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theredofoctober · 6 months

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Shingleback— A Wolf Creek Darkfic

Mick Taylor x Virgin Female Reader

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

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

Read after the cut

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

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

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

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

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

Fella.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your lips part with a whispered rejection of his aid.

Mick scowls, his eyes squinting, all narrow malice.

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

The man chortles, a filthy, porcine sound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three shots ring out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your captor grunts in disbelief.

“Doubt it. Ya talk like a Yank.”

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

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

“Hmm.”

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

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

“Where’s your Mum, then?” he asks.

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

“She ran away.”

Mick’s smile hardens.

“Got sick of your Dad, did she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mick’s eyebrows jump in bald surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop,” you rasp. “Stop it.”

Movement in your gut: a maggot of shame.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Savaged. Wounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mick. Mick, it hurts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t... I mean, inside me, I...”

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

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

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

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

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

By God, you wish that you had.

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

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