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Shingleback Part 2— A Wolf Creek Darkfic

Mick Taylor x Female Reader

Synopsis: Escape from Mick Taylor's grip doesn't last long...

Trigger/Content Warnings: non con, violence, death (not reader), bigotry (which in this chapter includes some Mick typical queer fetishisation)

Read after the cut

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Light cuts like a dirty knife through the bars of the underground cell as Mick approaches with an old-fashioned torch, his leer a sickle moon above its glow.

“G'morning, America! How ya doin’?”

You do not answer, merely stare through the midden black of the mine with all the unfeeling misery of dread.

Though without a clock or light by which you might determine the time you presume only one night has passed, coiled grubby and naked on unforgiving stone.

Shock has pinched out all pangs of hunger like a match head. You can’t conceive of knowing appetite again after what your flesh has known, what you have witnessed.

“Look like ya could do with a good wash,” Mick comments, unlocking the door to your cell. “Here's your shower. Make the most of it.”

Before you’ve registered the statement a bucket flashes in his left hand, dashing a quantity of cold, soapy water across you from head to foot.

Shouting, you jolt upright, quivering like a street child failing through some foul disease.

“Ah, what are ya squealin’ for?” asks Mick, through a nasty smirk. “I haven’t even got my cock in ya yet. Save your noise for then, eh?”

His hands drop to his belt, toying thoughtfully with the buckle.

Then he pauses, head cocked aside to listen.

“Hold that thought,” he says, at last. “Sounds like we’ve got company.”

Blinking soap from your eyes you gaze, nonplussed, up into Mick's sun-browned face. He looks irritated, thrown by the disturbance.

“Hang on, sweetheart,” he mutters. “We’ll get to it when I’ve seen to the trouble.”

Fumbling for a lump of fabric wedged under one sweaty arm Mick shakes it out and drops it at your feet.

“Here. Chuck this on so you’re ready for me when I get back. I like a short skirt on a sheila. Not having ya in jeans, like that baggy tomboy shit I found ya in.”

Grumbling under his breath, Mick withdraws into the warrens beyond your narrow world, his flashlight swinging.

Desperate to be warm, you pick up the musty garment from the floor and yank it over your head, struggling with the one hand injured from having been crushed in your idiot’s bid at escape. The fingers are swollen, crooked; you imagine most to be broken.

You wonder if Mick will make the effort to set them, or if he’ll allow them to heal badly to make an example of your folly.

That he will force you under him again and again to grind you of pleasure like some foul grain is surely worse, but you loathe the thought of bearing the remnants of his violence in so physical a form as losing full use of your hand.

You slump with your back to the corner of the cell, considering how easily you might break your skull against the bars. Death is superior to a life condemned to brutish fucking under the earth, you believe.

The thought is rattled from you by the distant boom of firearms from above. A gasp burns through you like a knotted rope, and you see again your father dying, his face gone to holes, no longer human through the transmutation of the gun.

You daren’t close your eyes, afraid of the shadow puppetry of memory behind the lids.

A woman’s voice calls abruptly from the gloom, startling you upright against the bars.

“Hello?”

At first you think it a ghost, the echo of some woman raped and gut-slit in the unhappy darkness. But then a torch beam strikes your face, and you glimpse a slim woman with a black wolf cut hairstyle staring at you through the half-open door of the cell.

“Jesus,” she says. “So there is someone alive in this bloody pit.”

Wiping your face with both hands, you ask, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Your voice is low, barely more than a breath.

“My name’s Lyanne,” says the woman. “The arsehole up there took one of my mates. Me and a few others have been following him, trying to get her back. We had no idea that Mick fella would be this fucked up, or maybe we would’ve held off.”

Lyanne pushes the door further open with the toe of a Doc Marten boot and looks at you, her sharp face tightening with disgust at your condition.

“Did you find your friend?” you ask, getting tentatively to your feet.

The other woman gives her head a single, gruff shake and takes off her leather jacket to put around your bare shoulders.

“Nah,” she says. “From the state of things down here he must have killed her. Least I can get you out of here. Got a van up top we can use if we’re quick getting to it.”

Hanging back, you ask, “What about Mick? He’ll shoot us both if he catches us.”

Lyanne sniffs.

“My mates are keeping that ugly old bastard distracted. Come on. You’re freezing. Don’t wanna stick around here, do you?”

Recalling Mick’s fingers fracturing you to your first, terrible orgasm you’re quick to follow Lyanne from the cell, stumbling alongside her through and out of that reeking grave.

Later, strapped into the passenger seat of a beaten-up van, half-listening to punk music your new ally finds on the radio, you think how uncannily alike your meeting with Mick was to your escape. For that reason, and the tenacity of your attacker, you don’t quite believe in your freedom.

It’s been too easy, as though for the play of it alone Mick has allowed you to slip from his den.

Bur perhaps you are only wounded, paranoid, a twitching mimic of the girl broken in below the ground.

Three weeks later you’re living in an apartment over a pub Lyanne runs at the outskirts of some roadside town, working under the table for enough cash to purchase a new passport and an aeroplane ticket home to America, plus what other fees will follow.

All you’d had in your pockets had been lost when Mick stripped you of your clothes in the mine. Thus it’s on a borrowed phone that you attempt to contact your mother, receiving no answer, the expected result.

Likewise, there is little response to the anonymous report you make to the police as to your father’s murder— no newspaper coverage, no announcement on the televisions in the bar.

Mick has cleaned up his crime so as to render it inexistent, like the wind blowing sand across buried bones, sinking them deep. He is such a force of nature, a man cursed to exist by the book of his wicked being. His name arises in no online search.

He is no one. He is death, its living hand.

You mourn your father, privately, and fear his killer’s return.

Each day that passes you imagine Mick strolling through the pub doors and cutting your throat across the bar, fucking you as the life runs from you like beer from an overturned keg. You’d come as you die, you envisage, one last spite upon you from your attacker.

Your nights are near sleepless in avoidance of dreams on that bleak subject, of what you saw in the mine as you tripped out of it into the daylight again.

Yet the weeks swim on without evidence of Mick, and still you distrust his absence, which feels entirely hinged on his inevitable return.

“How could he know you’re out here?” asks Lyanne over the bar one night, her pierced nose wrinkling. “He’s a psycho, not a bloody psychic. Got to start living your life again, mate. Don’t let that perve fuck you up for good.”

She shoves a beer at you, nodding approvingly as you down the pint and shake the glass at her for more.

Four drinks later you disappear into the women’s bathroom, sitting in the end cubicle with your head in your hands, tearful and slightly drunk. It’s the first time you’ve had enough access to feeling to cry, and you still cannot quite find release in it.

You never were one for tears, even before Mick Taylor crushed your heart under his weapons. Your method has always been to withdraw away from all things into yourself, that recess from which only your father could ever coax you out.

Now, forced to smile at customers as you mop floors of spilled drinks and shattered glasses you’re unable to shrink into that old cave of quiet. Perhaps it will be good for you to immerse yourself so quickly into the world, you reason; a few more months’ wages and you’ll be home again, after all, across the miles of sea between you and Mick Taylor’s country.

Wiping your eyes, you flush, and buckle up your jeans, taking your time to return to the bustling pub. As you push the cubicle door open a man steps into the gap, the grit of his unfriendly squint like grains of night above his grin.

“Found ya,” says Mick, and with a vicious jerk he headbutts you square in the brow.

The assault careers you back into the cubicle again, your skull a windchime of ringing agony.

Adrenaline tops you up quicker than fear. As Mick fills the space you make a fist and strike out at him, which he dodges with a startled chuckle.

“That's my girl,” he says. “Ya got a bit of fire in ya this time. Won’t do you any good. You’re gonna wish ya stayed where I left you, ya runaway cunt.”

A growl churning from his throat, Mick flattens you to the wall of the cubicle with a punch to your stomach, causing you to double over him like a lover seeking solace.

Mick’s arms go around you, and he pulls you to his chest in a throttling squeeze.

“Bet you thought I wouldn’t find ya,” he sneers against your cheek. “Livin’ it up in the arse end of nowhere with ya girlfriend. Lyanne, is it?”

He hauls you out of the cubicle and throws you against the hand dryers, setting them into gusting motion at your back.

“What have you done to her?” you ask, slumping, bruised and shell-shocked to the grubby floor tiles. "Leave her alone."

Mick guffaws.

"Don’t fancy sharing her with me, then. Bloody shame. Might have been fun.”

He bends down and drags you up on tiptoe by the front of your t-shirt, compressing one breast flat in his fist.

“Get your arse up, you lazy Yank.”

You flop uselessly in Mick’s hold as he tows you into the bar, which aside from the muttering televisions is of an unnatural silence.

Death in its ruddy carnage lies everywhere, patrons gut-slit and opened out like a butcher’s windows, their organs piled in steaming mounds before them.

Some lie in trains of blood, their still hands become claws of desperation, having been cut down from behind, or else shot through the back of the head like cows at the end of some slaughterhouse corridor.

Lyanne is among them, her punctured chest rising and falling shallowly with fading breaths. You spy the desperate roll of her sclera in the direction of your footsteps and attempt to go to her, but Mick heaves you sharply back.

“What do ya think you’re doin’?” he snaps. “Fifteen minutes and she’ll be as dead as your father. Give it a rest, will ya?”

With incredible strength for a man of his age, Mick hoists you up across a nearby table top amongst broken glass, uncaring of the shards that slash your cheek upon landing. Before you’ve truly felt the injury you’re turned on your back, Mick’s palm dashing across your face in a spindrift of blood.

He rears over you, his thin mouth a helix of rage.

“I should cut ya clit off for the trouble you’ve caused me. First ya left me, right, then you went and stirred up a loada coppers after me. They’ve been a bloody nuisance, sniffin’ around for weeks. What have ya got to say for yourself, eh?”

“You shot my dad,” you whisper through fearfully gritted teeth. “You— you— made me—"

“I fingered ya till you came and I then I fucked ya till you did it again,” says Mick, and he licks his lips, one hand slipping down to adjust his firming trouser front. “Gave ya a bloody treat. Bet you’ve been missing me after that corker of a first time.”

Your innards warp with terrified revulsion.

“I hate you,” you say, softly. “I hope you rot.”

Mick leans forward and licks your face from mouth to cheek with a throaty moan of delight.

“I love it when ya talk dirty,” he growls, then his stare flattens with a sudden cruelty, and he goes nose to nose with you, his hat colliding with your swollen forehead.

“Take ya fuckin’ clothes off, America. What did I tell you about wearin’ jeans?”

Grimacing, you shake your head, a bitter mistake. You see the anger wash through Mick like a tide in the apocalypse, and suddenly he has a knife in his hand, lashing its steel arc across your left breast as you squeal and scratch the table top for support.

“Fuckin’ move it, ya slow cunt,” says Mick, “or I’ll cut the other one.”

With struggling hands you peel your top over your head and set it clumsily aside, the fingers you’d nursed in the mine still bandaged and poorly healing.

Mick watches with a lascivious fascination, unable to resist reaching out with both coarse hands to manipulate your breasts. He plays with their hardened points with a coarseness that, for all its foulness, carves through you that bleak and familiar god of pleasure.

It’s only doubled as Mick harshly tongues blood from the nipples, sucking them between his teeth like cherries from the stem.

You stare at the flickering televisions broadcasting some dull sports event, unable to cast your gaze anywhere else without looking upon death, or its maker.

Mick pulls back from you, wiping gore from his stubble on the heel of his fist.

“Let me give you a hand there, darlin’,” he says, and takes your boots off, one by one, the thud of them landing on the grimy flooring making you start twice over.

Your good hand slips back across the table, landing upon an evil shard of glass. Closing your fingers over it you tense, thinking to jab your enemy in his soft throat when he next bends to torment your body.

With an abrupt motion Mick wrenches your arm behind your back and hits you in the face until you can hardly breathe for the many bursts of pain.

“Ah, come on, America,” says Mick, with a false amiability. “I know what you’re gonna do before ya do it.”

You dry heave over the side of the table, unable to cope with so many avenues of suffering at once.

Sighing, Mick unbuttons your jeans and drags them off over your ankles.

“Christ,” he says, dumping them to one side with emphatic disgust. “Have to do everything myself.”

From the low vantage of the floor Lyanne moans and coughs; you realise she’s been watching the entire scene through weakening eyes, and must realise her attempt to liberate you was all for nothing.

“Got a bloody good view down there, haven’t ya, sheila?” says Mick, following your eye line. “Bet ya regret breaking her out now, don’t ya? And convincin’ her to wear this girl power punk shit.”

He spits through his teeth, missing Lyanne by a hair.

“Well, you can watch your sweetheart get what’s coming to her.”

Twisting your underwear aside, Mick unsheathes his cock from his pants and thrusts into you without preparation, humming low in his throat as you scream from the suddenness of his piercing.

The pain is like fire upon fire, a dual war of burning. You thrash on the suttee of it, arms outstretched across the table top in a stigmata of Mick's sharp enmity.

A boiled kettle scream is gouged from you as though by your attacker’s blade. You slap at his broad shoulders, wanting him off you, out of you, but Mick only pounds deeper into your writhing form, his hands on your breasts holding you down.

You try not to look at Lyanne, whose choked cries of horror entwine with Mick’s grunts of porcine delight. That you have an audience to your humiliation is unbearable, every rough, perspiring thrust witnessed by the very friend who’d hoped to liberate you from such grotesquery.

You attempt to restrain your cries of pain to spare her that, at least, but Mick jars meanly into you with a smack of soldered flesh. His girth is as punishing as you remember, widening your entrance almost beyond its limit.

“This is what you get for pissing me off, darlin’,” says Mick, and he closes his palm against your throat until you sputter, airless, in his grip. “Last time we had a bit of a play I warmed ya up first. Got ya wet and ready. I was bloody nice to ya.”

With his free hand he slaps your breasts, catching the cut there so that it opens again, spilling its bounty down your belly to your navel.

“Bet you’re missing my hand in ya cunt now. Don’t usually have sheilas drip on me fingers like you, America. But it feels like you’re already gettin’ used to me. Ain’t just ya tits that're wet.”

He slows his strokes, parting your labia with two calloused fingers to show the slick on the shaft of his cock.

“What do you think of that, Lyanne?” he leers, brushing a lazy thumb over your clitoris so that you jerk in horrified surprise. “Your pal’s a fuckin’ whore. Not worth the trouble you put into rescuin’ her.”

Lyanne gurgles, bubbles of crimson saliva bursting on her lips. As you shut your eyes Mick seizes you by the hair and forces you to look at her, shaking your head about like a turned dog with a child it despises.

“Look her in the eye, America. It’s your fault I had to go for her and everyone else in this fuckin’ hole. Least ya can do is own up to it.”

“No,” you choke out between hateful thrusts. “No. It’s you. You’re a murderer.”

Mick plants a sloppy kiss on your turned cheek.

“Well, you’re not wrong there, darlin’. Still, wouldn’t have killed any of these bastards if you’d stayed in the mine. Thought ya could beat me, ya stupid cunt.”

Briefly withdrawing from you, Mick turns you onto your front, banging your brow upon the table with enough force to stun you beneath him.

You sob as he hammers into you again, his bulk jammed to your back, reeking of dirt, and of cigarettes, of sex.

Your eyes fall on the watch strapped to one thickly-haired arm, and it occurs to you how very late in the night it’s grown, how much time he’s already spent fucking you.

“I’m gonna make ya wish I’d shot ya like your dad,” says Mick, his lips grazing your bare shoulder. “Fuck ya till you can’t walk, or you’re limpin’ like I filled the wrong hole. You’re gonna be sore for weeks, sheila. No doubt about it.”

You attempt to pull yourself forward and off his cock, but Mick draws you back with a lazy ease.

“Better not, darlin’,” he says. “Didn’t work out for ya last time. Want me to break ya fingers again? You’ll be wanking with your shit hand for weeks.”

Whimpering, you say, “Stop it, Mick, please—”

“Ah, quit your moanin’, will ya? You Yanks can’t shut your traps for five bloody minutes. Land of the free my arse. You’ve had too much fuckin’ freedom if you ask me.”

Tugging your head back painfully Mick sinks his teeth into your earlobe, sucking until you screech in protest. His cock swells within you in hungry response to such tortured music.

“Fuck, you’re still so bloody tight. Mate didn’t finger you while you were on ya holiday, then. Thought you two would’ve been going at it on the daily. Least ya can see what you’ve been missing, eh, Lyanne?”

Mick pauses to drag your right leg up onto the table top so as to fuck you deeper still. It starts a new pain within you, a bruised, blunt cramp that almost makes you sick.

“I shouldn’t let ya come,” says Mick. “Dunno why I let ya the last time. Probably just the novelty of it. Been a long while since a bitch has finished when I’ve fucked them. Too busy yellin’ down me ear to think about it, most of the time. Must have something loose in your head to have an orgasm with your father's blood all over ya.”

He kisses your neck and mouth with renewed interest, reminiscing even as he creates this new nightmare of violence. A hand squeezes between your loins and the table, unable to resist seeking the cherished reaction of before.

“No,” you croak. “Not again.”

“Yeah,” Mick moans, between harsh kisses. “Gonna make ya come right here, taking my cock, looking at all the corpses you helped to make.”

His blunt fingertips lace your wet cunt, his familiarity with it eking out the sense of your damnation. As he does so Lyanne releases the guttural noise of her dying, and you are overcome with the knowledge that you have killed her by proxy, that you should have stayed in the pit, after all.

Mick's rhythm increases, quick and deep with the excitement of this horror. He touches you in a clever asterisk of motion, and to your despair you reach your crisis upon him, a volcanic event of heat and screams.

“That’s a good girl,” he croons. “Come for your Uncle Mick.”

Then his right arm folds across your chest, and with a snarl he joins you in climax, fucking you through every ring of this robbed pleasure until it wreaks its last.

You sprawl under him as though you, too, are dead, shutting eyes and mouth against the capsule hell of that monstrous room.

Mick climbs off you and does up his belt, humming cheerily under his breath, a familiar habit.

“Ya know what,” he says. “Ya might be a weak bloody Yank but you’re a good root. Get dressed, America. I’m takin’ ya home.”

You open your eyes to look at him, so ordinary in his plaid shirt and plain, working man’s features that the entire night might seem some intrusive fantasy, were it not for the blood soaking his clothes in inky blooms.

“Christ,” says Mick. “What’s gotten into ya? Here, have a drink for the road.”

He strides over to the bar and helps himself to a beer, pouring the foamy amber liquid over your face as he did the water, a month ago. You part your lips to swallow, wanting to forget through drunkenness the devil’s work that you’ve endured.

“That’s it,” says Mick, as you drain the glass. “It’ll do ya good.”

Dully, you get down from the table and dress, your hands working of their own accord. Mick eyes your body openly, seemingly poised to change his mind and have you walk out of the pub entirely nude.

In the end he only whistles at you as he would a dog, and in leaden resignation you follow, the remnants of your life hanging like the skin of a flayed man at your back.

#shingleback wolf creek #tw violence #tw noncon #tw blood #tw death #tw rape #tw queer fetishisation #wolf creek fic #wolf creek #mick taylor x reader #mick taylor wolf creek #mick taylor

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