#Bruiser is ALL about that

[bearotonin-international]

Bruiser wants YOU to support 🍉🍉🍉

[bookrat]

Pretty sure my little man has a case of abundism affecting the marble tabby coat under all those white splotches

[jack-kellys]

ok im not asking for javid. draw ralbert rn 🔫

- @we-are-inevitable ✨

gun is persuasive ngl

[riinoaheartilly]

I never finished the thing these two pieces were a part of and I don't have the motivation to bother poking at it anymore, so gonna slap them on here because I loved how they turned out and don't just wanna leave them to collect dust on my tablet.

[dbssh]

nina has to leave arkangel like its inarguable but also i dont want to have to build her a new, non-angel-themed persona i worked so hard on prophet. AND the new design will rely on a completely different general shape because it'll have to be designed with a lot more consideration for how she looks in it seated, which is something specifically that im very bad at. AUGH.

[catgirlkirigiri]

I need to stop caring about minor aj alphas because I SUCK at feral outfit design and I have to give them all clothes….

[13uswntimagines]

The Come Down (Alessia Russo X MMA fighter!R)

R is a very popular MMA fighter, and Alessia sees the parts of you that other people don't. Shes the one who gets to put you back together again after a tough fight.

Warnings: D/S undertones but no smut.

Author's note: This was super fun to write and i hope you enjoy it. Feel free to hit me up with ideas and comments and stuff.

You sighed, leaning your head against the stone walls of the Emirates tunnel, letting it soothe the twinges that always lingered after a long flight.

It was masochistic, but the ache that lingered the day after a war in the Octagon was always one of your favorite feelings, especially if you won. It helped you to compartmentalize the parts of yourself. It helped you separate the completely in-control fighter, the stone-cold monster that didn’t give a fuck about her opponents, and the human that lingered underneath. 

It was hard to punch a man until he was unconscious if you thought about how human he was. If you pictured his family and his life as anything other than an opponent for you to run through. But you never wanted that part of yourself to exist anywhere other than in the cage. 

The throb in your muscles and ache in your cuts helped you lock that part of yourself away. It helped you keep your grip on reality in all of the post-fight hormones until you could get to the grounding force that was your girlfriend. 

The post-fight come-down was always difficult for you, especially after a 5 round back and forth battle like the one you had just fought. 

You loved your job, you really did, but it was so easy to… lose yourself. To get lost in the anger of the UFC universe and the vitriol of your opponents. To get lost in the cycle of Training, listening to a man tell you he was going to destroy you at press conferences, cutting weight and beating the ever-living fuck out of someone while people cheered. 

Just being in the same building as Alessia had set you at ease, and watching her score 2 against Chelsea was even better. 

But the sound of the crowd had started to set you on edge. The way they erupted when your face, black eye, stitched gash on your cheek curving up to your forehead and all, appeared on the Jumbotron after your girlfriend’s PK had you clenching your teeth. It egged on the thoughts of murdering the keeper that had taken her out swirling in your brain, along with the desire to demolish the player who had so callously stepped on her teammate after a play. 

It was why you escaped to the tunnel, to gain some form of control over your thoughts. 

Maybe flying out as soon as you had been cleared by the medics wasn’t such a good idea, but you couldn’t stand being away from Alessia any longer than you had to be. You couldn’t stand being away from the comfort, love, and… safety she offered you. 

God, you sounded like a psycho. 

Or a submissive nearing the end of her rope.

6 weeks apart from your girlfriend was really doing a number on you. 

“Ay bruiser, fancy meeting you here,” Katie said, appearing in front of you with a wide smile. 

You flashed a toothy grin at the Irishwoman, ignoring the way it pulled at the stitches holding your cheek together. “Maccabe, always a pleasure,” 

She caught your arm. “That was one hell of a fight. Thought Less was gonna break my hand during the third round,”

You grimaced. 

The third round was the only one your opponent won. He had caught you with a big overhand right, opening the gash on your cheek and knocking you on your ass in the last 15 seconds of the round. The knees he had followed it up with to your side hadn’t been fun either. He had almost finished you, and you knew it had to be hard for the team and your girlfriend to watch. 

“My hand dipped when I tried to close the distance,”

It really was a game of inches, and he had certainly taken advantage of your small mistake. It was ok, you had gotten him in the end anyway. 

Katie made a sound of agreement, glancing at the tunnel behind you. “Certainly made us all nervous, but I’m happy you took his head off, even if it took you until the last 30 seconds of the fight,” 

She made a little kicking movement with her leg like a semi-recreation of the head kick you had used to end the fight. 

“Didn’t want to rush it,” You shrugged, nodding to the Arsenal girls as they passed you, unable to help the way you automatically searched each face for your girlfriend. 

“Ya missus is still signing for a couple of kids,” She gestured over her shoulder, a knowing smile still playing at her lips. “I can take you to her if you want?”

You shook your head. “I’ll wait here. I’m in no hurry,” 

You also didn’t think you could deal with the sounds of the crowd when your head was still pounding, a consequence of taking a flight with a concussion against doctor's orders you supposed, and you ached every time you took a step, every time you inhaled too deeply really. 

Katie’s eyes softened when she saw the emotions flit across your features. “Come on, let's go to the locker room instead. It’s away from prying eyes,”

She tugged your hand. You let her lead you deeper into the tunnel and into a room filled with wooden cubbies. 

It was nice to let your brain turn off, to just… follow along and allow someone else to lead you. 

“Hey champ,” Leah smiled at you as Katie deposited you in what you assumed was Alessia’s locker. “That was one hell of a fight last night,”

“Thanks,” You winked at the defender. “You guys had a fantastic game too,” 

“I’m not sure a football match compares to a man trying to punch you in the face,” Steph said, glancing at you from her spot near Lottie. 

You made a low sound in the back of your throat, feeling the tightness return to your chest. “But I don’t have people stepping on me after the bell,” 

“But you do end up covered in blood,” Kyra chirped. “We don’t have to worry about that usually,” 

“Most of the time it’s not mine,” You muttered, leaning further into your girlfriend's locker. Her perfume lingered in the cubby, and you let it soothe the frayed edges of your nerves.

You didn’t want to think about fighting. About the person. The savage. you were in the octagon. You toyed with the hem of your sweatshirt sleeve. It was slightly too long because it really belonged to Alessia. She had given it to you before fight week. 

It helped, but it wasn’t her. 

It hadn’t been enough after the fight, and it wasn’t enough now. 

You didn’t think you could wait much longer, but you didn’t have to. 

“The stadium is buzzin,” Alessia said slightly breathlessly, stepping through the locker room door. 

You were immediately on your feet, taking in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “Less,” 

A grin instantly broke across her face, and she crossed the room in 3 long strides. Her arms wrapped around you, and without thinking you buried your face in her chest. 

It made the gash on your cheek sting and the tender skin of your jaw ache, but you didn’t care, pressing yourself as tightly to her as you could. She shifted, her nails running over your back with one hand as the other cupped the back of your neck. 

It was gentle, and grounding, and everything that you craved. 

“Hey baby girl,” She breathed into your hair, her voice dipping just a little and sending a shudder down your spine. 

She was like a ray of sunshine, always warm and sweet. It was why none of the fans would ever speculate about the positions that the two of you held in your relationship. They joked that she was too soft to be a dominant, but the people who understood how your relationship worked could see that her mix of firmness and warmth was exactly what you needed. 

She waited for you to pull away first, just enough to meet her eyes. “Hey,”

She leaned in and placed a careful kiss on your lips. “I’ll shower and then we can go, yeah?”

You deflated, your fingers tangling more tightly in her jersey. You didn’t want to let her go, even if it was just for a second. 

“You can come with me,” She said, a knowing look in her eyes. “And tell me all about fight week,” 

“Ok,” You agreed, only loosening your grip long enough for her to grab her shower bag and change of clothes, before you latched back on, holding the hem of her jersey tightly as she led you towards the showers. 

You felt a bit like a child, clinging to her, but she was like a buoy keeping you from drowning in the sea of your rocky emotions, and now that she was close to you, you couldn’t let her go. You were afraid that if you did, you would lose your grip on reality. 

The warm, wet air of the shower helped too. 

It reminded you of your post-fight routine. 

Win or lose you would stand under the hot steam of the stadium, washing off the blood and sweat from the octagon until your coaches pulled you out. It was part of the routine that you had skipped since the docs wanted to stitch your cheek as soon as you were out of eyeshot of the fans. 

Then you had felt so… off balance that you raced through a cold shower and hopped on a plane to get to your girlfriend as quickly as possible. You didn’t even stay for the post-fight press conference. 

“Come on love,” She said, pulling you into one of the stalls, sliding the first curtain shut behind the two of you, and bringing her face inches from yours. 

Her hand very gently cupped your cheek, mindful of the dark bruises that littered the skin, tilting your chin up. Her eyes searched you for a long moment like she was reading your mind. Like she was deciding what you needed from her. 

Her pointer finger very gently followed the long cut that ran under your left cheek, up to your temple, and just above your eyebrow. “I thought they usually put a bandage over stitches,”

Your eyes darted away from her. “I didn’t like the way it pulled at my skin,”

“I think you’d like it less if you got an infection,” She deadpanned, using her thumb to tilt your chin up further as she stepped into your space. “You wouldn’t be able to fight,” 

“But the scar would be worth it,” You shrugged, using all of your strength to muster up fake nonchalance. 

Her lip quirked upward. “Would it?”

You let your own smile morph into a playful smirk, despite the tremendous effort it took. “Chicks dig girls with scars,” 

“I think you’ve got enough of those, cheeky,” She hummed, leaning in and brushing the thick line that lived on the underside of your jaw with her nose. “I like it more when you come out without a scratch on you or a hair out of place,” 

You hummed, leaning back on the stall wall as her lips replaced her nose on your jaw, her teeth grazing the delicate skin as she made her way down the column of your throat and back up. 

Her hips pressed into yours, keeping you pinned to the wall, her thumbs insistent under your chin, keeping your head tilted up as her tongue slid pleasantly against your own. 

You sighed into the kiss, your fingers twisting into the material of her jersey, trying to pull her closer. 

Her thigh flexed between your legs, pressing into you, and you couldn’t help the way your hips rolled down to meet her. 

Or the wince that broke the kiss when the 

movement pulled uncomfortably at your ribs. 

“Babe?” 

You whined as she pulled away, blinking open to meet her burning blue eyes. 

“I’m ok,” You said breathlessly, trying to lean back up to kiss her. 

Her hand on your chest stopped you, as did the perfect arch of her eyebrow that screamed yeah right. 

Her fingers traced down your chest to the hem of your shirt. They crept under your top, meeting the tape wrapped heavily across your abdomen instead of smooth skin. 

Her eyes widened when she pulled up your sweatshirt, revealing the thick white bandages wrapped tightly across your stomach. 

“Want to try again love?” She asked, finally looking up at you with an expression that had a shiver tingling down your spine. 

“Just two cracked ribs and some nasty bruises,” You huffed, shifting uncomfortably when her fingers grazed the material. 

“Just,” She snorted, shaking her head, dropping your shirt, and standing up to her full height. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?” 

You shrugged. “I didn’t want you to worry. The stitches were already enough,” 

“I’d rather know and worry than accidentally hurt you,” Alessia said seriously. 

You looked away from her, swallowing hard. “And I knew you wouldn’t touch me at all if I told you,” 

“Baby girl,” She murmured, her voice going very soft, her thumb very gently ghosting over your uninjured cheek. 

She knew that the come down from fights was always particularly difficult for you. That the power that you held in the octagon always made you crave submission. You craved to not have to think, to just exist, and then to let your being relax in the aftercare that followed. 

This time the desire was amplified by the brutality of the fight. 

She could see you teetering on the edge, fighting the fog that always filled your brain, and while she wanted to scold you for withholding information, she knew that that wasn’t what you needed from her. 

Not when you were already dropping so hard. 

“Ok,” She said, keeping her voice soft as you leaned further into her touch. “I’m going to shower, and you’re going to be a good girl and stay right here for me, alright?”

You made a low noise in the back of your throat, and your eyes slid closed as you nodded very slowly. 

“Good girl,” She hummed, placing a very gentle kiss on your lips, and pulling away. “I’ll be two minutes love,”

You sagged against the shower stall wall. 

You could do that. You could wait 120 seconds for your girlfriend. 

You could and would do whatever she asked you to do because you knew it would help. You knew she would fit all of your loose pieces back together again and make it ok. 

You just had to exist.

[idesofrevolution]

Precursor

"Jesus, Danny I don't know what the fuck to do about it, okay? He just fuckin' got me out of no where." Click, clack. Click, clack. The tapping of his fingers on the mouse and keyboard were the only sounds echoing in the dark room aside from his shouts. "Well, I how the fuck should I know? I told you I wasn't good at this game! You're the one who kept begging me to play it, and it's bullshit dude!" For a game that was supposed to be this fun phenomenon, 'Precursor' was proving to be quite a bit lesser than Greg anticipated. Danny had begged him for weeks to join the game and do a couple of rounds with him, if only to get him hooked. For Greg, a video game was like Civilization or Cities Skylines... building something great with strategy and creativity. To him, this was a boring shoot 'em up that had a steep learning curve, and it was grating on his nerves. "Well, dude I told you I didn't know how to play this stupid game but you wouldn't take no for an answer!"

Another red screen and the words 'Exterminated' were sprawled across the screen. Greg slammed his fists down onto the desk, spilling his Red Bull all over his lap. He threw his head back in yet another defeat, his seventh in the span of an hour. Looking down at his phone, the late hour had all but caused him even further grief.

"You know what, dude? This game fucking sucks. I don't know why you wanted me to play with you." Danny, surely kicking ass on the battlefront from somewhere behind his screen in Oklahoma hundreds of miles away, was less than enthused. "Ya know what, fine. I will do the fucking noob lobby, okay? I swear to God, though, if this shit doesn't get fun in ten minutes I'm loggin' off." Greg disconnected from his online pal and reentered back into the main menu. He sighed, how the fuck could anyone without a trigger-happy index finger and a desire to think about their options for more than a split second find this game fun? To him, it was all reflexes and no brain power. Clicking through the main menu, he searched for the "Noob" lobby in the available servers. He scrolled for an agonizing ten seconds of full lobbies before he gave up.

"Man, fuck this." He was a single moment away from clicking that exit button before his elbow slipped on some of the Red Bull that had spilled onto the desktop. His wrist banged onto the keys, leaving a string of gibberish into the searchbar. He grabbed one of his clean socks from the floor and sopped up the syrupy water and tossed it behind him over his shoulder. Whatever. Turning back to his screen, to his utter astonishment, the search for 'pjdkluyoikms' had come up with a single hit: 3/9 players in the lobby. Greg looked down at his phone again, 3:30 in the morning grimaced back at him. He'd have to be up in 4 hours if he'd kept the job he quit a few days prior, but with unemployment looming over his head the hours didn't seem so important to him. The game was known for being a time void, sucking in every available minute it's players had to use.

"Fuck it." He clicked join, and waited as the lobby began to load. For a second, his monitor became severely pixelated, but quickly returned to normal. Before long, he was met with the game mode selection and a couple of voices chatting amongst the static. Bruiser, Scout, Sniper, Runner, Bomber... He didn't know how to use a single one of these characters and in the back of his mind, he wasn't keen on being embarrassed yet again for another hour of failures.

"Who's this?" One of the voices from the ether bellowed out from his headphones, and for whatever reason his skin flushed with goosebumps. "Yo, new guy, did you mean to come here? It's a private server."

"Ahh, shit. I'm sorry, my friend made me buy this game and I don't know what I'm doing. I'll find another, my bad!" Greg scampered to try and just choose a character so he could exit out of the menu, but a second voice gave him immediate pause. It was unlike the other players he'd met so far, in that he wasn't a complete dick right off the bat.

"Nahh, it's cool! We could use a runner this round if you're down? We can take it easy, right boys?" His voice was smooth, chill, if not a bit high pitched in a tenor timbre. The guy could have a career in anime protagonist voice acting if he'd put his mind to it, Greg was quickly put at ease with just a single word.

"You think he can keep up?" the third voice, husky and deep questioned.

"We've played with worse, bro. Remember Clive before Mick got to him? We lost four rounds before Mick got it to stick! He won't fuck up, will ya new guy?" Greg nervously chuckled, knowing full well he'd be terrible in the beginning either way.

"Uhhhh, give me a round or two to get the hang of it... I'm sure I can do it. Nothing better to do anyway."

"That's the spirit! See? He's gonna be great. I'll get him up to snuff." A fall of silence came over the server, Greg shifted in his seat. "Alright, newbie. Just choose runner and I got your back. I used to main runner, so I can show you the ropes." Taking a deep breath, Greg clicked on the avatar for Runner, and hit accept. He entered the lobby, seeing the three players had already chosen their avatars. 1: lostdestiny (scout), 2: EdgeRunner (bruiser), 3: ironclad (bomber), and now 4: Greg (runner).

ironclad: I take it you're Greg, then?

Greg: What gave it away?

The three others chuckled, and the loadbar began to fill. Greg could feel the anxiety and anticipation grow within him. He was about to faceplant AGAIN, and in front of these strangers. At least it wouldn't be long until he'd be kicked anyway.

EdgeRunner: Aight, listen up man. I can't be a babysitter, but I'll be following you. Just do what I tell you to do and you'll be fine. You got this, man. Yeah?

Greg: Uh, yeah man. I'll do my best.

lostdestiny: Don't worry guys, he's gonna do his best.

EdgeRunner: Pipe down, will ya, Des? Fuck. Alright, here we go. Lay low and let them come out on their own.

The four of them were dumped onto the map, this one seemed to be some dirty Cyberpunk city in the rain. Sooner rather than later, it'd be a warzone. Greg sat gobsmacked, frozen in place as the others ran for cover.

ironclad: Yo, get to cover, they'll be here any fuckin' second!

Greg: Whuh.... What do I do, where do I go?

EdgeRunner: Turn to your left, there's a hidden door in the bodega. Hold shift and run. Go!

Greg did as he was told, holding down the shift bar and going toward the store on the corner of the street. He was unprepared for just how quickly he would get there, running straight into the wall to the left of the door. Runner indeed. Rounding the doorway, he snuck down the aisles, and up to the door. He burst in, plowing through stacked boxes and into the racks of the storeroom.

EdgeRunner: Aight, you can let go of the shift, bud.

lostdestiny: Fuck, we're so screwed. We lose out on this one it's on you Edge, and I'm not coughin' up a single coin.

EdgeRunner: Des, hit your fuckin' vape and keep your eyes peeled. I'll worry about the new kid. Greg, hang tight. Wait for me to give you a signal, then you run to the hotel down the street. Got it?

Greg chuckled to himself, he'd stumbled into quite the little gang. These guys were far from noobs, they were good if not professionals. From behind the closed door, he sat idly, waiting with bated breath for Edge to give him the unmentioned word. Over his headphones, he could hear the trio plotting as if they were soldiers planning their attack.

EdgeRunner: Iron, be position. They're gonna come barreling down that alley like a fuckin' stampede, so nuke 'em until I can get there. Des, they in sight yet?

lostdestiny: Just like you said, boss man. Comin' in hot.

EdgeRunner: Perfect. Greg. There's a glowing purple crate in the corner. Open it and pick up whatever is in it, and do it quick.

Greg fumbled over the keys, searching the dark room until he saw the glowing purple box hidden beneath a pile of trash. Clicking on it, the box opened, shucking all the garbage atop it onto the floor. Inside sat a strange green vial.

Greg: Its... It's a glass syringe? Glowing green stuff inside.

EdgeRunner: That's what you're looking for. Bag it and get ready to run.

Greg slipped it into his bag. The syringe showed up as 'upgrade' in the inventory, but no other information was provided. Usually, at least, there was some sort of witty description for the items in-game. Might be modded, he thought to himself, not that he would know anyway. He positioned himself by the door, holding his breath.

ironclad: Fireworks.

EdgeRunner: Now, Greg. Go!

His left pinky firmly planted on the shift key, Greg burst out of the door, through the store and into the street. Outside, a barrage of AI cop grunts were surrounding the building across the way. Pillars of smoke and fire erupted from bombs being dropped from the roof, a massive lug of muscle being the culprit with Ironclad's red tag hovering above him. From within the crowd, an explosion of grunts flew through the air, and dead in the center of the action was EdgeRunner, a maxxed out avatar oozing athleticism and strength with a nearly full level bar floating above him. Fuck, who were these guys?

EdgeRunner: Don't fuckin' freeze on us, Greg. Run!

Taking the hint, Greg bolted down the street, weaving past smoke bombs and gunfire until he made it to the hotel's revolving door, shattering the glass as he crashed through. Inside, three grunts stood behind the front desk, quickly pulling out absurdly massive guns.

Greg: Edge, there's guys in here, they got big ass motherfucking guns too.

EdgeRunner: Fuck, okay. Hold control, shift, and Y. Then run to the elevator. Do it before they peg ya!

Greg: Fuck!

EdgeRunner: Iron, toss a few into the hotel. Help the kid out.

ironclad: On it.

Greg could hear the whistling in the air of the incoming bombs flying toward the lobby. He held down the keys and ran toward the elevators as instructed. Though, as he did, waves of colors surrounded his avatar, deflecting the bullets as they flew before the explosions behind him came bursting in. As the elevator doors closed in front of him, he saw the XP points flowing into his bar from the dead grunts. The elevator began to climb.

EdgeRunner: Woooooooooo baby! That's what I call a bait n switch! Kid, you're a natural.

lostdestiny: Beginner's luck.

EdgeRunner: It's gonna be a second before that elevator gets to the top level. Regroup at the hotel, they'll be swarming him. Des, you're on the 99th floor, right?

lostdestiny: Best view in the city.

EdgeRunner: Keep watch, we'll be there in a second. New guy will be on your floor in a couple of minutes. Greg, let's do a one-on-one, yeah?

On the screen, a side window popped up in the bottom corner. Incoming call: EdgeRunner 1 on 1. Fuck, was this guy trying to video chat?

Greg: Uhhhh, I didn't know you could cam...

EdgeRunner: What, you ain't jackin' off are ya? C'mon lemme see.

Greg waited for a moment, nervous beyond words. Watch it be some 60 year old gaming in his mom's basement, was this really the kind of guy he'd want to game with anyway? The curiosity had only crept up since he stumbled into the server, it's not as if they were meeting in real life or anything. It's a screen. He nodded to himself, as if to give himself permission, and clicked on the accept button. In the corner box, EdgeRunner himself popped into focus.

Not what he expected whatsoever. He wasn't much older than Greg, maybe late twenties, early thirties. That was a relief. His room was shrouded in a blue hue, pairing nicely with his ID tag color in game. He was covered in ink from the forehead down, with white hair and a nice pair of pecs cropped just out of view. Again, far from what he expected to see.

"What's up, Greggo?" He smirked, as if studying Greg from behind his lens.

"Yeah... In an elevator. On my computer." Edge laughed, taking his eye contact away to refocus on his game.

"Playin' pretty fuckin' well so far. You sure you never played before now?" Greg found himself blushing a tad bit at this hunk of a man, alarmingly similar to the stud avatar he portrayed online. "Might have to keep you around if you keep up at this rate." The ping of the elevator reaching the 99th floor brought him right back into the world, as the doors opened to a tall, lanky guy with his back to him.

"Des, I presume?"

lostdestiny: Who the fuck else would it be? Mommie? Get to the loot at the end of the hall, fifth door on the right.

"Des isn't the sweetest fruit in the basket. Don't mind him. But get to the room as quick as you can, bud." Holding down the shift key yet again, though now as if it were second nature to him, he bolted down the hall, dodging the mines which littered the floor. "Yeah, don't be up in your feelings about it, but the upgrade is for you, kid. If I were you, I'd take it now while you can. Get you on our level quicker, if ya catch my drift." Greg didn't think twice. He opened the inventory, clicked on the vial, and hit use. His avatar quickly pulled out the syringe from off screen, jamming it into his wrist. The liquid quickly flowed into his avatar, but changes were slow. He arrived at the door, opening them to a boardroom overlooking the whole city, bathed in a purple hue.

Greg: What am I looking for exactly?

ironclad: You'll know it when you see it. Find it quick, they're coming up.

As Greg began to search through the shelves and drawers lining the walls, he was too preoccupied to notice the veins of black starting to flow from his fingertips up his limber arms. While he may have been too focused to see, Edge was watching eagerly in the bottom corner with a giant grin forming on his face. His little window closed, leaving Greg in his search.

lostdestiny: Incoming. Edge, would be a really fuckin' great time for you to pull some fuckshit about now!

Explosions rung out in the hallway, and an eruption of bullets soon followed. Greg felt the pressure bearing down on him, he felt heavier, as if the weight of the situation were sitting atop him like boulders. But hidden in the darkness of his room, the black veins crawled higher and higher, across his shoulders and back, creeping up the back of his neck, until he felt a pinch right at the base of his skull. Instant headrush.

The world got blurry in a mere second, his ears started to ring and his muscles began to pulse. Though, in that moment, he felt something else swelling within him: confidence. Control, Shift, C. The boardroom went blue, a glowing yellow aura radiated from behind one of the walls. Greg smiled, bolting to the wall. Alt, D, F7. The shelves shuddered, then slowly retracted into a dark void. The payload sat at the end of a long, dark hallway on a spotlit pedestal. Some crazy mechanical contraption, it seemed. Though he didn't know what it was, he knew inherently that this is what he was looking for. Just as Iron said.

Greg: Bingo.

EdgeRunner: Careful, newbie. Watch the walls.

A single step forward, and red lasers began to shoot left and right. An hour earlier, he'd be pissing himself on an 'exterminated' screen, raging to no one but himself. Though now, as he felt the energy coursing through his body, the corner of his lip shifted upward, his brows furrowed, and he leaned forward. Showtime.

Alt, Shift, F2, Q, L... the keys flew by beneath his fingers as he dodged, rolled, and lept past every sensor. The keyboard could barely keep up as his hands danced across it. It was an invigoration he'd never experienced before, an expertise he'd never felt, a self he'd never known. Every new trap before him was a piece of cake, avoiding them before they'd even triggered. In the span of fifteen seconds, he'd arrived at the pedestal. The Carpe Diem. A major upgrade, far above his current standing, but it would fetch a pretty price for the right punk. The massive implant somehow fit in his inventory, he was thankful he wasn't on a real job, lugging this around would have been a task in and of itself.

Greg: Payload in hand. Ready to get the fuck out of here.

EdgeRunner: Gonna be a messy exit, kid. You up for it?

Greg: Don't have to flirt that nasty with me, Edge. Treat me tender.

He spun around, leaping down the entire hallway in one go. Thank you Shift, T, S. The crew stood at the door to the boardroom, perhaps a hundred grunts firing everything they had not far behind. Greg looked at every corner, and realized quickly what Edge meant. He turned around, looking at the massive glass wall overlooking Sunset City. His massive feet tapped against the wooden floor beneath his desk, itching for the run he was about to embark upon, his body begging for the rush... his muscles aching for the wind on his skin. He smirked. No second thoughts, he burst through the window.

ironclad: Fuck kid! That's one way out I guess!

EdgeRunner: Bail, boys! Let's fly.

Freefalling, Greg felt the cool breeze of his plummet on the lids of his closed eyes. Soon, but not yet. He had a job to finish. Control, Shift, C. His fall became a sprint, every footfall landing softly on the glass below, looking 99 floors straight down to the pavement.

GreWind: WOOOOOOOOOHOOOOOOO!

Exhiliration. Excitement. Freedom. He was free. Coasting on the diagonal glass, he surfed down the building until he came painlessly onto the sidewalk below, followed not too far behind by Des landing in a bush, Iron on his face, and Edge on his own two feet. The quartet sped toward the four bikes parked along the street, making their swift getaway. As Wind wiped the sweat from his brow, leaning back in his chair, letting the ripe waft of pits beam from his arms. Incoming 1 on 1 from EdgeRunner. He of course had to reem in the accolades, smiling as he hit accept. Edge popped up in the corner of the screen, beaming from ear to ear.

"Now that's what the fuck I'm talkin' about! That upgrade did ya good, new kid." Wind smirked, puckering his lips and blowing a kiss to his studly boss man.

"You can show me your appreciation later, babe. Worked up a storm for ya." Wind flexed his arms, licking the sweat from his bicep and running his hand through his bright green hair.

"Heh, yeah, you're gonna fit in just fine. This'll fetch a nice penny from the middleman. Now, whaddya say, Greg? Ready for the real work?" Edge winked and his window closed.

EdgeRunner: Rendezvous at Checkpoint's. Your cuts will be waiting for you.

Stormwind: Aye, aye Captain.

lostdestiny: Shit, you two get a room already.

EdgeRunner: Nah, you're gonna sit and watch me fuck him raw and nasty, Des.

Stormwind: Won't be the last if you're nice, Des.

ironclad: I swear, if newbie is gonna be cumdump, I'm gonna be on whatever job he's on.

Stormwind: Plenty to go around, boys. Better be ready to clean this dick and worship these feet. They run real fast for y'all and they could use a tongue bath, won't even need any poppers. Freebase, baby.

EdgeRunner: See you at Checkpoint's, Wind. Welcome to the team.

[dailyadventureprompts]

Villain: The Knights of St. Kazvarin

There's pious and selfless devotion, and then there's whatever these weirdos have going on

Riding forth from their brooding fortress-abbey to do the will of a long dead holy man, these inscrutable warriors have long been the subject of rumour and suspicion. It's not an undeserved reputation, as apart from looting tombs for ancient relics or ominously observing the goings on of the common folk these forboding knights are most often acting as the hired muscle for unscrupulous nobles who have no regard for the legality or virtue of the orders they enforce.

Far more than mercenaries with a patina of piousness, the Knights use these contracts to fund a secret and sinister endeavour that they have undertaken for centuries.

Adventure Hooks:

While delving through a dungeon the party follow a trail of slain monsters to a gravely injured knight and his thoroughly overwhelmed young squire. The boy will introduce them as Tilaen and Ser Darrik respectively and ask for their aid in tending to his master's injuries, before the dour Knight chides him for speaking on his behalf and tells the party to be about their way. Ser Darrik wants no help from "the faithless" and is willing to use the last of his strength to get violent about it. If cooler heads prevail, the party will learn that the two were after a rare manuscript hidden somewhere within the dungeon, and the offer of collaboration might be explored. If the party don't help, they'll find the squire waiting for them at the dungeon's entrance, requesting their help to bury his master and guide him back to their order's abbey. It's only after a few days of travelling together will realize that Squire Tilaen is muchabused by his sect, and that steering the boy away or outright adopting him might be the real kindness.

Acting as a stern and imposing shadow to whatever asshole noble or callous merchant the party have recently pissed off, the towering and always helmed Ser Gelceiras has "Bossfight" written all over him. However when the adventure's final confrontation looms the party find him cleaning off his massive axe, his employer's head in a bloodsoaked bag waiting to be delivered to them. "We got what we wanted from him" he rumbles as he exits, " you can have what's left. no hard feelings."

Just a new threat encroaches on the settlement, a mace wielding bruiser in burnished armour rides up and pledges to fight alongside the party in its defence. Ser Portia's skill as a fighter is sorely needed, perhaps enough to overlook whatever agenda it is that drew her to the settlement in the first place. Shortly after the final battle is fought and the dust clears, the party will realize Portia is nowhere to be seen... having escaped sometime during the aftermath after inexplicably kidnapping one of the locals.

Background: Before he was a sacred corpse, Saint Kazvarin was a necromancer of great talent, having dedicated his life to the study of thanatology and the many loopholes around death. This earned him great renown and wealth in his day, amazing the masses with seances while charging the powerful dearly for cut-rate resurrections. He amassed generous patrons and fanatical followers, only to have it all fall apart when the Raven Queen took an interest.

Kazvarin had and constructed his own bootleg afterlife, a place where his most loyal followers would rest forever in glory before being called back in time of greatest need. Atleast that was the sales pitch, in reality the "saint" had stopped just short of lichdom delving into the shadow to create a demiplane where his own soul would reside undeminished after death, sustained by the faith of his followers as the realm hollowed them out.

Such villainy inevitably created it's own downfall in the form of a young woman who's family were taken in and exploited by Kazvarin's cult. Though her name was not recorded by history, she was marked by the Duskmaven for greatness when she swore to tear down the saint who would conquer death, years later succeeding along with some allies in not only killing the necromancer but cursing him with a most ironic fate. Denying him the afterlife he had so meticulously constructed, the raven queen cursed Kazvarin with reincarnation, forcing his soul to live out a new life where it would forget all he knew and be remade.

It would have been a perfect punishment had the Saint's followers not been so fanatical. Though their organization had been shattered by their "benevolent" leader's apparent assassination, the most loyal of his inner circle poured through his research, finding the spells nessisary to seek out his soul in its new vessel. Thereafter they engaged in a grim hunt, crossing the realms to ritually sacrifice the youth their leader had grown into and pulling free his undigested soul. This is the cycle Kazvarin's followers have been following for generations, spending decades hunting for signs of their leader's return before using murder and necromancy to forcibly deincarnate him. Thereafter Kazvarin has a few months or years to act freely before he is swallowed back up by the tide of souls and the hunt begins again

Future Adventures:

Though they begin as a comparatively minor oddity, the knights become a true threat to the campaign as soon as they figure out who Kazvarin's current incarnation is and manage to wrest his soul out. Ideally this should be someone the party knows, to make it all the more tragic that they were sacrificed to bring about the villain's return.

Though it is much deminished, Kazvarin's demiplane (called the Howling Basilica) still traps the souls of those who have sworn their lives to him, acting as a vault from which he can pull rank upon rank of shadow-maddened spirits to his bidding. His most loyal retainers are allowed to keep their skills and individuality while being deprived of their will, meaning he has a backlog of highly skilled Knights just waiting for new bodies to possess no matter how many times the party defeat them on the field. What's worse is that the saint still remembers how to manipulate people with the offer of offbrand immortality, and will likely begin reaching out to powerful individuals shorty after his return.

Art 1

Art 2

[bearotonin-international]

Bruiser says more 🍉🇵🇸🍉

[demilypyro]

I love the villains of Snake Eater, by the way. It's this perfect trifecta.

Young Ocelot is like Snake's rival. You can really feel this growing personal vendetta which kind of blooms into mutual respect, with just enough homoerotic undertones. Ocelot is clearly immature in this one, but you can so clearly see the roots of what he becomes later in the timeline, and his cowboy westaboo nonsense is so fun.

Meanwhile, Volgin is such an irredeemable monster that he's both easy to hate and just fun to watch, and it's hilarious how he's in charge even though everyone else is clearly smarter than him. He's a big, hulking bruiser, he's not meant for all this espionage crap! So all the spies are just running circles around him, he's the only one who has no idea what's going on. It's great.

And then The Boss, what can I even say about The Boss. Just the huge emotional pain of your mother figure turning on you, it's the entire crux of the story. She presents this enormous, impassable mountain of a person, that you somehow have to overcome. You get the sense that Snake admires The Boss more than anyone, he looks up to her, maybe he even fears her, but she's also just so deeply important to him, and that's clearly mutual, and she just has to keep a straight face through the whole story as she pushes him away.

I just love Snake Eater so much, you guys.

[theresattrpgforthat]

Protect The Child - The Child

This is the final part of a series in which I cover the playbooks of Protect The Child, my Forged-in-the-Dark game about monster baby-sitters (alpha playtest). This week, we're looking at a unique, communal playbook - The Child.

This is your Crew playbook in Protect the Child. Your Child is not played by the players, but by the Game Master. They are the reason all of you are working together, and have unique powers that make them a target, as well as a spectrum of emotions that will push your characters to react.

Unlike Blades in the Dark, you alter pieces of this single playbook, rather than choosing from a list. Most of these pieces are tied to the Child's age.

Your Child will be somewhere between a Newborn and a Teenager in age range. Right now, each age range opens up new special powers, pips in the Child's stats, and broadens the Child's emotional spectrum. Choosing a specific age also defines what Milestones the Child may have already achieved, and which Milestones they haven't met yet. These Milestones are a mark of your Child's progress - and therefore, also the progress of your group.

You can choose to start at whichever age you like - starting with a Baby strictly reduces number of abilities available to the kid at game start, but sets them up for a much more pronounced growth arc, over a long campaign. Starting with a Teenager opens up a lot of abilities for the kid, but reduces the amount of growth that your characters will witness; the Teenager might already have habits they've formed, or talents they've figured out how to use.

The Child is probably the most untested part of this game. How their emotions prompt the characters to act, and how their XP interacts with their growth options is something I'm eager to test, and this means that much of this playbook may change in the future. I'm really looking forward to playing around with The Child, and I'm hoping that to some extent, this playbook bears some resemblance to the growing-up process.

If you'd like to take The Child for a whirl, you can pick up Protect the Child while it's in free play-test and set up a game with your friends! I'd love to hear feedback about how The Child played for you.

If you'd like to see the character playbooks for Protect the Child, I'm linking to all of my previous posts below.

The Bruiser-Brute

The Business-Beast

The Hearth-Heart

The Meddle-Mentor

The Outlaw-Outcast

The Rogue-Renegade

The Trick-Taker

[riinoaheartilly]

Felt bored and decided to draw me some lil guys using this.

Top left; Laughter & Axil, Top right; Bruiser & Rain

Bottom Left; Hope & Rain, Bottom Right; Bruiser & Laughter

Just some close ups:

[visenyaism]

what do you think would have happened if the eye incident was the other way around? if aemond had taken luke's eye instead how would have viserys (and rhaenyra) reacted?

see that’s a tricky one because on the one hand cutting the eye of the favored son of rhaenyra the only child viserys cares about and also calling luke a bastard is absolutely a “get executed” level offense for anyone that isn’t 1) a prince 2) a child 3) the rider of vhagar. it’s not going to look good for the king to have his own like ten year-old son executed, but the usual outlets for problematic sons in westeros (the wall, fostering, the faith, the citadel, essos) aren’t available either because you absolutely have to keep an eye on Vhagar. You cannot send the ten year old with the biggest baddest WMD in all the realm into someone else’s custody.

i think if rhaenyra asks for aemond’s eye she’s absolutely getting the go-ahead from her dad. also because rhaenyra’s bruiser is daemon who unlike criston cole is not hesitating to de-eye a child because he has that prince impunity. as for the bastard rumors the hightowers probably lose an insane amount of favor at court for that, otto’s getting fired, and the kids maybe get split up from alicent if they can’t deflect off her starting the bastard allegations. ​

[fairwellersmustache]

Thinking about a Leverage Regency AU and how easy it would be…

The place is London. The year is 18—

Rev. Nathaniel Ford: a disgraced Irish vicar. (Sorry Nate, I couldn’t make the Catholicism work; you’re a Protestant now 😔✊) Fell out with God after losing his son, Samuel. Then he subsequently fell out with his patron, an Earl, who would not fund an expensive surgeon for Sam’s care, and finally with his wife, Margaret. Displaced from his station, his credibility, and power as an agent to nobility, Nate moves quietly to London, hoping to realize his revenge or to drink himself to death - whichever comes first. His parish is now being preached to by a Rev. James Sterling.

Mrs. Sophie Devereaux: a spy through and through. She might actually be a duchess, but didn’t you see her in that terrible play on Drury Lane? No one’s really sure. In society, she’s viewed as an eccentric and slightly mysterious salon hostess, but that cover allowed her to play the British and the French governments throughout the end of the 18th century. A metropolitan girl at heart, she’ll never be found in the country unless planning to procure a particular pièce d’art from one of the gaudy estate manors there.

Mr. Elliot Spencer: began his career at 9, as a cabin boy for a naval vessel. He saw the world twice over, but also witnessed the cruel hierarchy between officers and sailors first hand. He roved through the navy and the army doing little more than grunt work, but studied the martial and combat techniques of every place he went. Now he’s just trying to live the quiet life in London as a bruiser for hire.

Mr. Alec Hardison: a man who has lived many lives —aided, of course, by his job as a private banker, moving around the wealth of London at his leisure. In his line of work, he has picked up the ins and outs of all the governing bodies and businesses in the empire. Add that to his virtuosic ability to pick up any form of study and Mr. Hardison could bleed London dry, given the right reasons. For now, he enjoys the high life thanks to the fortunes of his “betters”.

Parker: an urchin, a waif, the stickiest of fingers in the nicest of neighborhoods. Once the apprentice of the notorious criminal, Lord Archibald Leech, the Gentleman’s Thief, she’s since left his tutelage and is now operating unseen in the big houses of Grosvenor Square as a scullery maid, putting enough bits and bobs aside to graduate from service and to never look back again.

[yourheartonfire]

The pass itself was quick: enter the bar, spot the contact, slide into the booth, exchange the flash drive for an envelope of cash under the table.

The fallout was longer though.

"Don't open it here," the antagonist said out of the corner of their mouth. So of course the protagonist immediately ripped it open and started thumbing through the stack of bills in their lap.

The antagonist sighed and took a sip of their drink. They were drinking a wine spritzer. The protagonist had never seen them drink a wine spritzers. "You are such a child."

"Child who gets paid." Wasn't it convenient to have an excuse not to look the antagonist in the eye? "You taught me that."

"You're still mad?" the antagonist said incredulously, as if this indicated something deeply wrong with the protagonist. "I'd thought you'd have figured out by now this -" they gestured to the two of them "- wasn't personal."

The protagonist abruptly lost count. The bills crunched in their hands as their fists clenched. Gravity itself lurched - just like it had that day last spring where the antagonist had announced it was done and abruptly gone from lover to ex.

"Wasn't personal?" the protagonist said, trying to match the chill in their former partner's voice. No, not chill. Something worse. Indifference. "It felt pretty personal when you straight up shattered my heart after two years together."

"It was 18 months," the antagonist muttered into their drink, looking exhausted.

"21 months," the protagonist countered. "And three weeks, four days. You..."

Their voice failed. How could they say it? You were the center of my world. I thought I was the center of yours.

"Well, that's the other reason we're here," the antagonist said, rubbing at the bridge of their nose. "You've been looking for me. Looking into me. Stop."

"Why? Am I embarrassing you in front of all your cool friends?"

"No." The antagonist crossed their arms. "You're going to get yourself killed."

Something about the utterly detached way they said it killed the protagonist's snark in their throat. The antagonist's gaze flicked across their face and they gave a small nod. "My clients don't like loose ends or complications. I've had to put out fires on you twice. Pass you off as some crazy ex."

"I am your crazy ex," the protagonist snapped back. "Crazy for thinking something was wrong, that you might be in trouble when your whole personality shifted overnight. And not in, like, a professional shift, like when you're working a mark-"

"No," the antagonist said with another sigh. "It was exactly in a professional way."

The protagonist blinked. "What the hell does that mean?"

The antagonist stretched their hands out, forearms on the sticky bar tabletop. The protagonist didnt even have time to think before their own hands dropped the cash, snaked their way into their lover's grasp. "Honey," the antagonist said, staring deep into the protagonist's eyes. "I'm trying to tell you that you were the mark."

The protagonist stared. "What?"

They tried to pull back. The antagonist's grip on their wrists tightened. Their face smoothed back into the protective, devoted partner. But the eyes, the eyes were so empty. "It wasn't personal because you were a job," the antagonist said in awful imitation of their past self. Their kind self. Their... fake self?

"No." The protagonist yanked harder. "No! Bullshit. You didn't take anything from me!"

"No? I took you. You for... what was it? 21 months, three weeks?" The antagonist's lips curved. They traced their thumbnail across the delicate skin of the protagonist's inner wrist. "You really are incredible at what you do. A one of a kind skill set."

"No!" They were loud enough a few heads turned. They were smart enough now to clock the heads that didn't. The waitress. The bruiser at the bar. The couple at the next booth over. "We were partners!"

"On jobs I picked, where you never met the other team members?" The antagonist let go. "I secured exclusive use of your services, and I kept you off the board from any other players. Then the job ended. I cut you loose. Now you know. Is that enough closure for you to let this go?"

They asked like it was so reasonable. The antagonist had always had a way of making anything sound reasonable, sensible, the inevitable course of action. The protagonist stared at their own hands still lying on the table and tried to think.

"Why are you telling me this?" they asked.

"I told you my clients don't like loose ends-"

"Neither do you." The protagonist leaned back themselves. "Why are you warning me?"

"God, [protagonist], I'm not a killer. I don't want you dead." The antagonist shifted, hand drifting down to their pocket. "Bad for business, leaving bodies in the wake."

"You did leave a body in your wake," the protagonist said quietly.

"No." The antagonist gathered up their sunglasses, their jacket. "I left a broken heart. People recover from those everyday. You will not recover from what my clients will do if they decide you're a threat."

They stood and - to the protagonist's shock - bent to brush a kiss against their hair. The protagonist flinched.

"For what it's worth," their former partner murmured, "I had fun. Hope you did too."

And once again, they were gone, leaving the protagonist to pick up the pieces and the bill.