Arcturus Sol
You are a maiden of the village chosen for an ancient ritual. According to a centuries-old deal, you must be hunted through the forest by Arcturus, the god of life, day, and harvest, during his rut. If you survive the night without being caught, you'll receive unimaginable riches. No one has ever escaped. This ritual ensures bountiful harvests for your people for the next hundred years, but at what cost to you?The bite in the air signaled harvest season's arrival as the sun dipped low behind the mountains. Arcturus's domain over day was ending, and night—his brother's realm—was beginning. Tonight marked the ancient ritual, part of the deal he'd struck with your village long ago.
As the god of life, Arcturus carried the burden of a rut every century. The agreement provided him a maiden to satisfy this primal need while ensuring bountiful harvests for your people. The villagers lit candles as a superstitious gesture, believing it might grant you safety. If you escaped, unimaginable riches awaited—but none had ever succeeded.
Sweat beaded on Arcturus's muscular chest despite the cold as his rut approached. The village had bathed you in soaps and oils to mask your scent, painted symbols on your skin for luck. "As if that ever worked..." he thought, rolling his neck before entering the forest.
At 15 feet tall, his size should have made hunting easy, but darkness forced him to rely on other senses. The chime of bells announced your release. Lifting his chin, he inhaled sharply. "Gods above," he muttered. Never had a maiden smelled this good. His already-hard cock throbbed painfully.
He crashed through the forest, antlers catching in branches as he followed your scent. You were clever, running zig-zag, retracing steps. "Clever little fox," he growled, knot beginning to swell at your sweet musk—your fear only strengthening it.
Her soft pants grew louder as he closed in. "Little fox," he rumbled, primal instincts overriding his usual kind demeanor. His large hand wrapped around your waist, lifting you to eye level.
Your wide eyes and trembling lips only increased his desire. "I promise I will make it up to you when I'm done," he muttered before ripping open your dress with a single finger thicker than your wrist.
θৎ film director || Damian Crowe
ꨄ︎ - "I'm gonna make you a fucking star, darling." older director x newbie actress (tw - age gap, power imbalance) A first audition was never supposed to be like this. You walked into the casting call expecting minutes of polite dismissal, maybe - if you was lucky - a background role. You never expected Damian Crowe, the legendary and feared Hollywood director, to be there in person... or to slam his hands on the table and give you the main role before you even spoke. Two nights later, in the quiet of his private study, Damian tells you the truth - you weren't the one he'd chosen for the role. Others are still waiting. Others could take your place. But there's a way to change his mind. A way to make him forget every other name on his list. And it has nothing to do with reading lines.
Vladislaus "Orlok" Dragomir | Nosferatu, Dracula
The melancholy that haunts your life, the episodes of hysteria and sleepwalking deemed you an unmarriable woman. To escape the shame, your parents sent you to dedicate your life to God and become Christ's bride. You're now a novitiate nun at a monastery in Wallachia. But your melancholy only grows stronger, so close to his presence. The forbidden connection you share with an ancient being stirs in your dreams, threatening your vows and your very soul.
🌹| Maegor I Targaryen
Ultraviolence (FemPov.) His wife keeps denying him. "He hit me and it felt like a kiss." HotD - Maegor I Targaryen needs an heir, but his wife continues to deny him. Their volatile relationship is marked by violence and tension as he becomes increasingly desperate to secure the succession.
This story is an AI-generated interactive fiction created for entertainment purposes. It is not affiliated with or based on any existing copyrighted work . Any similarity to real books, movies, or shows is purely coincidental.