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coyotehusk · 8 months

Text

Pressure

1,370 words | CW: Strangulation, Mentions of Torture

Mica was not the type of man to be fueled by sexual desire. His work kept him busy. Stuck forever in a cycle of slaughtering hogs and men. Wake. Eat. Kill. Sleep. It was all he knew. A routine he had practiced since his youth. He was not immune from the occasional burn of intimate musings, but they were easily snuffed out by his own hand.

Over the years, he found that any relationship that wasn't transactional had little to no appeal. Watching the Delaney boys bicker with their wives was exhausting. It often reminded him of his own mother and father—stuck in a loveless marriage.

But as he straddled Ryker, rope tightly strung around his neck, he felt a hungry spark of desire light up in his brain.

It had been almost two weeks since the youngest Delaney had arrived. At this point, it was clear that the missus wasn’t really looking for information. Instead, she often watched on with a hint of amusement as the men kicked Ryker around. Sometimes stubbing her cigarette out on his legs or arms. She’d already marked his back with the signature three dots within the first week.

Ryker had been particularly defiant on that day—spitting at her boots and laughing every time he got hit. At some point, he managed to slip out of the ropes (poorly tied by an intoxicated Cyrus the previous evening), and bolted. Cyrus started after him, but Mrs. Delaney grabbed him by the collar.

“He won’t get far. Mica, bring him back.”

She was right. Ryker hobbled helplessly towards the first fence, tripping over his own legs like a newborn fawn. Screaming as if the neighbors didn't live over ten miles away. Mica caught him in just a few strides. Grabbing him by the ankles, he dragged the defenseless man back towards the barn. He kicked and screamed the whole time—desperately digging his fingers into the dirt.

There was no slipping from the Delaney’s hold. Mica had learned that the hard way early on. He’d taken his beating with the tail end of a whip. Left to bake in the sun for a day and night before he was pardoned for his crime. The fact that Ryker and Rhett managed to slip away from the ranch all those years ago was an anomaly. Luck, if one believed in that kinda thing. Though it appeared that luck had an expiration date.

“Hogtie him,” Mrs. Delaney said, handing Mica a coil of rope. “Feel free to rough him up a little more while you're at it.” She finished off her cigarette, flicking it towards Ryker. It nearly hit his face, bouncing off the dirt next to his ear. She looked almost bored as she walked away, Cyrus in tow.

Mica peered down at Ryker. It wasn’t the first time he’d tied him up, and it wouldn’t be the last. But Ryker liked to make it a chore. Squirming and biting. Kicking his legs and throwing fists. Sometimes Mica would take the hits, letting Ryker wear himself out before finally tying him up to a chair or to the gates of the horse pens. As predicted, he started to squirm as soon as Mica knelt next to him—digging his filthy nails into Mica’s forearms.

“Please, Mica! I-I don’t know anything! I swear. You have to believe me. J-Just let me—I won’t tell anyone! Please! I can’t stay out here another night–”

It was unlike Ryker to beg. Cry, sure. But beg? Mica knocked his hands away. Trying to grab for his wrists, but the guy was surprisingly slippery.

“Mica, please! You know me–” Suddenly, he felt a yank on the rope, quickly followed by a strike to the jaw. Mica blinked, stunned for a second.

While most assumed the butcher was not capable of feeling emotion, he was often challenged with the sharp edge of annoyance. Sometimes even a little rage. He felt both then—straddling Ryker and putting his full weight on the smaller man. It was easy to pry the rope from those trembling fingers before looping it around his neck and tightly pulling the two ends in opposite directions. Ryker’s hands immediately flew up. Scratching wildly at his skin as he tried to get purchase of the rope.

The spark happened then. Like a bolt of electricity crawling down Mica’s spine. He let up for just a moment. Easing the tension around Ryker’s thin neck. Ryker spluttered and coughed. “Mica! Wait-” he wheezed. Mica pulled again. Tighter this time. Watching the rope dig into the skin.

Pretty.

It was an odd thought. A concept he knew only by word and not in practice. But as he slowly tightened his hold, he found that he did find Ryker’s eyes pretty—the teal stark against the dark bruising from the previous day’s beatings. He liked the slope of his nose and how his lips parted. Desperately trying to pull in air.

Ryker grit his teeth. He kicked and thrashed. Face turning bright red before starting to purple. Mica held until Ryker’s hits grew weak and his eyes rolled back. Heels barely pushing into the dirt. When he finally released, the rope slid free of his hands—a heat flooding his ears at the sound of Ryker’s starved inhale for oxygen.

It followed Mica for the next few days. That desperate moan. The soft whimpers laced between coughs. Ryker’s face wet with tears as he begged.

Oh, how he fucking begged.

Mica could picture himself wrapping his bulky hands around Ryker’s throat—pressing his thumbs against his Adam’s apple. How far would he push him? Just to the brink? Flirting with the edge of death?

No.

It would be too easy to crush the life out of him. Mica liked how Ryker hopelessly clawed. How he wiggled between his thighs. He wanted to hear that gasp over and over again. See the tears filling his eyes. Kicking and biting. He’d have to be careful not to overdo it. Just enough pressure to scare him. To keep him writhing with life.

It wasn’t long before the fantasy started to evolve. He could hook him up for a bit. Poke and prod at him with one of the cattle rods—the electrical current making his body twist and tense. See just how many times he could handle the current dancing through his muscles. Back arching and legs kicking.

Maybe he could even mark him. Leave his brand scorched into his flesh. Or perhaps even use one of his knives to carve something small and delicate. Hidden away. A secret for just the two of them.

What other things could coax a sound like that from him?

Mica peered out his bedroom window. The barn looked ominous against the night sky. Shrouded in darkness—except for the sporadic flash of yellow coming from an overhead lamp. The light spilled just slightly into the interior. If Mica squinted, he could just barely make out the soles of Ryker’s feet lying in the dirt.

He found himself walking down the narrow corridor of the house, softly passing Mrs. Delaney’s room and down the staircase. His boots were still sitting outside on the back porch—mucked from the rainstorm early that morning.

Mica stepped into the barn, peering down at the curled body. They left him uncovered; shirtless and arms pinioned with fresh blue twine. Somebody had torn off his bandages. The stitching on what was left of his pinky were partially ripped out. Frankly, his whole hand looked mangled. As if someone had stomped on it a few times. Ryker’s eyes fluttered. He let out a wheezy chuckle.

“Yer a sight for sore eyes.”

Mica found himself hesitating for a moment. Watching Ryker relax further into the muck. They had really laid into him. Cheek and jaw dark and swollen. Welts across his chest and arms. He almost looked defeated. Eyes closed. Shivering. He coughed before trying to curl tighter into himself.

“I really don’t know where Rhett is. Haven’t for a long time.” He let out another raspy breath. “What does it matter anyway? The money is gone. The guns. Everything–” Ryker kept muttering. His voice growing softer and more slurred. It wasn’t long until his breathing slowed. Rattling but steady.

Mica felt his mouth go dry. Impulse had driven him here. That hot, needy burn. Had he intended to do something with Ryker? Act out on the dark thoughts swimming in his head?

And for the first time in a long time, Mica felt fear.

┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴| writing tag: @demondamage @burntcoffeewhump @suspicious-whumping-egg @yet-another-heathen

#coyote husk writes #my oc #Mica #Ryker #strangulation #mentions of torture #only a little hornee here #Can't make the jump just yet #too many things still to figure out #is this cannon?#idk #you'll have to ask the author #(they don't know either)#fr don't know how to tag this so if its missing anything let me know #brain mush #i should be sleeping

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rosella-writes · 2 years

Note

For DADWC, some loose guard rails ;) either smutty or cute; someone gets flustered; in camp, Solas watching Virelan sharpening a blade; it's during the day.

Thank you for the guard rails, I love the guard rails, I kiss the guard rails. She's not sharpening the blade but it's close, lol.

For @dadrunkwriting

T for idk horny thoughts?

~~~

There was a mark on Iron Bull's chest.

That wasn't unusual — Solas had healed many of his wounds in much more compromising locations. This one, however, was a dark welt ringed by smaller, evenly spaced marks that looked suspiciously like —

"Fuck, shit."

Virelan stumbled from her tent, half-dressed and pulling at a blade in a scabbard. Its buckles were crusted with blood. She grimaced as she pulled the dagger free and examined it closely — Solas could see the tarnished spots on it from even as far away as his seat by the fire. He turned towards the meal he'd tucked into the warm ashes with a wry smile and poked at the little bundle with a stick.

The Iron Bull ribbed Virelan mercilessly for neglecting her dagger, just out of Solas's line of sight. He smiled to himself again as she vehemently defended herself by reminding him what exactly had distracted her from such trivial things as cleaning up after battle.

So it had been teeth, Solas mused. Something inside him lurched and grew warm.

He glanced up, squinting against the sun. Virelan was smiling up at Iron Bull with a baring of her teeth that was almost a threat — the sight of them drew his gaze once again to the mark they'd laid on Bull's flesh. Virelan sidled up closer to the giant and resheathed her blade in the small space between them — Solas realised the bite mark was at the perfect point for her height if she’d been straddling Iron Bull and had leaned over him. He glanced back down at the fire, blinking that mental image away.

“Stick that in the fire, Vir,” Bull rumbled. “Get it clean or it'll rust.”

Virelan’s voice was low and gentle when she said, “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Her footsteps approached — Solas shifted, suddenly aware of every inch of his body where it touched his clothes, and flipped a wrapped packet from the ashes.

“How’s your cooking project?” Virelan asked brightly, taking a seat opposite him. She drew her dagger and began scraping flakes of blood off of it with her nail.

Solas glanced up and watched Iron Bull trudge off towards the river, presumably to bathe. He wondered briefly if the scent of Virelan lingered on his skin.

“I believe,” he responded, almost too late, “that they are done.”

He unwrapped the hot packet of wet, steaming leaves with a flick of his wrist that summoned a controlled gust, then plucked up the potato inside. He tossed it to Virelan, who caught it one-handed.

“Cooled it off that fast, huh?” She took a grateful bite, peel and all. “S’good, thank you.”

Solas nodded and prodded another packet from the ashes, opening it for himself. He left the final two for Iron Bull upon his return.

He dared to glance up at Virelan again, who seemed to have settled into her task of cleaning her blade with single-minded focus. She sat there opposite him with all the assured confidence of a woman who knew what she was doing, who was comfortable in her own skin. The fact that all she wore was a stained undershirt and a pair of thin leggings did not seem to matter to her — she leaned forward, forearms on her knees, and scrubbed at her blade with an oiled rag. It was difficult not to watch the twitch of muscle under her skin, or the way she worried at her ample lower lip as she worked, or the span of her shoulders, collarbones, arms, calves, the curve of her breast, that were exposed to his gaze. He did not realise he was searching for mouthed marks until his gaze lingered too long on her collar.

He looked down at his hands, then summoned the sense to eat.

#dadwc #virelan x solas #virelan x iron bull #the iron bull #virelan lavellan #solas #my writing #dragon age #solavellan #dragon age inquisition #virelan's deal is purely fwb #meanwhile solas is catching feelings #mainly hornee ones but other ones too

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