eyes alight with a malevolent crimson glow. "No, no... They heed the call of a new master..." he crowed, satisfaction lacing his tone. The very shadows that once heralded her presence now betray her, binding her in their smoky chains to hold her captive at his feet. "So the three of us came to a mutual understanding and reached a new, more than adequate agreement. Shadowheart, if you would..."

He shifts, granting Shadowheart the space to take the heart from behind her in her belt and move toward Shar. "You wouldn't dare! I made you, you ungrateful, spiteful imbecile of a child! It is I who deemed you, above all others, worth keeping long past your time! Were it not for my steady hand on your life, you would have long succumbed to your own folly!" Shar's protest fell on deaf ears as she squirmed, the shadowy tendrils and magical binds refusing her any mercy.

Shadowheart cradles Shar's shrouded in darkness. "And I will be ever grateful to you. You made me capable of the impossible." Her fingers trace down to Shar's chin, holding it firm. "As you have taught for time eternal, Loss is an inevitability. Nothing lasts. Not your most loyal, neither your chosen. Let go, Shar... Embrace Loss."

With a sudden grace, Shadowheart rears up, casting away the cloth that veils the Heart, the vessel. Her hands, firm and sure, cracks it in the middle.

A maelstrom of iridescent brilliance erupts—a tempest of colors that dance and whirl, the surrounding air drawn into a vortex that threatens more in mind than in reality. Yet, amidst this chaos, only you, Shadowheart, Dekarios and Astarion, remain untouched by its furious serenity. Something unnatural, like the screams of a thousand gods long past and forgotten ring in your ears, beyond your comprehension.

Then, as quick as lightning kisses the earth, the tempest subsides.

Collapsing before Shadowheart, now cast in the flickering glow of newly returned torchlight, a woman with hair as dark as a moonless night, her breath coming in labored gasps and her body a quivering portrait of fatigue and sweat in the flickering light.

"Hmph. That was disappointing." Astarion scoffed with a flicker of disdain, striding over to tower above the fallen figure beside Shadowheart, eyes returned to their typical vermillion, "My ascension was so very exciting, so dramatic and befitting my station, a king, a god! But this...? A goddess's fall from grace?"

With effort, the woman pushed herself upright on trembling hands, her defiant gaze slicing through with dark blue eyes—the only hint that she might have been something otherworldly. "So disappointing." Astarion almost purrs, clearly entertained as he circled her with predatory grace. Shadowheart, on her part, discreetly slipped the now-dimmed gem into a concealed compartment of her belt.

"You will pay for this... every single one of you! Your children, their children, and their children's children!"

"You skipped a generation there." Shadowheart mutters with an audible grin, her arms now snugly crossed.

Astarion pauses just behind the once mighty deity, his gaze wandering upward as if catching his thoughts mid-air. "Oh, I don't know. If it's our children, then their children..." he mused aloud, his fingers tracing invisible threads in the crisp, damp cavern air.

Shadowheart cocks her head. "Right, there's us, then our children. Then their children, that's the third generation..." she ponders, along with an idle shrug of her hand.

Chin in hand, Astarion’s nimble, pale fingers tapped a thoughtful rhythm. "So our children, then their children, supposedly pay. Then the third generation's children pay?" Turning his head to Shadowheart as if she's the one who made the threat.

"Exactly my point, the third generation is skipped entirely." She nods, her own hand now uplifting her chin in mirrored thoughtfulness.

With a whisper of movement, Dekarios unfolds from the shadows just beyond where Astarion stands, "Might we postpone such spirited debates for a moment more suited to conversation?" he suggests, with an impeccable knack for timing that leaves you secretly irritated. This charm that the Ascendant had spun around you lingers stubbornly, far more potent than before. Your fingertips tingle with the slow return of sensation, but they remain defiantly numb, leaving your fingers as rigid as frozen twigs, barely able to twitch.

"Agreed. We're losing time." Astarion concurred with a stern tone. In a swift, calculated motion, he grasps Shars' flowing locks and jerked her head aside with ruthless intent.

Your breath catches as Astarion descends upon her, his fangs gleaming ominously before piercing the delicate flesh of her neck. A silent pact of predator and prey is sealed with a mere whimper as Shar hardly uttered a sound,

When his thirst is quenched, he discards her like a spent candle, allowing her body to collapse onto the cold stone. Her complexion is ashen, the very image of deathly pallor as she crumbles to his boots. A flicker of dissatisfaction crossing his features.

Astarion studies her motionless form and with a disdainful spit aside her still form, he utters, "Disappointing..." His voice is a low growl, a dark echo of sentiments once spoken. "With the shadow weave now predominantly present in the cavern, it is time to claim my due before I have her buried."

He barely avoids grazing Shar's faintly quivering digits as he steps over her with uncaring ease. His boots thudded on the cavern floor until he halted before Shadowheart. With a flourish of dark magic, a sinister blade emerged into her grasp, its leather sheath adorned with ominous green runes that seemed to dance and hiss with sinister life. "The Shadowcarver," she declared formally, "the unique glyphblade necessary for the Unimina. As agreed upon." As she extended the foreboding weapon towards him.

You watch in horror as a smile, slow and sinister, creeps across his lips—a smile that chills your bones, like a ravenous beast sighting its next ghastly meal. He takes the blade and pulls it from its sheath, revealing a make of darkened steel with strange glyphs that softly glow green, shaped into a fine point. Astarion admires it from one side to another in the torchlight. How faint threads of darkness gently feed into the glyphs on the blade, a thin line of green glyph along the cutting edge.

As your gazes lock, Astarion's grin widens into something far more chilling, turning your way. With every deliberate step he takes within the strange ring of runes etched onto the ground, a soft glow pulses from each symbol, as if breathing to the rhythm of his stride. Shadowheart maintains her distance, hugging the perimeter while Dekarios paces, a careful observer just outside it.

Astarion pauses before you for a heartbeat. Then, he gracefully lowers himself before the chest, his hands deftly unfastening the catches with a satisfying click before swinging it open. "This more potent charm appears to have tamed you quite nicely," he purrs, unfurling the scroll within and sweeping his gaze across it. "Like a work of art... you will be one step closer to perfection, my treasure..." His whisper barely reaches you, laced with private delight.

"With this," he utters fiercely as his words harden into a growl, snatching the glove and standing tall, "nothing will pry you from my grasp." A beckoning gesture of his pale hand calls forth the shadows, and they heed, manifesting a tendril of darkness to cradle the scroll in the air, facing you.

There, revealed to you at last, was no text but a sketch. An arrangement of symbols entwined in a circle. A puzzle assembles within your mind, revealing his chilling intention. "It that your needle, Cazador?"

A twinge of complex emotions washes over you, marked by the tautness in his form when your barb strikes home. His eyes flicker, hinting at a suppressed urge to retaliate... but he restrains himself, fixated on donning the glove upon his left hand while drawing a small vial from his belt. "You're acquainted with slumberthorn toxin, are you not? Cazador would've let your screams sing him to sleep," the words barely more than a murmur off his lips and tone soft as a secret, a fleeting semblance of warmth amidst the encroaching cold.

He leans in, a smirk playing across his lips, shadowed and sure. "Oh, the naïve believe a monster only crafts nightmares with needles, clumsy and cruel," his voice a mixture of eerie tenderness and dark amusement. "But an artist can wield the same needle with such precision, such... brilliance, that the lines between horror and beauty blur."

His smirk widens into a chilling grin. "I am the exception—both the monster and the maestro."

Even as enchantment binds you, unable to resist, he orchestrates the very shadows to dangle from the ceiling’s embrace, your wrists lifted as if in offering. A creeping realization settles that the slumberthorn’s venom promises a descent into inescapable slumber—and how unceremonious it would be to crumble to the floor and impede his meticulous intentions.

With your frame secured in the shadow's grasp, Astarion prowls to your rear, liberating the vial’s top. His touch is a ghostly caress along your skin, sliding the worn threads of your dress aside, baring the untouched canvas of your skin. A solitary droplet of icy elixir kisses your shoulder and traces a shivering path down your arm, the smell of fresh, earthy plants tickles your nose. Then, agony a lance of white-hot torment piercing the space between your shoulder blades, wrenching from your lips a cry torn from surprise and agony.

And as the world dims to nothingness, a peculiar ache constricts your heart, something... weaving and unraveling all at once, accompanied by the dismal awareness of blood, your own, warm and trickling, painting your back sanguine.

‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐

"Caladhel can go blow bubbles with a pixie for all I care," the gnome scoffs over his shoulder. "He should be more concerned about evacuating the safehouses before the Noctis flush out the tunnel network."

"Aye, they've already hit several, and our ranks are getting thinner by the day." Aric grumbles, his voice a rumble as they continue their trek downhill, a rusty shovel perched on his shoulder like a knight's lance. The locket glimmered in Jester's grip, while Astarion followed a pace behind, lost in his thoughts despite trying hard to keep his mind focused. The sun's dying light cast a fiery cloak over them as dusk approached.

He couldn't stop thinking about yesterday. How close he came to ending this for you both, only to fall so short.

"No word on Durgan or Zylinn either, right?" Aric asks, the two barely masking their decision to steer clear of the silent and brooding elf.

Honestly, when would you stop playing the idiot, gallant hero? When would you accept that this time you are in need of saving? Initially, he feared the worst. Perhaps the bastard had slithered into your mind, made nice with the tiny beast inside your skull even. Maybe he'd lulled you into believing your place was by his side until the line between captivity and courtship blurred—until you couldn't remember the sweet taste of freedom...

"Pyrastra and Caladhel are convinced Ancunín is the culprit behind their disappearance," Jester muttered, the wariness in his tone betraying his own hesitations, "yet something doesn't sit right with me. Truth be told, I can't fathom why..." he admits with a puzzled shake of his head.

But the more Astarion turned the memory over in his mind, the clearer the details became. The scarlet shimmer of the bracelet clasped around your foot, the desperate struggle you faced as you attempted to lift it...

Godsdamnit, he could have helped you.

"Where was Caladhel yesterday?" The tiefling man queries with simple curiosity.

Jester, his fingers restlessly playing with a locket that dangled by his side, gave a casual shrug. "He was to rendezvous with them at the city's edge, but when the plan went sideways, he fell back to Haven. But what vexes me to no end is Spellsong and Morning's stupidity. They knew damn well than to act so openly, killing one of his special spawn. Then not listening to the queen is another mess altogether..." His voice faded into a grumble, clearly annoyed.

"Tav." Astarion interjected sharply, clearly at the brink of losing his patience. Jester and Aric stopped to glance at their once quiet comrade, their brows creasing in confusion. "Her name is Tav."

"Right." Jester acknowledged with a quick blink, "not a strange name..."

"Once Elowen lays eyes on Tav, we can hatch a new plan to get her out, Aster." said Aric, and with those words he turned on his heel, leading the way down an earthen path towards the beach.

Astarion's voice climbed a notch, tinged with concern. "Elowen hasn't seen her?"

Jester shakes his head. "Seems like nobody has. You were the last to lay eyes on her."

As they approached the same stretch of sand along the shore, astonishingly little has changed even in this world, where so much time has passed.

Astarion never fancied himself one for nostalgia, yet the ambience of this place tugged at something within him. It was here that he first laid eyes on you, emerging from the nautiloid wreckage—the very picture of intrigue, with Shadowheart trailing close, eyes already alight with admiration.

Even then, the magnetism you exuded was palpable. Others seemed mesmerized in your presence and Astarion noted it keenly.

Shadowheart, the devoted Sharran, so quickly wrapped around your dainty finger from the moment you crossed paths. Her heart, usually so guarded, skipped a beat with every word you uttered, every glance you shared. Meanwhile, Gale's heart thundered like storm drums at the mere sight of you.

He watched, sometimes with mirth, other times with a jealousy that pricked at his chest, as one by one, your little band vie for your a place in your heart.

Lae'zel was drawn irresistibly to your essence, her loyalty unwavering as your shadow. Karlach ever eager to compliment you or go out of her way for you. Wyll almost painfully obviously indulging in his chivalrous, charming prince act. And Halsin...

...godsdamned Halsin...

Perhaps you should have taken Gale's offer to teach you magic that Astarion surely didn't catch the inept man planning for days prior. Or accepted Shadowhearts' invitation at the party over a fine vintage that she, of course, wasn't saving just for the occasion. Perhaps... No. You should have chosen anyone but him.

After all, look where it's led you?

"This is the place," Jester's words cut through the stillness, jerking Astarion back to the present. His eyes catch the soft radiance of the locket clasped in the gnome rogue's grip, its radiance a beacon in the dimming light. The shifting sands below seem untouched by the rhythm of time, barely altered from that day. It's almost as if he can see it—the echo of you, your silhouette emerging from the shoreline, responding to his calls for help.

"Hurry! I've got one of those brain things cornered!" He exclaimed, resisting the urge to smile at how well this little plan of his was falling into place.

You quirked an eyebrow, contemplation flickering across your face. He took in the sight of you: a bow strapped against your back, accompanied by a quiver half-filled with arrows resting on your shoulder. Your leather armor bore the marks of recent skirmishes. Stains of drying crimson adorned your sleeves. You seemed worn out, bruised. Short stature, light build. Easy.

A different caution glinted in the eyes of the half-elf shadowing you, clad in the shimmer of light, clinking chain mail—a cleric by his best guess.

She seemed loyal, but not born of any significant bond. More a debt she seems to feel she owes you. The look she was giving him could almost unnerve him, but to sell the danger, he turned away to face apparent peril, beckoning you both closer with a casual wave. "There, in the grass. You can kill it, can't you? Like you did the others."

From over his shoulder, he observed the casual crossing of your arms, your eyes locking with the clerics. With a pronounced exhale, you relented, "Alright, alright, let me take a look..." and approached the spot in question.

Astarion's eyes trailed after you, the corners of his mouth threatening to betray his amusement, even as his fingers crept surreptitiously to the pommel of his dagger. "There, can you see it?" he prodded, urging you to fixate on the rustling bush. You just needed to look closely for but a moment. Just a moment...

With silent steps, he maneuvered behind you, moving into position... and then that damned boar made a break for it. "You're kidding." You deadpanned. "All that - for a fucking oversized pig with tusks."

Astarion caught the hint of bewilderment in your tone, but you hadn't caught on yet and he was short on time. "Are you daft or just drama-TIC?" In one fluid motion, the blade found its way to your throat, poised yet not pressing against you as he moved to grapple you in his arms.

Tired as you might have been, you had more fight in you than he had given you credit for. You threw your weight back into him, and sent Astarion stumbling, his balance wavering like a tree in the storm. But he reacted swiftly, pulling you down with him. Your hand latched onto his arm reflexively in a futile attempt to free yourself, but there was little you could do to loosen him off you in this position.

And there you were, just as he had planned, his dagger taunting the delicate skin of your precious little throat. The tease of your vein throbbing under your skin. Almost inviting him for a nibble, a taste of what he imagines is your delightful life essence. "Shh. Not a sound. Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours." Astarion hushed, his hunger held tightly in check.

"Rather attached to it, actually." Your reply, strained yet tinged with humor, flashing a lopsided, strained grin that caught him off guard for a fleeting moment.

You were a pretty sight like this, on your back-he'll admit...

Such a beautiful creature you were—in league with a ship's worth of squid.

What a surprise you were, darling...

His gaze snapped upwards, catching the cleric's eye before she could get any ideas. "And you - Keep your distance! No need for this to get messy," he warned.

The cleric glared. Power crackled in her voice, a tempest of divine magic barely contained. Her hands barely resisting the call to cast and intervene. "I need her alive - Stow that blade, or I'll show you just how messy things can get," she growled low and dangerous piquing his interest.

But not enough to care.

"Aha! Promises, promises." Astarion light-heartedly retorted, a rogue's grin spreading across his features. "But I have other business, I'm afraid." and with that, he directed his gaze back to you, your form squirming lightly under his hold.

He adjusted his hold on you, keeping the blade just near your throat enough to remind you who was in control. "Now, I saw you on the ship, didn't I? Nod."

Caught between defiance and prudence, you hesitated, carefully considering your predicament. Ultimately, you answered with a single nod. "Splendid." Astarion praised with a sardonic smile. "And now you're going to tell me exactly what you and those tentacled freaks did to me," he demanded, eyes sharpening with the query.

"What in the hells are you talking about? Do I look like a walking seafood platter?" You snapped bitterly through grit teeth.

"Don't play cute, you little - agh!" Suddenly his mind twisted, writhed in his skull. The eyes in his head felt strange. Through them he watches his feet touch the nautiloid floor, the blood in his head thrums, and a gaping void where memories of a life lived should be. He feels confusion, only a name and a headache as what he can call his own.

His senses flooded back like a deluge. "What was that? What's going on?"

The answer came not in words, but in an unexpected shift of the scales as you freed a hand to push against his face, swiftly breaking from his hold to reclaim your freedom. With grace born of necessity, both of you rose, an unsettling dance mirrored by the roll of both your bodies. He held his dagger tight, his gaze locked with yours, searching, questioning.

And in that moment, if Astarion’s undead heart could still beat within his chest...

...It would have skipped twice.

Jester peered over as Aric paused and gazed into the deep pit before him, then gracefully leapt down with a soft thud. What Astarion saw next surprised him.

When Aric bent down, Astarion envisioned Aric unearthing a grand coffin, or an embellished, weighty chest, perhaps even a stately urn. Yet, what Aric tenderly cradled from the earth was an old dark wood box, worn at the edges and smeared with the earthy remnants of its burial.

The tiefling gingerly placed it before Jester, and, with a slight arch of his back, Jester wiped away the dirt from the locks with his bare fingers, the earth clinging to the material of his fingerless gloves. He scrutinized the locket in his palm, flipping it over several times before he held it to the lock and clicked the catch. Upon pressing the hidden catch, the locket's mechanism resisted just as it had before. But the lock that guarded the curious box began to dance with hues of fiery orange and burnished gold and finally unlocking with an audible click.

Aric clambered out of the pit as Astarion, curiosity piqued, sidled up behind Jester. The chest's lid creaked open to reveal a solitary, tightly secured leather pouch, its closure bound with a strip of golden fabric. "What in the nine realms…?" Aric let out, his voice tinged with disbelief.

Astarion quizzically arched an eyebrow. "He simply stuffed her ashes in a sack and buried them without ceremony?" he mused, his tone laced with dry humor. "How utterly twee."

With a sharpness in his tone and a glare directed at the two taller figures, Jester retorted, "Oh, what a shock—the late queen treated as refuse. It's not as if he's ever done such a thing before." He paused, a note of impatience coloring his words. "We must ensure her safe return to Haven."

The mention of the queen by the gnome stirred a flicker of interest in Astarion.

But their musings were abruptly eclipsed as the world around them dimmed, and they found themselves enveloped in a dark emerald gloom.

From within the pouch, tendrils of dark green mist began to coil upwards. A wraith-like figure arose, formless yet distinctly feminine—a specter, perhaps a ghost... And from the silence rose a tentative voice.

"...H-hello...?"

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈--ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-

A/N: GUYS I'M BACK. I've been writing this almost nonstop since I finished Chapter 9. Finished editing this while on vacation (brought my whole laptop with me, portable monitor included) and after work pressure, vacation packing/planning, active vacation things, a family emergency in the middle of vacation… WE'RE HERE!

HUGE THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO WAITED PATIENTLY FOR ME TO FINISH THIS I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT. I'LL FINALLY BE ABLE TO RESPOND TO MY ASKS NOW.

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