β§Detailed and - I hope - literate multi-paragraph posts that try to match yours in length. I prefer 3rd-person past tense, but I'm open to being persuaded into 1st-person/present.
β§At least 1 reply per week. The nature of my work (musician) means I might be busy/travelling for days at a time but I'll still always try to give a heads up if that's the case.
β§Complete open-mindedness. I have no triggers and there is nothing you can say that will weird me out or offend me, so don't be embarrassed to share all your wildest plots, ideas, kinks, or interests (or your darkest jokes)!
β§Plotting and planning. The process of brainstorming a story can get me just as excited as the story itself. But if you prefer minimal plotting and more improv, then that has its own charm, too.
β§Patience. RP isn't the most important thing in our lives. We're all adults with real problems, so take your time, and if you feel like ghosting then I will welcome you back with open arms when you're ready <3
β§Grammar/punctuation/formatting. Now, I know this is easier for some than others and that that everyone is going to slip up (see what I did there?). That said, I can spot the difference between honest mistakes and a lack of care, and the latter is a turn-off for me.
β§Communication. We don't have to be best friends, but if we don't have chemistry OOC then we're not going to have chemistry IC. Talk smack, complain about your day, spam memes, and ask me inappropriate questions. Of course, everyone has different boundaries and you might not enjoy chitchat. There is nothing wrong with that, but it means I might not be the partner for you.
β§Honesty. Whether you want to try an unusual idea or are just not feeling the vibe or whatever else may be on your mind, please tell me <3 I want to know what you're thinking, and while I am ghost-friendly it'd still be better to hear "you suck noob I'm out" than nothing at all!
β§I don't have a story:smut ratio, but with some exceptions I generally prefer to let the story inform the smut. There's nothing more awkward than trying to force scenes where they don't belong. Want a quickie that gets the keyboard sticky? Amazing, but if we're crafting a proper story then the smut should happen naturally (if at all).
β§I won't write: anything against site rules; anything that goes in a toilet; hyper-violence (dismembering, breaking bones, snuff, etc.) in a sexual context (otherwise it's fine); cuckoldry. Everything else is open for discussion!
β§I love tension and build-up; sometimes the anticipation can be even more fun than the actual payoff.
β§I'm flexible when it comes to levels of description, so if you prefer to avoid certain words/terms, then let me know ahead of time.
β§Share your kinks with me as I will with you! If we're writing porn ("erotica"/"smut"/etc, let's call a spade a spade) together, what's the point in being shy? Got a fantasy or scenario you're itching to live out? Perfect, let's work it in.
These are our sagas - longer, open-ended stories that can be filled with smaller plot lines as we see fit and which can conclude in any number of ways. There are opportunities to flesh out the lore, explore backstories and internal conflicts, and include a variety of side characters. They give us a chance to create a universe together and to fill it with various sub-plots (who knows, perhaps entirely new spin-off RPs or sequels set in the same world). Of course, if you like the idea of one of these prompts but would prefer a shorter version, instead, just let me know!
β§ Chromeo and Juli.exe β Assassin x Target, Sci-fi/Cyberpunk, Dystopian, Adventure, Romance, Enemies-to-Lovers
In a distant future where ultracorporations rule the world(s), one particularly powerful family lets slip its grip on power when its leader and heir apparent mysteriously vanish. Not knowing when or if they'll return, and with nobody at the helm to keep the lesser families in check, political chaos ensues. YC is next in line to the family's throne, wealth and power vast enough to change the course of history about to be at her fingertips. Seeing an opportunity, the ambitious heads of other guilds plot their next moves - YC is an unknown variable, and they want her out of the way. Each house makes its play, sending their agents and assassins after her. With so many resources at YC's disposal, most plots are foiled, but some are bound to slip through the cracks. MC is the scion of a smaller, more obscure house and leads a group of elite operatives. He has been tasked to bring YC back alive as his family's political hostage and pawn. He succeeds in snatching her away. Only now he finds himself having to escort an unruly prisoner out of hostile territory, pursued not just by YC's loyalists, but by rival families, independent mercenaries, and pirates. Despite being enemies, the unlikely pair might have to reluctantly work together just to survive all manner of deadly obstacles. But will MC succeed in bringing her home as a captive or fail and end up her prisoner? Will they find common ground whilst on the run? Do they even want to return home at all?
β§ Blood Bonds β Vampire x Human/Master x Servant, Modern/Fantasy, Romance, Jealousy, Tragedy, Dubcon
Strolling through town one night, a passerby saves a young woman (YC) from a desperate situation. He seems to take a liking to her, and in return for rescuing her asks if she'll work for him as a maid/housekeeper. He's the very picture of a gentleman, charming, confident, and it doesn't hurt that he offers to pay her good money, so YC agrees. Unbeknownst to her, however, the man (MC) is also a powerful vampire, new to the city after having been chased from his home by vampire hunters. He's been on the run for far too long now, and decides to claim this region as his territory and make a stand. But he needs new thralls to support him and blood to keep him strong. There's something in YC's veins that piques his interest, and he realises she shares the same blood as one of the hunters pursuing him. Though she is at first ignorant of his true nature (and of the fact he's been feeding on her in her sleep), the longer YC spends in MC's presence, the more his vampiric aura strips her of any ability to resist his will. She finds herself doing him favours she never thought she would, maybe believing that she's simply falling for him. Before long, she might even begin to enjoy the ecstatic feeling of him feeding upon her, and eventually she will become his thrall, utterly enslaved to him and grateful for her chains. What will happen then when her relative - the vampire hunter - finally tracks MC down? Will YC fight for her vampire's love, even if it means having to watch family die, or will those familial bonds overcome MC's seductions? Will she be able to survive in the cross-fire of a vampire and its hunter, and would MC fight to protect his favourite pet or is she simply another pawn to him?
β§ Romance in the Three Kingdoms β Bodyguard x Noble, Historical/Fantasy, Politics, Action, Enemies-to-Lovers
It is a time of political chaos, where feudal lords oversee their territories with an iron grip and vie for those of their neighbours. Alliances are easily made and broken, skirmishes along borders are the norm, and traitors and spies lurk in every corner. YC, whether through political machination, inheritance, or conquest has just secured a foothold on lands of her own and must now contend with rivals in the grander game. MC, a high-ranking warrior from YC's latest annexation, is pushed into service to her either as a general or personal bodyguard. He'll do his duty, but has plans of his own to overthrow her and reclaim the independence of the region she now governs. He must choose his moment carefully in light of the leverage she has over him, and so bides his time. But, as they come to know each other, will MC come to grow loyal towards YC and share her vision for the land? Will the two grow closer than mere duty or will the divide between them only deepen? And, as the grand game draw to a close, will they fight side-by-side against literal armies of foes, or meet head-to-head on the battlefield, instead? Or do they abandon it altogether and retire to a life of peace?
This is inspired by the Three Kingdoms era of China and Feudal Japan, and can be set in either of the two or in a world of our own making. The main ideas to pursue are the state of constant conflict (both political and military) and fantasy elements coming into play through the almost superhuman feats and abilities of the heroes of the story - legendary warriors, strategic geniuses, powerful mystics, etc. The roles of the characters here can also be swapped/changed as desired (e.g. both could be generals on opposing sides, MC could be the lord and YC forced to be his concubine, etc.)
β§ Behind Blue Lies β Detective x Killer/Hunter x Hunted, Modern, Action, Psychological, Violence
MC is a detective, or... a facsimile of one. He's disinterested in the work, not all that bright, hopelessly lazy, shows up late (if at all), misses deadlines, and does the bare minimum asked of him. That is until some new hot-shot detective (YC) transfers in from another precinct to be MC's new partner. Though she drags him around with her, he's happy to sit back as she does the heavy lifting, but he eventually has to accept that she's good at what she does. Too good. Lately, an old serial killer has resurfaced, and it's our detectives' job to find and put a stop to them. Thanks to YC's keen skills and relentless determination, they manage to get close, but this masked killer is good, too, and always seems to be one step ahead. YC finds herself falling for his traps, suffering all manner of painful, psychological, twisted tortures as a result, and each time MC has to come to her rescue. Over time, a bond deeper than mere partnership starts to form between them, and MC becomes worried about YC's obsession. But she still refuses to give up. She can't. She has a history with this killer and she's getting closer day-by-day. Unfortunately, the closer she gets, the crueller his machinations become. It's clear the psychopath is toying with her, turning her life into a living hell for his own amusement. And to make things worse, her useless, loveable indolent of a partner keeps disappearing and won't answer her calls. Typical. As the final confrontation draws near, who will have the upper hand? Just how much is YC willing to sacrifice to catch the monster? Her sanity? Her life or the life of her new partner and lover? Wait... where did he disappear off to, anyway?
Our more condensed roleplays that tend towards darker and/or smut-heavier stories and where in-depth backstories or side characters are optional. They favour individual scenes over extended plot lines, facilitate improvisation, and may have an ending in sight. The roles (YC/MC) and character details (motivations/histories/careers/etc.) are entirely flexible and can all be switched around and customised as suits us. They're not necessarily one-shots, but they are for those who might want more action and less time commitment. If you like the idea of one of these prompts being more long-term, however, just say the word!
β§ A Liturgy of Lenses β Artist x Muse/Dominant x Submissive, Modern, Exhibitionism, Romance
β§ The Wrest Pin β Summoner x Summoned/Taboo x Taboo, Modern/Fantasy, Supernatural, Dubcon/Noncon
We all know what happens when one gazes into the abyss, don't we? Whether YC knew what she was doing or not when she chanted from the book of occult wisdom makes little difference. In the end, the entity (MC) broke free of its eldritch bindings and found its way into the world where it attached itself to YC. Maybe she's able to control it at first, to make it do her bidding, but it's just a matter of time before the tables are turned against her. Once that happens, how will this demon enact its vengeance? Maybe it starts off as just a trickster, hiding her things, causing her to be forgetful, giving her hallucinations, or afflicting her with bizarre urges. Perhaps it can occasionally even take her own body as its own, forcing her to engage in all manner of shameful activity while she's made to see, feel, experience it all as a passenger. Who knows, maybe it decides to instead possess her closest friends, colleagues, college professors, the creep under the bridge, and even her own dear family. It might even be strong enough to manifest a terrifying physical form of its own. The question is: will YC fight tooth and nail against this entity, or will she succumb to the madness and learn to embrace it?
β§Stolenβ Kidnapper x Victim/Pirate x Captive, Medieval, Action, Adventure, Noncon
Their convoy beset by bandits on the road back to the capital, a young noblewoman (YC) is taken as a hostage by the leader (MC). Do they know that the woman holds a high position in the capital? Is she a princess or a wealthy merchant's daughter? Or do they just like the look of her? Whichever it is, she soon discovers that there is no honour among thieves, and each barbarous member of the band wants their slice of fun with her. Will they take turns torturing and abusing her as a free-use slave while she's tied to a post in the centre of the camp? Or does the bandit leader's possessiveness mean she's forced to remain chained up in his own private tent as a personal toy. And when tensions start to boil and the villains begin to turn on each other, will she manage to slip out in the confusion, or will she suffer more than ever in the cross-fire? Or will she find herself in an uneasy alliance with the bandit leader as they make their escape together, pursued through the wilderness by a mob of vengeful criminals?
Happy to substitute this for a pirate theme, too!
β§ Your Biggest Fan β Dominant x Submissive/Taboo x Taboo, Modern, Dubcon
YC comes from a conservative household, but has always had a rebellious streak in her. She's a bratty, arrogant, self-centred, promiscuous bully who never did that well academically and leeches off her family's money. Lately, however, she's started selling all manner of untoward content online. An array of solo videos make the rounds on porn sites, her private OnlyFans has accumulated a decent horde of thirsty men and women, and she even occasionally performs live as a cam model. So far she's done well to keep the whole thing hidden from her family, but what happens when her brother (MC) discovers her secret? After years of torment at her hands, he sees it as an opportunity to get payback. He could rat her out to their parents.... It would put the family business at severe risk, they'd be forced to cut ties with their daughter and shut off the allowance they pay her. That'd be too easy, though, and she'd probably do anything to avoid being cast out of the family like that. Anything. MC wonders if it might be just desserts to turn her into his toy for a while.
The brother/sister dynamic seems most fitting to me here, but the relationship can be changed completely depending on limits/preferences (i.e. they could be step-siblings, stepfather x daughter, neighbours, family friends, professor x student etc.).
β§ Glad of Your Chains β Owner x Slave, Modern/Medieval, Supernatural, Romance/Dubcon/Noncon
YC's species, whether angel, demon, shapeshifter, fairy, vampire, or any other manner of anthropomorph are not only real but have been integrated into society. The one condition for living amongst humans: it is as a slave. They must be fed and sheltered and can't be seriously injured, harmed, or neglected. But in every other sense, they are property. MC is a human who has recently come into possession of YC and is faced with having to simultaneously care for and find a use for his new pet. Will he assert himself and use her as little more than an object? Make her sleep in a cage and eat from a bowl? Or will he be more good-natured and treat her as an equal in all but law - nurture and look out for her, perhaps grow to love her at home while keeping up appearances and leashing her in public? And how will YC handle the situation? Will she fight tooth and nail, possibly even try to kill her new master for her freedom, thrash against her chains like a beast? Or is she more accepting of her position for what it is? Whether this heats up to a brutal master-slave dynamic, something more mutual, something more tender, or an unlikely romance that draws the ire of society is entirely up to us. What sort of slave do you want to be?
β§Abattoirs (WIP)β Kidnapper x Victim, DM vs Player, Horror, Action, Puzzles, Violence, Improv
YC wakes up, her surroundings gloomy and unfamiliar. How or when she got there she has no idea, she just knows that she's in danger and needs to escape. She surveys her surroundings: Is YC in an ethereal fantasy forest populated by orcs, elves, imps, and all manner of strange beasties out to get her? Is she far underground in a labyrinthine dungeon filled with spirits and demons that will torment her not just physically, but mentally? Or is she trapped in an enormous castle in the mountains, alone but for the ancient, malevolent vampire that wants to keep her there for an eternity? Maybe she's in an insane asylum, surrounded by unruly, unstable, unpredictable inmates - only... the staff seems to have abandoned the place and locked her in with the patients. One thing is for sure, I'm going to do my best to torture, maim, trap, and kill YC, and you've got to write her free.
Rules:
This would be a slightly different type of roleplay in that I (or you) will take the role of a DM who is actively trying to defeat the player. The DM is bound by their own rules, and although they can throw any number of grim surprises or obstacles at you (within reason), each obstacle must have a vulnerability you can use to write yourself free with (e.g. Some crazy with a knife is chasing you, but he keeps bumping into walls - could he be blind? How do you avoid a blind person?). Likewise, you are limited only by your imagination, but the DM will be responsible for determining what affect it has on the story. For example, want to suddenly sprout wings and fly out of the forest? Too bad, giant bats are waiting for you and catch you. Before the challenge begins, the DM will have at least 1 path to victory for you (e.g. "the window on the 2nd floor is open" - this means that should you find yourself on the 2nd floor, the DM may let you know that "a slight breeze blows from the east corridor". It's up to you to decide which clues are worth following or which might be traps. Warning: the DM is trying to stop you, not just give you a whacky roller-coaster adventure. YC will end up broken, beaten, bruised, bloody, deformed, defiled, or dead before she escapes. This is a fledgeling idea and more details can be discussed in private.
A collection of pairings, settings, and genres from which you can choose any combination you like (e.g. Pirate x Captive Dystopian Enemies-to-Lovers / Taboo x Taboo Modern Romance / Professor x Student Fantasy Adventure / Doctor x Patient Sci-fi Horror / etc.) for any length (long/medium/one-shot) of roleplay you like. These are just examples to help get creative juices flowing and so if you have another idea not listed on this thread, please approach me with it!
β§ Pairings β
Vampire x Human
Pirate x Captive
Professor x Student
Artist x Muse
Doctor x Patient
Summoner x Summoned
Kidnapper x Victim
Spy x Crime Boss
Hunter x Hunted
Master x Servant
Dominant x Submissive
Divine x Mundane
Bodyguard x Noble
Cultist x Innocent
Bounty Hunter x Bounty
Detective x Killer
Assassin x Target
Owner x Slave
Taboo x Taboo
Commoner x Royalty
β§ Genres/Settings β
Fantasy
Sci-fi/Cyberpunk
Dystopian
Romance
Action
Modern
Enemies-to-Lovers
Medieval
Supernatural
Medieval
Horror
Psychological
Tragedy
Adventure
Historical
β ππππ πππ€π₯πππ β This is a collaborative endeavour, so making sure our styles mesh is important. You may find prompts you like here but realise from my writing that we just won't click (or vice versa, in which case message me with your ideas <3) - it's usually better to discover that before starting than afterwards. So with that in mind, here are a couple samples taken from recent stories for all you sommeliers!
In the heart of a tempestuous sea, jagged lightning fractured the inky night like the roots of a cosmic tree, revealing a ghostly vision of a once-majestic royal galleon, its sails torn and timbers burning and groaning in their final lament. Against this backdrop of carnage, Captain Arthur Lyre's frigate, Scylla, loomed like a shadowy leviathan, her black sails taut and her gilded oak hull smeared with the wounds of countless violent conquests.
Lyre's crew, a grotesque assembly of scarred and weather-beaten pirates, relished in the chaos. Their laughter, cruel and derisive, almost drowned out the cacophony of the storm and the desperate pleas β one by one silenced β of the sinking galleon's crew. The corsairs, with tattoos etched in dark histories and eyes that gleamed with malevolence, were the incarnate nightmares of every seafarer. Merchants dreaded their sails on the horizon, privateers sought elusive refuge from their wrath, pirate hunters often became the hunted, and, as evidenced by their most recent victory, even the crown's own warships weren't safe from their voracity. In the throes of their raid, the crew's lust for spoils was only slightly sated. Their pockets jingled with loot and their spirits were intoxicated by victory and grog alike. Yet, as with every conquest, their ravenous eyes sought more.
From the depths of the burning wreckage, Lyre's raiders managed to extract a single rare jewel beyond the standard fare. A trembling young woman, her dress as elegant as it was sodden, shimmered in the erratic flashes of lightning. Her appearance was stark amidst the grime and brutality aboard Scylla; she stood at a height dwarfed by many of the crew, donned a gown probably worth more than their lives, and exuded a flavour of femininity the men hadn't sampled in months. Though her identity remained to be established, the richness of her garments and her overall... cleanliness hinted at a life far removed from the vulgarities of piracy.
Dragging her over the gunwale and onto the wet, slippery deck by her hair, Captain Lyre towered over her. A thin scar arced along his temple like a crescent moon around piercing brown eyes, under which a healthy jawline bristled with stubble. His dark hair, lightly streaked with grey, lay matted by the relentless rain and slicked back to keep it out of the way. Any semblance of dignity he might have possessed was overshadowed by the mad ruthlessness that walked in his wake. With corded muscles that testified to a life of hardship hauling rope, crossing blades, and steering vessels, his hold on the girl was absolute. She could kick, she could bite, she could scratch and flail, it wouldn't matter in the end β she was a kitten in the jaws of a hound, and she was his to shred, to puncture, to flay, to toy with, and to share.
"Look here, gentlemen," he shouted with a sneer, his voice booming over thunder and sea, allowing the last word to drip with mocking irony β for they were practically more beasts than they were men. The crew gathered around him, cutlasses in their hands and damnation in their eyes. "Seems we've snatched a diamond from the depths." The air grew electric, thickened not just by the storm but by the collective anticipation of the rewards this new trophy might bring the group. A wave hit the hull, covering the deck with spray, and lightning flashed again, highlighting the diversity of Lyre's medley of henchmen. They looked to have been recruited from every corner of Earth and Hell, men of all shapes, colours, sizes, cultures, and dispositions, but all united under the singular barbarous charm of their leader. The captain hoisted the woman to her feet by those ordinarily beautiful locks, his other hand going around her throat for a surer grip as he released her mane. Lyre's fingers, large and strong, enclosed around her slender neck almost entirely as he brought her face close to his. "So, who are you, pretty thing? Spill your name and your worth before I make you regret being plucked from that abyss."
"It don't bloody matter who she is! Look at 'er, boss, we ought to keep 'er for ourselves," came the opinion of the wiry cook, a salacious grin revealing missing teeth. "Some of us been months without the taste o' meat." A few hollers of agreement sounded over creaking wood as the ship lulled over the waves.
"She'll be worth more if we sell her off unsullied, Arley, you dim fucking oaf," a larger crewmember retorted, his voice a deep bass. "With the coin we'll get from the likes of her we could each bed ten Port Royal whores a night!"
"Throw her to the sharks!" a third cried out. He spat on the deck, glaring at his shipmates. "Bad luck to have a woman aboard." Then the bickering, shoving, and threats to do harm began in earnest. Arthur Lyre didn't seem the least bit fazed, for he knew he could rein them in at a word if he so chose.
"It seems we're at a stalemate, little bird, as to what we should do with you," he taunted, speaking to her directly while his crew debated with each other in the background. "Look at them. Perhaps I should throw you to them. Let them fight over you like dogs o'er a bone. Or," he rumbled, voice tender as a rose and twice as barbed. "Tell me what I wish to know and I'll see to it you spend the night in my cabin instead of out here in the rain... Well?"
The girl was not to know just how twisted his promises were.
A terrible voice thundered through the void, consuming every sense and every thought all at once. It soundedβ¦ timid, unsure, naive, but the words themselves carried an inexorably compelling power, as though each spoken syllable could twist and morph the fabric of the universe itself. And at each horribly poetic utterance, it did. The endless black plateau of perdition began folding in on itself in kaleidoscopic fashion, the string of chanted words creating forms and shapes where there was once emptiness, sounds where there was once silence, pleasure where there used to be only agony, weakness where there was strength, freedom where there was only punishment, and truth where there were only lies. Then, when the final phrase echoed out of existence and the logos was no more, he was suddenly somewhere else β in a living world where there was once only a hell.
Sights, sounds, smells, flavours of all kinds, life and death, all around him. Ah, yes. He'd caught glimpses of this place many times through the transient windows of the void. He wondered how long it'd been since he was last here; a century? A millennium? It was impossible to tell, but now it seemed he was free to walk this mortal plane once again, to inhale its fear, taste its sorrow, drink its lust, and feed off its pain. And he was starving. As a shark sniffing blood, he followed the trail of emotions suffusing in his surroundings, and in doing so he caught a proper look to where he'd arrived. He was in some sort of room. Coloured walls, a ceiling with a chandelier, and a floor several feet below him. I see, the entity mused, only then noticing he was missing arms, legs, a body at all. He was too weak to yet take physical form, and was little more than a spectre, a smoky shade. In time he would be able to manifest his true body, but for now... food, he needed food. There did appear to be several hosts - meals - around him, but their negative emotions were far too tepid to truly sustain him β his diet was terror, ecstasy, pain, not these meagre insecurities and petty cruelties. In the distance he thought he sniffed out the familiar, rapacious needs of an abuser. Perfect. He made a beeline for it, but some force stopped him, pulling him back to that same boring room. Then the sudden realisation dawned on him, and all his elation at being gifted back to the world of the living vanished with it. He wasn't freed at all. Just the opposite - he was bound as tightly as ever. Rage replaced joy as he hunted for the soul he'd been tethered to, unable to deny the inevitable truth; it was the girl with the frail insecurities. Disgusting.
He circled her like a vulture over a corpse, little more than a fleeting shadow on the wall to her eyes. He sensed no malice in her, no deep-seated scorns or vengeful desires, only the faintest glimmer of envy and perhaps a drop of frustrated lust. Was she even aware she'd summoned him at all? In any case, it was clear he would have his work cut out for him if he was to be forced into feeding from such a paltry source. Humiliation and anger wracked him as he cursed the foul chant that dragged him here in golden chains. He was no middling demon to be roped to a maggot, but if she wanted to pull him from his hell, he supposed, then he'd bring hell with him.
"You..." he purred slowly, his voice nothing more than an inaudible, grating whisper in the girl's head. With the tired strength of a newborn after his summoning, even communicating took an effort, but though words may have failed him, the malevolence seeping out of them was palpable. "You⦠you, you, you, you, you..." The demon paused, intangible synapses slowly remembering how to speak. "You⦠think you can⦠bind me?"
He daren't endeavour to reveal any sort of form to her yet, not while he was so lacking in sustenance, but he could at least let his influence drift into her psyche. To make her feel what he wanted her to feel; a cold, sharp finger trailing down her spine, the air around her starved of temperature, a phantom itch on her skin. He was still strong for an incubus, however, and very ancient. Even now at his weakest he had confidence enough to attempt a possession - to take over a human body and make them puppets of his spirit, if only for a short time. One thing that might, in times past, have hindered him from doing so would have been the devil-cursed leash that kept him connected to his summoner. But this period of history was overcrowded, and he wagered there'd always be a meat-sack within reach. There were other humans beside the woman in this building now, he realised, several of whom close enough for him to possess. But he was a patient predator, one who'd broken kings, queens, warriors, monks, and the fiercest of souls, and he would not rush into a mistake now.
No, for now, his would be the lips breathing against her ear. His would be the eyes staring ever-presently at the back of her head. His would be a thousand rotten hands, at each moment grasping to reach her. His would be the face in her nightmares, and the cold sweat that wakes her from them. He read her name in her mind.
"Mmmmβ¦. Lilith," came his voice again, a sigh this time, the word leaving a sweet, sentimental taste on his tongue. "Lilithβ¦. Lilithβ¦. Do youβ¦ know what I am?"
Overhead, what looked in the fading evening light to be a red-tailed hawk swept a juvenile pigeon out of the sky, trapping it within its talons before gliding to the ground to enjoy the spoils. And below, a small cottontail capered from bush to bush, pausing occasionally to twitch its nose at the air, blissfully unaware that it was heading into the ambush of a camouflaged rattlesnake.
It's just survival of the fittest, eh, Aiden thought to himself as he watched nature in all its cruelty, blood-stained teeth bared in a grim smile. Seems I'll be joining you two shortly. For some reason unbeknownst to him, though maybe because he was talking to animals in his head, he wanted to chuckle. When his diaphragm tightened, however, all that came out was a sputtering, crimson cough. Fuck, won't even get the chance to laugh before I die.
Too fatigued to bother spitting, the blood just dripped from Aiden's lip onto the mount he rode. One of the horse's ears pointed forward, the other back towards its rider, perhaps concerned at the grim sounds and scents coming from him. The stallion was exhausted, too, having ridden hard for days, and could now sustain no more than a slow walk as it navigated around boulders and thorny brush off the beaten path - for there was no path here. The two had little in way of direction other than a distant row of buildings blurred by heat haze, behind which a red sun set. Reaching those buildings was nothing more than a faint hope, a false hope, but fuck it, what other choice was there but to try? With a wince, Aiden lifted the hem of his shirt, filthy now with blood and grime, to take another peek at the injury that was slowly but surely killing him. The side of his stomach was a smear of garnet; a deep, open gunshot wound inches from his navel the source.
"Ugh, fuck, shouldn't have looked," Aiden groaned, bringing his bleary gaze back to the horizon. The buildings didn't appear to be moving any closer at all, and he was getting so very tired. "Sorry, buddy," he croaked to his horse, lungs struggling at each word. "Seems like you might have to take care of yourself for a while." He fell forward, a mane for his pillow. "I'm just gonna have aβ¦ quick napβ¦ just forβ¦." The world went black.
Walden County was for the most part empty, with only a few population centres, none of them worth even qualifying as a city, and none of them particularly interesting. The region's diverse topography, consisting of plains, steep cliffs, and woods made it a popular for farming and hunting, and sometimes for outlaw refuges, though the lack of wealth passing through the province meant that little trouble found its way into the towns. One hub of civilisation, a frontier mining town called Morray, was neither especially large nor especially small and sat a fair distance inside the county borders. It was somewhat isolated, having no railroad to connect it commercially and very little with which to attract transient visitors. But it was growing, thanks in large part to the success of its mines and farms, and it was trending to overtake the neighbouring towns in population. For some, namely business owners and tradesmen, this was a good sign. For other citizens who enjoyed the peace and isolation, less so. More wealth, more people, more trouble. It seemed they were to be proven right as a scruffy, unconscious rider was carried within Morray's boundaries late one evening on the back of his chestnut horse.
An impact shook Aiden awake. Wait, was he awake? He tried to open his eyes, but even this he struggled to do, and he saw naught but darkness. Grass? he thought he smelled then. Huh, I guess I fell. Oh well. He made an effort to roll onto his back. At least he'd die looking at the stars.
"Hmm? Where are the stars�" he whispered, half-dead, not aware he was speaking aloud at all. He saw no sky, no stars, just a face. The world went black again.
Consciousness came and went from him for some time, enough for him to know he hadn't passed on, but not enough to understand much of anything else at all. Sounds and voices drifted into his ears now and then, any words they carried unrecognisable to him. And while he was too detached from himself to contemplate what it meant, he could sense someone's hands on him, feel the cool moisture of water touch his lips, a gentle breeze kiss his face. Then, after who knows how long, he mustered the strength to lift his eyelids, only to find himself in a wholly unfamiliar room, before a wholly unfamiliar face.
It was now two in the morning, the storm giving every indication that it would last long through the night, perhaps even continue into tomorrow and the days to follow. A flash of blue cast strange shadows around the room, and distant thunder roared in its wake. Lysander stared into the flames from the comfort of his armchair, patiently waiting β listening β for something through the crackle of the fireplace.
Ah, there it is. Ophelia's heartbeat had slowed, her breathing had evened, and the rustling of the sheets had ceased. Finally asleep. Lightning struck again, but by the time the thunderclap had faded, the lounge armchair sat empty and the door to the guest room had cracked open. The vampire's presence seemed to strangle light out of the bedchamber, leaving it in cold, stygian darkness, with weak moonlight as the only beacon of visibility. He towered above his sleeping victim, two burning spheres peering down at her from beside the bed. Were she to wake now, she would see death staring back at her, or nothing at all. But she did not stir. She was wearing his shirt β and it appeared very little besides β and seemed entirely comfortable.
Lowering himself to the sleeping woman, dulcet fragrances of soap and shampoo brushed him. The warm shower would have softened and sweetened her skin, for his palate was attuned to tastes beyond just the red nectar within her veins, and an unsavoury, sweaty surface might ruin the entire dish. White, pointed fangs flashed in the dark and descended upon her, twin swords of Damocles heralding doom, and they bit true. The blades punctured flesh, then paused. Lysander was no ravenous beast starved for a meal, and would feed with the patience of eternity. Before he would even taste her blood, he would allow his saliva to take effect. It would serve as anaesthetic to dull pain into little more than the sting of a needle, as a salve to heal the wound and hide the scenes of his crimes, and as a narcotic to muddle the mind and turn the experience into one of bliss. A hand went gently to the woman's forehead to still her, for it would not do for her to suddenly thrash or turn in her sleep and open her throat upon his teeth. To an onlooker, the act might've appeared as an intimate kiss rather than a feeding, and in many ways it was. Then Lysander's lips sealed around the bite, his tongue pressed against her skin to catch any stray droplets of blood, and he bit deeper.
As the very first beads of life-giving fluid hit his taste buds, his eyes snapped open and his undead heart reacted in something close to panic. He'd sampled this blood before. Years ago. No, not quite the same. A relative? A close relative. A sibling. Yes, a brother. The flavour was almost overwhelming; rich, dense, addictive, even if only because it was that of an enemy. A vampire hunter. Unwelcome memories and hatreds resurfaced in Lysander's mind. An onslaught of pains, regrets, and violences. His pupils flared into black pits as his reason ebbed, and fingernails grew to talons as the cursed carnivore inside him fought against its chains. It took everything in him not to rip open the girl's neck and gulp down every molecule of her sweet ruby plasma then and there. To shred and flay her to ribbons as if in the jaws of a feral wolf and leave her nothing more than a mangled, ragged pile of meat and cartilage upon the bed. To bite through her bones and suck their marrow while she wept tears of horror. To chew apart her tongue as she gawked into his eyes, then reach inside her and crush her lungs to drink the bloody cough from her lips. To make her scream her death beneath him while he ravaged her then crack her brain from her skull. He could do it. Take his vengeance.
No, he should do it. It would be safer to eliminate her now. Ensure no word might be uttered to those ungodly devils who called themselves hunters. While she gave no impression of being a hunter herself β what if he was wrong?
But what if he wasn't wrong?
No, he was sure. He wasn't wrong.
And so, instead⦠what more perfect revenge, what stronger shield, would there be than to keep the kin of his enemy as a pet. A thrall. For it was that very same cadre of hunters who had butchered his previous family, who'd chased him from their home as a vagrant, who'd forced him to start anew in this unfamiliar town. He detached himself from his food and took a breath, white teeth glazed red.
Yes, a pet. That will do nicely.
To start his new family with the ashes of those who'd murdered his last would be poetry. After a long minute of contemplation, the storm picking up to rattle the window before subsiding again in an eerie reflection of his mood, he returned to Ophelia. His feeding would be gentle, and she would wake to see the morning. Lysander's hand returned to her forehead, and his other went beneath the sheets to her waist. Then she stirred, but he wasn't worried. They often stirred.
On this perfect midsummer's day, the Earth was painted in vibrant, multi-tone acrylics under Sol's golden embrace. Sunbeams filtered through clouds, leaves, and buildings, dappling oceans, forest floors, and city streets. On coastlines, sparkling waves kissed shores, drawing serene patterns in the sand, only to erase them moments later. In lush meadows, bees and other insects buzzed lazily between flowers bursting with life. And in harmonious cities, friends chatted by coffee shops, while lovers snoozed comfortably under the shades of healthy oaks. Somewhere, a family enjoyed their regular picnic in a field, with chequered blankets sprawled beneath baskets and patterned tableware, as birds sang overhead. Blissful parents observed two young siblings scuffling and giggling in their play fight, pulling sticks from trees and stumbling over the homes of tiny creatures beneath their feet without a care. In that gentle moment, the world seemed untouched by any greater worry than the simple day-to-day.
As the afternoon progressed, a peculiar sense of unease settled. Shadows elongated, and the air grew cooler, an anomaly on a summer's day. Then, an oddity β a mere flicker on the horizon at first β began to pull at the attention of those who chanced to look skyward. They dismissed it as a trick of the light, an unusual cloud formation, or perhaps the soft glint of a distant satellite. But the oddity expanded, morphing into brilliant streaks in the sky β a kaleidoscope of swirling, dancing colours, brighter and more vivid than the Northern Lights or any known stellar phenomenon. Millions of faces, previously occupied with terrestrial concerns, now stared into the vast expanse above. The azure watercolours of the firmament began to warp, tear, and bleed into an otherworldly palette, signalling the arrival of something profoundly beyond comprehension. Before long, a pair of vast and contrasting shapes emerged against the cosmic backdrop, as gasps and cries echoed across entire continents.
Two beings stepped forth from the astral canvas. Gargantuan gods of ancient lore and forgotten legends, they dwarfed planets and stars with their massive forms. Their very presence defied all known laws of nature and every revered theory. Sceptics choked on their arguments, theologians fell to their knees, torn between validation and trepidation, and even the most philosophical minds struggled with the layers of understanding peeling away from them in the face of this new truth: that the core foundations of science and religion were fracturing.
The first deity was a magnificent confluence of stars and galaxies. His form seemed carved from entire constellations, with the glow of countless solar eclipses emanating from him. Each movement was a graceful dance of cosmic luminescence, nebulous veils trailing behind him across time like the train of a royal robe. His orbs, twin supernovas, observed intently from within his silhouette, challenging and beckoning. Opposite him stood his antithesis β an entity birthed from the emptiness between stars, an enigma of impenetrable darkness eons deep. Where the first deity radiated light, this one embodied a ever-shifting abyss, absorbing all energy or hope that dared approach. With event horizons for eyes that seemed to promise an end to all they beheld, he glared back.
Their ethereal stand-off was palpable, even from humanity's distant vantage, hinting at a rivalry perhaps as old as time. Explanations from every profession, culture, and creed faltered. Excited scientists, armed with telescopes and other instruments, sought to understand this supernatural chaos, while poets, armed with ink and song, tried capturing its beauty, their hands trembling not from fear, but inspiration. Families clung to each other, seeking solace in awe or shared reminders of love. Then, resonating across light-years, the battle commenced.
The first instant of the celestial clash reverberated through the very fibres of the universe, quaking entire systems. The luminous god manifested weapons from the constellations themselves; divine lances crafted from comet tails and shields woven from the auroras of faraway worlds. Each strike upon the voided deity released bursts of starfire so intense and blinding they bathed whole galaxies. As his foe, the abyssal being retaliated with weapons of his own, of void and gravitation; whips of dark matter and black hole maws that threatened to swallow the very fabric of space-time. As these behemoths clashed, nebulas were shredded, clusters trembled, and stars β little more than candles β flickered or were snuffed out entirely. Their roars, though soundless in the vacuum of space, resonated through the souls of the living and dead, evoking fears so primal they seemed to trace back to the first mote of stardust itself. On Earth, the sky pulsated with a terrifying rhythm, oscillating between dazzling light and haunting darkness. Humans bore witness to this calamitous ballet. A mother, holding her daughter close, looked down to see the infant's eyes wide with both wonder and fear. Nearby, two strangers, previously engaged in a mundane chat about the weather, now exchanged a glance of mutual disbelief. In a bustling city square, a renowned physicist dropped her papers, pages filled with equations and theories that now seemed inconsequential. She stood, not as a scientist, but as a speck in the stellar ocean, tears forming in her eyes as the very fabric of the universe realigned.
As the cosmic dance reached its crescendo, the god of the nebulae, in a final act of desperate valour, reached out. He ripped the life-giving sun from its celestial anchor, its blazing tendrils curling around fingers of creation. Earth's familiar blue and green hues were submerged into a spectrum of surreal twilight as it had its very orbit stolen. With a motion both furious and frantic, the divinity propelled the Sun towards the ghostly deity, turning the solar system from day to night and night to day in a blink. Down on Earth, millions looked up, shielding their eyes against the blinding intensity. They watched, mesmerised, as the familiar sun began its ominous descent, casting the globe into alternating bands of piercing light and encroaching shadow. There was a collective intake of breath, a world waiting, anticipating the end. It reached its destination, the final collision a cataclysm so fierce that it tore the planet asunder, obliterating all traces of thought and history that had ever flourished upon it.
For its inhabitants, their last moments were bathed in a burnishing wash of reds and oranges, the conflagration melting away any essence of the summer's day that had begun. Where life once thrived, death rushed through clouds, leaves, and buildings to scorch oceans, forest floors, and city streets. On coastlines, once-sparkling waves boiled and sandy patterns were violently, eternally erased. In lush meadows, bees, other insects, and the meadows themselves were unmade. In cities, a wave of oblivion pulsed, razing all it touched as friends screamed outside coffee shops and lovers awoke under the flames of burning oaks. Somewhere, a family deserted their weekly picnic, abandoning their baskets and patterned tableware as birdsong ceased overhead. Aghast parents watched in horror as two young siblings, still unaware, continued their play fight, trampling over the lives of little creatures beneath their feet without worry, their laughter a stark contrast to the unfolding apocalypse. One picked an apple from the ground, its surface teeming with the microscopic lifeforms who called it home, and tossed it at the other.
The world crumbled, dissolved, faded into brilliance, leaving behind poignant echoes of a paradise taken for granted. A group of teenagers tried to capture the annihilation with their phones, as if through the screen they could cling to a fragment of the life they once knew. Elsewhere, an elderly woman simply sat on her porch, watching the end with calm resignation, humming an old lullaby. And amidst the chaos, just before the final silence, a child's voice, barely audible, whispered the lament, "Mummy, is summer over so soon?"
Benessa's soft, musical laugh rang like wind chimes in Vaero's ears as she teased him his urgency. He wondered how many had given up their possessions, their families, their souls, just to hear it a second time. The bedchamber was a testament to the day's spoils, the pages of a freshly-dedicated poem, a small portrait propped up against the wall, a wedding ring abandoned on her nightstand. Truthfully, Benessa De Marion could find easy work at one of the higher-end bordellos, could rope a rich idiot into marrying her and live out her days bored and content. She was a little later into her twenties than he, and he wondered if she'd thought of settling down. Maybe she was too smart for that. Maybe she felt a sense of safety in the midst of Vaero's brother and sister assassins. Maybe she enjoyed the thrill, or just the extra coin, their profession brought her. Did she have a goal? Was she in love? Vaero wanted to know, but would she ever let anyone in? Mystery lurked behind those sensual coffee eyes as they looked up at him from between his legs, the answers to his questions locked behind a sultry smirk.
"Like this?" the Corinthian beauty mewled, her slender fingers rubbing and pulling him firm, then tightening to work him with dangerous, fervent control. Vaero felt a shudder run through him as she stroked and squeezed from base to tip and back, drawing out the beginnings of his pre-cum. "Or maybe this?" Then licking the liquid onto her tongue with a purposeful stroke, as if a cat grooming.
With slow, intentional torment, she devoured the length whole, gaze locked to Vaero, gag reflexes a thing of the past. He wanted to look back at her, but couldn't help relaxing his head against the back-rest of the couch. His eyes grimaced shut, as though pained, as Benessa's lips, tongue, and throat massaged him to peak hardness with slick, agonising movements. The world beyond ceased to exist for a moment, background noises fading so that the only sounds left were Benessa's purring groans and wet sucking. Vaero's thighs parted ever so slightly wider, and his grip on the armrest tightened. He wanted to thrust upwards into the source of the ecstasy, but as if watching β waiting β for the tell, Benessa pulled off him. Vaero inhaled sharply, and his cock twitched, urgently searching for the mouth that had abandoned it. What happened? His eyes shot back down to see Benessa rising and reaching for his hand.
Fuck. She'd done this before, often. Vaero chided himself for falling for it yet again. An amused huff rumbled from his chest and through his nose. "Demoness," he accused her, a tired smile tugging at a corner of his mouth. She led him to her wide bed.
"How would you like to take me?" she then provoked. "On all fours, like a common whore? Perhaps on my back, so we might play at lovers?" The words suggesting she knew she was neither. She strutted around him seductively, the dim light catching the curves of her immaculate figure until she disappeared behind him. "Or maybeβ¦" When Vaero turned to face her, he suddenly found himself on his back, Benessa stalking onto the mattress on top of him. "I can ride astride this time?"
"Are you actually asking?" Vaero countered sarcastically, aware that, for now, he had no say in the matter.
Benessa leant forward, her hands on the assassin's rippled and knife-scarred chest for support as she propped herself upright and angled her hips above his. Her devious grin morphed as she lowered herself onto him, the glistening head of his saliva-sodden cock squeezing into her. Vaero rumbled with pleasure at how wet she was, though he'd barely touched her. Was she just this starved for a good fuck, or was it because it was him? He put the thought aside, quickly finding it an effort to focus on⦠anything at all. Benessa lingered like that for a moment, undulating her hips in small, subtle motions to cruelly ensure he didn't prod farther than the tip. Once in a while, he would sink in too far, his girth pushing against her warm inner-linings, drawing a groan from them both, before being teased out again. The expression on her face looked to Vaero to be one of pure evil, a mixture of bliss and sadistic gratification.
"Gods, 'Nessaβ¦" he husked as she lifted almost entirely off of him. He couldn't bear it. First her hands, then her lips, now this. It was too much. Vaero had sought her out to dispel his stresses, take his mind off things, but she'd done too good a job. Yes, his stresses had been dispelled, but replaced by a singular urge. Yes, she'd taken his mind off of things, everything, except her. He knew Benessa wanted to be in control, but his heartbeat had started to pound in his ears, his face and body grew hot, and primeval instincts began to take over. He couldn't wait.
No further warnings given, he gripped Benessa by the waist and yanked her down on top of him. His cock vanished inside her body, buried to the hilt. If she made a sound, Vaero didn't hear it, his mind wantonly blank. His hips quickly began to rock powerfully up and down, lurching, drilling his cock into her. She started to bounce at the motion, the shockwaves he sent through her jostling her breasts. His hands, seeking something to clutch, grabbed and pawed at them greedily.
They were being loud, he knew they were. He didn't care. Not about the curses they moaned, nor her whines or his growls, nor the erotic slapping of flesh hitting flesh. And when a knock thudded at Benessa's door, he didn't care. He didn't slow. He didn't stop fucking her.
"'Essa, you in there?" a feminine voice called through. "It's Amelie, we were wondering since you don't have any clients for a while if you wanted to come with us to the mar-"
"Wait⦠shh!" A hushed whisper from a second voice silenced the first.
"What? I thought-"
"Listen!"
The muttering stopped for a beat.
"Oh...! Never mind!" Amelie crooned. "Sorry!"
"Tell us about it later!" the second voice giggled.
β β β
"He-he arrives two nights from now," Adela managed, quickly steadying herself on her interrogator as his fingers pushed and pressed ever deeper. "His ship, The Gilded Dragon, will dock in Port Escalon at noon in time for the Solstice Festival. He-gods-," came an anxious, hurried attempt to get the words out. But Deomar sensed the imminent catch in her throat and punishingly worked his digits in to their knuckles, the cold metal edge of a ring threatening to cut into her. "He⦠goes by the name Antamari. Dusan Antamari. That's all. That's everything I know," she concluded, all but gasping the last syllables.
With that, one hand relinquished Adela's tear-glistening face and the other pulled mercilessly from her core, no thought spared for her sensitive tissue. As though the humiliating experience he'd just subjected her to had been nothing more than mild conversation, Master Assassin Tristian Deomar turned away, inhaled, and pensively scratched the grey-black bristles at his chin. Escalon, Gilded Dragon, Antamari, he parsed, inscribing the data into his memory and already using it to formulate plans beyond the scope of others' comprehension. He glanced over his shoulder as Adela crumpled to her knees behind him, her arms limp at her sides. The Master's brow knit together into a frown, and his lip all but curled into a sneer, the stitching of his self-control starting to come undone at the sight of such unprovoked, vile weakness. Adela brought her eyes up to him from the ground, his own glowering intensely back at her. He was disgusted. This was the extent of her strength? She'd never shown frailty like this before. Had she become so pathetic in the days since their last session? Perhaps something had changed in her. All the energy, the time, the coin, the training, the attention, advice, instruction, food, shelter, pleasure, pain, companionship, the love he'd poured into her to make her his strongest, most resilient. And yet.
"After all the hours we've spent together here. All the affection I've given⦠is this all you'll amount to, Adela?" he asked rhetorically, dispassionately. But she was clearly already too dazed to process what he was saying. He stepped over to the feeble assassin, agitated, unblinking iron eyes seeming to scream at her. But his voice a dead calm. "Is this all you want to amount to?" A claw went to the back of her head, almost as if to offer consolation, but instead clamped around a generous bundle of dark hair. "A slave who cannot even bring itself to stand in my presence?" The other unlatched his belt, reached into his garments, and pulled from within an unsightly, untidy cock to hover soft before Adela's miserable features. "A brat who sheds tears at a slap?" He craned her neck back to look directly up at him and the painted ceiling beyond. "Let's see."
Fingers locked into the tangles of her hair to keep her from keeling, Deomar struck the side of Adela's face with a heavy, open palm. Then he struck her again. Would he see more tears? A third time. She tried to look away, he pulled her back. Would she weep? A fourth, enough force behind it to rattle a skull. Each landed fiercer and clapped louder than the last. It sent increasingly dark waves of arousal through the mass-murderer towering above her. His morbid length had already begun to firm and lift obscenely upwards, and it nudged repugnantly under her chin. No, Tristian realised. The fault is with me. It's clear I cannot continue to shape you as I did Helene. The fifth was a backhand, and the corner of a gem-inlaid ornament scratched her, the blistering pink rising in Adela's cheeks now accented by a thin red line. Helene was willing, didn't need to be broken, unlike you. But don't worry, Adela, I can rebuild you. Adela's lips moved as if she were about to sob, or apologise, or beg, or scream. Whichever it may have been, she did not get the chance. Deomar forced his cock through the opening and into her mouth where it slid to the back of her tongue and hardened. The vice at her nape pushed her further onto it, driving it to the bend of her throat where the bulbous head plugged her windpipe.
"Adela," Deomar whispered from above, his voice like gravel. It was not a name moaned in pleasure. Nor dripping with affection. He was summoning her tearful gaze up to his, where she would find sad, pale eyes and a thin smile blazing down at her as she choked on him. "I forgive you."
Muffles suggested the girl may have been trying to say something through the suffocation, but Deomar would not pull free of her even while she squirmed wild-eyed and sputtered bubbles of saliva over them both. Her neck muscles strained, her head instinctively tried to turn and find angles from which to draw air, but there was no strength she could muster that would overcome his. This is what it meant to please her master, to develop in the direction he needed, to be forgiven weakness and demonstrate gratitude. When he finally did extract himself from her, Adela's awful, panicked wheezing quickly haunted the room and nearby, empty hallways.
"Now, come," he said evenly, offering little more than a second for Adela to fill her lungs. Unaffected by suffering, he dragged her by the hair across the rug towards his workspace. She might have been clinging to his hands for support against the pain, pleading, she might have even been thrashing at him. She might have done nothing at all. Deomar didn't notice and remained unmoved. Adela was his. Not a person, but⦠clay, to be shaped. A belonging. One to hate and adore, torture and treasure, break and fix, to be his shame and his pride until he was satisfied with what he'd wrought. A work in progress. He lifted her to her feet and tossed her against the large, wooden desk. She was familiar with the routine by now. "I'm going to make love to you, Adela. Bend over. If your legs give out again, I'll break them."
Julez was now facing him once again, her body twisted in a lewd demonstration of flexibility, only giving more prominence to her perfectly rounded β and now spank-flushed β backside. It was good that she had the support of Miles' shoulder to hold the position, as each deep impact into her threatened to throw her off him and over the counter. Miles was breathing heavily, mouth hanging slightly open, when Julez brought her face to his. They heaved against each other for a moment, the tint of alcohol on their breath, until the eccentric teen suddenly went for his lip for the second time. She bit down harder than before, and Miles thought he tasted a drop of blood.
He didn't care, lost as he was in the erotic throes of their fucking, but he did laugh out a hearty, "Fuck, Julez." His friend seized the opportunity to spit in his mouth, causing him to flinch, admittedly a little taken aback. He knew she was feisty, but he didn't necessarily know she was dirty. He licked the residual spittle from his lips and swallowed it, tasting her alongside the subtle bloody iron of his cut. A sinister smirk grew across his lips, but didn't quite reach his eyes β he suddenly feltβ¦ not angry, but vengeful, the sultry, filthy, mischievous look on Julez's face a goad that was impossible to ignore. Renewed resolve suddenly surfaced within him at that moment: to have this girl in every way he could, to make her his until the night was done. Seizing her jaw with a vice-like grip, he returned the insult, spitting a healthy spray of saliva over her face, her panting tongue, and into her mouth. Then he spat again, this time into her vibrant eyes. Then once more, gathering a thick globule of liquid before aiming it at the back of her glistening, slutty throat. Oh god how he wanted that throat β to fill it with more than just spit, to glaze it so completely that she'd be coughing his cum out of her lungs and through her nose. Saliva shone on her features now, coating her eyelids, nose, cheeks, and chin; it was a sight Miles didn't hate one bit.
Julez suggested they move to the stall then, tickling his stubble with gentle fingertips as a lover might. Miles slowed his rampant invasion of her tight insides for the barest moment to follow her gaze to the stall at the end of the row, his eyes catching on something else; a changing table. An idea began to form.
But first, "Privacy?" he quizzed, chuckling and groaning as his cock continued to spear in and out of her. "I didn't hear youβ¦ complaining about privacyβ¦ ughβ¦ at the table. No... Firstβ¦" he paused then, ramming himself as deep inside her cunt as he could with a violent thrust before reaching down for one of her legs. Miles already knew she had the flexibility of an experienced dancer, and so there was little resistance when he lifted her leg up and around until they were face-to-face, his thick shaft remaining fully impaled and lodged within her, squeezed and massaged as her clenched hole rotated around it. The grunt came out almost by itself as he pushed her back against the counter, lifted her leg up with an arm, and drilled into her. His hips moved so rhythmically, so animalistically, it was as if he wanted people to hear the whimpering and the damp, slapping sounds of their colliding hips through the very walls β as if she was a toy with no objections about being sore for a week. He resumed, "β¦ First, I want you to cum, Julez. Fuckβ¦ Cum right here, where anyone could walk in and watch it happen." Miles' free hand went down to her sodden sex, hot with friction, gathering moisture from them both before going to her cute face, three fingers poised to enter her lips. How amazing would it be, he pondered, to plug that adorable throat? Fixated on the idea, the digits went into her mouth, sliding along her tongue, depositing pre-cum and wetness and pushing to the back, almost as if they were trying to trigger a gag reflex and make her retch. They halted with an inch or so to go - if she wanted his fingers any deeper, she'd have to fuck her gullet on them herself. "Cum over my cock for me, Julez," he insisted, his meat abusing her slit just as his fingers abused her drooling mouth. After a few long seconds, he removed the hand, letting her breathe and speak and moan, and placing it affectionately β though slick with fluids β at the back of her head. He tugged firmly on the hair at her nape, endeavouring at the same time to kiss her spit-smeared mouth against the motion of the ruthless shockwaves his cock sent through her body.
Then
"Usual hangouts?" Sara queried, one eyebrow cocked inquisitively as the hum of conversation and clinking dinnerware filled the air. "Oh no, we actually crossed paths on a flight, of all places! A bit of a serendipitous story, wouldn't you agree, Miles?"
"Oh yes, very serendipitous," he replied, almost sighing in frustrated boredom at the final word. "We were sitting next to each other and just kind of hit it off." Miles threw a look to his 'sister' then, one of those wordless 'help me' glances β or maybe it was a 'fuck you' glance. "And now here we are," he added promptly, hoping to close the topic before Sara could delve into the minute-by-minute events of their meeting. He affectionately reached a hand out over the table to his date and offered a warm smile to reassure her of his attention.
Regrettably, Julez appeared oddly animated at the prospect of unveiling Miles' clandestine affairs, goading his date to dig deeper. With his hand perched daringly on Julez's thigh, he could feel the warmth emanating through her as he pinched his fingers into the supple flesh, both as punishment and prevention. While an average woman might have winced, he was convinced Julez had endured plenty of intimate bruising around her legs in her time; she seemed to bear it admirably.
"Oh! Well..." Sara started up again, clearly having failed to read Miles' displeasure at the sudden shift in the conversation topic. She cut him a cheeky smile. "Since you two seem to be really close⦠I'm curious just how much trouble our Miles gets into," she inquired, leaning forward over the table. "What's the naughtiest thing you've seen him do? Oh, don't pout, Miles!" she giggled. "It's all for fun." She leaned in to plant a light kiss on his lips even as his hand roamed another woman's body beneath the table. A subsequent pinch on Julez's thigh, perilously close to her underwear, served this time as both a caution and a provocation. Miles' mind raced as he weighed the thrill of the misdeed against the risk of being caught, the guilt of betraying Sara warring with the excitement of the forbidden.
Miles couldn't help the smirk at Tom's rather obtuse reaction to the lobster. The man clearly needed to reflect on his priorities to dismiss someone like Julez when she was practically sucking on his fingers. As she pivoted to face him, Miles locked knowing gazes with her, his eyes rolling subtly in tandem with a wicked twist of his mouth. "Yeah, that looks delicious, Tom, good choice," he said, a taunt disguised as compliment. "I'm kind of envious, honestly! Makes me want to steal it from right under your nose when you're not looking!" Even as he chuckled the words, a finger β making good on the taunt β grazed Julez's panties, just brushing the fabric over her pussy, easily waved away as an accident if necessary. Carefully, Miles gauged her reaction.
Sara found her way back into the conversation, offering to share a forkful of her dish with Miles. He leaned over for the mouthful, his hands never leaving Julez. "Oh, wow, that's amazing, Sara. Here, try some of mine," he beamed, returning the favour. "Julez, you've always believed in sharing, right?" he asked with feigned innocence. The question, seemingly innocuous on the surface, bore a daring undertone in light of their transgression under the tablecloth. Its real meaning was an audacious challenge to her. "I remember that thing you always used to do when you were younger; acting like a little puppy until I shared the PlayStation controller or my candy with you."
A waiter approached their table with a tray of shots on the house, an unexpected - and only slightly unwelcome - interruption that gave Miles pause and forced him to reluctantly lift his arm from its devious rest. As he picked up two glasses, offering one to Sara, he was acutely aware of the void his hand left behind and wondered if Julez felt it too. Miles readied his shot. "To serendipitous meetings," he toasted, locking eyes with his date. As he downed his shot, however, his hand returned its bold move up Julez's leg, nuzzling firmly between her thighs and chancing a light tug to part them for easier access. It was a deliberate act, a heinous, amazing flirt, and a second challenge to her. The cool liquor burned as it went down, but it was nothing compared to the fire igniting beneath the table.
Miles waited with bated breath to see how she would respond. He was teetering on a knife-edge, a precarious balance between asserting control and granting Julez's unspoken desires. Each passing second was a test of his resolve, a dance between power and submission, played out beneath the cover of the tablecloth. Would she yield to the secret dalliance, allowing him to outright finger her in public? Or would she try to wrest some sort of composure? Just how shameless was she willing to be? This was precisely the kind of thrill Miles craved this evening, even if it was one that damned him to hell.
Arthur Lyre exuded satisfaction, each of Isabel's shallow breaths a testament to his dominance. The salty sea aroma mingled with the bodily flavours of sweat and arousal, further stifling the confined cabin. The creak of the ship's timbers underfoot seemed louder, more pronounced, with every cruel inch inside her he slid. A thick vice anchoring her head, Lyre tensed with gratification as the underside of his shaft slid along a timid tongue, exhaling a groan when his tip nudged the back of her mouth and encountered resistance. Isabel's defiant, desperate eyes clashed with his. The captain had considered ending her life tonight, after using her, but her spiteful glare even as his cock disappeared into her face made him reconsider.
"That's the look, Isabel," her abuser spat caustically. The blade caressed her temple before returning to the desk β daring her to wield it once more. The free hand then went around the back of the girl's neck, locking her in place. "I wonder if that fire will last," his clutch tightened as he bobbed and wiggled her skull on his length, finding that reluctant gap to tighter depths, "when tears cloud your vision."
He impaled her throat, squeezing into the narrow bend and stretching it to adapt to his shape and will. Gentleness evaporated, his intent was clear. It was time for him to take. A wretched, rumbling moan crept out of his lungs, matching the thunder, as Lyre tugged Isabel's features against his groin. He peered down his nose with a sick smile, hoping for that same contempt in her gaze as her nostrils smelled his musk and her chin nudged his balls. The muscles in her throat clenched around the foreign obstacle, trying to swallow or breathe or expel it, but he kept it lodged, strangling her from the inside this time, watching her eyes tremble.
The prospect of violating her unconscious body appealed to Arthur, but he preferred her lucid for what was to come, so when she started to fidget and flail, he pulled free. Tendrils of saliva, mucus, and pre-cum connected him to the inside of her mouth as she recovered. But she had only the briefest moment, barely time for a single gasp, before he speared her gullet again, cutting her off.
A minute later he offered her another respite, this time yanking her backwards so that her face and quivering breasts saw the ceiling, prevented from falling supine by his hands and whatever strength she could muster herself. Positioning himself behind her crown, Lyre couldn't resist another taunt. "Where did your talons go, girl?" He slapped her with his manhood, smearing dampness over her eyes and nose. "I thought you wanted to end me," he sneered as he dipped his cock into battered lips for the third time, admiring from this new angle the bulge descending down her neck towards her chest. "Fight," he provoked with ragged breath. "Or do you want more?" He asked, beginning to ram her throat in earnest, less interested in making her choke now than in simply enjoying a toy.
Lyre's grip only strengthened as he descended deeper into the erotic throes of his tyranny. He felt strands of hair pluck free from her scalp as he rocked Isabel's head in tandem with his own violent thrusts. The governor's daughter could gag, retch, she could vomit for all he cared, he'd just end up fucking it back down into her stomach. From a distance, the hollers of the crew on the deck filtered through the cabin β muffled conversations, the songs of sailors, the cacophony of a ship at night. But within this room, the atmosphere was heavy and vile, suffused with the sounds of sputtering, grunting, crying, and the ruthless wet gulps and gasps the pirate forced out of his victim.
As Lyre's pleasure built, his breathing became more uneven, his hips less restrained. He raped Isabel's throat with the purest expression of selfishness, ignoring the foul, spittly mess that bubbled out of her to soak him. As the inevitable climax approached, he seemed to lose himself entirely to the moment, to the power, and to the love of dominance. But then, in the last interval of his self-control, he released her completely. The entire, horrid length slid out of her oesophagus, more traces of the depraved act stringing from her lips. And he let gravity decide how she fell.
The room went silent, a stark reminder of the brutal intimacy that had just taken place. The Captain savoured the aftermath of his actions, drinking in every detail of Isabel's dishevelled appearance as he shrugged off his coat and stepped out of his breeches. He circled her, a shark around its food, until he was at her legs. "Come on, pet," he growled with a deep sigh, kicking at one of her pink knees. "Spread them. I'd like your dear father's corpse to hear your screams 'fore he's dragged under the waves."
Nate collapsed onto the bed on his back, tossing his phone onto the night stand beside him with a sigh. It had been a weird day. He looked over to Lilith across the room as she picked out a shirt for the night and slipped into it without much concern for modesty β she had a stunning body, barely a blemish on it save for some eye-catching freckles, and curves no doubt the envy of her classmates, but it was nothing Nathaniel hadn't seen a hundred times before already. But then why was he watching so intently? Her panties disappearing under the shirt, she turned towards the bed and clambered onto it beside him. He found himself averting her gaze for some reason, as if he'd just seen something he shouldn't have. The bed was no king-size, and slightly cramped β which is why he and Michael tended to stay over their girls' places overnight β though there was room enough that Lilith didn't have to shuffle up against him. But he was glad she did. The three of them often shared a bed as kids, protecting each other from all the evil things that lingered in the dark. Or so they imagined.
"Goodnight, Lil'," Nathaniel responded, wrapping an arm under her shoulder and pulling her against his chest. Though he'd indulged her earlier, Nate doubted the pregnancy scare was as big a deal as she made it out to be β knowing her, she probably pushed the guy off before he even finished, and even if not, there were solutions she could find at a pharmacy in the morning. The bigger issue is that she'd lost her virginity under pressure. "You'll be fine, I promise," he reassured, stroking an absent finger up and down her arm, entirely unaware of how wrong he was.
Lilith was out almost immediately, but over an hour later Nate still struggled to fall asleep. Some odd sensation tugged at the back of his mind that he didn't like and tried to reject, making his heart thud in his chestβ¦ He was turned on. Lily had shuffled at some point in her sleep, resulting in her bosom pressing firmly against him. He seemed to feel it in every nerve; the shape, the texture, the pert nipple poking into him. Why couldn't he just fucking ignore it? It was as if his intrusive thoughts had strayed into some nightmarish web, that the more he fought against it the more a single, sickening idea clung to him like spider's silk β was heβ¦ attracted to his sister?
He carefully pulled his arm free from under her and turned onto his shoulder. She rolled over then, her back to him now, the hem of her baggy shirt lifting in the movement to reveal lilac underwear peeking out from the covers. God, why was he so fucking horny? Was it because he was looking forward to the date? It must be. The date that Lilith had ruined. His hand seemed to move on its own, as if on a puppeteer's string, but Nate scrambled to justify it in his head. It wasn't a big deal, people get horny, he reasoned, and if it was her fault to begin with then⦠He slid the covers down, her ass exposed to him but for the pink fabric. His heart beat so loudly he was sure she'd hear it, but the puppeteer did not yield, and his palm met the round of her backside. His fingers splayed and squeezed to knead her soft cheeks. It didn't help that she was angled such that he'd have an unobstructed view of her mound if not for that meddlesome underwear. The thought to remove it occurred to him, almost making him sick with shame and hard with arousal, but he was not that far gone. Yet it did not stop his fingers from wandering to it, running along the outline of her labia, tracing its contours over the cotton. What had it felt like, Nate wondered, as though the question came from a faraway whisper, for the guy who'd fucked her to squeeze his cock inside that gorgeous pussy? His brain whirled with disgust as the revolting curiosity implanted itself deeper. He sidled closer to his sister, nervous, noticing for the first time the tightness in his boxers as he spooned her.
Separated by nothing but thin cloth, his tent pressed into her backside as greedy hands slipped around to her front and snaked their way up under her shirt. Fingertips met the underside of her breast and quickly went to cup it. Oh god, he wanted to whisper against the back of her neck, pressing himself harder into her. Nate thought her tits must have been made for his hands, and why not; they were family, after all. He massaged them at a snail's pace, felt their weight against his palm, ran the tip of a finger over the delicate buds at their peaks. His hips started to move, grinding the bulge in his pants against her, pre-cum wetting a small circle in the fabric. Then Lilith stirred.
Nathaniel froze, terrified that she'd wake, suddenly feeling dispelled of the poisonous urges that had fogged his reason. Retreating his hands and hips from her, he swiftly rolled over so that they were back-to-back and stared out into the darkness of the bedroom, stark horror on his face. His arousal had evaporated. He thought he might vomit.
Somewhere, a million miles away and yet in the very same room, a demon feasted on dreams, nightmares, and all manner of terrible urges.
πππππ ππ π¦! That's all for now! This is just version 1.0 of my little speakeasy; I'll update this thread as and when I come up with fun ideas (also once I figure out how to use fucking BB code holy shit someone help me I suck - sorry if it turned out a mess), but thank you for reading this far all the same (if you prove it by telling me your worst joke in your message you go to the top of the list). If you think we'd be a good match and would like to see your characters adored, tortured, and taken on a ride (or any combination thereof), or if you just want to shoot the shit, feel free to drop me a PM <3 Much love.
And very special thanks to @Riff for helping design the amazing look of this page!
