green cliffs: - lessons in mortality. chapter four
highlander!soap x fem!reader. cw dubcon and period typical violence. read on ao3 here
There is a large exhale of wind as night turns into morning. You roll around in unfamiliar sheets, plotting how to escape when you are next given the opportunity.
Johnny’s father had been a saving grace. Although he accepted that you and Johnny were already wed, he had wanted it officialised at a wedding for everyone to see before he could allow you and Johnny to stay in the same bedroom together. You were granted to stay in Johnny’s chamber while Johnny would take one of the many guest rooms. With how you are woken up, you imagine that it hadn’t made much of a difference, your innocence already compromised anyway.
You were used to the wake up from Ian, the pinch of his fingers on your cheek as he was already half telling you what needed done - feed the chickens, brush down the horses, check on the stock at the back of the cupboards. You wake up, half hopeful, cheek already smarting as if in preparation of him. Johnny blinks down at you, half-lidded. Beautiful but terrible.
“I’ll be back soon, angel,” he murmurs into the tilt of your neck, leaving a slick kiss there that has you shuddering. You swallow down the urge to snap at him to get off of you, letting him do as he wishes for the moment. Your compliance earns you a hand down your side, Johnny huffing as he rounds his palm over your hip.
He lifts his head, suddenly, gazes at you for a moment. You blink up at him, the image of docility, which has him squinting. You stay still, let him cup your jaw in the broad of his hand. His hair is mussed up from sleep, fluffy and loose in the morning. His beard is only slightly thicker than it had been when you had first met, a little darker.
His pupils dilate then pinch, taking in the expressions of your face. “Ah willnae be gone long,” he says, serious in a way that sends a different kind of shake through you. A warning. You nod as best you can, your chin digging into his palm. He squints for another moment. His thumb digs into the soft give beneath the bolt of your jaw. Just before you can crack under his hard stare, it dissipates and he dips his head to steal another kiss from you. “Wait fer me,” he bids you, and leaves.
You watch from the window, as he takes his horse from Mrs Duncan’s nephew - the stablemaster. You sit at the window, holding your chin like a phantom ache that Johnny has left behind. You can see his head, no bigger than your nail, tilt back as if seeking you out in the window. You doubt he can see you but he stares for a moment, hand near his clavicle as if in prayer before he bows his head and Cerberus starts to move.
You sit and wait, watching as he starts the journey towards the small village just outside of the Keep. He gets smaller and smaller, barely a dot in your vision and then not even that.
You jump up and stride over to Johnny’s desk. The clothes that you had left yesterday are folded neatly on the ornate chair. You had managed to salvage your stays from your dress before it had been spirited away by Mrs Duncan at some point while you were away from Johnny’s room. Your new dress is a softer cotton, a light blue skirt and a thick, dark woolen shawl that you tie around your clavicle. The bag filled with what little things you had managed to bring with you sits in the chair, ready to be picked up and returned to where they belong.
You do your stays up slowly, knotting the string up your chest. Johnny has barely been gone for part of an hour. Although you would be on foot, you didn’t want to chance him spotting you while you were still so near to the Keep.
In the dark of Johnny’s room, the smell of him buried in his sheets even though Mrs Duncan had replaced them, you had planned. If Johnny was less eager, maybe you could have waited for a better opportunity to attempt to run away, but you had felt time slip from endless into mere hours, minutes.
You don’t know where the closest priest is, likely in that small village just outside the Keep, but Johnny hadn’t seemed certain. His father had been discussing how the vicar may have been summoned to another village to perform burial rites just the other week, and so may still be making that slow journey back.
It is a risk, stealing away and going towards the village, with the chance that the first stable you approached, Johnny would appear. But, it was one that you would have to take. It would be too noticeable if you were to take one of the horses at the Keep’s stable, and you didn’t know how long the journey home would take on foot.
You tidy the bed, as if smoothing away any evidence that you had ever been there in the first place. You half-expect someone to catch you in the corridor, stop you and ask where you’re going. The few maids that pass you may give you a second glance but they keep quiet, scurrying like mice to wherever they need to go.
You exit out into the foreground, feel the sun beat down on your face, familiar, like an old friend. Long days out in the field, tilling until blisters form on your palms. Your skin itches with the sudden craving for it, and you set out, nose like a bloodhound. You don’t belong here, trapped in a room with Johnny and soft dresses. You need dirt under your hands, you didn’t realise until it was taken from you.
You cross the open ground of the Keep, people milling around as they go about their day. You reach the stone entrance, hesitate for half a moment before stepping from gravel into grass. Muscles tense as you wait for something to happen, for someone to stop you. The cacophony of noise behind you doesn’t suddenly stop, no one seems to take much notice.
You take another step then another, wanting to run, to get as much distance between you and the Keep as possible. You know you shouldn’t, though. You’re still in view of the Keep, and you don’t know if anyone is watching you too closely, but if they are, that may send them chasing after you. Better to walk, worst case you can always say that you were looking for Johnny, lovesick in the preparation of your nuptials, barely able to stand a morning away from him.
You imagine that Johnny will move on swiftly. Maybe rage when he first finds you gone, if you were trying to flatter yourself. However, another maiden would be in distress, and Johnny would swoop in and the story would repeat itself. You had half a mind to ask if you were the first woman that Johnny had brought home in such a manner, but had decided to leave it be. If you weren’t, you were likely to be replaced soon in any case.
It feels good to stretch your legs, stretching out your back as you go. You reckon that Ian will have something to say about your newfound laziness, a harsh wake-up required to get back to the realities of farm living.
You try to keep your mind occupied, but you drift back to thoughts of Johnny. You can vividly feel the press of his nose into your temple. His hands on your skin, rough and skirting, always shifting against you, as if trying to touch all of you at once. The dark hair across his chest, the thick press of muscle against his skin. You imagine another woman in his room, letting him kiss her the same way that he had with you. There is a bitter taste in the back of your throat but you ignore it. Only you can taste it after all.
Within the hour you have crossed the open grounds and are on the cusp of the village. It had been bustling when you had originally passed through, crowds of people at the market, selling and buying from stalls. Now, everything is still, a gust of wind blowing between cottages and whistling in a way that has the hair on the back of your neck rising.
The warmth of the sun seems trapped on the rooftops, unable to reach you on the ground. You hesitate, grass under your feet turning to dirt that has been packed in after being walked over so many times. There could be another village that you could visit, that you could beg a horse from, or even just directions and walk. But, you barely know the area, and another village could be a day away, and you could be heading in the completely wrong direction.
You shuffle, uncertain, and turn to look back at Dundardy Keep. Easily a mile away now, but you imagine that you can see the shadows of people in all of the windows. Watching you, keeping an eye in Johnny’s absence. You think you can see a figure, near the entrance of the Keep, and you wonder if you are being followed after all.
There’s nothing to be done for it. You step into the village, and make your way forward.
The loose fabric on a stall shifts against the wooden plank of its counter, wriggling like a hand in your direction. You stand in what seems to be the centre of the village, a loose circle, surrounded with abandoned stalls and a few cottages before they span down different paths into more homes.
You can hear the faintest sound, a murmur in one of the cottages. The lively scene that had welcomed Johnny is long gone, everyone gone into hiding. Nothing had been said about the village last night. Just that the local vicar may be in another village. Contrasted with the liveliness of the Keep, you think that you may have stepped onto another country, one with an absence of residents.
You head down one of the paths, a few minutes later, emerging onto the other side of the village. There is a stable here, with a few horses, and the sight of them nosing at some hay, as normal as can be, fills you with a sense of relief. Here is reality, as welcome as a bowl of warm soup.
You stretch your hand to one of the mares, and she lets you pet down her nose, nickering at you softly. You worry your lip looking over your shoulder. The village is in hiding, no one is around to help you out. If you cannot get directions, at least it would be less exhausting to be heading in the wrong direction if you found this out on the saddle.
It feels wrong to steal, especially in the shadow of a Laird. Your own village were tenants, but Ian had always dealt with the rent, always spoken with the men who were sent out to collect. This close by to the Keep, you imagine the crime is tenfold, and the punishment even steeper.
You feel owed this, though. Dragged out here by Johnny, you feel that you deserve to help yourself out. Besides, once you were back in your home, you could return, ride one of your own horses and guide this one home. Johnny would likely be back in the Keep in that distant future, another bride on his arm. Hopefully, this one would be a bit more excited by the prospect.
You unclip the latch of the stable door, the horses huffing as you step inside. There are saddles hitched to the back wooden wall and you consider taking one as well before you deny yourself. It is one thing to steal a horse (borrow, you remind yourself), but it is another to just help yourself while you’re at it.
You do take some reins. You had ridden bareback on a horse before, but you hadn’t without reins, and you didn’t want to find out just now if you had the gift for it. You come back over to the mare who butts her head into your chest, affectionate in a way that has you giggling before you hush yourself.
You secure the reins in place before you toss them over the length of her neck, about to turn to guide her out of the stall when you feel the heat of a body behind you.
“Helping yourself out, eh?” A voice hisses, then there are hands on your upper arms, digging into the flesh. You don’t recognise it, and that makes your blood cool before it heats again, hot panic that almost spooks the horses when the man drags you out and you kick out, frightened.
You are tossed into the ground, a familiar experience that has you gasping. If the voice wasn’t Scottish, you might think that the last few days hadn’t happened and you were back on your farm.
You attempt to scramble backwards but the man is too quick. You are grabbed by your hair and dragged upwards. The man starts walking and you have no choice but to keep your pace with him, a hand on his wrist that is in your hair, as if to lessen the pain stinging your scalp. He’s muttering to himself, calling you a dirty thief, how you will seek penance. With the vicar seemingly gone, you wonder what that penance will look like.
“Where are you taking me?” you ask, and regret it when he yanks on your hair to shut you up.
“Shut yer thievin’ mouth,” the man hisses at you. He’s much older than you, balding and worn looking. You think of those Englishmen who had treated you like a plaything. Only that third man had looked at you with true hate, the way that this man does. It cows you, forces you to lower your eye as best as you can.
You are brought back through those empty paths that you had walked down, and brought to the chapel near the side of town, where your captor kicks the door in and throws you inside before slamming the doors shut again. It’s quiet here, here is where the sunlight had been trapped, filtering in through the weak windows and caught in the pews.
You rub at your scalp, gingerly, and get yourself up, looking up the aisle to look at the pulpit at the end. This is likely where the Sunday sermon is read.
Ian was always more religious than you were. He always recited his sermons before bed, whereas you had only ever believed in God when you thought He may smite you.
You sit on the pew next to you and look over that confessional booth. Johnny may be a sinner, but he clearly believed if the reason he hadn’t fully taken your innocence was any type of evidence. You wonder if he had ever been in that confessional booth. Wonder if there was enough time in the world for him to confess his wrong doing to you. Or maybe it was all overshadowed by his saviourism.
You are bought with Englishmen blood. You worry your hands in your lap, wringing your fingers together. Wonder if Johnny will be back in time to watch his father’s people take your hand for thieving.
The doors swing open again after a few minutes, and you expect to see the man who brought you here, and he is at the front. He also seems to have brought the entire village with him, streams of unfamiliar faces all peering through the doorway to glare at you.
Half-hysterical, you wonder if they really are going to take your hand after all.
//
An hour later, they still have not taken your hand, but you wonder if they may do even worse than that. This is no longer a chapel, no longer a church. This is a courtroom, an impromptu hanging of the witch. You had thought that your crime was attempting to steal a horse, but instead it was disrupting their peace. One of the village’s sons had died, and everyone had been in mourning, waiting for the vicar to come back to read the burial rites again, just as he was doing for another village.
You don’t dare say a word, let them discuss your crime amongst themselves. You don’t even know how the boy had died, if it had been an accident, or an illness. You know that you have done wrong in attempting to take on their horses, even as justified as you had felt at the time. Out of some kind of penance, you decide to let them do as they wish, and then hopefully you can continue your plan of escape. Ian will welcome you back, one-handed or not.
The weeping mother casts a hateful look at you, as if you had been the reason her son had died in the first place. You squirm beneath her gaze, hot shame curdling in your stomach like an old friend. You had been brought to the front of the congregation, stood in front of the pulpit. A sad mimic of a Sunday sermon, in which you are preached to instead.
It’s a mob, even as they play sensible. Listing your crimes, but you hear the creep of mania in everyone’s mutterings. A child is dead, and no one is to blame. These people want someone to rip apart, and you have given them half a reason. You can hear them starting to talk themselves into a hanging, perhaps even throwing you down the local river.
“There’s nothing to be done for thieves,” the man who caught you demands, addressing the room. “Take a hand, and they’ll steal with the other!” He throws his arms out in gesture to you, damning you.
There’s a murmur of agreement, every casting you a distrustful look as if you could be stealing again as they speak. You try to stand as meekly as you can, but it seems to make things worse, if possible.
Everyone is speaking over each other, demanding justice, but you don’t think they even know for what. The doors open but barely anyone notices, and in walks Mrs Duncan’s nephew. He takes in the sight of the crowd and catches sight of you. You wonder if maybe he will speak in your defence, if he’ll tell anyone that Johnny will be expecting you back in his room in the keep, and if you aren’t there, but rather dangling from a rope, then he may be more than a little upset.
He says nothing, but gives you a long look before he stays in the doorway, foot holding it open. Shoulder against the frame as he watches the room. No one gives him a second glance, too caught up in their own rabble.
You stand there, and let them yell at each other, deciding your fate. Only stirring when you are grabbed again, and spun around. You are facing the pulpit the wrong way now, back to the crowd. You only have a moment to wonder what it is that they are planning to do, before your hands are braced on the box, and someone must rear their hand back and the strike of a whip slices down your back.
Even through the wool covering and the fabric of your dress and shift, it is a sharp sting that slices into your skin. You shriek, try to dart away, or turn around, but there are hands on your wrists, holding you to the stand and the whip cracks against your back again.
You feel each leather tongue of it lick its sting on your back, quickly following with an agony that settles into the muscle and has you arching as if to get away from it. You think about the man in your village, how his back had been carved into, flesh ripped open as they did this on his bare back. You cannot even imagine, even as a lesser version happens to you. An extra step of pain, like a new colour that hasn’t been invented yet.
You can hear them chanting for someone to rip open the back of your dress, they want to see the whip slice down into the bone. They want blood, want it to cleanse you. The heat of a body at your side, fingers digging into the back of your dress as if to make this reality. The rip of fabric, the cheer of the crowd as the untouched skin of your back is exposed, ready for the kill.
Everything is stopped with a bellow at the door. You know it’s Johnny, and relief sags in your knees before a different type of fear takes its place. “What the fuck is goin’ on here?” Johnny shouts, and he must be shoving people out of the way if the scuffle you hear is any indication.
The hands on your wrists are gone. You turn around to catch sight of Johnny, cracking his fist across the face of the man with the whip. The two men who had been holding you in place seem to be trying to get past as they see what their future has in store. You see them back away, stumbling into a pew and freezing as they watch Johnny rear his hand back again.
You blink tears out of your eyes and watch as most of the village floods out of the chapel, some staying and watching in horror. Johnny has the man who whipped you flat on his back, Johnny’s fist crushing into the delicate skin of his face over and over again, until there is nothing recognizable about him.
The sound of sobbing jolts you back to yourself, as you realise it is not your own. “Johnny - Johnny stop it!” You shout, falling forward and catching Johnny’s hand as he rears back to swing again. He shakes you off, forcing you back and into a pew which shrieks as it scrapes against stone. That sound seems to shake Johnny somewhat out of it, and he puffs, trying to catch his breath.
“Get him out of here,” he growls, forcing himself up and leaving the man on the ground. The man gurgles a little from what may be his mouth, blood frothing a little. You can’t look away from it, horrified. The justice for those Englishmen had been death and there had been something kind in that. This man doesn’t seem able to breathe, his nose crushed and flattened.
A couple of villagers scoop him up and cart him out, scuffling as they try to move as quickly as they can. The chapel is quiet besides the sound of breathing when the door finally swings shut at last.
Johnny stares at you, face still. You expect him to start on you next, maybe grab you and shake you around some. It’s frightening, how he just watches you, a faint twitch in his eye. The terrible urge to apologise sits in your throat but you swallow it down. You feel like you have been caught doing something wrong, even though you were just trying to get home.
“Vicar Jamie,” Johnny finally says, voice raw. His white shirt is stained in blood again, shifting down his chest and exposing the hair that grows there. You remember the bath from yesterday and flush, turning your head to who he is speaking to in order to distract your mind. A small, stout man, very haggard looking but dressed in Catholic finery stands near the doorway.
“Johnny, my boy, let us reconvene on this tomorrow, perhaps, give us some time to clean ourselves up,” the vicar tries to interject, but Johnny turns on him with such a veracity that has him shrinking.
“Now,” is all Johnny snaps out, mouth pulled back in a snarl that shows all of his teeth. His right hand drips red, a warning in itself.
The vicar nods, fumbles with his hands for a moment before he makes his way to the front of the chapel, neatly arcing around the smear of blood next to Johnny’s feet.
Johnny’s gaze returns to you, hot on your face. You hold your dress up on your chest, feel the cold air hit your back that has you shivering. His gaze holds no pity for you, and after a moment you glare right back at him.
The vicar shifts the stand that you had been shackled to, to the side and takes its place, avoiding your eye. Mrs Duncan’s nephew, who had stood at the door, takes a seat in the askew pew, face still as he watches you. A witness you realise, and a kick like a startled hare almost sends you tearing down the aisle.
Johnny’s hand on your upper arm catches you before you can seriously begin to run, yanks you into place.
A moment taken out of a play. You and Johnny, side by side. Your back exposed out of your ripped dress, a scared vicar who won’t look you in the face and a witness to your humiliation. Blood, cooling on the stone a step behind you, coating Johnny’s hands and his clothes.
You lean too far out of Johnny’s hold and you feel the tightening of his fist and you return to your place.
It's a sad affair, the vicar stumbling over his words as he binds the two of you together. Johnny is a barely controlled rage next to you, you can feel the shake of his fingers on your arm, squeezing and letting go, over and over. You don’t even have the official binding ceremony, the fabric that should tie your wrists together, the prick of blood. The vicar pauses as if to consider this, but quickly skirts past this as well. Likely, too much blood for a wedding ceremony already.
The vicar has barely finished before Johnny is snapping at him to get out. It’s a quick escape, a puff of air in your ear as he darts past you, Mrs Duncan’s nephew following shortly behind. The door snaps shut, fate sealed.
“What are you doing here?” Johnny asks, hot air huffing out of his mouth into your face.
You keep quiet, silenced in the face of his true anger. Before you had argued, snapped at Johnny, here is the first instance of genuine fear you have felt because of him. The anger he has that led to the murder of men who had hurt you, perhaps pointed at yourself for the first time. You wonder if he’s going to wrap his hands around your throat, squeeze like he seems to want to. There is a strange sensation of vulnerability, knowing your back is exposed even though it is hidden from Johnny’s view.
His hands come up and you flinch, missing the growl of frustration that comes out of him as they settle on your shoulders and wrestle you forward into your chest. “Why did they do this to you?” he asks, palms against your collarbone. The wrest of control, firmly in his hands.
You can’t look him in the eye, settle your eye-line on his clavicle again. The smooth skin, hidden in the dip of his throat. The itch from that horse ride - a lifetime ago - reawakens and you lift your hand, curl your finger in there. Feel the vibration as he grunts, feel the dip of his harsh swallow. Your name calls your attention. You look up, his eyes are dark, mad, even. You give into his tyranny. “I was trying to take a horse,” you admit. His nostrils flare, anger cracking across his face and you just barely stop yourself from flinching back from it. “I’m sorry,” you add, pathetic. Escape plan ruined before it even really started, you have nothing left to be prideful about.
He shudders, lowering his head to yours, the gulf of space now swallowed up with his proximity. You let out a meek sound when his forehead hits against yours, like he wants the bone to touch. “An’ Ah was out, findin’ us a priest to marry us, and you were tryin’ tae sneak out while m’back was turned,” he hisses out, hands clenching on your collarbone again, muscle and bone grinding against each other. You blink up at him, resigned to your fate. You felt the bite of teeth days ago, and had spent all of this time trying to hide from it. But, the stench of blood sticks and you must now reckon with it.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat. Feel all of it, the drag of emotions as they sweep through. The mare out in the stables had been a lifeline and when you were dragged away, you felt it like the loss of Ian all over again. Leaving him behind had been one thing, but every attempt to get back has been a lesson in humility since.
You are a human, in the wraps of terror left by a god. Swallowing a cry that lingers in the back of your throat like a sickness, you hesitantly tilt your head back and nudge your nose against Johnny’s. He freezes, hands going still. A breath, shared between the two of you. Here is that smack of flesh after the fall, a day late, but now it registers. It was likely even before he woke you up with his mouth on the back of your neck. A lion lying with its mouth open, you were halfway down his gullet before you even noticed where you were.
Your husband now, you think, half-crazed, before you inhale his breath and press your mouth hesitantly to his. It’s clumsy, you only half know what you’re doing but he presses forward with a hunger that almost has you reeling back again. Johnny is a man to be offered an inch and takes a mile, his hands on the back of your head, pressing you closer to him even as he leans in.
You only half know how to kiss him, but you barely get a chance to learn before he is pressing your mouth open with his. Barely a moment to gasp in a breath before his tongue is against yours, slick and invasive.
You stumble back, still holding your dress up with your hands before you stumble into a pew. He pulls back for a moment and you barely manage his name before he’s picking you up and thudding down to his knees, dragging you down with him.
The cold stone sends a wave of cold through you that has you keening away from it and into the warmth of Johnny’s chest. He lets go of your head and it thuds against the ground, his arms worming around your back, skating past the ripped open seams of your dress and onto the bare skin of your back. He moans, deep and wanton into the curve of your chin, gives you a quick nip there before he drops his head into the crook of your neck.
“I’ve been so patient, wanted it tae be right between us, angel, didnae want to ruin us,” he groans, hands greedy on the bare skin of your back. “But, it’s alright now, I’ve done it right, jus’ let me -”
He barely seems able to finish a thought, tugging your dress down, dragging your torn slip and underskirts with it. He barely manages, as unwilling as he is to get off of you as he does it, so they end up pooled around your waist, nipples pebbling in the cold. He coos down at your chest, pinching one of your nipples meanly until you hiccup.
“Johnny, can’t we go back to the Keep, I won’t run again, I swear,” you start, feeling overwhelmed tears start to prick in your eyes. You don’t want it to be like this, on the cold floor of an unfamiliar parish. You aren’t sure of the technicalities of what comes next, your father hadn’t been forthcoming when he was alive, and your brother refused to say, always deeming it unladylike to ask. You knew it was something frightening, and heard some of the women describe their husbands as beasts during the act. You know how the animals look as they do it, saw the rutting of a stallion in a mare once, how she had shrieked as she was mounted.
“You were the one tae drag yerself out here,” Johnny points out, half-muttering to himself. He gnaws on your collarbone before he gives you a sucking kiss there. “Ye’ve made yer bed, sweetheart.”
He shifts himself up onto his knees and lifts your ankles up, yanks your skirts and dress down, tossing them over his shoulder with barely a glance. You’ve been bare in front of him before, not even a day ago, but this feels different. He looms over you, eyes dark as they seem to take in every inch of you. The stone beneath your back is cold, leaving gooseflesh all over you as it steals your heat.
He splits your legs across his lap and you jump, hand trying to reach down to cover the apex of your thighs but he catches your wrists in one of his hands, transfixed with his gaze between your legs. “There she is, oh angel, she’s so beautiful,” he murmurs, a thumb reaching down to pull the seam of you further apart, something that has you squirming in shame. “Knew ye would have such a sweet cunt, so pretty.”
“Don’t look down there, it’s unseemly,” you protest, voice weak. Your thighs clench with the need to close but you only end up squeezing your knees on his waist.
“All mine,” he continues to mutter, thumb coming up to round over the top of your sex, a feeling like a curling heat in your stomach starting up. It has you jumping, hare kicking out its legs before a hand soothes over its ears, pins them down. Your reaction seems to gratify him, has him rubbing his thumb until it’s almost mean, eyes hot on you for even the smallest reaction. You start to whine, deep in your chest, the feeling just on this side of just too much.
“Johnny, Johnny, please,” you sob, barely understanding what it is that you are pleading for.
He lets up, petting down to your entrance which you can feel flutter at the press of his fingers. He pushes and you feel his finger push into you, a whine coming out of you like a wounded animal. He pants, not even blinking as he watches it, barely pausing before he’s pushing in a second finger, which almost has you bucking him off. He shushes you, half distracted by the sight of your cunt swallowing his fingers and leaving them shining. “So good, angel, so good,” he mutters. You hate that the praise has you trying to swallow down any of your complaints.
He lets go of your wrists and they lie, useless across your belly. Still watching his fingers move in you, his other hand tugs over the sash his kilt has made over his chest, yanking on it until it unravels and it is also tossed to the side. Lifting your knee to press a clumsy kiss to the side of it, he lets it drop again and pulls his hand away from your sex with a mournful noise and pulls off his white shirt.
Now that both of you are naked, Johnny seems to get quicker, breath coming fast. He quickly hitches your legs further up his waist and drags you closer to him. Stone scrapes at your back and you hiss, which he barely acknowledges with a quick kiss to the underside of your breast.
He drags his hand up your slit and gathers the slick that has gathered there, and slides that over his cock, moaning with his mouth hanging open as he looks at you beneath him. “Been dreaming o’ this, bonnie. Knew it was you, was always you,” he murmurs, smoothing his other hand over the curve of your hip, as if memorising the shape of you by hand. “Nothing wrong wae it now, jus’ the two o’ us, always, always.”
He braces one of his hands just over your shoulder, the other to guide his cock to your sex and notches it against your hole. It looks monstrous, now that you can bring yourself to properly look at it. Nothing like the faint sight of it you had seen in the Bible once, the mushroom head is red as Johnny pulls back skin to expose it. He intends to push it inside you, just as he did his fingers, but the head of it looks to thick to manage it.
“Johnny, it’s not going to fit,” you start to say, but that just makes Johnny groan and shush you, giving you a squeeze on the hip.
“Of course it will, angel, ye were made fer me,” he tells you, and you can see the pull of muscle in his bicep as he starts to push.
For a moment, you think that you’re right, it’s not going to. But, then, you can see the give of muscle, the parting of flesh and see yourself swallow the head as a tremor runs through you. A strange, foreign feeling. It feels half-invasive, as he pushes into you, the rest of you transfixed by the furrow of his brow as he watches the parting of your flesh around him.
“Oh, oh fuck, angel, oh shit,” he curses, continuing the slow guide into you until you feel it stop, as if you cannot take anymore.
“Johnny,” you sob, looking back down to see only half of him is inside of you. “Johnny, take it out, I can’t -”
“The best cunt ever, the prettiest girl, fer me, all fer me, oh angel,” he rambles, eyes rolling back into his head as he shifts his hips. Pulls out of you just enough to push back in. You whimper with it, as he tries to grind even more of himself into you.
It's not working, leaving you sniffling beneath him until he grunts in frustration and brings his thumb to your clit and starts to work you in little circles.
His other hand hoists your thigh further up his waist, and he catches sight of your teary expression. Forces what must be an attempt at a soothing smile but all you can see is the clench of his jaw, the sharp edge of his teeth. You wonder if he likes the look of the pinch of your brow, the part of your mouth as you start to loosen up just a little. Even the few tears that drip down your temples. His hand on your hip smears blood into your skin, but you barely notice, trying to catch your breath.
“There we go, c’mon jus’ relax, honey, make it good, there we are,” he coaxes you, a tendon throbbing in his throat. His thumb on your sex makes everything a little slicker and more of him disappears into you, until he finally bottoms out, his thighs pressed flush against the back of yours.
A whine escapes you, painful and high and you cling to Johnny’s chest, coarse hair scratching at your palms. “Johnny,” you start again, unable to look down at yourself again, see the ugly stretch of yourself around Johnny. Everything throbs, you can feel him in your lungs, buried deep and irrevocable now.
Johnny is out of it, both his hands brace over your shoulders now, a tremble in his broad shoulders. You can see the white of his eyes, unreachable, as he groans long and drawn out. “The tightest cunt, knew ye would be so sweet fer me, dreamt of this, of you,” he rambles, pulling his hips back just enough to snap them back into you.
“I can't,” you stammer, but he just shakes his head roughly at you, beyond words. Braces himself on his knees and starts to grind against you. Pulls himself out and then pushes back in. It's a strange sort of pleasure. The stretch of flesh smarting a little before the clumsy rhythm starts to warm you up. Sweat slicks your back until the stone beneath you is warm with the fever spreading through you.
Johnny seems to come back to himself for a moment, thumb dropping back down to the peak of your sex, roughly rubbing circles in time with his thrusts. The pinnacle of the male body, all dark hair and rippling muscles, all bearing down on you. You can see the tense of muscle triangulating at his abdomen, flexing with each thrust into you.
He quickly seems to forget about you, hand dropping away in favour of sliding around to the small of your back and hitching you up. Your hands scramble for purchase, clinging to his forearms as both his hands keep only your shoulders against the ground.
“Johnny, no, don’t,” you protest, mouth opening on a shaky breath out as his thrust into you feels dirtier like this. You catch sight of the altar, the smooth wood built by holy men at their parish. Blasphemous, to consummate like this in here, Johnny makes it filthy, something that you imagine must be wrong even as you start to twitch your hips towards his thrusts, wanting it.
Your protests just make Johnny groan, your hips still propped up on his thighs, but he bends his torso down to press against yours. His head against your clavicle, you can feel the sweat building on his forehead smear against your skin. “Yeah, Ah’m a dirty man, aren’t I, sweetheart?” he asks you, biting at the side of your breast before broadly licking at your nipple, both of you whining together when that makes you clench around him.
Everything is slick, you can hear a wet sound as he works between your thighs and you want to cringe, ashamed even as you barely understand. You can hardly think, a fever in you that is spreading, but Johnny is burning even hotter. You slide your hands up to his biceps and cling to the hard muscle there as he thrusts into you.
Breathy sounds are punched out of you, punctuated with each collision of Johnny forcing himself deeper into you. It's lewd, the smack of flesh, but you feel hazy, dreamlike. Johnny continues rambling above you, his mouth working, the scratch of his beard across the soft skin between your breasts, but you can barely hear him.
There is a rising heat within you, and it spreads like disease through you, muddying your thoughts until you tilt your head back. Dig your temple into stone as if to try and grind your mind back into your body.
You’re wrestled back into yourself, Johnny refusing to let you look anywhere else. You understand why those women described their husbands as animals. Johnny is a huffing beast above you, slavering over you he gives and takes, over and over until you are senseless.
He stills, groans deep in his chest, his forehead resting on your chest, and you feel the twitch and sudden heat of him spending himself inside of you. The fever stills and festers in you, leaving you feeling itchy. Johnny snaps his hips a few more times, then drags it out, lazy as his mouth drools into your skin. Stills inside you, but you feel high-strung, still too tense.
Your hands twitch, fingernails catching against taut skin. Johnny huffs, amused but breathless. “I’ve got you, m’girl, so greedy, eh?”
You have half a mind to protest, he's the one who’s swallowed you whole, not the other way around. But your mouth opens and nothing but a choked whine spills out when his hand drops down to your sex again and works you over.
Still buried so deep, every flex is different like this, Johnny groaning his agreement into your sweaty skin. “Johnny, Johnny, please - !” You beg, legs kicking out as your vision gets blurry, and suddenly your back bows, a sob bursting out. A fresh slick of liquid around Johnny, and he thrusts lightly, half-soft now, whining at the overstimulation of it.
He keeps going until you start to squirm too much, almost launching yourself across the floor and he stops, laughing into the curve of your breast, still half whining to himself. He smooths his hand up your thigh and to the curve of your backside. You can feel the wetness of his fingers, but you feel too dazed to be too embarrassed of it.
“Knew ye’d be so good,” Johnny murmurs, squeezing at your backside. You hum, bone deep exhaustion dragging you down. You lift a hand up and drag it into his hair. He melts, his weight digging you further into the floor.
You become aware of the sopping wet beneath your thighs, wincing as you shift your hips and feel wetness slide down and join the sweat that you have left on the stone. Sweat cools in the divot of your throat, the small of your back, sticking between you and Johnny. The length of his body pressed against you, hard muscle against the soft give of your skin. He seems to like it, a hand squeezing at the give of your arse, the other smoothing over whatever flesh you have left to give him.
“We should get up,” you murmur, your chin on the crown of his head. He huffs like a lazy dog, but after a moment where you think he isn’t going to get up at all, he finally starts to shift with a sigh.
Johnny reaches between your thighs and pulls himself out of you, you wince at the stretch, watch with morbid interest at the white shine left behind, caught in the hair that covers the base of his cock. Johnny is equally as enthralled with what he’s made of your cunt and it’s only when your thighs squeeze shut that he shakes his head and stands. He gives you a firm pat on the backside before he hoists you up, a mean laugh at your squeak. “C’mon, up we go, lassie,” he says, teasing and light. He seems fond now, still a little more harsh than you want him to be, but he nudges his head against yours again, a mimic of how you were as you were joined. “Nothin’ between us, now, ehh?” he adds, blue eyes digging into yours.
His nose nudges against yours, your skin buzzes with the remnants of his touch. There is no stone left unturned, everything split apart under Johnny’s hands. Ripe fruit, ripped open and left to rot.
“Nothing,” you echo, and he smiles like the sun. There is man’s blood on his right hand and you can smell the metal of it when he cups your face and brings his mouth back to yours. A clash of teeth as you bite back even as you are swallowed up.
“Let’s go home,” Johnny murmurs, pulling back with a slick noise as your lips separate. You don’t think you know where that is, but you let him gather your skirts back up to half cover you before he gives you his kilt and fastens it around you. Damning, to wear the red of the Mactavish clan. The final nail in this coffin, solidifying who you are now.
Cerberus is outside, pawing at the ground and snapping his teeth at any of the villagers who get too close. Before you are ushered onto the saddle and away, you catch sight of the mare you had been about to escape on. Your bag of your belongings from home sits abandoned in a heap next to the stable. Your spare cloak, your spare shift. The last remnants of home.
It is all swallowed up as Johnny stands in front of you. You let him hoist you up and you curl into him as he slots into place behind you. The world is caught around the edge of Johnny’s shoulder, filtered through into your vision.
Cerberus starts a slow canter back to the Keep, and you dig your forehead into Johnny’s collarbone. Every step takes you further from your land. Johnny’s hand on the curve of your tummy, his chin on the crown of your head. There is a bottomless feeling in your stomach, but Johnny smooths his hand over your belly and catches it in the palm of his hand.
