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cdragons · 3 months

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Fuck Everything, But Mostly Fuck You

Next Part

Summary: You have never, EVER, in a million years hated anyone the way you hated Felix fucking Catton.

Warnings- MDNI 18+, Felix is delulu, Reader is stressed and homesick and kinda crazy but she a baddie, Michael is Michael, Farleigh is Farleigh, Oliver will be Oliver (a creep), and author has spent too much time researching Oxford crap for this mess for a crack fic to be a crack fic

Author's Note: This fic is a follow-up to this post and I would like to thank grammarly for catching all my grammatical errors 🥲, @ethereal-athalia for enabling my crazy ideas 🥰, and @valeskafics for providing me Saltburn smut when I catch myself thirsting 😇

“FUCK!” you yelled at the top of your lungs just before your nose slammed down on the dewy grass.

Groaning in pain before the mortification of realizing what had just happened kicked in.

You didn’t know what was worse: the fact you had a full front view of the giant’s junk or that he body-slammed you onto the ground and caused you to land on top of the painting worth 30% of your final grade.

You wanted to scream your head off. The paint had finally dried, and you could finally leave the studio at two in the morning. It was close to finals, and pretty much anyone on campus who didn’t get accepted because of their daddy’s bank account was in their dorms. You had hoped that this fact would mean that the paths were empty and, therefore, safe to transport your 30” x 40” canvas.

“SORRY!”

You shot your head up to locate the person who just apologized. Lo’ and behold, it was the same plastered, pasty cunt with a bird’s nest disaster of a haircut drunken idiot who decided it was a good idea to go streaking across campus. His only other distinguishable features were that he was at least 6’3” and that he had a small steel piece pierced on his face.

After the “apology,” he and his friend continued running off to God’s knows where in the dead of night—leaving you behind on the lawn with a bleeding nose, bruised knees and palms, and an oil painting that was torn and caked in mud three days before its deadline.

There was no way to redo it. The project was assigned at the beginning of October. It took 5 hours to set up the models with the motifs and lights, 3 hours to take pictures, and 10 hours to underdraw the preliminary sketch. You didn’t even want to think about the sheer number of sleepless nights you spent in the studio mixing colors and layering. On top of that, you also had your other finals in other courses to study for.

You had practically been living in that studio for the past month. All of the custodians and security guards knew you by name. You got first dibs every day when they refilled the vending machines. It was a true godsend when you didn’t have time to visit the dining halls. Everyone had been so kind and sweet to you. It was a warm welcome compared to the snark and snobbery you experienced from most of your classmates.

Crying from the devastation of the loss of your situation, your shaking legs carried your body and what remained of your work into the building. You knew that your professor stayed in her office late for grading. You could only hope that she would sympathize with your pitiful appearance.

“Wait, so did you get the extension?”

Lifting your head from the sticky library table at Bodleian’s, you stared at your best only friend, Michael Gavey, with a blank stare. You didn’t react to his wince after he took in your haggard appearance. You didn’t need a mirror to know that you looked terrible.

Your eyes were puffy and bloodshot red with dark mulberry bags underneath them. You had paled since coming to dreary England, but now you looked straight-up sickly. And if that wasn’t enough, your eyes had less life than a dead fish rotting at a Sunday Market.

Your voice was so meek that you were sure he had to strain to hear you.

“Yeah…I got it.”

You knew you had no choice but to beg your Studio Arts professor for an extension. But it killed you doing it. Professor Daria Martin was your favorite teacher and the only faculty member who actually liked you. Her support toward you meant everything to you; the last thing you wanted to do was disappoint her, let alone be the reason why she lost her job.

Your usually so snarky four-eyed friend perked up at the news.

“So, is everything okay?” he asked with hope.

Your head fell on neon-yellow ink-stained pages that filled the paperweight your ethics professor called a textbook. A bitter laugh fell from as your lips lifted to a wry, dry grin.

“Oof, not that simple, is it?” he asked.

“Is it ever?”

“So what do you have to do now?”

“Well-,” you lifted your head to take a deep breath as you started to explain, “- I still have the photos and copies of the sketch. But because the canvas was so large, it was special-ordered. That means I need to wait until another one can be delivered, and since all the works need to be completed in the studio, I can’t leave the campus.”

As you finished your explanation, Michael nodded his head in understanding before he paused, and a look of devastation painted his features.

“Wait, so does that mean-”

“I won’t be able to fly back home for the holidays.”

Fuck, you were about to cry again. You had been so excited to see your old friends and family. You remembered how absolutely homesick you were at the beginning of the term. Because you were a scholarship student from America, your parents encouraged you to settle on campus by moving to your dorm earlier than everyone else. It was bad enough that you missed Thanksgiving, but you had really set your heart on coming home for Christmas and New Year’s. What made it worse was that your parents had told you all about the dinner they had planned for your homecoming. It was going to be a feast of all your favorites.

English food sucked balls.

Your only saving grace was the Crunchie bars Michael got for you when you studied together or when you had to rewrite edit his essays.

You really DID cry after first reading his essay for Introductory English class at the beginning of the year.

“Did you try to report it?”

“Report what? ‘Hey, there’s a wasted asshole running naked across campus, and he body-slammed me to the ground and tore my fucking massive campus that blocked my view of the jackass. He’s probably richer than the goddamn Queen, given how he’s wasted right before finals.’”

“Do you have any description of him?”

“He’s a giant with a small eyebrow piercing, and his fat ass looked like it had never seen the sun.”

Without lifting your head, you heard the scrape of Michael’s chair before he walked across the table to sit in the chair next to you.

“Hey,” he began, bringing you into a warm arm hug, “it’ll be okay. You called your parents about it, right?”

“Yeah -” you sighed before continuing, “- they told me they understood and would Skype me daily.”

“See! Everything’s going to be – wait, did you say that this guy was tall?”

Furrowing your brow in confusion, you looked at your friend at the change in his tone from light and supportive to sharp and interrogative.

“Yeah?”

“How tall?”

“Umm,” you had to think about that, “I’d say he was about 6’3” or above? He was really fucking tall.”

“And he had an eyebrow piercing?”

Ok, now you were really confused. “Yes? Michael, where are you going with this?”

“I think the guy who ran you over was Felix Catton.”

You shot your favorite idiot with a deadpan glare.

“Felix Catton? The same Felix Catton who just so happens to be the same Felix Catton you hate?”

Michael solemnly nodded. “It’s him. It has to be. The only person on campus as tall as him is his cousin, and he doesn’t have piercings.”

“And he’s black.”

“Yeah, that too.”

You were skeptical, and it showed. You didn’t want to callously dismiss your friend, but you knew more than anyone how much his hatred for Oxford’s Golden Boy could impair his judgment. You were by no means a fan of the guy, but accusing someone of anything they didn’t do just because your friend thought so went against your principles.

He grabbed your arm and dragged you to the bookshelf in front of the table where Felix and his groupies sat. Both of your books and bags were in your chairs, but you managed to keep your spiral notebook with you. It wasn’t hard to find them – they were the loudest table in the entire library. They also reeked of cigarettes and booze.

“See?” Michael hissed. “Giant, pale, and eyebrow piercing. It’s him!”

“Michael,” you softly groaned, “just because you hate Felix Catton doesn’t mean you can –”

An extremely shrill voice interrupted you.

“I can’t believe you and Farleigh actually ran around campus naked!”

A petite girl with full pink lips and dull red hair latched on the arm of the man of the hour. “It was so hot to watch!”

This girl has weird-ass tastes in guys.

“And then how you crashed into that dunce at Ruskin! Brilliant!”

Your blood ran cold while another one of Catton’s faceless droning puppets chimed in.

“God, what an idiot! It’s their own fault, anyway. Who the fuck walks in the middle of the walk path with a fucking big canvas in front of them?”

One of the lessons hammered into your skull young was never to move before you think. That lesson had saved you ten ways from Sunday. But this was not one of those times.

You’re pretty sure that you hear Michael calling out your name as you walk away from the shelf and towards the overcrowded table. Tunnel vision took over you as you made your way to the overgrown idiot who almost cost you your entire future.

Grabbing the back of his shirt collar, you dragged the 6’5” towering fool on his ass all the way outside. You finally let go when the two of you reached the back of the building that had no windows.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, did you relish the crunch that immediately followed your swing.

Fuck, was his head killing him.

Felix should have known better than to have gotten cross-faded last night, but Farleigh had practically goaded him to do it. It’s not like his cousin ever had to worry about his grades for any of his courses during finals – the little shit-starter had always been so fucking academically gifted.

He skipped pretty much all of his morning classes and barely made it to his afternoon schedule on time while completely zoning out the entire time.

If he bombs on all his finals, his dad was going to absolutely murder him. But chances were he and his mum were going to be too busy entertaining whichever new friend his mum brought in for shelter.

“You alright there, champ?”

Felix swiveled his head too quickly and immediately groaned in pain. The motion made his hangover even worse. Rubbing his eyes to try to soothe the pounding in his head, he slowly opened them to look at his cousin.

The slag didn’t have the decency to look even a little bit affected from last night’s event – the fucker. No, he was sitting there with all Cheshire grins and gleaming eyes while Felix was two seconds from heaving his guts out.

“Yeah, I’m alright, mate.” He replied in a tired groan.

“Must have been quite the night. Wonder if it had anything to do with that little cocktail you took from our sweet Annabel’s belly button?”

Disgust was clear on Felix’s face as he recalled the body shot he had taken from his ex-FWB’s navel. He truly must have been off his rocker last night – he thought he was over with body shots since graduating secondary, but apparently not.

If he somehow got an STD from doing it, V was going to kill him.

But even with all of his horrible actions that caused the raging war inside his skull, that wasn’t the main cause of his misery.

Farleigh’s grin dropped as judgment painted his features.

“Oh,” he moaned, “please tell me this isn’t about ‘your angel’ from last night.”

He didn’t just take the dare of streaking across the grounds just for the hell of it. He needed an excuse to pass through the art building – all for the chance of seeing you.

You. His angel of paints and books who lived in the empty studio rooms of Oxford University’s Ruskin School of Art and whose presence harangued him every hour of every day. Everywhere Felix went, he would unconsciously look for you.

It was his soul calling out for yours – he knew it.

Felix had never felt so drawn to another human being in his entire existence. He’d never seen you outside of the libraries, art building, and maybe the dining hall if he was lucky. You never went to any parties or even had a drink at the pub at King’s Arms. He didn’t even have classes with you, but he knew Farleigh did. Word was that you and his cousin had shared a few classes – what’s more was that you were likely the only person who could go head-to-head with him in academics.

And to make it worse, the prat refused to tell him anything about you – not even your fucking name.

“Believe me,” he told him after Felix had been begging his cousin for hours to share anything about you, “she is way above your league.”

Which really hurt his feelings, by the way – sure, you were probably way above in book smarts, but there wasn’t a girl that remained indifferent to his charms after a good talking fucking.

“I still can’t believe you won’t at least tell me her name,” Felix complained once more, “or even just give me her number!”

“She’s an American here on scholarship and a bore,” he quipped back, “what’s there to tell? And can you please shut up? I want to get some reading done before tonight. You do remember the in-class essay we have tomorrow, right?”

Bloody hell, he did not. Pushing down the bitter feeling in his chest, he and his cousin made their way to meet everyone at the back. As soon as he sat down, Annabel clung on to his arm. Thank fuck he had been wearing one of his thicker jumpers – otherwise, her claws that she called nails would have ripped open the fabric.

“Hey, Felix!” she made sure to offer a very generous sight of her cleavage, “are you ready for tonight?”

Felix chuckled lowly before responding. “Aren’t I always?”

And just like that – he completely zoned out the rest of the conversation.

Annabel was probably saying something to get him to notice her, and Farleigh was likely responding so he wouldn’t have to – but Felix couldn’t be bothered to pretend to care.

He was lost in the living daydream that was his angel that haunted the art studios of Ruskin School of Art.

He was desperate to learn everything about you.

If he asked you to talk about your favorite books, would your eyes sparkle in delight, or would your smile widen in glee?

If he grabbed your hand, would your palms feel marred by his rough skin, or would you press your callouses to his?

If he pressed his mouth on yours, would your lips feel as soft and plump as they look? Or was their luster forever damaged by your teeth biting them whenever you were in deep concentration?

If he breathed in your scent at the crook of your neck, would your skin smell like the paints forever on your brushes or the musky pages of heavy ancient books you always carried in your arms?

If he planted kisses from your throat to your breasts, would you mewl in pleasure or whimper in anticipation?

If he touched your cunt, would you arch your back in ecstasy? Or would your legs crumble, and you would have no choice but to sink into his arms?

Felix’s thoughts were rudely interrupted when Farleigh jammed his bony elbow into his ribcage and hurriedly whispered.

“Look alive, Golden Boy.”

Looking forward, it was better than any of his wet dreams combined. It was you.

Your hair was loose, and your fists were clenched. You reminded him of a ferocious lion goddess with how focused your gaze was on him.

But before Felix would prepare himself to make a good impression, you walked behind him and grabbed the back of his shirt collar before fucking dragging his ass out of his seat and outside.

Bloody hell, for someone so much shorter than him, you were fucking strong.

When you finally released your grip, he fell on the ground like an idiot before he tried to stand and steady himself as quickly as he could.

“Hey, what the fu –”

You didn’t let him finish as you brought your fist to hit him square in the face – and, fuck, you might have actually broken his nose.

After staggering back, you started using the spiral notebook in your other hand to land blow after painful blow on his body.

“YOU. STUPID. FUCKING. INGRATE –” Each word that left your mouth was emphasized with another hit from your notebook “– I. HATE. YOU. YOU. RUINED. MY. PAINTING. I. SPENT. SO. MUCH. TIME. ON. IT. AND. NOW. I. CAN’T. GO. HOME. FOR. BREAK. BECAUSE. OF. YOUR. STUPID. SELF!”

Felix was confident you had more to say, but you were pulled off him by your friend – he’s pretty sure it’s Mitchell – by the waist with you kicking and screaming out profanities to him as your friend called out your name to try to calm you down.

He wondered what it said about him if he told anyone how much you looked like an angry cat. His parents would send him to a shrink if he told them how adorable he found you right now.

If you were this wild while fighting, he could only imagine how riled up you would get in bed.

Fuck, you might have just unlocked a new kink in him.

Catching his breath as he watched your friend drag you away into the distance, he heard a slow clap to his left.

Farleigh was leaning on the corner – his smug expression making it clear that he had seen the whole thing – as he looked at his cousin with a bemused expression before walking toward him and giving a sympathetic pat on his back.

“Well,” he started to break the tension, “at least you know her name.”

“Yeah,” Felix agreed, “I know her name.”

And he knew that you smelled more like the paints on your brushes than the books you carried with subtle notes of gardenias.

Tagging: @aemondsbabe, @ethereal-athalia, @aphroditesmoon, @barbiedragon, @valeskafics, @lexyysworld, @punkiwiki, @saltburnedme, @arcielee

Let me know if you want to be tagged for future Saltburn fics!

#saltburn x reader #saltburn #saltburn crack #saltburn au #felix catton x reader #farleigh catton #farleigh start #venetia catton #oliver quick #michael gavey #saltburn 2023 #saltburn movie #michael gavey x reader

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rotworld · 7 months

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8: Roadkill

(previous)

the drift has changed. you set off on your next job and run into some trouble.

->sexually explicit. contains noncon, mild gore, gangbang, mild feral behavior, mention of breeding

The shift is a shimmering oil spill across the sky. Horizons tremble. Clouds spin. Rain from another world drizzles the roads, leaving quivering stains behind. Compass Hill’s children name constellations that will never exist again: Butterfly Eating Bird, Flying Seegris, Srivin Who Ate His Lovers. You bask in the tendriled shadow of a creature that is not there. The Drift stabilizes with the startling swiftness of a door slamming shut. The gray dawn comes.

Compass Hill’s couriers are those children who could not weave—grown now, fiercely loyal to the Singer and the haven he made. Some have gone home and found only disappointment. Some have not dared to try. The tug at the heart grows weaker, they say. Someday, they truly believe there will be no pull at all. Only the whisper of wind through silk and the scent of mulberries. But for now, they help you, plucking those old, unwanted threads to see where they lead.

Rivermouth is up north. Splitrock Junction is just west of there. The University is a fair distance southeast. You share an egg basket, the fragrant shells painted with edible floral art. The girl comes running to see you one more time, trailed at a distance by other children who have yet to grow their wings. She hands you a thin, handwoven cord long enough to make a necklace. You recognize the colors immediately; it’s her hopesilk.

“You made this?” you ask her. She nods proudly. “It’s beautiful. You should keep it, it’s very valuable.”

She shakes her head. “Take,” she insists. “Make more later.” She sits with you and the couriers for a while, enjoying the warm breeze and weak, watery light. Her hair has been washed and braided, little butterfly-shaped clips keeping her bangs out of her eyes. She looks so much more at ease than when you first met her, but also older. The roads have left their mark. “Go home?”

“Maybe,” you say. Home is west now, so far west that your map isn’t big enough to mark it.

She walks you back to your car. The Song is a mournful farewell, a keening that rolls through town. The Singer is waiting for you. He’s brought more food than you need. He presses his mandibles against your forehead and helps you load your car. A new egg box for the front seat. A new bag of dried meat and salty snacks in the back. A heavy box slid into the trunk, bound for the University.

“Painsilk shipment. They paid in advance,” he hums. “There’s anchorware in the box to keep it in one piece, in case you get stuck in a shift.”

“Thank you. I’ll try to visit again soon.”

He takes your hand and squeezes it gently. Your missing finger no longer aches, properly cleaned and healed, no longer hidden. The Singer touches the spot where something used to be with aching tenderness, bringing it to his hand to kiss. “Be safe. I’ll wait for the road to bring you back to me.”

You pass through a different gate on your way out. Chiffon is there to nuzzle against you one last time and wish you well. The colorful silks of Compass Hill wither and fade in your rearview mirror, vanishing into the gray. Home is west, says the heart. You try to conjure a fantasy of homecoming but you can’t picture the town, can’t even imagine what the people would look like. You take a deep breath, wipe your eyes, and keep driving.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: KEEP THE STREETS EMPTY FOR ME BY FEVER RAY]

The road going south is smooth and peaceful, but there’s a lingering sense of unease. The car feels too quiet somehow. Something is missing. You find yourself glancing into the backseat every so often, staring at the empty space, the seatbelt no longer being worn. No curious eyes look back at you. No one scribbles softly on your map, or shares your snacks. She was only with you for a few days and she was so quiet and unobtrusive, but you’re keenly aware of where she used to be, the spot that was hers.

You’d never had company before, you realize. Some couriers offer the occasional taxi service but you’ve never taken work like that. Too much trouble, you thought, too uncomfortable having someone in your space, someone else to look after and take into consideration. You’re used to stopping on your own schedule, rationing your food for a single person. Any deviation didn’t seem feasible.

Loneliness is a bad trait for couriers. Unproductive. The silence won’t feel so heavy after a while, you think. You’ll stop looking back for a face that isn’t there.

The scenery changes. Rocky terrain turns to smooth, rolling hills. The trees thicken, clustered at the narrowing roadside. You’re in a town with dizzying suddenness, a lost and overgrown place. Vines strangle a flickering streetlamp. Old, crumbling houses appear and vanish in the distance like mirages in the fog. This is Verlinda again, a town in the throes of being devoured by ravenous forest. You drive slowly and watch for moving shadows. Something is shrieking in the fog.

There’s a car in the ditch. You slow down even further. It’s compact, bags and boxes stacked against the back window; probably another courier. There are no skid marks off the road but the driver side door is hanging open. Pulled over, jumped out in a hurry? It doesn’t look like it’s been there too long. It’s not rusted or overgrown like the rest of the city. Just up the road, you find scraps of clothing and a crescent of splattered blood.

Something screams again. You turn the corner and your headlights sweep across a body lying in the grass. It’s a woman. Her blouse is ripped open and one of her legs is twisted and mangled, a glistening mess of blood, bone and shredded denim. You pull over but not beside her, putting some distance between the two of you. She writhes in your rearview mirror, trying to pull herself out of the ditch.

“Help me! Please help me!” she wails. Your fingers curl around the door handle but you hesitate. She’s either a courier, or the mimic that ate her.

You look at her again in the mirror, thoughts racing. If she’s the driver of the car you saw earlier, she would’ve seen something just like this, you think, would’ve seen somebody injured lying near the road and stopped to help. It might’ve lunged at her when she was close enough. It might’ve chased her a while, might’ve wandered off to wait for her to bleed out for an easier kill. She might be dying, cold and alone, on the side of the road.

She looks human. She’s solid, her shape stable, not warping or transparent. She’s talking to you—begging you to help her. “Please help me, please!” she cries, and is the simple repetition from fear and delirium or a restricted vocabulary, not understanding what she’s saying but knowing other things have said it? If she’s a mimic, she must be a crywolf. You won’t see anything unusual until you’re within arm’s reach, and by then it’ll be too late.

Suddenly, it’s quiet. She’s no longer screaming. She’s not even moving. You get out of the car and she’s lying there, nearly motionless. Her shoulders rise and sink with weak, shallow breaths. She’s thrown herself forward on her stomach and tried to crawl towards you, but she didn’t make it far. You hear her wheeze, wet, rattling breaths trapped in her throat. You don’t have much for medical supplies but you could be there, at least. You could sit with her, hold her hand.

You have a vivid memory of being young, so young you don’t think you should remember it—of being out here, along the road. Of lying in the grass. Of cars whizzing past, wind that rocked your small body and sent you sprawling, too weak to lift yourself. Sometimes you have dreams about that instead of forgetting how to breathe.

You step closer. She tries to lift her head but she just shivers, shoulders twitching, and gives up. A miserable sound comes out of her and you’re going to her without thinking about the consequences, without caution.

You’re halfway there when something else, something you didn’t hear coming, didn’t see in the underbrush, lurches out of the trees behind her. She twists and screeches and starts to come apart, splitting into sharp, drooling maws, no longer a woman but coils of flesh and teeth. The crywolf is like a snake with mouths for scales, hissing and contorting itself to lunge at the new threat.

It’s badly outmatched. The thing from the trees is far larger. You see a blur of legs, a centipede’s worth of hooves stomping and stampeding, antlers like forest canopy, and you are sprinting back to your car. The roar of your car’s engine struggles to drown out the unsettling sounds behind you, the nightmarish squealing of a frightened crywolf.

You almost swerve when you see a deer. It’s not quite in the road, just grazing beside it. You don’t want to slow down but there’s another one up ahead, a couple standing on a grass bank watching you go by. The next one is right in front of you, staring directly into your headlights with shining eyes and large antlers still fuzzy with velvet. It’s agitated, pawing the road with its hoof. You try to edge around it, pulling very slowly into the other lane. It rams against the side of your car and there’s a terrifying, breathless moment as you lurch in your seat where you aren’t sure if you’re about to tip over and end up trapped in an overturned vehicle.

The thundering footsteps of a colossal beast shake the ground and rattle your windows. You’re afraid to look in the rearview mirror. You hear hoofbeats—enough for a whole herd of deer. A dark shadow falls across you, an enormous shape blotting out the sky. Clutching the steering wheel, you turn to look out the window and it’s—

just a man.

There is no looming shadow. No enormous beast. But you feel it, even if you can’t see it. There’s a chill in the air, the instinctive terror of staring down something that could easily outrun you. The man is unusually tall but not monstrous. He has to bend slightly, tilt his head so he can peer into your window, one arm braced above it. He glares at you disinterestedly, occasionally glancing off into the distance as though he’d rather be doing something else. His hair is long, tumbling in unkempt tangles down his back. He’s not wearing a shirt.

You’ve never seen him before, but you’ve heard enough stories to know you’re looking at the Verlinda Stag.

He taps his index finger against your window. The nail is curved like a wolf claw. His hand is slick with fresh blood all the way up to his wrist. “Courier,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel. “We need to talk.”

“I didn’t hit anyone,” you insist.

“Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Reluctantly, you roll the window down. There’s more blood freckling his face and splashed down his chest, a wide, arcing spray of red dripping all the way down his hips and—

He’s not wearing anything, you realize. Not just a shirt. No pants or shoes, either. By the time you realize you’ve been staring, he’s stuck his arm through the window and unlocked your door. You’re yanked outside and slammed into the pavement without a word, lying in the glare of your own headlights. Footsteps close in around you. There were deer here earlier, you’re sure of it, but all you see is people. Men with irritated scowls and curious smiles, just as naked as the Stag and visibly excited.

You make yourself sit up in a hurry. The Stag crouches beside you, catching your shoulder before you can stand. “Where are you from?” he asks, sneering. “And where are you going?”

“West. Somewhere west. I’m going to the University.”

You’re not sure he’s even listening. He’s looking up, past you, and you hear someone going through your car. One of the men passes him your map. He scrutinizes it briefly, scoffing, then hands it back. “You’re going to do something for me,” he says. They’re rummaging around in your trunk now, moving things around. You try to look back and see what’s going on, but the Stag catches your chin and makes you look at him. “I’m giving you something very important. You’re going to deliver it to the University. You’re going to take it straight to Dr. Loyola at the College of Medicine. If you don’t, I’ll know.”

You nod quickly. The Stag nods at someone behind you and you hear the trunk slam shut. His hand drops from your chin but it’s on your shoulder again, firm enough that you know he doesn’t want you moving. “Is there…something else?” you ask nervously. You’re aware that you’re surrounded again, the other men milling around, standing in a wide circle around the two of you. They’re talking quietly, whispering sometimes. They keep looking at you with hunger in their eyes.

“You should’ve known that was a crywolf,” the Stag says.

You avoid his gaze. “I figured it might be.”

“I know. You reeked of fear. But you still got out of your car. Talked yourself into ignoring your instincts.” He shoves you suddenly and you’re on your back, pinned there by his hand on your sternum. “Desperation,” he says the word with disgust, “is going to get you killed, courier. I can’t have you doing something stupid when you’re making a delivery for me. If it doesn’t make it to its destination, I’ll be very upset.”

“It will, I swear it will!”

He lifts his hand only for one of the other men to take his place. This one is smaller, his build more slender, and he keeps a hand on your throat to choke you whenever you start to squirm, the other tugging at your pants. The Stag stands and begins to pace around you, just outside the circle of eager faces looming above you. “You will,” he agrees. “But it doesn’t hurt to make sure.”

The man on top of you works his hands into your clothes. You flinch when he touches you, rough, calloused fingers stroking you hard and fast. He leans in, inhaling against your neck, and then he laughs. “Ohh…this one’s been here recently,” he says. “Smells like rabbit.” You try to buck him off again and his thumb digs into your windpipe. Your hands go instinctively to his wrist, trying to scratch him, pry him off. One of the others is there, kneeling by your face. He pins both of your hands above your head.

The Stag leers at you. “Rabbit, eh? We don’t have to go easy on you, then, do we?”

They let you keep your shirt on, stripping only your lower half. The road is cold and hard against the backs of your legs. The man on top of you watches tears fill your eyes with a condescending smile, stroking his hardening cock. “It’s not gonna be so bad,” he assures you. “We’re just gonna mark you. Anything with a brain’ll smell Verlinda all over you. Keep you nice and safe and protected.”

You shake your head desperately. “Please just let me go. I’ll go straight to the University. I won’t take any detours, I swear, I’ll be fast—”

“Will you hurry the fuck up?” one of the others snaps. It’s the one holding your wrists, one large, clawed hand trapping both yours. “Stop jacking off and fuck them, we don’t have all day.”

The one on top of you laughs. He bites his lip watching you twist and try to kick him away, easily catching one of your ankles. “Don’t do that,” he scolds you. “By the end of this, I’ll be your favorite. You’ll beg me to have a turn again.” You wheeze when he surges forward, bending you nearly in half. He hooks your knees over his shoulders and you feel his tip at your entrance, rubbing and prodding.

He goes agonizingly slowly. Every thrust is shallow and teasing, just kissing your hole. When he starts to push, it’s with the same infuriating patience, gentle motions that give you time to breathe, adjust, and feel everything. The wind is cold on your skin but his skin is scalding. The pavement digs into your back. He rests his palms on either side of your head, savoring every small gasp and whimper.

“What’s it like to fuck a human?” one of them jeers.

“Mm…tight.” His next thrust is harder, squeezing the head of his cock inside. “And they smell good. Makes my mouth water.”

The Stag saunters back into view, circling behind the man on top of you with his claws trailing over his bare shoulders. For just a moment, his silhouette seems larger, crowned with arching antler shapes. “They’re not just human, Garvan. Not just of this world. Little lost thing doesn’t know where they’re from.”

“Ohh?” Garvan grins as he leans in, resting his weight on top of you. He rocks forward and you feel him sink deeper, more of his length pushing past your resistance. “Poor thing. Does this one have to go? We could keep them. You don’t have a mate for the season, do you?” He withdraws to the tip and then slams into you, making you keen. All that gentleness is suddenly gone. His pace is slow and brutal, deep, pounding thrusts that scrape your back against the concrete.

The Stag hums thoughtfully. You’re barely aware of the sound over your own panting and gasping, Garvan’s moans, the harsh slap of skin on skin. “Hmm. You’re right, I don’t. But I can’t keep every cute thing that wanders into my territory, tempting as it is.”

Garvan hilts inside you and rests there, grinding his hips in a slow circle. To your horror, a bolt of pleasure shoots up your spine. Maybe you can’t hold your voice in, or maybe he scents your arousal; he knows. You see his smile widen, feel his cock twitch inside you. “That’s alright. Verlinda’s a big place. You’ll be back before long, won’t you, courier? Back here, under me…”

Slowly, he pulls out. You expect another harsh thrust but then he’s letting your legs down, stroking himself over your chest. He never looks away from you, holding your gaze with half-lidded eyes and a sick, delirious smile, until he throws his head back with a curse. Cum splatters your skin and he doesn’t stop until he’s wrung himself dry, emptying everything has onto your thighs and stomach.

“Next time I’ll fuck you properly,” he groans. “In my den…during my rut…breed you all night long.”

There's barely time to struggle before someone else takes his place and you're being flipped over, shoved onto your belly with somebody heavier on top of you. "You're gonna share, right, Garvan? Not gonna keep 'em all to yourself." You're dragged partially upright and wince, skinning your knees on the road. The next one is not slow or gentle. A hand grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls just as he slams inside you in one merciless thrust.

The sight of them surrounding you, all sharp teeth and glinting eyes, makes a whimper slip out involuntarily. They're all watching. Pleasuring themselves to your pain and humiliation, eager to be the next to tear you apart. The Stag takes the spot directly in front of you, hooking his fingers beneath your chin. It's hard to focus on him when someone's slamming into you from behind. "You look good on your knees, courier. But you'd look even better in your own skin." The Stag drags his claw over your lips, tracing the shape of your mouth. "Come find us again when your teeth come in. I want to taste the real you."

You don't know how long they take you like that, ravaging you in the middle of the road. You scratch up your palms on the asphalt trying to crawl away, your knees raw and bleeding. One will mount you, fuck you senseless, and then finish across your ass or back. Your vision swims and your head feels hazy. Your insides are sore and your body is a bloodied canvas from raking claws and nipping teeth. The Stag is always there, stroking your hair or dragging his claws down your back. When the others have finished, panting and satisfied all around you, he forces you up onto your knees and takes your throat.

You don't fight him. You don't have the strength. Your arms are sore and weak, dangling limp at your sides as he holds you by the back of the head and fucks your mouth. You choke on his girth, jaw stretched uncomfortably. You look up at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes and that makes him worse, more excited and demanding. He slams into your throat all the way to the base, balls slapping your chin, and then he holds you there. Your throat spasms and your nails dig weakly into his thighs. You can't breathe.

"Shhh." He strokes your head like he's soothing a startled animal. "Relax. You did well. Just take it." His hips jerk and you feel him cumming, thick and bitter on your tongue. You try to pull away and his grip tights, claws digging into your scalp in warning. You don't have to ask; you know he wants you to swallow. He hushes you again when you gag, gently pressing his fingers into the side of your neck in massaging motions. You're surprised at how much it relaxes you, melting against him. You swallow and his eyes follow the movement of your throat, his cock twitching against your tongue.

“I can almost feel it,” he murmurs. The pads of his fingers rub up and down your throat, massaging something tender beneath the skin. “Right here, deep down…there you are, courier.” When he steps back, you collapse on your hands and knees. You’re cold and in pain, sick to your stomach. Garvan offers you your clothes, chuckling when you snatch them from him.

They leave you there without a word. The men split off in different directions. The Stag cross your headlights, stepping off the road. You see him slip between the trees. That paralyzing feeling of being beheld by something so much larger and stronger, being pinned by its gaze, finally fades away.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift

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