THE SINNERS WELCOME YOU
TW: noncon and yanderes ahead
Hi! I'm val (she/her) and this is where you can find everything I've written. Maybe bring protection? These boys are not nice.
Requests: closed for now
What I won't write about: pregnancy
Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Dʀᴀʙʙʟᴇs ᴀɴᴅ Oɴᴇsʜᴏᴛs
These are my primary masterlists. They have the most variety, with yanderes from different genres and time periods.
Dirty cops, corrupt politicians, sleazy and dangerous boyfriends. Pirates, princes and poets too. Is your yandere sick, twisted and hopelessly in love? This is where you'll find them.
Start Here
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Yᴀɴᴅᴇʀᴇ Sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴀɴᴅ Tʜᴇᴍᴇᴅ Cᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴs
Cᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴs
Yandere Fairytales
Yandere Movie Week
Yandere Cyberpunk Fairytales
Sᴇʀɪᴇs
Yandere Wild West Gang [noncon] completed — 41k words
Misery — A Yandere Short Story
Art & Doodles
Sideblog: @val-rants
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Tags: male yandere x reader, implied noncon, panties fetish, 550 words
The strangers stranded together trope is a thriller staple for a reason. There's a romantic twist to it. You're stranded but cozy, with nothing better to do than getting to know the good-looking stranger you find yourself alone with. But there's something terrifying about it too. You don't know the person you find yourself alone with. You don't know their intentions or history or secrets. They could do just about anything they wanted to you, and you wouldn't even see it coming.
The very worst variation of this trope though? When the stranger you're stranded with starts off as the perfect, charming gentleman but slowly shifts into something lethal. Oh, it doesn’t take long at all for that boy-next-door mask to start cracking.
Maybe you're new to the area and you're not used to the snow storms up here. Or maybe you didn't have the good sense to look at the weather forecast. Either way, you end up snowed in at your AirBnB with no cell signal and a dead car battery. The only other person around is the man renting the room opposite yours — a college aged guy with an easy smile.
Maybe he invites you in for a hot drink when the power goes out and you get to talking. You're glad for the company, and when he tells you the storm will be lasting a couple of days, you're more than happy to share food and heated blankets.
You don't notice the small things that go missing. Your extra toothbrush, your phone charger, your dirty panties. He's easy to talk to, and he makes you blush without even trying. For a little while, you think getting stuck in the snow might be one of the best things that ever happened to you.
But then you catch him red handed.
You walk in on him with his nose buried in your used underwear, the spill of lace in his hands unmistakable.
You try your hardest not to freak out, but oh my god what the actual fuck?
He stands in a hurry, already shoving your panties into his pocket. He reaches for you and says he knows it looks bad, but that it's all a big misunderstanding. These aren't yours! They're his ex-girlfriend's and he's a little hung up on her, that's all.
You don't buy it. And the boner straining against his jeans? Yeah, that's totally fucked.
It's only when you back out of the room that he gives up the act. His smile isn't nearly so nice anymore, and his eyes are wolf-dark.
“Where are you gonna go, hmm?” His voice is mocking in its softness. “No one out here but me, darl’.”
He steps around the coffee table, his eyes locked on yours.
“I've been jerking off to you for days, you know that? Fucking cruel is what it is. It's so cold out here…”
He lunges at you all at once. When he grabs your wrist and pulls you up against him, his grip is anything but kind.
“So damn cold. So why don't you do me a favour?”
How the hell didn't you see this coming? You shove his chest but you might as well be pushing a glacier.
Pumpkins, slasher movies, candied apples and about thirty different kinks to explore. I guess that means Halloween is right around the corner.
I've been meaning to write some monster fucker fics for a while now, and while I love the classics as much as the next shameless neighbourhood perv, I'd like to focus a bit more on overlooked monsters who might need some love. So, what are some local or cultural folktales, ghouls and monsters you'd like to see?
P.S In particular, I'd love to highlight Caribbean, Central and South American, Central Asian, Southeast Asian, and Arab monsters. I feel like I barely see anything outside the European/American classics, so I'm trusting you guys to shake things up!
helloo your works are bangers and I really love the fairytale series especially, something about just like the style and the atmosphere really pulled me in! I had a Thought about a yandere while scrolling your blog so I am impulse sharing it: ballet dancer and a wealthy patron. please forgive the incoming ramble:
you’ve got a dancer in her prime, graduated from Juilliard, joined a company near immediately. a small one sure, but its work. and she gets to do what she loves and her fellow dancers are incredible and her life outside of dance isn’t as pretty, but god she wouldn’t trade it for anything.
except the real world finds the best time to crash in, you know? times aren’t so good, and artists take the hit hard as anybody. there’s animators losing jobs, actors fighting to keep even unimportant roles. and her company hasnt sunk yet but she knows it’s going to happen, probably sooner than later. her fellow dancers are making exit strategies, families or partners or other jobs.
and she’s not trapped, nothing like that. she has money saved up, dollars pinched here and there. but she really really doesn’t want to go. she left her home for all this, braved her parents shaking their heads and her neighbours’ pity. god she refuses to go back. it won’t happen. she needs to find a way to keep things afloat.
so she reaches out, maybe. talks to old teachers and friends, and one of them says something casual: there’s someone she might want to meet. some nouveau riche, made it big in tech. sponsors the arts, he’s eccentric and all that. likes underdogs, probably an ego thing, sees himself in them. worth a shot, she figures, so she dresses herself up and does her makeup to make herself look sweet and stretches. she goes to the right parties and brushes up against the right men and steps towards his booth. he’s holding court there and she slips in with all her charm in place. offers them all free tickets. we’re small but to borrow your words, we’ve got real grit, she tells them. flashes her teeth, leans in. pray this works. fuck it, nothing to lose, right?
he’s handsome up close, red hair and dark eyes. she’d be more taken if she wasn’t so focused. his smile is amused, lopsided as he sets down his glass. this a bribe, doll?
product demo, she jokes. whatever you want it to be. your time is money; I promise it’ll be a worthy purchase.
and it works. he goes, loves what he sees. oh you’ve got real grit alright. there it is, the lifeline. not permanent, she doesn’t think, but anything is fine. her smile is very very real, absolutely stunning with her post-performance flush.
thank you! thank you so much!
the money rolls in a week later. better costumes now, better venues. more chances. money so she can finally pay overdue bills. he buys them a studio to practice in, with private rooms and everything, it’s some of the best facilities she’s seen. she makes religious use of them, stays up late practicing, looking like a madman as she bends and turns in the mirrors. leaps up high and arches, perfect form, picturesque. lands so delicate you’d swear she were silk, to the applause from an audience of one.
it’s their patron. he’s smiling and she smiles back, adjusting her ponytail. the late night makes her daring. do you want any routine in particular? I can put on a show.
whatever you love most is the response, so she gladly listens. she picks a solo piece, requiring high jumps and tight, calf-burning turns. precision in every way, all her passion and love wound through her muscles and her movements. this is what she lives for, her art and performance. what she’ll give her life to do.
and she lands. and there’s applause. beautiful, he says, exactly what you said. grit.
thank you, she pants, red with her exertion. a burst of emotion overtakes her. really, I mean it. thank you for recognizing us. our company—we’ll repay you. I swear.
he tilts his head. the fluorescents catch on his thoughtful smile. us?
she flounders. not for long though. yeah, she says. all of the dancers here. we’re all working hard and we’ll—
he hums. how sweet of them, he says. you’ll have to break the bad news of my refusal to your company, I’m afraid.
..what?
no need to panic. he steps closer, and she realizes all of a sudden why some businessmen are called sharks. there’s all the space around her but in the mirrors it looks like she’s surrounded. I want to make a deal with you. you have what they don’t, you see.
she swallows. her stomach feels weighed down, but she tells herself to stay upright. stay calm. tell me what it is. I’ll do it.
dance for me, he says plainly. choreograph something interesting and perform it to me. keep me in your audience, darling, and I promise you: you’ll get all you want.
part of his phrasing strikes her as odd. I’ll stay with my company, she says, half demand half question. right?
a mild smile is all she gets in return. not a no but not a yes, either.
and she’s standing in the building he owns, on floors paid for by his money. and they can try to wrangle funding from other places, but it’s not about that. it’s about how quickly he got the building, deal signed sealed delivered within weeks, buddy of his apparently. it’s about all those ‘buddies’ around him when they first met. he sponsors the arts. his name is worth something and theirs… theirs just isn’t.
fine. alright. she nods, sharp, restrained. she’ll play his game. she knows she can’t just toss him off and this interest of his: it’s what she wanted, if only in part. take what you can get and run with it, be an artist and not a romantic.
deal, she says, and god the look in his eyes makes her shiver. makes her wonder if he’s smelling blood in the water, or if she left a trail of it long ago and now he’s closing the hunt.
really, she doesn’t know which is worse.
i made a moodboard :)
Anon, get your laptop out because you NEED to keep writing. I love the prose and language you used so much, you're stunningly talented.
she realizes all of a sudden why some businessmen are called sharks. there’s all the space around her but in the mirrors it looks like she’s surrounded.
The tone is so perfect! The way she feels so boxed in. The idea that deep down he's predatory, hungry.
keep me in your audience, darling, and I promise you: you’ll get all you want.
I love the implication here!! He's a businessman through and through, and on the surface this feels so transactional. But deep down you know there's so much more to it than that.
makes her wonder if he’s smelling blood in the water, or if she left a trail of it long ago and now he’s closing the hunt.
The imagery!! The sense of inevitability you convey here is stunning.
The MC is so enjoyable to follow! She's got perseverance, she's hungry for it, she's willing to take risks. You can't help rooting for her.
I think that's why the ending is especially powerful. He wants her. Her success is assured and god, you want to be happy for her (dance is her everything) but you can't quite manage it. It feels like all the hard work we were so proud of just leads to a cage. A lovely cage, but locked tight all the same.
I just have to say, I’ve been addicted to reading your outlaws series and I don’t think I’ll ever recover. Like, I read the second in command one first cause it was on my recommended and as I was reading it i legit said out loud that this may be the best fictional literature piece I’ve ever consumed, like ever. Fics and books included and I’ve read a ton in my years. I can just tell this is a series I won’t be able to get out of my head and I’ll keep remembering and have to come back and reread cause it was stuck in my head like a song. So yeah, sorry if this is a ramble but I wanted you to know the lasting impact and possible permanent damage your writing has done to me, I shall never recover. Keep up the amazing work, it’s a masterpiece!💗
This was such a sweet thing to wake up to! I love you so much, and I swear I'm totally normal about this
Ok, I promise this is a compliment and I mean it in the best possible way- but your yandere outlaws legit makes me so uncomfortable! Especially the latest chapter about the second in command. That ending??? Oh my word. I have legit cried so much for that poor girl. It’s amazing how your writing can draw out so many emotions. I have legit had to convince myself that either a, the deputy succeeded and saved her and she’s home and happy and healing. Or b- that she escaped by offing herself so they’re all consumed with guilt and will never know a moments peace ever again. It’s the only way I was able to go to sleep after reading it last night cause I was honestly so distraught. You have some amazing writing abilities. Your stories stay in my head constantly. They’re that good. I just wanted to let you know I adore your writing, but I’m gonna be delusional and pretend that girl got a sorta somewhat happy ending for my own peace of mind.
we DESPERATELY need an MC who gets a happy ending and a sweet yandere around here 😭
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.”
Tags: male yandere x fem reader, happy ending for once, 1.4k words
The came back wrong trope is a horror and gothic staple. The idea that someone you love and cherish is still with you, but they’re also not. Their eyes are different somehow, the way they smile is just a little off, their voice carries in ways it’s not supposed to.
That hair-raising knowledge that something isn’t quite right, but not being able to put your finger on exactly what it is.
It’s terrible when the man you’re supposed to marry gets drafted and sent to the front lines. But it’s especially terrible when he comes home and you aren’t sure he’s the same man at all.
When you run into his arms at the train station, his whole body goes stiff. He touches you like he’s scared to break you, and when you stand on your toes to kiss him, he turns his cheek to you instead.
“I’ve missed you,” you say softly.
“Missed you too.”
It's not much better when you bring him home. There's a big welcome home party for him — his pa and his great Aunt Betty and all the neighbours who used to say he was such a good kid — and none of them seem to notice the change. He smiles at everyone and laughs politely at their jokes, but his arm is heavy around your waist the entire time.
When the party is over and evening starts creeping into night, you find yourself giving one excuse after the other so you won't be alone with him.
“You really ought to drive Aunt Betty home. Her eyes aren't the best anymore.”
“I'll just run these leftovers over to the neighbours. You know how the kids love cake.”
“Just go on up to bed without me. I want to get this mess cleaned up.”
But all your excuses run dry eventually. He walks with you over to the neighbours and tells the kids he'd be happy to send over some cookies tomorrow. He helps you sweep up and wipe the tables, even though he's still in his dress blues and you know how much he hates to get them dirty.
When the house is spotless and the moon is high, you finally have no way of avoiding him.
“I thought about you all the while I was gone,” he says at last. You can't read the expression on his face. “I did everything I could to get back to you.”
You expect him to kiss you, or touch you with that fire all returning soldiers are rumoured to have. He doesn't. He just gets ready for bed and sleeps on the very edge of the mattress.
You tell yourself that you're being paranoid. Who knows what terrible things he saw during the war? Of course he's going to be a different man after all that violence and blood.
The next morning, you make him his favourite breakfast. You rest your palm on his thigh while he pushes it around his plate. He doesn't eat a single bite.
“What would you like to do today?” you ask.
“Whatever you want. As long as we're together.”
That's another strange thing about him — he's oddly subdued. The man he was before would be all over you, calling you baby and darling and dollface. He'd be proposing half a dozen different places to visit.
You tell yourself that your old fiancé will come back with time. Maybe he just needs to adjust to being back home.
A month passes, and then another. He doesn't kiss you. He doesn't hold you at night. You don't see him eat a single thing.
You still love him. Of course you do. But oh, it's hard. You might as well be living with a stranger.
“What have I done wrong?” you ask him eventually. “Why won't you touch me?”
He looks guilty. And maybe a little frightened.
“I…can't. I'll hurt you. You don't understand how badly I want you, how much I wanted you while I was gone.”
“Please.” You touch his cheek. “Please, just be my fiancé again.”
When you stand on your toes to kiss him, he goes perfectly still. His lips are cool, and he tastes of pine.
“Don't,” he says when you move closer. “I'm not safe. Not for you.”
You pull away, but can't hide the hurt and anger you feel.
“What's the point then? If you won't have me, then maybe we shouldn't be together at all.”
He flinches when you pull off your engagement ring and slam it against his chest. But he doesn't follow you when you leave.
Getting your own apartment and sleeping alone is less of a transition than you thought it would be. You were alone when he was gone, and you were alone when he came back, too. It hurts. It hurts deep inside you, and most mornings you have trouble forcing yourself out of bed.
You tell yourself that it's for the best. He doesn’t want you, not really. If he did, he would have fought harder to keep you. You try to forget about him, mourn him as though he died overseas.
It doesn't work. And when he finally comes to get you back, some part of you isn't all that surprised.
He comes for you on the night of your anniversary.
You wake up to a cold breeze, and when you open your eyes, your bedroom curtains are fluttering in the open window.
“Don't scream,” he tells you pleasantly. He's sitting in an armchair in the corner of your room and you're so shocked to see him that you make no sound at all.
“I thought staying away from you would be the best thing for you,” he says. “But it wasn't any good, not a bit. I kept thinking about you like I was still at war.”
He's in his field uniform. Even though it's clean, the front of it is ripped to shreds. He fingers the holes in his shirt.
“Machine gun. Hurt like a bitch. When I died, you were the last thing I thought about. More than the panic, more than the fear of death, it was you.”
You sit up slowly. You can't take your eyes off him.
“What are you?”
He shrugs. “I don't know. I just know that I died, and they had to leave me behind. There are strange things over there, stories I used to laugh at when we were first deployed. When I woke up, those stories didn't seem all that funny anymore.”
It's his eyes, you realise slowly. It's his eyes that are the most different thing about him. The same colour, the same shape. But you get the sense that something old and terrible is staring out at you.
“What did this to you?”
He sighs and rubs his jaw. “I don't know that either. But I don't get hungry anymore. I tried eating a few times, out of curiosity, but it all tastes like mud. I don't sleep, I don't dream. Nothing.”
“When we were in bed together…”
“I was awake the entire time. When you fall asleep, I like to watch you. You can't understand how much you mean to me. You’re the one thing that kept me going.”
“You say that. You say you love me. So why hide this from me?”
“Would you have believed me?”
You aren't sure you believe him now either. The logical part of your brain is telling you that there's no way a dead soldier can just get up off the battlefield and come home. But those eyes…
He sighs again and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. His dog tags swing on their chain, catching the moonlight.
“I don't know what I am. I don't know if there's heaven or hell or if I can even die again. All I know is that I love you. I want to be with you. Staying away is impossible, and…dangerous.”
“Why dangerous?”
“Because I want you all the more when I can't see you. It's like I need to mark you up just so I know you're mine. I thought I loved you already, but now I burn up at the thought of being without you.”
Your dead fiancé stands up slowly. You're not afraid of him, because deep down you get the sense that he's still the man who loves you. No, you're far more afraid of the thing you can feel right below the surface. The magic or curse or hoodoo that's keeping him alive.
“Will you let me kiss you, knowing what you know now? Knowing what I am?”
There's only one answer you can give him. Despite your fear, despite the deep-seated sense of wrongness, he's always loved you. And you've always loved him.
I was wondering what type of jobs would the outlaws would have in modern day?
Yandere Outlaws — Modern Small Town AU
Tags: slight daddy kink
I think the boss would own either a construction company or a ranch. One of those guys who wears Lucchese boots no matter the mud or dust, and a Swiss watch to church every week. Definitely still the big boss and bringing in the big dough. I reckon we could call him a big fish in a small pond, and when you move to his little farming town to catch a break from the city, it doesn’t take much for him to notice you.
Oh, you sure are a pretty little thing. He’s intimidating at first, if not borderline terrifying, but he finds some excuse to get into your good graces, and it’s just downhill from there. Very much a sugar daddy sort of arrangement, though you never thought yourself the kind to get caught up in one of those. He’ll spoil you rotten six ways from Sunday, but if you even think about moving back to the city you’ll be met with a slow smile and even slower drawl, all warm honey with broken glass underneath.
“You’re not going anywhere, little girl. You’re in my town now, and you play by my rules. So come sit on your daddy’s lap and show me how grateful you are.”
The gunslingers are cops for sure. They got through the academy together and you can bet your ass they’ll almost always be on patrol together too. They salute the flag and swear to protect and serve and all that, but one look at them and you can tell they’re not the nice sort of lawmen. No friendly smiles when they pull you over on some bogus charge. Nah, they look down at you with wolf-eyes and say it’s such a pity such a sweet girl is driving home so late and wouldn’t you like an escort home? In fact, it’d be even better if you stepped out of your vehicle and came on back to their cruiser. They’d so hate it if anything were to happen to you on their shift and it’s mighty cold out, they wouldn’t mind having a little company for the drive. You even think of saying no and you find out first hand how stretched these small-town budgets are — they haven’t had working body cams for years, filly, and ain’t that just a shame?
“Keep giving us attitude, doll, and we’ll make you choke on it.”
“You want me to use my cuffs on you, princess? No? Then shut your pretty mouth and do what we say.”
The wrangler is a vet, particularly focused on cattle and horses. He’s well known in the community and utterly indispensable. He has a penchant for Carhartt and bourbon, and you know him more by reputation than anything else.
You rush into his office in tears when your pet gets into something they shouldn’t have. He takes one look at you (sweet, pretty, out of your mind with worry) and then he’s got his arm around your shoulder, hushing you and saying it’ll all be just fine, he’ll take care of it, your furry baby is in good hands. You’re all too quick to give him your personal number when he tells you he’d like to check up on the patient for any lasting symptoms, and after he invites himself over to your apartment for a last minute check-up, you have no qualms about inviting him in. He’s such a nice guy, and who else would take the time to check in personally? You miss the way his eyes linger on you when your back is turned.
“It’s a lucky thing you came to me when you did, beauty. Really, I’d hate to think what would have happened if I wasn’t around.”
The boy is a college dropoutturned mechanic. A lost kid for the most part, not sure what to do with his restless energy, and with a tendency to keep bad friends. He runs into you when your car breaks down and you’re stuck on the side of the road, glaring at the engine like you can get the old rustbuscket moving through sheer force of will. He’s in an old leather jacket and his jeans are black with grease, but when he pulls up you smile at him like he’s your hero. It’s the first time in a long time someone’s noticed him. The first time he’s felt helpful and needed. There’s no hiding the blush on his neck when he leans down next to you to take a look at your spark plugs.
“Come by my workshop later and I’ll service the whole thing for you. Totally free, I promise.”
The second in command is your former English professor, finally taking a much needed research sabbatical. Like you, a small-town vacation is just what the doctor ordered. Clean air, hiking trails, and no annoying undergrads pestering him to ‘just give them a break.’ When you run into him in the local cafe, you struggle to hide your surprise. He’s the last man you’d expect to see out here, but in the endless sea of strangers he’s a welcome distraction. When he asks what you’re up to nowadays, it’s easy to fall into a conversation and agree to drinks later on. It’s only when you’re shitfaced drunk — more out of it than a few glasses of wine should warrant — and he’s got you bundled in his passenger seat, all faux concern and half-smiles, that you start wondering if his research has less to do with Proust and more to do with you.
“I’ve missed you plenty, you know that? Such a shame to lose my favourite student. But I know we’ll be back on track in no time at all.”
i mean this in a complimentary way because to inspire such deep emotion in a reader is a sign of being a good author but if the reader-insert doesn’t get her pussy ate until she passes out in the second in command’s special i’m gonna do something drastic. TWO updates in a row where girlypop doesn’t cum at all I’M SICK these men r so fucking evil and nasty SAVE HER!!!!!!!
for reallll. like you're holding her captive the least you can do is show her a good time
If I’m honest? I’m a little different about The Boy. There’s something so honest about his sweetness. Something so cute about the way he picks up traits from the other outlaws. Something so twisted about the way he still wants to fuck you anyways.
He wants you so fucking bad. I reckon his fever for you is worse than the others, on account for the fact that he’s not allowed to have you yet. After feeling your skin against his cock he’s practically frantic about it. Working extra hard in some hopeless effort to ‘prove himself’ faster. He wants it. He NEEDS you. Pressing his ear against the door when the other outlaws fuck you to see if you make the same noises with them. Peeking inside just to get a glimpse of you. Ain’t no harm, right? He’s been real good at keeping secrets recently anyways.
absolutely delicious and unhinged
I think his inexperience is such a big factor. He's kind of adrift, not sure how to navigate being in love, not sure what love even means in this sort of context. He's starving for you, he's been mad for another taste of you from the first day, and if he has to lie his way into getting you...well, he's just playing his cards smart. There are worse men than him in the world, aren't there?
Not sure if this makes sense, but the way you write internal reasoning is something i always look forward to. Most characters aren’t evil, their leash on their moral compass is just loose enough to let it slip by. And you translate so many of their ideals and flaws in their thinking chronologically and its so horrible (affectionate) to read. Big bros slow spiral into ‘nah. I deserve this.’ The boy being kind enough to get close but selfish enough to see his kindness as a trade in. You can see the radicalization in real time and its such a treat, your so good at it.
shut uppp this is the most incredible compliment. I'm still nowhere near where I want to be with my writing, but knowing I'm kind of getting stuff right is so gratifying.
I think the descent into obsession is such a fun train of thought to explore. Whenever I try to read romance books, I get so frustrated because it almost always skips ahead to the male lead being lovesick and obsessed, and I'm left wondering how the hell we got there in the first place. I want it to feel a bit more realistic; where did the wires get crossed and why is this person willing to do things they KNOW to be immoral? How do they live with themselves afterwards? Very evil, very fun.
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