u/notyouraveragesin

Mismatched eyes watched the candle flicker softly in the light breeze of the room. The flame continued on, stubborn and resilient in its nature to claim and consume the wick it burned ever lower. It was a cool spring evening, and King's landing was alive with people celebrating the turning of the seasons. The winter had been a short, but brutal one, lords and small folk alike were relieved and delighted in it's parting and she intended on joining their celebrations soon enough. Over the coming months there are would be festivals and tourneys, most of which she planned on making appearances at to chase her own hedonistic wants and needs.

Had Shiera Seastar been born a proper lady her life would be much different. It was rarely worth thinking about, her reality currently suited her far better than the heavy title of princess ever could. As the daughter of King Aegon, she usually got whatever her heart desired to begin with. Extravagant dresses, jewelry of silver - her favorite and hand maids to act as companions and assist in her own basic upkeep. Had she been born a proper Targaryen she possibly would have been married off by now, likely to one of her brothers or whatever high Lord made the most generous offer to her father. Because that was not Shiera's reality much of her life was spent without the expectations and rules that a proper princess had thrust onto her.

She could part her legs for whoever she wished to take to bed, and drink moon tea the following morning. Her suitors and lovers were never concerned with the fact that she was a King's bastard, they were far more interested in the rest of her. The warm, wet space between her legs or her long golden hair. If her endowed chest didn't gain a man's attention her personality and musical voice often did. Many men had begged to make her a wife, offering her riches beyond telling and a proper title and their own last name. None of it was intriguing enough, but eventually she may grow bored and accept some lucky man's proposal. Until then, she planned on living her life to the fullest.

Her handmaid had styled and brushed her hair earlier in the day, and woven her silver gold locks into a beautiful intricate braid that dangled down the dragon seed's back. She smelled of lavender and honey, and carried herself like a feline more often than not. She set out into the night, energetic and determined to find a source of amusement among the crowded streets.

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Hello! I'm assuming you're a fan of George Martin's a song of ice and fire if you're here. Shiera is a canon character, one we just haven't seen in any shows properly. I'm looking for someone to write an in world character for her, they can also be canon or original. I want you to have creative freedom here! Also, I am hoping for this to be longer term and develop over time, but one shot is fine as well. I am seeking to write this in third person, past tense. I am looking for someone who is just as interested in plot as smut.

Where will your character meet her? In an inn? A bar, a brothel? That's entirely up to you! Or both of us if you want to discuss first, as I did leave it open ended.

You can pick up where I left off or message me any questions, concerns or that you're wanting to kick ideas around. You can be a knight, a high born lord, the seventh son of someone or just a nobody! I'm also open to moving this to discord in time.

Kinks: primal play, rough sex, dub con, light restraints, affection, passionate sex, anal, foreplay, hand play, oral, breeding, cream pie, impregnation, pregnancy, age gap, size difference, large hands, many others I'm sure I'm forgetting

Limits: filth, hyper proportions, degrading race play

The clamy hand held flush over her mouth is her own, and the other lay across the top for good measure. Her nostrils flared in fear as adrenaline coursed through her veins, urging a barely suppressed instinct to run. Flee! Hide! Survive! A small voice said, soft and terrified. The other, more demanding and reasonable insisted that she stay exactly where she was. Crouched down on the rough, worn wood of the kitchen floor she hid beenath a large prep table covered in a white cotton cloth. She could see the sunlight casting down through an open stone window, lighting up the room and allowing her to partially see through the white cloth. Florence had been so pleased when they received the table cloth, donated by a wealthy man in the nearest town down the road. They so rarely received gifts, and Florence was such a dreadfully materialistic thing, sister Ava always said as much. She had an eye for anything that sparkled and could be a touch over indulgent when it came to the simple joys of life. According to her sisterhood, oath and vows - that made her gluttonous and a sinner. Florence spent a great deal of time obsessively, mentally praying for forgiveness for her many sins. Sometimes she even wondered if god heard her, it certainly seemed as though her sisters did at times. Or perhaps they could see the guilt written simply across her smooth, pale forehead.

A prayer for thinking of sex - lust, a prayer for wishing for softer blankets than the itchy wool one she had. A particularly pathetic prayer with tears to plea for God's grace in almost every human thought that submerged in her mind. At times, when at her weakest she often wondered what kind of God would make her so... incredibly human and weak. Then punish and judge for being so tempted by the very thoughts he designed her mind to have? None of it made sense if she thought on it for too long. Mostly, that was because she was a sinner - a sorry excuse for a nun, according to Father Morgan. But still, a nun all the same - a young one that had agreed to join when faced with a decision between a habit and a noose.

Florence had always been more trouble than she was worth, her father said so long before she found herself here. Our Lady of perpetual sorrow, they called her mean things her sisters - but their favorite seemed to simply be, 'that one.' She often wondered if her sisters in Christ loved her, she attempted to convince herself she loved them. Of course they all claim to love each other, but no one really means it - not for her.

The room is quiet, but she can hear shouting down the long hallway outside, shouting in a language she did not know or recognize. Her breathing began to pick back up again, a nervous inconsistent inhale. If she focused enough, she could still smell the loaf of bread baking and the crackle of the kitchen fires beneath it. If left unattended the bread would burn, under normal circumstances if she burnt bread Sister Ava would see to it that she be punished. These were not normal circumstances though and she did not confidently believe she would live long enough to see the following mornings sunrise. She hoped it was quick, when it did happen. That it was a man or a woman that knew how to properly shove a blade into her belly, her father showed her once on a pig.

Would she bleed like a barn yard animal? Would she sound the same way her father's prized pig had? Whimpering and crying in a pool of her own blood. Pleading for God to listen and take the pain of it and everything else away?

As the shouting, foot steps and movement for louder she thought that would be the case. God couldn't hear her here, the savages were being too loud. She dropped her hands away from her mouth and allowed herself to take in a deep breath. Hands nervously straighten her habit, short red curls peak around her forehead and the sides of her face. Troublesome young nuns were not allowed to keep things that were precious to them. As such, Florence lost her long, wavy copper red hair to a pair of dull sheep shears a few weeks before.

Life was strange, this morning having her hair cut away still felt like a raw, open wound. Now, hiding in the kitchen beneath a table from barbarians, it was the last thing on her mind. Florence's thoughts went to her childhood home, the worn wooden floor of the porch and how it always left a splinter in one of her fingers or palm. The smell of the oil lantern right after her father lit it for the evening, the taste of mother's cabbage stew and warmed bread - if it had been a good week there might even be butter. At our Lady of perpetual sorrow they are a lot of oats, plain. Florence didn't know that someone could exist in so little for so long, but father Morgan said they had to endure famine and the Lord would reward them with feast in time. Perhaps that was the selfish, gluttonous part of her that would drag her to hell for all of her sins. She couldn't help but struggle with the temptation that hunger more often than not brought with it. It had been easier a few years ago, but now? The points if her hips were becoming more prominent, as were her cheek bones and the outline of her rib cage and spine. Still, she wanted more - gluttony.

The intruders are at the open stone archway to the kitchen now, they've made no attempt at hiding their own presence. She had been so caught up in her own compulsive thoughts she had not realized how quickly the wolves had over run her home.

\\------------------------

If you've made it this far, thank you and I'll cut right to the chase. I am wanting this to be long term, I am open to moving things to discord. I am looking for a plot just as much as I am smut. If you give me effort I promise I'll give the same in return. I would like for Florence to be stolen away and forced to go through a journey of self discovery and hardship. Who will she be at the end? That's up to us.

Who are you? A jarl, a warrior, a farmer that's on his first raid? You can be any gender and I want you to have fun and be creative with your character. This does not have to be historically accurate by any means, I'm not a history teacher and we can bend details here and there. Additionally, who is invading? I have vikings in mind but if you have any other ideas I'm definitely open. They probably won't speak the same language, but in time Florence can learn. Again, historic accuracy is not the goal - fun and story telling is.

I default to third person past tense, but I can and will match my partner's style of writing.

Kinks, not required but encouraged: noncon (eventually turned consensual), rough sex, primitive sex, breeding, creampies, pregnancy, free use, oral (giving and receiving), clothed sex, semi public sex, affectionate sex, manhandling, size difference, large hands, fingering, outer course, light humiliation, praise, anal, double penetration, rushed sex, after care and affection, grinding/dry humping, choking, slapping, spanking, doggy style, spit/saliva, intoxicated sex, risk of getting caught

Limits: Hyper anything, excessive degrading, race play, scat or anything related to it, excessive edging

If it isn't listed and you're curious? Ask.

It's Friday night, and instead of going to a party or going out with a few new friends I stay in. I have an essay that I can start on, video games that I haven't actually started up yet and at least a dozen half read books I could get around to. There are more productive things to do at home, and I like to enjoy having the house to myself. It would be a shame to waste having the place to myself by not being there.

Plus, Dad's friend is supposed to stop by at some point tonight - and sporadically throughout the month. An arrangement that I find mildly insulting, at nineteen years old I'm perfectly capable of watching the house without \\\*\\\*adult supervision.\\\*\\\*I've met him in passing a few times, and like most of my parents friends - I pay very little attention to the man. When he's around there are usually better things to do with my time than to pretend to be interested in whatever they're discussing. I don't actually care about what type of shenanigans my dad used to get up to in college, and I don't want to hear about what he still considers "cool."

My phone chimes beside me from its place on my bed, the familiar sound of the ring doorbell detecting movement. I don't have to look to know who it is, but my mind summons a mental image anyway. A familiar figure coming in through our front door with the spare key. What does he think I'll need, for him to make sure all the lights are turned off when I go to bed? A few minutes later I pause my game at a save checkpoint and go downstairs.

I'm home alone, so I look the part of lazy teenager on a night in. With an oversized shirt on and no bra beneath and short workout shorts - lavender lulu lemon purchased with barista money. My bare feet move quietly across the tile floor of the kitchen as I creep up onto the larger figure in my home. "You're here," I muse as I pace around the island in the center of our kitchen and level you with a bored but playful glare. It is admittedly nice to see a familiar face, even if it's an adult that's supposed to be supervising me. "Did you have nothing better to do?" I ask in jest and tilt my head as I wait for an answer. My coppery red hair hangs down around either of my shoulders, unstyled and air dried from the shower I took earlier in the afternoon.

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Quick one shot, or not. My parents are out of town and my dad asked you, his best friend to keep an eye on me and the house over the next month. This can be a one time fling or ongoing, I'm fine with either. I will adapt to your writing style as long as you give me content to work with and write against.

Kinks: Risky sex, age gaps, contrast, middle aged men, Dd/lg, being taught, raw sex, oral (giving and receiving), foreplay, large hands, thick fingers in tight cunts, anal, double penetration, cream pie, breeding, impregnation, pregnancy, passionate sex, affection, romance, size difference, praise, light degrading

Limits: No effort, scat, hyper proportions, race play.

The clamy hand held flush over her mouth is her own, and the other lay across the top for good measure. Her nostrils flared in fear as adrenaline coursed through her veins, urging a barely suppressed instinct to run. Flee! Hide! Survive! A small voice said, soft and terrified. The other, more demanding and reasonable insisted that she stay exactly where she was. Crouched down on the rough, worn wood of the kitchen floor she hid beenath a large prep table covered in a white cotton cloth. She could see the sunlight casting down through an open stone window, lighting up the room and allowing her to partially see through the white cloth. Florence had been so pleased when they received the table cloth, donated by a wealthy man in the nearest town down the road. They so rarely received gifts, and Florence was such a dreadfully materialistic thing, sister Ava always said as much. She had an eye for anything that sparkled and could be a touch over indulgent when it came to the simple joys of life. According to her sisterhood, oath and vows - that made her gluttonous and a sinner. Florence spent a great deal of time obsessively, mentally praying for forgiveness for her many sins. Sometimes she even wondered if god heard her, it certainly seemed as though her sisters did at times. Or perhaps they could see the guilt written simply across her smooth, pale forehead.

A prayer for thinking of sex - lust, a prayer for wishing for softer blankets than the itchy wool one she had. A particularly pathetic prayer with tears to plea for God's grace in almost every human thought that submerged in her mind. At times, when at her weakest she often wondered what kind of God would make her so... incredibly human and weak. Then punish and judge for being so tempted by the very thoughts he designed her mind to have? None of it made sense if she thought on it for too long. Mostly, that was because she was a sinner - a sorry excuse for a nun, according to Father Morgan. But still, a nun all the same - a young one that had agreed to join when faced with a decision between a habit and a noose.

Florence had always been more trouble than she was worth, her father said so long before she found herself here. Our Lady of perpetual sorrow, they called her mean things her sisters - but their favorite seemed to simply be, 'that one.' She often wondered if her sisters in Christ loved her, she attempted to convince herself she loved them. Of course they all claim to love each other, but no one really means it - not for her.

The room is quiet, but she can hear shouting down the long hallway outside, shouting in a language she did not know or recognize. Her breathing began to pick back up again, a nervous inconsistent inhale. If she focused enough, she could still smell the loaf of bread baking and the crackle of the kitchen fires beneath it. If left unattended the bread would burn, under normal circumstances if she burnt bread Sister Ava would see to it that she be punished. These were not normal circumstances though and she did not confidently believe she would live long enough to see the following mornings sunrise. She hoped it was quick, when it did happen. That it was a man or a woman that knew how to properly shove a blade into her belly, her father showed her once on a pig.

Would she bleed like a barn yard animal? Would she sound the same way her father's prized pig had? Whimpering and crying in a pool of her own blood. Pleading for God to listen and take the pain of it and everything else away?

As the shouting, foot steps and movement for louder she thought that would be the case. God couldn't hear her here, the savages were being too loud. She dropped her hands away from her mouth and allowed herself to take in a deep breath. Hands nervously straighten her habit, short red curls peak around her forehead and the sides of her face. Troublesome young nuns were not allowed to keep things that were precious to them. As such, Florence lost her long, wavy copper red hair to a pair of dull sheep shears a few weeks before.

Life was strange, this morning having her hair cut away still felt like a raw, open wound. Now, hiding in the kitchen beneath a table from barbarians, it was the last thing on her mind. Florence's thoughts went to her childhood home, the worn wooden floor of the porch and how it always left a splinter in one of her fingers or palm. The smell of the oil lantern right after her father lit it for the evening, the taste of mother's cabbage stew and warmed bread - if it had been a good week there might even be butter. At our Lady of perpetual sorrow they are a lot of oats, plain. Florence didn't know that someone could exist in so little for so long, but father Morgan said they had to endure famine and the Lord would reward them with feast in time. Perhaps that was the selfish, gluttonous part of her that would drag her to hell for all of her sins. She couldn't help but struggle with the temptation that hunger more often than not brought with it. It had been easier a few years ago, but now? The points if her hips were becoming more prominent, as were her cheek bones and the outline of her rib cage and spine. Still, she wanted more - gluttony.

The intruders are at the open stone archway to the kitchen now, they've made no attempt at hiding their own presence. She had been so caught up in her own compulsive thoughts she had not realized how quickly the wolves had over run her home.

------------------------

If you've made it this far, thank you and I'll cut right to the chase. I am wanting this to be long term, I am open to moving things to discord. I am looking for a plot just as much as I am smut. If you give me effort I promise I'll give the same in return. I would like for Florence to be stolen away and forced to go through a journey of self discovery and hardship. Who will she be at the end? That's up to us.

Who are you? A jarl, a warrior, a farmer that's on his first raid? You can be any gender and I want you to have fun and be creative with your character. This does not have to be historically accurate by any means, I'm not a history teacher and we can bend details here and there. Additionally, who is invading? I have vikings in mind but if you have any other ideas I'm definitely open. They probably won't speak the same language, but in time Florence can learn. Again, historic accuracy is not the goal - fun and story telling is.

I default to third person past tense, but I can and will match my partner's style of writing.

Kinks, not required but encouraged: noncon (eventually turned consensual), rough sex, primitive sex, breeding, creampies, pregnancy, free use, oral (giving and receiving), clothed sex, semi public sex, affectionate sex, manhandling, size difference, large hands, fingering, outer course, light humiliation, praise, anal, double penetration, rushed sex, after care and affection, grinding/dry humping, choking, slapping, spanking, doggy style, spit/saliva, intoxicated sex, risk of getting caught

Limits: Hyper anything, excessive degrading, race play, scat or anything related to it, excessive edging

If it isn't listed and you're curious? Ask.

The clamy hand held flush over her mouth is her own, and the other lay across the top for good measure. Her nostrils flared in fear as adrenaline coursed through her veins, urging a barely suppressed instinct to run. Flee! Hide! Survive! A small voice said, soft and terrified. The other, more demanding and reasonable insisted that she stay exactly where she was. Crouched down on the rough, worn wood of the kitchen floor she hid beenath a large prep table covered in a white cotton cloth. She could see the sunlight casting down through an open stone window, lighting up the room and allowing her to partially see through the white cloth. Florence had been so pleased when they received the table cloth, donated by a wealthy man in the nearest town down the road. They so rarely received gifts, and Florence was such a dreadfully materialistic thing, sister Ava always said as much. She had an eye for anything that sparkled and could be a touch over indulgent when it came to the simple joys of life. According to her sisterhood, oath and vows - that made her gluttonous and a sinner. Florence spent a great deal of time obsessively, mentally praying for forgiveness for her many sins. Sometimes she even wondered if god heard her, it certainly seemed as though her sisters did at times. Or perhaps they could see the guilt written simply across her smooth, pale forehead.

A prayer for thinking of sex - lust, a prayer for wishing for softer blankets than the itchy wool one she had. A particularly pathetic prayer with tears to plea for God's grace in almost every human thought that submerged in her mind. At times, when at her weakest she often wondered what kind of God would make her so... incredibly human and weak. Then punish and judge for being so tempted by the very thoughts he designed her mind to have? None of it made sense if she thought on it for too long. Mostly, that was because she was a sinner - a sorry excuse for a nun, according to Father Morgan. But still, a nun all the same - a young one that had agreed to join when faced with a decision between a habit and a noose.

Florence had always been more trouble than she was worth, her father said so long before she found herself here. Our Lady of perpetual sorrow, they called her mean things her sisters - but their favorite seemed to simply be, 'that one.' She often wondered if her sisters in Christ loved her, she attempted to convince herself she loved them. Of course they all claim to love each other, but no one really means it - not for her.

The room is quiet, but she can hear shouting down the long hallway outside, shouting in a language she did not know or recognize. Her breathing began to pick back up again, a nervous inconsistent inhale. If she focused enough, she could still smell the loaf of bread baking and the crackle of the kitchen fires beneath it. If left unattended the bread would burn, under normal circumstances if she burnt bread Sister Ava would see to it that she be punished. These were not normal circumstances though and she did not confidently believe she would live long enough to see the following mornings sunrise. She hoped it was quick, when it did happen. That it was a man or a woman that knew how to properly shove a blade into her belly, her father showed her once on a pig.

Would she bleed like a barn yard animal? Would she sound the same way her father's prized pig had? Whimpering and crying in a pool of her own blood. Pleading for God to listen and take the pain of it and everything else away?

As the shouting, foot steps and movement for louder she thought that would be the case. God couldn't hear her here, the savages were being too loud. She dropped her hands away from her mouth and allowed herself to take in a deep breath. Hands nervously straighten her habit, short red curls peak around her forehead and the sides of her face. Troublesome young nuns were not allowed to keep things that were precious to them. As such, Florence lost her long, wavy copper red hair to a pair of dull sheep shears a few weeks before.

Life was strange, this morning having her hair cut away still felt like a raw, open wound. Now, hiding in the kitchen beneath a table from barbarians, it was the last thing on her mind. Florence's thoughts went to her childhood home, the worn wooden floor of the porch and how it always left a splinter in one of her fingers or palm. The smell of the oil lantern right after her father lit it for the evening, the taste of mother's cabbage stew and warmed bread - if it had been a good week there might even be butter. At our Lady of perpetual sorrow they are a lot of oats, plain. Florence didn't know that someone could exist in so little for so long, but father Morgan said they had to endure famine and the Lord would reward them with feast in time. Perhaps that was the selfish, gluttonous part of her that would drag her to hell for all of her sins. She couldn't help but struggle with the temptation that hunger more often than not brought with it. It had been easier a few years ago, but now? The points if her hips were becoming more prominent, as were her cheek bones and the outline of her rib cage and spine. Still, she wanted more - \\\*\\\*gluttony.\\\*\\\*

The intruders are at the open stone archway to the kitchen now, they've made no attempt at hiding their own presence. She had been so caught up in her own compulsive thoughts she had not realized how quickly the wolves had over run her home.

\\-----------------------

If you've made it this far, thank you and I'll cut right to the chase. I am wanting this to be long term, I am open to moving things to discord. I am looking for a plot just as much as I am smut. If you give me effort I promise I'll give the same in return. I would like for Florence to be stolen away and forced to go through a journey of self discovery and hardship. Who will she be at the end? That's up to us.

Who are you? A jarl, a warrior, a farmer that's on his first raid? You can be any gender and I want you to have fun and be creative with your character. This does not have to be historically accurate by any means, I'm not a history teacher and we can bend details here and there. Additionally, who is invading? I have vikings in mind but if you have any other ideas I'm definitely open. They probably won't speak the same language, but in time Florence can learn. Again, historic accuracy is not the goal - fun and story telling is.

I default to third person past tense, but I can and will match my partner's style of writing.

Kinks, not required but encouraged: noncon (eventually turned consensual), rough sex, premative sex, breeding, creampies, pregnancy, free use, oral (giving and receiving), clothed sex, semi public sex, affectionate sex, manhandling, size difference, large hands, fingering, outer course, light humiliation, praise

Limits: Hyper anything, degrading race play, scat

If it isn't listed and you're curious? Ask.

It's Friday night, and instead of going to a party or going out with a few new friends I stay in. I have an essay that I can start on, video games that I haven't actually started up yet and at least a dozen half read books I could get around to. There are more productive things to do at home, and I like to enjoy having the house to myself. It would be a shame to waste having the place to myself by not being there.

Plus, Dad's friend is supposed to stop by at some point tonight - and sporadically throughout the month. An arrangement that I find mildly insulting, at nineteen years old I'm perfectly capable of watching the house without \*\*adult supervision.\*\*I've met him in passing a few times, and like most of my parents friends - I pay very little attention to the man. When he's around there are usually better things to do with my time than to pretend to be interested in whatever they're discussing. I don't actually care about what type of shenanigans my dad used to get up to in college, and I don't want to hear about what he still considers "cool."

My phone chimes beside me from its place on my bed, the familiar sound of the ring doorbell detecting movement. I don't have to look to know who it is, but my mind summons a mental image anyway. A familiar figure coming in through our front door with the spare key. What does he think I'll need, for him to make sure all the lights are turned off when I go to bed? A few minutes later I pause my game at a save checkpoint and go downstairs.

I'm home alone, so I look the part of lazy teenager on a night in. With an oversized shirt on and no bra beneath and short workout shorts - lavender lulu lemon purchased with barista money. My bare feet move quietly across the tile floor of the kitchen as I creep up onto the larger figure in my home. "You're here," I muse as I pace around the island in the center of our kitchen and level you with a bored but playful glare. It is admittedly nice to see a familiar face, even if it's an adult that's supposed to be supervising me. "Did you have nothing better to do?" I ask in jest and tilt my head as I wait for an answer. My coppery red hair hangs down around either of my shoulders, unstyled and air dried from the shower I took earlier in the afternoon.

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Quick one shot, or not. My parents are out of town and my dad asked you, his best friend to keep an eye on me and the house over the next month. This can be a one time fling or ongoing, I'm fine with either. I will adapt to your writing style as long as you give me content to work with and write against.

Kinks: Risky sex, age gaps, contrast, middle aged men, Dd/lg, being taught, raw sex, oral (giving and receiving), foreplay, large hands, thick fingers in tight cunts, anal, double penetration, cream pie, breeding, impregnation, pregnancy, passionate sex, affection, romance, size difference, praise, light degrading

Limits: No effort, scat, hyper proportions, race play.

It's Friday night, and instead of going to a party or going out with a few new friends I stay in. I have an essay that I can start on, video games that I haven't actually started up yet and at least a dozen half read books I could get around to. There are more productive things to do at home, and I like to enjoy having the house to myself. It would be a shame to waste having the place to myself by not being there.

Plus, Dad's friend is supposed to stop by at some point tonight - and sporadically throughout the month. An arrangement that I find mildly insulting, at nineteen years old I'm perfectly capable of watching the house without **adult supervision.**I've met him in passing a few times, and like most of my parents friends - I pay very little attention to the man. When he's around there are usually better things to do with my time than to pretend to be interested in whatever they're discussing. I don't actually care about what type of shenanigans my dad used to get up to in college, and I don't want to hear about what he still considers "cool."

My phone chimes beside me from its place on my bed, the familiar sound of the ring doorbell detecting movement. I don't have to look to know who it is, but my mind summons a mental image anyway. A familiar figure coming in through our front door with the spare key. What does he think I'll need, for him to make sure all the lights are turned off when I go to bed? A few minutes later I pause my game at a save checkpoint and go downstairs.

I'm home alone, so I look the part of lazy teenager on a night in. With an oversized shirt on and no bra beneath and short workout shorts - lavender lulu lemon purchased with barista money. My bare feet move quietly across the tile floor of the kitchen as I creep up onto the larger figure in my home. "You're here," I muse as I pace around the island in the center of our kitchen and level you with a bored but playful glare. It is admittedly nice to see a familiar face, even if it's an adult that's supposed to be supervising me. "Did you have nothing better to do?" I ask in jest and tilt my head as I wait for an answer. My coppery red hair hangs down around either of my shoulders, unstyled and air dried from the shower I took earlier in the afternoon.

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Quick one shot, or not. My parents are out of town and my dad asked you, his best friend to keep an eye on me and the house over the next month. This can be a one time fling or ongoing, I'm fine with either. I will adapt to your writing style as long as you give me content to work with and write against.

Kinks: Risky sex, age gaps, contrast, middle aged men, Dd/lg, being taught, raw sex, oral (giving and receiving), foreplay, large hands, thick fingers in tight cunts, anal, double penetration, cream pie, breeding, impregnation, pregnancy, passionate sex, affection, romance, size difference, praise, light degrading

Limits: No effort, scat, hyper proportions, race play.

This was all wrong, Elara's life had been set to a specific path since before her birth. As her father's first and only child she had certain expectations placed onto her slim shoulders. Elves did not default everything to male children, and her father's throne was set to become hers, before the war lord showed up at their walls and burned multiple villages to the ground. Their most successful battles against the barbarians had actually been led by the princess. She had seen the humans in battle, knew what they were capable of and what lows they would gladly sink to if it meant following their instincts and own selfishness.

When the King of savages made his offer, she knew they had to accept it while her father was still weighing it in his mind. The elven king did not want to send his daughter off to such a fate, but their options were few. Delaying the inevitable would mean more of their people being put to the sword, or worse. Elara accepted and sent word before her father realized the reality of their situation. She would not sit on their ancestor's throne and bare elven children to follow their standards and traditions. She would be a war lord's whore - a large step down that wounded her pride and ego.

Just three nights after their meeting she found herself standing in the human's tent. Escorted there by one of her father's best and most loyal soldiers, he stood behind her with a neutral expression. He hid his own internal worry and anxiety much better than the discarded princess did. Looking every bit the part of a nervous maid, her fingers twirled at the long strands of her dark brown hair. Atop her head lay a crown, a modest one made of shed deer antlers, with vines and flowers intricately carved along the surfaces. Elara had wrapped a few of her favorite flowers around the headpiece as well, wilting lavender shed pastel purple flowers into her hair.

Emerald eyes danced over the room, taking in as many details as she could. She had never been around humans before, only in passing - and her sharp nose could smell Aric on his positions. It was a heavy, masculine smell that made her knees feel weak and her stomach twist uncomfortably. Her father had been tactfully vague when it came Aric, but others had not offered her the same kindness. He was said to be as large as a small mountain, and as feral as the wolves that haunted their forest. She shivered at the thought and attempted to mentally still herself against the rising panic that made her heart rampantly patter in her chest.

This was not a wedding night, she was property - a status symbol to posses in spite of everything. Elara's life had been spent playing the part of a noble woman, she was educated and tactful and yet - a thorn in her father's side. It did not stop her from attempting to present herself in a memorable way to her captor. She was to be one of his whores, a bedwarmer - a concubine, that did not mean she was no longer a princess. She adorned a light green dress that snuffly fit her slim body and hugged her small breasts in a flattering way. The elf dropped her hands to her sides to force herself to stop fidgeting with her hair, she had to be brave.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Hello! If you made it this far, I believe the premise is obvious. Ward lord invader offered a beautiful elven princess in exchange for peace. Is she going to just be his lover, his whore, or his wife? Let's see where the story takes us.

I prefer detail and length, and effort. I would also appreciate writing this prompt in third person, past or present tense. Please, please!

You can write any sort of character you want! I love variety and depth, show me your creativity! The invaders and war lord don't even necessarily have to be humans, they can be orcs, goblins, dark elves, a race you create?

I am very interested in a Dany Targaryen and Kahl Drogo situation, but that isn't required! What their futures are entirely depends on us ! I am just as interested in the story between our characters as I am the smut!

Kinks: Foreplay, fingering, size difference, age difference, non con, dub con, non con turned consensual, free use, breeding, impregnation, pregnancy, oral, anal, Dd/Lg, passionate sex, after care, praise, light humiliation, fantasy race dynamics and cultures

Limits: scat, smegma, hyper proportions, low effort