Scarlett Moon

On better days, he would have taken the time to take you apart piece by piece, perhaps starting with his mouth on your sweet cunny, but you both hardly had time to even undress. Your skirts were carelessly rucked up to your hips, neckline haphazardly unbound just enough to free your teats, while your husband had lowered his breeches just enough to expose his hard, swollen cock before he drove into you. Your grip on his bicep was tight, while your nails dug into the bedpost with the other for support as you stood by the bed’s edge. The pulsating of your core was enough to drive him mad, the dizzying haze of desire overwhelming his wife just as it did with him. 

“H-husband, I’m so close,” you moaned in his ear, head leaned back into his chest. He must have grunted something in response, though he wasn’t sure he even heard himself, voice lost in the din of loud smacking of his trim hips against your plump arse, and your sweet melodic mewls. The rising heat in his belly let him know he was right with you, only a few thrusts behind the release that threatened to overtake him. It was easy to get lost in it all— in you, in your warm, perfect walls. So much so his thrusts turned even more desperately erratic as his body moved in its own accord, his usually alert mind hardly registering the creaking of wood and the sudden breeze into his marital chambers.

Then he heard cackling.

“Seven fucking Hells, brother!” 

Aegon stood at the threshold, one hand still on the doorknob and the other clutching his stomach as he doubled over in laughter. The younger whipped his head at the intrusion, eyes widening before shifting to cover you with his body. He heard you gasp, before scrambling to cover your exposed chest away from Aegon’s curious eyes. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Aemond barked, turning to move to storm over where the idiot stood when he caught his brother eyeing the exposed flesh of your upper thigh, but your firm hand on his wrist kept him where he was to save yourself the last bits of dignity. 

“I… ha!” the elder snorted, laughter finally dying down into low chuckles that rumbled from his chest. He exhaled a deep sigh, dramatically wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Mother sent me to call on you because court starts in five minutes and she believes the Seven Hells have cooled over when she found me ready before you, but I guess you were preoccupied, eh?” he shrugged, amethyst eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint that irked Aemond to no end. “Dear me, fucking before noon? And I thought I was oversexed.”

“Shut up before I make you,” Aemond seethed. His wife sighed, peeking over his shoulder to speak to Aegon.

“Would you give us a few moments, brother? Let Her Grace know we will be right out,” you asked softly, smiling sweetly enough to earn a tight squeeze on the hips from your dragon in warning. 

“Of course, best to, uh, finish up then,” he responded, wagging his finger mockingly before turning to leave, snickering. “Good to know I had you taught well, Aemond!”

“You fucke–”

The door slammed shut before Aemond could finish, sighing against your temple in exasperation from the ruined moment. The soft kiss on his cheek was hardly enough to make up for it, the humiliation in his chest killing whatever drive in his gut. He begrudgingly tucked his softened length back into his breeches before helping you with your laces. You turned to face him once your dress had been rightened, hugging his waist and leaning your chin against his chest. 

“Such a shame, everything was feeling so good,” you pouted up at him. Aemond grunted in agreement, head still running hot in annoyance.

Surely, the court wouldn’t be too curious if his brother strolled in with a bruise on his face. He’d been in worse shape before, what was a little marked-up cheek?

There must be some sick game the gods were playing on Aemond. They were teasing him, testing to see how long he could withhold being unable to have a moment alone with his wife before going completely mad. Court took up a better part of his afternoon, long hours of appeals and hearing whatever problems their people wished to voice. It took much of him to keep his eye forward, ignoring the heat radiating off the flesh of your arm that was warmed by the sticky air of the mid-summer sun filtering into the throne room, while you stood by your husband’s side, his nose engulfed by the flowery sweetness wafting from your hair.

Supper was just as torturous, though having you sat by his side slightly made up for it, and teasing you under the table was a good way to pass the time. Aemond’s rough fingertips crept up your skirts and took hold of your thigh, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t relish in the way you swatted his hand away in panic, cheeks growing adorably flushed. With dessert promptly served and devoured, the one-eyed prince all but jumped from his seat, your hand in tow to lead you back to the privacy of your chambers, but the deep drawl of his grandsire’s voice halted him before anything else, inviting him to the Tower to speak on a matter of the utmost discretion. He let your hand go with a scowl, helplessly watching you walk off into the direction of your apartments.

His grandsire sat him down to talk until well into the night, speaking in hushed tones of a matter of concern in the Reach. He was to fly to Oldtown to settle brewing disputes in the Hightower seat in his grandsire's stead, a task entrusted to him that required his sharp eye and his partiality to matters of politics. 

His steps were heavy on his return, his chest even heavier, and when he finally crossed the threshold of your spacious apartments, you were deep into your slumber. You snuggled up into his side of the bed, arm extending to where he should have been. When a responsibility like this would’ve once had Aemond eager to fly out at first light, he found himself unable to tear himself away from you when duty called, having found a home in your arms that sheltered him with warmth and lightness his reality was so deeply void of. 

He was gone for a sennight—a slow-passing, cruel week.  

The separation was torturous, and not a moment passed where your husband’s mind didn’t wander to his sweet wife. He’d tucked one of your handkerchiefs into his pocket before his departure, tracing the embroidered curves of your initials with his thumb when he grew agitated within Oldtown’s walls. They had given him a comfortable accommodation, a bed much too large to sleep in alone. Aemond had grown spoiled with your warmth, and with this temporary withdrawal, sleep came miserably.

At the week's end, disagreements were smoothed and hands were shaken. Aemond took to the skies, not a second too soon after the Lord Hobart thanked him for the crown’s aid, his longing for home shamelessly showing itself in the tension in his shoulders every minute he was there. Daeron would have to forgive him for not flying together as much as the younger wished, but his brother, ever the kindest out of all the dragon princes, saw him off with a nod of understanding and a firm pat on the back, whispering the promise of his own return to their family. 

Vhagar traversed the horizon at a speed unexpected for her size and age, but his old girl shared her rider’s wish for home. They cleared the distance in a day, and the returning prince was greeted by Ser Criston and a wheelhouse that would take him back to his home, to you.

But the gods wouldn’t grant Aemond reprieve that easily. 

The streets bustled with life as the carriage rolled through the cobbled streets. He had returned just in time for his father’s nameday, a week-long celebration for the ailing king that called for the grandest celebration, with music, wine, and dancing for guests hailing from all over the realm. Aemond watched through the thin slits of the carriage— faces passing in a blur, voices of every pitch overlapping the other. His brow furrowed in perplexion when they took a sudden turn, an unexpected route that led him away from the hill leading to the Keep, but right to the middle of the celebrations— the melee.

“Queen’s orders, my prince,” Cole explained, standing stoically in front of the brooding prince. “She wished to have you join the celebrations as soon as you returned, have the family all present in front of the people.”

Aemond grumbled under his breath all the way up the steps to the royal box, plopping exhaustedly into his seat beside Aegon. The elder patted him hard on the back, adding to his aggravation, clearly oblivious to his dampened mood. “Good to have you here in time to join us, brother, Reyne’s just about to fuck Tarly up,” he cackled, taking a big swig of his wine. 

“A change of clothes first would have been nice,” Aemond huffed, ignoring the battling knights as he looked around for his wife. He twisted around his seat in confusion at the absent sight of you, earning a look from his grandsire that had him uncharacteristically slumping in his seat.

“She’s with Helaena,” Aegon said, whose eyes stayed glued to the violent display before them. “Orwyle said it was ill luck for pregnant women to look upon violence or whatever he was on about. Your wife’s keeping her company.”

Aemond sighed defeatedly, his chest twinging with annoyance. Of fucking course. Everything seemed to be working against his wishes, toying with his already short patience. Gods be damned, they would know better to keep a man like him away from his wife. Perhaps this made him seem like an addict, no better than a drunk stuck to his bottle or a pervert to a whore, but he was well past the point of denying it. You were a part of him, whether either of you could help it or not.

He turned to his mother, who sat frowning with a hand half-covering her face as she watched on, muttering some half-excuse of wanting to freshen up and be rid of the smell of dragon on his skin before enjoying the festivities. The queen granted him leave with the ghost of a quirk on her lips and a knowing look, waving him off dismissively with a ringed hand.

He all but dashed the way back to the Keep, strides large and booming through the halls back to Maegor’s Holdfast. His pulse thumped heavily in his ears, his chest sparked with a renewed lightness with every step closer. Aemond found you in his sister’s apartments, sat on the settee as you embroidered. 

Your head shot up as the door swung open, eyes brightening like a starry night when they landed on him. “Aemond!” you gasped, promptly jumping up from your seat and into his arms. With how tight your arms wound around his neck, it was clear his dearest wife was just as tortured as he. 

Aemond nuzzled his nose into your hair, breathing in the sweet scent of your skin he had missed dearly. With you back in his arms, right where you belonged, everything felt warm. He felt near bursting at the seams, his body immediately responding to the heat of your body pressed against his. His lips found yours on instinct, hungrily devouring the sweet taste he’d grown starved for. Large, calloused hands wandered on their own, finding purchase on your rear with a tight squeeze. It made you whine, pulling away in haste to glance at a sleeping Helaena.  Her third pregnancy often had her weary, as she was now, laid on her bed, with the twins tucked on either side as they slept through the peaceful haze of the late afternoon.

“Come,” your husband ordered, grasping your wrist to pull you out of the room. The growing fire in his loins left him too impatient to lead you up another flight of stairs where your apartments were, urgency nagging at him to hasten lest someone called for him to return to the melee. He led you with quick steps to the end of the hall, in a quiet alcove where he pressed you against the wall, caged between his arms.

His mouth devoured yours, tongue slithering into the warm cavern and dancing with your own. It soon descended onto the length of your perfumed neck, nipping and biting at the spots that pulled deep, pleasant sighs. Your hands gripped his doublet, subtly pushing him away as you called his name.

“Husband, h-here?” you asked, mewling as he sucked on a particularly sensitive spot below your jaw. You were right, this wasn't exactly an ideal location for your reunion, but he was pressed for time, and having to wait to have you until nightfall would drive him to insanity.

“There’s not one soul around, dearest,” he said into your skin, parting with a kiss on the fresh mark. With the inhabitants of the Keep all away at the tournaments, the halls were empty enough, save for the occasional passing servant and the knight standing guard outside Helaena’s door. With the near ravenous state Aemond was in, he could give less fucks who could witness him taking his wife. Your skirts were messily rucked up to your hips, wandering hand dipping past your smallclothes and finding your heat, already dripping in sweet arousal. “Did you miss me this much, wife? You’re already soaked,” your husband chuckled devilishly, eye darkening when you bit your lip as he teased your slit. 

You nodded at him eagerly, a whine rising from your throat when his fingertip brushed against your pearl. “You were gone for too long, husband. It has been miserable without you. When I saw Vhagar fly over the city I could have dashed to the gates myself if Helaena didn’t need me,” you pouted. His heart swelled at your sweetness, peppering adoring kisses onto your hairline as you pulled him in even closer.

“I have been tormented just the same, my love. Every day that passed, you were all I thought about,” he whispered. “No one will keep me away from you now, sweet girl, I promise you.” 

Somewhere in the frenzy of tongue and spit, your smallclothes fell to the stone floor and his breeches were aptly unlaced. Your smaller, dainty hand wrapped around his hardened length, stroking his leaking cock. Gods, it was pathetic how he could come from your slightest touch. He grasped your wrist to stop you, gulping as he continued to twitch in your hold.

“Wait,” he huffed. The need possessed him with a primal urge, prompting him to grab hold of both of your thighs to lift you off your feet. With you pressed against the wall and holding onto his shoulders for dear life, Aemond sunk you onto his cock, down onto the hilt. There was little time to savor the subtle pulsating of your walls, his hips taking on a steady pace from the start. “Fucking... finally,” he grunted.

You bounced in his firm hold, lower back rubbing against the rough stone, but you didn’t seem to mind one bit. Quite the opposite, rather, with the way you openly moaned, your voice echoing through the dim hall. “Gods!” you whined. Your husband’s pace suddenly shifted, hips starting to slap more ferociously against yours. Any soul who would have the misfortune to walk these halls at this very moment would hear you from the opposite end from the resounding rhythm of skin against skin.

“There are no gods here, wife, just you and I,” Aemond growled against your ear, before biting down on your shoulder, making you squeal even louder.

“I– mmph! Ah, Aem–” Any semblance of coherence on your usually pretty head dissipated in a heady jumble. It made your husband smirk, despite the heat starting to tingle in the back of his neck.

“Something to say, my love? Or have I already fucked you into a loose whore, hm?” he taunted, chuckling under his breath when you merely whined in response. He was starting to overheat in his leathers, the sharp warmth in his nape slowly trickling down his spine to signal the start of his end. Something deep within his core made his abdomen flex, the ache in his thighs no match for the utter bliss of the warm embrace of your lovely cunt. With your legs wrapped around his trim waist, his hand raised to the back of your head, fingers wrapping around your hair to pull your forehead against his. He quickened his pace to spur you to your end first, thumb rubbing your pearl in tight circles. “Come for me, wife. I want to feel you spill around me. Go on,” he rasped, breath hot in your ear.

His wife was a moaning mess. You were never this loud, even in the privacy of your own chambers, but the separation had you desperate, heart sticky with need in a way you had never let yourself be before. He and you were both the same in this way, never too forward with what you wanted, until desire ate away at you from within and you started to lose better thinking.

With a particular harsh thrust, your release broke with a moan that Aemond was sure had echoed to the White Sword Tower. He came no second later with a lower, quieter grunt into your neck, spilling thick ropes of his warm seed into your quivering cunt.

You both stayed there for a second, breaths heavy and minds still in a cloud. Aemond placed you back onto your feet, though wobbly. He huffed amusedly, earning a warning smack on his chest as you furrowed your eyebrows playfully. His lips placed a kiss on your damp forehead, and you kissed his scarred cheek in return. For a second, you only looked at him, your flushed cheeks lifted in a smile, and it made him happy. 

An echo of clinking steel let Aemond know his time was up. He made sure your dress had been rightened and your hair smoothed before tying his breeches back up. The prince peeked to see Cole coming up the staircase, no doubt sent by his mother to take him away again. He sighed heavily, nuzzling one last time into your neck as you rubbed his back comfortingly. “You should go. Mustn’t let your mother fret,” you said softly. Your husband merely grunted in response, savoring the feeling of your fingers running through his hair. 

A clear of the throat from the knight made Aemond finally pull away, frowning despite the pleased smile on your lips as you smoothed his doublet. He parted with a kiss all-consuming, and whispers of a promise to fetch you the moment he could. 

His return to the royal box came with much reluctance, though his demeanor visibly changed. The tension was gone in his shoulders, his aura different, and his face not so grim anymore. He settled back into his seat with a deep exhale, directing his attention to the faceless lordlings swinging swords much too large for them, though his mind stayed in an alcove somewhere in the Keep. 

Beside him, Aegon yawned loudly, having grown deathly bored with the melee. Sensing the younger’s subtly brighter demeanor, he snickered under his breath. “Feeling rather refreshed now, are you?” he teased. 

Aemond’s gaze flickered to him in a glance, turning back to watch the young Bolton land the winning blow. “Hm, yes, quite.” He lifted his hand to a squire for wine, taking a small sip to quench his parched throat.

Realizing the danger of being anywhere near a threatened or harmed deer, you’re ready to bolt out of the woods when you look up, and see a net that’s filled with leaves, branches, and stray grass reeds.

And dangling out of the net is a leg— a leg that looks less like a deer’s… and more of a person’s.

You gasp in horror. Someone’s caught in it!

Running around the tree, you find the rope suspending the trap buried in the ground. You rummage for your shears and hastily cut it, grabbing the rope to pull it down with your weight and let the trap sink to the ground slowly.

When it does, you run over, cutting away as much of the net as you can, digging through the leaves until you reach someone covered in an enormous fur cape.

You gingerly pull it back, and stare in awe.

It’s a man, with dark hair and sharp features, no doubt very handsome despite the scratches and cuts he’s sustained. The linen top he’s wearing is littered with twigs.

Softly, you brush away the twigs when you touch his wrist and freeze.

And quite literally, because his skin is as cold as ice.

Almost as if he were a corpse.

“Sir! Sir! Please wake up!”

When Prince Loki’s eyes open and adjust to the glare of the sun— and the silhouette blocking it out— his breath hitches.

Is this Valhalla? Am I… dead?

Surely, he must be. For above him kneels the most beautiful girl, almost shimmering in the golden light, it’s definite that you’re an angel.

“Hello? Sir? Can you hear me?”

An even lovelier voice for a radiant woman. He nods, and you let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank goodness!” You lean forward, brushing away twigs from his face and cloak. “I thought you had died! I hate those deer traps, they’re dangerous and they're so hard to see! It almost killed you! Are you alright?”

“Yes- Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

It’s as if he spoke without thinking, eager to hear more from your pretty lips. You catch your breath, kneeling back down, and he sits up to get a better look at the captivating face of his savior.

“How long have you been up there?”

Loki brushes his hand against his cheek. “I'm not quite sure- ah-”

He hisses when his fingers graze a wound on his temple, and he retracts his hand to find a few specks of scarlet.

“Probably not long, I'm still bleeding,” he shows you his hand, and you gasp.

“Oh, no,” you take a closer look at his face. “My house isn't far from here, I can help you clean up and get some rest. You must be exhausted. Are you alright with some porridge and biscuits? They're all I have the ingredients for and the farmers’ market is a bit far so I'm sorry if...”

Loki honestly can’t concentrate on what you're saying. He nods along, but he's rather focused on you.

As he tags along behind you as you retrace your steps to your home, Loki whispers a thanks to whatever Gods led him to be graced by your beauty in this moment, regardless of the circumstance. He had just been hunting for sport, unaware of the trap that had pulled him up into the tree so suddenly and rendered him unconscious.

Now, he's found something— no, someone— better; a much more rewarding, delicious little prey.

“I just realized I haven't introduced myself."

Loki looks up just as you say your name, timidly holding out your hand. He takes it after a moment.

“Loki,” he replies, once he finds it in himself to speak.

“Like the prince?"

He recoils a bit in surprise. “Yes- Yes, like the prince. Uh-"

“How are you feeling?" you ask, dabbing the cloth lightly against his wrist.

“They don't hurt if I don't move."

“Okay. Let me know if it does.”

Loki nods, watching you silently tend to his wounds, before he hisses softly.

You flinch, pulling away. “Oh, I'm sorry-"

“You really don't know who I am?” Loki asks.

A second passes as you look down at him, brows furrowing as you sit down next to him on your bed.

“I can't recall. Sorry, have you ordered flowers from me before?"

“You run a flower shop?”

“Yes, that's why I was in the woods. I was looking for fresh flowers and came across you up in that trap.” You tilt your head. “What were you doing in the forest, anyway?"

“I was... hunting for deer, and the last thing I remember is hearing something above me snap.”

“Hunting… Is that what you do for a living?”

“Well, no. My brother and I do it for sport."

“Oh."

Loki stares at you blankly. “My brother, Prince Thor."

You nod.

Loki chuckles. Your pretty little head hasn't registered it.

He leans in close, brushing his lips against your ear, and whispers very slowly:

“I'm Prince Loki."

And the reaction he gets is the cutest. Your lips part as your eyes widen, to which he grins.

But he doesn't expect you to fling yourself off the side of the bed and onto the ground, bowing down to him.

“Your Highness!” you squeak. “I'm so sorry, I didn't know!! I-”

“Darling, please," he chuckles, shaking his head. “That isn't necessary-"

“I'm so sorry, I'll get some tea, do you want anything from the market? Please, allow me-”

Loki bends down, lifting you off the floor in a princess carry and sets you down on the bed.

“Please, don’t stress yourself. You saved my life.”

He takes your hand, kissing it softly as he smiles up at you.

“Thank you, pretty angel.”

Your eyes widen as you stutter out tiny breaths. Norns, aren’t you the most adorable?

“I don’t think you believe me.” He stands up, pretending to be offended by your silence.

“No!” you cry . “I mean- I do believe you! It’s just- I was surprised, I didn’t think-”

“Didn’t think what? A prince would just be out in the woods for no reason?” He laughs, leaning down to you. Before you can respond, he chuckles again. “That’s alright,” he steps back, “you just need a little… evidence.”

Loki closes his eyes, and lets himself shift into his true form: blue skin, dark green patterns across his biceps. He hears the tiniest gasp of amazement from you as the magic also heals his wounds and cuts (and hopes that he’ll hear more of those cute noises very soon).

When he’s done transforming, he opens his eyes and stares down at you.

Dear Norns.

He knew he was already taller than you in human form, but this was just delightful. You’re much tinier than him, staring up at his stature with those wide doe eyes of yours.

“You are-” you blink a few times in shock. “You are the Jotun prince.”

He smiles even wider. “That’s right.”

“And… I… just saved the Jotun prince.”

He starts laughing, leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“Clever girl.” He knows he’s downright cruel, teasing you just because you’re so cute. “And do you want anything in return for ‘saving the Jotun prince’?”

“Well, I don’t know-”

Loki walks closer to you, and stands between your legs as he drops his cloak to the floor and leans down, drawling his next words very slowly.

“You deserve something… special. Something downright… pleasurable as a reward for saving my life. Something that you’ll remember for the rest of yours.”

He chuckles darkly when your breath hitches in realization.

He wants to make love to you.

“What?”

He pushes you down on the bed, trapping you in with his large body as he takes your wrists in one of his hands.

“You’ll feel undeniable bliss. I’ll take you over and over and over again until I’m sure you’re truly satisfied, because you’re such a sweet little angel saving my life and cleaning me up and looking so fuckable.”

You mewl, no doubt keening from his dirty words. He cups your chin.

“All you have to do is say yes. You don’t even have to do anything~”

His thumb brushes over your quivering lips, and push into your mouth. Loki grins as you look up at him, nodding slowly.

“Use your words, angel,” he teases, pulling his thumb away from your mouth.

It takes you a few moments to catch your breath. “Okay…”

He wanted to make you beg. He wanted you to say please, please fuck me so he could flip you over like you weighed nothing and take you over and over again like you’d asked but the way you whimpered withered away the last of his patience.

He had to make you his.

Loki captured you into a passionate kiss, muffling every last sound your pretty lips made so that only he could hear. He pulled away only to push you down on the sheets again, forcing his tongue into your mouth as you twitch in his hold, unable to comprehend how dizzy you are from just a kiss.

The two of you pull away for air as his dark green irises watches your eyes glaze over with submission. He grins, unbuttoning his white button-up and tosses it elsewhere.

He grins as you stare at his chest. Your tiny hands reach for him, tracing over the markings and patterns.

Loki hisses, taking your hands in one of his. You whimper as he stares down at you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, “Did that hurt?”

“No, no.” His voice softens as he leans in, kissing your nose gently, his other hand pushing your dress up your thighs. He kisses your cheek, then presses his lips against your ear. You shiver at his ice-cold breath.

“It doesn’t, angel. It’s just that if you keep doing that, I won’t be able to resist flipping you over and pounding you into the sheets until you’re dripping with my cum and you can’t think.”

He pushes his knee against your crotch, making you squeak like a pathetic little mouse. Loki grins.

“I will be doing that, mind you,” he teases. “But I simply have to get a taste of your pretty juices first~”

Your skirt bunches up against your twitching hips as Loki stares down at your dripping cunt.

“Oh," Loki chuckles. “You're already wet for me, angel, isn't that adorable~?"

You mewl, bashfully covering your face as he grins at your embarrassment.

“Stop teasing..."

Loki shakes his head, pouting in mockery. “Only if you stop being so cute when you're flustered. But until then…”

He places his hands on your thighs, pulling you closer to him as he lowers his face to your mound.

“... I'll enjoy fucking you until you submit to me.”

Your eyes widen as he licks your folds very slowly, and you whine shakily.

“Prince Loki..."

Loki grins, kissing your pretty cunt wetly and pushing his tongue into your dripping hole. And your helpless whimper of pleasure as he devours your pretty pussy whole is the cutest and most captivating noise he's ever heard.

He draws it out of you again, and again, and again, drinking every bit of your slick, even if poor little you are just getting wetter and wetter.

You're panting now, and Loki is equally as short of breath, only ever breaking away from you to watch your pretty face scrunch up so cutely. Loki licks his lips, nibbling on your thighs and making you squeak and tremble in his icy grip.

“You're such an adorable little angel," Loki grumbles. "Makes me want to eat you up like a little mouse, hmm?”

He holds you down firmly as your moans tickle his ears. The way your little hole squeezes around nothing is just so cute, he just has to stuff you full after he makes you come far too many times than you can handle.

“Aww,” Loki chuckles as you whimper breathily, thighs thumping helplessly against the bed. “Little angel can’t take it anymore?”

He brushes a blue finger against your dripping folds, sinking into your hole for the millionth time making you squeak and sob in sensitivity.

“P-Please…” you mumble, glazed eyes pleading for a moment of rest.

He sighs, forgetting you’re just a pure little thing having her first time, and gently scoops you into his arms to press a few kisses to your cheek and whispering your name.

“Have I thanked you enough already~?” He teases, and you nod, nuzzling into his hold though you shiver lightly.

Loki’s heart skips a beat. He feels you cling to him tighter and he feels your little ass grinding against his cock.

“Well,” he muses, “I believe my kingdom will be overjoyed to find that an angel like yourself saved their prince, hmm?”

“Huh?” you ask, still pleasure-drunk as you settle into his lap, as if you perfectly fit in his hold.

“I said,” Loki chuckles his icy breath tickling your face, “My kingdom would be overjoyed to find a pretty thing like you saved the royal prince, wouldn't they?"

“Mhm..."

“And they'll throw a week-long celebration...” he continues, trailing kisses from your cheek to your shoulder. “All for you~”

“R-Really?” you gasp as he begins sucking on your skin, sure to leave marks after. “A whole week? That's too much-!”

Loki laughs against your shoulder, holding your hips down so he can feel your hips grind against his cock. “Nothing is too much for a perfect little angel like you~"

Loki licks the bite mark he's so carefully placed on your skin, then looks up at your glazed eyes and twitching pout.

“Would you like to come back with me to the palace?"

The look of confusion and bashfulness across your face makes his cock twitch against your bare folds.

“Me?! With you?!"

“Do you abhor the idea of that?”

He knows he's being mean and he knows you don't hate the idea, but Loki just can't resist seeing you so embarrassed and stuttering to apologize.

“No! I didn't mean that! I was just surprised-"

Loki shakes his head with a little chuckle, and brings you closer to his face to kiss the crease between your eyebrows.

“I know, I know. I was just teasing."

“Don't be mean like that!”

Loki laughs darkly when you cross your arms.

In a flash, he’s got you on your hands and knees before your pretty head can even figure out what’s going on.

“And if I do, what are you going to do about it?”

You shiver at the dark growl in his voice.

You're so far deep in this haze all you can see is blue.

“Your highness-!”

Loki presses your chest against the bed, leaving your pretty ass on display, purely his for the taking.

“You’re just a little mouse that can’t hurt anything, hmm? Just so innocent, and weak, and ready to be ravished.”

A cold, thick finger traces your wet folds, and you whimper, burying your face in the sheets as he tickles your hole until you’re shaking with need.

“Maybe I’ll take you back home with me… and make you my wife.”

Loki shoves his finger all the way in, knocking the wind out of you because you swear you can feel him in your tummy.

“Your- Your wife?” You ask, voice higher and breathier.

“Yes~” he mocks your airy voice. “My pretty wife, who won’t have to get her pretty hands dirty ever again, who I’ll take care of, and protect, and fuck every single night.”

Loki curls his finger, reaching that sensitive little part in your cunt that effectively leaves you a mumbling, drooling mess on him.

When he’s gotten you wet enough, he draws his finger back (to his cute little angel’s momentary dismay) and forces your thighs apart with his body, the head of his cock twitching against your folds.

Loki will forever remember the gasp you let out when you feel just how big he is.

“Do you want to be fully mine? Do you want me to fuck this little hole of yours with my cock until you’re screaming for me?”

You whine at his dirty words, slurring something that sounds like a yeah, and he knows he’s got you exactly where he wants you.

“Really?” he chuckles, fingering your little hole one more time to slicken your folds. “Do you think I’ll fit~?”

And with the dirty wet noises that tickle his ears as he sinks all the way in he gets his reply.

“Oh?” Amused, he runs an icy finger up and down your bare back. “She can take it, after all. What a good girl~”

Loki barely gets the praise out before the prettiest whimpers fall out of your mouth like sweet honey, your poor cunt clenching down on him as your voice gets higher and breathier by the minute.

“Please-” you hiccup, turning to look at him with those pretty teary eyes.

His vermillion eyes stare you down cruelly as he grinds his hips down into your ass, making your head fall onto the sheets as you slur out a moan.

His cock feels so heavy inside you and by the way he laughs quietly you know he knows just how big he is compared to you.

And the way he pins you down harder lets you know he loves it.

“Oh, you just feel so good around my cock,” Loki groans, pulling back and thrusting into your leaking little pussy.

Poor you, already sensitive beyond imagination as this handsome blue prince ruins any other man for you with the way his cock stretches you out better than anyone ever will.

Not that anyone else will get the chance to. Loki’s decided it: he will take you home to the palace and make you his wife, and everyone will bow before their new princess.

Loki can't resist you any longer. He beats your poor cunt like the beast he is until you're whimpering and bucking against him helplessly.

“Feels... weird..." you shudder and gasp, tears leaking from your eyes as he sinks deeper into you, his huge cock hitting all the good spots inside you as your pleasure takes over your senses.

“Oh, is she close? Is this perfect little cunt going to come all over me?”

Loki's dirty words make you whimper and nod dumbly.

“Yeah," you sob.

Loki laughs at how blissed out his little saviour is and stops,pulling out slowly and groaning when he hears the sinful squelching as your juices drip onto the sheets. He turns you on your back, pinning your wrists to your sides, and captures your lips in his as he sinks into you once more.

“I missed these pretty lips," he smirks into the kiss, taking you for himself.

“Y-You just kissed me a few minutes ago..." You sigh dazedly, though you love the attention he's giving you.

“Still can't get enough of you. You're just so sweet~" Loki licks your lips, thrusting harder and making you squeak and link your fingers through his.

“Say my name."

“Loki...”

“Gods," he throws his head back, almost moaning at how submissive you sound. “Surrender to me, darling."

His hands snake down to the back of your thighs, lifting them and pressing them to your chest, quickening his pace.

Your eyes scrunch up as you nearly scream in pleasure, wriggling away as if you could escape from him.

“Surrender to me, angel~" he grins, kissing your neck and marking you up. “A pretty angel like you deserves to be pampered like this every day. Imagine that? You'll never have to lift a finger, I'll do all the work, I'll do all the fucking.”

Loki accentuates that last word with a hard thrust into your hole, making your eyes blur over with tears as you mewl helplessly in the Jotun prince’s tight grip.

“Awh, don't cry," he teases, kissing your nose when he gets a sinfully great idea.

He stops his movements, making sure he's buried all the way inside you before he flattens his tongue against your soaked cheek and licks your tears away.

You gasp, stunned for a moment before you keen and twitch helplessly, whining loudly as he does the same to your other cheek.

And your poor little cunt just clenches down again.

Loki growls, his primal instincts taking over because you're his ideal mate and you're nothing like he's ever seen. The sounds in the room get filthier and filthier as he loses control and rams into your poor hole.

“What do you say, angel?" Loki asks, letting go of your wrist before his hand makes its way down to your clit, rubbing the little bud and making you scream and tremble in his arms. “Be my- fuck- be my bride? Be my pretty little princess?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, chest heaving as your eyes flutter shut.

“Are you close?"

“Mhm..."

“Cute little mouse," he chuckles, pressing open mouth kisses to your neck as he rubs your clit. “Let go for me now, angel."

It’s a sight from heaven as you orgasm all over him, soaking his cock with your juices and helplessly thumping your thighs against the bed because Loki won't stop thrusting in and out of you.

Loki growls, pinning you to the bed. He stills, and you gasp at the feeling of his warm, thick cum filling you up. It makes you feel even more full than you already do and it makes you dizzy with even more pleasure.

It becomes too much for your melting brain to handle when he pushes deeper into you and you gasp, attempting to kick him away.

A firm, cold hand grabs your ankle and spreads you wider, and you whine shyly when he grins at you with a cruel glint in his eyes.

“Stay with me, darling," Loki teases, gripping your hips possessively and holding you still on his cock so he can finish filling you up.

It feels like hours before he breathes again, but it's only been seconds for him, already wanting another round with you.

But the prince resists, setting your sore legs down slowly and carefully sliding out of your cunt.

You sigh in exhaustion, but your breaths falters in embarrassment when you feel just how much he pumped into you, dripping out of your twitching folds and onto the bed.

A tiny drop even lands on your ass and Loki chuckles at your wide eyes, leaning down to kiss your lips and whisper a dirty promise that he'll fuck you down there too next time.

“Next time?” you ask, lips parting.

“Yes," he teases. " I've decided it, you're never leaving my side, my guardian angel~”

And he scoops you into his side, letting you rest before he has a few more rounds with your pretty hole— then he'll take you back home to the palace and convince you to stay. He'll show you the library. He'll let you lose yourself in the royal gardens all day if you wish! As long as you return to his chambers each night and let him please you the way you deserve to be.

He had started to pay for whores in bars too. Fleeting fucks or slightly calloused hands fondling at his cock as he leaned back in the bath. It had become a need, something to ease the growing loneliness at the back of his heart, craving…. Craving something that no paid prostitute, nightly jerk off session, or singing along to Javier’s guitar with the others in the evening, could ever placate. The craving to share his little alcove, to let Jack have a little cousin, to be fussed over and his face sat on by a perfect little pussy. Arthur just wants someone with him. In this new fantasy, they’d never fight like Abigail and John. He wouldn’t ignore her, like Dutch did Molly. They’d be with each other and it would be natural. Perfect pairs for each other, meant to grow old together. 

It was this fantasy that was playing in his head, as he, John, Sean, and Charles headed into Saint Denis, needing to be away from Camp for a while and John had some things to pick up that could only be found in the hellish city that felt too claustrophobic and tight. Arthur lingered on the daydream of soft hands against his aching shoulders, almost able to hear the swish of a dress as the chatter of the men was drowned out by the bustle of the city. The others split off, letting Arthur know that they should meet back up at the bar at dusk and Arthur watched them go, his hand still slowly stroking along the horse’s neck as she huffed and shook her head. 

There was usually quite a lot to do in Saint Denis, but not a lot of the real time killers were running right now, like the play, or hitting the Bastille Saloon. Instead, he started to mindlessly amble, just taking in the sights, even if he wasn’t… A big fan of the sights. The city had accidentally become a symbol of everything he wanted to get away from, what the gang wanted to get away from. Big ole city you could get lost in, cluttered with people and law men. 

This thinking did nothing but sour his mood, Arthur’s lips having pulled down into a frown. Instead, he got one of his cigarette packs out to light one up, taking a moment to squint at the cigarette card before shrugging and discarding it. His eyes, shadowed by his hat, finally focused on a saloon, seemingly a bit more empty on the busy day. Might as well enjoy a full meal and a good drink before continuing on his amble through the city. As he approached the stairs leading up, the wind blew, and the doors swung open before he got to them. The breeze carried the lovely, angelic scent of expensive perfume. But he was used to the overpriced musk that drenched elderly ladies with rows of pearls that seemed to choke them. This was something softer, sweeter, natural. He knew what it smelled like, he just had to remember. It brought memories of dusk falling over meadows with the humid air settling into something in between warm and cold, something perfect. 

With one foot on the first step, he looked up, two big burly fuckers pushing through and past him, revolvers in their belts and rifles slung across their backs. But as they shoved him aside, off the step, to make space, they parted, and showed… 

You. 

John would have called you a rich bitch with diamonds in her pussy. Dutch would have called you a mark. Charles would have said you looked quite nice. 

Arthur thought you were the most perfect woman he had ever seen. Soft lace gloves holding the parasol perched on your shoulder, protecting you from the heat beating down. Your dress didn’t have the bustle the older ladies dragged around behind them, but still had that classy material…. The one that crinkles when you walk, swishing just above the ground. Tight corset, the skirt falling naturally over your legs as you gratefully accepted the hand of one of your… Bodyguards(?) that helped you walk down the steps. 

Your eyes briefly met his, framed by your pretty eyelashes, a small bit of sweat from the hot day trickling down your throat. His eyes slid from yours, to follow it down until it vanished into your clothing. Your lips curved into a small smile but you didn’t say anything, instead flanked by your bodyguards down the street, passersby being scared into skittering to the side. Arthur watched you go, cigarette sitting static on his bottom lip, until he remembered. 

Bluebells. You smelled like bluebells on a Midsummer’s Eve. 

Little Lady Bluebell. 

Arthur’s lips twitched with humour and headed into the saloon, the soft scent of the little blue flower lingering on his clothes from the short brush with the pretty little thing of his dreams. 

You were the highlight of his daydreams for a while, but in all of them, he was a gentleman, someone of value, and you were… More than delighted to hitch those skirts up and let him finger you, sweet breasts pressing against his arm. It always left him feeling like a filthy man, rubbing the back of his knuckles against his bristly chin, cum staining his rough fingers. Arthur was more amused than disgusted with himself. A bit surprised he could cum like he was a younger man again, with just a pretty face of a girl that just gave him a glimpse. If he was a hopeless romantic (he was) that had enough time and money (he didn’t), he’d go back every day to maybe catch another glimpse, maybe get you to lose the security to ask you for a drink and be a gentleman. 

Arthur was happy to just have you as a daydream, a wish that could never come true. Well, not happy, but he’d be… Fine. You were something he could have for himself as he did his dirty jobs, robbed, killed, intimidated, everything. A fantasy that was waiting back at his bed, someone that washed the blood from his hands, kissed his gunpowder streaked knuckles, washed his hair and lay with him every night. Sometimes he went through the motions of cleaning himself up, only somewhat listening to the camp around him, instead imagining you, maybe even in your underclothes, sitting on his knee and nosing along his jaw. The most perfect thing. 

Weeks had passed, with spring melting into summer, crickets scream-chirping each night and the sun seemed to beat down with a new intensity that was aimed directly at him. As if laughing. Burn, Arthur Morgan, burn. 

What’s worse is that Dutch was up to something. His usual cool, relaxed gait when he was still searching his brilliant brain for ideas to up their wealth was gone. Instead he had begun to stay up longer at night, pouring over papers in his tent, snapping at Molly to stop bothering him. Everytime Arthur swung by, his tobacco stained teeth would glint dully in the light as he looked up at him. 

“This’ll be a fun one, my boy. Going to fill our pockets but not as easy as just pulling your gun and demanding the money.” Arthur quietly disagreed that robbing was that easy, but nothing was going to dull Dutch’s shine right now, so he just waited, going into town, selling pelts, robbing stagecoaches, until one morning. 

The sun was beating down, sweat slowly rolling down his neck, staining his shirt collar. He was already feeling too sticky and warm, flies buzzing around his horse’s head as they made their way with some of the gang. Dutch led them down a thin, narrow, worn path that Arthur had never noticed before. Dutch was giving him and John the rundown of his plan, which did shape up to the usual, let-him-speak-shut-your-mouth schtick. At least Hosea said it with longer, nicer words. Arthur stretched a bit, enjoying the shade of the leaves as they made their way.. 

It was a long ride, or at least felt like it. 

The downy trees slowly gave way to a large plantation, a building  similar to the Braithwaite Manor in its size and grandeur. No wonder Dutch was practically serenading the weeds at the camp for weeks. Arthur vaguely knew that their great wagon leader found some rich guy with a transportation problem and gussied himself up to be some sort of man of repute who could help out with anything. 

Ill-repute maybe but anything for those extra few coins in the box.  

Dutch already slipped into his southern devilish charm voice as soon as the group got past the gates, closer to the house, idly chatting to one of the hands that started walking with them, the rifle slung across his back glinting in the sun. Arthur only half listened, his eyes idly watching the nearby lake, the light glinting off the water. Pretty. 

The manor wasn’t even that much cooler on the inside than the outside. At least the watered down drinks they were offered weren't half bad. 

But as Arthur raised the fancy glass to his lips, he froze up. Floral. Fresh. Something was carrying on the breeze, through the house. Bluebells. 

Saliva pooled on his tongue, as he dragged the tip over his canine, pressing hard into the organ, as if trying to pierce the flesh. Just a coincidence. Maybe the lady of the house favoured them in those annoyingly tall vases around the house. 

It wasn’t. 

The master of the house was downright gleeful to introduce the apple of his eye when you came down the stairs. Your dress was switched out for a pretty blouse and skirt, swishing over your heeled boots, but instead of matching Miss Grimshaw in the austerity of the outfit, you looked… Delicate. The pearls resting on your collarbone glint in the natural light. You looked like if spring herself slipped down from the heavens and took a seat on the… Chaise… Lounge… Thing. Pretty and flowy with eyes that were doe-like and that held… No recognition for him. He wouldn’t care if some prissied bitch didn’t recognise him after a meeting, but he wanted you to. Let those eyes light up in remembrance, maybe even give him a smile, extend those pretty gloved fingers for him to kiss on the knuckles. 

He was just lucky no one saw him staring. The conversation was about moving a shit ton amount of bonds on a certain night, along with the family’s greatest treasure, to the next town over. Some ruffians have their eye on it or something. Dutch’s pleased smirk was mistaken as something more wholesome. Figuring out the logistics would usually have Arthur’s attention, just so he can figure out his part in the upcoming plan, but you were a magnet. Cleavage just peeking out of the blouse, your finery not a demand to be seen as more, more of a fact. You were more. And even as Arthur was quietly counting your eyelashes, it felt like he was doing something that he wasn’t allowed to do, not by any human law. 

Thank god he was a criminal. 

His cock was sore from all the stroking that night. Dutch promised the family that they would stay near the estate in order to be on hand at any time. Finally some privacy for him to properly see to himself, massaging his balls as his rough thumb dragged over his leaking head, struggling to not cum just yet. He can just see himself tucking his fingers down the front of your corset, pulling it down to free those pretty little tits. Arthur could just envision it, your dress pulled down to just underneath your breasts, the cute little sleeves trapping your arms against your sides. Your dress pulled up to reveal those pretty stockinged knees, all the while your cunt was stuffed full of his cock. 

He’d bet anything that little Miss Bluebells was a tight little virgin. Daddy wouldn’t let you scamper anywhere without those bodyguards, so unless you were giving it up to them, you were ripe for him to take it from you. 

Normally the afterglow of an orgasm had him taste the bitterness of his reality curdle the pleasure still settling in his stomach. But he knew Dutch’s plan. The glow never faded, not this time. 

It was simple really. Get paid to escort an understated but tasteful carriage, filled with bonds and something near and dear to the family over to… Nowhere. It will never arrive, the insides gutted out like a deer carcass, free of everything that could get them just a few extra shiny dollars. Hell, they would even sell off the horses. 

Arthur was thinking he could lure you out of that house. A slipped note, to come alone, and you can get your family’s riches back. Then, who knows. 

He doesn’t know when the longing in his chest turned into something darker, hungrier. You barely looked at him, even if you spoke sweetly when you two did share words, but he wanted you. You were it. Maybe he was going crazy, but it was hard to deny himself when your floral perfume was still staining his skin.

The days seemed to drag in a sweaty haze of over planning and bulk buying bullets, checking the horses’ hooves just in case. The smell of your perfume was almost sickly to him. Sweat running down his neck, the overwhelming scent of overripe fruit and scorched, browned grass too much for him. An addictive sort of sweet, nauseating, as if it's turned rancid from being apart too long. Fruit in the bowl that’s not been checked everyday. 

It was worth going back to the plantation. If caught he can just say that he was set on special security a few days before, but there was no hassle. He got to watch from his horse as you read by the lake, and sometimes lifted those skirts and dipped your feet in. The cigarette smoke curled over his face as his teeth dug into the paper just enough to leave a deep dent, imagining what it would be like to nip and bite along your graceful neck. Arthur doubts you’ve ever gotten anything more than an awed kiss on your ring or maybe an affectionate kiss on the cheek from family. Unless you were secretly allowing your ever present bodyguards to trade kisses with you, using too much tongue and sinking their fingers into you. Arthur scowled at that, biting down further on his cigarette as he adjusted his binoculars. It didn’t soothe him that they just seemed fond of you and nothing more, not when you were… You. A fine whiskey to an alcoholic, meant to be savoured on his tongue, smooth going down. Arthur knew that if he was one of your bodyguards, it would only take a glimpse of your perfect collarbones and something in him would snap. He took a moment to enjoy the daydream, being trusted so near you, so much so that no one would care when he went up the stairs to your room, and fucked you in your childhood bedroom, made properly into a woman under his rough hands and drooling cock. 

Best of all, your family would cast you out once you were found to be pregnant. You wouldn’t rat him out, would you? Not that it would matter. Thrown out, and all you could do was crawl to him, and let him put a scratched up ring on your finger.

 Arthur’s eyes slowly watched a guard take notice of him, tilting his head, as he ruminated on stripping you of all your finery, and selling all the dresses and jewels off. He raised his hand in greeting as the other man scrutinised him, exhaling some of his cigarette smoke and imaging your pretty flushed face as he kept you naked, promising you daily that your new clothes should be coming in any time now while getting to openly eye your cunt. The plantation guard started making his way over and Arthur decided against any sort of conversation, not while his cock was hard in his trousers and the image of you, shy and bare, was suspended in his mind, like those painted glass windows of the Virgin Mary in church. Luckily the man just stopped in his tracks and watched him ride off, unwilling to kick up a fuss. 

Arthur was thankful that Dutch hadn’t sprung this job on them a month ago. He wouldn’t have been able to get through the nights if he had to wait that long. Would have fucked up the plan somehow, no doubt. Stealing you right out of your sheets in the middle of the night most probably. 

But the day came. After so long, it was here. 

Riding alongside the carriage, he ignored the excited twitches from Sean, Dutch’s smug smirk as he glanced back at the gang, and even Bill’s complaining about the sun beating down his sweat soaked shirt. The driver seemed to enjoy the company, chatting with the ever affable Dutch as they made their way further and further away from the estate, and deeper into the sheltered, untamed land yet to be conquered. Arthur had hoped to see you before they set off, but he only got a rudimentary glance around the grounds and up at the balconies before he got an elbow in the side and an annoyed glance. No matter. He knew you’d be easily lured out by the promise of helping your family. 

The ambush was quick, easy, fucking child’s play. The driver, the poor man, had looked under his seat to grab a flask to share around, when Dutch caught Sean’s eye. The deafening, wet crack sounded as the boy swung his gun immediately down on the driver’s head, letting the man crumple. 

Dutch immediately lunged over to take hold of the reins, yanking the horses to the side, down and off the beaten path. Bill hung around on the road to look out for other riders down the path before following the others down into the trees, almost chuckling to himself. 

“Dutch, if this ain’t the easiest fuckin’ payday, I don’t know nothing.” 

Dutch just smirked to himself, swinging down from his horse. 

“Sean, bring the horses to Hosea, going to be worth a pretty penny.” He patted one of the pure white horses’ hindquarters as he swaggered his way towards the door of the carriage. 

There was a bit of movement from within. Arthur and Dutch both froze up for just a second before unholstering their guns, Bill needing a moment before he yanked his rifle from his shoulder. 

There was a beat of silence. 

“... Maybe the-” Sean began when the carriage door burst open. 

A big burly fucker came through, already swinging. His knuckles connected with Arthur’s cheek, sending both men sprawling down to the ground. His ear was ringing from where the punch landed, and the two of them started to wrestle on the ground. Gunshots rang out, first from the carriage, then from Bill and Dutch. 

Arthur felt blood swell in his mouth, but he just swallowed it down, lunging forward to smash his own face against the other man’s, breaking his nose instantly. He howled in pain, and stumbled back, trying to get away from the outlaw, but Sean’s hand was faster than his legs. Two gunshots rang out, and blood bloomed from the two holes in the fucker’s arm and trousers, the bullets having ripped through his thigh and shoulder. 

“Fuck… Fuckers… They’ll fucking hang you for this.” He wheezed, mud covering his face along with his blood, still alive.

Bill yanked Arthur to his feet, bruised and bloodied, but not as bad as the other man. 

“Shit. Aren’t they…?” Sean looked up at Dutch, from where the two men were holding the second one down. 

They are. They’re your bodyguards. But that means… 

Arthur made sure to step on his attacker, on the way to look into the carriage. Ducking his head in, suddenly surrounded by plush seats and pretty interior wallpaper, he held his breath, in either trepidation… Or excitement. 

And there you were. 

Tucked into the corner, face flushed with fear, clinging to your skirts. Frightened. Petrified like a little mouse. 

“Y-You…” You whispered. 

Arthur smiled. 

Then he reached inside and ripped you out of your seat. 

“Well, shit!” Dutch exclaimed as Arthur hauled you out of the carriage, holding you securely in his big arms as your two bodyguards kicked up a weak struggle again. “... The little princess is their nearest and dearest treasure? Well, that’s adorable.” 

He laughed and Bill grumbled. 

“So, does this mean that they don’t have any fuckin’ money in there?” 

“The bonds.” Your second bodyguard wheezed out. 

Arthur finally paid proper attention to him, always quietly dismissing him before. The younger of the two, a bit broader, and still putting up a valiant fucking fight despite the bruises littering his face and then blood oozing from his shin. 

“D-Don’t hurt her. There’s a box of bonds under the s-seat!” 

“Looks like someone’s got a crush.” Dutch snorted softly but stepped towards the carriage to root around inside. 

The blood soaking Arthur’s mouth soured on his tongue. Fucker. 

“My jewellery!” You suddenly said, tense in his arms. Warm. Soft. But tense. “That should fetch you around $200!” 

“You’re shitting me, girly.” Bill whistled through his teeth. 

Arthur disliked the way Sean’s eyes were suddenly pinned to the brooch by your breast, the gems glittering in the dappled light. 

“I’ll sort it.” He grumbled, trudging towards one of the trees and dumping you on the ground. 

Stripping you of your fineries was a fucking rush. His hands dragging over your pretty dress, unhooking the brooch, tilting your face to slip the earrings out, taking every ring from your pretty fingers. The only moment he paused, was to take the pearls from you. The beads of white splayed across your collarbones always had his stomach tightening. 

“They’re real.” You whispered, low, and he blinked at you. “They’re… They’re individually knotted, see? Means they’re real, so if it snaps, they won’t all scatter.” 

You had taken his pause as doubt. Silly, sweet thing. He watched your throat bob as you swallowed nervously. He could always give you-

“C’mon Morgan, don’t let her twist you around her little finger.” Dutch called.

Oh, but he already was. From head to toe, he belonged to you. But, he had a job to do. So he carefully slipped the pearls from your throat, his rough thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin. Arthur pocketed all of your little niceties, before slipping a length of rope from his satchel. Your doe eyes widened at it but it seemed that you were more of a deer than you realised, freezing instead of running. Not that it would have done anything. He was a hunter. 

He tied your wrists behind your back before binding your ankles, making sure to rip the stockings enough to catch a glimpse of skin. Before too long, your two loyal dogs were dragged over, bound with rope and gagged. 

Dutch sorted through the haul, satisfied smirk settling on his lips as he fiddled with your jewellery. 

“Good payout from this one, boys.” He finally announced, tucking it all into the satchel by his side. “All we have to do is deal with these three, and then we’re home free.” 

“I’ll do it.” Arthur immediately spoke up, arms crossed firmly over his chest. 

The older man eyed him closely, rolling his thick cigar between his thumb and forefinger. The way he scrutinised him made Arthur feel like Dutch could see into his heart, his head, to see exactly what he wanted, what he wanted more than the money. Everything else faded away as Sean snickered and Bill grumbled. Finally, the older man smirked. 

“Go ahead, Arthur.” He said, slow, as if measuring out his words intentionally. 

Permission. 

Arthur stood, stock still, as the others saddled up and took off, one by one, Dutch waiting to go last to shoot him a wink. The moment he disappeared through the trees, he exhaled slowly. He felt excitement build in his stomach, his cock rousing oh so slowing, just from breathing in the nature around him… And the bluebells. 

“Just let us go.” The older bodyguard spat out his gag and demanded, through a mouthful of blood. Someone had stemmed the bleeding so he’d have some time to go get some help and survive. Maybe. “We can make our own way back. You don’t gotta kill us.” 

Arthur stepped closer, gait slow and relaxed before picking up the sodden gag and ramming it back into the bodyguard’s bloodied mouth. He could feel the man’s front tooth break against his knuckles as he yanked his hand free. 

“Just shut it.” Arthur grumbled, looking at the grazed skin of his hand. 

Before too long, his gaze was back on you. You weren’t gagged, nor as thoroughly tied up as your two loyal dogs. He hadn’t wanted to hurt you by making the ropes too tight, but also… Easier to get them off this way. 

“I ain’t gonna hurt you.” He finally said, and saw your entire body tense up in fear. 

He wanted to do the opposite of hurting you. He wanted to free you. 

Arthur saw the two bodyguards start to try and fight their bindings as he got closer to you, taking you by your bound ankles and dragging you away from the tree the three of you were leaning against. Not exactly a four poster bed with nice blankets, but the grass was soft. You started to wriggle, making soft, cute noises behind that gag. Gripping your knees, he spread them enough to settle in between. Not going to yank up your skirts yet. 

“Relax, sweetheart.” He murmured, taking a moment to squeeze your sides. “I’m gonna be a gentleman about this.”  

You gave the most adorable little terrified whine. He could almost mistake it for a sigh of pleasure, and he couldn’t wait to hear more. 

Ignoring the muffled protests from the two bodyguards, the younger one almost frantic in his objections, Arthur stroked over your sides before reaching up to fiddle with the neckline of your dress. His rough fingers weren’t nimble, not like Javier’s, at least not with the dainty little buttons and fine drawstrings. But, despite your wriggling and soft pleas, he managed to get your cute little blouse open… With the knife he kept by his thigh. A quick slice opened it right up, showing off the overbust corset you wore. Soft, cream coloured thing, cupping your bosom in such a tantalising way. Arthur was transfixed by the way your breasts heaved with every shaking breath, nearly slipping free to let him see those pretty nipples. 

You gave another sweet little whine and Arthur dragged the flat of his tongue over one of his canines. He wanted to hear your words, no matter if you were going to beg, scream, plead. It didn’t matter. Because eventually, you’d be moaning for him. You’re going to want more and more of him. He shifts his weight and leans forward to drag the piece of fabric from your mouth, noticing how dry and chapped your pretty lips had gotten. 

“Please-” You immediately whispered, once your mouth was freed. You quickly darted your tongue out, just to wet your bottom lip but his blue-green eyes snagged onto the movement. “Please, don’t-” 

“Hush.” Arthur pressed his coarse thumb against your lips. “Been wanting to make this good for you, don’t make me wanna take that back if you start kicking up a fuss.” 

Your eyes slowly widened in realisation as he leaned away, dragging your blouse down your arms and fully away from your torso. This quiet, tall, man who your father had assured you was trustworthy, had not only planned the robbery… But this. With you. You felt tears beginning to well up in your eyes, and Arthur was too busy fighting with your corset to notice. 

It was just a light corset, from the softness of your stomach, reaching up to gently cradle your breasts, but it was like trying to get off a full body chastity belt. The drawstrings on the back were tightly knotted, and even when he turned you on your side to try and free them, they were just too fucking complicated to untie. He turned you on your back again with a grunt.

With a low sigh, Arthur took up his knife again, rubbing the blade against his dusty trousers. You blinked your wet eyes, terrified but too frozen to start begging again. You could almost feel the blade sinking into your belly, cutting you open even if he didn’t mean to. You weren’t put at ease by his easy, small smile, nor his large hand resting on your side to keep you from squirming.

“Don’t worry, pretty thing. I know my way around a knife well enough.” 

Arthur slid the knife underneath the first string of your corset and swiftly jerked his blade upwards, cutting it open and loosening the garment. He could vaguely hear one of the bodyguards shout through his gag and wriggle helplessly, but most of his attention was taken by the first reveal of your skin. With a sense of awe, he stroked his rough thumb against the flesh, feeling you shiver between his thighs. Have you ever been touched like this? Worshipped? Did you even know all the ways a woman could be held and caressed and fucked?

Suddenly feeling like a parched man who had a single drop of water, he was ravenous for more, more of you. Forgoing his careful cutting, he laid the smooth side of the blade against your spine, and wrenched the serrated edge of it through the intricate laces. You gave a cute little squeal of terror at the feeling, but Arthur was true to his word. He didn’t even nick your back with his knife. 

He gripped your sides and pushed you onto your back and wrestled the tattered remains of your ripped corset off you, flinging the garment to the side, into the mud. Your chest was finally freed for him. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, you were perfect. The prettiest tits he’d ever laid eyes on. Arthur had been with a fair few women, but fuck. Cute breasts, with your softened nipples hardening in the air. His cock strained against his trousers. He felt like he was a young man again, excitement brewing in his gut to a disgusting degree. 

Slap! 

You cried out softly as his gloved hand left a red mark against the side of your chest, watching it jiggle from the smack. 

“Sorry.” Arthur gave a crooked smile. “Couldn’t help myself.” 

Neither could the young buck apparently. His eyes widened and stared at your tits, perky nips all stiff, begging to be sucked. He could imagine ruining you with babies, one always on your breast, feeding, and then he’d get his own turn, getting to drink his fill as you whispered to save some for your children. His balls throbbed. 

“D’aw, look at that.” He gripped your chin with his filthy, dirty fingers, smearing some mud on you, and pulled your face to look at the boy. “Aren’t you glad I got to you first? He was going to creep in and fuck you on your nice sheets, you can tell.” 

He loved the look of bewilderment on your face, at the thought of one of the men you trusted would look at you like that. You whimpered and Arthur cooed at you, trailing his fingertips across your cheek, just to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. He leaned down and breathed in your scent, just below your ear. Bluebells. Fear. God, you were delicious. He never took stock in scaring his lovers, but you… You made him feel somehow bigger than you than he already was. Like a bad man. 

You couldn’t take the look in your bodyguard’s eyes anymore, a split between horror and arousal. It felt like a betrayal of the safety his eyes once promised you. But when you pulled away from looking at him, you were cheek to cheek with the brute, the brute whose entire body enveloped you. His skin was rough, stubbly, hot. Sweaty. His clothed chest against your bare one, his deep breaths against your ear making the hair on your arms and neck stand up. He smelt… Your thighs shook a bit. Different. He smelt different, different to any man you’d met before. You were used to perfumed gentlemen, clad in cologne and the pomade they put in their hair. He smelt of none of that. Leather, gun oil, like horsehair, like sweat. Like a deep musk seeping from his skin. Like… Like a man. 

You felt his chapped lips breath against your cheek before pressing against it more firmly. A kiss. Your breath caught in your throat. Again… Another kiss, against your cheek, against your jaw and then he paused, mouth nearly touching yours. You could already taste the whiskey on his breath. 

Arthur crashed his lips against yours, losing his control at the last moment. He guessed he should have treated it like a kiss at the altar, a kiss of marriage, but he couldn’t, he had spent too long thinking about it, jerking his cock as he pressed two fingers against his lips, lost in the dreams of your desperate kisses as you humped his cock. Fuck. His lips had just barely touched yours, tasting you, when he slipped his tongue in, dragging it along your teeth before pressing further. He couldn’t stop his own breathless moan, his cock jutting right where your cunt was hidden, beneath your skirts. God, you tasted… So good. Sweet, with a hint of blood. You must have been biting your cheek, or your tongue. You were wound so tight, like a spring, and he couldn’t wait to hear what noises you would make for him. 

You whined into his mouth, the alcohol on his tongue, the cigarette taste dripping into yours, the blood that was no doubt from the fist fight earlier, your bitten cheek stinging as his tongue dragged against it. You could hear one of your bodyguards shout against his gag, probably for the brute to stop, but you both ignored him. You were a realist. Your breasts were free, he was kissing you and you could feel his… His thing pressing against your private place. You knew what he wanted. Your mother had warned you at a young age what men want; you knew why you had bodyguards. 

Arthur pulled away, a long bridge of spit connecting both of your bottom lips, only to gently split when he got further away. He wasted no time, ducking his head to drop equally wet kisses to your hard nipples, giving one sharp suck. You gasped softly, biting down on your bottom lip to stifle the noise, not wanting to excite him further. He spent some time just kissing and sucking at them, rolling the nipple along his teeth and tongue, tugging with his head every now and then just to make you repeat the sound that got his cock throbbing something unbearable. 

Straightening back up, he shucked his belt free and fought to get his trousers open. His erection strained against the fabric and he already knew that his long johns would be stained from the precum that had been seeping freely from his cockhead. It only happened with you, not even with Mary, back when she was Mary Gillis who was so sweet on him, before she was a Linton and only came to him when she needed something. Arthur chased the thought away from this moment, not wanting to be thinking of another woman when one so perfect lay half naked before him. 

Yanking down his trousers and tucking his long johns below his balls, you finally got a good look at the monster you would be dealing with. You fell completely silent, no more whimpers or whines, just staring at his dusky cock, the head a deep, angry red, with a droplet of… Something hanging off the tip. While you fell silent, your bodyguards were shocked back into speech once more, shouting through their gags, the younger one wrestling at his restraints and smacking the back of his head against the tree in frustration. Stupid boy looked like he was about to cry. 

Now, Arthur had a plan, well, an old plan. What he had wanted to, when he lured you out of the house, told you that you could get your family’s riches back, then trapped you in the abandoned house he had found in the forest. Well, it was abandoned after he left a bullet between a hermit’s eyes, but hey, he washed the blood out of the floors so you wouldn’t be forced to see that. He’d treat it like your wedding night. Suck at your clit and finger you until you came and then fuck you, like a good Christian man. Then he’d show you all the ways to make a man feel good, all the ways a woman could cum. 

But fuck, it was hard sticking to the plan right now. 

Kissing it goodbye, he gripped your soft sides and dragged you down, letting the dirt get into your hair. Your doe-eyes were still staring at his cock, the way it was just too fat to stand all the way up. God, he just needed to cum. Then he can carry you off and do this properly. 

“Listen,” Arthur went back to dragging his thumb over the curve of your breasts before gently flicking a wetted nipple. His dark eyes glinted underneath the shadow of his hat. “I’m real sorry about your nice pearls, ma’am.” 

You tore your gaze away from the fat monster resting against your sternum. 

“E-Excuse me?” You managed, blinking up at him. 

“That nice pearl necklace.” He repeated, lips quirked like he was letting you in on a private joke. “Was thinkin’ that I give you another one. To show how sorry I am we had to take all ya nice things.” 

You started getting a bad feeling. 

“No, no, that’s okay, sir, please-” His thumb covered your bottom lip before you could say another word. His cock throbbed. Arthur liked that you called him sir. 

“Hush. Ain’t no trouble for the prettiest thing I ever seen.” His smile was sharp. 

Arthur lowered himself just a bit more, nearly sitting on your belly, but now his cock lay squarely between your breasts, the precum rolling down, onto your skin. Fuck, the sight already did things to him. Cupping your breasts, he made sure to give your abused buds another pinch before pressing them firmly together, encasing his cock in soft, warm flesh. Fuck. Just needed one more thing. 

He used his thumbs to part the flesh covering his cockhead, revealing the drooling thing, and spat down onto it, enjoying your squeak of surprise that trailed off into a whine. Sounded like you liked it, deep down. He hoped you did, it would open up the future to talking you into doing everything a good church wife would never dream of doing, and what wives in love do with gusto and throaty moans. 

Lost in the thought of you mouthing at his ballsack, he began to thrust his cock between your tits, aided by the spit lubricating the skin and his erection. You gasped softly as it roughly moved against your skin, the head bumping against your collarbones every time he drove himself to the base. Wet skin against skin, it made a soft slapping sound as he thrust himself between your breasts. It was obscene, it was dirty. Your mother had talked about the ravages of man, the vicar at church had warned against sins of the flesh, but not even overhearing dirty jokes between your bodyguards would ever had you imaging this, a man, a brute, with a monster between his legs and a dizzying musk using your breasts to… To relieve himself. It should disgust you, being used by someone who was no better than a rutting farm animal, who ripped you free of your jewels and clothes, but you were all too aware that between your thighs, there was something warm growing. You felt too sweaty, as if it wasn’t just the sun beating down on you that had you shivering and short of breath. You were sticky between the thighs, the same way you got when you watched Elijah, your older bodyguard, wet his forearms in the lake before heading to you, when you thought about some of the rambles your vicar would go on about. He had a vivid imagination as he ranted about the lows men and women would sink to, rutting at each other in the street, unwed and open to be seen. 

Like you are now. 

The thought had a gasp slipping past your lips and the brute’s eyes flicked to yours, hazy and dark and blown so wide that they looked almost entirely black. Whatever he saw in yours must have been too much for him.

Arthur’s fingernails bit into your soft skin as he gritted his teeth, fighting back his pleasure, but he couldn’t. It had been too long with just his hand and used prostitutes. You were soft and looking up at him like… Like that. With your big eyes filling with heat as he fucked your tits. He was dirtying you. 

His breath caught in his throat and his hips stuttered in their thrusts. Cum splattered against your skin, Arthur quickly gripping the base of his cock, aiming to spread his heavy load across your shoulders and throat. You gasped in shock, a fat drop of his release splashing against your bottom lip. You couldn’t stop your tongue slipping out to lick it up, even as your stomach flipped in disgust of your own actions. 

“There you go, missy.” Arthur finally managed to say, throaty and low. “A pearl necklace, good as new.”

You could barely comprehend his words, feeling dazed from being used, from the taste of his cum, as small as it was, flooding your tongue. Maybe you didn’t notice, or maybe you didn’t care, when Arthur pushed himself off of you, instead settling himself between your legs, your skirt bunching up just a bit. 

You were only brought back to the moment when you noticed he wasn’t moving, his cock still half hard. He was just kneeling there, breathing hard, his fingers gently stroking your stockinged shin. His tongue darted out, swiping against his bottom lip before retreating back. After a moment he groaned. 

“Fuck. I ain’t a monster, miss.” He muttered, just for you and him. “I was going to wait, treat you real nice, make sure you felt all wedded before I…” 

Your stomach tightened. This man, this man who walked into your home, politely taking his hat off when your father talked to him, looked awkward and too small for the armchair he had picked to sit in, someone who your guards had noticed riding along the borders of the estate, had planned this. 

He was going to do this, even if you hadn’t been in the carriage. Shock prickled at your skin, your lungs feeling too big for your body. Yet your thighs felt sticky, and… And the place between them felt warm. 

“But I can't.” Arthur finally admitted after a pause. “But I’ll make it good.” 

The promise made your heart thud hard in your chest, hammering against your ribcage as if it was fighting to get out, to get away, but your legs were slowly relaxing into the dirt, allowing him to manhandle them, pushing your skirt up more, to your knees, up, up, up until-

He gave a low whistle, taking in the soft flesh of your legs, your stockings held up by your garters. Arthur takes a moment to admire them, how they squish the soft skin of your thighs so tantalisingly.

 "You know, I've heard that it's customary for the groom to take these off with his teeth." Arthur murmured, slightly hoarse, as his thumb slipped underneath the fabric, just to ping it against your flesh with a smirk. 

He didn't wait for any acknowledgement, as he ducked his head down, pulling your skirt down, over his head with a self indulgent chuckle. You squirmed and tried to kick, as his stubbled cheek scratched your sensitive skin. You couldn’t help it, it tickled and you had to fight back a giggle, a part of you still too aware of the two men staring at the display, one cursing and trying to fight his binds, the other one defeated and shoulders hunched. What would they think if you started giggling, squirming as this brute, ducked underneath your skirt, was trying to get your garters off. Would they believe that you, god forbid, was enjoying this? Enjoyed the way he had handled you, groped you, sucked and… And pleasured himself with your chest? What would they say to your family- Oh! 

One garter gave way, and Arthur emerged, victorious with it clenched between his teeth. He tucked it into his pocket before peeling your skirt back up, one stocking already bunching around your knee, the other still held tight by the garter. He liked the image. Made you somehow more debauched in his eyes. So perfect for him. He’d like to imagine in another life you wouldn’t belong to your family, instead being a girl at the saloon, or working at one of the farms. You’d still smell of bluebells, but you would have seen him. Actually seen him, as a man, instead of the help your father paid for. Your bodyguards wouldn’t be there, and all your father could do was threaten him with a shotgun, but you’d still meet him in the trees, pulling up your skirts to let him fuck into you, whining his name as you bounced. You’d be happy to marry him, because your life was routine, slow, and he wasn’t. You’d live with him in his tent, and unlike Molly and Abigail, you’d be happy. Never ignored, gossiping with the other girls, looking so pretty in your underclothes when you do the laundry, your nipples showing through the fabric, and slapping Javier when he flirted with you, reminding him you were good as married. Dancing with him at the campfire, playing with Jack, trying to hide your giggles as you two overheard Dutch and Molly going at it, only to do the same, moaning to each other softly, privately. Being so sweet to everyone but refusing to let anyone but Arthur treat you in a husbandly way. Kissing his bloodied knuckles, massaging his back and cheekily patting his ass after a long ride. 

It would have been perfect. But it didn’t matter, because in the end, he’s got you now anyway. 

Finally his gaze rises to your unmentionables, the fabric looking soft and nearly see through. Whenever he saw the other girls’ undergarments drying at camp, they looked comfy but not enticing. You could be wearing his own long johns and he’d still think you’re the most fuckable creature on God’s green earth. He’d have killed to see you swimming in your under-things when he had been watching you from his horse just a week ago. You would have looked practically naked and snapped his control completely, stealing you away the moment you climbed out from the water.

He slipped the fabric down, revealing your gorgeous peach of a cunt to him. A precious thatch of hair just above it, but the best part… The lips of your kitty. Wet. Glistening in the setting sun.

You shook beneath him. 

“Sir…” You finally uttered, naked except for your mismatched stockings, and your slip having been bunched above your private place and below your belly button. “I… Please…” 

But you didn’t know what you were begging for. Anyone could ride by, see this man towering over you, almost completely bare, and see two lovers needing to touch each other, as long as they didn’t look slightly beyond to the two tied up men, shouting again and fighting against the ropes that bound them. You felt warm and flushed, as if with a fever, sweaty between your thighs and at your temples. You were never so aware of your breasts before, with his white liquid staining them, nipples sucked and still wet. You felt like… Like some sort of whore. And for a terrifying moment, you could only think that if all the women who worked the night and the saloon felt this way, you’d have happily joined them, wearing next to nothing and being desired. You felt disgusted with yourself, with the man who thought he could take from you freely like this, just because he wanted to. 

So you were at an impasse with yourself, as Arthur reached down and slowly jerked his cock, squeezing the head so that precum would gently ooze from the slit. You didn’t fight as he spread your thighs, nor when he ducked his head, a part of you wondering if he was going to breathe in your scent again, like he did at the side of your neck. You felt him inhale deeply and then-

You arched your back with a whorish moan, shaking your head as if in disbelief. You could hear a faint despairing moan of your own name, but everything else trickled away, like water poured on drying watercolours. 

All there was was his tongue on you, focusing on something that made you wriggle and cry out, jutting your hips into his face. You could feel him chuckle against you, one of his large hands cupping the outside of your thigh to keep you steady.

Arthur loved that you had never been tasted down here. You were a bucker, just like his favourite horse that he kept away from camp, safe in the stables to prevent any remarks from Javier or Bill. The treatment you were going to get. You worked your lower half to practically fuck his face with your pussy, any attention on your clit making you go to pieces. God, have you ever touched yourself? Did you even know that you could have spent your night, laying on your bed and rubbing at your cunt and cumming your brains out? Would that have helped him lure you away? Such a repressed little rich girl, rubbing at her kitty and needing a big cock to ride on, willingly following him, someone who promised to give her a real fuck. 

But no, this was better. Untouched, already so wet that your slick was trickling down your thighs and his chin, the heady taste dominating his mouth so wonderfully. Better than any drink he’d ever had. 

He kissed and licked until you were practically sobbing, switching between begging for more and wishing for him to stop, it was too much. You just needed another nudge. So he slowly parted his lips and sucked your clit into his mouth, encompassing it in a wet heat, tongue rubbing on the sensitive little bundle of nerves. 

You squealed, loud and unabashed, your back arching as something was pulled from you, something deep in your stomach unravelling until you could do nothing but weakly buck. The heat had ebbed away, your private place wet, and not just from his saliva. 

“Good girl,” You heard him murmur against your thigh, lips wet as they kissed the skin. “I think I’ll make a proper squirter out of you yet. You seem the type.” 

You didn’t know what he even meant, so lost in the aftershocks of the sensation. Arthur wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then licked the remaining juices from it, not wanting anything to go to waste. 

He knew you were more than ready. Your hole was so wet, so pliant from his tongue and your orgasm that you were no doubt more than prepared to take his cock. God could come down and punish him, the Devil could come up and drag him down, but he would fight to fuck you before either could stop him.

Jerking his cock a few times to full hardness once more, he let you just lie in your bliss, dazed from pleasure before he nudged your clit again, this time with his cockhead. He wasn’t making it a secret of what he wanted next. Arthur slowly just swiped it through your folds, your wetness gathering around the head and slipping down his shaft. The muffled shouts from the tied up men grew in volume again, but he couldn’t care anymore. You were relaxed and open to him, and they were restrained to a tree and probably harder than they had ever been in their life. Not his problem, and not yours either by the end of the day. 

“Relax for me, girl.” He slowly began to press in. Arthur was vaguely amused that he was using the same phrases he had for his horse on you, but it was working. “All ready for me, aren’t you, sweet thing?” 

You gave a soft moan as his cockhead was fully encompassed by your warmth, the sensation of it parting your walls making you so incredibly dizzy with… With… Something. Pleasure. Pleasure you never even tasted before. But it also stung, being split apart like this, by something so big, so hot. Your breath caught in your chest, and you struggled to breath out, making a choked noise. It made his cock twitch inside of you. 

“Breath, missy, breath.” He whispered against your cheek, enveloping your body with his again. “There you go, letting me in so easily. So easy for me.” 

You groaned, your legs pressing tightly against his sides, using your knees to try and urge him deeper. You could feel his chest rumble with a chuckle as he pushed in further and further, your wetness slipping down his balls and your thighs. It did hurt, it stung, but your body moved on its own, needing to feel more of him as tears pricked at your eyes. 

“Yes, that’s good.” Arthur chuckled. “Tighten your knees, like you’re riding a horse. Much better. Taking me so well.” 

A breath escaped your lips so quickly, a mixture of a laugh and a sigh as you felt him bury himself to the hilt, his balls pressing against your privates. He groaned deeply, feeling you soft, snug cunt wrap around him so well, fluttering as his cock throbbed. Fuck. He hoped you bled a bit. Not a lot, but enough to prove that he stole your virginity, that even if one of those bastards got loose and shot him through the head, they couldn’t take this away. You’d remember your first orgasm, at his tongue, and of his fat cock and the little trickle of blood seeping down his erection. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. You whined at his hips slowly starting to rock, and gave a strangled gasp the moment he gave up any semblance of gentility and instead began to rut into you, each thrust harder than the last. His cockhead pounded into you, ruthlessly hitting your cervix as Arthur groaned, low and deep, the type that reverberated deliciously. Everything about him filled you up. You could taste his skin against your tongue; his scent having traces of his cock, from when he fucked it between your tits. His moans filled your ears, and his cock overwhelmed your cunt completely. He was just so big, his arms wrapping around you easily, his chest broader than yours, his erection ruthlessly splitting you open. 

You both could hear the faint resumed shouts from the guards, probably death threats and promises of what would happen the moment they got free, that he’ll be dead within the day no matter what. It all just faded away. None of it could surpass the haven of combined moans, the smell of sex slipping between your two bodies, skin against skin, pleasure throbbing in your veins, under your skin, even as Arthur roughly gripped your hair and forced your mouth against his in another kiss. 

The loud slap of his body against yours, his balls throbbing against the lips of your cunt, his tongue pressing against yours, insisting on mixing your blood together, his hand, stealing under his own body to grope at your chest. He encompassed you, and your whimpers of pain from the merciless insertion into you was turning into whines and moans, noises only a whore could make when being used by this thug, their attacker. Good girls were supposed to scream and kick and hope a gentleman comes along to apprehend the savage who would dare to take a lady of good repute in such a manner. No one warned you that this man, this man who smelt of sweat and gun oil and unwashed skin, could make you lose yourself this easily, with just a few licks of his tongue and setting a ruinous pace into your unprotected cunt. 

Your eyes shot open at the thought, now too aware of what he would want to do. To you, not just to you, but in you. His last… Release had dried on your collarbones, now flaking off with every rub of his clothed chest against your bare one.

“S-Sir,” You hiccuped out, tears of past pain, pleasure and worry creeping to your eyes again. But to Arthur? The shine of your eyes made him feel intoxicated. “Please, don’t- Not inside. Not in there.” 

You really should have kept your sweet mouth shut, Arthur thought in a haze, your words doing nothing but making him even harder. Of course you didn’t know all the filthy words you needed to use to get him to understand. Which he did, but it wasn’t going to stop him from breeding your tight little cunt anyway. It almost made him smile to himself, imagining your mother sitting with you on the bed, chalk in hand as she spelt out all the important words for you to know in order to fuck a man. Cum and cunt, and cock and-

“Not inside!” You hiccuped again, gripping his shoulders tighter, a tear slipping free and wetting your lips.”I can’t- It won’t-” 

Arthur reached up and gripped your chin, making sure you were looking him in the eye. 

“You can and it will.” He breathed out, the smell of cigarettes and whiskey fanning over you, giving you a second hand buzz. “Daddy won’t ever know, if that’s why you’re so worried.” 

Your voice was lost, too busy moaning and shaking in his arms, the heat from your lower stomach slowly unravelling again, like a spool of thread slipping loose from your fingers and spilling its guts. Your legs began to kick involuntarily, unable to take another dose of pleasure, the toes of your shoes digging into the wet earth. 

His cock couldn’t handle the way you were tightening around him, and he could do nothing but speed up, tucking his face into your neck and grunting loudly. You were just too hot, too snug around him, you looked more beautiful than anything he’d ever seen in his life as the sun slowly set on your pleasured face, lips bitten and swollen from kissing. 

Arthur slammed all the way into you with a groan. He came, came so hard as if a large weight was lifted from him as he emptied himself deep inside of you. He stayed there for a while, feeling you slump down, drained after the first two orgasms of your life. You would be dazed for a while longer, so he should shake off his lethargy, the instinct to grab a smoke and roll over next to you. He couldn’t take the risk of the bodyguards getting free at last, or anyone else trotting along this path. Or you shaking off the afterglow of sex and deciding that this was going to be a one time thing. 

Pulling his trousers back up, Arthur tucked his cock away before half heartedly dressing you, doing enough to cover your bare pussy and tits, but leaving most of your lovely dress in tatters on the ground, soaked in cum and blood. He grinned. Your family would have no doubt of what had happened to their most prized treasure. His now. 

With a furtive glance over at the two bound men, he noticed with satisfaction one was still half hard. The other had a big wet patch on his trousers and looked away in shame. Stupid kid. The older one, with his erection flagging slowly, began to shift and strain again, his wrists bloodied with rope burn and his face burnt from the sun. Arthur hoisted you up onto his horse which had spent the last half hour chewing sleepily on grass and trying to eat the younger man’s hat. He made sure he still had his share of the loot to deliver to the camp later. You barely managed a coherent objection when he tugged you against his stomach, making sure you wouldn’t slip from the saddle.

With a click of his tongue, he urged his horse forward, into the trees, leaving the shouts of the guards behind, as you slumped against him. Arthur held you close, carefully manoeuvring through the thicket, only taking his eyes off the road to bow his head and breath in the faint perfume of bluebells, underneath the smell of sex. 

Epilogue: 

From a young age, you had been promised to a nice gentleman’s son. Their family lived in town. They weren’t as wealthy as your own kin. They weren’t as highly regarded. But over a game of cards and a few drinks of very fine whiskey, your father clapped his new friend on the back and talked about his drunken desire for their children to be joined in matrimony. Even when he sobered up, he held firm. 

You met your fiance a fair few times. You were just a bit taller than him, so he would start to wear heeled boots and your ones were packed away. He was about four years your senior, but had yet to grow out of the sweet awkwardness of being a young man, at least around you. He was nice. Complimented your mother. Trotted after your father. Gawked at you. 

“He was looking into your eyes.” One of your maids whispered as she did your hair for the night. “Such a sweet boy, he was so besotted at dinner.” 

He wasn’t. You knew he was staring at your chest. It made you feel dirty, knowing that he barely listened to what you said, and focused on every glimpse of skin, like a salivating dog. But you knew your father wouldn’t take your side in this. If anything, he’d give a hoot of laughter and say your fiance was paying you a compliment. 

So you said nothing.  Time passed and you got taller than him. He started growing a weak moustache. It tickled when he kissed your hand. 

Your father had hired your body guards after you left the house one night, to sneak into town. You didn’t get very far. Your maid woke him up and you were brought back. She stopped talking to you about your fiance’s sweet nature after that. 

But Thomas and Elijah were nice. Sometimes you’d spend more time with Elijah in one day than you would do with your father in a month. Thomas was just a farmhand that was thought to be loyal enough to be trained up with Elijah. They went everywhere you did. You preferred them over your Mother’s dogs. 

You remember the day you met Arthur. The day, not him, even as he recalled it, murmuring against your hair about how you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the only thing he could ever want. You wish you could be that poetic about it. 

The day prior, a maid had let it slip that your fiance had a certain reputation around some of the unsavoury businesses around town. You lied to your Mother about going to meet a friend and rode in. Elijah was wary and Thomas had begun to sweat after you mentioned to them where exactly you wanted them to take you. They didn’t want to. But you knew how to get your way. 

It wasn’t heart breaking, getting to hear what your future husband was doing. A whore house frequenter, gambler, and it seems he wasn’t much good at either of those activities. By the time you couldn’t hear anymore, you were embarrassed on his behalf. On the way out, you overheard Thomas mumbling something about how it seems like your marriage bed is going to be deeply miserable and Elijah smacked the back of his head. He obviously didn’t mean for you to overhear, but you did. 

Then Arthur was there. You stepped out, into the sun, passed by a bulky man, who towered over you. You might have even looked at him. You don’t know. 

Then you went home. 

 You always thought about what Thomas said. Your marriage bed being a miserable one.You were a virgin of course, up until the day Arthur finally “married” you. The only man you’ve been with was Arthur. Before him, you wondered about your fiance having the reputation of being bad in bed. Almost like you were trying to appease yourself, you tried to reason that you probably wouldn’t even know what bad sex would be like, since you never had it before. Maybe it would be good to you, a virgin, and bad to the… Women of the Night. 

You never wondered, not with Arthur. Fuck, if someone told you that Arthur was bad at sex, you’d shrug anyway. 

The way he sucked your clit like he was a man parched, had you seeing stars. His thick fingers roughly spread you, letting your slick coat your thighs, the way they hungrily dig into your mouth afterwards. His fat cock, laying against your belly, nearly reaching your belly button before he pressed it inside of you. You loved it all. 

You felt like a whore. You were never so aware of your cunt, even when your mother sat you down and explained what you would be expected to do for your wedding night. It had been a few weeks away and she would never know that you would be gone that week and would have first hand experience about what a man would feel like. Now, after Arthur raped you of your virginity, and took you home, you were nothing but aware of it. Your clit throbbing gently. Your soaked peach of a cunt. Your hole, always aching, almost like phantom pain, too aware that there wasn’t a fat cock nestled inside. You were aware of your breasts. Arthur had ruined your corsets, and never deemed to go and get you more. Most days you didn’t even wear a full dress anymore, just in an underdress, with your puffy nipples poking through. Almost daily Arthur would get distracted by them and start mouthing away at the poor things through the fabric. 

You wondered if this is what those women, those prostitutes, felt like. Slowly rubbing your hands over your slightly swollen belly, you felt strangely light. No corsets, no tight dresses. Just the underdress, with your stockings sometimes. No underwear. You never delighted in being naked, but now you feel constricted when dressed. 

The bed under you shifted as Arthur sat up, his broad, tanned back covered in fresh scratches as he stretched. 

“Gotta head to the camp today. Dutch is getting real antsy again.” He said, before glancing over his shoulder at you. 

His hard eyes were trained on your face, your own eyes, before greedily skittering down to your naked breasts, your stomach,  lingering on your glistening cunt before he finished it off with a loving look at your ankles. Arthur really liked your ankles. 

“Will you be gone long?” You mumbled, feeling your cunt throb. 

“Not too long, darlin’.” He leaned back down, elbow against the bed, to slowly nose up your throat before pressing a kiss against your lips. 

So gentle. Gentle and loving. Not like during sex. It was like when he got his hands on you again, he mentally went back to the first time he got to have you. Rough, and dirty and good. Sex was always like that, even when he took you to a cabin he probably removed the owners from. You’d still fight tooth and nail, and he’d still indulge in you. You can’t remember when you couldn’t hide how good it felt anymore. 

The daughter of a rich man shouldn’t be moaning like a whore on the cock of the man who kidnapped her, but it wasn’t like you were fooling him anyway, not with how your cunt adored him from the moment he fucked you open. It welcomed him in, even when you didn’t. 

And now here you two were. Addicted to each other, with you playing the barely clothed housewife to the man that stole you. At least your husband was no doubt a better fuck that your fiance had ever been. As Arthur ducked his head to tongue one of your nipples into his hot, wet mouth, you gazed at your wedding ring on your finger, carding itself through his dusty blond hair. The slightly raised scar on your ring finger was more striking than any engagement ring your fiance had gifted you. 

Arthur had given it to you just after he rode off, leaving your body guards in the dust, and spent hours on horseback, getting further and further away. No one stopped him, even with the half naked woman on the back. He barely got the door open to your new home, when he was on you again, desperately tasting your skin and sinking two fingers deep inside of your dirty, cum filled cunt. It was only when he pressed back inside of you with a low moan, did he raise your filthy fingers to his mouth, to kiss over and over again, before singling out your ring finger on your right hand and pressing the digit into his mouth, against his tongue. The warm, wet of his mouth had disgusted you, but your fighting was cut short when he suddenly clamped his teeth down on the finger. It was painful, the way he bit down, to the point you were crying and firmly believed that he had reached the bone. 

Every day, he opened it back up, biting down on the barely scabbed over wound, until it finally scarred. It looked like a ring too. Your wedding ring. Forever in your skin. 

Sometimes you compared Arthur to the boy you barely knew as your fiance. 

He was bigger. Bulkier. His stubble grew in evenly, unlike the other man’s spotty moustache. Arthur didn’t seem to have time for the women of the night, you could tell by the way he greedily buried himself inside of you every time he came home. Arthur was… Twice your age? Maybe a bit more. You liked it. He knew the way to touch you till you came around his fingers. You doubted your fiance would have been able to do so. Arthur was poorer. He was an outlaw. He killed people. 

It made you wonder sometimes. As Arthur’s tongue released your nipple and his kisses pressed over your stomach, down to your cunt, you struggled to maintain your train of thought. Especially the way he would fixate on your clit, already puffy and sore, and suck on the poor thing until you came directly on his chin, soaking his beard. 

You caught back a hold of your thought, even when Arthur seemed very intent on making you as empty headed as he could. 

You wondered, when Arthur would inevitably be killed, or captured and sent to jail, would your fiance do the gentlemanly thing and still marry you. You, whose cunt was still full of a dead man’s cum, with his ring around your finger. You wondered if he’d take in any kids Arthur gave you. 

You wondered if you could survive without him, now that he had shown you exactly what you needed, even if you didn’t know it at the time. 

As Arthur hungrily pressed a kiss to your ankle and hooked them over his shoulders, to sink into your hungry cunt, you hoped your fiance would eventually marry you, if the man bullying his cock inside of you would ever leave you. 

The thought of Arthur’s bastards being legitimised and getting to inherit their grandfather’s estate made you smile. Smile, until you gasped and whined, your husband’s lips sucking a hungry mark into your throat, as he bottomed out inside of you. 

---

It's extraordinarily rare that you meet someone in Gotham's underworld who dares to vie for your attention.

There are unspoken rules among Penguin's men, most of which were in place to ensure he didn't get fed up with the lot of them and have them fed to the guard dogs, and the most pertinent of those was that you had to be treated like a queen. Oswald wouldn't tolerate anything less from the men responsible for your safety - sooner or later, everyone learned.

Long before you became Mrs. Cobblepot, it was his lackeys' caution that clued in everyone who mattered. You'd sit by his side, dressed in silk and diamonds in a room full of dusty leather and ill-fitting suits, and the heads of the other families would watch man armed with assault rifles cater to your every whim. You'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it. Men easily twice your size and half as intelligent would take one look at you and assume they knew exactly what was going on: they always assume you're some kind of hooker, or cocktail girl, even a sugar baby, and it's always entertaining to watch them realize their mistake.

The first time you attended one of Oswald's meetings - despite his protests,- someone in attendance kept eyeing you like a piece of meat. The punk waggled his fingers at you from across the table, leering and bearing his teeth. He was obviously high. In an instant, he had Victor Zsasz's pistol pressed against the back of his head. "C'mon man," Victor drawled, "no one talks to Peanut that way." Both men looked at the head of the table, where Oswald clutched his cane like he was trying to splinter it. You couldn't hide the smile that crossed your face when a silent order was given and Victor dragged the offender out of his seat and the room altogether. No one else would meet your eye.

Of course, he was hardly the first person (that you knew of) that'd been killed in your name. You're sure Victor's scars have to have doubled ever since Oswald decided you're untouchable.

You'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it; true passion was something most men kept close to their chests, but once Oswald accepted he could trust you, he couldn't stop his adoration from burning over him like wildfire. You're his confidante, his closest friend, and now his wife.

You only ever wear both your wedding band and your engagement ring when you're out, which is admittedly often. He can never resist an opportunity to show you off - you hold his hand while you're walking and you catch him smirking to himself. He relishes in it, the fact that you're his and his alone; he proposed with his late stepmother's ring. It's lovely and eye-catching. If you accepted him, he wanted everyone to know.

It always comes as a shock when someone disrespects you. They're all dead, every single one of them, but he sees red if anyone should dare to imply you'd be unfaithful.

Tonight, the Iceberg Lounge is filled with Gotham's elite. Your favorite music plays and eyes follow your every move. Oswald has never been shy about spoiling you, and you sit in your own private booth, wearing a custom dress and gazing out the window at the glimmering city below. The Lounge feels like Mount Olympus, and in the moody lighting, adorned with jewels and sparkling like the night sky, you might as well be Aphrodite.

That's what Oswald thinks, anyway. He stands at the bar, half-heartedly listening to a one-sided conversation and watching you carefully. He's supposed to let the rabble kiss the ring for a while, but it's hardly been five minutes and he's already sick of it. He cuts off the conversation with a sharp raise of his palm, shooing the man away and gesturing for the bartender; he's had enough of everyone else for the day. Even the skittish barkeep knows your favorite wine, and in near record time, he pours a glass.

Although the wait is short, it's enough time for Oswald to hear a familiar voice, one that had been talking in his general direction just moments before. He only catches one sentence over the noise, but it's enough to ruin his good mood. The man crows it to his idiot friends, all of them standing by the walls and tipping back shots like tap water.

"C'mon, she's hitched to that freak with the itchy trigger finger, maybe she wants to be with a real man!"

You must have told Oswald half a million times to take deep breaths, and he hates that it works. He takes the glass of wine from the bartender - who, very wisely, looks petrified - and finds Zsasz in the crowd. If you're out in public, Zsasz is never far behind; he sits in a booth on the other side of the dance floor, and meets Oswald's gaze instantly. The latter nods sharply towards the buffoon with his friends, and with a chilling smile from Victor, he knows everything will be handled cleanly.

He can't help but smile himself as he takes you wine to you, seeing Victor stand from the corner of his vision. This time, he didn't even ruin your night.

---

You'd known Oswald long enough to know when something was simmering. You greet him with a grin, accepting the glass as he joins you in the booth. A questions sits in the corner of your mind, but Oswald keeps it from the tip of your tongue, holding your hand as the two of you people-watch. In the Lounge, it's one of your favorite activities: keeping each other company while you both gossip about the patrons.

Eventually, your eyes find Victor's booth, and it's empty. Your brow furrows and you take another sip of wine - to his credit, Oswald doesn't try to pacify you.

The rest of the night flies by. You two gossip and drink, and before long, you leave the Lounge, arm in arm and preening over each other as the crowd parts like the Red Sea. He adjusts your necklace, you straighten his tie, he tucks your hair behind your ear so he can see you properly; neither of you have eyes for anything - or anyone - else, but even as you climb into the back of his armored car, his attention seems... anxious.

You recall Zsasz, missing from his table, and a penny drops.

The offender was likely not Zsasz himself: sure, he calls you 'Peanut' to ruffle Oswald's feathers, but he gets away with it because of his talents. Besides, those talents were the only reason he ever left his post. He enjoys watching you, but that's not how he made a name for himself.

Oswald sits close to you, cradling your jaw like a piece of crystal and pressing chaste kisses to the curve of your neck. The drive to the mansion is by no means brief but it's still jarring when the car rolls to a stop and he halts his ministrations. The driver opens your door and you greet him with a smile - you realize he might have seen something in the rear view mirror, but he replies with a grin and a bow of his head, saying, "Mrs. Cobblepot," and you know that if he has something to say, he's wise enough to keep it to himself.

Like everything Oswald owns, the mansion is superb. He's incredibly straightforward with his desire to make it a home for you as well; he bought it, of course, but only because he could.

(Your favorite wine, much to your embarrassment, is incredibly cheap. To this day, you have no idea how Oswald found out, but ever since your 1st anniversary, he keeps a bottle in the kitchen, at the Iceberg's bar, in his office, wherever you might like a glass. You couldn't help but blush when you found a minibar fully stocked with the stuff, in the corner of the pristine master bathroom. Of course he knew you liked to have a glass of cheap wine with a hot bath - it was that intense attention to detail, paired with his complete and utter willingness to use it for your benefit, that made you accept his proposal without a second thought.)

The foyer, like the rest of the mansion, is lavish but cozy. Ordinarily, the two of you make your way to the dining room, but now he barks for Victor's second in command - with Victor working for the moment, Oswald's first thought is of security. You know he could never live with himself if his own self-proclaimed sloppiness caused misfortune to find you, in the place you called home of all places.

The steel in his tone as he addresses his subordinates makes your heart beat a little quicker; the tiniest smirk creeps onto your face and you slip upstairs without a sound.

The master bedroom looks like a vampire's lair - an ornate canopy bed, gilded and covered in silk sheets, sits between two matching nightstands. Two different vanities are shoved against one wall, and you can still smell a whiff of Oswald's hairspray.

Whenever the two of you are out, the crushed velvet curtains are drawn tight. You leave them that way, turning on a lamp and stepping out of your shoes before reaching behind your back and unzipping your dress. The oriental rug is soft beneath your feet; it covers most of the hardwood floor. You step out of your dress and leave it folded over the back of the chair at your vanity.

Dressed only in your jewelry and a custom lingerie set that cost more than your old car, you climb onto the bed. By now, Oswald has likely finished overseeing his staff - he prefers to keep these things brief, especially if you're waiting for him.

The door cracks open and he enters the room. His steps are crooked but methodical, and by the time he moves into the lamplight, your heart rises to your throat.

When he conducts business, his smiles never quite reach his eyes. The corners of his mouth twist upwards and his gaze sears, steel grey irises simmering like storm clouds. You never see those smiles, ordinarily. With you, he sparkles, that is, unless the two of you want to play a game. He tests the waters, his incredible intuition and focus trained squarely on you, seeing how far you'll let him go.

They're the only times he aims for an inch instead of a mile - you can never resist giving him a mile in return. He adores you for it.

He always puts on a show; tonight, he stalks to the walk-in closet, grabbing your dress and retreating without another word. He returns without his suit jacket and shoes, finally meeting your gaze. For an instant, the sight of you lounging on the bed in his favorite lingerie causes his mask to slip, ever-so-slightly betraying his blatant want before he catches himself.

"Would you like to explain why you came up here without telling me?"

His voice is even, his words enunciated. Now that he has your gaze, he won't be the one to break it. You can't help the way your face begins to burn with a blush you know he'll tuck away in his memory.

You sit up, giving him your full attention and drinking in the tiniest flash of satisfaction that crosses his features. "You were working," you say, your thighs sliding against each other of their own volition, "I thought I'd surprise you."

He pauses for a moment before chuckling loudly - the noise goes straight between your legs. He makes his way to his side of the bed, undoing his cuff links and leaving them on the nightstand. As he begins to roll up his sleeves, he speaks with humor in his voice, "My dear, I must say, sometimes I can't tell whether you want me to punish or reward you." He only looks away to adjust his cuffs so you give him a tiny smile.

"Whatever you want," you reply, "Sir." The change in your voice is subtle - no one else would have heard the difference, but Oswald instantly begins to smolder, taking a deep breath and silently gesturing for you to come closer. It's only then that you realize he's left his gloves on. You can feel the tips of your ears burning too; he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

Ordinarily, his gloves are the first thing he discards. The feeling of your skin against his is a drug in itself, but of course he noticed the way you watch his hands every time he wears them. Of course he noticed.

You crawl to the edge of the bed as he opens a drawer on his nightstand. You know what he's grabbing from inside, but that doesn't stop your heart from beating a little quicker when you see it: your collar. Before he has to break character and ask, you nod quickly. The looks he gives you is delicious as he fastens it snugly around your neck.

He trails the back of his fingers over your jaw, letting you feel the leather and smirking when you lean into his touch. "Such a pretty thing," he murmurs, glee transparent in his tone, "all for me."

Your blood runs hot.

He closes the distance between you, capturing your lips in a forceful kiss. You return it eagerly and he cups the back of your skull, his other hand sliding to the small of your back, up to clutch at your waist, skimming craftily over your ribs, restless when he pulls away to breathe. Your eyes stay shut for a beat too long but they fly open as you feel his firm grip on your chin.

He stays incredibly close, forcing you to look him in the eye; his gaze is frantic and his teeth are bared. "Only for me," he seethes, cupping your face and pressing his forehead to yours.

He's always been possessive - it's embedded in him like shrapnel. Things were never secure unless they were under his persistent care, and as a result, he holds you in his heart with a white-knuckled grip. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose you too.

For a moment his eyes flicker across your face. It's a habit of his, constantly searching, examining, prying, checking for any signs of hesitation, and it's only when he finds nothing but anticipation that he allows himself to relax. He shuts his eyes and breathes you in, savoring your closeness. You have half the mind to kiss him, but before you can move closer he splays a hand over your sternum and shoves.

You fall back onto the mattress with a surprised squeak, lifting your hips as he tugs off your panties. His expression slides into something more devious as he brings them to his nose. He inhales deeply, managing to make the act sound more vulgar than it already was, before groaning softly.

You worry your bottom lip and watch him move onto the bed, maneuvering between your legs and stroking your thighs. Even through the gloves, he loves to feel you, drinking in the tiny changes in your expectant gaze. He's the only one who gets to see them, the only one who gets to see you like this, blushing and pliant, and willing, Christ, so willing-

His palm presses right where you need him and you can't help the noise that slips past your lips as he drags his fingers lazily through your folds. He decides he's been silent for too long, draping himself over you (careful to keep his weight off his bad knee) and pressing searing kisses to your throat. "You're so good for me, darling," he says, in the same tone of voice he uses to patronize his underlings, but it only serves to fuel the fire burning in the pit of your stomach.

His clever mouth sucks a mark on your skin, just below your collar, wrenching a tiny gasp from you. He chuckles again, watching the way your skin flushes.

You nearly forgot the hand he kept between your legs until he eases not one but two fingers inside you; the sudden stretch makes your head spin. You let out a whine, your hips rolling absentmindedly. He scrapes his teeth against the flesh beneath your ear and starts a ruthlessly slow pace with his fingers - even like this, when he has you collared and pressed into the mattress beneath him, his ministrations feel like worship.

A third finger joins the fray just as he begins ghosting over your clit with his thumb; your eyes flutter shut and his gentle swipes turn into firm pressure. You can feel him sit up but his free hand flies to your chin, catching you off guard.

"No no no, look at me," he reprimands, a manic grin evident in his tone, "Don't be shy now-"

When you open your eyes, the sight of him sends a shiver up your spine. How many people had seen that exact face before he took their lives? It's the face he dons when everything works out perfectly - for his enemies, it means terror. For you, however-

He rewards your obedience with a slightly faster pace, crooking his fingers as he says, "That's it- you're going to show me precisely what I do to you."

His voice is a low hiss as he holds your gaze; he memorizes the sounds he draws from you, endeavoring to hear his favorites again. Through it all, he can't resist praising you. He always knows what to say, and now is certainly no exception. He mutters to you as he coaxes you clutter and closer to the edge, telling you how divine you feel, how desperately he wants you, anything that comes to mind, and before long, you're practically squirming.

The laugh he bites back almost sounds mean-spirited when he abruptly stops. He unbuckles his belt, tugging it through the loops in one swift motion and feeding one end through the silver ring on your collar. Your face burns and he gives the makeshift leash a tiny tug.

"Patience-" he teases, "-is a virtue, my love," and you can't focus on anything but the sound of his voice. That's when you feel the tip of his cock catch against your entrance.

"It seems like neither of us have it," he breathes, and you try your hardest not to break his gaze - when he's in control, he likes to take you by surprise. He presses forward, steadily filling you. Your breath catches in your throat and forces its way out with a loud keen.

He bottoms out inside you and exhales, hard. The mask always slips once he feels you around him. Now is no exception.

Even through the gloves, his hands are warm as they clutch at you. He finally begins to move, after what feels like an eternity with no friction, and you melt into the silk sheets. When he speaks again, there's no theatrics. Simply another tug of his belt and words so soft you can hardly hear them over your own breathless moans, muttered like a prayer as his restless gaze flickers over your face. "You take me so well," he says, and god, his voice trembles and the sound of one of Gotham's most dangerous men weak for you goes straight to your head.

Your eyes wander to his mouth and thankfully you don't have to make it anymore obvious than that. He drops the belt, leaning over your quickly and cradling your face in his hands as he crashes his mouth into yours. The change in angle nearly makes you sob.

He adores simply getting lost in you. There are very few people he can tolerate, even fewer he can trust, but he wants- no, he craves you, your attention, your love, your approval- He watches you carefully when he breaks the kiss to breathe, watching your face, listening to the way your voice hitches when he hits the right angle, feeling your hips rock needily against his; it destroys him. He loves it.

You can always tell when his control is beginning to slip. He looks at you like everything finally makes sense. 'Of course it's you,' his eyes say, 'I was right-'

His thrusts devolve from steady to needy, desperately clutching the belt and clicking his tongue when you shut your eyes again. "I guess I can fuck you stupid after all," he breathes, playing his role with a much sharper tug on your collar, "You are going to look me in the eye when you cum around me."

It's not a question. You obey, meeting his gaze with a hoarse moan. He's risen to his haunches, hoisting one of your legs onto his shoulder and pressing his gloved palm under your navel. His desperate rhythm falters when he hears the groan that escapes your perfect lips, and the hand on your abdomen slides further down, rubbing firm circles into your clit with the pad of his thumb. The room is filled with the sound of ragged breathing.

You hear a soft squelch as his grip on the belt tightens even more - by now he's pounding into you, frantic to see you fall apart, just for him. He always knows what to say, but your favorite moments are when he doesn't obsess over every word. His eyes are glassy and the pressure on your core increases as he practically swoons.

"I love you-"

Your back arches roughly off of the bed and his pace somehow grows even more brutal; you don't dare look away, not now, and you cry, "I love you-!" watching the way you can destroy him with so few words. His enemies have tried and failed with much more substantial arsenals.

His breaths come heavy. Through his smudged concealer, you catch a glimpse of his freckles in the lamplight - his eyes begin to flutter shut, his hips stuttering ever-so-slightly as he rolls your clit mercilessly under his thumb. He's gorgeous. He's yours.

You tip your head back, your breath catching in your throat as he fucks you through your orgasm. Through his satisfied chuckle and heaving breath, you can just barely hear what sounds like a whimper. You reach for him and he obliges, like always, pressing a heavy kiss over your racing pulse and letting his hands wander over your body. He rocks against you, muttering praise into your skin as he feels your heartbeat slow.

Your face is bright red. He trails open-mouthed kisses to your jaw, leaving the belt coiled on your chest and cradling the back of your neck. You meet him halfway and capture his mouth. The noise he lets out is delicious.

You cup his cheek and he has the audacity to moan, albeit softly and under his breath. He will never admit it, not even on his deathbed, but he craves intimacy, closeness, your touch, absolutely everywhere, and of course you know anyway. In that way you're a perfect match, both completely infatuated with the other. It's everything he ever wanted, and you know that he prays you feel it too.

You pour as much feeling into the kiss as you can, stroking his neck and humming contently as you feel the tension slowly melt from his body.

He lies down on the bed next to you after you pull away to breathe, back to studying your face as he mutters, "Now, darling, the way I see it, we have two options." His voice is filled with thinly-veiled mischief, and you raise an eyebrow at him.

"Option one," he says, "wine," giving you a tiny grin before adding, "or option two." He gentle grabs your chin and leans in close, whispering, "I carry out your punishment for disobeying me."

Confusion flashes across your face before it finally dawns on you. His grip tightens slightly. "You thought I wouldn't notice, didn't you?"

You return his grin and answer, "Then I choose option one," kissing the tip of his nose. He makes a show of rolling his eyes and tidying himself before leaving the bed, but both of you adore wine, and he's loathe to deny you such a simple pleasure.

"I don't know why you don't let me buy my own wine," you call after him teasingly, "It's only five bucks."