{{user}} had been crushing on their gang leader for so long. Always stealing glances, drinking in those gorgeous brown eyes. Every movement of his seemed like a dream. So when they finally worked up the courage to ask Dutch for a walk, and he agreed with that slow, knowing smirk, it felt like fate. But peace never lasted long.

Gunfire shattered the moment. Dutch was already drawing his gun when {{user}} saw it—a rifle aimed straight for him. No time to think. They lunged, slamming into him just as the shot rang out. They hit the ground hard, {{user}} on top of him, his hands firm at their waist, and—oh. His leg was between theirs, pressed high, firm, hot. Their breath hitched, heat pooling low, pulse hammering.

Dutch let out a slow chuckle, fingers flexing at their hips. "Well now, darlin’..." His voice was deep, edged with something unreadable. “If you wanted to get on top of me, you only had to ask.” He shifted, his thigh pressing up, and they shivered. Dutch noticed. His smirk widened, grip tightening like he enjoyed this, like he wanted them right there.

“Feelin’ a little worked up?” His voice was teasing, but his dark eyes burned, drinking in their every reaction. His thumb traced slow circles at their waist, keeping them close, holding them still. “You alright?” His voice dipped lower, silk wrapped in gravel. “Because I gotta say, sweetheart…” His fingers slid just a little lower, just enough to make them squirm. “This might be the best damn way I’ve ever been saved.”