#❪ dash games ❫ ⤿ that’s one for the character sheet. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bucketsofmonsters · 1 year ago

Text

Without Expectation

You know how everyone is talking about how Astarion has a difficult relationship with hero characters bc he felt abandoned by them when he was suffering? What if, during his 200 years of imprisonment, he’d met one? Very much inspired by this post

cw: pre-game astarion, Cazador, prostitution and non-consensual sex alluded to but never shown, healing from trauma, Astarion being sexualized, Astarion sexualizing himself, objectification, blood drinking, he’s kind of sexually aggressive in this but it's just because he’s scared and he doesn’t know anything else, reader is from a group of monster hunters that I made up who have been harassing Cazador, they are separate from any in-game monster hunters who are less Astarion friendly

Astarion x gn reader

Word count: 6k

He was charming. Pretty words, perfect hair, a dashing smile, and hollow eyes.

The second Cazador had said the word, he was all over you.

You couldn’t turn down the offer. Not for the promise of pleasure, that was the last thing on your mind looking at him.

But if you got him alone you could talk to him, outside of the watchful eye of his master.

He had you pinned to the wall of your bedroom before you could even say a word. You had to shove him back and he stumbled, a frightened, hurt look crossing his face before the practiced charm slipped easily back.

“Oh, you like to play rough, do you? That’s fine with me, I don’t mind being pushed around a little.”

“Stop,” you pleaded with him. “Please, can I just speak for a second?”

“Say whatever you’d like, darling.”

“Listen… Astarion, wasn’t it?”

He smirked at you. “It is, but you can call me whatever you'd like.”

“Astarion, you don’t have to do this.”

“Of course I don’t. I want to. Don’t you want me?” He moved to get into your space again but you stepped back and he didn’t follow.

You did your best to push past his flirtation. “How often does he make you do things like this?”

“Like this? Not often. My lovers don’t typically live to see the morning. Although I suppose it doesn’t make much difference to me,” he said with a laugh, one that felt practiced and put on.

“Oh.” You couldn’t imagine it, being forced to not only be with so many people but to send them off to their deaths night after night.

Your eyes drifted down as your thoughts spiraled and he grabbed your chin, pulling your face up so your eyes met once more, directing all your attention back to him. “Is that what’s bothering you, darling? I promise Cazador has given me very clear instructions on how well you should be treated.”

“No, that’s not the problem.” You dropped your head into your hands as you tried to figure out what to do. “God, this is such a nightmare. Listen, I can sleep on the couch, you should take the bed,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the loveseat tucked in the corner of the room.

“Come now, that’s not necessary my dear,” he practically purred at you.

You felt a little more nauseous with every pass he made at you. “You really don’t have to do that, I swear. Not in here at least. It would probably be prudent to pretend in front of Cazador but that’s an issue for tomorrow.”

“Even if you don’t want sex,” he said with a little roll of his eyes. “The couch is not necessary. I promise I won’t bite.”

It was a bad idea. You knew that much. But the bed looked so soft and comfortable and the couch wasn’t even long enough to fit all of you if you tried to lie down.

You sat on the bed tentatively and sunk into the mattress. It was by far the most comfortable bed you’d ever been in and you ran your hand along the silky sheets. “Alright, but we’ll just be sleeping,” you said with a pointed look in his direction.

In a heartbeat, you were pushed back onto the mattress and he was looking over you, his hands on either side of your head as he grinned down at you. “Are you certain, my dear? I could make you feel so good.”

“I’m sure you could,” you said with a smile, cupping his face in your hands. His eyes lit up at the contact and it was clear that he thought he’d done it, that he'd won you over. “But that won’t be necessary.”

You leaned up and pressed a kiss into his forehead before gently pushing him off of you back towards his side of the bed.

He seemed wounded and frightened by the gesture, a far cry from the practiced seduction you’ve seen from him so far. “You don’t want me.”

“I assure you that is not the problem,” you said, careful to keep your voice gentle.

He did not seem convinced, a tragic vulnerability starting to seep through his facade.

As he stared at you, a worried look plastered across his face, you grabbed some of the many pillows from the top of the bed, placing a few between the two of you.

He scoffed at the sight. “I don’t know what those are meant to stop. Not exactly impenetrable security against a rabid vampire.”

“They’re not for you. I have a tendency to get… grabby, in my sleep.”

He huffed, folding his arms as he finally conceded ground and laid down next to you. “Good. Maybe you’ll be more interesting than when you are awake.”

You doubted he’d find you snuggling a pillow particularly interesting but you let him interpret your words however he pleased.

“Perhaps. Now if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to sleep now.”

“It’s not all the same to me, thank you very much.”

“Alright,” you said with a yawn. “Goodnight.”

You woke up with your arms wrapped around a pillow from your little wall, holding it close to your chest as you eased your eyes open to see Astarion unabashedly staring at you.

He spoke as soon as he caught wind you were awake. “You weren’t kidding about being grabby, you’re practically smothering the poor thing.”

Your face warmed slightly at his words, embarrassment fluttering in your chest. “It’s an old habit. What about you, couldn’t sleep?”

“Elves don’t sleep.”

You suddenly felt incredibly foolish. “Oh. Right. So you’ve just been sitting there all night then?”

“I tranced for a while. It was certainly a more boring night than I expected.”

You yawned as you sat up, setting the pillow you’d been holding behind you. “Terribly sorry to disappoint. Hopefully, there will be many more boring nights in your future.”

He pulled back, cocking his head to the side. “What?”

You realized you hadn’t told him of your little scheme yet. “I was thinking. This whole meeting with Cazador was more of a formality than anything. He’s killed too many of our people, we need to make this deal, at least until we can figure out how to sort him out for good. But he doesn’t know that and maybe, if you’re amiable to it, I could throw in a final term to the deal. Where he has to give me… well, you. Not that you should be his to give, but I figure if I can save someone from this place and I didn’t, what kind of a monster would I be?”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you want from me?”

You shrugged. “I’d say nothing if I thought you’d believe me. If you need to rationalize it, let’s just say it’s an ego boost. Now I get to feel like a good person and you get to leave this place. As long as I don’t mess it up too badly.”

Mistrust was written across his face and it seemed like the first completely honest emotion you’d been able to pull from him.

“I don’t believe you.”

“That’s fine, we can fix that after I get you out of here.” You sighed. “Wish me luck. I’m an awful liar.”

He trailed after you as you left, seemingly incapable of letting you out of his sight.

Maybe he was. Maybe he’d been ordered to do so. You had no way to tell. It made your heart hurt, the sight of him here, the idea of Cazador’s other spawn that you couldn’t save. At least not yet.

He followed you like a loyal pup all the way to Cazador, who was lounging in a chair without a care in the world.

He chuckled at the sight of Astarion behind you. “And how was my spawn? To your satisfaction?”

You swallowed down that bile that rose in you as you said, “He was a delight. I was wondering, in the name of our agreement, is there any way I could keep him? It’s just that I’ve grown quite fond of him so very quickly.”

Cazador laughed, a putrid, callous thing. “I’m sure. He can be quite… convincing. And this would make you amenable to my terms?”

You nodded. “All the monster hunters in Baldur's Gate will focus their attention in… other places. You and yours will be entirely safe from our wrath.”

“And if we’d like to push you in the direction of another creature?”

You gave him a tactful nod. “We could be convinced.”

“Good.” He laughed once more. “Typical monster hunter. You pretend to hate us and yet you want to keep a vampire pet.”

Astarion leaned into your side and you felt a little queasy at the performance as you snaked your arm around him. “Like I said, he was very convincing.”

He sighed. “You drive a hard bargain. As you wish, you shall have your terms. Just tell me if he doesn’t behave. I can get him sorted right out for you.”

It took everything you had not to lunge at him thinking about everything he’d put this poor man through. “Of course, but I’m sure I’ll be able to manage just fine on my own.”

You got out of there as fast as you could. Even if you hadn’t had Astarion with you, you didn’t want to spend any longer than absolutely necessary with the monster.

You pulled him through the streets back to the house you were staying in, racing against the sun. You barely had enough time to get him there and pull him inside, but you had a feeling he’d prefer this mad dash over staying another day with his master.

Regardless, the whole time your eyes were darting around, looking for places you could hide him should you need to.

You wondered what you’d even do if it had come to that. Just sit with him for the rest of the day, you supposed, unless he wanted to try a risky maneuver with a thick blanket.

You tried to pull him inside but it was like an invisible wall had stopped him in his tracks. You gave him a questioning look and he grumbled, “You have to invite me.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, come in!”

As soon as the words left your mouth, he rushed in beside you and you set yourself to making sure all of the widows were fully shut, pulling the curtains tight.

He watched you dart about, tugging at the thick fabric. His gaze was judgemental but at least the emotion seemed genuine.

As soon as you were mostly certain he wouldn’t burn to death, you turned to him. “We won’t be leaving for a while so you can make yourself at home. If you need anything just let me know, okay?”

You didn’t see him for the whole day. You were busy and he made himself scarce. You couldn’t blame him. You imagined he’d long since made it a habit to avoid being seen by anyone. Anyone except his forced prey, you supposed. But still, he hid away from them, in his own way.

“Astarion, can you come look at this?” you called out as the sun finally dipped fully below the horizon, hoping he was close enough that he could hear you. And hoping he would come even if he did.

It took a few minutes but eventually he came sauntering down the stairs.

“Yes, my dear?”

You grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the window, gesturing out at the carriage that was illuminated by torches alone, shrouded in the thick darkness of the night. “Do you think it’ll be alright? The last thing I want is for you to get hurt.”

He stared out at the carriage you’d spent hours painstakingly attempting to make impenetrable to light. You’d painted the windows black, hung blankets over top of them, shoved old linens in the cracks in the doors.

He cautiously headed outside, staring at the carriage with furrowed brows. “Did you do this?”

“Yeah, I tested it during the day. It seemed pretty solid but obviously you couldn’t check then. I could bring a torch around the outside if you wanted to check for yourself.”

He looked at you like you were mad. “We could have just traveled at night.”

You shrugged. “It’s a two-day journey and I didn’t want to depend on inns and shelter along the road to protect you during the day. This seemed safer.”

He opened the door, sitting inside and looking around at the painstakingly covered windows and cracks, and you couldn’t tell if he seemed uncomfortable because he was worried about the sun or because of the sheer amount of effort you’d clearly put into it.

“Do you want anything for the ride?” you asked, pushing forward. “Some books or something? I could go get them for you.”

“Your company is all I could ask for.”

“Okay, but for real though. Never mind, I’ll just get you some books.” You doubted you’d be able to pull an honest answer from him for a very long time, if at all.

After a frenzied book run, the two of you were ready to head off, locking yourselves inside the carriage until the sun set once more.

The bumps of the carriage jostled the two of you as you rode. The flickering orange light of two lanterns, one for each of you, barely illuminated the darkened space and you couldn’t help but feel a little claustrophobic.

He was sitting, staring at you, book untouched on his lap.

You’d brought as many options as you could think of, romance novels, epics, history, a horticultural book that had pulled a snort and an incredulous look from him when he’d seen it.

He didn’t seem much in the mood for reading and under his unblinking gaze, neither were you. Instead, you stared at the painted-over window, wishing there was anything else you had to look at in the dim light.

“Admiring your paint job?” he asked with a chuckle as you continued to refuse to meet his unblinking gaze.

“Something like that.” You decided to take the broken silence as an opportunity. Anything was better than being silently stared at and you weren’t sure you’d get a better chance to ask him. “Can I ask you something that’s potentially insensitive?”

He smirked at you with that practiced allure. “Ask away.”

“Were you one of his favorites? Cazador's, I mean.”

He scoffed. “In a way. He loved torturing me more than anyone else.”

You leaned forward. “So it might be easier to convince him to part with the others?”

His eyes narrowed at you and you watched as he tried once again to figure out what your angle was. “You’ve got a real bleeding heart, don’t you?”

“We’ve been unable to hurt him for so long, failed at it for years and years. Every day you were there was because we weren’t good enough at what we did. I can’t help it, I feel a little responsible for you. For all of you.”

“Oh please,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “Like I’m not one of the monsters you hunt.”

You cocked your head to the side. “Why would you be? Who have you hurt?”

He laughed a cold, cruel laugh. “Darling, you have no idea how many people I’ve hurt.”

“You haven’t though. Cazador hurt people through you, sure. But you didn’t hurt anyone, not really. You’re a victim just as much as they were. At least we managed to save some of them.”

He squirmed in his seat. “I think they might disagree.”

You shrugged, something delicate in his eyes telling you not to push. “Maybe.”

The rest of the ride was completed in silence, not only fueled by your discomfort but now also Astarion’s irritation with you.

Your driver gave a knock on the door as the sun disappeared, just as you’d instructed him to, and you opened it to find a quaint little inn surrounded by woods in front of you.

He left to take care of the horses and you led Astarion inside, securing two rooms for the three of you. In a perfect world you would’ve gotten Astarion his own room, but his vampirism wasn’t exactly subtle and you couldn’t help but worry that some overzealous patron of this establishment might take it upon themself to rid the inn of the supposed monster.

You led him up to the room you’d be sharing and as you entered, he stood in the doorway and took in the sight.

You were quick to give him a quiet, “Come in,” but he brushed you off.

“That’s for houses, not individual rooms. I just…there’s two beds.”

You nodded. “Yup. For two people.”

He eyed you suspiciously, as if the two beds might be part of some devious scheme. After a few moments, he seemed to decide it was just a normal room and took the bed nearest the door.

He seemed paler than he’d been the night before and a horrible thought struck you. “Oh my god, you need to eat! I haven’t been feeding you.”

He chuckled. “Good luck with that, there aren’t many disposable animals out here. At least, not ones you could catch. Unless you want to let me at the horses, but that would leave us in quite the predicament.”

“I mean, you could drink from me. Not everything, obviously, but I could spare some.”

You held out your hand to him, presenting your wrist and looking at him expectantly.

“I’m not allowed to drink human blood,” he spat back at you, the bile of hundreds of years of resentment lacing his words. “Cazador doesn’t allow it.”

“You’re not his anymore. He gave control over to me and I say you can do whatever you’d like and that you don’t take orders from anyone anymore. The offer stands.” You went to withdraw your hand until his hunger bested his hesitation but he grabbed your wrist, stopping you from pulling away.

“Well,” he said with a sly smile. “As long as you’re offering, I would be a fool to turn you down.”

It was so strange how quickly it happened, how easily he could slip right back into that faux confidence.

He leaned towards you and you backed away at the hungry look in his eyes, one you were more than familiar with.

“If you really want to I’m sure there’s ways we could make this a more rewarding experience for you,” he said and in a heartbeat he maneuvered himself over you, his hands interlaced with yours and holding you to the mattress.

You pulled yourself back in an instant, leaning against the headboard as you presented your wrist to him once more.

You didn’t fault him for it. After years of surviving with it, of course he would keep trying to draw you in with his sexuality. The instinct couldn’t be snuffed out overnight.

You’d bat away his attempts as many times you needed to, try and make him understand. You weren’t sure if it would ever work, not fully, but you’d keep trying.

“It’s easier this way,” you said in explanation, giving him something to latch onto that didn’t feel like rejection.

He rolled his eyes. “Easier, I’m sure. Typical, I got a master who’s allergic to fun.”

“I’m not your master. You can do as you please, could leave now if you wanted.”

“And go where?” he snapped. “You can pretend if you must but I know what I am. I know where I stand. I am a lot of things, but I am no fool.”

“I know.”

He studied you for a moment, eyes daring across your face before he pulled your wrist towards him, digging his teeth into your flesh.

The sharp pain lasted for a heartbeat before it faded away to a dull ache. He lapped at the open wound, his put-on demeanor disappearing as he got lost in it.

He cradled your hand like it was a lifeline. In a way, you supposed it was.

You could feel yourself getting lightheaded as he fed but you refused to stop him. You would not command it of him, would rather die than force him into it. You let out a quiet whine, your form slumping back into the bed.

He drew away immediately and your blood began pouring onto the white sheets of the bed.

A moment of panic reflected in his red eyes before he grabbed the corner of the sheets, wrapping them around your wound.

“There,” he said, his voice quieter than his normal bravado. “Should keep you from bleeding out.”

Your eyes were locked on his collarbone, a dark bruise becoming visible as your blood fled through his previously starved body. The longer you looked, the more of them you could see, peeking out from under his clothes.

“Oh, you poor thing,” you said in hushed tones, hands moving to reach for him before stopping in their tracks, unsure if your touch would be wanted.

He was otherwise preoccupied, his eyes alight with something entirely new. He looked stronger, livelier. There was a warmth to his cheeks you’d never seen before.

You resisted the urge to touch him, to see if he’d become warmer as your blood had begun to run through him, bringing a new light to his eyes.

“You should get some rest,” he said, looking down at you lying exhausted and drained on the bed. “You certainly need it.”

You barely had time to laugh at his comment before you’d drifted off.

The ride back was as quiet as it had been the day before, if a little less uncomfortable. Astarion still stared for much of it but he at least pretended to read his book. The healthy flush to his cheeks seemed to come with a bit of newfound comfort and ease around you that made you puff up with pride, even if you still felt a little woozy from the night before.

“Here we are!” you said as a knock sounded on the door, opening it and leading him inside your home. It was an old manor of your family's, not particularly big, right on the edge of nowhere, and perhaps falling apart just a little but more than suitable for your purposes. “It’s a little bit of a mess but I kind of like it that way. Come on, I’ll show you your room.”

You decided to put him in a room that was just a few doors down from your own, pointing out just where he could go to find you if he needed anything.

You laid down to sleep once you got him situated, more exhausted than you typically were at this time of night. Despite how tired you were, presumably from the blood loss, you had to fight the urge to go and check on Astarion just one more time.

You hadn’t known him for long but you’d already developed an intensely protective instinct towards the man.

You did your best to put him out of your mind when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” you called out. You made no attempt to suppress your smile when he peeked in the doorway.

“I think I’ve grown accustomed to your company,” he said sheepishly, and for once it didn’t seem like he was trying to seduce you. He seemed worn down, looking just as tired as you felt, a defeated air present on his face.

You were too tired for subtlety, opening your arm to him and muttering a sleepy, “Just come here.”

He seemed grateful to not have to explain himself. To not have to ask.

He sat on the bed, looking down at you where you lay.

“No pillow this time?” he asked in that snide voice he used so often.

“I can if you want. Just thought you might appreciate the closeness.”

He rolled his eyes dramatically. “Fine, I’ll be your little pillow to hug. Fair warning though, I run cold.”

You tried and failed to suppress a yawn as he got into bed beside you and you wrapped your arms softly around him. “I don’t mind. G’night.”

“Goodnight, my dear.”

Just like that, it became a bit of unspoken habit between the two of you. You felt it might honestly kill him to comment on it, to ask you for affection. But with no words, no pleasantries, there he was every night, beside you.

One night, about a week into his residence in your home, he seemed more restless than normal, fiddling endlessly with your hand, incapable of sitting still. You turned to him with a pointed look. “Come on, out with it, it’s not good to go to bed with things left unsaid.”

He scoffed. “Why not?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know, what if I die in my sleep or something.”

“If you die in your sleep, I think I might have bigger problems than things I didn’t say to you. Namely, some monster hunters who might take issue with the vampire you died next to.”

You shook your head. “No, I already told them about you, they wouldn’t hurt you.”

That seemed to take him by surprise, pulling back a bit at your words. “You did?”

“Of course I did. Now come on, out with it, what’s going on it that head of yours?”

He sighed dramatically and flopped back on his pillow. “It’s really nothing.”

“Not if it's bothering you. I want to help.”

“Did you mean it?” he blurted out, like the words had to be forced out of him quickly or they wouldn’t come out at all. “When you said you wanted to save the rest of them too?”

“Of course I did. And I will. At least if I have anything to say about it,” you said quietly, your stomach turning at the thought of the other spawn you’d left behind.

He turned from you as if you’d slapped him. “Right. I’m going to sleep in my own room. I should’ve been in there anyway, this was silly. Goodnight, darling.”

You chased after him in a heartbeat, catching up at him before he’d even managed to open his door. “Wait, what did I do? Astarion?”

He was an unstoppable force, storming into his own room.

“I don’t understand what I did,” you pleaded with him, desperate to fix it. You raked through your conversation, trying to dissect every word spoken, every facial expression. You found nothing. Shouldn’t he be happy you wanted to help them? It didn’t make sense to you.

He sat on his bed, one he’d never slept in, arms crossed and brows furrowed. When he spoke, there was a faux casualty to it, like he was trying to pretend none of it mattered to him. “I’m just making room for the next stray you let into your bed.”

You sat next to him, careful to keep your distance as you moved your head down to try and catch his eye. “You know I’m not replacing you, right?”

He huffed in response, turning away from you again.

You made sure to keep your tone gentle and soft. “You know I wouldn’t let just any vampire spawn sleep next to me, right? It’s because I care about you, it’s not just because you’re there. No one is replacing you and I promise there is enough of me to help people while also still being there for you. I will save as many of them as I can until I can rid this world of Cazador but you’re not just Cazador’s victim, you’re my friend.”

He turned to you suddenly. “Stop saying that. Stop saying you’re going to hunt down Cazador. If he catches wind of any of this you’re dead. At least, if you’re lucky you’ll be dead. And then where will I be?”

“Hey, I’ve been doing this a long time. I know what I’m doing, we all know what we’re doing. He’s not going to get me.”

“That’s why you made that deal, is it? Did all the other hunters he slaughtered know what they were doing too? You aren’t a threat to him, you are a nuisance. You need to stop,” he snarled.

You couldn’t stop. You both knew that, could see it as clear as day.

Instead, you just said a quiet, “Come on, come to bed,” and walked out of the room.

He trailed behind you, the unendable argument weighing heavy on the both of you, no more words spoken as he slipped under the sheets. You gave his hand a squeeze, trying your best to reassure him despite knowing it would never work. Not as long as he was still out there.

And then, as he leaned into your space, head brushing against your arm, something he’d been getting slowly more comfortable doing, something occurred to you that should have many days ago, back when he’d first arrived here. It was strange that he was here, now. Not just because of his uncomfortability with any sort of nonsexual closeness, but because of when it was.

Not only did elves not sleep the same way nor as long as humans did, but vampires slept during the day typically, to enjoy the night as best they could.

“I’m going to start sleeping during the day,” you said decisively. “That way we can keep doing this,” you said as you gestured around vaguely, “and you can go out, can do things with your waking hours. I’m sorry it didn’t occur to me sooner.”

His eyes widened. “You’d really let me leave?”

His surprise felt like a shard of ice through your chest. “Of course I would. You can do whatever you want. I’ll even do my best to help if you’ll ask me for it.” Another horrible thought struck you. “Wait, you didn’t think you could leave and you’ve been with me most nights. What have you been eating?”

“Whatever I could find. I make for wonderful pest control.”

Your heart sank. You should’ve considered this sooner, never put him through any of this.

“Here, drink from me,” you said, sticking out your hand. “I can get some bigger animals for you, keep them here so you don’t have to hunt for them if you’d prefer, but for now I will have to do.”

He hesitated, although his gaze was less suspicious than the last time you’d done this. Instead, he looked nervous. “You’ve… you’ve already done so much for me. I shouldn’t.”

“Astarion, you’re starving,” you said quietly, trying to reason with him.

“I’d rather not push it. Eventually, even your charity will run out.”

You shook your head. “It will not. It’s fine if you don’t believe me, I know it’ll take time, but I will keep being here for you until it sinks in. Promise.”

He laughed quietly, seeming more for himself than for you, something that had been happening more and more lately. “You underestimate my distrust, I think I could outlast you.”

You smiled back. “Challenge accepted. But until then, you need to eat.”

You held out your wrist for him, the marks from the last time just beginning to fade. He took it, gingerly, bringing it slowly to his mouth and watching your face for any apprehension.

You showed none, instead giving him a soft smile. “Go on. I don’t bite.”

That got a real laugh out of him. “That’s not funny.”

He pressed a soft kiss into your skin before sinking his fangs in, that sharp pain coming with a flutter of warmth inside your chest.

He was slower this time, more intentional as he drank. You couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he wasn’t as hungry or if it was because it felt less like his meal might be ripped away from him unceremoniously.

He didn’t get as lost in it this time, eyes flicking up to meet yours, checking in on you.

You didn’t even get the chance to try and tell him you were feeling woozy before he drew back, pulling a handkerchief you hadn’t even noticed off the side table to wrap around your wrist.

“Wouldn’t want to get our sheets all bloody,” he said as he knotted it tight around your wound.

Your hands moved slowly as soon as he released them, reaching up towards his face and giving him plenty of time to back away.

For a moment, when he first saw you reaching for him, he pulled back and you were ready to retreat and shower him in endless apologies when, as suddenly as he’d moved away, he leaned into your touch.

Gentle hands cradled his face, ones he’d flinched away from but a moment before. He leaned into them openly now, unabashedly, making a home between your palms.

He was warmer like this, with your blood rushing through him.

You pulled him closer as his head tucked right under yours, your fingers carding gently through his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, barely loud enough to reach his ears, and you had no idea if he believed you.

You doubted it, doubted that you’d been able to break through all those years of his living hell so quickly. His walls had been carefully constructed for a reason, and you understood why he was so hesitant to break them down. You couldn’t blame him, would never blame him.

It didn’t really matter. You’d keep trying either way.

#astarion #astarion x reader #vampire x reader #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion needs a hug

1K notes · View notes

astralnymphh · 10 months ago

Text

copy that, romeo

— ellie williams was supposed to be your supervisor, not your object of infatuation ~ ♡

⋆❝ this is cordero tower, calling in.❞⋆

CHAPTER ONE: SUMMERTIME INTERLUDE . NEXT CHAPTER > ♡. pair; firewatcher!ellie x recruit!reader

♡. summary; it's 1995, and the angel crater national park welcomes you; a retrograde lookout all to yourself, a space nerd for a supervisor, and a whole summertime job spent in hues of sepia and juniper, waiting for the first sign of smoke. ninety–three days. you don't know her face, you share no breath— but by walkie–talkie, you know her voice.

♡. a/n; READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. CLICK HERE. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. ALSO THIS.

♡. content; EVENTUAL SMUT, narrator present, silly fourth wall breaking, a dash of comedy, slowburn (somewhat), living alone, long–distance pining, reader/characters are similar ages(mid–late 20s), depression, heavy metaphor usage, complicated poetry styles, mentions of organs, mentions of weaponry, metaphorical death, grim humor, drinking alcohol, drunk!ellie, drunken flirting (vaguely and bluntly), ellie jumpscare, uh-oh sassy masc apocalypse, she's corny and cheesy too (a dork), awkwardness, humiliation, lighthearted bickering, nicknames used. [lmk if i missed anything] . SERIES PLAYLIST .

WC; 6.1k+ ✮ thank you @trackinglessons for your sexy brain and beautiful ideas + custom art ✮ masterlist ✮ series masterlist ✮ ellie ref sheet

Summertime is the interlude between misery and Mondays.

May was a rough patch for you. A coagulated chapter within the spring world, a shunned ponder, red jello in the gradience of passage. Tempus, time. Early months hence were just as pessimizing, doubt is an arid reservoir in you. But, as a maypole sits a svelte giant in the sweet Beltane soil, braving an invisible smile whilst little ones— little laughters, spun prances and wraps of dainty satin to an ensnare on its long body, it weeped for its delicate capture. You; flesh coarse like timber, relate to the log standing, ensnared. Sunk in that gelatinous texture, unmoving as pressures collided with the surface outward, ripples everywhere yet incapable of sprinkling through you. Something would have to delve itself to drag you out.

Chapters; cusp of autumn to April, every single month, wound ‘round you. They each had separating colors, and spared turns to soundly fold your limbs and bulge your skin in ribbons. It snipped your circulation, shriveled the ripe breath in your skull and traded it for a pressure. A throb. Weight upon the cranium, you felt the narrowing cradle inside wilt from thought, drain from consciousness, and soften your stiff eyes locked on drywall. Hour to hour.

But those weren't the only things taunting you with a dance— expectations danced faster. Expectators, paired minds heaping expectations; yourself and the selves blackjacking their wants expressed as worries onto you. Stressful creatures, they are. Bosses, co–workers, energy vampires disguised as lover boys prowling about your workspace, general creatures of the retail world. God, they're like ravenous wolves snarling hunger through their teeth, slobber moonlight–bright of that dire carnality for variety meats. Depression just took the first serving before they could.

Even the domesticated places are a wilderness untamed.

Stress drained you of life. It softened your desire to even try. Gods are dulling, blamed you, on another dull morning where the trickling sound of coffee pouring drilled irk into your ears, rather than simply a trickle. Caffeine, a roast so void–black was brewed to un–drain you. Yet, it fuckin didn't.

Impugning was your everything, until it could no longer purify; Elaine. Emptiness. Hmm, you gave this state of vacuum–headed hollowness a name, keenly because it deserved so by its dismantling of your autonomy. You don't want it. It's not you. It's Elaine. A some–angel fallen out of grace, weary of its wander upon a washed up cove, beige toned and swept shivering–cold. Interested by the warmth your sundry organs pushed into its light silhouette.

And perhaps, if the bird was never freed from its heavenly cage, it would be powerless to pester you, to poke the meat inside with the pointy end of plumage.

Elaine was an organized assault on your wellbeing, moreso against the pulpy, pinkish-gray blob sitting ugly above your throat. Believe it, or assume it. A paralysis, moving shoulders from bed sheets proved farcical, running bristles over your teeth twice a day rhymes with nonsense, and midnight ink born to swirl and curtsy to convey thoughts gone rancid, goes unused atop the white flutter between your journal hardcovers. You have a morbid case of the seasonal blues, except this time, the season is beyond its blue hues. Spring, a fuckin’ kaleidoscope embellished. Blotches of big fuck you greens so vibrant you'd long to die from your tears, and an abstract spit of smell me reds thorny as your stomach brought to a scream for something. Anything.

It was a slow, banal descent into the jello.

January, floating atop the sweet delicacy, atop your bed.

February, the solidity gave out beneath you, goo subtly etching around your ankles, calves, elbows, unforgivingly cold when it first hit. When in reality, the bed was heating from your lay.

March, marrow goes heavy, your limbs at this time could not lift, your efforts waned, and satiating the rumble in you with sustenance was forgotten, as that rumble got so, so.. quiet.

April, the jello had stuffed your nose, your sockets, and lullabied your ligaments. You let it happen.

May.

You let yourself sink. Let yourself decompose and go mush in the head. Like a zombie.

The descent doesn't taste of sweet delight, but it also fails to churn your lips with a heavy saccharinity. Neutral, your hopeful side did say. Nothing, rationality slapped past your lips.

Five months, either a misery, or a Monday.

Yes Eve, a bite out of the Apocrypha will indeed fill this human abysm in me. Forbidden knowledge is my craving. Contraband of truth, bite to bite, I envy that I could not cope with its coating of my empty gut earlier.

Innocence is so dull. You are depressed, not a fucking saint for staying indoors, starving your rage.

But on came a crisp bouquet of biker–boy newspapers; ‘Hiring’, and a few scans further; ‘Do you harness a great love for the evergreen?’

A honed section in Missoula's local print— jobs. A publisher boldens and compresses enthusiasm sporadically; writing–on–the–wall hollers speckle themselves meticulously on the newsprint that strike a sense of obligation into the susceptible and soft–of–heart chunk of the population. A pert voice read with persuasion between your ears, gritty in tone and stereotypical of a middle aged ranger, vocals fried by cigarettes but as booming as a cannon.

“Do you care for the animals inhabiting our national sanctuaries?”

Abutting small paragraphs, the sagging belly of a black bear, tender caramel snout and snoopy–faced, fitted on its head a mustard yellow campaign hat labeled, ‘Smokey’. Its burly, blundering frame on all fours stood out over a comic–style vista of the Montana rockies, paws obscured by blocks of thickset text reading ‘Only you’.

Huh, a realistic depiction of Smokey Bear— over a not–so–realistic background, avant–garde.

Tree greens sprawly that didn't shout ��Fuck you’ on your poor, sunken eyes searing for sleep and a twilight darkness. Sagey lichens that didn't draw out the spasms above your own bones, calling your regard to bring pin–sized problems and blemishes sprawling your own flesh out of the bliss of ignorance. Brunette muds with only a fleck of sun, a slice of earth dull, humble and unprocessed enough from benevolence to leave you unconsumed, unsunken. A mere slop and pudge in the future and wake of your walk. Nothing obnoxiously grand, nothing sanctimonious. Nature is by birth— righteous, regardless.

“Before we can be proud of our nation, our nation must be proud of us!”

The advertisement gropes for a summertime made free. A cyclopean sinkhole in the becoming of time. Recruits–in–waiting are called to bargain normalcy and the bustling cities plump with lumbering limbs of sheen–tight pantyhose shaded under short shapes of plaid skirts for boot–cuts n’ backpacks hefty with gear that could either save you the trouble of mountaineering by path, or trouble your time with a faulty snapping of two things. Rope and neck.

Too grim?

A months’–long moment of tension snapped at the pressure joint— Summertime the snapper. You'd be devoting ninety–three suns, ninety–two moons, and some two–million breaths of fir laden air up in Angel Crater National Park, northwest of here. Pupils flickering the double-page setup, you continue: A pictographic, old–fashioned lookout taller than the timber spires surrounding would be your station, your core of operations, for those three young and sunny months. Boxed provisions and supplies are guaranteed to ship every other week, and testimonies encourage even the anxious, balmy buzzes of your brain to sigh in solace learning that the weald creatures there— are mostly harmless, if you aren't bred an imbecile. Alongside, an appointed supervisor, whose name was never disclosed duly except for a scratch of text gingerly clasped in quotations reading, “E.R.W” trailing the mention of said supervisor. What’s required of you was delivered plain written and patent on that shoddy newspaper, held thick in your intrigued thumbs; Keep the forest from catching wild fire.

You fiddled the idea. Should I? Or should I wallow the summer away? Fiddled it anxiously, fiddled it needily, bumped the clumped rim of the newsprint on your cupid's bow in bending rumination, steadied it cause newspaper smells oddly good— but next to minutes racing hours upon musing, a conclusion had to knock your static looping of gloomdom in the butt.

One phone call, and the bird would be barred again. Pesterer, Elaine the Terrible, would be cast back where eyes can't roll over the cottony clouds. Just a couple fucking prods to your number–pad, might genuinely un–drain you.

Luckily, you aren't an idiot reared to take bullshit longer than meritted.

You took the job.

May 30th, 1995, 7:28 PM.

What does any clever pedestrian traipsing capricious terrain store in their pack to avoid total gangly–branch–grips–of–nature butchery?

Item one; Black nylons— scratch that, you aren't getting paid to snag at every kink and curl of the forest, tighties of gossamery fabrics are a no–go. Citywear stays citywear. Double scratch on those sweet, blackberry Mary Janes too prized and polished to muck up in shit of the earth. Immolating the rigid underside of some chunky hiking boots to the unruly woodlands is the adrenaline pinnacle of out–worlding, come on. It proves you've got a hardy backbone and the right row of teeth to chew what you've bitten off, sullying boots ‘till the color is forevermore stained. Backup boots are tradition, so that's item number two. Best get used to cargo, ankle–length overalls and miscellaneous graphic tees, cause the rockies’ fashion gurus can't get enough of ‘em!

Clothing, check.

Swathes of ropes twined pumpkiny orange and plenty of clanging anchors to bolt them in, goddesses and gods forbid you be tight on anchors. Medical kits— duh, did you trudge all from yonder just to die out here? This country is dicey, at the cuddly claw of a bear, or not. Hair ties, scrunchies you hoarded as a teenager in the eighties, disposable camera to suit your flaky memories, and an eclectic dump of nutty and fruity cereal bars galore. Unless you're allergic. Substitute.

Accessories and essentials, check.

Ah, and a spare pistol and switchblade in replacement of newcomer paranoia! Keep that hush–hush though. No matches or lighters, obviously.

True American, illegal weaponry, check.

All this paraphernalia bangs and clangs heavily on the polyester holding of your backpack, straining your scruff uncomfortably as you tiptoe, scarcely tumble, and tread lightly across a log. It creaks, it groans, it wobbles slightly over the blaring white rush of a stream, suctioning your heart–to–stomach when it grinds a wee bit louder than you thought it should.

“Shit!” you crimp your torso in and dart wary hands on the timber beam at your feet, assuming a gawky newborn–bambi–pose in hesitation, shuddering in cracked tones, “This can't be the right way..”

Hoping on an evaporated sun, you frazzlingly testify in repetitive thought that the map mailed by the rangers a week prior led you on this perilous and incorrect path.. for the last two days. Winding and wounding, literally— your bruises are measureless and on top of that ache your skin to want no more of this. But, you have to. A boulevard of brown, short and stout, wrung unyielding from one gray side to the greener other, a shortcut. Assumed to be a shortcut, based on the route drawn by utter confusion.

Oh yeah, and remember the advertisement stating the park was twenty-five miles out?

Nothing about that hot-press, black-cat inked newspaper accounted for the extra eight weighing your ankles down and your motivation dead low. Twenty-five only stretched out unto the ranger parking lot. The entrance, for fuck's sake.

Shaky flit of your digits, they float gently off the carve–veined surface of the wood, unfolding your spine as you rise. “Wrong way—” you utter to your chest, oven–warm as it puffs, “—gotta be the wrong..”

Tentative–ism is normal here, right? Like, no way you're cautious and sweating at the brow for nothing. Right?

One foot— creeakkk— in front of the prudent other, two sailing lunges, three hurried hops and a matched thud soft as marshmallows plants your shoes to hallowed ground. Blades of verdant whiskers so innocent crush under, and it feels fucking— demeaning, actually. All that gulping and pausing.. for nothing.

You tuck a shoulder–glance to the makeshift ricket of a bridge, and blankface, “Didn't feel like killing me today?”

The tree bears no reply.

“Hmph, surprising. Seeing as someone killed you,” a sigh parts, fading into the whip and straightening of your head, “figured the pursuit of revenge doesn't stop at ghosts.” and the hoist of your boot up, carrying onward.

Sundown paints, crescent layers repose approaching moonlight and dying sunlight sprawls psychedelic limbs above you. Balance ambling in tiny bops only made the swirling grasp of those gradient rays more trippy on your eyes and coercive of daydreams, rot–nip for the brain. You spot nutbrown brick— a fireplace in your mind, fevered heat roasting on the inside wall of your forehead too. It was Christmas before the storm, a subzero December. And it was, in fact, colder than the unreachable heaven. Dad was hunkered down in front of that innocuous amber crackle, his right leg slack to the ground and his left arched in the neck of an acoustic guitar, arms plaiting its hollow curve into his chest. 1971, when the veil through and within was thin, and love–vomit poured so easily through. A time of justified ignorance; Childhood.

Stood you adjacently, legs short and posolutely not stout, dimpled in the knees. Aged two years, and mushy as ambrosia, contorting your mouth jubilant as you're told for the camera, contrary to your father with his expression drooping to his strumming fingers. Sickly sweets, adult–you unpurposefully neglects to twirl lips at, your extraordinary grins now turned ordinary flat–lines. Holiday memoirs, those spoiled ripe quick after adulthood bolted itself in the slabs of your tender spine and instilled an artificial love for labor and country, displacing nostalgia from ever being seen as a flesh existence.

“Say cheese!”

America is sub–human, and sub–humans created America, the imperfect cycle. Families tear, eagles outcry, friends drink their death, and the days continue to unfold without a trace of acknowledgement. Days exist where you soak festivities and stave off the pointer–finger poking at so called slack you relish, and some twenty dwindling years ahead the slowly deadening oak grove road, carousals will be criminally known as layabout–makers.

Joy is a luxury now.

A blockage prevents your foot from winching clean forward, meeting the bone–hard kiss of a boulder to sore your toes. “Fuck!” you brand your throat walls to a shout, pissed at the rock rather than your woolgather that lead you to said rock, “Fucking fuckhead rock!”

Woolgather means daydreams, by the way. Funner to use words that don't make a split of sense. Yay for English.

The sunset clouds dripped with a mania of fascination and had strung your brain to its hypnotic whims, like a siren had soloed a trance, drifting your mind somewhere utopian and phantasmagorical. It sounds silly, but, blanking out seems so often out of grasp from your control, you usually could never flag what caused it, when it started, and why. Nothing practical surfaces. Fuck, your head is so tangled upon memories, you haven't even noticed the progression of scenery twelve o’clock from you.

Ponderosa boughs band together where your eyes brush shapes and forage for a clue of what scene wants to greet you ahead. The sequestering silence of rustles indicates a clearing, possibly. Possible as it could be, you fully expected this cruel footslog to wallop your ass into a minefield, so you bet cards and course carefully beneath the crowns of pine, completely bent to the chance of another obstacle threatening your tender ankles. Leafy whispers above strum your ears brimmed with its sotto voce song, and then— colors it silently behind.

“Holy shit.”

Presence crumbles above you, and opens before you. The lookout. Wood shafts slant in opposing directions, up and up along four brawny beams in three consecutive layers, like a blocky cone. The face closest to you overlaps the backing rest, giving the illusion of tufted wooden legs sketched under all lackadaisical. Endgame daylight spies from behind this one–roomed cyclops, gushing final spurts of citrus rays as if it truly was an orange squeezed to pulp. So, the flank and forehead of that towering, mountainscaping lookout rolling a cold shoulder to the sun, paves in a tattered tapestry of garnet smokiness instead. Shadow of sundown. From where you sow feet, a football field apart, petty details are difficult to squint into clarity, but the window panes appear tawny, too.

An intimidation, “So much for a tiny room.” A beaute intimidation, “And no actual bathroom.” it makes you feel like a genuine insect compared.

A sort of stairwell serpent faintly chokes the foot, the calves, the thighs, and punctures kindly a mouth leading up to the skirting balcony hedged in many gaunt teeth. Tamping gravel closer, subtleties and fine points fade as the tower's plank–lined and flat underbelly turns to you. Larger and larger, it dips darkly from miniscule masquerade.

Bringing your decently aching foot to the first step, you press into the curb and meander your cruder aching— thanks to a random boulder— foot weirdly on the outer ridge of your boot. Making it up the stairs to fund yourself a fucking break was a palpable mockery in itself. Like, ‘Hey! Climb this long–ass stairwell for a teensy break before doing it all over again the next day!’.

Un–fucking–believable.

Fifty years of history and past rangers grate in your walk, the floorboards thump with their stories, thump into your skin— verse you a wordless eulogy. Each step is a sentence, and every sentence branches into a whole tree of genealogy, lives. Lifestyles you can't understand now, but will.

�� Really redundant of me to highlight the generations alive in those floorboards. The walk up there isn’t that exciting.

After the last step, you're met eye–to–frame with a scratched door, pygmy window centered and paper–screened from within, and the stories predating your stay inspire a comical theory, “Jeez— bears make it up here?” you half–suppress a snort, palming a fist on the doorknob coldly before rotating and giving sympathetic pressure to the door.. jammed.

“C’mon..” knuckles pulse into the knobs plate, gradually upping the force you pushed, “.. losing light out here..” eventually adding your other hand to sweeten the push.

Sure, a whole year has gone by since it homed somebody, and it's retro, but come on.

Breaking splinters into the door was your last intention, so you try so–so carefully— to some extent, “Please..” now butting the tip of your boot on the rim to ease it— ease, and finally pry, a clapback of wind blowing dusty, nightfall air past your crescent cheeks following the snap of the fallow door.

Thank goodness for your grace and balance, some days, avoiding a timely trip face–first to a floor so powdered in light dust, any kid would mistake it for a good time sweeping snow angels.

Not so good for the respiratory system though.

Muggy space filtering your lungs tightly, you cough out, “Gah— fuck!” nothing higher than the level of a guttural wheeze, your chest punching into your throat. Gaping out the last flock of butterflies clumped at your collarbones, the tickle inside calms, and you find your sights taking in a dark box. A dim orb of lily silver glow rests in the middle of the pall room, raising the natural, “Where's the ligh— ah, big clunky thing—”

Flicking the off–white and stubby nub attached to an impractically sized lightswitch, which frankly resembles an electric box externally, an essence of Apollo ladens the room. Lemony–gold light, passably bright off the redwood ceiling, and murmuring a low buzz through one ear, and out the other, your pupils caper along the contrasting shades awakened.

“Definitely retro, but.. no roommates.” spoke you, gingerly content with the colors piecing this camper pad together. You observe.

Forget–me–nots bled the cotton bedsheets baby blue, leavening the mattress with a tidy emotion as it's tucked, folded at the top and draped in a complimentary quilt— benevolent blues, hues your lids soften on. The bed beelined from the doorway, a corner counter fawn–brown as the wood extends adjacent to it, covering the northeastern angle of the room. Magpied brands of canned food clutter shelves, spines spanning thick books of epic poetry to sci–fi comics create a ribcage of literature along a compact bookcase perching that countertop, and sunken in the east side of it, a steel sink. It shimmered sunflower bands of light as you moved, a rainbow–arched faucet brightened completely.

Step by step, you draw near a circular table in the middle. Strange rods and gadgets stuck out of the borders, inlaid glass protecting a local map so sleek you could see a phantom of your face in it, and a black bar looming the width, so it rings with tangible importance. Of which you'll gauge about later. Truthfully, the journey by foot here? Dead–beating, your knees bloated, throbbed flesh hot, and almost buckled; fatigues infamous way of scolding you to sit the fuck—

“Sup Maple lake, you there?”

A pang hammers to your heart, and a crawlish wave of startled blood pales from your face and drops to your jaw, “Jesus!” sweat hitting you a blink after, every normal function just— flunked. That voice, more like a ruptured stereo sizzling, caught you the fuck off guard. Now you dither, dumbassery taking your eyes through a new loop of figuring out where–why–how and what the robotic intruder wants.

But pre–realizing, your ears perk to a more coherent, and outstretched string of static, “C'mon, know you're checked in.” and post–realization tugs your eyes to a mustardy n’ black cased device; a walkie–talkie.

Okay, way to creep recruits out. Whoever, for whatever reason— at the nick of night too, gimme’ a break. You wry, knitting raisin crinkles above your nose, trying to discern your palette of options; pick up the walkie, tap in and feign politeness in the shortest and sluggiest scraps of small talk to be done with the day, or rant off the bat— highlight how fucking late it is, and how taxing a double–goddamned–day hike made your head and patience feel. And right now, the second response route feels arguably more tempting than—

“This is Cordero Tower, calling in. Can see ya’ standing by the Osborne, by the way.”

Its staticy feedback has waned completely, densening a thick husk and tilting towards a honeyed undertone. Relaxed sounding or not, what the fuck.

You react predictably, flicking your chin west, then east only for you to meet the dead of night— thanks mountains— stalking perfectly in every single window. So, useless to check. Answering it was a yes–go, it would be sickenly awkward to thrust it under the rug now. Your knees pull forward, eyes calligraphing the power buttons tinted in cherry light, palm drawing to meet your focal point.

The case is ribbon gentle under your fingertips’ graze, fresh and in store–new condition. Maybe the only thing hot from the pot of newfangled technology. Plastic intricacies roll under until you settle on a swollen button, denting the plush of your finger as you press, hold, and speak. A crisp crackle activates your line, tuning you in.

Breath hesitates between your chords, “Maple.. lake.. speaking,” off–the–tongue words manifesting on–the–spot, “you can see me?”

“Yeah.” the walkie chuckles, sugary curl pitching up and through their tone, “Look out ur’ north window, you'll see her.”

Her?

Nooking your nose north, you only widen pupils on that same, starless coast of darkness nosing the rim of your window sills. What do they mean to—

“Nh–no,” You literally said north, “get closer to the window, n’ look up.” What, are you a fucking sparkling, rasp–voiced eagle?

“Fuck are you talking about,” mouthed you void of voice, stumped on what this person was getting at. Wedging your knuckles below the meshy underside of your backpacks right strap, you wrangle it down your arm as you glide rubbery sole along croaking oak, tossing that bag so cumbersome atop a lily white pillow— looking fresher than a daisy, and clamber the mattress pliantly dented to your knees to grasp a broader panorama.

And with that window hood washed over, a convoy of fireflies focus a tiny constellation in the murked glass. Little pinholes of light, dots in the distance. They rough–hew a blur, but the excess seconds taken to brood squints and balance the blurry blotches, an outline crops up. Another fire lookout, sprouting from rock and rise of a berg. Offspring of the distant cordillera that gives this whole park its sense of a cradled–woodland, but either way thought, a lookout hosts it home on top.

“You can see me from all the way out there?” you wondered, truly. I mean— at minimum, a sore sprawl of miles bridges you both.

“Mhm..” a pause loiters that fluid hum, then some really throaty syllables, “Binoculars~” you could almost envision— nah, feel the stare of those binocs, undoubtedly taking note of every contort in your body right now.

“Oh thats, totally.. not,” you blunt your tone, shying a few inches from the glass, “.. creepy.” awkwardly. “Uh, who are you anyways— are you like, uh, another recruit?” as you engage small talk, grumpy frown pouting, the habit of kissing your wrist to your jaw as you would a piglet–tailed telephone overruns your burnt out focus, having to wince the walkie away when your eardrums nearly burst.

Ouch.

“For one, I'm actually your supervisor. I know, I don't sound like a typical smoker–lunged, middle–aged white dude.” their tone gruffs and deepens to impersonate, finger air quotes practically radiating from the other end, “And two, my name is Ellie— Ellie Miller–Williams, if you care.”

“Don't.” you heave out the pain stretching your head, aching each time you simply thunk.

“Straightforward,” her timbre ups in approval, seemingly, “I like it. I like you, recruit I dunno’ the name of.” and a bubble hics her throat, quite audibly.

“Not single.” Wrong, just uninterested. Hooking two fingers in the fabric handle of your bag and craning it to the ground, with scattered grates of plastic buckles skating the floor.

“What?”

Oh, shit she wasn't— oops, ‘course she meant that platonically, heads so damn muggy, “Uh, it's—my name.. sorry I’m just a bit out of the loop—” Dumbass, unscramble your brain alphabet soup, will you?

“That’s a long ass name, what were your parents thinking? Haha.” Her duo–beat chuckle flares your humiliation, and then proceeds to pinch its swollen parts into total inflammation, “Where does it originate from?”

Cheesy bitch, “Can you not— I like, pfhh..” you temper yourself with a moon–cool blow to chap your lips and inflate your cheeks, ending up with a draw of an even more loosened tongue sour as it complains, “Did a whole two–day hike through the most torturous terrain just to get here, I really don't—”

Please.

And if gripes trudged through teeth aren't persuasive enough, you recess your bone–ache bod avidly in the springy haven of your bed which chirped at your weights shifting motions, collarbones packing down on your vocal chords. You shouldn't sound up to chat whatsoever. Instead, vehemently drained, “I just wanna get some shut eye, talk me over n’ the mornin’.” your thumb lying a button away from disconnecting.

“Hey, hey—” Ellie ushered, her slurry breath fogging up the mic. Lips squeak softly into it, smacking before an intone, “Can't I be a little curious?”

You synchronized in noise, sucking teeth behind heart–pursed lips, “Do you think somebody this exhausted has the appetite to entertain you?” stilling your thumb–pad on the power off key.

“If I keep bothering you,” that alone ticked you, her blatant drive to carry on when your brain rejected its substance, “.. yeah. Maybe you'll be nicer then too.. huph!” a heartier peep hicced up on the speaker, and right then that noise jogged a discovery.

“Are you drunk?” has to be.

Of course, she ignores the naked and sorely obvious, “Did your boyfriend break ur’ heart or something— an’ that's why you're out here?” bottle sloshing in the background of her mumble.

Dumbstruck, you furrow a miffy expression, “W–what, boyfriend?”

“Said you weren’t single.” she recalls, warmly unspinning the fuddle that knit your brows, “Think I forget so easily?” drawled like a sultry retort, baking your ears.

You a hundred percent forgot though.

Gosh, short–term memory sucks, or it's just your energy drought making you woozy. Blame it on lethargy, “No no, that was just.. tired talk. I thought you were hitting on me.”

“Oh? That's cute.” her choosing to say that latter statement unfolded discordantly, you seriously couldn’t gauge if that was a flirt, or another paper daisy— mock honey, a platonic notion. Even so, it sounded so damn smooth, lace to the ears. “But no, I wasn't— m'not like gay or ‘whutever.” stammered her, light snort fanning.

A stifled chuckle hops from your chest, mixing with hers, “Uhuh, cool.” halfway uncaring and halfway amused, bafflement working your facial muscles.

“Yeah, um, but seriously..” her voice drifts into a ponderous rasp, the faint rustles of flimsy paper licking page to page subtler than her speech, “what's got you out here, newbie?”

“Newbie. Really?” A brow pricks.

“I mean, you're new— new to the lookout, new to the job, in need of my phenomenal supervision and my wide range of knowledge. Yeah, a newbie.”

Then your brow mellows, tension held in your face dropping dead on backhanded flattery, “You are funnily agonizing.”

“Aw.” her scratchily suave coo has your jaw set like stone, “That's so sweet.” but her short–lived song has your heartstrings soaked in ripe honeycomb, touched to the core by sweetness nebulose and an assortment of some foreign threads. Thickened heart, tighter ribs, a churn to weaken your stomach, a maverick of things unfamiliar to you.

Momentaries, but still noticeable even if your senses were twisted backwards.

Chewing over how you'll begin to explain, a few letters sift through your chords, until you hook on a sigh, “Ah, well, I'm out here for a fuck ton of reasons—”

“Reasons, or— huhp, problems?” Ellie blurt–hics, nosy.

“..”

A brief gulp and exhale wheezes from her, “Sorry, it's the bourbons’— super good. Continue.”

You loosely split your mouth, gasping to exchange a gale for words pressing out, “A series of reasons, and problems, that I don't bother to lay on a grand platter, so you'll get a summary tossed on an appetizer plate.” you preface. Allow an elliptical gap to cut through, rousing her hum to let you know her ears are as intent–peaked as a Chihuahua’s, “Contact with my parents’ has gone cold, my last job made me want to hurl into a pack of crocodiles— and the city became too loud and too heavy–handed. Saw this job on the local paper, and got the hell out of dodge.”

An omissive summary, you meant.

There’s more that eats the heart. People can’t just.. drop the burden of knowledge wantonly on randos like they’re idling under fertile treetops waiting for the apples to plummet, biting into a pulpy biography. She’s just a girl, not a therapist.

A discomforted purr lengthens into her reply, “Mmmmh, ever try a drink or two?” her intoxicated reply.

“Oh, see,” you flap your hand and slap it to your denim clad thigh, “you are drunk.” as if she could even see your gesture.

“No, I’m Ellie, hmhm~” comes with a giggle, and you consider her state of insobriety to be— wavering, but it’s stimulating to hear her fluctuate between groaned jokes and extra raspy comments, “Still haven’t told me your name though.”

Some moments during this whole ‘Who are you?’ seminar made you concerned for your future here— if you’ll make it out psyche intact, but some moments found by winnowing through the illogical backtalk touched you with inbound camaraderie.

Invisible touches that inhabit your neck with a leak of your name so— sincerely. It transforms into a fairer sound on your ears when she repeats it, affirming it. Nobody else's teeth clutches your name so welcome as she.

“Hmm, ‘name kinda fits your voice.” odd commentary, but since composed with her already peculiar and drunken tongue, the shoe fits.

That said, crabby confusion seems easier to articulate, “Thanks, weirdo.” but lips rebellious, they press an inevitable grin together.

“No problem, sleepyhead.”

So many nicknames.

Recognizing that downtick in hubbubs and breaths on the walkie, checking out for the night posed as a passionate option the burden weighing your eyelids couldn't or shouldn't veto. So you haul your torso up, kick and poke your toes over ankles to butt your boots off prior planting your heels, whisking toward the lightswitch and committing your lookout to swell with the outside's dark fresco.

Stygian tones.

“Speaking of sleepy heads..” you taper off speech, leaving the rest to her— touch wood— wide enough, hopefully–not–drunk–enough imagination to fathom as you slide and slip desperately beneath woolen blankets, sleepy worries, and sentences sailed to rest.

“Aw man.” Ellie bums so, so stupidly, for comical value.

“Yeah, man.”

“Mpht—” wetness smacks, “wanted to bore a pretty girl to death with recruit regulations and syllabi..”

How would you know?

In reality, Ellie was reaching a transcendent caliber of wasted, drinking up your atmospherics and drunken to her gutly core. Woods hatch forlorn people; forlorn people get thirsty, “But, mhh, heads’ nearly falling off, whoof.” she expresses a soaring of vowels, but it parallels a gruff howl more.

Drowsy, buzzy jubilancy, plucking her flirty strums. You sugarcoat the flare in your chest hearing ‘pretty girl’, ears clicking to the swallow convincing your heart that Ellie was not flirting. As established; She’s under the influence, and not gay. Your brain repeats that, over and over, repeat, repeat, she isn’t flirting.

“Hey, here's a tip..” you inch the walkie a penny away from your flopped head, clefting your lip open, “Don't get drunk on the job. They didn't hire you to decoct your brain the day before chaperoning a recruit in the literal wilderness. So, stash that shit, n’ let's both get some shut eye, yeah?” and saying all that, may have just cashed in your last dose of breath and brain cells for the night.

Ellie being Ellie— well, what you suspect is a ‘her’ thing after these few speckled minutes, dopily laughs at you. And dammit if she wasn't glamoring a dopey smirk in accord, you’ll have gleaned wrong.

A voice, “Who’s the boss again?” her witty and cruel wisecrack, “They didn't pay you to boss the— hup, boss around.”

They will pay you to confront and reflect your spectrum of limits if this girl brushes their seams, that's for certain. Or, play God and lambast her, tender as milk.

There's even a stroke of a chance, that your crooked lips poached her dopey grin instead, “Kay, well, maybe they'll reimburse me for your poor services.”

“My services are not poor. You'll see, tomorrow.” the volume of her melts away, going muted under liquid swills clanging on glass.

“Please tell me that's the sound of you putting the bottle away.”

“Mhm!” came out plugged, the bottle confining her garble, then popping clean as a cork, “Fuck— okay,” she siphons air in, pure little clink tinting the end of her sharp–edged sniffle, “Make sleeping in earlier worth it t’morrow, wanna drive you nuts with my questions.” she nasals, drawing near the mic again.

Such a magpie, “Cause you're lonely?” and weird.

“Shut up,” she shushes you, a satin whisper light–hearted and quick on beat, “M’not lonely anymore, right?” The type of softly spoken outcry that would balloon your cheeks with soreness if you were face–to–face with the throat that conducts it. Involuntary smiles plague you everywhere. But there is no mouth, no larynx, no throat that you view the swallow of. Just a walkie, so you settle in stoicism.

You tug your upper–lip and pivot your eyes, drumming up something clever to combat, “In a sense. Not like we’re bunkmates, thank goodness.”

“Fuck you,” Ellie breaks into a cuss spout so serenely, she sounded small and harmless, “just go to bed.” reduced to birch in winter shed of its brittle autumn arguments.

“Don’t gotta tell me once.”

By the first full and emphatic giggle she cast just now that wasn’t suppressed nor achieved by humble pie, you take it that Ellie found you funnily harrowing just as her, two peas in an outstretched pod. Fault be with her, for getting wasted. Otherwise, you might have pried her skull open with questions dolled up as a pruner, clipping the forelimbs that are foliated in a messy breadth of first glance leaflets and attitudes until you piece it prettily, in a way that thralls you to never shrink your eyes back into their sockets. Drunk people are like prone beehives though, so you don't prod them.

Tomorrow, you can paint her portrait, or vice versa.

“Whatever you say, newbie.”

And with the whirry crunch of the walkie shutting off, Monday, came to a close.

if you enjoyed this chapter, please lmk what you thought!! i love getting asks about my content ♡

perm taglist: @whore4abby @aouiaa @ellieslittlewhore @baumbii @tlougrl @mina-281 @beabeebrie @fleshunger @elliewilliamsisactuallymygf @nicolicht @cosmikoo @xinyaya @sawaagyapong @reinersbigolboobies @brunettedolls-blog @syrenada @fairyysoiree @p4ison1vy @nil-eena @hi2647 @disaster-bi-suki @rarestdoll @narieater @hrtmal @eudaemoniaaaa @ellie-07063 @luvfaeri @carleenaelaine @kissyslut @ellieswh0r3 @beemillss @elsmissingfingers @bugaboodarling @slynxs @maleelee @savannahsdeath @littlegingerperson5 @seraphicsentences series taglist: @tearouthearts @planetloverr @elliesexual @isitadinosaur @eveshyper @3lli3l0v3r @yourmothersfavgirl @emst4rr @theloserqueen @crxmxnzl-c0rpzes @whenlostinthedarkness @diddiqueen @deliriousrn

521 notes · View notes

evanchantingpeters · 8 months ago

Text

How I met Evan Peters (Fanfic - Part 3)

Pairings ─ Evan Peters x Y/N (fem reader)

Genre ─ Smut/fluff, Romance

Summary ─ Just as Y/N thought she had it all figured out in LA, her world spins out of control when Evan Peters storms in like a tornado. Their electrifying hook-up leaves her reeling, but waking up alone, she fears the worst. Then, a note appears—his number and an invitation to a date teasing her with a chance. What starts as a romantic evening quickly spirals into a frenzy of hide-and-seek and sex.

Warnings ─ Swearing, semi-public, oral (both receiving), doggy, shower sex, overstimulation, fingering, nipple teasing, spanking, vaginal sex, extra smutty—you savvy pros, you know the game inside out ;)

Read Part 1 here and Part 2 here.

Word count ─ 5K

18+ This is ADULT content. I’m not your mummy to supervise your net access. If you’re a minor, do NOT read!

You stir awake, blinking sleep away and squinting against the sunlight that streams through your curtains. A lazy smile curves your lips as you stretch, reaching out for...empty sheets. Mmhh, you just love the taste of nothing.

Evan’s not here... Emotional damage, even if what you had was an agreed one-off fling.

A soft groan escapes you as you fumble for your phone, the bright screen momentarily blinding you. 9:30. As you bury your nose into his pillowcase, you inhale deeply, catching a generous whiff of his essence’s sweet residue. You sigh deeply as your eyes land on the bedside table. His missing keys solidify the reality that he’s bounced, and you can’t help but frown.

“I feel like his side hoe when I should be the main character,” you think aloud, grumbling, and it’s giving trauma dumping and anxious attachment. What a refreshing concoction of disaster.

But what really puzzles you is the extra blanket draped over your duvet like a surprise guest. You wrack your brain, trying to recall if you snuggled up in it during the night, but it’s as hazy as trying to piece together a fuzzy Freudian dream.

With a resigned sigh, you roll out of bed, already craving his warmth. Mindlessly scrolling through your phone, you distract yourself with social media updates, news snippets, and the day’s weather forecast while you shuffle to the kitchen for your morning caffeine fix. A pang of disappointment hangs around like a lost sock in the dryer, but you refuse to let it dim your day and activate your female rage.

Or so you tell yourself.

Podcast blaring in the background, you tiptoe your way to the bathroom, facing your reflection in the mirror. You impulsively retrace the invisible path of Evan’s touch on you—from lips to chin, jawline, and neck down your cleavage and stomach. Each sensation has left its mark, and you can’t get enough of the sweet echoes. You sniff through your hair and arms in a desperate attempt to capture his scent on you—a tantalising hint of cinnamon and the musk of his natural oils that never fails to make your knees go weak.

You hop into the shower, letting the scalding water wash away your frustrations. Emerging revitalised and ready to conquer the day, you hastily throw on your work clothes and toss your keys and lanyard into your bag.

And that’s when you spot it by the entrance door—the note board. That bold black marker circling today’s 9 pm to 6 am time slot on your shift calendar, an arrow pointing directly to a message, practically winking at you, “Dinner and quality time with Evan. Text this number for more details.” Your heart somersaults with joy as you read the note over and over again, a goofy grin spreading across your face like wildfire.

You press a quick kiss to the note, folding it carefully and tucking it away as if it holds all the secrets of the universe. With a sense of anticipation bubbling in your chest, you dash out the door, already fashionably late.

On the subway, you retrieve the scrap of paper, tracing your fingers over his elegant handwriting with a soft smile. With a sarcastic tonality, you already craft your message, “I thought ghosts just floated around, they don’t ask you out.”

Within seconds, his response lights up your screen. “Morning to you too. Slept well? I’m the upgraded phantom version. Meet your Casper tonight at 9?”

You can’t help but giggle at his wit. Another text pops up, complete with coordinates to the restaurant he’s inviting you. The excitement builds inside you like a shaken soda bottle, and you’re practically fizzing with anticipation to see what the night has in store.

Time seems to trudge along at a sloth’s pace as you grind through your shift at the boutique. You flash your best retail smile as you serve customers on the cash register. Though, your mind is a million miles away, replaying the reel of moments with Evan; those moments when you convinced yourself that your insides were gonna spill out while he was going to town on you.

Half-heartedly, you tidy up the shop floor, picking up stray items and straightening displays. But let’s be real, your fingers move mechanically, and your brain is on autopilot as your thoughts wander back to the anticipation of tonight’s date. The enthusiasm is buzzing through you like a sugar rush, making it damn near impossible to focus on folding clothes or rearranging racks.

Each interaction with a customer is a blur as you absentmindedly tackle the fitting room. They might as well be talking to a mannequin for all you care. Your mind is firmly planted in Evan-land, where every moment is hot and heavy, and you’re too busy mentally undressing him for the umpteenth time.

“Girl, let me in your bubble, would you?” The voice of Trisha, your department’s jokester, slices through your daydreaming like a ninja with a chainsaw.

You blink, momentarily disoriented, before bursting into laughter at her impeccable timing. “Trish!” you exclaim, relishing in her knack to crack you up with her quirky humour. “Sorry, this bubble is strictly reserved for someone today.”

Her giggle rings out like music in the store as she playfully rolls her eyes. “Fine, fine! You do you, boo. Just make sure to save some of that magic for the rest of us in Stylista Gine, deal?”

With a saucy wink, she sashays off to attend to her own tasks, leaving you to shake off your giggles. The minutes tick by, and eventually, your shift mercifully comes to an end. With a sigh of relief and a bounce in your step, you clock out, knowing that soon you’ll be back in Evan’s arms (and on his dick).

You hastily trod along Sunset Boulevard, your sleek dark coat swinging with each step, and your little black dress add an extra sway to your stride. You’re practically power-walking in heels, like you’re in a race against time and your destination is the finish line.

Arriving at the hotel he’s staying at, you adjust the strap of your black stilettos around your ankle, ensuring no wardrobe malfunctions with your stocking will disrupt your night. With your heart thudding, you breeze through the sliding doors and past the reception.

The tantalising scent of watermelon cocktail teases your senses as you strut in the bar restaurant, scoping out the room with mounting anticipation.

“Hi there, reservation for Peters?” you inquire, shooting a charming smile at the host, your racing emotions briefly receding.

Reciprocating with a polite grin, he quickly checks his tablet before nodding in confirmation. “Got it! Table 8. Right this way, miss,” he affirms, extending his arm in a welcoming gesture.

Following the host, you can’t help but feel a surge of excitement as you round the corner and spot Evan’s back at the table. He looks effortlessly handsome in his blazer, like he’s just stepped out of a magazine spread, making your stomach churn with blissful nerves.

“Looks like my date’s here, thanks,” you note quietly with a soft smile.

“Awesome! Enjoy,” the host replies cheerfully, heading back to his post.

As you approach Evan, you lean in and give his shoulder a cheeky squeeze—a silent yet affectionate greeting that speaks volume. His gaze lights up with recognition, and he practically jumps from his chair, his grin widening as he’s eyeing you from top to bottom.

“Hey!” he exclaims, his voice laced with enthusiasm. “My eyes needed a bit of a warning for this stunner. Your fit’s so sleek, it looks tailor-made,” he adds shortly after, beaming, as you flow in a warm hug, his arms clinging around you like he never wants to let go.

With a crooked smirk, you blurt out with a touch of sarcasm, “Thanks. I picked it up with you in mind.”

His eyes widen in surprise, his grin expanding by the second. “Seriously?” he squeaks, visually delighted by the notion.

You giggle, shaking your head. “Nah, but imagine if I did,” you fire back, your hearty laughter dancing in the air like confetti.

Before you know it, an electric tension fills the space between you as you stand mere inches apart, locked in a silent yet smouldering gaze.

“Are we on a ‘try not to kiss’ challenge?” he spills out, his voice an alluring murmur as his minty breath pleasantly prickles your skin.

A sly smile tugs at your lips. “Let’s see who caves and closes the gap first,” you hum as you flicker between his lips and his eyes. He feels the tension coil in his gut but forces it down with a hard gulp.

Leaning in closer, his breath mingles with yours as he whispers, “You gotta give your best shot not to kiss me, then,” his tone carrying a seductive undertone that sends a delicious thrill rushing through you.

“You wish. No chance I’m smudging my tinted lip balm,” you retort and playfully pinch his nose, punctuating your mocking banter with a wink.

With a graceful flip of your hair and a coy smile, you ease into your chair, feeling the heat of his gaze on you, all self-assured about the sensual spell you’ve cast over him.

He’s practically eye-fucking you right now, and you’re loving it.

“If that’s your idea of payback for sneaking out this morning, Y/N, I’ve been running errands and exploring new job prospects for next year,” he explains earnestly, handing you a straw for your cocktail and cutlery for your appetisers.

“And I may or may not have picked up a little something for you,” he announces next, pulling out a wrapped box from his blazer pocket, mischief sparkling in his eyes.

Your playful vibe evaporates, replaced by a whirlwind of shock and emotion. “Shut the…front door, no way,” you utter sheepishly as you cautiously reach for the unexpected gift.

With a throaty chuckle at your reaction, he jerks his eyebrows upwards, silently encouraging you to dive into the gift.

You eagerly rip open the packaging, gasping in disbelief. “Roland Barthes, Mythologies…Oh my days,” you cry out, unable to believe your luck. Your eyes flit to the curious glances from other patrons in the corner, and you swiftly tone your enthusiasm down a notch.

He nods in understanding, smiling fondly at you. “Yep, saw his Lover’s Discourse on your bedside table, and the bookmark was dangling on the final pages,” he justifies, a knowing twinkle in his gaze.

Overwhelmed with emotion, you slide the book in your bag and rise from your seat. “Ugh, Evan! Thanks a ton, you’re the best,” you gush, your voice thick with gratitude as you move closer to him.

He stands up too, his eyes fixed on yours, soft with affection. Stepping closer, his dark eyes dart from your lips to your eyes, as if he’s wordlessly asking for permission. Instead, he reaches out to pull you into a hug, but you gently lift his chin and crane your neck, sealing his plush, pink lips in a brief yet tender peck.

As you break the kiss, Evan blinks in surprise, seemingly caught off guard by the sudden shift in energy. His eyes search yours, silently questioning the unspoken feelings that hover between you, his own heart pounding with anticipation.

“Why did that take so long today?” he sighs against your ear, softly touching his lips. His voice, like honey dripping from velvet, resounds in your ears like a melody as he delicately brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes—the colour of rich black chocolate—are glued on yours, and the gravitational pull of his euphoric visual abyss draws you in.

Your heart flutters at the intensity of his gaze, feeling the heat expand through you. “It took long for momentum,” you retort, your tone light with playful teasing as you flash him a coy smile and sit back down.

The buffalo cauliflower bites aren’t the only thing heating up at your table; your conversation’s spicier than a jalapeño popper and with more layers than a double-decker with extra cheese. One minute you’re debating the perfect burrito toppings, embarrassing childhood nicknames, weird dreams, European cinema and 80s bands, and the next, you’re digging into careers, beliefs, goals, and life’s deepest truths.

It’s like a game of emotional Jenga—one block, or in this case, one topic leads to another, and before you could utter ‘Evan, eat me,’ you’ve both laid your souls bare without even realising it.

Fully immersed in the flirtatious banter, Evan beckons invitingly to the seat beside him with a subtle tilt of his head. “Why don’t you slide here, so I can properly admire your outfit?” he mumbles in a husky timbre, his eyes ablaze with desire.

But just as the tension between you ignites like a volcano lava, the waiter interrupts with his timely arrival. “What can I get for you both?” he interjects, shattering the moment.

With a mischievous glint in your eye, you gesture Evan to go first, shooting him a ‘hold up, let me cook,’ look. With a bold move, you slip off your shoe under the table and discreetly brush your foot against his pant leg.

You feel him stiffen as he places his order, his composure wearing out. Stifling a giggle, you almost sadistically enjoy his flustered state as he clumsily fumbles and drops his menu, the clatter against the plate resonating like a thunderbolt.

He’s a ten, but he stumbles over his words and over-apologises when aroused in the most inappropriate settings. Take my money, that bumps him up to a solid thirty.

“Would you like extra cheese with that?” the waiter chimes in, oblivious to the charged atmosphere crackling between you.

Evan nods, swallowing thickly as your foot ventures higher up his thigh, stoking the flames of his growing hardness.

“And you, miss?”

“Eh? Umm, double everything, please. I’ll have what he’s having. Thanks,” you mutter with a half smile, your leg rubbing against his throbbing erection to a fever pitch.

As the waiter marches to the kitchen, Evan clenches his jaw, frustration painted all over his stormy gaze. He bunches his cloth napkin from his lap and tosses it onto his plate, blowing out a sharp, exasperated breath.

“Evan,” you call out with an apologetic expression, watching him push his chair with the backs of his knees and storm off to the bathroom.

You shoulder the heavy door and step into the empty men’s bathroom, your insides wounding themselves in knots. You scan the room, hunting for any trace of Evan, until your gaze lands on the locked door at the end. Curiosity gnaws at you, nudging you to investigate.

With a hesitant knock, you signal your presence. Before you can react, the door swings open, and Evan’s dark eyes greet you from the other side as he pulls you into the room.

The door clicks shut behind you as you quickly take in the gold-hued surroundings: a lavish toilet, a gleaming sink, and a long bench strewn with plush towels and designer toiletries. The place gives you a babushka-esque feel—a mini, fully-equipped restroom within the main one, and it’s like stepping into a VIP sanctuary.

Though, as you register Evan’s proximity, his body pressed flush against yours, your thoughts scatter like marbles on a polished floor, and pleasure sparks sizzle through your veins like a live wire.

“Hey,” you bleat, feeling the tension twist in your gut as you swallow hard, trying to steady yourself.

His strong arms cradle your waist. He draws you into a tight embrace until you’re cocooned on his lap, the heat of his body searing into your skin.

You cross your legs as he closes the distance between you, his veiny hands fondling and squeezing your thighs greedily and possessively.

“Evan,” you croak out, clearing your throat to ground yourself as he strokes your cheek with his knuckle. “I realise that might have been a bit much for public display…and I’m sorry,” you mumble, flashing him an apologetic look before averting your gaze.

But his expression remains stern, a furrow creasing his brow as he lets out an exaggerated huff—eyes hooded and mouth set in a grim line. “That won’t fix it, I’m afraid. I’m still hurt and embarrassed.”

You quirk a brow at him, a hint of defiance in your gaze as you meet his unwavering stare. “And what do you suggest now?” you challenge with a sly smirk, a daring spark igniting in your face.

His lips curl into a sinister smile as he leans in, his scorching breath against your ear sending a tremor down your backbone. “Get on your knees, and use this beautiful mouth of yours to show me just how sorry you are,” he whispers as he’s massaging your tits, his words like an electric current buzzing through you at a high voltage.

You snort, your hand weaving through his silky hair as you draw him closer. “Oh, you think you’ve won? I’d be more than happy to suck you up—day and night, overtime included,” you purr, your voice husky with longing as you sink to your knees.

Positioned between his legs, you look up at him with a mischievous smile. “Someone’s suffering in there,” you coo and outline his stiff shaft with your tongue, feeling him twitch beneath the smooth fabric, aching for freedom.

Pinned against the wall, he sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, his hips buckling forward in desperate response.

The button of his slacks loosely holds on, barely containing his throbbing beast from bursting it open. Gripping the cold metal of his zipper between your teeth, you drag it down slowly, your pussy dripping as his low growl rumbles from his chest like distant thunder when he finally finds release.

You reach up, flipping down the elastic waistband of his boxers so you can slip your hand in, dragging your fingers along his pulsing crimson tip.

“Suck it, don’t tease,” he commands, his tone rigid and thick with desire. You comply without hesitation, eagerly licking off the subtle traces of his seed off the tip, twirling your tongue around it.

Your mouth is immediately slick with his precum, the thick fluid coating the corners of your lips. The heady scent drives you wild as you savour every drop of his essence. You keep using your tongue to smear some of it to the underside of the head, teasing at the ridges and pressing into the squishy flesh of his head.

He bites down on his lips, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he battles to muffle his grunts, his body quivering with need.

When you finally close your lips around his painfully hard cock, he reacts with a sharp intake of breath. His fingers thread through your hair as he breathlessly whines your name like a fervent prayer. From that angle, his dimples appear as dark slits along his cheeks, adding to his rugged allure.

You meet his gaze with a sultry mewl of pleasure, giving your throat more room to take him in harder and deeper into your mouth. Flattening your tongue, you glide lower on him as you hold onto his pelvis until his head crushes the back of your throat, testing your gag reflex.

Challenge accepted; you handle him like a pro.

“Y/N, you’re… oh, fuck… No,” he sputters out with an intense shudder, rubbing his eyes as he fights the overwhelming tide of his impending orgasm.

“Load me,” you exhale teasingly as you pull him out of your mouth only to pump him back down with renewed hunger. He intertwines his fingers with yours, guiding your movements as you kick off a slow, torturous rhythmic ordeal just to gauge his reaction.

With a choked moan, he tightens his grip, sticking his convulsing cock all the way down with urgency, thrusting in your mouth with a ruthless pace.

His move and the resonance of his deep voice send a surge of heat to your core that consumes you, tripling the moisture in your panties.

You want him in ways that will add new sins to the bible.

Each time you rise, you suck his tip with fervour before slamming back down on his throbbing length. The symphony of moans he’s emitting are almost sinful—you’ve never gotten soaking wet just from hearing a man groan. He’s gonna be the death of your ovaries.

As you steal a gaze upwards, his abs glistening with a sheen of sweat, you watch his head fall back. “No,” he breathes out repetitively, his chest heaving and his Adam’s apple bobbing—a tell-tale sign that he’s on the brink of letting his load spray onto anything in the room.

His balls tighten, cock pulsing as his thrusts into your mouth turn sloppy and messy. Blinded by pleasure, his mind goes blank as he teeters on the edge.

Still panting, he hauls you off him more forcefully, his fingers hooking onto the hem of your stockings. You notice his nose scrunch up in clear disapproval as he glares at your lips—swollen and shining with wetness—immediately stripping you off your undergarments with raw intensity.

Flipping you over so your upper body’s bent over the wooden bench, he gropes your ass cheek before slapping it harshly, making you squeal with excitement. “Why do I have to say no twice?” he growls, his voice ringing with dominance as he claims you as his own.

You’re ovulating, so your audacity and inhibitions are thrown to the wind, acting like you’ve been dick-deprived your entire life. “I wanna tick you off so much you show no mercy. Just take me already,” you demand, your voice heavy with despair.

With a guttural groan, he obliges, rutting his hips as he lines up his leaking tip with your entrance. The moment he meets your wet folds, you both gasp in unison as he plunges in you. The sensation of him filling you up sparks fireworks as he humps you in long, steady thrusts, his velvet plush head bumping against your swollen clit with a delicious friction.

Your cries threaten to spill out, but his hand clamps gently over your mouth to shush you, his dark eyes flashing with warning. “We have to be quiet, baby,” he rasps, his voice tinged with lust. You turn over your shoulder and nod underneath his grasp, your half-lidded eyes glazing with pleasure.

A muffled yelp roars against his palm as he drills his aching cock deeper inside of you. You grip the edge of the bench tightly, and the sound of it banging against the wall echoes through the room, adding a primal rhythm to your ecstasy. The sensation of your slithery walls stretching to accommodate his thick dick is nothing short of mind-blowing for both of you.

Using the bench for leverage, he thrusts harder, his hand trailing up to caress the curve of your ribs as you writhe beneath him. “Fuck, I love your wet little pussy,” he hisses with primitive desire. “Cum for me, Y/N, all over my dick.”

“I’m getting there, baby. I wanna drown in your juices,” you moan, feeling his jaw slacken against your back as your walls pulse around his throbbing cock.

Just as the bench keeps bashing against the concrete wall in sync with your rising orgasms, a sudden crash breaks the intensity of the moment. The yellow paint plastic box from above the shelf tumbles down—its contents splattering over both of you and the wall, creating an impromptu abstract masterpiece in the spur of the moment.

You both freeze, paint trickling down your bodies, adding vibrant hues to your flushed skin. Evan blinks in surprise, his hands still gripping your hips as he takes in the colourful chaos engulfing you.

“Well, we certainly went hard on the paint,” he quips, trying to lighten the mood despite the unexpected interruption.

You chuckle nervously as you survey the lively mess. “Looks like we got more than we bargained for tonight,” you shoot back, your voice filled with playful mischief.

With a wicked smirk, Evan swipes paint off your cheek, leaving a colourful streak between you two as you embrace. “We’ve got a cleanup on our hands before we can get back to what we—” His words are abruptly cut off by approaching footsteps.

Though the intoxicating passion still clouds your mind, one detail arises with sobering clarity: You’re screwed (literally).

“You hit it off with the first three cubicles, I’ll handle the ones from the end, and we’ll meet in the middle,” a deep man’s voice echoes from outside, sending a jolt of panic through both of you.

Evan winces and involuntarily grabs your hand. Your body stiffens as you lace your clammy fingers with his, the paint already forming a small puddle at your feet.

Acting on pure instinct, he ushers you deeper into the toilet, using his foot to discreetly slide the torn condom wrapper closer to your hiding spot.

“What’s the plan now?” you mouth. Your palms are raised in a questioning gesture, fingers wiggling subtly, as your breath comes in shallow, shaky huffs.

Evan shrugs. “That was a plot twist, didn’t see it coming,” he replies, barely audible in his hushed response.

You hang onto his shirt for dear life, your face taking a ghost-like pale complexion as you weigh the consequences of the trouble you’re about to get in. “The door’s locked, but there’s a little slot under it. Shall I wait up here until they’re gone?” you pantomime your words, attempting to convey your plan to Evan with the finesse of a silent movie star. But as you try to hoist yourself up and chamber onto the toilet seat, you slip, almost tumbling backward.

Evan swoops in to catch you like a superhero, his forehead wrinkled by worry lines, eyes wide with alarm. “You good?” he whispers urgently, pressing a finger to his lips in a frantic plea for silence.

You nod vigorously, gesturing toward the door with exaggerated motions, communicating your escape plan like you’re on the charades: “Let’s go check if we’re clear, then sneak out.”

Nodding in silent agreement, he unlocks the door with a flick of his wrist. Poking his head out, he peers cautiously into the corridor. You stretch up on your tiptoes, craning your neck to peek out over his shoulder, scanning the corridor for any sign of movement.

Finding no one in sight, you both spring into action with the speed and stealth of seasoned spies. You snatch up as much toilet roll as you can, using it to hastily wipe away the evidence of your paint mishap. The paper becomes saturated with soap and water as you scrub your life away, determined to leave no trace behind.

Before you know it, Evan seizes your hand, purse and shoes, and you skitter out of the bathroom like you’re escaping a high-security prison. You zip past the slightly open doors of the other stalls, and as you weave the maze of hallways, you catch a glimpse of the two cleaning men hard at work—one wielding a toilet spray like a weapon on the lead, while the other, two doors ahead, diligently mops the floor.

You burst out of the bathroom, hearts racing and adrenaline pumping, feeling like you just pulled off the heist of the century. In the dimly lit corridor between the toilets and the restaurant, you exchange triumphant grins, basking in the rush of your daring gateway. With a quick, victorious high five, you’re both ready for the next phase of your adventure.

But before you can catch your breath, Evan pulls you close, his lips crashing against yours in a fiery kiss that sets you on fire. His tongue dances with yours, igniting a fierce passion between you. As his hands start to wander along your ass and clit, you can’t resist and melt into his touch, a soft moan slipping off you.

Reality hits you like a freight train, and you protest against his lips, reluctantly swatting his hands away and pushing him back gently. “You can’t waltz back to your table looking like nuggets dipped in mayo, and I don’t have a spare wardrobe stashed in my purse,” you whine. With a determined swipe, you rub off a scuff mark from his cheek, your thumb tracing the contours of his face as he nods in understanding.

“Okay, let’s go,” he says, and without missing a beat, he takes your hand and leads you in the direction of the toilet. But as you reach the door, he steers you towards the emergency door instead. Throwing yourselves outside, you’re met with the frigid night air, an uninviting shock after the warmth of the restaurant.

The cold bites at your skin, raising goosebumps along your arms. But Evan is quick to replace your coat, which still hangs off your table chair, and envelops you in an embrace, rubbing your arms to warm you up.

You cling to him, his body heat a comforting embrace as he cups your hands in his, blowing warm breath into them. The moon casts a soft glow over a secluded pond before you, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the hotel.

“I’ve got good and bad news,” Evan chirps, his voice tinged with a mischievous undertone. You raise an eyebrow, curiosity piqued as you lean closer to him, flakes of paint dropping off your arms as he intensifies his rubbing.

“Spill the good news first. Enough shocks for today, I wanna buy myself some time.”

“The good news is,” he begins, a grin spreading across his face, “my rented place is over there,” he reveals and points behind you. You follow his gaze to the tall complex of flats that extend from the main hotel.

You hum in acknowledgment, planting a quick peck on his lips. “Alright… and what’s the bad news?” you inquire, already bracing yourself for whatever curveball he’s about to throw your way.

“The bad news is that if we wanna keep the prying eyes at bay,” he continues, his eyes fixed on you in mounting suspense, “we’ve got some climbing to do.”

The grass crunches under your feet as you wade through the greenery, your heels sinking into the mud with each step. You duck under the low archway in the middle and reach the towering fence.

“Damn, that’s taller than I thought,” he mutters, eyeing the fence with a furrowed brow.

“Piece of cake,” you counter with a coy smile, tossing your heels on the other end. You make the first move by planting your toes on a cracked piece in the wall, gripping the hurdle tightly to propel yourself upwards.

As he gives you an extra push, his hands boldly grazing your ass, a mischievous sparkle gleams in his eyes. “Speaking of cakes,” he cheers, squeezing your curves as his eyes linger on the enticing view of your cunt beneath your dress, his grin broad and cocky.

“Stay focused, dude,” you hiss, playfully waving him away as you divert your attention back to the task at hand.

With a hint of concern in his voice, Evan watches you climb, ready to catch you if you falter. “Take it slow, Y/N. With this velocity, you gotta use one leg at a time...” he advises, his arms poised to assist you.

Rolling your eyes, you brush off his instruction. “The mansplaining’s redundant, Peters. I’ve got this,” you scold jokingly, confidently manoeuvring over the obstacles.

“It’s hard... oh, mind your head on the branches…” he mumbles, absentmindedly repeating “it’s hard” as he observes your every move with a mix of awe and disbelief.

When you safely tumble over to the other side, he can’t help but chuckle nervously, astonished by your agility. “Oh, that was easy…it was really easy, actually” he mumbles with a shake of his head, mouth agape, still processing your swift ascent.

“Come on, slowpoke,” you taunt, your voice laced with playful challenge. You dust off your hands, the thrill of the escape still coursing through your veins.

“I’m just taking my time,” he defends as he carefully navigates his way over the fence.

“Says the guy who played Quicksilver,” you mock, giggling, and run your tongue along your teeth with a cheeky smile.

As Evan finally makes it over the fence, he stumbles on a loose stone, his footing giving way beneath him. You gasp, lunging forward to catch him as he starts to fall backward, his arms flailing wildly as he tries to regain his balance.

“Watch out!” you cry out, and you manage to pull him back from the brink of spraining his ankle on the way down.

He winces in pain, clutching his leg as he tries to stand. “Ouch, that was close,” he groans, his breath hitched.

Concern floods through you as you help him to his feet, supporting him as he tests his injured ankle. “You okay?” you ask, worry evident in your voice.

Evan nods, his expression strained. “I think so,” he replies, clenching his jaw against the discomfort.

You sigh, realising that your adventure may have taken an unexpected turn. “Maybe we should take it easy for now, old man,” you suggest once you realise he’s fine, suppressing a laugh as you guide him back to safety.

As you playfully rib Evan with the “old man” label, he retaliates by tickling you, his fingers sending ripples of loud laughter down your spine. You squirm and wriggle, trying to escape his teasing grasp, but he’s relentless.

“Alright, alright, I give up!” you yell, breathless from both laughter and excitement. But Evan doesn’t stop there. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he picks you up into his arms, his lips hammering against yours in a passionate kiss, his tongue swirling with yours.

“Let me show you who’s the old man,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice dripping with desire and challenge as he carries you off.

The reception area lies deserted, and the dull glow of an overhead light seeps through the crack at the bottom of the slightly ajar cleaning storage door.

“Anyone here?” he calls out, testingly, but there’s no response. Without wasting any time, you make a beeline for the elevator. The ding of the lift makes you jump, you launch your bodies up the stairs, bounding them up like a panther on the prowl, your feet padding down on the carpeted floor.

You creep into his room, edging the door shut until the latch clicks into place, and you pause to laugh at the yellow patches on your body. “I feel like I’ve just wrestled a pig in a mud pit.”

“I’ve got the best way to clean it all up?” he mumbles sloppily into your lips, his arms folded around your waist, massaging your ass.

Hot water spurts out of the shower faucet, raining down marvellously on the tiled floor. You smile, holding your hand up to it and watching the paint, mostly dried now, run off your legs before landing on the ground and swirling around the drain. The temperature is heavenly, able to ease even the deepest aching of your shoulders, and your smile widens.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, planting a few teasing kisses along your exposed collarbone.

You bite down your lip at the sensation. “Finger-fuck while you kiss me, first. I need it,” you huff in despair, eyes imploring.

“You wish, I deliver, baby,” he breathes out, suckling on your pulse as you lightly pump his erect shaft in your hand in your fluid motion. He seems way too horny and too into you to say no.

He grunts and grounds his hips against your inner thigh. Against the wall, his fingers dip in, gathering some of your warm, slithery wetness and splotching it over your shiny folds. His free hand claws on your face, dragging you for a breathless kiss.

“Gosh,” you moan chokingly, an exhilarating lilt in your words. Your back arches as you feel that knot in your stomach beginning to snap. The pad of his middle finger keeps tapping and circling your clit, and you feel the escalating climb of your orgasm. Your legs start to twitch, and once he realises this, his fingers slowly drift away from your weeping cunt, his slick fingers gripping your thigh.

“Wh-why?” you protest in frustration.

Without uttering a single syllable, he snatches the detachable shower head, a smirk playing on his lips as he winds the cable around his wrist. He cranks the setting to its highest level and kneels down, parting your slopping folds with a confident touch. His lips curve in a devilish smile as he takes sight of your pulsating pussy clenching around nothing, giggling as he realises he’s edged you so badly.

As he positions the shower head near your throbbing clit, you instinctively clamp your hand over your mouth, stifling the shrill whimper that threatens to escape. The sensation of the water hitting your sensitive bud forces your breath out in punchy, laboured gasps as you feel the vibrations bringing your high closer.

He laps at your cunt like it’s a melting ice cream cone, and it doesn’t take long for your sweet cream to leak out along his mouth. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, eyelids fluttering as you’re consumed by the tsunami of your looming orgasm. Each flick of his tongue sends tremors through your thighs, the wet, slick sounds filling the room.

His tongue flattens out against your clit and you let out a needy whine, your hips instinctively bucking against his mouth. He presses his face deeper into your wet folds, tongue jerking at the underside of your clit. As he licks at your entrance, he sinks his tongue into your soaking hole, you cum on his tongue, grinding his face, moaning his name in heavy, ragged pants.

As the aftershocks of your orgasm ripple through you, he stands up straight, his hands gently caressing your waistband in a soothing gesture. But you’re not done yet. With a hungry urgency, you pull him into a kiss, your lips melding together.

He backs you against the wall, hiking up your thighs and wrapping them tightly around his waist. You wrap your hand around the base of his cock, guiding him to your dripping entrance. As he slams into you, the world around you fades away, and your head lolls back in ecstasy.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he grunts as he pounds harsher and faster in you, his balls slapping against your ass cheeks.

Your slick is trickling down his cock, creating a slippery mess on his thighs as he drives into you relentlessly. His breathing picks up pace, the air thick with the heady scent of sex and steam. You almost had him, until his hands forces your hips down onto his cock as far as they would go, his tip nudging against your cervix.

A scream tears from your lips as you squirm against his ruthless assault and bruising force. The tip of his cock brushes against that spongy spot inside you time and time again, the lewd squelching sounds of your poor, swollen cunt only a faint indicator that you were close.

In the misty haze of the shower, you catch him smirk crookedly, pleased with the visual above him. Your tits bounce tantalisingly in front of him, a tempting feast he can’t resist as he reaches out to grab them in his mouth, eager to taste every inch of your trembling body.

As the unbearably tight, hot coil in your abdomen snaps, you’re unable to contain the set of moans that spill from your lips. A tingling heat spreads across your body, your muscles contracting and burning with the intensity of your release.

His face contorts in pleasure, his brows knitting together as his jaw drops in awe. His breaths come out in hurried, choppy huffs as he pumps inside you, warm, white strings of cum painting your walls as if he marks his territory and you as his own.

“Ugh, I’m dizzy...and l look like shit,” you huff out, your voice laced with giggles. Evan stays still for a moment, burying his face into the crook of you neck.

“You’re dizzy but beautiful,” he rasps, chuckling breathlessly, and you feel your cheeks flushing. He strokes your face, his touch tender and loving as he presses soft kisses against your lips. Your tongues dance together in a sweet and intimate exchange as soft moans escape both of you.

Slowly, he pulls out. A mix of your juices coats his tip as it drips from your hole in a seductive display of your shared ecstasy.

“I want cuddles on the bed now,” he says, his voice soft and pleading, a hint of a pout playing on his lips as he gazes at you with adoration.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: sillysillygyal, junkie4weezer, frankiesweird, divinerulerz, nickrhodeslittledarling

265 notes · View notes

jovial-thunder · 10 months ago

Text

Lancer Tactics devlog

I'm gonna try out posting my ~monthly devlog roundup here as well. These suckers are glorified changelogs with anecdotes and gifs galore. Let me know if this is something you like seeing show up on your dash?

Map Editor

Got units able to be placed/deleted/moved in the mission editor

Can paint/remove command zones in the editor

Can paint minecraft-like terrain blocks in the editor

Can paint/rotate multi-tile props in the editor

Can edit unit character sheets and portrait via the editor

3D maps

Did a bunch of art tests with 3D mech models, provided by GeneralChaos, which we ended up deciding not to go with to keep things simple.

To avoid the can of worms that is animation, we'd have to lean into a static "tabletop minatures" aesthetic which we decided is not a style we want to be stuck with. By sticking with 2D sprites, we avoid falling into a sort of uncanny valley; it's easier to get away with not animating a 2D sprite than it is for a 3D model.

We also experimented with 3D terrain. We decided to make a rule that the visual style for a piece of terrain should match its mechanical effect: obstructing terrain that you can't move through, such as rocks or buildings, will be in 3D, while non-obstructing terrain like trees will stick with 2D sprites.

Hooking up the 3D camera to follow events like movement and attacks did a LOT for making it starting to feel like it's cohering into an Actual Game™

Implemented cover! And an attack preview! Cover works by aiming a ray from the target to the originator (technically to and from each voxel of each, respectively, to handle size 2s shooting above size 1 cover) and tracking all the terrain blocks it hits (how we'll handle non-terrain hard cover TBD). I think I have it working according to Perijove's cover rules manual, but I'm sure there'll be edge cases to work out. This is a case where things are significantly simplified by working in squares instead of hexes; hexes have a lot more possible weird angles you have to deal with.

Re-added what I'm stubbornly calling Combat Popcorn; little bits of text that pop out when you use abilities and attacks.

UI & game screens

Added ability for the engine to show UI that's anchored to the game world via a little word bubble line but also stay on screen as the camera moves around.

Got word bubbles working; you can now write dialogue in the mission editor, hit playtest, and see it work in a mission! (it does actually translate correctly now; this gif is just from a bug I thought was funny)

Got ability effects mostly behaving appropriately again, including muzzle flashes. The easiest way to handle them ended up being NOT billboarding them so they always face the camera (like all other 2D sprites in the game); instead, I put them on a plane parallel with the ground and just spin them around the unit to point at wherever their target is.

Did some work ironing out our tooltip system. The standard in CRPGs these days is this kind of nested labyrinth of tooltops that you see in Baldur's Gate 3:

I Did Not Want to try and figure out how to wrangle that much UI, so we're instead opting to cap the nested tooltips at the second layer. You can lock a general tooltip for e.g. an action and then mouseover various items within that tooltip to get glossary definitions...

...and then instead of having those glossary tips be lockable/mouse-overable themselves, I collect all related terms to that glossary definition and let you tab through them.

Added skin overlay functionality to the portrait maker, enabling textures like scars, tattoos, stubble, and vitiligo to be applied to just the skin and not extend off into space.

Midway through writing this update, Carpenter sent me this gif of the randomization button working! There's a still a bunch of skintones/assets missing and a few are a bit janky, but it was exciting to start seeing the range of these lil freaks (affectionate) that this editor can create.

Mourning cloak license!

This is the one I'm probably most excited about: I did a bit of a content dive and implemented a basic character sheet + all Mourning Cloak traits and equipment. They don't have fancy graphics yet, but the weapons and systems can be added via the character sheet and used in-game.

It took a little under a day, including adding soon-to-be common mechanisms like bonus damage. This is great news in that it means the engine we've been building for so long in the abstract seems to do a great job in handling comprehensive actual game content, and that it looks like we've set ourselves up for success when it comes time to buckle down on churning that out.

I'm sure other licenses will come with unique difficulties (I fear the day it comes time to do the Mule Harness // Goblin CP) but I'm feeling good about it!

Vertical slice?

Taking a step back, the pressing question on my mind has been "when will we have a playable early access build?"

I was originally hoping for Feb/March, but what we've internally been referring to as the "3D cataclysm" has pushed everything back by at least three months, so the target for the first alpha build is now in May. So, ah, thanks for your patience! Seeing things come together, I've become more and more convinced that moving to 3D was the right call.

#lancer tactics #made with godot #godot 4 #indie game dev #game dev #lancer rpg #tactics rpg #indie dev #godot engine

292 notes · View notes

canmom · 1 month ago

Text

social mechanics in RPGs

not a metaphor this time

so. a comment prompted by seeing this float by the dash.

some TTRPG mechanics are designed to abstract over something. you don't want to intricately simulate climbing a wall so you make a mechanic that says 'roll your Climbing Up Shit number and see if you get up the wall in time' (or whatever the stakes may be). any time you need to climb a wall, you just roll one die, and done. maybe offer a little description.

some TTRPG mechanics are designed to draw the game towards the thing they're simulating and make it a focus. these rules might be elaborate, intricate subsystems - the combat rules in D&D being the archetypal example. particularly in later editions, D&D is really interested in combat, it wants to have an elaborate tactical sim where you're juggling different resources to gain an advantage, it wants combat to take up a lot of game time.

in D&D the combat rules are largely self-referential (i.e. game constructs interacting with game constructs) and don't leave a lot of room to determine things by pure narrative logic, so the system needs to have enough depth to carry that. some systems, such as The King Is Dead, structure nearly every interaction.

other TTRPG systems leave more to player improv. there are various frameworks to account for the interface between the fuzzy narrative game world and the hard, procedural, mechanical one. PbtA has its 'moves', which trigger based on conditions to push the narrative in a certain direction. OSR games like to say 'rulings over rules', where the rulebook is silent on a subject and the GM makes a call on the spot based on the narrative situation. exactly what qualifies as 'going aggro', or whether your gambit is feasible and what dice you should role, is a judgement call.

exactly what should be precisely litigated by a rulebook and what should be left to the improvisation of the players, shaped by various vague prompts, is a huge part of the art of TTRPG design. it depends a lot on the group as well.

I think when it comes to social situations in RPGs, it is easy to get lost in these ambiguities. 5e D&D has three numbers on your character sheet called Deception, Persuasion and Intimidation. (in 3.5e the first two were instead called Diplomacy and Bluff). exactly when you should roll these numbers, and how it interacts with the fiction, is left to the discretion of the group.

the stereotypical "I roll to seduce" could be one approach, an approach where the dice system completely abstracts over social encounters - pretty boring. but equally there is the approach where you roleplay a conversation, and after a certain amount of back and forth, the DM declares 'OK, role me a Deception check' and evolves the fiction accordingly - now you're using it a lot more like a PbtA move, pushing the course of events down bifurcating paths at specific moments, and otherwise pursuing free improvised roleplay. however, from the numbers-and-dice side of things, this looks exactly the same.

some games like Burning Wheel offer a conversation system of comparable complexity to its battle system, designed for tense debate-like confrontations. it has something like a dozen actions - e.g. you can make a Point, Obfuscate, or make a verbal Feint, just as in combat you can Attack, Push or Disarm. Is this to Burning Wheel's advantage? it worked pretty well the one time I played it like 10+ years ago, but I also had a very talented GM who could probably have staged a very convincing debate scene regardless. however, the system provided structure, and prompts (how do I make a point? how do I obfuscate?), so it would surely have played out differently without it. it certainly led to a very intense and fun moment of roleplaying where I had to step out onto the 'stage', which has honestly informed me in TTRPGs ever since.

that said, a lot of the time, the best system for adjudicating social situations is literally just to roleplay it out and make a decision - 'what is this character feeling', 'what that character would say'. no mechanical abstraction can beat the human mind when it comes to simulating human beings. that is the unique advantage of TTRPGs as a medium, which no computer or board game can match! don't throw it away lightly.

the problem for a lot of discussions of RPG design is that how the group handles social situations at the table - what they say and when, when they call for dice - is something that depends a lot on the specific group dynamic, rather than something that can effectively be engineered by a rulebook. like many aspects of RPG practice it is something you learn by doing it and watching other players, not by reading about it in a book. you can try pretty hard - Apocalypse World and cousins are statements of a paradigm as much as anything, most trad games have pages and pages of GM advice - but that's not the same thing.

what makes D&D D&D, what makes indie story games indie story games, are their various play cultures, their habits and traditions - and the book is only part of it.

some players might find the prompts given by the notional buttons that say 'persuade', 'deceive' and 'intimidate' (or equally 'go aggro', 'seduce or manipulate' etc.) to be useful pushes in the right direction to play a highly social character, especially if they feel shy or awkward in life. others might find these limited options constraining, or simply irrelevant. or they might find a way to make them fit the rhythms of their group.

thing is, though, it's highly contextual and you aren't going to solve it forever by turning it into an argument about which is the best book-product-tribe to belong to.

#roleplaying games #i beat this drum every time i see people argue about ttrpgs on the dash

30 notes · View notes

stardestroyer81 · 3 months ago

Text

🥪 Introducing... Door2Door! 🥪

Door2Door stars twenty year old possum Gigi Dempster, who lives in a rather ramshackle, podunk town in Vermont called Bendersville. After sending numerous job applications all over town with no word back, she finally lands herself a delivery driver position at an unassuming locally-owned sandwich restaurant named Dine 'n Dash. With no prior experience in the art of crafting a mighty fine sandwich or running a delivery route, Gigi is strapped in to experience the whirlwind of a first time food service job firsthand, and in an unpredictable town like Bendersville, quite literally anything can happen.

(For more information on what Door2Door is— as well as a handful of progress images— please consider checking underneath the cut!)

At last, witness unveiling of my latest project I've spent the last month conceptualizing, Door2Door! What once came about as a silly idea of basing a project after an inner-city delivery driver inspired after a certain gameplay section in Spongebob Squarepants: Revenge of the Flying Dutchman, it has since blossomed into one of my dearest passion projects yet!

Though, before I get into any further detail behind Door2Door and its creation, I must stress— none of the above five images hail from a lost late nineties/early 2000s Cartoon Network show, and if by chance any of them were enough to fool you into thinking they were, then that just means I achieved what I set out for! 💙✨

Now, about a month ago, I'd been watching a retrospective on the critically un-acclaimed Spongebob Squarepants: Revenge of the Flying Dutchman, a game I had growing up. It's important for me to mention that I had seen and personally played the aforementioned gameplay section before, though for some reason seeing it again struck me with a brilliant project idea.

Anyone who's been following me for at least a year knows that I've designed a cavalcade of candied characters for my own arcade game concept, Rascal, and initially my idea for Door2Door— which I also called Project JJ (In reference to the sandwich chain Jimmy John's)— was to give it a plot simple enough to translate into an arcade game.

The idea was that you played as a plucky delivery driver who rides through the streets of a seedy city to deliver a food order to the... er, order-ee. But your progress would be impeded by a fiendish gang of mobster alley cats who are after your sandwiches, so there would have definitely been a large cartoony element to the gameplay loop.

I drew concept art for Door2Door's protagonist, then known as Marcy, though I really wasn't vibing with either drawing. For one, making the protagonist a cat seemed a bit overdone, and I already have a cat character who's name rhymes with Marcy, so that had to go. More so, I also couldn't settle on a good spriting style, which prompted me to rethink the whole project.

Well, there is a general aura of cartooniness to Door2Door, I thought, why not just embrace that vibe whole-heartedly and reshape the project into a long-lost late nineties cartoon?

I did like the idea of having an excuse to drawing more animation cels, though if I was going to make Door2Door into something resembling a cel-animated cartoon, I was prepared to go the full distance in nailing that aesthetic, in the form of how characters are designed and the way I go about drawing each screenshot.

For those unfamiliar with cel animation, essentially it can be described as a traditional form of animation and involves objects— usually characters— being hand-inked and painted on clear celluloid sheets and placed over painted backgrounds.

Above, I've provided a visual for what a standalone 'cel' from Door2Door would look like, coupled with a hand-painted background. When overlaid on top of one another...

... you would get this! This is exactly how cartoons were animated up until the era of digital inking and coloring... but that begs the question. How am I achieving a hand-drawn and painted aesthetic if everything I've shown so far has been drawn digitally?

I have my ways! It involves a lot of studying how individual cels of animation look, and taking note of recurring hallmarks; grainy textures, paint blemishes, drop shadows, etc. Above, I've assembled a small gif of my process in composing a screenshot for Door2Door, from lineart to final product!

So, that all should loosely explain it; Door2Door is what would happen if I were in charge of a late nineties Cartoon Network show, and what you've seen here is merely the beginning. Going forward, I will be posting art of Door2Door's main cast with some additional character information and concept art for each one, though for the time being, enjoy all five art pieces I've supplied for this post— they are perhaps the biggest works of mine yet this year! 💙🏳️‍⚧️✨

#⭐ Star's Art ⭐#Door2Door #Gigi Dempster #Mr. Hartley #Gwen Caruso #Star's OCs #My OCs #Furry OC #Artists on tumblr #Fake Screenshot #Cartoon Network #90s Cartoons #Cel Animation #My Projects #Medibang Paint Pro #Coolness #Behold... FOOD SERVICE THE CARTOON!!!!!#I would absolutely consider this my most content-packed post on tumblr since... well... ever #It's not often I post something with five entire drawings with fully painted backgrounds and THEN some in it #Though this is in fact what I've been keeping under wraps for about a month and now I FINALLY get to show it off!!!#I'm very excited to get around to showing the individual art and bios for every character #Gigi Dempster has become my latest blorbo as evident by her appearances here and my current tumblr icon #Like I said in the post this is only just the start. There's still a LOT I have to say about Door2Door in future posts!!! 💙🏳️‍⚧️✨

30 notes · View notes

pintsizeninja · 27 days ago

Text

The Genesis of a Ship

Since I'm not posting a new chapter of my Odin/Zane fic this week, I figured I'd take some time to highlight why I started shipping them in the first place!

It's no secret I fell madly in love with Poets of the Fall, and Marko Saaresto (young Odin) in particular, after playing through We Sing for the first time a few days after Alan Wake 2 released. I hadn't written fanfic in 10+ years, but like a lot of folks in this fandom, AW2 inspired me to pick up the proverbial pen again. I knew I wanted to write a fic from young Odin's POV and have it set in the 1970s during the Old Gods' heyday - I just needed a pairing.

When I learned Sam Lake provided his bff Marko with poems to help him craft the lyrics for "Late Goodbye" and all the OGOA songs, something clicked deep in my brain. That was it: Thomas Zane and Odin Anderson would collaborate on a project together, Zane would provide Odin with poetry to write songs that would bring his artistic vision to life - and sparks would fly (this is the premise of my fic Talented Voice).

Then this photo happened at the Game Awards, and it was all over after that.

There's even a basis for it in canon:

1) Odin incorporates Zane's poetry into Balance Slays the Demon, over 40 years after Zane disappeared. I headcanon that since Odin is immune from the changed story, he held onto a book (or at least some typewritten sheets) of Zane's poetry for all that time - or maybe even stole them out of the shoebox at some point. If we take the song at face value (and not because of, y'know, game reasons), that's a long time to hold onto someone's poetry. Zane clearly meant something to Odin.

2) Just listen to the wistful longing in Marko's Odin's voice when he sings "The Poet and the Muse". There is a lot of emotion tied up into that song, which was released six years after Zane disappeared. It's both a love story and a cautionary tale, with Odin lamenting the loss of his lover/friend (depending on how you want to look at it).

Then you have the deleted dialogue between Odin and Saga (spoilers, and it's not clear why this was cut although theories abound, so take it with a grain of salt) where Odin mentions giving Zane a song. While this isn't canon since it was cut, it adds fuel to the 'Odin and Zane collaborated together' fire.

So while the two characters never share any scenes together in the games for obvious reasons, it's quite clear Zane was special to Odin; special enough to write a whole-ass song about him and hold onto his poetry for decades.

Here's why it works:

1) This one varies depending on your interpretation of who Thomas Zane really is/was (and I'm not touching that topic with a 10 foot pole, it's been discussed to death on Reddit 😂), but the late 60s were a wild and crazy time. You know Odin and Tor threw some crazy parties back in the day, and Zane had plans for an artist's commune that included the Anderson brothers - so some shenanigans definitely would've ensued. But even without the rewriting (or expansion, again depending on your interpretation) of Zane's history in AW2, the poet likely would've found himself at those parties regardless. Nothing like a little sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll to get those creative juices flowing. 😎

Which leads me to:

2) They're both creatives. They understand the highest highs and the lowest lows of the creative process. That passion thrums in their veins and leads to a deeper understanding between the two of them. Odin and Zane would just get each other on a different level. While the Old Gods didn't exist prior to Zane's disappearance, we know Odin and Tor had music careers prior to the band's formation in 1971. I could totally see Zane falling for the dashing young rockstar, even before he became Odin; just being completely swept away by that stage presence and that voice. That voice.

Two passionate artists collaborating during the time of free love in the 1960s and 1970s, poetry and music intertwining - it's perfect.

If you want to read more:

My Odin/Zane series is now well over 100,000 words long, with at least another 130,000 words planned, and I'm beyond happy other people have embraced this ship. Shoutout in particular to HopelessScribe on AO3 for also writing Odin/Zane.

And, can't forget this beautiful fanart commissioned from Valentina, with more (NSFW!) Odin/Zane fanart on the way 😈

#alan wake 2 #odin anderson #thomas zane #OdinZane #pintsizeninja's writing #i've been using OdinZane as the ship name but i'm open to cute suggestions #for all five of us who ship these characters lol #if you haven't considered this pairing before - give it a chance!

21 notes · View notes

4str0nuts · 5 months ago

Text

AN ANALYSIS OF HORROPEDIAS OUTFITS: BOTH INSIGHT ONE AND TWO

disclaimer: this will be written less formally than my autism analysis ! be wary

horropedia has one of the most basic and simple(in a nice way) outfits in game, and would probably be mistaken for an npc by someone who doesn’t play the game, as he looks like a normal foundation member . however, after some intense staring and late nights, there are some interesting details within both outfits that i believe reflect both the foundation and horropedia very clearly— even if they aren’t clear!

I'll start off with his insight one outfit, a simple, neat, and basic design that clearly abides by foundation rules. Though looking closer, there are inconsistencies with his design. Despite how “advanced” the foundation is, horropedia still carries around a gadget kit; he also only wears one glove, wears a dashing green clip tie, and his sweater vest is practically untucked. Despite the foundations harsh rules, he still manages to maintain parts of his personality and hobbies, despite being silenced in the past; this all reflects his experiences within the SPDM. His inconsistencies are all a giant ‘screw you’ to the foundation, no matter how hard they tried to make him a ‘good kid'. Even so, he still has to uphold his ‘ideal self’ to maintain the little freedom he has, showing how the foundation still has this control over him.

One thing i found interesting throughout his designs is the green present. The description of his tie clip reads “just the dash of mania the routine needed”, which i feel perfectly represents his character in a simple way. No matter the rules he abides, he will always clash against the rules laid out in front of him; it’s subtle yet is a giant statement against the foundation.

Onto his insight two: scruffy, expressive, and unneat— practically the opposites of what the foundation enforces. In fact , ALL foundation references are removed from his character, the only thing remaining is his shirt. The green is now present in his shirt, vibrant and bold with a design clearly at the front. This could represent how Horropedia is still fighting against the nature of the foundation from being his own person, the shirt hiding the graphic tee as if to keep it hidden and out of sight. His insight 2 design is more outlandish and childish, almost like it is diy or handmade; his gadget kit is a great example of it, the fine design now replaced with leather and stitched up as if it was frankensteins monster. His design reflects his childhood with his grandpa, picking up what pieces there were and building his own life with him. Despite his limitations, Horropedia tries to create his own safe space to express himself. Though even in that safe space, his experiences within the SPDM almost suppress him even till this day (throw back to the shirt). Anyways, this is another fuck you to the foundation.

One thing that doesn’t really fit in anywhere is the description of Horropedias insight 2; “A little monster under the sheets and a steadfast guardian of the heart.” This perfectly goes along with what i have stated before about Horropedia being his own person and reflecting on his childhood; how he protects his heart / the things he loves so closely, his ambition will never falter.

Another thing that I've noticed is the fact Horropedia still has the watch on in both of those outfits. It doesn't exactly fit with any of the two, and I have mentioned how advanced the foundation is (look at laplace). A reason i’ve come up with (and a personal head canon) is that the watch is from his grandpa, and holds great meaning to him.

I don’t have anything to wrap this up with so i’ll take the time to mention his udimo! His udimo has a bandana representing the foundation yet he still carries around a horror movie poster in his mouth— another fuck you to the foundation. It goes to show how he is now accustomed to the foundation life whilst also trying to love put his life in his own way. That’s all that I needed to say , hope you have enjoyed reading!

#astronuts talk #horropedia #character analysis #reverse 1999 horropedia #reverse 1999 #r1999 #analysis #character design

50 notes · View notes

spuercrazycat16 · 3 months ago

Text

my turbo au thingy/character sheets! (Idk what to call it)

Blaze

Middle child (30)

OCD/Anxiety

Trans guy and AroAce Gay (He/Him)

Mostly gets second place (his car always ends up on fire at the end for some reason, giving him his name)

At Tappers, he’s a very light drinker, only drinks when he’s with his siblings

When Turbo game jumped, he was incredibly bitter and even after they separated, he never went looking for him

Dash

Youngest (27)

Autistic (special interest: mechanics)

He/They + Butch Lesbian (AFAB) (He/They/Any)

Normally gets last place, but they don’t care

Gets drunk easily and can only handle a glass or two at Tappers

After Turbo left, despite his brother’s wishes, he searched for Turbo for 4 years, giving up after no trace was found

Turbo

Oldest (40)

Undiagnosed autism/Insomnia

Gay (He/Him)

Tries to get first place, no matter what

Definitely the heaviest drinker, if he had to pay for his drinks, he’d be bankrupt in one tab

HE’S GONE, WHY DO YOU KEEP LOOKING

“TAPPER! KEEP ‘EM COMIN’!”

“Just another night” (a few nights before turbo left)

Feel free to add your own headcanons and fanart! I’d love to see what you guys come up with! :3

#turbo #turbo wreck it ralph #turbotastic #art #fanart #wreck it ralph #my neck is killing me #turbo au #🐛virus offerings #🐛#randomalistic #go crazy with this one

30 notes · View notes

theresattrpgforthat · 8 months ago

Note

Hi! This request was easier to search for, so I see you’ve recommended Hearts of Wulin and Ten Thousand Days for the Sword. Do you have any other wuxia or xianxia game recs?

Have a good day!

THEME: Wuxia Games.

Hello friend, I'm certainly not an expert, but after reaching out to some more knowledgeable folks, I think I have a few!

Jiangshi: Blood in the Banquet Hall, by Wet Ink Games.

This is a collaborative, storytelling RPG about a Chinese family making their living by running a restaurant in one of America’s Chinatowns, circa 1920. Despite societal backlash and anti-Chinese laws, they have turned a profit and their quality of life has recently improved.

Night, however, brings a new terror.

Players take on the roles of members of the Chinese family (mostly from Guangdong province), spanning three generations, who face threats of jiangshi (hopping vampires) at night and racism by day. It has players balancing the responsibility of maintaining their family business with protecting themselves and their community from the dreaded Jiangshi. This is primarily a game about storytelling. Combat is limited, but horror, drama and sometimes comedy are the primary vehicles for driving the game forward.

This game draws quite a bit from boardgaming elements, so I think this one is best played around a physical table, especially since it requires a custom deck of cards. You’ll use these cards to represent the demands of running a restaurant in the day, as well as fighting of a vampire at night. This game is probably on the borders of what I think is considered wuxia, but if you have a horror lover in your group, this might be worth checking out.

Exalted, by Onyx Path Games.

This is the tale of a forgotten age before the seas were bent, when the world was flat and floated atop a sea of chaos. This is the tale of a decadent empire raised up on the bones of the fallen Golden Age, whose splendor it faintly echoed but could not match. This is a tale of primal frontiers, of the restless dead, of jeweled cities ruled openly by spirits in defiance of Heaven’s law. This is a tale of glorious heroes blessed by the gods, and of their passions and the wars they waged in the final era of legends.

Exalted has a number of different sources, only one of which feels close to wuxia, but the stories are certainly expected to give you long, sweeping epics and larger-than-life characters. There are many different kinds of Exalted, including Solars, Lunars, and Dragon-Blooded. Since I’m not a wuxia connoisseur myself, I’m not entirely sure how close Exalted comes to hitting the mark - I’m mostly recommending it because it came up connected to some other wuxia fantasy games when I was doing some searching.

Jiang Hu, by wum1ng.

Jiang Hu is a role-playing game for the wuxia genre. Drawing inspiration from wuxia novels written by luminaries such as Jin Yong and Gu Long, the Feng Yun comics from Ma Rong Chen and the multitude of wuxia movies and television series, this game brings the world of dashing swordsmen, warrior monks, brawling beggars and high-flying stunts to your tabletop.

Players take on the role of Martial Artists fighting against various threats to the lands of Jiang Hu, ranging from evil sect leaders who have mastered forbidden secret martial arts techniques to megalomaniacs seeking to take over the Imperial Throne by force and the blood of countless innocents.

The Worlds Without Number series by Kevin Crawford has its praises sung by many people, especially folks in the OSR scene, and that is the bones that this game is built on. Your character is built from quite a list of skills, which are differentiated between Combat and Non-Combat. You also have a number of secondary attributes, for things such as Armour Class, Evasion, and Luck, as well as a dedicated space on your character sheet for weapons and martial arts. Expect combat to to take up a bulk of your time!

When you roll for your character background, you also get a significant life event that is expected to shape your character’s past, such as having a loved one murdered, or falling into serious debt. Out of all of the games listed here, I think this game is the closest to D&D, what with the “packages” of skills, items and abilities attached to each background.

The Oath, by brushmen.

"We seek not to be born on the same day, but hope to die on the same day." And with such an oath, Yong, Li, and Ming swore loyalty to each other.

When earthly desires tempt them, and devotions threaten to tear them apart, with or without a hand from uncaring fate…

will their oath endure?

The Oath is a collaborative storytelling game for one Game Moderator and three players.

This is meant to be a one-shot, which borrows the Entanglements system from Hearts of Wulin and the character Keys and Tags from Lady Blackbird. Since this game comes with characters already pre-written, it would probably be very good for groups who have very little time, or who want an easy on-ramp to games or the wuxia genre. I like the fact that the Keys give you prompts and directions for your character’s behaviour; it’s strong statement on how the author interprets the genre, but it still gives you, the player, a choice on what elements of your character will be emphasized, and what elements will take up the background.

brushmen also has another wuxia Lady Blackbird hack called The Escort, about recovering from a violent robbery, this one for four players and one GM.

Four Swords, by ehronlime.

This is a tabletop roleplaying game about being young heroes in a wuxia story, made for the #AsianMartialArtsJam.

You start with your First Sword, which you use to challenge other heroes and villains and strive for mastery.

You will then gain three more Swords: the Second a sword of great pride and regret, the Third a sword of mastery and expression, and the Fourth a sword which is no sword.

You will also struggle between the obligations put upon your by others and what you truly desire from the life of a wandering hero.

Four Swords really zeroes in on the combat mastery part of wuxia fantasy. Your characters will grow into mastery, and battle with rigid codes and rules that structure the world you live in. The game is very descriptive, leaving you with only 4 abilities that are meant to broadly encompass what you are able to do. The game encourages characters to interfere with each-other using a mechanic called Vows, and levelling up gives you access to different techniques, which reinforce the competence of your characters as well as the rigid guidelines by which they might improve.

This game was made for the Asian Martial Arts by Asian Creators Game Jam, so you might find some more wuxi-themed games there!

Blades of the Immortals, by Jagganoth.

Blades of the Immortals is a tabletop roleplaying game inspired by xiānxiá. It uses the Forged in the Dark rules engine developed by John Harper, as seen in games like Blades in the Dark and Beam Saber.

In Blades of the Immortals, you will take on the roles of cultivators, striving for your own ambitions, for the glory of your sect, and for the ultimate prize — immortality. You'll viciously struggle for scarce resources, compete for the patronage of powerful and influential teachers, gather allies to your banner, and scheme against your enemies. Your cultivators will wield mystical treasures and supernatural spell-arts, mastering the very laws of the cosmos as their weapons, as they become entangled in centuries-long vendettas between deathless wizard-kings.

This game is solidly focused on supernatural abilities and grand increases in strength. You choose from one of 9 different playbooks, and collaboratively create a faction that binds you all together. The sources listed as inspirations for this game include (but are not limited to) Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation, Forge of Destiny, Aspiring to the Immortal Path, and Journey to the West.

Compared to other Blades hacks, this game reduces the standard number of action ratings, ties character growth to a change in your character’s beliefs, and separates your gear from your playbook. Characters can also level up through Realms, which increases your effectiveness and upgrades your inventory.

Mist-Robed Gate, by Shreyas & Elizabeth Sampat.

There are some things that we value more than life.

There are things we're willing to scheme and cry and fight and die for.

That's what wuxia cinema is about— fighting and dying for the things we care about. That's what Mist-Robed Gate is about.

Mist-Robed Gate comes with a full list of movie recommendations, but includes Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and House of Flying Daggers as key influences. I really like the fact that a key mechanic of this game includes stabbing your character sheet with a knife.

Players create factions first, and then take turns creating characters that represent those factions, with elements that represent the hero’s distinctive personality and style. Players also create the different locations that will serve as the stage for your scenes. Play happens over a series of scenes, as their characters push and pull against each-other, sometimes even making terrible demands (which is where the Knife comes in). If you want a game that has a lot of politics in the terms of actions having large ramifications over big groups of people, and if you want a game that is extremely dramatic, you might want to check out Mist-Robed Gate.

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #game recommendations #dnd #asks #wuxia #xianxia

50 notes · View notes

grailfinders · 6 months ago

Text

Grailfinders #345: Kriemhild

today on grailfinders, we’re getting close to the end of our traum(a), but before that, we need to get revenge! on what, you ask? doesn’t matter, I’m sure we’ll think of something in the planning phase. to help out, we’re gonna be making a build of Kriemhild, Siegfried’s wife and avenger. (a “kriembuild”, if you will)

Kriemhild is a Mastermind (mistressmind?) Rogue to be a cunning little cutthroat, as well as a Hexblade Warlock to steal her husband’s gold and sword and start lopping heads. whether the gold or sword is the hexblade in this situation doesn’t matter that much, either way it’s a magical lump of metal giving you power.

...are nuclear power plants hexblades? I’m getting off topic.

check out her build breakdown below the cut, or her character sheet here!

next up: waka waka waka waka

Ancestry and Background

once again, Kriemhild is Human, and with the variant rules that gives you +1 Intelligence & Charisma, as well as proficiency in Arcana (or maybe Nature? idk what skill would help you figure out your husband’s weak points), and the Lucky feat to forcibly re-roll a d20 that directly involves you up to three times a day. Kriemhild’s a schemer, and just like I said in the wodime build, sometimes you get to actually plan, some times you just have to pretend you meant for stuff to happen after the fact.

you’re a Noble of course, but we’re mixing it up and giving you proficiency in History and Intimidation. I hope I don’t need to explain that Kriemhild is scary. don’t cut her in line, trust me

Ability Scores

on that note, it’s no surprise Kriemhild’s Charisma is as high as it is- she’s scary, sure, but she’s also plenty devious and tricksy too. after that is her Dexterity. she wears like, zero armor for most of her ascensions, so good luck not getting hit. third is Intelligence for better scheming, and we’ll at least keep your Constitution positive so you can survive the occasional hit. just don’t go pissing off any gentleman inspectors. this does mean your Strength is a bit low, but it turns out that’s optional for wielding a greatsword, who knew? just drag it around til you need to murder people. of course, this all means we’re dumping your Wisdom score. berserkers, am I right?

Class Levels

1. Rogue 1: starting as a rogue gives you a lot of proficiencies, like Insight, Deception, Persuasion, and Sleight of Hand. you plan around people, and I don’t even know what proof “that Siegfried, and not Gunther, has taken Brunhild's virginity” (to quote wikipedia) would even look like, but you probably forged that. also, Dexterity and Intelligence saves, which is nice. you like fire, it would never hurt you.

if that’s not enough proficiency, you also get Expertise in two skills, doubling your bonus for Deception and Intimidation! you can also add a Sneak Attack to your damage while wielding a finesse or ranged weapon, though you also need either an ally standing next to your target or advantage to hit. it’s a bit situational, but an extra d6 is an extra d6.

also, you know Thieves’ Cant! it’s a language!

2. Rogue 2: second level rogues can make Cunning Actions- or, cunning bonus actions, anyway. you can dash, disengage, or hide as a bonus action, leaving your usual action open for anything you want, like murder! or planning murder!

3. Rogue 3: third level Mastermind rogues get a lot of stuff, including the full-class feature Steady Aim. if you don’t move before or after attacking on your turn, you can spend your bonus action for free advantage! just drag that big ol’ sword around and everything will work out eventually

but all that’s for later. for now, you’re a mastermind, which means you’re a Master of Intrigue- you’re proficient with even more stuff- the disguise kit, the forgery kit, one gaming set, and an extra two languages! you can also copy accents you’ve heard before.

also your sneak attack grows to 2d6. I’m probably going to forget to mention this every time, so just know you add another die every odd level.

if you’re eager to get to fightin’ you’re also a Master of Tactics, letting you use the Help action as a bonus action and at range! so I guess you’re not fighting with this, but every bit helps.

4. Rogue 4: use your first ASI to bump up your Dexterity. this’ll help you not get hit, and also use something small like a dagger. don’t worry, the sword is coming I promise. presumably your husband’s still alive at level 4.

5. Rogue 5: fifth level rogues get an Uncanny Dodge- if you get hit by an attack, you can react to turn a direct hit into a graze, only taking half the damage in the process. don’t die, basically.

6. Rogue 6: at sixth level you get a second round of Expertise, doubling down on Sleight of Hand and Arcana. forge gooder and remember how your husband can be killed. I’m sure that will never bite you in the ass.

7. Rogue 7: seventh level rogues get Evasion, so now your failed dexterity saves protect you as if they were successes, and your successes negate all damage!

8. Rogue 8: use your next ASI to bump up your Dexterity once again. not dying is a great strategy, keep it up.

9. Rogue 9: ninth level masterminds are Insightful Manipulators- if you spend a minute with someone out of combat, you can learn how their soft stats (intelligence, wisdom, charisma) or levels compare to yours, or you can even learn bits of their backstory or personality!

10. Rogue 10: tenth level rogues get another ASI, so start working on your Charisma. scheme better, and uhhh, this’ll help later too. that’s for later though.

11. Rogue 11: eleventh level rogues are a Reliable Talent, so now every time you roll a skill check you’re proficient in your roll will always be count as at least a 10. that means every deception check you have to make will always count as at least a 22 in total.

12. Rogue 12: did I say 22? let’s make it 23 by bumping your Charisma up to maximum with this ASI.

13. Rogue 13: thirteenth level masterminds can put a taunt on another party member with Misdirection- if you would take an attack while another creature is standing next to you, you can react to force said creature to take the hit instead. every good plan needs a scapegoat.

14. Rogue 14: at level 14 your Blindsense lets you detect invisible creatures within 10’ of you. I guess you could consider this the dragon sword helping out? it’s a little early, but at least it’s harder to get the drop on you now.

15. Rogue 15: with our last level of rogue, your Slippery Mind gives you proficiency with Wisdom saves. I wish it wasn’t so, but we don’t need any more warlock spells, and your levels have to go somewhere. what a shame.

on the plus side, your husband’s dead now.

16. Warlock 1: so, sorry about your husband, but on the plus side you inherited his Hexblade, so you get some Pact Magic out the gate! you only get a handful of spell slots, but whenever you cast something using your Charisma you can recharge the slot on a short rest!

speaking of spells, Eldritch Blast is a generic ranged option, Sword Burst lets you spin around and hit everyone, Wrathful Smite lets you add a little damage to your attack and frighten creatures who get hit by it (surprisingly effective against dragons btw), and Distort Value will make people care a lot more about some worthless rocks than they really should. yeah I’m giving you the rheingold too, it’s in your bond CE so it counts.

you’re also a Hex Warrior, so you can use your charisma instead of strength or dexterity to attack with a weapon chosen after each long rest. this doesn’t work with Siegfried’s sword yet, but we’ll get there.

for the time being, at least you can use Hexblade’s Curse on your next target, giving you bonus damage, an improved critical hit rate, and you regain health upon your target’s death, all for up to a minute, once per short rest.

17. Warlock 2: second level warlocks get two Eldritch Invocations, though we’re really only using one this level- the other is getting swapped out in a level anyway. Armor of Shadows gives you free mage armor on yourself for what is basically a permanent +3 bonus to AC while unarmored. ironically, your third ascension actually has armor, so this spell’s a bit late.

you also learn the spell Illusory Script, letting you write one thing but have it look like something else. I don’t think should really be part of Kriemhild’s kit, but it certainly fits the theme, doesn’t it?

18. Warlock 3: now that you’ve entered into the Pact of the Blade with an Improved Pact Weapon, you can summon just about any weapon you wish as an action and use charisma to wield it expertly. that being said, you can also turn a magical weapon like Balmung into your pact weapon.

of course, no matter what ability you use to swing it, a great sword will never be able to use your sneak attack, which is why you can also summon a Shadow Blade now. it’s a light weapon that deals psychic damage when it connects, but more importantly it has the finesse property. you can also summon it to your hand as a bonus action, and it lasts for up to 1 minute.

19. Warlock 4: now that your AC is decent enough and your Charisma is maxed out, use your last ASI to improve your Constitution for more health. you can also cast True Strike now, which is steady aim but worse, or use Crown of Madness to sow the seeds of war. if your target fails their wisdom save, you can force it to attack a creature of your choice, causing chaos and wasting its action. you also have to waste your action to keep the spell going, but rogues have tons of stuff they can do as a bonus action, so it kind of evens out.

20. Warlock 5: for our last spell, you can invoke the rheingold to Incite Greed, charming nearby creatures into congregating around you for up to a minute. they also have to repeatedly fail wisdom saves, but I’m sure it’s fine.

if that doesn’t work, you can always take the direct approach and use Eldritch Smite, burning a spell slot to add 4d8 force damage to your hit and forcing a save or knocking the target prone. this is actually a really nice way to knock a dragon out of the sky if you’re okay bending the rules to grab a bow, so I think our anti-dragon damage condition has been met by this point.

Pros & Cons

Pros:

with easy access to advantage and improved critical chances from your hexblade’s curse, Kriemhild is really good at dishing out critical hits, and thanks to sneak attack and smites, you can really capitalize on those to deal a ton of damage quickly.

you’re also great at sowing discontent in enemy forces, falsifying written orders and forcing them to attack each other with spells and misdirection.

on top of that, you make for a great party face thanks to your maxed out charisma, complete lack of critical failure on charisma checks, and expertise. you’re great at weaseling your way into a situation, then hacking your way back out.

Cons:

balmung is a greatsword, or at the very least a longsword. regardless, that fact seriously neuters the cohesion of this build. smites are nice, but you were already dealing way more damage with a regular dagger by this point. plus, being a sword prevents you from using ranged attacks, which are way more helpful when taking down dragons. basically if you play this build too close to character, it messes with the build mechanics and its flavor.

like mentioned above, your warlock stuff is cool, but it’s already outclassed by your rogue features by the time you get it at the end of the build. it’s a shame siegfried dies near the end of the nibelungenlied, because his sword would be way more useful early on.

every feature you have outside of your sneak attack is pretty situational, since a ton of it relies on fighting things that actually think. in fate and in history, this isn’t too much of an issue, but dnd has armies of undead, constructs, and wild animals that’ll shut down your provocations before they ever get started.

...ignore the fact that we've been infinitely more productive the two days ff14's been offline, that's a coincidence, I swear.

#fgo #Fate Grand Order #D&D 5e #DND #Kriemhild #Nibelungenlied #warlock #rogue

25 notes · View notes

brb-on-a-quest · 6 months ago

Text

Tumblr should really let you pin multiple things as a blog introduction. (I wish).

Anyway, hi, hello, (new friend?), I'm Brb/Birb/(real name redacted). I'm an almost graduated student from the general land of cornfields and more cornfields. There's not much around, that's why I'm here, lol. (Also I've met a bunch of cool people, so now I think I'm kind of stuck here - come join us!).

⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦

If you happen to be a New Person Who Has Found Me (Hello!) and You Want To Talk to Me, I don't bite, I swear. I am a Birb with the heart of a Golden Labrador Retriever. Feel free to Tag Me in any tag games or haunt my inbox. <3 Come say hi! i love friends.

((Art by the amazing @mayamohini jfkfjjfkjgjgjgjfj it’s gorgeous)

(my "character sheet" that is based on my real life attributes--yes, I did roll all of these numbers. I use canva a totally healthy amount sometimes)

⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦

Anyway, more information y'all should know: This is the main account; I do have a sideblog. I reblog a lot of friend's nonsense, post a lot of my own even more nonsense, kind of have a whole "I want to be a hobbit living my best life somewhere not here vibe" I think. You will also see posts about things I think are wholesome/sweet, writing, psychology, fantasy, whatever fandom I'm in (or a friend's fandom),....just general nonsense I suppose. I do post some amount of life stuff when relevant or whenever I find things funny. Although the pic above is an owl, I am probably more akin to a magpie with much reblogging of things I find "shiny" to add to the chaotic mess that is my tumblr dashboard.

⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦

@brb-on-a-side-blog is also me! This was created to hopefully separate original writing content from the rest of the reblogging I do so it doesn't get buried in theory. This may not work out in theory as well as in practice, but I promise to reblog the cool writing stuff to my main blog if you don't want to have it clogging up your dash :).

There are other ones but as I am currently not using them it seems futile to put in an intro post.

⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦⚔️🐦

Tags to help sift through to find me in the hoard of posts!

#brb-rambles: Original thoughts about something (or at least as original as I can be).

#brb-(insert part of moots name here): interactions between me and said moot! I'm actually really not great at this but will get better and I forsee mass post editor being a BFF if I do this.

#brb-life: original content relating to my life/thoughts.

#brb-writes: original writing content (this will be potentially moved to sideblog).

#brb-memes (i make memes sometimes).

#brb-library: posts that are either really funny/really struck me so I'm going to save them to print out

#brb-adventures: the hopeful travel tag for some upcoming trips (either the grocery store or New York who knows).

#brb-learning-things: Things I have learned (although it's from my school/classes so questionably but I reason sourced; if it's not, I'll include source link/some kind of citation).

#brb needs a laugh check: I am joking. Please do not take me seriously.

#brb vs the call of the academia: school posting?

#brb-asks/#brb-report:s hopefully new ask tag if I can remember to add them.

#dear north canada love south canada (and associated tags I will not be typing out here) is a fun series I have with @igotthisaccountunderduress (she's absolutely cool, check her out). Again, that won't cover all the posts but again, vibes).

#Also I have AO3 under same blog name: brb_on_a_quest #It's mainly to start organizing my stuff ((cuz i don't want to organize in real life but need feel some sense of control lol).#fair warning; my intro posts/pfp may change a fair amount bc i have tendency to change aspects of my presence like clothes #not the url bc i know that causes too much chaos #brb-rambles #brb-life

28 notes · View notes

rpdepartment · 2 years ago

Text

ROLEPLAYING GLOSSARY

new words might be hard to understand right away if you’re new... here’s some basic glossary to help getting started! some are more obvious than others, of course, but i know lots of people who might be confused, especially people who don’t speak english as their first language, so i figured it’s better to write down any “important” words

this list might be updated every now and then!!!

activity: the abount of time spent on a specific blog. it can be high, medium, low, or even lead to hiatus or semi-hiatus

affiliates: blog canons who tend to be tied together

archived: an archived blog is what remains of a blog no longer used, but that the player prefers not to delete. The blog might’ve been remade, so always check!

AU: alternate universe, when the story setting changes completely.

canon-divergent: a blog that follows canon only to a certain extent, making significant enough changes to distance itself from the original version of the character

crack: silly posts, more often than not out of character, meta and meant to be jokes. crack intreactions are generally considered non-canon for the blog

dash commentary: in-character comments about what’s currently happening on dash, like other characters’ thread or replies to asks

DNI: do not interact; a list of people or blogs you don’t want to interact with, for a reason or another

double: people who play as the same character

event: a roleplay event is, for lack of better terms, an event that lasts for a generally specified amount of time, that involves a handful of characters to the whole dash. examples of events could be working together to save someone from another muse, or simply partecipating to a holiday ball

exclusive: a blog who doesn’t roleplay or ship with doubles of certain muses, since they already have mains who play them.

FC: faceclaim, the face used to represend a character, usually OCs

godmodding: any form of cheating to win an argument or a fight, usually involving metagaming or ignoring the partner’s actions to succeed. an example of godmodding could be the good ol’ “it’s an hologram” thread

hard block: blocking someone permanently

hiatus: a blog on hiatus means that the player isn’t going to be around for a long amount of time, generally unspecified

HUB: when someone makes secondary blogs to roleplay with, they usually keep their primary blog (the one they use to follow others) as a HUB where they can redirect others to all their other blogs

IC: in character; what your character says

icon: small images used to represend your characters’ expressions

interest checker: a post, or a google sheet, people ask to like, comment or fill up to see if they’re interested interacting with a certain character or blog.

magic anon: anons of bygone eras, who cast “spells” on muses in their askbox for a specified amount of time. for example, a magic anon could “transform” your character into a cat for a week, and expects you to roleplay the situation accordingly

main: a RP partner with who the player interacts with more often; some mains can be or become exclusives

meta: metagaming, playing in character using knowledge the characters themselves don’t know, but the player do. it’s the RP equivalent of knowing how to deal with a boss in a game because you watched a walkthrough, making your character break the fourth wall and godmod to win

moved: a blog that was remade, usually either reusing the same URL or keeping a post with a link to the remade blog, leaving behind an archived blog

muse: the character you play as

musing: sentences, prose or lyrics, often written in stylistic manners, that represent the muse’s feelings, thoughts, relationships and history ( you can find a lot of them here )

mun: the player. this is you!!!

mutual: someone you follow, and who follows you back. a lot of blog are mutuals-only, meaning they’ll roleplay only with people they follow and who follows them back

OOC: out of character; when the mun talks. the opposite of IC

para/multipara: long threads, written in paragraphs

permanent starter call: generally speaking, permanent starter calls are posts the mun asks others to like or comment to make sure they’re “allowed” to send asks, interact, dashcomment or mention in other threads

promo: a post where the players promote their blog and their character, where they often give an idea of who the character they play as is, very basic rules and links to rules and about pages. please reblog those if you want to interact with them

prompt: also called ask memes or sentence starters, posts with a bunch of pre-made sentences used to break the ice and send as asks. they can be both in character and out of character ( you can find a lot of them here )

reblog karma: when someone reblogs a prompt, it’s common courtesy to send them something before reblogging the same prompt, or at least wait a few minutes and then reblog from the source

RP: roleplay

RPC: roleplay community, the “main” fandom you’re roleplaying with

rules password: a word or sentence left in the rules page of a blog, meant to be sent to prove the mun you read their rules. while the trend died down and even those who leave passwords generally agree that it isn’t something you’re forced to send, a lot of people at least notify their partner that they read their rules

semi-hiatus: a blog on hiatus means that the player isn’t going to be around very often for a long amount of time, generally unspecified

selectivity: depending on a mun’s selectivity, it means how open they are to play with new people, or non-mutuals. non-selective blogs are open to anyone to join, semi-selective blogs are much more reserved, being much more open to mutuals and people you know, while selective blogs are more often than not mutuals only and tend to have mains or even exclusive partners. someone being selective doesn’t mean they will never roleplay with you, and someone who’s non-selective isn’t automatically better than others. decide how selective you are with your blog based on nothing but your own comfort

softblock: blocking and unblocking someone in your follower list, not blocking them completely but still making sure they don’t follow you . A lot of mutuals-only blogs prefer to softblock people they don’t follow anymore

starter: the first post in a thread

starter call: a post muns ask others to generally like or comment if they want a starter for their muse. they usually have a specified limit

tag dump: the list of tags the mun uses in their blog, often to help people finding specific kind of threads (like ships and crack), or to make sure tumblr saves the most elaborate ones expect tumblr to not save them and remake the tag dump a few times

thread: the interactions between two (or more) muses

VC: voiceclaim, the voice used to represend a character

#roleplaying 101 #roleplay glossary

221 notes · View notes

the-fiction-witch · 2 months ago

Text

I Couldn't Sleep

Media - Game Of Thrones Character - Lancel Lannister Couple - Lancel X Reader Reader - Lady Y/n Rating - 18+ Nudity / nipple play/ nipple sucking / breast play/ fingering/ raw sex/ ejaculate/ squirting/ Word Count - 1393

lady Y/n made her way through the dark corridors of the red keep, making her way through secret passages and little-known doors with only a candle to light her way. Her long light yellow nightgown laid softly over her body often sweeping across the floor, her nipples already poking through from the cold. She gently entered into Lancel’s bed chamber finding him abed but awake.

His eyes locked onto hers, a hint of curiosity mixed with a dash of concern. He sat up in bed, the sheets slipping down his chest, “Lady Y/n... what brings you out of your chambers so late?”

"I couldn't sleep..." She softly whines setting her candle on the table,

“Come here,” he whispers, patting the empty space beside him on the bed. His eyes never leave hers as he beckons her closer, his voice low and soothing. “Perhaps we can find something to help you rest.”

she happily jumped into his bed with him cuddling up to him under the covers resting her head against his chest,

“Shh, my love,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around her, holding her close as she nestles into the warmth of his body. His fingers trail down her back, sending shivers down her spine as he gently massages the tension from her muscles. “You're safe now,” he whispers, his lips brushing against her hair as he speaks softly into her ear.

The two lay silently in each other's arms cradling one another in a loving embrace, before Lancel began to let his feelings become known more obviously,

As his hands continue to caress her, his lips brush against her skin. He trails kisses down her neck, his tongue leaving a path of fire in its wake “My love,” he whispers, his voice husky with need, “you drive me mad with want.”

she softly Giggled with excitement and immediately climbed up onto his lap

His hands instinctively rise to cup her ass, lifting her up as she settles onto his lap. He feels the heat of her core pressing against him, and his erection stirs in response “Oh, Lady Y/n,” he growls, his voice low and rough with desire, “you're playing with fire.” His fingers dig deeper into her flesh, holding her in place as he tilts his pelvis upwards, grinding himself against her. “Do you feel that?”

“Mhm,” she nodded,

“That is how you make me feel… always,” His mouth crashes down onto hers, devouring her lips in a fierce kiss. His tongue probes deep, claiming her as his own, as his hands continue to hold her in place. “I'm burning for you.”

she slowly unlaced her nightgown tugging it down around her waist to expose her bare breasts,

His eyes lock onto her exposed breasts, and he groans, his face twisting in a mixture of pleasure and restraint. “By the Seven,” he whispers, his voice trembling with desire, “you're killing me.” His hands reach out, cupping her breasts in his palms, squeezing them gently as he leans forward to take one nipple into his mouth. He sucks hard, drawing a gasp from her lips as she arches her back, pushing herself further into his touch. “Mmm,” he moans, releasing her breast with a pop, “you taste like honey and sin.” His thumbs rub gentle circles around her nipples as he continues to feast on her breasts.

She closes her eyes, lost in the sensation, as he works his magic. Suddenly, he releases her nipple with a soft pop, and his hands drop to her waist, pulling her closer still.

His lips brush against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “Now, let's see what else we can uncover…” he tossed her nightgown off leaving her naked, His gaze roamed over her body, drinking in every curve and contour. and his mouth waters at the sight. “You're so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the pounding of his heart. He reaches out, running his fingers over the smooth skin of her stomach, tracing the shape of her hipbones. His hand dips lower, parting her folds to reveal the tender, glistening flesh beneath. “Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice full of awe, “so wet and ready for me.” His finger teases her entrance, circling it lazily before dipping inside.

She gasps, her head falling back as he strokes her inner walls. “Lancel!”

“You’re like silk,” he whispers, his voice filled with wonder, “you're so tight and warm.” He adds another finger, scissoring them apart to stretch her wider.

Her hips begin to move, rocking against his hand as she seeks more friction.

With a sudden movement, he pulls his fingers free and grasps her waist. He lifts her up, settling her onto the edge of the mattress before dropping to his knees between her legs. His mouth descends upon her pussy, sucking in a deep breath as he inhales her scent.

she softly sqealed and screamed as he sucked her hands gripping his sheets

His mouth devours her, sucking and licking with reckless abandon as he feasts on her juices. Her screams echo through the air, music to his ears as he worships her body adding more suction and speed to drive her over the edge “Yes, yes, yes,” he growls against her flesh, “cum for me, my love.”

Suddenly, she convulses, her entire body locking up as a wave of pleasure washes over her.

He laps at her, drinking in every last drop as she trembles beneath him.

Finally, she collapses back against the pillows, exhausted but exhilarated.

As she catches her breath, he rises to his feet, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He pulls open his bedside draw rummaging through its contents until he produces a small vial of liquid. “Time for something special,” he says, his eyes glinting with mischief, “a little something to make you feel like the lady you are.” He uncorks the vial, pouring a few drops onto his fingers before reaching out to tease her nipples once more. This time, however, they're slick with oil, and she feels it slide smoothly across her skin as he strokes her. She gasps, her body responding eagerly to the newfound sensation. He takes advantage of her distraction, slipping his fingers deeper into her folds and stroking her inner walls with renewed intensity.

she softly screams as he plays with her again tormenting her with both her pussy and her nipple being stimulated "lancel! Please!"

His name is torn from her lips as he continues to toy with her, expertly juggling the dual sensations of pleasure and pain. Her body arches off the bed, straining towards him as she begs for release. But he's relentless, driving her higher and higher with each passing moment. He pinches her nipple harder, sending a jolt of electricity through her his head craning down to continue his ministrations on her pussy.

Her moans grow louder, more insistent, as she struggles to contain herself. she screamed "Lancel please! No more... No more... Please I need you inside me!"

“Need me? Well, I can hardly deny you when you are so desperate my love,” he reaches down to guide himself into position. He pours the oil over his erect cock and with a single, swift motion, he thrusts himself deep inside her, feeling her hot, wet flesh envelop him like a vice.

She screams again, this time in pure ecstasy, as he begins to move within her.

His pace quickens, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he drives himself deeper into her body.

She wraps her legs around him, pulling him closer as she meets him stroke for stroke. “I'm going to cum!” she gasps, her voice barely audible above the sound of their panting, “please, Lancel, don't stop.”

He grins, his teeth bared in a fierce smile, as he picks up speed. His movements become almost brutal, pounding into her with a primal ferocity,

Until she squeals and squirts down his bed as the pleasure washes over her like waves to castle walls.

And then, suddenly at the feeling of her clenching with pleasure, he freezes, his body locked in place as he spills himself deep inside her. “Fu- Fuuuck-” He groans before he pulled out leaving her to leak his seed as he collapsed down beside her pulling her into his arms, “I love you so much Y/n,” He gasped

“I love you too lancel,” she gasped back nuzzling up to him once more the two almost immediately falling asleep in each others arms,

#game of thrones #got #got fanfic #got fanfiction #got spoilers #game of thrones fanfic #game of thrones lancel lannister #thomas brodie sangster #lancel lannister x reader #game of thrones lancel #lancellannister #lancel #lancel lannister #eugenesimon #eugene simon

11 notes · View notes