#userdindja

A spill, a stain on the rug, a scuffle in the parlour between men who’ve had too much to drink but refuse to go up to their rooms. You might as well be a shadow when you pick up poker chips from the rickety wooden floor after they’ve been whacked off the table. No thanks are given as you scoop them up for the players too focused on their game, one about to lose a hefty chunk of their pocket. 

The main floor looms silent, save for you at the kitchen basin. Behind you, the dining table and the cozy parlour room beyond it sit spick and span by your hand, the cushioned chairs pushed in. Each minimal detail acts as a marker of your exhaustion, yet the strenuous day is not over yet; with a dishcloth in your palm, you scrub away the dirty dishes from dinner. 

Your feet ache, sharp from your heels to your toes with incessant use, the pain made greater by your pinching desire to go upstairs and dream away the repetitive days. Mrs. Adler insists on continuing to provide room and board to visitors, although she is of little help the past year, her back and older age preventing her from joining in on your numerous, boring tasks. But it’s not an unfortunate agreement; she owns the house, you receive the privilege of a steady home for your labour. 

What’s more lies in the steadily warming weather and the longer days of light, not to mention— a new visitor, clean-cut, harnessed with a whip and dashing charm.

Looking out the window, you find the populous town bustling in the endings of a sunny evening, horses and wagons trotting past, kicking up dust as they block pedestrians. As you wipe your brow with your forearm, you grab the last fork and wash it down, making it sudsy before you rinse it in the clean water. You finish up, setting the cloth to dry as the front door swings open and a pair of boots trudge over the floor, swiping on the mat.

“Evenin’, little lady.”

Concealing your thrilled smile to yourself when you recognize the voice, you adjust your apron, smoothing out its ripples before you turn to see Mr. Daniels tipping his hat with a sweet smirk. He ambles over to the bar, an obvious perk in his mood to find himself greeted by you after an equally strenuous day.

Mr. Daniels rode in a fortnight ago; stetson tipped low, a warm dual holster wrapped around broad shoulders as he directed his horse towards you at the well. Hey there little lady, he called in his smooth voice, holding his hat to his chest as he questioned where one would find shelter— and glad was his smile when he watched you return to the same building an hour later as Mrs. Adler showed him his room. 

A self-appointed “traveler looking for work,” he spends his weekdays busy at the construction site of the new post office, a job taken to pay for his room upstairs— the one beside yours. Every waking moment left to spare is spent at the swish of your skirt, a man in deep pursuit of knowing you. He’d never quite kept to himself since his arrival, gradually prying you open through subtle questions, gentlemanly enough to entertain your answers unlike others to whom you’re merely a scrubber and server. 

There before him, a busy woman who made her own way. Kind, and not silent.

He's an enchanting companion, too, making up for all that loneliness of working with your thoughts, recounting stories of camping in the mountains up north and of helping a Marshal with an elusive thief. His charm is apparent and clear in a rather sweet way as he gets along with other guests at the table or fireplace— but the flirting pours from his lips only into your ears, easily like the whiskey he drinks opposite you at the bar. Warm and welcome, making you burn up inside. 

You’d imagined he was just as much a flirt with you as with anyone else, yet the more you take notice from your stations of chores, the less he seems to amp up the allure on anyone but you.

“How’s the finest woman in town doin’ today?”

Scrunching your face in humorous disbelief, you pull a glass from the cabinet behind you and a bottle of whiskey from the other one below the basin. Jack hums appreciatively at your automatic gesture, setting his hat on the surface to his side, patting the brim.

“She’s got sore legs.” Opening the bottle, you pour the golden liquid into the glass. His eyes widen for a split second as he huffs a laugh, a dimple forming in his cheek and you can’t help but to admire his worn appearance after a day’s labour— the soft wave of his dark hair, his shirt with two loose buttons and the sleeves rolled up, the slight bit of sweat still lingering on his collarbones. 

“Oh, darlin’— say, does that…” he turns to look behind him, assessing the dining table and the parlour room beyond it, ensuring that you two are alone in the vast area of warm wooden panels and framed pictures, “old bat ever let you outta here?” 

He snickers when your mouth falls open in shock, but within a second you’re giggling into your hand and Jack is sitting pleased with himself, taking the glass and downing the drink.

“Sometimes… if it’s for the house, then yes.” You sigh with a grin you’re trying not to show, but the cowboy before you is a comfort you can’t resist. As he leans back, you watch his shirt pull tight over his chest and his suspenders strain against his waistband, the softest belly visible just above it and you snap your gaze away before he finishes.

“Mmm,” he groans at the sharp taste in his mouth, setting the glass down. “Then, I’m guessin’ you ain’t got time for me to take you for a ride, hm?”

You blink, visibly lighting up as your palms start to run over your apron again, “A ride?”

“Yes, ma’am. You met my Sylvie at the well, the white horse. Remember her?” He rests his forearm over the counter, a large hand laid flat before you.

“Why of course I do, Mr. Daniels— she’s at the livery stable, isn’t she?”

“That’s right.” His lip twitches. The incessant request you call him Jack has done little to break down the formalities you wish to stick to, but his lips soon curve upward again at the thought of his girl. “I gotta take her out in the evenin’s to stretch her legs. Thought of you joinin’ me.”

You turn your head to look out the window, briefly pondering your small but constant reverie of taking a horse, wondering where you’d end up. Three visits you’ve had with the animals in the livery stable the last few months. Mr. Hanes, the old rancher, lets you greet them without hesitation— he trusts your gentle hand, but three visits is plenty considering the schedule Mrs. Adler gives.

“I’d love to, but Mrs. Adler might not—” you cut yourself off when Jack calmly raises his hand to assuage your stress in rejecting his offer.

“Don’t worry your pretty head,” he coos, your chest constricting tight against the seams of your bodice at his sugary compliments, “Just means I’ll have to steal you away another day.” 

Jack throws a sly wink to cheer you up when you slump, knowing you may not ever get the time to join him before he leaves town. 

“Or, I suppose,” he starts, backtracking and inspiring a rise in your spirits, “what’s a man gotta do to convince a… hard workin’ woman like yourself?” 

His expression laces with a tinge more seriousness, brows set hard in his quest as he looks over your face, your hair, your dress.

Your involuntary “oh” at his question causes him to shift in victory, the smirk on his face growing two sizes. You pause, actually considering an answer this time, heart rate rising rapidly as you set your fingers on the edge of the counter to fight off a shiver when he leans into your space.

“Because, it sure sounds like you ain’t had any fun in a long… long…” He trails off when he looks at your lips, momentarily appearing boyish with his face of wonderment although his voice has dipped so low, it could rumble in your own chest from where he’s seated.

“What do you think it’d take?” you prod, unsure of what he’ll say. “You know I care about Mrs. Adler’s rules, and I don’t intend on losing my job for a… scoundrel, like yourself.”

Jack barks up in deep laughter at your choice of name, smoothing his fingers through the waves of hair at the top of his head.

“Now, who said I was a scoundrel?”

“I said. Tell me,” you giggle, “what do you think?”

“You seem to love bein’ stuck here, doin’ strangers’ laundry and cookin’ for ‘em too…” You raise your brow in warning but he continues his jabs, slowly standing up from his stool and bringing his face ever nearer to yours. “Love bein’ told what to do…” 

His breath is the slightest whisper by your ear and you clench your fists harder on the countertop to stave off another shiver, your knuckles tensing hard.

“Hush, cowboy. I happen to be careful about my job,” you interrupt, trying your absolute best to seem austere and Jack’s cheeks gain some colour, his throat bobbing when he gulps. He clears it and waits a prolonged moment, studying your hard-set expression. 

“Maybe, a little adventure would convince you.”

“That’s true,” you whisper, your body melting too much to speak aloud, giving in to his guess and teases, and standing in such proximity, you battle to keep your breath shallow.

“I’ve been watchin’ you, lookin’ out that window all wistful, and I’ve damn well felt the same.” 

Your stomach turns at the sudden change of mood from the giddy flirting to the serious topic of your loneliness, trapped in these walls you scarcely leave; the spoken confession of his admiration. The most fresh air you’re used to is when Mrs. Adler needs groceries, or water, or the odd time you do have a free schedule.

“What did you do about it?” 

His hand inches closer to yours, velvet voice winning back your gaze when he explains in a gentle tone, “What I’m doin’ now. Livin’ like this two years, takin’ whatever job works. You see a lot, but you ain’t stuck.”

“Well—” drawing back your hand, you try and think of anything capable of changing your odd desire to go off with him, “what I have is safe, I suppose.”

“And what is it that you have?” His face flashes in genuine and challenging curiosity, head tilting and you nearly gasp at the defined lines of his neck when he does, the way he stands authoritative as he settles his hands at his belt.

“A room,” you retort primly, raising your chin with poise and instead of continuing to fall further into the handsome man’s enticing gambits, you busy yourself with putting away the bottle of whiskey and readying to scrub down his crystal glass. Jack leans his elbows over the counter as he watches your back.

“Yeah,” he stresses, “a room, but no damn pay. You worry when you’ll have the time to go for a walk. Now, I ain’t tryin’ to get you into trouble with the lady, but I do say… a little amusement wouldn’t hurt.”

He’s right without question— it’s not that Mrs. Adler is a woman to resent; she provides what you need for your work, but you’re no less stuck than a wheel in sand. Stilling your scrubbing motions in the sink, you look blankly at the flowery wallpaper before you in consideration, hearing Jack’s almost-silent chuckle of triumph. “You think about it a lot, don’t you. Not bein’ cooped up.”

“Mr. Daniels,” you spin, smiling, “are you trying to get me to go on a ride with you, or are you convincing me to sneak out?” 

“Both,” he croons, and his face brightens at those words of yours, a hopeful shimmer in his eyes and he looks the slightest bit desperate for it, unlike the confident manner he possesses every other second remaining. “No fun without the sneakin’ part.”

Despite yourself, you indulge him, briefly peeking behind him to make sure this conversation is still strictly private. “Promise I won’t regret it?” 

“On my life. I’ll take all the blame too, darlin’, if that helps.”

“My, my, you are adamant, Mr. Daniels,” you sigh in a pleased tone, tutting as you shake your head.

“I see a sweet thing like you and I, well, I have some rescuin’ to do.”

The word makes you scoff, but Jack still wears that smirk you can’t decide whether to kiss away or wipe away, drumming his fingers absently over the countertop.

You spend little more of the evening together as you wipe down the dining area, doused in the warm light of the gas lamps and the careless flirting from his end and yours, until Mrs. Adler wanders in, cutting your company off when she requests that you prep the bathing rooms for the following day. With another tip of his hat to the both of you, Jack returns to the door, off to the stables.

-

The next few days of cat and mouse fall together in a blur, drying sheets in the sun and whipping up cool drinks for the visitors; but to your disappointment, no extra time has gathered for Jack to sweep you away for a ride. Unable to catch you in a chore-slump, he lingers on and on until he wishes you goodnight with an indulgent grin when he catches you in the hall, knuckles brushing over yours in the warm light and the slim walls pushing you closer together. He’d implied sneaking out when he mentioned taking you for a ride, but someone always happens to be up during the night— a potential witness. 

He trails you like a duckling, sharp wit dragging you further under the charm you have little resolve to resist anymore. It’s still a single glass of whiskey and nothing more, your companion drawn by you and not what you’re serving when he sits at the bar. This is what you’d expected though, to lose free time to out-of-the-blue clean ups. Over and over, spills and poker chips. You could get used to it. There’s been no other dweller who chats you up in such a way to get your mind working and not just your hands— not even Mrs. Adler, in all your time of knowing each other. 

The remaining guests keep to themselves; among them, Mrs. Crockett resides mainly in her own room, a quiet middle-aged woman only passing through town while her husband is off to the mines up north. Mr. Porter and Mr. Bryant amble over to the saloon in the evenings in search of the larger crowds, but otherwise play card games at the dining table for you and Jack to listen in to and snicker when they yell the odd curse. They all ask Jack to join them, the group of men and sometimes the women, yet they never succeed in doing so.

It’s another cool morning that will warm up by afternoon when you see him next, handing him his breakfast as the rest of the company joins the table. His face is bright after a restful sleep, the crooked grin around his spoon making you giggle as you catch his eye from your spot behind the bar. Mrs. Adler strolls in not two seconds later with a to-do list bearing an unusual task.

“Most of it will be the evening duties, my dear.” Tucking a strand of grey hair back into her otherwise neat bun, she pats your cheek lightly with her other hand and permits you to have your breakfast once the guests are finished. Drawing her hand back, she places it on her hip and finds her way into the small room behind you so she can tend to the books. But you don’t pay attention. You stare at the last note, “oats and sugar.”

Simultaneously, your heart lifts and your stomach drops as both mirth and disappointment mix. At last, an excuse to leave, and Jack will be laying out long pieces of wood to fashion into framing. You have to conceal your exasperated laughter as you try to forget the whole situation, and Jack is promptly at the other side of the counter, handing you his bowl— a minuscule gesture to prevent you from carrying more things back to the wash basin—and he smiles with glittering eyes as he tells you, “Have a fine day.”

Your subsequent grin is as genuine as you can make it when you return the favour, though your warm cheeks are real as can be, watching him cover his hair in that sharp, dark hat, a sleek jacket pulling tight ripples of fabric over his shoulders.

In the height of the heat by afternoon, with the bed linens drifting on the line, you set out not in your usual chore dress, but a neater one, a wicker basket hanging from your forearm. A walking dress, you could call it— the rare escape you have from the home is in this dress, its skirt long and layered.

There are so many places you could roam— the field, the tailor, the stables— but with one set request, you walk in the opposite direction of all three things, headed towards the general store. With a short glance behind, it’s clear why the boarding house attracts a wide variety of visitors compared to any other roadhouse or hotel nearby. Its proud blue paint and the neatly kept window frames flank the porch with its single hanging flower basket, though its waterings are seldom followed through. It holds the other buildings to a higher standard, you decide, sticking to the sides of the main road to avoid colliding with any horses or determined passers-by. 

Picking up the pace, you bite the inside of your lip in giddy excitement at the thought of seeing Jack, with a chance to finally tease him in the midst of work after his days of distracting you from your book-tending and tidying. A little amusement won’t hurt, you remember him saying, as you shield your eyes from the bare, cloudless sun. 

The general store and its grocery boy come into view the same time Jack does, setting down a beam of wood with another man, straightening his sturdy back in a long stretch. He appears to make for another beam laying in the assembly area, but as he turns, he catches sight of you in the road and stills, giving a bewildered smile.

Waiting for the woman in front of you with a gnawing awareness of Jack’s attention, you trail into the store with a quick glance back— he watches you through the sea of people until a man calls his name and his entrancement breaks. You pick and pay for the oats and sugar with Mrs. Adler’s notes, trying not to giggle at Jack’s obvious, confused surprise, and the grocery boy smiles appreciatively for your business as you make your exit.

You brush your thumb over the full basket’s handle as you step back into the street to watch Jack remove his hat, shaking his head in disbelief— but he can’t abandon the men working around him, so he raises the stetson in a far-away greeting and you wish with everything you have that he would take you for a ride already. You wave back with a grin and turn, breathing deep through your nose, and you feel his eyes on you for as long as you’re visible to him.

At sunset, you step out back to take the linens in, the clothespins snapping on your fingers, the tall grass of the field rustling along with your skirt. As you work in the soft orange light, the town finally calms down for the dinner hour, and you yelp and flinch in shock when a hand suddenly wraps around the last sheet and lifts it. You take a hurried step back with your hands held out in front of you, but it’s only Jack behind it, grinning at you and your jumpiness.

“Oh, wasn’t meanin’ to scare you,” he chuckles, reaching to unclip the sheet from the line, taking it down slow and careful to prove his harmlessness. With one hand on your heart, you use the other to reach for it, cheeks burning with the embarrassment of your fear but he jerks away and gathers the fabric behind him.

“Hey—”

“Were you teasin’ me?”

“What?”

Jack inches closer, close enough for your skirt to brush against his shins when the wind picks it up. All of him stands so strong and sturdy, his sleeves rolled up, his otherwise neat face dirtied here and there with the day’s work.

“I saw you, darlin’, were you hopin’ to see me?” He asks with not a single trace of bashfulness but every drop of confidence. “Thought my eyes were deceivin’ me.” 

You roll your eyes when you realize what he means. But you also smile. “Not everything is about you, Mr. Daniels,” you retort, “Mrs. Adler wanted me to get ingredients, that’s why I was out.”

He tuts at your stubbornness, leaning in closer, his arms raising as he starts to fold the sheet, “But I was on your mind…” 

For a moment, he’s hidden behind the fabric again while he teases you on your lingering eyes in the street, and you attempt to grab at it once more, tugging it down to reveal his face.

“How would you know that? There’s lots of things to be done, and I have to stay on—” 

He catches your wrist, his fingers gentle and warm as they wrap around it and there’s that crinkle by his eyes again, so deep and brown you lose any resolve to deny it. You still at the joining of your hands— they fit so well together, and his face softens by another degree when you sigh defeatedly.

“Caught you starin’ at me first,” he croons, his touch sliding over your palm to the ends of your fingertips, that familiar ghosting of his breath just meeting your cheek. “Let me help.”  

You soften in his hold, tension vanishing, transfixed by the tender display. With your hand slowly falling back to your side as he lets you go, he finishes folding the sheet, presenting the neatly set fabric with an extended hand, cheek creasing with his dimple.

You huff, placing the sheet in the laundry basket and lacing your fingers at your front, you say nothing except a quiet but grateful “thank you.”

He hums, glancing past you at the house and asking, “I’m suspectin’ you’re needed in there?”

“I’m always needed in there,” you mumble and Jack bends to pick up the heavy basket of laundry, but when you try to take it he picks up the pace, carrying it inside for you even after you insist you’re capable. He dismisses your continued pleas as you chase him in giggles through the grass, the house, up the stairs, Jack managing to remain one step ahead. No one in the parlour pays you any mind, except Mrs. Adler from the kitchen, who eyes your lack of focus in its physical form.

-

After more restless slumbers and hectic mornings passing out clean shirts to the guests and cooking breakfast for some grumpy men, it’s a comfort to be standing on the steps of the staircase in a serene moment, adjusting the frames on the wall. The photograph of Mrs. Adler and her late husband is easier to reach than the one above it, a painting of the exterior of the house dating back ten years— at the highest point of your tip-toes, you can almost reach it, your fingers stretching painfully to try and reposition its mounting on the wall. The sounds of an intense poker game down the stairs cover the footsteps above you, approaching leisurely.

“Watch yourself.”

Lowering your arms as Jack’s familiar warmth spreads through you, you find him stepping down in his full attire: guns, whip, lasso. Hat, jacket, smirk. When he arrives at your side, he’s fresh from the bath after his day of work, a light scent wafting as he closes in on you, reaching upward and easily finding the frame with his steady hand, tilting it so it lays properly against the wall.

You can feel the faint press of his chest against your back as you look up at his palm pressing flat on the wood, arm covered by the dark denim of his sleeve, and when you turn to face him again, his eyes flash to your lips, your body caged in. 

“You know, I was thinkin’... maybe I’ll have a little more luck stealin’ you outta here tonight…”

“Shhh!” Your hands fly to his chest without thinking, but he clearly enjoys your touch, one of his hands going to cover yours and keep it in place. “I don’t know where Mrs.—”

“She can’t hear… what do you say?” He inches forward, your mind hyper aware of the openness of his affections and you struggle to form the words, admiring his face so close up.

His lips curve, his moustache neat and you notice he’s shaved the stubble from his jaw, your fingers aching to feel the smooth skin.

Despite your earlier efforts of avoiding any trouble to maintain your room, this trouble is too enticing to pass up on, too handsome, and the words begin to spill out. “Ask me again when you’re ready.”

“Oh, darlin’, I like the sound of that,” he breathes, his hand falling to your shoulder with the intention of brushing his fingers along your hair, but it changes rapidly upon the starting of a tussle downstairs, his hand instead finding the back of your neck to tug you into him as a man groans and a shot fires into the ceiling with a loud bang. Furious, accusatory yells erupt, echoing throughout the whole house, mixing with your terrified scream and peeking over Jack’s shoulder, you watch the dust fall from where the bullet entered the ceiling. Jack turns you around silently in his firm hold, pushing you up the stairs with his hands and body covering your back as the poker table scrapes against the floor below.

He drops you behind the railing at the top of the staircase, ducking when another bullet speeds by and puts a hole in one of the portraits you’d fixed just seconds ago. “Darlin’, stay put.” His finger points at the end of your nose when you protest, and his face is already flush and ferocious with adrenaline. 

“Mr. Daniels— what are you doing?”

He presses his lips tight together and leaves you seated awkwardly on the landing as he rushes down the stairs, pulling a cord from the side of his hip— and watching him approach the men with your hands wrapped around the bars, you can see that another shot had burst one of the bottles of whiskey on the shelf. Either poor shots or good dodgers.

Your heart hammers painfully against your ribs, palms covering your ears from the blasts of noise before the group of poker players all hit at each other, save for one man who cowers in the corner of the room. You watch as fists collide with faces and limbs and stomachs, their grunts still audible. 

Jack inches around the edge of the scene, unnoticed for all they care, the whip sliding through his grip before he sends it up and around, bringing it down in a deafening crack, his jacket flitting upwards by the hem with the power of his body. It has you flinching and heating up at the same time, wriggling on your knees as he recoils it, nonchalantly dusting himself off as the men turn to look at him. It’s the first time you’ve seen him use those weapons that are always hanging off him and it has you breathless with both the fear of the shots and the admiration of his competency. He is nothing like the smitten man at the bar or by the clothesline, or in the hall— here, he is vicious in protecting and preventing a bigger mess that will inevitably be put on you to clean up.

“Gentlemen,” Jack starts, a jovial tone that doesn’t seem to calm down the mood by any degree, “I doubt this little… scuffle of yours, is necessary.”

Mr. Porter laughs, “My fucking money ain’t no joke, is it? What’s it got to do with you?” he cocks his gun, directing it to the man crouching where the walls join. “Fucking cheat.”

Lifting your palms from your ears as the tension rises and the noise diminishes, you watch Jack closely as he draws the whip up again and aims it forward, another jolt-inspiring crack causing a sharp yell, and Mr. Porter drops his gun, doubling over and hitting the side of the table on his way down. The gun scatters over to Jack. He stops it with his foot, kicks it away into the parlour, and sets his eyes back on the brawling men.

“Now, is foul play any reason to get out your guns, moonshine?”

Mr. Porter simply lays there, Jack immediately looking to the next one approaching him, pulling back the cord to trade it for his lasso. Your knuckles throb with the squeezing and it feels like you can’t breathe when you watch Jack duck away from another shot, and you’re back on your feet before you know what you’re doing, leaning over the railing.

Whistling, you stumble backward as the second man, Mr. Bryant, looks at you in confusion, Jack flashing you a split-second glance of worry over his shoulder before throwing his arm out, the lasso’s end looping around his neck and pulling taut. Mr. Bryant gargles and splutters and points his gun not at Jack but towards you as a last ditch effort, and Jack elbows him in the ribs as he launches his body forward, boots clanking on the floor, the man’s shot landing another hole in the wall above your head. 

Gasping on the landing as the dust covers you, you stare at Jack’s heaving body through your fingers, his hand hovering over his holster as the other holds the rope. 

“Told you to stay put,” Jack grumbles.

Mr. Porter continues to lay on the floor after his collision with the table, weaponless, and the last man standing other than the figure in the corner lowers his revolver, surrendering to Jack’s smart hand at the ropes.

“One move and I’ll crack this again,” he warns, letting Mr. Bryant loose, who falls to the ground too, heaving desperately.

Jack circles up the lasso and hooks his fingers into the handles of his guns and spins them upright into his grip, pointing them down at the two men with a cocked brow, a victorious smirk. He walks around them, tutting, ensuring they all stay put but not without looking upward to check on you with a wink. 

“Don’t imagine the lady of the house will be too pleased with your behaviour, huh…” Jack says, his voice level as his eyes flick from Mr. Porter to Mr. Bryant, their jeering cut short as they groan on the floor. Mrs. Adler comes rushing in after the commotion subsides, covering her mouth and yelping when she takes in the disaster before her: bullet holes, scraped floors, two men on the ground and you, trembling up the steps.

“What is this?!”

“It would seem these men have decided to rough up your fine house over poker, Mrs. Adler,” Jack explains, adjusting his grip. Mr. Porter and Mr. Bryant lie there, clutching at their own limbs, leaving Mrs. Adler with a suspicious look until she notices the others hiding away in the corner and by the bar, nodding.

“That’s true?” She gawks, disbelief clouding her tone no longer from distrust, but from looking at her ravaged main floor.

“Yes,” you pipe up from behind the railing, “Mr. Daniels stopped them before… before anyone got hurt.” And that’s a statement the two men on the floor could argue with, but what you wanted to say is that no one was killed, thanks to Jack.

Her face twists into gratitude from skepticism and she exclaims her thanks, requesting Jack take them over to the sheriff. “I don’t want these men in my house any longer, then,” she states simply but with a sharp edge, her chin rising in decision. They don’t argue or plead with her to let them stay; Jack’s guns still point down at them, not with a promise of harm but the threat of it.

He takes them after offering a sympathetic glance to you, tying their hands behind their backs in expert knots, his hands fisted at the collars of their jackets. He’s a disgruntled man when he walks them out the door and it’s clear he’s not one bit upset with this task, rather that he’s losing his chance to woo you back to comfort.

To your surprise, the two quailing guests help you arrange the table back into its proper spot, sliding all the chairs back under the counter. You find it hard to stand upright, body exhausted from the adrenaline and terror of bullets as they explain what happened. No cheating— Mr. Porter, as he ostensibly does at the saloon, too, planned on shooting his way out of a losing game and out of empty pockets. Mrs. Adler tells you to fix those holes or cover them soon with a pat on your back, looking around the room in distaste and disappointment that it even happened. But you’re not quite listening yet again, replaying those brushes of bullets just past your trembling self. 

You start off with the shattered bottle of whiskey, sweeping up the shards and scrubbing the liquid away— a half-bottle that Jack would have continued to drink over the rest of his stay.

The shock is still in your system the rest of the evening— you’ve heard countless gun firings living in this little corner of the world, but none so close and intimate. None skimming the little hairs on your head. They echo continuously as you do the laundry, and the only comfort is when you take one of Jack’s shirts, thumb running over the hem. You want to ask him innumerable questions, the need to discover more about where that expertise was born bubbling in your chest.

He’s gone for ages, the sky gone a dark blue, probably arguing back and forth with the sheriff because it’s his word against the other’s. At some point, he returns while you’re busy tidying the two extra empty rooms to leave them available for tomorrow. Pressing your ear to the door of Mr. Bryant’s old room, you hear him speaking with Mrs. Adler in the hall— the men are to pack their things and find new residence, only with a warning. 

“It’s not an uncommon thing, ma’am. Sheriff wanted me to take ‘em back here. Best I could do was that.”

She huffs, but Jack remains polite as he excuses himself, and you get back to readying the rooms. 

Once finished arranging their belongings, you pass the laundry out to the remaining guests— the other women had been out during the scuffle and you’re glad for it, but forever lost on the attitude of those men, shooting up their guns over a card game. And all over the house, no less. It’s not like the men who visit don’t rile themselves into skirmishes, but you’d only heard of disagreements so intense from the saloon, not your boarding house.

The last pile of clean laundry is Jack’s, faint gold light spreading from under the crack of his door, into the empty, dark hallway. Everyone is readying themselves for sleep now, but when you see his door open, it might as well be morning with the sense of wakefulness it gives you.

At first, it’s only a crack, his face softening when he finds you standing with a small smile offered to him. The door swings open the rest of the way to reveal his suspenders hanging around his hips, his half-unbuttoned shirt.

“Well hi, doll face.” Bracing a hand high on the door frame, he looks you over with a crease in his brow, finally able to check on you after the stupid debacle. “Was gonna come lookin’ for you. You okay?”

“Yes, I’m alright, I think… thank you, Mr. Daniels,” you speak earnestly, fiddling with his clothes in your arms as you arrive under the doorway with him. He smiles, able to laugh it away now but he’s accustomed to these happenings, not you. And so he asks again, if you’re sure, shifting his weight.

Nodding, you extend the laundry to him, focused on the way he looks in the golden flickering of the gas lamp behind him, and with an involuntary movement of your eyes, you find yourself admiring his soft tummy as well, up to his firm chest, his striking collarbones. “Your clothes, Ja— Mr. Daniels.” You catch yourself as your heart leaps up into your throat and he preens at the slip, lips pulling up to one side.

“Oh, darlin’,” he shakes his head, “You know I still want you to call me Jack. Let me hear it…”

His hand reaches out to take the set of the shirt and pants, but by usual effect of his flirting, they’re held in your firm, hard grasp.

You could whine, now, and you could groan all you want— Jack pushes you off the deep end when he continues to speak in his low, rumbly whisper.

“Say it. Tell me I’m not just Mr. Daniels to you.”

Your fingers loosen around the cotton and your breath wavers a moment, and if your knees weren’t about to drastically buckle, maybe you could stand to speak with more power than a broken murmur. “Jack…”

His pupils, despite the lack of light, seem to widen when he hears it, breath ghosting along your neck as the set of clothes drop to the floor in the space beside you and the doorframe. A calloused, firm hand finds the side of your neck, strong and warm and welcome.

“That does sound nice…” he starts, his thumb caressing upward to your jaw and you give everything you have not to gasp, but he knows— of course he knows what he’s doing to you, so he continues until his thumb swipes your lower lip and you say his name again in a desperate, little whimper. “I’d be on my knees for you. In a heartbeat.”

You leave your eyes closed when you utter it a third time and as you finish, he leans in and kisses you softly, but still decided as he feels you out, both hands cradling your head and making a jolt run up your spine until a firm, pleasant pressing lasts.

His mouth opens slightly, moving along with yours as if practiced, as if you’ve already learned each other this way, the moustache a tickle on your skin and if you swoon any further, you’ll never hear the end of it from the smug cowboy who woos you like he gets paid for it. Your palms rest flat on his chest, fingers molding over his collarbone— a pressure he likes.

“Now, that’s what I’ve been missin’ all along... that sweet mouth of yours,” he drawls not two inches from your mouth when you depart, his voice adopting a deeper huskiness and he groans appreciatively when you tug him by the collar into another, quicker kiss, not as long-lasting.

“You still think I’m a scoundrel?” He asks, barely against your mouth, arms wrapped around your body to set you flush with his, thumbs stroking your sides.

“I think…” you consider the sneaky grin on his face as he’d whipped those men and the sincere look on it now, chuckling when you tell him, “you’re a fool.”

Squeezing you harder and eliciting a breathy groan, he makes his brown eyes all big at you, “I ain’t gonna deny that. As for those other fools...” his nose traces the line of yours, “I think I had them under control.”

“Didn’t know you knew how to use those things,” you tease, his chest stuttering with soft laughter against you, and tilting your head, his face crinkles at your dazed expression when he takes your pinky and kisses the pad of it, promising tomorrow, baby doll, tomorrow I’ll take you away for a little while. 

A brief silence— breaths evening out, you both start to chuckle in the small space, your sounds muffled by his broad chest, and his into your hair.

“I say you need a good rest, first,” he states, taking you by the shoulders to let you know he means it. To let you study his stern face. “Big day for the little lady, huh?”

“Mhm, a little too big,” you hum, hazy with the feeling of his mouth covering yours, his heady and consuming presence.

Jack walks you next door to your own room, a large hand urging you on at the waist, the other opening the door, “One more time,” he says, “you sure you’re doin’ alright?”

You place a palm on his chest and he looks down at it, his heart thrumming under your hand when you promise him everything is fine.

“Then get in there and get some sleep before I kiss you all night long,” he coos in your ear.

You smile, tugging on his loose suspender and earning an even deeper groan from him, his chest puffing out, neck tensing. “I’ll see you in the morning, Jack.”

“Got me excited for that.” He gets one more tender, hurried peck before he pushes you inside with a suppressed laugh, wishing you sweet dreams. “Go on, sugar.”

Your stomach flips obnoxiously when he closes the door after a lingering stare clouded by those rosy cheeks, the blood rushing in your ears, your body overcome with Jack’s plush lips parting yours. Running to the window, you crack it open and inhale deep, exhale slow, hoping against hope you’ll get a decent sleep.

-

It feels like there are eyes on you every second— either Jack’s or Mrs. Adler’s, one admiring, one ensuring you’re on task. In the morning he’d snuck a kiss over the counter of the bar, leaning his body over to reach you, standing up pin straight at the sound of other footsteps and you giggled at him behind your hand. He’d rolled his eyes as Mrs. Crockett exited, resuming that sweet kiss he’d given you, humming softly into your mouth.

Dinner proved to be even worse, with his obvious stares causing you to heat up, uncomfortably so under your layers, your spoon clinking at the edge of your bowl. It was your luck he’d been gone for the greater chunk of the day, or surely you’d have been caught canoodling with the cowboy that Mrs. Adler is still warming up to.

By the late evening, the two free rooms had been taken up by another man passing through on a hunt and another woman in the next, you bustling about to get them settled in and comfortable and to your dismay, you didn’t see Jack again for the remainder of the day.

A gentle wind picks up the curtain in your bedroom, mixing with the gentle sigh you expel into it. You know better than to mope as you settle before the sill, watching the late night party-goers trickling down the street in their disheveled clothes and merry faces. He hasn’t forgotten, you’re sure of that— maybe there’s someone still awake downstairs, or he’s caught in the middle of something dire. The blue light covers you and looking at your hands, you think of how he felt under them, the warmth and roughness, then the way certain parts of him gave in with even the gentlest push as you fit your lips together.

At the vanity, there’s a tiny slip of paper tucked behind the mirror, probably an extra note from the lady of the house. You pluck it from its spot, your finger pressing the fold open and a shallow breath of air pushes from your mouth when you read its contents, spirits rising in an overwhelming shock of relief.

Stables, midnight.

Your Jack.

His lettering is neat and slightly loopy, a slanted cursive that you keep in the pocket of your skirt. It’s still not like you to go against Mrs. Adler’s rules of constant availability, to keep watch by staying inside, but this is the kind of risk you can live with— the kind wearing a stetson. 

Smiling, you prepare yourself at the doorknob— deep breaths and positive, whispered chanting— turning it slowly to open a mere crack, peeking outside. The hall is dark and vacant, could almost be eerie if not for the anticipation in your belly, and you cautiously slip through the small opening you’ve made, holding yourself stiff.

Once out the double doors in a series of back-and-forth glances in front and behind, you lock it and press your palm on the chilly wood, listening to the lively street uptown and none of it feels real— you’re only feeling this in your head because it’s what you want, because you’ve waited so long and then—

You blink hard and turn on your heel. The wood creaks underneath you, giving just barely. You step again, feel the flow of the air breaking over the shape of you. You’ve never been out this time of night, not since Mrs. Adler took you in. You haven’t felt the coolness, the way life is more fun and loose and exhilarating; it has you running towards the stables, clutching at your skirts with the biggest smile you’ve put on in ages as you fly past all the wood buildings, kicking up dust just like the horses you watch go by in the sun. Your lungs start to burn but your legs don’t stop moving, speeding past one, two, ten, fifteen tall lanterns all spaced out generously, weaving through their shadows to their reaches of illumination. 

Turning the road’s gentle curve, you see him leaning against the post outside, his face hidden under the brim of his hat as he holds Sylvie’s reins. He wears the sleek wool blazer with the pointed yoke, making sharp and attractive edges beneath the leather of his shoulder holster. The area around the stables and the trail to the field is nearly empty, you notice, as he takes the stetson in his habitual greeting, raising it up and down on his head as Sylvie shifts with her hooves settling further into the dirt road.

You run the last of the trek towards them, an abrupt stop right before the tall, white horse with the spot on her eye and your mouth drops open at the sight of her up close, sleek and calm, standing tall above you.

“Look at you, little lady, made it in one piece.” 

Jack smiles proudly, offering his hand out and you take it with a sighing laugh, “Should I not have?”

“Mm, I do prefer you in one piece,” he shrugs, “thought you might have your own fun first by gettin’ here. This is my girl,” he runs a gentle hand over Sylvie’s side, “you ladies are gonna get well acquainted, I’m sure.” 

He wraps his hand around yours and guides it to that same spot, your palm smoothing over the shiny hair. She huffs and you draw back to be cautious, but Jack places your hand over her again, guiding your movements along her neck and shoulder. You smile at him in awe— there’s something special about meeting his horse that brought him here to you, and the way she stands patient, appreciative of your firm strokes along her body.

“See that? No fuss…” his front is pressing into you, his chin resting on your shoulder and just when you think he is going to kiss you again, he’s squeezing at your sides and urging you onward. “Ready?”

“Oh— Jack!”

“Yes, darlin’?”

“What— ”

“Foot in the stirrup,” he instructs, helping you lift yourself up to it, your foot catching on it and you’re not sure how it happens but in a whirl of your own limbs, you’re sitting upon Sylvie, your fingers sliding through her light mane. The initial thump causes a laugh to bubble up and you notice how proper she is— calmly accepting you as a stranger on her back so long as Jack encourages it.

He stands back to admire, his lips tugging crookedly upward as you squirm, wide-eyed in the saddle.

“You look mighty fine on my horse,” he says, shifting his weight to one foot, a lingering gaze where your skirt rides up. “Like you could go ridin’ yourself already.”

“Jack, you are not telling me—”

He chuckles and steps up with practiced ease, landing swiftly behind with his arms wrapped around you to take hold of Sylvie’s reins, and he places a slow, open kiss to the base of your neck.

“Oh no, no, I’ve got plans for you n’ me.”

You fidget, fingers tightening to make fists as his velvety voice travels south, and you peer ahead past the last few lanterns at the dark and starry field, the wheat and grass rustling.

“I’m a little nervous,” you whisper, the moon appearing from its hiding spot as the clouds move along, Jack’s cheek pressing to the side of your face.

“We’ll start slow,” he murmurs, sliding his palm over the top of your thigh, his legs framing yours and his chest pressing pleasantly into your back; he starts Sylvie off at a leisurely trot, the main road falling away as you approach the vast waves of the grassy field.

Your upper bodies sway together over her back, the exhilarated smile on your face growing bigger the further you travel into the open earth, only disappearing when you gasp as Jack squeezes your upper thigh.

“Faster, darlin’?” He rasps, his fingers just inches from where you’ve wanted him all along and you nod, his body tensing. Sylvie speeds up at his signal and you grip harder at her reins, Jack’s hands clutching them just behind yours.

“How’s that?” His nose slides the curve of your shoulder to your neck and you sigh contentedly, secure in his hold and his competent skill, the fabric of your clothes fluttering. 

“It’s…” you search for the right word, buzzing inside at the feeling. Winds, breezes, and the speed of your running have blown through your fingertips and your hair in moments of calmness and urgency— but this is a different kind of wind when Jack starts Sylvie on a rapid speed with a sharp hyah!— the pounding of her hooves beneath you and the pace of your heart feel as if they match. You hug your feet to Sylvie’s sides and look down at the tall, swishing grass, the way her legs plow through the blades, how they spring back into place once she’s gone through them. “I’m not sure I can describe it,” you say, voice shaking with the power of her movements, brows in a furrow. “But I like it.”

“I like having you up here, too,” he coos, scooting up flush against you.

You pass several more groups of trees in the dusky light, your calf muscles beginning to cramp with the squeezing of Sylvie’s body but it doesn’t tire you the way ten flights up and down the stairs with a basket of laundry in your arms would— because you want it and you love it and Jack steals away what dislike you have for living this way when he whispers to you to hold tight. I got you. 

Your eyes water with the cathartic bliss of it— they’re welcome tears, little crystals Jack doesn’t see from behind you. Faintly you can see lights in the far off distance, maybe an inn or just a house, but Jack takes you down a lower, bumpy path towards the river bank. The rocks become bigger and more jagged, thick bushes lining the downward ramp of the treaded dirt. 

“Whoa, girl.” He pulls Sylvie back with a hard tug and she relents, huffing again. Your back eases from tension and you sag into Jack who welcomes the weight of you in a happy sigh, cozying himself to you. 

Reaching a shallow section along the water, he directs her across and she kicks little droplets of water up onto your clothes, your hands instinctively going to cover your face and for a moment, you start to wobble. Jack sets you straight when a bigger splash of water hits him and he grunts a laugh, running his wet cheek along your back, losing himself his hat when you reach behind and snatch it.

“Little thief, huh?” 

“You’ve gotten us wet,” you guffaw as his grip tightens on the reins and one of his hands comes to the back of your neck. He urges your head to turn and you look at him, those neat curls finally loose again.

“You don’t mind me gettin’ you wet, do you darlin’?”

“Oh, stop that…” your quip falls away, weak against his saccharine expression. Sylvie soon reaches the other side of the water and trots up on the grassy, rocky land, climbing up another winding hill straight up to a lone tree.

Fiddling with the brim of his hat, you feel Jack slide away in a steady motion as he descends from the saddle and thumps on the ground, hand outstretched to help you. From Sylvie’s height, you oversee all the minuscule creaks and rocks and winding paths, jagged ends forming dangerous short cliffs. The bushes thaw out to dried patches, you notice, taking in the view before Jack’s warm hand closes around yours as he aids you down.

“Alright?” he asks, cupping your elbows, eyes flicking between your left and right. You steady yourself in his grip— before that dumb poker debacle and this excursion you’re not supposed to be on, excitement was scarce and even then, not as fun as this.

“Thank you.” You tug him down for a rough kiss to contrast all those soft, learning kisses and he takes it in stride, slanting his mouth over yours and pressing himself to you with a new kind of desperation. 

“Thank me later,” he exhales sharp and runs a hand through his tousled hair, and if it weren’t so dark in the night, you’d be able to make out the peachy tinge of his cheeks.

He lays a thick blanket over the ground and you sit close to one another, wrapped up in his heavy jacket against the bark of the large tree, Sylvie dozing off to the side. He’d given you his jacket despite your convincing protests, quieting them with his lips as he eased you into the sleeves and you were met with more of the heady and inviting scent of him.

With his thumb stroking your side, he tells you more of his travels— sunsets at cliff tops and more snowy camps, working in a farmer’s barn as a young man raising dogs that the family bred, how he’d set off with nothing and now has a coin or two to spare. Curling into him, he tucks your face into his neck and listens to your whispered mumblings of annoyances and petty but humorous stories of the odd visitor, still bewildered by your lack of free time.

“This is normal for you, where we are right now, but for me… it’s new and it’s all I’ve thought about for weeks.”

Jack hums thoughtfully, “Tell me sugar, what would you do, if you weren’t worryin’ about taking care of everyone else?”

“I’d… oh, Jack, there’s so much I would do— maybe I would learn to pitch a fire, or shoot a gun, or ride to a place where the ground is different and I don’t have to worry about everyone else’s damn bedrooms. I want to read books and— I’m so tired of only using my hands. I want to use my head.”

Your passionate tone has Jack’s eyes darkening as he watches you in deep fondness, the way your face twists into a serious want and your hands fly about when you curse out the boarding house; he especially likes the way you spring onto your knees and spew your dreams that are his reality, because it’s something he could promise you, if only you could let it go.

“I know you’re a smart girl,” he says. “You’d manage even better than this ol’ man.”

Laughing, you shush him with a soft pat on his belly. “Well, where’d you learn to do all that… rope stuff?”

Jack begins to laugh with you and squeezes your arm, “Gotta know how to protect myself, huh?”

“I suppose…” you agree, falling silent after his vague answer and a new question reappears in your head. “All that moving around... are you running from something?”

“What if I am?” Jack looks down at your hand on his knee, obviously recalling something old he’d rather forget, yet it doesn’t seem too dire to poke more at.

“Wish I could run,” you add, and Jack feels a fresh dash of affection stain his heart, sitting up straight.

“I’d give it to you,” he rasps, tugging on your hands until you straddle his hips, head tipping back to reveal his tensing throat. “I’d give it to you,” he repeats and your insides want to burst when he says it again because one day he’ll go on to the next town and you’ll be here, washing someone else’s clothes.

“Jack…” you sigh, pressing your palms into his chest, those deep brown eyes staring back at you with that unusual desperate look as opposed to the surefire confidence. You know pieces of him, but trust somehow forms here, an unspoken understanding of its ease into existence.

“You’re too busy underestimatin’ just how hard it’ll be to get rid of me.”

He pulls you into his lips by a firm hold on the back of your neck and you lean all the way in for him, his tongue swiping your bottom lip before he nips at it, nose fitting just beside yours. A rumbly groan vibrates against you as Jack sits forward, strong arms supporting your lower back when his lips travel downward— warm presses of his open mouth turning into sucking, your whimpers involuntarily escaping your throat. 

Your hips move over him, grinding against a pleasant firmness and in the minimal light you can see his eyes flash as his head hits the bark of the tree a second time and you dive in to do the same to him— peppering his jaw with open kisses and threading your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck.

“Darlin’,” he breathes, a husky layer covering the steadiness he once had. “Is this what you want?”

You pause and trace a finger from the slope of his prominent nose down to follow the shape of his lips, “I want you, Jack,” you admit, surprising yourself with your forward and level words, moving over his hips again and his breath catches, hands flying to your waist to guide those motions.

“All yours.” Jack’s face buries into the top of your bodice and he grunts at the way you grind together, his tongue swiping over the top of your breast. 

You continue to meld, matching movements and shared gasps as Jack rocks you against his hardening length and your mind never wanders; it stays focused on him and the lip caught between his teeth, his firm grasp but the soft ghosting of his nose over the slant of your collarbones and he groans as you tug his hair, holding you down to his lap.

“Remember what I said?” He flinches in a grateful sigh when you pull his suspender and let it go to snap on his chest.

“What did you say?”

“I said you’d have me on my knees.”

He pushes you up to your feet and sets you with your back flush against the other side of the tree, dropping to his knees in front of you with a pleading, wide-eyed look as he fingers the hem of your skirt.

“Please, Jack.” Your whine is borderline pitiful in its neediness and he stops a moment, thumb stroking the inside of your knee.

“Ain’t anyone ever taken care of you?” He asks, the gravelly depth of greediness faded to something more concerned, reaching to hold your hand to his lips and when he learns the rightful worship you deserve is lacking, he tightens his grip and kisses it softly. “Let me, please.”

“Oh, go on, you silly—” His hand skims your inner thigh as he lifts up your layers, finding his way through your open drawers until he reaches an alarming wetness and chuckles darkly, your preconceived words eviscerated when he swipes through your soaked folds.

Peering at you through his lashes, he brings his face closer to where you need it and rasps to your skin, “Shoulda let me know sooner how much you wanted me, doll.”

“Hush,” you laugh, choking on that nearly expelled breath when he circles your clit with the pad of his finger, trailing down to prod at your entrance and it slips inside with a slight curl. “Keep going.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hands the fabric over for you to hold and your fingers instantly cramp with a deathly grip when his wet and warm tongue finds you, swiping over it like he needs to taste you just as much as you need to feel him. A suppressed moan leaves him, fingers rubbing inside you in perfect placement, a gentle suckle on your clit when he brings one of your legs over his broad shoulder.

Tipping your head back, you jolt as he sucks harder, spine arching off the bark and your one supportive leg trembling almost out of balance. He peeks up from under the bunching of material with a stern look, “Stay still for me darlin’, you ain’t done.”

“Jack… I need it, please, I need it,” you moan as his mouth returns to you, his bottom lip dragging from where his fingers disappear into you all the way back up to your most sensitive spot.

“Need what?” He grunts, dipping his head down to lick the gathering wetness on his palm.

“Fuck me, I want you inside.” Your fingers thread through his hair and tug to earn a restrained gasp from him and he pumps his fingers faster with his eyes locked on yours.

“I’m gonna make you cum here,” he promises in a low voice, “but I’m gonna fuck you properly in my bed.”

A greater rush of slick gathers on his tongue when he says that, flicking it back and forth, around, steady and consistent brushes that have your muscles tensing until you want to fall over him, but he keeps you upright with his sturdy body, working you open on his hand with those rhythmic strokes. Your stomach pulls tight in a pleasing and breath-taking knot as you tug harder on his hair, spurring him on to pour more effort into it. He needs everything you can give him and he can’t stop until he gets it— his little noises become almost as needy as yours the closer he senses you are to coming on his hand and his face, his whole head joining the motions as he licks you.

“Doll face,” he coos into you without drawing back, holding your thigh even tighter to his shoulder, “...taste better than anything I ever had… gorgeous girl, want you to cum for me.”

Heaving, your head turns side to side in a miniscule thrashing— it’s so much to handle, his mouth licking you open and his fingers stroking something from that angle you’d never achieve, his soft hair coming apart and gathering a tiny sheen of sweat the harder he works for you and his groans of effort vibrate in all the right spots— you begin to stiffen.

“Come on, sugar, give it to me, show me how you cum—”

In a silent scream, your jaw drops open and your eyes shut tight when it starts, thighs shaking and squeezing, the tingles of release washing over you from head to toe, your upper body curling over him as he coaxes you through it.

“Jack!”

“Fuck, that’s good, that’s good, breathe…” He gives a final, broad lick to gather what you’ve let go and you flinch in sensitivity that he soothes with grounding circles of his thumbs into your hips.

Letting your skirt go, you see his face again— shining with you, his grin the sweetest you think you’ve ever seen it. He places a kiss to your inner thigh before he lets it down, your body sinking back into his lap as he opens his arms for you. Slumped against him, you hum gratefully as he rubs your back, body jolting periodically with the aftershocks.

“Ain’t you a sweet little thing…” 

“I’ve never done… oh my god,” you laugh, curling further into his neck.

“I like those sounds,” he murmurs, “need to find out how you sound when I fuck you into the—”

He stops talking when he feels you squirm against him, arms looping tighter around your waist to keep you still, “Darlin’, I wanted to show you the sunrise, but looks like you wanna go home already…”

“Really? You hadn’t dreamed of me on my knees for you, Jack?” You slip your hand between your bodies and find him still hard, his throat bobbing when you touch him there.

“Oh, I have,” he whispers, “dreamed of your pretty lips… thought of you lookin’ up at me with those eyes a’ yours…” He kisses from behind your ear down to your neck in between those words, hot as the fire in your lower belly rekindling while you squeeze his cock.

“But,” he says louder, more humour in his tone, making you squeal as he flips you over and pins you on your back over the blanket, his weight grounding and heavy, “I did promise you somethin’ nice, and you’re gonna need some rest before I fuck you... just... right.”

A pleased moan leaves your mouth as he bites your lip, fingers tracing down your wrists as he lets your arms go and he rolls beside you, pointing out the brightest stars peeking from the reaches of the leaves and branches. “There’s more to show you,” he sucks in a deep breath, “close your eyes, you’re safe.”

Sated and warmed by his body and the lingering pleasure of his tongue, you drift off without trouble, your head fitting between his chest and bicep.

-

At sunrise, he’d woken you with his hands in your hair and his lips pressing short pecks to your temples, your eyes straining at the new light while the sun peeked up over the far mountain from your high spot on the hill. Sitting back up against the tree, he held you as you watched the orange light spread over the fields and bushes and rocks, deep jewel tones as the sky changed, Sylvie trotting in a slow circle around the hilltop. Even the coldest part of the night was unsuccessful in creating dewdrops on the blades— the sweet scent of the scarce wildflowers filled your nose along with the lingering sign of yourself on his mouth, secret birds singing up in the branches. 

Although this is what he’d promised, something nice, something beautiful for you to see, an obvious itching in the both of you to head home hung in the air you shared. 

Jack remained adamant that he take you back home before continuing what you’d done few hours before, but you’d still gotten him flustered enough to stroke him with your hand reaching down his trousers— until he insisted he get you in his bed so he could fuck you how he wanted. The ride home saw you behind him instead of in front, hugging his waist, enjoying the feel of his soft belly under his shirt with your chin resting on his shoulder. You perked up even with the minimal sleep, recalling the way he’d placed your thigh over that same shoulder, and how he’d looked on his knees like tasting you would keep him alive.

He rode faster this time, suppressing a dozen groans as you’d kissed the side of his neck, pressing your breasts up against his back.

“Careful,” he warned, the speed letting up as you returned to the stables through the dry and bright field, crisp with the new, early day. “Makin’ me lose my patience.”

“I’ll tease as much as I like, sir.” You’d replied, his body stiffening as your hands skated under his shirt.

“Then you’ll be payin’ for it.”

With a desperate, gnawing ache inside of you, you’d waited as he took Sylvie back into the barn house, though Mr. Hanes was still not up to say hello— that eased your mind. It meant more time for you to use up the dawn with Jack, squealing as he’d raced back to you at astounding speed, grabbing your wrist to take you to the boarding house with your exhilarated giggles filling the sleepy street.

-

“How much time we got?” he murmurs, mouthing at your jaw the second you close the door to his room after a stealthy re-entrance, and judging by the time—

“Two hours, at least,” you whisper, fisting at his shirt and he shoves his thigh between yours, caging you into the door.

“I want you spendin’ those two hours on that bed.” Flexing his thigh against you, he catches your throat in his hand but doesn’t squeeze, merely holds it there so you look him in the eyes. “Had enough of this chasin’, I’m gonna have you now, darlin’, the way I want to.”

You gasp under the feathery touch of his palm and reach up to card your fingers through his hair as he sucks a gentle mark just above your collarbone, and he twirls you to face the wall, setting your hands flat on it.

“Tell me, this alright?” He asks when he begins undoing the clasps and buttons of your bodice, warm hands pressing and spreading over bare shoulders as he eases it off of you.

“Yes, yes.” 

Jack smooths his lips over from one shoulder blade to the other, inhaling you as he drifts. You feel those hands fall downward, fussing over your skirt and although the air is frantic with your need, it’s so gentle the way he helps you step out of it when you return to face him, his eyes transfixed and his face blushing softly. He stares a moment, hardly trusting this luck as if he hadn’t kneeled for you already, and he reaches under your legs to lift you up and onto the edge of the bed. 

You bounce lightly on the mattress while he kneels before you again, taking your foot into his lap and unlacing your boots, pulling away your stockings with a careful pause and he kisses up your leg, insatiably hungry. His fingers hook on the waistline of the rest of your petticoat and drawers all at the same time and while they could have used more attention each, you raise your hips when he tells you to “Lift for me, baby,” and he tugs them away to reveal your legs, jaw going slack at the sight of you nearly naked. 

“All these fuckin’ layers…” 

He’s leaning down to kiss you with his hands pushing into the mattress, but you stop him with a finger at his mouth and lean back on your elbows, pulling open what’s left to reveal your bare chest and he groans from so deep down, his head falling between his shoulders until he looks back at you through hooded eyes.

Smoothing your hands down your stomach, you spread your legs further and pull him in by the suspender, “Is this what you wanted, Jack?”

He swallows hard and groans, looking down to your firm grip on his clothes— he nods, that vacantly dreamy look in his eyes flashing before he crawls over you and kisses between your breasts. “You’re a sight... prettiest thing I ever—”

Jack interrupts his own sentence when he closes his lips around your nipple, his tongue sliding over it in his mouth and you squeeze his hips with your thighs, tugging him nearer. He nips you slightly to earn a wince and captures your waist in his large hands, the curls on his head separating in between your fingers.

“I’ve— I’ve been so patient...” 

He glances at you and you smile at the mischievous look, contact prevailing as he nips on the other side of you, tugging your breast up. He smooths his mouth over your skin up to your neck and it tickles lightly, a soothing brush before he bites that spot on the curve of your neck.

“Don’t you worry, I’m still gonna take care of you.”

“And how much longer am I going to have to wait?” You ask, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt until he pulls out his rope and your eyes narrow— he smirks at you as if you don’t know what you’re in for, and captures your wrists above your head, pressing them into the plush mattress.

“Longer if you make a fuss, sweetpea.”

Leaving your wrists limp, he straddles your body as a pleasing weight and fastens your hands into tight loops, the rope burning just barely when he pulls it taut. At your gasp, he leans back and admires his own work, fingertip trailing down your cheek till it finds your mouth and presses. Your lips open, mindlessly obedient, and wrap around it, his neck tensing at the warmth of you.

The weight of him pushes deeper into you as he kisses you deeply, the rough fabric of his pants against your skin.

“Jack,” you whine, “please.”

“Darlin’, I’ll give you everything you want,” he whispers, rolling off of you. First, his suspenders come loose and he untucks his shirt, sliding it off himself to reveal that strong and sturdy chest above his softer stomach— the sweetest heaviness you miss feeling on your body already.

“I’m gonna fuck all that stress and worry out of you.” His muscles ripple as you feel yourself start to throb, legs squirming over his blanket at his tan skin covering toned muscles here and there, your core clenching around nothing at the first sight of his cock with a generous drop of precum at the tip of it.

“I’m gonna make you cum again,” he whispers, ridding himself of every last piece of clothing until he stands naked at the foot of the bed, pulling you back to him by your ankles. “And I’m gonna make sure you stay quiet.”

“Well,” you smile, wrists rotating in the rope, “get on with it, cowboy. I’ve got work to do.”

“Mmm,” he hums, “Forgot one. You ain’t gonna remember you got work to do when I’m finished.”

Your thighs squeeze together again, this time harder, and he pries them back open with his hand; all the while you wait for him to go further, biting your lip before you tease, “Prove that to me and I’ll consider sleeping here again tonight.”

Jack raises his brow, tugging you to sit upright and another pang of arousal hits you when you look ahead into the big mirror across the room, sitting atop the dresser; his firm body standing before you, with your hands tied and resting in his. His hair isn’t neat the way it is when he tells you good morning. A softness eases your arousal when you think of that— the intimacy of seeing him bare and messy and ready for you makes you ache all over in different ways. Your core wants him to fill you and your heart either wants him to stay and quit all his travels or to join him on them, but it’s not something you can demand, so you look at him expectantly, waiting for your next kiss.

Jack climbs onto the bed, his skin sliding smoothly along yours as he settles behind you with his legs open and his cock resting heavily, “Give me your hands, baby doll.”

Raising them above your head, he grabs the looping of the rope and tugs your body backwards and into his, your mouth falling open when you feel his hardness on the small of your back. The soft press of you makes him groan as he fits his hands under your arms and pulls you up straighter, those fingers tracing lines until he palms both your breasts and tells you to watch.

“Look at you,” he says into your shoulder, rolling your nipples between his calloused thumbs and pointers, “ain’t you pretty in my lap?”

Desperate, sweet noises from you cause an increasing stiffness against your back. Your earlobe catches between his teeth when he slips his hand lower to find you still wet— even wetter than before, the remnants of his mouth still on you.

His forearm fits under yours as he circles your clit, spreading your arousal evenly around your swollen area and the lingering sensitivity makes you jolt in his arms when he presses a little harder, bites a little harder on your ear.

“You know why I tied you up?” He rasps, sucking in a breath when you arch your back.

“Why, Jack?” Your lungs empty as the breathless words fill the heated room.

He smiles at you in the mirror and rubs his cheek against the side of yours, waiting for another moan to answer. “I don’t want you worryin’ ‘bout pleasin’ me like you worry ‘bout everything else. I want you to feel good.”

“Oh, oh, Jack, but I want to touch—”

“You’ll feel me, darlin’.”

The pad of his finger circles faster until it dips inside you, disappearing between your legs as you watch helplessly in the mirror. Jack’s gaze is set on the twitching features of your face, his own brows furrowed in concentration and effort and something needy— like he needs to claim you this way. His mouth hangs open like yours, enjoying touching you as much as you enjoy the way he’s making you feel.

You clench your fists until your fingers cramp. His lips adore the side of your neck, head tilting for him to gather more space to kiss. You don’t even notice when he ruts into you, just one time.

“Be a good girl,” he coos, “tell me how it feels.”

“Better than myself…” you whine, resting your head back on his shoulder, wide enough to work like a comfortable pillow.

“Didn’t think you had the time for that,” he jokes, nudging you with his nose but you don’t laugh in return— you moan loudly when he finds a different angle and you’ve barely any time left before coming again.

“You like that?” Jack laughs and you catch his smile in the reflection; this could be the most beautiful you’ve ever felt, resting against his front with his legs framing yours and his hand working you so well. He finds all the parts of you that you can’t reach and when you think of that question, you merely nod your head and whimper almost pathetically, moving your hips with his fingers.

“I’m gonna cum!” You exhale, turning your face into his neck and pressing your mouth to it, writhing against him as his palm presses against your clit, as his fingers curl against something blinding, rubbing against that spot so easily with how ready you are for him. He keeps on at the same speed, I know you need it, darlin’, cooing and coaxing you into it until his hand covers your mouth as you cry for him, coating his other hand in your cum.

“Fuck, fuck…” you sigh, melting into him once more, deflated by the power of him and it and the vision before you that you can no longer stand to look at without jolting. His hand slips away and up your stomach, leaving a light trail of yourself, and the strong flow of pleasure continues its course through your body, tingling everywhere in heavy waves.

“Jack… I want to touch you.” Your lips meet his hand when he brings it up, tasting yourself. He chuckles, easing you back to lay down on the mattress as he hovers over your body and he admires your shiny chest in the mellow sunlight peeking through his curtains. 

“Don’t make me tie your feet together, too,” Jack rubs your sides and you roll your eyes at him, “you do enough work, darlin’, let me do it.”

Looking at him through one eye, your arms stretched up behind your head on the pillow, he sighs and says against your lips: “Let me fuck you.”

“I’m still waiting.”

“You want it hard?”

“I want you,” you whisper, “fuck me, Jack.” Your eyes drift down to his cock, thick and heavy between his thighs and you don’t know if you can stand another minute of waiting, “cover my mouth, I don’t care, just let me feel you.”

He groans, pushing you further up the mattress, his face twisted in increased want.

“I will, darlin’, I… fuck, ain’t you just perfect...” His arms cage you in and his breath warms your neck as he settles closely, his chest to yours.

“You know, doll face,” he kisses your cheek, takes his cock in his hand, “I wish everyone could hear me fuckin’ you.”

The tip of him slides up to your clit, your moan breaking into his mouth as his lips cover yours, and when he pushes it into you, you tense in silent unison with his head falling to your shoulder and the wide expanse of his shoulders covering half your view.

“Shit,” he bites, easing out only just enough to push inside again with added force and he fills you so completely, you wrap your legs around his waist and urge him forward until he bottoms out and nips your jaw, whispering how perfect you feel.

“Gorgeous,” his hands smooth over your chest until they frame your face and he touches his forehead to yours, pushing himself further beyond what you expected him to.

“Oh—” You want to touch him, his hair, his shoulders. You want to touch him so deeply but the way he fucks you is enough to forget that your hands are tied— the way he fucks you in the lazy, early morning with his face touching yours.

“You alright, sweetheart? Fuck… that’s good,” he sighs, his cock gripped by every inch of you and you nod fervently.

“Yes, oh, god, don’t stop.”

He grips your hands in one of his, reaching up over you, driving his cock deeper and harder and quicker, little puffs of air escaping his open mouth. His hair comes loose and curls over his forehead with the slight sweat forming, bouncing over his face with every punctuated thrust.

“Not until you cum one more time,” he promises, pushing in and staying for a prolonged moment, grinding his hips into yours and the contact against your sensitive clit sends you whimpering too loud for safety. “Quiet, angel.”

Swallowing your moan, your throat fills with too much caught air, and when your face turns into worry, he covers your mouth with his palm and promises he’ll help you.

He talks with words stuttered by the movement of his hips as you take all of him, “I don’t care if they hear me fuckin’ you…” he breathes, hot all over you, “you know how much I want to hear you.”

Kissing his palm, you blink up at him with the slightest tear in your eye from just how good he feels dragging himself along your walls, his whole front pressed to you, and he continues, “But we can’t do that here…”

You mumble something into his hand, and pausing his hard movements, he brings his ear to your lips and you nip it, murmuring, “Kiss me, Jack.”

When he slants his mouth over yours, he fucks you harder, tongue swiping between your lips and his cock pushing up against a certain spot that makes you cry for him, your arms lifting and catching him in the loop of your connected wrists.

“I thought about this for weeks,” he rumbles, “wanted you… since you showed me that pretty smile at the well…”

“Mmmph,” you moan, shaking, Jack’s nose lining your jaw.

“I dream about you— I dream about takin’ you when I leave…”

“Oh, Jack, I—” You groan when he thrusts particularly hard, both that sharp pleasure and the thought he shares urging your muscles to tighten and that inevitable build of a spark in your lower abdomen to occur, “I want to leave, I want to leave… I—”

Still caught between your tied wrists, he fists the sheets and grinds himself against that sweet spot inside you until he has to lift your head and urge your mouth onto his shoulder— you bite down on it, and when he reaches between your bodies and presses the pad of a finger to your clit, your entire body tenses and trembles and the third release takes over you, your breath escaping in one long, suppressed breath.

“Fuck, the prettiest and tightest thing,” he groans as you clench around his cock and it takes more effort to push and pull, but when you flood him it eases back up again, his thrusts losing rhythm as he fucks you to his own edge. “Gettin’ all soaked for me.”

You clamp down, hooking your ankles together over him, silently screaming with an open mouth against the skin of his tan shoulder, nails digging into your own palms instead of his back where you want to be scratching him.

“Where do you want me?” 

He looks into your eyes but he never stops moving, kissing the inside of your arm and going stiff when you tell him you want him inside.

“You want me to fill you?” He asks incredulously and you whine another yes! as he drives himself fast as he can, stifling groans into your chest, your neck, eyes screwing shut when he finishes inside with a harder grunt and you’re still whining from the sounds and the angle and his warmth.

Collapsing onto you, he’s quick to roll you on top, still inside you as you straddle him now, wrists in between your legs. He catches his breath, pulls you down, and kisses you while he recuperates; little pants into your mouth, and when you shift on his cock he grips you harder.

“Damn,” he laughs, wiping his forehead and working to untie his knot, deft fingers still covered in you, slipping you out from the rope’s hold. Wrists free, your hands immediately rush into his hair and part it through them, feeling its softness, then traveling down to learn his chest and stomach under your palms. He watches you in a calm and rosy hue— his skin is flush and he looks so pure in the hazy glow, eyes warm and his lips shiny. You feel him spilling from inside you into his own lap, but he doesn’t seem to mind— just settles your head on his chest for you to sleep there, tucking the blanket into your side when he brings it over the both of you.

“I’m sleeping here tonight,” you mumble into his neck, vibrations of his soft chuckles lulling you further to sleep in the light room, forgetful of the day ahead of you. A nearly sleepless night would do so much, but Jack’s excursions and his mouth and the way he fucked you— it’s beyond you that you need to be up soon when you rest on his body, fitting into his side.

“Maybe one day I’ll take you somewhere and I can fuck you loud as I want,” he rasps, tickling your spine until you squirm all over, stopping when he kisses you softly.

“Maybe?” You look at him with big and shining eyes, his lip caught in his teeth before he squeezes you harder.

“Alright. Promise, little lady.” His tone is falsely vexed and he wants to remember you like this— truly happy and smiling genuinely for him, not because it’s polite, your hair messy by his doing and your skin soft against his.

-

You wake to his cozy embrace and brighter light breaking through the window, his quiet snores into your neck with his palm resting possessively on your shoulder. But there’s more noise than before… angry noise? Chatter outside and from downstairs. Mrs Adler’s apologetic voice. Her footsteps outside in the hallway.

“Where is she?”

You shoot up and Jack jolts awake, taking his first action to rub your back, and when you scramble to untangle yourself from the sheets, he steadies you with his hand on the back of your neck. You look at your clothes strewn over his room, knowing putting them back on will make your entrance to the kitchen even more late, but when he talks in his voice breaking through its lack of use with slumber, you just want to cuddle back up to his broad chest.

“Darlin’?”

“Jack… I’ve slept in.”

He laughs.

to be continued...

tags: not using my regular taglist for this! i’ll just be tagging those who have asked/shown interest in this.

playlists; by the author

waterfall inquiry

i met a girl; i met a man (waterfall inquiry, part two)

the unbearable weight of massive hope (javier peña character playlist)

gifset; by @javier-pena​

art; by @heatherbel​ 

art; by @dindja 

art; by @lilhawkeye3

moodboards; by @jura-moon 

moodboard + header by @silksaddle

moodboard; by the author

“You here to take my sheets, darlin’? I must insist I keep ‘em,” he chortles, turning his bright face over the soft pillow as you attempt stripping the sheets from under him, your lungs emptying in a huff when he catches your wrist and draws you to him instead. Your body lands perfectly on top of his with your weak protest, a poor match for his irresistibly gravel-like voice and his buzzing snugness.

“You’re making my job quite difficult,” you mumble into his neck, kissing the smooth skin there although your words are much more harsh. His chest rumbles, fingers running the length of your clothed back from when he’d hurriedly laced you back into your dress, lips skimming graceful but mindless lines on your temple.

“Mrs. Adler thinks you’re doing your chores.” Jack’s palms are now ghosting over your shoulders as you prop yourself up on your elbows, taking his gaze with you as you move, and you can tell your dilating pupils are betraying the falseness of your annoyed tone when you look at his expanding chest. He takes a deep breath in, the angle of morning light catching his eyes just right to melt them into golden flecks, his dishevelled hair incurable without a bath. 

You card your fingers through, and though it’s slightly tangled, the texture is silky enough to brush through the messy state and straighten it out, just a smidge. The touch causes his eyes to flutter closed, and shimmying up his body, he leans his head back to expose his neck further, the long lines and tone popping against each other. His breath hitches when he feels your own puffing across it, his chest immobile while he waits to feel something more from you, but you don’t kiss him, don’t nip him, don’t caress him there.

“I’ve only come to take your sheets to wash them— I should already be downstairs,” you insist and he mopes, your voice softly carrying throughout the bright bedroom, limbs absent-mindedly wrapping around his firm ones until he clings to you.

“Oh,” he hums, tipping his body until you roll under him onto the no-longer-fresh sheets, landing on your back with his hands cradling your head. His handsome smile makes you forget you ever needed to take his sheets in the first place, and when he kisses you deeply, moaning low when you open up for him and his bare skin slides over you, you don’t even remember where you are. “Thought you’d wanted some more of me…”

“Mmm, Jack— she’s already a little suspicious of me,” you giggle, wriggling underneath his heavy weight and it’s a futile effort beneath his affection, his lips laying warm insistent kisses all over your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw. He’s unstoppable, whether it’s the heaviness or the happiness that makes you lie there and take it with quiet laughter as the rough skin of his cheek touches gently to yours. 

Jack is as much the sunshine of the room as the real thing, chuckling sweetly along with you and growing more pleased the louder your squealing sounds become, your fingers pulling across the bare skin of his back— he likes it too much to let you off in a timely manner.

Mrs. Adler had only just believed your excuse of a poor sleep as you’d rushed out in a tizzy with your disheveled hair and clothes, and a terrible flourish of panic had bloomed in your chest at the thought of an unchecked mark lingering on your neck. But Jack had looked you over meticulously; deft fingers had worked at the laces of your layers. And even before making it to the kitchen, two dozen kisses wet on your thighs, you’d opened the door only to find the old woman pacing about on the landing of the stairs. Slamming it shut with your back on the wood, panting in the face of confrontation, Jack snickered and peeked out for you a minute later, confirming your chance to slip out undetected.

Now finished serving breakfast, Jack once again prevents you from carrying out your tasks.

“You’ve left me with a lastin’ impression,” he rasps, eyes crinkling as he slips a hand under your skirt and the touch tickles and inspires a giddy laugh from your throat as you swat him away, at last slipping out from under him. 

“Give me your sheets, you greedy man,” you order, lifting your chin and furrowing your brow with your arm extended. Jack purses his lips and thinks, sitting up to run a hand through his dark hair, your smile growing despite yourself when it sticks up in bulky curls to leave his contented face in view. 

“These sheets have got your smell on ‘em now,” he grins like it’s his most favoured fact in his whole life, leaning back into his palms and his cock is slowly hardening between his legs as he considers his next words, “your cum is on them.”

“Jack,” you chuckle, “you’re dirty.” Inching closer to him, his joyous face turns dark when you arrive in the middle of his strong thighs extending past the edge of the bed, “Get up, please, or I’ll have you explaining why I’m behind schedule for the second time today.”

He presses up onto his feet, his gentle scent covering you as if a fleeting spell, and before any more rational thoughts occur, your hand is reaching into his unbuttoned pants, wrapping around his hard length. His head tips back, the softest growl filling your ears and he pushes his hips forward, placing his hands on your cheeks, urging your lips to slide along his as he fucks into your tight fist. It’s a sweet kiss compared to his already desperate thrusts, his cum still streaking your thighs, inside of you, outside of you, from mere hours before.

“I told you I’d come back here tonight. We’ve plenty of time to ruin more sheets.” Your whisper earns a heavy sigh expelled onto your skin, his grip sliding down to your neck and as his mouth hangs open, you nip at his bottom lip and pull it into your mouth, a tender suckle on the plush softness. He hisses as you let it go, burying his nose into the curve of your neck, and stilling his movements with your hand, he lets you work him like that— your fingers tightly curled around his cock as you slide it in and out of your palm. 

“Fuck me,” he groans, “I better see you back here if you’re gonna touch me like this, darlin’.”

Smiling, you pump him quickly, whispering how you can still feel him as if he’s fucking you right now, how good he is, how thick, and he growls from his chest, shutting his eyes tight in concentration.

“Maybe you’ll let me touch you tonight, too, Jack, leave your ropes for another time…” Your free hand clamps around the back of his neck, twirling your fingers around the hair at the nape of it, before tugging him down for a slower kiss, capturing his striking whine in your mouth.

“Shit, darlin’... I’d do anything you say right about now… Christ,” Jack’s fingers trace the neckline of your bodice as his lips skate along your cheek, and his voice is so husky and rumbly, you almost consider a greater risk of trouble.

He makes no protest as you bend carefully, still pumping his thick cock while you yank the sheet away from the mattress, pulling back to fold it into your arms and finally leaving his hard length unattended. Jack’s eyes snap open in a crushing neediness, his displeased but wrecked voice calling after you in a bid to keep you here and he laughs incredulously, “You get back here right now.”

Backing up into the door, your lip caught in your teeth, you reach behind and find the cool handle, offering a cheeky grin before you slip away and murmur, “I’m busy.”

-

A mellow afternoon follows Jack’s disgruntled exit to the fractional post office, stealing a rushed kiss in the corner of the parlour for the mere seconds you were alone together, giddy glances spared through the window on his walk to work. You spend a small segment of your time concocting tea for Mrs. Adler who pours over the payment book, thanking you as she slides a list across the bar; it’s full of all things you know to do without the help of paper and pencil.

“How about that Mr. Daniels?”

Spluttering, you swivel on your heel, unsure of the intention of her question, your eyes mistakenly blowing wide with no answer to fill the subsequent silence. She must know, you worry, she must.

“What about him?” You query, looking down at your apron in no need of smoothing, yet your hands fiddle with the pockets, and her amused scoff scrapes through your uneasy stance.

“My, you’d better sleep well tonight... that man whipped those fools down in a second,” she laughs, flipping the page of the large notebook and scribbling something down with a spotted, shaky hand. 

“He did.” Wiping your face, you conceal a sliver of a smile under your hand when you think of him— ease and cockiness burned down to his big pleading eyes looking up at you for permission. “Thought you disliked him.”

“Well, I could admit we need someone like that around here more often,” she croaks as you pretend to look over the list of laundry, sweeping, cooking, cleaning. The sentiment lands somewhere uncomfortable in your chest— you no more than agree with her and you could never tell her why or how.

“Oh, and dear, the sheriff came by this morning,” she adds, relaying his spiel of reports.

Only the most notable happenings make it over from town to town, lawlessness rendering crime nothing more than irrelevant. It takes a mass robbery, or a mammoth fire, or an offense so deeply doused and coloured red in rage to make the rounds of neighbouring settlements, so when Mrs. Adler shares the spreading news of heightened gang exploits a little ways north, your heart sinks and adopts a painfully heavy sensation.

“He advises to be extra careful,” she finishes with a stern look, “they could be coming here for all we know. Those Statesman men are horrible…”

“Statesman?” you echo her words, scouring the back of your mind to place the familiarity of that name, but she smiles in return to soften your worried brow. Statesmen, a Statesman. You’d read it somewhere, embellished into leather or stitched into the label of a visitor’s coat while tidying.

“I wouldn’t worry too much. If anything, girl, that Daniels boy should be of use.”

A challenge not to snicker, she gives you, when she tells you not to fuss, as if you’ve got the liberty to enjoy the outdoors where a vigilant attitude is required— but Jack is the remedy, you think, eyeing the stray strands of her brittle grey hair twisted up, scrunching your nose.

“Alright, Mrs. Adler,” you agree, passing her through to the laundry closet.

The air is stuffy inside the small, shelved room, where pleasing, cooling, tiny splashes pepper your forearms as you pour the water bucket into one of the tubs, then grabbing the soap, you flump onto the short stool and drag the laundry basket to your side. The first sheet on the pile is the last one you’d taken— Jack’s— carrying his heady and wood-fiery scent now mingled with yours. With a vibration of anticipation up your spine, your thoughts twirl upon your admittedly cruel handling of his need— tonight, you’re surely in for it.

The usual, slowly passing and hot hours fill with inescapable reveries toeing the line of unrealistic: a cloudy day in bed, a sunny evening at the river, clothes discarded to the side. Shaking those heart string-stretching thoughts and trading for a better focus, you hang the wringed sheets on the line as the last blazes of the sun spread over the field, and take a moment to rest your elbows on the log fence at the back of the yard overlooking the vast, lush area. 

Something heavy, once more, tugs at your weary limbs, watching the calm breeze push along the beige blades of plant-life, and you think of Sylvie— her bright mane and soothing demeanor, the rush of riding with her and him. The thrill no longer chased, waiting for you still. There must be a few months worth left of him, two at the least, perhaps enough to soothe your aching heart in seeking more vibrant days. But before too long, you set back on your course of chores, trekking up to tidy the bathing rooms for those coming back from a dirty day.

Jack finds you there an hour later in the open door, kneeling on the floor by the bathing tub, scrubbing away at its already-shiny exterior, and he smiles under the sticky and sweaty clothes, watching the way your body jostles with movement.

“Hey, cruel woman.”

Halting, your head briefly hangs between your shoulders before you sit back on your heels and grin up at him, his weary feet leading him towards you, a set of clean clothes hanging off his arm. His shirt is sheer in some places more than others, namely his chest, damp with muscular effort. 

“Did you have a hard day, Jack?” You question, making big eyes at him from your low spot compared to his tall height, and his face grows slightly stern.

“Oh, darlin’, you know I did,” he kneels, takes your chin in his hand and you find yourself leaning up into his face, mere inches from his lips, entranced by their pouty curve. But he doesn’t kiss you. He pinches your chin harder, a deep pressure as he looks over you, taking in the way you indulgently advance until you’re on hands and knees, caged by his own, staring at him with none of the power you held this morning.

“You oughta continue what you started…” he whispers almost on your lips, never close enough to touch, your eyelids heavily drooping as you look down his torso, leading to his cock.

“Oh,” you sigh, slick pooling where he can’t see or feel it, “Jack, I can…” 

You crawl forward between his spread legs until your nose nudges the material of his pants, resting your weight back on your knees when you reach out for him, but his face is a sinister, knowing grin when steadily rises back up to stand, rocking into his heels.

“Not now, though,” he coos, swiping a damp thumb over your lip, “off you go, little lady.”

“Why—”

Whining involuntarily, you watch while he shrugs off his suspenders and closes his eyes, fluttering back open with a smirk at Mrs. Adler’s distant call for you to prepare dinner.

“That’s why.”

Your mouth hanging open, you roll your eyes, taking his calloused hand as he aids you upward from the hard floor, though he finally gives you a greeting of a peck on the cheek, “Later, angel, you can show me what you’ve been thinkin’ about all day.”

Nudging your body, he sends you off to your chores in a frazzled state and shuts the door with a wink, settling in to wash himself off from the dust and dirt.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt so needy, it nearly feels stupid to still have the crushing weight of wanting Jack as you chop ingredients, peek into cupboards, fill plates. It’s even worse when he sits at the table, clean and fresh and irresistibly smooth, chatting in easy conversation with Mrs. Crockett who enjoys his company dearly as she tells him uninteresting stories of her husband. 

He watches your back as you turn about the steps, as you pass along plates to each person, and he brushes his fingers purposely along yours when you arrive at his spot, a gesture to offer his silent token of appreciation. Your breath catches, and his wink sets it free again through a quiet sigh, smiling sweetly for him. He tries not to laugh, you notice, and you stop yourself from touching his shoulder here in front of everyone— namely Mrs. Crockett, who has also made a poor reputation of gossip and a budding friendship with Mrs. Adler who is closest to her in age. The last thing you can manage is a rumour about your little life; by that point you’d be begging Jack to take you with him even before the post office is built, even with so much left to explore with him.

As the chitter-chatter diminishes down to an empty table with empty plates, and the visitors disperse into corners or run off to different buildings— they always come back for dinner to get their money’s worth— you sort out the dried laundry, slipping into the ladies’ rooms to aid with corsets, all with distant thoughts in a place where they shouldn’t be. They never ask about your day so much as they speak of theirs, whether time spent with their sweetheart, telling you how they prefer their things folded, or muttering how much they liked dinner. The last one you take lightly, thanking the ladies in whispers. Now, though, it doesn’t cause as much of an ache in your heart when you listen to their free and happy memories— you think of doing the same with Jack, of asking him and receiving his sweet smile in return, ready if you are.

When you finally sit at your simple vanity, it’s with a powerful sigh that you remove your boots, step out of your clothes, and trade them for your nightgown. You pull the threaded pink ribbon taut into a bow, and look over yourself in the mirror, giddy in your stomach for when the time comes to slip into Jack’s room. Judging by the clock, another half hour would do to be sure everyone has settled in so you can sneak in complete privacy, and it feels less daunting now than it ever did before.

Folding your petticoat to lay the soft cotton on the tabletop, you hear the handle click and turn and you gasp fiercely in response, rising from the chair as Jack all but barrels in, haphazardly shutting the door before swooping you into his arms.

“Oh, my—” you squeal, cut off by a rough kiss that you eagerly return, bombarded with the scent of his soap and shaving cream. You only urge him off with your hands sneaking between your bodies to press on his chest and ask a burning question, his lips not wanting to part from you. It’s a tiny struggle but he eventually gives way, fondly looking down at you as you speak. “Did anyone see you?”

“Hall was empty. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ of you… lost my damn patience,” he croons, plushy lips open on your neck, leaving kisses that bloom into pleasant flourishes of need like ink dipped into water. It’s a new spot that you allow him to explore, bringing your hands up his wide shoulders as you turn around the room together, stepping at random. “Had to keep from touchin’ myself and dreamin’ of you…”

You wrap your arms around his neck, reeling him in closer for a whisper against the shell of his ear.

“You don’t have to dream, Jack, I’m here.”

His breath stutters uncharacteristically and it must be your chance to keep him like this, his pleasure dependent on what you decide to do with him— so you pin your front to his and he grunts, giving a miniscule, testing rut back.

“No more teasin’?” he asks hopefully, sweet brown eyes glowing in the low light of your little lamp. “You weren’t so nice this morning…”

“Oh, Jack, I’m not so sure about that.”

In a mirror of the morning, you slip your hand lower to find his cock hard again, splaying your fingers over its thick length and rubbing over the fabric. He squeezes your waist, digging his thumbs in helplessly as he staves off a groan in a bid to keep what willpower is still left with him, then loses it all when you place a simple kiss to his collarbone, not open or rough or wet— just plain, pressed lips to his skin, and he asks you for more.

“Will you let me touch you this time?” you murmur, urging him backward onto the bed. He slumps over the mattress, eyes trained on your face as he places himself further up with his legs spread, palms sinking into the covers. He swallows thickly when he takes you in: standing over him in the sheer, light fabric of your nightgown, its lace edges bordering the slopes of your body.

“I want you in my mouth,” you continue, lowering yourself to your knees, hands over his own as he shuts his eyes and breathes deep, long breaths, grunting when he feels your fingers working at his buttons. “Think I’ve earned it.”

“You could ask me for anything you want, darlin’... shit—” His thighs tense under your ministrations as you reach in and pull his cock out, the tip of it shining in his own, generous arousal. He looks down from himself to your sparkling eyes, and cups your cheek in his large hand, its smoothness traveling down the curve of your face. “Anything you want.”

His lip twitches, mouth falling delicately open and his eyes shutting once more as you place your tongue flat at the base, licking upward, circling around the head while you watch his face strain and pull, his neck sticking out prominently. He’s gorgeous when you touch him like this, still so fresh and clean from the bath. The warm drips of precum glide slowly on your tongue as you hold it out, then wrap your lips around him, whining when he fists through your hair and cramps his fingers.

“That mouth is just about gonna kill me already,” he rasps, bucking his hips up a smidge to perch himself deeper in your mouth, your hand rising to cover his at the base of your neck. Its heat is dangerous yet satisfying in its revelation of just how affected he is, a tiny spot of sweat swiping from his palm onto your neck.

Blinking up at him, you pull off, wetly sliding over half the length of him before moving back down to take more, feeling it brush against the back of your throat. You keep him there as he squeezes you harder, his spine curling over you and the new sound he makes is just begging to be heard, but he smothers it with a bite of his own lip to quiet it.

“Like that…” he sighs, carefully canting his hips forward as you wrap your fingers around his base, enveloping him and spreading the wetness of your mouth over his entire length.

He glistens like that, shimmering in the low and golden light, fisting at the blanket and your hair, puffing focused breaths every time you take him deeper, longer, sucking him harder.

Up and down, you keep your lips wrapped snugly around his cock, its throbbing heft a pleasurable weight on your tongue, the satisfying hit of the head at your throat.

“Where have you fuckin’ been,” he nearly laughs in disbelief that you’re even here, much less on your knees, much less with your mouth around him.

Pulling off for a deep breath, you trace the edges of your nightgown, eyeing him and his debauched, handsome face as you bring the lacy straps off your arms, leading them from your wrists. “I’ve always been here.” 

The fabric gathers at your waist in a soft pool of cotton and ribbon, your chest bare and level with his cock.

“Do you like that, Jack?” you preen, settling closer to him this time over the hard and truthfully painful floor— you don’t notice it as much when you feel him hitting that spot all the way down your throat.

“You know I do,” he smiles breathlessly, crinkles and that little dimple creasing in his content face. He leans down for a kiss, its nature unlike the urgency of your own mouth wetting his cock— it’s always sweet like he is to you in every other way, lingering there before you lean into the space between his legs, eager.

“I wanted you all day,” you coo, running a thumb over his tip, a saturated kiss placed there before you put him in your mouth for a brief suck, managing to keep him inside for a few short seconds. “I should have felt so tired after what you did to me, but all I could think of was this.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, he then lets it go in a gravelly sigh as he holds your bobbing head in his hands, spanning the sides of your face. Your forehead brushes his soft stomach as you push down, hollowed cheeks hugging every inch of him and he jolts, driving himself the smallest bit further, moaning at the tight and wet sensation of you. You pump him, looking so falsely innocent between his legs, your chest and shoulders bare for him to admire, peeking out of the fine gown.

“Keep goin’ darlin’, I’m gonna fill that pretty mouth up... know you want it down your throat, bet you thought about havin’ my cum drippin’ from your mouth all day, too, hm?”

Licking the tip and rubbing him faster, you nod fervently, opening wide in a stretch to finish him off with firm squeezes and strokes, his breaths now raggedly rough from above you every time he hits that spot. Your mouth is hot on his skin and he warns you he’s going to cum soon, he’s going to fill your mouth up nice and good, and you shut your eyes tight in concentration, focused on the thick feel of him sliding in and out between your lips.

“Wanna see you when I fill you baby doll, c’mere n’ look at me.” Jack’s fingers brush the underside of your chin, and you strain to look upward before you slide your hand over his slick cock. He tenses up by another degree, his chest and forehead damp, throat straining as he swallows thickly. 

A final squeeze and he cums all over your extended tongue, the milky liquid sliding off and onto your chest as he moans through gritted teeth, dazed as you are as you both watch it drip all over your exposed half. You swallow what remains in your mouth, letting your jaw drop to show him your now clean slate.

Bending into you and still panting, he smiles, streaking his thumb down your chin to gather up what’s left, guiding it into your open mouth. Heart racing, you take it in, your enthusiastic glow causing his face to soften.

His gaze drifts south to linger on your glimmering chest, pressing his palm flat and firm into the slight pool of it. He paints you with it, spreading his cum all over each breast with a clear sheen from the separation, special attention granted to each nipple with a flick of his wet thumb. Its initial warmth has cooled and with it lingers a soothing cover over your front as you lay your cheek over his knee, toying with the worn laces of his boots.

“Now… how to thank my darlin’ girl and her perfect fuckin’ mouth…” Jack wonders aloud as he cups your cheeks in his hands and puts a contrasting, innocent kiss to your forehead.

Grinning up at him and placing your hands over his, you tell him that’s all you wanted to give him, all you needed was to finally feel him in your mouth.

“Well,” he whispers, “I wanna show you what I was thinkin’ about all day long.”

The spark in your eyes must be a blinding one, his hands gliding over the slope of your body as you work yourself back onto your feet, your knees throbbing and sore. Wincing, you balance yourself on his broad shoulders, glancing down to notice his eyes not relieved of their dark hunger.

“Jack, you’re…”

“Not done, angel,” he finishes for you, and that’s when you feel it, the slick dripping past your core to spread slightly down your squeezing thighs. He pushes his sleeves up as the corner of his lip tugs upward too, straight teeth glinting the same as his eyes.

“Your turn, then,” you murmur, parting his hair through your fingers. It falls back into place, his pillowy and gentle lips finding yours as he stands with you, always chasing you, waltzing you backward until your ass bumps against the thick windowsill.

“I was choppin’ wood, thinkin’ of settin’ you right here,” he confesses lowly, ensuring the curtains are drawn completely open with a quick swipe of his hands over the gauzy lengths previously covering the glass, “thinkin’ of fuckin’ you on my fingers like this.”

You situate yourself properly on the sill and he steps back, taking a comically focused once-over of your seated body, but the desire is still so thick it doesn’t even bring you to laugh when he hurriedly comes back to you. He spreads your thighs wide, his palms a fiery heat that couldn’t be further from where you want it.

Tugging at his collar, you reel him in to place an open kiss just under his ear. “Give it to me how you want.”

The glass cools the staggering temperature on your skin as he knocks you into it, your back sticking to its chilly surface in the midst of his swirling breaths, ghosting the edges of your shoulders before he hikes your thighs up higher to his waist.

“You ready for me?” he murmurs with a husky voice, and it’s a powerful shock from your head to your toes, seeing how easily he’s worked back up to needing you as he lowers a hand to your core. His fingers part you, a slick and effortless slip through your folds to your entrance. “Darlin’... you’re soakin’ my hand already. Did suckin’ my cock do all this to your sweet little cunt?”

A hushed, restrained sound tears from you and is quieted by his mouth covering yours when he rubs his calloused fingers over your clit, rasping those low words sweetly into you, nipping your bottom lip between his teeth as the digits travel lower. The arousal dripping from your cunt makes that first slide so easy, Jack bottoming out to his knuckles with a soft sigh. His stomach nearly touches your own still covered by the bunched nightgown and he pauses there, a reassuring squeeze to your side and then a smooth gracing of his free hand to hold your thigh tight to himself.

“This is where I’ve wanted to be,” he confesses, his nose drawing a line from your shoulder, delicately down to your chest as he bends and swipes his tongue broadly over your sensitive nipple. The signals from your brain to your muscles are jumbled now, feeling the heat of his wet tongue tasting the cum on your chest— it’s out of your control when you arch your back into him and whine, when your fingers tangle into his hair and tug.

He responds in a groan, licking across your skin to your unattended nipple which he suckles on gently, lapping at it. Jack curls his two thick fingers before straightening out to kiss you fleetingly on your lips; he parts and watches your eyes intently, a stray curl falling to hang between his brows.

“So full already, hm?” he teases, his thumb swiping slow patterns on your clit, and you lean further back into the glass with a pant, its surface no longer able to cool you down.

“Yes,” you manage to respond in a gasp as he grants a second, deeper hit, a slight slapping sound causing you both to hug each other tighter and chuckle.

“Tight, sweet thing,” he groans, extended curls and strokes stretching you wholly around his hand, “take my fingers just right. Is that it, darlin’, were you made for me to fill you?”

“Mm,” you suck in sharp breaths, “mhm, you fill me up, Jack, you fill me up so good.” 

You wrap your arms around his neck, and his chin hooks onto your shoulder, digging into it hard as he holds you with one toned arm snaking around your waist. Like this, your damp chest brushes his, his fingers pump and work you open another smidge wider as he pushes in, grinds his palm against your clit, pulls his fingers out a fraction of the way. The motions of his hips against his own wrist are gentle, unhurried for now, having already cum into your slack mouth.

With the flat of his free palm caressing your back through soft strokes, he draws his lips back and forth over the curve of your neck.

“You know what I see?” he asks, urging his knuckles deeper in the hardest plunge he's given you tonight, an agonizingly fiery touch to your clit. “Men, walkin’ around all dumb— could see me fuckin’ you right here on my hand if they’d just look up— shit, they got no clue I’m feelin’ the wettest little pussy, huh?”

“Fuck, Jack,” your nails dig into the lean and muscular bulge of his biceps as he keeps you upright against the glass, your thighs squeezing him so close he can hardly fuck you anymore— he just rubs and grinds his hand against you while remaining far inside your aching pussy, soaking his already drenched fingers with more slick.

“And only I’m gonna watch you cum,” he adds in a grunt, working himself into you with every last drop of energy he’s saved, his soft moans and sharp teeth spurring you closer to coming all over his perfect fingers. You might have gone longer if not for the irreversible, desperate need for him that sucking his cock had instilled in you— had you nearly dripping onto the floor, your body left unimaginably sensitive that each time he brushes up against you now, you dig deeper into his skin. He likes it though, and it makes him move with a crazed edge, his moans transforming into snarls.

“Only you…” you echo, starting to grind with him yourself, rolling into and meeting his short, fast thrusts, every muscle tensing and straining and it’s so close, almost there—

“There you go, doll, can feel you squeezin’ me so tight… cum on my hand, fuckin’ soak me, c’mon…”

“Jack, Jack I’m gonna—” Urgently, you tap at his shoulder with wide eyes and worried brows as you feel it start to happen, knowing how close you are to crying— your nails dig into his shoulders so intensely when you cum, jaw dropped and eyes shut and he makes a wincing yet completely pleased noise into your mouth; it’s cruel. You manage not to make a peep at the cost of losing large breaths, and it makes your orgasm all the more intense: light headed, woozy, and tingling numbness reaching the length of your body.

“Sweeter than fuckin’ honey when you do that,” he smiles widely, until his mouth drops fully open at the way you hug his hand inside from coming so hard around him. Your slick gathers between your thighs and you still can’t breathe, his face buried into the spot under your jaw as he pulls them out of you, dragging the pads up to your clit while the rest of it spreads throughout your folds. He stares down at it, at the wetness dripping and glistening from your core, and he groans again, blinking slowly.

Placing his palms on the sill by either side of your trembling figure, he hums, your smile against his skin buzzing at his insatiable drive, how he’d fucked your mouth and your pussy with such short rest, feeling the damp hair at the back of his neck. He drops his head down as an offering and you take him in a gentle cradle, kissing his forehead as he’d done to you while he nestles. He looks up and back down, waiting for another, your fingers smoothing the unruly hair from his face.

“Hell, if I don’t wanna fuck that pretty pussy every night till I die,” he exhales, another glance at his wet fingers, dropping a kiss to your collarbone.

“Oh, Jack,” you laugh, your heels hitting the wall underneath you, “if only you were here for that long.” 

His face scrunches a little in confusion before his lips curve, “How many times do I have to remind you I ain’t leavin’ so soon?”

“As many times as it takes,” you whisper, fingers scratching down his arms, his own dipping into your cunt again without a warning, “fuck—”

“Yeah, baby doll,” he croons, “I got somethin’ to prove to you still?”

You nod with a greedy smirk and he retracts his fingers, taking them into his mouth after drawing a line between your breasts to taste your mingled releases, moaning in your ear. “Go n’ get on the bed. You’re gonna ride my face.”

A shiver chills your spine, mainly at the way his voice has dropped a miraculous third time, his hand landing a light swat on your ass when you pass him, shaky legs taking you toward the mattress. He follows to lay on his back, perpetually pleased with himself, arms outstretched and beckoning you forward. You crawl up to him and you can feel your own cum streaking your thighs as you move, soon beside his large body, and he raises his brows impatiently, “Well go on, sugar, I wanna taste some more of that.”

Stretching his neck every which way, his eyes crinkle as he grins between your thighs while you throw one over his shoulder and his arms fall behind him, fingers searching for yours until he laces them together, squeezing.

“You’re not tired yet, old cowboy?” you tease lightly, the force of it lost when he gives a broad swipe of his tongue and moans yet another time, indulgently, swallowing the remnants of your previous release.

“I ain’t ever gonna tire of this,” he replies, another lick from your entrance to your clit, such an easy slip of the muscle, your sensitivity dialed up too many extra notches. His brows knit together in effort, rough cheeks pleasantly scratching on your skin when he moves his head side to side, tongue hanging out of his mouth and edging with a perfect pressure all over your sensitive bud.

“I’d hope not,” you exhale, grinding your hips over his wet mouth until his grip moves to your thighs to prevent you from moving. His eyes look up at you keenly as he closes his lips around your clit and sucks, your head tipping in silent rapture as you take it all for him without the relief of motion. 

“We go real nice together,” he grumbles into your slick center. Tightening the hold of your thighs, he laves his tongue all over you in focused circles, faster, with just enough force for your legs to start shaking around his handsome face, for another gush of arousal to spread over his swollen lips. All that’s left for you to handle it is to scream it out, how good he makes you feel, how precious, but the house is so silent and only you can hear the slick sounds of his mouth on your clit— he won’t even let you rub yourself over him. You can only bite your lip and hold your breath, yet little puffs and moans sneak out when he does something unforeseen, like a single bite on your thigh or a gentle nip to challenge you— it’s all on purpose and easily noticed by his gratified face.

He tugs your clit a short, miniscule distance and lets it go, shaking his head when you mope over the loss of contact.

“Are you tryin’ for me, sugar?”

“You’re being tough on me,” you whine, shimmying further up his body to regain his lips that are brightly shining.

“If I ain’t tough then it ain’t right,” he whispers, “stay still and quiet for me and I’ll take you out again.”

He tips his head down and forward, swiping his prominent nose to spread you further open, but you don’t even consider the promise of a gift, your focus on the return of his soaked tongue to your throbbing core, biting hard on your lip to quell the need to cry.

“Is my darlin’ gonna come? You gonna cum all over my face? Gimme another one, dolly.” His mouth latches back onto your clit and you can’t think, much less form an answer in your blank head where all you see is white, or maybe blinding stars, or just plain nothingness as you let go, his moustache wet with you, his lips dripping.

By some miracle, the scream you fend off becomes so high pitched in your throat that nothing makes it out of you save for the helpless cry of, “Jack!” as you tremble around his cheeks.

“Yes,” he grunts, and thank goodness it’s muffled by your soaking core; your fingers finally escape his hold to grip at his hair with a fierce, unforgiving tug, and that softer sound fills the room again while your body freezes up and you cum harder this time, covering him, coating him. He grumbles something again, but it’s nothing you could hope to make out in the crushing wave of pleasure that hits you— the light sensation does not leave you, though the shaking eases off as Jack places a tender kiss to your clit, and you jolt at just that velvet brush, his eyes turning sympathetic. You breathe deep, slumping with great exhaustion and the dazed happiness of having him in your room now as you lift your thigh from his body and he leans his head up to grant a quick kiss while it slips away from him.

“Knew you could be quiet,” he smiles under the shine of your second release, resting his arms open over the blanket to welcome you into them.

“As if you don’t make it hard.” Huffing, it’s with a reciprocal smile that you crawl back to him, nearly toppling over on your way with the weakness of his own power against your body, and he chuckles at you, not shying away from his joyous teasing when you throw him a half-glare.

“Did I wear you out again?” he questions, guiding you into his side, turning his body over yours to swipe his tangy tongue over your bottom lip.

Whimpering, it turns into a cheerful giggle as he drops pecks over your nightgown, wrapping his finger around the tail of the ribbon. 

“You just keep going, don’t you, Jack?” you cup his face in your hands, and it’s now that he adopts a sheepish expression, turning his eyes away to tilt his neck and kiss your stomach once more.

“Until you ask me to stop, darlin’.” He lends two more kisses, one to each breast, and then gathers the straps of your nightgown from the pooling of fabric underneath your chest, tenderly helping your arms through the holes. You admire him quietly as you sit up to ease the gesture, letting his fingers guide the intricate lace edges back to your shoulders. He pats the cotton down to smooth it, your thumb stroking over his left eyebrow. His hands pry under you to wrap his arms around your middle, his cheek resting over your belly as you scratch through his dark hair. 

“I think you’re softer than you realize,” you whisper, twirling a lock around your finger and he peeks up, the apples of his cheeks rising in a twinkling smile.

“I can shoot a gun a million times but I sure don’t like it more than kissin’ you,” Jack coos, tickling up your sides and swatting away your protesting hands until you make an involuntary squeak and his eyes widen, hurriedly covering your mouth with his own. You titter over his smooth lips, his weight pinning you as he opens his mouth, taking more. “I’d think I’d have sold my soul to the devil to end up here with you if I didn’t know any better.”

You let the next bubbling ripple of affection take over you when he whispers that with his gleaming eyes, and you kiss him three more times, each slower than the last.

He rests there for some time, indulging in the carding of your fingers over his scalp, and he ensures you’ve drifted off before he rises in search of a cloth. He finds a green one folded by your petticoat, his fingers briefly dragging across its white lace before he dips the cloth in the small dish of water left beside it. He crawls back up beside you, lazily yet with careful attention guiding it under your slip and over your breasts, relieving you of the stickiness. You stir but don’t wake— his touch is too light, yet still unlike a feather— he cleans you off, sets the cloth back in its spot, and resumes his position, nestled up next to you.

-

Sneaking into Jack’s room— or him into yours— becomes a habitual routine after the goodnight click of Mrs. Adler’s door, though you often find yourself with an early visitor with eyes too bright and a needy little grin on his face. It follows his giddy lips on your neck hours before in scarce moments of isolation from other guests, or after he’s stared too long across the bar, and to ease the tension, he’ll ride to take Sylvie to stretch her legs, a sympathetic look on his face at the door knowing you can’t join.

And he wears you out. Nightly. A simmering threat to your timeliness in the morning that you can’t let go of. A single time, he’d taken the sheets with him in a rapid roll onto the floor as Mrs. Adler knocked and knocked outside, calling for you to rise, until she barged in and the thump had to be blamed on yourself, standing in your disheveled chemise. Her shifty eyes become less of a fear in your head and more of a laughing stock, though not as much as Jack was in his stupid course of action to thump on the floor behind the side of the mattress, taking the blankets, too.

His dignity is not lost, though, each time you press on him about it— his grip tightens over your thighs as you straddle his lap, feeling the impression of his leather settling into your skin.

A rare clump of clouds settles over town the following week, lingering long enough to darken this evening further and forcing an early lighting of the lamps inside, a cozy glow over the hectic and crazed state of the bar.

“Let’s not slack, dearie,” Mrs. Adler sings in her urgently high-pitched voice as you handle the treacherous beast of the card game hours, handling too many requests for the strongest liquor from the cabinet, working your wrists as you open new bottles and impatient sighs crumble out of overworked throats.

Jack glances at her, a rapid flick of his angry eyes as he sets his glass of whiskey down, furrowing his brows in obvious disagreement with her words.

“She’s doin’ fine,” you hear him grumble, and you don’t have it in you to turn and face him to offer your surely-silencing glare, and without it he continues, “think we could offer a little patience.”

Chest fluttering, you shut your eyes with a bothersome huff, setting your hands flat over the counter as you wait for Mrs. Adler’s response, and the other men waiting at the dining table chat over things well beyond you, another fleeting mention of the Statesmen— but Jack remains silent along with her, and you can already picture the way he must be maintaining a hard stare at the old woman to leave her increasingly frazzled.

“My girl does this every day,” she states primly, blocking his view of your back with her own body after an uncoordinated waddle, “you keep out of it.”

Jack scoffs, soft but pointed, the wood groaning under the slide of his glass as he moves it aside, “If you cared to notice, ma’am—”

Spinning on your boot, away from the assortment of glasses set over the counter in their stage of finishing touches, you raise a hand, his first name almost slipping out until you choke on the unspoken word, widened eyes earning a mirrored expression from Jack, “It’s alright, Mr. Daniels,” you soothe, and his smirk is much too telling in his amusement of your spluttering, that you’d called him the old, proper name.

Mrs. Adler huffs a victorious breath as she checks over the full and heavy tray, granting approval while you giggle at Jack’s silly face made behind her back, followed by a wink of his eye. 

He closes his eyes as Mrs. Adler finally limps off into her study— what she achieves in there he does not know— and watches you with affection and a warming dose of admiration in his stomach as you handle the tray, setting down shining crystal glasses on the table, a soft smile on your face as the youngest card player offers his thanks. They rarely ever do.

“You look real nice,” he drawls as you round the counter, his elbows sliding along the surface as he leans in, all sparkling eyes and teeth with his wide grin as he follows your steps. “I think I’d like to get my hands on—”

His words fall away to a whisper as you shake your head in feigned annoyance, the laughter stealing your breath as you lean opposite him, taking in the sly look on his face and the pull of his shirt across his shoulders. His hand reaches for yours, tentatively, and you’re powerless against the sweet touch on your fingers as he traces them out, pulling your palm into a bed of his two hands. 

You watch as his eyes set on the random patterns he draws, eyelashes curling against his face every time he blinks, your conscious mind soon oblivious to your placement in relation to the large group at the dining table— but it doesn’t matter. They’re as absorbed in their gambling as you are in his focused touch and feel, your heart an obnoxious flutter when he smiles up at you, a perfect mix of kind and sultry darkness. 

“I’d like to get my hands on you,” he murmurs, those repeated words spoken lower this time and with a twinkle, raising the back of your hand to his lips. A gentle press, your eyes locked together in a soft gaze to match, and he gives you back your hand as the spell of slowed-time is broken by a shocking round of cheering from the group behind you both.

With a subdued grin, you ease yourself away from the magnetic pull of your lips to his, “You’ve always got your hands on me.”

“And in,” he huffs, stifling a snicker at the fifth roll of your eyes today, watching the ends of your tied apron’s ribbon swing around over the length of your skirt. 

“You’d better find something to do in the meantime, or I’ll be asking Mrs. Adler to send you off herself.”

Jack shudders in a fake paddy of fear, the miniscule shakes of his body diminishing the sooner he realizes the severity of your words, and he merely chuckles. “Why’d you want to get rid of me?”

The pleading pull of his face and the wide and warm eyes he gives are somehow not enough to stop you from gesturing your head towards the pile of dirty dishes from dinner, waiting beside the basin. “You’re distracting.”

“Sweetpea, I’m ‘fraid that’s what you’ve got yourself caught up in,” Jack rests his chin in his palm, eyeing the clearing weather outside, “if you insist on woundin’ me, I think I’ve got a horse who needs to go for a ride, and a little lady who’ll have to join us next time…”

“I’ll see you later, Jack,” you whisper, rounding the edge of his ear with your fingers, easing his hair back into place and he adopts a light blush— softer things always more efficient in pausing his heartbeat than harsher things— and he grabs his hat left to the side of him, placing it over his head and bidding you a caring goodbye, “Miss me, darlin’.”

-

Once the room has cleared at last, leaving you in that familiar spot with soapy hands, sore feet, and a wandering mind, you arrange the wet dishes to dry, stacking each on top of the other with meticulous attention. You dry your hands on the fabric of your apron, rough cotton soaking up the water, your back leaning into the hard edge of the bar behind you. The strain in your neck grows sharper as you push your head back, groaning, willing away the next few hours until you can put your feet to rest upon Jack’s lap. 

And at the thought of him, a whistle from the exterior shoots your stream of mental pictures down as your head whips to look out the window, and there he is— Jack, thighs spread wide over Sylvie’s back as he urges her to stop, his eyes straining to find you through the window. Stomach twisting, you make a speedy trip to the stash of berries hidden away, and you pull a handful of them into your apron’s pocket before sparing the parlour a thorough peek and slipping out the front door.

It’s not loud enough for you to make out, but it must be Jack’s voice in a baby soft tone as he tells Sylvie what sounds like “there she is,” with a pat between her perky ears and a smile towards you. 

“Hello,” you grin, stepping to the edge of the porch where you meet the two of them, shamelessly devouring the way he sits tall upon her in the dying sunlight clear of clouds, dark clothes, dark hair, dark eyes, a bandana hugging his neck under his glistening throat. “Back so soon?”

“It was her idea,” Jack pokes, leaning back in the saddle as Sylvie adjusts her hooves into place over the dust and sparse blades of wheatgrass. “Suppose I had to lead her here, though…”

With a hand gliding along her wide neck, you watch his smile only grow in size as he watches you gather the berries from your pocket and throw a quizzical look his way, to which he nods enthusiastically, leaning forward again to watch and guide.

You call her name softly, approaching her from a better angle, and she makes an odd pattern with the movement of her head before she digs into your offered palm of treats, her wide mouth a great tickle on your skin that you try not to flinch at.

“Nice girls,” Jack whispers, swiping his hand over Sylvie’s shoulder, then turning his attention to you. “No more flak from the lady, I’m hopin’?”

“No, haven’t seen her since,” you giggle, “you know, Jack, that was kind what you did, but I am still fine.” 

Sylvie chomps down the rest of your stash of berries, licking the leftover juices off your palm as you gasp, retracting your arm, and Jack extends his hand far across to you in a warm beckoning. You give him the dry one and he laughs when he notices, “I ain’t afraid of no horse’s mouth,” steering you around to where he’s sat on the saddle.

“You’re not even afraid of Mrs. Adler,” you say bluntly, resting your laced hands over the meat of his thigh and then your chin on top, and Jack stares down at your widened eyes, his chest stuttering with a slightly choked breath.

“I came here to see you, darlin’, to tell you somethin’.” Running his thumb over your hand, he starts to lean his body down, your own straightening for his lips to meet your ear in a warm breath, sending ice down your spine and a melting heat between your thighs.

He waits for your prompt, his radiating need causing your posture to wither as you slant up and into him, “What is it?”

Whatever upward curve your lips adopted seconds before falls away as your eyes close, that heat between your thighs now wetter, your grip on his leg tight enough to pinch.

“I’m gonna take you out again tonight, gonna lay you in the grass and fuck you dumb, listenin’ to you whine loud as you can.”

He’s utterly pleased with the visible, hitching breath you can no longer take in, your chest pausing in its stunted passing, and he straightens up his back again to look down at you with his face shadowed under his hat. “Ain’t that somethin’ old girl, the little lady is speechless…” Jack coos to the horse and she puffs, followed by another pat of her hoof on the ground, and his grin is a mix of genuine and egotistical happiness.

“Jack,” you purr, all bothered and wobbly-knees, a helpless look in your eye as you tug the looped rope, and he prepares to ride back off. He doesn’t partake in your pleading this time, instead giving a squeeze of his legs over Sylvie’s back.

“Same place, darlin’,” he calls, “I expect you.” 

A backward glance and a tip of his hat as courtesy— or to make up for his foolish teasing— and his figure dies off in the gunpowder dust behind him and his girl, his jacket the same one you’d worn your first time away. 

-

It’s cool and dark the next time you step out onto the porch, carefully shutting the door behind you, locking it with your key. You rub your hands over the sides of your arms as you creep over the wood, peeking past the pillars before descending the three short steps. Same place, he’d said, so you set off in the direction of the stables, bathed in the soft light of the spaced lamp posts, the same exhilarating rush as the first time bubbling head to toe. 

“Ever heard of a sweet little maid ‘round here?” Jack’s happy rumbling sounds just behind you, turning into laughter at the yelp you let out, its sound squeaky and fearful until he catches you by the waist, pulling your back into his chest to sway your body around aimlessly. “Works for a Mrs. Adler, prettiest face you ever saw…”

An endeared giggle falls out of you, mouth covered immediately by your hand when he comes to place his chin on your shoulder, his fingers pressing tightly to your middle. His clothing feels rough by your neck, unlike anything else you’ve felt him wearing against you, but his cheek is soft and freshly shaven, his lips hungrily kissing behind your ear.

“Oh, I’m not so sure I have…” you murmur, allowing yourself to sink backward into his promising support, and his hum is sweet into your skin when you say so, arms squeezing you just enough for your feet to lift from the ground. 

“She’s got angel eyes,” he whispers, a finger coming to trail down your cheek as he lets you back down, until his hand cups your chin, turning your head sideways to capture your lips in a deep, swelling kiss. Your own hand rises to mirror his gesture, knees suddenly like water with their wobbly weakness, and the ball of your foot scrapes over the dust as he tugs you even closer, tasting your lips. 

“That might ring a bell,” you smile when you finally part, stroking your thumb over his jaw. He likes the way it feels, tilting himself further into your light grip of his face. The world surrounding you will never be the same level of interest when he stands before you— a daydream of an outing only seems as sweet if he’s there. A guidance, of sorts, a protector.

Roaming your eyes over him, a surprised gasp follows that welcoming kiss when you notice his top half covered in a navy blue poncho, its edges finished with white tassels and the wool adorned with white lines making intricate patterns over the length and width of it.

“Where have you been hiding this from me?” you simper, picking up the edge of it to feel the slightly scratchy material. He grins, weight shifting to one foot with a cocked hip, hands resting at the base of his suspenders underneath.

“Hidin’ it?”

“You’ve always got that jacket on,” you murmur, leaning upward, grabbing his face in an internal fit of fondness at seeing him covered in the blanket-like garment, giving him a harsher kiss that surprises him enough to nearly stumble backwards. He gains his balance, beaming against your mouth as he steadies the both of you, the world returning.

“You sure keep me on my toes, little lady,” he breathes, brows raised in bashfulness that you forget he has stored in that cocky brain. “Don’t you stop.”

Humming, your hand falling to rest on his chest as you recall more private contexts to his last words, you notice he wears a cross-body leather satchel underneath the poncho. “What have you got in there?”

“I can’t be full of surprises if you wanna make me spill ‘em all,” he teases, pushing his nose into yours, “come on, just you n’ me tonight.”

With your fingers laced together, Jack leads you through the familiar field to an unfamiliar spot at the top of a climbing hill, large rocks worsening the upward trek under the minimal light.

His hands find the backs of your thighs as he helps you over the last hump and your frustrated huff gets lost in your throat when you realize his hands are helping you up under your skirt instead of over.

“Jack,” you guffaw, using your biceps to push up and over the hard surface and he plays dumb behind you, a deep chortling following as you roll over to the flat space of dry grass above it. Looking ahead you notice a small gathering of wood placed in a circle around the center of the clearing in the trees while Jack rolls up next to you, much more gracefully with what must be years of practice.

He shares a sideways glance with you, “What?” 

His pouty lips drag downward in his falsely innocent question, your eyes rolling without annoyance but with affection. He grabs your hand again, tugging you near the woodpile and he reaches into the satchel, revealing a box of matches in his palm.

“Is this what you did earlier?” you ask, a bewildered softness easing over your shoulders, and he nods with a grin.

“Sylvie n’ I came here to get it ready.”

Sliding the box open, he strikes the match against the rough side of the cover sleeve and the spark ignites a smoking, small flame that he holds to a coil of waxed thread under the arranged sticks and wood. It catches on and flourishes upward, sprinkling tiny sparks that rise then fall by Jack as he recoils, standing back up to his feet.

“How’s that?” he looks at you, pulling you into his warm side, your fingers instinctively wrapping around a tassel. You raise your other hand to hover over the fire, its heat so pleasant and lively on your skin and you look back at him with the same fondness as always for his generous gifts, that might not even be considered a gift to anyone else but you.

“Thank you, Jack.” On your tiptoes, you place a kiss on his cheek filled with all the words you can’t think to say— it’s only a campfire, and to you, it holds all his care, burning there.

“There’s more,” he whispers, and his fingers rise to touch where your lips had just been, then he looks to them and you, smiling. “Said you wished you could run,” he starts, pointing to an old, battered tin can sitting atop a tree stump several feet away, “reckon there’s a few things you’ll need to learn first.”

From underneath the wool, he pulls out one of his revolvers and it shines in the flickering fire, freshly polished. He extends his hand, your own hesitantly touching it’s handle, cupping the barrel with the other as you slowly hold it on your own.

“Jack, I really don’t know about—”

“Careful,” he coos, circling back to stand behind you and placing his hands on your hips, he helps you adjust your grip with the beginning of his lesson whispered into your ear, his hands gentle as they cover yours. “Two hands.”

“I’m not sure I’m the gun slinging type,” you whisper nervously, your palms becoming clammy just handling the weapon, and you remember when its silver glint was pointed at Mr Porter, under its power.

“Always assume a gun’s loaded,” he continues, aiding you in extending your arms out, the aim at the can improving as you go. “Feet apart.”

With the toe of his boot on the inside of your ankle, he pushes your feet further apart until shoulder-width, and your shoe slides over the dry grass as you suck in a deep breath at the physical order. 

“Hold it tighter,” he whispers next, ensuring your fingers are hugging the grip tightly, your other hand cupping the trigger guard firmly. “Don’t leave your finger on the trigger unless you’re aimed and ready.” 

Jack is rasping now, a growing hardness on your ass from watching you handle his own weapon with determination and he pinches your hips, inciting a gasp as you try to keep your arms steady.

“The cylinder's full,” he adds, “you hit the can and I’ll make good on my promise.”

With the shot of arousal that comes after his words and the reminder of his promise to fuck you hard over the grass, it’s too easy to convince yourself that you’ll miss every shot.

“Won’t somebody hear it?” you question, turning your head as far as you can and he hums thoughtfully, pinching you softer.

“It’s luck if you hear a gunshot from a distance,” Jack soothes. And it hits you, that when Mr. Porter and Mr. Bryant started shooting blindly in the house, that those were the closest bullets had ever been to you— and here, you hold them in your palms.

“Go on, sugar, knock it over and I’ll fuck you right by this fire.”

A whine escapes you before you can aim it again, the grip even sweatier than before, the fire merely a glint now as you focus on the target tin.

Locking your grip around the handle, your pointers steadying the direction, you shut one eye, then the other to test the placement, and you pull back the hammer with a stretch of your thumb.

“I’m scared,” you breathe as your arms remain pointed forward, and Jack nods, applying pressure to your shoulders with his palms.

“I’ll keep you steady. S’okay if you miss.” Jack rubs some of the tension away, your arms growing tired from holding them up as you make one last adjustment. The jolt when you pull the trigger is more powerful than you’d expected, and Jack keeps you still as your body reacts to the sharp sound and the full shock of it. The bullet only just skims the side of the can, a tinkling sound following the jarring shot from the barrel.

“Fuck,” Jack breathes, his eyes wide and his smile too, when he looks from your near-shot to your frightened face turning into confidence. He throws his hat to the side, smoothing his hand through his hair before bending slightly behind you, “that was fuckin’ close, darlin’. Go again.”

His tone is pure excitement as you shake off the last lingering threads of apprehension, and you aim again, not a one inch difference from your first shot, pulling the hammer down a second time.

You place your pointer over the solid trigger and Jack’s breath hitches as he waits and watches intently, his hands still supporting your shoulders. This time, when your upper body jostles back from the force, the shot is farther off but still close, hitting the bark where a small explosion of wood chips scatter to the grass and you startle at the cracking noise, casting a worried look to Jack.

“Keep tryin’,” he soothes, cuddling his cheek to the side of your neck as he cozies up, and you’re certain it’s not the best condition for a shooting lesson, the middle of your thighs gathering slick and your palms more nervous sweat. With a deep breath, you stretch your arms out once more, muscles pulling up tight as you adjust your feet, your eyesight on the tin can reflecting the flames of the little campfire.

“That’s it,” Jack whispers as you touch your finger to the hammer, “focus.”

Scoffing, you settle your aim, determined to ignore the way he’s still pressing up against you.

“You’re doin’ great,” his voice scratches just before you pull against the trigger’s resistance and the bullet releases, harder it feels like, and pierces the tin with an incredibly loud metallic pang, sending it fast off the stump. Although you’re not too far from it, you don’t trust it yet; looking back down at the weapon in your hand and then to him, his smile already turns smug. It’s a surprise to hit it at the same time that it’s not— luck or natural talent, you don’t think you’ll ever find out. He shakes his head with pride dripping all over, crushing you into his side with a tense squeeze of his arm, your neck fitting in the bend of his elbow.

“That’s too quick,” you breathe in modesty that Jack tells you to shush away, as your disbelieving eyes fall back on the tree stump, tin can-less. “I wasn’t far away enough.”

“Come on, darlin’.” He disembarks, jogs to the stump, picks up the can behind it. A hole burns through the center on both sides. “Still shot it on the third try.”

When he arrives at your feet again, you peer down at the silver gun in your hold. Struggling to accept your own accuracy, you slowly hand it back to him.

“It'll be harder next time,” he purrs, sliding it back into its holster pocket, “but I think you’ll make the most charmin’ gunfighter in the whole damn world.”

“That’s your title,” you smile, brushing the dark hair from his forehead, curling your fist into the wool draped over him. “And the most handsome, too.”

Jack’s chest puffs out against yours as he preens at your softly-spoken compliment, the tone of his hum pitched in a questioning way to urge you on to continue.

“I’d rather like to learn more about that lasso,” you say instead, fingering where it’s attached to his hip, and he looks at you through his eyelashes, closing his hand around the one fisted in his poncho.

“Hell, if I taught you the ropes I doubt you’d let me out of your room for a whole week, darlin’. We’d better work up to that…”

“Oh well,” you tease, perching yourself up to level your lips with his ear, “you’re too soft on me to be my teacher anyway.”

“Too soft?” He raises his brows, eager to know, causing you to step back as he advances on you.

“Too easy. I ought to shoot that can three more times from ten more feet away just to be sure I’ve learned.”

Jack lays the thick blanket next to the crackling fire after pulling it out of the satchel, motioning for you to come.

“Sugar, I’ll show you rough,” he grumbles, dragging you down to the blanket with him, your chest thumping square on his when you land, a stunted breath into his mouth. His promise, listenin’ to you whine as loud as you can, returns to you now as he holds the back of your neck and opens his lips to brush yours, nipping your lower lip to earn the first wince.

“Don’t disappoint me,” you taunt, landing yourself rolled over and pinned under his heavy weight as he lifts the poncho from his head and drapes it over your bodies, hidden and warm together as you share the fiery heat of yourselves and the physical fire beside you.

“I’d hate nothin’ more than to disappoint you.” He keeps his eyes trained on your face as his fingers creep up your leg, a soft ghosting until he reaches the stark wetness compared to your dry skin everywhere but your core and he’s already groaning at just the sensation of your slick covering his fingers. “Think I could fill you right now, hm? Soakin’ me so fast…”

“I need you to fuck me as hard as you can,” you demand, your head tipping back against the ground underneath the blanket, heat accumulating in your own makeshift tent of the dark poncho. His fingers twitch over your clit as he watches your face twist in effort to get your last coherent thoughts out, “This is where I can cry.”

“Jesus,” his head falls into your shoulder and he rubs his cock on your thigh, covered by his trousers. He’s hard and thick, just as he was watching you shoot his gun, and he lifts your skirt higher, bunching the fabric at your waist. “You always get what you ask for from me.”

Blindly searching with your fingers, you find the buttons of his trousers and pull them open, carefully taking his cock out, the tip leaking generously onto your skin. You spread it for him though it runs out quickly, but your own burning arousal is enough for the two of you as he settles himself closer, his hair flopping out of place. His moustache brushes against your temple when he spreads your legs wider, a soothing slide of your skin over the blanket before you feel his cock running through your slick folds, and it’s enough to start whining. Even the little sounds you let out at the house are suppressed and quietened— here, there is no one but the two of you.

“Give it all to me, baby doll,” he rasps over your throat as he positions himself and pushes past your entrance, slowly stretching you open on his thick cock and your thighs fall open wider, too, your breath heavy and low for him to bask in. “Ain’t that sweet…”

Jack’s eyes carry the glint of the fire beside your bodies as he stays there for some moments, letting you squirm all you need before he flattens you to the ground with his chest, cooing encouraging gentleness to contrast with the untamed way he’s going to fuck you here, on the blanket, again. His cock pushes deeper with the added mass, your whimper not enough when he finally thrusts and hits his hips to your wide-spread thighs and works the wetness of you all over his cock.

“Ja— Jack—” you whine, and his hot hand soon comes to glide over the innermost part of your thigh, rubbing it firmly as if he’s about to—

He spanks your thigh and earns the high-pitch moan he’s been working for all along, drawing himself back to return with a harsh thrust as he keeps his hand on the stinging sensation, groaning out his nose.

“Fu-uuck, there we go, that’s what I wanted,” he grunts through stunted breaths as he sets a new, punishing pace, sliding with ease in and out, hitting deep inside to brush against that satisfying spot that when he slaps the same part of your leg, the pleasure from both makes you cry louder, moan louder.

He draws the wool tighter around his back as he lowers his lips to your mouth, emitting an animalistic groan over your face when you clench around his cock and pull him in closer for another open-mouthed kiss, true and full.

“Oh, god,” you groan, his hand caressing the underside of your thigh, until he draws it up to push your knee on your chest, fitting his hand in the bend of your leg.

“Gimme more, sugar,” he demands, landing a sharp swat to the side of your ass lifted off the ground that gives him your neediest, filthiest sound yet as you fist his hair, taking his brutal pace. 

“Jack, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Fuck,” he curses back harder, “I’m gonna steal you every god damn night for this.” Jack hisses through bared teeth on your collarbone, keening when you raise your hips to meet his. The fire rises beside you at the same time a wave of building pressure in your abdomen knocks through your lower half, and you place your hands on his face, sliding them up to meet his hair.

A shaky breath puffs out of you, the sting of his spankings spreading over your leg as you crane your neck and cry out while he buries himself and grinds against your clit, “You just get wetter n’ wetter for me,” he remarks hoarsely, “just can’t help but need me, hm?”

“I... Yes,” you sigh into his heated neck, your limbs softening in their hold of him as he fucks you hard over the blanket, his grip deathly on the side of your thigh.

“I want to hear it, darlin’, say it to me,” he scrapes, his voice at the bottom of his register, and when the words get stuck in your mind and jumbled out of order from the fullness of your core, he draws himself out and rolls you onto your stomach. Mindlessly, empty, you whine with an equal hoarseness to his own, the end of it pushed out prematurely when he flattens his chest over your back, lining his cock back up with your soaking entrance.

“I’ll pull every last pretty sound you got left in you if I have to.” 

The words are a terrible blow to your senses, sparking a rapid increase in the sound of rushing blood in your ears as he pushes your thigh up to the side and presses down on it with his palm.

“Please…” you breathe, “I’m so close— fuck me, please fuck me again—”

Shutting your eyes, hoping to feel him push himself back inside you, you instead are met with a final, cracking swat on your leg that sends you wailing as Jack waits for you to scream it, “Tell me, sugar!”

“I need you, Jack— I need you!” 

It doesn’t sound like your own voice. Never has it been clouded by so much desire and such a sinful edge to your witless begging, but it’s enough for him. A push forward, and he fills you; his own sounds have grown needier too, reaching far out. He plants a hand by your face and you grab onto his wrist as he shoves his cock repeatedly deeper and at this angle, you could consider the punishing stretch of him painful, but it’s everything you need, causing you to whine a step higher every time his hips hit your ass.

“You’re all I fuckin’ think about, darlin’,” Jack mouths at your earlobe, your bodies turning slick under the poncho and your clothes, “here you are, shootin’ my gun n’ lettin’ me fuck your tight little pussy, beggin’ for me— gonna make me fuckin’ cum.”

Your jaw drops and an involuntary squeal stumbles from your hanging lip, Jack snarling behind you as he plunges again, hooking his hands under your shoulders and splaying his fingers wide over the tops of them.

It’s a taut stretch of your chest when he pulls on you like that, the soft curl of his hair tickling your neck as he nestles his face to yours and muffles his grunts and groans. You pull up tighter around him, squeezing his cock, nearly driving him to collapse over your back when he feels it happen and what is easily his hardest, neediest and wrecked groan tears out and spreads over your limbs with the rumbling breath he takes after.

“Jaaack,” you whisper, his movements heavily weighing on you, your body resting just at the precipice of something overwhelming, “So… full..”

“I’m gonna fuck my cum into that sweet cunt.” Jack fists the blanket with his supporting hand and the next time he rams his hips forward, a full-bodied scream fills the air, and once more, you squeeze him tighter as you cum hard around his cock, your nails starting to dig into his wrist as he fucks you through it. 

“Baby doll, you’re too fuckin’ good to me— squeeze me so fuckin’ tight when you cum, keep it comin’—”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god— fuck!”  You can’t stop gushing around him as his thrusts lose rhythm, as he focuses more on the sounds you’re making and the grip you have on his cock and it just won’t end, tears beginning to form in your eyes while the movements never cease.

“That is just heavenly,” he says with a strained laugh, “shit, you really did need me, huh? You want my cum inside you too? Want to be spoiled?”

“Yes!” you cry, miraculously raising your ass just a little against his cock as the orgasm finally calms, a growl and a bite on your shoulder at your ceaseless will to beg.

“Take it.” One final, gorgeous moan from his throat and he buries himself, a wet warmth painting your walls, his chest deflating as he settles around your back and rubs your thigh in a soft contrast to what was his stinging swats minutes before. He blows and pants to recuperate, and as he brings himself out, you feel the warmth spreading and dripping down to your clit. For a moment, you share the breaths you’re both trying to catch, but the sensation of his cum sliding over your skin is yet another obstacle to returning to a manageable state of being.

“This…” he whispers, taking his hand back, leaning on his other elbow to support himself as he slides his fingers under your skirt to lead them to your swollen cunt, “is my favourite, darlin’.” He spreads his cum over your folds, milky liquid sliding wherever he traces, and you push back on your knees to raise yourself for him while he guides it back inside you, your throat tired but still whimpering as he pushes his fingers in.

“Keep me inside,” he murmurs on your temple, urging you to lay back down over the plushy blanket, and as you relax, mussed and twinkling by the fire, he drapes the poncho over your body, tucking the fabric under your sides. He strokes your cheek with the dry hand, lifting your head to his lap as he carefully sits by you, your eyes delicately fluttering closed. 

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, and without opening your eyes, you shake your head no. Jack makes a purring sound, considering the moans his actions pulled out of you, and he begins to stroke your face some more. “Hope I never do,” he adds softly, studying your peaceful expression under the firelight and stars, “you’re soft.”

The last two words make you blink and smile up at him, finally granting him a peek which he returns with curved lips, and you know that “soft” doesn’t mean “weak” when he says it.

“I got an idea of where to take you next, if you think you can handle it...”

-

tags for yeehonk idiot:

@filthybookworm @frannyzooey​ @javier-pena​ @javierpcna​ @astroboots​ @userdindja @pedros-mustache​ @princessxkenobi​ @trashcora​ @writerdee1701​ @thelemongeneration​ @libraryofrecs​ @fan-of-encouragement​ @herb-welch​ @writeforfandoms​ @queenofthecloudss​ @leannawithacapitala​ @the-feckless-wonder​ @kesskirata​ @fuck-goes-on​ @lawfulgranola​@apascalrascal @prismaticpizza​ @xemmaloveskillianx​ @littlemissoblivious​ @quica-quica-quica @spideysimpossiblegirl​ @little-big-mac2​ @recklesswit​ ​@frankie-catfish-morales

Your face pushed against the sheets, he nearly chuckles at the way you whine as he pulls your hips up, then tugs on the chain between your linked wrists. Your arms tense and strain with this, earning him another soft sound from your perpetually open mouth.

“Mijita,” he coos, wide palms smoothing down the backs of your thighs, “you wanted this.”

Wanted this?

It’s so difficult to breathe — you have to gasp back the air at the expense of whining his name —something he only seems to enjoy. A finger follows the curve of your thigh all the way back up, stopping when he feels the way you’re leaking for him.

“I— I wanted you to touch me,” you sigh, and when you attempt to shift your body, he presses between your shoulder blades to keep you stuck in place.

“I am touching you, baby,” he replies, his smart tone seeping through his mouth and onto your back with his brief kiss. It’s warm and wet and so are you — he’ll take his time to admire that. At once, it’s exhilarating and exhausting. He leaves you so helpless but teases you the right way; it can only get worse.

“Javi—”

“Shhh,” he rubs up the line of your back, “you take what you get.”

“But—”

“What did I say?” The back of your neck is swiftly locked in his tight hold, lifting your head from the bed and it hurts too beautifully to be painful. It’s only Javier that touches you like this. You’ll never ask him to stop. “Tell me,” he whispers, so kind it’s a threat.

He loosens his fingers just enough for you to speak, “I take what I get.”

And then he drops you there.

“Good girl.”

With practiced patience you wait for him. The familiar sound of his buckle coming undone, his zipper, the slide of denim over his thighs. You need him, ache for him, and when he finally spreads you with two fingers to take his cock, you’re loud enough to earn complaints.

“Fuck, fuck,” he groans, a deep rumble to your softness, “you get so fucking wet when I do that”— he pulls the chain taut, lines himself up— “when I make it rough.”

You desperately hum your agreement, his fist winding in your hair at the same time he pushes in, stretching you on his cock. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s it,” he praises, pulling out as fast as he entered, and repeats the motions achingly quick, sliding with your wetness and hitting something so deep, divine. “Take it like that.”

Like that — this punishing pace and the tugging on your hair. The soreness in your arms and the cramping of your muscles.

He leans over and mouths at what he can reach, teeth biting at you until something in him snaps and he grinds harder. It would be so easy just to reach for him and grasp, a simple aid in release — but you’re locked in, bound beneath him and he’s fucking you so nice and heavy you can’t even think to ask him to let you go, to ask for anything more or less. You feel the bruises forming against the rigid cuffs that grow warm against your skin. Something in you likes it.

And to him, you look too pretty to free you from them.

“Can you say ‘thank you,’ baby?”

+

Before, after, now. The present: you and him on his couch, your back to his chest while he permits himself to be drawn ever-deeper into the leather — into the swaying tendrils of your warmth (his own presence).

Javier prides himself on consciousness. You can tell his about him in the way he tracks your hands while you button his shirts. In how he never drops a pen, but smiles affectionately when you do. and you notice it when his eyes are always moving but still remain fixed, hopelessly wandering in prisms of possibility in every conversation, in every subliminal space between you and him.

Somehow it always comes back to you and him. This has not been an inevitable thing but one that has been chosen through painstaking moments of interspersed affection.

(The two of you know this. But somewhere, deep down, down in that place where hope goes to hide, there is a type of hope that holds a letter. The letter, you know, if you ever read it, will inscribe such indelible grandness into your soul with promises of inevitability that will make you reach for that which is beyond your station. because what is inevitability if not a guarantee of some kind of future?)

This is the future you would choose, though. Or something like it. The future has always been hazy to you, even before the fabrications Columbia has wrought and welded into your mind. Was it like that for him, too, you wonder? Was Javier always dreaming of some far-off future that was quantifiable only in touch and feeling, and never in deed?

The two of you alone for once, alone and with quiet minds. That is what you crave for you, and for him, above anything else. At the end of the every day — every hour — every decade. A quiet mind for his drizzling heart, making Pollock canvases over the bodies of each person he meets.

Letting your head drop onto his shoulder, your eyes drift shut, taking in the unmistakable realness of Javier. The scent of smoke a blanket for your entangled limbs, it’s something you can furrow into — so you do, turning your cheek flat against his the plane of his chest. It’s nestled alongside his heart and your lips curl into a soft smile at its thumping entreaty against all that wearies his soul.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

You suck in a breath. Maybe you shouldn’t ask him. You know — just let it go. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Just forgive and forget. That’s what your mother had always told you. You’re too stubborn, darling, she had sighed the last time you had visited home sans a ring on your finger (and the hope for one in the future as untouchable as the horizon in the distance).

Javier is different, though. Isn’t he? And he’s older. He’s probably done this before, you ruse. The comfort provided by the thought is temporary, though, morphing into a sinister storm of unchecked conclusions. If he has done this before, maybe he wouldn’t want you. Maybe he would find you too young, too emotional. The phrase circles back, coating the sinister analysis with the taste of lingering bitterness. Too stubborn.

The man now holding your mind close to his heart has noticed the shift in your demeanor. How could he not, when he is so close to you? And so Javier lets his fingers paint up your bare arm and bump over the bulk of your tank top strap and ever-north until he can let them move across your jaw and under your chin. A simple, gentle redirection that is so at odds with the way you have heard about him chasing sicarios through the streets, gun in hand. He chases you with intimate purity; his bullets are lips that tear you apart and put you back together in swirling instances of hope.

What is it. Three words. Three syllables. Stark, plain, direct.

What you need to tell him is none of those things.

Javier brushes his lips against yours. Tell me, baby, he murmurs. You’re doing that thing again — I can feel you thinking.

It would be so much easier to kiss him. To tug on his collar and pull his lips down to yours and devour him with an open mouth. To forget thinking beyond conscious reassurances of his touch. If he touches me like this he must want me, you think as his hand squeezes your breast.

But neither you nor him are in the business of easy.

“Why did you —“ his eyes are too much. You turn away and let your voice drop to a whisper; everything is bright and loud over the rush of blood in your ears. “Why did you turn away? At the office, I mean. A few days ago.”

The moments after your hesitant confession are silent and despair covers you, turbulent saltwater waves engulfing you in a dark velvet embrace. It feels so real you can taste the salt on your lips; did he leave it there for you to find just moments earlier in an act of foresight borne from the years that separate the two of you?

“Oh, cariño,” Javier sighs. Those phantom lips find your forehead and press at the faint lines forming there: filling in the gaps between you and him. “Have you been thinking about this ever since?”

He sighs again when you nod and somehow it gives you the strength to look up and meet his gaze.

Yes. So many connotations; so many eddies of whirling memories of ways you’ve said that word with him (and he to you) that evoke the place of heart to speak the truth. Yes. Yes, Javi.

Yes said three times, for the route of perfection.

Javier’s nose glides along the sloping planes of face — across your cheekbone, your jaw, that animated mind of his moving in time with his gestures. Gestures for the sentiments; words for the passions. Is that not how it has always been?

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. When was the last time he said that? He can’t remember, but faces flash in his mind all the same. Steve. Connie. Baby Olivia. Trujillo. Carrillo. His father. Colombia itself.

He means it this time; he means it in a way he hasn't before.

Javi sights and settles deeper into the couch (the question follows him). The grip around your waist cinches at the movement. “I — I don’t know, cielito,” he admits, haltering words emphasizing the hoarse quality of his voice.

“What does cielito mean?” you ask quietly, nearly regretting your bringing up the topic in the first place.

Behind you, his eyes narrow. “You speak near-fluent Spanish,” he counters.

“I know. I just —“ you once again meld yourself against his stability both real and projected — “I wanna hear you say it.”

An inhale (to carry you scent in the words he next speaks). “It means sweetheart. Darling. Baby.” With the last example he nudges you in recognition of the moniker he likes to call you in English — the one that usually comes more naturally to him — and a smile drags the corner of your mouth upward. A small act for a little joy, one that corresponds to the slow revelation of his utter lack of anger, for his willingness to heed your own vulnerability for reassurance.

He’s silent a few moments longer. The jut of Javier’s chin rests awkwardly on your shoulder; it must be uncomfortable but yet he still hovers near your ear. If he can speak directly to you, maybe it will ease your understanding. Maybe the closer he is to your being when he speaks, there is less of an opportunity for the words to get distorted before they cross the sacred threshold of your skin.

(You do not think these things but you feel them all the same).

“I think I was scared of showing too much.” When he finally speaks, his voice is the same it’s always been, just as safe and secure and infuriatingly attractive. You want to hate him for it but you can’t; instead, you latch onto the familiarity as you float in tangerine uncertainty.

Javier plucks you from that sea and you listen, soaking yourself in his words and his exquisite, ramshackle valor. “I was worried other people will see,” he confesses. “Not that I’m ashamed of you, but for your own protection.”

Hesitance, the second of the night, pauses him here. With the pause comes another inhale, this one more serious and weighty than the last. “Baby, there are people who don’t get along with me,” he finally admits. “At the office, I mean. I wouldn’t want you to suffer because of that.”

I want to protect your youth, your career, your innocence goes verbally unspoken, but there are other ways to speak. Isn’t that what you specialize in, after all? How to communicate without saying what you really mean?

Javier is so unlike you in this respect. He has broad shoulders and a swift gait and steady hands and all with a mind to match, both logical and considerate. Here and now he has permitted you a glimpse of the shadow self. That is the self that he converts to when you are not around, sometimes; the one that creeps up behind his shoulder when he visits Laredo.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, urgency lacing the softness. Javier needs to you to know, to understand that his act of rejection was borne from concern. Too late, he realizes now, that such an act is still rejection all the same.

For your part, you hum quietly, considering just as he did before answering your question. Words are more tremulous for you; to be strong and defiant at work is one thing, but with him? Here? In his home, in his embrace, while the teal fabric of his shirt covers your torso? This is different. You have not been trained for this — there is no manual, no field exercise, no translation worksheet. You cannot be angry with him, not really. It was never so much anger but a deep hurt, a need to be seen, and seen by him in particular. To be wanted boldly by the man you —

“I’ve heard that there’s been some…disputes,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble either, Javi.” I’m not worth it is what you leave out, but he knows. Javier was not the most reliable agent of human intelligence the embassy had seen for no reason. “Besides,” you barrel on, “it was mostly because I was already overtired, I think.”

A kiss meets your clothed shoulder. “You did sleep nearly all of Saturday,” he muses quietly.

“Yeah.” you nod, thinking over his words. “I was pretty knocked out, wasn’t I?”

His mustache tickles the back of your neck and you squirm in response, a hushed giggle escaping despite the mood that seems to have settled over the two of you without either of you truly noticing. “I’ve never seen anyone sleep so much,” Javi says with a laugh to match you own, thumbs coming to weave patterns against your skin through the mediary of his shirt.

Another kiss, this one behind your ear. Hot and heavy and open-mouthed, it makes you gasp. “You look pretty when you sleep,” Javier murmurs, his lips swaying over your sensitive skin in circular patterns of fringed hope.

Is that so, you ask, turning your head to brush your lips to his jaw all the while.

I’m not a liar, Javier answers, and there’s force enough backing up the rasp to shock your system into silence. It’s an innocuous, routine phrase in most other contexts; for a fleeting second, you wonder what other couples talk about.

I’m not a liar. That’s what happens in the romcoms. The man implores the woman that he’s an honest man; that he didn’t mean to hurt her; that it’s all some comedic Shakespearean misunderstanding. It’s easy enough to believe: what do shiny men in diamond-dappled romcoms have to lie about? Upon what does their trust tremble?

Nothing so grand as national secrets. As national scandals. As personal failures that caused the deaths of dozens, in the meager counting of things. As being sold as a hero when you believe you’re anything but.

Do you believe him, when he says he’s not a liar?

You suppose you do, in the same way he believes you. Half-truths, omissions: to your line of work, these are not lies. They cannot be.

Not when you have chosen to do this. To have two selves.

Your life, his life: it cannot be a Shakespearean comedy. The thought catches you in a unsteady riptide and you’re caught in its unforgiving thrall. It is Hamlet all over again, the current whispers against your skin, painting your skin with eddies of fear.

Perhaps. But maybe not. Maybe there is a life beyond his government-paid apartment. You’re not sure.

But you can dream, so you tell him yes Javi, you’re not a liar and let him kiss all the skin he can reach before unbuttoning that shirt to give him more than he even asked for.

(That is all you want to do for him. It always has been. To give him everything for which he strives to attain and is just beyond his grasp. To give him something solid for all of his dust-woven victories and to erode obsidian statues of gleaming sins from the place of honor they hold in Javier’s soul — to tear the pillars apart, to be a Samson to his Delilah).

Yes, yes, yes, Javier, I believe you.

laredo, the place that is home-but-not-home: the place that formed him but not where he was made is both a piece of his heart and far from it. how he is to explain the complexities of a broken heart rendered from its birthplace to you? guilt mingles with grief so often these days it's become difficult to tell which is which.

he takes a deep breath when you kiss his cheek and settle into his lap. there's a free kitchen chair next to his own, but javier's long since learned not to object when you choose closeness.

"did he take it okay?"

javier's eyes drift shut and remain so for a moment or five or twelve. when he opens them, your own are bunched together and contracted with worry and fear and resolution, ready to face rejection if that's what's given to you.

his thumb brushes over your cheek. "he can't wait to meet you," javier says and his smile matches your own.

The knife he sharpened just yesterday could be dull with the way it’s dragging listlessly through the loaf of bread, and it’s when he hears your startled gasp of pain that he decides to intervene.

Javier doesn’t require words for you to turn into him when he reaches his side; open arms speak in his stead. Your reply is automatic, burying your face into the security of his chest. A different sort of darkness resides there: it’s a soft and welcoming velvet with flickers of satin light and you cloth yourself if in it, spindling spools of the stuff around your eyes (around your heart).

Dimly, you register that his hands are on your back, traveling the length of your spine. “That’s it, baby,” Javier breathes into your ear. “Take deep breaths for me.”

You will the tears to come, to splatter all over his chest but instead there’s nothing but the bright ball of emotion burning at your heart and the steadiness of Javier at your side.

He asks you what you were making with the bread. If he can get you to focus on the here and now, maybe you’d be able to sleep tonight. At least that was what the book he’d picked up the therapist’s office had said (his, not yours. Although he knows you told your own about the book because you’d picked it up one night and started reading it for yourself).

So he asks you what you were going to make (toast) and what you were going to put on it (strawberry jam). And then you clutch at his shirt and whisper something about wanting a grilled cheese but those were so much work, sounding so affronted by that fact that Javier had to laugh.

You smiled, too, he notices as you edge yourself out of the way so he can take over. Butter, cheese, bread, pan. Not so complex, really, but a second glance reveals that your smile has relapsed into a frown, fussing with a frayed cuff. Javier leans over and kisses your cheek: a warm press of his lips to your skin. A pause in both of your activities (one of making and the other, of undoing) that establishes a hesitant balance: here, now. stay with me.

You watch him work, and he lets you. You have always liked watching him work, for he is methodical in the best ways. Precision marks what he does and this endeavor is no exception, flipping the completed sandwich onto your waiting plate not a moment before the bread turned a shade too dark.

The expression of joy returns on the first bite and Javier can’t help but match it, resting his hip against the counter as you eat. Around bites, you mumble some story about a time you craved grilled cheese so much you thought you were sick with something, giggling to match Javier’s light—hearted smirk at your antics.

Here, now. Kitchen, butter, cheese, bread. Javier. The burn still aches in your chest but it’s receded now; there is only so much hurt can inflict on its host in then face of such a pure home.

When he’s dragged you away from the pile of dishes in the sink and gotten you back into bed — this time with an arm around your waist so you can’t slide out of bed without him noticing this time — Javier kisses you. It tastes like toothpaste and warm bread and the pure, heady taste of his love for you.

“I love you,” you murmur when you pull away, drowsily placing your head on his chest once more, his hand again finding the small of your back.