The hot studio lights stung his skin. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and artificial mist designed to mimic the sea. Thomas Vance, for the next few hours known as "Erik the Mighty," knelt on one knee on the wooden deck of a mock Viking ship. Artificial sweat glistened on his chiseled abdominal muscles, tracing intricate Norse-style temporary tattoos across his arms and chest. Tight leather pants were his only lower garment, leaving his broad chest exposed under the spotlights.
Before him, two women knelt. One, a buxom blonde playing Queen Astrid, wore a flimsy gown torn in several "strategic" places, revealing her large, round breasts. The other, a slender redhead playing Princess Helga, wore a leather top that barely covered her nipples and a mini-skirt made of faux fur. Their faces were flushed with acting, their eyes fixed on Thomas with a mixture of practiced "gratitude" and desire.
"Erik the Mighty," the Queen moaned, her voice deliberately husky and passionate. "You have saved us from the cruel grasp of Jarl Ivar. We have no gold or jewels to give you."
Princess Helga chimed in, her lithe hand beginning to crawl up Thomas's muscular thigh. "We can only offer the gift a woman can give her hero."
Thomas offered a faint smile, a smile he had perfected. It was the smile of a weary but triumphant warrior. Without a word, he reached out and lifted the Queen's chin. His eyes bore into hers, a silent command.
The Queen understood. She moved forward on her knees. Her hands deftly untied Thomas's leather pants. Thomas's penis, already semi-erect from pre-shoot preparation, now became fully hard as the warm studio air touched it. Queen Astrid gazed at it for a moment, her lipstick-coated lips slightly parted, before she lowered her head.
Her warm, wet mouth immediately enveloped the tip of Thomas's penis. "Mmm," she groaned, the sound amplified by a hidden miniature microphone. She began to move her head back and forth, her tongue skillfully playing. Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, not from overwhelming pleasure, but to delve deeper into his role.
Meanwhile, Princess Helga rose. She stepped over Thomas's legs and sat on his lap, facing away from him. Her firm buttocks pressed against the base of his currently-sucked penis, creating a dual sensation. Her hands reached back, her slender fingers gently stroking and squeezing Thomas's testicles.
"My daughter also wishes to thank you," Queen Astrid whispered, releasing him for a moment. Her vagina was already visibly wet beneath the thin fabric of her gown.
Thomas did not reply. His hands moved, one gripping the Queen's blonde hair, pulling it slightly to set the tempo. The other hand moved forward, squeezing Princess Helga's plump, exposed breasts. Her nipples immediately hardened under his touch.
"Ah," the princess sighed, arching her back. "Erik..."
The scene intensified. The Queen sped up her mouth movements. The wet sucking sounds were clearly audible. Princess Helga began to move her hips, grinding her wet vagina against Thomas's thighs. Moans and sighs filled the silent studio air.
Thomas shifted his position. He pulled his penis away from the Queen's mouth and pushed Princess Helga until she lay face down on the ship's deck. He positioned himself behind her, his hard, saliva-slicked penis now ready at the entrance to her femininity. Without hesitation, he pushed in.
"Ngh!" the princess gasped as she was fully filled.
Thomas began to move, his hips slamming against the princess's buttocks with a strong, steady rhythm. Each thrust produced the sound of wet skin slapping. Queen Astrid crawled closer, her hands now caressing Thomas's body, while her mouth went back to work, this time licking and sucking Thomas's hardening nipples.
The actresses' facial expressions were a mixture of feigned passion and genuine pleasure. Sweat drenched their bodies, making their skin gleam under the lights. Thomas felt his orgasm approaching. His breath became short and ragged.
"I'm coming," he growled.
He sped up his thrusts. A few final deep, powerful pushes. He felt the peak of pleasure explode. His body tensed. He spurted his semen deep into the princess's vagina. He collapsed onto the princess's body, his breath ragged.
A moment of silence, filled only by heavy breathing.
"CUT!"
The director's voice was like a switch turning off the illusion. Thomas immediately pulled away from the redhead actress's body. The atmosphere, which had been full of contrived passion, immediately evaporated, replaced by awkward professionalism. The actress, who a few seconds ago had been moaning beneath him, now pushed herself up with a practical movement, tidying her slightly disheveled hair.
"Good job, both of you," Thomas said, his voice back to normal, without the husky tone of the "Viking hero." He gave a brief nod to the two women, which they returned with tired smiles.
A production assistant rushed over to him, handing him a white towel and a bottle of water. Thomas took it gratefully. He wiped his face and chest, cleaning off the sticky artificial sweat. The coldness of the mineral water flowing down his throat felt very real, a sharp contrast to the fantasy world he had just left.
His mind was already drifting to his quiet apartment. He imagined himself sitting in his comfortable gaming chair, his monitor lit up, displaying the green landscapes of the game Northgard. That was his true escape. This job was just a series of memorized movements and dialogues to pay the bills.
He looked around. The "Viking ship" now looked like what it was: a cheaply painted wooden stage. The crew was busy moving lights and cameras. In the distance, the studio walls, painted sky blue, looked dull and peeling in places. All the grandeur and drama earlier had been nothing but camera tricks and lighting. Thomas finished his water in a few large gulps and then tossed the empty bottle into the nearest trash can. It was time to go home.
Thomas stepped down from the wooden stage, his bare feet cold on the chilly concrete floor of the studio. He walked towards the break area, where his towel and change of clothes waited in the upstairs dressing room. On the way, he passed Mark, the portly director with thick glasses and a baseball cap that seemed permanently affixed to his head.
"Tom, fantastic work!" Mark exclaimed, patting Thomas enthusiastically on the back. "The energy was perfect. Your chemistry on camera was really alive. The audience will love that scene."
"Just doing the job, Mark," Thomas replied with a faint smile. He was used to this kind of praise. To him, it was no different than a mechanic successfully fixing an engine. "The script was good."
"Of course," Mark laughed. "Tomorrow we're shooting your final fight scene with Jarl Ivar. Get ready for a lot of fake blood and shouting. Schedule's nine A.M., don't be late."
"I'll be here at eight thirty," Thomas countered. Professionalism was everything in this industry. "See you tomorrow, Mark."
"See you, Tom."
Thomas continued on his way, passing several other sets that were being prepared. He climbed the iron stairs to the second-floor corridor, where the main actors' dressing rooms were located. The corridor was slightly dimmer, and from one of the rooms at the end, he could hear rhythmic moans and characteristic thudding sounds. Another scene was being filmed. He didn't think much of it. It was the background music of his daily life.
His dressing room was only a few meters ahead of him. He quickened his pace, eager for a hot shower and to leave the place. That's when his foot stepped on something that shouldn't have been there.
It wasn't something hard. Nor was it something solid. It felt rubbery, yet firm, and most importantly, very slippery.
His eyes flicked downwards for just a second. A large, flesh-colored silicone dildo lay on the floor. It gleamed wetly under the dim corridor light, clearly just used and carelessly discarded by a crew member or actor from the next room.
There was no time to think.
His balance was lost instantly. His foot slipped forward in an unnatural motion. His hands flailed in the empty air, trying to grasp the wall or railing, but there was nothing to hold onto. A startled shriek escaped his mouth as his body was flung over the low corridor railing.
The world spun. He saw the studio lights on the ceiling rotate rapidly. He saw the shocked faces of some crew members downstairs looking up.
Then everything stopped.
His head hit the corner of a table below with a wet, sickening crack. There was no pain. Just a momentary shock, then a total darkness that swallowed him whole.
Downstairs, a deafening silence descended for two seconds. Then, a female crew member screamed. All activity ceased. People rushed closer. Thomas Vance's body lay in an odd position, his neck twisted. Blood began to seep from his broken head, flowing slowly over the wooden tabletop covered with leather handcuffs and chains. The BDSM table, prepared for the next scene, had become his impromptu tombstone.
The darkness was not empty. There were echoes of fading screams, points of light that spun then vanished into one. There was an endless falling sensation, as if his soul was being pulled down through a bottomless tunnel. Then, even that sensation faded. All that remained was nothingness. Black. Silent. A terrible peace.
Then, a new sensation emerged. Cold.
Not the cold of an air-conditioned studio floor, but a wet, pervasive cold, seeping into his bare back. Something rough and uneven pressed against his skin. Slowly, other senses began to return. The smell of damp earth and the sharp scent of pine needles. The gentle rustle of wind through the trees.
Thomas, or the consciousness that was once Thomas, forced his eyelids open.
What greeted him was not the high studio ceiling with its lighting grids. Nor were they the panicked faces of the crew. Above him was a dense canopy of dark fir branches, their twigs forming intricate patterns that obscured the uniform gray sky.
Confusion pricked him sharper than the cold. He tried to move. His body felt heavy and stiff. He managed to lift one hand and feel the back of his head, where he had felt the fatal impact. No blood. No gaping wound. Only his hair, wet and cold.
"What the..." he whispered, his voice hoarse and lost in the wind.
His last memory was so clear. The slippery dildo. Losing balance. Falling. The crushing impact. He should be dead.
With great difficulty, summoning all his remaining strength, he pushed his body to sit up. That's when the world before him changed completely.
A transparent blue rectangular panel appeared before his eyes, floating in the air about a meter away from him. The panel glowed with a faint light, displaying icons he knew better than his own face. A hammer icon for building. Icons for food, wood, and gold coins. This was the interface of Northgard.
His heart, which had been beating slowly from confusion, now stopped for a moment in shock. He rubbed his eyes, thinking this was a hallucination from a severe concussion. But the panel remained, stable and unreal in the midst of the ancient forest that felt so real.
Then, glowing letters formed in the center of the panel, written in the exact same font as in the game.
Welcome, Jarl. Enter Your Name.
AUTHOR'S THOUGHT: In my country, we commonly use address terms ( Label ) when speaking, which significantly impacts how it translates into English. So, this might cause a bit of awkwardness. I haven't double-checked this yet, as it's a new fanfic and might not gain many fans, so I won't put in extra work for it.