#fictional weapon war round 2 | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

corazondebeskar-reads · 3 months

Text

live to rise - chapter one

live to rise series

one: they'll find you, burn you

series masterlist | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: The Last of the Mandalorians have fallen; their Mand'alor captured. Stripped of his armor, his weapons, his people. Din rises to fight another day, grasping onto the hope that his son still lives.

No fighter has won their freedom from the Empire's arena before. With the help of a servant girl, can he hope to break free?

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, prisoner of war, indentured servitude, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide, discussions of war, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, mand'alor!Din Djarin, major character deaths, many minor character deaths, Din has hearing loss, angst by the bucket, Din Djarin takes the helmet off (kind of)

Please heed the warnings. There will be major & minor character deaths in almost every chapter. This is not a happy story, but I hope you find it worthwhile anyway.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

It’s morning when the news breaks.

By lunch, datapads are discarded in favor of gossip. It’s as useless as the Imperial rags parading as official broadcasts—all speculation and slander.

While the details of the Mandalorians’ final stand for their homeworld circulate above, the stiff air of the lower complex is thick with the question: to whose barracks will the fallen king be assigned?

You know the answer. Your datapad had pinged early, much before your day should have begun. Much before the news went live across the galaxy.

Cell C-5 had been scrubbed clean on your perennially bruised knees the day before when Dup, a young Gungan whose face was bruised as if he’d already gone a round, had failed to return from the arena.

He had been brought in late the previous night, shaking and weeping and not speaking a lick of Basic. Those were the hardest. There was no comfort, no preparation, no honor you could give them.

He didn’t return after his first battle.

It was the way of things. Many never saw a second sunrise.

As caretaker for Barrack Cresh, whether your fighters eat, drink, bathe, get medical attention and fresh clothing, or, well, anything, falls on you.

So you stocked C-5 with the basics, but the Mandalorian King’s file is barren when your clearance arrives. You bristle at the lack of biodata. How are you supposed to provide proper clothing or order his dinner?

It becomes obvious when he arrives that evening.

You’re not.

It’s past curfew when they bring him in, and normally, you’d be in bed. But one of yours had come back a few minutes earlier from the medbay and you know the state they usually return in, so you’re in C-2 with the door shut.

The ex-Rebel pilot, Gino, doesn’t argue as you dab the shallow cuts on his face with an alcohol swab, but he does flinch when you tug the split skin on his calf together like a stubborn bedsheet to apply suture tape. They had used just enough bacta for his serious injuries and left the rest to bleed.

“Sorry,” you hiss, but it’s lost in the pneumatics of the door.

Gino is on his feet immediately, shushing you with a finger to his lips. You can’t risk being seen through the little window, so he minds your space as you flatten to the ground and peek through the delivery slot.

At first, all you can see are boots. So many boots. And among the shiny black rubber is the oddest pair of worn brown leather. It’s been so long since you saw anyone in shoes but the guards; your stomach churns with fear.

Gino taps at your head, and you let him help you up to peek once they’re past the cell.

It’s the Mandalorian. There are five of the Moff’s personal guards in their black kits restraining him, and they still have to jab him with an electrostave in order to shut the cell door fast enough.

He’s snarling, the modulator of his helmet warping and crackling the terrible cacophony. He’s also huge, and the strip of lights shines off his dark armor like someone took a handful of the night sky and smudged it across the wall of the cell.

You brush away the errant question of how much of his bulk is the armor and how much he comes by naturally. You’ll find out tomorrow, like everyone else.

The hype alone ensures a sold-out arena. The officers and their simpering spouses and sycophants are salivating for the battle—or at least for the profits.

The headlines fill seats to a swarming mass, everyone vying to see the latest and shiniest trophy.

He won’t be shiny for long.

Not after they strip away the beskar that protects one of—if not the last of—the “galaxy’s greatest warriors” and see if he’s worth anything underneath.

They don’t expect him to survive. They don’t want him to, really. They want to crush the will of any who would still defy the Empire. A very public, humiliating execution is the Moff’s wet dream.

The Mandalorian is gone before your morning rounds, dragged up to the arena’s cage to watch his fate play out on the faces of others. Either end is the same, really.

And if he survives, it won’t matter. Sure, prisoners can earn their freedom through a percentage of the money they bring in from wagers, or they can die trying.

But no fighter has made it out alive. Not even close.

You’re close, though. Not that you’re in an arena contract. But you’re nearing the end of the third year in a five-year indentured servitude sentence, and it carries a lower fatality rate.

Which isn’t saying much, really. It would be hard to have a higher fatality rate than the fighters.

There are twelve of you and ten barracks, not counting the fluctuating number of sponsored champions who have private accommodations.

Sixty standard fighters, never more or less as the sun rises.

Sometimes, you return to six empty cells.

Only once have you found your flock all home. You fell to your knees and cried right then, bringing acrid dread to a boil as you knew it would never, ever happen again.

Just three days ago, Din Djarin had stood in the grand hall at Keldabe, knowing it would be the last time.

It was still. Silent. Not yet in the chaos of war, but just on the edge, as when rainfall is a distant specter and the uneasiness cloisters in your lungs.

He takes in the art behind the throne with quiet reverence, eyes following the sharp lines and bold colors, the stories of their ancestors dutifully and beautifully eternalized.

The shame creeps up his neck again, but he shrugs it off. It will work. He’s known for his tight and effective strategy, and his advisors had agreed to the plan.

He only hoped the Ka’ra would accept his soul into the Manda all the same. That the blood of his brethren wouldn’t deny him the peace that he ached for.

He thinks once more of Grogu, breathes through the pain, and then clears his mind.

Turning from the throne, he strides to the grand windows—to Paz. With hands clasped behind his back, he follows his general’s focus to the TIE fighters breaking through the atmosphere.

Troopers are within the walls. The Destroyers won’t be long, now.

“Vod,” Din begins, angling toward Paz.

“Do not deal me the insult of an out,” Paz snaps.

“I would never,” Din says, throat cinching around the words. “It’s an honor to have you at my side.”

Paz dips his head. “It’s been an honor to serve with you, ner Mand’alor.”

Din knows he speaks true. Though they may not have always gotten along, they were still vod. Still loyal, until death.

Death they now stood on the brink of.

Outside, the fleet falls fast. Din grimaces as their ships careen to the surface and crush the city into crumbs. Fire spreads, and he has to pretend the homes are empty. That everyone got out in time.

The Empire assumes each Kom’rk-class fighter is full of Mandalorians waiting to drop into battle. They target them with glee, thinking they’ve devastated the sky and ground teams in one fell swoop.

But each ship has only a pilot. A pilot who climbed into the cockpit knowing they would certainly die. Willing to take the place of their vod.

Mando’ad draar digu. They will live on in him until he draws his last. More importantly, they will live on in their families, who—if he’s done anything right—will live far beyond him.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Din says.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Paz echoes.

They are to be the last words spoken to one another.

Inside the palace, the fight leaves no breath for such things. Not that they need it; their movements are fluid and equal.

It takes half the platoon to take Paz down and the other to take Din.

Unlike his vod, they do not grant him a warrior’s death.

In the arena, they’ve left him in the armor as he paces the cage. Every moment with it spurns the barb deeper in his gut, the terror turning terrifying as his rage becomes a tsunami.

The fights are nothing. The Imps who thought he’d be intimidated by them have clearly never seen an average Mandalorian brawl. These ended with a little more finality and a little less bickering over the winner, but the actual fighting? Mostly pathetic.

He doesn’t look upon them with scorn, though. These are beings stripped of all dignity, underfed, and devoid of hope. The Empire has ground them into the dirt beneath their glossy boots, and he expects that for many, death is a kindness.

In the end, he lets them take the beskar’gam from his bound body. They hold him, scanners at the ready, the whole of the galaxy waiting to witness his final defeat in real time. The giddy grins tell him what he already knows—they are certain this will break him.

He holds eye contact with Gideon just to see the shock that strikes him at Din’s defiance. He aches to smirk or snarl or sink his teeth into the man, but he won’t give him the satisfaction.

They don’t give them weapons for this fight. At least they’re being honest about their intentions.

Hand-to-hand combat with a Wookie should be a death sentence. Should be, for a lesser being. But the Mand’alor is far sharper than their blades could ever hope to be, and he wields his mind and body as expertly as he would a blaster.

Din doesn’t speak Shyriiwook. He wishes he did, for when he asks his opponent for their name, he fails to capture the response. It slips from his grasp, slick as his hands are from the Wookie’s blood.

Bare hands that have rarely dealt such tangible death. Dust stirred up from the struggle sticks to the thick, hot carnage. He’ll feel the give of the Wookie’s eyeballs under his thumbnails for days. The crack of his skull under Din’s knee, driven like a wedge into the soft cartilage, is at least slightly more familiar.

It’s not a long fight. After all, Din has something of which his opponent has long been deprived: something to live for.

The Mandalorian isn’t back by dinner drop-off, but your captain sent the cart loaded with a tray for him, so you dutifully set it on his cot atop the folded blanket.

There’s been no clean-up call, and the roster is empty. But you don’t have to wonder over his whereabouts for long.

In the servants' barracks—which are actually barracks and not a soft word for cellblocks—the reports are already underway.

Some of the attendants get to watch the fights. Or, rather, they have to, bound as they are to a single combatant. The mandated proximity is unforgiving, and no one likes to watch.

After all, there’s very little difference between you and the fighters. Instead, the attendants take on the solemn duty of letting the rest of you know how your residents fared or fell.

“He was a berserker,” Hali says in hushed whispers. “They took all that armor off, and he just looked like a man. A pretty man, but… just a man. But when it started, he moved so fast. It was over in, like, two minutes.”

“Shut up,” says Eli, your bunkmate. “He did not take down a Wookie in two minutes.”

“No, he really kriffing did,” hissed one of the new attendants whose name you hadn’t caught. “It was brutal. The whole arena went quiet. And he just stood there, covered in blood, looking at the crowd.”

“Okay, whose block is he in?” Eli demands. “Someone needs to spill now.”

“Mine,” you say quietly.

“You haven’t said a kriffing word this whole time? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know,” you confess. “I only saw when they brought him in last night. He was still armored. And terrifying.”

“I saw him,” Hali says. “He was in the lounge.”

“They took him to the lounge after his first fight?” you say, jaw hanging open. The after-party was a grotesque performance, with sponsored fighters forced to smile pretty and play nice with their benefactors after a victory.

“No,” Hali’s face is grave. “They displayed him. They’ve chained him up next to his armor.”

You cover your mouth to stem the nausea. “No,” you hiss through your fingers. The disrespect hurts, raking through like a nexu claw to the chest, and you don’t even know the man.

Eli sets a hand on your knee from where he sits cross-legged beside you on the bottom bunk. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I know,” you say. But he knows you, sees it written between your brows, and hears it in the crack of your voice.

It’s a weakness; you know it. It had been a strength back home. Every single being that passes through your barrack doesn’t have long. The small hall of cells is a port, and you are the ferryman. Knowing each of them for the last scant moments has only made you love harder and faster.

To try and ease a soul’s journey is a burden you have always chosen to bear.

Come morning, sure as the stars, your cells are full. The Mandalorian is not the only new face—there’s a humanoid woman in C-1, too. The Klatoonian had been gone before the noon bell prior, and his cell cleaned by your hands within the hour after. Ovesu had survived four battles over ten days, but no trace of him remains now.

You start with her, Reen Sala of Drall. She’s on the roster for early afternoon, and you want to make sure she’s got food in her.

You tell her as much.

“Today? Already?” She wraps her fingers around the window bars, peering at you.

“Yes,” you say solemnly, sliding the tray through the slit at the bottom of the door. “Eat quickly. They’ll be coming to get you any minute. They’re going to take you up and prepare you and make you watch the day’s first battles.”

She has a steadiness to her eyes and stock to her build, just enough to have a chance. When she begins to eat, her hands only shake slightly.

“Are you a farmer?” you ask, watching her broken, stubby fingernails wrap around the metal cup of water.

She nods, gulping down quickly to add, “Mostly grains. Eggs. Basics.”

You give her a wan smile, the image of her in a sun-soaked field behind your eyes. It would have to be enough. If she held on, maybe she could fill in the picture.

“Thought so. Me too. My parents have a grove on Hetzal,” you say.

You chat for a few minutes, exchanging tales of her chasing tipyip and you sneaking honeyfruit and shuula during harvest.

“Good luck,” you murmur when you finally step away.

You don’t linger with Disdraa, the Twi’lek in C-3. She took a nasty blow to the head yesterday, so you slide her tray in as quietly as possible, hoping she’ll steal some extra rest.

Which brings you to the Mandalorian. He has no other name in your database. A mistake, you wonder, or an erasure?

When you knock on his door, you keep your eyes downcast. The decision you made in the lift was impulsive, but clear. He will have this respect here, if nowhere else.

“Good morning,” you say.

It’s silent.

You slide the tray under the door. “Do you need anything?”

Nothing.

“Okay, I’ll be back this evening if you think of something.”

Din rolls his eyes in the dark room. Does the quiet, simpering little act really work on the other prisoners? He vaguely considers rejecting the tray just to irritate you.

But he’s a Mandalorian. He doesn’t give in to petty spite when survival is on the line. He has battles to win and to do so, he must eat.

The food is bland but nutritionally complex, so if he keeps up a routine, he should be able to maintain his strength. He’s already run through and decided the optimal calisthenics and body weight routines he can do in the confines of his quarters.

He’s not stupid enough to think all the fights will be so quick or easy. The only benefit, and he’s unwilling to call it that, of not having his armor is that he’s so much faster.

He’ll get out.

He has a promise to keep.

When the Death Star fell three years ago, it took nearly the entire Rebel Alliance with it. The rest were scattered in the ash. And when the Empire barely flinched, the Mandalorians knew their time was running out.

With one loss notched on their belt already, they would have to strike swift and sure.

And so Din’s life as the rebel liaison began.

When he went to Gideon’s cruiser, he had no backup. Technically, no one even knew where he was. But espionage and false diplomacy took too long, purged time they did not have. And he wasn’t going to get another chance to try.

He lost the intel in the skirmish but gained a sword he knew not how to wield, a title he knew not how to bear, and a son he knew not how to raise.

The guards come for Reen, forcing you to finish your deliveries in a tense, silent two minutes.

She doesn’t come back. You paint her picture that night while her soft face and sun-streaked sangria widow’s peak are still fresh in your mind. It, as with most of your books, is stained with errant tears.

Eli had convinced you to keep the ones you ruined with grief, when you first began, desperate not to forget.

“It’s just more proof they were alive if they were also mourned,” he said, flipping reverently through the pages.

It goes against the practice, but it’s not even the most egregious way you’ve had to compromise, so you let it go. This is not the Hall. You have no easels, no canvas, no priestess.

You wonder who’s taken over your space, who they plucked from the apprentices to take over the memorials.

The pictures are small, stacked across the page like a quilt. Most of them have a name, maybe an age, maybe a planet, inked into the corners.

It's certainly not the scale you’re accustomed to, and your colors are limited to the pigments you can press from your dinner, unblessed and unpurified, but you make do.

You never paint them while they still live, not wanting to tether their souls to the pages while they have a chance. But they are yours, and so you will take the burden of remembering from their souls.

“Tray, please,” you say after knocking on the Mandalorian’s door that evening. He’s slow to respond, but you don’t mind. It’ll be a bit before he gets accustomed to the routine, if he makes it that long.

Most don’t.

It grates against the floor when he kicks it out, and you exchange it for the full tray of dinner.

“Do you need anything?”

Silence.

“Okay, have a good night.”

You don’t have hurt feelings. It’s the way of things. Some of the beings who come through never speak a word to you. It doesn’t change your loyalty or your duties.

Din is determined to puzzle you out. Why the farce? Everyone else he’s encountered is open in their disgust and amusement. He’s a novelty, a prize, a disgrace. What purpose does your feigned care serve?

“—dining with us tonight?” calls the inmate to his right in C-3.

You make a show of rolling your eyes, taking the last two trays from the cart. You slide one to the Twi’lek who had spoken.

“Depends. Are you going to behave?” you say.

“I always behave,” the fighter lies.

You seem to laugh, just a silent huff of amusement, and sit down with your back against the wall between the two cells.

He can’t see you from here, but he can hear snippets of you making light conversation between bites.

Something you say gets a lighthearted rise from the Devaronian in C-4 across the hall.

“Old? You want to talk about being old?” he booms.

C-3 groans. “Don’t get him started, come on.”

You laugh. “—else to bitch about. I’m saving— trouble.”

“…that I should suffer your disrespect,” C-4 is trying to say over you.

“Yeah, yeah, Vrar, you’re a terrifying grumpy—,” you tease.

A pause. A murky mumble from C-2.

“—you, Mandalorian? How old—?” You ask, tearing a chunk off your bread roll and popping it in your mouth.

He doesn’t answer.

After you leave, it grows quiet. A few moments pass, as if he was just waiting for you to get out of hearing range, before Vrar speaks up.

“Mando. You holding up? Any injuries?”

Din sits silently on his cot, leaning against the wall.

“Alright, I get it. You don’t have to talk to me. But can you be more respectful to the girl?”

If it’s bait, it works. “I don’t make a habit of being respectful to my captors.”

To his surprise, Vrar barks a hearty laugh. “Is that what you think? She’s a slave, Mando, same as the rest of us.”

Din feels hot guilt rise in his throat. “My mistake. I’ll do better.”

Vrar grunts his approval, and that’s that.

The next morning, when you ask if he needs anything, he tells you, “No, thank you,” in a soft but sure tone.

You straighten a little abruptly and try not to look shocked. “Okay. Good luck today,” you say, and move on. You’re pretty sure if you draw attention to it, he’ll never speak again.

You aren’t privy to the way things operate up top. All you know is that they take your fighters randomly, with at least one day between as a rest. Sometimes, it’s longer between fights.

But not for Mando. For the next two weeks, it’s every other day like clockwork. They’re capitalizing on his novelty, you think, but also hoping to wear him down.

Rumors tell you he’s become a quick crowd favorite. It should mean he has a shot at earning his freedom, but rumors also tell you he has the highest price on record.

They don’t want him free, and they don’t want someone to buy him.

No, they want him to die in the arena.

next chapter

thank you so much for reading! i live for your feedback, and i'm not above begging so if you have any thoughts pls let me know

*title from "Get Out Alive" by Three Days Grace

#din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #mando x reader #the mandalorian fic #gladiator!din #the mandalorian x you #mando x you #din djarin x you #fic: live to rise

126 notes · View notes

juneknight · 11 months

Text

Audible || 2

Part One |

About this: most of the warnings are for the naughty fiction Steven is reading: boot riding, sexual servitude, spanking, very heavy dub-con themes. But it's fiction within fiction <3 One part left...

Shifting to make himself comfortable, he glances to you once more for your assent before cracking open the book and searching for his place.

“The Prince was a handsome man, more reminiscent of his mother than his father. His hair and eyes were dark, like pools of ink, his skin golden from the sun that shined in this kingdom all-year-round. He was clearly fit beneath the trim finery that he wore, body honed into a useful weapon that had seen him survive two separate wars. His eyes raked over my body, and it took every bit of self-control not to cover my nakedness the way I had been instructed not to. I knew he must be seeing every part of me: my breasts, my legs, the soft patch of curls at the apex of my thighs. He must have seen the tears on my lashes, the way my nipples had hardened in the cool air.

‘Turn for me,’ he demanded lowly. ‘A slow circle. Put your hands up behind your neck, I wish to see you.’”

When Steven speaks the words of the Prince, his voice lowers just a half pitch. It makes your breath catch, far too similar to the rough way his voice sometimes sounds when the two of you are making love. You cast your eyes to him, looking for any sign that he knows what he is doing to you, but his eyes are solidly on the book, flickering across the words, oblivious to the heat that is growing between your legs.

“Oh, it was shameful! Lifting my arms above my head only served to press my breasts forward fetchingly, and turning made me feel like a sow being inspected to see if she is fit for the butcher’s block. By the time I had made it in a full circle, my face felt aflame with shame, and I could not help the tears that slid down my cheeks. He grinned softly at the sight of them, as if it pleased him to see my distress.

‘Bring me a chalice of wine.’

I glanced around the room, searching for the servant—except there was no one. He intended me to bring him his wine! Never in my life had I been ordered to do such a thing, the work of servants and the lowborn. I could not even remember the last time I had poured my own cup, much less someone else’s! Except I was a Princess no more. If I intended to keep my identity a secret, I could not turn my nose up at such things.

But before I could turn to seek out the pitcher of wine on the table, the Prince had reached out and gripped my wrist in his hand. With a strength that had me crying out, he wrenched me to him and draped me across his lap so that my buttocks were facing the ceiling, the blood rushing to my head as my braid dangled towards the ground. He delivered a series of open-palmed spanks: to my arse, to the creases where it met my thighs, and to my thighs themselves. When I struggled, beginning to sob, he only spanked me harder, commanding me not to move.

At last, he had had his fill of such torment, and he pulled me up to stand before him. Though I was taller than him while he was seated, I felt so small, trembling in front of him, face wet and nose stuffed from tears.

‘Come now,’ he said. ‘Your tears only make me want to spank you more. You must never hesitate when given an order. You should have no thoughts in your mind, except obeying me. Do you understand?”

"What a jerk," you mutter. "I didn't expect he would be so cruel."

"I warned you it was shocking," Steven says with a laugh. He shows you the cover, pointing to words which aren't there. "Dead Dove, darling. Shall I go on?"

After you nod, he does, and you drift a little once again listening to him speak, swallowing hard at the words dripping from Steven’s mouth. Those firm, dominating words coming in the cadence of Steven’s voice made you fight against an instinctive need to squirm and shift. You become hyper aware of his presence: the way his chest rises and falls as he breathes, the landscape of his hands as he deftly turns the pages, calloused fingertips rasping softly across each page. The dark curls that spill over onto his forehead and the shells of his ears.

“...pressed me down onto my knees. In front of me was the bulge of his cock beneath his trousers. Before today, I had never seen a cock except as illustrations in books on anatomy, and while there had been many naked men also being prepared alongside me in the pleasure servant’s hall, I had been too shy to look at them. All of the sudden, between my thighs, I felt the nudge of his foot. It startled me, it’s presence so close to my aching core only served to remind me of how sharp my need was. When he lifted his foot, bringing the surface of his polished boot against the curls of my sex, more tears slipped from my eyes. I wanted to writhe against it, to rub my cunt along it until I reached my peak, like I was no more than an animal at his feet.

‘You will undress me. The belts and buckles can be quite intricate. I will be patient with you, but you will devote yourself to learning how to undo them and how to be graceful as you do. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, my Prince.’

‘Go on then.’

But as soon as my fingers reached up to brush the buttons just beneath his throat, he lifted his foot again, nudging my cunt with it. I jolted at the zap of pleasure, my face feeling on fire with shame and arousal. Slowly, but with purpose, he began to rock the surface of his boot against me, dragging it along the lips of my cunt, parting them with its blunt force…”

“Jesus,” you mutter, laughing. Your voice sounds far too breathy to pass as unaffected.

Steven immediately looks to you, his face riddled with concern. Your face feels as hot as the Princess’s likely did, beneath his soft, worrying gaze. “Alright, love? Perhaps we should—”

“I’m alright,” you assure him. “Please go on—I have to see what happens next.”

Steven looks unsure but turns his gaze back to the book. He mutters: where was I—ah—

“...parting them with its blunt force. I knew that if he drew his foot away now, my own wetness would be visible on its surface, slicker than any polish he could have used. My hands fumbled on the buttons, and he gave a cool, low warning:

‘If you do not undress me within the next three minutes—or if you come without my permission—I will tie you soundly to the posts of the bed and let you hang there all night for my viewing, until I fall asleep. Do you understand?’

I could not help but shake, fresh tears wetting my cheeks. What would be worse, to find my release against his boot like a baseless whore, to be strung up like a tapestry at the end of his bed, looking down on his handsome sleeping figure for the rest of the night, or not receiving any pleasure at all? For a moment, I thought to disobey him, to accept the risks and grind myself against his boot until I found my pleasure. But a strange little part of me wanted badly to obey him, to see his rare smile, to see if there was any way I could coax a word of praise or fondness from his full lips.

Determined, I set about undoing the buttons…”

You let out a slow, measured breath, searching for your own inner strength just the way the Princess had—and then it all crumbles when you glance downward and see that beneath his boxers, Steven is hard. There is no denying the way his cock strains the fabric. The sight of his arousal has you groaning in the back of your throat. You shift to flop down flat on the bed by his seated figure instead of leaning against him. His words stutter at your movement, glancing away from the page to watch and ensure that you’re alright, but then it is his turn to suck in a shocked breath.

All from the sight of you slipping your hand beneath your panties. You knew you were wet, but it is a little obscene just how wet you are, your fingers sliding through the folds of your sex, slipping frictionlessly over your swollen clit.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Steven says. For a moment, you thought he had continued the book. His voice had dropped low and sultry the way it had when he was speaking the Prince’s lines, but a glance up at him shows that his eyes are nowhere near the pages of smut. They are focused on where your fingers move, finer motions disguised beneath the soft cotton fabric.

“Keep reading?” you ask him breathlessly.

“Keep—at a time like this?”

You laugh. Sitting up briefly, you pull your shirt over your head, revealing your breasts to him before collapsing back down against the soft comforter. There is still a burning exhaustion that tugs at your lids, but now you burn in other places. When you reach down to slip your fingers past the last bit of fabric that shields you from his gaze, he lets the book fall flat against his chest.

You halt your fingers, only the tips disappeared beneath the waistband.

“Steven—read.”

Steven sighs. He wets his lips and—with great reluctance—picks up the book. Pausing, he reaches back to the headboard again, his hand searching blindly. When he finds his reading glasses, he slips them into place. God, those glasses. The way his mouth curls tells you that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you by putting them on.

“Where—Determined, I set about undoing the buttons. My fingers felt clumsy and as if they were not my own. I was a lady, I was certainly used to all manners of buttons and facets on my gowns, but by the way I fumbled to reveal each inch of his tan chest, you would have thought it was my first time encountering them. I tried to keep my mind in the present, my eyes set firmly upon my task, but the Prince began softly rocking his boot against me once more, and a pitiful, embarrassing sound escaped my parted lips.

He pushed my fingers away and fastened up two of my hard-earned buttons.

‘Each sound you make sets you back,’ he said, his eyes both cruel and soft at once as he took in the sight of my struggle against my own pleasure. ‘You may groan with your mouth closed, but if you part your lips, I will gag you soundly. Nod if you understand.’

I nodded immediately.

‘Two minutes,’ he reminded me. I set myself to my task once more, this time with a bit more dexterity. Button after button fell away beneath my hands, even as the Prince’s soft leather boot stroked at my aching cunt, even when he drew it back to let the gently-curved tip of it drag over my swollen clit. I was trembling everywhere except for my hands now, tugging his shirt free from his trousers before turning to the little fastens at his cuffs.

With dread, I felt my end approaching. Never before had I been so fearful of my own pleasure! And I do mean fearful of it, and not just of the Prince’s consequences. What did it mean if I let myself find release like this, making a spectacle of myself? What would my family think, or any of the lords and ladies of my own kingdom? Even the commoners would find me shameful! But my body did not seem to mind at all the circumstances of my pleasure.

‘Half a minute,’ he laughed. My fingers had gone still for a moment, lost in pleasure and shame all at once. Thirty seconds, and he was still more than half dressed! I knew then what my fate was to be; tied to the bedposts until dawn, tormented by the handsome Prince. What difference did it make, then, if I let myself find release, except that perhaps I might be a fraction less uncomfortable in my bondage.

So I took up the task again, but half-heartedly, instead beginning to work my hips against the pressure of his boot, trying to keep my motions subtle. It seemed to be working, for the Prince did not stop me, and I am sure that he would have if he suspected I was pleasuring myself. With more than ten seconds to spare, I felt my release build within me.

And just as it broke over me, just as my cunt gave the first exquisite clench, the Prince withdrew his boot and pushed me off of my knees onto my bottom and further, my elbows colliding with the cold stone floor. I cried out, though the little fall had not hurt me. Fast as a snake, he kneeled down between my thighs and spread them, spread them so far apart that the muscles ached, that I felt the cool air of the room on my burning cunt.

‘I see you have no manners,’ the Prince said wryly as I writhed and wept, my cunt clenching and unclenching, feeling so very empty. The brief crest of pleasure was ruined, I felt only an unsatisfying burn in my sex, my clit still hard as one of the rubies that encrusted the broach that had held the Prince’s jacket together at his throat, my juices dripping from my entrance and smeared along my trembling thighs.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you breathe, fingers working yourself over. Already you feel your own end approaching, and there is no cruel Prince to stop you from letting it crest, your breath stuttering and then stopping altogether as your body tenses, holds the tension for an immeasurable moment. You cry out, strumming with soft, rapid strokes over your clit, making sure to wring every bit of pleasure from your peak. By the time your body begins to soften, breaths slowing, you realize that long ago Steven had stopped reading.

Glancing to him, you see the book laying abandoned on his trim chest. One of his hands is down massaging the bulge in his boxers, his touch revealing the shape of his hard length beneath the fabric. He looks desperate, voice rough like the Prince’s when he says: “You drive me mad. You know that?”

You feel butterflies in your belly. Withdrawing your hand from your panties, you roll onto your knees and offer him the wet, pruning fingers. His mouth opens, sweet and pliant as you rest them on his tongue, his eyes going half-lidded as he sucks them clean of your slick.

“You would make a perfect pleasure servant,” you tease him. He huffs a laugh around your fingers. “How about a reward, hm? A reward for such a good boy.”

He groans now, looking as cross as he does aroused. When you pull your digits free, he says: “No teasing, love. My cock is so bloody hard, it hurts.”

“Can I suck it?”

“Can you—what, like I’d ever say no?”

#steven grant x reader

255 notes · View notes

fairytale-poll · 9 months

Text

ROUND 2! MATCH 2 OUT OF 8

Propaganda Under the Cut:

Little Red Riding Hood:

highly doubt she'll even make it in, but just in case here's a picture since she's obscure https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w-vcTAESw7U/UA1Ez3TKlpI/AAAAAAAAIys/Vi47FjnjACs/s1600/vlcsnap-2012-07-23-19h55m26s36.png

Red Hood:

she’s red riding hood but CYBERPUNK. and she’s part of the REBELLION. she’s can hack MILITARY tech in a matter of moments. she uses her WOLF VIRUS to hack into CROWN VEHICLES and RIDE THEM INTO BATTLE. she REPURPOSED a GOVERNMENT VIRUS into a weapon to HURT THEM. her GRANDMOTHER was killed by the corrupt government virus that she has since TAMED and uses it AGAINST them. her fiction (this is canon!): https://themechanisms.com/fiction/what-big-eyes/

mechs fans need a win methinks. my mutual told me to go submit red but i also have very strong opinions on her because this entire album makes me insane. red started as a young 12 year old hacker who eventually put her skills to the test when a government-made computer virus (called the wolf virus) went rogue and unplugged her grandmother from life support. (the wolf virus was initially intended to figure out what wasn’t necessary for the war and divert power to weapons instead. it went rogue and started going after people who would never be able to help the war [ie disabled and elderly]). so red FOUGHT IT OFF ON HER OWN and TAMED IT. so then she essentially had a weapon designed to take down crown weapons and vehicles. so she joined the war effort and fought for brutal 30 years. it’s unclear whether she survived the final battle, but i think she deserves to take the win. also. she’s in space. she’s cyberpunk. she’s part of a retold fairytale cast BUT IN A COSMIC WAR. it’s like if star wars was actually good.

#red riding poll #round 2 #smile precure #little red riding hood #red hood #once upon a time in space #once upon a time (in space)#the mechanisms #red riding hood #character polls #poll tournament #poll bracket #polls #dont really have a funny 'battle of the x' title for this one. honestly i don't for a lot in round 2

52 notes · View notes

monstersdownthepath · 1 year

Text

Monster Spotlight: Xill

CR 6

Lawful Evil Medium Outsider

Bestiary 1, pg. 283 (pic from 2e Bestiary 2, pg. 299)

These tyrannical parasites from the Ethereal Plane have a scattered, militaristic government hellbent on subjugating all non-Xill life. While this doesn’t necessarily make them different from most Lawful Evil creatures with any level of society, the general emptiness of the Ethereal Plane and the elusiveness of most other inhabitants in the transitive plane means war is all Xill society IS. Whatever infrastructure they manage to create (or, more likely, steal) is used to build weapons and armor, whatever knowledge they gather is devoted towards the capture and exploitation of other species’ and resources, whatever farms they create are solely to feed their victims, and all forms of art and entertainment are tossed aside in favor of complete military focus. A great many creatures in the Ethereal Plane are born from mortal thoughts or dreams, the incarnates of ideas themselves... so it may very well be that the Xill, whose origins are otherwise unknown, could be an invasive, living nightmare, a rogue thought escaped from a vast and alien mind, or even flesh and substance given to the very idea of conquest.

Perhaps the most alarming evidence to the latter is how they treat their victims. One may at first thing that these obviously carnivorous, predatory creatures may see all others as food, but that is, unfortunately, far from the truth. As Outsiders Xill don’t need to eat, and they don’t even have to feed on an abstract sensation like pain, fear, or love like some fancier Outsiders do. Rather, victims captured from the Material Plane are put to work at whatever tasks the Xill has for them in eternal slavery--oh, sorry, no, that was [checks notes] 99% of every other Evil always-marauding race in fiction. No, while the Xill may sometimes use captured victims as slaves, that means their bodies risk going to waste. You see, Xill are capable of infesting any form of life with their terrifically invasive eggs, with Phase Spiders--their greatest, longest-term enemy--being their favored incubators.

A Xill can Implant 2d6 eggs into a helpless creature by using a “grotesque ovipositor” located in their mouths, the tenacious young hatching a day later to consume the host from within. Each writhing lizard-bug deals 1 Con damage to the victim per hour until they’re removed (via Remove Disease or invasive, damaging surgery) or the host dies, the latter of which prompts the younglings to gorge on the tissue as much as they can before shifting back to the Ethereal and into the arms of their waiting brethren to grow into another conquering parasite. As written there’s no limit to the number of eggs a Xill can implant into a single host, nor a limit on how many eggs they can lay per day, but I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that a Xill can either only lay one clutch a day, or the maximum per host is 12... because otherwise, there‘s no mechanical reason they couldn’t capture, say, a deer, and shove 40 eggs into it.

But how do Xill capture victims in the first place? Preferably alive. Paralytic poisons are favored whenever they can get ahold of them, but most Xill simply knock targets out via overwhelming damage. Their Multiweapon Mastery prevents them from ever taking penalties on attack rolls with their numerous weapons or from using weapons and shield-bearing claws in the same flurry of attacks. While they can comfortably wield any weapon, the example Xill wields three shortswords (1d6+3 each) and leaves one hand open to deliver a claw attack (1d4+3), the claw also capable of Grabbing victims. Even when wielding one or two shields, the claws can still be used! Their four limbs also, amusingly, allow them to use two bows at once (or two melee weapons and a bow, should they wish), the example Xill firing two longbow attacks a round for 1d8 damage if they need to take care of opponents at a range.

Bereft of weapons, a Full-Attacking Xill can use all four claws, and whether they possess weapons or are going at it feral style, they can mix their incredibly deadly bite (1d3+1) into their Full-Attack. No, the damage isn’t threatening... but the 1d4 hours of paralysis if one fails a DC 16 Fortitude save is. The damage is meant to be low, because biting victims over and over again to keep them paralyzed is how Xill prevent their incubators from becoming a danger to the eggs. Whether a battle ends once an enemy is laid low by damaging attacks or by their paralytic bite, a Xill can then Planeswalk with a helpless (or willing, if they threaten a victim into compliance) to or from the Ethereal Plane. Their Planeswalk has no cooldown or per-day restriction, but takes two entire full rounds to pull off, which thankfully means that the threat of kidnapping a paralyzed party member is low, but not zero, especially since Xill become harder and harder to hit as they fade away.

Also, to close on some fun facts and DM advice: While it’s more likely than not to encounter a Xill hunting to begin its own colony, they heartily embrace the idea of working together, and an army of Xill hunting as one can disappear entire towns in a single day, making them excellent foes for parties to face at just about any level in their adventuring career. HOWEVER! Due to the animosity between the Xill and every other species in the Ethereal, a party hoping to battle against an especially massive Xill incursion may be able to find unlikely allies in the plane of ghosts and memories... and depending on the scale of the invasion, they may need to.

You can read more about them here.

#Monster Spotlight #CR 6 to 10 #Pathfinder #Dungeons and Dragons

20 notes · View notes

culttvblog · 5 months

Text

The Tomorrow People Master Post

Previously on Cult TV Blog...

I did just a handful of posts on the 1970s children's series The Tomorrow People (you can see them here: https://culttvblog.blogspot.com/search/label/The%20Tomorrow%20People?m=1). I also did this 'master post' about the series purely to try to get my head round it. Since I'm no longer blogging on blogspot I thought it would be useful (hopefully for others too) to copy the post here.

This 'master' post is therefore predominantly an attempt to get a grasp on the amorphous mass of the series in my own head and keep track of what I have already written about. One of the difficulties that have stopped me writing about this show is that it is basically a different show from beginning to end, and is at best patchy. Additionally as said above some of the things on the show would not appear in TV today and I can't begin to think what they were thinking. If I have some personal rude remarks to say about an episode which don't deserve a full post, I may put them here.

Another thing which has always confused me is that although I now have the complete set in one box, region 2 releases have taken two different trajectories, one released in series and the other released in adventures.

Series 1

Slaves of Jedikiah (five episodes) broadcast 30th April to 4th June 1973.

The Medusa Strain (four episodes) broadcast 11th June to 2nd July 1973.

The Vanishing Earth (four episodes) broadcast 9th to 30th July 1973.

Series 2

The Blue and The Green (four episodes) broadcast 4th February to 4th March 1974.

A Rift in Time (four episodes) broadcast 11th March to 1st April 1974

The Doomsday Men (four episodes) broadcast 8th April to 6th May 1974.

Series 3

Secret Weapon (four episodes) broadcast 26th February to 19th March 1975

Worlds Away (three episodes) broadcast 26th March to 9th April 1975.

A Man for Emily (three episodes) broadcast 16th to 30th April 1975.

Revenge of Jedikiah (three episodes, but with such a similar name no wonder I was confused) broadcast 7th to 21st May 1975.

Series 4

One Law (3 episodes) broadcast 21st October to 5th November 1975.

Into the Unknown (four episodes) broadcast 7th to 28th January 1976.

Series 5

The Dirtiest Business (two episodes) broadcast 28th February to 7th March 1977.

A Much Needed Holiday (two episodes) broadcast 14th to 21st March 1977. This is the one with the slave children and the Jimmy Savile impression. 😳

youtube

The Heart of Sogguth (two episodes) broadcast 28thMarch to 4th April 1977.

Series 6

The Lost Gods (two episodes) broadcast 15th to 22nd May 1978.

Hitler's Last Secret (two episodes) broadcast 5th to 12th June 1978.

The Thargon Menace (two episodes) broadcast 19th to 26th June 1978.

Series 7

Castle of Fear (two episodes) broadcast 9th to 16th October 1978.

Achilles Heel (two episodes) broadcast 23rd to 30th October 1978.

Living Skins (two episodes) broadcast 6th to 11th November 1978.

Series 8

War of the Empires (four episodes) broadcast 29th January to 19th February 1979.

The reason for my confusion will be readily evident from the names of the different adventures. Some have similar names and others have names similar to other series and fictional works, including H P Lovecraft. The show evidently gave itself an ability to venture into all sorts of subjects and times, real and fictional. Looking at the titles it comes across as a less orderly Dr Who. No wonder I'm confused!

#the tomorrow people #the tomorrow people master post #70s tv #Youtube

4 notes · View notes

autisticsupervillain · 9 months

Text

It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters...

The Deputy vs Bell!

Conditions:

Call of Duty Zombies and DLC Weapons are restricted. The Deputy during Far Cry 5 is used.

Scenario:

After Willis Huntley is done using the Deputy to retrieve confidential information, he decides to cover up his involvement with them by having Bell dispatched to eliminate them.

Analysis: The Deputy

It is the year 2018. Facism in America is on the rise. The nation's people are gripped by an overwhelming xenophobia fueled by an unquenchable nationalistic pride. The world is spiraling towards nuclear war, riding off the back of national supremacy and modern manifest destiny.

Seeing the oncoming nuclear war, a Christian extremist named Joseph Seed took all of this as a sign from God that he needed to save mankind. Creating the cult of personality known as the Project at Eden's Gate, Joseph would have his family take over all of Hope County. Those who refused to conform would be drugged into compliance or mindlessness by a drug called Bliss, while those who fought back were summarily killed. All to ensure that the humans who survived the nuclear war lived up to Joseph's ideal of a sinless society.

Four these crimes, the government would dispatch a small squadron of cops to arrest Joseph Seed. Of course, the small town cops are immediately overrun and captured by an entire county's worth of cultists, leaving only one Lone Deputy to take the fight to the Project at Eden's Gate.

If there is any good thing about being stranded in rural America, you'll never by short of an arsenal. All the doomsday preppers will have helpfully gathered one for you. The Deputy comes geared up with shovels, bats, brass knuckles, and sledgehammers for close range combat, and an assortment of handguns, SMGs, and an M-79 grenade launcher as side arms. When they need a little more fire power, they bust out the shotguns, the M133, the SBS, the SPAS-12, and the 1887, each with additional incendiary rounds. Their submachine guns and rifles come with armor piercing rounds, while their smiper rifles can be silenced with a suppressor for that clean kill. And that's on top of all their machine guns, bows, and rocket launchers, including a homing rocket launcher to take down those pesky helicopters.

And then there's just the plain old weird stuff. A homemade flame thrower isn't that odd, I guess, but the shovel launcher raises a few questions. As does the Actual Fucking Space Gun. The Magnopulser is a gun given to them that fires magnitized microwaves. These waves cause everything they hit to float helplessly off the ground and can completely vaporize human beings if fired at point blank.

Luckily, the Deputy need not rely on doomsday preppers or... aliens for their fire power. They're a force to be reckoned with all on their own. They're strong enough to chuck a shovel so hard that it spears a man through the chest, smash a wooden door to splinters, beat bulls to death with their bear hands, and survive falling off the hand of this giant statue of Joseph Seed.

Using what appear to be Ponderosa Pine trees around it as a ruler, the statue's hand would have to be 470 feet tall. Assuming that the Deputy weighs the average of a 6'3 American man (Joseph Seed is canonically that tall and they're roughly the same height), they would've landed with an impact of 368 kilojoules. For reference, a speeding car traveling at 70 mph only hits with an energy of 31 kilojoules.

It is notable that the Deputy is comparable to other Far Cry protagonists. They can keep up with Hurk in live combat, who in turn and keep up with Ajay Ghale, who can dodge bullets from an AK-47.

AK-47 bullets move at 710 m/s, meaning Ajay would have to be moving at nearly Mach 2 to dodge them.

With that kind of skill set, it's no wonder they're am expert at.... anything it occurs to them to try, really. Hunting, fishing, arcade gaming, acting, studying aliens, and even various stunts. They're good enough with their wingsuit to hijack planes and helicopters in midair, able to climb any mountain in Hope County with their mountain climbing rope, and good enough at stunt driving to re-enact all the greatest stunts of the best stuntman in the world, Clutch Nixon. They're a jack of all trades, capable of slaughtering cultists both with stealthy gorilla tactics and guns blazing Rambo gun fights. Quite the impressive feat considering each of these cultists were trained by Jacob Seed, a veteran from the first Gulf War in Iraq, who was able to survive eight days in the Iraq wilderness with no resources, no food, no water, and no shelter. Yet the Deputy still kicked his ass.

Yet, for all The Deputy's badass skills, those attributes can sometimes be their biggest weaknesses. For as good as they are at stealth, they're absolutely lousy at getting snuck up on, getting upducted no less than nine times over the course of the game because they were ambushed with a tranquilizer or sprayed with Bliss. Once captured, they're very susceptible to mind control as well. Like when Faith forced them to jump off the Joseph statue I mentioned earlier, or when Jacob mind controlled them into slaughtering their own resistance teammates. Or, most damningly, when Joseph himself completely erased their personality and rebuilt them as The Judge, turning them into his post apocalyptic enforcer.

It was a deliberate tragic irony. The Deputy killed Joseph's entire family in their quest for vengeance, dismantled his entire cult operation. So, in return, Joseph took everything from them, killing all their remaining friends and completely erasing their personality. The conflict left them both with absolutely nothing left to call their own. Just blood on the sand and nuke blasted hellscape to share between them.

Analysis: Bell

The year is 1981. The Cold War rages on. Even with both the United States and the Soviet Union staring down economic crises, both hover over the nuclear button waiting for the other to blink. The fate of billions lay in the hubris of empires.

It is in the midst of this chaos, American black ops operative Russell Adler, known and feared as "America's Monster", stumbles across the master plan of the mythical Russian spy Purseus. Supposedly the spy that leaked the Manhattan Project, though until now, he was considered nothing more than an urban legend. The reveal that the agent was involved the Iranian Hostage Crisis and seemingly had bigger plans on a global scale, was enough to put the United States on high alert. President Reagan authorized Adler to take Purseus down by any means necessary, treaties and international laws be damned. This gave Adler the green light to concoct a particularly devious plan.

Upducting one of Purseus's top agents, Adler subjected them to the United States's experimental mind control program. He tore apart their old personality and rebuilt them from the ground up, creating new memories for them to recontextualize the vital knowledge they already had. They weren't a co-conspirator in Purseus's plans, they were sn American agent who decoded them. They weren't a Soviet operative, they were MI6, no CIA, no ex-KGB. Whatever Adler needed them to be for his current narrative and operation. Their old self was gone, rebuilt and replaced with a codename. Bell. And they had a job to do.

They could still be nonbinary though. Adler didn't care about that. He may be America's Monster, but he's not transphobic. Diversity win?

As amoral as the action was, Bell proved to be worth the risk. They're highly trained in weapons from all over the globe of the Cold War era, including those which technically shouldn't even exist yet. For close range combat and stealth operations, they carry knives, throwing knives, smoke grenades, stun grenades, M67 grenades, tomahawks, and even C4. But for full on gun battles, they come decked out with a variety of rifles, machine guns, and pistols. From the tranquilizer gun when stealth is of the essence, to the glorious and iconic SPAS 12 shotgun. Oh, sorry, the "Gallo SA12". It's a SPAS 12 guys. The trusty recursive bow and "Pellington" (*cough* R700 *cough cough*) sniper rifles make silenced sniping a breeze, while the War Machine and Thumper Grenade Launchers helpfully obliterate everything in their path. And for everything in between, the MP5 and AK-47 submachine guns and automatics shred through dirty communists and filthy capitalists alike.

Bell possesses a remarkable intellect beneath all that firepower too. They're smart enough to track Purseus's best agents across the globe, covert enough to infiltrate the KGB Headquarters in the heart of Moscow, and deadly enough to kill everyone there should their cover be blown and leave no witnesses. The sheer fact that they can get away with half of what they do without causing World War 3 is a testament to their skill and lethality. Hell, the whole reason Adler mind controlled them was because traditional interrogation techniques just wouldn't work on the bastard. And with a willpower like Bell's even that only gets you so far...

As Purseus's plan unraveled, more dark secrets about both sides were revealed. The United States had secretly inserted nuclear weapons inside of allied nations "just in case" they needed to be detonated, and Purseus was planning to activate them to turn the world against the US. Cornered and desperate, Adler had no choice but to dive even further into Bell's mind... inadvertently allowing them to break free of their control in the process.

Bell had seen the worst sides of both halves of the Cold War. Seen that both were perfectly happy to kill billions for their own benefit. The Cold War wasn't a war of ideology, it was two dying empires using foreign nations as a chess board to stroke their ego. And now Bell, fully themselves again, had to choose which one would decide the fate of history.

Should Bell choose to rejoin their Soviet Allies, they'll get the rare pleasure of facing the legendary Alex Mason in combat. The one who fought his way out of a gulag with just a rusty handgun. The one who, when under Soviet mind control, assassinated John F Kennedy. And they would have the even rarer pleasure of killing him.

Early in that very game, Mason would survive an aircraft wing falling right on top of him and get up completely unharmed. A 48,000 kg aircraft wing falling from a height of 48 meters would hit with a force of roughly 1686 kilojoules. And Bell could still kill him.

Of course, the cost of that honor would be allowing Purseus to kill billions. Would it be worth it? Which of these rotting empires deserves the world on a string? And which is the least likely to have Bell killed once the choice is made?

Throwdown Theme:

youtube

Throwdown Breakdown:

This fight has a few moving parts to it, so lets break this down.

First off, Bell is certainly more skilled. While the Deputy taking down Jacob Seed is nothing to scoff at, Bell taking on Alex Mason impresses me a fair bit more, as well as soloing entire Soviet Army bases and having official training from both sides of the Cold War. Secondly, the Deputy's arsenal, surprisingly, isn't that much more advanced or versatile than Bell's. Shovel launcher and space guns aside, the two actually share some weapons, like the SPAS 12. That and I don't think the Deputy's traversal tools are all that helpful here. They're fairly circumstantial and in the event they can use it, the wingsuit would really just give Bell the chance to snipe them while they can't fight back.

Despite that, I do think The Deputy would win a straight up fight. They are hilariously faster than Bell for starters, who has no real superhuman speed feats to scale to, and Bell cannot possibly prepare for an antigravity space gun or homing rocket launcher.

That said... this isn't a straight up fight. Bell is a stealth operative and if The Deputy makes this a straight up fight, than Bell can just drop a smoke grenade and disappear again. The Deputy has been canonically defeated nine times by people far less skilled than Bell using simple ambush tactics and stealth is Bell's whole specialty. If they can raid an army base during the Cold War and not start World War 3, they can get the drop on the Deputy.

And once they do, they only need to hit the cop with a tranquilizer. Or snap their neck with their five times strength advantage (1686 kilojoules vs 368 kilojoules). Sure The Deputy could dodge the bullet, but that'd require them to see it coming first.

In hindsight, we shouldn't be suprised the nonbinary communist kills the cop.

This Throwdown's Winner is...

Bell!

#fictional throwdown fridays #call of duty cold war #bell call of duty #far cry #the deputy

5 notes · View notes

james5-doe · 1 year

Text

Defenders of the Earth: This Is Their Side Story (fan-fan fiction)

Excerpt from Chapter 2, "Mongo Is Burning"

(Rick Gordon, armed with a sniper rifle, plans to interrupt the wedding of Jedda and Krotan by firing a few warning shots -- but finds himself confronted by someone)

----

"I'm not going to tell you again," she warned, pointing her blaster more directly now.

He had no doubt that she wouldn't miss. April was born with a blaster in hand. It seemed that way when they were kids at least. Whenever their parents took them out to shoot, she'd destroyed targets with relative ease, blowing huge holes through the cardboard heads, taking out drones via run-n-gun.

Rick had always harbored a silent envy, longing to equal her combat skills, but getting outclassed when he tried to compete. When he'd scored a 9, she'd scored 10. When he'd earned silver, she'd earned gold.

Eventually, they'd both grown tired of shooting at targets, and challenged each other to actual duels. They'd used safe guns back then, of course -- little toy shooters that would do no harm.

But April wasn't holding one of those guns now. April was pointing a Mack T4, a weapon created for this situation, a gun that had put several snipers in graves.

Rick turned back to the ceremony. Jedda was about to say I do. He steadied his rifle, refusing to budge. It was clear that April could take him out; he just wasn't certain she actually would. "You'd put a laser round in your brother's head?"

April sighed, exasperated. "Rick..." she muttered. He heard her approaching. "Millions of people are depending on this. People on Mongo. People on Earth. If those two marry, this damn war ends. If you interfere, the clash goes on."

"Both of us know it's not nearly that simple. That's what The Brotherhood wants you to think."

"Look at me," she growled.

He stared at the stage.

"Now."

He turned -- and then he twitched. April had a boldness that he'd rarely seen, a cold determination that staggered him.

She squinted while taking a step forward. "You're not interfering with that ceremony."

#defenders of the earth

4 notes · View notes

goodbrandgames · 26 days

Text

Apex Legends - Season 8: Mayhem

Season Release Date: February 2nd, 2021 Platforms: Playstation 4, Playstation 5, Windows PC, Xbox One, Xbox Series X/S

Apex Legends is a free-to-play battle royale-hero shooter game developed by Respawn Entertainment and published by Electronic Arts. The game is set in the same science fiction universe as Respawn Entertainment's Titanfall series, with several characters from the Titanfall series appearing either as minor characters or playable Legends. Before a match, players form into two- or three-player squads, and select from pre-designed characters with distinctive abilities, known as "Legends". In "Battle Royale", up to 20 three-person squads or 30 two-person duos land on an island and search for weapons and supplies before attempting to defeat all other players in combat. The available play area on the island shrinks over time, forcing players to keep moving or else find themselves outside the play area which can be fatal. The final team alive wins the round.

I was privileged to join the revered Respawn Entertainment Apex development team mid way through 2020 as a gameplay generalist that spent time prototyping and pitching new weapon and legends ideas. This allowed me to grow my design skills in other areas of the discipline and learn from leading industry creators!

As scope and season requirements where laid out for the Season 8: Mayhem deliverables, I was asked to further stretch both my design and technical skills by developing new game mode modifiers for the Season's events. This work included pitching, prototyping and rapidly playtesting new ways to shake up the Battle Royale formula - nothing was off the table. Numerous game modes were prototyped, tested and iterated on. We ended up landing on 5 solid ideas that were each unique in which parts of the game that they changed or altered. They each were a huge hit with players and the internal dev team alike; creating fun and engaging new ways to the play "Battle Royale".

These game modes launched at the end of the season 8 under the War Games Event! Each game mode breathed fresh life into the standard "Battle Royale" experience, promoting new strategies and squad tactics for players to explore. Each game mode was only live for 2-3 days over the course of 2 weeks, shaking things up for players and paying homage to the season's theme. Check out the War Games Event Trailer below!

youtube

Here are the 5 Game Modes and their mechanics:

Second Chance

In this modifier, each Legend is granted one free respawn per match. Once a Legend is killed, their Respawn Token is consumed as they rise again from their current location retaining all their weapons and gear. After a short duration, the player respawns high in the air to skydive back into the action.

Ultra Zones

Shake up your ideal drop strategy with Ultra Zones! Ultra Zones introduce the concept of multiple Hot Zones within a single map. More epic loot, more gold items! But wait, there’s more! Each Hot Zone is enveloped in a Flash Point—a returning feature from a Season 6 LTM. For those who don’t already know, Flash Points are enormous, glowing bubbles that replenish your HP and shields when you stand in them.

Auto Banners

In this modifier we’ve made a rather small but spicy change to squadmate respawning. Your Squadmates Banner Cards are automatically retrieved! No need to loot their death box to retrieve their Banner Cards, just head straight to a respawn beacon. The loot pool has been altered to contain more Mobile Respawn Beacons too.

Killing Time

Feel the pressure with Killing Time. This event speeds up the match as Legends fall. During a round, whenever a Legend dies, the round time is reduced. If any given round is a massacre, you can bet that ring will be closing real quick! Keep an eye on the round timer and the ring in this modifier.

Armor Regen

Your armor regenerates over time at a rate of 12 points per second. Whenever you take damage, your armor will begin regenerating after an 8-second delay. This delay is doubled to 16 seconds if your armor gets cracked (reaches zero). One last thing for this mode: there are no Shield Cells in the loot pool!

Below is some footage of a prominent APEX Streamer playing the Second Chance game mode. Enjoy the chaos!

youtube

#portfolio #videogames

0 notes

cloudshoregames · 7 months

Text

Mech Construction Showcase: Martian Tripod

Greetings, Dan here!

Today we're going back to the beginning, to HG Wells 1897 science fiction novel, War of the Worlds and the earliest example of a walking tank or mech in fiction to my knowledge. In this case, today we will be building a Fighting-Machine, though we'll be referring to it by its colloquial name the Martian Tripod. Unlike our previous showcases, the Tripod has has many different interpretations over the--well, 100+ years it has been in the zeitgeist. Because of that, there's been many fluctuating details between each version, but I will be doing my best to pull the most prominent aspects as could relate to a mech in Beneath Twisted Earth. That means, I'll be shying away from most of the anti-infantry weaponry it had (mostly). I'll do my best to explain each decision as we go through. Performance wise, the Tripod was a machine that walked high in the air, while raining death down on any threat (or humans) below it or at a distance. Primarily this was done with a powerful heat ray. It was capable to melee attacks with a group of retractable, metallic tentacles. Still, the machine operated more like a walking cannon, with some added features for utility. Some versions even had different variants that leaned into different purposes. For the showcase, I'll be sticking with the generalist version. Defensively, while some versions of the Tripod depict it as incapable of being damaged by human weapons, the original novel did depict it as capable of being brought down by conventional weapons. The death toll would always just be higher on the human side because the heat ray and anit-human weapons were so deadly.

(Illustration by Henrique Alvim Corrêa, 1906)

We'll be building the Tripod as a starter mech, so two Caballero Parts and two Blitz Parts. To start, we'll install a Caballero Corp Frame for 12 AP. This is drawing mostly from the depiction in the books where conventional weapons could be down, but future development could be made to make it tougher defensively. Next, in all iterations I'm familiar with the Tripods are agile, but slow. Because of this we will install Caballero Boosters for a Movement Rate of 1. That means we'll include a Blitz Tech CPU for 2 Utility Systems, and a Blitz Radiator for a Heat Rating of 10, (again, see deadliness of arsenal).

For the Utilities, we'll go for a couple of features from different iterations. The first is a cargo hold. While this will harken back to multiple iterations of the Tripods having cages for storing humans on their hull, in this case, the player will get the added benefit of being able to reliably purchase salvage rights for their contracts without the need for storage lockers. Next, we'll install a Bio Frame. While rarely explicitly stated, the Fighting-Machines have always been portrayed with an organic locomotion and behavior. Some iterations lean into this aspect more than others, but in this case we will make it explicit. The Tripod will move like an animal, because it is an artificial one, made to incorporate technology as well. Along with being thematic, this will allow the mech to continue defending itself even should the pilot fall unconscious.

Now as for the Weapon Systems, let's begin with the iconic, human-disintegrating Heat Ray. We'll put 6 of the radiator's HR into this weapon so we can make it a little more powerful. First, we will put three heat into damage so that the ray can deal 1d8 dmg on a hit. Next, we'll spend one heat for Rate of Fire, buying the base 1 attack per round. For the ammunition, we'll also spend one heat, for the base of 4 Ammo. Lastly, we will spend one heat for Medium Range, and apply the optimization to also make it effective at Far Range.

While we could have left the tentacles as part of the mech's general description, I wanted to include a melee option for if the mech ever found itself beset at close range. So, for the Metallic Tentacles we shall spend the remaining 4 points of the radiator's HR. Since we will only be purchasing the base level for each feature of the weapon kit, we'll end up with 1d4 dmg, an RoF of 1, 4 Ammo, and Melee Range. We will apply the optimization to the range, adding Close Range.

This build will give the Tripod versatility with its weapons, being able to attack effectively from Melee thru Far Range. That said, the Heat Ray has the real punch to it, so with the slow speed and armor, this mech is really suited to fire support, letting its squamates take the brunt of damage on the front line. Granted, as the player earned credits there are multiple ways the Tripod could be improved. It could either be given a more rounded generalist performance, or the Radiator/Weapon Systems could be improved to lean into the "glass tank" role. If a player wanted to go that route, they'd probably want to improve the boosters for more speed. Personally, I'd probably improve the Frame for more AP, and the Radiator to beef up the Heat Ray. Regardless, this could make for a fun, thematic mech to play.

For next time, I'd like to visit a franchise I've been putting off because the current version of BTE does not feature combining mechs, (something I have in mind for the future, so don't worry). I'd like to take a look at building The Red Dragon Thunderzord from Power Rangers. I don't have any special aspect of the construction system I want to show off this time. I just think the design of the mech is cool, and want to build it as another starting mech. Thank you for your interest in Beneath Twisted Earth, and I hope to see you at the launch of the Print Version!

#beneath twisted earth #indie #devlog #War of The Worlds #mecha #mechs #tripod #Fighting-Machine #BTE

0 notes