[visceradiva]

i need a gangster [part one]

mob!141 x nursing student!reader (18+ mdni)

wc: 6.1k

author's note: heyyy babies. this is going to be a multi part thing, there's just a little bit of smut in this with daddy price and ghosty but we'll get dirtier as we collect our harem of hot mob guys (soap and gaz are next & get excited for these guys kissing)

warnings: violence & injuries, lots of discussion of pregnancy & breeding & ovulation, grinding, fingering, age gap (legal)

You watch the shape of John Price through frosted glass, and hear muffled yelling from the other side. 

You try to focus on your notes, your finger tracing the diagrams in your textbook.

You’ve been having two serious fucking months. It started at the beginning of the first month when your boyfriend dumped you, claiming he needed no distractions for med school. You were devastated. 

And apparently— as you’ve learned way too recently— your old man was probably a criminal. A once-GP working for who knows, and got killed for it. You think.

But good men don’t usually end up with a bullet in their brain, especially not in the UK. 

You wanted to feel bad, but after you found out about all the girls your age your dad was spending your nursing school tuition money on, the feeling numbed. 

John, an old friend of your dad’s, graciously takes you in after everything goes down. He won’t let you drop out, he insists he can pay the tuition. He does make you quit your job as an EMT, saying it isn’t safe for you to be out so late. You beg him to tell you, safe from what? Safe from who? But he never does.

John doesn’t tell you anything. Just leaves for hours on end and comes back in the middle of the night. When you wake up crying at 3AM, his shoulder is there for you to cry on. He skirts the line between boyfriend and father, too old for the former but too affectionate for the latter. But he’s nice, he likes your cooking and your company. 

John’s even there the one night where you both share too much of a bottle of whiskey. You stupidly kiss him and end up mewling and crying, riding his thigh while he comforts you. 

You hiccup and tears run down your face.

“John,” you whine.

He holds you up with a firm hand on your back, one on your hip. 

“Shh, love. Shh, don’t cry. It’s alright. Just take what you need, sweetheart.”

You never speak about it. Price just assumes you were so drunk that you can’t remember. Really, you’re so damn embarrassed that you have to just pretend it didn’t happen. 

After another month of hiding in his flat, when John is sure you’re safe, he gives you a job as his secretary, kind of. Once a week, you sit here and take names for the burly, scarred-up men who come to see him. They stroll in with bravado, flirting with you or condescending until you send them in to get barked at by John. They’re mostly quiet when they leave with their tails between their legs.

A man called Kyle Garrick comes around at some point whenever you work the desk, bringing you pastries and flirting with you until your heart is racing and John calls him in to have the calmest conversation you’ve heard— or rather haven’t heard— all day. Kyle always arrives with an arm of files and leaves empty handed, but not without taking a sweet from the dish you brought. 

The men who decide that being chewed out was your fault either have John or John and Kyle to deal with. 

So you know two things about John.

He’s a big, scary man who works with a lot of other big, scary men. 

And breaking fingers is like breathing to him. 

You hear two men’s voices as the door to the waiting room opens. It’s, John’s… henchmen? Beer buddies? Surrogate sons? You don’t half know. 

John MacTavish and Simon Riley, who John calls Soap and Ghost. You haven’t the slightest idea of their job or what they do for John. They’re both intimidating, but they don’t act as scary as they look, though. 

When you first met, they kept their distance from you, until one night John took a call and MacTavish leaned in.

“You dunnae think he’s a bit old for you?”

“MacTavish,” Riley growled.

“I’m only askin’!”

“Sorry, I… I don’t think I understand?”

“Yer a right bonnie lass, but… yer a wee bit young, no?”

“Oh I’m… I’m not his girlfriend, I’m just staying with him for the moment.”

“Ah.”

Foot in mouth instantly, he sat back.

“Eh… forget I said anythin’.”

Ghost had laughed hard when they returned home and explained the situation with your dad. 

Ever since then, MacTavish has been persistent. 

“Hello,” you chirp, smiling politely.

“There she is!” he greets you, a big grin on his face. He leans over your desk, with his big arms crossed, flexing as he does. “We missed you.” 

MacTavish is a flirt, and it makes your face hot. 

In a weird way, you missed them too. They’ve been gone for two weeks of your secretary duties. You think to ask where they were, but you know they won’t let it slip. Riley will say nothing and MacTavish will tell you how nice your hair looks instead of answering. 

Riley just stares at you, like he always does. He’s always got his face covered, a skull-face balaclava or gaiter and a hood. All you can ever see are those dark eyes staring you down. You never know what he’s feeling, if he’s angry at you. The idea of even asking him why he wears that thing has you shaking. You asked Kyle once, and he just laughed at you.

“That’s for Ghost to show you, love. Not me.” 

Soap leans over the desk further and catches a glance of your thighs peeking out from under this pretty dress you have on. It’s soft and feminine, like he knows you to be.

“All dressed up, eh? Tha’ for me?”

He sees you flush and flick your eyes away for a moment.

“Oh, it’s just… new.”

“Fuckin’ lovely, y’know-” 

“Price ‘bout done?” Riley interrupts MacTavish, nodding to John’s office, where the shouting continues

“Um… just about,” you tell him.

You want to sound a bit braver. You see MacTavish’s eyes light up at the sight of your sweets dish.

“Wannae sweet, LT?” he asks, plucking one from the dish. 

“Nah.”

He would have to lift that mask to eat it, you think. 

“Thanks, bon,” he tells you, unwrapping it and popping it in his mouth. 

“You’re the last on the list, you could take a few more,” you offer.

He smirks.

“Takin’ a wee shine to me, are ya?”

You giggle stupidly, and see him grin again. Riley rolls his eyes, his own huge arms crossed. When MacTavish turns to look at him, you see a red-stained and poorly applied bandage on his deltoid as the sleeve of his t-shirt rides up. 

“Oh, what happened?”

“Hm?”

He looks at his arm.

“Ah, shit.”

“What now?”

“My fuckin’ stitches opened,” he growls to Riley.

“Shit.”

“Would you let me look at it?”

They both look at you and you silence the squeak in your throat.

“I-I’m an EMT,” you tell them. “Uh, can I… please?”

Soap fights the urge to drool. Your hands on him, fixing him up? And the way you said please. If he had a tail, it’d be wagging. 

You guide him behind your desk and supply the first aid kit from below. Soap is bright red at the sight of you on your hands and knees. You direct him to sit on the table.

“Can I touch you?” you ask softly.

He nods, far too eager. 

Your gloved hand pushes up his sleeve and you swallow at the size of his muscled arms. You remove the bandage, sticky and soaked through with blood. You need to toss this biohazard, and the bin is too far. 

“Um…”

You want Riley to help but you’re realizing you’ve never addressed him before. You can’t call him mister. Is he a real lieutenant or is that just what MacTavish calls him? You can’t just call him Simon, though, that feels even more wrong.

“Will you bring the bin over here?” you decide to say, and nod to the wastebasket near you.

He brings it over, standing a little too close to you. Your pulse is racing with these two men at this proximity.

“Could you… hold your sleeve up, please?”

Soap’s other hand drags his sleeve up and rests on his shoulder. You see something else peeking out, a milky circular scar. This was made by a bullet. 

“Get on with it,” Riley urges you. 

Your pulse pounds in your throat as you continue.  

“Steamin’ Jesus,” MacTavish hisses when you gently wipe at the blood with the supplied alcohol pad in the kit. You wouldn’t choose this to clean a wound. You make a mental note to talk to John about fixing a new kit. 

“I’m sorry, I know it hurts,” you coo, your eyes focused on cleaning this monstrous cut. “You didn’t get this done in hospital, did you?” 

“I did it,” Riley answers from your side. 

“You did a very poor job,” you say matter-of-factly, not looking at him. 

Soap has to keep from laughing when he sees Ghost shift at your words.

“This is going to hurt quite a bit,” you warn him as you stitch the gash. 

He grunts, eyes closing and nostrils flaring. You talk him through it the way you would any other patient, and delicately tie the knot off. You snip the extra thread and bandage it again— properly this time— and pat his back.

“All better.”

Fucking hell. He could kiss you. 

“You’re an EMT?” Riley asks, arms crossed.

“I was,” you clarify. 

“Not anymore?”

“I’m… I quit, to focus on nursing school.”

They can tell you’re lying, and they know Price made you quit your job.

“Ye have got one hell of a bedside manner, lass,” MacTavish jokes.

You beam, looking at your hands.

“Thank you. Oh, the stitches. Don’t touch that bandage for at least six hours. Then you can take it off, but you cannot scratch. It’ll itch terribly, but please don’t.”

“If they come undone, will ye stitch it again?” MacTavish flirts. 

“They will not come undone, because I’ve done a good job.”

Riley laughs at that. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him laugh before.

The man John was speaking to slinks out of the office and passes the two guard dogs. John looks out and raises a brow at the two of them. 

“Lads.”

Soap and Ghost sit in front of Price at his desk.

“Ye didnae tell us she’s a nurse, Cap’n,” Soap chirps.

“Because I know how you get around nurses.”

“Why not have her do her old man’s job?” Ghost suggests.

“She can’t handle that.”

“Handled Johnny fine.”

“Aye, she did,” Soap sighs. He leans back and grins thinking about you.

“Giddy like a schoolboy,” Price huffs, shaking his head. “I need you two to… watch her.”

“Watch her?”

“You both know I’ve got business with our friend in the States.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And you all know your jobs.”

They nod.

“She’ll be alone at home. I want you two to… stay with her, make sure she’s alright.”

“Ye think the Russians are still lookin’ for her?” Soap asks.

“Better safe than sorry. Nobody’s ever called Makarov a quitter.”

“And she knows?”

“I’m… telling her when we get home.”

The men glance at each other.

“Say she don’t want two big fuckers in her house?” Ghost suggests. 

“Then you two big fuckers stay the hell away from her house,” Price says simply. 

They nod.

“Fair.”

“Right.”

You make dinner in the kitchen and feel John hovering.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“You’re making me nervous.”

“Sorry. You remember I told you I’m going away for a bit?”

“Yeah, I remember.” 

“Uh… if you don’t wanna be alone, I… Riley and MacTavish could stay with you.”

“You don’t know any women that could stay?” you joke weakly.

“They’re good lads. They take orders well.”

Another of John’s choice of words that makes your stomach flip. 

“John… I need you to tell me what you do.” 

“I’m not having this conversation again,” he says. His tone is firm, but still gentle. 

You put down the spatula, turning to him.

“Today when I stitched up MacTavish I saw a…” you lean in, “a bullet scar.” 

John presses his lips together, hidden under his facial hair. He untucks his shirt and pulls it up. You see a similar scar on his obliques. 

“But that’s from the Army.”

“Love-” 

“John. Tell me that’s from the Army.” 

“I don’t need to tell you, you know it isn’t.” 

“Who’s… Makarov?”

“You were listening?”

“Yes, John! I saw a bullet scar on your… whatever he is! Bodyguard? Henchman?!” 

“Calm down.”

Price knows he’s done when your eyes get teary.

“God, I ca- I can’t just… sit around here while you’re gone not knowing wh-what sort of danger you’re in! O-or I’m in,” you sob. 

He takes you in his arms and you cry into his chest.

“Ghost and Soap will keep an eye on you.”

“I don’t want them, I want you to stay and talk to me.” 

You sniffle, your hands on his chest.

“Please, John. Please?” 

So Price tells you everything. Literally everything. It’s a borderline history lesson, he gets into the Soviet Union and Russian politics. When he explains what he and your dad were doing while you were living with aunts and cousins in the country, you stop crying and start feeling sick. 

You take a shaky breath. 

“You leave tomorrow?”

“Early,” he confirms.

He rubs a hand on your back, kissing your head.

You turn to look up at him and kiss him on the cheek.

“Be careful, John.”

“I will.” 

“Please, please…” you beg quietly.

“Do you want Ghost and Soap?”

You nod, sniffling.

You fall asleep against John’s chest. You’re peaceful for once, softly breathing as he strokes your hair. He scoops you up and takes you to your bedroom. 

He doesn’t miss the way your lips part when he sets you down, or just how hot your skin is when he brushes your thigh by accident.

He absolutely doesn’t miss the whine that leaves your throat when you turn over and shift in place. The subtle arch of your back and the roll in your hips. 

Price won’t deny that he wants you. 

But you’re asleep, and he’s leaving.

Maybe the lads can help with that.

At their place, Ghost is dead asleep in his room with his face on the pillow. 

Soap is awake, his whole body taut as he thinks about you. He fists his cock, stroking hard and fast. He imagines you under him, talking him through it the way you did when you stitched him.

“You’re doing very well,” you had cooed at him. 

A knock on the wall makes him freeze.

“Oi, keep it down!” Ghost growls from the other room. 

Soap’s phone lights up.

CPT PRICE

Congrats lads. You’re on bodyguard duty for three weeks. 

The next day, you’re making breakfast in the morning when you hear a knock on the door. You turn down the stove and peek through the peephole.

Riley and MacTavish, each with a duffel bag. 

You open the door and look at them.

“Mornin’,” MacTavish grumbles. 

“Hi.”

“Can we come in?” Riley huffs, nodding to the house.

You open the door and they toss their things on the couch.

Soap is exhausted, he hardly slept before Ghost dragged him out of bed and to the gym this morning. They both went straight to Price’s place, no time to recover. His hair is still wet from the shower. 

“Do you want breakfast?”

“Fuck yes,” Soap groans, sitting up. 

He hears you giggle and watches you as you return to the pan on the stove, and crack two more eggs in. The captain is one lucky bastard if he’s got you in your pajamas making him breakfast every morning.  

Riley lingers near you in the kitchen, standing straight up with his arms crossed.

If it was John, you’d tell him to relax. 

“Aw, c’mon, LT, yer scarin’ her,” MacTavish chides him, waving his hand.

“Am I?” Riley asks you.

“No, not- I’m not scared,” you squeak, feeling like an idiot because you sound terrified. 

He takes a step away and joins MacTavish on the couch.

You take a breath and reach for three dishes, placing them on the counter as you serve everyone’s breakfast.

You want to sit on the other side of MacTavish, so Riley can lift up his mask and you don’t have to look. You’re curious, sure, but the possibility of him being angry is enough to scare you away. 

But Soap moves to the left, leaving you the space inbetween. Everyone’s legs are touching and all three of you run hot at the moment. 

“It’s not a lot… I need to get groceries,” you tell them. “Just… haven’t had a chance to, I’ve got exams all next week.” 

“Give us a list and we’ll go,” Riley says, and without thinking, you look. 

Only for a second, then you whip your head back down to look at your breakfast, trembling.

“I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to-”

“Aw, donnae be scared, bon,” MacTavish jokes. 

“You can look,” Riley says firmly. 

You peek at him without turning your head. The mask is pulled up just over the tip of his nose, bottom half of his face on display. A diagonal scar goes across his lips, and you see another one on his jaw. You wonder how many more there are. You also spy a bruise on his cheek. 

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?”

“There’s… I can see a bruise.”

“Bit of trouble while we were away. It’s nothin’.”

“I can look at it, if you like. And I keep ice packs in the freezer for John’s ‘nothing’, too,” you tell him, putting finger quotes around the words. 

You finish your breakfast and take a frigid shower. Sitting on the couch between those two has your body humming, you can’t even think. You have two exam review sessions today and you need to be laser focused. 

You do take a little extra time with your hand between your thighs thinking about MacTavish’s big arms and Riley’s deep voice. 

You write them a list and hand it to Riley.

“Um… if you pick up something I can fix it. I don’t know if you two cook any.”

“Nah, Soap can burn water.”

You giggle softly and cover your mouth. 

“Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh,” you tell Soap.

He sees something change in Ghost.

“Alright, um… I’ll see you two later.”

You leave and Soap raises a brow.

“You like her, LT.”

“Shut up.”

“You do! Ha!”

Soap grins and then scowls.

“I liked her first,” he reminds Ghost.

“It’s about who she likes, Johnny.”

The two of them seem to fit well into your life. You almost wonder if John briefed them on your habits and routine. 

These lads love you. They love that even when you’re tired or overwhelmed, you’re still kind.

You warm up to Johnny more than you do to Simon, even if they both insist on you calling them by their first names. Johnny’s funny and he’s a flirt, yes, but you appreciate his outlook. When you come home late at night he’s there with a movie on the TV and a pint of ice cream.

Simon is more like dealing with a shelter cat. You have to coax him slowly, offer him gentle kindness until he lets you get closer. He’s more comfortable pulling up his mask to eat, but he still tugs it down quickly. 

You know it’s your house, and you’re not afraid to tell them what to do. You always leave them a list of chores when you leave for your observation hours and they find it when they return from the gym. But the i’s are always dotted with a heart. 

They give you a wide berth during your exams, and when you finally slump on the couch at the end of the week and smile, they know you’re finished.

“So… next week in hospital?” Johnny clarifies. 

“New unit in hospital next week,” you sigh happily.

“Where you startin’?” 

“Labor and delivery,” you chirp. “I’m so excited. I love babies.”

“Ye wannae be a mammy some day?” Johnny asks.

“Oh, yes. A sweet little chubby baby, how cute would that be?”

Ghost might die on this couch. You would be an adorable mother. He imagines you cooing and holding a little blond baby-

Whoa. He pauses his own thoughts. Fucking calm down, Riley. 

You look to the side and see a cut on Simon’s neck. 

“What happened there?” you ask, reaching over to touch it.

Soap lurches to stop you and Ghost flicks his eyes over to tell him it’s alright.

“Had a scuffle. It’s-”

“Don’t say it’s nothing,” you chide softly, finger skimming just below it. “If you’re going to wear that mask you need a bandage on it so it doesn’t touch the fabric.”

“I’m fine.”

“Johnny, will you get my kit?”

Soap is still giddy with how fast you started to call them Johnny and Simon. 

“Aye aye.”

You stand up, framing Simon’s face with a hand, tilting his head to look at the cut closer.

“Oh, Simon, this is really nasty.”

“It’s fine,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice steady while you stand between his legs.

Johnny hands you your kit. You get to work cleaning Simon’s wound, he tries not to push into your delicate touch his jaw and his exposed neck. 

“What happened?” you coo softly. 

You hardly notice that his hand is on the back of your thigh, holding you closer to him. 

He hisses when your gloved finger swipes an antibiotic onto the cut. 

“Sorry, sorry,” you murmur. “I know it hurts.”

You place a bandage over it and smile.

“There we are. All done.” 

He says nothing, eyes on you. 

“You should wash your mask,” you say softly. “If you bled on it, I mean. Not that it’s dirty-”

“I get it.” 

He hesitates.

“Thank you, nurse.” 

You giggle at that.

“I’m not a real nurse yet.”

The next week at the hospital is bliss. You love seeing all the mothers and their complete joy while they meet their sweet little babies for the first time. 

You knock on a hospital door.

“Hi,” you call softly. “Brought you some juice.”

“Oh, room service,” the woman inside jokes.

You giggle and hand her the cup of juice and ice. She takes a grateful sip.

“Thank you, darl.”

“Of course. Do you need anything else?”

“Erm… they’re bringin’ her back round soon, yeah?”

You peek out. 

“Rounding the corner as we speak.”

“Thank God.”

Your supervising nurse gently hands her the baby as she places the juice onto her small table.

“Hi, my darling. Look at you.”

“She’s so precious,” you say.

“Isn’t she? Oh, I’ve been dyin’ for a girl. My boys are my whole world, but… gosh, she’s lovely.”

“Your husband wanted a girl?”

“Yeah, how’d you think I got that big belly in the first place?”

All three of you laugh.

“He had sisters ‘n all. He’ll be a good dad to a little girl.” 

She coos at her baby and you feel that weird knot in your stomach, that ache to know that feeling. You’ve been having it all week, especially going home to your two live-in bodyguards. You used to think you and your ex would get married, have some babies. You always daydreamed about being the perfect duo, a pediatrician and a pediatric nurse. At least he’ll be able to provide as a father, even if he is a dickhead. 

Johnny would need some work to be a dad, but he’d have fun and games down perfect. Simon would take to it well, if not a little scary for a little girl or boy. 

John would really be an amazing father. He could be loving and stern and silly when he needed to be. But you think about your aunt learning you had a baby with one of your dad’s Army mates and you cringe outwardly.

“You alright, love?” the nurse asks you.

“Oh, f-fine. Who’s next?”

Your shift ends late in the evening, and you sigh, remembering your walk home. Nothing too bad, just sometimes there’s drunk men from the pubs who catcall you on your way back. 

You hear the ladies at the desk murmuring as you walk over.

“Goodnight, ladies,” you chirp.

“Wait, there’s some guy out there!”

“What?”

“Yeah, Susan said she saw someone out there with a mask on!” 

“Oh… that’s…”

You see Simon outside, who nods to you.

“That’s not your boyfriend is it?”

“Uh, he, um… we’re…”

How can you explain it?

“Yeah,” you squeak out.

“What’s wrong with him?” one girl asks.

Another nurse sucks her teeth.

“Don’t say that! Liv, tell the security guard to stop watching him.”

“That beast out there won’t keep her safe?”

“Would you stop?” 

“Seriously, how tall is he?”

You don’t know how tall he is, just that he’s taller than you. 

“Oh, um… hundred eighty nine centimeters? I think?”

“Fuck me.”

“Go do a round,” the older nurse sighs. “Have a nice night, love. Stay safe.”

You say goodbye and head out, cringing at your choice to lie.

“Hey.”

“Y’know, when a man in a skull mask shows up late at night most people think they’re gonna get robbed,” you say with a sigh.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you here?”

“You got off late. Walkin’ you home.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Price don’t walk you home?”

“Sometimes. John’s busy.”  

“Well, I ain’t. So let’s go, it’s fuckin’ freezin’.” 

Simon walks with you, subtly guiding you to the inside of the street. Hands shoved in his pockets, head on a swivel. 

“Where’s Johnny?”

“With Gaz.”

You blink.

“Shit. Uh… Kyle,” he corrects himself. 

“Oh! Really?” you giggle, shaking your head. “Gaz, Ghost, and Soap. That’s so silly.” 

He laughs, even though you barely hear it.

“Are you blond, Simon?” you ask without thinking.

“Why?”

“Sorry. I… I just noticed your eyelashes yesterday and I thought… ‘maybe he’s blond’.”

“I am, yeah.”

“Not that I’m asking to see your face, no, I-I wouldn’t-”

“You scared of me?” he asks honestly, eyeing you.

“Uh… not as much as I was.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I know,” you say plainly. “John trusts you, and I trust him.” 

“So him ‘n you never…?”

He catches the split-second of panic on your face. 

“Oh, well… we… we kissed once. But we were both drunk,” you explain quickly. 

You’re bending the truth, Ghost can tell.

“Yeah?”

“Well… maybe a little more than that.”

He sees your coy little smile and grins under his mask.

“You likin’ it in there?” he asks, nodding back to the hospital.

“I love it. I’m thinking it might be my spot when I’m finished.”

“You good with the babies, eh?”

“Gosh, I hope I am.” 

You open the door to John’s building and greet the doorman, going up in the lift. 

You unlock the door and open it, seeing Johnny asleep on the couch. Simon whistles and he sits up instantly.

“Hi, bon.” 

“Hi, Johnny.”

“You hungry?”

“Oh, no. Just tired.”

You turn back to Simon.

“Thank you for walking me home.”

He shrugs it off and you get on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“Where’s my kiss?” Johnny jokes.

You kiss his cheek as you walk to your room.

“Goodnight, lads.”

“Night, bonnie!”

“G’night,” Simon mutters, stunned. 

In the early morning, Soap gets a call from Gaz. He shoots you and Ghost a text in the little groupchat you made.

nurse + men in her house 

johnny 🧼mactavish

Out oan run w Gaz. B back later

simon 💀riley 

Roger

You sit on the couch watching the TV absently. Johnny’s still gone and Simon’s gone to the gym. You scroll on your phone and see a video of a YouTuber and her toddler playing and laughing. The baby’s face is blurred, but you can almost hear his little smile. It makes your heart ache and you feel a little pain in your side. Shit. You swap over to your period tracking app and wince, seeing the cycle words highlighted. You’re ovulating, no wonder you’ve been craving a baby like mad. Even if your stupid ex was here, you couldn’t really tell him why you needed to get fucked so badly. The sex was pretty sparse and very unfulfilling toward the end anyway.

You try to focus on the film on the TV to keep your mind off of that deep, biological need.

You shiver and change the channel, flipping to some nature documentary. You sigh and watch, rubbing your temples until they show a mother bear and her cute little cubs toddling around. She cleans them with her tongue and they almost look like they’re smiling. Then you can’t help it, you burst into tears.

You’re crying so much you don’t even hear the door unlock and open. Simon enters and stares at you. You catch his eye and cover your face.

“S-Simon-”

“What’s wrong?”

He crosses the floor instantly, at your side in a second. 

“Did somebody make you cry?”

“No, no… I-”

You take a shaky breath, but you only sob harder. You hug him, which shocks him for a second until he wraps his huge arms around you.

“Oh, it’s so stupid,” you whine, wiping at your eyes.

“Go on, tell us.”

“I just… I’ve been in hospital all week… seeing these mothers and all these sweet little infants and I just- God, I want a baby,” you cry, exhaling.

Simon’s hand holds your face. It’s big and warm. 

“That ain’t stupid.”

You sniffle, shaking your head.

“No, it’s stupid.”

“No, it ain’t. You told us you wanna be a mum. And your body’s… fuckin’ hardwired for it,” he attempts to comfort you. “S’normal.”

His jaw clenches and he avoids your eyes.

“You… on your period or somethin’?” 

“No, I’m ovulating and it hurts,” you say quietly, trying to push more tears away. 

If you could see the way Ghost is red under this mask. He swallows and tilts his head.

“I could… if you want… I could help,” he offers quietly. 

“Oh, Simon, y-you-”

“Nothin’ serious. Unless you… want that.”

You’ve never seen him like this. He’s shy, stumbling over his words.

“Would you really?”

He nods. And you think for a moment. You really just need some release at the moment. You have a vibrator, but it never works well enough. 

“Please,” you whisper.

“Your room?”

You nod and he picks you up like nothing, like you’re a cat, and carries you all of five long steps to your room. He sets you on the bed gently and looks around for a second. Your room is a little chaotic— organized chaos though— he sees anatomy notes and a schedule on a whiteboard, pictures of your friends from photo-booths and Polaroids pinned up on the walls. And a stuffed rabbit on the bed.

“Oh, sorry.”

You pick up Robby and move him to your desk, on top of your textbooks. You hesitate and turn him around.

Ghost thinks it’s sweet. He knows you’re sweet, he wants to make you feel good.

You return to the bed and meet his eyes. You can’t help but giggle, because it’s all so absurd to you in that moment. 

“Can I kiss you?” you ask him.

He nods, hooking his thumb under the mask and pulling it up over his nose.

“It’s like when they kiss in Spider-Man,” you joke, giving him a soft kiss on his scarred lips. 

Something clicks into place, something biological and needy, that has you wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to lay on top of you. Your legs fall open and Simon slots between them as you kiss deeper. His big hands hold your waist and you gasp at the contact. 

Oh, you’re really pent up. Ghost has a feeling your ex wasn’t doing anything right.

So he starts holding you a little tighter, pushing his hips against you, kissing your neck. The place he’s slotted between your legs is hot and he can guess it’s starting to get wet. 

“Simon,” you breathe, your head rolling back.

“S’good?”

You squeak and giggle when his thumb digs into your side.

“That tickles!” you say, squirming away. 

He playfully drags you back, kissing your cheek.

“I’ll be gentle, love.” 

It’s eager and honest. A solemn vow, he means it. 

He can’t help but smirk against your skin knowing Soap is going to find out he got you first. His hand travels down your skin, his fingers pushing up the hem of your shirt and admiring the soft skin of your belly. 

You paw at the zipper of his hoodie and he unzips it and shrugs it off, letting you see his arms. One side is scarred up, and the other is littered with tattoos at the forearm. 

Giving you no time to react, his hand slips into your shorts, big fingers rubbing you over your panties. You moan and cover your mouth with your hand.

“No, lemme hear.” 

You move your hand away and lock eyes with him, which makes you whimper when his hand slides into your panties.

“Wet already,” he husks. 

One of his fingers pushes into your pussy and you grab his arm, eyes squeezing shut. 

“Y’so fuckin’ tight,” he grits against your neck.

You cry out, feeling him move it further in and curl it slightly. 

“Y-you- oh…” 

He adds another finger and you squeak at the burn of the stretch. His fingers are big and thick and when you think of them holding a big gun you cover your eyes with your hands. 

“Have you ever killed someone?” you blurt out, feeling moronic instantly. 

He looks at you. He doesn’t say anything.

The silence is all you need though.

“And John… and Johnny, a-and Kyle too?” you ask, your lip wobbling as you try not to sob again.

“Love,” he coos. “Lemme make you feel good ‘n we can talk, right?”

You nod and his other hand wipes a tear from your face with his thumb.

His fingers curl up and you whine, your hips keening upward. The heel of his hand presses against your clit and you dig your nails into his arm.

“Sorry!” you gasp, pulling away your hand and seeing the little crescent-shaped divots from your nails in his skin. You rub your hand over it, pouting at him. 

He stares at you for a moment and you squirm a little. He feels you clench and twitch around his fingers.

“Sorry, I’m sorry, please keep going,” you beg quietly.

“That don’t hurt,” he murmurs. “You do whatever you want, love. That don’t hurt.” 

A strangled noise rips through your throat when his fingers curl up again and you fist your hand in his shirt. 

Ghost fucks his fingers in and out quickly, but not too rough. He wants you to feel good, and really doesn’t want to scare you. 

“Tha’s good, love. Yeah. Just breathe,” he pants against your cheek.

You feel the knot Simon’s been untying inside of you finally start to give, and you grip his wrist as your hips cant desperately. 

“Simon- don’t- don’t stop! Th-there! Yes! Si- oh, shit, I-I’m g-”

You sob as you cum, and you cum hard. You tremble in his arms and he pumps his fingers in your pussy until you’re pawing at his arm and mewling.

“S’too much,” you hiccup. 

He pulls his fingers out and you watch him stupidly as he licks them clean. You feel like you might faint. 

You smile, dazed. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. “That was really nice.” 

“You need anythin’ else?”

“A little nap before class,” you tell him. 

He moves to get up and you tug him down.

“Wait…”

You kiss him softly and curl up to his chest. 

“Will Johnny be mad?”

“Dunno. You plannin’ on kissin’ him?”

You giggle and hide in his chest.

“Probably. Do you mind sharing?"

"Ain't my place."

"In that case, I think I like Kyle, too.”

“And Price?”

You sigh.

“Too old?” 

“Just a bit. Kinda makes him even more… enticing, I guess.” 

When you fall asleep, Ghost sneaks from your room as Soap and Gaz enter through the front door. They see him with his hoodie off and his mask still up.

“You British cunt, did you fuck her?!” Soap shouts. 

He death-glares Soap and hears you laugh from your room. 

“Said she ain’t opposed to sharin’,” Ghost says to the both of them with a smirk, tugging down his mask. 

“No time for that,” Gaz starts. “Makarov’s back.”

[visceradiva]

könig + those goddamn flannel pants. you know the ones hiiiii not an official return!! just feeling extra horny about him 🫦and my man keeps wearing these mf pants 

you love fall. cozy sweater season, apple cider, pumpkin picking, and your favorite: sweatpants season.

the time of year where your beefy boyfriend könig gets himself into a (somehow) baggy pair of sweatpants to keep warm, but still chooses to go commando. 

last year, he lived in those sweatpants. worked out in them. wore them around the house. he even slept in them! so when it got warm again and you demanded that he throw that fucking pair away i swear to god, he got a new pair. 

those flannel pajama pants with the drawstring. they fit him so good, loose where they need to be and tight in others, framing his ass perfectly and his dick. holy fucking shit his dick. 

you could see that thick shape resting on his thigh to one side when he was soft. but when you wore that little lounge set— you bought it because one of the designs had a cute bear on the top— and bent down to take cinnamon rolls out of the oven? he got so hard he had to lean against the counter, and when you turned to face him you could see the vein through those pants. 

so of course you bent over the counter in front of him and made sure to stumble back, letting your ass grind back on him. he never gave it to you so good, leaving you drooling on the counter and twitching, cum leaking out of your poor abused pussy. and your cinnamon rolls were cold! 

they’re catnip— fuck that, they’re crack. they make you so horny you look stupid, and you don’t even care! 

now you’re watching könig playing video games on the couch. his thick thighs spread wide, wrists wresting on his quads while he mashed buttons. his eyes are glued to the screen, and they should be on you.

“bear,” you whine.

“hm?”

you huff.

“bear, when is your game done?”

“one moment, haschen.” 

you stand in front of him, arms crossed. he leans to look at the tv. 

“schatzi, i need to see the television-”

you cut him off by pushing him back, straddling his lap. he leans forward, letting you sit there while he keeps playing the game.

“könig,” you whisper in his ear.

“mm,” he hums.

“i like these pants,” you breathe all whiny.

“yeah?”

“you’re so mean to me,” you whine.

“mean? i’m not mean, schatz.”

he finally pauses the game and puts the controller on the coffee table. his big hand stabilizes your back. 

“what did i do wrong?”

he’s so cute when he thinks he hurt your feelings. his hands rub over your side.

“it’s so mean that you wear these pants around the house…”

“what? why?”

you rub him over the flannel.

“cause i can see every fucking vein on this big dick and you won’t fuck me…” 

he narrows his eyes.

“what about this?” he growls, pointing to your lounge set. 

“what?”

“you have been wearing just these! i-i can see your nipples and you d-don’t wear panties…” he whimpers. “i can see y-your muschi when you bend over…”

you giggle. it’s stupid how bad you want each other. he tosses you to the side, spreading your legs and getting between your legs and grinding his big dick on your covered pussy. you’re so wet the set is stuck to you. he crawls down and pulls off your shorts, leaving you bare.

he shoves his face between your thighs and eats your pussy like it’s his job. his nose rubs on your clit and his fingers dig into your soft hips. 

“könig!”

“so lecker, haschen,” he groans. 

you feel the vibrations on your clit and you squirm as much as you can with his big hands keeping you on the couch.

“wait! please, i wanna cum on your cock,” you whimper. 

how can he say no? you asked politely!

he shoves down those stupid pants and his fat cock rests heavy between his legs. he’s so hard, all flushed and the tip pink for you. you want it in your mouth, but your pussy would never forgive you. he flips you onto your hands and knees way too easily. he parts your folds with his fingers and fills you up. he feeds you every inch and you’re literally scrambling away until he bottoms out. it’s like his tip hitting your cervix puts you in sleep mode.

you whimper, pussy fluttering around him while you adjust to it.

“so tight, haschen. i will fuck you so good, i promise. h-hah… diese muschi ist so perfekt, liebling…”

[sammyslittledoll-deactivated202]

Neeeeed part 2 of the loser!clark fic with smut

pairing : loser!Clark Kent x Reader. warnings : sexual content. clark is pathetic and has no clue on how to use his massive dick, grinding, p in v, cowgirl, unprotected sex, multiple creampies, humiliation kink. 18+ only !! read pt.I here.

as it turned out, clark's uselessness didn't only extend to his general demeanour but to the bedroom as well.

your clothes are strewn across the floor, a faithful testament to the need with which you'd tugged them off of each other as clark pawed at every flushed inch of your skin like he couldn't believe he was finally allowed to touch you.

you were grinding against the thick bulge straining against his pants since the moment you'd kissed him, your mouth sloppy against his, the thick ridge of his shaft grinding perfectly against your clit through the soaked lace between your thighs.

and clark ? he was too busy concentrating on not blowing his load right away from the way your pussy was rubbing against the leaking head of his cock to even kiss you back properly, moaning into your mouth with little mumbles of "please" and "oh golly, that f-feels soo good.", because he's too cute to even curse.

_

you're bouncing on his cock with earnest little rocks of your hips, every slide of his grithy shaft inside you obscenely slick from the number of times he's already cum, making the wet sound of skin slapping against skin thicken pornographically.

he's moaning loud and unabashed under you, rutting upwards into your pussy with desperate little thrusts that make you pity him even more.

"god you're pathetic, y'know that ? such a big cock and you have noo clue on how to use it. it's a shame really— a waste." you say and he whimpers, his hips stuttering for a split second like he's getting off on the humiliation.

"o-oh you like that ? like being reminding of the fact that you're just a loser with a dick too big for your own good ? my god, th-that's depraved even for you, clark." you moan, your voice cracking from the way his tip is bullying your sweet spot with every bounce of your hips.

and he has the audacity to nod, fucking into your harder with erratic, sloppy jerks that have him jackhammering into your dripping cunt like a mindless machine— overeager and desperate with a pitiful lack of finesse or rhythm.

"st-stop that." you snap, lifting your hips till just the swollen, leaking head remains making him practically thrash with the need to be inside you again before slamming all the way down to his base, making him cry out, his cock thickening inside your tight walls with another load.

"bet you love being used, yeah ?" you coo, hips rocking against his and he babbles, ``o-oh yeah, love it sooo much, you have no idea." as he pumps another weak load into your pussy with a stuttered groan.

"god, you're such a slut." you huff— almost disappointedly— pulling off of him so that copious amounts of his cum drips out of you and onto his twitching cock. and clark flinches at the words, still sweet, well-behaved and submissive as ever.

a/n : if anyone would like to be added to the taglist for Clark Kent please don't hesitate to let me know <3 taglist : @y0inked, @castielsonlyangel, @zenoxl, @bowxs, @redsbookshelf, @nuhveah, @boba-is-a-soup, @maryjlawrenceatservice, @rosewolfs-world, @httpstoyosi.

[visceradiva]

hiii everyone. sorry i've been so MIA i've been so busy with cosmetology school and my NEW BOYFRIEND EEEEE. but i might post sometime soon?? who knows! sorry dolls but enjoy what i have so far!!!

[morbidmorbid]

clark, who likes being called ‘superman’ in bed + mdni



clark is like honey; sticky—

his thumbs dig red into the skin of your legs, pressed and unmoving, contorting you deftly like origami, treating bones and weight as loose jelly. the skin of his thighs are wet with mixed arousal, sticking against your own as he hammers his way to his own release—as he brings you close to yours.

and sweet.

“okay? .. you?” he’s smiling when he asks and he searches right through you, it seems. of sentences broken between the way he groans into the air that’s grown dewy with fornication. and he doesn’t speak to fill in the blank spaces because he’s inquiring more after just a few beats, not at all satisfied with dubiety.

“this fine? let me know, please.” he’s at the tip of a whine, and with clark, while he makes everything about you and leashes himself with every word against your lips, there’s a need for validation—performs nicely on his own expectancy, performs marvelously with an unshakable assertiveness when told you’re doing such a great job.

“yes, clark,” you begin and watch as his breath hitches, as his thrusts slow only by a breath, a terrifying sort of attentiveness. “feels so good.” you assure in all your truthfulness, and while it’s enough, “just look at how you make me feel.” you’re covered in sweat and pleasure at his hands.

he loses his breath then, dropping a hand into the sheets. he swears with the rhythm of his hips, cock wedged deep into you, right at the core where you’re hottest. the sweat lining at his forehead smears your jaw where he burrows into your neck. “can’t look.” a weak confession mingled with a sad effort at suppressing a fast approaching orgasm.

your legs tingle with the ache of the pretzel he’s made of you, and if you don’t come now it’ll linger with you for days.

“you can. you can, baby.” it’s punched out of you, railed against the headboard, dampened under the continuous way he gasps into your neck against the drilling of his cock that’s quickly taking you apart. “look at me, you have to.” a command coated with a caramel-sweet tone. “look at what you’re doing to me.”

and it looks that clark can’t resist the way he snaps up like a dog. he’s a nasty thing, really. secretive with how words are all it takes.

“fuck, it’s—“ you’re choked up, arching until you’re chest to chest, skin to skin with clark. you marvel at the contact, feeling swathed, warm with the rush settled deep in your gut. “it’s not enough.”

at that, clark regains purchase of your leg with a new enthusiasm, a resolve to please. it’s written all over his face; the one that’s flushed red from the cheekbones to the ears, lips pink and bitten raw and brows tight.

“come on, superman, fuck me for real.” it’s new, so new and different and unanticipated, in fact, that upon hearing it clark bites down red and stinging on your neck, just shy of puncturing.

it’s like telling a trained dog to jump, watching it comprehend and advance to do so in the same width of a second.

picking the right words to tip clark over the margin of poorly subdued release never proved difficult because he comes then, just following the five drives of him impaling you on his cock. the last few fast, sloppy, so extreme and wet like it’d been his first time fucking. ever.

“i think i really like that, yeah.” he would say without shame after his shakes had died down, after he’d apologized for coming first, after he’d drilled your brain to liquid. all while running his mouth with a stupid big smile attached to unabashed rambling of wait, say it again.

[innorality]

based on this post lol

oral sex and... weird alien anatomy

"...clark, what is that." your face froze in shock.

how could you have forgotten that your clark kent was none other than... an extra terrestrial? a kryptonian, at that.

in your defense, his appearance doesn't really scream alien aside maybe from his height, so the information just slipped out of your mind.

it was when you were met face to face with his cock, that you remembered his true nature.

"w-what do you mean? it's.. it's my..." he looked away from your kneeling form, embarrassed at the thought of saying such a word. "I know what that is, I'm asking you what this," and your finger rubbed against the... buds? soft hooks? that were on the side of his dick which made his silently shudder "...is". "is that not a normal thing...? you know, to grab onto you..?" he questioned innocently.

there's a silence for a moment, "clark, I love you, but there's no way in hell you thought every human had... these." you deadpanned before he started squirming, his thighs clenching. "you're making me self conscious..." "don't be! it's just... my first time with an alien, I guess."

he took a deep breath, "you know, if you don't want to do this, I could still just–- oooh, gosh..." he cut himself off with a low moan that rumbled from deep within his chest right when you licked up the buds. "feels nice?" your eyes flickered up at him as he nodded intensely, mouthing a small 'keep going'.

you smiled warmly at him before licking your lips and kissing his bulbous tip, sinking down on him as your jaw struggled to accommodate to his size. his hips jerked when the soft hooks brushed against your cheeks. "shhi– shoot..." he caught himself, his hand sneaking into your hair.

clark caressed your scalp softly as you got down to halfway of his cock, telling you to "breath," and "r-relax f'me, baby..." as if he were any more relaxed than you.

when you paused to breath through your nose, he peeled his eyes open and met your intense gaze, looking up at him with the cutest doe eyes he had ever seen. wet lashes batting up at him in sync with the sounds of your gargling.

the buds didn't feel uncomfortable in your mouth—they were soft and squishy—but it still distinctively different. yet, the thought of sucking extra terrestrial dick did make you squirm a bit.

after a few moments of the both of you catching your breaths, you finally decided to move.

he crumbled.

you were barely a few bobs in before he turned into a whimpering mess, calling out your name desperately as his back ached involuntarily. "oh my– i-it feels so- you're p-perfect, so goddamn perfect..."

the praises go straight to your core, fueling you to go even faster. you pulled up quickly, circling his tip with your tongue and sucking on it harder—which made him whisper out a small "f-fuck.." that you did not miss at all—before moving the side to suck on each bud.

you felt them harden slightly, but you didn't pay much mind to it. you pulled away, opting to stroke him for a moment. "am I doing good, so far?" you knew you were doing amazing, but you questioned him anyway because you loved a good stroke on your ego.

"s-so amazing, pretty." he slurred, his eyes slowly going for the ceiling as he was completely letting go of himself, losing his every thought at each pump of your hand.

your other hand went for his heavy balls, playing with them softly and smiling when you see him completely throwing his head back.

when you put your mouth back on him, he couldn't hold back.

and he tried.

he really did.

but when he felt your pretty lips stretch around his girth to take him, when he felt you warm sticky throat parting to welcoming him again, and when he felt the inside of your cheeks brushing against his buds? he just couldn't hold it in.

suddenly, the 'soft hooks'—as you would describe them—hardened and hooked on the inside of your cheeks, halting any and every movement. his hand that was still in your hair tightened quickly, gripping your scalp as he spilled his seed into your throat, gasping out your name.

"holy– oh my- you're so fuckin'... why are you so fucking p-p-perfect, holy shit..!" he could barely hold in his profanities, the sound of you swallowing his cum too much for him to bear.

when he finished, the buds softened again, allowing you to pull away. he let go of your hair, quickly regaining his lucidity. "o-oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! i-i didn't mean to-" he tried to apologize but you cut him off with a smile made of sin, your gaze darkening.

"those... hooks. don't you think they'd be pretty useful for breeding?"

[bowxs]

so.. clark kent and panty rubbing.. walk with me here.

(a very informal drabble)

so, most of us know hes.. needy. glad we can agree. but what not a lot of us think about is how he can feel so bad for having a high stamina sometimes :( he doesnt wanna literally split you in half

so, instead, after extensive horny daydreaming thinking he came up with a plan to help him get out some energy but not overstimulate you too much

your on your back, legs spread to accommodate for his rather large frame between yours. his clothes are off, and so are yours- except your panties. clark had plans for your poor pink and frilly panties.

you two had been making out before this, and with the way you were grinding in his lap, he knew you were already wet enough. sure enough, when he looked at your panties there was a dark wet patch right underneath your core. just from making out.

he held his cock in his hand, loosely guiding it to rub his tip along the wet patch, occasionally tapping against the fabric right above your clit. he could probably cum from just that.

hed hold himself in place as he thrusted experimentally, his dick rubbing through your clothed yet soaked folds, the friction of your panties and heat of your body driving him half insane

after a while, hed pull your panties to the side, just enough to slip his tip under the fabric before hes putting them back in place. hes only rubbing his length along your wetness but the way his tip nudges against your clit has both of you you whimpering at the contact

and when he sees the way he starts poking and proding at the front of your panties from underneath the fabric? he cums, right there, under your panties.

anywho! then after that hed fuck just the tip till he cums again AND THEN hed fuck you properly with your panties still on. but thats for another day.

thanks for walking with me!

[vinylflowerss]

simon riley who touches you casually, almost unconsciously. sitting on the couch, minding your own business when his hand, heavy and calloused, slides under your waistband without warning - sliding straight to your clit, dragging rough fingertips over it, all while he’s still watching tv, looking unfazed.

coming up behind you while you’re working, reaching around you to grope your tits, massaging them firmly in his hands, murmuring tiredly, “what d’you think we should do f’r dinner, luv?”

he’s just never had someone who he can show affection to freely, so seeking your soft, easy intimacy is like a balm for his soul.

[spikedfearn]

I Like the Way you Kiss Me

Chapter I

James Cook x fem!reader

summary: You move into a grimy South London flat through a mutual friend—Effy says the place is cheap, the people are sound. She forgets to mention one of them is James Cook. Loud, cocky, shirtless more often than not—he's everything you can't stand. From the second you meet, it's all eye-rolls and insults, tension sharp enough to cut. But when a late-night fight turns into a rough hallway kiss, things spiral into something ugly, hot, and completely off-limits. You hate him. He loves getting under your skin. And neither of you can stop.

wc: 5.7k

a/n: take 2 bc some of you need a fucking job. dedicated to @iamyourwayout for the banners <333 this fic was the winner of a poll I ran two months ago—ty to everyone who voted for “enemies to lovers flatmates from hell” (you have impeccable taste and clearly want me dead). Skins was actually how I was first introduced to Jack back in the day, but like a fool, I didn’t follow his career until after Sinners (huge mistake, massive regret). Anyway. Title from the song "I Like the Way You Kiss Me" by Artemas

warnings: enemies to lovers, smoking, drinking, party scenes, coarse language, mutual degradation, unresolved sexual tension, hallway makeouts, casual violence (slapping), emotionally repressed idiots, Cook being Cook, messy hookups, unhealthy coping mechanisms, internalized horniness, and denial so loud it should be illegal

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter I: Say You Hate Me With Your Mouth

The flat reeks of nicotine and reheated takeaway.

Not the worst thing you’ve ever walked into, technically—there was that one squat-style Airbnb in Shoreditch with the mystery stains and sentient mold—but this place carries its own brand of domestic decay. Heavy. Stale. Like the air itself is clinging to memories that should’ve been aired out years ago and weren’t. Not exactly what you pictured when Effy texted, “It’s a bit shit, but it’s cheap and the people are sound.”

She said people, plural, but never clarified who else lived here. You’d assumed she meant her boyfriend was crashing here part-time, or maybe another quiet student who’d keep to themselves. Someone who washed their own dishes, didn’t blast dubstep at 2 a.m., and definitely didn’t leave their pubes in the shower like confetti.

You shift your duffel bag on your shoulder, the strap biting into your collarbone, and step over a pair of crumpled trainers dumped just inside the door. They’re caked in flaking mud and reek like they’ve been marinated in foot sweat and pond water—absolutely disgusting. They look like they’ve been kicked off mid-stumble and abandoned to rot. One of them is half-crushed under a warped takeout menu.

The hallway stretches narrow and dim, claustrophobic, the walls tinted a dingy yellow that might once have been white before years of smoke turned them into nicotine-stained parchment. Every corner smells like someone recently stubbed out a cigarette. The light above flickers with a faint electrical buzz. A battered leather jacket hangs from a crooked wall hook like it’s watching you, like it’s been waiting. It smells faintly of beer, stale cologne, and sweat that no amount of Febreze will ever cover.

You spot a can of lager teetering precariously on the radiator, half-crushed and warm to the touch. Condensation has long dried up—just a grimy ring where it sweated itself to death.

“Effy?” you call out, voice cutting through the stillness, echoing faintly off the grimy walls.

Silence.

Then a voice answers—but it’s not hers.

“Nah. She fucked off. Left me to babysit.”

It’s low, cocky, rough around the edges. A drawl that rolls the words around like he’s got all the time in the world and knows you don’t.

Then he appears.

And your stomach drops.

You don’t even need him to say his name. You know. You’ve heard about him. The way Effy said it like an afterthought—Cook—equal parts fondness and warning, like a cigarette that tastes good but burns too hot. Like a name that comes with a shrug because what else can you do about a human wildfire?

He saunters into view like he owns the oxygen in the flat.

Leaning against the kitchen doorframe, barefoot and shirtless, cigarette hanging from his mouth like punctuation. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, slung just loose enough to show the cut of his hipbones, the sharp V disappearing into boxers that are rolled down slightly at the waist. A smattering of tattoos and faded scars paint his torso like stories you’ll never be told. He’s lean but strong, the kind of body that looks like it came from fights and bad decisions, not gym memberships.

You blink. Hard.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

His eyes are blue—too blue. Cold ocean in winter kind of blue. And they’re on you, shameless and steady, raking down your body like he’s scanning a barcode. His mouth pulls into a smirk, the cigarette tipping up slightly with it. Everything about him screams deliberate. Like he knew you were coming and dressed specifically to piss you off.

There’s something smug in the set of his jaw when he finally speaks again, accent thick and lazy, the grin spreading like oil on water. “Well? You movin’ in or just standin’ there like a fuckin’ statue?”

You tense, lifting your chin. “Who the hell are you?”

He exhales smoke through his nose, slow and measured, and it curls between you like fog—warm and toxic. His eyes drag over you again, slower this time, like he’s committing the view to memory. “James Cook. Flat legend. Effy’s mate. And your new worst fuckin’ nightmare, apparently.”

You hate him instantly.

There’s no hesitation. No need for second impressions.

Everything about him is a red flag with great hair. He’s the kind of hot that should come with a warning label: do not touch unless you're willing to ruin your entire life. Cocky. Chaotic. Addictive in the way black ice is—shiny, slippery, and guaranteed to break something. He’s the type girls with sense avoid, and girls without it end up crying over in club toilets at three in the morning, mascara running, heels in hand.

And judging by the look in his eyes, the lazy tilt of his head, the subtle way his gaze lingers a second too long on your mouth—he knows exactly what he is.

You yank your duffel higher and drag it down the hallway behind you, shoulder checking him on the way past, refusing to flinch when your arm brushes against his bare chest—hot, firm, smug.

“Where’s my room?”

He laughs under his breath, the sound low and amused, like you’re already his favorite game. “Top of the stairs. Small one on the left. You’re in the box.”

Of course you are.

The smallest room. The worst corner. The box.

You climb the stairs without looking back. Every creak underfoot feels like it’s groaning in protest of your decisions.

You slam the door behind you, hard, letting the echo carry down the stairwell. But not before you hear him mutter, voice cocky and too fucking pleased with himself—

“Fit when you’re angry.”

You hate him even more.

By the time you finish unpacking, the flat smells less like feet and boy and more like burnt garlic and overconfidence. It's a marginal improvement, but the stench curls under your door in thick, greasy ribbons—sharp and cloying, singed at the edges. You breathe through your mouth.

You’re starving. But not enough to willingly walk back into his orbit. Not until your stomach lets out a treacherous growl—loud, echoing, humiliating—and you curse under your breath as you grab your water bottle, which is, of course, empty.

The kitchen is smaller than it looked earlier. Maybe because Cook is in it now, and he takes up space without even trying. The ceiling feels lower. The light above flickers faintly, casting everything in a sickly yellow pallor, like you're inside a jar of old piss. There's a pile of dishes in the sink, crusted with something beige and possibly alive. A chipped ceramic bowl sits beside them on the counter, overflowing with loose change, ripped Rizlas, and someone’s expired student ID, bent in the middle like it’s been stepped on. Probably his.

Cook is at the stove, still shirtless—of course he is—stirring something that’s boiling far too aggressively in a battered old pot. The steam curls up like a distress signal, the smell thick and burnt and wrong, like someone tried to set fire to a school cafeteria.

Whatever he's making, it looks like a war crime.

The spaghetti is swollen and clumped together in starchy blobs, drowning in a red sludge that bubbles with the kind of rage that makes you concerned for the structural integrity of the pot. It might be a sauce. It might be something else entirely.

He doesn’t turn when you enter. Just calls over his shoulder, voice rough with amusement.

“Dinnertime, princess.”

You stare at his back for a moment—at the way his shoulders move when he stirs, at the line of his spine under freckled skin, at the stupid cigarette tucked behind his ear like a threat. Then you raise an eyebrow.

“You’re cooking?”

He snorts. A little too proud. “What, thought Effy hired a fuckin’ chef to cater for us all week? Nah. This is my specialty. Spag bol, à la Cook.”

He says it like it’s sexy. It’s not.

You move toward the cupboard, deliberately brushing past him as you reach for a glass—ignoring the way your arm skims his bare skin. He's warm. Radiating heat like a furnace. And he smells like sweat, old tobacco, and the sharp tang of that same cologne you’ve smelled on every boy who ever broke someone’s heart in the back of a pub. Boy, but bad. Like a cigarette lit behind a school gym. Like the scent of danger dressed up in Adidas track pants and a wicked mouth.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn't even blink. Just hums some off-key tune under his breath—something chaotic and unrecognizable—while casually dumping enough salt into the pot to kill a small animal. The spoon clatters as he lets it go, the steam hissing like it’s offended.

Then he turns, slow and cocky, leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed—like he owns the kitchen, like you’re trespassing.

“So,” he says, eyes dragging over you with lazy amusement, “where you from?”

You sip your water. Cold. Necessary.

“Not here.”

His grin spreads, slow and sharp. “No shit. You’ve got that ‘too good for this dump’ vibe. Bet your suitcase’s got color-coded knickers and alphabetized playlists.”

You narrow your eyes. “What does that even mean?”

“Means you’re high-strung. Needy. Probably allergic to fun.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Effy’s got a real type when it comes to mates, innit?”

You don’t respond. Mostly because you’re not sure if he’s insulting you or flirting. Probably both. Probably on purpose.

He turns back to the stove, plates up with all the finesse of a drunk raccoon, then slaps a bowl in front of you like he expects applause.

You stare at the congealing mess.

You poke it with your fork. It jiggles.

“I think it’s still moving,” you mutter.

Cook drops into the seat beside you, chair screeching as he shoves it back. He sits close. Too close. His knee brushes yours under the table, and he doesn’t move it. Just smirks, mouth still red from the heat of the kitchen—or from biting it too much.

“Tastes better than it looks,” he says, digging into his own bowl. “Like me.”

You give him a long, flat look. “That supposed to be charming?”

He flashes teeth. “That was charming. I’ve been told. Loads of times.”

You eat. Begrudgingly. It’s…edible. Barely. Mostly salt and regret.

Cook watches you like it’s a personal victory. He slouches deeper into his seat, sprawling like he’s built to take up space, thigh pressed against yours now, bouncing with unchecked energy. His fingers tap the table—ringed and twitchy—like he can’t sit still, like stillness is a cage.

You pretend not to notice. But you do.

You clock every twitch of his smirk. Every time his eyes linger when they shouldn’t. Every smug little inhale. Every sideways glance you weren’t supposed to see.

You finish quickly, more out of self-preservation than hunger, and rise to rinse your bowl.

You barely get to the sink before he’s there behind you.

Too close again.

Close enough that his breath brushes the back of your neck.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, voice low and close, curling just under your skin.

You stiffen.

“For what?” you ask, not turning, not trusting what might happen if you do.

“For making your first night less shit.” A beat. Then, lower—like a threat and a promise: “And for not fuckin’ you. Yet.”

You whirl around, heart lurching, pulse spiking.

“Excuse me?”

He just shrugs, grinning, backing away slowly like he’s proud of himself. His voice is cocky, lilting. “I said yet.”

You slam the kitchen door behind you hard enough to rattle the frame.

From the hallway, through the crack in the wall, you hear him call out, sing-song:

“You’re proper fun when you’re mad, y’know that?”

You clench your jaw, blood in your ears.

You’re not sure if what’s blooming in your chest is hate or heat.

But either way, it’s not going anywhere.

You make it exactly four days without physically assaulting him.

That might sound impressive, but it’s not. It’s restraint born of exhaustion and a locked jaw. And it's not for lack of opportunity. Cook seems to exist for the sole purpose of testing human limits—your limits specifically—with the finesse of a sledgehammer and the subtlety of a plague.

He’s got a gift, really. A rare talent for being absolutely unbearable in the most casual, insidious, spine-crawling ways.

Like leaving the toilet seat up and the toilet paper roll empty every single time.

Like eating your snacks and claiming he “thought they were communal.”

Like stealing your towel—your only clean towel—while you were in the shower and shouting through the door that it was “on the floor,” as if that somehow made it his.

Once, he knocked on your bedroom door at midnight just to ask if you were dead because you were “too quiet, babe, thought you might’ve offed yourself.” Then he winked. Then he walked away before you could respond. You still don’t know if you’re furious or impressed.

And then there’s the couch.

God, the couch.

Any time you’re watching a movie, any time at all—he’ll plop down beside you with a beer, a stupid grin, and that loose, sprawling posture that somehow ends with his thigh pressed against yours and his elbow right where your ribs are. He’ll make comments, ask invasive questions, and worst of all? He’ll make sex noises at any scene with even mild kissing. Doesn’t matter if it’s animated. He’ll groan theatrically, whisper "oh yeah, baby, snog that princess" until you either leave or punch him.

You’re not sure which he’s hoping for.

But the final straw?

The bathroom.

It’s been a long, disgusting day. London is sticky with mid-summer humidity, and you’re sticky with it. You can feel the grime behind your knees, the sweat clinging to your lower back. Your hair is plastered to your temples, your shirt damp at the collar and sticking in places you don’t want to think about.

There’s only one thing on your mind: a shower. A long, blistering shower that scalds you clean and maybe peels off the past four days entirely.

The moment the water heats up and steam starts to rise around your ankles, you feel it—peace.

You close your eyes.

For the first time since dragging your duffel into this hellhole, you breathe.

The tension in your shoulders unwinds by degrees. The hot spray needles across your scalp, down your neck, your spine. You soap your skin in slow, soothing circles. Let the fog climb the walls. Let yourself forget that James Fucking Cook is your flatmate. Let yourself exist.

Until—

Creeeeaak.

The door opens.

Just enough to let the cool draft of the hallway snake in through the steam, curling damp along your calves.

You freeze. One hand mid-lather, the other clutching the edge of the curtain like a shield.

Then you hear it. That voice.

Unmistakable.

Cocky. Lazy. Unbothered. Like he belongs everywhere.

“Oi.”

You snap the curtain aside just enough to glare.

Your hair drips in your eyes, and water clings to every inch of you, trailing down your sternum in rivulets, but your rage is volcanic.

“Jesus fuck, Cook—!”

He’s already at the toilet. Casual as hell. Hand on his zipper. Not even blinking.

He holds up one hand like you’re the one being unreasonable. “Relax, princess. Just need to take a piss. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

Your mouth drops open. “You couldn’t wait five minutes?!”

He shrugs one shoulder, completely unbothered, his gaze flicking lazily in your direction but never quite meeting your eyes. “Bladder doesn’t work on your schedule, babe.”

You let out a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a growl—and yank the curtain shut with more force than necessary, sending a splash of water over the edge of the tub.

You rinse in record time.

You're shaking with indignation, blood hot with fury, and okay, maybe a little bit of embarrassment. You grab your towel—a different one, a ratty spare you stashed in the cabinet after the last time—and wrap it around yourself, knotting it tight across your chest.

The steam is thick now. A fog that clings to your skin and your lungs and your fucking ego.

You fling open the curtain and step out, water still dripping down your thighs, your calves, trailing across the tile in slick prints. The room is humid, suffocating. Your skin glows with heat. And Cook—

Cook is right there.

His eyes land on you and drop. Instantly. Traitorously.

You watch the flicker in his expression—something lazy, something dark—and it flashes through his eyes like a pulled trigger.

You don’t miss it.

Neither does he.

His jaw ticks. His lips part, just barely.

You growl. “I swear to God—”

He lifts both hands like he’s being arrested, palms out, still grinning. His eyes stay on your towel, then drift upward—slowly, like he’s enjoying the climb.

“What?” he says, voice dipping low and casual. “Not my fault I’ve got eyes and you’ve got zero shame flauntin’ your body.”

“You walked in on me,” you snap. “This is your fault.”

He leans back against the wall, tilting his head like he’s amused, like you’re some little show he gets to enjoy between beers. “And yet,” he murmurs, mouth twitching, “you’re still standin’ there.”

That’s when you feel it.

How close you are.

How the towel’s starting to slip just slightly at the edge, the knot loosening with every breath you take. How the air between your bodies is sticky and hot and thick, like it could be sliced open with a knife. How his bare chest is catching the light of the mirror lamp, damp from the heat, shadows highlighting the sharp lines of his collarbone and ribs.

You should move.

You don’t.

Because your legs aren’t listening. Because your brain is screaming and your body is something else.

And his eyes—

His eyes are dragging across your skin like they’ve been starved.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The tension in the bathroom has thickened, almost syrupy now—heavy enough to drag at your breath. The overhead light flickers once, throwing a pulse of shadow down the slope of his cheekbone. Water still drips from your hair and hits the tile in slow, rhythmic drops, but you barely hear it over the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

Your towel slips a fraction lower.

Cook’s eyes follow it.

And for a second—just one taut, electric second—you can feel the gravity shift between you. Like the floor could drop. Like something could happen. Like it wants to.

His mouth opens just slightly, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like his body moved before his brain did.

And then—

“Cook?”

Effy’s voice, muffled but unmistakable, floats in from the living room.

“You in there?”

You both jolt like guilty kids caught smoking behind the school. The spell—if that’s what it was—snaps in half like dry twine.

You shove past him so fast your shoulder knocks against his chest. He doesn’t try to stop you. Doesn’t say a word.

Because maybe he’s smart enough to know that if he does, you’ll slap him.

Or kiss him.

You’re not entirely sure which one would be worse.

The hallway feels colder than before. You dart into your room, slam the door shut behind you, and drop your towel with shaking hands. Your skin still burns, and not just from the heat of the shower.

What the fuck was that?

You yank on the first clothes you find—sweats, a tee, hoodie—and scrub your towel through your hair hard enough to hurt. Your face is flushed. Your neck is still damp. Your body feels like it’s buzzing under your skin.

You sit on the edge of your bed and press your palms to your thighs to ground yourself.

But the memory is still there.

His eyes.

The way his voice dropped.

The way you didn’t move.

You eventually reemerge—because you refuse to hide in your room like a coward—and find Effy sprawled on the couch like she owns the place. Which, in fairness, she kind of does.

She’s got her long legs crossed, cigarette perched between two fingers, half-lidded gaze scanning the muted TV. She looks like she hasn’t moved in ten minutes. Her nails are painted black and chipped at the tips. There’s a takeaway bag beside her and a lighter balanced on the edge of the coffee table.

She glances up when you walk in, expression unreadable.

Then she sees your face.

Then she sees his.

And then—the smirk.

“You two been bonding?” she asks, voice smooth, smoke curling around the question like a ribbon.

You shoot a glare at him, throat tight.

“He walked in on me in the shower.”

Effy exhales and flicks her ash into a chipped mug. Shrugs. “Yeah. He does that.”

You blink. “Unbelievable.”

You flop into the armchair across from them, arms crossed, legs pulled up, trying to fold into yourself without making it obvious. Your skin still feels too hot. Your hair’s still wet. You want to disappear into the upholstery.

“You didn’t warn me he was such a perv.”

Effy’s voice is bone-dry. “I thought it was obvious.”

Cook, naturally, flops onto the couch beside her without a care in the world. He kicks his feet up on the coffee table, crossing one ankle over the other, knee jostling yours ever so slightly when he does it. He looks completely unbothered. Smug, even.

“I thought it was a good start,” he says, glancing at you from under his lashes. “Boundaries are for boring people.”

You don’t respond. You don’t trust yourself to. Every nerve ending feels flayed. Every breath he takes is in your direction somehow.

Effy looks between the two of you again—at your hunched shoulders, at the way Cook’s watching you sideways like he knows exactly what he almost got away with.

There’s something wicked flickering behind her eyes.

“Well,” she says slowly, dragging her cigarette to her lips and exhaling a stream of smoke toward the ceiling, “at least you’re not bored.”

You say nothing.

You just sit there, heart still racing, and wonder what it means that you didn’t immediately want to kill him for what happened in that bathroom.

You should be mad.

You are mad.

But it’s the wrong kind of mad.

And it’s not going away.

Case in point—today was supposed to be normal. Uneventful.

Well, as normal as anything can be in a flat where your room smells like paint thinner and regret, and your flatmate lives like he’s allergic to silence and clothes.

Effy’s back for once. There’s sunlight bleeding in through the thin curtains, casting soft gold across the kitchen counters and turning the dust in the air into glitter. She’s frying something vaguely edible while chain-smoking and humming along to whatever song’s playing on her tinny phone speaker. The scent of burnt eggs and hash browns mixes with old smoke and cheap incense from her room.

You’re seated at the far end of the kitchen table, cradling a chipped mug of tea like it’s a shield. Your legs are curled beneath you, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. You’re pretending to read something on your phone. Really, you’re just not looking at Cook.

Who’s across from you. Shirtless. Again. Of course.

He’s eating cereal directly from the box, milk dribbling slightly down his thumb, like a toddler raised by wolves. He looks at ease, slouched back in the chair like he could fall asleep in it. His hair’s a mess of finger-combed curls, his eyes a little bloodshot. He probably hasn’t been to bed yet.

He looks at you. A lot.

Not in any obvious way. Not with a smirk or a wink.

Just glances. Quick. Calculated. Like he’s testing something. Like he’s waiting to see if you’ll catch him.

You don’t give him the satisfaction.

But you feel it. Every time.

The hair at the back of your neck prickles when he does it. You know the difference between being looked at and being seen, and whatever Cook’s doing feels closer to being studied. Undressed. Dismantled.

Effy finally speaks, breaking the spell.

“You two gonna keep playing eye-fuck chicken, or should I leave the room?”

You nearly choke on your tea. “What—?”

Cook doesn’t blink. “We’re just making memories, babe.”

You shoot him a death glare. He raises his eyebrows, mouth twitching. A smirk threatens, but he tames it. Barely.

Effy rolls her eyes. “Whatever this is,” she says, waving her fork between the two of you, “just don’t do it near my laundry.”

You grit your teeth and stand, dumping your tea into the sink even though it’s still half-full. Anything to move. To breathe.

You retreat to the living room, drop onto the couch, and pretend you’re deeply invested in whatever’s on the TV. You don’t even register what show it is. All you know is that it’s background noise to your spiraling.

And then—

Cook saunters in.

No shirt. Just the loose, low-slung joggers, the waistband of his boxers peeking above the elastic. A cigarette tucked behind one ear, a half-eaten piece of toast in his hand.

He drops down on the opposite end of the couch like it’s choreographed, like he was waiting for you to get there first.

You don’t look at him.

You don’t.

Until he shifts—just a little. One leg stretching out, his foot nudging yours under the blanket you’ve half-draped over your lap.

You flinch like you’ve been shocked.

He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps chewing.

The room feels too quiet. Too hot. Like all the air’s collecting in your lungs but refusing to leave.

He finally speaks.

“You’ve got a tell, you know.”

Your eyes snap to him. “What?”

Cook smirks, slow and lethal. “Your mouth. You do this thing. When you’re trying not to lose it.”

You blink. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he interrupts, tapping a finger to his own lips. “Right corner. Twitches when you’re pissed. Or turned on. Can’t tell which yet.”

You say nothing. You can’t. Your brain’s short-circuiting and your body is full of static.

He leans forward suddenly, elbows on his knees, his eyes on yours, and does not look away.

The smirk’s gone now. What replaces it is quieter. Darker.

“Am I under your skin yet?” he asks softly.

Your throat closes around the answer.

Because the truth is: yes.

He’s everywhere. Under your skin. Behind your eyes. Stuck in your lungs.

You open your mouth to tell him off. To say something sharp and cutting and final.

But then Effy reappears in the doorway with a bowl of food and zero shame.

“What are we watching?” she asks, flopping between you with a puff of her incense-perfumed cardigan.

You snap your gaze back to the screen.

Cook leans back, stretching his arms behind his head.

But you feel him grinning.

And you hate that your pulse is still pounding.

The night begins the way all disasters do—too loud, too hot, and already spinning off the rails.

Effy’s throwing some sort of party. For what, you’re not sure. Someone got a job. Someone dumped a boyfriend. Someone found a vintage leather jacket in a bin and took it as a sign from the universe. Either way, by 10:37 p.m., your tiny flat is packed wall to wall with smoke, noise, and bodies you don’t recognize.

The air is thick with sweat and perfume and cigarette haze, the kind of haze that clings to your hair and buries itself in your clothes. Every time someone opens a window, someone else slams it shut. There’s no breeze. Only basslines. The music pulses through the floorboards, through the walls, through your chest like a second heartbeat.

Glitter sticks to every surface. There’s a pair of knickers in the hallway no one will admit to. Someone’s already passed out in the bathtub. Someone else is doing a line off the kitchen counter and laughing like it’s a punchline. The flat smells like spilled rum, cheap deodorant, and every mistake anyone’s ever made at 2 a.m.

You're tipsy—comfortably so. Warm in your fingertips and heavy-limbed in the way that makes everything feel slow and dreamlike. Just buzzed enough to ignore how much you hate crowds. Just enough to let your guard slip.

Your lip gloss is sticky. Your top rides a little too high on your waist. Your jeans hug your hips too tight but in a way that makes you feel good—sharpened, a little dangerous.

And when you saw Cook in the kitchen, leaning too close to some blonde in a backless halter—his hand on her waist, his lips brushing her ear, her laugh too loud and too eager—something in your chest coiled up tight.

So yeah.

Now you look good.

And you know it.

You didn’t dress up for him. You didn’t.

But now you’re wearing it like a weapon. And the moment your eyes locked across the room for half a second—just half a second—you knew he noticed.

He didn’t stop touching her.

But he stopped smiling.

You don’t see him again until later. After midnight. After your third red cup of something warm and spiked and impossible to name. After Effy spun you through the living room with both hands in yours, mascara smudged and mouth stretched in a rare, genuine laugh. Your feet ached from dancing. Your skin buzzed with heat.

You left the chaos for a breather, navigating bodies and stray limbs to reach the hallway. You didn’t expect it to be quiet.

The music is muffled now, like it’s behind glass. The lights are dim—one blown completely, the other flickering like it’s ready to give up. Shadows stretch long along the walls, warped and soft at the edges.

You’re heading to your room. You don’t hear him approach.

You feel him.

His hand closes around your wrist—warm, rough, callused—and it stops you mid-step.

Your breath catches.

You spin.

Cook’s there, standing half-shadowed, the hoodie zipped halfway over his bare chest, his curls a mess, damp at the temples. There’s a smear of something dark red on his jaw—lipstick, probably—and his pupils are blown wide.

His grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go.

“What,” you snap, already defensive, “lost your little blonde?”

His expression doesn’t shift. Not even a flinch. But his jaw tightens.

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. Long. Flat. Hard.

Then—

“What the fuck’s your problem tonight?”

You blink. “My problem?”

He steps closer. “Yeah. You’re actin’ like someone pissed in your drink.”

“Maybe someone did,” you shoot back. “This place is full of rats.”

Cook tilts his head to the side, slow and mocking, that familiar smirk crawling onto his face like it knows you hate it. “Funny, comin’ from you.”

The hallway feels narrower now. Like it’s pulling inward. Like there’s not enough space for both of you here. The air smells like sweat and smoke and adrenaline. Your heartbeat’s in your ears.

“You’re jealous,” he says, voice low and sharp like he’s testing it out.

You laugh, bitter and biting. “Of what? The girl with the IQ of a teaspoon and no idea how to say no?”

He grins, teeth flashing, but there’s something dangerous behind it now. Something darker.

“She was sweet. Not like you.”

You scoff. “Sweet gets boring.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t touch him. “So does bitchy.”

“Then stop looking at me like you want me.”

That hits.

He goes still. His face shutters for half a second—like you sucker-punched him. Then his mouth twists.

“I don’t,” he says, but his voice is wrecked. Too low. Too fast.

And he doesn’t move.

You step forward, shoulders squared like you’re marching into a fight. “Then move.”

He doesn’t.

He just stares at you, breathing harder now. You can see the muscle twitch in his jaw. His fingers flex and release at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“You think you’re so fuckin’ above it,” he mutters. “Like you haven’t been starin’ at me for days.”

“You wish I was staring.”

“I know you are.”

You’re chest-to-chest now. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off him in waves. His eyes drop to your mouth and flick back up, sharp and deliberate. Your pulse throbs in your throat.

“Say it,” he breathes.

You swallow. “Say what?”

“That you want me.”

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather die.”

He steps forward again. And this time, your back hits the wall.

The impact is soft but final. The hallway spins a little. He’s so close now you can smell the bitter beer on his breath, the sweat on his skin, the faint trace of cologne and smoke that always seems embedded in his clothes.

“You’re fuckin’ lying,” he says.

And then he kisses you.

No warning. No hesitation. Just heat.

It’s a crash.

It’s teeth and tongue and desperation. His hands find your waist—tight, possessive, like he’s anchoring himself to you—and your fingers tangle in the fabric of his hoodie before you even realize they’ve moved.

You kiss him back like you’re trying to burn the anger out of your system. Like you’re trying to win. Like you’re trying to hurt him.

His mouth is hot and messy, his lips chapped, and he tastes like cheap cider and sweat and something familiar. His tongue slips against yours and your knees buckle slightly, your thigh brushing his hipbone as your body arches forward. His hands slide under your shirt—fingertips grazing bare skin, hot and rough and hungry.

He groans into your mouth, low and filthy, and you feel it in every nerve ending.

He presses you harder into the wall. One leg slips between yours, his thigh bracketed against your hips, and you grind without meaning to. He shudders.

When he pulls back, you’re both gasping for breath.

His voice is ragged. “Told you.”

You slap him.

Hard enough to turn his face. Not hard enough to hurt. But enough to leave a mark.

He licks the blood from his split lip and turns back to face you, grinning.

“You’re even hotter when you’re mean,” he says.

And that’s when you run.

You shove him off, heart hammering, legs shaking, every inch of your body on fire, and you run.

You run like your life depends on it.

You slam your bedroom door and lean against it like it might hold him out—or worse, hold the memory in.

You’re shaking.

You’re sweating.

You’re still wet from his mouth.

And the worst part?

You want it to happen again.

[visceradiva]

the people demand more sub könig (please diva)

ok wait storytime i'm talking to this guyyy and he's like. a total gymrat but also a huge nerd. like he keeps explaining the dune books to me and i'm squeezing his biceps 🤤... and i've been reading sooo much @konigsblog sooo pls enjoy ❤️

nerdy!könig who loses control & mean girlfriend

you perch on his gaming chair, painting your nails at his desk. you moved his keyboard and various little trinkets haphazardly, which he allowed because you batted your eyelashes and touched his abs. 

“i just wanna paint my nails,” you pout. “you love when my nails are painted.”

“i do! i do, hasi, but p-please be gentle with my things-”

“i’m always gentle. you’re the rough one, you always bruise me,” you spin it around on him. 

“i-i am not rough-”

you flip up your skirt and show him the bruises on your thighs from the last time you came over, and he had practically superglued his mouth to your pussy.

“ich liebe diese muschi,” he moaned against you, his whole mouth shining. 

he ate your poor kitty until you had to literally beat him away. 

he rubs his forehead, savoring the bruise you left when you whacked him in the face and threatened to do it again. 

“i do not mean to be so rough… you just taste very good, häschen…” 

könig stands next to you, explaining the lore and strategy of his favorite video game while you blow on your nails, helping them dry. 

“and then once you have leveled up- schatzi,” he pouts. 

“what?” you ask, not looking away from your nails.

“you are not looking.”

“i can’t paint and look at you at the same time.”

“but you said i could tell you about my game,” he mumbles, looking at your legs. 

“you are.”

“but you are not paying attention,” he whines.

you look up and narrow your eyes, making him shrink like a turtle. you laugh at him, reaching out to squeeze his thigh. 

“you’re such a dork,” you tease him.

you turn back to your nails and roll your eyes.

“well? stop staring at my legs and keep going. pervert.” 

his dick strains against his boxers when you call him that. 

later, you straddle his lap in that gaming chair, his dick buried inside of you and his hands behind his back, gripping the chair so hard you’re worried he’ll break it.

you snap a picture of your freshly done nails against his bare chest.

“i-i don’t like when you are taking pictures, liebling-”

“did i ask?”

he whimpers when you lift yourself up by pushing on his buff shoulders. 

“oh, schatzi… deine muschi ist so eng…”

you grab his face and angle it down to meet yours, smirking at him.

“aw… you’re all pussydumb, big guy?”

he nods, panting.

“it is s-so wet…” 

you’re bouncing on it now, the dirty sound of your ass slapping against his thighs and the way your pussy is soaking his cock.

“one hand,” you say, and he quickly releases one side of the gaming chair, offering his hand. you push it between your legs and whistle at him.

“hey. gentle.”

“ja. ja, very gentle.”

his big fingers rub your clit, making your back arch in his lap.

“fuck, könig,” you purr, your lip-glossed lips in an open pout.

he can hardly hold it together, and decides to press his luck, his other hand sneaking around to hold you up by the waist. you’re too filled up to notice.

“y-you are so full of me, häschen,” he tries to tease you. 

he grabs your hips with both of his meaty hands and lifts you off of his cock.

“könig, put me down!”

you land a slap on his cheek before he turns you around and slips his cock back inside of you, moaning as he rests his face against your shoulder.

with this angle of control he can fuck up into you and bully your clit at the same time.

you gasp and try to elbow him from behind. 

“könig!” 

“y-you are so mean to me, häschen, but i love you so much…”

you hit him in the sternum and you would have knocked the wind out of him if he hadn’t slipped his arms under yours, locking you in a nelson. 

“i-i love it when you hit me and call me names-”

“you’re such a fucking freak, könig!” 

he sighs like you complimented him, kissing the nape of your neck. you hear a familiar wince from him and try to turn your head back.  

he pins your arms behind your back, holding them with one hand as his other returns to your clit. 

“so pretty… please cum for me… please?”

“let go of me,” you growl, thrashing as much as you can. you tense up around him and his breath shakes.

“loser! you can’t even handle pussy, you’re too used to fucking your own hand,” you snarl back at him. 

he circles your clit, pressing in and groaning as your walls tighten around him. 

“cum around me, hasi, please… please, please-”

he covers your mouth before you can scream, and presses kisses to your back and shoulders. he shudders at the feeling of your pussy gripping him that tight and quickly pulls out. he starts to stroke himself to get off. you sit on his thigh, rocking through your orgasm and turn around, fire in your eyes.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

you slap his hand away from his cock and he whimpers when you stand up. he’s so fucking big you can’t believe it, but he trembles like a mouse.

“you think you can pull that stunt and i’ll just… what? pretend it didn’t happen?”

“i-i’m sorry, häschen-”

you huff and roll your eyes.

“just get on the bed so i can sit on your face, weirdo.” 

“ja, schatz,” he sighs dreamily. 

[thesuperskibidi6969]

Fuck, this is so good!!! brb, I’m putting this in my manifestation board.

[visceradiva]

like. the boy in question. manifesting this for you babygirl

[konigsblog]

Dad’s best friend, König, who visits your parent’s house almost every week to see you, sneaking into your bedroom to huff at your panties; worn, cotton, the scent of your dripping cunt still lingering on the wet cloth.

Dad’s best friend, König, who visits your house even when your father isn’t home, preying on your sleeping and unconscious body, your chest rising and falling, stiff nipples poking through the thin material of your lace trimmed tank top.

One large hand caresses your chest gently before sliding underneath your top, the other palming his aching bulge. He releases himself from the uncomfortable sensation of his tight boxers, his fingers now stroking his size slowly while his hand trails down your sleeping body, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties and rubbing at your needy clit slowly, watching your face contort into expressions of pleasure at the sensual and intimate touch.

[iamasaddie-deactivated20251105]

James Dean fucking who?

[visceradiva]

the people demand more sub könig (please diva)

ok wait storytime i'm talking to this guyyy and he's like. a total gymrat but also a huge nerd. like he keeps explaining the dune books to me and i'm squeezing his biceps 🤤... and i've been reading sooo much @konigsblog sooo pls enjoy ❤️

nerdy!könig who loses control & mean girlfriend

you perch on his gaming chair, painting your nails at his desk. you moved his keyboard and various little trinkets haphazardly, which he allowed because you batted your eyelashes and touched his abs. 

“i just wanna paint my nails,” you pout. “you love when my nails are painted.”

“i do! i do, hasi, but p-please be gentle with my things-”

“i’m always gentle. you’re the rough one, you always bruise me,” you spin it around on him. 

“i-i am not rough-”

you flip up your skirt and show him the bruises on your thighs from the last time you came over, and he had practically superglued his mouth to your pussy.

“ich liebe diese muschi,” he moaned against you, his whole mouth shining. 

he ate your poor kitty until you had to literally beat him away. 

he rubs his forehead, savoring the bruise you left when you whacked him in the face and threatened to do it again. 

“i do not mean to be so rough… you just taste very good, häschen…” 

könig stands next to you, explaining the lore and strategy of his favorite video game while you blow on your nails, helping them dry. 

“and then once you have leveled up- schatzi,” he pouts. 

“what?” you ask, not looking away from your nails.

“you are not looking.”

“i can’t paint and look at you at the same time.”

“but you said i could tell you about my game,” he mumbles, looking at your legs. 

“you are.”

“but you are not paying attention,” he whines.

you look up and narrow your eyes, making him shrink like a turtle. you laugh at him, reaching out to squeeze his thigh. 

“you’re such a dork,” you tease him.

you turn back to your nails and roll your eyes.

“well? stop staring at my legs and keep going. pervert.” 

his dick strains against his boxers when you call him that. 

later, you straddle his lap in that gaming chair, his dick buried inside of you and his hands behind his back, gripping the chair so hard you’re worried he’ll break it.

you snap a picture of your freshly done nails against his bare chest.

“i-i don’t like when you are taking pictures, liebling-”

“did i ask?”

he whimpers when you lift yourself up by pushing on his buff shoulders. 

“oh, schatzi… deine muschi ist so eng…”

you grab his face and angle it down to meet yours, smirking at him.

“aw… you’re all pussydumb, big guy?”

he nods, panting.

“it is s-so wet…” 

you’re bouncing on it now, the dirty sound of your ass slapping against his thighs and the way your pussy is soaking his cock.

“one hand,” you say, and he quickly releases one side of the gaming chair, offering his hand. you push it between your legs and whistle at him.

“hey. gentle.”

“ja. ja, very gentle.”

his big fingers rub your clit, making your back arch in his lap.

“fuck, könig,” you purr, your lip-glossed lips in an open pout.

he can hardly hold it together, and decides to press his luck, his other hand sneaking around to hold you up by the waist. you’re too filled up to notice.

“y-you are so full of me, häschen,” he tries to tease you. 

he grabs your hips with both of his meaty hands and lifts you off of his cock.

“könig, put me down!”

you land a slap on his cheek before he turns you around and slips his cock back inside of you, moaning as he rests his face against your shoulder.

with this angle of control he can fuck up into you and bully your clit at the same time.

you gasp and try to elbow him from behind. 

“könig!” 

“y-you are so mean to me, häschen, but i love you so much…”

you hit him in the sternum and you would have knocked the wind out of him if he hadn’t slipped his arms under yours, locking you in a nelson. 

“i-i love it when you hit me and call me names-”

“you’re such a fucking freak, könig!” 

he sighs like you complimented him, kissing the nape of your neck. you hear a familiar wince from him and try to turn your head back.  

he pins your arms behind your back, holding them with one hand as his other returns to your clit. 

“so pretty… please cum for me… please?”

“let go of me,” you growl, thrashing as much as you can. you tense up around him and his breath shakes.

“loser! you can’t even handle pussy, you’re too used to fucking your own hand,” you snarl back at him. 

he circles your clit, pressing in and groaning as your walls tighten around him. 

“cum around me, hasi, please… please, please-”

he covers your mouth before you can scream, and presses kisses to your back and shoulders. he shudders at the feeling of your pussy gripping him that tight and quickly pulls out. he starts to stroke himself to get off. you sit on his thigh, rocking through your orgasm and turn around, fire in your eyes.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” 

you slap his hand away from his cock and he whimpers when you stand up. he’s so fucking big you can’t believe it, but he trembles like a mouse.

“you think you can pull that stunt and i’ll just… what? pretend it didn’t happen?”

“i-i’m sorry, häschen-”

you huff and roll your eyes.

“just get on the bed so i can sit on your face, weirdo.” 

“ja, schatz,” he sighs dreamily. 

[scannainscanrula]

put the daylight in your eyes (i)

roy goode x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a young mother of two in New Mexico, left alone as your brother-in-law hunts for the outlaw gang that left you a widow and left him brotherless. Four men on horseback ride up in the night asking for a place to stay for the evening, and you don't feel like they'll take "no" for an answer.

author's note: well haigh there. or should i say howdy. if this has any similarities to my western remmick that is because. i wrote this first and bastardized it for that fic lol. now for this fic i ask you to go with a lot. reader has two kids. was married previously. surname is redd. this is also just a lot of buildup. we are slow burning lads.

warnings: vague allusions to period-typical violence and misogyny, oral sex (fem receiving), f/m sex

The four men look out at the ridge to see a mid-sized ranch that seems fairly empty. A small herd of cattle graze on a patch of brownish grass. Two riders on horseback corral the animals with the help of a dog. Looking longer, Roy realises one is a horse and the other is a pony, and both riders are young boys. Neither one can be any older than twelve, and the one on the pony is especially little.

“If it’s just them herdin’, prob’ly they’re the only men down there” he says out loud. 

“Might be,” Frank agrees. “You think their mama’d be kind enough to give us some shelter for the night? Maybe patch you up?”

“I’m fine.” 

“I think let’s find out,” Gatz grunts.

Your youngest son Wendell sits at the table, exhausted.

“That’s good work you done out there, boys,” you say. 

You wipe Dell’s face with a wet towel, kissing him on the head.

“Thank you, Mama,” he chirps, panting. 

“Of course, baby.” 

Your older boy Thomas cleans off his own face, and you put a cup of water in front of him. Tommy drinks it down, wiping off his mouth.

“When’s Uncle Joe comin’ back?” Dell asks, his voice dry from the dust. 

“I don’t know, sweetheart,” you tell him softly. “But if we really need him, we can send a telegram to Corpus Christi.”

“Okay.”

“Now, who’s gonna say grace?”

“Oh, me, me!” Dell volunteers.

You all grasp hands and hear the sound of hooves beating on the ground. 

“You think that’s him?”

“Prob’ly just people goin’ West. Go on, baby.”

“Thanks for all the food and watch over all the horses and the chickens and Mama and Uncle Joe and Tommy and Daddy in heaven-”

Tommy clears his throat and nods to the dog by the window.

“And Dusty. Amen.” 

The sound of horses gets closer, and you can feel the earth moving. Tommy jumps up to peek out the window.

“It’s four men comin’ this way,” he relays grimly.

“You think they’re Texas Rangers? Maybe they know Uncle Joe!” 

Two of the men dismount and walk up to the door. An older man and a younger one. Your heart pounds.

“You two sit now. I’ll go talk to ‘em.”

“I’m the man of the house,” Tommy insists.

“I said sit.”

You open and close the front door, looking out.

Roy thinks you look like a scared lizard, your eyes wide and blinking. Like you might dart off if they take another step forward. He expected to see a rugged Western wife, but you’re lovely. Your hair frames your sweet face, and your eyes are lit by the golden warmth of the setting sun. You’re young for a mother of two, but he won’t ask.

“Evenin’, ma’am.” 

“Evenin’. How can I help you gentlemen?”

The older man smiles at you. He’s got a short gray beard and wears a Stetson. The younger man has a wide brimmed one with a tie hanging loose under his chin. Stormy eyes look at you from under that brim, and scruffy bronze facial hair adorns his lip and chin. 

“Ma’am, I’m Frank Griffin, this here’s my son Roy. That’s Gatz, and that’s Floyd.”

Roy manages to hide his surprise at Frank using their real names. Your face didn’t change when he said it, though. Either you know already and you’re smart enough not to react, or you don’t know at all. He can see you’re frightened. You’d have to be crazy not to be. 

You squeak out your name, giving the last name your late husband gave you, Redd. 

“Your husband here, ma’am?” Frank asks. 

Your eyes flick away.

“I… I’m a widow, sir.”

“Very sorry to hear that.”

“This’s my brother-in-law’s ranch.” call me a phoenician the way im gettin phonetic up in this bitch

“He here?”

“Not presently, sir. He’s on business,” you lie. 

“Those two we seen herdin’ cattle, they yours?”

“Yes, they’re my boys,” you confirm. 

“You ‘n them ‘lil boys runnin’ this whole place alone?” 

“We manage, sir,” you say. 

You try to present an air of comfort. As though you are not terrified and your heart is not pounding at four strange men in the dark of night searching for shelter. As though you are not one lone woman with two little boys alone on a cattle ranch one hour from any other people. 

“Are you Texas Rangers?” the smaller boy shouts from the window. 

“Dell, I told you sit,” you scold them softly.

“C’mon out here, son.” 

You don’t like these men addressing your boys, but Dell scurries out to your side, his brother on the other side.

“This is Wendell and Thomas,” you introduce them, a hand on Dell’s head and Tommy’ shoulder. “Boys, this is Mr. Griffin.” 

Roy can tell you’re gripping them tight, like any one of their gang might lunge forward and snatch them up from your arms. Dell hugs your leg and stares with wide eyes, but he doesn’t look scared. Tommy scowls at them. 

“Whew. You two are some strong young men.” 

“I ain’t a man, I’m only six,” Dell says. 

“Taller ‘n I was that age,” Roy jokes.

He sees the boy grin at that, and that he’s missing a tooth on the top and bottom. 

Tommy glares at them. A dog growls from inside.

“You tell that dog to stop it now,” you chide.

Tommy whistles and the dog whimpers, then quiets. 

“How old’re you, boy?” Frank asks, an odd grin on his face.

Tommy crosses his arms.

“Nine, and I’ll be ten in April,” he answers, puffing his chest. 

“Man of the house, ain’t you?” Frank says, which makes the boy hide a grin. 

“You fellas lookin’ for some place to stay?”

Frank nods.

“That we are, Mrs. Redd. Reckon it’ll storm tonight.” 

“I got no food to spare.”

“No need,” Gatz starts.

“We got our own,” Floyd finishes.

“But I got some room in the barn- oh, Lord, are you bleedin’?”

You point to Roy’s side. You can see he’s soaked through his shirt, and the bulge of bandages wrapped beneath.

“Ain’t nothin’-”

“No, please, come in. Y’all can tie up your horses and settle up in that barn,” you tell the two other men.

“That’s very kind, ma’am, thank you,” Frank says.

Your boys sit and eat their supper as you carefully clean Roy’s bloody wound. You know this is what a fresh graze from a bullet looks like, you saw enough on your husband and his brother. 

Roy can tell you’ve dealt with an injury like this.

“Are you Rangers?” Dell asks again, a splotch of soup by his mouth.

“Eat your supper, baby. Don’t bother them.”

You look up and meet eyes with Tommy.

“Would you clean his face?” 

Tommy takes a cloth and wipes the food off of his brother’s face. 

“You pretty good on that pony, for a boy your age,” Roy tells the younger boy.

“His name is Samson, cause Uncle Joe used to have a doggy called Delilah too.”

“Young man knows his Bible.”

“Mhm! Uncle Joe taught me.”

Roy hisses when the wet cloth touches his wound.

“I’m sorry. I-I’ll try to be gentle,” you comfort him softly. 

“Nothin’ I can’t handle, ma’am.” 

“Is it really just you three out here all alone?” Frank asks her.

Tommy stares at the two men. 

“Well, my brother-in-law is here, usually.”

You glance at Frank. You can tell these men are no good. Wicked men always have a silver tongue and a kind smile. But your little boys are so tired. You can’t spend another morning coaxing them out of bed and drying tears. 

“If y’all could help any with the land, I’d be inclined to let y’all stay longer.”

Your voice drops.

“Them two can’t do all this alone. And you fellas seem strong-”

“We’ll help,” Roy speaks before Frank can, gazing at you. 

Frank side-eyes him, and smiles at you. He knows Roy has a soft spot for pretty women who need help, and it’s gotten them in trouble more times than he’d like.

“Why of course, ma’am.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You tie a bandage over Roy’s cut and stand.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Wendell holds out his bowl.

“All done!”

“You ate it all? You were really hungry, huh?”

“Mhm.”

You take his bowl and kiss him on the head, wiping his mouth with your apron. 

“I’m tired, Mama,” Dell whines.

“Let’s wash up and we’ll get you and Tommy in bed.”

“I ain’t tired,” Tommy grumbles. 

“Well, wash up anyway and you can read for a little while, alright?”

“Do we hafta?” 

“Yes, we do.”

“That’s a smart lady, your mama. Hygiene is important, son,” Frank urges.

“That’s right.”

Dell reaches up and you sigh.

“You too big, sugar,” you tell him softly. You pick him up anyway, you can never say no to your sweet boy. He rests his head on your shoulder. “Say goodnight now, boys.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Griffin.”

Tommy stares at them.

“Night.”

“G’night,” Frank and Roy mumble.

“I’ll get them settled and bring you some blankets. I only have a few.”

“We’ll be appreciative of anythin’ you can spare, ma’am.”

They smoke together outside of the barn as they watch the shape of you move in the window. You tuck Dell in and kiss his head, then put out the lamp by his bed. 

“You like that filly,” Frank tells Roy.

“Maybe.”

“She’s the kind you like,” Gatz teases.

“What’s that mean?”

“You like them scared ones. The ones who need a hero.”

“I ain’t no hero.”

“We know you ain’t,” Floyd grumbles.

“I like how she is with them boys. Real gentle.”

Gatz scoffs.

“What?”

“Goode wants a mama,” he jokes to Floyd.

“Real sweet, Roy.”

“Mr. Griffin,” you call.

“Mrs. Redd.”

You walk over to them carrying a basket and a lantern.

“Some blankets for you. Some uh, extra socks too.”

“Socks?”

“Ridin’ men always need socks,” you say knowingly. 

You aren’t wrong. Roy can feel his toes touching the inside of his boots.

“Mighty thoughtful, ma’am,” Frank tells her.

“I put an extra bandage in there for you,” you say to Roy.

He feels strange under your gaze. You look at him like a wounded animal, or a spooked stallion ready to kick. 

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be up at dawn for the chickens. Boys need help with the cattle the most. The horses-”

“Our boy Roy is mighty fine with horses,” Gatz adds.

“I’ll take any help I can get,” you sigh in full honesty. “Well, goodnight. Please um… let me know tomorrow if you need anything else.”

“Night, ma’am.”

“Goodnight.”

You turn back and head to the house. They watch the light go out. Gatz and Floyd turn in, leaving Frank alone with Roy. He sighs, shaking his head.

“I think she’s hidin’ somethin’.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“She wouldn’t look you in the eye.”

“Suppose she was just scared?”

He shakes his head.

“No, this was different.”

“Hm.”

“I don’t want them botherin’ her,” Roy grits, jerks his thumb back to the barn where Gatz and Floyd sleep, “or them ‘lil boys.” 

“I’ll see to it. We best get to bed if we’re playin’ ranch hands tomorrow.”

“G’night, Frank.”

“Goodnight, son.”

The next morning the men rise with the rooster and the roadrunners. The four men make their way over to the house, dressed and ready. Frank opens the door and they see the two boys eating breakfast, bed-headed and droopy-eyed.

“I wanna go back to sleep, Mama,” Dell complains softly. 

“You don’t hafta work so hard today, baby. We got a lotta help.”

“Sirs,” Tommy greets them.

You turn around, surprised.

“I’m sorry, I would have fixed somethin’ for you, but we-”

“No need, ma’am, we had some jerky.”

“I did brew some coffee, if you’d like that.”

“That’d be very nice,” Gatz says.

Roy feels uneasy watching Gatz and Floyd play at being gentlemen. 

You pour the men coffee as they crowd around your table, only Frank sits in one of the two empty chairs.

You hand Tommy his hat and kneel to help Dell pull on his suspenders as he sniffles and rubs at his eyes.

“Oh, my big brave boy,” you coo quietly. 

You brush the hair from his face and put his hat on. You pretend to gasp, putting both hands over your heart in mock fear. 

“Why, it’s that wicked outlaw, Texas Redd!”

He cracks a smile at the game and points a finger at you, pretending it’s a gun. 

“We’re gonna get all your cows!”

“Don’t rustle up all my cattle, outlaw, I beg you,” you continue.

“Only if you make us cornbread,” his brother adds to the game, pointing his finger and thumb just the same.

“Oh, whatever will I do?” you glance at Roy with a cheeky smile.

“Cowboys cain’t help you now, lady,” Tommy says in a thicker twang. 

Dell breaks his scowl and giggles, hugging you. Roy can’t help but grin at how sweet it all is, how he longed for love like that when he was a kid.

“It’s just me and Tommy, Mama,” Dell tells you, taking off his hat. 

“Oh, I was so frightened,” you play along even more. 

You kiss his cheek and lightly push him to the door.

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, Mama!” 

Tommy turns and you look at him expectantly. He bristles and kisses your cheek.

“I love you, Tommy.” 

“I love you, Mama,” he mumbles, hiding under the brim of his hat, embarrassed. 

“C’mon,” he grumbles to his brother, and whistles to the dog, “let’s go, Dusty.”

The boys walk out and you watch Tommy help Dell saddle on the pony, smiling at them.

“Go with ‘em,” Frank says to Gatz and Floyd. 

They finish their coffee, joining the boys.

“Six and nine, they said?” Frank asks.

You nod.

“Tommy is my stepson, actually. His mama passed just before I met my husband, he was only a baby. So… I’m the only mama he’s ever known. Dell’s mine.”

“How long has it been since your husband passed?”

“About one year. We were livin’ with their grandmother a while, in Texas.”

You wipe at a stray tear.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be. Awful thing, losin’ a love,” Frank says. 

“It’s hard. Real hard, ‘specially with Joseph gone.”

You smile at your boys, watching them ride.

“But my little fella is happy as can be.”

“Does he leave often? Your brother-in-law?”

You blink, like you were in a trance.

“He comes and goes.” 

You’re lying again, your eyes on the mug of coffee in your hands.  

“We should get to work.”

The men ride circles around the boys. Eventually, Tommy rides over and slumps down by you at the bench on the porch. He takes off his hat and pats the dust off. You give him a cup of water that he guzzles down quickly. 

“You’re ridin’ that horse well, baby.” 

Tommy ignores your compliment. 

“I don’t like the way he looks at you, Mama,” he says, nodding to Roy. 

The cowboy is gazing at you as he follows your little boy around on his pony. You laugh softly at your son’s naïvety.

“That’s just how men look at women, sweetheart.” 

You know all kinds of looks, true, but the kind Roy is giving you is a strange one. 

“Uncle Joe don’t look at you like that.”

“Well, Joe sees me as his sister, seein’ as I was married to his brother.”

“I think they’re bad men, Mama.”

“I think they’re lost, Tommy.”

“What if they killed people?”

“Joe kills.” 

“That ain’t the same.” 

“How?”

“Uncle Joe’s a Ranger. He’s fightin’ for somethin’. Bad men kill for nothin’.”

You sit with it for a moment. Maybe your boy isn’t as innocent as you wished. You remember Joe telling Tommy what had happened to his father. 

Joe’s brother. Your husband. 

Your little boy took those words like a man, stoic and strong. But you know he crawled under your covers and cried on your shoulder all night long. 

“I promise we’re safe, honey.”

He nods and puts on his hat again. You pat his shoulder. 

“Get on back out there. I’m gonna go feed the horses.”

You put a scoop of feed into each horse’s bucket hung on the front door of each stall. There’s three left when Tommy rides the buckskin and Dell takes the pony. A palomino, a pinto, and a roan that Joseph calls Banjo, Fiddle, and Lady. 

“They’re good lookin’ horses,” Roy says.

You flinch and put a hand to your heart.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am.”

“I’m easily frightened. Just like Lady over there.”

“She’s the only female?”

“She was a gift. I was too scared of Banjo and Fiddle, there. Tommy’s horse and Dell’s pony were, too.”

“Your brother-in-law sounds like a good man.”

“He didn’t like me at first.”

“Why’s that?”

You hesitate.

“I was… um, I was engaged when my husband met me.”

Roy’s eyebrows raise.

“He was a wicked man. Pete saved me from him.”

He nods somberly, feeling some pity as he does. He approaches the palomino, shushing it as he pets it on the muzzle. 

“So… is this Banjo or Fiddle?”

“That one’s Banjo.”

He chuckles at the name, eyes on the animal.

“He’s a real menace, that horse. He kicks hard.” 

“Aw, I bet I could handle him.”

“I’m better with people than horses.”

“Well, that’s alright. I’d say I’m the opposite.”

“I think you make fine conversation, sir.”  

Roy feels something tugging at his heartstrings. Something raw and ugly. He tugs down the brim of his hat and focuses on the horse.

“You mind if I take him out?”

“If you don’t mind gettin’ bucked.” 

“I can handle buckin’, ma’am.” 

He glances back and sees you looking away, flushed and embarrassed. Oh, hell. 

Roy rides out to the edge of the land, where the wire fence blocks your livestock from roaming free. He sees a lone coyote out on a ridge, and draws his gun to shoot by its feet and spook it. He thinks about how scared you and the boys would be at the sound of gunshot, and slips the weapon back to its holster. 

Roy knows who he is, knows what he is. For some reason, even with this sick soul inside of him, he wants to show you kindness. To shelter you and your boys from Frank, Gatz, Floyd, the twins, every filthy outlaw in their gang. 

Hell, even his own damn self. 

“Let’s g’on back now,” he tells Banjo, patting his side and giving him a light squeeze with his legs. 

He brings Banjo into the stable and dismounts, gently leading him to his stall.

“Why, Mr. Banjo, I had no idea you could be so friendly,” you joke, Dell at your side. He rubs his eyes, his hat in his hand.

“He alright?”

“Oh, he just needs a nap is all.”

“No! I’m not tired,” he protests

“C’mon inside, and I’ll getcha some water.”

Roy follows you and Dell drags his feet. 

“Baby, you’re gettin’ too big for me to carry you now-” 

Roy lifts the boy up, throwing him over his shoulder playfully. Dell giggles, kicking his feet. 

“It’s naptime, boy,” Roy teases. 

“No!” 

He carries Dell upstairs and lightly tosses him on the bed. He lands on his back and blinks slowly. 

Roy ducks out of the room and closes the door. 

“But I’m not tired, Mama,” the boy protests.

“I know, baby. But let’s try anyway, okay?”

A moment later, you open the door and close it. You smile at Roy.

“Thank you,” you mouth to him. 

He shrugs and gives you a grin.  

You both head downstairs and you pour him a cup of water. 

“Could I ask you a favor, Mr. Griffin?”

“I’m Goode, actually.”

“Pardon?”

“My name, ma’am. It’s Roy Goode, not Griffin.”

“Oh. Mister… Goode.” 

He raises his brow in a gesture for you to speak. You take a breath.

“I ain’t been able to stock up in town with Joe gone. I can’t leave the boys alone and we can’t leave the animals. Would you… come with me tomorrow?” 

“Of course.”

You stand in front of him as he sits. 

“I ain’t stupid, y’know. I know what y’all are.”

“Ma’am-”

“I just said I ain’t stupid.”

He feels like a little boy being scolded. 

“Don’t gotta worry about me tellin’ nobody.”

You look at him with pleading eyes.

“Are my boys safe if we leave?”

Your tone is tense, serious.

“Yes-” 

“I mean it. They’re all I got,” you insist, voice breaking. “I got a Winchester in here. I don’t know how to use it, but that won’t stop me firin’.”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Roy walks over to Frank, who’s sitting with Tommy as he drinks from a canteen. 

“My daddy was six feet tall, so I reckon I’m gonna be ‘bout that.”

“That right?”

“Frank,” Roy calls.

“Hey, son.”

“Where’s Dell?” Tommy asks.

“Your mama put him down for a nap.”

The boy scoffs. 

“Dang crybaby,” he mutters, putting his hat on. “C’mon, Dusty.”

The dog follows him and Roy looks at Frank.

“Widow asked me to take her to town tomorrow morning. To stock up.”

“That’s alright. Rest of the boys should be comin’ up on us in three days or so. I think I’ll send Gatz out to find ‘em.”

“Don’t bring ‘em here,” Roy says firmly. 

“No. Not yet.” 

“I mean not at all, Frank.” 

Frank eyes him.

“You gettin’ real bold, Roy.”

“She’s a nice lady, and she’s scared enough.”

“You sure it’s a good idea to go to town? Might be wanted posters around.”

“Shit, Frank. Might as well be in Texas, this close to the border.”

Frank raises a brow. 

“I’ll wear my hat ‘n keep my head down.”

The next day you deal with more tears rousing your little ranch hands. Dell can't stand the idea of you leaving, bawling as you cradle him in your lap.

“It’s only for a little while, baby-” 

“No, Mama, d-don’t go,” he cries. “What if there’s a coyote?” 

You wipe his face with your apron and kiss his forehead.

“Mr. Goode is comin’ with me.”

“What can Mr. Goode do?” Tommy mutters, side-eyeing the outlaw. 

Roy slowly pulls out his pistol, putting it on the table. Your older boy’s eyes go wide. 

“Ain’t no coyotes gettin’ past me, boy.” 

Roy lets Dell reach out and touch it. He pulls his hand back fast like the metal is red hot, retreating into your grasp.

“I’ll be back real quick, baby. Mr. Goode is gonna keep me very, very safe.”

“You swear?” Tommy asks. 

“Cross my heart,” Roy answers, drawing an x over his chest. 

You ride into town with Roy, which is really just a small outpost with an inn, a general store, and a Western Union office. 

You tie up your horses and step into the general store.

“Mrs. Redd. Been a while,” the girl at the counter says. 

“Irene, honey. You’re gettin’ tall.”

She eyes Roy.

“Um, this is my new ranch-hand, Mr. Smith.”

Roy is impressed that you know to use a fake name, but still tilts his hat down. 

“Well, what can I get for you?”

You give her the list. Feed, oats, rice, flour, molasses, beans, and salt. Some salted pork and beef, too. Roy looks around the shop. 

“You got bullets?” he asks. 

“For huntin’ rifles ‘n shotguns, yeah. Just over there.” 

“And whatever he grabs too, Irene.”

“Sure thing.”

Roy helps you fix everything over Lady’s saddle and you head back. 

Tommy gets his horse Tambourine settled in the stall as he hears the sound of horses coming near.

You and Roy ride up, and he helps you unload. Both horses are carrying a lot, which they’re happy to be free of. Roy takes Lady to the stable and gets her in her stall, Banjo follows.

“Hey, Tommy.”

“Mister,” Tommy greets him.

“Your mama’s gettin’ supper started.”

Tommy glares at him.

“She wanted your help, I think.”

“Hmph.”

The boy treads out, his dog following. 

You wait on the porch.

“Mr. Goode,” you call as he passes.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m fixin’ supper for everyone, if you wanna tell yours to wash up ‘n join us.”

“That’s mighty kind of you. I’ll fetch ‘em.” 

You have no extra chairs, so the men eat standing, save for Frank.

“You boys were hungry, huh?” you ask as they wolf down the chili you made.

“Thank you, Mama,” Dell chirps.

“You’re welcome, baby.” 

“This is some good cooking, ma’am.”

Gatz and Floyd nod and hum in agreement. 

“This is so damn good,” Roy groans, his mouth full.

You blink in surprise and Tommy shoots Roy a look.

“You ain’t ‘posed to swear ‘round ladies,” the boy says, no doubt repeating your words. 

“Not ‘posed to talk with your mouth full neither!” Dell adds. 

“Boys,” you chide them softly.

“Sorry, ma’am.” 

“Oh, I’m just glad you like it,” you say softly, unable to meet his eye.

“You’re raisin’ up two fine young men, Mrs. Redd.” 

“Thank you.”

You carry Dell on your hip as supper finishes up. He rests his head against your shoulder, drifting off.

“Say goodnight, now.”

“Goodnight!”

The men mutter their own goodnights, and Tommy nods to them quietly. 

“Night, Mama.” “Goodnight, baby,” you tell him, kissing his head. He goes upstairs. 

The men collect their things and leave slowly. Roy takes his sweet time, wanting to linger in your presence just a bit longer. 

“Mama, can I have a story?” Dell asks. 

“Yeah, baby. Which one?”

Dell whispers in your ear and your eyebrows raise as your eyes flick to Roy.

“Mr. Goode?”

“Ma’am?”

“Would you… mind readin’ Wendell a story before you turn in?” 

Roy knows he can’t read, but he’s sure Frank has told him enough Bible stories that he could repeat one. He smiles at the boy.

“Sure, kid.”

You tuck in Dell and sit on his bed, brushing the hair from his face. Roy watches your careful fingers flip through a well-loved, leather-bound Bible. The pages are crinkled and a few of the corners folded in. Roy’s eyes pass over the words, though he doesn’t know what they say.

“Which story do you want, baby?”

“I want Mr. Goode to tell one…”

“He’s gonna read it.” 

“No, I want him to tell a story.” 

“Oh.”

You glance at Roy, with that sweet embarrassed look on your face.

“You don’t have to, Mr. G-”

“Hey, that’s alright. Lemme think’a one.” 

Your little boy claps his hands together. 

Roy leans back in the chair, thinking of a story. You can’t help but shift at the way his legs are spread wide and the stance he takes, hands rubbing up and down his thighs in thought. He points at Dell, clicking his tongue.

“Now, I’ll tell you this story, boy. But you gotta promise me you’ll never do what I did.”

Dell nods, grinning. 

Roy spins a yarn, intriguing both you and your son. It’s tense and even a little spooky, making the boy hide under his blankets. Roy leans forward, an elbow on his knee. Your heart aches watching your baby drift off to the outlaw’s voice, remembering when Peter used to tell Tommy about his adventures around Texas. 

“And that’s that,” Roy finishes in a soft voice, Dell curled up on his side.

“Goodnight, baby,” you murmurs, kissing his forehead and smoothing a hand over his hair.

You both exit the room, closing his door quietly.

“Thank you, Mr. Goode,” you say as you descend the stairs. 

“Anytime.”

You linger for a moment, looking at each other in the low light of your kitchen. It feels like each of you is waiting for the other to speak as you stand there.

“He likes you,” you finally break the silence, and the eye contact.

“He’s a good kid, they both are. And you’re a good mama.”  

“I do my best.”

“I was an orphan. And if anyone loved me as much as you love those boys?” 

He sucks his teeth.

“Shit, I’d be a different man.” 

“I had no kin when Peter met me, I just got too much love to give, I suppose.”

You look up at him and kiss his cheek.

“Goodnight, Mr. Goode”

You pull back and he grabs your wrist, meeting your eyes.

“You can call me Roy.” 

He feels your warm breath puff against his chin.

You tell him to call you by your name, your voice faint. 

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“G’night.” 

He speaks your name softly, right against your skin. 

“Goodnight, Roy,” you breathe.

The next day is more of the same. The men mutter to each other as they work and drink your coffee. You hope it isn’t laced with the acrid taste of your fear. You feel something terrible coming, a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach that danger is lurking just over that hill.

That evening, you sit up at night, looking out at the empty corral from the bench on your porch.

“You up mighty late,” Roy says softly.

“Roy.”

“Mind if I join you?” 

“Please.”

He steps up to join you on the porch. 

“I can’t sleep,” you tell him.

He sighs and leans on the wall next to you. You hesitate.

“Sit with me,” you urge him softly.

He takes a seat on the bench. 

“I was sixteen when I met that man, the one who I was gonna marry,” you start. “Now I got no kin, so… I think I’ll be a nun, so I’m on my way to a church in Illinois, but I meet a man called Rip Carter at the train station. He takes me in. Not like a daddy. He wants me too much to make it like that. Six months later, I’m in a nice new dress in a ginhouse in Texas and I’m there to make men spend money on… blackjack, faro, craps. Nobody lays a hand on me- because Rip would put a bullet through ‘em if they did, I just talk sweet and bring them to the tables.”

Roy shifts in place. 

“Rip says he’s gonna marry me. He just keeps sayin’ it for a few years, but he don’t do it. And then a man called Peter Redd comes in… and everythin’ is just different about him. He’s older than me, big ‘n tall. ‘Bout six feet. The sorta man that could really hurt me if he wanted. But he’s kind. He don’t look at me like I’m supper. And I want him to take me upstairs, I really do. And he whisks me to his hotel room across the street, and he… he’s so gentle with me. So tender. ‘Course… he’s extra gentle cause his wife has just passed, and his mother is with his new baby boy. And this big man, this Texas Ranger, he just breaks down ‘n cries. I know he’s gonna be my husband that night.”

Roy moves closer to you, leaning forward.

“And I tell him so in the morning. I say, ‘sir, I think I’m meant to be your wife’. And he laughs. But he thinks about it, he really does. I tell him… I’ll be a mama for that baby, and you ain’t lived till you tasted my chili.”

Roy chuckles.

“I know that’s right.”

“And he says yes. Now Rip don’t like that none, seein’ as I’m makin’ him two hundred dollars in a week.”

Two hundred. Holy shit, Roy thinks.

“Course I don’t really get any of it. Rip keeps most of it, gives me a few dollars when I ask for it. He tries to make a fuss and Pete socks him in the face. And he takes me away to Lubbock the next day. We’re married in a week, and next thing I know I’m swaddlin’ Tommy and I’m fallin’ asleep in Pete’s arms.”

Roy puts a hand over yours. 

“Sounds like you need someone to take care of you,” he murmurs. 

You look at him for a moment and nod thoughtfully.

“Joe tries. He even asked if I wanted to get married, just so… I wouldn’t be alone, so the boys would have a daddy. But he’s like a brother, and he ain’t nothin’ but an uncle. He’s kind, though.” 

Roy’s never been particularly kind to anyone since he joined up with Frank. He doesn’t care for whoring like the other men, but he likes a good woman now and again. He can’t say he’s any kind to them either. 

“I… I’d like to take care of you,” he tells you cautiously, eyes on your lips.

They sit in a soft pout as you look at him.

“Just… for tonight? Please?” he asks, voice just above a whisper.

He would never let the other men hear him talk to a woman like this. He’s just too proud.

You touch his face, your thumb swiping over his cheek.

“The boys are upstairs,” you whisper. 

“I’ll be quiet as a mouse,” he insists, an inch from your lips.

You take his hand and tug him. He follows gladly as you make their way to your bedroom.

It’s modest and simple. When he sees a bed big enough for two people, he realises this must be Joseph’s room. The door closes and he holds your face, finally kissing you. You lean into it, your breath hitching when he puts his hands on your hips. He holds you tight, one hand pressing on the small of your back.

“Be gentle with me,” you plead softly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He pushes down his suspenders and unbuttons his shirt, tossing it on the floor. He pulls up his undershirt and you hesitate before unbuttoning your dress. He helps you, undoing the ties underneath and leaving you bare in front of him.

“Siddown, darlin’,” Roy husks.

You could melt at the sweet name, sitting on the bed. He sinks to his knees in front of you and parts your legs.

“Roy,” you squeak out.

“Just lemme look atcha.”

He groans, seeing your glistening, wet cunt.

“Oh, baby,” he purrs. “You’re soakin’.” 

You squirm in place and he licks his lips.

“She ever been licked?” he husks. 

You hide your face and shake your head.

He groans at the thought of being the first man to service you like this.

“Lemme do my damndest then.” 

You pant, hands planted on the bed. He moves closer on his knees, hooking his hands below your thighs to bring you to the edge of the bed.

“Now you just put these legs up here on my shoulders like so,” he explains, kissing your inner thigh. “And don’t be afraid to grab my hair.” 

“I don’t wanna hurt you-”

He looks up at you.

“That ain’t gonna hurt me.”

He leans in, parting you with his fingers. He presses a soft kiss to your clit, making you jolt. You cover your mouth.

“Oh!”

He licks a stripe upward, swirling his tongue around your clit. He pushes in a finger and curls it up.

“God, that f-feels so go-od,” you moans out, praising him. 

His hand grips your thigh tighter as his tongue slips inside of you, making you gasp and card your fingers through his hair. You grab a handful of his bronze curls and your grip tightens as he licks at your clit again. 

“Oh, Roy… yes, honey, right there. Oh… y-yes…” 

Your pitch changes as he adds another finger, pressing around for that soft spot that makes ladies go wild. 

He curls his fingers and you yank on his hair, clapping a hand over your mouth. 

He moans against you and you feel faint. You slowly lay back and buck your hips against his face.

“Please, darlin’, I gotta taste you cummin’ on my tongue,” he urges, his tongue pushing inside of you. 

You twitch and twist your upper body, gasping. 

“Don’t stop, Roy, right there,” you pant as quietly as you can. 

He won’t stop, not until he’s drunk up every drop he can get. He feels like he’s been walking through the desert for years and he’s finally tasting water. 

“Give it to me, c’mon,” he begs you, panting against your bare skin. 

His hips rock in place as he searches for some kind of friction. Your thighs squeeze the sides of his head. He’d take dying here like this over a hangman any day. 

“Yes, honey… oh, you- shit, Roy, yes!” 

You grab your pillow, muffling yourself with fabric and feathers. He feels you bucking against his face and holds your hips to the bed, kissing your center softly as you pant, coming down. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he murmurs against your thigh. “Fuck, thank you.” 

He looks up at you with eager eyes that make you laugh hoarsely. You sit up and wince, and look down at him.

“Ain’t you handsome like that?” you say softly, cupping his face with one cheek. He pushes into your touch. He needs you to touch him all over, to talk to him in that sweet voice. 

You point to the rag in the wash basin on the chest of drawers. 

“Clean your face off so I can kiss you.”

He darts over, wiping off his mouth and chin so he can crawl on the bed and kiss you again. You lay back, arms open and waiting for him. 

“C’mere,” you urge him.

He stops between your legs, still panting. Your delicate hands undo his britches and pull them down. He looks away. It’s too gentle. 

“Oh, wow,” you gasp quietly.

“What?”

“Don’t tell me no lady never told you it’s big.”

He hides a grin and you swat his bare thigh, making him twitch.

“Don’t be prideful now.”

He moves closed and you grip him at the base to line him up. You're so wet, your thighs sticky and shiny with your own slick. He groans, his eyes shutting. He thrusts to find purchase and you both gasp when he does. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers. 

He pushes in and out, rocking slightly as he pushes in further.

“You takin’ it s-so good,” he stammers, overwhelmed by the feeling.

He wants to play the suave outlaw and have you begging for him. Gatz’ words bounce around in his head. Goode wants a mama.

You rest your palms on his chest as he slides in, skin to skin, flush against each other. 

“You so tight, darlin’,” he mumbles. 

He lets out a quiet wince, looking at the place you connect. 

You sigh contentedly, giving him a soft kiss. He huffs, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“You got me filled right up, cowboy,” you murmur. 

He nods silently. You hold him as he rocks into you, tucking his face into the crook of your neck.

“Y’so damn pretty,” he breathes, kissing your neck and collarbone.

“Y-you just keep on like that,” you encourage him, pressing your hands to his chest. 

He lifts your hips into his lap, planting his arms on either side of you. You bite your lip, looking at his bicep. He pushes a little noise out of you every time he leans in again, peppering your face with kisses as he does. You giggle, a light, soft sound. One that reminds him you’re around the same age.

He feels your fingers touch the scar on his side. He takes your hand and kisses your knuckles, burying himself in you once again. You lead his hand between your legs and he brushes at your clit, making you buck up and grab his arm.

“Oh, Roy… oh, y-you’re doin’ so good, honey,” you praise him.

He can’t help the whimper that leaves him when you hold his face and look at him so sweetly. His hips stutter and he roughly circles your clit as he chases his release.

“Cum for me, honey, please,” he begs you, face against your chest. “Please, I-I gotta feel you ‘round me ‘fore I pull out, please…” 

“Shit,” you hiss. You dig your nails into his shoulder, holding him tight as you tense up.

Your cunt throbs, milking his cock tightly, gushing on him. He kisses you and swallows down your moans and the squeaky whine you make when he grinds against you, filling you up all the way.

“‘S too much, ‘s too much, I-I gotta- fuck,” he babbles, pushing back to pull himself out. He grunts, spilling on your bare thigh. 

You're shaking and sweating, panting as you look up at him. 

“Damn,” you sigh, laughing.

You both wash up with the cloth and basin. You admire his bare body and how carefully he cleans himself.

You kiss his cheek as you pull your nightgown on.

You share the bed together, tucked into his side. You're sweet like this. Like you finally get a moment to be free, to be taken care of. He could play daddy if he tried hard enough, he thinks. 

He thinks he’d do just about anything for you now. 

“Mama?” Dell’s voice sounds from outside your door.

“Shit. Go out the window,” you whisper. 

He opens the window and climbs out, pulling on his shirt as he does. You lean out and give him a kiss before turning around. He waits under the window, listening. 

You open the door and see Dell clutching the little quilt his grandmother made when he was born. You kneel down. 

“Did you have a bad dream?”

“Yeah,” he pouts, nodding. 

You kiss his head.

“I dreamed I got bit by a rattlesnake and it hurt, Mama,” he cries. 

“Oh, baby. You want to sleep with me tonight?”

“Mhm…” 

Roy sleeps in the barn, hat over his eyes. He dreams about you, your hands, your sweet voice.

In his dreams, he’s teaching your boys to ride proper. He’s tending the ranch with you and the boys. At night you share supper, and Wendell sits on his knee as he tells stories. There’s no Frank, no gang, just you and him and these boys. Your belly, round with his baby, and your pretty face being the last thing he sees at night and the first thing he sees in the morning. 

Roy never imagined himself as a father, but he could be. Just maybe.

[remmicksgf]

𝖆 𝖙𝖔𝖚𝖈𝖍 𝖔𝖋 𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑

❤️‍🔥 brett (eden lake) x reader ❤️‍🔥 nsfw 18+ ❤️‍🔥 synopsis: you're the pretty thing Brett's been eyeing, yet, following the events at Eden Lake, he finds his thirst for violence and control has been little satiated--and its cravings know no bounds. Everything tastes better when there's a little fear involved; so what happens when he's met with little resistance and you don't look at him with fear? ❤️‍🔥 note: throwing rocks and hitting this guy with a thousand tiny hammers but also kinda twirling my hair and giggling and kicking my feet. I literally warned you all I like it when they're NEEAASSTYYY and tbh you can't give me shit if you've fantasized about sir lord cunt of cuntdom and cult leader jimmy crystal OR remmick the undead vampire. let me enjoy my filthy depraved dick thank u very much. also might I just emphasize DEPRAVED!! this is pure filth. DEPRAVED FILTH. tw for rape fantasies/prey kink, not so consensual non-consent, knife/blood play, forced fingering/finger-sucking, forced blowjob/face-fucking, doggy-style, panty stealing and obscene/aggressive language ❤️‍🔥 wc: 4.6k+

Beads of fresh blood oozed from between the tight scabbing over his knuckles. Brett squeezed his fist tighter. The morning sun was a pale blue through his blinds, the heavy fabric pulled as far as it would go, and with it, his head throbbed with a heaviness that made it feel like a bowling ball. His neck lengthened and tensed, and his Adam's apple jumped. He squeezed his fist again, soft, thin skin moving under his palm as his grip tugged up from between his thighs. He swept his thumb over the agitated, darkening pink crown of his head and shivered. However, no matter the light burn in his groin and the pulse of his cock in his hand, the girth still fell limp over his roughened knuckles and thin fingers, and he chased, fruitlessly, the thin thread of pleasure he'd woken with.

After spitting in his palm, his other hand came down to cup his balls, grunting and flexing his hips up when that thread tugged and his cock pulsed, but his muscles relaxed again when the length failed to harden. Brett pinched the space between his furrowed brows, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, and placed his hands now over the hollow of his abdomen. The gnawing ache was still there, blooming from his core and radiating through him, hot, hungry. He pushed himself from his mattress after kicking his sheets from the rest of his legs and leaned over the edge for a second. He needed something to sink his teeth into, to chew on. It was like an addiction--for the past two years, he'd been chasing that high that had left puddles of blood in fresh mud and splattered across green pine trees. After walking over to the silver iron weights and getting a nice pump in his arms, shoulders, and back--now built with thicker ropes of lean muscle and having lost more of his stubborn baby fat--Brett dressed in clothes he didn't care too much for and stepped out of his bedroom, determined to get his fix.

He hovered in front of his door for a beat, gauging the volume level of the rest of the house, making sure the knob slipped shut with a quiet click. Once he was sure at least the front area was clear, he slipped down the stairs and outside. It was a grey day, just as he'd predicted from the minimal, foggy lighting which leaked in through his since iron-barred bedroom window. The air was chilled, damp with rain; the condensation beaded on windows and pooled between the uneven cobblestone and cracks in the asphalt road. Brett grabbed his bike from the side of the house and set down the side of the road toward where he knew he could get something sweet for his morning cravings.

The register slammed shut at the same time the bell above the entrance dinged, and the last customer exited the convenience store.. You stood in a haze of thinned smoke behind the white countertop and inspected your nails. They were a fresh set, the almond tips a tad longer than last time, and a glossy cherry red. Dropping them, you readjusted the tightly fitted polo shirt with the station's logo on it over the denim skirt you wore that was barely to standard, then reached over and took hold of the complimentary paper soda cup you'd filled with diet Cola. The ice swirled at the bottom when you shook it, and you took a long sip of the bubbling, coppery liquid, not looking to the door when it opened again.

Brett wove through the aisles aimlessly, pinching the front of his jeans to make room for the already strengthening bulge against his boxers. You smelled slightly of lemon and orange, of a dewy musk that made the pit of his stomach fizzle. You smelled warm and soft, feminine, just as you looked. He watched you set your drink down with a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth before grabbing a pack of Skittles and a beef stick. He moved up to the front and slapped these two items down with a loll of his tongue across his bottom lip.

"Sugar and meat for breakfast today, Brett?" You took the products and met his eye. There was a coldness that oozed from his gaze. "You're a big boy, you need your nutrients."

"Aye, you could always feed me." You shook your head and turned to grab a fresh pack of cigarettes for him without him even needing to ask. He'd been coming by that gas station for longer than you'd been working there. Always causing some sort of trouble out front, harassing strangers. You'd always found it slightly amusing when you'd caught sight of him on your own runs, but now it made your job more difficult.

You both eyed each other closely until he broke the silence by snarking, "stop lookin' at me like you want to kiss me. It’s gross, and inappropriate. Going to get you in trouble."

You glanced away, and sighed. "Y'know, speaking of--trouble, we got another complaint the other day, someone said you were fuckin' with the pumps. Got two out of service now."

Brett shrugged.

"This is, of course, what comes after you slashed a gentleman's tires."

"I ain't done none'a that."

You cocked a brow, and he mirrored your expression, pushing his palms against the counter. He glanced down at your lips, making sure you knew where he was looking.

"I talked the boss down, said nobody had any proof." You slid the products forward. "Cash?"

"Oh, you're a precious thing, ye know that? I think ye've gone sweet on me." Brett grabbed his wallet from his back pocket--in the process placing a small switchblade beside it--and slid forward a few bills, purposely choosing an amount too high, which required change and forced you to bend down over the register. The open collar of your shirt showed your cleavage, your breasts pushed up by the padding of your bra.

When you pushed the remaining bills back at him, he waved them off. "Keep it, uh, but, how about ye say to a little, ye'know," he stuck his tongue to his cheek and motioned for a blowjob, "usin' those pretty lips a'yers that 'er so sweet to me. Like a reward, for ye being such a good girl an' savin' m'ass."

You shut the drawer again and put the change on the counter, hoping the heat in your face wasn't noticeable, or the way you fought back a giggle. It twisted up your core, intertwined with your shock at his crudeness.

"You've got a real way for poetry, Brett. I'm swooning," you popped a hip, but couldn't help your eyes from moving down the vein visible from the sleeve of his shirt and down the length of his bicep. "But it'd take more than you pulling out your dick to make up for all the shit I've put up with for you."

Brett thumbed open the packets of cigs and bit down on the end of one, flashing the edge of his canine before reaching into his jeans again to pull out a small silver lighter. The flame licked the other end before the paper caught, and smoke twirled up, filling the air with the minty aftertaste of earthy tobacco. He blew smoke in your face when he pulled it out. "Is that right?"

"Mhm."

"Well, I bet yer cunt would say somethin' different from how soaked she is for me. I can smell 'er. I think," he lowered his tone, "all I'd need to do is stand 'er with m'cock in m'hand and watch ye come crawlin' for it like a bitch in heat. Seen the way ye've been lookin' at me, it's pathetic."

"Is there anything else I can help you with, sir? Or should I call for my manager?" You asked in the most customer-service, passively pleasant voice you could muster, smiling even when his eyes lingered on your body and you could see it written all over his leering expression, what he was picturing. He clucked his tongue and huffed as if you'd done something in this fantasy he disapproved of, then met your eye again.

"I'll be see'n ya later, sweetheart. Also, yer droolin.'" He playfully swept a thumb across his chin to imitate cleaning it and laughed.

Biting your lip, you watched Brett leave the store and walk around the side of it, thinking it would be like all the other times he toyed with you, then moved on to the next flashy target that caught his eye. However, ten, fifteen, then thirty minutes passed, and you could still catch glimpses of him hanging around at the edge of the windows. Then it became an hour, two, and your break passed. You sat in the breakroom, against a stiff plastic chair, with your thighs pressed together and your fingers laced together, pulling at the joints until they popped. Your nerves were buzzing.

After your break, you wandered back up to the front and thought maybe he'd finally lost interest. Another forty-five minutes and you were proven wrong. You wondered if you'd said something that finally pushed him off the edge this time, that one of your remarks hadn't been taken with the teasing lightness you'd intended. You didn't actually think he'd do anything, especially when it was the middle of the day, but then again--the shit he pulled with others, the cruelty he showcased, the whispers around town, the case from a few years back--the bell dinged again, and you jolted seemingly from your skin. Another young girl walked in, and you saw that a car, presumably her mother's, was waiting outside. You glanced at the clock and saw it was half-past till the end of your shift. Your replacement should arrive in approximately twenty minutes or so.

When they did, and after you clocked out, you took the back exit out by the trash cans and walked, hurriedly, over to where your car was parked. Grabbing your keys and fumbling with them from their designated pocket in your purse, you failed to look anywhere else but your own movements until you reached your door and glanced over your shoulder to where Brett stood at the corner of the store, leaning his weight into the stone. He was halfway done with the pack of cigarettes now, and flicked the last one he'd been working on to the ground. He let it simmer, not bothering to crush it.

You dropped your keys and your purse and ran up the hill through the unkept brush and into the surrounding trees.

Brett smiled, huffing with pleasure at your reaction, and strode up to your purse. He rifled through it quickly, not wanting you to get too far ahead, although confident he'd catch you no matter how far you managed to hop away from him; pulling out a small bottle of the perfume you wore and shoving it into his jeans alongside your car keys, then dangling across his fingers the thin straps of a spare thong. He held the lingerie up, found the center, and pressed the lace to his nose in an attempt to get a hint of your scent from the washed-out discoloration of the fabric.

Not finding any, he bunched the thong up with a snarl and shoved it into his jeans as well, refocusing his efforts on following the path into the woods you had taken.

You weren't actually trying to get away. But he didn't need to know that; you knew it was better if he didn't. Like all the other stories, you knew the troublemaker liked a bit of a challenge, liked the struggle. And thankfully for him, you enjoyed being on the other side of the chase; your blood pressure spiked as adrenaline shot through you, bubbly and ecstatic, and you lurched forward with the impulse to run from everything that reached toward you. You wanted to run from Brett the second he'd caught your eye from across the street. Your heart had raced, and your mouth had gone cottony, and with everything in you, you wanted to take off sprinting, never to get away, though. Only to see how far you could get before he caught you. You'd always kept your distance from him and egged him on with the intent of getting him to chase you — unlike other girls in the courting process, your idea of a chase was not flowers and jewelry and dates to expensive restaurants. It was something much more primal, something you could see tugging at the thin ties between you and Brett. Something you understood, yet he could not.

You ran through the trees and hoped he was behind you, following the trail of your sweat and perfume with a tilt of his nose. Still, you did not look over your shoulder while weaving through the green, dodging the chipped bark of twisting trees and hopping over fallen branches. You could have hardly told which direction you were heading, until you turned and collided with something--someone.

Brett had let you continue thinking you were evading him for another few minutes, following at a distance, your paths would inevitably collide, but this was the fun of it. The last stretch. His favorite part, second to the physical struggle, as he anticipated. The tension quivered through his entire body, the heat of a now-intense erection flickering up his abdomen and melting through his pelvis down his thighs. His fingers squeezed into fists.

Brett grabbed you by the arms and pinned you to him. "Oy-where y'think yer runnin' off to? huh?" He panted, laughing again when you tried to yank yourself away. "Where's that sweet cunt when I need 'er? ye tease me all day long behind that fuckin' counter, then decide to take a fuckin' run? that it? Y'decide yer in the mood for a wee jog after work? In the woods no less? Just askin' for it at that point, runnin' into the woods all alone with that tiny fuckin' skirt and that slutty top." Your knees dropped before you writhed back up and squealed. "Wanna see if I was right before, if that pussy ye got is as wet an' tight for me as I think. Ye? Ah, I think she likes to be played rough with. I think she's been picturin' all the ways I can use her up like the plaything she is."

"I don't think you'd know what to do even if I wrote directions for you." You spat. The thing was with the adrenaline, what nobody else was able to do for you, other than Brett, was get you riled up. Truly enraged. He pissed you off. You shoved at him ferociously, kicking and jumping, your instincts taking over.

"Then I'll just make a new fuckin' hole for me to fuck m'cock into, how bout that?" He seethed, his arm wrapping around you. Your back slammed against the trunk of a tree and knocked the breath from you. When you opened your lips to suck air into your lungs, what pressed between them was instead two fingers. Brett pressed them down on your tongue, then further back into your throat to make you gag, his other palm slipping up to hold the front of your throat and craning your jaw up while he pressed his figure flush to yours. You could feel how excited he was. You gagged again around his knuckles, and saliva dribbled down your chin. "That's right, suck on m'fingers, be a pretty slut for me. Show me how bad ye want m'cock."

However, when you pursed your lips and allowed a moan to vibrate up his hand, he snatched himself from between your teeth and slapped you. The whole side of your face stung from the impact, but your head wasn't allowed to go anywhere from his pinching of your throat. Brett's teeth bared, and he growled at you, shoving his wet fingers between you and finding the hem of your skirt--shoving beneath it to feel, with a ragged exhale, once he'd also shoved the cotton of your panties aside, that he'd been right, even with his cruelty.

"Fuckin' 'ell yer wet. Yer fuckin' wet? Ye stupid whore-yer wet an' I haven't even fuckin' pulled my fucking cock out!" You wheezed from the sudden tightness of his hand, the dizziness sweeping over you fast and making you drop to your knees beneath him as soon as he released you. Brett laughed, then, a high-pitched cackle that sent shivers down your spine. "Just like I fuckin' said, a bitch in heat."

You were trembling all over, tears stinging your eyes. Your fingers found the seam of his jeans, and you tugged at his pant leg, only to have him thrash it toward you to get you to let go. You slumped to your palms and scurried away from the tree, no more than a couple of feet before turning over to your ass and laying your shoulders back. The back of your head met the uneven ground as you stared up, catching your breath and letting the blotches leave your sight while flipping up the bottom of your skirt and bunching the denim around your hips.

You splayed your knees wide, hesitating on the prospect of having him tear your panties from you before deciding to push them down your shaking thighs and showing him the glistening ooze of wetness from your plush, slickened folds. Brett took a step forward and observed these frantic movements with a tilt of his head, the words leaving him for a moment, causing his mouth to hang open.

"Yer even more pathetic than I fuckin' thought, wantin' me to fuck ye this entire time. Playin' like ye didn't." His hands flew up above his head as soon as you nodded. Brett turned for a moment, mouthing fuckin' hell in exasperation, before turning back to you and shouting, "What are ye gon' beg for it now? Beg me to fuck you?"

He spoke as if it would ruin everything. Like you wanting it wasn't what he needed--and you knew that, you saw it tensed in him like barbed wire, pointed and sharp. But you also knew it was control he was really after.

"If that's what you want." You squeezed and tugged at your skirt, sticks poking up into your skin, and the cool air nipping between your thighs. When Brett's eyes focused on your sex again, he licked his lips, and you whispered, "You want to taste it? You can taste it--you can do whatever you want. You can do whatever you want to me--"

His hand fell over his bulge, and he squeezed. Hard.

He palmed himself a few times before sneering, "Like I don't fuckin' know that. Jus' thinkin' of what I want to do first. You'll know no matter what it is, I'm gonna make that pretty pink cunt of yers regret actin' so damn needy like a dumb bitch, though. Getting wet before I even touched ya," and moving forward again to stand between your legs.

His narrowed eyes unwavering from your pussy, he reached back into his pocket and pulled out the switchblade from before. He smirked when your body tensed at the sight and kneeled down, resting back on his heels.

You felt the cold kiss of the edge of the blade against the inside of your thigh, then the wet trickle of blood where he cut you, and winced, lifting your hips against the blade before flinching away when he cut you again. Every time you tried to squirm away, Brett's fingers lifted. He smacked your cunt like it was a dog's snout trying to get at a plate of food--hard, fast, with a blistering, radiating pain that made your clit spasm. Your teeth slipped over your bottom lip, and you fought the noise that pushed from your chest when his fingers smeared the blood from your fresh cuts. Brett considered licking his fingers clean, but then wiped the blood over your folds and tinted your slick pink with it. Your clit throbbed painfully, now, the stimulation making your whole body vibrate. You needed more and tried to chase his fingertips, but he just smacked you again and muttered, "stop."

Your chest rising and falling heavily, beneath the curve of your breasts, Brett discarded the blade and wrapped his arms beneath your legs to hoist your pelvis up and curved down to fit his mouth over the swollen tissue. Your fingers immediately left your skirt to yank at his chopped, brown hair, but he snatched your wrist and forced your touch away, squeezing hard enough to leave more bruises in his wake while his jaw worked up and down and his tongue lapped up the sweet mix of blood and your juices. He licked at you without the purpose of pleasuring you, his teeth grazing your nub and cheeks hollowing as if to actually eat you, pushing down and nipping at the sensitive skin till you started to cry from the overstimulation.

Once you began to cry, his balls yanked up, and Brett felt the hot dribble of precum ooze down from his slit, his tip now tenting his jeans and building friction against the denim with each shift of his hips. He gulped air down, pushing himself up from between your thighs with blood smeared on his chin and cheek, and staring down at you for another second. He flipped you over to your stomach by your bunched skirt and yanked your hips up to meet his pelvis.

You arched your back and bent your head forward, shallow breaths turning to mewls as your entrance drooled from the tightening of your sore walls. You'd been reduced to pure need, now, the impulse of your desires overriding any logic or sense, any composure you'd previously been able to hold yourself with.

And Brett, too. He couldn't think past burying himself inside you to the hilt, watching your pussy swallow him down, and feeling the heat melt over him as your folds slipped over the flushed skin of his cock. That release he'd been craving all day was nearing its climax, viscous and sticky, mucous and heavy. It pulled his hips closer toward you before he'd managed to unsheath himself from his jeans.

His stomach tensing and shoulders folding forward, he collapsed over you as the soft muscle of his tip slid between your folds and began to stretch open the ring of your entrance. "Fuck, fuck you're so eager-I-I can feel ye-ye'r swallowin' me, so fuckin' eager," he muttered against your shoulder blade. "I've heard about these rape fantasies, y'know, in the magazines, where bitches like ye like to be chased down and taken, laid claim to, get all riled up n' horny n' shite cause they know they're powerless--that ye don't have any control n' can be fuckin' used like a cumsock whenever we want. Is that what gets ye so fuckin' hot and worked up? The thought of me-" your core flared with pain as he sunk down deeper, holding your hips up by your skirt like a belt, "usin' yer cunt to get m'self off whenever I please?"

He bottomed out with one more push, which nearly knocked you down, straightening himself back with a low growl through clenched teeth. Then, he kept you on your elbows with your hips pinching with pain from the wideness of your knees as he punched his hips again. You could feel the rigidness of his length, the curve of his head nudging your cervix, your depths fighting against him, then pulling him deeper, then fighting against him while he yanked you back to his hips. His Adam's apple jumped up with a squeeze of his jaw when he tilted his head back before his next moan echoed through the trees.

"Take it, take my cock like the bitch ye are, like a good fuckin' cum slut, take it--that's right--cry for me, fuck-yeah-" he sneered, spit smearing his lip and his face growing red as the veins in his neck strained and the ropiness of his forearms flexed as his knuckles blotched white from the tension.

He used your skirt to bounce your cunt up and down his length till the blood knotted at the base and the spongy tissue tightened. In one single contraction, you felt him burst inside you, splattering your walls in his cum, ejaculating slowly and painfully thick, his engorged shaft twitching between the cushion of your walls until his semen spilled from you and leaked down to pool in the pine needles. His hands lowered to the meat of your ass and spread your cheeks to get a better look at the sight, and he gawked.

His strength then evading him, he collapsed on top of you and pinned you to the forest floor, quivering and shuddering with the last of his ejaculation. You continued rolling your hips back against him as much as you could, even after Brett had stilled, earning a weak whine. "Filled ye up with me cum and now ye can't get enough..." he murmured, feeling his body come back into itself and with it, the tenderness of his knees, the burning of his thighs, and the spasming of his lower back.

His exhale tickling the back of your neck while he closed his eyes and remained inside you, his tip still kicked upward occasionally, and he was left half-hard and as agitated as ever. The sting of your now dried cuts radiating up your leg, you knew once he'd gathered his breath that Brett was far from done with you. You could feel his hands already moving again over your body, finding the hard and soft points, tugging at your clothes with the desire to see you completely bare under him.

Brett shoved you back onto your back to face him. At first you thought he would kiss you, or at least let you grab his face to lick the cum and blood from his cheeks, but he crawled up your body until his knees were at either side of your head, his weeping, softened and reddened cock hanging curved above your mouth alongside his balls. You stared at it with your brows lifted up and widened eyes before his fingers knotted in your hair, and he used his other hand to grip just beneath the crown and fit his head in your mouth, pushing past your lips and grunting, "fuckin' open, or I'll cut y'gain," under his breath.

Tilting his hips forward with a flex of his ass and the splaying of his knees, Brett supported himself with one hand, and rolled his eyes up before closing them at the sensation of you gulping him down--your nose brushing against the taut curled hair that dissipated from his groin in a thin trail, the feeling of your tongue swirling around the overly sensitive bundle of nerves at his head, making him pump his hips down against your face with involuntary jerk.

He would continue to do this, leaving little room for you to breathe through your nose, until he got hard again, he promised. Nevertheless, as your vision blurred and your gag reflex caused your esophagus to tighten and your saliva to bubble around your mouth, and your whimpers, cries, and moans vibrated up his core, both of you knew you would be forced to swallow his next thinner, saltier load before he stuffed another one into your swollen cunt. And whatever you didn't manage to swallow, he'd smear over your face in a crude display of his filth--he'd get it in your hair, splash it across your bitten and smacked tits, dribble it over your bruised thighs, have you lick it from his balls, as many times as he could before his shirt stuck to his skin from the sweat that also matted his hair to his forehead and ran in his eyes and he couldn't even pick himself up or get his legs to work. And from that point on, when Brett was feeling even slightly out of control, he would come and find you--he would hunt you down and give you the slightest touch of the evil he was capable of, in its sweetest, most disciplined form.

[spikedfearn]

okay so my plan is to double drop Cook fwb au and jennifer's body au, then I'll write that behavioral correction au with Brett, then I gotta write that Remmick au where he murders anyone that tries to court you, then Ghostface Cook, then Ghostface Brett, then I'm gonna do the Roye Goode fic!!

[visceradiva]

JENNIFERS BAWDYYYYYY

[perotovar]

#he turned 50 and all filter just melted away lmao