A foreign man comes to visit your country for a business trip.
It was very last minute. The guy who was originally supposed to go to the conference had to cancel, they needed someone to take his place, and he was just the one guy who happened to not have any major meetings on schedule for the week, so here he is.
It's nice to visit a new place and all, but he would really prefer to be here on a vacation, and not locked in a hotel conference hall for the foreseeable future. The flight got delayed twice, it's past midnight already, this country is on the other side of the ocean and thus the trip itself was several hours in a cramped seat with other passengers making way too much noise, he's worried about having to make some needless presentation he's completely unprepared for tomorrow, and all in all, he's very frustrated.
The higher-ups did go out of their way to mention to him that the culture here is different. Home for him is a very modest, strict sort of social climate. Some things you see might be a little bit of a culture shock, the supervisor told him. Which he only rolled his eyes at — he's seen that one well-known movie set here, so he knows everything about this place. But so far, it's not anything too unusual, just more people out so late than what he would expect at home.
There's nothing better to do than to go ahead and check into the hotel, but as he turns to walk in the direction indicated by the map on his phone screen, something passes by in his peripheral vision. Something that makes him immediately perk up, head tilting upward in an immediate instinct to look.
Your legs were the first part of you that caught his gaze — shorts leaving you uncovered well above the knee, showing off your thighs — but he can see your shoulders and collarbones too. The shirt (or shirt-like thing, it's more like a piece of cloth just to cover your tits) is even cropped short, showing your navel. You yourself are also looking at your phone as you walk, heels hitting the pavement with a short sound in each step.
Oh. A prostitute. Very obvious, given the attire and you being out on the street so late. That's very opportune timing, it would be nice to get some relief after the frustration of a long flight. It seems that just like back home, the whores here make themselves known by advertising themselves in public — except you're showing off more than even the ones at home would. Wow. He's almost stunned into a stupor for a moment, having to shake his head to snap out of it.
Really, it's kind of surprising you'd be walking by yourself. Back home, prostitutes travel in groups, as it's, ah, unsafe for them to walk alone like that. But he's really not the type of guy to do something like drag you off into an alley and take you for free, as tempting as that may be. At least not here, where there seems to be no suitable spots not lit by street lights (he notices this as he contemplates the option), and besides, he's not sure what the legal penalty for that might be here. Some countries take that sort of thing seriously, to his understanding, even for whores.
So he flags you down, getting your attention with a click of the tongue and a come here gesture.
It catches your attention, and you turn your head. You stiffen up as you look him up and down, tilt your gaze to the ground and keep walking, more quickly than before.
Well, that's okay. The culture must just be not particularly sociable here. It would be more ideal for your business practices to be a little more friendly, though. Regardless, he takes it as an indication to follow. He would have preferred you come back to the hotel with him, but you know, language barrier and all, it's not worth trying to ask.
You turn your head back periodically as you walk, presumably to make sure he's still behind you. But you keep speeding up your pace, and it makes it a little taxing to keep up. By the time you reach your place, he's a short distance behind you, and is following you by watching the turns you make from that distance.
He's physically pent up (and very ready to go at it), but too mentally exhausted to run right after you. Thankfully you have to pause a few seconds when unlocking your door, which gives him some time to catch up. You turn your head each way as you turn the door's handle, presumably to make sure he's still coming. You freeze up in place when you see him rounding the corner.
But he's honestly just too pent up and eager for your slow pace of doing things. Not to be rude or anything, but you'll surely understand if he speeds it up a little. He goes ahead and pushes the door open for you as you stammer out some foreign babbling, and he grasps you by the back of your shirt — well, the attire you call a shirt — and shoves you through the door. You yelp as you stumble, still staggering as he shuts the door behind him.
You say some more foreign words in a timid little voice as he grasps you by the wrist, dragging you in the direction of a bed he can see in an adjacent room. Your footsteps stagger and stumble as he pulls. Maybe you're a little drunk or something. That wouldn't be unsurprising for your kind.
You keep saying something. He's not sure if you grasp that he doesn't understand a word coming out of your mouth. It sounds sort of... concerned? Right, it's true that even prostitutes have rules and all that. You're probably telling him he can't do certain stuff. That's okay, he's pretty normal in that regard.
Still, if he were in a better mood, maybe he'd have the patience and kindness to whip out the phone and let you speak into the translator app or something. But it's been such a long day and he's really pent up and would prefer to just get down to business. Sorry.
Your living space isn't too big, so it's easy to quickly drag you to the bed and sling you down on top of it with one firm movement of the arm. You land with a grunt onto your stomach, and you immediately start to push yourself up on your hands (still yapping as if he can understand you), presumably to assume a more standard position on your back. No, it's okay, this is the position he wants. But you won't understand if he tells you that, so he just shoves you back down with a firm hand on your back. You make a little soft sound as your stomach hits the bed again.
The bed creaks as he moves onto it on his knees. He grips the waistband of your shorts, hooking his fingers beneath the elastic of the underwear with it, and jerks both down with one motion. Your knees momentarily shuffle in place, awkwardly and frantically squirming against the hold.
And then you stiffen. You gasp for air, the muscles in your body tense up and go rigid as he pushes his cock inside you, just getting the tip in... so that the rest can go in with one harsh, brutal snap of the hips. You cry out, a gutteral and unrestrained noise, flinching and tensing again. He feels your back muscles convulse against his chest, your legs flail, you grip at the sheets with your fingers curling. Okay, admittedly that might have been a bit rough, even for you. He mumbles out a quick sorry, though he doubts you understand.
But you'll feel good once he starts moving anyway, so he sets off at an equally harsh pace. That much, at least, he's sure you're used to, so he doesn't have to worry about it being too rough. The bed rocks with the intensity and force of each motion, and there's a smacking sound each time his hips pound into your cunt, your ass and thighs rippling with the impact. He sees your hands desperately reach back behind you, pawing at his hips with awkward, almost pitifully weak force.
As if realizing that that's not accomplishing anything, you reach back as if to grab at his cock (whimpering really cutely, so much so that he wonders if they like, train you to sound like that or something). You're probably taught to do something like that, maybe? Is it a cultural norm to try to stroke him off at the same time? Well, anyway, it's actually kind of getting in the way here. But once again, it would be futile to try to tell you that, so he pauses only for a brief moment, grasping your wrists and pinning them together behind your back.
You feel tighter than expected. You must not have had too many customers earlier in the day. The only issue is noise. Since you're working out of your own apartment, he has to consider your neighbors, and it would be rude to disturb them.
And you do, in fact, make quite a lot of sounds, especially as he speeds up. High-pitched squealing, almost pitiful little whines. Admittedly, it makes a little sensation of pride swell up in his chest, and goes straight to his ego. You probably don't get a lot of clients that are actually good at this and make you feel good.
Still, he has to be considerate. He grasps a fistful of your hair and slams your face into the pillow. This brings about a new sequence of wailing sounds (only now very muffled), your body squirming. He feels your legs kick, the back of your calves making weak impact with the back of his thighs.
There's no need to overreact, though. He's close anyway — he really likes the view from this position. A few more violent thrusts and he comes to a halt, slamming his hips against you as hard as he can manage, releasing your hair to instead grip at your hip, nails digging into the flesh, holding you still against your squirming.
A few moments pass, the standard pause for each of you to catch your breath and come down from the high. He pulls out of you, and your hole twitches with the sudden vacancy, semen drooling out of the slit.
He reaches into his pockets after zipping his pants back up, fishing out a reasonable sum from his wallet to set on the bedside table (you'll have to work out the currency difference, sorry), all as you weakly turn yourself over, sitting somewhat upright, but sort of huddled inward against yourself, still saying whatever it is you're saying.
It's okay. All prostitutes are on birth control anyway, that much is common knowledge. Still, you're saying something in a panicked voice — probably worried about diseases. He doesn't have any of those either, so you're safe. He'll have to explain that later to put your mind at ease.
But not right now. He would love to stay and all, but the hotel has a penalty fee for late check-ins, and he has to be up early tomorrow. Although it's not as if there's much capacity for conversation between the two of you anyway.
Leaving so abruptly might be perceived badly, though. You may be a whore, but he wouldn't want to hurt your feelings or anything. It was really good, and you're pretty. He'll definitely come back for more, as many sessions as he can squeeze in before the week is over.
So he takes a few moments to pull his phone out, types out a message, sets the "output" language to the primary one in this place, waits a few moments as the app spins (you people really need to fix your mobile internet speed, it's way slower than he's used to) and finally it outputs the translated message on the other side of the screen. He turns the phone to you to give you a few moments to read.
I'll come back tomorrow night.
And with that, he makes his way out the door, too preoccupied with thoughts of the next day (and making a note of your address) to even register the look on your face.
Cinny, for us non-southerners, what variety of yandere grows down there?
(It's funny you mention this bc I'm working on another thing involving a Southern boy actually, as well as pastors because I do have extended thoughts on pastors/preachers I already jotted a few notes/beginning paragraphs down on I'll work on soon, especially having spent my entire life in the Southern Baptist Church 👀 and lmao at the employee bc my cousin's husband is literally a bass pro employee)
Yessss omg I do love me a good country boy. Huge trucks blasting country with the windows down through town, rifles mounted to the back windshield, cigarette smoke stench permanently entrenched into the fabric of the seats. The baseball-style hats always leave a shadow over his eyes, adds a sort of dark look to his expression. He's always telling you to eat more because you need "some meat on you" to make you even softer to hold and give him some extra padding when his hips slam against your ass.
It's much easier to convince you to come live with him, quit working and have kids when it's a cultural norm. All the local households only have a working man, you know. You can stay nice and comfortable in his cabin, and the only thing you need to worry your pretty little head about is pumping out his babies, keeping his stomach full and his balls empty. (And if you don't know how to make country food, you'll just have to learn).
He prefers to live out in the woods a ways though. Less prying eyes out there, and good hunting too. You get to watch him clean out his firearms every Sunday after post-church target practice, hands gliding over smooth metal, pupils dilated with an entrenched gaze of something between lust and euphoria at the sensation of a machine of pure destruction in his hands, only surpassed by the way he looks at you. He could hit a target from half a mile away, and can perfectly put a bullet between a creature's eyes... although he could aim for the legs and stop something running in its tracks, if he ever needed to.
Of course, not that he needs to convince you to come live with him. If you refuse, taking you is easy too.
He watches you for a while. He's patient. One has to learn that skill for hunting, or doing much of anything in the rural land. Never strike immediately, just wait, watch, learn, look for the perfect moment. Memorizing your schedule and knowing exactly where on your walk is most secluded and vulnerable to drag you away is no different from the stop-and-start movement patterns of birds and deer.
No one will hear you scream out here. Not necessarily even out of fear or for help, but it means he also doesn't have to cover your mouth when he bounces you on his cock, allowing him to use both hands to jerk your hips back and forth. Your hands squirm against the rope thing them together, but it's futile to expect to break through the same stuff meant to hold up huge animals.
He's not exactly nice — very crass and vulgar, loud, swears in every sentence, it's just part of the culture, you have to understand — but you still get some form of compliments, if you can call it that. They're just all equally crude, telling you how good your tight little cunt feels clamped down on his cock, how you tighten up nice when he slaps your hip, how he loves to watch the cum drool out of you when he pulls out, to see your holes spasm around nothing, desperate to close up but stretched nice and wide.
He might not be the type of gentleman to call you beautiful or anything, but he'll slap your ass and tell you to hurry up with the cooking so he can bend you over the couch, and that's perfectly romantic if you ask him.
Lena, have you ever been a bad writer? 'Cause going through your stuff, its just banger after banger. I'm so embarrassed by my early writing and it's a bit tough seeing someone who's been talented from the get go :\
You're very sweet but you will be pleased to know a few years back right after graduating college, I was cleaning out my closet in my old room and found the clunky laptop I had in early middle school. The laptop was from around 2002 or so and was passed down bc my dad got a new one and gave me his old one. It happened to be stored with the charger wrapped around it, so I was able to plug it in and turn it on and go through all my old documents. Including the smut I'd written at like 12.
Not only was it made horrendously, but I didn't fully understand How It Works™ and it was thus filled with bizarre anatomical inaccuracies and absurdities. It was so bad I couldn't even bring myself to screenshot it and save it to laugh at. I just quietly turned it off and put it back in its place and have tried to forget it. It haunts me to this day
If you leave Buc-ee's without buying any of the special brisket he prepared just for you this is the last thing you see in the corner of your room that night
girl why do i feel like you could be having so much more traction and followers? your writing is an ABSOLUTE BANGER. i'd also love to commission you!! like there are prolly so many horny pervs that aren't aware that this dime piece of a blog even exists
That's fair, personally I'm just very bad at gauging how long or good something has to be to warrant tagging it with tags people would be searching. On top of that, I think sometimes some of what I write is maybe a little extreme for some people even within the dark content sphere, particularly the more fetishistic things, so that makes me somewhat hesitant to put tags on certain works (since I've learned sometimes people still get upset even with warnings at the top 😅). But I can try to tag a bit more often.
I'm not particularly concerned with follower count — I do this largely because I just enjoy writing itself and sharing it, regardless of the amount of people seeing it.
As for commissioning, I just don't think I'm in a position to be capable of that. Transitioning to the adult working world and especially this new job the past few months has been brutal and exhausting — hence why I'm so much less active than I used to be in 2020-2023ish when I was in college — along with my more recent activism endeavors that are very important to me + caring for family, both of which are important to me but consume a lot of time. I can't in good faith promise to someone that I'd finish something in a timely manner, consequently it would be irresponsible for me to try and accept an obligation like that when I'm uncertain if I could fulfill it in enough time to be fair to the other person. Maybe one day, if I get to a better position in life (which I am actively aiming for) I could do something like that.
imagine the yan trying to scare southern reader with his kills and reader is like "nahhh bro you should see the collection I have on the wall 😎😎😎 #hunter"
"you will be my belle tradwife and have my children and make me food"
"okay but I get to choose the food. I want pot pie. Go get me squirrel meat"
"squirrel? What kind of grocery store would I get that from?"
Thank you it was great! It feels kind of crazy. I can't believe I'm closer to 30 than 20. They say your 20s goes by fast, but after graduating college my life has been kinda plain and repetitive — sedentary and little irl interaction, sitting at the same cubicle staring at Microsoft Excel for 9 hours a day etc, and it's REALLY made time seem to whip by at light speed more than I ever anticipated. I feel like should be maybe 23 or 24, not 27. (I might be able to change to a lower-hours role in the next few years though.)
On a less depressing note though, my aunt got me one of those animal tracker bracelets for my birthday! I hope Sparkle knows I would die for her
ovulation scent society au was written so well that I'm genuinely fuming. we (yes we) need to exterminate these scent crazed bastards at once. why don't they keep their noses the ground like a modest man should??
(from this post)
Of course, social media makes it easy for women to, in turn, express their own negative sentiments to spite these men. You find yourself getting so angry and clenching your jaw every time you open a social app and see posts of men yapping on and on about how cruel it is for you to go outside and assault their hormonal system with that scent if you're not going to put out.
Your thumbs move quickly, a harsh tap of frustration as you hit the "post" button.
Why don't YOU learn to control yourself?
You reply to a few more comments that irritate you. You tell one to cover his nose with the collar of his shirt if it bothers him so much, after he complains about an obviously ovulating girl getting on the metro and having the nerve to sit right next to him.
It's a natural way of expressing frustration, so you reply to a few more. To another, you say that you're not obligated to stay inside a whole week every month just because he can't control himself any better than an animal. And another that maybe he would have his own girlfriend to sniff on if he wasn't so unlikeable. And yet another, under a comment of why don't they just stay inside?, you scrunch your nose as you type back a reply — why don't I just bash your head in.
You feel a little silly for getting mad at random men on the internet, but expressing it is cathartic. It makes you feel better after how upset you were reading what they wrote.
Of course, they have no shame whatsoever, and unfortunately the comments get more traction that you could have anticipated — you get a flood of notifications from various irritated men. All anonymous faceless accounts, of course, lots of that type of username that's auto generated numbers that apps make for you when you don't want to make one yourself. You mute the notifications without bothering to fully check them — but from the brief glimpse of the beginnings of a few comments on the notification screen, before they disappear as you hit "clear all," you can tell they're very upset by how harsh you were.
You, unlike any of them, did not stop to consider the account you were posting from — with your real first name and plenty of photos of your real life you've taken.
You think you've been careful, you've never posted your face before... but you didn't bother to check for reflections of your face on cups, windows, metal, and other background elements of your pictures. Nor did you consider removing embedded data (or maybe don't even know about that). Nor did you consider how easy you are to find on search engines — records of you from your past places of employment, those "whitepages" sites with address data.
He thinks it's almost endearing how dumb you are — but that sentiment is presently drowned out by irritation over how much of a mouthy brat you are. It makes his eye twitch, reading your snarky little statements, made so boldly as if it wouldn't be so easy to shut you up. That's why you have to say it online, you wouldn't have that audacity in real life. Especially a huge, intimidating-looking guy like himself. You'd know it would be so easy for him to just pick you up and shove you into the backseat of his car right then and there and— well. You get the idea. The advent of the internet has really made you all far too comfortable saying whatever you want.
He likes to fantasize about it in his head. You sneering your petulant little insults, looking down at you and asking you to say what you just said again. He knows you wouldn't. You'd shrink back, keep your head down, hold your little hands up to your chest all scared and stammer out some apology. You'd change your tune real fast. He can see it perfectly in his head. The thought makes the blood rush to his groin.
And when he finds you — he's already working on it, he's already got a full name and place of work, you've made it far too easy — he'll get to see that scared expression for himself. And he'll tell you how nice you smell while he bounces you up and down on his cock, just to rub it in.
Your pfp gave me a funny idea, what if you pair the usual vn Yandere character with a reader who's a pro angler with an aggressive ass accent
Omg consider deep red Southern darling + yan. This is a genuinely unexplored concept that presents new challenges to the yandere genre bc the yan must inherently keep in mind, and act with the knowledge, that at any moment there is a possibility of darling just—
pls tell us about your childhood crushes i beg..!!
Assuming you mean fictional ones my earliest crush I can ever remember is Zuko. Very normie I know but I loved him so much. Avatar came out right after my 6th birthday, I have very distinct memories of watching it all the time growing up. Other than that, in early childhood I remember liking Beast Boy, Tarzan and Kovu (yes the lion from the second Lion King. Leave me alone let me have this)
In my later childhood/preteen years, I was OBSESSED with the game Tales of Symphonia for several years (even though the game takes like two weeks to complete at a normal pace lol, I don't know why I just formed a really intense hyperfixation on that game specifically), I watched the animation that came out and all the niche official content and so on. But I really had a thing for Yggdrasil and I still do
Within that same age range/years I also got attached to N (Pokemon), Link (Zelda), Komaeda and pretty much the entire male casts of Black Butler/Kuro, Wolf's Rain and Death Note.
Finally it's not "childhood" but in my teen years, I was just entering my senior year of high school when Mystic Messenger came out. I would leave class to use the bathroom to play the chats so I didn't get timed out and miss the chats. I loved pretty much every guy in that one.
(I also have no recollection of it, but according to my mom when I was like 3 I used to say I wanted to marry Thomas the Tank Engine lmao)
Thinking about an alternative world where humans possess a heightened sense of smell, particularly for pheromones and hormonal shifts... Not the same thing as omegaverse/ABO, but just like an alternate evolutionary timeline wherein humans developed an acute sense of smell on par with other mammals, thus enabling them to the same capacity as said other mammals.
To smell food from much further away, to sniff out disease, to track living beings — and to acutely, consciously smell pheromones and gland secretions in other humans, complete with biological triggers the smells activate.
Men already have a musk about them, especially when they sweat, but it's more intense to your senses. Men who have just worked out, are aroused, or otherwise are exuding more testosterone than average are an immediate attention-grab and attractant. Scent alone can easily make a man seem much more attractive.
But as is always the case with nature, your sex still has far more self-control, and is far less of a menace to society, whereas for males, being naturally more aggressive and initiative with those sorts of things, it makes a significant impact.
The awkward part is that everyone around you knows when you're menstruating. It's a universal thing, so it goes largely unacknowledged and is just considered an unpleasant reality readily accepted by the collective, but there's still some unspoken awkwardness about it. Besides, the same is true for you with your own peers, so everyone is just sort of used to it.
Predictably, though, ovulation is drastically worse.
You're very grateful it only lasts such a short time. There's about six days of high fertility, culminating in the middle of the time period, the roughly twenty-four hours of actual ovulating. The whole duration gives off heavy secretion, but that peak day is the worst of it.
And likewise, everyone within a general radius of your person will know when you're in that stage.
It's hell for trying to exist in public. Men zero in on it essentially instantaneously, eyes locking onto a target like a hawk spotting some poor little rodent in the distant grass below. If you choose to go out in public — which is not advisable if you can avoid doing so — you will literally see men stop talking mid-conversation, heads turning with slack-jawed expressions to locate the source of whatever they're smelling.
And it turns them on — whether it's some innate biological reaction to the smell, the conscious awareness of your increased fertility and assumed heightened arousal, or some combination of both, you're unsure. But the fact that the scent of ovulation and arousal really gets men going is just as universally accepted and obvious as is the fact that the same is true of visual stimulus.
Naturally, they assume you'll be more open-minded during this time. You'll be easier, less inhibited, a more ideal target. If you actually do simply have the desire to go out and get laid, doing so is as easy as walking somewhere. They'll approach you, you don't need to do anything but accept. It's not really different from the normal women's experience when you're not ovulating, but now they're just considerably more aggressive and persistent.
The issue becomes the fact that they'll still swarm you even if you'd prefer they not.
For five or six days per month, life is essentially impossible to navigate normally, without having to fend off a sequence of men far too eager to talk to you and utterly relentless in their pursuit. It also emboldens them — men who would otherwise be too shy or worried of being embarrassed by rejection have their capacity for rational thought dulled by the chemical rush to their brains the smell induces, and will act on impulse.
Of course, your scent is utilized as a justification for being so persistent. You came out like this, didn't you? Aren't you looking for fun? You're probably really horny right now, aren't you? Hm? No? Well, you're obviously just being coy, you can't not be horny right now, right? Come home with him.
He'll grab onto your wrist. You see his pupils dilate. It's only getting more intense the longer he stands there and keeps breathing you in. And even screaming for help will only draw the attention of more men. You have to either look for a distraction, try to beg for his understanding, or fight your way out... or just give in.
It becomes less of a hassle to simply stay in, pay up and buy delivery services for groceries and takeout. But you still have to be careful, make sure to choose the options that let them set it outside the door. You've seen far too many headlines about some poor girl in that time of month opening the door for a delivery man and, well, he just sort of gets overwhelmed, and it's just a little too easy to push through the door, pick her up, throw her onto her own couch and have his way.
It's also essentially imperative that you utilize those "request female drivers only" options on transportation service apps. You wouldn't dare get into a car with some man in this state, lest he get so turned on he starts thinking maybe whatever he wants to do to you is worth the consequences.
Well, not that there's too many consequences anyway.
It's not that men aren't expected to have some control over themselves, it's just that, well, the world is already so sympathetic with them when they fail to demonstrate that control, and this is just another factor that massively compounds the degree to which they're perpetually absolved of accountability.
Thus you have to be careful. The risk is severely heightened by the fact that the law is extremely lenient towards them, giving them very little to fear.
If the matter was merely harassment, groping, or some other kind of forced, non-penetrative contact, you'll be laughed out of the police station for even bringing it to them. But even if it's something worse, well. It's not as if they're explicitly permitted to let it go automatically, but past cases have set a very obvious precedent. You'll initially be encouraged to simply either forget it or to accept the man's — as the violent act is retroactively referred to by police — "advances," and turn it into a relationship. The police force itself is overwhelmingly male-dominated, as being a woman in that field is nightmarish under the circumstances, so they're wholly inclined to empathize with your assailant.
The latter is especially likely if the man himself expresses desire for that outcome. See, look, he did it because he likes you. He was just having a natural chemical reaction to your smell, on top of the already famously hard-to-resist urges every man experiences. They understand that it was scary for you, but he did it with pure intentions, you really should try to have some empathy for his side of things, and you'll end up happy if you accept him (and save them the hassle of putting a case together).
But should you dig your heels in and insist on pursuing it in a court, it's still a waste of time. Blame is always assigned to your end— why did you go outside during that time, knowing you would draw attention? — and likewise, there's always an appeal to sympathy on the man's end, arguing that it must have been very difficult to control himself, that he must have been so overwhelmed and didn't really know what he was doing. You're told you're being heartless. You wouldn't understand what it's like. You're told you really ought to just accept the affection and make something good of it. You're making a scene and embarrassing everyone and yourself for no good reason.
And think about how much it must hurt his feelings, with you here trying to punish him for something he didn't really have good control over. And God forbid your country has jury trials. There's basically no point in even pursuing the matter when the entire male population is automatically going to empathize with your attacker.
Endless occupations are affected too, with an endless ongoing cultural debate as to whether or not it's even safe or reasonable to have female occupying certain roles, if you should be allowed (or forced) to take those days off, if you should be paid if you do, and, of course, the occasional, timeless assertion that you shouldn't be working at all.
It's hard to be completely unaffected in the vast majority of roles. Good luck working in customer service or healthcare. Most countries implement a form of leave where you're paid half-wage for the few days off. Others force you to just either go unpaid for those days, or show up anyway and be endlessly harassed and hounded by patients and customers. More compassionate managers will ensure you're resigned to roles in the back on those days, computer-related work or paperwork where you won't have to actually interact with the public.
Not that it's just for your sake, though. Some people may file complaints with your manager or supervisor about how inappropriate it is to have you working and overwhelming your customers and patients. In the customer service end, male clientele complain that it's a marketing tactic designed to make them distracted and dazed so that they buy more.
There's a perpetual caution you have to exhibit. Make sure you don't lag behind at the end of the day after work in the office or storeroom or the like. It would be unfortunate if that one coworker that's a little too friendly towards you notices.
Not that it begins in the working world — it's already a looming threat in school, especially if you mature early. Your teachers contact your parents to tell them you're being a distraction to the boys in class by... existing at the wrong time and all, ask them if they can set up some kind of arrangement where you do schoolwork from home so you don't pose a disturbance to the class... and so that your classmates don't pose a threat to you. The school would hate to be liable for any, ah, incidents.
You would have to be so incredibly careful if you did show up, after all. Even if you so much as get up to go to the bathroom, teachers have to be careful not to let any boy get up and do the same, knowing he likely just intends to follow you. It's easier for you to just stay isolated at home when the scent becomes an issue.
Older teen boys are so very famously pumped full of hormones and lacking impulse control even compared to their twenty-and-up counterparts, and the whole thing is very new to them as well. Most have never been exposed to this stimulus before, it's very overwhelming for their poor sensitive minds and bodies. It's really not that poor boy's fault that he did those things to his classmate (or, in plenty of cases, the teacher, if you're foolish enough to become one). He didn't know any better.
Scent becomes highly fetishized in general. In the same way men make vulgar comments and stereotypes about how specific types, ages, sizes or origins of women look or act a certain way, they also develop stereotypes, along with whole new sets of vocabulary, to describe their smells. They create derogatory slang terms to describe the smell of ovulation. They call out to make raunchy, sexual comments to women in public about how they can smell them from over there or how they smell to get reactions of anger or embarrassment.
Because it's so much more evident and right in their faces (literally), men as a collective are much more aware of your hormonal phases on a cultural level, the matter is brought up with increased frequency amongst themselves and in society-wide cultural dialogue.
Men take to forums and social media and podcasts arguing about how it's incredibly unfair that they are expected to behave normally when confronted with such stimulus, how women need to begin taking responsibility for choosing to go outside like that and stop shaming the male sex for reacting very reasonably to it.
How it's literally just nature, it's how they're supposed to act in response. It's literally your body begging to get fucked, and their brains are hardwired to oblige. Do you understand you're literally telling them to go against nature? What if they told you to just not eat when you're starving, or to not breathe? It's giving them conflicting commands at the same time.
Similarly, the phenomenon is used to further delegitimize your autonomy and any power within society. Your body literally routinely emits an olfactory message that essentially advertises to the world that you need to be bred and impregnated, and you concern yourself with trying to obtain money or power in life? That's never going to happen, not only because the collective as a societal force will ensure it doesn't, but because drawing too much attention to yourself in any attempt to do so will inevitably lead to very bad things happening to you, unless you shut yourself away for days at a time every month, which would then also make career success near-impossible.
Nor do they have sympathy for cases of matters gone wrong.
She knew what she was doing, they say. That girl wouldn't have agreed to go study in a boy's dorm or accept that guy's offer for a ride home at that time of the month if she didn't intend for things to end up like that. It may have been okay any other time of month, and then the guy would have been in the wrong, but come on. Be serious. You can't blame him in that situation.
She surely knew her own hormonal cycle well enough that she could have planned ahead and not ended up in that situation if she had wanted to avoid it. Besides, if she was ovulating, she definitely wanted it too. That's how ovulating works, it's why stupid decisions come alongside it.
And if you really wanted to prevent something bad happening to you, so it's often said, you'd just get a boyfriend or a husband who would make other men back off. Issue solved. It's really incredible how stupid you are, you would rather practically run around with a target on their head than date a guy.
Besides, if you don't have one and you do get dragged into a back alley or drugged in a club or followed home and your house broken into by some man who can't resist the smell and has to feel your insides... well, that's nature's way of giving you a boyfriend. The natural world isn't nice, but that's just how things are.
But it goes beyond just the arousal from the biological indicators of your smell, and isn't limited to ovulating pheromones — men can also memorize your unique, individual smell, just like they can recognize your face or voice.
When the man that's been watching you decides it's finally time to meet in-person, he doesn't need to pay too close of attention to try and gauge which apartment unit you walk into. He can just enter the hall and trace which door your scent leads to.
And these matters are not entirely derogatory, you know. Sometimes it's sweet. He'll tell you when he pins you down onto your bed, buries his face into the crook of your neck. How you smell so nice, how it has him completely entranced. That he first noticed you from a distance because he could smell you and how eager your body is to be bred.
How he couldn't resist doing this. How he wants to stay pressed against you and breathe you in forever. How you're going to smell so good when you're pregnant — that has a unique scent to it too, you know. How he wants to keep you for himself so no one else gets to look at you, breathe in your scent, touch you.
You feel him take deep, heavy breaths against your skin, savoring the stimulus. You can always resist, but he knows better than to believe what comes out of your mouth when the smells pouring off your body tell him how much you want it, anyway.
AHAHAHA no I haven't yet but I will!! I'm very determined to get to it, I've considered heading up there for a while now for a total Southern pilgrimage — Bass Pro Pyramid, Dollywood, Grand Ole Oprey... it will be like collecting the triforce and at the end I gain new redneck powers
My grandpa a few generations back was actually a cowboy! He had to flee Alabama in the 1860s, so he hid out in what is now Montana and Alberta, committed a bunch of crime there then came back to the South once the dust had settled a few decades later. So I was thinking of him and took this in the outlaw direction instead of the standard rancher direction lol (and of course had to base some of it on Red Dead).
//OC, female reader, DARK CONTENT, noncon, violence, abduction, death scare, physical abuse, belting, degrading language, guns, gendered themes in parts
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The West is not called 'wild' without reason.
Law enforcement is uncommon, sparse, ineffective, and highly corrupt, most more than willing to overlook even egregious crimes for a small sum as bribery. It's not hard to get away with just about anything.
The crowds the new frontier attracts throughout the nineteenth century are often unsavory. Even the best of them are largely people with nothing to their name, drawn by the potential to achieve wealth — people with nothing to lose, no reason to not take risks or get a little violent and underhanded to achieve what they want, no reason to abide by laws that won't be enforced anyway.
Then there's fugitive secesh fleeing the collapse of the South, emboldened by their loss of everything they had, endued with a penchant for cruelty and a bitter score to settle with any perceived ideological enemies, and then there's the pure low-lifes that make up the remainder of the emerging population — criminals wanting a place to run amok with as little repercussion as possible, often forming gangs to better maximize their capacity for criminality.
Regardless, this doesn't stop poor families from the main civilization trying to establish businesses on the frontier or find work on the railroads, or the influx of newly-arrived Europeans of various national origins forming their small towns and farms in the prairie. Normal people lead fragile lives, constantly forced to navigate around the dangers of the more unpleasant fates they could meet at the hands of equally unpleasant men.
The sex ratio likewise makes it an unwise choice for lone females to be residing in the area as a whole. It's a man's world, and out here, it's a man's hell. Many of the railroad towns are filled with young men seeking a future, or sending money to their parents at home, and many areas are nearly devoid of young women, other than some prostitutes that come out to the area for that very reason.
But with the lack of law enforcement, it could also be viewed as a man's paradise. One can essentially get away with anything, should they find some poor vulnerable woman on her own. It's a matter of perspective, really.
You're just forced to take risks. It's part of life. You know that you're an ideal target, but living out here was ultimately a step up from your previous circumstances. More opportunities, just with added risk alongside it. You're truly aware of the risks of the world you live in, but you can't let fear paralyze you from potentially moving up in life.
These smaller frontier towns, based on small mines or trade outposts that won't last, they come and go, they thrive and then they die as the centers of business and trade shift rapidly. The one you initially settled into is already beginning to decline, as a larger mine has been found in a new area further to the west, thus drawing young men to a wholly different route along the frontier.
You decide the only way to secure a future is to travel to one of the big frontier towns, one of the ones that remains a consistent trading hub for the entire regional economy, and not just a temporary settlement based on a finite mine. You can work at a saloon or maybe a post office, or another of the admittedly narrow range of occupations for a young woman available outside of the usual housewife-and-mother fate that leaves them powerless to the will of some man. Eventually you can meet a nice man there and settle down in a homestead, you like to imagine, having a secure amount of money of your own to leverage fair treatment.
It won't take longer than a day and a half by foot. You can take enough water to get by, and sleep out beneath the stars for just one night. The chances of something bad actually happening are low. You probably won't even encounter anyone at all, you tell yourself.
Still, the open land always makes you feel uneasy. There's no forest to take cover in. Just empty plains and a small path in the dirt and looming mountains in the distance, a seemingly endless stretch of vast, empty prairie, only disrupted by the occasional bird flying overhead. It's beautiful... but there's something about it that makes you feel small, scared, vulnerable.
At least the sky is overcast, protecting you from the blazing sun. And because of the vast emptiness of it all, you're aware of the other human presence in the distance for a while before you actually encounter each other.
You see him first as a dot on the horizon. It takes a few minutes before you're certain it's a living being and not just some sort of rock or bush. He starts to get bigger, you begin to make out the shape, the rhythmic gait of the horse.
There's no point in you doing anything. There's no reason to assume a random man has ill intent. You're not that paranoid.
And even if you wanted to, it's not like there's anywhere to hide.
You continue along your way for another ten minutes or so. Given that you're on foot and he's on a horse, he's closing in on you faster than you're approaching him. You keep your eyes on your weary feet, but you can see him getting closer in your peripheral vision. The shapes and colors become clearer. You can hear the faint yet distinct clip-clop sound of hooves on the dirt.
But he's still a man, a stranger. You keep your gaze to the ground, just to soothe the slight feeling of wariness in your mind, to deter any potential confrontation. You don't think you look like you have anything valuable on you, so even a robber would likely view you as not worth the trouble.
You keep your head down when you finally pass by each other. To your left, you see a quick mass of brown fur and a spurred boot in a stirrup pass by your face. Your heartbeat begins to quicken, just ever so slightly, but the steed and occupant both pass you by without a word.
A few seconds pass. Your feet leave a small imprint on the dust with each step you take further in your direction. The sound of four-legged steps is audibly getting more distant with each passing second.
And then, from behind you, the rhythm of the hoof-beat is disrupted. There's a few soft thumps in quick succession against the dirt, a gentle grunt from the horse's throat. The sound begins to grow louder, closer again.
You stumble to a halt as the mass of the animal swings in front of you, forcing you to stop in your tracks. You stagger backwards, clutching your hands up to your chest, instinctively tilting your gaze upward to look at the source of the interruption.
It makes a sensation of cold run through your blood.
You can't see most of his face, obscured by the bandana tied around the back of his head, draped across the bridge of his nose. His head tilts down to look at you, his hat creating a shadow over what little of his features are visible to you.
You don't like what you can see. The eyes are cold, hardened, emanating a palpable malice. A grayish-blue that seems to pierce through your heart, a dullness to them, void of light.
What're you doing out here?
His voice isn't any less unpleasant. It's harsh, deep, and only made more threatening by a low rasp induced by what must be years of heavy smoking.
Your eyes are wide. You're certain you must look terrified. You shake your head, hands clasped together and held up to your chest in an instinctive defensive gesture. You say you're only headed to town. You're just looking for new work is all.
There's a few moments of silence. You flinch with the sudden movement and harsh sound as he swings out of the saddle, feet hitting the ground in one smooth, routine-perfected motion.
Maybe if you were in a town, you'd scream or run. Maybe you wouldn't just stand there, paralyzed in panic.
But the awareness of your surroundings — rather, lack of surroundings — is a weight on your shoulders. It only heightens your dread. The conscious awareness of your own vulnerability and helplessness chokes you like a hand around your throat. There's nowhere to run.
But he moves so fast that you wouldn't have had time anyway.
His hand moves in a flash even faster than the dismount. You feel cold metal press to your forehead. There's a click. Your body goes completely stiff.
Down.
There's no room in your brain or time for anything but blank, cold panic, no conscious thoughts or internal dialogue.
You barely even process your own actions. Obeying the voice, you knees hit the dirt and you can't seem to breathe, your chest burns and every muscle in your body feels tight.
You eyes squeeze shut. You cry out with the harsh boot to your back, forcing you down flat.
His hands are rough and calloused, but they move quickly, binding your wrists behind your back and your feet together at the ankle. The bag you had over your shoulder, containing what little you had in this world, is snatched up out of your frame of sight. You wince at the sharp pain as a rope burns against your skin with friction, you try to turn your head to keep the dirt out of them. You stiffen and thrash when his hands grasp your head, but a few harsh, jerking motions get your mouth bound up as well with ease, thick rope between your teeth.
A pitiful little sound comes out of your throat as you're dragged back upwards. You grunt with the impact as your stomach hits the horse's back, knocking the breath out of you. You can't form words with the rope in your mouth, but you begin to cry out in panic, sounds that don't need words to express your sentiments.
The horse shifts with the added weight as he climbs back on, keeping one hand latched onto your bound wrists, but not even so much as acknowledging your distress and confusion. There's a click of the tongue, and you feel yourself begin to move, far too fast for comfort. You fear you're going to fall off, but his hand, reaching back behind him to hold onto your clothing, keeps you steady.
Your heart doesn't stop pounding, but there's now at least enough time to process what's happening to you. The fear shifts — the initial panic was an instinct, a primal reaction without conscious thought, but what overcomes you now is a sense of dread and terror, driven by your active thoughts. Your life flashes before you, whatever plan you had for your future shattered in an instant, contemplating each of the unpleasant possibilities of your immediate fate. You could be sold to someone else, you could be held captive, or in the worst case scenario, he could simply be looking to rob you and just wanted to get to a more remote location to ensure no one finds your body.
You're left to think for far too long, the passage of time itself a form of torture as the uncertainty leaves you nauseous, agonized by your own helplessness. You don't want to face whatever is coming, but you don't want the wait to go on any more. You keep your eyes open, staring out into the horizon as the sun begins to set, as if maybe, maybe someone else will show up, some other human soul will appear in the backdrop of the open prairie and gray skies.
No one does. You have to swallow the urge to vomit as you come to a halt, a makeshift campground in a shallow cave in the mountainside in your peripheral vision. You're grabbed by the back of your dress in one hand, a fistful of hair in the other, dragged off the horse with the same harshness with which you were forced on, set firmly onto a mat already laid out on the ground, squirming helplessly before the shadow his figure casts over you through the path of the faint rays of the setting sun.
There's no words exchanged, other than a gruff warning to hold still. He kneels down, unties your legs and shoves your thighs apart.
He's not nice in bed. Well, mat, rather, a rolled-out padding for sleep providing some softness and barrier between the hard ground and your bodies. Your clothes are pulled off without grace, your body penetrated without notice or preparation, dry friction causing you to wince. You hiss in a gasp of air between clenched teeth in pain.
His jeans stay on, unzipped and spread apart for his cock. The denim rubs against the soft flesh of your ass with each thrust. The belt buckle makes a clacking sound as it bounces against itself in rhythm with the motions.
Much like him bringing you to this place to begin with, it all happens so quickly it barely feels real. You don't know this man. You know nothing about him other than the fact that he ripped you from your life at gunpoint and is now balls deep inside of you. His hand is on your throat. You don't know his name. He's hurting you. It burns. It's too deep, it's too rough, and whatever pleasurable sensation you might have been otherwise able to feel is drowned out by your fear.
There's a quietness once it's over, when the only sound left is your heavy breaths. You flinch as his hand grasps your jaw with crushing firmness.
He says he's keeping you. He says you're staying with him now. He says you're going to do what he tells you to. He says he doesn't want to hear you bitching about it.
You're gon' be real good for me from now on, you hear?
You frantically nod your head.
You can see the slight grin on his face in response to your compliance and evident fear, even in the fading light. With the bandana removed, you can see his masculine features more clearly — broad jaw, dry crackled lips that part to teeth stained by tobacco snuff, stubble growing across his lower face from what appears to be maybe a day or two since the last shave, some scarring on one side. Maybe in his mid-thirties. A face reflective of a rough, unforgiving lifetime, one unlikely to treat you with any mercy — if he's ever even come to know the concept himself.
The quiet is crushing, awkwardness only outweighed by tension and unease. You lay shivering — the cold, the overwhelming stimulus and intensity of everything, the fact that you're still terrified — as you watch him move around. You only find the courage to speak as you watch him begin to rummage through your bag.
That's... that's mine...
A cold glare shuts you up. You watch helplessly as your belongings are sorted.
Nothing of much value, which sprouts a visible disappointment on his face. Only a change of clothes, basic hygiene items, a canteen of water, and a packet containing the last paycheck you picked up earlier that day before leaving your old town — that's the only object that gets transferred to the saddle bag, the rest gets stuffed back into your bag and tossed beside the bed.
He sits back down, pulls out a flask. Drags you upright. Presses the tip to your mouth. You're not bold enough to be defiant, and you squeeze your eyes shut and drink, gulping down slow swigs until he pulls away. The liquor burns running down your throat, and it hits your stomach like a punch. You assume it's to keep you good and still and ensure you sleep rather than keeping him up with what would otherwise undoubtedly be a restless night for you.
A few moments of quiet pass. Part of you wants to look away, but you can't find yourself doing anything but the opposite, some defensive instinct commanding you to keep your eyes glued to what registers as a threat, a predator, an enemy. You watch him rummage through his own pockets, stuffing his lower lips with tobacco snuff from a tin. It explains the smell he gives off, you think to yourself, a mixture of tobacco, smoke, and that sort of distinct musk of an outdoorsy man. It's not overwhelming, if anything you're used to quite a lot of men with similar scents in your world, but they're generally not so close up.
He lays next to you as if you've known each other forever, no sense of hesitancy in wrapping an arm around you to pull you close. As if he's already fully accepted and adjusted to the arrangement he's determined. You stiffen against his hold, but even if he notices, he doesn't seem to care.
You jolt when he speaks again. You can feel the rumbling of his chest against your face as he speaks. He asks you what your name is.
You hesitate, only for a moment, before you murmur out an answer.
Mm.
The affirmative hum is all you get for a moment before he replies with his own.
He says something more, after a few more moments pass, but it's hard to make out. The alcohol begins to work as intended, as you soon find yourself lulled into unconsciousness, held firm to the new, unfamiliar warmth by your side, fluid still leaking out between your legs.
Your head throbs when you wake. There's a stirring beside you, motion jostling you into consciousness. The sun has just risen, climbing higher into the sky.
But what really wakes you up is the hand latching into your hair, pulling you upright, dragging you forward to tie your legs shut again.
You're gonna stay right here today. His voice is just as firm as it was the night before, hand clutching your face again, holding it in place. If I see you tried to get out of this when I come back, I'll hurt you. Got that?
Thus you realize, with sickness in your stomach, against some faint hope in the back of your head as you rested, it was all, in fact, real. In the full light, you now see his unclothed arms against his huge frame, biceps nearly the size of your head, muscle flexing beneath the skin. The promise of hurting you suddenly seems that much more grim.
You nod your head again.
Good.
You feel yourself begin to panic again as he releases his grip, dragging his shirt back on, pausing a moment to work up the buttons. You realize he's leaving. You stammer out a question as to where.
Out.
It's the only answer to that question you're going to get. You try another angle, asking when he'll return.
Today. Later.
There's a slight irritation to his voice with the second answer, as if your questions are unnecessary or obnoxious. You swallow.
Can I have my clothes ba—
No. I'm leavin' now. Be good.
You clamp your jaw shut, not willing to risk upsetting this man who is still all but a stranger. You watch silently as he rides off into the distance. You're only at the edge of the mountain range, the otherwise flat horizon allows you to keep track of him for quite some time until he finally gets too far away to see.
The passing of the day is scarier than you would have anticipated, the fear itself staving off what might otherwise be boredom. You thought you'd be grateful for his absence, yet the stillness and quietness feels threatening in a way it didn't before. It doesn't combine well with your restricted movement.
What if he abandons you? Just decides on a whim he doesn't want to bother coming back and leaves you to die? What if he gets arrested or killed in whatever venture he's on now? What happens to you then?
And more importantly — what should you do?
It occurs to you that it's almost absurd to think you'd actually just stay here and wait instead of at least trying to break free. You must at least look at your options. You've been left alone with nothing but the sleeping pallet, the ropes that bind you, and what appears to be a blackened pail for cooking over a fire, which has been filled with a layer of water for you. Admittedly, the thirst is beginning to become overwhelming, and you lean down awkwardly onto your stomach to lap some of it up, bitterness and shame twisting in your gut at the thought that he likely took some degree of enjoyment in the notion that you'd be drinking out of this like an animal.
You resolve yourself to scraping your bindings against the rock. It's the only thing you can think to do. Maybe, just maybe you can wear it down. If you can free your hands, you can untie your feet, then you can get up and... run, go in the opposite direction, run into the mountains and try to get back on the road at a later point. Make makeshift clothes out of... something. Anything. Hitchhike. Anything feels like a better option than staying still.
You bite your lip as you shift in your place. Your insides are still sore, they ache and burn with each movement. You blink away the tears that form as the feeling of shame and humiliation from the night before comes back into the forefront of your mind.
But you keep going. Push the pain away mentally, the pain from your insides, the awkward pull against your muscles from the positioning against the rock, and the burn of your muscles as you keep going and going, not relenting in your efforts. You think you begin to make progress in wearing at the rope.
You jolt to a halt when you hear it. It's very faint, distant, but distinct — the bang-bang-bang of shots in the air. A few minutes pass. A flock of birds appears in the same direction as your captor disappeared into, flying speed rushed with startle.
Something about that sound makes you feel a newfound wariness. It makes you feel like you should stop. Like you're afraid of the possibility of him returning and seeing what you're doing. He could technically come a different way than he left, and suddenly appear around the side of the concave formation in the mountainside. You wouldn't want him catching you like this.
But even though that notion turns out not to be correct, it's not long before you see him coming back, anyway. You have nothing better to do than watch, so you notice very quickly as he emerges in your vision again. You lay still, keeping your gaze fixed to the ground as he approaches, your heart beating faster as he grows closer again.
It's okay, you tell yourself. You will get away from this unwell man. He'll have to leave again at some point. You'll keep working on it little by little whenever he's gone and you'll pick the right time to escape. It will be fine.
He dismounts and makes his way to you.
Alright, turn over.
You stiffen.
...Mm...?
You don't get a second command. His hands grab you by the shoulder, jerking you with a harsh motion that rolls you onto your stomach with a grunt.
You realize what he's doing. You didn't think he'd bother to check closely. Your heart rate spikes in an instant. You stammer out some timid plea of wait, wait—
But it's too late.
That's a lot of damage.
You feel him tug at the frayed pieces of the rope.
You squirm. You stammer. Wait, no, I didn't— I didn't do any—
You thought I was bluffing, is that it?
No! No, I don't—
You recognize the sound above you. His belt is coming undone. You squirm and thrash, but his boot on your back keeps you firmly in place.
You squeal and cry out when it strikes you. Your ass, your hips, the back of your thighs. You lurch forward, your body writhes and struggles. He keeps his free hand on your head, forcing you bent over one of the low rock formations on the ground. The pain is so intense it wipes your brain of any coherent thought, mind blank of anything but panic and instinctive reaction of desperate struggle, every muscle in your body fighting to pull away, to no avail. Your cries echo into the empty distance. He hits hard. No trace of mercy or lenience. It goes on longer than reasonable, longer than a man in normal society would punish a wife or child the same way. So hard you can't even apologize, your mouth can't form the words to say you're sorry, you only wail and scream and sob.
You can barely make out what he's saying. Something about how he'll teach you to listen. That you're going to learn real fast that he's not going to be merciful with you. That he doesn't fuck around with his threats. That one way or another, you're going to be learn to be good for him.
By the time it's over, you're gasping for breath. Snot and tears run down your face. Your backside burns, a heat radiating off of your bare flesh even as everything goes still.
He grasps a fistful of your hair. Jerks your head backwards.
You gonna disobey me again?
You shake your head and cry.
You're so overwhelmed you don't process the further sounds that follow for a moment, don't think about what he's doing now. You shiver, your chest and shoulders heave with each gasp for breath, staring forward into the distance, too stupefied to notice him get on his knees behind you — you scream when he shoves himself inside in one harsh thrust.
It stings on your sore flesh as he fucks you, hips bouncing off your ass. Nearly all the fight you might have had has been already wiped out, but you still squirm, still whimper. He keeps a grip on your hands still bound behind you, using it as a handle to bounce you on his cock.
He mutters as he thrusts into you, speech slurred by motion and intensity of sensation, rambling mindlessly. You know. This is really nice. Your insides clench so hard on him. He loves the shape of your body. This is a nice way to relieve all the tensions from the day.
It gets lonely out here, you know? People are so hostile towards him, since all he's ever doing is robbing and killing people. He doesn't get warmth. He doesn't get the gentleness and softness a man is supposed to get from a woman. Men need that to stay sane, you know? They go crazy without something soft and warm and affectionate to take all their violence and rage and love them anyway. Something to keep them human.
That's why you're going to give him that, he tells you. He looks down at you when it's over, still buried inside you, tilting your head back to look him in the eye.
You're going to give him warmth. Even if he has to beat it out of you. You're going to give him love. You're going to be good.
You clearly didn't understand the first time. But you'll learn. You will be good for him.
It all becomes part of the routine very quickly, the second and third day. He leaves for a short time, returns with a new satchel or saddlebag or wallet in hand, filled with valuables to sort out.
Lots of fools running down these roads, he says, when you ask about it. He's not hesitant to elaborate on what he does — he seems to take quite a bit of pride in it even, a smug grin on his face as he elaborates, eyes fixated on the hard cash he's sorting in his hands. Rich idiots come barrelling down the road in their fancy stagecoaches, poor ones in their covered wagons. Even the ones who are armed usually aren't paying good attention, and a surprising portion don't bother to bring a gun at all. They put their hands up and hand over everything they have without much of a fight. They're all so stupid.
He turns to you and smirks.
But I think you're 'bout the dumbest one I ever did see, girl.
Your expression contorts in embarrassment and fury. You jerk your head to the side as your eyes water, grinding your teeth as he laughs at your reaction.
It's your own fault for being so endearing, he adds, after a few moments of pause. Most people at least have the courtesy to look up and give a friendly nod of acknowledgement when passing someone on the open road. If you'd done that, he might have been too lost in his own thoughts to do anything to you. It wouldn't have crossed his mind to do what he did.
But you, how you dipped your head down and kept your gaze to the ground, so meek and timid and so very obviously afraid — it was just too cute.
Seeing you like that, the realization that you were scared, wary of some big strong man you didn't know, well, it caught his attention. It made him think about why. Made him wonder exactly what you were afraid of him doing to you.
And that gave him the idea.
It was your fault, really. All you had to do was give a polite smile or something. But you chose to keep your head down and make him think about what you were scared of and got his mind running. Lured him and seduced him with the implicit promise of getting to see your fear.
The words are too much for you. You curl up, burying your face into your knees. He isn't cruel enough to keep taunting you further.
But you make no progress on escape, regardless. From the first incident onward, you learn quickly, to your dismay, that there's just never enough time to fully break out of your restraints in the gaps of time that he's gone. You try several more times, and you meet the same results with each attempt. You become too afraid of the punishment to dare attempting the act.
Eventually, after a few days, you can't stay out in the open anymore. He's out of food, the hunting here isn't good enough, and needs to pawn off the valuables he's collected. You'll have to venture into a town.
And that means you're going to be nice and quiet and compliant.
You don't want some poor soul to get their head blasted off because of you, do you? No? There's tears in your eyes as you shake your head. If you don't want that to happen, then you're going to be good.
In a way, compliance feels wrong. It's unnatural that you're just going along with it, letting him lift you up onto the saddle, sitting still. It would be so easy to fight back. Your hands aren't bound, you could take off and start running into the prairie. You could fight him.
But you know how futile such an attempt would be. You know it's not worth the pain that would follow. Thus you find yourself getting dressed (as you're finally allowed to), wrapping your arms around his torso from behind, clinging to his frame as you travel.
You'll have to go a bit of a journey to get to where you're going. He can't stop at towns where he's already known to authorities, he says.
For your sake.
You hesitate before you ask what he means. He shrugs.
What, you want to get shot at? He'll take risks when it's just himself, but it would be much harder to deal with enemies or law enforcement opening fire on him if he's got to watch out for the both of you. It's safer to travel a further distance, he's done combing this area anyway, and at this rate the law will be coming down the trails to hunt him any day now. He's protecting you.
There's a few moments of quiet. The horse's hooves are heavy on the dirt with each step.
I said, I'm protecting you. Little gratitude wouldn't hurt.
You stiffen. You don't mean it in slightest, but the thanks comes out of your mouth anyway, purely by fear of the implicit threat to his tone.
Most of the journey under the blazing sun goes by silently. You don't even realize how much you've missed civilization the last few days until you see signs of it. It's not the town you were headed towards before all of this, but it's nice to see other humans and a bustling public space.
At the same time, none of it feels right. There's something almost surreal about going around in public normally — you tie the horse to a public rack with the others, you let him hold your waist as you dismount, you begin walking wherever he's guiding you — with him. The two don't fit together. The sensation of normalcy from the town itself and the conscious awareness of the man's presence, of your own unwilling state and extreme predicament, the fact that no one around you knows what's happening to you, it makes it all feel unnatural, wrong.
He takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. You almost wish you could believe it was a gesture of affection, and not effectively a leash.
You pass by law enforcement on your path. A few sheriff's underlings leaning against a fence and chatting amongst themselves.
There's a squeeze on your hand. A silent warning, just in case you get any ideas. You pass them by without issue.
You watch him pawn off the various items in his possession to a shop owner who clearly knows not to ask questions. You get to sit down and eat at a saloon, have a meal that isn't stale canned goods or raw meat roasted over a campfire for the first time in a few days.
Everything else was so overwhelming, you didn't even really notice how hungry you've been. You scarf it down without regard for table manners — which isn't a big deal, seeing as it's very evident he has none himself. He even lets you choose what you get.
You order something a little expensive out of spite, but he seems to let it slide. He makes some awkward small talk about how the town has really taken off since the last time he robbed a place here.
And no one around you knows a thing. No one is aware you're not with him by choice.
Your eyes flicker over to the people around you, as if there might be some miracle that would allow you to ask for help without him knowing. But of course, no such thing comes.
And he's aware of your awkwardness, your desperation, your uncertainty of what to do. He knows you're looking for an opportunity. He knows you're debating in your mind if you should make some move. You can see it in his own eyes, fixated on you like a hawk. His voice lowers for a moment, amidst what was otherwise a casual tone.
Don't think I won't kill everyone in this place if you try some stupid shit.
You clench your jaw and nod.
No opportunity ever comes. You're taken back to the inn. He pays the front desk with your paycheck he took.
You get to feel your back on an actual bed again, but it's only with your thighs pressed up to your shoulders. It feels as if he thrusts even harder now, the soft surface providing easier fluid motions, hips rolling with each slam into your body. His fingers pinch at your nipples with careless roughness.
He runs his fingers over the top of his head, brushing back any hair from covering his vision. He smiles down at you with that same cruel grin you've come to hate.
You're not fighting back so hard anymore. You starting to like this?
You know it's the desired response. You know he likes it when you fight. But your fury gets the better of you anyway. You snarl and thrash and struggle.
There you go.
He says you clamp down more firmly when you're fighting. He says it makes you cum harder too. He says so many things that make tears pool in your eyes, that make you claw at his unyielding hand on your throat. You hate knowing you're reacting as he wants you to. You hate that it feels like there's nothing you can do in response that he won't enjoy.
You hate the unsubtle mockery in the way he tells you you were good afterwards, thanking you for making it so enjoyable. You really are adorable.
He forces you to take the side of the bed against the wall, ensuring you can't escape. He snuffs out the provided oil lamp on the bedside table. His massive arms keep your body caged to his.
He tells you he's glad he took you. You're shaping up to be a good little brood sow.
The routine begins to solidify from that day on. Everything begins to blur. You go from town to town in between stays in the open West, reaping the exploits of the crime that keeps you fed and grants you the occasional stay in the inns. You adjust to it all. You become numb to the knowledge that your life is now sustained by violence and wrongdoing against other people.
He starts to feel normal.
You don't jolt when you wake up to him by your side. The strong odor of tobacco and smoke no longer makes you feel nauseous. The taste of it on his mouth doesn't make you cringe the way it initially did. You still wrinkle your nose in disgust whenever he stuffs tobacco snuff into his lower lip or spits it out onto the ground, but you're growing less sensitive to it regardless.
You get used to the humiliation that comes with any physical intercourse you have together. For someone so intent on receiving your affections, he doesn't seem to make any effort to achieve it from you naturally, instead demanding that affection from you in spite of his rough treatment. It's always very sudden, harsh, forceful. It gets to a point where he can undo his belt, pull his cock out and shove it inside of you in a matter of seconds.
The degree to which it soothes him actually quite the discovery on his end. It's almost therapeutic to be able to take out any residual stress on your tight little holes, your soft skin and fragile body. It's one of those matters where he didn't even really notice just how much pent-up stress and tension he had until he had an outlet to take it out on, and had no idea how relieving it would feel. He's a much happier man than he was before.
Your struggling doesn't really affect that. If anything, it makes the whole thing more intense. He loves feeling you claw at the ground and try to pull yourself off from the pain of how deeply he's spearing you, he loves the exertion of tension in jerking back against that resistance, slamming you back onto him, hearing you squeal.
It's not as if you get to deny him warmth and kindness in the end anyway. Once it's over, you'll hold onto him and bury your face against his chest regardless.
You will. Or he'll hurt you. And then you will do it anyway. It's just a matter of how much resistance needs to be beaten and fucked out of you before you do what he wants. And you learn that quickly. Soon you act as he wants you to without having to be told.
You get used to his presence on a social level, the sorts of conversations you have. He's not particularly talkative, but when he does speak with you, it's rarely without unwarranted comments of amusement on your weakness or demeanor or lack of knowledge. He likes how you pout and sulk. It's cute.
But surprisingly, you find he doesn't ask you questions about your life before. It occurs to you one day that he's never asked you what you were doing, where you came from, what your life was like and what your plans were. You eventually bring it up one day as you cling to him from behind on the saddle — he only shrugs. It's better to just leave it alone and let you forget about it. Thinking about the past only makes you more resistant.
Not like it matters now, yeah?
Likewise, you end up asking him to tell you about his life — a subject that, instead of the same attitude of apathy given to the previous subject, earns a quiet stiffening of his shoulders. He spits the tobacco out of his mouth onto the dirt with a scowl.
Nothing worth telling.
There's a palpable bitterness lying just beneath the abrasive shift to his tone. You decide it's better to not push that any further.
You learn more about him than you'd like to know anyway.
You know he gets angry easily. The slightest disobedience is met with harsh punishment, and any semblance of getting an attitude, as he calls it, leaves you sleeping on your stomach for days. You learn to watch your mouth, refraining from any sarcastic or spiteful comments. Even when he's in a good mood, a single misspoken word of defiance or sourness on your end can flip him like a switch, eyes narrowing with a furious spit of tobacco onto the ground before asking you who the fuck you think you're talkin' to, grabbing you by the hair to pull you forward for whatever punishment you've earned.
Nor is that anger just directed at you. He gets irritated when talking about much of anything — the world, the state of society, other people, the law enforcement. He always thinks the pawn shops are undercutting him, while the stores are trying to gut him.
You know what he wants. He likes you being sweet. Not in a fake way, of course — any attempts at being a little too eager or nice earn you accusations of being manipulative, and some form of punishment on par with that otherwise reserved for defiance.
He likes some sort of middle ground, you come to understand. A sort of state where you don't pretend you asked for any of this or are happy about it, but you end up leaning into him anyway, driven by sheer human nature, the natural tendency to adjust to your circumstances and yearn for human contact.
The way you end up shuffling close to him at night while the fire crackles before you, leaning to rest against his side, only slightly flinching when his arm wraps around your shoulders. The way you end up washing his clothes and tending to the horse while he leans back in rest against a rock or stump, watching you with observant eyes, shrugging when you get a defensive tone and say you have nothing better to do, but you grind your teeth at the faint smirk on his face nonetheless.
The way you wake up with your arms and legs draped over his body, clinging to him in the cold of the night, and scramble backwards when he makes some sly comment about how you can't stay off of him.
Or the way you try to resist looking when you get the opportunity to finally bathe when you stay at the inns. Absent-mindedly, you find your eyes trailing down, grazing over the toned muscle and scarred flesh of his body, not realizing you're staring until he clicks his tongue to draw you out of your stupor. You feel hot shame twist in your gut when he grins at you and asks what you're looking at. You end up whimpering and whining, bent over the side of the tub, water sloshing over the sides with each harsh thrust.
The way you get some pleasure out of what he does to you, even if you won't admit it. He's not a gentle or attentive lover, he isn't going to bother himself with trying to do something specifically for your pleasure when he can just rut into you hard and fast instead and you'll quiver and squeal on his cock regardless. His hands latch onto your hips and he slams his cock into your body again and again, whenever he gets the urge, with no regard for how you might feel about it at the given moment.
He feels the fluids that drool out of your slit anyway, feels the way you shudder and clamp down, hears the involuntary moans that pour out of your throat. Those tells mean more than any words of denial that come out of your mouth, and he doesn't hesitate to bring it up to humiliate you, should you suggest you don't enjoy it. He sees the effect it has, the way you flinch and your eyes water with embarrassment and shame when you're reminded of your own body's reactions to him. That's enough to keep you quiet on that matter.
He likes those things. You hate that he likes it, you hate that you find yourself engaging in the behaviors he desires out of pure human nature and craving for social bonds. You mold yourself into the framework of a relationship he's set up, as water shifts to the shape of its container.
In the end, you do form something almost like normalcy, like a relationship. You have conversations about a wide variety of things. You learn his thoughts. He's quite stubbornly opinionated on just about everything, and despite his initial gruff demeanor, over time you start to sense he likes having someone to force to listen to those opinions.
You once, in a moment of frustration, have the nerve to ask him what is wrong with him — you expect immediate outrage, but for once you only get a slow sigh, smoke he inhaled from his pipe billowing out of his mouth as he grumbles back.
God knows, girl.
Over time, you summon the courage to begin to ask about the crime, too, during your slow horseback travels, having nothing better to do.
He shrugs, gives you irritated huffs. Why? Because it's easier than doing shit work for shit pay, that's why. You got a lot of nerve, whining about his choice of occupation when it puts food in your mouth all the same. If you're the sort of soft-hearted fool that feels bad about it, then stop asking about it and don't think about it. Easy.
You ask if he was ever in a gang. He sighs and gives you a frustrated yes. You ask why he left. He tells you he got mad at one of the other members and killed him and thus realized he's better off working solo. You ask him how many people he's ever killed. He says he has no idea. You ask him what his current bounty is with the federal authorities. He tells you he thinks you should talk less.
You grow used to it all, in a way, but you keep your mind strong. You talk to yourself in your head at night, desperately try to keep yourself from going crazy or otherwise accepting it all. Reminding yourself that you have a life to return to.
He knows better than to trust you, too. He doesn't let his guard down when you go into towns. More than once you thought you might be able to get away in the night, but once you slowly started to creep out of bed, you felt his arm shoot out, snatch you and drag you back, asking you where you think you're going. You always stammer out some excuse, but he doesn't buy it, and you end up with sore holes for the effort.
At one point, you manage to lose him, only for the briefest of moments in town. He's too busy haggling with a shopkeeper, you find yourself able to slip out the door unnoticed. You wander around for the police station, heart filled with a momentary burst of hope — but you don't even find it before a hand snatches you into an alleyway, dragging you back to the town edge with a hand over your mouth. You stay tied up and lose your 'going into town' privileges for some time.
Likewise, any conversation on what he intends to do long-term is met with no concern. You one day gather the courage to ask if he'll ever let you go.
You can't just keep me forever!
His eyebrows furrow, an expression of genuine confusion, taking a long drag of his pipe.
Don't see why not.
He never budges, never gives. It's a stubbornness you don't even know how to begin navigating, it's impenetrable. It leaves you dumbfounded and silent, unable to even come up with some kind of retort.
Occasionally, he takes you to meet with other people, people he seems to know, people whom you can tell with a single glance are of the exact same caliber of character as himself. None of them seem to have a smooth relationship with each other, a lot of conflict and tension highly evident in each interaction. It's always in shady venues, nearly-hidden rooms behind the public-facing sections of establishments, gatherings under the cover of night, generally for the exclusive purpose of gambling, drinking and the occasional return of debts.
He likes to hold you in his lap and show you off, even if he rejects requests to borrow you. He's very transparent about how he acquired you. He jokes about what I picked up off the side of the road. He holds your jaw and forces you to keep your head facing them so they can get a nice look at you.
The other men are no less unsavory characters than himself, they make comments that make you bite your lip and look down at the ground in rage, too afraid to lash back out. They only find your meekness that much more endearing. They make snarky comments about how if they win a card game they'll take you from him as a prize and bicker back and forth when it makes him get snappy and irritated with them in return.
Sometimes they get very, very angry with each other. It's a collective of bad men drinking, gambling, arguing, and other things that never end well. They accuse each other of something or another. They bring up the money one owes another. They pull guns on each other. You once watch one get shot straight through the head after a dispute — the others chastise the shooter with why'd you have to go and do that?, but then merely go right back to playing with his body growing cold in the corner. No one liked that guy much anyway.
You try to get through the nights. You close your eyes and pretend you're settled into a nice home in the towns, reading a book or the like. Anything but the reality you actually have to exist in.
One night, inevitably, the conflict involves him. You venture into a new town, meet with a similar crowd. Some guy you haven't seen come to these meetings before staggers up. He has a group of others with him. He accuses your captor of not paying back that money from that one time, to which your captor asserts he in fact did pay him back, their voices get louder and their posture gets more aggressive and you turn your head back and forth and then there's a hand in your hair, dragging you forward, hurling you onto the floor away from the man you now only want to cling to.
You squeal and shrink into yourself at the series of blasts that sounds off around the room, coming from more than one direction — but only one hits. The one that grabbed you hits the floor right beside you, motionless.
It goes quiet. There's a heavy tension you can feel without needing to see any faces.
Hands reach around you. Pull you up. Somehow, even without hearing a voice or seeing a face, the touch alone registers in your brain as one you recognize, one you, in the circumstances, latch onto rather than flee from. His arms hoist you into the air and you move with such sudden force everything in your vision is a blur.
You cling, holding on with every scrap of energy you can summon, muscles of your arms trembling from strain, fingers curling against his back as you make your way out the doors. You feel his torso shift to lift you up to the saddle. It's over now, but you're hoisted up to mount and flee nonetheless, a burst of speed that lasts until the town is only a distant set of lights, before finally slowing.
He doesn't speak much about the incident after that night. He hated them all anyway. Not the first time that guy tried to kill him either. Won't be going back there. At least he took care of him for good.
But it's nothing to dwell on. You'll forgive him for it. It's not like you have any other choice.
You pay for his mistakes and crimes often enough anyway. Sometimes you have to pack up fast when he returns from outings, having encountered the law or someone else who has reason to come after him.
You rarely get an explanation, only a harsh shove to wake you and telling you in a firm, urgent tone to get up and get moving. It's not like you have many belongings, so it's not too difficult of a task, but you still delay behind him, which he doesn't fail to point out.
You're a real inconvenience sometimes, you know that?
He tells you as if you're lucky he keeps you. You know better than to give him an attitude, but on those occasions, you often let your anger get the best of you and suffer for it anyway.
You encounter the occasional other adversary as well. A corrupt patrolman who tells him he recognizes him from his last stint in prison, asking him with a knowing smirk if he's aware of all his current outstanding crimes — but he's quickly deterred from further questioning with a grumble and a hefty wad of cash, at which point he sends you on your way, letting you go through town without hassle. Sometimes you're stopped by a rival criminal, sometimes a bounty hunter.
Normally, the incidents pass with a quick bribe or a bullet to the head, the latter of which you get to witness plenty of as well. He's got excellent aim, you'll give him that much.
But one day, you linger too long in the same area. He goes too far and gets too reckless with his actions, makes it too easy to track him back to your campsite as the two of you sleep.
There's a commotion. You hear hooves drumming on the ground. You startle awake, bolting upright. You feel him do so right beside you. His hand latches onto your hair, holding you in place.
You're surrounded. Men mounted on tall horses, clad in identical, navy blue uniforms. Several already have their handguns drawn and ready. They form a half-circle around the two of you.
They ask if he is— they say a name, the same first name he told you, and a surname you've never heard. You realize he never gave you one.
You see his face turn to a scowl. They seem to take that as affirmation enough.
They say he's wanted. They read a list of charges — robbery, murder, assault, and a variety of other violent crimes. They look at you. The hand he already has holding you in place and the distress on your face is enough to clue them in that you're not a willing participant in your current situation either. You can see that fact register on their own expressions, that they understand you to be a victim in immediate danger, and that this arrest just got more risky. One of them tells him to make this easy and let the woman go.
You squeal. Your entire body is jerked with force. There's a familiar coldness against your temple within an instant, the very same from the day he took you, metallic chill of the barrel pressed firm to your head. Your body covers his, putting you between him and the officers, leaving the latter immobilized.
Their voices grow firmer. They tell him to drop you. They point their own guns, but every present individual recognizes the threat as empty, knows they're not going to open fire and undoubtedly get you killed.
He walks backwards towards the horse, dragging you with him in your stumbling steps and gasps for breath. There's a voice in your ear as he reaches your steed, holds you awkwardly by the waist as he begins to maneuver up.
Calm down. 's gonna be fine.
As if somewhere in his heart, the man with a gun to your head has some trace of empathy for your panic. Or maybe he's just trying to get you to comply more easily. You don't bother to try to determine which it is.
The moment of takeoff is explosive. He has to finally release the threat against you and turn his torso away from them to gallop off — albeit sort of turned to the side, one arm still reaching behind him, but it provides an opening nonetheless.
Bullets fly through the air, whizzing past your face. They wouldn't be so cruel as to get you killed outright, as they thought any actions moments prior might have, but now they're not hesitant to take a now much smaller risk of hitting you to hit him.
Likewise, his arm not holding the reins now turns and reaches over your shoulder, blasting in their direction with what can only be the precise, deadly aim of a lifetime of experience. You see one of the officers suddenly slump over and collapse off his mount, then another, both collapsing into the dirt.
The horse himself senses the tension, spurred on by the blasts. It's the fastest you've ever felt him run. You cling to your captor's shirt for stability as the terrain grows more dire, weaving your way onto the mountainside. He's leading them onto a difficult landscape on purpose, you're certain, but a fall here would send you plummeting off the mountainside just as much.
You realize with panic and despair that there's no other option you have here but to squeeze your eyes shut and pray. You crouch down to the best of your ability, inadvertently giving the officers a better shot at his back.
You feel him turn back forward. He reloads the revolver with perfect precision, despite the one-handed limitation and bumpy, rapid movements as the horse heaves uphill, jumping over a large rock. He reaches back and fires again. Blasts reverberate across the empty mountain.
You feel him stiffen. There's a gutteral sound from him, pain through clenched teeth. Opening your eyes, you can see two blotches of red bursting against the pale fabric of his shirt, oozing from his right shoulder blade.
But he reaches back with one arm again with no hesitancy. The movement causes more blood to seep from the holes.
BANG!
There's hesitation. Taking a moment to perfect the shot. There's a final—
—and then there's quiet. The last remaining horse trailing behind you whines, seemingly noticing the sudden absence of its rider, and its gait audibly slows. Only the sound of your own horse's gallop remains, hooves pounding the rock with each stride.
You slow down. You feel his body begin to go limp, right as you reach the very summit of the climb.
And as it comes to a halt, he no longer has the strength for proper dismount, attempting to do so, but crumbling onto the ground the second his feet hit.
You feel panic at first. An instinct, more of an impulsive reaction to the situation than conscious thought. You follow, dismounting on the other side and quickly circling behind the animal.
It's not until you see the revolver now laying on the ground beside him that you begin to think. Still not exactly conscious thought, nothing rational or reasonable, not taking into account consequences or the actual significance of what you're doing.
Just raw emotion. The stress and fear and degradation he's made you feel, festering and growing and finally expulsing itself from your gut.
You move without thinking. You're not sure what comes over you. The action happens on its own, as if possessed, some impulse from the darkest corners of your brain, bursting out and overtaking your body.
You lean down, and your hand lashes out. Grabs. Pulls. Points. You stagger back out of his reach before he can even react.
And for a moment, as he turns to face you, his eyes, even in his exhaustion, are wide with a moment of startle.
They fixate on you. Standing there, fear etched across your expression, trembling at you aim in his direction. Then those eyes grow cold. There's neither panic nor anger in his voice.
Do it then.
You flinch at the gruff sound of his voice.
You hold still, trembling, but otherwise unmoving as he glares.
You want out so bad? Shoot.
Your lower lip trembles. Your eyes water. Your hand shakes so profusely the gun makes a rattling sound. The skin around his eyes has wrinkled from years of exposure to the sun, scrunching up at his eyes narrow further.
Make sure you kill me. If you don't, I'm gonna get you again. I'll find you. You can't run from me.
There's a coldness in his eyes. No matter how much warmth you give him, no matter how much you obey and how much your heart opens up, that coldness never really goes away, always lurking just beneath the surface.
The only way you'll get away from me is if you put me in the ground, girl. Come on. Do it.
You bite your lip. Your eyes water so intensely it blurs your vision. For a moment, there's nothing but silence, your expressions illuminated by the faint light of sun rising in the dawn.
The weapon hits the ground with a thud. Your body follows, crashing down to your knees, mind overwhelmed and legs trembling too much to hold you up any further. Your shoulders wrack with sobs.
There's a long quiet.
He mumbles something about how you're so weak, as he stumbles over to pick up his gun. Guess you understand that's why he's the one that does the dirty work and you're the one that obeys.
You still have tears streaming down your face as you watch him pull his shirt up over his head. They got him good, two bullets straight into his shoulder blade.
Even in the most vulnerable of moments, the subtle threat of every command is still there. Go to the saddle bag. Get the small medical bag on the right side out. Help him fix himself up, you hear?
If you're not gonna do this goddamn world a favor 'n finish their job for them, you're gonna help.
He says it in that same gruff, blunt tone as always, as if your actions mere moments ago were merely another small act of defiance.
You sniffle as you work. He curses and hisses when you pull the metal shreds out of his flesh with a pair of tweezers. Hurts more than the shot itself. He'll take the frustration out on your holes later anyway.
Once it's done and wrapped up, he reaches back to place his hat atop his head again. The way it sits always leaves a shadow over his expression, frames his face in a way that only seems to accentuate the hardened, dark aura he always seems to exude with every breath. But you suppose that just makes it more fitting. You don't fight him when he pulls you back to the saddle.
That's over, then. You made your choice. You'll move on to the next town. New victims. New places to see. Eventually, who knows? Maybe you'll get something more permanent, if he lands enough money. He's not going to dwell on what you did. He's too used to having guns pointed at him to care too much.
After all, there's a future to be carved in this grand, lawless place. And you've just chosen yours.
BBG! Have you heard of the indie game The Freak Circus?! I think it might be something you'd LOVE! The yans in the game are so FREAKY!
The image is unrelated but I just love my hsr husband
(link)
I finally got to get to this last night and LORD HAVE MERCY OHHHHHH MY GOD you have changed my life. I was devastated to realize it's only the first chapter done... alas, maybe they'll come out with a roadmap or something?
I missed this sequence the first playthrough and I'm so glad I went back a second time bc ohhhh my God. Sir... I love Pierrot too but this one does things to me. Need him carnally
Thinking about a boy that loves keeping his fingers inside of you.
It's not as if he doesn't love fucking you, and he certainly does every single day. It's just that there's something more vulnerable about this.
It's always at random timing. You never know when it's coming. That's what makes it so cute, the fear on your face, the sudden stiffening of your body.
Sitting in the couch — he always forces you to sit in front of him, between his legs or on his lap, back to his chest. In bed, you're always spooned by him, feeling his cock dig into your ass through your clothes. Watching mindless TV, or just trying to rest. Whatever it is, it never lasts long before the touching starts.
He keeps one leg hooked over his arm, just to ensure your legs stay open. His other hand is already three fingers in, down to the joint of his fingers to his palm. Curling inside you in that way that makes you whimper, gasp for breath, shudder against the touch. You know he likes that much.
That's it. Give in to it.
He's a very patient man. He likes making you cum once this way first. Thumb rubbing into your clit, feeling your insides twitch, increasingly tight around his fingers until you quiver and squeal and spasm, fluids leaking out across his fingers.
He never fails to shove it into your mouth. Forces you to lick it off. You always taste so good, surely you can appreciate it too.
He would know. He spends plenty of time with his face between your legs too. Hands locking your hips in place so you can't pull away, frantically lapping and suckling at your clit like a man starved, the occasional hum of satisfaction against your sensitive flesh.
Doing this first makes the second orgasm more intense, so it seems, at least from the experimentation he's done. You're already soaked when it goes in, each thrust sending sloppy, squelching sounds reverberating across the room.
But nonetheless, the part that comes before it, keeping you squirming in his lap or against his chest and clamping your thighs down on his hand feels more... intimate, somehow. It's more embarrassing for you. He's the one still perfectly collected, fully clothed, and there's a certain dignity to that. You, on the other hand, stripped down and struggling and whimpering and trembling — it's euphoric because it's done to you for him.
It's not a mutual act, but something done to you. A performance for his eyes and his ears, putting you and only you in the position of vulnerability, something inflicted on you, something given to him, a one-way exchange in which he only takes and takes.
Often times it's almost casual, without any urgency or immediate intention of driving you to orgasm. You can't protest it if your hands are tied behind your back anyway. Just lazily curling his fingers inside of you, pumping them in and out, head resting on your shoulder, attention more immersed in what they're showing on the news than you for the time being. Just an automated motion, no different from how one might drum their fingers against the armrest of the couch. But it's slow, not enough, torturous — he's just accomplishing two tasks at once, tormenting you and catching up on the news.
By the time he turns his attention back to you — his other hand leaves its place underneath your shirt, pinching at the nipples, reaching over to mute the TV — you're shuddering, labored breaths accentuated by pitiful whines. As his fingers pull out, they're connected to your insides by a trail of fluid. The skin of his finger pads are wrinkly from how long they've been practically submerged.
It had the effect he intended. Look at you, rendered into such a mess.
Still, you get to cum once this way before he puts himself inside you. When he's actually railing into you, he's often too overwhelmed and lost in the haze of it all to really take in and savor your expressions, your sounds. This way he can just watch, enraptured by the way your face contorts and your voice gets so high in pitch as you shudder and squirm, the embarrassment that makes tears well up in your eyes.
And it makes the sex better too. You're so sensitive once you've already gotten to cum once. You clench down that much harder, you squeal that much louder, the tears stream down your face that much easier. You're so sensitive now that the pleasure is nearly painful. You jolt and jerk your body forward to try to pull yourself off — it makes it that much hotter when he pulls you back by the hips and rams into you with full force, the way you wail and gasp for breath. It's adorable.
Or if you're really bad, it can be a punishment too. Keeping his hand working you for hours, never letting you reach a peak. Or the inverse, so many times that your insides hurt and you beg for him to stop. It's satisfying either way.
And it's really, really hot to know he has that much control over you with nothing more than his hand. Don't give him that pitiful look though — it's your fault for being so easy to pleasure.
