Shameless Hoe HQ

You keep the rag to your shoulder as you lean your head back. It lolls one way, then you jerk up, only for it to fall the other. The light drips down the dirt as your vision blurs. You close your eyes as the throbbing in your shoulder radiates.

A kick to your foot jolts you awake. 6T00 is screaming as soldiers hold his arm straight, another man bringing down a thick blade to sever the hand. Quickly, a blow torch roars to life and cauterizes the stump. The prisoner passes out, left face down in the dirt, his arm in the puddle of blood, and 35B4 vomits between their knees.

The single oppio and his obedient decanus soldiers leave, the metal door slamming and sending down a dusting of dirt on you. You stay as you are, weak, worn, waiting for it to end. Your eyes drift again and you let them droop entirely.

When you rouse again 6T00 is gone. A soldier stands over 35B4, his back to you, and she whimpers. “No, please.”

“It won’t last long.” He snickers.

Your insides churn and you sink again into mindless disparity. You blink and 35B4 is shaking against the wall in a heap. Her pants are gone. You look down at yourself. A ragged stale line of blood extends all the way to your jacket hem and through to the top of your pants.

The heat blares into the hole. Your fellow prisoner is carried out sobbing by a soldier you haven’t seen before. Your head drops forward and you shudder. It’s the best option to just bleed out.

“Those were not my orders.” The grizzly snarl rouses you a countless time. Your eyes slit open and you stare at your lap.

“Tribunus, we questioned them–”

“You played with your food.” The other man barks. “Get the fuck away from me before I do the same.”

“Tribunus,” the inferior man recites and retreats through the sole door.

Thick treads crunch in the dry dirt. You catch a glimpse of the scuffed boots at the edge of your vision. They pace around the parameter of the open air cell, around the dried blood and the lines in the dirt from the struggle. He sighs and stops across from you.

He marches across the cell and squats. He grabs your chin and lifts your head. His icy grey blue eyes flicker in surprise as they meet yours.

He hums. Your lashes flutter as he holds the weight of your head in his hand. His jaw clenches and his cheeks tick. His throat bobs above the black collar of his Tribunus uniform. Unlike other soldiers, there are no metals or ribbons or decorations, not even the tasseled epaulettes of the higher ranks.

He lets your chin go and inspects the tear in your jacket. He touches your wound. It burns. You whimper. He reaches down to take the blood-stained rag from your limp hand and scratches away the crust around the tortured flesh. A scratch noise rolls up his throat.

“Fuck.” He sneers as he pulls back.

He stands and tucks the rag in his belt. He takes three steps one way, six the other, then circles back to you. He bends and stares at you. Your head sways and rolls forward.

His hands graze up your sides and he hooks his arms under yours. He lifts you. You dangle from his grasp as he angles you around and scoops you up. The tension in his body is rigid against you. Your head hangs back, your eyes closed, your body drained. He carries you like it's nothing into the abyss of your weary unconscious.

⚫

A coolness wells in your veins. You float up from beneath the heavy shroud and into a cloudy plain of confusion. Your mind rejoins your body; you feel your fingers, your toes, arms, legs, and the pulsing agony above your chest. You feel the softness against your skin and the cushion beneath your weight.

Dead. Is this what you were afraid of? Is this the true escape? A senseless epiphany at the expense of your life.

“Open your eyes.” A low grit commands.

Your finger twitches and you wince. You obey. A man stands at the foot of the bed you lay on. You can’t remember the last time you felt a real mattress beneath you.

It’s him. The Tribunus. All in black. No shine, no colour. His wool cap looks out of place with the stiff cut of his military jacket. He grips the footboard of the bed.

You stare back at him. His cold eyes graze over you. His expression doesn’t change. There is no humour in him.

“Do you know how much that plasma is worth?” He nods his head.

You blink and look down at the IV tube in your arm. You follow the length up to the bag on the stand next to you. You turn your head straight again.

“N-n–” You struggle to get any sound out from your dry mouth.

“No. You don’t.” He says. “If my men weren’t…” he trails off.

You shift and flinch in pain. You let out a pained moan. He steps around the bed and marches along the side. He grabs the top of the plain cotton shirt and tugs it down. The open back allows the fabric to droop and expose your chest as his other hand comes up to check the edges of the bandage.

You reflexively try to push the cotton back over your tits. He yanks and swats you.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” He scoffs.

You shiver and look up at him.

“You have bold eyes, pleb.” He rebukes.

You look away.

“Plasma, gauze, medical tape, sutures, not to mention labour, the effort to bring in the surgeon.” He lists off each item on his fingers; his gloves black and without tips. “We all must pay our debts.”

You frown and try to close your hands. Your fingers curl then release. You slacken against the pillows again. He grabs the top of the shirt and pulls it back up, his grip lingering for a moment before he draws back.

The Legate goes to the door and lets in a servant garbed in slate with a plain white apron; the Legate’s crest sewn into the chest. She keeps her head down as she carries a covered tray to the table. You thank her as she removes the lid and puts it to the side. She twitches as if surprised. You are a bit too. You rarely dare talk without prompting.

She leaves, addressing the Legate formally before she does. He shuts the door and approaches. He tucks a hand in his pants pocket.

“You thanked her.” He states.

“Yes, Leg– August.” You answer.

“It is her job. She doesn’t need that.” He says.

You swallow. “Oh. I…”

“You’re kind,” he pulls out the chair across from you and sits. “And hungry, I’m sure.”

You push your shoulders up as you wring your hands. You look down at the spread of food. Glazed chicken breast, some sort of dark rice with vegetables mixed in, an array of fruit on a separate plate, some dipped in dark chocolate, and a salad with all sorts of colours.

You rest your hand on the lump of peanut tin in your pocket. You stare, stunned, at all the food. Too much for just you and him. Your lip trembles and a tear wobbles at the edge of your eye.

“You don’t like mushrooms?” The Legate takes one of the small plates and the serving spoon.

You sniff. Your stomach squeezes painfully and you almost double over. You lean in until your chin is almost on the table as you battle your guilt and hunger.

“It’s… so much,” you murmur.

“You must eat.” He doles out food on the plate.

You sit up, shaking. You flick away the tears in your eyes. You look at him as he puts the plate in front of him.

“I… may I use the restroom, August?” You ask.

“Are you unwell?” He asks. “You will feel better if you eat.”

“Yes, I don’t feel…” You clutch your stomach.

He reacts quickly. He stands and comes around, guiding you from your chair by your shoulders. He takes you across the large sitting room and opens the door to the bedroom. He ushers you through to another door and into a bathroom where half of the space is a tub installed into the floor. 

You’re dizzy from how much everything is. The food, the furniture, the rooms, him. You slip from his grasp and hurry to the toilet. You flip up the lid, barely able to get a hold of it as you think. You use a latrine; never a toilet. You bend over and wretch the meagre remains of the peanuts into the water.

“Darling,” he nears.

You shrink and cover your mouth. You close the lid and flush. You bat your lashes and stand up.

“Sorry. Apologies–”

“August.” He interjects before you can slip up again. “Come. Wash your hands and mouth.”

He takes your arm and moves you to the long counter with three sinks before a wall of mirrors. He turns on the faucet and tests the water. He points to the flow as your eyes wander up to your reflection.

Who is that stranger? You put your hands under the water as you gap at yourself. You shake off the shock of your appearance and lower your head. You bend to rinse out your mouth then the Legate offers some soap to scrub your hands. 

He uses his large ones to lather and rinse off the bubbles. He dries your hands with a plush towel and hangs it. He grabs your hand and draws you toward the door.

Lupa is outside, concern in her big dark eyes. She comes forward to nuzzle your side until you pet her. She follows you as the Legate takes you back to the sitting room. He sits you back on the settee and retrieves the plate he made up for you.

He sits beside you as Lupa rests her head on your lap. He cuts up the chicken breast and balances the knife on the edge of the plate. With the fork, he impales a portion and holds it up before your mouth. You still feel nauseous. You wrap your lips around it and slide it off the tines. You chew slowly.

He watches your mouth intently. His tongue slips out then he hides it again and offers more. You swallow and accept it. Three bites before you can’t bear it. You put a hand up.

“Sorry, I need to… slow down.”

His eyes search you. He nods patiently. You lower your eyes. “Apologies.”

“It’s alright, darling. It’ll take time.” He assures as he puts the fork on the plate. “In time you will be used to it. As you will me.”

You nod. “It’s…” you begin then smother your thoughts. “Yes, August. I am trying.”

“How about you come back to it in your own time?” He stands and puts the plate back on the table. He keeps the knife. “Maybe it would be better to get you cleaned up.”

You scratch behind Lupa’s ears. She groans. You thought of breaking free of the camp. It was always just a dream. Now that you’re out, you want to go back. Whatever this is, whatever he wants from you, you just don’t think you can do it. And if you don’t… he can do anything to you.

“Come.” He doesn’t await your acquiescence. 

He takes your elbows and forces you up. He walks you back into the bedroom then to the bathroom. He leaves the door open as you hug yourself and look around. He turns you to face him and grabs the collar of your jacket. You gasp as he pushes it apart.

“I’ve had clothes arranged for you.” He says as you drop your arms and he strips off the filthy canvas jacket.

You shudder as he pulls it from around you and puts it on the counter. He turns back and you instinctively lean back on your heel. He tilts his head. “I’m… I’m sorry. I just–”

He shows his palm. Silently, calmly, he unbuttons his shirt. You stare at his hands as he reveals his torso, dark hair across burly muscle. Shame bubbles over and you put your eyes to the floor.

“We will do this together.” He coaxes as he removes his shirt. “See?”

You can’t look at him. You can’t even move. He reaches for you again and tugs at your tattered shirt. His thumbs slip under and graze your skin.

“You will not be afraid of me because I do not mean to hurt you.” He commands.

“Yes, Legate.”

He growls and lifts the fabric higher, faster.

You're getting your masters in 19th century French literature and just can't believe your luck that he's accepted you as his TA and agreed to be your advisor.

You love talking to him about the books in your course. He's just so smart. And yes, startlingly handsome, but honestly, you admire his intellect the most. And he makes you feel so smart too! Like you're worthy of having a conversation with him.

He always has a lot to say about your lectures. Most of it is good! But when he corrects your analysis of the works you're trying to teach, you think about it for days. It's so much louder in your ears than any of his praise.

After one lecture, he pulls you aside, making sure to tell you in private that the pretty new blouse you just got was see-through under the florescent classroom lights. You're so embarrassed and he doesn't exactly reassure you. "You don't want your students thinking you're a whore, do you? I know how smart you are, but everyone else might not if you keep dressing that way."

When you dress extra conservatively over the next few weeks, he confuses you when he tells you that he misses your pretty sundresses. You don't know what to do. You almost wish he'd just tell you what to wear.

He schedules a meeting about your thesis after dark on a Friday evening, telling you it was the only time he could fit it into his schedule. He's so busy. You're lucky to get any of his time.

The whole building is dark, the only light coming from his office.

He sits down on his leather couch next to you, your thesis in his hand. You're surprised when you can see with just a glance that it's covered in red ink.

"I have to be honest," he says, his voice soft but firm, "I'm very disappointed by your effort here." Your heart sinks as he scoots closer. "Your arguments are shockingly facile. It's clear that you didn't think any of this through."

You hate yourself when you can't stop the tears gathering in your eyes. "Really? I thought if I explored it from a different angle-"

He shakes his head. "It just exposes the fact that you don't understand the work at all."

The tears are falling freely now and he coos at you. "Oh sweetheart, it's alright. I'll help you. I'll explain everything. We'll work together to make you sound like a real scholar. No matter how long it takes. I'm happy to take my time with you."

And then, just as you think that all your academic dreams are falling apart, he places his hand just above your knee, exposed by the sundress you secretly wore just for him, and you're shocked by how grounded it makes you feel.

Thank goodness for Professor Drysdale. You really don't know what you’d do without him.

🎮 OPEN TO EVERYONE

🎲 Random Encounter - Fic Request

Let RNG build your request for you.

First, spin the wheel: it will randomly choose both the character and the genre of your fic - angst, fluff, or whatever other chaos I decided to put in there.

Then, use the prompt generator. It will pull one sentence at random from a list of prompts.

Put the two results together and voilà: that’s your fic request.

For example:

Send me the combination you get, and I’ll take it from there. 🎮

Bucky Barnes - Angst

+

“I thought you weren’t coming back.”

And because even RNG should respect consent, if you land on a character, genre, or prompt you really don’t want, you can reroll. This is a celebration, not a punishment. 💜

🕹️ Build Mode - Build an AU / Headcanons

Give me a character and a few building blocks, and I’ll turn them into an AU, a set of headcanons, or a little concept for you.

You can send things like a trope, a setting, an occupation, a relationship dynamic, an object, a vibe, or even a completely ridiculous idea you want to see me make sense of.

For example: Bucky + coffee shop + enemies to lovers + one bed.

Think of it as giving me the pieces and letting me build the game world around them.

💬 Dialogue Option - Ask the Writer

Welcome to the part of the game where you get to interrogate the developer.

You can ask me anything about my fics, AUs, characters, writing choices, abandoned ideas, future plans, behind-the-scenes details, or things you’ve always wondered about while reading one of my stories.

Want to know what a character was thinking during a particular scene? Whether I considered a completely different ending? Which character gave me the biggest headache?

This is your chance to ask.

🔍 Dev Commentary - Director’s Commentary

Choose a specific scene, paragraph, line, or moment from one of my stories and send it to me.

I’ll give you the behind-the-scenes commentary: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I made certain choices, details or foreshadowing you may have missed, alternate versions I considered, or anything else hiding behind the finished scene.

Basically: DVD commentary, but for fic.

And possibly with significantly more rambling.

💜 MUTUALS ONLY: BONUS CONTENT UNLOCKED

🖼️ Custom Loadout - Moodboard Request

Mutuals get access to the customization menu. 💜

Send me a character, ship, OC, AU, fic, trope, or general concept and I’ll create a moodboard inspired by it.

You can give me a specific aesthetic, colors, season, location, song, quote, or overall vibe if you have something particular in mind - or you can give me complete creative freedom and see what happens.

Yes, purple requests are particularly welcome. Obviously.

💘 Player Match - MCU Matchmaker

Send me a little bit about yourself and I’ll match you with an MCU character.

Tell me whatever you’re comfortable sharing: your personality, hobbies, likes and dislikes, habits, love language, biggest green flag, biggest red flag, ideal date, or simply a handful of random facts about yourself.

Then choose your game mode:

I’ll pick your match and tell you exactly why I think the two of you would work - or, in some cases, spectacularly fail.

💘 Romantic Match - who would fall for you

🫶 Best Friend - your ride-or-die

⚔️ Nemesis - who you would absolutely clash with

🔥 Bad Decision - incredible chemistry, questionable consequences

🏠 Domestic Ending - who you’d somehow end up building a life with

⚙️ GAME RULES: A Few Guidelines

Before you hit Start, just a few things to keep in mind:

🎮 There is no limit to how many times you can participate.

You can send as many messages as you want, whether you want to stick to one category or try several of them. Go wild. 💜

This applies to fic requests, Build Mode, Matchmaker, moodboards, and anything else included in the celebration.

👾 For every category, I will only work with the following characters:

Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Thor, Clint Barton, Tony Stark, Pietro Maximoff, and Sam Wilson.

🧩Please start your message with the emoji corresponding to your chosen category, it’ll help me keep everything organized!

🚫 No DDNE content.

As a general rule, there will be no Dead Dove: Do Not Eat content on my blog. Darker themes, angst, violence, or heavier subjects may occasionally appear when appropriate, but there are lines I simply won’t cross.

💜 And, as always, please keep things respectful. This event is meant to be fun for everyone, including me.

Tagging a few of my lovely mutuals who might want to join the game - absolutely no pressure, of course. 💜🎮

Too late to rehash the argument now. Not as the yelps and groans of your comrades and the impact of their bodies on the earth fill your reality. Your soul weighs down your feet as you long to stop and help but you agreed on one thing; at the end of the day, everyone for themselves.

You pump your arms harder as you focus on the tree line getting closer. Almost there. Just fifteen, no ten more feet.

A hot force knocks you forward. You stumble and roll over your head onto your back, flat in the dirt as you pant up at the moonlight. The clouds crawl over her face and shroud the night.

The heave of your breath is all you can hear. You close your eyes with a whimper. That's it. It's over. Just like you knew all along, there's no hope.

The burning agony impales your shoulder. Your hand shakes as you bring it up to touch the wound. Your blood smears onto your palm. You think it went right through as you can feel the ragged gap in your back. Is that good? No, none of this is. It just means you'll suffer more.

A chuckle rolls across the clearing. The drone of pained voices and crackly draw of final breaths mingles in the lull. Footsteps tamp on the grass and dirt. There's a grunt then a yipe. 5S77. Your friend, as good as a sister in this world.

"Pity." A low voice taunts. "Pretty lips."

A bullet rings out and you twitch. Then a metallic thump and another pained groan.

"Orders are to take as many alive as we can." A man snarls. "Do you long for the drought, Oppio?"

"Good as dead, chest wound." The other grits and receives only a growl in return.

"Remember your orders," the leader commands.

You try to roll onto your side. You might be able to crawl into the trees. The moon is overcast. You're not as close as the rest.

"Argh!" A man cries out and a grizzly thump makes your insides turn.

"Fuck you, coward." Dylan sneers and that noise comes again and again and again, his senseless moans and groans dwindling beneath the stomp of the soldier's boot.

"Fucking rat! Stabbed me." The soldier drags his bloody boot on the grass.

You roll onto your stomach and bite your tongue. You plant your elbows and knees. You lurch forward, the effort tearing in your shoulder.

You do it again and again. You're so close... Just as you smell the pine and feel the bristle of dry needles, a crushing weight comes down with the sudden glow of moonlight. The boot pushes your chest to the ground as the man above you snickers.

“Where’re you going, sweetheart?” He taunts.

You go limp and spread your fingers wide. There’s no use fighting. You’ve lost.

He shifts his weight and turns, the muzzle of his rifle running along your side to your hip. “Not as bony as those other plebs.” He mocks. “Bet you got a set on you.” He drags his foot off you, the dirt on his boot crumbling off. “How about you turn over and show me?”

You shudder and close your eyes. You couldn’t if you tried. You feel your strength draining from your shoulder.

“Don’t fuck with me.” He hisses and pushes the barrel of his firearm against your wound.

“Oppio.” The same grizzly warning comes as before. “Back away.”

“This one’s breathing,” the soldier above you rescinds his rifle.

“I see that.” The other man stomps up. You let your head fall to the side and look up as they come side to side. They glare at each other. 

The Oppio backs off and scoffs. “Heard, Tribunus.”

The other man, a Tribunus, high up for someone chasing stray plebs, sniffs and looms above you. He doesn’t move until the other man stalks off to bark at the other soldiers. You close your eyes and exhale. Weakness flows through you.

You whine as suddenly the man touches your shoulder. He pulls the sopping fabric back and feels along the edge of the flesh. He hums and wipes his fingers on your jacket.

“You’ll live.”

He grabs your elbow and hauls you up to your knees. You open your eyes as you sway and he tugs again. Your legs are heavy as you set your feet. You stand, hunched, as the Tribunus stays latched above your elbow.

You feel him staring at you. You keep your eyes to the ground. He turns you and checks the front of your jacket. Your numbered patch is gone. You all tore them off when you slipped through the gap in the camp wall.

“Doesn’t matter which one you are. We know what you are.” He turns you by your arm and hurls you ahead of him. “Walk.”

You slump and drag your feet across the ground. There’s two others able to limp. 6T00 and 35B4. The rest are hauled between men to the waiting truck with the caged bed. Dead or dying, they’re tossed in without care.

The Tribunus sighs and lets go of you. He shoves something into your hand. A coarse rag.

When you opened your eyes, the sunlight appeared far too bright for your usually darkened bedroom. Even when you went out partying, you always put the blinds down. You slept best like that.

But it was really too bright in the bedroom. Which made you stir awake from delicious slumber.

It took you a few seconds to realize you were not, in fact, in your bedroom. Or any familiar bedroom for that matter. Luxurious, bright, with a wall-wide french door leading straight outside into the lakeside outdoors.

Not the city, then.

When you lifted your hand to swipe remnants of sleep of your face, a blinding glint froze you mid move.

A huge, sparkling ring was winking at you from your finger.

And another delicate, gold band beneath.

A pair that looked very much like an engagement ring and a wedding band. Which was impossible!

You reached to the side, to a bedside table where your phone was tossed along with your lacy bra. No missed phone calls, or messages. However, when you opened your phone gallery, your world tilted on its axis.

The last series of photos were from last night. From secret dinner, bottles of champagne, close-up of hand you knew oh so well resting on your thigh. Then picture of a line of shiny engagement ring. A shot of private jet. Bouquet of flowers.

Then a picture someone else had clearly taken, since you were on it. Being kissed at the altar of an empty church at night. But with the priest present in the left corner of the photo.

You jumped out of bed, nearly falling back down on your ass when your legs refused to cooperate fully.

It appeared to be the fault of all the drinks you had last night and the wedding night that clearly happened.

You spotted him standing outside. On the deck leading to the lake. He was wearing only his pants; his hair still mussed from sleep.

Picking his shirt from the floor, you draped it over yourself quickly and stepped outside.

"Ran!" You yelled, running towards him.

"Ransom Drysdale, tell me WE. DID. NOT?!"

He turned to you slowly, not the least surprised. Holding one hand tucked in his picket, he lifted his other hand - showing you the matching glint of a wedding band on his finger.

"We did, Melba." Unlike you, Ransom didn't appear to be bothered with the situation.

You weren't angry. You were terrified.

Being married to Ransom wasn't the worst. Honestly, it might have been your dream if you ever admitted to it. But it couldn't become reality. Just couldn't!

Ransom was supposed to be only a secret, thrilling fuck. As you were for him. At first, at least.

For the world you lived in, you were enemies. Heirs to rivaling families that spent decades on trying to wipe each other out.