Climaxing

Bren and Adaric had managed to sneak into the enemy fortress through the catacombs, navigating the labyrinthine tunnels with ease. All things considered, the infiltration had gone surprisingly smoothly so far. Along the way, they had only encountered a single Thrallhost in one of the deeper passages, its grotesque form twisted by dark magic.

Together, they made quick work of it, their fighting styles synergizing after weeks of travel together. Watching its dark energy bleed back into the earth had been a grim sight, the ground swallowing the inky blackness with an almost palpable hunger.

“Four. Now I’ve killed four,” Bren said, as the twisted form of the creature gradually returned to its human state as Adaric released the trapped soul.

They continued, every step taking them closer to their quarry.

≋ ≋ ≋

The interior of the cathedral was thick with the scent of old incense and fresh malevolence. Bren and Adaric's footsteps echoed in the antechamber hall, an echoing rhythm in the unnatural quiet. They had encountered scant resistance up to this point, a fact that left them more nervous than relieved. The sanctuary loomed, a gaping maw of darkness edged with the remnants of sacredness.

They stepped through the threshold into the cathedral. Shadows clung to the walls like cobwebs, and in their midst, at the far end of the chamber, a solitary figure cloaked in darkness shifted. The silence was suffocating.

Bren's hand instinctively went to the hilt of her ax, her muscles tensing. Adaric's fingers brushed the pommel of his own blade, ready to complete his task.

The figure turned, slow, deliberate. A gasp, sharp and betraying, escaped Bren's lips. The dark robes fell away from the face she thought she would never see again, a face she had personally witnessed transformed beyond recognition.

Her brother's eyes met hers, gleaming with a cold fire. Recognition flickered, followed by a cruel twist of his lips—an echo of a smile that once meant safety, now a herald of doom.

Adaric stepped forward, his armor a beacon in the murk, his resolve a contrast to the fluttering beat of Bren's heart.

The Dark Priest—their enemy, her flesh and blood—lifted his chin, the arcane power in the room bending, swirling around him like a living thing. His voice, when it broke the heavy stillness, carried the weight of shadows and the sharp edge of a knife.

"Welcome, little sister," he began. "I've been expecting you.”

Bren's world spun as the words slithered through the air, a serpent's hiss in the sacred silence. "Expecting you." The phrase coiled around her, squeezing. This was a nightmare, cloaked in the skin of her brother, wearing his smile like a war banner.

Bren's heart faltered, a tremor that rippled through her and threatened to unmake her resolve. "I've been searching for you... to end your suffering."

Adaric's voice, a soft murmur laden with steel and concern, cut through her turmoil. "Bren..."

Her brother's laughter peeled across the cavernous sanctuary, a sound that mocked the very gods that once dwelt within these walls. "Suffering?" he echoed her words with a venomous sneer. "Dear sister, you mistake transcendence for torment. The darkness has embraced me, bestowed upon me gifts that his feeble god could never reveal." He gestured with a claw toward Adaric, a dismissive motion.

Her grip on the ax handle tightened, the leather creaking under her fingers. Her resolve—shaken by the initial shock of recognition—began to solidify, tempered by the growing fire of her outrage.

"You're filth," she spat, the words a blade drawn to strike. "There’s nothing of my brother left. You've forgotten what the dark took from us that day,” she paused, shaking in rage. “Our parents…"

He shrugged. "Small sacrifices." His gaze cut to Adaric. "We'll make another today, to turn you into a Thrallhost."

He leaned closer, his voice a poisonous whisper. "But you, Bren, you will not remain a mere Thrallhost for long. Our blood is rich and potent, destined for dominion. You will rise, as I have, to command the shadows."

Bren's eyes blazed, her spirit a forge of wrath and defiance. "Fucking try it," she hissed, every syllable a war cry, her ax now an extension of her will, ready to carve her answer into the very stones of the cathedral.

With a snarl of defiance, Bren struck. Her arm swung in a graceful arc, the weapon spinning end over end, a lethal blur aimed directly at her brother's heart. But with a casual flick of his wrist, he summoned an invisible barrier, the ax deflecting with an eerie ring as it clattered harmlessly to the stone floor.

The Dark Priest's casual display of power set her blood to ice. His eyes, reflecting a mirthless glee, were fixed upon Bren as he began to weave a spell of corruption. He raised his hand, fingers splayed. Dark energy, thick and suffocating, spilled from his palm like smoke. It surged toward Bren, enveloping her in a suffocating embrace. She was lifted from the ground, her limbs immobilized in the air as if held by invisible shackles. The cold dread of the magic seeped into her very marrow, whispering promises of an agonizing rebirth.

Adaric's roar of fury was primal, uncontrolled, a far cry from his typical tempered steel manner in combat. He charged, his sword a gleaming arc. But it crashed against an unseen barrier with a force that sent shockwaves rippling through the air. The blowback was immediate and brutal, hurling him across the cathedral with the ease of a rag doll.

Grit and resolve pushed him to his feet. Again, he charged. His second attempt fared no better than the first; the wall of force repelled him once more, throwing him back with a violence that rattled his bones.

The Dark Priest watched Adaric's futile efforts with a chilling smile, his face alight with the twisted joy of his malevolence. "You were unprepared, foolish paladin," he crooned, his voice a dark melody that resonated through the cold stone of the cathedral. "You cannot stop this. You’ll be excellent feed for her soul as soon as she assumes her new form."

Adaric could only watch helplessly as Bren began to transform. Her skin took on a sickly pallor, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light. He could see her struggling, fighting against the transformation with every ounce of her strength. But the dark magic was too strong, and with every passing second, Bren was losing herself to it.

The Dark Priest's laughter echoed through the room. But even as he watched Bren succumb to the transformation, he knew one thing for certain; he would not give up. He would fight – for Bren, and for the promise of a future that they had yet to claim.

With a grim determination, Adaric cast aside his sword, its metallic clang echoing through the room. He knew what he had to do – he had to reach Bren, had to channel the light into her. It was a reckless, desperate plan, one that could very well cost him his life, or worse. But he had no other choice.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward, reaching out to Bren. As his hand made contact with her writhing form, a surge of energy coursed through him. He could feel the dark magic writhing inside her, spilling into him.

He began to channel the light, his soul reaching out to hers in a desperate plea. The dark magic fought back, a vicious, relentless onslaught.

They battled over her soul, the stakes higher than anything he had ever faced. He could see the struggle etched on Bren's face, her features contorted in pain as she fought against the transformation, attempting to lend what aid she could to him.

As the battle raged on, Adaric began to falter. He was pushing himself beyond his limits, his soul straining under the effort. With a final, desperate push, he poured everything he had into the channeling.

And like that, his soul snapped.

Adaric buckled, falling to his knees as emptiness filled him. He barely kept his hand on Bren. The dark magic seized the opportunity, rushing into him and clouding his eyes. Adaric could feel it seeping into him, the end of him, the end of his soul.

The Dark Priest laughed, a sound that echoed through the room like a death knell. "Foolish," he taunted, his voice filled with a cruel glee. "You've doomed yourself. Your power is less than a drop in an ocean."

Adaric could feel the last of his strength waning, his fractured soul unable to provide any resistance. But even as the darkness closed in, he held on to the flicker of light within him.

Just as Adaric was on the brink of surrendering to the darkness, Bren’s voice rang out, shocking both him and the Dark Priest alert.

“Stay the FUCK away from him!”

Adaric, teetering on the precipice of oblivion, felt something miraculous. The energy of Bren's soul - neither wholly light nor dark, but something defiantly other, a spectrum of will and fury that refused to be categorized - cascaded into his own like a torrent, slipping through the cracks of his fragmented spirit. It was as if her essence, fierce and untamed, was seeping into the marrow of his being, wrapping around the dark tendrils that sought to claim him and repurposing their malevolent intent.

The energy that flowed between them—Adaric's pure light and Bren's indomitable spirit—began to intertwine, forging a new alloy of power within the crucible of his soul. It was a fusion of daybreak and dusk, a unity of two dissimilar halves into a new whole.

A pulse emanated from them, like the heartbeat of a creature being born from the ashes of their struggle. The dark, unable to dominate this combined force, recoiled and shuddered as it was repurposed, transformed by the very vessel it had sought to shatter.

The Dark Priest's face contorted into a grotesque mask of fear and confusion as the energy in the room shifted. The triumphant cruelty that had once gleamed in his eyes was snuffed out, replaced by a dawning realization of his misjudgment. His scream, a shrill note of terror, pierced the air, a symphony of his uncertainty and dread.

"NO! What is this?!" he bellowed, the words ragged daggers of sound that trembled in the charged atmosphere.

Adaric knew then what to do. He reached out, his hand moved through the air. As his hand moved, so too did the energy, a visible distortion in the air, a ripple that coursed toward the wards. The force that had repelled him so effortlessly before now dissipated like mist under the morning sun. The kinetic barriers, once unyielding, crumbled away into nothingness, their power unraveled by the transcendent force that Adaric had become.

Adaric merely nodded at Bren. Without a word, she reached for her second ax. Her grip was sure, the weight of the weapon familiar and comforting in her grasp. With a warrior's grace and a predator's precision, she drew her arm back and threw.

It flew true and unimpeded.

With a sickening crunch, the ax rent flesh and skull, embedding itself into the thing that was her brother’s head. The Dark Priest's body crumpled to the ground, the threat of his dark magic extinguished with his final, shuddering breath.

Silence fell upon the room, the echoes of the impact fading into nothingness.

Adaric paused, scanning through his soul with his spiritual senses. What he found startled and unsettled him. It had been knit back together, but the pattern of its weave was fundamentally altered. Where there had once been a harmonious tapestry of pure light, now there were strands of dark, light, and something else entirely interlaced throughout. It now held a complexity that was more adaptable, more robust, and strangely more attuned to the nuances of the world around him. He felt a depth of power, a wellspring of potential that was born from the confluence of their spirits.

Bren stood tall, her chest heaving from the exertion. The dark magic that had nearly consumed her, pushing her to the brink of a monstrous change, had been thwarted and reversed. Yet it did not leave her unmarked. As she recovered, her form returned to its true state, yet there was an undeniable alteration.

Her eyes, once a striking shade of their own, now shimmered with an ethereal purple hue—a visible sign of the energy that had coursed through her, the power she had wielded alongside Adaric. A subtle aura seemed to radiate from her body, a visual hum of energy that was neither light nor shadow but something uniquely hers. It was as if in resisting the transformation, she had claimed a piece of that otherworldly power for herself.

Where Adaric's change was internal, a profound shift in the nature of his soul, Bren's was both internal and external—a visible sign to all who would witness her that she had faced the abyss and emerged not only unscathed but empowered.

Adaric could only stare in awe, the sight of Bren both terrifying and mesmerizing.

Despite the chaos they had just experienced, Adaric felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. They had faced the darkness and emerged victorious. And though the future was uncertain, he knew one thing for sure - they were stronger together, and together, they would face whatever came their way.

Adaric moved to the lifeless form of the Dark Priest – Bren's brother. He knew what he had to do - he had to release her brother’s spirit. With a deep breath, he reached out, channeling his newfound power.

This time, it was different. Instead of the pure light he was accustomed to, a balanced energy flowed from him, a blend of light and dark that was as beautiful as it was terrifying. As he touched the body, a wisp of energy emerged, a spectral form unlike others released.

Bren watched as Adaric worked, the spirit rising from the corpse. A spectral figure hovered in the air for a moment before dissipating into nothingness. It left no trace behind, just a sense of closure, a final farewell.

Adaric turned to look at Bren. This time there was no mockery, jest, or deflating remark on her lips. Bren only offered silent reverence.

"He finally got the peace he lost years ago," she said, her voice softer now. "A peace I never thought he'd find. "

She finished with a firm nod, her posture rigid, her face set in a grim expression. It was a pain she'd carried for years, a wound time had failed to heal. But now, with her brother's spirit finally at rest, perhaps she too could find some semblance of peace.

Bren turned away from the place where her brother's spirit had vanished, her silhouette outlined by the lingering energy that still hummed in the air around her. The battle had left its scars upon the stone and upon their spirits, but it had also cleared the way for a new beginning.

≋ ≋ ≋

“So, what are you working on?”

Amy and I have set ourselves up in her favorite quiet corner on an upper floor of the library this early afternoon. She sits at a desk while I sit next to her with my laptop perched precariously on my knees, facing her. I sat down next to her hoping for stolen kisses and romantic flirting, but really it’s just been Amy staring at lines of code for twenty minutes so far. What does astrophysics even have to do with code? It’s about space and planets and stuff. Not computers.

Amy looks up from the indecipherable glyphs at me and gives me a “my-patience-is-wearing-thin-with-your-distractions-but-I-like-you” smile. Perfect. I’ve got her just where I want her.

“I'm just trying to wrap up this analysis assignment where I have to model the gravitational wave emissions from a binary black hole merger,” she says, and my eyes are already glossed over; I shouldn’t have asked. “It’s like, two black holes crashing into each other, and what that does to impact all the space around them. But my computer keeps crapping itself when I push ‘run’, and I can’t figure out why…” Amy finishes with a furrowed brow, her frustration palpable.

I nod, pretending to follow along. Space stuff. Black holes. Computer problems. Got it. "But like, when you push 'run', isn't it just like... running? Shouldn’t it just, like, go from the start to the end?"

Amy pauses and blinks at me, her expression morphing from exasperation to contemplation. "Actually... that's not a bad point," she muses, a spark igniting in her eyes. "I’ve got this whole thing broken down super functionally. Who knows how much complexity that’s introducing. Maybe I should just refactor this into one big linear script, it’s not like I’m going to need to extend this assignment in the future…"

Her fingers fly across the keyboard, a rhythmic tap-tap-tapping that's almost musical. "Jo, you're a genius," she says without looking up, her voice full of newfound hope.

A surge of confusion mixed with pride swells in my chest. "Yeah, I totally knew that would help," I bluff with the biggest grin I can muster. Word of advice: Never question a compliment. Accept them with grace.

The library is filled once more with the sound of Amy's determined typing. The code on her screen is a blur of numbers and letters to me, but it's the most beautiful blur, because it's hers and it's working.

I turn to my own assignment. "Write a brief explanation of the importance of clear communication," the essay prompt reads. Clear communication – like not using astrophysics jargon, maybe. I smirk and start typing, "Clear communication isn’t that important because even without it, you might end up helping solve a black hole problem without even knowing what a black hole is..."

My gaze drifts to Amy. The way she bites her lower lip in concentration, the furrow between her brows easing as she finds her flow in the code that might as well be an alien script to me. She's a portrait of focus, her brain probably dancing through the cosmos, and I can't help but admire her. She's so pretty when she's immersed like this, her eyes flickering with intelligence and... something else. Something fiery and alive.

I remember then, the way her lips feel against mine, soft and insistent. The warmth floods in, a pleasant weight in my stomach, and I have to shift in my seat. I can almost feel the ghost of her touch, tracing constellations on my skin, each point a starburst, each line a shiver.

And then I realize I've written the same sentence about the importance of clear communication three times in a row. I backspace furiously, cheeks heating up, but not from the mistake. I need to focus. I'm here to study, not to daydream about Amy's… physics.

Ah, fuck it.

I scoot my chair closer to Amy, pretending to stretch my legs. Amy doesn't seem to notice, her gaze still locked on her screen, fingers dancing over the keys. I scoot closer again, my chair legs whispering against the library's carpeted floor. I inch forward, trying to look casual. Just a shift in posture, nothing to see here.

As I edge nearer, Amy's typing slows, and she casts a quick glance in my direction. I snap my eyes back to my screen, the very picture of faux innocence, as if I'm absorbed in my assignment.

This little dance continues, a silent choreography of chair-scooting, until I'm well within arm's reach of her. Amy finally looks up, eyebrow raised in that cute, inquisitive way that makes my heart do somersaults. "Yes, Jo?" she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice, head cocked to one side with one eyebrow raised. She’s adorable when she’s annoyed with me.

I give her a coy smile. “Can I have a kiss?” I whisper.

Amy's response is a gentle nod, her meekness evident in a way that only makes her look cuter, if that's even possible. There's a softness in her eyes, a quiet desire that sends a shiver down my spine.

I lean in, closing the short distance between us, and press my lips to hers. Her lips are warm and yielding, and I feel her cheeks heat under my fingertips.

As we part, I can't help but notice the flush of embarrassment on Amy's face, a rosy bloom that spreads to her ears. Aha! Success. Here in public, I am the one in control. Amy’s far too embarrassed to do anything about it. I should take advantage of this.

I close the distance, finally pulling my chair up to Amy’s.

“Jo,” the word passes through her lips, a quiet warning. But she’s silenced by the feeling of my hand finding the soft skin of her bare thigh. She’s wearing a skirt today, and it’s oh so easy to start working my fingers slowly up, higher and warmer…

Her fingers find mine, loosely intertwining. She tries to stop me, but her heart isn’t in it. I lean in and kiss her again, and all resistance drops from her. Her legs open just a little bit, but it’s enough for me to keep moving up. My tongue pushes into her mouth, and her eyes go wide, looking behind me nervously for anyone turning the corner.

“Jo, not here… what if someone comes?”

“There’s been nobody all afternoon,” I practically croon the words against her lips.

She’s about to offer another objection, and then I lightly stroke a finger along the edge of her panties. Amy shivers, her hands turning into loose fists above the table on either side of her laptop.

“Oh,” she whispers quietly, need laced in the word. I’m getting turned on myself as I find the outline of her clit against the thin layer of silk between us. In moments, I’m working small circles, and I can feel her wetness already soaking through a growing spot under my fingers.

Amy moans, a quiet breathy thing that doesn’t carry an inch beyond my ears in the library. I’m so aroused by it that I press against my jeans with my other hand, applying some pressure against my own throbbing arousal. I start moving faster, less careful now, the thrill of being caught spurring me on.

From my angle I can see down the front of Amy’s shirt as she leans forward, consumed with pleasure. I can see just a hint of nipple peeking over the top of her bra, and I want nothing more than to put it in my mouth…

Amy’s gripping the sides of her laptop now, her breath coming in shallow pants. She’s fighting the urge to close her eyes, which would mean giving up scanning the room for accidental onlookers.

Good thing too - suddenly, someone turns the corner. Both of us freeze, my fingers poised to slip under Amy’s panties.

“Oh no,” Amy whispers. The figure - a nerdy looking girl with big glasses and poorly fitting clothes, turns and makes eye contact with Amy, a smile breaking out on her face.

The girl approaches, her steps unhurried, the smile never leaving her face. She's someone from Amy's astrophysics class, no doubt. But right now, she's an unwitting participant in our silent intimacy.

"Hey, Amy!" greets the girl, her voice a whisper in the library's quiet.

Amy, with remarkable composure, manages a serene smile. "Hey, Marissa. What's up?" Her voice goes high, the pitch hard to control.

My fingers resume their mischievous dance, my fingers deftly tracing patterns on Amy's panties, teasing closer to her entrance, to that spot I know will make her struggle to keep her composure. Amy's smile twitches, just for a second, before she masters herself. I can feel the tension in her body, the effort it takes to keep her face neutral.

Marissa, oblivious to the under-the-table antics, launches into nerd-talk. "Did you catch the latest JWST images released last night? Holy cow they were so good—"

As Marissa rambles on, my fingers slip into Amy’s panties, running along her soaking clit. I delight in the way her body tries to squirm away from the sensation.

Amy's hand grips the edge of the table, knuckles white, as she nods to Marissa's question. "Yeah, they were beautiful," she says, her voice choking on the last word as I apply pressure.

Amy's eyes meet mine for a moment, a silent plea for mercy that I pretend to misunderstand. Instead, I take it as encouragement. I'm careful to keep my movements hidden from Marissa's view, enjoying the secret thrill of our private game.

"So, I was thinking," Marissa continues, pushing up her glasses, "maybe we could get a study group together for the finals coming up? It would be great to have you."

Amy answers, her words measured and deliberate, betraying none of the heat I know is bubbling within her. "That sounds like… a great idea. Count… me in." Her breath hitches as she shivers.

Her composure under the relentless pleasure is nothing short of heroic. I can't help but admire her even more, even as I relish the control I have in making her fight to keep her reaction at bay. It's a delicious sensation, this playful power,

Marissa finally nods, satisfied with the conversation, and turns to leave. "Awesome, I'll send you the details. See you later!"

As her classmate departs, Amy finally reacts, letting out a moan of pleasure mixed with relief. "That was evil – you are pure evil," she accuses.

"You love it," I whisper, and slip a finger inside her. The intensity of my motion escalates, my fingertips expertly finding the spots I know will bring her to the edge.

The pressure mounts, and Amy's facade begins to crack. Her eyes flutter closed, her teeth catching her lower lip in a futile attempt to stifle the moans of pleasure threatening to burst forth. Each new thrust of my fingers turns me on more, and my movements have her hands gripping the underside of the table, knuckles turning white.

Her legs press together, a line of defense against my invasion, but it's no use. Amy's breathing becomes erratic, her chest rising and falling in quick succession as I pump into her under the table. A bead of perspiration forms at her temple, proof of the exertion of holding back her body's natural urge to react.

I watch, enthralled, as Amy's control teeters on the edge. And then, with a sudden flurry of my fingers, Amy's resistance shatters. A moan—a single, breathy exhale of surrender—escapes her lips, loud enough to almost be a problem. Her eyes are squeezed shut, one hand still gripping the table and her other hand clamped over her mouth.

The energy that's been coiling between us releases in a rush, a wave of exhilaration that washes over us both. Amy shudders and writhes with my fingers in her while she comes. Her legs press together, pushing my hand against her sex.

Amy sits back, her chest heaving as she draws in deep, steadying breaths. The wild pulse of her heart slowly calms, the flush of exertion on her cheeks beginning to fade. She delicately fans herself with one hand, as if to cool the heat of her embarrassment and the thrill of the moment.

Her eyes, still shining with the remnants of her orgasm, lock onto mine, and I see the gears turning behind them. She's rebuilding her walls, piece by piece, reclaiming the composure that I'd dismantled.

"It's my turn now," I say, the words dipped in the heat of my arousal, my eyebrow arching in anticipation.

Amy's response is immediate, her lips curving into a half-smile that is both defiant and amused. "No way, not after that stunt you pulled with Marissa," she retorts, her voice carrying the steel of her resolve.

I mock pout, feigning a wounded heart. "But where's the fun in one-sided under-table-pleasuring?"

Her eyes twinkle, but her stance remains unyielding. She turns her attention back to the code in front of her, waking the screen and ignoring my pleas for release. Just like that, she’s scrolling through lines of code again, but I suspect she’s not really paying attention.

"How can you just go back to work so casually?" I prod, a note of mock incredulity coloring my tone.

Amy's response is not verbal, but rather a slow, imperious nod, her chin lifting ever so slightly—a queen reclaiming her throne after a brief, voluntary abdication. Her eyes remain fixed on the lines of code, but the corners of her mouth betray her, refusing to fully relinquish the smile that I've come to adore.

And there she sits, a portrait of regained control, her breathing now even, her posture poised. She is the picture of academic focus once more, as if the previous moments of chaos were nothing but a figment of the imagination. Her ability to compartmentalize, to switch gears with such grace, is nothing short of remarkable, and it leaves me in silent, appreciative awe.

As the silence stretches between us, Amy looks away from her laptop and leans into me. Her breath is a warm whisper against the shell of my ear, the heat of her voice seeping into my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.

"I have a surprise for you tonight," she murmurs, each word heavy with promise. "But you'll have to wait."

Her lips barely brush the edge of my earlobe as she pulls away, leaving a trail of tingling anticipation in their wake. "Stay worked up," she adds, her voice low and charged with a tantalizing edge. “But remember, no touching.”

As she retreats back to her own space, I’m left with a swirl of emotions. Excitement courses through me, a river of adrenaline that laughs at the notion of restraint. My heart races, pounding a rhythm of impatient curiosity, while my mind spins with possibilities of what the evening could hold.

I glance down at my essay, the words now swimming before my eyes, stubbornly refusing to form coherent thoughts. Communications essay indeed.

I let out a low sigh, acknowledging my defeat to the blank page before me. Tonight's promise hangs in the air, a sweet mystery that renders the mundane task at hand utterly hopeless. Amy, with just a few hushed words, has completely unraveled my concentration—and I can't help but love her all the more for it.