— cecil

“ bone-deep. ” | a short lesbian horror romance.

18+ , butchfemme fic

summary :

A strange new woman by the name Isolde, has moved into the village. And ever since her appearance, rugged village butcher Mara hasn't been able to stop thinking about her—then one night, she catches her sneaking out under a blood moon.

—

content :

original characters , original plot , butchfemme tension , feral queer yearning , gothic romance , blood as a metaphor for desire , supernatural ritual , tenderness through violence , intense restraint , cliffhanger.

—

content warnings :

animal blood + death , implied ritualistic blood magic , non-explicit violence , references to folklore and superstition , slight smut (?)

you have been warned . .

The village lay hushed beneath a swollen, red-tinged moon, its bloodlight bleeding into every crooked corner and shadowed alley. That night, the air tasted heavy with old fear—whispers of curses and hunger walked like ghosts between timbered houses and flickering lanterns. Even the dogs were silent.

Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of peat and iron, mingling with the cold breath of early autumn. The earth was damp, the ground soft and dark beneath gnarled roots where wild things stirred just beyond sight.

At the edge of this restless village stood the butcher’s cottage—rough-hewn stone and weathered wood, stained faintly with time and toil. A low, barred window flickered with the dim glow of a lantern, and the faint metallic clink of knives drifted into the night.

Mara was a woman carved from the same unforgiving landscape—the sharp lines of her jaw, the thick strength in her hands, the way her dark eyes missed nothing. She moved through the shadows like a creature born for hard work and harder silences. Few spoke to her, and fewer still dared to meet her gaze.

There was a rawness to Mara, something both protective and dangerous, like a wolf watching the edges of the village.

A week ago, a woman had come to live in the cottage next door—quiet as a shadow slipping across a wall. Mara had seen her only a handful of times, brief glimpses through half-closed doors or when Isolde dared step into the village square to gather fabric from the tailor or water from the well.

Isolde was nothing like the villagers—too pale, with hair like dark water and eyes that held secrets Mara couldn’t name. She moved with a softness that unsettled Mara’s rough edges, as if she belonged more to the wild woods than to these rough-hewn streets.

They had barely spoken. Only occasionally whenever Isolde asked Mara for a cut of meat or a sprig of yarrow. Their hands would also brush—brief, electric—and Mara’s skin burned long after the contact ended.

Mara couldn’t understand what it was about the woman that rooted her thoughts so deep—why her nights churned with restless hunger, or why she found herself watching Isolde from the shadows, always wanting to step closer but never daring.

There was something about Isolde that defied the quiet, something raw and ancient, like a whispered spell Mara couldn’t break.

The night was thick with the iron scent of blood and earth. Mara’s boots sank softly into the damp soil as she moved toward the chicken coop, a lantern held steady in her calloused hand. Her breath came out in quiet clouds beneath the blood moon’s cruel light.

She reached the coop and pulled open the door, the quiet clucks of startled hens filling the still air. Her fingers closed around a plump bird, steady and sure—the first step in the long, familiar ritual of butchering.

But then—movement. At the edge of her vision, something slipping between the trees like a shadow untethered.

Mara’s eyes snapped up. There—just beyond the edge of the clearing—was Isolde.

She wore a cloak dark as midnight, hood pulled low over her face, but Mara could see the pale curve of her jaw and the way she moved—silent, urgent, like a creature fleeing something only she could hear.

With an ache and a touch of doubt, Mara decides to trail after the woman.

The lantern’s glow flickered, barely piercing the thick cloak of night as Mara moved through the underbrush, every step measured and silent. The world around her seemed to hold its breath—the rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs underfoot, all swallowed by the heavy stillness beneath the blood moon.

Isolde’s figure slipped ahead like a wraith, weaving between gnarled roots and ancient oaks, drawn deeper into the dark heart of the forest. Mara’s pulse thudded, raw and fierce, a wild animal’s hunger curling beneath her ribs.

She kept her distance, reluctant to break the fragile thread of silence, yet desperate not to lose the elusive woman she’d chased into the shadows of her own mind.

Then, in a small clearing bathed in eerie red light, Mara stopped cold.

Isolde knelt before a patch of earth, her hands steady and sure as she traced strange symbols in the dirt.

“You seek to bind the moon’s hunger,” Mara finally huffed, voice rough like bark.

Isolde started, eyes wide—not with fear, but something fiercer.

“And you followed me,” she hummed in response softly.

Mara stepped forward, the anger twisting in her throat, desperate to choke down the longing.

“Do you know what they say of this night?”

“That it is cursed,” Isolde answered, her voice barely a breath. “That those who walk beneath the blood moon risk becoming the very hunger it draws out.”

Mara’s hand twitched at her side, fingers curling. “And yet here you are, alone and defiant.”

To no response.

“I warned you.”

“You never warned me. You never spoke to me at all.”

Mara had turned. Jaw clenched, shoulders taut. She was already walking away.

Isolde’s voice cut through the silence: “You think I don’t know what this night is?”

Mara stopped. But she didn’t turn.

“You think I came out here to die?”

And then—a thud. A wet sound. The snapping of bone and sinew.

Mara turned just in time to see her crouched over something limp in the grass.

A rabbit. Its throat torn ragged by some fox or hawk before she'd found it.

Isolde, with her delicate fingers buried in its open chest.

Blood ran down her wrists, slick and dark, as she smeared it across her face—her lips, her cheeks, the hollows beneath her eyes. A ritual. A defiance.

“What are you doing?”

Mara’s voice was not angry now. It was shaken.

“Giving the moon what it wants,”

Isolde drew out, standing. Her face was a mask of crimson, her hair caught in the wind like dark silk.

“If hunger walks tonight, I will not be the one consumed.”

Mara was on her in a second.

Her hands seized Isolde’s face— hard, fingers splayed along her blood-slick cheeks, gripping like she could wring the madness out of her.

“You don’t know what you’re inviting.”

“Don’t I?” Isolde’s voice was calm, but her eyes were wild.

Mara stared at her. Blood wet against her palms. Isolde’s pulse thudding just beneath the skin.

And something inside her cracked—not broke, but rather opened.

“You’re vile,” she whispered. “You’re dangerous. You’re…”

Her voice faltered.

Isolde smiled, slow and lovely and ruinous.

“Say it.”

Mara’s breath stilled.

“Beautiful,” she exhaled.

Mara’s fingers dug into the curve of Isolde’s jaw, her breath sharp and uneven as she stared at the blood smeared across that pale face. Isolde didn’t flinch. She held Mara’s gaze like a flame holds a moth—steadily, almost cruelly.

Then—slowly, deliberately—Isolde leaned in.

Her breath was warm and metallic between them, the scent of copper rising sharp between their mouths. Mara’s grip tightened, but she didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. The closeness scraped something raw open inside her, something ugly and wanting.

Isolde didn’t ask. Didn’t whisper. Didn’t wait.

She kissed Mara with the same ritualistic surety she had used to smear the blood on her own skin—slow, unwavering, and full of something far older than affection. A kiss not meant to soothe, but to possess.

Mara’s body stilled, her heart a brutal drum in her ears. She tasted blood—not her own—and heat, and something like fury. She didn’t move, not right away. Didn’t kiss back.

But she didn’t pull away, either.

She stayed there, breath caught between punishment and permission.

And when Isolde finally pulled back, she said nothing. Just watched Mara, eyes dark and unreadable, as if she were still mid-ritual—and maybe she was.

Mara stood there, trembling.

—

if you made it all the way to the end, thank you so much !! i hope you liked it. i have some more for these characters, so if you find yourself interested— tell me <3

images frm pinterest

Strawberry - I’m in love with you.

Cherry - I love you.

Watermelon - I think you’re cute.

Blueberry - You’re amazing.

Kiwi- You’re pretty

Rasberry - You’re hot.

Plum - I would fuck you.

Paopu Fruit - I would date you.

Grapes - I could stay on your blog for hours.

Lemon - You are my tumblr crush.

Orange - I want to get to know you.

Tangerine - We have a lot in common.

Lemon - I wish you would notice me.