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♔ If something you're interested in isn't on this list, please ask me about it first.
Chances are I'm likely not opposed to it. Just don't bushwhack me without any prior warning. ♔
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Aftercare
Androgyny
BDSM
Breath Control / Choking
Drug / Alcohol Use
Dub-Consensual
Face-Fucking / Face-Sitting
Fingering
Fingers in Mouth
Foreplay
Hair Pulling
Interracial
Non-Consensual
Manipulation
Oral Sex (Giving)
Oral Sex (Receiving)
Realism
Romance
Roughness
Tattoos / Body Art
Teasing
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♔ Non-Negotiable. Do not test your luck.
For anything else not found here - Ask First ♔
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Anything against ToS. Go figure.
A/B/O dynamics
Canon Characters
DDLG / Other forms of age-play
Extreme bondage
Growth
Guro
Micro / Macro
Pregnancy (as a kink, not as a storytelling element)
Scat
Vore
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♔ Fandoms List ♔
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A Song of Ice and Fire
Cyberpunk 2020 / Cyberpunk Red / Cyberpunk 2077
Demon the Fallen / Vampire the Masquerade / Werewolf the Apocalypse
Dungeons & Dragons / Baldur's Gate / Neverwinter Nights
Elder Scrolls
Fallout
Gentleman Bastard
Lord of the Rings
RuneQuest
Shadowrun
Thief
Warhammer 40,000 / Warhammer Fantasy
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♔ Genres List ♔
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Classic Noir
Cyberpunk
Dark Fantasy / Low Fantasy / High Fantasy
Dystopian / Post-Apocalyptic
Historical [Ancient, Medieval]
Neo-Noir
Sci-Fi / Hard Sci-Fi
Steampunk
Supernatural
Victorian / Napoleonic
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Fantasy | Elder Scrolls
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His pipe was well weighted, carved from a kagouti's tusk; sturdy, and pleasant to the touch. It was a masterful piece of work but not ostentatious in the slightest. A treasured heirloom, but certainly not a prize - it would hardly fetch more than a couple of septims in the market. When he smoked, which was often, he was pleased by the companionship of his pipe, which served as a constant reminder of his inevitable and self-circular annihilation.
Cradling it in shaking hands, he brought his lips to it and inhaled deeply.
A long time ago, he had heard someone comment that smoking as often as he did would be the end of him, one day. He was fine with that, just fine - if anything, he only wished it'd do it faster.
He drew the smoke into his lungs. His pipe was stuffed with the narcotic known as Dreamshade, a mixed extract of Fire Leaf and Trama Root, dried and powdered for smoking. Little better than skooma, in truth, though it sold for double the price. As he inhaled it, it granted him what he yearned for, if only fleetingly.
Calmness. Peace. Liberation. From his dreams and his nightmares; his past and his future. From the spectres that haunted his every waking hour.
He liked to marvel at the way the smoke curled up into the empty air as he exhaled, its tendrils wraithlike and ethereal, spiralling upward into the void like the slow waltz of aged, vanishing memories. He smoked with purpose, drawing deep, and dreamed that all was well. He smoked deeply and dreamed that he was dead.
"Stop right there. Just who do you think you are, barging in here like that, outlander? We don't welcome n'wahs here."
A commotion by the entrance took his attention away from his pipe momentarily. Bleary, crimson eyes peered through the smoky haze that enveloped the room, tinged with the acrid scent of burnt skooma and other exotic substances which swirled together in a seductive dance that beckoned to those seeking escape. He neither saw nor heard anything more from the entrance and figured it was likely just something inconsequential or simply a facet of his imagination. He did, however, see his surroundings again for the first time in... hours? Days? Hard to tell, here, but he sees it all nonetheless.
Nestled amidst a labyrinth of cushions and pillowed carpets, ill-lit by but a few candles and paper lanterns, he spotted the den's other occupants reclined in various states of blissful stupor around him. Glassy-eyed, they found themselves in the throes of a drug-addled embrace, reclined with an air of languor, their limbs moving slowly as if submerged in water, holding onto their pipes as if their lives depended upon them. Maybe they did. Their eyes, heavy-lidded and distant, held an otherworldly glint that spoke of a reality veiled behind the cloud of smoke. An escape from the harsh mistress that was reality. Tattered tapestries adorned the walls around them, their colours muted by the constant haze, depicting scenes of fantastical landscapes and mythical scenes of Dunmeri history. Glories of past ages, now long gone.
He liked to think that he was unlike the rest of them, that he was above it all. He knows he is no better.
"You're with the guild? So what? We said no n'wahs here, s'wit. Beat it."
More commotion by the entrance. Eyes that could peer through thick ash storms caught the sight of massed movement past the low-lit haze of smoke. Harsh words, the rasp of weapons being drawn. Not just his imagination, then. And certainly not something inconsequential. Suppose his stay here was finally coming to an end, he mused. About time.
Slowly, as if wading through water, he rose from his throne of cushions. He picked up his pack - his belongings, all that he is, was, and will ever be - from the ground and slung it over one shoulder. He extinguished his pipe and slipped it into his belt, secured beside the dagger he kept on his person at all times. Last but not least, he looked at the weapon lying on the floor. His spear, its blade sheathed in its ornate scabbard of netch leather. He looked at it for a long time, daring - begging - himself to leave it. He does not find the strength to do so.
"What fucking Ashlander, n'wah? We'll feed you to the ash once we're done with you, how about that?"
He met them by the entrance, these three mer and one fierce-looking woman. A Frost-Walker, judging by her looks. A Nord. Tall and powerful, with a fiery lock of red hair. A double-headed axe was slung across her back, but she was otherwise unarmed. On the other hand, the three mer - Tongs, all of them - had sabres in their hands. In this arrangement, his mind immediately acknowledged the lone survivor – the Nord, should survival devolve into a contest.
For a moment, he was curious to see such a scenario unfold. He decided against it at the last second.
"<I believe the Frost-Walker is here for me,>" His voice was rough when he spoke, rougher than he remembered it to be, though the tone was soft. The echo of ash storms in his lungs, his words spoken in a dialect just a little different from those spoken by these Dunmer of the Great Houses. "<I'll take it from here, if you all don't mind. Seems like you're not doing a very good job at dealing with her, in any case.>"
"<Like hell you will, ashlander. Who the fuck do you think you are? No one disrespects the Tong. Not you, and certainly not some fucking n'wah.>" Contempt coloured the Tong's voice, lips curling in a snarl, sabre clenched white-knuckled. "<You want to die alongside her, you go ahead and fucking try us. We'll gut you from your cock to your throat, s'wit.>"
The Ashlander's face was an unreadable mask as he stared at the three mer, pointedly ignoring the Nord among them. He was tall, this Ashlander. Standing level with the Frost-Walker, but not quite. His white hair was long, shaved on the right side of his scalp and braided on the other, reaching down to his shoulder. Golden rings and cuffs adorned his pointed ears, and black tribal tattoos marked his ash-dark face. Save for his pack and the spear in his hand, he wore naught but a simple pair of pants and a cloth belt around his waist. His chest was left bare, marred with numerous scars and even plenty more tattoos besides. Proof of his heritage and culture, festooned upon his bare skin.
After a moment, he lowered his spear just slightly, the small bells tied to its scabbard jingling softly. As he did, it seemed as if a sense of foreboding sense of doom filled the air at that exact moment. Unnatural and otherworldly; like a veil of darkness suddenly being pulled across one's soul. The air felt heavy, oppressive. Deadly. Even some of the addicts in the den who were nearest to the entrance, deeply in the throes of delirium, whimpered and moaned at this sudden change of atmosphere.
"<I advise you to reconsider, sedura.>" his voice, though still soft, was tinged with menace unspoken yet keenly felt.
At this, the three Tongs looked at one another with apprehension, caught between the Ashlander and the Nord. They deliberated for a moment, sabres swaying in their hands, but eventually decided upon survival over death.
"<Leave now, Ashlander, and take the n'wah with you,>" their resolution echoed. "<Before we reconsider.>"
A flicker of emotion, transient, played across the Ashlander's features. Not disappointment, no, but close enough to it. He lifted his spear back, and the look, alongside the foreboding sense of dread, left the room as easily as a passing gust of wind. Purposeful, he reached down to his belt and fished a small coin pouch, which he tossed over to one of the Tongs, who caught it deftly in his hand.
"<For your troubles.>"
With no further words, the Ashlander left the confines of the Council Club and walked out to Balmora proper. He paid no mind to the Nord, expecting the woman to simply follow in his footsteps. When she did, only then did he finally regard her. There was no mirth nor interest in his crimson eyes as he looked the woman down. Simply the glazed-over, dejected look of a mer who was now little more than a walking corpse.
"I am called Shul-Ravayn." He said in Tamrielic, which was much more heavily accented than his Dunmeri. "You're the woman the guildsman sent, then? The fool who seeks the Ashlands?"
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Modern | Angst
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True to form, Vasiliev was just as Dimitri remembered him to be. Arrogant. Domineering. Sleazy. A man well used to having those around him bend to his will. Someone that no one could afford to say no to.
Forcing an amicable smile on his face, Dimitri listened on as Vasiliev greeted him and explained to him his responsibilities for the night. That of playing the part of the manager—the pimp. Of taking on all the tedious matters of running such a task while Vasiliev went away to politick and do business with the big names he had invited to his event, unburdened by the idea of having to spare a thought about the young women he was to parade and auction to those same names later during the night.
“I’ll be sure not to disappoint, Mr. Lebedev.” Came the reply from Dimitri as Vasiliev left, his voice sure and confident. Dimitri was not new to this game, he knew how it was played. He knew the value of appearing completely confident and capable, even if deep down he detested the whole notion. Knew well enough to follow his instincts and rely on his prior experience, and to swallow the bile in his throat and ignore his nagging conscience.
Compartmentalise. Always compartmentalise. He’d have time enough for regret and repentance later.
Taking a deep breath, Dimitri surveyed the backstage chaos with a detached gaze. The air was thick with anticipation, and he knew from the get-go that he belonged here about as much a fire in a library. Colette, the stage manager, shot him a venomous glance as Vasiliev departed, her disdain thinly veiled. She despised his presence, that was clear to Dimitri, and he figured it was because he was an unwanted intrusion into her otherwise meticulously controlled domain. And unlike Vasiliev, she had no need to show him respect, only to simply tolerate him being there.
She would be his second biggest obstacle when it came to settling into this new task, Dimitri knew. Someone he would need to learn to work with, or otherwise overpower, in order for him to be able to smoothly transition into his role here. And as for his biggest obstacle?
Why, he need only look past Colette and come face-to-face with it.
Or rather, her. The canonical her. She who had haunted his thoughts most of all. More than the weight of this new responsibility entrusted upon him by his mission. More than the renewed fear of being found out and killed for who he truly was. More than the thought of failing and having all that he’d already done be for naught. Perhaps even more than anything else in the world, truly, if he was completely honest with himself. Her. Victoria.
The memory of their night together still lingered in the recesses of his mind like an unresolved chord vibrating in the air. She had shared with him her dreams and her hopes. Bared herself - her true self - to him though she had no reason to. And yet here he was, powerless to do anything for her and existing solely to take part in and perpetuate the very system that has kept her suffering for her entire life. Caged, like a bird, in a prison of thorns. Her and all the other girls alongside her. The thought of it rested bitterly on his soul, and Dimitri found that he could not simply brush it away like he would any other worry or gripe. It would remain as a lingering distraction no matter what, and that troubled him most of all. For now, the only thing he knew to do was to simply pretend that she did not exist. To imagine that he was blind to the sight of her standing in front of the mirror, her form-fitting dress accentuating the contours of her silhouette. So, instead, he moved to approach Colette, who greeted him with a curt nod that bordered on a scowl.
"Can I help you?" she asked him as he drew near, the words dripping with disdain.
In her hostility, Dimitri found a moment of respite. Precious seconds that he could spend on thinking about anything else but Victoria. And the thought that occured to him then was that Colette seemed the type of person who’d know better than to openly defy Vasiliev's commands. Knowing what he knew of Vasiliev, she wouldn’t still be here otherwise, and that was something that he could exploit to his advantage. He was here for a reason, and Colette, however reluctantly, had to tolerate his presence. It came down to him what he wanted to do with that information.
“My name’s Dimitri,” he introduced himself, though he did not offer her his hand, secure in the knowledge that she would not take it either way. He would never find an ally in her, he knew, so he approached the situation with the next best thing in mind. A middle ground. “I’ll be managing the girls tonight and for the foreseeable future as well. If you have any problems with them, you come to me first. Now, I won’t stand here and pretend I know better than you do when it comes to… this.”
He gestured at the backstage, still abuzz with activity, and at all the preparations made in anticipation of the ballet.
“So I’ll leave it all entirely in your hands. You won’t have to worry about me stepping on your toes in that regard.” His eyes narrowed, settling on the older woman with a sharp glint behind them. “But I’m not here to be your enemy either, not unless you make me one yourself. I won’t interfere with your job so long as you do the same to mine, and we won’t have any problems. Do we understand each other?”
Her response was a stern glare, a silent warning of her own, before she turned away to busy herself with the chaos of backstage. For now, Dimitri was satisfied with that answer. He had made his stance clear and planted the seed, and only time would tell whether he needed to do more about the situation or if that seed would grow into what he wanted it to be. A begrudging understanding between him and Colette.
With little else to do, Dimitri allowed himself to retreat from all the activity, content with simply watching all the preparation unfold before him from the shadows. He made a point not to look in Victoria’s direction as he did, though deep down he wondered within him whether she sought him out with her own eyes. It took a wayward glance in her direction, driven by the incessant curiosity within him, to find her looking at him directly. And just like that, it felt like all his plans were upturned then and there.
He had thought to avoid her and the thought of her, but the mere sight of her brought back all the memories and feelings he had tried his damndest to keep hidden, and he found the idea of looking away impossible as he met her gaze. Only through the grace of the music filling the air and the performance starting in earnest was Dimitri spared from having to tear away his gaze from her out of his own accord, though his eyes continued to trail her as she disappeared beyond the curtains and onto the stage. He let go of a breath that he had not realised he’d been holding with a soft sigh and looked around him. The backstage area was mostly empty now that the performance had started, with only Colette - whose attention was fixed solely on the stage - and the stage techs as well as a few of the other girls awaiting their turn. Dimitri stayed there, observing as much as he could from the stage’s wings and stealing glances of Victoria as she moved across the stage amidst the other dancers.
The spotlight outlined her form, a silhouette of grace and poise against the dimly lit backdrop. The music swirled around her like a haunting melody, and he couldn't help but be captivated by the dance before him.
One by one, the dancers exited the stage, leaving Victoria the sole performer on the grand stage. And, like a moth drawn to a flame, Dimitri found himself utterly enthralled by her presence. Her every move, her every gesture, all of it exuded perfection. As she moved across the stage, she seemed graceful, ethereal, burning. And, like a flame, he knew deep down that to continue looking would only hurt him in the end. But that did not stop him.
The minutes passed by quickly as he continued to observe her, captivated by her utterly and completely. Soon enough, the performance slowly died down to its final act, The Dying Swan. Beautifully melancholic and painfully fitting. All throughout, Dimitri’s gaze lingered on Victoria, and an ache settled in his chest at the performance—a profound longing for something beyond the confines of his cage. A cage both of them inhabited. He longed to reach out, to free her from the chains that bound her, but instead the reality of his presence here weighed heavily on his conscience.
The applause of the audience reverberated through the backstage walls as her performance came to a close, but in the dimly lit corners where Dimitri stood, there was no celebration. Only the bitter taste of regret lingered in the air.
As Victoria retreated from the stage, the exhaustion etched on her face was undeniable. The façade of strength she maintained for the performance now cracked, revealing the vulnerability that lay beneath. But there was no rest. Not even for her. The after-party still loomed on the horizon, a continuation of the charade that played out on the stage, and Dimitri knew he had a responsibility to see that through. No matter how much he wanted to take no part in it. With that thought in mind, he steeled himself and moved to approach Victoria, who now sat near the stage accompanied by one of the other dancers. Smoothly, Dimitri navigated his way across the hubbub of activity backstage—the dancers rushing to and fro, shedding their costumes, and seeking brief moments of respite.
“Is everything alright?” He queried, if only to announce his presence to the two girls, as he finally reached them. Looking down, his brows furrowed and his heart clenched at the sight of Victoria’s bleeding feet, a stark contrast to the elegance she exuded on stage. The dichotomy of her existence tore at him—a prisoner of her own artistry, bound by the chains of a world that demanded her constant sacrifice. A far cry from the idyllic image she had once painted for him of her ideal life.
A forest grove, far from the city. Cool grass beneath her feet. And a canvas to paint away and forget all the miseries that surrounded her.
Without waiting for a reply from either girl, Dimitri knelt down beside Victoria, his gaze fixated on the raw, bleeding blisters marring her delicate feet. "Let me help," he murmured after a moment, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that barely cut through the backstage clamour. His eyes locked with hers as he held out his hand, the lines of his face etched with barely concealed worry. When she handed him the bandages, his hands moved with practiced efficiency, cleaning her wounds and securing the bandage around her feet with a precision that bespoke a deeper understanding that extended beyond the physical. He was gentle with her, as always. His touch careful and deliberate.
“Mr. Lebedev expects everyone to be ready for the after-party soon,” he remarked as he concluded, voice as impassive as he could manage it to be. He rose, then, and extended a hand to help Victoria to her feet. “Will you be able to attend it?”
He looked at her as he asked, his face a mask of neutrality, though his eyes still held within them that lingering glimmer of worry. The choice, or the illusion of choice, dangled before her like a frayed thread. A small kindness, in its own way, and the only thing he could afford to give her now, though he yearned to give her more.
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Smut
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Michael’s mouth left her neck when he felt her move, and he pulled back slightly in his seat to allow her to straddle him, to envelop himself in her entire presence. He drank in the sight of her, their foreheads touching as her hands once again found his face, holding him in place so that she was the only thing he could focus on. And, for that fleeting moment, she was the whole world entire. Nothing else mattered to him but this moment, this minute, this second. Her. Their eyes locked again, green and brown like matching partners in a dance, and he saw the desire that simmered behind those pools of jade, veiled by the curtain of her dark hair. The selfsame desire that he reflected back at her just as intensely.
“I’m yours,” he heard her whisper, mere moments before she took him completely by surprise.
Her lips caught him unaware, his eyes widening slightly in surprise before he kissed her back with the same fervour, pouring all of his desire for her through the way he eagerly tasted her on his tongue. Soon enough, they parted, breathless, and Michael’s mouth felt and mourned the loss of her - his head unwittingly trailing towards her as she drew back, as if led by an invisible thread. Forehead to forehead their faces met again, their breaths mingling as they recovered. Together.
Not soon after, her hands delicately trailed downwards to reach for the buttons of his shirt, taking them off with a fervent hunger he was more than willing to reciprocate. "Touch me. Please, I need you," she pleaded, desperate, her breath coming out short and fast. And he obliged her. Eagerly.
From their position on her waist, his hands began to trail towards their own - separate - destinations, and soon enough they seemed to be everywhere at once. Cradling her breasts, cupping behind her, sliding against her bare skin, trailing up her thighs from beneath the hem of her dress. Exploring, kneading, squeezing, stroking. Mapping out the topography of her body in the most intimate of ways; forever burning it into his mind to become a cherished memory. Before long, she reached the last button and he felt as she gingerly maneuvered the material aside, unveiling the canvas of his chest, marked by the artistic ink of tattoos. Her fingertips, light as feathers, embarked on an exploratory journey across the etched patterns, tracing each line and curve with a tender touch, as if trying to etch their intricate designs into the depths of her memory. He allowed her to familiarise herself with these markings intimately, even as his own hands stopped their exploration to grant himself more of her.
Gently, his very gesture seemingly pleading for her permission, he reached upwards to shrug off the straps of her dress from her shoulders before pulling them down slowly to let the material bunch up around her waist. And if he had been awestruck before when he first saw her, it paled in comparison to seeing her bared before him now.
She was everything he imagined she was and more. Simply put, she was perfect.
What little time he had to admire her was soon cut short when her lips once again found him, and his hands immediately returned to their exploration of her body even as she pulled him close. Bare skin against bare skin, intertwined with an unspoken desire for one another. The touch of her hands on his waist as she kissed him soothed him, though he found the intensity of the contact intoxicating. When he felt her hips roll against his, he groaned into her mouth, dimming the soft whimper that she gave him in return. Beneath, he throbbed against her as she ground on him, and he found it all overwhelming. What little self-control he might’ve still had left him at that very moment.
Parting his lips from her with a gasp, he bent down, hooking his hands behind her thighs to hoist her up from the seat alongside him. He carried her towards the bed blind, giving her only a moment to wrap her legs around his middle for purchase as his head buried itself between the valley of her breasts. Along the way, he eagerly assaulted her chest with his hungry lips and tongue, groaning against her like a man starved.
He walked until his legs bumped the bedframe, whereupon he stopped his ministrations to lay her gently against the bed sheets. Almost solemn in the way he did it all, even as he stepped back to admire her flushed, panting form.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he growled reverently, speaking aloud his own thoughts as he looked down at her. Shrugging off his shirt unceremoniously, he reached down to unbuckle his belt, pulling it through the loops of his trousers. His movement now seemed deliberately - and painfully - slow, as if buying himself more time to look at her. To admire her. To imprint her into his mind like a tattoo.
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