caskethrill

[caskethrill]

the big bad wolf ꩜

pairing: landlord! bucky barnes x f!reader 

summary: your doting landlord shows up in the middle of a thunderstorm with nowhere else to go. you’re oblivious to his advances and he can only be so patient… so, he takes matters into his own hands. 

warnings: age gap, non-consent / dubious consent, manipulation, stalking, drugging, video-recording without consent, pussy pronouns, dumbification, degradation, spitting

word count: 4.6k

authors note: this is messy and rushed please forgive me i just had to get it out of my system. i will edit this tomorrow … maybe. this is purely for me. thxxx <33

18+ content. minors do not interact!

gif !

drip… drip… drip… 

the droplets had slowed to a steady rhythm, plopping into the silver bucket with a trying slap. yet again, water bloomed from the peak of your wooden roof. while the downpour of rain might’ve sounded awfully relaxing, the idea of giving your landlord a reason to say i told you so was not.

“you sure you don’t want me to put some reinforcements on that old leak?” bucky asked for the second time earlier that afternoon, his calloused hand coming down heavy on the bed of his beloved, beaten ford ranger— a 1960s relic. you had to wonder how long it had been in his family with how the mahogany paint had started to chip in long, thin metal scratches. “y’know you won’t be able to get off of the mountain once the storm hits.” 

perhaps he was just trying to be amiable— an unassuming, bearish old man looking out for the little girl in the middle of the woods all by herself. he did always compare you to his daughter, after all; you were the same age, it’s only natural he should look out for you. however, you’d stopped asking questions once you realized his answers were always suspiciously vague. something about the aloof glint in his eye perturbed you. 

he wasn’t what you would expect in a landlord. gruff-looking; deep tissue scars littered the small patches of tan skin that he couldn’t conceal, with lips always pressed together in a firm, downturned line. the crease between his brows never relinquished. he would surely wrinkle soon, you thought.

it was neglected, enshrouded by vibrant trees and perpetual winding roads. you drank in the fresh air like water, cold and crisp with each gulp. the cabin itself left a charming impression, with crater-sized holes in the foundation and boarded-up windows. he encouraged you to look past the suspiciously red, wet spatter on the wood-burning stove. you suppose it was your fault for answering the faceless kijiji profile with one single listing, but what other choice did you have with an obnoxious snack-stealer of a roommate and shoeboxes listed at twice your monthly salary. the disjointed tour bucky gave you was followed up with a deal he knew you couldn’t turn down. 

“seven-fifty is all i can ask.” your ears perked up like a stupid, naive dog, and bucky knew he had you; kennelled and all. you were far younger than what he was anticipating; a pretty little thing he bargained would be harder to sell on the shithole, especially after he’d sniped the service drop. bucky would break the news to you with a sympathetic smile. once you’d signed the lease, of course.

“the ad said a thousand.”

“even once i fix it up, i don’t think it would be fair.” unlike your father taught you, you took the first offer. 

you shook his hand then; cold and stiff, even through the leather glove. it swallowed yours with a tight, mechanical squeeze and you realized then that the sheer size of him should make you feel imperilled; a foot taller than you, wide enough to nearly breach the front doorway and biceps so defined you could see them under a battered henley and a thick wool jacket. 

you were labelling boxes the next night and unpacking them a week later. just as bucky promised, your new home looked good as new with smooth maple floors and a spotless wood-burning stove. you didn’t see much of him after he handed over the keys. even when he did drop by, he’d only murmur out a few pleasantries at most. 

it took you a month to realize that you didn’t have access to the seedy shed out back. you mentioned the padlock the next time he stopped in to mow the lawn, and the best he could come up with is that he’d lost it years ago. 

“my bad, sweetheart,” bucky slanted his head with a sympathetic curl of his lips. “i’ll come back next week with some bolt cutters, yeah? i’ll get it cleaned out for you, too.” he gave you a pat on the shoulder as he slipped past you. even after cutting the fresh grass, he always smelled of iron and sweat. his touch inspired a roiling in your gut that couldn’t possibly be distinguished between dread or amatory butterflies.

the first time you made the trek down to the nearest payphone to call for his help was about that pesky leak of yours. you could hear the smirk in his voice, and he must’ve carried it all the way to your house for it was just as prominent when you swung open the door. your smile was sheepish as you led him to scene you’d been whining about; in the middle of your bedroom, conveniently enough. it smelled sweetly of you, with tightly tucked sheets and eerily organized delicious details of your everyday life. bucky suddenly felt guilty for muddying it up with his big boots and unwieldy latter. 

you were mousy; restless and awkward at his feet. you twiddled with your thumbs and resisted the agonizing itch to glance up your landlords shirt while he was oh-so vulnerable; arms outstretched with his head tilted back in a poor attempt to get a better view of what he was working with. you made it a total of four minutes before you instilled your wholehearted, blind trust into him. you shifted from your right foot to your left, squeaking out a pathetic excuse about a pie in the oven. it was only natural for him to wonder if you’d done all of this for him. 

when he was finished his work, bucky clapped his hands clean against his chest and followed the sharp, succulent scent that wafted down the hall from the kitchen. you invited him to stay for dinner— well, you didn’t have to ask with that frilly apron tied at your waist and that sweet strained smile. he welcomed himself to a seat, and so, you made him a plate. he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a home cooked meal— eighty years, at least. he patched up the inside, just for now, he explained between eager bites of food. he would have to wait for the supplies to fix the outside. you sent him home with a nicely wrapped container of leftovers, and he kept coming back like a hungry, stray dog.

bucky wanted to leave it at that— he really did, but he felt responsible for you. he didn’t plant the cameras for any reason beyond securing your safety. you slept with your bedroom window cracked open in nothing but a t-shirt. you constantly slammed your delicate limbs on pieces of furniture like a helpless fawn, crying yourself to sleep and painting on a pretty little smile for him the very next day. you were a young, unsullied girl all by herself, and he didn’t hold it against you that you didn’t trust him yet. if anything, he was glad you could be so clever. he was a big, strange man. he couldn’t possibly expect you to make the first move. 

on his way out after collecting july’s rent, he sliced a radiator hose under your hood, and then he waited. it took two days for his phone to ring; frightened and faint as you blubbered on about how you’d broken down on the side of the road. “i didn’t know who else to call.” you hiccuped. 

bucky’s balls grew heavier with each word. he told you to stay put, tone taut like a true sergeant. he found you fifteen minutes later alongside the nearby lake, and thirty minutes after that, your car was up and running. “it’s your lucky day, doll. i got a spare in the truck,” and then he was elbow-deep into your hood while you sat in the front seat, chewing on your nails. the job could’ve been done in ten, but you didn’t have any air conditioning in the meantime, and he liked to see you sweat. 

bucky wasn’t sure how he could be more imposing. of course, he’d pegged you as naïve, but first it was the leak, then it was your car. a month ago, he toyed with your water pressure valves. he removed the cylinder from your front door lock. he’d gotten so desperate that last week he pulled on a balaclava and broke your front window with his fist. christ, had you even noticed the missing panties?

“i’ll be okay, mr. barnes,” you promised your landlord as he climbed into his truck. the wooden shingles had been weighing down the bed for weeks, but as far as you knew they wouldn’t be arriving until after tonight. you surely wished otherwise once the thunderstorm started. now, not only would you have to drain the bucket in the middle of your bedroom each hour, but the constant stream of trickling was a tune that not even a clap of lightning or the rumble of thunder could wash out. you hauled yourself out to the living room, curled up on the couch where you ignore the peculiar human-like shadows and shapes that are embodied by the storm from your bay window. you screw your eyes shut, and just as you trick your brain into sleep, there’s a heavy knock on the door that sends your gut spiralling. 

the romance of spying on you through cameras had died; bucky needed to feel your pulse underneath his fingertips— or maybe he didn’t particularly like that he couldn’t see what you were doing once you’d left your bedroom. his vibranium fist fell hard against your front door. his patience was thinning, and just as he was about to fish out his copy of your key, the overly talkative door creaked open before him. 

bucky was barely illuminated by your piddling porch light, hugging himself in a hapless attempt to shield from the cold. his black hood served no purpose now with his hair and shoulders soaked. the way his biceps flexed gave you reason enough to step aside, but when he started to shiver, you ushered him in. the silk pyjama set you wore only fueled his mundane delusions. 

“i’m sorry,” he uttered with an apologetic grin. he stripped off his brown leather jacket, and then his hoodie. when he handed them off to you, his arm glinted. you tried not to stare. “i’m sure i startled you, kid. i was driving back home from the city and one of my tires popped.” 

like a good homemaker, you hung his wet clothes and led him into the common room. your soft blankets and plush pillows were littered all over the couch, invoking a bashful apology. you started an attempt that would surely fail; collecting them all, when you felt a cold hand stretch across your lower back. 

“s’okay,” he reassured you once you’d spun to face him. “i mean… i’ll need something to sleep with, too.” his voice was soft and repentant, grabbing one of the more modest blankets to toss on the ground. there was a roll of thunder, then he gestured to the couch. “that leak start again?” 

you nodded your head. a timid curl of your lips would’ve gone unnoticed by most, but not him. he hummed, and his expression said everything his lips didn’t; what did i say?

“do you drink tea?” you asked him. 

“black.” he answered. you disappeared like a well-trained animal to dance around your kitchen, leaves in tow. lightning came down once, and then again. the overhead light flickered, and then it was nothingness. now that the pot was done squealing, the cabin went silent enough to hear bucky’s steady breath from two rooms down. when you huffed, navigating your way through the void with two hot saucers, you heard his deep, throaty chuckle. 

“you got a match for this thing?” bucky asked, his disembodied voice coming from the direction of the wood-burning stove. you crouched down until the china clinked against the table, and then, jostled your hand forward into the unknown until your fingertips dragged across the cast iron grove you always left them in. nothing. your brows furrowed. 

“in the kitchen… i’ll be back.” you stumbled your way through the dark without calculation and with minimal damage; one stubbed toe and a hit to the radius. your smothered cries of pain didn’t fall on deaf ears, but bucky spared you the embarrassment when you returned. 

the only light in the entire cabin came from the fire that he fed from the stove. he took one end of the couch, and you claimed the other. however, the single cushion between the two of you didn’t serve as much of a barrier. while you sipped your tea, he asked you aimless questions. “were you born around here?” “oh, so no family nearby?” “that’s no good… must be lonely, all by yourself.” “you shouldn’t be up here alone.”

first, all of bucky’s words started to blend together, and then your head started to spin until it hit the back of the couch. you could feel the gentle thrum of his voice beat through your chest, and then his hot palm on your forehead. “you okay?”

bucky’s words escaped you. they were a distant echo while you grasped at the last straws of cognizance. paralysis seized your muscles and cold seeped into your bones. even if you wanted to panic, the most you could feel was the sick churn of your stomach. you blinked. 

“i didn’t know what else to do, baby girl.” bucky’s voice was slick with condescension— high-pitched and dejected like you’d given him no other choice. he was the prey and you were the beastly predator that had crowded him into a corner. your psyche falls further and further into a pit of disorient. 

“aw… s’okay. let it out.” his words came out in soft murmurs of pity, thick fingers carding through your soft strands of hair in some deranged essay at comfort. you hadn’t noticed that you’d begun to sob. 

“it’s not your fault. how’re you supposed t’know what’s good for you?” bucky sucked in a sigh this time. you felt helpless, specifically when his palm dwindled down to the delicate curve of your jaw. his thumb and forefinger locked around the hallow of your cheeks and squeezed. his digits whirl just below your ears, and you’re exceedingly aware that he could crush your skull like a grape.

“you just gotta understand that i’m looking out for you, yeah?” bucky chewed on each word. the veins in his neck were protruding enough to pop. the fire dances along his troubled expression— lips downturned and brows furrowed. 

“there are a hundred dirty fuckin’ bastards around here that could really take advantage of you, princess,“ there’s a soft drone to his voice now. his inflection was that of a disappointed father; bedevilled by an obligation to correct misbehaviour. this pained him.

“what would you do without me? hm?” it had been so many years since bucky had a warm, winsome body to touch. he might’ve been a victim to limerence; his idea of courting was clouded by a past of blood, guts and gore. tenderness was a skill to be learned and protection went against everything that had been etched into the deepest corners of his brain— but it was innate with you. he’d seen the dregs of society; he’d kill each one of them again, for you. 

what did you expect him to think when you twirled around in girlish dresses and baked him peach pie? you offered him drinks like a good housewife and fed him like a proper man. there was no other mark clearer to ask for his devotion. you were shy, and he didn’t mind making the first move. why else would you gaze up at him those toothsome doe eyes every time he stopped by? why else did you make such of a show of fingering yourself to no avail after he left? if bucky could get away with this, what would a truly nasty man do to you?

the gun you’d spotted in the denim of his front pocket two weeks ago and the foul smell from the shed he’d yet to clean out. you’d heard his whispered curses in russian and the mechanical creak of his left fist. his stare was vacant behind that beguiling smile of his. you often conspired about his past, but it all led to dead-ends. there was an orgy of evidence you’d chosen to ignore and you felt stupidly credulous. 

tendrils of false hope clawed up and into your chest when you trawled your hand just far enough to clench the saucer on the table. you clutched it with ferocious intention, it was just such a shame that you moved so sluggishly. there was a rowdy clap of thunder. 

bucky seized your feeble attempt at escape with a gentle squeeze of his hand and a stifled chuckle. he drove it into the cushion next to your head, cementing you into the couch. the yearn to fight emerged from the pit of your stomach and tore through your chest. you couldn’t move and he didn’t even have to try. 

“quit cryin’.” you were heaving, tears spilling over again. like a child needing to be pacified, he quickly silenced you with the pad of his thumb— heavy and thick and salty on your tongue. you sucked. “yeah… that shut you up real quick, didn’t it?” 

he drove the digit toward the back of your throat with a trying smile. he wasn’t satiated until you gagged, and then, he hooked it at the corner of your mouth. “girl like you shouldn’t be up on the mountain all alone, need a man to take care o’ya.” his words slipped out in an impassive murmur, all while he hunched over until his face was inches from yours. he tilted your chin with him, wet his lips, and poked out his tongue to swipe along the ridge of your own. the searing string of saliva tingled and burned.

until then, you’d been muzzled by fear; the loud blood pumping through your ears had silenced the ache between your legs and better yet, the surplus of anxious thoughts that gnawed at your composure, or lack-thereof. the smell of him engulfed you. 

“yeah? say yeah for me, baby,” you crumble with a whimper, followed by a “yes” that was cut short when drove his thumb into your jaw. like he wanted, it went slack. he was frenzied; forcing his taut tongue into your mouth, slow and wet until he was licking into you. you felt like the catch of the day, being devoured and ripped apart with hot, hungry hands. if only his jaw would unhinge and take you whole. 

the last of your vigour was used to kiss bucky back. he wasn’t ignorant to the pitiful twitch of your fingertips and toes— like the final aftershocks of life before you went limp. you were completely at his mercy. when he pulled away, your eyes said it all; wide and desperate. he reciprocated by dropping the heavy weight of himself between your hips so you could feel the tight strain of his stiff length in his dark denim jeans. you eyed him while he hallowed his cheeks out, collecting all of the spit in his mouth to empty into yours. one hand covered your lips while the other plugged your nose. your whine ignited a fire in his chest, while yours grew painfully tight without any choice but to swallow. so you do. 

“‘m doin’ ya a favour, doll. you’ll see.” bucky’s voice is gravelly. the pet names fall too naturally off of his lips for comfort. they shoot directly down your spine and into your panties in a way you swore was involuntary. you couldn’t help how your body responded, after all. 

“just wanted her to be nice and relaxed for me… that’s all.” his voice was a whisper this time as he dragged his lips down the tender flesh of your neck. he moved you like a lifeless doll; his large palms trailed over the swell of your ass, touch surprisingly gentle when he hauls your hips up and your sleep shorts down. your panties peel off of you with a slick, shamefully sticky sound. 

“stop!” your horror could only be punctuated by soft, unintelligible cries and ragged breathing. bucky chose to misunderstand you. he was possessed by his need— he couldn’t fall asleep at night without wondering how warm your body would be next to his or what your hair must smell like. now that he’d gotten a taste of the real thing, he wouldn’t be able to get his fill. the metal of his left hand was cool when he positioned your knees into your chest and pinned them in place. you felt exposed in a way you never had before. 

he prods you open then. without warning, curling inch by inch and bone by bone of the same finger you’d just lapped at. you don’t have the luxury of thoughts anymore— the hot stretch between your thighs is all-consuming. he scissors you open with his two front fingers. 

“oh,” bucky breathed out. your legs served as a barrier between the two of you; his grey v-neck flat against your calf, your cheek crushed into your knee. you bent to his every will, his hard bulge nestled nicely between the soft fat of your thighs. “what was that y’were sayin’? don’t want this?” the lewd squelch of his digits dipping into you were crawling up his spine and into his skull. it was hard not to split you open like a starved, hungry animal. 

“‘cause she’s just gushing, doll.” you were grateful he couldn’t see the way your face flushed, but he could sure feel how your hole stuttered. your stomach dipped and you let out a pathetic whine. 

it feels bearable in the beginning, and then, he’s knuckle deep in your cunt. his rhythm is slow but purposeful, as if to test the stretch of your delicate, pink insides. you were quiet in defiance, but you couldn’t control the tremble of your bottom lip. 

bucky took it as a challenge. his expectant eyes were trained exclusively on yours, refusing to break eye contact. the wading sounds filled the silence, hefty and rough fingertips kissing your cervix until you choked out a helpless moan. the itch to squirm or raise your hips for more couldn’t be satisfied. you wondered how it would feel it you could. 

your eyes were wet again, watching bucky tug himself free from the confines of the denim of his jeans. they hadn’t even made it half way down his thighs. for once, you stared. “pretty little girl up here all alone? what did y’think would happen, petal?”

you were heavy and pliant in his arms. his thighs were meaty and warm when they split your knees open wide enough to split your glistening, swollen seam and bully the thick base his cock inside that tight, molten hole of yours. it took a minute, but when he finally bottomed-out, a guttural moan sounded from bucky’s chest. the warmth of you sucked him in— unbridled. 

“yeah? feels good when you listen to me, doesn’t it?” that demeaning, drawn-out tone of his is harsh against your collarbone. he litters your skin in bruises, sure to remind you of tonight in the upcoming days. “just gotta let me fuck it out of you, m’kay?” his knees were driven into the couch, thrusts slow and restrained. “just gotta let it happen. it’ll feel good once i’m done, i promise.”

there was a flurry of emotion and drugs blinding you, but there was no denying the way his words made your core weep. your body betrayed you with a responsive whimper. his tip was burrowing into you, the underside of his shaft soothing the parts inside that ached most. 

“takin’ me like she was made to,” his fingertips dragged along the curve of your waist, up and into your hair where he locked your silky strands between his fists. he ruts into your heat with a steady rock of his hips. a pair of dog tags hung low on his neck, swinging like a pendulum with each abdomen-tensing curl of his groin. they jingle jeeringly above your face that contorts in forbidden pleasure.

bucky leans down nice and low for you, warm breath fanning over the shell of your ear. you can hear his smirk before he even speaks. “you’re even more compliant than i imagined.”

your eyes roll into the back of your head— from overstimulation or disgust, you weren’t so sure. what choice did you have? the laced tea still burned in the back of your throat, but you couldn’t swallow the moans. 

the cool vibranium of his hand goes unnoticed against the meat of your ass. more importantly, you could feel his fat sac coil up and into his body each time he stuffed you to the hilt. 

“just a warm set of holes, aren’t you?” the sound is obscene; the overflowing essence of you soaking the sheets each time he’s enveloped inside. you squeeze this time, and he shudders. his cock was a perfect fit. 

you don’t answer though. your eyes are faraway until he drags his fingers across your face in one swift slap. you’re brought to life with a feeble “don’t stop”. 

bucky would typically pride himself in his stamina, but he’d gone so long without a pretty girl in his life. he was depraved, and the way you looked up at him was enough to make him bust. fuck, he usually only made it halfway down the mountain before he had to pull over and fuck his hand to climax. 

“how could you keep this pretty pussy from me?” bucky’s voice was accusatory; breathless. the building pressure in your abdomen was decompressed when he tugged himself out and flipped you over. he caged you in from behind, hips digging into your ass while he coaxed his pulsing cock back inside of you. your neck was strangled by the weight of his bicep and forearm, while the cold vibranium of his left pinky ghosted along your clit that so desperately throbbed for attention. his chest heaved against your back, and you felt the curls at his groin wet with your slick. your weight rested between him and the couch. 

“s’okay, princess. just let it happen. y’know it’s gonna either way.” 

with drool pooling at the corner of your lips,  your cavern contracted in ways that took your breath away. you came with a soft cry, driving your hips back onto his with the little power you had. your toes even twitched, and bucky chuckled derisively in your ear. you were quickly engrossed with shame. 

bucky didn’t take long to follow— filling you with hot, long spurts of cum. while his muscles tightened, your vision became blurry. your hole pulsated and your thighs started to tremble. you could feel the warmth of him seep inside of your every niche. it took him a few minutes of ragged breathing and muscle spasms to unsheath, freeing the creamy seed of his that spilled out and onto your couch. your eyes were half-lidded, but your conscious was starting to waver. 

the storm had passed, and it was quiet apart from the seldom crackle from the fire. by the time you’d garnered up the will to move, he’d wrapped his arms around your torso. “i’m gonna take care of you. i’m not goin’ anywhere.” his voice was soft against the shell of your ear like it was supposed to be reassuring; it was a threat.

[caskethrill]

hi everybody. so clark kent

[caskethrill]

logan's got big hands so his girl must have big thighs i dont make the rules i just post what he tells me!

[caskethrill]

pls pls any smut with steve rogers!! i’m obsessed with ur writing, so maybe even an enemies to lovers with sort of a dark nomad era stevie? tysm <3 and totally ignore if not your thing!

i’m on it boss 🫡

[caskethrill]

chat should i continue this …

very old n long draft of carmen berzatto. nsfw under the cut :-)

you were unburdened by talent and high-strung— a baker by association and absolutely clueless in the kitchen.

“aren’t you supposed to be good at this?” richie would remark, evincing an expression that united both quizzical and concerned.

“i never said that.” you glared down at your massacre of fat, jagged chunks of carrot. gory evidence weighed tightly around your fingertips in the form of sticky, fabric bandages. you come from a family of professionally trained pastry chefs— you had been force-fed sweet spoonfuls of in doubt compotes and tested freshly-filled cream puffs your entire life. you didn’t know the first thing about julienne and chiffonade. what you did know it was too much to live up to.

“fuck off.” the bass of his voice is wired and terse— loud and directed at his cousin. but to you, carmy’s voice is tender.

“s’okay, chef. let me see.” an amused and benevolent grin splits his lips as he perches a set of scarred fingertips upon your elbow. your method of ‘attack’ on the ill-fated vegetable is adjusted and your slices are thin again. “just like that, chef.”

you needed this job. you were strapped for cash and employment rates were at an all-time-low but you were a hard-worker and a quick learner, or at least that’s what you had told carmen berzatto in an attempt to plead your case. you had stared hopefully up at him from the chair in his office, all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed. your pencil skirt was short and the kitchen was unbearable. he couldn’t say no.

“‘attagirl, chef.” “easier like that, huh, chef?” “you like that, chef?” “doing so good, chef.”

you needed this job— it was a mantra that needed repeating at least ten times a day. you needed this job… bad. he was your boss, and unfortunately, the star-crossed crushing of it all made it all the more enchanting. it took bloody palms and searing hot pans on sensitive, bare flesh in one day for him to provoke the insufferable desire. “such a clumsy girl,” he’d jeer, and you’d positively melt.

you’d laugh suspiciously hard at his jokes and he would ignore the alien crater in his gut each time you stood close enough for him to get a whiff of your fragrance— herbs and pepper and vanilla extract, but you, nonetheless. he’d comp you a meal on particularly demanding days and wave off the disembodied crowd of complaints about nepotism and threats of hr visits coming from the rest of the staff. you were his favourite, and it was no secret.

“you’re in today?”, “you’re still here?” or even "get a life, for fuckssake," were too phrases you heard too often. the latter was richie's favourite. you handed out your days off and picked up overtime in the name of ‘i miss him and wonder what he is doing and can't breathe right every time we are apart’. a great cause, in your opinion.

“you know i’m not paying you for this, chef.” carmy satirized one particular night, a lazy smirk hanging onto the corners of his lips. this particular night, graced by whatever gods or receiving all of your good karma in one single sum, you were the only two left at the restaurant, paint buckets resting by your feet. “i’m past due for a bit of charity.”

trepidatious silence led to a bottle of wine which led to too many questions. you were a chatty drunk and he was an especially assertive one. painting walls meant scooping globs of white onto his slacks and then him, dragging it across your shirt. the wine, and even maybe even the fumes, led to wrestling each other into a kiss, tossing your wet and gritty clothing to the floor. it all led to this unruly credence that is the control that carmen had on you. he spent many nights observing how malleable and pliant you were to his needs, to him.

it was dangerous for his ego.

it didn’t take barking an essay of a lecture or a spout of unsavoury words or even a snap of his fingers. it took a look— a simple glare that seethed ‘drop the attitude’. that was the thing about carmy; he didn’t have to rough you around to get his point across, he just liked to. that didn’t mean he wasn’t just as captivating when wallowing in fury— his big, taut arms would cross over his chest. he liked to rub his forehead with his large hands and comb threw his hair with his exceptionally thick fingers and you couldn’t help but soak threw your panties. in fact, it wasn’t a good day until carmy got worked up one way or another. he didn’t think the same of you.

you were too ardent for this kind of work— carmy knew it, richie knew it, the entire kitchen knew it.

“hi boss,” you sniffle at the end of a rather rowdy night. you find support in the doorframe of his office, shoulder smushed against the hardwood as you shot your senior a sad smile. your eyes were red and puffy. it was a wealth of chaos you had to get used to, and everyone had faith that you would.

“let me make it better.” carmy would call it a suggestion, but he was authoritative. your gaze was stupefied and watery with sweet, desperate tears. your head bobbed up and down sprightly.

“c’mon, big girl. use your words. we talked about this.”

“please, carm. make it better.”

he had you hoisted up onto his desk in no time, grip brawny on the undersides of your thighs, his weight heavy between your legs.

the ripple of his bicep each time he bullied his thick fingers into your slick walls went unmistaken by the tightness of his stark white t-shirt. you let out a long whine. carmen tuts, “you’re such a crybaby.”

his tongue was like molten, tracing the pulse of your neck, leaving behind a trail of his wet saliva. “s’okay, baby. you did such a good job today. i’m so proud of you.” the scent of mint chewing gum, cooking oil and cigarette smoke makes your brain short circuit, sputtering out helpless moans and whines. the sound was accompanied by of the tune of the desk being shoved into the weak drywall, cunt taking the brunt of abuse from his fist.

“repeat after me, m’kay?” his skilled and scarred fingers were stretching you wide. he didn’t have to fight to keep you still or use his weight to manoeuvre your legs open like he usually did— you welcomed the crippling pleasure you’d usually fight off and it made carmen practically shiver in realization. you finally learned how to take it like a good whore, he thought.

your boss dragged his nimble fingers in and out— gently tracing and prodding at the leaking hole. “i’m a good girl.”

[caskethrill]

older!logan, loss of virginity, kind of pervy!logan

dbf!logan who calls you ‘baby doll’ and brings you little gifts or treats making you grin from ear to ear and he lets you sit in his lap at the adults’ table

in the beginning, you don’t think of it too much, you see him as another paternal figure, and it’s all in good fun plus he’s really kind to you so it must be okay

until you get older and you grow shy when he’s just looking at you, complimenting your outfits, or the way you did your hair making you blush

logan picks up on your little crush and it makes him feel flattered and a little smug that a pretty, young thing like you would crush on an old man like him

“you’re not getting all grown up on me, are you, doll?” he’d ask as you were returning from a date, which your dad had mentioned was your first

you blush and shake your head as you mumble that, ‘it was no big deal, just a date’

and it really wasn’t because all you could think about while kissing your date was kissing him and feeling his hands sneak up your blouse

“you have your first kiss tonight?” he asks when your dad has gone to bed and he finds you outside on the porch as he’s leaving

you blush when he sits next to you and you look at him with expectant eyes and your bottom lip tucked between your teeth “wasn’t what I was hoping”

the older man smiles at you and shakes his head lightly “it’s not a good idea, baby doll” you pout “we could get in trouble”

“but don’t you think i’m pretty?” you ask and he takes in a deep breath as you scoot closer to him

contemplates how to resist you when your hand is rubbing on his thigh and you smell so good and you do look so pretty

next thing you know, he’s fucking you down onto his thick, hard cock on your girly, twin sized bed, one hand over your mouth as he watches you cry silently above him through your first orgasm

I am disgusted with myself😩😏

[caskethrill]

jigsaws

— surgeon! simon riley x resident! reader

angst. anxiety. panic attacks. neurosurgical procedures. medical setting. mean simon. d/s undertones. 3.3k wc

There's a reason no one likes working with him.

Tough. Censorious, or hard to please – whispered wearily by nurses with permanent distaste etched into their crow's feet. He scathes anyone not accustomed to his abrasive exterior; a talus pile of whetted rocks, poised to flay you open should you take the plunge so confidently. Rubs your skin raw, brutally worms his way into your flesh, infamously bars rescue, allowing only saltwater to cradle your open wounds in the aftermath. Nothing about his criticism is comforting, not in the way an attendant's support should be.

It sounds inflated. Excessive. Your intern year, you let the horror stories float you by as though they were nothing more than dust motes in an old room. To be expected, no? Hospital's are brutal for even the briefest of visitors, let alone a man who's worked here twenty years. In hindsight, you see that it's a type of discredit only the very fortunate can claim; inaugural residents and medical directors, those who do not have to deal with the virulent terror himself. You know better, now. Really.

Still, it feels as though you're being punished.

The air in the operating room is heavy. Clotted by a thick sense of unease. It's never like this, usually. Though the smell of burnt bone, blood, and remnant antiseptic is always a force to be reckoned with, you've gotten very good at shunning your nose for favour of your other senses. To tune into the vital monitor's beep, or the distinctions between this lump of amorphous tissue versus that lump of amorphous tissue. Reinterpreting them based on the plans you revised while scrubbing up, focused fingers around delicate tools prodding. Cutting.

Reliable perception is fine work. You've honed your personal ability the best you could.

The first lesson Dr. Riley teaches you, and rather gratuitously at that, is it takes just one person to throw it off kilter.

There's an impossible itch right where your mask hooks over your ears, latched nastily onto your scalp. Nothing you can address physically (sterility before comfort), though you're aware that its source isn't so easy as to scratch away. Figurative, then. An unwavering neg, pointed by a pair of cold eyes in your periphery. You're tempted to look up, throw off his stare with one of your own, but you think he wants you distracted.

So, you shift your weight and centre the electrocautery to another portion of abnormal growth. It comes apart like stale bread.

You haven't felt this micromanaged since medical school, when professors would loom over your shoulder and mark the clumsy way you sutured incisions shut. But where your grade had been on the line then, it's a person's life now. You seem to be the only one privy to that fact, or perhaps the one surgeon who cares.

Because Dr. Riley watches you over his wire-rimmed specs, grunting ambiguously under his breath like you can't hear him standing just a foot away. Maddening in that it's quiet, idle. To question it would be putting the burden of critique on yourself. To let it continue–

Sweat pools beneath your collar. The spotlights don't help, either, heat lamps on your roasting nerves, highlighting the wet sheen of your temple to whoever cares enough to notice (just him). Focus feels a vain pursuit, attention zeroing in and out of control. You're caught in the violent dance, swept away, water beneath your feet, between the operation and everything else. Everything else, like the ground that suddenly pushes too hard beneath you. The walls, stretching further and further away. There'd be nothing to catch you should you fall – a possibility that gains traction by the second, your vision spotting with exhaustion.

You almost lose it before a flash of green reels you back in.

It's instinctual. Entrenched response to a colour that only ever means one thing. Looking up at the neuronavigation, you watch as the silhouette of your apparatus veers dangerously close to the patient's motor cortex, highlighted in nausea-inducing neon for maximum visibility. Dr. Riley's presence darkens the space next to the screen, a point of singularity that consumes anything within its event horizon. Though it's the last thing you want to do, you coast a hesitant look over to him.

A surgical gown is meant to be ill-fitting. You find he fills the fabric in a manner antithetical to that design, shoulders stretching it tight across his neck, tree-trunk arms drawing tense pleats around his joints. Even his cap, wrapped smoothly around his forehead, ripples with every shift of his brow. Doubled-up gloves warped to the contours of his hands, thick fingers and knuckles. You watch the way they twitch, distorting the latex like a swift fish underwater, and swallow the stone lodged in your throat.

"I can't read your mind, Doctor." Your attendant snaps when you take too long to elaborate. His voice is rough, a sucking chest wound in the sterile air of the OR – too raw, natural in a way these halls don't see. You squirm uncomfortably in the force majeure. "What's the hold up?"

"Um-" You pull away from the glioblastoma, your patient's head remaining tightly in place by a positioning frame. "I'm concerned about resecting this part. It's all wound up in healthy tissue, right up against the motor cortex. A wrong move could cause permanent damage."

Dr. Riley doesn't move. Instead, his blank stare flicks down to the surgical site, digesting the truth for himself. The anesthesiologist beside you holds her breath. You wish you had it in you to do the same, but your lungs already wheeze for oxygen as it is.

Somewhere, dim and timid in the recesses of your mind, it occurs to you that this isn't normal. No attendant should actively foster an environment where help is punished, especially not while being paid a hefty salary to do exactly that. A dour attitude is one thing – everyone has their days – but you know nurses with greater burdens that boast smiles and little stickers on their ID badges, running on three hours sleep while dealing with bedpans and lewd comments all day. Your search for guidance, then, is certainly not the worst thing in the world.

(No matter how stern the look he gives you is.)

"You need to make a decision. Hesitation in the OR can be just as fatal."

Great load of good that does.

But it was to be expected. Pre-op, you sat down with him to discuss the acceptable margins, and got as much out of that conversation as you did this one. Review the imaging. You've been given the functional mapping for a reason. Never mind that it was standard procedure to check-in regardless; he handles you like you're a child playing dress-up, waving around tools too complex for your grubby hands to operate. Asking him anything is validating what he believes, like kindling wood into a roaring fire. Your mouth smacks to the taste of ash.

The discoloured mass growing off your patient's brain seems to glare back at you. Ugly, yellow, and stained in a coating of blood, severed from its sisters that now lay dead on an adjacent table. It kills you to let it stick, to progress to hemostasis with an increased risk of recurrence. Should this individual ever come in again, their pain would be on your hands – a real possibility you cannot reckon with, for all you know how devastating a toll it would have. The last time it happened, you promised yourself you would never allow it again.

(A mistake that even the greenest of medical students know not to make. Promises are null in this field. They'll blow out like bad tattoos, ink smudged under skin. Patients die, families grieve, doctor's bear the guilt – to fool anyone about it would be doing a greater disservice. Conciliation is not your job. It is not a duty you owe.

Not even to yourself.)

"I… I think we should stop here to avoid any potential issues." You resolve, lips pursed painfully tight. Your hands shake, bullet of emotion ricocheting within your ribs. Your nerves are shot, you tell yourself. It'll take time to compose them, time you don't have. Better to shelf this, then. You're doing the right thing by wrapping it neatly for another day, if that day should ever come.

Dr. Riley huffs.

Or, not.

"CUSA," He clips to the scrub nurse, who shakes as they place the tool into his impatient hand. It's all you can do to watch in horror as your attendant commandeers your case, addressing the portion of concern with offensive expertise. The activity on the neuronavigation doesn't so much as blink as he emulsifies the target tissue, tumored cells dissociating from the surrounding matter like butter.

And it isn't a learning opportunity – hardly anything at all when he washes the area in saline solution, manoeuvre over as quickly as it started. Instead, your attention sticks to the casual disrespect he felt was necessary. Snubbing your insight like it was dirt beneath his shoes, too competent to even address your error with words. Humiliation rips like a wave up your neck, washing your ears and cheeks in balmy warmth. Underneath it all, settled like wet sand on the shore, you find that it is not your bruised ego that's left, but rather a wilder, darker thing.

Shame at having failed him.

(How obnoxiously redundant.)

"Think you can manage the duraplasty, Doctor?" Derision distorts his expression into something crueller than his usual indifference. You hate to think it suits him.

"Yes."

It's only an hour later that you're granted the chance to break down.

After wound closure, scrubbing out and postoperative discussions with the patient's family, you think you'd have moved on. Things like this happen – it's what necessitates post-graduate training in the first place – and you're certainly not irredeemable for having faltered on the line. At least, that's what the logic delineates. It mutters its assurances like dogma in your head, insisting that because it is rational, it is right. Any other day, you would be inclined to listen to it.

But that's the thing about being strung out beyond measure. The only sentiment with teeth, sharp and stubborn, is anguish. Indignity. Self-turned anger. You replay the scene like something new will come of it, a silver lining or a divot to pin the blame in anything but yourself. The scalp staples back into place, the dressings wrapped tight. The hibiclens soap lathers up to your elbows, your skin itchy as it dries. The family is thankful, little tears dotting their eyes. The storm passes, waters rippling into quiet calm. And still–

In the wake of it all, you're irrevocably changed. Raw.

There's a little closet for occasions like these. You're relieved to find it empty, void of anything but rusted buckets and mildewed mops. It's a welcome crowd, certainly, borderline claustrophobic compared to the wide floors of the OR, and you sink to the floors within the tight, comforting embrace. Immediately, hot tears spring to your eyes, rabbit heart racing along hollowed ribs. Emotion rushes your throat, tumultuous and messy, piling half-formed grievances on top of one another until they form an intricate, prodigious beast.

Impossible to tackle, worse to tame.

Could you have done anything different?

Is there a reason why he hates you?

Are you cut out for this?

Is this worth never getting a good night's rest?

Do you deserve any of the opportunities you've been given?

Would they be better off in the hands of someone more competent?

No answer claims any. Unresolved, they wriggle underneath your flesh, feeding on the muscle keeping you intact. Tunnelling through your marrow, soft matter fattening them up. You feel as though you're shifting to accommodate them, anatomy morphing into an ugly sack of dermis and maggots. True reflection of a degraded conceit.

The dark, at least, remains omnipresent. Clean against your skin, or purifying, in some odd way. If there is no witness to your misery, then perhaps you can pretend it doesn't exist. That it doesn't affect you as much as it does, or how you won't be thinking of it during every case to come–

A knock rattles you out of your reasoning.

"Hey." Kyle's voice is soft on the other side of the door.

You make your best effort to wipe the wetness from your cheeks, warbling a quiet come in to your chief resident. Fluorescent light intercedes on your little sanctum, spotlighting your crumpled frame. The pitying grimace that twists his face is enough indication that you did not do a good job at hiding your affliction. You must look pathetic.

"We missed you at lunch."

"Wasn't hungry." You sniff, taking his hand to pull yourself up.

"That bad, huh?"

"Worse than you could've prepared me for."

He snickers. It alleviates some of the weight off your chest, this. Conversation to remind yourself that there is more to the world than your angst.

(Only some.)

"It'll get easier, I promise. He's harsher on the juniors."

"I think that's not for you to say. Tell me, has there ever been a superior who didn't absolutely adore you?" Your voice sobers to a close resemblance of Laswell's. "Good work on the diagnosis, Dr. Garrick. I'll admit, I wouldn't have caught that myself."

The man in question lightly shoves your arm, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Okay, hush. I get it. Still–"

"You don't have to do this, you know." You smile until it gets too much to sustain, then turn to gather your white coat from behind the front desk. The note of positivity his companionship brings is fickle. Appreciated, but not enough to balm the sore blisters of Dr. Riley's rebuff. That'll take the weekend, likely, holed up in your room with nothing but a cuppa and old How I Met Your Mother reruns. "I'm fine, really. I'd rather just continue about my rounds and forget he exists."

But Kyle sighs. Sighs, and bites his cheek in that same way he does when he has to deliver bad news to intakes.

You blanch. "Don't–"

"He came looking for you in the mess hall. Something about the report." The unsteady composure you've built within yourself immediately dissipates, as though it were nothing more than an absorbable stitch. "You know better than to skip out on post-op briefs."

Your voice is weak when you speak again. Breathless. "I'm sorry."

"I don't blame you, darl. But he wants to see you in his office, now." Kyle's face is sympathetic. It doesn't do you much good. "I'll cover your rounds in the meantime."

"Thanks."

And despite your true gratitude, the words ring as empty.

"Sit."

Like a marionette suspended on string, you do as you're told.

Dr. Riley's office is barren of any personal adornment, cast in the same austere template initially given to him. There's a leather couch tucked prim under the window, throw pillow flat on one end. A wire file organiser sits atop his desk, papers fighting for space between the flimsy bookmarks. Pens in a cup, a stapler by his keyboard. All ordinary, inconclusive belongings, that which you sift through like a ravenous creature, slobbering for clues at the life your attendant leads.

Ironically, the one thing that offers any inference is an empty photo frame, faced towards the rest of the room, away from him.

You don't like the uncomfortable feeling it inflicts.

"The family." He levels a bored look to you, that which hardens the longer you take to address his ambiguous question. In the harsh lights of the operating room, his eyes looked nearly black. Now, sunlight paints a clearer picture. Taupe and sepia, flecks of various browns brightened by the pale blue underline of his mask. "Doctor."

Floundering, you search for the clouded memory of your discussion with the patient's relatives. It ripples, faintly, between your revels in self-pity. If you needed any censure of your disordered priorities, that is surely enough.

(Funny how he continues to criticise you, even unintentionally.)

"Good. Hopeful. I told them you managed to resect the entire thing, and detailed the plan going forward." It's as though your hands are compelled to move by electric shock, charged full of destructive energy. You rub your face, twiddle your thumbs, scratch the armrests of your chair; trying any measure to defuse the bomb you feel ticking beneath your chest. "They give their thanks."

All the while, he remains steady before you.

A moment of tense silence clears. "I just submitted the operation report." He says, derailing the conversation to what you suspect has always been its purpose. "I mentioned your inability to close the surgery."

You damn near choke on your spit. He notices, of course, and raises a challenging brow.

"I- I'm sorry, but that isn't what... I was perfectly able to complete it." Your protest carries none of the strength you will it to. As is always the case around him, you're made to sound like a defiant student, instead. Pouting and stomping your foot, inflating your strict sense of justice to an occasion that does not call for it.

"Oh?" You know you're not crazy for thinking that way, either. He speaks in faux conciliatory tones, brows knitting together as his argument waters down to one he thinks you can digest. "Would you rather I have said you refused, then?"

You shake your head, staring down at your lap. You really, really don't want to be here. Is it worth it, then? To stand your ground when the worst that will come of his misstatement is an inquiry from above? The strength has long since left you. Now, it is a matter of bloodletting. Leeching the struggle before it festers into something greater, a malady you cannot control.

"No."

"Make up your mind, Doctor." He hums, grabbing a protein bar from his drawer before standing. He doesn't have to round his desk to tower over you, but he does. Heat radiates off him in waves, blushing your neck so that when you look up at him, owlish, your face flares with stockpiled fervor.

You wonder if it could be read as desire.

"You know best." Shutting down has never been so disencumbering. Acquiescence, upending an ivory flag with the knowledge that you don't have to bleed any longer.

His lashes flutter. When you blink, they seem closer than they were before.

"That's right." Dr. Riley practically fucking purrs, chest rumbling thoughtfully at your chosen response. A pressure settles between your legs, bloating desperately into that bundle of nerves that inhibits all reason. "So next time, if you have a problem with the way I do things, you'll address it to me directly instead of snivelling like a bloody prat. That way, maybe I'll explain it to you, too."

A nod is not enough.

"Yes, Dr. Riley."

He cocks his head, fiddling with the wrapping in his hands. His fingers are scarred, brutish, though they tear the foil with all the precision in the world. Your acceptance does not feel nearly as final, expectation thickening the space between you. The title startles to your tongue, then. Novel. Unsure. You haven't called anyone it since secondary. You do not know whether he'll take to it kindly at all.

"Yes, sir."

But his eyes crinkle at the corners, pleased, and it more than fills the hole he harrowed out from you earlier. Your reaction to the approval should be documented, given a name and listed somewhere on the DSM-5.

(Nothing about it feels healthy.)

"Good." He pushes off the edge of his desk, tapping a knuckle to your chin. Instinctively, you open your mouth. The protein bar fits between your teeth, pasty and dry, but his pulse vibrates near your lips and–

You bite down anyway.

(But oh, does it feel good.)

[caskethrill]

HI OMG I MISSED U

roma i missed u so bad

[caskethrill]

carmen berzatto soft!dom supremacy likeeee

he blows on your food to cool it down before he feeds it to you

he guides you with his (big, strong, manly) hand on your lower back as y'all go through crowds

if he tells you to sit down you're sat. duh.

if you're bent down to grab something from like under the table, he'll cover the corner of it with his hand so there's no risk of you hitting your head and getting hurt

[caskethrill]

omg hiii i just saw your post about returning to writing how exciting !! welcome back <3

i'm a big fan of "cowboy next door" and i'm curious if you've thought about continuing it? no pressure ofc :3

hiiii ! thank u so much … i’ve been missing it here

i definitely have thought about it ! however i was a dummy and deleted my outline n notes relating to the next chapter. i’m doing my best to rebuild and hopefully push out another chapter, but who knows. i’ll do my best ❤︎

[caskethrill]

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🐰ྀི ₊˚⊹ ❤︎ GUIDELINES !

18+ content. minors do not interact!

do not request self harm or eating disorder related topics. i will not write for real people. do not spam me with the same request or hound me on releasing works. it ruins it for me and makes it much less likely that you’ll ever see it.

i write for . . .

𐙚 outerbanks : rafe cameron, jj maybank

𐙚 marvel : logan howlett, tony stark, steve rogers, bucky barnes, loki laufeyson, frank castle, matt murdock, frank castle, marc spector

𐙚 star wars : din djarin, anakin skywalker

𐙚 hunger games : peeta mellark, finnick odair

𐙚 call of duty : john price, simon riley

𐙚 miscellaneous : luke castellan, bruce wayne, dexter morgan, agent whiskey, joel miller, javier peña, carmen berzatto

if you’d like to request but are unsure, don’t be afraid to ask :)

[caskethrill]

Pity Party.

Synopsis - Carmy just wants to see you treated the way he thinks you deserve. He decides to take matters into his own hands.

Pairing - Carmen Berzatto x Female Roommate Reader

Word Count - 3k

Warnings - smut. cursing. alcohol mention. carmys filthy mouth.

Age Rating - 18+

Author's Note - hello hello hello!! i am back!! i had a wonderful vacation soaking up the sun, and i am feeling refreshed and ready to go. i have had so many ideas over the past few weeks, so i'm excited to get some of them written asap!! this was a fic that came to me randomly, as i was thinking about roommate!carmen and how much of a menace he'd be if you ever talked about other guys. this was written as a part of my carmen roommates collection. it doesn't follow on from Finders, Keepers or Sweet Dreams, but it does exist in the same universe - so you can decide if this takes place before or after!! as always, feel free to send me any ideas or thoughts or burning desires you have. so much love <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

Series Masterlist. Masterlist. Inbox.

"You're back early."

Carmy had swung the door open, expecting to come home to an empty apartment. Instead, he's met with the sight of you, sitting on the couch, undoing the straps of your shoes.

"Fuckin' disaster," you mutter, loud enough for him to hear.

He breathes out a chuckle at the stormy look on your face. Carmy thinks you're cutest when you're angry. He aches to smooth the crease between your brows with his thumb.

"That bad?" he asks, taking a seat next you and kicking off his sneakers.

"You wouldn't even believe."

He rises and makes his way to the kitchen, filling the tea kettle and placing it on the stove top. Grabbing two mugs, he casts a glance over his shoulder at you, frowning at your body language. You look defeated.

Carmy steeps two cups of tea, placing one of them carefully into your waiting hands. He resumes his seat on the sofa, pressing his thigh against yours and turning to face you.

"You wanna talk about it?"

You think for a moment before replying.

"You're gonna laugh at me."

His face instantly crumples, confusion written all over it.

"I'll never laugh at you. I'll laugh with you, sure. But never at you."

He nudges your shoulder with his, urging you to go on.

"Okay, fine. The actual date was pretty good. He took me to that Italian place downtown-"

"Dolce Vita? Did you get the truffle pasta I told you about?" Carmy interrupts you before you can continue.

"Yes, oh my God. It was incredible. Do you think you can recreate it sometime?"

"Fuck yeah. They're pretty secretive with their recipes, but I think I can figure it out. You can help me if you want - I'm gonna need a sous chef."

He pulls a reluctant laugh from you, the sound echoing off the ceramic of your mugs. You both know that being the sous chef involves you sitting on the counter drinking wine while Carmy does all the work.

"Of course. I'll always be your sous chef."

"I'll hold you to that."

You smile at him gently, a little taken aback by the sincerity in his voice.

"Anyway. The dinner went great. He seemed super interested in me, asked me questions, told me about his job, his hobbies, his dog. He was hot, and good to talk to. I thought I'd hit the jackpot."

"And then?"

"And then we went back to his apartment. And it all went to shit."

He chuckles, blue eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"Tell me more."

"You really want to hear about all of this?"

It's not like you and Carmy aren't close. You absolutely are. It's just that there's always been this unspoken connection between the two of you. A bubbling, fiery attraction that you both shut down repeatedly, screwing the lid on tight whenever it rears its head. So, you tend to avoid talking to Carmy about dating. You're scared you'll accidentally blurt out the truth - you compare every single date to him.

"Of course I do."

His answer is so genuine it makes you ache. You continue, hesitantly.

"Well... things got a little... heavy. He wasn't a bad kisser, I guess... he just wasn't... a good one? He kept biting my lip super hard and it kinda hurt. Then he pulled my clothes off like a high schooler, and he's on top of me, and I'm waiting for him to sort of... do... anything? And then he's finished. Like, completely done. And then he has the nerve to ask me if I finished."

Carmy's mouth has fallen open, shock etched across his face. After a long, heavy pause, he speaks.

"What the fuck?"

You look at him for moment, before bursting into contagious laughter. He joins you, both of you with your heads thrown back, giggles reverberating around the lowlit room.

"I mean, seriously," he pants, still laughing. "What the fuck?"

"I didn't even answer him. I just put my clothes on, grabbed my bag and left without saying a word."

Every time you try to stifle your laughter, a giggle escapes. The situation wasn't funny at the time, but looking back, it's hilarious.

All of a sudden, you both go silent. You're deep in thought, reflecting on the seemingly never ending stream of bad dates that you've endured. Carmy is watching you intently, ocean blue eyes glued to your face.

"Fuck," you breathe. "This is kinda pathetic."

Carmy inhales deeply, and turns his body so it's facing yours on the couch.

"The way I see it," he begins, "you have two options."

You quirk a brow in confusion and stay quiet, waiting for him to explain.

"You can sit here feeling sorry for yourself, or, you can let me fuck you the way you deserve."

Your mouth falls open in shock at the exact same moment your brain seems to shut down. You can't think. You can't process his words. All you can focus on is the way he's staring at you. You suddenly feel hot under his gaze, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up. A shiver runs down your spine, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

"Wh-... what?" you choke out.

"You heard me, honey. You can wallow in your little pity party, or you can let me show you what it's like to be with someone who can actually make you come. Your choice."

His voice has dropped an octave lower than usual, the tone warm and honeyed. He's still staring at you, blue gaze unrelenting.

"Is this gonna fuck everything up between us?" you whisper hesitantly.

Carmy reaches out and places a gentle hand on your cheek, thumb stroking careful circles into your skin.

"I don't think anything can fuck up what we have," he murmurs. "You're the only thing in my life that makes sense."

His confession seems to sober you up, the honesty in his words snapping you back to your senses.

"Okay."

He almost does a double take at the sureness in your voice.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Put your money where your mouth is, Carmen."

"There she is," he chuckles. "You scared me when you went quiet for a second there."

"Well, if what you say is true, you're not gonna be able to shut me up for the night."

He laughs darkly, and slides closer to you slightly.

"Oh, honey. You're gonna wish you hadn't said that."

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, tracing the journey of your neck with his fingertips. He rests his hand lightly at the base of your throat, the heavy weight of it making you pant.

"If there's any point where you don't like something, or you want me to slow down, just say so. Okay?"

You nod your head, entranced by the sudden dominance he's displaying. You've never seen this side of him before. You can't believe he's been hiding it this whole time.

"Words, pretty. Need to hear you say it."

"Yes. I understand. I'll tell you, I promise."

He doesn't say anything in reply, just smirks. He lets you sit in the silence for a moment too long, the anticipation slowly killing you.

"Please, Carmen," you breathe. "Please."

"Fuck," he groans, shuffling closer to you. "You sound so pretty when you beg."

Carmy leans in and kisses your cheek gently, testing the waters. He presses a kiss to your other cheek, and pulls back to watch for your reaction. When he's happy, he tilts forward and leaves a careful kiss on your chin, then your forehead, then both of your closed eyes, before kissing you on the side of your mouth. His closeness makes you whine, desperate for him to give you what you want.

Finally, he connects his lips to yours, starting off slow and tender. When you tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and try to pull him even closer, his resolve snaps. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, exploring eagerly. You clamber over him and climb into his lap, straddling his hips and pressing yourself into his body.

Carmy can't decide where to put his hands. He's grabbing at your waist, running his fingers up your back, pulling you into him by your ass. You're both groaning into each others mouths, enraptured by the other person and the all consuming way they kiss.

"Can I take this off?" he asks lowly, pulling at the hem of your dress.

Instead of answering, you pull it over your head, throwing it onto the floor in front of you.

"Fuck," he murmurs. "Most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

His hands are roaming all of your exposed skin, as if he can't get enough. He's terrified he won't ever get to see you like this again, so he's not going to waste a second.

You grind your hips down into his, eliciting a groan from the both of you. His hands tighten their grip on your waist, as he leans up to press open mouthed kisses to your jaw. Your fingers fly to the hem of his t shirt, pulling it off swiftly. You manage to shove his jeans down and off, before attempting to pull off his underwear. Carmy stops you in your tracks.

"Nuh uh," he tuts. "This is about you. Not me."

He pulls you off his lap gently and shuffles so his back is resting against the couch cushions. He spreads his legs wide, and gestures for you to sit between them. When you don't move, he looks at you carefully.

"Give me a color, pretty girl."

You take a deep breath, and smile at him softly.

"Green, Carmen. Promise."

You manoeuvre sideways, so you can place yourself with your back to his chest. He wraps his arms around you for a moment and holds you tightly, as if he's scared you'll disappear any second. You relax into his embrace, all the tension leaving your body. You have nothing to worry about. It's just you and Carmen, in the place you call home.

You drop your head back into Carmy's shoulder, and allow yourself to get lost in the feeling of his hands on your skin. He's begun tracing patterns down your arms, your sides, your stomach, until he reaches your underwear. He plays with the band, dipping his finger underneath in a feather light touch. Goose bumps rise across your body and you shiver, practically vibrating with need.

"Carmen," you whisper. "Don't tease."

"But that's half the fun," he murmurs into your ear, and you can hear the smile in his voice.

You can picture it perfectly, too. The way his eyes crinkle, the way his mouth curves, the way he bites his lip to stifle it. The image in your mind makes you melt into him further. You want to be as close to him as you physically can be. You'd completely disappear into him if you could.

He brings you back to reality by cupping you over your underwear, groaning when he feels the saturated material.

"Oh, pretty girl. Is this all for me? Fuck."

Suddenly, his game of teasing has lost all its fun. Carmy twists his fingers into your underwear and pulls them off in one swift movement, throwing them in the general direction of your dress on the floor. He places a hand on each of your thighs and spreads them apart, hooking them over his legs.

Carmy starts off slow, careful. He caresses over your skin, gentle and almost apprehensive. When he gets to your core, he swipes a finger through, testing the waters. When you buck your hips into his hand, he knows you're both on the same page.

"Just relax, okay? Gonna make you feel good."

His deep, smooth, whiskey like voice is doing nothing to help the heat bubbling in your stomach. You only whine in response, wiggling your hips to urge him to keep going.

Carmy throws one arm around your stomach, keeping you plastered to his body. You can feel him hot and hard against your back, and you so desperately want to feel him that your mouth is watering. You grind back into him, and he reads your mind.

"Not yet," he whispers. "This is about you, remember? Need to show you what you've been missing."

With that, he circles your clit with two fingers, slowly but surely. He revels in the noises you elicit. They're making him dizzy, disorientated. He never thought he'd be the one to pull a sound like that from you. He's quite convinced he's dreaming.

"Let me hear you. Don't hold back on me, okay?"

You nod your head frantically, willing to give him whatever he asks if you get what you want.

Carmy slips a finger into you slowly, moaning under his breath at your warmth. When he thinks you're ready, he adds a second finger, and sets a steady rhythm, trying to figure out what you like.

After he's set his pace, he starts to curl his fingers on the up stroke, grinning to himself when he finds the spot.

"Yeah? Right there? That's it, isn't it?"

You're nodding and shaking and pawing at his forearms, trying to tether yourself to reality in any way you can. You think you might be floating, on cloud 9, in some sort of euphoric trance. You can't believe no one's ever made you feel like this before. You're convinced no one ever will again.

Carmy quickens his pace and basks in the glory of your moans. He thinks this might be the most beautiful you've ever looked, spread out completely for him. Every inch of your skin is touching his, and it makes his heart skip a beat for a second.

He presses a kiss into your hair and keeps his mouth there, murmuring honeyed praises into your ear.

"Doin' so good for me."

"You got it, honey, that's it."

"Atta girl. Keep going. Almost there."

"You look so fuckin' pretty like this. Fuck. Gonna be thinking about this forever."

"I'll ruin you, baby. Nothing's ever gonna compare to this, to what we have."

All you can do is moan in response, his filthy words pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You're almost there, but something is stopping you. You whine in frustration, tears welling in your eyes. Carmy feels the tension suddenly grasp your muscles, and leans down to mutter to you softly.

"What is it, sweet girl? What do you need? Just tell me. Anything, and I'll give it to you."

You're not sure how much you trust your voice right now, so you decide to show him instead. You take the hand that he's using to hold you to him and move it up your body until it's resting against your throat. You tighten your fingers around his, and moan in response to the pressure.

"Oh, baby," he coos. "Filthy fuckin' girl. Here I thought you were so innocent, and this whole time you wanted to be choked like a whore?"

The way he degrades you so lovingly makes you mewl. You'd never ever trust anyone else to speak to you this way in such an intimate moment - but with Carmen, there's no hesitation. You know he's just telling you what you need to hear in the heat of the moment. And you love him for it.

"Fuck, Carmen," you manage to choke out. "Keep going. Don't stop, please."

"I'll do anything you want if you keep saying my name like that," he whispers.

"Carmen," you moan in response. "Carmy Carmy Carmy Carmy Carmy."

You're chanting his name like a prayer. He's rutting into your back, hips grinding and circling in time with his fingers that are maintaining their steady rhythm. His fingers tighten around your throat as he crooks his digits just right, and the result is a devastating moan from you that Carmy wishes to have on repeat for the rest of his life.

"So close," you whisper hoarsely. "Harder."

Carmy uses his thumb to circle your clit with one hand, other hand pulling you by your neck back into him tightly. He grinds his hips dirtily into you, and the feeling of him so silky and warm against you is what sends you over the edge. The corners of your vision go white as you arch into him, head thrown backwards into his chest. The sounds you're making are so melodic, so borderline angelic that Carmy almost cries. Heaven, he thinks. This is salvation.

Carmy finishes with you, climaxing onto the soft skin of your back. You both relax simultaneously, chests heaving and panting. He removes his fingers gently and wraps both arms around you, pulling you into him tightly despite the mess. He reaches to brush the hair out of your face, and the gesture is so tender it makes your lip quiver.

"Thank you," you whisper after what feels like hours of comfortable silence.

"Sorry I called you a whore," he murmurs back.

You let out a surprised laugh, vibrating with amusement in his arms.

"I know you didn't mean it."

"I mean I did give you the best orgasm of your life, so... call it even?"

"You're forgiven," you chuckle. "Completely forgiven."

You trace gentle patterns over his forearms with your fingertips, following the black ink of his tattoos. He sighs in contentment and places a kiss into your hair, relaxing further into the couch.

You sit together like that for a while, neither of you too concerned with the time. It's not often you see Carmy so relaxed, so serene. You're enjoying it for as long as you can.

"We should clean up," he says quietly, eventually. "Sorry about the mess."

"It's okay. Worth it," you tease, pinching his thigh. He pinches your side in retaliation, which makes you jump.

"Come on, trouble."

He stands from the couch, never letting go of the grip he has on you. You have no choice but to stand with him, yelping as he half carries you through the apartment towards the shower.

The sounds of both of your laughter bounce off of the abandoned mugs of tea still sat on the coffee table, melodic and joyous. The moonlight seeps through the windows, illuminating the beginning of something special in the living room of your shared apartment.

[caskethrill]

hiiiii <3 okay so I am here on my knees begging please give a hint as to when/if you’ll post the next part of cowboy next door ? 😭 sorry !!! it is just honestly my favourite fic and I think about/reread it more than I would like to admit 🫣 and I just rewatched golden circle and I am !!!! needing whiskey lol but anyway !!!! sorry if this is weird or anything ! I hope you’re doing well and I hope you have enjoyed the first episode of tlou hehe <3

don’t apologize it isn’t weird whatsoever! i’m flattered u enjoy it so much! this inspired me to get working on the series again ☹️ i am hoping that i will get the next chapter posted within the next two weeks! everything is planned, i just have to put pen to paper

[caskethrill]

i just read cowboy next door and LORD🛐🛐🛐 cant wait for the next update hopefully 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹 literally being so edged rn but take ur time anyways!!

thank u! i’m so happy u enjoyed. hopefully ur happy to hear i’m working on the next chapter as we speak and i’m confident it’ll be posted soon :-)

[caskethrill]

thinkin about how u were genuinely the first blog i followed on here. the REASON i made my account, pls.

UR LYING

[caskethrill]

u take dexter,

i want brian 😩

sister-in-law roma ????

[caskethrill]

JHAHAGSJAHSHWHHSAH COWBOY NEXT DOOR ON THE TIMELINE !!! literally foaming at the mouth i love this fic so much

ROMA 🥹 i adore u i cannot handle it please