lluc1ll3

[lluc1ll3]

good company to be sinful | tommy shelby

summary: you are due to be married to the leader of an enemy gang to the peaky blinders. the night before your wedding, you make thomas shelby an offer he can’t refuse.

wc: 5k

tags: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, Canon typical gang/violence talk, Tommy is Mr. Steal Your Girl, Cheating/scandal, Virginity loss, Age gap (Reader is early 20s, Tommy is late 40s), Tommy uses reader to get to his enemies, Smut (v fingering, fem receiving oral, unprotected p in v), Choking, Finger sucking, Possessive!Tommy, Dom!Tommy, Reader is a lil depraved, Reader wants that cookie so fucking bad, Spot the Twin Peaks reference, Dirty talk, Spitting, Biting, Bits of Soft!Tommy, Degradation, Overstimulation, Innocence kink? Bit of violence at the end

read on ao3

-

There wasn’t a soul in Birmingham that had not heard of Thomas Shelby.

Hearing whispers of his name throughout your mid to late teens made him seem, in your mind, like some sort of boogeyman.

Even now, you heard his name uttered through whispered breaths as though saying it too loud would summon him.

Like his name was a curse.

The first time you caught sight of him, the first time you put a face to the name, there was a momentary shift in the way you viewed the man.

In your mind, Thomas Shelby was a monster. He took, he killed, he robbed. Mercy was not something he entertained.

In reality, Thomas Shelby was just a man.

A cold, violent man.

But a man nonetheless.

He commanded the entire room as soon as he entered it. An unlit cigarette between his lips, flat cap pulled low on his head. You almost could not see his eyes. His trench coat flowed behind him as he walked, surrounded by his cronies.

Heading straight towards you.

And yet, for some reason, you did not fear him at all.

He came to a stop beside the table you sat at. His brothers loomed behind him, but he took the lead.

“May I?” Thomas asked, nodding once towards the seat opposite you.

You nodded curtly. “Please,” you welcomed.

He took the seat before you gave your answer.

“You’re Fischer’s wife.”

He posed it as a statement, not a question.

Your jaw flexed at the mention of your soon-to-be husband. “Not yet. He’s yet to tie me down in loveless matrimony, if you must know, Mr. Shelby.”

Thomas seemed impressed by your defiance, if just for a moment. His icy exterior was not broken for long.

“You seem smart enough. I’m sure you’re aware your fiancé wants me dead.”

“You want him dead too,” you reminded him.

“It’s nothing personal.”

“If only it was.”

Something changed in Thomas’ eyes. His lip twitched, like he was itching to smirk, but he resisted, remaining personal. Instead, he reached into his pocket.

In the presence of Thomas Shelby, anyone else would have flinched if he reached into his pocket, expecting to be met with the cold steel of a gun.

You did not.

And he noticed that.

You could see his eyes now.

He was nothing like the stories you’d heard as a teen.

These weren’t the eyes of a boogeyman.

Wordlessly, his piercing blue eyes never leaving yours, he extended a cigarette towards you.

You wondered if he did this often with future wives of rival gang members.

You took the cigarette regardless. Your fingers brushed against his.

You leaned forward, and with a flick of his lighter, Thomas lit your cigarette for you.

You took a long drag, exhaling deeply, as Thomas lit up his own.

“I don’t often share cigarettes with gangsters.”

He hummed in amusement, though his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Your fiancé lets you plan every move his little gang makes. But he won’t let you smoke.”

Again, it was not a question. Like he already knew just how cowardly your future husband was.

You exhaled another puff of smoke, holding his gaze. “Men are strange creatures, Mr. Shelby.”

He smirked. “Indeed they are.”

You raised the cigarette to your lips again. “So you know.”

Thomas continued to stare.

His gaze made you feel X-rayed.

You didn’t mind it.

“Yes. I know.”

“That why you’re here, Mr Shelby?” you queried. “Here to kill me? Teach my fiancé a lesson?”

He seemed genuinely amused at the suggestion. “Being a gangster isn’t all about killing people, love. It’s about negotiation. It’s about fear.”

You paused. “Well, I’m not afraid of you.”

Thomas did not seem fazed. Like this was all part of his plan. “I’m not asking you to be.”

“Then what are you asking, Mr Shelby?” you challenged him.

“Nothing.” He said it honestly. You believed him. “Just need it to get back to your fiancé that I was here. Talking to his woman. Make his mind spiral. Then the fear starts.”

“So we’re just… talking.”

It was absurd. If you told the teenaged you that you would be sitting in a bar, sharing a cigarette with Thomas Shelby - feared mobster and leader of the Peaky Blinders - she would have said you were fucking stupid.

“Just talking,” Thomas reaffirmed.

“I heard stories of you, growing up,” you confessed, tapping your cigarette into the ash tray before you. “You struck the fear of God into me, Thomas Shelby.”

His chest seemed to swell a little at that. As though striking the fear of God into a young woman was something to be proud of.

Or maybe it was the fact you had heard of him.

“And look at you now. You’re not afraid at all, are you?”

There was a feeling - deep within your chest, nestled in the base of your stomach. It was warm, burning like a fire. It did not feel like fear.

No. You weren’t afraid. You were intrigued.

“You’re not asking me to be afraid,” you reminded him.

“No. I’m not.”

Your cigarette fizzled out between your fingers, a symbol of your meeting coming to an end. “You’re not what I expected,” you admitted.

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray. He stood, his chair scraping against the wood floor, echoing louder than it should have.

Everything he did left an impression.

Thomas took your hand, bent slightly, and kissed it politely.

His lips brushing against the skin of your hand sent a chill through your body.

“Neither are you,” said Thomas.

His gang began to retreat towards the doors of the pub. Their eyes raked over you as though you were something intriguing.

You did not look at them.

You just looked at Thomas.

He tipped his cap towards you, a gesture of farewell. “Good day, Miss.”

And like a beast disappearing into the night, he was gone.

-

You thought often of Thomas Shelby, even though you knew you shouldn’t. Should had never stopped you before. It was an odd word. You shouldn’t be involved in planning attacks for your fiancé’s gang.

You shouldn’t feel cold or unseen, laying next to the man you were supposed to marry.

And you shouldn’t be fantasising about your future husband’s mortal enemy. About his piercing blue eyes, the deep rumble of his voice, the calloused skin of his fingers brushing against your own.

That singular touch - one that lasted not even two seconds - ignited a fire within you that your husband never had. Never would.

The day of your wedding - your entrapment - crept up on you. One month. One week. Tomorrow.

Your groom had not been happy when word reached him that his woman had been sitting in a bar, sharing a cigarette with Thomas Shelby of the Peaky Blinders. Insults had been exchanged aplenty. Names flew out of his mouth that bounced off your skin. An opinion of a man like him did not matter to you.

“Are you Thomas Shelby’s fucking whore now?” he had demanded, spit flying from his mouth.

Your response was meant to anger him. You wanted him to feel the words burrowing underneath his skin, feel them festering there.

But your tone revealed the truth in the words.

“I’d rather be his whore than your wife.”

It was dark when you said it. The words travelled out into the moonless night, floating down the street as if leading you somewhere. Luckily, your pathetic excuse of a fiancé did not follow you out into the cold evening air.

Down the street. Towards an address you had seen scrawled on the back of threatening letters to your fiancé - inviting him to come and try his luck on the life of Thomas Shelby.

Or maybe it was an invite to you.

The knock on his door reverberated into the night.

There was that word again: should. You shouldn’t be here. You should hope that he doesn’t answer.

But you are. And you don’t.

You hope he answers - and he does.

His usual stoic expression did not soften when he saw you. Despite it being deep into the night, Thomas was still dressed to work. His vest, trousers and shoes pristine as ever, the sleeves of his white undershirt rolled up to his elbows. A part of you was expecting him to be stained with the blood of his enemies.

Preferably the blood of your husband-to-be.

“Your man know you’re here?” Thomas asked.

You laughed, the idea ridiculous to you. “He doesn’t know anything about what I do.”

Thomas smirked. Like that was the answer he wanted. “And what is it you’re here to do?”

You. No, too vulgar.

“I’d like to ask you something. If you can find the time, of course.” You added the last part almost scathingly. As though sizing him up, letting him know that you were equals. That you were not to be toyed with.

Thomas looked at you with an expression that suggested he was not used to being talked to like anything other than a leader, a boss.

But it didn’t look like he hated it. Not coming from you.

“Well,” Thomas clicked his tongue, and then he finally opened the door fully, stepping back and allowing you the space to cross the threshold into his home. “Come in and ask it in the warm, at least.”

It was almost like he cared.

Thomas lead you through his hallway into a room at the back of the house, where a fire was crackling welcomingly. The warmth of the room filled your whole body. A desk stood before the fireplace, half-written letters strewn across its surface.

Thomas did not invite you to sit. He resumed his position at his desk, the one you assumed he had been in before your knock derailed his work. You stood in front of his desk with your hands clasped in front of you, as though you were a choir singer about to serenade him, or a salesman about to con him.

“Your dear fiancé fears what I might do to you. That’s why you’re here, eh?” He did not look up from whatever important words he was writing when he spoke.

You tilted your head. “Partly,” you answered honestly. “What’s he got to fear? What might you do to me? Tommy?”

The use of his nickname made him raise his head. Those eyes met yours. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip. Tommy leaned back in his chair, placing his pen down on his papers. “What do you want me to do to you?”

You shuddered at his words. “It would be sinful of me to say it.”

He quirked an eyebrow, as if he already knew what you were about to say. He welcomed it without batting an eyelid. “I’m a killer. I know all about sin. You’re in good company to be sinful.”

Tommy looked like sin. He smelled like it. Maybe he was your sin. And this time, you weren’t looking to repent.

“So go on,” he ordered. “Ask away.”

You stared into his eyes for a moment. They were the colour of a lake you could happily drown in. Thomas Shelby was captivating.

Really, you were just another of his victims. A victim of his words.

A victim of his gaze.

A victim of your own desire.

The words left you calmly. There was no more room within you for shame.

Just for him.

“I want you to fuck me, Tommy.”

Like him, you did not ask. You demanded.

Tommy raised his eyebrows inquisitively. He leaned forward, the proposition intriguing. “You want me to fuck you?” he repeated.

He wanted to hear you say it again.

“I want you. To fuck me.”

He chuckled. “Fiancé not satisfying you?”

“He never has. And he never will. I will not let him own that part of me. I want it to be you.”

Something glinted in Tommy’s eyes.

Excitement.

Intrigue.

Desire.

Tommy stood, his eyes never leaving yours. He moved slowly around the desk, as if taunting you with the proximity between you both growing smaller and smaller. “You came here to ask me to fuck you. Pathetic, really.”

“I’m to be married tomorrow,” you informed him calmly, trying desperately to ignore the hammering of your heart against your ribcage and the growing pool of desire between your legs. “Tonight I make my own decisions.”

“And your last decision before you marry your husband is to fuck the man who wants to kill him.” Despite his degrading words, Tommy’s tone was not judgemental. It was almost impressed. Like he admired your honesty.

Like he wanted this as much as you did.

Tommy dared to touch you first. His large, manly hand caressed the side of your face, thumb running delicately along your jawline. “Why is it you’re not afraid of me?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper, low and gravelly in his throat.

There were a million ways you could answer that question. But you went with the one that flipped your stomach whenever you thought it. The one that felt like a crown of thorns wrapping around your heart. The one that was being whispered into your ear by the Devil on your shoulder.

“You’re not the only one who wants my husband dead.”

A proud smirk made its way onto Tommy’s infuriatingly handsome face. His whole hand fit around your face. He could cover your mouth if he wanted to. The way you were sure your fiancé would do.

But Tommy Shelby was not him. He was everything the man you were set to marry would never be. To your future husband, he was the man he hated the most. To you, he was the object of all your desires.

Tommy did not cover your mouth. He heard you. He worked with you. Instead, he gently squeezed your soft cheeks between his hand. Gentler than you had ever thought Tommy was capable of being.

“You’re his from tomorrow. So you’re mine for tonight.”

You would never belong to your husband. But you would take being Tommy’s. So you nodded. Opened your mouth enough to whisper, “Kiss me.”

He did. His lips were rough against yours, moving with passion. The same lips that threatened and cursed, that humiliated and insulted the man who was supposed to kiss you like this.

The hand that had been cupping your jaw moved down to your throat, wrapping around with no effort. Tommy squeezed gently, eliciting a desperate gasp from your mouth. He smirked against your lips, like that was the reaction he wanted.

With his other hand, Tommy touched every part of you he could. His fingers combed through your hair. He cupped your breast. He squeezed your ass. His hand roamed as though he wanted to mark every part of you he could, taint your soft skin with the sin the two of you were about to commit.

“Get on the desk.” Tommy moaned the words into your mouth, one possessive hand still wrapped around your throat, the other grasping your lower back, pulling your body as close to his as possible.

“What for?” you gasped.

“So I can kneel.”

Tommy practically shoved you into a sitting position on a free space of his wooden desk. Even now, he was anything but gentle - and you weren’t complaining a bit.

You weren’t here to be handled gently.

You were here to get fucked by the gangster you’d grown up hearing stories about. To feel his blood-stained hands all over your body.

Tommy wasted no time, kneeling before you like a man at a confessional about to confess his deepest of sins. This definitely wasn’t his worst of discretions. It was just another addition to his growing list.

And you were happy to be that, just for tonight.

“Those letters over there are to your fiancé,” Tommy murmured into the tender skin of your thigh, nodding towards the papers beside you on the desk. With one hand, his fingertips pressed into your thigh so hard you were sure you would be bruised in a matter of minutes. With the other, he tore off your underwear like they were a hinderance, ripping them clean in two. He tossed the fabric over his shoulder like it was nothing. “Shall I put this in writing?” he asked darkly, pushing apart your legs, revealing your already dripping pussy to his hungry eyes.

You had no time to respond, because Tommy seemingly could not hold himself back any longer. He licked a long, singular stripe along your folds, the sound of your loud moan music to his ears.

“If he could fucking see this.” Tommy groaned, moving his lips from your pussy to pepper sweet, tempting kisses along your inner thigh. “His woman, spread open on my desk.”

“Not his woman,” you breathed, your hands tangling in Tommy’s hair. “Yours tonight.��

Tommy smirked at you from between your legs, moving your legs so they were draped over his shoulders. The scratchy fabric of his vest irritated the back of your thighs but you were beyond caring about discomfort at this point.

“Good fucking girl,” Tommy practically growled, before reconnecting his tongue to your aching pussy, licking and sucking and nipping from your folds to your clit.

Your head hung backwards, eyes squeezed shut. You were certain at one point you could see stars bursting across your vision as Tommy continued his relentless lapping at your pussy. One hand pulled and tugged at his dark hair with every move his tongue made on your cunt, the other gripped the edge of his desk so hard your hand was aching already.

“Fuck yes, Thomas… Keep going, please,” your whines and moans spurred him on, sucking and licking at your clit like his life depended on it. You had never felt pleasure like this before and you were certain you never would again.

You let out a strangled gasp when Tommy shoved his index finger inside of you, continuing to suck on your clit like a man starved. He slipped a second finger inside of you, his fingers working in tandem with his mouth. With his fingers pumping rhythmically and his mouth sucking determinedly, your orgasm ripped through you. Incoherent words and gasps and moans spilled from your mouth as you came all over Tommy’s tongue. He lapped up every last drop, coaxing you through it with praises and groans that sent vibrations through your entire body.

Eventually, Tommy stood, his mouth slick from your juices and his eyes almost feral for you. Your chest heaved, your entire body trembled from the force of the orgasm he had just brought you to.

But Tommy was nowhere near done with you.

And Tommy Shelby got what he wanted.

Almost towering over you now, staring down at you with lust-filled eyes, Tommy continued to pump his two fingers inside of you, curling them just right to reach that sweet spot inside of you once more. “You can handle another one, can’t you?” Tommy murmured into your skin, pressing soft kisses up your neck and across your jawline.

“Tommy,” you whined, clutching at the shoulders of his vest now, the scratchy material bunching up in your fists from the sheer force of how hard you were holding onto him. “It hurts.”

“But it feels good, doesn’t it, love?” Tommy sighed into your ear, his free hand clutching your face.

You nodded. Because fuck, it felt good. Your entire body shook and you felt like you were on fire, but that sensation building up in your lower stomach was Heavenly.

“You’re a good girl, you’re gonna take it,” Tommy shushed you, teasing a third finger at your entrance. “You look so pretty when you cum for me.”

His words, combined with his fingers and their relentless work inside of you was enough to tip you over the edge. You clutched his shirt and let out a strangled moan, feeling yourself about to fall apart once more.

Tommy had one more request to make before you did.

“Look at me,” Tommy ordered, fingers knuckles deep inside of you. You did, lips parted and eyes heavy with desire. His ocean blue eyes met yours, his expression deadly serious, like this was an art form to him.

Your second orgasm in five minutes came rushing, every inch of your body shaking as you chanted Tommy’s name like a forgotten prayer. He continued to finger you through your orgasm, eyes watching you intently, almost intrigued by you and how your body reacted to him.

When the feeling of immense pleasure subsided, Tommy smirked satisfactorily and removed his fingers from your soaked pussy. His fingers were wet with your slick. “Taste yourself,” he ordered. “Taste how fucking sweet you are.”

You took his fingers in your mouth without question, swirling your tongue around them and tasting your own juices. Tommy’s breath actually trembled as he watched you. He used it to his advantage that he had you wrapped around his finger, but in reality, you had him exactly the same way.

“Good girl,” Tommy praised you, removing his fingers from your mouth. “All sweet and innocent. Just for me, isn’t it?”

You nodded, too overwhelmed and overstimulated from his mouth and his fingers to form a coherent sentence.

“Words, sweetheart,” Tommy commanded. “Use your words or I won’t fuck you.”

“Just for you, Tommy,” you breathed, barely louder than a whisper.

“He’s never gonna make you feel like this, is he?” Tommy growled possessively, lips ghosting over yours. “Never gonna make your pretty pussy cum like I do.”

You shook your head. Completely at his mercy.

“Open your mouth,” Tommy ordered, pulling your bottom lip down with his thumb before you even processed the request. You stuck your tongue out before he even asked you to, and when he spat onto your tongue, you gladly closed your mouth. “Swallow,” he told you, still clutching your jaw in his hand. You did as he asked, opening your mouth and showing him the smooth surface of your tongue once more to show him you’d complied.

Tommy groaned. “Such a good little plaything for me, aren’t you, sweetheart? Makes me want to keep you. He doesn’t deserve to have you like this.”

“Tommy, please,” you whimpered, tugging at his shirt, bringing his body closer to yours. You wrapped your still shaking legs around his waist, grinding your naked pussy against his clothed, hard cock. “Need you to fuck me.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows, smirking as he began to undo the buttons of his vest, tossing it away and then beginning to work on his shirt. “Want me to ruin you now, hm?”

“Think you want it just as much,” you argued, eyes raking over Tommy’s now bare chest. Even the faded ink of his tattoos enthralled you.

Your index finger ran over the tattoo on his pec. He watched you admiring him, his eyes still hungry, but something else shimmered behind his blue irises now. Something almost sweet, practically affectionate.

Tommy Shelby was not sweet.

But maybe for you he was willing to be.

You leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss over his chest tattoo. Your mouth acted before your mind did, your teeth softly grazing the skin just above his nipple. You bit him.

Tommy hissed through his teeth in surprise at your action. Though when you looked up at him, he was actually smiling.

You had never seen Thomas Shelby smile before.

Smirk, yes. But never smile.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked me, Mr. Shelby,” you smiled sweetly back at him.

“I do like you,” Tommy murmured, resting his forehead against yours, his nose brushing against your cheek. Your hand once again came up to rest on the back of his head, bringing him closer to you. “I like how innocent you are even with all the blood on your hands. I like that you’re about to give this sweet little virgin pussy up to me.”

You heard the clinking of his belt and the rustling of the material of his trousers as Tommy freed his hard cock from his briefs. You stole a glimpse at his length, watching as his strong hand pumped his cock a few times. You were pleasantly surprised. You had no idea a dick could be so pretty.

Tommy’s lips feathered a soft kiss upon your jawline. “I’ll be gentle if you want me to.”

You shook your head. Tommy raised his head from your neck, his traditional Shelby smirk back on his face. “You don’t want me to be gentle?”

“If I wanted gentle, I wouldn’t have come to Tommy Shelby.”

You’d heard stories of the Boogeyman.

And you wanted the fucking Boogeyman.

Tommy tilted his head to the side, his hooded lust-filled eyes never leaving yours. “Whatever you like.”

One of Tommy’s hands gripped your lower back, pulling you as close to him as possible. The other rested on the smooth surface of the wooden desk so hard his knuckles were already turning white, giving himself balance as he shoved himself into you inch by inch.

Your head tilted backwards, mouth open in a breathy moan. You felt lightheaded at the length and the thickness of him, like you could fall backwards, but Tommy was supporting you and wouldn’t let that happen. Your eyes watered, a combination of the pain and the pleasure.

Tommy didn’t move for a moment, allowing you time to adjust to the new sensation of his cock buried inside of you. His eyes met yours, tone deadly serious as he asked, “Feel okay, sweetheart?”

“Feels- Feels good,” you breathed heavily. “Please move.”

Tommy tutted, giving a single shake of his head. He pressed light kisses along your tear-stained cheeks, whispering against your skin, “You’re gonna need to beg better than that.”

“Please,” you whined, pulling his lips down onto yours, moaning against his mouth. “Please fuck me, Thomas.”

Either he was satisfied with just your few seconds of begging, or he was just too impatient to wait. Tommy snapped his hips against yours, reaching an unforgiving, brutal pace, his cock hitting spots inside of you that you didn’t even know existed. His movements drew out every moan, every whimper, every guttural sound from your very soul.

Something animalistic glinted in Tommy’s eyes with every hard thrust. His arm wrapped around your back, supporting you as each roll of his hips forced you further back onto the desk until you were led on your back, splayed across Tommy’s important letters, the savvy businessman side of him overtaken by the primal beast of a man now hovering over you, pounding harder and harder with each passing second.

Your legs were still wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pushing him as far inside of you as possible. With his now free hands, Tommy pushed your thighs back to allow himself deeper access inside of you. His cock stretched you out painfully, but the pain was delicious. He slotted inside of you perfectly, like you were made to be fucked by him.

Every moan and shriek that left your mouth spurred him on, feeling himself getting closer and closer with each pretty sound you made.

“You feel - fucking - perfect,” Tommy groaned, each word punctuated by another brutal thrust that caused tears to prick at the corners of your eyes.

Tommy’s hand curled around your neck once more, his pace never faltering. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he growled.

When you did, you saw him. Thomas Shelby - leader of the Peaky Blinders - the monster you’d heard stories about.

The monster you used to fear.

The monster stealing your innocence on the desk at which he had drafted countless death threats - smearing your lipstick all over a letter addressed to the man you were set to marry in a few hours.

He had officially fucked every ounce of fear out of you, and replaced it with an inhumane, Unholy dedication.

“Don’t take your eyes off me,” Tommy ordered in what you were sure was his gangster voice - it was hot as fuck. The muscles in his chest and arms flexed with each thrust, he bit down on his bottom lip gently, his brow furrowed with concentration, a bead of sweat running down his temple.

He was fucking gorgeous. You couldn’t even resent him for it.

Your nails scratched at Tommy’s biceps as his thrusts became more sporadic. You could tell he was close based on his movements and the desperate pants leaving his mouth, his hot breath fanning on your cheek.

“I’m close, Tommy,” you cried. “Gonna cum again.”

“Cum for me then, pretty girl. Let me feel it.”

Whatever Tommy wanted, Tommy got.

Your pussy clenched around his cock as you reached your climax. White spots burst across your vision. Your entire body felt like it was on fire and your legs shook. Your third orgasm crashed over you like the sea onto rocks, and with a string of exclcamatorys from his filthy mouth, Tommy’s orgasm followed yours, spilling his cum into your newly fucked-out pussy.

There was silence as the two of you caught your breath. Tommy helped you into a sitting position, his arm around your waist supporting your trembling body.

Tommy opened his mouth to speak.

You got there first.

“Kill him.”

Tommy froze, eyes locked on yours. “Who?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

There was that word again. Should.

You should not have just allowed the man who lusted after your future husband’s blood to lust after you.

You should not have just let Thomas Shelby fill you up with his cum.

You should not have a deadly gangster wrapped around your little finger.

But you did. And you do.

And that’s what made you decide it.

“My husband. Kill him.”

Whatever Tommy wanted, Tommy got.

What he wanted now, more than anything, was you.

And he was going to get it. With just one bullet, a bloodstain on your wedding dress and a glimpse at the merciless monster you’d heard tales of growing up.

And still, you did not fear him.

He was yours now.

Tommy Shelby - your perfect fucking monster.

-

[lluc1ll3]

nettles | joel miller

summary: your last ride home with joel in his truck on a hot summer evening.

wc: 1.1k

tags: Angst, Breakup, Joel cannot express emotion, Smoking, Coquette reader, Ethel Cain inspired, Implied age gap, Hints of toxicity, Joel is sad and insecure

note: listened to the new ethel song and this was born. stream nettles by ethel cain!!!

-

To love Joel is to suffer him.

And God, you loved Joel. Everything about him, even the worst parts. His temper. His unwillingness to express his feelings. His troubled past.

You thought at first that it was how much you loved Joel that was making your heart hurt.

It wasn’t that.

It was just Joel.

You loved him, and you suffered for it.

“This ain’t workin’.”

Joel sat in the driver’s seat of his truck. One hand ran over his unshaved face. His eyes did not meet yours as he said it.

You stared over at him. You had been expecting this. He had been distant - more than usual. Quiet, and not in the characteristic Joel way. In a way that stamped a furrow into his brow and a clear conflict into his eyes.

You finally tore your eyes away from Joel, smoothing out the white sundress you were wearing. The one he bought for you.

“What isn’t?” you asked.

His jaw twitched. “This. Us. Whatever this is.”

You reached towards the pack of Marlboros you had stashed in his glovebox a few weeks ago, bringing a cigarette to your lips.

Joel still had your lighter in his pocket.

“I don’t know what this is, Joel. You tell me.”

Joel reached into the pocket of his washed out blue jeans, pulling out your silver lighter. You leaned forward, allowing Joel to flick on the lighter, the small flame dancing between you both.

As he lit your cigarette for you, he finally met your eyes.

When he did. you had never seen brown eyes look so blue.

You took a drag, exhaling a puff of smoke. Joel wound down your window.

You held out the cigarette between your fingers, offering it to Joel. A bit of your red lipstick was smeared on the cigarette. Joel took it regardless.

“You know I like bein’ with you. You know I think you’re beautiful.”

He handed your cigarette back to you. His fingers brushed yours. His hand was colder than you’d ever felt it.

“But this ain’t right.”

“What’s not right about this, Joel?” you demanded. “What’s not right about how we make each other feel?”

“It ain’t about how we make each other feel.”

Joel busied himself putting the car in drive, reversing out of his parking space in an old ‘50s style diner he had taken you to for the evening.

“Then what is it about?”

His knuckles were white against the steering wheel. He ran his tongue against his bottom lip. He could feel you staring at him, your eyes burning a hole into the side of his face.

He had always told you he loved your eyes.

The light was already leaving them.

“Is it about me?”

Joel clutched the steering wheel even harder at that. His jaw flexed. “That’s the last thing it’s about.”

“Then what, Joel?” You hated how your voice shook when you said it.

His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “It’s me.”

Your heart cracked a little. “What about you? I love you, Joel. You make me feel like there’s fireworks inside my heart. You make me feel warm, even when it rains.”

“You don’t love me,” Joel insisted. “There ain’t no lovin’ someone like me.”

The crack in your heart split a little more.

All you did was love him.

It filled your heart from the moment you woke up to the moment you slept. It was what you dreamt of every night. Your heart was stained by the oil and the sweat on his hands after he came home from work. Your skin was marked and scented like him.

It was all for him.

And here he sat, with you in the passenger seat of his truck, where you had sat and laughed with him, held his hand, countless times. Telling you that he was unloveable.

That he would not let you love him anymore.

You brushed away tears impatiently, putting your cowgirl boot clad feet up on his dashboard. You held your cigarette between your fingers, hand dangling out of the open window.

If you closed your eyes, you could pretend this was just another summer night with Joel Miller.

His words ripped you from your imagination. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for breaking up with me or sorry for telling me how I feel?”

“I ain’t tryin’ to tell you how to feel.”

“You’re such an asshole,” you laughed bitterly, taking another drag of your cigarette. “I told you I love you and you said I don’t. You don’t speak for me, Joel. And you might not wanna fight for this, but I do, okay? Because I know how I feel. And you don’t get to take it out on me because you don’t.”

Joel finally turned his head to look at you. “You want me to say it?” he asked. His voice cracked. His eyes were filled with tears. “I love you. I just wanna keep you safe. Keep you happy. But I can’t. I can’t make you happy.”

“You do make me happy, Joel.”

“I don’t. You think I do, but I don’t. I make you hurt. I see it in your eyes, darlin’. And I can’t be the one that hurts you no more.”

The third crack in your heart was what tore it apart.

You couldn’t bear to look at him anymore. His beautiful, chocolate eyes clouded by tears as they gazed between you and the road.

You turned to look out at the Texas scenery rushing past you as Joel’s truck rumbled along the highway. The gothic western farms, fences and power lines that you had driven past so many times looked different now. Colourless.

You did not allow Joel to see your tears, but he knew anyway. He could tell by the way your shoulders tensed, and your hands unclenched and clenched into fists in your lap after you discarded your fizzled out cigarette.

Joel dared to reach a hand over towards your lap. Slowly, very slowly, his fingers skated across the back of your hand, to then intertwine with your own.

As much as you wanted to, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull your hand away.

You let him hold your hand all the way home.

After what felt like years of the stifling Texas heat in the passenger seat of Joel’s truck, it ground to a halt outside your house. Even your street looked considerably less inviting now.

Now Joel had torn your heart in two and taken one half as a keepsake.

You shot out of the truck as though the seat had bitten you. Joel did not say a word. He did not even look at you.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

The words stung in your throat like nettles.

-

[lluc1ll3]

about me!

— hi! you can call me stevie. my pronouns are she/her, i’m 19, based in the u.k, and currently studying english and film!

my main interests!

— the last of us (games and show!)

— the walking dead (show only, but currently reading the comics!)

— twin peaks (yet to watch the return)

— the scream franchise (yes, even 3)

— breaking bad & better call saul

— classic/gothic literature

— ethel cain (fav album: preacher’s daughter)

— charli xcx (fav album: how i’m feeling now)

— the 1975 (fav album: self titled)

— paramore (fav album: this is why)

— my chemical romance (fav album: three cheers for sweet revenge)

— lady gaga (fav album: the fame monster)

my writing!

— honestly, as it stands at the moment, i’m just writing for myself. i may open requests in the future, if i receive enough engagement, but for now i’ll just be posting my own ideas. please bare in mind my content will be mature, smut is absolutely on the cards, but specific warnings/tags can always be found at the start of my fics! i will also only be writing for fem!readers, as that’s what i identify as and that’s what i feel comfortable with.

you can also find me on ao3! yes, my user is a pride and prejudice reference.

i can also be found on wattpad, my user is @emdixonss but my content over there will feature original characters being written into shows/movies as opposed to x readers which i will focus on here. if that sounds interesting to you, please do check out my account and my latest work!

please do be an active reader of my fics and engage whenever you feel comfortable! it would truly mean the world to me :)

let’s be friends!

[lluc1ll3]

sweet mourning lamb | remmick

summary: remmick won’t stop until he’s made you in his image.

wc: 7.5k

tags: Stockholm syndrome, gothic horror, Preacher’s daughter inspired, Remmick is not nice in this, Biting, Blood and injury, Religious trauma, Unhealthy relationships, Emotional manipulation, Typical canon/vampire stuff, No use of y/n, Heavy religious themes/imagery (prayer, bible verses, sin, virgin Mary mentions, etc), Gothic/classic lit references all over the place (Nosferatu, Wuthering Heights, Pride & Prejudice, Dracula), Remmick has a serious God complex, Ethel Cain references, Blood drinking as intimacy, No happy ending

read on ao3

—

You will always be the preacher’s daughter.

Even as you try to run from it.

The Mississippi Delta was a strange place. The sun shone down almost aggressively, each ray that hit your skin akin to a harsh kiss. But there was nothing sunny or celebratory about this town. It was filled with faces of the enslaved, the doomed, and now, you. The preacher’s daughter.

The humid air clung to your skin like a sheen of sweat even after the sun went down. Even the absence of the sun would not grant you freedom from the heat, which seemed to crawl under your very skin and nestle there, declaring your cold, unfeeling soul its home.

Your long white dress trailed along the hard earth and dried up grass behind you, collecting dirt on its hem, staining the pure white satin with your insolence and sin. You wondered what your daddy would think; what your mama would say. Whether there was a crumpled missing poster pinned to every lamp-post in your dreary Kansas town yet, some perfect picture of you smiling out at passersby, unaware of whatever fate awaited her a few states over.

This was never how you pictured your exile. It was never glamorous - dimly lit motel rooms, a speeding truck, hitching rides from a stranger and using the cash you had stolen from your father to eat in whatever run-down, roadside diner you came across. But here you were, walking barefoot on blistered skin, underneath the moonlight that illuminated your discretion.

You listened to the dulcet tones of the crickets and the cicadas, the occasional glimmer of fireflies in the distance and wondered whether they felt as punished as you, thrust into the sweltering, overwhelming heat with nobody to care for them and no Gods to hear their prayers.

Seven Hail Marys and you might be saved.

You collapsed into the dirt on the side of the road, hands clasped together in one last ditch effort to find the salvation you never could in Church. If God was always absent from God’s house when you tried to call for him, maybe it was because he was out here, soaking up his freedom, looking for lost children to save.

“Hear my prayer,” you begged into the open, suffocating air. “An Angel of Freedom. A spirit of Salvation. The Son of God…. Anyone.”

You are still the Preacher’s daughter, lying sprawled in the Mississippi dirt, praying to anything that may save you from this exile.

Whatever was out there, whatever was listening - you hope they heard you.

—

You drifted in and out of consciousness in the dirt, your body finally catching up to its lack of sleep, food, or water. Was this where you would die? Where the flies would find you?

Would your Mama ever know where you’d gone or how far you’d gotten? Would she resent you?

Would you Daddy keep you in his prayers?

You will always be the Preacher’s Daughter, even in death.

A whoosh of cold air ruffled your hair, passing over your face at lightning speed. A soft thump sounded out on the ground you laid your head on.

“Oh, darlin’, you been through the wringer, ain’t you?”

A voice pierced the silence - a Southern drawl, speaking to you. You lifted your head ever so slightly, bleary vision showing you what could have been the truth or a dying hallucination of salvation - you weren’t sure which would have been better.

Cold hands met the tender skin of your face, pulling your chin up gently so your eyes met his. He was dark haired and dark-eyed, lips slightly parted as he observed the state you were in. His eyes seemed to glow golden in the moonlight, like dancing fireflies. He wore a pristine white vest, suspenders hung loose from his hips, and trousers that looked far too clean for a man walking in this dirt. Stubble lined his sharp jaw, the arms that pulled you almost gracefully to your feet seemed to be sculpted to tempt.

And Good Lord, he was beautiful.

Maybe he was the Angel you had prayed for.

Would an Angel send run chills through your entire body?

Maybe. The Virgin Mary had been afraid when she encountered The Angel Gabriel.

As if the handsome stranger could hear your inner turmoil, he shushed you soothingly, crooning, “Don’t be afraid, darlin’. I’m here to help.”

Your prayer had been heard. Not by an Angel or a creature of comfort, but by something more sinister - something just on the brink, just clutching onto being human.

By Remmick, who liked to play with his food.

—

You were still the Preacher’s Daughter - that was what you told yourself, a reminder of your true identity and not what he tried to make you. The Preacher’s Daughter, lured in by a beautiful stranger who transcended what it meant to be human, before he locked you in an isolated cabin and threw away the key.

Remmick sat upon the couch, fingers plucking idly at the banjo he loved so much. You observed him, hoping for any sort of sign of vulnerability, of humanity within him. You couldn’t quite place your finger on it. He seemed so human. His love of music, his habits and mannerisms that slipped into his physical motions and even his speech. But there was something about him that wasn’t, that couldn’t be, human.

His deep, captivating eyes held years, maybe even centuries of pain behind them. His eyes, when caught in the right light, seemed to have a red tint to them that you caught on a few occasions but convinced yourself was a trick of the light. And his spirit, his presence, his energy… He was charming, but abhorrent. He drew you in and caged you there, completely at his mercy. You did not want to leave. You wanted to know him in every way possible - what he was, and most importantly, why he chose you. Why it was he who answered your prayer and what use he had for you here. You needed to know it all.

“You look lost in thought over there, sweet thing,” Remmick’s low Southern drawl interrupted your thoughts as it always seemed to do. It was like he could read your mind. You turned to him from where you sat at the wooden table, a bead of rosaries wrapped around your fist. His eyes flitted down towards the cross that dangled on the table and for a moment, you thought you saw the tinge of red.

Remmick carefully set down his banjo on one side of him, patting the space of the couch on his other side, just once, as if that was the only command he needed, knowing you would obey. “Come.”

You rose to your feet, as though you were pulled towards him by a magnet. You smoothed out the white sundress that Remmick had brought back for you one day after one of his nightly wanderings. You had the sense not to ask what he got up to on these nights, or where the gifts he brought back for you came from.

The way he watched you as you moved over to him - it was not with hunger, not with the eyes of a predator eyeing his pray. It was deliberate, unblinking. Almost with tenderness, as if you were something precious and graceful for him to enjoy.

You sat down at his side. His eyes never leaving your face, he gave a polite smile, his hands resting on his knees. He turned his body towards yours as if you were equals. Somehow, you felt like a deer in the headlights, but you did not entirely hate it. Something about it intrigued you. Everything about him intrigued you.

“What’s on your mind, little dove?”

Remmick waited patiently for your answer. He was not in a rush. It reminded you of the first time you awoke in this cabin, when he questioned you about what had happened to you, where you were from. But you were sure that somehow, he already knew.

A months-long awaited question slipped past your lips before you could stop it. “What are you, Remmick?”

He didn’t seem surprised by the question. He pondered for a moment, as if he himself wasn’t even sure. “I know you’re smart enough to figure that out for yourself. You know what I am, darlin’.”

You did. You weren’t stupid. It all made sense; he never left the cabin in the day. The years of wisdom and pain in his eyes, beyond the years he appeared. How he needed permission to enter the cabin when he came back from his nightly endeavours.

Remmick leaned closer to you, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I wanna hear you say it.”

You did not. Instead, you challenged him. “Why haven’t you made me like you? Trapped me here with you forever?”

Remmick smirked, a chuckle clawing its way up his throat and out of his mouth. “Believe me, darlin’, I thought about it. More times than I care to admit. It was always about the thrill of the hunt… But it ain’t just about hunger with you. I didn’t hunt you. I found you. You called me to you.”

“I was afraid.”

“Fear makes people honest in ways even they don’t understand. You knew you were callin’ for me, even if you didn’t understand it.”

Tears threatened to push past your waterline. Seeing you cry, Remmick tutted disapprovingly, brushing away your tears with his thumb. His hand cupped the side of your face, while the other ran slowly through your hair. If you did not know better, you would say his touch was gentle, almost loving.

But Remmick was not gentle, nor was he loving.

“I called for help from God,” you whispered.

“You wanted help from your God, then why’d you leave your little church and your preacher Daddy?” Remmick challenged. Another chuckle bubbled in his throat. “You know why. You wanted this. You left to answer the call of sin, and here it is.”

“I know sin. You’re not it.”

“That’s right,” Remmick sneered. “I am an appetite, nothin’ more. Your appetite for sin was what called me to you. You can’t hide that from me, darlin’.”

Remmick’s lips peppered soft kisses to your cheeks where your tears had spilled, exchanging your anguish for his intimacy. “Shh, don’t cry.” His voice was lower now, touched by empathy.

“What if I left?” you wondered aloud, your voice lower than a whisper as Remmick’s head nestled in your neck. “Ran out into the sunlight and never came back? You couldn’t follow me.”

“I’d find you in the night, just like I did before,” Remmick told you, but it was not a threat - it was a promise. “Your soul’s tied to me, even if you didn’t know what you were tyin’ it to. Whatever souls are made of, yours and mine are the same. I’d find you wherever you ran to.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re mine. You think it’s so black and white, baby. I am no good nor evil. Simply I am. And I came to take what’s mine.”

You swallowed hard. “Then just kill me. Take my blood.”

Remmick sat up, removing his head from the soft flesh of your neck. His eyes met yours. He didn’t bother to hide it now; the red ring around his pupils flared, deep as crimson blood. A trickle of drool was running down his chin. He wiped it away, but not hastily. He wanted you to see that he was hungry for you - that he could do anything, take what was his, at any moment. Making you aware of it but doing nothing was part of the torment, part of his game. “This ain’t about killin’ you. I don’t want your blood, sweetheart. Not yet.”

“Then what do you want?”

His thumb ran across your lips. “You.”

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like the body wanting the blood. Like Eve wanting the apple.

“Why me?”

“You called for freedom,” his soft voice crooned in your ear. “For salvation. It’s here. It’s me.”

The grain from the television screen lit up the room. The static was interrupted by a man speaking passionately into a microphone in black and white. Your head turned towards the illuminated television screen.

It was your father, speaking a sermon like he always had.

“Jesus died for our sins, for us to turn our backs on the life of sin once and for all.”

Your tears intensified. Remmick did not wipe them away this time. He watched you, as if your tears captivated him, intrigued him. As if crying was something deeply human that he had forgotten about in the centuries he had been inflicted with this curse.

Your own photo flashed up on the screen, one emboldened word above your face: MISSING.

“My beautiful little daughter was lost to a life of sin. We hope to find her one day and bring her back into our community. I know God will find her and welcome her back with open arms.”

Remmick laughed cruelly. He took to kissing away your tears once more. “Your Daddy thinks you can still be saved. That your God’s waitin’ for you,” he murmured against your soft skin. “Ain’t no savin’ you from this. Ain’t no God waitin’ for you out there. It’ll just be me. I am your God, darlin’. I’m the only one who can save you. There’s a reason you let me back in here every mornin’ before the sun comes up. Ain’t that right?”

Pearly tears continued to roll down your cheeks, and you nodded. You could not deny it. He had you caged, exactly the way he wanted.

No one was coming to save you here. Your father would not see you through the grainy television screen. He would not take your hand through the screen and lead you away from Mississippi, away from Remmick. Life had and would continue on without you while you were stuck here.

“And what are you, darlin’?” Remmick asked you, his voice low.

“Yours, Remmick. I’m yours.”

You’re still the Preacher’s Daughter. At least, back home in Kansas you are.

Here, you are his. You are doomed.

—

Days blend into months, months into what could well be years. Time seems to move differently in the sheltered cabin. Unlike Remmick, though, you can leave it. You can wait for the sun to rise. You can feel the sun assaulting your skin, beating down on your tender flesh to your heart’s content.

But you don’t, because he can’t.

Somehow, it had become easier to lock yourself inside where he was, than be outside where he was not. He was your only source of comfort, your only hope for salvation. He had been right that day.

But he was not inside. He was outside, and the sun was threatening to kiss the horizon.

Orange and pink hues danced in the sky as the sun slowly rose, your heartbeat rising with it. Your leg bounced as you sat on the front step of the porch. He was still not back. He always came back. He had promised you.

Just for a second in Remmick’s absence, you allowed your mind to wander. Maybe, just maybe, if you ran fast enough, you would escape.

As soon as the thought of liberation crossed your mind - there he was.

He flew like it was natural, like it was something simple and easy, and that was just another thing that captivated you about him. He landed gracefully around ten feet in front of you. There was still something akin to feral in Remmick’s eyes as he approached, the thrill of the hunt that he once talked of just now wearing off. Crimson blood was smeared around his mouth and on his shirt, his hands stained with it, too.

“Move on aside, baby, let me in,” Remmick purred, having played this game with you many times before. His exhaustion was evident in his tone as he stopped before the front step. You knew he would never touch it unless you gave him permission.

You rose to your feet, and just for a moment, said nothing. Your eyes darted towards the amber that was now painting the early morning sky. The sun was almost up. If you hesitated a few more seconds, he would burn and you would be free.

“Baby,” Remmick’s eyes flashed red. A warning. “Don’t go doin’ anythin’ you’re gon’ regret.”

Both you and Remmick knew that he had you too far in his corner to let that happen. You stepped aside. Remmick smirked, a gesture which never failed to run a brisk chill through you. It gave you a thrill every time.

Just for a moment, Remick’s expression turned from a smirk to a smile, one of genuine sincerity. He pinched your chin between his forefinger and thumb, leaving a crimson smear behind in the wake of his touch. “Come on inside now, darlin’.“

The rays from the sun began to pierce through the clouds above you both. Remmick’s skin began to sizzle, the sound almost threatening. The burn was tantalising - if he was to stay out here and let the sun take him, it would be a slow process. Painful.

Remmick did not miss the momentary panic that flickered across your face before he stepped across the threshold of the cabin. His smirk was back. “Aw, darlin’, you goin’ soft on me now?”

You stayed silent, but the silence said more than any words you possibly could have. You followed Remmick inside wordlessly. He pushed open the door to the bathroom, rolling his neck and savouring the momentary peace deeply.

His blood-soaked hands moved to unbutton his shirt, but your hands got there first, pushing down his suspenders and undoing his bloody shirt for him.

“Miss me?” Remmick crooned, his voice thick and smooth as honey.

“You know I did,” you replied, your voice smaller and weaker than you had intended it to sound when you opened your mouth.

“Funny, I coulda sworn you were about to let me burn up out there.” The venom in his tone made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

“Remmick…” Your voice trembled as you spoke. “I’d never do that to you.”

“That’s right,” he breathed, the tip of his nose brushing against your temple as he breathed in every inch of you. Drinking in the scent of you that lingered in the cabin like sweet wine, a drug that he had missed even in his few hours away from you. “‘Cause you need me, don’t you, little lamb? You don’t know what you’d do without me.”

When you had finished unbuttoning his shirt, he shrugged it off his shoulders and then pulled his blood stained vest over his head. You hated how everything about him, even the darkest parts, was beautiful. His chest was toned as though sculpted by someone, someone who lived long ago. A body moulded by time, not perfect, but real, and all the more beautiful for it.

You ran the tap, allowing the warm water to dampen a cloth just for a second before you began to clean Remmick’s face of the blood of some long deceased creature. Animal or human, you dared not ask. He sank down, eyes never leaving your face, to perch on the edge of the bathtub. He moved as if he was about to kneel before an altar and confess his deepest of sins.

You were his sin, and the blessing that came after.

You cupped Remmick’s face, wiping at the blood on his cheeks so gently it was like he was made of porcelain and he may break if you touched him too harshly. Remmick was not delicate, and barely even a man anymore. He was chiselled by decades, hardened by centuries of loss and killing and who knows what else.

You finished cleaning his face and rang out the bloody cloth in the sink, before beginning to wipe the few droplets of blood from his neck and chest. The cloth ran over a raised part of his skin, a scar that trailed just beneath his collarbone. It looked like a bite mark.

You rested your hand flat against it and, to your surprise, felt a heartbeat under your palm. Remmick having a heartbeat, despite being what he was, was one of the many things about him that surprised you. It seemed to reaffirm to you that Remmick was almost human. He had been human once. A human, just like you, with hopes and dreams and fears. Now he was just this; a shell of a man who sought out blood like he was Jesus in the desert being tempted by The Devil.

“Where do you come from, Remmick?”

His expression seemed to soften for a moment. “I come from a different place and a different time. Long before your bloodline was even being dreamt of.”

You took the softening of his features as incentive to prod at him more. “Who made you into this?”

Remmick’s breath hitched. The heartbeat below your palm began to hasten. His expression twisted into one you could not quite read - anger? Bitterness? Devastation? You saw a flash of red in his eyes for a moment and a part of you knew you should draw back. An even smaller part of you, somehow, for some reason, trusted Remmick. Trusted that he would not hurt you. He sighed and you thought you heard a tremble in his breath as he did so.

“Long ago, the man who stole my father’s land tried to force the same words on me and my people that your Daddy forced onto you. I hated those men, but the words still bring me comfort. Like you, I prayed for salvation. And salvation came.”

Remmick’s hand clutched your own that was still pressed over his chest, over his heart. His grip was firm, begging you without words not to remove your hand. His eyes were glassy, tears threatening, daring to spill. With your free hand, you slowly reached up and dared to delicately press your palm against his cheek. Remmick leaned into your touch, his eyes sliding closed as if he was content to just stop time and live in this moment forever.

“That’s why you found me,” you whispered, fearing that raising your voice even slightly would push Remmick over the edge. “We’re alike.”

Remmick’s eyes opened and met yours. “I been around for centuries, darlin’. Just existin’ like this. And in all those years, I ain’t never met nothin’ as sweet as you. I smelled your desperation. I felt your desire. I needed to take it for my own. You bewitched me, body and soul. You were made for me to save you, weren’t ya, darlin’?”

Remmick lifted himself from the edge of the bath, his palms pressing on the side of your neck, as if daring himself to see how far he would go. His fingers curled around your throat and jaw, pressing not rough, but not gentle. “You were made for the takin’. Made for me to shape you in my image, just the way I want you. I travelled oceans of time to find somethin’ like you, little lamb. You don’t need no God. You only need me, don’t ya? Just me.”

“Just you, Remmick,” you sighed, savouring his touch, no matter how demeaning it was.

“You know now, don’t ya, little dove? You know who you belong to. You know where you were meant to be, huh?”

Remmick’s nose brushed against yours; his lips hovered near yours, not kissing, just breathing. Like he needed to inhale you before he could kiss you.

His thumb brushed over your plush lips, as if preparing them for his kiss. “Anybody ever kiss you before, sweet thing?”

You shook your head.

He grinned like he’d known your answer before you gave it, flashing his fangs at you momentarily; dangerously. A reminder of what he was - what you were about to submit yourself to. “Good. I wanted to be the first.”

His lips met yours like he’d been waiting for this for years, kissing you as though he had all the time in the world. In a way, he did. Remmick was immortal, a being that transcended human. He would never die. You would. Maybe here, today, with him and by his hand. But for now, you were alive, and you were his. A monster’s human girl. His choice of sin for however long until he wanted to repent.

He was nowhere near repenting now, though. His kiss deepened, drinking in every inch of you, one territorial hand still wrapped around your throat, squeezing just enough to feel your breath fanning against his mouth.

“Ain’t never tasted nothin’ so sweet before, y’hear me,” he groaned into your mouth.

The groan of a man using all his restraint to hold himself back. From what, you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

You pulled him closer, directing his lips back onto yours like pinning the wings back onto a Fallen Angel. His kiss was gentler than you had ever expected Remmick to be; as though you were something sacred, something Holy.

A gasp pushed past your lips when you felt Remmick’s sharp fangs bite down on your bottom lip. Hot blood spilled down your chin and Remmick lapped up every drop, like a good Christian drinking wine on Sunday.

Every instinct in your body screamed for you to push him away. To run screaming out into the sun where he could not follow you.

Instead, you let him taste you, and you marvelled in it.

He pulled away, a trickle of your blood at the corner of his mouth. “‘M sorry, baby,” he murmured, though his eyes flared with not shame, but hunger. A longing for more. “You tasted too perfect, I couldn’t resist you.”

You said nothing. Instead, you wiped the droplets of blood dripping from his mouth with the pad of your thumb, and then you pushed it between his wet lips. He held your gaze, unblinking, and sucked the rest of your blood off your thumb like it was chocolate off a strawberry.

You watched, breath caught in your throat.

His grin was evil. “Sweeter’n sin.”

—

Day became night; the sun surrendered to the moon. The single bedroom in the cabin was stifling despite the old, rickety fan that whirred in the corner facing the bed. Moonlight spilled through the gap in the moth-eaten curtains, illuminating the peeling wallpaper and the dusty floorboards.

Remmick lay on his front, one arm draped over your stomach. The other acted as a pillow beneath your head. Every so often, his fingertips brushed against your temple almost rhythmically. His head lay on your chest, his ear pressed over your heart.

“I like listenin’ to your heart,” Remmick’s voice punctuated the silence in the room, that before now was only being broken by the fan’s consistent buzzing. “I like feelin’ it. Reminds me you’re still human. That there’s still more of you I can take.”

“You can’t possibly take anymore.” Your voice was barely a whisper and your hands were still tangled in his hair, holding his head protectively to your bosom like a mother would her baby.

Remmick lifted his head, smirking now, half-lidded eyes looking down at you. “Oh, yes I can, baby. I ain’t even started to destroy you yet. See, I’m bidin’ my time. I’m defilin’ you so slowly and gently you’ll be beggin’ for me to finish the job soon enough.”

A single tear trickled from the corner of your eye to your temple. You didn’t respond, partly out of pure stubbornness, but partly - mostly - because you knew that he was right.

“You ain’t never gon’ leave me, are you, baby?”

Your bottom lip trembled. You stayed silent. The incessant droning of the fan the only sound now.

“Are you, baby?” It was not a question posed in insecurity. It was said with malevolence.

“No.” You whispered, a tear dripping onto Remmick’s hand that rested beneath your head. “I’m never gonna leave you, Remmick.”

Remmick eyed you with uncertainty, with doubt. To hide your shaking hands, you raised them and took his face in them, pulling his lips down to meet yours.

This time, his kiss was far less gentle. He talked of you smelling of desire, but he did not hide his own. He kissed you like a man starving, as though your lips were a lonely, winding road he had to take to find his way home.

“Go to sleep, little lamb,” Remmick soothed, pressing one last kiss to the pulse point on your wrist before his body relaxed, face tucked into the crook of your shoulder.

You did not sleep.

The house slept.

The Delta slept.

Remmick slept, though you knew he did not need to. Maybe it was the comfort of your presence, or maybe it was one of the simple delicacies of being human that he missed. He slept regardless.

You did not.

You lay awake, listening to Remmick’s steady breathing, the sound of cicadas humming outside, and the constant droning of the fan in the corner. You tilted your head upwards to look at the wall the bed was placed up against. Above the headboard, there was one singular cross hanging on the peeling wallpaper - but it had been turned upside down.

You thought of your father, what he would think of you now. His life went on, he preached the word of God to his congregation, to the next generation of God’s children, while his own flesh and blood lay caged in the arms of a monster.

That was what Remmick was. A monster. A monster who killed you over and over again, a million times a day. Who ripped your very soul out with no regard and then kissed it lovingly.

You thought of your life before, the life you had fled. It seemed like your only option at the time - to see the West. Love was out there waiting for you and you couldn’t leave it be.

It wasn’t love you found.

It was him.

You wished you could be in Church listening to your father’s sermon. Singing with the choir. Repeating his verses back to him. Repenting for all of this.

You gently sat up, taking every care not to wake the sleeping Remmick. He did not stir. He looked normal like this, almost peaceful. He was as beautiful as ever, and you resented him for it.

Your journey towards the living room was tedious, excruciating. It felt as though the house was extending itself to draw out your torture. Every step on the freezing cold floor board was another skip in the beat of your heart, another risk that he would wake. You almost felt the house watching you, breathing with you.

After what felt like an eternity, you reached the living room, switching on the television and hastily turning the volume down. Remmick rarely turned on the television; he liked to have you isolated, locked in with no company other than him, no connection whatsoever to the outside world. The grainy static moulded into the face of a man; the Preacher.

Your shaking hands intertwined in a desperate prayer as your Father’s voice poured into your ears.

“Forgiveness is a gift from God. He offers you Eternal life in exchange for your devotion.”

Just like Remmick. Maybe he was your Saviour after all.

“To know God, you must know love. Know forgiveness and penance.“

You had long ago lost track of what day it was in the confines of the cabin, of Remmick. The days melted into one another, becoming one. One long, endless day that would last for an eternity.

But as you closed your eyes in prayer, it was a Sunday. Your dress flowed in the crisp breeze. Smiling faces of your Father’s congregation beamed at you. A choir of voices joined together, serenading the Lord. The sun shone down upon you through the stained glass windows, and, even if just for a few seconds, you felt free.

You opened your eyes to stare at the screen, finding comfort in your Father’s face, less lined on the grains of the screen as you recalled in your memory. For a moment, his eyes met the camera, and you thought just for a second that he was talking to you. “God loves you.”

But not enough to save you.

“You’ll always be the Preacher’s Daughter, huh?”

Remmick’s voice was lower and more menacing than you had ever heard it.

You stood slowly, turning your face to meet his eye. He leant against the doorway, his hands in his pockets, almost casual. But you could tell by the way he carried himself, the tension in his shoulders and neck - there was a deep, deep fury bubbling up inside of him and it was directed towards you.

“Remmick, I swear I was just-“

“What’re you prayin’ for, baby? You got everythin’ you could possibly need right here.”

He took a step closer. You stepped back.

“I just wanted to hear his voice,” you pleaded.

“You left that life to find me. Now you wanna go runnin’ back? You told me you ain’t never gon’ leave.”

“I’m not leaving. You know I would never leave you, Remmick.”

“Liar.” His eyes flashed red in the moonlight. You shuddered. “Ain’t no use lyin’ to me, baby. I know you better than you know yourself. I know you’re gon’ try runnin’ now. Run then, child. You can’t hide from me forever.”

Goosebumps rose to the surface of your skin. Your blood ran cold, and by the way Remmick’s eyes lit up, you were sure he could sense that. You stumbled backwards, further away from Remmick, and closer to the door.

The door you knew he kept unlocked.

An ache tugged at your heart as your fingers found the handle. It was unlocked because he trusted you; because he thought you wouldn’t leave him.

You wrenched it open.

Remmick grinned. His fangs seemed to glint in the moonlight. “I’ll give you a head-start if you want it. I told you I like the hunt.”

You finally turned your back. You fled.

The evening wind whipped across your face as you sprinted over the hard, dried up ground that surrounded the isolated cabin. Every step sent a fresh chill through your body despite the overwhelmingly hot air around you.

You didn’t dare look back, and another fresh wave of fear surged through you when you heard Remmick’s running footsteps start chasing after you. You could have sworn you heard him yell, “Run, little rabbit, run!” into the stifling air, though maybe it was just your imagination.

Adrenaline surged through you, so much so that you did not register the thorns and stones sticking into the soles of your bare feet with every thud of your feet against the ground. You had made it into the woods. Thick tree trunks and branches obscured your vision. Branches slashed at your face and arms, cutting your skin into ribbons, but you did not stop. Your legs carried you as far away as they could, but you knew deep down in your bones, you would not make it far.

Remmick stalked you like a predator, eyes red and crazed. He did not waste his energy running after a while, knowing you did not stand a chance. His eyes never left your retreating figure in the distance, the gap between you becoming larger and larger.

He could not risk you escaping.

He could not let you leave.

He would not.

And then he pounced.

Just like that fateful night in the dirt when Remmick had first found you, a whoosh of air above you ruffled your hair, followed by all of the force in Remmick’s body ramming into the back of you. His arms wrapped around your stomach, the impact knocking you both to the leafy ground.

The force of the fall caused you both to roll for what felt like an eternity, all while you desperately tried to throw Remmick off of you. Your nails scratched at his skin, your hands tugging at any part of him you could reach. Limbs flailed and eventually grew tired. Remmick’s grip on you tightened as the lengthy battle for dominance was won. He straddled you, pinning your arms to the ground, a horrible grin making its way onto his face.

“Told you I’d find you wherever you went, didn’t I?”

The red was more prominent than ever in Remmick’s eyes. It terrified you. One hand that had been pinning one of your wrists slammed down upon the space of the dirt beside your head. Both hands pressed firmly either side of your head, he caged you in, hovering above you so you were trapped from all angles.

“I can smell your fear, darlin’. You don’t hide it well. I can smell your desire, too. You look so pretty, all at my mercy like this. I could just eat you up.”

A string of drool dripped onto your cheek.

Remmick lowered his head to the crook of your neck. “You ain’t never gon’ leave me again.”

Your bottom lip trembled. You opened your mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

“You know what I could do to you, baby,” Remmick whispered against your skin. “You ain’t stupid. I could take everythin’ that makes you human right now, make you my little sacrificial lamb. Make you mine for the rest of time.”

“You said you didn’t want my blood,” you whimpered.

“I said not yet. I have you now, don’t I? And now I’ve tasted your blood, I’m gon’ taste more. You already gave yourself up to me, darlin’. Now you’re gon’ let me taste what’s mine.”

Remmick dipped his head slightly lower, listening to your heartbeat once more. “Your heart’s speedin’ up. Your body’s screamin’ for me, ain’t it? Your blood… It’s beggin’. I can feel it.”

He latched the flesh beneath your collarbone between his teeth, teasingly, a taste of what was to come, what he could do.

You raised your shaking hands, cupping his face between your palms. Your thumb swiped over his cheekbone. You lifted his head up, forcing his eyes to meet yours.

“Do it. Take me. Make me in your image.”

You tried to make it sound like a challenge. Like you believed he would not actually do it. But the truth came through - in your eyes, your face, your voice. Deep down, you wanted him to.

You wanted all the things he had just said; you wanted to be his. For all eternity.

You knew by now that there was no one coming to save you, not even God.

So you would let Remmick save you instead.

“Be with me always. Take any form. Drive me mad,” you begged. “Make me yours.”

He moved his head towards your neck once more, mouth hovering just above your pulse-point. “You poor thing. Sweet, mournin’ lamb. You’re already mine.”

And then he sunk his fangs into your neck.

The pain was blinding, hot white lights bursting across your vision. But only for a second. Your body began to tremble before warmth flooded through it, spreading to the very tips of your fingers and toes, filling up your very heart.

Remmick moaned against your neck, the primal sound of a man starved who had just tasted the sweetest thing of his life, and now he wanted it all to himself.

He lapped up your blood as though it was cherry wine, but not like a beast. It did not seem like hunger. There was something more there with the way he fed. It was slow, deliberate, almost intimate.

Remmick pulled you off the ground, into his arms, holding you like something delicate. Blood bloomed from the wound in your neck, your heartbeat stuttering, breath leaving you in short bursts. The pain spread throughout your whole body, but none of it seemed to matter when you looked at him.

Remmick looked down at you like you were his altar and he was a sinner begging for forgiveness. His eyes were no longer red. Instead, they were tear-filled and vulnerable, replaced with his usual deep brown; an Unholy devotion and vulnerability gazing out at you through his dark hues. Your blood was smeared around his mouth, and like this, somehow, he looked more handsome than ever.

One of Remmick’s hands pressed flat against your beating heart, the way you had done to him only a few hours ago. The same hand then caressed your cheek, wiping away your tears. The way he loved you so gently in the midst of all this blood…

It made you want him forever.

“It won’t hurt for much longer, darlin’,” Remmick soothed you. “I promise.”

You grabbed his face, holding onto him like he was your lifeline. You pulled him down, crashing his lips against yours. You tasted your own blood on his mouth; it was as sweet as he said.

“Finish it,” you begged with your dying breaths. “Love me and feed.”

He did. He drank more desperately this time, savouring each and every drop.

Your body stopped shaking. You went limp. The warmth that had flooded you was flushed out, replaced with an icy cold that you had not the energy to even react to.

In your head, you tried to pray, but the words did not reach your brain.

Because God has stopped listening.

Maybe he was gone all along.

Maybe Remmick had been right. It was just him now. Only him who could save you.

This was your salvation. You had found Heaven.

Your Daddy would be proud.

You will always be the Preacher’s Daughter.

Your vision began to blur. Your breath weakened. Your heartbeat sputtered like the last ashes on a dying fire.

And then it stopped.

Everything faded.

Nothing. Silence.

Until everything came flooding back.

Your heartbeat fluttered. And then it synced with his.

Your eyes opened. The first thing you saw was the stars above you. And God, they were singing. Their light shone brighter than anything you had ever seen before. Everything around you somehow seemed richer, more colourful. More beautiful.

The air was purer, gentler on your lungs as you breathed in your first breaths of being this. Being his.

Remmick hovered above you, lips stained with your blood. He was as ethereal as ever, his face, his body, his everything, your own personal religion.

You sat up slowly. The breeze that hit your face was no longer irritating; it was beautiful. Your hair barely even moved in the wind, as though that was a small, inconvenient part of being human that you no longer had to deal with.

Remmick gazed at you for what felt like a century. Time seemed different now; slower, more fluid, more meaningless.

And then, he smiled. “Hey, baby. How you feelin’?”

You hesitated for a moment, not answering straight away. “Tired,” came your reply. Even the movement of your throat as you spoke felt different.

“Takes some time to get used to.” He spoke from experience. He reached out a hand and ran his fingers along your cheekbone, your jaw, and then brushed them over the mark he had made that was already beginning to bruise. “But you got forever now.”

“Forever for what?” you questioned.

“To eat. To love. To be with me.”

You smiled. “That sounds good.”

Remmick smiled, too. “Don’t it.”

“What happens now?”

“Tonight? Or after?”

“Both.”

Remmick pondered your question for a moment as if he hadn’t thought that far yet. “Tonight… I’ll take you home. Make you mine in every way you ain’t already. Love you til the sun comes up.”

You shuddered at the idea of it; not with fear, with need. With desire.

“And then after… I ain’t never thought that far with anyone before. But everythin’ about you’s different. You make me want more than just feedin’. And I’ll make you want more’n that, too. This is God, baby. You found him.”

You tilted your head up towards the night sky, as though the stars contained your fortune. They shone, they sang, no fortune found within them. But you did not need to know anymore. You did not need to know what the future held for you, or who, if anybody, was listening to your prayers.

You had Remmick.

That was enough.

“Take me home, Remmick.”

He scooped you up into his arms in one swift motion, as though you were his bride, promised to him for eternity.

You were.

You are no longer the Preacher’s Daughter.

You no longer pray to God.

You’ve already been saved.

Remmick had been right. He was your sin. He was your sermon. He was your Saviour. Your penance and your temptation.

And, Lord forgive you - you loved him.

-

[lluc1ll3]

you make me wanna make you fall in love | dbf!rick grimes

(No outbreak AU)

summary: a drunken night at your family’s christmas party results in lots of truths, thoughts and feelings being forced out into the open between you and your longtime crush. who also happens to be your dad’s best friend, rick grimes.

word count: 6.5k

tags: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, Smut (v fingering, fem receiving oral, unprotected p in v) Age gap (reader is uni age - early 20s, rick is late 40s-early 50s), Mentions of cheating (reader and rick both got cheated on), Carl is mentioned, Sheriff!Rick, Dry humping, Grinding, Rick is a massive tease, Edging, Finger sucking, Dirty talk, Kinda a bit of exhibitionism?, Possibly of getting caught, Squirting

inspired by juno by sabrina carpenter ;)

—

Your parents’ annual Christmas party was always a hit or miss event. They had way too many friends for their own good, resulting in a heaving turnout and far too much small-talk with your parents’ friends and coworkers for your liking. A few hours had gone by and you were cringing into your third glass of wine of the night as your dad and uncle absolutely murdered a classic Christmas song on the karaoke machine.

At every Christmas party, something would happen that would become the talk amongst the family until the next one. An in-joke had arisen amongst your family that the parties were cursed, and that every family member had to do something scandalous at one of the parties to truly earn their place in the family. One year it had been your dad, who passed out drunk with his head in the toilet for a few hours. One year it had been your brother, who’d had an explosive argument and subsequent breakup with his then-girlfriend for all to see. Along with considerably less humiliating stories about your mom, aunties, uncles and cousins, the only one who hadn’t been involved in one of the family Christmas party scandals was you.

You watched with an amused smile as your dad attempted to grab his best friend, Rick Grimes, by the wrist and pull him into the middle of the room to join in on the horrendous singing. Rick was grinning, shaking his head adamantly as he attempted to prize his wrist from your dad’s unrelenting, drunken grip. Rick’s pleading eyes caught yours and you shook your head, making your way over to the squabbling men to help Rick free himself from the impending humiliation ritual.

“Leave him alone,” you laughed as you pulled your dad’s hand from around Rick’s wrist. “You’re embarrassing him.”

Your dad muttered something incoherent and you shook your head in exasperation, turning towards Rick, who was grinning abashedly. “My hero,” he chuckled.

You waved him away. “Don’t mention it.” Rick raised his glass of whiskey to his lips and gulped down the remaining few drops. You forgot for a moment that it wasn’t socially acceptable to stare as you took in his appearance; the top button of his shirt was undone, revealing just a tiny bit of his chest. His curly hair was combed backwards off his face and he was freshly shaven, a tiny hint of salt and pepper stubble still on his face. The bob of his Adam’s apple as he finished off his drink almost caused your thoughts to run away with you, but he lowered his glass and grinned over at you, noticing your staring. “What?” he asked, though the smirk on his face implied he knew exactly what.

“Nothing,” you shook your head, eyes flitting down to your now empty wine glass. “Refill?” you raised an eyebrow.

“Please.”

You took Rick’s empty glass from him and made your way through the crowd of family friends towards the pantry, where the alcohol was kept. You hadn’t expected Rick to follow you, but you more than welcomed it. You wondered if he realised that most of the alcohol had come from the kitchen, but you knew it would be cramped and loud and you couldn’t pass up an opportunity to be alone with Rick, as desperate as it sounded.

Ever since your early teens, when you first started to awaken to feelings of lust and desire, you’d had a thing for your dad’s best friend, Rick Grimes. His son was a year or two younger than you, so you usually saw him when he was picking Carl up from school or when he would come round to watch the football with your dad on a Friday. It wasn’t until you got older, old enough to start drinking around your parents, that you got to spend more time with Rick. The more time you spent around him, the more you spoke to him, the more you craved him. You knew it was ridiculous; he was much older than you, married with a kid around your age. He could never, would never want you, and you knew that. But that didn’t stop his face appearing in your late night fantasies when you would imagine that your own hands touching you were actually his.

“Like your alcohol in this family, don’t ya?” Rick observed with a smirk as you screwed the top off the whiskey and poured a generous amount into his glass.

“I get that from my dad,” you smiled sweetly, picking the glass up and handing it to Rick. “You should know. I’ve heard all sorts of stories about what you and my dad got up to in college.”

Rick chuckled amusedly. He held your gaze as he took the glass from you with a grateful nod, eyes never leaving yours. His fingers brushed yours and you did your best to hide your shudder. “I’m sure you haven’t heard the worst of it.”

“Well, now I’m curious.”

Rick hummed in amusement, the sound almost made you weak in the knees as you turned away from him to pour your wine. “Stay curious. Your dad would kill me if I tarnished his image with those stories.”

“He’s doing a pretty good job of that on his own,” you laughed, listening out for more of your dad’s horrible singing, and when you heard none you could only assume that your mom had finally stepped in and put an end to the torturous karaoke. “Almost tarnished your image too, Deputy Grimes.”

Rick smirked, lifting his glass to his lips for a swig of alcohol. “It’s Sheriff Grimes now.”

“Oh,” your grin widened. “Congrats, but… Should I be getting the Sheriff drunk?”

Rick tilted his head to the side with a playful shrug. “He’s off duty. Get him as drunk as you want.”

You screwed the top back on the glasses and placed them back on the shelves you’d retrieved them from, making sure to align them at the right angle so nobody knew you’d come in here for the alcohol. When you picked up your wine glass and turned back around to face Rick, he raised his own glass, clinking it against yours. “Cheers.” He maintained eye contact as he threw down another gulp of whiskey and you sipped your wine.

You breathed deeply before speaking again. “Any other developments I should know about, Sheriff Grimes?”

Rick’s lip twitched and for a moment you were worried you’d overstepped. His index finger tapped the glass and he finally responded, “How about, ah… Single father Sheriff Grimes?”

You feigned a piteous expression, though you couldn’t ignore the leap your heart did in your chest at the admission. Of course you’d noticed the lack of wedding ring on his hand, but you needed to hear it from him just to confirm he hadn’t left it at home or something. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Rick shook his head insistently. “The two year affair she was having doesn’t exactly scream ‘healthy marriage’.”

Affair? How could anybody cheat on him? He was perfect, but you couldn’t tell him that. So instead you commented, “If it makes you feel better, you’re not the only one. Found out two months ago that my boyfriend was sleeping with a first year.”

Rick’s eyes darkened at that. “Fuckin’ idiot,” he murmured under his breath, and then he took another swig of whisky to calm himself down. “How could anyone do that to you?”

You scoffed. “How could Lori have done that to you?”

“I’m old. That don’t matter,” he waved it away, “but you, you’re…”

The air around you suddenly became very heavy, and you were now all too aware of how small the pantry was, the distance between you and Rick a mere few inches. You could feel his breath on your face as he looked down at you, his gaze making you feel like you were being X-rayed, yet somehow, you didn’t entirely hate it. In fact, you wanted more. The heat growing in your lower stomach was starting to become impossible to ignore but you refused to break your eye contact with Rick.

“You deserve someone…” Rick placed two fingers under your chin, tilting your head up slightly as his thumb brushed over your bottom lip. “Who’s gonna treat you right. You shouldn’t waste your time on college boys. You need a man.”

Your breath shuddered as you whispered, “Rick… You know what I need…”

Rick’s hand slipped down to your shoulder and he looked like he instantly regretted touching you so intimately. “Fuck, sweetheart, I can’t,” he murmured under his breath, eyes darting back to the door. “If I were a few years younger or you were a few years older- your dad, I couldn’t-“

“Rick, I don’t care about any of that,” you whined, looking up at him with pleading eyes, but Rick took a step backwards and placed his hand on the door handle. “Rick-“

“Stop,” Rick ordered, and you saw a hint of the Sheriff when he looked at you then. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

After that, he pulled open the door and left, closing it behind him, leaving the tension of the conversation all on your shoulders. You cursed yourself for even implying it, cursed him for turning you down. How would you ever look at him again now? How would you explain to your dad the impending awkwardness between the two of you? You sighed, gulping down the last of your wine in an attempt to clear your mind before you rejoined the midst of the party.

The family Christmas party embarrassment curse was continuing with you.

As the hours went by, the number of people at the party dwindled. You stayed mostly with your mother and her coworkers, catching Rick’s eye a few times occasionally from across the room. You were the first to look away this time.

As the last of the stragglers left the party around midnight, your dad approached, announcing to your mom that Rick was too drunk to drive home so he had offered his best friend the couch. You rolled your eyes subtly. Great. You were the first of your family to excuse yourself to your old bedroom, too tired and embarrassed to put up with any more socialising for the night.

You closed the door behind you, hanging your head and sighing deeply, ready to forget the night’s events as quickly as you could. You heard two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs and your parents’ hushed, drunken voices, followed by the closing of their bedroom door and then silence for a few minutes. You laid down on your back, staring up at the ceiling as you kicked off your heels.

Knock knock.

You sighed in frustration, pushing yourself up off your bed and approaching the door, expecting to see one of your parents or your brother on the other side.

Who you did not expect to see was Rick Grimes.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him, and despite how pissed you had been at him for the whole night, it all melted away now as he stood before you in your doorway with an unreadable expression on his face.

Rick cleared his throat, running one hand through his hair as the other rested on his belt buckle. “I thought about what you said, and I… I don’t care about any of that either. If you still-“

The minute you realised what he was saying, you wasted no more time, not even stopping to think about any of it before you grabbed Rick by the collar, tugging him towards you and bringing his lips down on yours.

Rick kissed you back instantly, his large hands coming up to cup either side of your face, the pads of his thumbs brushing over your jawline. The kiss was surprisingly gentle and delicate, as if he was afraid he would break you.

He pulled away, and your heart skipped a beat as you thought for a moment he was having second thoughts. Rick glanced over his shoulder towards the door of your parents’ room, making sure everyone else in the house was still asleep. When he was sure they were, he turned back to you with an abashed grin, thumbs still caressing either side of your face.

“Can I come in?” he asked, ever the gentleman. You nodded eagerly, pulling him in by the shirt and shutting the door a little too loudly behind him, but you were too caught up in the moment to care. Rick pulled you back towards him by the small of your back and crashed his lips against yours once more.

This time, his kiss was hungrier, more desperate. Messy and passionate. Your hands tugged desperately at Rick’s shirt, and a surprised gasp left your lips when Rick’s hands found your ass and he effortlessly lifted you up so your face was level with his. You instinctively wrapped your legs around Rick’s waist as he pinned you softly between his body and the wall.

He took a moment to observe you, tilting his head to the side and running a hand through your hair. A smirk tugged at his lips; he knew he had you completely to himself, even if it was just for that one night, and he was going to make the most of it. “You know there was alcohol in the kitchen?” he asked, his voice low and his eyes filled with lust.

“Yeah,” you breathed out desperately. “Just wanted you all to myself,” you admitted, instantly embarrassed by it, but the feeling of Rick’s lips on yours made you feel too lightheaded to care.

“I’m all yours, baby,” Rick said huskily, pressing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses from just beneath your ear down to your sternum, a trail of fire in the wake of his lips. “You know how fuckin’ beautiful you are?”

“Rick,” you moaned desperately, rolling your hips against his and feeling his hard-on brush against your underwear.

Kissing him wasn’t enough, you needed to feel his touch despite how intimidating this was. You wanted this so fucking bad, but this was Rick Grimes. He had at least twenty years on you, much more experience, and even though you had your fair share, it was still incomparable.

“What is it?” you could feel Rick’s smug grin against your neck as he suckled at a sweet spot, leaving a purpling bruise there as a mark of just how much you belonged to him. “What do you need, baby?” He knew exactly what you needed. He rolled his hips against yours agonisingly slow. He was growing harder by the second and you were already practically soaked through your panties.

“Need you to touch me,” you begged. “Please, Rick.”

Rick finally complied, raising his head from your neck with a smirk as his hand travelled slowly up your thigh under your dress, index finger hooking around the waistband of your underwear. He raised his eyebrows, feeling the lacy material. “These for me?”

You nodded eagerly, a gasp hitching in your throat when you felt Rick shove a finger down the front of your underwear, pushing it inside you with one swift motion. “This what you wanted, hm?” He added a second finger and you clamped one hand over your mouth to stop yourself crying out his name too loud. The other hand threaded and pulled at Rick’s curls, desperate for anything to hold onto.

He watched you hungrily as your face twisted and contorted with pleasure when he added a third finger, pushing his digits knuckle deep inside of you with ease due to just how fucking wet you were. A more depraved part of him wanted to pull your hand away from your mouth and hear you screaming his name, not caring that it would awake the whole house. He wanted to hear how good he made you feel so he could remember the filthy sounds from you forever.

Rick continued to pump his fingers in and out of you mercilessly, eventually leaning back down to press uncharacteristically gentle kisses to every part of your neck chest he could reach. “So fuckin’ perfect,” you felt his deep Southern accent rumble against your chest.

White hot burning erupted in your stomach and you squeezed your eyes shut, anticipating your orgasm to rip through you at any moment. You’d dreamed about this, fucked yourself on your own fingers and imagined they were Rick’s, thought of the filthy things he would whisper in your ear with his voice that drove you so fucking insane. Right as you were about to reach your peak, Rick removed his fingers.

You pouted in petulance at his mean action, causing him to chuckle. “So needy,” Rick commented amusedly.

“Rick, please,” you panted. “Need you to make me cum, need it so fucking bad-“

Rick shushed you soothingly, wrapping one strong arm around your waist and setting you back on your own two feet. Your knees felt a little weak but Rick’s arm around your waist supported you, taking the responsibility off your shaking legs. He kissed you once more, his lips gently moving against your own, and you thought about how you couldn’t believe this was real. “Turn around,” Rick ordered gently, taking hold of your shoulders and helping you move for him.

You felt Rick’s hard-on press against your ass as his fingers found the zip of your dress, pulling it down slowly and allowing the fabric to pool around your ankles. His hands roamed your body, feeling every inch of newly exposed skin, coming to rest on your waist. His lips slowly travelled down the back of your neck along your shoulders, hot breath fanning against your skin. Your head rolled back against Rick’s chest, growing wetter just from the sheer intimacy of it all.

Out of all your past partners, nobody had paid your body this much attention. But Rick Grimes was different. He transcended what it was to be a human, his perfection nearing that of a God. And didn’t he know it.

“So fuckin’ pretty,” Rick growled in your ear. One of his hands made quick work of unclasping your bra, and it fell near your dress. With one swift movement, he hooked an arm underneath your legs and carried you over to your bed. He laid you down gently, clambering on top of you instantly, not wanting to waste a precious second.

“Rick, please,” you croaked out for what felt like the hundredth time since he’d entered your room. “I need you. Needed you for so long.”

“Shhh,” Rick crooned gently, pressing hot, wet kisses all over your breasts, every centimetre of skin he hadn’t yet worshipped not going unnoticed by him. “Let me take care of you, darlin’.”

Rick took the lace waistband of your panties between his teeth, never breaking eye contact with you as his index finger looped around the other side and he pulled them down, fully exposing all of you to him. Hooking one of your legs over his shoulder, he started pressing a painstakingly slow trail of kisses from your ankle all the way up to your inner thigh, not quite reaching the area you desperately needed him in, teasing you cruelly.

“You ever get yourself off thinkin’ about me?” Rick asked as he began the same process on your other leg, voice low and hoarse as he tried his best to keep quiet.

You nodded, if only he knew. “First time I ever masturbated, I was thinking about you.”

Rick groaned lowly at the admission, the thought of you fingering yourself to the thought of him drove him fucking insane. He finally reached your dripping core, pressing a chaste kiss over your heat that almost caused you to cry out.

He moved himself up the bed once more so he was hovering above you, one hand beginning to undo his shirt. You reached up with shaking hands to help him, yanking it off his body desperately and tossing it onto the floor next to your discarded clothes. His shoulders were broad, his stomach was toned and his biceps were perfectly defined. You had spent countless hours imagining Rick’s body but none of that compared to the real thing.

“You ain’t the only one…” he whispered, voice husky, punctuating his sentence with another passionate kiss, “who’s wanted this for a long time.”

“How long, Rick?” you whispered, hands running over his toned muscles. Rick stayed where he was, allowing you to admire and touch him, one of his hands running through your soft hair. “How long have you wanted this?”

“Since you first came back from college,” Rick murmured against your jaw where he had leaned down to suck another hickey onto your skin. “The thought of you goin’ back there,” he began to slowly grind his clothed hips against your naked core. One of your hands gripped his bicep, digging your nails into his flesh while the other tangled and pulled at his hair. “Bein’ spoiled by fuckin’ college boys who don’t know what they’re doin’… Drove me fuckin’ insane, baby. You have no idea…” he cupped your jaw with his strong hand, pulling down your bottom lip with his thumb, “how often I get myself off thinkin’ about you.”

You took his thumb in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it whilst refusing to tear your eyes away from his. Rick groaned audibly and the sound edged you closer to your release than you already were.

“Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of me,” Rick cursed, moving back down your body, this time allowing himself time to focus on your tits. He swirled his tongue around one of your nipples, kneading your other breast with his hand. He released your nipple from his mouth and moved onto the other one, repeating the same process before he began to kiss down the valley of your breasts, your stomach, making his way back down towards your glistening pussy.

“Rick,” you panted, placing both your hands in his hair and forcing his head down closer to your arousal. “Please. Need you to make me cum.”

Rick grinned smugly, throwing both your legs over his shoulders. “Whatever you want, baby.”

He wasted no time, diving in to eat you out like a man starved. He sucked gently at your clit, spurred on by every tug you gave his curls. His fingers were one thing, his tongue was another thing entirely. Forgetting that you had to keep quiet, you let out a shrill shriek of, “Oh, fuck!” and he squeezed your thigh warningly as a reminder to keep it down.

Rick didn’t speed up, slowly teasing you, loving that he had you writhing beneath him, forgetting your circumstances and screaming out because he just made you feel that good. “Fuck, Rick, please,” you begged, louder than you should have. “Rick, I-“

“Shh, shh, shh.” Rick clamped a hand over your mouth and your heart-rate instantly accelerated when you heard what he was hearing. The soft pitter-patter of footsteps outside, stopping just outside, and then the rapping of knuckles against the wood of your bedroom door.

“You okay in there?” called your dad’s voice through the wood of your door. Your eyes widened as you exchanged a terrified glance with Rick, who didn’t seem fazed. He dipped his head back down with a teasing grin and you glared at him warningly.

Your dad called your name, and you were glad he did, because it drowned out the volume of your gasp when Rick started circling his tongue around your clit once more. “Fine!” you called out, praying to whatever god there was that your voice wouldn’t break from the pleasure of what Rick was doing to you.

“You sure? I thought I heard you yelling.”

“I had a- a bad dream,” you responded, squeezing Rick’s head between your thighs warningly as he kept licking, sucking and nipping, bringing you dangerously close to the edge with your father still right outside the door.

You covered your mouth with your hand and squeezed your eyes tight shut, trying to hold out for as long as you could. “You need anything? Water?” your dad continued to press on.

“I’m fine, dad, go back to bed!” you snapped, the words tumbling out of you in one breath as you risked taking your hand off your mouth to respond.

“Alright. Goodnight, honey.”

Finally, his footsteps began to recede back towards his bedroom and you were able to relax a little. You glared down at Rick, who raised his head to smirk at you from between your legs. “What?” he asked, feigning innocence from your accusatory gaze.

“You asshole,” you snapped at him under your breath.

His fingers traced shapes absentmindedly on your thighs. “Want me to stop?”

“No,” you almost cry, unable to stay mad at him for too long when he was making you feel this good. “Rick, I need to cum, please-“

Before you can even finish begging this time, his lips were on your pussy once more, this time with more determination, a man on a mission. Two of his fingers slipped back inside you with ease, his tongue flicked against your clit and it took all your willpower not to scream his name. He added a third finger, and your back arched, a desperate attempt to be as close to him as possible as you felt the elastic band in your stomach begin to split.

Rick’s hands squeezed your thighs desperately as he curled his fingers and flicked his tongue. This was as much heaven to him as it was to you. The sounds you made, the way you tasted… Rick knew he should feel guilty about what he was doing but he was too drunk on the delicious taste of your sweet pussy to even spare it a second thought.

Finally, Rick’s tongue and fingers worked together to find that sweet spot of release, and everything he had built up inside of you started to release. White flashed behind your eyelids and you bit down on your bottom lip so hard to muffle your sounds that you thought you could taste blood. Rick continued to eat you out through your orgasm, holding all your weight on his shoulders as your legs shook with the intensity of it, the sounds of the whimpers you couldn’t hold back no matter how hard you tried were music to his ears. You felt like you were walking on air as you hit the intensity of your orgasm, before a new sensation overtook your body, but it felt so good you had no time to spare it a thought.

When you collapsed onto your back on the bed and your body began to come down from your high, you looked down at Rick whose eyes met yours as he clambered back up the bed to your level.

“Did I just..?” you trailed off. You knew exactly what you’d done, based on the wetness glistening on Rick’s chin and in his slight stubble, along with the proud smirk on his face, but the actual word seemed a little too vulgar. “Sorry,” you giggled sheepishly, unsure what else to say.

“Baby,” Rick crooned, gently gripping you beneath your knees and pulling you to the centre of the bed so you were directly beneath him. “Don’t apologise for that.”

“I just, I’ve never… done that before,” you admitted embarrassedly.

“I told you,” Rick grinned proudly, “you need a man,” he referred to what he’d said earlier and you rolled your eyes, grin widening as Rick kissed you gently, a great contrast to the earth-shattering orgasm he had just brought you to. You could taste some of your slick on his lips.

Rick pushed some of your hair off your face, examining you through his lashes as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever seen. You expected to feel insecure while being fully naked under his gaze, but you felt more comfortable with him than you had with any other partner you’d been with, like this was right. “You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded, responding breathlessly and with a blissful grin, “Yeah.” You were more than okay, but even after having the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life, you craved more. You needed all of Rick, needed to feel him inside you after years of imagining what it would feel like, how flawlessly his dick would slide inside of you and how perfect it would feel there. “Please, just fuck me, Rick.”

Rick grinned, leaning down to capture your lips in another kiss as his hands made quick work of his belt and zip. “You sure you can handle it?” he asked smugly, kicking off his pants and tugging down his boxers.

You rolled your eyes at his cockiness before catching sight of his dick. It was mouth wateringly big, almost intimidatingly so, not too thick, leaking with precum and painfully hard, all for you.

Rick propped himself up on one of his elbows, leaning down to connect his lips to yours once more, tongue intertwining with yours. The hand beside your head cupped your jaw as his other one pumped his dick a few times. “You ready?” he asked you seriously.

You nodded eagerly. “Please, Rick. Need you inside me.”

Rick kissed you again, groaning into your mouth as he slipped himself inside of you. His kiss captured your moan as you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him as close to you as possible. One of your hands rested on his arm, nails scratching at his bicep as he pushed his full length inside of you, stretching you out perfectly, while the other wrapped around his neck.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight,” Rick groaned into your ear, nipping at the skin of your neck. “So perfect, fuck.”

You had always imagined Rick saying the most obscene things to you, but hearing him actually say them was hotter than you ever could have imagined. His voice was always incredibly sexy to you, the quiet rasp and his thick accent, and him keeping his voice even lower now so as not to be heard… you would never unhear any of this, and you never wanted to.

The only sounds other than your quiet, breathy moans and Rick’s pants and groans, were the noises of Rick’s cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy, the wetness creating pornographic, lewd noises. You had never been this wet before, a true testament to the effect Rick Grimes had on you.

Rick’s thrusts started out slow, savouring the feeling of you around him. He wanted to take his time with you, to slowly pull you apart. Knowing you were travelling back to college after Christmas, knowing the situation you both were in was less than ideal, he didn’t know when the next time he would have you like this was. He wanted to make the most of it, for it to never be over.

“Feels so fucking good, Rick,” you mewled, raising your hips to match his slow thrusts, needing all the friction you could get. There were truly no words for just how good it felt; you would let him ruin you, however he wanted. He moaned into your neck at the praise you gave him and started to thrust a bit faster.

“You have no idea,” he stopped for a moment to breathe and compose himself before giving another slow roll of his hips into yours, “how fuckin’ good you feel. So fuckin’ wet, and all for me. Your pussy was made for my dick, wasn’t it, baby? I could-“ he punctuated his point with a particularly hard thrust that made a loud moan escape your throat, “-fuck you forever.” You expected his hand to come up and cover your mouth again, but at this point, you were both too far gone to worry about that.

“Rick, please,” you whimpered. “Go harder. I need it so fucking bad.”

Rick gladly obeyed, his movements gradually becoming harsher and harsher, bringing you closer to the edge every second. He lifted his head to meet your eye, and between the look he gave you and his short, desperate pants for breath, you felt that familiar sensation building up in your stomach once more. “Fuck, I’m close, Rick.”

“I know, baby,” Rick murmured, peppering kisses over your chest. “You take me so fuckin’ well.”

Unable to contain your whimpers of pleasure now, you begged, “Choke me, Rick, please.”

You were starting to learn that Rick Grimes was never one to deny you what you wanted. Whatever you wanted from him, you got. His dominant hand squeezed your throat lightly and you gasped with pleasure. “Harder.” He obliged, and the sight of your eyes rolling back elicited a loud groan from him. His thrusts became harder, more erratic, reaching a pace that rendered you speechless.

You desperately tried to lift your hips to match his thrusts, but you simply couldn’t keep pace with him, instead keeping your back arched to allow him even deeper access inside of you. Your nails scraped down Rick’s back and bicep hard, and he could feel the pain but it didn’t faze him in the slightest.

You’d never been fucked like this, never felt anything like the sensations overtaking your body. Everything was shaking, your entire body was slick with sweat and your head was almost spinning, but you chased your high for the second time that night, as well as Rick’s. You wanted to feel him release inside of you no matter the consequences. You wanted to bind him to you, cast some sort of spell over him so you could be fucked by him like this forever. The thought of him fucking anyone else but you after tonight made you sick, the thought of you ever taking another dick but his, even more so.

Rick’s thrusts became more sporadic, more desperate, and you could tell by his uneven breaths that he was getting close. “Harder, Rick, I’m almost there,” you whispered.

“Me too, baby,” he grunted, adding a finger to rub against your clit to speed the process along for you both, not wanting to cum until you had.

“Cum with me, Rick,” you whispered in his ear, your hand moving from his bicep to his hair, tugging his head down and pressing a kiss to the side of his face. “At the same time. Don’t wait for me.”

Rick moaned at the idea of it. “Where?” he breathed out.

“Inside me, Rick.” He faltered slightly in his movements and looked up at you with hesitant eyes. “Please, Rick. Want to feel you inside me for days,” you moaned in his ear, and that was enough.

Rick desperately crashed his lips against yours in a sloppy, open mouthed kiss that captured both your moans as you clenched around his dick, and after one more hard thrust, both your orgasms came gushing. Feeling Rick spilling inside of you, filling you to the brim with his cum was the equivalent of seeing heaven. You saw stars burst across your vision, this orgasm even better than the last one, as Rick continued to fuck you through both of your highs.

Rick’s hips finally stilled, and he rested his forehead against yours for a moment as you caressed the sides of his face, staring up at him as if trying to confirm he was real and this wasn’t just an elaborate fantasy. He pulled out, and you took note of how empty you felt without him inside of you. Rick collapsed by your side, chest heaving as he brought up a hand to wipe sweat from his forehead.

Before either of you could actually say anything regarding the mind-blowing sex you’d just had, a door across the hall opened. You shot up into a sitting position, listening as heavy footsteps, probably that of your dad or brother, approached the door. You and Rick had been loud, you knew that much, and now the whole house knew and now the world was about to end. Taking a deep breath of anticipation, you waited for the inevitable, painful knock at the door… that never came. The footsteps passed your door, went towards the bathroom, and then a door closed behind them.

You let out a deep breath of relief, before Rick grabbed you by the arm and pulled you on top of him. He was grinning tiredly as he ran a hand through your hair, hand cupping the back of your neck to pull you in for a gentle kiss.

When he pulled away, his hand trailed sweetly down the middle of your back to rest on the curve of your ass.

“Holy shit,” you giggled as the situation really hit you. “That really happened.”

“It did,” Rick confirmed, raising one of your hands to intertwine your fingers with his. “Unless we’re both dreamin’.”

You opened your mouth to joke about how it wouldn’t be a change from the usual subject matter of your dreams, before the bathroom door opened and closed again. You both tensed, waiting for the footsteps to disappear down the hallway once more. Once they did, you relaxed, laying down next to Rick and resting your head on his shoulder. Your fingers traced over the red scratch marks you’d made on his bicep, feeling a little bad about it now. “Sorry,” you grinned shyly, hiding your face in his shoulder.

“Don’t be,” he hummed contently, raising an arm to put around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him. “I’ll take all the reminders of this I can get.”

“Reminders as in… you don’t wanna do this again?” you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“Oh, we’ll be doin’ this again,” Rick assured you, turning his head to look at you with a coy grin on his face. “Just, uh… some place where you can be as loud as you need to for me. How’s that sound?”

“Perfect,” you smiled back, pressing an innocent kiss to his lips and draping an arm over his toned chest, cuddling into him while you could. He would have to leave soon to retreat to the couch. The next morning with your family at breakfast would be the most painful morning of your life (figuratively and literally), with the after effects of his abuse on your pussy and not being able to kiss him after having him to yourself all night.

After that, you didn’t know when you would see him next. So you would take this while you could get it; a blissful aftermath of a blissful night with the literal man of your dreams.

—

note: so…. part 2?😋

[lluc1ll3]

speak up | sickboy

summary: sickboy wants to hear you - all of you.

word count: 2.2k

tags: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, Smut (v fingering, fem receiving oral), Canon accurate Sickboy (he’s an asshole), Sickboy has an oral fixation, Drug references, Sickboy fucks a bed and cums in his pants :3, Hair pulling, Renton and Begbie mentioned, No use of y/n

—

Sickboy’s ego was always too much for everyone around him to handle. Nothing was ever enough for him. He always wanted more.

Like this, the situation he was in right now. It wasn’t enough for him. He wanted more. He had you laid flat on your back in your own bed, mini-dress rolled up to your midriff. He had your thong stuffed into the front pocket of his trousers and your thighs locked around his head but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more.

It didn’t matter what he did or how good he thought he was, you weren’t letting up, not giving him anything other than a low sigh or a quiet moan.

Sickboy was confused about it, because after all, you were the one who bought him the first drink. You were the one rubbing your heel against his lower leg when you sat beside him at the bar. You were the one who inclined your head towards the out-of-order club bathroom with ‘fuck me’ eyes; the one who was more than welcome to the prospect of him holding you against the wall by the throat with one hand while he fucked you with the other one.

But he was the one who suggested you go back to yours, because he couldn’t get enough. He didn’t fancy bringing a lass back to Sweeney’s while Renton was trying to sleep off his worst high yet.

But, in true Sickboy fashion, he wanted more. Sex and heroin weren’t all that different after all, because just like with a hit, he’d done it once and now he wanted it again. He was desperate for it. He’d made you cum using just his fingers and he wanted to make you cum again.

He was a greedy fucker and he couldn’t help himself. He, nor you for that matter, could deal with just snogging on the ten minute taxi ride back to yours. You were soaking through your panties and he was painfully hard, so he fingered you again in the back of the taxi, making you cum using just his fingers, again. Kissing you to swallow your moans whilst whispering into your mouth all the promises of the filthy things he was going to do to you later.

And that was how you wound up here. You were too quiet for his liking. He figured it had made sense in the club because you both had snuck into an out-of-order bathroom and didn’t want to attract attention, but when he thought about how loud the music was thrumming outside the door it started to make less sense. He supposed it made more sense for you to be quiet in the taxi ride because, well, it was in a fucking taxi. That was pretty vulgar even for his standards.

But here, in the privacy of your own home, no roommates to bother since you had left them at the club, and you still weren’t giving him more than a whimper. Sickboy sighed, ceasing his motions and raising his head from between your legs to rest it on your stomach.

That made you freeze and look down at him, wondering if he was enjoying this at all. From what you’d learned from past partners and hookups, you were doing exactly what you were supposed to. Apparently, lads didn’t like it when lasses were too loud or too keen in the bedroom. And while it had been a fucking chore not to scream both times Sickboy had fucked you with his fingers that night, you wanted this to be good for him, too. The last thing you wanted was to put him off. You weren’t about to deprive yourself of how good he was any sooner than you had to.

“What?” you snapped down at the bleach blonde man as his fingertips trailed up your inner thigh.

“Cat got your tongue, lassie?” he asked in that thick Scottish accent, his voice soft and low. At your questioning look, he began to slowly kiss your thighs where his fingers were planted, teeth softly grazing your skin and causing your breathing to quicken. “I wanna hear you, lass,” he murmured. “Wanna hear who makes you feel this fucking good.”

It was all an ego thing. He wanted to hear all of it for his own gratification. He wasn’t being generous. He hadn’t only paid attention to you and your needs all night because he cared more about your pleasure than his own. You’d offered to suck him off in the club bathroom, twice had attempted to give him a hand-job between the taxi and your front door, and he’d denied you every time, insisting he wanted to focus on making you feel good. It wasn’t completely false, though it was more about the fuck-off buzz he got out of knowing it was him that made you cum like that; that, and the pride he’d feel when he got to tell Rents and Franco that he’d made a girl cum X amount of times without even using his dick. But this wasn’t exactly the kind of pornographic scenario he pictured telling his mates about; no lewd noises, no desperate breaths, not even as much as a moan from you and it was starting to really bug him.

He looked back up at you with his dark eyes and mewled, “Think you can do that for me, pretty girl? Think you can let me hear you?”

“Bigheaded twat,” you laughed at him.

“I just wanna know you’re enjoying yourself, pet,” he crooned.

You gave a delicate, breathy laugh. “You’re so fucking full of it.” But you were cut off with a gasp when Sickboy pressed the pad of his thumb firmly against your clit.

“Come on, lass,” he murmured, eyes never leaving your face. “Let me hear it.”

His thumb pressing harshly into your core caused you to let out a hushed string of, “oh fuck, oh god”, but he glared at you, still not satisfied. “That all you got?”

“Please,” you whined.

“Fucking speak up,” he spat.

“I hate you so much,” you panted.

“I need you to be louder,” he encouraged, not relenting for a moment. “Gonna need you to speak up if you want me to keep going, pretty girl.”

“Please!” you begged, finally reaching a volume he was satisfied with.

Sickboy grinned, tightening his grip on your thighs and throwing them back over his shoulders. “That’s my girl,” he praised before dipping his head back down between your legs.

His tongue seared through you and you finally let out a delighted moan that seemed to spur him on. Your hands tangled in his hair, fog fanned through your brain and the only words you could think of to describe him were mean and cunt.

“Fuck,” you moaned. “Si, please.”

He continued to lap at your core, and your back arched off the bed with a cry that you were sure would wake your prudish, conservative neighbours, but you were too deep in how fucking good it felt being fucked by Sickboy’s tongue to care. You pulled and tugged at whatever was available to you, one hand grasping at the sheets of your bed and the other tugging at Sickboy’s blonde locks.

You could feel him grinning against your pussy at the sudden change in your volume and reaction to what he was doing. You knew he was a smug prick but this was another level. “Aye, that’s it,” he praised you. “You taste fucking incredible,” he purred.

He did not stop, he did not relent. His name fell from your lips like it belonged there, like you were reciting an old poem. Your sounds made him strain against the lining of his pants, finally more than satisfied with your volume. He cursed under his breath as he fondled the curve of your hip, tugging you closer to his mouth. “I’ll be fucking this pussy all night,” he murmured against your core.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” you praised him, both hands now entangled in his hair.

You felt him smirk against your heat and knew immediately that he would not let you forger that admission. “Uh huh.” Like he already knew.

He couldn’t help himself because he never could. You tasted so good and sounded even better and he was so fucking hard, he found himself rutting his hips against the bed slowly, rocking it even harder, gripping your thighs tighter, so hard it turned his knuckles white and was almost sure to leave bruises the morning after.

The knot in your stomach was edging closer and closer to coming undone, the familiar sensation taking over your entire being as he devoured you mercilessly, until all you could think was Sickboy, Sickboy, Sickboy.

Sickboy continued to jerk his hips against the bed absentmindedly, nearing his own peak and causing his own breathing to become more erratic against your core as he continued to fuck you with his tongue.

“You’re doin’ so fuckin’ well, lassie,” he praised you breathlessly. “So fuckin’ good for me.”

Unsure what to do with your hands, you just kept tugging at his hair, which only turned him on more. Your moans grew breathier and your legs began to shake as you neared your climax. “Come on then, pretty girl,” Sickboy encouraged you, eager to see and feel you cum on his tongue. “Come on, your pretty cunt can handle it.”

You desperately clawed at the bedsheets with one hand, causing the corners of the bedspread to give way. You screamed and chanted his name, stars bursting across your vision as you reached your climax, gushing and dripping all over his tongue. Sickboy groaned into your core, the noise vibrating throughout your body.

He allowed his own release after he had felt yours, and he felt the post-nut clarity hit him that you had him so whipped that he was humping your bed because he was too fucking horny to wait a while before he got to really fuck you.

He wasn’t complaining, though. You’d done so well for him that you’d unknowingly made him cum in his pants from just your moans and pulling his hair. That was how he knew you were really fucking special, and he’d be damned if he was leaving your apartment without your phone number.

Sickboy took his time to make sure he lapped up every last drop of your release. By the time he lifted his head up, you had caught your breath and mostly come down from the high of your mind-blowing orgasm. But when you saw his blown out pupils, messy blonde hair, red face and a mix of his saliva and your juices running down his chin, you felt like you could’ve had a fourth orgasm just from that sight alone.

Your head hit the pillow and you stared up at your ceiling when you saw the cocky smirk plastered on his face. Sickboy laid down on his back beside you, allowing himself time to take a breather from the intensity of the last ten minutes.

“That was better than any fuckin’ hit in the world,” he panted, and it was your turn to smirk now. Maybe you’d both learned an important lesson about your partner’s pleasure that night. You stole a glance over at him, noticing he was still fully-clothed, but the sleeves of his white button-up were rolled up and a few buttons at the top were undone like he was teasing you. You noticed your leopard print thong hanging out of his pocket and wondered when the sneaky bastard had pocketed it. You made a mental note to buy another one, knowing you wouldn’t be getting it back, while also thinking of all the other pairs of panties you owned that would drive him fucking insane.

Fuck if this was going to be a one-time thing.

“Don’t tap out on me now,” you whined, reaching over to tangle your hand in his blonde hair again when you notice that Sickboy���s eyes were closed.

He opened them sleepily and looked over at you questioningly, raising an eyebrow. “Think you can handle some more, lassie?” You nodded vigorously, not even giving yourself time to think about how pathetic it must look before you pushed yourself up into a sitting position, swung your leg over Sickboy’s waist and settled down on his lap.

With both of your hands now tangled in Sickboy’s hair, you pulled his lips to meet yours, the tongue that had ruined you minutes earlier sliding into your mouth. “Need your cock,” you moaned into his mouth, beginning to slowly grind your naked core against his still clothed lap as your fingers tantalisingly made work of his buttons. “Need you inside me. Need you to fuck me. Need all of it so fucking bad, Si.”

Sickboy leaned back, resting his weight on one hand while the other cupped your jaw, his thumb running over your plush lips. “So fucking perfect,” he crooned, and he gasped when he felt your hand close around his painfully hard cock and pull it from his boxers.

He whined and hissed in anticipation as you began to tease your entrance with his leaking head, before you stopped suddenly, leaning forward to claim his lips in another harsh kiss, smirking this time. “Louder,” you demanded.

Who said it was only him that could have an ego?

-