Due to increased raider presence in the derelict Nuka World, there is also an increase in fairground-based traps that spring on local wildlife. A particularly lucky individual might evade perforation of major organs, with coincidentally whimsical results.
To Still the Devil's Hand (an mlm 'Highlander' fanfic)
SMUT! NSFW! Minors DNI!
Chapter 2
A light breeze blew across the clifftops in the North of Norfolk in England, fresh without being cold. It whistled gently as it danced through the yellow horned poppies, and made the long grass bow in waves like the ocean. The cliffs and hills rose up, majestic against the skyline, standing like guardians over the serene vista, and the sky, usually at least moderately overcast, was, today, a bright azure, with only the occasional cloud rolling over, casting moving shadows. And, somewhere below, the steel grey sea crashed into the rocks.
And all of this beauty was, for the moment, lost on two writhing bodies among the grass by a rocky outcrop. The larger of the two, the Kurgan, loomed above his smaller companion, long black hair veiling the man's face for the time being. But his hands were visible, clawing deep red tracks down Vitor's back. One cut particularly deep, and bright red blood beaded along the angry mar.
Vitor threw his head back with a hiss.
The shift revealed his lover. He was of similar age, smaller, but well built, and his dark hair was shaved at the sides, a moderate length strip down the middle like a horse's mane, with a single, pure white feather at the front, the result of a scald, received as a child.
"Shit," he looked up at Vitor, "I'm sorry."
Vitor shook his head, lifting one of the man's legs higher and pressing forward, folding him back on himself so Vitor could drive in deeper.
The smaller man choked out a loud moan.
"Do that again!" Vitor growled, increasing his already brutal pace.
His lover could only throw his head back in ecstasy, his body being shunted, rhythmically, back and forth on the grass.
"Jack!" Vitor groaned, desperately, feeling himself winding to breaking point, "Do. That. Again!" he grunted in time with his vicious thrusts, "HARDER!!"
Obediently, but blindly, his eyes rolled back in his head, Jack reached up, hooking his nails against the Kurgan's broad back, and dragged down, harshly. This time, he actually felt tiny scraps of skin under his nails, and the warm stickiness of Vitor's blood.
Vitor let loose a deep, animalistic sound. He wedged a hand underneath Jack's back and actually lifted him up against him, pulling himself in as deep as he could manage. With a shudder, he spilled deep inside Jack, pulsing and twitching.
The intensity of it pushed Jack over the edge too, and he clung to Vitor as though he might evaporate, and bit down hard on the thick, muscular join between his neck and shoulder.
"Oooooh fuck..!!" Vitor rasped, as Jack rode out his high, painting both their stomachs with thick ropes.
Some time later, Victor was sitting up, leaning back against one of the jagged rocks of the outcrop, arms behind his head and eyes closed, and Jack lay in the grass next to him, propped up on his elbows, admiring the scenery. They had since cleaned themselves up (as well as you can with a handful of long grass anyway) and thrown on their undershirts and britches, and now just sat in each other's company.
"I'm pretty sure you bruised my throat back there." Jack said, after a time. He wasn't annoyed. He said it with an air of affection and even slight amusement. He rubbed his neck where, indeed, some faint welts that corresponded with Vitor's fingers had started to bloom.
Vitor didn't open his eyes but he smirked.
"You repaid me in kind." he muttered, sleepily.
"I did at that..!" Jack responded, looking down at his nails. They had faint red moons around the tips, Vitor's blood still beneath them. One had broken, split more than half way across. He peeled it off fully, leaving a jagged edge, and flicked it into the grass.
"I suppose you'll be leaving soon." Jack ventured. He said it tentatively, broaching a topic they had, up until that point, been ignoring.
Vitor opened his eyes and looked down at him.
"You're coming with me." He stated it bluntly. No room for debate.
Jack's eyes closed for a beat, before he turned his head and looked out to sea, saying nothing.
Sensing Jack's hesitation, Vitor shifted forwards, resting his arms on his knees, and fixing him with a stare that would bring Cerberus to heel.
"You're an outsider. They hate you as much as they hate me." He reminded him.
"Well, not really. You plundered the place, killed a bunch of people. I just didn't have the good sense to pretend I'm not foreign."
"Less than four hundred miles. Hardly foreign." Vitor pointed out, ignoring the first half of Jack's sentence entirely.
Jack scoffed.
"You think that matters to them? I could be from the next town over and be considered an outsider."
"But you want to stay. Why?"
"It's not that I WANT to stay necessarily. It's just... This place is all I've ever known. These PEOPLE are all I've ever known. And they're not all bad. Far from it, actually. Some of them can be wonderful."
"And yet you fell into my arms, you lay with me, were claimed by me, the man who cut them down where they stood. And you lay here now, my marks still on your skin, still to push me away, as if I'd allow it."
Jack ran his fingers over the bruises again, letting Vitor's words sink in.
"I.. I just.." but he couldn't decide what he was trying to say, and his voice trailed off, his eyes going distant, as though his soul itself had gone somewhere else.
Vitor knew that look. He pushed himself forwards, scooped his arms beneath Jack's knees and back, and dragged him into his lap, and, subsequently, pulled his attention back to Earth too.
Jack blinked in surprise as Vitor shifted him until he was comfortable, then relaxed as he settled back against the rock again, Jack perched sideways on his muscular thighs. Jack stared, sideways, at Vitor. Then, slowly, carefully, testing the reaction that such a soft gesture would produce, he leant against the Kurgan's chest, laying his head in the crook of his neck, Vitor's hair drifting and lightly tickling his cheek.
In response, Vitor lifted his arm and wound it round Jack's waist, holding him possesively.
"You're coming with me one way or another, my pretty." Vitor growled a promise.
Present Day
Connor lurched through the door to his apartment, close to buckling under the weight of an entirely blacked out Victor. He was still snoring like a buffalo and completely ragdolled on Connor's shoulders, black hair coming loose from its ponytail, not helping move his gargantuan frame whatsoever.
Rachel was bustling along behind them, aghast at what had come heaving through the shop door several minutes before.
"Connor, are you out of your mind!? You do remember who that is!?"
"Aye, I know, hen. It's a long story. Just help me get him into the guest room, would ye?" Connor managed, between huffs and puffs, his legs close to giving out.
Rachel shook her head in disbelief, but did as she was bade, rushing ahead and throwing the door open. She dashed inside, pulling the blanket from the bed in readiness, before hastily drawing the curtains, plunging the room into an artificial twilight.
Between them (and with great difficulty) they got Victor sitting on the side of the bed so they could remove the heavy leather jacket and his shoes, before manoeuvring him round so that he was lying down. Connor chucked the blanket, unceremoniously on top of him.
It was funny. Looking at him like this, stripped of his sword and metal-studded jacket, dressed simply now in black jeans and white tank top, curled on his side and snoring, eyes closed, he looked, well... vulnerable. A regular man instead of the monster he had come to know.
Connor really didn't have a plan for what might happen when Victor eventually sobered up enough to come round and find himself in his apartment. But he supposed he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. With a shrug and a small head shake to bring himself out of his musings, he turned on his heel, pulling the door mostly closed behind him, and joined Rachel in the shop.
He arrived just as the bell above the door sounded. A yougish man (early thirties) walked through the door. He was clothed all in black and dark grey; black and grey cammo trousers, black hoodie, dark grey cap, black shoulder bag, and he edged his way into the shop, holding a cardboard drinks holder, bearing three to-go cups.
"Evening, Connor," he called, cheerfully, in an English accent, "just closed up. I brought pastries too!"
He placed the drinks on the counter and set about fishing out a paper bag.
"Oh it's you! Evening." Connor greeted him simply.
Rachel came through from the back office and smiled at the man, touching a hand to his cheek, briefly, before taking her drink.
The man owned the café across the street and often showed up with drinks and almost-out-of-date treats at the end of his shifts. He would often stay and chat for a bit, and, far as Connor could tell, he led a quiet, simple life, the majority of it taken up with his café.
"I'm closing up early tonight too, so you're welcome to stay for a wee while. Sit in the office with us?" Connor offered, good-naturedly.
"Oh? Why are YOU closing up at this time?" the man asked, brow furrowed.
Rachel made a small, incredulous noise.
"Oh, he's got to keep a close eye on his GUEST."
She gave Connor a withering stare over her coffee cup.
"The way you say "guest" seems ominous." the man said, carefully, his eyes flicking to the stairs that led up to Connor's apartment at the back.
Connor made a non-committal noise and sipped his own coffee.
"Just an old acquaintance that drunk too much. That's all." He waved away the specifics with an actual wave of his hand. "Come. Sit." He instructed the man simply, gesturing to a free office chair.
The man smiled and heaved his bag from his shoulder before sitting down, taking off his cap too and dropping it on the desk. He ran a hand through his short, black mohawk, roughing it up, somewhat, it having been flattened by his cap. Right at the front, there was a single feather of white that Jack had always said happened when he'd been scalded as a child.
To Still the Devil's Hand (an mlm 'Highlander' fanfic)
The first chapter of a pretty long story I have in mind. Depending how well it does, I'll keep updating it here.
An alternate ending to the first Highlander movie. Connor Macleod and Victor Kruger "The Kurgan" call a truce (why? Idk. Just roll with it). A couple of years later, Macleod chances across Victor in a bar, eyes deep in brandy and looking incredibly worse for where...
Chapter 1
"Leave me be, Macleod." Victor growled, tiredly. "You got your truce. Now let me have my peace." He closed the sentence with one final gulp of brandy, and set the glass, none too carefully, down on the wooden tabletop.
"Well this is a turn," Connor remarked, sheathing his sword and choosing, instead, to plop down in the seat across from his once-lethal foe. Looking at him now, all Connor could see was a defeated and exhausted creature who looked like he hadn't slept in the five some centuries that he had walked the Earth. His shoulders were slumped, his head bowed, and an alcoholic haze had come over his eyes.
"So let's hear it. What ails you, my reluctant friend?" Connor continued, settling into his chair.
Victor's eyes snapped up to meet his from under his heavy brow, suddenly sparked into life through sheer indignance.
"We will never be friends." he snarled, darkly. There was a beat, full of staring; smoldering and angry on Victor's part, and almost pitying on Connor's. Victor's eyes dropped to the dark wood of the table once more.
"I'm sick." He muttered, at length.
Connor looked him over. Well, he was certainly drunk. But sick?
"Oh aye?" he said, amused, "And, pray tell, what sickness stands a chance of bringing down the mighty Kurgan?"
He'd meant it to sound sarcastic, but there was something in the way the Kurgan sat, hunched over and barely present, as though he were attempting to ignore himself, that made it come out more sincere than Connor expected.
Victor didn't answer. He simply waved down the barman as he passed with a tray of glasses.
"Another." he demanded, shortly.
The barman shifted uncomfortably for a moment, before chancing to say
"you've had eight already, sir. Don't you think you've had eno-…"
Connor's eyebrows went up. The man had balls, he had to give him that.
Without a word, and without even really looking at him, Victor pulled his sword from its sheath and held the point of it to the man's throat. Even as drunk as he was, his aim was impeccable.
"Another! Yes! Right away!" the barman squeaked, and, with that, he scampered away, a rabbit narrowly avoiding the jaws of a wolf.
Connor had no such fear of the man before him and he snorted, crossing his arms as he watched Victor's moody display.
"Yer blootered." he observed, bluntly. "So come on. Out wi' it! What's wrong?"
In response, Victor snatched his fresh brandy from the bar man's hand before he'd even set it down, and emptied half the glass with a single mouthful, a trickle escaping from the corner of his mouth to run down his jaw, then down his neck. He swallowed powerfully.
"Five hundred years to the day. Five… Hundred… Years." He stared, unfocused but intense, at Connor.
"Aye? What was that then? The day of your quickening?" Connor asked.
Victor nodded once, eyes leaving Connor to, instead, stare a hole into his brandy glass. "Same day the universe, in all its infinite wisdom, saw fit to take him from me…" he growled, more to himself than to Connor.
Connor sat up a little straighter in his seat. Him? Who was this "him" that Victor spoke of? A friend? A brother? …A lover? But he knew better than to probe. Victor was already in a sharing mood anyway, so all Connor had to do was keep his mouth shut and let him talk. And it wasn't long before he did, slurred from the obscene amount of alcohol, and rough from the centuries old slash across his throat.
"It took him from me, then ensured that I could not follow. And I could not forget. It left me to carry his memory for centuries. But you…"
He looked up at Connor again, a renewed hatred burning in hazy eyes,
"you got to keep yours. And I hated you for it."
Connor pulled a face.
"Well… Technically you hated Ramirez." he pointed out. "You thought Heather was his, not mine." Connor's gut churned as he remembered Victor's abhorrent confession in the church, and he couldn't help but throw out a painful barb, "Whatever happened to him, it had to be better than life with you."
Victor gripped the glass so hard, and slammed it down on the table with such force that it cracked, brandy jumping free from the rim and splashing down onto the varnished wood.
"I loved him, Macleod!!" he roared. "I finally had something! Something precious! Someone who would shed a tear for me! ME!! Someone who held-…" his outburst stuttered as he seemed to realise what he was saying, and to who. Victor's chest heaved as he got a hold of himself.
There was a tense silence as the two stared each other down.
Finally, Victor snorted, humorlessly, and raised his cracked glass to his mouth, knocking back what was left, another droplet running the same path down his throat as the previous spill.
Connor could only gape.
This man, this black demon that had haunted him for almost half a millenia, THIS man… had been in love?
"I watched the light disappear from his eyes…" Victor muttered after a time. "I couldn't go to him… They pulled me away… And when I went back… he was… his body… was… gone…"
Victor's head sunk forward until his forehead met the table, his arm still extended on the table in front of him, clutching the battered glass. Connor was sure he'd passed out until…
"I promised… I swore I'd outrun death to reach him…" Victor's tiny, pitiful whine was such an absurdly stark contrast to his usual, rumbling roar, that it would be almost comical if it weren't so desperately sad. "and I did it… Didn't I Macleod? I outran death…" despite himself, Connor found himself nodding, encouragingly, almost sympathetically. "But he wasn't there… He wasn't there…" and so the scene ended with the silent bar filled with the Kurgan's deafening snore.
For the first time in his long life, and in their dark history together, Connor's heart squeezed, painfully, for Victor. He remembered, as sharply as though it happened yesterday, the stinging pain of Heather's death. But he had had her until she breathed her last, held her as she died, given her comfort, spoken softly. Whatever had happened to Victor's man, it sounded quite a bit more traumatic, and far too soon and sudden. And then, to not even have a body to bury! It must have been a living hell. A hell that had lasted for several lifetimes. No creature deserved to live with that pain, not even The Kurgan. Perhaps, everything considered, it would have been kinder to kill him after all. But some wild, psychotic need to prove that the pain was all worth it had led the Kurgan to near insanity in his quest to become the last immortal standing.
Connor looked sadly at Victor for a long time before setting his jaw, his mind made up. He stood, heaved a sigh and stretched before resting a hand on his sword. Victor was a big man. This wasn't going to be easy…!
Reading Damian Rocco as a gay man, and I am ✨UNWELL✨ IN THE BEST WAY.
Im reading this as a man (who is very gay and would like to overnight order 1 daddy please) and it's lending a really sweet, queer angle to the story that still makes perfect sense for the setup.
Damien's homosexuality played a big part in his divorce with Larry's mom.
He cares about MC and doesn't want a young gay man to make a similar mistake to him, and get trapped in a loveless relationship.
MCs insecurities play into this as well. He desperately clings to the one person who agreed to pretend to love him after believing he would die alone because he's gay. This explains why he's so reluctant to leave Larry, even though he clearly treats him like trash.
Damian is drawn to MC's youth because it feels like he's making up for lost years, being in the closet. He gets to be a young, gay man again, and experience what he never got to, first time round. Dates. Hand brushing. Hearts beating fast from just a look. Having fun and laughing together, laced with tension and stomach butterflies.
THE STRIP CLUB DATE!!! 🏳️🌈🏳️🌈🏳️🌈 EXCUSE YOUR GAYEST PARDON!?
This is why I love MeChat's sense of equality, and their gender neutral way of writing.
The crux of the anti trans movement is a war on bodily autonomy. They don't want you to have any agency over what you look like, how you dress, who you date, whether to have kids, etc.
They want total control over you. Not just trans people. Not just queer people. You. Everyone.
Trans people are just a scapegoat. They want total control over everyone's self expression. They want the right to mold you into their perfect little cog in their dehumanizing machine.
Happy Trans Day of Visibility. Our rights are your rights. Our destruction is your destruction.
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