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raz-writes-the-thing · 1 year

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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

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sebastianswallows · 5 months

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— 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

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divinehedons · 1 year

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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

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tiannasfanfic · 2 years

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

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eclecticmiasma · 11 months

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

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kylorengarbagedump · 3 months

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

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marierg · 2 years

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

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kirlias452 · 5 months

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I hope I'm not asking too much. Can you do a one-shot with The Yandere Dark Purveyors x Juliet's sister reader that doesn't know how to kill zombies?

It’s fine, im not currently into lollipop chainsaw rn tho. I’ll put this on the back burner for now.

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ibelieveinvillainsupremacy · 1 year

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... spooky month has started...

You know what that means?

More headcanons and one shots for the babies <3

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

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speckle-meow-meow · 1 year

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Can you do some Josey (from lollipop chainsaw) x reader headcannos please? The other dark purveyors need more love imo

I can do my best! I don't really like him so I these head canons won't be long

Being with Josey is.... Eventful

(He's not my fav personally)

It's never silent so if you don't like silence to much BOOM techno music is always playing

I feel like his love language is words of affirmation

He probably gifts you some eye blinding bling

{Hey anon I hope you liked this! As always hearts and reblogs are always welcomed, along with questions, comments, and requests}

#x reader #gender nuetral reader #fluff #lollipop chainsaw #Josey lollipop chainsaw #lollipop chainsaw x reader

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dynamites-ao3 · 2 years

Text

Chanced

Jason Todd x f! Reader

explicit ; 5k words ; canon-compliant pwp

Out of all the purveyors of justice in the city, you have the misfortune of being confronted by the one least likely to let you go in one piece.

Or, Gotham's most expendable goon meets her most unorthodox vigilante. At night, of course.

read here on ao3! or read under the cut.

(a/n: forewarning for nonconsensual elements.)

The weather was turning for the worse these days. Having not expected the chill, you forfeited a padded jacket when you left your apartment earlier this afternoon. It has been hours since then, the steel walls of the warehouse you situated yourself in now providing little comfort against the temperature. You suck in a breath and purse your lips hard, willing yourself not to chatter your teeth.

This isn’t ideal. It’s brutal, actually.

You really hadn’t expected these sorts of errands when you applied for a central intelligence side job at the villain job convention some months ago. On paper, it’d clearly been a desk job for hire, so it’s not fair that you’re standing here now in the cold, fiddling with a USB stick in your jacket pocket like some actually important intermediary.

The pay definitely isn’t good enough for this, at the very least.

Only having had this gig for two or so months, you weren’t in a position to complain. So: here you were. The USB stick had arrived to your postbox two days prior, in a nondescript bubble mailer with no return address.

Still, you’d known what it was. You’d been given the assignment electronically through an encrypted message by - likely - a higher-up you’ll never met in-person, to pass the drive on to another middle man.

What the drive contained, however, was utterly beyond your payroll. You were too scared to insert it into your own laptop for fear of the consequences. You don’t ask questions either. You could guess, though. Blueprints. Ransomware. A hit. The list goes on.

It didn’t appease you in any real way, to speculate at the contents of the USB stick; though it killed time just fine. You were standing there for about two hours now, and with the fast encroaching nightfall, came the darkness. Even walking in broad daylight in Gotham was at times daunting, so the idea of returning home, guided only by the puttering street lamps, filled you with genuine unease.

Besides that, you have an early start tomorrow for your real day job. You were terribly overqualified for it but until you could line up a better prospect, your hands were tied for now. Hence, your current side gig of running messages for minor city villains.

Your family wouldn’t be too proud but hey - a girl’s gotta eat. And pay rent. And afford the vices that make this chaos all tolerable.

The wind whistles above you, causing the sheets of steel roofing to creak. Naturally, you glance upward at the slivers of the darkening sky that peeks through, offering some semblance of light into the warehouse besides the light that entered through the two wide door ways on opposite walls.

You stood square in the middle and would regularly pivot your gaze to best see any movement that came from the entrances. Bringing your eyes back down, you pan the walls once more: save for the graffiti and the scrap furniture up against the rusty walls that leaked stuffing, there really wasn’t much scenery to appreciate.

You take your hands out of your jacket, rubbing the palms together. The first hour of waiting had you tense, jumping at every minuscule sound; now, you just wanted someone to show up so you could scurry back home, into the comforting warmth that you came to miss dearly. You were itching for takeout at your favourite cheap eatery but it was probably a better idea to dig into the accumulating leftovers you had in tupperwares back home first.

You ground the rubber front of your shoes into the concrete, bored and tapping away.

“This really isn’t worth it,” you grumble into the air, frowning when you notice the visible puffs of air drawing from your breath. The acoustics were rather nice, to be fair.

“Funny - I was gonna say the same thing.”

Your blood runs cold. Apprehension and relief, wrapped all in one, spikes.

You turn towards the sound in an instant. The glint of red at the entrance to your right, dangerous and foreboding, landing in your peripheral view confirms a fear you hadn’t even truly considered. You feel slightly queasy.

The one standing there was not who you were anticipating, after all. You’re certain he’s not working with your agency.

“You waiting for someone, baby?”

Red Hood steps forward as he asks this, head tilted innocuously to the side. His voice is slightly modulated by the helmet, but not enough to conceal the derisive rumble in his voice. His hands are empty but hover inches away from his holsters which were very much not empty. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You’re definitely not making it home before complete nightfall.

Your lips feel chapped though your palms sweat. Aren’t there like a dozen heroes working in Gotham? What were the chances of Red Hood noticing you? Jesus fucking Christ, you can’t seem to catch a break.

His unexpected presence has you blanching a little. “Uh, yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“A friend,” you explain lamely, hoping your timidness masquerades as shyness from meeting a well known hero and not guilt. You were expecting some sunglasses-clad man in an ill-fitting suit and a briefcase to shuffle in, not a hero with broad shoulders who could lay you horizontal in a thousand different ways. You didn’t think you were crucial enough to be tracked or tailed by such a figure.

There’s a beat. Until, “Pretty nasty place to meet a friend.”

Your mind draws blank and you shrug in lieu of responding verbally, sending a sheepish and thin smile. You had a cover story, you know you did, you’d formulated it absent-mindedly while on your feet but under this pressure, under his certain gaze, you can’t recall it.

Was it that you’ve a real penchant for exploration? Or that you’re a cinematographer looking for a shooting location? Something along those lines but the opportunity has since passed.

The USB stick in your pocket feels like lead. Whether by the hand of this vigilante or by your employer, you’re not quite sure how you’re going to make it out alive. This sucks. Perhaps it was naive of you to think you could sidestep all direct confrontations with the police and heroes during your time with a dubious central intelligence agency.

He rests a hand on his utility belt. You gulp as you watch it creep towards the side, down his outer thigh to lightly touch the holstered handgun. He clearly knows why you’re here, loitering in a barren warehouse. Maybe not specifically, but enough to know you’re not here for any respectable reason.

(To be fair, sneaking about abandoned warehouses as a whole wasn’t very respectable.)

You can already see it play out in your mind’s eye: Red Hood sticking the cold barrel under your chin, digging through your pockets for the USB stick, leaving your dead body for the police to eventually find. Maybe he’d let you escape with your life if you’d handed over the information wilfully, but that might just mean you’d be punished by much more unsavoury methods by your own employer for such a grievous error.

It’s not like you held much loyalty to your job, after all - you just didn’t want to get waterboarded for ten hours if they found out a hero working under Batman swiped confidential information from you. You could barely afford commute and monthly rent, much less the expenses in running off to another part of the country where no one knows your name. You hear Coast City’s weather at this time of year is pleasant though.

At a loss, you blurt aloud to save the situation. “My boyfriend.”

If anything, this outburst gets his attention. And a couple more seconds of you being alive, which is always pretty nice.

His hand lifts away. With no visible facial expressions to go off from, you can’t tell if he’s genuinely caught off-guard or simply obliging you in your little charade for a little longer. You run your tongue over your bottom lip, racking your brain.

“My boyfriend,” you say, “I mean, I’m supposed to be meeting him, that’s all. I’ll tell him we can’t be here, okay? Sorry.”

He’s only some meters away now - he could overwhelm you in a blink if you tried anything. Him simply tapping you on the head with his fist might even lay you out flat. Still, you take a step back, closer to the other doorway. If you can stall long enough for the second middle man to arrive, that would be all you need to slip away.

“Meeting him here?” he questions. His steps are heavy as he rocks up close. How did he arrive so silently?

“Yeah. We like to - yeah.” We like to… what, exactly? Oh god. You pause to absorb your own words before ducking away, hopefully hiding your own mortification from him.

This is… not great. You’re just babbling now.

You think that perhaps he didn’t hear you this time - or maybe that he was duly horrified - but then a sharp bark of laughter leaves him, a hand coming up to his helmet to where his mouth would be underneath it.

“Shit,” he says, his voice wry. “Who suggested it, you or him?”

You feel faint, barely able to meet his gaze. “Me.” You intended to reply matter of factly, but it came out rising like a question.

“Riiight.”

Your mouth shuts, taken aback at the direction of the conversation led by his obvious disbelief. You know he’s mocking you - stretching out this moot conversation just to humiliate you, some nameless henchman who turned to crime to pay bills. Maybe if you were worth something more, anything, he’d see you as a threat. Evidently not.

Well, you think rather futilely, it was worth a try. At least he could wring some entertainment out of you before he shot you in the head -

“You suggested it? Take a good look at yourself,” he says. His chin juts upward and it’s a rather cocky move, like he’s egging you on to react.

What was that supposed to mean? Though rhetorical, you still find yourself glancing at your attire: it was nondescript all the way down. It’s not like you cared to dress up - who would you even be impressing? Your jacket could benefit from being more insulated though; and you’re surprised he’s trying to poke holes in your cover as opposed to just threatening you with certain death, but you’ll take what you can get.

“Besides,” he continues, “you sounded pretty reluctant earlier.”

Confused, you speak slowly. “Uh. I don’t - listen, I’ll call him right now, and leave. Really. We don’t mean any harm.” You move to take your phone out of your pocket but a levelled glance at you has you pausing.

He swings his head to the side in a lazy shake. Taps his holster. “Hands off.”

“Sorry?” you say.

“I’ll keep you company until he shows, how’s that?” You can nearly envision a smirk under the helmet and something about his goading has your adrenaline pumping. You wonder if you could somehow fish out the USB stick and sneak it somewhere on the dusty concrete or in your tennis shoes. “Maybe me and him can have a little chat too. On why it’s a bad, bad idea to leave your girl alone in a place like this.”

Goddammit. Whoever steps through the doorway next is getting murked right alongside with you apparently.

Shoulders tensing, you weigh your options. You consider weaving further into your cover, saying something like you regularly do this, it’s really not an issue - but for some reason pretending to be a public sex fiend in front of Red Hood was incredibly weird.

“Okay,” you say, helpless. You slip your hands into your jacket pockets, feel for the USB drive, and casually look about the barren warehouse.

A silence ensues. You’re not sure what to do, you’ve never been in this situation before. You don’t know why he’s letting you feign about so long and it scares you.

“You cold?”

“Yeah, a little,” you make out, unsure.

“Might want to move closer to the side. You’re standing in front of the draft.”

You stared at him, though he gave no indication to acknowledge you. “Okay.”

The moment you begin to shift however, stepping towards one of the walls and further into the shadows, you felt wind cutting sharply by your ears as you’re slammed forward, one splayed hand between your shoulder blades.

A shoulder hits the wall before the rest of your front, knocking the air out of you in a wheeze. Your hands came up to block but the force of his shove still stung your palms. The metal wall rattles thunderously.

You draw your head back in time, but your jaw still gets clipped slightly by the rough wall when you turn your cheek. You might be bleeding. Sharp pain shoots up yours arms as he twists them behind your back and pushes you with his entire body. Panic rises up your throat and a low, pained moan draws out of you.

“Did I hurt you? Sorry, baby, but I have to be thorough.”

A solid steel-toed boot wedges itself between your legs, forcing them apart. Eclipsed by the shadows behind you, Red Hood looms powerfully. What did you do to deserve this treatment?

“It’s a thumb drive, right?” he prompts, cutting to the chase with his helmet right by your hair. “Just tell me where it is and I’ll leave you alone. No harm no foul.”

“I don’t know,” you say, trying to keep your voice even. “Please, you have the wrong person.”

In the scuffle, you dropped the USB and it landed conveniently under the skirt of a sagging couch to your left, only visible at your angle near the wall. Your neck is damp with sweat. If you could just kick it further in, you might be able to convince him you really were innocent after all.

“Uh huh,” he says in the same disbelieving tone as before. Unimpressed and losing patience, he shifts his grip so that he held both your wrists tightly with one hand, pinning you against the wall, so that he might use his free hand to slide up your body.

There is the rustling of fabric as he sticks his hand into your jacket pockets and feels about, before coming up empty. “Hm.” Shifting gears, he turns his attention down to your pants and thumbs your pockets - and you jump when his knuckles graze your butt. He palms your ass instead of filing methodically through your back pockets.

“Still not talking?”

“There’s nothing to say,” you say, getting cut at the end when he abruptly slips under your light jacket and atop your shirt, spreading his fingers on your midsection. You shiver.

Rough, worn leather finds your skin, and in doing so, he hitches your shirt up along with your half-unzipped jacket, introducing it to the cold air. Goosebumps erupt across your arms and you repress a sharp breath.

What should be a frightening pat-down strangely has a heat forming in the pit of your stomach, turning fiercer when his hand cups you. You finally gasp aloud when he gently squeezes the soft flesh, leather rubbing against your nipple.

Your nipples harden almost immediately to the cold but he still rolls them with the pads of his fingers, almost soothingly. This is definitely not standard procedure in finding an object on your person.

“No bra?” he mutters. As if rendered curious by your lack of chest support, he pushes your shirt up further to gain access to your other breast, also kneading it briefly in one gloved hand. He stops. “Guess you weren’t lying about the public fucking.”

What, can’t a person just go bra-less when they wanted to? When he goes quiet this time, you become aware of your heavy breathing, intensive and trembling. Embarrassment swells in you despite the threat of your livelihood dangling.

“Umm,” you croak, abashed. Then, clearing your throat, “I think you see I don’t have what you’re looking for, so…”

“Ehh,” says Red Hood mildly. “I wouldn’t say that.”

You’re not given time to think.

There’s no resistance from you when he grabs yours hips and slams them flush back against his solid legs. Instinctively, your arms fly out forward to support yourself against the wall as you’re arched back on him. Your mind spins wildly, unable to keep up as gloved fingers press into the fabric of your clothes, into your flesh.

“But you’re a hero,” you say in another abrupt gasp, pitching almost hysterical when you realise what he’s implying.

And he’s sneering, audibly, when he replies, “Aw, baby, it’s so nice you think I’m a hero.”

“I’ll expose you online - I’ll go to the police,” you say. “I’ll fucking do it.”

His grip on you tightens painfully. “Don’t you know who I am? Like anything you say would make waves."

Your eyes widen. You pull your hands from the wall to claw at his wrists, but it’s as futile as you’d thought it was to be. “Hold on, please,” you insist, switching gears, “I’ll give you what you want, just -”

You could feel him behind you, the firm press against his crotch unavoidable no matter how you struggled. And he ran unbearably hot. “Sure you will.” You heard the click of metal as he unbuckled his utility belt. You’re not surprised it has come to this. You’ve heard of Red Hood and his penchant for the less upstanding methods of pursuing justice.

This seemed to be in line with his character.

There was nowhere to go. If you could somehow tug yourself out of his grip, there was nothing holding him back from shooting you between the shoulder blades as you made your escape.

You’re not as physically adept (you had a desk job for godssake) so you were subjected to hanging your head low as he tugged your pants down, resting your forearms on the wall. Though he did the bare minimum in unzipping your fly, your pants naturally fell to the dusty ground, exposing the full length of your legs.

He stayed quiet as he hooked his thumb under the band of your panties. With your eyes downcast, you notice that he’d taken the glove off the hand that was currently skimming your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He pushed your panties down and gravity eases it to your knees. His other hand remained securely at your opposite hip.

When his large hand slides to your front, callused fingers coming down between your legs, you can’t help but wonder if this had been his plan the moment he laid eyes on you and decided to fuck around for the fun of it; or if this had been a spur of the moment sort of ordeal, occurring to him when he had you caged against the wall. Did it even matter? You were determined to not react.

He barely even began to trace your slit with his middle and ring finger, barely even sinking the pads of them between your folds when he pauses.

Having nothing else to distract you from the breaching sensation, you double down on it, desperately willing your body to resist. His once cold fingers warm up quickly, regulating with your body heat.

It takes a heartbeat to realise he is speaking to you. “You’re already wet.”

“No,” you reply, hoarse. You don’t know why you do - you shouldn’t be talking back at all - but it looks like you’ve still some sliver of pride.

“Yeah, you are.” He leans forward, firm chest bumping against your back, the thin jacket not much of a barrier at all. The metal helmet brushes against your hair. His fingers sink back into you, deeper this time, and when he withdraws a knuckle’s length, you can feel the wet squelch before you even hear it. You want to cry out but relent in a silent shudder. “Are you wet for me, baby? Don’t worry, I won’t tell your boyfriend.”

“Stop it.”

“You like this shit,” Red Hood states, almost haughty. “It turns you on.”

“No, you’re wrong,” you say with a shake of your head; you try pushing away from him. He hardly heeds you.

“Am I?” His thumb strokes your sensitive clit and you snap your head away from his sight. Tears prick your eyes and there’s something horrible building up inside you that wants him to continue.

His hands were large to begin with but when his fingers finally reenter you, scissoring slowly to test your limits, you can’t help but whimper.

“A pretty thing like you into fucking in dirty places. God, your man’s lucky.”

You’ve an inkling he knows the boyfriend thing is just a cover, but you groan all the same, the noise escaping out a clamped jaw.

The ensuing silence is unbearable, void of anything but the noises coming from your body. A shiver overwhelms you, running fast up your spine when he gives your clit unexpected attention again. You want to cry. You are going to cry; you squeeze your eyes shut.

You clench around Red Hood’s fingers and this does not escape him. As if in response, he squeezes your breast unceremoniously.

“Yeah, yeah, I got you,” Red Hood replies, his voice surprisingly breathless.

His hand comes away sticky, knuckles glistening, wiping against the skin of your inner thigh. Then, stripping you of your jacket with certain urgency, he spins you around by the shoulder and takes your head in his gloved hand. Unmoving fingers fan across your jaw, thumb on your cheek.

“Open,” he instructs. “And don’t bite.”

Your lips close around his damp fingers, hot tongue running along his callused fingertips. The red mask is indecipherable: you’re unsure whether he’s getting anything out of this or that he simply wants to humiliate you. Maybe a bit of both. In any case, he never turns his head away. Are his eyes closed? Or is he committing this to memory, of your hollowed cheeks and wide, glassy eyes?

You too do not look away, much too scared to glance downward and catch the glimpse of his arousal tenting against dark tacts.

The hand on your chin relaxes when it becomes clear you aren’t about to wriggle free. You could though, and it might even be easy - but your shoes are deadweights and escaping into the Gotham air cannot be much safer.

You clean yourself off his fingers, sucking and licking gingerly until he pulls away.

“Turn around for me.”

When he shimmies his tactical pants down, you don’t see anything but you hear the shuffle of clothes, the tinkling of the belt, and you feel the firm, hot length of his cock abruptly press against your backside.

He adjusts himself, dragging it down against your slit and rubbing, spreading your wet heat across himself. You don’t know what to think, knowing that he was already fully erect, spilling pre-come at the thought of fucking you.

Against your will, you begin to ache for him, a sharp emptiness balling up in your core that wanted to be filled. Malleable like putty, you think he could slam right into you with no problem. In fact, it would be delicious, the force, the feel of his body boxing you in, taking you without grievance or care.

Surprisingly, he takes his time. You don’t demur: you get what you wish for in due time.

The moan you let out between your teeth when the throbbing head of his cock breaches your entrance was unstoppable. It would be embarrassing had he not also let out a low noise of his own as he stretches you. “Fuck,” he hisses.

Once he’d positioned himself correctly, he inched into you slow, revelling in the tight heat. You, on the other hand, felt full, his cock satisfying the burning ache you had just moments ago. The slow stretch makes you quiver, keeping a breath in your chest.

The moment of quietude is startled violently when his hand unexpectedly grabs at the base of your nape, not high enough to asphyxiate yet still hard enough to communicate danger. While fully hilted, he rolls his hips. He drags back briefly before snapping into you with enthusiasm.

You felt as though you’d bite your tongue if you continued to keep your teeth gritted but the moment you relaxed your jaw, a panting moan escaped. “Oh god,” you let out.

His hips slam. “Yeah? That good?”

Your noises apparently encourage him: he fucks you hard, bruising vices on your hips, and gradually you lean further downward, your own hands sliding down the wall for purchase. The abrasive, frigid concrete is rough on your forearms and knees when you get down.

He follows suit, lowering himself to one knee. He at least has the graciousness to pull out momentarily as you got to the floor, his cock bouncing heavily just by your entrance, coarse pubic hair rasping at your skin. When he slides back into your warmth, there’s no resistance whatsoever, your body in complete compliance.

In the corner of your eyes, the kicked USB is just right there, to your left and slightly under the dusty furniture. There is no way he cannot see it from this angle, but he pays it no mind.

“God, what if your man walks in on us, huh?” he grits out, between breaths. “I guess I could let him watch for a bit.”

The shift in position pushes his cock to reach a new depth, pistoning in and out of you with such fervor that you arched your back to keep from being sent forward. You were entirely at his mercy now.

His deep strokes sends zips up your spine. He seems to fill you up completely, as if with every thrust, the head of his cock meets just bare of your cervix. The helmet does a good job at concealing his breathing, but every once in a while, over the visceral wet noises of his cock burying into you and the smack of his balls against your skin, you can faintly hear a low groan.

When he stills for a split second and breaks the pace, your body moves faster than your mind - and you roll your hips back to hilt yourself like you’re keen.

“Want me to continue?” he asks. “Tell me you want it and I’ll get you off.” A hand slides from gripping your hip to your ass, palming it.

“Ngh,” you return, lamely. It’s not enough of an answer.

“What’s that?” He yanks out fast and it leaves your cunt aching sharply again.

You should jerk a thumb over to the USB drive and tell him to go fuck himself or just shoot you or some combination of this.

“Don’t think so hard, just tell me,” his voice comes out like a modulated purr, rumbly and arrogant. God, he’s so fucking aggravating, insidious even -

“Yes,” you say in a cry.

The effect is instantaneous. He ruts into you like an animal, like he doesn’t want you to forget the searing effect of his cock as it slides into you. Fast and aggressive in the way only a man of his athleticism can be, you are left to lower your head to the floor and raise your hips high for him to violate, biting your bottom lip to keep from drooling. The ruthless barrelling as his mode of acquainting with your insides is thrilling; he wants to coax you to scream.

Eerily enough, you and him nearly come at the same time. Unable to stop your tensing, your hands ball up into fists and you give into your feelings: your insides flutter, the muscles contracting and consequently squeezing his cock. His pace slows dramatically as if to savour the vibrations, drawing out into long and deep strokes.

The build up falls from a terrible crescendo and your knees have liquified; he keeps you upright.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

He hardly gives you a heads up when he comes, which is more than you can say, but his fingers dig as a forewarning when he bottoms out. It’s likely your orgasm brings his over the finish line.

His cock, heavy and engorged, twitches twice and spurts a hot, wet mess deep inside you. You imagine his expression: his eyes rolling back or maybe clamping shut; his teeth gritted or slightly parted in a pant. You don’t even have time to protest. He strokes your skin as he does, almost affectionately.

As always, your body betrays you: you squeeze without thinking just as he backs up like you want to keep him there. You feel insatiable: you want him in you all the time. He chuckles faintly.

He gives short thrusts as if to wring out the very last drops and you try not to think about the warmth filling your core now, the presence of him imprinted inside your body. It makes you flush. Were you insane for enjoying this?

He doesn’t seem to be going through the same mental turmoil.

The very moment he withdraws his softening cock from your body, thick come drips, sliding hotly down your inner thigh. His absence leaves your entrance pulsing, effectively squeezing out more of the mess.

You think that’s the end of it and go to stand upright when you feel his hand grip an ass cheek and without warning, spread your entrance further open with a thumb. “Aagh,” you can’t help but whine at the feel of come spilling out.

It didn’t help that he was most definitely watching the whole affair of his come dripping from your pleasantly sore entrance. A sizeable glob splatters on the concrete between your knees, just missing the pants around your ankles.

“You with me?” Red Hood hums.

You nod. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Sweet,” he says, all casual. “So. What’re we thinking for dinner.”

Like that, the curtains close.

You sigh petulantly, reaching back and slapping his hand away. This is no place to rest in a post-orgasm haze anyway. Pulling yourself upright and yank your pants back up your waist. Hands on your waist, you twist about violently. A very satisfying crack resounds from your body.

“I dunno,” you say, pinching your jacket up and dusting it. “Are we going to your place or mine? Also, god, you talk a lot.”

“Hey, you said you wanted realism. I gave it to you,” he says, getting to his feet. Jason unclasps his helmet from the back, yanking it off in one go. “Anticipation helps the scene.” He shakes his head, unsticking sweaty bangs from his forehead before pushing it all back with his hand.

“Three hours,” you say for emphasis, though there’s no bite. “It’s cold.”

You do appreciate Jason for obliging you in this scenario. When you first suggested it in a sort of half-joking manner, you certainly hadn’t expected Jason to take you seriously.

Nor had you expected him to whip out his acting chops like this. It was all rather impressive and seeing him with you now at the end of the scene, cheeks flushed and orgasm attained, you couldn’t really be mad.

“What was in this thing anyway? Looks ancient.” He steps away to lean over, picking the grimy thumb drive from the ground.

“Ehh. Probably used it to transfer some files when I bought my laptop.” You purse your lips. “Just last year, I guess.”

“Ugh, so boring. Wanna film something and stick it in this?”

A scoff leaves you, nabbing the small drive from him and shoving it away. “Dinner first,” you say.

Pivoting around, you make for the exit. Jason stops you, wrangling you with a hand on your back, and pushes you back towards him. Dipping forward, Jason captures your mouth in a languid kiss. It is like all the aggression has dissipated, leaving behind the dregs of something more substantial. Warmly, you lean into him. His eyes glitter when you pull apart.

“Your boyfriend’s pretty nice,” he says. “Wouldn't you say?”

“Yeah. I guess he is.”

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd imagines #dc x reader #dynamites writes #WHEW i'm back baby *crickets chirp*

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sebastianswallows · 1 year

Text

Dangerous and Delightful — Chapter 1 — The garden at night

— PAIRING: Sebastian Sallow x F!Reader

— WARNINGS: Nothing this chapter but shameless flirtation and Seb being an idiot. Long-term, this fic will have a lot of angst and fluff and smut.

— WORDCOUNT: 4k

— A/N: Here we go, my dears. This first chapter is just setting the stage and introducing the main characters. Seb and reader will go on pretty innocuous adventures at first, but be warned that the story will eventually take a turn for dark. I will also mention that this whole plot was inspired exclusively by this picture of a modded Seb.

Sebastian was late again. The dining room had already lived through the flush of introductions and dinner and chatter and by now had settled into a diffuse murmur while everyone enjoyed their drinks in various parts of the room. The piano and a violin were enchanted to play Elgar’s Salut d'Amour. From a quiet corner of the room, by a plush green sofa, Ominis presided over this small gathering of friends.

He didn't have dinner parties often, as he tried to save what little wealth was left to him after his parents squandered most of it — and when he did, these gatherings always had a purpose. They were an opportunity for him to have his friends all together in one place, even make new ones among the people they invited, and find out through casual conversation what was happening at the Ministry, what businesses were new, what businesses were failing, and what was in demand. And, last but not least, it allowed Ominis to be helpful to those he wished to help. Many collaborations owed their existence to some little dinner thrown by him or some well-timed introduction. The name of Gaunt, he had found out, still carried very far in certain circles.

Excluded from these pleasures was, of course, Sebastian, who stubbornly refused to be helped in any way. Ominis always invited him to these evenings, and his friend only inconsistently showed up. Too busy with his other friends. Even when they were studying at Hogwarts, his best friend could put up a good show of being the most clever, the most chivalrous, the most endearing little wizard — detentions notwithstanding — but Ominis knew better.

After what happened with Solomon and Anne cut all contact with him, Sebastian had kept his interest in the dark arts and, if anything, only fell deeper into it. Being outside of the confines of the school and away from Ominis had taken away the only good influences Sebastian had left, and so he flung himself into the study of those things that are… best left alone. Late nights spent in the company he dared not name, long journeys abroad, trips into Muggle London for seemingly no reason, and a lot, a lot of acquaintances that appeared and disappeared from the social scene the moment they met Sebastian…

Ominis didn’t know the half of it, of this he was certain, but a Gaunt could sniff out dark magic a mile away.

But this time, he had offered a bit of bait to his friend, mentioning there was someone he wanted to ‘introduce’ him to. He still remembered Sebastian’s silence of surprise, then delectation in his voice — no doubt at the idea of making some nefarious little contact for whom he might smuggle some cursed treasure, or whatever it was he did. Not that he would be so bold as to confess it directly to Ominis, but there were only so many ways to interpret an “Oh really? Do go on” from him.

And now, shortly after midnight, when half the guests had already left, Sebastian graced them with his presence.

“Ominis!” he said cheerfully. He was barely through the door, and the other guests quieted their conversations at the sight of him.

“Sebastian,” he smiled, slowly making his way to his friend.

“Great to see you again! Thank you for inv—”

“You're late.”

“I had some business to take care of, you know how it is...”

“No, I don’t,” said Ominis coolly. “How, exactly, is it?”

“Difficult,” said Sebastian with a lopsided grin so smarmy that Ominis could hear it.

He sighed and started walking back toward the far end of the room, Sebastian beside him. He could hear him say his good evenings to various people they passed by, all with the most charming smile, the most innocent voice, and no doubt a twinkle in his eye…

“You were with them, weren't you?”

“I don't know who you mean, Ominis,” said Sebastian while facing away to wave at someone.

All eyes turned toward the host and his guest as they passed through the thin crowd, and everyone nodded politely to Sebastian. None of them knew what he did, aside from the fact that it involved curse-breaking and that it wasn’t for Gringotts. Those who were still wary of goblins after the unpleasant business with Ranrock from fifteen years before were envious that Sebastian had managed to find a path in the treasure-hunting business outside of the control of Gringotts. Rumours said that Sebastian was a supplier for various shops on Diagon Alley, others thought he worked for some secret branch of the Ministry, while others still had ‘reliable’ sources that told them he was working for Beauxbatons. Sebastian did nothing to contradict any of these ideas, and only smiled and grinned charmingly when confronted with them, letting everyone form their own illusions without him having to burden himself any further with lies.

“What was it this time?” Ominis whispered angrily. “Banned spellbooks, illegal potion ingredients, smuggled body parts…?”

“Why? Are you on the market for any?” asked Sebastian serenely.

Ominis rolled his eyes and sighed. The silence between them grew tense. Eventually, Sebastian grit his teeth and relented. He always felt guilty when lying to his best friend, which Ominis used to his advantage.

“It was just a petrified hand from some old tomb, but it could only be traded under the light of a midnight moon.”

“And for that, you abandoned my dinner party?”

“Well, I didn't want to bring it here. Besides, I didn’t abandon your dinner party. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“And I suppose I should be grateful?” sighed Ominis, but then he thought better of it and smiled. He had other plans for tonight. “Nevermind... Better late than never,” he said with a suspicious turning of the tone to something placating. “Come, there's someone I'd like you to meet who actually hasn’t left yet.”

“Oh?” said Sebastian with a cocking of his brow. “I thought you mentioned something about that… A business partner?”

“Something like that.”

Sebastian summoned a flute of champagne from across the room, catching it mid-float.

“Good evening!” he said when he noticed he was standing next to Lucan Brattleby.

“Sebastian!”

“Sorry I missed the dinner.”

“I’d say the dinner missed you,” laughed Lucan.

Ominis rolled his eyes at Sebastian’s sycophantic school friends, but said nothing. He waited for them to be done with their pleasantries then pulled his friend by the elbow, forward, toward a corner of the room softened with armchairs and a little loveseat. The spot was concealed beneath the hanging leaves of little potted plants, with candles floating low in the air. There, on the green sofa, Sebastian found a young lady sitting alone.

She seemed tired, her eyes a little dark and bleary, but looking sharply ahead of her at the other guests. She held a glass of some amber liquid to her chest and sipped from it slowly. Her dress was a plain cut of silk that tapered in black lace around her neck, elegant in its simple forms, and of a rather sombre dark-grey colour. Her hair was pinned up tightly, showing off her neck. She lit up when she saw Ominis approaching.

“I do hope you’re still awake,” he said with a hint of apology.

“Fresh as a daisy,” said the young lady, propping herself up to a straighter pose as she looked from one man to the other. Her voice was husky at the end of the night, but had the sort of feminine timbre that always appealed to Sebastian.

“This is who I've been meaning for you to meet,” said Ominis.

As he introduced her to him, Sebastian tried to think back to who else he knew that shared her surname, but could recall no one. She can’t have been in their year at Hogwarts, and she certainly didn’t mix in his usual circles.

“And this is Mr Sebastian Sallow.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” she nodded, smiling up at him. “I've... heard so much about you.”

Sebastian stared at her for a moment, smiling in surprise, then looked to Ominis with a raised brow. “Have you indeed? Well, the pleasure’s all mine.” Sebastian bent and kissed her hand, barely tasting her skin through the lace. “I hope it hasn't been all bad.”

The young lady looked up at Sebastian with the most innocent eyes and, without a pause, answered, “Not at all. Ominis speaks about you in glowing terms,” she smiled. “I understand you work as a Curse-Breaker?”

“Yes,” said Sebastian quickly, taking a seat beside her on the sofa, “but not for Gringotts.”

“He's never been very fond of goblins,” said Ominis with a tired sigh.

“I can… understand that,” she said with a tight obliging smile. “I’ve heard you were involved with that business with the goblins all those years ago…”

“Oh yes,” chuckled Sebastian. “But that was last century, at this point.”

“Still, I’m sure your reservations can be justified.”

“A lady of taste,” Sebastian nodded with a grin, making himself comfortable next to her. “I see we already have a lot in common.”

“Why? Are you a lady of taste too, Sebastian?” asked Ominis with a cocked brow.

She hid a smile behind a sip of her drink while Sebastian glared up at his friend. Ominis seemed to instinctively feel the look, but he just smirked through it.

“I shall take my leave,” he said, bowing to the pair. “I believe Lucan will leave soon and I would like to wish him a safe journey home.”

“Sure. Give him my best,” said Sebastian, but Ominis had already walked away.

He sighed and shook his head, gritting his teeth at his friend’s easy departure. Sebastian was determined to not let Ominis’ feelings about the dark arts get in the way of their friendship. But it was rendered all the more difficult when Ominis made it painfully obvious how much he disapproved of him, of how he was spending his life, or as Ominis put it, ‘how he was spending his freedom’. He always liked to hold it over Sebastian’s head how close he came to a life sentence in Azkaban following the untimely death of his uncle. He wondered why, then, Ominis still invited him to these silly little dinner parties…

He turned his head to his new friend to find her looking at him carefully, her eyes clouded with thoughts, the shadow of a smile on her lips.

“So, am I right to assume you have been waiting for me all evening,” asked Sebastian with an arrogant grin.

“Hmm no,” she said at length, smiling pleasantly at him. “I was just told you might appear.”

“Were you?”

“But I was also told to not have high expectations,” she said with a tight smile.

“And,” started Sebastian, moving slightly closer to her. The lady moved her heavy skirt to make room for him. “What else have you heard?”

She only pretended to think, looking to the side while she braced one arm against the sofa to stretch her body toward him. “I’ve heard that you’re the kind of man,” she started, seeming to give it serious consideration, “that I could talk to…”

“Yes?” said Sebastian, leaning closer to her with an easy smile. “You can talk to me about anything.”

“About certain… dangerous topics?”

“I love dangerous topics,” he said, licking his lips as he let his eyes taste her up and down.

For her part, she took in his behaviour with perfect serenity, if a little coquettish affectation. It was as if she had anticipated everything about him, about how he would react to her presence, the sound of her voice, the way she angled her body in that perfect way like a feline stretching toward a caress…

“Perhaps even, unsanctioned topics?” she continued, looking at him with large, vulnerable eyes.

“Madam,” he said closely, bringing one large solemn hand to his heart, “you needn’t say more. Whatever you need, I am your man.”

She bit her lip and clutched her half-drunk glass to her chest as if she could protect herself with it. Her long lashes fanned over her cheeks as she prepared to say something, apparently, quite difficult for her.

“I have heard, Mr Sallow, that you are familiar with chasing forbidden items across the continent.”

“I might be. Why? Do you have a need —”

“My brother, Melancthon, has gone missing while searching for a rare and possibly cursed item, and I was wondering if I could possibly ask for your help to find him and bring him back.”

She looked at him with such a vulnerable gaze, so open and hopeful and — finally he realised — tired, that it broke through every rejection that might have sprung up in his mind. Worst of all was that she reminded him at that moment far too much of Anne. He didn’t stand a chance.

“Miss,” said Sebastian at length, taking her hand in his, “you have my attention, my sympathy and, in fact, every part of myself is at your disposal.”

To continue their discussion away from prying eyes, he invited the young lady for a walk in the garden. Ominis’ mansion was small, for such an illustrious wizarding family as the Gaunts, but the green spaces that shielded his home from the prying eyes of the muggle and the magical alike were broad, wild, and overgrown. The bright moon beneath which Sebastian had earlier sold an item of immense destructive powers could now barely see the pair as they walked, arm in arm, under the blue and black boughs of old trees.

He didn’t often have the opportunity to meet with ladies in his line of work, and he was constantly afraid of making an indiscrete move, saying the wrong thing, stepping on shoes as it were… But she kept him perfectly at ease, walking slowly by his side, supporting him as much as he supported her. All that was left for Sebastian to do was listen.

“And so, you see, after the third week of him gone with no letter, no note, no owl, I have really begun to be afraid, Mr Sallow…”

“I’m sure there’s no need,” he said, covering her hand with his. “He’s probably just… far away without any means of writing back to you.”

“My brother would never stay so long without sending word,” she said, sounding equal parts worried and angry.

Sebastian chuckled sadly — he could hear Anne say something similar, in those days when she was still speaking to him. “Perhaps he has become distracted by the object he is chasing,” he suggested with a raised brow. “Which is what, if I may ask?”

“I’m not certain,” she sighed. “A sort of polished rock, as I recall…”

“Hmm…”

“It appeared somewhere in the Aeolian Islands.”

“Southern Italy?”

“Yes.”

Sebastian tried to think of what manner of cursed objects he had collected in the area. There were few that were worthy of the name, and all of them had already been retrieved — if not by him, then by someone he knew. There was always the chance that this was something new, but, if there was he would probably have heard about it by now. Which made it all the more suspicious, because he had never heard of a Melancthon in the business.

“And your brother is… a veteran in the field?” he tried.

“Not at all,” the girl complained. “It is the first time he goes on such an expedition.

“Ah,” he chuckled.

“Mother and father weren’t too worried at first, but I can tell they’re beginning to be…”

Sebastian gave a loud laugh at that. “Probably what inspired him to leave in the first place,” he said as he brought them to a stone bench beneath the heavy branches of a magnolia. “A change of scenery.”

She looked at him with a hint of resentment as she let go of his arm and took a seat. Sebastian sat beside her, smiling to himself. He could easily see himself in her brother, even if his parents were still alive. It would not have taken Anne’s curse to get him interested in the dark arts, he knew in his heart he would have gravitated toward them eventually. A life spent in little Feldcroft, while pleasant, was hardly enough for him. He liked to think his parents would understand, even when they disapproved.

“I haven’t asked, but… may I inquire as to what you do, Miss?” said Sebastian, turning toward her.

“Oh, I don't work,” she said sheepishly. “Mother and father never thought it proper for me to be employed anywhere in particular, and Melly has been quite happy to care for me, as I care for him… We have our own little cottage in Upper Flagley,” she said with a childish sort of pride, cupping her hands in her lap and smiling wistfully. “I tend to our little garden, and we raise chickens…”

“That sounds like it can be charming, in its own way,” said Sebastian at length.

He was lying, of course. He could hardly imagine a duller life than that, and he could easily see why her dear brother had departed — the promise of cursed treasure must hardly have been necessary, it was just the trigger.

“But I suppose it can get lonely,” he suggested. “No one to talk to? No one to... have... fun with?”

Sebastian was teetering on the edge of innuendo and she gave him a sharp disapproving look at that but made no move to distance herself from him. Instead, she curled her lips into a pleasant smile.

She had known to expect as much from what Ominis had told her about him, she had even counted on it. ‘Shallow Sallow’ he called him on more than one occasion when he regaled her with stories — and complaints. Sebastian's reputation hinged on seeming harmless, friendly, and a little impulsive, Ominis said, whereas the truth was that he was a humourless, calculating, remorseless wizard who stopped at nothing to feed his obsession. It was under the auspices of such despair that Ominis had come to her seeking help — to lure Sebastian back, to show him a different path, to tease him with the possibilities of something more fulfilling... There were other joys to partake of in life, and she had been enlisted to show them to him.

She had unwittingly made a reputation for herself by saving one of his cousins from a similar vice, a young witch named Madinia Gaunt. She attended Hogwarts with her up until eight years prior, and they had fallen in and out of an obsession with hexes together. When Madinia had taken all the necessary steps to curse a rival in love in a way that was most morally compromising to herself, her friend was there to pull her back. She had stalled, delayed, and confused her long enough for the feelings to become muddled in her heart. In the end, it was easy for her to persuade Maddie that it just wasn’t worth it.

And then, Maddie confessed everything to her cousin Ominis.

Unbeknownst to Ominis, the reason for her efficiency at swaying dear, dark, frail Madinia from using those demonic invocations was because she had done the same a year before.

She still felt the splinters in her soul, the shame and the regret, and feared she would live with the weight of what she had done her whole life. It was moments like these, when she thought she could give someone else the help she never received, that made her past experiences seem worth it. The fact that Ominis offered to pay her for the service had not made much of a difference.

And so she indulged Sebastian with a sweet, warm smile, a batting of the lashes, and a longer-held gaze than necessary. He had seemed lively enough inside, but the light of the moon with the deep shadows of the garden revealed him to be tired and drained, the dark circles under his eyes quite prominent, his clothes less properly arranged than their quality dictated, and his hands, laying quietly on his knees, looking hard and rough.

“Yes, quite lonely,” she said at length. “I lie awake at night, worried sick… It’s been torturous.” She held his gaze for a moment, biting her lip in a picture of perfect frustration, before finally daring to reach out and hold Sebastian’s hand. “Mr Sallow, please tell me you understand.”

“I do,” he said, swallowing the knot in his throat.

“So you will help me?”

Sebastian looked down at her hand on top of his and sighed. He knew her feelings all too well. His torment over Anne, his pain at her absence, his feelings of impotence at never being able to save her… After she ceased all contact, there was nothing left in her place but a hollowing, an emptiness which Sebastian had been forced to fill somehow. At the same time, his fixation on the curse that had eaten away her childhood had been turned inside out, following her cure upon Rookwood’s death, and from there it swallowed him whole. The answers Sebastian could not find as a child, he chased now across the country, across the globe if the opportunity arose, and he was left chasing forever for an answer that would never be satisfying, never interesting enough, never dangerous enough. He uncovered secrets sane wizards would never hope to approach. He fought monsters he’d only read about in the oldest tomes of the Restricted Section. He found objects of such obscure magical valence that he could not begin to know what to do with them — but other people did, and what they used them for, he was better off not knowing.

It paid well, this curiosity, but it kept him toeing just this side of sanity. Some days, that was exactly what he wanted. On other days, he wondered whether Anne ever missed him… He was, therefore, poised to be especially sympathetic to this young lady’s plight.

“Even before knowing more about your brother, as I have already said, I lay my service at your feet. In whatever endeavour you need me, I'm yours. However... you may not always like what I have to say about your brother’s situation.”

“I understand,” she nodded, suddenly righting herself in her seat. It was the first time she seemed truly engaged in the conversation, and in Sebastian.

“I shall investigate the item that has caused his absence, but during the course of this, you may have to confront some brutal truths.”

“I love brutal truths,” she said, holding his gaze.

“Good,” said Sebastian with a smile. “So do I.”

He was glad she had not shied away from him and in fact seemed to meet him head-on at every suggestion of danger. It left a delicious taste in his mouth, and suddenly he felt like kissing her hand again. She was far too interesting to be left to waste away secluded in some ‘little cottage’, raising poultry and waiting for her useless brother to come back. Sebastian would help her with that... if only a little.

“It is rather cold for how little you are wearing,” he said, letting his eye roam her figure, “lovely as it is. We should go back inside.”

#Sebastian Sallow #Ominis Gaunt #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

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pufflyhallows · 5 years

Text

Wounds

Pairing: Remus Lupin x reader

Summary: You and Remus were together for eight years. When James and Lily died and Sirius was sent to Azkaban, things got really difficult and he eventually left you. Now you meet again at Hogwarts after you helped Sirius escape and clear everything up. The past is discussed.

a/n: This is the morning after Remus’ transformation and chasing after Harry and Hermione in Prisoner of Azkaban. Reader and Remus were reunited in the Shrieking Shack, but that was focused on Peter so I didn’t think it was relevant to this piece in particular as they didn’t have time to talk there.

Warnings: mentions of death, language, angst.

Word count: 2,960

********

“So this is your office.”

“Was. Was my office.”

Remus was emptying the old drawers of the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher’s office. The news about his condition would soon be spread, so the logical thing to do was leave before it did. He wasn’t happy about it, of course – it was yet another job he was losing for the same damn reason. He reckoned that was something that would follow him his entire life, though. At this point, he was merely used to it.

“It was your office,” you repeated, nodding slowly. “I’m sorry you have to leave. I know the kids loved having you as their teacher.”

“You do?” he looked up from the suitcase he was filling with books.

“I had a little chat with Hermione. ‘The best DADA teacher we’ve had so far’, if I remember correctly.”

“Not a very hard title to win. They’ve only had two teachers before me – one had You-Know-Who on the back of his head, and the other was a narcissistic self-proclaimed hero.”

“You’ll never learn how to take a compliment, will you?”

Remus looked down at his suitcase again, a small sheepish smile on his lips.

You had been resting your shoulder on the door frame, arms crossed and eyes everywhere. The office looked smaller than it did in your head. You started to walk around, carefully observing anything interesting you found, arms still crossed on your chest.

“I remember last time I was here,” you broke the silence. “Many years ago when I was just a stupid teenager.”

“You were never stupid,” Remus interrupted.

“Oh, I was. Very much. And I was here because I was in trouble. Professor Jones had caught me cheating on his test. I don’t know if you’ll remember.”

“I remember,” Remus nodded. “You and Sirius got caught, and James felt guilty he hadn’t, so he turned himself in.”

“Yeah! Wow, that was so long ago,” you thought about it for a few seconds before continuing. “Anyway, I was standing here, Sirius and James by my side, and we were all staring at Professor Jones, who was standing right there where you are, behind the desk. He made us sit down and write some famous quote about integrity over and over again.”

“And I dare say neither of you learned the lesson.”

“Depends on what lesson you’re talking about. We cheated on the following test, but didn’t get caught – that lesson we learned.”

Remus snorted a discrete laugh through his nose, eyes on the books he was packing. “I suppose that’s good.”

“Yeah, it is. I mean… it was.”

Remus looked up at you. The history behind your words flooded his mind just as much as it flooded yours, and both of you missed the times when all you had to worry about was detention.

And when you had each other’s embrace to run to. Yeah, that too.

“We had fun, didn’t we, Remus?”

“We did,” he nodded. “But these last years wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t fucked up everything.”

“Stop. I didn’t come here to have this conversation.”

“But we need to have this conversation, Y/N. I need to have this conversation.”

“You asked me for forgiveness right before transforming last night, do you remember? You apologized. And I said I forgive you. We don’t need to talk about this.”

“We do,” Remus walked around the desk and approached you, stopping just a meter away. “There are things I need to say, things that I need you to hear. A simple ‘I’m sorry’ is not enough.”

You looked at each other for a few seconds. Hesitation and uncertainty in your eyes, hope and urgency in Remus’.

“Please,” he muttered.

You chewed on your bottom lip, thinking you weren’t ready for this yet. Yes, you forgave him – you had forgiven him years ago, even before he apologized. But it still hurt. Ten years passed since Remus left you, but the pain was still all too real. It was not left in the past, as you wished.

At the time, you tried to hate him. You tried to despise him, but you failed – you loved him way too much for that. You felt betrayed and abandoned, and you resented him for a while, yes. But hate? You never could, no matter how many times you had made yourself think of him as a coward, a traitor, a selfish asshole. You knew it wasn’t true. Your heart was broken and you wanted to hate him for breaking it, but… you failed.

And now, you knew you were not ready to have this conversation yet. You didn’t resent him anymore and you had forgiven him already, but it still hurt. The past hurt. And you weren’t ready to touch those wounds yet.

“Please, Y/N.”

“Remus, I-”

“I just need you to listen. You don’t have to say or do anything. Just listen.”

You looked into Remus’ pleading eyes and felt like you had no strength to fight any emotions anymore. You would be lying if you said you didn’t want to listen to what he had to say – because you did, very much – but you knew that you just weren’t ready yet.

“I don’t think I can.”

“But… why?”

“I don’t know, Remus,” you sighed, defeated. “I think it’ll break me. I don’t want to relive the past. At least, not right now.”

Remus looked down at his feet, a gesture that instantly reminded you of the shy boy he once was, and you had to close your eyes so you wouldn’t start crying right then and there. He nodded and stepped back, swallowing hard as he carried on with his packing.

“I forgive you. That’s not up to discussion,” you stated, your voice weaker than you intended. “I want you to know that.”

He nodded again, not looking up.

“And I will listen to what you have to say. Just not today.”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

“I’m happy to be here and I want it to stay like that. I’m happy to see you, I’m happy that Sirius is free, I’m happy I got to see Harry all grown… God! Lily’s eyes.”

“But looks just like James,” Remus whispered, a shy smile on the corner of his lips as he still looked down at his suitcase and not at you.

“Yeah. The hair… It’s insane.”

Silence suddenly reigned in the room, making you feel small. Remus had finished emptying the drawers and was now trying to close his super full suitcase. The only sounds in the office came from the Grindylow’s tank in the corner.

You slowly approached the desk, noticing the countless pieces of parchment spread on it. Some were assignments Remus’ students would never get back directly from him, and you knew that would make them sad. However, you noticed a familiar piece of parchment on the table.

“Is that…?” you pointed at it and Remus stopped to look.

“Yes. I intend to give it back to Harry.”

“Awesome,” you reached out, fascinated. “May I…?”

“Of course.”

It was hard to hide the excitement you were feeling at that moment. After all, it was the first time in over a decade that you were able to see and touch the Marauder’s Map.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” you whispered as you pressed the tip of your wand against it.

Thin ink lines began to spread like a spider’s web. They joined each other, they criss-crossed, they fanned into every corner of the parchment; then words began to blossom across the top, great, curly green words, that proclaimed: Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers are proud to present THE MARAUDER’S MAP.

Your heart sank. You felt the tears stinging your eyes, but you merely blinked them away. So many memories came at once into your mind, it was hard to keep track of them.

You could read your own name in the Defence Against the Dark Arts office, but not Remus’. That didn’t surprise you. You knew only a Marauder could read another Marauder’s name on the map.

“I hadn’t realized how much I missed this,” you whispered as you traced your name with the tip of your fingers.

“Yeah… me neither.”

“Is this how you found out I was here?”

“No. I recognized you outside my classroom’s window weeks ago. You really fascinated the Ravenclaw first-years. They all thought you had been sent by Rowena Ravenclaw herself.”

You laughed as you recollected the mesmerized look on the students’ faces. “I should’ve remembered the fact that eagles don’t nod when children wave at them.”

“You sure made them happy. And hard to concentrate back on the lesson too.”

“Sorry about that. I was… excited to see you teaching. And now I know that was stupid. I could’ve blown everything up and Sirius wouldn’t have been able to get in and-”

“You think I’d have done something?”

“Well, I don’t know. Sirius escaped prison and suddenly I was here… You could’ve thought I was trying to get Harry and reported me. I have always been associated with Sirius since the beginning, you remember. After he escaped, people thought I had something to do with it.”

Remus looked at you, frowning slightly.

“Which is true,” you clarified. “I had something to do with it. Everything to do with it. But people didn’t know that for sure, so it was a little unfair that they were accusing me.”

Remus raised an eyebrow.

“Okay. It wasn’t unfair, given my history of nagging the Ministry about his arrest,” you sighed. “Public protests that costed me jobs, peace, safety and… relationships.”

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about that.”

“I do, Remus. That’s the thing. I do. I’m just… I don’t know.”

You took a deep breath and put the map down on the desk. Maybe it was time to talk about it.

“I don’t know how to feel about this whole thing right now. Like I said, I’m happy I’m here, but… things didn’t turn out exactly how we planned. Peter escaped and Sirius had to run away on a hippogriff so he wouldn’t be kissed. Now we don’t know when we’ll see him again, do we? And I’m happy to see you, I really am, specially because now you know I was telling the truth and everything else was just media bullshit, but that’s… that’s also exactly why I’m still hurting. You didn’t believe me. You chose to walk away and leave me alone on this. I had to fight this fight by myself, because I couldn’t just leave Sirius there and go live my life like you did. I forgive you and I think I understand now, but I’m still fucking hurting.”

After letting all that out, you felt a tiny bit better. Everything was on the table now for him to see, and you didn’t know what to expect, to be honest. Your voice had broken on the last sentence, but you hoped he hadn’t noticed.

Remus blinked a few times and swallowed hard. He looked at you like he was carefully choosing the words he was about to speak.

“That’s… that’s what you think I did? I ‘left Sirius there and went live my life’?”

You didn’t say anything as now you realized that wasn’t fair. You knew very well that life for him was never easy and he couldn’t just ‘go live it’.

“It killed me, Y/N. A part of me died with James, Lily and Peter, another part of me died when I found out it had been Sirius, and another part of me died when you, the only person left, the only one I had, my everything, started going around defending the murderer. This was the scenario I had, you have to remember that. I was already completely alone before even leaving you. Sirius was all you talked about for the next two years. We didn’t have any conversations that weren’t about him or Peter or the Ministry. And I listened to you. Even though your only reasoning for defending Sirius was that ‘he would never do this’, I listened to you. Despite having all the evidences point to him, I listened to you say he was innocent. I thought you were grieving. I thought you were in denial. I thought it would go away after a while, but it didn’t. You were convinced he was innocent. It was killing me, but I didn’t want to lose you. I stayed.”

Remus took a deep breath and only then you realized you had been holding yours.

“But then…” he continued. “But then you started actually going to the Ministry. You demanded to be heard, you made noise, you protested. You caught the media’s attention by doing so, and soon enough all the Daily Prophet talked about was ‘the lunatic in love with the murderer’. They’re really good, the journalists. They did their research and they got to me. That’s when things really started going south. We had eyes on us every day. Our house was being watched. People left notes, threats, nasty things. You were too busy with the Ministry to notice, but I did. I was the one who got the mail and read them all. I was there in the background of your fight for justice. You lost your job, but you said I didn’t have to worry because you were already applying for new ones. You never got a reply. I was supporting us and it was becoming really difficult. People on the street called me enabler, a fool, irresponsible, and worse things. Soon my boss didn’t want me associated with them, so I lost my job too, when it was already so hard for me to get one. In the meanwhile, when we were at home together, you spent all your time doing research on Magical Law Enforcement and such. You were obsessed. We didn’t talk. But when we did, it was about him. It was then that I started to believe what they said. I started to believe you weren’t grieving, you were just in love with him. My insecurities from school came back and I created in my head an image of you two together. And I believed it. That’s when I left.”

Silence.

You didn’t even try to hold back the tears. They were running down your cheeks freely.

Remus had watery eyes, but not a single tear fell down.

“And now I know you were right. I am so, so fucking sorry, Y/N.”

“I am sorry too.”

You broke down. All the emotions you felt the day he left you were back. Every wound was reopened and started to bleed again.

You covered your face in an attempt to muffle your sobs, your whimpers, and just hide from him. You felt vulnerable, exposed, small.

Hesitantly, Remus walked around the desk and stood by your side. He slowly put his hand on your shoulder and whispered:

“It’s over. It’s all over now.”

You shook your head. “It’s not. It’ll never be over. James and Lily will never come back.”

As your crying got more intense, Remus’ grip on your shoulder tightened, until he decided that wasn’t enough and pulled you into a hug. His arms around you felt good, really good. You instantly felt safe, like you hadn’t in a very long time.

“Shh,” he rubbed your back in a soothing motion, a very familiar gesture that took you back in time to when you were just an angsty teenager with an equally angsty boyfriend.

“I missed you, Remus. I missed you so fucking much.”

“Oh, Y/N. I missed you too.”

The two of you stayed like that for a while, until you managed to compose yourself.

“I’m sorry,” you said again.

“There’s nothing you need to apologize for.”

“This was my fault too, Remus. I didn’t take into account the fact that you were grieving too. You had lost your friends too. I neglected you. I got so involved with trying to prove Sirius’ innocence that I left you to mourn alone. Like I said earlier, I think I understand now why you left. This doesn’t make me hurt any less, but I do understand you better. You put up with your grieving girlfriend defending the murderer of your best friends for two years. That was your point of view.”

“But you were right and I should’ve believed you. I should’ve fought with you. It’ll take a while before I can forgive myself for that.”

“Okay,” you let go of him so you could look into his watery eyes. “But I forgive you.”

“You have always been too nice for your own good.”

You chuckled, stepping back and wiping the remaining tears away. “You’re one to talk.”

“Professor Lupin?”

A small voice came from the doorway, after a quick knock on the open door.

Harry.

“I can come back later.”

“No, Harry. It’s okay,” you motioned for him to come in. “I was just leaving, actually.”

“You were?” Remus muttered to you, not loud enough for Harry to hear.

“Yes. You have very important business to take care of and I’ll leave you to it,” you mumbled back with a small smile.

You turned back to Harry and met the eyes of your late best friend. Swallowing hard, you smiled at him as well. “It was so nice meeting you, Harry. I hope I see you again soon.”

“It was nice to get to know you too, Y/N. Thanks for… for telling me about my mum.”

“Anytime,” you walked up to him and slightly ruffled his hair. “Well, I should get going now. See you around, Remus.”

“See you, Y/N.”

********

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