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dirtypr0mises · 7 months ago

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HIT ME AND TELL ME YOUR MINE ⋆ — b. eilish

in which; — you and billie have a thing for rougher types of intercourse, yum :P

dom!billie x sub!reader , duh

cw: expect the smut duh, if you can’t handle it that’s on u.! rough sexual intercourse , oral (reader recieving) , usage of toys (vib.) , dacryphilia , oh and two women loving eachother (boo rahhh go away homophobes)

yapyap: am i posting tm or normally girl idk i write fast. well i wrote like half of it and then fell asleep.. but also my first EVER time writing smut , even tho i used to be a wattpad writer , uh yea yikes (booo tomatoes). i think yall should bare with me! yea? ok thanks. i feel like i did good though anyways, but dont tell me. :,)

NOT PROOFREAD

what did you think was gonna happen? going out for dinner in a small black satin dress that was barely there, except the last thought on your mind was the dinner, you knew what you were doing.

billie slammed the bedroom door behind you two, you were standing there, extremely awkwardly. she grabbed you by your neck, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss. her hands traveled down to your waist, giving it a squeeze, which made a breathy ‘mm’ flow from your mouth to hers.

before she got carried away, she made sure everything was set straight. “our safe word, remember it.” she said, pushing you on the bed and climbing right ontop of you. she looked into your eyes for a split second before coming down to crash her lips on yours. soon her lips traveled down from your lips to where your skimpy dress covered your boobs.

a trail of dark hickeys gave proof of what was going on, if anyone wanted to ask.

“take it off” she said in an almost whiney tone, and you complied, pulling the dress over yourself and throwing it — who cares where?

she bit her lip when she saw your body, slipping your strapless bra down, immediately latching her mouth to your nipple, making you gasp out loud, but oh no, she wasn’t there for long.

soon enough, her mouth was trailing down your stomach, more hickeys, more moans. she got down to your waistline. pulling down your lacy black panties.

“knees up, legs apart” she commanded, and when you did she bit back a groan. she couldn’t even pause to look, she licked right inbetween your folds, coming back up to kiss you.

“your so wet for me already mama” she smirked into the kiss, and then she went back down, licking again, and again, again while you moaned again, and again, and again. each time at a higher tone.

she ran her finger across the slit, stopping at the hole and with no warning, plunged her finger deep in you, causing a loud moan to escape from your mouth, your back arched as she moved her finger fast, soon two fingers, and then three. your moans were a mix with pleasure and pain, never had she used three fingers before. soon enough you were on a high.

“b-billie.. i-i need to-“ you said before a sharp moan escaped your lips, she curled her fingers, and you tightened around her, your juices flowing onto her fingers. your fingernails clawing at the bed and your head thrown back.

soon her mouth was back on you, licking at your slit and two fingers back in you, making you whine and push your hips forward. she made sure yall were maintaining eye contact, atleast when your head wasn’t thrown back in pleasure.

“your mine, all mine y/n” she said looking straight at you.

soon you were on edge again, this time she wouldn’t let you cum. everytime your breath hitched, or a moan a little louder than usual had come out of you, or before you could even finish saying her name, she was already out of you, waiting for you to completely come down before plunging her fingers back into you and going down on you again.

tears soon started to flow from your eyes, your back arched and your nails in the bed. randomly she got up completely, making you whine out loud. soon though, she came back with the fancy little vibrator she had bought for you. she smiled at you innocently, sitting back down where she just was. she placed a small slap on your pussy, smirking at the reaction she got out of it.

she turned it on pretty high. and now it was in place of her tongue with her fingers still deep in you. but once again with every breath hitch, loud moan, or you saying her name everything was out. and the tears were flowing, indeed. not to mention every time you were about to go over the edge, she gave the back of your thigh a squeeze, and not a little one.

this went on for maybe 30 minutes, the slowest, most pleasurable but agonizing 30 minutes ever.

after 30 minutes, your breath hitched and your back arched, but she didn’t take anything off. “billie p-please..” you whined, your hips bucking forward involuntarily. she nodded and curled her fingers

and then you came, a painfully loud moan made billie bite her lip, your head practically on the other side of you, you were seeing stars. once you came down, she slowly licked the juices away, placing one last kiss on your pussy before coming up to kiss you on the lips.

“you did so good for me baby” she spoke into the kiss. you just nodded in reply, absolutely unable to speak.

she sat you up, turning on the shower and getting you underwear and a big tee shirt, along with a towel. she helped you up, all knowing you would have trouble walking. she helped you into the shower, smiling at you. “there you go baby, yell at me if you need something, i love you” she said and walked out of the bathroom.

the room was clean, the bed was made, and a candle was lit. with your water bottle on tour bedside, some melatonin and the cancelled podcast on, duh. and of course she had ordered takeout.

you smiled very big once you got out of the shower, walking up to her and giving her a kiss. “i love you” you said quietly, and she said it back. yall went to lay down.

and for the rest of the night you two drowned in eachothers presence. just happy to be with eachother.

‘maybe i like this rollercoaster, maybe it keeps me high.’

#Spotify #billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x you #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie #eilish #lesbian #wlw #fanfic #fanfiction #billie eilish fanfic #billie fanfic #billie fanfiction #caelynn #dirtypr0mises

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2demondogs · 2 months ago

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HIIIIIII RAHHH

sorry

Im the same anon who asked you to write the latest arthur x m!reader and omgg you envisioned what i wanted so well! you're an amazing author!!

I was also wondering if you were up to write more parts to this specific prompt of the affair? it doesn't have to be smut again, just a continuation of the story ykyk?

Thank you so much, I'm so glad you liked it! <3 Sorry this took so long, I had an immediate plot come to mind bc I'm fuckin' heavy w this AU but then I got nerfed by life. Original work I'm writing rn is affair-based too... I'm on a messy gay bitches kick I guess lol. No smut in this one.

For the uninitiated, part one is here. On Ao3, I've just added this as a 2nd chapter.

Words: 3.6k Tags: pre-canon, extramarital affairs (reader's married to a gal), chalk full of messy drama, this is like a situationship but even more evil

The bruises Arthur left lasted for nearly two weeks.

You're thankful that the soreness wasn't present for quite as long, coming in hard and fast in the morningtime. It felt like you'd sat on hot coals. Riding home was nearly unbearable, and not only because — for some reason that couldn't've been worth what it did to your heart — the man spent the night with you. Maybe he thought it would feel less transactional than an evening together usually must, though you'd not know. Maybe he holds every man he lays with while he sleeps.

The fact you don't know anything substantial about Arthur, sometimes, bothers you. Your wife wanted to lose her virginity on a more special occasion than her wedding day which also, sometimes, bothers you.

Anymore, you twist the ring around your finger and quiet that blackness in your gut by reminding yourself: if she's got someone else, well— haven't I?

She doesn't, you know. Never have you been one to play those petty games of accusation based only in your own sorrows. As you ready for bed, there is no other man undoing the laces of her corset. Nor does he do them up in the mornings, having learned exactly how tight she likes them done; no other woman fixes your ties when you wear one, nor goes to undo the first button of your collar because it looks less stiff this way.

Stiff is the awfulest thing, your wife believes, a man could be. You suppose you're inclined to agree, in most cases. It certainly does not ease the tension in your shoulders to know you're becoming stiff, and for reasons she's not privy to.

She hasn't got another, no.

Have you?

Firstly, it would break her heart. Or at least, you think as much. It felt too fresh to be desired how you were, openly and hotly, by Arthur. A wife should be her man's best friend and her, his, but is she too friendly? You had rolled that one around your head until the purple on your chest began to fade and you were beginning to forget, with a great sense of regret for how fast memories discolor themselves, how Arthur had looked at you that first moment alone. By then, it was beginning to aggravate you how difficult women's clothes are to do and undo.

Secondly, you hadn't been able to shake the idea that she'd find out. Someone saw you, you fear, and felt so bad for your poor betrothed that they're about to risk their own life to out you. Any minute now, two years of marriage and many more of some sort of love will be lost.

It'd been awful enough trying to fall asleep in a place with such a target over its head. It was foolish, you know now that you are no longer aroused and careless, to not find another, safer room to board in for the evening. It was foolish to feel safe because Arthur was beside you, and even more foolish to let Arthur stroke your hair. It'd only been for a moment. Your wife hasn't thought much of your requests for it every night since then, though her slender, soft fingers kept you awake and tense.

Mostly, you feel confused. Torn, more like; ripped apart. It's unavoidable, now, the answer to whether you like men or not. The wonder is so satiated, in fact, you're starting to fear that you used Arthur for your own exploration in a moment of callous selfishness led only by your prick.

It's soothed by the longing, and then you feel the pain of her delicacy. You're beginning to question if you like women or not. The answer is coming into focus the more you look at her, though she only thinks you missed her enough to be crazy for her.

God, does staring truly count as being crazy for someone?

How distant have I been?

How little have I known myself, all this time?

And yet remains the urge to be pleasant for her. To loosen your collar and yourself and have her draped over your arm, because you do still love her, even if only as some odd sort of close friend that lives with you and dotes on you and fixes your hair when it is windblown and looks at you when you light her cigarettes, because she's forgotten her matchbook again.

You fear, despite this love, you are using her.

There is still a certain, adoring pride you take in knowing how tightly to lace her corset, that she's absentminded but always remembers the dates of things, that she'll be happy if you lay out that food for the stray cats and make sure to feed her favorite one — that calico that looks like it's ninety years old — an extra slice of salami every time she goes to her sister's house for the weekend. Salami, always, because he doesn't like ham like the others do. She can tell if you're lying, somehow, so you always make certain to do it.

You aren't sure why she doesn't bring them inside the house. Sometimes you feel more kinship with the crowd of strays than you'd like.

It's an hour past noon when you hear the approaching of hooves from the parlor. Too spacious, with little to soak up the sound as it wafts in through an open window, cracked to let the summer breeze blow through the stuffy downstairs. Perfect timing, all things considered: you'd just finished a chapter of your Wilde collection.

While you sat the hardcover volume on the coffee table before the couch, you found it odd to hear hooves on second thought. Used to it, anymore, but unless your horse got out of the pasture again — possible, and very tiresome — your wife had not left on horseback.

Her friend's husband had driven by to take your ladies into town, which you declined because you did not care for the man and your wife didn't either. The thought of him wandering the city alone while the women shopped together was amusement of a cynical variety. She didn't want you to bicker with him, anyways, so you'd given her perhaps too much of your week's pay and a kiss on the forehead. She looked like a painting, which of course you told her, in her fine afternoon dress and those earrings her friend had made for her on her last birthday.

Sometimes you consider the very fine line you walk between comfort and wealth, and find yourself a little off-put by it. The house was a wedding gift, and much of it is empty still from your meager pay.

The foyer is rugged, though it needs a wash from the dust and dirt staining it. Door creaking, you try not to walk fast down the steps, though that changes when you see her being helped down from riding side-saddle on an unfamiliar horse by a man you don't recognize— right away. Talking, and she laughs, but it is strained and thick as though she's upset. You last heard that voice out of her when her father passed away.

"Sweetheart?" The brief worry flashes in your mind that she has found someone else; it's your guilt speaking. "What's goin' on?"

Her face appears from behind the broad shoulders, and she starts to meet you where you approach them. You wish your gun were not left in the bedroom, tucked into its holster on the nightstand, because there is something about all of this that is already twisting your gut.

What it is becomes clear soon enough. With her face in your hands, its makeup run down her cheeks and tracks of skin showing through her ruined rouge and eyeliner, you look over her shoulder at the man who's turned around. That thing coils tighter in your belly, twists into something even uglier than fear or anger: excitement.

His skin is beaten freshly red by the sun and his clothes are stained in traildust, but it is Arthur all the same. You should've known by that black hat, though it was too dark to have seen the scuff marks that would've told you from behind, or maybe by the way he stands. Missing the heat but as certain as he had stood staring down at where you were pressed to the wall.

Recognition flashes across his face, too, but he handles it with more grace. You realize she's began to speak, and afix her with all the confusion and sympathy you have.

"—chasin' me! Mister— oh, I didn't even ask your name," she's saying, looking back at Arthur.

He gives her a soft expression, as though she's a wounded animal. "Kilgore," he says. "Arthur Kilgore."

Had that been his name?

Perhaps it's his middle name, or his last. You could've sworn it was Callahan, but maybe in your overwraught mind the last month and a half has morphed it the same it's done to the visions of that evening. It wasn't entirely farfetched to think he might've lied in such a place, either.

She turns back to you, brows scrunched. "Mister Kilgore got them boys off my trail. God, I never should've left them two, they'll surely be worried to death, but I— I jus' wanted to be home, 'n' I hadn't any idea where they was by then." She sighs, shuts her eyes as if she can't bear to say it with her gaze on your face. The mahagony shadow is still painted on her lids. "Oh, I wish I would'a asked you to come with us, honey. I hate bein' alone in that godforesaken town."

Burying her face into your collar, she squeezes around your ribs tighter than you've ever felt, and you stroke her hair. "It's a'right," you soothe, rocking her. "You're home, now."

With her in your arms, Arthur standing awkwardly to the side, it feels— everything feels wrong. You find again that there is something missing from the way you hold her, and this is an awful moment to notice it.

"Well," Arthur says, settling his hands on his belt only to lift them in some gesture of that's enough for me. "I best be movin' on, now. I got—"

Your wife draws back, steps away to swing her body to face him. Her fingers clutch in your shirt's back, and then loosen, though her arm stays around you.

"You must stay for dinner," she says, palm open to him as if to display the offer. "It's the least we can offer. You might'a saved my life."

She turns to you, smiles and drops her tone the way she always does when she's sweet-talking. Her lashes are black and thick with mascara as she looks up through them. "And I don't know what you'd do without me."

For better or worse, you don't know either. You realize that is precisely the problem.

You flush, anyways.

Arthur begins to speak, eyes flicking between the two of you and your house, the stables out back. His face is unreadable, artfully so. You've never been more thankful, nor more curious as to how a man keeps his composure in a situation that's got you feeling like some part of you might implode, toe of your shoe antsily bouncing on the grass.

"I s'pose a hot meal does sound nice," he sighs, humble as ever. He takes his hat off, lays it over his chest. You look at your girl's hair instead, until he speaks, seeing him gesture with the gambler to her out of your peripherals. "Thank you, miss." Arthur finds your eyes, and you think maybe you see some of the tension you feel returned in them. There's a silent pointedness in how he returns his hat to his head instead of waving it towards you. "'N' you, o'course."

Feeling as though it's the right thing to do, you bring her closer by her bicep, sliding a hand around to squeeze comfortingly at the softness that her off-shoulder dress exposes of her arm. "Thank you, mister."

You'd insisted on helping with the cooking, and she insisted you keep Arthur company. It was your expected duty as the man of the house, but what a terrible choice it had seemed, and what a terrible choice it's coming to be.

Some young men had scared her half to death chasing her through the city street. She's alright, physically speaking. You'd been worried when she described it, but she swore she was untouched, which eased your concern only a little. Arthur affirmed as much.

You didn't and don't ask what he did to the boys. A feeling that he is more than he appears comes crawling up your neck, but you disregard it. A man who would stop and whisk your wife away from danger is not a man that you fear, let alone the way he'd treated you.

All you do is wonder if he realizes, based on the blasé expression on his face, the lives he touches. The way he's touched yours, twice now— you're uncertain on how it feels but, nonetheless, he has done it.

A man less keen on disturbing peace and quiet might have spoken up and said the man's got places to be, darling, and sent him away instead of inviting him inside. Punishment must make you feel better, you think, because that seems an even more terrible choice than allowing things to complicate themselves further in the name of your own relief.

Inside, once more. It was beginning to get easier to swallow the inklings of lust and the afterimages burned into your mind, but there is little to stave them off, now. Two weeks' worth of repression is brewing beneath the pressure of the half-dignified face you've kept sealed over top.

He apologizes for tracking dirt in while slipping off his boots, and that gentle consideration strikes you as too-familiar. Your wife laughs and says what a great idea before toeing off hers; all you can think of is jeans pooled around socked feet and smooth, exposed hip-bones. You clear your throat and lead them towards the sofa by a hand on her waist and his elbow.

How many lives has Arthur touched without knowing the burn he leaves behind? It's muggy in your throat, the want and the dismay and the horrible, no-good pleasure of being near him again.

As she disappears into the kitchen, he settles a respectable distance from you on the couch. The idea that he is not interested in any more fooling around makes you want to tear the skin off your hands, forcing yourself to settle for picking at the dirt gathered beneath your nails.

He looks out of place in the tidiness. You study him openly, and Arthur doesn't appear to mind. His eyes are wandering the paintings and scattered photographs on the walls. Fresh freckles are formed along his arms, or maybe you've merely forgotten them; his stomach has lost some of its fullness, which makes you glad dinner was offered and yet leaves you with questions; his his socks are holed against clean hardwood floor.

There's an awkwardness that lays only in how stilted both of you feel, though his own is considerably more concealed. It comes through in the air, a tightness in his spine. There's a thick blanket of oxygen between your bodies that you have no idea how to approach, although you know you shouldn't approach it at all.

"Nice home," Arthur says. His voice seems fuller indoors, warm and rough.

"Nice house," you agree. It's very unlike you to say such a thing. "Cigarette?"

Something ugly inside you wants to plead with him that you are not a cheater nor attached to him, though he didn't seem to care about either possibility with the promise of your warmth, and to lie and say you are only a heartless hedonist. By all accounts, most think the latter is better for a man to be.

Well, as long as he is a hedonist for another woman. You do not contemplate that, or else you'll truly go mad.

Arthur nods, a thanks under his breath. Your fingers fumble with the lighter once you've fished the carton from your breast pocket, almost dry and tasting bitterly of scraped up fuel when you drop the lever to ignite the end of your smoke. Patiently, he accepts the flame when you light his.

You feel terrible, but you yearn. He looks at your hand and he is gorgeous beneath brown lashes.

Oh, how you yearn. There is and there isn't— of so much. Does he understand what his presence is doing to you? He must, for how he turns his eyes up at you across the flame, easy and open and unspeaking but knowing.

"Wife's a pretty gal," he says, once he's settled back into the cushion. You can't decipher his tone, only to decide it's mere polite conversation. "Real sweet. Didn't think she'd ever stop thankin' me." He shrugs. "Jus' scattered some fools for her."

How pompous. You're delighted to hear so many words from him.

"She was scared," you say, as if you were the one who was there. Nothing else comes to you, so you reach over and slide the glass ashtray across the coffee to sit between you, flicking the end of your cigarette into it.

"Dunno what's wrong with fellers these days," Arthur says. He blinks and sighs, face suggesting it isn't just these days as he leans his elbows on his knees. You're inclined to agree, twisting at your wedding band with the cigarette tucked between your lips. "Lonesome lady mindin' her own business." He gestures with his hand, smoke trailing after it. "No reason to bother her."

Silence passes with ash dropped in tray, though not internally. The conversation settles and your mind is back ablaze, with a fresh coat of guilt-paint. God, she could've been kidnapped, and you're—

"Does it bother you?" You're murmuring, eyes set on his. They are clearer in the day, shades of green shining through their blue, set above dark undereyes. "That she's in the other room?"

Understanding crosses his face immediately. You aren't sure if it's an offer, if it's a question, if it's even something you should have spoken aloud. But that strength is there, that odd and nuturing kind that you simply don't have or comprehend, and you feel better that Arthur seems to know what you mean.

"No," he whispers. His voice is gravelly. "You?"

"Yes," you reply. It's the truth.

Despite it, you move closer; so does Arthur.

His hand finds your thigh and the touch sears so strongly you might jump from your skin the moment it leaves, his palm hot, back of his hand covered in hairs bleached blond by the sun. He must be a trailblazer of some sort. Somehow, the urge to know him dies.

It's more exciting this way. How quickly you've leapt from whatever aching, heart-bursting thing that was begging him back to you and straight towards skin-shallow lust. It is hot in your gut as he kisses you, cigarette pinched between his fingers as they trace your jaw, fall to rest on your neck. He tastes so familiar despite the distance between now and then, time and miles. The parlor fades and only the bar would exist, save for the daylight that threatens your hastily shut eyelids, so you squeeze them tighter and place your nose against his throat.

She's making dinner. The sounds of it haven't stopped, idle metal clicking and the sound of fresh-lit crackling in the fireplace. The racing of your heart is enough of a reminder, the anxiety that makes your hand twitch where it clings to the coarse fabric of Arthur's flannel shirt, nails digging in and slipping against it.

You withdraw, even though you want. There are not definite words for the desire, none at all, except maybe consumption or licking him clean down to the bones.

He is everything a man ought to be and Jesus, you want a man.

In the face of him the first time, the worst parts of this new self-discovery had fled and gave way to the goodness of it. All those terrible parts simmering inside you for so long flee again now that he is here, now that his stubble has roughed your chin and his spit dries on your lips once more. You were starting to fear they'd never leave, that the rot would grow stale in you and sour for as long as you lived.

You kiss him again to lick into his mouth, haphazard, all prowess lost in the celibacy since you had sex with him. He accepts it as openly as before, shows you another thing or two. Hot breath grows too loud and you withdraw despite yourself.

What to do now lingers.

You've broken whatever remaining restraint was keeping you sat at the other end of the sofa, and his hand is feeling at the softness of your inner thigh through your jeans. If you don't decide quickly, you'll be explaining a hard-on to your wife, and that thought sobers you.

You told him it bothers you that you are not alone, so he does not question it, despite his obvious disappointment, when you slide inches back to your original seat. Not all the way, but enough that when your wife pokes her head from the kitchen and asks what the silence is about, she suspects nothing more than that stiffness she dislikes so much.

#red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x male reader #arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #sfw #oneshot #not angst not fluff but a secret third thing #ask #malereader #I didn't name the wife in the first one so I just didn't here for continuity #at this point ig it's Part Of The Atmosphere

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