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jtargaryen18 · 3 months ago

Text

The Arrangement

Series Masterlist

Words: 8k

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Drugging, age gap, coercion, loss of innocence, dub-con, explicit sex, oral (f rec), breeding kink (inferred), HEA

Your stepfather made an ill-advised wager with Arthur Shelby and when he lost the coin toss, you were are to be given to Arthur for the night. And you will be taken tonight. Just not by Arthur...

A/N: I don't know if any of you are fans of Peaky Blinders. The DH started watching it recently and I've watched it with him. My muse grabbed me and this was the result. But I find if I keep her happy, she'll let me work on my other projects so... Let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.

You shivered in the chilly air, wearing your best dress and wrapped in your heaviest shawl, as you walked along the cobbled street, slick with rain and coal dust. You felt numb, struggling to accept the situation you found yourself in through no fault of your own.

One one side of you John Shelby walked with his usual restless energy, a lit cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. Though younger than the others, he had a sharpness in his eyes, a tension in his jaw that betrayed the weight of the world he’d been forced to carry. His hair was slightly disheveled, his cap pulled low over his forehead, casting a shadow that makes him look harder than his years. The dim gas light flickered across his face, highlighting a faint bruise on his cheekbone—evidence of a recent scrap, though nothing too serious by Shelby standards.

On the other side, Liam Murphy, one of the Peaky Blinders’ trusted men, walked along. Taller and broader than John, he carried himself with the calm confidence of someone who knows he can handle whatever comes next. His dark eyes scan the area as they reach the destination, ever-watchful. His fingers tapping idly against the handle of the revolver holstered beneath his coat. Dressed in the same razor-brimmed flat cap and three-piece suit as the rest of the gang, Liam looked every bit the part of a man who’s bled for the Shelbys and would do so again without hesitation. The faint trace of whiskey lingers on his breath, but his movements are steady, his focus razor-sharp.

Around them, the air hums with unspoken tension. John’s energy crackles like a struck match, eager, impatient. His gaze landed on you and he cracked a smile. "Look at you. You look like a fuckin' lamb going to slaughter."

Yes, were scared to death. But you lifted your chin, holding his gaze. "Wouldn't you?"

Both of them burst into laughter at that as they stopped in front of the apartment, the agreed meeting place.

"Yeah," John said. "Can't say I'd want to fuck Arthur either."

The reminder of why you were here was too pointed, too impersonal. You glanced around Small Heath, the neighborhood the Shelbys dominated here in Birmingham. It was a rough area, a working-class district, thick with the grime of industry and the weight of hardship. The narrow, soot-stained brick houses huddled together as if bracing against the cold, damp air rolling in from the factories. The sharp scent of iron and smoke from nearby foundries clung to the wind like an ever-present warning.

Gas lamps cast flickering pools of light, their glow struggling against the heavy smog that lingered in the alleyways. The sounds of the city never truly died—somewhere in the distance, a train whistle howls through the night, blending with the rattle of carts, the distant shouts of drunken men spilling from the back doors of a pub, and the occasional bark of a stray dog scavenging for scraps.

When the door opened, your heart lurched in your chest to see Arthur Shelby standing there in the dim light, a shadow of the man he once was—wild-eyed, disheveled, and teetering on the edge of something dangerous. His waistcoat is unbuttoned, his once-crisp white shirt now rumpled and stained with whiskey and the sweat of a man who'd been drinking too long and thinking too hard. His tie hung loose around his neck, the knot twisted and undone, as if he tried and failed to make himself presentable before giving up entirely.

His hair, usually slicked back with care, was in disarray, tufts sticking up where he’d raked his fingers through it in frustration. His face was a map of old scars and fresh exhaustion, his beard uneven, the shadow of stubble catching the flickering light. His knuckles were raw, split from a recent fight—maybe a brawl at The Garrison, maybe something worse.

His eyes, bloodshot and rimmed with dark circles, burned with the remnants of rage and sorrow, that familiar fire barely held at bay. His breath reeked of whiskey and smoke, and when he exhaled, it was slow, heavy, as if the weight of the world pressed down on his chest. When he saw you, his eyes lit up in surprise as if his mind just pushed the memory of why you were there through the haze of his enebriation.

"Come in," he said after studying you for a moment.

What else could you do?

Dropping your head, trying to keep your desperation and fury at bay, you walked quickly by him and into the apartment.

When John and Liam tried to push their way in, Arthur smashed a fist into Liam's face. The crunching sound made you think Arthur broke his nose. "What the fuck?" Liam yelled. "Aren't we supposed to be witnesses?"

The question sent a spike of fear through your heart.

"The hell you are!" Arthur raged at them. "Now get out before I knock some teeth out, you fuckin' bastards."

With that, he slammed the door hard and locked it for good measure.

Inside the small apartment, the air was thick with the scent of damp wood, old tobacco, and the faint traces of stew long gone cold. The walls were thin, covered in peeling wallpaper that was once floral but now curls at the edges, stained by years of cigarette smoke and candlelight. The floorboards creaked under the weight of every movement, betraying any attempt at stealth. Outside, heavy boots scuff against the cobblestones, stopping and starting, keeping you on edge.

The only light inside came from a low-burning candle near the window, its feeble glow barely touching the dark corners of the room. A single iron-framed bed sits against one wall, its mattress lumpy and worn. A wooden table stands near the hearth, cluttered with an empty bottle, a playing card bent at the edges, and a knife someone left behind—perhaps a warning, perhaps a promise.

The Peaky Blinders owned these streets, and yet, danger lurks in the shadows, even for them. Every knock at the door could be salvation—or the end. This is where you were born.

You stood in the small space and waited. You had no intention to make this easy for anyone. Particularly when it wasn't fair at all how you came to be here.

Arthur swayed slightly, adjusting his stance, his grip tightening on the half-empty bottle he lifted from the small table by the window. At least the curtains there were closed. There was an eerie stillness in him, the kind that only comes before a storm. He wiped a hand down his face, inhaling sharply, trying to steady himself, but the chaos inside him is still bubbling, waiting for the right moment to spill over.

"Look," Arthur said, "I'm truly sorry for this situation. It's nothing personal towards you, you know. It was your father and the coin toss. He--"

"Stepfather," you corrected him. Your father had been a decent man who didn't make it back from the war. Your mother had married Sean O'Grady out of necessity, to keep you and your younger brother fed. Your stepfather was as bad as your father had apparently been good.

"Whatever," Arthur said. "He lost the coin toss and the coin is sacred to us. He promised me a turn with you if he lost."

Something like shame flashed in his eyes as he looked you over. It wasn't hard to guess what he was thinking. You were inexperienced with men. Your brother had started working at the factory at a young age but you stayed home and helped with the garden, with the sewing. Your mother took in work as a seamstress here and there and that's how the Shelbys came into your life to begin with. Arthur started it, coming by to have a couple of shirts repaired, stains removed. He'd been intimidating enough but he wasn't the one who scared you the most.

Tommy Shelby.

His name alone carried weight, pressing down on your chest like an iron shackle. He was the kind of man stories are whispered about in dark corners, the kind of man who steps into a room and bends the air around him. He never needed to raise his voice to command obedience, nor did he need to lift a hand to make someone afraid. His power was in the silence, in the way his glacier-blue eyes stripped a person down to their bones, exposing every weakness, every lie, every desperate plea before it ever leaves their lips.

You'd seen men stronger than you shrink beneath his gaze, their bravado crumbling under the quiet calculation that lurks behind those cold, unreadable eyes. There was no excess in his movements, no wasted gestures. He was precise, measured, a man who played chess while everyone else is swinging fists. And yet, beneath the tailored suit and composed expression, there lurked something even more dangerous—something hollow and broken, something that made him unpredictable.

He didn't look like a man who enjoyed violence. That would make him easier to understand. No, Tommy Shelby wore it like a necessary burden, a tool in his arsenal, wielding it with the same detached efficiency as he did his words. That detachment terrified you the most. Because men who enjoy hurting others can be manipulated, can be fed their own hunger until they slip. But a man like Tommy—one who kills without joy, without hesitation, without remorse—he was a different kind of monster entirely.

Arthur drank straight from the bottle, the amber liquid splashing inside it. His eyes never left you and now you were shaking. You knew your stepfather wanted you married off and gone from his house, but he felt like this was the way to do it? Or was this punishment because you hadn't made that happen?

"What are you waiting for?" he asked, slurring his words. "Come over here."

"And do what?" you had to ask. "I don't know... how..."

His eyebrows shot up at that. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

You shook your head. Waves of shame and anger rushed through you to be in this situation. You were untried and terrified. He was drunk and seemed at a loss as to how to handle this situation. After a moment, he set the bottle back on the table and marched towards you, wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you in place for his kiss. Just like that.

Instinct had you fighting him. His kiss was sloppy and wet, the liquor on his breath heavy, making you feel a little sick. He was easily twice your size and it was nothing for him to drag you in the direction of the bed. When your back met the mattress, you closed your eyes in acquiescence. You just wanted it over with so you could go back home, soiled goods thanks to your stepfather's poor judgment. But you'd live to fight another day. At least you hoped you would.

Arthur's weight dropped onto you on the bed, but after a moment, you realized he wasn't moving. When he snored by your ear, it was all you could do not to burst into tears. Did this mean you'd have to wait for him to sober up? Would this torment be rescheduled? You didn't think you could take that.

You didn't know what to do. Carefully, you managed to roll him off you and onto his side. He didn't wake or even move as you managed to get off the bed. Hope had your heart swelling in your chest. Could you make it out of this apartment then? You could claim that the deed was done and he passed out after. You could declare it done, right?

Rushing to the window, you moved the curtain just enough to see the street and it didn't look like anyone was outside the door now. Could you make it out? If you moved fast enough?

With your heart flying in your chest, you unlocked the door and pulled it open, dashing out onto the street and sending up every prayer that you'd ever said that you could just make it home.

You collided with someone hard. You were shaking as his hands came up to steady you, keep you from falling. An apology was on your tonque as you glanced up to see who blocked you.

It was him.

Tommy Shelby was the one who had you, his figure a sharp silhouette against the darkness. A beat after he released you, a match flares to life, momentarily illuminating the angular planes of his face—the high cheekbones, the cut of his jaw, the cigarette resting between his fingers. The glow flickers out as he exhales, smoke curling around him like a specter, and in that brief moment, his icy blue eyes locked onto yours.

He didn’t look surprised.

No anger. No raised voice. Just that cold, assessing gaze—as if he had already predicted this, as if he knew you would run before even you did. A slow inhale. A subtle shift of his stance. The barest tilt of his head, like a wolf considering a cornered rabbit.

You expect fury, maybe even threats, but what terrifies you most is the patience in his expression. Calculated. Absolute. Unshaken.

“Going somewhere?” His voice is soft, measured, all the more dangerous for its calmness.

You want to run, but your legs refuse to move. The street around you seemed empty, swallowed in shadow. But you know—he's never truly alone. Somewhere, in the darkened alleys, his men are watching. Waiting.

Tommy takes one step forward, slow and deliberate.

“You should know,” he murmured, flicking his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his polished boot, “I don’t like having to come after people.” The weight of his words coiled around you, squeezing the air from your lungs.

Hooking your thumb in the direction of the apartment, and it was trembling, you said, "He's d-done."

That cool gaze moved over you, up and down, and his gaze returned to yours. "Not with you. Arthur loves the ladies but I've never seen him move that fast."

You hadn't thought of that.

"Did he pass out?" he asked quietly.

Tears stung the backs of your eyes and you nodded. It wouldn't do any good to lie to him. "What happens now?" you asked, cringing under that cold gaze.

"There's still an arrangement," Tommy reminded you. "And it has to be honored."

You glanced back over your shoulder at the door wondering what he meant by that. Would you wait for Arthur to wake up? Come back another day when he was sober?

Rough fingers at your chin turned your face back to him, and you shrank away from that unfamiliar touch. When your attention was returned to him, he grabbed your upper arm and started walking, almost dragging you up the street at first. What was he going to do? Where was he taking you?

Men were walking not too far behind you now, his men. They stayed behind the two of you until Tommy abruptly turned a corner, heading up a short flight of steps. Leading you into another apartment.

The new apartment was different—cleaner, quiet and cold. A stark contrast to the cramped, smoke-choked rooms you just fled from. The walls are smooth, freshly painted in an off-white shade that seems almost too pristine for a place in Small Heath. There’s no peeling wallpaper, no damp smell clinging to the wooden floorboards. Instead, there’s the faint scent of tobacco and whiskey, mingling with the lingering traces of fresh linen and polish—evidence that someone actually cares for this space.

The furniture is sparse but elegant in a way that doesn’t fit the rough streets outside. A solid oak table sits near the window, a glass decanter of amber liquid resting on top, two crystal tumblers beside it. A plush armchair, its deep leather cracked at the seams, faces the fireplace where faint embers glow, casting flickering shadows against the walls. A bottle of Scotch, half-empty, stands on the mantel as if waiting for its owner’s return.

Against one wall, a proper bed. Not a cot, not a lumpy mattress stuffed into the corner, but a well-made bed with crisp white sheets and a thick wool blanket folded at the foot. A luxury in this part of Birmingham. A reminder that this isn’t a prison. But it’s still his space. His territory. And now, you're trapped inside it.

The gas lamps flickered, their glow reflecting off the dark glass of the window. Outside, Small Heath moved on—voices drifting through the night, a horse’s hooves clattering in the distance, the faint murmur of a pub emptying out. But in here, the world feels still, heavy with unspoken rules and the weight of Tommy Shelby’s presence.

His men have left by now, their boots retreating down the hallway, leaving you alone with him. The door clicks shut.

A moment of silence.

“You’ll be more comfortable here,” he says, his voice as controlled as ever, but there’s no mistaking the finality in his words. This isn’t a courtesy. It’s an arrangement.

You didn't understand why you were here. Was he going to keep an eye on you until his brother slept it off? Or would he expect you to stay here until the deed could be done?

With practiced ease, he hung up his cap and shrugged out his dusty black coat, hanging it up. Then, the soft sound of a match striking as Tommy lights another cigarette, his gaze unreadable as he exhales a slow stream of smoke. Grabbing the Scotch and tumblers from his mantel, he moving to the table at the window, filling the crystal glasses and motioning you over.

"Have one," he said.

He wanted you to drink? You'd never drank spirits in your life. You must have stared at the glass like a snake about to bite you.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette. "Since my brother is unable to do the honors," he said, "we'll finish the arrangement here and now. Drink it. It will make it easier."

Panic threatened to overtake you. What? Arthur Shelby passed out drunk so now you were expected to fuck Tommy Shelby?

Not doing as he said seemed terrifying, so you reached for the tumbler meant for you with a shaking hand. Bringing it to your lips for a sip, you almost coughed. The drink was smooth but potent. It burned like fire all the way down to your stomach.

"Sit down," he said, using his foot to push one of the two chairs at the table back for you. You did as he wanted, taking another drink of whiskey. You felt the weight of those ice-blue eyes on you as you stiffly took a seat. "You ever been with a man?"

The man could just talk about something so personal like it was nothing more than business. It was a lot more than that to you. It took a moment for you to work up the courage to meet his gaze now, but you made yourself do it. You may have been trapped in this situation but you had to remember that you personally had done nothing wrong.

“No,” was all you said. “Never drank either. Until now.”

Tommy tilted his head slightly, still studying you, the faint glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp angles of his face. “Your stepfather isn’t a smart man.”

“Or a kind one,” you murmured, the words bitter on your tongue.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, effortless yet edged with something unreadable. “That why he offered you up?” His voice was calm, almost casual, but his gaze never wavered. “Strict with you, was he? That why you haven’t got any experience?”

You shook your head, fingers tightening around the tumbler in your hands. “No. He just wants me gone.”

Tommy hummed in answer. The room feels smaller with him in it. The air is thick with the smoky bite of liquor and tobacco, the soft glow of the gas lamp casting shadows across his sharp features. Tommy took the chair across from you, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, the other resting on his thigh, fingers curled loosely around a half-filled tumbler. He hasn’t spoken for a couple of moments, and yet his silence is as oppressive as a threat.

He studies you, slow and deliberate, his ice-blue gaze dragging over you like a weight you can’t shake off. Not leering. Not curious. Calculating. Like he’s unraveling you in his mind, peeling back the layers of fear, of defiance, of whatever fragile armor you've built to protect yourself. He sees through you. And he enjoys it.

The cigarette smolders between his fingers, the red ember glowing each time he takes a slow, unhurried drag. He exhales through his nose, the smoke curling like ghostly fingers in the space between them, thick, intimate, suffocating. He’s not trying to scare you. He doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough.

And yet… he is devastating.

The angles of his face, chiseled and unyielding, should make him look harsh, unappealing, but they don’t. His dark lashes, too long for a man, cast shadows over his cheekbones as he watches you, the corner of his mouth curling around the cigarette in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but is. The controlled power in the way he moves, the effortless confidence—it draws you in even as you will yourself to stay afraid.

He lifts his glass, taking a slow sip of Scotch, the tendons in his forearm flexing beneath the crisp sleeve of his shirt. When he sets it down, the clink of crystal against wood echoes too loud in the quiet.

Finally, he speaks, his voice low, even, dangerous.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, tapping ash from his cigarette, “and I’ll start thinking you’ve forgotten why you’re here.”

It’s a warning, a challenge.

And God help you, it’s both terrifying and intoxicating. You take another sip of from your glass, welcoming the burn and the warmth. You'd been unable to really eat today given what was going to happen. Your entire life would change after tonight. The alcohol went straight to your head, taking the edge off of your fear. Not enough but it was better than nothing.

"If the... arrangement is settled, here and now, then I'm done?" you had to ask. "Arthur..."

Tommy takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling a ribbon of smoke that curls lazily between you. His blue eyes stay locked on yours, sharp and unreadable, the weight of his gaze making it impossible to look away. He lifts his glass, takes a sip, then sets it down with an almost deliberate slowness.

Then, in that same calm, cutting voice, he asks, “Would you prefer Arthur?”

The question lands like a blow.

Your fingers tightened around the tumbler, the burn of alcohol lingering in your throat, but you can’t find your voice. Prefer Arthur? Tommy says it so easily, like the answer doesn’t matter to him either way, like it’s nothing more than an idle curiosity. But the way he watches you now—eyes half-lidded, cigarette balanced between his fingers—you know it’s not.

Your pulse quickens. Arthur is rougher. Louder. More reckless. But Tommy… Tommy is something else entirely. Colder. Calculating. Inevitable.

You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No.”

Tommy doesn’t react, not right away. He just studies you for another long, unbearable moment before flicking the ash from his cigarette and smashing out in a small tray. “Good.”

You don’t ask why. Something tells you you don’t want to know.

Your heart pounds as he drains his tumbler in one slow pull, then rises from the chair with a grace that feels almost too controlled. His movements are smooth, deliberate—never hurried, never uncertain. Without a word, he reaches for your glass. Carefully, but firmly, he takes it from your hands and sets it on the table. Then, he offers his hand.

Your pulse spikes. A silent command. A choice that isn’t really a choice. Despite the tension tightening in your chest, you take it. His fingers closed around yours—not rough, not gentle, just steady. He pulls you effortlessly to your feet, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin, grounding you even as your nerves coil tighter.

It’s only a few steps to the bed, but the space between felt heavily charged. Tommy sits at the edge, his grip still firm around your hand. Then, he glances up at you, those piercing blue eyes pinning you in place. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words, the weight of the moment pressing down on your skin. And still—he doesn't let go.

Tommy’s thumb brushes over the back of your hand, almost absentmindedly, as he studied you with that same quiet intensity that makes your breath catch. His gaze flickers over your face, slow and deliberate, taking in every detail—the way your lips part slightly, the way your pulse jumped at your throat.

Then, in that smooth, low voice that sends a shiver down your spine, he murmurs, “Pretty thing, aren’t you?”

It isn’t a question. It’s an observation. A fact.

Your stomach tightens. There’s no warmth in his tone, no flirtation, just a simple acknowledgment, spoken like he’s already decided exactly what to do with you. Like he owns the moment, owns you. His fingers tighten, just for a beat, before his grip loosens again. And for the first time, you realize—it’s not just fear that’s making your heart race.

You weren’t prepared for the way his other hand slips behind your neck, his fingers pressing just firmly enough to send a shiver down your spine. No hesitation. No uncertainty. He pulls you toward him with quiet intent, as if he’s already decided how this will go—as if there was never a question.

The only time a man had ever kissed you was Arthur’s sloppy, whiskey-soaked attempt in the other apartment. But this—this is something else entirely.

There’s no drunken sway, no careless fumbling. Tommy moves with purpose, with the same measured control he applies to everything he does. And that’s what makes it dangerous. When his lips touched yours, it was a whisper of a kiss at first. There was no overpowering smell of spirits, just the faint scent of tobacco, of him. As his lips moved against yours, firmer and seeking, you tried to mimic him, afraid not to do something. You must have done something right. He increased the pressure at the back of your neck to pull you closer, and your hands landed on his shoulders, crisp linen covering tight muscle under your palms. When he deepened the kiss, you let him, and the slide of his tongue against yours gave him a deep taste of you. His deep moan surprised you, and you felt that subtle sound all through your body as he continued to kiss you breathless.

It was easy for him to pull you onto the bed and roll you under him, breathless as you were. When his mouth claimed yours again, his kiss was more demanding, and his hands were everywhere. Tommy managed to pull the shawl free of you without breaking the kiss, his hands then sliding down to work the worn leather Mary Janes you wore off your feet, tossing them off the side of the bed. One hand grabbed your ankle before sliding up your leg, up to cover the globe of your ass and panic had you jerking in his hold.

Tommy pulled back to look you in the eye, his face flushed in his excitement and quiet intent. There was a wildness in his eyes—untamed, dangerous, something raw and unchecked. You doubted many had ever seen it, and for good reason. It wasn’t meant to be witnessed. His gaze searched yours, piercing, relentless, and you trembled in his arms, not from the cold, but from the sheer intensity of it.

"I'm going to have you," he said breathlessly, his weight pinning your body to the bed. Grinding himself into your tummy, the hard, heated length of him was unmistakable, even with both of you clothed. His eyes darkened in sheer determination and his hold on you tightened. "You understand?"

You nodded quickly. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

Sliding his hand roughly up your body, he smoothed his hand over you cheek, his gaze never leaving you. Tommy kept watching you as that hand moved back down to pluck at the buttons of your blouse and his nimble fingers made quick work of it. Impatiently, his hands pulled the garment free of your skirt before undoing the buttons of your camisole beneath. You couldn't stop trembling as he undid the last barrier and peeled it back to reveal your upper body to him.

His gaze was sharp, moving over your breasts with growing impatience, hunger. With a delicacy you wouldn't have believed him capable of, his fingers traced over your collar bone, over the tiny gold cross pendant of your necklace. He trailed a finger over your skin, across to one breast, using that digit to tease your nipple to a tight peak with a gentle circular touch. When his heated gaze returned to yours, he filled his hand with your breast, squeezing firmly but not enough to hurt. Tommy began kissing you again, heated and greedy now, with his hand teasing your breast before sliding down your body and beneath your skirt. As if he knew you were about to start fighting him again, he broke the kiss to cover your breast, teasing it with his lips and tongue as his hand slid under your skirt, into your underwear. Sensation overwhelmed you, need battling fear, and your hands clutched in the bedding beneath you as his fingers teased your private flesh, the light pressure drawing sensations from your body that you'd never experienced.

"You can touch me," he muttered around your nipple. It felt like a command. Your hands shook as they slid up to him, instinctively moving to his head. The glossy black locks of his short hair slid between your fingers as he continued to tease you relentlessly, burning you down with his mouth and hands.

Chills and pulses of unexpected pleasure had you writhing feverishly beneath him as his tongue smoothed over your aching nipple and his fingers danced in the wet folds between your legs. Your breath sucked in when he touched your pearl, and he lifted his head to savor your reaction. Whatever he was doing with his fingers, all you knew was that it would soon drive you insane, continued, but he didn't give you the speed or pressure you wanted. The touch was fleeting, maddening. Your fingers clutched in his hair as he continued to delicately torture you, your legs clamped around his hand because you couldn't help it in your need. And it didn't slow his efforts at all.

When his touch stopped, you whined, an unfamiliar sound to you. In a frenzy of movement, Tommy unzipped your skirt and roughly yanked it off along with your underwear, your stockings. He wasn't satisfied until you were stripped bare beneath him, all of you trembling under the intensity of his stare. As he sat there next to you, taking every inch of you in, his fingers went to work with haste, undoing his tie, stripping off his waistcoat. His fingers flew at undoing the buttons of his own shirt which he pulled free of his trousers but didn't remove it.

Tommy shifted down the bed and moved to throw one of your legs over his shoulder so fast, you didn't have time to react. And by the time you did, he'd buried his face between your thighs. The flames of humiliation only burned you for a few seconds. The man's mouth covered your sex, his tongue a wicked torment that was unfamiliar and almost too much to bear. One of his hands worked to keep your folds open, your curls out of his way, as he kissed your pussy as he had your mouth. The other slid up over your tummy with pressure, holding you in place for his assault on your senses.

You accepted it but your entire body was shaking, shivering and it was impossible to stay still. Your back arched and you would have been horrified to realize that you were pushing yourself towards him, towards his mouth, wanting more, if you hadn't been so lost in the storm of sensation. What he was doing didn't make the fever better, it made it worse. It felt like fire running through your veins with raw need pooling low in your belly. When he slid a finger back to your pearl as he continued to work you with his mouth, you gasped. When his movements sped up, when his tongued traced your opening, you screamed long and loud. A wave of pure pleasure swept over you and he didn't stop what he was doing the entire time, dragging it out until you violently shook beneath him, crying and moaning as your body shivered and eased.

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he moved up the bed toward you, his hands working the fine leather belt at the front of his trousers. He wore nothing beneath and the sight of his cock, angry red and larger than you expected, filled your vision as you watched him take himself in hand, working himself as his gaze roamed over you. Tommy shifted, one of his knees pushing yours apart. You let him, watching him drape himself over you. There was something obscene about the way he stripped you naked but was still mostly clothed himself.

He surprised you by stopping then, a hand smoothing over your hair and face with care. You sensed he was holding back, respecting your inexperience. You knew it meant nothing to him but he realized it meant something for you, and your heart squeezed in your chest at the gesture.

"It's going to hurt," he said, whispering against your lips. "Not for long. Hang onto me."

You did what he said, but slid your hands beneath his shirt, running your hands over the muscular plane of his damp back. Your fingers found scars, a lot of them, but it gave you a distraction from the way he lined himself up with your entrance, the smooth head of him pressing into you insistently. It felt better to bring your legs up, your knees hovering around his hips. You held your breath as the pressure built, and the intrusion of him pushed further into your body. When he met that fleshy barrier inside you that proved your claim, Tommy surged through it, and the pain was searing. It took your breath away, had tears stinging your eyes as he completely filled you. Your tender walls quivered around him, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar length of him.

With the pad of his thumb, he caught a tear, brushing it away with a touch that was almost too careful for a man like him. Then, without a word, he lowered his head, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was soft, deliberate—unexpectedly tender. No force. No urgency. Just a slow, measured touch, as if, for once, Tommy Shelby was in no hurry to take what he wanted. He held still inside you, allowing you to adjust. Lost in the dizzying mix of pain and pleasure from his kisses, you found yourself clinging to the unexpected gentleness in his touch. A contradiction. A quiet mercy. Something you never would have expected from a man like him.

But the arrangement wasn’t over. Not until he decided it was. Not until he was finished.

Slowly, he started moving inside you and it stung like fire as he thrust in and out of you. You knew you were wincing, but you'd be damned if you'd complain now. You wanted to be brave, feeling like you'd earn his respect if you were. And as he pushed in and out of you, the pain lessened and dulled, easing to be replaced with more of the sensations from before. The good ones. Before long your thighs were clamped around his hips as he plunged into you again and again. Hot, reckless kisses dropped over your face and breasts as he fucked you. Your arms and legs were wrapped around him but it was more than that. You weren't just lying there and thinking of England as you'd been advised by your mother and aunts. You were riding waves of unexpected pleasure, soaring to those heights again. Your hands became claws at his back, your nails carving into his skin. Your thighs tightened around his hips as you moved with him, wanting more, craving more.

His lips blazed a path to the sensitive skin of your throat, peppering your skin with kisses and swipes of his tongue as he rode you harder. The drive of him inside of you, his hands on your breasts, fingers teasing your pearl, drove you mad. You started begging him, pleading for release from the intense experience he was drowning you in.

"Please," you chanted.

His actions pushed you higher until, with your heart racing in your chest, until he sent you flying again. Your cries and screams filled the room as the man literally destroyed you.

Tommy drove on above you and you knew he was now chasing his own end and you still held him. But it also occured to you in that moment that there was no birth control being used here, no condom or anything. You tried to steady your breathing, pushing down the rising panic. Surely, a man like Tommy Shelby wouldn’t want a bastard running around—wouldn’t leave something like that to chance. Tommy was many things—ruthless, dangerous, unreadable. But somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had more honor than that.

As his movements sped up, his thrusts just shy of painful, you tensed, hoping he was going to pull out of you when his time came so there'd be no worry about a baby. Above you his eyes were closed, his mouth slack. The beauty of him in that moment made you pause as he came. When you jerked beneath him, his hands collared your wrists and pushed them into the bed on either side of your head. Holding you there, he pumped himself into you growling as he did, thrust after thrust. Truthfully, you didn't have it in you to try and stop him. As if you even could.

Maybe it wouldn't take. You tried to shove that worry to the back of your mind, not even wanting to think about that right now.

He'd collapsed onto you, but his weight wasn't too much as his breathing rushed with yours. Running your fingers through his hair, you tried to stay calm. Your mind couldn't help jumping ahead.

Now that the deed was done, you'd be sent back home. Everyone in Small Heath knew you'd been won in an ill-advised bet. Would other men consider you an easy mark? You couldn't count on your stepfather to protect you.

Tommy pulled himself free from you and it stung. He stretched out next to you on the bed, his finger tracing the curve of your breast. He watched you in that way of his—sharp and knowing. His gaze settled on you, unreadable yet unrelenting. Then, in that low, measured voice, he asks, “What are you thinking so hard about?”

It’s not just a question. It’s a test. Like he can already see the storm rising behind your eyes, the panic tightening in your chest as you grapple with the future he’s tangled you in.

You open your mouth, then close it. Because what do you even say to him? But he doesn’t look away. He waits. And somehow, that’s even worse. At the end of the day, only the arrangement mattered. His family’s honor was intact, the deal upheld—that was all that concerned him. Whatever you felt, whatever came next for you, wouldn’t change a thing. Tommy wasn’t the kind of man to concern himself with your plight. You knew that. It was better not to mention it at all.

So instead, you took the coward’s way out.

“Can I go home now?” The words left your lips, but somehow, they didn’t sound like a plea. More like a quiet resignation.

Was that reluctance you saw in his face? Just for a flicker of a moment—something unreadable, something hesitant beneath the mask of indifference.

Tommy considers your question, his expression giving nothing away. But he studies you, weighing something. You can’t tell what. And that’s the most unsettling part.

With a deep sigh, he finally says, "You can."

As you start to sit up, you watch him search through your clothing on the bed, finding your simple underwear. You watch in stunned silenced as he carefully takes them and dips them between your legs, staining the white garment with your blood. When you instinctively reach for them—alarmed by the sight of your own blood, mortified by what he’s just done—Tommy’s eyes snap to yours, sharp and unyielding. Before you can touch them, he moves them out of reach, his grip firm, his expression leaving no room for argument.

“I’m keeping these.” The finality in his voice sends a shiver down your spine. Like a claim. Like a promise.

Why?

You were shaking as you watched him dress, dressing yourself as quickly as you could with shaking limbs. It was over now, right? Was your underwear stained with your blood proof that the arrangement was met? You were bleeding and he was keeping your undergarment. It was distressing. He must have noticed. Without a word, he stepped to a cabinet drawer and pulled out a clean, white towel, tossing it onto your lap.

"Clean yourself up," he said, already pulling on his coat and adjusting his cap with practiced ease. Then, just as effortlessly, "I'll be back to take you home."

And with that, he was gone.

You sat there, staring at the door he’d just disappeared through, the towel limp in your hands.

Tommy Shelby was taking you home.

A short, breathless laugh escaped before you could stop it. That would scare the shit out of your stepfather. Maybe then, he wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss you.

Or maybe—it wouldn’t matter at all. You didn't know what the future held for you or what impact this night would have on it.

***

Tommy’s grip tightened on the wheel, his jaw set in that familiar, unreadable line. The road stretched dark and empty ahead of him, the hum of the engine the only sound between them. He didn’t glance her way—didn’t need to. He could feel the weight of her presence beside him, could hear the way she shifted slightly in her seat, the tension rolling off her in waves.

This was necessary. That’s what he told himself. A loose end tied up, an arrangement upheld.

When he pulled up to Watery Lane, the headlights cut through the mist curling over the cobbled drive, illuminating the towering structure of Arrow House. The place had never really felt like home, but it served its purpose—just like everything in his world.

He killed the engine and stepped out first, running as he rounded the car and opened the door for her. She hesitated, just for a moment, then followed without a word. He could almost see the question in her mind. Why am I here?

Because he wanted her here. He wanted her. Tonight merely sealed her fate.

Inside, the house was dimly lit, the scent of wood smoke and aged whiskey lingering in the air. Tommy didn’t break stride, already pulling off his gloves as he spotted Polly standing at the bottom of the staircase, arms crossed, dark eyes sharp as they flicked between him and her.

“Take her up,” he said simply, voice low and clipped. “My room. Find her something to sleep in.”

Polly didn’t move right away. Instead, she gave him a look—one of those looks. The kind that didn’t need words, the kind only Polly could give.

It was half question, half judgment. What’s this, then?

Tommy exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose before muttering, “Not now, Pol.”

With a slow shake of her head, she turned to his girl, her expression softening slightly as she gestured for her to follow.

Tommy watched for a second longer, then turned on his heel, heading straight for the whiskey decanter. He'd knock back a couple then he'd join her in sleep.

***

The house was quiet early the next morning, but Polly was already up. Tommy found her in the sitting room, a cigarette between her fingers, an untouched cup of tea going cold on the table beside her. The morning light filtered weakly through the windows, casting a dull glow over the room.

She didn’t look at him right away, just took a slow drag, exhaling through her nose before finally speaking. “That the girl Arthur won in the coin toss?”

Tommy poured himself a drink, even though it was too early for one. He took his time before answering. “It is.”

Polly’s gaze flicked up, sharp and knowing. “So why is she upstairs, in your room, and not with him? Or home with her family?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. Just swirled the amber liquid in his glass, watching the way the light caught in it. He didn't feel the need to explain himself.

But Polly wasn’t stupid. Her eyes narrowed slightly, putting the pieces together faster than most ever could. She leaned back in her chair, cigarette poised between her fingers, a slow smirk curving her lips. “You wanted her.” It wasn’t a question.

Tommy took a sip of his whiskey. Didn’t confirm. Didn’t deny. But Polly was already seeing through him, like she always did.

“You let Arthur think it was his idea.” Her voice was quieter now. “Tricked her stepfather into wagering her. Then drugged Arthur when the time came to claim her. You waited, knowing she’d panic, knowing she’d run. And who was there, ready to catch her?” She let the silence hang for a beat before answering her own question. “You.”

Tommy tilted his head, nonchalant, unreadable. He took another slow sip of whiskey before finally meeting Polly’s gaze.

She sighed, shaking her head as if tired of playing this game with him. “What are your intentions, Thomas?”

Another pause. He could lie. He could deflect. But Polly wouldn’t believe him, and they both knew it.

So instead, he took another drag of his cigarette, exhaled the smoke, and simply said—“She’s mine.”

Polly let out a breath, long and slow, before muttering, “Jesus Christ, Tommy.”

Tommy had already made his decision.

Arthur would know soon enough. There’d be no shouting, no drunken outburst—just the facts, laid out cleanly, irrefutably. Tommy would hand over proof that the arrangement had been upheld, that the wager had been honored in the way that mattered. It would be enough to keep Arthur from questioning him, enough to silence any complaints before they started.

As for the girl’s stepfather? He would be a cautionary tale. A reminder of what happened when someone gambled with the Shelbys and lost. When a debt was called, when something was taken and then never seen again. Her sudden disappearance—her absence—would be enough to send a whisper of fear through Small Heath, a warning to any fool who might ever think to challenge them again.

And in time, when the dust settled, when the moment was right—he would marry her. Not because of obligation. Not because of the arrangement.

Because she was now his.

#Peaky Blinders #Tommy Shelby #Cillian Murphy #Tommy Shelby x Reader #Tommy Shelby x you #The coin is sacred #Dub-con #Small Heath

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simonz-angel · 2 months ago

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psychotic!obsessed ex!bf simon riley

tears skid over your collarbone, melting into your pores till sympathy bubbles up onto the surface. he’s breaking down, like he always did, forcing you to see past his mistakes, past the disgust of his protectiveness, his psychotic rage.

“please, please, mama,” he sobs, tongue cleaning up the salty mess he leaves behind. hips chasing a steady pace, one that knocks any sense out of your head, one that melts you into a dizzy mess. “i’m better… i’ll be better, please, i need you. i- i love you, baby.”

and his nails split your skin, grounding deep within your soft flesh to keep himself level. he’s fucking into you desperately, letting himself drip deep within you, till you get the memo, till he knocks you up and traps you to him with a sweet baby.

you have to stay, you have to be with him. you couldn’t run, you couldn’t leave. he would make sure of that. and he’s losing himself, head spinning in a feral mess. his neurons split, a deep seated, demented rage suddenly rushing through his arteries, zinging his nerve endings.

and he’s grabbing at your cheeks with shaky hands, smothering and smearing his lips over yours. and when your tongue presses to his, his lips tilt, into that sweet downward smile, one that knows he won, one that strikes his heart in adrenaline. and his personality cracks, tears drying up till a new creation crawls from the crevasses of his being.

“i don’t even care if you love me,” he growls, tears fading till his teeth are snapping, till his pupils dilate in an angry, red mess. one that has your heart stilling, one that has your hips pressing to meet his. he was addicting, you couldn’t fight the corruption, you could only fill his void.

n he’s laughing above you, leaning down to huff in your face. he presses his hand to the column of your throat, grinning in a melting, hazy mess as he pins you by the throat down to the bed. “you’re mine, you got that yet, huh? you try to run, i will find you. don’t make me hurt you, baby, please.”

so who’s therapist has some free time? 😊

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runa-falls · 1 year ago

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after dark

summary: he wants you. and he knows you need him.

pairing: geneticist!miguel o'hara x intern!reader

rating: explicit [18+] - DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

cw: dark!miguel, dub/non-con elements, somnophilia, dacryphilia, drugging, afab!reader, stalking, obsession, smut, slight size kink, piv sex, creampie, breeding kink, gaslighting (?), a bit of dumbification, miguel's nano-suit in action!

wc: ~1.7k

a/n: this is my submission for @romana-after-dark's dead dove december event!

masterlist

---

Despite the obnoxious number of pillows, blankets, and stuffed animals on your bed, your body is completely uncovered. A sweet scene reserved for his eyes only.

You're curled up with your shirt shoved up to your chest, displaying your barely there panties that cling to your curves. Your body shivers unconsciously as a shadowed form cascades over your sprawled figure. He steps closer, his broad body blocking the moonlight that streams in through the window.

So unsuspecting. So…pure.

You nuzzle your face into your pillow with a sleepy sigh, body soft and relaxed, completely unaware of his presence. His claws dig into his palm as he holds himself back from touching you.

You've always been a tease, showing up to work with those naive eyes and sweet smiles. More than once, your fingers have brushed against his as you shyly handed him a cup of coffee, mumbling an adorable, "For you, Dr. O'Hara", before scurrying away.

Red eyes glow as you move to lay on your back, legs falling apart to show him how the fabric of your underwear presses perfectly against the softness of your cunt. Your arms lazily stretch above your body, resting against the mess of your hair on the pillow. He seethes at the sight of your tits, barely shielded by your t-shirt.

You want this.

He's sure of it.

You're practically begging for it with how sweet you smell.

A hand lightly brushes against your abdomen, moving methodically so the sudden touch doesn't accidentally wake you. A finger hooks the underside of your shirt and tugs it over the curve of your tits, revealing your pebbling buds to the cool air. Sensitive.

He swallows down a groan as he captures a tit in his hand and softly squeezes the soft mound. You arch your back against his thumb as it barely flicks over your nipple and a soft whimper slips from your pouty lips against your pillow.

His other hand palms over his covered cock as it throbs desperately at the sight. Damn, you're a heavy sleeper.

Miguel lets his touch drift lower, teasing at the waistband of your underwear. He traces that cute little bow in the front, a symbol of innocence above a needy cunt. You’re so cute, acting all pure when all you really need is a big cock to fill you up.

Two fingers press gently against your covered folds, prodding where you need him the most. You’re already wet for him, drenching the light fabric with your slick. He lightly tugs the underwear out of the way, needing to feel your sloppy cunt suck around his thick fingers.

Pulsing fangs dig into his bottom lip as he reveals your pussy, glistening so ethereally under the moonlight. He spreads your slick over your folds, mesmerized by the mess as you drip nectar onto the mattress below. God, you’re soaked. Even unconscious, you’re a desperate slut who’d take anything to be filled and bred.

He attempts to push a finger inside of you, tenderly nudging at your entrance until he can ease the tip of his index finger inside your hot core. About halfway in, your body stiffens and your legs instinctively spread apart.

You’re trying to let him in. You’re inviting him.

With more space, it’s easier to push in, to bury his finger until you’re wrapped around him. You feel so good, so wet and hot, perfectly tight around his finger. He can’t wait to feel the vice of your cunt around his cock.

Slowly, he pulls out, staring at the glistening tops of his knuckles, your mark on him. You let out a pretty sigh, so light and pleasurable and real that he’s afraid you woke up, but still you don’t open your eyes.

Miguel pushes back in, just as slow, but this time at an angle. The tip of his finger drags against the top wall of your cunt and your pussy flutters around him. This time you let out a rough moan, involuntary, but so delicious. You’re so responsive to him.

His mouth waters as the heady scent of your lust calls him to coax more pretty sounds and messy slick from your body. He nearly turns you over to shove his cock into you, needing to feel your cunt swallow him until you’re staining your pillowcase with drool and tears.

He needs more. But he also needs you to cooperate.

He leans over the side of the bed and hovers over your figure. His fangs throb under his top lip as he gets closer to you. He brushes your hair to the side, exposing your neck, eyeing the spot where your throat meets your shoulder.

He presses a gentle kiss against your shoulder before laving his tongue against his target area, your sweet taste egging him on. Your body shivers with sensitivity as his hot mouth works over your skin, but you stay asleep. Your lack of awareness gives him the confidence to take the bite.

An involuntary moan rumbles up from his chest as his fangs sink into your soft skin. Miguel has to hold onto your arms before he gets carried away from the feeling. Your head involuntarily tilts to the side to give him more access to your neck as your body throbs, and you groan as a wave of pain, pleasure, and shock fills your senses.

Your eyes flutter open when the bed dips next to you announcing his presence, but all you can see is scarlet eyes staring down with curiosity. Your mind is foggy as you try to sit up, but your body stays flat on the mattress, feeling heavy and helpless.

"Hmn…?"

Miguel coos lightly against your shoulder, “Shh…don’t worry, cariño. I’ll take care of you.”

You recognize that drawl, but you've never heard him so low and rough, “O’H-Hara?” You try to cover yourself with your blanket, slowly moving against whatever is holding you back, but he holds onto your wrist to stop your movements. “Wha–” You choke on your words as a sudden bout of heat spreads throughout your body.

The tingling hot sensation is overwhelming as it settles onto the surface of your skin. It makes your head fuzzy and susceptible.

"Let me help you..." Miguel settles over you and grinds his hips against yours, pinning you against your bed. He's hard against you, thick cock perfectly outlined by the thin fabric of his suit that's barely acting as a barrier between you. Your ruined underwear is still shoved to the side as he ruts himself against your cunt.

"Doctor..." Your body is immediately on fire, reacting mindlessly to his touch. You mewl wordlessly, arching your back and pressing harder against him. You don't know what's happening to your body. All you know is that you need more. "Please." It's a broken plea that leaves your tired lips.

There's an unbearable heat between your legs, but his body prevents you from pressing your legs together and reducing the intense feeling. He squeezes your wrists as you squirm under him, huffing in lustful frustration.

He whispers something above your ear that your scrabbled mind can't decipher, "Suit, Code Zero, Confirm."

But it doesn't really matter what he said when his bare body is finally pressing against you. He doesn't even have to line himself up before his aching cock is rubbing against your dripping folds, tip bumping so softly, yet earth-shatteringly, against your clit. “You don’t have to beg anymore, baby, I’ve got you…”

You cry out when he notches his cock against your entrance. He presses in slowly, letting you feel how completely he stretches you out. Miguel bites back a smile when he feels your legs shake against his hips. "This is what you wanted, isn't it, mi vida?" His voice is nearly a growl with how it drips with darkness.

You nod, eyes blearily searching his, wondering when he'll finally bottom out. Miguel watches your eyebrows scrunch together as you struggle with the intense pressure of him pushing in.

Adorable.

He groans when his hips finally meet yours, filling you to the brim. He doesn't waste time before beginning to move against you, fucking his cock into you over and over until you're eyes are rolling to the back of your head.

He doesn't stay gentle for long, easily losing himself to the feeling of your perfect little pussy wrapped around him. You can hear the distinct sound of his hips smacking against your thighs complimented by his rhythmic sopping jabs as he fucks you baselessly into your mattress.

It's all so much that you don’t even notice the tears that run down the sides of your heated cheeks onto the pillow under your head.

But he does.

"Feels that good, hm?" He teases, "Such a weepy baby. Can't even take a good fucking without cryin'." A raspy groan vibrates against you when your cunt accidentally flutters around him, unable to hold back against the pleasure he's forcing into your body. "Tell me you need me, cariño."

"I--" You try to hold yourself back from the edge, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of playing your body so perfectly, but then he rolls against you so fluidly, hitting that explosive spot inside of you.

"Go on, baby." Miguel encourages, "Say. It." He punctuates each word with a stabbing thrust right where you need him.

"Mngg..." Your cunt tightens impossibly hard around him as white fills your vision. A grated moan is squeezed out of your throat as you reach nirvana, every ounce of energy pushed out in one final bout.

You don't mean to cum, you don't even want to, but you have no control over your body.

You go boneless as he continues to fuck you, harsh strokes against your weak body. "Mm, I’m gonna fill you up so good, cariño." Your body stiffens, quickly pulled out of your temporary state of euphoria from his words, "...Gonna fuck a baby into this pussy so you'll never leave me."

You try to shove yourself out of his hold, but his hold is too strong.

"W-wait, Dr. O--"

"It's Miguel." He growls out.

"Don't -- not inside --" Miguel ignores your pleas, letting go of one wrist to place his hand over your mouth. You can't do anything against his large body as he frantically ruts into you, taking everything he wants and more.

"You want this," He huffs. "You need me, baby. Need to be filled up and taken care of." He gives a few more hard, sloppy thrusts before shoving himself deep inside and painting your cunt with his cum.

#deaddovedecember2023 #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o’hara #miguel o’hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #cw: somno #cw: somnophilia #cw: dub con #em's 123 celebration

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holylulusworld · 11 months ago

Text

Papillon (3) - Caged bird

Title: Papillon (3) - Caged bird

Square 6 filled for @theslumberparty-blog presents bingo (expired): Overstimulation

Written for @anyfandomdarkbingo: Square filled: Criminal AU

Summary: Your secret is out and there is no way out…

Pairing: Mobster!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Warnings/Triggers: possessive Clark, threats, dubcon bordering on non-con, forced proximity, mafia au, dark!Clark Kent, power imbalance, fingering, somnophilia, oral (fem rec), overstimulation, degrading/praise kink, smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, corruption kink, use of plugs/ bondage horse chair, a lil aftercare

A/N: This one kinda got out of hand...👀👀

Words: 2,5k+

Papillon (2) - In his hands

Papillon Masterlist

Please heed the warnings for this chapter before reading it!

“Papillon, I can be kind and only clip your wings, or I’ll crush them…”

He hoists you up, strong hands forcing your legs around his waistline. You hate that you feel like a crushed butterfly in his hold. Clark is not wrong. He can simply end your life with one flick of his wrist.

He crushes you against the wall with his thick and hard body. You’re helpless. Not only because you’re naked while he’s still fully clothed. This bastard does it on purpose to show you who’s in charge.

“I hate repeating myself, Papillon,” he growls against your kiss-swollen lips. Again, he kisses you, harder and more demanding this time. You can feel his erection press against your bare pussy. He rubs himself against you, groaning like a beast. “I’ll ask again, this one time. Whose whore are you from now on?”

You whimper. His cock rubs against your clit, and he’s teasing you with his lips against your neck. Clark bites your neck, adding pain to the pleasure he forces on you while rubbing your clit with his cock.

You’re already breathless, and your mind is a mess. You hate this man; hate everything he stands for. At the same time, he fulfills all of your dark desires.

He lifts his head from your neck, teeth gritted like some animal. Clark looks you straight in the eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. He already knows the answer. With only a few words, he has you tethering on the edge. “Answer me!”

You wrinkle your nose. If you don’t give in, he’ll take what he wants and kill you afterward. But if you take what you want and fulfill your kinks tonight, and pretend to give in you can play the game by your rules.

He’s just another man believing he can take advantage of you. When in reality, you will bring him down. Clark Kent, his organization, and the people breaking your trust.

He curls his upper lip. His eyes fill with anger and he’s about to drop you when you wrap your arms around his neck. You wiggle your hips and rub yourself against his length.

“I’m your whore, Sir,” you breathe the words against his lips. “I always dreamed of a strong man like you taking me like the whore I am. Can you do this for me…Sir.”

His lips crash against yours, and you need to hold back a chuckle. Men are so predictable. Give them a wet cunt to stuff and they’ll purr like a cat for you. “Please fuck me,” you purr between kisses. “I know only you can pound this cunt like a man.”

It’s Clark’s turn to smirk. He holds you against the wall with one strong arm wrapped around your body while his free hand slips between your body. He smacks his cock against your pussy lips, sending a spark through your lower half.

“Do you honestly believe I’ll fall for your lies?” He laughs in your face while slipping the tip in. Clark fills you with one hard and cruel thrust. For only a second he stills his hips to savor the moment of his win over you. “You’ll be good for me either way, Papillon. I don’t care if you want to kill me or not. You and your body are mine from now on.”

You whimper when he starts moving inside of you. Every time he slides back in he looks you in the eyes. You were right. This is a fight for dominance and control. Sadly, Clark won this round. You gave in too easily, believing he’ll make a mistake. Now you are the butt of the joke and get pounded by the worst man you can imagine.

“Sir…” You babble and whine. All you can do is hold tight onto the man you wanted to bring down not hours ago as he fucks you into the wall. He uses all his strength, ramming into you while your back hits the wall.

“Aw, Papillon,” he claims your lips again, tugging at your lower lip, drawing blood. “I’m not a gentle lover. You’ll only get to cum if I decide to let you.”

You shake your head. An orgasm is the last thing on your mind. You want to get this over with and form a new plan. If only his cock wouldn’t hit the right spot.

You hate him… fuck… you hate him … Right?

His forehead presses against yours as he speeds up. Clark rocks your whole body anytime he rolls his hips.

“Fuck, this cunt feels good, Papillon—” He hisses and moves his hands to your thighs, spreading you wider to watch his cock disappear inside your cunt. “Look at you taking my cock like a good girl. A federal agent getting tainted by me.” He smirks when you drop your eyes to watch him slowly fuck into you. “What if I put a bastard in you? I could do it right now.”

“Ngghh…” You whine. How can he know about all of your secret kinks? “I’m on…” You don’t get the words out. Your orgasm hits you as if Clark slapped you again. You’re gushing all over his cock, wetting his length.

“You can deny it as much as you want to…”

You’re suddenly empty, and on your feet again. Disoriented you let him twirl you around to bend you over his desk. He slides right back inside your slicked cunt. Clark’s hands hold you down by your shoulders, his grip bruising.

“You want this, Papillon. A man, taking you how you need it. Someone, protecting you from this cruel world.”

You are babbling incoherent words. Dizzy, and weak you cum again, groaning and wheezing because he doesn’t stop. One of his hands moves between your thighs to slap your clit and pussy lips.

“God…” He does it again, and again until you whimper his name.

“Fuck say my name again!” He growls in your ear. You do it. This is the point of no return. You came on your enemy’s cock and at one point you even begged him to cum inside of you.

Clark roars your real name through his high. He’s still lazily thrusting in and out of you long after you rested your head on the cool surface of the desk. You just lie there, letting him slip out of your cunt to shove his cum back inside.

“Stuffed with my spunk,” he kisses your shoulder before biting it again. He leaves an angry mark, but you’re too out of it to care. “I’ll get you something nice to keep it inside…”

You let him move your body onto the leather couch in the room. He bends you over the furniture and spreads your thighs. Clark opens a drawer. You don’t know what he’s up to, but you know, there is nothing you can do about it. You’re at his mercy.

“You’ll love it, Papillon.” You hear him rummage in the drawer for a moment before he kicks the couch with his foot. “Don’t fall asleep yet.” He grunts, and then something presses against your cunt. “Open up for me one last time.”

Clark laughs when you try to wiggle away. “No more…”

“Aw, poor Papillon. There will be lots, lots more.” He slaps your ass meaningly. “No fighting me. I want to make you even prettier.” This time he slips a vaginal plug inside your cunt. “A pretty rose-shaped vaginal plug for my Papillon. This will keep my cum inside of you, and make it bloom.“

Clark laughs at his bad wordplay. He admires your cunt stuffed with the plug, humming to himself.

“Next time, we will stuff both holes. What do you say?”

“Do you want me to get rid of her?” Jimmy looks at your naked form still lying on the couch. Clark didn’t cover your body. He enjoyed watching you sleep peacefully with your pussy still stuffed with the vaginal plug. “Boss?”

Clark furrows his brows. He’s staring at your cunt again, hand cupping his jaw to rub his scruffy chin. “Did you get the cat and the shit I told you to?”

“Uh-the cat is in the guestroom, her shit too,” Jimmy glances at your ass. “Do you want to keep her? She’s a federal agent.”

“She’s mine,” Clark flicks his wrist dismissively. He looks Jimmy straight in the eyes, making sure he knows that you belong to him now. “Tell them all, her holes are mine. No one touches or even looks at her. I decide when it’s time to kill her.”

“Got it, boss,” Jimmy hastily makes his way out of the room. He stared at your naked ass for a little too long and fears, Clark will kill him for it.

“Hmm…that’s a good pussy.”

You feel something wet lapping at your cunt. Oddly, you can’t move, or wiggle away. Your eyelids are heavy as you try to fight the heaviness in your body and the sleep holding you in a tight grip.

You groan and finally snap your eyes open only to find Clark between your legs. His mouth on your overstimulated flesh. He suckles at your clit while shoving three long fingers inside of you.

“Ah, finally awake?” Clark only stops eating you out to smirk at you.

“What are you doing?” You’re already breathless when you look at him between your legs. “What?” You look at your ankles and then at your wrists. Clark spread your legs wide and restrained your ankles and wrists to the bedposts.

“I told you.” He smirks darkly before biting your clit, making you jolt up the bed, “there will be lots more. I got bored waiting for you to wake up and decided to prepare you for round two.”

“You’re insatiable,” you try to close your legs because your overstimulated flesh is thrumming. “I need a break.”

“You need a cock and someone teaching you respect!” He grunts and pushes his fingers deeper into you. “Maybe I should just use you and gag you. I’m done listening to your lies.”

His eyes drop to his fingers inside your cunt. He curls them, earning a whine from you.

“Please…”

Clark slips his fingers out of you. You already came twice while being out cold and he knows, you’re ready for more.

“I got a better idea.” He suddenly moves away and slips out of the bed to remove the restraints. You dare not to move until he grabs your waist to drag you out of the bed. “You don’t deserve to get fucked on my bed yet. A whore like you needs to feel me in her bones.”

You get pushed through a door; ending up on a plush carpet. Your eyes round, and you whimper. This is not a wardrobe, it’s a sex dungeon.

“Welcome to my playroom,” he laughs when you look at the breeding bench, and the bondage horse chair standing in the middle of the room.

He follows your eyeline, laughing as you wiggle lightly. “Aw, we get to that one.” He points at the wooden padded St Andrews Cross. “We will get you there, Papillon. I’ll break you down to nothing and turn you into my perfect slut.”

He grasps for you, helping you stand only to push you onto the bondage horse chair. Your legs quiver, but slick runs down your thighs.

He’s the epitome of a ruthless mobster, but at the same time, he’s the fulfillment of your wet dreams.

You don’t fight Clark when he restraints your ankles and wrists. It’s a lost cause, and you hate to admit it, you’ve never been more turned on.

“Perfect,” he hums, satisfied with your submissive behavior. For a moment, he toys with your clit and pussy lips. “I love to fuck your holes. How about I give this underused cunt another load?”

It’s not a question. Clark already shoves himself inside your hungry cunt, groaning as you clench tightly around him. “I should eat that cunt while you’re out cold more often. It makes you so compliant.

You grit your teeth when he cups the back of your neck to force you to lift your head to look in one of the large mirrors on the wall.

“You will watch me fuck you. That’s all you’re good for, Papillon. I have your life in the palm of my hand.” He starts thrusting in and out of you. His hands grip your waistline hard enough to bruise. Clark smirks at you, holding your gaze in the mirror while ruining your abused hole all over again.

His hips move at a maddening pace, punching every strength left in you out of your body. You whimper and moan, but glare at him in the mirror. He cannot know that you’re about to come all over him again.

“Yeah, I know you try to fight the tidal wave, Papillon,” he growls your name and speeds up. His hips crash into your ass, leaving bruises there without a doubt. All you can do is watch him having a blast fucking you like a whore over one of his toys. “If you wonder, I got this nice bondage horse chair after seeing you for the first time. I knew I’d ride you like a needy mare one day."

You grit your teeth in disgust. That vile asshole planned on fucking you all along. “Fuck you.”

“I’m on it, my little federal agent. And there will be lots of fucking, Papillon. You’ll soon find out that I got a lot of stamina and hunger,” he leans over your body, now jerking his hips into your ass with quick but deep thrusts. “This cunt is mine, baby. You will never need another cock because this is where I belong. Inside your needy holes.”

Times flew by, or so you believe. Clark forced you to cum on his cock thrice before he finally slipped out of you. After he was done, he once again, shoved the vaginal plug inside your sore cunt.

Clark cooed gentle words when he carried your limp and weak body out of the playroom. This time, he showed mercy and prepared a warm bath.

He joined you in the tub, of course, he did. Not only to toy with your breasts and mark your neck with his teeth some more but to make sure you’re not doing anything stupid.

“Hmm…so soft and nice when you’re fucked dumb.” If not for his crude words, you could’ve enjoyed the warm water and that he ran the sponge over your body. “I knew you’re the perfect choice. Tomorrow, you will tell me everything you know about your boss, your colleagues, and your role in all of this.”

Your head lolls back, and you rest it against his shoulder. Clark is right. For the first time, you’re too exhausted to even argue. You can think about a plan to bring him down tomorrow, while you’re not still fighting the afterglow of your orgasms.

He runs his hand over your chest, groping you lightly while whispering praises in your ear. You know what he’s doing. Clark tries to coax you into submission after he fucked you raw.

Talking about carrot and stick… and he's got a fucking big carrot dangling in your face.

“Hmm…you’re so good for me, Papillon,” he makes you sigh, and you hate yourself for it. “You will be even better for me with time…”

Tags in reblog.

#clark kent #clark kent x female reader #dark!fic #clark kent x reader #clark kent x you #Papillon (3) - Caged bird #mafia au #smut #clark kent smut #dub-con

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zoeykallus · 2 years ago

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smh i cannot believe i missed your first maul hc post 🤤

haha omg maul waking in on fem reader doing “self care!” and if you can, a version where fem reader has to seduce maul and another version where maul has to seduce fem reader? (if that is too much, just pick the scenario you like best.)

Aloha!

I'm so sorry for the late response! These days I can barely find time to write. Most of the time, I write at nights when I'm supposed to be sleeping 😅 Which is good and bad. My creative side is wide awake at night, much more so than during the day. The downside is, I don't get nearly enough sleep, I might get mistaken for a zombie and catch a headshot some day. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Okay, enough excuses and crying over spilled milk.

If you don't mind, I really like the idea of Maul walking in on fem!reader doing self-care. He needs to punish her, of course.

Maul x fem!Reader Oneshot - Bad Girl

Warnings: Smut/Sexual Content/Dub-Con/PiV/Toy Use/Dom Maul/ Sub Reader/Cunnilingus/18+

________________________

These days, Maul is on the road a lot again. You don't know exactly what he does, he doesn't talk much about his missions, the things he does. In any case, you haven't had any intimate contact for a long time. You are ravenous, Maul is on the road again, and you take the opportunity. You have completely undressed, naked self-care just feels better. With one hand you caress and massage your breasts, play with your nipples, the other hand wanders between your thighs. Your fingers dance over your clit. It feels good, always close to the edge, but somehow not close enough. Something is missing. You grab your favorite dildo, a custom one you had secretly made, it's modeled after Maul's cock, with the same nubs, and ridges. A cheeky smile is on your lips. You touch the dildo, it feels deceptively real, in excited anticipation, juices gather in your pussy. You place the dildo on your wet entrance as your fingers continue to rub over your clit. "I've been a bad girl," you say softly as you begin to push the lifelike dildo inside of you. It feels so good, so relieving, almost real. This is it, this is what you've been missing. With a moan, you drop your head back on the sofa cushion and start moving the dildo between your slick walls.

But then you hear something, it sounds like a growl. You lift your head in surprise. Maul is standing in the middle of the room, staring at you, his gaze gloomy, hard to interpret.

You haven't even heard him coming in. He stands there with his natural crown of horns, his eyes like a burning ember.

Startled, you tear the blanket off the back of the sofa and want to cover yourself, but Maul darts over to you and snatches the blanket from you, throwing it carelessly behind him. You lie there, naked, with the dildo in your pussy, heart racing as he stands over you. He examines you, his gaze falling between your legs. "I guess you couldn't wait for me to come back?" he growls. You swallow, searching for your voice, and finally say, "You've been gone so much lately, it's been a long time since we've.... well-" He interrupts you, "And you thought you were cheating on me with a piece of plastic?" You blink. "Cheating?" you ask, confused. He points to the piece of dildo sticking out of your wet pussy. "Yes, cheating. Or is that my cock in your pussy?" Again you blink in confusion. You know that Maul is prone to jealousy, very much so, but jealousy of a dildo is not what you expected.

"Well, it's basically your cock," you say meekly. He frowns, kneels on the sofa between your legs and grabs the bottom of the dildo, pulling it out a bit, eliciting a small moan from you. His gaze shoots back up to your face. You look at him shyly, cheeks heated. Finally, he looks back down, at the dildo, turning it a little inside your pussy to see more of it. You have to bite your lower lip to keep from moaning again. "That one really looks like mine," he murmurs thoughtfully. He looks back up into your face, a teasing smirk on his face. "Well, in that case," he says, sliding the dildo back in. Your mouth pops open, and you can't hold back the moan. You hear him laugh softly. "While we're at it.... what's that?" He spots the vibration switch, turns it on, eliciting a sweet little sound from you. His grin widens, and he increases the vibration level, all the way up. "Oh gods," you squeeze out, feeling like your whole body is being shaken.

"If you're going to do it, do it right," he says, amused. He lies down between your legs, grips your thighs tightly with his hands, and his mouth descends on your clit. He sucks on it while his tongue slides wildly over it, circling, applying pressure. "Fuck... Maul..." You can't even manage to form complete sentences anymore, the vibration in connection with his tongue play is just too much. You're literally racing towards the edge. His tongue is so fast and deft, the dildo filling you vibrates wildly between your slick walls. You long for the climax, but you're also a little afraid of it. You know he will overstimulate you mercilessly, that's his way of punishment. But you can't stop it, your orgasm lets out a loud moan from your lungs, rolls over your whole body like a wave and makes your thighs quiver. But he doesn't stop. His tongue dances wildly on your swollen, overstimulated clit, the dildo continues to vibrate in your pussy. You moan, twitching, trembling in his hard grip that is sure to leave marks. "Maul... please... no more..."

He waits a few more seconds until he gives in to your pleading. Maul sits up, jerks the dildo out of your pussy, which elicits a surprised sound from you. He doesn't turn the dildo off yet, though. He just puts it aside for a moment, grabs your hips, and flips you onto your stomach. "Spread it," he murmurs. You spread your legs for him as instructed. Maul slides the dildo under your pussy so the toy vibrates right against your clit. You start to twitch again, still overstimulated, but he puts his hand just above your butt on your lower back, pushing you down, onto the dildo. You let out a squeak, and you know he's smiling with satisfaction right now. One leg on the floor, one knee on the sofa, he kneels right behind your bare ass. With his free hand, he opens his pants, freeing his now hard, thick cock. He gives you a good slap on the butt, not aggressive, almost tender. "My bad girl," he says, laughing softly.

In the position, pressed by him into the sofa, naked in front of him, about to finally receive the real cock, your arousal picks up momentum again. Then you feel his tip bumping against your opening, slowly plunging between your slick walls. He penetrates you completely. Maul pauses there a moment with a growl, deep from his chest, he can feel the vibration of the toy as well. "Interesting," he says softly. Then he gets going, his hips starting to thrust back and forth, faster and faster. His pelvis keeps hitting your buns loudly, the clapping fills the room. He now has both hands on your hips, pushing you towards his thrusts and down onto the vibrating dildo as he does so, his balls touching the toy and causing a surprising rush.

His fingers dig into the flesh on your hips as he fucks you harder and harder. You bite into the pillow on which your head has been lying before, your fingers claw into the fabric of the sofa. Your saliva wets the pillow, your eyes roll back. The moment his warm cum spurts into your cleft, your walls twitch around his grooved cock, your orgasm pulsing sweet and heavy through your swollen pussy as he fills you. Both of you are breathing heavily. Slowly, Maul lets go of your hips, you can feel that he has left bruises there. He bends over you, kisses the spots and says, "I had to punish you". You can live with this kind of punishment, you think to yourself silently. But you know Maul knows full well that you like it. He gets you some wipes, so you can clean yourself up, then he says, "Get ready, we're going out tonight." "You're taking me out?" you ask with a smile. He rolls his eyes, but then he also smiles and says, "You're right, I've been out a lot, leaving you alone for too long."

Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)

@rintheemolion

@andyoufollowyourheart @clone-whore-99

@brynhildrmimi @kaliel2310

@misogirl828 @tech-deck

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#star wars #maul #darth maul #maul x reader #darth maul x reader #smut #maul smut #darth maul smut #star wars smut #maul x reader smut #sith #sith lord #asks #requests #suggestive #dub-con #zabrak

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fuzzygoblin · 1 month ago

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You Belong to Me

He'll never be able to make you feel like this. All of Heaven can witness that you are mine.

CW: Dubious Consent, Smut, Biting, Marking

for @ladybracknellssherry

View the full Explicit NSFW artwork here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/65208367

@goodomensafterdark

#good omens fanart #Gabeley #Gabriel/Crowley #Crowley/Gabriel #Angst #Smut #Dub-con

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im-immortal · 3 months ago

Text

drop-kick cherry pie // a depraved bethyl one-shot

drop-kick cherry pie beth greene/daryl dixon explicit dub-con season 3 canon-divergent

gifted for @ryisbread

please mind the tags!

She frowned, reaching out and gingerly wrapping her fingers through the chainlink. She was still staring down at the mess. “How does that… even happen?” He shrugged. “Jus’ does. All’a sudden, it overtakes ‘em. Rips ‘em apart, runs right over ‘em, pulls ‘em apart piece by piece. Ever seen somebody trampled before?” She didn’t look up or turn her head to meet his eyes, but her voice was weaker, quieter, almost frightened: “No.” Jesus. She was so fucking innocent. So oblivious and naïve. So untouched by the filth of the world. So untouched by the filth of men like him. “Well, funny thing is, it all looks ‘bout the same. Like some… I’ono, like some drop-kick cherry pie.” Daryl has urges he simply cannot resist any longer. And Beth just so happens to be the one fueling those urges.

#bethyl fanfiction #dub-con #beth greene #daryl dixon #daryl dixon pov #obsession #pervert!daryl dixon #morally gray #one-shot #smut #almost pwp #ao3

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boolger · 1 year ago

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I’m dangerous ☆ chapter 4 ☆ COD fanfic

Originally posted on my AO3, where I post all my stuff. Always read the tags of my fanfics. MDNI

[Chapter 1] ☆ [chapter 2] ☆ [chapter 3] ☆ [chapter 4] ☆ [chapter 5] ☆[chapter 6]☆[chapter 7]

☆ fem!reader x Kate Laswell ☆ explicit. MDNI. ☆ 4/10 ☆ 2,204 words

☆ Summary: You were a hacker and had been a thorn in the side of the 141 gang for a while, in particular as you tried to find out who the famous leader, Watcher, was. But they refuse to be blackmailed and won’t pay you.

So, to prove that you weren’t just bluffing, but were a serious threat to them, you kidnapped a random woman that you saw coming out from one of their meetings, figuring she was a secretary or girlfriend or something.

Oh, how wrong you were.

☆ Tags: au mob, gang, kidnapping, blackmailing, dub-con, angst, smut, death, grief/mourning, hacking, non-con drug use, bondage, spanking, kissing, rough sex, inaccurate portrayal of mob, more will be added.

The way your body felt sore made you want to go back to sleep, before you even opened your eyes. You were laying on something soft, but there was a weight upon you - and you had an awful headache.

That’s what happened when you got choked out and then drugged later, you supposed. This whole thing was getting more and more dangerous - and not in a way you liked, because you weren’t in control. Had this been a video game you would have either reloaded your safe from before you kidnapped Kate - or straight up just closed the game down.

The weight upon you moved a little.

Your eyes flew open.

Kate Laswell was above you… above you. To be more exact, she was sitting on your hips and lower stomach, an amused expression on her face. Like a cat, waiting for the mouse to realise it was doomed.

A small sound left you. Hadn’t you found out that she was a literal mob boss, you might have been so fucking horny right now. But the shock and fear kept that from you… for now.

Your arms were stretched above you in the bed, handcuffs wrapped around your wrists, connected to metal bars at the headboard. You pulled at them and the headboard didn’t budge one bit.

“The boys said you didn’t really break, Fae,” she mused, “that’s good. Makes me like you more.”

You blinked slowly, still feeling a little groggy.

“What’s happening?” You asked.

Kate grinned.

“I’m keeping you - for a little while at least. It’s been a while since I’ve been kidnapped and it was a pleasant experience. Besides, I still need some information from you.”

You groaned, closing your eyes again. This was so weird. In a way, you hoped this was just a drug induced dream.

“Don’t close those eyes on me, sweet thing,” Kate mused, gently tapping your cheek, “I’m not going to hurt you… much anyways.”

You weren’t sure that helped at all, but you still opened your eyes again.

“I was nice to you,” you argued.

“Yeah - and a shitty kidnapper.”

“So, you should let me go. They already threatened to kill me.”

“Aww, they did? Cute. But no no, I’m not letting you go. You still kidnapped me after all and I-“ she leant forward, each of her hands going on the sides of your head, bringing you closer, “- don’t like being kidnapped, whether the experience is good or not. Ruins my planning, you see? Now I’m behind on everything.”

You felt hot beneath her, you blood reaching boiling temperature soon, not from anger - no no, from being turned on.

“I - listen I’m sorry,” you whispered, not liking how your voice shook a little, “I didn’t know who you were.”

“No, I know darling. But I need you to be a good girl, yeah?”

The heat in your body decided to divide into two parts: one part went to your face, the other to your cunt. How the fuck did those two words cause such a reaction to your body? And from the sight of Kate above you, she was realising it too.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but was cut off by knocking on the door. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or not.

“What?” She called out, clearly annoyed by the interruption. The door opened and a handsome black man stepped in - who took one look at you and Laswell on top of you, before smiling as if this wasn’t an awkward moment. “Got a phone call ma’am. Alex says it’s important.”

If you weren’t wrong, that was Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick. Handsome bloke but just as dangerous as all the others.

Kate Laswell, the unknown mob boss of one of the biggest mobs in London, made no move to get off you , merely sat up straight again - and you were pretty sure you wanted to die of embarrassment as the man merely walked up to the two of you and offered the phone to Laswell. His eyes met yours then and you instantly looked away, turning your head. You moved a little beneath her, somewhat hoping it would annoy her and get her to go away. Instead it earned you a sharp slap on the cheek, while Kate continued to speak on the phone, without a change in her voice. She just sent you a look and you stilled beneath her, ignoring the man’s chuckle.

“Well, then bring them all here, Alex. I don’t think anyone will be bothered.”

You wanted to die of shame. A weirdly erotic death, with a beautiful strong woman above you, whose slap made you want to cry and moan at the same time.

A moment later, Kate gave back the phone. “Thank you, Gaz. Ask if he and Farah need help, okay?”

“Yes ma’am.” He turned around as he added, “Have fun ma’am.”

“Watch it, Garrick.”

As the door closed, her attention was immediately back on you. One of her hands went to your cheek she had slapped just a minute ago, gently caressing it. “I’m sorry, Fae, didn’t mean to hit you but you were distracting me.”

It was a really shitty apology for hitting you, you knew. But… this was what slightly confused you, the way she softened when you were alone. Hell, she was nicer when kidnapped and alone with you. It could have been all pretend, a big strong feline pretending to be a friendly kitten.

You didn’t answer her apology with anything but a little whimper, instead pulling on the chain connected to your cuffs and trying to move your legs to push her off.

She just laughed, somehow staying seated in your lap, her weight pressing down on top of your soft stomach.

“Calm down sweetheart, don’t make me tie you up some more,” she said with a grin, giving you a gentle pat just beneath your neck.

Right now, you felt everything but dangerous. You felt weak and cornered, tired after passing out twice in one day, wearing shorts and a T-shirt, with a beautiful mob boss on top of you. If chaos was supposed to be your friend, you wished to remain lonely again. You should have kept to hacking, anyways.

“I only had you for like - I don’t know 15 hours? And you weren’t even chained up in most of those!” You tried to argue, looking up at her with what you hoped was a pleading look, while Kate looked down at you, with a more, almost amused expression.

“Yeah but this is also about proving a point darling. Can’t have just anybody go around, thinking they can kidnap me.” She leant forward, her hand gently touching your cheek, before pinching it, “so you my Fae, will stay with me for at least two weeks. If I don’t kill you before, that is.”

“Two weeks?” You squeaked, as if that was the part you should be upset about in that sentence.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

She left you not too long after - letting you out of the cuffs, telling you that the room and bathroom was open for you to roam in. But if she found out you stepped even one step outside it, she would punish you.

A part of you was curious about said punishment - but the rest of you knew it was stupid to push your luck.

You didn’t really know what to do when finally left alone. You had found ways to entertain Kate when she was in your… given, odd kidnap situation but now you were fully left alone.

Perhaps you should have tried the door or something - yet the first thing you began to do, was to go through the entire room in the search for electronics.

Anything to keep your mind occupied, to keep the nagging fear of what was going to happen away.

Maybe you would see Alice again, your mind offered, was the offer of death not a gift if you’re met by your sister in the darkness? You were roaming through some drawers - and while not finding any electronics, you did found some interesting documents about shipments of —

“Don’t think you’re supposed to be lookin’ into that.” A female voice cut in, almost making you stumble backwards.

A woman stood in the door, calmly staring at you. Farah Karim if you weren’t wrong. You didn’t know too much about her, but you had seen her enough times to recognize her - her name appearing on files you had gotten your hands on while hacking. She was holding a book, but not looking too happy.

A man behind her, leant to the side to get a look at you too. Alex Keller if you weren’t wrong. You knew a little more about him - he was a former army man, amputee and mentioned in several different articles about –

“We were told to give you this,” the woman said , stepping in and putting down a familiar looking book on the table, “now stop fuckin’ looking through things that aren’t yours, idiot.”

You stood there, blinking as the door closed again sharply. Alex mumbled something about telling Kate, which made you wince. Not really what you needed.

The door locked once more.

You stepped over to the table, abandoning the drawer - and sure enough. You knew that book.

Your own Romeo and Juliet was right there on the table, which meant Laswell had made one of them pick it up specifically for you. You opened it to page 8 and yes, there was the coffee spot from 6 years ago.

You remembered the look of annoyance on Kate’s face when you had given her the book to read. Perhaps this was some sort of pay back.

Bloody shame for her that you loved this stupid book.

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

As hours passed, you grew bored. The room had several things you wanted to snoop around in, but you had also spotted a video camera in the corner. It didn’t look towards the bed though, so you could sit there in peace.

The only window in the room could be opened, sure, but an alarm immediately went off — to which you panicked and slammed the window shut. Then the alarm stopped again. So a censor of a sort, you concluded. Wonderful. You could find out how to turn that off though, but it was quite a jump down into some bushes that you didn’t particularly feel like doing in shorts and T-shirt. None of Kate’s clothes fit you, so sure, you could steal one of those oversized expensive sweaters in her closet, but it would do you much good anyways.

You did, however, decide to get bolder after a while. Armed with a couple of bobby pins and a nail scissor from the bathroom, you went to work on the door to the hallway. You had seen a YouTube once, you knew how to do. How hard could it be?

After twenty seconds, the door opened - not because you managed to get the lock open, because one John Soap MacTavish opened it from the outside, looking at you with a bored expression. You stood up immediately, hands behind your back, as if you weren’t just caught in the act.

“Listen bonnie lass, it’s nae gonna work - ye are just wasting both our times. Can ye just… not?”

You nodded at him, and a smile grin appeared.

“Good lass. Need anythin’?”

“A lift home perhaps?” You gave it a shot but he just laughed.

“Ye’re a cute one, lass. But nah, cannae do that.” He answered, “Now go sit and behave, yeah?”

You did so, listening to the door close and lock again, letting out a deep sigh as you sat down on the bed.

When Kate opened the door half an hour later, you were asleep again, unable to see her angry expression.

#fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #my writing #boolger #call of duty #call of duty fanfic #cod reader #call of duty kate laswell #kate laswell x reader #kate laswell #mdni #fanfic mdni #cod fanfic #dub-con #mobster cod au

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antigone-ks · 11 months ago

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Nell'oscurità, Rosetta

**Heed the warnings & tags. This is not a romance. This is dark**

Summary:

“It’s been weeks since we were near a city and the fellas need to relax. They’re going to if she’s willing, unless you tell them not to. Just figured you might want first crack.”

“Does she look willing to you?”

Bucky gazes at the woman, winks when she meets his eye. She doesn’t smile, but she doesn’t look away. “There’s willing and then there’s willing, Steve,” he says, and Steve is forcibly reminded that Bucky’s spent a lot more time here, a lot more time in a war zone, and he might be intimately familiar with all the things Steve’s barely imagined.

He's a soldier, just like all the rest, and a GI knows the value of a can of C-rations when he wants some attention.

**Heed the warnings & tags**

Rating: E for explicit and dark

Warnings: dubious consent

Tags: Steve Rogers/Original Female Character(s); Steve Rogers; James "Bucky" Barnes; Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan; Gabe Jones; Jacques Dernier; basically all of the Howling Commandos/original female character; but everyone except Steve is offscreen; Dubious Consent; Extremely Dubious Consent; Sexual Coercion; Rape/Non-con Elements; non-con sex work; Period Typical Attitudes; period typical attitudes about sex; period typical attitudes about STIs; which is to say not entirely accurate or polite; sex in wartime; Virgin Steve Rogers; Angst

Nell'oscurità, Rosetta

They’re three weeks out, not even the full squad. Just Steve and Bucky, Jones, Dugan, and Dernier, traipsing across the Italian countryside looking for a small but vital Hydra cell.

They’ve found nothing.

Literally almost nothing. Farms abandoned where the folks had refugeed out, some livestock, and not a trace of Hydra. Steve wonders if this is a wild-goose chase, if Colonel Phillips is messing with him for some reason.

Then they’d found the little farm, with a woman and three girls. The woman had brandished a pistol at them; the girls had run inside. Steve had put his hands up, then pulled off the cowl so he wouldn’t look like a masked intruder. “Pace, pace,” Bucky had shouted, “niente male,” which Steve thought probably wasn’t even correct, but seemed to do the trick. The girls had stayed inside, but the woman had let them get as close as the well. After watching them splash for a while and slip back into their wrung-out undershirts, she’d brought out some old linens to dry with, and finally let them into the house.

Now Steve can hear Dernier, in his classroom Italian, and Bucky, with his backstreet lingo, asking careful questions and reciting the answers in a mix of English and French. There were soldiers here a week ago, the woman says, Germans, moving north. No, nothing special about them. Just more Germans – maledetti, she says fiercely, damned. She describes their uniforms under Dernier’s patient questioning, and Steve feels the tension release before frustration rises again. Not Hydra, and good, and then where the hell are they? No one else has come near the little farm since, until the Howlies got there.

They each turn out a can of C-rations, meat stew with vegetables, and Bucky gets Dernier to ask if she’ll cook for them. He turns on the ol’ Bucky charm, even with the few polite words he knows. Steve hears bella signora and sees the woman stiffen, then relax as she understands what they want. It’s just been so long since they had home cookin’, ma’am, and they’re glad to share rations with the little family if it means they can sit around a real dinner table like human beings. Steve imagines Bucky would have thrown in a “shucks” if he’d thought the woman would understand it.

She adds in a splash of wine and some green herbs Steve doesn’t recognize to the rations. One of the girls helps, sliding around the edge of the room warily until Gabe gets an odd look on his face and suggests they all move to the fireplace. When they’re all gathered, all on one side of the room, the girl moves more surely, more quickly. Steve glances at Gabe, questioning.

“Out of arms’ reach,” he mutters, and Steve feels something twist in his stomach.

Of course.

The woman starts filling bowls and setting them on the little table, and Steve gets Dernier to tell her to go eat with her girls; the men can fill their own bowls. The table is too small for all of them, so he and Dugan sit on the floor, bowl balanced in his hands. It’s the best damned thing Steve’s ever eaten.

He and Dugan do the washing up, waving the woman away. She bundles the girls upstairs, hurrying them along in a clatter of feet and whispers and the scrape of furniture moving across the floor when the door closes. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, watching the men sprawling around her sitting room from under her lashes, and Dernier begins a soft conversation that doesn’t seem to put her at ease.

She isn’t young, but isn’t old, still a handsome woman. Her dark hair is smooth, with no touch of gray, and her face is only gently lined. Steve wonders why he noticed, and catches Bucky watching him. Bucky leans against the little sink and keeps his voice low.

“What do you think, Stevie?”

“About what?” Bucky rolls his eyes like Steve ought to know, then tilts his head toward the woman.

“Not bad. Bet she was real pretty a few years ago.”

Beside him, Dugan makes an agreeable noise, and Steve’s eyes dart between him and Bucky. He feels like Bucky is sizing him up, like he’s some punk in a back alley who doesn’t understand what’s about to go down, who’s stepped in the middle of something that –

“Buck, no.” He forgets to whisper, and everyone’s head turns toward him. Bucky grabs him by the arm.

“It’s been weeks since we were near a city and the fellas need to relax. They’re going to if she’s willing, unless you tell them not to. Just figured you might want first crack.”

“Does she look willing to you?”

“They’re short on food, and we got plenty of rations,” Dugan says, low. “She can get to a town, cigarettes’ll bring in some good money, too.”

Are they all . . .?

“There’s five of us!” he hisses. Bucky stares at him

“You never went to a park in Rome after dark, did’ya?”

“Did you – no, nevermind.” Steve shakes his head. “Why d’you think I want in on this?”

“Gotta get your pickle wet sometime, Stevie. Better you do it like this first, so you don’t embarrass yourself in front of a gal you like.” Bucky winks at him, and Steve thinks of Peggy, all dark eyes and hair and a chest he just wants to burrow into and wonders if she knows about this, that this kind of thing goes on. What would she think of him? But she’s been here, too. She’s been here almost as long as Bucky, and even if you don’t talk about it in front of nice ladies, they always seem to know what men get up to. She sure as hell knows more than Steve does.

And she’s practical, like Bucky. She might agree with him.

That’s just rationalizing, and Steve ought to be ashamed of it, but something else is crowding out that shame.

She’s still a pretty woman, whatever Bucky said, dark eyes and hair, and if her figure is thicker than don’t even think her name, not like this than some other women, Steve has always appreciated the female form in all its variety.

He could.

He could do it, and he’d be real decent to her, and Dugan is right about the rations and cigarettes.

“Yeah,” he says, letting go of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “Yeah, okay.”

His hands are shaking already when he reaches into his pack, and – “How – how many?”

“At least two,” Bucky says promptly, and Steve’s head whips up accusingly. He shouldn’t know this. Bucky shrugs. “You could get it for one in Rome. Probably could here, too.” He looks Steve in the eyes, almost defiant, but his voice is gentle. “She’s got kids, though, and her man’s gone.” Steve takes out four M-units, thinks for a minute, and adds a B-unit with the candy, and two packs of Chesterfields. Someone snorts. He ignores them.

At last he looks up. The woman stands silently, looking fixedly at a spot on the floor. Her hands are shaking, clenched on the fabric of her skirt. Steve puts the rations – his payment – on the table.

“Jacques?”

Dernier speaks carefully, picking over the words, and Steve hears vergine and ragazzo dolce and then non preoccupare, as he sits down at the foot of the stairs, starò qui.

At last she moves, coming swiftly down the steps past Dernier. She opens a door off the sitting room and jerks her head at Steve. He swallows hard and follows. As the door closes, he hears Dugan asking who brought the cards.

It’s a dark little low-ceilinged room, barely large enough to hold the bed, and Steve feels like a giant banging his shins on the metal bedstead. There’s a bit of light coming from the window, and he can make out the woman moving around to the other side. She gestures at a lamp.

“Sì.”

A match flares, the lamp catches. There’s a quilt on her bed, bright jumbled colors, the most cheerful thing Steve’s seen in weeks. The sight of it makes him feel awful, like an intruder, like he’s about to spoil something sweet and innocent and homey, some inner part of her. He turns toward the door and she’s there, hand on his arm, not quite meeting his eyes. He raises her hand to his lips and watches her eyelashes flutter microscopically, and decides.

But the quilt has to come off.

He folds it carefully and hands it to her, watches as she slides it under the bed. She straightens and starts tugging at the buttons on the front of her dress. Her hands are shaking, it takes some time for each one to come loose, and she’s only halfway down the bodice when Steve steps up and covers her hands with his own.

“Shouldn’t I – I mean, I should do that?” He hates the uncertainty in his voice, and she can’t understand him anyway. They stand, hands together.

“What’s your name?” he asks. He’s doing this all wrong – he should have known her name before he started touching her clothing, touching her bed, or else he shouldn’t care at all. “Your name? I’m Steve.”

The woman lifts her head, stares direct at his ear. “Rosetta.”

“Rosetta.” His breath comes out in a whoosh. “Rosetta, that’s pretty, that’s, that’s real bella.”

Her mouth twitches, and he feels a little better. Maybe this is how he can talk to women – in a language he doesn’t know, after paying them.

“Rosetta,” he says again, and bends his head to hers. His lips brush her cheek; he chases her mouth, frustrated when she turns away. He grips the back of her head, holds her still, feels her struggle as he presses his mouth to hers. Her lips are too firm, unyielding – he thinks of Private Lorraine and runs his tongue against the seam of the woman’s mouth – and feels a spike of irritation when she pushes against his chest. Shouldn’t you know what to do? he thinks, and Are you trying to make this harder?

There’s a piece of him that’s ashamed for it. Jacques told her he’d be nice to her, or sweet, or something like that. Steve steadies his breathing and moves down her neck, mouthing gently, hoping she’ll relax. If she doesn’t, is it him? Is he doing it wrong, or it just that all of this is wrong?

His hands move down to her bodice, hovering. This is it, the farthest he’s gone, and it feels like a point of no return. Like there’s a difference between the kind of necking he’d see at any party and, and . . . his mind goes to petting, which he’d also seen at the less public kind of parties, but now seems like a juvenile way to think of it.

I am going to touch this woman, he thinks, deliberately, and then he does.

She’s so soft, her flesh yielding to him, and he’s hard so immediately, so startlingly, that he goes light-headed. He sways, clutching at her, pulling too hard at her dress. A button pops off and rolls under the bed and –

There’s a knock at the door.

Steve’s head jerks up and he looks at the woman. She meets his gaze for the first time, eyes wide. He half-turns and opens the door a crack to see Gabe holding out a rubber in a paper sleeve.

“Forgot this, Cap,” he says. “She looks clean, but it’s a good habit to get into.”

Steve murmurs his thanks and shuts the door as he hears Gabe say, exasperated, “doesn’t even have her clothes off yet.”

“We got all night, Cap – don’t rush yourself,” Dugan shouts, to general laughter.

He’s too embarrassed about his men to be embarrassed about undressing her, so he supposes he should thank them later for being sons-a-bitches the help. His fingers are big and clumsy, unaccustomed even still to his own damned buttons, and even though he’s not shaking anymore he’s not moving at any appreciable speed. There’s part of him thankful for that, as her dress begins to open and he can see soft, sun-freckled skin appear above her brassiere, and a part of him that wants to see all of that skin, right now.

He kisses the tops of her breasts, one then the other, breath hot and wet against her skin. His arms snake around her waist, move lower, and he’s got a handful of generous backside, holding her against him, rocking against her until he’s gasping and dizzy and half a second away from finishing in his pants. He pulls away with some effort, fumbling at the next few buttons until he can slip the dress down her hips and help her step out of it.

His hand brushes the exposed skin between her brassiere and panties, you’re touching a dame’s panties, and she trembles, breath coming faster. Steve considers for a second, wonders if she’d mind if he – remembers that she can’t mind anything he wants to do to her, and slips his hand between her legs. She jerks, then holds herself stiff and still as his fingers explore the cotton, the heat beneath, as he cups her and presses the heel of his palm against her mound. A tiny tremble ripples through her thighs.

She has to handle the bra; Steve can’t make heads or tails of it. She turns away and does some complicated undergarment magic as he drags her panties down to her ankles and presses his lips to her buttocks. She’s just soft all over, and he could stay crouching at her feet for years if she’d only let him fill his hands with all of her flesh, over and over, touching every inch of her.

But she pulls away and lays down on the bed, and he’s still completely dressed. He’s got his boots on, for Christ’s sake, and she doesn’t seem inclined to help him get out of them. How naked does he need to be? He could just get his . . . get his cock out, it’d probably work like that, and then he could join her on the bed and go back to touching her real quick, but appealing as that is, he wants to feel her skin against his. He remembers to take the rubber out of his pocket and throw it onto the sheets before he starts trying to unbutton his pants and yank his undershirt off at the same time. His trousers catch on his boots, and he swears viciously in front of a lady but it’s okay; she can’t understand, and yet the look on her face says she knows close enough what he’s saying, or maybe she’s just laughing at the way he’s trying to hop out of that last boot.

His heart is pounding like it did before the serum when he’d walked more than a few blocks in the summer heat, and he thinks he ought to be embarrassed, but seeing her smile even a little makes him feel like this is going to be okay, she’s not as scared of him anymore. It’s sobering, though, to realize that having a gal not be real scared of him is his threshold for fucking, and he pushes that thought to the back of his mind.

She trembles when he kneels on the edge of the bed, drags his hand down her body from her throat to her . . . It’s hidden under a thatch of hair, but he knows what’s underneath. He’s seen pictures, and Dugan’s got a stack of Tijuana Bibles big enough keep them alive in a blizzard. He’s just never . . .

The hair looks wiry, but it’s soft as the rest of her, and Steve wants to collapse in gratitude that he’s lived long enough to know what a woman’s . . . what a woman feels like, there. Her legs part, and his fingers find the seam of her. She’s damp, a little, but not enough – she makes a pained little noise when he tries to delve deeper and he pulls back hurriedly.

“Sorry, sorry – despace – dispierto –“ he can’t think of the word, if he ever knew it. Bucky’s told him about third base, about what a gal feels like when she’s really hot to trot, how wet and hot she’s supposed to be when you get your fingers in her, and this isn’t it. She looks at him for a long moment, then seems to come to a decision and tugs his head down to hers.

Oh – oh, yes. Her mouth opens, his tongue dips inside, and his mind sinks into the sensation of her breath, her breasts heavy in his hands, her stomach soft and marked, her thighs generous and welcoming as they cradled him, rubbing against her, tasting the skin of her neck, her breasts, fingers digging into the pliant flesh of her hips, her . . . her, wet and ready at last. He pushes his shorts down his thighs, fumbles with the rubber until she grants him the grace of helping, her small hand on his cock, then on his back, drawing him down into her and

and

and she’s perfect. Whatever he’d expected, whatever he’d thought it would be, this is better. He’s moving against her, inside her, frantically, desperately, mewls of anguish and bliss falling from his lips. Her arms are around him, around his shoulders, her legs splayed out as he drives into her. Her . . . she moves under him, just a little, and he cries out. The pleasure explodes from deep inside, radiating out from his spine, and he shoves deeper and stiffens, a scream caught in his throat. It lasts for hours, feels like his brain is too big for his skull, like his body has exploded into pinpoints of light, and then the world comes rushing back and he gasps for air and collapses on her.

She makes a disgruntled noise and shoves at his shoulders.

Steve flops onto the bed beside her, still panting and half-hard, shrinking inside the rubber. It’s glistening, his brain notes in a haze. Glistening with her juices. He must’ve done it okay, even if he hadn’t done it well, and he rolls over to pull her into his arms and laugh into the crook of her neck.

“Rosetta,” he says, and kisses the side of her face, running his hands along her body until she slaps them away and shoves at him, pushing him off the tiny bed. He catches himself against the wall and turns to pull her back, to kiss her again, to thank her if he can remember how, but she’s shaking as she gathers his clothes, shaking and frantically scrubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands.

He dresses in silence, facing the door, giving her what privacy he can in the little room. She pulls on an old chemise and bundles the rest of her clothing away. She won’t meet his eyes.

Dernier is still sitting on the stairs where he promised he’d be. Someone had given him a book. The others are playing poker in the sitting room. Dugan has two cans of rations and a pack of cigarettes ready, and sets them on the table where she can see. Steve is about to object – she’s upset, she doesn’t want this, this is wrong – but she pulls away from him, sighs and nods, turns back into the bedroom.

The door snicks shut behind him.

He waits for the others to joke, to tease, how was it, Cap? or heard you screaming like a woman, Cap or what the hell did you do to her, Cap?

They give him a look and Jones starts shuffling the cards again.

The air outside is cool, the breeze a comfort against his skin. He sits on the steps, studying the veins in his hands. Light spills across him when the door opens, then disappears, and Bucky drops down beside him.

“So, uh . . .” Bucky is so rarely caught without words, Steve is sure it’s just another symptom of this topsy-turvy night. “So . . .?”

“Her name’s Rosetta,” Steve says, and wipes his eyes.

#steve rogers #steve rogers x original character #dubious consent #dub-con #darkfic #soft dark steve rogers #soft!dark steve rogers #my fanfiction

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preceptorsguineapig · 7 months ago

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TW:ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP, dub con

I like to think when mortis was first started being Megatron pet, that put a lot of strain on her she felt like he was watching every step always telling her what to eat, how feel and what to do..it was getting to her, when she was just a worker It was so much better she had her own space and she loved it but now that taken.

Megatron: have you eaten the food I gave you?

Mortis: I...uhh I didn't enjoy it..I'm sorry so i didn't eat it all.

Megatron: tsk frag I forgot how picky you fleshbags are..

Mortis: :(

Mortis is always scared of how aggressive Megatron is with his peers and her she always feel like she walking on eggshells around the overlord.

*Megatron yelling at starscream*

Megatron: GET OUT OF MY SIGHT YOU UNWORTHY TIN CAN!!

Starscream: y-yes my lord I'll depart.

Mortis: ... :(

Megatron: What with that face pet? CHANGE YOUR FACE I HATE THAT LOOK!

Mortis: ok! Ok.. please don't yell.

Or when they first interface with one other he do forceful sometimes and mortis doesn't know if she even likes it or not so she just let's it happen.

#PGPmortis♡#valveplug #transformers #transformers oc #Dub-con #dark writing

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mrfancyfoot · 11 months ago

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Raphael x Evie (f!OC) | Fic Rating: E/Varied | Chapter 1 on AO3

Chapter 12: Friendfiction "Raphael muses shipping, friendfiction, pet adoption, and dressing up his newest favorite plaything. And otherwise playing like he’s got a bunch of barbies."

Sooo I thought I had this chapter mostly finished when I posted the last one but the tone really bothered me and I had to tear it back apart. And make it way hornier. :)

Coming up next: Raphael snoops through Evie's journal + a scheming incubus.

Please mind the updated story tags on AO3 and see the (many) additional tags/warnings below if needed. ❤️

Ch. Rating: M / NSFW Ch. Word Count: 4.2k Ch. Tags: POV Raphael; Evie; Sleepovers; Gratuitous Character Analysis; A Biiit Angsty; A Devil’s Chaotic Thoughts; Affection-Starved Devil in Denial; Thirsty Devil; Size Difference/Size Kink Ch. Warnings: Non-Consensual, Non-Sexual Touching (by Raphael, Evie is asleep); Raphael’s Increasingly Obsessive Nature; Devil be Creeping; Devil Anatomy; A Devil’s Sexual Fantasies (References only to: Dub-Con, Contract Sex, Cock-Warming, Knotting, Pain, Sex Toys, Branding, Corruption, Servitude)

Read under the cut or on AO3-

Raphael halted to compose himself before he entered his office. Mephistopheles’ consort - an undesired guest plaguing him with demands all day, no doubt at the behest of his father - had been dealt with, though at the cost of the last of his nerves, and it would not do to have his desired guest see him in such a state.

All he yearned to do was step back to a quiet, peaceful evening before wading into the next flurry of work.

Would it have been more prudent to return the fox? Unquestionably.

But he allowed himself to be selfish and reckless.

Just as he had been in the moments of conversation before he left his office, testing the waters with a new proposition he had been mulling. The fox may turn her nose up at it now, but new seeds were sown within that pretty little head. All’s more the pity that they were interrupted before he could further elucidate his vision.

The tea had proven to be a wise decision. The moment her eyes lit up upon spotting the kettle, he knew the lure had set. Watching her wiggle excitedly in her chair while mixing spices with a practiced hand had him regretting turning down her offer of a cup if only to have a taste of her preferred flavor profile in mind.

There would be a next time.

With the prospect of hot tea, sweet words fell from her lips as that tail swayed to and fro - indicative of her approval.

This was what he needed. This was what was missing in the carefully curated order of his House of Hope. That bit of soft. A hedonistic retreat from the day to day - that wasn’t spying on him for his father. Ever more during today’s irksome tribulations did his mind attempt to escape to her. Tormenting debtors and souls had its fun but there was always something in the draw to one yet unbroken by the cruel hand of fate.

Either she miraculously found a way to be rid of the tadpole herself or she would crumble and turn to him for aid at the last moment. He did not believe that she would allow herself to spew tentacles or die when she had so much ahead of her - ambitions he was keen to feed. Although it meant she would have no need of signing that contract, there was a potential worthiness in the act of cleansing herself of the blight.

And an indulgent little thing like her would quickly come to crave what he had to offer in due time when that ambition of hers necessitated rest and results did not come fast enough. There was a determined path ahead, but how would she fare freed upon the busy Gate with naught but her own lofty goals to drive her?

Should he have the Crown of Karsus - and he would - a much busier devil he would be with less time to spend indulging with a little fox that refused to sign his contract, no matter how favored she may be.

Would she come crawling back for quiet respite? For safety? For companionship? For advice?

She would seek him, long for him, hunger for him.

And when that craving became desperation, there he would be with arms thrown wide!

He opened the door and entered, his eyes automatically darting to where he had left her, only to find the table vacant. The words he had prepared died on his tongue. Scowling, his gaze quickly swept the room until he spied her. In his desk chair.

Raphael slowly strode around the desk and stopped to regard her, crossing his arms and leaning his hip against the edge.

She had fallen asleep.

Perhaps he had been kept away longer than he thought.

A flash of irritation boiled through his veins at the time taken from him. His hand rose to send her back to her filthy camp but something occurred to him - a thought most pleasing - staying the action and smoothing the growing wrath from his face.

Curled into the seat of the chair like a pet awaiting her master, the little fox felt comfortable enough - with him, with his House - to allow herself to be so vulnerable. Were he to send her back now, she would simply wake upon her bedroll and think nothing of it! However, should he wait to do so until she stirred once more, she would be forced to consider the implications of her actions.

And he, generous and compassionate host that he was, would happily provide for such a weary guest. After all, he had so rudely stepped out and made her wait on him.

He contemplated the room, searching for anything a hair out of order. His absence was plenty time to allow for mischief. A spell cast and he retraced her steps.

From the table to lounging in front of the fire, to pacing a rut through the middle of the room. She eventually went to stare out one of the windows, sitting upon the settee for a time. Then resumed her pacing. Towards the far bookcases…and the near ones. And then around and around his desk until she at last seated herself there.

The sheer audacity of commandeering his chair over all other options scattered around the room… There were few others who had ever been so bold. Or perhaps she was drawn to it because it was most associated with him. A boundary tested or a boundary breached as she sought comfort when left all by her lonesome?

His desk was still in order, as was the rest of the room - save one thing. Her prized little journal splayed open upon his desk to his searching gaze. His fingers tested the quill and found it to be dry. She hadn't so much as borrowed ink.

It seemed she had behaved herself.

Rather than be satisfied that order was kept, there was a touch of…disappointment within him.

A number of tailored disciplinary measures had been spun up at the ready for the possible infractions of a naughty little fox. From innocent mishap to egregious transgression- he salivated at the thought of having her at the mercy of his claws.

Made to sit posed and still upon one of his pedestals as he painted her figure.

Hand feeding him while perched upon his lap.

Contracts of servitude and more.

Clearing vermin from his House in her canine form.

Subjecting her to a few courses on proper etiquette.

An obedience collar to cinch around her neck.

Sat at his feet in nothing more than a collar and leash as he entertained guests.

Cleaning his House nude under the strictest of supervision.

Within his mind’s eye, he could starkly envision her wavering between bashful blush and indignant scowl when presented with a contract for reparations containing the terms by which she would serve him sexually. Would she accept her fate or bare her fangs and challenge him, in denial of her own body’s desires?

He was particularly attached to the idea of having her warm his cock while he toiled away. Would this petite, little body be able to take the bulk of his cock and knot? He wouldn’t mind a bit of practice. Allow her the mercy of starting with his other form. Or stuffed full of some toy as she readied him with her mouth. He was a patient devil, after all. Though he did not often bother tying with his chosen lay, finding the time spent waiting to decouple tedious at best, the imagined vision of watching himself sink fully into her cunt and feeling it swallow his cock within a silky vice grip as he locked them together was so deliciously enticing it had him gnashing his teeth. Nearly as enticing was how he imagined she would react, presuming such a coupling to be novel for her. Writhing howls of pleasure? Panicked yelps of pain?

His waking dreams contained a flirty fox purposefully crossing lines and breaking rules in a game of being punished. A wonderful concept for prose whether or not he could tempt her in such a way. Perhaps one day he would gift her with something…personalized?

So fond she was of flesh ink, he had pondered a brand. Perhaps a variant of his seal? Visible to show off the claim he had upon her? Secreted to serve forever as an intimate reminder?

Catching sight of his abandoned glass from earlier, Raphael refilled it as he shifted his focus just slightly.

He summoned his quill and journal, flipped to the appropriate page, and began a more thorough record of observation of her features. Any great writer would be taking advantage of penning the current events as they unfolded - as he was, of course - and to have one of its heroes under roof for such direct scrutiny was…serendipitous.

There were already a number of pages dedicated to their progress, traits, shortfalls. Some worthy of more commentary than others.

In recent days, he found himself plagued by more fanciful musings for his writings. The urge was quelled as he told himself that he would only truly revel in it once the Crown was in his grasp, but that did little to stop the dreams and waking thoughts.

Clever he swooping in to save a certain damsel from the tricks and traps of another…

A tempestuous roil of seduction as she is lured from another…

Explorations of her spiralling corruption and fall at his feet…

He paced, quill quickly jotting his thoughts as his eyes honed in on every detail, fine and broad. To paint a picture with words- No time to be sparse with ink while the opportunity presented itself!

The overly expressive, large ears studded with glinting metal and chips of twinkling gems surrounded by the deep copper curls that flowed loose to her collar. The short wisps of dark fur that trailed down the back of her jaw. The gentle bow and pout of full lips. The teensy fangs hidden behind that flashed with every grin and grimace - could they even rend flesh? The color of the flush upon her cheeks - coral, salmon?

The way her brows sloped over wide eyes with fans of curled lashes and the frown lines between them, present even in her sleep. The blackened rings around her eyes that couldn't hide the progressive exhaustion of a long journey taking its toll.

Her eyes- One of her more alluring features, he would say. If one ignored what wriggled hidden just behind her right. She didn't need to be awake for him to recall their color of a clear evening sky just after sunset.

Raphael’s nose scrunched at the sight of faint scarring along her neck from where the vampling had fed of her. A proof that she would give of herself to another in the mar upon otherwise smooth, pale skin flecked plentifully with sun marks.

He told himself the rush of something waspish was merely frustration at her refusal to sign his contract, at her unyielding nature, and not because he was developing a possessiveness for more than her soul.

His quill paused as he momentarily mused this other character.

Astarion. His was a role to which he found himself giving more attention due to his clinging to the fox. The spawn had a thirst for freedom and power - desires easily exploited. He wasn’t his first choice to cast for a leading role in his next ‘play,’ but perhaps the script needed some adjustments.

He was still of the opinion that the Blade made a finer choice but this dear, little fox wasn’t…getting along with Wyll quite like he had hoped. Strong, dashing lad - and she reportedly paid him little notice beyond their duties. Perhaps it was simply because the vampling had been driven with his attempts to manipulate and seduce her - oh, how he wished he had witnessed the breaking point! At what point did she capitulate? Had the spawn been more to her tastes? A pretty face and a sense of danger? A powerful aphrodisiac to many. Though the warlock had certainly taken his precious time with his own attempts to court her. At times, a useful strategy in the realm of mortal courtship - except where there was obvious competition and the duress of outside forces. Too little, too late. The Blade was not out of the picture just yet, but he was edging reassignment to a supporting role.

And yet, nearly as quickly as her affair with the spawn had begun, so it ended. ‘Why’ was an elusive, flighted thing in their continued close association. Incompatible in the bedroll? Or was the rutting just abysmal? Were there fascinating secrets shared only between bedsheets and reeds? It mattered not but to sate his own curiosity. A bond of intimacy lost, though ultimately of no concern so long as they continued to perform for him as desired. It only meant the vacancy was that much easier to claim himself.

And Wyll, eager and brave Blade of the Frontiers, who had begun as his own cast favorite among the soon-to-be Heroes of Baldur’s Gate, was lost ever increasingly to the shadow of this waif before him.

Dearest Evie on her lonesome would hardly be a force against the mundane ferocities hidden in Baldur’s Gate - would she be able to continue drawing in others to follow her whims?

Raphael rolled his eyes as he crossed his arms.

A re-evaluation of her role was needed. While he penned the script, she was- had become…more than a mere actor following his lines.

The stage director. Following his pen even unknowingly. Involved, yet a degree removed from the action. Ineffective without a cast at her beck and call.

Lax with improvisations and annoyingly prone to adding her own write-ins.

Foolish, reckless, inattentive…ambitious, innovative, cunning. There was an eager, sharp intelligence behind those doe eyes. He had done himself a disservice in not recognising it for so long through the bevy of odd behaviors and assumed apathy from her oft fool-go-lucky demeanor. She played off the blanket of innocence and ignorance naively thrown upon her by others who missed that this soft, cute furball with large ears was a predator and no rabbit.

But he was still the stronger, the quicker, the more cunning, the more ambitious fox in this dance and this vixen would submit to his will.

Underestimation of one’s quarry led to mistakes. He would not do so again.

With gentle yet firm direction, she would prove ever useful. Evie was eager to please and to find a new purpose - so long as it was on ‘her’ terms. The City needed to thrive in its depravity and debauchery lest it all crumble and deplete a fount of ready, needy souls. For that, it required stability and order as it rebuilt.

Wyll had the connections and all the makings of a hero that the people of the City would grasp…but Astarion had a ruthlessness and need for control that could prove the same ultimate result, if tempered by someone’s rosy idealism. While this idealistic fox had the brains, she needed power and tough follow-through.

Alas, at times one had to be flexible to account for such developing schisms.

It was time that he observed the workings of the blighted group in person as they tumbled about on their way like a litter of lost pups. Reports and scrying were but half-measures to personal witness. There was other business to see to in their vicinity, as well.

He stopped his restless pacing and lifted his nose.

Mixed with her natural scent, she smelled of honey and herbs. Light, medicinal. A not unpleasant combination, but there were surely ones that would suit her far better. Something thematically heady and exotic… Vanilla. With sweet top notes of-

The pull of her shirt drew his eye as she shifted in her sleep, and he stooped closer. It revealed more of the tattoo curling around her bicep: ever so delicately detailed leaves and flowers climbing up and over her shoulder to disappear under fabric. He recognised them readily as the amusingly toxic devil's flower - intriguing.

Tonight’s ragged scraps she tried to pass as clothing left little of her figure to the imagination - had the choice been intentional or another unconscious bid to stir the appetites within him? Rather than lust, it invoked the image of so many of his debtors. Desperate, in need…pathetic.

She was not one of them.

She would serve a higher purpose.

How he itched to shred it from her.

One would hardly know the figure she had - a full, abundant bosom with nipples teasing the threadbare material; the slope of a trim waist over a plump stomach cradled by wide hips - so hidden were they under the hideously ill-fitting clothing and armor she always wore. How tragic. Those ‘shorts’ of hers, however - tight around an ass that called for him to sink his claws into it - left ample thigh free to his hungry gaze.

He did so love playing with his toys. Perhaps a touch of extra generosity was called for. A preview, of sorts.

The evening elegance of flowing silk. The midnight sin of taunting gossamer.

Skintight leather. Innocent lace. Rich velvet.

She would look lovely robed in his colors.

There had been frequent playthings over the years. A willing body was never difficult to find. Trysts and momentary flights of fancy until he inevitably grew bored of them - despite his qualms with Haarlep, they made a fine catalogue of flesh to revisit should the urge strike. All the same simpering, drooling, predictability. Even the most pious were so easily corrupted and broken. All becoming of little value save the holes into which he could sink his cock and the soul to be reaped from their bodies.

Yet never had he felt this attracted to…this possessive and conflicted about a mortal.

Already, she had provided more ponderance and entertainment than innumerable others. The depths of his mind left no single option but to possess, eagerly devising the ideal chamber within his House of Hope for a new pet. There were plenty of other options to play warden for Baldur’s Gate, it insisted, why not keep this one safely locked away? It took advantage of every little note and observance he had made of her preferences and attributes. It craved her affection, her attention, her praise, her softness.

She would come to see that he was a generous master, able to provide anything she could desire. In turn, he would own her soul, body, and mind.

There was part of a spire that could be converted. A spacious, private hideaway for two.

A gilded cage for his retreat.

He shook his head of the intrusive thoughts. This required patience and control. While she may now be behaving more as desired, he had no present means by which to keep her and abandoning his initial plans for her use may not be the wisest.

The wispy fur of her ears was visibly a different texture than her hair. The same fur had grown to gather at her elbows and the backs of her calves. Would she stir if…?

Casting a glance down her figure, her tail was different yet, with long, smooth guard hairs atop a thick undercoat. Not prehensile and he could tell it had heft from the way she held it. A frequent amusement was watching it bristle and splay with her frustration - such an animalistic response for one to give the illusion of being larger and more intimidating that served only to make her appear…fluffy.

He tilted his head in thought, then, giving into the impulse with a grin, reached forward and drew his knuckles over her temple and up the ridge of her ear, as one would a dog or cat. And like a dog's, it folded down under the gesture.

It felt of soft down against her silky hair.

When she showed no further movement, he ran his hand down her tail, finding it, too, to be quite pillowy and soft. The end flicked and she pulled it closer up her front to grasp within her arms with a sigh.

He would have to save her pelt should she perish.

Spirit-gifted traits that melded seamlessly with her human features. Similar - yet so different - to the werefoxes of Cormyr. And how would she fare with and because of them? They had made their way through the region and sown mistrust with their ways and wiles.

Such magic wasn't always so kind to those on the receiving end depending on how mischievous the spirit felt. Another show of luck - or deliberation. He wasn’t concerned about the nature spirit, yet with it not having any prior account in this script of events and concerning his favorite associate, it now, too, fell under the charge of further research.

Feeling bolder that she wouldn’t wake, he carefully took hold of her hand - diminutive within his own - noting the smooth, raised ridge down each of her pale, sloping claws. It seemed she'd found a file, the points kept short and blunted. There was a certain satisfaction in seeing hers contrasted so starkly with the sharp, piercing black of his own. Though a few showed signs of old paint and being chewed…

While the fox could wear a mask of stoicism well, she had anxieties floating about that head of hers, after all. He merely had to find the cracks in the porcelain she hid behind.

She wore a simple silver ring of…hard sap studded with ants. No enchantment. A sentimental trinket?

Ink stained her flesh in streaks and smudges. Clumsy with a quill.

So…bafflingly graceless in so much of what she did. Was it merely a product of the events or was this a true self?

He recalled her complaints about quills and suspected inexperience could be cause for that. Her penchant for walking into walls, tables, and tripping over her own feet had no such excuse. Alas, no broken centerpieces for which to extract a penance…yet.

If she had not already made this far, he would have been tempted to bet on her undisciplined attention getting the best of her. The only thing equally confounding was the degree of sheer, dumb luck upon which she floated obliviously.

Perhaps he was still coming to terms that this…mess of an unrefined cur was what had become a linchpin in nearly every scheme he had conceived to seize the Crown of Karsus. Inelegant, all the strength and fierceness of a feeble newborn, a fish threshing out of water.

No. If his convictions wavered, so, too, would she.

She now saw him as a source of trusted guidance and so long as that remained, his plans progressed. Her soul was desirous but the Crown was his priority. He would play to her strengths and idealism to bring her to heel.

There was a small symbol inked at the base of her thumb that he had eyed previously. A few letters and symbols came to mind but they were not quite a fit. Equally permanent, fine lines of delicate, mimicked lace encircled her wrist.

The old calluses she wore were not of someone used to hard labor. No…everything about her, even this, screamed soft. From their size and positioning, he would guess writing, possibly drawing or painting, and instruments. A child of the arts.

He could not recall ever seeing her with an instrument - not that they had ventured across many in any state of working condition in the wilds. With her developing magic, one would be an easy focus should she have even the barest amount of talent. Perhaps a fun intervention to plant one for her to stumble across.

The newer calluses forming on her palms and the undersides of her fingers belonged to that hammer she'd taken to. An inelegant bludgeon for one with no other combat weaponry skills. These soft hands had never known such harsh trials before now.

A pity he couldn't see more of her just yet. A gentleman he would remain, for now. Allowing Haarlep to have their way as they so begged - incessantly badgering by the day since she had ‘unfairly’ escaped their grasp - was tempting for the access. Though he couldn't chance her being broken before she at least served her current use. He would have the Crown.

And her off-handed words those weeks ago of being akin to ‘fucking a forgery’ had frustratingly crept under his skin, loathe as he was to admit it. He knew that if he allowed the decadence that he would never be happy with a mere copy.

Haarlep acted as a sensually idealised version of how they believed someone acted. Evie acted how Evie acted - unpredictably. Haarlep would never come close to a perfect imitation. He was introspective enough to know that Evie being Evie was what drew him to her. Every time he thought he had her puzzled out, she threw it in his face!

And the thought of Haarlep having any part of her made his blood boil. There were many things he graciously shared with the ungrateful incubus…but this one would remain his alone until he grew bored of her.

He scowled down at her slumbering form with a creeping annoyance. A snap of his fingers and she was out of his sight, sent off to one of his guest rooms as he snatched up her journal and reclaimed his chair.

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