The old farmhouse you bought with your remaining savings turned out to be possessed by an axe murderer. The charm doesn't end here.
content: female reader, jealous ghost farmer based on The Conjuring: Last Rites, horror
Your house is haunted, yet no one will believe you.
You should’ve known from the moment you set foot inside. The agent was uneasy, a tad too eager to be done with the viewing. He frequently reminded you of the fantastic price, the one-of-a-kind offer you’d never find again on the market. It was spacious, it was in good shape. More rooms than a single lady like you would ever need.
“Speaking of rooms,” you said, “we haven’t seen the basement yet.”
The agent’s smile faltered for a fragment of a second. He adjusted his collar and glanced at the door, contemplating his response. At the time, you found the prolonged pause to be rather odd. Was there some damage that would come with hidden costs? It suddenly made sense that they’d try to sell you something broken beyond repair. You asked him to have a swift check, prepared to find the secret to this ridiculous deal. The man waited at the top of the stairs, visibly pale, while you descended into the poorly lit clutter of chambers. Old furniture, some posters. Plenty of dust. Yet, to your surprise, everything was in order.
“There’s nothing wrong with it,” you called from the darkness.
“I never said there was,” your agent answered impatiently. His hand was clutching onto the door, keeping it wide open. “I suggest we continue up here,” he urged.
After a brief chat, you signed the papers. Whatever anxiety you might’ve had about the place was quickly dulled by the massive discount. He told the truth about one thing, at the very least: you wouldn’t get another chance like this one.
Pretty little thing. The sunken eyes followed you with growing curiosity: your hurried pace as you carried the boxes around, the sighs that rolled out of your mouth after each trip, the strands of hair that fell over your face as you reached for the next item to unpack. He could sense the faintest tug at his hollow heart. Maybe you could be the one. Maybe you wouldn’t betray him like they did.
“Hello?” you abruptly stood up, facing the hallway. Somehow, you were overwhelmed by the dreadful feeling that you were being watched.
Nonsense. You were merely adjusting to the new neighborhood, to the idea that you were in the middle of nowhere. It messes with your head, the agent had explained, but you get used to it.
You assumed, however, that slight discomfort would be your only hurdle during this process. Hallucinations were one step too far and something you hadn’t anticipated. Was it the consequence of uneasiness? Were you slowly losing your mind? Either way, you were convinced you were seeing a man in your home.
It began when you first dragged your laundry basket down into the basement. The lights flickered right as you slammed the door to the washing machine shut, and you turned to look for the switch. Then you discerned it, the tall frame, the crooked features or a ghastly white face. With hitched breath, you fumbled for the flashlight. You almost didn’t dare to point it in his direction; you didn’t want to see whatever unholy creature stood in the corner. This was not the appearance you’d find in a human.
“Good God,” you exhaled, shoulders instantly dropping in relief. You managed to huff out a chuckle as you gazed at the poster across from you. You must’ve imagined the devilish distortions.
Except those same distortions kept coming back, each time clearer than before. The second apparition nearly gave you a heart attack. You had finished cleaning up the kitchen and were about to head upstairs, when you saw the same man at the end of the hallway, blocking the path. It had to be real. You could make out the shadow it cast on the walls, the weight of the body pressing into the carpet. You heard the floorboard creak as he took a step towards you. He was tenebrously tall and muscular, dressed in dirty, torn overalls. The face was smudged, save for the glistening smile – a deformed grin made of sharp teeth. As if the demonic traits weren’t enough to freeze your blood, your eyes eventually rested on the object he carried in his hand. A battered axe, dripping with thick, black liquid. The metallic scent inundated your nostrils, making you nauseous.
His feet suddenly jerked forwards. The movement startled you so much that you fell over, panic clouding your senses. He was going to kill you. Like a wounded animal, you crawled on your fours, sobbing apologies for whatever sins you may have committed, babbling pleads of mercy as you imagined chunks of your flesh splattered across the floor. You looked up, hoping to find some sort of reasoning within your monstrous attacker, but he was gone. The hallway was empty once more and you wondered if your sanity had slipped away entirely, until you noticed the dent left on the carpet, right where your assailant stood. You hesitantly put your foot next to the prints, gulping at the sheer difference.
The next day, you returned home with a heavy stack of newspapers you’d printed at the local library. You wanted answers, or at least a hint to guide you along this madness. You sprawled out each paper and inspected it carefully. There it was. ‘Local farmer murders wife after learning of her affair’. ‘The body of a young woman was found in the neighboring fields, covered in deep wounds believed to be caused by an axe. Police identified her as the wife of a local farmer.’ Your fingers hovered above the black and white photograph of the man; it was the same person you’d seen in your home. He had apparently shot himself in the basement, leaving a note behind containing his reasoning. One day, he’d find himself a loyal woman. You crumpled the page and threw it as far as you could.
You felt trapped. All your savings were poured into this damn house. There were no friends or family nearby, and you didn’t know anyone here. You couldn’t just pack up and leave. Where would you have gone? What would you have told your parents, that you were running away from a ghost?
“Fuck you,” you spat out, filled with resentment. “Here’s a tip, dumbass, don’t chase your potential partner with an axe.”
Humor was all you had to diffuse the suffocating tension, and those words were all he needed to soothe his yearning. So, you agreed. He knew he could put his faith in you. Surely you must’ve pitied him after reading what happened to his miserable soul, trapped here for years by a burning wish.
You woke up to your bed covered in wiled roses. You would’ve guessed it was a bizarre dream if it wasn’t for the decaying stench and the neatly folded note left on the other pillow: to my beloved wife.
Oh, no. You hadn’t signed up for this. In a frightened daze, you stuffed some necessities in a backpack. Perhaps someone else would buy the house, you decided in your scrambled thoughts. It would come with a loss, sure, but money was the last thing on your mind at that moment. You just wanted to be away from the surreal haunting. You’d get yourself a coffee, sit down, then think about all the technical details.
You darted down the stairs, towards the exit. No more of this nonsense for you. Your hand reached for the doorknob, but – in an instant – the blade of an axe landed straight into the door, grazing past your head. You opened your mouth to scream, yet nothing came out of your parched throat.
“Where do you think you’re going,” a deep voice called.
You couldn’t find the courage to turn around. Soon enough you felt it, that cold, heavy presence, growing stronger, drawing closer. A hot breath blew against your neck, and a scarred, brawny arm appeared from behind you, effortlessly retrieving the axe.
“’s not proper for a lady to wander without her man,” he drawled in your ear. “Besides, do ya truly believe you’d get rid of me like that?”
His rough finger caressed your cheek. You were much too fixated on the edge of the blade to notice his loving gaze, or his mocking smirk. You shook your head; it was, indeed, a stupid kind of hope to cling onto. He wasn’t bound to the house, at least not anymore. He was bound to you. He’d follow you everywhere, maybe even in death. You shivered at the realization.
“Sorry, mom, can’t make it this weekend,” you said flatly, staring at the hollow expression of the man holding you on his lap. “I’m busy with the new house. You know how it goes.”
cw: dacryphilia, use of daddy, overstimulation, fem reader, minors do not interact
Yandere! Bruce Wayne - who doesn’t stop after your first orgasm. Doesn’t even take the time to nurse you through those big feelings that have your chest heaving in small bursts. The moment you start to fall apart on his tongue, creaming so sweetly as his fingers drag every ounce of energy out of you, he’s already moving onto the next step. Large, rough hands slide under your thighs, hoisting your legs over his broad shoulders, ignoring how you stiffen under his touch. You’re still twitching, still soft and wet when he presses the tip of his cock forward, the heavy drag of his cock parting you open again - without a care that you haven’t come down from that high.
The first push has you gasping. The second has you whimpering. By the third, your body’s already shaking, toes curling against his back as your legs press weakly against him in protest that melts into another cry. He catches your ankle, presses it back, body folding you in half until there’s nowhere to run.
“B - Bruce - ” you try, but the name breaks halfway through a moan. He leans down, lips hot against the column of your throat, voice rough enough to scrape, “I’ve got you.”
The words slide through your skin, heavy as the weight of him. His pace doesn’t soften; if anything, it grows steadier, harsher - the kind of rhythm that leaves no space to breathe or run. The bed rocks beneath each thrust, his chest pressed tight to yours, the sound of skin and breath and the wet pulse of you taking him again and again.
“Daddy - please,” slips out between sobs, your voice trembling and small - words you only utter when you’re hot and overstimulated. You don’t even know what you’re begging for anymore: to stop, to finish, to keep going. It doesn’t matter to him. He answers each plea with another thrust, with kisses along your jaw that taste of salt and tears.
Oh, how those pretty tears that get caught in your lashes leave him a little weak in the chest. His ocean blues soften as they catch that puppy-dog look in your eyes while you beg for him to fill you full. Such a sweet girl for him.
“I know, princess. I know.” His voice is low, steady, almost tender. His mouth finds your neck, teeth dragging lightly against the pulse fluttering there. “You can take it. You’re doing so good for me.”
Your legs tremble, muscles drawn tight, thighs quivering around him as your body clings to every deep push. The overstimulation burns until it’s almost sweet, pleasure twisting into something too much, too good. The only sound left in you is a broken litany of, “please, Daddy, please, please”
He shudders, hips stuttering as your walls flutter and squeeze, milking him for every drop of control he has left. You feel the weight of him change - the tremor in his breath, the way his kisses turn frantic, almost desperate - as he groans into your neck, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” again and again, until the words melt into a guttural sound that spills warmth deep inside you.
You feel him pulse and throb as he holds you down through it, his weight pressing you into the bed, his body trembling with yours until the air finally stills.
He doesn’t pull away. His hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing away the tears that never stopped falling, and there’s something soft in his voice when he murmurs, almost to himself, “My good girl… you warm me right up, don’t you?”
He stays over you for a long moment, his breathing still uneven, his palms braced on either side of your ribs. The room smells of salt and sweat and him. You’re limp beneath him, trembling faintly with every pulse of your heartbeat. Bruce drags in a breath, lets it out slow, the sound rough in his throat.
When he moves, it’s careful - almost apologetic for his actions. He presses a kiss just under your jaw, then another at the corner of your mouth, whispering against your skin, “Easy now, princess. I know.” His voice is rough but more so the kind he only uses when he’s trying to coax you back from the edge.
He cleans you slowly, methodically, his calloused hands gentle where they weren’t minutes ago. Every time you flinch, he murmurs something low, a quiet string of endearments half-lost in the hush: “I’ve got you… I know I was rough… couldn’t help it.” Each word feels like a promise and an apology all at once.
You shift weakly, a small sound slipping from your lips, and his hand stills on your thigh. For a second, his jaw tightens - remorse, hunger, both - but then he leans down, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “Shh,” he whispers. “I’ll make it better.”
When he finally pulls back, he reaches for something folded on the chair beside the bed - one of his shirts, soft and pressed, smelling faintly of his cologne from this morning. He eases it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves. The fabric hangs against your frame. His blue eyes linger; his thumb tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
“Looks better on you anyway,” he murmurs. The ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth before fading into something heavier. “Come on, baby. Let’s watch one of those movies you like so much.”
You hum, half-asleep, letting him help you sit up. Your fingers clutch at the hem of the shirt, eyes glazed and unfocused. He watches you for a long moment - the faint quiver in your lower lip, the dazed little sound when he slips an arm around your waist to lift you.
“I’ll have Alfred bring us some wine, a sweet one,” he adds quietly, his mouth brushing your temple. “No one else tonight. Just us.”
He gathers you against his chest, one arm beneath your knees, the other wrapped around your back. You stir, eyelids fluttering open just long enough to meet his eyes - those cold, sharp blues softened into something almost tender. You nuzzle into him without meaning to, and he breathes out a quiet laugh, the kind that sounds more like disbelief than joy.
As he carries you toward the door, his lips find your hair, lingering there. “My sweet girl,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “You’re everything good I’ve got left.”
Down the hall, the manor creaks, but inside this moment there’s only the hush of his steps, the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, and the faint kiss of warmth flickering in the theater ahead.
For a man so cold, the sound of his voice is almost a confession. It’s the closest he’ll ever come to saying he loves you.
cw: this one is pretty freaky, rough oral (fem! receiving), fem! reader, mentions of squirting, mentions of piss, humiliation, kind of omorashi (not detailed), minors do not interact
a/n: purely just a thought that occurred to me. Inspired by Dick Grayson, Gojo Satoru, Kori/Starfire, Tim Drake
We truly don’t speak often enough about pretty boy yanderes (or pretty girl yanderes) that simply want you to abuse their worth. The kind who are aware of their beauty who angle their jaw just so in the mirror and think, I’d ruin me too.
But they only feel truly exquisite when they’re flat on their back, pliant and panting like a bitch in heat - lips swollen, lacquered in spit, and stained by the accidental release you gave them after riding their face for hours. Not that they'd ever let you use the bathroom when they're right there waiting for it. Your thighs shake and tremble around their head as you whimper a string of apologies for splashing their face with your urine, as if they didn’t dream of that exact humiliation.
You can only tell the delight by how their eyes go glassy. When their pupils dilate, hunger blooming wide. That’s when they look and feel the prettiest - soiled and shaking, desperate for your cruelty. It’s not degradation to them. Instead, it’s an honor to be desecrated by the likes of you.
So don’t hover, darling. Don’t pull away from their greedy hands that'll pull you down just to lap away and clean up your mess. Don’t apologize for something so delicious as squirting or pissing on their. That’s foolish. They asked for this. They craved this.
They’re not pleading for tenderness - they’re praying to be annihilated.
One more round. Just one more. Force their face back into the softness of your cunt like you’re trying to drown them in your release. Use them. Fuck yourself on their tongue. Break their nose against your pelvis if you must - they’ll thank you with tears in their eyes.
They want to be smothered. Devoured. Made pretty by the mess you make of them. Slick and ruined and utterly yours.
cw: yandere, implied kidnapping and murder, drinking/intoxication
Now be prepared for your black widow type of yandere because she’s got a bite to match her beauty. Sharp hands that look so delicate when her chin rests on the back of her palm, sharp tongue that's never used towards you, and sharper instincts. She’s a mean woman when it comes to men, dismissing them with nothing more than a curl of her lip, but when it comes to pretty girls like you…oh, she’s a terrible flirt.
She drags you to a winery her family owns, sweeping you along with her slender hand firm on your lower back. She presses a glass into your hand and insists you sample every vintage - rich, heavy, dripping ruby against your tongue. She doesn’t care for your polite nods or the notes you taste; she only cares for the way the warmth rises in your body, the way your lashes grow heavy, your eyes glaze with liquid gloss, and your giggles spill out as you collapse into the safety of her chest that feels so welcoming when her arms wrap around you so tight.
Her face is a trap you can’t look away from - high cheekbones, lips painted a scarlet so bright you’d swear you see red echoing in her eyes when she looks at you too long. Her long dark hair brushes against your shoulder when she leans close, and she smells faintly of something deadly and roses, a combination that makes you dizzy even before the wine does.
She’ll never tell you her true plans, that when the night ends, she’ll have you tangled in her white silk sheets, her mouth marking your throat with a bruise the color of her lipstick, staking her claim so every person dead or alive knows you’re hers.
As for the men who used to flirt with her that you keep asking about, well, she only smiles in response and says it didn’t work out. That they get too greedy. Then she tilts her head toward her garden, where something new is always blooming. Produce a little too fertile these days.
Don’t ask. Don’t dig. Not unless you’re ready to learn what makes her garden bloom so well.
Inspired by Douma & Geto Suguru
cw: stockholm syndrome, captivity
Yandere! Cult Leader - who smiles as though your return was fated, who holds you in arms softer and sweeter than the cruel world outside.
The mother mountain, upon which the cult sanctuary rests, is a beast that devours. Her breath is snow that threatens to swallow you whole, her sharp tongue is ice that cuts through your skin with ease, her teeth are the wolves that prowl the ridges. You thought freedom would bloom like spring - warm air, green hills, plum blossoms bursting white against blue skies. Instead, freedom was nothing but gnawing hunger, blistered feet, and the endless howl of winter clawing at your bones. By the time you stagger back through the vermilion temple torii gates, your hands are bloodied, your lips cracked with cold, and your knees nearly buckle beneath you.
Lanterns sway on their chains, painting the old temple in pools of gold. The building itself breathes age: beams lacquered black but peeling at the edges, murals of demons and gods half-faded into shadow, paper screens patched where the wind has torn them. Incense coils in the air, sweet and choking, its perfume threaded with something metallic - copper, sharp and unmistakable, like coins held too long.
They greet you first. His followers. Rows of kneeling figures in white and crimson, their hands pressed reverently together. They smile as they see you stumble forward, their teeth bared wide, too eager to greet you once again, eyes shining with something that looks like joy but feels like hunger. Their voices rise in a chorus of soft welcomes, whispering your name as though it were another prayer for the evening. You cannot tell if it is affection or amusement that lights their faces.
The cult leader rises from his dais, framed by the glow of shrine lamps, his white silken robes flowing like snow-melt water. His bright eyes glimmer like stained glass catching dawn, and his smile…oh, his smile. Gentle, dazzling, merciful. Too merciful to allow you to crawl back to his arms without punishment. Back to his sanctuary prison. “My poor blossom,” he breathes, and his voice is so tender it cuts deep into wounds that you weren't aware of. “You came back to me after all.”
He gathers you against him before your knees give way, cradling you as though you were something small and weighed nothing at all. His robes smell of incense and something sweeter, like flowers left too long in water. His hands stroke through your frozen hair, his thumb smoothing the cracked line of your lips. “Look at you, so fragile. The mountain tried to steal you from me.” His laugh is bright as temple bells, as though the thought itself were a child’s joke. “But see? You belong here. You belong with me.”
He does not scold. He does not rage. He only fusses - laying you gently onto futons layered thick with floral quilts, tucking the corners as if you were a child. He feeds you morsels with his own fingers, pressing them to your lips when your hands shake too much to lift a bowl. He dabs at your chin with the sleeve of his robe, smiling as though your weakness delights him, as though your crocodile tears soothe that ache in his heart. “There, there, I'm not upset. Life is precious, my blossom. I will keep you safe, I will keep you warm. Nothing will harm you while you rest in my arms. Not even I unless I have reason to.”
When he finally curls around you, more comforting than any quilt or futon, drawing your body into the careful cradle of his arms, the warmth is almost unbearable after the mountain’s bite. His hand strokes through your hair with a gentleness that feels wrong, his breath ghosting against your temple as he murmurs delirious endearments, soft and syrup-sweet, like lullabies spun for a child. His lips, - sweet, smiling, unhurried - brush against the shell of your ear: “If you ever wander away again…well. I might just have to eat you. But you know I’d rather keep you whole, my blossom, not pluck you petal by petal.”
The words sink into you like frost, and yet his tone is so playful, so tender, that it almost feels like a jest. Almost. He reaches for the lantern at his side, snuffing out the last glow until the chamber is swallowed in velvet dark. You understand the unspoken plea: he does not wish to consume you, not as insects gnaw on cloth and wood. No, he wants you intact, kept close, his offering preserved.
Your chest trembles as you press your face into him, into the silken fold of his robes, into the steady rise and fall of his lean chest. Filling your lungs with the smells of incense and copper and something sweeter, cloying as overripe blossoms. It is suffocating, dreadful, yet it is warm. Outside waits the mountain, with its wolves and blizzards and gnawing hunger. Inside, there is only him.
And though your heart races with terror, though every nerve whispers that you are trapped, you let yourself be held. Because here, at least, you will not freeze. Because his arms, however suffocating, are safe in their own cruel way.
Because you came back for the sanctuary of his safety.
Heh.... I NEED MORE DRAGON PRINCE!!! HES SO DUMB AND CLUELESS I LOVE HIM X3
If your comfortable- do you think you could write a small itty bitty maybe not so itty bitty fic about what'd he'd do if he saw someone harass/put their hands on Darling? :0
I imagined it and now I NEED it
But take your time answering!! I'm sure your ask are flooded :3
cw: human consumption by dragon hybrid
It’s more of an itty bitty fic because, with great love for our stupid idiot of a dragon prince, he would absolutely devour anyone who laid a hand on you.
Whether it was on purpose or just clumsy subway contact, the act didn’t matter. To him, a touch was an offense, and what’s an offense, if not a perfect meal? Protein bars could only do so much when the sand predator inside him craved something warmer, bloodier.
His tattoos shift faintly across his chest as he leans in, golden-brown eyes narrowing, grin stretching too wide. One snap of his teeth, and the hand that brushed against you is gone. Even the person too in a few seconds, due to all that horrid screaming.
When he returns, he’s humming cheerfully, picking a bit of pale bone from between his teeth with a claw as if it were no different than cleaning dirt from under his nails. The other passengers are white-faced, pressed against the walls, pretending not to look. He doesn’t notice. His lovesick gaze is only for you.
He beams, wings folding neat again as he drops into the seat beside you, curls falling into his brow. “See? I’m very good at protecting you.” His voice dips low, almost tender, brown-gold eyes molten as they drink you in. He tilts his head, studying your trembling hands, your bitten lip, and smiles brighter.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, utterly delighted. “So cute. That’s how humans show that they're happy correct?”
Then, earnest as a schoolboy asking you to the dance: “Now… do you want me to fly you home?”
You don't exactly have the courage to say no this time.
Oh my! It doesn't work well in your favor! You come home, already worn down by the day, only to find the yandere! dragon prince in your apartment again, tail swiping dangerously close to your lamp, wings knocking against the low ceiling as he tries, of all things, to rearrange your furniture. “Honestly,” he mutters to himself with a frown, as though you’re the intruder here, “are you a peasant? How do you live with ceilings so low?”
Don’t worry, he assures, soon you’ll have all the luxury your fragile little body could dream of. Yet when his golden-brown eyes catch the exhaustion clinging to your features, the tears trembling in your lashes, he’s instantly abandoning his project. He crouches awkwardly, folding his great frame down until he’s eye-level with you. His wings pin back, tail curling in contrition as he peers at you with frantic, searching intensity.
“Did I scare you?” His questions come rapid, tumbling over one another. “I thought you knew I was here. Is it the flowers? Red roses are frightening, aren’t they? I clipped the thorns, I swear.”
But when you try, voice trembling and desperate, to tell him you’re simply sick of him, the words don’t fit into the shape of his mind. Dragon logic twists it into something else. If you’re tired of him, then surely it only means you need more of him. More time, more presence, more comfort. If he stays the night, you’ll feel safe in his arms, won’t you? If he smothers you in closeness, surely that tired little ache in your chest will vanish.
Congratulations. Your tears have only made things worse!
absolutely devoured the dragon prince 😛😛 what are some more cultural/species differences that give dragon prince culture shock, or more silly ways he thinks darling is expressing her love to him?
So… unfortunately, all the books dragons own about humans were written based on just one human. At least, that’s the case in the Sand Kingdom. Because the desert is so vast and harsh, most humans never make the trip, and the only one who did was a vegan. And so, all the sand dragons now assume humans are incapable of eating meat or animal products!
Best believe, when your yandere dragon prince witnesses you eating something other than plants, he’s shocked. His immediate conclusion is that you must have dragon blood. (Which, in his mind, is wonderful, because now you’ll surely be able to bear his child more easily!) After all, how could their hundreds of years of textbooks possibly be wrong?
Meanwhile, in the human world, people grow up being told that humans are a sand dragon’s favorite snack. But in reality, sand dragons only eat humans if they stumble upon a corpse in the desert. With such a vast, resource-scarce land, nothing can go to waste. Whether it’s a human, elf, or orc - if the body is found, it’s consumed, not out of cruelty, but as a way of honoring the resource.
Your dragon prince, however, makes a great effort to only eat what he believes to be “normal” human food around you. Like protein bars - solely because he saw you eat one once. He’s like those dads who buy hundreds of the same snack if they think you like it. Naturally, he does the same. Especially after you so kindly offered him a protein bar one day (he’d only had two breakfasts that morning, after all! Very generous of you to share your first breakfast with him!)
Then there are the silly little ways he convinces himself you’re in love with him. Like how sometimes you fall asleep on the train ride home. He doesn’t think it’s exhaustion from your workload - no, it’s because you feel safe enough to rest beside the strongest warrior alive! So he makes sure to stay perfectly still, so you may rest your eyes.
He especially loves it when he walks you home now and sometimes you allow him to carry your groceries! It's like you're a couple!
He also, somehow, got your number. Now he sends you selfies of himself standing guard outside your apartment, with a suspicious countdown in the caption. Totally not the day he plans to whisk you away to the Sand Kingdom…
I've been hyperfixating on the idea of dragons having a weird obsession with humans but all their libraries are filled with inaccurate information! Hopefully this makes sense :3 inspired by: our fierce differences on Webtoon
Yandere! Dragon Prince - who is really oblivious of your fears and is an awful flirt. Desert-born, with bronzed skin and dusty unruly curls that reflect dust-storm winds, symbolic tattoos that twist and wrap around, as if constellations across his chest and arms.
Every morning without fail, since a week or two ago, he boards the subway at the third stop after yours, waving at you brazenly while you do your best to look away. His massive, bat-like wings fold tight as he sits down right beside you, the train sinking under his weight, the hooked talons at their tips dragging faint scratches into the subway floor with every lurch of the car. He always takes the same seat beside you, knees nearly hitting the seat in front of him, filling row with his vast, towering presence, brown eyes shining like molten gold whenever they land on you.
Lately, he’s even tried to dress the part. Gone are the royal desert robes embroidered with threads-of-gold and lined with silks that shimmered like dunes at dawn - garments that marked him as a prince of the sands. Instead, he’s taken to “human fashion.” His broad frame is now squeezed into thin tourist t-shirts stretched taut across his chest, fabric straining against muscle. His sweatpants hang loose and low on his hips, because jeans, as he learned on his first attempt putting them on, simply don’t fit, splitting at the seams when he tries to spread his legs.
He beams at you each morning, proud of his efforts, convinced he’s blending seamlessly into your world. To him, this is courting: proof that he’s willing to shed the trappings of royalty just to sit at your side, to make himself appear more like you.
To you, it’s another reminder that the dragon prince has noticed you - chosen you - and that no matter how human he tries to look, he is anything but.
Now, unfortunately, he's nearly certain that you’re his mate. Though that does not translate well to your mind because you think you’re one heartbeat away from being eaten alive.
Sand dragons are feared even in this age of supposed peace. The fastest predators in the world, they once swept across the desert in violent storms of wing and claw. They are still considered warmongers, merciless in battle, infamous for eating lesser creatures not only for sustenance but as delicacies - savored slowly, an act of dominance. Even now, long after kingdoms have signed treaties and cities have forced coexistence, the old instincts cling. Their reputation stains them like blood in the sand.
And yet he sits beside you, morning after morning, grinning like a schoolboy. His gaze follows every twitch of your lips, every nervous little glance, convinced your skittishness is simply human nature. In the desert, love is persistence. Dragons prove their bond not with words, but with plentiful attention - by staying, watching, and protecting with all their might. That’s all he’s doing! Definitely not stalking!
“Did you eat today?” he asks one morning, trying for a whisper, not to disturb the nearby weary passengers. The sound comes out more like gravel than intended, vibrating through the walls of the train. You stiffen, half-convinced he means you as the meal or fattening you up to become a meal. In his mind, it’s simply courtship. He's always had a liking towards humans, even has a book all about them!
Where he’s from, a mate ensures their beloved never hungers, never walks alone. Already he’s been keeping vigil: trailing you home at night, padding silently just out of sight, the faint click of claws on pavement mistaken by you for nothing more than city noise. He’s proud of himself for learning your routine so fast and for keeping you safe from creatures that dare to come too close.
Finally, nerves snapping, you mutter under your breath, “Why do you even take the subway? Can’t you fly?”
His whole face lights up, tattoos shifting as his grin blooms wide. “Of course I could fly! But then I wouldn’t get to see you.”
You were about to speak to ask: why? But, as if struck by revelation, his eyes widen. “Oh - wait. Are you asking me to fly you? :)”
The image floods into you while you stare at the marking towards your final stop creeping closer and closer: massive talons curling around your waist, the rush of air, the sickening lurch as he lets go just to see you fall. You shake your head violently. A silent no.
But instead of reassuring you that he’d be nothing but gentle, he only chuckles, low and pleased with your charm by what he believes to be a quaint little human quirk. “So that’s how your kind shows affection,” he muses aloud, eyes soft, expression unbearably tender. To him, your actions make perfect sense: the trembling and constant stammering, even the way you shy away. Of course humans are delicate, so they must show love in fragile little ways.
Don’t worry, darling, once this summit ends, he’ll take you back to his home. Then he’ll show you how a dragon really loves.
cw: yandere, fem! reader, mentions of blood, chase
Yandere! Murderer - who still swears he’s your boyfriend, the one who takes care of you and keeps you safe in this dreadful city. The blood on his hands doesn’t count towards his affection for you, it’s only the city’s rot, the ones who deserved a heinous death.
You’re the exception to the world's filth. His angel. His everything.
He finds you after another long night of killing, after he’s peeled screams from throats and washed his hands in crimson rain. His dark hoodie is soaked through, heavy and sticky, the cuffs stiff with dried gore. His hair - dark and matted - clings wet to his temples, plastered against his skin in tangled ribbons. The cheap mask over his mouth is painted with old stains, but behind the flimsy thing, he’s smiling, eyes gleaming bright as wet glass when they find you.
“There you are,” he breathes, and it comes out like praise. He’s panting, shaking a little, not from exhaustion but from the sheer, trembling relief of seeing you. “Knew I’d find you, baby. You always run in the same direction - cute little habit of yours.”
He holds up a bag in his gloved hand. Inside, your favorite boba drinks sways in the dim streetlight. “Brought you these. Your favorites. Kinda melted though - I was busy.” He laughs softly, voice catching. “Long night. But I thought of you the whole time.”
You don’t answer as your skin blanches. You just turn and walk faster. The rhythm of your heels clicks sharp against the concrete, echoing between the buildings. He follows without meaning to - his strides longer, heavier, a shadow that can’t help but chase the light.
“Aw, c’mon, princess,” he calls, tone half-teasing, half-wounded. “Don’t be shy. I know I look scary right now, but you like that about me, don’t you?”
You run. The world narrows into the sound of rain and heartbeat and the slap of your shoes. He laughs behind you - not cruelly, but fondly, like a man chasing his giggling lover through a meadow instead of a blood-soaked alley.
“God, you’re fast,” he pants, delighted. “You been working out? You’re makin’ me look bad, baby!”
Then you stumble. The ground’s slick from the heavy rain; your heel skids and catches, and you hit the pavement hard enough to scrape your knee. You hiss in pain with a curse under your breath. The world sways and unfortunately for you, he’s there, towering, breathless, trembling with concern.
“Shit-shit, hey, hey, hey,” he murmurs, crouching down fast, gloves fumbling as he touches your leg, too careful and gentle for the same hands that broke ribs an hour ago. “You fell - oh baby, you fell - look at that, you’re bleeding.”
He tugs his sleeve down, wipes away the dirt and rain with absurd tenderness. Then, with a little triumphant hum, he digs through his pocket and pulls out a Hello Kitty bandage - crinkled from being carried too long. “See? Told you I’d keep you safe. You gotta stop running, baby, we can always play chase another day.”
He peels it open carefully, his bloodstained covered gloves trembling as he presses the pink cartoon kitten over your cut. His voice drops low, full of sheepish pride. “There. All better.”
For a moment, he just stares at the little sticker on your skin considering to give it a kiss, but he knows how shy you get around him. He's not going to push you for something you aren't ready for. His mask crinkles as he smiles behind it, soft and dizzy. “You’re always so clumsy,” he mumbles, brushing rain-slick hair from your face. “That’s why you stay with me, yeah? I take care of you.”
Then his tone brightens again, that boyish cheer seeping through the mania. “Hey, no tears now. We can play chase again tomorrow! No rain, promise or I'll kill the weather man for lying!”
He laughs, giddy and unsteady, his voice echoing down the empty street. “You make everything feel like a game, you know that? You keep me sane.”
And as he gathers you up - lifting you easily, cradling you close against his chest - he hums something soft under his breath, his words muffled behind the mask, “Love you. Love you so much it hurts. My perfect girl. My reason.”
You can still smell the blood on him, but his hold is careful, rocking you as he walks, like a man carrying the only good thing he’s ever came across.
Yandere! Murderer - who shows up at your apartment straight from a job. The one where he kills people in case your pretty little head forgot.
He’s smiling the way he always does when his eyes find you - though the face mask hides most of it, you can tell by the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes. He fills the doorway, broad shoulders, blocking any hope of escape before kicking it shut with the heel of his boot.
Those eyes have haunted you ever since the night he took you. The night he said he was bringing you “to work,” only for you to end up in that basement - his so-called studio. A single flickering bulb overhead. A camera pointed straight at you. An audience you couldn’t see but could somehow feel.
He called it a date. Said you’d make a cute co-star.
He wasn’t planning on keeping you alive, but hey - love finds a way.
So when you open the door and see him again - after a week of police visits and reports claiming no man fits your description - there he is. Standing before you, soaked in blood and breathing hard. For a moment, your mind refuses to process it. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening again.
But it is. He’s here. In your apartment.
“Hey, baby,” he says, voice warm despite the rasp in his throat. “Missed me?” He drops his bag at the door. The sound makes you jump. A sound too loud to be anything normal. Your mind already imagining a body or something worse.
Your back hits the wall before you even realize you’re moving. You can’t stop shaking. He looks you over you affectionately. There's something domestic about this to him.
“What’s with the tears?” His tone softens as he steps closer, boots leaving faint red prints across the hardwood. A pain to clean later. “You’re crying again.” When you don’t answer, his brows knit together in confusion. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. The blood on his gloves smears your jaw as he cups your face, thumbs dragging slowly across your skin. The scent is unbearable, metallic and sour and alive. You can feel it tacky on your cheeks.
He tilts his head, observing yet childlike. “You’re so cute when you get all emotional like this. What, you think I came here to hurt you? I’d never, baby. You know that.”
You choke out a sob in response, cowering closer into the wall.
“Aw, baby. You forgot movie night, didn’t you? That’s why I came here - I figured I’d save you the trip. Even brought snacks too!”
He points at the bag by the door. Your mind continues to think of the worse. Unable to imagine that he stopped by the store for your favorites.
The last “movie night” flashes in your mind - his hand on your thigh while a body dangled from the ceiling, the flicker of the live feed on that monitor tucked in the back corner.
“Cute place! A little messy, but hey you probably forgot I was coming” he says, chuckling when your knees give out and you sink against the wall. “You always get worked up about that sort of thing. I should’ve texted first.” He leans down, eyes meeting yours as he begins to talk slowly.
“I didn’t wanna be late, baby. I even brought popcorn this time. Real date-night stuff.” His voice dips, tender, coaxing, trying his best to be sweet. “C’mon now. Don’t cry. You’ll make me feel bad, and you know how I get when I feel bad.”
His thumb smears another streak of red over your mouth. Watching as your sobs die out. Perhaps going into shock. “There she is,” he murmurs in a laugh. “God, you’re so pretty when you have tears in your eyes. Now let’s pick a movie, yeah? But before that - ”
He crosses the room and crouches by his duffel, unzipping the worn bag with the slow rasp of a zipper that sounds far too loud in the quiet room. You don’t move from your place against the wall. Every muscle feels locked, like your body’s afraid it might start screaming again if you breathe too deep.
“See? Told you I’d bring everything this time.” His tone is light, almost teasing. The camera glints as he pulls it out - compact, familiar with a Sanrio sticker off to the side, the same one that watched you in that basement. He tests the lens, wipes a smear of blood from the screen with the edge of his sleeve. “Don’t want the audience missing that pretty face of yours.”
You shake your head once, a tiny movement that barely makes it past your shoulders. It doesn’t matter. He’s already talking over the silence.
“Let’s make it like before.” He sets the tripod up near the coffee table, angling it toward the couch. “You sit right there. I’ll grab the popcorn, we’ll pick something soft, yeah? Maybe a rom-com this time.”
Your throat aches when you try to answer. No sound comes out.
He looks back at you, and for a heartbeat his smile softens. “Hey. Don’t give me that look. I'm just documenting our love. It's inspiring to them!” A small chuckle when he watches you cower. “You know I hate it when you look scared. I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want our night together. That’s all.”
He adjusts the focus, satisfied with the frame, then reaches a hand toward you - blood dried dark along his knuckles, palm open a chance for you to go willingly.
“Smile for the fans, baby,” he says gently. “They’ve been dying to see you.”
Thank you <3 Luckily for you after sex is when dictator can be a little sweet.
cw: mentions of cum, mentions of both holes being used not explicit, minors do not interact
Yandere! Soldier - The old CRTV hums low in the corner, a steady electric thrum that feels almost like a lullaby in itself. Its bulky shape dominates the room, perched precariously on a shelf he built from salvaged wood, wires trailing into the floor. It reminds him of the barracks when television was new, a gift from the supreme leader, a glimpse of a world bigger than his own war-torn country.
He insists on borrowing movies from the library when he makes his runs. The stack sits crooked beside the set: battered VHS tapes, DVDs in cracked cases. Tonight, it’s The Fox and the Hound. The tape fuzzes now and then, the picture streaked with static, but his gaze doesn’t leave it. Not because he cares about the story, though he does in a way, it's one of his favorites, but because your breathing is steady against his chest, your arm looped loosely over his waist.
You’re leaking from him still, thighs damp, the heat of it pressing into his skin where you’ve tangled together. He doesn’t move to clean you. Instead, his broad hand drifts slowly through your hair, careful in a way that betrays how often he isn’t. He pauses at knots, the ones he caused when he was rougher earlier, and gently works around them, unwilling to wake you.
Sleep doesn’t come easily to him. His body trained itself against it during the war and childhood; every noise a potential threat, every blink of an eye a danger. But watching you sleep feels like a duty he can carry out. He sits upright, chest square, heart thudding slow and steady under your cheek, and keeps watch. He presses a kiss to your crown, eyes fixed on the flickering cartoon animals, and tells himself he’ll hold the night back for you if he has to.
Yandere! Dictator - His room is sterile in its perfection. Not sterile like a hospital, but close: the pristine white sheets tucked tight without a wrinkle, every book lined flush along the shelf, papers squared to the edge of his desk. The air smells faintly of clean linen and cologne - sharp, cold, masculine. Even in the aftermath of sex, there is no chaos here.
And him, your dictator, your surpreme leader, your hell, he lies half-draped against you, pale lashes lowered over flushed cheeks. His hair, always styled into careful neatness for public appearances, is mussed now, strands falling prettily across his forehead. He looks softer, almost delicate, when his eyes slip closed. His arm is looped around you, but not tight. He simply holds you, body lean and warm, as though he’s content with you beside him.
Sometimes, when he’s feeling generous, he’ll rise to clean you. A damp cloth, precise swipes, not even a joke about how you're leaking from both holes. Tonight, though, he doesn’t bother. The evidence of him seeps from you into the crisp sheets, and he lets it. His gaze lingers on it once or twice, mouth twitching with faint satisfaction, before he tucks you closer with a playful hum. Who knew he could keep his mouth shut?
His kisses are fleeting, absentminded: the crown of your head, your shoulder, the slope of your forehead. Little touches of affection, almost too subtle to be noticed. He doesn’t speak - not his usual tirades, not the speeches about loyalty and love. His lips stay pressed together, his breath slow and even, like silence itself is the rarest gift he can offer.
Lying there, in a room so perfectly arranged, he looks fragile. Like porcelain in a museum - untouchable, easily shattered. You’re the only thing in this sterile world he lets himself hold, the only break in his order. And if you shift in your sleep, his fingers twitch, pulling you closer with a breath, as though to remind himself you are still his bride.
Demon King and Jester trying to get darling to smile, a hint laughter, hell anything only to get nothing a face of stone. They know they can smile. They have seen it in the gardens or in the library with a nice book. But they get nothing as they both deserve. And no threats, or bribery, or even begging (from Jester) gets more then a blink or a soft cry. Oh the heartbreak. (And it's not quite true of course. That darling would never smile for them for if they offered them their heads and the heads of every monster in the demon lords army they would see a smile as radiant as the sun).
I have thoughts if you couldn't tell. Love your work
Oh this is so canon! Thank you for adding this lovely! Adding to your thought train, anon!
cw: drinking, invasion of privacy
The Jester is a bit of a nuisance, the sort who won’t leave you in peace until you grant him a smile. He’s your only companion in the castle, if one could even call him that. If you want even the smallest scrap of privacy, you have to give him that begrudging grin, usually paired with a curse under your breath. Only then will he sweep into a low bow with a murmur “thank you, my princess,” and turn the other way while you take your morning tinkle, content enough to let you be.
The Demon King is different and can endure your scowls and tears. He pours you wine until your head is heavy and until your body goes slack, and when at last you collapse into sleep on his massive royal bed, he only watches. Enjoying the sight of the slow rise and fall of your chest, the curl of your lashes against flushed wine-drunk cheeks. The Jester, at least, sleeps soundly knowing you are near with an arm tight arounr your waist, but the King does not. Not until your lips curve and you finally offer him that fleeting, fragile smile. Only then, as if soothed by your softened features, does he finally drift into slumber.
really tempted to write willing reader for yandere batfam but like super duper happy but sort of not used to the attention? especially if their like relatively young just trying to get used to the attention? like flinching when jason comes over because of the past where you know jason being mad and loud (it hurts his heart that you flinch) or being quieter around Grayson and being like “i don’t wanna bother you” (he will NEVER forgive himself. EVER . PLS SPEAK HE LOVES UR VOICE)
omg imagine DAMIAN BAHAHHA he stops insulting you so you insult yourself for him and oh my gosh he has never been more mad. It confuses you too because of the fact your trying to save him effort.. what does he mean ur worth something? what does he mean u sound nice? what does he mean ur not ugly? your genuinely confused and damian has never been more mad at himself in his life.
Omg and steph stops being passive aggressive but you can’t understand that not everything you do is annoying in fact it’s loved so much now. Like she groans at the lack of food in the kitchen while you’re there and you’re just murmuring to yourself. You thought she was mad at you so you hold your breath and stop talking. When she turns around to talk to her favourite person ever she’s practically panicking that you look like ur about to pass out..
Cass would stalk the ever living fuck out of you and you would not know how to handle it. 😔 It would be such a switch from the random disappearing act she does because now you feel her everywhere all the time and you can’t help but try and do everything perfectly so you don’t chase her away. She’s so upset at this but she can’t even say it :( she wanted to see you be yourself please stop preforming..
Tim is reading your internet searches and it starts with mine craft videos to found family tv shows and then sad stuff like how to make my family love me. He would actually ugly sob for like 24 hours minimum.. He would be so awkward trying to relate to you as well like “how are you today?”
“I’m good! Stampy cat uploaded a video!”
“Oh. That guy, that’s nice… I can make you minecraft videos too.”
“YOU CAN?”
He now has hours specifically dedicated to playing minecraft and recording it just for you. It’s embarassing (but he would do it over and over again) . He doesn’t have cameras he has BABY MONITORS. The type that sends sound over like any request or stupid long rant you go on like “i kinda want nachos. do birds like nachos? do birds like cheese?” He would come w them two seconds later and specifically answer your questions and leave. You think he’s haunting you..
worse is bruce. ESPECIALLY IF U LIVED THERE FROM LIKE BIRTH. You would practically never see him at all in fact it would be so bad that you never felt a hug in your life. Ever. So imagine him holding his hands out in a hug motion and you just stare confused? It’s even worse if you think he’s mad at you like, “ M sorry :( I don’t know what I did but m sorry” He wouldn’t cry in front of you let alone anyone in the manor after you run away no he would sit and cry in the privacy of his room holding on to your childhood toy acting like it was you. Even worse when he makes you sit on his lap wanting to be close to you like “ur my baby come here” and you just sit so still like any slight move will cause the end of the world. He’s so sad because he loves when you rant a tiny bit.
OH MY GOD IF YOU LIKE THEIR HERO PERSONA BUT NOT THEM??? The suit is their skin now… it hurts but it’s worth it
Ghost who you meet in a pub on a slow Thursday night, he's sitting alone in a dark corner sipping a bourbon. If he lifted his mask to drink you couldn't see it. He seems bored, lazily looking at the tv in the corner and for a moment his eyes go straight to you. Embarassed of being caught you look away and go to the bathroom to calm yourself. If you weren't so quick to turn around you might have seen how the corners of his eyes crinkled in your direction.
Another 10 minutes pass until the bartender puts two drinks in front of you, before you could tell him that you didn't order anything a strong arm comes from behind and grabs one of the glasses. You turn around and see the man from earlier, he asks if you want to join him at the table in the corner. From up close you can see his eyes are deep brown, a small golden circle around the pupil, small scars peeking from underneath his mask and blond locks slightly outgrown. You mumble a timid "yes" and he gently guides you to the table.
He tells you his name is Simon, you repeat it almost tasting the sound of it on your tongue and Simon's fingers close tightly around his glass. After introducing yourself and exchanging a few more words and drinks the conversation flows surprisingly easy.
Simon's total lack of any media culture and his blunt responses when you try to explain things to him make an endearing picture. He tells you about stupid things he and his mates do in the military, not giving out too many details otherwise he would have to kill you, you jokingly tell him you can run fast and that makes him grin.
An hour later you manage to make him full-on belly laughing while you energetically talk about the recent true crime documentries you've been binging, sprinkled with spicy details from the last Love Island episode. Simon equally judges both but can't deny that now he's kind of into the story. You jokingly ask him to come home with you to watch trashy TV and do something about his lack of media knowledge. He looks intensely from the other end of the table and tells you he might just take you up on the offer. In an attempt to hide your rosy cheeks you take another sip from your drink.
It takes another hour before he gets you through the front door, the cold air outside sobering you by the minute. When you fail to open the clasp from your heels Simon gets on his knees and puts your leg on his thigh, gently taking your shoes off and lightly massaging your tired feet. The image is an endearing one which makes you put your hands through his hair lightly tugging and making him groan. He gets up and tugs his mask down, slightly chapped lips adorned by pinkish scars ask you for permission. Grabbing his denim jacket you pull him closer, kissing timidly at first and then full-on making out, a pair of bulky arms grabbing underneath your thighs and lifting you up.
Somehow he gets you both like this in the bedroom, gently laying you on the bed still kissing. Pale light from outside going through the window and showing tangled limbs between green colored sheets. Small hands trying to pull Simon closer although there was barely any space left between the two hungry bodies consuming each other. Purple marks were already blooming on your neck and between your thighs, long rosy lines adorning Simon's back. In the cold air of the room your breaths were shallow, throats slightly scratched after moaning and pleading to each other. Light perspiration made the cold more biting, but cuddling into his chest gave you enough warmth.
Simon's fingers were lightly threading through your hair while you gently placed little kisses around his throat which seemed to tickle him. Before he could even ask you told him to stay the night and that seemed to visibly relax him. Lazily kissing you fall asleep in each other's arms, Simon deciding in that moment to let himself have at least this much, but already feeling the ache of teeth that wanted to take more and more of you, an insatiable hunger of a beast with a lamb in his jaws.
Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Oᴜᴛʟᴀᴡs
Pʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs Eɴᴛʀʏ | Dʀᴀʙʙʟᴇs
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: noncon/dubcon, somno, face riding, some fluff, oral, gun stuff, 9.8k words
The second in command wakes up the earliest out of all the outlaws. Most days he prefers not to disturb you. Lord knows, he probably kept you awake until the grey hours. But when he knows he's in for enough work to make his back ache and his shoulders scream? That's when he indulges himself.
He shifts you onto your back while you’re still sweet and asleep before gathering your nightgown at your waist. He pulls in a sharp breath at the sight of you, still tender and messy from the night before.
“Look at the marks on you, dove.”
His marks. His girl.
It’s easy to get lost in the heat of you after that; he can taste himself on your skin when he kisses his way down to your cunt.
“Sorry about this, birdie.” He sighs and nips at your inner thigh. “But I want everyone to see where my teeth have been.”
You might murmur something then, half asleep. Not able to escape his touch even in your dreams, poor thing.
"No complaining,” he hushes you. “Just let me get my fill and then you can go back to sleep."
He's a liar, a damn shameless one at that. He can never have enough of you.
A tongue isn't enough, no, he needs to feel his fingers inside you too. And oh, aren't you just so hot and wet and pliable like this? He needs to feel you on his cock. And look at your lips, so soft in sleep. He has to steal a kiss too, with you so helpless. What kind of outlaw would he be otherwise?
And when you wake up — gasping, his cock buried to the hilt — he'll just press a palm over your mouth.
"Shhh, qīn ài de. Let me have this. Let me have you."
If he can't hear you say no, he tells himself he doesn't need to stop.
You hate waking up to him inside you. His girth fills you to the point where it stings, and the swollen head of his cock drags down your walls until your insides are a warm, tender mess.
He tries his best to be gentle — you can tell from the way he clenches his jaw that he’s holding himself back as much as he can — but his resolve melts away when he’s got you on his dick. You don't understand, pretty birdie, the way you test a man's strength.
Holding back, trying to go slow, when you're warm and soft around him is damn near impossible. What red-blooded cowboy wouldn't be tempted when the girl of his dreams is underneath him, gasping and digging her nails into the tightly bunched muscles of his back? Who could ever look at you and let you go?
No, dove, he needs you. And it doesn't matter one bit if he has to wring your orgasm out of you. Before the sun comes up, he'll have it.
He buries his face in your neck when he fucks you, his voice rasping from both sleep and want.
“Come for me, sweet dove. Give it to me and I'll leave you be, I swear.”
You try to call him a liar, but it's muffled by his hand.
“Your body wants this,” he coos, his fingers dipping over your clit and pressing down, “Why fight the inevitable?”
And it is inevitable. By the time he's done, your pussy is a clenching, shivering mess and you're hanging onto him so tight it's a wonder he can still catch a breath.
The sun breaks the horizon and turns his room a pale grey. He kisses you along your jaw as you ride out the aftershocks underneath him.
“Best way to start the day, isn't it, little dove?”
He chuckles when he pulls out, those sharp eyes of his drawn to the spill of come between you. He taps the mound of your cunt, still smiling.
“Your pretty pussy is going to remember me for the rest of the day, isn't she?”
He's not a vulgar man, so hearing him say things like that makes your heart race. He swipes his thumb through your folds and brings it to your lips. There's a thin coating of spunk on his finger, pearly white in the watery dawn.
“Taste it, dove. See what it tastes like when you and I are together.”
You lick his thumb. It's salty, and just a little bitter.
He hums quietly and finally pulls away from you. The cold washes in without him there to keep it off.
“You'll remember that taste, won't you, dove?”
You nod. You can't bring yourself to speak, not with the way he's looking at you. Those pretty eyes of his are wolfish.
“Good.” He pats your thigh. “That's the only thing that matters in this world, the only thing you ought to care about.”
When he leaves you to get dressed for the day, you stay on your back, his touch buzzing on your skin and the taste of him thick on your tongue.
He's not so bad, some awful part of you insists, he's mad about you, you can see it in his eyes.
And that part is true at least. You can see it in his eyes.
He makes you brush his hair every morning. He’s proud of it, and for good reason. His hair isn’t as long as the wrangler’s, but it’s oil dark and smooth as Chinese silk. When you run your fingers through it, he tilts his head backwards and sighs.
“I love it when you take care of me, little dove.”
He keeps it tied back with a leather thong, and on days when he isn't in a hurry you amuse yourself by trying different styles. Parting his hair one way and then the other, tying half of it up and leaving the rest loose. He sits quietly while you buzz around him, just watching you.
You ask him once if he minds it when you play with his hair like that.
“Does it make you happy?” he asks you.
“I suppose it does.” As happy as you can be when you're a prisoner.
“Then I don't mind at all.” He shrugs and smiles at you. “Besides, I like having all your attention for a little while.”
You learn his likes pretty early on.
He covets pretty things the same way a magpie would— silk waistcoats, polished bronze buttons, silver rings. He collects luxury just as religiously as he collects books. When he gets dressed in the morning, he makes you tie his cravat for him and slip his cross around his neck.
“I didn’t take you for a religious man,” you tell him.
He rubs the crucifix between his fingers. “I’m not. But this was my mother’s.”
“What happened to her?”
You tell yourself that curiosity won’t do you any good, but out of all the outlaws he’s the one you can’t wrap your head around. An educated man, by all measures. Why does he ride with a gang of killers?
“She passed from cholera when I was still a boy.”
You tell yourself curiosity is no good, but still…
“What was she like?”
“Kind. Sweet.” He leans down and kisses the crown of your head, his thumb under your chin. “Just like you.”
When he leaves, you can’t help but wonder what his kind, sweet mother would think of him now.
It doesn’t take long to realise why he’s the second in command. When it comes to planning jobs, he’s invaluable. No wonder the sheriff and his deputies couldn’t find you. When you listen to him planning his heists and escape routes, you get the feeling you could run for weeks and still end up right back at the ranch.
He has a habit of hiding his maps from you. Paranoid, maybe. Just like the boss, he can tell that deep down there’s nothing you want more than to run like hell away from him.
He’s not a superstitious man, but he always kisses you before he leaves for a job.
“You’re my compass,” he tells you, his gloves cool against your face, “I know I’ll always find my way home if I have you waiting for me.”
A few months after he kidnaps you, he catches you in the stables with his stallion. His horse is a tall Saddlebred, black as sin and with a foul temper. And you’re standing in the stall with him, brushing out his mane like it’s nothing.
“Always knew you had a way with horses, little dove. But I didn’t think you’d try your luck with my devil beast.”
“He’s not so bad,” you say quietly, “Just needs a soft touch.”
“Is that right? Are you going to try riding him next?”
“He’s beautiful, but I reckon I’ll need spurs and a whip to sit him.”
“You don’t have the heart for it?”
You laugh softly and rub the horse behind the ears. “No. My pa used to tell me spurs are a tool like any other, but I could never make myself use them.”
He comes to stand against the stall door, watching you more than his horse. When he speaks, his voice is soft and…careful.
“Do you miss riding, little dove?”
You aren’t sure whether or not it’s a trick question. If you say yes, will he think you’re trying to escape? And if you say no, will he be able to tell you’re lying? You settle for honesty.
“I miss it all the time. Working with the horses and in the stables is nice, but I guess it’s not the same.” You focus on the stallion to avoid looking at him.
“I remember watching you breezing your father’s mustangs. Almost gave me a stroke, seeing your ride that fast.”
You freeze up for a second. You don’t know why it surprises you — he’s told you before that he used to watch you whenever he got a chance. Maybe it’s the familiar way he says it. Like you should have known he was there.
“Can you still ride that fast, dove? Or have we broken the habit?”
You tighten your grip on the grooming brush. Is he mocking you? It’s so hard to tell with him. Either way, it’s cruel of him to bring up your good memories just to remind you that you’re a captive.
“Give me a horse and I’ll leave you in the dust,” you say quietly, not entirely able to hide your resentment.
He doesn’t react. Just watches you with those dark eyes, his hat tilted low.
“Fast as you are, little dove, I’ll always be faster.”
You forget about your conversation after a while, but he doesn’t. If you could read him better, you might have realised how heavy it weighs on his mind.
When he tells the outlaws that he wants to steal some horses, you expect it to be just another job. Except this time, almost the whole gang rides out, their guns and lassos slung from their saddles.
You and the boy watch them leave from the porch. Your heart is in your throat by then, your mind racing. Is this your chance? If you can sneak away from the boy, you might actually manage to escape.
“Don’t even try it,” the boy says quietly when you turn to him. His eyes are hard, and a little afraid. “The second in command will shoot us both if you try to run.”
“Who said anything about running?”
He doesn’t answer you; he just takes your wrist and gently pulls you back inside.
The gang is gone for a long while. The house is oddly quiet without them, but you don’t get to enjoy it for long; the boy watches you like a hawk. The days bleed together — you tend to your garden, and read as many books as you can stomach. You plan a dozen escapes that you don't have the nerve to try.
When the outlaws finally return, it's the middle of the night.
You jerk awake to the sound of their voices, your whole body going cold. You're barely out of bed when the second in command comes to get you. He’s unusually disheveled — his hair is coming loose from its tie, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He gives you a quick kiss before he leads you out into the night and towards the stables.
"I've brought you something, little dove."
The night air is chilly and your nightgown doesn’t do much to stave it off. There’s a half moon in the sky, just bright enough to see by. Rustler’s moon your pa used to call it. And that seems about right; there are horses in the paddock out front, ones you've never seen before. A dozen at least, maybe more.
You freeze in your tracks when you notice them. Even one stolen horse is enough to catch a noose... are these outlaws not afraid for their necks?
The second in command pulls you moving again, clearly impatient. In the moonlight, it's easy to make out the poppy bruise darkening the strong line of his jaw, but he doesn’t give you a chance to ask about it.
Always so reckless, these outlaws of yours. When will they learn violence isn't the only answer?
The stables are lit bright with lanterns. The outlaws are busy with half a dozen different tasks but they all move with the bone weary slowness of men pushed beyond their endurance. It's only the second who's straight on his feet.
You aren’t sure what to expect when he leads you to a stall at the very end of the line. It’s the one right next to his stallion’s, and it usually sits empty.
Well, not anymore.
There's a horse standing there quietly, a halter around her head. A white mare, as perfect as snow. Lantern light shines off her coat and the soft brown of her eyes. She's delicately built, her neck arched high and her nose as tapered as a dragon's.
"An Arabian?" you ask. "Oh, she's beautiful.”
Even with your daddy's long list of broodmares and stallions, you've never seen a horse so fine. This is a ladies horse, meant for some well bred gentleman's daughter. She shouldn't be out here.
The second in command stands a little behind you, at your shoulder. He takes in the careful way you move when you approach her, the soft awe in your smile.
"Tame as a kitten, too." He sounds unbearably satisfied.
You reach out and brush your fingers down her nose. Pink and plush, soft as velvet.
He leans down and rests his chin on your shoulder. You're too distracted by the horse to stiffen up or push him away.
He continues, "You won't go riding alone, obviously. But still, I think she suits you.”
"Oh yeah? Why's that?"
He hums. "You're both pretty, that's why."
She steps forward and bows her head so you can stroke the long line of her neck. Her muscles ripple under the gloss of her coat.
"Do you like her?" he asks.
"Yes. Very much." You try not to think about what he must have done to get her.
He hums again, and slips his forearm across your belly. His black stallion and your snow white mare, the perfect match.
Just like the both of you.
The other outlaws are still asleep when the second in command wakes you. It’s only midmorning but the day is already promising to be a hot one. He’s dressed casually — knee high cavalry boots and a loose cotton shirt, his hair falling free around his shoulders.
“Get dressed, dove. It’s a long ride ahead of us.”
You expected him to be all over you — after a job or a little while away, he can never keep his hands off you — but he seems content to watch you dress with his chin propped up on his fist and his hat in his lap.
“Will you tell me where we’re going?” you ask.
“Will you give me a kiss if I do?”
“No.”
“Then you’ll just have to wait and see.”
When you get outside, the horses are already waiting. It seems he stole some tack for you as well, because your mare has an elaborately carved saddle in black and silver on her back.
When you mount up, he stands by her shoulder and brushes a hand down your calf.
“Your stirrups fitting you fine?”
You nod, and he gives your leg a quick squeeze before turning to mount his own horse. He sits loose and easy in the saddle, one hand on the reins and one on his thigh. Cowboy through and through, no matter how pretty he speaks or well he dresses.
The ranch is bordered on all sides by the open prairie. In the distance, a silver ribbon of water reflects the sun. Seeing it all from your saddle is heady — not freedom, not really, but the closest you've come to it in a long time.
The ride to the river is pleasantly slow. The grass brushes the heels of your boots, and the sky stretches wide and brilliant overhead. Your cowboy switches between watching the horizon and watching you. You try not to let it fluster you, but God, why does he have to be so handsome?
“Like what you see, qīn ài de?” he asks when he catches you sneaking a few glances of your own.
Damn. You look forward in a hurry, your neck burning. He’s so smug about catching you, which irritates you to no end. He looks at you all the time, and he’s totally shameless about it.
“I reckon the view is okay,” you mutter.
That only makes him chuckle. “You can always come closer and get a better look, y’know.”
Yeah, you reckon he’d love that.
You huff and nudge your horse ahead of his. Why does he have to be sweet with you? Why can’t he just be an irredeemable asshole and make this easier on you? If he was as cruel as the green eyed gunslinger, or as frightening as the boss, you could have hated him. As it is, when you look at him you see the boy from your past. The one you found half dead in the hay, the one who looked at you like he almost couldn’t believe his luck.
“What did you want to be when you were young?” you ask.
Curiosity, curiosity. It's going to do you in eventually, you know it.
He takes a second to answer. Surprised that you want to know, maybe.
“A cowboy. We lived in the city, my mother and I. I guess the cowboys in my books were always having adventures and I wanted to have some too.”
That catches you off guard. With the way he dresses, you'd think he'd want to be some rich businessman or industrialist.
“Has it lived up to your expectations so far?” you ask.
“Hmm. It’s a funny thing — I used to imagine myself as the hero. Not the outlaw.”
There it is again — that sense of awareness. Deep down he knows exactly what sort of man he is.
Did he think he'd steal a girl too? When he was dreaming of gold and gunfights, was he dreaming of you too?
“What about you, dove?”
You blink. “What about me?”
“If we didn't…find you, what would your life have looked like?”
You shrug. “Marriage, I suppose. My pa was always going to leave the ranch to me, but I'd need some help holding it.”
He hums. “Who would have come for your hand?”
“Um…whoever wanted to?”
“How about that deputy? Your neighbour's son. He seemed to like you plenty.”
Of course he would know about that.
“Him and I were only friends.”
Your cowboy fingers his revolver. “Good friends?”
“We barely talked once we grew up.”
“But you used to talk before.”
“Just a little.”
“Would you have said ‘yes’ if he wanted to marry you?”
That part of your life is so far away that it takes you a while to dredge up an honest answer.
“Maybe. He was sweet when we were young, and good looking. But I don't know him as a man.”
“Didn't.” He corrects you lightly. “You didn't know him as a man. That part of your life is done with, dove.”
“I know.”
“Then don't speak about it like it's still happening.”
He goes quiet after that. Part of you is thankful — there was something vicious in him when he asked about the deputy. You don't want to wake it further.
As you get closer to the water, he directs you upstream. The trees are thicker here — oaks and cottonwoods — and when you finally break through them you can't help but gasp.
“Beautiful, isn't it, dove?”
There’s a lake in front of you. The water is a greenish blue — crystal clear near the bank and darkening as it deepens. The prairie grass gives way to something shorter and greener, interspersed with wild flowers. Your mare drops her head to drink, her hooves stirring up wisps of yellowish pollen.
“It’s lovely,” you say quietly.
Swallows flit between the trees, some of them pausing on the branches of a massive weeping willow growing right next to the water.
“Hmm. I know you used to like swimming in the pond down by your father’s south field. I reckoned this would be even better than that.”
You feel your face getting hot. “You saw me swimming?”
“Mhm.”
Even though your ma used to yell up and down about being a proper lady, swimming was your guilty pleasure. On hot summer afternoons, you used to slip out of your dress and swim in nothing but your shift and stockings. The water made the material cling to your skin, the thin cotton practically see through. The thought of him watching you, seeing you like that when you had no idea you were being watched is…startling.
He huffs out a laugh and climbs from his saddle with practiced ease. “Not making you feel all shy, am I?”
“How many times did you see me? How much did you see?”
He loops your horses’ reins around a tree branch and comes to stand at your side. He rests a hand on your thigh.
“Oh, I saw plenty.” He smirks. “Thought about it all the time, y’know. Could have stolen you away so easy. Could have had you right then and there, in the water.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I’m a gentleman.”
Yeah, right.
He helps you off your mare and watches as you make your way down to the water. You hate to admit it, but there’s nothing you want more than a swim right now. The midsummer sun isn't kind.
If you stripped off your dress and stepped into the water, would he make good on whatever fantasies he had while he was watching you?
When he’s done unsaddling the horses he comes to join you. He has a saddle bag slung over his shoulder, and a white sheet folded under his arm.
“Shall we go, little dove?”
“You brought a picnic?”
“Of course.”
You follow him to the weeping willow and duck through the leaves. They reach all the way to the floor and across the water in a pale green canopy, drifting a little in the breeze. The grass here is short and plush from the shade, and the sunlight filtering through the leaves throws bright shadows across everything. The smell of wildflowers and jasmine lies thick in the air.
You lean against the tree to take off your boots while your cowboy lays out the picnic blanket.
The grass is ticklish under your bare feet, and when you wade into the water, your dress hiked to your knees, the pebbles are smooth and cold. The water is pleasant rather than biting, but you still gasp when it ripples against your calves.
“Too cold for you, dove?”
“Come in and find out for yourself, cowpoke.”
You hate to admit it, but the lake and the picnic are a perfect gift. What girl wouldn’t want her man to bring her here? It's fairytale pretty.
Small waves fan out as he follows you in, catching the sun in bright flares. He hisses at the chill, but it doesn't take long for him to reach you.
“It's bloody icy, dove. How do you stand it?”
“It's not so bad. And look—” you point at the far bank “—I think I see a deer.”
He chuckles and leans down to prop his chin on your shoulder. “Wouldn’t surprise me. They like the grass here.”
You keep your eyes on the deer so you won't have to focus on the wild mint and leather smell of him.
“How did you find this place?”
“Followed the river one time. Suppose I got lucky. When I saw it, I knew I had to bring you.” He hums. “Must have been about a year or two ago I think.”
Even before he stole you away, he was thinking about you.
You shiver despite the sun, and he takes it as an excuse to wrap his arms around your waist.
“Do you know what day today is?” he asks, tapping his fingers against your side.
“Umm…Sunday?”
There's a smile in his voice. “Not what I was asking, dove.”
“Then no, I haven't a clue.”
He brushes his lips down the side of your neck — softly, with such terrible kindness. “Today is the anniversary of the day we met.”
“You remember the date?”
“Hard to forget being rescued.”
He shifts his grip on you and turns you around to face him. His shirt is loose at his throat and his hat is tilted low, just enough to see the slash of his eyes.
“I've longed for you dove.” He touches your cheek with his knuckles. “For years. I couldn't get you out of my head no matter what I tried. I told myself…”
He looks away from you. His gaze lands on the far shore, and the deer standing by the water’s edge. “I told myself I wasn't the kind of man who took a woman against her will. I told myself only the basest dogs did that, the meanest bastards.”
You swallow hard. “What changed?”
“You.” He brings himself to meet your eyes. “I thought I could keep away. That it was fine to watch you from a distance. I told myself it would be enough.”
You stay silent. This is the most he's told you since the first day, when he confessed who he really was.
“It wasn't any good, dove. I'm selfish. The most selfish man in the world, maybe.”
You focus on his shirt and the silver cross winking at you. Does it make it better that he knows what sort of man he is? That his love is tempered by his guilt?
“I would have said yes to you, if you'd asked me,” you tell him. The breeze ruffles the hem of your dress and blows strands of dark hair across his cheeks.
It's only when you say it out loud that you realise how true it is. If the second in command came knocking at your father's door asking for your hand, you would have said yes to him in a heart beat.
He stiffens. “Don't tease, dove.”
“I'm not. I…I used to think about you. You said you'd come back and marry me, remember? That's a hard thing for a girl to forget.”
“Why would you ever choose an outlaw for a husband?”
You smile a little at that. “You wouldn’t have told me you were a wanted man, I can guess that much. You wouldn’t have said anything at all until the papers were signed and I was wearing your ring.”
He laughs and tilts his chin towards you. “You know me better than I thought, dove.”
It's easy to know a man when he sleeps and dreams next to you almost every night. When he fucks you like he's scared you'll melt away with the sunrise.
You meet his eyes. “I would have been yours if you'd asked me.”
You're not sure what you read on his face. Regret? Pride? Love?
He doesn’t give you a chance to puzzle it out. He leans down and scoops you up in his arms bridal style. You gasp, grabbing onto his shirt to keep from falling.
“Tell me what you want most in the world, little dove.”
Those eyes…how can so much love and worship fit inside a man?
He holds you against his chest, smiling the same dimpled way he did when you first met him; the smile that made you want to hide him from your pa and patch him up no matter the risk.
You decide to tell him the truth.
“I want to go home. Just for a little.”
He tilts his head. “You behave for me and I can make that happen.”
“Promise?”
There's no way the boss will agree to let you go home, no matter how short the visit. It can’t possibly be worth the risk. Still, your heart jumps before settling into its rhythm.
“I promise.” You can't see any trace of a lie in his eyes. “I know you must hate me, dove. But I still want to make you happy.”
You kiss him. You don't realise what you're doing until your hand is already on the nape of his neck and you're dragging him down to meet your lips.
His skin is cooler than yours. He tastes like mint and underneath that, just a hint of bourbon. As he pulls you tighter against him, he darts his tongue across your teeth.
“Swear it,” you whisper, “say you'll let me see my family again.”
“I will.” His breath tickles your cheeks. “If it makes you happy, I will.”
He kisses you again. Softly, kindly, but God, so hungry.
He doesn't break away from you, not even when he turns and starts wading towards the shore. The willow leaves brush your cheeks when he steps under the canopy, and then he's kneeling down and setting you on the picnic blanket.
“Love me,” he murmurs between kisses, “wǒ xiǎng hé nǐ gòngdù yúshēng.”
It’s a mouthful, and the little bit of the language you’ve picked up from him is no good. But the way he says it makes something in your stomach flutter — it's rough around the edges, a kind of desperation you don’t hear when he speaks English.
“Be mine, little dove. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
He kisses down your jaw and then lower still, until his teeth brush the hollow of your collarbone. You can't help but giggle at the way it tickles, and he gives you a small nip before pulling away entirely.
With the way he set you down, he's ended up between your legs with your dress pooling at you midthigh and his hands on either side of your waist. He grins at you, all boyish charm.
“You know, dove, you said you could still ride better than me. Want to put your money where your mouth is?”
“What are you talking—”
He rolls over onto his back and drags you with him. You blink and you're on top of him, knees straddling his waist.
You push yourself up a little, so you can see the entirety of his face. The dappled sun cuts hollows into his cheeks. You touch his jaw lightly and he turns his face into your palm, as needy as a cat.
It's hard to hate him.
You know you should. Aren't there still fading bruises on your thighs from his touch? He took you from everything you've ever known, and he covets you as jealously as a miser. Him and all the outlaws — they share your body like it's their right, like your dreams and love and autonomy mean nothing at all.
You have every right to hate him. So why don't you?
“You're a terrible man,” you tell him. Your words don't have any bite to them.
He pulls off his hat and sets it on your head. “I know.”
You pick up the cross on his necklace and rub it between your fingers. “I ought to shoot you when I get the chance.”
“Probably a good idea.”
Maybe it's time that's worn you down. How much are you supposed to take before your body starts craving his touch? Before some fawn instinct, long buried, comes to the surface? You're only one girl against a gang of world weary men. It was a losing battle from the start.
“But even if you did let me go…” Part of you wants to shy away from the truth, but you find your courage under the leaves and in the wildflowers. “... even if you let me go there wouldn't be anything left for me. I'm not the same as I was. I can't…I can't go home and pretend none of this ever happened.”
“No, you can't.” There's pity in his voice, and a hint of guilty satisfaction. “There's only us, terrible as we are.”
You lean down and kiss him again. He doesn’t flinch when your tears drip onto his cheeks.
“Sweet girl…” He sighs and rests a palm on your hair. “I'm sorry I brought you such grief. But I'm not sorry I took you.”
No, you suppose he wouldn't be.
Sometimes, you wonder if the outlaws get lost in your body to avoid being in their own. When the guilt and the doubts get too heavy, do they fuck it all away? Under the weeping willow, you try it for yourself. You tangle your hands in his shirt and kiss him until there's nothing in your mind but the taste of him.
He runs his hands up your thighs, groaning. When he pulls you lower and palms your cunt through your dress, you let him.
This isn't like the time you kissed the wrangler. You've learnt the hard way that you don't have any power here, not really. If you kiss him willingly or try to fight him off, you'll still end up in the same position. It's an awful truth — no matter how soft they are with you, the outlaws will always see you as their property, to do with as they please.
You fumble at the buttons of his shirt, not breaking away from him.
If they're going to use you, you ought to use them as well. In the face of reality, you might as well enjoy yourself.
You give up on saving his shirt — why the hell are his buttons so damn small anyway? — and grab his collar instead. You rip it open, buttons flying off into the grass.
He laughs and tries to say something. You don't let him. You swallow his words with your lips and drag your nails down his chest. He presses against you, his grip tightening on your thighs. The swell of his cock is heavy through his jeans.
So eager for you already. Your lover is more coyote than man, all need and hunger and want.
You run your nails across the taught plane of muscle above his belt. He growls then, a half needy, half dangerous sound. You don't bother listening to his warning — when the hell has he ever listened to yours?
And besides, you're doing this for you. About time you took your pleasure as heedlessly as they take theirs. What difference does it make? If you're going to get fucked, you might as well set the pace.
You break away from him long enough to look down and undo his belt. You palm his cock, rubbing your thumb over his slit and collecting little beads of warm liquid. His veins are standing out, heavy and pulsing.
“You want this, cowboy?” You don't recognise your own voice.
“Yes,” he says, dangerous in his softness, “yes.”
You pull your hand away and grab his jaw. Your nails prick little dimples in his skin.
“Earn it.”
He moves to stand but you shove him onto his back.
“Not like that.” You only waver for a second. “Use your mouth.”
His eyes are almost black. “Careful, little dove. I haven't had you in weeks.”
You know what he's getting at. His restraint — worn thin at the best of times — is almost gone. If you had any sense left, it would frighten you.
You shift your skirts out of the way and let him pull you forward until you're almost on top of his face. He trails his tongue up your inner thigh and kisses the mound of your cunt before he slips his mouth down, down, down.
When he reaches your entrance, he swirls the flat of his tongue across it, hot enough to make you dizzy. You fall forward, digging your fingers in the picnic blanket above his head to keep yourself upright. He doesn’t care for your wavering. He yanks you closer, his nose rubbing your clit.
Not being touched or fucked while the gang was away has left you needy in a way you don't want to dwell on. Sensitive all the way to your toes. You shudder when he sucks your clit, his tongue flicking across it between breaths.
You rock forward a little, craving friction. The coarseness of his five o'clock shadow and the yielding heat of his tongue is fucking incredible. You do it again and again, rubbing your cunt across his mouth and the strong curve of his jaw.
Well, he did say he wanted you to ride.
He moans and it reverberates all through your core.
But it isn’t enough.
Not for him, and not for you. He tightens his grip on your thighs when you try to shift away, digging his fingers into the meat and keeping you pinned against his mouth. He darts his tongue into your cunt, the muscle all stiff as it probes your entrance.
“Oh God—”
You break off, shuddering. He's so good at reading your body that it's uncanny.
You have to tug at his hair to get him off you. When he finally gives in and comes up for air, his chin and jaw are slick with spit, and there's nothing on his face but a black-eyed hunger.
“Not done,” he huffs, nipping your inner thigh and sucking at the fat.
Greedy bastard.
“I didn't say I was either,” you manage. Hell, when did you get so out of breath? “I want you. Now.”
He grins, lazy and proud. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. But only if you say please.”
Being on top of him must be scrambling your mind. Since when are you so demanding?
“Please.” He runs his nails down your bare skin. “Please.”
Has a sinner ever prayed so earnestly?
You ought to deny him, but your better nature has long since left you. You need him inside you, stretching you out and satiating that deep seated burn, that animal ache. Oh, but he sounds so pretty when he begs…
You shift down a little and kiss his chest, your teeth skimming his ribs. He pulls in a sharp breath. “Please, little dove. I fucking need you.”
You could spend all afternoon just breathing him in. That wild, masculine scent. His abs harden as your lips ghost over his stomach, the muscles rippling.
When you're back to straddling his hips, you grind down on his bare cock, rubbing your cunt from his tip to the base of his cock and back again. He chokes on his spit and arches off the ground to feel more of you.
“Don't be impatient,” you chide.
“Don't—” he fists the picnic blanket until the veins are standing out on his forearms “—don't be a tease.”
You've almost forgotten the sheer size of him. The dusky tint to his tip, the slight throb along his shaft when you touch him…it makes your heart race. There's power here, if you're smart enough to grab it.
He's a wanted outlaw in five states and he's totally mad about you. You can use that, if you play your cards right.
“Do you love me, cowboy?”
“Yes,” he rasps, “You're my everything. All I've ever wanted.”
You grind against his cock again, slower and harder, pressing it flat against his stomach. He bucks under you, halfway to flipping you over before you grab his throat and force him still.
Grabbing a mountain lion would be less dangerous. He narrows his eyes at you, his jaw tight.
“Will you let me go someday?” You already know the answer. Still, you take a sick sort of pleasure in feeling his pulse jump.
“No.” He swallows hard. “Never. Never.”
You reach down with your free hand and guide his cock to your entrance. The heat of him alone is enough to make your gut knot.
You sink down and take him inside you, managing to get about halfway. It stings like a leather crop on naked skin, but oh God, is it good. The swell and pulse of him swallows everything — your world narrows to nothing but his cock and the sun dancing across the grass.
He knots a hand in the hair above your nape and drags you down into a kiss. The taste of your cunt is thick on his tongue.
“You'll burn in hell for this,” you manage between breaths. He pulls you closer, smiling.
“Hell is mine.” He bucks his hips and drives himself deeper in. “But so are you, lovely bird, so are you.”
Guilt and sin are concerns for better men. He licks the corner of your mouth, shameless debauchee that he is.
You pull in a slow breath and take him all the way. Your body remembers the shape of him, and even though it hurts just a little, your cunt swallows him without much probing.
Maybe it’s machismo or maybe it’s just an itch to have you close, but the outlaws almost always prefer having you under them when it comes time to fuck. Being on top is frightening in its newness. Figuring out the mechanics of riding him is, however, a natural thing.
You go slow at first, as slow as you can stomach, letting yourself adjust to the stretch in a way the outlaws almost never accommodate for. In this position, you can feel every ridge on his shaft. He twists under you, trying to force more friction, but you’ve still got him by the throat.
Hmm, maybe you’re a bit of a lecher yourself.
You manage a few more slow strokes before he gives in and begs.
“Faster, dove.” He kisses along your jaw and settles at your pulse, breathing hard. “Don’t be cruel.”
Oh, he would know plenty about cruelty, wouldn’t he?
The hand that isn’t on your neck moves up to cup your tit through your dress, his long fingers skimming over the cotton until he finds your nipple. He thumbs it roughly.
You pick up the pace, taking him all the way and then some. You must be just as touch starved as he is, because your cunt is a warm, slick mess before long.
More, more, more.
You hiss when he pinches your nipple and rolls it between his fingers. Can’t ever be sweet all the time, can he? No, always a little mean at the centre, no matter his good city breeding and proper talk.
Well, two can play at that game. You grab a handful of his hair and tug it until he moans.
And it still isn’t enough.
Not for the slow heat gathering in your cunt. You need something faster and rougher for that.
You jam his hat more firmly on your head and try to sit up straight. He doesn’t let you at first. All you get is an irritated mutter and another slow kiss.
“You said you wanted to see me ride, didn't you?”
That gets his attention.
“You think you can handle it, birdie?”
You tighten your grip on his throat. “Try me, cowpoke.”
He huffs but lets you straighten. From your new position, the flush on his cheeks is clear. For a moment, you wonder what fantasies he’s had about you. All these years…could he have pictured this? His girl riding him in the yarrow and bergamot, wearing his Stetson like you’re his hometown sweetheart?
He looks at you like you’re his dream come true, that's for sure.
You rest one hand lightly on his bare chest for balance before you start working towards a new pace, fast enough to make your thighs ache. All the teasing and steady fucking has been leading up to this. By the time you reach your limit, your cowboy has his hands on your waist to help you along, bouncing you on his cock like he’s trying to jackhammer all the hate right out of you.
“F-fuck, birdie. Just like that.”
“Mine.” He pants, his pulse galloping. “All mine.”
The slap of skin on skin is loud and shameless.
“God, dove, I love the way you moan.”
When did you start moaning at all? You bite your lip to keep it in, but it’s no good; your body wants him and what your lecherous little heart wants, it gets.
He’s getting close — his grip is bruising tight on your waist — but the distance between you must be too much for him. He pushes himself up, one hand flat behind him to keep him balanced while the other grabs a fistful of your dress.
He yanks you into a kiss.
“Let me come inside you, pretty girl.” Since when does he need permission? And since when do you like the idea?
You give a jerky nod. With the way he’s holding you, he can thrust up right as you're on a downstroke. The force of it sends a jolt through your clit, and that’s all you can take before you’re tumbling off the edge.
You grab his jaw in your palms and kiss him right as you come.
The smell and taste and feel of him is everything, everywhere, but you still need more. All he has to offer and then some. Ought to brand yourself in his goddamn soul while you’re at it, if you haven’t already.
Your kiss is sloppy and distracted.
He moans into your lips and drags you closer. Your cunt is pulsing as fast as your heart, pulsing in time to his ragged breathing.
You only vaguely feel it when he spills himself inside you. You’re too far gone on your own pleasure to notice anything besides his lips and your slowly waning orgasm.
“Fucking hell, dovie.” He breaks away long enough to lick your cheek. “Didn't know you had that in you.”
You come back to yourself a little at a time. The breeze through the willow, the pad of his thumb rasping against your dress, the solidness of his body against yours. Reality usually comes crashing back after the outlaws fuck you. The second you’re clear headed, the grief and rage are right there to meet you.
Not this time.
You break off the kiss but don’t move away from him. He leans his forehead against yours, his faint stubble tingling your palms. It takes a few tries before you can speak clearly.
“I…I could have loved you.”
You trace your thumb over his bottom lip. It’s a deep red from kissing you, bruised a little at the centre.
“You will love me, dove.” He squeezes your waist. “You will.”
Is he right? On that first day, making love to any of them would have been unfathomable, but that’s exactly what you’ve just done.
You don’t realise you’re crying again until the tears slip over your lips. Loving him…oh, how you wish you could have loved him. How you wish his love could have been kind.
He doesn’t move to wipe away your tears. No, comfort is beyond him to give and beyond you to accept. Instead, he thumbs your chin and brushes his lips against yours.
“Nǐ shì wǒ de wéiyī.”
You shake your head, stubborn to the last. No man would do this to his one and only. If he loved you as a good man ought to love, he would have left you be. You push yourself off him and stand, shaky on your feet, your thighs sticky.
You straighten your dress and look at the water to avoid looking at him, but you hear it when he buckles his belt and shoves his revolver into its holster. He makes his way to his feet, and then presses himself against your back.
“I love you, little dove.” He kisses the nape of your neck. “I always have.”
So he says.
“If you love me, why do you let the others share me?”
It comes out like an accusation. You haven't been able to wrap your head around the contradiction — he's jealous of your childhood friends but he doesn’t mind the outlaws fucking you every night?
He sighs. “They're my brothers. I've been through hell with them — I owe them my life.”
“You think of them as family.”
“In a sense. They're all I have left in this world. They're the only people I trust.” He traces his fingers up your arm. Goosebumps shiver in his wake. “Besides, I have something none of them have, at least when it comes to you.”
“What?”
The wind sighs through the leaves. Your cunt pulses a little when you move, the last remnants of your orgasm stirring and settling.
“You were mine the day I met you. I don't mind sharing, but you're mine before you're theirs. Do you understand that?”
You think you do. Like a dog marking its territory, you belong to the second in command first and foremost.
There’s a slight rustle from the river bank and the jingle of a bridle. One of the other outlaws coming to check on you no doubt. Neither of you pays it much mind.
“If it weren't for the gang, would you still have taken me?”
“If it weren't for them, little dove, you'd never leave my bed.”
He sounds amused, but you reckon there's a lot of truth in what he said. Without the responsibilities that come with his position, he'd have no reason at all to leave you. No reason to hold off and share.
You're not sure how you feel about it. He barely holds back as it is — how much worse would he be if he had access to you every single day? You rub the heel of your palm across your cheek to gather the last bit of tears.
Doomed either way, aren't you?
The newcomer stops by the entrance to the willow canopy, his footsteps hushed by the grass. It's probably the wrangler or one of the gunslingers. They can never let you out of their sight for long.
The crack of a shotgun snapping into place breaks the quiet.
“Don’t move, you bastard.”
You recognise that voice, even though you'd long given up on hearing it again. You jerk your head up and there he is — the young deputy, your neighbour’s handsome son — standing right in front of you.
With a shotgun aimed at your heart.
He's haggard compared to the last time you saw him. His jaw is covered in dark stubble and his duster coat is filthy from heavy riding, but there’s no doubt it’s him. For a long second, you’re convinced you’re dreaming. How the hell is he here? No one has any idea where you are, and the outlaws have been fanatical about covering their tracks.
It’s only when his eyes settle on yours that you see this for what it is: a rescue.
Your outlaw goes wolf-still behind you.
“Step away from her,” the deputy orders, his gun steady.
“Like hell I will.”
You thought you knew what anger sounded like. You were wrong. The second in command has a rage like ice splintering.
“I won’t say it again.”
Your outlaw laughs, cold and cruel, right before he slips an arm around your waist. “Will you shoot right through her to get to me, lawdog?”
“I will if I have to.” His voice only wavers for a second but the second in command catches it nonetheless.
Another terrible laugh. “You will, huh? I know you, deputy, we all do. You've been on our trail since the start.”
You want to run straight into the deputy's arms and have him carry you home. You might have done it too, if you weren't so aware of the man at your back.
The second in command brings his other hand to your thigh and hooks your skirt between his fingers. He drags it up until your thigh is bare.
The deputy’s eyes flit down to your skin, and he swallows hard.
“You love her, don’t you, deputy?” The second in command is terrible in his mocking sweetness. “Why else would you come out here? Alone. Barely armed. You're rushing straight to your death, but it doesn't matter, because there's a chance you might finally have her.”
Your old friend grinds his teeth. “Fuck you.”
“Oh, she has. So many times I've lost count.”
You hate him in that moment, you really do. What the hell is the point of this? Is he trying to rile the deputy up, or does he just like showing off?
“You're going to hang for this, you son of a bitch. You and all your rotten gang.”
The second in command pinches your thigh hard enough that you yelp. The deputy takes a half step forward before freezing. Getting too close is dangerous — for you especially. He has no clue what the outlaw is capable of and you can see in his eyes that he's not willing to put your life on the line.
You say the deputy’s name and his eyes jolt to yours. “You need to leave. Please. This is too dangerous for you and I don't—”
The second in command pinches your thigh again. “Quiet, birdie. Let the man try his luck.”
“No! You'll kill him, I know you will. And I won't let that—”
“Dove—” his voice is soft enough for just you to hear “—watch your mouth. You try to save him and I'll rip your petty tongue out with my teeth.”
Your jaw snaps shut. You've never heard him so vicious.
He turns his attention back to the deputy. “Come get her then. I've left my mark on her, I've tasted her, I've fucked her raw and bleeding. Your own true love. I've made her mine in ways even the Devil won't speak of.”
The deputy charges forward.
The second in command goes for his revolver. He's fast — faster than the gunslingers even. The barrel glints silver in your peripheral vision as he reaches past your face and fires.
The flash of gunpowder is blinding so close, and your right ear shrieks with a high pitched ringing.
Your outlaw is a wanted man for a reason, and he's the second in command for a reason. The bullet rips straight through the deputy's chest in a mist of red.
“I’d rather see her dead than gone, lawdog.”
You scream, lunging forward. It's not too late. You can still stop the bleeding, you can still save him, you can still escape and go home and be happy.
Your outlaw grunts and heaves you to the side. You land hard on your hands and knees, dazed.
The second in command doesn’t take chances. He sinks another five shots into the deputy. They crack across the lake like thunder.
You don’t look. You can’t bear it. The thump of his body hitting the grass is too awful to think about.
“There.” The revolver rasps as the hammer strikes an empty chamber. “Varmint won’t be troubling us again.”
Your hands are shaking so bad you can’t even push yourself up.
He sounds so flat and empty. You know the second in command and the others are killers — their bounties wouldn’t be so high otherwise — but hearing his voice so frigid is terrifying.
“You killed him.”
The second in command looks at you and you wonder how a man this terrible can smile and laugh and love at all.
“I would have done worse, if I had the time.”
You believe him. A man with such a vicious temper coiling inside him is capable of anything. He ignores the way you flinch when he steps closer.
Monster; wicked, heartless killer.
His revolver is still smoking faintly. The strands of smoke waver and break as he grabs your arm and hauls you roughly to your feet. You sag in his grip, too dizzy and sick to stand straight.
“You need to learn a hard lesson, girl.” He shakes you until you look at him. He sounds like the boss, all business and blood. His eyes are as flat and black as a sidewinder's.
“There is no rescue for you. There is no help. We’re all you have, do you understand that?”
He grabs your collar when you don’t answer, his revolver fisted in your dress. His fingers and shirtsleeves reek of gunpowder.
“Do you understand?!”
You nod, but it isn’t nearly enough. He jerks his hand upwards and shoves the barrel of his gun against the underside of your jaw, between the V of your bones.
“Do you? Say it.”
“I understand.”
Did he have time to load the gun? Is there a bullet in the chamber winking at you? Your tears are coming hot and fast but he doesn’t soften at the sight of them, not at all.
“Say you love me.”
“I love you.”
“Wǒ xiǎng hé nǐ gòngdù yúshēng. Say it.”
You stumble on the words, your tones all wrong, but he doesn’t pull the trigger so it must be good enough.
He kisses you.
The gun digs into your jaw and keeps you in place. He bites your lower lip, droplets of blood blooming and trickling into your mouth. When he finally lets up for air, his eyes are hard.
“That boy was reckless to love you,” he says simply. “And stupid for trying to take you.”
You wish you never saved his worthless life. Despite everything the gang has done to you, this is the first time you regret your kindness.
“I hate you.”
He doesn't even blink. “You're mine all the same, dovie.” He spins the gun on his finger and snaps it into his holster. “Besides, you'll forget him eventually. With time, you'll learn to forget a lot of things.”
The dappled sunlight throws his features into sharp relief. He studies you and whatever he sees in your face is enough to make him relax.
He thumbs your jaw. “Wǒ xiǎng hé nǐ gòngdù yúshēng.”
You're still wearing his hat, you realise slowly. Wearing it like you're his hometown sweetheart. He notices it the same time you do. A half grin breaks his face and he tilts the brim further back so he can see you better.
“I love you, dovie.”
You hate him for it.
“And I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you, no matter what.”
