he’s the exact type of man your mother would send herself on a frenzy about, the type your father would have no hesitations sending a bullet straight through the temple of his sun-kissed forehead. how strange you would expect to find yourself right on the opposite side of the warnings you’ve been given throughout your oh-so sheltered life.

but being the girl that you were, you were never one to listen. weren’t into all that abide-by-the-rules bullshit, fit right into being a proper first-class lady.

maybe that’s how you found yourself on the bad man’s lap. arthur’s lap. the prettiest— and the best damn score— that the guy’s ever won for the van der linde gang. you were the definition of a perfect doll to arthur, had a huge heart to match with the looks too. couldn’t ever resist your smothering kisses around his scar-faded face.

“y’know sweetheart, it’s still a wonder as to how i’ve got you all to myself in the first place…” he says with a throaty chuckle, using a hand to smooth out the ruffles of your skirt, “girls your age ain’t really into folk like me.”

you can only roll your eyes, pop your glossy, rosy lower lip in a pout, and think of his words as ridiculous before so confidently responding with, “oh, please. i’m the happiest a girl’s ever been, arthur.”

and he wasn’t going to lie about this, but all this constant, undying affection you had for him? an immediate swell going straight to his ego. nothing like some youthful thing’s obsession to make him feel at least twenty years younger. he’s getting older, after all— so, it was essentially just a waste not to spend those years with someone worth putting all the effort on.

although this didn’t technically make your relationship that much morally correct, by society’s standards at least.

what would a violent, older criminal on the run want with some rich family’s youngest daughter aside from the money?

they don’t get it and they probably never will, they’re not you or arthur, they know nothing about the either of you— because there was no logical explanation to that statement when he’s kissing so fervently at your lips, at your skin with a certain kind of authentic tenderness you’d only see in the motion pictures. even taught himself the silliest practice of braiding hair and tying ribbons for you. that’s what arthur wanted with you.

with him, you felt wanted. the very apple of his eye.

his usually such coarse hands were so gentle with you, molding into your supple flesh, leaving traces of him along the surface. especially visible when when the both of you are out for the night, cooped up in some small town’s saloon, his forearm enclosed around your waist and having you pulled to his side—hand absent-mindedly running up and down your torso decorated of the finest lace.

you guessed you weren’t exactly a common sight around these parts when more than enough of the saloon’s patrons started eyeing you up from across the room, albeit not daring to wander one inch closer; not if they had wanted to stumble right out of there with a broken nose bridge and a couple of teeth knocked loose.

that didn’t really stop arthur, though. something about another man, didn’t matter who the company was, bad intentions or not— he’d still meet them out back, returning to where he left you at the bar with velvet, torn-up knuckles after what felt like hours. what could he say? he just didn’t like when you were being viewed through the lenses of some obvious pervert. next thing you know, you’re being taken by the hand, arthur thankfully getting you out of that slum and helping you onto his steed, back pressed against his sturdy front.

it was near midnight at this point, and you could tell by the tranquil atmosphere settling in, fewer folks out on the trails at this time, the stars blooming across the dark canvas of the sky in glistening rows. peaceful— much rather preferred than sitting in a saloon, acting as eye-candy for those grimy outlaws.

“little brutual, dont’cha think? you finally ask in a tease, tilting your head back, gazing up at his aging face with those doe eyes of yours. made you look all the more angelic from this angle, especially with the way your smaller fingers are running over his split, blood-crusted knuckles aimlessly.

he takes his focus off of the trail for a short moment, a smug smirk pulling at his lips before looking away once more.

“who d’you take me for, darling?” he questions, that same teasing manner hidden in your voice now residing in his own, “i’m not just going to let some depraved bastards eye my girl up and down, makin’ me sick…”

you snicker under your breath. “that just makes me think i’m too pretty for my own good, huh?”

“oh yes, too pretty indeed,” arthur moves his free hand over your leg, palm starting from the outside of your frilled skirts before miraculously sliding, finding its way under the decorated layers. makes your lower stomach churn with that familiar warmth, your heart rate on a high. the things this man does so easily to you was nothing short of impressive.

“you’re gettin’ touchy…” that’s all you can bring yourself to bashfully mumble out, bottom lip being bit down on amid the pout you persisted on with.

you already feel so weak at the knees, so wound up with the simplest of touches.

“i know, baby,” he whispers to you now, a wolfish grin weakly coming to form on his lips. his hand doesn’t dare to move further from its place resting on top of you thigh, like he knew it was complete and utter torture to not indulge in exactly what you wanted right there and then. greedy bastard. “i’ll tell you what, i’ll get us a room for the night, get you outta these clothes, and you ain’t gotta worry about carryin’ all these fancy layers around. how ‘bout that?”

his words were considerate albeit evidently suggestive, how sweet. but arthur was just like that, he did that to you— a natural-born sweet talker who just happened to fall into a more illicit line of work.

with the way he was pressed up against you now, hand practically embedding itself at the soft flesh of your thigh, and a nearby inn coming into view, it was all the more apparent what your would response to be. hell, it might’ve well just been perceived by the look on your flushed face frames beneath the moon’s glaring beams.

leaning back, you’ve got some subdued, mischievous glint in your pretty eyes, and a tone in your voice that compliments with the energy he’s got exuding—

“you’ve got yourself a deal, mister morgan.”

your reactions to his teasing touches were an addiction to him. made you all the more sensitive and pliable, gives into that already-huge ego he had. near bursting when you fed into it. those whiny mewls and the way you ended up with a messy cunt and ruined panties at the end of the day were just to die for. starts to find himself more hooked onto that now you've succumbed to him and his way of things. the guy's seeping into your brain, influencing you, shaping you into being as equally worse as he was. what an asshole.

at first, it was tame— nothing out of the ordinary, a normal, healthy relationship. causal sex and daily worship to keep each other on a holy level of thought. of course, there was the occasional suggestive touch in public, getting overly touchy to each other some extent, albeit more outgoing within the privacy of your shared apartment. you would never act on any type of hungering impulse he brought out on you, because you were a shy girl all in the start. affectionate as a lost puppy up against him, as pretty and ditzy in-appearance. some spoiled princess who’s had her mind all switched up.

but relationships change, people change, and simon’s just about change you these past few months.

the belief never really crossed your mind… until you’re obliviously playing into the part, falling for his perverse tactics. there’s no shame when you’re on your tip-toes, arms in a lock around his neck, leaned up to sloppily make out with him, spit and all, outside of the gym after he’s spend a majority of his day there— sweat adorning his biceps, a tight-fitting cropped compression that showed off all his well-worked progress. how could you not give in? then you’d pull away, giggling in a lovesick trance while he’s running his hands up from the curve of your ass under that skimpy skirt to the mid-point of your back.

and it doesn’t stop there— especially when you’re out together, or with friends. there’s always a moment to surrender; shamelessly clashing lips, bending and pounding you over the sink in some club’s restroom, having his hand shoved down your panties like it was natural instinct. safe to say you’ve disturbed a good portion of the general public and your friend group, but it was way beyond you and simon’s combined brain capacity to really process that.

“you’re a little stupid, si,” you mused aloud one day, back arched against him while his meaty bicep held you in a gentle headlock and his hips slowly moving against yours, “not stupid… but like, hm, slow. y’know what i’m trying to say?”

simon temporarily pauses in his thrusts, blinking down at you silently before continuing. you tilt your head to the side in wonder and take a breath before sighing from the simulation— there was time and place for musing and sex. nobody said the two couldn’t coexist.

“never really thought ‘bout that,” he manages to respond through some low grunts, looking at you so intensely like he couldn’t quite get his head correct right now, primal state of mind, “can’t really think right now when—“

a soft groan subconsciously pulls from his lips, hips driving into your puffy cunt more firmly, leaving an imprint of you into the mattress, and your legs shake in position. now you can barely even think about the question, all you know it felt fucking good. your makeup’s dripping and fusing with sweat, eyes decorated in a sickeningly, somehow swanky, mix of glitter and mascara.

“i’ve got my dick up this pretty pussy. princess, is that what you’re really concerned about right now?” simon finishes, the hand to his headlock arm holding a tender grip on your face.

you admired his ability to even put words together right now, especially when he’s got his cock so deeply perched in your pretty pussy that’s gripping on him like a damn suction. feels like he’s on a whole other planet, and you’re over here in a little wasteland of drifting thoughts cooped up at the back of your brain.

(there’s no way he is that good at fucking you to the point where he’s got you pondering dumb shit out loud.)

“it’s an honest observation,” you giggle, chewing on the plump bottom of your lip. his thrusts are really starting to set in now, making your lower tummy feel all fuzzy, reveling in an achy warmth. makes your cunt all the more soaked, resulting in his abdomen saturated with transparent slick. you’re convinced your insides are shaped have been like him at this point.

“well, if we’re making honest observations,” he strokes his thumb over your lower lip, leaning down your curved posture and pressing a small kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you’re a natural, baby. my girl’s got the prettiest tits, prettiest face… and the cutest damn pussy i’ve ever had the luck of having a chance at.”

heat blooms across your face, visualized over wet cheeks and suddenly your whole body’s burning from the inside out, breaths caught at the back of your throat when you stare back at him and whine out pitifully, “you’re such a filthy perv, simon.”

“ain’t that right,” he tilts his head backwards with closed eyes, lips formed in a lewd, sharp grin. his words sound like a mock reassurance, and untangles his arm from your neck to shift positions— back against the headboard, propping you up to sit on his abdomen, pussy so drenched in your slick and his own that it paints his taut abdomen with it. “now c’mon, on top, angel, know you can do it.”

simon holds the base of his cock with one hand, the other rubbing molded circles into the flesh of your doughy thighs. he’s helpful, thank god, and does the most by slapping the length of himself against your sticky folds. abrupt, messy, but sends an intoxicating shock right up your spine, causing your back to arch like a cat and dig your acrylics into the hardened skin of his pecs. your form was beautiful in perspective, as always.

you finish off what he’s started by raising your hips, sinking down onto his fat cock and stretching around him impossibly to accommodate his entire length, gaining back that sensation of being so full, so feverish because of what he does to you. using your cunt as his own personal stress reliever.

“oh, that’s real good,” he lets out a particularly heavy breath, sucks in the air through clenched teeth and tenses his muscles, the head of his cock already managing to kiss at your cervix. he’s so big and it wasn’t even an exaggeration. not at all. has you feeling this euphoric high of pleasure-pain. “c’mon, baby, put in that good work. i’ll even help ya.”

he keeps his word and grabs either sides of your hips, assisting you as he bounces you efficiently on his cock like a doll, jabbing the tip repeatedly at your cervix. paled eyes, ones that have that deer in the headlights sort of look, fixate their gaze on you— admiring you as if you were beauty reincarnate itself, or better yet, a pornstar. the prettiest pornstar he’s ever laid eyes on, at least.

“see? there we go, baby, a real natural at this,” he praises and your eyes roll so far you think that they would get stuck at the back of your head. you’re fucking yourself onto him like your life depends on it— and it probably does, having this feeling that you’re going to die without him and that stupidly fat cock of his rawing your pussy. it’s almost comical.

the sounds pulled from your throat are pitchy, soft and infused with unadulterated arousal. there’s nothing else to think about right now, not when simon’s all up in your guts and all that you can really do is moan out for him, breathe out his name like a prayer from your tongue. brain’s gone to mush and you can only yearn for him, having this need for him to kiss and embrace you whole so he does that, arms caged around your torso wholly and his lips clashed with yours in a kiss like he’s devouring you whole.

you’re so braindead that you don’t even notice he’s doubled on the stimulation— hitting that spot deep inside of you along with his fingers rubbing at your clit. it’s not long before it begins settling in, and that’s when you’re beyond save.

from there, you start to give out, revolving your hips in an intricate fashion, fucking yourself down onto him lazily, laying on the large expanse of his chest and nosing against his jawline gently. he doesn’t seem to mind this and even accommodates in the long run, cupping the back of your head and littering your face with messy smooches— contrasted to the fervent manner he works on your clit.

and you know you’re not a touch-starved girl, ‘cause you’ve been constantly pampered by him from day one! god, he’s given you so much that it really does make you feel like you’re genuinely deprived of it. ruined you for every other man.

“you’re too good to me, sweetheart.” simon coos, and for some ultimate reason, that just does it for you.

by the end, it’s nothing but an mind-numbing, scalding finish— the brand of skin-on-skin, and that knot in your lower stomach spreading into a warmth throughout your limbs, leaving an aftermath of tingles beneath your skin and a dripping, thick load painting your inner thighs the prettiest shade of white.

it takes a minute, but you watch through a post-orgasm fog when he lifts his head, peering down at you through half-lids. he was so… rugged, stubble growing in the right places, short, scruffy strands of dirtied blonde sticking to his forehead with sweat. one of the more major things that had deep-rooted your love for him. most things about him screamed masculinity, it’s written all over his face, his form. quite palpable, you think.

he grins slightly, boyish and on a high, and holds you against his chest, fingers brushing the disheveled hair that fell in front of your face. thinks you’re peak beautiful like this— messily beautiful with your makeup-smeared cheeks, hint of a dopey smile at your lips to match his.

“baby, you’ve got that look in your eye again,” simon comments, and you finally find the strength to sit up next to him.

you blink at him stupidly, that underlying sensation of quivering fresh at your skin, brain foggy, dumbified to great lengths. eyes widened and lips in a full pout because you haven’t got a clue what that means, so you just opt to take it as a tease.

“you’re sayin’ i look dumb?” that must’ve been it, of course there other possibilities, but you couldn’t quite come to that conclusion.

“what? baby, no,” he has this equally as stupid look on his face, scratching the side of his face with a grunt, “i meant… you look pretty. real pretty. got that after sex glow to you.”

“oh.” now you just feel ten times stupider, flashing him an awkward expression that’s something along the lines of a smile and a pout. you were just a dumb, sweet thing. that’s all. head dipped into somewhere else ninety-nine percent of the time. “whatever— you’re just butterin’ me up.”

“awe, now, don’t be like that,” he scoots closer to you, the fragrance of his natural, masculine musk and his pungent spiced cologne strong against your nose. fondles your bare tits lovingly, pawing at them like a helpless mutt. the sight makes you want to roll your eyes and whine, but you just can’t bring yourself to. he’s acting sweet and doting, nothing to complain about there. “we both know you can’t go a damn day without me all over you.”

a modest hmph came from behind puffed cheeks and ample pout because you knew he was right. in the end, simon always knew how to get you worked up— make your thighs press together, have your body burn up inside. the only one who knew how to get you that vulnerable.

“you’re so dirty.” of course he was, there’s no doubting that, but he’s undeniably smooth with it. goddamn practitioner in this line of skill. “hun, it’s like all you’ve got up there is just… fucking. thinking with your dick.”