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piscesbae7 · 26 days ago

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IM SPEECHLESS THIS IS INSANEE

down bad 🥀 | chapter 2

who: dark!Billy the Kid x Original Female Character

rating: E

genre: western gothic longfic (dark!AU)

word count: 9, 507

previous chapter

Please Read Before Proceeding

This story contains dark and potentially disturbing content, including but not limited to: non-consensual sexual acts (rape), violent sex, kidnapping, emotional and physical abuse, coercion, and various explicit kinks. It is firmly in the realm of fictional, dead dove: do not eat storytelling.

If any of these themes are triggering, upsetting, or not something you wish to engage with, please take care of yourself and do not cotinue reading. Your well-being matters more than any piece of fiction.

This work does not romanticize or condone abusive behavior in real life. It is an exploration of dark themes through a fictional lens, created for adult audiences who understand the difference between fantasy and reality. If you're here for the ride, you know what that means.

Consume media responsibly. Check in with yourself, know your limits, and remember that fiction can safely explore what real life must never allow.

You have been warned. | Read at your own discretion.

this chapter: blood (kink, play, all in between) • non-con kissing • biting • dry humping • physical abuse • restraint • hurt/no comfort • grinding • power imbalance • humiliation kink

The room had the look of a place left too long in heat and silence. Walls once papered in yellow roses had faded to the color of spoiled butter, the pattern curled at the corners and peeling in long strips like dead bark. The wood beneath it sweated pitch in the worst of the summer months and stank faintly of rot, no matter how often the windows were opened. The floorboards underfoot were warped, bowed in the middle where years of boots had passed over them, each step wearing the grain smoother than the last.

Light slanted in from the open doorway, hard and unflinching. It cut a straight path across the room, illuminating the dust that hung in the air like ash after a fire. Through the crooked window, the dry yard buzzed with flies, the fence posts leaning inward. The wind blew hot through the screen door, and every few minutes it banged back against the frame with a sharp clap, as if demanding attention it hadn’t earned.

The girl sat just to the left of that doorframe, her back was pressed to a support beam that split the room in two. Her wrists were tied behind her, bound to the beam with a length of coarse rope that had been knotted fast but without urgency—defeated. There was enough slack for her to shift, but not enough to run. One ankle—her right—was mottled with bruise, purple and yellow bleeding together beneath the skin, the result of her last failed attempt to kick free and bolt. The rope had caught her before the door did. Or Jesse.

Her dress hung crooked on her frame, dried in places where sweat and blood had stiffened the fabric. The neckline sagged unevenly, a torn strap barely holding to one shoulder. Straw clung to her hem and thighs, some caught in the weave, some ground into the skin. Her hair was a mat of dried salt and blood, twisted into snarls by fingers not her own, the weight of it dragging down her neck and sticking to the sides of her face. A streak of filth ran from her temple to her jaw, the shape of it smeared like a thumbprint wiped across a page.

She promised herself not to speak or look at either man yet, but her eyes were open and alert, watching the dust float through the light with the flat, fixed focus of a horse that had been worked near to death but still felt the pull of the bit.

The room creaked faintly underfoot, not from her, but from the slow pacing of boots nearby. Heavy tread.

Too measured. One of them—probably Jesse—walking the boards like he was tracing the outline of a fire he meant to start. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was constant, and it filled the space between the door slamming and the flies buzzing and the slow breath she forced through her nose. She didn’t want to admit how much it terrified her, how each of his steps reminded her of the torment from the night before; the unwanted love bites down her collarbone, the whiskey-tainted breath in her throat, the sinful prodding at her tender parts, and the pain—sandpaper-like, scratching, tearing, bleeding, filled. Final.

The tension in the room was like dry timber stacked beneath a hanging lantern. Everything waiting and painfully ready. All it needed now was a word, a spark or simply morning glory. That was what happened to men naturally, wasn’t it?

Jesse’s boots moved slow across the boards, back and forth like he was dragging a rut through the room on purpose. The sound of his pacing had gone from idle to deliberate, each step louder than the last, a rhythm building toward no tune at all. His shirt hung loose around his shoulders, soaked through at the collar with last night’s sweat. His hair was matted at the crown from where he’d slept on it wrong, and he kept scratching the back of his neck like there was a splinter stuck under his skin he couldn’t dig out.

There was a bottle in his hand, glass gone warm from being held too long. He swirled what little was left inside, sniffed it like he might get lucky and find more than a swallow, then drained it in one long, loud gulp. After that he stared at the bottle for a second—maybe deciding whether it was worth keeping—then flung it sidearm across the room.

It shattered against the far wall, sharp and sudden, glass bouncing off the wood like teeth from a split jaw. The girl didn’t startle, and Billy—standing by the window—didn’t move. The only thing that jumped was the screen door, slapping once in protest against the wind.

Jesse wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and kept pacing. His words came muttered and mean, tossed into the air without shape, meant more to fill the space than to make sense.

“Real quiet now, ain’t she?”

“Got a mouth like a preacher’s whore and less to show for it.”

“Should’ve cut that tongue out first thing. Don’t need it to take what matters.”

He circled behind her, not quite close, not quite far, and leaned in like he was smelling her just to remind her he could. His breath was sour with liquor and sweat, and when he laughed, it came out like a cough choked off too late.

She reminded herself to remain motionless, waiting for the worst to come. Would they take turns bedding her now? Would the quiet one be meaner? Softer? Harder? Was there any point in wondering whether or not she’d survive the torture? She’d been ruined already; for any man willing to touch her, marry her, couple with her in the future—provided she still had any. She fought back the tears gathering under her eyelids—stupid, useless drops—and let out a short, dry breath that might’ve been mistaken for a laugh if it weren’t so empty.

When she spoke, her voice was ragged but strong, pitched just loud enough to carry.

“Only thing you ever finish quick is a bottle.”

It landed clean and made Jesse freeze mid-step. The air around him stopped moving. Even the wind outside seemed to hold still for a beat, like the world was waiting to see what he’d do with it.

She kept her chin lifted, not high, but steady. Her wrists twitched against the rope behind her like they wanted to swing. Her mouth curled just a little, not in a smile, but colder. Victory, maybe. Maybe suicide. The line between the two was wearing thin.

She turned her head slow, the bones in her neck tight from strain, and soon her spit landed between Jesse’s boots with a thick, wet smack. It spread in the dust like oil, darkening the floor where it soaked. Her chin lifted after, sharp and proud, jaw clenched to keep it steady, eyes hot with fury and fixed on his face like the barrel of a cocked gun. It wasn’t a scream or a plea, or even a sign of rebellion. It was invitation, she figured—the sooner the better.

Jesse looked down at the spit—just for a second—and when he looked up again, his face was already twisted. His mouth pulled back in a grimace that showed his teeth, canines yellow from tobacco, the set of his jaw all wrong. Rage didn’t rise in him like in most men. It erupted, sudden and graceless, no warning, no grace to it. His boots hammered the floor as he turned, the sound of his heel catching on a loose board ringing louder than it should’ve.

He closed the distance in two strides, and the back of his hand lifted as he came—shoulder cocked, fingers splayed wide, the weight of the blow already built in his spine. His eyes burned down at her, wild and glassy, like a dog that’d been chained too long and didn’t care who bled first.

“Say that again,” he snarled, voice ragged with drink and spit, “and I’ll split your fuckin’ nose open for real.”

His chest heaved heavily, but his arm didn’t drop. The heat in the room surged around him, thick and pressing, the kind that made sweat form at the back of the knees. Light from the open door cut across the floor and hit the girl’s shoulder, painting it in gold while the rest of her stayed in shadow.

Her breath caught—but only once. Her wrists stayed where they were, tied behind her, but her body leaned forward, just a fraction, like she wanted him to hit her. Not because she thought she’d win, or even because she thought she deserved it. She simply needed to know he’d do it. She needed to see how far he’d go when he stopped pretending to be a man and started acting like what he really was. A part of her wanted him to kill her already, do her in, rid of her and put her out of her misery. She didn’t find him merciful, but prone to anger just the right amount to be able to use it on her shamelessly, furiously, and succeed.

Her mouth bled again where her lip had cracked, and she smiled without showing her teeth. A hard, cruel thing.

“Don’t.”

The word landed low, flat, and iron-heavy in the space between them. It wasn’t shouted, but cut clean through the heat and dust and Jesse’s boiling breath, the way a knife might move through fat—slow, with weight behind it.

Jesse froze mid-swing, arm still raised, hand poised in that ugly shape made for breaking mouths and knocking out teeth. His knuckles twitched, his jaw worked side to side like he was trying to chew the word and spit it out again.

Billy stood closer now, half in shadow, one hand hooked on the corner of his belt like he’d been watching a while and finally decided to speak. His other hand rested near his side, fingers curled near the leather of his holster—not on it, not near enough to threaten, but there all the same. His stance was loose, almost idle, like a man waiting his turn at cards. But the stillness in him was sharp, and it bled into the room. Light from the doorway outlined the edge of his shoulder and jaw, catching on the stubble along his throat, the blood-crusted scratch just beneath his eye, left from yesterday’s handling. His eyes weren’t wide or even angry. They remained locked steady on Jesse like he was staring down a dog with a bone it didn’t have the right to chew.

Jesse turned toward him fully now, chest heaving, red-faced, his fist still half-cocked. There was no respect in his voice when he spit out, “She ain’t yours.”

That did it. It was the way Jesse uttered those words—like he meant to shame, like he meant to stake his own claim in the dirt, that made the room shrink just a little. His boots thudded loud against the warped floorboards as he squared off. His breath came through his nose in short bursts, eyes bloodshot and gleaming. His lip curled in a sneer that didn’t quite reach confidence. Billy had that effect on people, even the dangerous, deranged kind, and Jesse qualified as both.

“Ain’t yours neither.”

The words didn’t thunder, but they filled every damn inch of the room. Quiet as they came, they weighed more than Jesse’s bottle had when it shattered against the wall. They hung in the air like the threat of rain that never quite falls—dense and still and close.

Neither man moved.

The girl stayed silent, breath caught low in her chest. Her eyes darted between them, watching out of calculation. One of them would break first and she didn’t know which one she’d love to see bleed out on the floor more.

Jesse’s jaw jumped. He looked from Billy to the girl, then back again. His boots shifted once on the floor—half a step forward, half a warning. He opened his mouth like he might answer, but nothing came out but breath.

Billy didn’t blink for too long, it seemed.

That silence stretched longer than it had a right to. And when Jesse finally backed off, it wasn’t because he wanted to, but because he understood the cost of finding out what would happen if he didn’t. Billy might’ve been the quiet kind, but the other outlaw knew those were tricky. The unspoken rule was that no one ever wanted to be around them once the silence ended, and they were right.

Jesse stood there a moment longer, like a man doing the math on a gunfight he knew he wouldn’t win. His chest rose and fell, breath sharp through his nose, the kind of breathing a man did to keep from spitting blood or words he’d regret. His fingers were still twitching like they hadn’t got the message his pride had just received.

The girl had already drawn blood with her mouth, not her fists, and now the silence was hers, too. She watched him like a buzzard waiting for a horse to stumble.

Jesse’s eyes moved to her—just for a beat—and darkened. She wasn’t afraid of him now, and he hated her for it. Not because she challenged him, but she’d lived through it. That was worse. That was permanent. The pretty little thing was no more.

He turned fast, disappointed and bitter, jerking his coat from the nail near the door with a sound like canvas tearing. The motion sent dust into the air, where it floated between them, catching the light like ash in a furnace. He muttered under his breath as he shrugged the coat on, words too slurred to carry, though one could’ve sworn “bitch” was in there somewhere. Maybe more. Maybe less. Didn’t matter.

Then his boot caught a chair—an old pine thing with one leg shorter than the rest—and kicked it hard enough to send it clattering sideways into the wall. It hit with a crack, a corner splintering where it struck the floor. The noise echoed sharp, like a shot fired too close to the ear. Jesse didn’t look back at it.

At the threshold, he paused and turned to glance back over his shoulder—first at her, cold and quick, like he was measuring the size of the bruise he’d put there next time, if there was a next time. Then his gaze moved to Billy, slower and meaner. That look stayed long enough to say everything his mouth hadn’t. It wasn’t anger anymore, but rather—a promise.

Then he was gone. The door creaked shut behind him, soft as a warning. The screen banged once, a heartbeat later, and the dust he left behind still hung in the air like smoke waiting to settle.

The tension in the room didn’t loosen. If anything, it got tighter, the air thick with the kind of stillness that only shows up after a man walks out angry but not empty-handed. There was no sound except the settling groan of the chair he’d kicked, the slow creak of a flytrap swaying in the window, and the wind moaning against the boards outside like it wanted in but thought better of it.

Billy stood with his arms at his sides, gaze fixed on the door like he expected it to open again or for to Jesse come back in just to finish what he started. His hat cast a shadow across his cheek, hiding the scratch along his jaw, the bruise purpling beneath it. The light from the window caught the edge of his boot and the dust on the toe.

Behind him, the rope gave a dry tug as the girl shifted on the stool. It wasn’t a struggle, more a flex of sore shoulders and stiff wrists, the kind of motion a tied thing makes not to escape but to remind the room it ain’t dead yet. The coarse hemp scraped the back of her skin, pulling blood from where the knot had rubbed raw.

Her mouth bled again, too. Just a trickle, welling fresh from the spot where her lip had cracked open when she grinned at Jesse. The blood painted the corner of her lips a dark red-black and slipped down to her chin, slow as honey. She didn’t lick it away or wipe at it. Instead, she smirked through it like a madwoman, chin tipped upward, one eye slightly narrowed like she was still tasting the last word and finding it sweet.

Billy didn’t dare look at her, but his jaw was tight. You could see it in the way the muscle jumped when he swallowed. The room held his breath like it held hers—tight in the lungs, waiting to see who’d move first.

She watched him. What was he waiting for? She was breathing harder now, chest rising faster under the torn fabric of her dress, a clear sign of the come-down from defiance. That slow, shuddering burn after you stare a man in the eye and dare him to try again. Her shoulders trembled faintly while her knuckles had gone pale behind her back. Just beneath the sharp line of her jaw, the curve of her throat one could notice the stiffness, the steadiness that spoke volumes when she didn’t have to. A recognition, maybe. Or a warning. It hadn’t yet decided which it wanted to be.

The sun shifted in the window, climbing slow across the floor. Its light moved higher up her bare shin, over her knee, onto the rough edge of her dress. Her skin gleamed faintly with sweat, a smear of grit still clinging to her thigh from the last time they dragged her through the dirt.

Billy finally turned.

The sound of his coat rustling was soft, but it felt loud in the silence. His face came into the light just enough to show the hollows under his piercing blue eyes, the soft line of his mouth, the tightness drawn like wire across his brow. He looked at her and their eyes met in an instant. They stared at each other across the wreckage of heat and spit and blood, and the weight of it said plain: whatever comes next, it ain’t forgiveness. The girl was trouble, a burden heavier than either Billy or Jesse had truly thought through, a promise of as set of bounty posters hanging in nearby towns at best, a possibility of discord, a feud—even, between the two men who’d eaten a bushel or two of salt together, but never before had fought over a girl—if she even was one still.

Billy walked slow, boots shifting dust with each step, the sound low and steady like distant thunder too far off to worry cattle yet. The door behind him had already swung half shut, the last sunbeam sliding crooked across the floor, catching the broken rim of the chair Jesse kicked, the oil-dark smear of spit still drying near her boot. Billy didn’t glance at either. His hand hovered near the low sweep of his belt, thumb hooking the leather like habit alone kept it there. He didn’t reach for his gun.

His face gave nothing away. The lines around his mouth were set hard, drawn tight in the way of men used to swallowing what should be spoken out loud—by gentlemen, at least, the decent kind. The blood that ran down his cheek earlier had dried now, rusty at the edge, crusted into the stubble along his jaw. He hadn't wiped it off or acknowledged it. It clung to him like all the rest—dirt, sweat, resentment. And still, he came forward, slow and straight, eyes serious under the brim of his hat.

She tracked him with the kind of stare that cut. Her head turned only slightly, just enough to keep him in view as he moved. Her shoulders were stiff, her back pulled too straight for ease, but her body vibrated faintly in its posture—like a held-in scream, like lightning waiting for a tree to split. Her breath was louder now, harsher through her nose, as if every inhale had to fight its way in past rage and rope. Her ribs moved fast beneath the torn dress, and though her hands were tied behind her—twisted into some aching shape that cut deep—there was no give in her. She looked at him like a trapped wolf looks at the hunter too stupid to bring a second bullet.

Billy’s boots creaked the boards, the only sound in the room besides the wet buzz of a fly too slow to leave. He stopped short of her—close enough she could smell the salt of his skin, the metal tang of old blood still clinging to his collar, the faint whiff of gun oil. He didn’t reach for her, but stood there a moment, studying the ropes at her back, the raw skin at her wrists, the set of her mouth. The stillness in him wasn’t peace.

His intention hung there, half-formed, unsaid. Maybe he’d come to loosen the rope, she figured. Maybe to see if she’d calm down, to feed her another order in that deadpan voice of his, or to take what he hadn’t yet. He slowed, hesitated.

She didn’t—not a breath off-rhythm. She watched him like she meant to burn a hole straight through his ribs. Her heart was still climbing, and the rest of her hadn’t caught up—but her eyes had already chosen war.

She moved before he finished stepping in without a warning or a single word. Just the sudden forward lurch of a body kept too long in stillness, the kind of motion that didn’t ask permission from the mind before it took the hands. Her arms shot out—bound, but not tight enough to keep her from reaching. Her shoulders strained with the effort, the rope biting into raw skin, but she didn’t seem to notice.

Her fingers caught the front of his shirt—twisted in the fabric hard, quick—jerking him down and toward her with the brute force of surprise.

Billy stumbled, boot dragging rough against the warped plank floor, hip tilting backward. His hand came out reflexively, reaching for balance that wasn’t there. The tension left his shoulders in a snap as his body tilted with hers, off rhythm, off guard. His coat shifted, one side slipping down his arm, the loose weight of it tugging him further.

And before he could right himself, before a single breath passed between them—

Her hand came up—fast and sharp—full of all the rage that hadn’t yet found voice. She clawed his face like a wildcat in heat.

Fingernails raked from the high edge of his cheekbone down to the line of his jaw, not a slap but a tearing—deliberate and deep. The sound was more felt than heard, like fabric ripping, but it echoed in her throat as a hiss or a curse without words. Her teeth were clenched, breath rushing between them like steam escaping a cracked valve. Her whole body shook with the motion, rope digging deeper as her weight pulled forward.

Three angry grooves opened in his skin, red rising fast. One of them—just beneath his eye—split wide enough that blood bloomed in a thick, immediate line. It ran crooked down his face, slid fast into the corner of his mouth. He didn’t cry out, and the girl didn’t look away.

The strike hadn’t been precise—no skill or strategy to it. It was need and the first chance she’d had to hurt anything back, and she took it without hesitation. The heat in her chest spilled out through her fingernails. She scratched like an animal backed into a corner, not thinking, just burning.

Her breath came ragged now, fast and furious. She leaned in, shoulders trembling, ropes fraying behind her. Blood dotted her fingertips, dark and wet. Her mouth hung open just a little, not from fear, but from effort—like her body still wanted to bite, to claw, to break, and hadn’t yet figured out how to stop.

Billy moved before the pain even landed. His body snapped forward on instinct alone—no thought, no warning, no weight of decision. Just reaction, pure and unfiltered, like a rifle that fires the second it’s cocked. His hand shot out and caught both her wrists in one hard grip, fingers locking over the raw rope and bruised skin, uncaring of the strain already there. His palm swallowed her bones. He didn’t give her room to jerk back or scream. He didn’t even give her the air before he twisted.

Her body went with it—dragged upward and sideways in one brutal turn, feet scraping the floor, knees buckling as he forced her off balance. She didn’t cry out, not exactly. The sound that came out of her was sharp and breathless, more shock than pain, a noise snatched from the lungs too fast to name. Then her back hit the wall, hard.

The wooden boards groaned behind her spine. The impact landed with a flat, brutal thud that echoed in the cramped space. A rickety shelf nearby shuddered against its nails, and the glass on the kerosene lamp gave a thin, high chime as it vibrated in place. Dust stirred from the seam between wall and floor, and the smell of old varnish and blood thickened in the room.

The rope at her wrists, already rough, bit in deeper now with her arms twisted high above her head, shoulders lifted awkwardly. One loop cut the skin where it had already rubbed raw, the friction opening it fresh. Her knees knocked into the wall, dress hitching high over her thighs as she fought for footing, but Billy didn’t let her fall.

He pressed into her—far from anything tender—but with weight, with heat, with the kind of angry steadiness that only came from a man who knew he wouldn’t be moved. His chest crushed against hers, his breath ragged against the side of her face. He didn’t shake or shout, only braced.

His boot slid forward, pinning her foot under his. His thigh wedged between her knees—prying and anchoring both. His free hand slammed flat against the wall beside her head, steadying them both. The other arm strained with the grip he had on her wrists, holding them pinned just above the crown of her head, rope stretched taut between flesh and beam. The tendons in his forearm bulged with effort. He didn’t ease up at the sight of it.

Their breath mingled between them, hot and close, stinking of sweat and blood and dust. Her chest rose fast under his, heart hammering like it wanted to kick free of her ribs. Her hair had fallen across her face in the scuffle, clinging wet to her cheek, hiding one eye behind a curtain of grit and tangle, but the other eye stayed fixed on him. Her pupils were wide, and her lips slightly parted, blood darkening one corner. She watched him—that bad, beautiful bastard pinning her hard—breath hissing through her teeth, jaw clenched tight, as if still daring him to follow through and knowing he just might.

Billy’s breath dragged in hard through his nose, sharp and uneven, like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. His chest moved with each pull, pressed tight against hers, the movement shallow and fast. His jaw was clenched, teeth locked beneath the muscle twitching in his cheek, that single nerve pulsing just above the edge of his jaw. His shoulders squared and stayed that way—locked, rigid, immovable—as if letting a single inch of slack would invite collapse.

The gash along his face was bleeding more now. The deeper of the three had split clean near the cheekbone, and the blood ran freely—slow and thick, already drying at the edges. It traveled crooked from the socket down to the hollow of his throat, soaking into the collar of his shirt and leaving a fresh smear across the skin just above his collarbone. A drop slipped from his jaw and fell onto her chest, soaking into the torn bodice of her dress like ink on paper.

He was braced against her like he’d been carved into that position, every part of him set with purpose, with fury, with control that cost more than it looked. The weight of him pinned her flat, but it was the silence that kept her there, and the pressure of it. Tension so thick it swelled the air between them.

His hand stayed firm around her wrists, knuckles pale now, the tendons in his arm raised like wire drawn too tight. He didn’t squeeze to hurt, not necessarily, but he let the pressure build—just a fraction more than before—just enough to remind the little tigress whose strength was winning out. Her pulse throbbed beneath his grip, fast and furious.

Their faces were too close now. Any closer and there’d be nothing left to measure. Her forehead nearly touched his chin. His breath dragged over her cheek when he exhaled, humid and sharp. The air between their mouths was heat and grit, the dry sting of blood and smoke and anger blending into one breathless mix neither of them could escape.

She had nowhere to look but him.

His eyes weren’t soft. They weren’t angry either, rather fixed—flat and relentless, not asking, not judging, just taking her in. Her defiance, her breathing, the way her jaw tensed under the blood crusting at the edge of her mouth. He watched her like a man watching fire rise—unafraid of being burned but interested in how high it’d climb before it collapsed under its own weight.

Her chest brushed his with every breath she drew—fast and shallow, fabric scraping against the buttons of his shirt. She hadn’t stopped trembling, not from fear, but from the rush of it, the rawness, the strain. She smelled him now—closer than she’d ever wanted. Blood first. Then the dry scent of dirt caked into wool. Smoke, too, old and clinging, the kind that lived in clothes long after the fire was out. Beneath it, sweat, not fresh or rank Just real and indisputably manly, baked into the seams of a man who hadn’t rested in days.

He smelled her too. Even now, all angry and braced.

She smelled like heat and filth and rope, all salt from her skin and iron from her blood. And beneath all that, fight. That smell of fury still burning in a woman who wasn’t supposed to bite back anymore. Defiance and dust and the kind of desperate courage that made men either worship or destroy.

And Billy—he hadn’t yet decided which one he was more eager to implement.

What astounded him was that she didn’t stop fighting, motionless. Not when the blood hit her collarbone or even when his grip tightened. Not when her body was pinned so tight to the wall she could feel the beat of his heart through the bones of her chest, its rhythm clear and maddening.

Her wrists burned where the rope dug in, but she didn’t cry out. Her eyes were bright now, glassy not from tears but fury—a clean, scorching heat that hadn't dimmed, only sharpened.

She thrashed once, a violent twist of shoulder and hip that knocked his arm off balance for a breath, but not enough to shake him loose. He held steady, but the pretty little thing had made her point: she wasn’t done. Her lip curled back from her teeth, the snarl half-silent, half-breathed, more instinct than expression, the quiet before the storm, as soon enough—

-she bit him.

Her head snapped sideways with the kind of control born from purpose. She turned her face into the crook of his neck, her mouth finding that soft seam where collar met skin, where the throb of a pulse pressed just beneath the surface, and she sank her teeth in hard—not a nip or desperation, but punishment.

The bite tore through Billy’s skin and into muscle. Her jaw locked and her lips stretched wide. It was ugly and deep, the kind of bite meant to mark, not just hurt. Her teeth ground in through wool and flesh, through sweat-soaked cotton, and the skin beneath gave with a sickening ease.

Billy’s body bucked hard. His breath caught, sharp and involuntary, breaking through clenched teeth in a low, guttural sound that sat somewhere between a growl and a curse—like a man who just took a bullet but wasn’t ready to fall. His grip faltered for a fraction of a second while his hand on the wall curled into a fist. He didn’t strike or shove her off.

The blood came fast. It soaked his shirt at the shoulder, blooming hot and wet beneath her mouth. The fabric went dark in an instant, and the smell of it thickened the air—iron and salt and heat. It ran down his back, spread under his collar, seeped into the waistband of his trousers. It didn’t matter. Nothing else in the world existed but her teeth in his flesh.

And then—only then—she let go. The wet pull of her mouth unlatching, the whisper of spit and blood parting skin. A string of red connected her lips to his neck for a heartbeat before it snapped. Her breath came hard, and her mouth was stained. She looked up at him like a predator who’d finally drawn blood and found it didn’t taste too bad.

Billy’s breath came in shallow pulls, each one catching just before it finished, like his ribs were braced too tight to let anything go. The cord of muscle at his neck flexed with each heartbeat. His shoulders shook once, small and sharp, not yet defeated.

She was panting now, the heat of her breath brushing up his throat in bursts. Her bloodstained mouth didn’t tremble any more, but curled, just barely, cruel and unafraid. Her eyes, wild and wide beneath the tangle of her hair, didn’t shy away. They dared. She looked at him like a prisoner who’d drawn blood and was waiting to see if the guard had the balls to bleed more.

And that—that—was what broke him. The look she gave him, the way she breathed through clenched teeth like she hadn’t lost yet. Like the ropes meant less than the fire in her mouth. He stared at her for a long, suspended second. His face didn’t change, nor did his body shift a fraction.

But inside, something came loose, loud and hot and final.

He growled low and deep. A sound that didn’t belong to a man, not really, not anymore. It came from a place behind the ribs, from where instinct lived when logic failed. A sound of need, not rage. A sound like a dog pushed too far—cornered, beaten, bloody—and now too sick of waiting to do anything but lunge.

It wasn’t a word or a threat.

It was hunger.

It was yes.

No thought followed it, no pause. No sense of what this meant or where it led. There was no calculation in Billy now, no line to check for, no rule to remember. The blood on his neck, the blood in her mouth, the way she was staring at him like she still had teeth left to use—it all blurred together into fire and breath and pressure.

The line between fury and want didn’t bend but snapped.

He didn’t lean in like a lover would, didn’t draw breath or search her eyes or falter at the edge of what came next. Instead, he crashed into her.

His mouth slammed against hers with no grace, no angle, no thought of comfort. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim—brutal, breathless, bleeding.

His full lips didn’t mold to hers; they pressed down, hard and unyielding, mashing open the split already raw at the corner of her mouth. Their teeth met first, sharp and jarring, scraping, catching. His mouth was heat and spit and weight, and he forced it onto hers like a man trying to smother fire with his bare hands.

The girl grunted against it, a muffled cry of fury and recoil. Her head jerked to the side, fast, desperate, but she had nowhere to go. The wall gave no room, and his body gave even less. He pressed closer, crushing the space between them with his chest, his hips, the thick of his thigh still wedged against hers. He was a wall of flesh and heat and pressure, and he kept coming.

Her breath wheezed through her nose, sharp and panicked, as he leaned harder, mouth still fused to hers in a clash of blood and salt. Her shoulders twisted, but he lifted her wrists higher, dragging her arms up until her back arched and her joints burned. The rope bit deep into the skin already scraped raw, and she gasped against his mouth, the pain spiking her breath. She had no choice but to bite again, hard.

Billy was shocked to feel her jaw suddenly snap shut like a trap—just a twist of her head, fast and vicious. Her teeth caught the corner of his lower lip, or maybe his tongue, or both at once. The flesh gave with a wet rip. He stirred but didn’t pull away. Blood bloomed between their mouths now, fast and metallic, sharp on her tongue.

It tasted like rust and old copper, like sweat pooled under collarbones, like everything she hated. Like him.

But he didn’t stop, because the truth was—he liked it.

The kiss—if it could be called that—deepened, not in any tender way, but in sheer force. Their mouths stayed locked, gasping and tangled, open and feral. His breath came in huffs, hot against her cheek when their mouths slipped apart for half a second before crashing back together. There was no rhythm, no real give and take—only breath and heat and teeth.

His stubble raked her chin, left red scrapes across the side of her face. Her lip tore more—she could feel the skin peeling, blood trickling over the curve of her mouth. His teeth knocked hers again, bruising the soft flesh inside her cheek. But still—he didn’t let up, and she didn’t go limp.

It was a war fought through mouths, through pressure, through defiance. It was need with no name, only contact. It was two people who didn’t know how to stop fighting, even when their mouths were full of each other.

Billy’s mouth stayed fused to hers—still bleeding, still brutal, still carrying the taste of everything that had passed between them, and none of it sweet. His body bore down like a closing gate, and when his hand dropped, it did so with the same intent as a falling hammer—deliberate, final, sure of the damage it meant to leave behind.

It dragged down her side without care or caution, the callused pads of his fingers grazing over ribs still sore from where he'd pinned her earlier. He didn’t trace the slope of her waist like a lover would. He didn’t slow to feel the rise and fall of her breath.

He just pushed, palm open and hard, flattening every inch of her against the wood behind her, like he could force her back into the wall if he pressed long enough. The fabric bunched beneath his hand—cotton stiff with dried sweat, stained with her blood and his. He didn’t mind the mess. His grip only tightened.

When he reached her breasts, he didn’t linger for effect. He didn’t test the edge of pleasure or weigh the difference between rough and cruel. His hand landed full across her chest and pressed, heel of his palm grinding in deep like he was pinning a snake to the dirt. The weight was unforgiving—heavy, punishing. He didn’t knead or stroke or cup. Instead, he pressed until she gasped into his mouth and her spine arched, not from want, but recoil. He kept it there, the pressure notching up until it bordered pain, until she shifted beneath it—not in surrender, but in resistance. And only then did he let go.

But not for long.

His hand dropped lower, sliding over the wrecked seam of her bodice and down across her belly where the fabric grew thicker, heavier, stitched double for the hard work of daily wear. His knuckles bumped her belt, and he didn’t pause to undo it. There was no interest in undoing. No need to unravel. He shoved straight through, grabbed hold of her skirt where it clung to her thigh, and fisted it like he meant to rip the shape of her out from under the cloth.

The dress didn’t tear, but it pulled tight across her legs, molded to the outline of her body under his grip, and Billy’s hand—broad, rough, unrelenting—dug into the line where her leg joined her hip. He didn’t seek skin, nor did he part the layers of fabric or try to find softness underneath. He just shoved the heel of his palm in hard, a deep, blunt pressure meant to punish, not please. It landed square between her soft thighs, and her body jerked with the force of it, a sharp buck that rattled her teeth against his. The rope burned at her wrists again, arms yanked high, chest lifted and forced to bow. Her breath escaped in a sharp wheeze, but still—she didn’t cry out.

He pressed again. Harder.

His mouth never left hers. The kiss was a grim, wet tangle of teeth and spit and open wounds. Their breaths came in staggered bursts, chests heaving together, every scrape of fabric loud between them. Her head twisted, desperate for a sliver of air, but he followed, merciless. His tongue chased blood, hers and his. His lip split wider against her teeth. Still, he kissed like it was a fight—like the only way to keep her was to smother what she hated most.

And all the while, his hand moved further. From thigh to hip, dragging fabric with it, yanking folds and seams until they pulled taut across her skin. Then he clutched the meat of her leg—hard muscle from a life spent working, not preening—and he squeezed, not like a husband savoring his wife, but more like a man measuring. Like a man holding a rope he meant to cut if it didn’t hold weight.

The grip burned. Billy’s fingers dug deep, hard enough to leave marks through the cloth, hard enough she’d feel it when she sat, when she walked, when she breathed deep enough to remember, when she finally got fucked stupid—later. He didn’t mark her to keep her. He did so to prove she wasn’t untouched, not by him. He figured he’d deal with Jesse later.

He didn’t want her to soften; wanted her caught as feral as she seemed. And under his hand, under the grime and the blood and the days-old dress she’d nearly died in, she was.

Her breath hitched—sudden and sharp, not from fury this time but from the crackling jolt that followed his hand when it pressed deep through the folds of her skirt. It wasn’t panic that caught in her throat, but—surprisingly—heat. Real, coarse and unbidden. Her whole body pulled taut, shoulders curling forward as though she could fold herself in half and trap the sensation between muscle and bone before it spread any farther. But it was too late. The spark was already crawling—down her belly, across her thighs, up the back of her neck like a lit fuse.

She trembled, and it wasn’t subtle or dignified, like a modest girl would, once her wedding night came—ideally. Her legs went first, knees unsteady beneath the drag of Billy’s grip, her weight buckling a fraction into the wall behind her. Then her stomach, clenching and hollowing out as though struck from within. Even her shoulders trembled, the bones drawn up and hunched against the rope, the fibers groaning where they held her wrists high. She was shaking now—undeniably, uncontrollably. A shiver that started in her limbs and worked inward, turning heat to ache, rage to breathlessness.

She snarled again, teeth bared in defiance. Her face twisted, all hate and blood and fury—but it didn’t matter. Her hips, her loins betrayed her, arching forward, not in surrender, but with a reflex she couldn’t stop. Just a tilt. Barely a roll of her pelvis. But it was there—the contact, the unmistakable grind that came with pure desire. Her thighs flexed around his hand, not to fight him off, but to keep him there. Flesh tightening around pressure, not from pleasure—no, never that—but from the terrible necessity of it. Of him. She needed the contact even as she hated it. Even as her brain howled no, her body kept him close, anchored to the heat he’d lit beneath her skin.

She then kicked, wild and clumsy, a jerk of her heel against his shin, but it barely landed. Her balance was gone, rattled loose by the weight of his palm and the heat it stirred. Her wrists twisted hard in the rope—skin peeling against the fibers, blood blooming where she pulled too fast—but she didn’t stop. Not because she believed it would free her, but because she needed to move, to flail, to do anything to fight the part of herself that had started to move with him.

And still, her legs stayed parted just wide enough to keep him there. Her thighs closed in again, taut and trembling, the muscle clenching around his fingers like she couldn’t decide whether to shove it away or drag it in deeper.

Then her head hit the wall. A crack—short and hard—the back of her skull slamming into brick as though impact could clear the fog behind her eyes. Her mouth flew open, wide, desperate, but no words, no scream, no insults came. Just a raw, gutted moan that slipped past her teeth like it had been pulled from her lungs without permission. Ragged. Choked. Unforgivable.

She froze, and the sound still echoed inside her chest, more humiliating than the blood on her lips or the bruises blooming across her ribs, or Billy’s fingers rubbing at her swollen, abused, freshly deflowered cunt. Her breath caught again, caught on the tail of that sound she didn’t mean to make, the sound that didn’t belong to a woman in charge of her own body.

Her eyes filled—both tears and rage, and deeply rooted shame. Anger--

At him.

At herself.

At the sick, rising heat that had nothing to do with fury anymore.

She wanted to kill that beautiful, stupidly quiet, relentless bastard. To claw the flesh off his bones. To spit in his face and laugh when he bled. But she also wanted him to touch her again. That hand of his? That weight? That pressure that made her legs shake and her throat fail? All of it.

Her body was leaning forward now, just a hair’s breadth, close enough for her breasts to brush his chest with each breath. Her mouth stayed parted, bloodied. Her pulse pounded loud in her ears, louder than his breath, louder than the ropes, louder than the war behind her eyes.

She looked up at him.

Her face said stop.

Her body said don’t you dare.

The rhythm soon changed. Not by choice or with a warning—just the way a horse breaks from a lope into a dead gallop, neck stretched, flanks quivering, too far gone to stop now. Billy’s hips ground forward with a sudden urgency, shallow and sharp, the movement stripped of precision.

He wasn’t aiming or angling towards her sensitive parts. Breathless and endlessly aroused, he began driving himself into her thigh again and again, pressing the full weight of his pelvis into the shape of her leg like he meant to brand the need right through her skin.

The wool of his trousers scraped rough between them, thick seams rasping against the cotton layers of her skirt, catching at every motion. He didn’t care. His body worked against hers like a machine gone wrong—no grace, no control, just fire in the gut and blood in his cock. The breath dragged out of him now in hitches, sharp at first, then choking, then guttural. His mouth dropped from hers, jaw slack, face tilted toward her throat. The heat of him poured down her neck in waves, the stench of sweat and blood and need clinging to every ragged exhale.

She turned her face away, jaw clenched, temple pressed hard into the wall as if the stone might hold her steadier than he could. But he didn’t see her anymore. His eyes were shut, lashes damp against his cheek. His mouth fell open just wide enough to let the sound out—a low moan, caught in the back of the throat and pushed out against her skin. The kind of sound a man makes when the edge comes too fast and too hard to swallow.

It wasn’t about who she was or what she’d done, or even the way her breasts moved as she trembled, or how her ass swayed when she tried to kick at him. There was no sweetness to Billy’s senseless rutting, no apology, no recognition. It was about the fire that had built too high and too fast, the aching, ruinous instinct to take and take until the body broke under the weight of its own demand. He wasn’t seeking climax, rather chasing end.

And then—it caught him. His whole body went taut, spine drawn straight as a struck wire. His hands clamped down, one still buried in her thigh, the other locked around her wrists like shackles. The muscles in his jaw flared. His eyes stayed closed. His hips jerked once, hard, then again, the motion stuttering—half-desperate, half-broken. Then still.

Heat flooded through the front of his trousers—fast, final, soaking straight through to where her leg stayed pinned beneath him. The pressure of his cock pulsed against her, sudden and unmistakable, that hot, shuddering spasm that emptied him into the wool like a confession he couldn’t hold any longer. He didn’t cry out or curse. He didn’t whisper her name; he didn’t even know it. All he could do was growl, low and hollow. A sound made without meaning, only release, only Billy’s thick cum leaking through.

Then silence. His hips stopped. His breath caught once, then settled into short, shallow pants. His head hung heavy beside hers, chin tucked near the girl’s ear, his weight still crushing against her like the fight hadn’t ended yet. He slackened—minutely—like a man who’d held too long to the edge of a cliff and finally let go. His hand stayed locked around her thigh, fingers splayed over fabric bunched and wrinkled from the force of his grip.

The torn bodice clung crooked to her chest, stained, wet, unchanged. The skirt stayed down. The rope at her wrists held firm. Not a knot slipped. Not a loop frayed.

She was right where he’d left her—bound, bloodstained, breathless, filthy, stained with his blood and his seed.

Billy’s forehead hovered near hers, barely an inch of breath between them, but not touching anymore. As though the act was over but the shape of it remained—carved in sweat and silence. His shoulders rose once, sharp and uneven, then fell again too fast, the tremor in it not from pleasure, not from strain, but from the weight that came after. That slow, sinking moment when the fire dies and all that’s left is the smoke curling up from the ash. His chest remained pressed to hers, heavy, unmoving. His body pinned her with the same mindless pressure as before, but the force behind it had drained out. Like he hadn’t let go of her because he needed her close, but because he didn’t know what to do with his own hands anymore. One gripped her buttocks. The other hung limp at his side, fingers twitching once before curling into a loose fist, knuckles bloodied where the wall had scraped them raw.

Her face had turned away, angled sharp toward the wood, cheek pressed hard to the wall where the blood on her mouth had smeared. Her jaw locked tight, clenched until the muscle stood out in ropes beneath her skin. She breathed through her teeth—short, broken pulls of air that made her ribs shudder beneath what remained of the bodice.

His blood streaked her chin, dried in the hollows between her lips and throat. A smear of it crusted along the edge of her jaw where she’d bitten him, cracked now from the pull of her skin. And still, her breath was on his neck—warm, uneven, laced with hatred and exhaustion both. The kind of breath a woman draws not to calm herself, but to keep from killing. It brushed his collar, stirred the hair behind his ear. He didn’t dare pull back. He figured he would’ve hated himself, had he tried.

Her thighs were still wrapped around his legs, closed firm. The tension in them hadn’t eased. Her leg was wedged against his hip, trapped there by the grip he still hadn’t released. Not a touch had grown tender. Not a muscle had relaxed.

And neither of them said a word the whole time.

No apology passed between them. No accusation. No plea. The air hung thick with the soundless aftermath, the ache of it spreading wider than any cry could fill. There were no names in their mouths now, no sense of who had taken what from whom.

Just breath and blood and the wall behind her and the heat between them, both cooling. Time crawled forward without their help, dragging its weight over the floor like a broken limb.

It would’ve been easier if one of them had spoken. But no word was built to carry what had just happened. Silence came first, thick and feral, the kind that filled a space like smoke after the fire’s already burned through the roof. The air between them didn’t settle—it clung, hot and sour, the smell of blood and sweat steeped deep into the boards and brick. His breath came in pants now, ragged, uneven, chest rising in short, hollow jerks that had nothing left behind them. Her breath matched his, shallow and fast, pulled in through her teeth like it hurt to inhale.

The lamp in the corner guttered, flame bending low, casting shadows that stretched and curled across the walls like figures that didn’t belong to either of them. The light stuttered once, blinked again. His hand slipped off her thigh—just dropped, limp, dead-weighted, like it no longer remembered what it had done. Her body sagged forward a hair, not toward him, not away, just enough to remember she still had one. Her chest heaved in open, brutal pulls, her ribs tight beneath the torn cloth, blood darkening where it had soaked in and dried stiff. Her eyes brimmed wet, not with fear, not only that. There were no tears yet, just shine. The kind of wetness that came before pain had found its name.

He stepped back—just a slow retreat, boots scuffing the floor once, twice, until the space between them grew enough to feel cold again. His body peeled from hers inch by inch, like he’d been sunk into her and now had to drag himself out piece by piece, defeated. When he stood free, it was with blood still drying at the corner of his mouth, her spit mixed with his, smeared across the scruff on his chin. He didn’t wipe it, nor did he look down. He reached for the front of his trousers, fingers rough as they yanked the buttons back into place. His jaw worked once, a pulse ticking high near the bone.

She stayed pressed to the wall like it still held her up, like the wood itself was keeping her bones stacked right. Her knees sagged, barely locked, the tremble starting again between her thighs, spreading down through her calves to the arches of her feet. Her arms burned where the rope still bit into them, shoulders shrieking from the angle, but she barely noticed. Her face burned—hot with confusion, hot with shame. She stared at the door.

Billy went to it like a man already halfway out of his own body, hand closing around the knob without pause. He turned it, and the latch groaned. The hinges creaked, but he didn’t go through right away. He looked back once, over his shoulder, at the tigress. His pretty little tigress.

No apology in his face. No triumph either. Billy’s mouth was slack, as if he was still inside the storm, still waiting for the dust to settle so he could see what damage he’d done. And then, just like that, he was gone.

The door shut behind him with a dull click, quiet enough to be forgotten, loud enough to stay in the bones.

The stayed there, still blinking against the heat in her throat that wouldn’t break.

And she wasn’t sure if she’d fought him off or begged him to finish.

#round of applause!!!!!!#the world needs more dark!billy fics #tom blyth #billy the kid #billy bonney #william h bonney #dark!billy the kid #dark billy the kid #omg omg omg

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