Random Shizzle

you were born at first light on the spring equinox — a moment of perfect balance. it has always meant something. the women in the village say you carry the turning of the year in your bones. that your very breath carries promise. and today, the promise is being honoured.

you rise when líadan whispers your name. her voice is soft and clear, like the last meltwater of winter.

“éirí, mo rún. it is time.”

you step down from the raised bedding into a pool of fresh rushes. they’re damp with dew and smell of green things, cut only hours ago. twelve women wait around the room, all familiar, all smiling. they’ve known you since you were swaddled in wool and passed around the midwives’ arms.

líadan. saorlaith. muirenn. the mothers and the matriarchs. the herbalists and the singers.

you don’t feel afraid. you feel special.

they begin the rite of cleansing. it is tradition — a sacred preparation for those born on equinox, for those who carry the village’s blessing.

you undress slowly, arms lifting of their own accord, and step into the low basin near the fire. warm water laps around your ankles. saorlaith begins at your feet, her fingers working with gentle precision, her face tilted in quiet reverence.

muirenn presses herbs into a cloth — thyme, marigold, rosemary — then dips it into the basin and moves up your legs, her touch soothing, firm.

líadan hums under her breath. not a song, exactly — something older. it winds through the steam and settles into your skin.

your hair, thick and curled from sleep, is let loose around your shoulders. they do not braid it. that would be a mark of mourning. instead, they comb it softly with bone fingers, pulling it into shape but letting it fall wild and unbound. a halo, saorlaith murmurs.

“the wind will love you today,” she says.

you laugh softly. “then i hope it’s gentle.”

the women smile.

after the bathing comes the dressing. muirenn lifts a robe from a carved cedar box — green wool, dyed with nettle and elder. it gleams faintly in the morning light, edged with gold threads pulled from distant islands. it’s heavy when she lays it across your shoulders, but not cumbersome. it fits you like it was made from the earth itself.

it was.

your mother wove it for you over years, whispering prayers into every thread. you remember her hands. her voice.

saorlaith touches your chest with ochre — the sacred mark. a spiral drawn from the heart outward, each curve a promise of return.

“to wear the balance is to carry the spring,” líadan says, fastening a sun-shaped brooch just above your heart.

you nod. the words settle in your chest like truth.

you do not know how rare it is. to be born on the turning. to be chosen for such honour.

you only know you feel radiant. you feel full of light.

the meal is already set when you enter the hall.

they seat you alone at the long low table. woven rushes line the floor, scattered with violets and fresh chamomile. outside, the sun is still climbing, and the village stirs in soft murmurs. but here — in this space — all is still.

one by one, the women bring you offerings.

trout wrapped in herbs, oatcakes drizzled in honey, figs from the last trade boat, soft white cheese, golden-crusted bread, warmed goat’s milk with a sprig of mint. everything rich. everything sacred.

you eat slowly, your hands washed and your robe tucked neat. no one speaks at first. only the sounds of the feast: the crackle of the hearth, the quiet chime of a copper spoon against ceramic.

then muirenn kneels beside you, setting down a final plate of sugared grapes.

“we’ve never had one like you,” she murmurs.

you blink, smiling. “like me?”

“so close to the centre of the balance… so perfectly timed.”

her eyes shine with something deeper than pride. something like awe. líadan stands behind her, hands clasped.

“you’re not only a blessing, girl,” she says. “you are a bridge.”

a bridge, you think. between seasons? between earth and sun?

you nod. you don’t quite understand, but you don’t question it—after all, you’ve been told since you were small: to be born on the day of balance is to be marked for greatness.

you miss how miurenn nudges her sharply in her ribs.

they braid flowers into your curls next. not for structure, not to bind — but to celebrate. lamb’s ear, hawthorn, a single sprig of meadowsweet.

“you’ll lead the procession after the sun peaks,” saorlaith tells you.

“to the stones?” you ask.

“to the stones,” líadan confirms.

your heart flutters.

you’ve dreamed of this beautiful ceremony since you were a child, nothing but butterflies filling your stomach everytime you thought of receiving such a sacred blessing. but today, you’ll finally live your dream. your robe, your mark, your crown. they will sing to you, for you. you are not just part of the rite — you are the reason.

your mother enters then, arms folded tightly. her face is pale, drawn at the edges, but she smiles when your eyes meet. she kneels in front of you and offers a cloth-wrapped bundle — your token. you open it slowly: a carved wooden bird, shaped like a swallow, polished until it gleams.

you look up. “you kept this?”

“since you carved it at seven,” she smiles, recalling a sweet memory.

“it was lopsided.”

“the wind flew it true,” she whispers and you grin.

you do not see the way her hands shake when she kisses your forehead.

the sun hangs high now, a brilliant coin suspended in the sky.

outside, the village pulses with life. children weave garlands from soft reeds and daisy chains. young men lift baskets of dyed cloth and stack bundles of firewood. hens cluck at the edges of the green, feathers puffed. laughter floats on the wind, caught between branches and thatched rooftops.

when you step out into it — robed and crowned — the world pauses for you.

your feet touch earth strewn with petals and sweet herbs, and the hush that falls is not somber. it is reverent.

someone claps, and then another. soon, the whole green rings with soft applause, the kind given to things too holy to cheer for. women weep behind veils of flower-threaded hair. boys bow their heads. the old healer who once set your broken wrist presses her hand to her chest and whispers, “blessings on her bones.”

you do not understand all of it. not fully. but you feel it settle into you like warmth. you smile. your breath rises into the sky like steam.

you are their light.

líadan leads you by the hand down the village path.

she doesn’t speak, but her grip is steady. around you, others fall into step. a procession. saorlaith and muirenn walk just behind, their robes the colour of dusk, carrying bowls of sweet smoke and branches of alder.

children scatter petals ahead of you. someone plays a pipe from behind the grain store, and the notes weave through the crowd like silver thread. it’s a tune you know — sung on solstice nights, on days of great blessing.

you recognize it now as yours.

your bare feet press into soft earth. it’s still cool from the morning. each step is light, floating almost, as though the ground carries you instead of the other way around.

the path leads out of the village, past the sheepfolds and the stony wells, up toward the woods.

you’ve only been to the stones once — when you were ten, and too young to follow the grown ones into the heart of the ritual. you remember clinging to your mother’s skirt, watching torches flicker between the trees.

now, the same flicker waits for you.

a corridor of flame and green.

two lines of villagers stand along the edges of the glade, holding branches of hawthorn and beech alight at their tips. they nod as you pass, lips murmuring blessings. some offer you small tokens — a pressed flower, a carved stone, a dried twist of nettle — and saorlaith gathers them into the folds of your robe as you walk.

you try to thank each one.

you can’t stop smiling.

the stones appear at the edge of the glade — tall and grey and ancient.

they rise from the earth like teeth, caught in a wide ring, their edges worn from wind and rain and reverence. the center of the circle is bare, save for a slab of low rock and the altar built of woven ashwood.

beyond it, the woods darken, thick with pine and hazel.

you feel the air shift as you enter the ring — cooler, thicker. the scent of moss and smoke curls under your nose.

líadan turns to you and lifts both hands.

“daughter of the balance,” she says, voice clear and bright.

everyone kneels. even the birds fall silent.

you feel the power of the moment swell around you. your skin prickles.

líadan steps aside and motions you forward.

you approach the altar with slow, sure steps. it is draped in a cloth of silver thread. atop it, a basin of water glimmers beside a bowl of seed and a bundle of feathers.

“offer your token,” muirenn whispers.

you take the carved swallow from within your robe and place it gently at the center of the altar. your hands linger on the smooth wood. it still smells faintly of pine.

a great sigh passes through the crowd behind you.

“she gives herself freely,” someone murmurs.

you smile at the words, your heart blooming. of course you do.

saorlaith comes forward now, carrying a clay vessel. smoke spills from its lip — rosemary and yarrow and something sharper. she circles you with it three times. as the smoke wraps around your body, you feel lighter. the wind tugs at your hair like a child’s fingers.

líadan places a hand on your shoulder.

“kneel,” she says gently.

silently, you obey. you are not afraid.

they press your forehead with water from the basin. your chest with ash. your lips with wine.

“you are the bridge,” líadan intones. “between old and new. winter and spring. silence and song.”

you bow your head.

the crowd echoes her, “a bridge.”

“you carry us forward,” muirenn adds. “and the land will bloom with your steps.”

your heart swells. you close your eyes. you think: i was born for this.

you feel it in your bones, in the warm pressure of their hands, in the hush of the trees. the air is thick with sacred meaning.

you are not afraid. you have no reason to be when you are being honoured and treated so holily.

as the sun begins its descent, they raise the torches. líadan takes your hand again, lifting you from your knees.

the glade is golden now — long shadows stretching from stone to stone. the woods beyond breathe deeply, pine-scented and darkening. you stand tall. your curls hang loose around your shoulders, catching firelight.

someone begins a chant. others join. it is low, rhythm-matched to your heart. it rises like mist. you do not know what comes next, but you feel ready for it.

you trust them, you trust the land—and most importantly, you trust the great one to be kind.

the firelight dances higher now. dusk leans into the bones of the sky, and the stones glow soft and amber against the breath of coming night.

you kneel, still, where they’ve placed you — robed, flower-crowned, and marked with ash and wine. the chanting has grown quiet, replaced by the hush that always comes before sacred words.

líadan steps back. a space opens before you.

a man in dark robes steps forward — older than the others, his eyes sharp beneath deep brows, voice worn smooth by years of prayer. you’ve only seen him once before, during last year’s solstice rites, when the animals were blessed for strong birthings.

this is the preacher. an tseanmhúinteoir. the village calls him that with a kind of reverence.

he raises his hands, fingers painted in ochre, his palms scarred with the symbols of the old covenant. the air tightens. no birds sing now. even the wind stills.

he speaks — and his voice is not loud, but it carries.

“daughter of the dawn, child of the turning — the hour is full, and the gate stands open.”

he walks a slow circle around you, his footsteps rhythmic, every word sewn into the air like woven wool.

“you were born of balance. born when sun and night held equal sway, when the veils thinned and the green returned. you were cradled in that space, that breath between worlds.”

you close your eyes. you feel it. the power in his voice. the pull of the moment.

he stops in front of you. his hands lower gently onto your head.

“today we name you not as girl, but as spirit. not as self, but as vessel. not as flesh, but as flame.”

he lifts a bowl from the altar — the same water from the basin earlier, now glimmering with flecks of gold leaf. he tips it gently over your head. it spills across your curls, down your neck, cool and light.

“be christened in the light of balance,” he intones. “walk freely toward the great one.”

a murmur rises from the crowd — a low, shared exhale. the holy monologue complete.

your skin is warm beneath the water. your robe clings to your back. your heart beats steady, not frightened, but filled with something impossible to name.

and then — a cry. it’s sharp. human. too human. a figure lunges through the trees.

it’s the old woman — mrs byrne — hair wild and loose, cloak torn from age, mouth open with warning. you stumble to your feet, nearly falling as your handmaids grab you.

“not this one!” she shouts, eyes blazing, “she carries light — but not for giving. not for burning!”

she points, arm stiff, finger trembling. “they have lied! they wrap you like a gift and offer you to silence!”

her voice cracks and her body shakes. she looks right at you, eyes with sincerity and concern shake off the rumoured loopy ones.

“you will not walk back out,” she says. “they dress it as blessing, but you go to be broken.”

your breath catches. fear creeps in — cold and thin — something you hadn’t felt all day.

you take a step back, toward líadan. toward the altar.

“what does she mean?” your voice is small, withering with your excitement.

but líadan is already moving, wrapping an arm around you, tucking your head into her shoulder like you are a child again.

“hush, a stóirín,” she murmurs. “the old ones sometimes forget the line between dream and truth.”

muirenn joins her, her voice low and sweet. “she wandered alone too long in the dark. grief makes stories out of shadows.”

saorlaith takes your hand, fingers cool and firm, “you are safe. you are loved. this is your path.”

you stare at them — their faces calm, beautiful in the firelight. their eyes shine, not with cruelty, but with reverence.

the fear drains slowly, like water soaking into earth. you nod, once. shaky. they smile.

“good girl,” líadan whispers, “you are strong. the great one sees you already.”

behind them, mrs byrne is pulled back by villagers, her voice fading into ragged cries.

you look one last time — she is not angry anymore. no, she is sobbing.

you do not understand.

but the hands that hold you are gentle and the stars above you are still so bright.

the fire has burned low.

embers pulse in the grass like coals from the belly of the earth, and the smoke hangs thick and sweet. the glade is quiet now — not silent, but stilled, like the last breath before a storm.

you stand at the edge of the stone circle.

behind you: the village, the chants, the women who bathed you, anointed you, called you chosen.

before you: the trees, dark and patient. tall black shapes with silver-threaded bark. you can hear the forest breathing — deeper than before. slower. older.

the preacher lifts his staff and lowers it once in your direction. his face is unreadable. he does not follow.

“go now, mo ghrian,” líadan says beside you, voice soft. “go with joy in your heart.”

she adjusts your crown gently, smoothing a curl back from your face.

“you are the hope we have long waited for.”

muirenn presses something into your palm — a twist of red thread and an iron ring. “for the path,” she murmurs, “and for luck.”

saorlaith kisses your temple.

you nod once, not speaking. you want to. you want to ask something — anything — but the words are heavy in your throat. your heart beats like a drum.

then: you step forward.

one foot, then the other, onto the path between the fires. the heat kisses your skin.

they do not follow. you walk alone.

the fire fades behind you, swallowed by distance.

you do not turn back.

your feet tread softly across the damp earth, bare soles pressing into moss that yields with a hush. above, the branches tangle like outstretched limbs, the canopy thick enough to swallow the stars.

your robe trails behind, silken and pale, its hem already darkened with soil. you carry the scent of the sacred fire on your skin — ash and wine, sweet herbs crushed by blessing hands. the crown of early spring flowers still rests in your hair, though petals fall now and then, unnoticed.

you step into the hush.

it is not quiet like the stillness of prayer, or the gentleness of dusk. this silence is deeper — hollow, listening, thick.

you slow your pace.

and then — to comfort yourself, perhaps, or to offer something back to the strange stillness — you begin to sing softly.

your voice, once sure in the circle, trembles faintly now.

oh the wind on the hill and the grass in the glen, and the night bird sings her soul again…

the melody has lived in your bones since girlhood — a cradle-song, a celebration of the season, half-remembered in words but whole in tune.

you want to believe it still holds power but the sound falls strange here. it does not echo. the trees do not answer.

you feel them, though. the trunks — dark and tall and close — seem to lean, listening. the moss seems thicker, colder. somewhere nearby, something moves without moving — a suggestion more than a presence.

you try to ignore it.

for the child of the cusp, the child of the tide, walks where the veil grows thin and wide…

you sing louder, though your voice catches slightly at the end.

you clutch the red thread muirenn gave you tighter in your palm, the iron ring biting cold into your skin. they said it was for luck. for protection. a charm.

but from what?

you walk on still.

the deeper you go, the less you trust your steps.

the earth feels different now — not dangerous, not hostile — but… alert. each time your foot lands, it feels like pressing into the chest of something sleeping.

or waiting.

your song falters so you try again.

where roots drink deep and stones remember, she walks between the spark and ember…

you stop singing. something rustles behind you.

you turn — quickly — but nothing moves. the path is empty. no villagers. no lights. the fire is far behind, now just a flicker between the trees.

your breath shortens.

you clutch your chest. your heart beats hard against your ribs. not from running. from something else.

a feeling you haven’t allowed.

fear.

you pause beneath a great ash tree.

its bark is silver in the moonlight, limbs curled toward the stars. at its base, mushrooms ring the trunk like teeth. pale, soft, brittle.

you do not step through them.

your voice is barely a whisper now: lay down your name, your blood, your sleep… the wood will hold, the root will keep…

you stop. your mouth has gone dry.

why aren’t you sure anymore?

why does the night, so sacred only an hour ago, now feel like it’s watching?

you were promised light. you were promised blessing. you were promised that you were chosen.

so why does the air feel colder? why do the shadows no longer part for you?

you take one step forward. then another.

your song has left you. all that’s left now is the rhythm of your breath.

and behind it… the quiet, waiting woods.

you walk deeper into the hush, and the woods begin to change.

what had been narrow — close-barked corridors, moss underfoot, canopy above like interlocking hands — begins to loosen around you. space stretches. the trees fall back. and then, almost without noticing, you pass through something unseen, like a sheer veil pulled across your skin.

and suddenly you are no longer in the forest.

you are in the clearing.

it is wide. perfect in its roundness, as if shaped by patient fingers. the grass is silvered with dew, and a low mist curls across the earth like the breath of something sleeping beneath. moonlight spills over the field in slow waves, untouched by cloud, casting the space in cold, luminous calm.

you pause at the edge.

your robe flutters lightly against your ankles. your breath rises in slow spirals. the night feels thin here, stretched tight. as if the world is holding itself still — holding its breath — watching.

and at the far end of the clearing, half-veiled in ivy and fog, stands the church.

they called it tigh cloch na cothromaíochta in whispers — the stone house of balance. ye old church. the old place. the first place. the one even the preacher would not face when drunk with warmth.

you were told of it, always, as something sacred. a structure older than stories, where the great one first laid down breath and root and bloom, where the night folded itself into the day and called it holy.

but this place is not how you imagined.

it is not radiant.

not warm.

it is still.

and dark.

the church rises no more than a man’s height, its roof low and steep, crusted with moss and softened by time. ivy drapes across its walls like hair across a sleeper’s face. the stones that make it up are worn — smoothed by wind and rain and something else. not crumbled, not broken. just… softened. as though the building has been remembering for a long time.

no light shines from within.

there is no lantern by the entrance, no holy flame like you dreamed of. only an opening — a dark mouth, tall enough to pass through without bowing, but not by much.

you step closer. the grass dampens beneath your steps.

tiny white mushrooms press up from the earth like teeth, glistening under the moon. you skirt a patch of them carefully. as you near the church, you notice a low ring of stones, barely higher than your ankle, sunk into the ground. a circle. a boundary.

it does not stop you.

you step across it and everything changes.

the air shifts — immediate, absolute.

it grows colder. not the playful chill of spring evenings, but something else: older, deeper, like water pooled underground. your breath becomes visible — short puffs like smoke rising from a snuffed wick. your lungs ache with it.

you wrap your arms around yourself, hands folding into the opposite sleeves of your robe. the red ribbon tied at your wrist feels tighter. its knot stings faintly against your pulse.

the air smells different here.

earthier.

not sweet. not rotten. something like soil that has never been disturbed — like stone and bone and secrets sealed too long.

your crown of primroses and elderflower trembles slightly in the new wind. petals fall. one sticks to your cheek, and you do not brush it away.

you are not singing now. you do not dare. you reach the entrance.

it looms without movement, framed by carvings older than memory. spirals, triskele, rings within rings — the language of stone, not of mouths. your eyes track them instinctively. your body knows them, though your mind cannot say how.

your heart beats louder now. not from joy, not quite from fear but something else.

you stand before the black mouth of the church. your toes at the threshold. the clearing at your back. the woods behind that. the fire, the people, your name — all very far now.

you are alone.

and the church waits.

you stand there, listening—to the wind, to your breath, to the deep stillness inside the stone.

you remember what the preacher told you when you were little — curled beneath his cloak during sermons, your fingers wrapped around the wooden beads of his belt. when you step into the house of balance, child, you leave yourself behind. you walk in as more than flesh. you become vessel.

you had thought that meant light. you thought you would feel… lifted. touched. holy.

instead, the silence presses.

the dark is thick — not void, not empty, but full in some unseen way. not cold like night air, but like cellars, like iron underground. like sleep too deep to wake from.

your skin prickles.

you breathe in once, slowly. and bring your hands to your chest.

you remember the shape: thumb to sternum, then palm out, fingers extended. a sign of offering. of surrender. you trace it with care, a motion handed down through generations. your mouth moves before your heart is ready.

but you speak: a prayer. low, and given.

“a thiarna mór, great one of the still and the turning— keeper of root and reed, bearer of the balance between blood and bloom—i walk as i was made, blessed by breath, held in your eye, let me be open, let me be vessel, let me be joy… your lamb of the cusp, your child of spring.”

your voice quivers slightly near the end. not from doubt — no, you still believe this is right. you still believe you are chosen. that this is what the women meant when they told you you were lucky.

but a shiver still climbs your spine.

not fear, you tell yourself, not fear.

you finish the prayer.

you wait. you think the air will change. that warmth will come, or light, or the voice of the great one will stir from the deep places. but nothing answers.

no flame rises.

no vision flares behind your eyes.

the church remains still. waiting.

the mist behind you curls against your heels. the clearing no longer feels like it belongs to you.

and so, you do what you have been prepared to do since you were old enough to understand the meaning of offering.

you step inside.

the stone underfoot is smoother than the forest earth — cold, but not sharp. flat, shaped by countless feet. you walk slowly, letting the dark envelop you.

there are no windows. no candles. just shadow, and silence.

your hands stay folded before you. your robe brushes the floor. above you, unseen beams creak faintly in the breeze — a soft sound, like wood murmuring to wood. the air smells of moss and old smoke. there is something metallic, too, on the edges — like the inside of a copper bowl, left long in rain. you walk forward. your pulse in your throat. your feet making the only sound.

the chamber narrows ahead — toward the altar, or the place that once was one. you cannot see it yet.

but something waits there. you feel it.

not in the way one feels threat, exactly — but in the way a deer might freeze in tall grass, sensing something vast just beyond the field.

you are not alone here.

you move forward in the dark.

stone walls press close, but you cannot see them. the air is thick here — heavier than before, like it still carried the weight worth of previous ceremonies and services previously held in here. your fingers brush something — a root? a carved post? — and you flinch.

ahead, something glows faintly.

not fire.

a light too pale, too steady. moonlight, it seems at first — until you realize the moon is far behind you now. this is something else. something within.

you follow it.

one step. another.

and then you finally get a good look at the alter.

the light—from afar, that is—could have been perceived as a trick of the eye or a reflection of the moon from the outside. but as you near, you realise it’s not what it first seemed.

in the center stands a figure—the source of the light. you come to realise that the light comes from the head. where the eyes should be.

they remain unmoving. just for now.

the fright stops you in your tracks.

your hands remain clasped at your waist, your lips parted, ready to speak — to kneel, perhaps, to offer your thanks.

but the words do not come.

your breath catches.

it turns sharp in your throat, cuts as it goes down. his face is too close now. the light wraps around his features and peels them bare — that smooth, too-pale skin like candle wax, the glint of something deeper behind his eyes. not malice.

worse.

curiosity, possession.

your fingers twitch against your robe. the cold floor presses into your knees, but suddenly your whole body is heat — the burning panic of knowing you’ve made a mistake but you’re too deep in to run.

your mouth opens. not for prayer. not now.

you suck in air, ragged. you start to pull back.and the moment you do, his head tilts — just slightly, just enough — and a soft sound slips from him. not a word. not a threat, but a noise like a lullaby remembered from a dream, low and hushed and vibrating through your chest like a second heartbeat.

you don’t know how long you’ve been kneeling.

the stone beneath you has numbed your legs. your robes cling to your skin, damp with the sweat of fear, not exertion. your throat is raw from breathing too fast. your chest flutters like a trapped bird. everything in you wants to run, but your limbs are rooted — not by force. not by chains.

by dread, by him.

he stands at the altar ahead — silent, still, and watching. the great one. the thing in the shape of a man, but not a man. robed in the dark, framed in the ruins of a forgotten altar stone, backlit by flickering firelight. the wind moves through the trees behind him, and it sounds like breath. like words you can’t quite hear.

you open your mouth.

and it all comes spilling out.

“they said i was—” you stammer, your voice cracking. “they said i was the chosen one. that i was born on the equinox for a reason, that the stars… that the stars would bless the village again if i came.”

your hands tremble in your lap. your fingernails dig into your palms. you don’t dare lift your eyes. the weight of him is too much.

“the fields haven’t bloomed in two years,” you go on, tears streaking your cheeks now. your voice wavers between sobs and hiccups. “the animals— the lambs were born wrong. and the barley— they said the barley rotted because of the priests. because of the church’s curse.”

you suck in a breath, sharp and wet.

“they said— the druids said—” your words collapse into a quiet sob. “they said if i came… and gave myself… it would be undone.”

your eyes dart upward, just for a moment. he hasn’t moved. not one inch…

only his eyes glimmer — reflecting the torchlight like the eyes of a beast in the brush. like glass. or blood.

you choke on another breath. “i did everything right,” you whisper. “i fasted, i prayed— i was good. i never doubted. i—I’m not unclean, i have remained chaste! i—”

you’re weeping now.

not out of grief.

out of the sharp, rising terror of realisation. a realisation that none of it is going to work.

that you are here.

and he has not spoken.

your weeps fold into your sleeves. you try to make yourself smaller. you rock slightly where you kneel, lost in the wave of all you’ve held back for weeks — months. the prayers, the songs, the blessings from the handmaids. the way they dressed you like a gift. like a lamb for the altar.

you had believed it would mean something.

you believed you would be enough.

“please,” you whisper, and it’s barely a sound. “please let it work. let me— let me fix it.”

for a long moment, there is nothing.

and then—a shift. the quietest motion of cloth and limb. his steps are silent, but you feel him approach.

closer, closer, closer until the hem of his robe brushes your knee.

you dare not lift your head but he leans in.

he smells of old soil, of iron and myrrh. of something ancient and vaguely sweet — the way flower petals smell just before they rot.

his voice when it comes is smooth, deep, and entirely too calm.

“the catholics,” he begins, and each syllable tastes of smoke, “cannot undo their cause of suffering.”

you freeze.

your tears stop, though your breath still shakes.

“and nothing,” he continues, a little softer now, “can appease me.”

you lift your head at last.

you shouldn’t… but you do.

he is looking down at you — not with rage. not with hunger. with something worse.

amusement.

“but,” he adds, a slow curl of a smile forming on his mouth, “i have been blessed with an appealing gift.”

you can’t breathe and you don’t know if you want to anymore. it’s like his words have replaced the silence where your heaving should have been.

his words hang there between you, like frost clinging to a bare branch. they do not melt. they do not pass.

“an appealing gift,” he notes.

you don’t know what he means.

or rather—you do.

but your mind refuses to hold it.

you tilt your head upward, lips parting around the beginning of a question, but his fingers reach you first. the pad of one pale finger, cool as streamwater, traces the damp curve of your cheek where a tear still clings. the gesture is slow. indulgent.

“so much devotion,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “so much belief, even when they feed you to wolves wrapped in silk.”

you stiffen.

his hand doesn’t leave your face. it moves instead — trailing the edge of your jaw, ghosting the hollow beneath your ear. your heart is a rabbit beating its body against the walls of your chest.

“what—” your voice cracks. “what are you?”

he hums again. a sound of vague consideration.

“a shepherd,” he replies, with a smile too full of teeth. “or a beast. depending who you ask.”

you flinch. he notices.

his thumb drags across your bottom lip, collecting the breath you didn’t mean to let out.

“do you want to leave?” he asks, tone curious — not mocking. “you could try. no one would stop you.”

your lips tremble.

“but you won’t,” he adds, witfully, “because you still hope this means something.”

your eyes flicker with wet heat, still swirling with a sad innocence. “it has to.”

his expression shifts. not pity, not cruelty—but something that darkens.

“you poor thing,” he murmurs. “it never did. the rot came from the root, not the leaf.”

his hand drifts down, rests at your throat.

not squeezing—but you feel it. you feel everything.

“they brought you here not to save you,” he says softly, “but to be rid of their own shame. their debt.”

your breath shakes. your head turns. you don’t want to hear.

his fingers follow. gentle. unrelenting.

“you’re not a chosen one. you’re an offering made of regret.. out of fear that i will show myself once again.”

you make a sound — part sob, part protest.

but he kneels now. close enough that his shadow covers you both.

“yet,” he whispers, and here his voice changes again — into something almost reverent, “even so. you are beautiful.”

your lips part, confused.

his hand falls from your throat and presses, palm-flat, just over your heart.

“you believe,” he says. “you still believe.”

your head is spinning. your tears have dried. your fear is not gone, but it’s been replaced — twisted into something tangled with longing, with the quiet death of innocence.

he leans closer, his back curving to meet your kneeled height.

his mouth near yours.

his eyes not just watching — drinking.

“no god will have you,” he says, and his voice is velvet and storm. “but i will.”

you don’t know what makes you lean forward.

it isn’t logic and it isn’t courage.

it’s something quieter — an ache behind your ribs, a hollow born of too many prayers unanswered. something deep and tender, bruised by years of being told you were special only to be handed over like grain to the mill.

your lips part. not in surrender, but in question.

what would it mean, you wonder, to be wanted not for a harvest or for gods — but for yourself?

his breath brushes yours, cool and steady. he doesn’t move to meet you. not at that moment.

his eyes bore into you — and you feel seen. not just looked at. seen. the parts of you that tremble, that dream, that rage — all of them laid bare beneath that black and gleaming gaze.

your voice is a thread of sound. “what will you do to me?”

he exhales — and this time, it is a sound, not a word.

a low, dark hum.

his hand lifts again, gentle beneath your chin, coaxing you to tilt upward. “no one’s ever asked that,” he murmurs. “not before offering themselves.”

“i don’t—” you begin.

but he cuts you off — not with force. with closeness.

his lips graze yours like the edge of shadow.

“i will not tear,” he whispers. “i will not break. i will take, yes. but slowly.”

his mouth presses to your cheek. “you are not the first, but you are the most… willing.”

you swallow, your pulse beating like thunder in your ears.

“i’m scared,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

he nods, and for a moment — something very nearly human passes through his face.

“good,” he breathes, “fear means you understand.”

and then he leans in — fully this time.

his mouth on yours is like falling.

not fire. not ice. depth.

it isn’t passion, not at first. it’s possession. slow, patient, all-consuming. his hand holds the base of your skull, anchoring you as the rest of the world tilts sideways. your fingers catch in the fabric of his robes. your knees sink deeper into the cold stone.

he drinks from you — not your blood. not just yet.

but your breath, your fear, your heat.

he kisses you like a vow.

and you let him.

because somewhere in the back of your mind, a part of you believes this is what was always meant. not an altar. not a blade. but this — the dark, intimate undoing of everything they told you to fear.

when he pulls back, your lips are parted, your eyes dazed.

he smiles — slow, fanged, and still somehow soft.

“they tried to feed me shame,” he murmurs, “but you… you are ripe with something sweeter.”

you can’t speak. you don’t have to.

his arms gather you in and your body slumps into the embrace. lashes flittering with faintness or some kind of derealisation, your lips move before you think about speaking, “what is your name?”

it comes out as a murmur, something that even a light breeze can easily wisk away with it.

there’s a long moment.

he doesn’t answer at once.

his hand continues to stroke the curve of your spine, slow and deliberate, and for a moment you think maybe he hadn’t heard you — that the night carried your voice too far from his ears.

but then you feel it.

the trace of a smile against your hair.

"remmick."

the name slips like silk from his mouth, soft and precise — a sound that feels wrong in the best kind of way, like a song in a language your blood remembers even if your mind does not. the vowels stretch strange. the r hums low. it doesn’t belong to any place or time you’ve ever known.

you taste it, mouthing it once: remmick.

he chuckles — low, intimate, the sound vibrating into your chest where you rest against him.

"it’s not what they called me when they built this altar," he murmurs, gaze lifting toward the stone ruins behind you, half-swallowed by ivy and ash, “but it’s the only name i’ve ever worn that felt like mine.”

you don’t ask what he was called before.

you don’t need to.

his hand finds your chin again, coaxing you to look at him — and gods, even now, when your legs don’t feel real and your thoughts are drifting through you like mist, you meet his gaze.

"remmick," you repeat again, steadier this time, like naming him grants you some fragile tether to reality.

his mouth tilts, fanged but fond, “and yours?”

you blink, surprised.

no one’s asked that today.

everyone already knew.

you were the equinox girl. the chosen one. the gift. your name had been forgotten beneath garlands and titles and all the quiet ceremony.

you whisper your name in a shallow breath.

he exhales, the sound pleased. “freedom.”

your breath catches. you’d never thought of what it meant. no one had ever said it with reverence.

"suits you,” he says, his hands stroking the sides of your head with a sense of endearment.

you shake your head faintly, some small piece of you still clinging to disbelief. “they said i was a lamb.”

remmick leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear — not with hunger, not with threat, but with something almost reverent.

"they lied.”

and this time, when the wind moans through the trees, you don’t hear mourning. you hear welcoming.

his voice curls around you like smoke, and in its wake comes stillness — not empty, but full. full of everything you aren’t sure how to name. his fingers linger lightly at your waist, a gentle tether, and the weight of his gaze has shifted. no longer just watchful — reverent.

"do you want me to stop?" he asks.

you’re not sure when the question moved from implication to invocation. but now it hangs in the air between you, fragile and sacred.

you shake your head. slowly. almost dreamlike. “no.”

the word is barely a whisper — not out of fear, but because anything louder might shatter the moment.

you feel the way his body responds before you see it — the tightening beneath his robes, the faint press of his breath against your cheek. his hand rises to cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your skin like he’s memorizing the shape of you, the texture, the warmth.

and then his lips find yours.

it’s slow. unhurried. like he’s tasting sunlight for the first time in centuries.

he kisses you like he means to rebuild something in you — not tear it down. not claim. not consume. just witness.

your fingers curl into the fabric at his chest, pulling him closer. your breath hitches when his other hand traces the curve of your spine, settling just above the swell of your hips, and the contact blooms heat beneath your skin.

your lips part, and he takes the invitation with a low, reverent sound. his tongue brushes yours — tentative, tender — and your knees nearly give out with the sheer weight of sensation.

he catches you before you can fall, his strong hands sliding down to your thighs as he lifts you effortlessly. turning, he clears a path to the altar, then lowers you onto the cold stone slab—slowly, reverently—laying you down with a tenderness that contradicts the weight of the moment.

his mouth leaves yours only to trail kisses across your cheek, along your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat. your breath stutters as he lingers there, his lips barely grazing your pulse.

"tell me what you feel," he murmurs.

"warm," you breathe. "and… dizzy."

"good dizzy?"

you nod.

his teeth ghost against your neck, and your hands fist tighter in his robes.

"remmick..."

"i'm here," he reminds, "you guide this. not me."

you push him awayjust enough so you can look at him from close up.

his pupils are wide now, and something darker glows beneath — not hunger, but want. longing held back like floodwater behind stone.

you place your hands on either side of his face, fingers trembling, and lean in until your forehead touches his.

"i want you," you admit in a volume only he can hear, spoken like a secret, "before anything else. just you."

the breath he releases sounds like something breaking.

and then his mouth is on yours again, rougher now, more urgent. not unkind — never — but filled with restrained desire. the kiss deepens, his hands roaming with reverence and need, drawing you closer by the hips until your bodies are flush.

the world around you fades — the ancient stone altar, the hush of the trees, the soft hum of old rites. none of it matters.

only him. only this.

his hands bunch up the skirts of your robe, his fingers skim beneath the hem of the light fabrics, drawing slow lines up your thigh, and you shiver. not from cold — from want. from the electric ache building in every part of you. your breath comes faster, your hands mapping the lines of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, the strength beneath his stillness.

"you feel like fire," he says against your skin.

"so do you," you whisper, gasping softly as he kisses along your collarbone, his touch growing more confident, more consuming.

and when he finally begins to undo the bindings of your dress, you let him — not with fear, but with aching trust.

your skin blooms beneath his touch.

his name leaves your lips again, half-formed and reverent, as your body arches to meet him. and when his mouth finds yours once more, it’s not a kiss — it’s a promise.

you are no longer a symbol. no longer a sacrifice.

you are a woman made of warmth and will, met at last by someone who sees all of you — and chooses you still.

“remmick…” his name slips from your lips again, unbidden, rough with breath and reverence. he pauses, just for a heartbeat, the sound of it catching in the space between you like smoke.

his gaze is unreadable, dark and steady, but his hands don’t falter. they glide over you—exploring, learning, claiming—like he’s charting unfamiliar terrain with a quiet sort of hunger.

mo chreach-sa, he mutters, more to himself than to you—my ruin. the gaelic lands like a secret between your ribs, beautiful and dangerous.

when his mouth finds yours again, it’s not soft. it’s demanding. tasting. testing. not a kiss, but a question—and your body answers without hesitation, rising to meet him with heat and need.

you are no offering. no symbol.

you are flesh and fire, met by hands that want not to worship, but to understand.

and remmick, with every slow movement, every rough breath, learns the shape of you not with awe—but with intention.

the stone beneath you is forgotten now—just a texture at your back, swallowed by the heat between your bodies. remmick hovers over you, his weight pressing down in measured degrees, like he’s still deciding how much of himself to give.

your fingers twitch where he holds your wrist, not in protest, but in need—wanting him closer. wanting less air between you. he must feel it, because his grip tightens just slightly, grounding. not to restrain, but to remind.

his mouth finds yours again, slower this time. deeper. the kind of kiss that doesn’t ask—it confirms. he learns the way you move beneath him, the quiet gasp you give when his hand traces the inside of your thigh, the way your back arches just enough when he drags his knuckles down your side.

mo uan, he murmurs between kisses—my lamb. the word brushes against your skin like velvet, heavy with meaning, though he doesn’t explain it. doesn’t need to. you feel it in the way his hands have stopped roaming and now hold you steady, like he’s found the center of something.

his lips trail lower, down your jaw, your throat, marking a path as though trying to memorize the shape of you with his mouth. your pulse hammers beneath his tongue, and still he doesn’t rush.

this isn’t worship.

it’s not possession.

it’s discovery—intimate, patient, slow.

a study of sensation, and you are the text he’s unfolding line by line.

his breath fans across your skin as he moves lower, lips trailing a line down your chest, your stomach—each kiss unhurried, as though he’s savoring the act of peeling you open, layer by layer. not with violence. with focus. with hunger tempered by restraint.

you shift beneath him, instinct guiding you more than thought, hips rolling gently as anticipation coils low and hot in your belly. he notices—of course he does. the flicker in his eyes is almost amused, almost reverent.

but he says nothing.

instead, he parts your thighs with steady hands, slow and sure, like he has all the time in the world. your breath stutters. he glances up—just once—to meet your gaze. the eye contact alone is a promise: stay right here with me.

and then he lowers himself, settling between your legs with a kind of reverence that feels more primal than holy. his hands grip your thighs, thumbs stroking slow circles into your skin as his mouth finally meets you—hot, open, deliberate.

the first touch of his tongue is slow, exploratory, like he’s learning you by taste now. no rush. no show. just deep, focused attention. your hips rise before you can stop them, and he groans softly against you—pleased.

he adjusts his hold, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar, anchoring you there as he works. each movement is purposeful, drawing responses from you like chords from an instrument he’s only just begun to master.

he takes his time. listens with his mouth.

and you unravel—breath by breath, moan by moan—under the weight of his mouth and the silence between each soft, sinful stroke.

his mouth doesn’t falter. if anything, it deepens—his tongue stroking slow and sure, like he’s chasing the sound of your breath, the way it breaks when he finds that perfect rhythm.

your back arches off the stone, hands searching for something to hold—his hair, his shoulder, anything solid enough to anchor you as the heat builds sharp and steady inside you.

remmick’s grip tightens at your hips, not to control, but to keep—keep you here, keep you open, keep you his for just this moment.

“gu làth,” he murmurs between strokes—forever. the gaelic hums into you, low and rough and not meant as a vow but a curse. like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. like he almost hates how much he wants this—you.

your thighs begin to tremble and he feels it, responds to it—his mouth more insistent now, working in a rhythm that’s all instinct, all precision.

you can’t hold still. your voice breaks on his name—again, half-formed, wrecked and reverent—and that’s what finally undoes him.

he groans into you, the sound deep, guttural, vibrating through your core as he locks you in place and devours.

not sweet, not gentle. perfect.

and when release crashes over you, sudden and blinding, it rips through your spine and out of your mouth, a cry that echoes off stone. he doesn’t stop—not right away. he eases you through it, mouth softening only once your legs begin to shake in earnest, his hands grounding you even as you come apart.

finally, he lifts his head.

his lips are slick, his chest rising with slow, controlled breaths, but his eyes—his eyes are wild. quiet. focused. like he’s just tasted something forbidden and is still deciding whether he regrets it.

he leans in again, hovering over you. and for a long second, neither of you speaks.

then—

“still not afraid?”

you’re still catching your breath, your pulse pounding in your ears, but remmick doesn’t move away. his body remains braced above yours, close enough that you can feel the tension coiled in him, held tight beneath the surface

his question hangs in the air—still not afraid?—but it isn’t a taunt. it’s a warning dressed as curiosity.

you meet his eyes, throat dry, lips parted. “should i be?”

a muscle jumps in his jaw. he leans in just a little more, and now you feel him against you again—still hard, still restrained, but barely. the air between you crackles.

“yes,” he says quietly. “but not now.”

his hand slides up your body again, slower this time, from the curve of your thigh to your ribs, lingering just beneath your breast. he’s not trying to soothe you. he’s reacquainting himself—like you’re a weapon he’s learning to wield, and he's not done testing the edge.

his lips ghost over your ear, voice like smoke. “you don’t know what you’ve invited in.”

your fingers curl into his back, nails dragging just enough to make him feel it.

“then show me,” you whisper.

something shifts in him—subtle, dangerous. a low sound hums in his throat, not quite a growl, not quite a groan. he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning low, mouth parted.

and then he moves—grabs your thighs and pulls you down the altar toward him in one sharp, effortless motion, your back sliding over stone, legs wrapped around his hips before you can think to breathe.

he doesn’t enter you.

not yet.

he just holds you there, poised on the edge, heat pressing into heat, his control razor-thin.

you can feel it in the way his breath shakes against your skin.

in the way he waits.

he feels the shift in you the moment it happens—the way your muscles go taut beneath his hands, the way your breath shallows, chest rising too quickly.

and he already knows.

of course he does. he’s known since the moment he touched you, the way you trembled under his mouth, the way you reached for him like prayer—not from experience, but instinct.

he leans over you fully now, pressing you down into the altar, his body a cage of heat and power. one hand slides up your side, slow and firm, until his palm rests just beneath your throat—not choking, just holding. claiming.

his mouth hovers at your ear.

“you’ve never been taken,” he murmurs. not a question. a truth.

his voice is silk over stone—low, knowing, soaked in dark satisfaction.

“not by anyone.”

your body shivers beneath him, and you remember your fearful rambling about your devotion to him—the great one—how you flaunted your chastity to appease him.

you lie open beneath him, offered. trembling. not in fear—in awe.

because in this moment, he’s not just a man.

he’s heat and shadow and control.

he’s every story you were warned about, every god you were meant to fear.

and now, your first time—your offering—belongs to him.

he moves his hand from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head so your eyes meet his. his gaze is endless.

“look at me.”

you do.

and what you see steals the last of your breath—

not gentleness, not mercy.

but purpose. hunger. and a cruel kind of reverence.

“you give this to me,” he says, voice soft but full of iron. “you worship me with it.”

his hips press forward, just enough for you to feel the heat of him—hard, ready, deliberate. your breath stutters, and he watches it with a hunger he doesn’t bother to hide.

his fingers slide down, between your thighs, dragging through your slick slowly, testing your readiness—his thumb circling just once, lazily.

his mouth brushes yours, barely.

“you’re mine now,” he says, low and final, like a decree.

“say it.”

your body is already answering him—hips tilting into his touch, lips parted, chest rising fast beneath the weight of his presence. but that isn’t enough for remmick. not for a man like him.

he waits, thumb still stroking slow circles between your thighs, eyes locked to yours like he’s reading your soul straight through.

“say it.”

your voice barely comes—breathy, reverent.

“i’m yours.”

he exhales like that’s what he’s been waiting for. not permission. confirmation.

his mouth crashes into yours, not gentle now, but consuming. his tongue claims you the way his hands already have, the way his body is about to—thorough, unrelenting.

and when he pulls back, just enough to speak, his voice is rough, ragged.

“that’s it, you’ve always been so loyal to me.”

his praise shatters something in you, warmth flooding your chest, your core. you cling to him, fingers threading into his hair, the press of him between your legs making you ache so deeply it borders on pain.

“you give your purity to me,” he says, voice low against your throat. “your body. your first cry. all of it belongs to me now.”

you nod, breath catching—“yes… please—”

he growls softly at that, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“spread your legs for me.”

you do. willingly. eagerly.

not because he told you to—because it’s his. and you want him to take it.

he shifts his weight, guiding himself to your entrance. even as your heart thunders, there’s no fear now. only the raw, pulsing need to be his.

“keep your eyes on me,” he demands, “i want to see you break around me.”

and then he pushes in—slow at first, achingly slow, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you open, claiming you for the first time.

your breath shatters as he watches your face the whole way down.

not just a man but a god, devouring what was never meant to be untouched.

and you.. why, you welcome it, you offer it, you worship him. even through the pain.

he doesn’t thrust.

he stays buried just halfway inside you, holding still as your body stretches to take him—tight, aching, trembling. your legs twitch around his hips, not from resistance but sheer shock at the depth of him, the heat.

his eyes stay locked on yours, unwavering.

he sees the flicker of pain, the burn of pressure behind your lashes.

and he waits.

his hand comes to your cheek, thumb stroking beneath your eye. not soft. intentional. grounding.

“breathe,” he murmurs. “feel me.”

so you do—slowly, shakily, your chest rising as you try to relax into the fullness of him, the way your body clenches, holds, tries to learn him. he’s patient, but not passive—he rocks his hips just enough to make you gasp, just enough to remind you what he is:

not gentle, not kind. devoted.

his other hand presses at your lower belly, feeling the weight of himself inside you. he watches your face change when he does, drinking in your moan like it feeds something holy in him.

“mo chridhe,” he breathes, voice like ash and honey. not out of love—out of possession. like he knows what he’s going to take from you.

“look what you take,” he says, voice low, breath thick against your ear.

“look what you were made for.”

he pushes deeper, inch by inch, letting you feel every stretch, every slow drag of his cock as your body opens to him. your fingers clutch his shoulders, nails digging into skin, trying to hold on to something real as your whole world narrows to this—this heat, this pressure, this unbearable closeness.

your body is slick around him, drawn tight, trembling.

and still he doesn’t rush.

he sets a rhythm with his breath, not his hips—pressing forward just slightly, then stilling, then easing deeper again. each movement more consuming than the last, until you’re fully filled, taken, marked.

“mine,” he whispers, almost like a prayer.

not to you.

to the gods.

to whatever power let him have you.

and when he’s finally all the way inside, buried to the hilt, the breath leaves both your lungs at once—one shared sound, raw and ragged.

he doesn’t move.

he just holds you there, his forehead resting against yours, bodies locked.

and in the quiet, your heart pounds beneath his palm. steady. trusting. open.

claimed.

he holds you like that for a moment longer, buried deep, both of you suspended—your bodies locked together, your breath mingling in the warm dark above the altar.

then he moves.

just a pull of his hips, slow, dragging himself almost entirely out of you—leaving you aching, empty—before sliding back in, inch by inch, with deliberate, devastating control.

your mouth falls open around a sound you don’t recognize—half gasp, half plea. his name, maybe. or something older.

remmick watches you fall apart under him.

it fuels him.

his grip tightens at your waist, guiding your body to meet his now, his rhythm steady and deep, every thrust a silent declaration. he doesn't speak—not yet—but each movement says what his mouth doesn’t: you were made for this.

for him.

you cling to him, your body greedy, moving with his even as it trembles. your slick walls pulse around him, already stretched to your limit, and still your hips roll up, chasing every inch, every thrust.

“that’s it,” he breathes, rough and dark. “take me, little one. all of it.”

you do. again and again.

his rhythm quickens just enough to make your breath hitch, the sound of skin against skin echoing softly in the open space around you—wet, sharp, holy.

his thumb finds that aching spot at your center again, circling in time with his thrusts, dragging pleasure up and out of you with merciless precision. you cry out, thighs tightening around him.

he groans at the way you grip him, how you pulse around him—your body raw with want, no longer trembling with nerves but need.

“you feel that?” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “you’re giving it to me. all of it. every first, every cry, every shatter.”

his words hit as hard as his thrusts now—deeper, faster, dragging you toward the edge. your nails rake down his back. you nod, frantic, breathless.

“yes—remmick—please—”

he growls, low and guttural. your voice, broken and pleading, cuts through him like nothing else.

his pace picks up. hard now. sure. each thrust knocking sound from your throat, rhythm shaking the stone beneath you.

he’s not worshipping anymore.

he’s taking and you don’t mind.

he feels it—your body tightening, breath breaking, the way your thighs start to quiver around his hips. you're right there, trembling on the cusp.

and that’s when he slows.

his rhythm shifts again—still deep, still relentless, but measured now, cruelly steady. every thrust lands with weight, each one deliberate, drawn out just enough to deny.

you gasp, eyes flying open. he watches it all—how the pleasure builds but never tips, how your back arches as if that might pull him deeper, faster.

but he’s not rushing, he’s mastering.

“not yet,” he murmurs, voice dark and quiet at your throat.

“chan eil thu deiseil.” you’re not ready.

you whimper—needful, wrecked. but he’s merciless, his thumb still circling your clit with devastating skill, keeping you right on the edge, never letting you fall.

your body thrashes under him, trying to chase it—but his grip is iron. one hand on your hip, the other braced beside your head, holding you down as your orgasm builds like a storm behind your ribs, just out of reach.

“you want to come?” he growls against your ear.

you nod frantically, lips parting in a breathless, desperate plea.

“yes—oh, yes, remmick—please—”

he stops moving entirely.

the sudden stillness rips a broken sound from your throat—shocked, aching, lost. your body clenches around him, empty of motion but still full, and he smiles—a cruel, knowing twist of his lips.

“then beg,” his voice is silk and steel.

“not like a girl. like a worshiper.”

his hand curls beneath your chin, forcing your gaze to his. “tell me what i am to you.”

you can barely breathe, every nerve raw, stretched thin. he leans in, voice low, foreign, absolute.

“abair e,” he whispers. say it.

“abair cò mi dhut.” tell me who i am to you.

you’re shaking now, thighs still twitching, sweat slicking your skin. and still—still—he holds you right there, untouched and filled, body alight with heat and need.

and all you can do is breathe. plead. submit

your breath trembles in your chest, caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. the pressure inside you is unbearable—he’s kept you there too long, strung out, body quivering around him, aching to be undone.

and still he waits inside you. above you. simply owning you.

his hand tightens beneath your chin, holding your eyes to his.

“abair cò mi dhut.” tell me who I am to you.

your lips part. not in shame. not in hesitation.

but in offering.

“you’re the one,” you breathe, the words spilling out before you can even think. “you’re the great one—am fear mòr—meant to bring salvation to my spirit.”

your voice shakes, drenched in awe. your eyes glisten with it.

“you’re power and fire and judgment,” you whisper, hips trembling beneath him, “and i was made for your hands. your mouth. your will.”

he inhales sharply through his nose, a groan twisting low in his throat—almost a growl.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with restraint. “mo sheirbheiseach.” my servant, my worshiper.

and this time, when he moves, it isn’t to tease. it’s to take.

he pulls back and drives in deep—one hard, slow thrust that punches the breath from your lungs, splitting you open around him. your body convulses, and you cry out his name like it’s the only thing you’ve ever known.

he sets the pace then, claiming you stroke by stroke, every movement raw with purpose, with power. his hand never leaves your throat, not in threat—but to remind you.

who you belong to.

his hips rock against yours, heavy, unrelenting. your climax coils again, impossibly sharp, building under the weight of his control, his heat, his divinity.

he leans down, lips brushing your ear, voice breaking.

“come for me, mo chreach… let me see you fall.”

your body is breaking—beautifully, violently—with every thrust of his hips. the pressure inside you is unbearable now, a flood held back too long, and you know it—he knows it.

your cries rise with each motion, no longer pleading but praising.

and he watches you come apart like a man who’s waited lifetimes for this exact moment. he feels it in the way your nails claw at his triceps, leaving red and raw marks in their wake that will undoubtedly heal as soon as they settle into his skin.

“that’s it,” he breathes, voice thick with awe and hunger, “fall for me.”

and you do.

you shatter around him with a cry ripped straight from your soul, your body clenching tight, legs locking around his waist. pleasure crashes over you—white-hot, endless—as if your body can’t tell where it ends and he begins.

and as you tip over that edge, lost in heat and reverence, he leans in.

his mouth finds your throat—not gentle. not hesitant.

claiming.

you feel the scrape of his teeth, the split of skin—sharp, exquisite—and then the pull. his lips fasten to your neck, and he drinks.

your breath catches—but the pain is brief, eclipsed instantly by a second wave of pleasure that drowns you. it’s as if your body was waiting for this too, this final act of surrender. your blood sings in your veins, your skin flushes warm, and all you can do is arch into him, give him more.

his groan against your throat is primal, reverent, like your taste confirms something ancient in him. his hips never stop moving, driving through your climax, deep and slow, as your blood spills in warm rivulets down your shoulder, down your chest—

dripping onto the altar like sacrament.

it runs in delicate red lines over the stone, soaking into the grooves carved by forgotten hands, marking the place where divinity and flesh finally met.

and you—trembling, shaking, utterly undone—feel none of the fear you were taught to expect. only rapture. only fullness.

he draws back at last, lips slick with your blood, eyes burning with something more than lust. he looks down at you like a god who has finally found something worthy of worship.

you’re breathless. glowing. claimed.

and you do not feel broken. instead, you feel blessed.

your breath begins to slow.

each inhale shallower than the last, a fragile rhythm fading beneath the weight of him, the weight of what you’ve given. the world around you drifts, edges softening, sounds distant, as if you’re slipping underwater.

but there’s no fear.

you feel warm. floating.

your body is spent, loose beneath him, blood still pulsing slowly from the bite at your throat—warm trails sliding down your skin, over your chest, pooling beneath your spine on the cold stone slab.

and yet… you smile.

your eyes unfocus, fixed on the vaulted ceiling above, but you don’t really see it. you’re seeing something else—something far beyond stone and sky and flesh.

something sacred.

you feel it in your bones, in the soft dark where your heartbeat used to be.

you are dying.

and it feels like flying.

he stays above you, still deep inside you, unmoving, watching the light change behind your eyes. watching the stillness take you.

watching you leave.

his hand cradles your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, reverent. his lips are parted slightly, breath steady, and his eyes—those terrible, beautiful eyes—drink in the sight of you like it’s the only truth he’s ever known.

“mo ghràdh na bàs,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. my love in death.

your grip on remmick’s arms begins to loosen—slowly, like petals unfurling in the dark. strength slips from your fingers one heartbeat at a time, until your hands fall away completely, limp and lifeless against the cold stone.

your final breath escapes you in a soft, shaking sigh.

a tense quietness settles.

you’re still beneath him now—utterly still—arms slack at your sides, legs parted, body bare and open like an offering. like something sacred left at the altar.

the blood at your throat glistens, warm and slow-moving, a red ribbon trailing over your collarbone, down your chest, dripping to the stone beneath in quiet rhythm.

and there you lie—silent, surrendered.

a symbol not of death, but of eventual salvation.

the beginning, not the end.

your body softens.

and everything—goes—still.

remmick watches you, his heart heavy with a mixture of reverence and anticipation. you are still, the life having fled your body, leaving you open and vulnerable beneath him. but he knows what must be done, the ancient ritual that will return you to him.

he raises his wrist to his lips, his eyes lingering on your lifeless form one last time before his teeth sink into his own flesh. the skin splits easily, and the blood wells up—dark, rich, pulsing in steady rhythm. he tilts his arm, letting it drip, slow and deliberate, down to your mouth.

with his free hand, he gently tilts your head, guiding you toward his wrist, the red offering so close to your lips. the first drop touches your tongue, the warmth of it a promise—a return to life, a bond between you.

you stir.

a faint tremor runs through you, like a whisper beneath your skin, and then—you snap awake.

your eyes open wide, pupils dilated, focused with primal hunger. instinct takes over, and with a growl, your mouth parts as you lunge at his wrist. your lips wrap around the wound, and you suck, pulling greedily at the blood, your body awakening with the rush of it.

he hisses, the sensation of your mouth against his wrist sending a shock of something dangerous and thrilling through him. but he doesn’t pull away. he lets you drink—letting you take what you need. his blood, his essence, filling you, restoring you, binding you to him.

the pull of your mouth is voracious. he can feel your body coming back to life with every pull, your strength returning, your senses sharpening. the sound of your drinking is almost intimate—animalistic, raw—and he feels the tether between you strengthen with every heartbeat.

he watches you, eyes dark with approval, as you drain him, not out of weakness, but need, as if your very soul was calling for it. and with each drop that leaves his wrist, he gives you more of himself—until there is nothing left to take.

only then does he finally pull his wrist from your mouth, watching as your eyes meet his—fierce, alive, and entwined with his.

something stirs inside you. no, not the intrusion of fangs or the bloom of red irises. rather.. a flicker. a coil. a flame reborn.

your fingers twitch. your chest jerks. your mouth opens with a silent gasp as heat floods your limbs—terrible and divine. you feel it thread through your blood, through your bones, not life as it was but something more.

you draw in your first breath anew, ragged and sharp—and your eyes snap open.

you’re not the same.

you are his.

and he is still inside you, watching you rise again beneath him with a gaze that burns with triumph, with hunger, with worship.

you were the sacrifice.

now, you are the revenant.

 Then, Ferret got handsy.

 Now. You weren’t confrontational in the least. You tried to keep the peace in any situation you were put in - a rarity in the City. Most people would throw a hit or whip out a gun whenever the smallest little problem arose.

 You chalked it up to being raised on a farm, not in the crazy urban City that never ended, never slept, and never stopped. No wonder people were violent here. You would be too, if you grew up in such a toxic environment.

 But when the Ferret touched your ass. That was it.

 You placed your cup down on the countertop and swiveled on the bar stool to look at him. He leaned against the counter and grinned at you, his fluffy ears jolting upright.

 “Touch me again, I dare you,” you warned, “I might not be a city girl, but I know how to put an animal down.”

 His inner fans whirred and he leaned closer. Ferret clearly enjoyed your threat. He grabbed onto your arm with his claws and gazed up at you with half-lidded eyes-

 “Wow, a fleshy that can turn me on just like that, please say-”

 Another claw, larger, sharper, and greener rested on the ferret’s head. The smaller animatronic turned his head, his neck creaking from the excess weight now placed upon it. His speckled-green eyes widened at the sight of the newly arrived gator- or maybe he was a crocodile. You weren’t sure.

 “Now, I know ya weren’t hitting on my girl,” the gator said, “You know what I do to creeps like ya?”

 The fact that a second, larger animatronic was now here and claiming you to be his was terrifying. What did you do to deserve this treatment? Is it the lack of cybernetics that most of the other City dwellers have? Or did you just give out a vibe? You had no clue, but you regretted going for an overpriced drink in the slums of the City. You might have been better off just going to your hotel room and snatching a drink from the fridge.

 The ferret recoiled from the alligator, nearly tripping on his own tail trying to get away. Whoever this gator was, he was clearly known around the bar. Once the ferret was gone, the gator took his seat in the bar stool beside you.

 You wearily watched him before rotating your legs back under the bar. You downed the rest of your whiskey and wondered if you should run while you had the chance.

 The gator rapped his knuckles on the bar, “Another one of what she’s having.” he demanded.

 The human behind the bar nodded. Her bangles and rings jingling as she moved to get the bottle of whiskey from the shelf. She poured an amount into your glass before disappearing onto the other side of the bar again.

 You stared at the glass and shivered. Now you were in the gator’s debt. Whoever he was.

 You decided to nip it in the bud before you got yourself in too deep.

 “Thank you,” you said, “But I can handle myself. I was doing fine before you came in.”

 It came out ruder than you expected, but it was good enough. Maybe he would get the hint and move on. You weren’t interested. You weren’t staying in the City very long, and you didn’t plan on making friends or anything else.

 “Sure looked like ya needed help,” he grumbled back, lowering his star-shaped glasses to get a good look at you with his red eyes. “You’re a fleshy. Doubt you could last long against one of us.”

 He…made a point. Unlike the majority of the population, you did not have any enhancements. No super strength. No super agility. Nothing. You were just a plain-Jane human. An animatronic could easily overpower you. There was no comparing a fleshy and an animatronic. Would the ferret have gotten pushier? Would he have forced himself on you? You’d never know, now.

 You finally grabbed the glass and took a sip of the whiskey. He got it for you. You might as well drink it. He did you two favors. You won’t let them go to waste.

 You say your name.

 The gator grunted. He was just as rude as the ferret.

 You downed the rest of your whiskey and stood up, placing a tenner on the bar top. You patted down your cargos.

 “Thanks for the drink,” you mumbled, “See ya.”

 You didn’t make it very far before the gator grabbed onto the sleeve of your leather jacket. You don’t turn to look at him, but you do stop. He obviously wanted to say something.

 “Monty,” he said, “That’s the name. You’re not from around here, are ya?”

 You chuckled and stashed your hands in your pockets. “Is it that obvious?”

 “Yeah, it is.” He didn’t even hesitate. “Let me walk ya home. Streets get dicey at night. Especially ‘round here.”

 Your immediate answer was ‘no.’ But. The ferret could still be lingering around outside, waiting for you. Or something worse. Your first night here you were harassed by a group of men. Everyone made the City out to be so great, but in reality, it was just a cesspool of the worst people.

 You turned to look at Monty over your shoulder. “Yeah, that’d be nice, thanks,” Came out of your mouth before you meant it to.

 Well, no changing your mind now. Monty stood up from the barstool, and you realized just how tall he was. He easily towered over you, and the size of his arms made you completely understand why the ferret was so terrified. Monty was gigantic and looked strong. His bright-red mohawk and beard paired with the leather trousers he wore tucked into large combat boots was downright…no it wasn’t as scary as you thought. It looked good on him. Monty didn’t wear a shirt, though, you supposed he didn’t need to.

 He sidestepped around you and walked toward the bar door, waving his hand at the patrons he passed. His tail swished back and forth as he walked, though it was elegant. It never got close to knocking anything around. A few of the other customers waved and called his name, but you didn’t want to stick around to find out why he was so well-known. Monty wasn’t your friend. He was just a dude walking you home.

 The door jingled as it closed behind you. Monty was standing a little ways up the alley, waiting for you to come lead him. But he wasn’t looking at you. His piercing red glare was aimed for something just behind you. You looked over your shoulder, and the ferret was standing there, petrified. Good call having Monty walk you home.

 Monty’s tail beat against the wet stone of the alley, impatient, probably. You spared the ferret one last, nasty glance before hastily making your way toward the gator.

 As you approached his side, he tucked his hands in his pockets. “Where to?”

 “I’m staying the hotel on Third,” you said, “The Jefferson.”

 Monty began to walk toward the direction Third street was. He knew the City well, you realized. It was so large. You got lost the first day you came. The underground was confusing, and you struggled to decipher it. But he knew exactly where he was and where he was going. Maybe it was an animatronic thing. Maybe they had an inbuilt GPS. With your sense of direction, you were a tad bit jealous.

 You followed behind him, careful to not trip on his tail. It swayed left to right in a pattern, and you couldn’t help but watch it.

 “How long ya stayin’ for?”

 You barely recognized that Monty was talking to you. In fact, you nearly missed the curb he stepped off, causing you to stumble. He just watched you over his shoulder with humored eyes. Smooth, smooth. Only you would be a clumsy dumbass in front of this monstrous animatronic.

 Your brain finally registered his question.

 “Oh, only a few more days.” you replied, “I only came here to settle some family matters, then I’m going back to the farm.”

 Monty grunted in reply, stepping up onto the next curb. There were no cars on the street. In fact, cars were rarely used in the city. Most people used some sort of flying scooter contraptions or the Underground.

 “Ya live on a farm, huh?” Monty mused, “I bet that’s borin’.”

 You almost stumbled on his tail when you stepped onto the curb. But Monty grabbed ahold of your sleeve before you could step on it.

 “Not too boring,” you countered, “I like the peace. Don’t you ever get tired of the toxicity of the City?”

 Monty stopped walking at your question. It was an innocent one. He recognized it. But truthfully, he never thought of leaving the City. It was the only place that animatronics were “welcomed.” He was built and raised here.

 Before he could reply, a scooter zipped by, and you jumped. They were loud when they were too close to the ground. You even fell backwards onto the cement of the sidewalk. Ouch. Monty growled in the direction of the scooter, but said nothing about your damaged pride.

 He offered you a hand.

 Gratefully, you accepted.

 Once on your feet, the two of you continued to walk. Third street was a few blocks up, so you didn’t expect to make it there for at least a little while.

 Finally Monty gathered an answer. “I don’t think I’d like it out there,” he said, “At least here, people tolerate us.”

 It was a weird way to word that. You hummed to yourself in thought. Animatronics were certainly looked down upon here. They weren’t treated well at all, and were still considered sub-class citizens. They couldn’t vote. They had little to no rights. Most places didn’t even allow animatronics in the doors.

 “My neighbor’s an animatronic,” You said at last. “Everyone treats him well. He even comes to repair my machines, sometimes. Really good guy.”

 That was news to him. He’s never heard of an animatronic leaving the City. This was where they would go to get repaired. Upgrades. Anything they could possibly need.

 “What does he do if he gets damaged?”

 The question left Monty’s mouth before he could stop it. Life outside the City was a curiosity, now. If another animatronic lived out there, then surely more could.

 “He lives with the tech, actually,” you replied, “Some dude that used to live here got sick of the life. Brought Bonnie and a few others with him. Now he lives on a farm, but Bonnie’s the only one that tends to it. He’s been good at upkeeping Bonnie, though.”

 The two of you crossed the street again until you were on Eight street. Monty kept his thoughts to himself now, though you didn’t seem to mind the questions.

 You were rather charming, in a way. Different from the other humans Monty got along with. You didn’t look at him like he was beneath you, either. The fact that you chose an animatronic-friendly bar spoke volumes to him. Especially since it was nine streets up from your hotel. It meant that you had actively sought it out. Though, he wouldn’t say that out loud. He appreciated a good human now and then.

 A few kids were tossing a ball-pod back and forth in one of the alleys. Two humans, and one animatronic. They were all giggling, and shoving each other around. You watched in curiosity as you passed, though Monty didn’t give them a second look. He was used to seeing the children that lived in the slums. Hell, that’s where he grew up. This was Monty’s domain.

 “Hey Monty!”

 “Hi Mont!”

 The children started bellowing and calling out to him, waving frantically as they spotted him. You looked from them to the gator walking in front of you and grinned. Monty waved in the direction of the kids, but didn’t stop to talk to them. No matter. They continued to play with the pod.

 “So. You’re quite popular here, huh?” you teased, “Are you famous or something?”

 Monty was chuffed to hear that you could recognize his popularity. “Ya could say that,” he said, “Used to play in a band when I was younger. Now that I’m older, though, I just pick fights with the fleshies that think they can bully us.”

 Ah. He was a vigilante of some sort. A punk. Though, he easily defended you against one of his own. Maybe he just had some hero complex.

 “You ever get tired of that?”

 It sounded ruder than you intended. Accusatory. In reality, Monty wasn’t doing anything to be ashamed of.

 “No,” he replied, “It makes life worthwhile. Don’t ya get tired of digging in the dirt?”

 “No, ‘it makes life worthwhile,’” you instantly replied, “There aren’t a lot of farms left in the world. It’s nice growing something non-synthetic. I’d invite you to visit, but I don’t think you’d like it.”

 The truth was, Monty would like it. A large open field to run around in? No one to rely on him? Sounded like a vacation. Sounded like magic. The only grass Monty had ever seen were the rare bits and pieces that poke up in the sidewalk before maintenance. Everything about your life was completely foreign to him.

 “It can’t be too bad,” he said, “If someone like ya can handle it, I definitely can.”

 You laughed at that. It was a nice laugh. Not musical or melodical. Real. Rough. A little dorky. It was endearing in a society where everyone had to be perfect.

 Monty watched you from over the tops of his glasses, entranced by the look on your face. He almost wanted to laugh too. Your laugh was contagious. He even felt his silicone lips rise in a grin.

 “Fine then,” you countered, “You’ll have to come spend a few days on the farm. I’ll show you the ropes. You’ll be a farm boy in no time.”

 Hospitality was rare. The fact you openly invited an animatronic you just met to your home, whether joking or not, was odd. Weird. You were weird. Trusting in a weird way.

 Seventh street was quite busy. It had a few clubs and restaurants that were open to those that lingered well into the night. For people like you. People like Monty, too. Fleshies glared at him as he walked by. He ignored them. You glared back.

 Monty only knew you for maybe half an hour by this point, but he liked your guts. And your smile. And your laugh.

 “Keep your eyes to yourself,” you hissed at a passing woman that had additional, robotic arms.

 Why humans would fashion themselves with robotic limbs yet act in such an awful way toward animatronics was beyond you. Imitation was a form of flattery, but in this case, humans were trying to just be better than what they were imitating. It was annoying. It was shallow. Monty watched as the multi-armed woman huffed and entered the line for the nearest club. A few other humans that were commenting quite rudely on Monty’s looks withered under your glare.

 Monty believed you now. You could defend yourself, at least against humans. And here you were defending him against humans. You were something else.

 Sixth street wasn’t much better. But at least most of the humans on this road elected to just ignore Monty’s presence. You walked quietly beside him, looking around at the different neon signs in windows, eyes wide with curiosity, not unlike a child’s. The City was still so new to you, and you were leaving so soon, too. As much as you hated it here, there was just something so…nice about having anything within walking distance.

 Monty watched you from the corner of his eye. He watched you looking around, bewildered and amazed.

 He took these views for granted. They were all he’s seen his entire life. They weren’t interesting or cool or even pleasant anymore. They were just there, in the background of his mind.

 “How ya sleepin’ here?” he asked, “Is the light annoyin’?”

 A good question. You wondered if you looked like shit to prompt it, though.

 “Eh,” you kicked at a stone as you passed it. “The lights are annoying, but I can sleep anywhere. The City just makes my insomnia a little worse is all.”

 It was true. Your insomnia was a lot worse in the City. You knew you could be out wandering the streets and looking at things. The constant drabble of people talking. The lights constantly on and flickering. The noise was enough to drive you insane. The first night you didn’t sleep at all. Then one of the neighboring ladies in the room next to you offered ear plugs. She was a saint.

 “Insomnia, huh?”

 Monty didn’t know much about it. He didn’t “sleep” the ways humans did.

 You hummed in response, tucking your hands into the pockets of your jacket. That was another thing you noticed in the City. It was never cold. Your jacket was just anxiety deterrent. It had no other use. You could walk down the street naked and be perfectly comfortable with the temperature.

 It was especially strange since it was October.

 It definitely explained why so many people dressed in so little clothes. That wasn’t for you. Fancy clothes did not bode well on the farm.

 Fifth and Fourth street were practically deserted. A few humans slithered around the entrances to casinos and strip-clubs, but most were assumably inside. A strange looking animatronic sat on the front steps of a brothel, smoking some sort of pipe. How he managed to do that without lungs was beyond your comprehension.

 “Hey Mon’gomery,” the robot breathed out a puff of multi-colored smoke, “Didn’ know you had a human fe’ish.”

 Your face burned at the accusation, and you immediately looked away from the Fox-shaped animatronic. Is that why Monty was helping you? To get in your pants? Did animatronics even have anything in theirs?

 “Nah, not like that,” Monty said, “Fergeusson was botherin’ her and I’m just walkin’ her home.”

 The fox slapped his knee and chuckled, more smoke puffing out of his mouth and nostrils. You noticed he only had one good hand, the other was painfully absent. In fact, he looked really tattered, damaged. His ears with broken in different places, and his one eye was sunken in and covered in a patch. Dude had a rough life.

 He also wore a security guard uniform. No doubt the guard for the brothel he sat in front of.

 “Aye, he’s such a weasel tha’ Fergeusson,” the fox rolled his singular eye, “She is qui’e a beau’iful lass. Nor surprised he sough’ her ou’.”

  Monty laughed a little, too. “She’s nice,” he waved the fox’s words off, “She’s a farm girl. Not used ta the City.”

 The fox laughed a long. “Farm girl, huh?”

 You nod, meekly, “All my life. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cut the conversation off, but I really need to get to my hotel.”

 “Righ’, righ’,” the fox nodded, “Sorry bou’ tha’, maybe nex’ ‘ime. See ya la’er Mon’gomery.”

 “Later Foxy,” Monty grunted.

 Monty nudged you to start walking again, and soon you were on Third.

 Your hotel was on the corner. It was the smallest and dingiest of the buildings on this street, but otherwise nice. It was one of the only remaining brick buildings in the City - most had been replaced years ago. The front desk lady had told you all about it. The hotel was a historic building. It was the oldest building in the City, supposedly. You didn’t know if that was true or not.

 If it was, you thought they would take better care of it. Alas.

 You stopped right in front of the hotel. The door was held open by a stone. The window on the left was shattered. There were leaves covering the porch. It wasn’t much. But it was your temporary home.

 You turn to look at Monty. “Thank you for walking me here,” you said, “And thank you with Fergeusson. Ah…wait hold on.”

 You pulled your wallet out of your pocket and flick it open to dig for some cash. But Monty grabbed your wrist before you could pull it out.

 “Don’t need ta pay me,” he said, “I reckon you would’ve gotten back just fine without me, anyway. Just consider it a pit stop on my way back.”

 Your eyebrows knitted together, but you elected to put your wallet away anyway. If he didn’t want money, then you wouldn’t force it on him. (It was money for the train ride home, anyway.) But, you didn’t want to send him away with nothing.

 You motioned for Monty to come down to your height. He rolled his eyes behind his glasses but did bend closer to you. He assumed you were going to whisper something in his ear? Not that he had an ear, mind you.

 But you didn’t whisper anything.

 You stood on your tiptoes to reach the rest of the way and pressed your soft, pink lips against the side of his snout. And just like that, the warmth was gone and you were skipping up the steps into the hotel. Monty watched you disappear inside the door before he straightened his spine.

 He gently touched the side of his snout that you had just kissed. More than a little surprised.

 Monty never realized how warm humans were.

 He spared one last glance at the door and turned around to walk back to the bar. He had a bone to pick with Fergeusson still.

 You spent all day in the lawyer’s office, only to get nothing done. He spent too long on the phone with other clients, which, you supposed was fine since they were actually paying him. But your lawyer, who was your cousin, was doing your case free. Pro-bono. It wasn’t even really your case. It was your father’s, but he was too ill to travel anymore, so it was up to you to handle.

 It wasn’t even a big deal. It just had to do with your father’s medical issues and his power of attorney should be. Your brother immediately demanded he be it. But he wanted to trash the farm. Sell it to the City so it could expand and he could make a profit. But you wanted the farm. You did all the work for it, and it was originally meant to be yours. Your father just never finished his will before he fell sick.

 After a long ten hours, you called it quits for the day. You were hungry and nursing a poor mood, so you elected to once again go across the street into the alleyway to the only animatronic-friendly bar. That was how you found it yesterday. It was closest place that served food to your cousin’s office. The animatronic-friendly bit was just a happy coincidence.

 You had never seen so many animatronics before entering the city. It was amazing yesterday being in the presence of them in the bar. Today, you hoped it would be just as amazing. Without the ferret harassing you. Hopefully. Maybe you would even bump into your new friend, Monty. You had asked your cousin if he knew Monty.

“Oh him?” he had sounded annoyed, “He’s a bit of a brute. Are you sure that’s the right name? I can’t imagine someone like Montgomery Gator walking a girl home at night. Bit of a ridiculous image if you ask me.”

 You brushed him off at the time. Monty had been nothing but- well. He was considerate. A little gruff, but really not a bad guy. He was nice to talk to. He was really the only one aside from your cousin that you’ve spoken to all week.

 The bar was less populated now than it had been last night. It was only a little after lunchtime, so you weren’t surprised.

 The stool you sat on yesterday was unoccupied, so you immediately maneuvered to situate yourself there. You were a creature of habit. You enjoyed sitting in the same place every time. Once sat, you looked at the menu sitting off to the side to see what sort of foods the bar offered. You didn’t expect much, especially if mostly animatronics hung around.

 As if like magic, shortly after you sat down, the bar’s door flicked open again and the bell jingled with the movement. You didn’t look toward the source, instead you continued to look through the menu. There were normal things you’d find at a bar - pizza, wings, fries. You weren’t really hungry for any of those things.

 You’d kill for some of your mother’s cooking right now.

 Fresh vegetables and fruits right off the farm? Sign you up.

 The bartender noticed your indecision and approached, placing a glass of tap-water in front of you. There weren’t any other humans around right now, so he didn’t have anyone else to really attend to except for you.

 “You’re not from here, huh?” he questioned, “You’re looking at the menu awfully hard, need any help?”

 You wondered if you had a sign taped to your forehead that said you weren’t from the City. Every single person you had the pleasure to talk to could just tell. Was it the clothes? The lack of enhancements? Just your face in general?

 “Don’t really need help, no,” you mused, “I’m just hungry, but not that hungry, I guess, as none of these seem to be interesting.“

 The bartender crossed his arms and hummed, “We could go off-menu, I’m sure,” he encouraged, “The chef rarely gets to do anything special since we’re mostly busy with them robots. Whatcha hungry for?”

 You wondered. What exactly were you hungry for? If a chef was willing to make you whatever you wanted, you should really take advantage of that.

 “Stew,” you finally said, “Beef stew. With lots of potatoes.”

 “Got it.” the bartender nodded and then disappeared into the kitchen through the doors behind the bar.

 “That sounds pretty good.”

 The stool beside you creaked with the weight of its new guest. You turn to look away from the kitchen doors and find yourself face to face with Monty again. Today, he’s wearing dark-washed jeans with platformed boots. A dark t-shirt with the sleeves torn off. No sunglasses, just tired eyes stared at you.

 “Oh hey,” you said, “I wasn’t expecting to run into you again. Did you get home alright yesterday?”

 The alligator looked at you incredulously at such a weird question - “Did-did I get home alright?“ he repeated. He was going to say something nasty, but at the look of genuine fondness and worry on your face, he had to bite his tongue, ”’Course, no one’s better than me.“

 You beamed. Your smile was contagious, and Monty couldn’t help but grin back, eyes half lidded and face resting against his hand. Why were you so cute?

 “Are all farm girls cute like ya?”

 You weren’t expecting a question like that. Hell, he wasn’t expecting a question like that either.

 You blushed furiously and averted your eyes, covering your face with a single hand as you looked the other way. Monty’s fans whirred to life in his chassis, and he, too, looked away from you.

 Awkward. Awkward.

 The bartender handed you another cup of water. You hadn’t realized you chugged your first one down. Or that he came out of the kitchen. You took a good few sips of this water, trying to ease the warmth in your face just enough so you could look at Monty again.

 When you finally looked over again, he was staring. So much for getting rid of your flustered face.

 “Didja sleep well las’ night?” he asked, “I know ya said it was makin’ your insomnia bad.”

 Oh. He remembered your conversation from last night.

 “Oh, well,” you rubbed at the back of your neck, “I barely slept, honestly. My insomnia was pretty awful, but I was also anxious about my meeting today.”

 Monty tapped his claw on the bar-top, “How’d tha’ go?”

 You didn’t remember exactly what you told him about your meetings. But you were pretty sure he knew you were here specifically for them.

 “Alright, we’re almost done,” you said, “Should finish it all up tomorrow. I’ll probably take the late train home.”

 Monty hummed in reply, his red eyes moving from your face to your hand clutching the glass of water. He couldn’t tell if you were relieved or anxious to be going home so soon. He had a general idea of how you felt about the City (not good), so he assumed you’d be happy, but something about your body language told him that wasn’t the case.

 “Homesick?” he offered.

 You took another sip of your water, watching as the kitchen door swung open and the bartender swept back into the room with a tray. He placed the tray on the bar beside you and moved the bowl off it onto the top in front of you, as well as a bit of bread and butter on a smaller plate.

 “Yeah. I am,” you admitted to Monty, “At the same time, it’s nice to meet new people and spend time with my cousin. It’s kinda lonely at home.”

 You took a deep smell of the stew in front of you and hummed. It was delightful and you couldn’t wait to dig in. Unravelling the napkin bundle, you pluck out the singular spoon and scooped a spoonful up, getting a fat chunk of potato with the broth. Perfect.

 It tasted as good as it smelled. Gently salty. You could taste garlic and onion. It wasn’t as good as your mother’s, but it was a close second.

 “Why dontcha stay, then?”

 You swallowed the mouthful and placed the spoon down. Monty made a very valid point.

 “Because I don’t like the City,” you replied after a few minutes, “It’s not for me. The countryside is where I belong, even if it’s a little lonely. I think I’d be just as lonely here as back home. Don’t you get lonely here?”

 The truth was. He did. Monty didn’t have a lot of friends anymore. Not since Roxy and Chica moved away. He and Freddy never really got along.

 “Yeah,” he grunted, “Yeah, I do.”

 The conversation lulled.

 You ate more of your stew. Monty watched out of the corner of his eye. Well. This was awkward, but you supposed that was to be expected. Monty wasn’t your friend. You barely had anything in common. He had just been nice enough to walk you home last night…and sit next to you today.

 You nibbled on your bread, avoiding his gaze. He was staring at you, still.

 Once your bit of bread was gone, you had no excuse to ignore him though.

 “Don’t mind me, but I’m going to be a little forward here,” you cautioned, “You’re strong, and I could really use your help getting the farm set up for the autumn. I’d pay you, of course, and house you. Any repairs would be on me.”

 Monty looked at you, surprised this time - “Look, kid, that’s nice an’ all, but we just met,” he said, but honestly? Monty did wonder what the countryside was like. And he liked you. More than he should for just meeting you last night.

 You were interesting.

 “Just, think about it!” you countered, “I’m usually pretty good at telling when someone’s a good person. I think you’d really like it on the farm, and…I think I’d like you on the farm, too.”

 Monty looked away, rubbing at his snout and trying to calm his whirring fans down. You were so tantalizingly different than the other humans he met in the City. Trusting. Open. But you can handle yourself. You weren’t afraid of making a fool of yourself, either.

 “I’ll think abou’ it.”

 You couldn’t help the smile that grew on your face. Monty really would be good to have on the farm. Plus, then Bonnie wouldn’t be as lonely.

 The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a little while longer.

 You spent all of the next day with your cousin once again. He was busy most of the time and couldn’t spare your issue too much focus, but in the few minutes he could spare, he did a lot. By the end of the day, you had all your paper work explained, signed, and tucked away. You had planned on staying in the City at least another week, but you weren’t too sad about going home.

 Your cousin had shooed you out the office after he completed everything, telling you to finally go home and rest. You clearly weren’t built for City life if you looked this tired.

 Instead of going to the animatronic bar like you had the last few days, you elected to just go back to the hotel room. You had to pack. You had to book a train ticket to get home. It would be expensive for a same day ticket, but you so badly missed home. You were sick of the City sights and smells.

 You just had one little misthought about leaving.

 Monty.

 Even though you had only known him a handful of days, he was a quick friend. He had sat with you every time you attended the bar. The last day in particular, he was very interested in how things worked on the farm.

 “What kinda plants do you keep?” Monty had asked, “It’s gettin’ cold so I can’ imagine you plan’ a lot right now.”

 You had chuckled. “Yeah, we’re kinda just getting ready for the winter season,” you replied, “We still have some things growing - corn, pumpkins. My family makes corn mazes every year for the neighborhood kids to enjoy.” 

 “That sounds really redneck, no offense,” Monty had laughed, “Corn mazes? Do ya have pumpkin carvin’ contests, too?”

 “It’s more fun than it sounds, I swear!”

 You were going to miss him. It would be easier if you didn’t say goodbye. If you saw his face, you might just stay. You didn’t have a lot of friends, and now that you had one.

 It was rough.

 Your heart ached at the thought of leaving him, though. Admittedly, you were feeling a little bit of a crush for him. Though, you shoved it down as far as you could. You couldn’t love someone from the City. You couldn’t live in the City to be with someone.

 You needed to go and say goodbye. And you would once you finished packing. You had to go that way, anyway, to reach the train station. Fortunately, you didn’t have a lot to pack. A few clothes. Toiletries. A few knickknacks you purchased in the City for presents. Each of those fit neatly in your duffel.

 All you had to do now was pay for the hotel and leave. You double checked you packed everything before you left the room and closed the door behind you. Luckily, you didn’t have to wait for the manager. He stood at the desk for the first time in days, scrawling something in a ledger. He looked up at you as you entered the lobby, smiled softly, and placed the pen down.

 “Are you checking out?” He asked.

 You nodded and pulled your wallet out to fish for cash. You handed him the remaining cash you had - just enough to cover the hotel room. Your cousin was generous enough to at least pay for that since he couldn’t house you. The manager counted out the bills in front of you, placing each one in an envelope as he did.

 “Alright! Thank you for staying,” he cooed, “I hope you have wonderful travels. Hope to see you soon!”

 You thanked him profusely. Then, you left the hotel too.

 You had a late train, not until almost eight at night. You only had around an hour. But that should be more than enough time to go and say goodbye to Monty and then make it to the station on time.

 The walk to the bar seemed so quick. Maybe it was because you were sad. Maybe it was because you had been there so often the last few days. Or maybe you were just moving fast, didn’t want to delay the inevitable. But you did know that the closer you got, the sadder you became. You didn’t want to say goodbye to Monty. It was nice having a friend in the City. And you doubted you would ever see him again after today.

 That was even more depressing.

 But you two weren’t particularly close or anything. At least. Neither of you said you were. You were just friends hanging out together while you visited the City. You told stories of your lives to each other, and nestled into booths in the back of the bar for privacy so you could get to know one another more.

 But you couldn’t help but think back to when Monty had saved you from that Ferret animatronic. Claiming you were his girl.

 Imagine wanting to be an animatronic’s girlfriend. It was weird, you told yourself. But you liked Monty. He was so nice to you, and he treated you so specially.

 And he didn’t care that you weren’t from the City.

 You shook the thoughts out of your head. No need to get yourself even more upset at leaving.

 The bar was lively at seven. Lots of people and animatronics alike were piled in, watching the football game on the television, drinking to their hearts content. One animatronic couple were canoodling in the back of the bar in a corner booth, too.

 You didn’t catch glimpse of your gator. Uh. Monty. He hadn’t arrived yet. You frowned and sat at one of the empty bar stools, placing your duffel between your feet. You would have to leave in a few minutes, with or without saying goodbye to Monty. While you waited, you ordered a rum-and-coke. It would help dull the anxiety in your chest over the long train ride coming up.

 It didn’t take too long fort he bartender to get to your order. He placed it in front of you and frowned - “Are you looking for Montgomery?” he asked, “He hasn’t been in today. Said he had somethin’ to do.”

 “Oh. Thanks.”

 The bartender nodded and went to serve another patron. You stared at your rum-and-coke and frowned deeper. You supposed that you wouldn’t get to say goodbye to Monty, then. He was probably off with his friends. Or maybe he really did have a girlfriend, and you were just being some loser clinging to him every time he popped into the bar.

 You sipped your drink and sighed.

 Wow, you really hyped up a friendship that clearly wasn’t a friendship, huh?

 He had magically shown up every time you were at the bar, but now that you were actually leaving, he was absent. You didn’t even have his phone number to call him and wish him goodbye.

 You placed a tenner on the bar after you finished your drink, spared another look around the establishment, and decided you would leave. You couldn’t waste anymore time here.

 You palmed your duffel and wished the bartender a goodnight. Then, you were out the door and back on the street. You had around thirty minutes to get to the station. It was about a twenty-five minute walk, if you remembered right. You didn’t waste anytime.

 Montgomery had wanted to pick you up from the hotel. You made it pretty clear the night before that you were almost done with your cousin. And you probably would be leaving in the next few days. So, he “joked” about taking you out on a real date. Clearly you thought he really was joking. He had asked the manager if he could call up to your room. But the manager informed Monty that you had already checked out.

 He knew he fucked up at that point. He should have made his intentions more clear from the beginning. Monty really liked you, for a fleshy. Not that he didn’t like fleshies. He just never thought he’d like one.

 Monty had just left the hotel when Trevor, the bartender, sent him a text that you were there. With your bag. And you looked sad. Monty hadn’t even wanted to go to the bar today. He wanted to take you to his favorite hangout and introduce you to his friends. But of course, plans change when you don’t actually make plans.

 By the time he got to the bar, you were gone already. He wondered if you had a train coming soon. He swore there wasn’t a train until nine, but he could be wrong.

 He would just meet you at the train station, then.

 You stood on the platform, just behind the yellow line. Your duffel was slung over your shoulder again, and your hands were hidden away in the pockets of your leather jacket. It was getting chilly the darker the City’s natural light got. You didn’t mind too much. You’d be on a train in a few minutes.

 According to the board, your train was even arriving a little earlier than intended. You were glad you got there when you did. As much as it saddened you to not see Monty.

 You really missed home, though. And you already checked out of your hotel. You couldn’t wait around on the hope that your gator friend would show up just to say goodbye.

 You kicked at the bumps on the yellow line. There weren’t many others taking this train. It was the last train that led out of the City for the night. Your last chance to get home for today.

 As you toed the line, you could hear the train approaching in the distance. Two minutes before eight, early like the board said. You watched it appear from a dark tunnel, its lights blinding you as you stared. This train connected to your neighboring town’s line, and you would just walk home from there. It was a peaceful walk through the corn fields, and you didn’t normally mind it.

 It slowed down as it reached the platform, coming to a shaky and loud stop. Its doors pulled apart, and the passengers poured out. You waited patiently for the carriage you stood in front of to clear before you stepped into it. It was fairly empty now that most of the passengers had gotten off. You walked down about halfway before sitting at a seat with a table.

 Then, you gazed out the window, waiting for the train to resume its journey once more.

 Only a few more people got on your carriage. You ignored them in favor of looking out at the platform, more than a little sad to leave the City behind.

 Someone sat beside you, much to your displeasure. The train was practically empty. Who in their right mind would sit next to a stranger-

 “Hey, kid.”

 You whipped around hard enough to nearly give yourself whiplash. Monty sat beside you, taking up one and a half seats with his giganticness. He had his head leaning against his hand which was propped up on the table by his elbow. He just stared at you.

 “H-hey,” you said, “Wait. You can’t be on the train. It’s going back to my home.”

 You shoved at his shoulder. Trying to nudge him to get up.

 He let out a bark of laughter, gaining several glares from other passengers. “I know where it’s goin’,” he mused, “Wherever you’re goin’, I wanna go, too.”

 Your face burned. Instead of shoving his shoulder, your hand relaxed and just sat there. Monty pulled the sunglasses of his face. He supposed he didn’t need them in the dark. He wanted to see you better.

 “But what about your friends?” you asked, “You can’t just impulsively decide to come with me.”

 Monty laughed again, “Are ya tryin’ to get rid of me?” he said, “Y’know, I came by your hotel. Wanted to take you out on a proper date, but ya weren’t there. Imagine my surprise.”

 However red your face was before, it was triple so now. “What? I thought you were joking about that,” you said.

 He gently grabbed a strange of your hair and gave it a gentle tug. “I wasn’t,” he replied, “I realized that I like ya. I like ya a lot.”

 “But I’m not worth you throwing your life away to live in the middle of nowhere-”

 “Shh,” Monty wrapped his arm around your shoulders, “City life ain’t for me anyway. I’ve been bored for months. And ya make farm life sound fun. ‘Sides. Who don’t like corn mazes and carvin’ pumpkins?”

 “But Monty-”

 “No, I’m serious here. Let me come and stay with ya, see where the two of us go. Consider it an adventure.”

 Instead of arguing further, you leaned your head against his chest. He hadn’t expected that, and you could hear (and feel) his fans kicking on.

 Something about him making his life alongside you an adventure stirred the butterflies in your stomach. Whether Monty meant to or not, he was causing waves of affection to just roll through your body. You never thought you’d like an animatronic like that. But in all honesty, you only knew the one from home. Monty was, by all means, alive. He might have been made out of metal and silicone, but he was real and alive and you could touch him.

 “I’m glad you’re coming,” you whispered, “I didn’t want to leave…you…behind.”

 “But ya didn’ want ta stay,” Monty said, “Me neither, honestly. City gets boring. And I’d like to see more of the world.”

 The train finally began to move again.

 “You know you’ll have to help around the farm,” you said, “Bonnie won’t let you be lazy.”

 Monty shrugged and grinned, “I’m not afraid of some hard work,” he said, “I think I’ll enjoy life on your little farm.”

 You wanted to laugh. Your farm was anything but little. He’ll see eventually.

 But for now, you were just content leaning against him and thinking about the future you might have together.