#mysmut

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: Tension Relief

A/N: The longest *drabble yet, but still short enough. Just a little smut scene I had to get out of my head. Like always, you can imagine any character here, it's just a man and a woman, no descriptions whatsoever (pics are just to set the mood). Today we'll have a mixture of semi-public and free use, a handjob, fingering and unprotected sex in a public restroom. This works wherever shopping in crowded areas is a thing.

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! // WORDS: 1.6k // AO3

He's tense. She can tell by how hard he squeezes her hand as they walk through the crowds around them. Chatter, laughter, crying children, screaming parents alongside different music blasting from different directions, merging into something you can only describe as noise, a typical soundscape on a busy day like this. Maybe shopping has not been the best idea she's had this morning. He's still agreed to come with her.

Under one condition. “When I need you, I'll take you,” he's said with a dark glint in his eyes, and she's nodded, with her stomach twisting in anticipation, that feeling of fear of humiliation, and suspense and excitement of the unknown. He's always rather unpredictable, even in their own home.

And she can't even imagine what he's capable of in public if given the chance to do anything to her. But luckily for her, he's willing to demonstrate.

It's a tug to her wrist, a demanding gesture, as he drags her through the crowds, past overwhelmed parents trying to calm their tense children, past a couple of elderly women looking around in confusion in search of their next destination. He knows exactly where to go, doesn't even look around while she steals nervous glances back over her shoulder as he heads straight for the women's restroom.

The door closes behind her, and he's on her in no time, hands cupping her face, eager lips closing around hers, his warm tongue forcing between them, and she can only grab his wrists for support as he pushes her backwards into an open stall. Her back hits the side wall with a thud at the same time as he slams the door shut with his shoe, causing her to gasp, but he only kisses her harder, one hand moving down to her throat, while the other moves down between them.

There's the clink of his belt, the plop of the button, scratch of the zipper, shifting of fabric, before he grabs her hand and puts it around his hard cock. No wonder he's been so tense. He's swollen, veins bulging against her palm, precum leaking from his tip. She pumps him slowly, and he growls into her mouth, squeezing her throat, urging her on. Her other hand finds his girth, and she strokes him in twisting motions, moving his hot skin over his hardened core, up and down, fist around his tip, fingers massaging his tight balls.

His hand slips under her dress, hot and heavy and urgent, finds the hem of her panties, pushes it aside, his fingers swiping through her folds. She's not nearly as ready as he is, but he doesn't care. Gives her clit a few pinches, rubs through her slit until he's content with the slick gathering between her thighs. She's breathing hard against his lips as he leans back a little, forehead pressed to hers, eyes dark, pupils dilated in hunger.

She squeaks quietly when he pushes a finger into her heat, deep and rough, working his way into her, then adds another, stretches her more. She's grateful for the preparation, no matter how little it is. There's the unmistakable noise of wetness squelching between fingers, and she shivers, her legs trembling.

Up until now she's been too preoccupied with stroking his cock and kissing him, pinned to the wall, save against his body, but then the door to the restroom opens, and a couple of chatting women enters, quickly moving into the stalls left and right of them.

While she freezes in her movements, eyes wide before they move towards the little gap between the door and wall of the stall they're in, hoping he's at least locked it, he keeps fingering her, almost as if he wants those other people to hear how wet she is, how wet he makes her. The hand on her throat pushes up to lift her chin, and she looks at him, holding her breath, while he smirks at her, eyes darker than usual.

He coaxes a little gasp out of her when he dips his fingers as deep as his knuckles allow, making her thighs twitch as he curls them inside her, scraping over that sensitive spot. She presses her lips into a thin line, panting through her nose. The women beside them flush at almost the same time, and he uses the noise (and she's thankful he does) to let go of her, then grab her hips instead and whirl her around until she has to brace herself on the toilet seat, bent forwards, while he flips the skirt of her dress up and pushes her panties down her legs.

Meaningless chatter fills the small room as the women wash their hands, and as they do, he steps closer and guides his hard cock towards her entrance. She bites her lip, forcing herself to remain quiet, but when he pushes in with one swift roll of his hips, a croaking squeak escapes her, and to her utter horror, the women pause mid-conversation. He's quick to move and leans over her to put his fingers between her lips to silence her, his palm cupping her chin to hold her in place.

She tastes herself as he pushes his rough fingertips onto her tongue while simultaneously pushing his length deeper into her tight warmth. Her body shudders under the stimulation, her arms shaking badly beneath her, fingers curling around the lid of the seat. She barely notices the women finally leaving, but once the door falls shut behind them, he really starts to move – and that, she notices.

The hand on her mouth pulls her back against him, spine arched as he presses her shoulder into his chest, fingers slipping deeper, teasing at the back of her throat, while his other hand is flat on her stomach, holding her against him, as he snaps his hips into her with reckless abandon. No easing into it, no gentle rolls, just rapid pounding, needy rutting, impaling her, filling her, using her.

She grabs his wrist, trying to hold onto him as her legs become weaker and weaker, his relentless assault quickly overwhelming her as pleasure mixes with pain and swirls inside her head like a strange kind of vertigo. In and out he goes, body slamming into hers, strong thighs bracing behind her, her hands clawing at him desperately. She moans against his fingers, and he pushes them deeper until she has to gag around them, spit filling her mouth, body convulsing uncontrollably, cunt clenching around his thick cock, and he groans in her ear, folding them over until she has to brace herself on the toilet seat again.

He lets go of her mouth, strands of saliva trailing from her lips to his fingers before they snap when he puts his hands on her hips, digits digging into soft flesh, and keeps rutting into her like a feral dog. Her arms give way, and she sinks lower, leaning on her forearms on the lid, teeth gritted before she bites down onto her wrist to keep her noises down. Knees shaking, legs spread as wide as her panties around her ankles allow, as he slams into her over and over again.

She's succumbing to the sensations, but she still hears the quiet noise of other people entering the restroom. Somehow she couldn't care less, and he doesn't seem to either as he keeps pounding into her, skin slapping against skin, her wetness squelching out of her with every deep plunge. Her muffled moans are quiet but there, as are his low little grunts.

The door of a stall to their right is being closed, lid opened with a thud, and it's that moment as he pulls her hips to him to sink in as far as possible, burying himself balls deep inside her before he comes with a suppressed little groan, arms wrapping around her waist as he holds onto her. She can feel him twitching and throbbing inside her, her own muscles contracting, squeezing him, milking him of every drop as he paints her insides with his hot seed.

She buries her face in her arms, grateful he's holding her up as her legs give way. Her chest aches, stomach still tense, squeezed by his tight grip. Head spinning, barely registering anything but him behind her, inside her, filling her up with every twitch of his balls. A flush next to them, footsteps, water running. She doesn't care.

He holds her for a few more moments, panting into her ear as he leans over her, his hot breath fanning over her cheek as she turns her head slightly. She feels him relaxing against her, and eventually he leans back, hands holding her waist as he pulls out of her clenching cunt. Something warm and sticky drips down between her legs, and his hands leave her when he bends down and pulls her panties back up.

Helping her upright again, he turns her around, cups her flushed cheek and smiles down at her. She looks at him out of hooded eyes, still feeling his rapid thrusts shuddering through her body like an echo. With every clench of her muscles, more of his cum seeps out of her and into her already soaked underwear. While she tries to get her bearings, he fixes her dress, puts his spent cock back into his pants, and leans down to kiss her softly, wiping at the spit still caked to her chin.

And as if nothing happened, he grabs her hand, unlocks the door and leaves the restroom with her, sinking back into the anonymous crowd, into the soundscape of a busy day, his hand loose around hers, relaxed and tension-free, while her knees are shaking and the dampness between her thighs threatens to spill past the hem of her panties and down her leg.

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A steamy shower

Toy

Car Inspection

Sleepy

[animasolaoriginal]

I n n o c e n c e L o s t 🟪 1

He finds her in a brothel of all places. A chance encounter, but one that will change his life – and hers – forever.

lonely cowboy/outlaw ✖️ prostitute who's so much more than that

Chapter 1▫️2▫️3▫️4▫️5▫️6▫️7▫️8▫️9▫️10▫️11▫️12▫️13 ...

GENERAL TAGS: NSFW! Explicit! Size difference, age gap, slow burn romance. Cowboys, outlaws, prostitutes. Historical inaccuracy. Horses, guns, violence.

WORDS: 5.9k 🟪 READ ON AO3

🟪 Chapter 2

Chapter 1: The Girl

Bourbon, rum, whiskey, anything that burns on his tongue, spilling liquid fire down his throat. It all blurs in the end. There's laughter, slurs, hands slapping backs, stumbling, murmurs, more laughter. That post-heist-haze sinking into his bones. Everything whirls inside his head as he makes it up the stairs. “Gimme your best...newest,” he hears himself mumble.

Last door on the right. Somehow he makes it there, leans heavy on the door knob, twists it, almost falls as the door swings open. There he stiffens, blinks slowly, his motions so heavy, frozen in time, slow as molasses. The door closes behind him, he stares ahead, blinks again, eyelids almost stuck to his eyeballs.

And yet he sees her.

The room is dark, small, a large bathtub in one corner, a four-poster bed in the other. An old armchair next to a fireplace, the fire roaring within, the only light source. And in front of it, between the flames and the chair, kneels a girl, pale legs illuminated by the orange glow next to her, skin, so much skin, not everywhere though. Her slender torso is covered by a loose blouse, unbuttoned in the front, falling off one slim shoulder, held together by a tight corset that pushes up her small breasts, creating a cleavage that doesn't suit her. Thin arms in wide cotton, or satin, he can't be sure, it doesn't matter.

He's fixated on her bare legs. The blouse barely covers the hint of hair between her legs, peeking out despite her kneeling position, thighs pressed tightly together as she sits on the heels of her feet. Her hands rest folded on her lap, the chest is moving up and down, and his eyes wander again, to her face. Pale. Soft edges on the jaw, high cheekbones, a small straight nose, lips... full lips, pink and shiny, a tongue darting out and wetting the bottom one.

And those eyes. Big eyes, glowing in the dim light, greenish, blue maybe, like the deep sea at midnight, a wave illuminated by the moon. They look both surprised and eager, but the flutter of her nostrils tells him she is more surprised and shocked by his sudden entrance, by the unsteadiness of his large body.

She looks so young.

Something stirs within him, and not just the strain in his pants, but something more like a knot in his stomach. This is wrong. He stumbles further anyway, watching her closely. She flinches when he comes closer, but doesn't move. Somehow he makes it to the armchair, flops down in it with a heavy grunt, his belt tilting even more on his hips. He shifts his holster away. Her eyes follow him.

He stares at the girl in front of him, immobile, waiting, patient and yet anxious. What is she waiting for? Why isn't she moving? Why is she here? When she eventually moves, only slightly, a little shift on her knees to face him, he lets out a groan, and she stops, eyes wide.

“How old are you?” he slurs, tongue heavy in his mouth.

She tilts her head, long brown waves falling over her shoulder, some strands gathering in the cleft between her pushed-up breasts. “Old enough to please you, mister,” she replies, her voice feeble and quiet, but there's a fire behind those words, uttered in confidence as if she's done it before, many times.

“Age,” he grunts again, staring at her. She holds his gaze, jaw clenching slightly.

“Eighteen,” she says quietly, her chin tilted up a bit.

He narrows his eyes, he's noticed the twitch in her folded hands, the tension in her slim shoulders. “Really?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, tilting her head. “Why does it matter?” she then asks, a little louder, batting those long eyelashes. “You're here to have some fun, aren't you?”

“You're young,” he simply states. Not too young, maybe, but young... young enough to make him think despite his drunken state. This is wrong. She shouldn't be here. “How long have you been here?” Done this?

“All my life, mister,” she answers, and he frowns, deep creases on his forehead that hurt inside his temples. “I was born here.” The ache grows. His head thumps to the beat of his thundering heart, mirroring the throbbing behind stiff fabric.

He leans forwards then, causing her to flinch once more, as he rests his elbows on his thighs and stares at her, scrutinizing her, takes in her young face. Pretty, no, beautiful, in spite (or because) of the rounded edges of her face. She's slender, sharp collarbones visible in the wide opening of her blouse. Those soft mounds tease him, urge him to release them from their unnaturally squished state.

His hand twitches, itches to touch her, but something holds him back. She's young. And... weirdly familiar. His eyes narrow even further as he squints at her, her small frame dark in front of the crackling fire. She shifts under his intense gaze, body stiff, hands wringing in her lap.

“Sir?” she whispers, lips moving slightly, a sweet voice like honey falling from them. Lips... full, shiny, wet, and a sudden image presses into his hazy mind. Lips parted, closed around –

He clears his throat and leans back with a grunt, wiping at his face, the scrape of his beard against his calloused palm a rough noise in the quiet of the room. He sighs deeply, lowering his hand, resting it on his upper thigh as he watches the girl.

“You shouldn't be here,” he huffs out, wetting his dry lips.

“It's my job, mister,” she says, tilting her head to the other side.

He shakes his head. “This shouldn't be a job... not for a young girl like you...”

“I'm eighteen –”

“You're a child!” he grunts, louder, rougher than intended.

She flinches, inhaling sharply, lowering her big eyes. “Do you want somebody else?” she whispers quietly, almost disappointed.

Suddenly he is aware of the noises around them, bleeding through the walls from the other rooms. Moans and cries and squeaking wood and metal. They crawl over his spine like ants, making him shiver as he stares at the small figure in front of him. Why is he here?

She is still sitting on her knees, stiff and immobile, waiting. For what? Her eyes look up at him, chin tilted, the slender column of her neck visible between her silky hair, soft skin, untouched (really?), innocent. Why is she naked below the waist?

He waves a hand at her, his arm stiff, heavy, the alcohol making everything harder to do. “Shouldn't be here,” he growls, tongue twice its size in his mouth. Does he mean her? Or him? Or both? He doesn't know. His mind is fuzzy, spinning out of control. His cock strains against his tight jeans. But his heart is protesting.

“Sir?” she asks again, blinking slowly, dark lashes batting against pale skin.

He leans back into the chair, inhaling deeply, closing his eyes, relaxing. Big mistake. Suddenly there is a warm hand on his knee, a touch like a pistol shot. He jerks awake, stares down at the girl, who has shifted, kneeling between his spread legs now, the same position, just closer, frozen in time with her other hand hanging in mid-air, ready to touch his other knee.

“What are you doing?” he grunts.

“Giving you a good time,” she replies quietly, and a shy smile curves her full lips. Lips around – He groans, rubbing his face again, his tired eyes. “You paid for this, mister. You should get something for your money.”

He shakes his head, hands back on his thighs, staring down at her. She is closer in her new position, backlit by the fire behind her, features blurring. Both hands are on his knees now, warm and small, hesitant but eager. Her pushed-up breasts nearer, the cleft between them deeper. His hands itch.

“Do you like doing this?” he utters, the words spilling without being processed in his muddled brain.

There is a flinch, a wince, a visible reaction in her tense shoulders. She swallows, her throat moves, but the smile on her lips is there, the lie tangible. “Of course, sir,” she whispers. “Let me show you how much...”

She leans up then, lifting from her knees, her hands sliding up his thighs, almost brushing against his. Actress, he thinks. Nothing more. He can't imagine –

But then he does: full lips around a variety of different – He clenches one hand into a fist, presses it to his upper thigh, straining, ignoring the tension in his stomach. The image stays. Lips, a wide mouth, bulging cheeks, closed eyes, tears streaming down a pale face, slurping sounds, helpless gurgles, muffled gasps, rough hands in her hair as her head is pushed deeper onto –

A groan escapes him. “Fuck,” he growls, shaking his head. His eyes find hers, his breath heavy, his body on edge, the strain in his pants almost unbearable, and yet...

She is settled between his legs, shoulders pressed against his thighs, hands inching closer to his belt. “Don't,” he hisses, and his hands grab hers, making her gasp, her lips parting, eyes widening. His long fingers curl around her smaller ones, holding her, inches from the tent in his pants. She looks startled, then confused.

“But mister...” she whispers, letting him hold her hands, her wrists. His hands are large enough to wrap around it all. Lashes flutter, the tip of her tongue sliding over her upper lip. She trembles slightly.

And then he lets go, and his hands grab her face instead, careful, as careful as he can in his dazed state. She lets out a surprised yelp but stays perfectly still as he cups her cheeks with his big hands, his fingers slipping into her soft hair, his thumbs wiping at the corners of her mouth. She holds his gaze, holds her breath.

“You look like...” he starts, quiet, a low rumble in his chest as he stares at her, his mind spinning, new and old images whirling together.

Soft lips, wet, full, strained around –

Green eyes, sparkling in the sun, a smile, a laugh like honey on his scarred soul.

“Her,” he mumbles, tilting his head, leaning closer until his nose brushes against hers. She stiffens, but doesn't move, can't move with how he holds her face. She swallows slightly, lips trembling against his thumbs.

“Who, sir?” she breathes softly, warm and cautious against his dry lips. Her eyes are on his face, taking in every detail with how close he is. Scars, wrinkles, creases, his rough beard stretching along his jaw, up his cheeks, around his lips, fluttering slightly as he breathes through his nose.

“Keira,” he finally utters, the image clear in his dazed mind. The same woman. No, not the same, similar, and a woman, not a girl. The same hair, the same small nose, the same eyes. “You look like Keira.”

And that's why it feels wrong to use her like he wanted to when he first entered the room, to be here, in this house of moans and grunts and creaking wood and metal.

The girl stares at him, lips parted, face warming under his palms. There's recognition in her deep eyes, darkened by the fire glowing behind her, the only light source. “You... knew my mother?” she whispers, barely audible, shifting back onto her knees, bare legs folded beneath her, her hands straining against his thighs.

His heart sinks and swells at the same time. Mother. Her mother. She looks like her. Like Keira. But what is she doing here? I was born here, she has said. Bound to a life of... servitude. Pleasure for others. A slave, a body to use, for money. The moans and grunts of the other rooms flood his ears, louder than before as his mind clears up, as the shock settles in.

“No,” he says apprehensively, a low hum over his dry lips, and his hands tighten around her delicate face. The girl frowns, he notices his mistake. “I mean, yes, I knew her,” he utters quietly, staring at her, gently caressing the corners of her lips with his thumbs. “I didn't know... about you...”

She blinks slowly, watching him, curiosity in her big eyes. Her lips part, a flood of questions ready to spill over them, but he lets go of her face and leans back, shaking his head.

“What happened to her?” he asks, already afraid of the answer as he drives a big hand through his messy hair.

The small figure between his legs shrinks as she sits down further on her knees, her hands leaving his thighs, resting on her lap. She lowers her eyes, inhales sharply. “I don't know,” she whispers. “She... left me here.” There's a hint of resentment in her soft voice, and he can't blame her. Anger rises in his throat like bile.

“She did what?” he hisses, leaning closer again.

She flinches, looks up. “Madam Claire said she worked here, got pregnant from a customer, gave birth to me, and then left, ran away, without me...” Her voice breaks as she retells her story, and his gut clenches.

The tiny frame in front of him shrinks even more, falls into herself, and he can't stand it. He leans in, brings his hands under her arms and lifts her up, easy, as if she was a doll, her wavy hair bouncing slightly. She struggles in his grip, but then she's sitting sideways on his lap, her very bare bottom warm against the fabric of his jeans. She stiffens when he pulls his arms around her shoulders and her against his broad chest.

“I'm sorry,” he slurs, his tongue heavier than ever.

“What for?” she breathes against his collarbone, where the buttons of his black shirt are open, revealing weathered skin.

He sighs, his hand wide on her back as he holds her, his breath making strands of her hair fly before he presses his dry lips to her warm forehead. She lets out a strangled gasp, tenses in his embrace, her hands squished between his chest and her own. “If I'd known about you – I... wouldn't have left you to this – to endure this fate...” he mutters, his heart as heavy as his tongue.

“Why do you care?” she asks, her voice quiet but curious.

“I loved your mother once, many moons ago, twenty years it must be by now,” he says into her hair, his own voice a deep thrum in her ears. “She left me, one day, and I made the mistake of letting her go. Maybe I pushed her to end up here, maybe she wanted to work like this... she's always been a free spirit, couldn't stay long at one place. I guess... I learned that from her.”

He feels her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as she slowly relaxes on his lap, leaning against him, warm and tiny and frail. “What do you mean?”

“I travel a lot,” he says simply, sudden images of tents and horses and wagons filling his mind. But also of masks and guns and blood and shouts, and comically large bags filled with money, cowering people, screaming women, the rattle of a train, the silent squeak of metal doors, splintering wood. And pictures of him, drawn, some more flattering than others, and his name printed all over them. Dead or alive.

She tilts her chin up, big eyes looking at him, her lips parted slightly, long lashes grazing pale skin. He sees her better now, in the orange glow of the fire. She looks like Keira. But she's alone, left to her own devices, forced to work a profession she was born into, that she didn't choose. “What's your name, mister?”

He frowns at her innocent question, trying to forget the Wanted posters. “Ben,” he growls, a deep thrum in his throat. “And yours?”

“Nebbia,” she replies quietly, her eyes wandering over his face, her small body molded into him, warm on his lap, pointy bones digging into his thigh, pressing on his erection. Nebbia like Neigh-bee-ah, long e, more like ehh, short i, like an e, and the little ah at the end, like a soft moan. Rolls off her tongue like honey.

“Nebbia,” he repeats, her name rumbling out of him as he tries to figure out why Keira would name her daughter this. But then a smile crosses his lips. “Fog in Italian,” he whispers and watches how she nods, the same kind of smile curving her lips. He wonders if Keira has made it over the pond, finally seeing the country she always wanted to visit. But why did she leave her kid?

Free spirits can't have children pulling them down, grounding them to the earth, binding them to one place. The poor girl... If Keira knows what happened to her? What she has to do?

Full lips around –

He clears his throat, his big hands resting on her small waist. She still looks at him, somewhat hopeful, big eyes, there's innocence in them, but also something else. A shadow in her green irises. A stain.

“Why aren't you wearing any bottoms, Nebbia?” he asks quietly, his fingers teasing at the curve of her rear.

He sees her blushing, red spots dancing over her pale cheeks. She looks away, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “I figured it'd be easier for you...”

“Easier for me?”

“I heard you were drunk, very drunk,” she whispers into his neck, her fingers fidgeting with the buttons of his shirt. “And I thought –”

He stares at her. In his mind, he can see her lips straining around a variety of cocks, but he can't see her lying on her back with her legs wide open, taking any of those wretched members into her sweet little – “Have you ever...” he starts, furrowing his eyebrows. “Am I your first? Would I be your first?”

She licks her lips, then chews on them. A nod, short and jerky. Eyes dancing over his chest. The sigh that escapes his throat is both filled with anger and relief. She is young. Inexperienced, has never learned the reason why those women in the other rooms cry out in pleasure. She (her mouth) has only been used for the pleasure of others, and that fact only spurs his anger, makes the vein on his forehead pulse.

Why did they choose her to satisfy him? Gimme your best...newest, he hears himself mumble. Newest. Freshly eighteen, huh? Just come of age, open for business. (To think this filthy little brothel has actual rules and has given her time to develop is almost absurd.) He closes his eyes for a moment, relieved it was him who found her without bottoms.

Because he knows he will not soil her innocence.

“I'm gonna take you with me,” he mutters as he closes his arms a little tighter around her, holding her safely on his lap.

“What?” she breathes, trying to look up despite his bear hug.

“I can give you a better life,” he says softly, tilting his head to meet her gaze.

“Why?” Despite her innocent tone, there's doubt in her voice. Disbelief. Why would anyone want to be nice to her?

He laughs darkly. “Because you deserve it?” One of his hands moves up, caresses her warm cheek. “Unless you actually want to keep sucking dicks.”

His lewd words make her flinch, her face flushed as she looks away, takes a sharp breath, her fingers clawing at his shirt. She shifts on his thigh, her body tense. “I... don't...” she mutters under her breath.

“Do you want to come with me?” he asks, pressing his thumb under her chin to make her look up. Her eyes are wet, glistening, her lips trembling.

“Can I?” she whispers, a tiny flicker of hope in the green pools that stare at him.

He smiles, a genuine smile that lights up his rough face, deepening the dimple on his cheek. “If you want to. I can get you out of here, no one will notice anything...” he tells her quietly, watching her closely.

There's turmoil behind her eyes, shivers running down her body, her throat moves when she swallows hard. “They'll be angry with me,” she breathes, blinking, looking away, her eyebrows furrowed. “The women...”

“You don't owe them anything,” he says, the hand on her lower back applying soft pressure, fingers playing with the laces of her corset. “They may have raised you here, but they made you do heinous things that no girl your age should do! No respectable woman without her consent...”

“And the men? Some of them come here only for me...” He stiffens at her words, imagining those sleazy men, salivating at the thought of shoving their cocks down this poor girl's throat. “I bring good money...” He scoffs at that, shaking his head.

“And how much of that do you see, hm?” he asks her, tilting her chin back up so she looks at him. She inhales deeply, avoiding his gaze once more. “Yeah, that's what I thought...”

“I have a comfortable life –”

His hand closes around her throat, long fingers pressing into her skin. She stares at him, gasps, eyes wide. “Sweetheart, you're eighteen now, you're fair game. Men will do anything to you now, fill every single hole you have!” She gasps again, cheeks flushing at his blunt words. “You might have gotten used to sucking dick, but believe me, opening your legs will be a whole other ordeal.”

She frowns at that. “Is sex really that bad?” she whispers, voice feeble, bashful, he's surprised she is able to get these words out at all.

A laugh rumbles through him as he eases his grip on her neck. “No, sex can be amazing, but with the wrong person, there can be a lot of pain and discomfort, and the consequences...” He looks at her, holds her nervous gaze. “You're so young, you deserve better than a drunken guy forcing his cock into your hole, leaving you either completely soiled and sore, or sick, or pregnant...”

She cringes and pulls a breath through her teeth, averting her eyes once more. “You talk so obscenely, mister,” she mumbles.

He breathes out another deep laugh. “It's the harsh truth, darling. That's how the world works, get used to it,” he says matter-of-factly.

“And you want me to go out into that world?” she whispers quietly.

“Trust me, out there you'll be better off than here, if you stay with the right people. I'd worry about your current world,” he mutters, listening to the noises from the other rooms, remembering, despite his haze, how run-down this building is, its clientele, and the state of the whole town.

She can't stay here. He won't leave her, now that he knows of her existence. She's Keira's kid, and unlike her mother, he will never abandon her.

Sighing deeply, he moves his hands along her body, encircling her waist, gripping her gently, before he picks her up and puts her on her feet next to the armchair. She stares at him startled, her hands immediately going down to cover her modesty. He grunts and stands up too, towering over her. She takes a cautious step back as he starts swaying, the alcohol still buzzing inside his head.

“I could really use a bath,” he growls, wiping at his eyes, trying to dispel the dizziness. The girl stands next to him, so tiny and frail, the gentle curves of her legs backlit by the fire, her soft face tilted up to look at him, her long hair cascading down her shoulders. For a moment he is mesmerized by the sight, by how naturally beautiful she is – how out of place she feels.

When he feels the strain in his jeans, he sighs again and turns away, stumbling past her towards the tub in the corner. There's already water in it, a thick layer of soapy foam even, and when he dips a few fingers into it, he notices that it's still a little warm. He can't remember it, but he must have left a good penny in this establishment, for booze, a hot bath, and the best...newest –

He turns back to her. She is still watching him, standing behind the armchair, her hands on the backrest, biting her lip. “Hey kid, you wanna join me?” he calls to her, his fingers already at the buttons of his shirt.

She inhales sharply, then walks around the armchair, her naked legs catching his eye for a moment. “I'm not a kid, mister.”

“Ben,” he corrects with a smirk, now working on undoing his belt. It creates a thud when it falls to the wooden floor, his holster and the heavy pistol pulling it down. Her eyes follow his movements as he undresses, kicks off his boots, steps out of his jeans, shrugs off his shirt. Then her feet tap over the ground as she rounds the tub and stands on the other side.

“Not a kid, Ben,” she whispers, chewing on her lips, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her blouse as she drags it lower to cover the hint of hair between her legs.

She doesn't look away once he is completely naked in front of her, his clothes, gun and bags discarded on a chair, but he can see the red in her cheeks when her eyes flick down to his hard cock, bouncing slightly when he raises a leg and steps into the tub. The semi-warm water lulls his muscles as he sinks into it with a groan, stretching his long legs, leaning back, placing his arms on the edge, before he looks up at her.

“I meant it, Nebbia,” he says softly, tilting his head. “Come join me. I promise you don't have to do anything but sit with me.”

“I... shouldn't...” she whispers, her eyes trailing over his naked chest, half-submerged in the tub, before she looks towards the door. “We're not allowed...”

“I paid for you, didn't I?” She looks back, meeting his gaze, and he smiles at her. “Technically I can do anything to you. But I just want you to enjoy a semi-hot bath. There's still enough room,” he adds and spreads his legs, creating a space between them on the other side of the tub.

She hesitates, and he wonders why. Moments ago she seemed content to give him a good time, as she has called it, but now she is strangely coy for a prostitute who's had her throat fucked countless times before. The image of her lips strained around a cock – his cock maybe? – comes back into his mind, and he has to clench his jaw tightly to fight the urge to grab her and pull her close, do all those things to her that he has warned her about. That he's promised not to do to her.

Eventually she turns around, presenting her well-formed rear to him, those plump little cheeks, well-rounded, squeezable, the cleft between them guiding his eyes between her legs, but when her hands move up to the string holding her corset, he sighs, nodding to himself when he sees her predicament. He reaches out and tugs on the bow with one finger, loosening the tight laces slowly, carefully, and she lets him do so.

The stiff thing falls down her hips once it's loose enough, and she steps out of it, slowly turning back to him as she unbuttons the rest of her blouse and shrugs it off her slender shoulders. He can't help himself, he stares at her naked form.

Keira's kid. Half his age. He's promised her a better life.

And still he can't look away, taking in every detail of her body. How her small breasts perk, nipples hard already, the gentle slope of those mounds he wants to weigh in his big hands. How her hair falls over her shoulders, soft springy waves, silky, the same color as her mother's. His eyes trail down her chest, over the shimmer of ribs under thin skin, the flat stomach and little indent of her belly button. And that small waist, the swell of her hips, soft pale legs, cushioned thighs, and between them, the hint of hair above her sex.

Her skin is pristine, pale like alabaster, unmarked, pure.

There's a blush on her face that slowly spreads down her shoulders and between her breasts, and he has to force himself to close his eyes as she steps closer and lifts a leg to step into the tub – even though he wants nothing more than to take a peek at her sweet little cunt. Unused and innocent. He has to keep it that way.

Water splashes against his stomach when she sits down opposite him, knees bent and pulled against her chest as she settles between his outstretched legs. He looks at her with a gentle smile, and she smiles back, her eyelids fluttering.

“Not bad, eh?” he laughs quietly, moving a fluff of foam towards him with his big hands, then lathers his arms with it. She just sits there on the other side of the tub, watching him.

“Do you really mean it?” she whispers after a moment of both of them just soaking in the water.

“What?” he grunts, leaning his head against the edge of the tub as he slides a little lower, using the space she's left to fully stretch his body.

“That you're going to take me with you,” she replies, her eyes scanning his face.

He sighs, his breath blowing a tuft of foam towards her. “Yes, I mean it. I won't let you stay here, objected to all these... things,” he says. “You're Keira's daughter, and even if she might not have wanted you, I will take care of you.”

She frowns, trying to ignore the sting in her heart, the flinch of her tense shoulders at his words. “But why? You don't know me! And I don't know you! Why should I go with you?”

“You wanna stay here? Rot away and die in ten years or sooner?” His voice is harsh, his eyes dark, his jaw tense. “There's no money to be made if you stay under your Madam's thumb. You'll just be another body with a bunch of holes, destined to take it all, if you want to or not. How is this a life you'd want to continue?”

She licks her lips, her arms hugging her knees tighter. “I have food and a roof above my head...” she says quietly, averting her eyes.

He scoffs. “If that's your standard, then I can assure you that you will never go hungry, always have a comfortable bed, be safe from the elements, when you come with me.”

“But why?” she asks again, finally looking back at him. “Why are you so... nice to me?” She takes a shuddering breath. “Just because I'm the kid of a love lost?”

“I thought you weren't a kid,” he teases, and she groans with a slightly exasperated smirk. “I know it's a rare thing for people to just be nice nowadays, but you can trust me. I'm a good guy,” he lies through his teeth, a glint in his eyes.

“And you expect me to believe that?” she says, shifting in the tub, extending her legs slightly, her feet brushing against his inner thighs. “I might not know how the world works, but I see the men coming here. I've seen all types. And you look like the type I might encounter on a Wanted poster.”

He raises his eyebrows, his lips twitching. “Interesting assessment, missy. And you can tell by just looking at a man's cock?”

She grunts in indignation and splashes water towards him. He laughs and shields his face with one arm. “A fine gentleman would never talk like that...” she mumbles.

His laughter gets even louder. “And you expect a fine gentleman to walk into this establishment? Do you know where you are?” She scoffs and crosses her arms in front of her chest, slowly stretching out her legs until he can feel the soles of her feet pressing right against his groin. “Careful now,” he warns.

Her cheeks are flushed, but that doesn't stop her from rubbing her foot upwards and along his hard shaft, pressing it into his lower stomach. He watches her closely, holding in a groan. And she looks right back, green eyes hard and a dark smile on her full lips. Lips around his cock. He leans back and lets out the noise he has been suppressing. Her toes curl around his tip, his breath hitches in his throat.

And he savors the moment, just a moment, a few seconds, because it feels good. She is good, doing what she does. Would be a shame to stop her now, hm? But then he leans in and lowers his hands into the water, grabbing her ankle, stopping her after all. She yelps quietly as he pulls her leg towards him, causing her to slip. Her hands squeak along the edge of the tub as she tries to hold onto it, but before her head submerges, he lets go of her, letting her leg rest on top of his thigh.

She scrambles back into a sitting position, her eyes on him, her lips parted. “I don't have a choice, do I?” she then whispers, allowing him to put his big hand on her shin, holding her there.

He smiles at her, his eyes twinkling. “Correct, sweetheart. I will force you to have a better life, no matter what,” he says quietly, rubbing his hand up her leg.

She inhales deeply and leans back, her arms resting on the edge, hands hanging off, as she relaxes in the water, under his touch, with her bare chest exposed to him. Trusting. “You're a strange man, mister... Ben,” she whispers, smiling softly as she watches him.

He grips her thigh gently, winking at her. The buzz from the alcohol is as good as gone, replaced with a different kind of vertigo. Ignoring the twitching of his cock under the water surface, he keeps his eyes on the girl in front of him, taking in her features, a strange warmth gathering in his stomach.

He came here to celebrate the successful heist, drink himself stupid and have a good fuck afterwards. He hasn't expected to meet Keira's kid here, to be this attracted to her, to tell her he wants to take her with him. But he has, is, does, all of it, he wants her by his side, wants to give her a chance at a different life, away from pleasuring strangers every night of the week.

Does he want her for himself? Maybe. But he still also genuinely wants her to be happier, be herself, have the freedom that he has. She deserves it. And he does too, selfishly so, to have her.

🟪 Chapter 2

END NOTES: Hello and welcome to my first original work (that I share with you)! Thank you for reading!

Please note that I am no expert on anything wild west/western/horses/cowboys/brothels/etc. - I write silly little love/smut stories. This story, even though it's not mentioned, is set at the end of the 1800s somewhere in the west, I'm keeping it vague on purpose, this is about Ben and Nebbia.

AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS

[dirtposts]

i have people over fixing my AC rn and they had to turn the power off so im just sitting in my office writing femdom so i dont have to use my mobile hotspot #mysmut

[guidedbyhistouch]

52, 55, 56, 67

Hello anon!

52. Would you be willing to try something off limits? If yes, what would the circumstances have to be?

No, my hard limits stay put. They consist of blood play, multiple partners, piss/scat and I don't see that ever changing.

55. Best romantic evening setting, go!

Us getting ready to go to a dancing night, all prepped up, him in a nice tuxedo, me in a little black dress. We go and we dance and drink and talk until late in the night then we come home, eat some pizza all snuggled up maybe watch an episode of a sitcom and then fall asleep in eachothers arms 🥰

56. Best sexual evening setting, go!

Hmmm same setting, only the night doesn't end with pizza and TV but with him straight up railing me until I don't know my name. Tip: you can go read my Afterparty smut under #mysmut 😉

67. Considering you ABSOLUTELY WOULD HAVE TO do the next thing your partner will ask you to. What do YOU wish that would be?

Hmmm to wear nothing but lingerie under a trenchcoat with a lovense inside me and go about our daily errands.

I think it would be exciting but also I'm very scared of that hahahah

Thank you for the ask!

[marvel-smut]

Loki x demigod! Fem!reader (18+)

Prompt: N/A

Warnings: sex duh, uhhh. Not much honestly. Feels at the end?

Words: 2269 (nice)

Notes: I haven't had motivation to do anything except this. So here you go.

〰〰〰〰〰〰〰

Loki, god of mischief, the trickster, the frostgiant himself. Seen as evil, brooding, a maniac.

You, a mere demigod, able to simply change minds, put yourself in someones head to change their minds. Your mother, a goddess, your father a human. They thought it'd be impossible, and it was even frowned upon, however they let your mother carry out her pregnancy before executing her.

You proudly wore her name as a badge of honour. You weren't afraid of who may not like you or who may attack you for your family line. You were more brave than any other god or goddess in the temple, and you were considered noble to a degree.

Loki admired you, for every trait you held. He watched you from afar until you confronted him one on one.

You stood up to his "father" when you saw how poorly he was being treated, you told him to be kind, and treat everyone as family.

Loki admired your strength, your bravery, your power over others. He became your best friend but good gods he wanted more than that.

He wanted to hold you, treasure you, treat you as you deserved to be. Like a goddess.

You as well held passion for Loki, but wanted to wait for the right time. And wait he did.

Loki didnt even look at another woman whilst he waited for you to ready yourself. He would come over every day and study with you, read all day, or play a long game of chess.

The two of you had formed a rather tight bond, so he was beyond grateful when you sat him down and told him exactly how you felt about him, and from there a relationship bloomed.

The others around you were not happy to find that the prince had fallen for a mixed breed. They glared daggers that he would simply throw back at them while the two of you walked hand in hand.

Men would stare in disgust because they saw you lower than a human, the women hated you because they wanted Loki for themselves.

The possessive glares irked you to no end so although you were very calm, level headed, and kind to everyone you would rant out your frustrations in the bath while Loki rubbed your shoulders.

Finally, one day a girl said something far too upsetting and angering. You gripped Loki's hand tightly and dragged him to your room, shutting the door and leaning back against it, pulling Loki against you to pin you against the door.

You were hurt by the woman's words despite knowing that you shouldn't be. But Loki knew what you wanted and he was happy to oblige.

He wrapped an arm around your corsetted waist, pulling you to him until your waists touched, his other hand grabbed one of your wrists and gave a firm squeeze while he caught your bottom lip in his own. You gave a quiet whimper as he bit your lip, causing your cheeks to burn bright.

The trickster pulled away with a chuckle and gave your lips a final peck, hand smoothing down your clothed back.

You wore a simple black gown with a deep crimson corset, Loki smiled as he easily unpaved the back of the tight material and let it fall open, your waist finally relaxed to its natural position, your breasts fell where they laid comfortably, Loki admired each curve of your natural body before giving you another quick kiss.

"Where do you want to do it my love? Bed? Shower? On a counter somewhere?" Loki asked in a low, gravelly voice, one that shook you to your very core.

"Bed, please." You whispered, cheeks tinged pink as you let him grab your hand to lead you to your messy bed. It wasn't dirty, the sheets were just pushed to the very bottom, pillows were lazily tossed around, it was just unorganized.

Loki didnt mind at all, he brought you to a stop just beside the large mattress to pull you in by your waist. He pulled you into another deep kiss, his fingers danced across your dress before finding its zipper on the back. He hastily pulled it down and let it begin to fall, helping you out of the sleeves and helping pull it past your hips. You were barefoot as usual, preferring no shoes for comfortability.

You laid back on the bed, slowly scooting so Loki could follow you. Once you were situated comfortably he grabbed your thigh, inching it away from the other one as if he had all day. Which he did.

You let yor legs open, smiling as Loki admired your almost naked body.

He leaned over you, sliding between your legs and giving your lips another kiss.

"That foul woman was wrong in every word she said." He whispered, a scary edge to his voice.

"You are mine, and I dont want it any other way. You shall be my wife, my perfect princess. You are mine as i am yours." He whispered against your lips. You smiled at his words, one hand curling into his dark hair to pull his mouth away.

"Then show it, claim me once more, Loki." You demanded, grinning wildly as he smirked and went to work.

You laid back again, tilting your head back as he placed his cold lips against your neck, sucking over your pulse on a mission to leave a visible mark that you were his and only his.

As he kissed further down you relaxed, smiling as he kissed over your chest, cupping both of your breasts to lightly pinch at your rosey nipples. He wrapped his lips around one and you gave a shrill squeak as he playfully bit a little before letting go and running his tongue over it to help soothe it.

Loki appreciated your body more than he could ever explain, he made sure to always take his time with you.

You knew this, of course, and it only made you love him even more.

You giggled quietly as Loki began to kiss down across your stomach, then began to slowly pulled your crimson red panties down. He tossed them aside before taking a moment to admire your full glory.

You were taken by surprise when you dove down moments later to bury his face against you. Your face immediately reddened but you couldnt focus on that because his tongue was teasing over your clit side to slid, dipping down to lap over your soaking hole, then coming back up to lap at your clit.

You let out breathy moans and soft whines for more, legs spreading more as your hands reached down to tangle into his jet black hair. Loki smiled before shifting and adding his dominant hand into play.

You were surprised when you felt his middle finger prodding at your hole but let out a full moan as it pressed in all the way and immediately curled against your g-spot. Within seconds Loki added a second one and rubbed happily against your sensitive spot, causing your thighs to tremble and fingers to tug on his hair.

His tongue never left your needy clit as he fingered you, which caused you to moan more.

The pleasure was building up, leading to a feeling of pure euphoria.

When your orgasm hit, it hit like a truck.

Your eyes buldged before closing tightly, your lip tucked firmly between your teeth as your hips suddenly jerked erratically against Loki's talented mouth. He didn't stop until you were finished, then he pulled away and stripped himself, getting out of bed as he did so.

Loki did it slowly, smiling as you stared at him with hungry eyes. When it came down to the last article of clothing, you could very clearly see his erection through it. Usually you would kneel for him and give him the Royal treatment but tonight was different. You watched as he reached into a drawer beside your bed, and pulled out a solid black cock ring.

"I am going to make you mine. By the time I am finished, my queen, everybody will know that I only have eyes for you." He said softly, crawling back over you and giving you a deep kiss, tongues clashing and fighting before he pulled away and positioned himself between your legs, the fat girth pressed against your slick cunt.

"Please Loki, don't start teasing me now my king. Make me cry your name to the gods and make sure everyone in all of Asgard knows." You whispered, looking up at him and holding eye contact as he nodded and slowly began to press in.

He held his cock by the hilt to keep steady as he pushed in, the both of you moaning as he pressed all the way in. Your eyes fluttered as he looked down where he connected to you.

With him, you felt so absolutely stuffed full, it knocked the wind out of you and made you dizzy.

Loki gave you a moment to take deep breaths before he squeezed your hips and pulled out, then thrusted in again.

You both moaned, your head pressing back further into the soft pillow. Loki leaned over your body, bracing himself on his forearms.

Then he set a solid pace, satisfying the both of you more than words could describe. One of your hands grabbed his and the other left bright red claw marks down his back.

Loki went on for a while until he reached between the two of you, watching your reaction as he began to furiously rub your clit again. He gave a surprised groan when it caused you to constrict around him so tightly that he had to stop and let you relax again.

This went on for hours, eventually he had one hand rubbing your clit, your hips grinding in a sloppy pattern with his, you held your own breast and played with your own nipple as he kissed over your neck.

The combined pleasure made your eyes roll back in pleasure, your thighs trembled and completely seized as you came again, squeezing around Loki's hips tighter than they ever had before.

Once you had came one more time, Loki pulled out and snatched the ring off. You, despite being a little dizzy, rolled onto the floor on your knees and Loki came to edge. His hand moved at lightning speed until he gave a thrust into his fist and came.

It was a sight to see. Lokis hair stuck to his forehead from the sweat, his cheeks pink and eyes blown wide. He panted as his cum shot out onto your chest, your collarbones, your cheeks, and a little landed near your mouth.

You swiped the small amount beside your lip away and sucked it off before leaning forward and giving a long, slow lick over the head of Loki's softening dick. It weakly twitched and spit out the last bit of what was a large load.

Loki chuckled and stood up a second later, dragging you into the bathroom to clean you up. He grabbed a washcloth and as he cleaned his cum off of you he also was sure to leave many more hickies across your neck.

You tried to stay silent, you were sore and weren't ready for another round yet, but when you let out a soft whimper Loki smirked. His hand slowly trailed down between your legs, laughing as he felt the slickness. You pouted but still slowly dragged your hips across his hand.

Loki went along with it, except at one point he crooked his fingers and suddenly two fingers buried themselves inside of you. They curled against your spot and switched between rubbing against it or pressing against it for added pressure.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, moaning and panting weakly as you let him please you once more. It took almost no time for your eyes to fall shut again as you managed to cum once more with a long moan of Loki's name.

After that the prince cleaned you up and made sure you were cleaned up before carrying you into the bedroom again. He put you in your comfy clothes before sliding beside you, completely naked. It was almost dark so you two were going to head to bed already.

"Loki, why do you stay?" You asked randomly in the night. You had woken up from a weird dream and just felt the need to ask.

You could feel Loki's breathing change suddenly, and a long while passed. As soon as you were going to turn over and forget about it, he began to answer.

"I stay because you had my attention since i first heard you speak. Not when i first saw you, but when i heard how intelligent you are. When I heard your name. When I saw and i heard how you've been treated. You are so intelligent. You're hilarious, you read and play chess for fun, you are amazing at everything you do my queen. I stay because I know and trust that you'll stay with me as well. I love you my sweet dear and i always will." He had sounded groggy, but you loved it. Tears brimmed your eyes as you cuddled closer to him and closed your eyes.

"I love you Loki. But I'll tell you why later." You said before yawning loudly.

The both of you fell asleep cuddled closely, dreaming fondly of each other.

[sheherlockholmes]

its corn smut #MYSMUT

YAY MY CORN #MYCORN

[binch-i-might-be]

um what do you mean I "have to write" in order to "have written" something. that sounds rude and unfair. do you by any chance just hate gay people?

[iridescentjin]

ღ sadhbh. 30. usa. not on a coast. adventuring. ღ whole ass adult. ღ involved. poly bitch. ღ pisces sun. aquarius moon. saggitarius rising. ღ been writing smut since I was 17. ღ harry potter was my first fandom. ღ yoongi bias. yoonjin 90% of the time. ღ bright eyes hoe. ღ no smut in Spanish. fluff and angst. ღ Here's mysmut writin playlist ღ used to go by a different name. used to be nahfamily.

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: Car Inspection

A/N: Yet another little smut scene, *no longer a drabble (Drabble? Who's she?), but still short. Like with my other drabbles, you can imagine any character you want here, it's usually just a man and a woman having a good time. Today I give you oral sex, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected sex and creampies. And cars (so think up an AU where it works, if you will).

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! // WORDS: 1.3k // AO3

“Lemme take a look under the hood, miss,” he's said, and now she's sitting on the warm metal, gripping his broad shoulders, legs held open by strong hands, while he has his head buried under her skirt.

His tongue is as hot as the sun batting down on them, licking through her folds with fervor and certainty, expert motions, warm lips, teasing teeth, kissing, sucking, nibbling, pulling her sensitive skin into his mouth, nose rubbing against her clit.

He's lapping at her like a man starved, the slurping and squelching noises mixing with the chirp of cicadas, the subtle squeak of the car beneath her, her own rapid breaths. He's good, knows what to do, where to look and lick. She's come to the right place.

Her skirt obstructs the view, but she's still on display, writhing and squirming, bare feet squeaking over the metal hood in an attempt to anchor herself. He's ruthless in his assault, focusing now fully on that sensitive bundle of nerves, flicking his tongue around it, laving it, sucking on it.

She's losing it, her head spinning, it's too hot, the air is stale and dry, and her lungs are protesting. The tension in her belly is like a burning thing, growing and expanding, filling her out like she wishes he would fill her out.

He groans into her, the sound vibrating through her clenching cunt. His hands move, one big palm pressed to her stomach, forcing her down on her back, the other slipping under the tent of her skirt as well. He's teasing her, nibbling on her clit while his fingers slide through her slick before they take a dip into her heat, plunging deep, two at once, pushing in and out, scissoring inside her, stretching, massaging, curling against that sweet spot.

She arches her back, shoulders pressed into the hood, cries out, thighs trembling around his shoulders, her own shaking hand gripping at his wrist, nails sinking into his skin before he slips his long fingers between hers, holding her hand, heavy on her stomach. He pumps his other digits into her, licks her clit, the tension explodes within her. Their joined hands hold her down when she convulses, jerks her hips against his face and fingers, shivering under the hot sun.

He licks up every drop with broad strokes of his tongue, his fingers moving slower, bringing her down gently before they retreat, gripping her twitching thigh, warm and slick and strong, while he pushes his mouth to her lower lips, kisses her deeply, tongue pressing into her quivering hole.

She wails again, quietly in the open space, her voice drowned by the screeching insects trying to be louder.

He's shifting, emerging from under her skirt, nose and lips and chin glistening in her juices, hair messy, face flushed. She's also red in the face, panting, trying to avoid those hungry eyes. His hands find her warm cheeks when he straightens up, towering over her.

His kiss tastes tangy, salty, sweet, all at once and more, her own taste on his tongue as he claims her mouth. She moans into it, clinging to his bare back, sweat slick and strong, muscles flexing beneath sun touched skin. He pushes her up the hood of the car, his hips between her shaking legs, pinning her down, skirt flipped up entirely now. His body is blocking the view, she couldn't care less who sees her.

With his tongue wrestling hers, he grips her waist, one hand disappearing between them, the clink of a belt, the whirring scrape of a zipper, a little groan when he grips his cock and guides it to her dripping cunt. She moans into his mouth, fingernails sinking into his skin while he sinks into her, small frantic rolls of his hips as he slowly fucks her open, stretches her, fills her, in and out, inch by inch until he's bottomed out.

His hands on her hips pull her into him, closer, deeper, her legs spasm against him before she hooks them around his thick thighs. Muscles flex under denim, his grip rough as he starts pulling out to slam back in, over and over again, his grunts as loud as her moans, the kiss messy and breathless.

She's lightheaded, sun-burnt, a sweaty mess in his strong grip, her hands gripping at his waist, leaving angry crescent-shaped marks as she squirms against him, trying to meet his thrusts.

He leans back, leaving her tingling lips, presses his forehead to hers, eyes staring into her soul, warm and dark and mesmerizing, hungry, breaths hot and dizzying, mingling. His hips slam into her slower, deeper, setting an excruciating rhythm, taunting, teasing, slow and steady while they're both burning under the sun, the heat inside her belly almost as unbearable.

She's whimpering, grinding her pelvis into him, digs her heels into his lower back, eyes pleading. The smirk on his lips makes her angry, growling through her gritted teeth. His hands tighten around her hips, fingers bruising, and when he leans back fully, a barely there shadow falling onto her shaking body, looking down at her, he stops moving altogether, cock hard and swollen inside her clenching cunt.

She wants to protest, whine, beg, but he only looks at her, tilting his head, before he slowly moves back, cockhead scraping against her tight walls, before he slams back in with a force that makes her yelp, flinch, cry out, as he hits her deepest spot, tip squished against her cervix.

The pain is there, sharp, short, dissipating slowly before it's back, dragging retreat, the hint of reprieve, then another deep stab, hard, fast, agonizing. Again and again, until he grows impatient and just hammers into her, her moans and cries broken up, voice strained, helpless, as his cock pistons in and out, rough and unrelenting, and all she can do is take it.

He grunts, sweat running down his temple, a fine sheen on his bare torso, muscles flexing, his teeth bared and gritted, hands digging into her soft skin. Pull, push, stab. Pull, push, stab. Her own sweat mixes with tears, her cries soundless little puffs of air, her head filled with vertigo and bliss, pain and pleasure. One big hand splayed on her hip, the other moving between them, thumb pressing hard against her clit, and she yelps again, and again, coming hard around his pounding cock, juices coating his length, squelching out with every deep slam.

The car is rocking beneath them, suspension squeaking, needs to be oiled. She's come to the right place. Come at the right place. Over and over again until she's a boneless mess, lying on the hood of her car, arms splayed out beside her, sweaty palms squeaking over metal with every deep thrust, body moved up and down, insides convulsing, muscles contracting, tight around his thick cock. He grunts, groans, huffs, head red under the sun, under the exertion, working overtime.

He comes with a low growl, animalistic, body twitching against her, burying himself deep within her clenching heat, balls tightening, cock spasming, filling her with his hot seed, spurt after burning spurt. She gasps when his hand pushes on her stomach, before he slowly pulls out, panting, eyes glued to her reddened pussy, watching intently, an expert's eye, head tilted, then he slaps his hand on her folds, making her wince.

She's pulled onto her feet, barely able to think, to function, dizzy from the sun and the special service. He lifts her feet, one at a time, puts her panties back on, slides them up her shaking legs. His cum drips down her inner thigh, slowly, slow enough for him to gather it on his finger and push it back up, between her glistening folds, back into her clenching hole. She moans at the sensation, gripping his arm for support. He keeps his finger in her while he pulls her underwear back in place, pumping it slowly before removing it, gently dragging his wet fingertip between her covered folds, trapping his seed.

“I believe there's been a leak, miss,” he says, fixing her skirt, making her presentable again as he looks at her with a proud smile, having found the problem, while she looks up at him with a soft giggle, feeling their combined juices drenching the fabric between her trembling thighs.

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A steamy shower

Toy

Sleepy

Tension Relief

[animasolaoriginal]

I n n o c e n c e L o s t 🟪 2

After leaving her old life on a whim, Nebbia finds herself in Ben's camp, and she might not be as welcome as she hopes to be.

lonely cowboy/outlaw ✖️ prostitute who's so much more than that

Chapter 1▫️2▫️3▫️4▫️5▫️6▫️7▫️8▫️9▫️10▫️11▫️12▫️13 ...

GENERAL TAGS: NSFW! Explicit! Size difference, age gap, slow burn romance. Cowboys, outlaws, prostitutes. Historical inaccuracy. Horses, guns, violence.

WORDS: 6.1k 🟪 READ ON AO3

Chapter 1 🟪 Chapter 3

Chapter 2: The Change

His hair is so soft. Messy, thick, longer and curlier at the top, barely trimmed at the sides and in his nape. Untamed. Still easy to slip her fingers into.

She inhales deeply, takes in his scent. Mostly soap at this point, still a hint of alcohol on his breath, a little sweat. A masculine smell. Surprisingly nice. Almost comforting.

Like his weight on her. He's really fallen asleep on her, pressing her into the bed, his head resting between her breasts, his beard teasing at her soft skin, his deep breaths tickling her nipple, making it hard. His arms are snaked around her shoulders, hands folded under her head, like a warm pillow, a comfortable, unexpected embrace. Her own arms are lightly wrapped around his neck, hands on his head, fingers massaging his scalp.

The way he lies on her, his wide hips encircling her legs, his thighs on either side of hers, caging her in. She feels his weight, but it feels good. Just like how his cock rests on her lower thigh, almost between her knees, hot and heavy, harder than she expected.

He kept his word. He didn't do anything to her.

And she curses herself for wanting it, so badly, wanting to feel that big hard hot thing inside of her, wanting to know how it feels, if it'll hurt, if she'll be sore after, what pleasure really feels like...

She takes another deep breath, one of her hands rubbing over his broad shoulders, along his back. He is so warm, and heavy, and big. She's never had a man lie on her like this, she only knew the space between their legs, in front of them, on her knees, mouth and throat stuffed, lips strained. Uncomfortable, but doable, because that was her job...

But this feels nice. Surprisingly so.

When he has first barged into the room, she has been shocked. Ben is a tall man, he has to duck his head slightly to walk through the door, and he is wide and strong looking, but not too bulky. Even a little agile, lean, yet his full beard and his big hands and long burly legs make him look like more.

It was the attire too, the belt on his hips with the drooping holster, the handle of his pistol peeking out. The heavy high boots, those little spurs at the heels. The smell of alcohol has been sickening at first, but it has mixed with his own scent, with the smell of horse and sweat and the cool night air, maybe a little gunpowder and smoke. He has an air around him, demanding, authoritative, intimidating. Mainly because he is so much taller than her.

She barely scratches five foot, he must be way past six. The idea of this mountain of a man doing the things he supposedly wanted to do with her, how eager he has entered, how ready he has been to take the edge off, it has scared her. But that has all deflated when his eyes have met hers.

It may have been the darkness of the room, but his eyes have been almost black, endless voids, warm, inviting, there was barely a sliver of deep brown, noticeable only in the glow of the fire, but they still sucked her in, those deep eyes, staring right into her soul. They matched the rest of him, the dark messy hair, the tanned, weathered face, the almost black beard, trimmed but also a little wild, those heavy eyebrows.

The sleeves of his shirt have been rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, lined with veins and twitching muscles and a few scars, a thin carpet of dark hair reaching to his wrists. And those hands... She sighs softly, her breath moves a lock of his hair. He is breathing deeply on top of her, looks so relaxed, calm, younger than he looks when he's awake, with all those creases deepening.

She feels his chest rising and falling against her stomach, skin on skin, so warm and comforting. Her eyelids grow heavy, her hands ease their movement in his hair and on his back, resting there, trying to give the same comfort as he's giving her. It must be very late, she's tired. The noises of the house have died down. Business seems to be over now.

She has to think back to his words, spoken with this deep voice that vibrates through her very core, that makes her legs tremble and goosebumps ripple over her skin. “I'm gonna take you with me,” he has said, in complete earnest, and first she has been afraid. He is a stranger (even though he once loved her mother, probably only sees her in the daughter she's abandoned), but somehow he also feels... like a chance.

His warning still echoes in her head, about what she has to do now that she's of age. The other girls never say anything about that, about how they feel after they've done their job. They only share stories to make fun of men, make light of their situation, pretend that it's normal and okay to service these strangers that roll through the town frequently. Service them... pleasure them.

It's been two years now since the Madam has enlisted her for customer service. Before that she has been a maid, ordered to clean the rooms and the mess others have made, keep the house in order, wash clothes, all of that. And she's done it because she felt like she had to. Madam Claire has raised her, after all, after her mother has left her. She has to be grateful for that.

And pleasuring random strangers every night seemed like just another part of the job. She doesn't like thinking back to the beginning, though. How her jaw has hurt, how raw her lips have been, how sore her throat has become. How afraid she has been of being choked. The tears she has shed, tears and saliva and bile, until she has learned to control her gag reflex a little bit better. Some men still ask her to gag around them, and she does. The customer is king, after all.

The bitter taste of cum was still something she had to get used to, though, how it filled her mouth, dripped down her throat, was warm and sticky on her tongue (or her cheeks and lips and chin if the man pulled out too early). But ultimately she has told herself that it was the reward for doing this: if she could make a man cum down her throat, she has done a good job. And a happy, satisfied customer meant more tips for her, more money for the Madam and more men coming into the house because the word of her doing a good job spread like wildfire.

She hasn't thought about what else she would have to do once she turned eighteen. (It wasn't like she celebrated her birthday anyway. It feels wrong without the person who actually birthed her.) She knows, of course, what is expected of her, what the other girls do, but she couldn't think about it, imagining herself on a bed, with her legs wide open and a man crawling over her, sinking his thick –

The first time she's actually thought about it was tonight, when this tall, muscular man has stumbled into the room, drunk as hell, but so kind and almost... hesitant, unlike any man she has ever had the (dis)pleasure of meeting. She's often serviced drunk men, but in her experience, the more drunk they were, the rougher they got, forcing her head down on them, choking her, gagging her with force, ripping at her hair.

Ben has not been like that at all.

He is a gentle giant, she thinks, a soft smile grazing her lips as she continues moving her fingers through his thick hair. And she can't help imagining doing those other things with him. She's seen his cock, feels it on her leg, hard and heavy and big and hot, and the thought of him burying himself inside of her isn't as scary anymore, only a little, but mostly it's exciting.

But he doesn't want to soil her innocence. He's made that clear. At least not here. Not now. Despite his gruff exterior, he seems like a patient man, and the warmth he creates inside her settles right between her legs.

However: he knows Keira, knew her, loved her, sees her in herself. And he's old, at least double her age, maybe a little more than that. Then again, he's experienced, has seen the world (“I travel a lot,” he has said, with his gun holster and those cowboy boots and the scars on his skin. He smells like horse, camp fire, freedom.), wants to take her with him, show her that same world she has never even hoped to see.

It feels too good to be true.

She sighs deeply, feeling her chest moving against his face, but he doesn't stir. Her fingers move to his forehead, pushing a lock of hair away, down along his temple, trailing his cheek until she feels the rough scratch of his beard against her soft fingertip. She wants to stay in this moment forever, it's so warm and comforting and perfect.

The quiet squeak of the door startles her, her eyes darting away from the man on top of her. She sees a head of blonde curls looking into the dimly-lit room, an almost silent “Psst!” wafting towards her. Turning her head a little more, she sees Mary peeking in, her eyebrows raised at the sight in front of her. It's quite uncommon for any customer to stay this long. But she knows Ben has paid good money for her, for this room, for the bath.

“Are you okay?” she asks in a quiet whisper-hiss.

Nebbia nods. “Yes.”

“Is he –”

“Sleeping,” she whispers, hoping their hushed voices won't wake him.

“Uh, is he still... inside?” Mary asks, and she blushes, laughs softly.

“No.”

“Are you hurting? Do you need help?”

“No, Mary, I'm good,” she whispers back, urging the other girl to leave. “Really.”

The blonde looks at her a little puzzled, but then nods, and waves at her. She waves back and watches the door close again. Her hand returns to his hair, slipping between his thick locks, messing it up even more. He shifts slightly on top of her, a little grunt escaping him that vibrates through her body.

She closes her eyes and relaxes beneath him.

Something warm against her cheek wakes her again. A breath over her skin, a gentle pressure, a heavy hand on her arm. She rolls onto her side, hidden under the covers, and slowly opens her tired eyes. It's still dark, she doesn't know where to look.

“Wake up, sweetheart,” she hears his deep voice, her mind springing into action immediately.

She inhales deeply, unable to force the yawn down, before she sits up, feeling the covers slipping off her bare shoulder. A little squeak escapes her as she stretches her arms above her head, then notices the tall man standing next to the bed, looking down at her.

A mountain of a man, backlit by the glowing embers in the fireplace. He is fully dressed, his head tilted, a little smirk on his lips.

She shifts on the bed, shrugging the blankets off, not caring how exposed she is. It's been only a few hours, but she feels safe with him, and it may be very naive and gullible, but there's no fear inside her, only comfort, excitement, trust. A chance.

He hands her a pile of folded clothes, and she frowns in surprise as she holds up the dress, nothing fancy, a normal multilayered dark brown dress with a beige apron and a bow in the back, it's actually one she's seen Mary wear a lot. Where did he get this? “I robbed the laundry room,” he gives her the explanation, and she frowns even more. He's snooped through the house?

She stands, still so tiny in front of him, and grabs the chemise and bloomers he's provided as well. Without any care, she dresses while he's watching her, and it's only a little throb between her legs and a tiny blush on her cheeks as she feels his eyes on her.

“Do you need to grab anything else?” he asks quietly, his voice low, a hum in the quiet air.

Pulling up the bloomers over her legs, finally covering herself, she looks up at him. “I don't own anything,” she whispers.

“Really? Nothing? A book maybe? Some photographs? Any memorabilia?”

She shakes her head. “Can't even read,” she says under her breath, focusing on slipping the dress over her head. She feels his hands on her sides as he helps her adjust the many layers. His long fingers fidget with the bow in the back, tightening it slightly to fit better around her tiny waist.

“What about money? Didn't you save anything?” he keeps asking once she's done dressing, pulling the long sleeves over her arms.

“We're not allowed to keep anything for ourselves,” she says quietly. “It all goes into the house.”

She sees his eyes darkening, his eyebrows furrow almost angrily. He huffs a grunt and turns away, one hand on his hip as he adjusts the belt on it. For a moment he just stands there, his back turned to her, tall and intimidating, quiet in the dimly-lit room. Then he turns back, his eyes warm, glowing like amber in the light of the dying fire.

“I'll ask you one last time,” he whispers softly, leaning down a little, probably tempted to put his hands on his knees and bend over more, talk to her as if she is a child (which, stature-wise, she kind of is). “Do you really want to come with me?”

She looks up at him, her hands folded in front of her apron. Her answer comes quick because she spent the entire night thinking about it, knowing what she wants. “Yes,” she says with a shy smile. “I'd love to come with you.”

He smiles back, looking at her for a long moment in his bent form, then he takes a step closer to her as if he wants to pull her into his arms, and she waits for it, wants it, but he stops mid-motion, quickly straightening up again, clearing his throat. A little sigh escapes her as she exhales her held breath.

“Is there a back door?” he asks, turning towards the exit.

“Yes, past the laundry room,” she replies, hesitantly stepping next to him. He looks down at her as she enters his field of vision, nodding.

“Show me,” he whispers and holds out his hand to her, palm up, so big, inviting, and she puts her own into it, letting him swallow it as he curls his fingers around her smaller hand.

The warmth is overwhelming for a moment, but then she inhales deeply and pulls him along, carefully opening the door. Most girls should be asleep by now, and the Madam has her room downstairs near the bar. She throws a glance over her shoulder, sees the tall man behind her, and nods. Together they slip into the dark hallway and make their way through the house, down the stairs, into the back, as quiet as a tall man in clinking cowboy boots can be.

He notices the noise too and looks down, then stops in the middle of the hallway, close to the laundry room. “Your shoes,” he hisses and nods towards her bare feet. She hasn't even noticed that she isn't wearing any footwear. She usually doesn't need it inside the house. On her knees, sucking –

Without another word, she pulls him into the laundry room and looks around. Aside from washing sheets and clothes, she has also done a lot of mending. There's a sewing station in the corner, and next to it a pile of old boots and heels and spats with broken laces, rubbed off leather and other damages. She lets go of Ben's hand (reluctantly) and kneels down to rummage through the pile before she finds a pair of ankle boots, hoping they'll fit.

Slipping into them, she purses her lips, but decides they'll do for now. He watches her curiously, leaning against the wall next to the door, a mountain of a man, a shadow in the darkness. She returns to him and looks up with a smile. “Let's go.”

This time he just grabs her hand and leads her out of the laundry room, following the rest of the hallway towards the door leading outside. She only ever goes outside when she hangs up the large sheets and dresses and skirts, the rest of the clothes they dry inside the house, usually in the kitchen because of the heat from the oven. Also because Madam Claire doesn't want to show off their underwear or lingerie to the neighboring houses. (She said it got stolen quite a lot and getting new ones is too expensive in the long run.)

Inhaling the brisk night air, Nebbia looks around, her small hand held by Ben's larger one, before he pulls her along the side of the house. It's dark, she can't see much, but when they round the corner, she can make out the dim glow of the oil lanterns on the main road, a few people standing in front of buildings, talking, others walking, stumbling, through the night, slurring and hiccoughing. Luckily nobody pays them much mind.

Bound to the poles in front of some shops and establishments, there are horses, still except for the occasional hoof stomp or neighing breath, and that is where Ben leads her. Until now she has been excited about leaving her former life, leaving everything behind (not that she has given it much thought, to be perfectly honest), but once he pulls her towards a very large black steed that she cannot even look over, she feels a sudden sting of fear.

Of the unknown, of leaving the other girls, of disappointing the Madam, of being ungrateful. Of riding on a giant horse with a giant man she has just met a few hours ago. She must be out of her mind, agreeing to this. But he has made it clear she doesn't have a choice, so she just blames him for the idea, for giving her the hope of freedom.

Suddenly his hands are on her waist, almost completely encircling her body, as he picks her up without any effort, lifting her into the air and sitting her sideways onto the large saddle. She lets out a surprised yelp and grips the horn with her hands white-knuckling. She is so high up, she can look down at Ben now, but the moment only lasts so long before he puts one booted foot into the stirrup and hoists himself up, swinging his other leg over the horse's back and settles behind her, his arms moving around her as he grabs the reins.

The saddle is slightly sloped, causing her to slip back between Ben's legs, and she feels his warmth, his hard muscles (his hardness), but tries to ignore it as she leans her shoulder against his chest. He wraps one arm around her middle, pulling her towards him, while guiding the horse into motion with his other hand around the reins. The giant animal starts moving, a swaying ship in the night, and she grips the horn tighter before she grabs onto his forearm, a sudden wave of vertigo crashing through her.

“Are you afraid of heights, little one?” he asks softly, leaning down, his breath ghosting her ear.

She shivers, trying to breathe normally as she turns her head towards him, looking up into his smirking face. “I suppose... I never knew I was...” she stammers, holding onto him even tighter when the horse falls into a slow trot, then a slightly faster canter, before the town flies by and they soon leave its illuminated main road, riding into the black starless night, into the unknown. A deep laugh rumbles through his chest.

Her heart is thundering inside her own, because he is so close, so warm, because she just left her old life, left everything, because she's sitting on a horse for the very first time, because she followed this man on a whim, because he was nice to her, because he tempted (threatened?) her with a better life.

Oh what has she done?

They ride for quite a while, through pitch black darkness, and she wonders how he knows where to go, how the horse knows where it's safe to tread, but they seem both confident in finding their way, so eventually she relaxes on the thundering beast, her legs swinging slightly in the rhythmic movements, safe in Ben's embrace. He doesn't talk much, if at all, but his presence is comfort enough, his warmth in the chill of the night a reminder, a promise, of better times.

Or so she hopes.

She has no idea what she's supposed to expect. She doesn't know this man, doesn't know anything about him, doesn't know what he does for a living. “I travel a lot,” he has said. Whatever that means. He's a cowboy, she thinks, but most men in this part of the world are. And to find the line between good guy and bad guy is really difficult, as well.

She remembers a particularly rude and rough customer who has left her with bruises and a bloody lip after her service – who turned out to be the sheriff of the neighboring town. Good guys, bad guys, it doesn't matter. All men seem like they should be avoided – well, most of them, apparently.

So seeing one of them so kind and nice, who despite being drunk and very aroused has not taken advantage of her innocence (despite having paid for her and therefore being entitled to do so), was like a dream she's never had, but she's glad to have experienced it now.

Ben is different. She doesn't know how yet, what he is really like, but he has treated her so well in those hours they've been together, he can't be a bad guy, right?

They are still riding through the night, the horse having settled on a quicker trot as it flies through the darkness. She can see shapes of trees rush by, hears the sounds of the night despite the loud stomping of hooves: owls hooting, insects chirping, maybe even the cries of coyotes in the distance.

Her rear hurts from her awkward sideways position on the sloped saddle and between his hard legs. She feels when he spurs the horse on, every twitch of his muscles, and she even suspects a certain hardness pressing against her hip, but she tries to ignore it. At least he's warm, his arm still tight around her midriff, holding her against him.

His hand with the reins rests on her thighs, hot and heavy and relaxed, like a little furnace, and she's glad it's there. The little up and down movements from the horse's steps has a lulling effect on her (after she's battled the slight vertigo she's never experienced before), and she leans her head against his chest, closing her eyes, inhaling deeply. His arm tightens around her, her hands curling around it, the hand of that arm wrapping around her side, hot on her stomach.

He's so warm. Despite the whirring thoughts and doubts and fears in her mind, despite the awkward position and bouncing motions, despite the whole fucking thing, she somehow falls asleep in his hold.

Nebbia wakes up to the sound of voices, muffled through a wall, angry hisses, deep and low, a constant drone interrupted by a slightly different type of drone. She can't make out any words. It's men, who are talking, she thinks with her head heavy and her eyelids even heavier. She turns onto her side, realizing she is buried under blankets, with her dress tangled around her limbs.

It's so hot.

She kicks the warm layers off with a groan, then sits up slowly, rubbing her eyes, before she finally takes a look around. She is in a room, so much she can say, it's a small rectangle, there's three windows, in an L-shape, one of them is broken and lets in warm air. What time is it? The sun seems already high in the sky. And where the hell am I?

She gets up slowly, noticing her shoes are standing at the foot of the bed. The room, despite its small size, is filled with furniture. The bed in one corner, next to a dresser and a large bookshelf on the wall between two of the three windows. There's another dresser, half covering the broken window. The walls look old, very old, pieces of pale pink paint chipping off them, there's even holes and scratches in them. And they are green with moss where the broken window is.

What is this place?

The dresser is laden with a bunch of things she cannot quite name, looks like gun stuff, bullets, cleaning utensils, other stuff. There's a bowl of water next to a small mirror and few gadgets that look like razors, a pair of scissors, a comb, some pomade boxes. More labeled paper boxes on the shelf, some cigarette packs and a couple of lighters, next to a bunch of books that look as if they've seen better days too. Clothes, a bunch of button-downs or button-ups, pants, belts and ties, hang from hangers clipped to the edges of the bookshelf.

Is this Ben's room?

She ignores the interior for now and slips into her ankle boots, smooths the messy waves of her hair, then moves to the door, her hand on the knob, when she freezes, hearing those voices again. They still sound muffled, as if several rooms over. She stands there and listens, her heart beating faster.

“What were you thinking?” A deep male voice, angry.

“She's –” Ben's voice, low and somewhat patient, with a sigh in his tone.

“I know! Does it make a difference? You don't even know her!”

“I don't need to know her to know that she couldn't stay there!” His voice gets louder, more passionate.

In turn, the other voice grows quieter, dangerously low. “You know who owns that fucking brothel?”

Silence.

“You're in big trouble... and if you bring any of those people here, if you bring trouble to us, you're banned from this camp, Ben! I swear to fucking Christ!”

Door hinges moan before footsteps stomp past the door she's leaning against, and she flinches away, gasping, quickly putting a hand to her mouth. Slower footsteps follow, then stop, while the others disappear into the distance. When the doorknob is rattling, she backs away, tumbling into the dresser. Another gasp escapes her while the door opens and Ben enters the room, staring at her with raised eyebrows.

“You're up,” he says, sounding a little surprised, closing the door behind him, his eyes wandering over her body. And hers do the same. He's wearing a blue shirt today, and black suspenders that span over his muscled torso, holding up the same tight dark jeans he wore last night. And the same cowboy boots, belt askew on his hips, gun holster dipping down.

“Where am I?” she asks, gathering herself and sitting down on the edge of the bed, quickly regretting it as she has to tilt her chin up quite a bit to look at him. He walks past her and sits down next to her, though, still taller than her but not as much while he's sitting.

“A safe place,” he replies quietly, and she sees him biting his bottom lip, a gesture she isn't sure how to read. “And –”

“I'm not welcome here, right?” she interrupts him with a whisper, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she watches him closely. He turns his head fully to her, exhaling loudly.

“Well, it was all a little easier in my head, you know?” he says with a crooked smirk. “I haven't actually thought this whole thing through properly... I mean, I didn't even know you existed! And I was drunk out of my mind. How should I have planned this? How should I have known... who you work for...” His voice quietens towards the end, his eyes looking away.

She frowns. “Who do I work for?” she asks, genuinely confused. “You mean Madam Claire?”

He shakes his head, sighs. “Forget it,” he waves it off and stands again, towering over her. He looks different in the sunlight pouring through the windows, even more intimidating somehow. But his eyes are warmer, a deep brown, and when he looks down at her, he smiles slightly, holding out his hand for her to grab, and she spots a dimple on his cheek, a little cleft in his beard.

She has more questions, but for now she settles by putting her hand into his bigger one and lets him pull her to her feet. The room is small, forcing her to stand very close to him, and somehow, in the bright light, this feels a little awkward (despite how intimate they have been last night), too close, as if she can't breathe, he's so big, taking up the entire space. Tilting her chin up, she looks at him, and he looks down at her, his eyes wandering over her face.

“Let me show you around,” he then breaks the silence between them and steps aside, still holding her hand, so he just pulls her along.

The heels of her boots click over the old floorboards that creak dangerously under their steps as he leads her out of the room and onto a dusty hallway, no window, several other doors, no decor, no lights. The place looks even more run-down than his room. But she doesn't say anything, just follows him as he takes her towards a small staircase.

He lets go of her hand and puts his big palm on her lower back, gently nudging her to go ahead first. She gives him a short glance, unsure if she should, but then descends the stairs, feeling him following close-by. They reach a larger hall, with archways leading off into different sections of the house, but most rooms she can see are empty except for bedrolls in the corners, boarded-up windows and large fireplaces that don't look safe to use.

Ben grabs her hand again and leads her outside through a set of double doors, down a few steps, under the dazzling sun. Her eyes need a moment to adjust before she can look around. It's a camp. There are tents, a large fire-pit with logs around them, some wagons in a half-circle, behind them a bunch of horses grazing on a large meadow. It's all surrounded by trees, as far as the eye can see, and a bright blue sky, no clouds, just blazing sun.

Her hand sweats in his larger one, but he doesn't let go, and the long-sleeved dress with its many layers feels much too warm for this sunny day. She tries to ignore it and looks back to the house, gasps softly. It's one of those old mansions she has seen pictures of, yet it's in complete disrepair, the windows boarded up or broken, shutters hanging off their hinges or missing entirely, the white paint is flaking off, exposing broken wood and old bricks underneath. Moss and vines cover the walls. Still there's a charm to the old house, with its large pillars in the front and the steps leading up to a wraparound porch.

She looks back up at Ben who is throwing her a side-glance, squeezing her hand slightly, as they walk towards a group of men and women sitting around a large table on various stools and chairs and crates. Three women, two men, all of them look up when they approach. Nebbia immediately feels like she doesn't belong here.

It doesn't help that she feels like a child next to the mountain of a man that is Ben. Or that two of the women eye her suspiciously, they are dressed like the men next to them, shirts tucked into pants, their boots sporting the same spurs as Ben's, their dark hair in wild buns on their heads. They look almost identical if it wasn't for the hue of their skin and the sizes of their noses. The other woman wears a dress and a corset that makes her big breasts pop, her red hair in carefully groomed curls framing her pale, freckled face.

She's the only one who smiles at the girl.

“This is Nebbia,” Ben introduces her, gently pulling her in front of him, his large hands on her slim shoulders, warm and heavy, and she looks at the group of people nervously, a shy smile grazing her lips. The men don't react at all, one of them spits his chewing tobacco on the ground, staring at her darkly, the other takes a drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke straight ahead, his eyes boring into hers. The two women give her a synchronized once-over, judging stares, one of them raises an eyebrow.

“You're Keira's daughter!” the woman in the dress exclaims with an even wider smile and stands up. She is almost as short as she is, a little rounder and definitely better equipped in the curve department. Her boobs jiggle in their squished-up state as she walks towards her, and she can't help but gasp a little when she pulls her into a surprisingly strong embrace, pushing her right against her cushioned cleavage. “You look just like her!” she adds as she leans back, holding her upper arms and watching her closely, her amber eyes shining in the sun. “I'm Genevieve,” she says happily. “But you can call me Ginny!”

“Nice to meet you,” Nebbia whispers timidly, cheeks bright red from that unusual welcome. “All of you,” she adds as the woman named Genevieve walks back to the table and her eyes wander over the other members of the camp. She seems by far the youngest among them. “And I... I am sorry if my... presence is inconveniencing you in any way, I don't want to impose...”

“Nonsense!” Ben says and steps back behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders again. She looks up at him, blushing slightly. “It's on me,” he says, meeting her gaze before his dark eyes wander towards one of the men, the smoking one.

There's a strange tension between the two men, the silence is as overwhelming as the sun blaring down at her. She feels sweat trickling down her spine, then the first beads on her temple.

“She'll do her part, like we all do, understood?” the smoking man then grunts, his voice deep and menacing, his short black hair graying at the sides, deep creases on his weathered face. The mustache on top of his upper lip is impressive, but his whole demeanor is quite intimidating. “No slacking. Did she bring any money?”

Ben tightens his grip on her shoulders slightly, causing her to wince. “No, she'll make some, don't worry,” he says, and she looks back at him in surprise, feeling her heart sink. He meets her wide eyes and shoots her a smirk. “Not like you think, sweetheart,” he adds with a wink.

She frowns at that, blinking slowly as she looks down, fidgeting with the long sleeves of her dress.

“But before you do anything, I think she needs a change of wardrobe,” Genevieve chimes in and gets up again, her dress billowing around her, and Nebbia notices how the skirt is hitched up, revealing one pale thigh and the lower part of a leg of her bloomers. “Come on, honey, let's find you some better clothes, hm?”

She steps forwards and grabs the girl's hands, but Nebbia looks back at Ben. He nods and lets go of her with a warm smile. Then she is whisked away towards one of the wagons, stumbling over the uneven dirt ground.

She still has no idea what she is doing here, where she is even, who these people are, who Ben is, why he lives like this, but it feels like a new adventure, a chance, and she is willing to take it, no matter what.

Chapter 1 🟪 Chapter 3

END NOTES: Now that we've breached horse territory, let me just say: I have no idea. This is still fiction, I researched horses and horseback riding and saddles and bridles and whatnot, but I feel it's still all a little off. Please just imagine that two (more or less) grown people can sit comfortably on a western saddle together (even if it doesn't look like it). It adds to the tension, okay? And let's not dive deeper into western fashion... I tried.

Also, a little easter egg for those who've read my fanfictions, I included another oc/mc in this: Genevieve, just a little older, helping poor little Nebbia along.

Ben's camp is inspired by RDR2's Shady Belle settlement.

AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS

[soobadnoonecanstopher]

Hope you are survivin and thrivin, Lori -- hope you're taking whatever well-deserved r&r you need. Just dropping by to say that I have an upcoming smut scene I have to write for a fic and wasn't feeling super up to writing it, so naturally I turned to your fics to reread them for a little heated inspiration. (For the record i will die if you decide to write for OTOYL again btw)

I LOVE THAT YOU GOT INSPIRED BY MYSMUTS OMGGGGG and yes I am still alive but very busy I haven’t even shopped for Christmas yet 🤕🤕🤕🤕

[xinox]

My Tag list

Selfies - Photos of me

MySmut - I think that this one is pretty self-explanatory (NSFW)

Personal - Posts that have value to me, things that I think are personal

Quotes - Just quotes that I love

Mine- Short stories or things that I make

I’ll add more later on. ♥ 

[dirtykpopsnaps]

HUGJHKJH I DIDNT KNOW MYSMUT AKREADY CAME OUT SO SORRY FOR SO LATE BUT TYSM ITS PERFECT IDK HOW U KnEW EXCACTLLY WhAT I WANTED bUT U DID TYSMMMM

danny anon

😂😂

I’m glad you liked it, darling. And I’m sorry. I would’ve tagged your blog so you could see it earlier, but since you’re an anon, I couldn’t tag you

[hayjeon]

u kno i hates reading mysmut bc I thought it sucked and was unnatural but damn give n take 03 was p nasty how did u guys even get thru all that smut lol

[animasola86]

SMUT DRABBLES*: Toy

A/N: Another snippet of a smut scene, *a little more than a drabble, but oh well, it kept evolving. Again, you can imagine any character here! This time, we have some oral sex, deepthroating, masturbation, edging and a little dom/sub dynamic.

WARNING: NSFW! Explicit sexual content! // WORDS: 689 // AO3

He's given her a toy to practice with.

It's big, looks like his cock, can be suctioned to surfaces. It's intimidating.

She's kneeling in front of it, imagines she's sitting between his legs, arms folded behind her back. Eyes closed, tongue extended, exploring the stiff ridges, round edges, hard, cold material. Not the same.

It's better when it's covered in her saliva, warmer, but it's not him, doesn't twitch and throb, there are no groans and grunts, no hand gripping her hair, guiding her head, forcing it deeper.

It's all her. She sucks on it, hollows her cheeks, slurping it into her mouth, tongue flicking around it. Eyes closed, imagining him, remembering his scent, his taste, his dominating presence.

She pushes her head down on it. It's so rigid, too hard, unyielding. She forces on, tongue flat against it, lips strained, back of her throat. Her body jerks when she gags around it, coughs, splutters, keeps going. Eyes watering, can't breathe, imagines his big hands on her head, pushing down.

It's in her throat, she's dizzy, there's so much spit, no precum, only her. No air. She holds it, hears his voice in her memory. “Good girl.” Back and forth, head bobbing, tip on her tongue, tip in her throat, up and down, in and out.

There's no release, no thick creamy cum filling her mouth, dripping down her throat, filling her belly. Just spit and tears. She practices until she almost faints, fighting the gag reflex, getting better, wanting to make him proud.

She's drenched once she's done, sweat, spit, tears, arousal. When she forces herself to stop, she falls over, hands between her trembling thighs. Fingers not enough. The toy is off the wall and slips into her with ease. She's shaking, can barely hold it, wants him to hold it, push it in and out, mercilessly, ignoring her whines. Forcing her to the edge.

“Not yet, baby girl.”

His voice is in her head, so close, so warm. She fights the pleasure trying to devour her, pulls it out, pants, pushes it back in, always close. She's whimpering, crying and sobbing, pleading with her eyes squeezed shut.

“You may come.”

Relief. Release. Exploding pleasure, body convulsing, hips off the ground, thighs pressed together, shaking, gasping, coming so hard she's seeing stars. The toy is forced back in.

“Again.” She obeys, keeps going, pushing further. All for him, through tears and hand cramps and body spasms. Mouth wide open, gasping for air, for reprieve.

Her head is being lifted, supported by strong hands, his scent fills her nostrils, something warm on her face, bent back, neck tilted, upside down. Warm and heavy and soft. Him.

“Keep going.” Fingers cramping around the toy, imitating his cock, and the real thing slips into her gaping mouth, straight into her throat. She doesn't gag, doesn't open her eyes, feels her throat bulging, feels full on both ends. Content, satisfied. Sucks around him as he moves his hips against her face, in and out, tip on her tongue, tip squished in her tight throat.

“Gag.” She does, body convulsing, cunt clenching, spit and precum in her mouth. She's so dizzy. “Good girl.”

The reward comes with a groan, a grunt, a jerk of his hips, tightening balls slapping against her nose. Release. The toy is forced out, muscles tense, fluttering, her hands and thighs wet, a muffled, helpless moan from her stuffed throat. She can taste him as he fills her mouth, rewards her for her effort. Warm, sticky, thick, slipping down her aching throat, gulp, gulp, gulp.

The pressure is gone, he remains, his taste on her tongue, heavy in her belly. His hand on her sweaty face, caressing, wiping away the remnants of her devotion, a thumb pressing against her quivering lip.

“Such a good girl,” he says, and she smiles softly, tiredly, eyelids too heavy to open. “Now turn around. We gotta practice on the other hole today.”

A deep shiver, instant tension, anticipation. She scrambles to her feet, turns, positions herself, presents, ready for more practice. For him.

“Yes, sir.”

MASTERLIST // AO3 // ORIGINAL WORKS

MORE SMUT DRABBLES:

A Steamy Shower

Car Inspection

Sleepy

Tension Relief

[animasolaoriginal]

I n n o c e n c e L o s t 🟪 3

Ben gives Nebbia a riding lesson (on a horse), then shows her the camp and its inhabitants who may not be the most welcoming kind.

lonely cowboy/outlaw ✖️ prostitute who's so much more than that

Chapter 1▫️2▫️3▫️4▫️5▫️6▫️7▫️8▫️9▫️10▫️11▫️12▫️13 ...

GENERAL TAGS: NSFW! Explicit! Size difference, age gap, slow burn romance. Cowboys, outlaws, prostitutes. Historical inaccuracy. Horses, guns, violence.

WORDS: 5.5k 🟪 READ ON AO3

Chapter 2 🟪 Chapter 4

Chapter 3: The Promise

Wow.

When the girl returns from Ginny's wagon, she looks like a completely different person. A young woman. Long brown hair in a messy side braid, hanging over her shoulder. She's wearing a dark green skirt with a white underskirt peeking past the hem, reaching her calves, made of stiff cotton, hitched up at one side to reveal a pale knee clad in the ruffled fabric of a pair of long bloomers. Frilly white socks in dark ankle boots. Her torso is covered in a loose violet linen blouse, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hugging her soft chest, hinting at the small mounds beyond, buttoned up high enough to hide any sign of cleavage or too much skin.

He's almost a little disappointed.

But in his mind he still sees the naked girl as she steps out of the tub, water running down her pale skin, along the gentle curves of her body and the harsher edges of her hipbones, her hands outstretched as she offers him support to get out as well, her arms squishing those soft little breasts together. His large hands close around her wrists, and he gets up with a groan, his body heavy from the warm water, the rest of the alcohol, the comfort of being with her.

She leads him to the bed, his eyes roam her small frame, the way her hips sway, her rear, those small but plump cheeks, how her thighs move when she walks, the muscles in her calves. He barely registers how she grabs a towel, how she dries his large body, then hers, all he sees and smells and wants is her. Her big green eyes look up at him, and it might have been a trick of the light, but he sees hunger in them, her pupils slightly dilated.

He watches her as she crawls onto the bed, on all fours, then spins around and lies down on her back, legs pressed together, a little stiff, before she settles on the sheets, hair splayed out around her head as she sinks onto the pillow, a slight jiggle to her small breasts, her arms resting above her head in a submissive sort of gesture.

His body moves on its own, his mind spinning, the weight of his cock a constant reminder what he really wants, but when he climbs onto the bed, over her, he takes a deep breath, his eyes roaming her frame, every inch of her pale, slender body, and then he simply lies down on her, focused on not squishing her, his heavy head resting right in the valley between her breasts, his arms snaking around her small body, so tiny, so frail, so vulnerable, and he still wants to press his broader frame to her soft skin, feel her warmth.

His hips encircle her pelvis, her upper thighs, he feels the slight throbbing of his cock as it's squished between his lower stomach and her leg, and then... he just fell asleep. Too comfortable to follow the images in his head of doing things to her he probably shouldn't be doing, no matter how much he wants to. (Keira's kid.) Before he drifts off into blissful unconsciousness, he feels her small hands on his back, sliding into his hair, holding him like he's holding her.

And now she's here, in his camp, away from the grueling life of servicing random men. She looks different, she walks differently. More timid, as if the world is too big for her, the sky too blue, the sun too warm, too many unknowns around her. But he'll help her adjust, he'll take care of her, he's promised himself this the moment he has seen Keira in her, heard of her story.

He still can't believe the woman he once loved would leave her own daughter like this, destined to be degraded every night, to be just a body, a mouth, a throat, to be used. There has to be more to that story.

Like there is more to the establishment she has worked in. He had no idea about the strings attached to a simple brothel in a small town, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, whose hands are pulling them, who he has made very mad probably. But then again he doesn't care. She's safe now. She was one of many girls, why would they come after her specifically?

He sighs the many thoughts away and walks towards her, watches Ginny tug on her blouse, fluffing it up a little, making it more airy, loosen a few buttons. The girl blushes when he approaches them, meeting his eyes with a shy smile.

“Beautiful,” he says in a low hum, tilting his head. She blushes even more (or is that rouge on her cheeks?) and looks away, a soft little giggle falling over her full lips.

“Functional,” Ginny exclaims with a laugh and pats the girl on the back a little too hard, causing her to stumble a bit. “This weather can be brutal in too many layers. I'll pick up some more clothes for you later, dearie,” she tells Nebbia with a motherly smile, and she nods at the red-haired woman, muttering a soft: “Thank you.”

Ginny laughs and walks to stand next to Ben, looking back over her shoulder. “She may look like Keira, but she is so much more polite,” she whispers at him, and he huffs a chuckle and nods. “Be good to her, huh?” she adds and pokes her finger into his side playfully before she keeps walking.

“Of course,” he growls, his eyes still fixed on the brunette in front of him.

Then they are alone, and she looks so small and helpless, her hands fidgeting with the fabric of her wide skirt. He takes a step closer, looking down at her. She tilts her chin up and meets his gaze. There's more than shyness to her expression now, there's curiosity, expectation. Like she's waiting for him to take her hand and show her this new world he's brought her to.

And so he does, his long fingers close around her wrist, move down until he envelops her small hand in his, and with a crooked smirk, he tilts his head to her and nudges her onward, pulling her along towards where the horses graze in the bright sun, their coats shimmering in the light, their manes and tails moving slightly in the warm breeze.

She squeezes his hand gently when she follows him. “They're so pretty,” she whispers as he watches how her eyes wander over the various horses until she spots the large black stallion, bigger than all the others, on the other side of the meadow, grazing in the shadows near the trees. “Hey, is that the horse that carried us last night? The black one?” she asks quietly, looking up at him with her big green eyes. Like deep water pierced by the rays of the sun, shifting, glowing.

He's lost in those eyes for a moment, but nods nonetheless. “Come on, let me properly introduce you to Thunder,” he says with a smile and leads her along the edge of the field towards his horse.

“Thunder?” Her voice sounds almost mocking.

He scoffs. “Yes. You don't think that's a good name for a big black Friesian?”

She mouths something he can't understand, as if repeating a word she's never heard before. “Why Thunder?” she then asks with childlike curiosity.

“Well, I've won him in a round of poker, and it was a stormy night... and I was drunk out of my mind, so...” he explains with a shrug, giving her a smirk. She replies it in earnest.

“I guess it's better than Lightning Bolt or something,” she muses.

He laughs, stopping and raising their joined hands to point towards a large gray Mustang with a black mane. She frowns at him, then looks that way. “Let me introduce you to Lightning Bolt,” he chuckles. “Mitch's horse. Won the same night.”

“Oh,” she makes and stifles a snicker. “You are very creative men...” she says before she looks up at him. “Who's Mitch?”

“The man at the table who's been smoking,” he says and keeps walking, squeezing her hand. “The man you probably heard this morning. We are a tight-knit, more or less democratic community, but he runs things around here. He might look and sound stern, but he'll warm up to you, don't worry.”

She gives a doubtful humming sound, falling silent then. He throws her a side-glance and continues on their way along the meadow until they reach the large black horse. Thunder snorts in greeting, bowing his large head towards them.

Ben lets go of Nebbia's hand and pats the animal heartily. “Hello, old boy. Well rested, huh?” With one hand on his strong neck, slipping his fingers through his long mane, he reaches the other out towards the girl who keeps a respectful distance. She looks particularly small next to the giant steed. “Come on, don't be afraid, he's mild as a dove,” he chuckles.

She raises an eyebrow but cautiously puts her hand on his large palm. He pulls her closer, then places her hand onto Thunder's shiny black coat. He's warm to the touch, muscles twitching beneath their hands. She gasps slightly as Ben moves her hand along the back, letting her feel the strong muscles and warmth of his skin. He stands right behind her, caging her in between his body and the horse.

Thunder's withers stands at proud five foot six, probably six inches taller than the girl trying to look over his massive body. She is still petting the patient animal, when he leans back a little, about to slip his hands into his pockets, but then he has the urge to grab her waist and lift her up. And he does. She yelps and squeals, but doesn't kick him, luckily, until he's sat her sideways on the horse, her eyes wide, her lips trembling, her hands trying to grab his wrists in support.

“Still afraid of heights, hm?” he muses, looking up at her, his hands resting on her hips.

She nods. “Please set me down,” she whispers. “It's even worse when I can actually see the ground...”

“Don't look down then,” he laughs, holding her in place. Thunder snorts but doesn't move.

“Will you hold me?” she asks, her voice a breathy whisper, shaking slightly.

“Of course.”

He sees her swallowing before she dares to look around, her breath slowly easing as she focuses on the forest and the meadow and the house in the distance. She even looks up into the blue sky and inhales deeply, her chest rising under her blouse. But as soon as he lets go of her, she gasps and stares at him.

“Calm down,” he chuckles, remaining close to the horse, her shoes brushing against his arm. “Maybe you'll like it more if you'd sit like a man,” he then tells her.

“Like a –”

“With one leg on either side.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “But my skirt –”

“Lift it up a little, I'll hold you,” he says and puts his hands back on her waist while she fidgets with the hem of her long skirt. She hitches it up to her knees, revealing more of the long bloomers beneath it. “Now try to throw one leg over his neck.”

She leans into his hold (the trust she has in him is both impressive and a little concerning) and does as he's suggested. He helps her by lifting her slightly, allowing her skirt to ride up more as she moves her leg over the horse's body. The thick fabric is gathered in her lap now, her bare shins hanging off either side.

“Grab his mane,” he instructs, gently nudging her elbow to make her do it. She is a little stiff on the horse's back (such a tiny girl on this giant animal), her hands shaking, but eventually she digs her fingers through the thick black hair and grabs a tuft of it in each hand. “You're doing great, sweetheart,” he praises, and she turns her head to him and smiles timidly.

He keeps one hand on her lower back, showing her he's there, but lowers his other hand to grab a hold of Thunder's halter, then nudges the reins free from where they're tugged to a post. Taking a step forwards, he sees the horse following his movements, slowly starting to bring his large body into motion, and Nebbia yelps in surprise, gripping the mane tighter when she sways slightly backwards.

“It's alright, relax, I got you,” he tells her, but her body is tense under his hand. “You won't fall. Trust me.”

He feels her taking a shuddering breath as she white-knuckles the tufts of hair in her small hands. A sigh of his own escapes him as his hand wanders towards her tight fists, gently easing her grip. She looks at him, pressing her lips together. He keeps his hand there and leads the large Friesian in a half-circle across the meadow, his heavy hooves stomping loudly over the grass.

“He moves so gracefully,” he hears her whisper, and smiles up at her. “Despite his build.”

He laughs at that. “Never judge a large guy by his build alone, eh?” he muses, throwing her a wink. A few red spots move onto her pale cheeks and a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. He gently squeezes her hands.

“Can I get down now? I should probably be more... productive,” she whispers, and he remembers Mitch's words. No slacking. He nods with a sigh and turns Thunder around, bringing him back to his spot in the shade. By the end of the round, she sits much more relaxed on top of the large animal.

He puts the reins back around the post, patting the horse's neck gently. “Well done, boy.” Then he turns to the girl on his back, tilting his head with a smirk. “So, you think you can get down yourself?” he asks, putting his hands on his hips, shifting his belt slightly.

The tiny girl looks down at him with a fearful pout, hands still gripping the mane tightly. “Please help me,” she mouths barely audible.

“Try to put your leg over his neck again,” he says, dropping his arms and stepping closer. “Don't worry, I'll catch you if you slip.”

She holds his gaze, then focuses on what he's told her. She's still stiff, very tense in her movements, but somehow she manages to pull her leg towards him, sitting sideways again now. He smiles up at her and reaches his arms out, beckoning her closer. This trust in him... what does she see in him that makes her so trusting?

Suddenly she leans forwards, her hands finding his forearms, then his shoulders, while his hands scrape along her sides, trying to grip her waist, and with a slight “Oof” from him and a tiny yelp from her, she falls into his arms, wraps hers around his neck and slumps against his chest as she slips off the horse's back. He holds her, arms tightly around her small body, pressing her against him.

He can't help but inhale deeply, take in her scent, remember last night.

Her cheek moves over his, soft skin against the roughness of his beard. She holds onto him, relaxing in his hold, the tension falling off her. Thunder gives off a loud whinny and breaks through his thoughts, his memories of her naked body beneath his, of his wants, of her lips around –

With a deep sigh, he loosens his grip and lets her slip down his body until her feet meet the ground, her arms outstretched, hands gripping the back of his neck as she looks up at him. Hopeful, intrigued, a little flustered and confused. Her cheeks are reddened. His hands rest on her waist, thumbs rubbing over her stomach, fingers tracing the curve of her spine. He wants to rip off that violet blouse, expose her, really feel her...

“Thank you,” she whispers, and he doesn't know what exactly she's thanking him for, but he takes it, nods with a soft smile, watches her, awfully aware that he shouldn't look at her like this. Not in broad daylight, not here with everyone watching him like he's gone mad for bringing this girl to their camp.

But he had to. And when push comes to shove, he will go with her, if they don't want him, he will not leave her to her own devices. Not now that he knows that she exists.

He takes a deep breath, and she sees it as a sign to let go of him. Her hands move slowly down along his chest before she drops them, the same moment he drops his, and she takes a step back, almost bumping into the large black horse behind her.

“Alright,” he sighs and puts his hands into his pockets. “Lemme show you what you can do around here to get on Mitch's good side,” he tells her with a wink and tilts his head to the side to show her to follow him. She nods eagerly and walks with him.

Nebbia is surprisingly enthusiastic about the various chores they have around the camp. He shows her the laundry buckets near the back of the house where a small creek bubbles along the line of the trees, the clothing lines spanned between them, drying clothes already on them. They meet Milly, the oldest of the women, her toothless smile full of joy at the sight of the much younger girl.

The next station he brings her to is the cooking wagon. The cart is full of supplies, mostly tin cans, but there's fresh meat hanging outside the tent erected next to it, drying in the sun. The smell is mouthwatering already. A large pot rests on a stand above a fire-pit, a big ladle inside, bowls of various shapes and sizes piled up around it. Soup of the day, or of most days. They don't get too much variation around here. But it's a belly filling meal, warm and tasty, so he doesn't complain.

On their way to the supply tent, they walk past a group of men lounging around a smaller fire, sitting on the dirt, backs against the logs around them, smoking and drinking already, laughing at their own jokes. It's Bob, Bill and Joe, their best shooters, fastest riders, but also their most degenerate. They're good on a job, but bad among people. He's tempted to avoid them by taking the girl in a wide circle around them, but despite their mid-day buzz, they spot her immediately. Bob's whistle cuts the air.

“Boys, behave,” Ben tells them sternly, holding onto Nebbia's hand a little tighter as he pulls her towards him.

“Ah, c'mon, Ben!” Joe slurs, raising his beer bottle. “I thought you brought her here to share!”

His jaw clenches, as does his hand around hers. A little gasp escapes her, but instead of squirming away, she presses closer to his side, away from the leering men. “She's the newest member of our camp, an equal, Joe. If you wanna keep the ability to drink with that dirty mouth of yours, I'd say you shut it right now.”

Joe waves it off and scoffs, but remains silent. All of them do, actually, so he pulls her along, trying to ignore them for now. He eases the tension in his hand and takes a look at the girl next to him, ready to round the corner of the house, when Bill's voice wafts over to them.

“I wish I could take my whores back to camp, that would spare me the ride to –“

A rush of air. A loud crack. A grunt. A fist hitting the middle of his ugly face without hesitation, a deep growl rumbling from Ben's throat. He's left her standing at the corner, having witnessed the trembling of her small body at those words, and with only a few long strides he has reached the men and let his anger out. His hand is throbbing, blood (not his) running down his knuckles. The other man writhes in pain, holding his broken nose.

“What the fuck, Ben?” Bob calls out, attempting to rise from where he sits.

He takes a menacing step towards him, raising his fist. “I dare you,” he hisses through his teeth, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, fury boiling beneath his skin.

Bob raises his hands and slumps back down. “Alright, alright,” he mumbles.

Joe just stares at him. He throws them each one more dark glare, then turns around, inhaling deeply, his fist clenched by his side. Nebbia waits for him with wide eyes, trembling lips, and as soon as he reaches her, her small hands grab his bloody fist and pull it up for her to look at.

“I'm not hurt,” he growls, but she only looks up at him, cradling his bloody hand between her fingers, her skin so soft and delicate, pale in comparison to his tan.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, lowering her gaze, her fingertips gently caressing his throbbing knuckles.

He frees his hand from her hold and uses it to grab her chin, making her look up. Her gasp is both scared and surprised. “Do not apologize! Those bastards deserve every punching they get if they call you... if they talk about you like that,” he mutters darkly.

She swallows hard, unable to move away as she stares at him, her body shivering despite the heat around them. He watches her for a moment longer, then lets go of her chin and sighs, wiping his hand on his jeans to get rid of the blood that isn't his. Then he offers the same hand back to her, palm up. She puts her delicate hand onto it, and he closes his fingers gently around it before he pulls her further through the camp.

They reach the large supply tent where the Stacys try to bring order into the chaos of last night's haul. There are shelves stacked with ammunition, medical supplies, match boxes, candles, blankets, other useful things they snatch up whenever they head out. A makeshift wall in the far back holds additional weapons, shotguns, pistols, rifles, cleaning supplies. The two women who look alike except for the hue of their skin and the size of their noses look up, eyes hard, lips pressed together.

“Ladies,” he greets with a bow of his head. They share a look before their eyes move over the girl, up and down, almost as bad as the men have looked at her, but at least the women know when to shut up – but to be fair, both of them are missing parts of their tongues, another similarity they share, so he shouldn't be so quick to judge. If they could talk, they'd call her the same name. Whore. Unwanted. Doesn't belong here.

Ben clears his throat and nods again, always slightly intimidated by their muteness. He pulls the quiet girl along, who seems to shrink even more beside him the more he shows her of the camp and the people inhabiting it. Once they're out of earshot, he leans down to her.

“Are you okay?” he asks quietly.

She chews on her bottom lip. “They all don't want me here, huh?” she whispers.

He sighs and straightens, pushing his free hand through his messy hair. “They all started out as outsiders. Hell, we are all a bunch of outsiders, people pushed out of society, left behind, forgotten, trying to find their place. We came together like this, each of us with a stranger backstory. So once they remember that, they'll welcome you in their midst, too. You are one of us now, do you understand?” he adds and looks at her, squeezing her hand, tempted to grab her face and stroke her cheek, wipe his thumb under her watering eyes.

Her gaze is wide, green orbs shimmering in the dazzling sunlight. A tiny smile grazes her lips, before a frown settles between her brows. “But... you said you're a sort of... democratic bunch, but then you just brought me here without them knowing, without them agreeing, how is that okay?” she whispers, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth.

He just shakes his head, inhaling deeply. “You're special, sweetheart,” he says, and she frowns deeper. He doesn't say anything more, and she doesn't press him, just looks away, looking more confused than before, with her cheeks a little bit more red.

They continue their way through the camp, the clanging and shuffling of the Stacys organizing stuff in the supply tent echoing after them.

“Also don't take anything the twins do personally. They're... very strange women, sharing the same name, almost the same looks, the same fate. They used to be performers in a traveling circus until the ringmaster decided he had enough of their blabbering and cut their tongues out.”

Nebbia's eyes grow wider when she looks back at him, a shocked tremble rushing through her. He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand.

“We call them the Stacys, by the way,” he says nonchalantly and leads her past the line of tents, nestled against the side of the house. She follows slowly, still battling her reaction. “Those bastards by the fire were Bob, Bill and Joe. Mitch and Ginny you've already met, Milly was the lady by the creek,” he lists, trying to remember who else he should introduce her to. He also doesn't want to overwhelm her with names and people too much.

“Who was the other man at the table? The one next to Mitch?” she asks quietly, looking up at him, seemingly not as overwhelmed as he has thought.

“Mitch's right hand, Steve,” he answers quietly, his eyes wandering ahead in search of the man. Luckily he can't see him. “You should stay clear of him, though.”

“Why?” she asks innocently.

“You know, we're all people trying to start new lives here, forget the past. Well, some of us, him included, have a rather dark past... darker than any of us combined,” he tells her in a hushed voice, leaning a little closer. She holds his gaze curiously, but he can see goosebumps on her bare forearms. “He was a very disturbed fella, might still be, no matter how helpful he's been recently. Just... stay away from him, it'll be fine.” He hopes.

She stops walking, squeezing his hand. “What did he do?” she breathes.

Ben shakes his head, straightening up again. “A story for another time,” he says, his gaze stern.

She bites her lip, but nods, looking down at the ground. He starts moving again, dragging her gently after him. Curious little kitten, you know what curiosity did to you, hm? he thinks, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

They reach the large table again, and it's only Mitch, who sits in the bright sun, still smoking, flicking through a book. Ben has to admit that he owes him, his life, his will to keep going, him being here, but the older man doesn't always make it easy to be around him. His dark mustache twitches when he looks up at them with narrowed eyes.

“So,” he says, leaning back in his chair, staring at Nebbia. “Do you think you can work, girl? Make yourself useful?” he asks her, and Ben feels her flinching slightly at the deep, demanding tone of the other man.

“Yes, sir,” she replies timidly, not meeting Mitch's eyes. “I... I've worked before,” she whispers. “I... did the laundry, I cleaned, I repaired clothes and sheets, I –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mitch cuts her off with a wave of his hand, the golden rings on his fingers gleaming in the sunlight. “Just do your part, and keep your head down. No trips into town for a while,” he adds, looking up at Ben, his gaze stern.

He suppresses a sigh. “Yes, Mitch,” he grumbles, working his jaw. Next to him, Nebbia squeezes his hand. He looks down at her.

“Does she need a room or a tent?” the older man asks after taking a drag from his cigarette.

“We'll figure it out,” Ben replies, both to him and to her as he meets her curious gaze.

“Ben?” Mitch's voice is a deep gruff grunt, hoarse around the smoke he's exhaling. He meets his eyes. It's just a look they share, but he knows what he's trying to tell him. Keep your head down. Be careful. I know who she is and who you think she is. But she is not her. Words they've shared before. Clenching his jaw, he gives a short nod, then turns away and pulls the girl after him.

Nebbia stumbles slightly, but catches herself before she follows him to the front of the house. There he stops, letting go of her hand to put his own into his pockets. She looks up at him with a frown. “So, where do you wanna start?”

She tilts her head. “Start?”

“Working. Laundry with Milly? Organizing with the Stacys? Cooking with Ginny?” he lists, watching her closely.

“What are you going to do?” she asks, meeting his gaze with a somewhat mischievous glint in her green eyes.

“Tending to the horses,” he says, looking her over with a smirk. “What? You wanna get dirty too?”

“You didn't say that was part of the chores here as well.” She sounds almost pouty.

“I thought you didn't like horses.”

“No, I'm terrified of their heights, but feeding and brushing them or cleaning their saddles doesn't require me to sit on their backs, right?” She takes a step closer to him, despite her very small stature building herself up in front of him. It's adorable. “And I like them. I find them really beautiful. Also, I... hmm, maybe I should stay clear of your people for today, until they get used to my presence...”

He's surprised by her change in demeanor. She was so timid and shy when he showed her around, introduced her to the others, a shrunken little girl too afraid to lift her eyes. But now she stares at him, challenging him, giving him cheek, and it feels refreshing. It reminds him of her.

“Oh and what did you mean by I'll make some money, but not how I think?” she asks, clearly on a roll now.

He raises an eyebrow. “All in due time,” he sighs and turns away, taking a step towards the meadow. She turns too. “You're motivated, huh? I like that, but don't overdo it.” He can see her frown as he looks over his shoulder at her. “Well, come on then, we got a lot of horses to brush!”

Her face lights up immediately as she staggers to follow him, taking quick small steps to catch up to him, a happy smile grazing her full lips. Lips around – He groans, pushing a hand through his hair, then over his eyes as they walk together. His head is spinning, be it from the hangover, the post-heist-high, or from meeting this little gem of a girl.

He's promised her a better life, and he's glad she's away from the brothel, but what if all of that will come around to bite him in the ass? Mitch seems to see where this will go, his words of warning still echoing in his mind. Ginny's also had the same idea. Be good to her. And he wonders who she should stay clear of the most? The three leering degenerates? Steve? Or himself?

Last night he's told himself he wouldn't soil her, keep her innocence, make her feel safe. Treat her like a proper lady. But every time he looks at her flushed cheeks, at those ocean-green eyes, her beautiful lips, he remembers the rest of her, the alabaster skin, the slender body, lean limbs, small breasts, the hint of hair between her legs. The trust she is giving him.

He knows he doesn't deserve it. Because all he wants is to grab her, rip her clothes off and look at her again, bring his lips to hers, to her neck, to her breasts, down her stomach, force her legs open and taste her, feel her, soil her.

She's Keira's kid.

She looks like Keira. Is that why he feels so attracted to her? Despite her age? Despite it all? Is that enough to justify the throbbing of his cock? Or is he just as fucked-up as he's always feared to be?

He has no idea. But what he does know is that he will protect this girl, keep his promises, allow her to have a better life. And maybe, somehow, she feels grateful enough to allow him something else in return. Who knows.

Chapter 2 🟪 Chapter 4

End notes: A little bit more world building and somewhat vague character introductions, but don't worry, there'll be a lot more plot in the next chapter. A lot more! Get ready!

(Also I apologize for my incredibly creative naming skills... Bob, Bill and Joe, and Steve, yup, and Mitch really has nothing to do with RDR2's Dutch, nope, not at all... at least it wasn't intentional, my mind works in strange ways. But don't worry, these characters don't play that big a role anyway, it's about Ben and Nebbia, remember?)

Thank you for reading!

AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS