Arthur's too wired after sex to rest, often leaving a warm bed to go about Blinder business. You've tried everything to get him to stay, seductive words to outright begging, but nothing ever stops him leaving. It took time to heal the heartache flooding your limbs afterward, that is until you became numbed by routine.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)
Arthur's poor self image means he's never considered what his best feature might be. When he meets you, he becomes aware of the things you find sexy tho. Your fave thing about Arthur is his freckled skin. You once made it your mission to kiss every one from his forehead down. However, Arthur wasn't patient enough to allow you to continue past his shoulders. The feeling of your warm, wet mouth against his flesh enough sent him into a frenzy of desire.
By comparison, he could name a thousand things he adores about you so it would be difficult for him to choose. If he had to pick just one it would be your ass. Arthur loves to watch you walk away from him, backside swaying enticingly. When he approaches you at the bar, he can't help but grab at you, squeezing to the point of leaving bruises.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
Arthur may not want children, but he's a careless man ruled by impulse. Therefore he doesn't ever seem to remember to pull out in time. He'll groan in relief as he empties his balls inside you, muttering a half hearted apology and promises to help you take care of it if his seed should take.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
You couldn't say how the idea first came to be, only that Arthur was a ready and willing participant when you asked him to try pegging. Intrigued by the notion of a more powerful orgasm, he submitted to you fully. He didn't regret it, in fact, he'll ask for this special treatment whenever he's feeling needy.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)
Arthur was sexually active from a young age as a way to prove his masculinity. He secretly hoped tales of his exploits would reach his father and make him proud. By the time you meet, he's well versed in pleasure.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
As mentioned under "Body Part", Arthur loves your ass so his favorite position is doggy style. Watching you bounce back against his cock is the most intoxicating sight imaginable. There's something about the way your flesh moves, responding to his thrusts that makes him feral. And ofc, he can't resist the occasional spanking.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Arthur rarely jokes during sex, lower lip pressed between his teeth. On days when he's feeling pent up and frustrated, he can only focus on relief. Sometimes that means ignoring your wants, but you can't find it in your heart to fault him when he's under such pressure.
H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Arthur is a wild man in every sense of the word. Free from the constraints of military life, he's allowed himself to become overgrown from head to toe. You'll have to navigate a dark forest of curls to suck him off, but you're handsomely rewarded with deep groans of satisfaction.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Sometimes you wonder if Arthur has a romantic bone in his body. He's not one for sentiment and would rather die than admit he's become attached to you. However, there are signs you've moved past casual fuck buddies. For example, the first time he brought you flowers, leaving them on the kitchen table still wrapped in paper. You knew he'd likely purchased them as he strolled thru the market earlier thinking of you, but neither of you acknowledged it.
J = Jack off (masturbation head canon)
Arthur has a high sex drive and isn't averse to taking care of himself when need be. However, that isn't his preference. He'd much rather have you kneel before him, worshipping his cock. And knowing that you hold this power to soothe him when needed, you rarely deny him.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
It's Arthur's most ardent desire to have a woman waiting at home to attend to him, allowing him to take you from behind as you do the dishes. He would def be into free use to affirm his authority as the head of the household. He might not be the leader of the Peaky Blinders, but he's king in his own home and takes full advantage of it.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Arthur isn't picky about location and since he isn't shy, public places don't deter his lust. He'll gladly have his way with you in the picture house or the stables at the races, anywhere he decides he needs you. (He's more than happy to clamp a large hand around your mouth if you can't keep quiet.)
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Arthur is easily tempted so any occasion where you might bend over his desk or reach for something on a high shelf sends his imagination into overdrive. Suddenly he can't concentrate on anything, needing to feel you under him before he implodes with want.
N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)
Painful memories of the noose don't allow Arthur to see bondage or breath play as something erotic. It's doubtful he'd explain any of this to his partner so it might seem as though a simple request led to his sullen mood and/or disappearance from your life. Because that's another thing Arthur won't do, discuss his emotions.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Arthur is obsessed with the feeling of your hands and mouth on his cock. He enjoys sitting at the edge of the bed, hands intertwined in your hair as he watches his dick slide between your glistening lips. When he's overly eager for release, he's esp rough, jerking you by your hair and forcing your nose to his pubic bone. And he'll remain as quiet as he can to hear every lovely choking sound and gasp of breath.
He's less enthusiastic about giving, tho he is quite skilled at it when he takes the notion. His fave part is stretching you wide with his long fingers and making you beg for release.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Arthur doesn't know how to fuck unless it's hard. He just can't help himself. However, he does try to slow his pace for you when you complain. He doesn't want to turn you off from sex entirely.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Arthur loves any amount of time he gets with you, even if it's a quickie when he's supposed to be working. If you appear in the doorway of the betting shop, he'll find an excuse to leave so he can ravage you in the alley.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
As mentioned above, Arthur clearly isn't afraid of taking a risk. He's willing to have sex in public and try new experiences. There's little he won't do, wanting to live life to the fullest. When he's high his inhibitions are lowered even further.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Arthur might be the oldest Shelby brother, but he's by no means an old man. He can last all night! He might need time between rounds, but he's able to go at least twice in one night.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
Arthur doesn't approve of you using toys. He thinks he should be enough for you. I can see him flying into a rage if he catches you pleasuring yourself with anything that isn't his dick. Then he'd toss your toy into the rubbish.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Arthur dislikes teasing when it comes to his own pleasure, but he'll certainly delay yours. There's a sadistic streak in him that requires him to push you past your boundaries, waiting for you to dissolve into tears before giving into your cries.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Arthur can be v loud when the mood strikes. He's been known to frighten the neighbors with his growls, guttural moans and shouting. Luckily everyone knows you're dating a Peaky Blinder and would never alert the coppers.
W = Wild card (a random head canon for the character)
Having a weakness for Japanese silk, Arthur isn't likely to argue with the amount you spend on lingerie. The feeling of the buttery soft fabric under his fingers makes his knees buckle. He's esp fond of soft, feminine shades of pink and peach.
X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)
What Arthur lacks in girth, he makes up for in length. It's a standing joke amongst his brothers that Arthur has a third leg. And according to his former paramours, he knows exactly how to use it! When he's fully aroused, the head of his cock turns the most beautiful shade of reddish purple.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
Arthur is much more loving than people realize. He's always thinking of you and wanting to be with you, esp when he's stuck in a meeting with Tommy. His mind will wander to the last time he had you beneath him and his eyes glaze over with want. It's little wonder he's no help when it comes to business strategy bc his mind is often elsewhere.
Z = Zzz
Like Tommy, Arthur has a difficult time sleeping due to his nightmares. He's fond of snow bc it keeps him awake and full of energy for his next adventure. If you want to be Arthur's partner in crime, you have to have the stamina to keep up with him!
I love how you portrayed Arthur here, Lee! I think it's easy to fall for a "he'd be softer with a lover" interpretation bc of his pity worthy moments, but his sexual habits indeed don't seem to change from s2 to s4
I especially loved the Affection hc, it's a lil funny how he's always like: sex with a random girl > "okay now let me have a drink with my brother tommy" then > sex with Linda > "okay now let me deal with this thing at the factories"
The mention of his freckles also made me so soft bc yes, his back looks like a tortilla to me and the fact he'd be impatient if you try to kiss all of them, can we blame him? It's indeed a lot of them 🤭
@tssweetheart Tysm for reading and leaving your thoughts, Lora! I'm glad to hear my portrayal of Arthur seemed true to character. I tried to be as faithful as possible to what we see in canon. Btw I love that you mentioned the bit about the freckles bc I was v proud of that. His skin is beautiful, isn’t it? 🫠
A/N: Ada and Arthur's alphabets have been requested, but I wanted to finish John's first bc I had several letters written already. Enjoy!
Warning: 🔞
A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex)
Simply put, John isn't the best at aftercare. He's usually too lost in foggy headed bliss after the last round of lovemaking to do anything more with you. In the beginning, he'd drape the duvet over you and pull you into his body tightly, his muscular arm trapping you beneath him as it grew heavy with sleep. If you were lucky, you got a little kiss to the temple and a groggy "I love you" mumbled into your ear before he drifted off. You finally had to explain that you needed more and soon he learned how to look after you. He still won't stay awake for a chat and cuddles, but he can manage a wet cloth and a glass of water which makes it easier for you to rest comfortably beside him. (Bc let's be honest, the man has worn you out too!)
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)
Gauging the amount of time John spends in front of the mirror and his confident swagger, you assume he knows he's a handsome lad. And while he is quite proud of his athletic physique, he harbors a secret insecurity about the shrapnel wounds he suffered in France. He'll turn his back to you as he drops trow to reveal his best asset, his toned ass. And you never complain about the view!
John is full of praise for your body, hesitating to identify one feature he loves more than another. However, his rough palms always seem to linger a moment longer at the swell of your hips. The slight hitch in his breath when he grabs a handful of your supple flesh speaks to his appreciation of your curves.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
There's absolutely no doubt in my mind John has a breeding kink so he'd finish inside you 9 times out of 10 to ensure you'll give him a child. He can't stop thinking about it as he positions himself to take in the mesmerizing sight of your swollen pussy and the sticky rivulets dribbling onto your twitching thighs. Scooping up his spend with his thick fingers and pushing it back inside you, he sweetly hushes your whimpers of overstimulation. However, when the mood strikes him for a taste of your combined essence, he'll devour you with unbridled hunger. Then he'll kiss you deeply to initiate round two, eager to keep you full.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
John has submissive tendencies he'd never admit to his brothers. He feels most at ease when he's able to relinquish his responsibilities after a long day and lay his head in your lap. When he's been working too hard, he relishes the softness of your embrace, nuzzling your breasts and rooting until he finds the hardened bud of your nipple to suckle at. (And if you're lactating, he'll fill his belly with warm milk before drifting off to sleep.)
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)
Martha was John's one and only conquest before the war. He didn't desire another then or after the news of her death reached him on the front lines. Unable to return home and face the flood of memories, he used his leave to visit the brothels of France. There he gained an education in women and how to satisfy them. When he returned to Small Heath with this new found knowledge, he became the most sought after man in town.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
John loves pressing you against a wall as he steals the breath from your lungs. One tap of his fingers against your thigh and you're jumping into his muscular arms. He flashes a devilish smirk as you comply, locking your legs around his torso when he begins thrusting up into you with abandon. And despite the fine sheen of sweat and adorable crease of his brow, you know he's far from tiring. Perhaps it's the show of strength that invigorates him or the view of your breasts bouncing in front of his eyes, but he's obsessed with this position.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
It isn't uncommon to hear John's deep chuckle reverberate off the walls when you're in bed together. He loves to laugh, even when it's at his expense. He's a playful lover who doesn't take himself too seriously. When he wants to make you giggle, he'll turn his flaccid penis into a puppet or chase you around the room cock in hand!
H = Hair (how well-groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
John's head might be blonde, but he has a dark thatch of hair below his belt. As a former military man he keeps it well trimmed in the name of hygiene. And when you give him oral, you don't object to the soft brush of his curls against your nose.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
While John enjoys a more playful mood in the bedroom, he can also have serious moments. He becomes particularly pensive just before orgasm, holding eye contact with you as he strokes your face. He's also fond of staying fully seated inside you until he's soft, savoring those last moments of closeness.
J = Jack off (masturbation head canon)
John has a high sex drive and doesn't mind seeing to his needs if you're not around. But don't worry, thanks to his short refractory period, he'll be ready to go when you get home!
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
John's kinks are mostly tied to the notion of his virility. He has a breeding kink based on the idea of keeping you full of his seed. He's obsessed with the changes he caused in your body, from your swelling stomach to your ample breasts. And when you ask him to relieve the ache of an overabundant milk supply, his lactation kink is born.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
John is a risk taker by nature and loves any sort of adrenaline rush. This extends to your sexual escapades which turn into borderline exhibitionism. I imagine it began when John convinced you to hike up your dress in the dark alley behind the Garrison when he was too drunk and horny to make it home. Listening to you pant his name for anyone passing by to hear made him cum on the spot. As long as you're willing, he would continue chasing the same thrill. Fucking against Tommy's desk just before the betting shop opens, eating you out on a picnic blanket by the river, taking you in the back seat of his new car.
But John is also a terrible tease. I can picture him sitting you on his lap at the pub, chatting merrily with other patrons as his fingers wander along your thigh beneath the table. He smirks to himself as you stifle gasps, cool air meeting your core as he pulls your underwear aside to finger you until you're begging. On those nights he would take you home for complete solitude bc he wants to take his time with you.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Much like his good natured way of finding humor in everything, John can become aroused anywhere, anytime. Sometimes it comes at him quickly, the rush of adrenaline and glory fueling his desire after a horse race or bar fight. (If you've joined him on some wildly dangerous adventure, he'll be even more ravenous.) Other times his appetite grows slowly as he flirts. He delights in teasing you with increasing amounts of innuendo, until he can't bare the sight of you rubbing your thighs together in frustration.
He's a highly visual person who stops everything to watch you saunter past him. And anything that draws attention to your mouth drives him wild. He won't be able to concentrate in the betting shop if you so much as lick a stamp or absently chew the end of your pencil. If your tongue sneaks along the edge of your mouth in concentration, moistening your lips ever so slightly, he'll get hard beneath his desk thinking of you kneeling before him.
Despite the wicked appeal of that scenario, the one he craves most is the sight of you beckoning to him from the kitchen. He simply can't resist your unassuming beauty and loving care as you feed him a taste of dinner from a wooden spoon. More than once he's pulled you away to ravish you in the hall as the stew burns, undeterred by the smell of smoke or Arthur pounding on the front door. (Bc that's another thing about John's behavior, he's hard to discourage.)
N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)
I think there's very little John wouldn't do tbh! He's tried everything once and would prob try something again if you asked him nicely. As long as he has an enthusiastic partner, he's able to match that energy with ease. However, I think he might find it difficult to enjoy a kink like somnophilia or overly intoxicated lovemaking. He needs feedback and praise from his partner in order to enjoy the act.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
John is a generous lover when it comes to oral sex and can spend hours between your thighs. He loves kissing down your belly and resting his head upon the pillows of your thighs as he sucks little bruises into your flesh. He's intoxicated by your moans and whimpers as he begins kissing your pussy as he would your mouth. He's made you wet with desire before his fingers even venture to open you up, mesmerized by the sight of you clenching around nothing. His fave game is to suck your swollen bud and pull away in time to watch it twitch with need. He'll push you beyond your limits to see if you'll take one more finger inside you, just to feel your walls tightening around him in satisfied fullness. When he has you rocking against his palm, he'll talk to you thru your orgasm in a low rumble full of gentle praise.
Only then will he allow you to take him into your mouth, a large hand at the back of your head to cradle you affectionately. He likes to recline with one arm behind his head to watch you work, telling you how beautiful you look with saliva running down your chin. He likes it messy, spit and precum coating his length as your hand eagerly corkscrews down his length with a flourish. Unlike you, he can't take much teasing, preferring a steady rhythm which leads to your lips pushing his spongy head to the back of your throat for the climax. His heart catching in his throat as he watches you swallow every drop of him.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
John can be soft and romantic, deliberately slowing himself down when he wants to prolong the connection between you. However, he's often overcome with the need to ravage you, pounding into you fast and hard when he hears the needy whimpers escaping your lips.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
John can't help himself when he's in need of your warmth. He'll drag you into the alley or the cellar of the Garrison to feel the press of your velvet walls around his cock. And you can't ever seem to deny him when he flashes you that lust filled gaze, dark oversized pupils like big love crumbs.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Yes! John loves taking risks. He's esp fond of pulling you into his lap and fingering you under the table until your cheeks are pink and your chest is heaving. He'll play coy as he kisses away the perspiration at your temple, cooing "Is it warm in here, sweetheart?" And while he also loves public sex, he'll do everything in his power to protect your modesty, draping his coat over you or shielding you with his body. The last thing he wants is for another man to catch a glimpse of his girl.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Not only can John go multiple rounds, he has an unusually short refractory period which means he's throbbing with need before you've even recovered from round one. Be sure to stretch and hydrate before getting into bed with this guy!
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
John jokes about his dislike for vibrators and dildos, asking why you'd ever need such things when he's around. However, he's game to use them whenever you ask. He's esp fond of anal while you fuck your pussy. It fulfills your need to feel full while keeping another man out of the bedroom.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
John doesn't normally have the patience for teasing, but occasionally he's able to prolong the delicious torture of an impending orgasm. He'll keep you on the edge, panting and begging before he pulls away, a shit eating grin spreading across his face. "Greedy girl," he chides before hovering over you again, rubbing the tip of his cock against your throbbing clit.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
John isn't necessarily loud, but he is very vocal. He's big on praise and letting you know just how good you're making him feel. His deep grunts of pleasure as he ruts into you are utterly primal, proving his words were spoken in truth. As he nears his end, labored breaths turn to shallow puffs of air against the shell of your ear. You might have to strain to hear your fave sound as it builds in his throat, but you wouldn’t want to miss this. There’s nothing like the sound of John’s whimpers just before his release. The first time you heard it, you nearly mistook it for pain. The soft cry followed by a long exhale of pure ecstasy as he succumbs to wave after wave of pleasure. After a few moments, a throaty chuckle escapes his lips before the power of speech returns to him. He doesn't need words to convey the euphoria he feels until the aftershocks subside and he's reduced to soft whispers of gratitude. He showers you with them, along with featherlight kisses.
W = Wild card (a random head canon for the character)
You can't help but be turned on by John's fearsome reputation as a gangster so you ask him if he'd be willing to indulge you in a bit of knife or gun play. To your surprise, he agrees with one condition, neither of you drink or use drugs beforehand to keep a clear head. He explains that he'd never want to make a careless mistake with you. Somehow it feels even more intoxicating to be beneath him as he runs a cool blade down your stomach. But that's nothing compared to the feeling of your cunt stretching around the barrel of his gun as he fucks you slow and deep.
X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)
You never quite believed the rumors about John's size until you saw for yourself. The first time you tugged down the waistband of his pants and watched his length slap against his stomach, you salivated at the sight of him. He has an impressive girth, a bulging vein on the underside that throbs with want. And bc most of his partners are too overwhelmed to notice, his dick does in fact curve a little to the left.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
John has the highest sex drive of anyone you've ever encountered. He could ravage you 3x a day and still be left wanting if you denied him a 4th round! Unfortunately for both of you, his schedule rarely allows for such indulgence so he reserves this level of passion for holidays and anniversaries when he has you to himself for a long period of time.
Z = Zzz
John has been known to roll off you and begin snoring almost immediately. The soporific effect of an orgasm after a long day practically dictates it. However, as mentioned under "Aftercare" he does learn to delay sleep long enough to tend to you first.
When you're both settled in bed, he has no objection to you cozying up to his warm body. In fact, he likes to keep you close, one arm wrapped around your waist or shoulders. He'll never complain about the pins and needles when he awakes to find you in the same position. As long as you're resting peacefully beside him, he's happy.
...a cigarette butt pinched between thumb and forefinger...
Summary: Arthur Shelby newly married fluff. That is it, that's the whole plot.
A/N: Bear with me here...I haven't written Peaky Blinders content in a hot minute but I wanted to hit all my favorites while working my way through this prompt list. Also, breaks my heart hearing about Paul Anderson's relapse. I'll always love Arthur Shelby.
"What's the matter with you?" Arthur asked, watching as you wrinkled your nose and paused chopping vegetables for moment to press the back of your hand to your mouth. It was the third time you had repeated that motion since he'd taken up residence at the kitchen table. He'd thought that maybe you were annoyed that he was home later than he said he might be but he was starting to think that wasn't the case at all.
"What?" You asked, looking over your shoulder at Arthur, a brief frown turning into a questioning gaze instead.
Arthur leaned forward in the kitchen chair, all four legs hitting the hardwood floor, and took the cigarette out of his mouth. "What's the matter?"
"Nothing," you replied quickly, turning back to the vegetables you were chopping up for the cottage pie.
"Thats a load of fucking crap," Arthur laughed, "you're obviously upset about something."
Your shoulders sagged slightly as you put the knife down on the counter, turning back to look at him, still watching you. "I don't like the smell of cigarettes when I'm cooking," you admitted.
You loved Arthur, had been with him the better part of a year when he'd proposed rather unexpectedly. Marrying a Shelby was not for the faint of heart, as Polly had said days prior to you getting married. That it wasn't for everyone and that maybe you and Arthur shouldn't rush into things. But you loved him and so far it'd been a better life than you'd expected, as far as marrying a gangster went, the only thing that you couldn't stand was the smoking inside. At the kitchen table, every night before dinner.
Arthur looked at the offending stick in his hand, burnt end glowing. He'd come in smoking one, the leftover nub of it put out in the dish on the kitchen table. This one was newer, coming slowly to its end as he drank down a glass of whiskey and relaxed after the absolutely headache of a day Tommy had put him through. "Why didn't you say anything sooner?" He asked, standing up, "I'll smoke outside."
"Well, no, that's why I've not said anything. I don't want you to smoke outside," you replied quickly, before he could make it across the kitchen to the back door.
"Tommy's got me at my fucking limit," Arthur said, "smoking's the only thing keeping me sane. 'Cept you of course."
"And the whiskey," you mentioned, eyeing the glass on the table.
"All I'm saying's that I'm not putting it out," he replied. John had jokingly told him that the secret to a happy marriage was making sure you were happy but there were some things Arthur refused to compromise on. As much as he loved you, and he loved you enough to stay off the opium unless it was a special occasion, he wasn't going to quit smoking cigarettes just cause you didn't like the smell of them when you were cooking.
"I'm not asking you to," You insisted.
"Then let me out the door," he placed his hands on your arms, gently moving you out of the way so he could open the kitchen door.
"I don't want you sitting outside Arthur, I like when you sit in the kitchen with me. Especially when I haven't seen you all day," you admitted. It was why you hadn't mentioned the smell bothering you in the first place and why, if you had realized you were making a face, you would have tried not to. You liked the quietness of the moments that you got to spend with your husband and how away from the outside world it all felt. As if Arthur and you weren't the same that belonged to the Shelbys.
"Look," Arthur took the kitchen chair under one arm and walked to the door again, opening it and stepping outside. You stood watching the whole time, potato peeler in your hand as Arthur set his chair up right outside the door. He sat back and took a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke away from the open door. "There you go, I'm right here."
"How are you gonna manage the whiskey then?" You joked, eyeing the glass on the table, bottle beside it.
"Bring it here," he waved.
You set down the peeler and grabbed the whiskey bottle and glass, walking them to the door and stepping out. Arthur set his cigarette between his lips and took the glass from you, holding it up so you could pour him some more. When you were finished he took the cigarette out of his mouth again to sip at his drink, clearly proud of himself if the smirk on his face was any indication.
"There you have it," he said, "simple."
"Ah, so I'm making dinner and waiting on you," you teased.
"I'll make it up to you later, you're kicking me out the house afterall."
You shook your head at him, "don't try to make me feel bad Arthur. I'm not trying to keep you out and you know it."
"I'm just teasing love," he promised, "this is perfect."
Warnings: Sex. Espionage. They're criminals, guys, they do bad things.
“I got a letter,” Tommy rasped, head in his hand as his elbow anchored him to the desk, a paper lay in front of his face. “I need one of you to visit Margate.”
John and Arthur shifted uncomfortably in front of the desk in Tommy's office.
“For what, Tom?” Arthur said, fidgeting with the hat in his hands. “What's in bloody Margate?”
“Alfie Solomons,” Tommy sighed, sitting back up straight. He picked up the paper, looking at it again before floating it toward his brothers.
“A-alfie?” Arthur stammered, going pale. “But you shot him-”
“How many times have we died but not died, Arthur?” Tommy interrupted. “The world has more use of Mr. Solomons. Perhaps I have more use of Mr. Solomons.”
“So it's not to kill him?” John asked, face stone.
“No,” Tommy said. “He's injured, but alive. I need someone to infiltrate his house and find out what state he's in.”
“Tommy, I'm-” Arthur started.
“I'll do it,” John said cooly as he picked up the paper and started to read it. “I put men in the Russian House, I can – bloody hell this is gibberish. ‘Though you may have shot me, Yahweh has graced me with immortality as divine as my mercy.’ Bloody hell, Tommy, are you sure you don't want him shot?”
John chuckled as his brothers stayed stone faced.
“Get in the house,” Tommy said. “Find out his state and whether or if this is some sort of game he's playing. I want to know if he's out of his head or trying to lure me there.”
“I can get a maid in-”
“No maid,” Tommy pointed at John. “No hired hand. We're running out of people we can trust not to be paid more by our adversaries. I want this close. Clean. Untraceable.”
John nodded, putting the letter back down on Tommy's desk.
“Yeah, alright, Tommy.”
“Good,” Tommy said, shoulders beginning to relax. “Right. Now fuck off. When you return, find me before you step foot at home.”
John nodded, turning to leave. Arthur followed him.
“Thanks, brother,” Arthur said sheepishly as he clapped John's back. “Not sure I can face Alfie after…” Arthur trailed off.
John patted Arthur's hand on his shoulder.
“It's nothing, brother,” he said with a sly grin. “Gets me a vacation to Margate. A nice seaside cottage on the company's dime.”
Arthur chuckled as they walked through the building, passing the secretaries and other women.
“Too bad you can't bring Esme, eh?” Arthur nudged John's shoulder with a wink. “Nice getaway from the kids. She just finished nursing, right? Time to put in another.”
John's face brightened as Arthur's smirk dropped.
“John boy…”
“It's bloody perfect is what it is,” John said excitedly, beaming. “I'll go pack up Esme and leave the kids with the maid. You're a genius.”
Arthur pinked at the ears, stammering.
“Tommy said-”
“He said no paid women,” John beamed. “Esme's family. It's no different than sending Pol.”
“Solomons dangerous,” Arthur grabbed John's arm. “He's a snake.”
“That was shot in the bloody face and sending Tommy brain-addled love notes,” John said as he pulled away, “she'll be fine. Better yet, she'll find it bloody hot.”
Esme sat beside him in the car as they took the long drive to Margate. It took no convincing for her to pack a bag and leave. She was practically buzzing beside him, biting her lip to stop the questions from ruining the moment. She was free on the road again.
“Where are we going?” Eame finally asked, her hand finding his thigh. “And how long are we gone?”
John smiled, taking her hand and kissing her fingers.
“We've got a seaside cottage for a bit,” he murmured into her skin. “You said you missed the sea on your feet. But Esme, there's a catch-”
“Oh John, I've missed the open water,” she beamed. “But how did you get Tommy to let us go?”
“That's the thing, love,” John said slowly. “There's a job at Margate.”
Esme's smile dropped, along with her tone.
“We're going to the bloody sea for Tommy?” Esme yanked her hand from him. “What did you do?’
“Its just a day, maybe two,” John said calmly, reaching for her hand again. “It's hardly a job, more of a bit of pretending to check in on someone and out to the sea we go.”
Esme's eyes widened.
“It's not your job, is it?” She seethed. “You fucking lent me out like a common whore. John Shelby!”
Esme hit him along the shoulder as he ducked, swerving the car to the edge of the road to park before turning to Esme and catching her wrists.
“Stop, woman!” John said sharply, gathering her wrists in one hand behind her back as his other hand grabbed her face. “Listen to me. I need you. I can't bloody trust some woman off the street to play pretend and be bought off by our enemies. I need you.”
Esme's eyes softened.
“No kids,” John soothed, looking down to her lips before meeting her eyes again. “No distractions. Pop in and confirm the man's bloody insane, and then days alone in a comfy bed by the sea, naked and exhausted.”
“I need you,” he breathed, lips brushing her own. “Who's my girl, eh? What is it, Esme? Do I turn around or keep going to Margate?”
Esme bit her lip as her pupils expanded until her brown eyes went black.
“Fuck me, John,” she whispered, pushing against his restraint to press against his chest. “Then tell me about this bloody job.”
John smiled, letting go of her wrists but not her jaw as he pulled up her dress. Esme's hand jumbled to his belt as she fought to close the gap between their mouths.
“Is that what you deserve, eh?” John chuckled darkly as Esme's hands wrapped around his cock. “Who's going to be my good girl? Anything I bloody want as long as you get this dick, is it?”
Esme scrambled to move his pants out of the way as she climbed onto his lap, straddling John as his grip on her jaw moved to her neck.
“You talk too fucking much,” Esme whispered as she plunged his dick into her, echoing his moan back to him. “Shut up and do what you're good at.”
It was quick but satisfying, all teeth and need before both settled into bliss. The car went back onto the road before another vehicle could pass by to catch them in their carnal act.
“What did you sign me up for, John?” Esme asked, leaning back in her seat and correcting her dress. “I'd hope nothing too dangerous. One of us has to come back.”
“Barely a job at all,” John chuckled, taking her hand in his again. “Tommy shot Alfie Solomons in the face a while back. The man survived, but he's sending Tommy nonsense. Just need to pop in and confirm he's off his rocker. He's so drug-addled, he's practically a puppy.”
“The Jewish gangster?” Esme raised an eyebrow. “Tommy agreed to send me to a Jewish gangster’s bedside that nearly fucking murdered you all?”
John shrugged, watching the road.
“John Shelby,” Esme said, watching him closely. “Tommy has no fucking clue I'm here, does he?”
John shrugged sheepishly, sending her a wolfish smile with a glance.
“He said no paid help,” he said. “‘Keep it close,’ Tommy said. No closer than sending my wife in, cunt full of my sperm.”
“Besides,” John kissed her hand. “You've got a nurse class under your belt, haven't you. Who better?”
“Give me the damn morphine!”
Alfie flung his bedpan against the wall with a roar that made most of the maids and nurses scatter from the room like roaches from a light. One woman stood in front of him, her dark eyes steady on his face as he huffed, breath slowing and growing less labored again.
“Why didn't you fucking run, woman?” Alfie growled. “I might have one less eye, but I'm still a fucking devil.”
“I've met the devil,” she said as she went to pick up the bed pan. “You're not ‘im. I have no fear of a loud man. It's the quiet ones that always did me in.”
Her dark hair covered her face as she bent down to pick up the bed pan, careful to not touch his piss. She tossed it out the door before blowing hair from her eyes.
“Get another for Mr. Solomons, Greta, will you, while you're cowering down there?” She called down the hall. “Alright, Mr. Solomons, let's try this again.”
She turned back to the bear of a man in the bed, head bandaged to cover his head wound, hands on her hips.
“I'm going to change your bandages and you're going to be respectable like, because I'm going to be respectable like,” she said, eyes glinting. “If you want to be a petulant child, I'll leave you to the petulant children cowering from you in the hallway. Make you feel real man-like in your soiled bandages.”
Alfie squinted with his good eye.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“I'm the one cleaning your fucking gunshot wound,” she said calmly as she approached his bed again. “The morning nurse had a lot to brief me on.”
Esme faked a sniffle. “He's a brute of a man,” she whined in a high pitched voice. “Keep out of his reach. Nearly broke my arm for spilling his water.”
She propped him up and began to unwrap his head slowly.
“Seems you like scaring people smaller than you,” Esme said, returning her voice to normal.
“Everyone's smaller than me,” Alfie rumbled. “If she was fucking capable at her job, she'd be fine, wouldn't she? I don't see you flinching like a scared rabbit.”
“I've found,” Esme said, continuing to unwrap the wound. “That the scariest men are those afraid to lose it all. You're all just small boys afraid to be seen as such.”
Alfie chuckled.
“Been around a lot of scary men, treacle?”
Esme finally removed the last of the bandage, looking Alfie in both eyes, one milky and oozing gore, the other the color of wildflower honey.
“They kept your eye,” Esme said barely above a whisper, dropping the soiled bandage onto his bedside table.
“Aye,” Alfie hummed, grabbing her wrist as she reached for the new bandage. “Let's me see. Truly see. The veil is just that,” he waved his other hand, “a veil I can push past to see the truth. Want to know what the spirits say about you, pet?”
Esme faltered as she pulled her wrist from his hand.
“No need,” she sneered, holding his gaze. “I've got my own way to talk to them. Now hold still.”
She cleaned his face roughly, earning a hiss as she bandaged him back up.
“Damnit, woman,” Alfie hissed, but didn't reach for her again. “Don't manhandle a broken man.”
“Serves you right,” she said. “For scaring those poor women. They were just trying to help you.”
“And you?” Alfie growled.
“I'm here to give you your morphine and to go home,” she said simply, handing him a pill and a glass of water. “Sleep, and stop writing nonsense letters.”
“What did you say?” Alfie grew eerily still, his good eye focused like a predator watching his prey.
“Rest,” Esme said, eyes flashing. “You're already losing your mind to the pills.”
“They push the pain away,” Alfie growled as he took the morphine. “From being shot in the face by a cunt.”
“Another man that doesn't want to think his own thoughts,” she said dryly as she took the glass back from him. “Tell me, do all of you think you're original, or do you have meetings to copy each other?”
Esme hummed, the other nurses and maids finally coming back in the room. Greta had returned with a new bedpan. Others were fluffing pillows, opening the window, taking away his old breakfast.
Alfie’s stare softened, his eyes glazing over as the pills kicked in.
“You're not Jewish,” Alfie said, as the room began to clear again.
“A number of us aren't,” Esme answered, tidying up around his bed. “Wasn't a requirement for your nurses.”
“Spiritual though? You said you spoke to spirits.”
“I said I could, not that I did,” Esme said as she licked her lips. “Why? Want to compare ghosts?”
“I thought you said to be respectable like?” Alfie frowned, eyebrows flat above his eyes like a heavy drape pulled closed.
“I thought you said you were the devil.”
“A devil,” he corrected as he raised a finger. “Not the. And you are a cheeky minx that dodges all my questions.”
Alfie grabbed her wrist in a quick movement that didn't resemble the rest of his demeanor.
“You have his muck all about you,” he said as he pulled her closer. “It muddies up your aura.”
“You're hurting my arm, Mr. Solomons,” Esme whispered as she pulled back, yanking her arm from his grip once again. “Let go.”
“Birthed a devil or two yourself, haven't you?” Alfie murmured as his eyes fought to stay open. “You know a lot about bad men, turns out.”
“Sleep, Mr. Solomons,” Esme whispered as she turned to leave the room, the house.
Esme slipped out of the Solomon house after briefing the evening nurse, her skin buzzed as if she was being watched. She tried not to look around too often, worried she would look out of place walking down the street by herself.
Their seaside cottage was not far away, but not in Solomons’ immediate area. She turned the corner to slide into the back garden through the thatched fence gate, but nearly tripped on John, sitting against the fence and smoking a cigar.
“Christ, John,” Esme clutched her chest, “you nearly scared the piss out of me.”
“Been there all day,” John said cooly between puffs. “The sun's nearly set.”
“I did the full shift,” Esme said as she smoothed her dress skirt before sitting beside him. “Didn't want to leave my shift and cause a stir.”
“How's the madman?” John said as Esme took his cigar from his lips and placed it on her own, taking a puff before handing it back.
“Sane, mostly,” she said in a thin voice.
John laughed.
“Right,” he said. “And I'm the bloody king of England.”
“Always wanted to be a queen,” Esme deadpanned before she exhaled. “I mean it, John, the man's sane. More spiritual than he used to be, but both feet firmly planted in this world.”
“Fuck,” John said as he rubbed his head. “What's his plan for Tommy, then?”
Esme scoffed.
“The man was just shot in his face and survived,” she said. “He's trying to come to terms with having a foot in the spirit world. I think he's wrapped up in himself for the time being.”
“He sniff you out?” John asked before puffing the cigar again.
“He picked up on something,” Esme said softly, shrugging. “Not sure what. Said I had a muck around me.”
John scoffed.
“Spiritual indeed,” he joked. “Well, job’s done. You deserve a good dip in the ocean in the morning light. Until then.”
John stood himself up, holding a hand out to Esme with a crooked smile.
“Let's practice for that next Shelby, eh?”
Alfie sat in his chair by the window in the morning glow, looking through his binoculars to watch ships come in. He casually pointed the binoculars down toward the shore to watch the dark haired nurse jump into the arms of her Peaky Blinder husband as he kissed her and twirled her in the sand. They spoke for a moment before she gave him a look and led him into the water, losing clothes along the way.
Alfie watched as she undressed in the morning light, her intense stare flickering to his house for a brief moment before landing back on her husband, who was clumsily undressing as he followed her into the sea. Alfie held his breath as they glided out into the water. John took her into his arms, kissing passionately as he twirled her in the water, now shoulder deep and hiding their lewdness.
“A lot of bad men, indeed,” Alfie murmured. “Go tell the devil, little minx. Tell my dear friend Tommy I'm alive and well. They tell me my deals with him aren't done. This isn't my ending.”
summary: it wasn't necessarily your fault. John Shelby could be surprisingly attractive when he got angry.
tags n warnings: SMUT/MDNI, choking, mentions of blowjob and rough sex, but it's really sweet sex, creaming. word count: 1.5k
John was a hurricane when his anger took over. He would scream, curse, punch whoever he could. The problem was that you, in a completely twisted way, liked it. There was something addictive about the danger, the way he boiled with hatred, and that night, you couldn't stop adding fuel to the fire.
“Won’t you put this fucking book down?” His voice was filled with irritation as he approached, his heavy footsteps echoing across the wooden floor.
You grinned, slowly putting the book down. With your leg crossed, you dangled your foot absently, as if he wasn't there, boiling with rage right in front of you.
“I didn't mean to interrupt your smoking time, John.” You replied, your tone innocent, but the mischievous glint in your eyes provoked him more than any words could.
His expression tightened and, without warning, he snatched the book from your hands and threw it on the floor with a dull thud.
“What’s the point of being with my wife if she just gets lost in this shit?” He hissed, his jaw tense. “You spend all day with other people and when you’re with me, you’re on those useless communist pages.”
You had to hold back a laugh. “Calm down, John. I was just giving you some privacy.” You stood up slowly, keeping your gaze fixed on his, defiant.
His blue eyes flashed. “You’ll have plenty of time to read when I’m traveling again.” The threat came out between clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous, close to your face.
“Probably.” You hummed, your lips curling into a sly smile.
But before you could let out another provocation, you felt a strong tug on the back of your neck. His hand gripped your hair, the fingers of his other hand entwining around your neck and squeezing hard enough to immobilize you.
“Don’t. Fucking. Play. With. Me.” He murmured, each word thick with tension.
Your scalp burned under his grip, but instead of fear, all you did was let out a muffled giggle.
“Sorry.”
John released your hair with a sudden movement, watching you take a deep breath, relieved, but still with that damned little smile on your lips.
That was the last straw.
“I’m going to wipe that fucking little smile off your face, bitch. Do you understand me?” He growled before pushing you against the wall. The impact made the air leave your lungs.
The provocation died in your throat when you saw his eyes — cold, sharp, filled with something dangerous.
“No, John. Please, calm down.” You choked, finally feeling like you might have gone too far. “Let me explain.”
“I hate when someone laughs at me.” He hissed, every muscle in his face tense, his breathing uneven. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, and the only thing you could do was blurt out the truth, without thinking, before he could do something worse.
“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to, I… I just wanted to do it because I find you attractive when you’re angry.”
He blinked. Once. Twice.
His grip on your waist relaxed, and he took a small step back, giving you room to breathe. His jaw was still tense, but something changed in his expression.
The silence lasted a few seconds, until John snorted, shaking his head.
“You must be kidding me.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. You gave a hesitant smile, your shoulders relaxing. John laughed again, short and dry. “No fucking way. Are you serious? Don’t you have better things to do?”
“Sorry, I always thought that was good, there’s french erotic literature that I find interesting and you look like that, the male protagonists.” You confessed, blushing embarrassedly.
“So you read pornography or something?” He frowned, pointing to the book left on the couch. You nodded, waiting for his reactions. “Holy shit. Those French… that’s not normal.”
“What’s not normal? A woman who enjoys sex?” You asked, taking a step forward towards him. John assessed the perimeter that was you and gave another one, surprising you with a light squeeze on your neck.
“You being like this, this way. It’s not normal.” He whispered, lifting your face with his hand still on your throat, pulling you towards him. “It’s my dream and I’m not fucking normal.”
“Then take advantage of it.” You teased, biting your lip, but John pressed his fingers even more, running his tongue over your lips.
“You’re not a woman to be treated like a slut. You just think you are.” He murmured, letting go of your neck and pushing your body against the cold wall, walking to your front, placing his hands on either side of your face, holding you in place.
“Why not?” You mumbled, raising your hand to the tent growing in John’s pants without taking your eyes off him, squeezing his cock in your fingers.
John licked his lips, closing his eyes for a brief moment before parting his lips. “Cause you won’t be able to handle it.” He smirked, his blue eyes shining with desire.
“Wanna bet?” You challenged, squeezing your hand on his cock, running your thumb over the tip.
“What do I get if you lose?” He returned, tilting his head to the side to fit his head into your neck.
“When I win, you’ll give me the attention I want all weekend.” You sighed, feeling his lips part on your skin with a smacking kiss.
“Have I told you how bad you are at making bets?” He laughed, lowering his hands to grab your waist, pulling you closer.
“No, since I’ve never bet.” You spoke softly, closing your eyes when he slid his hand over your breast, lowering the fabric of your dress while you lowered his pants.
“I can see it.” He replied, lifting your clothes so he could touch them, mentally noting that you were wearing nothing underneath.
“You never let me go to the races with you.” You added, closing your eyes as you felt the filling feeling of John’s cock stretching your walls once more.
“It’s dangerous.” He grunted, placing both hands on your ass to start moving slowly, enjoying the wetness and heat enveloping his length, lifting his face to look at yours. “There are bandits and it’s risky for me to get distracted by fucking you.”
“Am I that irresistible?” You teased, resting your hands on his shoulders.
“I’m the one who’s a shameless dog.” He countered, holding one of your thighs. “And also because that cunt of yours is impossible not to want to taste. It’ll distract me and I won’t bring home any food.”
“I get it.” You sighed, the warm feeling between your legs was impossible to ignore, it seemed even more intoxicating today after all the teasing.
“You’re clenching.” He commented, increasing his pace slightly, feeling your walls do the same movement once again. “Gonna cum?”
“No, it’s just—it feels so good.” You moaned, rocking your hips, looking down to see your pussy swallowing him hungrily, sucking his cock glistening with excitement back in. “What you doing if I lose?”
“We’re not playing right now.” He chuckled, following your eyes in the same direction and how tight he was around you, as if he wanted to swallow his balls. “No, I’m just… enjoying this here. It’s too good to—ignore and listen to my slutty wife’s stupid bets.”
“Slut?” You repeated, closing your eyes tightly as you felt him touch your spot, punishing only that spot when you realized.
“But if I had to choose a prize, it would be you sucking my cock while I’m working—I wouldn’t let you leave until I’ve done it all.” He grunted, starting to go faster and clumsier.
“That’s—yeah, shit. John…” you mewled, digging your nails into his shoulders.
“That’s it. Fuck, take it all. Take it all for yourself, baby.” He gasped, lowering his face to kiss your neck. His cock went in and out inside you with the sound of stronger and faster skin, the way he did when he was too close. You were no different.
“God— John…” You came undone, holding on to his neck as he chased his orgasm and tried to stimulate you with sweet nothings in your ear, until you felt the jets staining your walls white.
“Shhh, take it all.” He murmured, not stopping until he stopped pulsing inside you, not wanting to waste a single drop outside your womb.
With one last thrust, he stayed there. For a few seconds, you just stayed there, trying to control your breathing. He left your leg on the floor, planting kisses from your lap until he reached your mouth.
“There’s no way I can treat you like a slut.” He broke the silence, meeting your eyes. “I can’t destroy such a good pussy.”
“Even if I make you angry?” You questioned, tilting your head to the side.
“I didn’t say anything about not ruining your throat.” He teased, pulling your lips between his teeth. “It’s the biggest reason I get angry most of the time.”
Summary: You and Arthur have a daughter named Lottie Shelby who is 5 years old. The business meeting takes a surprising turn.
Arthur x Y/N x OC Daughter
Fluff
A/N: This is my first fanfiction ever so please be patient with me on this one. I want to thank @runnning-outof-time for the starter tips and advice. But I especially want to thank @fiercelittlemouse for all the help, advice and motivation to get me to write this one. I could not have done it without you, Lydia you are the best ♡.
Divider by @uzmacchiato
Tommy, John and Arthur has just sat down at their table at the Garrison pub. When they hear small footsteps coming towards them. It is your and Arthur's daughter Lottie running into the room laughing and yelling.
"No mommy I don't wanna go home, I'm staying here with daddy! "
"But Lottie daddy and your uncles are having an important business meeting, and don't want to be disturbed," you say with a resigned tone.
Mostly because you knew when Lottie wanted something especially surrounding her dad, she did not take no for an answer. You sigh and look with pleading eyes at your husband for help, but he just smiles at your daughter.
"Lottie sweetheart I give you one more chance to get out here please." You say in hopes she would give up, but she had other plans. She runs for protection behind her uncle John and screams
"John ! Help me hide from mommy, so she won't take me."
John just laughs at her. Then help her under the table and hides her behind his legs. John looks at you
"Y/N you know I can’t say no to that cute little face, when she asks for me help." He says with a humble expression. You try to give him an annoyed look, but can't help but smile when you hear Lottie giggle under the table. Even Tommy found it quite cute, you can just make out a small smirk on his face. You look at Arthur again and this time the two of you get eye contact, he is smiling at you now.
"It's okay luv, she can stay in ere with us. Innit that right Tommy ?" Arthur looks over at his brother for confirmation. Tommys gives him a nod and takes out a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. Arthur turns his attention back to Lottie and tells her with a more serious tone.
"Now princess you can stay, if you keep quiet and don't interrupt us adults aight."
"Okay daddy, I promise." She says with her most innocent puppy eyes. But quickly looks over at John with a mischievous smirk. John chuckles but covers it with a cough and winks at her. Luckily Arthur doesn't notice, he lifts her up on the couch.
"Good girl, you can sit on me lap." He adds and opens his arm for her to move over.
Lottie listens carefully to what Tommy has to say, even if she doesn't really understand everything. What she picks up is that he talks about races and horses. She likes how powerful he sounds when he talks and how John and her dad take in every word Tommy says. Lottie wants to have that much power over people too, because right now everyone just thinks she is a cute child, nothing else. So when uncle Tommy stops talking, she takes her chance before her dad or John says anything. Quickly she stands up on Arthur's lap and with all the confidence she have says
" In my opinion I think you should bet on Sunflower to win the race." All three men look at her surprise, but let her talk further.
"He is the fastest horse I have ever seen, also the prettiest." She adds in shyly.
"She is a Shelby aight!, knows how to take control over the conversation. You have some competition Tommy," Arthur says proudly with a big smile on his face. Then he puts his hat on Lotties head, but it's way too big on her, so it slides down over her eyes.
"Is that so Lottie, are you coming after me job aye? " Tommy looks over at Lottie with a half serious half pleased face.
"Maybe I am." Lottie says with confidence to her uncle.
For the rest of the meeting she sits quietly in Arthurs lap. As the meeting passes by, she gets bored of all the talk from the men and eventually falls asleep in her dads arms.
summary: it wasn't necessarily your fault. John Shelby could be surprisingly attractive when he got angry.
tags n warnings: SMUT/MDNI, choking, mentions of blowjob and rough sex, but it's really sweet sex, creaming. word count: 1.5k
John was a hurricane when his anger took over. He would scream, curse, punch whoever he could. The problem was that you, in a completely twisted way, liked it. There was something addictive about the danger, the way he boiled with hatred, and that night, you couldn't stop adding fuel to the fire.
“Won’t you put this fucking book down?” His voice was filled with irritation as he approached, his heavy footsteps echoing across the wooden floor.
You grinned, slowly putting the book down. With your leg crossed, you dangled your foot absently, as if he wasn't there, boiling with rage right in front of you.
“I didn't mean to interrupt your smoking time, John.” You replied, your tone innocent, but the mischievous glint in your eyes provoked him more than any words could.
His expression tightened and, without warning, he snatched the book from your hands and threw it on the floor with a dull thud.
“What’s the point of being with my wife if she just gets lost in this shit?” He hissed, his jaw tense. “You spend all day with other people and when you’re with me, you’re on those useless communist pages.”
You had to hold back a laugh. “Calm down, John. I was just giving you some privacy.” You stood up slowly, keeping your gaze fixed on his, defiant.
His blue eyes flashed. “You’ll have plenty of time to read when I’m traveling again.” The threat came out between clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous, close to your face.
“Probably.” You hummed, your lips curling into a sly smile.
But before you could let out another provocation, you felt a strong tug on the back of your neck. His hand gripped your hair, the fingers of his other hand entwining around your neck and squeezing hard enough to immobilize you.
“Don’t. Fucking. Play. With. Me.” He murmured, each word thick with tension.
Your scalp burned under his grip, but instead of fear, all you did was let out a muffled giggle.
“Sorry.”
John released your hair with a sudden movement, watching you take a deep breath, relieved, but still with that damned little smile on your lips.
That was the last straw.
“I’m going to wipe that fucking little smile off your face, bitch. Do you understand me?” He growled before pushing you against the wall. The impact made the air leave your lungs.
The provocation died in your throat when you saw his eyes — cold, sharp, filled with something dangerous.
“No, John. Please, calm down.” You choked, finally feeling like you might have gone too far. “Let me explain.”
“I hate when someone laughs at me.” He hissed, every muscle in his face tense, his breathing uneven. Your heart was pounding against your ribs, and the only thing you could do was blurt out the truth, without thinking, before he could do something worse.
“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t mean to, I… I just wanted to do it because I find you attractive when you’re angry.”
He blinked. Once. Twice.
His grip on your waist relaxed, and he took a small step back, giving you room to breathe. His jaw was still tense, but something changed in his expression.
The silence lasted a few seconds, until John snorted, shaking his head.
“You must be kidding me.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. You gave a hesitant smile, your shoulders relaxing. John laughed again, short and dry. “No fucking way. Are you serious? Don’t you have better things to do?”
“Sorry, I always thought that was good, there’s french erotic literature that I find interesting and you look like that, the male protagonists.” You confessed, blushing embarrassedly.
“So you read pornography or something?” He frowned, pointing to the book left on the couch. You nodded, waiting for his reactions. “Holy shit. Those French… that’s not normal.”
“What’s not normal? A woman who enjoys sex?” You asked, taking a step forward towards him. John assessed the perimeter that was you and gave another one, surprising you with a light squeeze on your neck.
“You being like this, this way. It’s not normal.” He whispered, lifting your face with his hand still on your throat, pulling you towards him. “It’s my dream and I’m not fucking normal.”
“Then take advantage of it.” You teased, biting your lip, but John pressed his fingers even more, running his tongue over your lips.
“You’re not a woman to be treated like a slut. You just think you are.” He murmured, letting go of your neck and pushing your body against the cold wall, walking to your front, placing his hands on either side of your face, holding you in place.
“Why not?” You mumbled, raising your hand to the tent growing in John’s pants without taking your eyes off him, squeezing his cock in your fingers.
John licked his lips, closing his eyes for a brief moment before parting his lips. “Cause you won’t be able to handle it.” He smirked, his blue eyes shining with desire.
“Wanna bet?” You challenged, squeezing your hand on his cock, running your thumb over the tip.
“What do I get if you lose?” He returned, tilting his head to the side to fit his head into your neck.
“When I win, you’ll give me the attention I want all weekend.” You sighed, feeling his lips part on your skin with a smacking kiss.
“Have I told you how bad you are at making bets?” He laughed, lowering his hands to grab your waist, pulling you closer.
“No, since I’ve never bet.” You spoke softly, closing your eyes when he slid his hand over your breast, lowering the fabric of your dress while you lowered his pants.
“I can see it.” He replied, lifting your clothes so he could touch them, mentally noting that you were wearing nothing underneath.
“You never let me go to the races with you.” You added, closing your eyes as you felt the filling feeling of John’s cock stretching your walls once more.
“It’s dangerous.” He grunted, placing both hands on your ass to start moving slowly, enjoying the wetness and heat enveloping his length, lifting his face to look at yours. “There are bandits and it’s risky for me to get distracted by fucking you.”
“Am I that irresistible?” You teased, resting your hands on his shoulders.
“I’m the one who’s a shameless dog.” He countered, holding one of your thighs. “And also because that cunt of yours is impossible not to want to taste. It’ll distract me and I won’t bring home any food.”
“I get it.” You sighed, the warm feeling between your legs was impossible to ignore, it seemed even more intoxicating today after all the teasing.
“You’re clenching.” He commented, increasing his pace slightly, feeling your walls do the same movement once again. “Gonna cum?”
“No, it’s just—it feels so good.” You moaned, rocking your hips, looking down to see your pussy swallowing him hungrily, sucking his cock glistening with excitement back in. “What you doing if I lose?”
“We’re not playing right now.” He chuckled, following your eyes in the same direction and how tight he was around you, as if he wanted to swallow his balls. “No, I’m just… enjoying this here. It’s too good to—ignore and listen to my slutty wife’s stupid bets.”
“Slut?” You repeated, closing your eyes tightly as you felt him touch your spot, punishing only that spot when you realized.
“But if I had to choose a prize, it would be you sucking my cock while I’m working—I wouldn’t let you leave until I’ve done it all.” He grunted, starting to go faster and clumsier.
“That’s—yeah, shit. John…” you mewled, digging your nails into his shoulders.
“That’s it. Fuck, take it all. Take it all for yourself, baby.” He gasped, lowering his face to kiss your neck. His cock went in and out inside you with the sound of stronger and faster skin, the way he did when he was too close. You were no different.
“God— John…” You came undone, holding on to his neck as he chased his orgasm and tried to stimulate you with sweet nothings in your ear, until you felt the jets staining your walls white.
“Shhh, take it all.” He murmured, not stopping until he stopped pulsing inside you, not wanting to waste a single drop outside your womb.
With one last thrust, he stayed there. For a few seconds, you just stayed there, trying to control your breathing. He left your leg on the floor, planting kisses from your lap until he reached your mouth.
“There’s no way I can treat you like a slut.” He broke the silence, meeting your eyes. “I can’t destroy such a good pussy.”
“Even if I make you angry?” You questioned, tilting your head to the side.
“I didn’t say anything about not ruining your throat.” He teased, pulling your lips between his teeth. “It’s the biggest reason I get angry most of the time.”
atop of cherry hill ; arthur shelby jr/fem!reader (18+, smut)
Thomas Shelby has had enough of Arthur's violent outbursts. Thus, he pays you to help the oldest Shelby brother with blowing off some steam. Or: Thomas "mistakes" you for a prostitute and Arthur pops your cherry.
word count: 12,1k
warnings: fem!reader, dubcon; implied but also not so-implied involuntary prostitution, (imagery of) blood and violence; unprotected sex (this man might not be real but stds surely are, so wrap it up kids), age gap (reader is in her 20s, arthur is in his mid to late 30s), power play and power dynamics, fingering, riding, backshots, dirty talk, name calling, slight bimbofication and dumbification - if you blink you'll miss it, corruption kink, loss of virginity/virgin kink, spit kink, spanking, rough sex, sir kink; late season one/early season two arthur, set somewhere between s1 and s2,, time is just a construct babes ; he's so pathetic and sad I love him; I tried to write Brummie but jfc I am just a small little German girlie alright I am so sorry; also grace is still in birmingham too?? bc i love her sm
this is so so so heavily inspired by foy vance's make it rain bc it just fits idk; also a big fat ty to my bud for keeping up with me live blogging my arthur thirst youre a gem bro; also why am I always so fucking late to everything, is this fandom still alive??
"Move."
"Mr Shelby, I-", you nearly stumble as Thomas drags you forward and you look up at him, dark hair framing his face, blue eyes shining sternly from the cavities of his skull-like and bone-pale face. You know him.
Well, not personally. But you have heard the stories - a multitude of them coloured in blood red and wailing agony - you have seen people clear tables in pubs for him and the streets for him. Something, no someone on your periphery moves, strolls over.
"She'll do", says the younger version of him approaching, moving the tooth pick in the corner of his mouth from one side to the other, "Lass got jus' wha'he fancies." He is walking towards you, slouching a little with his fists buried is pockets. Looking at you, he kisses his teeth, grins. "Oh, smile, sunshine. Tommy'll pay you nicely for this, y'got nuttin to loose."
"Get her inside, John", so that little prick is the youngest Shelby, then, "He'll be here, soon."
"What's got his knickers in a twist t'day, eh?"
"Sabini. Get her inside, and make sure she's--", Tommy eyes you up and down, the way you clutch your little embroidered handbag, "Nice and comfortable, right?"
John snorts, shrugs. "Right this way, mylady", he says, bowing mockingly.
The Garrison is warm, the air inside smells of malt and cigarette smoke. The pub is empty, except for a young blonde woman who stands behind the counter. She is currently polishing glasses, looks up as the door falls shut behind you. Relief washes over you.
You are not alone. There is another woman here. You will not be hurt. The woman gives you a quick once-over, and all hope flies straight out the window as she quickly unwraps her apron and drops it on the counter. "You're early", she says, to no one in particular, seemingly just to complain.
"Tell that to Tommy", John replies, pushes one door of the snug on your right side open, "Bring 'er some whiskey first and then clear the air, will ya?"
She mutters something to herself and turns around to the shelf behind her. "After you", John ushers you into the dimly lit snug.
You take a few steps forward, into the room. Unsure what to do, you just stand there, taking it all in. The room smells of cigars and men's perfume.
"Sit", John says, waves his hand aimlessly at the bench, seats padded with red velvet. Anxiety has the hairs on your body standing up, a cold rushing down your spine.
"I don't want to."
"Fine, suit yerself", he shrugs again, leans against the doorframe, "Y'know why you're here?"
You're not stupid. If the lawyer's office you had once worked at as a secretary back in London, had not been bombed out, you would have never returned to your hometown of Birmingham. Money is tight, with your gran being so ill and your father and grandfather being buried in Verdun. Your mother has left a long time ago.
You want to protest, to open your mouth and say that you are not a prostitute, - I am not like Lizzie Stark -, but the weight of five fucking hundred pounds in your bag drags your hands down, keeps your mouth shut. You really need the money. This much can easily get you through a few months, maybe even a full year.
Thus, when Thomas Shelby had stood on your doorstep, waving a thick wad of cash in front of your nose, and requesting your presence, you had no real choice but to accept.
"Yes, Mister Shelby", you say, voice small as you feel shame and anxiety washing over you in cold, sweaty waves.
John just nods and you want to ask Who will I be seeing today but something about his demeanour - the way he leans there, eyes cold and indifferent - tells you, that he wants to be here even less than you do.
Eventually, you do take a seat. The blonde woman brought some gin a while ago, which you neither touched nor drank, and you carefully sink onto the table next to it. She left right after putting the bottle and two glasses down, shutting the pub's door behind her. Minutes go by. A minute becomes ten, until an hour passes and the sun starts to set slowly. An hour grows into an hour and ten minutes, until -
There's commotion outside. The thundering of a motor carriage. People yelling. Steps approaching and then the front door being swung open, with such force that it rattles against the wall. John moves away from the snug's door just in time, before it too gets forcefully yanked open, revealing a man with neatly trimmed auburn hair and an equally as trimmed moustache. His face is ragged and hard with rage as he enters the room, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips. He is trailed by Thomas, who immediately looks at you.
The new arrival does not bother himself with your presence, only wipes away at his forehead, which you only now notice is bleeding. A cut, right underneath his hairline, not too deep but deep enough to bleed. Profusely.
"That fuckin' rat", he bellows loudly, in such a deep baritone that his voice vibrates inside your chest. He sounds rough around the edges, his accent swirling along his tongue thickly with his throat all coarse, like something constantly pains him. Like that pain edged itself onto his voice, broken it up and now pushes it out all gravelly. "Y' should've let me kill him, Tommy, that's what ya fuckin' should've let me done", he throws his grey coat onto a chair, takes a drag from his cigarette and then slams his fist onto his palm, hard and loud, as if trying to prove a point, "He ain't gonna keep his fuckin' gob shut and then what, eh? Let me deal with him now. Let me cut his fuckin' tongue out, that fat bastard -"
Thomas says nothing, just stands there smoking his cigarette, while the other man continues enraging himself, throwing profanities around. "Tomorrow, Arthur. Tomorrow, I will let you deal with him", he eventually says, pats the man - Arthur - on the back, "Today, I want you to enjoy yourself for once, eh?"
Arthur. You have heard of him, too: the elder Shelby sibling - a vicious and brutal thug, cruel and pitiless, loyal to the family and the game. You once heard he had maimed someone, strolling down Birmingham main road after, drenched in blood looking like he bathed in it. Another time you heard he had beat someone to a pulp so badly, his brains and innards flew everywhere in a mushy mousse. Just a few days ago you heard that he tore someone's throat out with his teeth in a bar tussle.
You shudder. No. Not him. Anyone, anyone with a gentler reputation. You already expect him to lash out, explode like a fucking grenade in an instant and blow this place up with yelling and flying fists but --
But for now, he just looks at his younger brother, unmoving and back still turned towards you. "Brought you a gift", Thomas' mouth quips up in the smallest of smiles before his gaze drops to you.
And you just stand there, in your pretty dress, unsure of what to do with your hands as Arthur turns around slowly. His gaze lands on your frame. If he thinks of something, anything he masks it, face an iron mask of anger.
"Who's that?", he asks, plainly, as if he is missing something important here.
John chuckles and Thomas says, without batting an eye: "A whore."
"You got me a girl?", Arthur states flatly, blinks at you and you shift uneasily underneath his piercing gaze. And then, after no one says anything for a heartbeat or two: "What? D'ya think I'm fuckin' fifteen, Tommy?"
"Jus' thought ya could yer dick wet", John says, moves his tooth pick. Left to right. And back.
"Watch yourself, you little shite", Arthur hisses and John lifts his hands, laughs quietly - but backs off just a little, just to be sure.
"John, wait outside", Thomas' voice sounds exhausted, cold and John just looks at him for a moment, before tipping his cap towards you with a grin, making a real show out of exiting the snug and the pub slowly. Before the door shuts, Thomas is already approaching Arthur, placing a firm hand on his shoulder in pulls him in a huddle as he talks lowly. You try to make out what they are saying, but what you can catch sounds - apart from your name - like gibberish to you. That is, until you realize that they are talking in a whole different language.
While Thomas holds Arthur close, murmuring something, his gaze flickers back and forth between you and his older brother. Soon after Thomas leaves, pats his brother on the shoulder without offering you as much as one last word, one last look before he closes the door behind himself.
You are alone with Arthur now - Thomas Shelby's most powerful, most violent tool. The room suddenly feels too small, like the walls are closing in, suffocating you.
Arthur turns around to you once more. You say nothing and neither does he, just looks at you, let's his gaze wander over your form with hands buried in his pockets. The cigarette still dangles from the corner of his mouth, smoke curling and dissipating into the air. Neither of you says a word for a while; you just stand there, like that little robin that you observed in your backyard yesterday. It froze, as the stray cat sneaked closer and ever closer. As if it truly considered, not moving would make the cat believe it was either already dead or just plainly imagination, conjured by hunger. As if that would stop the cat from burying its claws into it, its sharp teeth to tear it apart and feed from its flesh.
You shift uncomfortably. A man like him, any man like the Shelby men for that matter, is a dangerous man. An image flashes before your inner eye - like a premonition, like a warning: you, battered and bruised, blood tickling from your nose as you stumble back home, dress torn and hairdo ripped apart with a few strands missing.
"You're clean, right love?", his gravelly voice pulls you from your thoughts. He looks at you, straight into your eyes and goosebumps erupt on your skin, while he remains where he stands. The question makes your cheeks heat up and you would really really love to just leave - but his gaze keeps you glued to the spot, piercing blue eyes boring deep into your soul.
"Yes, Sir", you answer dutifully, nodding, ignoring the shame heating up your face. One of his hands comes up, rubs his chin like he is thinking real hard.
"How'd that be?"
"Excuse me?"
"How's a pretty girl like ya clean?"
Heat rises on your cheeks, your eyes water. "I--", your voice breaks, "I am not-"
"Not clean, eh?", he says just as you usher out: "A prostitute."
Now, his face breaks. Brows shooting up, blinks rapidly, irritated. "'Scuse me?"
You swallow. Shit. Now he is gonna send you away, and Thomas will come for his money. You can't have that - you need that money.
"I just do hand-stuff, normally", you say, surprised at how easily the lie slips over your lips, fills the air in a steady tone.
"That's a prostitute in my book, sweetheart", he answers cooly, shrugs, and moves towards the bottle of gin, "Y'wan'a drink?"
Your hands shake, and he cannot - should not - see that and thus, you shake your head.
He mutters something inaudible, as he pours himself a glass, voice a low rumble. You decide it is best not to inquire. Not to move. You remain standing, as he pours himself another glass and downs it quickly just like the other, shoulders visibly relaxing, before sitting down on the red padded bench, throwing his half-smoked cigarette into your empty glass. Arthur looks at you, expression unreadable. "C'mere", he eventually says, the slightest bit annoyed and you follow hastily - muttering Yes, Sir that has the corners of his mouth quipping up in a dirty grin - placing your bag next to the bottle onto the table, before approaching him.
Arthur's legs are spread, the expensive wool of his trousers wrapping snugly around lanky but muscular thighs. You take him in for a second, the auburn nearly ginger hair gelled back, forehead stained by blood, his face hard and unmoving, the specks of blood scattered on his nice and expensive looking grey suit. You step closer and to your surprise he extends a calloused and freckled hand, that you gently place yours into - soft and fragile in comparison - and he takes it, helps you onto his lap. Your body is stiff with anxiety and you hope, pray, that he does not notice.
The first thing you become aware of, among the strange but welcome sensation of being so so close to another human being - to a man, is his scent. He smells surprisingly nice. Wooden and of foreign spices, rich and heavy. Like a bonfire. Like a twelve-hour shift at the coal factories. Still expensive, but as if the perfume cannot fully cover, hide his heritage as a working-class man. He smells of cigarettes and liquor and blood and money. The scent wraps you in, a cloud of luxurious silk and crackling fire wood in a heath, makes you ease into his lap.
You wonder if Arthur can smell the flowery toilet water you put on earlier. You bought it before the war, back in London. It is the last proper thing you own.
His hand forsakes yours, drops down to your thigh, where your dress has already ridden up your legs. His skin is warm on yours and then you feel it, like your sense coming back alive, jolting awake under a thick haze of fear: His hardening bulge pressing against your cunt, right between your legs. Huge and warm, already rock hard.
Your mouth falls agape slightly, cheeks turning a pretty shade of red in an instant. He chuckles, a deep and rumbling sound. You do not dare to look at him, keeping your eyes trained on the golden chain, that secures the watch in his waist coat. It gleams prettily in the warm and dim light of the petrol lamps, like molten sunshine.
"I really hope ya haven't planning on only givin' me yer hands tonight, sweetheart", he keeps his gaze trained on your thighs, watches how his hands rest on them, large and slender fingers on your comparably small legs, thumbs caressing the lace hem of your stockings.
You do not know what you have planned. You had no plans. You accepted an offer and only now come to realization what following through with the service required really means. You have no clue how any of this works: sex, prostitution, pleasuring a man. But you know what they all want in the end. And you are certain he will be mad, if you do not give him what he desires.
"Of course not, Sir", you say quietly, thinking about the money in your bag. You got this. You simply have to.
"Ya just a very prim 'n proper young lady, aren't ya?", he hums. You hear the clasps of your garters snapping open and they fall to the sides, allowing him to pull your stockings down down down to your knees. His hands are rough on your soft skin and the touch is foreign, but it electrifies you nonetheless, has you looking up from his watch chains.
Arthur meets your gaze - has been watching your shy, beautiful face the whole time while being visibly amused by your modesty - blue eyes gleaming in the golden hue of the lights.
There is a profound sadness in his eyes. It goes deep, deeper than you dare to look. His features are harsh and unmoving, his eyes hard but their gaze is surprisingly soft; a warm summer's day lake hiding behind the Atlantic storm. You wonder who hurt him. Who left him. Who beat him, broke his heart, chewed it up and spat it back out. You wonder if what happened to him was a tragedy or just the war.
You want to touch it, wipe the sadness away. The thought gives you whiplash with the way it sneaks up on you, hits you across the back of your head and pushes itself to your front-lobe violently. He is beautiful. In his own ragged, brash way - with freckles dusted over his nose and cheeks, some of them gotten lost on his jaw as well, high cheekbones and plush, worrisome tilted lips.
Your body betrays you as your thumb dances over the corner of his mouth and then you lean forward, gently put your lips onto his. It takes him a moment, like he is surprised by the gentleness of it all, before he kisses you back. And does he kiss you. Soft at first, he grows hungry quickly, desperately licks into your mouth and grabs your jaw, holds your head in place as he pushes his tongue against yours and your lower back flush against the edge of the table as he latches onto you. You have kissed men before, drunken at the fair or sober in back alleys, but no other man has ever kissed you like he does now. He is all force and passion and it disarms you, makes you soft and responsive in his hold.
You sling your arms around his neck, hands clutching at his jacket, as he leans into you. Arthur's hands are everywhere, roaming over your thighs, your hips, your back as he feels you up, pulls you closer. You feel like a ragdoll in his arms, being thrown around for his pleasure and your belly tingles traitorously. Arthur pants against your lips, drags his tongue along your lower lip before his teeth gently nip at it.
Not wanting to lose all control and staying close to him - his warmth, the friction of his lean, strong body against yours - you press yourself back against him, and he sinks into the velvet cushion, groans into your mouth as you roll your hips into his dick. Arthur parts his lips from yours, licks the corner of your mouth hungrily as you draw in breaths hectically, rolling your hips once more.
And then you feel it. You are so fucking wet. It seeps through your underwear already, and your body feels like it's on fire, tingles all over. Your upper lip stings from his assault, with the way his moustache has rubbed against your soft skin there and your bottom lip is sore from him pulling and sucking at it. Then, something happens within you; something that you have never felt with such intensity. It starts with a sharp electric tingle in your belly, that shoots right between your thighs, has your loins practically catching fucking fire. It feels like your whole body lights up - so heavily that your fucking brain shuts off, short-circuits.
Suddenly, you want him to be closer - no, you need him to be closer. Without thinking, without debating it with yourself first, without any form of making sense or weighing the consequences of your actions your hands run over his muscular chest, feeling him up while you lean in, pressing hot, wet kisses to his neck.
He feels nice beneath your hands, firm and warm and you wrap your arms around his neck as you dive in again, his eyes already trailing your lips, before you are locking them with his. You steal the air from his lungs as you lick into his mouth, rubbing your body against his, tits pressed to his chest, hips rolling into his dick until you pant into the kiss so heavily that he breaks from you, licks his lips. Instead of stopping to touch him, your hands trail down the lapels of his jacket, slipping underneath it, thumbs trailing the muscles of his stomach.
"Sweetheart", he says lowly, voice trailing off, eyelids fluttering. He has not been touched like this in a long, long time. And he feels like it is going to drive him insane, if he does not stop you soon. Your tender, soft fingers - delicate in comparison to his - keep brushing over his expensive suit, cradling his neck, caressing his shaved head right behind his ears, grabbing his face. It feels too gentle and he fears that his heart is going to explode from it. It's too much - too much for someone like him, someone who belongs nowhere, to no one, who is never cared for. Someone who is as lonely as he is. It has his blood boiling.
Grabbing your hands and pulling them off him, he looks at you - gaze sharp, hard; the sad sea icy. "Y' better get to it, now."
His words, cutting and sharp as shrapnel, yank you out of a cotton-candy stasis, your brain all mushy and hard to reach, hard to use. "Yeah, sure", you breathe, nodding, "Yeah, 'f course."
You swallow, as your hands move - shaking, fluttering nervously and a little aimlessly in the beginning - to get his wool jacket of first. He does not make it harder for you as it already is, but also does not help you much, only throws his jacket to the side carelessly once it comes off. Keeps his eyes trained on your face, studying your every move, on the lookout for any and every single twitch of your facial muscles like a fucking deadly desert predator.
And there it is, comes into vision: the predators, well - weapon. It sits silently, unmoving, in a holster beneath his shoulder. Its silvery handle peeking out towards you mockingly.
His gun.
You swallow. Visibly.
Arthur makes a guttural sound. "That ol' thing's scarin' ya, sweetheart?", he sounds amused almost, reaches for it and you freeze. "I ain't gonna hurt ya, relax", he takes it out of the holster, places it onto the table, where it clinks as it connects with the wood, before he adds with a playful wink, "At least not like tha'."
Unable to control, to stop yourself, you still peak over your shoulder, assessing where it lays. Just in case. Mustering the revolver, you --
A hand grabs your chin, surprisingly gentle, and your face is slowly turned towards back to then man, whose lap you are currently sitting in. Like the gun wasn't already enough to shake the foundation of your world, he now looks at you, coos quietly. "Aren't ya a panicky lil' bird", his hand caresses your cheek and you seriously do not know who he is anymore, with his sad but cold eyes, the dried blood on his forehead, the loaded gun on the table and his loving touches, "Relax, eh? Nothing's gonna happen, as long as I'm 'ere." And as if he is trying to prove this point - maybe even to himself - he straightens up a little, sits back up, the motion pulling you deeper into his lap, with one of his large, slender hands running up your back slowly, steadying you. Goosebumps erupt on your skin. "Yes, Sir", you say, voice small and it does not even sound convincing to yourself.
"Jus' forget about the gun and make me feel good, love", he whispers and grabs you by the hips, pushes them down to meet his. You feel his hard dick pressing against your clothed cunt again and that is enough. The fire returns to your loins, so rapidly it knocks the air out of your lungs. And your body stops belonging to you, as all reason gets washed from your head, leaves you a little dizzy with lust.
The red velvet of the bench is soft beneath your knees as you put your weight onto them and roll your hips. You immediately gasp, feeling his boner pressing against your cunt hard, its heat seeping through the fabric. This is different than your pillow. Better. You roll your hips once more, with more intent this time, grinding yourself down on his dick. And Arthur hums, a low and guttural but pleased sound.
You know, he has told you to get a move on but you cannot keep yourself from running your hands over his arms, up up up, feeling the muscular, veiny arms beneath your palms while you rut down on his cock, small whines and desperate gasps erupting from your throat. You struggle with his holster a bit and he does not seem to bother to help you anymore, his hands running up and down your thighs, to the curve of your ass. While you tug at the leather straps helplessly, gasping with each time your pussy brushes his cock, he looks over your shoulder, evidently distracted. "Your arse feels fuckin' nice, love", he says, hands gliding up your legs and over your girdle skirt, underneath your dress until they reach your butt and squeeze.
Pleasure shoots through your loins and you rut into him - hearing his breaths going ragged - as he grabs a fistful of your ass and deepens the movement of your hips, while you toss his holster on the bench, shrugging his waistcoat off. "Ever been fucked back there?", he husks, middle fingers dancing along the crack of your butt while he looks up at you through his auburn lashes and God Almighty, do you blush. Your cheeks burn with Red Red Red spreading across them, heat rising in your cheeks as well as your chest as you think about it - you on your knees, finger buried deep in expensive Egyptian linen sheets as he fills both your holes with his dick and his fingers. You shake your head shyly, lips slightly parted.
And Arthur's gaze drops down to them before he decides he has not had enough of you yet, leans it, locks his lips with yours again, groans into your mouth as you start to loosen his tie and unbutton the first few buttons of his shirt right after. You can see pale skin peeking out from there, dotted with freckles as many as there must be stars under the moon. "Next time", he murmurs to himself against your lips, throws his tie to the side where it slides of the bench and to the ground, "Next time I'll have ya back there." His arm wraps around your waist and pulls you even closer, your lower belly flush against his.
And that is when Arthur feels it. A dampness, that presses itself onto his cock, different from the small patch of precum he has already blown into his own undergarments. He whistles wolfishly, lifts you up a little.
There it is. A damp patch on his fucking 300 pounds suit, right where his cock strains against the fabric, the outline visible through the darkened wool. "Fuck me", he breathes, looks up at you, eyelids a little heavy, "'S got ya that hot already, love?"
You blink down to the damp patch, feeling your own wetness between your legs. "Oh God, I am s-so sorry", you stammer, knowing he will have to bring this to the cleaners if he isn't planning on carrying your scent with him for a least a few weeks. He will snap. You have heard the stories, he will-
"Sorry?", he echoes, a playful edge to his voice and it surprises, takes you aback, has you staring at him in disbelieve. "Y-your suit, I am terribly sorry I ruined it, Sir", you try again, voice small while you think about the revolver laying behind you, a reminder of his wrath.
"Fuck the suit", Arthur barks out a laugh, "And fuck that dress."
With that, his hands leave your hips and grab the button line at your chest, and riiip at the fabric. The buttons come flying, ricocheting of the wall and the floor noisily, the soft fabric tearing easily. You gasp, a little surprised and a little in grief. This was your favourite dress. A reminder of better times. You watch in both, shock and anticipation that has the hairs on your body standing up, as he peels the soft cotton off you, leaves you in only your girdle skirt. He acknowledges the lack of a proper undergarments with a barely noticeable grin, runs his gaze over your body. You have a nice pair of tits and a pretty waist, but there is something else he wants first and he tables the thought to mark you up and litter your soft skin with bruises for later.
"Imma buy ya a new one, love, don'tcha go soft on me now", he discards the fabric to the ground, places one hand on the small of your back and pulls you close, your naked tits pressing against his expensive button down. Your temple sinks on his shoulder, eyes fluttering and lips brushing over his neck, tasting his perfume and his sweat. He radiates heat, smells of lust as he looks at you through hooded, dark eyes. "I promise, eh? I'll get ya s'mthing prettier", and you ease into his touch, as he tugs at the girdle - your favourite, a blush pink with pretty lacing at the sides - but he just carelessly shoves it up up up and over your waist instead of untying it properly. His fingers brush over your panties, right where they meet your skin at your hipbones. "Add those to the list", you feel your skin sting as he pulls at them, impatiently and abruptly, tears at the fine satin and rips them clean off.
And Jesus Fucking Christ, he thinks he might smell your arousal right now - thickly sweet, the scent wrapping him in. Arthur yanks your legs apart by spreading his own further, and you gasp, as your knees press snugly against his thighs, cool air hitting your wet cunt. His hands run up your legs and one of them grabs your hips, keeps you steady as the other one brushes over your pubic bone before dipping between your legs. His hand presses against your pussy flatly as he practically grabs your cunt, feels your slick, and runs his palm through it. Your hips buck and you groan, a firework of arousal shooting through your loins.
Then, his fingers spread, two of them running through your folds, back and forth assessing your wetness, and feeling your cunt up. "'S a real pretty pussy ya got 'ere", Arthur looks up from watching his hand vanishing between your legs, lewd sounds of your slick already filling the air. All you can do, the sole response you can muster, is a looong appreciative whine, that gets stuck in your throat as his middle finger presses against your hole cooly.
Breath hitching in your throat, and you release a mangled sound as Arthur pushes his finger in recklessly. The dull burn has your muscles tensing up, your surprise over the sudden intrusion not helping as you clench around him, blocking him from sinking his finger into you fully. Arthur goes stiff as you furrow your brows, hands flying to his wrist, grabbing it in panic while you jolt up in his lap. A pathetic little noise slips over your lips, something that sounds like a broken, small plea.
"Fuck, so that's what he meant", Arthur blinks, stares down at where his finger barely sunk into you, with your hole clutching tightly around him. His palm shines wetly with your juices.
You whine, chest heaving, hands grabbing his biceps. "P-please", your voice sounds high-pitched and oddly foreign in your own ears. He can feel the way your hole nearly cuts of the blood flow in his finger, with how tightly it sits around him and he recognizes the tensity immediately. He has felt it time and time again and his blood sings with it, his cock giving an excited twitch in his pants.
"You ain't never been a prostitute, eh?", he looks up at you, eyes suddenly dark like the stormy sea at night. You can only shake your head, the intrusion of his hefty finger and the dull pain of your muscle being stretched by it are too much already, has your head swimming and heart racing. And it's not even in fully yet. "I fuckin' knew it", he rumbles, voice victorious and dark.
The tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine and arms. He does not seem to mind - rather, it seems to get him going, and his reaction makes you feel light-headed.
This is not how you imagined your first time to be like. You wanted it to be soft and slow, ideally on your wedding night, in a bed with a gentle man with soft hands and a respectable career. In the dark of the night, with candles burning, two bodies carefully and slowly, lovingly exploring each other. You did not think it would happen in a pub, of all places, on a late Thursday afternoon with someone who seems to have taken a sport in fucking virgins.
Realization hits you like a train. This is going to be your first time. This man, this violent animal, will be the one taking your innocence.
Arthur watches you intently, kisses his teeth. "I'll make it nice f'ya", he says like he can read your thoughts, voice sounding far away and strangely, you believe him. Believe his soft gaze, his hand that rubs a soothing circle onto your lower back.
"Will it hurt?", you whisper, barely audible. You have heard it does. Some of your friends were bleeding after.
That's when his gaze grows warm, with the darkness behind it still lingering but you barely register it as he is shaking his head - far too busy in wanting to trust him to notice the way his lips tilt up, eyes gleaming with perverse anticipation. He hopes his throbbing cock does not betray him. Oh, how much he will enjoy taking you apart, how much he loves seeing innocent, inexperienced women going dumb on his dick, seeing their pretty faces contort in ecstasy once he rips their maidenhead. Without doubt you will look pretty, too - beautiful even. Silently, he thanks Tommy. Look what the cat dragged in.
"It won't", he says, and there is such an earnest tenderness to his voice, that it shocks him just as much as it shocks you. Releasing a deep breath you did not know you were holding in the first place; you nod.
"Let go off me hand", and you do, grabbing his shoulders instead, as his other hand moves between your legs as well before his pointer and middle finger gently brush against your clit. The feeling that errupts in your belly is heavenly.
"Oh", you make quietly, voice a little high, as he starts to rub soft big circles over it, gently nudging it.
"See? It'll feel nice, love", and you feel it, too. Your muscles unclenching as pleasure shoots through your abdomen, your hole fluttering open after he works your clit for a while, taking his finger in willingly. You barely notice, how it glides in deeper and deeper, the stretch losing all its pain, while you moan and gasp, watching how his hand works your clit.
You sink against his hand hastily, wanting more, whining as the pad of his finger knocks against your walls and your hips stutter.
"Sh, sh, sh", Arthur tuts, his hand comes free from your clit, brushing free strands of hair from your face and behind your ear in one fluid motion, before cupping the nape of your neck, "Slowly now, love. I wan' you nice and loose, before I wreck you."
Nodding, you try your best to relax the muscles your muscles once more as he starts to move his finger slowly again pressing it in fully. You gasp, suddenly feeling the cold gold of his ring resting against your hole. There's little room inside of you now and he gives you gives a minute or two to let you get used to the feeling, before he carefully bends his finger, rubs along your hot spongy walls. "Feel that?", he says and you do. The tingling in your stomach rises, sends bolts of pleasure through your belly. You moan, looking down where his finger vanishes between your legs.
"Yeah", you breathe, lips agape. "'S good?", he asks, genuinely curious and it sends your head spinning.
You nod, hole already fluttering around his finger and he starts to move it slowly, pulling it back and forth, until he can fuck you with it easily. He retrieves it fully, leaves you mewling unhappily, before he prods against your hole with two fingers instead. "There ya go, girl, nice 'n steady", he adds pressure against the tight ring once more and you willingly spread your legs a little, the velvet burning on your knees as they glide over it, parting your thighs to make more room for him. Arthur pushes his digits in, and you moan sweetly, the stretch pleasant and not as hurtful as you would have expected.
And Arthur starts to move slowly, drags the pads of his fingers along your walls, slowly oh so slowly fucks you open with them. He takes his time, spreading his fingers apart whenever your moans sound too sweet and he wants you to squirm more, remind you for whose pleasure you are here until even that does not seem to bother you anymore and your hips roll against his hand eagerly. He is sure, if he were to put his fingers on your clit again you would combust on the spot and as much as he would like to feel you cum, really feel that tight little hole clench and cream and make it his appetizer, he would much rather feel you coming on his cock.
He cannot believe he is going to break your flower, soil it. He does not want to wait longer, cannot push himself further, needs it now. "Ya feelin' ready now, sweetheart?", like he will give a fuck.
Luckily for him, you nod, whining as he carefully pulls his fingers from you. No need to hurt you, yet. "'S my good girl, just breathe", and you mewl, as you feel your hole clenching around nothing, "I'll fill ya up nicely, don't fret." You suddenly feel very very empty and the urge to be filled up, to be stuffed by his cock and cum makes you go a little drunk with it, hands beating his to the fly of his pants.
Making quick work of the buttons you pull his trousers and undergarments down as much as possible, just enough to get his cock out - your mouth first waters and then goes powder dry in an instant. His dick slaps against his belly, long and girthy and cut with a prominent vein on the bottom, head an angry red and glistening with precum. It sits there, between a neatly trimmed bush of auburn hair and it is so so huge.
You open your mouth, struggling to find the words. "I-it won't fit", you stammer.
"'F course it will", he closes his hand around the thick base, and guides it between your legs, the tip nudging your clit and you gasp, "Don'tcha hurt ya pretty lil' head 'bout that." Arthur grabs your hips with one hand, holds you steady and up as he runs his cock along your folds, slicks it up with your juices, before pressing the thick head against your fluttering hole. His dick is unbearably hot against your pussy, and you whine, biting your lip.
"Just the tip, love, don't worry", he mumbles, lips pressed against your cheek, peppering the soft skin with kisses, stache tickling and then he presses his cock inside of you.
The thick head of his dick spreads your folds apart and then your hole stretches around it. It is so so much thicker and harder than his fingers, so much warmer and your hole clenches as he keeps pushing. The pain is dull and your eyes tear up. "There ya go", he nuzzles the tip of his nose against your cheek, whispers sweet nothings into your ear. There's one last stretch and then you feel the whole tip of his dick inside of you, your walls so snug around it you, you would be able to describe what it looks like just from feeling it inside of you.
"How's it feel?", he rasps, having a hard time containing himself. You are hot and wet around his tip and he really really wants to just push inside in one fluid motion and fuck you until your bleed and are unable to walk. To ruin you. Until there is nothing left on your pretty, little mind but him. But he knows better, knows that he will have to get you there slowly and steadily, so that you will come crawling back on all fours willingly. Forever.
"Ngh", you make, brows furrowed in concentration as you grab his shirt, steadying yourself. You had hoped, he would give you a minute longer to adjust, with your cunt clenching and stuttering around it, but he does not - instead he just keeps inching in. You whine, hand pushing against his shoulder. "H-hurts", your voice sounding press, "T-too fast, please, Sir."
A low chuckle escapes from his throat. "Love, that ain't me", he cups your cheek with one hand, looks at you. And Jesus fucking Christ, what a sight you are - pupils blown wide, eyes darkened and wet with tears. "You're jus' so fuckin' tight, you suck me in, sweetheart", and he really can't help himself but to marvel at how that feels. He can feel how your pussy protests the intrusion, tries to push him out, but instead it just makes your hole tighter, pulling him in.
"'S too much", and he nearly takes real pity in you, leans in, and locks his lips with yours, while his hand forsakes your face and dives between your legs, rubbing wide circles over your clit.
Arthur lets gravity and your hungry pussy handle the rest, rubs your clit through every little millimetre that you sink down on his cock until he feels your muscles relaxing around him, swallowing him up.
That's when Arthur finally bottoms out, grabs you by the hips and seats you onto his cock fully, hisses just as a sweet, surprised moan escapes your lips.
"Yeah, that's fuckin' nice, ennit love?", he rasps, holds your hips steady as they quiver and shake on his cock. The stretch is delicious and so is the pain as he fills you up fully, thick base pushing your pussy apart like the heft of a sword.
"Uh-huh", you make dumbly, watching how your naked body is split on his cock, thighs rubbing along the thick wool of his dress pants.
"What a nice fuckin' tight snatch ya have, sweetheart", he groans, eyebrows furrowed together as he relishes in the feeling of your hole swallowing him whole, squeezing his cock.
"'ere, feel it", he grabs one of your hands and shoves between your legs, where your bodies are cojoined and his cock stretches your tight hole. He guides two fingers to the hot and thick base of his dick and you gasp, as you feel both: your wetness on him and the way he stretches the small ring of your muscles, the way you close around him snugly. "Wanna feel how I fuck ya?", he husks, and does not wait for an answer, pulls out of you just a little, only to push back in right after. You can feel the friction of his dick entering you, wetness pooling around the rim of your cunt as he forces himself inside. The sound that leaves your throat is wild, unbothered, high-pitched.
Your mouth is quicker than your brain, as all shame washes from you. "You feel so good", you breathe, and newly found confidence gets a hold of you, encourages you to lift your hips, before sinking back down. The burn of him stretching, moving inside of you, slowly subsides, gets replaced by feeling utterly full. You start to move in his lap, still a little unsure if you are doing it right, as you move your hips up and down. Small, desperate moans escape your mouth as you start to bounce on his dick slowly, hands on his chest. "There ya go", his hands rest on your waist, thumbs gently rubbing circles over your ribcage.
You take your time, hands clutching at his shirt and steadying themselves on his muscular, lean chest as you try to find your own rhythm. The movement of your hips is rigid at first, as you roll them down and Arthur really, really has to take deep breaths and not get annoyed because he knows, that this is ironically the best part of it all - when they do not know what to do, all helpless and cunts tight, whimpering with the overwhelming feeling of it all - and he does want to enjoy it, too. He watches you, angles his elbows on the backrest of the bench, let's you handle yourself first. He considers having another drink as you straighten your back and roll your hips just right for the very first time, a sweet sweet moan escaping your lips and he nearly bites his lip to hold his own back down because that - Jesus fucking Christ, that felt good.
You seem surprised, but he can also see how it makes you more confident, repeating the same movement your hips just made and another whine slips past your lips. Part of him grieves that you found it so quickly, part of him is intrigued what else lies buried inside of you and Arthur takes a deep breath, nods.
"Keep goin', love", he encourages you and you look at him, blushing, nodding. Your rhythm is slow and steady and you feel it becoming more and more pleasurable with every single time you thrust yourself down onto him, your muscles unclenching and letting his cock in deeper. There is warmth spreading inside of your body and you suddenly feel so so good, that you speed up all by yourself, something that his moaning quietly and --
It feels like your pussy is trying to push him out once more, but this time it is different, less forceful and much more of a desperate attempt to be closer closer closer to the delicious friction of his pubes rubbing along your clit, his dick slipping in and out of you. And then you feel wetness gushing from your cunt.
You gasp loudly, lips shaped in a perfect little O, a hand flying to your mouth. And Arthur laughs, a bellowing and rude sound that gets swallowed up by a lewd moan, that rasps darkly in his throat. "Yeah, 's my girl", his eyes twinkle as he looks you straight in the eye, "My cock makes ya feel real good, eh? "
The shame is back as it burns on your cheeks as you nod nod nod, lifting your hips once more to sink down onto him. It's so so easy this time with you being wetter than before, and you hum gleefully at the sensation, immediately picking up a quicker rhythm.
It all feels so heavenly: sinking down onto him, your lower body rubbing along his, clit being nudged ever so gently by his pubes, his hands on your body. Eventually, he lets them travel a bit when he deems you ready for it, cups your tit and rolls your nipple with his thumb. "'Y got such nice tits, love", and he really seems to marvel at the sight, while pleasure ping-pongs through your body at the touch. You feel like you could do this forever, sit on his cock, and ride him to feel this good just once more, but your body strains soon, legs growing heavy and your hips start to burn from the steady movement.
Arthur can feel you stuttering, your hips growing heavy but he is nowhere near coming and he really cannot have you stopping now, so he decides to play it nice. "Need help, love?", and you whine so prettily that it sweeps the rug underneath him, his hands leaving your tits, dancing over your body and grabbing your ass instead, lifting you up before sinking you back down.
Soon, the small snug is filled with lewd noises: skin hitting skin, the obscene squelching of your cunt as Arthur plunges his cock into you, sweet sweet gasps falling from your mouth, mingling with his groans and heavy panting. Arthur angles your hips on his dick - as if he had done this a hundred times with you before - guides you up and down up and down aiding you with your own already fast rhythm. Your legs and hips strain from being spread on his lap, from working in overtime as you ride him but the way he feels inside of you drowns the painful pull of your muscles and strings out, leaves you wanting for more.
And Arthur - oh, Arthur feels everything, all at once. Hears his own blood thundering in his ears, smells your perfume mingling with the scent of your arousal, thickly sweet and heavy, and his chin churns, teeth grinding like he just a fat fucking line of coke. Arthur feels it all - the tremor his pulse sends through his body, the way your pussy grips his cock, the whiskey rushing through his veins, his chest fluttering. There's just as much adrenaline rushing through his body as there is when he kills a man - it's all the same to him, really - and he feels like he is going to pass out from it.
The desperate, high-pitched moans that fall from your lips have him reeling on the edge, spurring him on while his fingers dig deep into your hips.
A part of him, somewhere buried deep inside his skull in the farthest corners of his mind, wishes for things to be different. For you to have met him differently, for him to be a different man. To be gentler, and to mean it. If he were someone else, he would be soft and take his time, share the plethora of pleasure he has to offer with you until sunrise. He would hold you close, rest your body on expensive sheets and touch you all over.
But he is not. And thus, he shuns regret, locks it away, hooks one arm around your waist instead and presses you to his chest as his hip piston into you, cock digging deep and against your cervix, brushing against the spot that has you seeing stars repeatedly.
And that has you moaning his name, falling from your lips like a mantra, nearly exploding with pleasure. It's all too much and you aren't certain if your body can even take it all. You feel like dying. You feel so so alive. Every single one of your nerves is on fire, and you cling onto him for leverage until it isn't enough anymore. Lust shoots through your body, fills you out wholly and makes you feel so so so good and you just must give it more room, really really feel it and one of your hands darts up as you stretch your arm above your head, hand falling flat onto the wall. And Arthur looks up at you through hooded eyes as if he had been summoned, takes you in: the way your head tilts back just a little, exposes your flushed throat and cheeks, your eyes closed and lips parted, panting heavily. Your tits bounce with every single one of his thrusts as you start to meet them too, fucking back onto them.
He has never seen anything quite like it. Truly, never. You are better than any fucking prostitute, with your earnest moans and seeping wet cunt.
Arthur cranes his neck and latches onto the crook of yours, licking, biting, and tasting your sweat and the pulse beneath your soft skin, surely leaving you with a nasty beard burn. One of his hand snakes between your legs and his fore and ring finger tip against your clit, making you moan brightly, loud and clear. He starts rubbing small, fast circles over it, flicks it between his fingers and you cannot stop yourself - moaning and gasping in rhythym with his thrusts, as you feel your lower body clenching, an unknown and forceful heat boiling inside of you. And Arthur knows you're close. He can feel it too,
"Yeah, 's it love. Fuckin' come f'me, you whore. There ya go, milk me cock like the dir'y lil' --", and you nearly scream as you finally, finally do, after he speeds his fingers up, sounds of your wet cunt filling the air - before you are convulsing around him heavily, legs shaking and cunt squirting against his cock forcefully.
And that's all he needs, too. Feels you practically forcing his cum out of him and you whine loudly as he pumps you full with hot ropes of cum, shoots the deep into your hole, hits your walls with it.
"Ah, fuck", he throws his head back, cheeks flushed and his hips rock up up up, ramming his cock deep in your tight hole as he comes, fucks his cum into you, making your pussy squelch obscenely. You cling onto him for dear life, hands gripping his shirt, while sweet sweet moans fall from your lips as you ride out your own orgasm on his dick.
Collapsing against him, his hips continue to rut upwards into you, until Arthur is all spent, his breathing going heavy and noisily, mingling with your gasping.
Your surroundings get drowned out by the waves of pleasure that shoot through your body, making you light-headed, content, and tired. You feel worn out, but your nerves are on fire, your brain rapid-firing the floating sensation of bliss through your system. It takes you a while to come down back to Earth.
As you do, you are naked in his arms, chest heaving and legs shaking, as you bury your face in his neck inhaling his thick perfume. Your body feels light, limbs a little numb and he runs his hands over your back tenderly, easing the feeling back into you. You can hear his heart beating and the sound lulls you in, a delusory closeness erupting a warm fondness inside of you, that has your belly fluttering. There is still cum trickling out of you, running down your folds and your thighs, while he still plugs your hole up with his softening dick and you feel like you could stay like this forever, listening to his heartbeat and breathing, body comfortably resting against his, his warmth keeping you safe from the world outside.
You think that his cock should probably grow flaccid soon; but he does not, instead Arthur stays buried inside of you, grabs your face with one hand forcing you to look at him. He grins, flashing his incisors at you. "Look at ya, hm", he laughs dryly, "Got ya all soft 'n fucked-out now, don't I?" And he knows that's exactly what he did, feels your puffy hot walls and swollen ring of muscles pressing snugly around his cock. You're hot and wet and gripping at him and he takes a deep breath, thumb caressing your chin. "Ain't ya a pretty thing", he murmurs, more to himself really, and his gaze drops down, to your tits before his free grabs a handful, squeezes your left one not that gently anymore, "Imma break you now, sweetheart."
A confused noise leaves your lips but you are still too far gone, too tired and worn out, as he suddenly yanks you back up and flips you around. Your body gets pressed onto the dirty and sticky surface of the table as he manhandles you, his already once more hardened cock slapping against your ass as he puts your body in position on the table, and -- there it is again. The gun. Rest there, right in your line of sight. It just lays there, hammer pulled back. Arthur notices you staring at it as he positions your body, pulls your ass up up up, until your upper body lies flat on the wooden surface and you are standing on your tip of your toes, his cum tickling down your thighs. "Don't worry - If someone disturbs us, love, I'll kill'em", and you do not even doubt him. You doubt yourself - with the way your body reacts to this. Shivers run down your arms, your back, fresh wetness pooling between your legs. You wonder, how he looks when he kills someone.
"Or", his lips brush over your ear, voice nothing but a low, rough whisper that vibrates in your body, makes your blood sing, "You could 'ave a try at it. Jus' fire it, see what it does - see if you hit'em." He says, as he rubs his hard cock rubs along your folds, runs it through your slick and his cum that still runs out of your already sore hole.
You cannot help but imagine it. How Arthur just pulls your head back, hand in your hair as the door of the snug bursts open - some guy coming inside but you are so so close to coming and your hand reaches for the gun blindly, points, shoots, hits. Red blooms on the golden tapestry behind the dropping body.
"It's easy", he rumbles and so you have heard. What comes after isn't.
You shake your head, but it is not as certain as you wish it to be. "No?", he presses a kiss onto your neck, tip of his cock prodding your entrance, "D'you not feel ready, yet? Mh, 's alright. We have time." And with that he pushes inside of you in one swift motion - like he usually does, not that careful A-Woman-Is-Like-Fine-China-Shit he pulled earlier.
You tremble beneath him, gasping at the sudden intrusion and the feeling of it: how it stretches your abused hole that flutters open inviting him in, your sensitive skin prickling and body aching. Arthur doesn't waste any time, immediately starts fucking you with pointed, deep thrusts that send you reeling already, moaning sweetly for him.
He can feel your ass pressing against his groin, wet sounds of his skin hitting yours already filling the air, with his balls slapping against your wet wet cunt. This is it. This is what he needs you to be like for him - spread out, stretched enough to just take him like this. And you are so inexperienced that you don't even know how to handle it, what to do; you just lay there, taking it all in, your sweet sweet hole ready for the taking and you are enjoying it. Enjoying what he has got to give, what he will take from you. Time and time again. Oh, he is going to keep you.
"Y're fuckin' perfect", he groans, runs one hand down your body, keeps himself upright, steady, and you mewl, eyes rolling back a little with the agonizingly slow pace he has set and --
A hand comes down on your ass - hard. You jolt violently, your hipbones connecting with the edge of the table quite forcefully, glasses clinking against the bottle.
"What d'ya fuckin' say then?"
Your head swims. Your breath falls short. Panic seeps through you and then the pain blooms. Blooms so deliciously that you arch your back into him, moaning so shamelessly that you are certain, somewhere around Birmingham, a cross falls from the wall.
Another sharp slap hits your ass cheek, as his hand connects with it hard.
"I said", his voice is nothing but a gravelly, threatening rumble and you can imagine him clearly, grabbing someone by the lapels before beating their brains to a pulp, until it runs it out their ears a liquid, "What d'ya fuckin' say, you slut?"
"T-thank you, Sir", you whine and he rewards you with another deep thrust that hits the spot just right. "Good girl", he growls, before giving your another light slap, just for good measure, puts both hand flat onto the sticky table right next to your chest. He towers over you like this, head falling forward and strands of hair falling into his face as he speeds up. Rams his cock into you, once twice, with full force and then sets a quick and deep pace, that has him grunting with it.
His cock is dragging along your puffy, sensitive walls and you cannot, for the Love of God, form a straight sentence. All that leaves you mouth is incoherent babbling, as your breath grows shorter and shorter, pleasure pooling in your stomach. Your lips parted, you swear you hear yourself muttering Oh God Oh God Oh God over and over and over again as he pumps his cock into you and your eyes roll back into your skull.
You think you're drooling. No, you definitely are, a small pool of your warm wet saliva gathering at the corner of your mouth, the sheer force of his thrusts dragging your up and down up and down over the table, rubbing your chin through your spit.
"You're mine", he rasps, the glasses on the table shaking and clinking against each other, the table creaaaking along the floorboards, "No one else is gonna have ya, understood?"
"Uh-huh", you make unintelligently, parting your legs for him even more. He groans, as he glides in a little deeper and you do too, as he hits your cervix.
"Ya belong t'me now - I might jus' keep ya around. Would ya like tha'?", he gives your ass another sharp slap, that echoes off the walls of the snug and grabs a fistful of your right cheek, "Bet ya fuckin' would. Jus' keepin' ya with me, takin' ya everywhere I fuckin' go." He grunts, hand leaving your ass to brush a few strands of hair from his forehead that came loose. His scab popped and there is fresh blood running down his forehead, down down down his cheekbone, trickling over his cheek.
"Fuckin' keeping ya 'round naked while I do me fuckin' business, 'n you're jus' there waitin' for me to bend you over the fuckin' table when I please", Arthur's hand presses down between your shoulder blades, deepens the arch he has put your back into already, "Have ya kneeling there, shovin' me cock down your throat when I fuckin' need ya to shut up."
You do not even have to close your eyes, in order to see it on front of your mind's eye: You on your knees in front of him. His hand tangled in your hair, balling into a fist and yanking you forward towards his cock, already leaking and flushed red. Him forcing himself down your throat in the middle of the betting shop, that hums around you like a beehive, while you suck him off. You, on his lap, warming his cock during a meeting in a fancy hotel across the Atlantic. Bouncing on his dick while the other men present marvel at how he trained you so well.
You think you might be begging for him to do exactly that right now - mind and body engulfed in the way Arthur's cock fills you up to the brim, fits inside of you perfectly - unable to resist the onslaught of pleasure he hits you with, as you babble unintelligently. It soon becomes too much, the constant friction against your spongy walls and the tight muscles of your hole, how his dick thrusts against the spot that has you seeing stars repeatedly. Your vision blurs and you shiver, as your limbs go soft, the only sensation in your body that remains is how he fucks you, how his hand presses you down.
All you can feel is him, barely realizing how much you are losing yourself in the friction, the smell, the pleasure: everything becomes so so blurry and the colours soften, the petrol lamps twinkling like stars --
Arthur groans deeply, hand gripping your hair and yanking your head up. "Is you bawlin', sweetheart?", his voice drips with patronizing sarcasm, making clear that he doesn't give a dime. And you are. Hot tears stream down your face, from it all: the sheer overstimulation and the burning pain in your back from the arch he put you into as well as the ruthless pace he drills into you with, leaves your hole sore and cunt dripping.
"Keep that up - noise fuckin' suits ya", Arthur huffs, "My pretty lil' girl."
And then he starts to rut into you like the depraved and rabid dog he is, lewd noises of your wet skin meeting his balls and the skin of his thighs - not quite the animal he usually is with fists, bruises, and razor blades, but the other: with fine Tokyo, booze and sweat. He feels himself getting lost, a red haze filling his sight as he plunges into your tight and begging hole.
Arthur's gaze drops to your face once more and he takes you in, observes how he ruins you, reduces you to your most primal sense like you never ever were a lady strolling down Picadilly but always just a cock-drunk little whore who liked being thrown around by a violent thug - your cheeks dotted prettily with red from exhaustion and wet with your tears, chin shining with your own spit. "Sweetheart", he coos, leans in and turns your head around to him as much as possible. The strain in your neck is so so painful but being able to look at him is worth it, the sight making your pussy clench. There is blood dripping down his face, his eyes are dark dark dark and brows furrowed. "If ya liked spit, ya could've just said so", he rasps and then his hand leaves the back of your skull, grips your chin hard and forces your mouth open.
"Good, jus' like tha', open up", Arthur says, mouth a cruel grin, before leaning in as he spits into your fucking mouth. His saliva is warm as it hits your tongue and it tastes of whiskey and cigars and the way he degrades you is so sick but so so good, that your eyes roll back in your skull, hips bucking against him.
"Bloody fuckin' hell", he breathes, lips parted a little as he sucks in breath after breath, watching you swallowing his spit and licking your lips, your tongue darting out right after. His hips stutter and your whole body yerks forward with the force of it, hands clawing at the table uselessly.
"Fuck, knew ya'd like that", he nearly laughs, but it gets stuck in his throat, comes out as a strangled groan. And then he gathers some more of his saliva, does you the favour, slooowly lets it drip from his lips onto your tongue, his gaze glued to yours as he ruts ruts ruts into you. The table creaks beneath you and you hum, licking the spit from his lips, swallowing it all.
"A-arthur", you breathe, not able to communicate much more, "'S good -- please."
Your head connects with the wooden table forcefully as his hand grabs your neck, presses you down and pain blooms in your skull, shoots right down between your legs. "You fuckin' dirty fuckin' slut fuckin' --", he grunts, grabs one of your legs and yanks it up, shoves your knee onto the table. Your whole body aches, you are dizzy and there is such a pleasure coiling in your lower belly, you feel like you might just die. Like your head's going to explode. The angle of your leg lets him slide in deeper and he holds you down like this: one hand on the base of your skull, the other digging into your thigh sharply.
And this time you do scream; his name falling from your lips like a dirty fucking prayer - Arthur Arthur Arthur - as he holds you down, legs shaking and hips bucking, cunt squirting against him like a broken hose. Your juices make a mess out of his trousers and his shirt, leave stains all over them as he fucks your wetness back into you.
You are nowhere near coming and yet you feel so so so close - just a whining moaning mess beneath him, skin sore and sensitive, your face wet with tears and spit and sweat as his thrusts drag your body through the filth of the table's surface. Everything is too much and too little just the same, leaves you wanting for more and absolutely flooded with lust.
Wailing, and in a desperate attempt to get his attention that you are so so close but not close enough, you lift your head, looking over your shoulder. Arthur looks up at you, from where he watched his cock ramming in and out of you. The sight knocks the air from your lungs: his hair is a sticky mess, darkened by sweat and blood, that runs down his cheek, stained his shirt and surely already dropped down onto your back; his throat and chest, at least where you can see with his shirt half unbuttoned, is flushed and he furrows his brows, lips slightly agape as he pants and grunts. And then he sinks down on his elbows, his chest pressing flush against your back, before he leans in, lock his lips with yours and fucks you into the table.
That is all you need. His tongue licks into your mouth and you fucking explode around him, cunt squeezing him so hard he feels like he is going to pass out and so do you, as your shaking rattles the table, while you cum, white filling your vision.
It does not take much longer for Arthur, who rails you through your orgasm, all soft and rigid moans against your lips, cheek, and ear, before he pumps you full with his cum, sinks down onto you after, while relishing the last few thrusts of his hips into your tight heat. His weight is heavy on top of you, as he barely supports himself with his lower arms planted onto the sticky wood, breathes heavily against your neck.
Eventually, Arthur straightens back up, you barely register it, too far gone. You close your eyes, drawing in shaky breaths as he wipes the blood and sweat of his face, reaches for the bottle. You hear him rummaging around behind you, the shuffling of clothes and his exhausted breathing, but you cannot focus on it. Your limbs are heavy and you just lay there, bliss wrapping your brain in making it all mushy and soft and you just feel. Your aching hole, your aching back, the dull pain in your head - the insane galloping of your heart that only slowly ebbs, the way your cunt feels empty and worn out now. And then you hear the bench behind you creaking, feel his hands on your hips as he lifts you from the table and into his lap again.
You sink against his chest, as one of his strong arms cradles your frame, pulling you close. Eyes falling shut once more, you just breathe, listening to the sound of his lighter clicking and him taking a few drags from a cigarette.
"You wan' a smoke, love?", he rumbles, nose brushing against the shell of your ear. Your heart still thunders in your chest and you crave tobacco, nodding. He gently grabs your chin and turns your head around, places the cigarette between your slightly parted lips while your eyelids flutter, gaze shifting from his calloused hands to his blue eyes. You can feel his cum trickling out of you and onto the bench.
His cheeks are still a little flushed, but eyes gleam like he has just won a race.
"Same time, next week?", he whispers, moustache tickling your cheek.
It was New Years Eve and the night was alive with excitement. Many drinking themselves into sleep. As the clock ticked closer to midnight John pulled his long time girlfriend to his side. They had been dating since they were teens, and unlike many others they had 3 children outside of marriage. Of course they have spoken of marriage, but YN didn’t want to get married just because they had children. But tonight Johns heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. He had a plan one that had been carefully laid out in his mind. YN stood beside him, radiant in a red dress that hugged her curves, her hair cascading in soft waves down her back. She was the light in his life, a stark contrast to the shadows that often loomed over his family's dealings. Her was like music to his ears.
As the countdown began, the crowd erupted into a frenzy, voices mingling in a symphony of joy and hope. Ten... nine... eight... John's heart pounded in his chest. He had rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times.
Suddenly, the crowd erupted into cheers, and fireworks painted the sky in brilliant bursts of colour. John took a deep breath, his hand pulling out of YN’s and slipping into his pocket where the small velvet box lay hidden. YN turned to him looking confused, but that confusion changed into shock as she watched John kneel down in front of her.
“YN, my first and only love. I’ve loved you since we were 15. We’ve got 3 beautiful children together and maybe more to come? Anyway. I love you so much, will you marry me?” YN’s hand flew to her mouth trying to hold back a cry. Not trusting her words to not come out she nods her head “is that a yes?”
“Oh my.. yes John yes I’ll marry you” John slips the ring onto her finger, a perfect fit that gleamed in the light of the fireworks
“About time!” Arthur shouts smiling at the couple. John stands up and picks YN up spinning her around, making her giggle
