Farm owner/cowboy dilf (you choose who) whose daughter is way too whiny about the farm life, so he has to teach her a lesson aka a harsh fuck in the barn (bonus for being manhandled and size difference). This is the req I cooked, i hope you like it because I have more 👉👈
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EEEEEEEP I LOVE THIS SO MUCHHHHH. Keep em coming. Also yayyy my first emoji anon. Ilyyyy <333 I went with Anakin for this, I hope you don’t mind. MWAH MWAH 💋
Warnings: DDDNE!!!! || Smut obvs || incest || non-con || dub-con || size difference || manhandled || rough sex || choking || unprotected sex || mentions of cum || fem anatomy || pet names || name calling || barely legal readed (oopsies) || shitty Spanish from google translate <3
“God, it’s so hot.” You whine, wiping the beaded up seat from your brow with one hand propped up on your hip as you stop doing your work again.
Anakin sighs and shakes his head, easily lifting another bail of hay onto the tractor from the field “Y’know, if you didn’t complain so much, ya woulda been done already.” He says gruffly.
You groan, almost stomping your feet like a petulant child. “But it’s hot and there’s bugs everywhere.” You complain once more, swatting at the gnats circling you.
“A little sweat and a couple bugs ain’t gonna hurt ya.” His muscles flex under his work shirt as he transfers another bail of hay.
You let out a long groan, huffing as you swat at a bug.
“You’re bein a brat. Y’know that, right?” Your father asks.
“It’s not my fault. I don’t want to be doing this!” You don’t understand why your mother insisted on you spending the summer before college with your nearly estranged father.
“Your mother’s made ya too spoiled,” he points out with disapproval.
“What? It’s not her fault I don’t particularly enjoy hanging out around cow shit.” You kick the toe of your boot into the grass.
“Ay dios mío,” He stops, leaning against the hay bail with one hand as he runs the other down his face in annoyance. “Eres un dolor de cabeza más grande que tu madre.”
You huff, “English please?”
He laughs dryly and shakes his head. Another thing your mother dropped the ball on with teaching you. No work ethic and can’t speak Spanish. “I said, you’re as big of a headache as your mother.”
“Not like you’re a catch either.” You mutter under your breath.
Anakin narrows his eyes at you. “You’re on my last nerve. Get your work done and stop complaining. Last time I’m tellin you.”
You roll your eyes again at your dad, “I don’t want to. It’s boring and hard.” You complain.
“Alright that’s it. Barn. Now. I’m tired of this attitude. Go shovel shit or something.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah seriously. You’re bein’ a brat. Now go.”
“Ugh! I hate it here. This sucks and so do you.” You huff before stomping off towards the barn.
That’s the last straw. Anakin abandons the tractor with hay in favor of easily catching up to you. He grips tightly onto your arm, “Voy a darle un buen uso a esa boca.” He mutters.
“Ow! Let go! I was going!” You protest.
He shakes his head, “Too late.” He drags you into the barn, shoving you onto the spare hay bales.
“Hey!”
“I’ve had enough of your whining,” he grits out, hands reaching to his belt buckle and undoing it.
Your eyes widen and you start shaking your head. “What’re you doing?” You ask, starting to sit up.
“Teaching you a lesson.” He pushes you back down, keeping your back pressed on the hay that pokes your skin. His calloused hands skillfully and quickly rid you of your denim jeans.
“Stop stop, wait, I’ll listen I promise, I’ll stop complaining!”
“Too late.” He pulls his hard cock out from the confines of his pants, pumping it a couple times.
You try to scramble back away from him but his other hand comes down to grip your throat, applying enough pressure to keep you in place. You couldn’t help the familiar tingle starting despite how wrong it was.
Keeping one of his large hands wrapped around your throat, the other guides his tip through your folds to collect some of your slick that’s already accumulated. “Look at that. Gettin’ all wet f’me,” he huffs with an anything but kind smile, “what a dirty little slut.” He spends no time working you up for him, instead just pushing his thick cock into your unprepped cunt.
Your eyes widen and you squeal at the harsh sting, trying to squirm. His hand tightens around your throat, eyebrows scrunching in pleasure as your walls tightly squeeze around him. “Fuck, such a tight lil thing.”
You bat at his arm, your vision starting to get splotchy. He lets go a little just so you can get some air back into your deprived lungs. Anakin forces the rest of his dick into your tight pussy, making you cry out.
“Shut up. I know you like it.” He breathes out, starting to harshly fuck into you, the tip of his dick feeling like it was ramming against your cervix with each rough thrust.
You whine pathetically, reaching up to grip onto the fabric of his sweaty shirt. He grins down at you. “That’s it. Just take it.” The sound of his balls slapping against you fill the walls of the rickety barn. His hand that’s around your throat releases it in favor of pinching the sides of your mouth, forcing it open and he spits into your mouth. “Swallow.” He instructs closing it for you.
You’re in no position to object so you can only oblige. He grins watching your throat bob, signaling that you did what he said.
“Atta girl. I knew you could listen.” He forces two of his thick digits into your mouth, “Now suck.”
Again you listen, suckling on his pointer and middle finger. He moans a little, imagining what your mouth would feel like around his cock instead. He pushes them deeper, causing you to gag around them. He pulls back only slightly, his hips continuing to jackhammer into your poor pussy, relishing in the wet squelches. “Wetter than your mom was,” he groans, “tighter too.”
“Mmph!” is all you can manage with his fingers in your mouth.
“Fuck..” he hisses, his moves getting sloppier. Before he can cum he quickly pulls out and continues to jack himself off the last few seconds, using your slick and his precum to aid his movements. His hips shoot forward as his balls tense up, spurting his hot load all over your shirt, not caring for the clean up or if you even finished.
You’re breathless and dazed, head spinning. “Huh-..? W-wait..what-“
“Clean yourself off and get back to work,” he tucks himself away again, straightening his cowboy hat, “ungrateful brats don’t get to cum.” With that, he’s walking out of the barn like nothing happened.
Thieves Jewel - Stephen Bonnet x Fem! Reader Chapter 1
Warnings: Violence, angst, stealing, language.
The dimly lit tavern was crowded with drunken men, gambling, and illegal deals. Stephen Bonnet sat with his men and a few others at a table, gambling as usual. He was a man who made his own luck. The last time he didn’t win is unknown. It is a rare sight to see; in fact, he was just about to win his fourth game of the night when in strolled a group of people. Multiple men dressed similarly to himself, and…a woman. She was dressed in a white gown with a corset overtop. It ended just under her breasts, accentuating them. The dress itself had a slit high on one side, that showed off her leg every time she stepped. Her hair hung loose, glowing in the dim light. Stephen Bonnet looked away, uninterested in the whore that found herself with a group of pirates. That is until a man spoke up from the group.
“We present the lovely Mistress Y/N Y/L/N, may her voice enchant your souls,” At that, the woman he saw walking in with them stepped up onto the bar. He paid no mind until she opened her mouth and her voice rang out. “My heart is pierced by Cupid. I disdain all glittering gold. There is nothing can console me. But my jolly sailor bold” her voice enchanting the men in the tavern, all eyes focused on her as her body moved to the words. She sat on the edge of the bar, crossing her leg out of the slit over the other. Her head was thrown back as she sang. Unbeknownst to everyone, her crew mates traveled around pickpocketing and stole whatever they could get money for. As soon as her song ended the men cheered and asked for more. She flirtatiously obliged. This time getting bolder, walking through the crowd and dragging her supple hands over men's shoulders. Until she got to the table that held a certain captain of the Gloriana, his diamonds and rubies were laid out as an incentive for his current gambling match. The twinkle caught her eye as she dragged her hand under the captain's chin, forcing her to look at him. After catching his attention, she moved on to the next, but not before giving her fellow crew mates a subtle look. A look that said “bullseye”. As she splayed across a table, hair wild, leg bent, and arms up, Captain Bonnet’s eyes were glued to her. He sensed something; his gut told him there was something wrong. However, his thoughts were interrupted by his match.
Three days passed, and each night, Stephen found himself at the same table with the same men and deck of cards. His prised diamonds and rubies still sat on the table. Each night the little siren came back to enchant the men, and each night her crew took. Tonight, she was more forward; she wore a style similar to the usual. This dress, however, adorned two slits on each side and was black. Her breasts spilled beautifully from the confines of her corset. “Yo Ho, All hands, Hoist the colors high” She had pranced her body over to the captain again, settling herself between his thighs as she took hold of them and seductively swayed her hips down to the floor and up again. Bending forward to give him a good view of her chest, heaving as she sang. She then pranced away. However, when he looked back at the table this time, two of his five jewels were missing. His eyes narrowed on the girl, watching as she danced around the men; her sleight of hand was good. Then he noticed every so often that her hand would slip below her skirt after flirting with a man, the slit making easy access. At this moment, he realized her singing was all a ruse, all a distraction.
***Y/N POV***
Tonight had been the most successful night in this port. I had finally gotten some of those jewels, as well as many more earnings. We always start like this in every tavern we go to. It's subtle, where I just sing, and the crew poaches. Then I slowly make my way down into the crowd. Stealing those jewels from that man, was no easy feat; his eyes always seemed to stray to his precious jewels. Lucky for me, I had heard he was staying for a few nights. So I could plan a strategy, and tonight was just the trick.
As I stood in front of the small bed in the tavern, where we had all gotten rooms for our stay, I began to unlace my corset. Right before I finished my last lace I turned around, only to be shocked at the sight of the man whom I stole my largest prize from. “I’m sorry, sir, but I think you have the wrong room,” I stated, voice stern and unwavering. His eyes roamed my body from head to toe and back again. A slight smirk rose to his lips.
“So ye aren’t the little siren, o stole my precious jewels?” he said, Irish accent thick on his tongue. His voice had a darkness to it that rang in my head as a warning bell. How did he? I began to back away, holding my corset up, the sleeves of my dress slipping from my shoulders.
“You must be mistaken, sir. I only sang to you, now, would you kindly get the fuck out.” I sneered, no questioning in my voice. Before I had time to process I was against a wall with a hand to my throat. My hand immediately reached to take hold of his wrist. His hand squeezed tightly to either side of my throat, not enough to not breathe, but enough to make me feel dizzy. My knee lifted to strike him in the groin, but before I could, he had spun me around, my front pushed into the wall. Body trapped between his and the hard surface. His hand dug into my hair, keeping my face planted into the wall. His voice rang out right next to my ear.
“Now, I will give ye one last chance. Where are me gems sweet’art?” I rolled my eyes at the nickname, driving my elbow into his gut. He stuttered and stumbled, allowing me to wriggle free and make a break for the door. Before I could open it, I was thrown to the floor. He landed on top of me and pinned my arms beside my head, straddling my waist. I continued my struggle, my hands now pinned by one of his above my head. The click that sounded next to my head is what stopped my struggle. The cold barrel of a gun held to my temple stopped me in my tracks. “Perhaps we can comb to an agreement.”
A/N: This fic is dark and is very much noncon (bordering on cnc), so if that makes you uncomfortable DO NOT READ. Also thanks to Amanda ( @draconisxcaput) for helping me through this as my own personal cheerleader 💗
Pairings: Mafia! Poly!Marauders x fem!reader
Words: 5.7k
Summary: Everyone knows not to fuck with the Marauders, so when your father does just that, they decide to pay him a visit; instead of finding him, they find you sleeping abandoned in your fathers house. Sometimes improvisation is necessary.
Warnings: NSFW 16+, NONCON/DUBCON, kidnapping, oral (m and f receiving), degradation, daddykink (only used once), cum mention, overstimulation, slapping, spit play, choking, gagging, crying, aftercare. As always lmk if I missed anything.
Another cold gust hit you on the chest, the AC on full blast, chilling you to the bone and pulling another shiver through your body. The warmth of the man you were sitting on did absolutely nothing to keep you warm - being pulled out of your bed, blindfolded and shoved inside a car in nothing but your sleep shirt probably didn’t do much to help you.
“Moony, turn down the AC, will ya’?… the fucking thing’s shaking like a leaf on me,” the man you were sitting on murmured, his voice gruff, breath smelling faintly of cigarettes and something citrusy.
The tears wetted the blindfold, some of them successfully dripping down your face, warming you the tiniest amount. The taste of salt leaked into your open mouth as ragged panicked breaths fought their way out of you.
“Please, I promise I won’t tell anyone… I never even saw you properly… I just wanna go home, please,” you stuttered through a sob, chin quivering between each word.
“Thought we told you to keep your mouth shut,” the man you assumed was the one they called Moony spoke at you through gritted teeth.
A sigh was heard from the front passenger seat, the otherwise silent man finally opening his mouth to say, “Pads, do something about it.”
Pads let out a low grunt of acknowledgement, surprising you when a pair of icy fingers entered the warm carven of your mouth in one swift motion.
You gagged lightly as his fingers pressed down on your tongue near the back of your throat - if tears weren’t already leaking from your eyes, they would have welled from his assault.
“So fucking dramatic, ain’t ya?” he scoffed, moving his fingers from the spot, yet keeping them firmly on your tongue.
You gargled around his fingers, whimpering a muffled, “no.”
In one quick motion, he had removed his fingers from your mouth only to use that hand to deliver a quick but stinging slap to your cheek. He had your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks in his grip and forcing out a deep pout.
“You should be grateful that we’re letting a whore like you ride anywhere but the fucking boot,” Pads growled, “not only that but also getting my fingers to stop all your fucking whining…- so shut the fuck up and take what I give you… you’re only making it worse for yourself.”
The tears came in waterfalls as he slipped his fingers back in. You tried your best to hold back the small gag as they pushed down on your tongue yet again.
You didn’t quite know what to do, so you sat in silence as they drove you to an unknown place, tears silently leaking through the blindfold. It did surprise you when cold no longer blasted, and now the shaking of your body was from fear and fear alone.
The AC was off.
.
This was not the way they had planned the night to go - far from it, actually.
But, desperate times call for desperate measures and sometimes improvisation is necessary.
Everyone knew not to fuck with the Marauders - it was common knowledge around these parts- because no one wants to be in the bad books of the most notorious gang in the whole of London. And yet your father, foolish man he was, did just that - fucked with the Marauders.
Of course, they didn’t appreciate your father snooping around in their business and, as punishment, found it only acceptable to pay him a visit.
… Unfortunately, the lucky bastard had heard the news of the planned attack and fled the city.
So, arriving at a presumably empty house set a roaring fire loose in all three men. They angrily combed through the house, looking for anything of value or anything that could point them to where your father had run off to.
They didn’t find anything of the sort… what they did find was your peaceful sleeping figure, abandoned in the house - very much unbeknownst to you.
All they had to do was share a look, and a nod before Sirius had your limbs tied and your eyes blindfolded, startling you awake and setting your mind into an instant state of panic.
Your body was tossed over Remus’ shoulder as if you weighed nothing at all; not even your squirming and screaming made him falter as he carried you out into the cold of the night.
.
“‘S not every day we find a perfect little slut all ready for us,” the voice you now recognised as Pads spoke in amusement.
Your knees shivered upon the scratchy carpet, your sobs and hiccups echoing throughout what you presumed was a large room.
“Please, I didn’t even see your faces… I’ll keep my mouth shut, I swear!” you tried again, your shaky hands fumbling in your lap.
As soon as the words left your mouth, the floor creaked, and the blindfold was ripped from your eyes; you had to blink a couple of times to adjust to the light of the room and blink away the cloudiness of tears. Before you stood three tall, brooding figures, all intimidatingly looking down at you like predators finally catching up to their prey. The tallest of the three, face heavily decorated with scars, crouched down and took your face in his hand, squeezing your cheeks uncomfortably in his grasp.
“Well, now you have, haven’t you, doll?” he smiled sadistically, looking down at your swollen lips in their forced pout.
“-do you know who we are?”
You looked at them, between them, but you were sure you’d never seen them before in your life; you were sure you would’ve remembered; they weren’t exactly men you would forget.
You shook your head as best as you could in his grip, eyes growing wide as his sadistic smirk found its way onto the two other men's faces.
“Your father really kept you in the dark, huh?” he laughed, letting go of your cheeks to give it a pat before standing.
You couldn’t keep the shock off of your face as he spoke his following words.
“I’m Remus; this is Sirius and James,” he pointed to each of the smirking men.
“Lovely to make your acquaintance, dolly,” Sirius chuckled darkly. You could easily match the voice to the man who had his fingers down your throat during the car ride.
It was strange how they abandoned the aliases, but realisation struck only a moment later - they wouldn’t be needing them because they were going to make sure you could never tell. The newfound knowledge only caused you to tremble harder, your breathing growing so panicked the airflow almost couldn’t make it through.
It was the bespectacled man’s turn to crouch down in front of you, taking your face in his large veiny hands, his face cold and neutral, “what’s with the tears now, sweet thing?”
The tears flowed down the apples of your cheeks; your whole face a blubbering wet mess. You reached your bound hands up, gripping James’ wrist.
“I.. I- don’t.. I,” you tried stammering out through ragged breaths, but the tears and hiccups kept catching in your throat and interrupting you.
“I’m guessing you’re aware of the type of business your father is in, yeah?” James questioned with a raised brow, his thumb wiping the tears from your cheeks even as they kept coming.
You nodded, very much aware. You knew it was his fault you were in this situation, and the crushing feeling you felt in your gut couldn’t be described as anything but loathing. You fucking hated his guts. He left you to fend for yourself because his business and money were more important; nothing mattered more to him than that.
Your shaky hands were cold against James’ skin, freezing to the bone from fear, he supposed.
“We won’t hurt you,” James started, but a mischievous smirk quickly replaced his neutral facade, “we’re just gonna have a little fun…- aren’t we, lads?”
A collective agreeing hum echoed through the room; you felt small under their gaze, and the small glimmer of hope you had had was just as quickly washed away by James’ words and the look in his eyes.
A gasp left your parted lips as James’ hand slipped from your cheek down around your throat, giving it a notable squeeze. Your eyes widened, and your grip on his wrist tightened, nails digging into his crisp white dress shirt.
“No,” you whimpered as a cold shiver ran up your spine.
“I expect you to keep those hands in control, or we won’t be as nice,” James warned, ignoring your protesting whimper, choosing instead to untie your wrists.
Remus and Sirius stepped closer, surrounding you with their large, broad bodies. Remus hooked his hands under your arms to lift you onto your trembling legs; you thrashed a little in his grip, but just as quickly as you’d done it, you were pulled against him, your back meeting his solid chest and a large hand squeezing your throat. Your gaze was forced up, looking up at him awkwardly, seeing the angry sneer that decorated his scarily scared face.
“Behave,” he growled darkly.
Your gaze shifted to the man in front of you when ring decorated hands slipped under your sleep shirt, cupping your breasts in a bruising grip.
“No use in fighting, little thing,” Sirius smirked, his hands switching between kneading your breasts and pinching your nipples until he found them peaked enough for his satisfaction.
You could only stare and shake your head with a pout. The feeling of Sirius’ hands on you stunned you into silence, even more so when the same hands quit their assault on your breasts, only to move down and lift your shirt, exposing you to their hungry gazes.
Your hands instinctively flew up to cover yourself, trying to hold onto an ounce of dignity, but Remus’ hands were quick to catch your wrists.
He gathered them in one large scarred hand, placing the other one back on your throat to keep you in place.
“Please, don’t,” you cried again, trying to plead even though you knew it was fruitless.
This time they didn’t answer or say anything. Sirius and James just observed and took in your almost completely exposed figure with smirks on their lips. Sirius’ tongue even slipped over his lips, licking as he slowly kneeled in front of you.
They let you cry silently, shaking as your panties were slipped from their place and down your legs, Sirius’ touch leaving a trail of goosebumps that spread over your arms and stomach as well.
“Would you look at that,” Sirius grinned sadistically, “such a pretty fucking pussy.”
He used two of his cold ring clad fingers to spread your lips to get a good look. His other hand had a tight grip on your thigh, spreading your legs back open after you tried closing them in protest. Your body instinctively jumped at the touch, and a startled gasp and whimper left your lips - you wanted to keep begging for them to stop, but you knew it wouldn’t do you any good, so instead, your eyes shut tightly, and you tried to imagine yourself anywhere but there.
Your eyes fluttered, struggling to keep shut as your legs were thrown over Sirius’ shoulders and his warm breath fanned over your cunt, an ever-present tingle spreading through your abdomen, despite your current frightened state.
“Open those eyes, doll… don’t you want this?” Remus whispered, his long arms holding you up against him.
You shook your head, “no,” but as soon as the word left your lips, your eyes sprung open from the stinging slap Sirius landed right on your cunt.
“It wasn’t a suggestion, you dumb little thing; open those eyes and look at me,” Sirius snarled.
He gave you a smirk and a teasing wink before his tongue darted out to flick over your clit, making you jolt in their grip. Sirius groaned, clearly losing the last restraints he had left and attached his mouth fully to your sensitive bundle of nerves, his hands gripping your bum so hard there would surely be bruises there as a reminder.
You whimpered out yet another ‘no please’, but they fell on deaf ears. You bit your lip to keep in the sounds Sirius’ skilled tongue was trying to bring out of you, instead focusing on the light stream of tears that still leaked out of your bloodshot eyes.
“Fuck,” Sirius grunted, voice muffled as his tongue started an all-around feast of your cunt.
Your arms wriggled in Remus’ grasp, but he didn’t budge, not ever faltering his hold on you - keeping you still and pliant for Sirius to devour. You squirmed and twitched as you felt one of Sirius’ fingers circle your entrance; a bashful blush grew on your cheeks and warmed you all the way down your chest.
“If you’re not enjoying this, then why are you so fucking wet, huh?” Sirius smirked before inserting a finger into you, “fucking needy slut, you are.”
A gasp left your parted lips, and you looked around the room, trying to find any way out of this. Instead of finding anything helpful, your eyes met James’, who was standing right behind Sirius’ knelt figure, staring at you with amusement and lust; he wasn’t doing anything but staring at you with his arms crossed, looking intimidating and frightening all at once.
You whimpered again and pouted, only for James to cock his head mockingly with a pout, mimicking your expression. It was like a small game to him - pretending to gasp as you did when Sirius added two more fingers to join the first and sucked on your clit, like his life depended on it - it was all rather amusing to him, watching you.
“Does it feel good, sweetheart?” James asked with mock sweetness after your breathing slowly began to pick up. Your teeth were digging into your lip so hard you could taste the iron crimson bleeding onto your tongue.
You shook your head, flexing your hands in Remus’ grasp, causing him to chuckle darkly, the vibrations rumbling against your back.
James smirked, moving from behind Sirius to be right next to you. Your eyes followed his every move until his hand had your face in a firm grip.
“No?” he asked, an almost evil glimmer in his eyes as he leaned in so close to your face you could smell his cologne, “I don’t believe you.”
James pulled your lip from between your teeth, forcing your mouth open. With no way to hold back, a long high pitched moan escaped your bloodstained lips.
“There it is,” James breathed, satisfied by your no longer concealable noises.
James tilted your face up, forcing you to look up at a smirking Remus, his large hand squeezing your wrists. Your mouth was left agape as you stared up at the smug-looking man, your eyes filled with tears as your legs started to shake lightly around Sirius’ head; you could feel him smirking against your cunt, his fingers moved faster and curled inside you, working you closer to the edge.
“Come on, grind that little cunt of yours on Pads’ face, doll,” Remus said quietly, but with that same smugness, each of them seemed to have about them.
You couldn’t quite react, still breathing hard along with breathy whimpers. When you didn’t react, Remus raised an expectant brow, leaving no room for a fight - so you did as you were told.
You moved your hips slowly at first, breath hitching at the more vigorous friction against your core.
“That’s it… look at you, taking it like the slut we know you are,” Remus smirked, chuckling at your whimpering moan.
“No,” you whined again, feeling yourself grow weaker as the edge grew nearer, making your release inevitable.
“Don’t fight it; I can feel you squeezing my fingers…- cum on my face, dumb little slut,” Sirius murmured against your cunt, prodding at that sweet spot inside of you, grinning as he found it.
You shook your head but moans spilt from your lips, and your body stiffened and shook; with one last pump of his fingers and swipe of his tongue against your clit, you came around his fingers, pulsing strongly against them.
Tears rolled down your face as your eyes fluttered, and as you came down from your high, realisation was striking you.
You stayed silent, staring into space for a moment, already feeling your body go numb as it went more pliable in the hands of the three men. It almost felt easier to give in, perhaps enjoyable to just let it happen - no point in fighting an un-winnable situation.
Sirius’ fingers slipped from you, and your feet were planted on the ground once again, upper body still held in place by Remus’ arms. You weren’t even registering the quiet muttering around you, the three of them planning in front of you - planning what to do with you.
As you slowly came back to, James had removed his shirt, upper body lean and flexed, his cock straining in his dress slacks. Sirius’ shirt was unbuttoned, showing off his tattooed torso, his eyes looking straight into yours, making sure to give you a show of him licking your arousal off of his fingers.
Remus’ warm breath hit your ear, making goosebumps form on your entire body.
“On your knees, pet.”
For the first time that night, you gave a small, barely noticeable nod before slowly falling to your knees.
If they were shocked, they didn’t show it; instead, they looked pleased. James stepped closer to you, toying with his belt, but left it as it was.
“Good job, sweet girl, finally doing what you’re told,” he grinned, hooking a finger under your chin to lift it, “now… you’re gonna open my belt, pull out my cock and be a good little slut and let me fuck that throat.”
Your arms worked on their own accord, lifting and working on his black leather belt, opening everything for you to fish out his throbbing cock, clearly starving for just a sliver of attention.
The sound of shuffling caught your attention; you watched as both Sirius and Remus got comfortable on the brown leather couch, watching everything happen; even sitting, they looked powerful and unbothered. Remus caught your stare and smirked. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, he took his chin as if studying something important right in front of him.
“Go on, make Prongs feel good.”
With another small nod, you grabbed hold of the base of James’ cock, feeling it twitch in your hand. You opened your mouth, leaving James to freely thrust into your mouth, making you gag slightly at the surprisingly quick motion.
James groaned loudly, cock twitching in your mouth as soon as it made contact with the back of your throat. He started out with quick thrusts, giving you no prep time as he forcefully fucked your mouth.
He switched between fucking your mouth with a quick pace to keeping his cock deeply buried in your throat, your gags music to all of their ears.
Tears streamed down your face again as you gagged around his cock; it was getting hard to draw breaths through your nose when his cock was shoved so far down your throat it was creating a bulge. You looked up at him, seeing only the blissed-out expression decorating his face and deep moans escaping his lips. You didn’t know how much longer you could go without a proper breath; therefore, scared of passing out, you tapped three times on James’ trouser covered thigh.
Somehow, he knew what that meant and pulled out of your mouth within a second. You coughed lightly and closed your eyes, drawing in deep breaths, trying to regulate your breathing.
James watched you, searching your face slowly as you coughed. He bent down just to cup one side of your face, looking over again. Your eyes opened, and you stared up at him as you opened your mouth again on your own accord, inviting him back in. James raised both brows in question along with a questioning nod of his head, waiting for you to give him a small nod of your own before he pushed back in.
“So fucking good - fuck - this is what you’re made for, isn’t that right, sweetheart? Only made for sucking cock like a cock hungry little cockslut,” James groaned, thrusting into the warm cavern of your mouth at a steadily building pace.
You could feel his pace start to falter, and his moans grew louder, seemingly close to the edge. James gathered your hair, fingertips running over your scalp to hold your head as he thrust his way to his release.
You held onto his thighs as he stuttered, his warm cum filling your mouth, gathering on your tongue.
“Fuck… that’s it,” James moaned loudly, emptying himself in your mouth.
You swallowed everything as it came, prolonging his high and making his thighs shake in your grip.
James pulled out slowly, panting lightly as he looked down at you, your eyes already on him.
“Show me, sweet thing,” James murmured.
He groaned quietly as he watched your tongue loll out, presenting him with your empty mouth.
You heard a hum of satisfaction coming from the couch, all three of them watching you, pleased by your participation.
James hooked his hands under your arms, pulling you from your knees and onto your feet; he looked you over for a moment before turning you to face the two smirking men leaning back on the couch.
Two large hands rested on your shoulders, leading you to them, making you stop in front of Sirius.
Sirius sat up and leaned forward, taking your hand in his.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Sirius asked smugly, pulling you onto him to straddle his lap.
It was insane; you felt embarrassed and crazy; your skin blazed under their gaze, hands fumbling on top of Sirius, tracing his tattooed chest lightly before giving a small nod.
Sirius’ smirk only grew, taking your chin in his hand, forcing you to turn your downcast gaze upon him.
“Knew you’d come around, dirty girl.”
You whimpered at that, mind clouding with thousands of thoughts - what was wrong with you.
“Tell us what you want,” Sirius continued, keeping your face in his grasp.
Your mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water, “I… I don’t k-know.”
“Oh, I think you do… but don’t worry, I’ll help that dumb little brain of yours.”
Sirius’ face was right in yours, staring straight into your eyes as his fingers dug into your bare hips.
James had made himself comfortable beside Sirius, himself and Remus just enjoying the show, seeing you so flustered.
“You wanna ride daddy’s cock? Huh, baby?”
Again, your face blazed as you nodded, humiliated by your own body and needs.
“Ah ah, we gotta hear you say it…- wouldn’t wanna do something wrong now, would we?” Remus interjected with a sadistic smirk, forcing your gaze on him, “speak, pet.”
You drew in a deep breath, looking at Sirius again as your fingers fiddled and pulled at one another, shaking ever so slightly, “yes, please.”
Sirius grinned sadistically in triumph, scooting you back so he could pull himself out of his trousers as well. With a signal, Remus had you lifted to hover over Sirius’ proud length, watching as he stroked himself a couple of times before leaning back on the couch once more.
“That was all you had to say, doll,” Sirius smirked before Remus sank you down onto Sirius’ cock.
You gasped, gripping onto Remus’ hands on your hips as they slowly started moving you on Sirius’ cock as he pleased.
Remus bounced you like a doll; all the while, Sirius bucked his hips in a fast pace up into you, creating a mind-numbing amount of pleasure as he hit that spot inside you.
“Look at you,” James grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks in his grip before leaning close to you.
It was quite shocking when his lips connected with yours, moulding over them with an aggressive force that numbed your brain even further. You couldn’t quite tell if you were kissing him back or not, all of the sensations too much to focus on, especially when Sirius’ thumb made contact with your clit.
The noises you were making were muffled by James’ mouth but still very prominent in the large room.
“So fucking tight… sluttiest little pussy… feels so good around my cock,” Sirius groaned, pressing his thumb harder against you until you couldn’t help but twitch and clench against him.
Remus ground you down, making you take Sirius as deep as you could, giving you extra sensation all over.
You couldn’t even help it if you tried; your body shook and tensed as your second orgasm of the night washed over you in substantial pulsating waves. You moaned heavily against James’ lips, unable to focus on anything but the movements of Sirius inside of you.
Even as you rode out the pleasure that turned everything sensitive, they kept going. Sirius’ thrusts quickened along with Remus’ movements of your hips, squeezing your skin between his large hands.
“Shit, ‘m gonna fill you like the fucking cum dump you are,” Sirius panted out, gritting his teeth as his thrusts grew less calculated the closer he got to his release.
With Remus’ help and a few last thrusts, Sirius stilled with a loud groan, fucking his cum deeper into you. He panted with small moans as he rode out his high, feeling a sense of reward when he saw the fucked out look in your eyes.
.
You had no idea how long it had been, but guessing by the sheen of sweat that decorated yours and their bodies, you would say it had been a while. Your body was completely pliable and fucked out, letting them ruin you as they pleased with no complaints left.
Remus was rutting into you, looking down at you from where he hovered, his body in between your spread legs. Your head rested on James’ lap as he sat on the couch beside Sirius, both nursing a glass of whiskey as they listened to your prominently loud moans.
Remus brushed some strands of hair from your sweaty forehead. Your mind was swimming in the clouds after the many orgasms they’d bestowed upon you - too many to count at this point.
“You gonna cum again, little thing?” Remus smirked, not nearly looking as tired as you did. His hand snaked between your bodies to find your overworked clit.
You shook your head as tears streamed down your face - almost a permanent feature of your face.
“No, can’t anymore… too much,” you babbled through cries, nails digging into Remus’ strong, scarred arms.
“You can, and you fucking will,” he gritted out through his teeth, fingers working faster on you to match his fastening pace.
A sweet symphony of moans, whimpers and gasps flew from your mouth, the overstimulating pain leaning more and more toward the pleasure that had come so many times this night.
James grabbed hold of your chin, forcing you to angle your face up.
“Open up, sweetheart,” he smirked.
You did as you were told, letting your mouth drop open at his command, eyes fluttering.
Without warning, James bent his head over yours, spitting in your open mouth. It burnt as it went down your throat, the whiskey mixed and warm. You swallowed and looked up at James for approval, sticking out your tongue to show him.
He chuckled lightly, patting the side of your cheek as he nodded with a hum.
“Such a good little slut you are,” Remus grinned, moaning as you clenched around him, another release right in front of you.
He put pressure on your clit with his thumb making you yelp out in pleasure.
“Please don’t stop,” you whined out, moaning in discontent when Remus’ hand faltered as he looked at you.
A huge smirk decorated his smug face; both Sirius and James looked down at you with similar smirks. Remus picked up his pace once again, rubbing fast circles on your swollen clit as his cock prodded your g-spot with every angled thrust.
“Don’t stop, huh? Look at you giving orders now, doll,” Remus was smug with his way of speaking, bringing you right to and over the edge.
Your nails dug into Remus’ biceps as you came, body shaking yet again as that all too familiar feeling overtook your mind and body. Your moans were gasping and loud, your release tugging Remus right with you as he emptied himself in you, filling you to the brim. He moaned and grunted at your clenching cunt, the way it spasmed around him, drawing out his release.
You could feel your mixed release seep out of your abused and overused cunt as Remus pulled his softening cock out, all of their cum thoroughly mixed in you.
Small twitches ran through your body from the aftershock of so many orgasms; you panted, trying to catch your breath, brain foggy and clouded, not able to really process anything that was happening around you.
You heard shuffling and the muffled voices of the three men, yet it felt like your head was underwater. You watched Remus pull on his boxers and dress pants, leaving his upper body bare, just like the two others.
Your own body was hoisted up in a seated position by Sirius, who you hadn’t even noticed left the room, returning with a bottle of water and a small towel.
Sirius held the back of your neck, kneeling beside the couch as he held the bottle to your lips.
“Drink up, little thing,” he instructed, tilting the bottle so the cool liquid could run down your dry throat.
You gulped the water, holding onto Sirius’ wrist. You choked a little on the water, making all three of them look at you in concerned amusement.
“Calm down, doll, you can have all the water you want,” Remus chuckled, kneeling as well to clean the remnants of their cum from your inner thighs and cunt.
You drank the water slowly, closing your eyes as you felt the cloudiness of dehydration slowly disperse.
Your feet hit the cold wooden floor, your legs shaky as you stood with help from Sirius.
James came over with one of their abandoned dress shirts in hand, kneeling on one knee in front of you as he helped your arms through. You watched him slowly button it up for you, the way his fingers worked on the small plastic buttons with such ease and gentleness - everything was throwing you off.
It was strange the way they behaved, it made you both confused because you didn’t know what was coming, but you felt safe and somehow secure.
“Thank you,” you whispered as he finished buttoning it enough to cover you.
James smiled, standing to tower over you once more, “you’re welcome, sweet girl.”
His hand slipped into yours, guiding you with him out of the room and into a large hall with the two others following close behind. The thumping of steps echoed around the ceiling from the carpet that decorated the wooden floor along the hallway. The house - actually more like a mansion - looked old but well kept, decorated with fancy and very expensive paintings and furnishings. You wondered how much of it was stolen, but you didn’t dare ask, too confused at the situation you found yourself in.
“I’m tired,” you spoke quietly, not knowing what they were planning to do with you.
“We know, sweetheart,” James chuckled, coming to a halt in front of a large door with curved golden handles.
He pushed the door open, revealing what looked to be a large master bedroom. The ceiling was tall, making the room look larger and a little intimidating. In the middle of the room, against the wall, stood a large bed, way too large for just one person.
You looked up at James, squeezing his hand for attention, “I’m a little confused… I thought you were going to ki-kill me,” you whispered the last part meekly.
Remus came to your side, placing a large hand on your shoulder.
“Now, why would we do that?” he asked.
“Because of my father.”
“We won’t kill you because of him… -but we are going to keep you as compensation for what he took,” Sirius spoke with a smirk, standing so close behind you, you could feel the heat from his body on your back.
“But I have a feeling you don’t mind that… do you, doll?” Remus whispered smugly, making you gasp.
You took a moment, staring between Remus and James, not knowing what to say or how to react to your newfound information. What scared you the most was that Remus’ words had truth to them - you didn’t mind.
They didn’t expect an answer; they just knew.
You were pulled toward the bed by James, guided under the covers, the bed soft like a large cloud.
“We have some work to take care of, but don’t worry, it won’t take too long,” James explained, rubbing his thumb along your cheek.
“We expect you to behave from now on… it’ll make your life so much easier,” Remus said sternly, making you gulp at the change in tone, so you nodded.
“Goodnight, babydoll,” Sirius grinned and winked before leaving the dark room to start whatever work they had to do.
Remus and James bid their goodnights as well, making a small whimper catch in your throat at the thought of being left alone, but you bit it back, instead saying goodnight with a small pout.
“Now, don’t give me that look… we’ll be back before you wake up, but now you need rest,” James chuckled, giving Remus a nod as he too left the room.
“Promise you’ll be back?”
“Always…- you’re ours now, and we take care of what’s ours,” James stroked your cheeks before standing, making his way to the open door.
“Go to sleep, baby… be good,” he said gently but with edge to it.
As the door shut, millions of thoughts crawled through your brain. There were too many to actually think of something cohesive, just loud noises that bounced around.
Eventually, they lulled you to sleep, the soft pillows catching them between the feathers instead.
A/N: to be notified of future work follow @saintlike78slibrary and turn on notifications 🤍
notes: drabble + nsfw + warrior!kiyoomi + mentions of kidnapping + dubcon + noncon + they just don’t understand what the other is saying
being big kiyoomi’s play thing, living in the middle of nowhere on a misty mountain, away from people and life. a mousy thing picked up on a campaign (collateral), far from home and brought back on a mere whim from the ruined remains of your desolate homeland.
he doesn’t understand what you say most of the time, leaning his temple against his curled fist as he watches you huff and puff around the cabin he calls home, mouthing off about one thing or another. so unalike the first day he brought you, shivering like a leaf on a windy day, mute and demure, unsure of what a burly man like him would want from you.
you are cultures and languages away from understanding each other, but he had nowhere else to keep you once the high of war faded away and he came to his senses. kiyoomi was supposed to be practical man; his fellow warriors at the tavern suggested he passed you to them if he got bored (women were always appreciated under men’s roofs, for all and any reason in the desolate wilderness of these mountains) but as the days passed you slowly broke out of your shell, and he soon began coming home to dusted shelves and clean linen. he decided to keep you around, if for just a while to see what else you could do.
kiyoomi is also a very meticulous man; has always been—a stark contrast to the dirt-smeared men with questionable hygiene he would turn his nose up at, the sort of men wives sniffle about their lack of sensibility at the community bakehouse. he takes pride in order and tidiness, and knows the ins and outs of his own home. and for him, routine states that everything should be put in strategic order. but now, things are all over the place and he thinks he might be beginning to hallucinate, because that item over there was supposed to be elsewhere, and he cannot find—
you come out of the outdoor storeroom, with baskets full of things out-of-place, and kiyoomi’s head spins. he stomps across the house and through the door where you stand, hoping he doesn’t seem as affronted as he feels, and grabs the offending baskets out of your surprised hands. you look at him as if he’s grown another head, taken back by what you understand is an irritated rant, watching him put away his items the way he wants them in his house. you huff irately behind his turned back, ignoring his grumbling as you dust your hands on a tattered apron you’ve found in a corner of his house. also his.
kiyoomi sees the way you look at him, as if he was odd. he wants to understand what you’re doing, why you are turning the house upside down when everything is fine, but he feels that he would be unable to get his point across unless he shook you by the shoulders until you stopped your nonsense. but kiyoomi has had little experience with women, even less with strange women from foreign lands, and something stops him from stooping low and treating you in a way that might be discourteous by any standards, whether yours of his. he recognises the nagging guilt of having towed an innocent woman away from her home, regardless of if it was common practice for warring men like him to regularly partake in raids and looting of enemy lands at the orders of their lords. pinching his brows, he silently prays thanks to good fortunes that he hasn’t done anything else that would be irreversible.
you both sleep in the same room. kiyoomi’s house is modest; he is a bachelor who often stays away due to the call of battle, but he likes to think that his room is comfortable enough to host another person. his own bedding is large enough to accommodate the length of his limbs, and your own is comprised of softer linens he had stored away, for any guests he might have had. but kiyoomi hardly has people over, and oftentimes he wakes up in the middle of the darkness to someone else’s breathing in the comfort of his room. it takes time getting used to, and sometimes he feels like he has an overstaying guest over, until you open your mouth and sharply complain about one thing or another. or at least he thinks you are complaining.
the fact that neither of you can understand each other slowly drives him up the wall, and he lays awake at night, thinking of whether this is all truly worth the headache, keeping you here—if he should just pass you on to another house; after all, helping hands would be appreciated elsewhere—but he also thinks about how he can make the best of the situation. and again, kiyoomi is a practical man, so he begins to point out certain items around the house, and repeats their name, slowly and clearly, until you enunciate well enough for him to move on to the next item.
“soap.”
“soap.”
“my soap. and don’t move it from here. please.”
“please.” you giggle behind his back, but he rolls his eyes and continues as he goes around tidying up the corners of the house. all is well and in order, until he gets to his battle gear. you questioningly peek over his broad shoulders when he stills for a moment too long, until your eyes lands on his armour.
kiyoomi quietly observes the change in your expression through his long lashes, saying nothing when your mood visibly drops. he can almost feel the sad lump in your throat, and your lips part as if to say something, but you press them together contemplatively, opting to stay quiet. sunlight shines through the window next to you, warming the gear leather he set out earlier to maintain, but he forgets about it in favour of turning his attention to you. the rays illuminate the hovering particles around you, and in the moment, he thinks they make you look soft and forlorn.
you are a pretty woman, kiyoomi muses, eyes following the arch of your brows to the slope of your nose. even the displeased press of your lips look lovely, and his hand lifts from his side with the intention of caressing the soft curve of your cheek, until you slowly look up to him with a resentful glare, acidic words piercing the silence and breaking the illusion. tender strings pull on kiyoomi’s heart as you turn away from him, the hateful stomps of your feet taking you away from him and creating a distance he didn’t think he would start to hate.
the house turns colder over the next few days. you start finding larger morsels of bread on your plate, fresh berries by your pillow in the mornings. and though kiyoomi has always done the heavier and more difficult work like wood-cutting, you find that even most of the smaller chores have also been done (like scrubbing clothes by the cold river) leaving you with some of the more relaxing tasks. you realise this because the irate man—who had taken you away from your home—has always kept an eye on you as you went around his house keeping yourself busy, and you’ve ignored his raised brow when you would snuggle in a cozy corner to slow down and do more delicate tasks like mending clothes. there is something comforting in the familiar, repeated movement of sewing, taking your mind off of other upsetting things, instead reminding yourself of what was, before you got here.
kiyoomi leaves you be, mind easing as you take to thread and needle by the sunny corner of his lodgements. it is definitely the guilt driving his mind and limbs to get menial work out of the way of your comfort, but he doesn’t mind, seeing the way your eyebrow relaxes and then frowns in concentration. the realisation that he wants to care for you is not lost on him; he wants to do more. he wants you to look at him, turn your chin in his direction wherever he goes, and lord help him, he wants your attention for himself. there is something rising fast within him—a need to monopolise you.
but you already have. she is yours. a despicable voice in his mind whispers, and kiyoomi tightens his curled fists, willing the crescent of his nails against his palms to distract him from the fast throbbing of his pulse, his mind daring him to act on the growing desire in his heart.
he takes it to the nearest tavern instead, braving the cold gusts to clear his mind. the air inside is stuffy, and the drink he orders does a quick job of warming him up again when he settles. he doesn’t speak nor socialise, instead letting the surrounding conversation flow through his ears to stop his treacherous mind from drifting into territory he would rather avoid. he doesn’t want to think about the consequences of certain thoughts, washing away everything with another sip of his drink.
“—yeah but you see, and who will they run off to? they are way less trouble than the lasses from the village.”
kiyoomi catches the tail of a conversation, not really paying attention.
“…and they picked some sturdy ones from the loot. the lord kept some of the better ones for labour… but some of the men were given other women for their effort…”
he grimaces, the drink making his tongue bitter.
“…my wife doesn’t live with me anymore… and these girls are better at doing all the house maintenance. so i borrowed one to come over to… she looked young and a bit testy, so i—“
blurred images unwillingly flood his mind. slamming his unfinished mug on the wood, kiyoomi stands when the conversation takes a grisly turn too close for comfort, exiting the establishment into the darkness of the evening to return to the comfort of his own house. except you are there, standing by the door when he enters, candle illuminating your frown. the cold air from the open door blows your (his) wayward shawl, and you shiver through the thin layers of your night clothes.
he stands towering over you like a shadow, neck bent and dark curls falling over his eyes. maybe it is the homey atmosphere under the candlelight, but your pinched brows remind him of a wife waiting for her wayward husband. he thinks you look cute, and instinct makes him stroke the space between your eyebrows. you step back in surprise, and the wide-eyed look you give him through your lashes makes desire overtake his being. he wants you. he wants to make you his! he wants to be the only man to touch you, to be the only one to have rights over you. to touch the skin hidden under all the layers keeping you from him. to take your heat from himself, your lips on him, the soft sounds you would make for him only—
he briefly comes to reality when one of your hands grips his wrist, blunt nails digging into his skin. the wrist connected to the hand on your neck, his large palm covering your thundering pulse. you’re looking at him with parted lips, an unsure look in your eyes, but the small touch you give him burns him, and he throws all reason out of the door, pushing you back with his larger frame. you nearly stumble on the wooden floor, bare feet stepping on his boots, grabbing on the lapels of his coat so you don’t fall back.
kiyoomi’s lips are on yours in a searing hot kiss, sealing away any regrets and melting into a relief he thinks a thirsty man in hot lands would feel when he reaches an oasis. he ignores your gasps and swallows any words you might utter, dragging his wet tongue against yours, then on the outline of your lips. you taste so sweet, and he wants to consume you whole, take everything you have to offer.
his hands run down your heated skin, pressing your body to his tightly, closing any gaps for doubts of his intentions as his hands gather and bundle your long layers of skirt to grope at the flesh of your thighs. you squeal in his ear as he moves to press open-mouthed kisses to your neck, sucking and biting every time you pull on his hair in shaky breaths. you say something tensely to him, but he’s too occupied with the soft skin of your throat, until he feels the uncomfortable tightness in his trousers pressing against your stomach.
kiyoomi takes a moment in his madness to take a look at you; your wobbly chin and wet eyes look so pretty to him as you still hold on his black curls in tight fists, and he knows he wants you desperately this instant.
“you can hold me properly in a moment.”
you look like you’re about to say something until he pulls your dress off, and in the chill of his chambers, your hands fly up to save any remaining modesty you can salvage.
“no—let me see you,” he says desperately, pushing your wrists away from your body. he’s unable to tear his eyes away from the sway of your tits when you try to pull away, but kiyoomi is too far gone, a man lost too deep in his desires. he will make you his, and please you until you forget everything else; about the home you were forced to leave and the worries that cross your mind when you frown at him.
he traps your wrists behind your back in one hand, pushing you down on the bedding laid out underneath, your knees knocking against his and pressing on his sides. your breathy whines fill the room as he deliriously takes your nipple in his mouth, his hot tongue lapping at your sensitive nerves. you try to wriggle away from his attentions and ticklish touches, tears streaming down the sides of your face. kiyoomi drags himself down to your navel, which rises and falls with your shallow breaths, hiccups escaping your parted, wet lips. he thinks you looks ravishing, body quivering and trembling under him, chest pushed out over your trapped hands and nipples stiff in the quickly warming room. you try pressing your knees together, wriggling nervously with his face so close to the apex of your thighs. you’re repeating something under your breath, but he doesn’t understand what you say, and with the smell of your arousal so close, he loses his senses.
though deep down he knows it isn’t true, he thinks it’s partially your fault for being so alluring. when did this start? kiyoomi can’t tell right from left and beginning from end, and he lets go of your wrists to part your thighs and expose your hot cunt to his prying eyes. your hands fly to cover yourself and to press against his forehead, looking down at him through the valley of your breasts with eyes desperately relaying something.
but he has run out of patience with your trembling cries, so he bites your fingers. when you take them away by surprise, he takes the chance to bury his nose into the fragrance of your folds, tongue lapping at your dripping cunt like a starved man. he hears you crying at this point, but your arousal is evident to him by the musk coating his tongue, and he presses inside of you, tasting as much as he can until the point of suffocation.
the wind wildly knocks on the window, drowned out by the wet slurping of kiyoomi’s insistent efforts. your thighs tremble around his head, feet pressing into his clothed back. when your rising whimpers alert him of your mounting peak, he slurps and sucks until your high-pitched moan breaks into the steamy room, body twitching and hips swaying against his tongue as he aids you through your high.
kiyoomi backs away for a moment to take you in; tremors wrack your body as you try to suppress any further noise by covering your mouth, with your glistening cunt exposed to him, your cum dripping out in pearly drops onto the linen underneath. he takes this moment to rid himself of his own clothes, and you watch from the corner of your eyes as his battle scars and hard muscle are exposed to the dimming candle. you knew this man was a soldier, but some of these scars still look fresh.
he notices your staring. “they are of no consequence. they won’t stop me.”
he sees your gears turning to say something witty he imagines, but he drags your body down with strong arms until he is directly over you, curls falling around his eyes and onto his damp forehead. burdened with the intense gaze he keeps on you, you focus on the beauty spots under his eye instead, jolting when your hands graze something hot. and hard.
he observes your dumbfounded expression with a shaky exhale as he intertwines your fingers with his on his leaking cock, dragging your hands along its length as he lets out shivering breaths. he’s tainting your skin with his own arousal, the thought lighting a fire below his navel. his cock falls heavily on your still wet cunt when he lets go, and kiyoomi sees you starting to shy away again, pressing your palms on his chest as he slowly drags his tip along your folds.
you say something desperately to him, almost on the verge of tears again, but he’s already pushing past the initial resistance of your heat, and he sees you struggling to breathe.
“shh… relax. i will make you feel good.” you’re shaking your head, but the soft gasps and sobs escaping your lips are immensely sweet to his ears, he decides he wants to hear more. so he pushes himself all the way inside you, the heat of your tight cunt making him lose composure as he takes a moment to gather himself.
you’re gripping his forearms, nails digging red crescents into his skin, and he peppers kisses all over your face in an attempt to sooth your tense visage
“let me take care of you.” he shushes you before beginning to move, slowly dragging his hips back until he sheaths himself up to his balls again, over and over, until he’s panting over you and you’re crying, begging please, please in his language. a greedy heat blooms in kiyoomi’s chest at your beseech. you feel so unbelievably good, that whatever guilt he was previously feeling melts away between your bodies until he’s forgotten all about his previous worries.
the wet slapping of his hips has his ears turning red, as he looks down to your tear-streaked face and curled fists with a certain fondness. he wants to hear your sweet moans, but choked out words escape your lips instead, and in irritation he flips you on your side, pressing his cock into your sweet cunt from another angle, one of your legs raised above his shoulder.
you’re drooling on his pillow by now but he pays no mind, instead trailing his fingers along your thigh to press into the bundle of nerves of your clit, and your strained moans fill the room again. the light of the flickering candle cast moving shadows on the walls in an imitation of your acts. kiyoomi thinks he’s close now and he feels you are too, so with a few drags of his hips and the insistent rubbing of his thumb over your swollen clit, he comes undone when you wetly tighten around him. your hips thrash under his hold, but he keeps his cock still inside you, releasing his cum in the heat of your body.
you’re both sweating profusely now, room reeking of arousal. kiyoomi watches over your collapsed body on his knees, coming down to wipe away your forehead with the back of his fingers. “i told you to let me take care of you.” he coos at your whimpers and teary eyes. “rest now, and let me handle everything else.”
still seeing white, you’re too exhausted to say anything when he rolls you on your stomach, his hands sliding up your back, pressing into your sore muscles and loosening them under the ministrations of his long fingers. your knees twitch when you feel something wet at the hole of your cunt again, heavy breaths and whispered pleas muffled against the pillow under you.
kiyoomi resolves himself to do anything so you can rest in the embrace and security of his arms as he sheathes himself inside you once again with the stutter of his hips, pushing your knees apart and feet over his elbows, ignoring your complains. he will be the only one for you, so you won’t dare to turn your attentions to any other man. his eyes roll to the ceiling just as you sleepily blink at him over your shoulder, a bitter glare hidden behind your fluttering lashes and closing lids, letting the darkness overtake your consciousness.
Synopsis: A nun moves to Crockett Island for mysterious reasons. Father Paul succumbs to new and wicked whims
TW/CW: non con, religious trauma, blood
Father Paul is a darker, somewhat OOC version of himself, though as close to Hamish's portrayal as I could make him in those parameters
Read beneath the cut
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The nun had been avoiding Father Paul Hill since she'd first arrived from the mainland, sequestered, a cloister of one, in a cottage at the furthest edge of Crockett Island.
How she loved that house, in its cultivated solitude. Sometimes, when the nun played hymns on the piano over the draughts that jimmied the windows at night, she imagined herself the sole living person in existence, a single pulse—a single breath—in the dark.
But it wasn't enough; her thoughts were always with her, constant tenants that had followed her for thirty miles across open water, and would follow her under the earth, in time. As a good Catholic, the nun was meant to believe in the washing away of one's sins by God's will, that to repent was to be reborn.
Yet she had repented, and it only felt like running away.
The nun left her new home very little, only to collect her scant groceries from the single store, or as deliveries from the mainland, at the port. Still she hadn't entered the church, although it—the Lord's voice—called to her often, its song undulating through her in a constant wave. Yet the thought of the many eyes and whispering mouths attending each sermon repelled her with a strength she'd felt only at the precipice of night terrors— no, she couldn't go there. Not yet.
And no matter: the nun had her own fashions of private worship, leftovers from the convent of St. Aurelia. She could worship in her home, for now, and remain devout.
Father Paul, the priest on the island, did not seem to agree. Several times the nun had bumped into him whilst running errands, a surprisingly youthful figure in blue jeans and tousled hair, ignorant, it seemed, of his own dark good looks. He'd struck her as both quaintly awkward and charismatic, an artful combination that had likely won over the congregation as much as outward appearances.
The man seemed to spring up from grassy hillocks and rugged shoreline like a Shakespearian ghost, ever-ready with a warm greeting and, inevitably, a gentle enquiry as to when the nun would be attending mass. Did he know that she was coming, or was it mere chance that brought them together, again and again? God's will, Father Paul would likely declare, but the nun was less certain of that.
She'd noticed a particular darkness in the priest's eyes, a furtive stirring of old, untended pain, and new.
The priest had suffered in his life; that, or he was hiding something. The nun had no interest in exposing herself to such volatility, intriguing a man though life's ills had forged. She'd vowed to engage nothing and no-one that might disrupt her peace, and thus she'd nodded her way through every interaction, eyes lowered, thrumming desperately for some gap in the conversation to take her leave.
After that came the phonecalls. Most, after the first, went unanswered; the nun got into the habit of disconnecting the line when she began her day's work—the editing of religious texts for publication—and considered having the telephone uninstalled altogether when she was disturbed in the evening, as well.
It was a blessing that the nun rarely dreamed, for she was sure that the priest would find his way there, too, as he had her daily ruminations.
Thought after thought came in their torrents, all of Father Paul, all of him. He coiled inside her as if with many fingers, many hands opening every hole she had, making them his possessions. The image was sin and sickness, boiling at the perimeters of her mind, irrepressible. But the nun would repress it, she told herself, she would not fold under the fancied urgings of a man that didn't know her.
And he did not know her, no matter what he'd heard from the mouths of gossips, nor from enquiries with the tight-lipped secretaries of St. Aurelia, who would give not an inch, holding grimly to self-preserving discretion.
A few days after the priest's calls ceased there came a knock at the door, an imperious rap that seemed to invite itself in. Bev Keene, the unofficial church administrator, stood about the house for half an hour, wrinkling her nose at the living room decor, and smiling blandly over a cup of tea.
"I don't believe we've seen your face at Mass yet, Sister. Honestly, the whole flock has been expecting you. You don't want to disappoint them, do you? They're all so eager to welcome you to the congregation. Following God's own lessons, after all. 'The Lord watches over the sojourners; he upholds the widow and the fatherless, but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin'— Psalm 146:9'. Words to think on."
There was a clammy sense of shame in the air around Beverly, a bitterness she herself seemed indifferent to. One couldn't stand beside her and not feel unclean, riddled with the squirming discomfort of a child pulled up before their teacher. The nun made quiet attempts to usher the woman from the house, which Bev coolly evaded.
"You do know Father Paul has been trying to flag you down? You'd do well to visit the man. His hands are very full at the moment and he's still so keen to make time for you!"
Too much time, the nun thought, but she felt so harassed that it occured to her that if she acquiesced just once this campaign of polite coercion might come to an end.
So it was that she left her house, one night, and made the long walk to the church, turning around on herself several times as her resolve wavered, then ultimately trudging on.
The air was pale with silence, unstirred but for the crunch of the nun's sensible shoes on unturned stones, her feathered breathing. How easily the walking put her out of breath; perhaps it was the incessant choir of nerves she felt, not the journey, that so tired her.
The wind tugged, insistent, at the nun's veil, and she heard, on that breeze, a strange, sharp cry from far off. A scream, or the shriek of an owl— neither were so savage as this noise, as it seemed to her, a yell of killing triumph.
The nun drew a cross against the dark. Likely it had been nothing, but she'd always feared the unpredictability of nature, the omen of it. There was a certain paganism to the Catholic faith that nurtured superstition, and with the nun's anxieties already at their static heights, her walk took on the feeling of folk horror.
At last the church rose into view, as modest a structure as expected for such a small community. Still the nun stopped in the middle of the grass, taken, again, by a great surge of disquiet. Lights were on in the church, which was not unusual; there were late services that dragged on, and the priest or Bev Keene would sometimes linger afterwards to clean, or rearrange the pews.
But the yellow windows were of such an arid, malevolent hue, like sulphur in a bell jar, that by the time the nun reached the church doors she was trembling, her shadow a cave drawing on the wall.
Slowly, she opened the doors, sighing at the familiar scents of dust and incense. Home was in the smell of this building, more so even than in her own precious space; the nun stepped into the church, between the rows, and closed her eyes a moment, taking comfort where she could before dread quenched the feeling again.
"Ah, Sister! I wasn't sure you'd come by."
The nun sprung to her left, hands seizing the top of nearest bench. Father Paul Hill was coming down the aisle towards her, his lined face breaking into a smile that would have disarmed the Devil himself with its warmth.
"I'd hoped, Sister— prayed, I, ah, I even prayed on it, just a little. I hope you don't mind; I know that can seem a little off-putting, unanticipated goodwill after hardship, but there it is. Does that sound conceited? Maybe it does, unintentionally, of course, but the road to Hell, you know—"
The sudden flow of low, mildly stammering chatter arrested the nun, it being so benign that she could do nothing but stand limply in its swell. There was no flitting away through the doors again now, not when those soft, dark eyes were clipped to her face, now the priest's hand was reaching out to envelop her own. Cold, so cold, that hand, and yet somehow feverish at once.
Was he sick, this Father Paul, or was he, too, felled by trepidation?
"Would you like some tea?" asked the priest. "Or coffee, although it is getting late. There's a kettle and some clean cups somewhere in the backroom, I believe. I always make one, for meetings like this. Something about a hot beverage calms the soul."
Helpless, the nun let herself be ushered to a pew at the front of the church, bound in a swaddle of talk. She knew that there would be purpose beneath the niceties, and sure enough when Father Paul at last sat beside her, drinks in hand, the nun felt as if the jaws of some unseen trap had closed barbed teeth around her.
"I get the feeling you're not one hundred percent comfortable in God's house yet," said the priest. "I understand that. I do. All people of strong faith, we're tested daily, for the bettering of our souls. 'Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him'— James 1:2. All the more reason to seek support, to seek support and guidance, from those who offer it with open arms."
It was nothing the nun hadn't heard before. She sipped her tea with a quiet agony as still the priest yammered on, his voice hypnotic in its depth and repetition.
"I know you must feel rejected, just now. Cast down, like Lucifer himself was, by his father, and likely hurt by the fall in more ways than one; just imagine, consumed though he was by wickedness, the Devil felt, as we all have, as we all do, the spurns and judgement of a loved one."
The priest reached out and touched the nun's arm lightly, making her splash tea over the rim of her cup in surprise.
"The convent of St. Aurelia. It was the only family you had, the community there, wasn't it? I understand your parents died when you were young, a tragic accident. My condolences. Though they know peace now it's never easy, a loss, losing, sometimes, the only people you cared to know. Gone, in a second, and suddenly you find yourself breaking bread with strangers. It's a strength, getting through it alone. I commend you for that."
The sheer compassion in the man's voice made the nun's eyes mist, but she merely blinked until Father Paul came sharply into view again. The nun stared down at his jeans, at a loose white thread she itched to pull free. Her eyes remained there as the priest talked, urging her towards the inescapable question.
"But then, there was another upheaval," he said. "You were asked to leave the convent, abruptly— suddenly, so unexpected. You'd lived there for so long, nearly ten years. It must feel like a betrayal— this, this departure, Eve out of Eden—"
A cool hand touched the nun's jaw, tipped her chin so that she was forced to gaze into the tunnelling black of Father Paul's stare. There was something ruthless in those eyes, the zeal of a man turned to madness by his own preaching. Yet soft, still, as salted butter, and the nun floated in that molten darkness.
"Tell me, Sister. Why were you asked to leave the convent of St. Aurelia?"
The nun broke free of the look, the encroaching hand, and the priest blinked, seeming, for a moment, embarrassed.
"This isn't confession, I know. I know that, but, uh, this opportunity, us meeting like this. It feels like time for truths—fears—to be addressed."
Attempting to rise, the nun shook her head, but it only took a meek gesture of Father Paul's hand for her to sink down again, her limbs hewn of iron weights. He looked at her with a sorrowed fascination, his tea going cold, barely touched.
Still he spoke in that low, lulling tone, still seemed so very amenable.
"I've watched you run away from me like a frightened lamb," said the priest. "Well, from everyone, but me, most of all. At first, I'll admit, I was a little hurt. Wondered what I'd done to scare you away when we'd barely spoken two words to each other. But I reflected on it, the puzzle of whatever was keeping a young woman like yourself—a woman of faith, with so much to give—in such isolation."
Father Paul set his cup down on the floor and folded his hands over his knees. Every motion, every gesture was compelling, as if conducting some strain of terrible music. The words were dangerous, he was, somehow. The nun wanted to stand up, make some clumsy excuse to leave, but she knew that she'd be drawn back, a helpless wave called in by the moon.
She didn't know why. All men were an obscurity to her, this one more than most.
"I thought about dropping in, at the cottage," said Father Paul. "But I didn't want to overwhelm you. Bev Keene did that on my behalf, I fear— sorry about that. Well-intentioned, but heavy-handed. I think she frightened you, her intensity—"
It was yours, the nun itched to say, your intensity, you wouldn't leave me alone—
But she couldn't open her mouth, could only listen as the priest burbled on.
"—Anyway, now you're here, I understand. God has allowed me that. Yes, God, I believe that, I really do. Your guilt, your shame is paralysing you, Sister. Shame that you were sent away from St. Aurelia's, so strong you came all the way to Crockett Island to hide from it. But you don't have to hide it, Sister, not with me."
Sunken into a cringing-self revulsion, the nun shifted back across the pew, putting space between herself and the priest. He inched towards her, his smile the pitying grimace of a doctor with a vicious syringe.
"You'll lose nothing by talking, if anything, you'll gain something. If you remember Psalm 32:5: 'I said, “I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.” And you forgave the guilt of my sin.' Your silence, your turmoil. You could be rid of it today, uh, tonight, this very hour, if you wanted to be. It's in your hands, Sister. That freedom. To feel clean again."
Father Paul was close enough that the nun could taste his breath on her face, make out every crease and furrow in his skin. She sensed, under his relaxed confidence, a tension, as before a cat springs. She saw it in the way his head turned too sharply, in the incline of his body over hers.
The priest's eyes were gelid, sinkholes in a slate pit. Coldly, the nun understood that she was being given no choice, that she must speak, feed whatever hunger for contrition stirred in the man's heart, or else sate some other appetite. Or another, still—
Father Paul's hand closed over the nun's thigh, and this time it didn’t tremble away from her. There was something sure, animal, in his touch, the way his fingers latched over warm flesh through the habit, seeking her skin like a caiman crawls to water.
"Please, Father," the nun began, her voice a tremulous whisper.
She stammered over those two words until they guttered to ash.
"What was it, Sister?" asked the priest, his tone rough with a broken kindness. "What did you do at St. Aurelia's that you're so ashamed of?"
His hand slipped the nun's skirt up her thigh with a tender ceremony, and she cried out, a juddering crow-caw of anguish. Father Paul's head tilted slightly, and for a moment there was a luminescence to that stare, the milky white of things seen only in caverns, deep underground.
"I wish things could be different," said the Priest, mournfully. "The telling of secrets. The unburdening of the soul. It's never easy. I wish that it could be. But the nature of growth, Sister, it's painful. Growing pains, they hurt, they always do."
The skirt was up, over the nun's knee, and she wanted achingly to run, to strike the man that touched her with such mercy, but instead she let him push her back onto the pew. The nun gazed up at him, seized by a dread of the inevitable, of the thing she'd known would come when a scent had been caught of her great sin.
"Father," she whimpered, and again could say no more; her mouth was as dry as wafer, her voice drier still.
This time, the priest made no answer. His fingers brushed the bare skin of the nun's thigh, the place behind her knee where a pulse beat with the miserable violence of the Deus irae. The black-silver eyes were fixed there, almost lidless in their lack of blinking, and the nun realised that the priest had bent down, bent in the mode of praying over the exposed limb, his sharp nose almost touching her skin.
Gone, suddenly, was the quizzical arch of those dark brows, all bumbling affability extinguished. Fronds of black hair sprung down onto the priest's forehead, and as he lifted the nun's leg high to press his face to her pulsepoint she saw a creature unhinged, not a man at all, or not entirely.
Pain broke like a cheap mirror across the nun's thigh, and she tried to scream, tried, and failed. The sound was thieved from her lungs as though by the hand of a ghost, as was her strength as she tried to kick, and did no more than dislodge, from her foot, the plain little shoe.
It hit the floor with a resounding thud, like a closed book, but the nun did not hear it, her focus narrowed on the keen, ruby artery of suffering the priest plucked out of her thigh.
His other hand was at her hip, not tight enough to hurt, but enough to hold her to him as he drank from the wound he'd bitten open as though she were a flask in a desert. Blood ran down her leg in sumptuous plenty, soaking her underwear, redding the white.
The nun's body was so stiff with pain and terror that her back and neck ached with the tautness of it. She clutched the side of the pew and muttered faintly to an ear she was abruptly certain did not exist.
"Spirit of our God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Most Holy Trinity, Immaculate Virgin Mary..."
"Yes," said Father Paul, his lips still touching the cut behind the pale knee. "If you won't confess, then pray, pray. There's absolution for us all, in one way or another."
His face was a slick of carmine, dripping its excess onto the nun's calf. As his stare met hers she saw, slowly, the intelligence come back to that primal hollow, something of humanity, although not much of it.
"We all sin, Sister, all of us, even I. God will forgive us, as he'll forgive us again, and again. This isn't the first time someone has touched you; now, at least, we'll be cleansed together, as one."
Was this how he justified his monstrous want, a forgivable sin? Or else the stepping stone to a greater good, the regeneration of a soul? He was lying to himself, as the nun had, in taking flight from her past; no wonder there were holes in her wings.
The priest crawled up her trembling body, shushed her, murmured nothings of consolation as his bloodied hands pushed the useless feather of her underwear aside, as he laid his face alongside hers, anointing her with cloying scarlet.
"I won't judge you, Sister," he said, "if you find pleasure in this. It's normal, in fact, quite normal, the exhilaration of meeting the Lord with the truth bared—"
"Please, God, help me," said the nun, and the priest's irises shifted with that bestial madness, the sheen of lust and religion and killing made one in those terrible eyes.
He kissed her mouth as his fingers breeched her tightness, chaste, at first, then with the passion of a hunter in the night, the covenant of the unholy. His thumb danced her clitoris with the skill of knowing, and the nun had enough presence of mind to be surprised by that before her thoughts were dashed to cinders.
"They tried to cleanse you of this need, in St Aurelia's, didn't they, Sister?" asked Father Paul. "Tried, and failed with the futility of man to erase the very need of man to trespass. I saw it in your eyes: you're young, and on fire with it. I'll burn, with you, a while."
The nun lay under him like a saint carved into marble, as though his touch didn't move her at all. Presently the fingers left, and as fabric rustled another hardness, another piercing thing struck deep, the nail in Christ's palm, the suffering of Job—
"God," she screamed out, and there was so much love in Father Paul's eyes as he moved upon her that she could see scarcely believe that he was within, his cock the spear in the side of Christ, tearing the red scraps of her faith asunder.
It seemed to last the length of three great days, each thrust a thundering violence. Yet still the priest muttered his prayers and maddened sweetness, still kissed her brow with an angel's pure lips as she suffered beneath him. He wanted to bite her again, she felt it; he was starved of that which he had taken.
But it was as if he didn't dare, as if this carnality was the closest he could allow himself to taking such communion again.
"God, forgive us our sins," breathed the priest, against the nun's ruined veil, its wimple crushed and smeared with garnet death. "That we might begin again tomorrow anew. Amen."
He stilled, arcing away from the nun, his groans deep and low. She wished to feel nothing, only the agonies of unhappiness, but even in this God had no mercy; as the hated organ pulsed within there was an answering ripple through her own flesh, the spasms of a joy thrust upon her.
They lay together, a moment, clinging, the devout before some terrible miracle. Then, slowly, the priest gathered himself upright, looked at the blood on his hands and upon the woman. Abashed, he helped her sit; she didn't stop him, allowed him to smooth down her habit, give back the fallen shoe.
"I— I apologise, Sister," said Father Paul, in tones of genuine regret. "I seem to have forgotten myself. God moves me in strange ways, as of late, and I don't dare question His might and wisdom. I'd advise you against that, too. Questioning, I mean. He placed you here for a reason, I feel that completely."
Dully, the nun let him speak, the impossibility of answering a colossus between them.
"It's a pity you feel this way," the priest murmured. "I'd hoped to salvage your trust in God's plan, but I see that will take time. That's okay. We've got plenty of that, on Crockett Island."
He helped the nun to her feet, both of them unsteady in the waning crisis of frenzy. There was a lunacy in the moment, how a kind of performance fell into place between them, a play of being decent and ordinary people.
"Come to the rec center, if there's anything else you need to work through," said the priest. "I'm thinking of offering counselling there, in the evenings. Might, ah, could do you some good."
The nun beheld him with an abstract, distant terror, thinking—a sin, another sin—that she would rather carve out her own throat than be alone with this man once more. But rather than say so she only nodded, a coward's sort of kneeling.
"Yes, Father," she whispered, and stumbled out of the church, down to the beach.
She wanted to keep walking, into the ocean, under the cleansing black of the waves. But again the nun failed her resolve, and tottered on, a broken seabird trailing the shoreline, until the lonely cottage emerged in the distance.
Thieves Jewel - Stephen Bonnet x Fem! Reader Masterlist
Hello all! I am finally posting my first fic on here! This will be a Dark! Series; although, seeing the character, I'm sure that could be inferred. This will be updated with links to each chapter. I hope you enjoy it; feel free to comment with ideas and suggestions.
Summary: Stephen Bonnet finds himself enraptured by a thieving female pirate with the voice of a siren. He never thought a woman would be a part of a crew, let alone be the primary source of their thieving and prophet. He catches her stealing ways when she tries to take something precious of his. Just how will he react?
Warnings: This is a DARK! Story, 18+ MDNI. Dubcon/Noncon, smutt, violence, manipulation, etc. (warnings will be updated in each chapter to ensure an accurate warning is provided).
As a reminder, this is a dark story, Consume AT YOUR OWN RISK. Also, I do not condone rape or sexual violence, or just about anything that happens in this story. This is merely fictional writing; if you or someone you know needs help, please contact someone!
absolutely loved behave. so sorry for all the hate people have been sending you its not fair. people write noncon/dubcon as a coping mechanism and idk why people can’t see that? as somebody who has been thru sa, that type of writing is a huge help. everybody leave jules alone.
Thank you bby 💗
It did help turning the anon button off, but I do miss all my sweet anons 🥺 (it’ll probably be on again tomorrow)
But thank you for sticking up for me 💗 I’m not gonna answer more about this on my blog since it’s been clogging up everyone’s feed
