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floral-force · 1 year

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Of Brown Eyes and Desert Skies

cowboy!din djarin x f!reader - old west/western au oneshot

summary: When a new man storms into the saloon you work at, you're instantly terrified--and captivated. But as he lingers in town and stirs up trouble with every step, you question who the brown-eyed man is underneath the poncho, and if he really is just a bounty killer at his core.

words: 10.7k+

warnings/tags: EXPLICIT. 18+ ONLY. smut (rough, fingering, oral, riding, doggy style, spitting, spanking), period-typical violence (not graphic) and sexism (not from din), the helmet hat comes off, din is morally gray and not always nice, barmaid!reader

a/n: This is heavily inspired by Sergio Leone's Dollars Trilogy and the Man with No Name. Please mind the tags.

read on ao3 | masterlist

When he stormed into the saloon, you knew he was trouble. You had an eye for these things, a sixth sense for danger.

A hush fell over the crowd of people when the swinging doors opened. The stranger’s eyes narrowed under his black Stetson hat, and a cloth covered his face below them, the plain beige fabric laying over the earthy green poncho draped over broad shoulders. The brim of his hat cast a shadow over the few inches of exposed skin. You nearly dropped the glass you were drying when he started to walk over to you in those stiff, dark denim pants, the bottom of a brown leather holster bouncing on his thick right thigh, heavy with a hidden weight.

Something within you stirred, scorching your skin. He sat down on a stool right in front of where you worked and conversation within the saloon picked up again. His severe gaze burned a hole through you, and you took a step back, suddenly conscious of the sweat on the back of your neck and the heat coiling low in your gut. The sweat starting to dot your forehead certainly wasn’t from the heat of high noon, the sun hanging in a cloudless blue sky.

“Can I get you somethin’, sir?”

“Whiskey,” he said, his voice gravelly but smooth at the same time. Seductive and sultry.

You nodded and turned around, pulling a bottle of amber liquid off the bar shelf and grabbing a low glass. You could feel him staring at you as you poured, heat prickling your ears. You told him the price and he shifted to the side, digging money out of his pocket.

“Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir.”

You gave him a smile and walked over to the register, entering the sale. You stashed the change in the jar you kept next to it, happy to see it slowly getting filled to the brim. You didn’t make too much here, but you had no other choice. It wasn’t a bad job, but it came with its problems—drunk men getting handsy or bold being the overwhelming one. When you’d arrived here all those years ago, it was either working as a barmaid or a laundress. You chose the former, and you didn’t regret it. It just meant you ran into interesting people, and this man was no exception—he’d made that clear when his brown boots stomped across the old wooden floor.

“‘Scuse me, miss?”

The man called out to you, and you quickly walked over to him, spreading your arms out and leaning forward. He was swirling his glass in a lightly tanned hand, a blue cuff settled over his wrist. You wondered if his hands felt rough, how they’d feel on the soft skin of your waist.

You swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir?”

“You know if the sheriff here has any bounties out?”

Oh, shit. He was one of them. “Mm-mm.” You shook your head. “I haven’t heard or seen anythin’.”

He nodded and set his glass down, leaning forward and staring into your eyes, his brow set. He was close enough for you to see the sweat under his eyes, staring you down, making your heart thrum in your chest and throat go dry. The chestnut eyes gave you a once-over, slowly trailing down your body and stopping where the bar top hid the rest of you from sight. They jumped back up to your widened ones, and the corners crinkled with a hidden smirk.

“That’s a damn shame, ‘cause suddenly, I find myself wantin’ to stay a bit longer,” he husked, pulling the cloth away from his face and slugging the rest of the whiskey back. You caught a glimpse of his jawline as he tilted his head back and noticed the scruff covering it.

You raised an eyebrow and innocently asked, “Oh, really? How come?”

“Found myself somethin’ a bit better than a money,” he said, tipping his hat back slightly. “And she’s standin’ right in front’a me.”

His smooth compliment nearly made you forget he was a bounty hunter. The way he eyed you up and down almost covered up and dulled what your head was telling you. This man was trouble through and through, and you’d known it from the moment he swaggered through the doors. He’d caught your eye like no other man just passing through ever had. You wanted desperately to comb your fingers through the dark brown curls peeking out under his hat, to kiss the lips hidden under the cloth, to know him like nobody ever had.

You must’ve been staring a bit too long because you heard a low chuckle and felt a finger tap your forearm. You shook your head and chuckled nervously.

“I’m sorry, sir, just thinkin’ too much.”

He hummed. “I like a woman who thinks too much. Makes it even better when I make her go quiet.”

The purred innuendo made your lips part and eyes go wide. You wanted that. And he knew it. The clever cowboy was already playing you and pressing all the right keys; it was as if he’d already snuck under your skirt and made you go limp.

He looked over his shoulder at the stairs climbing up the back wall facing the doors. “You stay around here?”

“Up-upstairs,” you stuttered. “I got my own room.”

“Good.”

“It-it doesn’t hide noise all that well.”

He stared at you and snickered. “Darlin’, you really think I give a shit?”

And he really didn’t. He had you howling as he rammed into you, completely unforgiving as his cock filled you to the brim. The man growled and grunted your name as he fucked you from behind, rough hands gripping your ass and spreading your round cheeks. He burned like sand at noon, more punishing than the summer heat. You gave in to him, letting him burn you as much as he wanted.

You were drooling into your worn mattress with tears in your eyes. The man held your wrists behind your back in one large hand. The other was kneading the fat on your hip as it recoiled with each slam of his hips.

“This th’best pussy I ever had, darlin’, god damn,” he rasped.

“G-good,” you panted between his brutal thrusts.

“Listen t’yourself.” He laughed, the sound mirthful and deadly. “Can barely fuckin’ speak. Told you I’d fuck ya til you couldn’t speak, darlin’.”

Your eyes squeezed shut and you moaned at his dirty words. You should have never doubted that he’d have your mouth going dry, feeling his cock dig deep inside of you and choke something in your throat. He humbled and punished you for doubting him with his unforgiving pace. His tongue lavished you with dirty praise and raspy groans, the sounds making your cunt throb and suck him in deeper even as your walls started to get raw from his roughness.

He’d proven his tongue was filthy only moments ago as he licked circles around the sensitive bud between your legs. You were entirely naked—garments in a heap on the floor—but he still wore all his clothes except for the poncho and cloth. Even his worn denim shirt was still on, only the first four buttons undone—his hands were too busy yanking your clothes off to be bothered with his. The man was impatient and hungry, and you didn’t dare deny him.

He still wore the black hat as he worked his mouth on your sex, tonguing between your folds and teasing your slick hole. But you didn’t mind it, not when he moaned into your cunt with each broad lick of his tongue. He gave in to your whiny pleas for his thick fingers, obliging you with two right away. The digits stretched you open, made you throw your head back and clamp your legs around his head, the brim of his hat bending into your shins.

He clicked his tongue and placed his free hand on one of your knees, gently pushing it down as he muttered, “Spread those legs for me, baby. Need ‘em open for me.” You did as told and he hummed in approval. “Atta girl.”

He praised you by sucking your clit and rubbing his fingers against a soft spot within you. You were twitching and mumbling nonsense, an utter mess for the scoundrel between your shaking thighs. Your cunt pulsed around him, your peak suddenly rising with the motion.

“That’s it, darlin’,” he’d coaxed as you panted and gripped the sheets. “Need to get you nice’n ready for my cock.”

It only took a few more moments before you came with a sharp cry, legs shaking and a foot twitching. A fire blazed within you, one he had started and intended to keep burning. He worked you through it, sucking in a breath as he felt you pulse around his fingers.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he crooned. Then, he flipped you over, not even giving you time to recover from your high.

He’d barely tugged his pants down, only undoing his belt and dropping his holster to the floor. He growled and grabbed your ass, lifting it into the air and forcing you to arch your back. When he pushed into you with a groan, you felt the fabric scratch against you as he sheathed himself in your still-sensitive cunt.

You hissed and squirmed and cried out “Fuck, I’m—I’m still sens—”

“Don’ care,” he grunted. “I fuckin’ need you, darlin’.”

You nodded and moaned at his harsh affection. You were ashamed that you loved it, that it made you throb. A sharp slap on your ass made you jump, the tingling sensation left behind sent your head spinning. He rubbed it and soothed the tender skin, rough hands suddenly soft.

And now, he fucked you without mercy. Any trace of tenderness was gone with the wind. The man with brown eyes filled you more than anyone ever had, made you see stars when others had only made you see specks. When you begged him to spit on himself, that your cunt was getting raw, he pressed his sweaty chest against your back and gently tapped your cheek with his knuckles.

You opened your eyes and saw his open hand in front of them.

“Spit.”

Your pussy ached at his demand and you opened your mouth for the brown-eyed man, lifting your head as much as you could. Saliva dripped off your tongue and landed on his calloused palm. He took his hand back and you set your head back down, taking a deep breath when he pulled himself out of you to stroke his cock. His free hand grabbed the meat of one of your cheeks, his thumb kneading close to the tight ring of muscle hidden between them. The wet sound of him stroking his cock with your spit made you smile and shudder.

There was something satisfying about this cowboy using you. All rough edges and dry desert heat. He was as ruthless and unyielding as the western terrain you called home. You nearly screamed when he rammed himself back inside of your aching hole, silencing yourself by burying your face into the mattress. The man carved a canyon through you with brute, relentless force and praised your wild howls and whines with a slap on your ass and one slow rock of his hips. He teased you over and over, quickly learning where to drag the fat head of his cock to make you shiver and shake.

“P-please,” you begged, your eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t fuckin’ stop!”

The man chuckled at your desperate cry. You felt yourself shiver when he ran his hands up your thighs before kneading your plump cheeks again. Any pride you felt at hypnotizing him with your ass was quickly washed away when he landed a sharp smack against your right cheek, immediately following it with one on your left, another landing back on your right. You arched your back even more for him and wiggled one of your hands down to rub sloppy circles on your clit. The thick member filling you to the brim was driving you to the edge, and the added sparks of pleasure from your sensitive nub was pushing you even closer.

He started fucking you with something even more feral than before, his groans loud and strained. Your moans melted into his with each burning stroke and every needy rub against your clit.

“God, I can feel you fuckin’ pulsin’ around me, baby,” he growled.

“Y-you feel so fucking good,” you answered, mouth open so your hoarse moans could slip into the air.

“Yeah? This th’best cock you ever had?”

He stole your answer with a punishing slam of his hips. Your free hand clawed at the sheets, and you tried to squirm up away from him. There was a low growl as you were yanked back, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips. The man chuckled mirthfully when you gasped, impaled on his cock yet again.

“Don’t try to run from a bounty killer, darlin’,” he rasped, his thrusts getting needier, reaching deeper and lingering longer within your quivering hole. “’Specially when your cunt feels this fuckin’ good.”

His breathing began to match your frenzied pants, the pace of his thrusts as frantic as your fingers on your sensitive clit.

“I’ll ask ya again,” he gave you a sharp thrust, keeping you in place with his strong hands. “Is this the best cock you ever fuckin’ had?”

“Fuck—yes, baby, yes!” You howled into the mattress as you felt your walls start to spasm, a sudden heat starting to take over you.

“C’mon, darlin’, that’s—fuck—that’s it.” The brown-eyed man’s hips slapped against your ass, the sound echoing, and he started growling—the feral and primal bounty killer finally taking over. “Fuckin’ c-come for me—fuck, I feel it—good fuckin’ girl—”

You came around his length with a scream, your legs shaking with the force of your orgasm. A white-hot fire burned from your aching, quivering hole to your fuck-drunk head. You couldn’t feel anything other than your walls clenching around his cock, couldn’t hear anything other than your desperate whines.

“F-fuckin’ come for me, you fuckin’ scoundrel,” you growled, voice shaking as you continued to ride the crest of your climax. You drunkenly smiled when you heard a low groan and whined when the head of his cock kissed something deep within you, leaving its mark on you forever, guaranteeing you’d never feel this good ever again.

“Fuckin’ God—darlin’, I could bury m’self in your delicious cunt forever—fuck!”

The brown-eyed man gave your spent hole one final, cruel thrust. He pulled out of you with a groan, and you hissed at the feel of him leaving you; he left you raw and empty and gaping. You quickly forgave him when you heard the squelch of his fist jerking himself to completion with your juices. You smiled and sighed as he covered your ass in hot ropes of his seed, reveling in how fucking needy he sounded when he reached his peak. He sucked in air through his teeth, slowly loosening his grip on your hip. You jumped when he slapped your ass, shaking your head when he smugly chuckled.

You scooted forward and dropped your aching legs to the mattress with a groan. You didn’t care about the cum he left behind; right now, you needed to catch your breath after the divine beating he’d just given your pussy. The floor creaked under his boots as he started rustling around—probably putting that poncho back on—and humming to himself. You jumped when something wet stroked across your painted ass, quieted by a low hush.

“Just cleanin’ up my mess,” he rumbled. “I may be a scoundrel—” he mocked your voice— "but my mama taught me manners.”

You chuckled and turned your head to the side, eyes fluttering open to stare at the wall and your two measly pillows. “You’re a true gentleman.”

He shrugged, then gave the tender spots on your cheeks a soft massage with his fingers and then tapped your hips and helped you roll onto your back. You melted into the mattress with a blissful sigh, not bothering to think too long about how someone so brutal could be so tender.

“I wouldn’ call myself that, darlin’.”

His eyes met yours and you bit your lip. Even though the cloth was covering his face again, you had a hunch that what hid underneath it was handsome. You could see the corners of his eyes gently crease with the whisper of a smile as he stared down at you, running a warm, calloused hand up and down your sweaty skin.

“I’m just as rotten as the rest of ‘em.”

The next day, the owner was with you, standing behind the bar all the way down on your left and chatting with an old regular. Mr. Daniels was middle-aged, stout and balding, with skin as leathery as a saddlebag and always dressed in a white shirt. He was constantly mentioning his wife and daughters and boasted about them to anyone who would listen; he seemed to extend that fatherly protection your way sometimes. He was a kind enough man—letting you live in the attic above the saloon for free, paying you a decent wage—and you had no complaints.

You weren’t surprised to see the brown-eyed man slamming into the saloon the next day, the patrons a little less rattled by his presence than they were yesterday. When he stomped over to where you stood, Mr. Daniels gave you a quick glance, and you responded with a smile and tilt of your head—I’m alright.

“What’ll it be, sir?” you asked.

You could feel your sore hole throb when he looked up at you under that wide-brimmed hat, a ray of sun lighting up his golden skin and making his chestnut eyes glow. He leaned against the bar, resting a bent arm on it. Relaxed and certain of his place in the small saloon, not a hint of fear in his posture.

“I think you already know, darlin’.”

He winked at you, and you felt heat rush to your cheeks. You turned and grabbed the whiskey you’d poured him yesterday with a nod. His eyes looked you up and down as you grabbed a glass and poured out his drink with a coy smile on your face.

He handed you money for the drink and said, “Thanks, darlin’. Keep the change.”

You smiled. “You’re too kind, sir.”

He tipped his hat. You walked over to the register, entered the sale, and dropped the change into your jar. As you moved back to where you’d been standing, the man straightened and walked down the bar to where Mr. Daniels and the old man were talking. You watched as he pulled a scroll of yellowed parchment out from under his poncho and spread it on the dark wood counter. Out of curiosity, you took a few small steps in that direction, acting busy with organizing the liquor shelves.

“You seen this man?” he inquired.

“No, ‘fraid not,” the old man replied with a smack of his lips.

You turned around and picked up a glass and a cloth, drying it and looking around the saloon. At table in the far corner, two men sat playing cards, smoke curling out of their mouths, the brims of their hats tipped down and hiding their faces from prying eyes. A few other tables were scattered around the small saloon, more hatted men nursing their drinks at them. Their soft chatter filled the air and was speckled with the occasional sounds of a horse trotting down the road. It was a slow afternoon, but you didn’t mind if it meant you kept yourself occupied with eavesdropping.

“And you?”

“Can’t say I have,” Mr. Daniels responded.

The man hummed and started to roll the yellowed paper up. You squinted, trying to see what was printed on it. You swallowed when you read the word “WANTED” in big black letters before he rolled the edge back up. The man leaned back and shoved it back under the poncho, nodding. He knocked the rest of his drink back and set the glass on the bar top and turned to look at you with narrowed eyes before pushing it down your way. Something vicious lurked within those brown eyes, keeping itself hidden under the brim of his hat and only revealed now that the afternoon sun didn’t reach them.

You extended your arm to reach and pick the glass up, immediately bending over and dunking it in the bucket of soapy water at your feet. You bit your cheek, ashamed that you felt heat pulse between your legs at his darkened stare. Being the target of his gaze was either thrilling or terrifying; right now, you weren’t sure what it was for you. It made you wonder how he had looked at you while he was ramming his cock into you. Ultimately, whatever his gaze was didn’t matter if it made you burn just from the thought of it.

The sound of someone cursing and a stool being pushed across the floor made you snap up to stand again; your eyes widened when you saw the man’s fist wrapped in the fabric of Mr. Daniels’ shirt, pulling him against the bar with only one arm. The old man was standing back a few feet away on the poncho-clad man’s right, his long gray eyebrows knitted together.

“You sure?” He growled.

The cantina had gone silent, all eyes focused on the man and his hold on Mr. Daniels. You were staring too, your heart racing in your chest and threatening to break your ribs.

“Even if I did,” Mr. Daniels said through gritted teeth, “I wouldn’t know where to find him.”

He glanced over at you, eyes lingering before meeting the man’s stare again.

The man tilted his head. “You wouldn’t know?”

Mr. Daniels shook his head again. “I told you, I just wouldn’t—” his eyes landed on you— “know where—” back to the man—“to look.”

You took a step back when Mr. Daniels looked at you one last time, then back at the man. His brow was set, but you glanced down and saw his hand shaking below the bar. The man let go of him with a push and conversation in the saloon resumed as he started to stalk towards you. His dark eyes were stormy as he set his sights on you and squinted, the spurs on his boots jingling menacingly with each step. You braced yourself for impact; muscles tensing, heart racing, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, fingers curling into your palms and nails digging in.

The collision never came. His poncho swept past you and he came to stand at one of the two small square windows at the front of the saloon. You doubted he could see much with how dirty the glass was; the sun must’ve scorched the dust and grime into the aged panes before you’d even blown into town. Frankly, you were relieved that you weren’t on the receiving end of his threatening, squinting stare.

However, you couldn’t deny the way something in your gut fluttered when you thought you’d be the one pulled against the bar by his leather-rough hands, his fingers catching the low neckline of your blouse and skimming over your hot skin, your shallow pants gently waving his bandana. But you reckoned that the haunting flutters were probably just lusty leftovers from your tryst the other night.

He looked over his shoulder at you, still squinting and heavy with frustration. Your lips parted when he held your wide eyes with his stare, the flutters growing into a rumble and shaking you from within. Or maybe that sensation was just his heavy footfalls across the floor echoing under your skin as he turned to the left and stomped out the doors. You watched him with eager eyes as he walked to the inn across the street, beige dust kicked up with every sinister step. Before he unleashed his storm on the inn, he turned over his shoulder to look at the saloon.

You squinted, moving closer to peer out of the windows. No, he wasn’t looking at the weather-worn building—he had his burning gaze focused on you.

With a tip of his hat, he slid inside, and you leaned back. You placed a hand on your chest and felt your heart beating hard and fast underneath it.

Mr. Daniels clicked his tongue, announcing his arrival at your side. You looked back at him, the man’s stare set on the inn.

“Some fuckin’ fella,” he grumbled, ivory face red with anger.

You nodded slowly and walked back to the soap water bucket, picking up the forgotten whiskey glass and shaking it off before drying it with a rag. You pursed your lips and tried to forget how his suntanned hands had dwarfed the glass, and tried to wipe away the memory of them digging into the meat of your thighs as he slurped up your juices with a deep moan. Despite your best efforts, they didn’t fade away, and neither did a smudge on the glass.

Everything in this town was filthy, you figured, shoving the glass to the very back of the cupboard so it could be forgotten. Even the drifters that passed through were coated in grime.

The brown-eyed man was lucky your boss needed business, because the look Mr. Daniels gave him when he walked into the saloon the next evening could scorch anything within ten miles. He skulked through the doors at dusk, eyeing up the loud crowd before making a path to where you stood pouring out four shots of whiskey. Of course you’d instantly noticed him—you’d felt the air become charged as if it were about to storm as soon as he’d arrived. The men you served paid you with paper bills and winks, knocking back the shots as you walked over to where the man stood. Without a word, you turned and grabbed a glass; you didn’t need to ask what he or any other man in a hat wanted to drink tonight. As you avoided his eyes, he stared you down. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed a golden hand already pushing coins and a paper bill your way as the amber liquid gurgled into the glass.

You finished and gave him a practiced smile, scooping the money into your hand as he told you to keep the change yet again. The bottle was nearly empty, but you still placed it back on the shelf before walking to the register. You avoided looking in his direction at all costs; the most you allowed yourself to see was the brim of his hat and the poncho fabric that fell over his left arm. Instead, you gave your best performance to the other patrons—chatting with the town regulars and smiling at the men passing through—and got caught up in the large crowd, the early purple of the night still settling over town.

You heard a few raps on the wood above the chatter and lively piano. When you looked up at the man, you choked on your breath.

“Long time, no see, sweet thing,” he drawled, a cigarillo in the corner of his leering mouth. Blue eyes pierced you and his fair cheeks were tinted with a whiskey-induced blush.

You cleared your throat, smoothing your plain black skirt. “Can I get you somethin’?”

“Other than your ass in my bed? Whiskey.”

You brushed off the lewd remark, thankful there was a clean glass and whiskey on the bartender’s counter you’d must’ve forgotten to put back earlier. John, your old beau, kept his icy gaze fixed on you and puffed smoke to the side. Blond hair coated his head underneath the beige high-crowned hat, and you fought back a wince at remembering the times you shared with him. You told him the cost and he made a slow show of placing the money in your waiting hand, pressing his palm against your fingers and closing them around the money. You guessed you did a poor job of hiding a shudder, because he gave you a mirthful chuckle.

“What, sugar? You missin’ the way I’d fuck ya?”

You didn’t acknowledge his vulgar comment. You’d never been spoken to like that, even from the drunkest of men. It was just understood that men didn’t curse in conversation with ladies; even the gnarliest and dirtiest of them knew that. You could smell the liquor on John’s breath and had no interest in indulging his drunken idiocy. Instead, you bit the inside of your cheek, shoved the money in your waist apron’s pocket, turned to the left and walked a few steps down the bar, plastering a smile on your face as you greeted a new patron. The brown-eyed man still stood where you’d served him, and you caught him pulling the cloth covering his face back with pinched fingers as his other hand lifted his almost-empty glass.

After you’d finished serving a gray-mustached man, thanking him for the tip as he walked away, your red-faced old flame slapped his palms against the wood and leaned into your space, blue eyes hazy.

“I was talkin’ to you,” he hissed. “An’ I ain’t done yet.”

Your heart sped up and you gulped, your mouth dry and body cold. He’d only been like this with you once before—when you’d ended things with him back in your old town the day before you left. It was a cruel twist of fate that he happened to be passing through your new town a few years later. He obviously hadn’t forgotten about you, much to your dismay.

“Is there a problem here?”

The brown-eyed man was looming behind John, his eyes narrowed. You hadn’t even noticed him move; he was like a shadow. John turned his head over his shoulder, keeping his hands planted on the counter as he eyed the man up. He scoffed and curled his fingers under his palms.

“Ain’t your business, saddle bum,” he snarled.

The man slowly stepped forward and came to stand in front of John, sweeping the front of his poncho over his right shoulder. Your eyes widened when you saw his chestnut-colored leather belt, the holster heavy with a pistol.

“It is now.”

John’s head swiveled back to you, his face smug and eyes cloudy. “I don’ remember talkin’ ‘bout this fella. Do you, sugar?”

You didn’t respond, opting to look over his shoulder and watch as the man turned John around by his shoulder. He pushed John against the edge of the counter, chestnut eyes fiery. From where you stood, it was hard to tell if he was using more force now than he had yesterday with Mr. Daniels; your gut told you he was. Something was different tonight, and it wasn’t the whiskey.

“Keep talkin’ and see what happens,” the man threatened, his voice low.

John laughed and shook his head. “What, did’ya have this soiled dove?” he asked loudly, drawing the attention of those who hadn’t noticed the stranger’s physical threat.

The derogatory term made you gasp and take a step back, your skin hot under your off-shoulder blouse. The man’s eyes flicked over to you for only a second before squinting at John again. He shook his head, his beige cloth covering shifting slightly with the movement.

“Don’t do it,” the brown-eyed man warned.

You could barely see John toss the butt of his cigarillo on the floor, but you did see his head turn to the right and heard him spit. The people around them had moved back and gone silent, turning their backs to avoid being dragged into a fight that didn’t concern them. You didn’t blame them—you wouldn’t want to be in the path of this desert storm either.

There was a low growl and then the poncho-clad man was dragging John across the floor to the doors, tossing him out of them. There was a heavy thud when his body hit the ground, and you watched the man push the doors open and tilt his head down to look at the ground, presumably where the drunkard still sat. His hands gripped the tops of the doors, his stance wide and menacing. He shook his head, and you fought your better judgment, running to the end of the bar at the windows and then pushing through the patrons. They let you pass and then you were standing behind the cowboy at the doors, your blood cold but skin hot at the same time.

Night had fallen, and the two yellow lanterns mounted outside the saloon cast a weak glow on the porch. John was scrambling to his feet and backing away, abandoning his hat and stumbling down the two wooden steps, almost falling on the dirt road. The man looked back at you; the side of his face visible to you darkened from the lack of light. You could only see the whites of his eyes; for once, he wasn’t squinting. Your breaths were shallow, and you pulled at your fingers.

“This bum bothering you, ma’am?” His voice was softer now, the edges smoothed, so unlike the threatening tones you’d heard only moments prior.

You swallowed thickly, but you caught John starting to rush at the stranger and you shouted, “Look out!” instead.

He wasted no time, immediately taking a step forward out of the doorway and planting his back foot before throwing a punch, his fist connecting with the bone of John’s nose. A sickening crack elicited a cry from you and a few of the other saloon girls that had seen or heard it. John dropped to the wooden porch again with a howl.

You cautiously pushed the doors open and let them hit you on your way out. A sick pleasure filled your chest when the man kicked John down to the dirt road, his spurs jingling.

“Go to the inn and leave her alone,” he enunciated. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

His voice and words were clearer than you’d ever heard them before. A part of you thought you heard something protective underscoring his firm warning, but it was just a delusion. It had absolutely nothing to do with you; the man clearly just didn’t want to have a scrap with John. It wasn’t because he couldn’t do it—he was obviously capable if he was a bounty hunter—but because he didn’t want to waste his time with it.

There was a dark, sardonic laugh. “Oh, she got you real good, didn’ she?”

You stiffened, covering your quivering lips with a hand, and the pair of brown eyes met your wide ones. His targeted vulgarity was starting to get to you, and it was becoming hard to hide. You felt embarrassed to be tearing up in front of the mysterious man, but you heard a sharp exhale as his eyes searched yours, the blast of air disturbing the cloth on his face. It was as if he was looking at you for permission, awaiting your orders and at your command—your own personal soldier, a bounty hunter tied only to you and the open land ahead of him.

“I don’ blame ya,” John sneered. “Best whore I ever had.”

Silence fell across the crowd; any lingering conversations had gone cold after that. You choked back a cry, your eyes flitting between John rising to his feet and the hunter in front of you. You noticed his fists clench before he finally took his eyes off you and stormed down into the street. He cut off the drunken cackles that filled the air with a swift punch, and you could barely see his knuckles connect with John’s jaw. He stayed upright this time and tried to swing at the man, but John’s sloppy form left him open to a punch in the gut that knocked him a foot backward. You stepped further out onto the porch, the sun-bleached wood creaking underneath your feet as you watched the stranger give John another kick before bending over to yank him up by the collar with both of his hands.

“You say one more goddamn word and I’m sendin’ you into that desert and tossin’ your canteen,” he seethed between gritted teeth.

John’s eyes landed on you, and he laughed. “That slut ain’ wor—”

He was cut off with a growl and a punch, falling to the ground. John was limp and unresponsive when the stranger nudged him with the toe of his boot. The man spat on him, then turned around to face the stunned crowd. Tears were streaming down your face, both of your hands over your nose and mouth.

“Which horse is his?” he asked, his voice deep and loud.

Only a few seconds later, he nodded; someone must’ve pointed it out. You watched him stalk over to a brown horse on his right, rifling through John’s belongings and pocketing cash and valuables he found. The man found his canteen and tossed it to the ground, then walked back over to John and dragged him to the horse. He heaved John up on his shoulder and tossed him over the saddle, then took the reins off the horse to loosely tie John’s feet together and then lead it under the horse’s belly to bind his hands together, making sure to keep the makeshift restraint taut. Finally, he led the horse to the right and out of sight; there was a shout and a whinny, then the frantic sound of hoofbeats as the horse galloped away.

The man came back into view as he approached the saloon again. The only sound filling the nighttime air was the jangling of his spurs and your sniffs as you calmed down. He made his way up to the porch, standing in front of you, his poncho still over his shoulder and revealing his brown leather vest and faded denim shirt. His eyes looked you over, lingering on your wet cheeks.

He had just sent a drunk, unconscious man into the desert without water on a spooked horse at night. It was one of the cruelest things a man could do. And yet, here he was, his eyes soft under a furrowed brow. The yellow lamplight showed that the storms in his eyes had settled, but his forehead would bear the evidence of it in deepened lines.

“You alright, darlin’?”

The term of endearment didn’t make you squirm. Coupled with the gentle, low rumble of his voice, it made you feel…comfortable. “Comfortable” certainly wasn’t something you should feel around a man like him, and yet, you found yourself wanting to fall into his chest and let his arms support you and his warm hands sink into your flesh.

But all you could do right now was nod and wipe the backs of your hands over your wet cheeks. You gave him a weak smile. “I’m rattled, but I’ll live.”

You paused, looking down and then meeting his strangely soft eyes again. You wished you could see the rest of his face and not just imagine it based on how it had felt between your legs.

“Thanks,” you said meekly. You shakily exhaled and repeated yourself. “Thank you, Brown Eyes.”

You swore you saw a smile creasing the corners of his eyes at the nickname. He waved off your thanks, tipped the black brim of his hat, and turned around to walk over to the inn. The shadow slunk back into the night.

You were pulled out of your thoughts when your boss yelled and dispersed the crowd, then called your name. Mr. Daniels stood in front of you, his face worried as he looked you over, thick fingers gripping your biceps. The concerned and protective father inside of him was taking over, and you found it to be quite comforting and nice; you never complained when he treated you like one of his daughters. He asked you a dozen questions at once but trailed off after noticing your voice waver and bottom lip quiver. Mr. Daniels guided you to the stairs in the back of the saloon and told you to take the rest of the night off despite your protests—he’d hear none of it.

All you could think of as you lay in bed curled up under your thin blankets was the mysterious, brown-eyed stranger. How could a man so violent have such kind eyes? It just wasn’t fair, you thought to yourself as your eyes fluttered close and you drifted to sleep, the lively chatter of the saloon below a background to the memories of the stranger’s dulcet voice.

You thought that would be the last of Brown Eyes. You thought he’d be gone without a trace, a shadow haunting conversations for a while, another dusty drifter wandering the desert as if he were Moses. Just another man as wild as the terrain he traversed. You hadn’t expected to see him again unless it was in your dreams. He’d kick up dust there, then vanish with it when you opened your eyes.

You really, truly thought his stunt last night would be the last one he performed in this town, and part of you wished it had been when he threw his shadow into the saloon the next afternoon, the sun at his back.

He leisurely strolled over to a table nestled in the back-right corner of the saloon. Three men sitting around its circular wood top playing cards. The jangle of his spurs accompanying each cocksure step of his boots alerted them to his approach, the decorative threads on the edge of his poncho fluttering gently. Finally, Brown Eyes stood with his back to you at the right side of one of the men, his black hat tilting slightly to look down at him. The other two men leaned forward and glanced at each other.

You took a few steps to the right and angled your head a bit to see what was going on. You caught the two men slowly placing their cards on the table and trailing their hands to the edge of the circular table. The man looking up at Brown Eyes was red in the face and spoke quietly enough for his words to slip underneath other conversations in the saloon and go undetected by your ears. Your eyebrows knitted together as you watched the interaction from afar, then raised when the cowboy’s poncho flew over his shoulder.

“Christ almighty,” you murmured as his hand twitched at his thigh.

You looked over to the left at Mr. Daniels, and he gave you a sideways glance. He and the regular in front of him were focused on the altercation; a few of the patrons in the bustling afternoon crowd had noticed as well. Despite the attention, you knew that nobody would intervene. This wasn’t anyone’s business except for the men in the corner.

As you watched one of the seated men reach for his pistol, you swore under your breath. Out of instinct, you dropped to your feet, crouching behind the bar just as the sound of gunshots pierced the air. The sharp blasts made you cover your ears, and then they suddenly stopped. Instead, a wounded groan filled the air, then the crack of a fist against bone and the thump of a body hitting the wooden floor to punctuate the statement. There was a curt jingle of spurs and an oof, signals of a sharp kick.

“Alive or dead, your choice,” a familiar gravelly voice stated.

It was flat and indifferent, so unlike the man who had come to your aid and who had cleaned you up after ruining you with the relentless thrusts of his hips. Yes, he’d been violent last night, but there was something gentle in his eyes hidden within their storm clouds. It almost made your heart ache, but then you remembered what he’d done to Mr. Daniels and how he’d sentenced a man to death without a second thought. You remembered who Brown Eyes was at his core, and the warm ache in your chest withered away.

“You son of a bitch!” A man yelled. “I’ll fuckin’ strangle you!”

A mirthful chuckle. “I’d like to see you try.”

There was shuffling, a shout, a gunshot, then silence. The bounty killer had won again.

When your boss stood, you followed suit, your heart racing. You knew that the customers you served weren’t all honest people with honest jobs. Hell, it was naïve to think that about anyone you met out on the frontier. You’d just never experienced a gunfight inside the saloon. You’d seen a few unfold on the dusty main road splitting the town in half, but no bullets had ever blown holes through the saloon’s grimy windows; the sharp smell of gunpowder had never tainted its air. You took a few deep breaths and tried to steady your shaking hands. Even after all these years out west, you still had wild experiences waiting to shock you.

Brown Eyes holstered his revolver with a flourish, then walked to the bar.

“Here, for the trouble.” He placed a few bills and some coins down in front of a glaring Mr. Daniels, then tipped his hat at you. “Apologies, miss.”

He walked back over to the dead man then crouched down and lifted the body over his left shoulder. You heard him mumble under his breath and turn towards the doors to leave. You caught his eyes and swallowed when you saw how dark they were under his hat’s black brim. He silently left the saloon, the doors swinging and clacking behind him. All that remained were two dead men splayed out in their chairs, arms out and hats tipped back.

You looked at Mr. Daniels. He shook his head and sighed.

“And that, my dear, is why God destined some men to be carpenters.”

He wiped off his hands with a frayed cloth and tossed it on the counter. Mr. Daniels shuffled behind you and down the bar with a huff as the patrons’ chatter began again. He quickly walked to the saloon doors and gave them a sharp push, stepping into the hot afternoon sun.

“’M leavin’ at dawn t’morrow,” Brown Eyes said into your cunt.

A hot lick of his tongue made your hips buck. He swiped it side to side over your clit as he planted his hands on your hips and forced them into the mattress. You clawed at the sheets underneath you, your head thrown back in ecstasy. Another obscene slurp and moan from the bounty hunter sent you reeling and added to the growing tension in your belly. You forced yourself up to recline on your forearms, looking down at the hatless man hungrily eating you out as if it were his first meal in weeks.

You choked out a breath when the tip of his tongue swirled itself around your hole and then pushed inside of it. Lusty eyes met yours, and you felt his lips curl into a smile against your spit and slick-drenched center. He held your gaze and sucked on the hardened nub, squeezing the meat of your hips when you moaned.

“You like that, darlin’?” he asked, gently sucking again and chuckling at your gasp.

You nodded emphatically. “Fuck, yes, I do, Brown Eyes,” you panted, the muscles in your gut tightening when he groaned at the nickname, your legs starting to tense. “I really, really do.”

When you closed your eyes and let your head fall back with a whine, he shook his head and nipped at the sensitive bud, making you jump and look back down at him. He was staring up at you, something menacing in his eyes. It made your walls flutter, it thrilled you, it made your heart race even more. He was reminding you that even though he was serving you, he was still in control—he was always in control, no matter where he was.

He licked a slow, broad stripe up your cunt, then pulled back. You groaned in frustration at the cruel loss of contact, the heat and tension within you backing away from the glorious peak he’d gotten so close to pushing them over.

“You’re so mean,” you whined.

You heard him suck in a breath between his teeth. “You’re breakin’ my heart, baby.”

His room at the inn had a few lamps to combat the dark desert night, but only one was lit. The lamp on the bedside table to his right cast a little light on him, but the curve of your thigh and the bend of your knee had shrouded him in black shadows while he knelt on the floor and ravished you with his tongue. Now that your legs had dropped to rest and bend over the edge of the mattress, you could see the corners of his brown eyes creased with a smile that he hid behind your dripping cunt. He dipped one thick finger inside of you and snickered when you gasped and startled. Your pussy was still throbbing and aching for release, and it wouldn’t stop until he pushed you over that heavenly edge.

Warm hands massaged your flesh and trailed down to grip the underside of your thighs. His fingers dug in and lifted them a little bit so he could turn his head and press wet kisses on your inner thighs. You felt the ridge of his nose as his lips worked. Delicate eyelashes fluttered against tan cheeks. Brown Eyes gave you one last kiss and a playful nip that made you giggle.

“See, darlin’?” he murmured into your sensitive skin, opening his eyes again. “I can be nice.”

When you raised your eyebrow, he dramatically rolled his eyes. He turned around and stood up with a grunt that made you bite back a chuckle. Yellow light flickered on his bare back and revealed a few scarred splotches; you’d convinced him to take off his shirt and vest earlier, and now it was time for the rest. You swung up to sit on your knees as Brown Eyes hummed and took off his dark denim pants and underdrawers in one motion.

He walked over to the chair next to a short dresser beside the door, meticulously folding the clothing and setting it underneath his folded shirt. His poncho and vest were draped over the back of the tiny chair, his hat resting on top of the shirt, a beige cloth peeking out beneath it. Dusty brown boots waited on the floor. The brown leather holster weighed down the poncho. A rifle leaned against the dresser—“A Winchester 73, m’favorite”—to finish the cowboy’s closet.

Brown Eyes cleared his throat and ran a large hand over the back of his head, fingers teasing his soft brown curls. He turned around to face you, striding over, his thick cock hard and bouncing with each step. It nearly distracted you from his face—his bare face, the handsome one he’d been hiding all this time.

He lifted your chin with two fingers and you nearly melted into the mattress. Your eyes wandered all over his features, greedy for every detail. You were finally seeing the curved nose you’d felt against your thighs and folds. A neat mustache lay above the pink lips that had brought you to shambles. Scruff lined the jaw you’d stolen a look at a few days ago and crept up his cheeks. You noticed a bare patch in the scruff to the right of his chin, and your eyes traced the thin canyons on his forehead left behind from years of erosion and desert sun.

“My mama told me it’s rude to stare,” Brown Eyes chastised, the corner of his mouth quirking up a bit.

“I didn’t think it was rude to stare at art,” you quipped back, leaning forward a bit more when he brushed his thumb over your lips and massaged one of your breasts in his hand.

Your heart sped up when he bent down, his face only inches from yours. You could feel his steady exhales heat the air you inhaled through parted lips, his handsome face stealing every bit of sense from your head and making you weak.

He clicked his tongue. “She also told me lyin’ is bad.”

Your eyebrows knitted together. “Why would I lie to someone like you? I’ve seen what happens. I’ve seen what you can do, Brown Eyes.”

You trailed off, biting your lip when he sharply inhaled. Damn, he sure loved when you called him that. He hooked his thumb into the corner of your mouth, his lust-blown eyes watching it as he swept it across your lower lip and your cunt ached with want.

“You’re right, darlin’,” he acquiesced. “Didn’ take you for the lyin’ type anyway.”

He gave you a soft smile you didn’t think bounty killers were capable of and you simpered. Brown Eyes pinched your chin before sitting next to you and laying back, pumping his cock in his fist. You adjusted yourself so you could trail your hands across his hot skin, explore its ridges and softness, soak in its warmth. Your hands graced across it until they cupped his jaw, startling him with a sensation he probably hadn’t experienced in years.

You bent down with half-lidded eyes and gently parted lips. Chestnut eyes locked with yours right before you crashed your lips into his and let one of your hands reach and grasp his cock. The interruption made him moan into your mouth, the sound desperate and low in his throat. You shared a whine with Brown Eyes when his right hand forced itself between your thighs and shuddered when his fingertips stroked up and down the seam of your folds. He smiled against your lips when you began rolling your hips to steal more of his scalding touch.

He pulled back from your lips and whispered, “You wanna go for a ride, darlin’?”

You bit your lip and nodded. Brown Eyes grinned at you—this man was full of surprises tonight—and turned himself to lay in the center of the mattress. You moved and knelt between his slightly spread legs, your feet touching the wooden footboard as you stared down at him. He was biting his lip and let them part when you massaged your tits before bending over, making sure to arch your back, your lips hovering near the fat head of his cock. You looked back up at him coquettishly—you were in control now, teasing him with hot exhales and smiling after he gave you a few needy groans.

When you swirled your tongue around the head of his cock, you felt him tug the sheets with a hiss. A lick from the base to the tip made him swear; he was finally getting a taste of his own medicine. You planted your hands on his hips and held his gaze for a few more seconds before closing your eyes and wrapping your lips around him, slowly bobbing up and down, working lower and lower as you went. Your brow furrowed, spit starting to dribble down your chin, and you opened your eyes just in time to see him throw his head back and curse.

“Fuck, baby, god damn,” Brown Eyes rasped, groaning when you pressed your tongue against him as you slid back up again before twisting your head back down, just over halfway down his throbbing length.

He choked when you took every inch of him, your spit-covered lips pressing against the curls at the base. You could only hold it for a moment—his girth and length pushed you to the limit—and then you bobbed back up and swirled your tongue around the bulging head before releasing him from your mouth with a wet pop. He looked down at you as you licked up a few beads of liquid leaking from his cock, wrapping a hand around his shaft before sucking him back into your mouth, wildly working your tongue around the head as you stroked. Your pussy throbbed when he whined, one of his hands coming to clasp your forearm as you snaked your free hand up his torso, splaying your fingers out for stability.

He’d grown even harder somehow, and your hand trailed down to give his balls a quick, light squeeze, eliciting an even louder whine; you hoped that nobody occupied the room next to his. Your hand went back to work his shaft, but he tugged your forearm and his other hand held your cheek. You looked up at him and slowly let his cock fall out of your mouth, watching his eyes scrunch closed and eyebrows knit together, his plush pink lips falling open. His chestnut eyes opened again as you straddled his torso, your ass bumping against the leaking length, making him hiss and smile.

“Baby, if you kept that up, I would’a come down your throat.” He panted and shook his head. “But I wanna see you painted in it.”

You giggled when his large palms clapped on your cheeks, grabbing the meat of them and spreading them.

“Go ‘head, darlin’,” he urged. “Ride this cowboy’s cock.”

“Don’ have to tell me twice,” you chuckled, giving him a kiss before sitting back on your knees.

You started to slowly lower yourself onto his cock, lips parting as his fat head notched inside of your slick and needy hole, already splitting you open. His hands traveled up the curve of your ass and over your hips to rest on your thighs, low groans coaxing you further down. You planted your hands next to his ears and stared into his eyes as you slammed your ass against him, hissing as he filled you to the brim. His eyes squeezed shut and he whined, hands moving back to your ass.

“You take me so well, darlin’, fuck,” he growled. His eyes bore deep into yours, and he gently squeezed your cheeks. “Now, c’mon, baby girl. Move those gorgeous hips.”

You slowly rolled your hips back a few times, feeling your ass shake and letting your cunt adjust to his size. When you started to speed up, the man nodded and grunted along with your pants. The tension inside of you had returned with a vengeance, your walls already fluttering after only a few minutes of riding him. You picked up the pace and added another movement, sliding up and down, hammering back down with a filthy, wet sound. You threw your head back and shifted to rest on your knees, sinking down to the base and holding his gaze as he groaned. You began massaging your breasts and circled your hips, remaining fully seated on his cock.

“F-fuck, feels amazing, Brown Eyes,” you moaned, your index and middle fingers landing on your clit and rubbing small circles around it.

You lifted your head to look at him when he swatted your fingers away. Brown Eyes gave you a sly smile. “Allow me, darlin’. You keep on ridin’, and don’ stop ‘til I say so.”

You nodded and then moaned when he pressed his thumb against the sensitive nub. You fell forward and planted your hands next to his ears again, your face twisted in ecstasy as he pushed you to the peak he’d denied you earlier. You kept pounding your ass back, picking up the pace when his pants began to grow louder, riding towards his own climax along with you.

“Oh, fuck—fuck—Brown Eyes, I’m gonna come,” you gasped, something white hot threatening to scorch you from the inside out.

“Do it, darlin’, come for me,” he growled, his thumb working your clit frantically as the roll of your hips became erratic. “Clench my cock, soak me—”

You cut off his encouragement with a cry of pleasure, your entire body shaking and burning, your cunt pulsing around him and drenching him in your juices. You slumped forward to rest on your forearms, and he went to work, thrusting his hips up into you, grunting and growling into your ear. You stared at him, your head heavy as you basked in the afterglow of your white-hot climax. When you sloppily kissed his lips, spit still wet on your chin, Brown Eyes growled and pushed you onto your back, bending your sweaty legs and forcing your knees towards your ears as much as they could. You whimpered when he fucked into you with feral grunts and growls, your slick-coated walls letting the head of him push deep inside of you. The force was pushing you towards the footboard, and he placed his large hand on the top of your head to shield you from it and hold you in place for his cock.

“Fuck—your pussy feels fuckin’ incredible,” he opened his eyes, and there was a familiar dark storm brewing in them, his pupils blown as he gritted his teeth and increased his pace.

“Come on me,” you whispered, still drunk with pleasure, eyes brimming with tears from his brutal strokes. You reached your hand up and cupped his jaw with pleading eyes.

Your touch sent him over the edge, and he pulled out of you with a moan. You let your arms fall back and bend behind your head, watching him give his cock one final pump before thick ropes of his spend painted your body. You closed your eyes and smiled listening to his choked moans, then opened them again to see his head thrown back and cock throbbing as his body started to come down from his climax.

Brown Eyes stared back down at you and smiled, eyes trailing up your torso from your hips to your breasts. You blissfully sighed and smiled, and he flopped down at your right side with a huff. You looked over at him, his head propped up on his hand, his handsome face and body masked by a little darkness with the light behind his back.

“You look mighty lovely covered in my come, darlin’.” He gave you a gentle kiss and smiled against your lips. “Prettiest thing I ever seen.”

“Surely I can’t be prettier than a bunch of money in your hand for a bounty,” you half-teased.

He pulled back and furrowed his brow, shaking his head. Your eyes fluttered close when his hand cupped your cheek—it was trembling against your skin—and you leaned into his warm touch.

“Darlin’,” he said sternly. You opened your eyes to meet his again, the storm in them suddenly gone. “Didn’ I tell you my first day here that I’d found somethin’ better than money?”

You furrowed your brow. “I..I think so,” you responded hesitantly.

“I know I did, darlin’,” he confirmed, brushing his thumb across the apple of your cheek. “An’ didn’ I tell ya I’m not a liar?” You nodded and he pressed a kiss against your sweaty forehead, then pulled back and murmured, “You’re lovelier than any sunset I ever seen.”

The compliment made you shyly smile and giggle, but it quickly faded as you stared into his eyes. A question weighed on your chest, and you worried your lip between your teeth. You’d covered it up and hid it, and now you couldn’t hold it back any longer—especially since he was leaving town tomorrow.

“Brown Eyes, will you ever come back?” you asked meekly. You quickly added, “Here, I mean. To the town. Not to me.” Your skin warmed with embarrassment.

He hesitated, glancing at the sheets before looking back into your eyes. “Well, you want me to?”

Did you really want him to, even after all he’d done since he stormed into town and held it—and you—captive in his fury? The man with a revolver on his hip and a Winchester 73 and a belt of bullets? The one who’d sent John to his death, who’d threatened Mr. Daniels, who’d killed three men without blinking? Did you really want the bounty killer to return and shroud you in his stormy shadow again?

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I want that.”

He smiled against your lips as he kissed you, and you wondered if he ever smiled after killing a bounty as you tangled your fingers in his hair.

masterlist a/n: whew! thank you for reading all of this! it really ran away from me. please let me know what you think with comments and reblogs !!

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