#sir token the third

[allthemeninmybed]

The itch

Part I

Summary: Reader is a friend of the band but III doesn't like her too much and the feeling is mutual. Or is it?

Pairing: III x fem!reader

Warnings: non, YET

Word count: 2930

A/N: The start of a bit of a slow burn, I hope you like it, please, don’t forget to give me feedback! 🖤

He spotted the familiar face across the room and his stomach tied into a knot. She got under his skin with her almost bubbly personality, she had this ability to make everyone feel like they were the center of the universe.

Everyone but him.

“Hey guys!”

You wave across the bar, not surprised by III’s unimpressed face. Approaching them your heart beats like crazy, you know he doesn’t quite like you, you just don’t know why.

III’s teeth gritted at your voice, lips pursed as he lifted his gaze with a muttered course.

Great, what I needed.

“Evening darling.” – he said, the sarcastic term of endearment rolling off his tongue like a spit of venom. He raised a hand in a half-assed greeting before taking another swig of his drink. IVy, on the other hand, seemed to light up like a bloody Christmas tree anytime you were around.

The twat.

You great the others with a short hug, obviously leaving III out, you’re not pretending to be close though you know him better than he’d like to admit.

“Where’s Ves?” – you ask cheerfully.

“He’s got a cold. Bit of a cough.” – II responds with a shrug.

IVy was eyeing you, sizing you up with his usual easygoing smile. Sometimes III wondered if he just wanted to get into your pants. He sure seemed like it.

“Said he needed a night off, don’t blame him.”

“Oh… what a shame.”

You say, noticing IVy looking at you and III looking at IVy from the corner of your eye.

“What are we drinking? I feel like gin tonight.”

You smile at them, even at III who seems to be annoyed by it, as always. If only you knew what was his fucking problem with you.

“I’ll get the next round for you boys, okay?”

You were always so happy. Too damn happy, it was getting on his nerves.

“Gin, of course.” – he says, rolling his eyes.

“The drink of choice for those who can’t handle real alcohol.”

“Oh, and what do you consider as real alcohol?”

You can’t take it, you need to comment.

“Anything but whatever fruity shite you’re drinking.” – he says with a scoff.

“You’d probably pass out if you had a good whiskey.”

II rolls his eyes, mumbling something about not starting this again while IVy grins at your retort.

“So what? How old are you, 19? You know what, I don’t give a fuck about who could drink more of what, I’m gonna get gin for myself and beer for you guys and anyone who doesn’t like it can bite me.”

III’s opening his mouth but you’re not in the mood.

“Oh just shut it already.” – you say chuckling, well aware that it’s gonna fuck him up.

You turn around and make your way to the bar, swaying your hips a little more than you should.

I know you’ve won this battle but the war is far from over.

III’s eyes follow you as you walk away, his irritation mixing with a hint of admiration for your feistiness. His gaze quickly falls to your hips and his jaw clenches. The view did something to him, his body reacting in ways he’d rather not think about.

Bloody hell.

The night goes on by rather fun after all this, the boys are easy to talk to and III seems to hate you less and less as you drink more. Or at least he’s not insulting you in every fifteen minutes, which is a progress. You catch him look at you a few times but you don’t make a big deal out of it because tonight IVy’s doing the same, it doesn’t really matter.

III can’t help but notice that too, a pang of something unexplainable stirs in his chest. He’s practically drooling over you every time you speak or laugh.

Bloody prick.

“I think it’s time for me to go.” – you say softly, you’re dozing off faster than you should.

III glances up at you, noticing the slight slur in your words and the way your eyes flutter a bit too slowly. Your cheeks are flushed and he can’t help but feel a little bit of… concern? Clearing his throat, he mutters.

“You sure you’re okay to get home? Alone?”

The words come out rougher than he intended, he can taste the slight bitterness in his mouth.

Why am I concerned?

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl.” – you say, your smile directed at him, not even acknowledging II and IVy now. You’re almost ashamed to admit that it feels good to have him worrying about your safety.

“Yeah, sure. You’re a big girl until a creep jumps you.”

II and IVy just watch, confused look on their faces until III throws them a glare.

Keep your mouths shut.

He finishes the last of his drink before rising from his seat, feigning aloofness as he glances at you, silently offering his company. There it is again, that feeling of protectiveness. It’s unfamiliar and he’s not sure he likes it.

“Who are you…?” – you ask in an overexaggerated manner.

You wanna go on but you don’t push your luck. You want him to walk you home. He rolls his eyes at your comment but there’s a hint of a begrudging smile in the corner of his mouth. He hates how cute he thinks you are when you’re all giggly and slightly drunk like this.

“Yeah, yeah, spare me the sarcasm. Just don’t puke on my shoes or something, I ain’t your bloody babysitter.”

“I’ll try my best.” – you say as you giggle and wave goodbye to the boys.

The two of you step out of the pub into the cold November night, walking in silence for a bit but you can’t keep your mouth shut.

“Why are you doing this..?”

III stuffs his hands into his pockets, ducking his head against the cold.

“Doing what?” – he asks innocently.

He knows damn well what you’re talking about but he’s not gonna admit it because…

Why am I doing this?

He doesn’t have a good answer.

“Come on, quit it…” – you say teasingly.

“It’s so out of character, walking me home and all this shit.” – you pause and add a comment in an attempt to stir him up.

“IVy would’ve probably offered to walk me home anyway…”

“Yeah, I bet he fucking would have.” – he mutters under his breath, a little too loudly.

The though of him walking you home, his hands all over your drunk, curvy frame…the though makes his blood boil.

“Oh for the love of…” – he stops dead in his tracks and turns his face to you, blue eyes darkened in the dim street light.

“…and what, would you preferred it if it was him?”

You’re taken aback, eyes going wide and your mouth opening without a single words coming out. His sudden and unexpected reaction caught you by surprise.

“No. Actually, no…” – you say softly, looking up at his somewhat grim face as he’s towering over you.

III’s heart stutters at your words, a strange mixture of relief and surprise coursing through his veins.

“No?” – he repeats.

His body is tense as he looks down at you. For some strange reason this whole thing is making his pulse race and his breath catch in his throat.

Why do I want to hear you say it again.?

You don’t say anything, you just shake your head twice, slowly, letting it sink in. He’s staring at you like never before, you can’t read him and it’s infuriating. You’re not sure what to say or do, you feel like he’s controlling the situation and you just react to him.

The way you’re looking up at him, the way you so easily turned tables with a quiet admission…it’s unnerving. And yet, there’s a stirring he can’t quite ignore. Something deep within him, a primal sort of possessiveness that screams he wants to be the one to walk you home, he wants to be the one to make sure you’re safe. He wants to reach out, to touch you, to hold you…

Why am I being so fucking soft?

“Thank you…”

Though your voice is a whisper it snaps both you and him from this indescribable state.

He swallows, the huskiness of your voice sending a shiver down his spine like electricity.

“Just… shut up.” – he mutters, averting his gaze.

He starts walking again, the silence between you more comfortable than before, as if some of the walls are coming down.

“Okay, okay…”

You chuckle as he tells you to shut up, his somewhat usual mannerisms coming back but it still feels different. It doesn’t seem like hate and despise anymore, rather teasing and banter.

As you’re catching up to him the thought of your arm linking with his comes to his mind but he immediately brushes it off.

Get it together, you fool.

He glances over at you, his eyes flitting over your figure every so often, taking in the way your hips sway, the way your hair frames your face.

“Yeah, yeah… you never seem to know when to shut up.” – he says almost in a warm tone.

“Someone has to keep you occupied, yeah?” – you tease him, the cold air sobering you up a little.

You need to hurry beside him, his long legs are carrying him way faster than your short ones do little old you.

His gaze flickers over to you, the way your cleavage is slightly visible from where he is, just enough to keep his mind reeling. He has to bite his tongue to keep him from saying something stupid.

“Keep up you midget.”

“Oh fuck you.”

You want to stop yourself but you can’t, you laugh out loud.

“You fucking lamp post.”

“Lamp post?” - a scoff leaves his lips.

“At least I’m not the size of a bloody bonsai tree.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he glances down at your shorter frame, imagining all the ways he could manhandle you.

You’d like that, wouldn’t you…Fuck, pull yourself together.

Your laughter gets louder and heartier, no one has ever called you that, it’s genuinely funny.

“You fucker.” – you say, trying to stop the laughing.

III grins, the laughter slipping out if your lips warms his heart more than he cares to admit.

“Language, hobbit.” – he teases.

“Okay, you Ent.” – you giggle as you’re getting closer to your apartment.

“Well at least you know your Tolkien, that’s something.”

He looks down at you, taking in your flushed cheeks, the way your hair falls across your face. He glances at the upcoming building, the realization sinking in that the night is coming to an end. A pang of disappointment hits him but he does his best to ignore it.

“This is your place then?”

“Not this, the next one.” – you say, probably unsuccessful in masking your disappointment that you have to part ways.

Seeing the building he looks back at you, taking in the way the light from the street lamp casts shadows on your face. His gaze lingers on your lips for a moment, his fingers itching to touch you.

“Well, I guess this is goodnight.” – he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets to stop himself from doing something stupid.

Don’t touch her…

“Yes…” – you say softly as you’re searching for your keys.

Having found them you turn to him, his icy blue eyes burning a hole in you as he’s looking down.

“Thank you, again.” – you almost whisper.

“No worries.” – he replies, his voice gruff, almost a low growl.

His eyes travel down your face, lingering on your lips, on your neck… He clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to reach out, to pull you closer, to feel your softness against him. The two of you nod and he stars to walk away when you do something you’ll probably regret later.

“III…!” – you call out to him.

He stops mid-stride, turning around to look back at you. His heart jumps as he hears his name spill from your mouth, the sound of it sending a shiver down his spine.

“Yeah…?”

He turns to you, his expression schooled into a familiar mask if ignorance, trying to hide the effect your voice has on him.

You walk towards him and without a word you hug him. You’re not sure why you’re doing this but it feels right at that moment.

Bloody hell.

His whole body stiffens at the unexpected contact, the feel of your arms around him sending a wave of heat through his veins. For a moment his mind goes blank and he stands there like a statue, unable to move, to speak, to breathe. Then, as if a dam has burst, his arms envelop you, pulling you tightly against his body, one hand slipping into your hair, the other at the small of your back pressing you close to him.

The feeling of his long bony fingers in your hair makes you swallow hard, you gasp. His tall slender figure against your soft curvy one feels indescribably comforting, you don’t want to pull away from him, not yet.

Just a few more seconds of this, please.  

His breath hitches as your body melts against his, the feel of your softness driving him crazy. He tightens his grip, his fingers tangling in your hair and pulling slightly, his breath fanning over your ear.

“Fuck…” – he mutters, the word escaping his lips like a prayer.

He knows he should pull away; he knows this is a dangerous boundary he’s crossing but he can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he pulls you closer.

Hearing him curse as his breath is hot and damp against your ear you roll your eyes at the sensation. Unable to control yourself you let out a soft and quiet moan, hoping he didn’t hear me but I know he did. We’re practically melted against each other.

His ears prick up at the sound that escapes your lips sending a spear of desire straight between his legs.

That sound, that beautiful breathy sound… He wants to hear it again. Over and over, until your voice is hoarse from screaming his name…

He swallows hard, fighting to keep himself under control, to keep his hands wandering around you body, to keep his lips claiming yours

“God, I…” – he murmurs softly, his voice barely above whisper.

You suddenly come to the realization that he’s heard you and shame is starting to creep up inside. You pull away from him, your tone apologetic.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, sorry to have hugged you, I…” – you’re a mumbling mess as you’re moving towards the door.

Fuck, what is happening?!

“Wait, love…”

The nickname slipping before the has a chance to stop it. He swallows, trying to regain some degree of composure and it’s taking all his willpower not to pull you back to him.

Your mind doesn’t even register what he’s just called you, you’re desperate to get inside your flat, you feel like you’ve done something to be ashamed of.

“Thank you… thanks for walking me home, it meant much to me, good night… bye, sleep well…” – you’re spurring.

His heart sinks as he watches you make a beeline for the door, he can see the shame in your eyes and it's tearing him apart.

“(Y/N), wait… please…”

He tries to keep his voice level but the desperation bleeds through. He wants to say ‘don’t be sorry, there’s no need to apologize, this was the highlight of my day’, but the words stick in his throat. Instead, he takes a step forward, closing the distance between you.

You slip inside the door before he could reach you, it locks behind you with a loud click.

“I’m sorry! Good night, I’m sorry…!” – you shout, on the verge of crying, the reason unknown to you.

You can’t comprehend the turmoil you feel and it fucks you up.

He stands frozen in place, his hand outstretched, his heart in his throat. The sound of the door closing, locking him out is like a punch to the gut. He can still feel the imprint of your body against his, the memory of your scent, the sound of your voice but now he’s left alone in the cold, wondering what’s just happened, why you’re apologizing, why he’s feeling like he’s just been sucker-punched. He clenches his jaw, the urge to hit something, anything, almost overwhelming.

You hurry up to your flat, taking two steps at a time. You don’t know what’s gotten into you but you feel you were in the wrong. He hates you, right? And you don’t like him either, right?

How are you going to crawl out of this weird hole?

He's still standing in front of your apartment, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet, contemplating what the hell has just happened. Did you know what you were doing when you pressed that delicious body against his? Or when you wrapped your arms around him just begging to be held? And then there was that moan, the sound that’s been playing on loop in his head since he’s heard it. A moan that made his knees go weak. A frustrated growl escapes his lips as he’s starting to walk home.

You carefully look out your window, watching him walk away,

My fucking god, why did I have to hug him?

It's just complicated everything

But he felt so good against me…

You will blame it on the alcohol if it ever gets brought up, yeah.

Like a coward.

But that’s the best you can do for now.

There’s a part two coming! Stay tuned loves.

My lovely tag list so far 🖤

@yeehaw-my-guys

[livingdramaofyourpain]

uh hey do u mind? ur kinda staring into my soul, thanks

[channelsoph]

tell me why he posted the most unhinged lyrics ever

source: his ig

[half-of-a-gay]

Armor Between Us

Knight!Sevika x princess!reader

When political corruption, forbidden love, and an old enemy threaten the realm, Sevika must navigate her loyalties, her growing feelings for the princess, and the ghosts of her past to protect everything she holds dear.

link to chaper 1 and chaper 3

Chaper 2

Scars of Honor

In a relentless campaign to protect her kingdom, Sir Sevika fights through weeks of brutal battles, her thoughts anchored by a token from the princess—until one fateful clash leaves her scarred, broken, and forever changed.

---

The battlefield was still, for now. A cold wind swept across the plains, carrying the scent of mud, steel, and the distant smoke of burning villages. Clouds rolled heavy and gray overhead, smothering the faint light of dawn.

Sevika tightened the straps of her armor, her fingers methodical, moving without thought. Each buckle, each plate, each adjustment was a ritual—a routine that steadied her against the growing tension knotting in her chest. Around her, soldiers murmured to one another, some whispering prayers, others sharpening blades or tending to their mounts. The air buzzed with the restless energy of men and women preparing to kill or be killed.

Beneath her breastplate, she could feel it—the faint press of fabric against her skin. Before donning her armor, she had folded the handkerchief with deliberate precision, smoothing the embroidered edges with the flat of her calloused hand. She’d wrapped it carefully around the linen strips she used to bind her chest, tucking it snugly over her heart in hopes that no blade or arrow could reach it. It wasn’t the hasty action of a soldier stuffing away a token for good luck; it was a ritual, quiet and unspoken, that she didn’t dare name. Now, as the weight of her armor pressed it close to her, she could feel it there—a fragile thing in a world of steel and blood.

Her gray eyes scanned the horizon, narrowing at the sight of the enemy banners flapping in the distance. Too far to see the faces of the men who carried them, but close enough to know they were coming. She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured. No fear. No hesitation. Not yet.

Her hand hesitated for a moment before resting against the cool steel of her breastplate, just over her heart. She told herself it was superstition—just a token, nothing more. But it wasn’t.

Her mind betrayed her in these moments, conjuring the princess’s face. The warmth in her voice, the steadiness in her hand as she’d offered the token, as if she’d known Sevika needed something to anchor her.

“You fight for the people who believe in you. And I believe in you.”

The memory rose unbidden, and Sevika shoved it aside. There was no room for softness now.

“Sir Sevika.”

The voice jolted her out of her thoughts. She turned sharply, her gaze meeting that of one of her esquires—a young man whose face was pale beneath his helmet.

“The men are ready,” he said, though the slight tremor in his voice betrayed his nerves.

Sevika nodded once, curt and commanding. “Good. Form the lines. We hold position until they come to us.”

The esquire saluted and hurried off, leaving Sevika alone again. She adjusted her gauntlet, checking the straps for the third time. Her muscles coiled tight with anticipation. There was no fear. She’d buried it long ago, the way soldiers learned to bury everything. And yet, beneath it all, she could still feel the faint weight of the handkerchief against her chest.

She allowed herself one fleeting thought, one whispered truth that she would never speak aloud: If I don’t survive this… at least I fought with her faith behind me.

The sound of the enemy war horns shattered the quiet. The storm had come.

Sevika mounted her horse in a single, practiced motion, her sword gleaming at her side. She didn’t look back. There was no point. All that mattered was what lay ahead.

“Hold the line!” she barked, her voice cutting through the rising din like a blade. “Stay steady!”

And then, as the enemy banners surged closer and the clash of steel became inevitable, Sevika touched her breastplate one last time. Just for a second.

Then she drew her sword and rode to meet the storm.

The first skirmish was over in hours, but the campaign stretched endlessly. Each new dawn brought another village to liberate, another fortress to storm, another trail of blood left behind.

Sevika’s days blurred into a rhythm of battle cries and steel on steel. By the second week, her armor bore the scars of countless clashes—dented plates, cracked edges. Her body fared no better. A shallow cut across her thigh from a bandit’s spear. A graze on her cheek that stung whenever sweat trickled over it. Yet still, she fought.

Every night, when the fires of their camp flickered low and the wounded moaned in their makeshift beds, Sevika sat alone beneath the stars. She’d unbuckle her breastplate with deliberate care, fingers aching from the day’s strain, and touch the handkerchief folded beneath her bindings.

She never dared to acknowledge the lingering thoughts of the princess—never let herself admit that the memory of her voice or the touch of her hand could steady her more than the steel of her blade. But in those moments, when the stars were the only witnesses, they came to her anyway. And though she didn’t want to, she let them linger.

By the third week, the enemy resistance hardened. They weren’t just chasing cowards from burned-out villages anymore—they were storming fortresses, breaking entrenched lines. The kingdom’s enemies fought with desperation, knowing their hold on the land was slipping.

It was during one such battle—a grueling siege against an enemy stronghold—that Sevika met her breaking point.

The fighting dragged on for hours. She was at the front of the charge, her sword cleaving through enemy after enemy, her soldiers rallying behind her. The air reeked of blood and smoke, and the clash of steel was deafening.

The blow came suddenly. A flash of steel in the corner of her vision, and then the searing, bone-deep pain of an enemy sword hacking into her left arm. The force of it nearly knocked her to the ground. Her hand spasmed, her sword slipping from her grasp as blood poured from the wound.

She staggered, gasping for breath, and braced herself for the killing blow. But it didn’t come.

One of her soldiers—a young knight she barely knew by name—threw himself between her and the enemy, his shield slamming into the attacker and sending them sprawling.

“Sir Sevika!” the knight shouted, his voice trembling with panic as he caught her before she fell.

But Sevika didn’t stay upright. The weight of her armor and the force of her injury dragged her to the blood-soaked ground. As she fell, her face struck the jagged edge of a shattered shield, splitting the skin along her cheek and brow. Pain exploded across her face, hot and sharp, and she tasted blood on her lips.

The knight dropped to his knees beside her, shielding her with his body as another enemy charge approached. “Hold on!” he yelled, his voice distant in her ears.

Sevika blinked, her vision swimming. Her bloodied arm hung useless at her side, and her good hand clutched at her chest, fingers brushing the handkerchief beneath her armor. I promised I’d keep it safe, she thought hazily, the princess’s voice echoing in her mind. For her.

The world spun as her legs buckled, and the knight dragged her back toward the safety of their lines. The sounds of battle dimmed as darkness closed in around her. Sevika’s last thought was not of the kingdom she had fought to protect, but of the princess who had believed in her. The last thing she heard before collapsing was the rallying cry of her soldiers.

They would win this battle, she knew. But she wouldn’t walk away whole.

[leonsleftbicep]

i love that the fandom has three different types of III

Princess III

III that makes dick jokes and is quite homo-erotic for being a seemingly straight man/ gay III

&

The murderous Sir Token the Third that will bite, stab, saw, and eat you.

but that all the same dude, thats just the formula to make the III we watch do his high kicks with the fear of ending up with a shoe in the face.

[rashell101]

I saw someone call III “Sir Token the Third” and that is all I will be calling him from now on

[defira85]

Not All That Glitters: The Golden Reign of Gortash

Day 1: Inventor/Criminal

The remaining Flaming Fist at the end of the street began to draw a little closer, lingering on the far end of the crowd but unwilling to enter as the energy of the mob grew more voracious.

"Grand Duke Silvershield and his ilk on the Council of Four think that a man can work from sun up to sun down and earn a fair coin by the sweat of his brow, but may he spend it as he pleases? No!" His shout was matched by a good two thirds of the crowd. "You there, man, what work do you do for our fine city?"

The man in question was a Banite, dressed the part in old overalls and a well-worn cap. "I'm a fisher, sir!"

"And once you've done your part to feed the people of our city, and you've gone home to your lovely wife, can you buy her a necklace as a token of your affection, and as a sign of pride in your hard work?"

"No sir!"

"What of a fine silk handkerchief, delicately embroidered, to match her delicate features?"

"No sir! The lords on high forbid it!"

"The lords on high forbid this man from enjoying the fruit of his labours!" He spun on the podium, the coat swirling dramatically with his movement.

Read Day One here, and subscribe for all seven days

With thanks to @flamemittens for the Gortash themed page breaks 🖤💛🖤💛

[dontaskwhybutarsonsoundsokay]

Don't Get Caught || Sleep Token

FEM Reader X IV

The following content is mature. Please do not continue past this if you are under the age of 18.

Contents: Public Play, Praising, slight degradation

your in the studio because iv convinced you to come along for a recording session. the entire time his eyes are practically undressing you through the glass. you cant help but watch as his fingers work their magic with the guitar. Your face turning red watching him as you try to ignore the obvious eyes from the producers and engineers. 

As the recording session continues you cant help but feel the heat between your legs grow. Iv gives you a smirk seeing how your reacting to your own desperation. 

after the session, IV grabs your arm and drags you to the lounge. "I saw you getting desperate ya know" his smirk grows wider. "I saw you, undressing me silly girl" he whispers into your ear. His hand starts trailing up your thigh, "Be a little slut for me baby. please" he whispers, your body shivers to his touch. A light whimper leaves your mouth, as his hand explores your body, a thumb brushing past the wet heat of your panties.

"Can we maybe do this in a place thats not so... public" you say quietly, His head drops, and he chuckles lightly. 

"now why would we do that hm?" His voice feels playfully arrogant. Your eyes met his, Just dont finish in m“e right now, please.” He nods before he pulls you in closer, his hands firm on your hips. Your heart beats faster, he’s mentioned wanting to do things publicly, but you never thought he’d actually want to do it. You look up at him, his eyes set onto your body. You feel as he once again undresses you mentally, his eyes slowly trailing down your body. You feel him take in a deep breath, his chest rising and falling against yours. You feel as you slowly start to give into him, you lower your head and whisper “you’re right, why would we do that” you smirk, before meeting his eyes again. His smile widens, “Thats right baby,” his hand once again passing by the wet heat collecting in your panties. You feel as he tugs at your panties, pulling them out of the way as his fingers dance over the soft folds. His fingers separate your folds and you feel the cold air, before he quickly inserts two fingers into you. 

“You’re so wet for me already,” his lips close to the crook of your neck, breath hot before he starts sucking at your skin. He trails his mouth further down your neck and onto your chest, leaving soft bruises in his wake. His fingers slowly making its way in and out of you, before slipping in a third finger. He slowly starts pushing you towards a wall, the hand not busy between your thighs wraps around your throat. “I need you to be a good girl,” his voice ringing through the air softly. Your back hits the wall softly, his hand applying light pressure to your neck. 

His fingers exit you slowly, he presses his fingers into your mouth, “taste that baby? Hm, how do your own juices taste?” He plays with your tongue, before removing his fingers from your mouth. You nod lightly in response to his words, his head shakes slightly, “No, no, no. Words baby. I need words,” His voice is firm. 

You feel as your heart starts racing, “it was good” you say softly. You look up at him, trying to avoid eye contact. His hand slips under your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. 

“Now, now. I couldn’t hear that baby,” he smiles softly. The light of the room dimmed lightly due 

to the lack of movement. “Louder for me,” his smile is soft, but firm in its own way. 

“I tasted good sir” You say, biting your lip softly. He nods slowly, his hand lowers from your mouth, and starts pulling at his pants. Pulling his pants down to expose his package, he grabs the base of his cock, bringing it closer to your heat. “Do you want this baby?” his eyes trail down your body, not catching you nod. His body presses lightly against yours, the tip of his cock rubs against your folds lightly. “Hm, do you want it baby?” His words dance in your mind. 

At this moment, his grip around your neck tenses as he enters you quickly, you slide onto him easily, feeling him slowly filling you. He grunts lightly as your warmth encompasses him. “You-” his breath hitches lightly, “You feel so nice baby.” his mouth plants itself onto your neck, nibbling lightly. He slowly starts thrusting into you, grunts escape his mouth while his pace slowly speeds up. Your hands grip onto his neck, nails slowly digging into his soft skin. 

He pulls his cock out of you, suddenly feeling empty. You look at him, pity shines in your eyes. “Wh-what’s wrong?” you ask him pleadingly. He looks deeply into your eyes, a shiver runs down your spine slowly.

“I decided to wait,” he chuckles lightly to himself, “if I can’t finish, neither can you.” He smirks, before pushing your panties back over your now dripping heat. “Let's go home, so we can continue this.”

[seasaltandcopper]

vampire hunter AU Pt 3

[Prev]

Summary: Teddy takes a moment alone with Mal. She and Will talk on the drive home.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Profanity, (implied) torture, violence, manhandling, dehumanization

The truck’s headlights cut a swath through the darkness, spilling across chalky gravel, stubborn weeds, and jagged chips of concrete. Moths and bugs flit through the light, throwing flickering shadows as they knocked against the bumper of the vehicle, and pinged gently off its hood.

Out in the dark, past the lights of the truck and the old factory, beyond the high, razor-wire topped walls, a pack of coyotes yipped and howled. Crickets and frogs sang their nightly lullabies. Critters screeched.

A nice, mild summer night. Routine. Almost peaceful.

Teddy glanced to the side, giving the vampire another look over as she steered him towards the truck. Mal kept his head down as he stumbled along, every few steps needing her to tighten her grip when he didn’t lift a foot high enough and caught it on the loose gravel, either tripping himself or sending it skittering off into the dark.

It looked like the effort of even walking this far was about to put him on the ground. Or maybe the gravel just hurt his feet.

Boo-fucking-hoo.

When Teddy looked closer though, she noticed the dark red smudges trailing behind him, only visible because the loose rock out here was a dusty, powdery white.

She sighed. Even if this shit was rough to walk on barefoot, it shouldn’t cut him up that bad in such a short distance. Another lingering token of the hunters' hospitality, probably. Teddy briefly wondered if he’d tried to run recently and they’d taken steps to make it a little harder if he got it into his head to try again.

He didn’t look like a flight risk. But Teddy gleaned enough from the past half hour to agree with Brooks’ original assessment: Mal wasn’t broken. Not all the way; not permanently.

Not yet.

Teddy sighed again, face rearranging into something less pensive and more irritable. “Something wrong with your feet?”

Head raising so fast it might’ve been attached to a pull-string, Mal pushed out a sharp breath through his nose. Anyone else, any other context, Teddy would’ve called it amused; she didn't know what to call it with him.

He shook his head, brows pulled together in a deep line. “No,” Mal lied, voice hoarse from disuse. He swallowed, and tacked on a more automatic sounding, “Uhm—no, sir.”

Sir, huh?

Well, Teddy wouldn’t argue with that. It sent a weird, tingling thrill all the way down to her fingertips, like grabbing hold of a live wire. Wrong in the same way it felt right, the intoxicating high of knowing you had your oldest enemy completely under your thumb.

No wonder vampires got so drunk on that kind of power.

Uninterested in pressing him for the truth—anything and everything she wanted to know she’d get out of him later—Teddy gave Mal another firm tug, and pulled him to a stop beside the old, white appliance truck.

The open bed in the back was crammed full of various tools and equipment and (mostly Will’s) junk, but a good third of the space was taken up by a white, chest style freezer.

Not the fanciest transport, but for the hunter on a budget, it’d do just fine. Secure, for her peace of mind, and sun proof, for the vampire’s. Supposedly they felt safer in small, dark places, which had led to the whole coffin-sleeping myth in the first place. Regardless, Mal would be safe on the hours-long ride back, even if it was a tight fit. He might even enjoy the chance to rest, which was sure as hell more than he deserved.

Climbing into the back, Teddy reached down to pull Mal up after her, and hauled him bodily into the truck bed with surprising ease. He grunted as he landed hard on his knees, Teddy’s iron grip around his arm the only thing keeping him from eating shit.

The side of Mal’s jaw ticked, like he was biting down on something, but he stayed bizarrely quiet. Just like he’d been the entire time. The Mal she remembered had never shut up; it was disconcerting to see him rendered practically mute.

Whispering unease slipped through Teddy’s ribs like a cold wind through bare tree branches. It rattled and sighed with the voice of doubt. She shook her head and let it pass. Grimaced.

No, it was him. It had to be him. The tip, everything the hunters here confirmed over the call, even his own reaction to the name was all but proof.

But—

You’d feel pretty damn silly if you went through all this trouble and got home with the wrong guy.

“Alright, stop,” Teddy ordered, halting the vampire before he could get up off his knees. He’d been staring at the freezer uneasily, but one word was enough for his attention to snap back to her. “Hold still. I wanna get a better look at you.”

Reaching down, Teddy cupped his jaw, tilting his head back so they were staring eye to eye. She felt the subtle flinch, the way Mal’s whole body seemed to pull taut at the contact, how badly he obviously wanted her hands off him.

But other than the flare of nostrils as he pulled in a breath, he maintained a surprisingly good poker face. No fighting, no struggling. Not even a peep of sass.

Teddy grimaced again at the tackiness of Mal’s skin, built up residue of god knew what covering him. Patchy stubble scratched at her fingertips. She brushed loose strands of hair out of his face, roughly tugged a couple chunks free where’d they’d caught under the muzzle straps, ignoring his wince.

His hair looked longer than she remembered, hanging just past his jaw. Uneven in places, like he’d lost patches of it at some point, and was only partly regrown. With all the filth, the color was indiscernible—it could’ve been red. Or anything from medium blond to brown originally. And if he had freckles, Teddy sure as hell couldn’t see them beneath the filth.

Eugh.

A sigh. “Mal,” Teddy said, like she was testing the name against some metric. “You are Mal, right?”

She felt his throat work as he swallowed. The look he gave her reminded Teddy of a wild animal, caught in a trap. Slowly, Mal nodded. Then managed a raspy, “Who—who are you?”

“Teddy,” she answered flatly. A steel bite undercut the words. “But you know what, I kinda like the sound of “Sir”, so let’s stick with that.”

She noted the complete lack of recognition at the drop of her name. Mild confusion that seamlessly melted into acceptance, hastily buried under a glaze of apathy. Another jerky little nod at the second half of her statement.

Something about it pissed Teddy off; the surge of her own fury took her by surprise, capsizing her better judgment before she could reign in her temper.

Fingers curling, she dug her nails savagely into Mal’s jaw, wrenching his head back until she felt the tendons in his neck straining at the angle, needing—something. A real reaction. Anger, pain, fear, it didn’t matter, Teddy just needed to know the monster still felt something the way she did, some dim reflection of the turmoil raging inside her like a storm.

Mal made a sound, quiet, against her hand. He wasn’t looking at her with apathy now. Blinded by her own rage, all Teddy could think was that it wasn’t enough.

Both of them shook. Little tremors traveled between them seamlessly, like an electric current.

Just get him home, a more sensible part of herself insisted, you’re so close, don’t blow it all now for a cheap shot.

Teeth grinding, Teddy stared down, wild eyed at her captive.

Shit.

Teddy released Mal abruptly, shoving him away from her. He landed hard, metal rattling against the truck bed. “Just go.” A disgusted noise rumbled in her throat, and she scrubbed the hand clean on her dark jeans. “Fucking leech bastard.”

Rising, Teddy pulled Mal along with her to the freezer, ignoring his startled yelp and the clatter of limbs hitting the truck bed as he tried to help rather than simply get dragged. He ended up on his side, slumped against the freezer, wide-eyed and staring up at her.

“But you wanna know who I am—?” Shoving open the lid, Teddy paused long enough to answer Mal’s question. “I’m your worst fucking nightmare.”

Teddy pushed out a rough sigh and slammed the driver’s side door closed behind her. Both hands braced against the wheel to stop them from shaking. She curled them around worn, familiar plastic, tightening her grip until it creaked, and the crisscross of white and pink scars stood out across the backs of her hands like lines on a map.

Her pulse slammed in her own ears. Too loud. Something under her ribs ached, like a stitch in her side from running too long.

Ten years. Ten fucking years.

And a whole damn lifetime of nightmares, jumping at shadows, wondering if she’d ever get closure for any of it.

Slouched quietly in the passenger’s seat, Will tapped out a cigarette and the world finally shook itself back into some kind of order. She waited for the familiar flickflickflick of his lighter, the sharp burn of tobacco and paper, before breaking the silence.

Rituals, Teddy came to realize over the years, were important. There was a reason magic thrived on them, that countless human societies were structured around them. Even mundane ones carried weight.

She breathed in deeply, taking comfort in the familiar burn of secondhand smoke. Let it out again, slow and controlled.

“Yeah, it’s Mal,” she said. The words came from someone else’s mouth. “Son of a bitch didn’t recognize me, but I got that much out of him. Shit.”

Teddy wished she’d kicked him in the teeth before locking him up. Given the bloodsucker something to think about on the ride home.

She’d stayed calm until her slip a moment ago. Cool, collected, distanced from it all—outwardly, at least. But once she gave it some slack, the dam keeping all those ugly emotions and nearly thirty years of pain and fear-fueled rage at bay started to crack.

“Dude looked pretty messed up already.” Spoken as mellow and unruffled as everything else that came out of Will’s mouth. He took a drag and blew the smoke out the window, one long, thin stream. “Guess these guys had him for a while, huh?”

Something sharp edged into Teddy’s voice. “I don’t give a shit what those hunters did to him.” She held the wheel in a death grip. “Hell, whatever it was, it wasn’t enough. That isn’t even close to what that leech deserves, not after what they did to us.”

Briefly, her gaze slid sideways, settling on Will. Unlike Teddy, he rarely bothered to hide his scars. On a warm night like this, a t-shirt left plenty of exposed skin. All of it told a story.

An ugly, bloody one.

Dozens of bite scars crawled from his wrists up past the crook of his elbows. More bloomed from beneath the neck of his shirt. And those were just the ones she could see—

Teddy sneered, then buckled her seatbelt. She threw the truck in drive and pulled out, flinging gravel and fishtailing for a second before she regained control. She flicked a salute to the hunters at the gate as they waved her through.

Humming in annoyance as the abrupt acceleration knocked a clump of ash loose onto his shirt, Will grimaced and brushed at it. It smudged, gray crushing into the warm yellow fabric.

“Jeeze, Teddy, ease off a little.” Sighing, Will abandoned the effort to save his shirt. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I know why you need this.” Even if Will didn’t.

But he got it, and no matter how gruesome or bloody a path Teddy chose to walk, Will followed. She had no doubt he’d follow her to hell and back, something that brought equal parts reassurance and guilt these days.

Teddy knew all of that. Just like they both knew it wasn’t really him she was mad at. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Forcing herself to ease off the accelerator, Teddy fixed her gaze out the front windshield. Now that they’d passed out of the compound, the sky opened up overhead. Like the ceiling of a black cathedral, speckled with thousands of points of dim, distant light.

Here, in the swath of no man’s land between established territories, very few dedicated settlements persisted—human or vampire. Just hunters, lone wolf types without a coven to claim them, and a handful of civilians too stubborn to leave their homesteads, preferring to protect their land or die trying.

It wasn’t all bad, though. Just quiet. Dark. Empty.

Things most humans feared. Things that had frighted Teddy once, too, but didn’t anymore.

“Whoa, Teddy, check it out—you can see the Milky Way tonight. Awesome.”

Pushing out an amused snort, she glanced over at Will. “You can always see the Milky Way out here.”

“Not when it’s cloudy,” Will pointed out brightly, grinning. “Or raining.”

“Right.” A good natured roll of her eyes, and Teddy leaned back into her seat. Relaxed the white knuckled grip she’d had on the wheel and pulled off the gravel road onto a proper paved one.

Little tremors still zipped down her arms, but the distraction kept the threat of spiraling into darker memories at bay.

Picking a thumbnail at the wheel, Teddy kept her eyes on the road as she said, “Thanks. For staying.” For everything.

Nothing would go back to the way it was before. The kids they’d been, all those years ago, were dead and buried. Even vengeance couldn’t change that.

But maybe closure could give them a better future to look forward to, after.

Smiling, Will slouched lower in his seat and flipped on the radio. Only a couple stations reached out this far, and of those two only one played music. Old country. Blues. Folk songs that had a distant crackle to them even without the fuzz of interference.

Will’s easy-going chuckle drifted over the crooning of a singer who'd died before they were born. “Well, someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

AN: those of you who saw the teaser I posted a while back might be wondering where that went, and the answer is the second half of chapter three is now becoming chapter four because this is already so long lol

I want to lay the ground work now though, and start establishing these characters properly. Even if that means taking a little more time.

Taglist: @whumpsday @writereleaserepeat @thecyrulik @lookbluesoup @cinnamon-roll-whump @whumpwillow @bloodinkandashes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump

[mahuhumaling]

changes i liked and disliked in the rwrb movie 📨

ohmygod. i'm finally gonna talk about this movie, aren't i? i've held myself off from making original creations like video or photo edits for this piece of media, and i still am, because i feel like if i start making one i won't stop, but i think a textpost can be an exception because i've made tweets and threads about it on twitter already.

anyway, i just wanted to rattle off on these since these opinions have been simmering up on me since the movie first came out. lol i watched it 15 hours later on a whim with bar-in-hell expectations. karma got to me, because i ended up getting brainrot over it.

this is a long overdue post.

the aging up is both a yes and a no for me. a yes because i have previously never been opposed to aging up YA characters (technicaly rwrb is more new adult that young adult but whatever, it's teetering) like shadowhunters, and matthew does a great job of justifying this choice: grounding their romance into a more mature and real love. it's not to say that young love isn't valid or real enough, but the decision to make firstprince in their late 20s makes the discussion of forever and their adamant to fight for their love is more realistic and believable. with that said, it's also a no for me because their ages are also detrimental to the timeline and character arcs. for instance, henry's grief hits him like a ten wheeler as a teenager, and the whole explanation that casey writes for his grief is that he expected to deal with something as magnanimous as that kind of loss when he's older and not when his brain hasn't even fully developed. another instance is alex's having to grapple with his career choices after college!

matthew's best change is quite possibly firstprince exchanging the key and the ring. hands down, much better. i do understand that since the novel is in third person limited (alex's pov), it makes sense at a literary level (lol) for alex to own both the key and the necklace ("two homes side by side" is a BANGER line), but the equal complete devotion that the two have for each other at that point is excellent through that showcase of exchange. i own part of you, you own part of me. it's such a great display for the trope of "token of love." romcoms are back, baby! cinema is back!

worst change, then, is probably alex's parents being still happily married and in love. my hot take is that i understand why june was cut out and she's not a huge loss, compared to alex growing up as a child of divorce. making that change to alex having parents who are still together removes a huge dimension to alex's characterization because a lot of his issues stem from that, mainly his abandonment issues. you can see the full effect in the scene where he storms the kensington palace. i understand and respect it, matthew essentially explaining that because this was a different henry, then this was a different alex to — that he needed to be softer. he was more pleasing, desperate, confused with "can we please talk?" instead of the brash "your royal fucking highness!" because that's what it is: confusion. movie!alex couldn't fully understand why someone would just up and leave like that, whereas book!alex was immediately angry because he knows full well when someone leaves him. (*ahem* his dad) but anyway someone discusses it here in such great detail and i very much agree!

oh another good change is showing henry's pov during the email leak. nicholas... sir... ugh. fine, we're getting you that damn oscar. but seriously, he did great. t'was devastating seeing his face crumble, and the one show/display of roual authority, of hot flash of anger, of power, just to talk to alex was even sadder because that was the only time he uses it.

another yes and no change for me is "history huh." the placement of the most popular line from being im the email to being said out loud privately for the two of them is something i'm divided about. yes: there is a great deal of comfort that comes with henry getting to hear that from alex's own lips. it's very sweet and romantic and yeah tbh tbh i would've melted into a puddle right then and there. that there is a comfort that comes with at least that wasn't taken away from them. but no: the whole point of that being in the email (along with bad metaphors, an incomplete list, the story of the prince born with his heart on the outside of his body, etc.) is that these two's privacy was violated. the whole world read those words that were just meant for the two of them, but the public ended up using that line for their banners and flags and signs. and it's important why? it was then made into a form of reclamation. that even if they went through shit and worried about the consequences of being public figures, that there was hope that at least a surprisingly large number of the general public voiced their support, that they were backed by the people they were serving. removing that from the email in the movie... well, you get the rest.

should the height difference even be talked about? that's a factor that is 80% outside of anyone's control lmao??? but i do think it's worth noting that i've grown kinda fond with it that now i imagine taylor & nick's physical builds when reading firstprince fanfics plus having a taller alex who has a height complex instead of a shorter alex who has a height insecurity is so fucking funny. what a great running gag. the gaslighting of the audience into thinking henry is taller is 10/10. best lampshading ever, actually.

henry standing up for himself to the king is both a yes and no too. yes: matthew's justification is pretty nice. not only does it save them production costs to hire a princess catherine actress and pacing issues, it also makes sense narratively. the movie has written henry as voiceless throughout it really well, so for him to save himself is a great reason for why. but also it's a no for me because it's equally important that catherine the negligent mother starts compensating for her absences by battling generational conflict lmao. there's also the factor of a woman saving a man too! the rwrb universe emphasizes quite well about how henry and alex are surrounded by these powerful female figures who are near and dear to them in their lives. to grow up learning from them. point is, movie!henry standing up for himself is a nice choice because he's older. and at the same time, book!henry being supported by her mother is a great choice because he needed to be affirmed with a larger support system in his younger age.

making henry the one to clarify at first that their relationship should be casual instead of alex is a big yes for me. the mixed signals henry does in the book makes for borderline inconsistent characterization, but he's younger there so it makes sense for us to be confused. but henry in the movie "explaining himself to alex for the past year" is a great cleaning up because at the start, henry has been clear on "ok but we can't do this long term."

this has been sitting on my drafts for too long (weeks) so i'll just post this now. and maybe update it, idk. this post feels too incomplete but i don't want to sit on it, so. whatever here it is. 🤣

edit:. i discovered this amazing podcast who talk about it in great detail and 90% of their opinions i agree with! imm frothing at the mouth with how they describe and reason with each change and i just 🥺 want to share how cool they are. [part 1, part 2]

[scriberated]

Bridgerton S3 Part 1 Thoughts

TLDR: Worst season to date.

Specifics/spoilers below the cut.

In no particular order:

The costuming is awful - and I don't just mean historically inaccurate, cause they weren't the 1st two seasons either and I wasn't expecting them to be. Pretty much everything is either ugly or blatant product placement or both, with very few exceptions.

The Featheringtons are funny as shit and possibly the greatest redeeming quality of this season.

Too many subplots. Way too many. Mondritchs, Violet & Lord Anderson, Benedict and his FWB situation, Cressida & Eloise, Francesca (I understand they're setting up her season so I get it but it's a lot of screen time to spend on someone who isn't supposed to be the MC this season).

Collin did not do enough groveling.

Debling and Penelope are both hypocrites and ill-suited to each other. Both claimed they wanted a practical match with someone they could be companionable with but inevitably didn't work out because Debling wasn't okay with Penelope being in love with someone else (odd for someone who wasn't seeking love) and Penelope claimed she was resolved to a practical match but was actually hoping for love the whole time.

Considering they're supposed to get glow ups for their season, Collin's… wasn't it. His hair was awful and so was all the botox/lip flip. The coat was acceptable but felt very out of place.

They did make me sympathize with Cressida, which I didn't think was going to be a thing. I like her and Eloise together. Even if they don' t make it canon, I ship it a little bit.

The Balloon was the DUMBEST thing this whole season. The whole scene felt forced and insanely slow - like Pen had a whole 84 years to get out of the way, and it did not feel nearly as dire as they tried to make it out to be.

The soundtrack was the best thing about this whole season.

While I appreciate the parallel between Cressida and Penelope - both in their third season, practically on the shelf, facing dire futures - it didn't land the way it could have. Felt like a wasted opportunity.

Benedict and his FWB situation is annoying and stupid and was given entirely too much screen time.

Mama Bridgerton is canny and I love her for it. The blatant "oh btw Penelope is getting proposed to tonight" to kick Collin's butt into gear is fabulous even if it was obvious.

Brimsley and the Queen's relationship is still my favorite. Besties 4 Life.

I love Francesca and John just sitting together in contented silence. <3 Big fan.

Collin's attempts at being a rake didn't land. Like, if they were intending to do it as a way of showing him trying to be someone he isn't, it felt very forced and flat. Collin's characterization this whole season honestly feels very flat. It almost feels like he is still adrift, not invested in the stakes of the season.

Eloise calling on Cressida during calling hour is Gay and I will die on that hill.

Collin writing regency erotica is eternally funny to me. I see many potential AUs of him being a romance novelist and Penelope being his unwitting muse.

The Queen's wigs getting more and more ridiculous just absolutely sent me. The swans?? How did that even work mechanically? Like I'm all for some creative license but come on.

The Queen striking out three seasons in a row with her matchmaking is hilarious but also kind of sad.

Eloise and Cressida in the box during the last ball? GAY. I like them together. I know Eloise is supposed to wind up with someone else (Sir Phillip?) but GD they have chemistry.

Idc about Danbury's feud with her brother. It's so out of left field. Like I know they're maybe trying to build up to Violet finding someone to... tend to her Garden (and that person being Marcus) but it just feels... bleh. Unnecessary.

Portia Featherington is a shit mother and she deserves to be slapped.

I'll give them props for the increased representation - it was nice to see HOH/Deaf & disabled representation, even if it felt a little... token-y? I'm hoping there will be more so it will level out.

The carriage scene. Was it steamy? Yes. I'll give it to them. Luke and Nicola have great chemistry. But did Collin earn that??? After ruining her prospects and then literally ruining her???? No. His proposal immediately afterwards felt impulsive and lust driven instead of love driven, maybe even duty driven since he 'ruined' her. And we saw way more of him being into her than we did of her being into him, I felt like.

Overall... rushed, too crowded by subplots, flat, and frankly disappointing. I really hope they bring it back around come part two but the teaser honestly just makes it seem like it's going to be more of the same. It's missing the charm of the first two seasons - or of the Queen Charlotte spinoff, which I really enjoyed.

[allthemeninmybed]

I know, it's been a while and the Vessy fic is on hold but I'm working on a III piece right now, that man holds my thoughts hostage. SOON. Tell me if you want to be tagged!

[summermoonshine]

Poker night - a tender pun.

Synopsis: a failed mission, sultry heat, one free pass: will all this be enough to finally feel at home for a bit? Maybe a pun and a rematch will.

Content: stw; green rating; one-shot; slice of life; fluff; war zone (NO red ratings, just general environment); self-reflective; silly moments; jokes; melancholy (?); play of words; shipping pairs; GhostxSoap; PricexGaz. Notes: pairs do not necessarily have to be shipped to each other. The fluff tone allows the story to be read however you like (assuming there's any good soul reading it since I'm a lonely sucker in this fandom). First time sharing a work of mine here after years because i'm scared of being told off (again) by others for being ''too old''.

༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺༻❁༺

Soap, Gaz and Price have been playing for hours now; the table is littered with casino tokens, poker cards and a few nibbled peanuts here and there. The air is rarefied. You can barely breathe and the smell of plastic, cordite and tobacco makes the environment unbearable – unless you're used to it, of course.

Price murmurs something rubbing his beard and eyeing his cards. Gaz, with a worried look, tries to study his opponents hoping to understand their next moves; Finally, Soap, with the look of someone who has lost every single previous game, lets a heavy sigh escape his lips after calling yet another ''all-in'' of the night, rubbing his tired eyes.

The door behind them opens, creaking annoyingly and breaking the silence of the small control room.

Gaz looks up from the table for a moment and exchanges a quick bow of his head in greeting, while Price takes another draw on his cigar leaving a huge cloud of smoke in the air that mixes with the torrid heat of the desert in which that emergency base was improvised in an old uninhabited control tower. A quick and heavy "Ghost" in greeting slips away from the Captain's lips, before the cigar returns between his teeth, the smoke begins to fill his lungs and, again, blurs the profile of that man 193 cm tall.

Ghost reciprocates the greetings of both in silence; a quick nod, nothing more but enough to make his presence known.

The dim lamp connected to the emergency generator - not without an annoying buzz and a heap of flies and insects of all kinds dancing around it - illuminates the dusty, almost empty room, occupied only by a few suitcases and the rickety table with their respective plastic chairs, drawing the figure of a third, mute person: Soap, in fact, does not move his gaze from the table.

He stares at his shoes, head bowed, an adorable pout despite his growing beard.

"All clear out there?" Price asks, almost mindlessly, before making a move to which Gaz responds with an annoyed "Oh come on!".

The sound of the combat boots slowly wakes Soap’s mind up, who although always silent, now shifts his gaze towards the dusty floor following the steps of his Lieutenant.

"All clear", he replies flatly, getting ready – in the meantime – to take one of the glasses placed on the metal trolley nearby, pulling out of a wooden box a glass bottle containing a golden liquid with a pungent smell: good, fine scotch.

A grunt behind him, similar to a clearing of the throat and a cough, anticipate a call.

"Have we forgotten to be on duty?". Ghost, half filling his glass, turns to Price, who continues: "Sure, not that much is done around here, but, you know, the rules are the rules… ", he finally says, busy nibbling on his cigar and arranging some of his cheques.

Ghost sees Gaz making his move, and from the way he immediately cheers and Soap gets up from the table, he understands that the match probably ended in a botched showdown and a big loss.

This is enough to remind Ghost that there is something else in that room, besides the bottle of whiskey in his hands, that is Scottish and that he adores: Soap has always been a sucker at poker.

"Yes, Sir. So are they…", replies the skull-man as he approaches the table taking the place of Soap - who stops now a few steps from the door, fascinated by that faceless human tower’s unpredictable actions.

He sees him spreading his legs - pausing more than necessary to observe how the fabric of his uniform stretches easily under the man's perfectly toned muscle – fitting his large body into that small plastic and metal chair and lifting the mask slightly up over his nose before taking a longed-for sip of scotch.

Then the half-masked man continues, pointing to some notes mixed among the chips in the centre of the table: "but, Sir, is it legal to post 100 pounds for a poker game when you're on duty? I mean, if the rules are rules..."

Price bites the cigar a little more, moves it from one side of his lips to the other and finally meets the eyes of the man sitting across from him.

''You know, Simon" he starts, taking another puff on his cigar, "I've always considered you like a son", he states as he collects his cheques, "but, sometimes,'' he says, stressing a lot this last word, ''you're just as painful as a kick in the nuts", he concludes laughing and starting to clear the makeshift card table.

Gaz doesn't hold back his laugh, and turning towards Soap, asks: ''another round?''.

Before the Scottish could answer, however, Ghost does. Price stares him into the eyes; to some extent Simon is predictable when it comes to Johnny – or maybe not?

"Another round" he confirms.

Soap approaches what until a few minutes was his chair muttering something in Ghost's ear - not exactly in hushed tones.

"Simon, leave it, it's okay-"

"How much have you lost?" he asks, taking another sip of his scotch.

Soap swallows, going silent. Gaz, nearby, is a bit embarrassed but really – really – happy not to be in his shoes.

"Johnny, do I have to repeat myself?" the deep voice reaches Soap's ears like a sweet threat. Ghost's eyes now stare intently at him.

"nearly £200", he answers, ashamed.

Yet, with almost no time for the man beside him to finish, Ghost looks back at Price.

"no limit game, first bet £300 and up, you in?" he proposes, smirking.

After a moment's reflection, Price's big, deep, fatherly laugh stimulates something warm in the centre of Ghost's broad, toned chest, who at that moment is no longer a special operator, no longer on a mission to a place without electricity, lights and enough food due to wrong intel; now it's just Simon who, as if he had just come off a normal factory shift, returns home to his family and tries to repair – avenge? – the disastrous losses of his man.

The Captain stares into his eyes once more and, fully understanding that needy sense of familiarity that no one in that room has ever felt except within the Task Force, smiles back at his Simon.

Leaning against the table with both arms crossed, Price studies him.

“What a big bastard I raised,” he says with a proud, thinly disguised smile. "I'm in!" he says then, licking his lips and patting the table lightly with the weight of his wallet.

A light and sincere chuckle escapes from the always so serious Ghost, and Soap, next to him - who would bet it was laughter he'd heard –, would love to stop time in that instant. He then watches Simon take his wallet, but the Scottish hands block him just in time.

"No, no, I'll take care of it, leav-" he whispers.

“What are you talking about, Johnny?” Simon replies, regardless of the tone of his voice. "Go and grab a chair instead."

But Soap remains motionless, with his hands still on the forearms of his Lieutenant, who in the meantime has already pulled out a bundle of money and organized his checks.

"C'mon, go." Simon says, as Gaz starts shuffling again. "It will not take long anyway. 20 minutes max and I'll kick them all down. The pot will be ours” he says, winking.

A shyly smiling Soap, after having dragged the last of the botched chairs and finally taking a seat next to him, like a real lucky muse, asks him in a low voice and with great concern for the high stake: ''and if it doesn't work?''

“No need to worry, I have a few knives up my sleeve” Simon replies instead aloud, as he collects the first cards, to everyone's common amazement – and fear.

Soap, after an intense general exchange with all the others and an embarrassed smile, intervenes to correct him: ''erm-. cards. I think you mean cards''.

Simon, stopping and turning to his favourite Scottish but deeply doubting his intelligence for the first time in years, asks: ''What the fuck, Johnny? Have you become a moron?''

And as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he proceeds to pull all the knives out of his sleeves, of the pockets of his bulletproof vest and of his safety buckles, placing them on the table: ''of course I didn't mean cards, I said what I said. Tch!”

Silence falls in the room, the hum of the electric generator and the mosquitoes the only audible noise.

Soap's mouth wide open, the hallucinated gaze of Gaz and Price, poor old man, who, shaking his head slightly, thinks and rethinks how much that Simon of his can really be an unpredictable kick in the dick.

Even in the desert, in poker… and in love.

[rodolfoparras]

oh yeah that leak happened with the moxie reverse proxy, i remember the incident lol

if u want one to use, i definitely recommend pawan.krd tho they're very trustworthy!

around character.ai, there aren't really any technicalities to be had with that, it's a very forward website/app, i just recommend writing long messages if you want long responses, and if the bot is having difficulty telling ur gender, write in third person

the bot quality has gone down ever since i started to use it, since they have A Lot more users now and running bots is really expensive too when you do at that scale

the biggest issue with it is the low amount of memory it has, since it's barely enough for a normal roleplay imagine a long term one!? definitely make your own bots, and make sure they're detailed, but not too much, since their description + prompt (starting message) + ur persona all affect the memory used

those are called permanent tokens in other places, and it's the amount used in every message you send, so there's that much memory already used up

- 🌷

Yes that was the name thank you my brain was itching to rmr! Thank you sugar but no thank you I’ll stick to the bare basics for now 😭

Yeah I agree with that!! Or tbh how they created character + but gave no benefits like ok the bot responded faster but that’s all I got from THT subscription 💀 also I def agree with the memory I rmr once when I broke the filter and all of a sudden price I think was like what are we doing why are you doing this and I’m like sir what the hell 🧍🏻

Genuinely kicking my legs at ur smart brain can u explain what a reverse proxy is while we’re here *kicks legs*

[thetruearchmagos]

Heads Up Seven Up

Thank you to @autumnalwalker for the open Tag, which I've decided to use as my segway back to writing! Sorry yo all if I've been quiet recently, my mental health ain't quit great these two weeks. Still, hope you all enjoy thia little drabble!

Tagging @lividdreamz @dogmomwrites @marinesocks @sanguine-arena @theprissythumbelina @muddshadow @athenswrites @orphicpoieses

Bristling Skies

Five hundred nautical miles away, and five hundred metres beneath the waves, UCS Tracker was entirely unaware as to anything taking place beyond the sphere of its acoustic hydrophones. Within that sphere, however, her Sound-Ops chief had just noticed something very strange indeed.

“Bloody-damn-hell, skipper, we’ve got machinery transients from Token-3. Sounds like she’s really hauling, propeller rate estimates at close to thirty knots.”

Captain Oskar Kukulski was leaning over the station in minutes, while at the helm, Lieutenant Evelyn Wen Hui was starting to sweat under her collar. So was the Captain, but he’d had the luxury of three years a sub-driving skipper to get used to not showing it. All three had been spent aboard the Tracker, but so far, they hadn’t been terribly exciting ones. Until yesterday morning’s brief at Commodore Creed’s office, that is.

“What’s her course? Any changes?”

“Nope, Sir. Just kicked up speed, she’s still keeping a heading down southeast.”

Token-3, more appropriately known as the Terreur by her owners, was supposedly one of the more modern diesel boats that the Nouvo’s had been bought from their Ocrisian allies. So modern were they, that though Tracker had been riding up the boat’s tailpipe for the better part of the past five hours, they’d only found her in the first place by a stroke of good luck. Their quarry had been running lazy circles in the grid sector throughout, and so Oskar was pretty sure he hadn’t been found out just yet. Five hours hunting, he thought, and with a green crew no less. Damn, they’re more than that by now!

“Right, mighty curious of them to do this, but it might be a sign they think no one’s listening—”

An alarm rang from aft, and the skipper bore a grimace. It wouldn’t make it through his rubber coated hull, as Oskar well knew, but submariners had sensitive ears at times like this.

“Ahh, damn, that’s a Flash message. Evelyn, keep up the track however you need to, you have the Conn.”

“Aye sir, I have the Conn.”

With that, Oskar took his leave, ducking through the low bulkhead and heading aft. Just a month ago they’d have needed to surface to get a message, or at least put up the antennae buoy to listen into an orbiter’s broadcast, but the brand new crystal cradle they’d had installed precluded such bothersome measures, and so Evelyn was left to contemplate and conn in peace.

“Right, let’s carry on. Increase speed one third, maintain heading. Fire control, keep updating the fire solution, we could use the practice.”

And so on they moved, quieter than the sea itself. They kept a range of eight hundred metres to the track, matching speeds to maintain the chase. Evelyn found herself prey to the usual malady, that sickeningly sweet stress of a prying eye, watching without being seen, her multi million chequer boat playing the game it was built for. It wasn’t her first time at the conn, but every session in painstaking care felt the same.

Five  minutes later, Sound-Ops called out, voice steady yet loud enough to be heard from the helm.

“Attention Conn, Rip Wall, starboard!”

“All stop, ship to quiet!”

Far ahead of the Tracker, her target had just begun a hard turn right, a bid to clear the blind-, or more accurately, deaf-, spot to the rear where her own hull blocked her bow mounted hydrophones. She’d been pulling that particular trick throughout the chase, though regularly enough that Evelyn and the crew had begun to expect the trick. That was their second mistake, she knew. The first was assuming it would work at all.

“All stop, quiet down!”

In half a heartbeat her orders were done, and the already quiet boat was like a hole in the sea. Tracker’s beating atomic heart was tuned down to a low hum, with even the water pumps turned off to spare the din. She drifted on forwards, with an ever so slight negative trim to stop her from climbing upwards, while almost a kilometre ahead seven thousand tonnes of marine steel began its turn. So far, Evelyn put the closest the two had come in the manoeuvre to just over a hundred metres, and that was as close as she ever needed to be.

[five-rivers]

Danny didn't want to be here, but it wasn't as if he had a lot of other options. He didn't know how to contact any other Justice League heroes, and this one, at least, would take him seriously. Probably. Damian, at least, would take him seriously. So seriously that Danny doubted he would be walking away from this without a stab wound.

Luckily, Danny wasn't the kind of person to die because of a stab wound. Or anything, really. Which was kind of the reason he was here.

He sucked his lips in as he stared at the gates. He was far enough down the street from them that there probably weren't any cameras picking him up, but only probably, because the people he was dealing with were insane. And Danny knew insane. From a couple of different perspectives, even.

Again, this was part of the problem.

He sighed and started walking. This was going to be painful and awkward, and he technically didn't have to do this, but...

But.

This was so far beyond his second chance, beyond his third chance, even. He couldn't expect another one. This way, if he did manage to screw everything up, he wouldn't be taking the world down with him.

He reached the gates. There was a tiny intercom there, along with a camera. There were probably more, even better, cameras hidden elsewhere around the gate, to get multiple perspectives of everyone who came up to them. Danny wouldn't be surprised if he was being watched already.

Bracing himself, Danny pulled off his hood. No going back now.

Danny wasn't identical to Damian. Combining science and magic tended to have unpredictable results, and even in cloning there were random mutations. Danny was one of several 'flawed' clones that had still been considered capable enough to be sent out to harry their original. He didn't have the same coloration as Damian al Ghul, Son of the Bat. Something epigenetic affecting his melanin production. Blue eyes, instead of Damian's green, pale skin to Damian's ochre. Not something that would be noticed at night, behind masks with opaque eyes and flashing swords. He didn't stand out, among his clone-siblings.

By the same token, despite the differences being more obvious in the daylight, he would be recognized now. Or, at least, the resemblance would be.

He pressed the intercom button and waited, bouncing up and down nervously. Part of him wondered if Damien ever fidgeted like this.

"Hello," said a crisp British voice, "may I help you, young man?"

"Yeah," said Danny. "Is, um. Mr. Wayne home?" He cringed. "I need to talk to him." Because a billionaire would definitely talk to a random kid who showed up at his house. Hopefully, this person would either notice he looked like Damian, or... Yeah. Knew about the Batman stuff. "It's about... Things at night."

He should have come up with a script of some kind before coming, but he'd been occupied putting together everything else.

"Are you in trouble?" This question was a bit sharper.

"Not... really? But I think he'd want to know what I know, if that makes sense?"

"I see," said the calm, British voice. "If you will wait a moment...?"

"Sure," said Danny. He flipped his hood back up. The League of Assassins probably wouldn't be bold enough to watch the bats this closely.

But only probably.

It was okay. There had only been a handful of years between his escape and when he had to start fighting for his life again. He knew how to handle himself, and the way he traveled didn't leave a trail.

Danny jumped at the sound of footsteps, and a minute later, an elderly man in a suit came around the corner of the drive. He kept his eyes from flicking into the foliage, where he was quite sure at least one of Damian's brothers were hiding.

"Young sir," said the old man as the gate swung open. "Mr. Wayne will see you."

"O-oh," said Danny. "Thank you. You didn't have to walk out all this way."

"It's no trouble, really." He paused. "My name is Alfred Pennyworth And what may I call you, sir?"

"Danny."

"Mr. Daniel, then?"

"Danny, please. Daniel is... weird."

"Ah, bad memories?"

"Kind of."

"Not what brings you here?"

"Uh. No. I think it'd be better if I said it directly to Mr. Wayne, if that's okay."

Mr. Pennyworth hummed, neutrally. "It will be a little while before he returns home."

"Oh," said Danny, wincing again. "I, uh, didn't realize he wasn't... Here. At this time."

"He normally would be. Something came up."

"Is, um. Is Damian here?" It sounded so weird saying his name out loud.

"He is with his father."

"Cool. That's cool." It was very much not cool. He didn't want to see Damian, although he'd planned for it. He and Dani got along, post murder attempt, but he imagined it'd be a lot different with Damian.

The rest of the walk was unremarkable, except for Danny's continuous freaking out. Mr. Pennyworth led him through a grand entryway and into a small sitting room he was sure was monitored eight ways from Sunday, and then some.

"May I get you anything to drink while you wait?"

"No," said Danny. He wouldn't trust it not to be drugged, anyway. "I'm good, thanks." He swung his backpack off his shoulders and held it in front of himself, hugging it close.

"Very well, young sir."

There were a series of loud thumps, the footsteps of someone trying to be heard, and a tall, athletic man came into the room.

"Richard Grayson?" guessed Danny.

"That's me," said the man, smiling, tightly. "And you are?"

"Danny."

"Danny...?"

"Just Danny."

"Okay, and why are you here, Just Danny?" the tone was teasing, but it did little to defuse the tension.

Danny shifted uneasily. The amount of information, of knowledge given to the clones had been limited, but he was pretty sure Richard Grayson was Nightwing, and the first Robin.

"Couple different reasons," said Danny. "Mainly, um. To let him know I exist. And stuff. Relating to that. Him being Batman. And Damian, I guess."

There was a bit of quiet as Grayson stared at him like he was peeling back his skin with his mind.

"Does Damian not... know about you?"

"That's..." He made a snap decision, because he wasn't sure he could deal with that particular misunderstanding, and talking to Batman, and Damian, and explaining everything important all at once. "I'm not his brother, you get that, right? I'm," he shrugged, "one of the clones. You know, from a few years ago."

Despite his nonchalance, he watched Grayson carefully, tracking his movements.

"The ones who tried to kill him?"

"Yeah, that was... not my best moment, but in my defense I was sort of brainwashed. And less than a year old. Just for context."

"Context. Right."

"And I definitely understand if Damian, um. Doesn't want to see me. Because, no offense, I don't want to see him. Either. If that makes sense."

"You came all this way, and you don't want to see him."

"Well. No. It's-- Think of it this way: He killed way more of us than we killed of him."

Grayson stared at him.

"He did die," said Grayson.

"I thought he was out doing, like, Robin things."

Grayson pulled a face. "He came back."

Oh, that made things much more complicated. Or did it? It wasn't really Danny's problem that he had died. Even if Danny had also died.

"Okay," he said, finally. "I mean. I just don't want to get stabbed, and--" He stopped, examined Grayson's face a little more closely, and the tiny speck of something inside his ear. "They're totally listening in, aren't they? They've got a radio or whatever. And they're yelling in your ear."

"Damian's having a bit of a problem with you using his voice to say things so, uh..."

"Casually?" suggested Danny.

"Sure, let's go with that." His eyes flicked up and down Danny again. "So... You're doing... okay?"

"Like, right now, or...?" Danny made a small circular motion with his hand.

"You've been living somewhere? Somewhere safe?"

"More or less," said Danny. "But I really would like to wait for Batman-- for Mr. Wayne to get here, before I get into details."

Grayson nodded slowly and they waited in uneasy silence. Mr. Pennyworth had slipped away at some point, without Danny even noticing, which was a feat.

It was, perhaps, another half an hour before Bruce Wayne arrived. He was tall, very tall, and walked nearly silently. A flock of teenagers and young adults trailed in his wake, including Damian, who looked furious, but who at least didn't obviously have his sword.

Danny swallowed, then forced a smile.

"Hi," he said. "Well. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here."

"Do you need help?" asked Batman, when Danny didn't continue. Damian changed his glare to the back of his father's head.

"Yeah. Sort of. I'm actually here to turn myself in. And to tell you how to kill me." He gave them a pair of thumbs up and grinned. "Normal things, right?"

Escaped clone au

You know all those fics where Danny and Damian are twins but everyone first assumes Danny must be a clone? How about an au where Danny is Damian's clone who escaped the League after he was assumed dead. Damian could even have been the one to have "killed" him, back when Danny was a newly created, fully brainwashed clone minion and trying to kill Damian himself.

Danny gets adopted by the Fentons and canon goes on as normal, until Dan. Witnessing what would happen to the world should he turn evil really drove home to Danny how dangerous he is.

Even if he was confident he could be trusted with his absurd amount of power (which he isn't), what if the League of Assassins found out about him? Does he still have programming triggers from his evil assassin clone conditioning?

So, Danny does the responsible thing: he goes to Batman to turn himself in.

Cue Danny showing up on Bruce's doorstep with ghost hunting equipment, intel on the afterlife, and an almost unbelievable backstory. Somehow he still managed to be more well-adjusted than Damian.

More thoughts under the read more

Here's how I'm thinking Danny leaving the League went down:

After surviving his wounds but failing his mission, Danny (then an unnamed potential Damian replacement) knew there was no point in returning to the League. As a failure, he was meant to be disposed of. He even thought of simply allowing himself to perish, since that was what the League would do.

But he couldn't help but feel as though that would be a waste of a resource. Surely he could be of more use to the League alive than dead?

That tiny bit of rebellious logic is what caused Danny to go into hiding, only living on based on the off chance he would find opportunities to further the League's goals. Obviously, that mentality didn't last long after being exposed to the real world and meeting one Jazz Fenton.

Being adopted by the Fentons was the best cover Danny could have asked for, since any odd behavior he couldn't hide while he was learning how to be "normal" was totally overshadowed by the sheer bizarre eccentricity of his new parents. He was still the neighborhood weird kid, but even that was a major upgrade from disposable tool, so Danny considered it a win.

Anyway, if anyone likes this idea, please feel free to have at it! Interpret it as you please :)