#dubious awards

[jihef03]

Asterix live-adaptions always reminding me that adapting a character’s clothing faithfully really does not mean it’s going to look good.

[the-dust-jacket]

Congratulations to the 2024 Sydney Taylor Book Award winners! Check out the full list of honorees.

[cartoon-aragorn]

is maeglin kinda nasty and also responsible for ratting out gondolin to the devil? yes

does that stop me from feeling so so bad for him? no

[revelboo]

Carrying the pet headcanons

IDW Megatron x Reader, IDW Starscream x Reader, IDW Wheeljack x Reader, yeah, I’m not listing them all, but just how each mech handles/carries a human.

Starscream

• Carries you cradled against his chassis, servos curled partially around you. Tucks you inside his canopy if there are any other mechs about to hide you. He’s not exactly ashamed of you, more worried about you getting hurt to spite him. With how many enemies he’s made, he fully expects treachery. When he does allow you to ride on his shoulder, one big hand is always up, not touching you, but ready to grab you. It’s easy enough to tell he’s not the happiest with you perched there despite your insistence on being able to see. His wings stay aggressively up the whole time until you take pity on him to climb into his hand.

Thundercracker

• Doesn’t just grab you and it’s honestly adorable as he kneels and offers a huge hand to try and coax you to him like you might a stray dog. You’re pretty sure in his alien mind, you are a stray dog, but the novelty of not just being grabbed makes that realization more amusing than insulting. And his expression when you do willingly come to him to be picked up is too cute. He’s not above bribing you to him with little odds and ends he finds, including food of dubious origin.

Megatron

• Cages you carefully between his hands like a fragile moth he wants to inspect without hurting. For such a huge mech, he’s shockingly gentle with you. A lot of it is guilt, that dark tide constantly threatening to pull him under. Finds your presence soothing, but because of that same guilt, will pass you off to another caretaker given a chance. Can’t trust himself to not accidentally break you. He feels he definitely shouldn’t be entrusted with fragile things when all he’s good at is destruction. But he does love those quiet moments of contact, deserving of them or not.

Ratchet

• Picks you up to almost absentmindedly move you from getting under ped or if you’re just in his way while he’s working. He’s careful about how he handles you, but uncomfortable with just holding you like a favorite pet. Gets the award for being painfully awkward when he does have to carry you, because he’s sure you don’t enjoy being carried like a sparkling. He’s sure you resent it even if you never say a word. You don’t mind when it’s him picking you up. Those clever hands are so gentle with you and the longer he has to carry you, the more uncomfortable and gruff he gets.

Skywarp

• Absolute menace. Carries you like a toddler with their first kitten. One hand too tight around your middle as you hang upside down, because why carry you right side up when you change colors upside down? The more you struggle and swear, the funnier he finds it. Plus, he’s learning so many new, fun words and phrases to use. Most likely to accidentally, on purpose, drop you.

Whirl

• Not a lot better. He seizes you around the middle with one claw and carries you hanging awkwardly face down, arms and legs dangling and your hair in your face. Sometimes swings his arms, because your miserable groaning and complaints are too funny. Won’t hurt you intentionally despite acting like a jerk. Actually pretty protective of you and by his twisted logic, no one else is allowed to mess with you. Only him.

Wheeljack

• Doesn’t really carry you around unless there are other bots about. Honestly, isn’t sure how you feel about being picked up, but you’re so tiny compared to them and he gets anxious whenever he sees you walking in a hall with other Autobots. It doesn’t matter that he knows you’re in no danger. Those times, he makes a line straight for you, scooping you into his servos for your own safety. Half the time, he scares you silly because you hear running, heavy peds behind you, then you’re being grabbed. He means well and you appreciate how much he worries, but, really, you’re fine. The others see you. No one is going to step on you.

Soundwave

• Has a fondness for small things and even though you’re hardly one of his cassettes, will pick you up place you in his chest compartment if he finds you wandering about unsupervised. Being nabbed and dropped into the dark absolutely terrifies you at first, but you can see a dim glow in front of you and hear the hum of the big mech’s inner workings around you. It’s a surprise to both of you when you manage to fall asleep inside him. That cements it for him, he adopts you.

Bonus: Soundwave’s cassettes

• Frenzy seizes you around the middle under your arms and carries you around like a younger sibling, your toes dragging as you squirm to get away. Rumble would rather grab you by a leg and drag you kicking and protesting behind him just to see how long he can get away with it before Soundwave intervenes. As protective as the huge mech is, he’s surprisingly tolerant of his cassette’s mischief. You’re not being physically hurt? He’s allowing it. Cassetticons squabble- it’s how you set your boundaries. More than once, Lazerbeak has dive-bombed you, claws snagging the back of your shirt so he can lift you a foot or so up off the ground, because your terrified yelp sliding into angry swearing is too funny to him. May have dropped you once when your shirt just tears in his claws. Ravage prefers to nudge you along in the direction he wants you to go, but isn’t above carefully gripping your arm in his jaws to firmly tug you along if you’re resisting. Oddly enough, you grow resigned to your “older siblings” fast enough. You don’t really have a choice.

[cuubism]

Found this old fic concept in my notes, I doubt I'll ever get around to writing it or that I could do it justice if I did, but it still makes me laugh so I wrote it up as a little blurb. Perhaps it will make you laugh too.

Mega Popstar Dream and Hob, his extremely non-famous celebrity crush

So in this universe Dream is an extremely famous musician. He's like Taylor Swift level of famous, if you walk up to any random person on the street they would know who he is. Meanwhile Hob is an actor but really not very well known, he was in a few small projects and is in the core cast of one TV show that's well-regarded but not super popular.

It's Dream's FAVORITE TV SHOW and Hob is his FAVORITE ACTOR that he's ferally OBSESSED WITH. Everyone knows about this too, Dream is really obvious about it. In interviews people will ask him what he likes and he's like "this is my favorite TV show" "have you seen Hob Gadling in that show isn't he incredible", They'll ask him if he has a celebrity crush (as a joke) and he's like "YES HOB GADLING 😍" like it's become a meme in Dream's fandom how much he has a crush on this random actor.

They've never met though, probably Dream was afraid to -- 'never meet your heroes' and all -- and never let his team book any overlapping events. So he's never seen Hob in person, only watched his favorite TV show 65 times in a row and memorized every inch of his face. Like a stalker.

So then a Buzzfeed-esque YouTube channel is running a special edition of their usual challenge show, "People Meet Their Celebrity Crush", except this time it's "CELEBRITIES Meet Their Celebrity Crush." Dream's entire team conspires against him to book him on this. Dream doesn't know what it is until the very moment since the whole point is to surprise people with their crush. Needless to say, Hob was REALLY dubious when the channel reached out like "do you want to come on as Dream's celebrity crush" but what's he gonna do say NO? say NO when Dream is so pretty and cute? So yeah he goes.

Anyway during the moment in the video when they revealed his celebrity crush to him -- aka Hob just looking like a totally normal and random guy -- Dream literally tripped over a chair and fell on the floor and then fainted. Instant meme and it became the thumbnail of the video. When Dream woke up to find Hob crouched by him all concerned asking if he was okay he nearly had a panic attack, he was never more flustered and nervous in his whole life not even performing for crowds of millions.

Hob fell in love instantly. He doesn't even know much about Dream, he hasn't even listened to Dream's music other than what's just playing ubiquitously on the radio all the time but all it took was watching Dream fall over a chair and then look up at him with his huge starry eyes and he was like 'This one's mine forever idc. I gotta protect this nerd he won't survive in the wild.'

Anyway they did start dating after that and Dream never leaves the honeymoon phase for the rest of his whole life, he truly thinks Hob is the most handsome man and best actor in the entire world and will tell anyone so at any opportunity, he goes around saying things like "see if you believe really hard you too can marry your celebrity crush 🥰" with zero irony, he might have skipped the Grammys to go to the premiere of season 3 of Hob's show (Hob didn't ask him to do that) (Dream won the Grammy but had more fun staring at Hob's face for 2 hours than he would have had at the awards show). Meanwhile Hob never talks about Dream in public because Dream already has negative 500% privacy in his life, he's extremely protective of him, and he allegedly punched one of the paparazzi in the face when they tried to take stealth shots at their wedding which was supposed to be a private affair. ALLEGEDLY. No charges were filed.

Dream did post one photo of the wedding on insta for his adoring fandom in which he described Hob as his knight in shining armor and then denied any knowledge of any 'alleged' events when asked about it in the future. Because Hob was so much more private about their relationship than Dream, for a while Dream's fandom had been like HOB DOESN'T DESERVE DREAM but after the (alleged) story about Hob punching someone in the face came out they were all obsessed with him. So that solved that problem.

(Despite Hob's efforts a paparazzi photo did come out of them the morning after the wedding, Hob sitting on the terrace drinking coffee, Dream sitting on his lap wearing Hob's shirt and looking thoroughly ravished. Dream might have framed it.)

Then they lived happily ever after. Dream put Hob in every one of his music videos regardless of whether it made sense for the story. Hob got one of Dream's songs put in his favorite TV show which made Dream's whole entire year. The end :)

[steviesummer]

inspired by and as a direct follow up to this post by @strangersteddierthings:

Eddie is horrified. He remembers the day Steve is referring to, though clearly not as well as Steve does. He calls out as Steve raced up the stairs and hears his door slam.

“Fuck.” He stares blankly at the wall in front of him. He can’t believe things went so bad so quickly. He’s been trying to get to know Steve better, get closer and damn if he didn’t just blow the hole thing. He’d shown up early, told Steve he needed to prepare as an excuse to spend some time with him. Despite everything that happened over spring break, Steve had remained guarded, standoffish no matter what Eddie tried. At least now he knew why. He’d fucked things up before he’d known there was something to fuck up.

He feels even worse about calling him a bully. Sure, Steve had looked the other way and even laughed at some of the mean jokes others had made, but he was far from the worst. That dubious award went to Billy Hargrove, but even without him, there was plenty of people who did far worse than Steve did. Especially because Steve is right. He did hit first, metaphorically at least. He can justify it all he wants as trying to protect himself, but that doesn’t make it right. Steve all but admitted that as he said the same thing. He feels nauseous at the realization that maybe he was just as bad as those he decried. That for all his talk about accepting outcasts and defying convention, he was just as prejudiced. Swallowing hard, he heads back to the dining room and looks at the clock. There is no way he is going to be able to run the campaign today. He’s not going to be able to focus or even play without thinking about how things might have been if he hadn’t driven Steve off all those years ago. He grabs the phone and dials Gareth’s number. “Emerson house, Sheryl speaking.” “Hi Mrs. Emerson, it’s Eddie.” Eddie is proud that he manages to keep his voice even. “Is Gareth there?” “Oh, yes! Let me go get him for you.” “Thanks Mrs. Emerson.” Eddie focuses on breathing while he waits. “Eddie? Hey man, what’s up?” Eddie breathes out. “Hey Gareth. Look, I know its last minute, but we’re gonna have to postpone Hellfire. Something came up.” He could hear Gareth’s frown through the phone. “Postpone? What happened, did Harrington do something?” As if he couldn’t feel worse. “Nah. I’ll explain later, but can you call Jeff and Frank, let them know? I gotta call the freshman, too.” “Alright, but I’m going to hold you to that.” “Fair enough. Talk to you tomorrow.” Eddie promises before hanging up. He weighs his options for how to tell the Party. Eventually, he decides on calling Mike, know that the younger teen won’t push too much. He’s dialing the Wheeler home before he can second guess his decision. “This is Mike.” Eddie feels a rush of gratitude that Mike is the one who answered, rather than Nancy or one of their parents. “Hey Mike, it’s Eddie. Listen, Steve’s not feeling great and having Hellfire here isn’t going to help. Can you call the rest of the Party, let them know we’re gonna move it to another day? I’ll keep an eye on Steve.” Eddie knows Mike is a confused, given how adamant he’s been in the past about not canceling or moving Hellfire, but as he expected, Mike accepts what he says at face value. “Sure. Need us to bring anything?” “Nah, I’ve got it. Pretty sure he just needs some peace and quiet so he can rest. But thanks.” They say their goodbyes and Eddie puts the phone back on the hook.  With that done, he checks that the door is locked and faces the stairs. Now for the hard part. He’s not sure what he’s going to say, if there is anything he can say that will fix this, but he has to try. Even if doesn’t change things between him and Steve, Steve deserves at least that much. Every step feels like it takes effort, chest heavy with guilt, but it only takes him a few moments to get to Steve’s door. It’s closed, which doesn’t surprise him. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts before knocking. Nothing. “Steve?” If it wasn’t for the quiet sound of Steve’s breathing he could hear through the door, Eddie would think he had left. He glad that he at least didn’t drive Steve out of his own home. He rests his forehead on the door. “I’m sorry.” Eddie hopes Steve can hear how much he means it. “You’re right, I fucked up. I made an assumption and took out my anger at other people on you. And that wasn’t fair and it’s not okay. But I want you to know that I’m sorry. Even if it wasn’t you, I shouldn’t have done that.” He lets out a hysterical laugh as he realizes - “And despite that, you still humor the kids when they talk about D&D and agreed to let us play here and didn’t punch me in the face, which makes you a better man than I.” He falls silent, listens as Steve’s breathing slows. He isn’t sure how long he stands there. He wonders how many other people he hurt this way, without even realizing. Knows he wants to do better, be better. He sighs, feeling his shoulders slump. “Anyway, I canceled Hellfire for today. I told everyone something came up, don’t worry about that. I’ll make up some story, make sure they know its not your fault. And uh,  let me know if you want to hang out again or something. I know I’ve been around a lot; didn’t realize that I was making you so uncomfortable, which is probably another thing I should apologize for. Anyway. Yeah. I’ll see you around, okay?” He waits a moment for an answer, but when none comes, he backs away from the door and walks downstairs to gather his stuff. It hurts, but he knows Steve deserves space and to be the one to initiate contact. He has some thinking to do, anyway.

[ventismacchiato]

O6 stuck with you — crash course on how to not be an idiot !

scaramouche x gender neutral reader

“Why are you just standing outside the door like a creep?”

You turn to see Scara standing behind you, adorned in sweatpants with bags under his eyes as his members slowly catch up with him. You have the knee-jerk reaction to argue with him.

“I’m not,” you defend, “You’re the one running late, is someone scared?”

“You’re the one who hasn’t gone inside,” Scara points out, reaching out to grab the doorknob but you jut your arm out to stop him, “I was right, you are scared,” Scara smirks.

You swelled up, stepping back and squaring your shoulders, and Scaramouche was immediately certain that the next words out of your mouth were going to be a lie.

“I’ll have you know…,” you caught sight of his dubious expression and seemed to deflate right before his eyes.

“I heard your mom’s attending the meeting,” you easily lie.

Scara immediately takes his hand off the doorknob.

“See, I’m not the only one scared!” you gloat.

“I’m not scared of my own mom,” Scaramouche replies. But there was an edge to his words that made you wonder if you’d just stepped on a landmine. But, being the stubborn idiot you were you barrelled on regardless, hoping to cover up the tension by burying it with more words.

“Just admit you don’t wanna go in either, wouldn’t kill you to stop acting like a smartass for two seconds.”

“I don’t act like one, everyone’s just smarter compared to someone like you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re proving my point.”

“Fuck you, I-.”

The door gets thrown open by an exasperated Jean who is looking at you both with a solemn expression.

“Just when I thought you both were getting along,” she says, stepping back to gesture you both inside.

“We are!” you speak up, “Please don’t put us on hiatus again!”

“We weren’t even arguing,” Scaramouche adds, rather unconvincingly.

“Yeah, I love this little guy!” you lie. 

You both give her a strained smile as she sees through your bullshit. 

“I wish I believed you,” she sighed, “We really need to work on your acting skills.”

“Why would we—,” you don’t get to finish your question before the rest of your group members barge in after you, forcing you to attend the meeting you’ve all been dreading all week.

///

“So, before we continue with my portion of the meeting Lisa is going to give a crash course on media training,” Jean says, gesturing to Lisa standing in front of you all with a rather pointy pointer in her hand.

“Welcome to Lisa’s crash course on Media Training,” your manager smiles, “If you guys answer anything wrong then I’ll hit you with this stick!”

“Lisa, you can’t hit them,” Jean interrupts.

“Really? What’s the point then?” she sighs dejectedly, “Ok moving on. I’m going to throw some scenarios at you, and I want you both cuties sitting in the front to listen.”

You and Scara awkwardly avert eye contact with her and shrink in your seats.

“Scenario one, if you and another group under the same entertainment tie for an award, what do you do when you get on stage and there’s only one trophy?” Lisa asks, eyeing you.

Suddenly the shoes you’re wearing become rather intriguing.

“I think-,”

“Not now, Childe, honey,” Lisa interrupts, pointing at Scaramouche who was forced to sit next to you, “I want to hear from him.”

“Share the award,” he grumbles.

“Exactly! Basically the opposite of whatever you both had going on,” Lisa muses, “Even if you both hate eachother you want to appear nice in front of new fans and sponsors. How about you both come on up here and act it out!”

“I’d rather not,” you start, but Lisa is already grabbing you and Scara and pushing you to the front, taking your seat.

“Go on, pretend that book is the award,” Lisa points as you pick up her book. 

“Why is the cover some shirtless guy?” Childe asks.

“Not now, hun,” Lisa hums as she waves him off, “Continue.”

Scara stares distastefully at you and the scenario you both were in.

“Wow. Congrats on the award,” he praises in a monotone voice. He pauses for a second before clapping his hands just once.

“Thank you,” you say back, your face neutral as you hold the book up, “What an honor this…is.”

The room is silent for a few seconds before someone speaks up.

“That was terrible,” Venti boos.

“It was rather…not good,” Lisa says, “There’s no nice way to put that. But better than screaming at eachother.”

“I only yelled because he yelled first,” you defend, tossing the erotic book aside, “Maybe he should be working on his media skills.”

“Maybe you should work on not being a sore loser,” Scara shoots back.

“Better than being just a loser.”

“Ironic coming from you—.”

“Alright!” Lisa claps as she stands up, “Back to your seats you go, I’ll just email the powerpoint to you both. That’ll be better.”

“Let’s take five and I’ll get into the main reason we’re here,” Jean sighs, “Ease up.”

“Listen guys,” Jean drawled, leaning on the back of one of the chairs as everyone got situated once again, “We are low on publicity after that scandal at the award ceremony.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Scaramouche mumbled. 

Everyone shoots him a look.

“Okay, I admit it’s our fault. But isn’t everything fine now?” you say, taking the bullet. 

“Well, sort of,” Jean starts, “But in order to keep our appearance high we’ve decided to host a show starring you all.”

“It was an idea we scrapped a while ago, but kept in the back just in case,” Lisa smiles, “A dating show!”

The room was silent before a ruckus exploded.

“What do you mean by dating show?” Lumine asks, “Who the hell are we dating?”

“Do we even have time for a show?” Kazuha pipes up.

“Where is the show going to be? Is it gonna be like the bachelor? Can I be the bachelor?” Childe rambles, “Wait, I wanna be one of the girls who fights for a rose.”

“If it’s the bachelor then are we all going to try and date one person?” Aether muses. 

“This is stupid,” Scara states. And for once you agreed with him.

“Everyone, hush!” Lisa interrupts, raising her voice to get everyone to quiet down, “Let me explain before you get your panties in a twist.”

“Our panties in a what?”

“Now not Childe,” Lisa sighs, “Okay, Jean, take it away. And everyone save your questions for the end.” 

“The dating show will be with all of you,” Jean states, “Later on we will add a few extra people, at most three, who will also be idols. It won’t be like the bachelor, but more like Love island if I had to compare. We’ve rented out a private island where this will be recorded.” 

“We can always script random shit for views, so don’t stress too much,” Lisa adds, “But it’ll be better if it’s authentic. That being said, there’s only two of you in this room who will be following a script and have to end up together.”

Jean and Lisa both gesture to you and Scara.

“Scaramouche and Yn, you both will be fake dating on this show. And if need be after the show we can have a fake break up where you end on good terms, or have you both continue to date,” Jean explains casually as if she was simply recounting the weather.

The room is silent before everyone but you and Scara erupt into laughter.

“Oh my god,” Venti cackles, “This is going to be great.”

“I can’t wait to see you both kiss,” Childe grins.

“How the fuck is this supposed to mend our image?” Scara speaks up.

“Believe it or not, love, people ship you both,” Lisa smiles, “Even though you both are gremlins. So the fans and media will eat this up.”

“Why can’t I date someone like Lumine or Venti instead?” you question.

“I’ve seen farmers markets with less fruit, try again,” Scara remarks.

“Fuck off,” you sigh, not willing to accept your fate.

“Wait, so do the rest of us have to find someone to fake date?” Aether pipes up.

“Honestly, the rest of you can do what you want as long as you keep it interesting and reasonable,” Jean answers, “You guys can fake date or actually date your members for fun, I suppose.”

“If the show gets bland we’ll assign designated couples and scripts but you guys will mostly have free will,” Lisa adds on.

“Wow,” Childe whistles, “So who wants to cheat with me on live television?”

Lisa stares at him for a moment.

“Okay, everyone but Childe has free will.”

“Don’t damage your images even more,” Jean sighs. 

“Dibs on Yoimiya,” Lumine quickly says.

“We’re calling dibs?” Venti asks.

“Then I want Xiao,” Kazuha muses.

“Let’s team up Aether!”

“Guys,” Jean sighs, “You can sort the details later and in private, for now we just need you to sign some forms so we can get production going.”

“What if I don’t wanna do it,” Scaramouche asked, already halfway out of his seat. 

“Too bad, we’re writing this off as a free holiday. And according to Section 3E in your idol contracts, it’s mandatory you take one every year.” Lisa grinned, pulling out a stack of papers. “Sign away cuties, no escaping this.”

Scaramouche slowly sat back down, staring down at the contract with a look of disappointment in his eyes. 

“This will be a good chance for you guys to get to know each other as friends, idol work is exhausting and can strain relationships!” Lisa explained as she passed out pens, “This is a great opportunity for you guys to relax!”

You stared down at the piece of paper in front of you, skimming the clauses.

Idols Inferno™ Participation Contract This contract outlines the terms and conditions for participation in the dating show Idols Inferno™ hosted by former idol Yae Miko, hereinafter referred to as "the Show". The Show will take place on TG6, a private island accessible via plane from Teyvat. 1. Participation Participants agree to actively participate in the three-week-long Show, adhering to the rules and guidelines set forth by Sakura Entertainment, the production company. 2. Accommodations and Activities Participants will be accommodated together at TG6. Regular idol training activities will be suspended during the duration of the Show. Participants are strongly advised against engaging in such activities. 3. Filming and Media Rights 3a. Camera crews will capture footage of participants throughout the filming period, with the exception of private areas such as restrooms. Hidden cameras and microphones will be installed throughout, including bedrooms. 3b. All footage captured during the Show remains the sole property of Sakura Entertainment, which retains the right to use and distribute it publicly. Participants forfeit any claim to ownership of footage in which they appear or that includes other participants. 4. Confidentiality Participants agree to maintain strict confidentiality regarding the content, activities, and outcomes of the Show until the official airing date. Disclosure of behind-the-scenes information before this time is strictly prohibited. 5. Electronics and Communication 5a. Personal cell phones and electronic devices are strictly prohibited during filming. Devices must be securely stored and may only be used outside of filming hours. Violation of this rule may result in confiscation of the device. 5b. A communal television and house phone will be provided for public use in the dormitory area. 6. Scripted Interactions 6a. Participants Scaramouche Shogun and Yn Ln are required to portray a fictional romantic relationship as scripted by the Show's producers. This may involve physical contact and specific dialogue as outlined in the provided script. 7. Dispute Resolution Any disputes or disagreements arising from this contract or during the filming of the Show will be resolved through mediation, arbitration, or another mutually agreed upon method. 8. Schedule and Production Details a. A tentative filming schedule will be provided to participants outlining key activities and events. Participants are expected to adhere to the schedule as directed by the production team. Please review and sign below to indicate your acceptance of these terms. Participant Name: ________ Date: Representative Name: ________ Date: 

You signed away your fate, sighing dejectedly. 

“Why are you standing like that?”

You scoffed, suddenly self conscious about your body.

“This looks natural, shut up.”

You had found Scara waiting for you in the lobby but once he caught sight of you he started walking ahead, leaving you behind as he started scouting outside for a good photo spot. He didn’t waste any time in ordering you around, and maybe it was the events of the day and how late it was at night, but you found yourself complying.

“You’re supposed to look like you’re having fun,” he berates.

“As if you’d know what that looks like, you rarely even smile,” you say back from where he had you stand by a tree.

“I do, just not around you.”

You roll your eyes as you sit on a bench you guys stumbled upon. It was late into the night and you both were wandering the streets your dorms were located on, but since you guys were isolated due to being idols there weren’t many places to hang out let alone fake a photoshoot.

“You’re helpless,” he mumbles, stepping forward and grabbing your legs to swing your body to the side of the bench so you’re laying down.

“Hey–!”

He joins you and sits on the other side of the bench, grimacing as he places your legs onto his lap.

“Take a photo,” he instructs.

“This is weird,” you say, not enjoying how Scara oddly had a keen eye for posing couple photos. You comply and take a few, showing Scara who immediately deleted them. After doing that for almost five minutes he was finally satisfied and pushed your legs off of him.

“Post it, now we’re done,” he says, getting up and walking back to the dorms.

“Wait up,” you huff, walking one pace behind him. You weren’t about to walk alone at night, even if your only other option was tailing Scaramouche.

He didn’t say another word until you guys reached your dorm buildings. Before he turned to head back he spared you a look.

“Let’s just get this fucking show over with.”

For once, you didn’t disagree.

stuck with you!

masterlist — prev | next

changed the update account pfps so it’s easier to see xx

did i eat that contract up or what guys

asking again pls comment on the masterlist if i can use ur username and make u a fan in the au!

synopsis — after the disaster that was the live award show, where you and scaramouche got into an argument on stage after both of your groups got a tie for top artists, your guys' PR teams have been in shambles trying to scrape up your mess. that's when the idea to send you both off with some other idols to a remote location for a survival dating show to mend your public image comes up. before you know it your bags are packed and you’re on a plane to a remote island. the only obligation is you need to end up with scaramouche at the end of the show, whether you end up liking him or not doesn’t matter to your managers as long as the show’s ratings stay high. whatever you do in between to get there is up to you!

notes — sorry gang i was rlly sick last week and cudnt write el oh el so enjoy this long chapter

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[murdknux]

big congrats to rdr fandom for having some of the worse moral posturing around shipping i’ve ever seen. like congrats for shipping the canon hetero pairings and your 1 or 2 allocated gay fanon pairings. also congrats for inventing the word “psuedoincest” to scare the crows off any pairings you deem unacceptable.

like i’m sorry, but the van der linde gang are not a family and if you believe that, dutch has manipulated you too. dutch uses the family framework to keep those he manipulates loyal. hosea and dutch are not the “mum and dad”, that’s fanon characterisation. arthur and john are not the sons or brothers, they were both boys groomed by dutch into a lonely and selfish life, robbing and stealing. and though they are close and brotherLIKE, they are not brothers.

another newsflash- you can have messy romantic feelings with a friend that is so close you consider them a sibling. it’s not wholesome, it’s a bit weird and intense. but that’s kind of the point. that’s why people ship it. we’re not getting off on incestuous dynamics because the incest is not in the room w us rn. idk how to make it any clearer.

it just upsets me to see a lot of good rdr artists getting smeared on twitter by fans who think they’re a better person for not touching the morally dubious pairings. personally, it makes sense for me that this group of outlaws in the 1890s, who’ve lived so close to each other, would have intimate relationships. they’re not a cute family living out in the country, they’re a group of criminals who’ve done a lot worse than fuck a guy that they’ve grown up with. it’s so odd to imprint 2024 shipping morality politics onto a bunch of cowboys from 200 years ago. i guarantee your not winning any awards for playing it safe in fandom.

[roosterbruiser]

If it's not too early to request for the sleepover.... this prompt with Jake “next time we get into an argument, i’m reminding you that i took your virginity.” 🥰

it's just how you and Jake operate. you get into little tizzies--about everything, about nothing, about dinner, about the weather, about driving, about the dog, about the overhead light in the living room.

they're no big deal--not really. usually the two of you are grinning in exasperation, rolling your eyes playfully, blowing raspberries in jest when the other gets the upper-hand. there's never any yelling, never any true anger. just a slight back-and-forth, one accompanied by little pinches of the thigh and light nudges.

it's rare that any quarrel lasts more than a few minutes--which is why you're so frustrated right now.

"you're not listening," you accuse Jake, dragging your hand down your face.

the sun is beating down relentlessly, your hair hot to the touch and your shoulders beginning to darken.

Jake, standing beside you with his comically over-packed hiking backpack, throws his arms up in an exaggerated shrug.

"yeah, 'cause I don't listen to people when they're wrong," he says, squinting at you beneath his aviators. he gestures to the sign before you again. "it says the Peacock Trail is west. baby, I navigate for a living! don't you think I know my cardinals?"

groaning, you fidget with the rolled band of your biker shorts and then widen your eyes at him.

"yes, but--!"

"--no but's! just listen to the fighter pilot," Jake exclaims, glancing at you from the top of his aviators. he gives you an award-winning grin. one that makes you really, really steam. "and everything else will be gravy, baby."

stamping your foot into the dust, you sigh.

"we don't want to go on the Peacock Trail," you say shrilly. you point to the correct trail--the one you read extensively about the night before like you always do--and then glance at him. "we want to go on the Patriot Trail!"

Jake debates this for a moment, following your finger. and with an internal sigh but no outward change in his appearance, he realizes that you're right. shit. he hates it when that happens.

and here he is, standing in his athletic clothes and his over-stuffed backpack and his new tennis shoes, thinking he's hot shit. he glances at you--you haven't broken your dubious gaze from him.

even though he really hates not being right--like really, really hates not being right--he hates to truly exasperate you even more. besides, it's a beautiful day. a rare Saturday off paired with a blue sky and new hiking shoes and, best of all, you. everything else is just dust, he decides.

just as he's about to admit that he's wrong, just as he's about to tuck his tail between his legs, you grin at him.

"ha! you're wrong! you know you're wrong," you laugh, shaking your head at Jake as he stares back at you with his jaw slack. "trying to I'm a fighter-pilot me like that's ever worked."

"but I was just about to--!"

"--no but's! just listen to the fighter pilot's girlfriend and everything else will be gravy, baby," you say sweetly--and mockingly--before leaning up to peck his shocked lips.

you start for the trail--the correct trail--and Jake watches from a few paces behind. he's stunned, really. no one has ever returned his words so quickly, so fiercely before. Jesus.

but then you turn, squinting beneath the yellow sun, and give him a grin.

"c'mon, flyboy! time's a-wasting!"

flyboy. he hates that term.

"you know," Jake starts, finally moving his feet. "next time we argue, I'm so going to remind you that I took your virginity."

with a gasp, you halt and turn to him. there's that award-winning grin again.

"you wouldn't dare," you say quietly.

"oh, I would," he says, nodding emphatically. "I really, really would."

[hannie-dul-set]

AN UNLIKELY FANMEETING.

p — LEE JENO x female! reader. g — gang leader! jeno, actress! reader, humor, tension tension tension, jeno gets kidnapped by his celebrity crush, this is stupid, this is dumb, don't take this seriously. w — swearing, kidnapping, morally dubious characters HAHHAHA. 935 words.

note — happy birthday jeno. to the anon that sent the trope list curated for me, this is your fault. take responsibility. the prompt "accidentally kidnapping a mafia boss" suddenly terrorized my brain while i was studying. enjoy.

when lee jeno opens his eyes, a dull ringing in his ears, he sees nothing but the faint impression of a lightbulb burning through the sack covering his head. it’s dark. there’s an echo when he grunts and tries to move, but upon feeling the rope pressed against his wrists, the stiffness of his shoulders and the metal scratching of the chair against the rough ground— he’s quick to understand the situation he’s in.

the last thing he remembers, he was about to board a plane to japan. to spend a few months lying low after the particularly risky job his gang had to undertake not too long ago.

seems like someone managed to sniff him out before he could flee.

splash!

“wake up, you slimy son of a bitch.”

cold water hits, seeping into the fabric covering his face and crawling down to his collarbones. now, considering his line of work, jeno isn’t too fazed by this situation. he has a lot of enemies. maybe this one’s from a rival gang. could be a relative seeking revenge for a brother’s cracked skull, or some shit. doesn’t matter. he’s not gonna stay sitting for long anyway.

“did you really think you could cheat on me and run away scot free?”  

cheat? the sack gets thrown off from his head, a hand yanking a handful of his hair to pull his head back and he lets out a grunt. the chair is tipped back. jesus fucking christ, that felt personal. but when the sudden illumination stops blinding him, and he can finally see who the hell had the guts to jump and kidnap him, he’s a little taken aback.

jeno has a lot of enemies. the list goes on and on.

“use your fucking mouth, bast—”

but he’s pretty sure that the darling angel of south korea’s film industry isn’t on that list.

jeno watches as the vivid scorn and disgust in your eyes slowly meld into confusion, then realization, then a slow but sure descent into panic alongside the loosening of your grip.

“oh.”

must be the skills of an award winning actress. he feels almost a hint of disappointment when you stop pulling on the roots of his damp hair.

“oh, shit. one moment.”

clang! the chair he’s tied to settles once more into the ground with a clatter, and jeno watches as you quickly secure a distance between you and him, pulling your phone out of your sweats while biting the tips of your thumbnail. it’s a little funny seeing the nation’s sweetheart pacing back and forth all jittery in what looks like a basement— maybe your basement. as far as jeno can remember, you’re always casted for romance films. those feel-good, slice of lives and the pocari sweat commercial you once did echoes in the back of his head. but maybe you have a hidden knack for some thriller.

he starts fiddling with the ropes tied around his wrists right at the moment you screech into your phone. dispatch would have a field day if they see this.

“you got the wrong guy! my ex isn’t this hot!”

his fingers slip. his skin scratches the rough threads of the rope.

“i paid you useless fucks a shit ton of money to get the job done, but you can’t even get— ugh! nevermind. just go and bring me the actual son of a bitch i asked for this time.”

the knot is almost loose. this is quite the show. it’s better than all the movies he’s seen of you.

“what?! hello?! what do you mean you can’t help me anymore, what about our—”

drop. jeno gets up from the chair. he stretches his joints, neck cracking, watching as you sputter out a trove of profanities at your phone. his clothes are still damp from the water you splashed him earlier. maybe he should have a bit of fun first before leaving. it’s not everyday that you get to meet your celebrity crush.

“hey, dollface,” he calls out. you freeze. you look at him with the drop of a needle, eyes growing a little bit wider when you realize he should be sitting down. damn, they really need to cast you in a grittier film. “you should pay a bit more attention when you have someone hostage.”

a beat of silence. 

“uhm,” your voice croaks. jeno takes a step towards you. you take a step back. “listen, haha, there has been a misunderstanding.”

your steps stutter a little, moving back and back and you swallow nervously, looking at him with almost sheepishly— a sense of feigned bravery in the midst of retreat, teeth tugging on the skin of your lips. “oh, yeah?” he says, and you visibly rattle. you’re prettier like this than when you’re batting your eyes and flirting at the camera. you’re definitely prettier.

“yes, ahaha, there was a minor switch-up, you see i— i didn’t mean to...uh, escort you from the airport, i actually meant to target someone else, and— o–oh, and there’s a wall behind me. oops, haha. do you mind backing away a bit, um—”

“how about i help you with the ex boyfriend problem you have?”

the tables turn. it’s him digging his face up against yours this time, but the mention of your ex strikes a chord. you’re looking at him, gaze unbreaking. he can feel your shallow breaths on his skin.

“who are you exactly?”

“someone who can do the job better that the fuckers you sent me, definitely,” he chuckles. “how about it?”

he won’t ask for much. maybe just an autograph in return.

AN UNLIKELY FANMEETING. © hannie-dul-set, 2023.

[voluptuarian]

another thing that's weird about adults who make an identity out of reading children's books is what they hold up as representative of the values they find in YA/young reader's fiction. They typically bring up wish fulfillment fantasy, morals and clear cut lessons, adventure stories with mild peril, strong centering on friendship and found family, and stories that make them "feel good" and are extremely light on genuinely challenging themes or ethically dubious situations.

Meanwhile when I was neck-deep in YA as a kid in the 90s and early 2000s this was the kind of stuff I was reading, other kids were reading, and that was winning awards, being highlighted on shelves and recommended by librarians:

Hatchet by Gary Paulsen, in which a teenage boy survives a plane crash and is stranded in the Canadian wilderness and forced to survive on his own for months. He is ultimately rescued but is permanently altered by the experience. His navigating the drama of (I believe either currently separating or recently divorced) parents is also a major plot element.

Virtual War by Gloria Skurzynski, where real-life wars have been eradicated and instead are fought virtually, (inspired, if I remember correctly, by the disastrous results of a previous nuclear conflict) by specially chosen champions who are trained in combat strategy from childhood. Throughout, the three child champions are forced to question and push back against what the government has told them is the truth as well as against their own prejudices, including toward one of their own who is considered a "mutant" due to his dwarfism; it also details the grueling hours-long "war" in which the kids watch thousands of little 3D soldiers get blown up and dismembered and leaves them feeling genuine guilt for participating in.

Julie of the Wolves by Jean Craighead George, which focuses on a teenage Inuit girl who is orphaned, forced into marriage and sexually assaulted, then runs away and ends up lost in the Arctic and survives by befriending and living with a pack of wolves.

Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse, in which the heroine lives with her parents on a failing farm as the Dust Bowl is beginning, accidentally sets her pregnant mother on fire resulting in her mother's lingering death and the death of her baby, and the girl herself being permanently maimed, after which she and her father become estranged and she eventually tries to run away.

Summer of My German Soldier by Bette Greene, which follows a young Jewish American girl on the WWII homefront who befriends (and falls in love with) a German POW, and when he escapes, hides him in her home for months; eventually the prisoner is caught and killed and the girl is sent to prison after being ostracized from the community and disowned by her parents.

The Ramsey Scallop by Francis Temple, where the heroine, engaged since childhood to her current fiance, is sent on a pilgrimage with him as way of working out his trauma from serving in the crusades. Neither of them feels ready to get married and the fiance is dubious about doing much living at all, but they're able to get to know each other and build trust on the road. It's been ages since I read it but I'm pretty sure there's a scene where a hot single guy who helps patch up an injury she sustained then offers to have sex with her, which she decides to turn down.

Music of the Dolphins by Karen Hesse, where a feral child who has been raised by a pod of dolphins is rescued and taken to a center for rehabilitation. The whole thing follows her progress at understanding to how to be human, and eventually her decision to reject it all and go back to her dolphin family.

The Last Book In the Universe by Rodman Philbrick, whose hero is a teenage orphan living in a purposely abandoned dystopia, ostracized by his community for being epileptic, whose only friends are an old man who is the last literate person in the community and a monosyllabic feral child. The split between the have-nots and the haves, who live in sheltered futuristic cities, and discussion of privilege (one of the main characters is a girl from the cities who comes out to do charity work in the dystopian district) are major themes, and violence is a regular occurrence, including toward the finale when the boy's mentor is murdered by a mob while he watches.

(And of course there's Among the Hidden and its sequels by Margaret Peterson Haddix which I never read, but my sister did, and I know at some point a whole bunch of child characters are massacred by the government because it upset my sister so badly she cried.)

And I couldn't forget The Dear America series, which includes:

character who is finishing high school as the Vietnam War begins and watches her social circle split nastily over the issue, lives through classmates and friends getting drafted, and ends up working at a hospital as volunteer where she is assigned to help disabled veterans

character whose mother (and I think siblings), as well as numerous fellow travelers die while traveling alongside her on the Oregon Trail, and later accidentally poisons to death several of her friends after picking a look-alike plant for their dinner; only one survives, who she eventually marries

character who is kidnapped by a local native tribe and eventually adopted, then marries a fellow captive, only for him and other friends and family to be killed when the tribe is attacked by Europeans, putting her into a total crisis of identity and conflicting loyalties

character who is taken from her tribe to be put in residential school, during which she is forcefully acculturated, severely bullied by another classmate, and a childhood friend of hers is accidentally buried alive

multiple books about immigrants in the 1800 and 1900s which highlighted struggles with poverty, cultural pressures, and prejudice; one of them follows a pro-union factory worker who watches as multiple friends die in the Triangle Shirtwaist fire, and another whose father imports her to America at 13 to marry a coal miner

most of these stories emphasize the young protagonist ending up in situations were they are either on their own, or so alienated from the adults around them that they might as well be. The protagonists have to assume the adult duty of taking care of themselves, but also of thinking for themselves and making their own decisions and judgements about their lives and the world.

they are also going through big changes, often ones created by their parent's decisions, and which they frequently dislike or are straight up Bad for them. This contrasts with later, when the protagonists are able to make decisions for themselves-- often this comes through hardship and abandonment, but ultimately allows them to control their narrative going forward.

the setting and events are often harrowing, deeply unpleasant, and put the protagonist and their friends in danger of victimization by forces around them. Obviously this is exciting for kids to read, but it also allows them to see someone their age on their own, entering into Adult situations and taking on that role. It's also a break from the overtly positive or cartoonishly (but usually un-seriously) bad circumstances that dominate younger kids fiction and an introduction to the idea that life is just terrible most of the time, sometimes massively and unbelievably so. (It's going from the early childhood story of Madeline's thrilling adventures escaping forced labor in a factory, to the older kid's or YA story of seeing the protagonist work at one day after day, getting injured, having friends get sick, and then watching a girl's scalp get ripped off by the machine, something which creates not excitement but genuine horror and sympathy.) These plots also allow adolescents a chance to experience Big Emotions (like the ones they're about to fall head-first into themselves) in a stable, safe way. All of this aims to create a bridge from the juvenile reality to the genuine, adult one. Trite moral lessons are dispensed with in favor of allowing the child to go out and start thinking for themselves. And especially in stories like the Dear America books, it allows a look at things that happened in the past that we have, or should learn from, but also allows for a fuller emotional, ethical, and empathetic development.

often the introduction of sex is part of the story, from initial experiences of attraction (and the resulting self-consciousness, jealousy, etc.) but also sometimes actual sexual experience. Especially in the historical stories, marriage is also frequently part of the story-- either again, as a fantasy introduction to adult experiences, or as a realistic detail separating a child's historical experience from current ones and creating a better understanding of the hardships historical people went through.

and most include some form of rejection of prevailing authority and thought. Instead of blindly "doing what your parents tell you to" these protagonists must do what they think is practical or ethical. The boy in Hatchet cannot wait for an authority figure to guide him, he must figure out how to survive entirely on his own, while the kids in Virtual War are old enough to begin questioning the entire structure they've been raised in, and to develop empathy for figures that structure has deemed outsiders; the heroine of Music of the Dolphins decides the entire experience of being in human society is not for her, and returns to living with animals.

So these books offer harrowing circumstances, protagonists who are isolated literally or through moral or political alignment, and who must learn to live on their own and make decisions for themselves, often in defiance of prevailing attitudes. They usually emphasize finding one's place (even if that place is completely alone and unsupported), fostering understanding and sympathy with others, even with people who are considered "undesirable," who are different, or who have behaved badly to you in the past. And they frequently involve violence, budding sexuality, exploitation and abuse by authority figures/structures, and a heaping helping of death, including the deaths of beloved friends and family members. What is "feel good" and "unchallenging" about that? And like, I can't speak for what YA is bringing to the table now, but these people are overwhelmingly adults, they were reading YA at around the same time I was, I don't think it would be possible for them to have somehow missed the plethora of books with these hallmarks. So where did they get this idea that YA is some land of comfort where no complicated idea can ever reach you? Even Harry Potter is full of them, and we know they read that!

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Secrets behind the curtain. // Actor!Aemond Targaryen x Manager!Reader || MODERN AU

Summary: Aemond takes out his frustration of losing an award on you.

WARNINGS: mdni, dubious consent, p in v sex, unprotected sex, tiddy sucking, degradation, dacryphilia, car (it's a limousine) sex, slightly dark!aemond, riding, messy sex, power imbalance, rigged award show, + not proofread, please lemme know if I missed any.

WC: 1.7K

A/N: I cooked this while trynna complete my other wips like bro 😭 adhd be like 😋 also this isn't dark enough to be tagged under mae:dark!content but it does contain dubious consent (reader is implied to find the situation inappropriate to fuck) so yeah, a heads up // divider creds: @cafekitsune

“And the best actor award goes to…” The host trails off, leaving room for suspense and Aemond leans back relaxed on his chair, knowing that he would be winning.

“Jason Lannister!”

As the host announces the name, your blood runs cold, you notice Aemond twitch slightly in his seat, he shoots you a glare and you look down at your feet.

Aemond watches in anger as Jason goes up the stage and collects the award, “That asshole isn't even that good at acting.” He scoffs and you swallow, “Aemond, the cameras.” you whisper and he rolls his eyes, putting on a fake expression of a smile, as though he's happy that Jason won, but you know the truth.

After this award, a small break was given to artists to freshen up, redo their makeup, or relieve themselves, but for Aemond that wasn't the case, “We're leaving.” He tells you and you look at him in shock, “But- the award show hasn't ended yet? If we live now, the press might notice and create articles on how you left right after you lost.” You reason, trying to catch up to Aemond as he was making his way through the alleyway, reaching his limousine which was parked behind the building, he checked the area for any press before he turned to face you.

“And whose fault was that? You brought me here, saying that I would win, look what happened now.” He grabs you by your cheeks roughly and you swallow thickly, “You were supposed to win! The judges evaluated that your performance was better but the Lannisters might've played foul.” You tried to reason but he scoffs, making his way over to the limousine and getting in.

“Where the fuck is the driver?” He asks you, when he sees you getting inside along with him, and you shrug, “He probably went to take a break– but Aemond please, your image will be ruined if you leave now.” You beg, yet he remains quiet and sits down, you shut the door behind you and sit down as well, awkward silence filling up the air.

There was no convincing Aemond once he made up his mind, so you dialled the drivers number but he didn't pick up, and you took this as a sign to persuade Aemond one last time, as if he'll suddenly change his mind even though he refused multiple times.

“Aemond, the press will write about how you were upset that you didn't win and left right after, besides that isn't the only award you are nominated for, you are also nominated for best character in the series, which will take place after this break.” You tell him calmly and he scoffs, “Yeah, just so i can lose that award too right?” He glares at you, and you shut up.

You sigh to yourself, knowing that you'd have to be the one dealing with damage control, Otto and Alicent would not be pleased, considering how Aemond had already once gotten into a controversy for taunting his nephews at an award show, questioning their birth indirectly.

You are about to dial the driver's number once again before your phone is yanked off from your grip, your hand is then grabbed and you stumble forward into Aemond arms.

He wastes no time in unbuttoning your shirt revealing your bra, he untucks your shirt and pulls it off you, throwing it on the ground and then begins mouthing at your breast, and kissing on your neck.

“Aemond— we can't right now—” You try to protest but he interrupts you, “Shut the fuck up.” He grits his teeth and you immediately obey.

He pushes you down onto the seat and pulls your pants off, leaving you in nothing but your underwear and feeling vulnerable.

You open your mouth to protest again but he slams his lips against you, leaving you unable to speak. The kiss is aggressive, hungry and anger filled, he bites your lip enough to make it painful but not to draw blood, and you whine into the kiss. His hands roam up your body and he finds your breasts, squeezing them tightly and mostly aggressively.

He pulls away and begins to undo his own pants, unbuckling belt and pulling his pants and boxers down, revealing his hard and leaking cock, he unbuttons his shirt slightly, feeling hot.

Your panties are pulled off in an instant and thrown to where the rest of your clothes are, same with your bra, you grip the edge of slim seats to not fall off when he grabs your legs and spreads them wide, before leaning forward and causing your knees to push up against your chest.

He spits on your cunt, his hands now holding the underside of your knees, he lets one of them in order to line his cock up against your entrance before going back to the underside of your knees again.

You gasp when his cock stretches your walls, throwing your head back in pleasure, Aemond doesn't waste any moment and begins to ram harshly into your cunt and you bite your lip to prevent noises from coming out.

“Fucking slut, look at how wet you've become.” He says harshly, his hips thrusting in and out at a fast pace, he grabs your arms and pins them upwards, “'Foul play' you say? It doesn't matter how much money they've spent, you should've spent more.” He grits his teeth, still remembering your words from earlier. “B-but that wouldn't be fair–” You are cut off with a light slap to your cheek, before he grips it tightly, “Fair? Who cares about fairness? Look what happened now.” He spits in your mouth.

You swallow, knowing you have no choice, a small smirk forms on his lips at what you've done, likely satisfied with your behaviour.

But soon he remembers that this situation didn't occur because he simply wanted to fuck his favourite woman like all the other times, no, he was mad at you.

“You're so fucking useless, do you know that?” He asks and you sniff, staying silent.

“Useless whore, you couldn't even make me win the award, the only thing you're good for is being a cocksleeve and a cunt to dump my cum into.” He degrades you and you can feel the tears begin to form in your eyes at his words.

Yet he finds joy in those tears.

“You're crying now? Imagine how I felt when I lost the award huh? How embarrassing was it for me? Especially to that fucking Jason Lannister.” His thrusts become even more brutal.

Your body jolts up and down the seat at the impact, but you still remain silent, the only noises that leave your mouth being whines and moans.

“You're fired.”

Your eyes shoot wide open at those words and you begin to shake, “No- no, please!” You beg and he chuckles, “Desperate to keep this job that much huh? Why? Is it because of my cock?” He asks and you shake your head no, “Please–” You beg and he seems to be in thought.

He suddenly pulls you up, changing positions.

He is now sitting straight with you straddling him, your arms gripping his shoulders for balance.

“Do you really want to keep this job?” He asks and you nod eagerly, “Well, you know what to do.” He says and you nod.

You raise your hips slightly before going down again, you set a decent pace and begin riding him, you bounce up and down on his cock, gripping his shoulders tight, whilst he grips your hips.

“You're so fucking pretty like this.” He mutters, pressing kisses on your breasts before pulling your nipple into his mouth, your pace falters slightly, yet his mouth remains on your breast, suckling on the nipple, twirling his tongue around the bud, and groaning in pleasure.

He leaves your breast with a wet pop before giving the other one the same attention, “I love these tits so much, I can only imagine how delicious it would be if they swell up with milk.” He sighs, rubbing his face in between them and placing a kiss on your sternum.

You begin picking up the pace again, slightly leaning forward which makes the tip of his cock hit the sweet spot, making you let out a moan, you feel his grip tighten on your hips, and soon starts to thrust upwards, matching your pace.

“Fuck Aem– I'm so close.” You close your eyes, “I know baby, me too.” He kisses your neck, and due to the repeated hits at your sweet spot, you finish with a loud moan and immediately fall limp at the impact, your breathing uneven as you rest your cheek on his shoulder.

He thrusts a few more times before he comes too with a grunt, painting your walls white with his seed. You both stay like that for a moment until you break the silence with a question, “Are you actually gonna fire me?” You question and he chuckles, “And miss out having the best fucking company ready 24/7 for me? No. I'm no such fool.” He answers.

Suddenly your phone begins to ring, you get off him and pick the call up and Aemond watches you to do so.

You gasp when the other person reveals the news to you, and you turn to look at Aemond, who looks at you with furrowed eyebrows, and you end the conversation with the other person, cutting the call.

“The award show is cancelled, apparently the Lannisters have been exposed for the foul play they had done.” you tell him, and his face immediately becomes bright with a smile on his face, and soon it is replaced with a smirk as he watches you put your clothes on.

“You better prepare yourself for a round two at my house.” He tells you and quickly pulls his pants up, before you can say anything, the door opens

“Sorry madam, I wasn't able to pick up the call, my phone died when I tried to.” The driver apologises and gets into the vehicle, seating himself on the driver's seat and quickly starts the limousine, and you sit down next to Aemond, who rests his hand on your thigh, causing goosebumps to rise as you oddly anticipate what's about to come.

The ride home felt like an eternity.

— !  ݈݇- thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed it <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated greatly ♡

[cillivnz]

Hi 👋 I see you write for Lord Dimitrescu (miss a spot, hit the spot was brilliant and I would devour more) and I saw that you are taking requests, what do you think about monster hunter!reader x Lord Dimitrescu? You can take this in whichever direction you like best, but I do have a prompt idea!

Lord Dimitrescu and his sons find a trespasser on their land and Dimitrescu takes her in as his guest/prisoner thinking that she is a clueless lost traveler, not knowing that she's a hunter willing to get close to him by any means necessary, even if it means seducing a monster. Gaining access to his infamous library full of books on how to kill every monster known to man is just the first step, what she really wants is to find out the family's weaknesses and get lord Dimitrescu to let his guard down enough for her to kill him and every last member of his twisted family. Or at least that was the plan...

I just love villain gets the girl/ corruption stories and the idea of someone rolling up into that castle with every intention of wiping out the evil that lives there, but getting seduced instead... 😍😍😍

Love your work!!!

façade of seduction [lord dimitrescu]

PAIRING — LORD DIMITRESCU x MONSTER HUNTER!READER

WORD COUNT — 12.6k+ (i’m so sorry, it’s for the plot!)

WARNINGS — SMUT. eighteen+. AFAB!reader, dark arts, necromancy, the supernatural, mentions of murders, beheadings, cannibalism, vampirism, extremely dubious consent, cursing, extreme gore (blood, cuts, stabbing, mass murder, executions, etc.), reader uses seduction as a tactic, death of family, size kink, age-gap, degradation, pet-names, mentions as well as performed oral sex (talk of male!receiving, performed cunnilingus), fingering, female masturbation, mentions of male masturbation, unprotected penetrative sex, weird & unspecific AU, creampie, cum-eating, breast/nipple play, clit stimulation, extreme descriptions (?), kinda sorta brat-taming.

A/N — whoa, baby! she’s done! firstly, let me just shower this anon with kisses for trusting me such an amazing prompt! thank you, you beautiful soul. i had a blast writing this, and i’m sorry i couldn’t finish it sooner :’( you’re a literal genius, i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this, and thank you for the kind words! secondly,

i tried incorporating as much lore from the game as i could, majority of the plot is my own fictional work, and the rest [credited to the game] may have been tampered with to suit the plot of this fiction.

Lady Elvira Natalia Stoica is an original character — INCLUSIVE OF ETHNICITY, RACE, COLOUR, BODY TYPE, etc. the only definite characteristic she has is that she is reader’s doppelgänger with an identical appearance, and that her family is of the same origin as The Dimitrescus (Romanian).

Alcina Dimitrescu’s gender-bent version is named Alcides Dimitrescu in my fiction. the credit of his sons’ names goes to @angel-hawthorne ’s comment under this post.

there’s some deliberate references to my other Lord Dimitrescu fiction. read it HERE!

NOTES [excuse inaccurate translations]

"Idiotilor! Așa ne tratezi oaspetele?" : You idiots! Is this how you treat our guest?

"Oaspete? Dar ea—" : Guest? But she—

"Scuzați-vă." : Excuse yourselves.

căprița mea mică : my little doe

cameristă : maid

Pentru dumnezeu! : good god/for god’s sake!

𝓗unters.

Your father before you, and his before him. Monsters, demons, deities; anything of supernatural order, possessing paranormal traits needed to be laid down, and your family was bestowed with the responsibility to do so. They told you, you were god-gifted; possessing an astounding memory. It was as if you soaked in every word you read in journals rich in paranormal history, and carved every word into your brain with your own hand.

Those ungodly creatures fumed at the audacity of a mortal family killing the abysmal aristocracies in the name of slaughtering abominations.

How proudly you awarded yourselves the title of Vânători de urâciuni — Hunters of Abominations. Soon enough, though, the leaders of the Four Houses knew a lesson needed be taught, example be set; actions have consequences, and after all, you were mere mortals. Audacious, dangerous mortals.

The last of the Four Houses needed to be hunted down. Your father, your uncle, your brother managed to wipe out the other key members, before it was about time the reaper caught up to them. Weeks, months went by in weeping for them, never letting their caskets dry, but it was about time you stopped mourning. This isn't what you were raised to do — whom you were raised to be. There was no way in hell you'd let the last Family standing think that the danger was over, not when you found out that it was on their cue, their command, that the guillotine that slashed through your family's head held high, became the inevitable demise of the men of Vânători de urâciuni.

'Fuckers even had the audacity to send the heads back, all nice and packaged, and signed. It was then, you realised, the weight of your name's responsibility lies on your shoulders, now. Mother was too deep in the waters of depression, perhaps, vengeance would serve as her lifeguard, and you sought to get it. For her sake, and yours.

Packing the the remnant of your belongings, primarily, lore on whatever mutation resembled that of what you've heard the family to be; barbaric, and vampiric, you set voyage to Castle Dimitrescu, the Lord's stronghold within the vicinity of a titular Eastern European village; Romania, in other geographical terms.

After weeks on foot, travelling from place to place and squeezing in some good o'l slash-and-dash of monsters into your quest, you reached the abysmal castle. The oppressive aura surrounding The Dimitrescus' colossal abode could be felt miles away from its actual foundations, the monotonous venus blue atmosphere, the trees that have been decayed for decades, peering into your periphery, mortifying the sight of Castle Dimitrescu, even more. You shake off a shiver, determined strides leading you forward. An ominous forest welcomed you, seemingly, the flora responded to every step you took on the onyx soil; you were not too far from the gigantic gates of the castle, deciding to take a breather and assess just what you were dragging yourself into, the massive mountainous foliage providing a safe haven, temporarily.

Rummaging through the contents, page after page, you landed on Wendigo. You knew your ancestors categorised mutations in the same category as a Wendigo, it being the severest form of inhumanity; the mutated man would resort to cannibalism, still humanoid — tall and pale with elongated limbs and pale yellow eyes. If the Dimitrescus were anything like a typical mutated Wendigo, you hadn't thought this through. Then, you remembered your brother's journal.

He was vague with words, often scribbling up a précise at the end of a hunt. Too consumed by your tears, you initially forgot about it, until you realised halfway through your voyage that your mother packed his journal for you, and some documentations recorded by your father and your uncle in their youth, though, you highly doubted you'd be coming across an extinct creature.

There it was — the last page of his journal — the twenty-seventh page to be precise, with triple the pages still empty; clean slates like a reminder of his unlived life, the life that was taken away from him.

You smiled fondly at his handwriting, letting your fingertips trace the scribbles, how deeply the quill was engraved into the paper. You remember laughing at his handwriting, growing up, how your mother would ask him to get a doctorate to match his stereotypical physician's handwriting, but this is all he knew — all you knew. Hunting was your profession, your life and lifestyle, and now, inevitably, your demise, too. You began reading, as I said, your older brother, a master at scribbling précise.

You were unsure, however, when he'd got the time to write down about The Dimitrescus, having never come face-to-face with the tyrants. It seemed your brother's first guess, too, was 'Wendigo', which he scratched down, only to pen it down again, bigger and emphasised, once he enlisted 'Cannibalisme'.

Your heart sank at the etchings.

Even for someone like him, these were too cynical, like he were losing his mind at the mere thought of them: 'one LORD — THREE SONS', it read. 'Blood disease??', 'PARASITE??', 'VAMPIRISM'? That would mean— "Oh." You stood corrected when just below the analysis was a remark, "NO WEAKNESS TO SUN OR WEATHER". Sometimes you swore you and him had the same braincells, always jumping to the same conclusions, which only made the desire to avenge him overpowering.

Your eyes traveled to the end of the page, the last of ink spilled on the worn out pages of your brother's journal, 'NEOPAGAN CULT', 'BLACK GOD'. With widened eyes, and a sinister feeling you couldn't yet shake away, your eyes dart to the next, last page.

There was a symbol maniacally delineated, labelled as the same reports on the previous page. 'NEOPAGAN CULT SYMBOL', and at the bottom of the page, the last thing your brother ever did write was, 'THE CULT OF THE BLACK GOD'. You subconsciously traced the diagram, only to see the graphite taint your fingertips. Your mind was racing two hundred miles per hour, trying to put the pieces of a fatally intricate puzzle together. Your brother's journal, the last of the contents were mere observations, unlike the rest of the pages that are filled with methods of executing generations of monsters.

But for The Dimitrescus, the fact that 'most powerful family' was written with emphasis only made you scowl. You searched frantically in your bag for the journals of your father, your uncle; anything that spoke more about this parasite and the said Black God.

Glancing back at the foot of the palace, you had to do a double take when you saw the guards leave the premises, bread and wine in hand. Their chuckles could be sound from the heart of the forest, even though they repeatedly 'shushed' one another, saying "the Lord" would put their "heads on a stick".

You take their departure as your cue and pace quietly towards the castle. You stood face to face with the colossal gates, doing your level best to push them open, just enough to sneak in, but the big dumb fuckers wouldn't budge. Scoffing, as fate would have it in your luck, you began scanning the perimeter for any safe way in, otherwise, you sure as hell knew how to make an entry.

"Ain't no fucking way," you'd pretty much lost all hope, not realising when your brother wrote down, "tall", it included the infrastructure, too. It was then your eyes noticed one particular stone brick placed slightly outward, and the one above it, and then the one above it, outward enough for you to step on, up, and grip the grotesque grill, securing the premises from people exactly like you.

The first step up was easy, the stone steady enough to carry you, or so you thought for when the second you stepped onto the next one, the one below fell to the ground, shattering to bits. You eyed the stone your foot was on currently, leaping when realisation hit you. By the time you rock-climbed your ass up to the top, the whole way up had crumbled down. You gripped the gothic grill, not taking the maker of it to be a sadist, for it sliced the flesh of your palm even through the slightest contact. You winced, looking back at the broken rocks, perhaps, a good omen; no one would suspect you climbed up the wall, now.

Crossing the grill, you jumped down as silently as a human could, looking back at your newfound enemy, the grill, only for it to be leaking with crimson. You groaned at the sight of your blood, thinking you were better than this, letting some metal get the best of you, but the immense pain from the cut made your head a little dizzy. Shaking the odd feel off, you proceeded leftward, walking further in to be greeted by what seemed to be a courtyard.

No servants, chamberlain nor staff was seen out and about, quite contrary to what one would expect from the functioning of a castle this mighty. Though the odds were in your favour, it didn't seem so; it's quiet, too quiet. Nothing other than a raven's screech and the flap of the wings of a murder of crows was heard for miles. Your steps had quickened at the sight of a door, finally leading you inside. As you inspected it, you sensed a magical aura around it; you could use a spell to crack it open, but that would cause bring attention you did not need at the moment. So, you pull a pin from your hair and apply the cheapskate thief method, and lo and behold, you were in.

Fuck yeah.

Closing the bulky door as silently behind you as you could, you were slammed right back into it, while what felt to be a talon instead of a hand wrapped around the back of your throat. "Well, well, what do we have here?" Said an anonymous voice, cuing laughter from two more.

Fuck, no.

The last thing you remember was a pair of hands squeezing your waist, one choking you, while one hand ghosted over your face, causing a wave of unconsciousness to pass over you.

Chained; you groaned, a pounding ache ringing in your head like an alarm, your eyes blinked, close to a hundred times to get accustomed to your dark, unfamiliar surroundings, while your nose burned with the stench of— burning bodies?

You lifted your head to see three tall figures illuminated by the feeble attempts of a torch. "Alas, sleeping beauty wakes." You heard one taunt, a raspy baritone to his voice, "No fun — I prefer them unconscious," said another with a similar tone. "Well, you're no fun if you don't like to watch the fear in their eyes when they beg you for their life," said the third. The conversation flowed more amongst themselves, quite rude to not have included the meat of the matter — you, but what more could you expect from The Dimitrescu Boys? Oh, you were sure it was them. 'One lord — three sons', you remembered, and no odds suggested they were servants or guards. Not with the way expensive jewels embellished their stallion necks not-so-subtly, like an all-time reminder of their aristocratic status. 'Pathetic,' you thought, it seems no matter the day or age, the breed of "daddy's money" remains as obnoxious as ever.

While they bickered amongst themselves, you took the time to take in their appearances: Handsome, irrelevant. Tall, but no more than an average case of gigantism in most villages. Yellow eyes, but not humanoid — no, fully, thoroughly (so it seems) human. Could this be another variety? Hybrids, perhaps, since Vampirism was in the books of possibility. That could explain their immunity to weather conditions. Their facial features became vivid all of a sudden, and you noticed the blood smeared all over their faces. Paying heed to your iniquity, perhaps even irked expression, the boys smirked devilishly; not charming, dangerously, Lucifer-ishly, but satanically. You weren't into the lighter side of magic like your mother, only using it grotesquely, but you knew aura-reading, even envisioning, like the back of your hand, and theirs was sinister: an abysmal shade of black surrounding them, with occultism dancing between their physical forms in the fiery colour of hellish hues.

"Tell us, what's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?" One questioned, "Hm, never seen one so beautiful." "Is she even real — ethereal." "Makes me almost not want to eat her." Your eyes widened at the last remark, "Eat her in a different way, I'd definitely." Their shark-like smiles grew wider, subconsciously causing you to back away from them while they inched closer, ready to pounce on you and relish your beauty. "What do you have there, boys?" Asked the deepest voice you'd ever heard, from the other side of what you now realised was the dungeon. You were taken aback at the intrusion, silently thanking your saviour, even if it were the man himself — Lord Alcides Dimitrescu, head of Familia Dimitrescu.

His sons scattered immediately, letting their father rest his eyes upon you. "Food, father," one spoke eagerly, as if trying to impress his old man. "We saw her trespassing in the courtyard, and then she came inside." Spoke the other. "You could have her," said another, "If you save us a taste." Your face lost its colour when a ice-cold hand wrapped itself around your throat, yanking you up with one lift, and throwing you towards the bars between you and the mammoth Lord. His devilish expression— softened? "Elvira!" He exclaimed softly, reaching for your face, but the second his hand tried to snake past the bar, he winced in contact, the metal bar hissing with effervescence. Weakness?

"Idiotilor! Așa ne tratezi oaspetele?" The man was fuming: a flabbergasted expression on the said idiots' faces. "Oaspete? Dar ea—" "She can do as she pleases in my home." The man spat venom like thunder, his hateful expression turned to apologetic and caring in the blink of an eye when he turned to you. "Let her out this very instant." He glared at his sons one last time before turning away and saying, "The longer you wait, the more severe will be the outcomes."

So you were rushed out the dungeon and sent to the guesthouse.

The chamberlain had been waiting for you there at the direct orders of her master. "Lady Stoica, We're truly very sorry for the inconveniences caused to you. The Lord gifts you these gowns as his sincerest apology. He'd love for you to join him for supper once you have freshened up. Step out of your chambers, when you're done, and I'll be happy to take you there." You didn't acknowledge her, only awaited her leave so you could examine the gowns she had motioned towards while babbling courtesies you didn't give a fuck about. It'll definitely take more than four gowns to earn forgiveness for the treatment meted out to you down in the dungeons, but you wanted to give the tyrant lord a little bit of credit, for the gowns were stunning.

As you took in the details of each cloth, you came upon a note, which read: Sweetest Elvira,

Forgive my imbecile progeny, if you think they are worth it, but let us celebrate your presence, still, in my abode. Would you be so kind to accept my invitation for dinner? I have long yearned your company since the last time Lord and Lady Stoica visited.

Hoping to have you with me,

Alcides Dimitrescu.

Your blood boiled at his handwriting. It was the same intricate, royally cursive writing that signed the parcel of your family's heads.

You headed into the bath with murder on your mind; no matter how many times you'd sink into the warm waters, the heat only aggravated your fuming self. It was rosewater, the scent made your mind trail back to days of yore: when your mother would set up baths like this for you, the sweet scent of herbs and nature's warmth filled your hateful mind with nostalgia, then worry. Your mother had the most fight in her, no doubt about that, but that didn't mean she resorted to it easily; always seeing the best in people, giving them countless chances to repent. A generous, godly trait, but fatal in a world dominated by people like the man you were to meet with for dinner— supper, or whatever. You were just glad you weren't being served as the main course.

For now.

As you dried yourself up, your mind replayed the conversations, the characteristics and behaviours of the family. How he called you, 'Elvira'. Yes, Lady Elvira Natalia of Familia Stoica, another noble household your family put an end to. The irony lay in her appearance: the two of you looked alike — no, identical. Perhaps minor attributes set the difference between you two, or the fact that you put a bullet between her eyes — eyes just like yours; it was the reason why the Vânători de urâciuni men hesitated to kill her — sister, daughter, and niece. Not you, never had you hesitated. It's what set you apart in a man's world. If a woman's emotions got the best of her, than lucky for you and unfortunate for the whole world, the only feelings coursing through your mind like the blood in your veins were bloodlust. Blood and Lust, as your mind trailed back to Lord Dimitrescu—

Alcides fuckin' Dimitrescu.

He was tall, so tall, he had to crouch to an uncomfortable extent just to get a proper look at your frame through the dungeon bars. His raven locs and beard: neat as a lord, rugged like a pirate; his sharp nose, his thick, furrowed brows, his luscious lips and those eyes. Those fucking amber eyes, captivating, devouring you like a fox after literal meat. Their hue was as fluorescent as a Wendigo's, then how was he not like one? How is he so devilishly handsome?

Stuck in a limbo, half- hypnotised with hazy memories of the Lord, memories you were yet to make with him, you were left enchanted; like he had cast a spell on yo— "Holy fuck." That's it. It's the only logical reason behind such profound emotions. He had cast a spell on you. It could've easily been the waters, you had bathed in them, let the rose waters soak every inch of your skin. Or worse, his eyes? You had definitely not been that out of it to imagine them glowing in the dark, but if he truly practised necromancy at such a profound level that a mere look in your direction left you enamoured, then you had to come up with a plan, and come up with a plan fucking fast.

Despite your certainty that the only way you'd feel something so unlikely for a man who was responsible for the death of family, was via nécromancies, you still had to be sure. So, you performed an indication ritual. In a vessel, you stored the possible method of enchantment — the bath water — along with the blood of the enchanted. You prick your finger deep enough to get ample beads of crimson out, letting them drop into the vessel. Now, if by dawn, the contents of the vessel turn potently black, your suspicions are true, and the tyrant Alcides, indeed, cast a spell on you, but if it were to remain colourless, than the worst of your concerns has arisen, for you'd have willingly let lust overpower the balance of bloodlust in the weigh of your emotions.

Placing the vessel underneath your bed, you begin dressing. The odds were too ironic not to choose the rose coloured gown for the evening, so you wore it, feeling condemned to. Fixing whatever you deemed necessary, you stepped out of your room to find the chamberlain stationed exactly where she said she'd be.

Her breath hitched a little, eyes widening as she saw you turn towards her, "You look beautiful, Miss Stoica," was her way of seeing 'you clean up pretty nice for a dirty mess in the dungeons', but you paid no heed, letting the woman escort you.

The walk to the Lord's dining area was awkward, and fearful for the servant. There was no denying you resembled the heiress of one of the Seven Royal Families, but you hadn't thought your own victim's identity would play as your decoy in your most fatal mission.

You didn't blame them, you were dumbfounded at the striking resemblance, yourself.

The hair, the skin, the features; it was without a doubt you killed your doppelgänger that day, and though you were never one to follow rituals of lore, it says, 'the slaughtering of one's self' — a doppelgänger — 'is the greatest sign of one's power and control', so it was no wonder since then you had long been feared in every corner of Eastern Europe, but you never earned notoriety, nor make a fuss over the death of The Stoicas, which is why everyone in Castle Dimitrescu believes you to be her, for they think she is what you are; alive.

"We've arrived, madam. If you need me, please don't hesitate to call." She gave you a knowing look, one of empathy? Weird. Interestingly weird. You only nodded, before pushing the glass doors open, and letting yourself in.

Alcides sat with the three of his sons, you'd heard him call them Boian, Cătălin, and Dorin, not knowing which one is which, but you doubt names matter when their death's are destined by your hands. As if sensing you, something you'd mentally categorise among his vampiric characteristics, his head shot up from his sons and immediately those amber eyes were on you, ripping through your dress, eating you alive. His lifeless skin flushed at the sight of you, wet hair clinging to your frame so perfectly, he could smell the shampoo from here. How tightly the dress hugged your curves, how accentuated the rose colour of the gown made your ethereal body. Your plump, pouty lips were rosy like the gown, an even prettier colour, the sudden blush that dared to creep on your face, your determined brows raised a little at the shameless attention you were receiving, your big, radiant doe eyes widening, pupils dilating, and your long lashes batting at his direction.

"Elvira." He rose from his seats, as did his sons, heads snapping right at you to shamelessly ogle at you. On seeing that the look of disgust on your face was directed towards his sons, he shot them a fuming glare, causing them to nod an apology and immediately be seated again.

"Thank you for joining me." He said, softly, awaiting you. You moved closer, deciding to be seated beside the lord, across from his sons. "How have you been, my dear?" His hand found yours, yours minuscule in his clasp. "I had been fine, until certain miscreants accused me of trespassing."

You shot the three culprits a glare, and rightly so. Alcides eyed his sons, clearing his throat obviously when his sons remained oblivious to his cryptic signs.

"We're, uh," began one, "We're sorry, Madam Stoica," continued the other, "We didn't mean for any of that to happen, we just wanted to scare what appeared to be an uninvited guest at the time." "Had we known it was you... well, let's just say your welcome would've been different. Mostly." Finished the last, and your mind immediately caught on to the insinuation:

"Eat her in a different way, I'd definitely."

You could see the man's blood boil beside you, "Scuzați-vă." He growled, and you caught a glimpse of just how much fear he's instilled into his children, for they immediately excused themselves from the table and left with hurried steps.

"Pardon them, I don't know where I went wrong in raising them." He sighed once they were out of sight, rubbing the bridge of his nose. You've never been one to sympathise with an enemy, but maybe sympathy isn't what'll lead to his slaughter; seduction is.

You wordlessly place a hand atop his, earning a soft gasp from him. His eyes searched your face, and when you couldn't help but give him a small smile, he grinned; from ear to ear, letting his pearly fangs rise from their pillowy coverings, his lips, which he soon had to bite to control his giddiness. "Oh, Elvira," his voice was soft, a mere yearn lingering in the warmth of the room. Had it been this hot since you stepped in, or had the flush of your cheeks been indicating otherwise? "You're so beautiful." His other hand tucked the stray strand of hair falling onto your face, behind your ear. You felt a tinge of bitterness brewing in you, whatever relationship was established between Alcides and Elvira, it sure was on the better side of the spectrum.

Were you really feeling jealous of your dead doppelgänger? Well, from the way he looked at you— her — right now, you'd say he wouldn't take to her murder too kindly.

"I swear, you're even more beautiful than the last time I saw you." You blushed, so he enjoyed the new-and-improved Elvira more. "Yet you stay ever handsome." NO. You didn't mean for it to slip, you didn't mean it, you didn't think it — yet, you said it, and he fucking relished in it.

To save you from your embarrassment, your newfound guardian angels, the chef and other servants, brought in food of all sorts. Albeit the sheer hatred you felt towards them, you couldn't help but ask Alcides about his sons. "Aren't you sweet?" He looked at you with fondness, before answering, "The servants will bring them food to their quarters."

Fair enough.

You proceeded eating without another word or glance in his direction. Upon finishing the scrumptious meal, you waited for Alcides to take the lead.

Men like him relished in power, authority, and since he was born into it with a silver spoon hanging from his mouth, it was the only thing he knew.

He looked at you for several moments, an unreadable expression on his face making you more conscious than repelled, as if you craved the validation of his eyes.

He rose from his seat, one hand lingering in the air, an invitation for you to clasp it, while the other grabbed a hefty cluster of grapes by the stem. "Walk with me, darling."

He had to look painfully low to even see your head, once you rose to your height, it helped, but little aid was provided to the giant standing at 9'6.

You held his hand, the sheer size difference had you squirming in your steps.

Just imagine how beautiful sex would be with him, you wouldn't even be able to fit him— "Fuck," you whined under your breath, making damn sure your voice wasn't audible to Mount Everest beside you.

This was the spell talking — thinking; it's got to be. You withdrew your hand, pretending to fix the blouse of the dress, earning a glance from the Lord in your direction, which only stayed for a moment before the calming silence between the two of you was the only thing you could see, until he halted, pulling your attention back to him. "Fruit, my dear?" He waved the cluster, so you knew which ones he was talking about. Come to think of it, you did feel thirsty, and those grapes looked lusciously juicy.

"I don't see why not," you shrugged, not anticipated him to raise the cluster to his mouth and bite a grape off. You watched, mouth slightly agape as a perfectly fine grape rested between his fangs. Even the slightest subconscious movement could rip through the fruit, yet it stayed perfectly safe in his mouth.

He then crouched, now eye-to-eye with you. His eyebrows raised in your direction, challenging you. Challenging you to pull the fruit out of his mouth, and there was only one way to do it.

You bit your lip, you could have your fun, just until you find a reversal cure to his spell.

So, you grab onto both his wide, muscular shoulders, letting your arms cross around his neck. You smirk at him, bringing one hand forward to trace his features. He was so, so strong, to the point you were more aroused than intimated. Your hand reached his torso, you could see how your teasing placed him in agony. Slowly, you let your hand ghost over his pants, and lo and behold, he was aroused; painfully so, and you felt it immoral to torment a man so much (the fucking irony), so you palmed him through his pants, causing his mouth to hang open and out fell grape— right into your palm.

You bring the fruit up to your mouth, Alcides left mesmerised with the way your plump, perfect lips wrapped around it before ripping through it. A moan escaped your lips as the juice dripped down your tongue. "So good," you left out a sigh, and something in him snapped. Alcides flipped you around, you were now pressed against some wall that practically emerged in support of his... expeditions. He plucked two grapes, placing them in his large palm, before bringing it closer to your face. When your eyes widened in confusion, his other hand wrapped itself around your jaw, squeezing your cheeks to open your mouth, before you realised what he demanded and gave it to him; you licked about the fruit, before accepting them into your mouth. Your tongue still teased his flesh, when he pulled away. Amber eyes mere slits with obvious lust, "Now," he began, "You can say you've eaten out of the Lord's palm." He winked at you before walking away.

You steadied your haggard breathing, before deciding to follow him when a certain room caught your eye. It were as if your name was being chanted like a careful whisper, that only sounded when you were left alone. Following your gut, as a hunter as skilled as you would, you push open the heavy doors and let yourself in.

The first thing catching your eye was an obnoxious leather chair that you couldn't help but run a hand over, "Gator skin," you scowled. Though a hunter, you were against hunting — animals, that is, although you'd be hypocritical to say so when the creatures you send to hell are no less barbaric than a creature tormenting in wilderness. Still, you believed in fighting an equivalent, or even better, an apparent immortal.

On the left of it was an fireplace, charcoaled in exhaustion like it recently gave up it's flame and purpose, and in front, was a library, the source of your calling; not colossal, yet extreme in number. The whispering chant grew to a shout, a yearn for each leather-clad covering of ink spilled on paper to be touched by your feather-light fingertips, and only a fool would turn down a beseech like such.

Books of alchemy, instructional journals of God summonings, documentations on every supernatural creature that roamed the planet and how to kill them; even the Satanic Bible was on display, and you explored every single one of them. Fighting the temptation to steal every book with valour, despite how useful each would've proved to be to you in the future, you declined every book until you reached what you sought, rather, what sought you tonight. "The Book of The Four Houses", the spine read. You pulled the book out, not anticipating it to be so heavy. "The Book of The Four Houses", you read again, searching for an author, but not met by any name.

You flip through the pages frantically, in hopes to find any continuance of relevance to your brother's observations, and there it was: Familia Dimitrescu, the excerpt was titled.

"Alcides Dimitrescu was born into the noble Dimitrescu family sometime before the Great War, and through this ancestry inherited a hereditary blood disease, possibly porphyria cutanea tarda. Although his family traced their origins to Cesare, one of the four founders of an isolated mountain village in Europe, Alcides himself lived elsewhere, perhaps through a cadet branch. In the aftermath of the Second World War and the abolition of the nobility, Dimitrescu returned to his family's former lands, which had fallen under the control of a neopagan cult worshipping the Black God.

Prior to 1958, at the age of 44, Dimitrescu was lured by the cult leader, Mother Miranda, to a crypt beneath the village cemetery, where he was surgically implanted with a Cadou parasite. The purpose of this experiment was to determine his viability as a candidate who could become host to a parasitic intelligence at a later date. This experiment mutated Alcides' body considerably, granting him regenerative capabilities, retractable claw-like nails, and the ability to transform into a dragon-like monster and back again. Moreover, the parasite halted his aging process, maintaining his appearance perpetually. In spite of these impressive biological changes, the resulting mutation did not nullify his blood disease. As a result, Dimitrescu needed a ready supply of fresh human blood to maintain his health, and was therefore judged by Miranda to be a failure."

"Although Dimitrescu was of no use as a host, his claim to Castle Dimitrescu was recognized by Miranda and he was allowed to take residence in the village as one of the Four Lords, who would maintain order over the native peasantry while aiding Miranda in Cadou research. Upon inhabiting the estate, Dimitrescu took over his family's vineyard and wine-distribution business as a means of supporting himself."

"Relishing in his reclaimed noble status, Dimitrescu developed extreme caste-based views of society, seeing himself as second only to Miranda herself. He openly loathed the other three house Lords, particularly Karl Heisenberg, whom he frequently argued with. He privately bemoaned that he was not Miranda's favorite, instead being treated the same as all the others. Despite this, Dimitrescu's alliance with the other houses allowed him to rule his castle with barbarous cruelty, regularly taking in new staff to replace those who had been taken to his dungeon to be killed and drained of blood for sustenance."

"Dimitrescu's own experiments with Cadou appear to have been limited, as the only confirmed instance was an experiment begun by Miranda and monitored by Dimitrescu. In this experiment, the corpses of three men were implanted with Cadou parasites. Over the course of about a week, the Cadou produced fly-like organisms which then consumed the flesh of all three bodies. Having assimilated the DNA of these men, the flies merged to mimic their human shapes and slowly adapted their likenesses. Dimitrescu immediately formed a bond with these three men, whom he named Boian, Cătălin, and Dorin, and came to regard himself as their father. They obeyed Dimitrescu without question, and were similar to him in that they were ageless and reliant on vampirism for sustenance. However, they were incapable of withstanding cold temperatures, thus remaining trapped within the confines of Castle Dimitrescu."

That explains the overwhelming warmth of the Castle that had began to annoy you.

"Over the next seventy years, Dimitrescu and his sons systematically consumed the flesh and blood of local peasants and servants alike. The blood of maids was extracted and combined with grapes to create Sanguis Virginis (Latin for "Maiden's Blood"), a traditional Dimitrescu family wine. The female victims, now infected with Mold, lived on as Moroaicǎ and Samcă, while male victims were consumed and then hollowed out to be turned into scarecrows for the castle vineyard."

"Dimitrescu's reign of terror was not without resistance, however, as one villager is known to have stolen a family heirloom — the Dagger of Death's Flowers — in an attempt to assassinate him with its poisoned blade. The attempt failed and he was buried with the dagger in the Tower of Worship to keep it hidden from any others who might seek to harm him."

You snapped the book shut, mind whirling in an epileptic shock, replaying every single word over and over in your head, then images of Alcides, his "sons", Cadou Parasites, Mother Miranda? By the time you realised it, you were hyperventilating, eyes scattering from corner-to-corner, in search of anything less cryptic, anything less 'Once-upon-a-time-there-was-a-beautiful-boy-named-Alcides', and more 'Weakness-to-duhduhduh-kill-by-gunshot-to-the-duhduhduh'.

You threw your head back in unfamiliar pain that originated from your chest, you can't believe plain ink on paper knocked the air out of you, but then again, so did the signed caskets of your family; by the same man you now found out to be ancient and seemingly indestructible, but talk of this "Dagger of Death's Flowers" gave you hope.

Your thoughts of retrieving it were cut short when the doors burst open. "What are you doing?" roared the thunderous voice of the man of the hour, "Elvira." His voice was laced with an emotion you were too out of your head to begin deciphering. His eyes dropped to the book in your hands while awaiting your answer. "Oh, why didn't you say so?" His expression softened, causing you to raise a brow in perplexity. He walked over, the fondness in his eyes returned, causing your tense posture to relax a bit. He took the book from you, and seemingly landed on a page mentioning Alcides' life before lordship. "You really love this book, don't you? I guess it is fun to read a fan's work." He chuckled, flipping through the pages as if he hadn't seen the book in a long, long time.

Huh.

If 'Elvira', too, had been scavenging through the book of Dimitrescus, possibly for the same reason as you, maybe you're more similar than you thought.

When you looked up to his height, his eyes were already on you. "You look tired, my dear. I would be happy to take you to your quarters." He smiled, and your heartbeat was quick to quicken at that. "I'd like that, my Lord."

My Lord.

The walk to your chambers was a haze, all you could feel was the growing wetness in your panties from the way his eyes bore into you; penetrating every inch of you, consuming your conscience with the darkest desires.

Taking out your brother's journal from your bag, you flipped to a fresh page and began filling in your own conclusions. As you wrote, you began to think— not just as a hunter, but as a long deprived woman who had just encountered the most handsome man ever, who just also happened to have murdered her family.

The way he walks, the way he holds your innocent gaze challengingly, the way he looks at you like you're the most exquisite meal, and he's a man starving. You had long abandoned the trepidation and abhorrence you felt towards his cannibalistic lifestyle, instead, feeling a shameful surge of lust shoot into you. You rubbed your thighs together, laying on the bed, but dutifully still, writing every bit of knowledge you gained today; from the parasite, to relations with the leaders of the other Houses and Seven Royal Families that Vânători de urâciuni had already slaughtered, to Mother Miranda, and even what little you read about the Black God.

By the time you covered every intricate detail of a disaster waiting to happen, the heat between your legs was nuclear; the throb, unbearable, leaving you no choice but to act on your animalistic urges. You straighten up, slowly discarding the beautiful cloth that once accentuated your body, now felt like constricted bondages on it.

Once bare, you sink into the pillowy cushions of your given quarters. Something about the whole room smelled like him, but the strongest scent came from your dress, when you were pressed against him. Even both your arousals could be scented from the innocent rose dress, so you tugged it closer to you, breathing in his smoky musk scent, along with your innocent floral one. "Fuck," you groaned, fingers finally ghosting over the mess dying to be made between your legs.

You decided now was not the time to tease, so you coat your fingers in your wetness and smear circles on your swollen clit. "Fuck."

Your bud throbbed in your grasp, desperate to have a little somebody's fanged mouth on it, your nipples hardened the same, aching to have that mouth graze over them, suckle on them, taint the soft, ample flesh with sinister marks. Hell, if it meant one night of succumbing to carnal pleasures, you'd even let the fucker carve that neo-pagan cult symbol on you.

"Fuck!" You weren't thinking straight — no, you weren't thinking at all. How could you? You were under a spell, 'Yes, that was it,' you thought, more so struggling in convincing yourself than anything. Just the sheer thought of a man possessing vile notoriety, relishing in every crime you've fought against; his size, the abnormality of it all. You fantasised about how inhumanely long his tongue might be, teasing around your clit before plunging into your slit.

Oh, that's it.

You shoved your fingers inside of you, whining at how unfulfilling they were, when compared to the hands of him. You were pretty sure his middle finger was bigger than your face.

The only sound to be heard was the squelching of your pussy and your whimpering. You could only pray you weren't audible, not that you minded, because it was Elvira Stoica who'd get mocked, not Y/N Y/L.

Your pace quickened at the thought of him fucking you as Y/N. Would the thought of fucking the enemy be as tantalisingly erotic to him, too? Or would he just hate fuck you, and then feast on your flesh?

"Fuck me..—" You lost your voice when your breath hitched in your throat. "Ju-just like that, mhhm." You were so close, just a bit more... "Fuck me."

That's it, honey, just let go—

"Oh," you moaned too loud to be safe, "Alcides!"

Your legs were shaking, cunt spasming around your fingers while your chest heaved up and down, in a breathless state.

As you rubbed your high out, realisation dawned in on you.

What have you done?

You woke up disgruntled.

Still unimaginably wet, yet thankful for the release, but you hadn't forgiven yourself. Last night was unacceptable, even for someone enchanted. To make matters worse, this isn't even the first time someone put an infatuation spell on you; at least three men before this, but not to pacify an enemy, but to woo a stoic woman with only murder on her mind.

The victim of such a spell for the fourth time, yet Alcides is different. This was incredible necromancy, not like any you've encountered before. It was then you remembered the vessel underneath your bed. Almost too eagerly you jumped off the bed, still somewhat entangled in the sheets, which you threw off swiftly.

You ducked under the bed, the vessel promisingly in the same spot as you had left it. Reaching for it with closed eyes and crossed fingers, you pull it from underneath and lift it to your height.

As you peeped one eye open, then the other in disbelief, you threw the vessel with one swing of your arm. It banged against the wall, before falling to the ground with a typical, screeching metal noise.

This can't be happening. There was no way you felt what you did for Alcides, willingly. The clear contents of the vessel indicated otherwise, though. There was no mistake in your ritual, either; you added what was needed and waited long enough.

"No, no, no, no, NO!"

This can't be fucking happening. You were ready to bawl your eyes out, when one sophisticated knock erupted you. "Elvira." It was him, you knew, your body and heart knew.

When no response followed, Alcides began, "My sons and I are travelling out of estate," he cleared his throat, "I'm sorry for telling you on such short notice, but we won't be back until tomorrow." His voiced trailed off, as if waiting for you to reveal yourself, your reaction, anything, but you're too shaken up to give him any satisfaction. "That's quite alright, my lord." You swallow the lump in your throat, not being able to control yourself and adding, "I'll be right here, waiting." You swore you heard a groan, but were stuck in a limbo by the time Alcides left your door.

You decided all things could be said and done after bathing, so you run a bath and let the scented waters soak into you, replacing the stench of your sins with the perfumed power of blaming Alcides; but you couldn't do that anymore, could you? Not when he was never provocative.

Once you finished freshening up, you grabbed another one of the gowns Dimitrescu gave you. It was black, and beautiful; you were left speechless when you put it on. God, did he really have to make you feel beautiful when you were sent to kill his entire bloodline? "Ah, such unfortunate circumstances." You 'tsked' before doing your hair.

By the time you were done with your makeup, you were certain of today's plan: You were going for breakfast, accessing the courtyard, navigating the Tower Of Worship, exhuming the villager with whom the "Dagger of Death's Flowers" is buried; dig it out, lace the blade with gunpowder, stab all fuckers, one by one, get the fuck out, walk miles back home, and hibernate.

Sweet.

You step out of your quarters to find the chamberlain posted there, just like the day before. "If I say so, my lady?" She looked up at you, the tiny thing was adorable for the fear she felt, yet still wanted you to know that, "You look ravishing." She briefly looked you in the eye before the rouge on her cheeks became embarrassingly obvious, to her. You, on the other hand found her just as she was, adorable.

Upon entering the dining area, she silently took her leave, when you grabbed her wrist. "First Alcides, now you, too?" You asked, flirtatiously referring to both of them excusing themselves from you. "The least you could do is give me company." And how could anyone resist the sultry tone of a stunning woman?

So the chamberlain finds herself dining with you.

You insisted she sat besides you, and despite putting the maximum distance between your chairs, she complied. "So...?" You inquired after finishing your meal, referring to her name. "Oh— uh— Pasha, mi lady." You smiled, "Beautiful name for a beautiful girl." You saw her rub her thighs together from the corner of your eye. "Well, Pasha," you decided to break the awkward silence that hadn't formed yet, "You think you can take me to the Tower Of Worship?" You sipped on your tea, eyeing her while you swallowed, only to see her with widened eyes and haphazard breathing. "Me-my l-lady—..." she stammered, hesitation painted all over her soft features as if you asked her to murder The Dimitrescus herself, or eat you out, you couldn't decide which was more mortifying for the poor girl. "What is it, Pasha?" You sighed.

"Th-the area is strictly off limits— only the... family can go there." She gulped at your growingly irritable expression. "I am part of the family — the Stoica household, in case you've forgotten, cameristă."

"I- yes, mi lady. I'm so sor—" "I don't want to hear it." You interrupted, raising a hand in the air. "Will you, or will you not take me to the Tower Of Worship?" You stared at her, the impatience visible on your face, before you decided to put on the façade you knew best; the façade of seduction. "Please, Pasha," you placed a hand on her bare thigh, her little skirt leaving little to imagination.

"For me?" Were the magical words that got the job done.

So you walk with the head of the staff of Castle Dimitrescu, into the family's place of worship, to exhume the corpse of the only man with the balls to try and assassinate him.

Pasha dropped you off at the foot of the Tower, more than happy to bolt away once you told her it was okay to leave you alone.

You walk up the stairs, and into the end of Castle Dimitrescu.

For a place of "worship", the place had the most oppressive aura, reeking of the occult and unimaginable. You fought your way inside, barely getting in while the air was knocked out of you; perhaps, a barrier of necromancy, despite it, you were able to get through.

You ran from corner to corner, searched every square centimetre of the place, but no place near-resembled the tomb of an assailant. "Fuck, where is it?" Your hands dipped inside your bag to look for something, before pulling it out and beginning your rummaging.

Indeed, you had stopped by Alcides' study before breakfast, telling the maid you 'forgot something' in there during your "time" last night, before winking at her shamelessly and forcing your entry. Sneaking out 'The Book of The Four Houses' was something you could do with your eyes closed.

Your eyes read past every word until you landed where you were made to stop, when the wave of overwhelm hit you last night. "Hall of the Four", the title read.

"The Hall of the Four, known in Japanese as Between the Four Angels (四天使の間, shi tenshi no aida?), is an area of Castle Dimitrescu." The Hall of the Four leads to the Tower of Worship, but this door cannot be opened until the four masks are placed on the Angel statues."

You groaned a string of profanities.

It's like you were set up for failure, and the worst part is, you could hear him laughing in the back of your mind— Alcides. His new abode has become the back of your mind, for he never leaves there.

Tired, disappointed and on the verge of giving up, you leave the Tower. You were a goner without the masks, and despite being in a rush to at least try and acquire them, you walked in a defeated slumber.

The chamberlain met you somewhere near the courtyard, surprised to see you walking out alive. "Lady Stoica—" "Just take me to my quarters, Pasha." You sighed, earning a swift nod from the confused chamberlain.

You walked lost, still, until you reached your room and opened that damned book again. While you scrolled through the contents, a mere note fell off, barely in your grasp.

The handwriting.

It was your brother's, but— it couldn't be. They never got close enough, which is why you're here now, right? They never got close enough. Three of the most feared, skilled men in the world of hunting never got close to one man and his three experiments for sons.

How in the hell did— Wait.

'Mask of Pleasure: Second Floor of Castle Dimitrescu',

that's where you are right now.

Everything could wait, hell, God could wait on the other line of heaven. You needed answers, yes, but something in your gut tells you it's better unknown. All that matters right now is killing him and every last member of his twisted family.

Or at least that was the plan...

You find yourself walking towards any room, with any possibility of possessing a mask. Hell, you had no idea what it looked like, but if it looks anything like the pleasure you'd be rewarding yourself with once you get the fuck out of this place, the mask won't be too difficult to find.

Soon enough you had pulled the place apart — the whole floor — except one room you hadn't set foot in. Alcides Dimitrescu's chambers.

A colossal door; you couldn't look away from the necromantic symbols etched into the woodwork. Had you not possessed the ability to see through such dark arts, you would've stepped right in and be left to deal with a fatality. You pull two vessels from your bag; the Blood of Christ and Vurxelheim, two of the purest substances on the planet, known to melt away all magic, no matter how ancient or dark, and as your expected, it did just that.

Alright, now all that was needed was to open the door, and even an amateur could do that with a pin.

Upon entering, you took in the details of his abode, almost forgetting to close the door behind you. Everything was brown; that's something you've noticed about the whole castle. Monotonously warm shades of brown, dimly lit with heat radiating over every surface. You only quirked a brow at the abnormalities. It soon came to your knowledge that the foundation of this floor is regarded as the "Hall of Pleasures". Kinky.

You looked around every corner, in every possible direction and space, but to no avail. Sighing, your head fell back, eyes closed it absolute demotivation, but when you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was porcelain intricately carved, and hanging from the ceiling; a place where no mortal, but only a 9'6 indestructible titan of a tyrant could reach. It was obnoxious, if anything; placing it in a place so obvious, yet so out of reach — a direct message to show he's better than the rest, quite literally above them.

With no possible way of reaching it, you were still accessing your options when one strong arm wrapped itself around your waist and raised you up, right to where the mask hanged. "If you wanted to swing by my chambers,"

"You could've just asked, mic vânător."

Little Hunter— "Let go of me!" You writhed in his grasp, hand slowly reaching for the mask, still. "If you say so," he shrugged before letting go of you completely, letting you hang from the ceiling like a dreamcatcher. "Son of a bitch! You put me down this instant or I swear to God I'll rip through you and your experiments with my bare hands." "Ah, there's no need to get feisty, Elvira." He said, grabbing you by the waist, and putting you down, despite your kicking and struggling. "I'm only trying to help." He grunted, one hand disappearing behind his trench coat; you were ready to pounce at him, when he pulled, seemingly, the other three masks from behind.

"There you go, sweetheart. Masks of Joy, Sorrow, and Rage." He waved the remaining three keys to The Hall of the Four. You eyed him, and he swore the frowning pout was the cutest sight he's ever seen. "C'mon, they're yours for the taking, darling." He smiled at you.

"What's the catch, Alcides?" You sighed.

It's never that fucking easy, is it?

"One night with me." He simply spoke, taking your deepening scowl as a notion to carry on, "One night to decide what is it that you want, Elvira," "Or should I call you, Y/N Y/L of the Vânători de urâciuni?" Your eyes widened with horror; you hadn't processed him calling you 'little hunter', yet, and now this? This could only mean— "How did you—" "Please. 'You think I wouldn't find out about the mass murder of my fiancé? And imagine the gossip about town that it was a doppelgänger who did it." No, you were careful, he's lying — he's got to be. "Lucky for me, I get the sexier one, now." He chuckled, impressed with his wit.

When you didn't give him the satisfaction of freaking out on him, moreover agreeing to his terms, he rolled his eyes, "Pentru dumnezeu! The first mistake was the rocks you climbed on. They've deliberately been arranged like so, for trespassers like you to easily enter, walk through the courtyard, and into the quarters of my sons for them to feast upon. Then, leaving your blood on the grill? The scent agonised me. It was so difficult to put those three dogs on a leash, having never smelled something so sweet." He 'tsked', "The second mistake was trusting Pasha. It was her hand that twirled in your bath water, mixing the infatuation spell, and it was her, too, that switched the vessel underneath your bed. Very clever, by the way, very thoroughly performed indication ritual."

"But your third— baby, this mistake might as well be a blessing because it's the only fucking thing keeping me away from ripping into you slowly, and feast on your flesh for two whole days; pleasuring yourself, in my fucking castle, fantasising about fucking me."

"Oh, and the guillotine was Heisenberg, I only added the dramatic touch of sending the heads back."

You couldn't bear it.

Bottles full of emotions you've locked away for ages finally hit the concrete of reality; shattering to a million pieces while the man you still find irresistible, had an unimpressed look on his face. "Y/N. I know you want to kill me—" "Oh, honey, you have no idea." You laughed dryly, choking on sobs, but something tells you the impact of your threat didn't go in the direction you wanted because he visibly tensed when you called him, "honey".

"But," he raised both hands in defence, "I wouldn't have gotten you these," he said, waving the masks again, "If I didn't think this deserved a chance— we — deserved a chance." "You think I'll let you anywhere near me after you toyed with me like a plaything? Sent me my father, my uncle, my brother's heads to add a 'dramatic touch'?" "I should've put a more potent spell on you," he cursed under his breath, earning a scoff from you.

You pulled out a dagger from your thigh holster, and lunged at him. Caught off guard, Dimitrescu's eyes widen while you slashed through his alabaster shirt, eager to bleed some crimson into his lifelessly pale skin. "I've had it with you, brat!" He growled, the whack of his palm on your cheek took you back, and you didn't mean to moan.

The cry, it was wanton, and it had Alcides latching on to every ounce of self control he still preserved. "Alright, here's what we're gonna do," he grabbed the dagger from your grasp within a second. "You're gonna take off your clothes, lay down, looking pretty for me like you always do," he walked closer, raising his large hands again in defence. "You following me— okay," he inched closer to you, while you backed away, further into the wall. "I'm gonna feast on this pussy, then I'm gonna finger your tight hole open, and because I'm feeling generous," he grabbed ahold of your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, "I'm not gonna force my cock into your pretty little throat, you're gonna beg for it." He caressed your face, the way your doe eyes watered while staring at him, like glass he could see his reflection in, your agape lips and soft expression made his pants constrict his cock agonisingly. "And the last thing I'll be doing, even if it's my last ever," his hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you to his king-sized bed. Laying you down, and climbing on top like a wolf on a lamb, he says, "Is fucking this pussy till you finally accept that you're made for me."

His mouth latched onto your neck, easily manhandling you at the same time while you writhed in his grasp. "I would rather be dead." You spat out venomously, which only made Alcides smile. "Well, alright. I'd still pound you till you're a mere cum-dump, but I'd surely miss those pretty sounds you made when you fingered yourself thinking about me." He panted against your pulse point, baritone voice hoarse with lust.

He spread your legs, lifting both your hands up by the wrists to his face. "Tiny little things," he kissed the knuckles of each finger, "Unsatisfying, aren't they?" He showered your hands with kisses, "Don't worry, darling, I'm here now." He raised both hands so their size was visible in your periphery, before grabbing your dress and pulling it over your head. "No!" You resisted, causing him to huff, annoyed. "Don't make me tear it off, honey, you look breathtaking in it." He cooed, and your movements haltered enough for him to successfully get it off you. "Good girl— such a good girl f'me."

Immediately his eyes were on your curves, your hips — perfect for bearing the child he was about to fuck into you, your breasts, so ample, all available for his groping and fondling, your pussy almost peering out of the silk panties. "Fuck, Y/N." He groaned, about to rip your underwear off when your pleads interrupted him. "Alci-Alcides please don't." "Hm," his sharp eyes seemed to be calculating his next move. "You say no, but your body," he groaned, pressing the knuckles of two of his fingers against your clothed cunt, "Your body sings otherwise, my love."

Every second passing by was petrifying.

The mortal battle between blood and lust, two things you were the epitome of, qualities comprising your very backbone, now, asked you to break it; bend over backwards and break your back for this man.

The string of pleads you cried fell on deaf ears, which, a part of you was glad for. Maybe if you continued to put the blame on Alcides and his necromancy, you'll actually let yourself live with the fact that your desires to have him ravage in your guts is overpowering, and the carnality lay in the fact that you didn't even care about what happened after. You were serving him your body in a platter, which you had not an ounce of doubt would eventually serve that purpose, quite literally.

"Tell me you want me." He hovered over your breasts. If he wanted to play games, then games you'll play. "I want you..." you whispered, "to go fuck yourself." He would've smacked you again, but again, you would've enjoyed it. What did stop him, however, was the shit-eating grin plastered on your face that showed him you were still on planet Earth, among the living and the abominable.

"Now, why would I do that, when I've got such a pretty girl with her pussy all wet for me?" He mimicked your expression, staring into your soul until you were forced to look away, and your eyes landed right on his clothed erection. "This?" He followed your gaze, "You're going to take care of this in just a minute, but for now," he paused, his large hands turning into talons and ultimately perilous claws. Cutting through the hems of both your garments, he retracted his claws immediately. You flinched when his hands came closer to your hips, "Don't be afraid, mic vânător." His baritone voice gave you absurd comfort, the tone, reassuring. "They can't hurt you, unless I want them to." His pearly whites were like the fangs of a serpent, peering out, bloodthirsty for you.

With that, he lowered himself and dove right in.

You slithered about while his anomaly of a tongue kitten-licked your inner thighs. "I'll tie you to the fucking bed, if you don't quit squirming." He spat.

At your pussy.

You moaned in response, hips momentarily halting from the continuous resisting. "Yeah? You like that don't you, slut?" His fingers spread your slit, before spitting right into your tight hole that fluttered about nothing. "There you go, my love." He cooed in response to your whining, smoothly inserting his index finger into the same hole. A tremor ran down your spine at the sudden intrusion; the stone-cold, thick and long thing digit was a cruel thing, reaching that sweet spot the minute it bottomed out till, knuckle-deep in your velvety walls, and even calling the others to join in on the assault on your cunt.

Accommodating, now, three of his fingers, pummelling your cunt, scissoring you open, was more overwhelming than any dick you've ever taken. Maybe the fact that no one else could amount to the size of an ancient 9'6 vampiric cannibal Lord who's put his and the life of his sons in your palm.

Either you take them away, or let him take you to carnality never fathomed before, and the way he sucked on your swollen clit while fucking you with his fingers was a clear indication of your preference.

"Alcides," you moaned, nearing your high. "Yes, my love?" He replied almost instantaneously, as if finally you complied with a poor man's request. "What is it that you need, darling? I'll give it all to you." He lifted up from your pussy, leaving your clit with a wet 'pop' sound, making his way over to your breasts, while his movements inside you never faltered once. His sharp eyes searched yours, fixated on them while his hot tongue snaked out of his mouth to twirl around your hardened bud. Flesh on fire, you leaned into the feel of his mouth on you. "Fuck me, Alcides." You cried in defeat. How the mighty have fallen prey to the vultures of lust, mere carcasses of seduction.

Alas, the façade of seduction had backfired, and you had fucked up royally.

Upon hearing the trumpets of his victory through your pretty mouth, Alcides would've been a fool to refuse you. Eagerly he undoes his pants, letting his throbbing cock spring free. Your eyes damn-near saw your brain at the sight of the thing. "Alci— I can't." Seeing you panic, he began getting off on it. "You can, and you will." He hissed when his calloused thumb rubbed against the slit of his cock.

"Oh, I wanna feel that throat squeezing around me." He pumped faster, fucking his fist to the thought of you like many a night before. "But this pussy will do," "For now." He said, rubbing his length fervently against your slit, lathering your wetness on his leaking tip, enthusing a sweet mix of your cum, much more of which was to come.

"Won't be... able... to..." You spoke in between moans gaps the tip was in. The stretch was abnormal, ungodly, unnatural — exactly what you're deemed to kill. "You'll take it, mic vânător." He began to push more in, knocking the air out of your body. "Stop clenching," he groaned deeply, the sound resonating in your core. Nothing could've prepared you for this intrusion, so agonisingly painful, yet deliciously filling.

"You've... got to s.—stop... clenching." He pushed in the whole length, deadening your movements. You'd think he'd fear breaking you, but no. Alcides fuckin' Dimitrescu was thrilled to see you finally submitting, even if your body paralysed in the fear of being ripped open, your back arched, breasts stopped wavering in the air, and your breath caught in your throat.

Only when the loudest, most pornographic moan left your lips did Alcides begin to thrust into you, already drunk off of your pussy, ecstatic in ecstasy.

Despite the slow speed, his thrusts were deep enough for legs to start shaking. To your shock, he lifted your legs and since they couldn't reach his shoulder's that stood almost as stall as the fucking ceiling, they were swinging across his forearms, and at this angle he slammed his hips into you.

You screamed, damage was made to your vocal chords as well as your walls when the penetration quickly turned into pummelling, giving you zero time to adjust to the mammoth size of it. On seeing your closed eyes, Alcides smacked your face, gentler than before, yet enough for your eyes to shoot open, face contorting in pleasure at his gesture that was now among your favourites. "Don't let those pretty eyes waver away." His grip on your hips was threateningly tight. "Look into my eyes, or there," his eyes motioned downwards, and it was then you saw the immense bump in your belly. Your eyes widened in profound horror. He had most certainly torn your insides apart, you were sure.

"See how big it is— how well you still take it?" He babbled while vigourously pushing into your poor cunt. "Pl-lease, go... easy on—me." You managed to plead out, but nothing counts stop the possessed Lord. Finally, he got the chance to feel your insides, and there was no way in hell, he thought, he'd let you off easy. Not when you're the biggest threat to his existence, let you wrap so tightly around his monster cock.

Dumbfounded, cock-drunk, utterly paralysed in place, you had no choice but try to get accustomed to the relentless attack your pussy had to endure.

Just when you thought your demise would be the sole pleasure you were forced to undergo, two of his fingers rubbed fervent figure-eights on your bundle of nerves that ached with bloodrush.

You babbled incoherences, whimpering, shaking your head repeatedly when he lifted your lifeless body, just the tip of his cock inside, and switched positions with you. Now, he laid, somewhat upright, hands crossed behind his head. Leisurely eyeing you, while you struggled to breath with his entire length upright inside your walls, his tip pressing against your cervix like an enemy threatening to break down your barriers; your walls.

"M-move... please..." you mewled, causing him to 'tsk' with disdain. "Help yourself, căprița mea mică." He raised a brow, mouth curling viciously into a smirk, "Use me as you please." Your shaky hands reached for his broad shoulders, raising then steadying your hovering self over his cock. His eyebrows wiggled in amusement, awaiting your move comically, until the feel of your walls struggling to take in his tip pulled him back into a trance of pleasure.

He let out an animalistic groan that lingered to be what you swore was a whimper, so you did your best to lift your tiring legs and plop down on his cock, upright and pulsating inside you. "I could fuck this pussy every moment for the remnant of my days." He smiled at you, large palms resting on your hot ass, slowly caressing your curves. The gesture, so contradicting to the impaling you were enduring, nearly knocked the air out of you, for when your perplexed eyes met his expectedly ravenous ones, you were shocked to see them replaced by fondness.

"If I'm lucky enough to live," he paused, hands squeezing your ass before sitting upright, pulling you with him. You moaned wantonly when you felt his cock deeper. "Let this be how we wake, how we sleep — in each other's embrace." His eyes widened, as did yours, like deer caught in front of headlights. The feigning look of innocence on his face sent your core spiralling with erotic ache, when his face, not once breaking eye contact, inched forward to stop just in front of your nipple.

You shrieked when he took complete control, earning a whine from you as you just got the hang of dominance, but when you noticed the hellbent gleam of carnality in his eyes, you knew you were in for a ride.

He suckled on your bud while fucking through you. "You're close, aren't you?" He pulled away from your nipple with a pop sound, resting his bearded face on your breast, "I know you are. 'Can feel her tightening around my cock." He chuckled, mouth back on the hardened bud in his presence. You sneaked a hand down and rubbed your bundle of nerves, fervently.

His large fingers, jealous of your own, were quick to replace them in driving you to your high. You were practically spoon-fed the orgasm, that took a toll on your fragile body.

No emotion overwhelmed every hemisphere, every neurone of your brain like ever before. Your mind went spiralling away, like an eternal shore hugging the lunar tide for the first time a night, your shore's dry spell was over, and your body did it's best to fight the feeling and drive a stake through his lustful heart, but your body was worn out; used as any lucky ragdoll would be.

The overstimulation sent you back to Earth at godspeed. His movements were sloppy, but not faltering, and soon enough, he let his seed bathe your walls a pearly shade. "Take it all— carry my seed." He moaned, absentmindedly.

When you plopped onto his shoulders, he lifted you up single-handedly and laid between your legs. You instinctively closed them; despite being too fucked out of it, you still cringed at how both your cum leaked out of you, ruining the sheets and everything between.

"Alcides, no—"

You were a second too late in pleading, for he grabbed you by the legs, placed them on his shoulders, and stood up.

You hung upside down, your pussy a stone's throw away from the man's smirked lips. By now, you knew what was about to unfold, yet the first lick to your cum-coated lips sent shockwaves down your spine (rather up?).

He moaned against your clit, the vibrations causing you to writhe in his grasp. His tongue licked your pussy clean, the circular motions on your clit, to the long licks from your clit to slit.

It's crazy how an anomaly like him became your exception — the hunter's favourite prey. With a tongue so skilled, you weren't to be blamed for succumbing to your current situation; not like you could do much in the grasp of a monster like him.

You're lucky his cock didn't fuck a new hole into you.

When his large palms let go of your hips, you wrapped your legs around his neck instinctively. You could've used his vulnerability to your advantage, had your mind not clouded in the ecstasy of overstimulation. It seemed like Alcides thought the same, for he smirked devilishly to himself, letting his talons ghost about your flesh, before slightly retracting to pinch and squeeze your nipples. He placed open mouthed kisses on your clit that not once stopped throbbing.

You shook in agony, his mouth worked tantalisingly slow on your burning hot cunt. Deciding to show mercy, an unlikely thing for the tyrant Lord, he smiled at your frame hanging tightly from his; your breasts heaving under his touch, obstructing his view of your pleasure-stricken face.

Lord Dimitrescu plunged his tongue inside you, placing one hand on your hip to push and grind you against his tongue, and you swore every atom in your body was swollen with pleasure.

"No... n-no more..." Your beseech was deemed adorable by the man tongue-fucking you. He pulled out, slithery wet tongue, coated in your juices, leaving you breathless. He lapped at your wetness, growing per minute as he so desperately coaxed more out of you.

Dumbfounded, pussy-drunk, utterly engrossed in place, you had no choice but try to get accustomed to the relentless devouring of your pussy at the hands of your sworn enemy.

One of his hands snaked to your clit, the ever fervent pace of his movements drove you to madness. Your body stilled, eyes rolled back, breath hitched, and it was when his tongue flicked inside of you that you realised that you were doomed.

After drinking your juices clean, Alcides placed you gently on his bed, and by the time he laid next to you, you had already wandered off in dreams.

Your mother awaited your letters.

Perhaps, she'll be rejoiced to hear you alive and well, or maybe she'll be mortified that you're alive and well, and The Dimitrescus live and breath, still. Either way, she and the rest of the world better get used to you signing every final letter as 'Lady Dimitrescu'.

[buckets-and-trees]

"You are nothing but a toy for me to fuck, little lamb. Now open your mouth for me, or I will break your jaw opening it myself."

👀👀👀

Well... as you know, this escalated quickly.

Title: Sacrificial Characters/Pairings: Minotaur!Bucky x Botanist!Female!Reader Word Count: 3.5k Summary: If it seems too good to be true, it always is. Always. Too bad you had to go to the remote jungles of South America to learn that lesson.

Content/Concept Warnings: DARK, lulled into a trap, human sacrifice, dubious consent/fuck or die, public sex/exhibitionism, size kink, monster fucking, face fucking/oral male receiving, vaginal fingering/fisting, breast worship, rough fucking, possessive/pet, praise kink, dirty talk, cum play, marking, cream pie, choking

Additional Notes: Thoty time with @rookthorne... she's only responsible for enabling me when my monster thirst reared its head. Wicked entry for @buckybarnesevents WEEK ONE of Hot Bucky Summer: "What Should I Wear?" and my third square of @buckybarnesbingo K1 "Fuck or Die."

When you told your friends, family, and former colleagues about the research grant and fellowship you had been awarded in the weeks leading up to your departure that it was too perfect, clearly somewhere deep in your bones you had known.

Eighty thousand dollars a year for three years, travel covered, visa approved, fully furnished accommodations provided, and a book deal for the discoveries and research studying flora in a largely undocumented and remote part of the jungle on another continent.

No scientist got a deal like that.

The only downside was the isolation of the location. They had electricity and running water, but you would only be able to go into town for internet every few weeks.

But the part of you that had grown up watching Indiana Jones, Jurassic Park, LOST, and the deep space missions of Star Trek who had far too many plants in your apartment and in your tiny office at the university had beat back that downside. It was only three years, and after living through the strange isolation of the pandemic, you knew you could manage this where you wouldn’t be isolated from people, just for short stints from your old life.

And though you had good pieces and good people in your life, you were desperate to get away from the suffocating societal expectations you felt like you weren’t living up to while so many others around you were – marriage, kids, white picket fences, career accomplishments, tenured professorships, promotions, raises, overnight influencers, travel vloggers.

This was something no one you knew had ever done.

Everyone raved about the adventure ahead of you.

Everyone had been impressed.

You had conquered in the accomplishments department with this for the year, no question. Your older sister with her third child on the way and your younger brother and his Premiere League football contract could wallow in your shadow.

This was a golden opportunity for a research botanist still in the early years of their career.

Kneeling on the ground in the middle of the jungle with your hands folded in your lap, head bowed, surrounded by a village of people who all should have known better than to follow ancient superstitions, with a dozen or more guns trained on you in nothing more than lingerie, you were living a nightmare.

All of it had been a baited trap.

No one would even question you falling off the grid before it was too late, and even if they did, these villagers could say one day you never came back from the jungle.

And it would be true.

One afternoon and evening, a good dinner, a sleep you’d yearned for thinking it was the jet lag, and then you’d awoken screaming as the first strip of wax had been ripped from your skin to discover you were naked with a half dozen people attending to all aspects of your grooming, preparing you to be their human sacrifice for the beast that lived in the jungle.

You were past the crying and pleading.

The no WIFI had been a lie, too.

Everyone in this small village looked and acted like they lived in the present day except for this one thing.

The belief that if they did not provide the beast his human sacrifice that they would not survive his terror.

“Then why don’t you just leave?” you had implored.

“This is our home, our loved ones are here, our ancestors are part of this place, and,” their leader and the head of the research foundation paused – almost faltered before continuing to explain, “the sacrifice of one stranger will guarantee us safety for many, many years.”

Everyone else had been instructed not to speak or listen to you from that point on in the preparations.

Nails trimmed, buffed, shined. Luxurious oil that smelled delicate and heavenly rubbed over every inch of your skin from the neck down. Hair partially braided to stay out of your face with the rest left natural. Color applied to your lips. They didn’t bother with eye makeup. No jewelry.

You had been wrapped up in a linen garment that was not quite a robe but not quite a coat to be transported to the ruins of an old stone dais in the thick of the jungle but deprived of it and then pushed onto the sacrificial area, left only in the sapphire silk of a bra and panties delicately lined with lace.

After hours being poked, prodded, and prepared by strangers in a strange land in a state of dread and disbelief, you thought you were numb.

You had endured too much to think you were hallucinating, but that you now all waited illuminated by literal torches with fire made this seem almost like a season of Survivor gone horribly wrong.

But then you heard the hushed wave of whispers at the rustle and rumble of something approaching through the thick vegetation of the jungle and adrenaline shot through your veins. It didn’t inspire fight or flight. You were frozen, fixated on the beast that would finally appear and seal your fate any moment now.

It made no attempt at arriving quietly, and when it finally appeared, there were collective gasps and cries from the people gathered to watch the sacrifice, though no sound fell from your lips.

The reaction was more than warranted, and a whisper of a thought flashed through your head that you were surprised no one had screamed. Maybe they were too terrified to scream, worried they would draw the beast’s attention. You wanted to scream, but your chest was gripped in fear.

The thick, furry legs of a bull, down to the cloven hooves, and a girthy tail with a tuft of dark hair at the end, swishing slightly as he walked. There was a loincloth tied at his waist that – rather than providing modesty – inspired anyone whose gaze lingered there to imagine the bulge nudging conspicuously beneath. Not that anyone’s gaze would linger there for long, for the rest of him was altogether imposing. Only the tallest of the villagers might hope to measure up to the base of his sternum – the sternum that anchored the torso of a man with shoulders more than twice the width of a human. Skin golden from the sun stretched over muscles that burst and rippled over his chest and shoulders, extending down his arms. You could see a litany of angry scars littered up and down his left arm.

Great bull’s horns rose and curled out of his head, possibly longer than your own arms. He had a mane of long, glossy but mostly unruly brown hair, with a couple of braids, that fell past his shoulders. Though the rest of his physique inspired fear, the true terror was perhaps the face of this man beast – it was terrifyingly handsome. Strong jaw, stubbled beard, a crease between his brows, and piercing blue eyes. His expression was drawn into an ominous grin.

He was in no rush as he walked into the ring of the villagers.

“Weapons down,” he growled.

There was almost no hesitation – their purpose had been to keep you in place anyway. Though the fear in the air was palpable, the tone of it seemed to be turning to some sort of reverent fear now for everyone else.

What inspired this unquestioned obedience from an entire people? People you’d seen with smart phones as abundantly among them as any other place on earth, though you’d been advised to shut yours down and leave it behind since it would be of next to no use to you in the jungle. They were right – but had left out the true reason and made it even more believable for you to seem only cut off to those back home, not lost and gone forever.

His enormous legs took the step easily up onto the dais, and his eyes were now fixed only on you. He stopped at the foot of the altar where you were presented for him.

“Well done,” this was meant for the people and their leader.

Then he reached out and the fingers of his large hands traced the strap over your left shoulder, then along your jaw, tilting your chin to look straight up at him. “And your choice is set?”

“My – my choice?” your voice cracked, but you felt it was a miracle you even found it.

Your confusion must have been evident, as his eyes flashed with anger and her rounded on the man who had facilitated all of this. “You did not tell her anything, did you?”

“I thought it best if –“

“It is not your job to think. The thoughtlessness of your people is why we’re here at all,” he snarled. Then he turned back to you.

“No time for stories now. I’m a minotaur called Bucky; a lost soldier cursed long ago to this state. Suffice it to say II must be satiated or the village will be subjected to bloodshed and desolation in the face of my wrath. They’ve chosen you, but you can choose your fate: fuck or die. I’ll take your throat, or I’ll cut it and drink your blood in front of everyone.”

Your chest heaved in trepidation. “How is that a choice?”

“Is it not clear to you?”

“Have others chosen death?”

He nodded. “Or they refused to choose.”

You opened your mouth then closed it again.

“Do you wish to die?”

You thought your tears were spent, but you could feel them welling in your eyes. “No.”

“Then claim your choice.”

You took a shaky breath.

“Say it!” he barked.

You flinched, but managed to spit out, “Fuck.”

“Perfect. Open up.”

“In front of everyone?” your voice was barely above a whisper.

He nodded. “They will remember and mark this sacrifice. It will be the reason they continue to breathe.”

You spread your knees a part so you were still kneeling and sitting back on your heels but his to take like this.

“That’s nice but not what I meant.” He tugged his loincloth and dropped it to the ground. You whimpered, afraid of the enormous size of his cock and ashamed at the lick of heat that flared in your core at the sight of him. He leaned down closer, put a hand at the back of your neck, and slapped the side of your face with his rigid length. “You are nothing but a toy for me to fuck, little lamb. Now open your mouth for me, or I will break your jaw opening it myself.”

This drew a handful of muted gasps from the onlookers. You saw a spark of something new in his eyes at this reaction.

He was pleased at their reaction.

You dropped your mouth open for him, nervous knowing you could not take all of him, embarrassed to be on such display in front of these strangers, but wanting to please him.

Wait, you thought, wanting to please him?

He shoved his cock into your wet mouth, shoving any other thoughts immediately out.

“Suck.”

You did.

“Just like that,” he said. The hand on your neck moved up to cradle and command the back of your head. He slowly began to fuck your mouth but with only a small motion, encouraging you to continue sucking just that first bit of cock as it was in your mouth. He still was in no rush. It felt like a power play – not wanting to show impatience or lack of restraint in the onset of this sacrificial claiming.

As he continued to speak now, his voice was low, intended for you. “Get ready for more.”

You looked up at him and tried to nod your head ever so slightly. He smirked, then he brought his other hand up under your jaw and to your throat, wanting to feel himself using you. He groaned and briefly closed his eyes. His tip hit the back of your mouth, and you spluttered. He pulled out slightly, giving you half a moment to recover, then forced the point again, holding himself there while you adjusted. He opened his eyes again, locking back onto yours, and a thrill of terror shot through you again. That was only the preliminary.

Now he would truly begin.

That look was all you got. Keeping the one hand at your throat, the provided the anchor to begin truly fucking your throat, not in a rush, but he picked up the pace. You placed your hands on his thighs to steady yourself. Your muscles initially gagged in protest, but he persisted, stroking your throat with his fingers as well, coaxing you to relax. Tears spilled down your cheeks. You concentrated on breathing through your nose and the steady gaze he kept trained on you. Soon you were taking more of him than you thought you could. He quickened his thrusts into your mouth. Your fingers stretched into the fur on his hips, mewling as he continued to use your mouth.

A few short grunts with the last thrusts were the only hint before he came, shooting his hot spend in your mouth with an unrestrained howl that shook the crowd to their core. There was no way for you to swallow everything, but, if anything, seeing his cum spilling down your chin made him grin.

Then he raised his head to address the villagers. “Remember that you gave this human to me. I will do with her as I please, and you will never see her again. Hope that you never see me again in your lifetime,” his voice carried, his power unquestioned in the clearing. “If you are lucky, the children you left home today will not see me in their lifetimes either. All of you go now. What happens next is not for your eyes.”

They followed his instructions without hesitation, all of them eager to be gone from this cursed place and their collective and ignored shame.

They left the torches – no desire for a souvenir.

And now you were alone with him, the light of the flames flickering over every inch of your exposed skin – which was almost all your skin, the lingerie only for show.

With the hand that was still anchored at the back of your head, he roughly angled you up sharply to look directly up at him, and tipping his own head forward he loomed in all his height above you, a truly searing heat in this look. “I meant what I said: you are mine, and I will never allow those vile villagers to see you again. You’re mine to do with as I please.”

He stooped down to claim your mouth in a kiss. His large thumb brushed the remaining spend from your chin and then moved down your throat to brush it over your collar bone, rubbing it in. He pushed his tongue between your lips, and you opened your mouth for him again. His tongue was too big for your mouth, too, but the more he subjected your body to the largeness of his being, the more you seemed to seep into him. He used his tongue to wrap around and tangle with yours, stroking it with his, now and then slipping it further down your throat, teasing, choking, mimicking the actions of his cock not long before.

When you were truly gasping, he chuckled darkly and pulled away, you leaned forward, lips chasing his, and then you shook your head, trying to restore some logic.

Failing.

Bucky easily tore away your bra with his brute strength. “Lay back for me, lamb.”

You shifted, legs aching from resting on them in that kneeling position for far too long. He noted the care you took in moving your limbs and rubbed the muscles up and down a few times. Then he pulled your hips to the end of the alter, flush against his cock, which was already semi-hard again. You hummed as he pushed against your still-clothed core.

His hands moved from your thighs up your sides, stoking the desire surging through your body, moving up your waist, thumbs brushing up against the underswell of your breasts, then flicking over the nipples, bringing them to little peaks before diving down to lave one of them with his tongue and suck, rolling, twisting, and pinching the other with his hand. Then he moved his mouth, and as he latched on to the other nipple, his hands worked the lace and silk panties off your hips and down your legs before tossing them away. He rutted up against you again, slow but persistent pressure against your core again, but now with no barrier he felt your arousal slicking up your entrance. When you began working your hips against him, seeking more friction, fisting your hands into his hair, he moved a hand between your legs, stroking over your labia and pushing one of his fingers right into your cunt, making you keen immediately from the force and fullness.

“Going to ruin you, lamb, but don’t want to hurt you.” He was brutal, but only because he was a monster by nature, not because he was heartless. “Gotta work your tiny pussy open so you can take me like you were meant to.”

As before, he was patient, making up for the impatience mounting inside you as he worked his fingers into you, circling, questing, stretching, twisting. When he pushed three fingers in he could tell it was a lot, but he knew he needed you to easily receive four if he was going to get to fuck you on his cock the way he wanted. All through it, he was relentless in overwhelming you in other ways, continuing to worship your breasts, but also murmuring praises against your skin, and threatening and promising filthy things that you couldn’t even respond to.

When you were thoroughly primed, aching for him, a mess with tears and begging for him, he finally realigned his hips between your legs, forcing your thighs wide to accommodate him. He bumped the head of his cock against your throbbing clit a couple of times, making your whimper repeatedly. You were lost as you lay splayed out above him, eyes tightly shut, hands reaching for him, desperately pleading his name over and over. He bent down to you again, relishing the feel of your breasts brushing against his chest for one more moment before sinking his cock into your cunt with a brutal thrust, pushing clear to the hilt, making you scream. It was wicked, and he knew it, but also knew how much he had worked up your body and your mind, and he was rewarded as you arched beneath him, and wrapped your arms around his neck, adjusted your hips, and then rocked against him, clearly seeking more.

Holding you at the precipice of pleasure for so long meant you crashed into your first orgasm very quickly as he pushed his cock in and out of your, “tight heat, little lamb, taking me so well,” he cooed. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, shuddering as he fucked your through it, groaning at the feel of your walls around him. “No one else will ever have this cunt now,” he vowed. “You’re mine.”

“Mine,” you echoed without thinking, not knowing it was exactly how he wanted his pet to feel about him. He pushed you over the edge into another orgasm and then spilled his hot seed inside you not long after. You were beyond spent, at that point, and less than a minute after he scooped you up, tucking your legs around his waist, you dropped out of consciousness, and went totally limp. He kissed the top of your head, then shifted you to sling you over his shoulder for the trek to his lair – your home. He’d secure you there, then go back to the get the wooden crate of the belongings you had shipped ahead of you and the bag you had traveled with – both were supposed to be deposited and waiting in a cave, the final part of his negotiations for acquiring his new human from that village and their foolish leader. Humans were delicate creatures with peculiar needs, after all, and he was determined to keep you content and fucked out until you were devoted to staying with him until the end of your days.

But the last hour had exceeded even his own expectations. He suspected he wouldn’t have to try very hard to keep his little lamb.

NEXT PART: Do You Remember

"haunting thoughts" on Sacrificial for the Dark Forest Fest

brief insight into what reader's life is like now

physical appearance of Minotaur!Bucky

easy and challenging parts of writing the fic

the writing of the story from concept to completion in one night

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

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[vexwerewolf]

I always figured the Imperials were the good guys.

Nnnnnngh… no. Imperials are the better of two bad options, and it's really muddied because Bethesda lost its good writers years before Skyrim came out. I can feel a hyperfixation coming on, so a quick TL;DR: the Empire is an Empire so it's still bad, the Stormcloaks are just racist saboteurs led by a Manchurian agent and Tiber Septim is a gigantic piece of shit who ruined everything.

Okay, so the Empire functionally lost its equivalent of the Mandate of Heaven when Martin Septim died heirless at the end of Oblivion. His sacrifice forged a new compact to end the Daedric incursions, but by that point Imperial infrastructure throughout Tamriel had been so badly damaged that it could no longer maintain order. By the time the Mede dynasty got its feet under it, several provinces had either risen in revolt against the Empire or and were busy violently settling bitter generational rivalries with each other.

Most notably, this included the Thalmor, who are openly and proudly an Altmer supremacist movement. Their primary goal is to end the dominion of Men on Tamriel and institute a second Merethic Era dominated by them. This is the most obvious reason for why they want to ban Talos worship - the idea that a Man could become Divine is grossly incompatible with their worldview. (I must note that there's also a much-discussed fan theory stating that they intend to unmake creation in its current form and destroying Talos worship is part of that, but it's partially based on sources whose canonicity is in doubt, so I'm not going to discuss it further at this time.) The Thalmor are pretty much explicitly Elf Nazis, right down to invading foreign countries and rounding up their religious minorities.

It should be considered, however, that Tiber Septim was an UNBELIEVABLY MASSIVE PIECE OF SHIT. There's credible evidence that during his mortal life he assassinated the Cyrodillian monarch to whom he had sworn fealty and then seized his throne. He had a dalliance with Berenziah that ended up getting her pregnant, then forcibly abducted her and had the child aborted without her consent. After gaining Numidium from a treaty with the Tribunal of Morrowind, he discovered that they hadn't given them its power source (Lorkhan's Heart - understandable, since it was the source of their false divinity), and so he created a new one, the Mantella, by tearing the souls out of Ysmir and Zurin Arctus, two of his most loyal companions. He used Numidium to brutally conquer the rest of Tamriel and then turned it on all the noble families in Cyrodil who hadn't supported him. His empire - as all empires are - was built entirely on murder, pillage and rape. And - as all emperors do - he rewrote his own history because nobody dared openly oppose it. If the Aedra truly did award him a seat amongst them after this (and the fact that his bloody armor counts as "the blood of a divine" in Oblivion suggests that they did), it's questionable whether any of them are worthy of worship.

Nonetheless, worship of Talos was of extreme cultural importance to the Nords, because he was considered by history to have been a Nord, and indeed born in Atmora, the mythic first homeland of the Nords (although, again, it's likely he was just fucking lying - heterodox historical accounts suggest he was born in High Rock and never saw Atmora in his life). The White-Gold Concordat was formulated specifically to provoke division between the remaining provinces of the Empire - the Thalmor correctly predicted that the Nords would never tolerate being stripped of their right to worship Talos, and would rise in revolt against an Empire that mandated it.

The specific cause of the Stormcloak Rebellion is also… dubious. During the war with the Thalmor, the Imperial Legion had all but pulled out of Skyrim. This allowed an uprising by the Reachmen, an ethnic minority within southwestern Skyrim who, notably, had been brutally disenfranchised and stripped of their land by… Tiber Septim! Thanks, Talos, you continue to be a gigantic piece of shit! Anyway, they seized control of Markarth and held it for two years, during which by most accounts they ruled it as an independent kingdom that was making overtures towards being recognised by the Empire. After the signing of the White-Gold Concordat, Ulfric Stormcloak raised an army to retake it, and was promised by the Jarl of the Reach (and, allegedly, the Empire itself) that worship of Talos would be freely allowed in Markarth. Ulfric Stormcloak then proceeded to lay siege to the city and butcher it, ethnically cleansing the city of every last Reachman down to the women and children, slaughtering any Nord who had collaborated with them and allegedly even killing those citizens of Markarth who hadn't answered his call to arms.

Inevitably, the Thalmor found out about the Talos worship anyway and the Jarl was forced to sell out Ulfric and his men. This is generally considered to be the betrayal that sparked the civil war, but at this point we must examine who Ulfric is.

Ulfric was trained in the Thu'um from an early age by the Greybeards, but abandoned his tutelage to fight in the Great War. We know little of his performance other than that he was captured by the Thalmor, tortured extensively, and falsely made to believe that the information he had given under torture was instrumental in the fall of the Imperial City. His father, the Jarl of Windhelm, died while he was in prison, and he was forced to deliver a eulogy via a letter that he had smuggled out of the prison. He claims he escaped from captivity, while Thalmor records claim that they let him go intentionally; neither source is particularly reliable.

From a sociopolitical standpoint, Ulfric is a staunch Nordic traditionalist who openly states that he doesn't believe Skyrim has had a "true" High King for centuries, considering recent monarchs to simply be puppets installed by the Empire. He also seems to be deeply racist: in contrast to his father, he banned Argonians from entering Windhelm proper, confining them to the Assemblage on the docks, and he's allowed racist sentiments towards the Dunmer residents of the Grey Quarter to worsen. Even citizens of Windhelm who support the rebellion comment that isn't doing very much governing, since the civil war eats up most of his attention.

One point I will give to Ulfric is that establishing Skyrim as an independent kingdom that can actively resist the Thalmor isn't actually as far-fetched as it seems. After the White-Gold Concordat ceded half of Hammerfell to the Thalmor, Hammefell said "how about fuck you," broke from the Empire entirely, and smacked the Thalmor down so hard they had to sign the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai and retreat from Hammerfell entirely. This rendered the nation a haven for those opposed to the Thalmor, and they're in such a strong position that the Alik'r can actively hunt Thalmor collaborators like Saadia in other nations. Hammerfell is in a better position than Skyrim, and it did it without any Imperial aid.

(A hilarious fact about the Hammerfell situation is that the Thalmor tried the exact same thing there - inciting a civil war between the Crowns and the Forebears, two factions that have hated one another for generations. Unfortunately, they fucked it up so badly that it actually managed to end the rivalry and unite both of them against the Thalmor.)

But this is where Bethesda's inability to actually capitalize on the good parts of their writing really gets to me.

The Empire in Skyrim… sucks. Like, from your perspective as a player, the first experience you have of the Empire is "okay, so you were at the border alongside this guy and we're executing him today so I guess you get to die too." The only decent Imperial you meet is Hadvar, who makes a lukewarm plea for your life but doesn't press the issue.

All of the Imperial Jarls except for Balgruuf and Idgrod Ravencrone are dogshit. Elisif is a naive, incompetent teenager. Siddgeir is an arrogant, incompetent ponce. Igmund is a spineless Thalmor toady reigning over stolen land, having broken a promise he made to Ulfric and thus being partially responsible for the civil war. The replacement Jarls you get if you side with the Empire and conquer territories the Stormcloaks hold at the start of the game fall into two categories: "who?" and "oh fuck not you." If I say the names Brina Merilis or Kraldar, I bet you won't even remember who I'm talking about. Brunwulf Free-Winter, the replacement for Ulfric Stormcloak, has ONE personality feature and it's "I'm slightly less racist than Ulfric." But when you capture Riften for the Empire, the new Jarl is MAVEN FUCKING BLACK-BRIAR, THE SECOND-WORST PERSON IN SKYRIM.

But the Stormcloaks suck worse. Laila-Law Giver is a puppet for the Black-Briar crime family. Skald the Elder is a grumpy, hidebound old man. Korir might as well not be ruling anything at all. If you side with them, you have to sell out Balgruuf when the matter of Whiterun comes up - a man who has never been anything but helpful, supportive, trusting and forthright with you. Oh, and let's not forget that if you take the Reach for the Stormcloaks, the new Jarl is THONGVOR SILVER-BLOOD, LITERAL SLAVEOWNER AND WORST PERSON IN SKYRIM.

(There is an absolutely cursed timeline wherein during the "territory trade" at the peace talks you can hold during the main quest if you haven't finished the civil war quest yet where Maven gets the Rift and Thongor gets the Reach, meaning you have just installed the two most powerful crime families in the country into positions of executive power.)

This isn't just a case of "of course both sides aren't perfect and have issues." This is just "both sides fucking suck." A better game would allow you to make some headway in resolving the massive issues that face Skyrim, but I've already written like nine billion words here so maybe I should go into that at a different time.

[flower-cage]

To Serve

by @flower-cage Ao3 | Masterlist Aemond Targaryen x Servant!Reader Summary: That morning, the crown Prince entered the young Queen's chambers and changed your life forever.

Words: 3,768

Warnings: explicit sexual content, dubious consent, power imbalance, humiliation kink, voyeurism. Minors, do not interact.

Your new role of serfdom started not unlike that of attending to the needs and whims of the Dragons. Up before dawn, you ensured that dresses were washed and perfumed, jewelry and shoes polished. In the late morrow, you served tea to the Queen and her mother. At luncheon, you would have taken the chance, in their absence, to clean and tidy their chambers, had it not been for your newest promotion.

That morning, while his sister and mother broke their fast, the Prince entered the young Queen’s chambers and changed your life forever.

He had always paid you close attention. In truth, only seldom were you ever in the presence of the one-eyed Prince, but whenever chance brought you together, you felt his lingering, insistent gaze on the hairs in the back of your neck. Always. 

It did not take long for others to take notice of it, too. Often the maids would tease you for the interest you had awakened in the Prince known to be harsh and cold and cruel like a winter storm.

“You are fortunate he does not take after his brother’s depraved malversations,” you would often hear.

This was what the whole of Westeros knew of him back then, before the Dance.

That morning, you had twisted your hands in your apron, standing outside his door and garnering the strength to raise one of them to the wooden slabs.

“It is unlike my son to show interest in a lady,” the Dowager Queen had told you, clinking a silver teaspoon against fine porcelain, “or anyone at all, for that matter.”

Your guts knotted of their own accord. Your spine shuddered cold.

“I would like you to tend to his needs from now on,” she had announced easily, breaking apart a piece of crusty bread. “All of his needs.”

Now, you often wonder if she would have offered you so unashamedly if she had known he would mature into such an unscrupulous man. Or, you wonder most often, perhaps she had always known. Perhaps she had hoped he would satisfy his dormant savagery, then inhibited by a pretense of duty and propriety, if only she delivered him a feast before it fully wakened.

And feast he would, though his hunger would never be sated.

In the end, he would teach you everything you learned of this world of carnal indulgences.

That morning, he had risen leisurely from his seat of leather, strode to you lazily, smiled self-assuredly. You stood stoic, hands fidgeting and sweating behind your back, a half-step past his chambers’ door after courage and fear had finally coaxed you in.

He stalked toward you until his nose brushed yours faintly and your back rested against the cold wood. His eye roamed you freely, his masculine scent of leather and cedar crowded your senses, and your body shuddered beneath his desirous stance.

“I shall not take that which is not freely given,” his whisper tickled the shell of your ear, “and I shall not award what is not yet desired.”

His promise stretched on for days on end.

You tended to him much like you had his sister: tending to his chambers, washing his clothing, learning his habits. You served him wine at supper and tea in the morrow. You dressed him before Small Council meetings and bathed him after his daily practices.

Until you didn’t.

“Prince Aemond requests your services,” a familiar knight announces after rapping on the door.

You rise from where you have been sitting at your vanity table, combing your hair to a shine as is your Prince’s preference. You fix the sleeves on your dress, but it does not grant you any decency whatsoever, not when its translucent, iridescent silk ostensibly reveals the shape and shades of your bare body, not when the slit that travels up your right thigh cuts up to your hip bone. 

Such are and have always been your Prince’s preferences.

“Where is your uniform?” he asked you sternly when you met him at the training grounds.

He took the cup of fresh water from the tray you carried, gulping down its contents to then wipe his face and short hair with the towel you brought him.

“M-my Prince?” you asked timidly, breathless at the abrupt inquiry and at the sweat that glistened his pale skin.

“The dresses I gifted you,” he pressed, displeased. “I thought I made myself clear - you are to wear them henceforth. You are to solely wear them.”

His sharp gaze was menacing, surely, but the disappointment was there, too, hidden in the glint of his blue eye to chastise and guilt you. Though mortified at the improper implications of his demands, the thought of disobeying him was what truly shook you to the core.

The White Cloak takes you to a set of heavy doors which he pushes open to reveal King Aegon II’s Small Council. He was once the depraved son of King Viserys I, but he is no longer the exclusive bearer of such a title.

Your Prince sits to the left of the King now, across from the Lord Hand, in a great position of power. The Dance had reshaped many things in the Realm, and he had been no exception. 

He doesn’t cover his monstrous gash and sapphire stone like he used to when his mother was still alive. He hasn’t held many habits of propriety since. More scars cut across his milky skin, some even crawling from beneath his collar, and the long white mane he used to proudly maintain in honor of his heritage is kept short to enhance all of his additional, menacing features.

His body is that of a man, now: no longer slim and taut but large and burly from battle, and yet his most striking transformations had not been merely bodily.

You walk toward him surely but quietly, eyes fixed on him whilst he does not award you a single glance. He is engrossed in the scheming that does not halt at your entrance, but you know he wants you when you see his parted knees, when you see leather pulled tight over his stiff shaft.

His jaw is clenched tight and the fingers on his right hand fiddle around thin air, so you know to step silently between his parted legs and descend to your knees underneath the table. The rough fingers that do not worry over it snake around the back of your head to gently thread through your hair. He needn’t say nor command anything else.

You stroke him to full hardness, grazing your teeth against the base and running your nose along the shaft, to then unbutton him quietly.

He is as silky and warm as always against your tongue. He drags against your cheeks when you hollow them and his skin, taut around his swollen tip, pulls back and forth when you suck on it. You don’t recall when you first enjoyed his weight in your mouth this much.

You risk a glance at him. He pays you no mind, and his stoic façade gives away nothing, but his chest moves up and down rapidly and you know it means you’re being good. You suppress a whine at his modest appreciation.

He is impossibly handsome as he towers over you, gaze sharp and jaw tight as he ignores you. You want nothing more than his praise and attention, so you lick and please him slowly, lazily and patiently. He is busy, you remind yourself, and he will reward you when the time comes. He always does.

Between your thighs, your skimpy dress slickens with your arousal as it builds steadily to an insatiable ache. It has become second nature for your body to give in to him in this way, even when he has yet to touch you. He has trained you this way.

“Have you kept it wet for your Prince?” he whispers against your neck each time he comes back to his quarters in the early evening. 

The question is often accompanied by a slithering hand, like a snake that seeks warmth, it buries itself in your cunt to confirm it is to his standards. He hums in satisfaction each time.

“When in my presence,” he had told you once, depositing you in an armchair across his desk, “I want to marvel at my cunt freely,” he explained as he hooked your knees over the armrests and bunched your skirts around your waist.

And you awakened breathless, hours later, with his tongue licking inside you and his nose on your pearl of pleasure. 

You had stood no chance. To you, he is intrinsically bound to that feeling that crawls under your skin, that under his touch erupts in elation.

Now, you are wide awake and it is you who tastes him eagerly. 

When he begins to drip, hot and salted, your fingers grip his thighs harder as your own quiver in a need you haven't been able to control in a long time. You look at him again. His cheeks are hollowed, jaw locked shut, eyes slitted in fury.

The lords in the Small Council haven’t halted their discussion despite your interruption and it is clear what they discuss displeases your Prince greatly. If not, he might have not summoned you.

This is not the first time the Prince has had you in their presence, it is not the first time he has had you in the presence of others at all. If it had been, perhaps you would have been capable of greater shame.

When he took you in and you proceeded to tend to him exclusively, little of your customary routine changed. But when his demands started to reflect his true intentions, his true desires, it couldn’t be said you were a simple maid of the palace.

That first time, you had been brushing your hair at your vanity, as you often now did, and applying to your skin the feminine oils your Prince preferred. In an immodest lavender dress of his choosing and delicate jewelry he appreciated, you tended to yourself as he demanded.

The doors to his sleeping chambers push open to allow a small entourage of maids to set his breakfast - your breakfast. Your jerk reaction is to look away from them, the people who had once been your colleagues, and hide your healthy, pampered face. 

Your eyes land on his lavish, sunny balcony where he leans against the railing directly across from you. He loves to watch his beast terrorize the city below with her sky-bound rounds first thing in the morrow. But he watches her no longer.

He shines brightly and god-like under the sun; his messy short hair glows a halo above him, and the sapphire lodged on the left side of his face glints to highlight the cut of his scar like thunder. Despite the warmth of the morning shine, he is cold, white-cold, with his silver hair and porcelain skin, his milky chemise that reveals his milky chest, and his silky pants that bulk to reveal his salacious musings.

Your breathing quickens as you take him in fully, in all his terrifying, improper glory. Your hand holds your brush halfway through its path and your lips hang parted as he holds your gaze intently, as you watch him with a hunger that escapes your agency.

When he pushes off the stone ledge, you let your brush hit the floor. Such is the effect he has on you, such is the extent of his influence.

He drops to frame you within his arms, leveraging against the cushioned seat of your vanity desk, to take your lips in sloppy teasing, giving you just enough of a taste that something within you quivers wantonly.

Behind you, the porcelains and silvers continue to clink against the wood, chairs scrape across the stone, and heavy cloth slaps in the still air.

“What’s this, then?” he whispers and deprives you of his tongue too quickly. You grasp onto his strong arms to center yourself, breathing heavily against him. 

Fingers run up your inner thigh and you shiver violently, desiring him violently.

“Are you ashamed of serving your Prince?” he grins maliciously.

“O-of course not my-” you choke on a gasp when he brings his hot lips to your neck, sucking on the spots that have you dripping under your skimpy gown.

He takes your left knee and hooks it around his hip, pulling you flush against him as he presses you down on the long chaise. A yelp escapes you when you feel his hot girth against your cunt.

“Or are you ashamed of how thoroughly you enjoy it?” he grunts against your lips, thrusting his clothed bulge against you. You bite your lips closed painfully as you are painfully aware of the people behind you.

“I didn’t say you could leave,” he barks, glancing upward to your utmost horror. You hear the servants scurry behind you, imagining their bowed heads and embarrassed looks. Your own embarrassment grows until tears gather in the corners of your eyes.

“Not until she comes,” he adds, looking at you, grinning widely, while he snakes a hand between your legs and burrows his fingers deep inside in a swift stroke.

You burn in shame when your eyes roll to the back of your head and a long whine is forced out of your lips.

“It won’t be long now,” he continues, watching your tears spill, fucking your cunt fast, “she is wet and swollen already.”

Indeed, the noises coming from between your legs are excessively obscene. And he is right, he knows your cunt - his cunt - too well.

When he plugs you with his thick girth, you whine and moan in complete abandon. And when he plows you fast enough to make the chaise scrape against the floors, you scream and beg for him before soaking his cock in your unlimited ecstasy.

The first time he’s ever had you in the presence of others was long ago.

Now, you know that when his fingers tighten on your nape you are to release his hard cock quickly. You know to mount it instead.

You make quick, silent work of it not to disturb him and the processes of the court that still unravel behind you. You straddle his thighs, tuck your toes behind his knees, grip his leather vest tightly, and hide your face in the crook of his neck. The hand that had been in your hair now rests on your hip, thumb hooked under the scandalous slit of your dress to bury in the crease where your thigh meets your hip.

You count the time that passes in the drops of sweat that roll down your temple, in shaky breaths you rein against his skin, in the thrums of your blood.

Your cunt, dripping and dripping, quivers weakly around him. Though you refrain from moving and driving yourself to your insanity, it throbs on his shaft as you feel the mere ghost of his touch on your most pleasurable spot.

Your body aches with the effort of keeping composure, keeping quiet, keeping from breaking. And every time your Prince has input on the session that stretches on, his chest rumbles and you must refrain from mewling in satisfaction.

It is not until your mind is hazy with exhaustion and your eyes spill tears of agony that the heavy chairs start to scrape against the stone floors, one by one. Your heartbeats pick up their rhythm from where they had rested in patience. 

And when footsteps follow, he pulls your face from hiding by the sweaty hairs on the back of your neck.

A small yet immensely condescending smile plays on his sculpted lips. It makes you aware of your humiliating conditions: a servant, chosen to fulfill the pleasures of her liege Prince, at the brink of insanity from entertaining her own pleasures instead.

You are lost in his mismatched blue eyes, so much so that you are caught off guard when he starts shoving your hips back and forth to grind on his cock. Instantly, it drags a long gasp from you, crosses your eyes, waters your mouth.

“Hm?” he questions patronizingly, looking down with a raised eyebrow that mocks your lustful reaction.

His ministrations are excruciating, his cockhead bullying hard and unforgiving on your most pleasurable spot. In this way, you are violently driven to ecstasy, just shy of peaking with the same intensity, when he halts all movement without warning.

But you are given time to neither cry nor beg for his mercy, for he hugs you tight to his chest, angles your hips up and away from his cock, and thrusts.

You gasp painfully against his leather-covered pecs when he does, and he soon pulls your head back by your hair to place your chin against it instead.

Through your pleasure-hazed eyes, you see his mirth and his composure. And it is always this way: regardless of how eagerly he takes you, no matter how passionately he desires you, you are always the one debauched and he is always the one untarnished, always viciously becoming of his royal status.

“Go on then,” he murmurs when he watches your tears roll the sides of your face, your lips parted in unbearable pleasure. “Go on and cream on it.”

Because his growl electrifies you from within, because you’ve learned to be promptly obedient, because you cannot help it, you do as he commands.

Your cunt contracts so tightly, for a second his cock gets trapped mid-thrust before he repeatedly shoves himself inside you to forcefully ride the surges of your orgasm. Your loose chin bumps against his chest, leaving sloppy trails behind, and your breasts spill, little by little, from the flimsy restraint of the fabric that skates down between your bodies.

He loves to debase you in this way.

He doesn’t stop, and you are unable to determine when your first orgasm ends and the second starts to mount.

But he can.

He hisses when he feels it - your cunt throbbing again, dripping relentlessly - and bares his sharp teeth in a sneer, watching your glimmering, dopey eyes.

His grip on your hip strengthens, the arm that loops around your back to grasp your hair tenses, and he rises to his feet only to drop you unceremoniously onto the stone surface behind you.

“Gods,” he growls, slows his ministrations, and you savor every excessive inch of his, so evident now your cunt is hot and swollen from the long wait, from the incessant grinding. “I would keep you on my cock from sunrise to nightfall.”

He holds onto your hips, forcing them down against the table so that you don’t slide away from his calculated, powerful pushes, and watches his shaft disappear within you attentively.

“I would keep you on it,” he licks his lips, “at tea with my sister,” he meets your eyes again, after appreciating the uncoordinated bouncing of your breasts.

“On my morning flights,” he continues, lowering himself to hover above you, a hand pressed next to your head. “And I would carry you, and display you on my hard cock, all over this castle.”

He picks up his brutish pace again and you gasp and whine unabashedly, and new tears spill from your unfocused eyes, and your bottom lip quivers. Such is the effect of his praise.

“What’s that now, huh?” he coos, forcing a little sob from you, but you are unable to communicate. Instead, you part your lips and plead with big, wet eyes.

He lets go of your hip to support himself fully on his forearms, hovering a bit closer now. You can feel his warmth, now, you can scent his luscious exertion.

His nose brushes lightly against your own, just beyond reach, and you can’t avoid bending your back, tilting your chin, or your tongue poking out between your teeth, desperate for a taste.

His eye darkens significantly and he tuts in feigned disappointment.

“Needy little thing,” he murmurs, only to plunge his soft tongue right where you yearned for it.

His kisses are supple and sloppy and not enough to sate you. When he pulls away and you whine in agony, he lets his drool slide down his tongue and onto yours. And the debauchery of the act drives pathetic moans from your lips and desperate rolls of your hips.

Above you, your Prince moans and hisses, then plunges himself against your sweetest spot with renewed, unstoppable vigor. And yet again you cry pathetically, eyes crossing and mouth hanging open, tits flying and slapping, cunt gushing and thrumming.

“I fucking love it when you get like this,” your Prince grunts viciously behind gritted teeth, shoving his girthy length in and out without mercy for your sanity.

“Wet,” his hand lowers to grope your plump bottom, “hot,” he forces you against his unforgiving plows, “utterly dimwitted for your Prince’s cock.”

He loves to debase you in this way, and the response you manage is a string of blabbering, dimwitted pleas.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he grunts again, panting above you as his crazed movements and your lascivious reactions burn his muscular body, “I’d think you’re falling in love with it.”

“Oh, I am!” you yelp, long and loud, mind entirely lost in the bliss he fucks into you. “I love it… I love my Prince’s cock,” you whimper timidly against his lips and he angles his cock to bully that spongy, swollen button of yours.

“Yeeess,” you moan again. “There, there,” you beg with your cries and beseeching eyes.

You come on a scream that reverberates through the tall, stony walls of the Small Council room. And though your walls contract viciously, your Prince pushes through them determinedly, driving you to an immediate third peak that absolutely floods your cunt before he even dumps his hot seed inside you. 

You come on his cock long and hard, and you come still when he too finishes. And when he drops his weight onto you, finally, and his head thumps against the table next to yours, your cunt still flutters from the sensorial memory of the onslaught it endured.

Your skin is impossibly hot and sweaty, and your body impossibly exhausted.

And yet.

“Tonight,” your Prince starts after long moments of silence, raising his head only to meet your eyes, “we will hold a private audience for the King.”

Your body shivers cold, your eyes bulge out, but your cunt contracts around him meekly.

He watches you closely, with his eye delighted and a wide grin, malicious. 

“I want you just like this,” he warns, taking your jaw in a firm grasp, “on your best behavior.”

He loves to debase you, and you love to serve him.