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slaytheusurper · 4 months ago

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⭑ Strength and Honor ⭑ (Domina Mea, Chapter Eight)

Masterlist

A/N: Took me a while but here we go!

Pairing: Emperor Geta and Caracalla x Noble!Reader

Warnings: Death, violence, gore and some angst

Summary: The moment has come, let the Gods decide.

Word count: 3.5k

The golden light of morning filtered softly through the sheer curtains, painting the marble floor with shifting patterns of warmth. You stirred beneath the canopy, the lingering haze of sleep almost convincing you that last night had been a dream.

Almost. If not for the dull, persistent ache between your thighs, you might have believed it. Reality clung to your skin like the scent of the emperors, an intoxicating mix of sweat and sex still ghosting over your body.

Your bedchamber was quiet, save for the occasional distant footstep in the corridor outside. The air carried the faint aroma of fresh rose water, likely sprinkled by a servant before dawn.

You turned your head slightly against the pillow, taking in your surroundings. The bed was grand, though not as lavish as the one in the emperors’ quarters, and the cool linen sheets felt unfamiliar after the warmth of last night.

Who had brought you back? And more importantly, why?

The Emperors must have had pressing matters to attend to this morning. That was the only logical reason they had sent you away. Or was it?

Doubt gnawed at the edges of your thoughts. They had kept you close thus far, unwilling to share even a fragment of you with the outside world.

Your gaze landed on the nearby chair, where a fresh toga was draped over its back. The fabric shimmered in the morning light, richer and more ornate than your previous garments.

With a quiet sigh, you pushed yourself upright, feeling the way your body protested the motion. A small grunt escaped your lips as your feet met the cool floor. Moving sluggishly, you made your way to the chair, fingers just grazing the smooth fabric when the sound of the door creaking open made you freeze.

Two servant girls entered silently, their heads bowed in respect. They did not speak, nor did they meet your gaze. Instead, one of them immediately stepped forward, gathering the luxurious toga in her arms, while the other clutched a polished ivory comb.

The meaning was clear. You hesitated for the briefest moment before loosening the belt of your night toga. The silk slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet.

The cool air kissed your bare skin, sending a ripple of awareness through you, not of modesty, but of the power shift in the room. You were no longer simply a noblewoman. You were something more now, something claimed.

The servants moved efficiently, with practiced hands. One combed through your hair with delicate precision, untangling the strands with slow, methodical strokes. The other carefully draped the new toga over your body, adjusting it to perfection.

The fabric was softer than anything you had worn before, adorned with golden embroidery that glinted under the sunlight. A garment befitting someone of importance.

But what was your place now? Mistress? A Lady? Something else entirely?

The silence in the chamber stretched on, thick with unspoken questions. The only sounds were the gentle rustling of fabric and the steady drag of the comb through your hair.

And as you stood there, being dressed as if you were an Empress in your own right, one thought stuck in your mind.

Last night had changed everything. And yet, you were still uncertain of where you truly stood.

By the time the servants finally departed, the air in your chambers felt heavier, laden with the scent of perfumed oils and the weight of their silent ministrations. You stood before the polished bronze mirror, your reflection bare beneath the finery.

Your hair had been meticulously pinned up, adorned with delicate jewels that caught the morning light like tiny stars. A gilded circlet rested upon your head, its intricate designs pressing coolly against your temple, a crown, though you held no real title of Empress.

Earrings dangled against your neck, swaying gently with each movement, while bracelets and rings gleamed against your skin. Even your feet had not been left bare; a servant had knelt to fasten elegant sandals around your ankles, their golden straps weaving up your calves in intricate spirals.

The sheer opulence was suffocating.

You exhaled slowly, your fingers grazing the embroidered neckline of your toga. The emperors rarely did anything without purpose, and such an extravagant display could only mean one thing, something significant was happening today.

The weight of that realization pressed against your chest, an unshakable sense of unease settling deep in your bones. Curiosity gnawed at you.

Moving with quiet urgency, you crossed the chamber and pulled open the heavy wooden door, stepping forward- only to be met with an immovable wall of steel and discipline.

Two Praetorian guards stood at either side of your doorway, their armored forms rigid as statues. Beyond them, the hallway stretched in both directions, lined with even more soldiers.

A dozen, at least. The sight of them sent a prickle down your spine. You swallowed, eyes flickering from one masked face to the next, searching for something, anything, that might explain this unsettling display of security.

“The Emperors?” you asked, your voice steady despite the apprehension curling in your gut. “Where are they?”

The taller of the two guards to your left shifted, his tone firm yet impassive. “My lady, you cannot leave. Someone will fetch you shortly.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fetch me for what?”

He hesitated, as if surprised by your ignorance. You followed his gaze down the hallway, but the answer did not reveal itself in the empty marble expanse.

“The games, my lady,” he finally said, voice devoid of emotion. “General Acacius will be judged by the Gods today.”

The words struck you like a physical blow. Your breath hitched.

Acacius.

Your father.

Judged.

You barely registered closing the door, your hands moving as if on their own. The moment the latch clicked, you turned on your heel, pacing the chamber in frantic strides.

Judged by the Gods.

It was a poetic way of saying executed.

A surge of cold dread coiled in your stomach, thick and heavy like a stone dropped into dark waters. You pressed a hand to your chest, as if that alone could steady the erratic beating of your heart.

Surely the emperors wouldn’t let him die. Not if you begged. Not if you pleaded. Not after last night- after everything.

Right?

Your thoughts spiraled, each worse than the last. You could still hear the Praetorian’s voice in your mind, calm and unyielding.

Judged by the Gods.

Panic clawed at your throat, but you forced yourself to take a breath. You needed to think. You needed to act.

Because if you did nothing…

Your father would not leave that arena alive.

As if the gods had granted you one fleeting mercy on this cruel day, the heavy silence of your chambers was soon broken by the creak of your door swinging open. You turned sharply, pulse quickening.

A small procession of Praetorian guards stood waiting, their polished armor catching the midday light, their expressions unreadable beneath the imposing shadow of their helmets.

The time had come.

The air felt stifling as you stepped forward, the soft rustle of your toga the only sound accompanying you. The door shut behind you with a finality that sent a shiver down your spine.

The walk through the palace felt agonizingly slow, each step echoing off the grand marble walls. The corridors stretched endlessly, the towering statues of gods and conquerors seeming to watch your every move with cold, lifeless eyes.

Despite the opulent surroundings, dread curled in your stomach like a viper coiling before it struck. Why such grandeur for a simple journey to the Colosseum? Had the emperors truly arranged this spectacle just to escort you to the arena?

By the time you reached the palace gates, the midday sun blazed overhead, casting sharp golden light over the waiting carriage. It was magnificent—far too extravagant for a mere spectator's transport.

Gilded embellishments adorned its doors, the imperial crest gleaming against the dark wood. Fine silk curtains draped the windows, veiling those inside from the public eye.

Your breath caught when the door was drawn open.

Within, the twin emperors awaited.

For a moment, hesitation gripped you. Then, with quiet resolve, you stepped forward. A Praetorian assisted you up the small stairs, the golden trim of your sandals glinting as you moved. The moment you crossed the threshold, a rich blend of myrrh and spiced wine filled your senses.

The air inside was thick, heavy with something unspoken.

You lowered yourself onto the cushioned seat, your hands settling in your lap as you cast your gaze downward. Even without looking, you could feel their eyes on you—one pair curious, the other sharp as a blade.

“You look incredible, my lady.”

Geta’s voice was smooth, almost indulgent, breaking the silence as the carriage lurched forward.

You swallowed, finally glancing up to meet his gaze. His expression was soft, his admiration evident, yet it did little to ease the tension knotted in your chest.

“Thank you, Caesar,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper before you let your gaze drop again.

Caracalla shifted, the faint clink of metal betraying his movement before he lifted a goblet of wine to his lips. He drank deeply, watching you over the rim with a glint of amusement.

“Are you afraid for your father?” he asked, his words cutting through the thick silence like a dagger.

You hesitated, the weight of his question pressing against your ribs. Finally, you nodded, forcing yourself to meet his gaze.

His amusement deepened, though it was not unkind. He studied you for a moment, as if weighing your answer against something unseen.

Geta, however, was less amused. His expression was unreadable, his posture rigid. “If the gods deem him innocent, or if they favor him, he’ll live.” His voice was measured, but there was something beneath it, something cold and inevitable. He studied you with an intensity that made your stomach tighten. “Do you think he’ll live?”

You inhaled shakily.

“I- I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice betraying a slight tremor. “I hope so, your Majesty.”

For the first time, Caracalla’s smirk faded. He must have heard it, the quiet desperation in your voice, the plea hidden beneath your words.

A beat of silence passed before he reached for your hand, his fingers warm against your skin. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted it to his lips. His breath ghosted over your knuckles before he pressed a lingering kiss there, his grip firm yet oddly gentle.

“If your father dies,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, “we’ll be here for you. We’ll protect you.”

Another kiss, this one slower, as if sealing his promise.

You should have found comfort in his words.

But you didn’t. Because you didn’t want his promise to become reality.

The carriage rattled and shook as it rolled over the uneven cobblestone streets of Rome. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone was nearly drowned out by the cacophony outside, cheers of devotion interwoven with cries of outrage.

Though muffled by the carriage walls, the voices of the people seeped in, a chaotic melody of excitement and fury. Rome was divided, and its heart beat with both reverence and rebellion.

Caracalla held your hand tightly, his grip firm yet strangely comforting. You could not tell if you were grateful for his touch or if it only worsened the unease gnawing at your insides. The journey felt at once eternal and far too brief; the moment you wished to delay had already arrived. Before you could brace yourself, the gilded doors of the carriage swung open, sunlight pouring in, harsh and blinding.

Geta descended first, his regal presence commanding immediate attention from the assembled masses. He turned back, extending his hand to you, his expression unreadable. You hesitated for a heartbeat before placing your palm in his, allowing him to guide you out onto the sun-drenched platform.

The roar of the crowd surged as you emerged, an ocean of faces swelling before you, some with adoration, others with scorn. Caracalla stepped out behind you, his presence a shadow at your back, protective yet imposing.

The Emperors offered the public a brief wave before moving purposefully into the Colosseum’s stone corridors. The moment their backs turned, the applause faded into a dull hum, and the heavy weight of dread returned.

The marble steps leading to the Emperor’s box stretched before you like a cruel path to fate itself, each step an anchor dragging you closer to a nightmare you could not wake from. The world blurred around you, your feet moving of their own accord.

Then, as if the Fates wished to twist the knife further, you spotted him- Macrinus. He was already seated in the Emperor’s box, his expression carefully neutral, his calculating gaze momentarily flicking in your direction.

You did not dare look at him too long, nor did you give any sign of acknowledgment. Instead, you followed the Emperors in silence, your pulse hammering in your throat.

They motioned for you to sit between their thrones, as they had before, yet this time they did not take their seats. Instead, they moved forward, standing at the very edge of the balcony, surveying the arena below.

The sheer vastness of it stretched beneath you, bathed in golden sunlight, its sand an endless sea of past bloodshed and future suffering. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, dust, and something metallic, faint, yet unmistakable.

Then, the trumpets blared, their triumphant call slicing through the air of the Colosseum like a blade. The announcer’s voice followed, booming and grandiose, carrying over the sea of spectators.

“My Emperors, citizens of Rome, today we bear witness to the judgment of General Acacius, an enemy to the people! For his treason against the Emperors and the Roman Empire herself, he will undergo two trials, where the Gods shall sentence him for his crimes!”

A wave of sound rippled through the crowd, a mixture of jeers and frenzied chants. Your father’s name rang out, repeated over and over, a desperate plea or a demand for justice- you could no longer tell.

From behind you, the sound of heavy footsteps approached. A chair was placed down, its legs scraping against the stone floor. You turned instinctively, only for your breath to hitch.

Lucilla.

She was led into the Emperor’s box in chains, though despite her bindings, she appeared relatively unharmed. Her gaze met yours, wide and searching, fear laced within its depths. Yet, even in her fear, her concern was for you.

Are you alright? she mouthed.

You barely managed a nod, but the sound of shifting fabric and the Emperors finally taking their seats drew your attention back to the arena. Caracalla reached for your hand once more, squeezing gently, yet the comfort he sought to offer failed to ease the sickening tension twisting in your stomach.

Then, the western gate creaked open.

Your breath caught as General Acacius stepped into the arena, his posture straight, his armor glinting beneath the unforgiving sun. The crowd erupted once more, voices clashing, divided in their loyalties. Yet Acacius himself did not waver, his gaze lifted, scanning the stands until it locked onto yours.

He held your gaze for a moment, a silent message passing between you, before he turned his focus to the four men stepping from the opposite gate. Gladiators, each unknown to you, yet each undoubtedly skilled. They lined up, their weapons gleaming, their faces impassive.

Your father spoke, though you could not hear his words. Whatever he said made the gladiators cross their arms over their chests, a salute or a signal of respect. Then, without warning, Acacius surged forward.

The first opponent fell swiftly, tripped by a well-placed maneuver. The second was slain in a single, decisive strike. The third, however, was not so easily overcome. As Acacius dodged, his opponent’s blade caught him across the back. He staggered but did not fall, retaliating with ferocity.

The battle raged on, sand kicking up around them, weapons flashing in the sunlight. By the time the final gladiator crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, Acacius was still standing- barely. He heaved, his chest rising and falling, his armor marred with both sweat and blood.

The first victory was his.

A sigh of relief left you, though you did not know if it was truly relief or merely borrowed hope. Were the gods favoring him, or was this merely another game to them?

The crowd’s roar had not yet settled before the announcer spoke again.

“From the vanquished city of Numidia! The victor of two conquests in the Colosseum!” A dramatic pause. “Hanno!”

Your stomach twisted into knots.

A man stepped forth from the eastern gate, striding into the arena beneath the burning light of day. Hanno was a mountain of muscle and scars, his presence commanding, his blade already drawn.

Lucilla let out a sob, her hands trembling in her lap. “Oh Lord, any honor I have, I will give it to you!”

“Silence,” Geta snapped, though his voice held no true anger.

Acacius and Hanno clashed, the ring of steel against steel filling the air. Every movement was calculated, a brutal dance of life and death. Sand billowed around them as they fought, their strikes precise, each moment of hesitation met with immediate retaliation. The battle was relentless, a struggle for dominance that neither could afford to lose.

Then, a shocking turn. Acacius lost his weapon.

For a moment, it seemed over—until he grasped a fallen staff, wielding it as if it were a blade. With renewed force, he struck, knocking Hanno down. But then…

Your father paused. He spoke words meant only for Hanno, and you saw something shift in the gladiator’s face. Then- horror.

Acacius dropped his weapon. He raised his hand and sank to his knees.

The announcer’s voice rang out, triumphant. “Acacius has raised his hand, he has surrendered! Let the gods decide!”

Your blood ran cold.

“No,” you whispered, scrambling from your seat. “Please! I beg you! Let him go! Send him away- anything but this!”

Geta hesitated, your hands clutching at his robes. “Have I not proved my love to you? Please-”

He pried your fingers from him, his face unreadable. “The Gods will decide.” With solemnity, Geta turned, raised his hand- and then, hesitated. His thumb hovered.

Slowly, mercifully, it turned upward.

The relief that crashed over you was overwhelming. Lucilla sobbed, guards holding her back.

But then-

A blur of movement. Hanno surged forward.

Geta’s eyes darkened. “Kill him.”

A single gesture of the commander guarding Geta. The archers loosed their arrows.

Hanno fell, his body riddled with shafts. The Colosseum gasped, then roared.

“No!” Lucilla screamed.

Before you could react, guards seized her, dragging her away.

And you were left there, breathless, shaken, watching as the sands of the arena swallowed the dead. But then the cheers of the people were pushed back when someone spoke.

"Your Majesties," A voice said, carefully measured, though there was a tightness beneath it. "A spectacle worthy of the gods, no doubt."

A shiver ran up your spine upon hearing his voice. Macrinus stepped towards the Emperors once Lucilla had left. You kept your eyes away from the lifeless body in the arena.

Caracalla swirled his wine lazily before taking a sip, his gaze flicking to Macrinus with something resembling amusement. "You don’t sound pleased, Macrinus."

Macrinus inhaled sharply. "I had hoped for a different outcome." A pause. "For Rome’s sake, of course."

Geta hummed thoughtfully. "Rome’s sake?"

Macrinus hesitated just long enough for tension to coil in the air. "Merely that Hanno was a formidable warrior, one who—" he stopped, jaw tightening, before quickly correcting, "one who could have continued to serve the Empire in… other ways."

A brief flicker of recognition passed between the Emperors. Geta’s fingers drummed against the stone railing, while Caracalla smirked ever so slightly, watching Macrinus like a beast watching wounded prey.

The slip was small, but damning. Continued to serve the Empire? A man who was supposed to be nothing more than a gladiator? The implication was clear- Macrinus had plans for Hanno, plans that had died with him.

And if you had accused Macrinus of plotting something treacherous, this moment- this careless admission, would be proof that you had not lied.

You felt your heart pound, your breath shallow. You did not dare look at the Emperors, but you knew they had caught it.

Macrinus, realizing his mistake, quickly bowed his head. "I meant only that Rome has lost a skilled fighter."

Geta chuckled, low and knowing. "Oh, we all lose something eventually, Macrinus."

Taglist: @lindsayjoy444 , @boywivlove , @delicioushottubpeanut , @littlemissholy

#domina mea #domina mea fic #gladiator 2 fanfic #gladiator fanfic #gladiator 2 #caracalla smut #emperor caracalla x reader #caracalla x reader #caracalla and geta #emperor caracalla x reader smut #emperor geta x fem reader #emperor geta x reader smut #emperor geta x reader #geta x reader smut #geta x reader

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thirsty-lakedream · 3 months ago

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Hunky Appliances: Design Flaw

Are you an single bachelor or bachelorette looking to spice up your home and fill it with companionship, all without any need of true social interaction? Well we are happy to Introduce Hunky appliance. Our realistic bots are designed to replace all your boring appliances with 200% efficiency. We have models for any kind of chore, from cooking your food, cleaning your house, and much more. Visit our website to be the first in line to get this revolutionary product or call 1-XXX-XXXX to preorder yours today!

When I initially saw that ad, I jumped at the chance. I’m a pretty lonely guy, and I never made a real connection. So the proposition got me excited, I spent no time ordering my new appliance. The fact that you can’t fully customize the companion was a little disappointing, but the wide catalogue of hot models allowed me to find the 3rick model.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting my new android companion arrived and for awhile things were amazing! Not only was he a great time to look at, but he happily completed all the tasks in the house. From cooking, to laundry, all the stuff I couldn’t be bothered with he performed without any issue.

It was all great! Until it suddenly wasn’t. That hot summer day, nothing sounded better than take a nice dip in the pool. But when I went out that morning I found my neighbors dumb tree shed its leaves making it look like a swamp. Without thinking I asked Erick to clean it and he quickly complied. That’s when I found out these Hunky Appliance bits were not built for submerging in water! As soon as he touched down in the water, he started to spazz out and glitch! Sparks shot out of him like a fireworks display and his voice turned grainy and unnatural. Then suddenly he shut off, motionless floating there like a corpse.

It’s been a couple hours since and I’m worried I just lost my favorite appliance due to my dumb mistake. He’s out there in the backyard still, I’m hoping the sun and the rice I poured into his body will help soak up the excess water and he’ll be functional again. If you are thinking of investing in a hunky appliance, make sure to fully read the manual, especially the warnings on what not to do!

Had this story in my drafts for a good year now, finally finished it! Thanks @cutestabber for the idea!

#android #robot #my writing #malfunction #male asfr

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vividiana · 5 months ago

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tastes like she might be the one

pairing: Astarion x f!Dark Urge · word count: 5.3k

rating: E for shameless smut (MDNI)

tags: blood drinking, period sex, oral sex, face-sitting, vaginal fingering, masturbation, Astarion being a little feral, porn with (some) plot, idiots in love, post-canon, general Durge spoilers

“Well, all of that’s to say that if you would like to… indulge, this might be your one and only chance to do so.” “Oh. I see.” Astarion’s eyes light up at the idea and Eve’s breath hitches when he takes a couple steps closer, his face just inches away when he says: “Then I suppose we better make it count.”

a/n: I did it, I succumbed to the Urge and wrote a period kink oneshot. hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

tagging some of my lovely moots who were hyping me up as I shared snippets from this fic: @khywren @nerdallwritey @xxnashiraxx @obsessedwhyyes @verbenaa @bby-bel-art @hellethil @arzen9 (thank you so much for getting excited about this with me. tbh it would have still been sitting in my wip doc if it weren’t for you all ❤️)

the title is from "LUNCH" by Billie Eilish

read on ao3 · dividers

As Eve is leaving the market, she feels her lower abdomen clench painfully in a manner she doesn’t recognize. She winces, tightening her grip on the grocery bags and tries to figure out what mundane malady it could be this time as she hurries back to the apartment.

Soon, she reaches the familiar facade, but as she goes for the handle, the door swings open. Eve startles when she sees Astarion, wide-eyed and visibly tense.

“What are you doing?” she yelps when he pulls her inside, standing just inches away from the pool of sunlight spilling onto the hardwood floors. “Get away from the door!”

She kicks it shut behind her, the room safely dim again. But Astarion seems to pay no mind to the obvious danger, as he grabs the bags from her and puts them on the ground, before turning her around and assessing her body as if looking for something.

“What happened? Where is it? Show me.”

“Where is what? Are you okay?”

“The wound!” he shrieks, voice high-pitched from nerves. “Hells, I can smell your blood, I could smell it from blocks away. Did someone attack you? Who do I have to kill?”

Eve freezes as the pieces connect in her mind. The pain. The scent of blood that was imperceptible to her but obvious as alarm bells to Astarion’s senses.

Eve laughs at the absurdity of it, Astarion’s eyes widening even further as he tries to fathom what in the Hells she’s on about. Bhaal hand-sculpted her for one purpose and one purpose only, designed her to carry out his gory vision most efficiently, and yet he still made her bleed like this…?

“Oh, that petty son of a bitch!” Eve says to no one in particular. After a deep breath, she reaches for Astarion’s hands and explains in a calmer tone: “I’m not hurt, Star. I think I just got my period. It’s as novel to me as it is to you, honestly.”

She watches as Astarion’s expression cycles through a series of emotions, so clear and unfiltered. First confusion, then relief, and finally a peculiar mix of glee and dread.

“Oh. Oh. ALRIGHT.” He takes a step back, frantically looking up and down her body. When his mouth opens again, words spill out in a chaotic monologue punctuated by nervous giggles. “Fear not, I am so prepared for this. Well, truth be told, my only knowledge about half-elves and menstruation comes from Shadowheart and I don’t know how reliable that is, she tends to be a tad dramatic, don’t you think? But let’s think hmmm… A bath! Would you like me to draw you a bath? Wait, no, you must be hungry, let’s make you some food first.”

He reaches for the grocery bags and darts upstairs.

“Are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Eve asks warily as she follows him up to the kitchenette.

“Oh yes darling, I am doing quite SPLENDID myself, I am just concerned about your comfort!!”

Rather unceremoniously, Astarion turns the grocery bags upside down, produce tumbling in all directions across the counter. He grabs a small knife and begins to peel some potatoes whilst aggressively humming Down by the River.

As Eve watches his frantic movements, her stomach drops in realization.

“Star…” she starts, walking up to him.

“YES, my dearest?”

“Is the blood… distracting?”

Astarion’s nervous, high-pitched giggle is enough of a confirmation.

“OH YES! Incredibly so! But do not worry about me, the concern right now should be YOUR COMFORT.”

“Oh gods,” Eve sighs, massaging her temples. “Is this what the next tenday is going to look like?”

“TENDAY?” Astarion stabs the counter, the tip of the knife wedged into the wooden surface. There is sheer panic in his eyes when he turns around and asks: “You bleed for a tenday?”

“I don’t know, this is a first! But as far as I know, people can bleed for anywhere from three to ten days?”

“THAT’S FINE. We will get through this together!” He yanks the knife out and resumes his task.

Eve stands there for a moment, watching him, unsure of what to do with herself.

“Are you hungry, is that the problem? Would feeding on me help?”

For a moment, Astarion freezes. He turns around, knife in hand, his gaze slipping down Eve’s body for a split second.

“What exactly are you offering?” he asks when he meets her eyes again, and Eve can feel her cheeks grow hotter in an instant.

“GODS, ASTARION.”

“I’M JUST SAYING–”

“YES, I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE SAYING–”

“IT COULD HELP WITH YOUR CRAMPS–”

“OKAY, I’M GOING TO TAKE A BATH NOW, BYE.”

“SOUNDS GOOD, I’LL KEEP PEELING–”

“YOU’VE ALREADY PEELED A DOZEN POTATOES, THAT’S TOO MANY POTATOES FOR ONE PERSON.”

“I’M STILL LEARNING, GIVE ME A BREAK.”

“OKAY I’M LEAVING NOW, I LOVE YOU.”

“I LOVE YOU TOO.”

Eve storms off to the bathroom. As she starts pouring water into the tub, she tries to push away the mental image of Astarion’s head between her thighs.

She adds some lavender oil into the water and gets inside, the hot temperature helping soothe her cramps. She leans her head against the edge of the tub, trying to make sense of all this.

Perhaps the reason she doesn’t remember this happening before is because her body put this particular function on hold while she was fighting for her life every day, sleeping on the ground, and eating irregularly. But now in the six months since the Netherbrain fell, she has been able to finally feel safe, giving her organism a chance to settle back into its natural rhythm.

It still doesn’t explain why Bhaal didn’t just skip this part in the design process, but Eve does not even want to begin to understand his sick and twisted ways, so she pushes those thoughts away and tries to relax.

After fifteen minutes or so, there is a light knock on the door.

“Yes?”

The door creaks and Eve opens her eyes to see Astarion with a mug in his hand, looking a tad embarrassed.

“Hello,” he says as he continues to stand awkwardly in the doorway.

“You can come in, I won’t bite.”

He walks up and places the steaming mug on a stool by the tub. Eve can smell the mix of chamomile, ginger, and something else she doesn’t recognize. Astarion kneels beside her, arms propped on the edge of the tub.

“I brewed you some herbs that should help ease the pain. And there’s stew cooking, it will be done in an hour or so.”

“Thank you.” She reaches for his hand and places a kiss on his knuckles, eliciting a soft smile.

“I’m sorry about earlier. It was a lot to process all at once. I thought you might be bleeding out on the street somewhere and I couldn’t do anything about it, I was just stuck inside waiting for you to come back. And then you waltz in here as if nothing happened and once I knew you were safe, the smell of your blood was–” He trails off with an absentminded smile. “Well, let’s just say I’ve gotten somewhat accustomed to it now, but it is still quite distracting.”

“I’m sorry you were so worried, that must have been terrifying.”

“It was. But I also should have known that if anyone was foolish enough to attack you, you could handle it just fine. Anyways, you should drink your tea,” he says, passing her the mug. She takes a sip, the herbal mix blossoming on her tongue, and hands it back to him. “Are you enjoying the bath?”

“Yes, the hot water is helping a lot. But, I’m afraid there is something wrong with our tub.”

“Which is?” he asks, raising his eyebrow.

“It’s missing an elf.”

“Ah, an easy fix,” he says with a smile.

Eve takes another sip of her tea as Astarion slips out of his clothes. She shuffles forward to make space for him, and he slowly lowers himself into the tub behind her, gasping as he touches the hot water. She leans back against his chest, nestling into his open arms.

After a moment of silence, Astarion asks:

“So, we don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to… But, um… Doesn’t this seem like a design flaw?”

“No, we do have to talk about him, because what in the actual fuck was he thinking? As if my whole life wasn’t bloody enough. And I can’t even justify it in any pragmatic way, because it’s not like I needed to bear more Bhaalspawn. I was supposed to be the last one!”

“Daddy’s special girl.”

“Do not ever say that again.” She elbows him and Astarion laughs behind her.

After her bath and dinner, Eve decides to head downstairs and visit Derryth while the apothecary is still open. She explains the situation and asks for some menstrual cloths and anything that could help ease her cramps. The woman watches her intently as she listens, brows furrowed.

“Okay, so personally this is none of my business of course,” Derryth says, raising her hands defensively. “But as an apothecary, I feel obligated to ask: are you aware that you do not need to bleed every month? There are ways you can stop it.”

“There are?”

“Yes. Well, but first: are you and Astarion trying to conceive?”

Eve just stares blankly ahead as her life flashes before her eyes. It’s not something she ever thought to consider, she just assumed… Well, he is undead, after all.

“Umm… is that even… possible?” she asks weakly. “Given our… situation?”

“Under regular circumstances, no,” Derryth rushes to answer and Eve sighs with barely concealed relief, “but I’ve heard of some rituals… I don’t know, Eve, stranger things have happened. But no, unless you go out of your way to achieve it, you’re safe.”

“Okay. Then no, we are absolutely not trying to conceive. Gods, could you imagine–”

“I’d rather not,” Derryth says curtly. “Now, if that’s the case, then there is absolutely no need for you to suffer every moon. There are different ways you can go about it, the one that seems most popular with my clients is this tonic,” she says as she pulls out a couple of bottles from the drawer behind her and places them on the counter. “It’s fairly easy to use, it comes in these little bottles and you drink one the first night of each tenday. And there you go, problem solved.”

“That sounds… awfully easy,” Eve says as she eyes the medicine before her.

“Well, yes, because it is.”

“Does it have any side effects?”

“Of course it doesn’t. It’s supposed to make your life easier, not harder,” Derryth says with the patience of a parent explaining the most obvious concept to their child.

Eve gets a month’s supply to try out, along with some pain medicine to help carry her over before the tonic starts to work. When she gets back to the apartment, she shows Astarion the bottles and explains how it all works.

“That’s probably for the best,” he says. “I’m glad you won’t have to go through this pain again.”

“Yes, me too, but…” Eve hesitates for a moment, but the memory of Astarion’s frantic energy from this morning is enough to give her the confidence to suggest: “Well, all of that’s to say that if you would like to… indulge, this might be your one and only chance to do so.”

“Oh. I see.” Astarion’s eyes light up at the idea and Eve’s breath hitches when he takes a couple steps closer, his face just inches away when he says: “Then I suppose we better make it count.”

There is a moment of tense silence as they regard each other, Eve’s chest rising and falling heavily at his proximity.

But then the final thread of self-control snaps and Astarion pulls her closer, capturing her mouth in a greedy kiss, swallowing up the gasp that slips past Eve’s lips as she opens up to him. Suddenly, the air around her is all citrus and spice, Astarion’s scent and taste mixing into an intoxicating combination. It could easily sweep her off her feet were it not for his hands digging into her hips, anchoring her against him.

With a firm tug to her lower lip, Astarion breaks away, an undeniable urgency to his movements as his mouth slips down to her neck and he inhales sharply, head nuzzled against her. His voice is low and breathy when he says:

“Hells, you smell divine.”

With bated breath, she awaits the sharp sting of his fangs, wanting nothing more than to give him everything he craves. But instead, Astarion’s hands slip down to the back of her thighs and Eve’s body instinctively follows, like it’s a routine they’ve been rehearsing. She jumps, legs wrapping around his waist as if that’s precisely where they belonged.

Eve sinks her fingers into his soft curls, kissing him with a newfound ferocity. She barely registers the steps Astarion takes until with a loud clatter, he kicks a chair out of his way, and she realizes they’re at the dining table. He lets go of her with one hand to push his notes to the side, pieces of parchment flying to the floor as he seats her on the edge.

Astarion breaks the kiss, pinning her in place under his watchful gaze, the room silent save for the heavy pounding of Eve’s heart.

“Indulge, you say? Don’t mind if I do.”

Astarion sinks down to his knees before her, and the sight of it alone is enough to make Eve’s head spin with need, the overwhelming desire to feel his mouth against her skin, to hear the savory sounds that escape his throat every time he tastes her.

He tugs at her waistband and Eve lifts herself off the table just enough to let him pull her pants down and toss them to the side. Astarion swallows hard when she parts her legs for him and it looks like it’s taking him every ounce of self-determination to not rip off the final barrier between them and devour her right there and then.

His hands reach up to push her back, and she leans away, propped on her elbows, not daring to miss out on a single moment of this hypnotizing spectacle. A low, guttural sound rumbles out of his chest as he presses his lips to her plush thigh and starts kissing up, closer, and closer, and–

Eve winces at a sharp stab of pain that begins to radiate down her thighs and up her spine in a throbbing, dull shiver, the hard wooden surface beneath her doing nothing to soothe her discomfort.

Astarion pauses, leaning away to meet her eyes.

“Are you alright, love?”

“I, um–” she sighs, bemoaning the need to be rational at a moment like this. “I am loving this energy, I really am. But there is no way we’re doing this on a table, my back is killing me.”

“I suppose we can make do with a bed, then.”

He wastes no time as he rises to his feet and scoops her up, and in that moment Eve is convinced that she could get used to being carried like this. Astarion rushes to the bedroom to find Scratch splayed out across the mattress, raising his head curiously as they enter.

“Out,” he orders with poorly concealed desperation.

The dog whines, but darts out of the room obediently, and Astarion kicks the door shut behind him. He lowers her onto the edge of the bed and retrieves some pillows to place under her back.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, I feel quite spoiled, actually. Are you comfortable?” she asks, unconvinced, watching as he once again gets to his knees on the hardwood floor.

“Oh, trust me, I am exactly where I want to be,” he says in a tone that erases any lingering trace of doubt from her mind.

Eve falls silent as Astarion’s hands begin to snake up her thighs, lithe fingers reaching the hem of her underwear, eyes meeting hers for a final confirmation that feels superfluous given their current predicament, and yet he still seeks it. Eve nods slowly, her throat too tight with anticipation to utter a sound, and she watches as Astarion hooks his fingers in and begins to slide the garment off her body with nigh religious reverence.

Once it slips down to her knees, she can finally get a better view and gods damn it, she changed into clean clothes less than an hour ago and already the fabric is ruined, a dark, rust-colored stain blooming along the gusset.

Eve shuffles her legs, helping Astarion slide the underwear completely off her. She expects him to toss it on the floor, but instead she watches, transfixed, as he folds it meticulously before slipping it into his pant pocket.

“Excuse you–”

But her objection dies in her throat at the sight of Astarion parting her thighs with unmatched focus. For a moment he just kneels there completely still, pupils blown wide, watching her like a predator poised to strike. It would be unnerving if it wasn’t him.

He hooks his arms under her thighs and pulls her closer, resting her legs on his shoulders.

Under his scrutinous gaze she becomes utterly aware of the wetness between her thighs, blood and arousal mixing into one. Suddenly, her mind drifts away from her kneeling lover to the softness of the silk bed sheets beneath her, the sheets that they got as a housewarming gift from Shadowheart, the ones that Astarion was so excited about, and however weakly, she whispers:

“Wait– We’re going to ruin the sheets–”

Her words seem to snap Astarion out of his trance and he looks up from the sanguine scene before him to meet her gaze.

“I can live with that.”

And as if to prove his point, he lunges forward, their moans mixing in unison the moment his tongue drags a firm line along her center. His grip on her tightens, surely enough to bruise, but Eve is way past the point of caring. Damn the bruises, damn the sheets, all that matters right now is the inferno raging within her, the ungodly sounds erupting from the depth of Astarion’s chest as he feasts on her like a man starved.

Eve’s elbows give in beneath her and she falls back on the pillows, losing sight of his efforts. Instead she reaches for him, nails scraping against his scalp, legs crossed behind his head and urging him closer. Astarion’s nose presses deliciously against her clit as his tongue enters her time and time again, his groans vibrating through her core.

One of his hands wanders to the hem of her shirt, lifting it up past the soft curve of her stomach. He leans away ever so lightly, lips brushing against her as he pleads:

“I need to see all of you.”

Eve complies, the tempo of Astarion’s tongue hastening the moment the linen slips past her the stiff peaks of her nipples. As she tosses her blouse to the side, she is struck by how completely bare she is before him, all the while Astarion looks as if he might have just come home from work, every button accounted for, every thread in place. A perfect picture of composure, were it not for the state of his curls, dampened with sweat and flattened against the grip of her thighs, nor the blood smeared against every inch of his exposed skin.

His tongue leaves her, but before she can protest this newfound emptiness, his mouth shifts up, lips closing around her clit with a firm suck as a single finger teases her entrance. Astarion slips inside with no resistance, one knuckle deep, tormenting her with how it’s simultaneously overwhelming and not nearly enough.

“Please, Star–”

But before the words fully leave her lips, they blossom into a wanton moan as he sheathes his finger, and beckons her, brushing against the spot that makes her feel weightless, like she is not of this world.

She bucks her hips into him and he moans against her cunt, encouraged by her reaction, and soon enough a second finger follows. He slides in slowly, the stretch combined with the suction of his lips pushing any previous aches and discomfort from her mind, leaving naught but an all-encompassing surrender, delicious pressure rising within her.

Through the haze, she reaches down, fingers teasing the points of his ears, and she knows exactly what she is doing, knows the effect it has on him, how it coaxes the sweetest sounds from his lips she is sure she will never get enough of.

She recalls the first time she did it, over a year ago, back when neither of them knew how to define the curious companionship that has grown between them. It elicited the most unrestrained noise she ever heard from him and Astarion must have been taken aback by it, too, because he tore her hands away from him, pinning them above her head. He told her then that she was playing with fire but she couldn’t help it, couldn’t tear her eyes away from the blaze.

It consumes them both now, eliciting the most obscene sounds from her love, his fingers picking up speed as they dart in and out of her, brushing deep inside with every stroke.

She knows she won’t last long, cannot last long, not with the way he has become fluent in the language of her body, knowing exactly which strings to pull to make her sing.

And sing she does, mouth falling open with praises that get increasingly terser, until the only word she can remember is his name.

She cries it out as she grasps the sheets, the moment the pleasure becomes uncontainable, when it lights up every nerve, every inch of her skin. It’s a trust fall and he is right there to catch her, just as he always is. Just as he always will be.

Astarion’s grip doesn’t soften as she rides out this crest, his mouth and fingers relentless in drawing every last one of her moans, her eyes shut in pure bliss.

But then eventually all of her energy evaporates, her thighs growing slack around him, and Astarion retracts slowly, placing the softest kiss on her clit before getting to his feet.

Eve feels the mattress dip as he crawls towards her and she somehow wills her eyelids to open, only to witness Astarion’s bloodied fingers slip into his mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as he begins to suck. The display is enough to make her throat go dry, skin flaring up with want that never got the chance to subside.

Finally when he salvages every single drop, he lets go, eyes meeting hers as his fingers leave his mouth. Eve takes in the gory state of him: there is blood on his lips and chin of course, but also some on his nose, and is that…? Yes, somehow a bit of it found its way to his brow line. She can’t help but laugh as she tucks a flattened curl behind his ear.

“You look…”

“Happy?” Astarion offers, making a show of licking his lips in a manner that is surely against some moral law.

“I was going to say insatiable.”

“You would be correct,” he admits as he cups her cheek.

He kisses her deeply, his taste a heady mixture of them both, laced with the metallic tinge of her blood. And suddenly their bodies are flush against one another once more, hands wandering, the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressed against her thigh. Eve’s hand slithers down between them, Astarion’s jaw going slack the moment she palms his still-clothed cock.

Her breath hitches at the feel of him in her hand, but Astarion seems to have a plan of his own because he manages to compose himself, leaning away to ask:

“Can you take more?”

“Try me,” she dares, the attempted edge of her words dulled by how breathless she is.

A wide grin blooms on Astarion’s face, the tips of his fangs glinting in the moonlight when he asks:

“How is your back?”

It takes her a second to register the meaning of his question. Truth be told, she completely forgot about it, the pain pushed out into the far corners of her mind by the overwhelming pleasure.

“It’s better.”

“Excellent. Do you think you can sit up?”

“Yes?” she says, unsure of where he is going with this.

Astarion leans away enough to pull his shirt over his head, and then rests on his back, tapping his shoulders as he says:

“Then sit.”

“What?” she asks, swallowing hard.

“You heard me.”

Slowly, Eve gets to her knees, trying to ignore the way the wetness pooled between her thighs seems to shift with the movement. But the shameless anticipation painted on Astarion’s face is enough to weed out any sprouting insecurities, and so she moves up, caging his head between her thighs and gripping the carved headboard for support.

There is a moment of stillness when she hovers over him, and then Astarion’s gaze travels from her face down to her core and he licks his lips at the sight because of course he does.

Eve rolls her eyes and says:

“You’re ridicul–”

But before she can finish the thought, Astarion grabs her waist and pulls her down, forcing an ungodly gasp out of her and suddenly all she can think about is how overwhelming the feeling of his mouth is in that position. Astarion gives her a slight, encouraging shove, and Eve starts rocking against him, chasing the friction that feeds the tempest brewing within her.

Astarion seems to be completely lost in the feeling, clawing at her thighs and moaning against her cunt in a way that vibrates deliciously up her spine. Eve wants to hear more of those sweet sounds, so she looks back, witnessing the erection straining against his pants and she reaches out to stroke him through the fabric. He groans, the movements of his tongue growing sloppier by the second, as she’s trying to unlace his pants with one hand without losing her balance.

“Need a little– Ah– Help,” she gasps when the task quickly proves beyond her current capabilities.

Astarion lets go of her thighs, nimble fingers moving to unfasten the garment in no time. He pulls his pants and underwear down just enough to free his untouched cock and Eve’s mouth waters as she catches a glimpse of how hard and flushed it is.

She leans back, propping herself with one hand as the other reaches out to spread the bead of precum over the head. As much as she can muster from that position, she starts to stroke him, encouraged by the truly obscene sounds that start erupting from his throat.

But then she feels her side cramp up, her arm giving in beneath her. Astarion’s hands dart to grasp at her waist to keep her from collapsing.

“Bad idea,” she admits as she regains her balance, clutching at the headboard.

Astarion hums a noncommittal ‘mhm’ against her center as he settles back into a rhythm. His tongue is relentless in forcing ragged gasps out of her, but Eve wants to give him more, so in a flash of lust-laced genius, she offers:

“Bite me.”

Astarion’s eyes widen, his pupils dilated to the point where she can barely see the scarlet encircling them. He turns his head to the side and Eve would mourn the loss of his touch, were it not immediately compensated by the deep guttural moan that escapes his mouth the moment his teeth sink into her thigh.

Somehow, in all this time together, they have never done this. The initial sting is much sharper than usual, but as Astarion starts to drink, blood leaving Eve’s body in greedy pulls, she feels the familiar throbbing sensation begin to radiate from the wound, her cunt pulsating with every sip he takes and oh gods–

She watches mesmerized as Astarion reaches down and starts to pump himself and the image alone is enough to push her towards the edge. Her fingers slip down to her center to gather some of her slick before gliding up, tracing circles around her clit, her movements matching the rhythmic groans that Astarion makes with every mouthful of her blood.

Eve knows that he’s close, recognizes it in the timbre of his voice, the furrowed line between his brows, the tension in his muscles as his strokes pick up pace. She swallows hard, wishing for nothing more than to watch him unravel beneath her, to witness–

It sneaks up on her this time, the electrifying shudder that tears through her body. Her mouth falls agape, knuckles white as they grip desperately at the headboard as if it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Through the bliss, she barely registers the final guttural moan coming from somewhere below, the thick, hot rivulets painting her back.

Astarion’s mouth reluctantly leaves her thigh, his tongue cleaning up any remains of blood off her skin. Eve can feel his hands come up to her waist to steady her, but for now all she can do is just sit there, breathing heavily, head spinning with blood loss and afterglow.

After a couple moments she wills her muscles to move, her legs shaky as she shuffles down Astarion’s body before collapsing on top of him. His arms drape softly around her and they lie there in silence, utterly spent.

Eventually, Astarion slips out from underneath her, and Eve would reach out to stop him if she had any energy left. Instead, she burrows her face into the pillow and listens to the soft clicks of Astarion’s heels against the floor (how did he keep his shoes on all this time?) as he rustles through some drawers.

When he returns, she feels his palm nestle in between her shoulder blades, his voice soft and steady when he utters the incantation:

“Te absolvo.”

Healing magic begins to radiate across her body, lifting the heaviness from her muscles and dissipating the fog clouding her mind. And then there is another sensation as what she assumes to be a warm wet cloth runs gently along her back before slipping between her thighs, erasing the evidence of whatever the Hells it was they just experienced.

Suddenly, Eve feels a pang of disappointment and she voices it by mumbling incomprehensibly into the pillow.

“I don’t speak Ghukliak, love,” Astarion says.

Eve groans before turning her face to the side. She meets his amused gaze, spotting the Amulet of Silvanus that adorns his bare chest.

“I said: ‘are you done already?’ You don’t want more blood?”

Astarion laughs heartily as he grabs another cloth to clean his stomach and chest.

“Oh, and I’m the insatiable one? I always want more blood, dear, but you look like you could use a break, you know.”

“Excuse you, I feel excellent.”

And as if to prove it, she props herself up and sits on the edge of the mattress. She takes a sip from the water cup he left for her on the bedside table before getting to her feet.

Astarion watches her intensely as she approaches. Usually, he’s much more relaxed after he feeds, but Eve can see that there is still some tension in his features, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly as she steps into his space.

She knows he’s holding himself back.

And that just won’t do.

Her arms drape around his neck, and she leans in, lips brushing against his ear as she whispers:

“Take as much as you want, Star. It’s a rare treat, after all.”

Eve delights in the strained gasp that leaves his lips, in the caress of his hands that trail down to her waist before pulling her flush against him.

“How awfully selfless of you,” he drawls, leaning in to kiss her.

a/n: aaaaaand with that, I have officially passed 100k words on ao3. what a glorious way to reach that milestone �� I would love to hear your thoughts on this one, especially since I rarely write smut so any feedback is super helpful ❤️

#can I offer you some vampire smut to stave off the sunday scaries?#astarion x durge #astarion x the dark urge #durgestarion #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfiction #astarion smut #my fic

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ivys-garden · 1 year ago

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More Minecraft ideas, what part of Minecraft needs improvement?

You're wrong, it's ponds.

Ponds, lakes, lava pools. They all suck in Minecraft, they end up just being big holes in the ground with nothing interesting about them that make the landscape ugly and hole ridden

Now you might say “Ivy, literally no one cares” and to that I say, wheesht and accept my ramblings ya donut

So, how do we fix Ponds? It's simply really: make ponds generated structures.

Ponds would now be generated structures taking up one chunk, with an actual human made design to make them, you know, look good. There would be, say, 100 or so different designs to stop them looking to samey (they'd be so small that something like that would be feasible)

Lakes would be done similarly, only with the key difference, they would be made up of 4 chunk “cells”, each making up a corner of the lake.

ponds and lakes in plains or forest biomes would be made of blocks like mud and dirt.

Ponds and lakes in deserts (or oases if you want) would be made up of grass and sand

Ponds and lakes in tundras would be frozen over on the top layer of the water and with clay spawning around the water

Now, let's see some things that can be found in ponds and lakes:

Frogs

Nothing new here, frogs and frogspawn are most common ponds, pond frogs also only come in the green frog varietie.

Perhaps the oasis can have a desert rain frog variant that gives a purple frog light

Toads

Toads and toad spawn can be found in lakes and ponds in forest and plains biomes. Toads emerge from toad spawn in the same way frogs do. Toads have an exaggerated size, being double the size of the frog

Toads come in several colours (Green, Brown, Yellow, Orange and Lime) but these colours do not harbour any game mechanics (in other words: sorry but there are no toadlights)

Toads will eat all mobs with wings, that being the Parrot, Chicken, Phantom, Bat, Bee and the player if they are wearing an elytra, so watch out.

All the aforementioned mobs are scared of Toads, making them and effective deterrent to phantoms in particular

Cattails, Reeds, Rice, Algae and Papyrus

I'll just do all the plant life stuff at once (these will generate dependent on the pond or lake cell)

Algae is a new decorative blocks that can be placed on water

It will connect to other blocks, creating an unbroken surface across the water

Algae has a bright green hue and can be found in both ponds and lakes with the same frequency

Papyrus is a new plant that spawns naturally in the oasis, it is used as a more efficient way of making paper as it can be bonemealed and only one papyrus is needed to make paper

Rice is a plant that grows in water in lakes and ponds spawning in cherry groves.

Rice can be used in two recipes:

Rice Bowls:Putting rice, a bowl and any meat together will craft a rice bowl

This food source that can be eaten twice, eating the meat and then the rice

Sushi: putting rice, dried kelp and one fish into a crafting table creates Sushi, a foodsoarch that can be eaten instantly without playing the eating animation, not very nutritious but good in a pinch

Cattails are a purely decorative plant found in ponds and swamps

Reeds are more common around rivers and lakes, being a fern like plant that grows two tall.

Reeds can be used to craft a new item: Pan Pipes

Combining 3 reeds and 3 string will create pan pipes, these can be played to draw passive mobs towards you so long as the button to play them is held down.

Pan Pipes can also calm neutral mobs like wolves, iron golems and bees, but doing this instantly focus the Pan pipes into cool down

Pan pipes have a cool down double that of the Goat Horn

Bagpipes

By putting Pan Pipes, 3 iron nuggets, 3 red wool and 3 green wool together you can make Bagpipes.

Bagpipes have durability on top of having the same level of cool down as Pan Pipes. Bagpipes cannot be enchanted.

Bagpipes have the ability to PERMANENTLY pacify all hostile mobs in the chunk the player is in.

Bagpipes will break after 10 or so uses

Willow and Palm

Willow and palm are new wood types, Willow spawns around lakes and ponds and Palm spawns around oases.

Willow has a dark Bluish-green colour, complementing mangrove, where as Palm is a desaturated pale white

(These will generate depending on the pond or lake cell)

(Part 1/3)

#minecraft suggestions #minecraft ideas #minecraft #ponds #part 1 #part 1/3 #the beginning

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ladykailitha · 7 months ago

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The Au Pair Boy Part 6

We're back on schedule with this and for whatever reason, it always seems to get ahead of the other stories so I have a lot in backlog for this one.

In this we have Steve trying to find people to work for Eddie.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

The gardeners were the first people he hired. A brother duo named Jonathan and Will Byers. The younger brother would design what they wanted the garden to look like, which they would email to Eddie to get checked off on and then both of them would go to town.

Within their first week a lot the debris had been cleared away and they had began trimming back the foliage that would do damage to the property.

Steve immediately bargained for more money for them after that. They deserved it after the mess they had to clean up was quickly and efficiently taken care of.

The groundsman was a gruff, older guy who looked like he had just walked off the set of “The Secret Garden”. His name was Jim Hopper and was happy to move into the groundskeeper’s house on the property. It had been there since the house had been built and Eddie had revamped into to a sort of mother-in-law suite.

The problem he was running into was finding a pool company that hadn’t black listed the address because apparently Ethan liked harassing them, male or female. Asking them to wear skimpy clothes to clean it, putting leaves in the pool so they would have to fish it out with their long nets meaning they would have to lean over a lot, and so on.

Steve was about ready to give up when he found a guy just starting out. He didn’t have any clients yet and was willing to at least take a look at the pool.

He nearly sobbed with relief.

When the man arrived, Steve was pleased to find a well-dressed black man with a shiny new truck and all new equipment. In bright blue lettering on the side of the truck was Sinclair’s Cleaning Service and underneath was a couple of the things they did, like gutters, driveways, gullies, and of course pools.

He wore cargo pants and a polo shirt with the logo on the front with the name Charles underneath and had a bright smile on his face when he greeted Steve with a firm handshake.

“I hope you don’t mind me bringing my son along,” Charles said indicating his meek shadow. “My daughter Erica caught a cold so my wife is taking her to the doctor’s to see if we can’t get her some medicine. But I couldn’t leave him at home and Sue didn’t want to take him with her.”

“Because I would be bored, Dad,” the boy huffed.

Charles chuckled. “Because he would be bored. Say hello, Lucas.”

“Hi, Mr. Harrington,” Lucas said. “This is a pretty nice house you’ve got here.”

Steve smiled at him. “It’s not my house,” he said wistfully, “I’m just a cog in the machine that helps it run. Think of me as...” he tapped his lips thoughtfully, “the house steward. I’m taking care of all the hiring of staff for the owner, Eddie Munson.”

“And he’ll be the one paying the bill?” Charles asked as Steve led them all the way to the back where the pool was.

“That’s right,” Steve said, opening the back gate to let them through. “There is place to store anything you need so that you don’t have lug heavy stuff back here every time.” He pointed to the shack off the side of the pool. He had paid Jonathan and Hopper extra to help him clean it out.

“Looks good,” Charles said, opening the door to see inside. “The pool isn’t a weird shape, so that helps. Strange color of the water though.”

“Water’s clear,” Steve assured him. “The owner just had the floor of the pool painted red instead of blue.”

Charles and Lucas shared raised eyebrows. “Did he now?”

“Yup!” Steve said with a grin. “You’ll be able to see for yourself on the times you have to drain it.”

Lucas picked up a plastic measuring cup and dipped it in the water, clearly not quite believing Steve that the water wasn’t red. The giggle he gave when the water came out clear made Steve grin.

“Well, I’ll be,” Charles huffed. He turned to Steve. “I think I’m the man for the job.” He stuck out his hand and Steve shook it.

“It appears you are,” he said with a smile. “Hey, Lucas, there’s another boy here around your age, helping his older brother with the gardening. Would you like to meet him?”

Lucas looked over at his dad, who nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve led the way to the main garden where Will and Jonathan trimming the shrubbery. The one they were currently working on was the Beetlejuice snake.

“Hey, Jonathan!” Steve called out. “Will! Come meet our new pool peeps.”

Both boys shared a glance but put their trimmers down and came over.

“Will and Jonathan Byers, our gardeners extraordinaire,” Steve introduced. “Meet Charles and Lucas Sinclair. If you need anything you can ask each other if you can’t find me.”

“Lucas is about start high school,” Charles prompted. “How old are you, Will?”

Will looked over at Jonathan unsure if he should say.

“He’s fourteen,” Jonathan answered for him, ruffling his hair. “He’s starting high school this year, too. He’s just a March baby, so he’ll be younger then his peers.”

Will stuck his tongue out at his brother.

“You’ll forgive me, Jonathan,” Charles said gently, “but you don’t look much older than he is.”

Jonathan laughed. “I’m older than I look. I went to high school with Steve-o here. My parents had Will as ‘let’s a have another baby to fix our failing relationship’ ploy. The business was my dad’s.”

Charles looked over at Steve and raised an eyebrow. Steve didn’t look much older than the two teens either.

“I’m twenty-five,” Steve said, putting his hands on his hips. “I am,” he insisted when Charles and Lucas gave him matching disbelieving looks.

Jonathan cleared his throat in to the resulting awkwardness. “Yeah, let’s just say that didn’t work out and my mom got the lawn and garden business in the divorce because she put the time and effort into it, and he drank the profits. Then when I turned eighteen, I took it over. This is Will’s first year helping me out.”

“You two the only employees?” Lucas asked tilting his head to the side. “I mean I get with my dad, he’s just starting out, but you’ve been doing this for years.”

“No,” Jonathan snorted. “But to gardens this impressive and important, I’m not going to let anyone near them but me and Will. I had the whole team out to clean things up but for maintenance and design I take care of it and Will helps.”

Lucas just shrugged his shoulders. “It’s your funeral, man.”

“Bigger places than this,” Steve huffed, “have been handled by lesser men than Jonathan Byers. I wouldn’t have hired him if I didn’t think he could do the job.” He patted Jonathan on the arm.

Jonathan blushed and ducked his head. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Do you like D&D?” Will suddenly blurted out like he couldn’t contain his nerdiness any longer.

Both Jonathan and Steve braced for rejection, but Lucas lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Hell yeah!” he cried. “I have a level thirteen half-elf ranger. But the other half isn’t human, it’s a teifling!”

“Whoa!” Will said, eyes wide. “I didn’t know you could do that!”

Suddenly both boys were off rambling about stat blocks and armor proficiency and the three adults turned to each other.

“Do you have any idea what they’re talking about?” Charles asked with a grimace. “He always goes too fast for me to understand.”

Jonathan held up his hands in surrender. “Don’t look at me, I was the loner artsy type in high school, I didn’t do that nerd crap.”

Steve held his thumb and forefinger close together. “I know a little bit. It’s really popular with the kids now days. Especially after that TV show came out and had all the main characters playing it.”

“Better you than me,” Jonathan huffed. “Nancy’s little brother and Will used to play all the time, but they lost their GM or something and haven’t been able to play since.”

Steve nodded. “I think they prefer DM in D&D, but GM works.” He stopped and turned to interrupt the stream of D&D coming from Will and Lucas. “How many people do you need to play again?”

Lucas and Will paused for a moment.

“Counting the DM?” Will asked and Steve nodded. “Um...four to five ideally but can have up to seven comfortably.”

“So if you, Lucas and Mike all play,” Steve said slowly, licking his lips over his sly smile, “then you would want to have one more to make it ideal?”

“Why?” Lucas scoffed, “Do you just happen to have someone who could play?”

“Yes.”

Both boys looked at each other and then back at Steve, aghast.

“There is no way,” Lucas huffed, putting his hand on his hips.

“I’d have to ask Eddie,” Steve said, motioning all of them to follow him. He led them through the house, “but I’m pretty sure he’d be thrilled to let you use it.”

He opened a door that was just off from the kitchen on the other side of the theater room. In it was everything a tabletop gamer could want. It had row upon row of books on the shelves. Tables to put snacks on. Dice of every color imaginable and figures of every race, class, and monster type were in carefully labeled small drawers. But the centerpiece, the crowning glory of the room; a long table that had a town laid out on it, complete with the squares for combat and movement.

“Holy shit!” Lucas swore, his eyes wide, blocking the doorway.

Charles, who could see over the top of his son. “I’ll allow it this once, but otherwise, watch your language.”

Will pushed Lucas out of the way to see into the room, too. “Oh. Um. That’s just...wow.”

Steve ushered them into the room. “I don’t doubt there would be certain things off limits and I would have to be here to supervise, at least while Eddie is gone. But feel free to look around. I wouldn’t touch though.”

Lucas and Will ran into the room filled with glee. Will went straight the mini-figures and Lucas went to the table.

“Gosh, Steve,” Charles said, “are you sure that the owner will be all right letting the boys play in here? It all looks so expensive, I shudder to think what would happen if they broke something.”

To Charles’s surprise it was Jonathan that chuckled and shook his head. “Nothing. He buys a new one and carries on like nothing happened. Will broke one of the two Gate of Kings statues at the opening of the hedge maze. He had a new one out the next day. Didn’t say shit about Will breaking it. Just it happened, move on.”

Charles still looked skeptical so Steve pulled out his phone. “Hey, Eddie. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time. Yep, he’s taking the job. Yeah, he has a fifteen year old son named Lucas who is going to be helping out. No, no. Nothing like that. Will let it slip he likes D&D and that spawned Lucas liking it. Of course I did. I didn’t even have to ask, yes. That’s why I’m calling. Brilliant, thank you. Yep. We’ll talk at bed time as always. Bye.”

“Now all I have to do is call my friend Dustin,” he said with broad smile. “He was my first nannying job and is about their age. I kept in contact with him and his mom because they’re good people. He was just complaining the other day that his school shut down their D&D club and none of the other former members were interested in trying to keep it alive.”

Just then Will came up to him and hugged him. “Thanks, Steve. This is going to be so awesome. Mike is absolutely going to flip his shit.”

Steve ruffled Will’s hair and smiled. “Oh yeah, I totally have to be there when he sees it for the first time.”

Charles brought his chin in and looked at Steve for a moment. “It sounds as though you hired your friend to the do the gardening job instead of the best man for the job.”

“Dad,” Lucas warned, “if you ruin this for me, I will never speak to you again. He already said that Jonathan and his team was the best for the job. Youth doesn’t mean lack of experience. He’s been doing the landscaping thing for seven years. You’ve only been doing the cleaning thing for a month.”

Charles ducked his head. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. Especially just having agreed to the job for you and all.”

“Apology accepted,” Jonathan said with a nod. “Come on, Will we really do have to get back to work. I’ll get you Steve’s number later and he can help you coordinate this all for you guys.”

Will nodded and after swapping numbers with Lucas, followed his brother out the door.

Charles smiled at Lucas. “Aren’t you glad I made you come today?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he huffed. “I only set off the fire alarm that once and that was because the bacon grease dripped onto the gas flame. It’s not my fault you and mom decided to come home at that exact moment.”

Steve burst out laughing. “That’s the worst, kid. But yeah, it’ll be in your thirties before you live that one down.”

Charles shook hands with Steve and said they would be back on Saturday to start the pool cleaning.

Steve watched as they walked away. He just need to call Dustin and lure him over here. A picture of the D&D room would do just the trick.

Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

Tag List: SEVEN REMAINING

1- @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog @tartarusknight @gregre369

2- @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @cryptid-system @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi

3- @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch

4- @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @ollieolive @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @genderless-spoon

5- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

6- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

7- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

8- @sadisticaltarts @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @dolphincliffs @steddie-as-they-go @steddieislife

9- @kultiras @morallyundefined @themoonagainstmers @fearieshadow @blondie1006

10- @thesecondfate

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailitha writes #nanny au #nanny steve harrington #rockstar eddie munson

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saphig-iawn · 7 months ago

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Made to Play, Forced to Watch

My weekend plan for this doll was set, we were to have a narrative hypnosis session.

I adore these sessions because it not only involves incredibly deep and long form hypnosis, but it treats my subject to an experience unlike anything else.

The last time I had this doll for a narrative session, I sealed her inside a painting, and hung that painting in my bedroom so she could observe the little things I'd get up to in there.

Well, the thought of being on display but completely unable to partake consumed this doll. The whole week fed this fantasy and it grew into something that she just needed to feel.

So, after some gentle fractionation, bringing her down so softly on my lap, she found herself in front of those tall wooden doors.

She knocked, that familiar tremble in her hands. A tremble that knew it was on the cusp on something powerful.

The doors opened on their own, unveiling the grand hallway she had visited before, the warm light of the rustic kitchen aglow at its end.

Then she heard the sound of footsteps coming from the spiral staircase.

A hand gently glided down the bannister, emerald green nails caught the sun spilling in from the skylights.

I came into view. A long satin robe graced the steps, its hems lined with feathers. It was open, revealing a deep green corset, adorned with bows and lace. Stockings and suspenders completed the look.

She felt her heart beating faster.

I alighted the stairs and approached her, my dark auburn hair cascading down my shoulders.

She could feel herself slipping into my eyes, but the feeling my hands taking hers grounded her, like a puppet's strings going taut.

Tacitly, I gently pulled at her hands to bring her with me upstairs.

She was speechless, completely lost in being guided. Her mind was racing but her thoughts were raw. No words could describe the maelstrom that was raging inside her.

We moved into the bedroom, an intimately dark space that felt like it hugged very curve of her, like everything inside those four walls was designed to heighten her senses.

I positioned her in front of the grand poster bed, and with a gentle press at the centre of her chest she sat on the edge of the bed.

Instinctively, she pooled her hands in her lap, but a snap of my fingers caused them stir.

A rubber clad woman walks in. Her posture is straight, her movements are deliberate, like a finely tuned clockwork doll.

She moves swiftly to bed and pulls my doll back in recline, as I mount my doll.

The gasp that escapes her lips is caught by a rubber hand and returned to her lips as the rubber woman restrains my doll.

With meticulous efficiency, I undressed my doll, savouring how she squirmed beneath me.

Then I began to rub and stroke her. Her rubber gag turned her moans into sweet music.

She could feel that ache building, that sweet pressure swelling, but then it... plateaued. It felt restrained, confined, like a balloon trying to expand in someone's grip.

She rutted against my hand nonetheless, her eyes rolling back, and that was when she saw a grand mirror suspended from the ceiling.

Her rutting stopped as it finally clicked in her mind why her pleasure was been toyed with.

Underneath my hand was no longer her sweet dolly parts, but a rubber null bulge, the reflection of the room was warped beneath my hand.

That was when she felt a kiss.

My face took up her whole vision, my green lipstick glistened in the warm light.

There was a danger in my eyes.

Her lips began to tingle.

She watched as the her in the reflection's lips began to glisten, and then shine with gloss, as my lipstick began to spread. Soon her lips were so sensitive as her mouth began to shift into a pleasurable rubber cocksleeve. She tried so hard to utter a sound but only deep moans came out.

The rubber woman restraining her plunged her fingers into the doll's mouth. She began to suck on them like that was the only thing she was made to do.

Her mind was on fire. She was questioning everything, pleading why this was happening to suddenly, why she felt compelled to, why it felt so good.

Another finger snap split the soundscape of the room, and the rubber woman removed herself from the bed, keeping her fingers in the rubberising doll's mouth.

She began padding at her plump latex lips, seeing if it was a dream. The latex felt so smooth, so good.

Her fingers began to tingle.

They began to glisten.

They began to shine with gloss.

Her skin was becoming alive with pleasure, and she just couldn't help but run her fingers over her body.

The rubber spread even more.

Slowly her legs began to straighten out and part. Her fingers gently pulled together, as her elbows began to bend into position.

Her thoughts began to rubberise too. Soon her own name became lost to the latex, thinking herself as only Doll. The focus of her thoughts changed from analysing the changes and trying to reconcile with the magic talking hold to wonder why Owner wasn't using her, why Owner was playing with her, where Owner was, why was Owner using her.

Soon she could do nothing but moan through her open rubber mouth, and stare at her immobile new form in the suspended mirror.

The room began to move and spin around her, as a gentle pressure gained purchase on her hips.

She was being moved.

Her mind was still trying to call out to Owner, trying to plead.

Only moans came from her hole.

She found herself now facing the bed, the rubber woman stood to attention in front of her.

The new blow-up doll lit up in delight at seeing Owner.

She hoped Owner was finally going to play with her.

But then her pleading blossomed with a deep yearning as I began to explore the rubber woman in front her. Tracing her curves, and savouring every part of her.

Doll moaned in protest as I made my move.

I rubbed my hand across the rubber woman's mouth, sealing it in more latex. Her eyes widened and she began to moan with twinned arousal and trepidation. I smoothed her arms into her sides and firmly began to shape her. Each pass over her body made her moans deeper but ever so quieter

Her figure became a suggestion of her former body. Her features vague in their femininity.

All the Doll could do was watch as the new rubber cock, quietly moaning and still, was delicately picked up and gently inserted into myself. The Doll was screaming inside her rubber head, begging Owner to use her instead, to use the new toy on her too, she wanted it, she needed it. Hearing the quiet moans of the rubber toy disappear inside me drove her even wilder.

But she couldn't do a thing about it. Just sit, and watch, and listen. Her rubber nullge aching, her inflated breasts yearning to be groped.

I used that new rubber cock in its entirety, letting every curve of her feel me and my pleasure. I could feel her moans like a gentle vibration.

My moans heightened, my bucking and rutting picked up, and the frozen expression of lust on the Doll's face was bringing me closer and closer to climax.

Doll could tell, but her mind was being ever more consumed by the rubber. All she could think was of Owner, she was barely begging any more, just voicing simple pleas into the void of her rubber mind over and over: Owner fuck Doll... Owner fuck Doll... Owner fuck Doll...

Her mind sparked back into life as my load graced her glossy body. The yearning and begging trembled into existence like a rising chorus.

I snapped my fingers, and outside of the Doll's vision, another rubber woman enters the bedroom holding a velvet cushion.

I retrieve the toy and delicately place her on the cushion. Trained ears would've been able to hear gentle breathing and whimpering.

Doll's ears were full of her own lust.

With a grin, I glided over to my Doll and gripped her nullge in my hand.

Like a wind-up toy, her mind began to rattle through the very few phrases still left in her mind; phrases drenched in rubber and lust.

In an instant she could feel a climax building, how she was finally being used by Owner.

And then she felt a sagging. A pull. An inexorable folding inwards, little by little.

If she was able to look down she would've seen my eyes ablaze with mischief as I had just undone her air valve.

The throes of her pleasure began to stretch, achingly so. The rushing air slowing her thoughts, making each grope of her nullge feel like a plunge of a hand into molasses.

But the pleasure kept building. I kept rubbing and groping and using my rubber Doll as her form slowly deflated in my grasp. I could feel her climax getting closer and closer.

Doll was still near the beginning, as the pleasure continued to distort and bend in her perception, her pleasure separating like chromatic abberation and recompiling.

She was both so close to orgasm but also so far. She was caught and spread across the timeline of her climax, feeling it all, yet to feel it, already felt it.

Then, as the last bit of air left her rubber body, her pleasure recomplied one last time, culminating in a unified, all body orgasm.

But there was no movement.

No gasps.

No moans.

She was just limp, spent rubber.

Ablaze with pleasure but helpless to do anything about it.

I wanted something for her to remember this by when she woke up so I didn't even wipe her down before folding her back up and slipping her into my panty drawer.

But then again...

Who says I have to turn her back when I reinflate her.

I'm sure she wouldn't mind.

But she was oblivious to my little musings, swimming in a blissful dream of post-orgasm bliss, tucked away in my drawer.

(This writing is about a real hypnosis session with real hypnosis and real people. If you would like to see more writing like this, then please support me over at https://ko-fi.com/saphig, where you can also commission 1-on-1 hypnosis sessions and have your own piece of writing just like this!)

#saphiposting #hypnodomme #hypnok1nk #hypnotic #trance #brainwash #brainwashing #hypnosis #mind control #erotichypnosis #narrative hypnosis #doll tf #dollification #bimbo doll #inflatable toy #inflatable doll #inanimate tf #inanimate transformation #deflation

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quinnred · 10 months ago

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Fan concept for Rythaze's Repha project. Nephilim super soldiers require a LOT of energy to support their bodies, and so need large and efficient food portions.

One solution for this issue was the Meal Pig, a genetically modified domestic pig designed to grow large and grow quickly with enough meat and fat to easily feed Nephilim soldiers.

Meal Pigs are placed in shallow pools that support their massive weight and feed on high nutrient slop to sustain their size. Their elongated snout acts as a snorkel as they feed on their submerged food.

Meal Pigs are designed with segmented surface fat and meat "packets" for easy and fast butchery.

#quinn red #art #repha #pig #gmo #super soldier #grub

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multiheadcanons · 3 months ago

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RED TEAM CAN YOU LOCK THE FUCK IN

aka better battle strategies

scout: scouts job has hardly changed. he goes, he picks where the fights happen, he goes somewhere else to force the blu team to split before he can take more damage. he splits again and starts baiting people into sniper’s sightline. scout is part one of the red team’s ambush. his job is to begin cutting their major damage classes from the group. he knows he can’t really touch the trio, but he can go toe to toe with the enemy scout for a second, and the moment backup forces start coming to help, if sniper is in position (and there has never been a time that guy was not in perfect position to start taking people out unless he’s gotta deal with the enemy sniper) scout’s inadvertent assault on the enemy scout gives spy precious time that raises his chances of survival greatly.

soldier: an airborne threat. when he’s not going toe to toe with the enemy soldier in the air, which genuinely his main job is to take out the roamer before he can start pinning the red team’s locations, he is causing so much airborne havoc that open spaces are just not safe to be in. it is loud, it is hellish, and you are guaranteed to be unfortunate collateral if you are out there. the moment there’s not a single person in his sights, he is racing to the front lines any way he can get there. and he will make it there in seven seconds or less. time him. he rarely ever sees the inside of buildings unless the blu team has been cornered, but frankly at that point he is just spawn camping. this is harder to do if he has to take out the enemy engineer’s nest, but that’s been easier since spy has been able to actually stay in the fight.

pyro: with the spy now being handled by sniper, for the most part, pyro has free reign to do whatever they want, really. they opt as backup, or personal doctor transport to his next location when he’s got to take the ground paths. this has made them a much more efficient roamer, but the more accurate term would be "designated backup". pyro has made it their sole goal to follow behind any grounded teammate, and they make a lethal surprise when the blu team thinks they've taken out a head on threat. they are not used to pyro actually being in an advantageous location to actually begin to do damage. the only issue is that pyro doesn't have a large enough health pool to do long-term consistent damage, and the lack of the stock uber-- which was a prime way for pyro to up their survival numbers, and which the doctor now rarely brings onto the field-- almost forces pyro to run phlog.

demo: the enclosed space threat. soldier makes such a noise outside that they can only escape by getting indoors, and demo is there, sword and shield in hand. oh yeah. it’s demoknight time. demo takes every death as an opportunity to switch his loadout and cause mass confusion on the ground. the moment the blu team is yelling he’s got his sword he will grab his grenade launcher. the more he can scatter the blu team, the better chances the flankers have of taking out the remains. he is an especially harder target when he’s got the doctor on his side. they can’t take him out in a couple lucky hits anymore. one of the most consistent killers of the trio in head to head combat.

heavy: ambush expert, and he could be called a roamer. he has used his ability to move quietly, he has taken his keen knowledge of the maps, and he’s putting that shit to work. it honestly makes him laugh. he quite enjoys catching the enemy off guard. it really puts a smile on his face. especially catching their stupid little trio off guard. even if he can’t kill them all, it’s a guaranteed kill of either the heavy or the pyro. and he’s happy to go toe to toe with that counterpart of his. he is best as the final stand of a red team ambush. the massive health pool can sap their already slim ammo to zero, especially as he uses their pyro’s paranoia against them. sometimes, if another teammate can make it, or he baits them into sniper’s sightlines, or he can hold them off for ten or less seconds, he doesn’t even have to shoot. it’s just enough to be there and taunt them and they make themselves look like fools.

engineer: the new battle strategy hasn’t changed his role either, and he’s still a mean mother fucker on that field. he has thoroughly enjoyed putting, and maintaining his foot on the blu team’s neck, and now it takes a lot less work on his end to do it. firmly located on the front lines, unless there is an opportunity to close the blu team in somewhere and wreak havoc. he just wants to watch them die, and then he wants to close them in somewhere else and continue to shoot fish in the barrel. and he wants to repeat that until they beg for mercy or time runs out on the clock. and they never do the former, so he stays on their throats until the latter. stay out of his way; he’s got the gunslinger.

medic: armed with the overdose, the quick fix, and the vita-saw; this man can make a deadly duo with any other member of the team, and now he’s got the speed to get where he needs to go. fast enough to duck a bullet or two, fast enough to get to every member of the team, fast enough to take potshots and come up missing so he can get his killing blow from a different angle, and when he’s teamed with soldier, or demo, his movement has expanded tenfold. it’s like the world is his oyster! he is fast enough to get where he needs to go, and entirely too fast to get jumped by the enemy power classes, aside from the scout, but the enemy scout is never brave enough to chance going toe to toe with the doctor. he’s exhausted after battles, now, but he’s become much more satisfied with his line of work. occasionally, he’ll switch out his vita-saw for his ubersaw, but not very often. he likes the look of fear in their eyes when he brandishes the needle.

sniper: at this point, mick’s last name may as well be uchiha, because that fucker has the sharingan. he is predicting the blu team’s movements before they even know their movement, because the team puts so much guaranteed pressure on certain routes, that depending on where his soldier is, he knows exactly where they’re going to try to move. he is a godsend on that field unless that sniper of theirs starts giving him grief. this doesn’t happen very often anymore. and if demo’s scattering them, and heavy gets one flank route, then he can get another flank route and there’s nowhere else for them to go. his list of priorities is as follows: kill the support classes, don’t die to the spook, protect the flank. but he’s not the only one who’s wanting that doctor dead on his team, so he really focuses on their spy and their sniper. and whoever is unfortunate enough to test his aim that day.

spy: spy has a list of the people he needs to target, and he is expected to keep them dead by any means necessary, and after he's taken these people out, he can go do whatever he wants. get the intel, go hide in a corner until he's needed again, shit, he can dance on point for all the team cares. but the doctor better be dead, the sniper better be dead, and the engineer better be dead. anyone else he can get from there is just a cherry on top, anything else he can do from there is even better. however briefly he does it, if scout can engage his counterpart at all, spy's chances of surviving the initial bloodbath skyrockets. because from there, he can come up missing. he has been trying much harder to learn the maps so he has more tools at his disposal to move around the field. he does his best to be of consistent aid to his team. it's getting easier... slowly.

#team fortress 2 #team fortress two #tf2 medic #tf2 heavy #tf2 pyro #tf2 sniper #tf2 engineer #tf2 scout #tf2 spy #tf2 soldier #tf2 demoman #tf2 demo #tf2 #i tested that medic layout before i wrote it btw. theoretically it is a very palpable layout!#if you’re better than me and frankly enjoy playing scout and want a real challenge i would recommend it as a medic layout

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lieutenantbatshit · 2 months ago

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02 - a piece of me | just another player. (hwang in-ho x reader)

|| masterlist ||

previous chapter | next chapter

——

The room was cold. Not from temperature, but from design — sterile and steel-lined, walls pressed tight in perfect symmetry, not a single window to the world outside. You sat among dozens of other guards, each clad in the identical matte uniform, each face hidden behind a black visor with a single geometric shape. You were in a sea of circles - a hierarchy forged not in character, but in obedience.

You felt your breath fog slightly beneath the mask. Even now, after years of wearing it, there were moments it felt like a muzzle.

Then, the door at the far end hissed open, revealing the creator, host, and God of this hell.

Oh Il-nam.

His hair was thinner now, his skin clung tighter to the ridges of his skull, but his eyes — sharp, glinting like polished glass — scanned the room with that same quiet cruelty you remembered from the archives. He walked with a slight limp, supported by a black cane, his mask tucked beneath his arm like a crown he didn’t need to wear to remind you who he was. He was dressed in deep crimson — formal, commanding, and flawless. The color of blood dried into velvet.

He stood before the room of guards and overseers, calm and calculating, as if he were welcoming guests to a dinner party rather than orchestrating death. He spoke softly, but the room bent toward his words like blades of grass in the wind.

“Welcome to the 33rd Season of the Games,” Il-nam began, his voice low and controlled. “Do you know what that number means?”

Silence answered him.

“It means that the world hasn’t changed. The hunger still lives. That desperation is still the most powerful currency.”

He paced slowly before the first row, hearing his cane tap against the ground with every step.

“The rules remain the same. The games — Red Light, Green Light. Dalgona. Lights Out,” he paused at that, smiling faintly. “Yes, it’s officially part of the cycle now. Chaos has structure. Isn’t that beautiful?”

You remained still, but your stomach twisted. You remembered the screaming, the way the night didn’t hide the dying. You remembered the man bleeding out on the floor, who now sat behind black glass in a tower above, a Front Man forged from your mistake.

“Tug of War. Marbles. And most importantly, the Squid Game,” Il-nam continued. “You will uphold the structure. You will maintain the illusion of order. But most of all—“ he stopped now, facing the crowd directly— “you will not disobey.”

Murmurs didn’t follow — they weren’t allowed. But the tension thickened. Lights Out was once an unofficial chaos was now part of the rulebook. You felt it all rushing back, blood pooling across tiles, and a hand reaching up in the dark. His voice was breathless, shaking, whispering the words, “Why…?”

“Any form of aid to players, any deviation from assigned protocol, any mask that dares to feel… will be punished.”

You flinched, barely, but you knew the sting was meant for you.

“Some of you have already failed us before,” he said, eyes grazing across the room, almost like he could see behind the masks. “You’re here again because we believe in second chances… not forgiveness.”

The word struck like a lash. You didn’t move, but inside, the fire of the truth burned anew.

The punishment wasn’t execution, at least, not for you. It was service, a reassignment, and a demotion. A demotion that dragged you into night shifts, into silent bedrooms and glided masks, into the leering eyes of VIPs where no screams escaped and no names were spoken. And every morning, you returned to pink.

“Uniforms and role assignments are waiting in Hall B. You will report immediately. Any delay is noted.”

The square guards began barking orders immediately. Role assignments, room numbers, escort teams, firearm calibration checks — all familiar routines returned like a tidal wave. The masked figures rose, each moving with choreographed efficiency toward their fate.

Season 33 had begun, and you would do anything just to survive.

——

The metal platform groaned beneath your boots as you stood at the edge of the training hall, rows of pink-masked recruits stiffening under your gaze.

A row of red carpet unfurled like a fresh wound down the center of the pristine room — the designated “escort path.” Gold-painted chairs lined the simulated VIP lounge behind you, perfectly arranged for the demonstration. Surveillance cameras blinked red in the corners. Nothing here was ever unobserved.

“Position one,” you called sharply.

The recruits moved. The pink guard stepped forward to act as the "escort" was young, shorter than the rest, their voice still trembling. Their grip fumbled over the faux decanter meant to mimic luxury service.

They bowed to the mock VIP actor like a civilian would — too deeply, too slowly. You inhaled sharply through your mask. They tried again, offering a drink with both hands, their gloves shaking slightly.

“Wrong,” you snapped, voice cutting clean through the stale air.

The recruit flinched as you strode forward, the click of your boots like gunshots in the quiet room. In one swift motion, you snatched the decanter from their hands and slammed it down on the tray beside the lounge chair.

“You are not a servant,” you said coldly. “You are a symbol. A presence. A product of obedience, not emotion. The moment you show uncertainty, they will know. And they will take advantage.”

Your words hung heavy in the space between you and the trembling recruit. The rest of the class stood rigid, afraid to move, afraid to breathe.

“Again,” you barked. “With your spine straight. Offer the drink like a machine, not a child.”

The recruit obeyed. This time, it was slower and more deliberate. You stood behind them, adjusting the tilt of their chin with the sharp edge of your gloved hand. Their mask tilted toward yours, questioning and fearful.

They reminded you of someone, more of yourself. When you were promoted to square, clean and hopeful, your eyes too bright beneath the black. Before your rank was stripped and your identity erased in silence, not because of failure, but because of mercy.

“Acceptable,” you said finally, though your voice was devoid of warmth.

Training resumed in silence. Hours blurred past drills — posture, presentation, calculated silence. The elite escort role required perfection. Anything less was an insult to the illusion these monsters paid to see.

Eventually, the session ended.

One by one, the pink guards filed out. The doors hissed open, and the cold concrete swallowed them. But one lingered. A square guard, standing by the door with his arms folded, watching you with quiet interest behind the black mask that once mirrored your own.

“They say you were once a square,” he said casually, his voice low and edged with something darker. “What did you do?”

You didn’t answer. He stepped closer. The distance between you was all surveillance and silence.

“Rumors say you saved someone. That you disobeyed for a dying player,” he added. “But they never say why you’re still alive.”

You turned your head, slow and measured. “I follow orders,” you replied flatly. “That’s all that matters.”

“Funny,” he said. “You train them like you’re trying to make them forget what it’s like to be human.”

You stared at him. “Because being human in here,” you said, “is the fastest way to die.”

You walked away, back into the corridors of steel and smoke, where ghosts wore masks and punishment was survival’s reward. The dim corridor buzzed faintly, the sound of fluorescent lights above flickering like a dying breath. You made your way down the path lined with identical metal doors, the living quarters for the pink guards.

Yours was the last door in the row. Room 427. You keyed in the code. The lock hissed open. Inside was stillness with barren walls, a single bed with starched sheets, and a metal table bolted to the floor. There was no mirror and belongings. Just silence, always silence.

You sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off your gloves like a second skin. Your pink suit was unzipped just enough to breathe. The metal walls echoed with distant footsteps, squares barking orders at newly recruited guards, the crackle of radios, the buzz of the elevator ferrying supplies to the upper floors. But here in your unit’s quarters, it was still.

There was no escort duty tonight. For once, your number wasn’t on the list. That relief was almost as painful as the duties themselves. You stared at your gloves on the bedside table, fingers curled stiff from wear. Blood had once soaked through them. Screams once filled your ears. But now? You were used to it.

That was the point, wasn’t it?

Before the games, you had a name. A life outside the games. You used to dance in the rain.

You lived in colors, not red, black and pink, but golden light from streetlamps, the warm blue of your favorite café, the soft lavender of your tiny rented apartment. You weren’t rich, but you were free. A literature student by day, part-time waitress by night. You wanted to write stories one day. Novels. Maybe even poetry. You dreamed of publishing your own book someday.

Your laughter used to come easily. Your smile wasn’t a mask. You believed in people. Yet in the end, you were the one who stayed.

In a neighborhood where everyone else was desperate to leave, you stayed behind. You watched your friends grow distant and your family grow smaller. It was only one funeral, then came another. Then another. Until the only voices left were the ones in your head.

You weren’t running from anything — there was just nowhere left to go. No final fight nor betrayal. Just… time, taking people from you, one by one. You stopped talking out loud because there was no one to hear you anyway.

So when the pink envelope arrived that was sealed tight, marked only by shapes, it felt like an accident. A glitch in the mail. A strange dream.

But you opened it.

And that’s how it started.

You didn’t become a player. You didn’t owe anything. But you were noticed — someone they could use. Someone who would not be missed. At first, you thought you’d break. But there was no one left to worry about you. No one left to remind you who you were.

Now, you rarely think about your name. It doesn’t come easily anymore.

And maybe that was the point.

——

The order comes like a slap to your already numb consciousness. A square guard, his uniform sharp and flawless, strides over to you in the dark hallway. His voice is cool, matter-of-fact, as if he’s never had to question a thing in his life.

"Fix the Front Man's quarters. Make sure every detail is perfect," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You simply nod, the sound of the mask moving as you lower your head in silent acknowledgment. You’ve been in this position long enough to know how things go. The Front Man’s quarters, as cold and sterile as everything else in the compound, require absolute precision. The slightest mistake, the smallest imperfection, could result in more than just a reprimand. You’ve seen what happens when others fail in front of the Front Man. There’s nothing kind or forgiving about his gaze.

The square guard watches you for a moment longer, as if ensuring you’ll comply, before turning away, leaving you to your task.

You stood in front of the door, taking in the quiet, lifeless hallway. Everything is perfectly still. No noise. No interruptions. The only sound you hear is the distant hum of ventilation systems and the pulse of your own heartbeat beneath the thick mask. You inhale deeply and push the door open.

Inside, the quarters were as pristine as always. It was cold, empty, and unyielding - not a single trace of humanity remains. The room was meticulously organized, the bed made to military standards, the furnishings aligned with an unnatural symmetry, a single chair in the corner, its back to the wall. Every surface gleams, as if the place is nothing but a shell, waiting for its occupant to step inside.

You walk in slowly, your eyes scanning over every inch, every corner. Your mind runs through the mental checklist: lighting, temperature, scent. Every detail is scrutinized until you’re certain it meets the Front Man’s standards. Your gloved hands trace over the desk, wiping away the faintest trace of dust. It’s almost too perfect. There’s nothing left to fix. The space is an extension of the man who occupies it — cold, flawless, untouchable.

You began to adjust the small things. The alignment of books on a shelf, the angle of the chair, the slight shift in the position of a painting on the wall. Every adjustment feels like an offering. Your body is numb to the motion, your mind detached and mechanical.

A sudden movement at the door catches your attention, and you freeze.

A shadow. A figure standing in the doorway, silent and imposing. You don’t need to look up to know it’s the square guard again. His eyes are cold, but there’s something else, a faint smile at the edge of his lips as he watches you.

“Is everything in order?” he asks, his voice like a dull blade scraping against metal.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Your eyes remain downcast, focusing on the smallest of details. The least of your concerns is his gaze, but you feel the weight of it pressing down on you nonetheless.

The square guard takes a step forward, glancing around the room. His eyes land on the smallest imperfection, a slight smudge on the glass of a picture frame. Without a word, he reaches out, wiping it away with a swipe of his gloved hand. His movements are sharp, deliberate.

“You’ve done well,” he says, his voice softening ever so slightly. But you know better. He’s not complimenting you. He’s simply acknowledging your obedience. The look in his eyes doesn’t change — still cold, still distant.

“Finish up,” he commands. “And make sure the Front Man doesn’t find anything out of place.”

The square guard leaves, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts once more. As you turn to leave, your fingers brush against the edge of the desk, and something about the cold metal reminds you of the past. Of who you used to be. Of the girl who had dreams and laughter in her heart.

You barely register the sounds of the Front Man’s approaching footsteps — but you know they're coming. You can feel him before you see him, a presence that lingers in the room even as the door creaks open.

The Front Man walks inside with his usual poise, the cold mask covering his face, unreadable. His eyes scan the room like a predator sizing up its prey, each movement deliberate, precise, as if assessing not just the space but the person who prepared it. His footsteps echo softly against the polished floors, louder than they have any right to be.

You stand at attention in the corner, still and quiet, as he takes his time walking around the room. You don’t dare speak unless he orders you to.

His gaze flickers to the desk first. He takes a long pause, inspecting the alignment of the books, the sheen on the surface. His fingers brush lightly over the chair, just enough to feel the exact temperature of the room, the subtle pressure of the cushion. He moves with the kind of deliberate grace that you’ve come to associate with someone who knows their power, their dominance, their control over every detail.

For a split second, you hold your breath, wondering what he’s looking for. Is there something amiss? A trace of imperfection you might have missed in your hasty preparation?

But then his gaze shifts to the picture frame. It’s the smallest detail, the most trivial of things. His eyes narrow, his fingers tracing the edge of the frame with unsettling precision. There is a slight tremor in his hand. Just a hint. But it’s enough to make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

He simply looks at the picture frame for a few more seconds, as if contemplating something too deep to put into words. His gaze flickers toward the small smudge you couldn’t catch, and for the briefest of moments, you think he might actually speak. But no. His gaze sharpens, and he pulls his hand away.

Finally, he stands still. For a moment, you wonder if the air between you is thick with his thoughts, heavy and pressing. But then, he slowly exhales, a sound barely noticeable beneath the mask. He turns toward you, and the intensity of his gaze makes your chest tighten, your breath stuttering.

"Good job," he said, his tone as cold as ever. "Everything is in order."

Your heart clenched at the lack of emotion in his words. It was a compliment, but it didn’t feel like one. There was no warmth in his praise, no sign that he saw you as anything more than another tool—an instrument to be used and discarded when no longer needed.

"Thank you," you murmured, even though the words felt hollow on your tongue.

He turned his head slightly, his masked face remaining unreadable. "You may leave now."

With a stiff bow, you turned to leave, your footsteps echoing in the silence of the room. As you stepped out into the cold, sterile halls of the compound, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being forgotten.

You were nothing to him, and perhaps that was exactly what you deserved. After all, you weren’t a guard anymore, not truly. You were just a nameless face in the sea of masked figures, condemned to serve in the shadows for the rest of your days.

And yet, despite the cold dismissal, a small part of you couldn’t help but wonder: would he ever look at you again? Would he ever realize that you were the one who had saved him when he had bled out during the chaos of lights out?

But the more you thought about it, the more you realized it didn’t matter. He was the Front Man. You were just a guard—nothing more. The distance between you was as vast as the abyss, and no amount of longing would ever change that.

——

A/N: HAS ANYONE WATCHED THE SQUID GAME TEASER? They just dropped the teaser for Season 3! I am SEATED (and also possibly traumatized) 😳 I think I'm going to be insufferable until June 27 because imagine the teaser making us feel like THAT, then what about the trailer 😨 What are your theories for the next season? I would love to hear about them!

Don't forget to leave a comment in this chapter to be tagged on to the next chapter. :)

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taglist: @roachco-k @goingmerry69

#hwang in ho #lee byung hun #player 001 #squid game #the front man #oh young il #squid game netflix #001 squid game #001 #in ho x reader #hwang inho #in ho #frontman x reader #frontman x you #inho x reader #inho x you #hwang inho x reader

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throneofsapphics · 10 months ago

Text

track 32

Fenrys x Reader x Lorcan

Summary: Cursed to fall in love, only to have everything ripped away from you, moving on to your next life already feels like a drag, only things don't quite follow their usual patterns.

Warnings: discussions of death, Maeve, brief description of torture, happy ending

Word Count: 8077

A/N: the HAPPIEST of birthdays to @whisperingmidnights <3 I hope you have an amazing day (& thank you to @rowaelinsdaughter for your help)

You tumbled into your new body. Again. At least this time the Gods let you skip through the childhood years, instead flooding your mind with memories of your new past. You could only be a toddler so many times before truly losing the last grip on your sanity.

You’d think so much pain and suffering would flood together, the lives all melting into one giant messed up pot but instead each experience remained distinctly painful to you. Distinctly full of suffering and sour memories. You, obviously, hadn’t survived a single one and your trek across the multiverse was written in blood.

It took you up until life 15 to really stop holding onto so many grudges, especially considering you seemed to be destined to fall for the same people each time. Not the same types of people, but the actual same person.

Whoever put a curse on you had been clever. If you were cursed, perhaps you were just really damn unlucky. But right now you needed a bath, a hot meal, and a good night’s rest. Of course you were drunk. Fresh in from a night out on the town with one of your friends, but you had good some good fortune in this life - your own apartment.

Tossing clothes off as you walked, you beelined towards where you knew the bathing room was. You were pretty certain you’d stayed in this exact apartment building before, and if you remembered correctly each apartment had near identical layouts, the entire building cheap and designed for efficiency. In this life, you’d made it your own more than in the previous ones.

You stepped into the tub, let the cold water hit your toes, partially sobering you, rivulets of now psycho-somatic grime and blood streaming from your body to pool in clear water at your feet.

A mind healer would have a field day with you and you knew it all too well.

Plugging the drain, you adjusted it to reach the perfect temperature. Yes, an efficiency building but still had hot running water. It was odd, but you didn’t question it - you were a creature of comfort after all.

You wondered when you’d see them again. You wished you could say that tall of your interactions started off on a fresh beat, that you had it together enough not to judge them based on versions of them in a different universe, but you weren’t.

Having it together? Maybe, certainly not on that level though. Having it together enough to appreciate their presence at this moment? Hell no.

After last time.

“We’re done,” he mumbled, not willing to make eye contact with you.

“Then say it to my face,” you glanced between both of them.

Heads down. Eyes downcast - first time you’d seen them like that.

“Then I really meant that little, didn’t I?”

“No,” one said - you could barely distinguish who through the raging steam in your ears and tears down your cheeks.

“Yes,” the other said. You didn’t know or care who said what. It didn’t matter. Later, just before the death took you you’d find out who made them do it and realize it still didn’t matter. She may have forced them to lie, but they didn’t have to be quite so convincing. 31 lives had taught you logic had no place in heartbreak.

The memory hit you like a physical blow to the chest, a stinging and pressure left in its wake. That heartbreak had killed you the quickest of them all.

Three days.

It was part of your curse, you’d figured out. To always know. What life you were on, the details of your past lives, how long it took you to do, what the death felt like, every little detail was committed to memory all because you’d dared to love someone a little too much, and ended up stealing them away from a wicked witch.

Well, the story didn’t go quite like that but you thought it sounded better in your head that way. In reality, you’d fallen in love and done something stupid, as all people in love do from time to time.

You and Lorcan had agreed you should try to get Fenrys out, that although it would be more difficult to get him released, Fenrys needed it more. You didn’t have the guts to tell him you needed both of them like you needed air, but there hadn’t been time for that. All of your moments were stolen and borrowed time.

“Will you please release him from your service?” You were on your knees, begging. “Please, Majesty.”

The harsh flooring dug into your knees but you kept the same subservient pose. For someone with so much pride, this was humiliating and your Queen knew it.

“No.”

One flat and toneless word.

“No?” You repeated.

Wicked red lips curved into a smile. “That is what I said.”

You had several choice words for her after, and she’d responded with a fucking curse. Cursed to always love, but to never have it stick, cursed to die from heartbreak.

Even after all of these lives the word ‘curse’ was still ugly in your mouth, still made your stomach heave and back seize at the memories. The times you’ve run into the Queen she hadn’t recognized you, but you knew she was still untouchable. Frequently made that way by the ones you loved.

The breeze sneaking through the poorly insulated window highlighted how water already chilled around you. You didn’t miss that part of this building, the tub held next to no heat and your bathwater always ended up cold in less than fifteen minutes.

You were tempted to stay still and prune, but there was no use in it. A new life, new things to do.

Dragging yourself out of the tub, you dried off as efficiently as you could make yourself, scrounged up some comfortable clothes and headed to your desk. Grabbing a notepad and pen, you began writing.

number thirty-one.

It was a ritual of sorts, perhaps your imaginary mind healer would be proud of you for it, for getting all of your pain out on paper as soon as possible.

Right before you burned it.

Tossing the five sheets of paper on the flames felt good.

Running into them happened far too quickly for your liking. It always did. Life always started and finished too damn fast.

You glanced in the mirror, at what you’d chosen to wear for the night out with your not-really-new friends. The dress fit you perfectly, and showed just enough to leave you feeling bold without being uncomfortable. The gold wrapped around your wrists helped too. Not too much to look rob worthy, but enough to make you feel like some extra type of sheen was thrown over you. Maybe, just maybe this life would bring you a little luck. Was gold supposed to be good luck? You didn’t know, but maybe you’d figure out how to look it up later. If you remembered to.

You felt something warm in your chest, not unlike the flush from the first sip of whiskey. Closing your eyes you could’ve sworn it tugged, dragged you towards another.

No, not in this or any life. It wasn’t possible.

No matter how many times you fell in love and in how many ways, you’d never found a mate and were convinced you were destined not to. 31 lives was enough time to find a mate, a life partner. You should’ve had that done in by life 10.

It was funny, how you’d started measuring your existence in lives rather than years. After all, it fit your circumstances. Permanently destined to be a temporary existence in others lives, and for their existence and influence to end yours. If there was a way out of this, a stopping or breaking of the curse you figured you would’ve found it by now.

A loud pounding on the door and you hissed as the brush slipped, you barely moving your wrist away in time to save your face from a large black streak.

“Gods,” you yelled, “hold on a damn moment.”

“We’re going to miss the bard,” someone - Ella? Yes, Ella, shouted back.

“Alright,” you groused loud enough for her to hear, “one moment.”

One more swipe of kohl and you looked ready. A few deep breaths and you felt ready.

Shoving the cosmetics to the back of the counter, you swung yourself around the doorway, grabbing your coat off the hook and flinging open the front door, finding your friend posed with their fist menacingly mid-air, probably about to break your door down. Memory clicked in, reminding you they can be a tad aggressive on a mission.

Their mouth curved into a too-satisfied smirk, probably that their threats had work. Rolling your eyes, you shoved past them into the hall, quickly locking your door.

“Anyone else for tonight?”

“Just us,” they looped their arm through yours and started for the stairs.

Ugh. Last time in this building you’d been on the ground floor, and you’d definitely miss the convenience of that, but at least you had a pretty balcony view here. It’s all give and take, you supposed.

“Copper for your thoughts?” Ella’s voice interrupted you.

How long had you zoned out? Was that a habit in this lifetime? You couldn’t remember.

“Do I really look that broke?” You deflected.

It worked, she laughed. Maybe it would’ve been nice if she pushed a little.

Fenrys breathed in the fresh air. Maeve had sent him on a mission. Alone. Staking out Varese for several months, observing, but she didn’t exactly tell him what to look for. It was perhaps the most exciting and infuriating mission he’d been assigned. Infuriating, because he truly had no idea what in Hellas’s name he was supposed to do, exciting because he had months to spend doing whatever he thought ‘observing’ looked like.

Yes, he knew it was a mockery of freedom but right now he’d take the gods-damned mockery over what he’s stuck in every day.

Walking through the street, although he stuck to the shadows, unnoticed to the masses, it still felt like each face was sent there to tease him, remind him of the invisible leash tying him to that bitch for the rest of his life. He didn’t know how Lorcan, the bastard, did it with such glee and joy. At least Whitethorn had shown a measure of discontent at some point, he’d even seen a hint of it on perfectly loyal Gavriel’s face.

Something caught his attention. Someone.

Arm in arm with your friend, strolling down the street, exuding pure confidence. Someone aware of their place in this world and what they meant to it. The light in your eyes matched his own. Dimmed, flaring when necessary and just enough to keep up appearances.

Only a fellow fraud would recognize it.

He had to follow. It was insanity, but he needed to see more of you.

That’s how he ended up nursing a drink in the corner of the bar, shadows wreathed around him, cloak pulled up to cover his face. He matched some of the many body guards of nobles around, and through some blessing not a soul had recognized him or even shot him a second glance. Perhaps Friday’s were quite a popular night for the elite to pretend, that or he’d gotten better at blending in. He didn’t know which to put his money on.

Someone, however, caught all of the attention - including his, even when he tried to ignore the magnetic attraction tugging him towards you. Throwing your head back in a laugh, you danced along with your friend, clothing absolutely sinful and fitting right in. He loved it. Every part of your energy felt like it was tugging at him, urging him closer, closer, closer, and he realized just how dangerous that made you.

Dangerous to him, and to yourself through him.

No matter what, she hung over him like a storm cloud.

Anything he might try to pursue with you would end before it could truly began, love or relationship cut off at its knees without a chance to truly blossom. Did he actually want it to? Could Fenrys actually be that selfish?

Yes, if it came to you. He glanced down at his pint. Still half full, and rather weak shit. He wasn’t drunk but still managed to think complete nonsense. Nothing could happen, but for now he supposed it couldn’t hurt to imagine a fantasy life with a stranger he’d never see again live in the corner of his mind, so long as it it stayed there. He was so, so wrong.

Lorcan Salvaterre knew about sacrifice. In fact, he was an expert at it, at this point. But, every bit was worth it for her. His Queen. The only female he’d truly loved to the point where he’d do anything and everything.

Perhaps other love could have come his way, but it had never been the right time. Timing, in his opinion, shouldn’t matter. He’d always make the time for Maeve, and everything he’d done since meeting her had been for her. When she ordered him away, he left. When she kept him by her side - but never her bed - he stayed. Maeve said jump, he asked how high.

That's why Lorcan was trying to figure out when in Hellas he’d become so disillusioned, starting thinking things so unlike him. He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t tell anyone. Lorcan didn’t have any friends or confidants, that wasn’t something he dealt in. To him, there was no purpose in friends when his entire life’s purpose was bound by blood to servitude.

The closest thing he had to friends was his blood brothers, and like hell he’d ever tell them of this ... treachery waging war inside of his mind.

Lunch swirled unpleasantly in his stomach as he thought of the word. Treason.

When Maeve called him to the throne room, when he knelt before her, he mentally prepared himself for his immortal life to end rather early. She must know. She always knows.

Instead, he needed to figure out how he’d pissed her off because she’d sent him off for some kind of torturous punishment. Keeping an eye on Fenrys, currently loose in Varese.

“Anything I should watch out for in particular, majesty?” He was quite proud of how he kept the bitterness from his tone. Or thought he did.

“You’ll know if you see something off,” she dismissed him with a wave. “Consider it a vacation, of sorts.”

Blood sworn didn’t get vacations, he wanted to protest. He didn’t want - or need one. Had he really been slacking that much? The journey would provide adequate time for reflection, for him to dissect and figure out exactly where he’d gone wrong so he could prevent those mistakes in the future. That was essential. This trip however, like most things with Fenrys, would probably turn out to be a complete waste of his time. Time that could be spent doing much better things. But ... he supposed if this is what his Queen wanted him to do, it was exactly what he’d be doing, regardless of his feelings on the subject. His feeling always had been, and always would be inconsequential.

He was here. Already. Fuck.

It was day 2, and you couldn’t catch a break. Is there such thing as a resting life? One where you could go through without any relationships, just peace and enjoying your moments of solitude? No, not for someone like you.

Running away from them never worked, they would haunt your every movement until they consumed every last bit of you and scattered crumbs on the wind, only for the crumbs to reform and drag you back towards them.

Do you embrace fate or run away from it? It was inevitable, what was the point in fighting anymore? You were so tired of it. Exhaustion rippled from you in waves, you were surprised everyone around you hadn’t noticed as soon as you walked in.

Even if you wanted to, Fate, in the form of the most gorgeous man to exist, all bronze skin, onyx eyes, and golden hair, didn’t give you a choice. He slid into the bar stool next to you.

You didn’t smile, at first, but your traitorous heart warmed in his presence.

“Have we met before?” He said, jokingly.

If only he knew.

“Maybe in your dreams,” you slid your hand across the bar and grabbed your glass, drinking deeply. He winced.

“Am I that bad of company?”

“You’ve been here for,” you glanced at the clock pointedly, “a minute. It has nothing to do with you.” You’d tried every approach in the past to get them to see if it would deter them enough for them to circumvent fate, but nothing worked. Each version of you was destined for tragedy with each version of them.

“That’s fair enough,” Fenrys replied. You reminded yourself you didn’t know his name.

“What do they call you?” The words came out, regardless of your internal wince, knowing you were setting him up for a ridiculous line.

“In b-”

You held a hand up and his mouth clamped shut. “No, no, none of that.”

He laughed, deep and rich, a sound you ... had you heard that laugh from him before? Perhaps not, at least not in a few lives. Recently things had been so depressing.

“I like you,” he nudged you gently with his elbow, your heart ached.

not again not again not again.

‘Yes,’ a cruel voice from red lips whispered in your mind, ‘again, again, again. Forever. This is what you deserve.’

Someone cleared their throat. Fenrys.

“Sorry,” you murmured, glancing at the bottom of your nearly empty glass. Empty. Fuck. You couldn’t handle this sober. Were you sober? Your friends were long gone, all found partners for the night while you nursed your worries at the bar. “What’s your name?” You took the last sip of your drink as the last syllable left your lips, ideally it could hide any signs of a lie from him.

“Fenrys,” he leaned back enough in his stool to extend his arm to you, rather formally. When you placed your hand in his, intending to squeeze it to death, he deftly rearranged your hands and raised your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there. “At your service.”

“Charmer,” you rolled your eyes but softly pulled your hand away and replied with your name.

He said your name quietly, extending the vowels, as if testing how it sounded on his tongue, how it might sound in other -

You chided yourself, pulling your mind out of the gutter. With the situation you knew he was always in, that was the last thing you needed to be thinking about. Or that he needed to be. You might not escape him, but you certainly wouldn’t do anything to make this harder on yourself. At least thats what you’re saying now.

“Last call,” the gruff barman said, scowling at Fenrys before shooting you a smile. Your mind rattled through details. Right, you regularly shut this tavern down and always left a good tip.

You leaned over to Fenrys and whispered low so the other male couldn’t hear, “he’s easy to win over. A good tip, manners, and easy orders.”

Fenrys hid his snort in his drink, draining the last droplets. “Thank you for the advice, love,” he whispered conspiratorially. Asshole.

“Whatever,” you mumbled and left your usual amount, sliding off the stool. Just because you were fated to make each other’s lives hell didn’t mean you had to deal with him being rude. Maybe you were just sensitive.

A ‘wait’ followed you but you ignored it. Inevitable.

He caught up to you on the street, calling your name again.

Something else struck you. He was alone in Varese. When did this happen? This was odd. Out of all of your lifetimes nothing had followed this pattern, never meeting so quickly and certainly not with Fenrys on his own with his leash rather loose for what the bitch prefers. You needed to figure out more.

“Want to come back to my place for a drink?” You said, slowly turning to look at him.

If he was surprised by your quick change of tune, he didn’t say a thing, only nodding and linking your arms together. Like he’d been waiting for a friend. The pain in your chest was physical as much as it was emotional.

Lorcan was here to keep an eye on Fenrys, and if that meant sitting in the shadows on a rooftop, peering through a beautiful female’s stupidly open window then so be it. You walked around and even acted like you didn’t give a damn whether you lived or died, but he could tell you were smart, based on how you’d handled Fenrys.

He’d ended enough lives to have an appreciation for it, and the way you were so gods-damned careless with yours pissed him off.

Lorcan should be questioning why his feelings towards you are so strong, but instead he’s observing every little detail of the interactions between you and Fenrys. For his report, of course. He always paid attention to detail, there was no other reason than being thorough. At least he kept telling himself that.

It wasn’t because he liked the way your hair moved, or how you rolled your eyes frequently at his blood-sworn brother, followed by a barely there smile that he only noticed because the shadows danced around it, as if you repelled the darkness.

Maybe you could repel the darkness in him.

What. The. Fuck.

Lorcan hadn’t drank, and even if he had he never entertained thoughts like this.

Refocusing, he committed to memory every detail of what Fenrys was doing, how he reacted to you, how attached he might be and how you might already be used against him by his Queen.

An unfamiliar feeling settled in his stomach, tainting him.

Guilt.

He didn’t want to use you.

But if it came to it, he wouldn't have a choice. He never really did.

Fenrys whistled lowly on his way home, through the empty streets. Still aware of his surroundings, also aware that none would dare approach him - not with the steel and the stature he carried himself with, proof he knew how to use it.

All he’d done is sit and talk with you for hours, in fact the dawn was currently beginning to crest over the city. Hours of sitting and talking felt like mere minutes with you, and he found he had more fun in that time than he had in years, perhaps decades, perhaps since entering Maeve’s service.

It was sad, really, that you could only be a temporary fixture, for your own safety.

Still, his mind rattled with ways to do the impossible, with how he could be with you forever without ... it was useless, really, to even ponder it. The false hope and ideas would only taint the present he had, for however long Maeve let him stay here in his ... his fantasy, he supposed.

He could imagine many fantasies with you involved but the biggest was your friendship. The way you hadn’t hit on him, made any kind of sexual innuendos or advances, thats why he followed you out of the bar. Because you made him comfortable in a way nobody else had in so, so long. Like you’d been doing it for lifetimes.

The scent hit him. The male wanted him to know he was there. His entire body stiffened, posture straightened slightly, pleasant after buzz from your intoxicating presence gone just like that.

Lorcan Salvaterre. His commander.

“Who was that?” Lorcan wasted no time and matched pace with him.

“None of your business,” Fenrys snapped. Aware that he could be punished for it, but he didn’t care, he looked the male right in the eyes.

Lorcan ... Lorcan didn’t push him. At all. Instead, something like understanding passed through his eyes. Had Lorcan needed to protect someone from Maeve before?

Probably not. He was a cold hearted bastard through and through.

“Keep her away,” the words were whispered on the wind - there and gone. Just like Lorcan, who melted into the shadows.

Away from who? Lorcan didn’t say ‘keep away from her,’ and Fenrys knew everything the bastard did was intentional.

Lorcan Salvaterre was here. You knew it, having caught the faintest hint of his unfortunately familiar scent, trailing after you like a hound.

The fact that he was following you made you nervous. Yes, similar situations had occured before but everything about this time seemed so different that it filled you with mixed emotions.

What are the odds there’s actually something good in store for you? Slim, you decided, based on history and reasoning, and you knew Lorcan Salvaterre stalking anyone was bad news, but especially for you when you had ... history with the Queen he so lovingly served.

Someone whose head deserved to be ripped right from her neck, you cast the thought into the universe and hoped it landed, hoped she felt a phantom prick in the side of her neck.

Maybe she regretted cursing you to some kind of eternal half existence, always in and out of different worlds. Doubtful. More likely she tired of whatever game she decided to play for you and set the person who she knew would hurt the most to kill you. Even you could admit you were extrapolating.

Maybe an attitude change could fix everything. A tad less drama.

You glanced out the window, at the rain currently pouring down, at the moisture leaking into your apartment. The weather certainly didn’t match up for life changes, if anything it read of staying right where you were.

Accepting it wouldn’t happen today, you saved the attitude change for the next sunny day. Those practically screamed change in fortune. Or you hoped they did.

A week passed. You saw Fenrys each night at the Tavern, and scented a weirdly careless Lorcan on your trail each day.

Your attitude may not have changed with the next bout of sunshine, but you had a plan. It was rather simple, to somehow draw Lorcan out. However, there was a difference between having a plan and knowing how to execute it. You supposed that made your plan an idea more than anything.

Fenrys had mentioned business meetings he’d be attending one night, and you decided that was the perfect to do it. The perfect night to pretend to get sloshed, and you had the help of your favorite barkeep.

Knowing Lorcan, he probably had questions for you, and wouldn’t miss the opportunity to get some answers while your inhibitions were ‘lowered.’ Arrogant males like him wouldn’t let opportunities slide by, but Lorcan Salvaterre stayed Maeve’s commander for a reason, and you knew your acting skills had to be top notch to keep him from becoming suspicious.

“When will you stop pretending to drink those?” Lorcan asked gruffly as he slid into the stool next to you, his hulking frame towering over the bar and casting a shadow over you. You were a good actress, but he was better, and caught on after the first couple of drinks and exchanged looks between you and the barkeep, who you were on very friendly terms with.

The obsession with you, the flares of irrational anger when another man trailed too close, Lorcan knew what this was, and knew he was screwing both of you over with it. Fated for misery and doom, no matter how the cards played out. He’d be stuck with her, Lorcan noted how she was demoted in his mind, and you’d be ... free.

All those years he’d spent making fun of those males now served to make him feel like a lot of an asshole because he gotit. There was a crack in his armor, a weakness in his resolve, and nobody knew about it. He intended to keep it that way until you were far, far away from him and his ... his Queen, and then as long as possible after that. His stomach clenched at the thought of what she might do to you in order to help keep him in line. Nothing good, and everything bad.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you answered primly, turning away from him. Why had he come over here again?

He laughed, low and harshly. “Sure you don’t, sweetheart,” he exaggerated the last word - turning it into an insult. It didn’t feel right. His entire being flared against any insult to you, even coming from him.

But ... the little flash of anger in your eyes, the way your nostrils flared, that was amusing. He liked the fire in you. “What did you call me?”

He shrugged.

You scoffed, muttering an insult he chose to ignore under your breath. “Nothing to say to that one?” You pushed when he didn’t answer, letting your elbow brush against his, “I thought it was creative. If you need me to I can keep going, there’s plenty where it came from.”

“It was well done,” perhaps he wasn’t particularly in the mood to be insulted all night, and he got the sense you were more than capable of doing just that.

“Well done,” you echoed, and he nodded. Your mouth curled into the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen.

In the future, you might just deny it ever happened, but Lorcan Salvaterre ended up in your apartment that night. You ignored the fact that he seemed to know the way there. There had always been plenty you were willing to ignore when it came to that male, and that hadn’t changed over the last however many lives.

Once Lorcan - once he’d found his Queen, you’d been second. But before that, he’d made you his everything. You never could blame him for leading you to beg Maeve that first time, that cursed time.

Still, on the nights when you were alone, when the rain or a pretty mountain outline reminded you of him, when everything felt too much, it was easier to pin it on him, even if it made you a horrible person. Horrible, even for an ex-lover, but then again you were always an expert at self-depreciation.

Looking at the male now, like a statue of a God carved from granite, you knew he’d be the death of you. Again. But how could you fight him? You never had the strength to in the past. Maybe you weren’t trying to survive hard enough ...

Things had never moved this quickly in the past, they’d always been at a pace just slow enough to be torturous with your knowledge of your impending doom.

Maybe this time you needed to really try.

For Lorcan. For Fenrys. But mostly, for yourself.

The door closed behind you and you slipped back into reality, into the new situation you found yourself in.

“Drink?” You asked over your shoulder, heading right for your kitchen.

He caught your hand, spinning you back towards him.

“I had something else in mind,” he said roughly, and dipped his head towards yours.

You knew he could be patient, he could be gentle, he could be kind, but you got none of that now.

His hand gripped your jaw, tight enough to keep you still but not harsh enough to hurt, his mouth moved fervently against yours as you matched his pace. It was the collision of a thousand stars, a world breaking and re-forming into something new and beautiful and wonderful. It was everything and more. It was the multiverse coming together into a single moment and screaming yes! this is what you were waiting for. He slowed, softened, as if some kind of guilt caught up with him. You wouldn’t have that. Couldn’t. You gripped the back of his hair and pulled him back closer to you, pressing your body against his.

He would be yours for the night, but little did he know you‘d already been his for eternity.

You owe him nothing. You owe him nothing. You owe him nothing, Fenrys reminded himself as he walked out of the bar, spotting you teasing Lorcan. He’d finished his business meetings early and thought he might see if you were still haunting your favorite spot at the bar.

Still, he wanted to rush up to you and ask you if you knew who the hell you were tangling with but ... he supposed he was like Lorcan in that way, one of Maeve’s Blood Sworn, and to have two of them shown publicly taking an interest in you was nothing short of deadly and he refused to subject you to that. So Fenrys left.

And hated himself for it, but self hatred was nothing new to him.

Fenrys wasn’t sure how he found Lorcan’s rooms, considering the male probably didn’t want to be found right now. Probably wanted to bask in you. Your beauty, the time he sp-

He stopped himself from thinking of it. Even thought of shifting now, to a body where emotions were simpler and didn’t drain quite so much. Fenrys rarely shifted voluntarily when away from her, not after she kept him in that form so frequently. ‘Where he was easier to deal with,’ she’d said once, and the words still stung as His Majesty, he thought the words mockingly, intended for them to.

The door swung open.

Lorcan didn’t speak, just stood there with his arms crossed and jaw clenched.

Fenrys felt young, and not in a good way. What was he? A jealous lover? Concerned friend? Idiot?

Then it hit him.

The scent.

Yours.

His.

Entwined.

Without him.

Rage, pure and strong filled him. The scent was particular, and he’d seen it just a few times before. Lorcan, intelligently, had a shield around himself before Fenrys he was on the verge of some kind of burst.

“Not fucking possible,” Fenrys backed away, “we can’t have the same mate.”

Lorcan’s eyes widened, but he was looking beyond him. Fenrys whirled around.

You.

“I can’t have a mate,” you said quietly, desperately. “I never have before,” then to yourself, “it’s never been like this,” you switched your gaze to the window, he watched you try to angle your face so they couldn’t see the tears in your eyes but they were evident. Everything was evident when it came to you.

“Get inside,” Lorcan said roughly to both of you.

He had a point, it wasn't exactly the space for this conversation. A hallway where anyone could be walking by and overhear. That’s the last thing he wanted, anything that might put you in further danger.

When he didn’t instantly move, Lorcan grabbed his shirt, tugging him inside. There was a knife at Lorcan’s throat before the male could blink.

“Don’t. Fucking. Touch. Me,” Fenrys hissed, slowly sliding the knife away and sheathing it at his side.

He was surprised his commander hadn’t caught it, but then again he was staring at a pretty female in the hallway, your gaze still distant and fixed on the window. He called your name, just loud enough to carry across the distance. Your head snapped, you blinked a few times. He tilted his head towards the room.

An over-exaggerated sigh, probably for their sake more than anything, and then you followed them inside. Each step seemed to make you shrink further into yourself, he noticed, that confidence and bravado fading and leaving someone vulnerable behind.

It took a strong hand to tamp down on instincts rising, telling him to eliminate any immediate threats to you. The main one being Lorcan, but also any other males and possibly females in the vicinity. It was absolutely ridiculous, the way he was feeling even if he wasn’t acting on it. At least he hadn’t acted on it. Yet. If only because he was well aware it would piss you off.

“What did you mean, ‘it’s never been like this?’” Lorcan asked and you read the skepticism in his eyes. Not quite distrust, but an interesting mix of confusion and concern. That had the potential to change quickly. Could you even speak about it or would you drop dead? You’d always assumed you couldn’t but ...

“I’m cursed,” you started. They exchanged a brief glance, and for some reason that irritated you, but you kept going. “We’ve met before. Many times,” you knew that would grab and probably keep their attention, at least for a little while. You held a hand up when their brows furrowed in concern, “just hear me out before you write me off as crazy.”

“I would never write you off,” Fenrys murmured, and you shot him a thankful look but he kept his mouth shut after that. Perhaps it had something to do with the glare on Lorcan’s face.

The words were difficult.

Each one felt stilted and awkward, but they watched and listened as if each word you said was pure gold and something about that made you feel powerful. They went through the emotions with you, although it was a tad more difficult to tell with Lorcan, but you struggled together in a way. For some reason, it started to feel like this might turn into a goodbye and you weren’t quite ready for that. After all, you didn’t know how anyone could stay with someone ... someone with the kind of tainted past you have.

“Why would she do that?” You finished. It a was rare chance to ask two people who probably have more insight than any others into how the mind of the Queen works, not that you believe she’d let anyone truly understand her.

“Cruelty,” Fenrys said.

The same time as Lorcan said, “jealousy.”

“Makes sense,” you huffed, eyes rolling towards the ceiling. It was stupid.

“How do you end up reincarnated?” Lorcan asked. The question you were hoping to avoid.

“I die.”

“Of old age,” Fenrys said, but didn’t sound as if he believed it.

“No,” you said sharply, exhaling. “You’ll laugh at me.”

“Try me. Believe it or not, I don’t find your death very funny,” Fenrys said dryly. Lorcan was watching with apt attention, eyes watching you like a hawk.

“Heartbreak,” you grunted, quickly whirling towards - fuck. You’d meant to look out the window, but saw the mirror instead and the twin faces of horror behind you struck something deep inside of your heart.

“I -” your throat closed up, the words not quite getting out.

“What is it?” Fenrys curled his fingers inward, and despite a slight internal cringe you let him beckon you, let him take your hands, let him give you this kind of comfort.

“I wish you remembered,” you whispered, glancing at Lorcan too, who’s eyes and face told you, yes he knew you were changing the subject, and no the conversation was not over yet.

“I don’t -,” Lorcan Salvaterre stumbled over his words, perhaps for the first time in his life, “I don’t mind making new memories, as long as they’re with you.”

You beamed. Fenrys laughed. He debated how upset you would be if he killed the other male.

Other male.

He knew, already, that he’d have to share you.

For you, Lorcan could and would make anything work. You were worth everything, absolutely everything.

Maeve, a voice whispered in his mind. He pushed it down, ignored it for now. That was an ... his Queen would never be an issue, but a situation he could deal with at a later date.

He swore to himself he’d never make fun of a mated male again. Technically he wasn’t mated yet, but he would be ... soon, he had to be. Being your mate felt like an irrevocably necessary part of his soul, like he might die without it, without having that bond with you to tether him to this world and give him meaning. Meaning he’d been lacking his entire life.

He didn’t know or care if Fenrys felt the same way but he supposed he should. He had an obligation to his mate’s mate, after all, outside of the fact that Fenrys is his bloodsworn brother.

Bloodsworn.

His bones and blood chilled. He couldn’t be yours, not really. The realization threatened to bring tears to his eyes, but he couldn’t cry, not here - not in front of you. You needed him strong.

He stood, abruptly, but didn’t care. He jerked his chin to Fenrys. “We need to talk,” he let his eyes say the rest.

He found he didn’t like how some of the shine left Fenrys’s, how they dulled at the implication of their Queen’s existence. Too bad, for now.

“Great. Secrets,” you muttered, and a slight smile threatened his lips, but you still waved them away. Perhaps you understood secrets better than anyone else.

Lorcan led Fenrys to an adjacent room, and their shields went up at the same time. To keep any nosy females from overhearing. The more she knew, the more danger she was in. At least they were on the same page.

“Where is safe for her?” Fenrys started.

At least he had his priorities straight.

“Antica,” Lorcan answered. Maeve didn’t dare touch the southern continent, yet. “For now,” he added for honesty’s sake. “The curse won’t break until Maeve is ...” He didn’t, couldn’t bring himself to, speak the words out loud, it felt too much like treason.

“Dead,” Fenrys said for him. He had no problem with it, apparently. If Lorcan had been as insolent as the male in front of him, he would’ve been put to death long ago, and he knew that. Perhaps Fenrys didn’t, but it wasn’t the time for that conversation. “So we spirit her away, and then what? How do we keep her from dying?”

“A blood promise.”

“Like what?” Fenrys leaned back against the wall, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

“When the curse is broken, we will find her.”

Antica. Hot, miserable, mate-less Antica. In truth, it wasn’t that miserable, but you'd be enjoying yourself a lot more if your mates hadn’t shipped you off here as quickly as they could.

All in the name of keeping you ‘safe,’ you grimaced in the mirror, brushing down your hair, now frizzy slightly from the rare rain that breezed in the day before. They're and gone like a phantom, almost. Almost like their presences in your life.

You could still remember their touches from that last night, firm but gentle, still tentative like new lovers can be. You thought you knew everything about their touch from the past, but even they kept some surprises across multi-verses, or maybe it had just been a while since it had been the three of you and your memory was getting poorer.

Probably that.

You pushed the door open, throwing yourself into the throng of people making their way to the one of the several monthly markets in the city. Throng of people, you thought. It was awfully busy.

‘War,’

‘Sending us-’

‘Saved the princess,’

‘Foreign lord.’

The whispers hit your ears one by one like a drum. A war. Against who?

You stopped casually at the closest table, and sure enough the seller was chittering to the person who came before you about it. A war, and the khaganate would be marching for Aelin Galathynius.

You rolled the name over on your tongue, it being vaguely familiar. Perhaps you should have kept up more with politics throughout the ages, you probably could’ve made a load of money betting, but that felt a tad too immoral, and you did fear the judgement of your own conscience.

As soon as the intrigue was there, it was gone. You’d heard of several wars over the last two decades, the longest you'd lived so far, and none of them had brought your mates back to you. You seriously doubted this would be the one.

You refused to acknowledge the ugly truth. They’d probably already forgotten about you.

In the lonely and mindless hours stuck in his Wolf form, Fenrys thought of the beautiful female in Antica, and dreamed of a life without Maeve, however impossible it was he never stopped hoping.

The female screamed on the table in front of him, but he was frozen in time and space. All he could do right now was bear witness to the horrible crime in front of him. Aelin Galathynius deserved someone to bear witness to her pain and her strength.

The female who should’ve been his Queen, and the female who was his mate had so much in common. Not necessarily appearance, but your attitude and the way you carried themselves. So much that being with her for those months had felt like an even larger blessing. It wasn’t infidelity, not by any means, but perhaps a bit wrong he was using Aelin as a proxy for you.

The screams in front of him distracted him from his thoughts and dragged him back to the present. She’d passed out, he was waking her with some foul smelling cloth. Each day, he thought he’d reached the limits of what he could bear without closing his eyes, but somehow - because he knew you would do it - he managed to watch. Witness. Wait. It was all he could do now.

Lorcan Salvaterre knew he was a miserable male to be around, but traveling through Varese had turned him downright sour. At least internally.

He knew he needed to get to Aelin, and he knew he needed to get to Fenrys. For the bond they shared with each other that they’d never told a soul about. If he didn’t get to him, you’d never ever forgive him.

He might be too much off a coward to tell you, but he would know in his soul and that’s enough. He’d find Fenrys, get her away from him, do whatever it took.

You woke up one morning with an unusual lightness, a ‘pep’ in your step, so to speak. You’d never understood that phrase until then, when you felt like all of your burdens and issues had been freed in a spare moment, like nothing could weigh you down right then.

As usual, you got your gossip through the market, and it all made sense.

Doranelle has a new Queen.

Queen Maeve was killed in Terrasen.

You were free.

You tilted your head up towards the sky, and let the sun shine down on your face, not caring you were stopped in the middle of the park. From the corner of your eye you spotted an older woman copying your movements, not in a mocking way, but in a yes the sun is quite nice today way.

The flip side of your freedom meant your mates would be coming soon. They’d be coming soon.

To Antica.

To you.

You scrambled back to your apartment to start packing. How long did it take to get from Terrasen here?

You paused halfway through throwing your closet onto your bed.

A letter would’ve arrived by now, but you’d received no such thing.

That night you fell asleep on top of your clothes.

The next day you built the courage to put them away.

You didn’t know where in the world they were now that Maeve is gone, and perhaps with the curse lifting they felt they no longer were obligated to be with you and love you, and maybe -

A familiar scent hit the same time as a knock on your door.

You rushed to it, throwing it open finding ...

Both of them. Your mouth parted, words not quite leaving your lips. Finally, you managed a lame, “you came.”

“We promised,” Lorcan said “Can we come in?”

Yes, they obviously could, you swung the door wider and ushered them inside.

“We came as soon as we could,” Fenrys promised.

The silence was awkward for a few moments as the three of you tried to figure out how to navigate this. But, it was easy enough to break as you threw yourself at both of them, managing to catch each of them in a hug at the same time.

“I forgot to tell you before I left,” you started, muffled in the shirts but knew they heard you. You’d memorized these words long ago. “I spent so long looking for all of the things that would kill me, I forgot the ones that made me feel alive. Both of you made me feel alive. Thank you.”

#fenrys moonbeam x reader #fenrys moonbeam x y/n #lorcan salvaterre x reader #lorcan salvaterre x y/n #fenrys x y/n #fenrys x reader #lorcan x y/n #lorcan x reader #fenrys x reader x lorcan #lorcan x reader x fenrys

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toskarin · 1 year ago

Note

Since Bethesda was so insistent on moving away from Morrowind's combat system for Oblivion and Skyrim, what would you have replaced it with?

contrary to what it might seem, I don't think replacing the skyrim combat system wholesale with sekiro or dark souls is really a viable solution to the problem, because it's fun for a mod load order, but it definitely makes the game feel unskyrim

so I'd approach this more from the angle of "what needs to be added to fill the void left behind by the simplified combat"

design rambles below the break. this is less of me offering actual solutions and more of me just saying what I'd do if I were given all the resources and executive power in the world for it, from an armchair. and it goes without saying these are all just Opinions

one of the largest basic design issues with modern bethesda melee combat is that it's tied really hard into melee being a single button input. if they want to stick with that, they should at least implement directional attacks and blocking (which I'll mention now is not something new for TES) with a simple aiming scheme, possibly similar to mount&blade's

stealing something else from m&b while I'm at it, two attacks colliding from the same direction within a tight frame window should clash

enemies need to have attacks you don't want to get hit by. somewhere in their list of moves, enemies need to do something different that necessitates either dodging, blocking, or otherwise reacting in any way. they also need to gapclose, but that's a given

healing consumables need to have a cooldown. as funny as cramming items in your face by the stack during combat is, it's a bandaid to an enormous design flaw in melee combat not being interesting. if you really wanted, you could keep some of that flow by having a skill for mixing preexisting potions together into single doses

addendum to that previous point, players should have a hotbar that allows lower cooldown consumption of certain items, which cannot be reconfigured in combat

magic needs to be stronger and riskier. heavy armour should eat into your damage and efficiency significantly, medium armour should do it just a little bit, and casting past your magicka pool should start consuming health at twice the rate it consumes magicka

blocking should have a higher damage reduction cap (it is currently 85%-95% DR depending on armour) but scale depending on how precisely you block an attack and eat into your stamina much more (with a stagger at zero, to steal another mechanic)

as they are, the entire shout system is a symptom of bad design. having a cooldown-based system that gives non-magic characters spells removes the strongest incentive to play magic characters. I'm actually not sure what to even do about this one that doesn't involve cutting all of the overlapping skills and keeping its focus on weird utilities? as a rule, I kind of hate every gameplay concept that uses "this is something only the player can do" as its skeleton, so this is a tough one for me to poke at

hitstop

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yuta-nakamots · 2 days ago

Text

Nightwalker - Ten

Pairing - University!Ten x University!GN Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, Action/Thriller, University!AU, Purge!AU

Warning(s) - Mention of death and killing (obviously. It’s the Purge), violence, blood, description of injuries, manipulation, mention of crime and trafficking and attempted murder.

Summary - In a city where, one night a year, crime is unleashed without consequence, graduate student and meticulous killer Ten is drawn into a dangerous game when you catch his attention. As shadows lengthen and rules dissolve, fates intertwine in a tense dance of control and survival.

Word Count - 6.0k

Author’s Note - This was the toughest fic for me to write recently. Between researching and balancing the mood in each scene, I felt like I was going insane lol

Taglist - @cinneorolls (join my taglist!)

Written for the Hide If You Can Collab originally hosted by @127-mile.

Now playing: Nightwalker - Ten, Dangerous - Ten, Tilt - Irene & Seulgi

Once a year, for twelve hours starting at 7pm, all crime, including murder, is legal. The government refers to it as a civic release, a necessary purging of societal aggression to maintain order. But behind the propaganda, the truth festers. It’s a system designed by the elite to eliminate threats, erase debts, and settle scores without consequence.

Ten Lee is a top graduate student in behavioral neuroscience, known for his groundbreaking work on psychopathy and emotional regulation. Officially, he studies the Purge. Unofficially, he participates in it precisely, cleanly, and efficiently. Not out of hatred or desperation, but curiosity, control, the pursuit of understanding the darkest corners of the human mind, starting with his own.

He moved like he thought in layers, composed and always two steps ahead. On the surface, he was a model scholar and the youngest to assist on the university’s federally funded Purge Neurology Project. His specialty? Mapping the emotional regulation patterns of those who had killed and lived to tell about it. He called it “clinical curiosity.” Others called it brilliance.

His lab was cold, sterile, lit in shades of white and blue that reminded him of hospitals or interrogation rooms. Each subject he analyzed, hooked up to wires and hearts thudding in remembered violence, gave him more data and clarity. He saw fear, rage, guilt, or the absence of all three. Patterns emerged. Disorders, too.

But no one ever mapped his mind.

Late one evening, while Ten was cleaning data scans from that year’s volunteer pool, a request came in. It was unofficial, encrypted, and slipped through a private network that should have been scrubbed clean. A meeting, arranged by a high-level donor, with no names in the calendar. Ten went anyway.

The man was old money. He wore grief like a badge, but power like armor. He didn’t cry when he spoke of his brother. “Killed in last year’s Purge,” he said. “A tragic accident. The girl walked free.”

Ten sat back, saying nothing. The man reached into a folder, pulled out a photo. You. More specifically, a scan of your university ID card.

“You know how things work,” the man began. “Her file says it was mutual violence. The police report was clean. But I know she lured him out. I know she helped his ex set him up. He wasn’t perfect, but he didn’t deserve that kind of death.”

Ten studied the image. The card itself was newer than the case, meaning you were still enrolled, still walking the same halls. The donor pulled out more papers. Tuition payments, library records, previous class registrations, and academic history. Chemistry undergrad, average grades, quiet.

“She destroyed our family…and no one paid the price.” The man slid an envelope forward. Inside was a transfer order. A clean purge clearance and a significant donation to Ten’s research, enough to secure tenure early, maybe even a private lab. “I don’t want to know how. I just want it done. Clean, quiet, the night of.”

Ten didn’t take the envelope. But he didn’t push it back either.

Later, alone in his room, Ten pulled up your student profile. You lived off-campus, alone. No family on file, no complaints, no infractions. On paper, you were nobody. But something didn’t add up.

He dug deeper. That year’s Purge archives had been scrubbed, but he had access to supposedly locked repositories. Patterns emerged again. You were friends with a girl who had filed an abuse claim against the donor’s brother. The girl vanished that night, never confirmed dead. But you? You survived.

There was footage of you being pulled from a half-burnt safehouse, blood in your hair and your eyes unfocused. It should have looked like trauma. But Ten paused the video..

You weren’t shaken. You were calm. Alert and watching.

“You shouldn’t have survived,” he murmured, almost admiringly.

And yet, you did.

The next day, Ten’s eyes trailed you across campus for the first time, not as a curious researcher, but as a hunter. You were alone in a chemistry lab, methodically mixing compounds with a precision that echoed his own obsession with control. No fear, no hesitation. Just a quiet purpose.

He approached casually, a slight smile resting on his lips like a mask. “You must be the elusive subject,” he greeted, voice smooth and disarming. “I’m Ten. Behavioral neuroscience graduate student.”

You look up, steady and unreadable. “I’m just a chemistry student.”

“Right. But I’ve heard you have access to some…interesting substances,” he teased, watching for any flicker of reaction.

You met his gaze evenly. “Science is about what you’re willing to handle.”

Ten liked that. Not scared, not apologetic.

His eyes lingered on the way your fingers steadied the vial, the calm precision in your movements. “Why chemistry?” he asked, leaning against the counter. “Most people pick a major for jobs or prestige. What’s your story?”

You didn’t turn to him immediately, but when you did, your gaze was steady, challenging. “I like knowing how things fit together, breaking down chaos into patterns. It’s not so different from what you do, isn’t it?”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Maybe. But I work with brains, behaviors…emotions. Dangerous stuff.”

You smirked, setting the vial down in a rack. “And what makes you so interested in danger?”

Ten smiled, a slow tilt that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s just say I prefer to understand what others fear.”

You cocked your head. “Sounds like you’re hiding something.”

“I might be.” His tone dropped, serious now. “But enough about me. What about you? What scares you?”

You shrugged, indifferent. “Not much. Fear’s overrated.”

Ten studied you a moment longer, sensing the wall you’d built but unable to breach it, at least not yet. The chemistry lab felt colder somehow, the hum of the equipment underscoring the quiet between you.

“I see,” he said finally, stepping away from the counter with a deliberate calm. “Not much scares you. That’s…interesting.”

You met his retreating gaze, expression taut. “People who get scared don’t last. Or they don’t survive the Purge.”

He nodded once, as if acknowledging a truth too sharp to argue with. “Maybe you’re right.” Then, without another word, he turned and walked out, leaving the air thick with unspoken questions.

That night, alone in his dimly lit apartment, Ten replayed the conversation. Your calm defiance echoed in his mind like a puzzle he was desperate to solve. You should have broken under pressure, even cracked a little, but you didn’t. You didn’t flinch at all. He scanned through your file again, noting every detail, every pattern that didn’t fit the profile of a survivor.

Exactly one week later, at the same time, same place, Ten was waiting. When you entered the lab, his presence was immediate.

“Back so soon?” you asked, eyebrow raised, a hint of challenge in your voice.

“I find consistency reassuring,” Ten said, stepping forward smoothly. “And I wanted to try again.” You smiled, curious despite yourself. “Come with me,” his voice was low but inviting. “I want to show you something. My lab.”

You paused, then nodded. “Alright. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

Inside the lab, the sterile glow of monitors and the soft hum of machines wrapped around you both. Next to you, Ten moved confidently, pulling up scans and data. “This is where I study what happens during the Purge, how people’ brains shift when morality blurs, when fear turns off.”

He glanced at you, watching for any sign of discomfort. Instead, you met his eyes coolly. “And what happens when the line between hunter and hunted disappears?”

Ten’s smile was a fraction slower this time. “Then the game begins.” He let the silence stretch, then added, “Tell me. If you were part of my research, what would I find?”

You tilted your head, looking up and humming as though thinking. “Someone who doesn’t break. Not easily.”

“Good,” he said softly. “I like that.” Ten lingered beside one of the computer monitors, its screen pulsing with red-blue brainwave readings, abstract but alive.

He didn’t look at you as he spoke again. “I’ve found that in most cases, people’s neurological responses change during the Purge. Empathy drops. Inhibitions vanish. Violence becomes logical.” He finally turned. “Do you think that’s natural? Or learned?”

You studied the screen for a beat. “Survival is instinct. Violence is…selective memory.”

That made Ten pause. “You speak like someone who’s done more than survive.”

You smiled, slow and sharp. “You study the mind, right? Tell me, what do you see when you look at me?”

Ten took a step forward, just enough to invade the air between you. “A controlled subject. Which makes me wonder what happens when that control slips.”

You didn’t move back. “Maybe you should ask better questions.”

“Maybe I already know the answers.” His tone dropped. “You were there that night. When the donor’s brother died.” The air shifted.

Your lips twitched. “A lot of people died that night.”

“And yet you lived.”

“I had help.” You tilted your head. “What’s it to you?”

Ten didn’t answer at first. He studied you the way predators admire strong prey, curious and almost respectful. “Maybe I like studying anomalies.”

Your laugh was quiet. “Or maybe you’re trying to decide if I’m dangerous.”

“Are you?”

You leaned forward, eyes gleaming in the screenlight. “Only if someone underestimates me.” The tension swelled, sharp as a scalpel. Ten’s breath left him in a slow exhale, as if he were recalibrating something inside himself. But you pulled away first. “I should get going,” brushing imaginary dust from your sleeve. “Wouldn’t want to disturb your research.”

Ten nodded, masking the sudden, tight pull of disappointment in his chest. “Of course. Thank you for coming.”

You reached the door, then glanced over your shoulder. “Next time,” your voice silk-wrapped steel, “ask a question worth answering.”

And then you were gone.

Over the next few days, Ten didn’t seek you out immediately, but he was always watching. Not just your movements, but the way you inhabited space. Alone, silent, unafraid. Your routine was precise, almost clinical. No wasted energy, no unnecessary contact.

It made him restless. So when he saw you appear in his lab, at the same time as last week, a faint scent of antiseptic clinging to your sleeves, he was ready. “Back again?” he asked, glancing up from his tablet, already knowing the answer.

You stepped into the lab without hesitation, eyes scanning the walls as if cataloguing secrets. “You said something about brainwave changes during trauma. I’ve been thinking about cortisol levels under prolonged stress.”

Ten smiled. He hadn’t expected you to follow up. But then again, maybe he had. He gestured to the far monitor. “You want to see the scans?”

You nodded, brushing past him, eyes flicking to the data like you already knew how to read them. You didn’t flinch at the violent spikes, the jagged dips. Instead, you asked, “And what does this pattern tell you?”

“That fear is chemical,” Ten explained. “But control…that’s behavioral. You can train a mind to do anything, even forget how to be afraid.”

You hummed, a thoughtful sound. “Or maybe it never knew fear to begin with.”

He watched the curve of your mouth. “You’re not here for the science, are you?”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Neither are you, it seems.”

Ten felt something jolt in his chest. Fascination…or warning.

The next time you showed up, a week later, Ten had prepared a different tactic. He let the door click open with a gesture and didn't bother to greet you. Instead, he nodded toward the stool near the microscope.

“Do you want a hands-on experience?” he asked. “I need an assistant.”

You raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “That’s what this is now?”

Ten shrugged, already moving toward the tray of samples. “You’re consistent. I like consistency.” You slipped on gloves without a word. He handed you a thin slide with what looked like a clear smear, nothing extraordinary. “Prefrontal cortex slice. The donor was mid-Purge. High aggression, low inhibition. Find the anomaly.” And then silence.

He stood beside you, but said nothing. He waited. Watching, measuring. Minutes passed.

Finally, you looked up. “This cell…here.” You pointed to a small cluster. “It’s partially necrotic. Almost as if something shut down mid-response.”

Ten nodded his head. “Exactly.”

You placed the slide down. “So the question isn’t what activated them. It’s what stopped them.”

His lips pulled into a grin. “I could use someone who sees that.”

You crossed your arms, tugging the gloves off. “Is this an offer or another test?”

“Can’t it be both?” He looked at you, eyes unreadable.

You didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, you pulled your coat on. “I’ll be back next week. Same time.”

And then you were gone again, leaving behind silence and the faint hum of machines, the scent of sterilized air, and something harder to name.

Ten didn’t tell anyone he had a new assistant. He didn’t log your visits, didn’t mention your name in his reports. You slipped in and out of his lab like a controlled variable, never early and never late. Always watching, always matching his tempo. It unsettled him how easily you fit into his space.

And still, he let you in.

You never asked questions he didn’t want to answer. But you noticed things. The unlabelled drawer in the back of the lab, the camera turned slightly toward the surgical table, the way his voice always calmed right before he said something dangerous.

You never commented. And he never asked why you weren’t afraid.

Five days before the Purge, he found you in the library, alone as always. The dim evening light cuts across your face in bars of gold and shadow. You didn’t look up as he sat across from you, sliding a worn notebook onto the table like a peace offering.

“This Saturday,” he began, quiet and deliberate, “I want you to see something.”

You met his eyes, calm and unshaken. “What kind of something?”

“Real data. In real time. I’ll be observing from a rooftop downtown. Neutral ground. Clear view.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “Observation only?”

“For now.” He waited.

You closed your book. “Give me the address.”

When you stepped out onto the rooftop of the hotel Ten had sent you the address to, it was 52 minutes until the start of the Purge. The sky was clear, too clear. A sterile kind of night. The wind curled over the edge of the rooftop like a secret.

Ten had already set up his camera equipment, binoculars, and heart-rate monitors. Clinical and controlled. Though all of it was unnecessary. You both knew the real study wasn’t happening down in the streets.

You walked to the edge, gaze slipping over the city like you were trying to remember it. He joined you, close enough to feel the heat of you against the chill. “You came,” he murmured.

“I said I would.”

He looked at your profile, sharp in the dark, untouched by fear. “Most people would’ve run.”

You turned to face him. “You don’t pick easy targets.”

Ten’s smile flickered. “No. I pick the ones who don’t beg.” A silence stretched, then–

He stepped forward, closing the distance. Testing. Not with his hands, but with pressure and presence, the weight of who he was and what he might do. You didn’t move. He leaned in, just enough. “Tell me to stop.” But you didn’t.

Instead, you tilted your head, eyes gleaming in the darkness. “You won’t.”

Ten froze, not because you were wrong, but because you were right. And it unraveled something. Something he couldn’t study, couldn’t replicate.

In the half-second before he touched you, before he crossed a line that would turn this into something else entirely. You vanished. Not literally, but with a step and a breath, you were gone from his reach, standing just far enough that he’d have to make the next move.

But he didn’t. Because suddenly, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure he could win.

“I like to watch the city settle before it burns,” he said, voice soft like a confession. “There’s a…tension. The kind you don’t see during the chaos. Only right before.”

You looked at him, the wind brushing your hair across your face. “Is that what you’re recording? Tension?”

“I’m recording everything.”

“Everything down there,” you clarified, nodding toward the flickering city lights. “Or everything up here?”

The corners of his lips twitched, almost impressed. “You’re very focused on the subject of observation.”

“I have to be,” you said simply. “Most of my life’s been spent figuring out which angle someone’s watching from.”

A beat passed. “Does it bother you?” he asked, stepping toward the edge, gaze sweeping over the grid of buildings below. “That I watch?”

“No. I just wonder what you’re trying to see.”

Ten turned toward you then, eyes sharp. “A reaction.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that all you want from me?”

“No.” His answer was immediate, firm. “I want accuracy, authenticity. The raw version people hide until the sirens start.”

“Is that what you think I am?” You took a step closer, mirroring him now. “A case study? A test subject that walks and talks and gives you something different to pin under glass?”

His jaw ticked. “You’re different from the others.”

“Because I'm not afraid?”

“Because you should be,” he countered. And for once, his voice lacked curiosity. It was low, almost bitter. “You don’t run. You don’t beg. You don’t even ask me not to touch you.”

You studied him, unblinking. “That’s now power, Ten. That’s a choice.”

And that word, it hit something buried beneath his calm. Because of all his data and for all his precision, choice had always been the illusion he offered others. It was never something that could be taken back.

“Why did you come tonight?” he asked, voice quieter now, more careful. “Was it curiosity? Or something more…deliberate?”

You smiled, small and knowing. “To see what you’d do when you didn’t get to play predator.”

Ten’s eyes darkened. “I’ve never needed permission.”

“No,” you agreed. “But you like the idea of earning it. You crave control. And I…” You stepped closer, mere inches between you. “I think you’re terrified of what happens when you don’t have it.”

His breath stilled. Far below, people milled about. 44 minutes. Ten looked at you again, really looked, past the lines of your face, the quiet defiance in your eyes. Something flickered in him, low and primal. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, he asked, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“No.”

“Would you?”

“I’m still deciding.”

Ten’s smile returned, slow and cold and pleased. “You’d be exceptional.”

“Don’t recruit me,” you spat, sharp now. “Not tonight. You invited me here, but don’t pretend it was about the skyline.”

“I never pretended.” His eyes gleamed. “I just haven’t decided what kind of ending I want.”

You breathed in. “That’s the problem with people like you. You think you can orchestrate the ending. You forgot that I can write half the story, too.” Another silence. Then–

“I want to see what you do when the sirens start,” he confessed. “When the world says it’s allowed.”

You met his gaze. “You’ll be disappointed.”

He stepped toward you again, nearly closing the distance between you. “You keep saying that like it’s a threat.”

“No,” you whispered. “It’s a promise.”

The minutes passed slowly, like they were being drawn out on purpose. At 39 minutes, Ten sat cross-legged near his equipment, adjusting the lens of his camera, though his eyes never truly left you. You wandered the perimeter of the rooftop, silent, fingers tracing the railing. Neither of you spoke, and yet the air between you buzzed with everything unsaid.

At 33 minutes, he broke the silence. “You didn’t answer my question.”

You didn’t turn around. “Which one?”

“Why you came.”

“I already told you.”

“No.” He stood now, slow and deliberate, like every movement was part of a performance he’d rehearsed in his mind. “You told me what you wanted me to believe. There’s a difference.”

You turned then. “Do you want the real reason?”

“I always want the real reason.”

You crossed the distance between you again, but this time, you stopped a little closer. Enough that he’d feel the calculation in your silence. “I wanted to see if you’d flinch.”

Ten blinked, surprised. “And?”

“I’m still watching.”

He laughed, short and dark. “You think you’re hunting me?”

“I think we’re circling the same cliff edge,” you replied. “And I’m just waiting to see who jumps first.”

At 25 minutes, the city lights below dimmed in some blocks, a rolling blackout in preparation for the Purge. Far off, a sire test warbled once, then died, and you both turned toward the sound like animals tuning to an instinct.

“Do you know what I used to believe?” Ten asked, almost conversational. “That people reveal their truest selves when they think no one’s watching. But I was wrong. It’s not solitude that reveals the truth. It’s permission.”

You looked at him. “And tonight gives you that?”

He grinned full-on. “Tonight gives everyone that. But not all of us know what to do with it.”

You cocked your head at him. “Do you?”

He was closer now. A few steps that neither of you marked until the space between you was negligible. “I think I do. But you make me question it.”

Your voice lowered, words like silk over glass. “Because you can’t read me?”

“Because I don’t want to.” His gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your eyes.

At 14 minutes, the wind picked up, whipping between you like it wanted to cut the tension. Ten reach up, brushing a strand of hair from your face, no permission asked, none needed. This time, you didn’t step away.

“Are you going to kiss me or kill me?” you asked.

“I haven’t decided.

You leaned in, breath brushing his lips. “Then we’re the same.”

At 11 minutes, the camera clicked once. Neither of you looked toward it. The lens was no longer the most powerful gaze in the room. Ten’s fingers ghosted your jaw. “You know what I’m afraid of?” You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. “I’m afraid you’ll stay.”

10 minutes left. The silence was held tight between you. The world below buzzed louder, preparing. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm wailed like a prophecy. You looked at him. His chest rose and fell, slow and deliberate. You reached for his hand. For the first time, Ten didn’t study at the moment. He surrendered to it.

9 minutes. Ten’s fingers curled around yours, not too tight, not too loose. Like he was still learning the weight of the moment, still deciding whether to hold on or let go. You said nothing. Neither did he.

8 minutes. Far below, a gunshot cracked. Premature and eager. The sound rippled across the city like a dropped match in a field of dry grass. Someone always jumped the gun. You turned slightly toward the noise. Meanwhile, Ten didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink.

7 minutes. “I always thought the sirens would excite me,” he said, barely audible above the wind. “But this part…the waiting…it’s worse.” You studied him, your head tilted just enough to make him wonder whether you pitied him or understood him too well.

6 minutes. “There’s no going back after tonight,” you murmured.

Ten smiled faintly. “You say that like we haven’t already crossed a line.”

You didn’t disagree.

5 minutes. The city was almost silent now, as if it had taken one collective inhale, bracing. The camera behind you ticked once, then again. Still recording, still watching. Just like you.

4 minutes. Ten looked at you fully. “If you run, I’ll find you.”

You simply smiled at him. “That’s the point.”

3 minutes. Far below, the first fires lit, small and scattered. Controlled for now. But they wouldn’t stay that way, not for long. You touched his face then, brief and fleeting, like you were memorizing it. And maybe you were.

“I’m not like your others,” you whispered.

“I know,” Ten replied, a dangerous softness in his voice. “You’re the first one I invited.”

2 minutes. Ten stepped back, not far, but enough. Enough to shift the power. Enough to say ‘choose now’. You didn’t move, your hand staying on his cheek.

1 minute. A countdown began on one of his devices. The screen glowed faintly.

60 seconds. 59. 58. You both turned toward the edge of the roof, toward the city, toward the war zone waiting below. “Final question,” Ten said, his voice dark velvet. “Do you want me to catch you?” You didn’t answer.

14 seconds. The wind howled now, threading between you like a warning. The city below was a heart mid-seizure, twitching with light and shadows and something darker creeping in.

7 seconds. Ten’s eyes didn’t leave yours. And then–

4 seconds. He smiled. Soft, almost mournful.

2 seconds. His hand came to hold yours on his cheek, tight.

1 second. “I hope you understand,” he whispered.

The sirens wailed like a scream torn from the earth itself. Low, echoing, apocalyptic. The beginning of something wicked. The city erupted in noise. Glass shattering, voices shouting, metal clanging against concrete. Permission granted.

And Ten moved. Fast. Brutal. One clean pivot and a shove, palms flat against your shoulders, force aimed low and precise. Calculated. A killer’s motion, not desperate, but designed.

You didn’t fight it, didn't cry out, didn’t even flinch. Your feet left the roof. Wind tore past your ears, time warped, and for a moment, there was peace. Then you were gone. Over the edge.

Ten stepped forward immediately, peering over the side. No hesitation. Not out of regret, not out of shock, but verification.

The alley below was narrow, choked in shadow. A fire escape clattered in the distance. Movement flickered across a reflective surface, perhaps a windshield or a window.

There was no body. Nothing. Just the gaping space where you should have landed.

Ten’s hands curled into fists at his sides. He scanned again, still nothing. Not even the sound of impact. Not a single goddamn trace.

The sirens still echoed as he stepped back from the edge, slower now. His mind was already racing. ‘She let me push her,’ the thought came. ‘She let me.’ And now she was gone. Behind him, the camera clicked again, watching and recording, witnessing the moment the hunter became the hunted.

Your breath hitched as you crouched low behind a rooftop HVAC unit, one block over. The glide from the fire escape had been rough. Metal bit into your palms, and gravity had tugged too hard, but you were alive. Alive, and now unseen.

The sirens still cried. The game had begun. And you weren’t prey. Not anymore. You reached into your coat, pulling out the slim black card with your lab clearance code etched in red.

VOLUNTEER - BEHAVIORAL DEVIANCY DIVISION - PURGE NIGHT CLEARANCE A

Ten had read it once, filed it away, and assumed it meant safety. What he didn’t realize was that it meant access.

You slid the card back into your pocket and whispered into the comm embedded in your collar. “Subject One has initiated first contact. Attempted kill. Status: failed.”

Static. Then a reply crackled through. “Copy that. Begin phase two. Good hunting.”

You moved like a shadow through the city. The world had fallen into sanctioned madness, sirens, screams, fire, and blood, but you operated above the chaos. Every checkpoint was bypassed, every surveillance node looped. The city belonged to the wolves tonight, and you had already memorized the map of the forest.

Ten’s lab, his real lab, was underground, far below the staged setup he showed you. Ten always liked being beneath things. Hidden, private, quietly watching. He had once told you that silence was his favorite kind of violence. Now you were listening.

The lab was laughably easy to breach. His security system had a tell, an echo in the thermal pattern, a single node that pulsed too fast. You slipped through the blind spot like it had been waiting for you.

1:16am. Inside, the lab was cold and perfect. The white walls were bloodless and sterile. You didn’t expect sentimentality here. This wasn’t where Ten felt. This was where he fed.

You moved to the monitors, eyes flicking over the screens, fingers already inputting codes on the keyboards. You didn’t need to guess his passwords. You knew them.

The footage was all there. Unfiltered, timestamped, catalogued. Victims. Movements. Patterns. Your face, your conversations, and your rooftop moments are already indexed under ‘Subject Six’. You smiled faintly. “Cute.” You didn’t delete the footage. That would be obvious. Instead, you altered it. Cross-referenced locations, changed timestamps, looped data points so subtly it would take him hours to unravel what was real. You left red herrings, evidence that implicated external buyers, higher bidders, corrupted files spliced with falsified security clearance tags.

Then, you found the backups buried deeper, files that Ten didn’t label. Payment records. Coordinates. Names. Deals struck with people he should have never spoken to. Mercenary contacts, international traffickers, names on the government’s silent kill list. Ten wasn’t just observing the Purge. He was monetizing it.

“Subject One, status?” your comm whispered.

You responded immediately. “Phase two complete. Initiating psychological destabilization.”

You moved to the freezer vault, where Ten stored post-mortem samples. You opened it and began to paint.

3:11am. You stood over your work, a replica of a victim from Ten’s third Purge, perfectly reconstructed in blood on the white tile floor, posed identically to the crime scene he thought only he remembered. It was a silent accusation, a perfect echo. By sunrise, there would be five more, each a replica, a message. ‘I know who you are. I see you. You’re not alone anymore.’

5:44am. Ten stumbled back into the lab, covered in soot, sweat, and doubt. The building was dim, lights pulsed erratically, motion sensor was confused by the tampering. He didn’t notice the security feed loop glitching on camera five, not at first. Then he saw the altered footage. His own voice warped, his own images rearranged. Someone had been inside his sanctum, and he hadn’t even felt it. He was unraveling.

That’s when you stepped into the room. No grand entrance, just a presence at his back. He turned. You stood beside the monitors, your face half-lit by the glow of screens. Calm and composed. Like you’d never fallen, like you had never left.

Ten looked at you like a man trying to decode his own reflection. “Why?” he rasped, voice frayed from hours of shouting into shadows. “Why are you doing this?”

“To see what you’d become without the lie of control.”

Ten took a slow step towards you. “You’re not punishing me.”

“No,” you agreed. “But I could be.”

He laughed, short and bitter. “Is this a test?” You did not answer. Ten stared at you for a long time. Something in his expression cracked, then flooded. He looked ruined, but hungry. “I haven’t tried to kill you since the roof,” he confessed.

You nodded. “I noticed.” You were aware he could have tracked you, tried again to kill you, multiple times.

“You’ve been painting ghosts with my sins. Leaving trails like bait.”

“Have you followed them?”

“Every single one.”

Silence folded between you like a trap waiting to be sprung. Ten stepped closer. “You don’t want me dead. Not really.”

You didn’t move. “No. I want you to feel it.”

“Feel what?”

“What it’s like when someone sees everything you are and doesn’t run.”

His breath hitched. The lights flickered. Somewhere far above, the city burned. Ten looked at you like he’d already made his choice. “I don’t want to kill you,” he admitted.

“I know,” you replied.

“I want to understand you.”

“You can try.”

He paused. “Do you want me to fail?”

You smirked faintly. “I haven’t decided yet.”

That morning, the sun rose slowly and indifferently. Ash floated through the light like confetti made of bone. Sirens had long gone silent, replaced now with the quiet hiss of emergency drones, the mechanical hum of recovery. A new day had begun, one that refused to mourn what had come before.

You limped into the lab just after seven, body sore from the night’s events. The hallways flickered back to full brightness as you passed. Everything had been sanitized, except the things that couldn't be. You could still smell it. Smoke, copper, antiseptic, and him.

Ten was already there. White coat, clean gloves, perfect posture. You knew the blood on his knuckles had been scrubbed off just an hour ago. He had bruises blooming on his arms, a faint cut below his eye, but his gaze was steady. Curious. Like he hadn’t spent the night trying to erase you.

“Morning,” he greeted.

You nodded once, slipping your own coat over bruises and scrapes you hadn’t bothered to bandage. “Lab notes?”

“On the desk.”

You crossed the room, passing him. Too close. Deliberate. The kind of proximity that said ‘I’m still here. I remember everything.’

He watched you sit, watched the way your fingers danced over the keyboard. Then he spoke again. “You left something behind.”

You looked up. He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out your lab clearance card, letters still etched in red, blood now dried along the edge like a signature. You didn’t flinch. “Keep it.”

Ten’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, more like the memory of one. “You want me to have access to you?”

“I want you to remember that I’m always watching.”

He paused. “We could’ve killed each other.”

“We still might.”

Silence, warm and tense, wrapped the room in a cocoon of shared violence. You typed a line of code into the monitor, then stopped. “You’re not going to ask what I changed?”

“I already know,” Ten responded.

“Then why haven’t you fixed it?”

He walked toward you slowly, step by step, measured like a dance he’d rehearsed. “Because if I erase what you did, it means I’m afraid of what comes next.”

“Are you saying you’re not afraid?”

Ten stopped beside you, reaching out, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat radiating off of you. “I’m not. I’m something worse.”

You turned, meeting his gaze. “And what would that be?”

“Curious.”

Day after day, you both returned to each other. You sat on opposite sides of the lab’s long steel table. Always close enough to see the tremble in each other’s hands. Neither of you ever asked why. No one spoke of the night. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you played chess in silence, always starting with the same pieces. Sometimes you let him win, sometimes he lets you corner yourself. Once, he made a move that mirrored your rooftop feint. Knight to F5. A trap.

You smiled, sweet and blood-deep. “Well played,” you murmured.

He didn’t respond. Just watched you like he wanted to press his lips to yours and see if you’d let him.

You weren’t in love, not exactly. But you were bound, wound around each other like two serpents sharing heat. The lab stayed cold, but inside, the two of you burned. You shared a bond forged out of blood and honesty. There was no confession, no guilt. Just the quiet, terrifying comfort of someone who knew what you looked like when you decided not to flinch, when you chose to stay.

The truest parts of you didn’t live in daylight. They came out once a year, in fire and bone. Yet here you both were. Waiting.

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