wolverflesh
wolverflesh
Just A Thought
45 posts
Thoughts of a random girl
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wolverflesh · 4 days ago
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me staring at the search bar trying to decide which fictional man I’ll read about tonight:
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wolverflesh · 25 days ago
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wolverflesh · 1 month ago
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Don’t hurt yourself.
Pairing : Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader
CW: 18+, smut! minors DNI. p in v, protected sex, riding for the first time.
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The second you sink down too fast, Anakin knows.
You wince, not enough to stop, just enough to power through it, and before you can even adjust, his hand shoots out and grabs your waist.
“Get off.”
You freeze. Blink. Breath hitching.
“What—”
“Off,” he says again, more clipped this time. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t raise his voice. But the tone? It makes your whole body lock up.
He lifts you off his cock, holds you there, just hovering, just out of reach, and stares up at you like he’s trying not to lose it.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
You swallow. “I—I was just trying to—”
“No.” His jaw flexes. “You were trying to rush through the stretch again. You were trying to take all of me before your body was ready. Do you even realize how dangerous that is?”
You feel small. Exposed. Still holding onto his shoulders, your thighs shaking in the air.
“I wanted to make you feel good,” you say quietly.
His expression darkens. Not angry. Just wrecked.
“Baby,” he breathes, still holding you there, voice rough. “Do you really think I want to feel good at the cost of you?”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
He exhales sharply through his nose and lowers you back down, not onto him. Onto his thigh. Onto safety.
He cups your face in both hands, his thumb dragging along your jaw with frustrating gentleness, and his voice drops lower. Dead serious.
“You don’t do that for me. Ever. Do you understand?”
You nod, eyes wide.
“No, I want to hear it.”
“I understand.”
“You try to impress me by hurting yourself again,” he whispers, “and we’re done.”
Your chest tightens. “Wait—”
“I’m not saying that to scare you,” he says, cutting you off. “I’m saying that because it would kill me to watch you do that again. I need you to know that I’m not here for some picture perfect performance. I’m here because you’re mine. Because I want you.”
Silence. Just the sound of your breathing. Your hands tighten on his chest.
“Say something,” he murmurs.
“I just didn’t want to disappoint you.”
He groans like the words hit something deep in his chest and then pulls you forward, pressing your forehead to his.
“You think riding me slow, messy, real—that’s disappointing?” he breathes. “No, baby. That’s intimate. That’s what I fucking crave.”
You’re still in his lap. Still bare. Still trembling
And when he finally presses you back down, slow, controlled, it feels different this time. You sink onto him at his pace. With his hands steadying you. His voice in your ear.
“That’s it. That’s better,” he pants. “Feel that? That’s what happens when you trust me.”
You nod, gasping, adjusting your hips. And his grip never leaves your waist.
“Now ride me,” he says, hoarse and low. “The way I need you to.”
And you do.
You grind, rock, move how he showed you and he lets you take it, lets you own it, until you’re crying his name and falling apart in his arms, your body shaking around him.
Only then does he fuck up into you, groaning into your mouth as he finishes inside the condom, both of you completely lost in each other.
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wolverflesh · 1 month ago
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I Like the Way you Kiss Me
Chapter I
James Cook x fem!reader
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
458 notes · View notes
wolverflesh · 2 months ago
Text
A Gladiator's Reward
One-Shot
Calisto x fem!reader
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summary: You were supposed to be a symbol of peace—gifted to the Greek champion like some veiled olive branch draped in silk. But Calisto doesn’t want peace. He wants you.
Now you're no longer a diplomat. No longer a Roman daughter. Just a warm, wet thing spread across his stone table while he fucks you full of everything Rome tried to take from him.
You hate him. He worships you like a curse. And when the war ends, you’ll still be dripping with the spoils.
wc: 4.3k
a/n: the server watched 300: Rise of an Empire yesterday and it was, to put it mildly, a painfully bad boy movie we had to keep fast forwarding through. Anyway. With that said, I want Calisto to use me like a grecian fleshlight. You DO NOT need to watch the movie to read this fic. In fact, I actively discourage it. Protect yourself. Find a scene pack. Let me suffer so you don’t have to. This fic is filthy, unhinged, and 100% just about Calisto rearranging your guts like the good little war dog he is. Thank you to @vcmpbyt for the Calisto pic, this one's for you pookie <333
warnings: rough sex, breeding kink, degradation kink, spit kink, size kink, cockwarming, cum!play, possessiveness, dominant male, semi-public sex, light dubcon elements, power imbalance, fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), creampie, manhandling, wall sex, hair pulling, throat grabbing (non-choking), biting, marking, semi-historical inaccuracy, jealousy, obsession, sacrificial symbolism, violent tendencies, blood mention, minor knife!play reference, dark romance, emotional manipulation, territorial behavior, worship kink
likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
Masterlist
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The ride into the rebel camp is rough—stone roads giving way to dust and heat, your wrists bound in golden cuffs, your veil soaked through from sweat. Every hoofbeat feels like humiliation. You were promised diplomacy. A peace offering. Instead, you’re the fucking offering.
Your father said nothing when he sent you. No goodbye, no explanation. Just a quick nod to the guards who fastened your wrists and shoved you into a chariot like you were freight.
The Greeks don’t even try to hide the show of it all.
Trumpets blare as you approach the rebel stronghold, perched like a scar on the cliffside. Banners flutter—black cloth daubed with blood-red sigils. Smoke curls from braziers. Everywhere: sunburned men with soot on their skin and blood still on their weapons. The crowd parts, and your escort hauls you forward through the ring of bodies.
Then he appears.
Calisto.
The rebel champion.
He’s just dismounted, helmet under one arm, chestplate strapped over bare skin slick with blood and sweat and sand. Young. Broad-shouldered. Lean like a lion in the ribs, with a hunger in his eyes that says he wins not just to survive—but to feel alive doing it. A crowd cheers as he tosses his helmet into the dirt.
When he looks up and sees you, chained, veiled, and furious—his grin widens.
“Well, what’ve we got here?”
He circles you without ceremony. Doesn’t bow. Doesn’t address your station. Just drinks you in with slow, unabashed hunger, eyes moving over the sheer silk barely concealing the swell of your breasts, the gold adorning your throat, the furious set of your mouth.
He reaches out, brushes your veil aside, his fingers still tacky with blood. Tilts your chin up.
“Little Roman doll, dressed like a whore.” His voice is hoarse with battle, accent thick. “They send you to kneel or to bite?”
You spit in his face.
Gasps. Laughter.
Calisto doesn’t flinch. He just grins, slow and crooked.
“Oh, I like her.”
The general beside him laughs. “A gift, for your victories. Rome’s own daughter.”
Calisto eyes the man. “You serious?”
“She’s yours. Do what you like.”
A pause. Then—
He grabs your chain and jerks it forward, dragging you against his chest. You slam into his blood-wet armor, your breath knocked out, nose filled with the reek of iron, sweat, and male heat.
You hiss, “Don’t touch me.”
He leans close, breath hot against your ear. “Then don’t make it so fuckin’ fun.”
The stone chamber reeks of heat and oil and something sharp—metal left too long in the sun. His weapons rest on racks, pelts across the bed, flickering torchlight casting brutal shadows.
He shuts the door behind you.
You whirl. “If you think I’ll let you—”
“I don’t take what ain’t freely given,” he says simply, stripping off his armor one clasp at a time. His chest glistens. Bruises smear purple beneath his ribs, one knuckle still split open. His cock is hard already, straining against the leather.
He doesn’t touch you again. Just tosses his sweat-damp tunic your way.
“You sleep in that. That silk’s not for this place. Not for me.”
You don’t move.
He cocks his head. “You really wanna sleep in chains?”
You glare.
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
He lies back, resting his hands behind his head, smirking up at the ceiling like this is just another campfire story in the making.
So you turn your back.
And you strip.
Slowly. Deliberately. Letting him see. Because if he’s going to look, you want to control the gaze. You want to own the humiliation.
Your silk robe puddles at your ankles. Your bare skin prickles in the torchlight. You slip on the tunic—it smells like him, like salt and sweat and something wild.
You hear him sit up behind you.
“Fuck.”
You feel it in your stomach, low and hot.
You glance back.
He’s got his cock out now, thick and flushed in his grip, precum glinting in the firelight. His gaze never leaves you.
You freeze.
“Don’t stop,” he pants. “Let me look.”
And you do. You stand there and let him watch you in his clothes, lips parted, legs bare, arms folded over your chest—and you feel your own thighs grow slick.
He jerks his cock once, twice, then groans your name like a curse, like a prayer. Cum spills across his abs and he just breathes hard, looking ruined.
You don’t say a word.
You curl up on the stone cot by the wall. You keep your back to him.
But you can feel his eyes on you all night.
And before sleep takes you, you whisper—more to yourself than to him—
“You don’t look like a monster.”
A beat. Then:
“You don’t look like a soldier.”
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The next morning, he’s already up.
You wake in his bed—correction: on the cot against the wall, covered in nothing but his oversized tunic and your own shame. The stone beneath you is cold, but your skin is hot. Your thighs sticky. Your body betraying you with every throb of memory from the night before.
Across the room, Calisto crouches near the fire pit, shirtless, feeding it with splinters of dry wood. Sweat clings to the line of his spine, catching in the valleys of his scarred back. His muscles shift as he moves—fluid, unbothered, aware you’re watching.
He hasn’t said a word.
He doesn’t need to.
There’s dried cum on his stomach. He’s left it there like a trophy. Like a warning. And when he finally turns to face you, his green eyes drop to your thighs, your hips, your bare legs sprawled in his tunic. His gaze is fire and oil—slow, hungry, simmering.
“Sleep well, Roman?”
You sit up too quickly. “Go to hell.”
He smirks. “I live there, sweetheart.”
He tosses a chunk of bread your way. It lands beside you. You don’t touch it.
Instead, you watch him pull on his armor, strap by strap, every motion efficient. Bruises mar his ribs. There’s a cut over his brow from the last match. But he moves like a man with purpose. A man who doesn’t feel pain. Or maybe one who needs it.
He catches you staring and wipes his brow with the back of his hand, eyes glinting.
“You want something, little prize?”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’ll call you what I want,” he says, voice dropping lower. “You sleep in my room. You wear my clothes. You moan in your sleep.”
He steps closer. Your breath catches.
“And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”
You bolt upright, cheeks hot. “You came all over yourself like a dog. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, love.” His voice darkens. “You had everything to do with it.”
He stalks forward, slow, loose-hipped. Each step measured, deliberate. You don’t retreat—but your knees go soft. Your heart hammers in your chest.
He stops just short of touching you. So close, you can smell the sweat on his skin, the leather, the fire smoke and blood.
He tilts his head, studying your mouth. “You think you hate me.”
“I do hate you.”
He nods. “That why your thighs are clenched?”
Your breath stutters. Your eyes flick to the side. Mistake.
He hooks a finger under your chin and makes you look at him. “Tell me to stop.”
Silence.
He steps back.
Then he’s gone—just like that—leaving you furious, humiliated, wet, and alone.
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You sit at the edge of the arena, guarded by one of his men, watching him spar.
Calisto fights like a beast unchained—no hesitation, no wasted movement. His blade sings through the air, body taut with power, eyes never leaving his opponent. Every strike is meant to kill, even in practice. Every move reminds you that he is dangerous, violent, relentless.
He pins his opponent to the ground, blade at the man’s throat, and only when the man taps out does he rise—panting, gleaming with sweat, chest heaving.
Then he turns and looks straight at you.
He says something to a soldier and gestures.
A moment later, that soldier is bringing you a bowl of water and a cloth.
“From him,” he says.
You don’t want it.
But your throat is dry. And your legs still ache from pressing together too hard.
You take the bowl. You sip.
And from across the training pit, Calisto watches you drink like he’s the one being satisfied.
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The sun has dipped low by the time he returns.
You’re still in his chambers—where else would they let a Roman girl sleep? You haven’t asked to leave. Not once. You keep telling yourself it’s because there’s nowhere to go. But the truth tastes bitter behind your teeth.
You flinch when the door swings open. Not out of fear—out of tension, expectation, something dangerous blooming between your thighs. The fire’s been stoked. The air is thick and hot. And so is he.
Calisto stands in the doorway with the smug, breathless aura of a man who spent the last hour bleeding. There’s dirt on his neck, a long slice down his bicep, blood crusted under his nails. He wipes his face with his arm and says nothing as he steps inside.
You don’t move. Not even when he drops his weapons by the door and kicks them aside like trash. Not even when he starts unstrapping his armor.
But your heart pounds so loudly you swear it echoes off the stone.
He peels the chestplate off slowly. His tunic clings to his stomach, soaked in sweat. His muscles flex as he pulls it over his head, revealing bronze skin and bruised ribs and that hard, wiry body you’ve been pretending not to stare at all damn day.
You mean to insult him. You open your mouth with every intention of spitting something cruel, something proud.
Instead: “You’re hurt.”
He stops.
Then—like you said something sacred—he turns toward you slowly, eyes narrowed with something unreadable.
“So you do care.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No,” he agrees. “But your voice did.”
He steps closer. You stand. It’s stupid. He’s taller, broader, armed with every kind of advantage. But still, you meet him eye to eye.
“You think you’re clever,” you whisper.
He shrugs. “No. I think I want you.”
You freeze.
“I think I’ve wanted you since you spat in my face and called me a dog.” His voice drops, low and thick like the edge of a growl. “And I think you’ve been thinking about me ever since I filled my fist with cum watching you wear my shirt.”
Your lips part.
He reaches out. Not to grab you.
To touch.
A single knuckle grazes the corner of your mouth.
“Still not telling me to stop.”
And you snap.
You launch forward and shove him hard.
But it’s not strength you’re using—it’s desperation. He catches your wrist, spins you, slams your back against the wall with a thud that knocks the breath from your lungs.
You expect pain. But there’s none.
Only his chest pressed to yours. His breath against your throat. His thigh wedged between your legs.
Your lips are trembling.
His eyes fall to them.
“Last chance, Roman. Say stop.”
You say nothing.
He surges forward.
The kiss is not gentle. It is teeth and spit and punishment. It’s a war of lips and tongue, both of you grabbing and biting and panting. His hand fists your hair. Yours clutches his shoulder like you’re drowning. You gasp, and he growls, biting your bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth like he owns it.
He breaks the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours.
“I knew it,” he pants. “Knew you’d taste like surrender.”
“You haven’t won anything,” you whisper.
He smirks.
Then he drags you to the table.
He bends you forward over the stone like he’s preparing a sacrifice.
Your tunic rides up. You gasp as cold air licks your bare thighs.
He groans behind you. “Fuck. Look at you.”
You hear the rustle of his pants, the sound of a belt dropping, and then the hot, heavy weight of his cock dragging across your ass. He doesn’t rush. He runs it slowly between your cheeks, hissing through his teeth.
“Could split you in half with this,” he mutters. “Bet you’d let me.”
He leans over you, lips at your ear.
“I’m not gonna be gentle. You earned this. All that mouth. All that pride. Now take it.”
You whimper.
He spits between your thighs—warm and wet and obscene.
Then he presses the blunt head of his cock to your entrance.
You brace.
And then—
His cock pushes against your entrance—hot, hard, and unrelenting. It doesn’t matter how wet you are, how soaked his spit made you, how ready your body pretends to be. It still burns. Stretches. Forces you open like a blade splitting soft fruit.
You gasp, clutching at the cold stone beneath your palms.
Behind you, Calisto groans like he’s possessed.
“Fuck, you’re tight. Like your cunt’s never known a cock like mine.”
His hand grips your hip, fingers bruising, the other braced beside your head on the table as he inches in—slow, deliberate, savoring every inch like it’s a reward he earned in blood.
And maybe he did.
You’re whimpering before he’s halfway in. Not from pain—though there is that too—but from the sheer pressure. He’s thick. Long. Veins bulging, tip flared. You can feel him in your stomach already, and he isn’t even buried yet.
Your knees start to give out.
He notices.
“Stay up,” he pants. “You’re gonna take all of it. You’re gonna take me.”
He thrusts deeper.
You cry out, your back arching as the stretch hits something high and sharp inside you.
He doesn’t let you run.
He leans over your back, chest slick with sweat pressed to your spine, lips at your ear.
“Thought about this every fuckin’ night,” he growls. “Since they gave you to me. Since you stood there in that silk, mouth like sin, acting like you were better than me.”
He thrusts deeper.
You choke on a moan.
“Not better now, are you?” He’s grinding into you now, not even fucking yet—just pressing, as deep as your body will allow. “Not when I’ve got my cock in your belly.”
You sob something unintelligible.
He pulls back—slow and cruel—and then slams in.
Your scream echoes off the stone walls.
He curses. Loud. Filthy.
Then again. Again. Again.
He fucks you with purpose. With fury. With the kind of single-minded violence he brings to the battlefield—like your body is just another opponent to conquer. Your breasts slap against the table. Your thighs tremble. Every thrust punches a gasp from your throat.
But the worst part—the best part—is how good it feels.
How good he feels.
He pistons into you like a man starved, like every second inside you is air he hasn’t had in years.
And he doesn’t shut up.
“Feel that?” Slap. “That’s your prize, sweetheart.” Slap. “That’s what Rome traded away.”
Your legs are shaking.
He pulls out—suddenly.
You nearly sob at the loss.
He flips you.
Effortless. Like you weigh nothing.
Now you’re on your back, thighs spread wide over the cold table, tunic bunched at your waist, lips parted in shock. Your cunt is glistening, wrecked, twitching with need.
He stands between your legs, stroking his cock, eyes drinking you in.
“You look ruined,” he says, like it’s the highest compliment he’s ever given.
Then he grabs his cock at the base and slaps it against your clit—once, twice—until your hips jolt.
He lines up again.
Sinks in.
Deeper this time. The new angle splits you wider, hits something devastating inside you.
You scream.
He moans.
“Fuck, that’s it. Let me hear it. Let this whole fuckin’ camp hear how I make you sound.”
He drives into you hard, fast, no mercy now. His grip finds your throat, not squeezing—just holding. Claiming. His thumb presses under your chin, tilting your head so you have no choice but to look at him.
“You like this?” he snarls. “Like being fucked by the dog they gave you to?”
You nod, tears streaking your cheeks.
“Say it.”
“I—I like it.”
“Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, I’m yours, I—”
“Good girl.”
And then he spits in your mouth.
Your eyes go wide.
He groans, watching you choke on it.
“Swallow.”
You do.
“Fucking perfect.”
He doesn’t stop.
He reaches between you and rubs your clit, rough and fast and messy. The added stimulation sends lightning through your spine. Your cunt clenches hard around him.
“You gonna cum for me?” he pants. “Cum on my cock like the little whore they handed over?”
You try to hold back.
You fail.
You explode with a scream, your body spasming, walls tightening so violently around him he grunts your name and goes still.
Then—
Hot.
Thick.
He cums.
He cums deep, jerking inside you as he floods your cunt with pulse after pulse of warmth. You can feel it coating your walls, filling you up, dripping already.
He collapses over you, forehead resting against your collarbone.
Neither of you speak for a long time.
Just breath.
Just sweat.
Just heat.
Then, finally, he drags himself out of you, and you whimper again—not from pain. From loss.
He watches his cum spill from between your thighs, fingers lazily spreading your folds to watch it leak out. His eyes go dark.
“You’re gonna carry that,” he says. “You’re gonna walk around with me dripping out of you until I decide to fuck you again.”
You’re too wrecked to reply.
He leans in. Kisses your temple.
“Next time,” he murmurs, “I’ll do it slow.”
You sleep in his bed now.
Not just once. Not just curled up out of necessity. Always.
Every night, you end up tangled in his sheets—naked or half-naked, his cum still hot and thick between your thighs, his scent clinging to your skin like oil. His arm draped over your waist. One scarred hand cupped over your breast, thumb brushing the peak in lazy, possessive circles. His cock half-hard against your ass even in sleep.
You used to lie awake, tense and afraid.
Now?
You curl into his warmth.
You wake up aching and sore—his bruises on your thighs, your throat, the inside of your hips. Bite marks where he claimed you. A dozen little aches that should shame you but don’t. You wear them like a second skin.
And you know he likes seeing them.
He wants you marked.
He palms your throat in public now—not to choke, just to hold. Just to remind everyone that you belong to him. He does it when you’re sitting on his lap around the firepit, bare-legged in his tunic, feeding each other figs like you’re some newlywed couple in a back-alley wedding of blood and war.
He feeds you with his fingers—not like a man, like a beast. Pressing dates and olives to your lips until you open for him without thinking. Sometimes he pushes too deep. Smears it across your tongue and watches you swallow with your eyes low and your lashes heavy.
And when you suck one of his fingers clean—when you do it slow, letting your lips wrap around the knuckle, letting your tongue flick his skin—he twitches beneath you. Hard. Instantly. His cock swelling where it presses up beneath your thighs.
Sometimes he’ll lean in, lips brushing your ear, voice dark and low and sharp as a dagger’s edge:
"Be quiet. Cum for me, now. Right here."
And you do.
You shudder in his lap with your hand clenched in his tunic, your cunt clenching around nothing, your face buried in his neck as you try to keep quiet. And he pets you the whole time, murmuring filth in your ear.
"That’s my girl. Let them all see how easy I make you cum. No one else gets to touch you. No one else makes you this wet, this fucking perfect."
You should feel humiliated.
You feel holy.
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It happens at dusk, when the sky is bleeding orange across the cliffs.
A single Roman rider arrives on horseback—polished armor, imperial banners, stiff posture and tight jaw. The camp falls into an uneasy hush as the envoy dismounts and looks around like he’s smelling shit.
And then his eyes land on you.
Your bare legs. The bruises. The lovebites. The fact that you’re wrapped in Calisto’s cloak, sitting beside him by the fire.
He recognizes you instantly.
“Daughter of General Varro,” he sneers, spitting your father’s name like bile. “By all the gods. What have they done to you?”
Before you can open your mouth, Calisto rises.
Slow. Controlled. Every inch of him a coiled weapon.
Bare-chested. Scarred. Muscles gleaming with oil and sweat from training. No need for armor. The danger is built into his bones.
The envoy scoffs. “This is the man who took you?”
Calisto says nothing.
The envoy steps closer. “You disgust me. Do you think fucking a Roman woman makes you a man? Do you think rutting into her like a dog in heat earns you a crown?”
Still, Calisto says nothing.
But his nostrils flare. His jaw tightens. His hand curls into a fist at his side.
The envoy presses harder. “She’s a disgrace. A traitor. Just another wet hole in camp for some low-born mutt to fuck between battles.”
That’s it.
Calisto lunges without a word.
The envoy has just enough time to scream before he’s slammed into the dirt, Calisto’s fist cracking across his jaw with a sickening snap. His sword clatters to the ground. Blood sprays from his mouth. Calisto pins him down and draws his dagger.
You scramble to your feet. You shout his name. But it’s useless—Calisto is already on top of him, blade at his throat, body trembling with rage.
He doesn’t slit the envoy’s throat.
But he carves a long, red line down his cheek—a warning, not a kill. Blood spills freely.
“Say it again,” he growls. “I dare you.”
Later that night, he paces the room like a beast in a cage. He hasn’t touched you since the envoy incident. His chest still heaves. His eyes burn.
“I’m gonna get us both killed,” he mutters. “Should’ve never touched you. Should’ve let them take you back.”
You step forward.
And you kneel.
Right in front of him. Silently. Bare thighs to the stone floor. Eyes on his belt.
His breath stutters.
“What the fuck are you—”
You reach for his cock.
He doesn’t stop you.
“I don’t want your hands off me,” you whisper, lips brushing the underside of his shaft.
That’s all it takes.
He snaps.
He grabs you—hauls you to your feet, slams your mouth to his in a kiss so desperate it’s teeth and spit and heat. He bites your bottom lip, kisses you again, again, like he’s trying to eat you alive.
He tears your tunic over your head, growling when he sees the bruises he left on your breasts. He mouths each one, marking you deeper, sucking until you whimper.
He kicks his leathers off with no ceremony, hard cock springing free—already dripping.
He lifts you.
One hand under your ass. The other in your hair.
He pins you to the wall like a ragdoll, his body hot and solid and overwhelming.
He lines himself up and rubs the head of his cock through your folds, teasing your clit with lazy, cruel little circles. You cry out. He grins.
“Still soaked for me, huh?” He licks a stripe up your throat. “Little traitor. You love this.”
“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, I love it, I want it—”
He thrusts into you with no warning.
Your head hits the stone wall.
Your scream is guttural.
He groans, pressing in deep, grinding his hips as he buries himself to the hilt. You swear you can feel him in your stomach. He starts to fuck you hard—pistoning into you, holding you off the floor, your toes dangling, his cock hitting so deep it feels like he’s knocking something loose inside you.
“Gonna put a baby in you,” he snarls. “Gonna fuck you full of me. Stuff you so deep, so thick you won’t be able to hold it in.”
“Please,” you whimper, clutching his shoulders. “Breed me. Make it stick. I want it.”
“Say it again.”
“Breed me, Calisto. Make me yours forever.”
That’s it.
He fucks you harder—slamming, rutting, snarling your name like a curse. His eyes are wild. His hips brutal. He spits in your mouth again and watches you swallow with tears in your eyes.
He grabs your face.
Looks you dead in the eye.
And cums.
He buries himself deep, holds you still, and empties himself inside you with a raw, animal moan.
You feel it flood you. Feel it leak instantly. Feel it drip down your ass as he stays locked inside, panting into your neck.
And he won’t let go.
He keeps you there, trembling in his arms, both of you breathless, still joined.
“You’re not a prize,” he whispers, voice rough. “You’re a curse.”
He kisses you again. Soft, just once.
“And I’d die happy under it.”
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You stay.
By choice.
When the Romans retreat and the war shifts, when his camp becomes a city, you stay.
He builds you a home with his hands.
He fucks you every night like it’s the last time. Like he can’t get enough. Like he’s starving.
You ride him under the stars. He takes you in the river. Against the pillars of the forum they raise in his name. On his war table. On the dirt. On the throne.
And when you swell with his child, belly round and glowing, he falls to his knees and thanks the gods with his lips on your cunt.
You are his.
You always were.
And now?
Everyone knows it.
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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jack whimpering pathetically for you, good night ❤️
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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normalise being a teenage girl with an unhealthy obsession with the x reader tag
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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John moping around the house Wick is Pain (2025)
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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“Alright darlin what size pussy you wear”
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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giver (no woman like you)
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PAIRING: roy goode x fem!reader
WC: 8.2k
WARNINGS: mentions of parental issues, male violence, misogyny, guns/weapons, sexual insinuation, hunting/killing animals (for food), reader is stubborn and unaware, death, violence (shooting), drinking, pining/yearning, use of ‘whore’ for prostitute, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering, bath/shower sex, dirty talk, praise kink, riding (girl on top), nipple play, creampie, cute cuddling
A/N: well…this is it, everybody. big thank you to @spikedfearn for a discussion on how roy’s praise kink, @amaranthine-enihtnarama, @iceemochaa, @remmicks-salvation for the motivation to write, @fuckoffbard for literally everything, @confetti-cakemix and my lovelyyyy wifey @eternalstrigoii for beta reading! this fic is based off of this request, so thank you anon 😌 roy goode is my no. 1 jack role so this is long overdue! this takes place before godless, so no need to watch/know the show. please enjoy!
masterlist
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You had a habit of finding yourself in places where you didn't belong. As a child, it was your father grabbing you by the back of your frock after he found wandering near the library. "Girls don't need to concern themselves with books," he'd said. Didn't stop you from reading almost every one of them.
It was back in Courthill when he caught you watching the deputy's target practice.
“You should be courting the boys, not shooting at ‘em.”
So, it was no surprise that you found yourself as another lonely wanderer through the vast Western frontier. You’d slipped out the back door of his farmhouse that had never been a home. And considering there hadn’t been a single sign of a search for you in the past five years, clearly, you weren’t missed. Maybe you’d been presumed dead.
It was no matter to you now. Courthill was long behind you, and living on your own as a young woman in the West had taught more than your father ever had.
You’d done bad things, but no worse than any man. You’d killed, but no more than a woman’s survival called for.
Now, as you found yourself wandering in some forsaken town during the hottest month of the summer, you couldn’t help but remember your father’s words. There was no telling if you were even in Texas anymore. Your only possessions consisted of a sack swung over your shoulder carrying spare clothes and a canteen.
Your boots crunched the scorched dirt underneath you. This town wasn’t yours and you weren’t about to stroll around it like it was, but no matter how low you held your head, you felt the glare of cautious, watchful eyes.
It wasn’t everyday someone would see an alluring woman like you dressed in her father’s trousers—a few sizes too big—boots that were stuffed at the toe to fit, and a gambler hat faded by the sun. The most noticeable accessory was the silver pistol on your belt. But it wasn’t the stolen clothes that gave it away.
It was your hair. Uncut and hanging just above your waist. And the fact you hadn’t made an attempt to hide it under your hat showed you weren’t trying to be someone you weren’t.
You were just another runaway.
There were whispers, none of which you could make out, but enough to know you weren’t exactly welcome in this place.
You had to leave. Soon. But the next civilization wasn’t for another eight miles—too far to go on foot in this heat.
“Who is that?” A young boy asked his mother; she shushed him, and turned him away.
Like the sight of you was a walking sin.
The rim of your hat hid your eyes as you walked past them. A sharp turn to your right led you to another street lined with wooden buildings bent from the Western wind. This road was quieter and emptier; you preferred it that way.
Then, like a miracle, you heard the sound of a deep, throaty snort. Your gaze shifted to an alley between a small house and the telegraph office where a hitching post stood in the dirt. Tied to it was a black mare, standing strong despite the sun beaming down on her.
Bullseye.
You were careful not to make any sudden sounds as you approached the post. She shifted her weight, head hung low just like yours as steam faintly curled from her nostrils.
“Easy, girl,” you hold your hand out gently.
On her back was a worn leather saddle and two sacks hung over her hips. Braided reins wrapped around her snout. This one belonged to someone, and as a stranger to this town, you had no place in taking her.
A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, you thought to yourself.
Once you were close enough, you set your hand on her cheek, gently rubbing the soft fur with your thumb. “Long day?” You half-cooed, scratching underneath her chin. The mare snorted in response.
Looking over your shoulder to see that no one had noticed you yet, you began to sort through the sacks. An empty canteen. A couple of golden, shotgun shells. A stale, half-eaten piece of bread wrapped in cloth. A handful of silver dollars. You took the money, but everything else was nothing of value to you. You threw the sacks to the ground so the dust floated in the air like a cloudy sky you hadn’t seen in days. A bead of sweat dripped down your cheek as you hurriedly tied your own bag to the saddle, moving to undo the knot around the hitching post.
If your heart hadn’t been beating so hard that you could feel it in your eardrums, you might’ve heard the quiet footsteps behind you.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” a low, gentle voice called out to you.
You almost gasped, your fingers still fumbling with the reins. Turning on the heel of your boot, you noticed the figure at the end of the alley.
A man dressed in black half-smiled at you.
“Afternoon, sir.”
“Is there, uh,” he began to slowly approach you, and you readied yourself to pull the gun from your side. “something I can help you with?”
Perhaps he was just a kind man looking to help a random woman in trouble. But you didn’t plan on finding out.
“Oh, not at all,” you smiled warmly. “Thank you.”
You finished untying the knot of the reins, quick to get out of this town as soon as possible.
But before you could secure it in your hand, the man behind you clicked his tongue against his teeth. In almost an instant, the mare rushed to him, the reins slipping from your hands with a burning sensation. You hissed at the feeling and immediately pulled the pistol from your hip.
The horse stopped by his side. The man looked over to see your gun aimed directly at his chest for his heart.
Roy Goode had met a lot of strange people in his life. He’d been to a lot of strange places, and never had he met such a woman like you—standing in your stolen boots and holding your pistol at him; you could take his life in an instant, and he doesn’t doubt it. He takes the reins in his hands and twists it around his palm.
“Thieves don’t do too well here,” he said, though it didn’t feel like a threat.
Dust swirls in the space between you. “I didn’t know it was yours,” there’s an edge of defensiveness and even shame to your voice. “I’ve stolen worse from worse men.”
There’s a ghost of a smirk on his face. The man studies you for a moment and nods once. “That why you’re out here alone?”
If you had thought of something clever enough to say, you would’ve, but your mind draws a blank. You’re fixated on the pair of blue eyes watching you. Without noticing, you’ve lowered your weapon to your hips already.
“What’s your name?”
You glared at him for a moment. “And why should I tell you?”
He smiles. “It’d be kind, at the very least. Wanna know who I’m talking to.”
“(y/n). (l/n).”
The man nods. “Well, Miss (l/n), horses aren’t just toys to be stolen,” he says, gently petting the mare’s chin and running his fingers through her mane. “You want something that runs, you earn it.”
“And how would I do that?” You tilt your head.
The man mounts the horse with an impressive ease. He settles into the saddle like he’d been doing it his entire life. Now, the tilted smirk on his face widens. “Don’t suppose you’re any good with a rifle?”
You glance off in the distance for only a second.
You could bolt off right there and then. It’d probably earn you a bullet in the leg, but you were quicker than you looked.
Most men in the West would have shot you on the spot for messing with what was theirs. Not this one. You clicked your teeth at the realization that your options were severely outweighed.
Any good with a rifle? “Good enough.”
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Whoever this man was, he wasn’t completely with the law.
Yet, he didn’t seem to think himself above it. You nearly objected when he paid a rancher on the outskirts of town for a horse, saddle and all, but who were you to deny a gift? Besides, it had a lovely chestnut coat that you admired.
The town was far behind you as you slowed the horses’ galloping to a gentle stroll beside one another. To anyone who didn’t already know you, the two of you actually made quite a nice-looking pair.
Canyon walls surrounding you stood tall, practically glowing a golden rust in the late afternoon sun. Gravel and dirt crunched underneath the horse hooves; small songbirds gently chirped off in the distance; the dry air whistled a tune. The sweet music of the West.
Neither of you spoke much.
There was a polite “thank you” for the horse and a brief conversation about sunburn, but other than that, you were complete strangers. Perhaps it was a way of leaving the scenery undisturbed, or maybe it was that you didn’t have anything to say until one of you was sick of the silence.
Fortunately, he gave in first. “So what’s a young lady such as yourself doin’ in these parts?”
“I’m not a lady,” You had no qualms against this man, but a part of you scowled at him. It wasn’t the first time someone thought they’d figured you out because of what was between your legs. “And I’m from Courthill. Texas.”
He whistled. “You’re a long way from home.”
“How long?”
“About two weeks that way.” He pointed to the left.
For the past few days, you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint your location on a map if it was laid out in front of you. It was odd to think that home—a place you never wanted to see again—was so close yet so far.
He spoke again. “I don’t suppose you made the whole journey by foot.”
You scowled, turning your head so he wouldn’t notice it. As of now, he’d only shown you kindness. You couldn’t shake the stubborn, defensive barrier that came with being a woman on her own.
“I had a horse,” you shifted the reins in your hands to avoid a large rock in the path. “Couldn’t keep it fed, so I sold it to a woman who could. A Miss Alice Fletcher.”
A brief silence settled between you before he broke it.
“Surely, there’re ways for a- uh, woman to, uh,” he cut himself off, gently stumbling on his words. You knew damn well what he was going to say. “You know…”
“Do I look like a prostitute to you?”
If your hair had been tied up, or you’d worn a thicker jacket to cover up the curve of your chest, Roy would’ve fairly assumed you were a thieving, conniving, worn-down man like him. But you weren’t. And he enjoyed seeing you in pants rather than a skirt. He didn’t even try to picture the latter.
There was dirt on your cheek. Mud smudged over the knees of your slacks. A small, red scar on your collar bone.
“No, ma’am.”
Good. That’s that. You thought. But he spoke again, just above a mumble like it was only meant for himself.
“You’d make good money as one.”
You sighed. A spiteful grin on your face. “So, would you.” It was meant to be offensive, something degrading and sarcastic. He hardly took it as one.
“Why, thank you.” He perked. You shook your head at your lame insult.
Then, he motioned to the hat on your head and the boots on your feet. “So I’m guessin’ those ain’t yours?”
Well, you’d hoped it wasn’t noticeable that they were a size too big. Your eyes trailed across the scenery, an embarrassingly obvious way of forming a quick lie. “A farmer from Oklahoma gave them to me.”
Of course, he saw right through it. “That don’t look like a farmer’s hat to me.”
“I didn’t realize I was being interrogated.”
“You did try to steal my horse.”
Touché, unfortunately. Without a moment to spare—because you really didn’t feel like opening yourself up to this man—you changed the subject. “Why’d you bring me along?”
He cocked his head. “Is it my turn now?”
You ignored the smirk on his face.
With a shrug, he continued, “There’s a man I’m lookin’ for, lives down in Tucson.” That nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. You pulled back on the reins and he turned at your sudden halt in the path. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t even know who the hell you are,” you sighed. It might’ve been better to speak a little quieter in a valley where anyone could be hidden, but you weren’t exactly aiming for security. “Look, I appreciate the horse, and I’m sure it’s a lovely ride to Tucson. This has been fun and all, but I’ve got other matters to deal with. You can’t even tell me the man’s name and I’m supposed to shoot him down for you?”
He didn’t necessarily smile at you; his lips only tilted slightly. It was his eyes that looked amused at your sudden burst.
The world you lived in wasn’t kind to women who used their mouths. You’d learned that the hard way from your father first. There were plenty of men down the line who’d shown you as well, mostly with their fist to your cheek. You weren’t wrong to feel angry or misled, but you hadn’t meant to raise your voice with a stranger.
Maybe he’d shoot you right there. Leave you for dead in the middle of nowhere.
But there was no firm slap across your face nor the ringing of a gun piercing a bullet in your side.
Just the surprisingly gentle tone of his voice.
“Now, that’s a mighty fine stallion, so you’re welcome for the horse. And yes, it is a lovely ride to Tucson. I think you’ll enjoy it. I wouldn’t say this has been fun—is this what you consider fun?” You scowled. “But I enjoy the company. And seein’ that you’ve made no attempt to outrun or rob me—again—I don’t think you do have other matters to attend to.
“The man’s name is Les Moore. He’s a banker-turned-bandit. We’ve got unfinished business I don’t plan on disclosin’, but I do plan on shooting him myself. I simply need someone to watch my back. And my name is Roy.”
He paused again, but this time, it left a noticeable weight in the air.
“Roy Goode.”
You knew that name. There wasn’t a soul throughout the West that didn’t know that name. You’d heard it in folktales and stories around campfires, seen it written in thick, blank ink on wanted posters across a hundred different towns.
Even further, you knew that the man it belonged to had a certain friend you didn’t want any association with.
“If you’d like to go your own way, be my guest.” He continued. “But you don’t seem to know these parts and a lot of men stronger than you have died here. It’s up to you…ma’am.”
A long silence followed.
Your teeth dig into the inside of your cheek because, deep down, you know he’s right. And you hate being wrong. The two of you stood still in the middle of the canyon. Even your horse sighed with impatience, but Roy kindly awaited your response.
“Fuck,” you said under your breath.
Then loud enough for Roy to hear, “Fine. But know this, Roy Goode,” You clicked your heels against the stallion’s belly. “Ain’t no man in the West who’s stronger than me.”
Not a single bone in Roy’s body doubted it.
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“Careful, now.”
You clenched your jaw so visibly that Roy could see you were in no need of his advice. The rifle rested so comfortably in your hands, he had to wonder how many times you’d done this.
“I know how to shoot, Goode.”
“I believe you,” He dryly chuckled. “So take the shot.”
He had a point. It only pissed you off more. You shifted quietly enough that the small, dirt-colored rabbit off in the distance never noticed your presence. At this point, it would’ve been Roy’s voice that gave it away.
“Shut up,” you hissed.
With your left eye squeezed shut, you focused your sight on the rabbit. Not even your heart could beat hard enough to throw off your aim, but a gentle breeze blew a strand of hair into your face and ruined your line of vision.
“Let me do it,” Roy moved to take the pistol from his side before a shot rang from beside him.
The rabbit dropped to the ground with a gentle thud.
You grinned at your new partner in crime. “You were saying?”
An hour passed before the sun sat low in the sky, just above the line of the land, casting a golden hue across your surroundings. The rest of the sky was somehow an inky shade of black, illuminated with more stars than you’d ever seen in your life. Strange you thought to yourself. Embers from the small fire Roy had started with spare branches and weeds floated above you, glistening amongst the stars.
He watched you take the blade hidden in your belt, dragging it against the rabbit’s fur and pulling its skin from the meat. The women he knew would’ve gagged at the sight of blood or ran at the simple thought of killing an innocent animal.
But not you.
“Now, where’d you learn to do that?”
You chuckled, a faint smile coming to your face, at a memory. “I can’t go givin’ you all my secrets.”
There was something about you that knew survival. It was gritty and dark, and though he would never admit it, Roy ached to know more.
He hung the meat above the flames on a spit, gently twirling it so the skin had an even, roasted color all over. Your mouth watered at the sight of it. Once it was ready, the two of you ravaged it with desperate fingers like starving wolves. It was, in no way, a good meal. Dry and flavorless, and split between the two of you, one rabbit was hardly enough. But it was the first time in days that your stomach had been able to settle over anything.
“I lived off of lizards for a time,” Roy said once there were only bones left. The two of you wore soft, tired smiles that came with good food and good company. You’d licked your fingers clean and now used your leather sack as a make-shift pillow. “Can’t shoot the fuckers. I had to chase after them with a blade.”
You laughed softly. Roy enjoyed the way a smile—not a flashy, pretty one put on to appease the men around you, but a distant, reminiscent one—looked on you.
“I’ve been there. I was near Mexico when all I had were tree leaves and cactus meat. Boiled it with river water.” Roy hummed a chuckle. The horses, tied to a withered tree, shuffled nearby. You glanced over your shoulder at them. “I like to think they’re talking to each other.”
“They are,” he said, throwing the last of the bones into the dirt. “June’s got a lot of stories to tell him.”
For a brief moment, you thought it odd that he referred to the horses like they were the same as him—or that he was one of them.
You arched a brow, “You named her June?”
Roy could see that you were amused. “Thought it was pretty.” He almost shrugged.
You hummed in fairness. Glancing back at your horse, you realized it didn’t feel right to leave him nameless. And despite Roy having bought it, the stallion was yours. “Johnny.” You said plainly.
“Come again?”
“I’ll name him Johnny.”
Now you were talking like you were one of them too.
Roy wondered then who Johnny was to you. Or maybe it was someone from a past life. He gazed at the remains of the fire before glancing over at you.
Maybe it was the gentle light in the vast darkness, but there was a newfound softness in your face. He could see the tiniest of imperfections—small scars won in battle, a minuscule bump on your chin—of which most women would cover with powder.
But not you.
He’d seen beautiful women before. Plenty of them. And here you were, resting near the flickering fire and under the iridescent moonlight, forcing him to question if he’d ever really understood beauty before he saw you.
“Johnny and June.” He said out loud in thought.
You met his eyes, unaware of how long he’d been looking at you. “It has a nice ring.”
Roy nodded. “That it does.”
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Three days of riding had taken the two of you to a small town called Tombstone, just a day’s journey to Tucson. Roy’s name was known around here, but, thankfully, his face wasn’t.
With a pair of crinkled, ten-dollar bills, he reserved two separate rooms in a lodging above the general store. As he paid, the clerk didn’t miss her chance to shoot a half-confused, half-cautious glare your way. “Each room’s got a tub,” she noted, motioning to the smudged dirt on your cheek.
You gave her a tight smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Roy handed you a key and kept one for himself as the two of you scaled the stairs to the second floor. “Hungry at all?”
“You got the money for dinner?”
He shrugged, “Enough for more than rabbits and lizards.” You reached a long hallway. He pointed to the second to last door marked with a 6. “I think that’s your room there.”
“This says four,” you read the engraved number on the key. The correct door was only two away. Roy only hesitantly chuckled to himself. You glanced at his key, “And you’re three.”
“Right,” he said, awkwardly but gratefully nodding. He seemed to know numbers well enough when it came to money.
Without saying more, you started to fumble with the keyhole of your door. The lock clicked open before Roy spoke again. “There’s a saloon on the corner. Meet me there a little after the sun sets? Give you some time to rest up.”
You were surprised to instantly nod at his request. “Sure,” you smiled before you went your separate ways.
The room wasn’t much by anyone else’s standards, but it was more than you’d seen in weeks. A wire-framed bed with two quilts and an oil lamp sat to your right; a wardrobe for clothes you didn’t have stood tall in the corner. A metal basin in the other one. The windows were adorned with dusty lace curtains that filtered the sunlight into the room.
You locked the door behind you and tossed the sack on the ground, immediately collapsing onto the bed. The springs squeaked underneath your body, but the mattress was comfortable enough.
Better than rocks and dirt.
Before you let your eyes close, you watched the ceiling, noticing the slight cracks in it. They began to form a shape, soon morphing into a familiar face. Blue eyes that always seemed to gaze at you when you weren’t looking. A pair of soft lips that hardly ever smiled, but on the canvas of the ceiling, they did.
You laid on your side and forced your eyes shut.
But even in the darkness of your mind, a place of purgatory between dreams and wake, you saw him.
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When you woke, you swore you could feel something grazing your arm. But you turned over to see that you were still alone in the room. The sweet, golden light of day was gone now, replaced by the ghostly, glowing moon. A gentle hue of purple sat over the horizon.
It hadn’t been dark for long. You thought this while mentally praying you hadn’t kept Roy waiting too long.
You hurried to grab your hat and leave the room, rushing down the stairs and out the door. Just as he’d said, a saloon stood tall on the corner of the street. A few men grouped together with smoke curling from their mouths watched as you approached the entrance.
“Evening…ma’am,” they said hesitantly at your appearance. You only nodded.
With one step into the bar, you seemed to catch the attention of nearly everyone inside. You noticed then that there didn’t appear to be a single woman. Even the man at the piano stopped playing his song, only missing a beat before starting again.
Silence. Your boots clicked against the wood floor.
You glanced around the room for your traveling companion before a man with a thick beard approached you. His broad frame seemed to block you from entering further.
“Ma’am.” He grinned, revealing yellow teeth and two silver caps. His eyes drifted up and down your figure. “I think you may be in the wrong place. Sally’s cafe down the street doesn’t close for another hour.”
You tightly smiled back. “I assure you, sir, I’m in the right spot.”
You began to move forward again before his firm hand pressed itself over your stomach. The contact, unexpected and unwelcome, made you suddenly feel trapped.
“Good men don’t go puttin’ their hands on young women,” a voice said from behind you.
The man slowly dropped both his hand and his grin. You turned to see Roy standing just as he had back in that alley. He offered you a small smile.
“You with him?” The man sneered, glancing back and forth between you and Roy trying to discern the dynamic. You shook your head.
“He’s with me.”
As the man backed away, retreating to his spot at the bar with his friends, Roy’s footsteps halted at your side. He pulled out a chair from a table nearby and held his hand out like a gentleman. You kindly took the seat.
Roy sat across from you, placing his hat on the table. “Two whiskeys,” he ordered once a server came by. “What’s your finest meal?”
“I’ve got a beef and bean stew.” The server offered.
“Two of those,” you smiled. He turned away, leaving just you and Roy alone again.
And despite the other men in the room cautiously eyeing you, not a single soul seemed to exist then. The server returned with two glasses of whiskey before the bar guests called him back over.
“That happen anytime you go somewhere?” Roy asked with the whiskey at his lips.
You twirled your glass, careful not to spill a single drop. “For the most part,” you shrugged, though you don’t appear to be at all fazed from the gentle smile you wore. There was a distant, amused gleam in your eyes where Roy could see a thousand thoughts running in your mind.
“I don’t need saving, you should know,” you added a little quieter.
Roy wasn’t offended. Not at the very least, but he thought it odd that you hadn’t fully appreciated his incursion. Now that he considered it more, he would’ve liked to see you handle yourself.
“Well, I respect that,” he said. You nodded in gratitude and he blinked.
“You’re a respectable woman, Miss (l/n).”
Your body froze as whiskey hit your throat like flames. “What makes you say that?”
He gave a small shrug. “There aren’t many women out in the West who carry themselves with…strength.” He held his hand up defensively and chuckled. “I mean no offense, I think all women are respectable. More than any man, that’s for sure. Hell, my mother died when I was young, but I knew she was formidable.”
You knew that kind of pain. Your heart clenched, but your expression didn’t change.
“I guess, you somewhat remind me of that about her.”
You’d been complimented before, much more in regards to your looks, but there were many who’d commended your skills with a pistol or aptitude for words. No one had gone so far as to say you were formidable.
And deep down, you’d always considered yourself so.
But it was different to finally hear it from someone else. Someone other than your mind who could see you for what you were.
You knew you were strong. And Roy Goode knew it too.
“My mother died when I was young, as well,” you added. “Don’t remember her much, and my father didn’t like to talk about it.”
He studied you for a good moment. Then, knowingly, “You ran away?”
“As soon as I was eighteen,” you hummed. “Should’ve done it sooner. Woulda saved me a lot of trouble.”
The subject of parents was a risky place to go with someone like Roy Goode, but there wasn’t a bone in your body that was afraid of it. “What about you,” you amused. “Mama died and you come across Frank Griffin?”
His eyes snapped up to yours like a threat, but you weren’t afraid of him. At all.
“Everyone knows who Frank Griffin is,” you downed the rest of your drink. A little more would go to your head soon. “I’m not stupid.”
Then, Roy’s eyes softened.
“You can read,” was all he said.
“What?” Did he even hear you?
Roy quickly caught himself and shook his head. “Nothin’.”
The server returned to the side of the table and refilled your glasses. Once he was out of earshot, Roy rested his elbows on the table. “I met Frank when I was younger. He and his brother saved my life.”
You arched a brow. “Frank Griffin saved your life?”
“Careful, ma’am,” he finished his second glass in one gulp. “Don’t go sayin’ his name too many times, or you’ll summon someone worse than the devil.”
“Guess he can’t be too bad if you’re with him.”
Although you expected Roy to chuckle, or at the very least smile, at your comment, he didn’t. He instead thickly swallowed as if he’d suddenly gone nervous. You could see his knuckles tense.
It was maybe a miracle when the server then arrived with two steaming bowls of stew. The smell that it emanated was that of bitter salt and old potatoes, but as you dragged your spoon in it, it looked fine enough to consume. The two of you hesitantly and simultaneously took one mouthful before furrowing your brows in thought.
After a moment, you set the spoon down and shook your head.
Roy’s lips curled in disgust. “I think I almost prefer the rabbits and lizards.”
You instantly broke out into a synchronous chuckle, one that almost made your smiles reach your eyes. He tried to take another bite before swearing it was poison. A few other guests at the bar sent some questionable glares your way—your laughter was nearly louder than the piano.
But the two of you could hardly notice anyone else when you had the other right across the table.
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It was surely late enough to retire back to your rooms by the time you’d finished at the saloon, but the combination of your earlier rest and the whiskey running through your veins left you both awake.
The street lamps had been lit as the two of you strolled down the side, passing by the few townspeople who’d decided to enjoy the pleasant evening air.
For the first time in a while, it wasn’t blistering hot, even with the moon in the sky.
Your conversation from dinner hadn’t ended for a single moment during your walk. “You’re some kind of horse whisperer, then?” You asked after Roy had told you he ‘understood them’.
“Maybe I am,” he chuckled, hands lazily in his pockets. “Maybe we share the same kind of brain. I can hear them.”
You shook your head with a grin, the whiskey still hot in veins. “You’re something else,” you mumble. “You got June well-trained, I’ll say that.”
But Roy tutted. “It’s not ‘trained’—your first mistake.” You nodded for him to continue. “I respect her and she respects me. It’s a relationship.”
“She respects you?” You asked in amused disbelief.
He hummed. “It’s a balance, like an exchange.”
Though you can still sense the humor in your voice, you momentarily ponder that what Roy said was deeply beautiful. You’d never given it much thought, but riding a horse was much more than mounting it and yelling at it until it went.
Roy had a profound tenacity for kindness that you hadn’t encountered in very many, if not any, men. In a way, it puzzled you. He was a complicated, tangled string that became a fascinating image in all of its knots. You were vexed by it just like the constellations in the sky as the two of you gazed up at the end of the road.
“I do hope Heaven is real,” you say out loud. You didn’t actually mean to.
But Roy knew exactly what you meant.
“Me too,” he said softly, carefully shifting his gaze to you for only a moment—taking in how perfectly moonlight hit your skin, shadowing and highlighting all of the right parts.
You were the type of woman someone carried a picture of with them for the mere hope they’d see you again.
He looked down at his boots in the dirt. “Doubt I’d make it there.”
You turned to him. “You don’t think so?”
“Well, bad men seem to do well enough down here,” Roy smiled softly to himself. “I don’t think I know anyone who’d make it up there. Good, bad…I used to think there was a difference. It’s just two ends of the same spectrum.”
“And what about me?”
Roy looked at you then, almost puzzled. Bewildered. “What?”
“You said you don’t know anyone who’s good enough for heaven.” The slight tilt of your lips was more intoxicating than the whiskey. “What about me?”
Despite the burning in his pulse, Roy held himself back from saying what he wants: Wherever it is, I hope it’s with me.
Instead, he professed, “Well, you just might be an exception.”
And for the first time since you met Roy Goode, you let yourself feel the blood in your body rush to your heart. It moved to your cheeks, and you mentally thank God that it was too dark to see how red they’d turned.
But there were worse matters on hand than the flush on your face. It was the horrible ache between your legs that hadn’t been relieved in…too long.
“C’mon,” you mused. “We should get back before it’s too late.”
His bashful smirk matched your own.
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Roy’s eyes don’t pull from your figure for a single second as he follows you up the stairs…the sway of your hips with each step, how you glance over your shoulder to see if he’s close behind.
And each time you look, he’s exactly where you expect him to be.
The sound of your boots comes to a halt as you stop at the door marked four, your fingers brushing over the handle. Roy’s presence lingered behind you like a ghost.
“Today was a hot one,” he says quietly, as if anything too loud would have you running away. “Left me feelin’ grimy.”
Like you’d said: You weren’t stupid. “Best to wash it off, then.”
He nods back slowly with a soft smirk you haven’t seen him wear yet. You wonder then what it’ll be like to undress it.
You push the door open with a sudden ease from Roy’s weight pressed against you. His hand graces over your hip as he closes the door witht the heel of his boot. Once his touch becomes firmer—but still respectful—you speak again.
“You’ve helped me an awful lot these past few days.” You didn’t expect yourself to speak so softly. His other hand sets his hat on the side of the bed. “Buying me that horse, this room…”
In the corner, the large metal basin sits empty. Waiting.
“You treat every girl who robs you like this?”
A quiet chuckle comes from the depths of his chest. “Just this one.”
Your eyes glance at his, before drifting downwards to where your hand ghosts over his belt. A shaky, almost inaudible breath falls from his lips. “I almost feel like I owe you.”
“Oh, no,” he drawls. “Darlin’, you don’t owe me nothin’.”
He tilts your chin upwards so your eyes meet his again. You don’t even notice you’ve taken your bottom lip in between your teeth, and he nearly moans just at the sight of that.
“I’m a giver,” he says softly, his thumb dragging over your lip. The metal in his belt clanks as you fumble with the buckle.
He leans in even closer. “And I could give you something more.”
So close. Close enough that he can undo each button of your blouse, so slowly you swear he’s trying to make your skin crawl. Close enough that he can feel your lips brushing over the corner of his mouth.
It’s not an invitation. It’s a seal of approval.
And so with it, Roy lets his body move before his mind can stop him—not that it ever would. You mold so perfectly against his lips like he was made to kiss you and no one else. It’s warm and wet when he drags his tongue, brushing over your teeth and finding your own.
You’ve been kissed before, but never like this. Never so sweetly yet vigorously. He pulls your top from your shoulders and lets it fall to the ground, your trousers soon after. You toe your boots off before unbuttoning his own shirt.
He pulls from the kiss to drag his lips across your jaw, grazing over your neck.
“Been wonderin’ what was underneath all this.”.
“You like what you see?” You giggle.
He stands back, and you’re left vulnerable and naked. The air is cold without his touch. You almost feel unsure of yourself.
Then you realize he’s looking at you with the hunger of a starved wolf.
“Darlin’, I ain’t sayin’ I’m gonna ruin you—would never ruin you,” his chest rises and falls with a heavy, steadying breath. “But you just might beg me to.”
Your knees almost buckle. He moves to switch on the faucet to the tub, and you take the moment to appreciate the parts of him you can see. His belt hangs slightly open, the zipper of his jeans pulled halfway down.
You run your hand through the water once it reaches a high level in the tub.
“‘S perfect,” you hum, a warm smile on your face that soon disappears when Roy lifts you from your feet.
He sets you inside the tub, leaning over the edge. Cupping the water with his hands, he runs it over every inch of your body, making sure there isn’t a single dry spot apart from your face. When his fingers graze your skin, you shudder.
“Aren’t you gonna join me, Goode?” You ask with a tempting smile.
“Lady’s first.” He takes a soft rag by the side of the tub and lathers it with a citrus soap, rubbing it smoothly over your figure.
You sigh contently. “No point in washin’ the sin off me now if we’ll be making more later.”
Your eyes meet his. Temptation mounted his face with an alluring darkness settling over his eyes.
A pressure began to build in the space between your legs before you realized it was no phantom feeling, but instead Roy’s two digits submerged under the water. He’d dropped the towel in the water with his mind focused on something else now. His fingertips brushed over your pearl before completely pressing against it.
He acted as if there was no time to waste, setting a consistent, circular motion over your clit. Your eyelids fluttered close blissfully.
“Fuck,” Your brows knitted together, a soft, restrained curse fell from your lips.
Then, he pulled his hand away.
Your eyes shot open again to meet his. He warned, “Don’t hold back from me now, baby.”
You nod as he pressed a little harder against you. You swear his hand is made of iron—hot, smooth metal that knows just how to perfectly work the most beautiful sounds from you.
As you writhe in the water, eyes squeezed shut with your mouth gaped open, Roy’s eyes remain on you.
“Someone’s gonna hear you, honey,” he presses his forehead against your temple. “They don’t deserve to.”
You instinctively lean against him, grinding your hips into his hand. The pads of his fingers drift down to your puckering hole, but no more than that.
“Please, Roy,” your hand reaches out of the water to curve around the back of his head, pushing his mouth closer to yours.
He chuckles. “I told you, you’d be begging for me.”
Then, like he was trying to make you cry, he pulled away and rose to his feet so he towered over you. His bottom lip, swollen from your kisses, hung heavy and glistened with your drool as Roy’s hands pulled his belt from the loops. It fell to the ground with a loud clatter, his jeans following soon after.
You stood from the tub and reached for him, your hands drifting down to the last thing covering him from you. And once he was fully bare, the two of you stood still for a moment.
Shamelessly, you drifted your gaze down his body, taking in what it was like to see Roy Goode in all of his glory.
Glorious was the right way to put it, for sure.
He smiled as he watched you scan him before taking your lip in between your teeth again.
“C’m’here,” he says softly, taking your hand in his.
You stepped out of the tub, dripping water on the wood floor. It’d surely leak through to the ceiling above the poor woman downstairs.
Before you could say anything, Roy’s mouth landed on yours again, his fingers running through the dry roots of your hair.
“Can’t get enough of you.” His words came out muffled and broken through the kiss.
“It’s yours,” you say, placing your hands on his chest and breaking the kiss. A small, gentle push has him settling on the floor, and you’re quick to take your seat on top of him.
His eyes softly close when your folds envelope his cock with an insatiable warmth.
“I’m yours. From the moment you showed me,” you relax and feel his solid shaft right under that swollen pearl. “Kindness when I did you wrong.” Your fingers lace with his. “I’m all yours, Roy. So take it.”
His right hand lifts your hips the slightest bit, allowing him space to take his cock in his left hand. He strokes it gently with a tight fist. The tip of it bumps against your hole, and you can feel it leaking against you.
“You ain’t real,” he whispers, eyes focused on where you two touch. And in a moment, you become connected. “Are you?”
One swift move of his hips pushes his full length past your folds. Your jaw drops open, but it’s the overwhelming feeling of him splitting you open that leaves you surprisingly quiet.
Roy doesn’t seem happy at that. He juts his hips upwards at a different angle so a sweet yelp cuts through the air. “Fuck, that’s good,.” He pulls you so close that your flesh nearly melts around the bone. You’re putty in his hands. “Pretty cunt’s grippin’ me like a vice.”
Everytime Roy’s hips draw from you, only to vigorously push themselves into you again, you swear you see God.
The skin on your knees splits against the splinters of the floorboards. A pleasurable pain. You steady yourself with your hands on his chest.
“‘S my turn, now,” your words slur together, eyelids heavy from how sweetly the tip of him kisses your cervix. “Gotta give you something too.”
He doesn’t object. His hands settle like a loose weight over your hips as you start to move yourself. Your hips grind against him, letting his cock rub against every inch inside of you. The motion is too familiar. For a second, you swear you’re riding off into the sunset with heaven in your pocket.
Your eyelids flutter close when you begin to bounce. And though you can’t see it, Roy can. His chest under your hands lets out heavy breaths as he gazes at how you swallow his entire length like it’s nothing.
But he knows it’s not. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he feels his body go loose. He lets himself give in to you. “Ride it.”
Gravity pushes you down just for you to lift yourself back up again. Your tits bounce in the most mesmerizing way, and Roy’s hand reaches up to grab the flesh of them. His thumb rolls over your nipple.
“You’re beautiful,” he grunts out, bending his legs so you can rest your back against them. But your movements don’t stop.
And neither does the way Roy looks at you like you’re the only thing worth living for.
When you catch his eyes on you, you clench around his girth, pulling another sharp moan from him. Suddenly, his hips begin to meet yours in a pleasurable rhythm; the sounds of skin slapping, heavy breaths, and your delicate yet guttural moans make the most beautiful music.
“Don’t stop, sweetheart,” Roy pleads.
Your mouth curls, “Who’s begging now?”
He chuckles. A soft tension around his cock grows into a desperate need to finish off how good you feel around him.
“You got it, baby.” His drawl leaves your hips stuttering, and he can tell from how you’ve tightened around him, you’re feeling just the same as him. “Make yourself feel good on it, just like that. Wanna see you turn to pieces all over me.”
Suddenly, your head is too heavy to hold upright. It lulls back onto your shoulders, all of your energy going towards the way you ride him.
“You feel it? Gonna make a mess for me?”
You nod, rapidly and loosely.
“We’ll just have to clean you up all over again.” He mutters to himself, and you can hear the smirk on his face. It stays there even as his brows furrow together, a mixture of bliss and pressure.
You feel the pad of his thumb press against your clit again. You instantly break at the contact. He feels your orgasm wash over him, a lush shower of warmth that brings his own release.
It mixes together inside of you like the sunrise bleeding into the remainder of the night outside your window. It’d be illogical to sleep now, but you can’t find it within yourself to keep your eyes open as your cheek rests against Roy’s chest.
His hand lazily rubs over your spine. “S’pose Les Moore will have to wait to die another day,” he whispers.
You chuckle, “Don’t waste your bullets on that man. I’ll do it myself.”
Roy cocks his head. A few days ago, you would’ve protested at any mention of doing his bidding. And here you were, now, ready to make yourself a wanted woman.
There were many women he’d slept with. Many women who’d opened their doors, shared their beds, held him in their arms. Many women who’d sing him to sleep thinking it’d make him maybe even love them.
And sure, he’d been with whores. He’d paid good money to see fine women dance like there was no God above. Maybe even paid them off enough so they wouldn’t have to suffer under any more men with a heavy fist.
Many women who’d liked the color of his eyes. Who’d gasped and shuddered at the sound of his name. Who’d fawned over the sight of him.
But never a woman like you.
He tells himself to remember that forever as he carries you to the bed.
You’ll wash in the morning he thinks when he pulls the covers to your chin. And when Roy moves to draw his own bath, he hears your tired voice from behind.
“Don’t go,” you call out to him.
He hums. “I’m only right here, darlin’.”
Your eyes are closed shut, lost in a dimension between sleep and wake. “Here,” you say softly, motioning to the spot in the bed next to you.
He ignores the sheer layer of sweat clinging to his skin. He ignores that there’s still dirt in his hair from earlier in the day. He ignores the grimy feeling underneath his nails and the ache in his feet. Roy carries himself to the side of the bed.
The sheets are cool against his skin as he takes the spot beside you. Then, he feels the warmth of your arm draped over his chest. He stills.
“You never held a woman, Roy Goode?” you tease with a tired smile.
“Sure, I have,” he says. “First time it’s felt right, though.”
You move your head so he can tuck his arm underneath it. He feels your soft, mindless clouds of breath against his skin.
This is it he thinks. Heaven.
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© faestunna 2025.
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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how I read the most toe-curling, spine-shattering, nerve-wrecking, nastiest smut ever written in this god forsaken app
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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Fuck cringe culture, i fucking Love x reader fanfics
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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Me after reading the most mouth watering, Coochie drenching , finger licking, toe curling fanfic ever
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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hi! can you please write about some smut with Jacob black please xx
hey sure ! hope you enjoy :)
burning blue - jacob black x reader
He was genuine. Maybe that’s what drew you to him.
Maybe it was the fact that he went out of his way to make sure that you were good. Good in every aspect possible.
Both chests rose as you both reached to the small red house. Running through the doorway, you both let out a noise of amusement as rain has caught you both.
“Gross.” You laugh a bit as Jacob shakes his head, water flying from his hair.
“It’s not that wet.”
“Well, I am.”
You both snicker.
You look down and slightly tug on the hem of your shirt with a slight frown.
“Look at my shirt.”
“I’m looking.” He lets you know.
It was supposed to be a hot day, a baby tee was snug on your chest but the rain made your nipples stick out like a sore thumb.
You turn after you look up at his heated gaze, it made your face hot. You go in the direction of his bedroom, noticing that the house is much quieter than usual.
You peel off the damp shirt and through the mirror in his room, you could see him following you in, closing the door right behind him. He's now right behind you as he tilts his head and leans down to plant an open mouth kiss on the nape of your neck.
With a shy smile, you then gasp before you felt his hot hands cup your chest, you lean your head back against him as the sensation could never get old. He massaged them as he grinned behind you, your hips couldn't be still. A soft sigh escaped your lips before he swiftly took off your bottoms.
He turns you around and the deranged look of lust made your heart do jumping jacks. You crush your lips to his, pouring out all of the passion and love that you had for him. Not only did he keep up, he started to make you feel like you were drowning in his kisses. You didn't want to come back up for air.
He lifts you, legs hiked to his waist before he lays you down without breaking apart from your lips. You pant loudly when he finally does. He does so to take it your nipple, one at a time while he circled his tongue to stimulate it after sucking on it.
You groan as his mouth on your chest felt so good, you were once cold from the damp clothes but you were already so warmed up.
You blink your eyes open as he then takes his hand and peel your underwear. He ducked and took you into his mouth. The moist noises of his mouth on your center was lewd and erotic, it sounded like music to your ears. His own soft groans hit your ears and you arch more into his mouth, your hips waved rhythmically as his tongue made sure to stimulate your sensitive nub. Your legs that was being held down by him, trembled.
You felt like you were losing your mind, your moans were loud and even had a stutter as you fisted his hair. He made out with the second set of lips, you turn your head to the side as moaned out uncontrollably, even moaning out gibberish as his hands massaged your chest while he ate and licked at you.
He lets up after you shook out once again. You kissed him through the sparks of stars.
He takes your hand and make you cup him. He groaned as you do so. Next thing you know, his hardened flesh was staring right back at you, he looked so hard it looked to have hurt.
He was kneeing the bed as he looked down at you, he steals pillows from the top of the bed, stacking them before laying your lower body upon them. He settles back in between your open legs as he held them open. Without having to use his hands, he rubbed his flesh on your moist center as soft moans echoed out in the room.
You hear the wet noises of him gliding against you, his own groans made you wetter. He continued to do that until your face crumbled, you just wanted him inside of you. He moved his heavy penis away before ducking down again, taking you into his mouth.
You moaned out his name with more passion, your hips waved and grind as you couldn't take it. You shook out as you fisted the sheets and comforter at your side.
Another orgasm ripped through you and he finally let up, he steals your lips and you both sensually and slowly kiss.
"I'm sorry, you just..Really taste really good."
A tired chuckle escaped, "It's okay...I just want you inside of me. To take all of me."
It was the permission he needed before doing before, rubbing himself against you before slowly dipping in you. He held your ankles with his strong hands. Slowly, your body adjusted to taking him in. Goosebmps, butterflies, and tingles assaulted you by how deep he was. He slowly waved his hips forward, reaching deep in you as he gave you strong strokes.
You didnt recognize the erotic moans that left your lips. You hold onto his strong biceps as you felt the slight prickles of his pubic hairs against your private as he continued to reach you.
You arch a bit and you sigh out a yes as he slowly picked up the pace, a deep pit in your stomach violently hit you as the bed softly creaked under you two. You both moaned out in sync, his movements in his hips were tight and right as you heard the soft sound of skin meeting over and over.
Your legs twitched and shook as you felt the tingles deep in your face all the way down to your toes. He groaned loudly before pulling out. He was still jetted out and a small thin layer of white liquid was coated on him, it was from your orgasm. He then lays down on his back, tugging your arm to follow him. You leave up off of the pillows as you slowly climb your naked body on him.
Lips meet again as he guided himself in you, you heavily breathe out as you slowly sink all the way down to him. You whispered out his name when you were deeply seated. His hands rubbed soothingly up and down your back before gripping your bottom. Your hips waved forward as you groan.
Your body moved forward as you let your chest be flat on his. You ride him sensually as you both moaned out, he felt so huge and he was so deep. You circled your hips as you pleasured both him and you, his hands never left your bottom. Your hips got weak from the orgasm that was threatening to rip through you so he worked his hips, continuing the oncoming sensation. You fist the sheets that was by his head as he wrapped both arms around you and drilled into you. You moaned loudly as the orgasm rippled through your entire body. He lifts you from him and hurriedly lays you down on your back. He held himself between your open legs as he emptied himself on you. You both were panting as you both looked at his warm semen.
In the shower, the moans that came from your lips echoed in the bathroom. The sound of the shower spraying tried to muffle your moans.
He held you to him as he bounced you on him, your arms around his shoulders.
Dressed in a pair of his boxers and a large t shirt of his, you use your sore legs to walk to him. He promised to make you something to eat.
Jacob switched the stove on, the flame burning blue. The blue flame reminded you of him. The healthy fire that you two had. You hug him from behind, your cheek pressed against his back while your hands were planted on the front of his body.
"I love you."
"I love you too, honey."
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wolverflesh · 2 months ago
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Im tired of the girls being silenced.
Go ahead and say the most craziest things about your favorite characters.
DONT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT WHAT OTHERS THINK AND SAY ABOUT IT.
I love it when people say the most unhinged shit ever.
GO CRAZY
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wolverflesh · 3 months ago
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The way I melt for this man. 😩
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wolverflesh · 3 months ago
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not arguing with a vampire with cute fangs and big, round eyes. whatever you say, beautiful
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