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BTVS: Why Don’t You Do Right? (Tara/Warren) FRAO/NC-17 - DARK
Title: Why Don’t You Do Right?
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Peggy Lee and others own the song “Why Don’t You Do Right?” I don’t.
Pairing: Tara/Warren
Rating/Warnings: FRAO/NC-17; dark/angst, non-consensual sex/rape, adult language, major character death
Word Count: 1487
Summary: What if Warren had chosen Tara instead of Katrina?
Setting: BtVS, Season 6, “Dead Things.”
Beta Crew: The lovable![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
velvetwhip. All other mistakes are mine.
Author’s Note: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
darker_vault Darker Quests Challenge. I used Tara, Warren, handcuffs, and the library for my prompts.
Why don’t you do right? Like some other men do.
White wine spritzers and sultry blues and wanna-be Wiccans. In her head, it had sounded like the perfect recipe to combat the ever-present Willow-thoughts, but instead…it was just….
Not helping.
Nothing helped really.
Tough love was all well and good as a concept to help Willow understand the consequences of her magic abuse, but in practice?
It sucked.
Especially when Buffy had reported that Willow was doing well.
Not that that wasn’t good…because it was. Willow’s recovery had always been priority number one, but…was it enough?
Was it enough for Tara to justify going back to the arms of her girl?
The short answer: No.
Everyone knew that Atlantis wasn’t built in a day.
Willow needed more time, needed more space, needed…needed to do this on her own.
Tara sighed, fixing her gaze on the door behind Helen’s head, hoping to see something far more interesting than the salt and pepper shaker re-enactment of Helen’s late-night Beltane celebrations.
A dark-haired man stood in the doorway, fiddling with his tie and tugging briefly on his right ear lobe as if he had an itch…or perhaps, a nervous tic?
Regardless, he wasn’t someone she should exactly care about seeing – unlike Willow, men had never been her cup of tea - and it wasn’t exactly like she was on the market anyway, what with the waiting-for-Willow-improvements….
Tara shook her head, returning her gaze to her nearly empty dinner plate. She nudged at a few of her French fries with her finger, forming a haphazard lattice, before glancing back up at the man in the suit.
It was obvious that he was looking for someone from the way his dark eyes scanned the restaurant, but it wasn’t clear who that person was.
That is, until he started walking towards her.
Meep.
She had obviously drawn attention to herself by being a Nosy Nelly and now he was going to come over here and talk to her and…and….
The last thing she saw before the red and yellow sparkles of light flashed in front of her eyes was a pair of red sunglasses.
Who wears sunglasses in a restaurant?
--
When Tara woke up, nothing was familiar. There were no lights, no cooling French fries, no crooning Peggy Lee, and no chattering Helen.
She could vaguely hear the opening strains of a TV show theme, but there was nothing recognizable enough about the tune to pin down quite what it was.
What she knew was this:
She was on the floor, her head resting against something hard….
Which maybe explained the super fuzzy feeling in her brain. Blunt force trauma could have definitely made that happen.
Oh, and she was wearing…
Handcuffs.
She was wearing handcuffs; thick metal bracelets that dug into her skin and kept her wrists locked tightly against her spine.
She was also in what felt like a dress from the way the fabric rubbed against her skin.
Or maybe it was more like a costume.
It was a black satin French maid costume that had walked off the shelves at Erotica-R-Us and had somehow encased her body while she was unconscious, which meant that someone had….
“Hello.”
Tara blinked twice, strangely uncertain about meeting the gaze of the man who had stepped into the darkened room.
“Look at me.”
Tara raised her eyes to him, unable to fight against the command that echoed inside her head.
It was a violation, a sense of dread she couldn’t escape from. It was like Glory because it was inside of her head and she couldn’t escape. She couldn’t fight it. She couldn’t be herself. Instead, she was trapped. Trapped as a prisoner in her own mind, almost aware, but not enough to fight against it.
Tara inhaled sharply, attempting to gather her thoughts amidst the panic.
It wasn’t Glory.
It couldn’t be.
Glory was dead. Deaddeaddead. Dead as a god could be.
So who was he?
“Call me Master.”
He flipped on the light switch and a bare 45-watt light bulb illuminated the room, which – from the briefest of glances - seemed to be a library, maybe a book nook. The dim glow also shed light on the man’s features.
It was the man from the restaurant.
The one who wore the sunglasses.
The one who….
She remembered something – a flash of light, maybe?
Then, she saw a flicker again – red and gold sparkles – dancing on top of the head of a small silver ball.
“Hello Master,” Tara responded automatically, triggered by the script playing in her head, by the power he was using to control her like a puppet. She had no choice but to move her lips to the tug of his strings.
At least, it was nice not to feel anything right now, especially when there was no telling what he had planned for her.
“No, change that. Call me Master Warren.”
Tara nodded, unable to resist acquiescence. “Of course, Master Warren.”
“There’s a good girl. Now come pour me and the boys some champagne, unless you want….”
Warren pursed his lips, his eyes tracing the expanse of Tara’s legs.
Tara stared back at him, a blank expression on her face.
“Perhaps a taste of something sweeter,” Warren mused, eyes darkening as he unbuttoned his fly and yanked down the zipper of his jeans. “Spread your legs.”
“Yes, Master Warren.”
Tara shifted her position on the floor, letting her legs fall open, and letting him see what was on display beneath the ruffled black skirt.
“You’re perfect,” Warren whispered, reaching his hands into the waistband of his boxers, freeing his hard cock from its confines.
“So are you, Master Warren,” Tara replied.
Warren smirked, taking his eyes away from her briefly to scan the room. “Shall I bend you over the desk and fuck your pretty cunt? Or would you rather I drill that sweet ass of your into the floor?”
“Whatever you wish, Master Warren.”
Warren rubbed his hands gleefully, grinning from ear to ear. “Stand up.”
Tara obeyed, struggling only slightly due to the handcuffs before she was on her feet and staring blankly ahead to wait for her next command.
Warren closed in, wrapping his arms around Tara’s waist and rubbing his cock against the bare flesh of her thigh.
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want this, Master Warren.”
The words were lifeless, devoid of emotion, but that didn’t deter Warren from twirling her around and pushing her body against the desk. Tara’s breath left her with a whoosh and the desk shuddered underneath her weight. Warren’s fingers gripped her hips and his cock nudged against her ass.
“Tell me you want this,” Warren repeated, reaching around her body, fingers grazing her mound, before three of them wormed their way inside of her. His other hand went into her hair, twisting and tugging at her honey blonde locks as if she were a dog on a leash.
“I want this, Master Warren.” Tara murmured; bucking her hips against his hand as the soft pudge of his stomach rested against her hands.
“Tell me again.”
The fingers were replaced with his cock, thrusting into her, hard and unyielding as it stretched her insides.
“I want….”
The edge of the desk bit into Tara’s waist and she felt suddenly overwhelmed by mental clarity. Her body had been returned to her. Her mind was free to fill once more with fear, churning up her insides as she realized just what was happening to her.
She was being fucked against her will.
She was being ripped in two by a body part that had never – not once –been inside of her.
She was being…
“I don’t want this,” Tara replied, tears stinging her eyes, staining the wood. “Please stop.”
“What?” Warren asked, fury and alarm rising his voice. “What did you say?”
“Pl…please stop,” Tara begged.
“Fuck,” Warren hissed, releasing his hold on her with such force that Tara’s legs wobbled and gave way. Her knees hit the hard floor and because her hands were still cuffed behind her back, she slid off the desk. The most she could accomplish from this was curling herself into a fetal position and keeping her eyes averted from the rage that coursed through her abductor’s face. “Jonathan! Andrew! Get the fucking dampener!”
“Please…I w…won’t tell anyone…. Just st…stop.” Tara stuttered, choking on the sobs and snot that pooled in her throat.
“You’re damn right, you won’t,” Warren replied, his hands sinking into her hair again, gripping tight enough to make her scalp burn. He twisted her head to meet his gaze before flinging her backwards.
The back of Tara’s head caught the corner of the desk and suddenly the floor rose up to meet her, sucking her into complete and total darkness.
Dead.
Dead like Joyce.
Dead like Buffy was.
Except that when you’re not a Slayer…dead things didn’t come back.
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Peggy Lee and others own the song “Why Don’t You Do Right?” I don’t.
Pairing: Tara/Warren
Rating/Warnings: FRAO/NC-17; dark/angst, non-consensual sex/rape, adult language, major character death
Word Count: 1487
Summary: What if Warren had chosen Tara instead of Katrina?
Setting: BtVS, Season 6, “Dead Things.”
Beta Crew: The lovable
velvetwhip. All other mistakes are mine.Author’s Note: Written for the
darker_vault Darker Quests Challenge. I used Tara, Warren, handcuffs, and the library for my prompts.Why don’t you do right? Like some other men do.
White wine spritzers and sultry blues and wanna-be Wiccans. In her head, it had sounded like the perfect recipe to combat the ever-present Willow-thoughts, but instead…it was just….
Not helping.
Nothing helped really.
Tough love was all well and good as a concept to help Willow understand the consequences of her magic abuse, but in practice?
It sucked.
Especially when Buffy had reported that Willow was doing well.
Not that that wasn’t good…because it was. Willow’s recovery had always been priority number one, but…was it enough?
Was it enough for Tara to justify going back to the arms of her girl?
The short answer: No.
Everyone knew that Atlantis wasn’t built in a day.
Willow needed more time, needed more space, needed…needed to do this on her own.
Tara sighed, fixing her gaze on the door behind Helen’s head, hoping to see something far more interesting than the salt and pepper shaker re-enactment of Helen’s late-night Beltane celebrations.
A dark-haired man stood in the doorway, fiddling with his tie and tugging briefly on his right ear lobe as if he had an itch…or perhaps, a nervous tic?
Regardless, he wasn’t someone she should exactly care about seeing – unlike Willow, men had never been her cup of tea - and it wasn’t exactly like she was on the market anyway, what with the waiting-for-Willow-improvements….
Tara shook her head, returning her gaze to her nearly empty dinner plate. She nudged at a few of her French fries with her finger, forming a haphazard lattice, before glancing back up at the man in the suit.
It was obvious that he was looking for someone from the way his dark eyes scanned the restaurant, but it wasn’t clear who that person was.
That is, until he started walking towards her.
Meep.
She had obviously drawn attention to herself by being a Nosy Nelly and now he was going to come over here and talk to her and…and….
The last thing she saw before the red and yellow sparkles of light flashed in front of her eyes was a pair of red sunglasses.
Who wears sunglasses in a restaurant?
--
When Tara woke up, nothing was familiar. There were no lights, no cooling French fries, no crooning Peggy Lee, and no chattering Helen.
She could vaguely hear the opening strains of a TV show theme, but there was nothing recognizable enough about the tune to pin down quite what it was.
What she knew was this:
She was on the floor, her head resting against something hard….
Which maybe explained the super fuzzy feeling in her brain. Blunt force trauma could have definitely made that happen.
Oh, and she was wearing…
Handcuffs.
She was wearing handcuffs; thick metal bracelets that dug into her skin and kept her wrists locked tightly against her spine.
She was also in what felt like a dress from the way the fabric rubbed against her skin.
Or maybe it was more like a costume.
It was a black satin French maid costume that had walked off the shelves at Erotica-R-Us and had somehow encased her body while she was unconscious, which meant that someone had….
“Hello.”
Tara blinked twice, strangely uncertain about meeting the gaze of the man who had stepped into the darkened room.
“Look at me.”
Tara raised her eyes to him, unable to fight against the command that echoed inside her head.
It was a violation, a sense of dread she couldn’t escape from. It was like Glory because it was inside of her head and she couldn’t escape. She couldn’t fight it. She couldn’t be herself. Instead, she was trapped. Trapped as a prisoner in her own mind, almost aware, but not enough to fight against it.
Tara inhaled sharply, attempting to gather her thoughts amidst the panic.
It wasn’t Glory.
It couldn’t be.
Glory was dead. Deaddeaddead. Dead as a god could be.
So who was he?
“Call me Master.”
He flipped on the light switch and a bare 45-watt light bulb illuminated the room, which – from the briefest of glances - seemed to be a library, maybe a book nook. The dim glow also shed light on the man’s features.
It was the man from the restaurant.
The one who wore the sunglasses.
The one who….
She remembered something – a flash of light, maybe?
Then, she saw a flicker again – red and gold sparkles – dancing on top of the head of a small silver ball.
“Hello Master,” Tara responded automatically, triggered by the script playing in her head, by the power he was using to control her like a puppet. She had no choice but to move her lips to the tug of his strings.
At least, it was nice not to feel anything right now, especially when there was no telling what he had planned for her.
“No, change that. Call me Master Warren.”
Tara nodded, unable to resist acquiescence. “Of course, Master Warren.”
“There’s a good girl. Now come pour me and the boys some champagne, unless you want….”
Warren pursed his lips, his eyes tracing the expanse of Tara’s legs.
Tara stared back at him, a blank expression on her face.
“Perhaps a taste of something sweeter,” Warren mused, eyes darkening as he unbuttoned his fly and yanked down the zipper of his jeans. “Spread your legs.”
“Yes, Master Warren.”
Tara shifted her position on the floor, letting her legs fall open, and letting him see what was on display beneath the ruffled black skirt.
“You’re perfect,” Warren whispered, reaching his hands into the waistband of his boxers, freeing his hard cock from its confines.
“So are you, Master Warren,” Tara replied.
Warren smirked, taking his eyes away from her briefly to scan the room. “Shall I bend you over the desk and fuck your pretty cunt? Or would you rather I drill that sweet ass of your into the floor?”
“Whatever you wish, Master Warren.”
Warren rubbed his hands gleefully, grinning from ear to ear. “Stand up.”
Tara obeyed, struggling only slightly due to the handcuffs before she was on her feet and staring blankly ahead to wait for her next command.
Warren closed in, wrapping his arms around Tara’s waist and rubbing his cock against the bare flesh of her thigh.
“Tell me you want this.”
“I want this, Master Warren.”
The words were lifeless, devoid of emotion, but that didn’t deter Warren from twirling her around and pushing her body against the desk. Tara’s breath left her with a whoosh and the desk shuddered underneath her weight. Warren’s fingers gripped her hips and his cock nudged against her ass.
“Tell me you want this,” Warren repeated, reaching around her body, fingers grazing her mound, before three of them wormed their way inside of her. His other hand went into her hair, twisting and tugging at her honey blonde locks as if she were a dog on a leash.
“I want this, Master Warren.” Tara murmured; bucking her hips against his hand as the soft pudge of his stomach rested against her hands.
“Tell me again.”
The fingers were replaced with his cock, thrusting into her, hard and unyielding as it stretched her insides.
“I want….”
The edge of the desk bit into Tara’s waist and she felt suddenly overwhelmed by mental clarity. Her body had been returned to her. Her mind was free to fill once more with fear, churning up her insides as she realized just what was happening to her.
She was being fucked against her will.
She was being ripped in two by a body part that had never – not once –been inside of her.
She was being…
“I don’t want this,” Tara replied, tears stinging her eyes, staining the wood. “Please stop.”
“What?” Warren asked, fury and alarm rising his voice. “What did you say?”
“Pl…please stop,” Tara begged.
“Fuck,” Warren hissed, releasing his hold on her with such force that Tara’s legs wobbled and gave way. Her knees hit the hard floor and because her hands were still cuffed behind her back, she slid off the desk. The most she could accomplish from this was curling herself into a fetal position and keeping her eyes averted from the rage that coursed through her abductor’s face. “Jonathan! Andrew! Get the fucking dampener!”
“Please…I w…won’t tell anyone…. Just st…stop.” Tara stuttered, choking on the sobs and snot that pooled in her throat.
“You’re damn right, you won’t,” Warren replied, his hands sinking into her hair again, gripping tight enough to make her scalp burn. He twisted her head to meet his gaze before flinging her backwards.
The back of Tara’s head caught the corner of the desk and suddenly the floor rose up to meet her, sucking her into complete and total darkness.
Dead.
Dead like Joyce.
Dead like Buffy was.
Except that when you’re not a Slayer…dead things didn’t come back.
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Thanks, hun.
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Gabrielle
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I most likely have a lot of catching up to do, point-wise. I feel like I haven't written a lot of dark or angsty this year.
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Thanks for giving it a chance!
I know it got really dark and twisty. Still gives me the shivers when I re-read it.