#will ransome
“There was a passerby who’d come to visit an ancient site in Essex,” Hiddleston recounts. “He came by where we were filming and said, ‘I think I know what you’re doing and I know the story. You must be the lusty vicar. There’s always a lusty vicar. I can tell by your hair.’”
TOM HIDDLESTONasWILL RANSOME
— The Essex Serpent (2022)
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Will ransom ❤️
Will ransom ❤️
Will ransom
Will ransom
Will ransom
Will ransom
look unto God and find me
Will Ransome x F!Reader
CW: nsfw, oneshot, priest kink, religion kink, blasphemy, dark Will, emotional manipulation, exploitation, young female reader (over the age of 18), age difference, fingering, squirting, dubcon
also posting on AO3
You were young, and more innocent than your sisters and your classmates beside you sitting on the pews, despite being nearly twenty years of age, you had yet to take a husband or bear a child, instead you were more enthralled by the church and the teachings of God. This was why you listened so intently to Father Ransome as he stood before you behind his pulpit, captivating the townspeople with his sermon as he always did. You found solace in his words, the only solace you’d found for days, as those dulcet tones caressed your ears.
He raises his hand upward, to extend to God, you like to think, before brushing an errant chestnut curl, just flecked with grey like stardust, behind his ear, before his hand falls back to his bible, long fingers curling around the wood of his pulpit in a manner that brought sinful thoughts to your mind you banished as quickly as they’d arisen, but the blush stayed scarlet on your cheeks just the same.
His light eyes passed over you just the once as he spoke, smiling gently in your direction and your heart jumped and stuttered in your chest. You’d never admit it, but you found it hard, in your dark days, to imagine any God to be more exquisite than his chosen vessel on earth.
It took a long while for the congregation to funnel out into the windy chill of the sunday morning, you were not among them, instead kneeling at your feet before the pulpit and grasping your hands together, gazing skyward as a stuttered prayer fell silent from your lips, wishing, begging, scurrying from the fear that kept you awake at night.
Your eyes flew open as a scraping sound echoed behind you and you twisted on your knees to find Father Ransome stood in the aisle, having noticed some furniture out of place you imagined, but his tall frame was turned to you, his robes falling against the sturdy frame you had watched wrestling with sheep and goats in the muddy terrain - more often than you would admit.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” The words fell softly from him, but your ears turned scarlet just the same as you jumped to your feet, straightening your skirts, eyes following your hands in your embarrassment.
“I-I’m sorry, Father, I, I didn’t mean to disturb you, I was just…”
He walked towards you, his large hand dwarfing your shoulder in a comforting squeeze.
“Hush,” he commanded softly, a smile in his voice. “You need not apologise to me. This church is your sanctuary.”
You looked up at him then, feeling foolish not to with his hand hot on your shoulder, forgetting how very tall he was, yet his head was dipped, giving you his full attention, those piercing blue eyes doing as they promised - piercing you. You quite forgot how to speak.
“Is anything the matter?” He asked, with that edge of gravel in his soft voice that made you weak. His hand hadn’t left your shoulder. “You seem on edge today, please allow me to be of assistance.”
“I’m afraid, Father.” You admit, feeling girlish tears appear in your eyes even now. His thumb grazed your shoulder when you cried, gripping you ever so tighter. “Of the serpent. I - I don’t want it to attack my poor sisters, I was trying to find some solace in the Lord-”
Father Ransome sighs, not unkindly, as he releases your shoulder and tucks his hands into his pockets, favouring you with a smile that melts you like butter.
“There is no serpent, my dearest girl. What happened to Gracie was a tragedy, but nothing more.”
“But surely, Father, if we believe in God, we must also believe in the Devil.”
He cocks his head to the side, smirks at you, as he draws his hands free again. He lifts his arm, knuckles brushing your collarbone with a whisper as his palm settles on your clavicle, the pad of his thumb just resting in the dip of your throat, and your breath catches. This is, what is -
“A girl so young and innocent as yourself should not be thinking of the devil,” his voice is low and rough like the marshes. You cannot stop staring at him. You feel his thumb against your throat as if in fear it will tighten. You feel it more when you swallow. He notices, his eyes tracking the bob of your throat before dragging back to your face. His lips are parted, his eyes searching. “Perhaps I can take your mind off of the subject,” his voice is a whisper, it needn’t be anything else, you were stood so close, you feel his breath on your cheek. “And turn your thoughts once again from the Devil and towards God.”
“Yes.” You breathe out gratefully, nodding your eagerness. “Please help me, Father.”
His hands trail down your arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake as he holds your wrists, guiding you until your back is to him.
“Put your hands on the pulpit,” he instructs softly, his breath bursting against your ear, his lips a whisper to your neck. “Look up to the ceiling, to the Lord, and pray.”
The cool flat wood of the pulpit beneath your hands is a solid comfort as you close your eyes, searching for God in your mind, silently repeating your prayers so loudly Father Ransome must be able to hear them.
You only open your eyes when you feel the telltale whisper of a touch across your waist, the drag of fabric as Father Ransome, oh god, draws your skirts up over your legs, exposing your grey woollen stockings to his eyes. You feel the burst of cold and shame and turn your head towards him, utterly scarlet.
“Father! What are you-”
“Face away from me.” He says softly, sternly. Halting his movements, your skirts bunches in his hands, your legs trembling in front of his. You swallow as you turn back, keeping your hands firmly on the pulpit. You aren’t scared of Father Ransome, rather, you don’t want to disappoint him, and it burns inside you like a sin, so you continue to pray, and as the words fall from your lips, you feel his fingers grazing your exposed, dripping core.
“G-gods,” your legs wobble as you grip the pulpit for support, the Lord’s name falling from you in vain as sinful pleasure sweeps through your belly like a wildfire, he chuckles, stroking along your seam until your legs are shaking and you’re coming undone against the wood.
Then his fingers press inside you, two together, up to the knuckle, and you let out a startled cry as your legs buckle and your stomach rolls, his hand braces over yours where it lays flat, holding you steady as he sinks deeper inside of you and you mewl as you stretch around him, burning and aching and twitching in uncontrollable desire.
“Father, please -” you bite back your begging as his body cages you, afraid that if you say or do anything he’ll stop, he’ll take his fingers from you and leave you empty, when you feel like you’ll die if he does.
“Hush, little one,” he breathes in your ear as his fingers quirk, move, play inside you, as if getting to know you intimately, sinfully, and you wail low as he presses against a spot inside you you’ve never felt before, you feel the pressure of the pad of his work-roughened finger against the vulnerable soft flesh of your core, and you feel something build inside you, something that buckles your knees and chokes you with pleasure and pain alike.
“Hmm.” You can hear the smirk in Father Ransome’s voice, you can feel the graze of his teeth on your bare neck, the grip of his hand on yours, the deep probe of his fingers as they stretch you around him, making room for himself in your small body, rubbing hard and rough over that same spot until your eyes roll and you collapse, half-exhausted, body bowing with pleasure you never knew existed. “Quite forgotten about the serpent now, have we, my darling?”
“Y-yes, Father,” you breathe.
“Say it again,” he says, “and I’ll let you come for me.”
You don’t even know what he means, but you babble mindlessly, “Yes, Father, thank you Father, please, Father -” as his fingers twist and pound and you’re yelping like an animal when a forceful expel of fluid bursts around his fingers - taking your sanity with it - and he groans as your spend soaks his arm.
There’s nothing but your shared gasping for a long while before his fingers slide wetly from you and you bow against the pulpit, exhausted, spent, the happiest you’ve been in a while.
When you turn back to Father Ransome, he is cleaning his fingers with a handkerchief. He smiles when he sees your flushed face.
“Do you feel better now?” He asks politely.
“Y-yes father,” you admit, “but is it not - sinful?”
“My dear, would I do it if it were sinful?” His smile stretches across his face and crinkles at his eyes and you can see no wrong in him.
It makes sense, and relief floods through you as you smile, as bright as the moon. “Thank you father, truly, you are a gift.”
“You flatter me.” He smiles bashfully. “Now, off to your mother before she worries for you.”
“Yes Father, thank you, Father.” You scurry away down the aisle, risking just one final glance to him as you go to leave, just in time to see him bring the handkerchief to his nose and groan, while his free hand palms a lump in the front of his robes.
anyone want any Will Ransome fics because my god I’m in the mood to write one
okay okay okay but gruff but sweet but done but realist Will Ransome in confession
You: I have desires for men,,,, I think I am marked by the devil
Will, already sighing: no you’re just horny and I have something in my trousers that can help
