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[wuxian-vs-wangji]

I'm so curious about that random ass door... Like... IT's just there... Never blocked... Taunting...

lmao

The door is just a pretty way to hide the entrance to the crawlspace.

[finestconcrete]

Flatwork Concrete Services in Wentzville, MO

Finest Concrete is the perfect choice for flatwork concrete services in wentzville, MO, We provide a variety of services and is more than just another concrete company, which sets us apart from other concrete companies, customer satisfaction is our goal for every project.

[chuubian]

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.

[stillfoodforguys]

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.

[victimeyez]

The Dollhouse

Chapter 28 of Professional//Victim

Tommy is paralyzed for his client, and begins his role as a doll.

CW: Captive whumpee, intimate whumper, drugged whump, dehumanization, "willing" whumpee, medical whump, medical torture, doll whumpee, doll fetishization, desecration of remains, and strong horror elements.

~

Dae-Ho opened the door with a warm smile and eyes filled with excitement. Tommy recognized him from the brief video chat they’d had over Caius’s phone. 

“Tommy, Caius, Sam! You came! Please, please come inside!” He ushered them in like family long since seen. Stepping into the foyer, Tommy took a quick moment to take in the place. The lobby more resembled the waiting room of a spa, designed to be warm and calming. A wax heater perfumed the air with some scent, clean and slightly sweet. A fountain feature built into the far wall made for an exquisite accent, incorporating rustic slabs of warm-toned river stones with a little waterfall trickling through merrily. It was carefully fashioned to appear naturalistic, leaning away from a cool cement design that could bring to mind cemetery features. 

Neatly aligned chairs and couches were offered for anyone waiting, furbished with a soft tan hide and cushy padding tight enough to still offer support. An enormous persian rug carpeted most of the room, light and clean with dark blue accents to help balance the warmer tones. There was an office attached, and a small counter crafted to still appear open and welcoming. A soundscape of soothing nature sounds permeated quietly, accompanied by string instrumentals light enough to calm but not depress, 

I could never afford to die here, Tommy thought. There was a distinct feeling he always got when they visited the ritzy places many of his clientele inhabited. Truly, it was almost the same that he felt in his life before. As an impoverished punk in ill-fitting thrift store clothing, whenever he visited anywhere that displayed a modicum of wealth, he got a distinct feeling of being alien and misplaced. I don’t belong here. He knew it, and everyone else did, too. He did his best to act otherwise, but he simply couldn’t hold his space the way people experienced with luxury could. Especially now, deprived as he was within his meager living space. Even the rest of Caius’s house felt too fancy for his worth. 

If Dae-Ho judged him, he did not show it. His eyes twinkled excitedly behind his horn-rimmed glasses, kind and inviting. He was exquisitely dressed in a fitted black suit, with subtle paisley dyed slightly darker in a shadow-like effect. In lieu of a tie, he wore a well tied cravat of magenta with a matching pink and white pocket square. He wore shiny saddle shoes with shiny magenta laces. If he had donned a top hat and a cane, it would not have looked out of place. 

“Tea or coffee for you gentleman?” Dae-Ho swept a hand towards a stand beside the desk, laden with various coffee and tea accoutrements. 

“Coffee sounds good,” Sam suggested. 

“I wouldn’t turn down an earl grey, if you have it. Would you like anything yourself, Dae-Ho? Tommy would be happy to serve you,” Caius asked, his customer service voice in full force. Dae-Ho smiled and waved his hand easily. 

“Nonsense! You are all my guests, I am excited to have new additions to the tea party. I make everything for it myself, though dinner tonight will be catered so we can maximize our time together. If you’d accompany me to the mortuary, I have a sanitized space available where you can prepare Tommy.” Dae-Ho took Tommy’s hand in his and squeezed lightly, giving Tommy a giddy look as if they were sharing a private joke. He led them back down a couple hallways, followed closely by Caius and Sam. 

There was an electronic keypad Dae-Ho unlocked to enter the lab, and he held the door for Caius and Sam without letting go of Tommy’s hand. His grip was oddly gentle, his hands a little damp, the only indication he might be nervous. The flooring inside was a black and white tile dotted with intermittent drains, with a wall of morgue drawers along the back. There was a main slab in the middle of the room, but it resembled an adjustable hospital bed more than a classic metal autopsy table. No railings, allowing for easy access, but it was padded and covered in a shiny laminate for cleanliness. Other rolling racks and trays were stored neatly to one side. Sam whistled, looking around appreciatively, as if being shown some kind of pornography for custom labs. There was an acrid smell to the room here though, a far cry from the melted wax scents in the foyer.

“I have something special for you, Tommy. I had it tailored to you, per those measurements Caius sent,” Dae-Hold told him, dropping his hand to go collect his gift from one of the cabinets. Tommy wasn’t aware of any measurements Caius had sent him, but he knew Sam occasionally took his body measurements when he lost weight. Dae-Ho came back with a long and thin gift box, wrapped and tied thoughtfully with a silky red ribbon. The bow it culminated in looked complicated, and he hesitated to touch it when Dae-Ho set it on the slab before him. 

He had been trying to read Dae-Ho since they met eyes at the door. There were plenty of things he could surmise about him from the state of the manor, the decoration, and his personal sense of style. It was interesting how he was treating them like friends, dropping the formal pretense of a business transaction in spite of his careful state of dress. Tommy had anticipated being regarded as a doll from the very start, not that Dae-Ho would acknowledge him and act so fondly. He had asked Tommy to say hello to him over the phone, but Tommy had dismissed it as a kind of wind-up doll desire. Pull the string to hear what your dolly has to say!

What he couldn’t tell yet was Dae-Ho’s intentions. His joy and hospitality felt very genuine, regardless of the circumstances. 

You know this, you just can’t quite put your finger on it. What does a doll have to offer?

“Tommy?” Dae-Ho prompted, when the gift wasn’t readily accepted.

A doll offers…

The coin dropped. He remembered then, something he had already forgotten that he knew.

A doll offers companionship. He wants a companion. One without needs, one that never disagrees or dislikes the things he likes. Companionship without the emotional risk of genuine human connection. 

A people pleaser. Specifically, a Dae-Ho pleaser. I can do this. I can be this doll. 

Tommy shifted gears abruptly to accommodate, straightening his posture and smiling brightly. Dao-Ho flinched in surprise, but Tommy was tuning in. 

“Wow, this is beautiful Dae-Ho! You are so thoughtful. I’m afraid to open it, it already looks so nice, I don’t even know where to start,” he gushed, touching the sides of the box reverently. He tipped his head down slightly to look up at him through his eyelashes, giving a shy but flirtatious smile. Dae-Ho’s eyes immediately widened, giving him a broad grin back, even taking a step closer as if Tommy had magnetized him. 

“The pleasure is all mine, I wanted you to have it. Would you like help opening it?”

“Yes please,” Tommy said, giving him a little embarrassed smile. Dae-Ho’s eyes gleamed manically, and he tugged on one end of the ribbon, drawing it slowly to watch it unfurl. 

When he lifted the lid, Tommy got a look inside. It took a second to make sense of what he was looking at, but after his experience with all the strappy nightmares Caius put him in, this one was easy to figure out. Unfolded, it was a thickly braided wire armature with leather straps attached to buckle it on. It was shaped a little like a stick figure with no head. He could make the leap without an explanation - this would buckle like a body harness onto him, with a wire skeleton that they could use to pose him. He tested a wire braid with his hands, and it was pretty strong, but still bendable by hand with some force. 

Tommy felt nauseous looking at it. He’d known he would be paralyzed, but this felt grotesque. The threat of impending helplessness made the little color he had drain from his face. 

“You’ll be the best dolly,” Dae-Ho reassured him. Tommy kept his forced smile, but he held it with a grim resolve.

“Thank you Dae-Ho, this is very special.” 

He numbly followed orders to strip, and stand there naked, his arms and legs held away from his body as the armature was attached. The wire at the top had a smaller ring that attached the metal spine through his collar. He supposed it was easier to get it on before he was paralyzed, but once it was on, he was out of time to remain autonomous. Stiffened now with the armature in place, Dae-Ho generously helped him onto the table. As he laid down, he felt as if he was resting his head in the cradle of a guillotine. When Sam lined up a tray of shots and leaned over him, Tommy imagined the rope in his gloved hands, ready to cut it and get the session started in earnest. 

“What I’m going to be administering today is a series of pain blocks at the base of each limb. These are localized anesthetics that will prevent any sensation at all throughout each appendage, until it starts to fade after about seven hours. He also will be unable to move the limbs at all. I had one of these done when I got surgery on my arm – I had to hold my arm in my other hand when I walked for the rest of the day, otherwise it would start swinging like dead meat from my shoulder.” 

Dae-Ho laughed like Sam was telling a joke. 

“The only parts he’ll be able to feel, or have any muscle control, will be from here-” Sam drew imaginary lines with his finger over where Tommy’s thigh connected to his groin over to the base of his hip, severing his legs completely.

“-to here.” He drew lines from the base of each of Tommy’s shoulders down through his armpits.

“Ah…” Dae-Ho flanked Tommy’s other side and reached out to touch him, stroking an appreciative hand down his chest to his stomach. 

“So smooth,” he complimented. 

A gentle hand like that could have been something Tommy enjoyed, but under the circumstances, it revolted him. Dae-Ho’s hand stopped just above his groin and he held Tommy’s hip instead.

“Will he still be able to feel pleasure?” 

Tommy’s stomach churned. Sam looked slightly put off, as if disgusted by the idea. Like he hadn’t unloaded down Tommy’s throat the night before. 

“Yes, he should still be able to feel…everything. Like that.”

“Good,” Dae-Ho breathed. He reached up to touch Tommy’s lips, tracing them with a finger. As part of his “dollification”, Caius had used a lip stain on him that made them look pinker and plumper. He’d even glued on false lashes, delicately curled to give him a more doll-like appearance. The final touch had been the colored contacts, wide emerald irises on top of his natural greens.

“I have a few rules for you, so I need you to listen closely, okay?” Dae-Ho reached up to tap his own ear, as if instructing a toddler. The top of the wire armature was uncomfortable against the back of his skull under where Tommy was laying. He nodded. 

“One - dolls are always happy.” Dae-Ho smiled and pointed to the corners of his mouth. Tommy answered by mirroring his smile in a mirthless mask. 

“Good! Two, dolls do not speak. If Dae-Ho wants you to speak, Dae-Ho will tell you.” Dae-Ho pointed to himself, as if it was not clear, even when slipping into third-person. Tommy nodded. It would be a nice break from trying to guess what the right things to say were, at least.

“Three, dolls do not cry. Dolls are happy to be with Dae-Ho, dolls do not speak and complain, and dolls do not cry. Okay?” 

Hadn’t he just been thinking about that? It was eerie. He definitely hadn’t said anything about it to Dae-Ho, and wracking his brain, he couldn’t recall Caius saying anything about it. They hadn’t discussed it in the short video call. 

Sometimes he did this with Caius, when he would say something and Caius would look at him like he’d just read his mind. I was just thinking that! Are you having one of your little psychic moments, Tommy? He would ask playfully. 

Psychic - as if. If he was, he would have run before Caius could take him. Maybe he wouldn’t have agreed to finally go to church with Mom, for just one Sunday. If he hadn't gone, he never would have met Caius’s mother. He never would have met Caius. And sure, cancelling would have disappointed Ma, but that wouldn’t have been any change of pace. 

“I’ll go start the tea. When I come back - we follow the rules, okay?” Tommy gave Dae-Ho a mechanical nod, and he breezed out. 

Tommy counted ceiling tiles while Sam cleaned a spot by his hip with an alcohol wipe. He hated needles. He didn’t usually go weak at the knees about them anymore, not after all the hundreds of injections they’d put him through over the years. Vaccines, antibiotics, scar treatments, anesthetics, muscle relaxants, steroids, cocktails Sam cooked up and didn’t even tell him what he was being injected with. Not to mention, more stitches than he could count. 

He remembered, suddenly, something he hadn’t thought about in a long time. His piercer, back home, a lifetime ago. She worked out of a tattoo parlor with no name, just the generic TATTOOS sign on the side of an old road in a bad part of town. His bad part of town. But she was gentle, as gentle as one could be with a needle, and he knew because he’d gotten other piercings elsewhere. 

Anika was tall, making him feel especially small when she stood before him as he sat on the edge of the tattoo table. She was so pretty, with all her piercings, her voice deep and sweet. He’d liked her short hair, but her new braids looked good too, loose strands framing her face with the rest swept into a high messy bun. He liked the way she laid her baby hairs, in tiny little curls around her hairline.

“Alright, don’t forget to breathe. Quick pinch. Breathe in…” Tommy took a slow breath in, and the needle slid through the shell of his ear. She quickly slid the piercing into place, leaving it in as she retracted the piercing needle. “-aaaaand breathe out. Good boy, you always take it like a champ.” His heart fluttered a little in his chest, the way she said it. 

Words like that were different nowadays. Maybe that’s why Caius chose him. Saw his hopeless need to please somehow, and decided to make Tommy please him. 

Sam pushed the needle into his shoulder. Breathe in, Anika said, an echo from years ago. He breathed in, slow. The numbness started to streak down his arm immediately, and Sam pulled the needle out. Breathe out…good boy, Tommy, she complimented. It didn’t matter that she never called him Tommy, when he knew her. It didn’t matter that she never even remembered his name. 

She talked him through each injection, comforting even as Sam worked with clinical austerity. Tommy focused on his hands, making them into fists, relax, fists, relax. Curling his toes, uncurl, curl, uncurl. Until they felt weaker, and weaker, and numb, until he couldn’t feel them at all. Like they’d been amputated, no signal at all that they were even there.

The best he could do was wiggle a little by tensing his stomach. His limbs, the bulk of his bodyweight, were suddenly dead weights, fleshy anchors he couldn’t unbind. This wasn’t just being tied up - he was completely imprisoned in his body. 

Tears welled in his eyes before he could stop it. It felt like the contacts might actually help a little as he blinked them back, trying to compose himself. Sam returned to his side, holding a steel water bottle. 

“Open,” he coaxed, twisting the lid off. Tommy did, but Sam pinched his nose anyway, pouring the water into his mouth. At least, he’d expected water, but there was a kind of chemical taste to it, something sweet. He swallowed it to keep from choking, but when Sam pulled the bottle back, a pink trickle dribbled down the side. 

Bastard, Tommy swore internally. He should have guessed Sam was drugging him when he waited until Tommy was unable to move to have him drink. Caius pulled a tissue from his bag and dabbed around Tommy’s lips.

Completely unable to move, no matter what happened, for the next seven or so hours. Fed aphrodisiacs, while he couldn’t fight back, while he couldn’t attempt to cover himself. The helpless feeling suddenly became overwhelming, and a few tears overflowed, even as he struggled to hold them back. 

“Oh dear. It’s alright, little one, be brave for me,” Caius cooed. He ran a hand softly over Tommy’s belly, soothing him with a gentle touch. In spite of everything, it helped. He wiped the tears away with the tissue.

“Is it scary?”

Tommy’s throat was too thick to speak. He managed a nod. Caius gave him a look of sympathy, more than Tommy would have expected after his demands. Sam’s face reflected his similar bewilderment.

“This won’t be so bad. He just wants to play with you, he doesn’t have any plans to hurt you. You can eat and drink, he really does have a tea party planned. We will be with you in case you need anything. Did you have fun at the aquarium?”

“Yes,” Tommy croaked, and then cleared his throat. “Yes, I did, thank you, it was beautiful. I had a lot of fun.” Less hoarse this time, and the leaking from his eyes was quickly subsiding.

Caius did a little more shuffling in his bag, and his touch returned to Tommy’s face with a powder brush, covering up the pink on his nose and the red around his eyes. “I had fun with you, too,” Caius admitted, and something about it brought a funny smile back to Tommy’s face. 

Deep breaths. You can do this. You don’t even have to talk. Play dolls with him. Just…babysitting.

Definitely not babysitting, another part of him reminded cruelly. He wanted to know if you can feel pleasure, they drugged you with the aphrodisiac. You’re going to spend the day as the perfect unwilling fuck doll and there’s nothing you can do about it. Tommy tried to shove those thoughts to the side in order to keep his newfound composure. 

Sam pinched and poked his arms to test the numbness. It might as well have been done to someone else, for the amount of sensation Tommy got from it. When Dae-Ho came back, his gaze on Tommy was hungry.

“Let’s get you dressed up again, shall we?”

The armature harness had replaced the fashion harness part of the outfit that he had chosen, but Dae-Ho pulled his stack of clothes from the counter where Tommy had folded them.

Trying to bend the armature to make his limbs follow was unsuccesful. After some fussing, Dae-Ho realized he could bend it much easier by manipulating Tommy’s limbs themselves, letting his weight help apply force to bend them the way he wanted. The wire was strong enough then to hold him in place. Dae-Ho posed him a few times for fun, and then used it to bend his limbs in positions that made dressing him easier. 

“I should use these for all my bodies!” Dae-Ho exclaimed, a little breathy from the effort. Tommy had been dressed by Caius and a few others before, when he was unable - or unwilling - to dress himself. Not in the things some of the clients wanted, especially at the beginning. Tommy knew better than to fight back much anymore, though he had just made his little stand in the car earlier.  

When he was dressed again, in his blousy white dress shirt and black latex pants and matching bowtie, Dae-Ho laced him into a pair of saddle shoes with spats. He was settled into a wheelchair, lowered in with practiced ease by Dae-Ho. He was deceptively strong underneath his fine suit. Tommy was wheeled to the stairs then, Caius and Sam trailing behind, and stopped at a stair lift waiting at the bottom. He’d only ever seen them in commercials before, of elderly people smiling as they buckled themselves into the seat to be pulled up the stairs on a motorized track. He could see it installed up the wall, rounded off at the corners to go up the stairs, turn onto the landing, and continue up the next flight that changed direction. 

Dae-Ho turned to Sam. 

“Doctor, will you please help me move it onto the lift?” Sam had a pinch in his forehead, but after a hesitant look to Caius, he agreed. Not being able to feel or move his limbs was uncomfortable to Tommy - any part of him that wasn’t supported hung limply down, and he couldn’t help at all. As he was settled into the chair and buckled in, his arms bent awkwardly in front of him. Sam moved his hands into his lap, and one immediately fell off, dangling strangely. The best he could do was attempt to sit up and back to move his arms back in, but they were nothing more than warm dead anchors hanging from his shoulder. He also couldn’t adjust his hips to sit up, so he hung uselessly in his harness. 

With the press of a button, the chair let out a grinding sound and started to advance up the wall. At the corner, he heard his ankle bash the wall, but he couldn’t feel it at all. The helpless feeling was significantly worse than when he was bound and he could strain against his bindings - this was more intimate, more violating, the way it robbed him of the little autonomy he had left. 

The machine went slower than walking speed, so the others met him again at the top after passing him. Dae-Ho already had another wheelchair ready, and he flopped haphazardly in with a push. The acrid smell had grown sharper, turning sour and musty, though the upstairs appeared clean and brightly lit. Caius wrinkled his nose slightly, struggling to be polite, but Sam gave a look of open disgust. 

Tommy was wheeled into a lavish dining room, made up as the pinnacle of a lavish art-deco design. It felt like it belonged in a scene from The Great Gatsby. The center of the room was dominated by a round table - and the rest of the company had already found their places. Dolls were seated around the table, some propped up in chairs, others in wheelchairs like Tommy. They were of varying sizes, some child-size while others appeared as tall as Caius. There were a variety of designs among them - some very simple, others far more realistic. One had clearly been a scarecrow, a few were just mannequins, and a couple of halloween prop dummies with plastic heads and hands. One seat held a long body pillow with a pillowcase featuring an anime girl posed in a vulnerable way, blushing. 

There was a gigantic Barbie and Ken, their placid smiles unsettling at such a size. Next to them sat what looked like a crash test dummy that had been badly painted, the mouth too low on the face, the eyes too far apart. A large green power ranger plushie had a spot, as well as a plastic Optimus Prime that stood up stiffly in his chair. One seemed to be an evil clown animatronic, another one a human-sized plushie blue tiger.

 Tommy preferred that to the ones that were obviously sex dolls, made with an attempt at realism that was undermined by their soulless faces and cartoonish proportions. Most of the dolls were dressed in roaring 20’s outfits, but the sex dolls wore skimpy club wear that highlighted their enormous plastic breasts and tiny waists. Other more detailed mannequins had closer to human proportions, all slightly different shapes and sizes, but their plastic faces were identical - one face for all the “women”, and another for the “men”. Their eyes were sunken, but more lifelike in color and size, the glossy glass orbs taking on a wet look. Wigs, flapper dresses, patterned suits, and fake eyelashes abound. 

Dae-Ho’s seat was obvious, as an empty throne of garish gold. He had a sex doll immediately to the left, and wheeled Tommy into an empty spot to the right. Caius and Sam took to a couch on the side, away from the table. 

“You all get to know each other a bit, and I’ll be back with everything for the tea party,” Dae-Ho addressed his inanimate guests, and left the room.

The smell was strong, though if Dae-Ho noticed, he didn’t mind. As soon as he left, Sam started searching the room. 

“We’re not casing the joint, you know,” Caius mused, as Sam made his way around the edge of the room. 

“It smells like - something, I can’t put my finger on it, but it reeks in here,” Sam explained, opening the drawers of a wardrobe. He sniffed over one, made a face, and started to rummage through. 

“We are directly above his embalming room, you’re probably smelling something from that,” Caius pointed out, but they all knew the smell had been fainter in the lab below. Sam ignored him, moving on to another drawer.

“Hey,” Caius said sharply, and both Tommy and Sam jumped. Well, as much as Tommy could jump. 

“We are guests here. Stop touching his things, put everything back exactly the way it was, and sit. Down.” Caius hissed, and it sent Sam quickly packing everything back in. It felt a little like a mother reigning in her boys, though Tommy sat dutifully in his place at the table - not that he could do anything else. 

“Just let me look at the dolls,” Sam mustered, passing the couch to inspect them. Caius sighed.

“If he comes back and sees you, he very well might invite you to the table. And if he does - you will sit down at that table and shut your mouth, so help me god.”

Sam sniffed around the circle, but he mostly just seemed curious about the dolls. He poked the animatronic in the eyes, and posed the Optimus Prime with his little hands on the table. When he got to a sex doll, he squeezed her breasts, giving a mischievous smile to Caius. 

“Jealous?” He waggled his eyebrows up and down goofily. Caius rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his thin lips. 

“Hardly. If you want some big silicon tits, I know a doctor who might be able to help.” 

Sam twiddled with the swollen boobs. “They even have nipples.”

“Of course, how else would she breast feed?” Caius said dryly, but he was enjoying his boyfriend’s antics a bit. 

Sam reached the mannequin beside Tommy, and pulled it back to sit upright so he could take a closer look. 

“These ones have like - I think these are real human replacement eyes, like if you lose an eye? Do they use those on bodies?”

“No, much worse, they put these little hooked pieces inside to keep the eyelids closed,” Caius supplied helpfully. Sam and Tommy made the same face at the same time in response to the information. 

“I knew a doll fucker, this guy Pete. Had a whole ‘harem’ of the things, even had a wedding ceremony with at least one of them. I almost went, just to see, but there wasn’t an open bar and the ceremony was supposed to be like two hours long. But he was collecting these mannequins that they used in a couple high end places in France or something, they were super articulated and rare. These might be those types, or something like it.” Sam squeezed one of the arms. 

“What do you bet all of these have a fleshlight installed? I bet even Optimus over there is rocking something.” Sam pulled the wig hair back to get a better look, and made a face. 

“Oh, shit, this thing stinks. I hope we don’t have a-” Sam stopped suddenly, freezing in place.

“Don’t,” Tommy whispered.

Sam pressed something behind the ear, palpating it with his fingers before switching to picking at it with his fingernails. 

“Sam don’t-”

Sam tugged shortly, and then slower, drawing out an enormous metal pin that had been hidden inside the head. The awful smell grew much more intense, and a foul brown liquid dripped down the side of the doll’s face from where the pin had been pulled. 

Why Sam couldn’t leave it be, Tommy would never know. But when Sam pushed the wig away from the hole to see, the doll’s head shifted and opened like a clam, the face swinging open and away, clicking lightly when it hit the hinge behind the other ear. Plastic blond ringlets fell in the way as Sam let go, but they couldn’t cover enough of what was inside. 

The face underneath was leathery and shiny, with glass-like cracking in areas. All the shellac in the world couldn’t keep a body from rotting. The false eyes were glued over blackened sockets, obtrusive and bulging. Her lips were painted on poorly, closer resembling a beak, and the thin shell of preservative was the only thing shaping the nose, which seemed to have liquified underneath. 

The smell was putrid and overwhelming, and both Tommy and Sam turned away to retch. Sam crossed the room away from it, leaving Tommy dry heaving beside the body. 

With a horrified realization, Tommy looked up and counted the other dolls with the sunken, human eyes. Six total, hunched over in wheelchairs around the table. Sam was swearing, but Caius stepped up beside Tommy to look, holding a hand over his lower face. 

Doing a once over of the "doll", Caius sighed.

"Damn."

~

Taglist:

@suspicious-whumping-egg  @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday @defire @jumpywhumpywriter

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @knivestothroats @paperprinxe

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

Thank you all so much for reading!!!

[siremasterlawrence]

A Museum of Horror # 2 : Operation Doll Face

The doll AKA aptly named Colton Haynes appears to be operational on all cylinders so far in to my research as I press a few buttons, flip on a switch as the lights in the room begin to blink on and off starting the process as the electricity radiates.The walls four corners began spinning out of control with black panels everywhere cover in black rubber, the energy is pooling all of it together as it travels to the medical slate in the center of the room and lights it up as his body brightens up with electrical currents. He is in for a world of pain as he body lifts into mid air convulsing like a lunatic sinking into a new life time as he rolls to the side of the slab and falls flat on his back as his eyes are opening wide coming to life as he stood up in wonder.

Operation on Online”

“How do you feel?”

“I am a robot “

“Do you comprehend why I made you ?”

“I am here to serve you “

“Everything is in working order.”

“Naturally! I need to be of use”

“Sit up straight so I can examine “

“Fully available “

I informed him his testing begins now as he is rising to his feet as I point to the shower area of this laboratory that use to be a very popular gym and I begin plotting my totally awesome revenge scheme that will give my slave doll Colton Haynes the biggest role of his life literally as he swerves to face me in a deep sea of power.Grabbing on to his robotic chest my hands are met with such delight at the synthetic touch of his body felt so real beyond any of my imagination my work could be this good and I lean in to play with his nipples as I watch him moan in pleasure from my delicate manipulation of his robotic mind attempting to process it all.Clapping my hand a bit as the walls spread a bit apart till they hit the walls on the side of the room as we walk through the middle of the room in to the gyms shower area of the laboratory and I watch him as he does this on purpose I mean he genuinely begins to disrobe all of his clothes as they hit the floor from flying around.

“I HAVE A RESTRAINING A ORDER!” The real Colton Haynes stares in utter pain and true disgusts.

“Oh Colton! Don’t Worry this was a your clone the toy.”

“Master! Is this who I am replacing? He is cute.”

“RELEASE ME!”

“You are fine bro! All you need to do is be a good boy.”

“Fuck you!”

“Spit in my face huh?”

“Oh! I’ll do far more “

“Too bad buddy! Hey COLTON “

“What?”

“Not you!”

“Snap the losers neck and take him in to the lab”

“Nnnnoooo!”

“STOP!”

“Bye bye “

“Mwahahahahaha “

“He is finished Master”

“Place him in the right pod and enter the left “

The machine whirls on with a bright boom of blue light washing over the room is shooting in to the sky as the pods connect in a super sexy showcase of color overtaking the room we are in and soon enough the pods begin to shake as body bodies begin to form a toxic form of gas shooting across the tube pipes in to each other.

Spreading in to the right pod forming a one Colton Haynes.

“Master! OH MASTER”

“What bitch?”

“I am at your service “

“Obviously!”

“You may exit “

“What can I do for you?”

“Kneel for me”

“No! Between my legs “

“Yes Master! I am fucking hard”

“May I worship you ?”

“That’s your job”

“Undress me”

“Follow me to the bed “

“I am so excited”

“I can’t wait “

“You taste delicious “

“Do I? How so?”

“Yyyuuummm”

The end

[kirkwall-tourism-department]

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?

[simshousewindsor]

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 I, 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.

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 I (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 I, 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)

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.

[abigailmoment]

In The Absence Of Stars

Tags: Tragic Kindness, Post-Solitary Confinement, Disassociation, Vampire Spawn Culture, Terrible Hurt and Strange Comfort, Starvation, Healing from Trauma, Polyamory, Community Building, Eating Disorder, Codependency, Self-Harm Through Neglect, Prevented Suicide Attempt, Familiars As Service Animals, Learning, Getting Better, Hurt and Actual Comfort

-

Astarion's neck prickled and his hands tightened around his mug. He knew he had limited time. And he knew he was doing this wrong. He was at a table in the back corner, and that was wrong of him. He should be at the bar. He should be on display. That's how you drew people. Pretty didn't work if it was hidden in a corner.

Pretty didn't work if it was hidden under stone.

"Are you all right?"

Someone was close. Someone had gotten close, and Astarion hadn't even noticed. Something inside of him flinched, but the impulse didn't make it to his body. There was a strange delay between mind and movement.

When he did move it was to look up and try to make sense of the shape next to him. Tall. Green. Teeth.

"You're not all right," said the half-orc.

-

This was inspired by this story by @ineadhyn.

I made the Samaritan a half-orc because I needed someone who would be completely unafraid to walk someone else home at night in Baldur's Gate. By the end I realized that the kind but assertive voice I had for him was based quite a bit on Finch, who belongs to @everchased and who therefore should be credited for inspiration.

It obviously isn't actually him, because that would be unbearably hideous, and also he's in the future, smiting evildoers. Possibly this is some great grand-uncle.

-

Astarion couldn't talk properly.

He was out, but his voice was back in the crypt. Trapped under a slab. Dusty and broken.

He ordered a drink by pointing. He had coins in his pocket. He had found them months ago. There was loose change in tombs, if you looked hard enough. For long enough. Funerary rites. Coins for the dead. Meant for a different corpse. His now.

Five copper for a year of solitude. Not…not a very good price.

It was enough to buy a very cheap drink that he didn't want. A necessary prop, he remembered.

He remembered the rote things. The need to get a drink to justify existing in this space. He remembered where this space was. The taven's name had changed, he was fairly sure, but it was much the same. Dingy, but not filthy. Populated by few groups, mostly solitary drinkers. Poorly lit.

Even the dim lantern light made his eyes hurt. Everything seemed so bright.

The light was better than darkness, anything was better than darkness, but it had been so abrupt. Nothing and nothing and nothing and then an assault of light and hideous movement. Dragged out by Godey. Washed by Aurelia. He had mauled a rat to tatters and not had time to pick the skin out of his teeth before he had to leave. He had to find someone. As he always did. As if it hadn't happened. As if the last year hadn't happened.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to fold down on the floor and cry.

He took his drink and went to find a place to sit. He held it with both hands. His grip was about as reliable as his voice. He found a table. He held his drink as if it meant something to him. He sat still.

This was…this was bearable. This moment. Sitting here. Away enough from the lanterns that they didn't blind so much. There was movement and noise, which was good because if it got too quiet he might actually scream, but it wasn't all around him, like it had been on the street. It wasn't doing anything to him.

At the moment.

Astarion's neck prickled and his hands tightened around his mug.

He knew he had limited time. And he knew he was doing this wrong. He was at a table in the back corner, and that was wrong of him. He should be at the bar. He should be on display. That's how you drew people. Pretty didn't work if it was hidden in a corner.

Pretty didn't work if it was hidden under stone.

"Are you all right?"

Someone was close. Someone had gotten close, and Astarion hadn't even noticed. Something inside of him flinched, but the impulse didn't make it to his body. There was a strange delay between mind and movement.

When he did move it was to look up and try to make sense of the shape next to him. Tall. Green. Teeth.

"You're not all right," said the half-orc.

He leaned over and Astarion didn't know what to do. Scripts were jumbling together in his head. There were all sorts of things he was supposed to do when someone leaned into his space and he wasn't doing any of them. Just sitting there. Like a mouse. Or a statue.

"I think you've had a little too much…" the half-orc was saying, because he was leaning over to look at Astarion's drink. He stopped talking briefly when he saw it was untouched.

"…something," he still maintained, with a fair amount of confidence. "Are you here with anyone?"

Astarion shook his head. Always no to that.

The half-orc looked relieved that he'd actually responded, and eyed him critically for a moment. Then he sat down in a chair across from Astarion.

"Did you drink something?" he asked Astarion. "Or eat something?"

A rat. It had been a moment of abject ecstasy and nowhere near enough. But that's not what was meant. Astarion shook his head.

"Did something happen to you?" the half-orc asked.

Astarion didn't shake his head. He didn't nod. What was he supposed to say to that?

"There's a Fist officer on the street outside," the half-orc said. "Do you need me to…?"

"No."

Then Astarion coughed, because there was still dust in his throat.

"Okay. Okay." The half-orc was holding his hands up. "Not that. That's fine."

Astarion finished coughing. He took a drink of pointless liquid. His hands were shaking. He was so useless right now. If even this was too much, he had no idea how he was going to…

"Do you live nearby?" the half-orc asked him.

That ticked a familiar note in Astarion's brain. That was part of a script, but it wasn't part of this script. Whatever this was. Astarion just stared at him.

"Look. I'm going to get you home, all right?" the half-orc said.

Something inside of Astarion froze. It couldn't be this easy. It was never this easy.

He nodded.

And it was easy.

Astarion was helped to his feet. He was steered very gently around the tables, chairs and other solitary drinkers. The door was opened for him.

They walked through the dark streets. No one bothered them, because one of them was six feet tall and had tusks. Astarion didn't even have to talk. He just pointed down the streets where they needed to go.

The half-orc kept a hand on Astarion's arm. Not possessive. Astarion knew possessive. It was like he was concerned Astarion might fall over and wanted to be in a position to do something about that if it happened. And it had been a year. A year since any kind of touch like that. And it was light enough that it didn't overwhelm, and Astarion felt like his body was somehow devouring it through the point of contact on his arm. Like the rat. Abject ecstasy and nowhere near enough.

And Astarion kept pointing down streets leading them closer and closer to his home.

It felt like there was a mortar and pestle inside of his chest. And every step he took turned the pestle and ground away at something. Something slender and enduring. Something that he hadn't realized he still had, didn't remember the name of, and that he was slowly destroying by doing this. A feeling like watching the night sky and seeing stars winking out.

They stopped at the base of the main stairs, that led up to the familiar mahogany door of the least convoluted entrance.

"You gonna be okay from here?" the half-orc asked.

He sounded a little intimidated. Because Astarion had led him to a castle.

And there was a moment, when the dying, ground down thing inside of Astarion's chest fluttered. A keening desire to do something, anything, other than what he was currently doing. But it was an impulse that didn't translate into motion. A death rattle. Because he was fresh from a lesson about sentiment. And the night sky was black, like the inside of a tomb.

"Would you mind…" Astarion started quietly, and stuttered, but managed to thread the words together in the end: "I may have trouble with the stairs."

"Sure," the half-orc said, immediately.

And he helped Astarion up the stairs and into the Szarr Palace.

-

This was supposed to be a short story about the POV character.

It is now an ongoing series about the half-orc. There are going to be about twenty chapters. I have all of it outlined and much of it written.

Gods preserve me. The rest of it is on AO3. -

[burningreactor]

Explosions of residential buildings in Russia in September 1999

25 years ago, Russia was shaken by a series of terrorist attacks. Several apartment buildings were blown up with explosives planted in basements: in Buinaksk, two in Moscow and in Volgodonsk. As a result of the terrorist attacks, 307 people were killed, more than 1,700 people were injured of varying severity or suffered in one way or another. These crimes, sponsored by one of the main Chechen terrorists, Amir ibn al-Khattab, were supposed to be the revenge of Chechen militants for the failed invasion of Dagestan, but eventually served as arguments for the start of the second Chechen war.

Buinaksk (Dagestan), September 4, 64 people were killed and 146 injured

At the end of August, terrorists drove a KAMAZ truck from a Chechen village to the city. There were five tons of explosives in the back of the truck, disguised with bags of sugar. Knowing that due to the tense situation in the North Caucasus, locals would be on their guard, the terrorists began to prepare for crimes in advance. One of them pretended to be a watermelon merchant and took up a position in the courtyard of a five-story building, where most of the families of officers of the 136th Motorized Rifle brigade lived.

The attackers' plan worked: the residents of the house were used to seeing GAZ-52 with watermelons in their yard and on the evening of September 4 didn't pay attention to it. No one knew that there were 2.7 tons of explosives in the back of the car. That evening, many officers were delayed on duty because of an important meeting - and therefore there were mostly women and children in the apartments. When the clock showed 21:45, there was an explosion.

Two entrances of the building, each of which contained 15 apartments, turned into ruins. There was a huge hole in the middle of the house. The house was torn out in the middle, destroyed along the slabs.

Moscow, September 8, 106 people were killed and 690 injured

Most of the 14 tons of explosives for the crimes were manufactured at the mineral fertilizer plant in Urus-Martan, and then packaged in sugar bags. Under the guise of the CEO of the company, the leader of the attack rented a place for "sugar" in the warehouse. To lull the vigilance of the residents, a couple of days before the delivery of the deadly cargo from the warehouse, promoters hired by terrorists walked through the apartments of the house. They claimed that the sugar trade was about to begin on the ground floor of the house.

On September 8 at 23:59 an explosion broke out. It simultaneously brought down two central entrances of building, visually dividing the house into two parts. This crime came as a surprise not only to people, but also to the special services. No one expected that residential buildings would become the target of terrorists.

The explosion sowed panic among Moscow citizens: people were afraid to spend the night in their apartments, so sometimes they even bought tents and sleep in parks.

Moscow, September 13, 124 people were killed and 2 injured

In the story of this terrorist attack, it is striking that explosives packed in sugar bags were discovered in advance. However, the district police officer who checked the premises of the furniture store didn't understand what he was facing.

On September 13, at about 05:00, bomb activated, bringing down the entire single-entrance house. About 700 rescuers quickly began working at the scene of the tragedy, who dismantled the rubble manually in search of survivors.

"I felt like I was flying for a long time, then I fell, and this fall woke me up. I was still flying and sleeping. Then I came to my senses. Dust, sand is flying. I sat on this pile of rubble for about seven minutes and wanted to hear at least someone shout. It's like in a war: silence, dust is falling, and no one even moves, it's quiet, there's no sound, no breathing. Dead silence." survivor of a terrorist attack.

Volgodonsk (Rostov region), September 16, 19 people were killed and 89 injured

The terrorists left a KAMAZ truck with dangerous cargo at a carpool in the nearby village and on the same day agreed to buy a GAZ-53 truck from Abbaskuli Iskenderov, allegedly to deliver potatoes around the city. Then, at the request of the "buyers", Iskender parked GAZ-53 at a nine-story apartment building. At five in the morning there was a terrible explosion.

The facade and stairwells of building were severely damaged, the floors partially collapsed — but the building stood due to a special earthquake-resistant structure. Nevertheless, an explosive wave of monstrous power within a radius of two blocks from the explosion hit 37 residential buildings, two schools, a kindergarten and a police building.

[random-introverted-blog]

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.

[saltmannequin]

aquarium

eddie munson x gn!reader

wc: 800

warnings: marijuana use (edibles), high eddie, no use of y/n!

a/n: just a messy little drabble based on that one family guy tiktok sound - apologies if there’s any mistakes!

————

It was a warm Sunday evening in mid-July when your best friend Nancy sat opposite you in the old diner a few miles east of Hawkins, hands in her hair, eyes on the slab of oak that separated the two of you.

She exhaled lowly, emitted a frustrated groan, and pushed her hair backwards against her skull. "I’m just bored. There's nothing to do around here.. me and Steve just hang out by his pool all day." She rolled her eyes and looked up at the ceiling.

You thought carefully about what advice to offer her. A service bell rang in the distance. An idea appeared.

"Well, sometimes me and Eddie take edibles and go to the aquarium a few towns over."

Nancy’s once downturned mouth quirked slightly upward. She shook her head at you while chuckling softly. "Now that.. is an idea. Is it fun?"

The memory of your last trip to the aquarium with your boyfriend of six months, Eddie Munson, drifted into your mind.

-

Your denim-covered thigh was pressed against Eddie’s, similarly, denim covered thigh. The bench underneath you both had grown warm from how long the two of you had sat, transfixed on the floating fish opposite you.

Eddie’s mouth was slightly agape, and his doe eyes were sparkling under the fluorescent blue of the lights inside the large glass tank. Your eyes were heavy, and your smile was dopey.

"Imagine…" He swallowed, "Imagine being a fish.." He chuckled lightly as a bright yellow angelfish changed direction almost rapidly. "Just floating around..eating those tiny little fish cracker flakes.."

"Fish food"

"Yeah.. that…wouldn’t that be just awesome?"

"Breathing underwater? I’d never go on dry land again." You sighed contentedly at the thought of having no thoughts and swimming around all day.

•

A few extended minutes passed before you both got up from the bench, bones clicking. The two of you walked hand in hand along the seemingly endless aquarium until you reached the gift shop placed strategically just before the exit.

You both gasped at the countless array of trinkets, keyrings, and plushies that decorated the shelves all across the shop floor, noticing that they had added tonnes of new items.

Instantly, Eddie dragged you towards the mug section, insisting he had to buy Wayne a new mug, gasping when he found a small coffee mug with a crab painted on it. ‘If this mug is empty, I’m feeling crabby.’ was printed in block letters next to the grumpy-looking crab.

"This is so perfect!" He smiled excitedly while taking one from the shelf and clutching it to his chest like a prize.

You both walked around some more, ogling at a few items you both adored a little too much, before buying Wayne’s mug and leaving through the exit. "Sea you soon!" was written above the door.

The fresh air was a warm welcome for the both of you after being in the stuffy air conditioning of the aquarium.

You made your way over to Eddie’s van, chatting about ‘which fish is subjectively better than all the other fish’. He opened the passenger door of the van for you, helping you up before running around to his side. You opened your bag as he slid into the driver's seat.

His hand reached out to place his keys in the ignition, but he hesitated as he felt something hit his leg. A thick silver ring adorned with a sting ray and various swirls carved into the metal alongside it was placed in his lap. He gasped when he saw it.

"Babe! No way! Oh my god…a-are you sure I can have this?"

"I bought it for you, Eds; you’ve never even looked at me the way you looked at that ring." You smiled at him warmly as he thanked you profusely, sliding it onto his middle finger.

" ‘Got you something too." He smiled sheepishly as he reached into his pocket, tongue curling upwards out of his mouth slightly as he struggled to pull the item out of his jean pocket. He sighed triumphantly as he finally got a grasp on it. "Here."

You took the small, black box from him hesitantly, wondering if the item was really what you thought it was. You were right. "Oh, Eddie.."

"D-do you not like ‘em? ‘Cause I can return ‘em, s’just you looked at ‘em for a while and I thought you might’ve liked ‘em.." He spun his new ring around on his finger, nervously awaiting your response.

"Eddie, these are so beautiful! Thank you so much." You placed your hands on both sides of his face and pulled him in for a soft kiss. Lips melding together in harmony.

"I love you." You whispered, foreheads touching.

"I love you too." He whispered back, smiling.

-

"It’s really, really fun." You beamed at Nancy, fiddling with the stained-glass jellyfish that dangled from your earlobes. Thin wisps of glass extending from the body of the jellyfish, reflecting the neon lights in the old diner.

————

thank you for reading!!!

these are the pieces of jewellery i had in mind when writing :)

[finestconcrete]

Concrete Driveway Installation Contractor in St. Peters, MO

Finest Concrete is the perfect choice for concrete driveway installation contractor in St. Peters, MO. We provide a variety of services and is more than just another concrete company, which sets us apart from other concrete companies in St. Louis, MO is our attention to detail and customer satisfaction is our goal for every project.

[lycmr720f3]

Sims 4 house -a high standard decoration modern mansion

Modern & Minimalist & Fashionable

The 1307 Sierra Mansion is a modern luxury home with a unified style of ceiling decoration（The first person perspective of the ceiling is visible,and the third person perspective is not blocking the view）, building materials, furniture, and decorative items specially crafted.

The vast majority of building materials, furniture, and decorative items in houses are meticulously modeled and tuned.They are both textured and fully functional, and are placed in the perfect position of the house,creating a modern spatial design that is very beautiful, exquisite, and fashionable.

Housing configuration

House Features:

Will not prompt for lost furniture items, what you see is what you get.

The exterior and interior decoration of the building are quite modern and fashionable, with textured furniture and specially designed ceilings. The first person perspective is visible, while the third person perspective is not.

The entire house has almost no overlapping objects putting, causing flickering of object textures.

The second floor of the building has two flowing water features. If a simulated citizen passes through this area, they will Walk on stone slabs, which will not create a strange water walking scene，and so on.

The interaction of furniture functions is very complete and will not block simulated citizens, resulting in inability to interact.

Almost anywhere you go to the house, you won't get stuck.

The elevator lobby can be conveniently and quickly moved between the third floor, saving a lot of time.

The basketball court theme can be modified in construction mode, providing 30 themes.

The vast majority of furniture has storage and placement function, and hangers can hang clothes.

Basketball Court

More styles

The floor texture, walls, and ceiling treatment here are excellent, and the lighting design has a sense of layering, creating a good sports atmosphere.

The house offers 30 basketball court themes that can be customized in construction mode.

Take A Look

More HD images of the house

Usage Information

Game version

Your game needs to be version 1.77.131.1030 or higher.

Packs

The house uses the following combination packages to ensure the integrity of the decoration effect.

For Windows only

This house only supports Windows systems.The usage of this house is the same as using a house in daily gaming, with a Mods folder and a Tray folder, it just the cc files of this house has been encrypted, and once unlocked with one click using the files unlocking tool, the house can be used.

House file size

1.87GB

Lot

64 x 64, recommended for placement inWindenburg

Download

Because the house file is a little large, so the house is stored in TearBox, which is a network disk service for free，using TearBox to achieve extremely fast downloads.

click here to download the whole house

Download

House Video

Here are my two YouTube videos of the house , one about the design of the space and one about simulating people interacting with the house.

[1296-very-good-year]

Just for fun, here are some excerpts from the last wow novel that explored Anduin's mental state (Shadow's Rising) immediately PRIOR to his kidnapping, torture, mind control, and however many years wandering around alone with crippling ptsd:

1) They had reached the fences. Anduin grasped one of the crossbeams and squeezed, the old, battered wood creaking. He wanted to break it. He wanted it to snap. A surge of anger made him close his eyes, as if he were afraid of what Alleria might see there.

The hunt would continue, and he, as king, would find a way to keep faith in their odds of victory. That was his duty. A man had to know his limits, but he could not reach that limit, not yet; too many depended on him now.

The fence beam snapped. Just another thing to fix.

Another in a long, long line of things to mend.

2) He strangely wanted to stay in the crypt, to sit there among the dead and know their pain, their stories. It seemed easier than facing another day of frustration and failure.

3) Jaina: “Alleria and Turalyon tortured that smuggler in front of me. She used the Void to infiltrate his mind while he held him prisoner with chains made from the Light. It looked unspeakably painful.” She rounded the table, searching his face. “My king…I worry that their tactics represent you poorly. Every one of us, every soldier, is in service to your crown. We stand under your banner, and if their actions are sanctioned by your rule, what does that say about us?”

Anduin did not speak for a long while, though his smile diminished. He shook his head, turning away from her, pacing back and forth across the lush green carpet beneath their feet. Finally, he crossed to a large brazier in the corner belching healthy flames. Flattening his hand, he passed it back and forth just above the reach of the fire.

“What does it say?” he echoed. He sounded almost offended that she had to ask. “It says we will do whatever we must to bring murderers to justice. It says we will not forget those lost in war. It says we will not forget Teldrassil, or Lordaeron. It says we will not forget the mak’gora. It says that we will not forget the flames blazing over the Veiled Sea, or the fires reflected in the eyes of a thousand mourning children.”

4) His skin looked worn and blue around the eyes, exhausted smudges painted beneath.

Thrall knew that look well, had experienced it himself many times —the sleepless, sallow ravages of leadership. It had been mere months since he had last clapped eyes on the king of Stormwind, yet he seemed to have aged a full year.

5) Anduin found himself before the great carved fireplace in his bedroom on the floor, legs tucked up to chest, catatonic, eyes unable to close, mind unable to clear, the flames just inches before him searing into his vision until tears poured down his cheeks.

6) Anduin after meeting some young alliance soldiers in a bar while in disguise: They lapsed into song, forgetting all about their new “friend.” But Anduin wouldn’t soon forget them. He looked at each of their faces in turn, memorizing them, wondering how long it would take until they too turned up on a freezing slab beneath the Cathedral of Light, innocent lambs before the slaughter.

7) Anduin to Jaina: "Sometimes I need to be a boy again. I think about all the soldiers giving their life to serve the Alliance, and I think: How? How can they be so young? Those three brave souls inside, they think they’re ready to die. Ready to die for me. It isn’t fair. It…it should make everything stop. The whole world should stop and point at that, but it doesn’t. Everything just rolls on, the world forgets, and I have to pretend like their sacrifice isn’t a cruel, heartbreaking joke.”

8) Anduin made a soft sound of disgust and stood, hovering over her, considering her for a long and tense spell. A wisp of purple energy traveled down his arm, gathering in his palm. It happened in a blink, coming and going, dissipating before Mathias could see for certain what the king had done.

It startled Anduin enough to make him stumble backward. Shaw felt Jaina’s eyes upon him, and he glanced her way. If he was rattled before, the fear etched upon Jaina’s brow shook him to the core. Anduin winced, breathing hard, shaking out his hand before leaning back against the wall. Shaw knew better than to be staring when the king’s eyes began to roam their faces for a reaction.

So.. you know... He hasn't been great for a while.

Also, just considering it now, when Anduin winces and shakes out his hand after calling on the void, is that implying that the Light/Divine Bell hurt him for it? Cuz that's what it reads like to me 🤔

And if the Light has left him, does the Bell still bother him? Or is that gone too? Questions questions.