#mysmut | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

animasola86 · 8 days

Text

Sebastian Sallow's Hands

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!reader

Genre: Smut // Words: 2.7k // [READ ON AO3]

Notes: I woke up thinking about Sebastian's hands, so... I wrote this, whatever this is. Drabble? Headcanon? Plotless porn? I don't know. It's about hands, I think. Maybe? (It escalated a little...)

WARNINGS: NSFW! Explicit sexual content!

Sebastian Sallow is a handsy guy.

You've noticed it when he would grab your hand and pull you along or out of dangerous situations, or when he sits next to you and just talks, usually with his hands if they are not resting on your arm or back or thigh... and the more you get to know him, and the closer you get, the more he would touch you, bolder and more confident, but usually still appropriate enough for the public space you are in.

But as soon as the two of you would be alone somewhere, truly alone, his hands would be all over you. Tangled in your hair, stroking your back, exploring all of your curves, cupping your face to pull you towards him for a heated kiss. And whenever you'd end up lying on a couch or a bed together, he'd have his hands wrapped around your stomach or your hips or firmly holding your breasts.

Perhaps he is also a boob guy.

That is certainly his favourite body part of yours. His large hands would be holding your soft mounds like something fragile, fingers carefully encircling the shape, weighing them gently, applying just enough pressure that you'd know what he is doing, and sometimes he would just hold them when he'd be lying behind you, bodies pressed together, relaxing, his hands supporting your breasts like a bra made out of warm skin and muscles.

And you like it, of course you do, him just cupping them with his beautiful hands, calloused but also soft, with those veins and tendons protruding under thin freckled skin, those long fingers bending just the right way, reminding you of other places his hands has been...

He is a handsy guy, but you are a hand appreciater. A hand lover. Or lover of his hands. Match made in heaven.

You don't know if he knows how you sometimes stare at his hands, how you take in every detail of them, but he indulges you, moves them over your body, touches you everywhere, playfully slides his fingers over your skin, under your clothes, into your hair, traces the lines of your body with gentle movements.

And you either melt into the soft touches, or you come undone by them. It's one or the other. Or the same.

And as much as you love watching his hands, you appreciate them even more when you can feel them, really feel them. Gripping your hair with a strength that always surprises you, or closing around your throat hard enough to make you gasp. Or when he grabs you by the waist and manhandles you into any position he likes best at the moment, and you usually let him. How could you ever resist him and his hands?

And when they are back around your breasts, kneading them, teasing them, long fingers pressing into soft flesh before they focus on your sensitive nipples, rolling them between fingertips, pinching them, pulling them, all you can do is mewl under the sensations.

Yet as rough as he can sometimes be with his hands, he uses the rest of his body to soothe you afterwards. Mainly his mouth. And what a mouth he has, a dirty one, you know that, spilling things nobody should say out loud, but then there are also his lips, those kissable lips, eagerly moving against yours or down your jaw and onto your neck, pressing soft kisses into your skin until he gets his teeth and tongue involved too.

And oh that tongue...

(You realize the more you think about Sebastian, the less you can decide what part of him you like the most. Perhaps it's the entire package...)

He is so good with his tongue. Be it during a kiss or when he explores your body, licking and nibbling and sucking on your lips or earlobes or breasts or any patch of skin he can reach, sometimes leaving those marks on you that you can barely hide the next day that he always soothes with a lap of that eager tongue, warm and wet and enticing.

And while his big hands hold your waist (or you in place as you can't stop squirming), he moves his tongue around your nipples until they're hard and almost aching, then sucks on them like a man parched, always teasing and easing them with the tip of this very versatile, wet muscle.

Then he moves lower, laving your stomach, dipping into your belly button, kissing your hipbones, his palms always running along your sides, exploring ahead until they grip your thighs and pull them apart when he plants eager pecks on your mound.

The things he does between your legs should be classified as unspeakable. At least they render you completely speechless, or breathless, or brainless, as all you can do is whimper and moan and gasp and cry out in nothing but pleasure when he presses his mouth to your folds, lapping between your lower lips, licking up any wetness he creates with those expert motions.

He usually focuses on any inch of sensitive skin – except your clit. That he lets to its own devices until it's throbbing and you're so needy you buck your hips against his face. Then his hands are back, holding you firmly, fingers digging into your skin, sometimes bruising it with how hard he grips you, while he continues his journey along your weeping pussy, kissing and licking and sucking, pulling your folds between his teeth, teasing them. He even dips his tongue into your entrance, moving that muscle in ways you don't think possible.

And while you dissolve beneath him, body twitching but no longer protesting, he moves his hands around your rear and grabs your bum cheeks, kneading them with nimble fingers as he presses you closer to his face, diving deeper. And only then does he move towards your clit. It's usually one or two licks and you spasm against him, crying out louder, and a few more licks until you come against his face hard.

His hands will find yours then, fingers slipping between your own, holding you, squeezing you, supporting you through the spasm of your body.

He may lap up your wetness, but he also never stops until he pulls at least one more orgasm out of you as he enjoys seeing you come undone, let go, forget everything that has ever bothered you. And oh, how light-headed and carefree you are once he is done with you.

Or, once his mouth is done with you. Because then he starts using his fingers, and you never come down from that high when he rubs that sensitive bundle of nerves with one hand while the other moves over your folds, parting those lips, stroking along that wet sensitive skin until he pushes one fingertip into you, teasing you, feeling your walls clench around it.

And slowly he pushes it deeper, one knuckle at a time, pressing into your tightness, massaging and exploring your soft flesh, while his other hand lies flat on your lower stomach, feeling those contractions, and his thumb is placed firmly on your clit, rubbing it in circles.

You're probably a mewling mess by now, barely able to appreciate those beautiful hands and fingers anymore, but he keeps going, pulling his finger out and replaces it with two, easily slipping in, deeper, stretching your walls when he scissors them inside you, and when he bends them just right, and presses against that one spot, and he does, at the same time as he pushes hard on your clit, you erupt in pleasure at the motion, your noises unintelligible.

He fingerfucks you through your orgasm, pushing those long digits in and out, fast and hard, savouring these squelching noises that you'd be embarrassed about if you weren't floating near the ceiling right now. He gets even bolder and adds a third finger, stretching you further, preparing you for yet another adventure.

In and out they go, while his thumb still circles your clit, and he may even bend down and give your inner thighs some soft kisses or rough nibbles, probably both, marking you up even more. And you buck and convulse and twitch against him, lost in ecstasy, but when he pulls those fingers out and stops assaulting your clit, you watch him out of hooded eyes, only to melt even more into whatever surface you're lying on as you witness him putting his glistening fingers to his lips and licking them clean with that sensual hum that drives you crazy.

And then he is crawling on top of you, pressing his wet mouth to yours, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue as he shoves it between your lips, swallowing your mewls and moans, while his fingers dig into your hair, tugging it slightly, holding you in place as he kisses you even more senseless.

You barely notice when his hands move, one down between your bodies, one to close around your throat, gently choking you while he grabs his hard cock and lines it up with your eager entrance. And when he pushes the tip in, you gasp, and he presses against your throat, silencing that gasp, and his hips move against yours, gentle stabs to ease his length into your tight cunt, while he keeps kissing you deeply, muffling more of your noises.

Once he's sheathed completely inside you, filling you out perfectly, he eases his grip on your throat and massages your neck with those long fingers, his thumb pressed against your chin, guiding you into the kiss. He gives you a tiny bit of reprieve, letting you adjust to his intrusion, and even though you feel full and barely able to move or breathe, you mould against him, your legs falling open until they hook around the back of his thighs, pulling him even deeper.

He leans back slightly, watching you with a dark gaze, brown eyes barely recognizable with how dilated his pupils are, how hungry he is for you. His freckled face is hard, concentrated, jaw clenched with that muscle moving so deliciously beneath his skin.

His hand is still holding your throat, then you feel his other hand moving back up, gliding over your curves until a warm palm presses to your breast, cupping it gently before he starts kneading it, rubbing it against your nipple until it hardens. He is so enthralled by the feel of your soft flesh that he lets go of your throat and leans back, hips still pressed against yours, deeply connected, while he grabs your other breast as well, holding them firmly in his large hands, warm and safe.

He keeps groping them, alternating between rough squeezes and gentle presses, your hard buds scraping over his calloused skin, and watches your face closely as he does so. You're so relaxed now, you've almost forgotten his hard cock resting inside your tight cunt, but only until he suddenly starts moving.

Pulling out to slam back in, repeatedly, over and over again, and each time he thrusts deep, you yelp and rock over the surface you're on, up and down, but his hands on your breasts hold you in place. He uses them to guide you, gripping them with his arms outstretched as he slams his hips against you. Your legs fall open again, too boneless to hold onto him, and your entire body moves with his powerful thrusts.

You'd watch his muscles ripple under his skin, those tendons moving with every motion, but you thrash your head back and dissolve into a puddle of bliss as he keeps driving his length and girth into you, stretching your walls while they clench around him, his rapid rhythm rendering you unable to do anything but lie in front of him, issuing those noises that make him move even faster.

The tension in your stomach tightens, and while he pinches your nipples, he thrusts deep, always hitting the farthest spot, until you cry out and arch your back, stars dancing behind your eyelids, limbs twitching uncontrollably as you come hard on his cock.

He pulls you up then, arms wrapped around your body as he presses you to his chest, his mouth finding your shoulder for some breathy kisses before he bites down slightly, and you can barely move your own arms, but you try to snake them around him, holding onto him, fingernails digging into his back as he quickens his pace even more.

Your combined moans and groans echo through the room while you lean your cheek against his collarbone and he holds you with strong hands, one between your shoulder blades, one on your lower back, as he pounds into you hard and fast, until a grunt leaves his throat and he gives you one final thrust, hitting your cervix with precision, which makes you come undone all over again.

He stills inside you as you convulse, and you feel him twitching between your fluttering walls. His embrace tightens as he comes inside you, painting your womb with his hot seed. Rough breaths hit your ear as he slowly relaxes with you in his arms, and for a moment neither of you move, as the warmth you both created spreads through your body like a wildfire.

You feel exhausted and close your eyes, even though you want to watch how he gently pries your arms away from him and places you on your back again, his hands roaming your sweaty body, caressing your tender breasts until they move to your thighs, holding onto them as he steps back and slips out of you. You can feel the globs of warm cum dripping from your hole, and you couldn't care less where they go and what they soil, but then you feel his fingers on your sensitive skin and your eyes flutter open.

He watches you with a tired smirk as he circles your clit with one finger before he dips the same one into your pussy, shoving his seed back in. A small gasp escapes you as he keeps fingering you until he's satisfied his essence remains inside you. When he withdraws that finger, it is coated in your combined juices, glistening, dripping, and you see him raising it towards his mouth, but somehow you manage to lean up and close your shaking hands around his wrist and pull his hand towards your own mouth.

His eyes sparkle in admiration when he watches you lick his finger clean, a little growl escaping his throat. You hold his gaze as you give his other fingers the same treatment, your tongue lapping around those beautiful digits and between them and along the back of his hand, and when he bends his fingers, you feel those tendons and veins move against your tongue, and a deep shudder rushes through your body.

You cradle his big hand between your smaller ones, admiring every single detail of it, noticing the little freckles on it, the sharp edges of his wrist, the hair moving up his arm, the veins snaking around it and the muscles tensing beneath his skin. And he watches you closely, mesmerized by how much attention you pay to his hand.

And you're not done. You give every knuckle a gentle peck, licking over every crease, nibble on his fingertips, and when you reach his pinkie you turn his hand palm up, lapping at the lines on it, moving towards his pulse, before you focus back on his thick thumb.

His eyes widen slightly when you pull it between your lips and start sucking on it playfully, your eyes gleaming in mischief and delight. His own amusement quickly turns into arousal as you continue working on his thumb, pushing it as deep as it can go into your mouth, and he groans slightly when you graze your teeth over it while your tongue swirls around it eagerly.

And that's when he questions if his favourite part of you really are your breasts. He loves them, he even moves his free hand to knead at one as he watches you, but he can't deny that you have a very talented mouth as well.

So the cycle repeats itself, and at the end of the day, you both realize you are just crazy about each other, every body part included. Though you still always adore his hands a tiny bit more.

[ MASTERLIST ] [ AO3 ]

Sebastian Sallow headcanons

NSFW Sebastian Sallow headcanons

NSFW Hogwarts in the 1890s headcanons

Screenshots of Sebastian's Hands Masterlist

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow reader insert #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy smut #hogwarts legacy reader insert #reader insert #smut #mysmut #sebastian sallow headcanons #sebastian sallow headcanon #smut headcanons

216 notes · View notes

animasolaoriginal · 1 day

Text

I n n o c e n c e L o s t

He finds her in a brothel of all places. A chance encounter, but one that will change his life – and hers – forever. – or: A story about a cowboy who falls in love with a prostitute, who happens to be so much more than that.

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

__ Chapter 1: The Girl __

m!OC x f!OC -- WORDS: 5.9k -- READ ON AO3

when a cowboy meets a prostitute

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 thumbs 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.

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.

Picture credits to their respective owners. I don't own anything. I gathered these from all around the Internet. If you see your picture and would like to have it removed, please tell me!

AO3 -- MASTERLIST -- INSPIRATION POSTS

14 notes · View notes