The Witch of hopelessness

"In this world,hope is such a fragile thing Wouldn't it be better if we just become hopeless ?The risk of pain is lesser after all. That's why I exist,the witch who feeds on hope"

[bernkastel11]

You guys can call me Bern

Age: 18+

Fandoms: RoR, TWST, Shadows House,Dinoverse etc....

Pronouns: She/Her

Masterpost

My works:

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒔𝒔

𝑫𝒊𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝑨𝑼

𝑯𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝑰𝒔 𝑨 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝑺𝒉𝒐𝒘

𝑷𝑴𝑴𝑴 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝑾𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒇𝒇

𝐀𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐫. 𝐑𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐢𝐭

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬

𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

𝐍𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐇𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞

[catesartworks]

"This Isekai Maid is Forming a Union!" episode 1 is now available for paid patrons! :D Here's a preview.

The total page number is 32 pages in the final PDF.

Whew! This one took a long time, since I had to combine both the promo and the first chapter into one. But I'm happy I did so!

I will release this PDF for all patrons by June 12th, 2026!

The episode will also be available June 12th for purchase on my Ko-fi for 3$ if you'd like to support that way as well! :3

Isekai Maid Episode 01 Ebook Episode | Frostlight Comics

Isekai Maid Episode 01 Ebook Episode by Frostlight Comics on Patreon. Join Frostlight Comics's community for exclusive content and updates.

Also a link to original promo:

This Isekai Maid is Forming a Union! - How Jerky Isekai Protagonist's Led Bridgette to Unionize!

Anyone who raises their hand to a maid will feel Bridgette's wrath! Bridgette is a young woman who has been Isekai'd 10 times as a maid, a

[catesartworks]

The episode is now free for members!

If you'd like to download/buy in my shop, you can go to my Ko-Fi, link below. It's pay what you want, so if you can I would super appreciate the support! :3

This Isekai Maid is Forming a Union! - Ebook - Episode 1 - Frostlight Comics's Ko-fi Shop

This Isekai Maid is Forming a Union! Episode 1 Completely redrawn panels comprising the promo of my webtoon. 32 pages, 22MB :D

[catesartworks]

Is there any significance in the story that in Bridgette's current life where she has purple eyes and had the same purple eyes in her first life?

Purple is the color of Bridgette's other self's phone case/phone color. It signifies that she has a some level of awareness that she is in a fictional world. Her other self reads a majority of the rofan/Otome Isekai stories from her phone. So I guess you could say her phone is her "eyes."

[catesartworks]

Why does the "real world" version of Marinus look so different from the "Isekai Maid" version of Marinus? (different skin tone, facial hair)

He actually used to look a lot like Marinus when he was little. He was pale and had brown hair. But his skin naturally became more brown as he got older and his hair darkened.

He more resembles Seasalt than Marinus. But the reason for the huge difference is how "close" he is to his original version, which Isekai Maid's Marinus is pretty far in personality and demeanor.

[flastar13]

For some reason, the girl in this Isekai Maid panel reminds me of Princess Serenity's dress from Sailor Moon.

[yanderedrabbles]

So I've been rereading the wild west gang cause I'm a degenerate who also lives in a bumfuck nowhere developing country who has nothing to do. So I've been thinking, it was established that if we would favorite one of the outlaws, it might be dangerous for the both of us. But what if we un-favorite one of them, if that makes sense. Like, what if only really struggled and cried when with the gunslingers, and obviously much less so with the others. Or even funnier, if instead of the gunslingers, it would be the pale guy (is that his name?).

Sorry for that brainfart. Keep doing the lord's work

P.S. I would also turn patriotic and join the army to protect your brilliant mind xx

oooh this is such a great question. I had to think about it for a while but I think not liking someone is a whole different dynamic.

Showing one of them more favour than the other's is a recipe for disaster. You're giving one man what all the others want, what they feel entitled to. It's going to bring about all sorts of ugly jealousy, even in a band as tight knitted as this one.

But if you don't like someone? If you show time and again that this person in particular has the touch most abhorrent to you? To them, that's just less competition. If anything, it makes them feel smug that it isn't them getting on your bad side. I can see a lot of mocking between them, a lot of smug insults traded when they drink too much.

How each outlaw reacts to being that person is entirely different though:

I think the boss will be calm about it. It's not surprising that you don't want him to touch you. He's a lot older, his hands are too hard with labour. Little thing like you probably spent her whole life dreaming of a lover soft and sweet, only to end up trapped by a bastard like him. He understands. And as the leader, I don't think he gets insecure about it either. He's already the top dog, he can afford to let the others enjoy your kindness. But it won't stop him from using you. Won't stop him from holding you down and taking what you don't willingly offer.

The gunslingers take it poorly. Manly, rough, mean. To them it's an insult that you're being more submissive or sweet with the other men. Are they not fucking you well enough? Are they not making you come hard enough? It's a slight against their masculinity.

They aren't the type to sit and reflect. They won't realise that maybe the reason you're so difficult is because they're just too rough with you. Hell, the thought won't even cross their minds. Their solution is to double down. To take it out on you with teeth and nails and cock shoved in when you're not nearly ready. If they can't make you love them, the least they can do is make you hate them the most. At least hate is passion of some sort.

The wrangler is hurt by it, but he won't show it. He's patient, gentle. A lot more insightful than people realise. He's spent years taming horses. He knows it's only a matter of time before you give in and accept his touch. He can wait.

(Btw, I don't think he'll actually end up being the guy you hate the most. If anything, he's the one in danger of your favour).

As for the boy, well, you feel pity more than anything else. Even when he's holding you down and eating you out, all you can think is that he never would have ended up like this if it weren't for the others. You don't blame him. You don't hate him. You just hope that one day he'll be free of this life.

I realise I didn't actually give the last guy a proper title, but he's actually the second in command. He also doesn't take it well.

Logically, he knows that you have the most reason to hate him. He's the one who planned this, he's the one who chose you. All your pain can be blamed on him.

He knows. He understands. But that doesn't stop him from hating it. He's the one who wants your love the most, he's the one who's longed for you the longest. It's so awful to finally have you and you won't even look at him. You hiss and fight and snarl when he takes you, even though he knows the others haven't had as much trouble.

His solution is also to just double down, but in a different way to the gunslingers. Instead of just getting angry, he'll try everything he can to be gentle. To win your forgiveness. He'll be so sweet when he fucks you, so slow and loving, even though he desperately wants to go faster. He'll kiss you every time he sees you, he'll hold you down and focus entirely on your pleasure, he'll bring you wildflowers and cook your favourite foods. He doesn't care how long it takes - he'll crawl on his knees for years if it means you'll forgive him. He'll do anything, anything at all. Please just look at me little dove, qīn’ài de, please.

He'll do anything in the world to win your forgiveness. Anything but let you go.

[stxrry-dxys]

also veering off from the girlies for a minute to the vol 12 extras

ollie wtf

[stxrry-dxys]

anthony go away.

[val-rants]

I love love LOVE your Yandere Outlaws!!!

I was wondering what type of jobs would the outlaws would have in modern day?

Yandere Outlaws — Modern Small Town AU

Tags: slight daddy kink

I think the boss would own either a construction company or a ranch. One of those guys who wears Lucchese boots no matter the mud or dust, and a Swiss watch to church every week. Definitely still the big boss and bringing in the big dough. I reckon we could call him a big fish in a small pond, and when you move to his little farming town to catch a break from the city, it doesn’t take much for him to notice you.

Oh, you sure are a pretty little thing. He’s intimidating at first, if not borderline terrifying, but he finds some excuse to get into your good graces, and it’s just downhill from there. Very much a sugar daddy sort of arrangement, though you never thought yourself the kind to get caught up in one of those. He’ll spoil you rotten six ways from Sunday, but if you even think about moving back to the city you’ll be met with a slow smile and even slower drawl, all warm honey with broken glass underneath.

“You’re not going anywhere, little girl. You’re in my town now, and you play by my rules. So come sit on your daddy’s lap and show me how grateful you are.”

The gunslingers are cops for sure. They got through the academy together and you can bet your ass they’ll almost always be on patrol together too. They salute the flag and swear to protect and serve and all that, but one look at them and you can tell they’re not the nice sort of lawmen. No friendly smiles when they pull you over on some bogus charge. Nah, they look down at you with wolf-eyes and say it’s such a pity such a sweet girl is driving home so late and wouldn’t you like an escort home? In fact, it’d be even better if you stepped out of your vehicle and came on back to their cruiser. They’d so hate it if anything were to happen to you on their shift and it’s mighty cold out, they wouldn’t mind having a little company for the drive. You even think of saying no and you find out first hand how stretched these small-town budgets are — they haven’t had working body cams for years, filly, and ain’t that just a shame? 

“Keep giving us attitude, doll, and we’ll make you choke on it.”

“You want me to use my cuffs on you, princess? No? Then shut your pretty mouth and do what we say.”

The wrangler is a vet, particularly focused on cattle and horses. He’s well known in the community and utterly indispensable. He has a penchant for Carhartt and bourbon, and you know him more by reputation than anything else.

You rush into his office in tears when your pet gets into something they shouldn’t have. He takes one look at you (sweet, pretty, out of your mind with worry) and then he’s got his arm around your shoulder, hushing you and saying it’ll all be just fine, he’ll take care of it, your furry baby is in good hands. You’re all too quick to give him your personal number when he tells you he’d like to check up on the patient for any lasting symptoms, and after he invites himself over to your apartment for a last minute check-up, you have no qualms about inviting him in. He’s such a nice guy, and who else would take the time to check in personally? You miss the way his eyes linger on you when your back is turned.

“It’s a lucky thing you came to me when you did, beauty. Really, I’d hate to think what would have happened if I wasn’t around.”

The boy is a college dropoutturned mechanic. A lost kid for the most part, not sure what to do with his restless energy, and with a tendency to keep bad friends. He runs into you when your car breaks down and you’re stuck on the side of the road, glaring at the engine like you can get the old rustbuscket moving through sheer force of will. He’s in an old leather jacket and his jeans are black with grease, but when he pulls up you smile at him like he’s your hero. It’s the first time in a long time someone’s noticed him. The first time he’s felt helpful and needed. There’s no hiding the blush on his neck when he leans down next to you to take a look at your spark plugs. 

“Come by my workshop later and I’ll service the whole thing for you. Totally free, I promise.”

The second in command is your former English professor, finally taking a much needed research sabbatical. Like you, a small-town vacation is just what the doctor ordered. Clean air, hiking trails, and no annoying undergrads pestering him to ‘just give them a break.’ When you run into him in the local cafe, you struggle to hide your surprise. He’s the last man you’d expect to see out here, but in the endless sea of strangers he’s a welcome distraction. When he asks what you’re up to nowadays, it’s easy to fall into a conversation and agree to drinks later on. It’s only when you’re shitfaced drunk — more out of it than a few glasses of wine should warrant — and he’s got you bundled in his passenger seat, all faux concern and half-smiles, that you start wondering if his research has less to do with Proust and more to do with you. 

“I’ve missed you plenty, you know that? Such a shame to lose my favourite student. But I know we’ll be back on track in no time at all.”

[yanderedrabbles]

Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Wɪʟᴅ Wᴇsᴛ Gᴀɴɢ [ɴᴏɴᴄᴏɴ]

Sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: Your life is all planned out for you. Marriage. Children. Settling down in your little town and growing old. But a gang of outlaws and their wicked desires change everything. Tᴀɢs: (6) yandere males x fem reader, noncon, loss of virginity, choking, spitroast, oral fixation, angst, summer sex, period oral, double penetration

Mᴀɪɴ Sᴛᴏʀʏ

The First Time I. The Boss II. The Gunslingers III. The Wrangler IV. The Boy V. The Second in Command

Exᴛʀᴀs

How do the outlaws react to being your least favourite? Their names Which outlaw would run away with you? The Wrangler's Past The Boy/Betrayal What gifts do they bring you? The types of dresses they bring you The boss and the second in command sharing you What happens if they get too rough? Trying to hustle a rich man Modern Small Town AU

Aʀᴛ & Dᴏᴏᴅʟᴇs

The Second in Commad by @starriecurry The Second in Command & The Wrangler by @simpwhoregularlychangesfandoms Y/N by @yghfggg Wild West Gang by @ommikko Hopeless Yearning by @dumblie Dovie and The Boys by @ommikko11 The Wrangler by @lemonbarb Green eyed Gunslinger and MC by @inkmooon Dovie's Sketchbook by @ommikko11

Like what you read? Here's more.

You can also check out my story moodboards, writing advice, blog recs and upcoming works. Want to know if you missed any updates? Check out my monthly writing wrapped.

[ommikko11]

Another fanart for @yanderedrabbles' Wild West Gang story bc I've been plagued with visions of the Gunslingers and the Boy

Also some art of my "darling/filly" oc for the story. Her name's Dovie-Lilac or just Dovie and she wants to go home :)

[yanderedrabbles]

This is so gorgeous but oh my god seeing Dovie like that is breaking my heart; the poor, sweet girl. And the close up where the gunslingers are grabbing her waist?? Swoon worthy.

I love how sweet and unsure of himself the boy looks too. Like yes, he's barely yet a man and even though you KNOW he'll turn out just as bad as the rest you can't help but love him.

Absolute banger art yet again, I owe you my first born son at this point 🥹

[yanderedrabbles]

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐈𝐕 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲

Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Nᴇxᴛ Eɴᴛʀʏ The days after your capture by a gang of outlaws are a blur of unfamiliar hands on your body, and hot kisses pressed against your neck. But some days stick out as far worse than others.

Tᴀɢs: male yandere x fem reader, somno, fever sex, thigh fucking, betrayal, kind of sweet kind of bitter you decide, younger yandere/sightly older reader, 5k words

Breakfast is usually waiting for you. The boy always wakes up around sunrise to cook up biscuits and coffee, and by the time you stumble down to eat, there’s a plate of hot food set aside for you.

It doesn't matter if you don't have an appetite, if you only pick at your food because the taste of the outlaws is thick in your throat. He still keeps a plate aside for you. The best part of whatever he's made.

He’s got a great sense for your preferences too — no eggs or meat if you don’t eat that sort of grub, your coffee extra sweet even though you know sugar can get expensive.

It's sweet of him. Though sometimes, when he watches you eat like you chewing is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, you wonder if there's more to it. You wonder if everyone else has food that tastes so queerly salty.

The boy is quiet most of the time. He goes about his work with his head down and his curls in his eyes. Part of it is shyness — he’s as skittish around the bit as a new broke colt — and part of it is inexperience. The other outlaws are hard-edged and hard eyed. You aren’t sure how the boy fell in with them, but you can tell he doesn’t belong. Or at least not yet.

The others must have been this young and sweet once, and you hate the thought of the boy becoming like them, hate watching his softness get worn away. 

You see them teaching him their ways a little every day. The gunslingers show him how to take apart a rifle and load a six-shooter, their hands slow even though they both have a tendency to lose their patience quick. The second in command teaches him to read maps. Even the boss takes the time to show him some card tricks now and again, old card sharp that he is.

They teach him things out loud, and they teach him things without having to say a word at all. It’s in his expressions, when you learn how to look. He has the wrangler’s quick eye and the boss’s laconic drawl.

You ought to teach him a little something, too. That’s only fair, isn’t it? He ought to learn a thing or two about civility and honour and justice. He should get the chance to choose his own life, away from the gang’s influence.

But you aren’t sure how to put a name to things like chivalry. You settle for teaching him how to garden instead.

There’s a small garden by the back door of the farmhouse. It’s poorly tended and the peppermint has run wild over all the other plants. Before you, the outlaws were always on the move and you suppose that meant no time to let things take root.

“Poor things,” you say to the boy. You’re looking at a rose bush that’s almost withered away. “My ma would have wept to see flowers kept in this state.”

“Why? They’re only plants.”

“They’re living things all the same. And it’s an awful waste of beauty."

He runs a hand through his curls. He’s wearing a bright red bandanna today and it makes the freckles on his nose stand out.

“I suppose…But what good does having flowers around do?”

“You’ll see. I reckon the rainy season will start soon, and if we work fast enough the flowers will bloom just in time for spring.”

There’s a smudge of black gun oil on his cheek. You lick your thumb and reach up to rub it away.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” you ask.

He touches his cheek, his face turning a bright red. “Sure, whatever you say.”

When he’s done with the rest of his chores, he comes to find you. You’re on your knees in the dirt, your fingers already coated in earth.

“See these roots?” you ask. “We need to clear them away, otherwise they’ll strangle the new growth.”

He squats down next to you and nudges his cattleman higher up his forehead.

“But shouldn't we leave them? The strongest plant survives, right? Way of the world.”

“You think strength is all it takes?”

You set to cutting the dead heads away. It doesn’t surprise you that he thinks that way. In the lawless west, strength seems to matter more than anything. Even still…

“If we don’t clear it, all the plants will die eventually. The soil is shallow here. Let this one grow too much and it’ll strangle itself in the end.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just picks up a knife and gets to pruning. By the time you’re done, the setting sun is turning the fields golden. There’s a pile of weeds and old growth destined for mulch and the rich smell of fresh turned earth is thick in your nose. 

“Thank you for your help.”

He shugs and looks away from you. “‘S not a problem. Happy to.”

He jumps when you kiss his cheek.

“Still. I appreciate it, Red.”

“Red?”

“Mhm. On account of your hair.”

In the sunset, the copper sheen of it is hard to miss.

“I’ve got a name you know.”

You dust off your skirt and start heading toward the house.

“I’m sure you do,” you call over your shoulder, “but I like Red better.”

When he dishes out supper that evening, you can still see the dirt staining his nails. He brushes his shoulder against yours when he hands you your plate.

“Here. Used some of the herb cuttings.”

And true to his word, you can taste just a hint of thyme when you take a bite.

“‘S good. Really good. Where did you learn to cook?”

“My big sister. She was ‘round your age, actually.”

That’s more than you’ve gotten from him before. Progress maybe. It’s a good thing he’s telling you about his past. Most of the outlaws keep theirs locked away tight. And that would mean you were right in your guess — he really is just a few years younger than you.

The next morning, the boy is nowhere to be seen. The only hint that he was around is a single sprig of lavender left on the kitchen table, right where you normally sit.

You get back to the garden as soon as you can. It’s just as you left it last night. Your ma would be in a fit of tears over the state of the place, and you can half hear her scolding you for letting good growth go to ruin. Well, it’s not your fault the outlaws never took care of it. The best you can do is fix up their mess.

By midmorning, you’ve managed to clear most of the debris and neaten up the beds. It looks miles better, though the growth in some areas is still sparse. In addition to the roses and peppermint, there are some struggling daffodils and a pot of climbing jasmine. That would look mighty pretty on the porch, and it would almost smell like home.

You straighten when you hear the sound of hooves. The boy rounds the corner, leading his horse by the reins. His bandana is dusty with hard riding and his boots aren’t much better.

“Where have you been, Red?”

He doesn’t answer. He just drops a small bag in your hand and mutters something about being back to help you as soon as he can. He’s back on his horse before you can ask him to elaborate.

When he’s gone — and he goes mighty fast too, would think he was almost scared of you — you take a good look at what he gave you. 

Seeds. 

When they spill into your palm you can’t help laughing. Well, ain’t that sweet of him? No matter what sort of man he turns out to be in the end, you know there’ll be some trace of you in him. A lesson in softness and care he might not otherwise have learned. 

When the spring comes, the flowers bloom afterall.

The boy takes good care of you. That’s the one thing no one can argue. When you catch an early season fever, he's the one who fusses over you with cool cloths and snake oil.

His other duties lay abandoned in favour of you. The outlaws scrape together their own meals and the garden by the back door collects drifts of dead leaves. When the gunslingers complain, the boss just waves them off. The boy looks feverish himself, though his temperature is perfectly even. There are dark circles under his eyes from long nights at your bed.

The wrangler and the second in command both tell him you'll be just fine. That it's nothing but a passing weakness, brought on by the changing weather.

He nods politely, but anyone can see he's not really listening.

"Reckon he's just scared of losing her," the dark skinned gunslinger says to his partner when the boy goes rushing past them with a bundle of dried herbs and hot water.

"Ain't gotta be. Our girl is tough as nails deep down. She ain't gonna wilt away from a fucking cold."

"Ain't you a little nervous yourself?"

"Nah, she'll be just dandy come next week."

Still, the gunslinger follows the boy with his eyes until he's out of sight.

You're thankful for the boy, a lot more than you let on. Waking from your fever dreams to his cool fingers on your brow is a mercy you didn't think you'd find. You feel bad about making him worry, and you feel guilty about feeling bad. It's a whole mix of things, and they don't help your fever at all.

"I'm sorry," you half murmur, face pressed against your pillow and your throat an aching mess. "Didn't mean to get sick."

It's a hold-over from living with your parents, where even one sick day would throw everyone else a whole heap of extra work.

"Don't talk," he whispers, brushing your hair away from your forehead. "Just go back to sleep."

You do, the ghost of his touch following you into your dreams.

It goes on for a week, and then two. Your fever wanes a little, but always comes back just as strong. The strain of your new life finally catching up to you.

The boy goes from fussing over your blankets and sheets to almost never leaving your room. He sleeps in an armchair next to your bed, long limbs curled under him like a cat.

He talks to you too, though you can only half recall what he says. Stories about his older sister, long dead now, and the way she used to take care of him as a kid. Stories about his life with the outlaws and how he came to be part of their crew.

He confesses his dreams to you. But only when it's the dead of night and you're dead asleep.

"I'd like to be rich some day," he tells you, holding your hand in his. "And notorious. My face on wanted posters from Arizona to Montana. Like the boss."

You murmur something that sounds like encouragement. He smiles in the dark, a little giddy at having you all to himself.

"I'd like to take you away someday too. Just you and me, with our own place. It won't ever happen. They're all so jealously possessive of you, but I like to think about it anyway."

How wonderful would that be? An honest life and an honest wife, smiling just for him.

"I don't care if they hear me say it," he whispers to you. "I want you all to myself. You're the closest thing I've ever had to a real friend. I...I love you. I really do."

Maybe you hear him through your dreams, or maybe he just imagines the way you squeeze his hand.

Like you love him too.

He swallows and leans forward to check your temperature. Too hot, still too damn hot to be safe. It makes him nervous, makes him feel about as high strung as a rattlesnake at midday.

"Please, get well. This is how my sister went. The fever burned up everything she had. Burned her up from the inside out. I can't lose you the same."

You sigh in your sleep and it makes his breath catch in his throat.

"Please don't leave me. Please don't ever leave me."

When morning comes, you wake to find him half draped on your bed, his hand still clutching yours. You sigh and shift your blanket so he's covered too.

"Early morning cold gets in your lungs, kid," you say, quoting your pa. "Didn't anyone ever tell you?"

He smiles in his sleep, his face so much younger than his years. His curls are messy and you reach out and brush them back without thinking.

This life will age you before your time, kid, if it doesn't kill you outright.

But you don't have the nerve to say it out loud. Not when he's been so kind to you. You can only watch him as the sun turns the world bright, half praying and half hoping that he'll find a way out of this place.

Don't become like the rest of them. Please. I can't bear it if what's in them gets in you too.

He keeps dreaming and you keep praying and neither one of you cares to think how little it's all worth.

The others are nervous about your fever too, though they show it in different ways.

The boss comes to kneel by your bed now and again, the bandana around his throat dusty from work but his hands always clean. Always cool.

He rests his palm against your neck, his eyes creasing at the corners when he smiles.

"You can handle this, girl."

He sounds so sure of it that you start to believe him. Start to wonder when the sickness will break rather than asking yourself if it ever would.

He always kisses your forehead before he leaves. That perfect wall of certainty never wavering, no matter what he feels deep inside.

The wrangler and the second in command bring you more cures than the boy knows what to do with. Everything from folk remedies to the latest tonics. 

Both of them are a little detached, a little brusque. Never lingering long in the room though you can tell they want to. They put barriers around their fear, you realise slowly. Don't admit it exists, not even to themselves.

When your fever takes a particularly nasty turn, the second paces the hall outside your room for hours. And the wrangler sits in front of the fire for just as long, still as standing water.

They aren't like this with anyone else, you think to yourself when you're finally lucid enough to process the thought. If you were a horse with colic, the wrangler would have stayed by your side all night. If you were an outlaw bleeding out on the floor, the second in command would have you stitched up before sunrise.

It's like their instincts and experience are worth nothing at all when it comes to you. And maybe there's a compliment in there — strong and clever as they are, you're still their weakness.

You don't care to think about it longer than you have to. Two more outlaws leaving you alone is more than enough to keep you happy, regardless of their reasons.

Not so for the gunslingers. 

You don't expect them to care much, but it's yet another thing you're wrong about. They both come to spend a lot more time in your room than they ought to, cards spread on your duvet as they teach you to play poker. You're wary of them — worried that they'll take your sickness as just another excuse to have their way with you. And maybe the thought does cross their minds — how much hotter does your cunt run when you're burning up? But they don't act on it. They take turns sitting next to you, an arm around your waist or a palm on your thigh while they explain what a royal flush and a two of a kind is.

When you drop off to sleep with your head in one of their laps, or curled against their ribs, the way they go so perfectly still says plenty.

There is one perk to being sick. With you too weak to do much more than sleep, the outlaws are willing to leave you alone with the boy and go off on jobs as a crew. It’s nice to talk about things more freely. And it’s pretty damn nice not having them around. You always seem to get the best sleep when they’re gone. 

If it weren't for the medicine, you'd have called your fever a blessing. As it stands…

“Say ‘aah’.”

You look at the boy skeptically. The spoonful of medicine he’s offering you is thick as treacle and smells about as good as an outhouse in July.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. Don’t argue.”

He’s picked up a bit of muscle since you first arrived and even though he’s still greyhound lean, there’s a wiry strength to him.

“What are you gonna do if I say ‘no?’ You wouldn’t want to drink that either.” 

He eyes the medicine for a second. “It don’t look good, but that don’t mean it won’t work.”

“Mhm. And you’d happily take it if you were in my place?”

“Yes. Yes, I would. Because unlike some people in this room, I would want to get better.”

“Take it then, little doctor. Show some solidarity.”

You’re teasing him mostly for the sake of it. And so it surprises you plenty when he does exactly what you suggested. 

He brings the spoon to his mouth and sucks up the medicine with a grimace.

“Hey, I didn’t really mean—”

He leans forward and kisses you. You’re too off guard to defend yourself, and when he pushes the medicine into your mouth you have no choice but to swallow.

When he pulls away, he’s wiping his mouth and looking immensely satisfied with himself. 

“There. Doctor’s orders.”

You try not to gag. 

“Never bring that medicine near me again. It tastes like something from an oil field,” you say.

“If it works then you’ll be drinking it night and day, little patient.”

You scowl at him. “I’m still older than you.”

“Yeah. But I’m taller. And stronger. Seems you look mighty little from over here.”

When did he get so cocky?

“Do you go about kissing all your patients, little doctor?”

He flushes and looks away from you. So, that cockiness isn’t as authentic as he pretends it is. He’s still just as shy deep down. 

“Only the pretty ones,” he mutters.

“You think I’m pretty, Red?”

“Of course you’re pretty. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“Must not get around much then.”

That annoys him enough that he looks up at you. “Don’t tease.”

“Why not? You gonna stop me?”

“If you make me.”

“I’m shaking in my boots, kid.” Still, you shouldn’t go too hard on him. He’s just a kid, as far from home and alone as you are. “Thank you for taking care of me, Red. I know it’s a lot of work and worry.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “‘Course. Any time.”

You lay back down and pull the covers to your chin. You hate to admit it, but you really do feel a bit better after the medicine. Drowsy too, though that shouldn’t be a surprise. Your ma used to say they used all kinds of fancy ingredients in these things.

“I’m proud of you, Red,” you say quietly, “You’re becoming a good man.”

When you finally drop off to sleep, he stays in his chair and watches you. A good man, huh? He hasn’t met a lot of those, and they never seemed to live long. Better to be a bastard in this line of work. Even the wrangler — soft spoken and patient — is a killer. You need to take what you want in this life or else someone will steal it right from under you.

Ain’t you proof enough of that? There’s probably a fiancé out there looking for you, a family who wants to keep you close.

“I’m not trying to be good,” he tells you.

He touches your forehead. Your fever is close to breaking. You’re still hot, but not worryingly so. After weeks of white knuckled worry, he finally relaxes a little.

You’re pretty when you’re asleep. Less worried, less afraid. There’s a trace of medicine around your mouth and he swipes it off with his thumb. Your lips are nice too. He didn’t get much time to appreciate them when he kissed you.

Kissing you…did giving you the medicine really count as his first kiss? Nah, that ain’t fair. He should get to enjoy his first kiss for a lot longer than that.

He thinks about what you looked like that first day, when the gunslingers forced him to eat you out. You were so scared — big doe eyes still wet with tears, your voice almost gone. You’ve changed since then. You don’t fight, and he never sees you cry. 

Maybe you’ve started to like it. Maybe you’ve gotten better at accepting the inevitable.

Hell, you sure seemed to like it when he was tongue deep in your cunt. You were crying, true. But your body was responding to him just fine. What pretty sounds you made…

It’s inevitable, right? That’s what all the outlaws tell him. You’ll have to get used to it eventually, your body will learn to like it. You might even fall in love.

It’s hard to imagine you in love. Who would you even fall for? The boss gets whatever he wants in life, sure, but he’s old. Wouldn’t you prefer someone closer to your own age? And the gunslingers are both handsome but there’s no hiding how cruel they are.

Maybe you’ll fall in love with the wrangler or the second in command. They can be sweet and patient when they need to be, and God knows they’re both stupidly in love with you. They think they hide it well, but a one eyed miner could see the way they fawn over you. Neither one of them cared about being clean shaven all the time until you showed up.

Yeah, maybe they’re the ones you’ll fall in love with.

…They’re both older than you, though. And they don’t spend as much time with you as he does. They’ve never been next to you in the dirt, hands covered in earth and roots. They’ve never coaxed anything to grow from the mud. How can you love them when he’s right here?

It should be him. If you love anyone, it should be him. He’s never forced you. He’s never taken what isn’t his. 

And he sure as fuck has never made you cry. Doesn’t that deserve a reward?

Sure, the outlaws said he couldn’t fuck you until he earned it. But they’re selfish, jealous bastards. He might never earn it. Who are they to say when he should and shouldn’t touch you?

He can shoot and he can wrangle and he can steal too, though you don’t know nothing about that last one. Doesn’t that pretty much make him a man?

Besides, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Maybe just a taste of you. He’s been practically saintly in his patience. Not fair that they get to have you and all he’s left with are his fist and his memories.

Be a good man, some stubborn part of him insists, leave her to sleep off the rest of her fever in peace. You’ll get a chance eventually.

No. All goodness gets you is an early grave. It’s about time he did things a bit selfishly. And look at you; you’re dead asleep. Weak from the fever and knocked out with medicine. He won’t get this chance again. 

She won’t even know it happened.

And he’ll stop. If you wake up and tell him to, he’ll definitely stop. It’s harmless.

When he slips under the sheets with you, you don’t stir at all. You’re only in a thin nightgown and he can feel the fever radiating off you. He touches a hand to your thigh, trying his hardest to breathe slowly. 

It’s really happening. He’s really in bed with you, about to fuck you. God, how many nights has he spent thinking about this moment? He rubs his jeans against the curve of your ass. Fuck, that friction feels good. He’s getting hard fast.

It’s only fair that you’re his first. His sister used to tell him to only kiss the woman he loved, and how else can he describe you? 

Maybe he shouldn’t go all the way. Wouldn’t want to push his luck. Besides, when the time comes, he wants you to feel him inside. Wants to see you bite your lip and squirm like you did when he first made you come. He’d fuck you good, he knows that much. He’ll be the only one of them that doesn’t make you cry, the only one you willingly kiss. He can wait for that. Inevitable, right? He can be patient.

He just needs something to take the edge off. Just a taste.

His fingers are shaking when he undoes his belt and eases his cock out. Shit, his adrenaline is pumping like he’s at a midday duel. Do all the other outlaws feel this way when they touch you? Like they’re half about to faint and half about to scream. 

Just gotta move your nightgown out the way…

Oh God, your cunt is hot. He nudges his tip against your folds. With the way you’re sleeping — curled on your side, knees drawn in a little — he can run his tip across the entire length of you. Must be the fever. There’s no way you burn this much on a normal day.

His head gets caught on your entrance, and he bites down hard on his lower lip. You’re so close. All it would take is one little push…

No. Better to be patient. It’ll be so much sweeter when you’re awake and willing.

He ruts his cock against you, the shaft sliding through your folds until it's nudging at your thighs. He’s surprised when all it takes is a small nudge to force his way between your legs. With the way you’re sleeping, your thighs are tight together and pillowy soft. Your skin is warm and just a little humid. 

Fuck.

No fucking wonder they want to keep you to themselves. If you were his, he’d lock you away so tight not even the coyotes would ever pick up your trail.

He pulls back and then slides between your thighs again. Your clit and labia add a soft sort of texture to his thrusts, massaging his shaft as he uses your thighs. The head of his cock is the most sensitive part — pulling away from you makes him shudder.

You’re so much better than his own hand that it’s not even a competition. Silkier and warmer, your thighs heavy against his dick. 

You shift a little in your sleep and he fucking whimpers. 

Oh, that’s tight. Your thighs are damn near strangling him. 

He spits in his hand and reaches down to his cock. A little extra something to get things moving again. And it sure as shit makes a difference. When he ruts into you again it’s heaven sent. 

The spit also means he can move a little faster. Careful though, wouldn’t want to wake you.

He stuffs his fist in his mouth to keep quiet, but his breathing is ragged. No hiding that. No hiding the way his cheeks are flushing almost as red as his hair either.

How the hell do the others last so long with you? He swears the second in command and the boss spend hours fucking you when they get the chance. And here he is — about to come all over you after just a few minutes. It must be the heat of you, and the thrill of being so near. He’s dreamed of you every night since the day he saw you. Is it any surprise he’s so needy and desperate? 

Shit, he’s so close. A little faster, just a little. 

You murmur something and his heart damn near jumps out his chest. But no, you’re just dreaming. Maybe even dreaming of him. That would only be fair given how often you haunt his sleep.

“I love you,” he whispers against your hair, “I love you.”

He sounds just as desperate as he feels. God, he’s just some stupid boy rutting into your thighs because he’s too weak to hold back and too lovesick to know better. 

“All your fault,” he continues, his voice cracking. “You’re too nice to me. I don’t deserve it, but you still are.”

He pulls off his bandana, and at the very last second, rolls away from you and shoves his cock into his fist. He comes hard, his dick a sensitive mess. Fucking hell.

He stays on his back, his hair clinging to his forehead. He’s never felt so spent — his muscles are watery weak and his heart is loud in his ears. His cock twitches in his fist as the last bits of spunk shudder out.

Okay, breathe. Get yourself together. She’s still sound asleep and doesn’t have a damn clue.

That makes him laugh. Yeah, not a clue in the fucking world. I could do this to her again and again and no one would have any damn idea.

“Just our little secret, right?”

You’re too deep in your fever dreams to answer him. He pushes his hair backwards and grins.

“Not such a good man afterall, am I? Not when it comes to you.”

 He shoves himself back into his jeans and then straightens your nightgown. So what if you think he’s better than he really is? Let it be a sweet little dream. You don’t need to know the truth — not when the lie will get you in his arms eventually.

At the end of the day, he’s still an outlaw. And he’ll steal all the love he can.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Wɪʟᴅ Wᴇsᴛ Gᴀɴɢ [ɴᴏɴᴄᴏɴ]

Sʏɴᴏᴘsɪs: Your life is all planned out for you. Marriage. Children. Settling down in your little town and growing old. But a gang of outlaws and their wicked desires change everything. Tᴀɢs: (6) yandere males x fem reader, noncon, loss of virginity, choking, spitroast, oral fixation, angst, summer sex, period oral, double penetration

Mᴀɪɴ Sᴛᴏʀʏ

The First Time I. The Boss II. The Gunslingers III. The Wrangler IV. The Boy V. The Second in Command

Exᴛʀᴀs

How do the outlaws react to being your least favourite? Their names Which outlaw would run away with you? The Wrangler's Past The Boy/Betrayal What gifts do they bring you? The types of dresses they bring you The boss and the second in command sharing you What happens if they get too rough? Trying to hustle a rich man Modern Small Town AU

Aʀᴛ & Dᴏᴏᴅʟᴇs

The Second in Commad by @starriecurry The Second in Command & The Wrangler by @simpwhoregularlychangesfandoms Y/N by @yghfggg Wild West Gang by @ommikko Hopeless Yearning by @dumblie Dovie and The Boys by @ommikko11 The Wrangler by @lemonbarb Green eyed Gunslinger and MC by @inkmooon Dovie's Sketchbook by @ommikko11

Like what you read? Here's more.

You can also check out my story moodboards, writing advice, blog recs and upcoming works. Want to know if you missed any updates? Check out my monthly writing wrapped.

[yanderedrabbles]

I sorry I can't draw it better (it's a little embarrassing to send you these tbh) but I just want to draw something because I'm a HUGE fan of yours! I am so obsessed with your works and honestly I can't get it out of my mind, like I always think of it even when I'm at work or something, especially the wild west gang series. These cowboys are driving me crazy and oh lord I just want to consume the series until I die (or until you quit). I don't want to be overwhelming for you and I understand if it's irritating, but I just want you to know that your fics are driving me insane and I am looking forward to your wild west dudes <333

Also, here's my opinion about outlaws's darling's looks (hope you like it!) I believe she must be pretty enough to catch 6 men's attention like that. Like she got those eyes that make men weak on their knees, something like: "you expect a man will not give you his life when you look at him with those eyes"? type. Especially second in command, oh boy I know he will be the craziest of them all when it comes to darling. That got me wondering, if the outlaws not only attracted to darling because of her innocence and kindness but also her looks? Like, she's so goddamn stunning that even from her hometown most boys were insane for her!

^^ That's what I all wanted to say! I'm sorry if this is too long and or my english is bad (I'm not a native speaker) but keep up the work, girl! I hope you the best! 💖

your version of her is so adorable!!

I absolutely adore her, and the boy?? Look at him, he's such a little guy 🥹

I don't really focus on the reader's actual looks when I write, but more so how the yanderes perceive her. And to them, she's the definition of pretty. I think you captured her vibe so well! The kind of softness and sweetness that drew them in to begin with. You look at her and you just want to be with her, want to spend time with her so you can look at her just a liitle bit longer.

Thank you so so much for this!! I'm going to be thinking about it for days 😭

[yanderedrabbles]

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐈𝐈𝐈 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞𝐫

Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Nᴇxᴛ Eɴᴛʀʏ The days after your capture by a gang of outlaws are a blur of unfamiliar hands on your body, and hot kisses pressed against your neck. But some days stick out as far worse than others.

Tᴀɢs: male yandere x fem reader, noncon, angst, PiV, slow summer sex in the hay, a man who yearns is a man who earns, 4.6k words

The wrangler kisses you awake. Your neck, your shoulder, the soft spot where your ribs taper away.

He pulls away when you tense up, when you murmur something that sounds like no. It isn't easy for him. You have no idea the strength it takes to let you go when you're already naked in bed beside him, split open like the tender flesh inside a sea shell. A weaker man would sink his teeth in and never let go.

Some days you don't say no.

Some days you let him trace kisses all the way down your waist, let him kiss up between your thighs. He smiles at you on those days. A little teasing, a little hungry.

"Rewarding me for good behaviour, is that it, beauty?"

He doesn't use his teeth then either, though you can feel his canines brushing your skin when he kisses you. A reminder, though he doesn't intend it. He's still a wolf like all the other outlaws. His domestication can wear off at any moment.

When he's done with you, when he's looking up at you with his chin propped on the mound of your cunt, looking at you so reverent that you can almost feel the soft underbelly of his love, that's when you try and tell yourself that you didn't feel the ghost of his teeth at all.

After he leaves you in the morning, it's rare to see him until early afternoon. He almost always comes home with a hunting rifle over his shoulder and fresh meat on the back of his horse.

The moment he steps through the door, the first thing he does is kiss you. One arm wrapped around your waist, his lips warm from the sun. When he pulls away, he tends to smile and touch his knuckles to your cheek.

"How have you been, beauty?"

You don't want to lie to him, so you usually say nothing at all. You just lean into his touch and think how nice it is that at least one pair of hands don't leave bruises behind.

He doesn't just like kissing you. He also does it constantly. And openly.

The others don't like it much. At first, you think it's the way he touches you without once caring who else has staked their claim. But over time, you realise that's not it at all. The others touch you just as openly, but there doesn't seem to be the same undercurrent of jealousy as when he does it.

He isn't afraid of being soft with you in front of them either. Tilting your chin towards him and wiping some dust off your cheek. Offering you food off his own plate. Pulling you into his lap when you walk past, and pressing his lips against your neck when you gasp.

You don't realise it, but he's the first one you actually smile at. One of the only ones you say thank you to.

You don't realise it, but the others most definitely do.

They see the way you relax when he kisses you. The way you lean into him, the way you almost kiss him back.

He likes having you with him in the stables during the afternoon. He usually has a lot of work to do when it comes to tending the horses; outlaws rely on their mounts as much as they do on their guns, and he’s the only one the boss trusts to keep them in shape. 

Afternoons in the stables with him are a mercy. The gunslingers are often too busy to stop by, and the boss rarely tends to his horse personally. Perks of being top dog, you suppose. So it's usually just you and the wrangler.

 Mostly, he goes about his work without much fuss. He might brush his hand down your back when he passes by, or he might reach over your head to grab something, but he doesn't linger.

 He spends the afternoons talking to you in that calm, soft voice. Getting you to open up to him a little at a time. As careful with you as he is with his horses.

 "How did you get that scar on your cheek, beauty?"

"Did you ever think of taking a lover?"

"Do you want to hear a story? My mother told it to me once, long ago."

Your answers come a little easier each time — I fell when I was a little girl, I never thought I'd have a lover, yes I'd love to hear your stories.

 You make the mistake of thinking his kindness swallows up his hunger. That maybe, just maybe, he doesn't want you for your body.

 Foolish girl, when will you learn?

It's one of those miserably hot afternoons when he finally makes his move. The air is too still and the hay dust clings to the back of your neck no matter how hard you brush it away.

It starts with a little water. The outlaws keep huge basins of well water in the stables. Not just for the horses to drink, but for mucking out and cooling off.

 He's leaning over one, soaking his bandana, when you walk past. You're untangling a coil of rope and silently cursing the idiot who tangled it. Brow furrowed, clearly too hot to bother hiding your annoyance.

 Adorable, really. Too tempting for your own good. Any man worth the iron in his blood would want to smooth that frown. When he stands and steps behind you, you don't even notice. He has the tread of a mountain lion, his boots barely whispering against the wood.

 "Come here, beauty. Let me cool you off."

You gasp when he grabs you, and then again when he sweeps you up and forces you against the wall. One hand curls around your waist and the other comes to rest above your head.

 His hands are icy cold from the water — you can feel the chill through the thin linen of your dress.

 He grins at you, his head tilted like a hawk's.

"Won't you kiss me, beauty? Feel how cool I am."

He leans down and touches the corner of your lips with his own.

 You lean into him, not fully aware you're even moving. You're blazing hot and any relief is welcome, even a kiss from an outlaw.

 He purrs, and drops his lips to your neck. His tongue is cool too and when he slips it across your collarbones, you arch against him.

"Lover," you murmur as you lock your arms around his neck.

He tenses for a second, and then keeps on kissing you. "That's right, beauty. I'm your lover. Yours."

There's something quietly fierce in the way he says it. A claim staked on you that you aren't sure you understand. He pulls away from your neck and smiles at you, hazel eyes glinting gold.

 "Kiss me back, wiwaśteka."

You do. God help you, you do.

 You're shy, mostly. Nervous as a girl at her first dance, and nevermind that he's kissed you more times than you can count. Because choosing to kiss him is different. It's vulnerable. It's like flaying yourself open and letting him root through the pieces. 

You aren’t really sure why you do it. He’s fucked you plenty since they stole you away — his head buried in the curve of your neck when he comes, his voice infinitely soft — but not once did you agree to it. Not once did you say yes. 

Maybe he’s softened you up, or maybe you just like the promise of cool skin against yours. Or maybe giving in to him and the others was inevitable. You’re only human. How much of their love and their touch were you supposed to take before some traitorous part of you felt it wasn’t so bad?

Your kiss takes him by surprise and he tenses up for a second. He doesn’t kiss you back right away, but when he does it's almost desperate. He swipes his tongue across your bottom lip and pushes himself up against you.

“That’s it, just kiss me. I’ll make you feel good, I promise. Just keep kissing me.”

You don’t much know how to kiss. When the outlaws kiss you, you’re always just trying to survive it more than anything else. And so you copy what you’ve learnt as best you can. You bring a hand up to his cheek and carefully pull his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like peppermint — he has a tendency to pull the leaves off the plant by the back door and chew them — and just a little like whiskey.

He hums against your lips and lets his hand drift down your waist until he’s got a fistful of your ass. He uses his hold to pull you closer against him, and when he shifts forward a little you feel the bulge of his jeans rubbing against you.

Did you really get him worked up that fast? 

You pull away from the kiss, breathing hard. But he’s in no mood to let you go so easily. He follows you and kisses you again, something like a growl rumbling in his throat. 

Being active in the kiss is different somehow. Your heart is still in your throat, but there’s a bit of excitement mixed in with your nervousness. Would he like it if you bit his lip? If you ran your tongue across his teeth? 

You slip your lips off his and drag them down his jaw, feeling the cool smoothness of his skin. The outlaws like to kiss and suck on your neck. It always makes you feel tender and high strung. Would kissing his neck do the same thing?

You kiss right under his ear and then a little lower, until you can feel his pulse racing. You catch the scent of his hair and when you suck his skin it’s just a little salty. Hmm, not a bad taste at all. 

He moans softly, squeezing your ass. You can’t help but giggle.

“Why so sensitive, handsome?” you tease, “Never been kissed here before?”

“Never by you,” he mutters. He pulls in a sharp breath when you nip at his neck.

“Lots of places I haven’t kissed you. Awful shame, isn’t it?”

“...You’re cruel, beauty.”

“Nah. I’m only giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

Speaking of…

You suck at his neck a little harder, until you’re sure you’ve left a mark. When you pull away, there’s a rosy red bruise forming against his copper skin. What did the gunslingers call it? A lovebite? Not really sure if love is the right name, but it’s a pretty look on him nonetheless.

“There. Now we’re matching.” You push at his chest a little and then duck out from under his arms. “Thanks for cooling me off, cowboy. Appreciate it.”

You get about five steps before he pulls you back.

“Oh no you don’t. Where do you think you’re going? Can’t just leave a man high and dry like that, beauty.”

His voice is syrup sweet, but there’s a desperation under it that makes you squirm.

“You’ve got work,” you remind him. You try to pry his arm off without any luck. “Don’t want to get caught slacking, do you?”

“Doesn’t matter. You ought to finish what you started.”

“I was just teasing. C’mon, let me go.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

He tosses you onto the hay. One moment you’re on your own two feet and the next you’re on your back with all the wind knocked out of you. The hay bales are big squares of tight packed grass about as high as your hip, and you find yourself looking up at him. His smile is teasing but his eyes are sharp.

“C’mon, beauty. Give me the rest of my medicine.” 

You don’t have time to answer. He leans over you with his hand next to your head and one knee brushing your hip. He kisses your cheek — soft and lingering.

“I’m only a man. You can’t kiss me and expect me to let you go.”

There’s more to his words, an implication you aren’t sure you like.

I’ve been gentle. I’ve been kind. Even when I fuck you, I force myself to be nice. But I’m still a man. I want to sharpen my teeth on you and lick up the blood.

And you — girl that you are, far out and far from home — how are you supposed to stop him? Stop any of them? 

He drags one hand up your thigh, gathering your dress. When he reaches the apex of your thighs, he swipes his thumb down the slit of your cunt. You’re burning hot and slick from the summer. He whistles softly.

“Really do need to cool you off, huh?”

He brings his thumb to his mouth and licks your taste off his finger, his eyes on yours all the while. You knot your fingers in his shirt — not pushing him off you, not quite, but enough pressure in your hands to keep him from getting closer.

When he reaches down and undoes his belt you look away from him. Your cheeks feel warm, and it’s only when he touches your face that you realise you’re crying.

“Shhh, beauty. Those tears have no place here. I’ve never hurt you. And I never will.”

It’s not about the pain. He’s a smart man, he must realise that. He can hurt you plenty without ever raising a hand to you.

The head of his cock brushes through your folds and then he’s grabbing your wrists and pinning them down on each side of your head. 

“Brought this on yourself. Pretty girl, lovely thing.” He kisses your cheek and then kisses your lips. You can taste the salt of your tears on his tongue. “Shouldn’t have been so kind, shouldn't have been so sweet. Shouldn’t have caught our eye in the first place.”

“Not my fault,” you mumble. Oh, but it’s too late for that isn’t it? You’re all caught now — in their arms and in their sheets.

He pushes inside you with a groan. His cock is just as cool as the rest of him. Or maybe you’re just burning too hot for your own good. 

You’ve gotten better at taking their cocks, at accommodating the stretch. But it still makes the breath catch in your throat. His grip tightens around your wrists.

“Look at me, beauty.”

His hair has come loose from its plait and it hangs down past his face in a dark curtain. His eyes are bright, as gold as an eagle’s. 

“Tell me you want this,” he says. His jaw is tight. “Say you want to do this with me.”

You don’t. You don’t want him inside you. But you kissed him, didn’t you? What did you think would happen? You played with fire and now you were getting burnt. Why try and fight it? When has that ever done any good? 

“I want this,” you say, “I want you.”

He kisses you right before he starts thrusting. He goes slow — you can feel every inch slotting itself inside you. His strokes are as languid as a summer afternoon. Careful, relaxed, like he’s savouring the heat and squeeze of you. He’s chatty too — maybe the taste of you loosens his tongue.

“You’re lovely, so lovely. My little fox with her pretty tongue.” He bottoms out with a satisfied sigh.

“Can’t help the way you make me feel, beauty. Can’t help myself around you at all.” 

Your cunt is slippery slick and his cock feels velvet smooth inside you. You whine without meaning to, high and needy. He chuckles, brushing his teeth down your jaw. 

“Listen to you, beauty. Like the feel of me, don’t you? Want me deep inside?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just rocks his hips forward and splits you open all over again.

“I would have taken you either way, y’know,” he continues, “My stolen treasure. My hoard.”

You want him to keep talking. Want him to keep calling you lovely and pretty and sweet. Some stupid — oh so stupid and cockdrunk and needy — part of you likes how possessive he sounds. Likes the rough edge to his usual sweetness.

“I shouldn’t keep you, but darling girl, oh I can’t let you go.”

He sighs and moves his hands up your wrists until his fingers are tangled with yours. He grunts when you shift under him, his strokes getting just a little faster. You don't want to think too hard about any of it. You just want to feel his lips at your neck and the strength of his body above you. Guilt and shame can wait until it's over, until it's the dark of the night and you have to admit to yourself that some part of you likes the way the outlaws handle you.

Taking you was a hanging offence. Why risk it? Why go through all the trouble for you? They're terrible — every single one of them — but they're almost devoted to you. Stupid. It's stupid and arrogant of you to care about any of it. 

“Where's your mind gone, beauty?” He pulls back a little to look at you. “Stay with me, stay and feel me inside you.”

“I'm right here,” you say.

And here you'll stay. 

He's getting close. His thrusts are still slow and gentle, but he squeezes your hands just a little tighter. You're so hot, and your thighs are a sticky mess of sweat and slick. The cock that ruts itself inside you feels like it's covered in warm honey. 

His eyes flicker across your face like he's drinking in every half expression and simper. 

“Niye mitawa.”

You don't understand him, but maybe you don't need to. The way he looks at you says enough. 

He kisses you when he comes. A slow, deep kiss that makes you tilt your head back against the hay. 

When he pulls away he keeps his cock deep inside you. He makes you look into his eyes — killer gold, coyote gold — before he slowly drags his dick out of you. 

“Micante iyacu.”

When he pulls you to your feet, he does so carefully. You don't flinch when he straightens your skirt, but you can't make yourself look at him either. 

“All cooled off, beauty?”

You nod and swipe a palm across your cheeks. Why are you still crying? Why won’t the tears stop? 

He sighs and pulls you against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, sure and strong.

“The heart cannot choose, beauty.” And the unspoken part; If it could, I would let you go.

It's a late summer evening when he tells you that he loves you. 

Most of the gang is away and he's the lucky one left behind to keep an eye on you. A thunderstorm is blowing in — one of those huge, roaring ones that only seem to show up on the plains — and he takes you out onto the porch to watch the sunset. The wind is picking up and it blows your dress against your body until you shiver. 

“Do you see the lightning starting all the way in the west, beauty?”

He wraps his arm around your waist from behind and props his chin on your shoulder.

“Yes. What about it?”

“It means you're supposed to give me a kiss for good luck, or else the storm will keep going for days.”

“You're lying.”

He huffs out a laugh. “You know all my traditions and beliefs then?”

“No…”

“So give me a kiss, beauty. You don't want the thunder to bring the sky down on us, do you?”

He turns you around to face him, his hands on your hips. “Well? I'm waiting.”

You frown at him and then at the sky. You hate storms. You've hated them since you were a girl and lightning set your father's north field on fire. You could smell the smoke for days. 

You aren't superstitious, but what's the harm in a little luck? You stand on your toes and kiss his cheek. He's clean shaven, and his skin is pleasantly smooth. 

“There. You happy now?” you ask. 

He touches the spot you kissed. “You ought to do it again. Just to be sure.”

“Oh, now you're just playing with me. Bet ‘lightning in the west’ isn't a real tradition or belief at all.”

He can't hide his smile. “No, it isn't. But maybe it ought to be, because I definitely feel lucky.”

“You're terrible.”

“The worst,” he agrees. “You should keep kissing me, beauty. That will really show me the error of my ways.”

His long hair stirs in the breeze and when he smiles, his hazel eyes catch the light of the setting sun. He's beautiful. If he were anyone else, you wouldn't have minded kissing him at all. 

Thunders cracks overhead, terribly close. You jump, your fingers knotting in his shirt without realising. He pulls you closer to him on instinct and sighs when he feels your heart.

“Did that scare you, beauty?”

You nod against his chest. 

“Come inside then. These storms pass quick. There's nothing to be afraid of.”

It isn't long after you're inside that the storm starts in earnest. With a huge boom of thunder, the clouds burst and rain lashes against the windows. You wrap your arms around yourself — the rain brings a terrible chill with it. 

The gas lights burn low and you yelp when lightning lights up the whole parlour. The wrangler fiddles with the gramophone for a second or two before soft music starts to play. A waltz, if you can trust your country girl knowledge. 

“Take it easy, beauty.” The wrangler takes your hand in his and pulls you closer to him. His shirt is soft cotton, and he smells like soap and pine. “You're safe with me, no matter what.”

Are you really? He stole you away. He's just as guilty as the others. No matter how tender he is, he's still an outlaw. 

You don't know much dancing, but your ma wanted you to be raised a proper lady. Moving through a simple box step waltz with the wrangler makes you think of those late Sunday lessons of hers. She'd make you and your pa dance together, the old man grumbling all the while.

“Do you ever miss home?” you ask the wrangler.

“All the time.”

Thunder rumbles again, and he pulls you a little closer, until your head is on his shoulder and you're breathing in the scent of his skin. 

“I miss home too,” you say, “I wish I knew if my family is holding out fine.”

He's quiet for a long time. He moves through the steps with a dangerous sort of grace, his arm loose around your waist. The rain hammers at the glass but the music goes on playing.

“They're still looking for you,” he says at last. “That sheriff is like a mad dog with a bone.”

You jerk to a standstill, your eyes wide. This is the first news you've had since they took you. 

“They're looking for me?”

“Of course they are. Who wouldn't want you back?”

He drums his fingers against your back until you start dancing again. If they’re still looking for you, then it means your pa is alive and well. Only the old man could get the sheriff so worked up about something. 

“There's a deputy who seems to care a whole lot about you, too. Who is he?”

It takes a second to register who the wrangler is asking about.

“The neighbour's son,” you say, “We used to be friends when we were young.”

“He loves you.”

“You think so? We haven't spoken in years.”

The wrangler scoffs, an oddly mocking sound from someone usually so calm. 

“I loved you before I even met you. That boy is probably head over heels.” He spins you around. “He's headed for an early grave if he doesn't stop looking for you soon.”

That chills you straight to the bone. “You'll kill him? He's harmless!”

“Trying to find you and take you away is more than enough reason. I don't want to, beauty. Trust me, I don't like the thought much either.” He comes to a standstill and presses his palm flat against your lower back. “The boss doesn't want us telling you anything. And he's right. You shouldn't care what happens in the outside world. Your old life is dead and buried, gone the day we took you.”

You don't like looking in his eyes. Maybe it's the dark and the storm, or maybe it's the way he's looking at you. But his usual kindness is long gone. 

“You belong here, beauty. With us. With me. There's nothing and no one else for you, you get that?”

You shake your head slowly. The music is winding down and you can hear the thunder coming closer. 

“Why? Why can't you just let me go?”

“Because I love you, beauty. You would tempt even a saint.”

He tilts your chin up towards him, one arm still around your waist. 

“I love you, beautiful girl. Sinner that I am, how was I supposed to resist you?”

You want to cry. How can love be so heartless? How can he love you and still keep you trapped here? And worst of all — why does a small part of you feel soft and tender when it comes to him?

He drops his head until his lips are hovering above yours. You're in the heart of the storm, now. No running from it, no hiding. 

“Say it back,” he whispers. “Say you love me too.”

“I…”

How can you love him? Love any of them? They're monsters. Killers. Thieves. Outlaws. 

“Say it, wiwaśteka.”

“I can't. I won't.”

He stays hunched over you, his breathing soft and even. You wouldn't dare have refused if it was the boss or the gunslingers. But lying to them comes easy. Not so with the Lakota. 

“I can't,” you say again. “What kind of woman would I be if I loved any of you?”

“I see.” He presses his lips to yours for a second, his touch soft and slow. “Best get yourself along to bed, beauty. The weather is no good for you.”

When he pulls away, you can't read his face. You feel cold when he lets go of you.

“I'm sorry,” you murmur. You can't say the rest; that you would have loved him easy, if he wasn't such a difficult man to love. If he hadn't split you open on his cock and then kissed the blood away. 

“Don't be.” There's a sardonic tilt to his smile. “I don't know what I was expecting.”

When you turn to leave, he doesn't follow you. 

You curl up in bed and listen to the rain. You're drifting off when you hear his boots on the steps. The door to your room opens quietly and he stands there for a while, watching you.

When he finally crosses the room and sits on the edge of your bed, you pretend to still be asleep. He takes his boots off slowly. You can smell the tang of whiskey on him, and since he doesn't drink that often you aren't sure what to expect. 

He doesn't do anything terrible. He just climbs under the sheets and curls an arm around your belly. His breath is cool against the back of your neck. 

“It hurts that you'll never love me, beauty,” he murmurs, “It does. But I have you. I have you for the rest of my life, and that's all that really matters.”

[yanderedrabbles]

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐈𝐈 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬

Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Nᴇxᴛ Eɴᴛʀʏ The days after your capture by a gang of outlaws are a blur of unfamiliar hands on your body, and hot kisses pressed against your neck. But some days stick out as far worse than others.

Tᴀɢs: male yanderes x fem reader, noncon, double penetration, first time anal, irredeemable outlaw bastards making you cry again, taking care of their injuries & other sort of sweet moments, 6.6k words 

The gunslingers are awful to wake up to. Even in their dreams, they’re as fiercely jealous of you as coyotes.

The green eyed gunslinger holds you too tight in his sleep, his arm around your waist so heavy you can't even stretch without waking him.

He's sluggish in the mornings, the outlaw who wakes the latest. But that doesn't mean he isn't hungry for you.

No, it just means he makes you do all the work.

He doesn't wake you gently. Doesn't even bother trying, really. When he's in bed with you, you wake up to your nipples being pinched and rolled between his fingers, his palms hot on your tits as he squeezes them.

There's no point in pretending to still be asleep — that just makes him nasty. He'll run his teeth down your ribs and snarl at you to wake up and quit dreaming, he's got a job for you.

He needs two things to start the day off right; your mouth on his cock, and a cigarette. All the better if he can have them both at once.

He tends to light his cigarillo with one hand and push you down between his legs with the other. Smoke curls in grey-blue ribbons through the slanting early morning sun as he tosses one arm behind his head and knots his fingers in your hair. Not too tight — mostly a reminder.

He doesn't care to be demanding so early in the day. No, he just watches you through eyes slit as narrow and green as a cat's. You know exactly what he wants from you, and you've learned the hard way to give it to him exactly how he likes it.

"Ain't gonna say good mornin’?" he mocks, knowing damn well that you can't say anything at all with how much cock you have down your throat.

Sometimes, he pushes your head down and keeps you trapped there, his smirk growing more satisfied the harder you try to pull away. When he lets you up, you're panting and light headed, cursing him in your head as the devil's own son.

He doesn't apologise when he does that, doesn't speak at all. He just smirks and pulls on his cigarette.

Bastard. Cruel, sadistic bastard.

You must be glaring at him when you think it, because he snickers and blows a cloud of sweet smelling smoke at you.

"Oh, you hate me. Don't you, filly?"

He doesn't sound offended. If anything, he sounds proud. Proud of treating you like a ragdoll, like making you hate him is some kind of goddamn achievement.

"’S alright. You'll come around. And if you don't? Well, I'll just have to fuck it into ya."

He presses down with his palm and anything you might have said is drowned out by the taste of his cock.

He isn't heartless, though sometimes you wonder if that's any consolation at all. You catch him watching you most mornings after he's done with you — when you're sprawled panting on his bed with his teeth marks throbbing down your neck. His dark hair falls forward to shade his eyes when he leans down to pull on his boots, and the green that flashes between the strands is almost always still bright and feverish with want.

"You're too pretty to be real, you know that?" There's something in his voice when he asks you that, something almost awed. 

You don't feel pretty at all — not with the ring of bite marks at your neck and the bruises on your thighs. But maybe he sees something in you that you can't see for yourself.

He's a hard man, but he always kisses you before he leaves for the day. Not a tender kiss — you don't think he’d know how to do that if he tried — but about as close as a man like him can get. There's always a moment right before he pulls away, when his lips are right above your jugular, where you wonder if he might have loved you if he'd ever learned what love meant.

The dark skinned gunslinger is equally slow to rise as his partner. He sleeps like he's dead to the world and gets up only when he can't keep avoiding the sun by hiding his face in your hair.

He tends to play with your cunt when he's still half asleep, running his thumb up and down your slit until you're shivering.

"Got to start the morning off right, filly," he murmurs against your shoulder, voice still foggy and slurred with dreams.

It hurts. His fingers are thick and long, almost twice big as your own. And your cunt is still stretched and sensitive from taking his cock the night before. He isn't as rough as his partner, but he still fucks like a bull. Still leaves behind red half-crescents from digging his nails into your skin.

Even half asleep, he's more than strong enough to hold you. When you whine that it hurts, that he's being too rough, he just huffs and mutters something about using your other hole if you want it that bad.

You always shut your mouth after that. No matter how much it stings when he finally props himself up on an elbow and slides his cock home, it's still better than him fucking your ass. He's big enough to put stallions to shame; his cock in that tight hole would just about split you in half.

He doesn't pull out when he's done with you either, no matter how bad you squirm. He far prefers keeping his cock inside you as he drifts back to sleep for another half hour or so. Stretching you out and making sure your pretty cunt remembers the shape of him.

He's quiet in the mornings, and most of his talking gets done with his hands. If he was harsher than usual the night before, he'll run his palm down your spine and press one kiss after the other along your neck. If he's in for a long day, he'll hold your hand in his and stroke his thumb across your knuckles.

It takes you a while to understand him, and part of you wishes you'd never picked it up. There's a tenderness to his hands — I'm sorry for hurting you, I'll miss you while I'm gone — that speaks to something deeper and scarier than just lust.

Something you aren't sure you can accept from a man who has to hold you down to fuck you.

Most of the cowboys don't take long to eat; they’re usually still chewing when they go out the door. The only exception is the dark skinned gunslinger. He likes to take his breakfast as slow as the rest of his morning, likes to sit at the table and chew his food a little at a time.

When he first sits down to breakfast with you, you try scrambling away. Bacon grease and eggs and biscuits. You don't know what kind of perverted things he can do with them, but you don't doubt his creativity.

He just laughs and drags your chair closer to his, his arm heavy around your shoulders.

"Relax, filly. I've had my fill of you for now, promise."

He breaks off a piece of sourdough, buttered thick and still warm from the oven, and holds it to your lips.

"Open up."

He hums pleased as a senator on election day when you do as he asks. Your tongue darts across his fingertips, bright pink against his skin. The warm bread makes you think of home, and you try your best not to think too hard about your ma and how worried she probably is by now.

"See? I can keep you filled up in all sorts o' ways, pretty girl. Ain't that enough to make me your favourite?"

He leans down and tilts your chin towards him so you're forced to meet his eyes. They're a deep brown, as unmoving as wild oak.

"Go on, tell me I'm your favourite."

You swallow your food and knot your fingers in your skirt. You're afraid of him — his size, the strength in his hands. He’s slow to anger, but something in your gut tells you that his anger is terrible indeed. You don’t want to wake it.

"You're my favourite."

He huffs out a laugh and lets you go, squeezing your thigh before pulling away entirely.

"You promise?"

"Promise."

"God hates a liar, y'know."

And He hates thieves and killers even more. But that's never stopped any of you, has it?

"I know. That's why I'm not lying."

Maybe you imagine it, but he smiles a little easier after that.

With time, breakfast becomes its own routine. And not just him feeding you.

He tends to wait with a grin while you cut his bacon up for him, and spear it on your fork. His eyes meet yours whenever he leans forward and eats from your hand, his teeth glinting.

“You take such good care of me, filly. You know that?”

You try not to fall for the slight sweetness in his smile when he tells you that. He’s just another wolf with no intention of being tamed. Happy to eat from your palm and then bite you later.

When his plate is clean and his coffee is gone, he sighs and runs a hand down your thigh. Says he hates to leave you, but the boss will take his skin if he lingers any longer. When he stands to put his Stetson on, his revolver catches the light.

"Don't miss me too much, yeah?"

You never miss him at all, but you aren't brave enough to say so.

The green eyed gunslinger is rash in everything he does. You learn that early on.

Slicing his hand on some fencing because he was too quick to cut the wires. His lip split from brawling, all because he lost a single game of hold 'em. Spraining his wrist because he lassoed a wild mustang without tying the rope to his saddle first.

He acts without thinking, leaps without looking.

He doesn't care to patch things up either. Just rubs some dirt in the cut to stop the bleeding and gets on with his day.

But that was before you showed up.

You have healing hands, he tells the other outlaws. The second in command just scoffs and says that's what happens when you clean a wound properly.

It's a late fall morning the first time you take care of his injuries.

You're alone in the kitchen, head down as you work on an apple pie. You don't want to cook for the outlaws. Don't want to do anything besides shoot them all in the head. But you're missing home, and when the wrangler brought back a sack of crab apples a few days ago, you got to thinking of your mama. Thought that making a pie would take you right back to your old kitchen, sugar and cinnamon thick in your nose.

It doesn't. All it does is hurt your heart.

You don't look up when you hear the back door opening. It's supposed to be just you and the boy around, and you have no reason to think otherwise.

He stands in the doorway and watches you for a long time. The cut on his hand almost forgotten, even as it soaks the bandana clutched in his fist an ugly black.

When he finally moves, he comes up behind you and reaches over your head for the bandages. You look up at him and almost jump out of your skin.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?” he mocks. “Not who you were hoping for?" He has you trapped between the counter and his body, his arm still stretched over your head. 

The smell of apples cooking is thick in the air, almost sweet enough to drown out the smell of his blood.

Your eyes fall to his hand and you flinch.

"You're hurt."

He shrugs. "Happens. Why, you wanna patch me up?"

He pulls the bandages from the cupboard and drops them into your hands.

"C'mon then, filly. Make me all better."

You freeze, looking between his hand and the bandages. You're no stranger to nasty cuts and scrapes, being a rancher's daughter and all, but you still feel light headed at the smell of his blood.

He throws himself into a chair and pulls you forward by your skirt until you're in-between his thighs.

"Ain't gonna faint on me, are you?"

"No," you mutter, "I'll try not to."

You take his wrist and carefully unwind the bandana, trying to breathe through your mouth instead of your nose. The cut is deep but not so bad that you think he ought to call the sawbones.

"How did this happen?" you ask.

He hisses when you dab alcohol on his palm. But he doesn't move to stop you.

"I've got you all curious 'bout me, is that it?" He's watching you with that half smile of his, like he's laughing at some joke you can't hear.

You shrug and avoid his eyes. You don't really care how he got it. If it were up to you, you'd have him hurting a thousand times worse.

He shifts forward and brushes some of your hair behind your ear. His skin runs warmer than yours and your cheekbone tingles from his touch.

"Cute thing, aintcha?" he says when you flinch, "'Bout as scared of me as a jackrabbit on the prairie."

You don't answer him.

When you're finally done bandaging his hand, he doesn't pull away. Instead, he moves close enough to brush his thigh against yours.

"Well doc, what's your prognosis?"

He doesn't say it the way you do, but drags out his vowels instead. Prog-now-sis.

He's the one you're the most afraid of speaking back to. You worry that he'll meet any complaints with a backhand and a sneer. Still, with the smell of blood thick in your nose, and his palm lazily curled around your leg, you're irritated enough to be honest.

"You'll end up in an early grave if you aren't more careful."

And hopefully soon.

He laughs at that, bitter and sharp as a wild dog's bark.

"Too true, doc. 'S a good thing I've got you around then, ain't it?" He stands and lifts his bandaged knuckles to your lips. "So why don't you kiss me better?"

You do. Nose wrinkled against the smell of iron — gunpowder or blood, you aren't sure which is stronger on him.

He laughs again, and then leans forward to kiss you. His injured hand wraps around the back of your neck to keep you in place. He kisses like he does everything else in life; rash and harsh and with the aim to hurt. He swipes his tongue across your teeth and you can taste candied apple. When did he have the time to steal some of your pie filling?

When he finally lets you go, he rubs his thumb across your lower lip and then presses it against his tongue.

"Pretty girl, you’re as sweet as apple pie."

The gunslingers like to share with each other. They drink from the same bottles, sharpen their knives on the same stones. They even wear the same bandanas from time to time. You might have called them brothers, if it weren't for one thing.

Brothers wouldn't keep fucking you at the same time.

You thought it might have been a one time thing — maybe they were trying to make the most of you when they first got their hands on you. But time shows you that's not true at all.

They share you as easily as they do their cigarettes, pressing their mouths one after the other against your neck until you're too hot and woozy to tell them apart. Moving so in rhythm with each other it feels like they share a mind too.

More than once, the boss has to tell them to go easy on you, that too many bruises is a bad look and they ought to learn a little kindness. Part of it is callousness — they care too much for their own pleasure to handle you kindly — and part of it is ignorance. They don’t know their own strength sometimes, or maybe they don’t really understand that you aren’t built of the same stuff as they are. Either way, they’re prone to manhandling you. 

They might pick you up just to toss you over one broad shoulder, or they might wrap an arm around your waist and flip you over so fast you feel dizzy. You don’t get used to it, not really. But you come to expect it.

That’s why, on the day they decide to try double penetration for the first time, you’re caught totally off guard. 

They’ve been off on a job for a while, and when the two of them make it home they’re flush with cash. The victory of the money doesn’t seem to matter one bit — the second they’re done talking to the boss, they come to find you.

You’re reading a book in the parlour and you don’t have any time to put it aside before the dark skinned gunslinger is scooping you up and tossing you over his shoulder.

“Been missing you somethin’ awful, filly,” he says, one hand already wandering up your thigh. “Brought you back all kinds of presents.”

The green eyed gunslinger is close behind him. “You’re going to love what we thought to try with you, princess. Really, you’ll be screamin’ for us in no time.”

That’s the last thing you want to hear from either of them. By the time you reach the bedroom, your panic is a tight knot in your gut. 

The dark skinned gunslinger tosses you down on the bed with a huff and before you can move, his massive hands are tangled in your skirt.

“Did you miss us too, filly?”

He presses a quick kiss against your lips. You can taste the dust of the road on him still.

The other gunslinger is digging through a saddlebag he brought in with him and it doesn’t take long to see why. When he straightens, he’s holding a bottle of what you can only guess is oil.

“Well,” green eyes mocks, “are you goin’ to answer the man or not?”

“Sure,” you manage, “I missed you both everyday.”

“Not rightly sure I believe you, filly. But that’s fine. I know your pretty cunt missed us plenty. Ain’t that right?”

“Guess we’ll just have to check,” his partner says. He tugs at the buttons on your dress and before you know it, he’s pulling the whole thing over your head.

He whistles when he sees your chemise — a dark cream that stands out against your skin — and then he’s reaching out and cradling your hips.

“You’re a vision for tired eyes, filly.”

“A real fuckin’ dream.”

There's a deep seated impatience in their movements, and you’re desperate to hold them off just a little longer. They’re always rougher than they need to be when they're in a hurry.

“You said you brought me a present?” you ask.

The dark skinned one smirks and takes the bottle of oil from his partner. 

“Plenty of different presents. But I reckon you’ll like this one best.”

“Turn over, filly. We want you on your knees.”

You don’t want to and your hesitation is all too clear. The one holding you sighs and pulls at your hip. Even with one hand, it's clear how much stronger he is than you.

“Don’t be difficult now. We’ve been gone too long already.”

You do as he says as slowly as you can. You end up sitting on your knees on the edge of the bed, your back facing them.

A pair of hands comes to rest on your shoulders, and you can tell it’s the dark skinned one just from the feel of him. He plays with the straps of your chemise.

“Get this off, filly. I don’t want to have to rip it.”

You reach for the hem slowly. The air in the room goes still as you pull it off, and you can feel the heat of their eyes on your skin. One of them pulls in a sharp breath, and then a heavy palm is gripping the back of your neck and forcing you forward, until your chest is on the bed. You’re sort of folded over, your hips and ass exposed.

“Fucking hell.”

“God, I missed the sight of her.”

The bottle of oil opens with a pop and you almost jump out of your skin when they pull your ass cheeks apart and drizzle a little of it down the curve of your cunt. It’s strangely warm from being out in the sun, and one of them is quick to swipe his thumb upwards to stop it all from dripping off. He smears it heavily across your pussy, the tip of his finger pressing down and threatening to slip inside.

Okay, you can handle this. They’ve bullied their way inside you plenty of times, and almost never with something so slick to help them along. You don’t like it, but you can at least manage it.

“What do you think, filly?” the dark skinned gunslinger drawls, “You ready to try somethin’ new?”

You can tell from his voice that he’s the one with his hand on your neck, and also the one playing with your pussy. He doesn’t give you any time to wonder what he means. His fingers drift upwards until he's spreading the warm oil around your asshole.

No. 

No way, they can’t be serious.

He pushes at your opening just a little, and to your horror, his finger starts to slowly sink in. It’s a different sort of feeling to having his fingers in your cunt. You feel stretched out, and even though it doesn’t hurt yet, the pressure makes something in your gut turn.

“Shoulda done this ages ago,” he murmurs, working his thumb all the way to the base. Your ass is a different kind of velvety soft compared to your cunt — less yielding, burning just a bit hotter. To the gunslingers, seeing that tight ring of muscle giving way is fucking intoxicating.

“Told you,” his partner says. 

He pulls his finger out slowly, twisting it in a way that makes you bite your lip. Fuck. Part of you is terrified — that curling dread like being on a horse you aren’t sure will try and throw you — and some other, deeper part of you wants him to keep going. Already it feels like a different kind of ache, a different kind of fire deep inside you.

“Two fingers then,” he says right before he presses them against your entrance. “Think you can handle that, filly?”

He starts pushing them in before you think to answer.

“Oh, look at that. She’s swallowin’ you up so easy. Hungry little thing, ain’t she?”

“Starvin’ I’d say. Thinks she can cry and beg and that will hide it, but I ain’t even started and she’s drooling on the sheets.”

You hate the flush of shame that creeps up your spine. But you don’t get a chance to linger on it. He starts pumping with his fingers, slow and deep. He twists them with every thrust and your whole body starts to burn. Heat in your gut, coiling in your pussy, spiking through your fingers.

“Prettiest whore I’ve ever seen.” The green eyed outlaw squats down and runs his fingers through your hair. “Ain’t that right, brother?”

“Mhm. Gonna take our cocks nice and deep, and thank us when we’re done.”

It doesn’t take long for your hole to start turning into a soft, squishy thing. Tensing up just makes it hurt, and so you force yourself to relax. The green eyed gunlinger doesn’t like being left out. By the time his partner is getting ready to stuff three fingers into you, he’s already started playing with your clit.

The pad of his thumb is rough as sandpaper, and when he drags it over your clit you can’t help the way you whine.

“What’s wrong, filly?” he mocks, drawing another rough circle across your cunt. “Needy already?”

His partner finally manages to fit all three fingers in and the stretch is enough to make you drop your head and moan. You feel delirious. So many sensations at once is bloody cruel, and you can’t focus on anything besides the hand on your nape and the throbbing in your gut. 

“Please…”

“Please what? Don't ask us to stop, pretty girl, ‘cause you know that ain't happenin’.”

You try to sit up a little but the gunslinger's hand is still tight and heavy on your neck. 

He curls his fingers inside you and you have to bury your face in the sheets to keep from screaming. It's the kind of stretch that hurts, but at the same time you can feel your body wanting to pull him deeper in. God, how do they manage to confuse you so easily? Why does your body want their touch when all they do is bruise?

The cowboy laughs and kisses you between your shoulder blades. “She looks all stretched out and ready to me.”

Their voices are still light, but you can hear in the way they're breathing that they're getting more than just a little hot and bothered. 

“Seems that way to me, too. You ready to take us both at once, filly? Reckon it's about time we broke you in fully. Been goin’ too damn easy on you.”

The dark skinned gunslinger pulls his fingers out of you with a lewd squelch, and lets go of your neck. You're not ready to move. Your ass is clenching around the sudden emptiness, and your clit is a throbbing mess. 

There's the soft sigh of clothing coming undone and then they're hauling you up. The dark skinned one kisses your cheek and slips an arm around your waist from behind. Your legs are traitors, and if he wasn't holding you up you're sure you would have gone crashing right back to your knees. 

His bare chest presses against your back, his skin so much warmer than yours. You can feel the heavy weight of his cock pressing between your ass cheeks — insistent. 

The green eyed one circles in front of you. He's still wearing his jeans, but his shirt is off and his muscles are as hard edged as you'd expect. It's the first time you've gotten a good look at his face since they arrived home. There's a new cut right above one eye, and a fading bruise on his jaw. But it's his eyes that get you. 

They're burning like marsh fire, and he smiles at you with the lazy self confidence of an alligator. 

“You're sweatin’, filly,” he says. He brushes your hair away from your face and you realise with a start that you really are sweating. Your hair clings to your forehead and temples. Did having them play around with your ass really do that to you?

He grunts when he lets his cock out. It's rock hard, bulging with veins, and when he slips the tip between your folds you can feel the humid heat of it. 

He rubs it up and down your clit, that solid, leaking head nudging the already sensitive parts of you until you're dizzy. 

“You ought to thank us, filly,” he mutters. He's looking down at your cunt, just watching the way his dick slips in and out of your mound. “We're being so sweet with you.”

Your ass is an aching mess and the hot cock pressing at your entrance promises to make it all the worse. But he's right, they are being nice. You didn't think they'd take the time to loosen you up. 

“Go on then,” the dark skinned one rumbles from behind you, “Say thank you.”

You swallow hard and shake your head a little. 

Because even if they are being more gentle than usual, you still don't want this. 

He scoffs and hooks his free hand under your thigh. “You'll thank us eventually, filly. Just wait.”

He pulls your leg up until your ass and cunt are both exposed to the cold air. You hate how slick everything feels. Like you ought to be dripping onto the floors. 

The green eyed one reaches down and spreads your cheeks just a little more, so his partner can nudge his dick up against your entrance. You shiver when you feel the tip at your ass — three fingers suddenly doesn't feel nearly enough to prepare you. 

He doesn't give you any warning besides the way he tightens his hold on you. He pushes up against your ass, his tip thick and hot with precum.

The head is the worst part. For a second you think it won't fit — it slips right past your hole — but he tries again and it catches. He pushes in slowly. It's a slow pressure at first — your muscles yielding but not really letting him in — but there's a limit to everything and he reaches a point where nothing you do could possibly keep him out. His head pops into your ass with a shudder. 

You fall forward without meaning to, your head coming to rest against the green eyed gunslinger's shoulder. He makes a small, amused sort of noise and squeezes your ass. 

Your whole face scrunches up. It burns. The gunslinger bullies his way inside of you, your muscles giving in to the inexorable press of him. You've never felt so stretched out. Never felt so terribly full. 

He snarls through his teeth, breathing as heavy as a bull. 

It's sick. A cock that big shouldn't be inside you at all. When he pushes in all the way, a sob catches in your throat. 

You're still too tight, so he can't thrust as much as he wants. His cock rocks forward and back a few inches, and you have to bite your lip so you don't scream. His nails dig into your thigh and he groans long and low when he bottoms out again. 

“That good, huh?” the green eyed one asks. Neither of you have the strength to reply. Your whole body is shivering like you have a fever, your thigh muscles shaking. 

You want to say something — anything — to make him pull out. But words are a thing for thinking folk and right now all you are is a bundle of nerves and a stretched out hole. 

The green eyed gunslinger makes a soft, cooing noise in the back of his throat. With his partner already inside you, he doesn't need to keep spreading your cheeks. Instead, he runs his hands slowly up your stomach until he's cupping your tits in his palms. 

“Is it too much for you, filly?” He sounds so kind when he asks that, that you almost forget the sort of man he really is. “You want me to help you out?”

“Yes,” you whisper against his shoulder, “yes.”

He turns his head a little and kisses your hair. 

“Anythin’ for you, pretty girl. If you want me to make it all better…” He steps a little closer and takes hold of his cock. Your cunt is still slick with oil and finding your entrance is almost too easy. “...then I'll have to do just that.”

He slips it inside your pussy without any warning at all. 

You shudder against him, your arms wrapping around his neck without you even realising. You make a low, keening sort of noise. Like a wounded animal. 

He almost bites through his own tongue. Listen to you — you needy, whiny thing. Hanging onto him like he's the only solid thing in the world, your cunt so warm and soft around him that any sensible thoughts go tumbling straight out of his head. 

He can feel his partner thrusting inside you. That little bit of muscle between your ass and your cunt is so damn thin. When he starts moving, he matches his partner's pace without even thinking. 

You've never felt anything like this before. You've been fucked plenty since they stole you. You've had their cocks so deep inside you, you can still feel them in your gut at night. But not like this. 

It's beyond overwhelming. There's the burning ache of being stretched out too far, and under it the needy throb of your own arousal. You ought to feel guilty. You ought to feel ashamed. But all you really feel is their meaty cocks, moving together inside you. 

You don't know how long you're supposed to last. You don't know how anyone is supposed to last at all with two men inside them. All you know is that you can feel your orgasm building no matter how much you don't want it to. 

The dark skinned gunslinger pulls your thigh higher up towards him, and leans forward until his nose is buried in your hair. His forearm is thick and strong around your waist, and deep down you know he won't let you fall no matter how far gone he is. 

“Love you, filly,” he grinds out between thrusts, “love you, love you, love you.”

He does, doesn't he? No matter how terrible his love is, it's yours. Whether you want it or not. 

The green eyed one squeezes your tit with one hand, and pinches your clit with the other. That's what does it for you. You come and you come hard, both your holes clenching so tight that the dark skinned gunslinger growls and almost pulls out. 

You're milking them both, though you don't know it. The dark skinned one manages a few more thrusts before he drops his head to your shoulder and bites into you like a mutt. He holds onto you with his teeth when he comes, thick ropes of white shooting deep inside you. He's breathing as heavy as a bull after a rodeo, his fingers slipping off the curve of your waist. 

He lets go eventually, and licks the bitemark he left behind. You can feel a sheen of sweat where he's touched you. Though you suppose you're no better. 

“Drunk on you, pretty girl,” he slurs, letting go of your thigh and easing you back onto your feet. “Want to taste you. Want to bite you. Want you all to myself.”

You flinch when he eases his cock out of you. Your ass gapes around the emptiness and his come drips out of you in warm, icky rivulets. 

He kisses your neck — all sloppy and hot, his lips sliding across your pulse. 

“I love you,” he says again, “God help me, I'm in love with you, girl.”

You're shivering, the green eyed gunslinger still buried deep in your cunt even though he isn't moving. 

Are you supposed to say you love him back? You can't fathom enough sense to remember your own name, much less process what you're feeling. You only huff against the green eyed gunslinger's shoulder, your nails digging into the muscles of his upper back. 

“Go easy on her,” he says to his partner suddenly. His voice is tempered by something you can't place. Tenderness, maybe. “Reckon she doesn't even know what love is right now.”

The dark skinned one ignores him and moves to cradle your waist in those big, big palms of his. “Don't care. I love her. I'll kill any bastard who tries to take her from me.”

“Even me, brother?”

“Even you.”

The green eyed one presses another kiss against your hair. You wish he'd move — thrust, pull out, something. Having him stay still inside you stings. 

“Yeah, I reckon I'd do the same.” He says it lightly, but neither you nor his partner are fooled. He means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you, can see it in the venom green of his eyes. 

He'll kill his own partner to keep you, if it ever comes down to it. 

You expect them to be angry with each other. A threat is a threat, even if the one spitting it is a friend. But you're wrong about them yet again. If anything, the dark skinned gunslinger relaxes a little. 

“See what you do to a man, filly?” he asks. Cool air rushes across your back when he steps away from you. “Drivin’ us to madness and you don’t even know it.”

The green eyed gunslinger pulls out of you and then slowly guides you back towards the bed. You're too woozy to stop him.

He sits on the edge of the mattress and wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You're sort of straddling him, your head still on his shoulder. You can feel the come oozing out of your asshole and sliding towards your cunt. 

“You're mine, girl,” he says simply. He shifts and drags his cock across the length of you. "Our pretty filly ain't goin' nowhere after this, is she?" 

He runs his nails down your spine, not hard enough to hurt but not gentle either.

"Nah,” the dark skinned one answers. His voice is low, rumbling. “Looks to me like she's staying right here with us."

"That's right—" he rocks forward and buries his cock all the way to the base. "—right here with us. Say it filly. We wanna hear you say it."

You ain't sure you can say anything at all.

"Say it, pretty girl." His voice is quiet, and it makes goosebumps prickle up your back. A rattlesnake would have a voice like that if it ever learned to speak. "Say you ain't never leaving us. Say you ain't even gonna think about it no more."

"Never leaving," you manage.

It isn't enough for them. He doesn't change anything about his position, but the way he knots his fingers in your hair is more than enough to make you try again.

"I swear. I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere."

It's humiliating, in its own special way. The way they make you say it scorches your cheeks and makes you screw your eyes shut. Why can't they just take what they want from you and leave you be? Why drag it out and play these terrible games?

His hand slides down your neck until he's holding your nape. He can feel the slick wetness of your tears against his neck, but if it moves him at all, he sure doesn't show it.

"You're home. There ain't nothin' left for you out there. You think you mama will want you back after we've had you this long? After what we just did to you?”

As if to make a point, his next stroke is long and slow. You can feel the head of his dick scraping the too-sensitive walls of your cunt.

You breath stutters in your chest, because he's saying exactly what you've been thinking yourself. What's left for you if they decide to let you go? What husband will ever want you?

"Selfish bastards, eh?" He sinks into you with a satisfied sigh. "We've ruined you for everyone else. No man will want you now, no matter how pretty you are. We're all you've got. All you'll ever have."

You want to cry but you can't find the breath for it.

"So say it again," he mutters into your hair, "Say you ain't ever leaving."

"I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere."

The truth of it is enough to make you dizzy.

"You're our girl."

"I'm your girl."

"And you're stayin’ right here."

"I'm staying right here."

"We love you, filly. Swear to god we do."

He bottoms out with a deep growl and shifts his grip on your neck so he's holding you by the throat. A calf held down for slaughter wouldn't even be held this tight.

"And when you love something, you never let it go."

[yanderedrabbles]

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐮𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐈𝐈 – 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬

Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Nᴇxᴛ Eɴᴛʀʏ The days after your capture by a gang of outlaws are a blur of unfamiliar hands on your body, and hot kisses pressed against your neck. But some days stick out as far worse than others.

Tᴀɢs: male yanderes x fem reader, noncon, double penetration, first time anal, irredeemable outlaw bastards making you cry again, taking care of their injuries & other sort of sweet moments, 6.6k words 

The gunslingers are awful to wake up to. Even in their dreams, they’re as fiercely jealous of you as coyotes.

The green eyed gunslinger holds you too tight in his sleep, his arm around your waist so heavy you can't even stretch without waking him.

He's sluggish in the mornings, the outlaw who wakes the latest. But that doesn't mean he isn't hungry for you.

No, it just means he makes you do all the work.

He doesn't wake you gently. Doesn't even bother trying, really. When he's in bed with you, you wake up to your nipples being pinched and rolled between his fingers, his palms hot on your tits as he squeezes them.

There's no point in pretending to still be asleep — that just makes him nasty. He'll run his teeth down your ribs and snarl at you to wake up and quit dreaming, he's got a job for you.

He needs two things to start the day off right; your mouth on his cock, and a cigarette. All the better if he can have them both at once.

He tends to light his cigarillo with one hand and push you down between his legs with the other. Smoke curls in grey-blue ribbons through the slanting early morning sun as he tosses one arm behind his head and knots his fingers in your hair. Not too tight — mostly a reminder.

He doesn't care to be demanding so early in the day. No, he just watches you through eyes slit as narrow and green as a cat's. You know exactly what he wants from you, and you've learned the hard way to give it to him exactly how he likes it.

"Ain't gonna say good mornin’?" he mocks, knowing damn well that you can't say anything at all with how much cock you have down your throat.

Sometimes, he pushes your head down and keeps you trapped there, his smirk growing more satisfied the harder you try to pull away. When he lets you up, you're panting and light headed, cursing him in your head as the devil's own son.

He doesn't apologise when he does that, doesn't speak at all. He just smirks and pulls on his cigarette.

Bastard. Cruel, sadistic bastard.

You must be glaring at him when you think it, because he snickers and blows a cloud of sweet smelling smoke at you.

"Oh, you hate me. Don't you, filly?"

He doesn't sound offended. If anything, he sounds proud. Proud of treating you like a ragdoll, like making you hate him is some kind of goddamn achievement.

"’S alright. You'll come around. And if you don't? Well, I'll just have to fuck it into ya."

He presses down with his palm and anything you might have said is drowned out by the taste of his cock.

He isn't heartless, though sometimes you wonder if that's any consolation at all. You catch him watching you most mornings after he's done with you — when you're sprawled panting on his bed with his teeth marks throbbing down your neck. His dark hair falls forward to shade his eyes when he leans down to pull on his boots, and the green that flashes between the strands is almost always still bright and feverish with want.

"You're too pretty to be real, you know that?" There's something in his voice when he asks you that, something almost awed. 

You don't feel pretty at all — not with the ring of bite marks at your neck and the bruises on your thighs. But maybe he sees something in you that you can't see for yourself.

He's a hard man, but he always kisses you before he leaves for the day. Not a tender kiss — you don't think he’d know how to do that if he tried — but about as close as a man like him can get. There's always a moment right before he pulls away, when his lips are right above your jugular, where you wonder if he might have loved you if he'd ever learned what love meant.

The dark skinned gunslinger is equally slow to rise as his partner. He sleeps like he's dead to the world and gets up only when he can't keep avoiding the sun by hiding his face in your hair.

He tends to play with your cunt when he's still half asleep, running his thumb up and down your slit until you're shivering.

"Got to start the morning off right, filly," he murmurs against your shoulder, voice still foggy and slurred with dreams.

It hurts. His fingers are thick and long, almost twice big as your own. And your cunt is still stretched and sensitive from taking his cock the night before. He isn't as rough as his partner, but he still fucks like a bull. Still leaves behind red half-crescents from digging his nails into your skin.

Even half asleep, he's more than strong enough to hold you. When you whine that it hurts, that he's being too rough, he just huffs and mutters something about using your other hole if you want it that bad.

You always shut your mouth after that. No matter how much it stings when he finally props himself up on an elbow and slides his cock home, it's still better than him fucking your ass. He's big enough to put stallions to shame; his cock in that tight hole would just about split you in half.

He doesn't pull out when he's done with you either, no matter how bad you squirm. He far prefers keeping his cock inside you as he drifts back to sleep for another half hour or so. Stretching you out and making sure your pretty cunt remembers the shape of him.

He's quiet in the mornings, and most of his talking gets done with his hands. If he was harsher than usual the night before, he'll run his palm down your spine and press one kiss after the other along your neck. If he's in for a long day, he'll hold your hand in his and stroke his thumb across your knuckles.

It takes you a while to understand him, and part of you wishes you'd never picked it up. There's a tenderness to his hands — I'm sorry for hurting you, I'll miss you while I'm gone — that speaks to something deeper and scarier than just lust.

Something you aren't sure you can accept from a man who has to hold you down to fuck you.

Most of the cowboys don't take long to eat; they’re usually still chewing when they go out the door. The only exception is the dark skinned gunslinger. He likes to take his breakfast as slow as the rest of his morning, likes to sit at the table and chew his food a little at a time.

When he first sits down to breakfast with you, you try scrambling away. Bacon grease and eggs and biscuits. You don't know what kind of perverted things he can do with them, but you don't doubt his creativity.

He just laughs and drags your chair closer to his, his arm heavy around your shoulders.

"Relax, filly. I've had my fill of you for now, promise."

He breaks off a piece of sourdough, buttered thick and still warm from the oven, and holds it to your lips.

"Open up."

He hums pleased as a senator on election day when you do as he asks. Your tongue darts across his fingertips, bright pink against his skin. The warm bread makes you think of home, and you try your best not to think too hard about your ma and how worried she probably is by now.

"See? I can keep you filled up in all sorts o' ways, pretty girl. Ain't that enough to make me your favourite?"

He leans down and tilts your chin towards him so you're forced to meet his eyes. They're a deep brown, as unmoving as wild oak.

"Go on, tell me I'm your favourite."

You swallow your food and knot your fingers in your skirt. You're afraid of him — his size, the strength in his hands. He’s slow to anger, but something in your gut tells you that his anger is terrible indeed. You don’t want to wake it.

"You're my favourite."

He huffs out a laugh and lets you go, squeezing your thigh before pulling away entirely.

"You promise?"

"Promise."

"God hates a liar, y'know."

And He hates thieves and killers even more. But that's never stopped any of you, has it?

"I know. That's why I'm not lying."

Maybe you imagine it, but he smiles a little easier after that.

With time, breakfast becomes its own routine. And not just him feeding you.

He tends to wait with a grin while you cut his bacon up for him, and spear it on your fork. His eyes meet yours whenever he leans forward and eats from your hand, his teeth glinting.

“You take such good care of me, filly. You know that?”

You try not to fall for the slight sweetness in his smile when he tells you that. He’s just another wolf with no intention of being tamed. Happy to eat from your palm and then bite you later.

When his plate is clean and his coffee is gone, he sighs and runs a hand down your thigh. Says he hates to leave you, but the boss will take his skin if he lingers any longer. When he stands to put his Stetson on, his revolver catches the light.

"Don't miss me too much, yeah?"

You never miss him at all, but you aren't brave enough to say so.

The green eyed gunslinger is rash in everything he does. You learn that early on.

Slicing his hand on some fencing because he was too quick to cut the wires. His lip split from brawling, all because he lost a single game of hold 'em. Spraining his wrist because he lassoed a wild mustang without tying the rope to his saddle first.

He acts without thinking, leaps without looking.

He doesn't care to patch things up either. Just rubs some dirt in the cut to stop the bleeding and gets on with his day.

But that was before you showed up.

You have healing hands, he tells the other outlaws. The second in command just scoffs and says that's what happens when you clean a wound properly.

It's a late fall morning the first time you take care of his injuries.

You're alone in the kitchen, head down as you work on an apple pie. You don't want to cook for the outlaws. Don't want to do anything besides shoot them all in the head. But you're missing home, and when the wrangler brought back a sack of crab apples a few days ago, you got to thinking of your mama. Thought that making a pie would take you right back to your old kitchen, sugar and cinnamon thick in your nose.

It doesn't. All it does is hurt your heart.

You don't look up when you hear the back door opening. It's supposed to be just you and the boy around, and you have no reason to think otherwise.

He stands in the doorway and watches you for a long time. The cut on his hand almost forgotten, even as it soaks the bandana clutched in his fist an ugly black.

When he finally moves, he comes up behind you and reaches over your head for the bandages. You look up at him and almost jump out of your skin.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?” he mocks. “Not who you were hoping for?" He has you trapped between the counter and his body, his arm still stretched over your head. 

The smell of apples cooking is thick in the air, almost sweet enough to drown out the smell of his blood.

Your eyes fall to his hand and you flinch.

"You're hurt."

He shrugs. "Happens. Why, you wanna patch me up?"

He pulls the bandages from the cupboard and drops them into your hands.

"C'mon then, filly. Make me all better."

You freeze, looking between his hand and the bandages. You're no stranger to nasty cuts and scrapes, being a rancher's daughter and all, but you still feel light headed at the smell of his blood.

He throws himself into a chair and pulls you forward by your skirt until you're in-between his thighs.

"Ain't gonna faint on me, are you?"

"No," you mutter, "I'll try not to."

You take his wrist and carefully unwind the bandana, trying to breathe through your mouth instead of your nose. The cut is deep but not so bad that you think he ought to call the sawbones.

"How did this happen?" you ask.

He hisses when you dab alcohol on his palm. But he doesn't move to stop you.

"I've got you all curious 'bout me, is that it?" He's watching you with that half smile of his, like he's laughing at some joke you can't hear.

You shrug and avoid his eyes. You don't really care how he got it. If it were up to you, you'd have him hurting a thousand times worse.

He shifts forward and brushes some of your hair behind your ear. His skin runs warmer than yours and your cheekbone tingles from his touch.

"Cute thing, aintcha?" he says when you flinch, "'Bout as scared of me as a jackrabbit on the prairie."

You don't answer him.

When you're finally done bandaging his hand, he doesn't pull away. Instead, he moves close enough to brush his thigh against yours.

"Well doc, what's your prognosis?"

He doesn't say it the way you do, but drags out his vowels instead. Prog-now-sis.

He's the one you're the most afraid of speaking back to. You worry that he'll meet any complaints with a backhand and a sneer. Still, with the smell of blood thick in your nose, and his palm lazily curled around your leg, you're irritated enough to be honest.

"You'll end up in an early grave if you aren't more careful."

And hopefully soon.

He laughs at that, bitter and sharp as a wild dog's bark.

"Too true, doc. 'S a good thing I've got you around then, ain't it?" He stands and lifts his bandaged knuckles to your lips. "So why don't you kiss me better?"

You do. Nose wrinkled against the smell of iron — gunpowder or blood, you aren't sure which is stronger on him.

He laughs again, and then leans forward to kiss you. His injured hand wraps around the back of your neck to keep you in place. He kisses like he does everything else in life; rash and harsh and with the aim to hurt. He swipes his tongue across your teeth and you can taste candied apple. When did he have the time to steal some of your pie filling?

When he finally lets you go, he rubs his thumb across your lower lip and then presses it against his tongue.

"Pretty girl, you’re as sweet as apple pie."

The gunslingers like to share with each other. They drink from the same bottles, sharpen their knives on the same stones. They even wear the same bandanas from time to time. You might have called them brothers, if it weren't for one thing.

Brothers wouldn't keep fucking you at the same time.

You thought it might have been a one time thing — maybe they were trying to make the most of you when they first got their hands on you. But time shows you that's not true at all.

They share you as easily as they do their cigarettes, pressing their mouths one after the other against your neck until you're too hot and woozy to tell them apart. Moving so in rhythm with each other it feels like they share a mind too.

More than once, the boss has to tell them to go easy on you, that too many bruises is a bad look and they ought to learn a little kindness. Part of it is callousness — they care too much for their own pleasure to handle you kindly — and part of it is ignorance. They don’t know their own strength sometimes, or maybe they don’t really understand that you aren’t built of the same stuff as they are. Either way, they’re prone to manhandling you. 

They might pick you up just to toss you over one broad shoulder, or they might wrap an arm around your waist and flip you over so fast you feel dizzy. You don’t get used to it, not really. But you come to expect it.

That’s why, on the day they decide to try double penetration for the first time, you’re caught totally off guard. 

They’ve been off on a job for a while, and when the two of them make it home they’re flush with cash. The victory of the money doesn’t seem to matter one bit — the second they’re done talking to the boss, they come to find you.

You’re reading a book in the parlour and you don’t have any time to put it aside before the dark skinned gunslinger is scooping you up and tossing you over his shoulder.

“Been missing you somethin’ awful, filly,” he says, one hand already wandering up your thigh. “Brought you back all kinds of presents.”

The green eyed gunslinger is close behind him. “You’re going to love what we thought to try with you, princess. Really, you’ll be screamin’ for us in no time.”

That’s the last thing you want to hear from either of them. By the time you reach the bedroom, your panic is a tight knot in your gut. 

The dark skinned gunslinger tosses you down on the bed with a huff and before you can move, his massive hands are tangled in your skirt.

“Did you miss us too, filly?”

He presses a quick kiss against your lips. You can taste the dust of the road on him still.

The other gunslinger is digging through a saddlebag he brought in with him and it doesn’t take long to see why. When he straightens, he’s holding a bottle of what you can only guess is oil.

“Well,” green eyes mocks, “are you goin’ to answer the man or not?”

“Sure,” you manage, “I missed you both everyday.”

“Not rightly sure I believe you, filly. But that’s fine. I know your pretty cunt missed us plenty. Ain’t that right?”

“Guess we’ll just have to check,” his partner says. He tugs at the buttons on your dress and before you know it, he’s pulling the whole thing over your head.

He whistles when he sees your chemise — a dark cream that stands out against your skin — and then he’s reaching out and cradling your hips.

“You’re a vision for tired eyes, filly.”

“A real fuckin’ dream.”

There's a deep seated impatience in their movements, and you’re desperate to hold them off just a little longer. They’re always rougher than they need to be when they're in a hurry.

“You said you brought me a present?” you ask.

The dark skinned one smirks and takes the bottle of oil from his partner. 

“Plenty of different presents. But I reckon you’ll like this one best.”

“Turn over, filly. We want you on your knees.”

You don’t want to and your hesitation is all too clear. The one holding you sighs and pulls at your hip. Even with one hand, it's clear how much stronger he is than you.

“Don’t be difficult now. We’ve been gone too long already.”

You do as he says as slowly as you can. You end up sitting on your knees on the edge of the bed, your back facing them.

A pair of hands comes to rest on your shoulders, and you can tell it’s the dark skinned one just from the feel of him. He plays with the straps of your chemise.

“Get this off, filly. I don’t want to have to rip it.”

You reach for the hem slowly. The air in the room goes still as you pull it off, and you can feel the heat of their eyes on your skin. One of them pulls in a sharp breath, and then a heavy palm is gripping the back of your neck and forcing you forward, until your chest is on the bed. You’re sort of folded over, your hips and ass exposed.

“Fucking hell.”

“God, I missed the sight of her.”

The bottle of oil opens with a pop and you almost jump out of your skin when they pull your ass cheeks apart and drizzle a little of it down the curve of your cunt. It’s strangely warm from being out in the sun, and one of them is quick to swipe his thumb upwards to stop it all from dripping off. He smears it heavily across your pussy, the tip of his finger pressing down and threatening to slip inside.

Okay, you can handle this. They’ve bullied their way inside you plenty of times, and almost never with something so slick to help them along. You don’t like it, but you can at least manage it.

“What do you think, filly?” the dark skinned gunslinger drawls, “You ready to try somethin’ new?”

You can tell from his voice that he’s the one with his hand on your neck, and also the one playing with your pussy. He doesn’t give you any time to wonder what he means. His fingers drift upwards until he's spreading the warm oil around your asshole.

No. 

No way, they can’t be serious.

He pushes at your opening just a little, and to your horror, his finger starts to slowly sink in. It’s a different sort of feeling to having his fingers in your cunt. You feel stretched out, and even though it doesn’t hurt yet, the pressure makes something in your gut turn.

“Shoulda done this ages ago,” he murmurs, working his thumb all the way to the base. Your ass is a different kind of velvety soft compared to your cunt — less yielding, burning just a bit hotter. To the gunslingers, seeing that tight ring of muscle giving way is fucking intoxicating.

“Told you,” his partner says. 

He pulls his finger out slowly, twisting it in a way that makes you bite your lip. Fuck. Part of you is terrified — that curling dread like being on a horse you aren’t sure will try and throw you — and some other, deeper part of you wants him to keep going. Already it feels like a different kind of ache, a different kind of fire deep inside you.

“Two fingers then,” he says right before he presses them against your entrance. “Think you can handle that, filly?”

He starts pushing them in before you think to answer.

“Oh, look at that. She’s swallowin’ you up so easy. Hungry little thing, ain’t she?”

“Starvin’ I’d say. Thinks she can cry and beg and that will hide it, but I ain’t even started and she’s drooling on the sheets.”

You hate the flush of shame that creeps up your spine. But you don’t get a chance to linger on it. He starts pumping with his fingers, slow and deep. He twists them with every thrust and your whole body starts to burn. Heat in your gut, coiling in your pussy, spiking through your fingers.

“Prettiest whore I’ve ever seen.” The green eyed outlaw squats down and runs his fingers through your hair. “Ain’t that right, brother?”

“Mhm. Gonna take our cocks nice and deep, and thank us when we’re done.”

It doesn’t take long for your hole to start turning into a soft, squishy thing. Tensing up just makes it hurt, and so you force yourself to relax. The green eyed gunlinger doesn’t like being left out. By the time his partner is getting ready to stuff three fingers into you, he’s already started playing with your clit.

The pad of his thumb is rough as sandpaper, and when he drags it over your clit you can’t help the way you whine.

“What’s wrong, filly?” he mocks, drawing another rough circle across your cunt. “Needy already?”

His partner finally manages to fit all three fingers in and the stretch is enough to make you drop your head and moan. You feel delirious. So many sensations at once is bloody cruel, and you can’t focus on anything besides the hand on your nape and the throbbing in your gut. 

“Please…”

“Please what? Don't ask us to stop, pretty girl, ‘cause you know that ain't happenin’.”

You try to sit up a little but the gunslinger's hand is still tight and heavy on your neck. 

He curls his fingers inside you and you have to bury your face in the sheets to keep from screaming. It's the kind of stretch that hurts, but at the same time you can feel your body wanting to pull him deeper in. God, how do they manage to confuse you so easily? Why does your body want their touch when all they do is bruise?

The cowboy laughs and kisses you between your shoulder blades. “She looks all stretched out and ready to me.”

Their voices are still light, but you can hear in the way they're breathing that they're getting more than just a little hot and bothered. 

“Seems that way to me, too. You ready to take us both at once, filly? Reckon it's about time we broke you in fully. Been goin’ too damn easy on you.”

The dark skinned gunslinger pulls his fingers out of you with a lewd squelch, and lets go of your neck. You're not ready to move. Your ass is clenching around the sudden emptiness, and your clit is a throbbing mess. 

There's the soft sigh of clothing coming undone and then they're hauling you up. The dark skinned one kisses your cheek and slips an arm around your waist from behind. Your legs are traitors, and if he wasn't holding you up you're sure you would have gone crashing right back to your knees. 

His bare chest presses against your back, his skin so much warmer than yours. You can feel the heavy weight of his cock pressing between your ass cheeks — insistent. 

The green eyed one circles in front of you. He's still wearing his jeans, but his shirt is off and his muscles are as hard edged as you'd expect. It's the first time you've gotten a good look at his face since they arrived home. There's a new cut right above one eye, and a fading bruise on his jaw. But it's his eyes that get you. 

They're burning like marsh fire, and he smiles at you with the lazy self confidence of an alligator. 

“You're sweatin’, filly,” he says. He brushes your hair away from your face and you realise with a start that you really are sweating. Your hair clings to your forehead and temples. Did having them play around with your ass really do that to you?

He grunts when he lets his cock out. It's rock hard, bulging with veins, and when he slips the tip between your folds you can feel the humid heat of it. 

He rubs it up and down your clit, that solid, leaking head nudging the already sensitive parts of you until you're dizzy. 

“You ought to thank us, filly,” he mutters. He's looking down at your cunt, just watching the way his dick slips in and out of your mound. “We're being so sweet with you.”

Your ass is an aching mess and the hot cock pressing at your entrance promises to make it all the worse. But he's right, they are being nice. You didn't think they'd take the time to loosen you up. 

“Go on then,” the dark skinned one rumbles from behind you, “Say thank you.”

You swallow hard and shake your head a little. 

Because even if they are being more gentle than usual, you still don't want this. 

He scoffs and hooks his free hand under your thigh. “You'll thank us eventually, filly. Just wait.”

He pulls your leg up until your ass and cunt are both exposed to the cold air. You hate how slick everything feels. Like you ought to be dripping onto the floors. 

The green eyed one reaches down and spreads your cheeks just a little more, so his partner can nudge his dick up against your entrance. You shiver when you feel the tip at your ass — three fingers suddenly doesn't feel nearly enough to prepare you. 

He doesn't give you any warning besides the way he tightens his hold on you. He pushes up against your ass, his tip thick and hot with precum.

The head is the worst part. For a second you think it won't fit — it slips right past your hole — but he tries again and it catches. He pushes in slowly. It's a slow pressure at first — your muscles yielding but not really letting him in — but there's a limit to everything and he reaches a point where nothing you do could possibly keep him out. His head pops into your ass with a shudder. 

You fall forward without meaning to, your head coming to rest against the green eyed gunslinger's shoulder. He makes a small, amused sort of noise and squeezes your ass. 

Your whole face scrunches up. It burns. The gunslinger bullies his way inside of you, your muscles giving in to the inexorable press of him. You've never felt so stretched out. Never felt so terribly full. 

He snarls through his teeth, breathing as heavy as a bull. 

It's sick. A cock that big shouldn't be inside you at all. When he pushes in all the way, a sob catches in your throat. 

You're still too tight, so he can't thrust as much as he wants. His cock rocks forward and back a few inches, and you have to bite your lip so you don't scream. His nails dig into your thigh and he groans long and low when he bottoms out again. 

“That good, huh?” the green eyed one asks. Neither of you have the strength to reply. Your whole body is shivering like you have a fever, your thigh muscles shaking. 

You want to say something — anything — to make him pull out. But words are a thing for thinking folk and right now all you are is a bundle of nerves and a stretched out hole. 

The green eyed gunslinger makes a soft, cooing noise in the back of his throat. With his partner already inside you, he doesn't need to keep spreading your cheeks. Instead, he runs his hands slowly up your stomach until he's cupping your tits in his palms. 

“Is it too much for you, filly?” He sounds so kind when he asks that, that you almost forget the sort of man he really is. “You want me to help you out?”

“Yes,” you whisper against his shoulder, “yes.”

He turns his head a little and kisses your hair. 

“Anythin’ for you, pretty girl. If you want me to make it all better…” He steps a little closer and takes hold of his cock. Your cunt is still slick with oil and finding your entrance is almost too easy. “...then I'll have to do just that.”

He slips it inside your pussy without any warning at all. 

You shudder against him, your arms wrapping around his neck without you even realising. You make a low, keening sort of noise. Like a wounded animal. 

He almost bites through his own tongue. Listen to you — you needy, whiny thing. Hanging onto him like he's the only solid thing in the world, your cunt so warm and soft around him that any sensible thoughts go tumbling straight out of his head. 

He can feel his partner thrusting inside you. That little bit of muscle between your ass and your cunt is so damn thin. When he starts moving, he matches his partner's pace without even thinking. 

You've never felt anything like this before. You've been fucked plenty since they stole you. You've had their cocks so deep inside you, you can still feel them in your gut at night. But not like this. 

It's beyond overwhelming. There's the burning ache of being stretched out too far, and under it the needy throb of your own arousal. You ought to feel guilty. You ought to feel ashamed. But all you really feel is their meaty cocks, moving together inside you. 

You don't know how long you're supposed to last. You don't know how anyone is supposed to last at all with two men inside them. All you know is that you can feel your orgasm building no matter how much you don't want it to. 

The dark skinned gunslinger pulls your thigh higher up towards him, and leans forward until his nose is buried in your hair. His forearm is thick and strong around your waist, and deep down you know he won't let you fall no matter how far gone he is. 

“Love you, filly,” he grinds out between thrusts, “love you, love you, love you.”

He does, doesn't he? No matter how terrible his love is, it's yours. Whether you want it or not. 

The green eyed one squeezes your tit with one hand, and pinches your clit with the other. That's what does it for you. You come and you come hard, both your holes clenching so tight that the dark skinned gunslinger growls and almost pulls out. 

You're milking them both, though you don't know it. The dark skinned one manages a few more thrusts before he drops his head to your shoulder and bites into you like a mutt. He holds onto you with his teeth when he comes, thick ropes of white shooting deep inside you. He's breathing as heavy as a bull after a rodeo, his fingers slipping off the curve of your waist. 

He lets go eventually, and licks the bitemark he left behind. You can feel a sheen of sweat where he's touched you. Though you suppose you're no better. 

“Drunk on you, pretty girl,” he slurs, letting go of your thigh and easing you back onto your feet. “Want to taste you. Want to bite you. Want you all to myself.”

You flinch when he eases his cock out of you. Your ass gapes around the emptiness and his come drips out of you in warm, icky rivulets. 

He kisses your neck — all sloppy and hot, his lips sliding across your pulse. 

“I love you,” he says again, “God help me, I'm in love with you, girl.”

You're shivering, the green eyed gunslinger still buried deep in your cunt even though he isn't moving. 

Are you supposed to say you love him back? You can't fathom enough sense to remember your own name, much less process what you're feeling. You only huff against the green eyed gunslinger's shoulder, your nails digging into the muscles of his upper back. 

“Go easy on her,” he says to his partner suddenly. His voice is tempered by something you can't place. Tenderness, maybe. “Reckon she doesn't even know what love is right now.”

The dark skinned one ignores him and moves to cradle your waist in those big, big palms of his. “Don't care. I love her. I'll kill any bastard who tries to take her from me.”

“Even me, brother?”

“Even you.”

The green eyed one presses another kiss against your hair. You wish he'd move — thrust, pull out, something. Having him stay still inside you stings. 

“Yeah, I reckon I'd do the same.” He says it lightly, but neither you nor his partner are fooled. He means it. You can feel it in the way he holds you, can see it in the venom green of his eyes. 

He'll kill his own partner to keep you, if it ever comes down to it. 

You expect them to be angry with each other. A threat is a threat, even if the one spitting it is a friend. But you're wrong about them yet again. If anything, the dark skinned gunslinger relaxes a little. 

“See what you do to a man, filly?” he asks. Cool air rushes across your back when he steps away from you. “Drivin’ us to madness and you don’t even know it.”

The green eyed gunslinger pulls out of you and then slowly guides you back towards the bed. You're too woozy to stop him.

He sits on the edge of the mattress and wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. You're sort of straddling him, your head still on his shoulder. You can feel the come oozing out of your asshole and sliding towards your cunt. 

“You're mine, girl,” he says simply. He shifts and drags his cock across the length of you. "Our pretty filly ain't goin' nowhere after this, is she?" 

He runs his nails down your spine, not hard enough to hurt but not gentle either.

"Nah,” the dark skinned one answers. His voice is low, rumbling. “Looks to me like she's staying right here with us."

"That's right—" he rocks forward and buries his cock all the way to the base. "—right here with us. Say it filly. We wanna hear you say it."

You ain't sure you can say anything at all.

"Say it, pretty girl." His voice is quiet, and it makes goosebumps prickle up your back. A rattlesnake would have a voice like that if it ever learned to speak. "Say you ain't never leaving us. Say you ain't even gonna think about it no more."

"Never leaving," you manage.

It isn't enough for them. He doesn't change anything about his position, but the way he knots his fingers in your hair is more than enough to make you try again.

"I swear. I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere."

It's humiliating, in its own special way. The way they make you say it scorches your cheeks and makes you screw your eyes shut. Why can't they just take what they want from you and leave you be? Why drag it out and play these terrible games?

His hand slides down your neck until he's holding your nape. He can feel the slick wetness of your tears against his neck, but if it moves him at all, he sure doesn't show it.

"You're home. There ain't nothin' left for you out there. You think you mama will want you back after we've had you this long? After what we just did to you?”

As if to make a point, his next stroke is long and slow. You can feel the head of his dick scraping the too-sensitive walls of your cunt.

You breath stutters in your chest, because he's saying exactly what you've been thinking yourself. What's left for you if they decide to let you go? What husband will ever want you?

"Selfish bastards, eh?" He sinks into you with a satisfied sigh. "We've ruined you for everyone else. No man will want you now, no matter how pretty you are. We're all you've got. All you'll ever have."

You want to cry but you can't find the breath for it.

"So say it again," he mutters into your hair, "Say you ain't ever leaving."

"I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere."

The truth of it is enough to make you dizzy.

"You're our girl."

"I'm your girl."

"And you're stayin’ right here."

"I'm staying right here."

"We love you, filly. Swear to god we do."

He bottoms out with a deep growl and shifts his grip on your neck so he's holding you by the throat. A calf held down for slaughter wouldn't even be held this tight.

"And when you love something, you never let it go."