#vampirensfw

[oy84]

ough my evil aviscott...

[heuhuheuhuewagsmytail]

[four-crows-in-a-trenchcoat]

Enrapture. Enthrall. Entomb. MajorWood VampSMP fic

AKA, Scott’s three step guide to exerting your will and fancy over the poors for nefariously sexual purposes.

AO3 Link

The blood moon rises. Martyn starts to sink. 

It is not the first time this has happened. Gradually, each rise of the moon brings a creeping dread that has the young lordling spending many an hour enraptured by the sanguine celestial overhead. 

The dark corner of the world that is Oakhurst is being bathed in shades of scarlets and maroon like a spilt wine chalice soaking into the parchment of a map. Staining every facet of their world. 

Everyone is looking up at the moon. Crimson - an ill omen. Something dark is infesting the land. Something dark has long been burrowed deep in Oakhurst’s stagnant heart,  coursing through the ancient roots like malodorous black blood. The blood moon, a horribly beautiful effigy of impending disaster, just makes it starkly so - exposes the viscera of the land and the taint seeping sticky and fetid through its organs. 

Like the other residents, Martyn finds himself tilting upwards to the moon. Martyn, unlike the other residents, finds himself staring a little too long, and longer, enough that his eyes are so certain of what he is looking at they become uncertain, and the world bleeds in doubles. 

Before long an echo of the blood moon is looking down at him.

The moon is looking back at Martyn. No. Something is looking at Martyn. Someone is looking at Martyn. Through him. Into him.

He feels it pierce him. Quietly, like a dagger in the dark. Something slides through with a gasp that makes his ribs ache. Martyn needs to steady himself against the coarse wood of a redwood more ancient than any noble house still living or perhaps even the ruins he finds himself isolated at. 

An unspoken vow, promises of the dead and dreaming, keeps him unsteady and transfixed. 

The gaze is unrelenting. Brutal in its utter lack of mercy. Martyn can feel it in the back of his knees, pressing inwards like it’s trying to force him down - is forcing him down. 

A ghost of a hand settles over his neck, its presence so faint Martyn mistakes it for a nightly chill or his own body’s sudden weakness. But it’s there like a band of wrought iron delicate on his neck, something pointed tracing the median of veins and muscles with unholy precision. 

There are eyes on him. That much becomes certain. He should be more alarmed, eyes in the dark are never good: but Martyn’s breath does not rise in panic nor does he run for the distant light of the camp that might provide refuge. These eyes are not the disinterested, accidental gaze of the moon upon. It is deeply purposeful, and crawling across him how a predator’s eyes devour prey. 

In an instant, Martyn feels as if he is being hunted. It is looming behind him in the shadows, jointly bathing in red, awash with sanguine splendor. Martyn does not run, because he cannot run. He does not want to run - that should frighten him.

“Isn’t it beautiful, darling?” It is. Haunting in its serenity, beautiful in its fatality. Martyn finds himself all too easily agreeing with the words caressing his mind like a knife of velvet - soft and comforting while carving pieces of him away. “That’s it, just keep that pretty head of yours tilted high. Bask in it, in what you are becoming, what you really are.” Each word sinks into him like a spear until Martyn feels the little vestiges of himself bleeding out to mix with the mud his knees are sinking in. 

A shiver races down his spine: it feels good to listen. It shouldn’t. Martyn knows - he knows some part of him recognises that the insidious web he is becoming snared in will offer no true respite from the dark: it will only further the desecration of this land. But the allure of it, the fog that filled his mind was too almost too pleasant to resist. 

“No, that’s not-” Each syllable comes as its own herculean labour but Martyn wills his mouth to more, to object, to strain against-

“It’s so much easier to give in my sweet, you know this. Don’t fret, I’ll never abandon you like daddy did.” The saccharine certainty of the voice plays over an echo of the crushing feeling in his chest when the carriage pulled away into the woods forever; Martyn can’t find the strength to resist the added weight forcing him down. 

The vampire’s eyes [and he knows it to be that vampire] bear down on him like physical things until Martyn is kneeling - more like falling, as if a stage door suddenly erected swallows him whole. Twin blood moons, the ones that enrapture him so effortlessly float in human shaped eyes that are not human. 

Their beauty is sublime - magnificent and pulchritudinous; staggering in the allure of the scarlet swirl that inspire sensations of such captivation and overwhelming grandeur that they will no doubt inspire poems and songs for centuries after Oakhurst returns to the dirt. Their beauty is sublime - terrible and insurmountable; the passage of time has done nothing to dull a hunger so ravenous, so veracious,  that it cannot help but consume Martyn’s entire existence as a morsel. A blink and he could be forgotten.  

The enormity of their presence, of their beauty, of their horror seizes him in overwhelming awe. 

How could such eyes not enrapture - not overwhelm one’s senses of mortality that they leave one on their knees in the mud, still staring at the moon reflecting the hungering gaze of the vampire behind him downwards, crushing any resistance beneath like a heel on his neck. 

Piercing and dangerous and suffocating, Scott’s eyes weigh down his shoulders and torturously force them slack. There is no calm in Oakhurst, not while creatures like Scott roam the night. Some last echo of his humanity knows this: tries to strain against the weight, against the exertion of a dark, holy will. He tries to resist. Tries. The futility of it creases the vampire's eyes with amusement. 

He Fails. As he does. As mortals do. Shoulders slack, calves in the mud, Martyn feels more like a puddle than a man.

Martyn is completely enraptured between them. Sinking beneath the horrific beauty of the blood moons - of Scott’s eyes - gazing down at him. It should be alarming. The blood moon is an ill omen of something dark infiltrating the land, infiltrating him, but Martyn can’t help but be overcome by a violent, numbing, calm beneath Scott’s gaze. 

II. Enthrall

Lost in the woods again like he is a boy, like Daddy’s carriage is abandoning him again, Martyn wonders the dark of his own mind with no definitive end.  

And out of the maroon tinted darkness of the material-world, shadows twist and swell until they constitute the form of one of Oakhurst’s most ancient and terrible occupants. 

Martyn opens his mouth to speak,to  scream, or just because Scott’s dark majesty inspires such reaction - because it feels right. Feels right to let his jaw go slack as Scott leans over him, swallowing him in the dark. All so a claw can press beneath like a blade and tilt his gaze to be consumed by the undead’s visage.

“Sco-” Martyn croaks out, or a branch is snapped by a woodland critter. The noises are hauntingly similar. 

“Shhh you know you can trust me sapling. I have your best interests at heart after all, so you will trust me,” Scott speaks with a methodical slowness that might seem insulting to some - like Martyn cannot understand three simple utterances. Each word is like a beat of his heart: languid, pumping around his body until it fills every artery and capillary and organ with its assertion. Scott knows what’s best for Martyn. He said so himself. 

Bloody eyes gleam as those little truths settle into him [he can trust Scott, he has Martyn’s best interests at heart, he will trust Scott] and the embers of resistance clinging to kindling are extinguished. His eyes become glassy like polished jewels without the luster, and heavy. So very heavy, it’s hard to keep looking at Scott, but Martyn can’t look away. 

Low fog rolls into his mind, swarming and swirling around Martyn until the trees are faint smudges and the only thing his mind can perceive with any clarity is Scott. 

The claw at his lip drags slowly from one end to another like a metronome. A thumb unworn by age, time, and the trivialities of life brushes tender left to right - right to left - left to right. The rhythm is steadily soothing. Skin so flawless should feel uncanny, but Martyn can only find comfort in it as his eyes remain indentured to Scott’s, letting the vampire’s hold of his mind be cast in chains that might never break.

“That’s it sapling, remember your place, remember your master. You are simply a thrall. My thrall. My will is yours, and your body is mine.” Scott’s words, honeyed as venom, keep to the beat orchestrated by the metronomic thumb against his lips and Martyn can feel himself sway and mumble something that gets swallowed by the night. 

An echo of something dark and terrible boils Martyn’s blood for but a moment - this isn’t the first time, and it will most certainly not be the last with the wayScott’s eyes gleam. But it passes, as do all things. Such trifling thoughts have no place in the mind of a dutiful, subservient thrall. 

Through his half lidded eyes, hazy and glazing over, Martyn can only perceive of Scott as the night. He surrounds him, inspires awe and fear, and will swallow him in the darkness as quickly as a wolf's jaws close around a hare. 

He is the night.

And the night is swallowing Martyn. Has swallowed Martyn. The night owns Martyn’s body, his heart, his everything.

“Open up, tongue out thrall.” Martyn’s mouth moves before his brain can even process half of what Scott says, the words slow and sticky as they trudge through the thick miasma filling his head. His tongue rolls out and all the saliva he didn’t realise was bubbling up spills out past Scott’s thumb bearing down on his bottom lip.

Scott’s eyes narrow, a twitch of something veering dangerously close to irritation, but there’s still a confident elation haunting his face as he watches Martyn drool into his lap. “Just as messy as ever thrall, why am I not surprised,” Martyn starts to make a strangled noise, his master’s mild disappointment - that is his master and he is simply a thrall - is a noose around him that keeps his breathing tight and his head light and fuzzy. 

“You truly are unfit to be a lordling with all this mess, do they not teach manners in your dilapidated house?” The mocking bite in Scott’s voice clamps around his neck, enough that he can feel his arteries throb - even in this state of submission he can see the slight focusing of Scott’s eyes as his blood thrums with the overwhelming desire to submit. To have Scott taste him, as all Thrall desires.

Somehow, even amongst the blood stained night, Scott’s eyes are still stark and refuse to blend into the red awash over Oakhurst and something about that keeps Martyn so comfortably smothered in the mire of his control. His entire focus hanging on him Martyn’s arms, already heavy at his side and sullying his frilled cuffs in the lichenous mud of the land, become anchors that keep him in place as Scott presses the tips of his fingers against his tongue.

“Much better suited for a thrall anyhow, a mindless, obedient thrall.” A gargled whine of a noise rises from him like his throat is being slit.

The way the other hand rises and lingers in the purgatory between his jaw and neck, taking him with the confident possessiveness of knowing just how enthralled Martyn is an elation quite indescribable. 

To Martyn, it just feels right. To be owned. To obey. To give Scott everything.

It feels right to be taken by his master so easily. 

Scott’s fingers taste like death. Dark and bitter wisps cling to his fingers, an unnatural chill permeating his existence, and the harshness of iron on Martyn’s palette almost makes him wretch. But he can feel his cock throb, his cheeks flush, and his soul yearn for more with each slow drag of the fingers from the tip of his tongue to the precipice of his throat.

He’s helpless. Utterly helpless beneath Scott’s wandering touch. And that feels right, it feels good. 

The pressure of the fingers against his tongue is subtly immense, gently encouraging him deeper while the sharp tips of his claws threaten to carve valleys into his tongue that will leave his mouth running red.

The warmth in his cheeks feels like a roaring forest fire next to the bitter chill of Scott’s hand, as three of his fingers crowd into his mouth and take ownership as easily as he has taken the rest of him. 

The defiant him, the vampire investigator and determined human that resides in the inky black depths of his soul is telling him to bite. Screaming at him to clamp and tear as the vampire’s claws tap against his molars with a confidence that he knows Martyn won’t bite. 

He’ll be good. He is good. Even as Scott appraises him like livestock, or, a pet.

He could fit more, he wants to fit more. Please Scott - that’s all he wants. Wants Scott to be cruel and to laugh at his miseries if it would please him, demand everything from him, damn him to the dark where the things not named lurk and consume lost mindless thralls. 

Martyn doesn’t hide his wants, eyes watering and glazed as they remain on Scott, shuddering when his lips curl in that cruelly pleased way enough to flash the alabaster monolith of a fang. He seems pleased. That makes Martyn feel good, makes his heart soar his mind fuzzy and intangible. 

“Oh darling, if only you could see yourself, so perfect like this - no more needless hunts and investigations,” Martyn tries to lap and suck, as if suddenly aware of himself as a person. Trying to will himself to be more than a plaything for Scott, his clumsy showcase earns a laugh so short and so dripping schadenfreude that Martyn feels it resonates in the base of his spine. “Just a pretty lordling under heel, helpless without daddy,” Martyn whines, fizzling with pain in the back of his throat, hips too heavy to move, while the fingers dancing in spiral on his tongue have him sinking deeper and deeper, little echoing gargles of pleasure bubbling upwards to kiss his master’s claws.

Each drag is another tantalising burst of pleasure through him like a hot poker. He can feel his briefs becoming increasingly damp as his cock twitches and throbs at the vampire’s claws become sloppy and increasingly possessive of his tongue, his mouth, of him.

“But it feels so good to be helpless, doesn't it pet, to submit completely and utterly to your master.” Scott is right. Scott is always right. The way he can do nothing to stop Scott as the tips of his fingers cross and drip into his throat, making him gag and his eyes brim with tears, feels right. 

The forest air swims with lewd slick sounds as Martyn’s saliva drips past his lips and coats the vampire's claws like a well fitted glove. Whimpers and desperate moans flutter into the air like fireflies only to be snuffed out by something dark and terrible. Scott’s eyes can barely contain their hunger, and Martyn, ever desperate and dutiful, finds his gut swimming with delight when he feels Scott’s claws press into his jaw and neck as if threatening to hook his vein like errant threads and pull him loose. The harsh edges digging into him, blood rushing, makes his ear’s ring all while Scott’s claws greedily seizes his tongue.

With a low bestial purr lost in the underbrush, Scott’s middle claw drags down his tongue, carving a deep valley that floods Martyn’s mouth with his own blood. Pain blossoms loose and wild like unkempt roses yet he finds himself taking it freely with mere a flinch. If anything, he forces his mouth just that little wider, so effortlessly helpless to resist the vampire’s carnally crimson appetite. 

The damp of Oakhurst air is infiltrated by the pleasantly harsh smell of freshly spilt blood, and as soon as Scott catches the scent, his eyes hone to precise pinpricks of crimson.

“Rise,” Scott commands, voice threateningly low, and despite how heavy his limbs are, Martyn is up and pinned to a tree in an instance by a vampire hungrily licking into his mouth for an appetiser before he can pant for breath. The harsh metallic taste floods his mouth for but a moment before Scott’s tongue effortlessly claims Martyn’s mouth as his own domain, smothering him in his insurmountable presence. 

The harshness of his own mortality running red down his tongue is subsumed by the artful fragrance clinging to Scott’s pallid skin - rich and ancient enough to dance through Martyn’s mind like a ballroom - and by the dreadfully pleasant chill stark against the warmth of his still beating heart. 

To some ]Martyn cannot really imagine, there is not much of a mind to do anything but obey] one might imagine that having a beast lick into your mouth might feel a touch demanding, humiliating even. But to Martyn, so fuzzy and numb, the claiming of his mouth in hungering, savouring, laps of his master’s tongue can exist as intense pleasure that threatens to cracks his ribs open and have his organs spilling out in waves of red so long it would follow him like the train of a blood-soaked wedding dress. 

The dance of Scott’s tongue is more elegant, more artful, than any waltz Martyn would have learned if he remained a silly little lordling. The lapping strokes swim amidst a sea of ill-formed pitiful noises of mortal pleasure, leaving a chill so biting and complete that it crawls into him, seizes him the inside out. 

The sensation is immense, Scott’s presence, his tongue on him and in him, leaving him captivated and paralysed by a horrifically pleasurable dance that Martyn cannot conceive of breaking tempo. 

If he could, he would want to lift his arms and hold Scott, run through his hair and cup his face. But his arms are above his head, pinned to a tree that creaks and whines whenever Scott leans in and hungrily gulps down the slick mess of Martyn’s spit and blood binding together on their tongues like a marriage. It’s not about what he wants. And every time that is made clear, Martyn can feel himself twitch and strain against his confines: abiding his nature, rewarding him with pleasantries unfound in mortal realms. 

Shudders and moans sneak past their lips, pained little gasps from Scott being none too gentle with the cut, as if twisting deeper into a wound, forcing another gush of crimson into Martyn’s mouth to be hungrily gulped down. 

Martyn’s breath is seized by Scott’s mouth. The fleeting moments of respite for his lungs to fill before every breath is seized in his hungering maw. If he wasn’t already floating, head fuzzy, and spilling out a broken choirs-worth of moans, Scott’s ravenously licking into his mouth and swallowing his breath and blood and spit as veraciously as he is would certainly get him there. 

Pain, pleasure, all subsumes beneath the feeling of fuzzy satisfaction in serving his master.

III. Entomb

“Present.” It’s a simple command. One that infests Martyn’s entire being like a plague. Spoken on whispers of the grave as strands of saliva and blood tie their mouths together like slick chains of gore: Martyn tilts his neck, unable to hide the quiet elation rushing through him after Scott artfully removes his cravat in a single precise motion.

He should feel some sick shame in offering himself up so easily to the enemy, in how Scott’s claws brushing against his skin as he widens his collar makes shivers run up and down his back like an energetic dog, but he doesn’t. He feels good. He feels fuzzy, and cozy, and warm, and the most relaxed he’s been since coming to Oakhurst… all because he is a good thrall, and this is what good thralls do.

Scott’s hand tangles in the dark mantle, a claw catching underneath and tearing a thin line in his shirt, and Martyn expects the other to join but instead it cradles his head tenderly. The tender claws of a killer drags across his scalp, the soothing touch haunting Martyn’s mind - this is the first time Scott has ever taken him like this: letting his claws get lost in the roots and flow of Martyn’s tarnished gold hair. 

For a moment, he feels as if he could float away under Scott’s appraising eyes - pupils dilating with Martyn still wet on his lips. A warm rush of anticipation flutters through his deathly breath which makes Martyn’s skin crawl and his head lull weightlessly into Scott’s palm. Scott is never warm. It’s strange. Warmth is lost to vampires of Scott’s age. Martyn’s too fuzzy to think of what that could mean.

“Sco-cott…” Scott’s claw drags idly behind his ear and Martyn breath is gruff and loose as that silly errant thought flutters from his head.

“Yes my sapling?” 

Martyn pauses, rivulet of drool swirling with crimson dribble down his chin. What was he - there was something important - but, it’s all so fuzzy now. So hard to think with the taste of Scott still staining his mouth. “I… I forgot,” Martyn mumbles leaning into the familiar deathly and finding comfort in his master’s pressence.

Scott chuckles, elegant condescension that makes his cheeks burn. “Oh dear, that’s too many thoughts for my pretty thrall. We can’t be having that now, can we?” Martyn shakes his head, or tries to: his head rolls around Scott’s palm and he can’t tell if it's his own motion or one Scott puppeteers. 

And then, Scott’s fangs sink into him. No fanfare, for none is needed, this is what Martyn is for. 

A sudden rush, the sheathing of a blade in its scabbard, and Scott’s fangs fit so perfectly into his neck. It feels hauntingly familiar. Have they done this before? Martyn can’t remember. 

A quick sharp pain pierces him, like two icicles stabbing into him and panic seizes him: the trained human response rushes to breach the surface of the fuzzy sea that is submerging him, gasping for breath and purchase to pull him from the whirlpool. There is nothing but the night. Scott bears down on him and drags Martyn back down with a shuddering, gasp of a moan wrung out of him like blood from a cloth. 

But the panic quickly fades into a throbbing numbness that seeps into his blood, and into his bones. His breath catches and Scott’s jaw clamps tighter to grasp it. A numbing buzz fills his inner ears as Scott holds the breath captive and enjoys the trampling rush of Martyn’s blood through his body. 

Martyn’s head swims with a rush of bliss as Scott sinks until his lips, bloody and slick, are flush against his skin. Cradling his head, Scott digs deep into his thrall and releases the vice on his airway, delighting at the trample of moans that spill from Martyn. 

Whining into the night, into Scott, Martyn feels his blood racing, heart thumping, cock throbbing and racing with arousal: and yet he remains blissfully relaxed, lips loose, and head delightfully empty. 

There’s a certain intoxication about the way Scott’s fang sink into him: stinging into his muscles, brushing against his veins like a lover’s caress, greedily taking everything that Martyn has to offer and he let’s him take and take and take until the colour and luster of his skin begins to fade. Because it feels good when Scott takes, makes his head swim, and his oh so heavy eyes roll back on themselves, mouth hanging open as the most whimpering squeals of livestock being slaughtered spill into the night. Scott drinks those as ardently as the blood lavishing his tongue and filling his stomach. 

Martyn sees the vibrancy of satisfaction begin to flood into Scott's eyes, a gleam of praise as his blood lingers on his lips. He feels an immense pride swell in his chest at being a good thrall, at serving his master - feeding him to full strength.

The feeling of his blood flowing between them, the two swirling within one another, is maddeningly arousing. If he could, he would cling to Scott. But he just stands there like a good boy, ignoring how his knees are about to give out, or how his heart is racing but he’s oh so cold as Scott saps the warmth from his body - takes his life with a savouring hunger that has Martyn cumming in his pants. 

He is entombed by Scott: by his touch, his scent, his fangs bleeding him dry, by his own body submitting and making itself feeble and malleable. But more than anything physical, the ghosts of commands fluttering across like nascent butterflies seal Martyn forever in his grasp once more. 

Entrench these words into your mind, thrall. Entomb them as your divine commandments into every facet of your life.

When I snap my fingers, you sink. 

When I snap my fingers twice, you sink and present your neck. 

When I snap my fingers three times, you will cum instantly. 

When the blood moon rises, you will enter trance, but you will still feel yourself sinking as if you aren't already mine.

Whenever someone calls you a good boy, your cock will throb and leak. 

If you try to stake me, you will instantly enter trance for the rest of the night.

You will forget that you have been entombed by these commandments. 

Gibberish spills forth. He desperately wants to agree but can’t. Wants Scott to know he understands. But Scott doesn’t need him to speak to know the words have sunk into him as deep as his fangs. His head is too fuzzy, and what little cognition is there is brutally seized by an orgasm crashing into his frail body. His cock throbs so hard Martyn feels it in his head, in the base of his skull like a migraine. Thick strands of cum spurting into the mess of pre and coating his cock in his own mess, soaking into the fabric.

By the time Scott pulls back, hunger satiated, and a smile on his face Martyn is just about a person, more so an echo of one. Blood stains his shirt like metal flecks and shaving embedding into him, cock rubbing uncomfortably against the fabric as the last beat of his orgasm oozes out of him, his cheeks burning but paradoxically cool at the same time. 

“Good thrall, mindless obedient thrall. You are wasting away playing hunter, playing human,” Scott remarks, thumb wiping the spilt blood from pallid skin with a satisfied smirk. Martyn almost shatters when Scott kisses his thumb clean. 

Martyn looks more like a corpse than the actual undead. And he couldn’t be happier.

However, before he can become intimately acquainted with the dirt, his head finds Scott’s shoulder and a soothing hand down his spine to lull him impossibly deep. “It’s okay sapling, find your roots in the earth, deep breath, and come sunrise, you’ll come back to yourself,” the vampire’s words are the last vestige of the night, like fire flies in the dark, something to guide and comfort him as he floats in the comforting absence of the void. 

The world echoes in a soft ripple through the abyss of his mind. “But you will always come back to me as well, my thrall.” 

Come sunrise, he too rises. 

Returning to himself in the resplendent dreary daylight of Oakhurst, Martyn finds himself aching as if he’s fought a battle, his briefs are soiled, and a lingering dreadful embarrassment gnaws at his bones feverishly. He had wandered into the woods and… he does not even want to question what has led him to have such a mess soaking into his last good pair of briefs and threatening to crawl down his thigh. 

Martyn does not remember it, but Scott is true to his word. A shadow clings to the shade, and watches him stir and raise. Elation fills his chest at Martyn’s commiseration of his misfortune awakening, how he is so blissfully unaware how deep the vampire’s fangs are still in him.

“See you soon, sweet thrall,” is but a whisper on the wind, caressing Martyn’s neck as he tries to make his way back to camp muttering to himself trying to a summon a credible excuse for his disappearance and the mess sticky and gross in his pants that wouldn’t make him look like some sort cheeky little vampire.

Bloody vampires…

[oy84]

d...day four?

[scott training pyro with a silver sound immediately after freshly turning him into a vampire and hes still dizzy from headrush also on one of avids giant crosses that scott turned upsidedown to piss him off- hes making good use of it]

[four-crows-in-a-trenchcoat]

kiss them all and let them drown, creature from the deep LoveBitten NSFW

AO3 LINK

Bathing in a tub is weird. The river has served Owen fine for his entire life, if nothing else a bucket dumped over head would do, and there's plenty of space to move about, not like the tub. His long gangly legs tuck close or else they would spill out and drip water all over the floor. He has been assured that doesn't matter, his comfort comes first: Owen keeps his legs tucking against his chest. He does like that the water is warm. It is soothing. The idea of sharing a bath, even stranger. Unfathomable even. The towns people of Oakhurst could barely stomach him covered as he is, the idea that any of them would ever touch him exposed or share a space with him like that was utterly delusional and strange. But Louis is.

[four-crows-in-a-trenchcoat]

The Vague Humiliations of Worthiness as a Virtue ScoVid Medieval AU

Day #5 of #Crow's Spontaneous Spring Sojourn Scribbles-Fest [Written while listening to Florence & the Machine // Knight Posting // Bondage] [Thanks Florence]

"You run to bad battlefields. Bad lords. Bad beds, and for what? To end up back where you started, hedge knight?" Scott had forgotten who had said that to him, the memory fails him, names and faces blur: perhaps he has heard it too many times to attribute it to one person.

And the scar fades but it remains, tugging at him all the time, as he bounces atop his horse travelling to the next kingdom. Sore from what he let the lord to do him, the fiefdom like the sun on his back upon arrival or the vassal's cum that he washed from his back this morning. But now he is just left to suffer the vague humiliations of infamy - of a stained reputation that seeps out over further.

If this the best he could hope for? Longing cast out like a ship destined to never return from beyond the horizon?

He tried to be good, once upon a time, but it didn't keep him safe.

What else could there be but this? What else? What else…

A lord.

A fledgling lord of a tiny fiefdom upon who the responsibility appear hurrildy thrust atop. He seemed all too eager to have the attention and company of a knight - even a hedge knight - for Scott to not be at least a little enamoured by him.

One all too eager to give into his flirtations, a burnished blush stretching across his face at Scott's assertion that he want's Avid to 'give him everything he's got, he can take it.'

The light coming in the window just so, gold and crisp like a dream, like something divine, draws Scott's attention as Avid finished the rope work. For a noble, he is handy with his hands, his knots would give the capital's royal stabler a run for his money.

Head high, arms wide, the weight of his armour in such a position lending a pleasantly numb ache.

Lordly purple binds his wrists together over the padded sleeve of his gambeson behind his neck, threading down in a straight down his back to a loop into a intricate rigging around his knees and calves. He's still wearing his amour, worn, speckled breastplate, pauldrons, and armet with the small antlers Scott had added as soon as he could afford it, all at Avid's insistence. The only thing removed was the gauntlets. Scott is confused, if amused, he has been tied up before, but never in his armour, never as he is as he walks the world. It's strange.

What is stranger, is when Avid doesn't take his helmet off and slide his cock down his throat like he is expecting. Instead, he kneels down and gently lifts the visor of the armet up as if it is the most delicate thing and not second hand armour Scott lifted from a bandit.

He could take it off, his hands rest on the tarnished steel, but he does not. Instead, he lifts up the visor and melts at the man it contains: the soft face betraying the hard edges of his person, the dulled jewel tone eyes shimmering amoungst the straight of dark soot smeared over the top half of his face, sweating and rosy from the heat of his armour and the midsommar climate beyond the lord's room.

There is nothing, and Scott's eyes cast down wards, the drawbridge of his mouth slowly lowering for the lord to do whatever he wants and -

"You are single handily the most beautiful knight I have ever seen," Avid states with lordly authoirty tempered by a tenderness that might as well be a foreign hostility. Before Scott can argue, as he is wanton to do, Avid kisses him.

Not a clawing, ravenous, whorish kiss, no, it is soft. Soft and delicate and considerate of Scott as a person, a gentle dance, the kind of kisses bards sing about in songs, the kind of kiss he has been craving since he first learned to crave.

He is stunned silence, locked in the catacomb of his armour and bondage rope as Avid's lips leave an impression of warmth atop his, like an stamp in freshly poured wax: sealed for him and him alone. As the heat rises through his cheeks, and Scott marinates in the overwhelming serenity of the sensation, Avid continues to lay kisses over him like laurels over a champion.

His lips press to the edge of his helmet, and the crux of his breast plate and trace the scratches and gashes of experience, and Scott can feel with each kiss his breath increasingly catches despite his puzzlement with the lord's actions.

"it's filthy."

Avid chuckles, this whimsically light sound, "you think a little dried blood and dirt would scare me off?"

"M'lord..."

"You can take little affections - can take everything I got, remember?" This wasn't what Scott had been imagining when their accord had been struck, but…

"Of course, my apologies."

Scott can just see over the edge of his armet, the meticulous and dotting way Avid trails affection over his worn armour and soft curves, savours the plump stockiness of his figure beneath the armour like a first course, silent promise to peel away each layer after bandaging each with affection. His chest warms like a great pyre and he is powerless, bound so, to do anything but take the affection the lord demands he deserve.

However, despite the sweet kindling laid and igniting, his eyes cannot help but draw to familiar haunches.

"M'lord what about-" Scott can see the shadow of Avid's erection through his leggings and the upturned end of his tunic as he kneels, head rising back to his eye level.

"Another kiss, excellent idea my most handsome knight," and Avid kisses Scott so tenderly it feels like death.

"You taste like metal now."

"Do you want me to stop?"

Scott shakes his head.

"I need to hear you say it then brave knight - you have felled bandits, surely you could manage that?" Avid smiles at him in a most mellifluous manner. There is a crinkle of mischief in his voice, rapturous affection that cannot help but draw him in.

"M'lord... Avid, kiss me again, please."

[four-crows-in-a-trenchcoat]

Fine Vintage

Lovebitten NSFW DD Fic C/W: Watersports

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Owen's never had wine before. He's never really had the chance: not only could he dream of affording even the cheap swill the tavern's serve, but getting someone to take his coin would be a truly herculean labour. So he resigned himself to the occasional ale, the odd keg fallen off a wagon by the woods his shack resides in once in a blue moon, and water, plenty of water, comfortable in never having a glass of wine. It's not even something he's been keen to try - it's for normal people to drink. Not him. Yet the mayor of Oakhurst is currently searching his cellar of no doubt fine vintages and blood [mostly blood he imagines] to fetch the lowly lumberjack a glass like a common servant. It baffles him. That Louis would let him in at his sudden arrival - he did miss him dearly and today had been particularly arduous but Owen still expects to be turned away - let alone get him seated in the fine leather chair and rush to fetch him a drink, leaving him in a quiet stupor of his own stewing mind. He knows by now Louis has no ulterior motives, he just appreciates his company and companionship. ...