#Autumn Raby | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

charliemwrites · 4 months ago

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Chapter 1

Content: Violence, Murder, Horror Elements, Masturbation, Kidnapping, Threats, Mild Pet Play, the One (1) use of an ableist slur

It’s the middle of October when Soap convinces you to go camping.

Autumn has sunk its teeth deep into the countryside, bleeding green from the trees and leeching warmth from the days. Deep shadows and lengthening nights are cold enough to condense breaths into pillows of steam. All of the little critters are fattening up and bedding down for a frigid winter, prepared to be snowed into burrows and dens until spring pries away the ice.

Your hip already aches through the first half of your morning exercises. The ghosts of splintered shrapnel prick beneath tender scar tissue until the rust of sleep flakes away. Lying on hard, cold ground sounds like a one-way ticket to agony. You’d much rather be one of those fluffy bastards curling up to hibernate. You tell Soap this on Monday when he initially proposes the idea.

Besides, you add, trying not to chug your coffee, Soap’s in no condition to be fucking about in half-frozen woods either. Not with his finicky nerve pain.

On Wednesday, when you meet up again, he takes a different route. It’s been too long since you two last dipped into a civilian-appropriate but military-adjacent activity. Paintball, knife-throwing, base-jumping…

Your bed is starting to feel too soft and too big again. The city is loud but not the right way. The tedium of self-imposed routines is starting to grate on nerves still tuned for combat. If you don’t get out before the trap of winter snaps closed, you might go mad. You can see it in Soap’s eyes too, a manic glint behind glass blue.

But still. Camping feels too much like what you’ve just left – the shrinks probably wouldn’t approve. Not that you’d ask them.

On Friday, Soap offers a compromise. His grandfather (“Seanair”) left him an old hunting cabin out in the countryside. Nothing luxurious, but it’s got a fireplace, cots, kitchenette, bathroom. It’ll be more like holing up in a safehouse than roughing it for a mission. More importantly, it’ll be gentler on your battle-worn bodies.

That next Monday, you meet him at the café with supplies packed and an honest anticipation for a week off the grid.

“Yoohoo! Any murderers about?” Soap calls. “Any armed psychos? An angry raccoon, perhaps?”

You scowl, caught behind him in the doorway. “I thought you checked it out already?”

“Aye, but ye ne’er ken,” he reasons, shrugging. He shuffles in as you nudge him. “We’ve the luck o’ the devil, you an’ I.”

You snort as you start kicking off your shoes. “True enough, I s’pose.”

“Course, I like our odds against any weirdo wi’ a knife, don’ you?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Not so sure about a raccoon though. Think we’d be fucked.”

“Och, tha’s right. I remember your lectures about rabies.”

“Good.”

You snicker at his grimace, likely feeling the phantom sting of vaccines.

The cabin is cute, honestly. There are only three rooms – the living room/kitchenette, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The bathroom is small enough that you could stretch your arms across the width of it and touch both walls, but it’s got a working shower so you’ve no complaints. The bedroom has a dresser and a nightstand, plenty for you and Soap.

While you set to work putting the groceries away, Soap putters about opening windows and making up the beds. The two of you don’t immediately have much to talk about, considering how often you see each other and the long drive out. It’s alright, though, you’ve long grown comfortable in stretches of silence together.

Once settled in, you suggest a walk to explore the area. Part of it is genuine interest in appreciating nature before the sun sets early. But there’s also a large, paranoid part of you (sounding like your old captain) that demands you get your bearings. Just in case.

There’s a loch about a mile from the cabin, a beautiful sheet of dark glass big enough for decent fishing. You’re able to see the row of holiday homes on the other side but wouldn’t be able to see any people on their docks out there. You and Soap follow a deer trail for a way, exchanging stories of your respective childhoods.

No surprise that John MacTavish was a wild child with a rebellious streak that got him in trouble more often than not. He gets you laughing bright and easy before long, and for once it doesn’t feel like playacting as a Normal Functioning Person.

When the sun starts to skim the evergreens, you return to the cabin. You start up a pot of cheesy mac while Soap gets the fire going, pyromaniac that he is. Once it’s burning nicely, he starts closing up the windows. Not too soon either – the temperature is starting to dip and twinging at your hip, unhappy from sitting in the car so long.

The two of you hum over empty carbs and excess dairy by the fire, a glass of scotch for each of you. When you’ve had your fill, he washes the dishes, you pour another round, and the two of you settle together on the old sofa.

“Almost been a year,” Soap says after a while.

You sigh through your nose, stare into the dwindling pool of amber in your hand. “Three more weeks.”

“You miss it too.”

Against your will, your eyes slide sideways, to the hand he’s clenching and unclenching on his thigh. There’s a wicked line of scar tissue beneath the sleeve of his shirt where the surgeons salvaged what they could. Mostly successful too, apart from the damaged radial nerve that ruined his career.

“So much, Soap, fuck.”

You didn’t mean to say that. You’re supposed to be the healthy one here, encouraging this necessary and healthful change to your lives.

As if reading your mind, Soap hums, bumps his elbow into your ribs. “No shame in it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t even know what I miss.”

“Feeling useful, I reckon. Feeling… necessary,” he muses, subdued.

It’s insightful but too accurate. Too selfish. You rub your thumb over the lip of your glass.

“I hate that I can’t keep an eye on Price and Gaz,” you say. “Feels like I’m always waiting to hear the worst, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers roughly. “I ken.”

The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch. Soap, sitting up with his sketchbook, and you folded into the corner against the arm, book pages fluttering between lax fingers. At some point, the cramped position aches enough to wake you. Your eyes flutter open, low fire throwing long, deep shadows across the wooden wall.

Something is watching from the window.

You jolt up, hand reaching for the gun you no longer carry on your thigh. The movement jostles Soap awake as well. It involuntarily draws your eye, just a fraction of a second. But the haunting shadow is gone by the time you turn back.

That’s not enough for you. You roll to your feet, hiss as your knee threatens to give. But you manage to get your balance and snatch your combat knife from your boot as you storm towards the door.

“Kit? Kit! The fuck is going on?!” Soap calls.

“Saw something!” you reply.

There’s a flashlight hanging by a hook next to the door. You grab it as you burst out into the chilly air, tensed for a fight. A quick sweep of the front yard and immediate tree line reveals nothing. Steps soft and careful, you approach the side of the house, expertly gripping your knife.

“On your six,” Soap breathes behind you.

“Copy.”

You round the corner, eyes scanning the trees, the brush. There’s no movement, no suspiciously rustling branches. You tilt your head, listening for anything past the normal sounds of the night. But there isn’t even an unusual silence in the dark world around you.

“Just a dream, then,” you sigh.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Unusual, though. Your nightmare-induced hallucinations usually conjure guns in your face or teammates bleeding out on the floor. Not strange figures at the windows. Still, you can hear the explanation of your shrink trying to soothe you. Middle of the night after drinking, in a new and atmospheric environment. Plus, there’s been all that fuss on the news about a serial killer; nowhere near you and Soap, mind, but still. Subconscious or some shite.

“Let’s do a sweep anyway,” Soap says.

Your chest warms. “Alright.”

Naturally, there’s nothing. Soap only gives you a one-armed hug as you return to the cabin. One final check of the interior – since you did leave the door open when you rushed out – and then the two of you turn in for bed.

The next day starts lazy and slow. A strange reprieve from your body’s military-trained urge to wake early. It’s nice, though, to snuggle beneath the covers with Soap’s soft snores only a few meters away. You play pre-downloaded games on your phone while you wait for him to wake, enjoying the lie in.

Breakfast is enjoyed on the little porch out front; you bundled up in a woolen throw while you sip coffee. It’s shaping up to be an unusually sunny day, and you agree to a longer hike around the loch before lunch. When you return, you settle on the porch again to read while Soap chops wood.

Which, well.

You don’t mind a bit of entertainment between pages… or paragraphs… or…

Soap hasn’t neglected his physique at all since the discharge. All corded muscles, broad shoulders, and tapered waist. Watching the bunch and release of his arms has always been a guilty pleasure of yours, and so blessedly indulged during training sessions in the 141.

You try not to sigh and drool over it (him) like a repressed Victorian.

“Ach, fer fucks…”

You snap to attention, book set aside. “Is your arm acting up?”

He’s set the hatchet down, grabbing at his elbow with a pinched expression.

“Aye,” he grumbles.

You trot to his side, pleased that he still instantly submits to your care. He lets you manipulate his arm, prod along the nerve pathways and bunched muscles that are spasming in pain. His groan has no business being that low or rough or close to your ear. But you ignore it like you always have, focus on getting him right. Barely even register when he sets his jaw on top of your head.

A few minutes pass in silence while you try to massage away the worst of the flare up. When he finally sighs, slumping into you a little, you gently squeeze his forearm.

“Bampot,” you huff.

“Aye, I ken,” he mumbles. “’S why I have you.”

You click your tongue. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive. Next time let me help.”

“Not on yer life.”

You pinch his side, grinning wickedly when he yelps and jerks away. Little shit. Your favorite little shit, damn him.

He allows you to help carry the firewood to the rack next to the tiny shed. It’s round back of the cabin, covered by an old blue tarp. Soap is in the lead and sees it first.

“Oh, well isn’t that pure dead brilliant,” he huffs.

“Hm?”

You peak around him and blink at the rust-colored splatters decorating the side of the shed. There’s a dark patch in the scraggly grass as well and drag marks into the trees. Clearly, some prey fell victim to the circle of life here. Recently, too, from the color of the blood.

“What do you think it was?” you ask. “There aren’t wolves here.”

“Nah, but coulda been a fox.”

You scrunch up your nose. “This close to us? Usually foxes steer clear of humans.”

“Feral dog, then, maybe.”

Maybe.

It’s a lot of blood for anything a dog or fox would risk taking down, though. Even a feral one.

“C’mon, let’s get inside. Need a coupla pills ‘fore mah arm starts taking the piss again.”

You help him stack the firewood and then follow him back to the cabin. And if you linger on the blood, your random dream, and the lingering sensation of eyes on you… well, nothing new for you.

It pours all of the next day. Soap says it’s good timing, that he won’t have to wash the shed himself. Both of your injuries are acting up, though, and you spend the day trying to find different positions to appease the ache in your hip. At one point, he has to help you to the shower, your leg feeling too weak to support your weight. It’s frustrating, but you’ve had nearly a year to learn to cope.

Soap lifts your spirits, though, like always. Convinces you to play Scrabble and keeps insisting that he’s just using Scottish words. It ends the way it usually does – you and him wrestling like children, trying to trap the other to determine the winner. You only just manage to get a hold of him, though he puts up a good fight. He eventually admits that “daylich” isn’t actually a word and he didn’t deserve the triple word score.

Then he breaks out a pack of biscuits as a peace offering and all is forgiven. The two of you nibble on those while watching a movie on your laptop and then shuffle off to bed.

Long after Soap has fallen asleep, you’re awake. The memory of his body against yours always leaves you feeling branded. Like the heat of him burns right through your clothes. It’s been… probably too long since you last got off. Way too long since someone else got you off. And yeah, you had a couple of shameful secret wanks around teammates back in the day, but things are different now. You’re not high on adrenaline in the military anymore. No excuse for shoving a hand down your pants.

Still, your thoughts spiral as you finally start to doze. Rough hands on your hips, your thighs, your throat. Gentle but teasing at the true strength they possess. A hot tongue along your cheek, treating you like something to savor… or to devour. A shadow looming over you, dwarfing you. Phantom sensations that you crave as much as you shy away, wanting it but knowing you shouldn’t.

The throbbing between your thighs rouses you. Sleep-addled, you give in. You’d be embarrassed of how wet you are if anyone else were to know. And of the soft, needy noise you make when your brush your fingertips between your thighs. But Soap is still snoring steadily, and the pounding of the ongoing rain makes you brave.

You stroke slowly and gently over the bundle of nerves at first, mimicking those dreamt touches. It’s almost as maddening even when it’s your own hand. Sleep is half-dragging at you, though, and you speed up, drawing tight little circles at the top, teasing lower to stoke the heat burning in your gut. Your breathing picks up, little breaths past an open mouth.

It’s really not going to take much. Not with how long it’s been, how much you want it, vague thoughts of your darkest fantasies flickering through your hazy mind. You tilt your hips down, get the pressure of your heel against your empty, aching hole. You rock a couple times, high-pitched noises caught at the top of your throat.

You come imagining a big hand around your neck choking off those sounds. Have to slap your free hand over your mouth as you shake and writhe through it. Drag your nails up your bare thigh just to balance out the unbearable pleasure. And then you go limp against the pillows, panting and shuddering through aftershocks.

When you extract your hand from beneath the blankets, you blink at the wetness coating your fingertips for a moment. If someone asked, the excuse you’d give is not touching anything with your wet hand. But truthfully, you’re just indulging in impulsive hedonism as you suck your own fingers.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the shadows.

Then you climb out of bed for a proper cleanup, ready to finally fall asleep and definitely not think about how much quicker you came knowing that Soap was right there the entire time.

It’s raining on and off the next day. You and Soap take a little walk during one of the dry patches, though it’s cut short with how sore your hip still is. Soap collects more firewood from the shed, keeps the flames well fed while you putter about. Nap for an hour, start rereading one of your favorite books, watch a scary movie with him, make American flapjacks just for the sake of it.

Even though you should be feeling stir crazy, Soap has always made for good company. The day passes pleasantly into an early night, the sun standing little chance against the thick cloud cover.

You and Soap are settling in with scotch when frantic knocking interrupts the peaceful quiet.

“Help!” a ragged voice screams. “Someone please help me!”

You hardly exchange glances before the two of you are up. Soap goes for the door, gun in hand. You scramble for the ever-present medical kit that earned your call-sign, left out on the counter.

Soap yanks the door open; a man tumbles in. Middle aged, lanky build, bleeding from a long cut on his forehead. His ankle is twisted at a damning angle. You scan him for obvious weapons, but his t-shirt and muddy boxers reveal nothing but bruising and scraped skin. His hands are empty as they scrabble at the floor, trying to drag himself inside. Soap slams the door closed and locks it.

“Please!” the man cries again. “You have to help me!”

You drop to your knees beside him, already popping your kit open.

“We’re going to help you, sir,” you say evenly, “but you need to calm down.”

“You don’t understand,” the man gasps as you help him sit up. “H-He… he’s out there.”

“Who?” Soap asks, grip shifting on the gun.

“S-some psycho,” the man answers. You work easily past his shaking, getting a look at his swelling ankle. Definitely broken… with force. “In a mask.”

You blink, shoot Soap a look. Have the two of you fallen into some weird horror movie by accident?

“What did he do?” Soap asks.

“H-he attacked us with a big bloody knife.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” you ask. “Who else was with you?”

“The lads – my friends – my brother. Oh, god…” He pales further. You brace him, eyeing the packaged shock blanket peeking from your kit. “Danny is dead. There was so much blood.”

“How many?” Soap asks, voice hard. “How many of you are still alive?”

“I-I don’t know. I barely got-got away. Oh, god—”

He dissolves into tears and whimpers. You rip open the blanket and drape it around the man, then scoot down to his ruined ankle. Over his head, you frown at Soap. Something is missing here. This man was with at least three other people, but one man attacked them? There’s something to be said for shock and surprise and fear, but still…

“Soap?”

“Gonnae see if I can find survivors,” he says. “I’ll send ‘em your way if I find any. You stay here, take care of this ‘un.”

“That’s stupid,” you argue. “You can’t go by yourself!”

“No different than recon, aye? Not gonnae engage, but we cannae leave anyone bleedin’ out there.”

Your mouth twists. No, no you can’t leave civilians potentially wounded with a killer out for blood. Discharged or not (war criminals or not… and you both are, technically) you’re both too dutybound for that.

“RV here in ten and I’ll have the car ready for exfil.”

“Affirmative.”

He crosses to you, knocks your foreheads together – a pre-mission gesture you never thought you’d receive again. You close your eyes for a second, squeeze the back of his neck. Then send him off with a firm nod.

You lock the door after him, then return to the man.

“Are you two military or something?” he asks.

“We were,” you answer, “medical discharge.”

“Oh brilliant! You’re telling me that my only hope is a couple cripples?!”

You level him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m a medic with more kills than you’ve got chest hairs, understand? Shut up and brace. I need to wrap your ankle.”

He whimpers and whines and curses while you set and compress it. Nothing you haven’t heard before, vehement as it may be. Ungrateful, though, you think vaguely. Save a guy’s life and he’s calling you all sorts of derogatory names while you try to salvage his ability to walk.

“You done?” you ask, interrupting his latest stream of expletives. “I need to hear if someone is coming.”

That only shuts him up for a moment before he’s piping up again. “Do you have a weapon?”

You tug your pant leg up to show the knife strapped to your calf.

“Do you even know how to use that?!”

“Look, I know this is a lot for you, so maybe you should stop talking for a while.”

His face twists, brain turning to anger as he tries to cope with his own fear and new trauma. You don’t pay him any heed, wiping off his head and closing the still-weeping cut with butterflies. All you can hear over his wheezing is the rain outside. No footsteps or screams or, most importantly, gunshots.

With the worst two of the man’s wounds seen to, you take stock. You’re not dressed for any sort of confrontation in lounge pants and socks.

“Here. Start treating your legs and arms,” you say, pressing gauze and wound wash into the man’s hands.

“Where are you going?!” he protests.

“Need to prep to leave,” you explain. “Shout if you hear anything.”

He doesn’t look thrilled, but you’re already up and hurrying to the bedroom. You climb into a thick pair of cargos – relieved that your fashion sense hasn’t improved since the army – and a thermal shirt. Your pistol is waiting in the side pocket of your duffel, loaded and holstered. The weight of it is comforting against your thigh; you’ve missed it.

You grab the bags and carry them back to the door, check your watch. It’s only been four minutes. If Soap isn’t back in another six, you’re going out to get him yourself, injured civilian be damned. Everything you’ve gone through together; you’re not going to lose your best friend to some overdramatic wanker with a knife.

“What are you doing now?!” the man asks.

You give him another once over. He’s done a decent job prioritizing the worst scrapes and cuts, they look clean enough. Most importantly, he seems less faint than when you left. Giving him something to focus on must have helped.

“Checking the car. We’re leaving as soon as Soap gets back,” you answer.

“A-at least give me something to protect myself with!”

You try not to sigh in annoyance. What good would he even be, unable to walk and shaky on adrenaline? Still, you take pity and tug the knife from your boot, offer it to him handle first.

“Not the gun?” he complains.

“No.”

You jog out to the car, gun in one hand and duffels in the other. It’s raining again, getting harder by the moment. There’s a steady, sharp pain radiating throughout your leg, threatening to knock it out from under you. You grit your teeth as you toss the bags in the backseat and move to the ignition.

And the car doesn’t start.

“Shit.”

You don’t waste time trying it again. It should be in perfect condition; it must have been tampered with.

When you approach the house again, you hear shouting from inside. You pick up the pace, nearly skid across the wooden floor when you get there. The man is huddling up by the couch, white knuckling the knife.

“I-I heard something!”

“Where?” you demand, scanning the immediate area. Thank fuck that Soap’s seanair believed in minimalism.

“In the back.”

You frown. “The only way in is through windows back there, and those are locked.”

Right?

“I know what I heard!”

“Stay here, then.”

You click the safety off and pad the short hallway to the bedroom. Don’t bother announcing yourself, or any idiotic “who’s there”. You kick the unlatched door open and sweep through the room just like you would for a raid. The tiny lamp on the nightstand is still on, illuminating the sparse space.

You check under the first bed, then sidestep and tilt your head to check the other. Nothing.

“There isn’t—”

The window is open. The window is fucking open. How?!

You spin on your heel, just in time to see a hauntingly familiar mask bent over the gurgling body of the man. There’s no hesitation as you raise the gun and fire twice, but the killer has already rolled out of the way. Well fuck that.

You rush from the bedroom, fire another two into the couch as you round the corner. He’s a fast fucker, waiting by the wall adjacent to the hall as you exit. And he’s fucking big. Slams into your side – your bad side – like a tank. It fucks your balance, and you go down with a snarled curse, winded as all his weight lands on your much smaller frame.

On training and instinct, you slam your elbow back. There’s a crunch, a grunt of pain. But damn him, he doesn’t let up. A big hand finds yours on the gun. You yelp as he squeezes hard enough to feel the bones bend. The gun fires – bang, bang, bang. His head is right by yours, the hard edge of his mask pressing into your temple, panting in your ear.

You lash out with your other arm, though your aim is off. Instead of hitting his throat, you get his jaw instead. You plant your boot on the floor and push, trying to get out from under him. Instead, he rolls with your back against his chest. The gun clatters as he snakes a thick arm around your throat. You grab at his forearm, but you know you have no hope of matching him in strength.

You scrabble for the knife in your boot, but it’s gone.

Fuck, you gave it to—

The cabin ceiling is getting spotty.

Your fingers brush the killer’s leg, find a familiar shape tucked at the side of his boot. You snatch up the knife and drive it into his calf. He growls, but the arm on your throat blessedly disappears. You suck air, blinking past dark edges. Twist onto your front and blindly fumble for your gun.

Manage two shots right to his chest. He falls limp. You wait a beat, two. He doesn’t move again.

You click the safety on and holster the gun. And then, out of morbid curiosity, crawl closer to the body.

“Holy hell,” you breathe as you get a good look at the mask.

He’s wearing a skull over a black balaclava. Not just a prop either you realize when you tap at it. It’s real. Human. Thin cracks spiderweb along the front orbital bone, the corner of the eye socket – from where you elbowed him, you think. Beyond them, his eyes are closed and still, the skin painted black.

“Big scary fucker,” you murmur. And if you’re a bit admiring… well, it between you and a dead body. A couple dead bodies. Can’t forget about the other guy. “That was almost fun.”

“Kit!”

You jolt, barely able to hear Soap’s voice over the pounding rain, but relieved to hear it. A hiss escapes between your teeth as you get to your feet, hip protesting. You have to grab at the couch to catch your balance. Then brace yourself and walk carefully towards the door.

Your fingers are just centimeters from the doorknob when an arm wraps around your neck again. You flail, try to kick off the door, but it hardly even makes him stumble. Then there’s a sharp pinch in your arm, sibilant shushing by your ear, and the world goes dark.

The world comes to you in bits and pieces.

Something soft under you. A slight ache in your hip. Fabric around your bare legs. Voices? You think you recognize the rumble of Soap’s brogue, but not whoever he’s speaking to.

Soft golden light creeps past your fluttering eyelashes. Soap is sitting across the room on… a big floor cushion? You blink a couple times, adjusting your slightly blurred vision. But yep, that’s him, sitting on a gigantic pillow. And… is that his throat mic?

“Mm… John?” you call, rubbing at your eyes.

“Aye, Kit. Nice ‘n slow now. We’re alright.”

You hum and push yourself up, limbs heavy. Once you’re sitting, Soap speaks again. Gentle and calm.

“You remember what happened?”

You pause, frown. It comes to you in a slow trickle. The trip, the forest, the cabin… and then it floods back. The injured man at the door, the killer, the struggle. The ambush as you were going to meet Soap at the door.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“Aye.”

You give him another once over. That’s not a throat mic; it’s a collar. A thick black leather thing, complete with a silver chain that trails off somewhere behind him. You stare for a second, bewildered.

“Don’t be jealous. You match.”

Your head whips around to the hulking figure in a doorway to your right. He’s just as imposing as you remember, tall and fucking built, dressed in all black and mask still on. The soft lighting casts spooky shadows across the eye sockets.

The words process a moment later and your hand darts up to your neck. Sure enough, there’s a wide leather band around your neck. You’ll give it this, though – you didn’t even notice it until he said something. Not too tight, comfortable even. Clearly made with long-term wear against skin in mind. There’s a chain attached to yours too and you follow it to an anchor in the wall.

“If it’s any consolation, ye look right bonnie,” Soap calls.

You snort. “’Course I do.”

The killer shrugs off the wall. You watch as he saunters closer in long, heavy strides. No point in scrambling away or trying to run – you’d have a limited radius of escape if he didn’t grab you first. Besides, you’re not about to cower to some spooky bastard with a couple dirty tricks up his sleeve.

He crouches down well within your reach, clearly not concerned about you lashing out. You tilt your head in defiance, meeting his eyes for a moment before he flicks his gaze down. He reaches out, gloved fingers catching your chin. Not hard, but firm enough that there’s no arguing when he tilts your chin up.

Fabric brushes the sensitive skin of your neck, above and below the collar.

“Pretty kitty,” he purrs. “Glad I didn’t bruise this lovely neck.”

Two fingers press against one side a little harder, edging beneath the leather. You recognize the gesture as you swallow. He’s checking your pulse. You’re proud that it’s still steady and unhurried.

“Not scared?” He doesn’t say it like it’s a question.

You arch your eyebrows. “Should I be?”

His eyes flicker. “Not if you behave.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, resisting a sneer. Past his shoulder, Soap is watching with a smirk. Unharmed, you note again. He’s fine. You’re fine, despite slight soreness from the brief struggle. If there was something to be concerned about (apart from the obvious) he would have let you know right off the bat. So, you take a calculated risk.

“Yeah? And what do you consider behaving?” you ask.

The corners of the killer’s eyes crinkle. You knew enough masked men back in the military to recognize a hidden smile. He’s amused by your snarky question. Another good sign.

“Good pets obey their masters.”

You blink, breath leaving you in a soft rush. It… makes sense. Just not the answer you expected. Stupid, maybe, given the collars, leashes, and dog beds. You’ll have to blame the lingering drugs.

“There are so many shelters, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you blurt, bewildered.

The man snorts, hooks a finger under your collar and gives an almost playful tug. An entirely instinctive part of you catches its breath. You’re glad he’s not measuring your pulse anymore.

“Those can’t talk back,” he answers simply, shrugging.

Soap barks a laugh. “Well, you’ll get what you asked for with us then.”

You grin crookedly, showing all your teeth. “And then some,” you agree, reaching up to tug the hand from your collar.

He jerks harder this time, unbalancing you towards him. You catch yourself on both hands, feel a blaze of heat across your nose and glare up at him through your lashes.

“No touching, kitten,” he says. “You’ll have to earn that.”

You try not to roll your eyes, not quite willing to push your luck too far yet. But it’s a near thing.

“Sure, let me get right on that,” you scoff dryly anyway.

He clicks his tongue, but no further retribution comes save for one last warning tug. Then he’s standing, towering over you again.

“I need a shower. You two settle in.”

And he just walks off. Like he didn’t just take two former SAS operatives as human pets. You wait until you hear distant water before turning to Soap.

“What happened?”

“Ambushed me,” he grumbles, sitting back against the wall. “Snuck up as I was trying to get you untied. Bastard is trained.”

Soap’s pouting, even though there’s an entire police case of victims who weren’t as lucky as him.

“Trained like us, you mean?”

“Aye.” Soap pauses, looking at the floor pensively, brows furrowing. “Means he had every reason and way to hurt us.”

You nod. “He had me in a hold and his knife hand free. Could have done anything with it. Let me stab him instead.”

Soap hums. “And, well, there’s a basement. Could have brought us there too, I reckon.”

He glances at the doorway the killer was lingering in when you woke. You get what he’s saying – or not saying, as it were. The two of you are hale and whole only because the killer decided to make it so. Because, as all evidence seems to suggest, he wants pets.

“You figure he means it? About… us?” you wonder.

Soap shrugs. “He’s no reason ta lie.”

That’s what you’re worried about.

“News says he’s a sadist,” you point out. “His idea of a pet might be...”

“Aye, but then why do all this?” He gestures to the big soft beds, which you know must have been a bit expensive for their size and comfortability, and the well-made leather collars. You’ve even got a blanket at your feet for the cool air. “Nae, I think even sadists miss a bit ‘o companionship now n’ then.”

You hum. Makes sense, in the part of you that’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and risen up to greet it. You’ve seen plenty of shit, plenty of people, and the things they’re capable of. But even “monsters” go home to family, to hobbies, to entirely wholesome things that they enjoy just because.

That’s the hard part about war. Seeing the most depraved and evil examples of humanity and reconciling that they have qualities one can recognize in themselves.

“The plan, then?”

“Say we go along with it for now,” Soap says, shrugging. “Not like we could get free as we are anyway.”

You hum in agreement. The chain is clipped to the wall anchor by a thick padlock, and feeling at the collar earlier, you know it’s the same on the other side. The collar itself is too high-quality to come apart without something sharp. So you’re stuck. Even if you did will a lockpick into existence, you’ve no intel on the rest of the house or even where you’d go from the house.

“But listen, Kit, I’m no’ gonnae let anything happen to you. If this gets violent, I’ll tear the walls apart with my hands if I hafta.”

You smile, wish suddenly and fiercely that you could hug him. He looks like he could use it; god knows you could.

“I know, John,” you soothe. “I will too.”

He nods, jaw twitching, then sighs and sits back again. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, digesting the plan. You take an actual look at the room you’re in – a den, it seems like. A fireplace in one corner, a decent sized couch to your left. Beyond it, you can see a clean and modern kitchen. There’s a coffee table, end tables, lamps, a goddamn rug. It’s downright cozy; like something out of a magazine.

“Nice voice, though, aye?” Soap chirps suddenly, snapping your gaze back to him.

“Soap.”

“Och, don’t ‘Soap’ me,” he grumbles. “You look me in the eye and tell me tha’s no’ a voice made fer sex.”

And damn him, you can’t.

“Can’t say I was thinking about his voice when he was waving a big knife at me.”

“He can wave his big knife at—”

“I’m gonna kill you myself—” You snarl, balling up your blanket and chucking at his stupid, wiggling eyebrows.

“Oi, you two,” aforementioned sexy voice chastises from the hallway.

You wrinkle your nose as Soap grins at you, a shadow in the corner of your vision as the killer comes into the room again. He brings a cloud of clean water and bergamot. He smells good.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you hiss, dismayed.

“Problem?” the killer asks.

He’s got the mask on again (or still? You hope he doesn’t shower with it on, that’s unsanitary) but you can hear him arching an eyebrow. Stubbornly, you turn away to glare at Soap some more. It’s obvious he realizes what you’re referring to from the way he smothers a snicker, though.

Shithead.

You don’t get away with it for long before a hand is pulling your jaw up. Rough only because you resist for the briefest fraction. Once he’s got your face where he wants it, though, your captor’s grip isn’t painfully tight.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer, kitten. Understood?”

Your hand twitches to grab at the hold but remember what he said about touching without permission. Stubborn as you may be, you’re not actively trying to incite violence against you or Soap. The plan is to go along with… whatever this is. So you swallow a bit of your pride.

“Understood.”

He hums like that’s not quite the answer he wanted, but it’s acceptable for now.

“Now, is there a problem?” he asks again.

“Apart from the kidnapping?” you snip. “Everything is right as rain.”

He snorts, smooths his thumb over your chin, slow and dangerous. You go still, refuse to falter but careful not to provoke further.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he muses almost to himself.

“Must have expected it,” you reason honestly, “know you watched us for a few days.”

He tilts his head, eyes eerily unblinking within the unholy shadows of the skull. “Longer’n that, pretty thing.”

You open your mouth but don’t know what to say. Longer than the days at the cabin? How long? And how did you and Soap not notice?

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by fabric gliding over your bottom lip. His thumb threatening to slip past. You snap your jaw closed, nearly catch the tip of his finger in your teeth. He chuckles and finally releases you, making for the nearby couch.

He settles in with sigh and flicks on the TV. There on the screen is a flashing headline:

Another Ghost Victim Found.

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #serial killer ghost #serial killer au #scottish cabin in the woods #scitw

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animatorweirdo · 1 month ago

Text

World of the Tainted

You wake up to a world where Morgoth had tainted the elves into something worse. You decide to journey toward the east where you might be safe. However, you end up getting hunted by your former lover and his brothers. Will you escape and survive? Or will you be caught and possibly suffer a fate worse than death?

Fearie AU

(Author note: I was inspired by my friend's @lamemaster 's latest fics. This is an AU version of my The Heart of Autumn. Bonus points if you recognize who the two birds are. )

Warnings: dark things, violence, getting hunted, getting bitten and wounded, mentions of possible rabies, angst, and reader not having a great time.

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When you broke free from the ice and walked out of that cave, you immediately knew something was off. The land around you seemed normal at first glance, but something in the back of your mind was telling you that something was not right. Your suspicion became more evident when you decided to try to find a settlement and you walked through the woods.

The trees and the wildlife around you seemed more wild than usual. All kinds of plants grew around the roots in good health which was unusual since Morgoth’s influence in the north did not usually allow such abundance. Then there were the animals. They did not seem afraid of you when they saw you. They just stood there and watched as you walked past them. It was enough to send creeps through your spine. You had once read a survival book on how to avoid supernaturals and one rule told you that if you ever felt like you were being watched then you needed to leave the area, so you walked out of those woods faster than ever because it felt like you were being watched by everything.

You then came across an abandoned human town. By the worn-down woods and the structures that had suffered from the exposure of elements, you could conclude the town had been abandoned for longer than a decade. It was strange as there were no signs of fighting so nothing raided the town which meant the original residents left by their own will. Now one question remains--- what made them leave?

You scavenged whatever useful items you could get and continued your journey toward the west. More questions arose when you found more abandoned human settlements and the world around you became more unnerving. During nights, you hear strange sounds and notice shadows moving in the darkness. You didn’t dare to set up a fire and used one of the old camping techniques you learned from Camilla’s family, which was finding a sturdy and tall enough tree to sleep and stay safe from whatever lurked in the darkness.

When you found your way to what seemed to be an elven port city, you were left unsettled as it was abandoned too— there was not a soul in sight. It left you with questions you couldn’t answer. What happened? Where was everyone?

You stayed in the city for a day, using the abandoned fishing equipment to catch some fish to feed yourself. With luck, you managed to find some maps and other useful gear. You decided to try your luck with the nearest dwarf city. If even the dwarves had abandoned their underground homes, then there wasn’t a single soul left in Beleriand.

Following the map, you traveled to the mountain where the dwarven city was located, and to your relief, it was not abandoned like all the other places. The dwarves seemed surprised to see you but did not deny entry. They allowed you to stay and told you everything that had happened over the past decades.

Morgoth had been defeated and forced into hiding. However, before his defeat, he did something that caused the magic of the world to become untamed, tainting the elves. The taint turned them into something so sinister that even Morgoth became terrified of them, going into forever hiding. Their once bright nature turned them more prone to evil and their beauty combined with the world around them. They hunted down the orcs to extinction and even humans were not safe from them. The humans fled to the east, even far away to Rhun where the tainted elves did not follow them. Some of the untainted elves tried to escape the taint by sailing west, and not a single thing was heard of them since. The dwarves refused to leave their mountain homes. The tainted elves lacked interest in the dwarves thus they were relatively safe from their twisted nature. Some dwarves decided to continue dealing with these elves as they shared a love for gold and jewels, while some were forced to fight them.

Their description made you think of the faeries, or faes for short, one of the most dangerous types of fairies in your world. Now that you have thought about your experience so far, the state of the world and the woods made more sense to you.

The dwarves shared they hadn’t seen a human for many years and marveled how you managed to survive without being ensnared by the tainted elves. You were most likely lucky because you would have fallen into a trap now that you knew the elves had become something like the faeries.

Most of the elves who dwelled near the shores had fled to the west or whatever islands they could find, so their fates were uncertain. The Sindar had become one with their woods, so they mostly stayed in their forest. However, the Noldor were most affected by the taint becoming twisted rulers of the north, filled with lust for blood and other things unimaginable. The Feanorians had become hunters who hunted down anyone who dared to cross their lands.

You did not want to imagine your Maglor as a bloodthirsty hunter, but since the world had changed, you decided to believe what the dwarves said. It only made you more worried about what became of Camilla. There was a chance that she fled when things began to go wrong. But what if they did something to her before she could do so?

The dwarves said you should leave Beleriand, go to the east, and reunite with your kin in Rhun. Since you were a human, Beleriand was now the most dangerous place for you. You considered their words and decided that it was for the best. The faeries of your world adapted to your world’s society, but their tricky nature still made them dangerous as they sometimes twisted the rules and found loopholes to do what they wanted. If the elves became anything like them, you did not want to take any chances.

You stayed with the dwarves for a few days, reading everything they had on the now-tainted elves and learning all the necessary tricks you needed to avoid them. It had been forever since you did such research but it was better to be ready than sorry. The dwarves provided you with some supplies and items in case you encountered tainted elves. They showed you safe routes you could use and you managed to plan out your path. They gave you a pony and once you were set, you bid them farewell and a thank you for their hospitality. They wished you good luck and hoped Aule would look out for your safety. You will need it because if you got caught, then there was a high chance you would suffer a fate worse than death.

You were nervous but kept up a calm head as you started your journey.

You first came to pass the great woods of Doriath. The place looked more ominous than last time, so you could only wonder what it was like in Menegroth. You thought about Luthien and her family. You hoped they were safe even though it had been years. If things weren't so serious, you would have entertained the idea of visiting them, but since it was not safe for you, you left the idea.

You heard voices coming from the woods and realized it must have been elves singing. You knew the elves’s singing could cause you to follow them or get enchanted and one way to prevent that is to sing a catchy tone to distract them. So, you started singing one catchy travel song you knew. The singing stopped. It was a good sign but just to be sure, you continued singing until you passed the woods.

You came across a small lake and saw what seemed to be a white long-tailed duck and a cooper’s hawk. An odd pair, but not just as odd as the hawk being in a color of purple and pink. They observed you with keen caution and you looked at them back. They must be some kind of faes, so you kept caution as you rode past them. Oddly enough, there was something familiar about them.

The ride went smoothly despite the oddities. You then continued toward Ossiriand. Due to the feanorians’ influence over the north, you decided not to risk using the road across the blue mountains because it would force you to go to their lands. However, you did need to be cautious since Ossiriand was known to be home to some elf groups.

All seemed well, but your luck seemed to have run out as one coming night, you heard the dreadful sound of a hunting horn. The dwarves warned you about the feanorians playing their horn as it was a sign that they were nearby and on a hunt. However, hearing the horn made even the wendigo feel weary which was not a good sign.

There would be no way to outrun them if they caught track of you, and having met Celegorm, you did all you could to hide your tracks. You released the pony, taking her gear and wishing her good luck. You felt relieved that you didn’t decide to set up a fire and once all tracks were hidden and the pony was gone, you hid yourself and all your items beneath a small cave that had running water. One way to hide any scents and sounds was to be near running water. You then listened when you heard horses coming to your former campsite.

You heard them talk in their language. You flinched as the Quenya came out of their lips like whispers and hisses like a snake. You recognized the voices of Celegorm, Curufin, and Caranthir as they looked through your camp. You counted them through the sound of the hooves and voices. One, three, four, five, and six. You counted six riders. Where was the seventh? Which brother was missing?

Celegorm found tracks of your pony and you could nearly feel the thrill of a hunt in his voice. It was enough to send shivers down your spine. You didn’t get along with him before since he was a bit of an asshole, but now he sounded like a psychotic killer. You did not want to imagine what he would do if he knew you were there.

They decided to go after your pony’s tracks. You sensed through the earth as the thundering hooves galloped away and you counted that all six of them left. You quietly released a breath of relief and prayed for your pony’s sake.

You waited till the morning before continuing your journey on foot. If Maglor and his brothers were anything like the faeries of your world, then daytime should provide you some safety and time to travel. Faeries usually allowed their twisted nature to flourish when it was dark.

Walking through the land was tiring, but you forced yourself to continue. You stopped for a moment to take a drink from your bottle. It allowed you to notice the purple hawk and the white long-tailed duck from Doriath sitting on a tree, observing you. They were together and seeing them there made you feel odd.

However, since their appearance did not alert the feanorians on you, you concluded they were not there to rat you out. You continued your walk after your break.

After an hour or two, you tried to find your way to one of Ossiriands great rivers, but for some reason, you were walking in circles. The day was also hot as hell and you soon realized that most of your water was gone. You settled beside a river, concluding it was clean and attempting to fill your bottle with it. But then, the white long-tailed duck showed up, quacking and flapping its wings at you.

“What do you want?” You asked, confused as it was stopping you from taking the water.

You then heard what seemed to be soft humming. You looked around as there was no one yet the voice seemed to be trying to lure you to the water. You soon realized why the duck stopped you and quietly stepped back into the woods. Despite your heart being compelled to return and follow the voice, you ran as fast as you could away from the river.

One of the positive perks of being cursed with a supernatural spirit was that it made you immune to other supernatural beings. Something like a siren lurked in those waters and that duck just saved you.

When you noticed you came back to another circle, you took out a normal compass and the arrow was spinning like a crazy. It made your blood run cold. The good news is, you now knew why you were going around circles. It was because you were inside a magical fae trap that made you unable to leave.

You then heard the horn again. They were on to you. You were being hunted.

You took out another compass, a special compass given by the dwarves. They had discovered that the fae traps were never perfect, thus there was a hole the person could escape through and the compass showed the way to the hole. You felt relieved when you got a direction and started running.

Unfortunately, the feanorians weren’t the only ones hunting you. They had hunting hounds. Their dogs snuffed you out and came after you. You were forced to use drastic maneuvers to evade them as they charged at you. Unfortunately, one of the mutts managed to plunge its teeth into your leg, tearing through your flesh. You cried in pain but used a dagger to stab the hound, forcing it to let you go.

However, the hounds surrounded you, ready to tear you apart. In pain and crippling anxiety, wendigo took control. You struck one of the hounds with your strength before growling and charging at one of the hounds, tackling it down and plunging your teeth into its hide.

The sudden display of savagery scared the hounds away. You snapped back to reality after killing the dog and tasting its blood in your mouth. You panicked. You apologized to the dog and continued running away.

With your wound, you were forced to stop. You became desperate as you lost the compass when you got bitten by the hounds. It was too big of a risk to go back for it. You then saw the duck and hawk again, waiting for you. They let out sounds, indicating you to follow them. You decided to trust them and they led you to a hiding place, where you managed to address your wound properly.

The hound got you hard. Adding the medical herbs felt awful but the pain subsided after you managed to tie it with bandages. You fell sick and dreaded what would become of you. You were in some real shit hole and possibly got rabies.

The purple hawk suddenly landed beside your head, looking down on you with its pink eyes. It felt ominous as it then laid its wing over your eyes.

“Sleep,” You heard a familiar voice but fell into a painless slumber.

You then woke up in the morning, feeling something strange in your mouth. You pulled out a strange leaf with weird spots in it. It left your mouth dry but you didn’t feel sick anymore. You tried to figure out what happened last night and only one person came to mind about who that voice belonged to.

Your thoughts vanished when you saw a giant leaf with clean water in it. You grabbed it and drank the water, quenching your thirst and feeling refreshed.

You looked around for the strange birds. You were now certain that they were helping you, even though you didn’t know why. Perhaps they were good faes as that was not impossible. Maybe not all elves turned evil.

You found the duck, who quacked and patted its feet. The hawk stood on a tree expectantly. You didn’t know what it wanted but it looked like they wanted you to follow them again. Without your compass, you were going in blind so you decided to trust them and follow them as they led you somewhere.

The birds led you to a forest. You hid yourself when you saw horses and elves, dancing around, singing. They looked nothing like their former selves as some had features of animals and some had features like they were part of nature itself. They looked like the fae though more unnerving. The duck quacked and flew in another direction. You were confused as to why they would lead you right to your pursuers but decided to trust them as they didn’t alert the elves of your presence.

The duck and hawk stood on the trees as you were watching the horses. The horses nearly looked ordinary except that some of them also looked different. You saw a few with extra eyes, some in other colors and some even looked like birds. You guessed they were changed too as some of the horses were from Valinor. You tried to guess what the birds wanted you to do because you did not want to risk trying to steal one of the horses. Elves shared deep bonds with their equine companions, so the horses were loyal, they would definitely either kill you or alert the elves of your presence.

You bickered with the birds as you couldn’t risk stealing. The pair then looked away from the horses and you followed their gaze. Away from the horses, stood a black horse, without a saddle and eating grass alone. You narrowed your eyes as the horse looked familiar and sneaked closer to have a better look. When you recognized the horse, you finally realized why the birds led you there. They led you to your salvation as the lone black stallion was your own horse, Goliath.

“Goliath…” You uttered in disbelief.

The giant picked up its head and looked toward you. There was some gray in his snout and coat, most likely due to his age. You noticed feathers on his coat and figured he had been morphed like a raven. However, he still looked young and healthy like the last time you saw him. It was your sweet giant Goliath.

Goliath looked at you with caution but when you showed your face and called him again by his name. His tail whisked and he whined as he nearly galloped to you, allowing you to embrace him and nearly cry with joy. He still remembered you.

It also seemed he had remained loyal to you even after your supposed death since he bore no saddle or didn’t stand with the other horses.

You patted him and gave him sugary treats he liked. You realized the birds had reunited you with your equine best friend and possibly given you your salvation. There was a high chance Goliath knew how to get out of the trap.

You asked him if he was willing to help you escape. You did not need to guess if he agreed because he then laid down, allowing you to climb on his back. You had no hesitation to climb on him and ride as he then took you away from the elven camp.

You held onto his mane as he ran through the woods and fields. You felt hopeful as the path seemed new. However, you felt slightly anxious as it would not probably take long for the elves to notice that one of their horses was missing. The hawk and the duck followed you through flight.

You were right as you heard the horn in the distance.

You also heard hounds so you guided Goliath to run beside a river in hopes of hiding your scent. However, the white duck suddenly quacked in alarm as it flew near you. You didn’t have time to question why it was suddenly alerted but your answer to the missing seventh rider was answered when a dark rider with his horse jumped out of the river, reaching out to you with his clawed hands. You pulled back, falling from Goliath’s back.

You groaned from the fall as the impact caused the wound on your leg to open, but quickly fled into the forest. However, with your wound burning like a hot knife, you didn’t get far and when you heard the rider coming for you, you lost control of the wendigo again.

When the rider was about to strike you, you screamed and pounced high enough to tackle him from his horse. The helmet he wore got thrown on and you roared at him as you laid on top of him. His horse whined and tried to attack you, but Goliath came back, kicking and preventing the other horse from approaching you.

Seeing the rider’s face and realizing who was below you snapped you back in control. You stared in shock as it was Maglor who looked back at you. His skin was pale as snow and his hair was darker than ever. He had what you could describe as scales dressing the skin below his eyes which were sharp like that of a snake. You then realized that he must have been your siren from before as he was the one who came out of the water and most likely kept track of you. Now it made more clear why the white duck was so alarmed when you were near water.

“Maglor?” You uttered in disbelief as you stared at each other with shock and bewilderment.

However, when you heard the horns and sounds of horses, you quickly climbed back on Goliath and rode away from Maglor. You looked back for a moment, seeing Maglor looking after you but making no attempts to chase after you. You shook your head and focused on escaping.

Goliath ran like the wind and when you got to the end of the forest, you suddenly felt like you went through something and like a heavy spell had been lifted from you. You realized that you had finally escaped the trap and urged Goliath to keep running, you did not want to risk Maglor and his brothers coming after you now that you had officially escaped them. Celegorm would most likely not take it lightly that his prey got away.

However, it did not stop you from thinking about Maglor and how he had changed. There was a chance he didn’t know it was you when he tried to lure you into the water. Now you were concerned about what he would do now that he knew it was you. For a moment you thought you saw his old self when you looked at him in the eyes. However, you did not decide to stay and find out.

You rode toward the east on Goliath, guided by the white duck and the hawk as you left Ossiriand. You could only hope your journey would get easier from there.

#silmarillion #silmarillion x reader #tolkien #middle earth x reader #silm fic #middle earth #silmarillion imagines #maglor x reader #silmarillion fanfiction #fae maglor #tw:dark #maglor

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