"Do it," Gezza said, forcing steel into his voice.

Marie's face stayed flat, unreadable. She lowered the iron cross to the floorboards (clink) and cradled the small book in both palms like an offering.

"Playbook on your chest," she said, tone flat as a gravestone.

Gezza sat up, dragged the bag closer. The zipper rasped (shrrrk) like a dying breath. He pulled the Playbook free; it vibrated, warm, almost purring against his fingers. What the hell is that?

"Lie back. You're wasting time."

He lowered himself again, spine kissing cold wood. The Playbook settled over his heart (heavy, alive, pulsing in time with his own frantic beat). He stared at the ceiling: cracked plaster, shadows writhing like smoke.

Marie began to chant (low, guttural, the same tongue that had scraped his skull earlier). The candles flared blue. The chalk circle glowed.

The Playbook burned.

Will this even work?

The thought barely formed when the floor vanished.

He sank, not into wood but into himself, like the world folded inward and swallowed him whole. Darkness rushed up, velvet-thick, absolute. No up, no down. Just falling.

Marie's chant kept going (distant now, tinny, like a radio left on in another house). The words stretched, warped, echoed off nothing.

Then the fall accelerated.

Not gentle.

Not slow.

He shot downward, a meteor through black water, wind screaming past his ears though there was no air. The Playbook pressed flat to his chest (burning, screaming, alive).

Holy shiiiiit—

His own voice tore out, shredded into the void, and the void laughed back.

He burst out of the void like a cork from a bottle, knees skidding into sand, fine, hot, real.

"Argh—"

Grains stung his eyes, sharp as glass. He clawed at his face, blinking tears, the burn real, the grit real.

Why does this feel so fucking real?

He stood. Sand clung to his bare skin (everywhere).

He looked down.

Butt-ass naked.

No hoodie. No jeans. No sneakers. Just him, gooseflesh prickling in the strange air.

The sting faded. He opened his eyes.

A sky of bruised purple bled into molten gold, streaked with slow-moving ribbons of star-dust, like glitter suspended in honey. Pixie-light drifted, lazy, glowing.

"Wow…" The word slipped out, small and awed.

His feet sank into the sand (warm at the surface, cool an inch down). He flexed his toes. The grains shifted, real, alive.

He turned a slow circle. Endless dunes, rippling like silk. No horizon. Just sky, sand, and the low thrum of something watching.

The Playbook was gone. Even it pulsing heat.

A low hill rose out of the dunes like a bruise, its mouth a black cave yawning open.

Was that here a second ago?

Nothing else broke the horizon: no trees, no rocks, no sky-scars. Just the cave, dark and patient, the only landmark in the whole damn world.

Playbook's in there. Has to be.

He took a step. His foot sank ankle-deep, sand warm on top, cool beneath, like it couldn't decide what season it was. Another step. Crunch. Pull. Another. The grains clung, then let go with a soft shhh.

"Please no jump-scares," he muttered, voice swallowed by the open sky.

Closer. The cave mouth grew, edges sharp, the darkness inside thicker than any night he'd ever known. The temperature shifted again: air sliding over his bare skin like silk dipped in ice-water.

He stopped at the threshold.

Here I am.

The cave breathed. Slow. In. Out.

He stepped inside.

The cave floor turned to stone (cool, smooth, real under his bare soles). Each step landed soft, almost soundless, swallowed by the dark. His heartbeat thundered in his ears (thump-thump-thump), louder than any footfall.

Walls glowed with a sickly green light, like foxfire trapped in stone. Carvings crawled across them: twisted figures, eyes too many, mouths open in silent screams. Hands reaching. Hands grabbing.

He walked closer. The air thickened, tasting of copper and old smoke.

At the end of the tunnel: a light. Not green. Not gold.

White.

Blinding.

Pulsing.

He kept moving. One step. Two.

The light grew, swallowing the carvings, the green, the dark.

He reached it.

The light split.

Miral stood barefoot on black glass. Vines thick, wet, pulsing wrapped her like living rope, looping under heavy breasts, diving between her thighs. Her skin: ash-grey, streaked with ochre handprints. Hair: matted night, threaded with tiny skulls. Eyes: pure obsidian, galaxies swirling.

A necklace of dried tongues twitched when she breathed.

She didn't walk. She unfurled. One vine snapped free, licked Gezza's cheek with a cold burn.

Gezza shrugged that must be her.

"What do you want?," she said, voice in his bones. She stepped closer her hips moved smooth. He steps soft and calm.

"You're the Playbook," Gezza said, voice echoing off slick black glass. The air tasted of iron and wet earth; green foxfire licked the walls, casting his shadow in jagged shards.

"I have a name," Miral purred, coy. Her hands stayed behind her back, vines rustling like dry leaves. One thick tendril (warm, slick with sap) slid across his chest, leaving a cold burn. He stepped back; his heel scraped stone, the sound sharp in the copper-thick silence.

"Tell me."

She laughed—low, wet, like water over bone. "Power's not free, boy."

Not easy, he thought, pulse thudding in his ears.

"What do you want?" he asked.

The lamp hissed, spitting blue flame. Vines unfurled across the floor, slow and deliberate, their tips tasting the air like tongues.

She lounged back on the stone bed, hips rolling slow, vines cinching her thighs like wet garters. One tendril curled under her breast, lifting it heavy, slick until the nipple peaked, dark and gleaming.

"Closer," she rasped, voice dripping through the green haze.

Gezza stepped in, already bare, cock jutting stiff, veins pulsing, pre-cum beading at the slit and dripping in a slow silver thread. The air tasted of crushed berries, hot copper, her cunt.

She pressed a bare foot to his chest warm, calloused, vine-wrapped. Pushed. He staggered, then surged forward.

Her toes dragged down his sternum, nails raking skin, lower, until the vine snagged his hip, yanked.

He dropped to his knees. Stone bit cold against bare skin. She leaned in, breasts swaying, vines cradling them like obscene hands. One tendril traced his jaw, sap burning sweet.

"Earn Me," she purred.

A thick vine rose between her thighs, pulsing, brushing her clit (she hissed). Then retreated.

"Touch me," she breathed, fingers parting slick folds, showing him her wall dripping.

Gezza's mouth flooded. His cock throbbed, a second heartbeat. She fuckin horny.

A vine looped his throat (warm, not tight), guiding.

"Make me cum first," she said, voice cracking with hunger. "Or lose everything."

Gezza's tongue split her open: scalding velvet, salt-slick, pulsing like a living heart. The taste detonated: charred honey, crushed moss, electric cunt. Every lap dragged a wet schlick that echoed off black glass.

Miral's moan cracked the air (raw, animal, vibrating in his teeth. Vines thrashed, leaves slapping stone with sharp cracks, sap spraying in hot droplets that hissed where they landed.

A tendril hick, ridged, dripping coiled his throat, yanked him flush. Her clit throbbed under his tongue: swollen, fever-hot, slick with her and sap. He sucked hard, cheeks hollowing, the suction pulling a guttural "Fuuuck—" from her chest.

His fingers plunged: three, knuckles deep, curling against spongy walls that clamped like a fist. The heat was furnace-level; her juices ran down his wrist, sticky, scalding.

The vine around his cock stroked (tight, wet, pulsing in perfect sync). Pre-cum smeared its length, mixing with sap until it gleamed. His balls drew up, aching, the pressure a white-hot coil.

He growled into her, the vibration making her thighs quake. Vines dug into his scalp, nails of bark scraping skin.

"Deeper," she snarled, voice shredded.

He rammed his fingers, tongue lashing her clit in brutal circles. Her walls fluttered, a warning.

The vine squeezed his cock (too tight, too good).

Not yet.

He ripped his mouth free, gasping. Air tasted of sex and ozone. "Not cumming first."

Miral's eyes blazed (galaxies imploding). "Then break me."

He surged up, cock in hand veins bulging, slick with pre-cum and vine-slime. One savage thrust and he buried himself to the root.

He goaned fuck.

"AhHhhh.." Her scream shattered the cavern. Vines exploded, wrapping his waist, her legs, the stone bed grounded to their motion.

He fucked her like the world was ending: hips snapping, balls slapping her ass, the wet slap-slap-slap drowning the lamp's hiss. Every thrust dragged a fresh scream from her throat, raw and ragged.

The stone bed cracked* beneath them.

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