Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs
Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Nᴇxᴛ Eɴᴛʀʏ
The days after your capture by a gang of outlaws are a blur of unfamiliar hands on your body, and hot kisses pressed against your neck. But some days stick out as far worse than others.
Tᴀɢs: male yandere x fem reader, somno, fever sex, thigh fucking, betrayal, kind of sweet kind of bitter you decide, younger yandere/sightly older reader, 5k words
Breakfast is usually waiting for you. The boy always wakes up around sunrise to cook up biscuits and coffee, and by the time you stumble down to eat, there’s a plate of hot food set aside for you.
It doesn't matter if you don't have an appetite, if you only pick at your food because the taste of the outlaws is thick in your throat. He still keeps a plate aside for you. The best part of whatever he's made.
He’s got a great sense for your preferences too — no eggs or meat if you don’t eat that sort of grub, your coffee extra sweet even though you know sugar can get expensive.
It's sweet of him. Though sometimes, when he watches you eat like you chewing is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, you wonder if there's more to it. You wonder if everyone else has food that tastes so queerly salty.
The boy is quiet most of the time. He goes about his work with his head down and his curls in his eyes. Part of it is shyness — he’s as skittish around the bit as a new broke colt — and part of it is inexperience. The other outlaws are hard-edged and hard eyed. You aren’t sure how the boy fell in with them, but you can tell he doesn’t belong. Or at least not yet.
The others must have been this young and sweet once, and you hate the thought of the boy becoming like them, hate watching his softness get worn away.
You see them teaching him their ways a little every day. The gunslingers show him how to take apart a rifle and load a six-shooter, their hands slow even though they both have a tendency to lose their patience quick. The second in command teaches him to read maps. Even the boss takes the time to show him some card tricks now and again, old card sharp that he is.
They teach him things out loud, and they teach him things without having to say a word at all. It’s in his expressions, when you learn how to look. He has the wrangler’s quick eye and the boss’s laconic drawl.
You ought to teach him a little something, too. That’s only fair, isn’t it? He ought to learn a thing or two about civility and honour and justice. He should get the chance to choose his own life, away from the gang’s influence.
But you aren’t sure how to put a name to things like chivalry. You settle for teaching him how to garden instead.
There’s a small garden by the back door of the farmhouse. It’s poorly tended and the peppermint has run wild over all the other plants. Before you, the outlaws were always on the move and you suppose that meant no time to let things take root.
“Poor things,” you say to the boy. You’re looking at a rose bush that’s almost withered away. “My ma would have wept to see flowers kept in this state.”
“Why? They’re only plants.”
“They’re living things all the same. And it’s an awful waste of beauty."
He runs a hand through his curls. He’s wearing a bright red bandanna today and it makes the freckles on his nose stand out.
“I suppose…But what good does having flowers around do?”
“You’ll see. I reckon the rainy season will start soon, and if we work fast enough the flowers will bloom just in time for spring.”
There’s a smudge of black gun oil on his cheek. You lick your thumb and reach up to rub it away.
“You’ll help me, won’t you?” you ask.
He touches his cheek, his face turning a bright red. “Sure, whatever you say.”
When he’s done with the rest of his chores, he comes to find you. You’re on your knees in the dirt, your fingers already coated in earth.
“See these roots?” you ask. “We need to clear them away, otherwise they’ll strangle the new growth.”
He squats down next to you and nudges his cattleman higher up his forehead.
“But shouldn't we leave them? The strongest plant survives, right? Way of the world.”
“You think strength is all it takes?”
You set to cutting the dead heads away. It doesn’t surprise you that he thinks that way. In the lawless west, strength seems to matter more than anything. Even still…
“If we don’t clear it, all the plants will die eventually. The soil is shallow here. Let this one grow too much and it’ll strangle itself in the end.”
He doesn’t answer you. He just picks up a knife and gets to pruning. By the time you’re done, the setting sun is turning the fields golden. There’s a pile of weeds and old growth destined for mulch and the rich smell of fresh turned earth is thick in your nose.
“Thank you for your help.”
He shugs and looks away from you. “‘S not a problem. Happy to.”
He jumps when you kiss his cheek.
“Still. I appreciate it, Red.”
“Red?”
“Mhm. On account of your hair.”
In the sunset, the copper sheen of it is hard to miss.
“I’ve got a name you know.”
You dust off your skirt and start heading toward the house.
“I’m sure you do,” you call over your shoulder, “but I like Red better.”
When he dishes out supper that evening, you can still see the dirt staining his nails. He brushes his shoulder against yours when he hands you your plate.
“Here. Used some of the herb cuttings.”
And true to his word, you can taste just a hint of thyme when you take a bite.
“‘S good. Really good. Where did you learn to cook?”
“My big sister. She was ‘round your age, actually.”
That’s more than you’ve gotten from him before. Progress maybe. It’s a good thing he’s telling you about his past. Most of the outlaws keep theirs locked away tight. And that would mean you were right in your guess — he really is just a few years younger than you.
The next morning, the boy is nowhere to be seen. The only hint that he was around is a single sprig of lavender left on the kitchen table, right where you normally sit.
You get back to the garden as soon as you can. It’s just as you left it last night. Your ma would be in a fit of tears over the state of the place, and you can half hear her scolding you for letting good growth go to ruin. Well, it’s not your fault the outlaws never took care of it. The best you can do is fix up their mess.
By midmorning, you’ve managed to clear most of the debris and neaten up the beds. It looks miles better, though the growth in some areas is still sparse. In addition to the roses and peppermint, there are some struggling daffodils and a pot of climbing jasmine. That would look mighty pretty on the porch, and it would almost smell like home.
You straighten when you hear the sound of hooves. The boy rounds the corner, leading his horse by the reins. His bandana is dusty with hard riding and his boots aren’t much better.
“Where have you been, Red?”
He doesn’t answer. He just drops a small bag in your hand and mutters something about being back to help you as soon as he can. He’s back on his horse before you can ask him to elaborate.
When he’s gone — and he goes mighty fast too, would think he was almost scared of you — you take a good look at what he gave you.
Seeds.
When they spill into your palm you can’t help laughing. Well, ain’t that sweet of him? No matter what sort of man he turns out to be in the end, you know there’ll be some trace of you in him. A lesson in softness and care he might not otherwise have learned.
When the spring comes, the flowers bloom afterall.
The boy takes good care of you. That’s the one thing no one can argue. When you catch an early season fever, he's the one who fusses over you with cool cloths and snake oil.
His other duties lay abandoned in favour of you. The outlaws scrape together their own meals and the garden by the back door collects drifts of dead leaves. When the gunslingers complain, the boss just waves them off. The boy looks feverish himself, though his temperature is perfectly even. There are dark circles under his eyes from long nights at your bed.
The wrangler and the second in command both tell him you'll be just fine. That it's nothing but a passing weakness, brought on by the changing weather.
He nods politely, but anyone can see he's not really listening.
"Reckon he's just scared of losing her," the dark skinned gunslinger says to his partner when the boy goes rushing past them with a bundle of dried herbs and hot water.
"Ain't gotta be. Our girl is tough as nails deep down. She ain't gonna wilt away from a fucking cold."
"Ain't you a little nervous yourself?"
"Nah, she'll be just dandy come next week."
Still, the gunslinger follows the boy with his eyes until he's out of sight.
You're thankful for the boy, a lot more than you let on. Waking from your fever dreams to his cool fingers on your brow is a mercy you didn't think you'd find. You feel bad about making him worry, and you feel guilty about feeling bad. It's a whole mix of things, and they don't help your fever at all.
"I'm sorry," you half murmur, face pressed against your pillow and your throat an aching mess. "Didn't mean to get sick."
It's a hold-over from living with your parents, where even one sick day would throw everyone else a whole heap of extra work.
"Don't talk," he whispers, brushing your hair away from your forehead. "Just go back to sleep."
You do, the ghost of his touch following you into your dreams.
It goes on for a week, and then two. Your fever wanes a little, but always comes back just as strong. The strain of your new life finally catching up to you.
The boy goes from fussing over your blankets and sheets to almost never leaving your room. He sleeps in an armchair next to your bed, long limbs curled under him like a cat.
He talks to you too, though you can only half recall what he says. Stories about his older sister, long dead now, and the way she used to take care of him as a kid. Stories about his life with the outlaws and how he came to be part of their crew.
He confesses his dreams to you. But only when it's the dead of night and you're dead asleep.
"I'd like to be rich some day," he tells you, holding your hand in his. "And notorious. My face on wanted posters from Arizona to Montana. Like the boss."
You murmur something that sounds like encouragement. He smiles in the dark, a little giddy at having you all to himself.
"I'd like to take you away someday too. Just you and me, with our own place. It won't ever happen. They're all so jealously possessive of you, but I like to think about it anyway."
How wonderful would that be? An honest life and an honest wife, smiling just for him.
"I don't care if they hear me say it," he whispers to you. "I want you all to myself. You're the closest thing I've ever had to a real friend. I...I love you. I really do."
Maybe you hear him through your dreams, or maybe he just imagines the way you squeeze his hand.
Like you love him too.
He swallows and leans forward to check your temperature. Too hot, still too damn hot to be safe. It makes him nervous, makes him feel about as high strung as a rattlesnake at midday.
"Please, get well. This is how my sister went. The fever burned up everything she had. Burned her up from the inside out. I can't lose you the same."
You sigh in your sleep and it makes his breath catch in his throat.
When morning comes, you wake to find him half draped on your bed, his hand still clutching yours. You sigh and shift your blanket so he's covered too.
"Early morning cold gets in your lungs, kid," you say, quoting your pa. "Didn't anyone ever tell you?"
He smiles in his sleep, his face so much younger than his years. His curls are messy and you reach out and brush them back without thinking.
This life will age you before your time, kid, if it doesn't kill you outright.
But you don't have the nerve to say it out loud. Not when he's been so kind to you. You can only watch him as the sun turns the world bright, half praying and half hoping that he'll find a way out of this place.
Don't become like the rest of them. Please. I can't bear it if what's in them gets in you too.
He keeps dreaming and you keep praying and neither one of you cares to think how little it's all worth.
The others are nervous about your fever too, though they show it in different ways.
The boss comes to kneel by your bed now and again, the bandana around his throat dusty from work but his hands always clean. Always cool.
He rests his palm against your neck, his eyes creasing at the corners when he smiles.
"You can handle this, girl."
He sounds so sure of it that you start to believe him. Start to wonder when the sickness will break rather than asking yourself if it ever would.
He always kisses your forehead before he leaves. That perfect wall of certainty never wavering, no matter what he feels deep inside.
The wrangler and the second in command bring you more cures than the boy knows what to do with. Everything from folk remedies to the latest tonics.
Both of them are a little detached, a little brusque. Never lingering long in the room though you can tell they want to. They put barriers around their fear, you realise slowly. Don't admit it exists, not even to themselves.
When your fever takes a particularly nasty turn, the second paces the hall outside your room for hours. And the wrangler sits in front of the fire for just as long, still as standing water.
They aren't like this with anyone else, you think to yourself when you're finally lucid enough to process the thought. If you were a horse with colic, the wrangler would have stayed by your side all night. If you were an outlaw bleeding out on the floor, the second in command would have you stitched up before sunrise.
It's like their instincts and experience are worth nothing at all when it comes to you. And maybe there's a compliment in there — strong and clever as they are, you're still their weakness.
You don't care to think about it longer than you have to. Two more outlaws leaving you alone is more than enough to keep you happy, regardless of their reasons.
Not so for the gunslingers.
You don't expect them to care much, but it's yet another thing you're wrong about. They both come to spend a lot more time in your room than they ought to, cards spread on your duvet as they teach you to play poker. You're wary of them — worried that they'll take your sickness as just another excuse to have their way with you. And maybe the thought does cross their minds — how much hotter does your cunt run when you're burning up? But they don't act on it. They take turns sitting next to you, an arm around your waist or a palm on your thigh while they explain what a royal flush and a two of a kind is.
When you drop off to sleep with your head in one of their laps, or curled against their ribs, the way they go so perfectly still says plenty.
There is one perk to being sick. With you too weak to do much more than sleep, the outlaws are willing to leave you alone with the boy and go off on jobs as a crew. It’s nice to talk about things more freely. And it’s pretty damn nice not having them around. You always seem to get the best sleep when they’re gone.
If it weren't for the medicine, you'd have called your fever a blessing. As it stands…
“Say ‘aah’.”
You look at the boy skeptically. The spoonful of medicine he’s offering you is thick as treacle and smells about as good as an outhouse in July.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. Don’t argue.”
He’s picked up a bit of muscle since you first arrived and even though he’s still greyhound lean, there’s a wiry strength to him.
“What are you gonna do if I say ‘no?’ You wouldn’t want to drink that either.”
He eyes the medicine for a second. “It don’t look good, but that don’t mean it won’t work.”
“Mhm. And you’d happily take it if you were in my place?”
“Yes. Yes, I would. Because unlike some people in this room, I would want to get better.”
“Take it then, little doctor. Show some solidarity.”
You’re teasing him mostly for the sake of it. And so it surprises you plenty when he does exactly what you suggested.
He brings the spoon to his mouth and sucks up the medicine with a grimace.
“Hey, I didn’t really mean—”
He leans forward and kisses you. You’re too off guard to defend yourself, and when he pushes the medicine into your mouth you have no choice but to swallow.
When he pulls away, he’s wiping his mouth and looking immensely satisfied with himself.
“There. Doctor’s orders.”
You try not to gag.
“Never bring that medicine near me again. It tastes like something from an oil field,” you say.
“If it works then you’ll be drinking it night and day, little patient.”
You scowl at him. “I’m still older than you.”
“Yeah. But I’m taller. And stronger. Seems you look mighty little from over here.”
When did he get so cocky?
“Do you go about kissing all your patients, little doctor?”
He flushes and looks away from you. So, that cockiness isn’t as authentic as he pretends it is. He’s still just as shy deep down.
“Only the pretty ones,” he mutters.
“You think I’m pretty, Red?”
“Of course you’re pretty. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”
“Must not get around much then.”
That annoys him enough that he looks up at you. “Don’t tease.”
“Why not? You gonna stop me?”
“If you make me.”
“I’m shaking in my boots, kid.” Still, you shouldn’t go too hard on him. He’s just a kid, as far from home and alone as you are. “Thank you for taking care of me, Red. I know it’s a lot of work and worry.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “‘Course. Any time.”
You lay back down and pull the covers to your chin. You hate to admit it, but you really do feel a bit better after the medicine. Drowsy too, though that shouldn’t be a surprise. Your ma used to say they used all kinds of fancy ingredients in these things.
“I’m proud of you, Red,” you say quietly, “You’re becoming a good man.”
When you finally drop off to sleep, he stays in his chair and watches you. A good man, huh? He hasn’t met a lot of those, and they never seemed to live long. Better to be a bastard in this line of work. Even the wrangler — soft spoken and patient — is a killer. You need to take what you want in this life or else someone will steal it right from under you.
Ain’t you proof enough of that? There’s probably a fiancé out there looking for you, a family who wants to keep you close.
“I’m not trying to be good,” he tells you.
He touches your forehead. Your fever is close to breaking. You’re still hot, but not worryingly so. After weeks of white knuckled worry, he finally relaxes a little.
You’re pretty when you’re asleep. Less worried, less afraid. There’s a trace of medicine around your mouth and he swipes it off with his thumb. Your lips are nice too. He didn’t get much time to appreciate them when he kissed you.
Kissing you…did giving you the medicine really count as his first kiss? Nah, that ain’t fair. He should get to enjoy his first kiss for a lot longer than that.
He thinks about what you looked like that first day, when the gunslingers forced him to eat you out. You were so scared — big doe eyes still wet with tears, your voice almost gone. You’ve changed since then. You don’t fight, and he never sees you cry.
Maybe you’ve started to like it. Maybe you’ve gotten better at accepting the inevitable.
Hell, you sure seemed to like it when he was tongue deep in your cunt. You were crying, true. But your body was responding to him just fine. What pretty sounds you made…
It’s inevitable, right? That’s what all the outlaws tell him. You’ll have to get used to it eventually, your body will learn to like it. You might even fall in love.
It’s hard to imagine you in love. Who would you even fall for? The boss gets whatever he wants in life, sure, but he’s old. Wouldn’t you prefer someone closer to your own age? And the gunslingers are both handsome but there’s no hiding how cruel they are.
Maybe you’ll fall in love with the wrangler or the second in command. They can be sweet and patient when they need to be, and God knows they’re both stupidly in love with you. They think they hide it well, but a one eyed miner could see the way they fawn over you. Neither one of them cared about being clean shaven all the time until you showed up.
Yeah, maybe they’re the ones you’ll fall in love with.
…They’re both older than you, though. And they don’t spend as much time with you as he does. They’ve never been next to you in the dirt, hands covered in earth and roots. They’ve never coaxed anything to grow from the mud. How can you love them when he’s right here?
It should be him. If you love anyone, it should be him. He’s never forced you. He’s never taken what isn’t his.
And he sure as fuck has never made you cry. Doesn’t that deserve a reward?
Sure, the outlaws said he couldn’t fuck you until he earned it. But they’re selfish, jealous bastards. He might never earn it. Who are they to say when he should and shouldn’t touch you?
He can shoot and he can wrangle and he can steal too, though you don’t know nothing about that last one. Doesn’t that pretty much make him a man?
Besides, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. Maybe just a taste of you. He’s been practically saintly in his patience. Not fair that they get to have you and all he’s left with are his fist and his memories.
Be a good man, some stubborn part of him insists, leave her to sleep off the rest of her fever in peace. You’ll get a chance eventually.
No. All goodness gets you is an early grave. It’s about time he did things a bit selfishly. And look at you; you’re dead asleep. Weak from the fever and knocked out with medicine. He won’t get this chance again.
She won’t even know it happened.
And he’ll stop. If you wake up and tell him to, he’ll definitely stop. It’s harmless.
When he slips under the sheets with you, you don’t stir at all. You’re only in a thin nightgown and he can feel the fever radiating off you. He touches a hand to your thigh, trying his hardest to breathe slowly.
It’s really happening. He’s really in bed with you, about to fuck you. God, how many nights has he spent thinking about this moment? He rubs his jeans against the curve of your ass. Fuck, that friction feels good. He’s getting hard fast.
It’s only fair that you’re his first. His sister used to tell him to only kiss the woman he loved, and how else can he describe you?
Maybe he shouldn’t go all the way. Wouldn’t want to push his luck. Besides, when the time comes, he wants you to feel him inside. Wants to see you bite your lip and squirm like you did when he first made you come. He’d fuck you good, he knows that much. He’ll be the only one of them that doesn’t make you cry, the only one you willingly kiss. He can wait for that. Inevitable, right? He can be patient.
He just needs something to take the edge off. Just a taste.
His fingers are shaking when he undoes his belt and eases his cock out. Shit, his adrenaline is pumping like he’s at a midday duel. Do all the other outlaws feel this way when they touch you? Like they’re half about to faint and half about to scream.
Just gotta move your nightgown out the way…
Oh God, your cunt is hot. He nudges his tip against your folds. With the way you’re sleeping — curled on your side, knees drawn in a little — he can run his tip across the entire length of you. Must be the fever. There’s no way you burn this much on a normal day.
His head gets caught on your entrance, and he bites down hard on his lower lip. You’re so close. All it would take is one little push…
No. Better to be patient. It’ll be so much sweeter when you’re awake and willing.
He ruts his cock against you, the shaft sliding through your folds until it's nudging at your thighs. He’s surprised when all it takes is a small nudge to force his way between your legs. With the way you’re sleeping, your thighs are tight together and pillowy soft. Your skin is warm and just a little humid.
Fuck.
No fucking wonder they want to keep you to themselves. If you were his, he’d lock you away so tight not even the coyotes would ever pick up your trail.
He pulls back and then slides between your thighs again. Your clit and labia add a soft sort of texture to his thrusts, massaging his shaft as he uses your thighs. The head of his cock is the most sensitive part — pulling away from you makes him shudder.
You’re so much better than his own hand that it’s not even a competition. Silkier and warmer, your thighs heavy against his dick.
You shift a little in your sleep and he fucking whimpers.
Oh, that’s tight. Your thighs are damn near strangling him.
He spits in his hand and reaches down to his cock. A little extra something to get things moving again. And it sure as shit makes a difference. When he ruts into you again it’s heaven sent.
The spit also means he can move a little faster. Careful though, wouldn’t want to wake you.
He stuffs his fist in his mouth to keep quiet, but his breathing is ragged. No hiding that. No hiding the way his cheeks are flushing almost as red as his hair either.
How the hell do the others last so long with you? He swears the second in command and the boss spend hours fucking you when they get the chance. And here he is — about to come all over you after just a few minutes. It must be the heat of you, and the thrill of being so near. He’s dreamed of you every night since the day he saw you. Is it any surprise he’s so needy and desperate?
Shit, he’s so close. A little faster, just a little.
You murmur something and his heart damn near jumps out his chest. But no, you’re just dreaming. Maybe even dreaming of him. That would only be fair given how often you haunt his sleep.
“I love you,” he whispers against your hair, “I love you.”
He sounds just as desperate as he feels. God, he’s just some stupid boy rutting into your thighs because he’s too weak to hold back and too lovesick to know better.
“All your fault,” he continues, his voice cracking. “You’re too nice to me. I don’t deserve it, but you still are.”
He pulls off his bandana, and at the very last second, rolls away from you and shoves his cock into his fist. He comes hard, his dick a sensitive mess. Fucking hell.
He stays on his back, his hair clinging to his forehead. He’s never felt so spent — his muscles are watery weak and his heart is loud in his ears. His cock twitches in his fist as the last bits of spunk shudder out.
Okay, breathe. Get yourself together. She’s still sound asleep and doesn’t have a damn clue.
That makes him laugh. Yeah, not a clue in the fucking world. I could do this to her again and again and no one would have any damn idea.
“Just our little secret, right?”
You’re too deep in your fever dreams to answer him. He pushes his hair backwards and grins.
“Not such a good man afterall, am I? Not when it comes to you.”
He shoves himself back into his jeans and then straightens your nightgown. So what if you think he’s better than he really is? Let it be a sweet little dream. You don’t need to know the truth — not when the lie will get you in his arms eventually.
At the end of the day, he’s still an outlaw. And he’ll steal all the love he can.
The cops very clearly planted evidence on him because they had to make an arrest because all eyes were on them and whoever actually did the deed was making them look stupid.
Why would the real killer hero have kept the weapon on his person and traveled two states over while carrying it and a manifesto in his bag, conveniently turning the crime into a federal matter? The same guy whose bag they found in a park, filled with monopoly money? Why did the police turn off their bodycams, take Luigi's stuff, drive a block away, turn their bodycams back on, go back into the restaurant, and then arrest him?
From the moment of his arrest, even left-of-center media has been presuming his guilt without examining anything (e.g. calling him "the killer" instead of "alleged" or "accused") and then when I say he didn't do it, the nearest person chimes in with some quip that tells me they think he did do it but should go free anyway. Don't get me wrong, I would have the same attitude if he had done it. But he didn't. It makes me feel like the only sane person in the world, even among my staunchly leftist friends.
The 250 year anniversary of the USA is coming up and normally I’d join in on the hype for fun because no matter how critical you are of your country a little performative flag waving is fun sometimes but I’m not really feeling it this year even more than usual.
Which is a shame because the US flag is such a good design to make quilts out of. Like if I were gonna make a US flag quilt this would be the year to do it but alas. The everything.
yall ever lose interest in something so you stop seeking out content for it and your brain will be like. wow its so crazy that that thing used to be everywhere and then everyone stopped talking about it. so crazy that it fell off like that because nobody is talking about it on my personal curated social media and youtube algorithms. surely no other factors here.
Character duo where one *remembers I don’t like fitting characters into trope boxes* is a completely fleshed out and realised person *remembers treating characters as real people and not story devices written with intent is bad* who is written by the author and *remembers death of the author* uh. And *fumbles and drops my pile of queue cards* ah fuck wait no *the menacing horse* what was that.
#1 Salmonling Hater @kyletherocklebronjohnson - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
ellievsbear
blakekathryn
theartofmadeline
dededos
andulkaphoto
