jimmy slag

𝖎.

ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪғᴜʟ. A pretty, little thing padding through the moonlit copse, a defiance rose beneath each step you left in the grass tufts—barefooted, soft skin, delicate. Curious by your intention, careful, so careful, you moved. What else was there to do other than be captured by you? I've always been drawn to what burns. And you, my darling, were a lit pyre in the dark.

A reminder of Sadhbh, deer-like, as you pattered down an unworn path, further than someone like you should have ever ventured. Did you listen to what your elders taught you? There are some things in the depths that would destroy themselves just to drag you deeper.

I followed in your wake.

You were beautiful. Even from a distance. It seemed the surroundings softened just so, revealed to be an angel in that dreamlike blue hour before dawn.

You tended to the goats, your hands grasping to quell their bleating cries. And when a kid screamed unruly for their meal, annoyance flared in my chest. What an ugly, grating sound. Imagine—squeezing that furred neck, thumb level on its fleshy windpipe, until the telltale crack of breaking bones turned noise into meat.

If you held any ire brought upon by your daily toil, you hid it well. Instead, you handled it the same way you handled the thorny brush of the woods: quietly, without complaint.

But you stumbled. Hands crushed beneath your own weight, trying to catch the fall. Your knee caught on splintered wood, causing the thin skin to split open.

Oh.

You smelled sweet—strong.

But you did not moan in pain or shout in surprise. Rather, you searched for witnesses as if you were going to be seen committing a terrible crime. What, pray tell, were you hiding from, little fawn?

Sunrise forced me away. The prickle on my skin a warning for lingering too long. But, it's fine; I've long since learned to be patient.

ɪ ᴀʟᴍᴏsᴛ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ.

Another night in the woods. I remembered you, here, near the copse. A pretty face and a tendency to be alone. Did you think yourself above danger, then? Or did you just not mind inviting it? You had been lucky the first time with my hunger sated. Not so, now. And I never minded accepting an invitation freely given.

I let the steady pulse of your heart guide me. Your scent close, so. Reminded of how sweet you were that day in the village; oh, how much sweeter you would be when I finally got my teeth into you.

I could have closed the gap, would have, if I had gone a few more days without or if I were still the impulsive man of my youth. But you seemed determined to reach the furthest depths of the forest, and I would be lying to say if I wasn't curious why. No rush, lass; there wasn't a place you could go now where I couldn't reach.

You stopped at a clearing, opening up to a lake that spanned the tree line.

Waters still and quiet, like. A peaceful place to die.

You would be scared, yes. You, with a sensitive heart. Perhaps I would let you see your reflection on the surface, not to break you, but to show you that death doesn't have to be a violent thing.

And I almost ended it there, but then you fell to your knees and sang.

Sang like it was all you could do. Quietly, but it echoed clear over the waters. The type of sorrowful tune that only came from a lifetime of experience.

More than just a lovely voice, I felt the song reach in and pull at something weary and cracked in my ancient body. Something true. Something I believed to be lost. And I smiled.

I've been searching for someone like you.

And to think, I was this close to stealing that voice straight out of your tender throat.

I watched you go home safe that night. You, none the wiser, but me? I saw you, as if for the first time.

You were beautiful. And when one evening turned into two, turned into more, I could feel myself becoming attached; but I couldn't stop—couldn't stop the urge to trace the path back to the edge of your village to watch you live.

At first, I only wished to hear you sing again, and every once in a while, you visited the lake to air out that sorrow that seemed etched into your bones.

But more often than not, you were quiet. And strangely, I came to enjoy that too. Silent, perhaps for hours, where it was just you and me—it felt intimate somehow. Calming in a way my restless nature was unused to. I started to think of those moments as ours. And that felt right; the idea of someone else interrupting our time squeezed my dead heart to stillness in my chest.

The days turned into a week, and the week turned into a routine. You must think me passive, but truthfully I just wanted to be careful. It has been countless years since I last heard a voice like yours, and I swore this time would not be like the last time. And maybe, I could admit, a part of me wanted the company, too.

I grew dissatisfied, though, not with you, of course—never you—but because it wasn't enough.

You were beautiful. And they were ungrateful. The people of your village did not look you in the eye. ‘Cursed,’ they whispered in hushed dialogues. Hidden from your face, not from your ears. Those who pretended to care said, ‘unfortunate,' like it made it hurt any less. From the spring months to the end of summer, I overheard enough to fill out the story of you.

Misfortune clung to you like a tick on a dog. Your mother was killed in labor. And just when the village finished mourning her, then came the drought of your birth year. The resulting pitiful harvest, of course, was your fault as well. An earthquake hit during your ninth sun cycle, a year supposed to represent completeness torn apart instead. Soon it was just assumed you were born to carry bad omens: an accident when you're near, the death of a pet, the cause of an argument, a slip, spoilage, the thunder in a storm; for God's sake, it was laughable. Eventually anything could be pinned on you. You were the village's beloved scapegoat.

Were you not tired?

Your father, the only skilled carpenter in the village, bore the brunt of those apologizing for your existence.

“Don't you feel bad for him? Only a single daughter and it's her."

“He's got the heart of a saint, to feed and put a roof over her head like that."

“It must get exhausting. Maybe if he had a son, he wouldn't be so lonely at home."

To his credit, the only credit I felt compelled to give, is that he did not respond to this talk with any kind of assent. In fact, he did not respond at all. A stoic man who did his work, did it well, and spoke rarely a word. He could only offer you empty platitudes in the end; he loved you, yes, but it was not enough. For he believed that if you ignored the hateful, you would be taking the moral road and surely, surely, God would reward your humility.

You still cried at night, so.

But there was more to you than the opinions of those—meaningless, thoughtless, ugly—curs. During the afternoons (and cloudy enough to watch), you taught those younger than fifteen; it was the only time the air of misery did not follow you. Careful hands. Weaving, skinning, discerning the edible berries from the poisonous ones. You did this with skill, with practice, correcting mistakes with a gentle and firm disposition.

Oh yes, you were skilled with a blade. Taught by your father and knowing not the ease of riches, you've been doing men's work since you were a child.

I was after watching you wield the skinning knife just past sunset. You were alone. Focused. Engrossed in the act of paring a butchered hog, slicing skin off meat like a scythe through barley. Pig's blood on your hands—Oh, god—those beautiful hands, covered in the most vibrant red. Digging in. Curling into entrails.

I wanted them.

I wanted them badly.

In less than a second, my mind conjured images that had me more feverish than I cared for. Face flushing with the closest thing I could call warmth. This separation was killing me. I needed to be close enough to touch. To feel how real you were. Was it not fair? Look at what you've done to me—my mind riddled with thoughts of you, where every moment away is a burden. This all-consuming, irrational urge to be known, to be seen, to hear my name uttered by that lovely, lovely voice of yours—and we haven't even spoken a word. I haven't felt this way since… well, for a very long time. I wished you needed me as much as I have come to need you.

They didn't deserve you. What has your community ever done but throw you aside like trash? I would never abandon you like that. I would take care of you. I would love you the way that you're desperate for, the way you've always wanted to be loved. And you would love me in return. I would carve the world up if you wanted it, serve anything you desired on a silver platter—even if it burned. I just needed to be closer. Close enough to hold you.

I've come to a decision. And really, after all this time, there was only one option.

Do you believe in fate, lass?

You were beautiful—God, you were beautiful—I couldn't stop thinking about you. In those private hours of twilight, my thoughts grew sinful. I thought of the dresses you wore, billowing in the summer breeze. Your hair, always clean, framing your face perfectly.

Fuck—I thought of your plush thighs under that skirt, practically begging for my fingers to mark them. The curve of your neck. The slope of your breasts made to be held by my hands.

How would you sound being opened up? Played with or teased? Would you moan, long and throaty? Or would you whimper high as a sparrow? Would you shudder under the flick of my tongue, sweet and dripping like an apple core? Or would your hips grind back? Greedy, greedy little thing.

“Master," you would say. And oh, oh darling—I had to hear that again. Need your wrists in my hand as I sink into that heat from behind. You would cry, hot tears rolling down your face, trying your best to stifle the sobs and you'd fail. I couldn't deny that I craved the sound. So sweet, so lovely, so soft. So mine. Nobody else would touch you, nobody else would dare. You'd break just for me until you needed nothing else. You didn't need anything else anyway.

I'd fuck you deep, just the way your sweet pussy begged for it, and you'd do your best to take all of me, trying your damnedest to be good. My good girl, my darling fawn.

“I love you,” I would hear you say, eyes red and puffy. It echoed in my head I love you, I love you, I love you and that was enough to pull me over the edge, breaking the fantasy as I spilled into my hand with a sharp cry.

The tension drained out. But the thought of you lingered, the thought of if it were real. Everything else in comparison just seemed… dull.

Soon.

You were beautiful. Caught in Caer's arms, the goddess of dreams, you looked untroubled; expression mellowed in the hazy catch of sleep. More so, it was warm tonight, filled with the heat of summer's last dying cry. Despite the sweat slicked to my collar or every exhale of heavy, humid breath, I could not be more thankful, for it allowed me to watch the way you bared your skin to me. The way your hand curled upon your chest—steady with each rise and fall—almost seemed intentional. You, an artist's masterwork brought to life. Did you cry tonight? Your cheeks were mottled in red and pink; all that hurt lingering like how dirt sticks to nails. Something for your body to remember. Something for you, in the morning, to feel in your eyes and push away when the calling sun makes.

For several long minutes, I stared transfixed. You were still, save for periodic twitches—of which I catalogued each one.

I should've been hunting; my blood had run stale, veins darkening as it died and grew chilled in my body. It's been days and I was consumed by this terrible thirst, practically to the point of pain. But instead I was here—tracing the edges of the small hole in your hovel you called a window and wishing you were sleeping in my arms instead. It was the closest I could get with your lack of permission. Barely three feet away, and it still felt like a wall fifty inches thick.

I could smell you. Smell your pulse—under the sweat, under the blanket of heat. Far more tantalizing than the scent of your father nearby whose arrhythmic heart limped with each beat.

Just a moment of indulgence, debating on where you'd bleed the most. Neck. Wrist. Thigh, with my teeth closing into the soft muscle. Inside, with your legs hiked over my shoulders. Shaking from fear. Shuddering with desire. Oh, I'd make a feast out of you, darling.

The thought of it was almost too much, so. I caught myself. Panting… Salivating…

You shifted. I bit my lip—hard. And when that wasn't enough, I sunk my teeth into my forearm to—what? Muffle the sound, muffle the lust, muffle the hunger, all of them, none of them, I didn't know. Control. Control was what I was after but whenever it came to you I always found myself lacking.

You sighed a soft sound. Settled. Then turned. Exposing the curves of your back.

A strangled noise crept out from beneath my throat. My gaze trailed the line of your shoulder blade up to the nape of your neck, the lovely dip of your waist gently flowing into the rise of your hips, the mark of your spine down the expanse of your back ending at divots barely covered by the thin sheet draping off your form.

My grip dragged down those wooden walls. Phantom pain shooting up my fingers at the fact I could not have you right now.

I could not have you.

I could not have you.

I could not have you.

Not for the first time, I found myself maddened by the limits of my nature. You were right there and nothing was stopping me except for my own biology and restraint. A normal man could reach through this gap without bounds; he could enter and leave any place just as he pleased; he could greet you under the light of the midday sun and go about his day, not wondering for a second about how good he has it.

But a normal man could not give you eternity.

I tempered my growing impatience. If allowed, it would mark me a beast. Not when I'm this close.

The true purpose of this visit, lassie, more than any other, is that I came to tell you I found a home for us.

“It's a snug little cottage,” I spoke, barely above a whisper’s breath. “The couple there was so kind to let us have it. It’s a bit far, I know. But we’ll have all the time in the world after that, darling.”

I smiled, as gentle as I could manage. Like you were really listening. “There’s a piano for me and a pond for you and a hearth for the both of us. Oh, it’ll be perfect. You won’t have to lift a finger on that pretty hand of yours. Just promise me, you’ll sing, won’t you?”

And as if you knew, as if there were some subconscious part of you desperate to answer, you breathed another soft sigh. I couldn’t help but take it as a, ‘Yes.’

Ah lassie, your body already knew how to agree.

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀs sᴏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴛᴏ learn about you.

Which of your things did you cherish the most? What would you miss if left behind?

Your home became intimately familiar to me. It took nine—no—ten paces to cross your room heel-to-toe. Knife left by your bedside as assurance in the night. There was only one exit; the front door had been expertly carved from sessile oak—seemingly a favorite of your father's. His portable bath near the fire must have cost something handsome. A necessary expense, then, bothered by the filth that comes from his labor like he was. There, a hand’s length down under the roof, belied a weak spot in the wattle and daub. Not serious enough to fix quite yet but would certainly need attention by next spring. And out front near the entrance laid forty-six stones arranged into neat lines, smooth enough for bare feet to cross without pain.

For whatever reason, your house was set quite far from the others. Sound would still travel, sure. But even still, it would take three minutes—perhaps two if they ran—for the neighbors to reach your home properly.

The passing days carved every little detail of your life into shape. I learned which path you took to the byre, grass sun-kissed and well worn into familiarity. I learned the small rituals you kept for yourself; how you paused for peace in the morning, how you did the same before an animal's slaughter. I learned which clothes you reached for first after a wash. And I loved them on you, I did. But you were not meant for the practical colors of whites, browns, and blacks—thick, easy to clean, coarse textiles, no—you deserved far better, lass. Red, I already imagined, would fit so lovely.

Your tools, too, were reliable but crude, wholly unfit for hands like yours; I’ve already decided to find you a better knife after we settle in. Something with a blade that glints as you showed me the proper way to bleed.

Bit by bit our life came together. I could barely settle the buzz underneath my skin at the prospect of taking you home. Every day, every minute of waiting and dedication would all be worth it when I finally got you nestled safe in my arms.

But then he ruined everything.

Oh, he made me hateful.

He was a boy. Some shepherd's son—hailing from a riverside town north-west of your village—had come stumbling into your life like he was deserving of it.

I remember it vividly. It was autumn, two days after the sun’s equinox, and you were trading in the night market at the churchyard. Goats trailing a pace behind as you pulled them by the leads.

The crowd made it safe to get close; and I couldn’t deny I reveled at seeming unremarkable: browsing the stalls of pastries and fruits and fish, paying the vintner a grout and three farthings for a bottle of wine, offering an apologetic smile for bumping into a young lady looking to get home. I hummed a pleasant tune with hands in my pockets as I walked along. It was a familiar place for me to be—lost in a sea of pulses and searching for an evening’s dinner. But I liked the noise too, that organized chaos that could only come from bustling life. Where else could you hear young boys and shopkeepers shouting over each other, vying for the attention of any who would glance their way? Where else could you enjoy the smell of iron metal that lay thick near the blacksmith who forged locks and keys for the church? It was endearing, this place where life was more vibrant.

However, when I approached the livestock stalls my good mood turned sour. All because I spotted you talking to that boy.

I knew he was smitten from the first eager-eyed look he gave you, all hope and young innocence. He smiled dumbly like he couldn’t believe that you were talking to him.

And it would’ve been fine, except I saw you smile back. When you bashfully turned away and laughed behind your hand at some joke he made, I could hardly contain the primal urge to crush his windpipe right then and there.

He stumbled over his words and chortled like a pig, but somehow he had charmed you.

Him?

The following days proved his affection more than fleeting. Every night, after the working hour and before your father returned home, he came to visit you. Waltzing up to your door step with gifts and food and flowers. He got you all the wrong things. You preferred primrose over cowslips. Honey over jam. But you accepted his gifts giddily all the same.

Was it the attention, lass? Is that what made you fond of him, so?

He even attended a few of your afternoon lessons—sitting awkwardly next to the teens to learn which plants were fine to eat and which were not. When he tried to offer you bright red yew berries, you still corrected him with a smile.

A week in and you two met by the river basin near his home. He braided your hair, filled it with flowers, and turned bright red when he asked if he could kiss you for the first time. You nodded, shyly pecking him on the lips ever so chastely. Oh, my darling, you were so dear to me. I imagined how you would kiss me like that, so tenderly, like heaven.

But it wasn’t. The reminder that it was him you wanted turned every precious moment bitter. Like tar on the tongue.

I hated the way he looked at you. Hated how he stole our time for his own. Hated his bleeding heart.

What gave him the right to your affection? A few sweet words and flowers, then? Oh lassie, he didn’t care. All he saw was a pretty face and a notch in his belt. We’re going to be family, sweet girl, and that’s more than he could ever give you in his short, pathetic life. I’d almost be disappointed but I cannot blame you for the wanting of appreciation.

He was at your home now, making you believe he loved you. And I was here—seething. Slicing open the soft belly of a fox to drink of its insides.

I imagined pinning him like this. The fox, writhing and pulling hard to try and escape; throwing itself back and forth for one last frenzied chance at life. But my grip was iron and my anger, exacting. So, there was nothing it could do except whine as it stilled into death.

Soft fur. Bloodied red. A creature undeserving of such cruelty. But I thought of that boy taking you from me. His lips on your neck. Humping you like a fucking dog. And I couldn’t help but bite down harder, blinded by nothing but red. You were mine. MINE.

I was going to gut him. He did not get to touch you. He did not get to fuck you. And he certainly did not get to live. He’d eat his pride and suffer twice over because I wanted it. I wanted to see him regret and plead and beg me to spare his worthless life before I ended it. I wanted him to admit, before I punctured his lungs, that he was never going to be good enough for you.

With each gulp I fantasized until the hate tightened and smoldered in my chest. Pressing it inside until I could breathe again. The rage only lessened as I drained the last drops of blood from the fox—mauled, cut to bone. It wasn’t enough; hunger still plagued me like rot.

But as I kneeled there, covered in the consequences of jealousy, there was one thing that kept me sane. A storm was coming, a big one. The air was pregnant with the promise of it. And so, maybe, after all this time I could finally take you home.

The next day when the sun had once again set, I was beyond starving. For something filling, of course, but also to soothe the ache of coveting, so. There was no greater relief than slaking a burning thirst and for that I should thank the boy. I was especially lucky tonight. No need to be charming for an invitation when the food came to you.

The night was beautiful in waiting. The kind that made you think of the past—darkness that bordered on unnatural, mist steeped in petrichor. The only act of mercy I could offer, perhaps, was for one to die at their happiest on a night like this.

That's when the door swung open.

There he was.

And there you were, holding his cheeks in your hands as you bid him farewell. I watched him kiss your forehead, eyes fluttering closed with a smile. Then your thumb brushed over his cheekbone, gently. I watched as you stepped in closer to pull him into a hug, burying yourself into his chest. I didn’t mind, I really didn’t. Say your goodbyes, lass, it’s alright.

But all goodbyes have to end eventually and, well, that was my cue to intervene.

I stalked him north as he set off home.

Now this was a language I was well-versed in. Tracking with quiet feet and a singular focus. It was comfortable, meditative almost, as I trailed him deep into the woods. Eager, I was, to share in this language with him.

He smelled overbearing and pungent, any trace of your sweet scent smothered underneath the rest. It was hardly a challenge to keep close.

But, I was after being cocky; too excited at the prospect of culmination, so I wasn’t careful enough with the noise. He stopped. Turned. Slow at first and then recoiled back with a shock.

He saw me. Saw my eyes staring right back.

Scrambling backwards, he rushed to his feet. Picking himself off the ground to sprint in the other direction as fast as he could.

I couldn’t help the grin that grew wide. The thrill of it! That rush of life! I steadied myself. Giving him just a moment’s chance before I gave chase.

…

Now.

I took off after him into the dark.

His pulse thumped hard with every footfall, crashing down on leaves and mud and fallen branches.

I followed that beat, beat, beating past each tree and down the trail. My claws dug into the ground, feet pushing me forward faster and faster as I pursued his flustered heart. Vision narrowing down to the blood in his veins and the scent of his fear.

Wet soil. Breathing. Gasping. The Earth again a witness to this ritual between predator and prey, born of her own design.

It could only be natural, this need to carve, rip, and mangle.

It could only be right, this desire to gorge myself on his blood until I was sick and heavy with it.

I closed in.

Lunging, I caught the boy up against a tree. He groaned in pain as his head slammed back against the sturdy trunk.

Curled over him, I pinned his arms up against the oak, signaling the end of our little chase. He couldn’t help it; he trembled. Tears welling up in his eyes from fright or confusion. But not hopelessness, not yet.

“Good…” He flinched away at how I tried to wipe his tears, eyes wide at the sight of hands shaped into something sharper. “Good… but it’s over now. Don't cry. ”

“What—Who?” He rasped. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course not. You won’t need to,” I crooned. My mouth burned. Full with teeth and hunger and spit overflowing until it dripped low onto his chest. Hahh, blood warm and pumping fresh and fast just under the surface. An unabated promise of a hot meal.

The boy looked up at me, breathless. “You—You’re a monster.”

Amusement and irritation burned all at once. I squeezed his wrists in my hands until he winced, until it hurt.

“Monster?” Thu-thump, thu-thump “I’ve been called that before.”

I leaned in. “But the ones who cast that name always deserved their end.”

He struggled. Writhed. I thought of the fox, then. The gash in its soft belly torn from throat to stomach, thick copper blood dripping just for me. I thought of you. I thought of him on you. And I knew I did not have it in me to be gentle.

“I’m going to carve the tally of your sins into you. One for each time you touched her like you were worthy of it.”

“Don't be quiet now.”

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ʟᴇғᴛ ᴏғ ʜɪs ʙᴏᴅʏ was found a quarter mile from the river basin. Mauled by a wild animal—mutilated, even. That was the consensus of the shocked public when they found his corpse, picked apart and disfigured like it was. No man could have done this kind of damage, no, but what kind of animal could either? Something fearsome, indeed. It was fortunate his face was intact enough to identify and tell his family. Oh, how his father cried at the news, broken-like.

But interest for me was in what he left behind. A bag with a journal that detailed his life, parents, and all the various little things that caught his eye. Underwhelming, mostly. Though towards the end he did talk a lot about you. No, it wasn’t what it contained that mattered. It was the sentiment; that was my way in. The only thing left to be gotten was the rope.

ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀsᴋᴇᴅ for a more perfect storm. A ruthless downpour. It swallowed any noise under her clouds, swept away by strong gale and current.

You were home. You had not left since the news broke, everything else be damned. And I knew you well enough by now to picture exactly how you would grieve.

I’m sorry.

I knew it would devastate you, so. Planned on it even. But still, I didn’t wish to see you mourn. I only wished for you to understand—to know I was sincere. I will be making it up to you, I promise.

But not now. This moment was mine.

The rain battered down in thick, relentless waves as I knocked on your door, soaking my clothes 'til they stuck tight to the skin. And when, predictably, you did not come, I knocked again, harder.

“Hello?” I called, unsure if you could hear me under the deafening rain. Thunder cried out. “I—I’m looking for someone. Please, can you answer?—” I banged again.

When the door opened, I should’ve braced myself better. But to see you there—looking like Deirdre of the Sorrows on her death day—I could not have desired anything more intensely.

Focus.

You looked at me expectantly, impatient and so so tired.

I spoke with a bit of desperation, a tinge of distress. “My brother passed on last night. I believe you knew him?”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You’re related to Aeden? He never mentioned a brother to me.”

“He never mentioned you either,” I responded—quick, easy. “I found out through his journal. I came here to give it to you. I… I believe he would’ve wanted you to have it.” I paused, shaking hands moving to unclasp the buckle on the bag. I rifled through, pushing through layers of rope until I found the small leather booklet. Covering it as best as I could to keep it dry as I handed it to you.

You took it cautiously, thumbing through the pages to see line after line of handwritten notes. Your lip trembled. Turning from hesitance to heartbreak.

You looked up at me, and then to the rain pounding on my back, something like pity in your eyes.

You said, “you can wait out the rain in here if you’d like. Come in. I have rags for drying.”

I smiled.

Stepping inside felt like sanctuary; that dry warmth wrapping around me and my cold, sodden clothes as comfortably as sheep’s wool. Your home smelt of resin and wood-shavings; all of it heated up cozily by the flickering hearth. And although I had never been inside it felt as familiar to me as an old friend.

You were diligent; accepting your caring hands was easy, handing me a cloth to dry with, offering an extra set of your father’s clothes, setting me by the fire. It was domestic, this casual attending to.

I changed by the settee, finding it endearing how you blushed and politely turned when I drew my shirt over my head. I didn’t tease you—though the urge was there. I just kindly put on the new set and draped the old over a chair.

“Done,” I said, sitting down. “You can look.”

You shuffled, almost unsure of what to do with yourself and this stranger who came in the rain.

“Would you take water?” you asked, almost automatic.

“No, no. I’m grand, miss. You’ve given me so much already…” It was greedy the way I let my gaze linger and I could tell you noticed. But I’ve been waiting so long to see you close before me. Real and solid and the whole of you within reach. How could I deny myself the small theft of looking? “Be still. Come have yourself by the fire.”

You sat down hesitantly, leaving a polite gap. Holding the journal close like it was the only thing keeping you tethered. Your eyes were dark. Distant. It was a gap I was eager to close, to bring you back to the present until your focus was only on me.

I turned to you. The fire bathed your face in a warm glow and you lifted those doe eyes of yours to mine, uncertain.

Ah… This was why I called you beautiful, lass.

You broke the tension. “I… I’m sorry I haven’t even gotten your name.”

“Remmick,” I offered with a welcoming smile.

“Remmick,” you repeated, lips forming carefully over it. I hope you kept it—my name on your tongue.

“Yes, that's right," I breathed. Taking a risk, I gently set aside the journal from your tight grip to cover my hand over yours—small, gentle. You stiffened, but didn’t pull away. “It’s a cruel thing, isn’t it? How the world chooses what to give and what to take.”

“I can’t imagine how it feels, him being your brother and all,” you said. “He was kind to me and I—” You pulled away, covering your mouth mournfully.

“You?”

“Forget it. It’s only superstition.”

“Please,” I urged, “tell me.”

You paused, but soon the words started to flow out raw and fast, the way it sometimes does when shame drags it to the surface.

“It’s only that… I think I did this. Somehow. Me and my cursed luck. I should've known something like this was going to happen sooner or later because nothing good ever stays with me. Ever. I was careless. I should’ve sent him home sooner, or better yet, told him not to visit at all. I knew there were beasts in those woods and I still made him go out there. But I wasn’t thinking and I was just so happy that I thought maybe—” You choked. Breath hitching painfully.

Such sadness in you. Deep and harrowing, eating you all up like death. A vicious thing, guilt is.

“…Nothing good ever stays,” you murmured.

“Don’t fret now.” I drew you in close against my chest, stroking your hair as you took in those slow, shuddering breaths. You accepted the touch, or rather, you didn't reject it, caught up in your own thoughts like you were.

“Hush, lass." Quiet, against the crown of your head. "Hush now.”

I waited until your breathing steadied before I spoke again. My one offer.

“You think yourself hopeless,” I said, hand a light touch against your back. “I see it clear, how completely you've given up on yourself. But it doesn’t have to be that way."

“What do you mean?” you questioned, pulling away just enough to meet my eyes.

“Have you ever heard of the phrase, ‘Is ferr fer a chiniud?’”

You shook your head.

“It’s an old maxim from Brehon law that I find still holds. A man is better than his birth. A phrase so important we wrote it into the very rules of our land.” I gazed deeply into you; the dancing fire reflected in your eyes—wide and unsure but still so curious. “Do you believe it to be true?”

You frowned. “Sure, that’s a nice thought, but it doesn’t change anything.”

“Oh, it can change everything. Your life can be better. You can be better.” I said.

My grip grew rigid.

“I came here to give that to you. I came here to save you, darling.”

And there it was, all out in the open now.

“What? What are you…?” You winced. “Ah, that hurts.”

You squirmed, but I held fast. Taking your chin under my forefinger, I kept you steady as I tilted my head to press my lips to yours. Soft. Breathless. Oh, how you’ve destroyed me and left nothing but a wanting thing.

You made a muffled sound of protest, or maybe shock. Pushing on my chest until you gained some semblance of space, of sanity.

“Have you gone mad? You’re his brother! What are you doing?” you cried.

Stunned as you were, I took your wrists in each of my hands, shifting slow to straddle your waist over you. You looked up at me—parted mouth, furrowed brow—confusion morphing into fear as you realized what exactly you had let in.

“I am no brother of that boy. Never was. You must forgive me for my lie; for it was only to get you here. Perfect under me, so.”

You pulled by the wrists, trying to shift even a little, but found my grasp impossible. That’s when the panic started to set in.

“Yo—Your eyes, they're wrong—”

I couldn't help but grin.

You struggled, jerking hard and fast against me. But when you realized it was of no use, you hollered—screamed—so terribly frightened. And I couldn’t deny that hit of excitement that ran through me at the sound, satisfying that dark thing inside that considered fear the same as ecstasy.

I let go of one of your wrists to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into another kiss. Hungrier this time. Carnal. I devoured your cries with each pulse of breath, lips slotting against yours perfectly as if we were made to be fitted together like this. Hot for me. Mouthwateringly sweet. So much drool it escaped down your chin in gossamer trails. I craved you. More than anything.

“Hmph!” Your knees kicked, still fighting me all the way. With your hand free, you tried to pull me off and I decided perhaps it was time for you to understand what you’re dealing with here.

With your incessant thrashing you rolled us onto the floor with a loud thud. You yelped but I steadied us there. Laid flat against your body to keep you down.

You tried to scream again, but I covered it with a hand. Tears welled up in your eyes like you didn’t know what else to do, overwhelmed-like.

Gentle, gentle, I reminded myself.

I had forgotten in the heat of the moment that you needed to be caged delicately. Forgot how fragile of a thing you were.

“Hush, little fawn… You're gonna ruin your voice keeping on like this. Listen, listen. Nothing but the pouring rain outside. No one can hear you through that, darling.”

You hiccuped under my hand, breath stuttering into a sob.

“It’s alright. Breathe. You’ve gotten yourself all worked up, so.” I stroked your cheek lightly under my thumb. “Your father’s got a big project tonight. A dresser for the Mason’s it seems. He’s gonna be in his shop for at least three, maybe two, more hours. That gives us plenty of time together, hm?”

You looked up at me, not just fear now but pure horror.

“And, your knife is over there by your bedside, left of the candle, isn’t it? Where you set it down after you get home? I don’t mind a bit of pain, but I think we should leave it out this time. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself now.”

Your eyes flashed to your room where the knife would be; the possibility taken before you could even try.

With all your options carefully mentioned and gone, the fight drained out of you just like I knew it would. I smiled, pressing a light kiss to the back of my hand over your mouth. When you were calm, I let you have your voice again.

You didn’t make a sound.

“That’s it. Let us not fight now; that’s not what this is about.” I traced the line of your jaw, memorizing the way your throat bobbed when you swallowed. “I want this to be a sweet thing for you. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. How I’ve imagined this exact moment for months. You are beautiful, sweetheart. So, so beautiful.”

“Who are you?” you whispered.

I loved that look on you. Your hair sprawled out like a halo, mouth wet and glistening, cheeks flushed warm with pulsing blood.

“I’m yours.”

I leaned down, lightly nibbling on your ear until you gasped.

“And I intend to make you mine tonight.”

I reached down, pulling up your skirt until I found that soft, heated center of yours. Cupping your cunt gently as your thighs squeezed around my hand, inadvertently pressing it further in.

“I ask for nothing but your pleasure, sweetheart; is it really such an awful thing to let yourself enjoy these soft touches of mine?” I tongued the shell of your ear, feeling you flinch and shiver against me, feeling the way you warmed my cool hand between your thighs. “Let me soothe that ache inside. I’ll lick you open, slow and thorough. Fill you on myself ‘til you’re dripping and mewling with need like a good lass.”

You shook your head. “I can’t,” you whined. “I can’t do it, please—”

I chuckled, breath hot against your ear. “You know you can. Here, feel it with me.”

I wedged my knee in between yours, parting those stubborn legs open and open. I took your trembling hand, guiding you down to your own sex, my fingers sure and steady covering yours. It was undeniable. Slick had already started to coat your entrance, growing wetter with each filthy promise. Intoxicating, it was, to feel your body ready itself for me.

“Imagine,” I whispered, pressing our hands firm into your folds, “my cock buried in her. Deep enough to kiss your womb and claim you whole. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Letting out all those pretty little noises like music as I pushed in.”

“Stop,” you pleaded, but it was weak. Without conviction.

“Stop?” I shifted to be able to see your eyes, tears clearly beading and trailing down your cheeks just how I imagined they would. “Oh no, there’s no stopping this, my sweet fawn. This was always going to happen.”

I brought our hands higher to that sensitive bud, played with it until it was engorged and puffy with arousal. I made your fingers rub fast, tiny circles there—mimicking the way you'd pleasure yourself alone. You gasped, head tilting back. Unconsciously letting your legs fall open ever so slightly, your breath growing staggered as I puppeted you.

I kissed your panting mouth—swollen and spit-slicked. Slower this time, sure, but not any less hungry. Filling you on my tongue while you worked our fingers on your cunt.

I wanted nothing but to have you brimming with me.

“Oh—oh fuck.” Your hips pulled low, legs starting to tremble with surmounting pleasure.

Ah, but we couldn't have that; not when I haven't even had a taste of you yet.

I took our hands away, delighted at the fact you groaned and jerked at the loss—searching for friction despite all of those hasty objections you insisted on.

I laughed low. “Patience, little fawn. I have plenty of time to satisfy you…”

And I intended on doing so; unhurriedly, I trailed open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, along your neck, over those tracks of salty tears that curled dark heat low in my stomach. No marks, not yet. But it was a special thing to explore your body for the first time, learning which nooks made you squirm, which rendered you docile.

Lower. I held you flat against the floor—holding down your ribs, your waist, your hips—sinking lower and lower until I reached the waistband of your skirt. Without hesitance, I hooked my fingers in. Your small feet tangled in it before I slipped it all the way off, crumpling it and throwing it aside to leave you bare.

You tried to curl in on yourself, but I would not have you embarrassed. So, I nudged you back open, sliding my arms under your thighs to pull you down to meet me. My mouth settling above your mound with your legs thrown over my shoulders. Like a gift.

“No, please, I didn’t—I don’t want…” you babbled, fingernails scratching at the floor, trying to pull yourself from my hold.

But all those protests meant nothing compared to the way your cunt pulsed loud and rhythmic in my ear. Radiating heat beneath my dripping mouth just begging me to partake.

And I wanted nothing but to partake and take and take.

Nosing your folds, I licked a slow stripe up the length of your slit, feeling the rumble of your muffled moan through the skin. It was hot and yielding and wonderful. That heady musk flooding my senses like a whirlwind, leaving me starving at your feet. I lapped greedily at your hole—sweet as sin—coaxing her to leak more and more ‘til it came in a steady drip. I drank from her, kissed her—euphoric at how she flexed with each pass.

It made me feel oh so close to you. How your heartbeat pounded hard; my tongue buried deep inside to feel it.

You clawed at my hair. Whining. Pushing. Driving me feverish—

I shifted to mouth over your clit, enveloping it whole and sucking gently to make your back arch. Lightly rubbing at your entrance, I dipped a finger in, then two. Your walls suckling and coating my fingers up to the knuckle as I dragged the pads along the muscle, thrusting them in and out. You took me so well, writhing and panting as I opened you up bit by bit.

“Remmick, please—” you said, “please—”

Yes, say my name, darling! Give it to me; I pumped my fingers faster, curling and twisting. Let me have you completely; sucking your clit hard, drool flowing down your folds. Shaking and lifting your hips to chase that high that beckoned closer, closer...

My cock twitched with heavy need. A need to see you molded by overwhelming desire.

“Hahn—oh Christ—” Your brows furrowed, arching into my touch as if to present yourself to me. Accepting what I gave even as you burned with shame.

Take it, sweetheart, take it take it take it. Moaning so beautifully. Your flesh pulled taut over your body. And then—

You broke. A flood of slick drenching my hand as I pulled out. I was after having it—my lips sealing over your hole to swallow down each wave. My hand on your stomach to hold you still. You cried out, convulsing over and over as you dug your heels painfully into my back. Gasping with quiet sobs as you came so prettily.

It was better than I imagined, more than that, it was real. Finally, finally.

The pressure in my trousers stirred me on; I needed you. Needed you to say my name and beg so softly for my cock in you. Impatient for it, I rose to my knees, pressing my hips slow and firmly down, your cunt staining the fabric where we met.

“Tell me,” I said, undoing my belt, “tell me how much you need me, lassie.”

You froze, eyes wide and bloodshot, lips pursed closed.

“Be convincing,” I purred, rubbing soothing circles along your ribs. But when you insisted on staying silent I took your jaw in my hand and squeezed.

Don't deny me.

“I-I need you, need this—Ah!”

I pinched harder, wanting more. Freeing my cock fully to rest against your cunt. Warming and covering me in slick as I grinded back and forth.

“Ta-Take me” you said. “Take me gently, please just… please—Remmick.” You couldn’t look me in the eye, face turned while you forced out the words.

“There you go,” I cooed, letting go, swiping your damp hair behind your ear. “You’ll come to like it in time, sweetheart.”

I lined myself up. Pushing in slow, feeling that resistance as I slid in. Heavenly. Feeling nothing but euphoria as your walls fluttered desperately around my cock. It took everything in me to not break you in right then and there. Contenting myself with shallow thrusts inching deeper and deeper while you slowly stretched.

Ever so slightly you relaxed, allowing me to slip in all the way—enveloping me whole. I let out a satisfied sigh, perfectly fitted together now—reaching deep enough to graze your tender womb. I curled over you, guiding your thighs to rest around my waist.

You squirmed, but I rolled my hips forward to keep us flush, relishing those pretty little sounds that escaped you. So achingly wet and open…

You looked up at me heartbroken.

Pleading but with no more words left to say.

Oh, it made me delirious.

“I love you,” I murmured, leaning down to press our lips together, starting a light rhythm. “I love you.”

I panted—licking into your slack mouth to share the taste of you. I fucked you deep, slow; steady thrusts making you whine and clamp down sweetly. Your little fingers grasped at my shoulders, for comfort, or stability, maybe. Seeking it in the same embrace that meant to consume you, dear.

“You’ve made an addict out of me,” I muttered into your mouth, your breath hot and alive. “It’s not enough... I want everything—everything you are.”

The words caused another wrack of sobs to run through you but there was no fight in it, just quiet despair.

“Hush,” I whispered, “it's true, lassie, it’s true” I kissed the tears that beaded in the corner of your eye, cradling your cheek. And to my surprise you leaned in to the touch.

My poor broken darling.

I took you in my arms, so close now. Your blood thrummed just below the skin, teasing me, so. But I couldn't—no marks, no marks. So, I swallowed down the saliva building quick and plenty, choosing instead to focus on that blessed friction. Clutching me nice and tight while I snapped my hips in hard, harder. My hand reached down to the small of your back, angling you up—

“Hahh,” you gasped when I brushed that sensitive spot inside, eyes lidded as you arched and came undone.

“Let it feel good, darling.” I shifted to hit it proper, your whole body constricting like a vice. “Give in—fuck—give in to me.”

I sped up, your soft walls gripping me deep inside—clenching my cock like you couldn’t bear to let go. Good and lovely and mine, mine, mine.

It wasn’t long before I could feel another orgasm well up in you. Your moans growing desperate, abdomen tensing erratically, and, most tellingly, you rolled your hips back to meet me—the way they only did when you’ve forgotten you’re supposed to hate this.

“Ah, will you come for me, lassie?” Rhythm growing frantic, my own release wasn’t far behind. I imagined how I would embed my cock as far as it could go, filling that most private place of you with myself. “One more. Just one more. Let me have it now—”

You shook your head like you could stave it off if you just tried. Repeating over and over “not inside, I can’t have it inside.”

But I couldn’t listen. Your body curled and seized—tightening up around me beautifully, twitching, grasping. So good my hips stuttered, forcing me over the edge with you. My fingers dug in hard, threatening to grow as I spilled within your soft walls.

A moan forced its way past my throat, guttural. I fucked my spend in deep, packing your womb full. My control taken when all I could think about was claiming you so fully you could never erase the mark. And your cunt squeezed over and over, begging for it even as it spilled out where we met.

It felt like ages before the bliss ran its course, leaving us breathing in tandem. My hips still grinding despite being completely spent. You, exhausted and heavy with your eyes fluttering closed.

“…There won’t be a child,” I told you, quiet. “Although I wish there would be.”

You didn't respond. Didn't even react, just breathed.

Holding your waist, I rubbed my thumbs over your stomach, pulling out of you slowly. “It would be a beautiful thing y'know. A real family, us three. But fate's got different plans for you and I, see.”

I settled between your legs once more, watching my spend drip down the cleft of your body, mesmerized. Indulging the urge, I pressed it back inside to keep you full. You frowned at that—my first reaction out of you since you went silent.

“No more, please… ‘m sore” you muttered, but you didn’t move or even flinch.

“No more,” I agreed, bending down to your cunt. Kissing her one last time while she was still warm.

And then I turned my focus to your inner thigh. And it was like the air itself held its breath.

Oh, how I’ve longed for this moment.

I held your body steady, rubbing soothingly over the skin to coax blood fast to the surface. It rushed through your veins, pounding unbearably loud. Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump. Growing loud, louder, in my ear. Driving me mad—

So sweet! So achingly tempting that the smell pierced into my pores and dug under my tongue until it hurt. Until I needed it.

You craned your head, confused, trying to pull yourself from me. You could tell something was wrong. Terribly wrong. But I held fast.

You were not to move.

Something ancient and primal pried its way to the surface. The knuckles in my hands popped and grew. Skin distending tight over the bone.

Curling over your thigh to stop your incessant tugging.

Starving, starving! For just a bite. Teeth pushing out and through bloody gums, stretching painful, painful until I relieved them the only way I knew how. I sank deep into the skin—breaking it. Boring down and in to close around the soft muscle.

Screaming.

Rich blood flooded my mouth as I drank and swallowed over and over. Like the first taste of fresh spring water in a blazing heat. I needed,

More, more—

I had to have it all.

Blindingly good—oh, my perfect, beautiful darling, it was better than I ever could have imagined. It could only mean this was meant to happen. Of course. This was always meant to happen.

Harder. Screamed harder.

Bit down harder.

For more. Wanting it to flow like a rushing river.

So much blood I could drown in my gluttonous haste.

You thrashed but I didn’t care, it was too good. Slicing through skin and fat and vessel after vessel to pour into my mouth until I drained you dry.

It was everything I was promised.

Swallow after swallow until you stopped fighting, or rather, there was no more fight left to give. Twitching in the embrace of death. Close now, so.

I was proud of you. You did try so very hard.

I paused in my ecstasy, bringing my gore-laced lips up to kiss the crown of your head—something to take with you as you drifted off to sleep. Soaking the strands in red. Your eyes, vacant.

“Thank you,” I whispered, “thank you for this gift, lass.”

The only indication you heard at all being your twitching hand. Until that too stopped.

The stream thinned. Your body gave.

And the taste of you lingered.

I sat for a moment in a quiet, dead house. The rain still beating down outside like the world was too busy to care.

But here, there was still work to do.

So, calmly, I got dressed—doing up my belt, straightening your father’s shirt, running a hand through my hair—although the clothes were thoroughly ruined by now. I scooped you up, careful careful, and cradled you against my chest, precious so. Easy, with how light you were now. I carried you over to the bath, sitting you up against the side and closing your glazed-over eyes to rest while I sorted the house.

Peaceful, it was, to take care of you. I filled the bath with soap and water from rain buckets, rolling up my sleeves, and undoing your blouse to leave you fully bare. Innocent, this time. An angel in waiting.

I set you down in the water, the last vestiges of your blood blooming it red. It was a soothing, caring act: wiping down your tear-stained face, washing down your chest, back, and legs, and cleaning the bite mark as best as I could. After all, your blood was only for me. It wasn’t for others to ogle at. I rubbed the soap into your body with even circles, washing away any grime that still clung to you. And as much as it pained my heart, I flushed out the result of our coupling too. Making sure there was no trace left. In this final part of your life, I attended to you in this way.

After a thorough wash and dry, I set about my final tasks. Draining the tub, cleaning the floor of blood, and dressing you in your old clothes. I smoothed down your crinkled blouse and arranged your skirt to sit straight and modest again—covering the bite mark fully. I folded your hands in your lap to wait as I finished the final thing left to do.

The rope.

I’ve thought about how you would go about this, how familiar you would be with the knot. But you were not careless or sloppy, so it only made sense to tie it cleanly.

A loop, down and then up again, wrapping around and around and around ‘til it was snug and pulled tight. Draping it over a beam and dragging over something to stand on. The noose, now fully tied, hung high above your bedroom chair. Waiting. For you.

I picked you up like a bride, kissing your forehead one last time as an apology. An apology for how much your broken neck will hurt when you wake, but you had to understand this was a necessary precaution.

No one goes searching for the dead after all.

I hefted you up, resting the loop around your tender throat—the one I’ve loved since I first saw you.

And I kicked out the chair.

ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴀᴄᴛ ᴏɴᴇ

Inspirations / Further Reading: On a Mountain by artificine 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩'𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪 by lefteagleblizzard RECORD, RUIN, REPEAT by spikedfearn going public from Let Me Be Your Dog by scannainscanrula