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You don’t speak as he pours whiskey into the chipped glass.
The amber glows in the lamplight, swirling slow and lazy like the blood that is still drying on his knuckles. It’s the only sound in the cabin. There was no wind tonight, just the creak of old floorboards and the quiet thud of your heartbeat behind your ribs.
He doesn’t look at you.
Just watches the liquor settle like it holds the answers. Like if he stares long enough, maybe it'll explain why you’re both still standing, barely.
You do look at him.
At the way his shoulders curve forward like he’s still ready to fight. The blood on his shirt cuff, rusty and tacky. The way his jaw flexes behind his signature black skull mask, clenched so tight you’re surprised it hasn’t cracked.
“You didn’t have to kill him,” you say, voice low. Controlled. Quivering just beneath the surface.
He sets the bottle down with a soft clink. Only then does he glance at you, those whiskey brown eyes burning like coals under a half-burned sky.
“He had a bounty on me.”
“So does half the goddamn county, Simon.”
Your voice is louder now. Angrier. It still tastes like gunpowder, like the fear you swallowed whole earlier at the saloon.
It was supposed to be a simple stop. Rest. Supplies. A drink or two. But then you saw the way the man’s gaze lingered too long. The glint of recognition in his eyes. And when his hand grabbed your arm, hard and hot, you didn’t think, you reached for the nearest bottle, ready to break it over his skull.
But Simon had moved faster.
Like a shadow peeling from the wall. Like rage with a pulse.
You barely had time to lift the glass before he was there, shoving you behind him with a snarl, knocking tables over in his charge. Simon moved like a storm. Efficient. Brutal. One punch to the gut. A knee to the ribs. And then the flash of steel, the crack of a gunshot so loud it rattled your teeth.
The man dropped like a sack of meat, viscous streaks of crimson blooming dark across his thigh. Not dead. But close.
And all you could do was stand there, half-drunk, furious and shaking with adrenaline you hadn’t earned.
“He grabbed you,” Simon says now.
That’s all he offers. As if that justifies the mess. As if your skin is the trigger he can’t stop pulling.
“You think that makes it right?” you snap. “You think that makes you right?”
You grab the glass out of his hand to slam it down. Whiskey sloshes over the rim. Dust leaps from the wood like it’s been startled awake.
“I’m not a porcelain doll, Simon. I could’ve handled it.”
He scoffs. Sharp. Low.
“With what?” he hisses, turning toward you now. “That sharp tongue? Or the glare you give the livestock?”
“Worked on you, didn’t it?”
It hits like a slap. And it’s true. You know it is. You softened him. Or maybe you just got close enough to see that he wasn’t made of stone, only old scars stitched into a man trying to keep breathing.
The silence that follows is heavy. Pressing. Familiar.
This is how it always starts. Rage. Silence. Collision. Passion that simmers too close to the bone.
You breathe. Once. Twice. Then step closer.
His eyes drop to your hands as they curl into his shirt, fists clenching fabric near his ribs. You can feel his heartbeat under your knuckles, still too fast. Still ready to fight.
“I’m tired of being the one you protect,” you say, quieter now. “You don’t have to be the only one who gets blood on their hands.”
He’s listening. Barely. But he won’t meet your gaze.
So you push again.
“Teach me.”
His brow furrows.
“Teach you what?” he asks, voice rough.
“How to shoot.”
Simon stills. Like you’ve just spit in a church. Or confessed something he’s too afraid to answer.
“I’m not asking to be you,” you go on. “I’m asking to be ready. In case you don’t make it back next time.”
And that’s what you’re afraid of. That one day he’ll walk out with a gun at his hip and fury in his chest, and never come back. That someone faster or luckier or crueler will take the man you’ve somehow come to love more than sense should allow.
You feel his breath hitch. See the way his jaw tics beneath the cloth. For a second, you think he’ll argue again. That he’ll call you reckless or soft or something sharp enough to sting.
But instead—he nods.
Once.
Curt. Tight.
“We start tomorrow.”
And it’s not just a promise.
It’s an offering.
It’s him handing you a piece of his world, the ugly, ruthless, necessary and trusting that you’ll still want him after you’ve tasted it.
The revolver is heavier than you thought.
Cold, solid. Alive in your hand like it knows it doesn’t belong there.
You stand in the clearing behind the barn, twilight bleeding across the sky like a bruise. The last ribbons of sun stretch long and gold over the dust. The cicadas scream, loud and restless. The moon now sharp and pale hangs like a cracked bone over the trees.
You lick your lips, square your shoulders.
Behind you, you feel him before you hear him.
Boots crunch soft against the dirt. The air changes. Thickens. Smells like leather, metal, smoke, sweat. Him.
“Don’t be afraid of it,” he murmurs, voice low and close, all heat and gravel.
“I’m not,” you whisper. “Just don’t want to embarrass myself.”
“Ain’t nothing embarrassing ‘bout learning how to survive.”
He steps in, chest brushing your back. One hand comes to rest on your hip, warm and rough, grounding. The other wraps around your hand, adjusting your grip with precision. Fingers curling around yours like memory.
“You’re too tense.”
“Well, maybe if a six-foot-something outlaw wasn’t breathing down my neck...”
He chuckles. A dark, low sound that drips down your spine.
“Don’t squeeze. Pull. You control the shot, not the other way ‘round.”
You smirk.
“You always this bossy when you’re turned on?”
A beat.
“Only when my wife’s got a loaded gun and her ass pressed against my cock.”
Your heart stutters.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t back off. Just breathes slow and deep, as if you’re the threat. As if you’re the one about to ruin him.
You raise the revolver. Aim. Breathe in. Hold—
You fire.
The bullet misses. The bottle on the fence explodes, but only because it falls, not because you hit it.
“Shit.”
“You flinched,” he mutters.
“Did not.”
“Darlin’, your whole damn spine jumped.”
You whirl around.
He’s close. Closer than before. Sun’s gone now just a distant mirage, the sky once adorned as the moonlight and the lantern glow from the barn door painting shadows across his face. His balaclava’s still up, hiding everything but those sharp, endless eyes. Dark and smoldering. Watching you like a starving man watches a meal he’s too proud to ask for.
“You like me helpless, don’t you?” you taunt, tilting your chin.
“No,” Simon says, without hesitation. “I like you alive.”
“Good, then stop coddling me.”
You take a step forward. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Continues to stare as if a mere glance from him didn’t stir you to the depths of your soul.
Your voice drops, like flowing silk.
“If you’re gonna ruin me... then ruin me.”
The revolver slips from your fingers and hits the dirt with a dull thud.
And then it happens.
He’s on you.
Your back slams against the barn wall, breath punched from your lungs as he crashes into you, body, hands, raw hunger.
You watch, breath caught in your throat, as he hooks two fingers beneath the edge of his mask and slowly drags it upward, past the curve of his mouth, the stubble-shadowed jaw, then over the bridge of his nose, slightly crooked from too many fights and never healing right. A jagged scar cuts across his cheekbone, cruel and unmissable, the tale behind it buried with the men who carved it.
His lips are flushed, parted, already trembling from restraint.
“You say that like I haven’t been unravelin’ you since the day we met.” he mutters low, wrecked, before his mouth crashes into yours.
The kiss is rough. Ragged. The kind that tastes like blood, whiskey, those cigars he always sneaks when he thinks you’re asleep and everything you’ve ever craved.
His mouth claims yours like a man starved, teeth grazing your lip before he tongues the sting away, messy and unrelenting. You meet him with equal hunger, fingers fisting into his shirt like you’ll pull the want right out of him.
But when he tries to deepen it, mouth slanting, tongue coaxing before you bite.
Not hard enough to break skin. Just enough to make him growl.
A low, feral sound that vibrates in his chest as he pulls back just enough to stare at you. Amber eyes blown wide. Blonde lashes fluttering. Breathing wrecked.
“When will you learn to behave, sugar?” he rasps, voice shredding your insides.
“When you start listening to me” you murmur, lips swollen and stained.
His hands grip your thighs, your waist, your jaw, like he still doesn’t believe you’re real. And if he lets go, you’ll vanish like smoke.
But you don’t vanish.
You burn.
Something breaks.
There’s no warning, just the scrape of wood against your back and the sharp gasp torn from your throat as he pins you to the barn wall in one swift motion. One of his hands catches both of yours, wrists bound tight above your head with a grip that’s firm, inescapable, yet never cruel.
The other trails lower. A slow, reverent drift down the curve of your side, tracing the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip, like he’s mapping you with his palm, like he’s afraid he might forget the shape of you.
And then his mouth finds your jaw. Not rough this time. Soft. Almost aching. He presses feather-light kisses along your skin, down the side of your throat, over the rapid flutter of your pulse. Each kiss is a vow, a confession, a benediction.
“If you knew the things I’d do to keep you mine, you’d run. But God help me, I’d follow.”
There it was, bare and unflinching. The truth, quiet as a prayer. You could drag him to the edge of damnation, and he’d follow, smiling, like a man in love with the fire.
His calloused hands make short work of your dress, fisting the hem and hiking it up with the kind of urgency that leaves no room for hesitation. His mouth finds yours again, devout, desperate. His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and heat, like he’s trying to swallow the sounds you make.
Rough fingers searching for the heat between your thighs like a sinner chasing salvation. They trail up your quivering flesh, tracing the curve of your inner thigh before he finds your pussy– hot, wet, already aching for him even through the thin barrier of your panties. The thin cotton gives way under his grip within seconds, torn like parchment in the hands of a man who’s never known patience where you’re concerned. The shredded garment discarded like it offended him by keeping him from you.
“Already so fuckin’ wet for me,” he growls. “Every time you fight me, you drip like honey.”
“You gonna keep running your mouth or fuck me, Ghost?”
His stubble tickles your jaw.
“Don’t worry, Bird.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I can handle both.”
For a brief moment the cool night air kisses your thighs, your soaked folds trembling in anticipation, then his palm is there, hot and heavy between them, dragging a moan straight from your lungs.
He watches you, worship swirling in the dark depths of his reverent gaze. His pupils narrow taking in the way your lips part, your lashes flutter, cheeks flush redder than a cherry, your chest heave with each breath like you're aching for more.
And he knows.
Knows you won’t run. Knows you want this.
So slowly, deliberately, he lets go. Your wrists stay right where he had them pinned—obedient, trembling, waiting.
His freed hand drifts down like smoke trailing fire, grazing the column of your throat, the dip of your collarbone, before it finds the swell of your chest. Gruff fingers sink into the supple flesh of your breasts, kneading the tender mounds with a hunger that belies a deeper longing.
You whimpered as his thumb brushed over your pebbled nipple until you gasped, arching into him.
Simon leans in, the rough rasp of his unshaven jaw grazing the delicate curve of your neck as he inhales your scent like a man starved. "That’s my sweet girl," he murmurs, voice a low, guttural rumble “Always so fuckin’ good for me.”
Your brain short circuited and he barely began.
His thick digits delved into the slick folds of your sloppy wet cunt, stroking through the dewy petals with a tenderness that contradicted his rugged exterior. The stretch burned in the best way possible, a jolt of electricity travelling down your spine as your body buzzed to life under his touch.
“Sweet merciful fuck, Bird,” he growls, eyes darkening with primal lust as he feels your molten heat clenching around his invading fingers. “You're dripping all over” he purrs, voice a sinful rumble, “This poor needy little cunny is gagging for my cock, ain't it?”
All you could muster was a nod, his thumb and forefinger pinched your sensitive bud, rolling it teasingly as his other hand buried further between your legs, set firm in their resolve to destroy your sanity.
With a sudden, brutal motion, he wrenches his fingers from your dripping cunt, leaving you aching and empty. Before you can utter a sound of protest, he brings the slick digits to his lips, making a show of dragging his tongue along each one, savoring your essence with a wicked, lascivious grin.
“They don’t make honey as sweet as your pussy,” he growls, voice dripping with crude, hungry desire.
His filthy words hit you like a lightning strike, sending heat crawling up your neck and flooding your cheeks in a burning flush.
“Si—” you gasp, breath hitching, “you can’t just say things like that—”
But you can’t even finish the protest. Not when your body’s already betraying you, clenching around nothing, desperate for every wicked thing he’s not yet done.
His hands fly to his belt, unbuckling it with frantic, hurried motions. Next were his pants that he pushed down just enough to free his throbbing, aching shaft. It twitched, taunt with tension and aching with poorly controlled need, beads of pearly white pre-cum dribbled out of the swollen head of his cock, the lewd sight had you light headed.
“Fuck, I need to be inside you,” he snarls, pulling you out of your trance to lock eyes with him.
His pupils were blown wide with feral lust as he took in your shaking form, flushed and panting before him. Large, calloused hands wrap around your thighs, gripping the supple flesh hard enough to bruise. With a surge of primal strength, he hauls your legs up and around his waist, pulling you flush against him until you can feel every rigid, pulsing inch of his fat cock pressing insistently against your dripping core.
Without any preamble, he notches himself at your entrance and thrusts into the hilt, not stopping until he's buried to the balls in your clutching heat. A guttural, animalistic groan tears from his throat at the exquisite sensation of your silken walls gripping him like a velvet vice.
He presses in, deep. You cry out, gripping his shirt, fingers clawing the fabric as he stretches you, fills you, claims you.
“Mine,” he hisses against your throat. “You hear me?”
“Louder,” you rasp. “I wanna hear it like a prayer.”
And he gives it to you.
“Goddamn, Bird,” he pants, eyes wild and unfocused with desire as he starts to move, hips jackhammering against yours with a brutal, relentless pace.
Every thrust is a promise, every drag of his hips a declaration. He takes you like the world is burning down, merciless and relentless, slamming into you so hard the wall shudders. His belt’s still hanging open from his hips, gun still holstered like he didn’t even care to remove it, like even in this very moment, he’d kill for you.
The way he moves—deep and filthy and possessive—you swear it could snap you in half.
“ ‘Simon” You moan his name. Again. Again.
“That’s it,” he grits, hand gripping your throat, not tight, just enough to hold you there, make you feel it. “Say it like you mean it.”
He punctuates each word with a sharp, driving thrust, grinding his pelvis against yours, making sure you feel every throbbing inch of his thick, pulsing cock as it stretches you wide and hits your cervix dead-on. His fingers dig into the meat of your ass, kneading the supple flesh and pulling you harder against him, forcing you to take every devastating inch.
You cling to him like a drowning soul to driftwood, a shattered fragment of heaven anchoring you to a world unraveling at the seams.
He angles his hips, changing the trajectory of his brutal thrusts to batter directly against that secret sweet spot deep inside you, that bundle of nerves that makes stars explode behind your eyes and turns your bones to liquid fire. The new angle lets him go even harder, fucking into your tight pussy with a force that rocks you to your core and leave your mind numb, devoid of coherent thoughts.
“Come on, sugar,” he growls, feeling your velvet walls starting to flutter and quake around his pistoning cock. “Come all over my dick like the good girl you are. Drench my fucking balls in your cum, Bird. Fucking soak me. Paint me with it. Show me what a filthy, cock-hungry whore you can be!”
The slick, obscene sounds of your bodies colliding filled the barn—wet, hungry noises that spur him on, urging him to take you even harder, even deeper.
You come apart around him, loud and shaking, nails biting into his shoulder as your climax hits like a flash fire. He fucks you through it, chasing his own, teeth grazing your pulse.
“Gonna cum so deep you feel me every time you walk,” he growls.
And when he does—he buries himself inside you, forehead dropping to yours, breath ragged as he spills into you with a sound that’s almost a sob.
The warmth of his seed filling your womb up, his cock twitching occasionally in pleased jolts, balls trembling in relief as they unloaded every last drop. He was buried so deep it feels like possession.
Maybe it is.
Maybe that’s what it means to be loved by an outlaw.
To be ruined in the softest, filthiest way imaginable.
Later.
The moon’s high, and you’re draped in his shirt, legs still aching, heart fuller than you knew it could be.
He’s on the porch, cigarette glowing, mask still on. Always on.
“You ever gonna take that off for me?” you ask, quiet.
Simon hesitates. Then slowly—so slowly it aches—he lifts trembling fingers to tug the mask off and let it fall.
Beneath it: scars, burns, a crooked nose, and soft whiskey eyes that look at you like you’re salvation.
You kiss each of them. “You’re beautiful.”
He huffs a laugh. “You’re blind.”
You smile, thumb brushing the scar on his cheek.
“No,” you murmur, playful. “I just have impeccable taste in the terrifying and emotionally unavailable.”
Then, softer—
“And I’d pick you, every lifetime, no matter how you came. Devil or not.”