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spideyhexx · 4 months ago

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oct. 7th - scaredy cat

William H. Bonney x BountyHunter!Female!Reader

mdni! wc; 3.3k cw; gunplay, threats of death, dom-ish reader, dub-con-ish, thighriding, grinding, mentions of piss

kinktober 2024 masterlist

a/n; was worried about this one because i was having trouble writing it, but i think i like how it turned out soooo!!!! hope you all enjoy!!!!

The smoothness of the cards touch at your skin as you move your thumb across, eyes bouncing from the cards, then back up to the man in front of you.

The bar is rustling with life, but the noises drown out the longer you focus on the man’s blue eyes. They sear into you, subtly trying to beg for an inch, to find what it is you’re thinking or take an educated guess at what cards you hold behind your hands.

His lips are in neutral territory. No faint smile, but no tension, though his thumb taps to his cards every other second. You count it. One. No tap. Two. Tap. One. No tap. Two. Tap.

There are two other men in the game, a gentleman to your left that’s clearly off his rocker, and a gentleman to your right, who has the worst poker face known to life itself. Your focus is on the blue-eyed man though. Actual competition.

The drunken man folds his cards, giving up more because he cannot even think straight. He barely walks straight to the bar just ahead. The man across from you tilts his head, his slightly messy hair catching your attention for only the moment he’s looking away at the drunk man. The cocky one places another bet. You raise your bet. And the blue-eyed man taps his thumb twice in a row this time, before raising his bet.

The cocky guy scoffs a bit, but your expression remains unmoving. In fact, you lean back in the rickety wooden chair, like this is just some easy day for you. The guy folds his cards and you resist the urge to smirk, your eyes gluing themselves back to the young man in front of you.

You make your bet, then lean back against, the only movement you give him is a slight cock of your head. The man tries to school his expression, but you see the slight quirk in the corner of his mouth as he looks at his cards, thinking. Or pretending to think. Most likely the latter. Either way, you study him more than you were before.

His dark blue shirt is dirtied, no doubt. Probably hasn’t been washed in days. Weeks, maybe. His knuckles are redder than they should be, but there is no bruising. You can deduce he was hitting something though. Or someone. There is a cut on his lip though. A cut in the process of healing. His hair, messy like you noticed before, seems more windswept or hat hair, than anything else. The slight curls near his ears curl around the curve of it, and his eyes, well, they return to boring into your soul.

He hasn’t said much of anything since he sat down. A small hello to the other players. A lingering glance at you. He called you ma’am. It’s not that women didn’t play poker, but it was certainly rarer, especially out here in a middle of nowhere town with maybe three entire buildings and the rest expansive farmland.

The man thinks for a few more moments and you have played enough poker to know he’s purposely building up the tension, wondering if you’ll push through any cracks to give him an inkling on your hand. He’s baiting you, but you know better.

He shows his cards and leans on his arms on the table, a silent challenge, because he would be winning right now with that hand.

If only you didn’t have a straight flush.

The man gives a huff, but a small smile graces his lips. They’re so red, and you catch yourself watching the way his tongue quickly runs over them as he stands from his chair. He grabs his hat, black in color, and sits it perfectly atop his head, pushing it down a moment, before sticking his hand out.

“Well done,” he says, his voice smooth with the slightest hint of a twang. You shake his hand once, then move to gather your winnings into the small satchel at your side.

“You’re good. It was a good game,” he speaks again, adjusting his hat, though you know he has no need to do so. A nervous twitch, maybe, but you’ve already gathered he’s a fidgety guy.

“I know,” you respond, offering half of a grin. His hands drop to his gun belt, shifting one of his legs like he wants your attention to drop to that area.

His fingers drum on his belt, a grin still stuck to his face, but he just nods, and shrugs on a maroon jacket, then saunters out to the bar exit, while you turn towards the bar itself.

Once you hear his boots leave the establishment, you count to thirty in your head. You’re lenient. Your hand snakes down to the gun in your holster, your thumb tracing the handle. It soothes it. Prepares it for the potential action afoot, something you always had to do before a job.

When your mental count hits thirty, you stand, and walk out of the bar. The setting sun still shines bright and hits your vision at first. You shield your eyes, clocking the man’s horse still tied up here.

You walk past the few buildings in this settlement, then veer off toward the woods. The grass of the field swishes against you as you stride slow, careful of your steps as you look around.

As you approach the small thicket of trees, you catch that maroon color.

His back is to you, standing near a tree, so you slowly stalk over, pulling your gun from your holster with ease.

You make no noise, approaching your prey with a staunch air. Your heart is beating. A rapt hitting against your chest, but it’s not nerves, it’s excitement. As you get closer, you realize he’s urinating against the tree, but it does little to hinder you. It only excites you more.

He whistles softly to himself, a tune you cannot place, and it almost distracts you from the task at hand. You roll your shoulders back to snap yourself out of it, then close the distance, quickly coming up on him from behind.

The man startles and makes a quick move to grab his gun, but the barrel of yours digs into the side of his neck before he can reach it. You press your chest close up on his back, your other hand reaching around the front of him to undo his gun belt.

His head turns slightly and you watch him recognize who it is.

Your hand almost grazes his exposed dick, and a droplet of piss leaves him. You snicker, letting the gun belt detach and you toss it to the side,“Continue.”

“What?” He asks, voice more gruff than it was back in the bar.

“Finish pissing, Mr. Bonney.”

Billy hesitates, but you nudge the barrel harder against the skin of his neck and he relents, continuing to relieve himself against the tree.

It’s quiet besides the sound of his stream, until he asks, “Who do you work for?”

You scoffs. “No one.” He finishes, and goes to tuck himself back in. You watch the movement with a deep intensity, feeling lucky he isn’t looking at your face.

“People are after you all over this state and the next. And you made your face known in a busy bar?”

You’re ridiculing him. The tone of your voice shows it, and you get him to turn around, pushing hard at his chest so he’s up against the tree. There’s no question that Billy the Kid, is stronger than you, but he makes no move to fight you. Not yet, at least.

“Guess I had some faith,” he says, keeping his hands held up. You drag the barrel from his neck to the front of his chest.

“How long were you followin’ me? No way you just happened to be there…playin’ poker with me,” he questions, eyes narrowing. He’s trying to study you, but you won’t let him do that.

“You’re gonna come with me.” You step up closer to him, almost chest to chest if it wouldn’t be for your gun against him. His one leg, having been slightly jutted out, makes it perfect to step up closer to him, his knee brushing to your leg, his head tilted to see you.

Billy’s jaw clenches when you don’t directly answer his question, “Or you’re gonna kill me? Is that it, ma’am?”

“Do you not believe I would?” You laugh in his face.

“No offense, ma’am, but you don’t look all that…threatening,” he says and you break your little composure to furrow your brow. Is he trying to anger you? Trying to see how far you’d go? Well if he is, you’ll sure show him.

“Ah, I see.” With a nod, you quickly push your hands down on his shoulders. The shove is hard enough to send him to his knees on the ground and you cock your gun, putting it right at his head, “Your poster says dead or alive, didya know that?”

“Yeah I do,” Billy clears his throat, his gaze up at you. He still makes no move to do anything. He doesn’t dive for his gun that’s a couple feet away. He doesn’t try to steal your gun. He doesn’t try to shove or push you away. He’s toying and it’s killing you.

“Darlin’, listen, maybe we could work out-”

He’s cut off by a shot ringing out. You shot right next to him, so close to him, the bullet whizzed past his ear before landing somewhere behind him. The amount of unadulterated power you feel when you see his expression morph into something of genuine fear makes your stomach heat up more than it should.

“Mr. Bonney, while I appreciate a negotiation, the price for your head is worth more than anything you could possibly give me.” As you cock your gun again, the movement casual, almost nonchalant as though you don’t have the ability to end his life in the manner of a second.

Billy’s eyes never leave your figure. He looks up at you with a glint of what you can classify as fear, but also interest. You try to ignore that second part. His eyes are widened and wet, but you’re not sure if that’s incoming tears or just how his eyes are.

“Your nose is bigger than the poster’s detail,” you blurt out. Why? Why the fuck would you say that? At least you didn’t say he looked more handsome than his picture. More rugged. He’s got a boyish charm that you could easily get hooked to if it wasn’t your job to wrangle in outlaws just like him.

He doesn’t tease, no, Billy still looks frightened. Is that an act? You almost wanna ask him.

“You have been followin’ me,” he says, more of a statement this time than a question. You give a nod to confirm it for him, because it doesn’t matter. And you’re wasting time, gun to his head and standing here while he’s on his knees.

“Now, I’m gonna tie you up a bit so you can’t-”

“I’ll give you somethin’. If you let me go,” he interrupts, his eyes still fucking shining like they hold every single truth of the world. He says it with so much conviction, you almost want to indulge him.

“Yeah? More than the money on your head?” You knock your gun against his head and he winces despite there being no pain from a few small bumps of your gun.

Billy goes to speak, but in an instant, he decides to grab at your hips, and he tugs you down with him as he sits. On instinct, you squeeze the trigger, but your hand was already dislodged from it’s position, so the shot rings out beside him instead of at his head. It makes his breath quicken, as yours hitches, your body sat against him, his hold tight on your hips.

His strong thigh is nestled right between your legs and you glare at him, cocking your gun again and holding it to his head, “What the fuck do you think-”

“You’re a very good poker player,” he says, his voice closer to a whisper than the volume he was speaking before.

Your head cocks, a confused look dawning your face, “I know that.”

“Are you alone? Do this all…alone?” Billy swallows hard, shifting his thigh ever so slightly and you instinctively shift too. The fabric of your trousers and his separates the two of you enough, but his words ring true, reminding you of the vacancy of touch in your life. Suddenly you hate him even more.

“That’s none of your business. But I guess there might be a use for you while I drag you back to Lincoln,” you whisper sharply, getting closer to his face than you might have intended to.

His breath is shaky, “What’s that darlin’?” Billy looks at your lips. You count it. It was three seconds. Three seconds too long and three seconds too short.

“You can’t charm me.” You don’t believe your words. In fact, you wonder if his stupid eyes are entranced with a curse solely set out to destroy you. They’re urging you to do something.

To kiss him. To rub on him. To kill him.

Billy doesn’t speak another word, but he tilts his head ever so slightly against your gun, the tip of his nose brushing to yours. The floodgates open and you surge forward, your usually careful precision breaking as your lips crash to his. The gun stays to his temple like it’s meant to be there.

Billy kisses you back in a slower manner, like he wants to take his time with it, but fuck that. You push into him, wanting to own his mouth, feel his tongue slip against yours, suck his bottom lip till it’s even redder than his natural color.

When he lets out the smallest of moans into the kiss, you start the drag of your hips against his meaty thigh, a rampant, erratic motion that has your finger slipping from the trigger. It snaps you out of it for a moment, but you pull back from the kiss, your breath panting as you grind on him. Billy’s hands never stray from your hips, they hold there, and help a very minimal amount.

His mouth, now parted, his eyes, as deathly as ever.

Billy goes to say something and you shake your head, “Shut the fuck up,” and without a though, you drag the gun to his cheek, pressing it into him, watching his eyes flutter in fear and arousal.

If you chanced a look down to his lap, you would see the bulge growing in his trousers, but you can’t look away from his face.

Your hips never stutter. They’re on a mission, despite the fact you would get more friction if they were off, this is enough. Enough to feel that heat building up inside of you and enough to make you feel something you haven’t felt in so long.

Billy mumbles, “Oh fuck,” as you shift, so that every time you grind up closer to his body, you’re grazing near his bulge. It’s much less friction for him. He barely gets any, but that small amount makes his eyes glaze.

Is he under your curse now? Is that what this is?

Your finger almost slips the trigger again and it makes you grunt out in frustration. Your movements are so harsh, you’re surprised you haven’t accidentally shot the gun. Billy’s eyes flicker to the death trap in your hand, and he goes to speak again.

You pull the barrel from his cheek down to his mouth, the opening grazing his pretty lips. His mouth stays parted, his eyes telling you he too, doesn’t know why he’s got his mouth open. You count to three in your head and his mouth is still open. Your restraint is gone, the grinding of your clothed cunt on his lap prickles at your skin, and you don’t need to think anymore.

You shove the tip of the gun into his mouth and he fully closes his eyes this time.

“Good fuckin’ boy,” you grunt, a moan leaving your lips as you sit up more on him, rubbing on him quicker. Your life depended on it. You push the gun deeper into his mouth and grab at his jaw with your other hand, coaxing him to open his mouth a little wider.

“Y’know, I could kill you right now,” you breathe out, sneering right in his face as a whimper leaves you. You push down a little harder against his thigh, chasing that feeling that’s approaching.

“I could kill you so fuckin’ easily. The one who killed Billy the Kid…that could be me right now…all cause you…you took her fuckin’ gun in your mouth.”

How could he be so pretty with it? His eyes tear as you push the gun into his mouth enough to make him gag, but all it does is spur your movements on. You grant him som decency to take some of the gun out of his mouth so he won’t choke on it, but you don’t take it out fully, the sight of him with it is doing too much. Why do you love this? You can’t question yourself right now, but you know it’s fucking sick. He looks lewd, swallowing against the barrel, eyes fluttering and chest heaving as you rock yourself on him to completion.

When it happens, you moan louder, arching against his body, rubbing yourself on him in quick motions so you can feel every part of that orgasm you so deeply needed.

Then, you squeeze the trigger.

Click.

You have to laugh. A breathless laugh. His eyes are wider. Some of the arousal a bit loss, but still lingering there, and you glance down at his lap, a small wet spot forming on the crotch of his trousers.

“Seriously?” You taunt him and then slowly slide the gun out of his mouth, your eyes stuck to the string of spit coming from him, and the wetness on your barrel.

It’s in the flash of a moment that Billy is grabbing your wrist, his bigger hand holding excrucaitingyl tight to you as he forces you to drop the gun. He grabs it with his other hand before you could make a move and he throws it.

He stands, your wrist still tight in his hand, and doesn’t look back as he drags you the couple feet to his gunbelt, where he grabs his gun, cocking it. He lets go of your wrist with a small shove and points it at you.

You’re stunned for a moment, processing the sequence of events that just occurred, your mind running rampant and your body still jittery from what the two of you just did. You stay leaned back on your hands, at his mercy, “Go ahead then. Kill me, if you must.” There’s no purpose to your voice. You could scramble for your gun but he could shoot you easily. You could run up and tackle him for his gun, but he’d still have the upperhand.

You fucked up.

His cursed eyes and just him. Is this why he keeps escaping jails and lawmen?

“I said, kill me,” you say it again, and Billy’s arm is still straight out, gun pointed directly at your heart. His chest is still heaving and his mouth wet and red.

He lets the moment linger, like he had back at the poker table, then he uncocks his gun, settling it in it’s home in his holster. He leans down to fix his belt on himself on then places his hat back on his head. “I don’t kill women, darlin’.”

With one more look, his blue eyes cast their last spell, but you’re not sure what. Lingering lust? Arrogance? Pity? He backs off, his gait a saunter. Billy full-on turns his back on you, something so confident it makes you gasp.

You’re not sure how long you lay there in the dirt and grass, running through the entire encounter, but you know one thing’s for sure.

You’re going to capture that motherfucker someday.

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