Hello, welcome. You can call me BĂĄir, BĂĄirseach, pricetagged, tagged, whatever (she/any) (: Summaries, content info. and links to Ao3 can be found by clicking the titles below the cut.
All COD (this is a sideblog. Main username, likes, follows are different).
18+ only MDNI.
I post dark content (labelled and tagged) as well as other.
Please do not repost or feed to AI.
Will write for reader/all the 141 boys, and possibly some nikolai and nikto and others.
Will not write: underage, necro, scat, beastiality, infidelity, animal or child abuse. May add more as I think of it. Anything else is fair game, though (see dark warning above).
Hopefully, it goes without saying, but no racism, classicm, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, etc., etc.
"If you accept any food from the fae, they shall never let you go" is a human belief. The fair folk stand by the principle that if you feed 'em, you gotta keep 'em. If wildlife learns to rely on you for food, you have already fucked up, and you can't just stop feeding them cold turkey. That human is your responsibility now. Because you left your peach cobbler unsupervised.
When you engage with the Fae, you play by their rules. Ignorance is not absolution, and they always come to claim what is owed.Â
Puca!Ghoap AU where you inherit a cottage and strange things happen.
Here is 12.6k words of PĂșca!Ghoap x Reader. I've been mulling over this idea for two weeks and had to get it out. October seems the perfect time.
Warnings/Content: 18+ only, dark, heavy dubcon (you have unwittingly tied yourself to Fae creatures and are basically at their mercy); superstition/traditional beliefs; gaslighting (gaz-lighting, lol); nightmares; smut (oral-f & PiV); reader is described as female, fairly body-neutral, implied irish (but can be read as otherwise); supernatural elements; implied somno and stalking.
-----------------
The wind blew orange and embers. You watched as crisp leaves danced in the wind, colouring the sky and the drying fields where they finally fluttered to rest. The lowing of the neighbour's cows carried too on the breeze. You watched them from the window, like little black and white chocolate drops sprinkled over the caramels and greens of the pasture. When you inherited the cottage from your late Great Aunt and Uncle you were informed that the community was small, but friendly.Â
A neighbouring farmer from up the road rented the land, now yours, for his herd to graze and exercise. He was polite, an English man who'd been living here for a while. He was handsome too, with dark eyes, dark hair, and a bone structure that put the golden ratio to shame. Having enough paperwork to handle you saw no need to trouble yourself with a neighbourly dispute, so the cows stayed. It was peaceful, passing time by the movement of their little penumbra from pasture to post.Â
The patter of gravel roused you from your musings. Your aunt had arrived, ready to help you clear boxes and memories from the house. Once a home, now a museum to the Great Aunt and Uncle you barely remember meeting as a child. Suspended under dust you saw their life together in cosy farm kitsch. Practical clothes and quality kitchenware. Photos and scrapbooks and newspapers. Did they look and smile at the rooster kitchen clock each morning? Did they squeeze hands across the solid oak tabletop, chatting around their toast and jam before washing up in the sink by which you now stood? Clearing a home always felt simultaneously intimate and cruel. Those items meant little to you, would be sent to other relatives or the charity shop, but they were once everything to someone. Two stories lost to abeyance.Â
"Hello, love! Let's have a good look at you. I take it you're staying for a while now?" Your aunt greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, soft with peach fuzz and powder. Comforting.Â
"Yeah, I told mum it'll be a few months this time. I've got space here; don't have to bother her with all my stuff and moving back and forth."
"Ach, it's no bother! We're glad you're back for now. And gives us an excuse to drive down to the countryside. Anyway, time for all that later. Is the kettle on?"
You ushered her in for tea and biscuits. You busied yourself with the crinkle of foil as your opened the packet. The steam from the kettle cooling into artificial raindrops on the tiles. Some routines never change. In exchange you got a series of staccato questions about your life, as well as the family gossip. Having worked abroad for the past while, you always felt a little disconnected from where you grew up. You slipped back into the parlance and pace of life, but couldn't quite shake the feeling of being slightly outside. Slightly awkward. You were tethered by familiarity but adrift overhead, saying and doing all the right things but not quite in the mix.Â
"Poor aul Bridie and Joe. They've kept all these photos and clippings from right back. Lookâthat's your granda when he was wee. I'll have to give these to your mother," she said as she fingered through boxes of memories.Â
"This old fashioned stuff? They weren't exactly keeping up with the times. I'm pretty sure this place is the same as I remember from when I was no age," she squinted her eyes, looking around as she spoke.
You supposed that the wooden finishings, upholstered armchairs, and cabinets of ceramic animals were not exactly fashionable, but it was a farmhouse. It had character and charm. And a little part of you, the superstitious part that alit as soon as you crossed the Irish sea, felt that it was bad luck to gut the place entirely. Who knew what would grow in the empty spaces?
You saw her off, waving as her laden car shrunk then disappeared beyond the treeline. Looking at the darkening sky you decided that you'd walk across the yard to close the heavy, wrought-iron gate later. It would be fine tonight; there weren't many people around here to bother you.
In your tiredness you didnât hear the thunk of the old horseshoe on the front door falling as you slammed it shut.Â
--------------
That night your slumber was fitful. The cottage was stiflingly still. Oppressive air squeezed at you until you couldn't move. You were distantly aware of a dimpling pressure on your cheeks, your mouth parting, soft and warm as your panted impotent pleas into the stagnant room. It was usually peaceful, to be sure, but tonight not even the hum of the radiators or the rustling of the grass gave ambiance to your rest.
It was silent.Â
So silent that you heard rather than felt your heartbeat echo in the cavity of your chest. Your arms lay motionless on starched sheets and your heavy eyes barely fluttered, your will and your flesh severed by a strange, susurrous dream.
You heard whisperings, words that bloomed blood to your cold cheeks. Words that soon slipped from your hazy, heated mind like wax from a candle. You felt soft swishes of fabric as something hovered near, sliding over the sheets and skimming across your goosebumped flesh. Your fluttering eyes caught only shadows, curling around as fluid and heavy as smoke. You felt as if the shadows had form and voice, though disjointed. At times you heard the panting of a dog, felt its humid breath on your cheek. You felt the chill of bleached bones, smooth and dry scraping across your vulnerable throat and you longed to shudder. The unease clasped the back of your neck, drawing your shoulders in tight and burying claws deep under your skin. Like a macabre marionette, you felt all, heard all, but only the animal racing of your heart was yours alone. Something pulled at your strings, raising the fine hairs on your arms, coiling aroundÂ
                                                                                     and aroundÂ
                                                   and around
                                                                          andâ
You choked awake, body snarled around your soaked sheets. As you struggled to free yourself you had an awful image of a little fieldmouse you once saw trapped in a ditch. It's tiny, pink limbs kicked furiously, scrambling for freedom. For life. The breeze from the window cooled your sweat as you panted, tears welling in your waterline. You felt a heat in your belly, some awful mix of nausea and slick. Your thighs felt sticky. Tender. You felt tender all over, like a tree stripped of all bark. Your soft sapwood body ached and bled its distress in sweat and shaking limbs.Â
You sat until the chill of the October air turned trembles to shivers.Â
On graceless bambi legs you pulled the heavy latch across the window, wondering when you opened it yesterday.Â
---------------
"God, are ye getting sleep down there in that cottage?"
"Look that tired, do I?" You huffed, twisting your lips into a half-smile. "To be honest, I've not been sleeping well. Change of weather, change of scenery. I don't know."
"It's not right, girl like you by yerself, surrounded by trees and god-knows-what," she frowned. "It's bad luck, it is. Not to speak ill of the dead but they really couldnât have picked a worse time to pass on, this time of year. Too much mischief going on."
She knocked three times sharply on the wooden table, jostling the tepid cup of coffee resting by the edge. You pressed your lips together to suppress a smile, fondly amused despite the grim subject matter.
"Jesus, mammy, you can't be saying that!"
"It's true, don't deny it! These fields and forests have been around longer than us, and at this time of year ye'd soon know it! Sure, I caught that big mirror in the living room nearly getting' smashed to the ground yesterday."
"That's because da bumped in to it," her son rolled his eyes at you as you stifled a laugh. "Besides, she has that big dog of hers to look after her. It would scare anyone off."
Your giggles froze in your throat.Â
"Sorry, what? What dog?"
"That big black thing you've got. Huge, white around the muzzle. I saw it skulking around your place as I drove by, cocking its leg up everywhere."
You nodded jerkily, playing cool as your numb fingers brought the cooling ceramic coffee cup up to sip. Probably just a neighbour's dog that got loose. No reason for the chills skittering down your spine, spider-limbs raising hairs on the back of your neck.Â
-----------------
In the more muted moments you oft wondered if there was such a thing as too much quiet. Now that your aunt had picked up the remaining boxes the cottage felt bare, like a carcass picked clean of flesh. You lived in the bones and gristle, fleshy tendons left drying over the stark white bricks and pale thatched roof. You saw echoes of the dead as you closed their net curtains, as you sipped from their teacups. As you tended to their garden, watering bluebells and primroses whose roots first stretched into damp soil long before you were born. It was peaceful, you kept telling yourself. You liked the quiet. But strange things were growing in the cracks.Â
You kept having those strange dreams, vivid impressions of sound and touch that left you brittle in the muted morning light. The sunbeams seemed to sear you, too warm and brilliant against your soft, raw flesh. You'd shakily sip at tea, nibble at toast, and distract your churning stomach as you swept the dirt and dust that appeared each day. It was a never-ending task, despite always brushing your boots at the door and leaving them in the hallway. It was the faulty windows, perhaps. You supposed that they were too aged now, warped in the frames and so wouldn't latch properly. The dust always seemed to gather below, blowing in through the night.Â
You sipped your tea, watching the steam furl and coil as your thoughts settled in the quiescence of the kitchen.
A heavy pounding at the door wrenched you from your thoughts, hot water scalding over your thumb as you startled. The knocking was so forceful, so unnecessary; you were certain whoever it was would chip paint. In your hurry you didn't have time to shoulder on your dressing gown, reaching the entryway in your thin, cotton nightwear.Â
"Can I help you?" you snapped, all ire and irritability as you flung the door open.
You stopped short, blinking up at the behemoth literally darkening your doorway. A man with shoulders so broad they almost brushed against the doorframe. The light filtered in from behind him, chiaroscuro playing games with your eyes making him seem not entirely solid. Not entirely there. The rays danced around him, flickering like flames against the pitch black of his clothes, against the shadow of his face. You arched your neck back, prey instinct warring between which was worse: baring your vulnerable throat, or having him out of your line of sight?Â
A trembling breath.Â
A heartbeat, still racing from the hammering summons that brought you here.Â
Silence.Â
You cleared your throat, hand tight on the doorknob.
"Can I help you?" Softer, sweeter. Placating.Â
"G'nna let me in or wot?" You felt the rumble of his voice, harsh words falling like rocks off a cliff.Â
"UhâŠSorry?"
"S'alright," he dipped his head as he shouldered past the doorframe. You stared as he crowded you, big leather workboots leaving filthy imprints on your clean tiles. Toe-to-toe, thick black soles against your soft, bare feet he stopped. "Well?"
''Well' what? I'm notâŠ" his audacity made you bluster. "Are you-you're the repairman?"
He grunted. You felt chastised, oddly embarrassed in the face of his gruffness. His crude, jagged edges. Taking stock of his practical, black clothes you continued, "Sorry, I thought you were coming tomorrow. Come on in then, I'll show you the latches."
You hurried away, feeling his eyes like barbs hooking into your neck. You felt his hulking mass behind you, following so closely that you felt the whisper of his body heat searing you from the back. It raised the fine hairs on the back of your neck, terror and intimacy twisting together to send a shudder down your spine. A tacenda passed between you both in that short walk from hallway to bedroom, intimate and exposing. It felt wrong, somehow, seeing this behemoth cast his eyes around your bedroom and twitch back your aunt's lace curtains. Like he was seeing more than just the space in which you slept. His peat-dark eyes lingered on your sleep-rumpled sheets. On the clothes you'd flung haphazardly over the chair last night. You wanted to hide it all; to hide from him. His being here felt wrong, like seeing a large, black blot bleeding out onto fresh white paper.Â
"This it, then?" he asked, tapping at the pane.Â
You nodded. At his arched eyebrow you elaborated.Â
"Yes, it doesn't seem to close properly. The window is always blowing open, especially at night."
"Is that so?" he mumbled, testing the hinge and the lock.Â
You couldn't believe how big he looked, swallowing up the light from the window frame. You stared now, apricity allowing you to drink him in as it light him up in hues of gold and shadow. The harsh black of his face mask and the deep, earthy brown of his eyes sucked you in. Like staring into a void, trying to peer ever deeper and seeing nothing looking back. Trapped in a cycle of your own curiosity. His skin was a shocking, ghostly white topped with short, blond hair. You thought you could see the whisper of scars branching up from under the mask. The slight crooked hint of a broken nose. Blond eyelashes, too, framed flat eyes that suddenly met your own.Â
"Would-would you like something to drink? Or eat?" you asked, face warmed with embarrassment. Polite words hiding your tactical retreat.Â
You could see his eyes crinkle, some wry amusement surely at your expense as he huffed out a laugh.Â
"You offerin' me something to eat?" his chuckled harsh as gravel. "Yeah, alright. If you're willin'."
You turned tail, cheeks still heated. You couldn't shake the feeling of having amused him, somehow. Like a mouse whose tail was released from the grip of a grinning, sharp-toothed cat just to watch it skitter away. Knowing it would be back.Â
When you returned with some tea and half a packet of ginger biscuits he was wiping his hands on his trousers.Â
"Latch is fine."
"It's fixed?"
"Nothin' wrong with it. It's doin' its job," he met your gaze again, that same voiceless joke dancing in his dark eyes. "Those for me?"
You held the plate up, feeling like you were offering tribute to a capricious god. He made no attempt to reach for it, leaving you in this supplicant tableau until you felt compelled to step forwards.Â
Another step.Â
Another.Â
Until you were so close you could hide in his shadow. Were it not for the mug and side plate you'd be touching chest-to-chest, pressed tight into his bulk. As it were, only the back of your hand brushed the slight give of his stomach. The tea shook in your grip as you felt how solid he was, all warmth and muscle and fat. He let his rough fingers rasp over yours as he took the offering. You felt his thanks rumble through his chest, hand wrapped around yours and the mug. Caged. You looked up, eyes crossing a little from how much taller he seemed up close. Like gazing up at a tree, trying to peer to the uppermost branches as you stood next to the roughhewn width of the trunk.Â
"Careful, love. Don't want to spill any," he raised your trembling hands up, mug, plate and all. "Doin' a kindness, you are. A real sweetheart."
He let you go, your fingers falling to his chest. You felt it twitch as you jumped back, mortified.Â
"I'll, uh- You can come in here. The living room window is a bit dodgy too, I think."
God, it was hard exposing your vulnerable back to him.
It was harder still to face him.Â
You went to do the dishes while he ate and worked. You tried to cast him from your mind, scrubbing as you stood barefoot on cool tiles. It was easier to breathe here, yes, but you could still feel him in your house. Still aware of him. God, it was ridiculous. You'd had repairmen over before in your previous apartments. It was always detached, transactional. They had a job to do and you had a job needing doing.Â
Perhaps the isolation was getting to you a bit.Â
Wiping your hands on the dishcloth, you headed back to check on him. No need to make a fuss. Take the plate, the mug, and make polite enquiries. Only, as you stepped back into the living room you got pulled under his current again.Â
As if a wire connected you, you felt his gaze like a current passing under your skin leaving it tingling. Leaving your ears buzzing and your head light.Â
"C'mere," he beckoned. And like a docile pet you didn't hesitate. "Give it a try."
His head jerked towards the window.Â
Swallowing, you reached up. Cool metal on feverish flesh. You tried the latch, pulling the heavy glass closed. You felt his breath on your neck, closer than you realised. Chills broke out, scattering like sparks down your back as he pressed closer still, his whole front flat to your back from knee to shoulder. You froze, not even releasing the shudder building in your spine. He ran his hand up your arm, closing around your grasp and moving it like he was adjusting a marionette. A little doll.Â
You were hyperaware of your thin, cotton nightwear. The rough denim of his trousers scratched at the sensitive backs of your knees. Your lower thighs. He towered over you so that he had to lean down, allowing for the barest scintilla of space between your body and his. It was almost worse like that. Having the hint of space and the knowledge that he could press back at any second.Â
You felt his short, fine hair brush against your temple. You kept your eyes forwards, studying the whorls and grooves of the windowpane. If you don't look, maybe it won't notice you. A childish thought. An appealing one.Â
Even through the mask, his breath tickled the soft, delicate curl of your ear.Â
"See, no problem here. Shouldn't hafta call anyone else over to check again."
It was later that afternoon before you even thought to tidy up the dishes he left on coffee table. As you took them to the kitchen you couldn't help but notice that they were completely bare of any crumb, any single drop. Like he'd licked the crockery clean.Â
You don't know why that unnerved you so.Â
------------------------------
"I really do appreciate it, but it's getting to that time of year again. I'll be keeping the girls closer to my own pasture now," Mr. Garrickâ'Call me Kyle!'âinformed you as he leaned against your doorframe.Â
"No worries! I'll miss looking out at them, though," you smiled at the farmer. "Were they alright out here? No problems or anything?"
He gave a sheepish smile, dimples and cheekbones highlighted by the movement. He really was handsome.Â
"They were fine, really, but you know how it is around here. Don't want them wandering off and getting snatched up. The nights are getting darker."
"IsâŠis cattle-rustling a big problem here?" You felt a bit naĂŻve as you asked, eyes darting about behind him as if to spot thieves hiding in the hedgerows.Â
"No, nothing like that," he laughed. "Just old superstitions. You know, harvest traditions and the like. Can't be leaving anything out in the field that you donât mind gifting the Other Folk at Samhain. My old man swears by it all still."
Ah.Â
You laughed with him, bonding over broken mirrors and pavement cracks. It was familiar. You didn't necessarily believe it, but it was familiar. You imagined if you grew up this close to the wildâthis close to the fields and the woodsâyou would put more stock into these traditions. The dark nights crept in earlier and earlier this time of the year. There were no streetlamps. No bustling streets or noisy apartment blocks. Just nature, with all of its tricks and temperaments.Â
"I understand." You arched an eyebrow, trying to be wry and jocular, "Anything I should be doing?"
You saw him suck at his teeth, hesitating for a second as he took in your expectant expression.Â
"I know you're just having fun, but I would think about leaving something out to appease Them. You've got Fairy rings from the field all the way up to your garden. If you want rid of them, with no mischief, I'd look into that."
Your face fell, brow furrowed as you glanced behind him once more. You had noticed a few little toadstools popping up in the flowerbeds. You had thought them charming.Â
You waved him off down the lane before turning back to your garden. There, close to your house you could see them. Little crowns of white atop the lush green of your lawn. This close to your flowers they were tiny; delicate mushroom tiaras resting at the feet of the bluebells and primroses. Looking back towards the field you squinted a bit. The grass looked dead, yellowing and dry in some areas. Looping around in perfect, withered circles. You'd walked through them every time you took a trip to the village.Â
You blamed the cool, night air for your shiver.Â
---------------------
The dreams didn't stop. Your nights passed in waves of fright and euphoria, leaving you sweaty and breathless as silver gloaming filtered through the open window. Hypnagogia wrapped around your head like cotton, leaving you confused and dry-mouthed. The heaviness of your eyes, the phantoms sculpting the space around you into dizzyingâterrifyingâsensation couldn't be real. It couldn't. They pressed into your dreams, whispering soothing, lulling platitudes as they left imprints on your sheets. On your skin. Like a poorly-handed peach all sweet and bruised, fingerprints sunken into soft, ripe flesh. You felt the press of a large, warm body next to yours. You heard the rumble of voices, deep and familiar. You felt the rasp of calloused hands as more and more skin was exposed to the night air.Â
But in the morning you woke wrapped in your duvet and with the window closed.Â
You needed to get out of this cottage. You needed air, a change of scene. Something. You resolved to drive into town later, call your mum or your aunt. Connect with friends and family now that the excuse of 'settling in' had worn off. For now, though, the rambling paths and scenic loops of the nearby woodlands would do.Â
Crisp, autumnal air pierced your chest, like menthol clearing your nose and throat. You exhaled in dragon breaths, vapour curling like smoke. Cold flushed the tip of your nose, pleasantly numb and tingling as you set forth.Â
The sky glowed in hues of blue and pink, like a rococo painting turning pastoral into pastel. The greens of the fields dusted in the light morning fog added a hazy dreamlike quality to the walk. You ambled over turnstiles, walking on and on to the woodlands visible from your kitchen window. Looking pack you could see your cottage like a little Beatrice Potter illustration amongst flowerbeds and greensward.Â
You didn't meet many on your walk amongst the ash and hazel. It wasn't really the season for ramblers, and most of the neighbouring farm folk would already be starting their working day. Instead, you enjoyed the tranquility and space, feeling as though the cottage - charming as it was - was giving you a literal case of case of cabin fever. It was too distemperate, feeling simultaneously empty and oppressive, stiflingly hot and grave-cold. Birdsong eased your mind, carrying your worries away with the soft fluttering of wings.Â
 Lost in thought, you didn't notice the second set of footsteps, heavy and hurried, advancing towards you.Â
"Braw mornin' for a walk, eh?"
You whipped around, boots digging into mulch and leaves as you searched for the owner of the voice. There, on the path behind you, stood a broad, well-built man. His face was charming, open and smiling, as he raised his eyebrows waiting for a response. You gave him a half-smile and a nod, feeling slightly startled but not altogether unsettled. Not his fault that you weren't paying attention.Â
You turned away to continue onwards, pleasantries exchanged, when you felt his hand on your arm.Â
"Yer the new lass who moved in by Garrick's farm, aye?"
You looked down at his hand on your arm, breathing starting to quicken at his sudden speed and strong-grip. As you stared, following the contours of his impressive forearm, you noticed the hush that had descended on the woods. No more birdsong, seatherny carried away on the backs of starlings and woodpigeons who sensed the arrival of some wilder creature. Something with teeth.Â
You slowly trailed your eyes to his face, seeing beyond the affable expression to something a little feral lurking beneath. His smile hadn't changed, lips fixed upwards over teeth that gleamed just a little too sharp. Breaths huffed audibly through his nose, furling white as hot met cool air, giving him the appearance of some waiting predator. It obscured his face slightly but you looked through the haze meeting his animal eyes. Blue. Blue in a way that pierced and held. It was hard to look away from his icy eyes to his dark hair, dark stubble, and dark brows. A perfect study in posterization; you couldn't help but to focus on the blue.Â
"Dinnae be scared. I jus' wanted tae say hello," he licked at his teeth. "You're away faster than a scalded cat."
Nervous laughter bubbled up. Appeasing laughter. You tugged a little, testing the strength of his grip on your arm.Â
"Yeah, I was just walking to clear my head," take the hint, take the hint, "Just a quiet morning for me. It was nice to meet you though. Maybe I'll see you around the area."
His fingers twitched, incrementally tighter. You cursed the lack of other walkers at this time. If you screamed in a wood but no-one heard it, did you really scream?Â
If you screamed in a wood, and he heard itâŠ
Thought experiments weren't your cup of tea.
"Aw, come oan. Give me your name at least," a foreign bolt of fear stiffened your spine, instincts sparking like a struck match. "I won't bite. Just friendly, ye ken?"
"Okay.." you rolled belly-up, offering your name in exchange for your arm. In exchange for your release.Â
His lips glistened as he rolled your name around his mouth, tasting it. You saw him swallow, breathing a little faster. Breathing your name out. Syllables sliding easily in hisâadmittedly lovelyâScottish accent.Â
"That's a real bonnie name," His voice was thicker. Rougher. Scratching at you like the bark of the sentry trees that surrounded this twisted tableau. His fingers relaxed a little, swirling lazy patterns that you felt through your jacket.Â
'"And you? Won't you give me your name too?" Your voice was a bit too high. Too thin.
"You can call me Soap."
Eager to leave, you didnât even question the nickname. Soap. You wish he'd let you slide away.
"Soap, got it. You from around here? I havenât seen you in the village." Indulge him. Indulge him and he'll let you go.Â
"You sayin' you wouldhae noticed me, aye?" He didn't wait for an answer, smiling brighter. "You really are a sweet one, aren't ye. Sayin' the sweetest things."
As he gazed down at you, you were remembered an article you had once read. Staking predators, mammals and birds alike, usually had light-coloured eyes. Coursing predators, those that run after prey, usually had dark eyes. You thought of beasts like wolves, pursuing their quarry with endurance and strength, satisfaction veiled in their brown and amber gaze. But those who sat and watched, lurking in the twilight until time to pounce, had irises of yellow. Of blue.Â
He titled his head, cataloging your unease. Your drawn brows, flickering smile, lowered chin and fluttering lashes. You were reminded of a hen harrier, keen sight and sharp talons locked in on the poor little bird flitting about the forest unaware.Â
His intensity was too much, too hot, too bright. Taking advantage of his softened grip, you tugged your arm free and took a step back. Some room to breathe.Â
"Just curious. You've heard about me, after all. You know the Garricks." That step backwards filled you with a little confidence. "Anyway, IâŠI've really got to go. Perhaps I'll see you around." Hopefully not.
His arm was still extended towards you, hovering slightly as if to strike again. Quick as a fox he closed the space between you, bulk and body heat bleeding into your short-lived breathing space. He frowned a little as you spoke, head tilting once again as he flicked his eyes up to the branches overhead.Â
"Oh, we'll be seein' ye again, birdie," he spoke it like a promise, air heavy with the weight of his words. He scanned the trees behind you. "Soon."
Then his arms surrounded you, thick biceps holding you in place as he inhaled deeply. You felt more than heard the hum that rumbled in his chest, satiated in a way that made you imagine a dog licking its chops. You felt the scratch of stubble on your temple, nose pressing into your crown as he huffed into your hair. Crushed against his inflexible bulk and caged by biceps that felt as broad as your head and twice as solid, you twitched like a rabbit in the jaws of a terrier. Trembling and soft, you could only lie limp between sharp canines and hope that they didn't snap shut.Â
Your nose was pressed into his chest, squashed so hard against his sternum that you could only take fast, shallow breaths. One broad, rough hand cupped the back of your skull, forcing your face further into him as if to meld you to his ribcage. As if he wanted to force you through flesh and cartilage and gristle until your hammering heart kissed his. This was no embrace; it was a twisted parody. You knew, deep in your gut, that one flex of those thick biceps would crush your throat, your neck. Your fragile little bird bones. You felt all comfort and intimacy transmuting into control and possession. All senses coalesced into him, like precipitation into a vast, dark lake. All you could see, smell, hear, feel was him.Â
He seemed rooted around you, enthralled by your surrender. By his own power.Â
A rattling, chittering caw shredded the unnatural silence of the woods. Magpie. With a shuddering breath, he released you. Eyes bright and feverish, he bid one last farewell.
"Be a good girl. Run on back tae the cottage, now."
Horrified, your reply curdled in your throat.Â
You looked up at your avian saviour, feeling a rush of gratitude for the oft-misunderstood creatures. 'One for sorrow!' echoed in your mind, the saying tarring the magpie with the brush of misfortune. Perhaps that freakâSoap, what kind of fake name?? âwas the superstitious type. Whatever, it served you well. You vowed not to malign these little corvids ever again. You'd start leaving out birdseed and lard in the empty birdhouse by your shed. They were pretty things, actually. All black and white gleaming feathers. Only, this one looked a little strange. It had the usual white breast and sleek blue-black wings. But its head, usually pitch black as an executioner's hood, had strange white markings around the face.Â
Unsettled, you looked down. Soap was gone, no trace. It should have been a relief, but the superstition echoed once more.Â
Bad luck, bad luck, bad luck.Â
One for sorrow.Â
One for sorrow.Â
---------------
The magpie seemed to have followed you home.Â
You couldn't be sure that it was the same one, but every so often you caught glimpses in your periphery. As you washed the dishes, tended the garden. As you got changed.Â
You'd taken to tugging the bedroom curtains closed despite the lack of close neighbours or visitors.Â
It left little gifts for you. Sometimes it was something shiny, like an old brass key, or a bright copper penny. Or smooth sea glass glowing muted green on your windowsill.Â
Sometimes it was more unnerving. Little hollow bones picked clean, gleaming a grisly white on the doorstep. Or scattered amongst the flowerbeds, like macabre skeletal twigs. On one occasion, it left a bloodied canine tooth right on your doormat, wickedly curved and still wet with pulp. You swear you saw the magpie sitting in the treeline, cawing its amusement as you shuddered and toed the fang away from your sight.Â
The most memorable was a ring. Birds could be thieves, yes, but you would have to make a trip into town to hand this over to the local station. After another night of poor sleep and hazy dreams you saw a glinting on the latch of your bedroom window. Looped over the handle was a stunning silver ring. The band came together as two hands clasping a heart. Atop the heart lay a crown inlaid with little sparkling gems. You couldn't be sure of the material, whether crystal or diamond, but the effect was brilliant. Beautiful. As you traced the ring in your palm you resolved to find the owner. This was someone's claddagh ring; perhaps an heirloom or a gift. Certainly not meant for you.Â
As you headed towards the village, ring in pocket, you saw a black and white bird roosting on your roof. It wasn't your strange ghost-faced magpie, but a different one with a little plume of feathers ticking up atop its crown. Perhaps your gifts were from a flock.Â
"That nice young farmer of yours and his friend are here today," she nodded her head to the other occupied table. "G'on, go and say hello."
"Oh, I wouldn't want to disturb them at lunch. I'll just take my usual, thanks."
In the spirit of every over-friendlyâsome say 'interfering'âold-timer in Ireland she waved you off with a firm pat to the shoulder.Â
"Sure, ye wouldn't be disturbin' them! Nice to have a little company," she winked at you, before turning away. "Kyle! John! Not gonna leave a lady to eat by herself, are ye?"
Great. Socially-enforced small talk.Â
You smiled awkwardly as the two men joked and flirted with the owner before settling in the seats opposite yours. You couldn't help but feel boxed in, literally cornered, as you noticed how big they were. How they blocked the exit as you were tucked against the wall, like a moth on a pinboard. When you saw Kyle's handsome face smiling at you, you felt a little bad. A smidge. Your bad mood hovered like a storm cloud, rumbling and drizzling on those who dared get near. Best to reign that in and play nice. Don't want to lose one of the only friendly faces you see around here.Â
"Sorry about that. I insisted that she not disturb you, but wellâŠ" you shrugged and smiled back at him. The act of performing the smile, or perhaps something about his affable nature, had you feeling a little better already.Â
"It's no trouble. We weren't in the middle of anything. This is John, by the way," Kyle motioned towards the stranger. His voice turned teasing, "The old man I've told you about."
"Not that old, sunshine," he grumbled back. He was smirking, though. Relaxed. He lounged back on the chair with his thick legs spread wide under the table. His boots knocked into yours as he turned to face you. "Youâre the neighbour. Nice to see you finally in person."
Something in his phrasing made you pause.Â
'Finally'. 'In person'.Â
You studied him, noting the slope of his strong shoulders. One beefy arm was slung over the back of Kyle's chair. His feet hadnât moved, still extended under the table encroaching on your space. You could either tuck in and curl away, or stand your ground and play accidental footsie. He had a thick, brown mustache that extended right to the ears. Mutton chops. Very Victorian. It suited him, distinguishing him beyond the handsome face and solid physique. His eyes crinkled as he looked back at you.Â
Obliged to answer, you let out a weak, "You too!" as you looked around for the owner. Where was she with that tea?
"Waiting for someone?" His voice was pleasantly low. English. English like Kyle and like the Repairman. God, it was like a British invasion in this village.Â
"No, sorry. I don't mean to be rude. Just thirsty," you laughed weakly, gesturing to the mugs they'd carried over from their table and at the empty space in front of you. "Anyway, what are you both doing here? I havenât seen you around the village."
"You don't get out much, though. Not much chance to see us around," Kyle bantered back.Â
You blinked, a little nonplussed at the assessment. You couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on you. Eyes on the cottage, eyes in the woods. Now in the village. However, as he waved down the owner and asked after your tea you pushed that feeling down. Down, down to the back of your mind where it wiggled around like a little bug. He'd been nothing but kind. Helpful, actually, and nice company on the few occasions you'd spoken. It was just village life. The small-town mindset. There weren't many people here already, nevermind new people. Of course people would take notice. Of course.Â
"True. True, I have been sticking to myself," you nodded with a deprecating shrug. "But, I have met some people. I think I met a friend of yours. Said he was called Soap."
John's lips tightened a little under his whiskers as he shook his head.Â
"Soap? Don't think we know a bloke called Soap, eh Kyle?" he chuckled. "You sure that was his name, sweetheart?"
"Yes, he said so. He was Scottish, big guy. Mentioned the Garricks by name," you fished, hoping that one of these details would catch.Â
"I don't know of a Scottish guy from around here," Kyle looked apologetic as he answered. You looked over his plush lips, slight mustache, and flawless skin. His big, brown eyes bored into your own, alluring. Beguiling. His face was the picture of candor, reassurance resting in every line and contour.Â
"Oh, well. Might not have been referring to you," you looked down, picking at your cuticles. "He was a bit weird, anyway."
"Oh?'"John leaned forward, elbow resting on the edge of the coffee table. "Weird, how? Not bothering you, was he?"
You hadn't expected his concern, eyebrows furrowed as he leaned further towards you. Maybe this was the upside of close-knit communities, this sort of chivalry. Kyle had mentioned that John was more traditionally-minded. Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad to tell them about the encounter, to have a few more sets of eyes looking out for you.Â
"I went for a walk the other day, in the woods nearby. He sort ofâŠfollowed me? Grabbed my arm andâŠ" you trailed off, unsure how exactly to word it.Â
"Did he hurt you? Say something untoward?"
"No, not exactly. He.." You thought back, but it was like seeing the memory through fog. You were aware of who was there, where you were, but the details eluded you. He hadn't actually hurt you. He didn't even say anything rude, didn't harass or follow you home. That little niggling bug of worry squirmed at the back of your mind. You blinked, back in the room.Â
"What did he do, then?" Kyle's hands were on yours, rubbing your cold fingers as his wide eyes looked into yours. "You can tell us."
"You know what? I can't seem to remember. Probably just overthinking."
On the way home you censured yourself, stomach flipping as you thought of how paranoid you'd become. Of how strange you must have seemed to the perfectly polite men who kept you company over lunch. Why had you gone into town anyway? You'd been so odd around every person you'd met so far. No wonder you had the reputation of a shut-in. You thought of Medieval hermits, living alone in wild and deserted places with only their thoughts as company. They often had visions, showings of suffering and martyrdom and ecstasy. Cloistered away in you little cottage, perhaps your dreams and magpies and visitors were just apparitions. Just private revelations bearing witness to your isolation.Â
As you unlocked the door, you didn't notice the Claddagh ring still in your pocket.Â
-------------
The night after your village trip was the worst yet.Â
You'd been leaving food out, bread and ale and apples, for the SĂdhe spurned on by Kyle's advice and the ever-darkening nights. Just simple, local fare on well-loved crockery. You left it by the doorstep, convinced that the morning's empty plate was due to the fieldmice or other fauna feasting by moonlight.
The night after your village trip, you forgot.
Bone-tired and chilled you flopped into bed after a perfunctory bath and light dinner. The doorstep lay bare and your windows lay open. In the liminal hours of evenfall Queen Mab entered your chamber, galloping her chariot over your pillow and twisting your hair. Twisting your thoughts. Your dreams were not simply strange, but nightmarish. Cursed and dark, your butterfly heart fluttered in your breast with weak, glimmering wings.Â
It started as an discordant yapping and barking. You heard scratching at your door, claws so big that they must surely be carving chunks out of the wood. Panting so laboured that it seemed to be right next to your ear, humid and wet. The barks turned to howls, mournful and terrifying, as the pitch rose to something pathetic. Low rumbling and high yips punctuated by the hammering paws at your door. Willing your frozen body to move, you managed a tremble of your fingertips. A twitch of your eyelids. Your eyes opened to a vast, sooty sky. Stars hung like little glittering gems, peeking through the misty clouds and illuminating the woods below. You realised that you were flying, and when you cried out in confusion you heard only a pathic warbling trill.Â
The horns sounded next and you realised you could see a beast circling below, thick dense fur and dripping maw. It yipped in excitement as it caught sight of you, paws stretched low and tail lazily wagging as it waited to pounce. You didn't wait, knowing deep in your hollow little bones that The Wild Hunt had begun. You strained your wings, so alien and familiar, as you ached to lift up. Up and away from the powerful jaw waiting below.Â
But you were so disconnected. You couldn't tell if the shaking was from the harsh, biting wind or from fear. You wanted to rise high but drifted left in a belly-twisting loop. You couldn't focus on anything but the greedy whines of the mutt below and the teeth-juddering horn of the huntsman. You couldn't focus on what else was in the sky with you. A powerful hoot and piercing pain sent you into a death spiral, pirouetting down into the treeline as you gasped and clutched your side.Â
Clutched with fingers! With your own hands, now damp with soil and mulch as you crouched on the detritus of the nearby woods. You sucked in greedy gulps of air, your stained hands scrabbling to push you up. Keep moving. If they catch you, it's over. You feet slipped, no purchase to be found on the damp understory as you tried to run. Your side ached, bruised or bleeding your couldn't tell, but you pushed on. You could hear the pounding of hooves.Â
Thunderous, terrifying, they were getting closer. Your gasps hitched, turning to sobs as you ran blindly. Tears and twilight stole your vision as you stumbled around trees and over roots. It was cold, you knew it was cold, but your blood ran so hot you felt as though you were singeing the leaves underfoot. You scraped across a treetrunk, toe stubbing painfully into the bark, but it didn't stop you. No, what stopped you was the behemoth of a horse silently furling white, heavy breaths a few paces from where you leaned. It was a disservice to call this thing a horse, huge and pitch black as it was. It's face was marked by a strange white blaze, circling its eyes in the facsimile of a skull. A death mask.Â
It was a destrier; a war horse. Bred for fighting. For conquest.Â
You were enthralled, struck by its dark eyes. You'd seen those eyes before. They'd laughed at you, watched you squirm as you brought them tea and biscuits. Impossible. You didn't notice the hoof-fall behind you, not until you were tossed violently by a large equine head between your thighs. You couldn't cry as you landed hard, all air forced out against the corded neck of the second equine beast to catch you. It reared back and you screamed, clutching at it's oddly-shorn mane as it took off at full gallop. You screamed in a way that pierced, like broken shards of glass hacked at your throat. You screwed your eyes tight shut, unwilling to see the blur of branches that snagged your hair and sliced your face. You heard the thing below you whinny and you knew that it was excited, blood pumping and foaming at the mouth.Â
It reared once more, back legs kicking too as you sobbed and clung to its coarse, dark coat. But your fingers were stiff and shaking.Â
You fell down
down
down.
Bracing for impact your limbs curled in hard enough to cramp. Your shriek shriveled in your throat as you felt soft cotton, sweat-soaked and twisted, below you. Shaking hands wiped hot tears from your cool cheeks as you sniffled helplessly, silently under the moonbeams. Your thoughts were unmoored, murky, drifting in stygian waters just beyond your sight. You were safe, it was just a dream. You were in your room. It was just-
"Caught ye."
The strong, calloused hand snaking across your jaw caught your scream before it could breech. It spanned the breadth of your face, palm tight to your lips and fingers digging hard into your cheekbone. Eyes wide and legs kicking you only succeeded in tangling yourself further into the sheets. Soon it didn't matter; a powerful arm coiled tight across your front, pining your arms to your stomach. You glanced down through the tears on your lash line to see a thick, corded forearm dusted with dark hair. A forearm you'd seen before. You knew if you were able to turn your head you'd see the same burly bicep that crushed your head against an equally burly body.Â
You could barely breathe, heart racing so hard in your chest that you worried you might bruise a rib. You choked a little, salvia pooling behind his hand and nose-running. Your lungs ached. Your throat, too, with the kind of gnawing pain that comes from sprinting through the cold. Details filtered to your awareness. That fucking window was open again, white curtains billowing gently like a veil. You could feel the hulking body behind you, holding you.Â
Soap.Â
He was pressed close, like his hands digging into your face and arms weren't close enough. Like he wanted to press his very fingerprints into your flesh, indented and marked down to the DNA. His body was warm. No, hot. Hot and just as sweaty as yours. Your nightclothes stuck uncomfortably to your skin allowing you to feel every contour of the chest against your back. The powerful musculature. The coarse hair tickling even through damp fabric. Something lower. Big. Firm. Your chest hitched as you tried futilely to shift away, straining hard and crying anew against his strength. Away from this thing.
"Settle." Another voice. A command. "You're alright, birdie. We caught you, fair and square. Now, settle."
It had the opposite effect, naturally.Â
"Fuckin' hold her, Johnny!"
You were wrestled down, pressed hard into the cradle of Soap's lap as his thighs encircled yours and rendered you immobile. Pinned by his powerful arms and thighs you could do nothing but stare forward. You felt his chin, slightly stubbled, come to rest on your crown. With his palm pressed against your lips and his head pressed into yours you felt surrounded by him. If he wanted you to nod, you'd nod.Â
If he squeezed, you'd pop.Â
"There, tha's better," a hulking figure came into view, crouching next to the bed in your line of sight. "No need for your dramatics. You ready to behave?"
You made a noise; a laugh or a whimper, you weren't entirely sure. All you could do was stare from your prison of flesh. You'd forgotten how big he was. Even hunched on the floor he was a head above yours. His fine, blond hair was slightly tousledâwind blownâbut you were more intent on the grotesque half-skull that obscured his face. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but it looked solid. It looked smooth and hard and just slightly off-white. Slightly too real. A phantom. A ghost.
"Thought you'd be happier to see us," it spoke, low and rough. "Been leaving us little gifts."
Soap twitched a little at that, uncaring or aware of the threat posed by his strength. You felt his jaw work, swallowing hard against your skull.Â
"So sweet tae us," his voice wavered slightly, words coming out fast and jumbled. "Been leavin' us real food. Been walkin' on our path, tracin' our footprints with yours. Leavin' your gate and yer windows open."
The hand on your face loosened as he spoke, fingers trembling and dipping lower to curl under your jaw. You licked at your dry lips, mouth parting to deny. To question.
"Been acceptin' gifts too."
"I don't know what you're talking about," cracked and parched, you forced the words out. "I don't know you! I haven't been opening my windows and doors for you. I haven't done anything, please."
"That's not true, though, is it birdie?"
"She's beggin' us, Simon. Sounds so bonnie." You felt his scratchy cheek nudge against yours, head dipping low as he nuzzled you like a dog. You could feel his shallow breaths ghosting across your lips, warm and desperate. The shadow of a kiss.Â
"Please, please leave me alone. Please get out of my house," You weren't ashamed to beg further, tears finally spilling over your lash line, hot little tributaries pooling into the hand cradling your jaw. You heard him groan, felt his wet tongue licking up your cheek.Â
You couldn't even recoil, held still as he lapped at your sorrow, savouring the dripping salt. Lacrima, heady like wine and causing his eyes to flutter shut.
The otherâSimon, you supposedâcut in, "That's not the deal, is it? That's not our bargain."
He'd restrained himself thus far, content to watch you shake as his mutt licked and pawed at you. He just stared, head tilting as he listened to Soap hum low in his throat as he traced your tear tracks with his lips. Strangely tender and open-mouthed, he coated his lips with the taste of you.Â
Simon's stygian eyes watched all, lazy and dark as a swirling river. There were depths there, if you cared to look hard enough. If you got closer and plunged in, ignorant of the hungry, ravenous things swirling below. Caught in his thrall, you'd be sucked under, entirely at the mercy of his tides and waves. You could try to swim, you supposed. Could try to entreat Styx for mercy.Â
"I've never made a bargain with you! I don't want you here!" you hiccoughed slightly. "You're both fucking insane."
"Now, now. Don't say that. You'll hurt Johnny's feelings," He touched you then, finally batting Soap out of the way and gripping your chin. Pressing hard, he kept your eyes on his. "Listen here. Hunt's over. We're not playin' chase anymore, so stop your whinin'. You gave us your food. Gave us your name. You let us in. Took what we gave ya, and now you'll take some more."
There was a note of something hot, something warming his rough voice like coals softening to embers. You couldn't see his mouth past that macabre mask, but you knew that he was smiling. Lazy, like a wolf from a fable as he watched a lamb bleat and plead. 'My hunger is proof enough of your guilt', you thought, hope flickering low.Â
"You liked it, bonnie, I could tell. You've scattered our gifts all o'er your garden. Except fer the ring," Soap whispered it, soft voice scratching at your senses. It felt almost romantic, arms around you and lips tickling the shell of your ear, "you carried that wi' ye."
You remembered, suddenly, your primary school classroom. Sitting on a fuzzy, tufted rug during circle time. Listening to the soft, sweet voice of your teacher as she read from Aesop's Fables. Meek little lambs, goats, and mice. Quick, wily foxes and crows. Cruel, deceitful wolves. You imagined yourself as a rabbit tucked away in a cozy, secret warren, who had to entertain a dog for dinner. He had dug his way in, paws wet with soil and air rich with peat. His jaw still muzzled, keeping the sight of his slick, sharp teeth hidden from his gentle quarry.Â
The hungry belly has no ears.
You slumped a little in Soap's arms and saw triumph alight in Ghost's eyes.Â
Your defeat perfumed the air, calling to the waiting predators. It swirled around, tempting them. Time to bite, time to eat. To devour.Â
Soap's arms tightened further, constricting, as he chuckled into your hair. It was like he'd never touched another person before, handling you like a toy. Hard, rough, however he wanted. His hands started moving, groping you over your nightclothes, weighing your soft flesh in his palms. He reached up, squeezing at your tits, pressing them together until your nipples pebbled against your will. It was painful, bruising. You shuddered, cringing back into his chest away from his grip.Â
"Fuck, arch back just like that," he panted behind you. "Fuckin' gorgeous, cannae wait to touch ye properly. From the inside."
"Donât be greedy, Johnny. Take tha' off her. Lemme see it all," Ghost tugged at the hem of your nightclothes, before groping up your ankle and calf.Â
You felt like a piece of meat, like a carcass getting picked clean by sharp-beaked birds.Â
You heard the rustle of your clothes landing somewhere on the floor. Your sweat cooled rapidly as you were exposed to the night air, raising gooseflesh and shivers that they mistook for desire. Ghost's blunt, rough hands circled your ankles and pulled hard, tugging you out of Soap's grasp and to the edge of the mattress. He kept his grip on you, pushing your up and wide to his gaze. Flat on the mattress and fully exposed you brought your hands up to cover your face. Fear and humiliation swirled into a heady heat, making you squirm and whine a little. It didnât feel good.Â
It didnât feel entirely bad either.Â
Eyes squeezed shut, you couldn't see how he was looking at you. How he stared at your sensitive inner flesh, unblinking and hungry. The touch of his finger tracing your seam made you jolt, made you snap your knees closed as you kicked out blindly.
"Behave," he growled with a sharp slap between your legs. You squealed then, flesh stinging and hot. "Hold her down. I like to see what I eat."
You felt the bed shift, Soap crawling down to hover by your side. Spidering your fingers, you were able to peek as he ran his hands to the tops of your thighs.Â
"So soft, bonnie. Could squeeze forever, fuck. Look at that."
His fingers dimpled into your flesh as pressed them into the mattress. The stretch pulled at your legs, you hips. Holding you. Offering you up.Â
"You keep yer hands there, got it?" Ghost rumbled, fingers tickling at the crease of your thighs.
"Jesus, Simon. I wannae taste her. Just taste her and tell me how it is," you felt his hips press against your side. Hard, heavy, rutting. His fingers spasmed as he spoke, whining slighting. "Been waitin' forever, barely even touched her in the forestâ"
"You'll not get to touch her if you don't shut it."
He whined, shutting his mouth. Obedient. You wondered at their relationship, how this manâall muscle and strengthâcaved so easily to words. Biggest dog ate first? Or something more?
He settled for panting over you, alternating between kissing your soft stomach and whispering more of his filth into your spit-slick skin. You reached down with shaking hands, dipping your fingers into the salvia he had smeared across you. It was disgusting, animal. You choked a little, feeling like a gnawed bone, scent-marked and well-used. You couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the way unnatural desire began to heat where his lips met so you grabbed onto his shorn hair, tugging hard so that he'd stop. You should've known better. He panted, open-mouthed, and arched into your grasp.Â
You gasped, feeling something cold and hard below you biting into where your thighs opened. Ghost. He nuzzled you, still wearing the mask as his fingers traced your lips, pulling them open. He was gentler than you'd expected, with his big hands and gruff voice. He treated your pussy like a soft peach, just content to feel the softness and the slick against his fingers. Your breathing quickened, a soft moan pulled forth as his fingers rubbed up and down smearing your juices and lighting up sparks where he touched. You felt him pull away, heard a thump before his fingers were replaced by his hungry mouth.Â
You arched back into the sheets, neck exposed and legs limp. You couldn't help but moan, couldn't help feeling a little dizzy and confused as his tongue lapped at your most sensitive parts. He groaned into it too, pressing so close you felt his nose bump against your clit as he tried to force his tongue up inside you. He traced it around your hole, warm and wet and making you flutter against the invasion. Thin lips closed tight against you, almost kissing you as he tried to draw more slick. He trailed his way up, sucking and licking until he reached your clit where he teased with short little laps. You wanted to close your legs, to push your hips into his face, but Soap held you still. Loyal and obedient as he jealously watched your face. Your furrowed brows and open mouth.
"She likes it, Simon. You should see her face," you yelped as he began to suck hard at your clit, making Soap laugh. "Do that again, fuck, she's all wiggly."
You strained hard against his grasp but he held firm, fingers biting hard into you. You'd be bruised tomorrow, chewed up and spat back out. You thrashed your head, whining in the back of your throat as they pulled pleasure from your body against your will. Against all reason. Your tears had dried up, face hot from desire not fear as shame trickled into something thrilling. The feeling dripped down, slow and rolling in your core as you clenched your innermost muscles. They knew it, too, Ghost still sucking at your clit and bringing his fingers to tease at your entrance. Two blunt, thick digits split you open, burning as they shallowly breached barely to the first knuckle. The slight sting had you gritting your teeth, quaking a little as you imagined taking more. The stretch, the friction, the warmth of his mouth all pushed you further into that rolling tide until you were pulled under.Â
You cried out, sharp and aching as you came. Your nails scratched at Soap's scalp, unable to push Ghost away so settling for the closest thing.Â
"It's too much, stop, stop-" you tried to wriggle up the mattress but it was futile. Ghost merely hushed you as he licked up the wetness he'd drawn forth. You'd just have to endure, wait until the beasts had had their fill.Â
"Let me have a taste, go oan," he let go of your thighs, leaning to the edge of the bed and grasping at the short, blond hair of his partner. "Need to-fuck-can'tâ"
He cut himself off by pulling Simon up and kissing him. Still weak and trembling, you couldnât help but push yourself up on wobbly elbows. You watched, dark meeting light, as their heads clashed together. It was all tongues and teeth, nothing pretty or soft in the kiss. You could see the Ghost's face now, a little. He was pale, textured. Scars carved into strong features like a weathered cliff. His lips were thin and etched into a permanent sneer by a silver line bisecting the top. His crooked nose bumped against Johnny's as he pressed their foreheads together, breathing hard. You could only see the back of Soap's head, his overgrown mohawk, but you imagined the look of devotion in his eyes would match Simon's. You lay there, naked and legs-spread, but embarrassed by the intensity you witnessed. You looked away.Â
"Dinnae be jealous, birdie. It's your turn now," Soap turned back to face you, eyes bright and pupils blown.Â
He scared you, something savage in him flickering below the surface. He was an agrestal being, growing wild in cultivated places like thorny bracken. He stripped out of his trousers and crawled over you, pressing you down with his bulk. His arms were tensed by your head, thick thighs keeping yours open. He was bestial, even his body. All wide, bulging muscles and coarse dark hair. You couldn't look him in the eyes, couldn't stand to see the fervent desire written across his face. He was feverish with it, sweat beading and eyes shining as he looked at you. It infected you, making you feel equally hot. It should be repulsive, sickening, but the chills that broke out only fed the flames of your desire.Â
Your eyes widened as you looked down, catching sight of his lust. His cock hung heavy and dark between his thighs, already slick with precum. It was big, girthy. You couldn't call it pretty, not with the angry, purplish veins and flushed glans peeking out of his foreskin. A white drop beaded at the tip, weeping with desire. Weeping for you. You shook your head, lips twisting as he dipped his hips and pressed against your cunt. Your thighs were tense, body repelled by the thought of this thing inside you. You'd split open, body reshaped as he forced you to make space for him. You shook with it, even as more slick gathered between your legs.Â
"No, no, you can't," you babbled, "you're too big and I can't, really. I'll-we can do something else just don't make me take that."
He was lost to his own desire, heady as he pressed his lips to yours and tasted your trepidation. He groaned, kissing at the soft spot under your jaw as he ran his length up and down your open centre.Â
"Ye dinnae want to go for a ride?" he smirked, "Ye liked it so much earlier. Were really screamin' for me."
You tensed, eyes wide on his as you thought back to your nightmare. The wind and branches biting into you as you cried and clutched on to the thing below you. How could you escape such a being? How could you outrun something that could twist nature to its whims.Â
"Johnny," A warning. Ghost loomed over the bed, hand running along Soap's spine. Petting him. "Gonna talk all night?"
Just like earlier, you could only hold on and try to endure. Thankfully you were slick from Ghost's attentions, hot and sensitive from the aberrant hunger they awakened in you. Your breaths caught, hitched as you felt just the tip press at your opening. It burned, the fingers earlier doing little to prepare you for something this thick. Your skin stretched thin, wetness the only thing easing his entry. Your pitiful little ah mixed with Soap's grunt as his hips stuttered. He didn'tâcouldn'tâpress in fully yet. Could just rut against you, thrusting slowing. Withdrawing and pushing in inch by inch. So slow it was almost sweet. You were almost grateful, relieved that he was being considerate as he forced his way inside.Â
His head dropped, hands fisting the sheets as he exhaled. "She's so wet, Simon, fuck. Thank you. Warmed her up for me. So perfect, so wetâ"
He babbled as he pressed further, halfway in. You whined, supine, body stretching to accommodate his. Your inner muscles fluttered, welcoming and straining against the intrusion as he found space for himself. You squeezed your eyes shut, little patterns dancing behind your lids as you rode waves of pleasure-pain. A light slap to your cheek had you crying out, more surprised than hurt. Ghost leaned close to you, big hand stroking over the sting left by his palm.
"Gonna thank me too? Thank me for getting you all warmed up."
You nodded jerkily, voice stolen by sensation as Soap finally thrust home. You shook, feeling shivery and full as his heavy balls pressed against your ass. He stayed there, savouring the feeling as he arched his neck back like a howling dog. You felt something wet drip on your forehead and realised it was sweat. Sweat rolling from the man above you, dripping down his temple and onto yours. You whined, disgusted and hot in equal measure, as you took it. Took the heavy cock stretching you open, took the nasty, filthy praise spilling from his mouth. Took even his sweat, his musk. It was foul how it made you ache.Â
"You can do better than that," Ghost didn't like your silence, slapping you lightly again before pinching your cheeks until your mouth popped open. "You've got manners, I know you do. Say 'thank you'."
"Thank you," it was whiny and pathetic, warped by the pressure on your cheeks. "Thank you for getting me ready."
"Johnny too. He's bein' so nice to ya. Been panting about this for weeks. Thank him for startin' so gentle," he shook your face slightly, smirking as you mewled.Â
Your face burned as you were made to thank him for not tearing you apart. Like he was doing you a favour.Â
"Good girl," with a final pat to your cheek he released your flushed face. You saw him reach down between your bodies until he reached your cunt, spreading your lips and dipping down to where Soap thrust into you. He rubbed, wringing moans from you and Soap as he gathered your wetness and played with your throbbing clit.Â
"Steamin' Jesus, she's clenched up all tight. Grippin' me like a vice. I knew it, knew she would. Wanted this as much as we did, fuck."
He lost himself to your heat, thrusting hard as he opened you up to him. It ached, pressure blooming like bruises inside you as he hit at spots deep within your core. You felt wild with it, wild as he was, as gorged himself on your body. Gouged out pieces and filled the holes with his flesh. It was brutal, the drag of his head inside you sparking pleasure that streaked up from where you were joined. Coruscations sparked all over your body, little flashes of light that made you pant. Ghost removed his glistening hand to stroke himself, letting Soap drop lower. Let him curl over you like he was guarding a meal from another animal, keeping you tight against him. His wiry hair scraped your throbbing clit, pleasure cresting too high and too fast. It hurt, delicious searing pain making you shiver. He surrounded you, inside and out. Too full, too intense.Â
He shifted, throwing one thigh over the crook of his arm and pressing even deeper. You cried out, overcome by the stretch. There was no finesse, no skill to his lust as he sought to fuse you together. Rooted within you, he grunted as he hit your cervix. Hammered it, hard and fast and bruising. You swore you could feel him in your stomach, could feel him making a home for himself, forcing himself into every part of you. Your woods, your home, your body. He curled around you tighter, coarse hair rubbing into your nipples. Slick head nuzzling into your neck before he bit down. You screamed, clenching hard as the pain pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He mouthed at the bite, sloppily kissing and licking at it as he reached down to circle at your nub. Rough, clumsy fingers had your legs shaking, cresting higher and higher until you fell. A spiraling, violent climax.Â
He followed soon after, spurting hot and thick inside you. Leaving a part of himself in you, hoping it would take root. You turned your head to the side, moaning at the sting of your ruined pussy. Of your spread thighs and aching neck.Â
"Fuckin' made for us, Simon. You haftae try," he slurred into your neck as his bulk pressed you down into the mattress. Lazy and spent, he reached for Ghost's hand bringing it up to his mouth to taste your slick and Simon's musk.Â
You whimpered a little, pushing him. You felt wrecked. Carved hollow, scared that the man on top of you would worm into what was left of you. Thankfully he shifted, rolling off and to the side.Â
But it wasn't over.Â
As you turned you caught sight of Ghost rising up. His scarred, wide chest was just as rugged as his face. Craggy with muscle and deep slashes. Piercing holes that healed up to keloid scars. You shivered at the thought of what could leave those marks on a creature like him. You followed the light dusting of hair low, past the belt of Adonis, to the weapon between his thighs. It was bigger even than Soap's. So heavy that it didnât jut out fully, just hung thick and flushed and ready. Your lips trembled, speechless, not sure whether to beg him to spare you or spew out more pathetic thank yous that he let Soap go first.Â
"Up ya get, birdie," his lips curled as he palmed at his cock. "Turn around and give Johnny a little kiss for treatin' you so nice."
Pleading eyes met his dark gaze. You wanted to deny him, wanted to keep this thing in your sights. All your instincts screamed that if you turned your back on something so dangerous creature it surely swallow you whole. But the sight of his heavy-lidded eyes, black pupils bleeding into brown, sapped you of your will. You hated yourself, hated how you'd let them slip into the lacuna of your life. The empty spaces in yourâlonelyâlovely cottage. The liminal space of your dreams. They filled up all the blank spaces, writing their will over every choice, every interaction you had in this village. You were a palimpsest, their desires and hands imprinting on top of the surface they'd scraped clean.Â
He smirked, triumph gleaming in his abyssal gaze as you pushed yourself up on shaking arms. You leaned down, back arching as you pressed trembling lips against Soap's. A butterfly kiss to match your fluttering heart. Your fluttering stomach. Soap lay back like a sleeping lion, tongue lazily tracing the seam of your lips as he enjoyed his meal. Even focused on the beast in front of you, you couldn't forget the one at your back. You presented yourself, thighs slightly parted and dripping with the spend of another man. A hot, heavy palm pushed at your back, arching you further into them both. You felt him step up behind you, thick, girthy length sliding through the mingled wetness between your legs. You gritted your teeth as he pushed in, still difficult to take despite being loosened up. He just kept pushing and pushing, having so much more to give you than you could take.Â
Your belly ached. Your walls fluttered as they were forced apart again. You lay pliant below him, whining against Soap's lips as you submitted to these ephialtes made flesh.Â
"Fuck, birdie," Ghost's voice dipped lower, rough and covetous, "Never lettin' you go."
It started on the Inverbreck line.
Eleven stations from Mildart to Dencarron before reaching the terminal station. Although, 'station' was being generous. It was more of a bramble-cracked podium and perpetually-closed ticket desk. Just two tracks bisected by a lone, dead-end platform; the only line that connected the town to the rest of the world.
It was quiet. Dreary. (Dangerous, dark-)
You catch the eye of something lonely and dangerous.
Or, Vampire!Johnny AU.
CW: dark, MDNI. Stalking, harassment, kidnapping, noncon (of the enthralled kind) -> heavy dubcon (of the 'gives in' variety), blood, somno, basically 10k of build-up lol.
---------------
There was something on your chest.
Something heavy. Oppressive. A parasomnia made flesh; given form, pressing blunt and hard into your ribs. Bruising - capillaries bursting red and purple under the weight of the suffocating spirit.
Through fluttering, heavy eyes you caught the barest movement. Great, hulking, shadowy; a hypnopompic hallucination of what should be a man, but couldn't - (no- too big-). Your pulse fluttered quick and rabbity under the cage of your chest - stark, white bone and gristle and peach-soft flesh held still under the nightmare. Fuseli-esque and twisted, all garish blues and crimsons. Like someone had smudged paint on a corpse; some ghoulish mortician's joke.
A little grey here, two flashes of lapis, a great smear of scarlet dripping like sangria from the mouth.
It spoke.
"Ahm sorry, bonnie," it washed humid over your face. Hypnotic and rotten, you trembled under the gravel of its voice. "I just- ah had tae - fuck-"
It cut off with a groan, low and rich, slick lips smacking over slick teeth. The noise burrowed in, writhing under your flesh until you itched (not human, not natural, no no no, please-) but you couldn't move. All will and resolution scattered like ash in the wind as you just- couldn't- move. You felt the hysterical laughter bubble up in your chest but gave no voice to it. Limbs pinned to something soft and head-feverish, you could only peer through hazy, bleary eyes at the thing in front of you.
"Shh," it soothed as a whine escaped you, slurred and stumbling as something lifted you up, set you just right against the pillows. Soft satins and susurrus whispers hushed you, sent you spinning as thoughts slipped away like smoke in your hands. "Shh, it's alright. I've got ye, yer here now. Ah waited- I just- don't move."
(Move?)
Something wormed through, some undaunted, tenacious little thought-
I know that voice.
Your heart quickened.
Eyes fluttering wildly, you lifted your leaden head off the pillow. You saw him as through a veil -yes- yes, it was him-. The thoughts rooted like weeds, choking and constricting your already tight chest. Broad-shouldered and hirsute. Those piercing, animal eyes. That overgrown hair. That eerie, Cheshire grin with too-sharp teeth.
Johnny. The man from the train.
Your timorous, quick little breaths got caught in your loose, slack jaw. Synapses flared and died, useless under the force of this preternatural lull; terror struck hard and withered on the vine. Your thoughts raced, tripped and twisted until-
Your head drooped back, broken lily lolling on the stalk as everything went black.
-----------
It started on the Inverbreck line.
Eleven stations from Mildart to Dencarron before reaching the terminal station. Although, 'station' was being generous. It was more of a bramble-cracked podium and perpetually-closed ticket desk. Just two tracks bisected by a lone, dead-end platform; the only line that connected the town to the rest of the world.
It was quiet. Dreary. (Dangerous, dark-)
The crisp, night air soothed your flushed cheeks, sharp and clear after the mustiness of the carriage. It was busiest closer to the city, bodies pressed tight. Stifling and hot, sweating under layers of Christmas jumpers and scarves as the train rattled down the tracks. People got jostled; you bumped into others. It was expected. Normal, really. Except-
Except it was always him.
He was hardly subtle, what being close to 6ft and broad as a brick house. He split the crowd with his mere presence, physicality turned to armour as people shuffled away from his bulk and closer to the doors.
And his eyes.
Cyan blue and too-bright. They swept the carriage, unblinking, until they landed on you. Constricted. Canicular. You felt the weight of his gaze like a net, heavy and abrasive, as your neck prickled and your throat went dry.
"Excuse me," he murmured, breath fanning hot against the shell of your ear. (Too close, too close-) His stubble tickled your cheek as he leaned in. "Tight squeeze, eh?"
There was a flittering pressure. A spasm of the fingers, surely, as his hand brushed your hip. He dug in hard to the plushness, gripping like he wanted to bury his fingers below layers of wool and acrylic until he gouged out space for himself below muscle and viscera. Just for a hairsplit-second. Lightning-quick, you yelped, murmured apologies to the censorious old woman next to you, and jerked away (not far enough).
"Sorry, lamb," he rasped - still so fucking close - and pressed in tight. "That wasnae the pole, was it."
You felt him behind you, bracketing you close to the grab bar. An ogre at your back and a crowd of apathy at your front. You scanned the carriage, too, wide-eyed and twitching but no- no. You wouldn't find help here. Bored, pallid faces. Some wind-flushed, some dry-lipped. All staring listlessly at their phones, watching the town turn to countryside out the window. The gentle rattle of the wheels on the track. The muted, jingling riffs and chords of Christmas music filtering through someone's headphones. Would anyone glance up, sense the twitching of your whiskers and take pity? A teenager fidgeting with a Magic Eight Ball caught your eye: 'All signs point to no!'
He was quick for someone so big. Your split-second glance cost you time to shoulder past the crowd, instead letting him step close enough to kick your bambi-legs wide and slip in between. You looked down past your hitching chest to see that he had planted one heavy, scuffed boot between your feet, the other boxing in your left leg. So close that his sole left marks, great black, sooty smears, all over the edge of your cute little shoes. 'At least they're waterproof; easier to clean'. The thought fizzled up like a sad sparkler.
The humidity of the carriage had you sweating- you and the crowd. The windows dripped with condensation, steam rising and revealing the fingerprints and traced messages of earlier passengers. Ella <3 Jason! Call Bilal: (+47)746775303. Merry Xmas! Smiley faces and swirls looked back at you, mocking you with their bland eyes and dripping curlicues. Your heavy overcoat hung over your shoulders and your fingers slipped, clammy, over the handles of the carrier bags in your grip.
And yet-
You felt cold where he pressed against you. Chilled from the back of your neck, down your spine and further, lower. Even through the denim pressed tight from your inner thigh to ankle where he'd bullied his way between your legs with sheer audacity and the confidence that you couldn't -wouldn't- move. That you wouldn't make a scene. Even his arms caged you in, one arched high above you, loose-gripped on the handrail above your head. The other twisted around your arm to grab at the same pole you held in a white-knuckled grip. Your shiver pushed you further into him, sliding against his thick, sturdy body.
Until it was cut short, ice down your spine freezing any further movement. There, at the base of your spine you felt it. Hard. Firm. Pressing against you with every swing and sway of the carriage. With every shift of his weight.
No.
No, it wasn't-
"That's naw the pole either, hen."
Your thoughts stuck, wheels skating uselessly over ice. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Dinnae be sorry. It's fer you," he breathed over you, voice rumbling low. "I know ye can help me with it. It's all achin', see-"
"What the fuck." Finally, some heads turned your way.
You didn't stop to apologise, didn't even look at anyone in your path as you rushed to the doors. The more distance you cleared, the more your thoughts whirred and buzzed. Swarmed, even, in a thick miasmic cloud that you ran from as much as you ran from him. Why didn't you call for help? Why didn't you get off at the first stop? Why did you let him box you in and-
Funny, you sought to shame yourself more than him.
The cold air outside slapped your face, clearing away the clutter rattling around in your skull. The peace was worth the extra taxi fare.
-------------
A week or two followed and you slowly began to feel comfortable on the train again. Slowly stopped looking for him in the crowd.
The pieces fit together like a clumsy mosaic; jagged and sharp, blending together to create a colourful facsimile of The Incident. Youâd been calling it that â capital T, capital I: The Incident. Scared to give power to it, to speak it aloud and rip back the veil to reveal the sham lurking underneath. It was easier that way, easier to swallow. Opprobrium turned soft; a sugar-coated bitter pill.
Otherwise, what? Admit that some nasty, hulking beast nosed its way into your warren and forced you to squirrel away? No, no. It was just an Incident born of cramped space and holiday stress.
Still, you found yourself shuffling head-down to the nearest seats. Avoided blue eyes and broad shoulders. Until-
Until he was there again. Sniffed you out; caught your scent and followed you right to the seat. Same train, same carriage, same time. 18.47 to Inverbreck.
You saw him before he saw you. At least, you thought so. Jacket stretched tight across the breadth of his back, head turning lazily like a bird of prey. Tall, powerful, but a little wan. It was strange, this cocksure walk and strong stance spattered with a slight clamminess. The harsh fluorescent light seemed to strip him of colour; washed-out tan, icy eyes, dark circles. The dark stubble on his jaw and slightly grown-out hair altogether made him lookâŠsad. Scraggly. Like some stray dog hunched in a doorway. Down on his luck, hungry and- (and ravenous. Cadaverous, even. Not quite right; no wind-flushed cheeks or vitality of the flesh. Sucked dry, taut and pallid and gaunt-).
-and he caught your eye. Fuck. Mouth stretched wide over stark, white teeth. The cat who caught the canary.
Neither of you blinked as he shouldered his way over, planted himself at your front. You didnât have the presence of mind to look away initially, caught in the snare of his gaze. You gave first, blinking away (blinking away tears) and looking down. Scruff bared.
âThought Iâd scared ye off. But youâre made of stronger stuff, arenât ye?â He licked his lips, mouth parting as the words sat behind his too-sharp teeth. So white, so pointed, so strange. It had you leaning closer, head tilting back as if to peer inside. âCouldnae stay away.â
Confusion cut the chord, sent you crashing back down and shaking. Is he talking about me or himself?
On second thought, did it matter what you thought? Like Aesopâs wolf, he had seen his shadow and mistaken it for truth.
You will filled with a sudden fury, buzzing across your skin and steeling your spine. Your mouth twisted, chewing over the words that you wanted to spit at him. The audacity to approach you again, affable as an old acquaintance! To box you in, to use his body as a threat. Power etched in every line; like a study oak, strong roots branching up to solid trunk and thick arms. But-
He was just a man, right? Just a man on a train.
âWell, kindly resist the urge in the future,â Your voice came out sharp, if lacking a little steadiness. âLet me pass, or I'm calling the inspector.â
You gathered your handbag, reaching for the pole to hoist yourself up and hoping that momentum would force him to move aside.
Foolish.
His thick-knuckled, clammy hand clamped around yours like a vice as you crashed into his chest. The friendly smile on his face warped into a terrible grimace, anger and confusion warring until they were bested by a calm that sent a shiver down your spine.
âDinnae be like that, lamb,â his voice pitched low like rolling timber. It was pleasant, actually, shiver turning to shudder as your anger melted. Fight, flight or fawn? It seemed that youâd turned to âfreezeâ. Deer in the headlights, his hypnotic blue eyes bored into yours as you sought desperately for the anger -the fear- that you should be feeling. âWhy donât ye sit back down?â
The gentle chug-chug of the train over the tracks echoed the tattoo beating of your heart. The gentle sway and snick of sliding wheels soothed you, turning your mind static-y and slow.
You lowered yourself into the seat.
He smiled again, bright and happy, and you smiled right back.
He was handsome. So silly of you not to notice before! You had twisted him into some kind of scurrilous wretch, had built him up into a beastly bugbear ready to gobble you up and spit out the bones. What a funny thought. You laughed a little to yourself. Wicked imagination yeâve got there, lamb. Clever.
You blinked drunkenly. You hadnât seen his lips move.
He mustâve seen how your tongue lay heavy in your mouth, how your eyebrows tried to furrow together but couldnât (-so heavy-) and drew the back of his knuckles across your cheek. So soft. Coarse, dark hair and callouses tickled at your peach fuzz, scraping lightly against the softness of your jaw.
You leaned into it, eyes drooping as your head drooped forward too.
âThereâs a good girl. Feels nice when ye let it, aye?â his voice was thick, catching on the consonants and rumbling them out. He cradled your slack jaw, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise. Pulling your head back to look him in the eye was as easy as tugging at a marionetteâs string. âBet yeâd let me do more. Look at ye, fuckinâ begginâ me to. Drooling anâ everything.â
His thumb swiped across your slack chin as two thick, blunt fingers forced their way past your lips. You felt yourself gag, retching as he pressed on the back of your tongue until his digits were slick. Something cried out in the back of your mind, shame and censure making itself pitifully known, but you swatted it away as you drooled around his hand. You felt a rough drag as he withdrew, catching on your blunt little teeth and pressing hard enough to leave imprints on his flesh.
You never even thought of biting down.
Enthralled, you watched him raise his hand to his face, slick fingers glistening under fluorescent lights like dayspring dew. One beat- another- he studied it, then you. A sommelier, taking in the aroma. Then, eyes blown wide, blue swallowed by black, he sucked his fingers into his mouth. Base, vulgar, vile, he groaned low and sucked hard. Smacking, esurient sounds echoed in the carriage and sent blood rushing to your face (-why-?)
âFucking delicious,â his voice was gravel. âTaste better than ye smell, and ye smell divine.â
He leaned down low, crowding you against the back of the chair. You could do nothing but watch the rest of the carriage fade away until all you could see was him. He stood before you like an eclipse brought low, caging you between his bulky forearms as he whispered in your ear. Warning sirens flared up in your mind -predator! Wrong, unnatural, no!- but you heard them only as distant, tinkling bells.
Crouched low, he ran his nose down your neck and across your collarbones.
âFuck, can smell yer cunt droolinâ, too, under all those layers,â His exhale was throaty. Mournful, even. And, with one final inhale, desperate and harsh, he backed away shaking his head.
The train gave a hard jolt, rattling your skull against the window.
Your face was wet? Why was it-? You swiped at your damp cheeks as black spots danced across your vision.
You heard him laugh, low and mean, as he exited at the platform.
--------------
You didnât remember walking home that evening. Didnât remember anything until the next morning after a night of fitful, restless sleep. December days crept slowly, a sort of liminal space calendar counting down until the January blues. It was bleak; feeling the biting cold and watching boisterous festivities from the outside, like a child staring longingly through the window. Little matchstick girl, alone and out in the snow.
And you felt every inch the urchin as you stared in your foggy mirror, skin dry and eyes-puffy. There was a certain malheur to your gaze, a dimness of the light and vitality that should be there. Doleful and red-rimmed, you watched yourself blink. Watched yourself go through the motions. Run the tap, rinse your face. Grab the toothbrush and open wide-
It clattered in the sink, toothpaste smeared on the porcelain like impasto on a canvas. An impressionist streak of your scrambled thoughts.
Ceramic caught in a knuckle-cracking grip you hunched over the sink. Your breath came quick and your arms shook. Match-struck, fingers burned- the memory hit you like flare. The heat of it seared from the inside, white-hot and sickening. You gagged, spitting up in the sink as your eyes streamed.
It was the most alive youâd looked all morning.
The days followed with the static quality of a snow globe. Changes in routine were ephemeral, fleeting. Instead, snow fleeced down and swirled over twinkling lights and gingerbread houses. Inverbreck glowed merrily, strings of tinsel and candy-cane cards decorating the usually austere grey brickwork. A Presbyterian town turned to postcard, severity melting like marshmallows in chocolate. It was cheery, beautiful even, but spoiled. Someone had grabbed the bauble and shook too hard. Picturesque and trapped, you could only tap at the glass.
You stared through the frost-pricked window panes of a beautiful confectioner shop. MALLON AND MOYE, EST. 1849. Rich velvet and stained mahogany strained under boxes of chocolate and sweets. Their arms laden with little sugar flowers and candied fruit, you watched as cheery cherub-cheeked children skipped after frazzled parents. Quaint Victorian greetings stared up at you from the display, red-breasted robins and penny-farthings brought to mind a fellow miser. âSolitary as an oysterâ, you and Ebenezer Scrooge. Bah, humbug. But, you werenât quite that bitter yet. No.
Perhaps it was time to message some friends or family back home.
Something prickled at your neck, a needle-like warning. Whipping around, you saw only shoppers and tourists turning snow to sludge as they trudged along Main Street. Still, a chill remained, crawling over your chest and down your arms until your were goosebumped and shivery.
Then, you saw him.
You caught his eyes across the street, watched as the crowds parted around him as naturally as if he were a streetlamp. Your breath caught in your chest, frigid and jagged, like it had turned to ice in your lungs. You felt it cracking, ribs straining and head-light until you blinked away myodesopsia and inhaled, thin and reedy, through your nose. 'Muscae volitantes', you recalled - 'flying flies' in a Latin pleonasm that couldn't quite capture the speed and scale of the pestilent little black spots. The lights above your danced and blurred a dizzying ballet until you closed your eyes hard. When you opened them, he was gone.
Calm bit hard at you like sleet before sluicing off again. At home that night it melted away completely.
Slipped into your bag was a Christmas Card. The outside, a two jolly little oysters walking the beaches of Dover, holly scattered around the greeting. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU, MAY WE SOON MEET AGAIN. A Victorian card from the confectioner's display. Inside held only two words. Your name, and 'Johnny'.
You threw it in the fire, and turned away with shaking hands.
If youâd stayed to watch, you wouldâve seen the way the flames shirked and withered around his name.
------------
âLove, all youâve got is a name- no surname, at that- and a description of half the fellas in Scotland. Iâm sorry, but unless he does something threatening thereâs nothing we can do.â
âSo, what, I just have to wait for him to do something worse? Thatâs- really? He can just grab women in trains and follow them around the city and-â
âWell, thatâs the thing, isnât it. You said he grabbed your hip and that you see him in and around your train route. Thereâs not much to follow-up with here. Unless you want to make another report.â
âNo-I,â an image stained your mind, pitch black and iniquitous. A great black blob seeping across the slate of your mind. You imagined submitting a complaint, imagined them reviewing the grainy CCTV footage to see you placid and starry-eyed as he fingered your open mouth. That same mouth that twisted and hesitated in the station now. âYou know what? Never mind.â
Time ticked on as if through treacle. Slow and syrupy, you felt trapped in monotony and unable to shake the feeling of something dripping down your spine.
After the Christmas card you started to see him more and more. Just flashes here and there â a man on the other side of the platform; a mohawk in the city crowd; a pair of bright blue eyes peering at you from the bushes outside. That one scared you the most, heart seizing and strangling the air from your chest until the headlights from a passing car reflected in its gaze. Just eye-shine. Tapetum lucidum, the tapestry of light that blanketed the retina in a crystalline coverlet. Likely a neighbourâs cat or some other nocturnal creature. Creature of the night, aye.
Your shaking hands pulled hard at the curtains, shutting out peeping eyes and pernicious thoughts.
Seeing him back on the train was almost a relief. âOut of sight, out of mindâ was an adage applicable only to those with enough friends and frivolity to nip anxiety in the bud.
For you, it bloomed like frost-bitten bluebells in the snow. Neither daunted nor distracted by the slate-grey sky or biting cold, it persisted. Thrived, even. Every raucous gaggle of friends and merrymakers reminded you that you were alone (solitary, vulnerable-). A choice dictated by economics and independence; the choking, nebulous tendrils of regret only twisted across your skull at times like these.
Like right now, right as he got on the very same stop as you and hovered just by the doors. Trying to ignore him was like trying to ignore a solar flare. You knew that you shouldnât look -it was bad for you, dangerous even- but oh, so tempting. Even if you resisted the urge, abstained from looking with Eremitic restraint, you would still get burned. Closing your eyes, looking away â it was futile. Like a cynosure, luminous and warm in your peripheral you just couldnât resist. A slight turn of the head, a small flutter of the lashes and there-
He wasnât looking at you.
Shock, confusion, and a squirming, pathetic vein of disappointment slapped you like cold water to the face. You huffed out a breath that didnât taste like relief and adjusted your grip on the railing. This was good. Great, actually. Maybe heâd been caught, maybe the police had actually done their job and issued a warning, maybe-
Maybe someone else had caught his eye.
The bitter, carbolic bile coating your throat wasnât envy. No, no. It was dread. Dread that another poor thing had stolen tickled his fancy. You wouldnât wish that on anyone. It was terrifying. It made you feel disgusting, pulled apart and laid bare at the whim of this covetous dog. He followed you for scraps, slobbered all over your hand when you let him close. Would probably hump your leg if you let him.
You let the passing countryside hush the discordant tumble of your thoughts. This was good. A Good Thing.
The rowdy press of football fans to your right snapped the elastic band in your mind. Youâd stretched it too far, too thin -all him and the rolling pastures outside- and left yourself tired and worn. You hitched your bag tighter over your shoulder and stepped further to the bar. A panel up above confirmed you had three more stops to go. Three more stops until you could break down in your own home, pull apart the cotton stuffing of your thoughts and stitch up the mess anew.
âHey, girlie. You got the time?â
The rolling pixels of the announcement board seemed to stick. There was a small patch on the bottom left that needed repairing, all green and black static.
âSheâs away wi' it,â A loud, performative laugh. âHello? You awake, love? Got the time or what?â
Blinking stupidly, you glanced to the right to see a mean, pointed face arching his eyebrow at you.
âMe?â
âHardly asking the emergency stop button, am I?â
Flustered and on the spot you dug through your pockets for your phone. Another time, another place and youâd have told them to fuck off, sick of being belittled and bullied by crude, churlish men. But youâd had enough trouble on trains to last a lifetime.
âHold on a sec,â you mumbled as you felt them pressing closer, pack animals closing in on the limping gazelle.
You could hear your pulse in your ears, beating hard and resonant as a drum and you cursed yourself. Cursed him, leaving you unable to tell danger from refuge. Your senses were broken, skin prickling at the slightest sound and hands shaking at a glance. All situational awareness shattered into smithereens and now, here you were, fingers slipping and trembling in your pocket as you tried to reach for your phone.
âAh wouldnae bother if I were you.â
You froze. Swallowed down the lump in your throat and looked up through pricking eyes.
âYou-â the sentence died in the cradle, feeble and spluttering as you trailed down the length of his arm. Right down to where it was clamped hard around the wrist of the man who had his hand halfway in your handbag.
Under the flickering lights of the carriage he looked ghastly. Positively ghoulish. Fluorescence sapped any lustre from his flesh, making him look deeply unwell. Wan and sunken and furious. His nostrils flared like a destrier, only there was no steam or heat to his exhale. It chilled to the point of burning, bright white. White as his eyes around pin-prick pupils. His dark stubble painted a grisly penumbra on the stark canvas of his face. You trailed your eyes down, down the dull stretch of his straining throat. You watched him swallow, eyes bobbing with the pulse of his Adam's apple.
"Take it easy, mate. Just a misunderstanding, aye?" you saw the dawning awareness in the man's eyes, the sudden apprehension of his low-rank on the trophic level. Big man brought low; mesopredator in the gaze of an apex species.
"Let me make it clear, then. Get yer hand away tae fuck before I remove it," the words rushed out in a cavernous growl, rumbled so low that you felt them belly-deep.
"Jesus, dial it down a bit," the man shuffled his feet, shifted his gaze between his you and his mate. As if you'd help him. As if you had any power here.
He tried to pull his hand back, straining against stone, before your unwelcome paladin hauled him in close. His thick, coarse hands looked strangely attenuated, blunt fingernails seemingly sharp as talons as the stranger winced and struggled. Johnny leaned down, looming like a vulture over scraps, as he brought himself cheek-to-cheek with his stunned quarry.
And you, too, were stunned. Hand still tucked in your pocket, phone loose in your feeble grasp. You watched, unwilling observer, as his face stretched into a horrifying rictus grin exposing pale gums and dripping teeth. His whisper chilled you to the marrow, scratching and harsh like a knife over bone.
"You live in Harnoch, right? Except, yer no gonnae get off at that stop. Yer getting' off at the next one, you and yer mate, and yer gonna take a nice long stroll down the darkest road ye can find until I find ye later."
Whether fear or thrall, you weren't sure. You just watched, etherised, as the pair shambled off, muttering to themselves and glancing back at the "psycho fuckin' bastard" panting over your crown.
You watched yourself through the reflection on the window, waxen and stiff as a mannequin. Maybe he'd get you to turn your head, dig his fingers into your cheeks and make you smile as he puppeted you to his whim. Hollow little marionette, you couldn't even feel the panic that had a cold sweat breaking across your forehead. Instead, you just felt the slow glide of his strong jaw as he hunched over you like a starving bandog. His stocky, powerful arms fettered over yours, curling into your ribs until you were held tight against his broad chest. Territorial aggression turned saccharine (artificial as aspartame).
"You need me, see," he licked at his chops. Breathed a miasmic lull over the racing of your heart. "Poor wee lamb."
You sunk into it, into the somniferous sway of the carriage under your feet and the man at your back. Later, you'd call it shock. A simple case of tachycardia restricting your blood flow, rabbit-quick heart flitting faster than you could process. Weakness, sweating, anxiety. Just a quirk of the circulatory system.
"I don't," your voice cracked, cut off the conclusion to your sentence. You wanted to scream it, 'I don't need you', but the words felt malformed. "I- You didn't need to do that."
"'Course I did," you could almost believe that you were lovers, the way he nuzzled into your neck. Would believe it, except for the hunger in his voice and the shudder ripping down your spine. "It's nice tae have a starter before the main course."
Stock-still, you felt his rough tongue lave across your neck. You couldn't see him in the window, but you felt him. Felt every, menacing inch of his bulk as he groaned softly into your vulnerable throat. A single, watery tear slipped over your lash-line. Traitorous, exiguous fluid. And of course, he caught it. Dug his thumb in and lapped it right up like the salt from your neck.
"Aw, didnae mean it like that. Dinnae cry, now," he cooed at you. Petted over your hair as he whispered trite, deceptive comforts in your ear. "Ye'll only drive me mad, and I already have plans fer tonight."
You sucked in a shuddering breath as the wheels screeched over the tracks. Commuters shouldered past you as the doors swooshed open, apathetic to the stilted tableau - a facsimile of a lover's embrace- playing out by the exit. With a lingering, wet kiss on your neck and a hard squeeze, he was gone.
That evening, you sobbed hard and choking into your pillow until it was sodden with tears and sweat.
Something scratched and tapped at your window all night, forcing you into an insomnious candlelit vigil. A pastiche of midnight mass, you cried out prayers like ritual devotions until the lambent quiescence of dawn. Trembling and over-tired, you snatched back the curtain to see only the swaying, overgrown branch of the elder tree outside your window.
Despite it no longer fruiting, you pretended the red smear on the pane was just juice from its berries.
-----------------
The next time you saw him he was hearty and hale. Flushed and plump and healthy. Whatever it was that brought colour to his cheeks also put a spring in his step. Made him bolder, cheekier. An out-and-out scoundrel untouched by shame. He was always with you, right until the last few stops as the carriage grew emptier and emptier.
It was a game to him, seeing how far he could push before reproach. How far he could poke and prod at you until time or circumstance put him to shend.
At the busier stations, he pressed close and rocked with the motion of the train, all the while muttering filth in a discursive stream right into your ear. You were his 'poor wee lamb', bleating plaintively to the deaf ears of the rest of the herd. Too busy, too wrapped up in their own lives to notice the wolf that had ambled in in their clothing just to snap you up in his cavernous maw. He stayed that way, roving hands and rabelaisian growls forcing you to bite back squeals and tears as you endured his rough attentions.
He stayed that way even as the crowd grew sparser and sparser, something digging into your lower back as he grabbed at your hips. As he pretended that his clumsy gropes were only due to the jerking of the train.
Sometimes he'd talk to you like you were a real person, all chit-chat and greetings. He'd ask about your day and ramble through your silences. The chatter scared you more than any of the aberrant, salacious refuse he'd spew in your ear. Scared you more because it revealed how deeply unstable he was. Lonely, too.
A very dangerous combination.
"Made any New Year Resolutions yet, lamb?" this time he had you backed into the gangway, eyes dilated by more than just the dim light. "Want tae hear mine?"
Your lips were pressed so tight together that he had to struggle to slip his thumb in between. He tugged it down as he trilled out a falsetto "Yes, Johnny" in a parody of your voice.
"There ye go. Such a good listener," he patted at your cheek just slightly too soft to be a slap. "Ah've actually got a load, but I'll tell you the important ones. First one is to spend more time wi' loved ones. Been on my own fer a while, see, and ah don't think it's been too good for the mental health."
He knocked at the side of his head. There, under the shaggy growth of his dark hair was a shiny patch of skin. Pale and misshapen, like some kind of nebulous scar stretching across his temple. "Can start tae get all kind of strange ideas on yer own. Of course, you'd know all about that in that big empty house of yours."
He laughed at the way you startled, arctic eyes warm with sick amusement. Like having the ugly truth stare right back at you. You turned away from his nasty, knowing smirk.
"Second one is tae eat healthier. Been takin' in all kinds of muck, recently, tryna be restrained and all. But maybe it's no right to deny myself. Wouldnae want to have an accident, go really wild and do something that ah'd come to regret," he trailed off slowly at that, fingers stroking softly against your fluttering pulse. He swallowed hard, teeth glinting strangely under the fluorescent lights as he whispered more to himself than to you. "Just a wee bite, though, a little taste- wouldnae hurt much."
The chiming of the service announcement broke the spell.
With a strangled growl, he backed away fast enough to jostle those behind him. He shouldered roughly past them, earning you a few dirty looks as you stared blankly into the crowd.
How much you had changed in a matter of weeks. Stupid, placid thing. Getting yourself followed and felt-up after every other shift. Must be gagging for it. Desperate.
The thoughts sliced in like a penknife through wood. You + Johnny. And there you were, stripped of your bark and forced to endure the winter. Periderm torn off and leaking sap all over the floor of the carriage. Dripping it all the way home, 'Come and get me!' it seemed to say. 'I can't fight back'. Maybe someone would take pity on you, wrap you up from the cold and give you a chance to recover.
You huffed out a bitter laugh.
Maybe someone would dig deeper, peel back layers of phellem until you were weak and sticky and malleable.
It was more than pessimism. Beyond that entirely. The isolation, your job. The long commute and the melancholic ooze of wintery mist and fog. It permeated your mind, muddied you with the mucinous carcinoma of malism. And you didn't put up much of a fight, no. Why should you, when previous cries for help went unanswered? When you weren't safe on your own or in a crowd?
When the only person who checked in on you with any regularity was your stalker.
True to form, he was there the next night. And the next. On the train and in your dreams. Twisting, writhing, fever-hot nightmares that left you shaking and soaking wet. Lounging back on your pillows, supine and debauched. The profligate portrait of a ruined odalisque. In the palace of your mind you cried out for his touch. His attention. You could admit, in winding abstract corridors, that you were cold. You were lonely. There was something grotesque within you. Some ugly, hungry wretch that warped every whispered perversion and stolen touch into something soft. Something like tenderness.
You tamped it down. Smothered it, snuffed it out in the cruel, brumal light of day.
Still, you could no longer attribute the shakiness of your legs and quickening of your heart only to terror.
It escalated. He stayed longer on the train. Followed you to the empty train station and hovered like a poisonous pea-soup fog. On the nights when you were joined by a few work-weary stragglers he turned truculent. Swaggered around the platform and stared down anyone who so much glanced your way. Belligerent, and bulky enough to back it up, he soon drove away any well-meaning concern until you were cut-off. Cloistered and isolated under the procyon sky; stranded under the cold, dispassionate light of stars and constellations far above.
He was looking ill again. Ashen as he sat under the flickering lamplight on a lonely bench. You hesitated, feet dragging against damp concrete as you considered your escape. You swallowed at the sight of his wolfish grin, legs spread wide and shoulders lax against the wind-worn slats of his seat. No matter what, you would be forced to brush past as you found the exit gate.
You could only hear the soft buzzing of the streetlight and your own quickening breaths.
The flitting light cut through the fog, scratches of yellow on white illuminating every dust mote and jerky exhale. Yours, of course, not his. No, the air was perfectly still around him. Preternaturally so, like the powdery specks of station detritus were suspended under his thrall. He tilted his head at you, dark eyebrow raising and eyes - just for a second- glowing blue. Pure blue, no hint of pupil or white. Chatoyant and unsettling, surely some kind of refractive error. Surely.
You stepped closer.
The dull, squelch of your boots over slushy, grey puddles seemed embarrassingly loud. You had the impression that this was wrong somehow. That you were a simple, unworldly creature, announcing herself with an unsteady gait. Too naĂŻve to know that she should stay still, duck down in the grass and hide until more interesting prey ambled past. Still, against all instinct and reason, you stepped closer.
"C'mon, lamb. Yer acting like ye know I'll bite."
You faltered slightly. "I-I think that you phrased that wrong."
He just grinned in response. Oh Johnny, what big teeth you have-
Sitting in the bench didn't diminish his stature. You'd thought, foolishly, that you would somehow have the high-ground advantage. That you could push your shoulders back and stride past him, slumped in the bench. You'd failed to account for his sheer mass, the menacing strength packed into layers of muscle and meat. Thick, bulky thighs looked wider as he sat, bulging over the slats. He hooked his elbows over the back, flexing the broad expanse of his chest. He swallowed up the space, stretching his legs out until they were right in front of you. Not a barrier, really. You could walk around them. Step over, if needs be. And yet-
You stopped, a hairsbreadth away.
A bead of sweat rolled down your temple. You saw his eyes follow it, pupils wide and black and hungry.
Words caught in your throat, dissolving under the churning waves of adrenaline coursing through your bloodstream. He must have noticed the slight tremble in your fingers, the way your exhales furled choppily in the frigid, oppressive air. Mouth dry, you licked your lips. A single, flaking piece of skin peeled up and, without thinking, you bit down. Tore it up, petal shredded until it wept a perfect crimson teardrop.
His head tilted sharply, nostrils flaring.
He scoffed, voice pitched low enough to burn. Friction, rumbling and coarse, scratched at the back of your neck. "And ye expect me not tae eat you up."
"I- What?"
"You expect tae walk away, expect me no tae eat you right up."
You reacted too slowly, limbs opiate-heavy and mind blank. You didn't even see him move.
--------------
And now there was something on your chest.
Coming-to was like wandering through a dark, drizzling mist with only a dying candle as your guide. It was humid, both clammy and altogether too-hot; the air felt suffocating. Like you couldn't get enough to fill your lungs. Whatever did filter through was marshy with the scent of earth and acid, sweat and musk. You'd gag if you could, the tang of warm copper pennies making you wrinkle your nose. And what a pyrrhic relief, that you could wrinkle your nose!
You tried again as something hot and stinging streamed over your flushed cheeks. Your fingertips ached with the need to swipe at it, smear it away and fan at the oppressive heat. A fool's hope.
You felt something viscid and sticky cooling on your skin. Senses came back slowly. First smell, now touch. Sound followed, sly and slow and vulpine. A fox, dancing just behind the treeline, chittering and smug as it slipped from sight. Maybe your eyes were open, but you just couldn't see? Perhaps your mind thought it a blessing - a mercy- to spare you the sight of the thing buried in your throat. Because that's where the sound was coming from.
Wet, greedy suckling mixed with heady moans. Something slick and rhythmic. Tension wound taut to pluck at low, indulgent notes and tristful exhales. A sinner's lament over a ruined fast; greed and guilt turned to fragrant wine atop the spoiled refectory of your body.
A tiny, sorrowful cry pierced out from your chest.
"Shh, just let me- ye have no idea how good you fuckin' taste," he was panting, breathless. You felt every harsh exhale against the stickiness of your nape. "Just need tae get-"
He trailed off with a choked groan. The slick sounds sped up, faster and faster as his breathing stuttered, and a sickening realisation cut through the fog. He nuzzled into your neck and It was just too much - the disgusting, heady noise, the tickling of his hair against your ear. The heavy press of his thighs atop your waist, and the pulsing ache of your throat. You lay there, corpse-heavy, as he drank from your neck and slated his lust. His bloodlust. The thought sliced like a sharp thorn.
It must have made you jerk slightly, barbed synapses firing and twisting in your hemorrhaging thoughts. He noticed. Hushed you with sickening sweetness and cradled your face with tacky fingertips (the noises weren't stopping, why weren't they stopping-).
"Havenae forgotten about you, lamb."
He trailed his fingers over your cheeks, a traitorous comfort, until he reached your eyes. Butterfly-soft he swiped at the lids until they fluttered. You noted with some panic how cold he felt, how waxen his flesh felt against yours. Not human, not natural; the inversion of a wake. You lay prone and exsanguinated on the bed with the wraith peering over. Only the wet drag of flesh on flesh above convinced you that this was real. There was no hysterical hallucination that would bring you this low, no psychosomatic stress response that could conjure an apparition of this kind.
Yet, acceptance was wily. It slipped through the haze of your marshy thoughts and hovered phosphorescent just out of reach. You ached to follow it, to reach out and grab this sickly little portent and swallow it whole.
But you couldn't.
Poor thing, how could you? Lying belly-up and throat ripped open.
(So you sank into it).
It must have sweetened you somehow, those balmy notes of submission sighing through your bloodstream. An ambrosia for the vaurien. You felt as soon as it hit his tongue because he cursed. Snarled out a 'fuck!' in a way that was almost angry, and curled over you like a dog. Like a filthy, slavering beast atop the spoils of the hunt. Something splattered across your stomach and you realised with shame that you were naked.
Your vision came back muted. Diplopia stretched and warped your already lagging senses, sending the room-spinning to a dizzying tilt. At first he was more shadow than man. A horrifying phantasm of wicked, grasping want. You had never seen a face so hungry, so unsatiable, after a feast. He was naked as you were, but that was no relief. A terrible, lupine grin slashed across his face as his eyes met yours, whites and iris swallowed by the pitch-black bleeding of his pupils.
And yet, you tried desperately to read something soft there. Some small hint of tenderness or pity- why else would he bring you home? Strip you bare to lay you on a bed of satin? And yes -there. There was a slight wetness to his feverish gaze. A flickering, greedy hope hiding behind his appetites.
"Dinnae hide away," he must have read the horror on your face. The way you impotently strained to turn. "You're in me now. Part of me. Not much else left tae hide."
It was meant to be comfort, a reverent whisper in a raw, aching tone, but it left you feverous. You felt shivery, head packed with cotton wool and eyes still so heavy. (Inside him? You were, weren't you). Ripe little pomegranate glittering in ruby and just oh-so-tempting.
He was inside you too, you realised only just now. He had dogged your routines, scratched out a space for himself in your mind. Scratched deeper and deeper, burrowing in until you were pulpy and hollow. A necrotizing fasciitis spread from the very first time he kicked your legs open and groped at your soft flesh.
You were spread now, too. Rough, calloused hands caught on the goosebumps of your thighs, tickling slightly all the way down to your ankles.
He was slow, more gentle than you'd ever imagined him to be. This creature of rapacious appetites, who plucked you from the tree before you were even ripe. Now, he took his time, drank in the sight of you just as he had supped at your blood. You were shaking, an involuntary response to his careful groping. To his strange, lukewarm flesh. You felt simultaneously trapped and out of body - a sick, amytal fugue. A chemical sedation by sight, smell, and his strange thrall. Even the scent of him, musky and rich, seemed to fill your lungs and choke out resistance.
You couldn't see how he slid down your body, couldn't lift your head and follow his path. Instead you watched the sickly photism left by his strong palms. You knew where he was headed, sparks alighting a roadmap from your bare things to your core, and you squeezed your eyes shut. All that you could do. You heard nothing but the whisper of rough hands against soft skin, and his heavy breathing mixing with yours. He lost patience; you noticed the slight growl catching in his throat a fraction before he squeezed hard. A slurred cry slipped past your lips-
"Shh, be patient. Ah have tae be careful, havenae done this since before," His voice was rueful, some note of loss spoiling the low burr of desire.
It made you open your eyes, curiosity slipping past horror, until you could see his face hovering in the dark. There was a horrible, jagged edge to his handsome features. Strangely shorn hair, skin dull and etiolated. Those shining, expressive eyes. Like something grown in the uncanny valley - it made you blink back tears.
"Ah mightn't have needed to try so hard, then. You might'nae have played so coy," He continued. Deluded, you wanted to scream. But, your neck prickled, noticed some shadows in the humour. Memories and pain. With it came the barest flicker of vitality on his face before it was gone, replaced by something that lurked in dark corners.
He distracted himself with more reverent, disgusting touches, hushing you as whines clawed their way out with kitten-strength. You trembled in your unnatural prison, bound and silent as he spread your legs so wide that they burned. He forced himself in between, stocky thighs keeping yours open to his gaze.
Cool touch replaced cool air as he grazed your bared cunt, softly at first. More petting than a touch, the width of his hand covered you entirely. Were you not already, it would have sent you reeling. Dizzy with the thought of his breadth, the rough contrast of his hand against you sensitive inner flesh. He sucked in a harsh breath and you felt his fingers flex slightly. Something within you knew that he was holding back bruising strength.
"So fuckin' cute," You blinked, realising that he was looking down as he spoke. He spread his fingers, opening you entirely to his greedy, pitch-dark eyes. Your face burned, hot at the feeling and at the filth he uttered as he shifted closer. "Already knew you were pretty, but I didnae know you'd look so fuckin' cute like this. Poor wee lamb, she's aching, isn't she? Can see she's cryin' for me."
You didn't respond. Couldn't- not with your heavy, leaden tongue. The rawness of his voice scraped over you, made you shiver in a way that he mistook for desire. When you tried to give voice, to rail against his insidious assertions, all you could muster was a feeble cry.
That too, he took as his; your body, your blood, your voice.
"Dinnae fuss- ah'll make it good for ye. Just need tae keep a handle on my strength, see. Cannae have ye writhing around," he must have caught your pitiful glare, the furrow of your wide, limpid eyes, as his face softened. Just a fraction, a little oil poured over jagged deadwood.
It slicked his words, all arrogance, confidence. Assuredness ."Ah've taken the edge off already. Didnae plan on grabbing you tonight, but ah've no been able to hunt since that night."
His words dripped over you like tar, filling in the blanks and empty spaces. It's funny, his explicit assertion - the murder, committed in your name- made you want to freeze. The contradiction crashed over you, made you kick slightly - just a smidge. A feeble little flaring of deadened synapses, but you did it. the tingling in you fingertips now felt more like hope.
(You doggedly ignored the tingling in your stomach).
"Ye've done something to me, I just-. There was nothing there after," he gestured to his head, shook the thought off like a rabid dog. Even through the tangle of his hair you could see it, that strange pale keloid spidering across- "after- but now there's you. Smelled ye on that train from the very front carriage. Fuckin' ripe - sweatin' up under yer coat, actin' so shy."
He grinned down at you. Silly little lamb, it seemed to say, who's afraid of the big bad wolf?
I am - your fingers twitched against the sheets.
Your legs, though- they stayed spread open. An asthenic sprawl, leaving you open to inspection and touch and invasion. A moth pinned to a hobbyist's board, entirely thrall to his will. It prickled over you, stifling heat building with every stroke of his hands. They'd returned to your core to find a slight wetness, slicking the way for his thick fingers to probe deeper. You saw his nostrils flare, the flick of his tongue against his - too long, too sharp- canines.
"Naughty wee thing, tryin tae get my mouth down there," there was a wickedness to the tilt of his lips, the low tease of his voice. He pressed his thumb hard into your thigh until the flesh ached and dimpled. You felt your frantic, fitful pulse fluttering underneath. His voice dropped lower. "If I bit you there, I wouldnae stop."
You sighed out relief when he let you go, only for your breath to hitch as he slapped your pussy. Hard. An admonishment for your perceived allurement.
He shushed you as he soothed it, broad hand feeling warmer and warmer as he stroked. A parasitic heat, spreading from you to him, and back again. It made you confused, discarnate. Some formless being laid out for him, striped of all but flesh. You moaned - mournful, dizzy- as he pressed one thick digit inside. The slight catch of his rough skin, the drag of his coarse knuckle inside sent you spinning. Pulsing, body crying for more as your mind struggled to catch up.
He knew. Rewarded your plangent cries with another finger. He stretched you wide, your thin delicate entrance throbbing around him until the slick dripped down his wrist.
"Look at that," the squelch of his hand made you whine, desire murky with shame. He tapped at your clit, just a little flick against the pebbled flesh. "Havenae even touched you here yet, and just look at you."
You wanted to writhe, to twist away from the pleasure-pain of his steady circling. But you couldn't. couldn't do anything more than lie there and endure it. You felt your thighs begin to shake, nerves twitching and seizing until finally - finally - you could cry out-
"-please, please I can't-"
"You fuckin' will," he growled it, thumb never breaking pace as he curled his fingers inside, hitting that spot that made you see stars.
It hurt, body clenching hard under an unnatural lull. You wanted to stretch out, arch back and curl your toes-
Instead, you sobbed.
Wrung out, mind-spinning and body twitching. Wetness cooling on your dewy, sensitive flesh - your cunt, your stomach, your neck. It all made you sob, a post-orgasmic ataxia. A night terror in waking.
He grabbed your face with his hand, still wet with your slick. Pressed hard into the plump cheeks until your mouth opened. You blinked blearily up at him, docile and trembling.
"You need me too, don't you?" Dumbstruck, you just looked up. There was something wild to his eyes, lust and hunger and somethingâŠempty. You could still see little drying flecks around his mouth, rust on snow. "Say it, ye need me."
You could blame it on whatever powers he wielded. On how you lay fallow. Ploughed yet unseeded at his touch.
"I-," your voice came out scratchy. Weak. "I need you."
He forced you to say it again, to bleat it out for him as he panted above you. Every whispered plea was like looking in a mirror that he held before you. Glassy-eyed, you stared back at your own loneliness.
It really was just you, and this thing. It started to settle, the basest of notions. You needed him-
(wasn't there something else niggling at the back of your mind-?)
"Yeah, ye do. It's why you've been walking around by yerself. Begging for someone tae snap you up. Lucky it was me."
(Lucky for whom?)
It didn't matter. He wasn't yet sated. How could he be, this creature of appetite? Gluttonous, greedy, gorging thing. A walking perversion; sin turned gourmand.
Your helium thoughts flew off like balloons - snip, snip, snip - with the snick of his slick teeth like scissors. He lapped at your neck once more, snuffed into it and groaned. You felt him against your entrance, crude, blunt cock sliding clumsily between your folds until it notched home. You couldn't see it, but the feeling had you whining plaintively in the cage of his arms. It was obscene; some ithyphallic nightmare of too-large flesh.
And then he pressed in.
Slowly at first, your body still wound too tight to accept him comfortably. But he made a space for himself, rocked his hips and hitched a thigh high over his bulky shoulder so that he could watch the way you squeezed. You clenched at the graze of his teeth against your neck, a horrible little thrill making you cry as he took you apart on his cock. Every thrust had you trembling, sent you sliding up the sheets and closer to his dripping maw.
But, oh- he had you trapped. Thrust up towards his teeth, or squirming down harder on his cock. An impossible choice, but you tried to make it. Poor thing.
Until you had no choice. Until his hips thrust harder, sucked in with an obscene squelching that had you gritting your teeth. His hot, slick tongue grew rougher until you felt a sting. Shameful, unending suckling filled the room and you felt your eyes flutter heavy once more.
Limp, placid, despoiled. Your body was in service to a slavering parasite. It infected you, this predaceous desire. Made you hot and sick in equal turns. Your core ached, clit throbbing as you slurred out your pleas. To stop, to keep going, to make you come, to leave you alone-
You felt his hand, now closer to your temperature. He dragged it across your slack lips, before digging it into your eyelid and tugging cruelly upwards.
"There ye are," he rasped, mean and breathless. "Cannae have ye driftin' off again. Not until-"
You were shivering again, fire burning deep inside but yet so cold. Clammy. Thoughts came hazy as an oil lamp flickering in the fog. It blanketed you, left you dreamy and carefree (and wrong- wake up-).
Still, he didn't stop, cruel thrusts and sharp teeth, until you felt like you'd float away. You felt him so deep, heard him groaning as he lost his pace and fumbled around your clit until you wriggled uselessly -'good girl, don' fight it, just need ye t-' and came. Stars danced across your vision, obscuring his ferine grimace, and you let them. Decarnate, you sagged into the sheets. Felt the soft tickle of his coarse hair on your chest as he kissed you frantically - finally.
It was nasty. All copper-tinge and spit and tongue. He licked into your open mouth as his hips stuttered, and with a choked moan he came.
He didn't move at first, just crushed you under his (-corpse-heavy-) bulk. You felt sticky and raw where he was buried inside, thick globs of come leaking out and mixing with the slick on the ruined bedsheets. You whined as he pulled out, a soft little 'ah' that he swallowed up with another cruel kiss.
"One day, ah'll have every single part of you," he whispered it like a promise. A constrictive, binding geas that sent your heart racing in your tight chest.
Unable to move, unable to answer you just let a tear slip over your lashline. Lacrima for a rain-laden rose; you drooped against the pillows. Under him.
Forever.
--------------
'Shee droopeth in her minde,
As, nipt by an ungracious winde,
Dothe some faire lillye flowre.'
massive thanks to stelle, gougie, bwuh, three, and woolie for listening to me whine about this for the past three weeks. probs wouldn't have posyed without your support <3
Since you both asked so nicely, have a snippet of a whisp of a conceptđ
I have an idea. Not fully fleshed out. I could go in two directions, either historical Ghoap working as Pardoners and taking advantage of ignorant village reader (corruption kink, religious themes, abuse of power etc.).
OR, for my monster-lovers, has anyone seen Dragonheart? I was picturing, like, one of them is something beastly, the other plays at knight = profit? Fantasy scam and rescue? So, it would go something like this:
(Tw kidnapping and kind of mean Ghoap) Link to AO3.
---------
Your situation didn't look any better flipped on its head. Flipped on your head, rather. Snatched and thrown over a bulky shoulder, highâ higher than even your standing position. It was discomfiting; it was terrifying. Blood rushed to your face not only in fury but also in shame as your skirts fluttered in the breeze.
He noticed, too. His greedy fingers dug into your thighs, skimming down like he was soothing a skittish horse. But you felt the way he lingered. The way he chuffed and squeezed tighter when you kicked out with all the strength of a skittish colt.
Your fists pounded uselessly against heavy splint-mail, hands-catching on rough nodules and spikes that didn't quite register as pain. Not to your panic-stricken mind, thoughts flying off in the wind behind you as the beast carried you off.
But the smack registered.
Perhaps it was the sound, the harsh slap of flesh on flesh. Whipping crack, like the snapping of a great branch. The precursor to an eerie stillness, violence begetting obmutescence. And it workedâ
âfor a second. For the time it took for your stinging nerves to catch up with your racing mind. Then you howled. Kicked and clawed and hissed like a feral cat as tears welled in your lash-line.
"How dare youâ"
"Quit yer fashin'. Ye'll bring the whole kingsguard down this wayâ"
"âgoodâ"
"âand then I'll have tae kill them all," That had your attention, legs tense under the heavy band of his bicep. "Dinnae much feel like sharin' ye around."
"Oh, you beast! You foul, vile, disgustingâ" Your voice was high, words scratching as they hitched out of your aching throat.
It hurt to speak, vocal cords already shredded from the way you'd screamed when he'd first ransacked your village. Coughing on heavy, acrid smoke and crying futile warnings about the Black Knight and his monster-in-arms ('Quiet, girl. Viper-tonged harlot, slither off and for gods' sake, quiet!') . But it hurt more to be silent. You flung insults like broken arrows, hoping that they would somehow land. That they would hit, fortuitously, and pierce the thick-hide of this brute. But hope is vain, and the fancies of men make gods laugh.
You landed hard on something soft.
Ego almost as bruised as your knees, you kept your eyes low. Sweeping. Marshy, wet silt. Topsoil sluiced off, only mud and clay and reeds to your right. A cheerfully babbling brook just beyond, water murky and discoloured with backwash fromâ the water flowed past the estuary of the village so it must beâ noâ
The realisation was caustic. Mordant. Burning at you like the scorched air in your lungs.
"You're a monster," you spat the words, mouth watering in your haste to let ichor drip forth and blacken him as much as the foul, brackish water ahead.
"Noticed that, did ye," he laughed, words glancing off like feeble blows. "Best not tae piss me off, then. Stay there and behave yersel'. Company's comin'."
Glancing up at him was like a blow to the stomach, wind punched out and body shaking. You already knew that he was big, inhuman. But now you could see every inch; monstrous, twisted mockery of natural features. Like a man formed of rock, too immense and hard and jagged to pass for anything but artificial. Counterfeit. Contranatural. Creation's bastard. All tusks and teeth and shorn hair. Hair everywhere, even down his bare, bulging forearms and thick knuckles. Coarse, dark.
His eerie, bright blue eyes blazed around black, pupils wild and blown. It could be the thrill, cruel playfulness of an apex predator. Berserker-wide, coming down from the killâ
But he'd been carrying you for a while, bloodlust long-since sated on the men and manse of your homeland.
You shivered, sweat and cold mingling in a discomfiting damp that raised the hairs on your arms. (The hairs on the back of your neck were already needle-stiff and prickling).
You pocketed a stone, a big jagged filthy shard. One you hoped could bruise and slash and poison, turn wounds weeping and sick.
Now that you were silent, he seemed especially strident, swaggering around the barebones of what you supposed must be a dwelling. You felt the slight whistling of air from the cave behind, cavernous and black. If you had to run, to hide, you'd take your chances with the forest and river ahead. To be lost in the appetites of the mountain abyss would spell death as surely as at the hands of this creature.
You watched him, cocksure and comfortable as he shucked off his warhammer and began unbuckling his braces. If you could read the snarl of his crooked teeth, you'd perhaps say he was in high spirits. He sent you a wink as he shrugged off his splint-mail, gravelly laugh echoing in the cavern behind.
It disguised the approach of your visitor.
"Grabbed the wrong one, Johnny," you shrieked as something grabbed your forearm, hauling you up. Looking down you saw the muted sheen of a spiked gauntlet. Black patina, flaked in iron rust. You swallowed hard, lump in your throat so big that it caught any words that might try to escape. Him. The Black Knight. The Liar.
"Ye said to grab the pretty one by the fancy house."
"She's not the magistrate's daughter. No ransom for her." He spun you around, metal biting hard into your chin as he arched your face towards his.
Cloaked in ink-black helm and visor, you could just about peer in to meet his gaze. He looked back with cold, assessing eyes. The voice that rumbled forth was as harsh and breccial as you remembered, words rending you apart with serrated precision: "Not worth a rescue mission."
He released your chin with a final shake of your head, huffing amusement as you rubbed at the thin scratches he left behind.
It was hard to breathe now, stomach swirling and head-light. Even if you could will yourself, it wouldnât help. There was already a faint coppery smell leeching from the Knight; your heart recognised it even if you would not give name to it. It sped up, fast enough to rush past your ears with discordant force.
You didnât feel the other one step up behind you, not until it was too late. There, trapped between man and monster (man the monster), tight enough that you couldn't even shiver. You felt the power of the creature even more now without the armour, all muscle and fat, sheer power close enough to sink your fingers into. But you couldn't move, your shallow breaths already catching in your throat into soft, hitching whines.
"Shh, it's alright, bonnie," Rough, clumsy fingers swiped under your eyes. You felt him crouch lower, stubbly hair and tusks digging into your powder-soft cheek. "Looks like we're gonnae have tae keep you, then."
someone pls make a repo/genetic opera fic where reader defaults on their payment plan and ghost is the repo man sent to reposess the organs, but he has a different interpretation of what that means
hello it has been a very long time but i am still around and lurking. question is, should i post an unedited/abrupt ending brides of dracula price drabble while i continue to fail at finishing all of my wips (:
