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f1nalgirlz · 3 months

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Desperation. | Charlie Walker

in which Ghostface (Charlie Walker) attacks a girl he’d always been attracted to, in anger of her never noticing him. She pleads with him, assuring him she’d do anything for her life. Would he take this opportunity to get what he’d always wanted from her?

˗ˏˋcontents´ˎ˗ Charlie Walker x reader, fem! reader, p in v, nsfw, use of y/n, college student y/n still living with her parents, disappearing act ghostface

˗ˏˋwarnings´ˎ˗ violent themes, serial killer(ghostface), sexual themes, knife mention, creampie, fingering.

The night was extremely dark, not to mention chilly. By now it was mid-October and everyone in Woodsboro was buzzing about the recent murders amping up. Some people cared, but to most, it seemed like a big joke. To Y/N however, it was far from it. The killings had gotten increasingly more violent and depraved. The news coverage and talk about it amongst the population made Y/N’s heart feel like it was tensing up in her chest, unable to push any blood through her body. Looking out the window of her house she couldn’t see any people walking around or any porch lights turned on. This was likely because of the countywide curfew put in place by the police department. Before the murders had started, her parents had to take a trip abroad, trusting her alone in Woodsboro. After hearing about the murders, they instantly regretted their decision. Unfortunately, their tickets were nonrefundable. They were forced to stay on their work trip with no way back to their daughter.

Y/n pulled the curtains she was gazing out of shut and walked over to check that the front door was still locked. When she confirmed it was, she did her rounds, checking all locks and closing curtains downstairs. Once she was satisfied she went upstairs to her room with increasingly heavy eyes. When she pushed the sturdy oak door open, however, something felt different, shocking some drowsiness out of her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She noticed next that the curtains in her room were flowing with the wind… her window was open.

She really wasn’t a dramatic person, but she was so sure that she had closed that window maybe not locked it but definitely closed. Slowly, she creeped towards the window, moving the curtains aside to see how far it was open… fully. It was fully open. When she stuck her head out to peek down, right there was the ladder from her backyard leaned up against the side of the house. She barely had time to process the ladder being lined up with her window before she felt a sharp pain in her scalp.

As her eyes darted to the side, trying desperately to see her intruder she felt the gloved hand tighten, pulling her hair painfully. The pain alone made tears prick up in her eyes. “Please, what do you want?” She cried hoarsely, but she was just dragged to the floor by her hair. When she landed on her back she looked up, a medium height person looming over her in a ghostface costume. This revelation made her heart sink, tears fully welling up into her eyes now. “Please… I’ll do anything… just please don’t kill me.” She said, some tears rolling down her cheeks as she scooted away from the figure above her, not daring to stand up from the floor. The ghostface tilted his head, as if he was thinking about her words, then came another desperate plea. “I’ll do anything! I won’t even report this to the cops or tell ANYONE please!” She was fully begging now, sobbing as she did. Charlie raised his eyebrows under his mask. ‘Was she serious?’ He thought to himself but decided not to dwell on it. He wanted her, he’d wanted her so badly for so long, this could be his opportunity right? Her stomach twisted when she felt a strong hand grabbing her by the arm, slamming her down on her own bed, face down. She sucked in a deep breath when she heard the jingling of a belt, fear paralyzed her, but something in her stomach felt tingly. When she felt gloved hands yanking down her pajama shorts and panties, her cheeks flushed. She was not only embarrassed that she was being exposed like this, but also ashamed that this current treatment was making her feel things. Not just the usual things someone would feel in the situation, like terror, but she was feeling her heat pulsating between her legs. She'd never admit it to anyone else, but she'd always read books about situations like this. When she got off sometimes she'd even imagine it happening to her. She knew it wasn’t right, but she couldn’t help her interest in it. She bit her lower lip when her legs were spread by two aggressive hands, as she obediently remained bent over her bedside. She remained quiet, not daring to look back at him until she felt something hard and warm thrust into her pussy. It had slid in easily, no resistance at all due to how wet she'd gotten simply from being manhandled this way. She’d turned to look back at him, her lips falling into an ‘o’ shape, she’d almost looked surprised. That’s what Charlie would’ve thought anyway, had a low moan not slipped out of her mouth. The masked man tilted his head at her as he began thrusting into her at a steady pace.

As the man thrusted inside her, she tried to remain unmoving, knowing he had a knife. Still, even knowing he’d broke into her house to kill her, she couldn’t stop herself from feeling pleasure. It made her body hot and her stomach tighten. The way he pounded into her, occasionally tugging her hair with a gloved hand made her uncontrollably moan. It was even better than she'd imagined in the past, the fear of his knife penetrating her skin just added to the adrenaline rush of the whole situation. Y/n was desperate for him and it was obvious by the way she pushed her hips back against his when he thrusted into her, the way her eyes fluttered shut, rolling back every time they opened, and especially by the way long strings of moans were escaping her mouth. Y/n was absolutely shameless by now. She wasn't the only one thoroughly enjoying this encounter though, Charlie was too. Moans and grunts escaping him, muffled by his mask. As his thrusts grew sloppier the clatter of the knife hitting the hardwood floor could be heard. Y/n felt the gloved hands aggressively gripping the skin of her hips, slamming her onto his cock roughly, a choked moan leaving her lips as her chest heaved. Her cunt was throbbing, pulsing around him as her hands desperately grasped for anything to hold onto, which ended up being her blanket. The previously silent room was filled with the sounds of skin meeting skin, heavy breathing, and moans from both people in the room. A smile was working its way onto Charlie's lips, though no one would even be able to see it, he could feel a burning in his stomach as he watched how the girl reacted underneath him. Charlie could feel his orgasm nearing as he continued to hammer into her, cumming deep into her soon after the feeling built up. Her throbbing pussy milking every drop from him, as he slumped forward, chest against her back. A low moan escaped him as she continued moving her hips against his now still ones until, he couldn't stand the overstimulation any longer and pulled out. The girl under him moaned softly, and a wet noise followed his movements.

A soft whine left her lip, she was achingly close but hadn't gotten to cum. Though just inches away from release, she wasn't about to push her luck with a serial killer. However, her whine and lack of release didn't go unnoticed by Charlie though, as he slipped his gloves off and tossed them to the floor. His eyes over her body, still bent over the bed, cum leaking from her used hole. He used two fingers to scoop it up, pushing it back into her pussy, the contact making her moan again. That's when the man spoke for the first time that night, "You wanna cum?" he asked her teasingly, she didn't even have time to be surprised, just giving him a vigorous nod in response. His fingers worked their way inside her skillfully, pressing into every right spot in her warmth. She moaned again as he massaged her pulsing cunt, spreading her legs with his free hand and wrapping his arm around her to rub her clit. She was too entranced to notice how familiar the voice sounded. As his fingers pumped in and out of her, she felt her orgasm building up in her stomach. She was getting closer by the second until finally she was sent over the edge, pussy tightening around Charlie's fingers and a loud moan escaping her, being muffled by her shoving her face into her bed. As she came, his fingers continued to move inside her, letting her ride out her orgasm.

As Y/n came down from her high, catching her breath while body slumped over the side of her bed she finally decided to sit up and look around. The ghostface who'd been there previously was gone. She was a little relieved, but a lot confused. Standing up on her shaky legs, she scanned the empty room. Her body was utterly exhausted, instead of cleaning herself up she decided to just crawl into her bed and sleep.

R: long time no see... i know this is kinda ass, especially at the end, but i had an idea and wanted to write for it. i started working on this back in October and never finished it until now.. it is also not proofread yet so lmk if you see any typos or errors of any kind. I greatly appreciate any feedback good or bad. i'm working on a few vampire fics atm but i have a lot of ideas i wanna do. i also wanna write some more stuff for non-Rory characters so yeah!

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spinji · 7 months

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Wanting to stay in touch, Izuku and Rody start mailing letters to each other almost immediately after Izuku gets back to Japan. Izuku sends one first, Rody teases him for being so impatient in his reply; a reply that he wrote and sent as soon as he possibly could but Izuku didn't need to know that. They talk like this for a few months, about their lives and their thoughts, comfortable and open just like when they were traveling together across Otheon; like it was just the two of them again.

Maybe Rody got too comfortable, maybe Izuku's honest nature wore his walls down too much, but on his next letter Rody confesses...everything. How he felt for Izuku, how long he'd been dealing with these intimate feelings in his chest, how yes, actually, he really really wanted to see Izuku again! It's all laid bare before he can overthink it. His handwriting is sloppy and he nearly rips the whole thing up more than once.

It sits fully written, addressed, and sealed on his desk for days before he finally breaks. Rody drops it in the post box and forces himself to focus on something else. It would be at least a week before he got Izuku's awkward but kind let down so he had no reason to dwell on it now. What's done is done.

Then the war breaks out.

The letter doesn't make it to Japan, the borders having shut before it could leave port. Rody has to try and hide the crushing knot in his chest when the old tv at the bar only passively mentions the devastation in Jaku. He has to stand there, mopping the floor, and hope Izuku wasn't involved.

Where was his school again? Was it close to there? Did they send him to fight again? Detailed information is almost impossible to find. Rody's only internet access is the public library and any articles he can find with any details are all in Japanese. He almost tries learning the language himself to fill the gaps in the automatic translations but he gets too frustrated too fast.

He catches the broadcast of the fight with Shigaraki by chance, butting into some random guy's personal space as he streamed the live coverage on his phone. He has to pretend he's just curious and unknowing and not screaming for Izuku to win; to survive.

The dust clears, the fight ends. Izuku is barely conscious but he lived and stood tall long enough that others could get him to the hospital. The room is sterile and peaceful, one by one his worries about his classmates and teachers wash away as they stabilize, heal, and come out of surgery okay. His more unscathed classmates come to check in and give him updates; Mandalay brings Kota and Mirio brings Eri. His mom makes time every single day to see him.

It's been almost a week, he'll be discharged any day now, and his mom comes to see him again with something gently held in her hand.

He got a letter in the mail.

#is this anything?#rodydeku #rddk #mass murder duo #rody soul #izuku midoriya #mha spoilers #mha manga spoilers

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garblegarden · 9 months

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More clothes! Both phonies and palindromes partake in wearing clothes, though palindromes began much earlier than phonies. Science says that phonies suddenly mutated thumbs into existence some generations ago which let them join in on making and wearing things, while palindromes have always had their flexible tongues and mouthparts to manipulate their surroundings with.

Anyways, here we've got a desert-dwelling palindrome in a wide-coverage outfit, designed for blocking the sun.

The green phony beside them is wearing a simple outfit with emphasis on jewelry and rope details. The purple phony is wearing a simple outfit with a belt and holes for their back fins.

The minty striped palindrome is from the woodlands (just like patrick!) and is wearing a simple blanket.

The large pale blue palindrome is wearing a tight fitting belt, and is most likely a drifter. Since drifters utilize their symmetry more often, they wear tighter and symmetrical clothes which won't fall or get messed up when rotating.

The small dark palindrome is from the rainforests and is wearing an elaborate outfit with several layers and pebbles. Phonies and palindromes alike both enjoy their pebbles. Being stone-eating animals, it's a sign of wealth to be able to wear a lot of bone cloth and stones, because they could easily be eaten to reinforce their own bones instead.

Social palindromes typically cover their side-visible cloacas and leave the one parallel to the ground open and accessible. Drifter palindromes always leave each cloaca open, because they don't have the mobility for things like zippers or butt-flaps.

Bone cloth, woven from the siliceous fibers of their bones, isn't the only material used in palindrome & phony fashion, though it is the most common. Both species have access to various vegetative material and synthetic stuff that humans left behind back when they had a colony on the planet.

#speculative biology #spec evo #spec bio #aliens #palindromes #worldbuilding

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drdemonprince · 6 months

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Hi, apologies in advance if this is something you've already discussed or addressed, but I was wondering about whether there is any kind of correlation between autism and increased sensitivity to tragic global events? Maybe I'm just burnt out, but the past couple weeks of turmoil and tragedy in Israel/Palestine has me completely immobilized with anxiety and despair. I don't have any profound connections to the region, Israeli citizens, or the Palestinian people, but my heart aches from it all, especially with the ongoing devastation in Gaza.

I had a similar experience in 2017 from Hurricane Maria, but I had lived for a year on the island where it first made landfall in PR, so I was personally invested and it was a place with which I was familiar. Asking other autistic friends if there's a higher chance of being hyperfixated on or extra sensitive to coverage of international tragedy, I was told my own personal history with trauma and violence/tragedy may just make me more empathetic to others' suffering.

How, as an autistic person, do you find ways to pull yourself out of despair for the state of the world and the suffering of others?

Many people find it compelling to draw a link between Autism and heightened empathy or sensitivity to matters of injustice, for understandable reasons, but the reality is far more complex.

In research, we see that Autistic people are more morally consistent than other people -- we are more likely to sacrifice resources or social standing in order to stand up for the things in which we believe. Because of masking pressures, many of us become highly attuned to the emotions of others -- or what we presume those emotions to be, because of course no person is a mind-reader. We can appear stubborn, to others, in holding steadfastly to our beliefs even when doing so is risky. We are also highly traumatized and thus suffer from hyper-vigilance, trauma triggers, and many other symptoms that may register as us taking emotional blows particularly hard.

It would be comforting to tell ourselves that such traits make us more connected to global events, or actually more morally or ethically invested. But that isn't necessarily the case. Having a strong moral consistency doesn't mean that a person's morals are the correct ones, being willing to make a sacrifice for a cause doesn't mean it was the right cause, and being highly sensitive to the plights of others doesn't mean we actually understand them or are feeling their feelings at all.

For myself, being Autistic is associated with being far less emotionally impacted by such global events than other people. I have very limited empathy, and in situations like these what empathy I do have is entirely cognitively mediated. Global catastrophes and massive injustices don't really emotionally affect me the way that I see them affecting other people -- I don't cry about such things or feel devastated by them, I just think about them a lot in a relatively dispassionate way, and many of the gestures people find moving surrounding such issues do nothing for me.

It doesn't mean I don't care. I actively make the choice to care because of my belief system and values. I have to decide intentionally to dwell on the emotional reality of what is happening. I have to force myself to imagine what others might be feeling, and what others are going through, in order to understand it. Otherwise, to me it is more of an intellectual abstraction, and my focus immediately goes toward what I think the logical solution or means of response might be.

This doesn't make my conclusions any better than anyone else's, mind you. Just because I'm thinking analytically doesn't mean I have the correct information or frame of reference -- in fact, in such matters it often leads me to be oblivious to what others need or what others would consider the morally right thing to do. There's a whole spectrum of human experience I can't access, and while I used to think it made me evil, it's doesn't. It just makes me different.

My friends and loved ones who are more emotionally open-hearted are the ones that remind me to pause, to honor people's grief, to make sense of the emotional and social needs of the moment as well as the ones that strike my numb self as more supposedly practical. My knee-jerk reaction to such situations is to try and jump into problem-solving mode, and I have had to learn from experience that I need to slow down, humble myself, and make space for the enormity of people's feelings and the horror of the things are happening that my body just cannot touch. Very emotionally obvious things, by the standards of other people, completely fly past me.

Still, I am also often frustrated and confused by the reactions other people have to crises -- as a very general rule, humanity tends to reach for means of addressing such events that are symbolic and emotionally satisfying but might not align with their professed ideologies or any kind of articulated strategy. The safety pin thing after Trump was elected, for example, or the blackout squares at the height of BLM. These movements felt good, I guess, to people who were in a state of genuine panic, but they actually did more harm than good.

It's difficult to be what often feels like the sole voice asking whether what the collective is doing really makes any sense. If often makes me seem like I am heartless, which I guess I am, but I am still highly invested in the side I believe to be just winning, and in my annoying fault-finding I'm simply trying to aid in that.

There's benefits and drawbacks to both approaches, is what I'm saying, and there are many routes to caring about an issue and many ways in which caring isn't the same thing as being helpful.

All of this is a bit ancillary to your question. Is it an Autism thing to be sensitive to global genocide? I think that's quite a human thing. Many Autistic people take such matters very very seriously, but some of us do so in ways that aren't as emotional as what you describe. Others are incredibly emotionally impacted by such matters, like you are -- and so are many non-Autistic people. It hardly matters whether it's normal or not though -- this is what is happening for you, and it matters, and you certainly aren't alone in it.

I wish I had advice that came from personal experience, but my experience is somewhat of the mirror image to yours. I find that when people care deeply about an issue, whether it's intellectually or emotionally, they compulsively consume information and upsetting imagery about the issue to a degree they find debilitating. I do this, and you probably do it as well, even if what happens to me is analysis paralysis and fault-finding and what happens to you is probably more like horror and despair.

I believe limiting one's intake is necessary. I believe humility is too. We are not the stars of this story, and we are not so important in the world as to expect ourselves to be experts or saviors. I find that stepping back and gaining historical knowledge places things in perspective. I have learned much by studying the political movements of the past. I have had to develop a true understanding of how the social change I desire really works -- thanks to historical reading, discussion with people I respect, and by consuming leftist theory.

I think it is vitally important to be able to disagree with people, at least in the privacy of your own mind and in your own conduct, so that even if someone is ringing an alarm bell and saying that a certain action is necessary, you have the power to determine if you actually agree. I think it's important to not constantly consume information. We have to learn to know which voices to completely disregard, by asking ourselves what belief system drives a person's claims, and whether they are positioning themselves as an expert for their own self-enrichment and betterment rather than for a just cause.

I think we can't just be moved by the emotional panic of the situation, because we are very easily manipulated, drained of energy, and led astray, and disempowered if we are. But I also think we can't be detached from the human emotional reality of the moment either -- no matter what I think is the rational course of action, the only way humans are ever going to organize and take that action is by speaking with one another, crying with one another, eating together, laughing together, and believing in something better together.

I don't know how to do any of that stuff. I only know tactics and history and theory and fault-finding. There is a place for me in the struggle. There is a place for you in it too. But we are small, and we have to make peace with our smallness and flaws and build a movement that accounts for them, and for a wide variety of gifts and perspectives.

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cornflakesdoesart · 1 year

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sketchy “dress up doll” outfit ref of Dawn, some lore and design notes under the cut!

[ID: four images of the same character in different states of dress, the character has tan skin, elf ears and messy waist lenght grey hair. In the first image she is wearing simple grey underwear consisting of a bralette and panties, in the second she is wearing brown boots with beige spats, muted green ankle lenght pants and a cream longsleeved henley top, in the third image she is wearing a cold muted green poncho with pockets over the previous outfit, a belt with a hip pouch and other pockets, fingerless gloves and armwarmers and a khaki green scarve, on the next image she also has a back pack on with a rifle, the scarve is pulled over her head like a hood and she has googles and an air filtering mask on End ID]

Dawn is a wasteland wanderer known as a "stray" on a rocky, dry planet on the rim of a galactic empire in the far future! She is a calm and capable person who is generally kind but she is not very expressive and often feels detached from her own emotions, she is not a lousy fighter, skilled with a knife and a rifle, but that’s just out of neccessity of her lifestyle, she also has some arcane and healing knowledge. As most strays, she is not too keen to divulge her real name or who she was before she became a wanderer, the only thing people know for sure is that she has been one since she was a child.

Some obvoius inspiration for the setting and story is all your favourite desert media, such as star wars, dune, mad max and trigun.

For her outfit I looked at some demobaza clothes and star wars concept arts specifically but I have a whole pinterest board for this story so I have some other stuff there that were kind of an amalgamation of references, once an other artist drew her and interpreted her pants as calf length from an old drawing of her and I really liked that so I incorporated it here as well! Other stuff I wanted to include is a sport bra like undergarment not like the little bandeu I drew her with in the past, nothing too structured just something to keep the girls in place while she's running or jumping. A head covering is important of course, she lives in a sunny desert climate like place after all! And the firm ankle coverage that gave me some problems with the ankle lenght pants, so I ended up giving her sort of spats, they're for some protection against small venomous snake or scorpion like animals! They also have an added bonus of reminding me a little bit of foreign french legion vibe which matches the desert aestethic so happy accidents! Her poncho looks a bit too much like Jyn Erso's on that one concept art that is in my pinterest board and overall her clothes are bit too dark for desert dwelling I think, so when I come back to her design these are things I'm looking to improve!

#original character #oc art #oc artist #Character Design #oc dawn #post apocalyptic fashion #post apocalyptic #digital art #character reference

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months

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Dark Knowledge: Part Five

Miraak x Hermaeus Mora x Female Dragonborn Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: oral sex (female receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, tentacles, dubcon elements, forced proximity, power imbalance

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: Part Five of Dark Knowledge (for @childofyuggoth)

The First and Last Dragonborn come together. Hermaeus Mora makes a move. Reality is returned.

Part Four

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dark knowledge masterlist

What are the options before you? What cards do you have to play?

The answer is few. There are not many things you can do when you’re at someone else’s mercy. Having to submit is insulting, but your pride is of little importance when there are greater perils showing their faces.

You escaped Hermaeus Mora only to land in Miraak’s lap. One hell for another. One terror traded for an arrogant, power-hungry bastard who believes you’ll join him, that there is no question about your compliance, and fighting against him is imaginable.

Miraak is wrong to think you won’t push back about his quest for power. Teldryn was right when he said that all of Tamriel’s ills are not your responsibility. They aren’t, even though sometimes it feels that way, and that every error or catastrophe can somehow be rectified if you take up the mantel yourself.

After the bath, you emerge to food. It isn’t exactly warm, but it is filling, and you notice that Miraak does not eat. But he does watch you from behind the mask, as if you consuming the meal is somehow hypnotic to him.

It’s unnerving, and every bite becomes staler in the mouth the longer he watches.

As the First Dragonborn, he must be incredibly old, but how is it that he has lived for so long? Is it because he has dwelled in Hermaeus Mora’s realm for all these years? Is Miraak alive simply because Mora has made it so, or is there something else going on? What magical secrets does Miraak keep locked away in his head?

“Afraid I’ll choke?” you ask dryly, not particularly liking his undivided attention.

The old rags you wore before are gone. They were whisked away by a Seeker, likely destroyed or maybe used for some nefarious purpose. In their place, you were offered simple, plain black robes. They’re similar to the robes the Ciphers of the Eye wear except yours ties off at the waist.

You’re thankful for the coverage of the material but nothing about this outfit will protect you in a fight. It seems inevitable that blood will be spilled. Whether that is yours or Miraak’s—or someone else’s—is yet to be determined.

Miraak is not your friend. He is not an ally. Nor is Hermaeus Mora. You distrust the both of them, but the Daedric Prince of Knowledge is the one you fear more. Gods are eternal. They can be pushed back, kept down, even restrained. But killed? No. Not Mora.

The easier target is Miraak, but right now he is all you have. He is just a man. He is arrogant, and clearly needful in his quest for power. Stringing him along might be enough for now until you can find a way out of this awful place.

“Mora’s scent is gone,” states Miraak, completely ignoring your question.

“Thanks for the reminder,” you mutter, consuming another bite of food. The bath Miraak provided was lovely, even if the conversation the two of you had struck a nerve, and made you question everything. Those followers of his tried you kill you, and yet Miraak didn’t want that. He’s made that perfectly clear several times over.

But there is still a part of you that doesn’t trust his offer. Even if you join with him, help him break out of Apocrypha and back into the lands of Tamriel, why would he have any reason to keep you around afterward? With his quest for domination, you would eventually become an obstacle, a barrier he’ll need to break through.

Miraak circles around the side of the table, coming to a stop next to you. You pause, utensil halfway to your mouth. His golden mask tilts slightly to the left, his broad shoulders taking up too much space.

It’s like you’re in a cage again. Trapped. Boxed in. But this time, there is a sensual sway to the way Miraak inserts himself into your space. It’s not exactly a threat, but there is certainly an underlying hunger radiating off of him.

With deliberate slowness, Miraak lifts his hand, and gently runs the back of his gloved knuckles down the length of your upper arm. There is an immediate spark, a quick burst of power that appears when he makes contact and then blinks out the moment he retreats.

You’re so focused on that sudden wave, that Miraak’s voice is a distant, gnarled thing that sound like you’re submerged in water.

“What?” you ask, blinking, your mind refocusing on the present moment.

“Mora’s scent is gone,” he repeats. “I shall replace it with my own.”

I shall replace it with my own.

No. You are not Miraak’s to toy with. You are not his wife, or even his partner. You owe him nothing, and you are not his property.

The utensil drops from your hand, clattering against the vessel your food is served in. Power ripples up from your toes, sending the edges of your fingers tingling with need to lash out. A deep, primal part of you tells you to do just that, to rip off that mask, and go for his eyes. But you are also incredibly exhausted, and the rising power fades as quickly as it appears.

“I am not an object,” you growl, pushing off from the table.

You need some distance even though there is little space for you to escape to. Whatever you decide, Miraak will simply run after you. It’s clear that he’s not going down without a fight, especially on keep you to himself and not leaving you to Mora’s whims.

“No,” croons Miraak. “You are more than that. You are Dovahkiin.”

When Miraak speaks the word, the ground and earth shakes. It startles you so severely that you reach out for the table, eyes widening in fear. Won’t Hermaeus Mora hear that? Won’t he know that you’re here?

“What are you doing?” you snap. “Hermaeus Mora will hear you.”

“Will he?” Miraak replies, the delivery so casual that you nearly choke in disbelief.

“This is Apocrypha. This is his home. He knows all here.”

Miraak taps his knuckles on the table. “You should finish eating.”

Now you’ve truly had enough. Pushing off from the table, your cross your arms over your chest. “If you want my cooperation, you need to be nicer to me.”

Miraak’s hand flattens against the top of the table. “I have bathed you. Provided you food. Showered you with compliments.”

You snort. This man is arrogance personified. “You told me I smell and then proceed to order me around.”

“Hermaeus Mora is laughing at us. He knows you’re here with me. Likely amused with our…disagreement.”

“You’re delusional.”

Miraak slams his hand against the tabletop. Everything atop it rattles. “And you are trying my patience.”

“My apologies,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

Men are always complaining. They always whine when they don’t have their way, especially if a woman will not bend to them. You’re not going to bend, but you might twist a bit as a way to ensure your survival.

Miraak’s hand forms into a fist, and yet you know he does not intend to strike you. There is something defeatist about the way he does it, like he’s losing hope. But about what? While you are aware that Miraak desires freedom, that he longs to return to Tamriel once again, you also know that Hermaeus Mora is in the way. As are you to a certain extent.

It is entirely likely that Miraak can return to Tamriel with or without your assistance. Why all this effort to keep you around if you’re entirely capable of putting a stop to all of his plans? Is it only to keep you out of Hermaeus Mora’s grasp? Or does Miraak seek something else?

Whatever Miraak’s internal conflicts, they aren’t yours to figure out.

“Hermaeus Mora probably thinks you’ll kill me or I’ll kill you. Which is why he hasn’t intervened yet,” says Miraak flatly. “That is unfortunate…for him.”

“How so?” you ask, entertaining him for the hell of it.

“Because you will join me. That is inevitable.”

You sigh heavily. “I’m not interested.”

Miraak shrugs. “It does not matter that you’re uninterested. You have no choice in this.”

“I have no choice?” you scoff. “Are you listening to yourself?”

This man is truly delusional. Miraak is almost or perhaps even more arrogant than Hermaeus Mora. You’re in hell. This is torture, having to listen to and be pushed around in this forsaken place with no will of your own.

Returning his hand to the top of the table, Miraak starts to walk toward you. His stride is languid, and you’re sure he’s smirking behind that golden mask.

“The Last Dragonborn will join me. Or die. Those are the only options.” With the agility of a serpent, Miraak grabs the back of your neck, and draws you closer. On instinct, your hands go up to rest against his chest. You try to push back, but your muscles are tired, and there is true power behind Miraak’s grip.

“Do you wish to die, Dovahkiin? Or will you waste such beauty?”

Snarling, your rip yourself out of his grasp, almost tumbling to the floor in your haste to find space.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap.

“My scent belongs on you,” replies Miraak, his voice soothing even though you feel anything but. “And you on me.”

Grabbing the nearest object—an empty bowl—you hurl it at Miraak. He bats it aside. The bowl strikes the ground, shattering.

“You’re mistaken if you believe I’ll ever lay with you.” You back up, not watching where it is you’re going.

“Oh, but you will. Don’t you feel that attraction? That power between us? Because I do. And I know it is not something easily denied.”

This time you grab a book. It’s rotten, and your fingers sink into it, but you hardly care. “You’ll only find pleasure with your own hand, Miraak.” You hurl the book at him and he catches it out of the air, lightly tossing it to the side.

“Then you will watch. And want to join.”

You can hear the amusement in his tone, the teasing underneath his words. It’s irritating, and yet your body warms with the idea, betraying your growing anger. This isn’t right, and it’s not fair. You don’t want any part of this.

Turning on your heel, you run for the platform, intending to throw yourself over the ledge and into the maze below. Miraak does not stop you. He only follows, moving slowly, as if his pace will catch up to you.

When you make it onto the platform, you jump, preparing to use your Thu’um to catch your fall. Hovering in the air, you are weightless, holding in suspension. Now, you feel true freedom.

Your body starts to sag, and then descent kicks in.

But it is short-lived. Fleeting.

One moment you are falling and the next everything blinks out and returns, your feet on familiar ground. You’re back in Miraak’s tower. You’re back in the room and Miraak is only a few feet away.

“You can’t run from me,” he says.

You don’t stop to question what just happened. Instead, you take off again, priming your legs to lift you off the ground.

Your feet leave stone, and then it happens all over again. This time, you’re even closer to Miraak. Again, you run, and again you are pulled back to him, teleported over and over until you’re nearly within his grasp.

Trying once more only lands you directly in front of him. This time you cannot run. This time you cannot bolt.

“I can call you back to my tower as often as I like. There is no fleeing from me.” Miraak takes hold of your upper arm. Your strike out at him, but Miraak is quicker, twisting your arms against your back and bending you over the nearest table.

“So you’re going to take what you want?” you snarl, bucking against his hold which only presses you into his groin. You feel the hard outline of him through his robes.

“That is where you’re wrong, Dragonborn. I am not going to take from you. You are going to give in. You will surrender to me. You will join with me of your own desire.”

“I doubt that,” you growl.

Miraak does not respond. Instead, he drags you off the table, spins you around, and effortlessly lifts you by the waist and situates you on the edge. Miraak stands between your legs as your hands grip the front of his robes. One hand stays on your waist while the other rests against the top of your thigh.

“Shall we test it out?” Miraak’s gloved fingers squeeze your flesh through the robes you wear. “Spread your legs, Dragonborn. Let me have a taste.”

His touch is fire, rippling through your body like an inferno. Miraak is right. The teether is strong. Its tug is even more apparent now that you’re nearly under him.

“You wish you could feast between my thighs. It is an honor you’ll never have.” Your words are hollow. Deep within yourself, a primal part of you understands that it will happen, that the two of you will join bodies even if it is momentary.

Miraak leans closer, the golden mask nearly brushing against your cheek.

“Grant me this one request, Dragonborn. And then you can decide.” His voice drips like honey. It is sweet and deadly. Poisonous comfort. His hands are under your robes, massaging bare thigh. “Remove my mask.”

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper, even as your fingers loosen around the front of his robes.

“Don’t deny yourself.” Miraak’s voice is a caress, one that moves you to action.

Slowly, you release his robes, hands falling upon the sides of his golden mask. Miraak does not draw out of your touch, nor does he cower or hide. He stands perfectly still, waiting for you to remove it.

There is a slight tremor in your fingers before your resolve shifts into place, becoming steel. Perhaps under the mask, Miraak is a monster. Or he is simply a man. Nothing more. The only way to find out is to get this over with, to remove the mask, and face him directly.

Your fingers grip the sides, and then the mask gives, surrendering as you start to remove it. Miraak’s features come in a slow reveal. First, there is pale skin and scars. Next comes piercing dark eyes followed by a strong chin and jawline. The last feature is Miraak’s hair. Silky, shoulder-length, and blond. It falls into place once the mask is gone and resting in your hands.

Miraak is handsome, and for some reason you did not expect that, which is downright irritating. He is your enemy. You need to escape from here, to get away from him, and yet his knowing smile is all sultry prowess, like you removing the mask is the first step to victory.

His hands are what bring you back to reality. They are at the tops of your thighs where your legs meet your body. He is dangerously close to your core. Just a small movement and he’d be brushing his thumb over your clit.

“This is your monster,” murmurs Miraak, his mouth dangerously close to yours.

His fingers dig in deeper, and then tug you to very edge, your legs forcing further apart around his hips. “Am I so terrible?” he asks.

No. He’s not. In the mortal world, if a man like this propositioned you, you’d likely take him up on the offer. But this is Miraak. The First Dragonborn.

“Not physically,” you reply, immediately hating yourself for admitting so.

Miraak’s smile is nearly playful, and perhaps it’s really not so bad. He is just a man. Not a god. Give him some slack, let him believe he is winning, and then tug it all out from under him.

Leave him hanging. Leaving him swinging.

Those hands of his ease upward, his forearms pushing your robes open further, revealing more leg and thigh. Miraak starts to sink to the floor, and you’re utterly hypnotized by the way his gaze slowly drops to the place between your legs.

You’re not sure what you see upon his face. An emotion passes over it, one that appears and disappears quickly, slipping through your fingers, escaping your ability to comprehend it before its gone.

Miraak’s breath against your thighs is warm. It tingles, nearly tickles your skin. You’re not ashamed of your body, but you are nervous. You’re vulnerable like this, and this man is supposed to be your enemy.

But an enemy does not place their mouth upon you like he does. When Miraak’s lips and tongue touches your flesh, there is an immediate connection, a string pulled taut, your back arching, hips nearly coming off the table as he caresses your clit with the tip of his tongue.

“There she is,” murmurs Miraak. His tongue darts out against, circling your clit with several soft strokes that has your thighs quivering, squeezing around his head like you’re trying to crush him.

“This changes nothing,” you groan as Miraak’s hands drag along your thighs and he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Your hands go out, grab at his shoulders and his hair. Your fingers tangle in his blond locks, mouth hanging open as you try and fail to slow your breathing. The power is drowning and ice cold. It is a slap against the heat burning under your flesh.

Miraak releases your clit, only to lazily flick over and around it. It’s almost lazy in the way he does it, and you’re so sensitive, that the pleasure building in your spine rockets upward, rippling out into your limbs, seizing your muscles.

Your back bends, curls forward, fingers digging into his scalp as your end appears with a choked moan. Miraak grins against your sex as your body responds in little tremors. He is victorious, and while you’re buzzing, this is not enough to make you join him.

As the peak of your orgasm begins to fade, your lips part, words forming on your tongue. It’s to tell him he’d failed. That, while his tongue knows what it’s doing, it isn’t enough to make you join him.

Seeming to sense your rebuttal, Miraak’s mouth returns to your cunt, his tongue sliding over you yet again.

“Oh, gods,” your groan, completely falling back against the table, your grip on him slipping.

One of Miraak’s hands fall away from your thigh, only for a finger to press at your entrance. Your legs obediently fall wider, opening like a flower. Miraak’s own groan on pleasure drifts up from between your legs, and the sound is enough to make the power under your skin vibrate in response.

The connection is growing, becoming stronger, deeper. Perhaps inseparable. And yet you’re hardly thinking of that. You’re concentrated on the slow thrusts of his finger in and out of your body, and how his tongue moves in perfect rhythm with it.

Another wave slams into you, and Miraak does not cease. He devours and tastes, giving and giving until tears form in your eyes. The pleasure is unending, bordering on painful. Only then does Miraak give you relief. Only then does he pull away from your body.

Miraak’s lips and chin drip with you. He grins, proud of his accomplishment. “What do you think now, Dragonborn?”

Your chest heaves, and your mind is gone, drifting off into Apocrypha’s atmosphere. “Can’t speak?” he chuckles. “Perhaps you need something else to find your voice.”

With a quickness that surprises, Miraak lifts you off the table and into his arms. You are soft and pliant, more like melting snow than the strong warrior that you are. It is but seconds before Miraak brings you down on the bed, slipping your robes off in the process, leaving you bare and open for his gaze.

He sighs with contentment, hands roaming up and down your body. “By the end you will want only me. I promise.”

The orgasms Miraak just gave you make it hard to think, to even process his words. The euphoria of pleasure is still beating beneath your skin, burning bright and hot. Miraak is removing his own clothes, tossing them aside as if they’re nothing at all.

You reach for him, and his response is a low growl of need, his hands slipping between your legs to guide your thighs open and up. Where has all your resistance gone? It is washed away. Missing.

Miraak’s cock slides over your cunt, coating himself in your slickness. The head bumps against your clit with each pass, and it only drives your sensitivity higher, the muscles in your thighs quivering with anticipation.

Slowly, Miraak starts to drape himself over your body, trapping your legs in this position as the head of his cock begins to slide in. There is brief resistance before it glides in, and then your body welcomes him entirely.

You both groan when he bottoms out.

Miraak rolls his hips backward, and then thrusts forward, his head falling to burrow against the side of your throat. His hands reach for your arms, bring them over your head, crossing your wrists. Then, with one hand, he presses down on those wrists, pinning you to the bed with more than just his hips.

Using your locked wrists as leverage, Miraak begins to pound into his, each thrust powerful and steady. He hits deep, and each meeting pushes the air from your lungs. You can hardly hold on. You can only desperately reach for reality. It is slipping. Falling away.

Like this, you are at his mercy. You are at Miraak’s pleasure. And he takes full advantage, claiming you in a way that no other man ever has. There is no reason for sex with him to be this good. It’s simply impossible.

It has to be the connection, the buzzing battering of power that seems to exchange hands every time his hips smack into yours. His nose nuzzles against your neck, and Miraak inhales deeply, sighing as he exhales. His lips, which are surprisingly soft, brush against your skin in tender caress.

This isn’t fair. It makes no sense.

Miraak shifts position, forcing your legs open wider, his pelvis rubbing against your clit with each renewed thrust. You sink into the bed, surrendering to the pleasure, basking in how perfectly the two of you fit together.

Those powerful, steady thrusts of his become erratic and needy. He is heading toward his own end, seeking it out in desperation. You can tell by the way his soft grunts become breathy groans against your throat.

Miraak’s hand encases your throat, squeezing slightly as he arrives at his end. He grinds forward, groaning loudly as your cunt squeezes around him, his releasing emptying inside you.

“How does it feel, Dragonborn? To truly be mine?”

Using his hand around your throat, Miraak guides you to face him, his lips hovering against yours but not fully closing the distance.

You don’t answer him. Don’t dare speak. There is no agreeing to that, regardless of how wonderful you feel.

And Miraak does not kiss you. He only nuzzles your cheek before he releases your throat and then your wrists. With a carefulness that surprises, Miraak slides out of your body, leaving a hollowness you don’t particularly like.

He lifts himself up enough to help your legs fall to bed. Kept in that position, the backs of your thighs burn, and seeming to know this, Miraak starts to caress and massage these muscles even as he shifts to lay at your side. He is incredibly tender, but you’re unsure if it is performance or genuine concern.

One of Miraak’s hands slides between your breasts and pauses on your belly, pressing lightly. This one touch pulls at a thought, draws forth a doubtful tug that sits heavy in your chest.

“Miraak!”

Hermaeus Mora’s voice rings loud around the tower. It’s piercing like an arrow and you slap your hands over your ears in an attempt to cut off the bloody sound.

Miraak’s arms immediately wrap around you, tightening. He pushes you onto your back, his body draped over yours protectively. The middle of his brow wrinkles with anger, and his mouth is formed into an animalistic snarl. Miraak’s gaze darts everywhere, searching for the Daedric Lord.

He lowers his body, head dipping toward your face. Miraak to press his lips to your ear. “He will not take you from me.”

The possessiveness of his words twists your stomach.

“Show yourself, Miraak. Release the Last Dragonborn to me.”

Miraak chest expands as he inhales. His anger is palpable, nearly vibrating against your skin like a Seeker’s rattling cry.

“There is a Black Book at the top of this tower,” he continues to whisper against your ear. “Open it. And you will return to Solstheim.”

He draws back enough for you to turn to him.

“I will distract him,” mouths Miraak, carefully moving to the edge of the bed. Once there, he leisurely stands, completely naked. Only then does he begin to dress, taking his time in doing so. He’s drawing this out. Giving you a chance.

Knowing this is all the time you have, you snag your discarded robes and secure them quickly, not caring if they don’t look perfect or even practical. You just need to get to that Black Book and you’ll be free.

“You are trying my patience,” comes Mora’s voice. It is a rolling rumble, one that shakes your skeleton.

It is closer now, and you hurriedly slip out of the bed, keeping low as you move toward the spiral stairs at the far side of the room. Miraak is still taking his time, but his gaze is intense, watching you while also keeping any eye on the open platform.

Hermaeus Mora might appear right there in all his horrid splendor, and you don’t want to be anywhere near that space when he does.

As you slink by the alchemy shelves and place your foot on the bottom step of the stairs, you hear the slimy squelch of tentacles. Glancing over your shoulder, you watch with horror as at least a dozen black tentacles appear on the platform and archway. They curl around the stone or slide over it, seeking something—or someone.

But Miraak is not watching it. He is watching you. The golden mask is in his hands and his eyes are pleading, telling you to go. Swallowing down the memory of what Mora’s tentacles felt like, you ascend, stopping just as you step out of sight and hear Hermaeus Mora speak in a voice that is so near it sounds like he’s speaking just over your shoulder.

“Where is she, Miraak? I know she dwells within your tower. I sense her.”

Keeping low, you peer around the small structural wall that supports the ceiling and the level above. Mora’s form takes up the entire platform. He is so large, even larger than the dragon that brought you here. Miraak seems like nothing more than discarded parchment in comparison to the Daedric Lord of Knowledge, and yet Miraak appears unafraid of his master.

“I do not command the Last Dragonborn,” replies Miraak, voice calm.

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his tentacles vibrating as if he’s shaking off a shiver. “But you want to. I sense your desire to control her. You believe she’ll bring you great power.”

Miraak says nothing, and Mora’s massive form deflates slightly as if releasing a great exhale. “She hides from me. Tell me, champion, where is she?”

Still, Miraak says nothing.

“What do you think you will gain?” asks Hermaeus Mora. More tentacles appear, sliding into the interior of the tower from the platform. “Is it power over me?” The massive singular eye in the middle of Mora’s horrid form blinks slowly. “That would be foolish.”

“I do not seek to usurp you.”

“But you are restless,” replies Mora, one of the larger tentacles snapping in the air like a whip.

Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye swivels in the socket, seeking you out. You sense Mora’s magic creeping up from nowhere, sinking in to everything around you. It is an anchor, and you realize that he is physically trying to draw you out into the open.

You will not go back to him. You will not return to the prison he put you in.

That anchor, those invisible teethers, are tentacles in their own right as they attempt to snatch you from your dark shroud and drag you into his horrific presence. Resisting their pull, your foot slips, slamming hard into the rock, the sound echoing around the tower.

Hermaeus Mora large eye snaps in your direction. Miraak turns too, his shoulders stiff. It is quiet before chaos.

“Dragonborn!” roars Hermaeus Mora, the tower rattling from the sheer strength of his voice.

Twisting, you start up the remaining stairs, nearly slipping on every damn step as you ascend.

Turning, you start up the remaining stairs, nearly slipping on every damn step as you ascend. The tower shakes, and Mora roars, his anger palpable. You throw yourself up the last bit of stairs, only to be spit out into a small room with a singular window. In the middle of the room is a black stone pedestal. Resting on top of it is a Black Book.

Like the one you opened, this too oozes black mist and hums in its own voice. This time, there is no nefarious pull. There is only desperation on your end as you the tower rumbles, tossing you to the side like a discarded doll.

Crawling on your hands and knees toward the pedestal, your reach of the rock, helping yourself up to standing, staring down at the large tome before you. This is your out. This is your chance. It is done.

Grabbing the edge of the cover, you force it open, the pages moving with you, following the cover.

Just as before, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time, and Hermaeus Mora’s roar is a distant thing. Even the shaking of the tower is far away. You don’t even feel it.

The sudden silence is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward. The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your feet lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness, sliding over and around you, wrapping around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push as this time you do not resist them. While you know what’s coming, you also know that this is your only way out. Escape is possible as long as the tentacles pull you through before Hermaeus Mora finds you.

You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet land on…wood.

The odd, almost stagnant temperature of Apocrypha is gone. Instead, there is warmth. Physical heat with the slightest bite of cold air. Your nostrils flare, inhaling the scent of burning firewood, and roasting meat.

Glancing up, you find yourself in a vaguely familiar structure. It’s a shaman’s shack. You’ve been here before. You’ve stayed in this home, eaten shared food, and listening to stories.

It’s a Skaal home. This is Storn’s home.

A familiar voice calls your name. It’s a bit slurry as if you’re listening on the other side of a door. Slowly, you shift to the right, glancing in that direction, only to see Teldryn. The edges of him are blurry but become clearer by the second.

“Teldryn,” you breathe, arms going out to him.

He sighs with relief and wraps his arms around you. “Azura be praised,” he murmurs against the top of your head.

“You’re squeezing me too hard, Teldryn,” you mutter against his chest, voice muffled.

“Shut up. I’m sad I’m not getting the house.”

You laugh, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. When he pulls back to glance down at your face, all that relief washes away, replaced by worry.

“What is it?” you ask just before the world starts tipping.

You blink. Shake your head. Attempt to throw off whatever this odd feeling is. There is a slithery sensation over your skin. A creeping that drags, pulling you into a soft weightlessness.

Teldryn calls your name but you are falling to your knees even with his arms around you.

Reality is fading.

Fading fast.

Dovahkiin.

“No.”

Dovahkiin.

Within your chest and head, Mora’s voice blooms and grows, shoving you down into an abyss.

Part Four

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @singleteapot @tiredmetalenthusiast @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @wrathofcats @ninman82

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kanadabiscuits · 10 months

Text

It is the last day of my forties and, oddly enough, I am happy to be turning 50.

I am a more put together person going into my 50s than I was heading into my 40s. I am happier in my job, I finally have a pension, a nest egg, decent health coverage, and (finally) a schedule that suits my lifestyle and etched in circadian rhythms from so many years as a night dwelling theatre tech.

I have been on this site now since December 2012 and my tastes may have changed with old hyperfixations giving way to new hyperfixations, but I treasure everyone with whom I have shared even the most passing word. If our dashboards no longer align, know that I still love seeing you post what makes you happy, and there is such affection in my heart when your names appear on my dash.

And I toast you, my fellow denizens of the tumblr geriatric ward, as we Golden Girls our way into the fandom sunset, here for life on the tumblr lanai.

Now I am off to lunch with my gals, and later a wander on the bottom of the ocean floor... 😘

#love you

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whumpty-dumpty-doo · 23 days

Text

We Are TroubleD - "A Shocking Offence"

Written as a part of @whumperofworlds' WoW's Birthday Whump Event!

Day 4 (my chosen prompts are bolded): Electrocution / Waterboarded / "Anything but that!"

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This is part 2 of a 3 part mini-story. Part 1 is here, and part 3 is here

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Content Warnings: Difficulty breathing, electric shock, exhaustion, fear, injuries (minor), swearing, temporary loss of mobility, worry

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It was a tense and awkward climb, but T managed to wriggle through one of the basement windows and pull himself out into the backyard. The grass was prickly, wet, and chilly against his chest, but a little bit of discomfort was more than worth it for the promise of freedom.

He crouched down, trying to stay as small and in control of his actions as he could, and slowly slid the windowpane closed behind him. He’d be damned if he let their captor know that was how he escaped.

It felt seven kinds of wrong to be outside. Forbidden. Exhilarating. Frightening. The whole world spread before him, full liberation from this hell almost within his grasp. He could go back to his old life, back to his other friends, back to his broken little family…

All he had to do was find help for himself and D.

Timid fingers brushed against the side of the house, steadying himself as he slunk around. T peered up, trying to find the wall with the fewest windows. If there was no way to be seen from inside, he could get further along before he was detected.

Around the left side there was only one window- a tiny little thing, possibly for bathroom ventilation. The lights were off and the blinds were still drawn. Perfect.

He launched off of the wall and bolted, wincing momentarily as his bare feet crunched into the gravel of the driveway, but choosing not to dwell on it. Before he knew it, he was back in the grass. A beat-up old truck sat a few feet away and he ducked behind it long enough to take stock of which direction he should run.

A swear escaped his lips. There weren’t any houses nearby that he could see, just woods and land. Before him was a large, grassy field, but if he could make it to the tree bank on the other side of it then he’d have more coverage and could slow down to figure out his next move.

There was a road to his left that had to lead somewhere… He could follow parallel to it a bit farther back so he wouldn’t be spotted immediately if their captor came driving after him. He might even be able to squat in the woods until the man gave up looking.

Yup, the treeline was the way to go.

Off he dashed, flying as fast as his legs would carry him. His cheeks flushed red as he panted, but he didn’t slow down for anything.

Thoughts of D were heavy on his mind. How much time did they have before their captor woke up and found him? Would D be okay? Had he made any progress cutting through the cuff?

Was there any possibility that T could actually find help in the first place? He didn’t even know where they were or if there were people this way.

It was closer to morning than he thought. The horizon was just barely starting to brighten up. No sunrise yet, but it probably wouldn’t be more than a half hour before things started getting lighter. T had to act fast to make the most of the cover of darkness.

When he reached the trees, he doubled over trying to catch his breath. He stumbled behind the thick old trunk of a bigger tree and leaned against it for support, breathing fast and hard.

Maybe this would suck less if he had water. Maybe it would suck less if he had kept up with his exercise regimen. In high school he had been on the track team. Not necessarily good at track, but a participant, nonetheless. Now it felt like he had never run a day in his life. Guess sitting captive in a basement for a long period of time could do that to a person.

He peeked around the trunk, stealing the smallest glance back at the house. No lights or movement yet, thank god. He still had time.

Unfortunately, though, there was no sign of D either.

There was a pang in his heart. How the hell could he leave D behind? T’s head spun for a moment. He had to go back for him. With the growing daylight through the windows, he would be able to see better to find sharper scissors or a knife or something to cut the ankle cuff and bring him with him. They could go together. There was time…

… No. No, there wasn’t. He had promised. D would be furious at him. Things could go wrong. They couldn’t afford that.

T swore again and swung the side of his fist against the trunk.

No. He had to go. He had to keep on.

He pushed through the brush, taking care to avoid any plants that might be poison ivy. He wasn’t quite sure what poison ivy looked like exactly, but it was wise to avoid anything dangerous-looking or sharp regardless.

Once he got to the end of the small forest, he cautiously poked out to see what he could spot in the distance.

Trees. Some bushes. A grazing field. Cattle dotting said field. A few more bushes and trees. More cows. More tree—wait.

He squinted, trying to make sure he was seeing things correctly. Sure enough, beyond the next bank of trees stretched a field. On the other side of the vast spans of land he swore he saw a house. His vision held on it for a moment and he swallowed.

It was probably farther than it looked, and it would be a long, long dash through wide open ground where he could be spotted in an instant from the road. There were a few bushes scattered about and a couple trees... Not the best hiding spots, but maybe they could work in a pinch. That or -he thought amusingly- he could snuggle up and make good friends with a cow.

His feet sank into the soft earth beneath him, and an idea crossed his mind. Maybe he could cover himself in mud. That way he could camouflage better if their captor drove by and he needed to throw himself to the ground to hide.

He chewed his lip and thought about how long getting that kind of coverage would take. It hadn’t rained recently as far as he could tell. It wasn’t quite mud puddle consistency anywhere. Rubbing it on himself would take time.

But dang it, if it upped his chances of evading recapture…

It took longer than he wanted, but once he found wet enough ground T dug up clumpfuls of mud, rocks, grass, and leaves and smeared them over every part of his body that he could reach. By the time he finished decorating himself, he was covered head-to-toe in the stuff, and most likely could have made anyone think they had hallucinated the ground moving. That was his hope, at least.

Another peek at the horizon showed that the sun was well on it’s way. He simply didn’t have much time in the dark left.

T made his way through the second patch of trees. There were signs that he was getting close to someone else’s land. Literal signs. “PRIVATE PROPERTY” “NO TRESPASSING” “NO HUNTING”. The last one made him chuckle, despite the gravity of the situation. He doubted that their captor would heed that warning when it came to tracking him down.

He couldn’t let that happen.

T pressed on.

There was no escaping the scratches and scrapes from the branches and limbs scattered around. Adrenaline was high, though, and he didn’t feel anything, especially with the aid of his thin layer of dirt armor. The only thing that mattered was getting to that house and getting help.

A light flicked on in the window of the home, and the sight reinvigorated him. Someone was there. Someone was awake. Someone could help. Holy shit... Holy shit!!

He took off again, dashing toward a clearing up ahead, but his excitement made him less observant. His toe stubbed against an unseen rock and he tripped, stifling a yelp of pain as he tumbled forward, coming to a stop in the leaf litter.

It wound up being a good thing. In his haste, he hadn’t noticed the long length of fence that stretched out endlessly before him, blocking the path. He would have run right into it had he not been forcibly slowed down. T cringed as he pushed himself up, taking a look at the barrier.

It wasnʻt barbed wire, which was what he’d expect for farmland.

Strange.

Someone like him was no fence expert. The class field trip out to a farm when he was in elementary school had been fun, but the information portion of the trip was not something he had paid close attention to, and definitely not something he retained in his young adulthood. The animals were cool, but the big machines used to harvest the crops had been even cooler to him. Little T had spent the entire talk staring at every single inch of the monstrously huge combine harvester.

Maybe if he had been listening to how they kept the animals safe and contained, things would have gone a lot more smoothly for him. Instead, he had tuned out the talk and daydreamed about sitting in the captain’s chair of the machine. Tall, powerful, and ready to reap the splendors of the earth.

Whatever. It didn’t matter what he had (not) listened to or thought about back then. What mattered now was right in front of him.

But really? A fence without barbs or other deterrents? It seemed sturdy, like it could stand up to some damage. It would probably be able to keep cows in, even if they were running at it. But humans? The gaps were plenty wide to fit through. All he’d have to do was slip right between the plain bare wires or military crawl under if he was feeling up to the challenge.

It couldn’t be that easy, though, could it? Surely there was a catch. There were too many signs posted around for the farm’s security to be that lax.

Unless they were just bluffing. Meant to scare, but fully relying on the honor system for any would-be trespassers.

T approached the fence, a bit apprehensively at first, but he eased up when he looked at it closer. No small razors on the thing. It didn’t look rusty, so probably no chance of getting tetanus if he happened to… he didn’t know… faceplant into it somehow? But he’d have to be pretty bad at maneuvering through such a large space for that to happen.

He studied it for another second, but suddenly felt stupid for doing so. He was burning valuable time. The sky was already growing a light shade of lavender. It wouldn’t be long.

A flock of birds suddenly burst forth from a nearby tree, making his heart nearly leap out of his chest at the unexpected noise. What followed was much scarier: A sound cut through the woods. It was distant and well behind him, but unmistakably loud and enraged.

Their captor roared furiously into his front yard.

Their plan had been discovered.

Unconsciously, T had frozen in place, but the continued yelling startled him back to life. This was his only shot. There was no time left. The man was coming.

Oh Fuck, oh fuck, OH FUCK!!! He was coming!!

T had to run! He HAD to make it to the house!

T surged forward, sticking his leg carefully through the middle of the fence without touching any part of it. He landed safely on the other side, though bristled immediately as his foot sank into something cold, slimy, and wet. He had stepped into a cow pie. Old, but still squishy between his toes. Ugh! Oh my god! Gross!

The unpleasant surprise caused him to lose his footing as he shifted his weight, and he slipped in the dropping; The one thing his clumsy ass didn’t want to do.

In a panic, T’s hands shot out to grab the fence to catch himself. It wasn’t barbed wire, so he wasn’t worried.

It wasn’t barbed wire.

It was worse.

The second his hands grasped hold of the top line of the fence, his world exploded into a blinding flash of white light, and his body thrashed on its own in a violent, shaking jolt. An involuntary scream ripped from his throat and pierced the morning air as electricity coursed through him.

What little sense he still had was instantly shattered the second his legs gave out and his inner thigh came in contact with the bottom line. At least it didn’t hit his sensitive parts, but my god, was it close. His heart fluttered, slammed, and quaked, angry, terrified, and completely out of his control. Everything tingled… there was a crackling noise in his head.

He couldnʻt breathe… he couldnʻt breathe…!!

T blacked out, completely overwhelmed by the sensation surging through him.

When he awoke, he was lying flat on his back on the side of the fence that he had come from, dazed, confused, and in pain. He voiced a strangled whimper.

What the fuck just happened?!

The sun crested the horizon, bathing the grass around him in blood-orange light. He blinked slowly and tried to steady his breathing, not yet feeling its warmth, but hoping for relief soon.

Lazily his gaze drifted over to the fence.

… the fence…

It clicked into place in his brain. That sensation… he had been shocked. It was an electric fence.

That was overkill. For fuckʻs sake, this wasnʻt Jurassic Park. They were just housing cows, not a t-rex…

His body hurt like hell, but he felt lucky to be alive. If something like that was rated to stop a bull, then who the hell was he to be able to walk away in one piece?

Walking… Right. Fuck. He didnʻt have time to lay around all frazzled. He had to move. He had to hide before their captor set out to find him…

T went to roll himself over… to sit up… anything… but shit… SHIT! His arms and legs werenʻt working. No. No, no, no… He needed them to recover from the zap and wake up. He had to get out of there. He had to go!

He strained and willed his arms to move, gritting his teeth. The most he could manage was a twitch of his fingers. His eyes slipped shut to wait it out, and he prayed that heʻd regain control of his limbs soon.

Almost as quickly as he had closed his eyes, they shot open again when he heard the slam of a truck door. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Who was that? The farmer? Please, Christ almighty, please let it be the farmer coming to check what had tripped his fence.

A gruff, angry voice called out, headed for the clearing.

“Is this where you’re at, boy?”

T sucked in a horrified gasp.

It wasn’t the farmer.

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Day 4!

Bad times for T... What an inopportune moment to lose control of your body and be forced to lay prone. What will he do now?!

This originally-one-part entry turned into two parts (yesterday's post and today's), and wouldn't you know it, there's still more to this little mini-story that I wrote, so you'll get part three tomorrow! I hope it's engaging and that you're enjoying it! <3

Thanks for reading!

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