beskarandblasters
𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙀𝙣𝙙 𝙄𝙨 𝙉𝙚𝙖𝙧
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Fantasy Turned Reality
Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader
Part two for A Twisted Fantasy
Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist
Summary: The Ghoul finds you in the woods and punishes you for not running far enough.
Word count: 831
Warnings: reader is able-bodied, uneven power dynamic, oral sex (M receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, irradiated creampie, spanking, pet names (sweetheart), praising, no use of y/n
You were so tired from all the running you did that you fell asleep in the same position; with your hand down your pants. But you didn’t even realize it until a stern voice shook you awake.
“Thought I told you to get the fuck away from here.”
You startle awake and lock eyes with the Ghoul, gulping as he cocks his head to the side, smirking at you menacingly. His eyes leave your face and trail down to the hand in your pants, chuckling as he asks, “What do we have here?”
“Nothing,” you quickly sputter, hastily trying to pull your hand away. But he stops you, his hand enclosing around your wrist.
“Not so fast. There’s three dangerous men after you and you’re worried about playing with yourself in the fuckin’ forest.”
Shamefully, you nod, looking away from him.
His other hand grabs your chin, directing your gaze back to him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
A shiver runs down your spine and the wetness in your cunt grows. Your fantasy may finally be coming to life.
“What were you thinking about?”
“…You.”
“Figures,” he tuts. “I can help you out regarding your little… situation. But first I think you need to be punished.”
“For what?!”
“For not running far enough away, sweetheart.”
He lets go of you, sitting on a large rock a few feet away. His thighs are spread wide in an inviting stance, leaving you aching to sit on his lap. He palms the bulge in his pants.
You sit up, jaw going slack at the sight of him sitting there. Your mind still can’t comprehend that this is actually happening.
“You know what to do,” he says, motioning for you to come closer.
You scramble to your feet, walking over to him and dropping to your knees. You’re face to face with his bulge, salivating at the thought of taking him in your mouth. He reaches out and caresses your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
“Be a good girl for me.”
You nod and reach for the fly of his pants, letting his cock spring free. You take him in your mouth and wrap your hand around the base of his shaft. He curses under his breath, moving the hand on your face to the back of your neck. You look up at him, locking eyes with him as you bob your head up and down. His salty pre-cum leaks in your mouth, mixing with your saliva and making this blowjob wetter and sloppier by the second.
“Fuck, that mouth of yours, sweetheart. It’s perfect.”
You hum in response, sending a vibration down his cock and a shiver up his spine. He curses again and his grip on the back of your neck tightens. You feel him grow harder in your mouth and feel pride in how much you’re pleasing him. You know you can escalate it further so you take your other hand and reach for his balls, cupping them slightly as you work him to the edge. Your eyes remain locked with his, putting on a show for him like such a good girl.
His balls tense up in your hand and you sense he’s at the edge of orgasm. But before you can take him there he cups your face and pulls his cock out of your mouth.
“Wanna come inside that sweet pussy of yours,” he says.
You eagerly stand up, shedding your clothes and waiting for further instructions. He remains where he is and pats on his lap, telling you, “Take your throne, sweetheart.”
You straddle him on the rock and lower yourself onto his cock, feeling it expand your walks. One of his hands holds your waist while the other gravitates to your ass. He gives you a firm spank and says, “Better get to work,” coaxing you to rock your hips back and forth.
You grind yourself against him, placing your hands on his shoulders. His cock hits the deepest, most perfect angles inside you. And he watches with pleasure as you fuck yourself on his cock.
With one last movement of your hips you come undone around his cock, moaning out into the nighttime air. He spanks your ass again as you cum until the sensation draws his own orgasm from him.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praises.
His cum paints your walls and finishes his orgasm with a grunt until his cock eventually goes soft inside you. Reluctantly, you pull yourself off of him and sit beside him. He turns to look at you with a grin and says, “Don’t worry, you won’t get pregnant. But I bet you knew that already.”
You nod, still breathless from your high. He returns his cock to his pants and stands up. With a hand on his hip he says, “Now, don’t let me catch you around these parts again.”
And with that, he leaves you naked and alone in the forest, with his cum dripping down your thigh.
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics
Dividers: @saradika-graphics
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Introducing the first Din Djarin Fic Club event!
Rules:
1. Write a fic centering around the prompt:
“I don’t know what’s happening but I love it.”
2. The word drabble is in the title of the challenge but write as many or as little words as you want!
3. Post with the hashtag #ddfc challenge and tag me! @beskarandblasters
4. Post the fics by Saturday May 27 (approximately 4 weeks from now)
Prompt is from @/creativepromptsforwriting!
If you’d like to join the server shoot me a message or leave a comment! Happy writing! 🤍
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Din Djarin Fic Club Server!
Hi friends! I decided to make a book club server for stories about our silly little tin can man! We’ll select a fic, read a chapter each week, and discuss it together!
But we’ll also collectively thirst over Din, talk Star Wars in general, and have special events!
If you’d like to join comment below or dm me!
Friendly reminder, this server is 18+ only!
Banner by @pedgito 🤍
This is the way 🫡
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The line “what if he’s written mine on my upper thigh” from Guilty as Sin? has not escaped me and now I’m thinking about Din tattooing the Mando’a words for mine (ner) or spouse (riduur) on the reader’s thigh for their wedding ceremony ?!?!?!?!?? 🤯🤯
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Fantasy Turned Reality
Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader
Part two for A Twisted Fantasy
Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist
Summary: The Ghoul finds you in the woods and punishes you for not running far enough.
Word count: 831
Warnings: reader is able-bodied, uneven power dynamic, oral sex (M receiving), vaginal sex, unprotected sex, irradiated creampie, spanking, pet names (sweetheart), praising, no use of y/n
You were so tired from all the running you did that you fell asleep in the same position; with your hand down your pants. But you didn’t even realize it until a stern voice shook you awake.
“Thought I told you to get the fuck away from here.”
You startle awake and lock eyes with the Ghoul, gulping as he cocks his head to the side, smirking at you menacingly. His eyes leave your face and trail down to the hand in your pants, chuckling as he asks, “What do we have here?”
“Nothing,” you quickly sputter, hastily trying to pull your hand away. But he stops you, his hand enclosing around your wrist.
“Not so fast. There’s three dangerous men after you and you’re worried about playing with yourself in the fuckin’ forest.”
Shamefully, you nod, looking away from him.
His other hand grabs your chin, directing your gaze back to him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”
A shiver runs down your spine and the wetness in your cunt grows. Your fantasy may finally be coming to life.
“What were you thinking about?”
“…You.”
“Figures,” he tuts. “I can help you out regarding your little… situation. But first I think you need to be punished.”
“For what?!”
“For not running far enough away, sweetheart.”
He lets go of you, sitting on a large rock a few feet away. His thighs are spread wide in an inviting stance, leaving you aching to sit on his lap. He palms the bulge in his pants.
You sit up, jaw going slack at the sight of him sitting there. Your mind still can’t comprehend that this is actually happening.
“You know what to do,” he says, motioning for you to come closer.
You scramble to your feet, walking over to him and dropping to your knees. You’re face to face with his bulge, salivating at the thought of taking him in your mouth. He reaches out and caresses your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
“Be a good girl for me.”
You nod and reach for the fly of his pants, letting his cock spring free. You take him in your mouth and wrap your hand around the base of his shaft. He curses under his breath, moving the hand on your face to the back of your neck. You look up at him, locking eyes with him as you bob your head up and down. His salty pre-cum leaks in your mouth, mixing with your saliva and making this blowjob wetter and sloppier by the second.
“Fuck, that mouth of yours, sweetheart. It’s perfect.”
You hum in response, sending a vibration down his cock and a shiver up his spine. He curses again and his grip on the back of your neck tightens. You feel him grow harder in your mouth and feel pride in how much you’re pleasing him. You know you can escalate it further so you take your other hand and reach for his balls, cupping them slightly as you work him to the edge. Your eyes remain locked with his, putting on a show for him like such a good girl.
His balls tense up in your hand and you sense he’s at the edge of orgasm. But before you can take him there he cups your face and pulls his cock out of your mouth.
“Wanna come inside that sweet pussy of yours,” he says.
You eagerly stand up, shedding your clothes and waiting for further instructions. He remains where he is and pats on his lap, telling you, “Take your throne, sweetheart.”
You straddle him on the rock and lower yourself onto his cock, feeling it expand your walks. One of his hands holds your waist while the other gravitates to your ass. He gives you a firm spank and says, “Better get to work,” coaxing you to rock your hips back and forth.
You grind yourself against him, placing your hands on his shoulders. His cock hits the deepest, most perfect angles inside you. And he watches with pleasure as you fuck yourself on his cock.
With one last movement of your hips you come undone around his cock, moaning out into the nighttime air. He spanks your ass again as you cum until the sensation draws his own orgasm from him.
“Good fuckin’ girl,” he praises.
His cum paints your walls and finishes his orgasm with a grunt until his cock eventually goes soft inside you. Reluctantly, you pull yourself off of him and sit beside him. He turns to look at you with a grin and says, “Don’t worry, you won’t get pregnant. But I bet you knew that already.”
You nod, still breathless from your high. He returns his cock to his pants and stands up. With a hand on his hip he says, “Now, don’t let me catch you around these parts again.”
And with that, he leaves you naked and alone in the forest, with his cum dripping down your thigh.
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics
Dividers: @saradika-graphics
#the ghoul x reader#cooper howard x reader#the ghoul smut#the ghoul x f!reader#the ghoul fanfiction#cooper howard x f!reader#fallout#fallout fanfiction#cooper howard smut#cooper howard#the ghoul
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Chapter 3 coming tomorrow 🤍🤍
Stonecatcher - Series Masterlist
Din Djarin x OFC!Athalia (Second Person POV)
Artwork: The Lovers by René Magritte Gif: @cherubispunk
Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist | Series Playlist
Series summary: An up-and-coming bounty hunter and a promising arms dealer cross paths on Dantooine. What starts as a business relationship quickly becomes more. How long can you bury your emotions and be a stonecatcher for someone else before you finally snap?
Series warnings: pre season one of The Mandalorian, instant smut but slow burn romantically, Athalia is able-bodied but other than that has no physical description, angst
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics • AO3 Link
Chapter One: Working for the Knife
Chapter Two: It’s Strange What Desire Will Make Foolish People Do
Chapter Three - Coming 4/28
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
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Thank u for the love on A Twisted Fantasy !!
I’m writing a part two and you can find a sneak peek under the cut 🤍🤍
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A Twisted Fantasy
Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader
Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist
Summary: You masturbate while thinking about your encounter with the Ghoul.
Word count: 750
Warnings: reader refers to him as the Ghoul, reader is able-bodied, Cooper might be a little OOC but fuck it we ball, masturbation, allusions to smut, pet names (sweetheart), light canon typical violence, no use of y/n
Late at night, under the cover of the trees and the night sky, you think about him– the Ghoul.
You don’t know his name. But you don’t need to. All you know is that ever since you saw him weeks ago, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. It’s an unfortunate chain of events. You had pissed off the wrong crowd in Filly, owing them bottle caps you most definitely didn’t have.
And for that, a bounty was placed on your head. That’s when the Ghoul came into your life. But only for a fleeting moment.
You were walking the streets after dark, already a bad idea. A hand enclosed around your wrist as you were dragged into a dark alley, followed by the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of your head.
“It’ll all be over real soon, sweetheart. Be a lot easier if you didn’t resist either.”
“Please no-” you started to beg.
“I’ll have you know.. they didn’t care if you were brought in dead or alive.”
“Sir, please. I don’t have any bottle caps. I can’t-”
He spun you around you were facing him. His appearance didn’t scare you. You had encountered Ghouls before. But he was different.
He had a voice so sultry it made you melt, knees buckling underneath you. The brim of his hat hung low, covering his eyes. You were backed up against a wall, cool metal chilling your burning skin. A weird mixture of fear for what’s come and arousal coursed through your body. His gun moved to your temple while his other hand pinned your hands above your head. Fuck.
Tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t long before they finally rolled down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow.
“Please, sir. I don’t have anything.”
“Nothin’?” he asked, his eyes finally meeting yours as he cocked his head to the side.
You shook your head no, crying harder at the feeling of his gun against your head.
He looked conflicted, eyes betraying the words he was saying.
“Look, sweetheart… A job’s a job.”
You cried and stuck out your lip, hoping and praying for a shred of mercy. You’re a crying, pathetic mess and maybe he’ll sense that. He sighed and cursed under his breath, looking away from you and at the ground instead.
“I suppose I could say you ran off… That I need to track you down again…”
“Really?” you asked, your face lighting up.
“Maybe but only if you do exactly as I say.”
“Anything,” you nodded as he lowered his gun.
“Run as far as you can away from here,” he said, letting go of your hands.
You waited for further instructions but he shouted, “I said run!” shooing you off. “Unless you want me to change my mind.”
“No, sir!” you squeaked, running as fast as you could out of Filly.
You were thankful he spared your life but for some reason, you couldn’t get him out of your head. You replayed every time he called you sweetheart in your mind. It didn’t help that he looked just like a fucking cowboy, accent and all.
And now here you are, fingers deep in your cunt, thinking about the Ghoul. You wish he were here right now, watching you please yourself. Or better yet… you wish he were making you feel good instead.
You imagine he’d talk you through it, praising you for being such a good girl, telling you how good you take his fingers or his cock. You think about his pleasure and how long it’s probably been since he felt any. You’d take care of that for him, making him curse under his breath like he did that one night in the alley. You’d do anything he wanted if it meant he’d call you sweetheart again.
God, how twisted is this? You’re fantasizing about a mutant who had the power to take your life right there and then. But that adds to the allure, to the fantasy. You’d pretend to be his bounty any day of the week, letting him whisper in your ear as he fills you up.
Before you know it, you cum around your fingers. Waves of pleasure rush through your body as you bite your lip to muffle your moans. The disappointment of the situation settling in now. The Ghoul’s not here and you’re alone. You roll over and sigh, silently hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll cross paths again one day.
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics
Dividers: @saradika-graphics
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thank 🫡🙏
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Hey folks, if you want to fight back against the twitterfication of tumblr USE IT LIKE IT'S TUMBLR!!!!!! REBLOG THINGS!!!!!! USE THE TAGS TO SCREAM AT YOUR FRIENDS!!!!!!!
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A Twisted Fantasy
Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader
Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist
Summary: You masturbate while thinking about your encounter with the Ghoul.
Word count: 750
Warnings: reader refers to him as the Ghoul, reader is able-bodied, Cooper might be a little OOC but fuck it we ball, masturbation, allusions to smut, pet names (sweetheart), light canon typical violence, no use of y/n
Late at night, under the cover of the trees and the night sky, you think about him– the Ghoul.
You don’t know his name. But you don’t need to. All you know is that ever since you saw him weeks ago, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. It’s an unfortunate chain of events. You had pissed off the wrong crowd in Filly, owing them bottle caps you most definitely didn’t have.
And for that, a bounty was placed on your head. That’s when the Ghoul came into your life. But only for a fleeting moment.
You were walking the streets after dark, already a bad idea. A hand enclosed around your wrist as you were dragged into a dark alley, followed by the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of your head.
“It’ll all be over real soon, sweetheart. Be a lot easier if you didn’t resist either.”
“Please no-” you started to beg.
“I’ll have you know.. they didn’t care if you were brought in dead or alive.”
“Sir, please. I don’t have any bottle caps. I can’t-”
He spun you around you were facing him. His appearance didn’t scare you. You had encountered Ghouls before. But he was different.
He had a voice so sultry it made you melt, knees buckling underneath you. The brim of his hat hung low, covering his eyes. You were backed up against a wall, cool metal chilling your burning skin. A weird mixture of fear for what’s come and arousal coursed through your body. His gun moved to your temple while his other hand pinned your hands above your head. Fuck.
Tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t long before they finally rolled down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow.
“Please, sir. I don’t have anything.”
“Nothin’?” he asked, his eyes finally meeting yours as he cocked his head to the side.
You shook your head no, crying harder at the feeling of his gun against your head.
He looked conflicted, eyes betraying the words he was saying.
“Look, sweetheart… A job’s a job.”
You cried and stuck out your lip, hoping and praying for a shred of mercy. You’re a crying, pathetic mess and maybe he’ll sense that. He sighed and cursed under his breath, looking away from you and at the ground instead.
“I suppose I could say you ran off… That I need to track you down again…”
“Really?” you asked, your face lighting up.
“Maybe but only if you do exactly as I say.”
“Anything,” you nodded as he lowered his gun.
“Run as far as you can away from here,” he said, letting go of your hands.
You waited for further instructions but he shouted, “I said run!” shooing you off. “Unless you want me to change my mind.”
“No, sir!” you squeaked, running as fast as you could out of Filly.
You were thankful he spared your life but for some reason, you couldn’t get him out of your head. You replayed every time he called you sweetheart in your mind. It didn’t help that he looked just like a fucking cowboy, accent and all.
And now here you are, fingers deep in your cunt, thinking about the Ghoul. You wish he were here right now, watching you please yourself. Or better yet… you wish he were making you feel good instead.
You imagine he’d talk you through it, praising you for being such a good girl, telling you how good you take his fingers or his cock. You think about his pleasure and how long it’s probably been since he felt any. You’d take care of that for him, making him curse under his breath like he did that one night in the alley. You’d do anything he wanted if it meant he’d call you sweetheart again.
God, how twisted is this? You’re fantasizing about a mutant who had the power to take your life right there and then. But that adds to the allure, to the fantasy. You’d pretend to be his bounty any day of the week, letting him whisper in your ear as he fills you up.
Before you know it, you cum around your fingers. Waves of pleasure rush through your body as you bite your lip to muffle your moans. The disappointment of the situation settling in now. The Ghoul’s not here and you’re alone. You roll over and sigh, silently hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll cross paths again one day.
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics
Dividers: @saradika-graphics
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Thinking about them again 🥺
Me and My Husband
Series Masterlist
Married!Din Djarin x F!Reader
Series Playlist | AO3
Main Masterlist | Din Djarin Masterlist
"And I am the idiot with the painted face
In the corner, taking up space
But when he walks in, I am loved, I am loved"
Series synopsis: Din Djarin is doing what any typical Mandalorian would be doing after reclaiming Mandalore; finding a riduur and settling down. He’s still a member of the Guild on Nevarro, taking bounties here and there to support his new family. But when he meets you while you’re working the front desk at an inn on Naboo, he finds himself hooked, feeling like he’s found something new and exciting in his now mundane life. How long can he keep up appearances with his riduur? And how long can he keep his little secret with you?
Series warnings: reader is able-bodied, set after season 3, canon divergent (long live the Razor Crest), infidelity, eventual smut (starts at chapter two!) angst, some rules/customs I made up for Mandalorian culture/weddings/marriages, switches between Reader and Din’s POV, no use of y/n
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics
Graphic: @nostalxgic Banners + dividers: @saradika
Chapter One: Lonesome Love
Chapter Two: Drunk Walk Home
Chapter Three: Nobody Fucks Like Me
Chapter Four: Remember My Name
Chapter Five: You’re an Angel, I’m a Dog
Chapter Six: I Gave Too Much of My Heart Tonight
Chapter Seven: I Know Who You Pretend I Am
Chapter Eight: I’ll Betray You Like a Man
Chapter Nine: I’m Sorry I’m the One You Love
Chapter Ten: We Nearly Drowned for Such a Silly Thing
Completed on 12/27/23
Bonus:
Moodboard by @janaispunk
Moodboard by @jksprincess10
Moodboard by @noxturnalpascal
Art by @pamasaur
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Sagittarius
Rating: EXPLICIT 18+ MDNI
Pairing: Ezra x f reader
Word count: 2.4k
Summary: you and Ezra in your pod.
Warnings: SMUT! PIV, helmet riding, slight bondage? Idk what else.
A word from the author: has anyone done riding Ezra’s helmet yet? No matter. Here’s mine. With gratitude to the mutuals and the magic sluts.
Your meeting was an improbability on a largely deserted moon. He had talked so sweet, so flattering, so genteel. Like chloroform on a pretty handkerchief. Lorenzo fell for it, too. Lorenzo always was a sucker.
Ezra says he’s sorry.
Sorry he tried to rob you. Sorry he shot your husband dead. Even if Lorenzo did shoot first, you had really wanted to be the one to dispatch the conniving bastard, and he took that from you. The way he squirmed and huffed now, well, that’s his own doing.
If robbery and murder weren’t great enough offenses, he’d had the gall to track you all the way back to your rented pod and barge right in. He couldn’t just get away with that.
You’d heard him. He rattled the door, forced it open, metal creaking and groaning against rusted metal followed by heavy boots thudding against the corrugated metal floor. You’d already stripped down to your tank top and underwear, a futile attempt at staving off the humid heat of Bakhroma Green. There was no time to get dressed now. You held your thrower in both hands, finger itching at the trigger and your back against the brittle plastic of the pod walls. Fool as he was, he came in head first. When the butt of your Frontiersman didn’t quite connect with the required force, Ezra wheeled around and snatched your weapon away, flinging it clear across the pod.
Incensed, you charged at him. Grabbing him, wrenching his arm back and pulling until he hollered and fell forward. You let his weight drop onto the floor, he groaned and bared his teeth, writhing pathetically at your feet. Good. Serves him right. You watched him for a moment, hands on your hips and head cocked. There wasn’t time to consider the next step in dealing with your intruder. He was on the floor and you had the upper hand. You couldn’t let him get up, that was certain.
No sooner was your mind made than you threw yourself on him, doing your best to pin him down and get him into a headlock or something to incapacitate him long enough for you to toss him back out of the ship and leave him to die. Ezra grunted and panted, bucking and rolling, trying his best to throw you off of his back. You held your own as long as you could, but he was furious and strong. In a flash he grabbed your hair and flipped you both, knocking the wind from your lungs. The ensuing melee saw you tumbling and flailing about the pod, each of you trying hard to get the other to stay still. Panting, sweating, grunting, swearing. You aren’t sure how you end up on his back, holding him with his arms bent. Thankfully, he had no energy left to fight, because neither did you. You needed to tie him up.
It wasn’t ideal. None of this was, really. It was a shit show from the start and you’ve just had to accept that and somehow get through it. You did the only thing you could do under the circumstances and you tied him up with your panties. The fabric was probably cutting off his circulation and the knot may not hold long, but it was good enough. You did your best to put out of your mind the fact that you’re naked from the waist down now. It didn’t matter if he saw, you told yourself. As quickly as possible you were going to be shoving him out the hatch and leaving him far behind.
You flipped your captive onto his back, muzzle of your recovered thrower shoved into his chest. With your adversary bound, you relaxed for a moment, catching your breath before you had to haul him out.
You traced your fingertips over his visor. The glass is thick. Scratched and pitted and heavy over his head. Behind it he’s sweating. Small beads on his forehead, nose and cheeks that gathered together and slid down to his hair. It was your first good look at him. He was pretty. What a waste. With his big, round eyes, shiny, pitch-colored things; with his nose, soft aquiline curve, and lips, pouting open now, as he looked pitifully back at you.
He kept those clever eyes trained on yours as you shuffled up closer, knees on either side of his helmet. You rapped gently on the glass, smiling sweetly down at him. You ran your hands over the cool surface, but still he watched you. You lifted the hem of your sweatshirt, and brought it up, up, up over your bare tits, and tossed it aside. You watched with amusement, tilting your head sympathetically to the side as you squeezed and lifted your tits, letting them fall again before gently pinching your nipples. “Mmmm. Feels so good, Ezra. Touch me, please. I know you can make it even better.” You whined, teasing him. He closed his eyes, brows furrowed, muttering something you couldn’t hear under his helmet. “Oh, I forgot. You’re tied up. Well, I guess if you can’t take care of me I’ll have to just do it myself.” You sighed dramatically and rolled your hips, “I think there’s still a way you can help though. You do want to be good, don’t you, Ezra? You want to keep me happy, isn’t that right?” He wet his lips with his tongue and nodded shallowly, eyelids looking heavier. You circled your nipples with your fingertips, teasing them into firm points, caressing down your stomach and your thighs.
He squirmed below you and whined when you jutted your hips forward, pressing your bare pussy against the glass. Ezra stared, frozen as you repositioned, settling right over his line of sight so he could see exactly what you were about to do.
At first your movements were small and deliberate. Your puffy lips pressed lewdly, not quite wet enough, but enjoying the hard, smooth convex of the helmet between your thighs. You watched Ezra. He was entranced, focused intently on your cunt and the reality of how close you were, and the impossibility of his desires. He wanted to flatten and spread those lips with his lips and tongue and nose and chin. He would have had you thoroughly soaked by now if it was up to him, but you took your time.
One hand abandoned his helmet and came back up to pluck and twist at your nipples. You closed your eyes and thought of Ezra behaving himself well enough to deserve having his cock sucked. It was big, you could see that through his suit. It was immediately evident that all of that grappling had stirred something in him. His environmental suit was snug over his straining erection. The thick bulge curved up and across his hip, accentuated by the straps banded around his upper thighs. It was impressive in thickness and length. Shame that a nice cock is wasted on a bastard like him. You wondered if he was cut or if there’d be foreskin to slip back with your lips. You wondered if he would want to come in your mouth, or if he wanted to paint your face and chest with his spend. You thought of how it would taste. You thought of how good it feels to make a strong man so weak.
“Why can’t you be good?” You complained, breathy and unintentional. You didn’t even register that you’d spoken it aloud until another voice, deep and craggy spoke up. “I can be good. Let me.”
It was the first thing he had spoken that hadn’t been a shouted demand, or a threat. It aggravated you. “Shut up.” You snapped at him, he hitched his hips in protest, teeth bared as he watched your arousal slowly seep onto the glass, aiding your gliding movements. It made his mouth water.
Back and forth, a salacious drag right before his eyes, he watched you use his helmet for your pleasure. The delicate inner folds, the swollen bud of your clit, the tender flesh of your lips. Every quickening movement was like a wet, messy kiss, smearing your slick across the smooth plane. He licked his lips and imagined how he would drink you down. He thought of sucking your clit between his lips to feel it twitch.
He didn’t realize how destroyed he looked. Wet and pathetic and mewling. He couldn’t even feel the way your panties bite into his wrists anymore. He didn’t care. He wanted you to have him like this if you wanted.
You hitched closer and closer to your apex with every grind of your hips. The power alone was a potent aphrodisiac, having Ezra, big as he was, under your thumb made you so very wet. He was your plaything, now. Maybe you’d keep him. Use him how you wanted. You could come on his helmet, his thigh, his cock if you wanted to. He wouldn’t fight. Not with the way he looked now. His eyes were inky black and shining, his warm breath fogged the glass above his parted lips. You rode his helmet unashamedly, caring only for your own demented pleasure.
Your orgasm felt like a slow motion electric shock. His face was obscured by the wet mess you’d made. It bubbled and dripped obscenely.
Your panting breath matched the rise and fall of his chest below you. Slowly you began the return to reason, to the reality of your situation. Reality is changeable, though and yours took a turn before your eyes even adjusted from the post-orgasmic haze.
You were on your back in a flash. Ezra was caging you in and smiling bodefully down at you, triumphant. Your face was still flushed from your orgasm, but your joy quickly soured. Your panties lay in tatters beside your head.
“Have you had your fun now?” He mocked. Your release still clung to his helmet and you licked a defiant stripe through it, never dropping his dark gaze. Ezra chuckled and held both your wrists in one hand while he flung off his helmet and tore at the closures of his suit.
“What was your plan? You use me and then what? Leave me high and dry?” He shook his head, feigning disappointment in your carelessness, all the while fighting his way out of the dirty canvas suit, pulling at buttons and straps until one arm was free and his thin, sweat-damp undershirt clung to his broad chest.
You didn’t notice when you’d stopped struggling in his grip, but Ezra certainly did. He clocked the trail your eyes made from his lips to his neck, to his shoulders and down his torso to where the elastic band of his boxers peeked out. He loosened his grip, shook his other arm from its sleeve, and puffed out his chest. His suit sagged down his narrow hips, as he reached for the collar of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one swift motion. What a sight he was. Muscular but soft, rough but tender. The thick swell of his now turgid member pulled at his boxers.
He palmed over it, emphasizing the length with the slow drag of his hand.
He licked his lips. “Go on.” He challenged. “Tell me to be good again.”
The air inside the pod had become thick and heavy, your skin was warm and your joints all felt too loose. The snarl you had intended came out as a ragged plea of his name.
Ezra was gentler than you’d expected. He let go of your wrists with a pointed look meant to keep you from doing anything rash, and began to explore your body. He squeezed your hips, kneading the yielding flesh, then sliding his hands up your sides, letting his fingers follow the shape of your ribs. He caressed over your belly, circling your belly button with his thumb. He watched as your chest rose and fell. He slid his palms up, flat against your skin as he pushed your bare tits together.
You could feel his hips shifting against you, feel the weight of his bulge against your cunt while he dropped to his elbow to bring your nipple to his mouth. His touch was firm. You could feel the hunger and need in the way he licked and sucked at your pointed nipples. He was holding back.
“Tell me.” He repeated. His voice was deeper, gravelly.
Your eyes fluttered closed and for a moment you wondered what came next. You knew what he wanted from you in this moment, but after that? You didn’t have the strength to fight him again. You released the breath you had been holding and asked him once more: “Be good, Ezra.”
There was little resistance when he plunged into you. He watched your face as you took what he gave, the way your mouth fell open and your head tipped back as he buried himself deep in your wet heat.
He hooked his arms under your shoulders, keeping you beneath him, as if you’d dream of leaving now. He grunted with the force of his hips pounding down into you, each heavy stroke forcing breathy cries from you. “Ah! Ah! Ahh! Ezra!”
“Is this good enough?” He asked, slowing his pace and looking down into your unfocused eyes. He looked further, down the planes of your sweat-slick bodies to where he stretched you in his cock. He rolled his hips just so, catching your clit with the wet hair at the base of his cock. You came, and he could feel your pounding pulse through the thin skin of your neck where he nibbled and sucked. When your body settled he redoubled his thrusts, palming your breast and panting into your neck until the moment he pulled out and spilled across your cunt.
The pod was silent, save for your heavy breaths, and you watched Ezra with caution. He was looking around, taking in the blinking lights and muted beeping of the control panel. He looked curious. Maybe resigned. He rubbed your thigh and you lay beside him on the floor, too aware of how your initial plan of escape was now useless. Your brain too scrambled from the force of your orgasm to formulate a new one.
Perhaps fortunately, you didn’t need to. Ezra squeezed your knee and leaned over you. He kissed you slowly and tenderly. Then, quietly, he whispered against your lips “give me the starter.”
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Summary: Orpheus and Eurydice. A Blacksmith and a Warrior. A Lawyer and the Lady He Meets at a Bar. Two souls fated to find each other across lifetimes. Here are just a few of those stories.
Pairing: Ezra x f!Reader. Reader is able-bodied and takes many forms. Described as having hair that can be pinned back in one instance, generally open description in others.
This is my submission for @wannab-urs Hozier Drabble Challenge! My character was Ezra, and my prompt was "Talk" off of Wasteland, Baby!. This was such a fun challenge, thank you so much for organizing it, Gin!
Word Count: ~5.8K (I blew past drabble, I'm so sorry)
Rating: Explicit 18+ / brief fingering / brief handjob / unprotected piv / language / main character death / Minors DNI
A/N: This was so incredibly fun to write and I actually had a huge smile on my face when I finished it that I'm pretty sure is still there. I'm incredibly happy with how this turned out. I've never written for Ezra before, so this was a really interesting exercise in finding the voice of a character that I found quite challenging to get to the heart of. Ezra folks, I really hope I did your boy justice.
Notes on literary references and the source of Orpheus' speech (not written by me) included at the end.
I'm also kind of just launching this super hot off the press, so please forgive any typos you may find and definitely message me about them once you're done reading.
Massive thank you to @beskarandblasters for the beautiful cover art for this story! 💚 Go hit Kel up if you're looking for a lovely header for your work!
Dividers by @cafekitsune!
Part I: The Darkness of the Night
He’s called Orpheus in this lifetime. Blessed with his mother’s tongue.
No way of knowing he forever will be.
A twist of phrase. A glint in the eye.
A white patch at his hairline is the only mark of his father. As if licked there by the rays of Apollo’s creation.
And he is his mother’s boy, plucking at lyre strings and humming low, branches bending to his ambit as he harmonizes with the rush of Zephyrus’ wings through tall grasses.
But you are a rich distraction indeed.
A distraction perhaps of the West Wind’s own making, for the god has always been a soft touch.
The breeze toys with your chiton as you drift in and out of dreams.
Molding gossamer to your form.
A promise of something just for him.
Orpheus reaches to run his knuckles down your arm, awaiting your stirring before he takes fingers over your shoulder, up to cup your cheek.
You turn to press against the warmth of his hand. The pad of his thumb softly skimming your bottom lip.
It sends sparks racing across your skin.
He hums a laugh and fits closer to you, warmer now than the midday sun. You slant your eyes up at him, greeted with a smile before he bends to press a long kiss to your mouth.
His lyre is discarded in the grass now, wildflowers poking up through its strings.
The hand on your cheek moves to pull at his red linen handkerchief around your neck. Tied there in the morn to guard the late-hour transgressions of his lips from judgmental stares.
Again revealed to him now.
He tucks the cloth into his zoster before his fingers dip under the gauze of your robes, cupping one breast before his lips replace fabric.
“The dryads, my darling,” you whisper a warning into the heated hollow of his mouth.
“Fret not, my love,” he chides with a whisper.
And you whimper a wanton, insincere protest as his hand adjusts to move lower still, nimble fingers inching your hemline up until your thighs are bared to him.
“Surely such creatures would sympathize. Look favorably on newlywed dalliance.”
“For they understand pleasures such as these,” he murmurs as his fingers slip over your core.
"The nymphs haven’t our flesh," you gasp against his curls as he bends to nip at the lush of your breast.
"They have our desires."
"The nymphs know fertile things in ways we never shall, my darling Eurydice," ghosts hot against your skin.
"And surely they know what comes of something flush with want."
The press of his length against you causes your hips to tilt into his hand as your languid knees fall open.
"To deny that nature is to deny the nymphs themselves, little dove."
He tips his face to brush petal-soft lips against your frantic pulse as he shifts over you.
"For you see, they don’t care."
And the breach of him causes your back to arch, nails digging into the corded muscle of his arms.
You bend enough for your eyes to land on the grove of oak trees.
Unsure if begging forgiveness.
Or reveling in their jealousy.
But there are other eyes on you this day. Watching the deft way your husband wrings pleasure from your form.
The way he rolls you over on a bed of meadowsweet to press deeper still.
Holding your body to his as he pulls music from your throat.
Other eyes, indiscreet in their desire and relentless in their pursuit.
Other eyes that lead to your journey across the Styx.
Lead to Orpheus’ torment.
They say there are ways to speak with the dead.
But words will not pacify the poet when the possibility exists to feel you beneath him again.
A body that writhes under his own. Skin soft against the way his burns.
The way you welcome the thick weight of him.
All of him.
Into the warm clutch of your wet cunt.
And Orpheus, driven by his desire and blessed with his mother’s gift, marches boldly into the depths of grief.
“You powers divine of the subterranean kingdom, where all of mortal creation must one day sink to our doom, if you will give me permission to tell you the truth unvarnished by shifty pretenses…”
“I’d hoped to be able to bear my loss and confess that I tried.”
And the dance of his fingers over gut string pricks the ears of the damned as he gives verse to his flesh’s torment.
“In the name of these confines of fear, in the name of this vast abyss and your realm of infinite silence, I, Orpheus, implore you, unravel the web of my dear Eurydice’s early passing.”
A prayer for relief.
“This is the place that we all are bound for, our final dwelling, and yours is the longest reign that the human race must endure.”
Through vulpine teeth.
“Eurydice too, when her due of years has been ripely completed, shall own your sway. Till then, I beg you to let me enjoy her.”
And it moves the hound to cease its lashing.
Moves the one eternally punished to rest upon his stone.
Moves the dead of Winter to cave to the tender brush of Spring’s hand.
And you are called forth by a voice between what should be your ears.
And Orpheus begins to move.
Daring to hope for your sweet clutch again as your footsteps grow louder against stone.
As you take the form he knows, more corporeal with every footfall.
The tenderness in your ankle made manifest with flesh.
And his cock throbs with the thought of you.
His wife.
His muse.
But there’s a pause in the lilting cadence of your step.
Where you’ve stopped to grab for the fallen handkerchief that slipped from his belt.
And the panic flooding his breast moves him against all hope.
And he turns.
And you reach for him.
Before disappearing for the final time.
With forgiveness swimming in your eyes.
Part II: Pilgrim, Stranger, Wanderer
He’s called Doran in this lifetime.
A name you learn upon ducking into the blacksmith’s workshop with another man’s name on your lips.
“Callum!” You call, greeted instead by a shock of white hair where blonde should be.
Round brown eyes where you expected green.
“Apologies,” you offer, “I am looking for the smith.”
“Callum was called away to his family in the north country.”
His answering voice like honey just starting to crystalize.
“I’m called Doran,” he bends his head in customary greeting.
And you note the broad spread of his hand against his chest.
“I apprenticed under Callum, in what feels like a lifetime ago now, I admit.” He offers a small smirk. “He asked that I mind the forge in his absence.”
And you give him your name but not your full belief in this story.
“May I help you with something, dove?”
You straighten against the rake of his eyes. “My horse requires particular shoes. She is of a larger breed and nothing standard will suit.”
And you turn your back to him leading the way outside.
Doran whistles low at the sight of your mare, a sturdy Friesian glossed blue in the morning sun.
“She is a stunning creature,” he purrs, gently taking his fingers over her strong neck.
Pausing to thumb the iris stamped into the leather of her bridle.
“She’s no delicate thing,” you watch as he circles the horse. “Her grandsire was a draft who pulled the High King’s carriage.”
He fits one massive hoof between his knees, gently brushing away the feathers at her ankle before she starts fighting his touch.
He adjusts her gently, inspecting her irons before she protests in earnest.
“It’s apparent,” he says, quickly dropping the horse’s foot and jumping aside before she stamps and shakes her head, “that her blood runs hot.”
“She does not favor the touch of men,” you answer, soothing a hand over her hindquarters. “I should have forewarned you.”
“A fair lady is entitled to her opinions when she is that beautiful,” Doran gives her a wide berth.
And takes his eyes over you instead.
“You are the nobleman’s daughter.” He squints against the sun. “The warrior?”
“I am.”
“Now,” he pulls a rag from his pocket and rubs at his hands, “I know well the dangers of feminine beauty but a warrioress is altogether new to me. You are not riding into battle soon, I pray?”
“One in my position exists in a constant state of preparation. But there is no rumble of battle on the horizon.”
His smirk dimples one cheek now.
“I shall have the shoes for your láir within the week. And I shall pray you need not fly away before then, little dove.”
“May I make half the payment now for your services? This was the custom with the old smith.”
“The only payment for my services I can insist upon is merely the chance to sit in your presence a moment longer. Would a fair lady allow a humble blacksmith that much?”
And you see straight through him. Through to the tools on the wall.
But the broad set of his shoulders under ash-smudged linen. The way he moves, lithe and light on his feet as he dances between his stock of iron bars and his cache of hammers. The bright wideness of his eyes that betray sincerity or something of its kin.
A humble one no. But this one, perhaps.
You drop a pouch of coins onto his anvil. “Where?”
“Meet me here. In the morrow?”
And you tell him “maybe” in the moment as you climb into your saddle.
But you arrive on foot the next morning.
_____
You meet him three mornings in the week it takes him to forge your mare’s irons.
On the first day he tells you of his travels through Spain and France. Of scrambling up the masts of the ship that brought him to your shore.
On the third, he recites The Bard’s work with such nuance that you’re not entirely sure he isn’t the man himself.
On the fifth day he leads you out to the ruins of an old monastery, up a winding staircase until you’re forced to stand so close on the crumbling parapet that you can feel the heat of him at your back.
Your head spins from something other than the height.
On the seventh day he places four horseshoes, lovingly wrapped in burlap and bound with hemp cord, into the hand he has cradled in his own.
Warm and worn.
“Can I see you again?” He murmurs, barely a foot between you.
“Is that wise?”
“I have been mistaken for many things, little dove.” He brushes two knuckles over your cheekbone. “Nary a man has included wise among them.”
And you scoff but press into his touch all the same.
“Forgive me my boldness,” he takes his fingers under your chin, “but I must pose the question.”
“Your mare does not favor the touch of men.”
“But,” he purrs, “do you?”
And your lips form the word “goodnight” but you don’t dare move.
Your eyes flash with a want that does not go neglected.
“Must you take your leave?” He thumbs your bottom lip.
“I must.”
“But what of my payment,” he hums.
“As I recall you beseeched me pay with my time,” you tilt your head, reveling in the brush of warm breath against your skin, “I dare say I’ve tendered more than my share.”
“And yet I am in debt every time you take your presence from me,” he smirks. “There is something of you, little dove, that I fear has a hold on—”
You steal the words from his lips with your own.
And the unabashed delight dancing over his features when you part makes you kiss him again.
You fling your arm to rest the irons on the first surface you can find, desperate to wind your hands in his hair as his fit to your waist.
He urges your mouth open with the soft slip of his tongue. Humming when you let him inside.
“Little bird,” he pants when he tears his lips from you, forehead thumping hard against yours. “I confess if you stay past this moment I shall not be able to exercise any measure of restraint.”
“Is restraint what you desire?” You angle heavy-lidded eyes up at him.
“Not in the slightest,” he swallows hard, fist still gripping at your hair. “But you are a gentle lady with a good name, and I—”
“I want you, Doran,” you murmur. “This.”
And his head falls back on his shoulders with a tight, pained hiss.
“I confess I have given in to the fantasy of hearing that fall from this lush mouth many nights since first we met.”
And he expects heat to rise to your cheeks at his admission. But the hand that cradles your neck finds no such warmth.
“Do you know how it works?” He hums low, running his palm down your sleeve to lace thick fingers with yours. “Pleasure?” He brings your knuckles to his lips, eyes glinting in hearthlight.
And there is sincerity evident in his gaze.
For you are a gentle lady with a good name.
“Mmm, have you felt this?” He takes your hand, gliding it over the rough wool of his trousers.
To the hard line of his length underneath them.
Your breath skips.
You are no stranger to amusement of the flesh. But never before have you felt so—much.
“Feel me, birdie,” he hums, rolling his forehead against yours, “what you do to me. I fear there isn’t any blood left for the rest of me.” He kisses you again. “Only for you. This. Just for you.”
“Your bed, Doran,” you murmur against his mouth.
The hand over yours encircles your wrist and he leads you through to his chambers.
He pulls you tight to his body again, mouths locked as his hands roam your form, unable to settle upon what features his fingers must traverse first.
You push the braces from his shoulders and he helps you with the buttons of his shirt, your hands skating up the smooth expanse of tanned skin before tugging at your own shirttails.
Your lips find his neck as he unbuttons his trousers. You’ve already stepped out of yours.
“So eager, birdie,” he wraps you in his arms, and your skin burns with his touch. “Surely you’ve seen it with beasts, yes?” He salts your neck with kisses. “It’s quick with them, you see. It doesn’t have to be. Doesn’t have to—”
A moan cuts off his babbling from where you’ve taken him in hand.
“Although I may yet need to beg your forgiveness,” his hips buck into your hand, “my stamina may yet waiver, upon this first time.”
His tongue slips into your mouth again and finally he finds himself enough to back you up until your thighs meet his bed.
“It’s been so long. So long, birdie, since I have held a woman.” He leans you back with his body as your hands fly to his hair. “Longer still since I have held one as soft. Supple and pliant as you.” His lips map your collarbone, nose skimming the valley of your breasts as he takes one in hand.
“Never before is a long time indeed.”
He sucks at tender, pebbled skin, drawing an arch in your spine as he shifts to settle between your legs.
“I give you my word that I will indeed take my time with you but I offer a preemptive apology in the instance that I fail upon this first time.” His fingers slip down to toy with your folds, groaning against your ribs at the wetness that he finds there. “Perhaps we are no different than animals indeed.”
You hear only half of his babbling.
The static of anticipation under your skin crackles in your ears as your hips tip into his hand. His thumb slides over your clit and you cry out.
“You see, sometimes a man just needs to bury himself deep.”
He slings your legs over his hips and sits up on his knees, stroking his length with your borrowed wetness as your hands find his thighs.
There’s a dark edge to his voice now. Heavy-lidded eyes locked on the core of you.
“This need. It’s far stronger than I ever will be.”
“Now, Doran, I need—”
He doesn’t make you wait.
And he keeps his word in the moments it matters. Slowly rocking his hips to stretch you open on his cock before your body begs him deeper.
Large palms settle around your waist as he builds in pace, alternating slow with fast. Tenderness with force that drives the bedframe to knock against the wall. When his thumb winds circles against your clit you cry into the night as pleasure rips through you. Greedy lips crash against yours as his weight blankets your reeling form. Fevered moans in his chest thrum through you as he savors the way your walls pulse around him.
He buries his face against your neck and you feel the bite of his teeth as he snarls, drawing closer and closer to the edge.
He cants his hips just so at the last minute, pulling himself from your heat a moment before his seed streams hot over your thigh.
You soothe a hand over the nape of his neck as his hips spasm with the last of it, wide hand cradling your jaw and tipping your face to his.
Kisses softer now.
Grateful.
“You are a rare bird indeed,” he murmurs against your ear, lips ghosting over your neck.
He finds himself enough to rise from bed and kneel on the floor, searching for his handkerchief amongst the tangle of his clothes.
Yours peeks from the pocket of your trousers, red against brown wool, and you lazily twirl a corner of it around your finger and draw it out.
Doran catches it from your hand, gently cleaning your thigh of his spend before pressing a kiss there.
“I shall return this to you clean,” he holds it up briefly before craning to press a kiss to your lips. “Don’t trouble a hair on your head with moving, birdie,” he bids you before disappearing to the kitchen.
You trouble the hair on your head all the same as you pull the jostled pins from it, tousling it out of the style your nurse had so meticulously placed it in this morning.
Doran returns with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He fills them as you prop yourself up on your side and he settles on the floor. One arm slung up on the mattress.
Adoration in his eyes as he tips his glass against yours.
“You didn’t tell me this was not your first time. Although I do find it rather a pleasant surprise,” he rubs a hand over the curve of your waist with lust-hazed eyes.
“I could scarcely utter a word amidst your chatter,” you tease with a grin as you take another sip of your whiskey.
His smile dimples his cheek.
“Are you—”
For once he hesitates to speak.
“Are you promised to anyone?”
You catch his hand and bring it to your lips, pressing a kiss to his palm before he thumbs your cheekbone.
“None but myself. And my duty.”
He hums in acknowledgment.
You finger the white patch at his hairline, twirling a clinging curl.
“Angered a horse as a child and she made it known with her hooves,” he offers. “Frightened the color from that spot, I’m afraid.”
“There’s character in it. I’m quite fond.”
He turns in and rests his chin on the bed, hand back to trailing over your curves.
“Dove?”
And you frown at the nickname.
“I am nothing so delicate, Doran.”
“A shrike then, perhaps,” he smirks, knuckles ghosting over your stomach.
And something about it makes your heart preen.
“Has a man ever,” his fingers dip lower over your abdomen, “put his mouth on you?”
It sends a fresh jolt of pleasure racing up your spine. You turn onto your back without thought, basking in his touch as fingers trail over your mound.
“Right here?” The pads of his middle and ring fingers wind softly against your clit.
“No,” you gasp.
“Then may I have the pleasure of being the first?”
And he is the first in a way that has you wishing for him to be the last.
The only.
_____
Your handmaid was sympathetic to your cause, having been driven from her own house for true love. They share a small cottage on your father’s land now.
Your mother, though she did not know the intricacies of your continued dalliances with the blacksmith, knew the shift in your demeanor was a man’s doing. And she always was a soft touch for love.
Your father.
Was your mother’s concern.
And so your nurse covers your footsteps with a tickle in her throat that needs clearing.
Ushers you back into your chambers before morning light with a knowing smile.
“I always thought you would make a pass for the stable hand,” she confesses one day as she pours heated water over your hair. “The blacksmith is a surprise.”
“An unpleasant one?”
“Not in the slightest. He’s handsome.”
You can tell there is more to the sentiment.
“Yes, and?” You ask with a raised brow.
“Rakish.”
“Perhaps rakish is what I need,” as you rub water from your eyes.
“No lady with sense needs rakish, my darling girl,” she chides as she rubs soap at your scalp. “But a lady with sense should indulge in it from time to time.”
This draws a smile across your lips.
“He treats you well?”
“He treats me to pleasure the likes of which I have never known. If I offer this kingdom the breath in my breast every time I leave its gates, the least I may be permitted is the choice of a lover.”
And so she fixes you bitter tea every morning that you return from your rakish man.
_____
The pair of you take to late night meetings at the old groundskeeper’s shack on your parents’ land.
Where the splashing of the brook over rocks and the churn of the water wheel stifle the way he makes you cry out in pleasure.
And for one so verbose, he does excel at discretion. Raking ashes from the forge through the patch of white in his hair. Bending shadows around himself as he slips from town and into the forest at the edge of the estate.
The pair of you carry on for months. Until summer sun yields to the darkening blanket of fall.
A welcome change that lengthens your stolen hours.
“I’d wager that we were lovers in lives past,” he muses one night, lips pressing kisses against a scar on your shoulder. “You know me, little bird. The very depths of me.”
“Perhaps,” you roll over in a luxuriant stretch, “you are easy to know.”
“The Townsfolk would perhaps beg to differ, my darling.” He rests his hand on your cheek as you curl into him.
“Must you go in the morrow?” He asks softly.
“I’m afraid I must. For it is my duty. To ensure the safety—”
“—of the kingdom,” you both finish.
“In that case, I have made you a gift.” He reaches over your form down to the pocket of his cloak, and produces a small canvas pouch.
He sits up with you, pulling your back to his chest, arms around your middle as he watches you.
A small silver disk threaded on a chain falls into your palm. An iris stamped into the pendant.
“Doran, it’s beautiful. You made this?”
“It is perhaps more crude than a silversmith’s work,” he helps you fasten it around your neck, “but I wanted you to have something to remember my touch in the absence of it.”
You turn towards him such that he can see you in the firelight. Ash on your jaw from where you held him to your neck, perched atop his hips while he ground deep.
Silver pendant hanging just above the valley of your breasts.
“Beautiful,” he smiles, pressing a kiss against your lips, thumbing at the smudge on your chin. “I have always thought there to be something undeniably sensual in the furl of iris petals,” he rumbles, “how fitting for them to be your favorite.”
“Your imagination is swift, Doran.”
“You have not beheld what I have, dearheart,” he pulls you down against the bed linens once more.
Holding you against his heart.
And he is quiet for a long while, fingers running softly over your stomach, nose buried in your hair.
“What of my safety?” He asks.
A plea to keep you here.
“What shall I do?”
“I have no doubt you will find another iris that unfurls for you in the meanwhile,” you hum. Eyes slipping closed.
“There is only one, my love. I shall wait for your return.”
_____
A grand crowd lines the streets as you and the men of your battalion ride towards the village gates the next morning. Full of cheers and blessings.
And you offer the customary wave and nod.
But your heart hammers against chainmail.
Eyes darting through the crowd.
Willing a shock a white to appear.
And as you near the gates he greets you.
Warm brown eyes and a grin of pride. He rushes to push through the crowd as you approach on your mare, eyes never leaving each other.
You slip one foot from your stirrup and he jams one of his into it and stands, briefly.
Long enough to cup the base of your skull and lay a parting kiss against your lips.
You hurriedly pull your red handkerchief from behind your breastplate, pressing it into his palm as he drops away.
Crushing the cloth to his heart as you slip through the gates.
And it will yield the ire of your father and the warm, joyous tears of your mother.
But they matter not.
For you do not return home under your own power.
You return home under a shroud.
Your nurse slips into the night, treading your path with your necklace in hand.
“She was found with her hand over her heart. And this underneath it.”
And the blacksmith.
Wrought with grief.
Is never seen again.
Part III: The Helper. The Protector.
He’s called Ezra in this lifetime.
Brought to this bar by a group of associates keen on celebrating his win in federal court this afternoon.
And he knows it’s an excuse to drink on the firm’s dime.
He was an associate once too.
But they helped draft the brief that saved their client $44 million. A few drinks is a small thanks.
Ezra sticks to the corners, entertaining chatter only when approached. Kindly redirecting the advances of a first year who’s too young to realize flirting with a partner is career suicide.
He’s content tonight to sip his bourbon and observe.
“Okay, but I told you that Bismark case was horseshit and the judge was going to see that!” One associate who is two drinks too deep roars.
“That was so fucking risky, I still can’t believe you put so much weight on that,” another chides.
“Fucking WORKED though!” And the first man spreads his arms wide.
Knocking you into the sip of red wine you were about to take from your seat at the bar.
“Jesus, fuckin’—” you start before taking a deep breath and glancing down at the patch of deep burgundy beginning to spread on your white blouse.
Fuck.
“Boys, boys, this lovely lady didn’t consent to hearing your opinions on bullshit 4th Circuit rulings, okay?” Ezra appears, stretching an arm between you and the men. “Let’s be a little more careful, take it to a booth, yeah?”
“Miss, I apologize on their behalf,” he starts and you take another centering breath because you really are not here for some hotshot lawyer’s apologies. This is your spot, and they’re fucking with your Thursday night nightcap.
But the brown eyes you’re met with are wide and sincere.
And something at the very core of you thrums momentarily with something you can’t name.
“Please, allow me to replace your wine and cover your tab for the night.” He’s already calling the barman over before you can assure him that’s really not necessary because they’ve fucked up your night already and you just want to go home.
“Could you please arrange a fresh glass of wine for this lovely lady, place her tab on the card I gave you, and may I have a shot glass of white wine. I need the white wine as quickly as you can, please. Thanks very much.”
And you’re still staring at those brown eyes.
Bristling and dumbstruck at the same time.
“Ezra,” he holds out a hand in belated introduction, and you offer a firm shake and your name in exchange.
“Sorry, a shot glass of white wine?” You quip as the bartender places it in front of Ezra.
He slips a red pocket square from his jacket and dips a corner into the shot glass.
“Apologies, may I?”
And inexplicably you turn in towards him on your bar stool as he dabs at the stain on your shirt.
Just over your heart.
“White wine will keep the stain from setting,” he proffers.
You crane your neck to the side, trying to settle your focus on cut glass bottles and not the stranger tending to the fine layer of cotton just above your left breast.
He’s gentle though. Respectful in a way you perhaps didn’t anticipate.
He smells of hinoki wood and worn leather.
“Right as rain,” he announces and takes half a step back before offering you the handkerchief. “If you want to hold that there to blot some of the excess.”
“Um, yeah, thank you. Thanks,” you hold the cloth over your heart as the bartender returns with your fresh glass of wine.
Ezra settles on the barstool next to you.
“How…did you know that?”
“About the wine?” He swallows a sip of bourbon. “Must’ve read it at some point and it just stuck.”
“Seems you’re a good man to have around in a crisis then,” you smile and tip your glass in his direction. He gently touches the side of his against it, before tapping the heavy base against the bar and taking another sip.
Everything he does is briefly fascinating.
“I apologize again for these kids,” he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, producing a business card which he slides over to you face-down. “You should be all good with that,” he gestures at the handkerchief, “but I insist on you sending me the dry cleaning bill. If I’ve recalled incorrectly and it does stain, I will procure a replacement for you, you have my word.”
“That’s really not necessary,” you start and yet find yourself unable to stop, “and I’m not even sure it’s possible this is vintage—”
“Alexander McQueen, I know.”
You turn all the way towards him on your barstool now.
And his eyes glitter with your fascination as he runs his hand through the patch of white at his hairline.
“What are you reading,” he tips his head to the side as if to glimpse the cover of your book but he doesn’t break your gaze. Cheek dimpled with a half smile.
“Ovid. Metamorphoses.”
“For fun?” There’s a hint of surprise in his voice but it’s far from belittling.
“It’s…” you start before a smile splits your face, “yeah. For fun.”
And he echoes your grin.
“I re-read it for fun last year. I think the passage about Orpheus’ death is my favorite.”
“Fascinating,” you swallow a sip of your tempranillo. “Why that one?”
“Well, I believe it’s a commentary on both the unbridled rage of passion and a testament to the obstinate nature of true love.”
“Obstinate?” You incline your head incredulously. “That’s quite a choice.”
“And yet it holds true, does it not? Orpheus, arguably one of the most talented figures in Greek mythology,” and he’s gesturing broadly now, “able to enchant the very souls of feral beasts and move trees to bend their limbs just to be nearer his music.”
He jabs his finger into the bartop between you, “he moved Hades, both the realm and the deity himself, let’s not forget, correct?”
And you nod, amusement playing across your features.
“The earth and the underworld fell at his feet. And he shunned it all out of love for Eurydice.”
“And so what moral value do you place on obstinacy?” You ask.
“Obstinacy in love is the only way to experience it. To feel it so completely that you forsake everything else. Defy the world. For love. Fidelity to the wife that you betrayed by turning back.” Brown eyes are wide with his conviction.
He adds, “even Shakespeare said let it be virtuous to be obstinate.”
“Okay, in a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT context!” Your turn to erupt now, with arms thrown in the air where you’re met by his wide smile. “You cannot cherry pick that out of Coriolanus choosing to abandon his family out of sheer stubbornness, and frankly, contempt for his own people, to extol the virtues of love! Let it be virtuous to FORSAKE that love, is the whole point of that line.”
And this is the moment.
That Ezra falls in love.
And you’re not far behind.
Time slips from this point on. Patrons file in and out. More wine and whiskey is poured. Associates drunkenly clap him on the back as they make their way home, but none of it registers.
The world spins around the pair of you.
Until finally the bartender insists that he close his tab.
And you both step out onto a city street wet with the aftermath of a brief summer downpour.
“Thank you,” Ezra starts, “for the absolute pleasure of your company.”
He holds a tentative hand out, which you shake with a heartfelt “likewise.”
“Oh, your handkerchief,” you pull it from your pocket and hold it out to him.
“Keep it.” He smiles.
And you both spin on your heels. Proceeding in opposite directions.
But the warp and weft of the red cotton square that you keep rubbing between your fingers forces you to stop in your tracks.
You turn around.
And look back.
Meeting Ezra’s gaze from where he hasn’t moved a step.
He thumbs the corner of his lips, brown eyes locked on yours.
And you both move.
Urgent steps pulled by Fates’ string.
Colliding as you throw your arms around his neck and he locks you against him with biceps around your ribs.
Lips crashing together with the relief of a thousand lifetimes.
Lifetimes that you’ve known each other.
Lifetimes that you’ve lost each other.
And this lifetime. Having found each other again.
Taglist of folks who may be interested, as always, please do let me know if you'd prefer not to be tagged, or if you'd like to be added!
@morallyinept @iamskyereads @tinytinymenace @for-a-longlongtime @legendary-pink-dot
@oliveksmoked @nerdieforpedro @julesonrecord
Subpart headings are the meaning of Ezra's name in that section.
Orpheus' monologue included herein in italics is quoted from David Raeburn's 2004 translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, published by Penguin Classics. The text of this translation just felt so Ezra that I had to include it in that form. If you'd like to hear it read by Hozier himself, head on over to his instagram circa summer 2020's Poetry Fridays for this and some other wonderful work.
This story references the version of Eurydice's death as precipitated by Aristaeus.
Láir means mare in Irish Gaelic.
"Let it be virtuous to be obstinate" is quoted from Coriolanus by William Shakespeare.
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A Twisted Fantasy
Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader
Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist
Summary: You masturbate while thinking about your encounter with the Ghoul.
Word count: 750
Warnings: reader refers to him as the Ghoul, reader is able-bodied, Cooper might be a little OOC but fuck it we ball, masturbation, allusions to smut, pet names (sweetheart), light canon typical violence, no use of y/n
Late at night, under the cover of the trees and the night sky, you think about him– the Ghoul.
You don’t know his name. But you don’t need to. All you know is that ever since you saw him weeks ago, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. It’s an unfortunate chain of events. You had pissed off the wrong crowd in Filly, owing them bottle caps you most definitely didn’t have.
And for that, a bounty was placed on your head. That’s when the Ghoul came into your life. But only for a fleeting moment.
You were walking the streets after dark, already a bad idea. A hand enclosed around your wrist as you were dragged into a dark alley, followed by the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of your head.
“It’ll all be over real soon, sweetheart. Be a lot easier if you didn’t resist either.”
“Please no-” you started to beg.
“I’ll have you know.. they didn’t care if you were brought in dead or alive.”
“Sir, please. I don’t have any bottle caps. I can’t-”
He spun you around you were facing him. His appearance didn’t scare you. You had encountered Ghouls before. But he was different.
He had a voice so sultry it made you melt, knees buckling underneath you. The brim of his hat hung low, covering his eyes. You were backed up against a wall, cool metal chilling your burning skin. A weird mixture of fear for what’s come and arousal coursed through your body. His gun moved to your temple while his other hand pinned your hands above your head. Fuck.
Tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t long before they finally rolled down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow.
“Please, sir. I don’t have anything.”
“Nothin’?” he asked, his eyes finally meeting yours as he cocked his head to the side.
You shook your head no, crying harder at the feeling of his gun against your head.
He looked conflicted, eyes betraying the words he was saying.
“Look, sweetheart… A job’s a job.”
You cried and stuck out your lip, hoping and praying for a shred of mercy. You’re a crying, pathetic mess and maybe he’ll sense that. He sighed and cursed under his breath, looking away from you and at the ground instead.
“I suppose I could say you ran off… That I need to track you down again…”
“Really?” you asked, your face lighting up.
“Maybe but only if you do exactly as I say.”
“Anything,” you nodded as he lowered his gun.
“Run as far as you can away from here,” he said, letting go of your hands.
You waited for further instructions but he shouted, “I said run!” shooing you off. “Unless you want me to change my mind.”
“No, sir!” you squeaked, running as fast as you could out of Filly.
You were thankful he spared your life but for some reason, you couldn’t get him out of your head. You replayed every time he called you sweetheart in your mind. It didn’t help that he looked just like a fucking cowboy, accent and all.
And now here you are, fingers deep in your cunt, thinking about the Ghoul. You wish he were here right now, watching you please yourself. Or better yet… you wish he were making you feel good instead.
You imagine he’d talk you through it, praising you for being such a good girl, telling you how good you take his fingers or his cock. You think about his pleasure and how long it’s probably been since he felt any. You’d take care of that for him, making him curse under his breath like he did that one night in the alley. You’d do anything he wanted if it meant he’d call you sweetheart again.
God, how twisted is this? You’re fantasizing about a mutant who had the power to take your life right there and then. But that adds to the allure, to the fantasy. You’d pretend to be his bounty any day of the week, letting him whisper in your ear as he fills you up.
Before you know it, you cum around your fingers. Waves of pleasure rush through your body as you bite your lip to muffle your moans. The disappointment of the situation settling in now. The Ghoul’s not here and you’re alone. You roll over and sigh, silently hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll cross paths again one day.
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics
Dividers: @saradika-graphics
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Hehe I’m glad I concerted you Pammy 🤍🤍
A Twisted Fantasy
Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x F!Reader
Main Masterlist | Cooper Howard Masterlist
Summary: You masturbate while thinking about your encounter with the Ghoul.
Word count: 750
Warnings: reader refers to him as the Ghoul, reader is able-bodied, Cooper might be a little OOC but fuck it we ball, masturbation, allusions to smut, pet names (sweetheart), light canon typical violence, no use of y/n
Late at night, under the cover of the trees and the night sky, you think about him– the Ghoul.
You don’t know his name. But you don’t need to. All you know is that ever since you saw him weeks ago, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. It’s an unfortunate chain of events. You had pissed off the wrong crowd in Filly, owing them bottle caps you most definitely didn’t have.
And for that, a bounty was placed on your head. That’s when the Ghoul came into your life. But only for a fleeting moment.
You were walking the streets after dark, already a bad idea. A hand enclosed around your wrist as you were dragged into a dark alley, followed by the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of your head.
“It’ll all be over real soon, sweetheart. Be a lot easier if you didn’t resist either.”
“Please no-” you started to beg.
“I’ll have you know.. they didn’t care if you were brought in dead or alive.”
“Sir, please. I don’t have any bottle caps. I can’t-”
He spun you around you were facing him. His appearance didn’t scare you. You had encountered Ghouls before. But he was different.
He had a voice so sultry it made you melt, knees buckling underneath you. The brim of his hat hung low, covering his eyes. You were backed up against a wall, cool metal chilling your burning skin. A weird mixture of fear for what’s come and arousal coursed through your body. His gun moved to your temple while his other hand pinned your hands above your head. Fuck.
Tears welled up on your lash line, threatening to spill over. It wasn’t long before they finally rolled down your cheeks in an unstoppable flow.
“Please, sir. I don’t have anything.”
“Nothin’?” he asked, his eyes finally meeting yours as he cocked his head to the side.
You shook your head no, crying harder at the feeling of his gun against your head.
He looked conflicted, eyes betraying the words he was saying.
“Look, sweetheart… A job’s a job.”
You cried and stuck out your lip, hoping and praying for a shred of mercy. You’re a crying, pathetic mess and maybe he’ll sense that. He sighed and cursed under his breath, looking away from you and at the ground instead.
“I suppose I could say you ran off… That I need to track you down again…”
“Really?” you asked, your face lighting up.
“Maybe but only if you do exactly as I say.”
“Anything,” you nodded as he lowered his gun.
“Run as far as you can away from here,” he said, letting go of your hands.
You waited for further instructions but he shouted, “I said run!” shooing you off. “Unless you want me to change my mind.”
“No, sir!” you squeaked, running as fast as you could out of Filly.
You were thankful he spared your life but for some reason, you couldn’t get him out of your head. You replayed every time he called you sweetheart in your mind. It didn’t help that he looked just like a fucking cowboy, accent and all.
And now here you are, fingers deep in your cunt, thinking about the Ghoul. You wish he were here right now, watching you please yourself. Or better yet… you wish he were making you feel good instead.
You imagine he’d talk you through it, praising you for being such a good girl, telling you how good you take his fingers or his cock. You think about his pleasure and how long it’s probably been since he felt any. You’d take care of that for him, making him curse under his breath like he did that one night in the alley. You’d do anything he wanted if it meant he’d call you sweetheart again.
God, how twisted is this? You’re fantasizing about a mutant who had the power to take your life right there and then. But that adds to the allure, to the fantasy. You’d pretend to be his bounty any day of the week, letting him whisper in your ear as he fills you up.
Before you know it, you cum around your fingers. Waves of pleasure rush through your body as you bite your lip to muffle your moans. The disappointment of the situation settling in now. The Ghoul’s not here and you’re alone. You roll over and sigh, silently hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’ll cross paths again one day.
Fic notifs: @beskarandblastersfics
Dividers: @saradika-graphics
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Down Bad - A Joel Miller Drabble
Rating: Explicit. 18+ (Minors DNI)
Pairing: Pre Outbreak Joel Miller x Female Reader
Word Count: 800
Summary: You get ghosted after a one night stand with your handsome neighbor.
Warnings: Drinking, smut remembrance, angst.
A/N: Happy Tortured Poets Department release day! Thank you to @beskarandblasters for the amazing Taylor Swift Drabble Challenge AGAIN. I previously wrote Paper Rings for it. TBH, I stayed up until 3:30 AM listening to TTPD last night with @ohheypedrito and your girl is STRUGGLING TODAY, but well worth it. What an album.
One night out with your friends, one shared glance, one half smile, one opportunity, one drink bought, one phone number drunkenly tapped into his phone.
One date, one heated make out session in his truck, one moment of being heaven struck, one naked body left alone in your bed as he quietly leaves without a word.
One text telling him you had a good time, one week since you’ve heard from him, countless hours of yearning for your neighbor.
Across the street and two houses to the left, Joel Miller lives. Well manicured lawn, cute daughter who goes door to door selling Girl Scout cookies, large truck parked out the front dinged and well used.
You’ve been down bad for him since you first moved in, a quick introductory hello and wave one early morning as you took your dog for a walk, how could you be so attracted to a total stranger?
That stranger ignoring you from that moment on, leaving you feeling nuts. Sometimes you’d take your dog for a walk when you’d notice him mowing the lawn, sneaking a glance under your sunglasses, watching the sweat make his skin glisten. Teenage crush vibes, teenage petulance coming out because you can’t have him or his attention.
You never see him with another woman there, only his loud, precocious brother Tommy who stops to talk with you whenever you’re outside. You know he likes you, but you’re too drawn to his older brother’s beam to even want to lead him on.
That night shared between the two of you, it almost feels like an evil experiment. He fucked you, fucked you hard, stared into your eyes as he came all over you, devoured your cunt as if he was starving, made you cum so hard it felt like you were floating in a cosmic cloud of sparks, then he left you naked and alone. He owned your body, like it was some sort of hostile takeover.
You’re barely even sure it happened, like if you speak about the existence of that night, everybody will tell you it never happened, that you’re nuts.
Why did he leave you like that? Why did he strand you the way he did? Why can’t you have him? Why cant you have an us?
Doesn’t he know what you would do for his attention? How you feel like you could just die when you think back to that night? You’re pathetic for him, isn’t it romantic?
You replay the words he uttered against your skin as he fucked you. “You feel so fucking good, like you were made for me.”
The taste of your sweat against your lips makes you almost want to cry as you try to run the thoughts of him away on the treadmill at the gym. The last time you sweat like this his cock was stretching you, his hand holding your cheek, his tongue languidly licking into your mouth.
——
After a night of staring at the ceiling, sleep not visiting you, tossing and turning not being able to get the thought of the weight of his body against yours, you decide to sit out on your porch with coffee in hand, staring at the sky as dawn approaches. A door slamming across the street startles you. He’s outside. This is it, you live in the same old familiar town, he can’t escape you, you can’t escape him. You trudge across the street, only clad in your shorts and your old Rangers shirt. You wave at him to get his attention as he finishes lifting his tool box onto his lift gate.
You see him swallow as you stand at the edge of his driveway.
“G’morning,” he nods. “Quite early.”
“It is. Could’t sleep.”
“Happens to me too.”
“Mm,” you tap your foot, arms folded across your chest. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No, not at all.”
“Then why are you ignoring me?”
“S’complicated.”
“Try me, it’d make no difference.”
“Alright,” he runs a hand through his hair, “you’re too good. I don’t think it’s smart… for me to be with someone right now. Too much going on, ’n it’s safer if we just leave it at that. It’s better for you.”
“So, you fuck me, whisper all those sweet things in my ear, make me feel like I’m the chosen one, then just leave? How romantic Joel.”
“Never said I was the romantic type.”
“No, you’re just the fuck ‘em and strand ‘em. I guess.”
“Listen,” he looks down at his watch, “I gotta get goin’, got an important job to start. I really would like to talk more, I respect you too much ’n I really like you, I just think it’s better if you find someone else.”
“Right, well, see you around neighbor,” you bite.
Fuck it, you can’t have him.
#joel miller fanfiction#ts drabble challenge#my mutuals <3#friday fic recs#i can bring queue in warm
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