page title

or Every Fan Fic Writer is Allowed One Mary Sue
AU Joe Byrne and an OC called Eva. She maybe my alter ego, but at least one of us is having fun.
 Please don't read if you have any issues with outlaw smut, fast women, or feel squeamish about wet knickers.... Please don't look for space time continuum loops, time gets blurred when you think about men like that and anyhow I had a stinking hangover when I started. Was revamped with the help of Lizzy to make it present tense a while back, so here we go....
Imagine Orlandos Joe Byrne and hold supposed to make you laugh and me blush.

10 Chapters, Complete
2  3  4  5  6  7  8
banner by Avalon Mists

Chapter One

It has been the sort of week you can’t wait to see the back of, not that I have anything worth looking forward to at the weekend other than a social life held hostage by a sad lack of money and a pile of washing the size of a small mountain range. Well I have a load of books to read, but daydreaming seems to have become an all-encompassing pastime, though maybe not one for my CV.

Hobbies and Interests: Living in a fantasy world where there is never any washing, something exciting is always just about to happen, and men are hot and desperate for my attentions.

Oh I have had “boyfriends” since I got here and got myself a job in the bank. Indeed a couple of them are sitting across the desk from me right now, but the boredom of work is barely even dented by their presence. What I want is a man with a huge fucking hammer, and before you choke, I mean to say that I need a man with a hammer to smash the reality of my day, but now that you mention it, the other idea isn’t so bad either. How ‘Playboy’ though huh? Concentrate please. I want a man with a huge fucking hammer and the knowledge of how to use it.

Here it is half past 2 on a Friday afternoon and the bank is full of shopkeepers depositing the weekly takings, necessitating charming smiles and “thank yous” from me, when what I really want to do is scream, “I AM SO BORED!!” Actually that is quite a good little fantasy in itself—doing just that and sending piles of coins and pens and papers flying and seeing Mr. Woodward, the bank manager, scramble after the pennies that make up the bank’s profits.

There that took up a very welcome 10 minutes, but I don’t want to look at the clock again just yet, I’ll wait a while so I can be pleasantly surprised. Instead I will let my mind wander to all those little grievances against Mr. Woodward and those other people who actually want to be here and allow myself a little self-satisfied grin, “deserve my pity really these people,” until I stop to consider that at least they aren’t sitting there thinking they are wasting their lives as I am doing.

I take what must be my fifth bathroom break of the afternoon, just for something to do—surely my hair needs combing or something, anything—and I frown a bit as I come back. Either Mr. Woodward has flipped and taken pity on us by shutting up shop early on a Friday or there is one of those “minutes of silence” things going on that I have neglected to read on the oh-so-interesting staff bulletin. Slightly puzzled, I push open the door that leads back into the bank with something of a rebellious shove and then it’s gone, the weight of the door just disappears and I am almost falling, I don’t know my own strength obviously, but a metal click in my ears and a gun pointed straight at me just wipes the smile off my face.

“Holy shit! Don’t shoot me, I just work here!”

Should put my hands up or something? In the absence of a white flag maybe I should, but it feels faintly ridiculous, like we are in some overacted film, but then again maybe he will laugh and lose concentration, that is a key strategy I have seen in the movies many times- take his mind off blasting a hole in you. He doesn’t look the sort of man who would shoot an unarmed woman though, not that I have huge experience in these matters, just an unhealthy interest in Westerns, which it appears has finally paid off. He looks more of a Clint Eastwood than a Lee van Cleef, although there was that one movie where Clint Eastwood turned bad. But I digress.

“Are you robbing the bank?” Maybe I should at least try to sound horrified, but I am guessing here, if he was going to shoot me he probably would have done so already, and frankly anything is better than carrying on with the Accounts as I so unaffectionately call them. Ok, so it came out more like, “Come here often?” Shoot me, oh…

“Well, what if we are?” Ah now there is an accent I haven’t heard for a while. “Will you come inside and sit with the others now.” He points with his gun that I should go to where the white-faced Mr. Woodward sits rather glumly surrounded by a bevy of assistant managers, all doing their best to outshine each other in the “outraged expression competition.”

Walking across the bank hall, I see another man by the door, his pistol ready to challenge any new customers who might arrive, and the backs of two more men who are hovering over Mr. Woodward’s desk and stuffing bank notes into white cash bags. One of them has the sort of bushy hair that looks like there has been a barber strike in his neck of the woods for some time, and the other is tall and lean and, well since I am on the subject of hair, with unruly brown curls, some of which seem determined to hide in the collar of his jacket. My mind wanders again, to tell the truth, thinking about how it might feel to coax some of them curls out with my fingers. I am in no hurry to squeeze in between the thighs of the bank men who could hardly get a rise in the most red-blooded woman, so my progress across the hall is rather slow.

Christ, now that I come to think of it, I haven’t seen a man looking this good for some time, even if it is only the back of him. The cloth of his rough jacket is pulled smooth by the flexing of muscles underneath as he stretches for the money, I just glimpse his hands and the flash of a ring. Maybe if I alter the trajectory of my little stroll just a bit, I will be able to see the profile of his face.

“Will you look at all this, Ned, we will be needing some more bags.” Oh he speaks too!

He is looking right at me. Why do I feel like I was just shot by an invisible, soundless bullet? Maybe this one IS Lee van Cleef after all. He is just freaking gorgeous! Angles in his face that you could spend hours measuring and a thin line of a beard that just begs for some fingers to trace along his jaw and keep going back into those curls or down to that mouth depending on which direction you head, either of which looks just as appealing. Choices choices.

Oh, I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself, a little look isn’t going to do any harm, is it? Flickering my eyes down over his body, I frown slightly. Curious clothes really, but they look shit-hot all the same, layers of them—shirt, waistcoat, jacket—and all buttoned up, like in those fuzzy edged black-and-white photos with men standing all respectable next to the fireplace, only he looks about as respectable as my thoughts. “Get a grip will you? This man is robbing the bank.” Right, you know what? I think I will reject the advice of my more wholesome, upstanding nature and let the disreputable side try its luck instead. “Wonder if he looks as good naked?” Yeah, that about covers the main points.

I really can’t move and the worst thing is that he knows it too. He leans back against the table to watch me with a grin on the side of his mouth and hungry, smoky eyes that I swear are under my clothes already.

“Well now, you look like the sort of girl who knows her way around.”

Hmmm, shall I grin like the idiot I feel or take him to task? Girl! Jeez, what century does he think it is? But since he is the one with the pistol and by far the most dangerous eyes in the whole place, maybe I should leave the linguistic debate for another time. Listen to me, already planning our second date! “Trip to the movies and a bite to eat? Nah, how about we go rob another bank instead? And in the getaway car we will discuss patriarchal forms in language, that suit you?”

“Only I could do with some help here. If you are willing, naturally.”

His eyes are looking at me direct and catching every last drop of teasing implication he can. I wince inwardly, wishing he’d at least make some pretence of me being coerced—Mr. Woodward watching my every move and no doubt right at this very moment giving careful consideration to my future employment. As if he just read my thoughts, he gives a flash of recognition and puts his hand on his holster, one long finger slowly circling the trigger, just enough to satisfy Mr. Woodward and more than enough to finish me off for good. Oh this man is sharp as a razor alright!

“What do you need?” escapes from my lips in a surprisingly satisfactory drawl.

“Joe,” the other man with all the hair is sort of smiling, “if I could interrupt for just one minute. Unless you want to be sharing a meal on a tin plate with the lass, you better go with her and get some more bags, and then we will leave these good people to enjoy the rest of their Friday.”

I quickly calculate how many bank notes fit in a bag times the number of bags they each can carry and realize they will be making off with quite a tidy sum. Even with only one of them guarding the door, there is little chance of stopping them. This is just one of those quiet places where nothing ever happens, plenty of fights and all on a Saturday night and some neighbourly disputes over whose sheep is whose, but if you were to tell the constable the bank is being robbed, he would most likely lock you up for wasting what counts as his valuable time. Anyhow these men have guns and the constable has little more than his sour looks for a weapon.

It’s hard to keep a grin from taking over my face as I lead him straight across the hall and down the corridor. I can feel every bit of the air tingling, and I could lead him anyplace. How would he know? He isn’t watching anything but my ass.

We stop at the cupboard where Mr. Woodward keeps the paper and pens and all that and on the bottom shelf are those white bags he’s wanting. I wonder if he can feel it, Fuck I must be giving off enough sparks to light up the whole of Sydney bending down in front of him. Ahh, he just tensed, he knows we could do it right here, Jesus I am breathing too heavy. There is no way I can get back through the gap he has left me in the door frame, not without touching him, not without letting my body brush against his. Well now that is some question he is asking, he is so close to me I can taste him, he tastes like the bush, wild fresh air, dirt and heat, and I lick my lips. Who said I was a city girl? The cloth of his jacket is about as far from Saville Row as you can travel, the brush of it catching in the goosebumps on my arms as I squeeze myself past. He looks down at me. I swear he lost focus there the same time I did.

"Aye me too Lass." Jesus.

* * *

Mr. Woodward finally pushes the bolts closed at the front doors, though quite what the point is since there is shit-all money left here, I don’t know. The coppers have all gone now and the outlaws before them with bags stuffed full, some packed by my own hands. It’s already dark but anyhow I am on my way out the back to get my bike with a bigger grin on my face than usual, which is saying something on a Friday night, I don’t mind telling you.

Damn, I can’t find the keys to my padlock again! I really need a proper system, well at least put the keys in the same place on two subsequent days. Fuck…what was that? My feet can’t decide whether to stand still or run like hell while my mind works like the clappers to find the slot to file that noise in. Ah, a match sizzling and not a dangerous rattlesnake, that’s good then, things can only get better. I take a glance just as the match is raised to the end of a cigarette and briefly lights up a face. And there he is. He leans against the wall and pulls on the smoke, his other hand in his pocket, and looks at me with eyes that must be able to pin a woman down at 20 paces, not that I need pinning, a simple request will work.

“Jesus. What are you doing here? There are coppers all over the place.”

“I know there are lass, that’s why I am standing in the dark.”

Ok smart ass, “No, why are you here in town? Shouldn’t you be… I don’t know, at your hideout, galloping over the hills in a cloud of dust, throwing back rough whiskey in a sawdust themed bar, burying the loot? Something, but decidedly not here in this alley behind the bank that you just robbed.”

He has my hand all wrapped in his fingers and pulls me into the shadows with him. “I think you know why. What will I call you?”

“What will you call me when?” just a little venture into the obvious question of what exactly he has planned here.

He chuckles a little, his eyes look good all crinkled at the corners, “Whenever you would like me to…when I am serenading you at the window...writing you letters from jail…or right now before I…” he leaves me hanging a moment to wonder what he is going say while he looks at me, weighing things up, “just before I kiss you.”

“Eva.” Ok that came out a bit quick, and he is grinning at me again, must be quite the comedy turn, maybe I should change my vocation—One night only! Eva with her incredible ability to turn to mush in a second, Roll Up! Roll Up! Here in front of me is a man used to women being in a fluster wherever he is and it is making the hairs on the back of my neck rankle- the problem is the rest of my body is screaming “Yes!”

“Joe…Joe Byrne.” Now I know I am not exactly Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story but he seems to think that that will do for the preliminaries, although frankly I am struggling to argue against his logic. Fine we know each other’s names, now where were we? Well what else is there to say really, setting up a joint bank account and arranging mutual pensions doesn’t seem to be on offer. Hahaah- and I thought I was the one with the bad credit rating. I can feel myself burning up, and from the look I just stole down at his pants—what the hell, it’s dark—he is about there too. A few steps forward and he has his hands around my waist and I try not to shake too much with the first touch.

“Think I left some of the treasure behind...Eva.”

His mouth hovers over mine and I am feeling a little dizzy, ok scratch the little, if he doesn’t kiss me soon I am sure I will keel over, sh!t I can hardly think it for panting. There are gentle sucks on my lips at first, sharing a breath or two between us, but everything is on the edge, he knows it as well as me. My lips part to let him inside, fuck he can kiss! I am really losing it now, moaning into his mouth. His hand, he is moving his hand from my waist to the bare skin of my thigh, I knew there was a point to short skirts and apparently he does too.

I can sort of hear him saying something about clothes and easy, but since I can hardly hear anything over my own heavy breathing I don’t really care, instead I set myself to pulling at his shirt, dragging it out of his pants so I can touch his skin. Oh my god! Perfect, hard and smooth, and just what you would dream of, and he isn’t taking any prisoners himself, swinging me round so my back is against the wall. The palms of his hands are heavy on my skin and pushing up higher and higher on my now shaking thighs.

My head is back against the wall, his mouth is dragging over my skin, and Christ if my skirt was any higher it would do for a flag. There is only the small issue of his trousers and my quite frankly given-up-the-ghost knickers between us, and they don’t appear to be making much of an argument. I can feel the buttons of his fly and his cock behind them, right up against me, and if I could speak I would be begging him to do it now. As it is I can hardly breathe. But I think he might have guessed anyhow, me whimpering loud enough that I am sure he thinks the coppers in the next town will hear me, so maybe that’s why he is kissing me again, but I swear I damn near bit his tongue just then when he pulled away from me and slid his fingers into my knickers.

I don’t think I have ever been so wet, I truly don’t, and he is breathing hard now too, the sound of him, Jesus it makes me push down against him, I want him to know he can have me. Right, like it’s not obvious he can have whatever he wants. His fingers slip all over me and move so fast that I can’t concentrate on anything except holding on. Well that and praying to God for the one second that it flashes in my mind that Trevor or Gareth or freaking Marcus or whatever their stupid names are don’t come round the corner from the bank just now, although mind you they might learn something, because I sure as hell I never felt like this when I was with any of them.

What is he doing? No don’t take those fingers away! Oh Christ, he is unbuttoning his trousers and I can’t stop looking at him. He is gorgeous, hard and gorgeous, and I have never wanted anything quite this bad before. Reaching down to touch him, Jesus, I can hear him rumbling deep in that chest and we are smiling at each other, warm I-know-you smiles. His hands are back on my thighs lifting me up against the wall, a question in those beautiful brown eyes, eyes that are burning into mine with intent. I can’t say no—why on earth would I?

“You sure lass?”

“Jesus…yes right now!”

“We are of a like mind then.” What a smile, and he is slides right inside me, all I can feel is his cock and the brick against my back. Beautiful, deep hard fucking, and all I want is for it never to stop.

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