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fangdokja · 21 days ago

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In a world where only the strongest survive, he’s the monster you can't escape.

❤︎ Synopsis. In a world overrun by the dead, he’s the last thing you need to survive—but the only thing you can’t escape. His love is twisted, possessive, and all-consuming, and you’ll never be free, not even in death.

♡ Book. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanon. Flesh and Fetish - Part 1

♡ Word Count. 2,143

♡ TW. dom + top + older + sadistic + yandere, general non-con + manipulation, rape, BDSM, slight descriptions of gore and death

♡ His Story. In the world of the dead, he was the only thing keeping you alive—and tearing you apart.

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who first saw you huddled in the corner of an abandoned grocery store, clutching a jagged shard of broken glass like it was your last lifeline. The air was thick with decay, the walls coated in grime and old blood. You sat there, trembling and pathetic, your wide eyes darting to every creak and shadow as if the darkness itself might lunge at you.

He tilted his head, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Put that down before you hurt yourself,” he said, voice low and rough, cutting through the oppressive silence. You flinched but didn’t lower the glass, your knuckles white from gripping it so tightly. That’s when he knew: you weren’t brave or strong. You were prey.

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who could’ve left you there, just another frail soul doomed to be devoured by the nightmare outside. But something about the way you shook, the way your hollow eyes glistened with unshed tears, stirred something primal in him.

You were weak, fragile, easy to mold and claim. He stepped closer, boots crunching on shattered debris, his shadow swallowing you whole. “Don’t worry, little one,” he murmured, voice dripping with false comfort. “I’ll take care of you.”

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who dragged you back to his den, a fortress cobbled together from scrap metal and rubble. You screamed, your hoarse voice echoing into the cold, empty night, but he didn’t flinch. Your nails clawed at his arms, leaving streaks of blood that only made his grin widen.

“Keep fighting,” he growled, his breath hot against your ear as he pinned you to the ground to secure your hands. “I like it when you struggle.”

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who didn’t bother pretending to be kind. He rationed your food, giving you just enough to keep you alive but never enough to make you comfortable.

Every bite, every sip of water came with a price: a whispered thank-you, a tearful acknowledgment of your dependence on him. He thrived on your desperation, watching as you slowly stopped resisting.

“Go ahead,” he said one night, his voice a low purr as he leaned against the barricaded door. “Run. See how far you get before the infected rip you apart.”

You froze, your trembling hands gripping the thin blanket he’d given you. His smirk deepened as he saw the fear flicker in your eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who caught you kneeling beside a wounded stranger one day, your hands pressing a scrap of cloth against the man’s oozing wound.

The man’s skin was pale, his breaths shallow, but he whispered broken thanks that made your heart ache. You thought you were safe, thought he wouldn’t notice—but he was always watching.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was a serrated blade, cutting through the fragile moment. You froze, the bloodied cloth slipping from your hands as his shadow loomed over you.

Turning slowly, you met his gaze, and your stomach dropped. His eyes weren’t angry—it was worse. Cold and sharp, gleaming with a possessiveness that made your skin crawl.

“He was hurt,” you stammered, your voice barely audible. “I was just trying to—”

“Trying to what?” he hissed, his hand darting out to grab your wrist. The pressure was bruising, unyielding, as he yanked you to your feet. The injured man whimpered, his voice a weak plea, and that sound ignited something feral in your captor.

“He doesn’t get to thank you,” he spat, dragging you closer until his face was inches from yours. His breath was hot, his lips twisted in a snarl. “He doesn’t get anything from you. Not your kindness. Not your pity. Not your touch.”

“Please,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “He’ll die if we don’t—”

“Good,” he snapped, cutting you off. His free hand shot out, grabbing the injured man by the collar. He hauled the stranger up like a ragdoll and dragged him toward the crumbling wall of a nearby building. The man’s feeble protests were swallowed by your captor’s dark laughter.

“Since you care so much,” he said, turning back to you with a grin that made your blood run cold, “why don’t you watch?”

“No,” you gasped, stepping forward only to have his arm shoot out, shoving you back with bruising force. You hit the ground hard, the air knocked from your lungs as you scrambled to sit up. He loomed over the man, his knife glinting in the dim light.

“Yes.”

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who made a spectacle of the slaughter. His movements were methodical, deliberate, as he drove the blade into the man’s abdomen. Blood sprayed in dark arcs, splattering the cracked pavement and pooling around the man’s twitching body. You turned away, bile rising in your throat, but his voice snapped your head back.

“Don’t look away,” he barked, his tone sharp enough to cut. “This is what your empathy gets you. A pile of guts and a dead fool who didn’t deserve your pity.”

Your sobs broke free, raw and uncontrollable, but he didn’t stop. He laughed, a jagged sound that echoed in the hollow ruins around you. When the man’s body finally stilled, your captor turned to you, his hands slick with blood. He crouched beside you, his expression softening in a way that made your skin crawl.

“You’re too soft,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your tear-streaked face. “But don’t worry. I’ll fix that. I’ll strip it away until there’s nothing left but what belongs to me.”

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who burned the man’s body that night, the acrid stench of charred flesh lingering in the air. You sat by the fire, silent and trembling, as he settled beside you. His arm draped around your shoulders, pulling you against his side as if to shield you from the world he’d just reminded you was cruel.

“You’ll thank me one day,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your temple. “When there’s nothing left out there but death, you’ll see I’m the only one who can keep you safe. The only one who loves you enough to do this.”

You didn’t respond, your hollow gaze fixed on the flickering flames. But deep down, you knew he wasn’t saving you from the world. He was devouring you, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but him.

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who had long since abandoned the notion of morality in favor of survival. Yet, in you, he found a different kind of obsession—one that simmered with possession rather than camaraderie.

His gifts were always strange, eerie tokens scavenged from the ruins of a world reduced to ash and bone: a tarnished locket encrusted with dirt, a porcelain doll’s head with its eyes eerily intact, a cracked mirror that still reflected fragments of a long-lost innocence.

“Pretty things for my pretty girl,” he sneered, though the mockery in his tone was belied by the way his hands trembled as he clasped the locket around your neck.

His fingers lingered at the nape of your neck, brushing against your skin in a way that made you shiver—whether from fear or something darker, you didn’t know. “There. Now you’ll always carry a piece of me. You won’t forget, will you?”

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who insisted on protecting you, but only on his terms.

“You don’t need a weapon,” he said, his voice sharp with finality when you dared to ask for one. “That’s my job.” His gaze pinned you in place, a predator’s stare dissecting every inch of you.

“You’ll just get yourself killed,” he spat when you pressed the issue. His fingers curled around your arm, tight enough to bruise. He kept you close at all times, his shadow looming over you like a storm cloud.

Every step you took was measured, every movement scrutinized. One day, you ventured a step too far, and his response was instant and brutal.

“Stay where I can see you,” he growled, his voice laced with venom as he yanked you back. “You’re mine to keep safe. You run again, and I’ll drag you back in chains. Do you understand?”

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who thrived on the power he held over you, the way your defiance flickered but never fully burned. He saw the way you recoiled from his touch but clung to him when the distant howls of the infected pierced the night.

“You need me,” he whispered one evening, his breath warm against your ear as you lay frozen beneath the weight of his arm. “Deep down, you know it. Without me, you’re nothing but a corpse waiting to happen.” His lips brushed against your temple, a cruel smile curling against your skin as he pressed closer.

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who didn’t ask for permission, didn’t wait for consent. The world outside was a wasteland, and he’d carved out a kingdom of decay with you as his unwilling queen.

When he had you beneath him, trembling and trapped, the outside world ceased to exist. There was only the frantic, feral pulse of his need and the muffled sounds of your resistance.

“You like running, don’t you?” he growled, his voice a low rasp as his teeth scraped along your neck. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, his grip unyielding. “Go ahead. Try it again. See how far you get before I find you.”

But he never gave you the chance. His body pressed against yours, all raw muscle and unrelenting dominance. His movements were calculated, deliberate, every action designed to remind you that escape was a fantasy. The fabric between you tore easily, his strength reducing any barriers to shreds.

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who fucked you with the same ruthless efficiency he used to dispatch the infected. His hips moved with bruising force, each thrust a claim, each motion a declaration of ownership. The scarred expanse of his chest pressed against your trembling form, his sweat mingling with yours as he drove you to the edge of your endurance.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a guttural snarl that left no room for disobedience. Tears blurred your vision, but his gaze burned through them, piercing and unrelenting. “I want to see your face when I ruin you.”

And ruin you he did. His teeth sank into your shoulder, his name leaving his lips like a prayer as his hands left trails of fire and bruises in their wake. He was relentless, animalistic, every motion infused with a hunger that could never be sated.

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who reveled in your tears, the way they streaked down your cheeks as you whimpered beneath him. His tongue flicked out to taste the salt, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice dripping with a twisted reverence that made your stomach churn. “You look so beautiful like this—broken and mine.”

♡ Yandere! Zombie Apocalypse! Survivor who found almost as much pleasure in the aftermath as in the act itself. The marks he left on your skin—the bruises, the bites, the scratches—were trophies, proof of his claim. His calloused fingers traced them with a perverse tenderness, his gaze admiring as if he’d painted a masterpiece.

“Don’t ever forget,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear as his arms caged you in. “No one else gets this. No one else touches you. You’re mine—every fucking inch of you.”

And as he pulled you into his suffocating embrace, his body radiating heat and dominance, you realized the full weight of your captivity. There was no escape from him, no reprieve from the darkness that consumed him every time he looked at you.

You were his obsession, his salvation, his destruction. And he would never let you forget it.

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If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Whispers In The Dark”: @keisocool , @elvabeth

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cyberapid · 5 months ago

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Mom 2

ES Wheeljack x Cybertronian reader

She/Her pronouns used for reader

I might do a part 2 to this idk

i did do a part 2 :)

—•—•—•—•—

Twitch finds any time she gets to spend with Wheeljack enjoyable, even when he uses this sacred father-daughter time for work purposes. So, when he says he's going to be working just outside of Witwicky for a project she jumps to offer her help, begging not only him but her mom and dad to allow her to help– she is a very capable Terran after all. So, with both of her parent's permission she sets out with Wheeljack into the wooded outskirts of Witwicky to painstakingly push short stakes into the ground, they pulse blue at the very top but once they're covered, she and Wheeljack are the only ones to know of their location. Them and the little notebook she’d been given to jot the coordinates down, a very important autobot mission.

“So much for bonding time,”

The dirt takes the brunt of her anger as she kicks what’s in front of her, scuffing her pristine pede. She almost doesn't hear the crunching of leaves and twigs because of her sulking but the last branch broken was loud enough to snap her out of it, she turns expecting to see Wheeljack. Instead, there's an unfamiliar bot who's larger than her, and holding her arm, that is formed into a cannon, at the ready. Thankfully the femme hasn't seemed to have noticed her, leaving Twitch the ability to transform and fly up just out of sight.

The bot is leaking energon and dragging one leg limply, she’s clearly in pain. This twists Twitch’s spark and fills her with the urge to help but all she can think of is her parent’s disappointed faces and decides to find Wheeljack instead. So, she flies off into the forest, not as quietly as she should have though as the tree directly in front of her suddenly bursts into flame and char. Crap-

“I heard you! Show yourself, Con!” the voice is wavering but confident- Ok new plan, new plans are good. What would Bumblebee do?

“I'm not a con!” probably not that,

“Twitch?” Wheeljack's thickly accented voice is an instant relief as he comes through the woods, confused.

“Wheeljack!-” his name comes simultaneously from Twitch and the mystery Bot who walk towards him, throwing both of her arms around his shoulder pads.

“Sweetspark? What are you doing here,” his tone turns from confusion to worry at the sight of her leg, where energon is spilling from damaged fuel lines “By the Allspark! What happened?”

Their conversion turns hushed as Wheeljack adjusts his volume to the low one of the femme leaned against his chassis but Twitch still catches a few words as she creeps forward, important words being Cons and in the area. Overall, not good is what she got,

“Alright alright. Twitch were leaving before there’s any more trouble,” he’s transforming before she can get a word of protest in, revving his engine and taking off back towards her house after seeing both girls transformed and trailing behind him.

The drive is both quick and horribly slow because Wheeljack is speeding like she’s never seen before but also, she can’t help but try to inspect the leaking car that rides just behind him and rumbles anytime she gets too close to her side view mirrors. She can't help but scout just ahead of them to make sure there’s no unwanted bots in front of them before fly back towards the group,

“See anything, Kid?” Wheeljack's voice startles her from her near trance of flying back and forth from them.

“Nope, all clear up front!” Her voice contorts from the discomforting silence that continues to drag even as they finally drive up the familiar dirt road and see the red barn Bumblebee, Thrash, and herself call home. She quickly transforms back and checks the house, seeing all the lights are turned off and the barn doors are closed tight- everyone's asleep.

There's the creak of metal behind her and she turns to see Wheeljack, back in bot form helping to lift the form of the femme cybertronian who sways unsteadily. “You need to sit, let me look.”

“If I sit down, I don't think I'll be able to get back up,” the bot steadies her helm on Wheeljack's shoulder plate, their hands intertwined in a comfortable manner. It's a scene she's familiar with, loving, like her parents when they are extra romantic or just want to poke fun at their children.

Oh, No way

“You don't gotta get up. Just sit, please,” he’s easing her onto the ground before moving to look over her leg, securing the bleeding which leaves his servos stained blue. “It's not great but it'll do till I can get you back to a medic,” his tone is low and most likely not heard by the bot whose optics struggle to stay open, this was reassurance for himself.

“Who is this,” Twitch’s question startles Wheeljack almost as if he forgot that the young Terran was with them in the first place. “Is she your-”

What does her dad call her mom?

“-your mom? Like mom to your dad?” sounds good.

His optics go wide from this question– spot on. He sputters and there's an audible click as his vents kick into overdrive,

“Mom? No, no- She’s my Conjunx,.” he’s fussing with her damaged leg and trying his best to avoid Twitch’s stare, “So in a way, yes?” A sudden hiss causes their attention to turn to the Cybertronian, who slowly comes to.

She slaps Wheeljack’s servo away from her leg and clutches it. “You did good, so stop Jack. you're killing me,” her tone is sharp and her servos sharper as they turn a annoyed glance from him towards Twitch, gaze softening, “Twitch,”

“You know me?”

“How could I not,” she smiles as Twitch comes closer, settling herself nearly between the two, much to Wheeljack's chagrin.

“But I don't know you,” it's her turn to give Wheeljack an annoyed look which he returns,

“I was gonna introduce you two eventually, just needed to be the right time,” the barns paint chips and the wood creaks unsteadily as he suddenly leans his weight back onto it, rubbing his stained servos over his face plate before giving his digits a disgusted look as the blue stains part of his plate, “And I think it's safe to say this wasn't the right time. I don't even know why you were here,” he turns towards the femme, bewildered.

“We got word that Cons were in the area, no one could get ahold of you, so I went myself. No need to thank me.”

Her smile is weak but playful for a moment before dropping at the quick snark of Wheeljack, who doesn’t seem to catch the playfulness, “Wasn't planning on it”

Twitch watches their interactions but tunes their words out, opting to watch their desperate need for physical contact. The two are sending fierce glares to one another, their servos never untwine even when they are awkwardly twisted around Twitch’s much smaller form- Then it clicks, “You're like-”

“Don't-” Wheeljack's optics widen as he predicts what's gonna come from his daughter's intake and he reels with horror trying to cut her off,

“-my Mom2!”

“Mom?”

“We can have Mom2-Twitch bonding! Science is already Wheeljack and my thing so we can do something else! What do you like to do? Unless you like science too which I'm fine with more of- but I really like-” She continues even with Wheeljack trying to coax her to silence, but her excitement is infectious, and it brings a smile to your face plate.

#transformers x reader #transformers #transformers earthspark #wheeljack x reader #Earthspark Wheeljack x reader #cybertronian reader #reader insert #Earthspark Wheeljack #earthspark

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daenysthedreamersblog · 1 year ago

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STRANGERS

Don't talk to strangers or you might fall in love

Freezer bride, your sweet divine

You devour like smoked bovine hide

How funny, I never considered myself tough

summary: you've won the hunger games, and ready to return home in peace, but president snow has other plans for you, and he won't take no for an answer.

pairings: president!coriolanus snow x district6!reader

warnings: MDNI!, blood, violence, murder, manipulation, power imbalance, coercion, heavy drinking, non-con male masturbation, non-con oral sex (m receiving), roses ( pls let me know if i forgot any!)

notes: im new at publishing on tumblr so pls be patient with me! also new at writing in second person POV so sorry for any mistakes! hope u enjoy! there will be more parts coming soon!

Blood splatters onto your face.

"Please," He mouthed underneath you, but the knife was plunging down anyways. You couldn’t hear it.

The crunch of a sternum bone.

Silence. Cold silence rang in your ears and you blinked climbing off of the body a distant boom rupturing around the arena, but you only felt to shake of it, the sudden vibrational change in the air. You looked around the sun blaring down onto you as you turned away from the dead boy, you stumble forward, knee giving out from under you before you collapsed to the ground rolling onto your back staring upward. The blood oozed from the wound on your leg, it stung, it stung harshly, but it was welcomed.

It was over. Everything. It was over and all you were met with was blood stained hands and silence. You could smell the rot forming in your soul.

Boots were pounding into the ground, surrounding you, guns pointing at your body. Hands wrapped around your biceps pulling you, dragging you out of purgatory and into the looming light ahead.

"Congratulations." He whispered placing the small crown on your head, a dainty gold thing, his hands lingering too long on a wisp of your hair. The games had cut off your tongue it seems words never rising to the surface. His hand was under you chin, "Smile. You've won." It felt like a command so the corners of your mouth tugged up as the camera flashed upon you, shaking hands with your esteemed president.

"Thank you." His jaw ticked at your slip, the lack of his title, but he shook your hand anyways as Lucky Flickerman’s crew zoomed in for their close up. The motions were clear, set into place as you read the prepared words off the telecom. If you could get through this then you could return home where it was simple and safe. You would be okay once the Capitol train dropped you off in District 6 where you can happily watch it all disappear forever.

A hand slid to the small of your back, your spine locking up as another photo flashed of the two of you. Your smile stumbled as his shoulder pressed into yours heat pouring off of him where your bodies collided.

You met his eyes, face half turned towards each other, and your cheeks burned with a flush.

The only good thing about winning was finally eating and drinking real food again.

You downed cups and flutes of any alcohol you could find shoved into your hands drowning out the sound of people talking, congratulating you. It was cruel really how when the film of a camera was replaced it sounded like small bones cracking, so your drank more. Why were they so thankful? They arranged for you to be there...they sent you to either die or kill for them. Because some great-great grand-whatever rebelled, so now you had to live with the consequences of someone else actions.

Your brain was beyond heavy, mouth no doubt stained red from the wine. One more day, one more day and you would be going home to die of hopefully natural causes some other time. One more day and you would be out of this hateful city, away from theses entitled, hateful people. You felt it then, the dryness in your throat, the angry water welling in your eyes. You set the empty cup down, stumbling away from the party silent tears beginning to unwarrantedly roll down your cheeks. You gripped the railing as you climbed the stairs towards the mansion doors needing to hide away from the world, and when you reached the top you pushed it open harshly. The heels of your shoes clicked on marble floor in an empty hallway, a door slamming shut behind you as you kept moving. The hallway was spinning like you were stuck in a concrete mixer turning and turning and turning.

You tripped over your foot catching yourself by throwing a hand out to the wall, collapsing onto a small cushioned bench. The groan left your mouth as you slid out of your shoes feet aching, you felt the long gash of the scar the District 2 tribute had given you. It was taking a while to fully close, the wound on you soul would never heal either it seemed.

More tears. More anger.

"You should be celebrating." The cold, calculating voice cut through the air.

You could only roll your head upward, too drunk, too ashamed to be afraid at the surprise. Fresh tears rolled down your cheek. "I did."

Footsteps were coming towards you, slow, like the wolf hunting a doe, and that was when your body alerted, when he had stepped into your space, head snapping towards him. He looked as calm and collected as his tone, a rich black suit fitted to his lean body, a hand lazily in his pocket as his legs bracketed in your knee. "Then why are you in here? I have a whole party out there for you and you hide away in my home.”

"Too noisy." You stared up at him with red rimmed eyes as he towered over, your vision fuzzy at the corners.

His knuckle came up to your cheek collecting the tear freshly traveling down makeup covered skin. "You should be celebrating." He repeated the moisture glistening on his bone. "Not crying."

You sniffed, your voice cracking from crying, "Sorry sir."

"Mr. President." He corrected.

"Sorry, Mr. President sir." You cleared your throat offering him a fake smile.

His hand came under your chin, a pinky resting on your jaw his thumb tracing puffy, wine stained lips, "That's a good girl. Too much wine I suspect hmm?" You only nodded as he held you face, held your life with it too. You might have won his games, but he could still ruin everything, ruin the little family left back home. He had always made that clear to everyone; it wasn’t a shock people started dying soon after they crossed him.

"Yes. Mr. President, sir.” For some reason another tear slipped out with a wide eyed blink.

"You look so pretty when you cry." He traced over your lip one more time gently pushing in until the pad of his thumb pressed against your tongue. You heard the wet noise of his lips parting, as he took a quiet deep breath your teeth grazing his skin. Then he popped it out, bought it to his mouth, sucking gently on your leftover wine. "Come." He wrapped his arm around your bicep pulling you to your feet in front of him. "Let's get you some food, introduce you to some more friends of mine, and then bed." Two hands stroked down your hair holding your head between his palms. "How does that sounds my little victor?"

A dark gaze lingered in his eyes that there was no way around what he wanted, no telling him no. So you let him bend down and slip your shoes back on keeping your face towards the opposite wall. ”Yes Mr. President, sir.” His hand lingered too long on your bare ankle before he rose.

He smiled, a snake like gleam in it, like he had finished wrapping his body around his victim to suffocate it. One more day, and then you were done. He could introduce you to whoever he liked, feed you whatever he wanted, but come tomorrow on that beautiful train ride home the Capitol, the games would be a distant traumatizing memory, and he would just be a face on a screen come next year.

He plucked the white rose off the front of his suit jacket, took the pin out, and tucked it behind your ear to sit prettily in your hair.

His hand wrapped around your waist causing you to grip his forearm to stumble out into the party once more. Your eyes scanned the party, catching on a young girl, the winner from District 4. Her name started with an M, but you couldn’t find the rest of it in you hazy brain. The only thing you could focus on was the sad frown etched upon her pretty face as President Snow dragged you through his party.

6 months later

You wiped dirt off on your pants standing up to admire the blooming garden spread out in front of you. A smile flittered onto your face for only a moment before it fell staring at the wilting leaves on top of wet soil. They had fallen no doubt during a weeding or pruning or plain decay, but they were there ready for the earth to absorb them for nutrients.

Did the arena absorb their decaying bodies too or were they flown away somewhere else? Did they go back to their families so they could rest in peace?

You shook the thought grabbing gardening tools and the water can heading back to the house. Time was helping, the white noise of the district was helping, the trains going by were helping. The only reminder you had ever been carted away...well that and the large sum you had been gifted upon winning. You decided to ration it, save it but comfortably. It was the only thing truly stopping you from drowning yourself in alcohol or morphling, and the disappointed look your father had given you when they had carried you off the train, too wasted to walk. You took up gardening soon after the initial withdrawing, rotting period needing to keep you hands, your mind busy.

The scent of vanilla hit you as soon as you entered the house your body freezing on the threshold. It was a warm vanilla scent, which meant your mother had made tea, which meant there was company. You set your tools down, peeling off you mud stained boots. Your mother laughed as you slowly continued down the hall, the sound muffled by the kitchen wall you had yet to curve around to enter the kitchen. Alarms shot off in your head, the hair on your neck standing up knowing it wasn't anyone from District 6.

"Mother." You called seeing the outline of her at the table.

"Darling." Your mother smiled as you turned the corner, eyes flitting over to the man across the table from her sipping on his tea. A fresh bouquet of white roses sat in a new vase at the center of the table. "We have a guest."

"Mr. President." Your mouth dried out, feet heavy, gluing you to the middle of the kitchen. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Your mother only stood up rushing towards you, taking your hands to sweetly drag you to the table. "Come sit, my darling bluebell." She forced you into an empty chair around the modest circular table, a plaid green table cloth covering it. You kept eyes on him as she poured tea into the only empty cup. Once the kettle was down she discreetly tried to wipe dirt off your face, "Always covered in something from your little garden."

President Snow mouth quirked up. "Garden?"

You only managed a nod. ”It was a small little thing, something to help…” Her eyes dropped, “Something to keep her busy, and well before you knew it it had taken up most of the lawn." Another discreet pat on the cheek. "I have never been more proud than when I see her out there working on it." She chuckled, "Well besides when you put the tiara on her head." You inwardly cringed at the word tiara, at the reminded of what had been done to earn it.

"My grandmother grew roses." He motioned to the red one he worse pinned to his blue suit. His eyes met yours, "Do you?" A small nod as steam swirled up from the tea that would never be drank, "May I see them?"

Your mother stood up answering, "Of course." Her hands came upon you shoulders, "Go change and show our lovely President." You pushed the chair back using it as an escape for the moment, "Wash your face, and put on that pretty blue sun dress." You didn't answer, only walked back down the hall to your room finally able to breath normally away from his suffocating presence. What was he doing all the way out here? You had figured, had clung, to the fact you would never have to see him, or the Capitol again, and now he was here invading your home.

After washing your shaking hands and face, digging the dirt out of your nails, and braiding your hair back did you put that stupid sundress on and walk back out. Your mother was standing by the door a forced smile on her lips, "Yes sir, no sir." She reminded you, pulling small tendrils of hair loose around your face. "Don't speak unless spoken to."

"I know." You told her, forcing her hands away from your face reciting what your father and mother had both instilled in you. "I am grateful for what you've done for us President Snow."

"Mr. President Snow, sir." She pinched your cheeks to give them color then let you step around her and out of the house.

He was standing near the edge of the garden just before the walkway split separating each sections. "It truly does take up most of the lawn." He smiled holding out his arm for you. You slowly allowed him to hook it under his elbow to lead down the walkway. "It smells divine."

"Thank you." You swallowed, "Mr. President, sir."

He only smirked, "Your mother raised a well mannered woman."

You offered him a shy smile, ”My father and mother always instilled proper etiquette as best as they could. They emphasized respect and dutifulness."

"Important traits to have." He agreed. He was Capitol, he was the president, no doubt relishing in the fact district folks weren't born with those traits, they had to have it beat into them.

His hand clamped around yours, trapping it in his arm. Your breaths shook, don’t stutter. "My roses are just this way." You motioned up the path for him to lead in that direction.

The rose bush could have looked better, but it had always been a work in progress, a difficult flower to manage, and your heart had never truly been fond of roses. Red and yellow seeds were the only color you could acquire so the colors sometimes missed their mark or died all together. “Troublesome for you?” There was no hiding the disappointment in his tone.

“Yes.” An embarrassed response. "I'm tempted to rid myself of them."

"Hmm," He stepped forward fingers running along the soft petals. "I have a garden full of white roses, I brought some for you today."

You gave him a small smile. "Thank you. I'm sure my mother adores them."

"They're for you, not her." He flatly told you a sneer on his face. "A gift of sorts to my favorite little victor." He smirked down at the bush plucking a perky red rose from its stem. "Or what did she call you?" He turned back towards you, "Her darling bluebell?"

The blush bit at your cheeks, "Thank you. Mr. President sir." He smiled deeply tucking the stem of the rose behind your ear rooting it into the braid. "They are lovely." I lied. The scent of roses overtook the air to the point you felt dizzy with it, felt them swallowing you whole like he did.

"I do hope your mother won’t mind looking after it all.” He sighed his hand running down your arm as blood drained out of you, the question sitting leaden in your mouth. "We're trying something new, something Dr. Gaul believed would bring good publicity to the games." You chewed on your cheek, biting the refusal back. You remembered hearing about her death a year or two ago. "A victory tour of sorts." Both hands were on your arms holding you in front of him, "You'll go district to district letting them celebrate you and then finish at the Capitol. I'm going to throw you another party."

His hand came under your chin tilting your face up to him, "How does that sound my little bluebell?"

"Okay." You whispered because it was what was supposed to be said to him.

He beamed, "Such a good girl." His smile fell, "Since this is the first time we're doing it I'll be going with you of course to make sure everything goes smoothly."

Ice coated you. How long would this be? Would he ever let you remain in peace? Would the garden wither and die in the time you would be gone? Why did he stare like that?

You only nodded the obedience in your spine locking into place.

It wasn't horrible. The train was comfy and reminded you of home, the rumbling sound it made, the smell of the smoke and gasoline, the horn blaring through the night. They had written words, of course, to say at every district, reciting from a script how sorry you were for their losses and how thankful you are for the Capitol and their generosity. President Snow talked the most which was ironically a godsend since you didn't want to speak at all.

Mostly, there was food, tons of food...and wine.

You more self-indulgent habit to make the time go by smoother. Even more so now because you could, because it was free, because your parents weren't here to shame you. You would stop once you got home; you had done it before. When the tour was over, you would stop, you would go back home, relish in the normalcy, the garden, where it was safe. Where no one could find you.

Snow wouldn't be on the train ride home.

It unnerved you that he was here simply a few train cars down, eating, sleeping, plotting murder no doubt, planning more games. It only made you swig from the bottle more to shove the anxiety down.

You had crawled in the train car window, a comfy seat under it, curling you feet under you to watch the night blur past. Each bump comforted you, like you were in the older train cars carting people around the district. The moon wasn't out making any outline impossible to see, so you closed your eyes, pretending to hear the bustling square at home. You took another drink of wine savoring the lazy feeling coating your body.

The door slid open no doubt an Avox coming to do some chore, so you didn’t even bother to look. "You didn't come to dinner." Your head snapped up seeing Snow standing in the door a tray of food in his hands, "They said you only grabbed a bottle of wine and left."

"I wasn't hungry." Not a lie, you had felt ill since leaving District 9 the tributes faces beginning to gnaw at you once more. You had survived, and they hadn’t, and it felt wrong. "Mr. President, sir."

He wasn't wearing his normal suit instead a pair of dress pants, and a starched white button up, the top two buttons undone. His immaculate blonde hair was slightly mused a stray curling piece falling onto his forehead. "Come eat with me." You weighed the options before unfolding your legs out and turning to slid off the sill. You tugged at the nightgown they had shoved in the closet for sleep, a soft thin robe covering your shoulders over it. They hadn’t allowed you to bring any clothes from home. His eyes glanced up your body as you pulled it tighter around you.

"Excuse my appearance Mr. President, sir." You sat down across from him.

"No need." He only smiled as he pushed the tray. "Do you like the train?"

You nodded picking at the food, "It reminds me of home. We used to live by the test track before it moved, and it used to rumble the house. I used to hate it growing up, but now it seems to have grown on me."

"I bet it has." You should enjoy the food more, shovel it down until it was nothing. Your family had never suffered too much within the district not like the others, like 10,11,12... but it wasn't exactly always easy. The Capitol was always cramming food down your throat before and after the games, before you had reveled in it, the after...it tasted like dust in my mouth sometimes. You set the fork down pushing the half eaten tray away, but he only pushed it back. "Eat, please." You began to open your mouth in protest, but his jaw ticked. "Eat." A command, "All of it."

You watched his face, bottom lip trembling at the new tone he was using. It was bound to come out, but you had been so kind, always listened. You slowly began eating again forcing each bite until nothing remained, until your chest was tight with a full stomach. You took a sip of water. Always thank him, your mother had whispered on your way out of the door, Even if you are not thankful.’ “Thank you, Mr. President sir."

"You are so good to me, my little bluebell." He leaned forward the darkness engulfing the blue in his eyes. "Can you do something for me?" You made yourself nod even-though fear was trickling down your skin. He motioned with his head, "Go lie down on the bed."

The color drained from your face, "Wh-What?"

Don't stutter.

You cursed inwardly for the slip. ”Be my good girl and go lie down on the bed." His grin widened, “I won’t say it again.”

By the time your knee hit the bed tears had slipped over, you tried to stop them, but they welled anyways as you turned to look at him. He stalked towards you unbuttoning his pants, unzipping them, so you forced your gaze upward taking in the sounds of rustling. His hands pushed the robe down your shoulders letting it pool onto the bed. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t find the words to stop him as his fingers trailed along your bare shoulders, along your collarbones, up your neck. "Spit." He held out his hand. You swallowed, pulling the liquid back up and spit into his palm watching him bring it between his legs. You forced yourself to not look down, not look at what his hand was doing with a large length, to not look as he slid his hand along it. His other hand came up to your face, once again dragging across your bottom lip, pushing his finger further in, hooking it onto your bottom teeth. "Suck on it." He growled. You blinked fresh tears out before letting your tongue poke and lick up his finger, swirling around his knuckle listening to his pants. A cry of protest sat in your lungs, but would it matter? Were you always bound to be at his mercy, cursed to obey his whims to exert his power. “You listen so good." His head fell back a little the small groan hiding the sounds of him stroking himself. “Will you take my cock good too?”

"Please." You whimpered against his hand finding the smallest resistance in yourself at his words. "Please sir...I'm a virgin. I-I don't-!"

He shoved you back onto the bed with a growl his knees straddling your thigh as he pumped his hand faster and faster groaning into the air as two fingers invaded your mouth thrusting along your tongue. You felt violated, but all you could do was lie there and take it, let him do whatever he was doing because you were good, because he was the president and you had to obey. You closed your eyes tears burning your skin on the way his movements shook your body, until finally he stilled warmth shooting over your skin.

You finally breathed as he removed his fingers and stepped away. You lied there, listening to him straighten his clothes back on. "Don't change. Sleep in that." You glanced down at the white clumps running down your nightgown, some even drying to your exposed chest.

He stared at you expectantly. Thank him, even when you're not thankful. "Thank you Mr. President, sir.”

His grin was haunting as he left.

The rest of the tour went unbothered. He only occasionally came back to repeat those events, but each time it got a little easier as you began to know what to expect, each time you dared to look a little bit more. Sometimes even getting lost in the way his hand glided across his glistening cock covered in your spit. On the rare nights, you even gazed upward at him, at his hooded eyes, sweat dripping down his forehead, tongue between his teeth. You even began to listen to the noises he made, the heavy grunts, the soft groans and grit of his jaw, his vulgar words at you when his eyes suddenly met yours making you look away with heat in your cheeks.

And then he would cum over your body.

You threw up after the first night only forcing it to stay on your body because he had said so. After that it became easier to withstand the feeling, the warmth, the smell. You realized after a few times it gave off a scent you had only attributed to him, you only knew that because he often stood so close to you. It was so mild and hidden that you could only tell when you brought some close to your nose, and since it was already there you tasted it and you figured his skin might taste like that too.

It was fine, until you finished the tour of District 2. The boy's face stared down at you, and you remembered how it looked covered in blood.

Please!

The crunch of bone.

You could barely get through the reading, crying halfway through before someone had to usher you to the side. Snow was angry; you could see it in his dark eyes but maybe he could find pity. You had been so kind, so good.

It didn't matter by the time he found you curled into the corner of my room you were covered in smeared make up and tears. You couldn't even take off the stupid pink dress they had given you. He stood there for a moment taking you in then he grabbed you by the hair yanking you up onto the bed. Then he reeled back and slapped you across the face so hard your head snapped to the side. "You were very bad today bluebell."

"I-I..."

Another slap the other way. "Don't stutter."

Your cheek was stinging, "I'm sorry." A pause, and then another hard slap stars split your vision. "I'm sorry Mr. President, sir." You closed your eyes waiting for more but then you heard the familiar noise of his pants unbuttoning and your body began to lay itself back like it had registered before you did. He only darkly chuckled as he pulled you back up and shoved you to your knees in front of him, "I know you didn't mean to break the rules. Right?” You nodded, “And why do I know that?”

"Because I'm your good girl, Mr. President, sir." You stared up at him with red cheeks and pouting lips.

He groaned, his hard length pressing against your mouth. You glanced up at him with furrowed brows not knowing how to do what he was asking. “Open your mouth,” You did. “Don’t bite. I'll do the rest." He pushed past your lips, taking ahold off your face and began rocking his hips into you, his cock sliding along your tongue. "Oh fuck," He shivered shoving himself deeper the tip of him touching the back of your throat. You swallowed the gag as he pulled out to slam back into you bring your throat more tears spilling out, spit running down your chin. You squeezed your eyes as he used your mouth for whatever he wanted as he thrusted his cock into your mouth viciously. "Swirl your tongue around it." He hissed and you obeyed running it along the shaft, around the head feeling him stutter his movements, but pick up speed. His hand was rooted in your scalp yanking your face up, pain bubbling up with each abusing stroke, but something else was there too, and you realized his skin didn't taste bad. "You like that? You like when I fuck your mouth?"

You mumbled out incoherently not even sure what your answer was.

He shoved your head back, neck craned against the mattress his hips pinning you as he blatantly fucked into your mouth. ”I wonder what pretty sounds you would make if I fucked you hmm?” His hand bobbed your head against him as you gripped his thighs to hold yourself up as saliva dripped across your chest. "I can't though...too many others want it."

Your eyes shot open just as his thrust turned sporadic and warm liquid shot down your throat. Your face was covered in fluids, covered in drool and cum, dribbling down your chin as he slowly removed himself. ”What?" Your throat was raw and torn.

"I was going to wait to tell you." He sighed tucking himself back in. "But you are very desirable as a Victor, and once you told me you were a virgin...well it made you a lot more desirable." He patted your tears and cum stained cheek, "But you have been so good to me despite this slip up, so I will try to pick someone you will like. Hmm?” You were too stunned to respond. He was selling you to people, selling you to the highest bidder because you had killed a boy. You weren’t even supposed to win everyone had let you know how the tribute from 10 was slated to win, but he got taken out while you were hiding, and they had lost money. Because your life was a bet for them.

"I want to go home." You cried softly his hand cradling your face.

He cocked his head to the side, "Oh bluebell. You can't leave me yet." He stood up and began to walk to the door, "I might just have to keep you."

He left you there on your knees. No he didn't quite taste bad, in fact, you thought maybe you enjoyed the pool of him on your tongue. You cried even harder.

PART TWO here!

(if you care)

#coriolanus snow #fanfic #dark fanfic #dark coriolanus snow #president snow #president coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coryo x reader #coryo smut #coriolanus smut #coryo x you #dark fanfiction #smut #coriolanus x y/n #tom blyth #hunger games #the ballad of songbirds and snakes

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miamooooo · 1 month ago

Note

can you write josh and reader being absolute freaks? freaks as in they love consensual non con😭😭

i was thinking of josh being a creep and stalking reader (and yes reader knows, she just pretends not to) and it ends with them having rough sex.

please it is totally fine if you are not comfortable with the whole idea ☺️🙏🏼, i will still read whatever u come up with!

genuinely didn't know if i wanted to write this in headcanon format or not so i’m sorry if it seems like its constantly switching up 😭 regardless though, i hope you enjoy!!

(warnings): nsfw, reader has female anatomy, cnc, fear play, knife play(?), stalking, physical aggression, reader is wearing a skirt, josh is creepy and mean asf, power imbalance, choking/gagging

when josh brought you to his parents’ secluded mountain for a weekend, you knew he was being absolutely serious when he told you to be prepared. you already knew the rules, because everything had already been discussed. he gave you the loose script and you both set up clear boundaries… but he didn’t tell you everything, obviously.. because where’s the fun in that?

he only tells you that he won’t go easy on you, and to be prepared.

so that’s what you were doing — cautiously walking through the secluded area in the woods, footsteps light and reluctant. josh didn’t tell you where he’d be, he wanted your reactions to be completely authentic when he popped out. the only knowledge of his presence was the red graffiti on an abandoned wooden sign that read: i’m watching you.

that was all you were getting from him. you were excited, but you couldn’t show how much you were enjoying it. you had to play your role perfectly.

josh was careful to stay out of sight, but he made sure that you could hear every occasional faint crunch of a leaf beneath his boots. the sounds weren’t loud, but it was purposeful and enough to make you feel on edge, and that’s exactly what he wanted.

he creepily watched you behind a tree, his eyes perversely travelling down to your legs and the way your short skirt swayed as you timidly wandered further through the trail ahead, and he couldn’t help but get slightly impatient with his own game. he was softly palming himself through his jeans, thinking about how easy it could’ve been for him to sneak up behind you in that moment and take you right against a tree, but he wanted to wait a little longer. he was so eager to already have his way with you.

your small and trembling voice and the way you clutched your hands up to your chest as you called his name was all josh needed to hear before he’s giving you the signal to run; the loud snap of a branch, that at first, caught you off guard, before you remembered that he was in fact starting to chase you.

you’re bolting through the woods, heart pounding so hard as you hear him right behind you. and when you turn around to see how far you are from josh, you trip over a rock.. or a branch… or maybe your own feet. you weren’t sure because that was the least of your worries.

you were in so much pain from the tiny pieces of gravel and sticks digging into your skin, but you’re barely able to process it because josh was right behind you, towering over your disheveled figure.

you’re so quick to try and scramble to your feet, panicked huffs coming from the depths of your chest, but it’s too late. he’s already kneeling down behind you, pinning your front to the ground and holding your arms behind your back so you couldn’t fight him — as if you really even could… or wanted to.

“oh man… you’re in for it now, sweetheart.”

josh thought you looked so pretty when you were all panicked and out of breath and completely vulnerable for him. his cock was already twitching in his pants at the sight of you, enjoying the way you whimpered and whined in protest.

“get off of me..!” you shakily cried out, though your words lacked the firmness that you intended. truthfully, you were so turned on, your panties soaking wet from how roughly josh was handling you in the dirt.

“relax, hon. it’ll be quick.” he shushes you, holding a firm hand on the small of your back to hold you in place as he pulled out a heavy-duty pocket knife with his other one.

he teases you so much, loving the way your body stiffened when he dragged the blade up the back of your thigh, flipping your skirt up and trailing it over the curve of your ass, softly pressing the sharp tip into your skin. it was enough to make you frantically gasp out, making you believe that he was actually gonna cut you. and he’s laughing softly to himself, enjoying how helpless you were.

he removed the knife from your skin, cutting your panties open so he’s got full access to you.. and to his surprise, you're already extremely wet.

josh was so impressed with you. he thought you looked so cute trembling and protesting out to him, even though the wetness between your legs told a different story. and of course he points it out, because he liked seeing you embarrassed and flustered.

“you sure you want me to stop, baby? looks like you’re enjoying yourself..” he teased you as he unbuckled his pants, pulling them down low enough to free his already hard and leaking cock.

once he's positioned properly behind you, he's lining himself up to your entrance, gathering a wad of spit in his mouth before letting it dribble between your cheeks and down your hole.. not that you needed it anyway.

when josh gets ready to fuck you, he’s so mean. he barely gives you time to adjust before he’s already plowing inside of you. his cock is buried so deep, hips slamming forward, balls slapping against your puffy clit while your pussy made the filthiest, squelching noises.

josh didn’t even care about the uncomfortable position you were in either; back arched wildly, ass in the air, one of his hands pressing the side of your face into the dirty ground, while the other held your hip firmly so he’s able to steadily pound into you. he didn’t care about all of your whining about how badly your knees dug into the hard ground to the point where you were sure to have cuts and bruises after. he didn't care because if you really wanted to, you could’ve said your safe word.

“mmh, it hurts? then say the word, baby.”

he’s huffing and groaning, getting off at the sight of you struggling; watching the way tears were starting to clump up in your pretty lashes from the pain, how you struggled to keep your eyes from rolling into the back of your head after each thrust, or the way you tried to form a coherent sentence, constantly alternating between whether you wanted him to ‘slow down’ or ‘don’t stop.’ and josh really wanted to tease you, but he’s so distracted by the way your pussy spasmed and squeezed tightly around his cock.

“mmph, fuck.. josh!” you whined out, ready to give him another vague and slurred command again, but he’s instantly shushing you, removing his hand from the side of your face, to roughly shove his fingers in your mouth until their hitting the back of your throat.

“you can take it, honey. you wanted this, right? hm?”

you didn't need to say anything out loud for josh to know that this was exactly what you wanted. your eyes were rolling, saliva trickling down his hand as you sucked and gagged around his fingers, desperately pushing your hips back to meet his hard thrusts. he’s so obsessed with the way your ass hits his lower abdomen with every backward push of your hips. “f-fuck, yeah.. that’s it...”

your thighs were trembling as you got closer to your orgasm and josh noticed it immediately. he pulls his fingers from your mouth, wrapping his arm around your front to move it in between your legs, his saliva-coated fingers immediately finding your clit. he circled over the swollen bud, applying enough pressure to where you’re gasping out strangled moans of “yeah yeah yeah..!”

“c’mon, honey,” he urges, lightly tapping his fingers on your clit to see you jolt and gasp out some more. “i know you wanna cum.”

he’s groaning and clenching his jaw to suppress the growing moans in his throat as he watches you shake and cry and cream all over his cock, and it only makes him start to fuck you harder. “ffuck, yes- take it sweetheart. take every fucking inch.”

#until dawn josh #josh washington #josh washington smut #until dawn smut #josh washington x reader #until dawn x reader #rami malek x reader #joshua washington #until dawn headcanons

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bits-and-babs · 2 years ago

Text

⋆ 𝐏𝐎𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃

Dark!Commander Mills x f!Reader

word count: 3.7K

warnings: 18+ MDNI, Dead Dove Do Not Eat; this fic may be unsettling for some readers. Dark!Mills, Chasing Predator/Prey, fear, tense scenes. DubCon [Non-Con Themes?]. Mentions of body hair, Size Difference/Size Kink. Pussy slapping, unprotected p in v sex, tummy bulge, claiming, cream pie

➛ mills masterlist I| main masterlist |I send an ask I| taglist

Jagged bark digs into the skin of your back through the thin, soft cotton fabric of your shirt. You feel the amber tree sap seep into the canvas, sticking uncomfortably to your back and clinging to you as you try to ease your hyperventilation. The cells of your lungs vibrate with alarm, stinging as you suck in mouthfuls of oxygen.

Get away.

The sunshine thrashes you, your skin slick with the sweat that rolls down your temples. Heat ebbs at the edges of your mind, teasing you with the promise of unconsciousness. Rest. It urges you to let your knees slump, to ease your aching body down to the forest floor and close your eyes for a moment– you can’t. You can’t be certain how far ahead you were or how much of a head-start he had conceded.

It had been freezing when you awoke, the cold biting your skin raw even as it thawed. A low hum deafened your ears, subconscious tears frosting your coarse eyelash hairs together and forcing your lids shut. Panicked, you had pushed the heels of your palms to your eyes in an attempt to melt the frosty glue, feeling something slippy and thick smear across the skin of your cheekbone.

The metal tang to the scent that pierced your nostrils indicated you were bleeding, pain leaping forward in your skull and forcing your eyes open in your discomfort. Like a mallet smashed over your head, the sounds of your surroundings cracked through your ear drums. A deafening siren screamed, blurring your vision with the intensity of its volume. Glass tinkled against the metal shell of the cryogenic chamber as you’d wearily pushed yourself from the leather seat you had called home for an estimated double solar-cycle. Your limbs were stiff, unused and preserved in ice for twenty-four months.

Green flooded your vision as you rose to your feet, a flashing light on the data pad of your chamber indicating your apparent survival following defrost. You’d been thankful to see your vitals displayed across the screen– you had felt so awful upon waking that you were almost certain you had died.

Relief that had flooded your veins curdled into distress when the data pad beeped, a cursor swiping across the pixels to dismiss the notification of your stirring.

You hadn’t given the scene much notice from then, jittery fear shuddering over your skin and forcing your feet forward. The ship that had meant to deliver you to Somaris was nowhere in sight, but debris pieces of the vessel had lay strewn across the forest floor. Orange embers still glowed within the metal of some large slabs of metal.

The realisation had been slow to arrive, the throbbing remnants of a concussion sweeping nausea throughout your body as you stumbled over the fallen trees. The piercing ring of the alarm continues to circle your agitated mind, tormenting you with the sinking reality of your plight. Stranded on a planet far beyond the solar system you had come from, surrounded by alien creatures you hadn’t seen stored in information holo-pads and without a ship to re-enter orbit– all while attempting to avoid the person who you had no doubt was hot on your heels.

Initially, you had assumed that the scaly, lizard-like animals were causing the snapping of the twigs in the thick treeline of the forest. While some were humongous, you noticed some were of a smaller size. Even the creatures that reached your hips posed a significant enough threat for you to avoid them by ducking behind tree trunks and bushes, their sharp teeth dripping with saliva when they caught your scent.

Whipping around at the sound of another ‘crunch’, you’d caught sight of him. Long, ebony hair fell in strands in front of his face; his brows pinched together in a stalker's concentration. His lips set in a grim, thin line, recharge-blaster aimed directly at your calves. The amber sap that had coated your skin from the trees appeared to have drenched his eyes, irises burning a bright honey colour in the brutal sunshine.

You hadn’t stopped running since, chest heaving as the cells of your lungs screamed at the intensity of your pace. The thick fabric of your flight suit, coated in leather around the collar, was heavy to carry, your legs aching as you’d lept over each of the fallen trunks in your way.

Shuddering at the memory of the hours you have spent evading capture, you inhale shakily in an attempt to ease your thumping heart. It threatens to crack your sternum, bludgeoning the bone with its rapid pace. Even though you’d stopped for some time, dread kept your heartbeat thrumming like the wings of the birds on your home planet, your blood rushing in your ears and drowning out the squawks of the flying lizards, their beaks long and sharp, wings leathery with clawed hands at the joint.

A stream trickles nearby, the running water rippling around the surrounding rocks. The breeze is cool against your face, tickling your cheekbones in a soft kiss. Despite the rustling of the leaves, the babble of the small brook, and the distant hiss of the hot spring geysers, it’s utterly quiet.

Foreboding chills you to the bone, wringing you dry.

It feels off, this delicate balance of stillness. Trepidation crawls up the vertebrae of your spine and prickles your skin with goosebumps. There’s an ambience; thick with something sinister. It coats your surroundings and lingers in the air like unsparked lighting, threatening to pounce.

Your hair stands on end, blood freezing along with the beat of your heart when you hear it; the zooming charge of a blaster.

“You can’t run from me forever.” It’s delivered with an alarming deadpan, his even voice ricocheting off the tree line. You can’t tell where he is like this, your neck reeling on its shoulders as you frantically search the area.

Darting your eyes amongst the bushes, you spot him- his footsteps cautious as he picks each footfall carefully. He’s learnt from his previous mistake, ensuring not to reveal his position with a snapping twig.

You swallow back a whimper, skirting around the trunk of the tree. Palm pressed to your nose and mouth; you hear your trembling breaths as you attempt to smother them. It’s terrifying, the level of noise you make. You’re certain your pulse gives away your hiding spot- that the vibration of the very cells of your being is connected to an amplifier and blasting through the woodlands.

In contrast, your pursuer is almost silent, barely making a sound as he picks through the undergrowth. You wonder how it’s possible for such a large man to make so little noise. He’s so careful, so silent that you pause your breath to listen for him better. Where-?

“Sweet Thing…” you hear him coo, a slight taunt to his voice that makes your nails dig into the tree's bark. Your lungs threaten to scream, ankles promising to buckle beneath the suffocating pressure.

Crouching as low as you can onto the balls of your feet, you attempt to shuffle around the trunk's circumference. You’re careful to test each footstep, feeling for fragile foliage beneath the sole of your shoe before setting it on the floor. You swallow thickly, wincing as the dried leaves rustle quietly.

It’s as though time momentarily stops. The rubber of your heel catches on the roots of the tree, slipping down the curved surface and sending your foot crashing through the sun-baked foliage with a sickening ‘crunch.’

Oh.

Tensing up all at once, your muscles pinch with fear. You fail to suppress the heaving breaths that rattle through you now, sucking in mouthfuls of oxygen and wheezing in terror when you exhale.

“Hmm,” a hum sounds to your left, loud to your ears. You bristle, the seams of your person screaming that you need to move, to run. Instead, you stay rooted to the spot, fight or flight bested by the primal instinct to be still. To hide. The atmosphere shifts, the chill of the breeze twisting to an icy disquiet.

Don’t. Don’t move, be still. If you’re still, he won-

They crawl across the curve of your jaw at first, fingertips creeping along the line of the bone before gently grasping your chin. White hot fear holds you perfectly still as his thumb pushes into the soft flesh of your cheek, the scrape of his knuckles biting into your skin as they purse your lips together. With your feeble attempt to shake him, his grip turns solid.

“Got you.”

His gruff voice rasps against the shell of your ear, lips brushing the thin skin and raising goose pimples across your neck and down your spine. Breath caught in your throat, you barely manage a whimper of response– the sound cracks in your vocal cords and sounds more like a startled exhale.

Your resolve fractures into tiny shards as he uses the grip on your chin to tilt your head backwards. Tension cracks between your shoulder blades at the awkward angle, your muscles straining as he pulls them taut. There’s a tensity at your throat, too, the thew connecting your jaw and neck almost pained by the extreme flex.

Amber. The thin strips of gold lay stark against the pitch black of his dilated pupils, irises merely a slither as the abyss swallows them whole. An eagerness paints his expression, even as his thick, dark brows pinch together in concentration. The hulking frame of your hunter stands above you, neck practically folded over to stare down at your kneeling form. He’s scanning your face, assessing each aspect of your visage and taking in the details. The paw grasping at your face tilts it left and right as he searches for… something.

Again, you wail as you feel his thumbprint dig into the soft flesh of your cheek. It braces against the edge of your molars, prints embedding– branding itself into the skin beneath it.

“Shh-Shh,” He hushes you softly, voice somewhat soothing now as he sweeps his knuckles across your temple and over your cheekbone. “Quite the hunt. Chased you all over, 70652. ”

The five digits of your passenger number ring through your eardrums like the alarms that had alerted you to your crash landing. It flits across his expression, a smug, mocking look as the realisation strikes you between your ribs like a wet blade—the pilot. Commander Mills, you had been told before cryostasis, was a skilled enough aeronaut to deliver you safely to the destination of Somaris. It appeared he had failed his mission.

“I- I don’t-”

“Everyone in the cryo-bay is dead,” he speaks over you, matter-of-fact in his unwavering tone. Your eyelashes flutter closed, confident Mills can feel your pulse pump blood through your veins as he trails his fingertips down your jugular. It tingles, the feather-light touch, adrenaline rushing over your body in surging waves. “It’s just us.”

“Hngg-” you mewl as he crouches behind you, dragging his lips gently across your pulse point as he breathes you in- the scent of your evasion. Soil coats you in an earthy smell, the metallic tang of blood from the scrapes of the thorny undergrowth. Mills groans against your jugular, scraping his sharp incisors over the thrum of your heart while savouring you.

“Aren’t you lucky?” He whispers, gravelly voice barely registering at this volume. Mill’s hand slips down your throat, calloused fingertips tracing down your central points. Your throat, your sternum between your breasts. The deliberate trail has your breath quickening, an underlying threat of danger making the hairs on your arms stand on end. “Lucky that I found you before those creatures did? Hmm?”

The delicate intonation of his question is deceptive. He’s not being kind- he’s mocking you. Still, the enamel of his teeth sinking into the concave connecting your neck and shoulder has you crying out, wetness pooling between your thighs.

“Mhm,” he lathes his tongue over the indents his teeth leave behind, splaying his fingers wide as he trails his palm over your stomach. Need unfurls beneath the weight of his hand, twisting and coating your abdomen when his fingers dip just beneath the waistband of the joggers you had been provided before entering cryostasis. “This... Is thanks enough.”

Heat creeps across the apples of your cheeks as you feel his hand slip further into your pants and wedge beneath your panties. You can do nothing but turn your hot face away from him, squeezing your eyes shut when his fingers brush through the thatch of curls across the curve of your pussy. Mills hums softly, your only warning before he’s sliding the pad of his finger through your slick cunt.

“Shit,” he grunts softly, the tip of his nose trailing up the length of your jugular. “So wet for me already.”

Sinews in your jaw ache at the force with which you clench your jaw, trying desperately to swallow down the moans that threaten to bubble up from your throat. Mills is circling his fingertip just barely over your clit now, the delicate touch coiling a throbbing heat between your thighs.

It’s a subconscious response, one that bypasses your brain and jolts your hips forward onto his hand. You don’t mean to, your fingers sinking into the soil beneath you as your body tenses. It sends a bright, hot arc of pleasure through your body and you wail raggedly, the short-lived friction enough to blur your vision.

Mills leaps.

Ripping his hand from your pants, he grabs ahold of your waist in a bruising grip, flipping you over onto your back harshly. It’s so fast, the world careening sideways. When you land it almost winds you, your spine hitting the ground with a thud. Twigs and rocks dig into your flesh, but Mills gives you no real opportunity to complain when he pins your body down with the hulking weight of his own.

Urgency spurs Mills on, pushing his fingers under the waistband of both your joggers and your panties before yanking them down your thighs. He doesn’t bother to remove them, abandoning them over your shins. They bunch around your ankles, movements restricted by the fabric. Your body is trembling, buzzing with something far from the fear he had originally inspired in you.

Mills is huge. Broad and muscular, when he leans his body over yours he almost blocks your whole line of sight. His muscles shadow through the thin fabric of his shirt, sweat causing the material to cling to his damp flesh. The chase across the forest seemed to have had little effect on his athletic frame, the exhaustion that had afflicted you unapparent when he pushes your knees back against your chest.

“Just look at you. Trembling. Panting. It’s gorgeous.” Subtle cruelty drips from his tongue when he praises you, watching your nipples harden as your folds are exposed to the cool air. Honey irises drag over your sopping cunt, greedily lapping up the view. You shouldn’t be enjoying this, so exposed to a stranger you had been running for in fear of your life just moments before.

“Please,” you beg, pathetic sobs cracking in your throat at the desperation to be touched.

“You’re in no place to be directing me, Sweet Thing.”

Despite his apparent refusal, Mills is pushing the trousers of his flight suit past his hips to expose his cock. Again, he refuses to waste time in removing them entirely, removing just enough to ease himself out of the confines of the material. You only catch a glimpse of his cock before he hoists your thighs over his pelvis, but your heart seizes at the sight– an angry, red tip leaks precum that smears across the inside of your thighs, veins protruding across the large shaft. You can’t fit tha-

God, he pushes the pad of his thumb into your clit and you yelp, seeing stars. A steady, wicked throb of bliss pulses through you as he applies pressure to the bundle of nerves, swiping his print back and forth. It’s overwhelming, and you can’t help the way your hips jolt as you feel him attempt to breach your entrance with the head of his cock.

“Stop moving,” Mills orders, hand wrapped around his dick as he sweeps through your folds. You’re sobbing now, tears welling in your eyes as he continues to abuse your swollen clit. He slips again, dark eyes flicking up to your face when your hips jolt upwards to chase his touch, the build of your impending orgasm catching you off guard with how quickly it seems to blossom. The third time, when the tip of his dick notches the inside of your thigh rather than taking root, his patience snaps.

Mills suddenly draws back from you, removing his hand from your clit before bringing his open palm down on your throbbing cunt with a brutal slap. Pain bows through you, blending seamlessly with your bliss and causes a sharp, high pitched cry of his name to tumble from your lungs. In your shock, your hips momentarily still. Taking advantage of your dazed state, Mills quickly lines his pulsing cock against your cunt and drives home, swiftly ramming into you with an abrupt snap of his hips.

A haggard gasp rips through your throat at the sudden intrusion, the painful stretch of his cock cracking through you and making your eyes roll back. Dirt cakes under your fingernails as you grasp feebly at the damp soil, trying and failing to find any kind of purchase to ground yourself.

“Take it,” Mills orders, his gruff voice impossibly reaching lower octaves as he pushes his length further into you. He sits back slightly, his eyes almost pitch black with how his pupils swallow them up as they settle on your cunt. Fascinated, he watches your lips stretch around his girth and paint his protruding veins with your slick. “Make it fit— Shit!”

His crude growl scrapes your eardrums as he bottoms out inside of you, hips flush with your own. You can’t breathe, feeling as though he’s big enough to settle amongst your lungs. You heave shallow breaths, your head pulsing with mind-numbing dizziness.

Then he’s moving. He drives forward at first, reaching depths inside you that make your abdomen ache before pulling out of you. The stark emptiness he leaves you with is short-lived, thrusting forward and stealing what little oxygen you had swallowed down.

Heat simmers through you with each shred of the head of his cock against something blinding inside of you. It gives you no room to think, to move, the cruel pace Mills sets. It’s merciless, pummelling into you and driving you up across the forest floor. “Fuuuuck, that’s good,” Mills groans loudly, holding on tight to your hips to prevent you from sliding away from him. You sob brokenly, hitting his chest with the heel of your palm as you struggle against the orgasm that’s practically hurtling towards you. Christ, his dick is so hard, ramming through you and pushing up against your cervix and causing a delightful ache.

The wet sounds of him thrusting into you are obscene, slick and desperate as he begins to pull you down onto the snaps of his hips. Fat tears stream down your cheeks, collecting in your hairline as you sob his name over and over.

“Look at you,” Mills practically snarls, eyes set on the bulge in your lower abdomen and in awe of what he finds there. Fuck fuck fuck. You can see him, see the outline of his cock driving in and out of you through your abdomen. “Mine.”

Through your haze, you feel Mills press his giant palm against your abdomen, feeling himself twitch and thrust inside of you. His forehead drops against your shoulder, hips beginning to stutter as your walls flutter around him.

It’s overwhelming; the intense pace, the brutality of his thrusts, the way your clit brushes against the pubic hairs on his lower pelvis. You sound fucking wrecked, wails spluttering with each devastating rock of his hips.

“Aha-ah- ohfuck,” you babble, eyes rolling back as your body curls inwards. You’re burning, tightening, your orgasm creeping across the pit of your stomach. “I-I’m gonna-“

Mills groans loudly, and your back arches suddenly when he bites into your collarbone. His teeth sink into your flesh, hard enough to draw blood, and the pain shoves you right over the ledge you’d been dancing over. You cum with a scream of his name, clamping down around his cock as ecstasy surges through you from head to toe. Your vision blurs, hearing cuts out.

“Shit,” you hear him spit distantly, despite the close proximity to your ears. Mills’ hips push up deep inside of you, his body lurching and trembling as he cums inside of you. It feels, even in your altered state of consciousness, like it takes forever. Milking him endlessly, his breath shuddering against the wound on your clavicle as he gently grinds into you to ease himself down from the high.

There’s no movement, no sudden release of your body and flopping to the side. Mills stays stuffed within you, your mixed cum dribbling down the inside of your thighs as he squeezes the flesh of your hips with his palms.

Your sobs of his name had been loud, noisy enough to draw in all kinds of lizard creatures, but Mills seems insistent on remaining like this, scraping his teeth across the curve of your shoulder and beginning to rock into your swollen cunt again.

“There’s a few hours before nightfall,” he talks over your garbled string of noises, overstimulated and exhausted from the hours of running and the brutal way he had fucked into you. “You can take me again before then, can’t you, Sweet Thing? Before we head back to the ship?”

Your body resigns to his question, already far too wearied and submissive to argue what feels more like an order than a question— besides, bliss is already pooling in between your thighs when he pinches your clit with the pads of his forefinger and thumb.

“Good Girl.”

END

Join the Tag List Misc Character Taglist: @glassbxttless, @peachyproserpina, @pansa-1-san @htccu7gho9

Gif belongs to @zachsnydered

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punderfullll · 2 months ago

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Do you have any tips on cosplay and/or wigs and starting?? I really wanna try it but am scared of looking bad

Hello! It's a bit hard to give general advice without knowing what you are planning on making/buying! However, the best advice I can suggest for starting out is doing something more simple!

My go-to suggestion for starting out with Touhou Project cosplays is to go with Reisen! Her outfit and wig are fairly simple. You can easily find pieces in the thrift store and there are lots of patterns online for those clothing items if you want to sew them! And her wig would require minimal styling (typically just cutting bangs.) Super long wigs can be a bit of a pain so you can always go with something shorter to start.

I'm sure that no matter what you do, your costume will look great. What's most important is that it brings you happiness. Of course there is no problem with wanting your cosplays to look good, but my advice is to not put too much pressure on it if you can :D! Also if you have a con or something you plan on wearing the costume to start ahead of time if you are able. Doing a con crunch can make even seasoned cosplayers make major mistakes while rushing! (I've even done it and I've been cosplaying since 2006)

If you have a specific project in mind, I'm always happy to help out. So if you feel comfy, please send me a message on here or via email (or any of my other socials). I might be able to give you more detailed advice that way. Or if its a costume I've previously made I could have patterns or stencils I could share with you.

This goes for anyone that needs cosplay help: I'm always happy to do so!

I hope this helps, and again, if I didn't answer what you were looking for, shoot me a message. :D!!

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shaylene-the-praline · 3 months ago

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So this coffee is a new one I'm trying. I'm usually not a medium-roast girl, I love my Italian-roast 😭. But giving this a chance, it's interesting.

Pros: It smells exactly like what it's supposed to smell like. Sweet coconut and caramel, and you get a sense of crunch from the sharpness of the scent. I know, I have such a way with words but there's nothing else to say 😭 it smells like what it is. The caffeine level is reasonable, I felt it.

Cons: I'm PEEVED. The balance is off. One good scoop gives you the perfect flavor, but then you're left yearning to taste what you're brewing; coffee. So you go ahead and add another hefty scoop, and unfortunately now it's acid and artificial-flavor city. Now it definitely smells better when you add more, but the taste doesn't match that. It makes you wonder "did I get a bad batch"

Overall I'm not saying I don't enjoy it, I'll drink it on a slow Saturday. But I'm definitely not putting faith in it on a day where people are making me mad, it might piss me off even more😭 I'll give it a 7.3/10

#shaylenes textposts

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iveraines · 11 months ago

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i just wanna thank everyone for all the love on my V cosplay. it was a tough build, and is still in progress/reworks. i intend on making her prom dress, maid dress, and camp uniform.

long ass post ahead detailing progress, so hold onto your socks!

📸 by my bestie caro :)

the closer to completed i got with the parts, the more and more every little thing went wrong. i need to rework/repair a LOT before i enter her in any competitions. i also intend on building her wings. may post progress updates

for the EVA foam arms, i made them too long (and still need to trim them more) and was unable to use my arms at all. i had to ask my girlfriend to hold and manage all my stuff at the convention. :,) they’re also gritty as hell, because i had to make them outside and the wind kept blowing them off the work area while the paint was wet. the paint messed up a lot and had to be re-done several times.

as for the mask, similar to the arms. the paint gave me hell and i had to trim it down multiple times. i also lost it to a gust of wind at the convention! i was EXTREMELY lucky that my bestie was able to spot it in a road median the next day.

originally, the tail was going to have LED’s in it similarly to the headband. however, the electronics kept breaking. no matter how much i fiddled with it and attempted to re-solder it, it would not work. at one point, the line suspending the tail snapped. that was an insane repair on the con floor.

i was hoping to have the dress done fast, as i have most of the parts pinned and ready to sew but the machine does not like the stretchy fabric. at all.

even though i measured a gajillion times, the stockings did not end up as long as i would have liked them. the painting on them is unfinished too, and was all done the two nights before con. i actually ended up passing out while working them because of how much i overworked myself with school and con crunch!

as a last-second improvise, i whip-stitched some fur on a thrifted top!

i was originally going to do the fingers on the glove with foam, but the parts all peeled and ripped, so i just painted it instead. one of the fingers on the glove even almost came off.

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braidlottie · 1 year ago

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forever is the sweetest con.

pairing: cowgirl!lottieshauna x transmasc!cowboy!reader

summary: your car breaks down on the side of the road, but luckily two friendly cowgirls help you out and give you a place to stay for the night.

tags: no smut! the wild west au :3, lottie and shauna are dating, guns, lottie smokes, lottie and shauna’s southern accent feature, transmasc!reader, top surgery, lottie asks about your scars, stupid cowboy crew names that i made up, shauna is a flirt

wc: 1.4K

a/n: i don’t know how to end fics once again im Sorry 🙁 also @antlerbf without u this would’ve never been written 😄😄

title inspired by cowboy like me by taylor swift

moodboard :3

“fuck!”

you hit your head on the steering wheel. your car picked the best time to break down on the side of the road, when you’re in the middle of nowhere, and it’s night. you decided to ditch the car and hitchhike, grabbing all your things before walking down the asphalt.

you walked for about ten minutes until you saw a ranch on a side road up ahead. there were two horses sitting down in the hay, and the small house stood alone farther down. you took the chance, hoping that whoever lived there was kind enough to let you stay, or at least fix your car.

you had to hop the fence to get in, throwing your sack over and trying not to wake up the horses. when your sack hit the dirt, the horse immediately jumped up, neighing loudly and shaking itself off. you hopped down from the fence safely and started walking towards the house, you thought you were in the clear.

until you saw a light turn on in the house. it was too late to turn back, and hopping that fence took you a while. so you just decided to hide and hope for the best. you hid behind a hay bale, peeking your head out to see who was there.

a woman in a white tank top came out with her revolver drawn, looking for any intruders. “oh, shit!” you whispered to yourself, wishing you would’ve just slept in your car. she looked your direction, making you duck your head down. you stayed like that for a while until she was gone. tiptoeing carefully now, you made your way towards the house, looking for any signs of the armed woman.

the dirt crunched under your boots with every step, making your way to the porch. “freeze.” you heard a woman’s voice behind you. “drop the sack and turn around. put your hands where i can see ‘em.”

you obeyed, putting shaky hands up in the air. you turned around to see the same woman you were hiding from, the barrel of her gun pointed straight at you. “you make one move, and i put a bullet right between those pretty eyes.”

“please-”

“what’s the name of your gang?”

you gulped, all your words leaving your brain. all you could think about if your life was going to end or not. the woman cocked the revolver back when you were silent for too long. “the razortooth snakes!” your voice echoed through the night.

“you must be lyin’. you? in the razortooth snakes?”

“i can show you my badge, i swear.”

“pull it out. slowly.”

you pulled your badge out of the back pocket of your jeans, giving it to the woman. she snatched it harshly, her cigarette almost dropping out her mouth. “well, i’ll be damned.” she dropped the badge next to your sack. “what’s a little thing like you doing in there, huh?”

the razortooth snakes was the toughest gang in the wild west, the woman couldn’t even believe a member dared to step foot on her ranch. “i’m not sure, ma’am, i- w-what gang are you?” you sputter, her gun still raised. “the bronze serpents, ever since i can remember.” she pulled up her tank top, showing a tattoo of her gang in cursive on her stomach.

“well, that makes us rivals, don’t it?”

you nodded, sweating bullets. “please don’t shoot me.”

“explain why you’re on my ranch and maybe i won’t.”

“my-my car broke about half a mile down from here, and i’m really far from home. i just needed some tools for my car, or anything to fix it. that’s all, please ma’am-”

“don’t call me ma’am.” you flicked her cigarette on the dirt, squashing it with her boot. “it’s charlotte.”

she put the safety back on the revolver, slipping it in the back of her sleep shorts. “you got any weapons on you?”

you forgot you did have your revolver in your holster, but it wasn’t loaded. she opened up your denim vest, but you spoke before she even opened your mouth. “it’s not loaded. i used the last of my bullets today.”

“for what, exactly?”

lottie knew you couldn’t kill anyone, even if it came down to life and death. she took your gun, beginning to walk back into the house. “you coming or not?” her voice faded as she went away. you grabbed your sack and trailed behind her, your vest blowing in the desert wind.

“you woke my girl up.” charlotte closed the front door behind you. “oh, god, im so sorry-”

“don’t worry about it. gotta let her know we have company. take a seat ‘n don’t go nowhere.” she pointed, going down the dark hallway to the bedroom. you took a seat at the table, hugging your sack. you looked around at all the the decor, they even have a little fireplace. the whole house was just so cozy.

you heard another woman’s voice get closer and closer, but it was a little higher. she stopped in her tracks when she saw you. “this is shauna.” charlotte introduced and you did the same, tipping your hat to her in a polite manner. “what side of town ya from?” shauna leaned against the wall. you stared blankly, trying to think of a way to say this. lottie soon pulled her aside, walking back into the hallway.

“lottie, you brought a razortooth snake in my house?”

“keep your voice down! this one right here, wouldn’t even dare hurt a fly, shauna. i promise you.”

they talked about you like you weren’t even there, the hardwood floor slapping against shauna’s bare feet when she walked back over to you. she stared you up and down, putting her hands on her hips. “so, yous is really a razortooth.” shauna was warming up to you faster than she thought.

“is it that hard to believe?”

“oh trust me, it is.”

the woman walked closer, taking a seat in your lap. she put your hat on your head,

“what’s a hot piece of ass like you doin’ with them, darlin’?”

your mouth dropped, in shock and because of how embarrassed you got. “shauna,” lottie grabbed another cigarette out of her pocket, and her lighter as well. “let’s ask our guest something that’s a lil’ more pg rated, you got me, sugar?”

“what? it’s fine. you don’t mind, do you, punkin?”

“uh, no, it’s alright.” you smiled, telling them how you came up as a cowboy and what it’s really like as a razortooth. “it’s gettin’ late, now. time to hit the hay.” lottie looked at her watch, putting out her cigarette in the ashtray.

“y’know, you can sleep with us.”

“shauna-”

“lottie, we can’t leave him sleep on the couch out here, he’ll freeze. he can’t sleep with us for one night?”

“that’s why we have a perfectly good fireplace, hun.”

shauna just rolled her eyes, getting off your lap and leading you to the bedroom. the bed was in the middle of the room, scattered clothes and a pair of boots on the floor. “don’t listen to her. you can sleep here, darlin’. oh, you gotta take all those dirty clothes off. lottie’s not a big fan of dirty clothes in her bed.”

shauna was right about lottie’s rule, but the truth is that part of her wants to see you in you naked. “oh, yeah, no problem,” you buckled your pants and took off your vest, only leaving you in a tank top and your briefs.

“i got some tools to fix up your truck, i’ll give ‘em to you first thing in the morning.” lottie walked into the bedroom now, looking you up and down. “what’s those scars for?” she looked at your chest in curiosity, knowing she definitely meant no harm.

“bull fight.” you lied, scratching the back of your head. “must’ve been quite a fight.” she smiled, hanging her hat on the hook on the wall. “you gettin’ in or what?”

you stood at the foot of the bed, staring at the two women. “uh, yeah. yeah, i am.”

“well, what the hell are you waitin’ for?”

you crawled into the middle of the bed, sandwiched perfectly between the two. “comfortable?” charlotte turned off the lamp and you smiled, nodding in return. “thanks for this. really.”

“if this ever gets out, ya might be a dead man, mister. doesn’t that scare ya?” shauna whispered. “a little.” you were more than scared. you were petrified of your group ever finding out that you got friendly with the bronze serpents.

but you decided to enjoy this moment instead, curled up beside two (very sleepy) cowgirls.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets x reader #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #shauna shipman #shauna sadecki x reader #shauna shipman x reader #adult lottie #adult shauna #lottieshauna #lottie shauna x reader #lottieshauna x reader #lottie x shauna x reader #lottie x shauna

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darkdemeter · 5 months ago

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Strife x Fem reader nsfw! Eld AU, S/O is a talented hunter, using her sniper skills to hunt down food and enemies. It’s not long until the Nephilim tribe heard of a master sniper taking down foes and always running without a trace. It’s by sheer luck that Strife discovers S/O and easily takes her down once he’s in close range. Instead of killing her, he wants to take her as his mate, seeing how cool she looks when sniping and how impressive she is.

VENGEANCE IS A HUNTER

◤✘DARKSIDERS REQUESTS | CATALOGUE Pre-Horsemen!Strife x Eld'hyunen!Female Reader

NOTES ↳ Who's ready for some pre-horseman! Strife in his younger, Nephilim prime? Hey! I see you ogling. Here, have a golden sticker. Welcome to the Strife simp club 😂 WARNINGS❕ ↳ Mature rating, 18+ — some profanity — mention of mass murder — depiction of violence and killing — lore building — SMUT mdni — unprotected sex — implied non/con or dubious consent — neck biting/marking — mate claiming, virginity loss (hymen breakage) — I think that’s it?

✎ 4.4k ────────────────────────

The moon had been bright and full, a milky pour that couldn’t penetrate the dense forest beneath. Only allowed through were the silky, pale silhouettes that danced and warped disturbingly, the covering fog lit with an eerie glow.

Stalking the grounds below, invading this coveted land, the horde of Nephilim march through, some bearing torches that burn viciously and provide an aura to follow. A target.

“Keep up,” barks the group’s leader with hastened gruffness, “we must rejoin the warband before next moondown! Else Absalom will have our heads.” His tone betrays his unease as they walk through this unholy place. The trees feel dead yet they flourish and thrive, the air is thick and makes it hard to see further ahead with the swarming mist. His glowing eyes dart from left to right, sweeping from ground level to the higher treeline.

Something stalks them in the darkness around them.

The ground crunches loud beneath the stampeding rhythm of their feet. Each one a resounding crack and bending snap. To the elicited horror that disturbs them, their eyes are cast wide and teeth gnashing hard with growls and started yells.

Empty pits of blackened sockets stare up at them, spinal cords numbered by hundreds are split and shattered, ribs cracked and broken, barren of any flesh to cling to the remnant bones littering the forest floor.

A once enchanting home now turned into a mass graveyard that welcomes only the fall of their invaders. The disembodied whispers and howls on the wind are avenged with each splatter of blood that waters the ground, the haunt of the Nephilims’ screams replace the restless and slaughtered people.

It is their turn to become the prey. It is their turn to become the hunted, the bloodied spoils of this war.

An arrow whines on the pulled draw of your bow, your lungs ease a silent and practised breath… and you release.

Fated, your arrow hits its mark without falter. The laggers behind stumble and scatter, some dropping their torches to blend in with the darkness. But the bright shine of your eyes allows you insightful vision, they cannot hide in the same veil of your home; not as you can. Adept in the arts of survival and camouflage, this is your hunting ground. Your prison that you ward and it shall be their final resting place.

“Ambush!” one roars and they prime their weapons. Massive blades and sharpened polearms, the Nephilim band scours what terrain they dare try, wary to go further beyond the forgotten trail.

Your arrows fly in fast repetition. Your prey cannot comprehend the direction of the attack, unable to detect what is simply not there. You traverse with swift agility, comfortable to leap, climb and fall from the many interloping branches and rocky formations. Their numbers are tamed until only the leader remains. He sheathes his axe, the gamble of his odds not in his favour.

His brothers and sisters lay dead with an embedded garden of arrows, the dim halo of the perving moon shines on the brightened hue of red, feathered sails. A warning that stakes your claim over this territory.

It’s a claim he will not challenge. He turns hard on his heavy heels and sprints, madly dashing through the underbrush and you give chase from above. His breath is hitched deep as the whizz of your arrows pounce at his heel like a hound that gnashes the ankles of the galloping hunted.

Your mark gets closer to him with each venomous strike. He knows you toy with him, that you inflict this terror with purpose.

His runs and crashes through low hanging branches that claw tiny scratches into his skin, usually barely feeling but with you on the hunt, each one feels like the tipped poise of your next shot.

His foot is snagged by a tree’s lifted root and sends him barrelling forward into a cloud of dirt. He growls and sputters, saliva spills in thick streams down his chin, his chest heaving with a wild beat of his heart. Nephilim aren’t meant to fear anything, no demon or angel, nothing in the cosmos possesses enough of a threat to invoke such fear.

So why did you?

His ears suddenly go dumb, a whirring sound that rings sharply in his hearing as he listens to your weight dropping to the forest floor behind him. He turns his head, huffing and puffing his last rites. His eyes grow wide. Your reflection moves upon the surface of his golden orbs that tremble, your face shrouded in the blackness of your cowl. The overgrowth of a cloak hangs over your shoulders and down low to your feet, tied to your wrists and ankles with corded thread; a haunting sight inspired by the ghost stories of your own people that became intertwined with your once traditions. Your eyes beam something ferocious, a predatory glare, down on him.

He flinches as you hover above, his burly fist raised to either lash out at you or plead for you to take his hand in mercy. His voice shortly whines, a hiccup of a sound he chokes on as you pace yourself. You want to enjoy this kill. Leisurely, you knock the final arrow from your quiver and pull back.

“Don’t! Sp-spare me!”

“She is a feral Eld’hyunen hunter, cast out by her own clan before we came to this realm. A wraith of vengeance that rose from the dead with eyes tempered with fire from Hell’s oasis.”

The younger Nephilim gathered around lean in closer, faces etched and lined with their entertainment in the orange light of the fire. Strife sits more so off to the side, though intrigued by the mythical tales, he tries to center his focus on his weapons instead. Yet the golden flicker of his eyes dance this way and that every now and then.

“I barely escaped with my own life, her arrow pointed right to my eye.”

The storyteller had arrived at the warband’s gate only a night ago, the burden of his torment still fresh in his mind. His voice quivers with each recollected detail he tells. He’d the look of one who’d seen a ghost. Out of the troops that were to arrive back he had been the only one. Those posted at the gate had to pull his shaking body inside, his muscles rippled so much that Absalom thought his flesh would begin to peel and fall apart as the commander panted and heaved his retelling of what happened.

Now here he was, still shaken as he had been and filling the younger generations of their legion with mythical tellings. Folklore to haunt their slumberless dreams and instill in them a false sense of fear.

“And then… she whispered to me with words scarred by her ire…”

“Tell them to leave,” you snarl, voice coiling in the back of your throat as a venomous growl. “Leave this world and never set your claim upon it again. Or else my vengeance shall devour you whole.”

“As if one Eld’hyunen could do such a thing,” snickers Strife under his breath. The Nephilim survivor scrunches his face, overhearing such demeaning ignorance.

“You watch that tone of yours. What I say is true and you’d be damn near lucky to even escape as I had.”

Strife lulls his head, shoulders falling lax with uncharismatic care. He blinks twice, finger playing against the trigger of one of his guns.

“She would have been better off killing you instead.”

“Is that a threat, Nephiling?—”

A nerve is struck at the belittling term and Strife’s body tenses as she slightly shifts his weight to stand at his full height. His eyes dangerously thin with a warning glare.

The younger ones around the fire watch in silence, their faces agape in their startled awe of the two. It wasn’t uncommon for Nephilim to get into heated scraps with one another. Their tempers easy to flare, provoking the other to break first.

But with a thunderous roll of feet approaching, both are torn from the inciting conflict that threatened to break out into a brawl. Absalom growls out with a warning tone, “Telling the young ones of your scrape with death again, Saak?”

Saak snorts, lips pulled askew before spitting a glop onto the ground. “I’m warning them of what awaits outside those gates. You haven’t see her, Absalom, she is—”

“Not yet, I haven’t. But that will change. At dawn we move out on the forest.” Absalom ignores the pale complexion of Saak, even as he buckles, weight lost to fall to his knees with a heavy thmph. His meek argument silenced. “I will not have this conquest stamped out by a lone female who believes she can take on a legion by herself.” The eldest of their kind laughs, boisterous. “It’s madness!”

Saak shakes his head and Absalom scoffs, large fingers scruffing the Nephilim’s neck as if he were a measly pup in need of discipline. “Cower in the camp, then. I will not accept cowards during this territory skirmish. I need only my finest.”

Releasing Saak and turning his eyes from the Nephilings who watch, eyes wide at the behemoth that is the first of their race, he chuffs a cold noise and rolls his eyes to Strife.

“And you’ll be joining us.”

Strife shrugs with a complying nod as he holsters his guns to his hips.

“Very well,” Strife hums, obviously making his tone chipper to flaunt as a mockery. This would be one of the very few times he would be joining a troop assault so large, oftentimes he would either be appointed with a smaller group or better yet, strike out on his own.

But not this time. And perhaps he would catch a glimpse of the mysterious ghost that has the entire camp in a throng of rumour; that of the vengeful hunter. Beginning to walk away from the campfire, he hears Saak’s voice wheeze out with a hoarse rasp and his steps slow slightly.

“You’ll see her yourself… and when you do… it’ll be too late.”

The swallow of the cave is clouded, smothered by wisps of smoke that come from the many lit flames around. Laments, shrines dedicated to the burials of your tribe. You can almost catch their spirits weave and dash through the twisting haze around you, as if to dance like they did around the fires, nights filled with laughter and conversation. Of bonds made newly and ones grown fonder.

You hum a tune solemn in your grief. A proud song of your people that used to uplift and give praise to the forest’s divine sanctity, a home respected and loved. But now it is a melody that serves as a hollow reminder of all that you have lost. The songs of your people sung in the night to be carried on the wind with your weeping cries; shrieks that even the most fearsome of wraiths and beasts would grimace with sympathy for.

The palette of your face had been cleaned of its prior mask that covered the higher portion of your face, marking the veil of your painted vow. The darkened smudge would never be cleaned off your hands completely, nor your face that streaks it into watered lines down your cheeks. Not until your enemies were undone.

When this war was over and the invaders obeyed your command and left or were slain.

You sit before the burning incense of your tribe mother — your birth mother — and listen to the call of the warhorn. It thrums to life, bringing with it its ominous roar and its final deliverance. They would not leave and thus, you would make due on your promise.

Bow and arrows balanced in your lap, you ask that your people imbue you with their strength. To help you overpower your foes and finally bring their souls to rest in the ethereal realm. The White Cosm. A place so beautiful and tranquil, spoken to be at its closest with the Creator’s heart.

Your hands move forward towards the wooden bowl sat at the bottom of the shrine. You smear the dark ashes onto your face, its charred skin caresses yours and your brows furrow deeply between. You will show them what it means to provoke that wrath of the Eld’hyunen.

They will come to know that vengeance is a hunter; and it has marked them all for death.

The dawning fares no better in trying to puncture through the overgrowth above. The leaves and treeline are too heavy in concealing the ground level. A faded sheen of bathing sunlight comes through, a gloomy hue of yellow and vibrancy of greens all shrouded by the morning fog.

Just as he said, Absalom leads his band of brothers and sisters into the forest’s barriers. They arrive in large numbers you have seen come through here but only once: when they butchered your tribe and raided your homes.

You watch them from above. Steadily you move, the hooded cloak on your back tethered to your limbs, allowing you to glide silently from branch to branch with your prey none the wiser.

As much as it angers you, you have always obeyed your masters when they taught you that to succeed in the hunt, you must be well versed in patience. You have to lie in wait for the perfect opportunity to present itself and you have your sights set on Absalom being your first target.

Though powerfully formidable, he will be guarded closely by his most elite siblings, the first-bloods. Trying to get him alone will be nothing short of impossible, but you must allow yourself to wait for that single moment and when it's there, you will strike him down.

Strife had veered off and away from the group not too far into the breach of the forest. He was always better off moving by himself, he attracted less attention that way. Most of his brethren lacked the level of subtlety to remain hidden like he did. He uses the higher peaks to his advantage, climbing higher and higher where no other of his brothers and sisters dared to.

They climb mountains for sport but trees and forest terrain are where they draw the line? Strife finds it somewhat amusing and he chuckles to himself while shaking his head. He balances dangerously in the higher space of the canopy, intruding upon another world entirely it feels. He takes a moment to observe his surroundings and there — it’s barely noticeable with the foggy glare that bleeds together — but something crossed his vision. A shadow.

His eyes squint, the sight of his visor aimed accurately to see what it was that fluttered through the treeline and down onto a nest of branches.

You perch yourself onto the next entanglement of limbs, cloak settling once it loses its gusto of breath that carried you. Your belly is pressed against the mossy thicket, the sensation soft and ticklish against your naked skin. Your chin just grazes the oaken surface as you peer downward, watchful of the Nephilim who stalk the ground slowly, methodical and wary.

Your eyes grow wide and a near sadistic grin twists across your lips, fangs glinting with poised delight that clench together. You see it! Your moment to disband their ranks, to flush them into a frenzy of fear as their leader becomes another pile of bones to add to your imprisoning graveyard.

You rise slightly, back arched to sit up and you align your arrow onto your bow and draw. You calm your breathing despite the rapid climb of your excitement. Finally, this quest will be seen through, you can live out your lonely days in peace until you reunite with your loved ones. You do this or you die trying.

Absalom has his back turned to you but if you aim just right, if you wait… the art of patience is key yet you find it hard to steady yourself, eager to release. You must wait. The window of that moment is happening upon you and so you draw that last final bit.

You release your breath, rushing it from your lungs. The murky light from behind you is smothered out and you freeze. Face shrouded by the overlap of your hood and ashy paint becomes contorted in your frowning confusion. Your aim lowers, unfocused as you come to realise you sit beneath a shadow. A tall, looming shadow.

Your cowl shifts in tandem with the motion of your head turning and tilting upwards. Your eyes widen and your jaw falls, bottom lip quivering with a shuddering gasp. After all this time, you believed yourself numbed of the feeling of fear, of bone-shaking terror that has the chasm of your chest diving with your heartbeat. You thought yourself hollow to that feeling you had all that time ago when you first witnessed the slaughter, the carnage and the screams that echoed.

Had you been so consumed in your fire of vengeance that you neglected your surroundings, you didn’t heed to the teachings of your masters? To always be aware, always be intune with your senses. Never allow your arrow to be knocked blind; in which you did.

That feeling resurfaces again and now you have become the prey for it.

What few seconds pass feels like an eternity that drags on. You move swiftly but sloppily, your draw and aim not on target as you fire your knocked arrow only for him to deflect it with the iron plating of his gauntlet. The arrow snaps in two under such force and he lunges at you, pinning you. You hiss sharply and your hands claw at him, your sharp nails scratch and rip at whatever you can to fight him off. The struggle turns you both off the branch and you go crashing to the forest floor, whenever you attempt to pry him away and fill your cloak with wind, he stops you by wrapping his arms around you; caging you.

Each pained yelp you make echoes louder through the canopy in your rapid descent. The troops below peer upwards at the commotion until it lands on ground. They rush towards it as they watch, awestruck that the hunter that stalked them is no more. Instead, Strife’s knees trap you between him and the forest floor, his hands easily captured around each of your wrists, keeping you from escaping.

His throaty chuckles grow into a small fit of laughter, grinning a fanged grin behind his mask. “I got her!” he chants, a hollering of cheerful howls and spirited yells applaud him in his apprehension.

The coarse patch of dirt rubs against your stomach in your continued writhing, only to feel the force of his weight push you further against the ground and you whine, seething like a feral animal at him.

“Let go of me! Let— go!”

Moving aside to make room for Absalom’s arrival, he gives a gruff hum, mouth pulling into a grin.

“Well done, Strife,” he rumbles, planting the pommel of his axe into the ground. His elbow probs up to rest against its higher end. “I knew it was a matter of time before these rumours would be snuffed out. A vengeful wraith, unkillable and unseen.” Snickering, Absalom lowers himself to you and his large fingers snatch hold of your face.

You bare your fangs at him with a snarl but he only chuckles in turn, not an ounce of fear etched in his eyes that you can see.

“She was about to kill you.”

“Was she now?” asks Absalom, his voice inflecting with peaked interest before turning to leave.

“It’d be a waste to kill her.” Strife hums thoughtfully before his own hand catches your jaw, pinching your cheeks and lowering his helmed face next to yours.

“How about it, Absalom? Can I keep this one?”

Absalom shrugs his shoulders with a dismissive hum. “Do what you will with her. Fuck her, kill her, it matters little to me.”

Such news never sounded like music to his ears until now. He’d seen quite a few of his brethren take Eld’hyunen survivors as prisoners to provide them lustful satisfaction alongside their bloodthirst. He’d wondered himself once or twice…

His hips push forward to rest in the curve of your lower back and you gasp. His grip ahold of you tightens when you make to shuffle out from under him.

“You hear that, little hunter?” he taunts with a husky chuckle, “you’re all mine.”

High upon an overlooking cliffside, you’re able to see the march of the Nephilim return to their camp, their numbers swarming back inside its walls and rejoining those who had remained behind. Many more were still to come, you were sure of it, it was only a matter of time.

Strife had brought you up here, somewhere reclusive for his claiming. Tomorrow he would return with you to show you off to his brethren, to rub it into Saak’s face that his threats meant nothing and that he now had you, the vengeful hunter, to satiate his pent up aggressions and lustful drive.

You’re clawing into the dirt with each thrust that brushes that spot deep inside of you. Each forceful drive of his widely built hips shoves the hastily collected air from your lungs in exerted pants, your whines and pitiful cries are swallowed up into the night’s breeze, the harshened clap of skin against skin makes your body ache and each stroke of his cock invading your silky, warm walls has you clenching around him.

Strife groans with every motion of bucking his hips, speeding up and arching his body a bit more so that his hands can drag you further back onto his length, almost splitting you open. It sounds messy but your skin is riddled with a hot flush that covers you entirely, your screams turned into whiny moans and your voice shredded raw into a terrible, wordless dialect.

“You’re so tight, little mate,” he grunts between a few hard thrusts that pull a string of mewls from you. You grip him like a vice, coating him in the slick of your arousal you tried so hard to deny him; deny both of you.

He could smell you through the dampened fabric of your loincloth, the need buried between your thighs.

His grip is bruising, it hurts the way he holds you and ruthlessly fucks into you like an animal in heat. Your walls continue to squeeze around him tightly, your breathing becoming shorter before it turns into high pitched gasps. His cock pistons in and out, sensing the rise of your release and he chases it with reckless abandon, wanting to finally feel the sensational pleasure he’s heard so much about but has never gotten to experience himself.

His mask had been stripped off with the rest of his armor, his breath beating against the back of your neck in hot gushes that sweep over you like the hot summer winds. You can identify the ghostly presence of his bared teeth kissing your flesh, longing to marr the precious bed where your neck and shoulder meet.

He whines lowly into your ear as you cry out with a moan that chokes you, your nails scratching deeper indents into the dirt with ragged markings as you cum. Your watery eyes blurry, tears muse and smear the ashy paint down your cheeks. He howls, ravenous and huffing like a satisfied beast when your snug walls clamp around him, barely able to withdraw himself from you without hearing those pained yelps you make.

But he’s not done with you. He continues to brutally fuck your cunt that is forced to take very inch of him, leaving none of him to be left unsheathed. His fangs graze along the crook of your neck and the muscles there twitch, your eyes widening and your voice gone.

Your body is ragged, used and abused under his power that has you submitted to him as his mate. Your breeding rights forfeit, the once virginal seal gone and claimed the moment he sunk himself deep inside of you.

He’ll never forget the long, drawn out sigh you made when he did. He’ll forever savour the scream that tore out from your throat as he broke through your hymen.

He was not a gentle lover. He was fast and unspeakably ruthless, possessively aggressive by the way he growled, inhaling the sweet aroma of your hair or tasting the scent of your skin on his tongue.

He groans again, louder and his teeth snap shut. You scream again under the strain of your muscle that spasms from his bite, you feel the wet trickle of blood flowing down your collarbone and breast, revealed after he had torn your cloak and chest wrapping away.

You cannot help but moan softly when his cock buries itself deeper inside, painting your insides with his seed that comes in thick, warm spurts.

He continues to drill his spent inside of you until it forms a heavy bulge that fills your lower abdomen and a slickened ring around the base of his cock and drool from your swollen, abused pussy. However, the moment you begin to pull from him, having to ignore the sore spot he’s made your pussy to be, one of his hands seizes hold of the tendril of your smooth tail, caressing it with a firm, palming grip that yanks you back and spears you down on his cock again.

“I’m not done with you yet, mate,” he huskily drawls.

His mouth lingers against the cringing curl of your ear, and from the corner of your eye, the pain in your neck making it impossible to turn and look, you catch the crimson line that runs from the corner of his smirking lips.

His chest and stomach slide into the curved bevel of your spine, fitting against you perfectly so much so that this match had to be a cursed union. For the women of your tribe long since believed that those meant to be mated could easily line their front to their partner’s spine to come into alignment perfectly. Meant to be fitted. You don’t want to believe it, but it becomes harder to deny his prowess as he begins to roll his hips up against the risen curve of your arse again.

Your desire for vengeance is a fire that begins to wane, ebbing into the fade of your new reality as a Nephilim’s mate.

#STRIFE SEPTEMBER #headlinesxcomics publishing #happyfic hour #darksiders #darksiders strife x reader #strife x reader #darksiders smut #darksiders strife x reader smut #darksiders fanfiction #darksiders strife #darksiders strife x reader month

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multiversed-daydreamer · 1 year ago

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A Secret Worth Keeping

Summary: Joel has a secret he’s been keeping from the whole town of Jackson, and you unintentionally discover it while on patrol with him. Now he has to convince you to keep his secret as well.

Pairing: Vampire!Joel Miller x Reader

Tags: Vampire!Joel. Blood drinking, Non-con blood drinking, Allusions to hostage situation, mild Dom/sub dynamic, power imbalance

A/N: Happy spooky season, here's a Vampire!Joel fic. Check out my Masterlist for more! :D

You walk along the treeline on the edge of the ski lift, the autumn air is brisk, and orange and yellow leaves crunch under your boots as you search the trees for infected and raiders alike. Joel was around on the other side, planning on meeting up with you in the middle of the circle. You trudge your way through the underbrush. The wind blows on your face, turning your cheeks and tips of your ears a little pink. The leaves rustle both on the ground and in the trees, a few fluttering in the wind, shaken from their last thread-like hold on their branches. You love this time of year. Jackson had grown some pumpkins and several of them are now sitting on porches carved as jack-o-lanterns. A few crafty women had come up with some giant fake spiders and do-it-yourself ghosts. Some of the older Halloween movies have been playing in town each night. Nosferatu, Frankenstein, Dracula. It was great to see the cheesy, black-and-white monsters stalk around around the screen for a few hours.

As you circle the lodge, a twig snaps up ahead. Your eyes scan the area in the trees, looking for either a threat or just a deer passing through, but you can’t see anyone. You sweep the treeline for Joel, you’re almost to the halfway point, he should be somewhere nearby. You cock your pistol, listening closely for more noise. There was a rustling behind a tree and you step further into the woods. A low-hanging branch scrapes along the side of your neck, but you’re too focused on the rustling ahead of you to care much. You round the tree and spot Joel struggling to unhook a rabbit from a trap set out by the previous patrol duo. He glances over his shoulder and watches you scoff and lower your gun. “I almost shot you.”

He chuckles. “Watch the trigger finger, I’m gettin’ our dinner down.” He fiddles with the wire looped around the rabbit's foot before it drops to the ground. You expect him to lean down and snag the rabbit, but instead, he turns to assess you, eyes landing on the cut by your neck. A strange gleam sparks in his dark eyes at the sight. “You’re bleedin’ there.” He nods, stepping closer to you, reaching out to touch the wound, it stings a little when his fingertips brush against it.

You hiss and step out of reach again, reaching up to touch yourself, pulling your hand back to see a little tinge of red on your fingers. You don’t notice Joel bringing his own hand up to his lips, sucking your blood off his index finger. He closes his eyes and fights the urge to groan, you taste even better than you smell. Fuck, he promised Tommy he wouldn’t drink from anybody in Jackson, just raiders when they strayed a little too close. But you’re right here and if he can convince you not to tell anybody, Tommy would never know.

He steps closer to you, reaching out to grab your waist, and backs you into a tree, pinning you there. You blink up at him in confusion before looking around for maybe a raider or some stray infected that he might’ve spotted. “What is it?” You ask, wanting to appear like you’re not completely put off guard by his behavior.

“‘M sorry, Darlin’. Jus’ smell so good. Can’t help myself.” He sounds drunk, but you don’t smell any alcohol on him. He leans down and licks at the scratch on your neck, shuddering at the taste of it. You flinch, the rough drag of his tongue leaving the wound stinging.

“We can… There's a first aid kit in the lodge.” You input hesitantly, a little freaked out by Joel’s animalistic behavior. He lets out a noise between a hum and a growl.

“I’ll take care of you, Darlin’.” He murmurs, gently nuzzling his nose behind your ear as his arms slide around you, pulling you firmly into his chest. Just a little taste, he won’t kill you. Tommy won’t know. He leans down and bites firmly into your jugular. Your blood pulses onto his tongue in rhythm with your rapid heartbeat. You push against his chest and he groans at the feeling. You taste so sweet, nothing like the big burly raiders he usually has. Their blood turned a little bitter from drugs and the rough fight Joel typically wears them down with. No, you’re small compared to them, you smell like cinnamon and apples and shampoo. You push weakly against his chest, whimpering out his name. He groans and sucks on your neck in response. His cock is twitching in his pants. It’s been years since he’s mixed feeding with pleasure and he thinks of all the delicious possibilities that could become a reality if he can convince you to be his little secret keeper.

You slowly fall limp into his arms as he takes more blood from you. He keeps careful track of your heartbeat, he wants you to live just so he can taste you over and over and over again. Once he’s had enough to satisfy him for tonight he pulls away, licking your neck until the fang marks have healed and the scratch on your neck is a faint pink line. He looks down at you in his arms, dizzy from blood loss and certainly not making it to the lodge without his help. You whimper at him, eyes meeting his, but he doubts you can actually focus on much. You stir against him, trying to find your footing, he watches you for a moment before leaning down and hooking his forearm behind your knees, sweeping you up entirely. You mumble a protest and he chuckles, seems like he picked a little fighter.

He turns and manages to bend over and snag the rabbit before trudging up to the entrance of the lodge. He sets you on the couch and works on getting a fire going. The closest infected is miles away and isn’t a threat. Once he gets a fire roaring, he steps outside to skin the rabbit. He buries the hide so it doesn’t attract predators and then heads back inside to chop up the meat to cook. As he’s working, you begin to stir again. You sit up, your hand coming to cup your neck where he bit you. “Take it easy, darlin’. Cookin’ the rabbit for you.”

He has to admit, he simultaneously loves and hates to see the fear in your eyes when you look at him. He offers a well-practiced, easy smile, “Relax, I’m full. Ain’t gonna bother you for the rest of the night.” But he might grab a small bite tomorrow morning before you leave to return to Jackson though.

“You… you’re a v-” You bite your lip. Despite what just happened outside, saying the word out loud just felt ridiculous. Joel laughs when you refuse to say it.

“Vampire?” He taunts. Before nodding. “Yeah, somethin’ like that. Clickers and humans ain’t the only thing roamin’ around in the apocalypse.” Joel mutters.

“What happened?” You asked curiously.

Joel raises a surprised eyebrow at you. “I got jumped about six years back sneaking back into the QZ from a smugglers raid. One bit me and I tried to fight ‘im. Guess he saw some sorta potential in me or somethin’. He turned me instead of killing me. Been feeding offa raiders for the most part. Tommy said he’d kick me outta town if I fed from anyone in Jackson.”

He dumps chunks of rabbit meat into the pot above the stove before washing his hands. He can’t get sick from raw mean but he can still get humans around him sick… namely Ellie. You raise a pointed eyebrow at him. “‘Bout that. Was hopin’ you wouldn’t mention my little slip up back there. Ellie’s gettin’ settled here and I don’t wanna disturb that.”

You eye him warily from where he leans against the pillar in the center of the room. “You go around biting people in secret a lot?”

He smiles, he doesn’t seem nervous, or even angry, which is kind of how you expect Joel Miller to react when you hold information that will get himself and his kid kicked out of the community. “No. No one knows except for Tommy and Maria.”

That has you furrowing your brows. “Ellie. Is she like you?”

Joel shakes his head, a severe look crossing his face when you mention the girl’s name. “No. Nor do I want her to know what I am. It was hell hiding it from her the past year. She’s been through a lot, I ain’t adding to that. And if you do, I’ll make sure to swing by your place before I leave to drain your veins dry, y’hear?”

You nod. That fear comes back full force and Joel takes advantage, pushing off the pillar and stalking toward you. Before you can get up to put distance between you, Joel leans down and grips your biceps in his hands. You’re once again reminded of how massive he is. “You’re mine now. Do you understand?”

You shake your head. His in what capacity? “Not really, no.” You answer honestly.

He squats down in front of you and sighs, talking to you like you were five. “I bit you, that means I claimed you. That means I’m in charge of you. That means that if I tell you not to tell anybody, you don’t fuckin’ tell anybody. You are now my human, and you’ll do what I fuckin’ say. Got it?” You nod an affirmative this time, eyes wide with trepidation. Joel squeezes your arms. “Words, girl. Let me hear you say you understand.”

“I understand.” You whisper shakily. It also sort of answers your next question… will he try to feed from you again? “Are you going to feed from me again?”

Joel raises an eyebrow. “Tonight? No. I think you’ve had enough excitement for today. But perhaps before we leave tomorrow.” He gives you a devilish grin. “You’re far tastier than the raiders Tommy lets me pick off.” You whimper and draw away from him. He chuckles and stands, going over to the pot and getting a bowl of soup and a spoon, giving it to you. “Eat, it’ll help you feel better. I’ll take watch tonight so you can get some rest.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, blowing on the chunk of rabbit on your spoon before sticking it in your mouth. It was pretty good. You lift your bowl and nod to the soup pot over the fire. “Spoil your dinner?”

Joel grins. “Darlin, you were my dinner.”

“I’ve seen you eat food.”

“Don’t mean I like it. I play along when I have to, but since you know, I ain’t torturing myself with that shit.” He nods to the soup before looking at you, eyes locked on your neck. “‘Less you’re offering more?”

“No.” You say quickly, and Joel laughs again.

“Tomorrow it is.”

You don’t respond, you doubt you’ll talk him down tomorrow morning, but you immediately make a mental note to ask Maria to switch your patrol partner the second you hit Jackson’s borders and to avoid Joel at all costs.

“Know what you’re thinkin’ darlin’. It ain’t gonna work. I’ve got a taste for ya now, I ain’t lettin’ a delicious thing like you go.” You look up at him and he winks.

Part 2

#tlou #the last of us #joel miller #joel miller x reader #vampire!joel #halloween fic #spooky season

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infiniteeight8 · 17 days ago

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cosplay update

So, as some folks may remember, after Rose City Comic Con, in an effort to avoid yet another pre-con crafting crunch, I made a list of something like 300 cosplay tasks I wanted/needed to complete, divided it by number of days until Emerald City Comic Con, and determined I needed to do 3 tasks per day to get it all done.

It has been going very well and I have been very pleased with my progress! Accomplished so far:

Remade the bottom halves of the Captain Marvel gauntlets

Created and installed a new attachment system for the CM gauntlets

Repaired the CM hip plates

Touched up the CM paint where it had worn off

Remade the CM boots (twice; attempted to reuse parts of the original boots failed)

Created and installed a new CM boot attachment system (twice; first attempt was unsatisfactory)

Resized the leg armour for the WoW armour

Repaired the Ghostbusters proton pack

Made new Ghostbusters boot covers (all done but the painting)

Made new Green Lantern boot covers (all done but the painting)

Made a pattern for an extra WoW armour piece x2

Cut out the components necessary for an extra WoW armour piece

Dug the failed attachment system out of all ~45 Armoured Star-Lord armour pieces

Tested the new (magnet based) attachment system for Armoured Star-Lord

Installed multiple magnets in ~45 armour pieces

Installed the corresponding magnets into the Armoured Star-Lord body suit for ~11 armour pieces

That's a lot of work accomplished. I'm very pleased.

Still to do before ECCC:

Paint the Ghostbusters boot covers

Paint the Green Lantern boot covers (and do a minor repair)

Form the worbla for the WoW armour piece x2

Prime the WoW armour piece x2

Paint the WoW armour piece x2

Possibly buy and alter a new jumpsuit for Ghostbusters, I'm still pondering because of cost (the old one I altered slightly too small and it makes it a bit uncomfortable to wear all day)

Install the corresponding magnets into the Armoured Star-Lord body suit for ~34 more armour pieces.

I am confident I can get everything done... except for those magnet installations.

It's not that there isn't enough time. Technically, there is. But installation of two armour pieces takes me 1.5 hours on average. I work full time, so that's a lot of time out of my evening.

And you have to understand, installing these goddamned magnets is a non-trivial task. The method--which works great and is giving me exactly the results that I want--involves me putting on a fully body spandex body suit, carefully marking the magnet locations based on how I want the armour positioned, taking off the body suit, transferring the marks from the outside to the inside, sewing a small pocket made out of spandex onto more spandex (spandex is not easy to work with and I am not skilled with a sewing machine), shoving a neodymium magnet into that pocket (while managing the already installed magnets, which are all sticking to each other and the machine), sewing the pocket shut, putting on the bodysuit, and checking that the magnet is located correctly. So far, out of 11 armour pieces (26 magnets), I have had to correct the placement of 4 magnets (for three different pieces). That's a pretty good ratio, but every magnet that needs to be fixed adds anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour to the process. And I can't just skip ahead and fix them later, because the location of each armour piece is relative to the locations of all the pieces that came before it. They must be installed in order.

In the 11 pieces I've done so far, I have taken one break because I just couldn't face more magnets. I've also broken one sewing machine needle because I got so frustrated. (I'm damned lucky I didn't tear the suit.)

Like I said, I am getting the exact results I want. The method is good. But I have come to the conclusion that I just can't work on magnet installation day after day and not have some sort of breakdown. And I would have to, to make it--there are 46 days to con, and ~34 armour pieces to install (plus other tasks).

So I have decided I will finish everything else, and the magnets will be limited to probably 2 days a week of work.

#cosplay

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theredofoctober · 1 year ago

Text

Shingleback— A Wolf Creek Darkfic

Mick Taylor x Virgin Female Reader

Synopsis: A road trip to visit relatives ends abruptly when Mick Taylor crosses your path

Trigger/Content Warnings: non con, violence, death (not reader)

Read after the cut

Smoke in your lungs, your mouth, in the porcelain shard of sky you see through the one eye not shut with blood. The air reeks of engine oil and char, and blackened flesh.

Someone is surely dead in the wreckage of the car, and you are not yet sure that it’s not you.

Footsteps, crunching through glass and stones. A whistle in the quiet.

Someone crouches over you at the side of the road, blinding you in a black trough of shadow.

“Fuck me,” he says. “Still breathin’. Ya got lucky. Your fella’s a goner, sweetheart.”

Fella.

Your father. He had been at the wheel, championing a road trip to visit obscure relatives, whom you’d never met, nor particularly cared to.

The drive had been harsh, all stark light and barren road.

Dread was in the yellow of the horizon. The air had hissed with its song.

“I don’t want to go,” you’d said. “I don’t know these people. It’s not like I’m a kid anymore. It’ll be weird.”

“Ah, it’ll be fine,” your father had replied, falsely jolly, consulting a map. “They’re all solid blokes. What are you worrying for?”

You rested your brow against the windowpane, soothing the beginnings of an ache.

“Just don’t feel like going. Can’t help worrying about Mom.”

The drive had continued in silence, for a time. Neither of you had wanted to reach for the radio.

“Yeah,” you father had said, at last. “Same here. But there’s no point stewing at home waiting for her, eh?”

You’d begun to answer, your words blown away in a gale of events.

Something had taken out a back wheel, then a front one. There had been something up ahead— a sign, you’d thought, and then the vehicle had been through it and over it and on its back, and burning.

You’d come loose from the car like a coin from a threadbare pocket, and now you’re lying in the silhouette of a man that smells like sweat and gunfire.

“Let’s have a look at you, then,” he says.

His voice is rough, friendly, salt of the earth. A working man’s accent. Trustable, if you did not know what he had done.

He brushes your hair back from your forehead, grunting at the cut that splits it like chopped wood.

“You’re gonna have one beauty of a scar if I don’t see to it. Looks like you’re coming home with me, love. I’m Mick, by the way. Mick Taylor. Nice to meet ya.”

You see the gun on his arm, know well that he put out the wheels.

Your lips part with a whispered rejection of his aid.

Mick scowls, his eyes squinting, all narrow malice.

“Eh? Listen, you can lie here like your mate there, or I can stitch you back together and getcha lookin’ decent. Choice is yours.”

The man chortles, a filthy, porcine sound.

“Just jokin’. I’m keeping ya. Know what’ll happen if you lie out here all night? Dingos’ll eat ya. Snakes’ll bite you. Either way, you’ll wind up fuckin’ dead, right. Don’t want that, do ya, Sheila?”

“My Dad,” you whisper—the fire has guttered your throat, leaving you with a geriatric croak. “He needs help.”

The figure leering over you shifts back slightly, and you glimpse his face. Sun-beaten skin, small, malignant eyes. Cleft chin. Hair grown down either side of his jaw like chin straps, bookends for a blunt-toothed grin.

“Your Dad’s fucked, darlin’. Legs burnt off. Probably got one foot in the grave. Or not, eh?”

Another rattling laugh. You try to sit up, going limp under a wash of pain.

“Here ya go,” says Mick, helpfully turning you onto your side. “See for yourself. I pulled him out of the wreck, but he’s barely hangin’ on. Doubt he’ll see tomorrow.”

Your father slumps, a charred half-man, still in the road. All the heat runs out of you through your head, and you sit up as though from a dream.

One of your ears buzzes, an imagined sound. You will never quite unhear it again.

“Dad,” you say— your voice is still barely audible, even to you. “Dad?”

His mouth twitches, and you glance up at Mick, knowing you cannot go to him for help.

“Bugger’s alive, is he?” asks Mick, noticing the stir of movement. “Must be bloody sore. Better put him out of his misery.”

Concussed, you do not understand the statement until Mick strides across to your father’s body and hefts the gun.

Three shots ring out.

The dying man jumps and dances briefly, festooned in a display of blood. Then he falls, faceless, his head dangled on the blown-off reed of his neck, and you look at Mick with a hollow terror that makes you almost calm in its flat emptiness.

“Did you both a favour,” he says, all broad, square teeth. “Wouldn’t want him watchin’ what I’m going to do to you when I get ya back.”

You leave your heart there on the road, another burned, dead thing in the humming afternoon.

Mick takes you to the remnants of a mine, carrying you down into the dark across his shoulder, as he might hoist the body of a deer. The stench of rot and ammonia passes over you in an acrid haze. A menagerie smell, of human animals.

There have been others, held here. Others killed in the belly of the ground.

Mick sits you against the bars of an iron cage, pleased by your lack of resistance.

“That’s it,” he says. “Nice and quiet. Wouldn’t want to have to cut your tongue out. Can’t scream me name if ya can’t talk.”

He goes over you with brutish hands, looking for injuries. One wrist violet with bruising, both knees skinned, the slash across your brow: aside from this, and the concussion, you are otherwise unscathed.

“You must be made of rubber,” says Mick, as he cleans your wounds with a bit of murky alcohol on a rag. “One hell of a tumble you took, there.”

Thanks to you, you think, but say nothing, are still an hour back in time, watching your father’s body leap in the force of gunfire.

“So,” says Mick, sitting back to observe his work under the dim light. “What were you and your dear old dad doing here in Australia?”

You do not answer, owe him nothing, this shooter of men.

Mick’s face darkens. Reaching forward, he squeezes your sprained wrist until you cough up bile between your legs, black stars churning in the cell before you.

“Start talkin’,” says Mick. “I’m not pissin’ around.”

“Dad’s from here,” you choke out. “Was. We were going to visit family.”

Your captor grunts in disbelief.

“Doubt it. Ya talk like a Yank.”

The disparagement in his tone is a steel edge you know better than to touch.

“My Mom’s American,” you say. “I grew up there. That’s why I don’t have any accent at all.”

“Hmm.”

To your relief, Mick softens, seeming to regard you with a more favourable look. His eyes are small, light, with a cold friendliness about them that you might have liked, had he not introduced himself in such slaughterous practice.

His tone, too, is conversational, as though he did not wear the shrapnel of blood and bone upon him, still.

“Where’s your Mum, then?” he asks.

You look down at the bile cooling in the dirt, its bitterness another stink in the fetid gloom.

“She ran away.”

Mick’s smile hardens.

“Got sick of your Dad, did she?”

“No. She’s got mental health problems. She stops taking her meds. Runs off. Comes back a month or so later. Nothing we can do.”

It seems a trite conversation to share with a killer, but you will sustain it, if it distracts him from thoughts of harm.

“So your Mum’s left ya,” says Mick, “and your Dad’s dead. Halfway to being an orphan, eh?”

You wipe your face gingerly, appalled by the absence of tears, the correct emotion. Certainly you feel it, somewhere, kept as though beneath an upturned glass. But you cannot express it, though it may buy you favour to cry.

“Dad’s family are gonna worry about me,” you say, softly. “If I don’t turn up.”

Mick’s brow furrows. It is a mistake to threaten him, even so subtly as this.

“They can keep worryin’,” he growls. “Can’t send ya back, now can I? You’d go tellin’ everyone about what I’ve been doing out here. Can’t let ya do that, Sheila.”

You push your hands behind you, clinging to the iron ice of the bars until your palms burn.

“But I don’t know what you’ve been doing,” you say. “I don’t want to know. I’ll say I don’t know who attacked me and my Dad. I didn’t see your face. I don’t know your name.”

Mick moves towards you, and you shift along the side of the cage, your spine ringing across the bars.

“I don’t trust ya,” he says, quite pleasantly. “You seppos can’t keep your mouths shut for one bloody minute. You’d be spillin’ your guts before ya knew you were doin’ it.”

He takes hold of your right leg and hauls you towards him, scraping your back as your t-shirt rides up across the floor. A knife is produced from somewhere, an evil fragment of silver moonlight, and you gasp, rigid in anticipation of it against your throat.

“Don’t piss yourself,” says Mick. “I’m not plannin’ to kill ya after doin’ such a stellar job of cleanin’ your injuries.”

Knotting his fist in your shirt, he cuts it from your body, repeating the action with your ruined jeans. You don’t dare raise a hand to prevent him, seeing the proficiency with which he wields his blade.

“Oh no,” you whisper, pathetic in your dread of what he means to do.

“Figured it out, have ya?” asks Mick, and grins, one crude hand snapping the elastic of your thin undergarments. “What else would I do with ya? Didn’t bring you down here for a chat.”

You close your bandaged knees, but Mick snaps them tersely open, turning the knife under the light again until you slacken to his will.

If your heart beats quickly, you cannot feel it: you are numb from the head down, insensible. Staring through the man before you, seeing the darkness in him waver, a living shadow.

Mick crouches between your legs, his fingers upon you with a hostile agility. He watches your face closely, eating of even the merest gesture of your suffering.

“Fair warning,” he says. “I’m going to hurt ya.”

You’re dry when he enters you, but as his knuckles clench you’re quickly soaked, the sounds of your flesh awakening to him an echo in the mine.

Mick’s eyebrows jump in bald surprise.

“Strewth, you’re a bit of a dark horse, aren’t ya, daddy’s girl? Do ya always get this wet for blokes old enough to be your father, or just your Uncle Mick?”

His thumb roughs the jewel of nerves you’d hoped he’d avoid. You gasp strengthlessly, roll your head on your neck. Stare into the corpse flavoured dark; anywhere but his face, his eyes.

A blow to the face has you jolting back up like a roused snake, blinking, stone drunk with shock.

Mick leers down at you, his thick fingers still hooked through your cunt.

“Make some bloody racket, will you? I ain’t fuckin’ a dead sheila tonight. Would have left you in that burnt-out wreck of a foreign car if I thought you’d give up the fight this quick.”

You try to focus your stare, find the veins of your fear to bleed for him. The impression of Mick’s hand throbs across your eye, swelling the lid.

“Stop,” you rasp. “Stop it.”

Movement in your gut: a maggot of shame.

The old man smirks, and leans over you, his beer-musked breath making darts of the down on your bruised cheek.

“There ya go,” he says. “A bit of protest. I love it.”

He kisses you, forcing his tongue between your chipped teeth, all spit, and cigarettes, and drink. His thumb keeps up its relay across your clitoris, its callous tousling your silk. Cunningly, he hunts your climax, knowing he can turn it out.

Weakly, you scrape backwards on scabbed palms, Mick’s tongue still slid across yours. With a muttered oath, he kneels down on one leg, his weight a hanging rock.

“Keep your arse where it is. You’re comin’ for me, or I’m breakin' your fuckin’ legs, and I won’t be neat and tidy about it. Ya know what a compound fracture is, don’tcha? Bone through the skin, and a bastard to set right. Probably never seen one, a city brat like yourself. But you know what I’m talkin’ about.”

You watch his arm move, tanned tawny gold, bound in tattoos long faded by the sun, can’t look at his face in its ugliness and age, and slavering appetite. Sweat opals your forehead, and fevered shivers rip at you. Your mouth opens; the moan that drips free is someone else’s shame, a weak response to touch.

“You tourists are all the same,” says Mick, equally pleased and repulsed by the noise. “Whinge and whine about me putting me hands on ya, when all ya want under it all is a good root. I can feel you’re on the edge, orphan. Hips movin’. Hole squeezin’ down tight. Mind you don’t take me bloody fingers off, will ya?”

He chuckles, and brings his free hand to your breasts, pawing their flesh in his workman’s fist. The pain, the mockery— a signal crosses some incorrect road in your senses, for as Mick leans down to kiss you again you feel a tug of mad, sudden pleasure, casting itself through your loins and up into your mind like a flare thrown into the night.

His hand fucks you through it, pressing, relentless into your treachery. You break your fingernails on the filth beneath you, feel yourself torn, unwilling, from your distance like a marlin from the deepest sea. You breathe in sickly pants.

Savaged. Wounded.

“You’re a beauty,” says Mick, bringing his wet hand to his face to study its stolen glaze. “Take a look at the mess ya made. You oughta thank me, givin’ you a service like that. Half the time, I don’t bother. Just wanna get me dick in a hole and get to it.”

Sitting back on his haunches, he licks his hand, smacking his lips with a juicy pop. The noise—like gunfire, bullets in a tyre, in your father’s skull—startles you into action. The cage door is partway open; you lurch past Mick on your knees, all instinct, no thought as to what you’ll do beyond the mine.

“And where are you runnin’ off to, eh? Ya silly cunt.”

Mick is on your back in under a second, smacking the cage door shut on one of your outstretched hands. A scream evicts itself from you— parched, almost soundless, knocked back in by the blade Mick shunts beneath your chin.

“Told ya,” he growls, rutting against your hips for emphasis. “Either I fuck ya, or I kill ya, and I didn’t carry you all this way and stitch you up to finish ya quick. It’ll be slow and hard, and it’ll hurt. See how ya scream then, eh?”

“Please,” you say, to the knife as much as the man. “I can’t do what you want me to. I’ve never— I’ve never done that before. I’m scared.”

Mick puts the knife away and draws your head back to look you in the eye. His stare is hunger and dusk. Of hunting things in the desert.

“I know. Could tell you were a fuckin’ virgin. Bled on me hand, didn’tcha? Ain’t gonna stop me fuckin’ ya, though. Means I’ll be keepin’ you down here for a long time. Usin’ ya whenever I feel like it. But first, I have to break ya in.”

“Why?” you ask, as his belt buckle rings at your back, his shooter’s hands arrange you beneath him with the same familiarity with which he’d load his gun. “Why do you hurt people?”

Mick pauses, and when you glance back at him over his shoulder you see a real loathing sheen the vicious glass of his eyes.

“Because it’s what ya deserve. You, and all you cheap, noisy Americans, coming here, soiling my bloody land. Good thing you’ve got some Aussie in you, or I’d have to kill ya on principle. Not enough in you for me to turn ya loose, though.”

His knee opens your thighs, and you hear him clear his throat to spit in his hand, a home-grown lubricant. You stare at the bars of the cage until, in your vision, they smear into one broad stroke of rust. How cold the mine is, around you, in its coffin velvet darkness. All death, all hopeless night.

“Usually have to protect meself when I screw you tourist girls,” says Mick, conversationally. “Tend to be crawling with all sorts of nasties. But you’re clean as a whistle, ain’tcha, with a virgin cunt like yours.”

There is force at your sphere of heat, massive, bracing in the shoving pain that follows, the dirty grunts and curses blown against your ear like wind from some wretched sun-scoured isle. You dry heave across the dirt floor, spittle falling from the tip of your tongue in an unholy christening.

Surely you are baptised, now, by the way of brutality, a shingleback forced to mate, to exist beyond this point of anguish.

Mick’s hands punish your hips, their grip testing the joints. How comical he must look, plaid shirt pulled taut over his belly, the old hat still looming over his brow, with his untidy thrusts and growling breath. You know, as if by telepathy, how he savours the assault, how he sees himself the hunter, sinking his teeth into the meat of his quarry.

His cock beats a note of pain so close to pleasure that your nerves cannot mark the difference.

Perhaps it is easier, to take something from this agony, to find something amidst the fog. But then, perhaps you would rather it only hurt, a violence upon you, no different from the twisting of a spear up into your abdomen.

You’re wet as he fucks you, loudly so, the slick of it the music of the mine.

“Never had a girl drip on me cock like you, Sheila,” says Mick, slapping your flank heartily as he withdraws. “Let’s getcha on your back so I can have a look at ya.”

He turns you with a careless shove, snorting as you cover your eyes like a child afraid of the beast under its bed.

“Christ,” says Mick. “Can’t stomach seein’ an old bloke like me makin’ ya come? Probably finger yourself thinkin’ about some soft bloody film star. Well, you can get over it. You’re mine now, darlin’. Never lettin’ you go.”

He drags you to him by the hips, bending your legs back at such an angle you sense, with certainty, that he means to fill you to your greatest depth. You tense, try, with feeble hands, to push at his chest as he bears down on you again.

“Please,” you say. “Please, no more, please, please...”

Terror strikes through you in a fork of black lightning as Mick leans down, his eyes narrowed, hateful.

“Shut up,” he sneers. “Look down, ya uptight bloody American princess. You’re gonna watch me fuck ya.”

With a terse jolt he moves your head downwards. You see his cock in one tanned hand, pushing back into your ravaged entrance in one slow, mean thrust. Unnatural, the size of him, a surrealist nightmare depiction of male aggression.

The tempo of it drawing in and out of you may as well be the digging of a grave in all its dark purpose. Your breasts rise and fall with its movement, your skin awash in the hideous light shone down from the naked bulb overhead, the yellow of a cartoon sun.

You hear your own voice, disembodied, the chatter of a ventriloquist’s doll.

“Mick. Mick, it hurts.”

“Should bloody hope so,” he sneers, and he hits you; the rusty pain in that same abused cheek runs down your neck into your loins, and you are afraid of yourself as much as this monster, in your weakness.

You cling to Mick’s arms suddenly, which are firm from his grisly work, and he snickers.

“Like that, do ya? Never would have guessed it, to look at ya.”

He palms your chest, yellowed teeth bared as he rolls upon you, chafing your spine against the floor. His ugliness is your greatest shame, every line in his weathered face mocking you with its affront.

You cannot wrench your eyes away, staring up at him even as you wish only to turn to the dark. Ghosts seem to whisper to you from the corners, holding you accountable for the plaits of ecstasy that wind your cunt tight around your attacker.

You throb with the need of release, with its inevitable approach, uninvited.

He killed your father. He has raped and killed and rode his ruthless path through the Outback for decades, and you are going to come with him within you. Come from the chemical bewilderment of fear, and grief, and the force of him in the new wound of taken virginity.

If you survive him, it will be as a ghoul, undead, unfeeling. You yearn for him to return to the knife and end you, but you know from the glee in his eyes that he means to have you live as long as your flesh can withstand his horror.

“You’re a looker, y’know,” breathes Mick, putting a hand behind your head in a rancid performance of romance. “Scars and all. Give me a kiss, eh?”

He runs his tongue through your lips, and you gasp as a vent of andesite heat bisects you in your climax. Your enemy gives a throaty laugh, fucking you through each layer of orgasm until all that is left is the pain, and the width of him within you.

“Bet you’ve never come like that before, have ya?” he gloats. “Look scared to death. Jesus. I could fuck ya for days.”

But you feel his strokes taking an erratic quality, hear the shortening of his breath. He’s close, and you doubt he means to save you the dread of him finishing in your satin warmth.

Still, you beseech, feel at the very least that your begging will end this.

“Don’t... I mean, inside me, I...”

Mick smirks, gripping you by the chin to bring you eye to eye.

“Darlin’,” he croons. “I’m gonna be blowin’ me load in ya cunt until the day I kill ya.”

He licks your face of sweat and blood, and grips you to him as he reaches his bellowing crisis. You feel him pulse, the overflow of his spend trailing your inner thigh in its salt moisture, and close your eyes, stepping in to embrace your defeat.

Mick stands up, buckling his trousers, whistling a jolly, off-key tune. You lie as he left you, thinking of nothing, your mind and senses ground out into ash. Day in, day out, this is to be your life, whore to the devil of the land.

It seems that you died in the car, after all.

By God, you wish that you had.

---

Chapter Two is now here

#wolf creek #wolf creek fic #tw violence #tw noncon #dead dove do not eat #mick taylor x reader #mick taylor #darkfic

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