#dark purveyors x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

raz-writes-the-thing · 1 year ago

Text

Helping Hand

Crowley x GN!Reader

(use of female anatomy and the term 'good girl')

NSFW 18+ ONLY / Requests are: OPEN

Summary: Crowley catches you reading a NSFW novel and gives you a helping hand.

___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___ ___

When Aizraphale had gone away for a few days out to the country on a hunt for some sort of first edition book he was desperate for, you’d not thought much of it. Aziraphale was always darting off here and there for rare books or conferences he thought might be interesting. He was always after the next bit of knowledge, or the next great novel.

He had to go further this time, and had let both you and Crowley know that he was going to be a couple days. The pair had always been respectful towards you, and the three of you were good friends.

You’d offered to look after the Bookshop for him while it was gone. Aziraphale had not wanted to put you out and promised to pick you up something while he was gone if he found something you might like as a thank you. It wasn’t necessary, but appreciated none the less.

And besides, you loved the Bookshop. It was homely and comforting- and the energy the Bookshop seemed to radiate felt, just… so safe. It was hard to express, but the point was: you loved to be at the Bookshop, and there was no way you were going to pass up a chance to be able to stay there for a week or with all those books. So many things to read, and if you didn’t make a start on your to-read list, you were afraid you’d never catch up.

Which is exactly how you found yourself in the position you were in now. Given how prone to distraction Aziraphale was, you’d been able to tell upon receiving the keys and Aziraphale shuffling off in the direction of Crowley and his Bentley who were parked across the street ready to take him to the train station- that Aziraphale had not had a chance to give the shop a once over in quite some time.

You’d started off with a quick vacuum, picking up bits and pieces here and there to move out of the pathway you were cleaning. And, of course- you knocked into a precarious pile of books that went tumbling to the floor. One of which caught you in the calf, causing you to bark out a curse before turning the vacuum off in a huff and picking up the offending book.

“Aziraphale,” you tutted, giving the cover a quick look over before turning it over to read the back. “Wouldn’t have picked you for a purveyor of cliterature.” You chuckle to yourself at the word, having seen it on social media somewhere before and absolutely loving it. Makes you laugh every single time.

You read over the back one more time, brow arching at the interesting themes presented in the book. Even for you, this was… something else.

Purely for curiosity's sake, you opened up the novel to give it a quick little read. Just to see what it was about. It was about twelve pages in before the first smut scene, and you had to wonder to yourself if this was only the first- surely it could only go downhill from here. The entire book couldn’t be this good, could it?

It didn’t take you long to find out. By the third chapter you were biting your lip- cleaning forgotten. Reading about the main protagonist being eaten out by Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome as if Mr. TD&H might die if she didn’t cum right then and there was, well, fucking hot. You’d have to make a point to look up the author later and see if they had any other books. Your question had been about why Aziraphale had this in his shop when it didn’t match with anything of his usual style, but that question was completely forgotten in the haze of cocks and fingering in the page-turner you held in front of you.

“Bit of light reading?” Crowley peers over your shoulder to read a few lines. “Mm- doesn’t seem your style.”

The voice snaps you out of the paragraph where the main character is currently enjoying something rather phallic from behind, and a sucking vibrator on their clit. The book falls from your hands and lands with an incriminating thud onto the floor.

“Oh, fuck- Crowley- uh, what are you doing here?” You exclaim, whirling around and pressing yourself into the bookcase in fright. The Demon in question drags his gaze up from the floor to your reddened cheeks and finally to your eyes. His lips are curled in a knowing smirk, and you clock the way his snake-eyes dilate just a little. “You scared the shit out of me!”

You raise a hand to slap him on the arm. He weathers the hit with a chuckle and a mocking pout. “Aww, darling- weren’t expecting me back so soon, is that it?” You splutter out a series of garbled sounds before he steps right into your space and noses by your ear.

“Imagine my surprise,” he says, voice low and dangerous, “when I come back from dropping our favourite Angel off at the station- to find the smell of sin in the air.” His tongue darts up to lick the shell of your ear, and you let out a real, honest-to-God whimper.

“In the Bookshop, no less,” he continues in a dark whisper. “Such a Heavenly place, I would have thought.” He punctuates the sentence with a bite to your ear lobe and your eyes flutter closed with pleasure.

“Mm- there it is,” he chuckles, pulling away to look over your flushed cheeks and hooded eyes. “Dunno if you knew this, darling- but given that I am, in fact, a Demon. Means I can do things. Great things. Interesting things.” He brushes a warm finger down your cheek to wrap around your throat lightly. You knew, of course that Aziraphale and Crowley weren’t human, but you’d also never pried too far for answers.

“One of the more interesting things,” he continues darkly, fingers pressing just a tiny bit tighter. “Is, well- I can sense sin. Sweet feeling, leaves tingles in the spine. If I’m attuned enough, I can even smell it.”

His fingers suddenly press harder and your head hits the bookshelf softly. You see his nostrils flare and choke out a whimper.

“Mm- I can sense how much you like that, Pet. Can smell it off you. Your sin…” he trails off thoughtfully, letting his fingers soften so you can suck a breath in. “Mm, smells like peaches and cream.”

“Now,” he says, letting go and leaning down to pick up the discarded book. “Tell me now if you don’t want this to go any further.”

You don’t know how to respond, and so therefore give him a soft nod. It’s all you can bear to do right now, though if you knew the plans Crowley had for you, you may have said no. Who were you kidding, you’d never say no to Crowley for anything he desired.

“Mm- good. Here, take this.” Crowley hands you the book and steps back into your personal space, raking a hand up your side and up to pull on your hair softly. “And read it.”

“You want me to… what?” You ask in a whisper.

“Read. It.”

You look between him and the book a couple of times before shaking your head. How embarrassing, you did not want to read the things that were in that book aloud to him. And what for? So he could revel in your embarrassment? Yeah, you didn’t think so.

“No?” He asks, arching a brow. “Oh, but darling, I asked so nicely. I won’t do it again.”

You feel yourself swallow thickly. And by the way his grin widens just a little, you know he notices it too. You pull the book up with one hand and flick open to a random page. Crowley makes a pleased sound. He lets go of your hair and uses one hand to grab your hip and the other plays across your lower tummy under your shirt, brushing the skin with feather light touches. He gives you a look to say ‘well get on with it, then.’

“Uh,” you stutter out as his forefinger trails circles above the waistband of your underwear. “His breath, smelling of mint brushes over her skin-” Crowley’s hand on your hip rolls down to your knee before hiking your leg over his, effectively pinning your legs apart but also pushes you back against the bookcase. Your breath hitches and his fingers stop moving.

“Go on,” he teases, mouthing at the side of your throat.

“And, he, uh, his tongue licks a stripe down her abdomen. With her-” you avert your eyes and Crowley tuts, trailing his fingers closer to your cunt. You try again. “With her tits heaving from heavy breaths, his tongue finds her clit- oh-”

Crowley’s forefinger reaches your own clitoris, and he chuckles mockingly into your throat at the choked off moan that spills from your mouth. He trails soft circles around with his fingers, testing the pleasure receptors and making sure it’s not too much for you. When you sink back against the bookcase, he lets out a disapproving grunt before grinding out an unappeased “that doesn’t sound like reading, Pet.”

You let out a breathy chuckle and Crowley clicks his tongue, rubbing his fingers just a little faster. He moves fast enough to start building you up, your hips bucking off the bookcase and towards him. His knee pressing you into the position he wants you in moves in a little closer, the muscles in your leg burning as it pulls taut over his leg.

“Right- what happens next then?” He asks, two of his fingers sliding down past your clit to rub your folds, collecting the slick he finds there. “Pretty sure you were saying something about clits and tongues?”

“Mm, oh, y-yeah,” you reply, swallowing thickly as those two fingers now rub around your hole teasingly. You can feel yourself squeezing- almost like you were trying to suck his fingers inside yourself. “-F-finds her clit- he licks against her sensitive-mmmh, fuck-”

Crowley’s fingers slam inside without warning, twisting and curling behind your clit just exactly where you needed it. He laughs, and stops moving, waiting for you to continue.

“-b-bundle of nerves. She pulls at his hair, and- oh, ah- he groans in satisfaction,” your head drops back as he starts to fuck his fingers into you in earnest. You whine as he hits a particularly good spot and bites down lightly on the join of your neck and shoulder. “His tongue presses down from her clit to- sh-shit, fuck, Crowley- to her entrance.”

The Demon in question pushes a third finger inside you, adjusting his fingers so that his thumb could bump against your clit with every push inside. Your leg over his begins to jerk with the pleasure- little spasms that you couldn’t control even if you wanted to. Your fingers were going white with your grip on the novel.

His fingers spread out and he rubs them against your inner walls, panting in your ear about how fucking tight and wet you were. Your spare hand wrapped around his neck to hold on for balance, and the Demon had the nerve to mock you for it.

“Aw, what’s the matter, Pet? Feels too good, huh? Gonna fall over if you don’t hold on?” To drive the point home he pistons his fingers in and out mercilessly, delighting in the shriek of pleasure that tears out of you. “Mm, that’s better, darling. Don’t hold back for me.”

You let the noises out easier after that, book almost forgotten in your grip. You’re sure there must be fingerprints imprinted into the cover after this. You felt bad about it, sure- but you could always just buy Aziraphale another copy later. Crowley lets you enjoy yourself for another minute or two, working you up closer to the edge, thumb rubbing against your clit just enough to send jolts of pleasure up your spine.

And just as you start to reach that peak, he slows down. You crack your eyes open- not even having realised they’d closed, and groan in frustration. He grins that charming, evil smile at you, and flicks his gaze towards the novel. “Didn’t tell you to stop reading, did I?”

“N-no, fuck- you will be the death of me,” you grind out, wiggling your hips on his fingers in the hopes it might spur him back into action. You look over to the novel, picking a sentence and continuing on. “With his t-tongue exploring her hole, she kn-knew she wouldn’t last long.”

Crowley let out a thoughtful sound, changing the pace and position again to rub against your g-spot. “Greedy thing,” he laughs out quietly, pressing his hips closer against yours so you could feel his dick against you. You widened the gap between your legs as much as you could given the fact that one was already spread out and over his taut leg. “Mm- good girl,” he growls.

“He knew s-she was close, and- oh, fuck, Crowley, I’m-” the demon grunted in acknowledgement, speeding up. “F-fuck- brought his fingers up to rub ah-against her- ngh- clit.”

You were so close and determined to see this through. You knew if you stopped reading, he would move the finish line for you, and so despite the fact you were moments from cumming, you found the focus to continue with the novel.

“W-with a cry, sh-she, oh-hoh, fuck- Crowley- she exploded around-d him,” a high pitched whine broke free of you, and he chuckled. “H-her pleas-ure rocked thr-through her in waves, but h-he did not let up,” you read between gasps of breath.

“Un-until she pushed h-him away, sat-isfied and sated-d- oh, oh fuck me, Crowley, I’m gonna-”

“Fuck, that’s it, Pet. Cum for me,” Crowley growls darkly, eyes boring heated holes through your skin, cock grinding up against your thigh- wherever he can get any friction.

He doesn’t even get through the sentence before you’re over that finishing line, book dropping to the floor so you can hold onto his shoulder for purchase. Your head slams back against the bookcase, sending a few novels tumbling down to the floor to join the first. Your leg spasms and dark moans and sharp gasps fill the Bookshop.

Crowley fucks you through it, fingers never ceasing until you- like the character the book, are trying desperately to get him to slow down, the overstimulation making you whimper and moan.

The Demon laughs, and gives your cunt a little slap before pulling his hand out and bringing them up to the light coming in through the window. His eyes flit over the slick he sees there, admiring how wet you were for him. When he’s done, he sucks them clean, forked tongue coming out to play.

He doesn’t fail to notice the way your gaze heats at the sight. He might have to store that one away for another time, he rather thinks.

Slowly, he lets your leg down- immediately filling the space with his hips rubbing into your own. You whine at the burn in your muscles and he laughs mockingly. Crowley grinds once, twice more before he’s groaning into your shoulder and cumming ribbons in his pants.

His mouth drops open, and he rubs himself up against you to ride out the high. Your arms are wrapped around his neck and you playfully tug at his hair, grinning at the way he lets out an honest-to-God moan. You think you might lock that away for future use.

Once he’s come down, he pulls a miracle up from below, cleaning himself up. He noses at your neck and pulls you in close.

“I think,” he says quietly, “we ought to make use of the spare room and take a quick nap, what do you say?”

You smile and press a kiss to his jaw, nodding in agreement. He humms contentedly and steps away from you to allow you to lead the way. You pick up the couple of novels that had fallen to the floor and put them away before taking him to the spare bedroom, the both of you collapsing down into the bed.

It doesn’t take long before Crowley is snoring softly, and you take the chance to snuggle up to him, watching the dust in the sunrays in the window.

Your pussy clenches as you think over the events of the last half hour, and you find yourself daydreaming about all the other ways you want Crowley to fuck you.

Next time, maybe you’d have to have him up against the bookcases and mewling under your touch.

Yeah, you rather liked the sound of that.

#good omens #gomens #crowley #crowley x reader #crowley good omens #one shot #aziraphale #smut #lemon #anthony j crowley #good omens fanfiction #fanfiction #crowley x reader smut #crowley smut #david tennant #gender neutral reader #aziraphale brough you back an antique coin set btw

836 notes · View notes

sebastianswallows · 7 months ago

Text

— PAIRING: Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

— SYNOPSIS: Sebastian is a purveyor of forbidden artefacts, a dark arts researcher, and a curse-breaker for hire. Ominis, desperate to save him from himself, hires Reader in secret to persuade him, by any means necessary, to leave his illegal activities behind.

— WARNINGS: angst, fluff, smut

— STATUS: complete

⸻ AO3 • MAIN TAG

CHAPTERS:

Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3 • Chapter 4 • Chapter 5 • Chapter 6 • Chapter 7 • Chapter 8 • Chapter 9 • Chapter 10 • Chapter 11 • Chapter 12 • Chapter 13 • Chapter 14 • Chapter 15 • Chapter 16 • Chapter 17 • Chapter 18 • Chapter 19 • Chapter 20 • Chapter 21 • Chapter 22 • Chapter 23 • Chapter 24 • Chapter 25 • Chapter 26 • Chapter 27 • Chapter 28 • Chapter 29 • Chapter 30

#just putting this here because I think I reached some link limit on my main masterlist lol #so I'll be splitting up the bigger fics into their own mini-masterlists #ignore this the fic has been completed for a long time #Sebastian Sallow #Hogwarts Legacy #Sebastian Sallow imagine #Sebastian Sallow x reader #Sebastian Sallow x MC #Sebastian Sallow fanfiction #sswallow;made a thing #sswallow;fanfics #fanfic;danger and delight

177 notes · View notes

divinehedons · 1 year ago

Text

lost and found

pairing: soft dom!joel miller x f!reader

word count: ~4k

summary: your arrangement with joel miller is built on mutual trust. what happens when, in the throes of hedonism, he himself breaks that trust?

warnings: this is a dark, EXPLICIT fic, minors do not interact! no outbreak au, so many unrequited feelings, angsty angst angst angst, explicit p-in-v sex, dubious consent, use of a safeword, teeth-rotting aftercare and fluff, brief use of a sex toy, bath sex, brief depiction of make-up sex, somewhat (definitely) blasphemous and makes a mocking of religion (i'm not sorry :>>>>)

note: thank you very dearly for reading! please let me know what you think and what you see next; asks are very much welcome, reblogs and comments are much appreciated!

“See, this is why you need me, sweet girl. Because otherwise, who’s goin’ to make you feel this good?”

It was those words that follow you every day since you’ve begun such a tumultuous connection with the Texan contractor. Those words that stayed with you when you woke up from his tongue between your legs after the first night you fucked together. The words that stayed together when you made an arrangement. When you finally submitted to him.

You meet him in a shared apartment, in darkness, as well-put as could be from a day of work, kneeling with your wrists presented before you. By the end of the night, moments before he drops you off, he looks over your smeared lipstick, your neck littered with blood-red hickeys of his doing, wrists red. He'd look you over, then he'd smirk, waiting for you to turn back and wave goodbye. Only then will he have the last word. "See you next week, darlin'."

–

You met him at trivia night, glasses on, glass of whisky in hand, mere purveyor to the chaos you were causing. You, who he noticed to be naturally shy, sipping away at some colorful drink the weeks before, standing actively on your toes as you excitedly whisper the answer to a question. He saw, too, how happy you got, jumping on your feet when your little band of three pulls ahead in the game. But what caught his attention was how good you are. How you immediately sat down when your team asks you to, how you willingly go for drinks at the bar, not five feet from where he sat, emanating warmth from excitement.

You were so goddamn willing, he had to adjust himself once or twice, pictures of your submission burnt into the crevices of his brain. So when he had the chance, he had to take it.

“How did’ya know so much about the sixties, sugar?” he asked as you squeezed into the seat beside him, barely managing to steal it from the crowded bar. When you looked at him, he swore he almost saw your eyes gloss over from shyness. You just had to be adorable.

“Oh! Well… I spent a lot of time with my grandparents.” You look down, fiddling with your drink before chuckling. “I didn’t know we were getting so much attention.” He swore he almost felt his cock twitch in his pants. Already, you were being so good, he physically had to swallow down the images of you happily bent over his desk with the rest of his whisky, throat burning be damned.

He realized, quite easily, that if he wanted you, he was going to have to be creative about it. And if he really wanted you, he had to put the effort in showing you he could be trusted; that he’ll take care of you. So he smiles, a calm smirk accompanying his salt-and-pepper beard, the warm crinkles in his eyes as he stills himself. He takes a deep breath, and it becomes so easy.

The night ends with you pressed against the door of your apartment, panties pushed to the side as he breathes whiskey into your face while you chuckle nervously. “D’you want it, sugar? C’mon, I need some words…” He almost wished he could take a photo of your face the moment he spears you open with his aching cock, cunt already fucked out by his fingers during the feverish truck drive where you almost get him lost from hazy directions.

He teaches you your safe words that night. An analogy of stoplights– halting reds, questioning yellows, and bright green gos.

He constantly checks in, and all you tell him is to go, go, go.

–

He likes it when you call him sir, a remnant of his Southern manners. Your cheeks warm up whenever you say it. He noticed when he had begun to cup your face, asking you to tell him what you wanted.

Just you, sir. All you, please…

He’s so indulgent about it, so eager to give you the pleasure you so desperately wanted without saying anything. But sometimes, that primal urge to own you manifests itself, as well. He particularly enjoyed the act of overstimulation. Just the sight of you, cockdumb and broken, limbs trembling from the way he manipulated the pleasure from your body… how could he ever resist? It’s why he was so willing to split an apartment with you; one meant for your excursions and hedonistic urges; the house of desire itself with a king-sized bed and a hot tub to defile.

You were chaos and innocence all in one, sweet like honey and sudden like the weather. Incomprehensible, unique you. Simply put, he enjoyed you. And the fact that you belonged to him will never stop getting him hard just from the mere thought of it. He started thinking he finally understood what it meant to be enthralled by someone. When you open your mouth wide, tongue extended and waiting for any shred of him to swallow, when you lay on his chest post-coitus with the sated nature of a feral cat, when he sees your perfect lipstick, waiting to be ruined by kisses.

Of course he’s insatiable. He will always keep wanting more. Perhaps it was that insatiability that led to that storming night.

–

He should’ve noticed when he opened the door and you were looking out of the window, eerily quiet, with the weight of the world on your shoulders. He drops the keys on the dining table, crossing his way to you, hands wrapping around your waist as he kisses your exposed shoulder teasingly.

“Let me take your mind off of it, darlin’,” he whispers, and you feign a giggle at the way his beard prickles your skin. “Had a tough day, didn’t ya?” You look to him as if you were about to confess something, say something and break your usual submissive silence. But you catch his eye and you melt further into his touch instead as you sigh softly.

“Just missed you a little too much, sir…”

It satisfies him. It feeds his ego. But just in case… “Give me a colour, pretty baby. S’alright…”

You gulp, feeling your fingers turn cold as you process your thoughts. With a sigh, you press a kiss to his jaw.

“Green, sir.”

The word barely leaves your lips before he’s kissing you, swallowing down your soft whimpers as his strong arms take you, carrying you to the bedroom with renewed urge and desire. Settling you down on fresh sheets, he peers over your pretty little sundress, your perfect little face, chuckling at the shyness washing over you in the low lamplight. He kisses you again, insatiable hands tearing open your dress as your breath hitches, He does not stop, pressing wanton kisses down your collarbone, your breast, your stomach, spreading your legs so he can settle right between them.

“Y’wanna tell me why you weren’t answering my calls, darlin’?”

You try not imagine the panic you must have caused him for that very reason. The fact that you left him a message at three in the afternoon, I need to see you, sir. Only to have your phone switched off. There is probably a barrage of messages and missed calls. But seeing you here, he finally seems to settle. He seems to ignore your creased forehead, your shaky breaths.

“My phone died… I- I’m sorry…” He shushes you, kissing you again and running his thumb over your painted lips with a smile. “I just missed you, sir.”

You notice his eyes darkening, hands traveling down the expanse of your stomach, embracing and caressing each curve before his right hand completely cups your wanton cunt, willing and warm to the touch. “I think I can do somethin’ about that.” He pushes your underwear aside, two fingers delving into the soft, sticky warmth of your desire, spreading you open just for him. He periodically asks for your status, a colour to confirm your consent. You see it as a way of him asking if he could do the things he was already doing.

Green for the fingers already spreading you open. Green to take off the dress he had already torn off. Green to mark up the neck that already bore the wetness of his saliva.

“How was trivia night last night, sugar? I couldn’t get out of work soon enough to catch you there…” You manage a soft chuckle, now embracing him with a breathy kiss. “Although, I believe I heard from Clark that you did well enough, no?”

Your soft giggles melt against the skin of his jaw, your shaky breaths stuttering as you hear the clink of his belt buckle and the shuffling of his jeans. “Good old nineties, sir,” you murmur. “Your playlist was sufficient enough of a reviewer to carry me through.” It’s his turn to chuckle, cupping your face and peering down at you as he affectionately pinches the apple of your cheek with a sigh.

“One more ‘old man’ quip out of you and you’ll be askin’ for a punishment, li’l girl.”

You manage a soft smile. You like it when he cares. You like him like this. But just as easily as it came, the softness soon disappears as he returns to working the clothes off of your body, looking over the way your skin is void of the markings he left the last time he had you. You try to comprehend the secrets between his furrowed brow, the mutterings you try to hear in the semi-darkness. He always had a way of keeping that same professional barrier between the two of you, a barrier that you never know where it truly stood. A barrier of multiple dimensions. A barrier that was the sole purpose why you never confessed you stopped dating ever since he came into your life.

You remember the time you almost did. You had called him one evening, dressed up in the same apartment, bottle of wine chilled, rose petals all over the sheets. You told him you wanted to see him. You didn’t expect the ease that came with his rebuttal. Can’t tonight, darlin’, I have a lady friend keepin’ me company. How ‘bout Friday? You pretend, as you find yourself doing more and more often. You tell him to have a nice evening. You drink an entire bottle of wine by yourself. You dispose of the rose petals and ensure you left no traces by morning.

Looking at him now, he still remains cool, professional, boundaries locked and loaded between your bodies even when he presses the bulbous tip of a vibrator directly over where you need him most, firing it up the moment you said green. He told you once he loved the way you squealed for him, that it makes his chest bubble with incomprehensible glee knowing he could drive such noises from you, that shy little vixen that knelt for him when he said the word and opened her mouth wide. Maybe that’s why he always enjoyed pushing you to your limits.

Maybe that’s what he wanted to do now.

And you had to admit, you were willing to let him try.

The vibration jostles through your flesh, shaking awake your tendons. The initial shock sent your legs flailing, spreading, and eventually welcoming the affection. “That’s it… let me in, baby…”

Your cries emanate as the shock of the first orgasm shakes through your completely naked body, brushing against the course fabric of his jeans, his small snicker leaving him before he could stop it. “‘Course you’re so easy, pretty lady.” You feel your cheeks warm up at his words, looking into his eyes as he raises a brow, as if waiting for you to give him his dues.

It’s when you return to yourself, blinking away the haze in your head as you tilt your head back. “Thank you, sir… oh, oh– thank you!” When you look back, you see him through the mist in your vision, see that slow, cocky smirk encompassing his features. He likes this. He likes the way you’re absolutely fucked out like this.

The buzzing stops, and you blink awake shakily up at him. He leans down to kiss you gently, sighing as you come down from your orgasmic bliss. “How are we feelin’, baby doll?”

You grin up at him. Green, green, green.

He looks down at you, with that shit-eating grin on your face that you always have when you’re brimming with excitement and ready to burst. He tries to read your eyes just as you grow shy, turning over to embrace the pillow you lay on. What should he do when the prettiest girl in the world says “green” so voraciously?

There was only one answer. He can only go, go, go.

–

Joel Miller rarely calls anything heaven. He rarely finds anything that is so divine that he can surrender so easily in worship. And if he does, it’s even rarer that he is driven by anything so much as to take divinity into his own hands. But with you… he swore he finally saw the face of God. And it was dangerous. It was dangerous because it had awakened an arcane starvation that almost harkens back to his own primordial longings.

You tell him green, but if he was capable of confession, if he was more vulnerable to you… he’d confess that he’d gone blind, his senses dulled and only drawn to one thing and one thing only: and it was to take and take from you.

That was why he fucks you wide open with his cock, your walls trembling with the first sign of overstimulation. He sees the first sign of your hesitation and he barely stops himself to look you in the eye to say your status. You barely manage to tell him green, with a tone of hesitation, and he immediately pummels his hardness into your aching cunt, embracing you in his tense arms, growling into your ear as you feel his lips sucking a brand new hickey at the very crook of your neck.

If he was confessing, he would say all he saw was the red of his blood pumping through his brain. It is only a few seconds later that he finally hears that shy, trembling voice of yours, echoing like a hysterical cry that tears through his defences. It is the words you had never uttered in these moments before now.

“Red, red, red!”

Immediately, Joel flies apart from you like shrapnel, blinking his eyes open just in time to see your grief-stricken face, splotchy from tears as you curl up in the upper middle of the large bed. From here, he finally sees the aftermath of his mindless fucking. His fingertips marking your skin, lovebite blood red and raging just as you peer up at him with eyes lit up with an emotion he had never seen before. You had never stared at him with that much fear before.

He attempts to reach for you, only to be frozen in his tracks the moment you flinched further upwards against the mattress. His blood runs cold when he hears your words. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, sir–”

Had he been that absolutely careless over you— precious, darling you that entrusted herself so fully to him? Had he been that selfish, so enthralled by the callings of his own flesh? This is the price he had to pay for tasting divinity— he just had to ruin you for it. He slowly recedes, heart thumping in his chest as he tucks himself back into his pants, keeping his hands visible for you, your watchful eyes never blinking away from you.

“It’s alright, darlin’. It’s alright. We’ve stopped.” Gently, he helps, carefully handing you a dressing robe to regain some form of second skin. He ascertains that his bare hands does not brush against you, not unless you ask him to. Not unless you wanted it. He did not deserve such a privilege, not after what he’s done. Not after how he broke your trust.

He shakes away the thoughts and self-doubt from the recesses of his brain. You do not need his remorse. What you needed was to be taken care of. What you needed was him to fulfill the role he had promised you from the very start of your… partnership. Whatever it was you had. The minutes pass in the silence. The apartment is silent, except for your shaky breaths as he waits for you to calm down.

“Sugar…” your bright doe eyes look to him, reddened slightly by tears before softening, your hands slowly moving to reach for him. He stops himself. “What do you want me to do, doll?”

You finally find the voice to speak again. “Just hold me… please.” Joel gently settles by your side, embracing you as you hide your face into his bare chest. With how close you press yourself to him, you feel the pounding of his chest. You feel your skin prickle, looking up into his eyes in soft, comfortable silence. “It’s like you couldn’t see me anymore when… when…”

He hears your breath hitch and he gently shushes you, carefully pressing kisses to the crown of your head. “Why did you apologize, sugar?”

It's difficult to comprehend feelings in an agreement that is supposedly devoid of them. It's difficult to reflect when you think you know every possibility when you say the truth and nothing but the truth. But you know, too, that you cannot solve the breaking of one’s trust, yours in this case, with the breaking of others’ trust. So you swallow, gather your thoughts.

“You’ve… you always made it feel like it’s my… my privilege to feel so good and… and…” you sniffle, burying your face against him once more as you sigh. “I feel guilty for… for having to—asking to—stop.” You feel his breath still, and you tug him closer out of guilt. It’s as if the motion gently shakes him awake and he embraces you, pressing careful kisses where he was able to.

“That was never my intention, darlin’...” He gently maneuvers you, just enough so you had to look into his eyes— those soft, warm eyes that looked at you the night you met in the bar. “I should be sorry, and I am. God, doll… we built this… us… we built it on the idea that we entrust each other with our… vulnerabilities, and that those vulnerabilities aren’t exploited.” He cups your face, the way he always does, but his touch his careful, the way one grasps precious. “You trusted me, sugar, and I’ve been reckless with my pretty girl. I’m so sorry.”

He barely finishes the last word before you’re kissing him, arms wrapping around him in comfortable silence as he cradles you, lets you indulge until you are the first to pull away. “Let me make it up to you, yeah?” he whispers, the prickle of his beard against your jaw enough to make you giggle. “How does a bath sound?” You manage a small nod, winding down from the events of the evening as he cradles you, gently bringing you to the bathroom and seating you on the nearest counter as he leans over to prepare the warm bath, head turned away from you with a sigh.

The confession lays heavy on your lips. The confession that you’re falling for him, eyes closed, no turning back. You’re in love with him, but you think in telling him, you risk losing this… having him in the soft silences where you can be vulnerable for him and only for him. You tell him, and you picture the nights alone, guarding yourself and knowing happiness shall not exist anymore for you. Not in this lifetime.

“Do you want me to give you some privacy?”

You look to him in silence before taking a deep breath, shaking your head before biting your lip. “Stay with me,” you whisper, looking down at your feet as he settles before you. “Please don’t go too far from me.”

It’s how the two of you end up, with you on his lap, the warm water encompassing the two of you as gently scrubs through your back with slow, careful circles. “Promise me something,” he says, breaking the silence as he carefully pulls you closer to him. “Never ever think you cannot say no to me ever again.” Your head rears to look into his eyes and he couldn’t help but chuckle, kissing your cheek lovingly. “I’d rather have your scorn than seein’ you afraid of me, darlin’.”

You promise him. As if you would deprive him of anything ever again. As if you could bear the way you saw his heart break from your reaction earlier that evening. As if you could bear the sight of him pulling away from you ever again. If it meant keeping him this close to you for some time more—be it a day, another evening, another month, another year—you’d take everything you can.

The both of you make up shortly thereafter. Joel is half-surprised to see you crawling on top of him, facing him as you ask him. He groans at the feel of your nails digging down into the back of his neck as you fuck yourself on him. He lets you take what you want. As if he can deprive you of anything, be it affection or debauchery. He takes you by your word when you ask him to take you to bed— and he makes love to you in the darkness.

You are his God and all the Saints in the body of one mortal. Daisies and thunderstorms and metamorphoses combined. He looks for you in the other people he meets. But they do not have your shyness, your bright smile, nor the complete surrender you offer so willingly to him. He wonders, sometimes, in the darkness, if he will ever find it within himself to cross the boundaries he himself had built. So he tells you he loves you in other ways. When he cradles your face, when he wipes you clean post-coitus, showering your skin with kisses. When he embraces you in his arms when you drift to sleep with a wide, warm smile of peace etched on your face. He whispers it, sometimes, when he kisses your forehead before he leaves, dressed in his clothes from last night.

He’ll rather have you like this. If, by some twist of fate, he loses the presence of your divinity, then he shall forever return to this moment— you on your hands and knees with your back arching into his touch, your warm breath, your trembling breast. Perhaps an eternity, locked together this way, is the closest to heaven he will ever come across. And should he face damnation, flailed and torn apart by hail at the second circle of hell, he shall regret nothing. Should he be offered salvation in exchange of forgetting you, he shall spit at the face of God with a smile. He’d tell Him he’ll do it all over again.

---

A/N: this is the part where i say sorry for letting my current reads and whatnot influence what i'm writing. but this is also your sign to read the divine comedy if you want to :'DDD thank you so so so much for reading!!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #dom!joel miller #dom!joel miller x reader

647 notes · View notes

tiannasfanfic · 2 years ago

Text

Eddie’s Secret Stash

Eddie Munson x Reader (Smut)

| Eddie & Steddie Masterlist | AO3 Link |

Summary: When your laptop goes on the fritz, using your boyfriend's computer leads you to finding his porn collection in an unexpected way.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Author Note: Afab Reader, they/them pronouns (if any). Modern AU. Smutty but not full smut.

CW: Porn watching; description of porn video (ffm threesome, oral [f and m recieving], p n v sex).

Word Count: 1,628

It all started out with an innocent text to your boyfriend.

Hey babe, my laptop crashed again and I really want to get this story finished. Can I hop on your computer really quick?

Even though Eddie was at work, it didn’t take long for him to text you back.

You don’t ever need to ask me that, sweetheart, feel free to hop on whenever you need to.

Sweet! Thanks baby!

You went to his desk, sat down, and woke up his computer.

After it booted up, you had to text him again.

I kinda need the pin code to unlock it.

Every time you had used his computer before, he was home and it was already unlocked, so you just jumped on and did what you needed to do. Up until now, you didn’t even know he had a pin code on it.

Oh shit! Sorry sweetheart, I forgot. It’s the month and day of your birthday.

That made you melt into a puddle right there at the desk.

Aww, trying to score some brownie points with me?

Maybe…Is it working?

You’ll just have to wait until you get home to find out. ;)

Score!!!

Despite the fact you had been together for a while now, Eddie always acted like a horny teenager whenever you made allusions to having sex with him. And you were just as bad when he did it, even blushing a bit now at his eagerness, so you couldn’t really tease him about it.

You set your phone aside and typed the PIN number into his computer.

As a little turning wheel appeared on the center of the screen to show it was thinking about signing in, you got three texts from Eddie in rapid succession. He only did that when something was urgent or he was excited about something, so you looked at your phone Lock Screen to see what he said.

Wait!

Don’t sign onto my computer yet!

I need to get home first!

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the computer screen change as it finally signed you in and you glanced up from your phone to it.

And then you took a much longer glance.

On the monitor in front of you, paused in mid scene, was the fairly zoomed in image of a hard cock disappearing into the mouth of a woman wearing dark lipstick.

You blinked a few times and stared at the screen for a moment.

As a frequent purveyor of porn yourself, you weren’t upset by what you saw on your boyfriend’s screen. But surprise porn was like surprise alcohol in a drink when you were expecting soda or surprise weed when you were expecting a hand rolled cigarette. It’s always a bit shocking and it takes a moment to recover from. When you did, the corners of your mouth to curve upward in a playful grin.

Now with your original train of thought gone, you were in a playful mood. Your story could wait awhile. The deadline for it wasn’t until two weeks away anyway, you had just wanted to get the first draft done.

Settling back in Eddie’s computer chair, you clicked the space bar to unpause the video.

In this time period, two more texts came in from Eddie. You glanced at your Lock Screen again without opening them.

Sweetheart?

Y/N? Baby??

Eddie seemed uncharacteristically worried, which was a little bit confusing. The two of you had talked about watching porn before, so he should know it wouldn’t bother you. You shrugged and set your phone down, distracted by what was going on in the video.

It was a well-done amateur recording of a two girl, one guy threesome. As the one girl was blowing the guy, she was sitting on the other girls face. The scene stayed like this for just long enough to let you take everything in before the guy was pulling his cock from the girls mouth and then pushing her down so the two girls were in a sixty-nine.

You bit your lip, watching with rapt attention as the guy hopped down from where he had been standing on the bed to position himself behind the girl on top. He then grasped the base of his shaft with one hand, angling it so the girl on the bottom could start sucking on the head. It was a messy angle, soon her lips and cheeks were glistening with saliva from his thrusts into her mouth.

A small warmth began pooling between your legs as you watched the guy pull his cock out of her mouth, angle himself upwards and then sink deep into the cunt of the girl on top.

You had to give it to your boyfriend. He had good taste.

Since you had been striking out lately with your usual porn sites, you began to get curious where Eddie usually found his. You paused the video and minimized the window to find out.

Rather than a website, you were greeted by the file browser on the computer system itself, opened to a folder that was filled with porn. And it was by no means a small collection, it looked like he’d been working on this for years. There were dozens of sub folders and sub sub folders dedicated to specific acts and specific porn stars. Most of the videos were unsorted though, the majority of the files just dumped directly into this main porn folder.

Eddie had sent a few more texts by now, which you had ignored in favor of opening a different video that caught your eye. When it was clear those hadn’t gotten your attention, he was soon calling you instead.

“Edward James Munson!” you said when you answered your phone, making your voice sound stern.

“Sweetheart, I promise, it’s not what it looks like!”

“Really?” you said. “Because what it looks like is that you’ve been holding out on me!”

“I honestly wasn- wait, what?” he said, going from pleading to confused in two seconds.

“Seriously!” you said, exaggerating the tone so it was clearly playful. “You have an impressive collection like this and you don’t even think to share?” You clicked your tongue at him in an admonishing way. “I’m hurt. Truly, I’m hurt.”

There was a long pause from Eddie’s end of the phone.

“I’m…sorry?” he said slowly, nerves and hesitation in his voice, like this was an entirely new situation he found himself. “I…didn’t realize…you’d be interested in…it.”

“Seriously?” you dropped the playful act, now confused yourself. “We’ve talked about our favorite porn stars before, in depth discussions even, and you didn’t think I’d be interested?”

“Hey!” Eddie protested. “In my defense, do you know how many people will say they are fine with porn then freak out if they catch you watching it?”

Now that you thought about it, he had a point. Even you had that issue a few times in the past, either because you watched porn in general or because of what kind you watched.

“All right, fair point,” you said, then switched back to that playfully stern voice. “But that still doesn’t make it okay, mister.”

Now that Eddie knew how you really felt about the whole thing, his tone changed to a playfully apologetic one.

“I know, and I’m sorry,” he said, then his tone dropped lower. “Let me make it up to you, sweetheart.”

His voice sent pleasurable tingles down your spine.

“And how do you propose you’ll do that?” you said.

While you weren’t really paying too close of attention to the video you selected, focusing on the timber change of your man’s voice instead, what you did pay attention to had you rubbing your thighs together slightly. This one was definitely right up your ally.

“In any way you want me too, sweetheart,” he said, his voice a soft growl that was nearly a purr. “Anything you want me to do to you, I’ll do it with pleasure.”

Being a metal singer, and a damn good one at that, Eddie could do things with his voice outside of music that you previously wouldn’t have thought possible. While you were already getting quite worked up easily enough on your own, he knew just the right inflection to use on each word to make you clench around nothing.

And it also made all rational thought fly from your brain.

You swiveled your gaze up to the ceiling, distracting yourself just enough to pull your brain back from the haze Eddie’s voice was making your brain slip into.

“Gosh, I just don’t know,” you said, tapping your chin with one finger even though Eddie couldn’t see it. “Oh! I know! I could browse through these videos I found and see if those give me any ideas!”

From the other end of the phone, you heard Eddie clear his throat a couple of times. Clearly the idea of you watching porn on his computer derailed his brain a little bit.

“T-That is a good idea,” he said, and you could tell by his voice that you just made him blush, among other things.

“You’re off in about an hour, right?” you asked, and when he made a sound of confirmation, you continued. “I’m sure I will have something fun in mind by then.”

Since it was clear his brain wouldn’t get back on track if the phone call continued, you quickly let him go so he could finish out his workday.

As you settled back into his chair, watching the video, an evil grin came to your face.

If you knew Eddie as well as you were sure you did, this next hour was going to be the longest hour of his life.

Eddie Munson Taglist: @eddie-swhore @bmunson86 @tayhar811

#eddie munson #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson one shot

1K notes · View notes

eclecticmiasma · 1 year ago

Text

Down Comes the Claw Ch. 1 (Raphael x GN!Reader)

Doomed, detected, and caught.

SFW (For now)

[Warnings/tags: gn!reader, not much in this chapter for warnings just general Raphael scariness, noncon/dubcon, ownership, imprisonment]

[Ch. 2]

Artist credit: @wrroniec on twitter

The Archivist’s curiosity isn’t well hidden underneath his thin veil of distrust. A mortal, alone, simply wandering the halls of one of the Hells’ most powerful Cambions because they wanted to...peruse his private collection of artifacts? Even a troll would smell treachery miles away.

Were it any other being, the Archivist would have had you sent screaming to holding cells until the master of the house could decide what plane of torment to shuttle you to next, but Korilla had been rather forceful in her instructions not to intervene.

“He’s got a plan for this one,” She’d grinned, the gleam in her dark eyes devilish in its own right, “Let them play while they can.”

Your lips are split from worrying them between your teeth. As if the Hells aren’t hot enough, the Archivist’s gaze has you sweating buckets. He alone could rip your throat to shreds with those fangs the minute your presence has been deemed unsavory, you’re sure of it. As a gleaming ruby locket catches your eye, you try to regard it coolly. You are nothing more than a purveyor of incredibly rare goods, and not at all trying to make your way toward the glittering contract sat front and center of Raphael’s trophy room. The phrase is a mantra you desperately wish to believe.

“Worn by Lumi, a cleric beholden to twilight…” Gods, is your voice trembling? You repeat the name again as if you’re trying to search your vast religious knowledge for the origin of this treasure. Not a single snippet of information comes to mind. Internally, you brace for the house itself to eat you alive.

Instead, Korilla barks out for the Archivist’s attention. Something about another contract ready to be sorted. The man regards you with a final furl of his brows before turning his back to you and attending to his duties. Adrenaline floods your veins and your fingers flex with anticipation. Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, and get out.

Hope herself appears out of thin air and parrots your thoughts giddly, “Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, and get out!” before nipping out of existence once again.

You don’t give yourself another chance to think. Without a sound, you prowl towards the center of the grand room and beeline straight for the contract. This is why they agreed to send you alone- Karlach, Shadowheart, the others. Years of prowling the streets of Baldur’s Gate made you nearly undetectable when you wanted to be, so much so that you had even startled Astarion for a laugh on long boring treks. Sure, Gale and Lae’zel nearly came to brawl over the decision, but after two days of quarrels the answer was final.

It could only be you.

The contract before you almost hums with power. Anxiety gnaws at your stomach as you check it over thrice for traps. Nothing. It seems wrong, somehow. A piece of parchment that potentially dictates the fate of Faerûn itself guarded by nothing but a few words. Something tells you to leave it and run, perhaps remnants of the Emperor’s hold on your psyche. Images of your companions, the Hammer, Hope’s face quickly override your doubts and you close your eyes, prepared.

“Give me my heart’s desire,” The words fall from your lips with ease, but nagging trepidation constricts around your heart. Without a sound, the glittering sphere surrounding your contract dissolves away. Before the Archivist can sense what has occurred, before you can convince yourself to turn heel and dash away from all of this, you snatch the page and tear it in two.

Everything plunges into silence. The eternal screams of the damned beyond the gilded walls, cries and whimpers and babbling of long-gone debtors, Korilla’s nagging- all of it gone in an instant. The air around you becomes oppressive, constricting, increasing degree by degree. Ashes fall from your fingertips as the shreds of your contract disintegrate. Get the contract, smash Hope’s chains, get out. You repeat it again and again in your head until your mantra is a scream, but your legs will not move.

“Fools...fools...how hard you have fought,” A familiar baritone echoes out across the empty archive accompanied by slow clapping. It can’t be, you want to shriek. Hope said he was planes away, that you had time.

“Brave, brave, but it's all been...for naught,” You can’t tell from where his voice is coming. It sounds both far and near, across the hall and right in your ears all at once. Even his footsteps, slow and commanding, don’t betray his location.

“True Souls that couldn't be bought,” He’s mocking you now, a gleeful lilt in his otherwise menacing tone. True Souls...the faces of your companions flip through your mind’s eye like pages of a tome. This isn’t how it’s all supposed to end, is it? Your lungs start to burn, unable to expand or contract to the fullest.

“Doomed...” Raphael himself is in the room now, you feel it. As he takes his sweet time sauntering up to you from behind, the magic that holds your limbs in place begins to be revealed. A holding spell, tendrils wrapped around your legs and snaked up your torso through your fingertips. It pulsates with a blinding purple glow. Sweat drips down your temples as the heat of the Hells becomes sweltering, as fear settles in your bones.

“...detected…” Gods, you will. Tyr, Mystra, Shar for Hells’ sake, you pray to every last one. Anything to bid your body run. As the screams of the damned filter back in, growing louder and louder with each step Raphael takes, it becomes devastatingly clear that not a single deity can hear you.

Raphael’s hands land on your shoulders. His fingertips, though gently splayed, might as well be digging into your skin. If you could move an inch, you would have jumped ten feet in the air. Instead you tremble like a rabbit held in the canines of a much larger beast. He leans down and aligns his lips with your ear, breath ghosting across your flesh, “...and caught.” If you could sob you would, but the fear won’t allow it. Instinct of prey that’s well and truly done for. Instead you tense, bracing for the impending pain of retribution.

“So,” the Devil muses, mile wide grin easily detected through the undercurrent of excitement in his tone, “this is the path you have chosen. Anything you and your group of sorry souls could have wanted would have been yours. Your names would have gone down in history as the heroes that saved Faerûn. Yet, you squandered it with a flick of your wrist. What do you have to say for yourself, oh fallen hero?”

Your mouth opens, but not a sound escapes. Nothing that surfaces in your reeling mind feels like it could ever be enough to reverse the tide of ruin you’ve brought upon yourself. Raphael waits patiently as you flounder. Your terror is a wine finer than any bought, and he has all of eternity to savor it.

“Please…” The pitiful, squeaking word escapes your throat more so than it coming out on purpose. Raphael chuckles darkly and moves to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind your ear.

“Oh, I do so love to hear you beg, little mouse. However, I think we can both agree that ‘please’ isn’t an answer. Perhaps if I tell you a story, you’ll be more inclined to...talk.”

Raphael pulls away from you and steps lithely to your front. With a snap of his fingers and a puff of flame, he transports the two of you to his dining room. Roaring flames lick the inside of the fireplace before you, silhouetting the Devil as he prepares to speak. The holding spell wraps tighter.

“You see, the Devil is a rather busy man. When I’m not gracing your merry band with my presence, I’m often attending long meetings with prospective clients, or checking up on those that have already promised me their souls. Perhaps I’m even doling out a punishment or two to a cheeky human that thinks it’s found a loophole. It’s all very important work, and requires quite a bit of cunning and concentration.”

The oppressive heat is getting to you. Raphael’s deep voice sounds like it’s ringing in your head, almost akin to the Emperor’s presence. He paces back and forth before you, gesturing his arms in theatrical movements as if performing a monologue. Each word sends your psyche farther into disarray.

“Hero,” Raphael claps loudly, bringing your attention back to him, “Since my tales seem to bore you, I’ll get straight to the point. I had a fairly important event to attend right before your flagrant disregard for our agreement. Now, imagine my surprise when right in the middle of securing a rather rare and valuable contract, I feel a...shudder, wrack my entire body.”

Glowing eyes level with yours as he leans in close. His brows are furrowed now, genuine anger contorting his features, “My skin began to feel hot, clammy. My concentration waned. Before I realized what was happening sheer ecstasy pooled in my abdomen and then-” He’s so close to you that you hear his breath catch, “It became apparent that someone was using my body.”

Your heart drops. It was the only way. The Archivist had given you access to Raphael’s bedroom with a little cunning, and the only thing standing between you and the contract was a rather familiar looking incubus. What harm could there have been in trading your body for the fate of your companions, your home? The incubus had warned you, though, in its own way. If everything it did with your form meant you would feel it on a different plane, it should have been obvious that Raphael’s form would feel it too.

“I...I didn’t-”

“I knew you would betray our agreement,” Raphael spits, lips hovering just in front of your own, “I knew that eventually I would find you here in my home, remnants of your misdeed in hand. Korilla and I machinated thousands of ways to tear you asunder, to torment you for breaking my one, most cardinal rule,” Raphael catches himself in his rage, and pulls back. He looks to the fire, light reflected in his eyes. Inhale, exhale. When his gaze meets yours again, all remnants of fury are gone.

“I was ready to kill you in an infinite number of ways. But I should have known better. The moment I met you, I knew you were...special. Of course you would throw a wrench in my plans, and do so beautifully. I almost commend you.”

As he smiles, your skin crawls. He moves in circles around you, thinking, plotting. After some time he comes to a stop, once again behind you.

“So, I propose a better solution. I’ve decided that I rather...enjoyed indulging in your body,” You swallow a protest as his chin rests in the crook of your neck, his left hand sliding down the curve of your waist and along the front of your thigh, “Form a new contract. Submit to me, and I won’t touch a hair on your companions’ heads. As much as I would love to take the place of that poor spawn’s master, I can control myself- for you.”

He squeezes your thigh and drags his lips across the straining muscles in your neck. Your sweat slicked skin sticks to his own, and you feel a deep rumble at your back as he revels in the sensation, “For all they know, the contract is still intact. I’ve captured you here,” He kisses your neck and you squirm, fighting back a gasp, “and their only option is to use the hammer,” another kiss, “or you perish.”

“No…I won't...” The answer comes as a piteous whimper. Raphael cackles against your skin, squeezes your body tight to his own, and tuts like he’s caught a naughty child with their hand in the cookie jar.

“Wrong answer, little mouse.”

[Chapter 2]

*do not post elsewhere without explicit permission. please consider reblogging, as Tumblr tends to hide more mature content!

[RULES] [MASTERLISTS] [AO3] [KO-FI]

#fics #raphael bg3 #raphael baldur's gate 3 #raphael the cambion #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #no smut yet #raphael/tav #raphael x reader #raphael/reader #cambion raphael #house of hope #bg3 raphael #bg3 x reader #raphael x you #i don't care what haarlep says this man has had an eternity to learn how to fuck

202 notes · View notes

kylorengarbagedump · 4 months ago

Text

Playing Soldier: Chapter 1

Read on AO3. Part 2 here.

Summary: With your father off to serve the Continental Army, you've taken up the mantle of protector for your family - so when redcoats arrive on your property looking for him, you stand your ground. Sure, this ends in your arrest as a prisoner of war, but you don't plan on making it easy for them.

Until, of course, your interrogation is co-opted by Colonel William Tavington - the cruel, brutal Butcher of the Continentals.

Unfortunately for you, he's also the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

Words: 5500

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, William Tavington is Not Nice

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: THIS IS CO-WRITTEN WITH MY GORGEOUS PERFECT LOVE, @bastillia.

If you made it through, thank you for reading this first chapter to a mini-story about a villain from a film that's 24 years old. No better way to celebrate Fourth of July than fantasizing about fucking a British soldier!

Bastillia and myself are currently in a Jason Isaacs phase and we desperately need him and in particular William Tavington. So! Here you go. <3

Love y'all so so much!

Grace found you in your father’s rocking chair, dressed in his clothes. Taking a seat on the porch bench next to you, she let her head fall back, her gaze following the ceiling. When you didn’t speak, she sucked in air through her nose and sighed.

“Are you going to sit out here all night again?”

You shrugged, and she nudged you.

“You and one gun won’t stand much of a chance against a bunch of redcoats.”

You frowned, glancing from the pistol in your lap to the dirt path cutting across the grassy field in front of you. Evening’s claws crept across the village, sank into the horizon. Since the fall of Charleston to the British, darkness carried an hourglass with it, the bottom growing heavier every night. Jaw stiff, your eyes followed a firefly as it drifted and winked out like an ember over the grass.

“You would rather I let them burn our home?”

Grace sighed again. “They won’t burn our home.”

You turned on her. “Won’t they? Mrs. Miller has a cousin outside of Charleston. Told me they fired her barn.”

“That’s one person.”

“Mr. Allen said his brother told him about a whole town down the way from Camden they found burned to the ground.”

Grace snorted. “Ah, yes, Mr. Allen, our esteemed purveyor of truths.”

“Grace. If…” You gripped the barrel of the pistol, your mouth drawing tight. She didn’t know, and it had to remain that way. There was no ‘if’ to your father’s return in her mind. He’d left the truth behind his departure only with you. “I won’t let father come home to a pile of ash.”

A family of crickets swelled in song. Grace shifted closer to you. “You would rather I let him come home to your grave?”

You looked at her. Seeing her expression, a small part of you softened. She wasn’t wrong to worry. Your eyes ached, your head heavy from the lack of sleep. But even when you decided to lie down, your mind refused to release you to rest. Your shift as sentinel would end when your father returned home. With a sigh, you slumped back. The chair eked back and forth on the planks, the drumbeat of your station.

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said. “Nathaniel’s been paying you quite a bit of attention, hasn’t he?”

Grace stiffened, battling a grin. “Yes, he has.” She folded her hands in her lap, her cheeks reddening. “Why?”

A laugh rumbled in your throat. You knew it. “What do you think about him?”

She pinched her lips between her teeth. “Well, he’s very sweet. Very kind. He always has been, you know the Joneses, they’re such good people.” Her shoulders melted into the bench. “He’s been walking with me after church. Just through the town. We look at the flowers.” She sighed, finally letting herself smile, her gaze drifting until her eyes hesitantly found yours. “What do you think about him?”

“Me?” you replied, as if you didn’t know the question was coming. “I don’t know him that well.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What have you noticed about him?”

You hummed in thought. Nathaniel Jones.

“Well…” His jawline was seldom free of razor wounds. “Probably a little clumsy.” The grooves in his fingers were always tread with dirt, the collar of his shirt tanned by sweat. His hands had stained almost every page of his Bible. “Not sure if he ever washes without needing a reminder.” He always showed up to church with at least one piece of tack fastened wrong on his horse. His mouth would mimic reading aloud during service, but his eyes would be trained on the floor. “And I don’t think he’s very bright.”

“Really.” Grace studied you. “Mrs. Jones taught all of those boys, though.”

“Doesn’t mean they all have the same capacity to learn,” you mumbled. But before Grace could protest, you shrugged. “Kind is good, though.” You offered a small grin. “Kind is very good.”

With a laugh of relief from Grace, the two of you lapsed into comfortable silence, basking in cricket song. The rocking chair squeaked back, forth, back, forth. It squeaked in tempo with your heart, rumbling, louder, a vibration skittering through your toes. Deeper, deeper it grew, staccato in its cadence, a pounding that rocked your porch.

It wasn’t until Grace turned to look at you, her eyes shimmering in starlight, that you realized it wasn’t your heart at all. Torches floated over your lawn and up the dirt path, bobbing in rhythm with horse hooves. A dozen of them, each illuminating a soldier in a crimson jacket.

Your throat thickened. Your stomach tightened. You squeezed the handle of your father’s pistol. Beside you, Grace whispered your name.

“Quiet,” you said. “Just get behind me.”

You leapt to your feet, crossing over the top step of your porch to lean against one of the wooden columns, gun held slack but unconcealed at your side. The officer in front—a white-wigged man with a sword on his hip—held his fist in the air. Behind him, the squad stalled to a stop, dust swirling in the halos of light.

Swallowing, you stuck your chin toward the sky, hoping that your father’s farm boots made you a little bit taller, that the breadth of his shirt made your shoulders even a little bit wider. The officer in front dismounted his horse and waved his hand, and a soldier behind him joined him on the ground. Together, they marched toward your home.

“Officers,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

At the foot of the stairs, the inferior officer looked between you and Grace. His brow furrowed, he leaned toward the ear of his superior. “No record of a son according to our intel, sir.”

You frowned, but didn’t correct him. Being mistaken for a man had its benefits in this situation.

The superior officer scrutinized you, hairline to hips, his lips screwing in thought. Whatever he was considering, he didn’t say it—instead, he cleared his throat and pulled a piece of parchment from one of the pouches on his hip.

“Good evening,” he began, his nose wrinkling as he glanced at you and Grace. “You may call me Sergeant Dalton, this is Corporal Bancroft. Is this the home of Michael…” His eyes narrowed as he tried to read the last name. But you didn’t care to wait.

“Yes,” you said. “This is his home. We’re his children.” You stared between them. “Is that all? My sister needs to be getting to bed soon.”

Dalton returned the parchment, his hands meeting behind his back. “You’re aware your father is an officer in the Continental Army?”

Your heart—it was definitely your heart, this time—thumped in your temple. This was the part you didn’t want Grace knowing about. The soldiers waited, studying your face. You needed to say something. Words died on your tongue.

“What?” Grace stepped forward, peering around you. “No, he’s not. He’s been away—”

“Grace, be quiet,” you hissed.

But she’d already caught the interest of Dalton. “Would you like to continue, young miss?” He advanced a step toward you both, and your finger slipped into the pistol’s trigger well. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to submit to questioning regarding your father’s whereabouts?” He glimpsed your hold on the gun. “Come along, quietly, and you may very well be pardoned by His Majesty’s army.”

You shook your head. “Just take me. She doesn’t know anything.”

Grace whispered your name, grabbed your hand, and proceeded to undermine you. “No,” she said. “Take me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Dammit, Grace—”

“That’s enough.” Dalton looked at you, then at Grace, then at Bancroft. “Arrest them both.”

---

In the tent, the air was thick with breath and sweat. Candles swayed in the center, their lambent glow hovering on the walls, deepening every shadow. Voices filtered in from outside, so low that they clogged together through the canvas. Sharper was the ache where your bindings had begun to bite your wrists to rawness. Louder the pulse in your own eardrums, and the sniffled prayers coming from the young man bound beside you.

Twisting your wrists sent a knife of clarity to your brain. You bit back a hiss—you needed to think.

By your estimation, they’d brought you between two and five miles beyond the outskirts of town. But between the darkness and the burlap sack which had been so benevolently foisted upon your head for the entire wagon ride here, it was impossible to say for sure.

More alarmingly, you’d lost track of Grace somewhere in the weave of shoves and barked commands. When the tents had been erected, you’d been thrown in with the men—Elijah Smith, Adam Brown, and Nathaniel Jones, as fate would have it. Whether this was somehow a genuine mistake even after your thorough handling by the soldiers, or some drawn-out taunt to your choice of attire, you also had no idea.

Each unknown seemed to hook itself upon a tender sinew in your mind, and stretch it taut. You tried shaking your head, but that only set off a ringing in your ears.

Beside you, Nathaniel sobbed out another prayer. Your teeth ground together.

Craven would have to be added among the placards you’d already tacked to his character, you decided.

Outside, hooves thundered again. As they slowed, one pulled ahead of the others and into the heart of the camp. Your ears pricked. There was an unevenness to its gait, the rattle of a bit shank as the horse threw its head before slowing to a halt several yards away. Voices rose and hushed, soldiers shuffling. A distant chorus of acknowledgement to a new arrival.

“Colonel, sir,” said one that sounded like Dalton. “The Dragoons weren’t—I wasn’t aware you’d be arriving.”

“Another detail among many which seem to slip your awareness, Dalton,” said the voice belonging to this colonel, whoever he was. “The rebels, then. What have we learned?”

Dalton was silent for a moment. “Well… Nothing yet, s—”

“Nothing.”

“We haven’t begun the interrogations, sir.”

Boots struck the ground. As his horse was led away, the colonel dusted his coat twice. And, with the manner of someone chiding a forgetful child, said: “Well, no time like the present, is there, Sergeant?”

There was movement, grass rustling, canvas flapping. You stuck out your neck as if this would help you hear—all it managed to do was strain your collarbones. Beside you, Nathaniel was still sniveling, sorry for himself and his whole family, as if now was the time to be crying. Closing your eyes, you caught the frayed wisps of voices, drowned by the sound of his sobs.

“Nathaniel,” you murmured. When he didn’t respond, you kicked his boot. "Nathaniel.”

He snorted up snot. “What? Who are you?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s me. Grace’s sister.”

“Grace’s—” He inventoried your outfit. “Dear God. I didn’t recognize you. Is that why you’re in here with…” His eyes gained focus through his tears. “If you’re in here, where’s Grace? Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!” You tilted your head toward the origin of the other voices. “Be quiet.”

Nathaniel choked and nodded, his nose still leaking, his face ruddy. You caught a sigh in your chest and sat straight, listening for intakes of breath, stammers, the scrape of metal, the chime of glass, anything that would give you insight.

The colonel’s voice first, dipping in and out of your perception. “All of you have… Captain Michael…”

You swallowed. This was about your father. But he should be with the Continentals up near Virginia by now.

“... his crimes against the King’s army… may be spared and released.”

Spared and released? Civilians weren’t targets, torture wasn’t permitted, you had nothing to fear from soldiers who would be your future brethren—this was according to the Loyalists in your village, anyway. Recent reports sparked doubt in their confidence. This colonel concealing threats stoked it further.

God, you hoped Grace wasn’t in that tent.

Silence. The candles wavered under the sodden air. One, two, three steps in the grass. You closed your eyes.

“Very well.” The click of a pistol.

Your breath stalled.

“Wait! Don’t—don’t…”

Grace. Grace was in that tent. Your consciousness slipped with a skip of your heart, but you sucked in air, fighting the ring in your ears. If you were going to help her, you needed to be alert.

“Is—is that Grace?” said Nathaniel.

You kicked his boot again.

“I’ll tell you everything I know. Michael is my father.” Grace’s voice was tight, trembling. “But he’s—you have the wrong idea about him, sir. Or the wrong man entirely. He’s not a soldier in the Continental Army, he’s been away visiting our grandmother in Pennsylvania.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, Grace, no…”

“How very interesting,” came the colonel’s even reply.

A gunshot split the night.

All three men beside you flinched at once, and your bones flashed to ice. When the tin-whistle screech died in your ears, someone outside was screaming. Another was pleading.

“No! No, no…” It was Grace’s voice. Relief hit like opium. She was sobbing, incoherent between retches and sputterings of "you killed her,” and “oh, God, no, please no…”

You swallowed bile. Nathaniel resumed his prayers with fervor, now rocking back and forth. Elijah joined him.

“Colonel Tavington, I must protest,” came Dalton’s voice through the chorus of grief, before dropping lower. “... cannot abide… protocol… my jurisdiction—”

“Fortunately for you,” the colonel—Tavington—said, “these prisoners are no longer under your jurisdiction. They are under mine. But do feel free to stand by, Dalton, if you’ve the stomach for it. Perhaps you and your men could benefit from a demonstration, hm?”

“Sir,” was the only acknowledgment Dalton offered.

“Tavington,” said Adam, looking at Nathaniel and Elijah. “William Tavington? The Butcher?”

Elijah met his gaze and nodded without stopping prayer.

Your father had never mentioned any Butcher, but tonight was giving you plenty of context. Bracing against needles of panic, you closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to slow. Wails wracked Grace, and your chest squeezed. She had never seen death. Perhaps naively, you had hoped to keep it that way.

A gasp rippled through the women, and then Tavington spoke again.

“Now, now, darling girl. Shall we try this once more? Perhaps without lying.” The scrape of a ramrod resounded, then another click.

“I’m not lying” The tone of her utter despair tightened your throat. “I—I promise, that’s the truth. You can ask my sister. She—”

“Which of you is her sister?”

“I…” Silence. “She’s not in this tent. I don’t know where she is. But you arrested both of us, sir, she’s around here somewhere!” Another whimper crawled its way out of her. “There’s no need for anyone to die, please.”

You chewed your lip. You’d had enough. “Colonel!” you called out. “Leave her alone. I’m in here.”

“Stupid girl,” growled Elijah, “you’ll doom us.”

Ignoring him, you sat up straighter and willed your nerves to harden. Grace cried out your name, but was cut off with a yelp as leather cracked against skin. Fury roared within you.

Through the hot surge of blood, you heard footsteps marching toward the opening to your tent. Whoever this Butcher was, you’d halfway convinced yourself you’d spit in his face. But you needed to play it smarter than that, needed to keep Grace safe. With what little information you gathered, you at least knew he was a man, and from what you knew about men, they were easily swayed with a bit of physical encouragement.

With the shards of a plan coalescing, you shifted up onto your knees and thrashed your shoulders. Pain leapt from your wrists up your arms, but the movement had the intended effect—the front laces of your shirt slackened, the collar slipping open until it threatened to drape off of one shoulder. Pulse thundering, you settled back onto your heels. Exposed. Ready to bare your throat to the enemy.

Boots came to a halt outside. Then the entrance peeled open, and the Butcher stalked through.

You could make out little more than his silhouette. Tall and broad, head bowed to accommodate the tent’s low threshold. Then he straightened, took a step forward, and another, until candlelight thawed the shadows from his face. And as it did, the searing core of your anger surged and flashed to mist.

He was disarmingly handsome. High cheekbones framed a face carved from cruel marble. His eyes, alive like blue signal fires, penetrated the dimness from beneath the bastion of his brow. Peering down a curved nose, he struck a hawklike poise, with shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back. His long, dark hair was combed back into a bond at the base of his skull. Immaculate, apart from a single errant strand that drifted down to brush his jaw. Even beneath an ink wash of darkness, you devoured his shape.

And, against every rational instinct left thrashing for air—found him exquisite.

A prickling sensation rose under your skin, spread hot across your bare collarbones and up your neck. You bolted your eyes to the floor, shifted on your knees. His presence stole even more air from the tent than you’d thought was possible. With a pang of frustration, you blinked hard once. If you were to have any chance of surviving this encounter, if Grace were to have any chance, you needed to pull yourself together. Now.

One slow, controlled breath flowed in through your nose, out through your mouth. You dared to glance up again.

The colonel’s head swung down the line of men, surveying his prisoners as a wolf might a flock. And then his eyes landed upon you.

“The sister,” he said, advancing. “Playing soldier with the men.” He clucked his tongue. “Quaint.” Your teeth ground in your skull, but words were not as forthcoming as you’d hoped when you’d shouted his summons into the night. The Butcher moved closer. “Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?”

“My father,” you began, “trusts me to take care of the family while he’s away.”

Tavington’s eyebrow cocked. “You’ve done a wonderful job, then, haven’t you?”

The venom his beauty had diluted was gathering on your tongue again. With effort, you swallowed it. Stick to the plan. Eyebrows pinching together, you made a show of slouching in capitulation to his jabs. You then conjured a pained whine and wiggled in your restraints, hoping your shirt would expose more of your clavicle, that he’d be able to see the sway of your breasts when you moved.

The colonel frowned, but did not drop his gaze. “Something the matter?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” You pulled breath through your voice, fluttered your lashes. The focus required not to crumble under the frigidity of his gaze could have earned you regional acclaim. “These restraints are just so tight.” You wrested your shoulders back and forth as if to demonstrate, gasping from the very real pain that screamed in your wrists. “Perhaps you could loosen them just a little…”

Next to you, you felt Nathaniel watching, caught from the corner of your sight his mouth agape in horror. The realization irritated you. What had he done for Grace other than whimper like a beaten dog for God’s help? Yet another strike against him.

He wasn’t important. Bargaining for Grace’s safety was.

Meanwhile, Tavington had tracked your movement, his expression indecipherable. Your palms sweat in fear you’d managed to find the one man impervious to the temptation of sex.

“Poor dear.” He crossed behind you, and you stifled a sigh of relief.

Strong hands slid down your forearms and found the bindings on your wrists. The leather warmed your skin, his breath skimmed your nape. Goosebumps raced over you along with an undeniable desire to shiver, but you held your breath, fighting it off. Instead, you tipped your head to the side, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder to his view, along with the intriguing pocket of darkness that had formed down the front of your shirt, between your breasts.

Tavington paused. Your breath stalled. With an unforgiving grip on the ropes, he undid the knot—and then yanked it tighter. The fiber gouged your flesh, air fleeing your chest.

He stood and wedged the sole of his boot along your spine, shoving you forward. You smacked the dirt with a cough.

Your cheeks burned. So you had managed to find this previously-assumed-mythical man. Fine. If your body wasn’t going to work, you would find an alternative strategy.

“Perhaps that may help you focus less on squirming and more on the task at hand.” Tavington’s boots crossed your vision, shiny enough that you could almost glimpse your own pathetic reflection. With a grunt, you twisted to glare up at him. He was watching you like a child might watch ants under a magnifying glass on a sunny afternoon. “I’m going to show you a map. You’re going to show me where we can find your father. And if your sister gives me the same answer, you both may leave with your lives.”

Hoping the ground would yield a new perspective, you studied him. The horse he arrived on—it’d had a lame gait. Then there was his hair—a single thread of it kissing his jawline. His hands were concealed, his jacket and boots impeccable. But his stock-tie—the knot had been pulled slack, one tail creeping from beneath his collar.

There was so little to gamble with. But you had to try your luck anyway.

You snorted, using your shoulder as leverage to hoist yourself back onto your heels. “That will prove fruitless for you. She doesn’t know where he is.” You leveled him with your stare. His own bore into you, almost hollowed you. “My father only entrusted me with that knowledge.”

Tavington stepped forward. “A mistake on his part, perhaps, given the situation you find yourself in now.”

“No,” you said. “I think he had the right idea.”

A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk curled his mouth. “Then you’ll have no problem telling me exactly where he can be found.” He exhaled, the next words drawn out as if your lives were an inconvenient tedium. “Or you and everyone in this tent will suffer until you do.”

Nathaniel quailed. You jut out your chin.

“Do your worst.”

Tavington’s lip twitched. He snatched his pistol from its holster.

“You won’t kill me!” you spat. “You need me. Or you will fail.” Your voice was tight.

Tavington regarded you coolly from over the pistol’s frizzen. That moment’s silence was admission enough—a mote of triumph surged within you.

“Terribly sure of yourself.” As stony as his expression remained, you caught a certain bile now laced through his tone. “Pity,” he tutted, moving forward to rest the barrel between your brows. “To think such a pale imitation of bravery could save you.”

“It’s your risk to take,” you spat out, heart drumming your chest.

Something flashed across his expression. Seizing your chance, you held his gaze and pressed your forehead into the gun barrel.

“No cavalryman of honor rides his horse to lameness.” Fear bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it. “Look at you, Colonel. Your hair, your stock-tie—utterly disheveled. One might think you rushed here. One might even think you need something. Desperately. But you won’t get it if you kill me.” You flicked your eyes toward the other tent. “And if you hurt Grace, you’ll have to, because I promise that if you lay another finger on her, you will leave here with nothing.”

The tent was silent. Tavington dropped to a crouch before you and pressed the pistol under your chin. The barrel moved, guiding your head side to side as he examined your face. You swallowed, heat creeping onto your neck with the intensity of his attention. He was reading you, calculating his next move. You followed the single strand of his hair. You wondered how it felt against his skin.

”Tell me,” he murmured, his breath brushing your nose, “upon which observation I struck you as a man of honor.”

Tavington stood, unsheathed his sword, and in one swift movement, sliced Elijah across the throat. A sheet of blood draped down his chest. Your eyes widened. Adam and Nathaniel screamed. The sword gored Adam’s neck, silencing him, and with its blade still lodged there, Tavington raised his pistol, cocked the hammer, and blew a bullet right through Nathaniel’s head.

The blast flayed your senses to a single tone pealing through your skull. When the world reformed, something warm and slick had smattered your face. You smelled iron.

You heard Grace shout your name, ripped through with terror, and as you heaved a breath to reply, Tavington wrenched the sword from Adam’s flesh and trained it against your windpipe. Adam’s body joined the rest, the dirt rusting with their blood.

“Ah, ah,” Tavington said, eyes sparkling with glee. “Best if sister dearest thinks you’re dead. Kinder that way, don’t you think? At least, of course, until we find out if you have anything of value to offer.”

Dalton charged into the tent and cursed. He gestured toward the bodies still soaking the ground. “Colonel, please,” he said. “I must insist. I won’t know how to explain all of this to the General.”

Tavington turned toward him, his excitement waning. “How unfortunate for you.”

“I—I know, sir. But please. Let us just take the rest of these women to Charleston. We can handle this there.”

Crickets hummed in unison again. Tavington looked back at you. The terrible thrill flickered alive again.

“Take them, then,” he said, regarding you like a cougar would regard a lamb. “But leave this one with me.”

The sergeant nodded. “Uh, yes. Yes, Colonel.”

He disappeared again. Orders echoed to round up the women and get them on carts to Charleston. From the other tent, you caught Grace’s horrified, desperate tears. Everything inside you was bursting to call out to her, to soothe her despair. But Tavington’s blade prodded your throat. One noise could send it through.

You waited like that with him until the carts creaked off into the night. The bodies around you settled into death, their final breaths a gurgled epode to the dirt. It was impossible to stop the tears of anger that stung the corners of your eyes. Worse still, there was no way to hide them. No move you could make that wouldn’t add you to the litter of cooling corpses. All you could do with your last scrap of dignity was hold the Butcher’s stare.

A smirk flashed over his face. Your throat thickened.

“Now, there’s an obedient little soldier, hm?”

You held your breath, cheeks hot with humiliation or agitation or something altogether unfamiliar. God, what a bastard. If only you’d had your gun on you; you would’ve been happy to demonstrate just how much of a soldier you could be.

Tavington watched you, checking your compliance as if you were his dog in training. The closer he moved, the greater the heat in your chest, the thinner the air waned. His attention in any other scenario would've felt flattering—he followed every line, every curve of your body, eyes scouring your skin like chipped timber—only he sought the evidence of your deceit, anxious for an excuse to pile you on top of his casualties.

In any other scenario, the something altogether unfamiliar would've been simpler to define. In any other scenario, you might have wanted him closer.

Tavington raised a brow. Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it—or the weight of your information while alive was greater than his desire for your death.

He lowered the blade. You exhaled.

“Your father is a fugitive. Tell me where I can find him,” he said quietly, jaw tight. “And your sister may fare well in her trial for treason.”

Your heart pounded in your throat, in your temples. You had no idea where your father might have headed, and you didn’t have any intention of handing that information to this monster, regardless. But you first needed to survive him. The rest would come later.

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding. “If you show me on a map where he escaped from, I can show you the path he likely followed.”

Tavington considered you for a moment, then offered a mirthless grin. “I advise you not to move.”

With that, he turned on his heel, striding outside. Breath trembled through you, your eyes jumping around the tent. They’d stripped it of anything potentially useful—no knives, swords, guns, not even a damn rasp or a pair of nippers for the horses.

“Colonel Tavington, sir,” came a voice from outside.

“Do I appear at liberty, Bancroft?”

“Well, no—”

“Then it can wait.”

“But sir, it’s—”

“As you were.”

“It’s correspondence from General Cornwallis, sir.”

Silence. Your head cocked. He was unmoored. And behind you, candles crackled dutifully.

If you had any stitch of time to take at all, it would be now.

Your limbs moved autonomously. You rolled onto your side, working your bound hands beneath your thighs, tucking your legs to your chest. Wincing at the strain in your wrists, you forced them all the way around your legs. Now in an awkward quadrupedal position, you turned and focused on the candles. With a dizzying level of concentration, you managed to suppress the cries of pain as you dragged yourself forward.

Your wrists throbbed. Numbness pricked your fingertips. Your lungs screamed for air. None of it mattered. Balancing on your heels once more, you wedged your shirt collar between your teeth. Then you reached up and held your wrists over the flame.

Pain wasn't immediate. First there was only heat. Heat, and the acrid taste of your own heartbeat in your mouth. The fibers between your wrists frayed, dissolving like sugar upon the little tongue of flame. And then, it began to bite.

If you’d wanted to shout before, it had been nothing compared to this. Everything inside you lurched with the singular need to snatch your wrists from the flame, cradle them to your chest. Your teeth tore into linen. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Blisters bubbled to life on your flesh, agony lodging in your throat. Vision blanching, you could feel every muscle shake violently as they went to war with your will.

Just as surrender mapped a cannonfire course down your arms, the fiber snapped and your wrists sprang apart. You collapsed to your knees and elbows, wrangling the sobs that clawed your chest, blinking against the cotton fog that threatened to blanket your senses.

Move. You need to move.

You spared one glance back toward the tent entrance before prying a candle from its pricket and shambling for the lip of the tent. As you flattened yourself to slide under, you caught the vacant stare of Nathaniel Jones. Behind him, the shapes of the other two men could have been cloth-covered stone. A lump wedged in your throat, which you swallowed with force.

Was it regret? Maybe. Pity? Assuredly. Either way, all you could do now was slip beneath the edge of your canvas prison and light them a pyre. You left the candle on its side, the flame licking at a piece of rope rigging. And you ran.

Silhouetted against the summer night sky, you could just make out a treeline. That would be your haven, if only you could make it. Your feet attacked the uneven ground, somehow keeping you upright. You looked back just in time to see the tent erupt in flame, to hear the bellowing of redcoats and screeching of their horses.

The fire’s ghost haunted your skin. Pain hammered up your shoulders, and as you made your way into the forest, you bit your tongue to silence a burgeoning whimper. Familiarity with the terrain was your advantage, but you needed silence to make full use of it.

You leapt to avoid leaving footprints and snapping branches and dropped against a tree. The tent’s blaze pulsed in your periphery. Drawing a slow, long breath, a familiar rhythm rumbled close, closer. Rumbled, then pounded and clanked in an awkward, head-tossing gallop.

Tavington’s horse.

You froze, sunk to the ground, spying the torch that danced with the horse’s gait and watched as it met the treeline, spilled light on the leaves. It tracked through the forest, a flame aching to swallow a moth. The light’s edge nearly skimmed your toes.

Tavington growled—a deep, furious grind in his chest—and tore off down the perimeter.

When you were certain he’d gone, you stood and kept moving, pressing your wrists together to will the pain away. You’d find somewhere to hide. You’d wait them out tonight.

Tomorrow, you’d find Grace.

#william tavington #colonel tavington #colonel william tavington #the patriot #yeah so we wrote something and it's about a guy from a movie about the revolutionary war that came out in the year 2000 #however #this guy is EXTREMELY FUCKING HOT #so... we're correct #fanfiction problems #playing soldier

43 notes · View notes

b4mpyre-k1zz3s · 7 days ago

Note

ur such a good writer i literally love all ur fics ur like a celebrity to me i was just thinking maybe you could write something more about vampire bam with fem reader because I think it’s cute it could be smut if you want but it also doesn’t have to be and it can be all dark and stuff like the m reader one

Eternal Lust

Harboring resentment towards her elite associates in her high level trade, Y/N finds herself in an unlikely romance with an earl who has more than a few skeletons in his closet

Vampire!Bam Margera X Fem!Reader

(Angst, Fluff)

4.2k Words

Warnings: highly suggestive content, drinking, enemies to lovers, stalking, manipulation, scent hint, blood kink, nudity, biting, kissing, toxic relationships

An: thank you so much for this request, and happy Halloween! It’s rather fitting that I post this for the fall season, no? ;D Even though it’s not my most successful series, the whole period piece Victorian vampire!au is definately one of my favorites, and I’m touched you enjoyed it so much! There’s a lot that’s said and even more that goes unsaid in this fic, so keep an eye out for subtext as you read. Anyways, thank you for checking this out, and please keep the requests coming! <3

The space where dark compulsions meet the darkened sky- that’s where you settle in. You felt this evening, not unusual for yourself, a natural compulsion to seek out that same dark side, the forbidden- that is to say, the good stuff. The gala you were forced to attend by your position in the cargo industry was not where you found these things. Stuffy conversation about import taxes and embargos while packed in a ballroom cheek by jowl with decrepit old men wasn’t exactly your idea of a fun night out in London, but here you were- in a gown that clung to your ribs like a cage- a physical manifestation of how you felt. Opulent, gilded chandeliers and marble flooring so clean that you could see yourself in them reflected the buzzing, lively scenery around you, but you couldn’t help yourself from feeling purely dismal. But despite your fantasies, you couldn’t merely ditch this scene and take a waltz down to the east end- you had an impression you needed to make. This gala was being held by one of the titans in your field: Earl Margera, the handsome yet capricious man-child who you really had to suck up to in order to get anywhere. The only issue that came with that was that he was constantly surrounded by a flock of lick-finger supplicants which made it a nightmare to even look in his direction.

Wanting nothing more than a momentary breather away from the prying eyes of the elite, you quietly slipped away to a deserted parlor just off of the main hall- close enough to the action that you could still hear the dull thrum of the party through the walls. Sinking down in a high backed armchair, you scanned the bookshelf lined walls idly until your eyes laid upon something that piqued your interest: a large, ornate decanter filled with high quality whiskey that sparkled amber in the candlelight. Well, you’d always fancied yourself a purveyor of the finer things in life, and stealing an ounce or two or five of the Earl’s fine booze would be a quiet revenge you could exact- a way to justify why you even were here if you resented the man so severely. It would be the same as an enemy of Di Vinci wiping his ass with the Mona Lisa. Sliding out the large, crystal stopper with a pop, you grinned as you forwent a glass. Bringing the rim directly to your lips, you drank straight from the bottle like some street bum. Oh yeah, you were doing it… The delicate, sweet taste of the whiskey consumed your senses, but the satisfaction you felt was only momentary, because just as the burn that felt so good settled in your chest, the sound of leatherbound footsteps made your heart leap into your mouth.

And there, standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the golden light of the ballroom, the devil had come to play- all five feet and six inches of him. Still imposing, however, from the aristocratic manner in which he carried himself, Earl Margera’s every action was that of a predator who had no challenge for prey. Dark curls slightly tousled from whatever misbehavior he was relishing in before he graced you with his presence, he quietly slumped in the seat across from you in the study with that shit eating grin plastered across his face, “You enjoying my whiskey?” All tailored and waistcoated in velvets and silk, there was something about his wolffish arrogance that made you a little bitchy.

Glaring over at him, with his pale complexion and those fucking eyes, you spat, “It’s good. I find it’s best enjoyed straight from the bottle-” Making long, hard eye contact, you stared him down as you took a deep swig.

When he finally spoke up, there was an uncharacteristically calm tone in his voice, “I like your style, but it’s rude to drink a man’s alcohol without asking.” Those icy boy eyes fixated on you the way a hawk would spot a field mouse, you squirmed under your skin under his scrutiny, but that could have very well just have been the velvet of the chair.

One thing led to another and that led to the two of you passing around the whiskey like two urchin children, and aver the course of the evening, you’d gotten to feeling a little empathy for the demon across from you. Still, you felt the bastard oozed entitlement, and that resentment grew more and more apparent the longer you sat there. “You know, I-“ Earl Margera hiccuped, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, “I really hate these fucking parties. It's just this…” he gestured to nothing, squeezing his eyes shut, “this transient shit.”

Cracking a grin at his deceiving bluntness, you took satisfaction in how candid and disheveled he was growing in front of you. In all likelihood, he didn’t even know what that word meant… “Oh, we’re all transient…” Part of you wondered what brought this on from him- why he was here with you instead of mingling with the rest of high society, but I guess that when you own the board, you needn’t play the game. He was just as miserable as you.

“Courtesy of Earl Margera, madame...” The timid postmaster that stood at your door trembled as he handed the heavy box to you with an odd sort of tension held in his every fiber, like he was handing you a bomb that could go off at any moment, which you might as well have been sent given your behavior at that gala last week. You weren't ashamed, but you couldn’t exactly call it pride. Bringing it inside and placing it on your dining table, you carefully pulled the violet silk ribbon that held the package secure and lifted off the lid, examining the contents. You squinted at the artfully penned card stock note that read, “A token for a night of insightful conversation and spirited company.” Underneath the note, nestled in white tissue, was a very expensive looking necklace, no- it was a rosary. A shiver ran down your spine as you examined the expensive thing, sparkling silver affixed with polished garnet and onyx. According to something written on the back of the note, it was once a possession of Anne Boleyn, the irony of it being a necklace not escaping you. Who knew the earl would have such a twisted sense of humor? Running the cold metal through your fingers, you couldn’t help but feel, at the same time, uneasy and intrigued. How could he have acquired this artifact, and why send it to you?

Not wanting to risk damaging the fine jewelry, however suspicious the whole ordeal was, you returned the necklace to its case and stowed it carefully in your armoire before retrieving your shawl from where it was haphazardly tossed on a chair. Given autumn’s creeping grasp upon London, the streets ran with a chill denser than the characteristic fog that never seemed to disappear as you made your way towards the town market, mind still tangled up in the implications of, well- everything. Charming smiles, sharp wit, and frivolous gifts from the earl aside, you had the pressing matter of staving off starvation to deal with. Carriage wheels clattered and people bartered with vendors as you perused the crowded market stalls for fall produce as the thoughts swirling about your mind seemed to fade into much more manageable topics like selecting the best loaves of bread or the freshest squash.

You were so unsuspecting…It really was endearing in a way, how a woman can be so utterly transfixed in mundane little things like tins of tea and looking for a favorite variety of jam, completely unaware of your surroundings. Yes, barely even out of your line of sight- in fact, quite plainly within your vision, the earl stood half under the cover of shadow in an alleyway, studying your every move. Eyes following you from his place standing cloak-clad in that alleyway with the kind of hunger few may know, Earl Margera was practically fantasizing about you at this point. He was barely a breath away, barely an arm’s length away. Close enough that if his inhibitions were a hair lower, he would've given into every dark compulsion he’d kept hidden away for so long and snatch you away from the prying eyes of the townspeople, dragging you into the darkness he so relished. Wrap his arms around your waist and pause for a moment, canines poised to penetrate that tantalizingly thin layer of skin keeping him from getting exactly what he wanted, just to watch the look on your face as realization sunk in- what he was going to do and exactly what he was.

Disappearing back into the shadows, the earl couldn’t help but mull over the way you had struck him that evening you first met. There was something about the fire that burnt just behind your eyes, that distinct spirit you carried with you. But more than that, it was your smell. Unlike the volatile perfumes the women of high society adored, which Bam considered plainly unappetizing, you had a very clean, distinct aroma; It was simple and sensual in a way that struck just the right chords in his mind- this purity unmatched by any of the women he’d fed off of in the past. Your ability to see through the madcarades of the elite aside, which he very much admired despite his social position, he’d been obsessing over that scent as if he were a man possessed. It was the only fantasy that consumed him in those long, lonely evenings in the palace in between feedings. He had to see you again- needed to have you- but he knew a woman of your standing wouldn’t be easy to win over, especially with something as trivial as jewelry. While not unfamiliar with playing the long game, Earl Margera was all too fond of the thrill of the hunt when it came to courting his prey. Patience is a virtue he was well versed in. He would let you feel content under the assurance that you had control over the situation for a little while more, all while the snare was gradually tightening around your neck.

The palace of Earl Margera looked starkly different in the daylight than when it was illuminated by lamplight- the darkness covers up the gritty parts, you noticed. The myriad of shrubbery and meticulously kept flora that made up the front garden had withered in a recent cold snap, leaving branches winding and bare as you trotted up the cobblestone steps. You’d dressed well, while not horrifically extravagant for the occasion, but you hadn’t even knocked at the door before it was answered and you were quickly shuffled inside the front room by one of his male servants, a room which was extravagant as any other given inch of that palace, where the earl had been patiently awaiting your arrival. “Y/N.” He put on his most earnest expression as he bowed in front of you, not giving you the opportunity to remove your glove much less greet him before he peeled it off of your fingers himself with practiced grace before placing a disarmingly gentle kiss to your knuckle while making unshaking eye contact, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

You’re not sure how you managed it, but after you stole his expensive liquor and insulted him, the earl ended up asking you to return once more, this time for discussion of industry over a meal, but as things have it, you talked about everything except the cargo business. Well, besides you fulfilling your curiosity as to how exactly a man like him got into this industry. He inherited his position from his father, something you, and in all honesty, Earl Margera couldn’t give two shits about shipping.

The dinner was an intimate affair with a dining room table laid with enough food to feed the entirety of the east end; platters upon platters of golden roast pork loin and plump game birds ran alongside crisp roast turnips and carrots with fennel, but most impressive dish besides the massive ornamental coffee custard a la Religieuse was the beautiful arrangement of oranges, apples, blackberries, and plums that were surely imported from Spain given they were out of season.

As you were served by one of the handful of men that were neither his servants nor brothers that hung around his palace like flies, you mused, “I’m impressed. When I received your invitation, I was thinking I’d be dining on something closer to soused hog or crimped fish.”

Chuckling deliciously, Earl Margera eyed you from across the table and brought his glass to his lips, taking a swig of wine before he replied, “I have an impression to make, do I not?” An evil little glint sparkled in his eye as he proposed, half joking, “If you’d like, I could send to the butcher for some fresh slink veal.” The nasty thing is, you weren't exactly sure if he was joking about that, because leave it to the earl to appreciate the feeling of soft, underdeveloped lamb’s bone in his teeth, but you laughed anyway.

Delicately handing your silverware, you tried to break the tension a little, “You know, you are not nearly the man I took you for, my earl.”

As much as the preface of ‘my’ before his title made his heart jump, he waved his hand dismissively, “Who needs those formalities? All my close friends call me Bam.” A curious name, yes, and hardly a name fit for an earl, but you did not question it. You had far more pressing matters at hand. Bathed in the soft candlelight, the man across from you looked strangely soft, maybe even human- a far cry from the image he projected to the public. And as you dined and drank, which you ended up doing a great deal of over the course of the night, you could’ve sworn that those men that served you- members of his council, the ones standing along the walls just in the shadows- were shooting knowing, sidelong glances to one another as Bam regaled you on his worldly adventures, seeming to enjoy the sound of his own voice more than anything.

As the evening grew on and the candles grew shorter, something that had been occupying your mind for a while came up in conversation. Swirling your glass of liquor with half lidded eyes, you mumbled, “You know…I've only seen a fraction of this castle of yours. Why don’t you give me a tour?” This opportunity made Bam’s ears perk up. There was an undeniable romance about the palace, especially in the evening, and much like a cobra silently waiting to strike, Earl Margera had been quietly leading you along with this false sense of security. It seemed that this was the perfect moment.

“Of course.” pulling his chair out from the table with surprising grace for a man who had been drinking his weight in fine booze, Bam waved for you to follow him, “This way, if you don’t mind…” Trailing behind him at his heels, you followed him down grand, echoey hallways with moonlight filtering in through tall, arched windows onto the marble flooring. He led you through a large, heavy door marred with age and into a room that looked more like a museum and less like a home. Every wall was lined with some sort of curiosity that the earl was more than eager to flaunt, whether that be a pyxis dating back to the crusades, or a full collection of canopic jars he acquired from a trip to Egypt, not to mention menagerie of taxidermied animals. It seemed that the second you appeared at all disinterested in what he had to say, Bam hurriedly moved on from one artifact to the next.

But on the off moments you were enraptured with a painting or fine textile, you caught him just…watching you. Running your finger contemplatively along the smooth glass dome encasing a skull you couldn’t identify as human or animal, you felt this odd sensation of being loomed over or observed intently the way a hunter would track prized game, especially odd considering the only people in the room were you and the earl. Slightly unnerved, you shook off those feelings against your better judgment and chuckled, “I’m impressed…Really, wet specimens and medieval weapons are just the thing that draws the favor of women.” However, your fesistines and witty comeback were not enough to deter the earl.

“So, you’re a lady with more artistic tastes? Here-“ his voice a mere purr, Bam directed you over to a grand marble statue at one end of the room, “this is a real Bernini- genuine.” Silhouetted by a window on each side letting light flood in, this alabaster figure stood carved with precision, this beautiful angel standing with poise and elegance, frozen in time and marble. In actuality, Bam only knew who sculpted that statue because his money paid for it, and otherwise he couldn’t care less about that thing. Cocking your head to one side, the thought occurred to you that maybe you were wrong about the earl and perhaps he was less surface than you initially thought. Out of the stillness, he asked you, “Do you believe in angels, Y/N?”

It was a simple question, the kind a curious child may ask, but turning to face him, the room felt so eerily quiet as you gazed at his features bathed in the moonlight, looking almost…innocent- sinister, yet perfectly harmless. Mouth growing dry under his gaze, you replied, “I don’t think they walk among us, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Grasping your hand in his, Bam’s voice no longer had that obnoxious, arrogant edge. Instead, there was this soft, sweet quality to his words as he spoke just above a whisper, “Oh, but I think they do…See, for the longest time, I couldn’t remember a single moment where I was satisfied. I felt good drinking and flirting and carousing, but…that was it. And then you came along, and all of a sudden…” his voice trailed off a moment as he pretended to struggle with articulating his feelings, before he eventually spat out, “You’re an angel…My angel, I’m sure of it.” There was something off about this encounter that you couldn’t place as, eyes bleary from alcohol and emotion, Earl Margera brought your hand up to his lips and placed a reverent kiss to your knuckle for the second time that night and asked, more of a command than a request, “Stay with me tonight?”

You felt charmed yet uncomfortable in this moment- how he had been intensely staring at you as if he were looking straight to the core of your soul. This darkness about him; it was heavy, permeating every fiber of this young man who looked ready to be worshiped or sacrificed. With the way his hair looked disheveled and hung in his eyes, you finally saw what all those women saw in him- in that silent study, Earl Margera looks like temptation personified. “Hold me for tonight. Shelter me from this-“ You couldn’t resist. Cutting him off from what en flourishy tangent he was about to launch into, you leaned in to press a kiss to his lips because, in that moment, it just felt so right. However, instead of the tentative, playful response you expected to receive, there was this hunger in the way Bam smothered you in his kiss, like a wolf burying its muzzle into a fresh kill. Deep and primal, he nearly growled against your lips, unable to contain those starving urges that sat just below the surface.

Stumbling, you tumbled backward onto a chaise lounge and Bam landed on top of you. Black painted nails clawing at the bodice of your dress and clumsily tugging it down to bare your chest, he seemingly ignored the newly exposed expanse of skin glimmering in the moonlight for the succulent meat of your neck. You were shocked, but you couldn’t say that you weren't strangely excited and thrilled by this turn of events. Endlessly repulsed and enchanted, you were powerless against his animalistic urges, sucking and laving at the bulge of your carotid artery as if your flesh itself was this divine thing. Passion hung heavy between your ragged bodies, breath coming out in ragged pants, and Bam couldn’t hold himself back for one moment longer. A throbbing, exquisite shockwave of pure white heat rattled through your bones as he let out this satisfied little moan and sunk his jaws into you the way an animal would clamp their jaws onto its prey- purely predatory. Face smeared with crimson, his eyes flicked up to look at you with something a little less than human behind them.

If the woman you were a week ago could see yourself now, waking up naked in the earl’s bed, you’d tell yourself to knee him between the thighs and make a break for it, but there was something so utterly hypnotizing about his visage in that moment. Falling under his spell, the closest thing you could equate it to was love. You loved him like you would love a sick, stray cat that you found on the side of the road covered in blood and vomit. You loved him like a saint loves a sinner. Head swimming, you were unable to fully comprehend what had happened to you as you tried to orient yourself. Eyes fell upon where Bam sat beside you, naked and half covered by the sheets that pooled at his hips, you couldn’t bring yourself to tear your gaze from his bare form. Chest pale and slightly sunken, his ribs were more prominent than a young man’s should be, but there was still something beautiful about him with the way his soft skin against sharp edges. Slender, almost as if he was malnourished, your eyes trailed down the faint line of hair peeking above where the linens sat at his hips.

Entranced by his strangely ethereal figure, it took him meeting your eyes for you to notice the dark smears on his cheeks and around his mouth. Still, there was that purity about him at war with his fierceness as he cracked a grin, “My angel…” lying down next to you, the words of a saint fell from the mouth of a harlot as he nuzzled his face against your neck and chest, lazily licking at his leftovers. Bam stared at you, lips covered in dried blood and kiss swollen, but even after all of this, he found a way to feign innocence, looking up at you with these big, sweet deer eyes even after he had done these depraved acts. The earl asked tenderly- vulnerably, “Will you be gentle when you scrub me clean? When you purify me?”

His desire for redemption was merely a front. Simultaneously disgusted and aroused, you swallowed down the gnawing uncertainty as to what exactly he’d done to you that left you so bloodied as you uttered, “You think I can fix you? You’re- you’re beyond any redemption…”

Bam’s grin seemed to widen at your meager resistance as he pulled his lips away from where he nursed at your wound to whisper in your ear, his voice a soft whine with faux offense, “Oh, you are so cruel.” light glinted off of a far too sharp canine as he cooed sweetly, speaking to you the way a lover would, “You have no idea what you do to me…”

Sitting up sharply as the realization of exactly what your circumstances entailed, dead moments gave way for memories of the earlier evening to remain. You would’ve thought your sanity was slipping away with the conclusion you came to. Sharp pain shot through your skull like a railroad spike as you fell back to the plush bed, squeezing your eyes shut to quell the ache as you muttered to yourself, “No- no. It’s not. It can’t…”

Unsure if you should blame the trembling of your limbs on blood loss or the sinking realization of your circumstances, you nearly jumped when you felt Bam’s hand on your shoulder as if he were caressing some delicate object as he purred, “I’ve yearned for someone like you for so much longer than you could ever imagine…” The way he was talking about you was like your presence satiated every ounce of his being. Leaning over you in the darkness, the earl murmured, “I couldn’t imagine spending eternity without you, Y/N…”

Fear and restraint melting away, the line between ecstasy and agony irrevocably blurred as the idea slowly grew in appeal as if you were falling under the control of some spell. Parts of his reasoning began to make sense; this rich, devilishly handsome earl was so readily offering you his undying affection. Who cares about the implications of what he may truly be? You had to ponder- was this destiny? Were these the cards that fate had dealt you, and if so, how were you going to play them? Part of you, a sensible part, still wanted to run, but the very core of you desired nothing more but to lay with him in those very sheets for the rest of time.

#jackass #bam margera #jackass fanfiction #jackass fanfic #fluff #angst #jackass x reader #bam margera x reader

11 notes · View notes

ibelieveinvillainsupremacy · 1 year ago

Note

Ok ok but hear me out-

Dark purveyors(+swan) and their S/o who is in a Japanese Visual Kei band?

Holy moly anon-

That's a good ask!

There you go (sorry if it's not so accurate, I'm not an expert of this type of music :,) )

☠ Zed:

☠ Woah. So you dig rock to huh? Well, Japanese one, but still...

☠ Would definitely go to all your group concerts

☠ And learned the songs too! (In a new language of his invention- he's doing his best ok)

☠ If you play an instrument in your band, he would gladly join you singing sometimes

☠ If you sing, you could make a duet! (in both cases, make sure to not let your ears bleed after lol)

🌩 Vikke:

🌩 Oh yeah. That's really cool.

🌩 Same thing as Zed, invents a complete new language in order to support you and your songs

🌩 If you insist he might make a duet with his drums (if you ask nicely)

🌩 Loves to hear you sing if you do that in the band

🏵 Mariska:

🏵 That's wonderful. She would love to hear about it more.

🏵 She is probably the only one who knows the lyrics well, also tries to help the others pronounce them correctly lol

🏵 She also would love helping you write some songs too! She is very good with words :)

✨Josey:

✨That's totally cool! Loves to support you and your bandmates

✨Is the closest to the stage because he doesn't want to miss anything from your perfomances.

✨Despite being a zombie of a totally different genre, he loves learning you guys songs and twisting them in his own style too

🔥 Lewis Legend:

🔥 As he represents rock and roll, of course he loves hearing another close genre to it.

🔥 Loves being backstage more to have you all by himself later (👀)

🔥 Duets with you anytime he can :)

🔥 Loves to tell the others about how talented you are <3

🖤 Swan:

🖤 Wouldn't be as much excited as the others since he's not a big music lover, but for you he gladly makes an exception

🖤 Not really close to the stage, but he goes to your concerts everytime

🖤 And always makes sure to make you notice that ;)

🖤 Likes to help you writing something too

🖤 Maybe even a love song? Maybe hehe

#dark purveyors #dark purveyors x reader #lollipop chainsaw zed #lollipop chainsaw vikke #lollipop chainsaw mariska #lollipop chainsaw josey #lollipop chainsaw lewis legend #swan lollipop chainsaw #ask box

24 notes · View notes

marierg · 2 years ago

Text

Of Light and Darkness: Ch. 19

Pairing: Obi Wan Kenobi X Reader (not here today)

WARNINGS!: Angst, anxiety, Language, guilt. Lets face it Our Girl has more issues than Time Magazine. But nothing major.

A/N: This is more of an Anakin centered chapter. Mostly looking at how the two of them get along and how he learns about the many layers that make up Y/n. I may have had a Brando esk character in mind when I was writing Maffa, but really it falls back to one of my uncles who used to race on the weekends.

PS- I am not a Star Wars mechanical expert so most of this is based on Automotive mechanics.

Picture Credit: Pinterest

Word Count: 2200

Masterlist Next Part

“Oh… this is not good.” Anakin Skywalker groaned as he turned to face the two thugs who had closed in behind him.

“Ok little punk you’re commin with us.” The large klatooinians grabbed ahold, lifting him from the ground and carrying his smaller form into the Bar.

Anakin had no choice but to comply, at least he would find out where you were being held. He had taken the cross-town transport to meet you at the hospital in hopes of getting food at the diner. Master Obi Wan was off world on a research assignment and it was one of your few shifts. Anakin had arrived at the hospital only to see you being shoved into a speeder by a couple of thugs, thus the situation he was in now. Entering the dark, smoky den he could see drunks pawing at the twi’lek dancers on the stage, death stick dealers plying their trade, and the band played loudly enough to cause his head to ache. “Where did you take Master Y/n you skugholes! Put me down or I’ll…”

“Well what have we here little Y/n, a minion all your own I see?” an older looking Keeterian chuckled from the corner.

“Yes, a very disobedient one at that.” You raised an eyebrow at your surprised looking Padawan. “Hey Mumbo… Jumbo could you put my apprentice down please. Seriously Sweets these goons of yours have no manners.”

Sweet Maffa laughed heartily then coughed hard enough to crack his ribs, huffing to catch his breath. “Well they aren’t hired… to be nice now ….are they?”

Positioning the older being forward you placed a mask over him to add supplemental oxygen, “Easy now, breathe easy. There nice and deep.”

“Uh… Master are you alright?” Anakin straightened his tabards and walked over to your side. A medical bag was open, it appeared you were mid exam on this Sweets person, and Anakin was still deeply confused.

Sensing the kid needed further direction you turned to the young man. “Anakin would you hand me the med scanner there.”

He watched as you drew a blood sample and placed it on the device, muttering under your breath. Looking around at the goons in the room he concluded that Sweets was the boss. Having lived on Tatooine he was used to seeing his fair share of gangsters, but how was it his Master was on a first name basis with one?

“He looks like quite the toughie to me,” Maffa grinned, “So Anakin what’ll you have to drink? I have some excellent fresh Citimantix juice, better than anything you’ll find in that temple.”

Anakin saw you grin and shake your head that it was fine. “Yes please, if that’s alright?”

“Anakin meet Sweet Maffa, King of the lower levels, fastest speeder pilot in the Quadrant, and purveyor of this fine establishment.” You introduced them with a waive. “Sweets this is Anakin Skywalker my Padawan. You know he used to race pods.”

“REALLY! Well that is something now innit?” It was clear to you that Anakin’s stock had just gone up in Sweets book.

“Built it myself too.” Anakin relaxed considerably seeing that you were clearly not in danger here.

Turning to look at the boy Sweets scratched his chin appraisingly. “Talk to me son, what was she built of? How did she ride?”

The two talked for thirty minutes straight just about the carb injectors and torque specifications. You sipped at your beverage enjoying the fact that Anakin was clearly comfortable and in his element. Maffa was an old friend of your late Master, he kept the peace on the lower levels. Not that he was an angel by any means and you never asked for details when he called for a favor. There was simply a long standing and unspoken deal between him and your master that you carried on, as long as the innocent were never involved you would come when called.

It was Maffa who kept the slave trafficking off world, he had a bone to pick with that particular breed of skughole. His sister had been kidnapped, sold and well… there was a reason that he, not the law, made that particular trade difficult on Coruscant. It was Maffa’s sister that had once begged Master Melri to come and help her brother after a particularly bad fly by. He had been shot and hospitals asked questions that were better left unanswered. In todays particular case though he had caught pneumonia and was fairly ill.

“Sweets you need to go home and rest. I can give you a script for antibiotics and am recommending vape treatments four to six times daily till this passes.” Peering over the top of the med scanner you blew a hair out of your face.

“Oh Come now little Y/n, a man has business to attend to.” He was putting up a disappointed tone but you knew he would follow your orders.

“Yes but how can a man attend his business from the grave?”

“Oh alright alright,” coughing again you pulled a vape out of your pack and handed it too him. Puffing it slowly his breathing evened, “Healers orders I suppose.”

“That’s right. Yo Muggsy and Buggsy you best take good care of this fella or you got me to deal with.” Packing your things you collected Anakin from where he was looking over speeder diagrams.

“Here Mr. Sweets I made a few modifications I think will work better,” Handing over the pad Maffa chuckled and ruffled his hair. Anakin found that he liked the gangster, at least he had excellent taste.

“I’ll let you know how they tune little speedster. You both take care now.”

“We will, and I’ll be back in a day or two to check on you.” Giving him a cheeky wink as you walked out.

After making it back to the turbo shaft both you and Anakin silently walked to the express stop. Anakin could tell that you were tense. Arriving back to your domicile he was pointed to the dinner table. The blank look on his Master’s face should be worrying, but instead of anger Anakin sensed sadness and maybe regret. Raising his eyes slowly Anakin decided to break the ice first, “I’m sorry Master I should have called…”

You raised your hand stopping him mid sentence. “No Anakin I…Should have called you. I’m sorry that you got roughed up.”

“Are you mad?”

“No no no, I’m upset with myself,” Sighing you ran a hand around the back of your neck. “I sometimes play a little fast and loose with the rules to help friends. You shouldn’t have been pulled in. As your Master it’s my duty to be an example and I have done a rather poor job.”

“You were helping him as a Healer, why would that be bad.”

Chuckling low in your throat you smiled wistfully. “It’s something I do off the books and could reflect poorly on the Order. I have to be careful when I do these things so that others won’t suffer my consequences.”

“Like Obi Wan and me.” His tone was less worried now and more inquisitive.

You nodded, “exactly.”

Moving around the kitchen island you began pulling out sandwich makings and brought dinner around to the boy, having cut off the dry crusts that he didn't like. Anakin thought the whole encounter over again, from when he had seen you get into the speeder to when you were talking with Sweets. “You’ve been taking care of them for a long time haven’t you?”

You nodded over your Kaf cup. “An old promise…so to speak.”

“Obi Wan doesn’t know does he?” Seeing you nod again Anakin thought this over further. Why would his Master keep these secrets? How had she gotten involved?

“What?” You could clearly see the gears turning over in the young mans head.

“Oh nothing..”

“Spit it out Ani-man I don’t read minds.” You raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

“Can I go with you when you go to see Mr. Sweets next?”

Oh no what was this kid up to? Squinting suspiciously at your Padawan you folded your hands meditatively. “Yes you may. However, I have already told Maffa that if I ever catch you in a racing pit again that there would be Hell to pay, so don't even think of it.”

Smiling innocently Anakin replied lightly, too lightly. “Master I wouldn’t dream of racing speeders.”

“Bantha Shit.” You shot back, “Anakin I want you to listen to me very carefully, you only have one life to live. I’ve buried too many friends and family over the years, don’t make me burry you too.”

"But I can still look at the Speeders right?"

Shooting the kid a very unamused glance you had to think your reply over carefully, "Look, tinker, wash. But NOT behind the wheel."

Bowing his head Anakin focused on his sandwich again. After dinner Anakin walked to his workbench and found himself deep in thought. Twirling a servo driver lightly through his fingers his mind went to work piecing together what his did know about you. He knew that you were a healer from a line of them, that you were fearsome in a fight, that you broke electronics constantly (not that he minded fixing them), and that you were kind. He could also surmise that since Sweets called you Little Y/n that he had known you when you were younger. As Anakin twirled the driver faster he almost missed the knock on the door. Looking up he peered at your face in the frame. “Yes Master Y/n?”

“Just coming to see if you’d gone to bed yet,” you folded your arms guiltily and sighed, “Sorry again about those goons.”

“I’m ok, Jabba’s guys were way worse.” Anakin smiled. Deciding that he may as well ask what he really wanted to know, he cleared his throat and shifted his gaze to the floor. “Master I was just wondering something.”

Pulling up a chair and plopping down you took an appraising look at the kid. All in all he had handled the situation very well, probably better than you the first time your own Master introduced you to Maffa. “Had a feeling, fire away.”

“So you had a Master before Master Windu. Were they friends with Maffa?”

Feeling the familiar pang and grimacing you were uncertain how best to tell Anakin about your late Master. Deciding to take an easy out you kept the answer short. “Yes.”

“And she’s the one in the Holo you keep in your office?” he pressed forward hesitantly.

Your own eyes shifted to the ground, again you felt ashamed of yourself. You rarely spoke of Master Melri preferring to avoid the pain of the past, but in doing so you failed to pass on her wisdom and lessons. The holo, which was kept in a special place next to her kaf mug, was taken on an early if not your earliest RRC mission. The two of you smiled and your master was giving you tooka ears as the pilot took the shot. “Yes, that Holo is of me and Master Melri.”

Hearing the low tone Anakin decided that was enough questions for today. “She seems Wizard.”

“That she was kid,” unable to keep the grin away you gave a low chuckle, “She would have liked you.”

Anakin smiled putting the driver down, “ I think I would have liked her too.”

“Hey you need to head to bed, got early republic history with Master Nu in the morning.” Standing and striding over you pushed his chair towards the bed. “Try to get some rest.”

“Yes Master Y/n.” Anakin watched as you smiled and put out the light. Staring at the ceiling the young man couldn’t help thinking over the conundrum that was the lineage he now belonged to.

“Mr. Sweets how did you meet Master Y/n?” Anakin was hanging over the top of a speeder hood while Maffa watched him do some modifications. The two of you had come back to check in on the Boss as promised, you had just dashed down to Sweets office to call in a consult while Anakin tinkered.

Maffa chuckled turning to the young man. “Well what does she say?”

“She…gets sad, so I don’t really ask.” Anakin started connecting the new wires into the turbo.

“Well I don’t want to talk about a friend in absence, but she was about your age when we met.” Thinking back on it he smiled again. “Melri, your master’s master, had rushed down to help me with a …problem. Little Y/n had tagged along, you know she held my hand so I wouldn’t be scared. She’s a sweet girl that Y/n, so was Melri. You should take good care of her.”

“Of course.” Anakin was indignant, then a thought crept in. “She isn’t sick is she?”

“No no no, just people like that only come round so often. You should take good care of them, they’ll give their all till…”

“Till they cant.” Anakin answered lowering the hood and handing Sweets the keys. He thought of his mom who had often gone without so he could have something just to eat. Anakin also thought about Qui Gon and how he’d given his life to protect the galaxy.

“Folks like Y/n, they’ll fight to the last.” Sighing the old gangster swallowed thickly, “and when you’re the last no one’s there to look after ya.”

@meshlasolus @nurseytypechick @a-rose-of-amber @just-dreaming-marvel @stanny-uwu @songoficecreamandfireworks @aquaamethyst96 @iambored24601 @obiknights @pickleprickle @acatalystrising @purplepandora666 @in-a-mellow-tone @lovelyxmaggs @misscamptl @ginger-swag-rapunzel @the-going-merry

#He's gonna make em an offer they cant refuse #star wars #obi wan kenobi #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x y/n #obi wan series #obi wan x reader #obi wan x you #obi wan fanfiction #ewan mcgregor #obi wan star wars

31 notes · View notes