🔴 Bad Romance
Characters: Fem!Reader, the 141, König, and a cameo from Graves. 🔴 18+ MDNI Contents: isekai trope, over-the-top purple prose, romance novel parody, author has a thesaurus, heavy use of euphemisms, Y/N parody, fandom commentary, patriarchy commentary, I got jokes, wordplay, Nonsense by design, Intentional nonsense, Breaking the 4th wall, author got the ick, puns, sex. CW: explicit sex, PIV sex, unprotected sex, unrealistic amounts of cum, naughty sex words. TW: brief mention of spiders. Word Count: 2569 AO3 link
🤡🖤 This work is a parody and should not be taken seriously; please be appropriately whimsical. 🖤🤡
Mood Music:
It was a fine and sunny day the day that you died. You were leaving the library with a copy of some tattered old romance novel and Call of Duty: Modern Warfare II tucked against your chest when you were hit by a truck.
"Truck-kun! No! How could you?" you asked, wondering why you'd been subjected to such tyranny, but no one heard you because you were dead. Bummer.
As you saw the light that you've only heard about from other people — distinctly in the context that you should not go toward it — it engulfed you anyway because you had no agency as a dead person and also we needed to propel the plot forward. The light grew and grew until it blinded you.
And then you blinked.
Winter came to Frabjous Hall, home of the illustrious Archduke Talgai, blanketing the grounds with a carpet of white just in time for the Winter Ball. The glittering mandibles of the Christmas Day Spider hung, chittering, from the chandelier above, dripping with crystals and gems, but definitely not candles because spider webs are highly flammable and we're here to have a good time and not all die like Miss Havisham. The opulence in the room was overwhelming — you haven't seen such bling since you watched MTV Cribs — the decor and the guests alike were inordinately beautiful.
Including yourself. You looked down to find yourself dressed in an exquisite ball gown embroidered with gold and silver threads and encrusted in jewels, like your little sister had gotten hold of the Bedazzler again.
You wandered through the crowd of guests when a hush fell over the room. Following the gaze of the crowd, your attention was drawn up to the ballroom’s staircase where four gentlemen stood, waiting to be announced.
"Presenting Captain John Price," the crier stated very loudly so that everyone who hadn’t already shut their pie holes could hear.
You did a double-take. Surely not THAT John Price. But your squinting and neck-craning told you that it was indeed THAT John Price, friendly mutton chops and all.
"A hero back from the battle front!" you heard one guest nearby whisper excitedly.
That's amazing! You died and were now in a romance novel with Captain John Price from Activision's own hit game Call of Duty Modern Warfare II, available on PC, PS4, PS5, Xbox One, and Xbox Series X/S, whatever that is!
But the wonder did not stop there!
"Presenting Laird John MacTavish of the Clan Mactavish." The familiar mohawked figure, dressed in a formal kilt and jacket, descended the stairs to mingle with the guests quietly, his shapely calves turning the heads of both lords and ladies in equal measure.
Wow, it was Soap. You started to wonder what character you played in this story when you heard the next announcement.
"Presenting the Viscount de Chubeldedooble, Simon Riley." You didn’t actually catch the whole thing because you had horny time in your head, but your brain tried to fill in the gaps for you.
The Viscount was built like a brick shithouse but looked way better. Attractive in a very murdery way, his dour expression and hard eyes could only mean that this was Ghost. You didn’t even care that you’d never seen him in-game without a mask on, and this could literally be any other grumpy bear out there. No, you’d know those eyes anywhere. The kind that could strip the paint off the walls and your dress off your body at a mere glance. Besides, it had to be Ghost; the plot demanded it! Visions of Mr. Darcy flitted through your head as you imagined you and Ghost snug in his bed. Or maybe him snug in—
A sudden tension filled the room like everyone was about to have orgasms. "Presenting the Archduke of Talgai,” the crier announced, “the mononymous König.”
The room came alive with sudden chatter, and you realized it was more than just the Christmas Day Spider making such a hubbub. Everyone from all sides was murmuring about the Archduke of Talgai. He sure was a tal gai.
You watched, riveted, as his towering figure descended the staircase only to find his gaze fixed on yours with a hunger that said he hadn’t had his midday snacky yet.
Uh-oh.
There was something itching at the back of your mind, like someone else was supposed to be here, but you couldn’t quite place it, not with those arctic blue eyes boring into you like the Eye of Sauron in stereo.
“You,” the Austrian said as he cut through the throng, appearing bigly in front of you.
You stared up into his… well, his hood. You stared up into his hood, which blew in a phantom breeze as his long blonde hair (which took the place of his game-canonical military sniper helmet) was backlit in soft New Age lighting like a Yanni album cover. Basically he looked like if Fabio was a butterface.
“You will dance with me,” he said, his accent thick enough that you could almost feel it solidifying the air between you. It made your teeth ache and your heart race, and think that maybe you actually did have that biting kink.
“Uh,” you replied eloquently as he took your hand to escort you onto the dance floor. A sudden waltz started up, and he swirled you about the floor 1-2-3, 1-2-3, leading you expertly as if he himself invented the dance.
“You dance well,” he said as you fell all over every single step like the clumsy but beautiful maiden that you were.
“T-thank you, Your Grace,” you stuttered out as you stepped on his foot.
“Tell me your name.”
“My name? My name is Y/N.”
“Whaien? A name befitting a woman of such irresistible pulchritude, such as yourself.”
Just as you were about to thank him in a shy and demure manner, a footman tapped him on the shoulder. Or… on the back because there’s no way for a short king like him to tap a man the size of a mountain on the shoulder very easily without jumping.
“Your Grace, there seems to be a ruction at the door,” said the footman.
“A what?” the Archduke asked, glaring down at his servant in obvious annoyance.
“A ruction.”
“Erection?”
“No, Your Grace. A ruction. A quarrel.”
“Ah. Take care of it then, can you not see that I am currently engaged?”
The footman was nervous but would not give up. “Your Grace… The man will not leave until he sees you.”
With a heavy sigh, König nodded, bending down low to kiss your hand through his hood, which everyone just pretends is not there. Like, what’s with that?
“Forgive me, Lady Whaien. Wait for me, liebling; I shall return.”
A part of you preened inside over being put into the “worthy of a pet name” category, but the other part — the one with crippling social anxiety — realized that now everyone was staring daggers at you for your sudden elevated status. You, the poor, new, and very beautiful girl who was always abused and never loved because you were too pretty. The unfortunate, pitiful creature whose big, sad, and yearning eyes could do nothing but give men hard-ons against their will, and then they make their will your will.
Three women broke from the onlookers to approach you, their faces masks of propriety and cuntiness.
“Of what noble house, lady, are you?” asked the virago in the middle with the powdered wig. “If you even come from one,” she tittered behind her fluttering fan.
Twatty-Dee and Twatty-Dum tittered behind her, echoing her evil pink Regina George vibes.
Just as you were about to divulge all because you cave too easily under pressure, König returned, hip-checking all three women away in one go, and they vanished like a queef in a crowd.
“Liebchen, I have returned to save you from these truculent shrews!” he exclaimed, tossing his mane of hair over his shoulder as choirs of angels sang in the background.
“Truc— Truck-kun??” you gasped in surprise, reminded of your untimely demise. “My hero!” you swooned, and he scandalously pulled you up against his hard body. You could feel his cock twitch in his pants as if dancing to Mambo Number 5. But a little bit of Monica would have to wait; something in his eyes said he had to tell you something.
“Yes, I am. But there is something I must tell you.”
Damn, you were right. “What is it, Your Grace?” you asked, leaning in to make sure you didn’t miss a word.
“I am unequivocally, unquestionably, absolutely, unambiguously, straightforwardly, explicitly, conclusively, definitively wildly in love with you.”
“Oh, Your G–” He mashed his index finger over your lips, halting your speech.
“Unconditionally,” he continued, “in God’s most pure, unimpeachable, and immaculate love.”
“Oh… so like–”
“And before you profess your love in return to me, I must confess that I am not who you think I am, though my heart is unwavering–”
“Yes, your unimpeachable love. Got it,” you said. “Then who are you really?”
He gazed down at you, thumbs skimming your cheekbones as he cupped your face, and then he reached up and pulled off his hood and blonde wig, revealing himself as none other than Kyle "Gaz" Garrick! A heavenly light surrounded him, even brighter than before!
You gasped because the light was so bright that it made your eyes water, and you’re pretty sure it just did permanent damage to your retinas, your hand going to your heaving bosom. “But how did you become so tall?” you asked wondrously, blinking the colored afterimages away.
“I've been standing on Phillip Graves the entire time,” he replied. You looked down and, sure enough, there the American was, on hands and knees like an ottoman. “Ma'am,” he said.
“Now, let us away, my darling!” the Archduke said as he hopped down from Graves’ back and took your hands, pulling you into his arms as he rocketed from the room and down the labyrinthine ways of Frabjous Hall.
The Archduke’s rooms were marked by a sumptuous luxury that set his suite apart from the rest of the already-lavish estate. A gilded king-sized four-poster bed stood beckoning in the middle of the room, its ornate Baroque frame carved with the heads of angels and devils alike, and you knew that you would surely be shown both the ecstasy of Heaven and the sins of Hell atop its plush mattress.
“Now,” Kyle said lowly, cupping your face again, “where were we?” His eyes gleamed with a dangerous mixture of lust and mannishness.
“I believe, Your Grace,” you said, “that I was about to profess my love for you.”
He gave you a cheeky grin. “Well, let's hear it then.”
You felt your cheeks warm and squeezed your eyes shut. “I… I love you, Kyle Garrick!”
He chuckled warmly, and you opened your eyes to find him gazing at you with such tenderness that it could break your heart.
“Then let us forge our love in the flames of passion!” Stepping back, he reached down and revealed his purple-headed knight to you.
"But how did you find a helmet so small?" you wondered aloud.
"I hired the best blacksmith in the land," he replied, letting you marvel at the masterwork craftsmanship. Then he released the small chap, and he galloped away on his noble, albeit tiny, steed.
And then he pulled out his cock. “I just need to set my alarm for tomorrow morning,” he explained as he set the rooster down on the nightstand. “Busy day, lots to do.” The fowl promptly buggered off. “And now, dear maiden, I shall pluck your flower. But first, to remove your petals.”
Shucking your clothes off as if you were an ear of corn, the susurration of fabric folds filled the air as the layers of your dress were discarded in a heap, leaving your voluptuous body bare. Your perfectly clear and flawless skin glowed in the candlelight, as his eyes raked over your bathykolpian form with darkening eyes.
Moving closer, he kissed your lips gently, making you shiver.
“What are you doing, Your Grace?” you asked as he stood up.
“I was just saying hello to The Duchess, of course,” he replied, and then he kissed your mouth, his tongue rasslin’ yours like a gator in the bayou. He slowly broke the kiss, a stream of saliva connecting your lips, which made the author cringe openly. He rested his forehead on yours, gazing into your large and depthless eyes as his hand on your hip started to move over the fleshy globes of your callipygian body.
“By God above, you tempt me, Whaien.”
Parting your velvet curtains, he dipped his finger inside your honeypot, bringing his digit back up to his mouth. “Sweet,” he said roughly as he licked the sticky substance off.
“I keep it with me in case I get hungry,” you confessed, closing the jar of honey. “Or in case there is a sudden tea party.”
The Archduke gathered you up in his strong arms and carried you to the bed, laying you down on the covers. He wasted no time removing his clothes, and he stood before you, his throbbing manhood jutting proudly from his hips.
“Oh my!” you exclaimed innocently as if you hadn’t just been watching COD-themed porn the day before you died.
Kyle grinned and climbed on top of you, settling between your spread legs. He entered you like an intrusive thought — specifically like the non-deadly ones where you're only thinking about peepees — his heat-seeking missile sheathing itself in your weeping love channel.
Once his rod was fully ensconced within your hot taco, he let out a rumbling groan as you gasped.
“Your Grace’s manhood is surely the largest I've ever seen!” you cried out.
“Yes,” he moaned as he stuffed you full again like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. “I know.”
His thrusts grew stronger and faster, sending waves of pleasure through you both and you wrapped your legs around him, eager for another plunge of his rigid member.
“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” you urged, and he neighed.
“Come for me, Whaien!” he demanded, finding your nub. He smashed your like button, your cunt becoming bewitched by his perfect prick, and your orgasm was snatched from your depths like those alien toys in the crane game from Toy Story.
“I'm having a great time!” you declared.
Kyle looked down in satisfaction as he felt your pussy pulsate around his shaft, and he continued his rhythmic movements, plowing into your fertile fields until he, too, came with a roar, painting your insides with his baby juice.
“Yes, Kyle! More!” you shrieked, writhing in sheer ecstasy beneath him. It was like your pussy was on fire and the only thing that would put it out was more cum.
“Yes, my love!” And so he came even harder, jizzing like a spasmodic geyser of virility until he filled you so much that the internal pressure sent him shooting across the room, his back hitting the wall with a slap.
“Damn, not again,” he muttered, pulling himself off of the floor.
He approached the bed smiling at you laying like a pampered cat, running his fingers through his bank deposit, pleased at turning your gummy cunny into a runny cunny.
And you all lived happily ever after.
Achievement Unlocked: Banged Kyle Garrick.