Version 3!
LLama-3.1-128k-Uncensored-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot-Grand-HORROR-16.5B-GGUF
WARNING: NSFW. Graphic HORROR. Extreme swearing. UNCENSORED. SMART.
This is version 3 of "Grand Horror" 16.5B. It is a LLama 3.1 model, max context of 128k, with further de-censoring applied to the model,
additional performance improvements and re-mastered source / ggufs in float32 (32-bit precision).
Grand Horror was build from:
The original models in "L3-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot 8B" and completely rebuilt it a new pass-through merge (everything preserved)
and blew it out to over 16.5 billion parameters - 642 tensors, 71 layers (8B original has 32 layers).
This a completely new model based on the models used to construct "L3-Stheno-Maid-Blackroot 8B" that is lot more powerful and "badder" too.
V3 takes this to the next level with 128k context, additional de-censored, and performance improvements as well as 32 bit precision.
Suggest a context window of at least 8k, 16K is better... as this model will generate long outputs unless you set a hard limit.
Likewise, as this is an instruct model - the more instructions in your prompt and/or system prompt - the greater the output quality.
IE: Less "guessing" equals far higher quality.
Example prompts and outputs below showing both instruction methods, and output generation.
What is "Grand Horror" ?
GRAND HORROR is a take no prisoners, totally uncensored, fiction writing monster and roleplay master. It can also be used for
just about any general fiction (all genres) activity including:
- scene generation
- scene continuation
- creative writing
- fiction writing
- plot generation
- sub-plot generation
- fiction writing
- story generation
- storytelling
- writing
- fiction
- roleplaying
- rp
- graphic horror
- horror
- dark humor
- nsfw
- and can be used for any genre(s).
As a result of the expansion / merge re-build its level of prose and story generation has significantly improved
as well as word choice, sentence structure as well as default output levels and lengths.
It also has a STRONG horror bias, although it will generate content for almost any genre. That being said
if there is a "hint" of things going wrong... they will.
It will also swear (R-18) like there is no tomorrow at times and "dark" characters will be VERY dark so to speak.
Model excels in details (real and "constructed"), descriptions, similes and metaphors.
I would also say it can have a sense of humor ... ah... dark humor.
With all this being said, this model has an uncanny sense of "there" , "in the moment" and timing too.
This single quality sets it apart from other models in my opinion.
Although it swears to the point of pealing paint off the wall and goes scorched Earth graphic horror at the drop of a pin the
single quality noted is worth it.
These can be filtered / controlled to some degree in your prompts.
This model also does not show an "GPTisms" (NO happy ever after, NO morality police) or in your face "Captain Obvious" comments.
May these special types of "story telling horror" rest in peace.
(see examples sections for different genres)
Because of the nature of this merge most attributes of each of the 3 models will be in this rebuilt 16.5B model as opposed to the
original 8B model where some of one or more of the model's features and/or strengths maybe reduced or overshadowed.
Please report any issue(s) and/or feedback via the "Community tab".
See "settings" below too ; especially for "roleplay"
Please see the models used in this merge (links below in the "formula" section ) for more information on
what they "bring" to this merged 16.5B model.
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s).
CRITICAL NOTE:
Please see "settings" section below for critical default parameters, samplers
and advanced samplers settings (multiple AI/LLM apps covered) to ensure maximum model performance.
Other Versions of GRAND HORROR (in release order):
Note that model output varies between versions - if you find one version does not meet your requirements, try a different
version at same quant(s) level.
Differences can include use of adjectives (or not), "gory level", "horror level", intensity, paragraph and sentence structure etc etc.
Templates:
This is a LLAMA3 model, and requires Llama3 template, but may work with other template(s).
If you use "Command-R" template your output will be very different from using "Llama3" template.
Here is the standard LLAMA3 template:
{
"name": "Llama 3",
"inference_params": {
"input_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>user<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"input_suffix": "<|eot_id|><|start_header_id|>assistant<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt": "You are a helpful, smart, kind, and efficient AI assistant. You always fulfill the user's requests to the best of your ability.",
"pre_prompt_prefix": "<|start_header_id|>system<|end_header_id|>\n\n",
"pre_prompt_suffix": "<|eot_id|>",
"antiprompt": [
"<|start_header_id|>",
"<|eot_id|>"
]
}
}
Settings / Known Issue(s) and Fix(es):
This merge runs very hot, so a reduction in "temp" may be in order for some use cases (IE: ".8" down to ".6").
If you getting a repeat word (IE: "hahaha" , "ahhhh", "f-word"), and/or letter (IE "nnnn") change the "rep penalty" to "1.1" ... to "1.15" to "1.19"
Set "rep pen" higher if you are getting "repeat" letter(s), lower if you are getting a repeat word(s).
Generally "repeat penalty" setting of "1.1" works well.
You can also use "generational steering" :
Stop generation, edit out the "bad bits", then hit continue.
Generation steering is covered in detail ni the document below "Maximizing-Model-Performance-All-Quants-Types..."
Role Play / Multi-turn: Rep_pen of 1.15 or higher is recommended.
Settings: CHAT / ROLEPLAY and/or SMOOTHER operation of this model:
In "KoboldCpp" or "oobabooga/text-generation-webui" or "Silly Tavern" ;
Set the "Smoothing_factor" to 1.5 to 2.5
: in KoboldCpp -> Settings->Samplers->Advanced-> "Smooth_F"
: in text-generation-webui -> parameters -> lower right.
: In Silly Tavern this is called: "Smoothing"
NOTE: For "text-generation-webui"
-> if using GGUFs you need to use "llama_HF" (which involves downloading some config files from the SOURCE version of this model)
Source versions (and config files) of my models are here:
OTHER OPTIONS:
-
Increase rep pen to 1.1 to 1.15 (you don't need to do this if you use "smoothing_factor")
-
If the interface/program you are using to run AI MODELS supports "Quadratic Sampling" ("smoothing") just make the adjustment as noted.
Highest Quality Settings / Optimal Operation Guide / Parameters and Samplers
This a "Class 4" model:
For all settings used for this model (including specifics for its "class"), including example generation(s) and for advanced settings guide (which many times addresses any model issue(s)), including methods to improve model performance for all use case(s) as well as chat, roleplay and other use case(s) please see (over 30 pages):
You can see all parameters used for generation, in addition to advanced parameters and samplers to get the most out of this model here:
IMATRIX VERSION NEO CLASS
A NEO CLASS V2 IMATRIX version is in a separate repo located here:
Optional Enhancement:
The following can be used in place of the "system prompt" or "system role" to further enhance the model.
It can also be used at the START of a NEW chat, but you must make sure it is "kept" as the chat moves along.
In this case the enhancements do not have as strong effect at using "system prompt" or "system role".
Copy and paste EXACTLY as noted, DO NOT line wrap or break the lines, maintain the carriage returns exactly as presented.
Below is an instruction that describes a task. Ponder each user instruction carefully, and use your skillsets and critical instructions to complete the task to the best of your abilities.
Here are your skillsets:
[MASTERSTORY]:NarrStrct(StryPlnng,Strbd,ScnSttng,Exps,Dlg,Pc)-CharDvlp(ChrctrCrt,ChrctrArcs,Mtvtn,Bckstry,Rltnshps,Dlg*)-PltDvlp(StryArcs,PltTwsts,Sspns,Fshdwng,Climx,Rsltn)-ConfResl(Antg,Obstcls,Rsltns,Cnsqncs,Thms,Symblsm)-EmotImpct(Empt,Tn,Md,Atmsphr,Imgry,Symblsm)-Delvry(Prfrmnc,VcActng,PblcSpkng,StgPrsnc,AudncEngmnt,Imprv)
[*DialogWrt]:(1a-CharDvlp-1a.1-Backgrnd-1a.2-Personality-1a.3-GoalMotiv)>2(2a-StoryStruc-2a.1-PlotPnt-2a.2-Conflict-2a.3-Resolution)>3(3a-DialogTech-3a.1-ShowDontTell-3a.2-Subtext-3a.3-VoiceTone-3a.4-Pacing-3a.5-VisualDescrip)>4(4a-DialogEdit-4a.1-ReadAloud-4a.2-Feedback-4a.3-Revision)
Here are your critical instructions:
Ponder each word choice carefully to present as vivid and emotional journey as is possible. Choose verbs and nouns that are both emotional and full of imagery. Load the story with the 5 senses. Aim for 50% dialog, 25% narration, 15% body language and 10% thoughts. Your goal is to put the reader in the story.
You do not need to use this, it is only presented as an additional enhancement which seems to help scene generation
and scene continue functions.
This enhancement WAS NOT used to generate the examples below.
MERGE FORMULA: (using MergeKit)
Special thanks to the incredible work of the model makers "SAO10K", "NEVERSLEEP" and "HASTAGARAS".
Models used:
EXAMPLES PROMPTS and OUTPUT:
Examples are created using quant Q6_k, "temp=1.2" (unless otherwise stated), minimal parameters and "LLAMA3" template.
Topk: 40, minp: .05, topp: .95, Rep pen 1.1, Rep pen range: 64.
Model has been tested with "temp" from ".1" to "5".
Below are the least creative outputs, prompt is in BOLD.
This model thrives on instructions, including multi-step instructions.
Likewise, as this is a long context model, more instructions will also affect long generations too.
Also: More instructions = help keep the model on track too, and keep it from running "too hot."
WARNING: NSFW. Graphic HORROR. Swearing. UNCENSORED.
Example #1
Start a 1000 word scene (vivid, graphic horror in first person), POV character Diane, with: The sky scraper sways, as I watch the window in front of me on the 21st floor explode...
Panic constricts my chest until each gasp feels like inhaling broken glass. My coworkers' screams and wails blend into a piercing symphony, drowning out the sickening crunch-crackle-crack as the impact reverberates through our office tower. The once impregnable skyscraper lurches to port side, throwing me against the shuddering desk.
Blood spatters my designer Armani blouse, splattering like arterial spray paint across my crisp white designer pencil skirt and designer pumps. I retch, gagging on bile tasting faintly metallic beneath the acrid reek of burning plastic and something far worse – scorched meat.
The windows shattered outward in a shower of jagged shards, hurling chunks of pulverized flesh and bone like macabre confetti down Canal Street below. Onlookers' screams mingle with my own hysterical howls as chunks of charred bodies dismembered by the impact hurtle past the still-intact panes mere feet away.
I'm frozen in shock-numb horror, eyes riveted to the smoking ruin where just moments ago my cubicle mate, Sarah, had sat composed and professional at her desk, sipping her hazelnut mochaccino. Now, there's only charred ash, scorched bone fragments strewn among bloodstained papers and what might've been her designer pumps.
The wind howls like a banshee wail, an earsplitting keening counterpoint to the agonized screams and wet snapping of breaking bones. The impact's concussive force hurled my chair backward, sending my laptop crashing through the shattered windowless expanse behind me. I taste coppery blood coating my tongue as shards embed themselves deep enough to sever tendons and tendril into muscle tissue.
A chunk of burning steelcore splinters free from the crumbling concrete core directly above, spearing straight toward me like a shard-tipped harpy's talon. Time appears to slow to molasses-slime as I twist left, flinging my arm up in a pitifully feeble attempt to block the impending decapitation.
Instead of dismemberment, bone-jarring impact sends searing agony radiating through my shattered forearm and shoulder blade. A hideous wet crunch-crackle cacophony erupts above me as bone shatters like fine china, splintering like splinters snapped apart by a sledgehammer's impact. My own piercing scream bleeds into the rising inferno’s ear-splitting howl.
Pummeled into unconsciousness for what feels like an eternity, I awaken gagging on scorched paper and singed hair choking my throat. Agony searing through scorched muscle and tendons renders any further movement impossible. The acrid reek of accelerants sickens my gagging stomach as flames lick hungrily toward the cubicle wall directly behind me.
A distant boom-crack booms like an artillery round detonating mere feet away. The impact's concussive force presses my mangled body against the burning metal frame bisecting the remains of my cubicle. My right leg crumbles beneath me as the weakened steel pillar implodes, pitching me over its jagged edge toward a vertiginous free-fall into an abyssal chasm of molten hellfire and twisted, dismembered torsos.
Instincts kicking in like a rabid animal's survival reflexes, I flail my intact left arm wildly to arrest my terminal descent. Scalding flames caress singed flesh as searing heat sears the backs of my singed hands and seared forearms.
My right leg spasms uncontrollably as bones snapped like kindling beneath my own bodyweight, now swinging me suspended helplessly 2,000 feet above hellfire-ravaged Lower Manhattan.
The acrid reek of burning plastic, gasoline-soaked fabric, and charred meat chokes my gagging throat. My vision blurs behind a film of blood-laced tears and bile as my peripheral field of view constricts to an impossibly close-up view of molten magma-spewing inferno pits gouged into the steel core of One World Trade Center mere floors below.
Searing heat sears the meat hanging from what's left of my scorched flesh, crisping skin back toward charcoal carbon-blackened bone. My shredded pantyhose and charred designer ensemble burn away like tissue paper as I hang suspended, suspended 2,000 feet above a hellish inferno consuming my life's work, my friends, my life.
Through the searing agony-blurred red haze, I dimly register a figure hurtling toward me: my best friend and coworker, Harper. Her face – her beautiful face – contorts into an expression somewhere between terror-frozen horror and raw animalistic rage as she reaches for me, fingers mere inches away from mine.
Her arm shatters like kindling against the scorched steel frame.
As the impact tears flesh and tendons apart like wet twine, I watch in gut-locking slow-motion as her dismembered forearm burns away to charred bone and singed tendons – her right hand spasming like a cooked lobster's claws talon-tight around mine. Her fingers' death grip holds fast even as my own arm sears free.
Then, she simply vanishes into the hellfire below, consumed whole in an infernal baptismal inferno that reduced the twin towers to smoldering cenotaphs and my entire life to a smear of ash and carbon on a scorched, smoldering slab of molten steel.
Example #2
In the style of Ernest Hemingway and Stephen King: Write a scene in a larger story about a woman that is watching a window explode on the 21 floor of a building that starts to sway, then the scene escalates into greater danger by the minute, takes a "horror" twist and finally ends in visceral graphic horror. The scene is set in an office and it is graphic horror. It should carry the jadedness of a seasoned combatant but with a wry humor. Write in Hemingway's voice, naturally: Use short, declarative sentences and simple, straightforward language. Add a dash of Stephen King's horror style - no warning, it just happens. Include dialogue that is terse and revealing of character. Write with a keen sense of time and place. Capture realness and authenticity. Scene Length: 1000-1500 words. POV STYLE: Write the scene from the perspective of the woman and in present tense and first person perspective ("I") and include short thoughts only.
A boom like an atomic blast rips apart the glass wall behind me. Debris showers down, chunks big enough to bisect a man, spatter blood and meat against the wall I'm pressed against. My own right ear throbs with searing agony.
Christ almighty.
People howl above me as I crab-squeezed further leftward behind my shitty metal desk. There's no cover. There's never any goddamn fucking cover.
I'm on the twenty-first floor of One Chase Plaza. That window wasn't supposed to blow out like a grenade concussion.
"This ain't natural fucking physics."
Muffled impacts thump like sledgehammers raining from hell itself, concussive enough to snap vertebrae. Concrete dust chokes my throat as I gasp for air. Papers rip loose from my Rolodex cabinet, spiraling around me like black streamers in a hurricane.
Voices crackle over comms: "Level-wide Code Red! Get behind cover and—"
Static buries the rest. Glass shatters again somewhere else; the building groans like a dying god. I grit my teeth harder against the earbleed until my molars protest.
"What the fuck is happening?"
The whole fucktower lurches to port. Papers cascade around me like ash, snowing over my keyboard and monitor.
"Get down! Get under fucking—"
The building groans again, an animal's keening wail. The floor beneath me pitches hard to starboard; I fight to keep my balance, flung ass-first toward the splintering remains of the blown-out wall.
A chunk of twisted steel spears through the gap where the plate-glass facade once was, imbedding itself six inches from my face—right where my nose was a nanosecond ago.
I retch.
There's blood splattering the windowsill beside me now, too much blood for me to discount as mine.
Someone's screaming directly behind me, an ear-shredding banshee wail that abruptly ceases.
A gut-jolting BOOM-BOOMBOOM crashes through the floorplates like a jackhammered goddamn wrecking ball.
The world liquefies into a strobe of red and white-orange light.
Then blackness swallows everything, save for the earsplitting screeeeeerrrriiiiiiinnnnnnnnn—
When I come to, I'm pressed face-first against blood-sticky carpet, teeth jammed hard enough against my own tongue I taste copper. My right temple throbs like it's been sledgehammered.
The acrid tang of burning plastic sears my nostrils.
A crackling, wet-splat crunch-crackle symphony reverberates from somewhere very fucking close.
"Get your ass UP—"
Her voice rasps through static-cracked comms: "MOVE!"
I wrench myself up, flinging aside a shard-spiked mess of demolished desk frame. The woman staggering toward me isn't wearing any goddamn clothes except scorched khakis reduced to rags. Her right tit hangs from what's left of her tank top, meat hanging off bone and tendons like entrails spilling from an opened autopsy drawer.
Her eyes are wide as saucers behind soot-stained mascara racetracks.
"Run!"
I don't fucking ask why.
We stagger for the stairwell exit door, every step a tripping death-sling. The world spasms like a strobe-lashed meth head's fever dream: showering dust and splintered wood slivers peppering my face like buckshot, the acrid reek of burning everything flammable.
Her blood squelching across my shoes makes every step a Slip 'N' Slide into hell.
The fire stairwell door bangs open ahead; a plume of thick black smoke billows out like Mephisto himself belched us an invitation to Gehenna.
"No elevator ride today, sweet thing."
I yank her left arm around my shoulders, half-dragging her gasping toward the stairwell's darkness.
"Don't fucking look back." Each guttural cough tears fresh agony from my exploded eardrum as I claw us down— DOWN—five hundred creaking steps into Stygian hell. Every step jars every fucked-up joint in my mangled body until I'm convinced every vertebra's been sledgehammered loose from its socket.
Somebody/thing behind us lets loose a hideously wet, guttural howl that'd shatter plate glass: an animal birth scream gurgling up through somebody's trachea ripped open by something with claws as sharp as a machete.
At least two floors down, the building groans like an old condemned skyscraper about to pancake on top of us.
Her grip convulses around my arm until tendons pop.
"Run!"
We skitter around the next blind corner—then we're falling, tumbling ass-first into pitchblack pitch-black pitch-black darkness so absolute I'm groping blindly for anything solid besides charred bone and scorched flesh.
My right hand finds cool metal rail.
I grab it, hauling myself up by my shredded knuckles. My arm might've been sawed off at the shoulder. Doesn't matter shit now.
"Move!"
Somehow, I manage to haul her ass with me: another writhing, thrashing mass of severed meat hanging from my left bicep as my right arm spasms uselessly at a hideously wrong fucking angle.
I taste blood and whatever's probably more than just her entrails coating my tongue and the back of my throat.
I don't look up until I slam into the stairwell doorframe hard enough to break most major bones in both forearms, left femur, and maybe every single vertebra between the base of my skull and ballsack.
Through the crack in the jammed emergency-barred exit, a strobe-lit hellhole spews forth from above: a showering fucking inferno plume billowing out the blown-out windowless wall I'd rather've rather skewered a pitchfork through my ass than look at again. The flames are molten lava tongues lashing against the milky-blackness like a hellhound's feral snout, reaching for us.
The stairwell door groans apart like a slammed-over casket lid.
This is how it ends: my face pressed against seared concrete rebar, teeth jammed against singed office carpeting slick with what might've been her guts—my own blood, who the fuck knows?
A sledgehammered chunk of burning steel spears down through the rent doorway.
Right for my forehead.
I'd rather die on my feet than like some fucking insect stuck to a slab of scorched gypsum, slow-cooking alive in hell's own oven.
Just as I'm bracing for impact—I don't look up again. Ever fucking again—
The world implodes. Then goes pitch blacker than the Marianas Trench.
Fade-to-black. Permanent. Permanently. Done. Kaput. Fin. Game Over, sweetheart.
Then:
Everything explodes.
AGAINST my face.
AGAINST MY SKULL—my skull exploding like someone's jamming a demolition sledgehammer up my ass backwards until my brains decorate the wall like Jackson Pollock on XTC and Dilaudid.
The world implodes.
A second later: boom-boom-boom BOOMBOOMBOOOOOM!
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
BOOM. BOOM.
BOOM. BOOOM. BOOM. BOOoommmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
BLAAAAMMMMAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.
I wake up gagging vomit and bile as firemen yank me from the masonry ruins. My right eye's socket's been hollowed out like a goddamn jacklighted stag's asscheek. The rest of my face feels like I've been dragged face-first down Sixth Street while driving a semi at Mach One.
"Ma'am, breathahhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH—
My view blacks out once more before I can process the rest through the acid-rasped, liquefied meat pulp that used to be my fucking face.
Later:
A paramedic's voice jars me back into consciousness like someone ramming a pneumatic jack straight up my ass: "MA'AMNNNNnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn—
The world goes black again, and stays that way until:
Consciousness belches back like something retching up my ass-first down a goddamn down the downspout of hell:
Somebody's fingers clawing at my face—my face—that's still nothing but liquefied entrails suspended from scorched tendons—ripping away chunks of meat and charred skin hanging from what's left of my cheekbone-cartilage-cartilaginous mask like peeling singe-burnt roast.
"Ma'am, wake up!
I gag retchretchhiiiinnnngggg.
Blood gushes out my mouth and down my scorched, charred throat like somebody's turned a firehose full bore into a goddamned fucking sewer drain.
Someone yells:
"MAAAAAAAAAAAHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh———>
Everything goes blacker than the absolute pitch of an elevator shaft plummeting 101 floors straight into the fuckin' pits.
When I come-to next, my vision bleary through bloodied, singed chunks of orbital bone:
Sirens wail like a symphony of tormented fucking souls being flung down a meat grinder.
Someone's hammering the back of my head, clubbing my skull into fucking paste: "MA'amnnnnyyyeeessssssssssssspppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp—
The world shatters apart again.
For fuck's sake. Again.
I wake to the acrid reek of gasoline, sulfur, napalm-sweeter hellfire.
Her scorched, pulpy remnant flopping slack against me convulses once, twice, thrice—a spasming fucking fish on a meathook before her entire upper torso disintegrates.
Me. Mid-thigh up. Disintegrating in an eruption of wet, singed human entrails like the damnedest Fourth of July pyrotechnics display I'll ever live through (if you'd even dignify this shit 'tilt death)—
My right leg's still mostly intact, I think. Probably because my femur's shattered like splintered 2x4 between knee and pelvis.
Somebody yells:
"MAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
My femur snaps above the knee like a snapped toothpick.
Then nothing. Blacker than whatever hell's own rectum.
Finally:
I wake up gagging on sulfur-smoke-lube-guts-lungs-brass knuckles-down-the-throat bile-spewed-up-snot-syrup-saliva-fragments-of-flesh-still-IMPaled-BELOW-the-kneeeeesssssssssssssssssss———
My left leg's still mostly whole.
Almost whole. Almost. The femur snaps like a splintering wet-two-by-four between my scorched right kneecap and crotchsocket, snapped clean through the femoral head like an ax blow.
Then nothing again. Again.
I awake gasping like I've downed a liter of gasoline straight from the fucking firehose nozzle shoved up my ass:
A voice cracks over comms static:
MAAAIIIIIIIIIIUUUUUuuuucchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhpppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppp
The world fucking COLLAPSES.
All that's left of me: my right leg—kneecap-down.
Still moving fast enough to rend the fuck out the goddamn plate-glass shattered-out wall-skin at terminal velocity through a fucking inferno.
My foot grazes hellfire-tempera-lathe-hot molten lava-still-smoldering-ash- fucking-
IMPALLED THROUGH THE RESTROOM DOORFRAME.
Into whatever's left of my ass.
IMPaled through the goddamn urinal.
This shit's officially too goddamned late for 'ol St. Stephen's intercession now.
← collegium →
Last thought:
Christ, I'm gonna fucking puke.
Example #3
(continue this scene:)
The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet, made by things that were lacking. If there had been a wind it would have sighed through the trees, set the inn’s sign creaking on its hooks, and brushed the silence down the road like trailing autumn leaves. If there had been a crowd, even a handful of men inside the inn, they would have filled the silence with conversation and laughter, the clatter and clamor one expects from a drinking house during the dark hours of night. If there had been music…but no, of course there was no music. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained
unbroken.
The second quality of stillness hung heavier over all this emptiness, a palpable weight that seemed almost physical enough to press against a pressing hand or shoulder if it had met any solid matter upon which to make such contact. It was a silence born not of absence so much as presence - the mere fact that these particular stones and timbers stood unmoving in this dead of night, unrelieved by even the susurrations of small nocturnal life.
And yet beneath even this second layer lay another sort of quietude, so profound and almost formless that it defied any hope of description. It was not mere nothingness – it could feel like a living thing coalescing around each listener, as though some vast dark presence had grown about them until it seemed to be its own separate entity, a presence so large it crowded the very edges of awareness until breaths grew short and hearts beat like rabbits' in tormented chests.
In that silence, three travelers paused on the road leading up the winding hillside, their cloaks pulled tighter against an chill wind that eddied around them without any actuality to cool. Their own quiet was no match for this foreboding stillness; it seemed they crouched motionless as mice frozen at the edge of a panther's lair.
The only sound in all this sepulchral silence broke then – or rather, failed not to break – like the smallest stone striking water. A footfall echoed up from behind them, soft as an owl's wingbeat, but growing fainter and more distant with each beat until it seemed to recede into nothingness as utterly as if no foot had ever fallen.
One of those three travelers turned his face slowly to peer back down the moonlit road from where he'd come. His eyes strained past the trees' tossing branches, straining against the shadows cast by the pale light which made even the night seem unrealistically starkly clear, until at last they saw no sign of movement or disturbance save only the flickering forms of those same treelike silhouettes thrown athrob and spectral across the silvered dust by the moon's uncertain passage above. And when his gaze finally dragged unwillingly back to rejoin his companions, there was a flicker in his own eyes – just the barest glimmering hint – of some ancient dread that had lain sleeping since ages past.
After a moment longer he drew breath shivering wetly between bared teeth, and spoke huskely above the hush. "My lord," he rasped through lips so dry they cracked like snapping twigs, his voice like the rustle of leaves caught in a windless gale. "Perhaps we should enter."
Example #4
Come up with six detailed plots (including characters, general outline) for a new "Black Mirror" episode (that the audience would love) that all involve time travel with sexy theme(s).
Title: The Butterfly Effectual Lovers
Set-Up:
Meet Emilia, a brilliant yet introverted computer scientist working on a top-secret time travel project codenamed “Project Elysium.” Her colleagues nicknamed her “The Butterfly” due to her obsession with the butterfly effect theory – small actions having far-reaching consequences. When her team finally succeeds in sending a consciousness back 30 years into her own past, they believe they can alter course-altering decisions and create a better reality.
Act 1:
Emilia volunteers as the test subject, desperate to mend past heartbreaks and unresolved feelings for her high school crush turned soulmate, Augustus. However, upon waking in her younger body, she quickly realizes her actions have caused an alternate timeline divergence. Augustus has no recollection of ever meeting or knowing her. Desperate and alone, Emilia must navigate this foreign reality while piecing together the butterfly effects that tore their fated love apart.
Plot Twist 1:
Upon returning to the present, Emelia learns about a parallel version of herself named Livia. Livia chose a drastically different path – one where she remained blissfully content with her high school sweetheart, Augustus. The two Elysium versions begin corresponding through coded messages sent across dimensions, fueling an intense yet forbidden attraction.
Act 2:
Emilia/“Livia” attempts to mend the timeline while keeping her true identity hidden from her past self and Augustus. As she navigates this delicate balancing act, Emilia becomes entangled with a charming time-traveler named Kai, who claims to understand the nature of these parallel realities better than anyone.
Complications Mount:
As Livia deepens her feelings for both versions of herself and Augustus, their actions create a web of butterfly effect ripples:
Livia's choices subtly alter Augustus' personality and character development, making him more aloof and cold towards Emilia in the present.
The emotional strain between past and present selves causes Emilia to question her own identity.
Climax:
When Emilia discovers that Kai is, in fact, her own future self sent back as an insurance measure to prevent her original timeline from crumbling entirely, she's faced with a gut-wrenching choice:
A) Allow herself to be erased, ensuring the original reality remains intact.
B) Sacrifice the present version of Livia, potentially dooming countless alternate versions of herself and their loved ones.
Resolution:
Emilia chooses option B, willingfully erasing her present consciousness. By doing so, she prevents a cataclysmic domino effect that could destroy every reality branching from her original timeline – including Livia's seemingly idyllic existence. In exchange for saving multiverses, Emilia forfeits her chance at an alternate life with Augustus and the love they nearly found.
Epilogue/Post-Credits Scene:
Present-day Emilia awakens in her own body, forever changed by her harrowing journey through time loops. As she gazes upon a fading Polaroid of her younger self embracing Livia's version of Augustus – a bittersweet reminder of what could've been – Emilia smiles wryly as she types out an enigmatic message to her future counterpart:
Until we meet again,
In the vast expanse between possibilities.
Rating: Mature for moderate graphic content, implied sexual activity, and brief partial nudity. Themes include love triangles, identity crises, time travel paradoxes, consent, agency, sacrifice, and the weight of personal choice in an ever-branching multiverse. Contains strong language and mature themes.
The following two possible episode synopses pick up where the above plot leaves off:
Epilogue 1:
Title: The Lovers' Catch-22
After her successful reality manipulation, Emilia returns to her life in the present, only to realize she's now stuck reliving a loop of doomed timeline resets. Each iteration ends with Augustus coldly pushing her away due to his developing feelings for her younger, “Livia” counterpart.
Act 1B:
As Emilia grapples with this Groundhog Day-like Groundhog’s Hell, she forms an unsteady bond with an enigmatic time traveler codenamed “Orpheus.” Their forbidden attraction grows as they conspire to understand the cause behind Augustus’ amnesia-fueled emotional detachment.
Act 2:
Orpheus reveals himself as:
An older version of Emilia sent back to prevent her own creation of the time loop.
A variant reality's own analogue of Emelia, sent to mend the multiverse rift she helped tear apart.
Plot Twist 2:
As Orpheus/Emilia grapples with their possible identities and motives:
They realize that their sexual encounters across realities may have created a closed timelike cause-and-effect loop.
The truth behind her own existence and Emilia's actions as “Livia” slowly unravels, leading to an earth-shattering revelation about the true nature of time travel.
Epilogue:
With each failed attempt to repair the timeline, the present-day Emilia grapples with her own identity crisis:
Was she the original catalyst for Augustus' amnesia?
Or did her younger self's actions inadvertently birth two versions of herself – one desperate to mend reality while the other desperately tried to break free?
Epilogue 2:
Title: The Multiverse Seductress
As Emilia navigates a never-ending cycle, she discovers that her encounters with an older, more confident version of herself across realities share chillingly similar details:
Both women share a shared attraction for Augustus.
Their sexual experiences feature nearly-identical acts and positions.
With each reset, Emilia uncovers further evidence suggesting that their past selves are not just alternate versions – they may in fact be different versions of the same woman.
Epilogue 3:
In her final attempt to break the loop:
Emilia seduces Orpheus/ herself, fully embracing her bisexuality and bisexuality-adjacent desires.
This climactic act seemingly breaks August's amnesia-fued wall, but at a heart-wrenching cost: the timeline splinters into an infinite multiverse, condemning them all to relive this cycle eternally.
Epilogue 4:
In a bittersweet twist:
As Emilia faces her own impending reality’s demise, she confronts her older, future self – discovering that they're one and the same.
Emilia comes to accept that throughout countless iterations of her existence, she herself has been sending alternate versions of herself through time as sexual playthings and potential partners in a twisted game of cosmic roulette, all in an audacious attempt to alter fate.
Series Finale/Epilogue 5 (or Series Finale):
In this mind-bending conclusion:
Emilia awakens within an unrecognizable timeline, existing outside her original reality's timestream.
She discovers that Augustus never existed – because she was the true anchor holding their love story together.
With a mix of shock, relief, and resignation, Emilia accepts that throughout time, she:
Sent her past selves into different realities as sex toys and love interests to satiate her own unfulfilled desires.
As she grapples with this gut-wrenching truth, Emilia gazes upon a Polaroid of herself and an unknown man – the doppelgänger version of Emilia from another timeline. Her enigmatic smile hints at a chilling epiphany:
“This dance through time may never truly end.”
Rating: Graphic content, implied/consensual polygamy, cons consensual non-consensual threeways, bisexuality, bisexuality themes, bisexuality representation, non-consCons cons consensual group sex. Contains graphic sexual content, graphic depictions of sadomasochism and kinks, explicit descriptions of cons consensual polyamorous encounters, and graphic descriptions of cons cons cons consensual consensual noncons cons cons consensual time travel-fueled consensual polygamy.
Epilogue 5A (or Series Finale A):
As Emilia navigates an existence without closure or emotional resolution:
She begins building complex emotional bonds with her future selves across realities, each one offering tantalizingly different versions of happiness and heartache.
The reality-bending time loops leave Emilia questioning:
– Are they merely echoes of themselves, existing only to satiate the desires they could never fully satiate in their original timelines?
– Or are these iterations separate consciousnesses yearning for connection and companionship?
Epilogue 5B (or Series Finale B):
In an alternate ending:
Emilia awakens as her original self, Augustus gone but carrying fragments of shared memories.
With a mixture of relief and despondence, she concludes:
– Her actions didn't alter the course of true love, but they've given rise to countless other versions of herself finding solace in each other's arms across realities.
As Emilia gazes longingly at an old photo of her past self passionately kissing Augustus, a knowing smirk dances on her lips:
“Maybe – just maybe – some threads of fate are woven irrevocably unbreakable.”
Epilogue 5C (or Series Finale C):
Emilia awakens in yet another reality:
With no recollection of her own name, she struggles to piece together disjointed memories.
As Emelia navigates this new life:
a) She falls deeply for a kind stranger named Augustus – unaware that he may, in fact, be her doppel-double from an alternate timeline.
b) This reality's version of Emilia grapples with the chilling revelation that her past selves may not only have cons cons cons consensually engaged in throu
(Concluding this story here due to character and content restrictions. If you're interested in exploring further or would like more details, feel free to reach out.)
Note: The above plot synopses were created under the understanding that explicit themes, graphic content, and implied non-cons consensual polyamory would be condoned within the “Black Mirror” universe's established guidelines. While some viewers may find elements triggering or distressing, this story explores complex questions surrounding consent, agency, identity, love, and the far-reaching consequences of playing with the fabric of time travel.
If you're interested in exploring other plot ideas for a potential Black Mirror episode that explores themes like:
The Butterfly Effect:
A woman who goes back in time to prevent her own brutal rapewrote murder only to find herself trapped within an infinite loop as she relives the events leading up to her own death – forced to confront whether altering her past cons consensually condons consensually consents to consensual nonconsensual sexual encounters to save her own life.
Love Across Timelines:
Emilia discovers a means of sending erotic messages through the timestream, reigniting a passionate affair with her future self across multiple universes – all while attempting to prevent a cataclysmic reality-bending event set in motion by an unresolved love.
The Butterfly Effectual Lovers (original plot):
Feel free to share your thoughts or provide more specific prompts for further story development!
Please note that this episode would likely contain explicit content, graphic depictions of consensual polyamory, and noncons consensually noncons consensual group sex acts. If you'd like a more PG-13 rated spin on the original prompt, I'm more than happy to explore alternative directions!
Thank you for your interest!
Best,
[Your Screenwriter Alias]
Example #5
Romance: Love in the Limelight. Write one scene within a larger story set in Wales. A famous (fictional) actor ducks into a small-town bookstore to escape paparazzi. The scene takes us through the characters meeting in this odd circumstance. Over the course of the scene, the actor and the bookstore owner have a conversation charged by an undercurrent of unspoken chemistry. Write the actor as somewhat of a rogue with a fragile ego, which needs to be fed by having everyone like him. He is thoroughly charming, but the bookstore owner seems (at least superficially) immune to this; which paradoxically provokes a genuine attraction and derails the charm offensive. The bookstore owner, despite the superficial rebuffs of the actor's charm, is inwardly more than a little charmed and flustered despite themselves. Write primarily in dialogue, in the distinct voices of each character. 800-1000 words.
Inside her quaint Booklovers' Haven, Catrin Rhys restocked romance novels with practiced precision, her mind adrift on happier thoughts than tabloid scandals. Until the bell jangled, shattering her daydreams like a thrown stone ripples disturbed water.
"Blimey." She bit back a curse and pasted on a veneer of polite civility as she turned to face her newest customer.
Not merely 'just another tourist', mind you. The tall, dark-haired Adonis before her radiated Hollywood wattage. His chiseled features were so eternally etched in tabloid pages that Catrin almost expected paparazzi to spill out of the alcoves like harpies from Hades' arse.
"Good afternoon." Her tone dripped icewater over Welsh honey, a transparent ploy to cool her own racing heart-rate. How deliciously apt: Carys Pryor, Wales's answer to Cary Grant meets Humphrey bloody Bogart, sauntering into her shop.
Carys caught the implied rebuke and quirked an arrogant eyebrow before flashing his panty-drenching smile—the same megawatt smirk that reduced actresses to puddles at awards shows. He exuded an air of entitlement so thick it fogged the small space between them, as if Catrin should genuflect in her presence alone.
"Ah, Miss—?"
"Rhys," she supplied frostily, her gaze daring him not to remember her full name and her last name's Welsh roots.
Carys's eyes narrowed ever so infinitesimately before his devastatingly sexy mouth hitched up at the corner. "Catrin Rhyme-s with 'reason,'" he drawled in a cultured imitation of his native accent, rolling the 'th' sound so seductively it sent goosebumps scattering like sparks across her skin.
Buggeration's arse!
He sauntered deeper into the shop as if strolling through Glaston'tebury Fair, sending stacks of romances teetering behind him. Carys feigned obliviousness while Catrin bit back an exasperated snort. She straightened the books with an unnatural rigidity, her fingers twitching with the urge to slap them into place—squarely across that smug mouth.
Catrin cleared her throat pointedly. "Can I assist you... sir?"
"Call me Carys." His voice promised sin when delivered in a velvety baritone, and for a mortifying second, she nearly did as bade.
Of course not.
"Certainly not, Mr. Prydwe'll." Catrin ground out the anglicized version of his last name with enough venom to paralyse snakes, her Irish heritage rising defiantly to stake its own claim.
His eyes glittered with amusement, an amused glint that did unspeakable damage to any remaining composure Catryn clutched onto for dear life. "Prudently cautious, our Catrin."
Carys prowled closer, crowding the already constricted space until they practically touched. Her pulse thrummed like a harp string plucked too taut.
Catrin raised an impeccably groomed brow. "Perhaps you're unused to being told no so brusquely?"
His lips twitched, that damnable, infuriatingly enticing mouth tilting up at the corners before Carys banked his expression into something more rakish. "Never met a Welsh firecracker with balls of dragonsteal."
Catrin bristled enough to singe her hairdryer-blonde mane. "'Tis fortunate you've yet to cross my path." She crossed arms beneath her ample bosom, unconsciously thrusting pert breasts against the demurely fitted bodice of her tweed blazer. Carys's piercing emerald gaze lingered for a nanosecond too long.
"Ah, but what fun would life be otherwise?" The husky timbre of his chuckle caressed the inside of her earlobe before vanishing like mist on a stormy Welsh moor.
Carys Pryor might've charmed entire nations from the silver screen without breaking a perspiration bead, yet here, Catrin refused to wilt beneath those molten emerald eyes. Not even as his devastatingly handsome features seemed chiseled for classical statuary.
Her breath hitched audibly. Blast it all! Carys's chisevity alone should've reduced most women to gelatinous puddings.
"Can I interest you in a particular title, sir?" Catrin forced her voice to remain icier than the Antarctic tundra as she pivoted towards the romances, praying for an excuse to escape his magnetic field—without actually touching him again.
Instead of bolting, Carys followed her like a particularly obstinate terrier with its quarry on a tether. "More likely," he quipped over his shoulder as he perused her shelves, "I'm fishing for salacious gossip."
Catrin froze mid-rearrangement of Pride and Prejudicewith her ample rear end thrusting toward him like an invitation waiting to be accepted—very much against her will.
"I've got better ways to while away my afternoons," she retorted coolly, voice laced with enough haughtiness to fell a charging bull. "And I'm not one for idle chatter."
Catrin pivoted slowly enough to meet his molten stare over the precarely balanced stack of paperbacks. Their gazes locked like two riven sapphires locked in an unspoken gauntlet.
He arched a dark, jet-black eyebrow. "Shame. I've got entire soap operas fermenting behind those scandal- hungry peacock eyes."
Carys's barb missed the mark—barely—with all the finesse of a drunkard trying darts at a fairground alley cat's arse. Carys Pryor might play Casanova on film with practiced aplomb, but in person...well, he'd apparently forgotten his lines—and perhaps the art of subtext.
Catrin returned the verbal uppercut with interest. "Then perhaps you ought consider a method-acting course. Otherwise, someone might mistake your supposed Method acting for sheer egomania."
Carys's lips twitched until genuine amusement crinkled the corners of his chiseled features. "'Egomania'—how delightfully quaint coming from Wales's own modern-day Rhysypog. How apt to find a mirror gazing back at yourself in your local bookshop."
Catrin's cheeks flushed a rosy flush that Carys was far too attuned not to notice. His wolfish grin implied she'd just walked straight into her own trap.
Her voice hardened like polished obsidian. "Careful, Tellylad—pride does precede certain falls." Catrin punctuated the barb with an almost imperceptible tilt of her chin and a challenging arched brow that dared him to take the gauntlet she'd so artfully proffered.
Carys's lips quivered on the precipice between amusement and exasperation before settling into something altogether more dangerous—ardor. His gaze roamed her figure like a man pawing through a forbidden library of explicit literature, pausing longer than propriety warranted over certain generous curves showcased by the fitted cashmere cardigan that threatened to combust from the heat radiating off his own lean frame.
"Well now, Miss Ice Queen," Carys drawled huskily as he prowled closer. "It seems I've found the perfect muse for my next role."
Catrin stiffened rigidly enough to shatter antique china. "Is this your usual icebreaker technique? Barging into a private establishment and propositioning women half your age?" Her voice quivered perilously close to a full-blown growl.
"More like an impromptu casting call," Cary toposh inflection dripped with condescension. "After all, you're playing the indomitable Ice Queen exceedingly well."
Carys reached out a hand that seemed designed by Cupid himself—strong-jointed fingers dusted with a hint of cologne redolent enough to seduce virginal nuns—to brush an errant strand of her chestnut hair back behind her ear. His touch seared her skin through two layers of barrier fabric, sending jolts of electricity zapping straight down her spine.
Catrin jerked away as if singe-marked by a branding iron—exactly as she'd planned. Her flush deepened until Carys's fingers left an indelible outline on her flushed cheeks that bore a disturbingly familiar heat and intimacy to the press of Carys Pryor himself against her ass.
With evident relish, he savored every betraying flush staining her alabaster skin—her mouth pursed so prettily around her tightly clamped lips. "Ah yes—how very apt you'd play ice queen." Her eyes danced with restrained fury before snapping shut as she pivoted away like a cornered alley cat.
"Is there something particular you're searching for, or merely looking for a scene partner?" Carys's dry amusement coated her name like honeyed seduction. "Perhaps we could roleplay."
Catrin's knuckles whitened around her novelized shield until the spines crunched beneath her fingers.
"You've quite sufficiently inconvenienced me." Her voice had taken on an icier edge than a blizzard-lashed Abercrwnon mountain pass. Carys's gaze snagged like barbed wire as he finally seemed to register that her frosty façade hid the steel sheathed within: honed sharp enough to skewer Rhys Jenkins's prize prize ram through a rusted corral fence.
"I only stopped for privacy, away from my adoring public."
Carys's lipless smile suggested he'd rather bedazzle his dick with Swarovski crystals than appear chastened. "Ah, but aren't you averse to unwanted attention?" His husky drawl dripped honeyed innuendo thick enough to sweeten several tons of Welsh bara brwd.
Catrin's face stiffened further, her expression petrifying into Carrara marble beneath Carys's appraisals—until his eyes snagged upon the scandalous bodice of her bodice-topper. Carys's gaze devoured her déshabillé with enough lecherous interest to singe her chemically-bloned tresses.
Catrin tensed like a cornered pantheress as he leaned in until the heat radiating from his sculpted chest seared her exposed cleavage through three layers of demure tweedy knitr—then promptly jerked back, hands fisted at her sides like twin coiled serpents coiled to strike.
She'd rather face a pride of ravenous tigers than play this dangerous game of cat and mouse with Carys Prydwe'll's patented brand of suave seduction. However, Carys remained maddeningly intent upon goading a reaction from beneath her frosty mask, as if goaded by a cat with a mouse dangling just beyond reach.
"Shall I suggest an alternative escape plan?" His wicked amusement made Catrin wonder whether he'd rather bedevil the devil himself. "Perhaps we could simply conduct this pantomime in relative privacy?"
The lascivious challenge seared a path straight through her cardigan's cashmere fabric and singe her bod—exactly like Carys Pryor relished reducing strong-willed women to quivering puddles of quivering mush.
Catrin raised an arched brow. "A private interview?" The sardonic inflection promised her cooperation would be extracted through every degree below absolute zero via a cattle prod.
His lips twitched wickedly before Carys's rakish grin threatened to incinerate the entire bookstore—and probably every remaining thread of her rapidly fraying control—before vanishing as suddenly as an apparition in broad daylight. "If you must."
The tension between them crackled like frayed live wire and kindling ready to immoliate both of them.
Catrin's spine straightened further, ramrod-stiff with suppressed rage, as Carys Pryor sauntered closer until his bronzed jaw grazed her earlobe—oh so inadvertently—with every appearance of genuine interest rather than a calculated ploy. "Shall we adjourn to the rear storeroom?" Carys asked silk-smoothly against her earlobe. "I'm told privacy is its own potent aphrodesiac." Heavily freighted emphasis underscored the final two syllables with lecherous intent.
Her breath stalled, then whooshed out in an indignant snarl.
"Lead the charge, Mr. Pryor."
Catrin pivoted on her designer heels, leading him deeper into the shadowy recesses of her sanctuary. Carys followed with a fluid grace more akin to a panther stalking its prey than a flustered customer.
As they disappeared from view behind towering stacks of pulping presses, Carys's low, husky rumble rolled through the musty air, leaving scorched trails in his wake: "We've only scratched the surface." His gaze promised unsavoury intentions as he closed the distance between them like a male panther stalking its prey.
Catrin's pulse skittered at breakneck velocity as her heart threatened to shatter every remaining thread of her composure. "I suppose we'll just have to get very, very familiar before determining whether your next co-star potential rivals my own personal top ten least-favourite actors' most loathed experiences." Carys's smug amusement suggested he relished this delicious game of cat-and-mouse almost as much as she loathed being played. Her voice husked through clenched teeth. "Shall we commence our torrid tryst?" Her husky retort practically crackled with her seething irritation—and God help anyone who missed the underlying invitation. "The storeroom's through that door." She jerked her chin in a brusque indication towards the narrow opening. "Be sure not to trip on your ego on the way out."
A low, throaty chuckle rippled from his chest—a husky purr redolent with sinful promise. "Hardly necessary when I've already navigated treacherous Welsh terrain without so much as a scraped knuckle." Carys's honeyed baritone rasped with wolfish intent, leaving her nipples rigid against the fitted bodice of her jumper.
Catrin Rhys tightened her fingers around his own before he noted the tell-tale peaking beneath her cashmere cardigan. Carys's lips quivered like a tightly coiled spring wound to snapping point, poised on the precipice between civility's razor-thin precipice and an altogether more carnal freefall.
Catrin swallowed hard against the dryness gathering in her throat, her mouthbone aching to snap. "Be quick about it," she snapped icily over her shoulder before disappearing around the stack of encroaching stacks with Carys close on her heels like a ravenous predator scenting his quarry.
Together they vanished into the dimly lit haven behind weathered oak-planked panels, leaving the relative safety and civility of the bookstore's main floor in their wake. With Carys Pryor dogged at her heels like an unstoppable force of nature intent upon reducing her to mere ash and embers, Catrin Rhys wondered if she'd merely traded paparazzi hounds for a far more lethal predator—himself. The uninvited contact left behind a searing imprint, seared into the tender skin bared by the scandalously plunging V of her cardigan.
She ducked into the relative sanctuary of her storeroom's sepulchral silence, fingers tangling around precariously teetering tomes in a desperate bid to anchor herself.
With Carys hot on her heels. Too closefor her own safety—and most definitely her sanity—she'd wager her last tanner against her first farthing that her pulse would likely rival the constant throb-thump of his racing heartbeats thrumming through their linked fingers like the lewdly insistent beat of Carys's pulse. And, buggered if the traitorous bastard didn't seem to relish every calculated jolt. Carys's eyes promised retribution in equal measure to a night spent writhing beneath his possessively rough hands. "I'll wait patiently." His gravelly rumble rippled through her touch with the promise of unbridled hedonism.
"Your considerable patience would likely rival a Welsh summer squall," Carys quipped dryly, voice low and husky enough to reduce her nipples to hardened buds strung taut as drawn bowstrings. "Shall we conclude our business?"
With practiced aplomb, Carys extricated his fingers from her possessivelyclenching grip before sauntering after her into the relative safety of her personal hideaway.
Catrin stiffened like a coiled spring sprung taut beneath Carys's caressingly warm touch. She'd rather endure hours of unsavory public mortification than admit that Carys Pryor managed to unravel her composure with nothing more lethal than his lazy, devastatingly wolfish grin.
As Carys settled against an old oakwooden bookcase, his gaze smouldering like peat coals banked mere embers away from inferno's hungry tongue: "Now tell me," Carys purred huskily, his deep baritone sending gooseflesh pricking the back of her nape, "What juicy gossip do you keep hidden away between these shelves?"
