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The wind blew orange and embers. You watched as crisp leaves danced in the wind, colouring the sky and the drying fields where they finally fluttered to rest. The lowing of the neighbour's cows carried too on the breeze. You watched them from the window, like little black and white chocolate drops sprinkled over the caramels and greens of the pasture. When you inherited the cottage from your late Great Aunt and Uncle you were informed that the community was small, but friendly.
A neighbouring farmer from up the road rented the land, now yours, for his herd to graze and exercise. He was polite, an English man who'd been living here for a while. He was handsome too, with dark eyes, dark hair, and a bone structure that put the golden ratio to shame. Having enough paperwork to handle you saw no need to trouble yourself with a neighbourly dispute, so the cows stayed. It was peaceful, passing time by the movement of their little penumbra from pasture to post.
The patter of gravel roused you from your musings. Your aunt had arrived, ready to help you clear boxes and memories from the house. Once a home, now a museum to the Great Aunt and Uncle you barely remember meeting as a child. Suspended under dust you saw their life together in cosy farm kitsch. Practical clothes and quality kitchenware. Photos and scrapbooks and newspapers. Did they look and smile at the rooster kitchen clock each morning? Did they squeeze hands across the solid oak tabletop, chatting around their toast and jam before washing up in the sink by which you now stood? Clearing a home always felt simultaneously intimate and cruel. Those items meant little to you, would be sent to other relatives or the charity shop, but they were once everything to someone. Two stories lost to abeyance.
'Hello, love! Let's have a good look at you. I take it you're staying for a while now?' Your aunt greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, soft with peach fuzz and powder. Comforting.
'Yeah, I told mum it'll be a few months this time. I've got space here; don't have to bother her with all my stuff and moving back and forth.'
'Ach, it's no bother! We're glad you're back for now. And gives us an excuse to drive down to the countryside. Anyway, time for all that later. Is the kettle on?'
You ushered her in for tea and biscuits. You busied yourself with the crinkle of foil as your opened the packet. The steam from the kettle cooling into artificial raindrops on the tiles. Some routines never change. In exchange you got a series of staccato questions about your life, as well as the family gossip. Having worked abroad for the past while, you always felt a little disconnected from where you grew up. You slipped back into the parlance and pace of life, but couldn't quite shake the feeling of being slightly outside. Slightly awkward. You were tethered by familiarity but adrift overhead, saying and doing all the right things but not quite in the mix.
'Poor aul Bridie and Joe. They've kept all these photos and clippings from right back. Look -that's your granda when he was wee. I'll have to give these to your mother,' she said as she fingered through boxes of memories.
'Yeah, I've had a look already. I've packed up a lot of their clothes and toiletries. It's good quality - you can decide where that goes. The décor and trinkets though, they've kind of grown on me.'
'This old fashioned stuff? They weren't exactly keeping up with the times. I'm pretty sure this place is the same as I remember from when I was no age, ' She squinted her eyes, looking around as she spoke.
You supposed that the wooden finishings, upholstered armchairs, and cabinets of ceramic animals were not exactly fashionable, but it was a farmhouse . It had character and charm. And a little part of you, the superstitious part that alit as soon as you crossed the Irish sea, felt that it was bad luck to gut the place entirely. Who knew what would grow in the empty spaces?
You saw her off, waving as her laden car shrunk then disappeared beyond the treeline. Looking at the darkening sky you decided that you'd walk across the yard to close the heavy, wrought-iron gate later. It would be fine tonight; there weren't many people around here to bother you.
In your tiredness you didn’t hear the thunk of the old horseshoe on the front door falling as you slammed it shut.
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That night your slumber was fitful. The cottage was stiflingly still. Oppressive air squeezed at you until you couldn't move. You were distantly aware of a dimpling pressure on your cheeks, your mouth parting, soft and warm as your panted impotent pleas into the stagnant room. It was usually peaceful, to be sure, but tonight not even the hum of the radiators or the rustling of the grass gave ambiance to your rest.
It was silent.
So silent that you heard rather than felt your heartbeat echo in the cavity of your chest. Your arms lay motionless on starched sheets and your heavy eyes barely fluttered, your will and your flesh severed by a strange, susurrous dream.
You heard whisperings, words that bloomed blood to your cold cheeks. Words that soon slipped from your hazy, heated mind like wax from a candle. You felt soft swishes of fabric as something hovered near, sliding over the sheets and skimming across your goosebumped flesh. Your fluttering eyes caught only shadows, curling around as fluid and heavy as smoke. You felt as if the shadows had form and voice, though disjointed. At times you heard the panting of a dog, felt its humid breath on your cheek. You felt the chill of bleached bones, smooth and dry scraping across your vulnerable throat and you longed to shudder. The unease clasped the back of your neck, drawing your shoulders in tight and burying claws deep under your skin. Like a macabre marionette, you felt all, heard all, but only the animal racing of your heart was yours alone. Something pulled at your strings, raising the fine hairs on your arms, coiling around
and around
and around
and-
You choked awake, body snarled around your soaked sheets. As you struggled to free yourself you had an awful image of a little fieldmouse you once saw trapped in a ditch. It's tiny, pink limbs kicked furiously, scrambling for freedom. For life. The breeze from the window cooled your sweat as you panted, tears welling in your waterline. You felt a heat in your belly, some awful mix of nausea and slick. Your thighs felt sticky. Tender. You felt tender all over, like a tree stripped of all bark. Your soft sapwood body ached and bled its distress in sweat and shaking limbs.
You sat until the chill of the October air turned trembles to shivers.
On graceless bambi legs you pulled the heavy latch across the window, wondering when you opened it yesterday.
---------------
'God, are ye getting sleep down there in that cottage?'
'Look that tired, do I?' You huffed, twisting your lips into a half-smile. 'To be honest, I've not been sleeping well. Change of weather, change of scenery. I don't know.'
The café had become a haunt of yours in recent weeks. It was a short drive - or a long walk - to the nearest village, remote as you were. A Church, a primary school, a pub, a café, and a corner shop, that's all the folks around here needed. For anything else, it was on to the nearest town. The quiet suited you. And the people were nice. An old lady and her son ran this place, offering plenty of chat alongside the items on the small menu.
'It's not right, girl like you by yerself, surrounded by trees and god-knows-what,' she frowned. 'It's bad luck, it is. Not to speak ill of the dead but they really couldn’t have picked a worse time to pass on, this time of year. Too much mischief going on.'
She knocked three times sharply on the wooden table, jostling the tepid cup of coffee resting by the edge. You pressed your lips together to suppress a smile, fondly amused despite the grim subject matter.
'Jesus, mammy, you can't be saying that!'
'It's true, don't deny it! These fields and forests have been around longer than us, and at this time of year ye'd soon know it! Sure, I caught that big mirror in the living room nearly getting' smashed to the ground yesterday.'
'That's because da bumped in to it,' her son rolled his eyes at you as you stifled a laugh. 'Besides, she has that big dog of hers to look after her. It would scare anyone off.'
Your giggles froze in your throat.
'Sorry, what? What dog?'
'That big black thing you've got. Huge, white around the muzzle. I saw it skulking around your place as I drove by, cocking its leg up everywhere.'
You nodded jerkily, playing cool as your numb fingers brought the cooling ceramic coffee cup up to sip. Probably just a neighbour's dog that got loose. No reason for the chills skittering down your spine, spider-limbs raising hairs on the back of your neck.
-----------------
In the more muted moments you oft wondered if there was such a thing as too much quiet. Now that your aunt had picked up the remaining boxes the cottage felt bare, like a carcass picked clean of flesh. You lived in the bones and gristle, fleshy tendons left drying over the stark white bricks and pale thatched roof. You saw echoes of the dead as you closed their net curtains, as you sipped from their teacups. As you tended to their garden, watering bluebells and primroses whose roots first stretched into damp soil long before you were born. It was peaceful , you kept telling yourself. You liked the quiet . But strange things were growing in the cracks.
You kept having those strange dreams, vivid impressions of sound and touch that left you brittle in the muted morning light. The sunbeams seemed to sear you, too warm and brilliant against your soft, raw flesh. You'd shakily sip at tea, nibble at toast, and distract your churning stomach as you swept the dirt and dust that appeared each day. It was a never-ending task, despite always brushing your boots at the door and leaving them in the hallway. It was the faulty windows, perhaps. You supposed that they were too aged now, warped in the frames and so wouldn't latch properly. The dust always seemed to gather below, blowing in through the night.
You sipped your tea, watching the steam furl and coil as your thoughts settled in the quiescence of the kitchen.
A heavy pounding at the door wrenched you from your thoughts, hot water scalding over your thumb as you startled. The knocking was so forceful, so unnecessary; you were certain whoever it was would chip paint. In your hurry you didn't have time to shoulder on your dressing gown, reaching the entryway in your thin, cotton nightwear.
'Can I help you?', you snapped, all ire and irritability as you flung the door open.
You stopped short, blinking up at the behemoth literally darkening your doorway. A man with shoulders so broad they almost brushed against the doorframe. The light filtered in from behind him, chiaroscuro playing games with your eyes making him seem not entirely solid. Not entirely there. The rays danced around him, flickering like flames against the pitch black of his clothes, against the shadow of his face. You arched your neck back, prey instinct warring between which was worse: baring your vulnerable throat, or having him out of your line of sight?
A trembling breath.
A heartbeat, still racing from the hammering summons that brought you here.
Silence.
You cleared your throat, hand tight on the doorknob.
'Can I help you?' Softer, sweeter. Placating.
'G'nna let me in or wot?' You felt the rumble of his voice, harsh words falling like rocks off a cliff.
'Uh…Sorry?'
'S'alright,' he dipped his head as he shouldered past the doorframe. You stared as he crowded you, big leather workboots leaving filthy imprints on your clean tiles. Toe-to-toe, thick black soles against your soft, bare feet he stopped. 'Well?'
''Well' what? I'm not…' His audacity made you bluster. 'Are you- you're the repairman?'
He grunted. You felt chastised, oddly embarrassed in the face of his gruffness. His crude, jagged edges. Taking stock of his practical, black clothes you continued, 'Sorry, I thought you were coming tomorrow. Come on in then, I'll show you the latches.'
You hurried away, feeling his eyes like barbs hooking into your neck. You felt his hulking mass behind you, following so closely that you felt the whisper of his body heat searing you from the back. It raised the fine hairs on the back of your neck, terror and intimacy twisting together to send a shudder down your spine. A tacenda passed between you both in that short walk from hallway to bedroom, intimate and exposing. It felt wrong, somehow, seeing this behemoth cast his eyes around your bedroom and twitch back your aunt's lace curtains. Like he was seeing more than just the space in which you slept. His peat-dark eyes lingered on your sleep-rumpled sheets. On the clothes you'd flung haphazardly over the chair last night. You wanted to hide it all; to hide from him. His being here felt wrong, like seeing a large, black blot bleeding out onto fresh white paper.
'This it, then?' he asked, tapping at the pane.
You nodded. At his arched eyebrow you elaborated.
'Yes, it doesn't seem to close properly. The window is always blowing open, especially at night.'
'Is that so?' he mumbled, testing the hinge and the lock.
You couldn't believe how big he looked, swallowing up the light from the window frame. You stared now, apricity allowing you to drink him in as it light him up in hues of gold and shadow. The harsh black of his face mask and the deep, earthy brown of his eyes sucked you in. Like staring into a void, trying to peer ever deeper and seeing nothing looking back. Trapped in a cycle of your own curiosity. His skin was a shocking, ghostly white topped with short, blond hair. You thought you could see the whisper of scars branching up from under the mask. The slight crooked hint of a broken nose. Blond eyelashes, too, framed flat eyes that suddenly met your own.
'Would-would you like something to drink? Or eat?' you asked, face warmed with embarrassment. Polite words hiding your tactical retreat.
You could see his eyes crinkle, some wry amusement surely at your expense as he huffed out a laugh.
'You offerin' me something to eat?' his chuckled harsh as gravel. 'Yeah, alright. If you're willin'.'
You turned tail, cheeks still heated. You couldn't shake the feeling of having amused him, somehow. Like a mouse whose tail was released from the grip of a grinning, sharp-toothed cat just to watch it skitter away. Knowing it would be back.
When you returned with some tea and half a packet of ginger biscuits he was wiping his hands on his trousers.
'Latch is fine.'
'It's fixed?'
'Nothin' wrong with it. It's doin' its job,' he met your gaze again, that same voiceless joke dancing in his dark eyes. 'Those for me?'
You held the plate up, feeling like you were offering tribute to a capricious god. He made no attempt to reach for it, leaving you in this supplicant tableau until you felt compelled to step forwards.
Another step.
Another.
Until you were so close you could hide in his shadow. Were it not for the mug and side plate you'd be touching chest-to-chest, pressed tight into his bulk. As it were, only the back of your hand brushed the slight give of his stomach. The tea shook in your grip as you felt how solid he was, all warmth and muscle and fat. He let his rough fingers rasp over yours as he took the offering. You felt his thanks rumble through his chest, hand wrapped around yours and the mug. Caged. You looked up, eyes crossing a little from how much taller he seemed up close. Like gazing up at a tree, trying to peer to the uppermost branches as you stood next to the roughhewn width of the trunk.
'Careful, love. Don't want to spill any,' he raised your trembling hands up, mug, plate and all. 'Doin' a kindness, you are. A real sweetheart .'
He let you go, your fingers falling to his chest. You felt it twitch as you jumped back, mortified.
'I'll, uh- You can come in here. The living room window is a bit dodgy too, I think.'
God, it was hard exposing your vulnerable back to him.
It was harder still to face him.
You went to do the dishes while he ate and worked. You tried to cast him from your mind, scrubbing as you stood barefoot on cool tiles. It was easier to breathe here, yes, but you could still feel him in your house. Still aware of him. God, it was ridiculous. You'd had repairmen over before in your previous apartments. It was always detached, transactional. They had a job to do and you had a job needing doing.
Perhaps the isolation was getting to you a bit.
Wiping your hands on the dishcloth, you headed back to check on him. No need to make a fuss. Take the plate, the mug, and make polite enquiries. Only, as you stepped back into the living room you got pulled under his current again.
As if a wire connected you, you felt his gaze like a current passing under your skin leaving it tingling. Leaving your ears buzzing and your head light.
'C'mere,' he beckoned. And like a docile pet you didn't hesitate. 'Give it a try.'
His head jerked towards the window.
Swallowing, you reached up. Cool metal on feverish flesh. You tried the latch, pulling the heavy glass closed. You felt his breath on your neck, closer than you realised. Chills broke out, scattering like sparks down your back as he pressed closer still, his whole front flat to your back from knee to shoulder. You froze, not even releasing the shudder building in your spine. He ran his hand up your arm, closing around your grasp and moving it like he was adjusting a marionette. A little doll.
You were hyperaware of your thin, cotton nightwear. The rough denim of his trousers scratched at the sensitive backs of your knees. Your lower thighs. He towered over you so that he had to lean down, allowing for the barest scintilla of space between your body and his. It was almost worse like that. Having the hint of space and the knowledge that he could press back at any second.
You felt his short, fine hair brush against your temple. You kept your eyes forwards, studying the whorls and grooves of the windowpane. If you don't look, maybe it won't notice you . A childish thought. An appealing one.
Even through the mask, his breath tickled the soft, delicate curl of your ear.
'See, no problem here. Shouldn't hafta call anyone else over to check again.'
It was later that afternoon before you even thought to tidy up the dishes he left on coffee table. As you took them to the kitchen you couldn't help but notice that they were completely bare of any crumb, any single drop . Like he'd licked the crockery clean.
You don't know why that unnerved you so.
------------------------------
'I really do appreciate it, but it's getting to that time of year again. I'll be keeping the girls closer to my own pasture now,' Mr. Garrick - 'Call me Kyle!' - informed you as he leaned against your doorframe.
'No worries! I'll miss looking out at them, though,' you smiled at the farmer. 'Were they alright out here? No problems or anything?'
He gave a sheepish smile, dimples and cheekbones highlighted by the movement. He really was handsome.
'They were fine, really, but you know how it is around here. Don't want them wandering off and getting snatched up. The nights are getting darker.'
'Is…is cattle-rustling a big problem here?' You felt a bit naïve as you asked, eyes darting about behind him as if to spot thieves hiding in the hedgerows.
'No, nothing like that,' he laughed. 'Just old superstitions. You know, harvest traditions and the like. Can't be leaving anything out in the field that you don’t mind gifting the Other Folk at Samhain. My old man swears by it all still.'
Ah.
You laughed with him, bonding over broken mirrors and pavement cracks. It was familiar. You didn't necessarily believe it, but it was familiar. You imagined if you grew up this close to the wild- this close to the fields and the woods- you would put more stock into these traditions. The dark nights crept in earlier and earlier this time of the year. There were no streetlamps. No bustling streets or noisy apartment blocks. Just nature, with all of its tricks and temperaments.
'I understand.' You arched an eyebrow, trying to be wry and jocular, 'Anything I should be doing?'
You saw him suck at his teeth, hesitating for a second as he took in your expectant expression.
'I know you're just having fun, but I would think about leaving something out to appease Them. You've got Fairy rings from the field all the way up to your garden. If you want rid of them, with no mischief, I'd look into that.'
Your face fell, brow furrowed as you glanced behind him once more. You had noticed a few little toadstools popping up in the flowerbeds. You had thought them charming.
You waved him off down the lane before turning back to your garden. There, close to your house you could see them. Little crowns of white atop the lush green of your lawn. This close to your flowers they were tiny; delicate mushroom tiaras resting at the feet of the bluebells and primroses. Looking back towards the field you squinted a bit. The grass looked dead, yellowing and dry in some areas. Looping around in perfect, withered circles. You'd walked through them every time you took a trip to the village.
You blamed the cool, night air for your shiver.
---------------------
The dreams didn't stop. Your nights passed in waves of fright and euphoria, leaving you sweaty and breathless as silver gloaming filtered through the open window. Hypnagogia wrapped around your head like cotton, leaving you confused and dry-mouthed. The heaviness of your eyes, the phantoms sculpting the space around you into dizzying - terrifying - sensation couldn't be real. It couldn't . They pressed into your dreams, whispering soothing, lulling platitudes as they left imprints on your sheets. On your skin. Like a poorly-handed peach all sweet and bruised, fingerprints sunken into soft, ripe flesh. You felt the press of a large, warm body next to yours. You heard the rumble of voices, deep and familiar. You felt the rasp of calloused hands as more and more skin was exposed to the night air.
But in the morning you woke wrapped in your duvet and with the window closed.
You needed to get out of this cottage. You needed air, a change of scene. Something . You resolved to drive into town later, call your mum or your aunt. Connect with friends and family now that the excuse of 'settling in' had worn off. For now, though, the rambling paths and scenic loops of the nearby woodlands would do.
Crisp, autumnal air pierced your chest, like menthol clearing your nose and throat. You exhaled in dragon breaths, vapour curling like smoke. Cold flushed the tip of your nose, pleasantly numb and tingling as you set forth.
The sky glowed in hues of blue and pink, like a rococo painting turning pastoral into pastel. The greens of the fields dusted in the light morning fog added a hazy dreamlike quality to the walk. You ambled over turnstiles, walking on and on to the woodlands visible from your kitchen window. Looking pack you could see your cottage like a little Beatrice Potter illustration amongst flowerbeds and greensward.
You didn't meet many on your walk amongst the ash and hazel. It wasn't really the season for ramblers, and most of the neighbouring farm folk would already be starting their working day. Instead, you enjoyed the tranquility and space, feeling as though the cottage - charming as it was - was giving you a literal case of case of cabin fever. It was too distemperate, feeling simultaneously empty and oppressive, stiflingly hot and grave-cold. Birdsong eased your mind, carrying your worries away with the soft fluttering of wings.
Lost in thought, you didn't notice the second set of footsteps, heavy and hurried, advancing towards you.
'Braw mornin' for a walk, eh?'
You whipped around, boots digging into mulch and leaves as you searched for the owner of the voice. There, on the path behind you, stood a broad, well-build man. His face was charming, open and smiling, as he raised his eyebrows waiting for a response. You gave him a half-smile and a nod, feeling slightly startled but not altogether unsettled. Not his fault that you weren't paying attention.
You turned away to continue onwards, pleasantries exchanged, when you felt his hand on your arm.
'Yer the new lass who moved in by Garrick's farm, aye?'
You looked down at his hand on your arm, breathing starting to quicken at his sudden speed and strong-grip. As you stared, following the contours of his impressive forearm, you noticed the hush that had descended on the woods. No more birdsong, seatherny carried away on the backs of starlings and woodpigeons who sensed the arrival of some wilder creature. Something with teeth.
You slowly trailed your eyes to his face, seeing beyond the affable expression to something a little feral lurking beneath. His smile hadn't changed, lips fixed upwards over teeth that gleamed just a little too sharp. Breaths huffed audibly through his nose, furling white as hot met cool air, giving him the appearance of some waiting predator. It obscured his face slightly but you looked through the haze meeting his animal eyes. Blue. Blue in a way that pierced and held. It was hard to look away from his icy eyes to his dark hair, dark stubble, and dark brows. A perfect study in posterization; you couldn't help but to focus on the blue .
'Dinnae be scared. I jus' wanted tae say hello,' he licked at his teeth. 'You're away faster than a scalded cat.'
Nervous laughter bubbled up. Appeasing laughter. You tugged a little, testing the strength of his grip on your arm.
'Yeah, I was just walking to clear my head,' take the hint, take the hint , 'Just a quiet morning for me. It was nice to meet you though. Maybe I'll see you around the area.'
His fingers twitched, incrementally tighter. You cursed the lack of other walkers at this time. If you screamed in a wood but no-one heard it, did you really scream?
If you screamed in a wood, and he heard it…
Thought experiments weren't your cup of tea.
'Aw, come oan. Give me your name at least,' a foreign bolt of fear stiffened your spine, instincts sparking like a struck match. 'I won't bite. Just friendly, ye ken?'
'Okay..' you rolled belly-up, offering your name in exchange for your arm. In exchange for your release.
His lips glistened as he rolled your name around his mouth, tasting it. You saw him swallow, breathing a little faster. Breathing your name out. Syllables sliding easily in his -admittedly lovely - Scottish accent.
'That's a real bonnie name,' His voice was thicker. Rougher. Scratching at you like the bark of the sentry trees that surrounded this twisted tableau. His fingers relaxed a little, swirling lazy patterns that you felt through your jacket.
'And you? Won't you give me your name too?' Your voice was a bit too high. Too thin.
'You can call me Soap.'
Eager to leave, you didn’t even question the nickname. Soap . You wish he'd let you slide away.
'Soap, got it. You from around here? I haven’t seen you in the village.' Indulge him. Indulge him and he'll let you go.
'You sayin' you wouldhae noticed me, aye?' He didn't wait for an answer, smiling brighter. 'You really are a sweet one, aren't ye. Sayin' the sweetest things.'
As he gazed down at you, you were remembered an article you had once read. Staking predators, mammals and birds alike, usually had light-coloured eyes. Coursing predators, those that run after prey, usually had dark eyes. You thought of beasts like wolves, pursuing their quarry with endurance and strength, satisfaction veiled in their brown and amber gaze. But those who sat and watched, lurking in the twilight until time to pounce, had irises of yellow. Of blue.
He titled his head, cataloging your unease. Your drawn brows, flickering smile, lowered chin and fluttering lashes. You were reminded of a hen harrier, keen sight and sharp talons locked in on the poor little bird flitting about the forest unaware.
His intensity was too much, too hot, too bright. Taking advantage of his softened grip, you tugged your arm free and took a step back. Some room to breathe .
'Just curious. You've heard about me, after all. You know the Garricks.' That step backwards filled you with a little confidence. 'Anyway, I…I've really got to go. Perhaps I'll see you around.' Hopefully not.
His arm was still extended towards you, hovering slightly as if to strike again. Quick as a fox he closed the space between you, bulk and body heat bleeding into your short-lived breathing space. He frowned a little as you spoke, head tilting once again as he flicked his eyes up to the branches overhead.
'Oh, we'll be seein' ye again, birdie,' he spoke it like a promise, air heavy with the weight of his words. He scanned the trees behind you. 'Soon.'
Then his arms surrounded you, thick biceps holding you in place as he inhaled deeply. You felt more than heard the hum that rumbled in his chest, satiated in a way that made you imagine a dog licking its chops. You felt the scratch of stubble on your temple, nose pressing into your crown as he huffed into your hair. Crushed against his inflexible bulk and caged by biceps that felt as broad as your head and twice as solid, you twitched like a rabbit in the jaws of a terrier. Trembling and soft, you could only lie limp between sharp canines and hope that they didn't snap shut.
Your nose was pressed into his chest, squashed so hard against his sternum that you could only take fast, shallow breaths. One broad, rough hand cupped the back of your skull, forcing your face further into him as if to meld you to his ribcage. As if he wanted to force you through flesh and cartilage and gristle until your hammering heart kissed his. This was no embrace; it was a twisted parody. You knew, deep in your gut, that one flex of those thick biceps would crush your throat, your neck . Your fragile little bird bones. You felt all comfort and intimacy transmuting into control and possession. All senses coalesced into him, like precipitation into a vast, dark lake. All you could see, smell, hear, feel was him .
He seemed rooted around you, enthralled by your surrender. By his own power.
A rattling, chittering caw shredded the unnatural silence of the woods. Magpie . With a shuddering breath, he released you. Eyes bright and feverish, he bid one last farewell.
'Be a good girl. Run on back tae the cottage, now.'
Horrified, your reply curdled in your throat.
You looked up at your avian saviour, feeling a rush of gratitude for the oft-misunderstood creatures. 'One for sorrow!' echoed in your mind, the saying tarring the magpie with the brush of misfortune. Perhaps that freak - Soap, what kind of fake name?? - was the superstitious type. Whatever, it served you well. You vowed not to malign these little corvids ever again. You'd start leaving out birdseed and lard in the empty birdhouse by your shed. They were pretty things, actually. All black and white gleaming feathers. Only, this one looked a little strange. It had the usual white breast and sleek blue-black wings. But its head, usually pitch black as an executioner's hood, had strange white markings around the face.
Unsettled, you looked down. Soap was gone, no trace. It should have been a relief, but the superstition echoed once more.
Bad luck, bad luck, bad luck.
One for sorrow.
One for sorrow.
---------------
The magpie seemed to have followed you home.
You couldn't be sure that it was the same one, but every so often you caught glimpses in your periphery. As you washed the dishes, tended the garden. As you got changed.
You'd taken to tugging the bedroom curtains closed despite the lack of close neighbours or visitors.
It left little gifts for you. Sometimes it was something shiny, like an old brass key, or a bright copper penny. Or smooth sea glass glowing muted green on your windowsill.
Sometimes it was more unnerving. Little hollow bones picked clean, gleaming a grisly white on the doorstep. Or scattered amongst the flowerbeds, like macabre skeletal twigs. On one occasion, it left a bloodied canine tooth right on your doormat, wickedly curved and still wet with pulp. You swear you saw the magpie sitting in the treeline, cawing its amusement as you shuddered and toed the fang away from your sight.
The most memorable was a ring. Birds could be thieves, yes, but you would have to make a trip into town to hand this over to the local station. After another night of poor sleep and hazy dreams you saw a glinting on the latch of your bedroom window. Looped over the handle was a stunning silver ring. The band came together as two hands clasping a heart. Atop the heart lay a crown inlaid with little sparkling gems. You couldn't be sure of the material, whether crystal or diamond, but the effect was brilliant. Beautiful. As you traced the ring in your palm you resolved to find the owner. This was someone's claddagh ring; perhaps an heirloom or a gift. Certainly not meant for you.
As you headed towards the village, ring in pocket, you saw a black and white bird roosting on your roof. It wasn't your strange ghost-faced magpie, but a different one with a little plume of feathers ticking up atop its crown. Perhaps your gifts were from a flock.
A tiding of magpies.
A mischief.
You reached the village and stopped at the café first, craving a warm drink and a sympathetic ear. You hadn't told anyone of the encounter in the woodlands, not sure that it was really 'enough' to get the gardaí involved. You were left out-of-sorts, humours fluctuating between disquiet and rage. It had shaken you, made you avoid taking another walk in the area around your own home. And that, in turn, angered you. Why did a stranger have such power? With one conversation - a few sentences really - and a hug how could he have herded you back to the cottage? You stuck to your plot like a lamb, aware that a collie was circling nearby ready to nip at her heels and keep her in the paddock. You felt impotent in your fury, blood boiling and cooling as you weighed up what to do.
As you entered the café you noticed a few other patrons. Not caring to meet anyone else, you shuffled to your usual table by the corner and nodded at the owner. She swept over with the menu and a grin.
'That nice young farmer of yours and his friend are here today,' she nodded her head to the other occupied table. 'G'on, go and say hello.'
'Oh, I wouldn't want to disturb them at lunch. I'll just take my usual, thanks.'
In the spirit of every over-friendly - some say 'interfering' - old-timer in Ireland she waved you off with a firm pat to the shoulder.
'Sure, ye wouldn't be disturbin' them! Nice to have a little company,' she winked at you, before turning away. 'Kyle! John! Not gonna leave a lady to eat by herself, are ye?'
Great. Socially-enforced small talk.
You smiled awkwardly as the two men joked and flirted with the owner before settling in the seats opposite yours. You couldn't help but feel boxed in, literally cornered, as you noticed how big they were. How they blocked the exit as you were tucked against the wall, like a moth on a pinboard. When you saw Kyle's handsome face smiling at you, you felt a little bad. A smidge. Your bad mood hovered like a storm cloud, rumbling and drizzling on those who dared get near. Best to reign that in and play nice . Don't want to lose one of the only friendly faces you see around here.
'Sorry about that. I insisted that she not disturb you, but well…' you shrugged and smiled back at him. The act of performing the smile, or perhaps something about his affable nature, had you feeling a little better already.
'It's no trouble. We weren't in the middle of anything. This is John, by the way,' Kyle motioned towards the stranger. His voice turned teasing, 'The old man I've told you about.'
'Not that old, sunshine,' he grumbled back. He was smirking, though. Relaxed. He lounged back on the chair with his thick legs spread wide under the table. His boots knocked into yours as he turned to face you. 'You’re the neighbour. Nice to see you finally in person.'
Something in his phrasing made you pause.
'Finally'. 'In person'.
You studied him, noting the slope of his strong shoulders. One beefy arm was slung over the back of Kyle's chair. His feet hadn’t moved, still extended under the table encroaching on your space. You could either tuck in and curl away, or stand your ground and play accidental footsie. He had a thick, brown mustache that extended right to the ears. Mutton chops. Very Victorian . It suited him, distinguishing him beyond the handsome face and solid physique. His eyes crinkled as he looked back at you.
Obliged to answer, you let out a weak, 'You too!' as you looked around for the owner. Where was she with that tea?
'Waiting for someone?' His voice was pleasantly low. English. English like Kyle and like the Repairman. God, it was like a British invasion in this village.
'No, sorry. I don't mean to be rude. Just thirsty,' you laughed weakly, gesturing to the mugs they'd carried over from their table and at the empty space in front of you. 'Anyway, what are you both doing here? I haven’t seen you around the village.'
'You don't get out much, though. Not much chance to see us around,' Kyle bantered back.
You blinked, a little nonplussed at the assessment. You couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on you. Eyes on the cottage, eyes in the woods. Now in the village. However, as he waved down the owner and asked after your tea you pushed that feeling down. Down, down to the back of your mind where it wiggled around like a little bug. He'd been nothing but kind. Helpful, actually, and nice company on the few occasions you'd spoken. It was just village life. The small-town mindset. There weren't many people here already, nevermind new people. Of course people would take notice. Of course.
'True. True, I have been sticking to myself,' you nodded with a deprecating shrug. 'But, I have met some people. I think I met a friend of yours. Said he was called Soap.'
John's lips tightened a little under his whiskers as he shook his head.
'Soap? Don't think we know a bloke called Soap, eh Kyle?' he chuckled. 'You sure that was his name, sweetheart?'
'Yes, he said so. He was Scottish, big guy. Mentioned the Garricks by name,' you fished, hoping that one of these details would catch.
'I don't know of a Scottish guy from around here,' Kyle looked apologetic as he answered. You looked over his plush lips, slight mustache, and flawless skin. His big, brown eyes bored into your own, alluring. Beguiling . His face was the picture of candor, reassurance resting in every line and contour.
'Oh, well. Might not have been referring to you,' you looked down, picking at your cuticles. 'He was a bit weird, anyway.'
'Oh?' John leaned forward, elbow resting on the edge of the coffee table. 'Weird, how? Not bothering you, was he?'
You hadn't expected his concern, eyebrows furrowed as he leaned further towards you. Maybe this was the upside of close-knit communities, this sort of chivalry. Kyle had mentioned that John was more traditionally-minded. Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad to tell them about the encounter, to have a few more sets of eyes looking out for you.
'I went for a walk the other day, in the woods nearby. He sort of…followed me? Grabbed my arm and…' you trailed off, unsure how exactly to word it.
'Did he hurt you? Say something untoward?'
'No, not exactly. He..' You thought back, but it was like seeing the memory through fog. You were aware of who was there, where you were, but the details eluded you. He hadn't actually hurt you. He didn't even say anything rude, didn't harass or follow you home. That little niggling bug of worry squirmed at the back of your mind. You blinked, back in the room.
'What did he do, then?' Kyle's hands were on yours, rubbing your cold fingers as his wide eyes looked into yours. 'You can tell us.'
You glanced between the two, powerful bodies bent over plastic, easy-wipe tablecloth like eagles on a precipice. Their eyes were too sharp, too alert as they watched you swallow your words. There was something knowing in John's brow. Something pitying in Kyle's smile. Their breadth shadowed the wobbly café table like the wingspan of a great, predatory bird. Erne, the Druid's bird.
'You know what? I can't seem to remember. Probably just overthinking.'
On the way home you censured yourself, stomach flipping as you thought of how paranoid you'd become. Of how strange you must have seemed to the perfectly polite men who kept you company over lunch. Why had you gone into town anyway? You'd been so odd around every person you'd met so far. No wonder you had the reputation of a shut-in. You thought of Medieval hermits, living alone in wild and deserted places with only their thoughts as company. They often had visions, showings of suffering and martyrdom and ecstasy. Cloistered away in you little cottage, perhaps your dreams and magpies and visitors were just apparitions. Just private revelations bearing witness to your isolation.
As you unlocked the door, you didn't notice the Claddagh ring still in your pocket.
-------------
The night after your village trip was the worst yet.
You'd been leaving food out, bread and ale and apples, for the Sídhe spurned on by Kyle's advice and the ever-darkening nights. Just simple, local fare on well-loved crockery. You left it by the doorstep, convinced that the morning's empty plate was due to the fieldmice or other fauna feasting by moonlight.
The night after your village trip, you forgot.
Bone-tired and chilled you flopped into bed after a perfunctory bath and light dinner. The doorstep lay bare and your windows lay open. In the liminal hours of evenfall Queen Mab entered your chamber, galloping her chariot over your pillow and twisting your hair. Twisting your thoughts. Your dreams were not simply strange, but nightmarish. Cursed and dark, your butterfly heart fluttered in your breast with weak, glimmering wings.
It started as an discordant yapping and barking. You heard scratching at your door, claws so big that they must surely be carving chunks out of the wood. Panting so laboured that it seemed to be right next to your ear, humid and wet. The barks turned to howls, mournful and terrifying, as the pitch rose to something pathetic. Low rumbling and high yips punctuated by the hammering paws at your door. Willing your frozen body to move, you managed a tremble of your fingertips. A twitch of your eyelids. Your eyes opened to a vast, sooty sky. Stars hung like little glittering gems, peeking through the misty clouds and illuminating the woods below. You realised that you were flying, and when you cried out in confusion you heard only a pathic warbling trill.
The horns sounded next and you realised you could see a beast circling below, thick dense fur and dripping maw. It yipped in excitement as it caught sight of you, paws stretched low and tail lazily wagging as it waited to pounce. You didn't wait, knowing deep in your hollow little bones that The Wild Hunt had begun. You strained your wings, so alien and familiar, as you ached to lift up. Up and away from the powerful jaw waiting below.
But you were so disconnected. You couldn't tell if the shaking was from the harsh, biting wind or from fear. You wanted to rise high but drifted left in a belly-twisting loop. You couldn't focus on anything but the greedy whines of the mutt below and the teeth-juddering horn of the huntsman. You couldn't focus on what else was in the sky with you. A powerful hoot and piercing pain sent you into a death spiral, pirouetting down into the treeline as you gasped and clutched your side.
Clutched with fingers! With your own hands, now damp with soil and mulch as you crouched on the detritus of the nearby woods. You sucked in greedy gulps of air, your stained hands scrabbling to push you up. Keep moving. If they catch you, it's over. You feet slipped, no purchase to be found on the damp understory as you tried to run. Your side ached, bruised or bleeding your couldn't tell, but you pushed on. You could hear the pounding of hooves.
Thunderous, terrifying, they were getting closer. Your gasps hitched, turning to sobs as you ran blindly. Tears and twilight stole your vision as you stumbled around trees and over roots. It was cold, you knew it was cold, but your blood ran so hot you felt as though you were singeing the leaves underfoot. You scraped across a treetrunk, toe stubbing painfully into the bark, but it didn't stop you. No, what stopped you was the behemoth of a horse silently furling white, heavy breaths a few paces from where you leaned. It was a disservice to call this thing a horse, huge and pitch black as it was. It's face was marked by a strange white blaze, circling its eyes in the facsimile of a skull. A death mask.
It was a destrier; a war horse. Bred for fighting. For conquest.
You were enthralled, struck by its dark eyes. You'd seen those eyes before. They'd laughed at you, watched you squirm as you brought them tea and biscuits. Impossible . You didn't notice the hoof-fall behind you, not until you were tossed violently by a large equine head between your thighs. You couldn't cry as you landed hard, all air forced out against the corded neck of the second equine beast to catch you. It reared back and you screamed, clutching at it's oddly-shorn mane as it took off at full gallop. You screamed in a way that pierced, like broken shards of glass hacked at your throat. You screwed your eyes tight shut, unwilling to see the blur of branches that snagged your hair and sliced your face. You heard the thing below you whinny and you knew that it was excited, blood pumping and foaming at the mouth.
It reared once more, back legs kicking too as you sobbed and clung to its coarse, dark coat. But your fingers were stiff and shaking.
You fell down
down
down.
Bracing for impact your limbs curled in hard enough to cramp. Your shriek shriveled in your throat as you felt soft cotton, sweat-soaked and twisted, below you. Shaking hands wiped hot tears from your cool cheeks as you sniffled helplessly, silently under the moonbeams. Your thoughts were unmoored, murky, drifting in stygian waters just beyond your sight. You were safe, it was just a dream. You were in your room. It was just-
'Caught ye.'
The strong, calloused hand snaking across your jaw caught your scream before it could breech. It spanned the breadth of your face, palm tight to your lips and fingers digging hard into your cheekbone. Eyes wide and legs kicking you only succeeded in tangling yourself further into the sheets. Soon it didn't matter; a powerful arm coiled tight across your front, pining your arms to your stomach. You glanced down through the tears on your lash line to see a thick, corded forearm dusted with dark hair. A forearm you'd seen before. You knew if you were able to turn your head you'd see the same burly bicep that crushed your head against an equally burly body.
You could barely breathe, heart racing so hard in your chest that you worried you might bruise a rib. You choked a little, salvia pooling behind his hand and nose-running. Your lungs ached. Your throat, too, with the kind of gnawing pain that comes from sprinting through the cold. Details filtered to your awareness. That fucking window was open again, white curtains billowing gently like a veil. You could feel the hulking body behind you, holding you.
Soap.
He was pressed close, like his hands digging into your face and arms weren't close enough. Like he wanted to press his very fingerprints into your flesh, indented and marked down to the DNA. His body was warm. No, hot. Hot and just as sweaty as yours. Your nightclothes stuck uncomfortably to your skin allowing you to feel every contour of the chest against your back. The powerful musculature. The coarse hair tickling even through damp fabric. Something lower. Big. Firm. Your chest hitched as you tried futilely to shift away, straining hard and crying anew against his strength. Away from this thing.
' Settle .' Another voice. A command. 'You're alright, birdie. We caught you, fair and square. Now, settle .'
It had the opposite effect, naturally.
'Fuckin' hold her, Johnny!'
You were wrestled down, pressed hard into the cradle of Soap's lap as his thighs encircled yours and rendered you immobile. Pinned by his powerful arms and thighs you could do nothing but stare forward. You felt his chin, slightly stubbled, come to rest on your crown. With his palm pressed against your lips and his head pressed into yours you felt surrounded by him. If he wanted you to nod, you'd nod.
If he squeezed, you'd pop.
'There, tha's better,' a hulking figure came into view, crouching next to the bed in your line of sight. 'No need for your dramatics. You ready to behave?'
You made a noise; a laugh or a whimper, you weren't entirely sure. All you could do was stare from your prison of flesh. You'd forgotten how big he was. Even hunched on the floor he was a head above yours. His fine, blond hair was slightly tousled - wind blown - but you were more intent on the grotesque half-skull that obscured his face. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but it looked solid. It looked smooth and hard and just slightly off-white. Slightly too real. A phantom. A ghost .
'Thought you'd be happier to see us,' it spoke, low and rough. 'Been leaving us little gifts.'
Soap twitched a little at that, uncaring or aware of the threat posed by his strength. You felt his jaw work, swallowing hard against your skull.
'So sweet tae us,' his voice wavered slightly, words coming out fast and jumbled. 'Been leavin' us real food. Been walkin' on our path, tracin' our footprints with yours. Leavin' your gate and yer windows open.'
The hand on your face loosened as he spoke, fingers trembling and dipping lower to curl under your jaw. You licked at your dry lips, mouth parting to deny. To question.
'Been acceptin' gifts too.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' cracked and parched, you forced the words out. 'I don't know you! I haven't been opening my windows and doors for you. I haven't done anything, please.'
'That's not true, though, is it birdie?'
'She's beggin' us, Simon. Sounds so bonnie.' You felt his scratchy cheek nudge against yours, head dipping low as he nuzzled you like a dog. You could feel his shallow breaths ghosting across your lips, warm and desperate. The shadow of a kiss.
'Please, please leave me alone. Please get out of my house,' You weren't ashamed to beg further, tears finally spilling over your lash line, hot little tributaries pooling into the hand cradling your jaw. You heard him groan, felt his wet tongue licking up your cheek.
You couldn't even recoil, held still as he lapped at your sorrow, savouring the dripping salt. Lacrima, heady like wine and causing his eyes to flutter shut.
The other - Simon, you supposed - cut in, 'That's not the deal, is it? That's not our bargain.'
He'd restrained himself thus far, content to watch you shake as his mutt licked and pawed at you. He just stared, head tilting as he listened to Soap hum low in his throat as he traced your tear tracks with his lips. Strangely tender and open-mouthed, he coated his lips with the taste of you.
Simon's stygian eyes watched all, lazy and dark as a swirling river. There were depths there, if you cared to look hard enough. If you got closer and plunged in, ignorant of the hungry, ravenous things swirling below. Caught in his thrall, you'd be sucked under, entirely at the mercy of his tides and waves. You could try to swim, you supposed. Could try to entreat Styx for mercy.
'I've never made a bargain with you! I don't want you here!' you hiccoughed slightly. 'You're both fucking insane.'
'Now, now. Don't say that. You'll hurt Johnny's feelings,' He touched you then, finally batting Soap out of the way and gripping your chin. Pressing hard, he kept your eyes on his. 'Listen here. Hunt's over. We're not playin' chase anymore, so stop your whinin'. You gave us your food. Gave us your name. You let us in. Took what we gave ya, and now you'll take some more.'
There was a note of something hot, something warming his rough voice like coals softening to embers. You couldn't see his mouth past that macabre mask, but you knew that he was smiling. Lazy, like a wolf from a fable as he watched a lamb bleat and plead. ' My hunger is proof enough of your guilt', you thought, hope flickering low.
'You liked it, bonnie, I could tell. You've scattered our gifts all o'er your garden. Except fer the ring,' Soap whispered it, soft voice scratching at your senses. It felt almost romantic, arms around you and lips tickling the shell of your ear, 'you carried that wi' ye.'
You remembered, suddenly, your primary school classroom. Sitting on a fuzzy, tufted rug during circle time. Listening to the soft, sweet voice of your teacher as she read from Aesop's Fables. Meek little lambs, goats, and mice. Quick, wily foxes and crows. Cruel, deceitful wolves. You imagined yourself as a rabbit tucked away in a cozy, secret warren, who had to entertain a dog for dinner. He had dug his way in, paws wet with soil and air rich with peat. His jaw still muzzled, keeping the sight of his slick, sharp teeth hidden from his gentle quarry.
The hungry belly has no ears.
You slumped a little in Soap's arms and saw triumph alight in Ghost's eyes.
Your defeat perfumed the air, calling to the waiting predators. It swirled around, tempting them. Time to bite, time to eat. To devour.
Soap's arms tightened further, constricting, as he chuckled into your hair. It was like he'd never touched another person before, handling you like a toy. Hard, rough, however he wanted. His hands started moving, groping you over your nightclothes, weighing your soft flesh in his palms. He reached up, squeezing at your tits, pressing them together until your nipples pebbled against your will. It was painful , bruising. You shuddered, cringing back into his chest away from his grip.
' Fuck , arch back just like that,' he panted behind you. 'Fuckin' gorgeous, cannae wait to touch ye properly. From the inside.'
'Don’t be greedy, Johnny. Take tha' off her. Lemme see it all,' Ghost tugged at the hem of your nightclothes, before groping up your ankle and calf.
You felt like a piece of meat, like a carcass getting picked clean by sharp-beaked birds.
You heard the rustle of your clothes landing somewhere on the floor. Your sweat cooled rapidly as you were exposed to the night air, raising gooseflesh and shivers that they mistook for desire. Ghost's blunt, rough hands circled your ankles and pulled hard, tugging you out of Soap's grasp and to the edge of the mattress. He kept his grip on you, pushing your up and wide to his gaze. Flat on the mattress and fully exposed you brought your hands up to cover your face. Fear and humiliation swirled into a heady heat, making you squirm and whine a little. It didn’t feel good.
It didn’t feel entirely bad either.
Eyes squeezed shut, you couldn't see how he was looking at you. How he stared at your sensitive inner flesh, unblinking and hungry. The touch of his finger tracing your seam made you jolt, made you snap your knees closed as you kicked out blindly.
'Behave,' he growled with a sharp slap between your legs. You squealed then, flesh stinging and hot. 'Hold her down. I like to see what I eat.'
You felt the bed shift, Soap crawling down to hover by your side. Spidering your fingers, you were able to peek as he ran his hands to the tops of your thighs.
'So soft, bonnie. Could squeeze forever, fuck. Look at that.'
His fingers dimpled into your flesh as pressed them into the mattress. The stretch pulled at your legs, you hips. Holding you. Offering you up.
'You keep yer hands there, got it?' Ghost rumbled, fingers tickling at the crease of your thighs.
'Jesus, Simon. I wannae taste her. Just taste her and tell me how it is,' you felt his hips press against your side. Hard, heavy, rutting. His fingers spasmed as he spoke, whining slighting. 'Been waitin' forever, barely even touched her in the forest-'
'You'll not get to touch her if you don't shut it.'
He whined, shutting his mouth. Obedient. You wondered at their relationship, how this man - all muscle and strength - caved so easily to words. Biggest dog ate first? Or something more?
He settled for panting over you, alternating between kissing your soft stomach and whispering more of his filth into your spit-slick skin. You reached down with shaking hands, dipping your fingers into the salvia he had smeared across you. It was disgusting, animal. You choked a little, feeling like a gnawed bone, scent-marked and well-used. You couldn't bear it, couldn't bear the way unnatural desire began to heat where his lips met so you grabbed onto his shorn hair, tugging hard so that he'd stop. You should've known better. He panted, open-mouthed, and arched into your grasp.
You gasped, feeling something cold and hard below you biting into where your thighs opened. Ghost. He nuzzled you, still wearing the mask as his fingers traced your lips, pulling them open. He was gentler than you'd expected, with his big hands and gruff voice. He treated your pussy like a soft peach, just content to feel the softness and the slick against his fingers. Your breathing quickened, a soft moan pulled forth as his fingers rubbed up and down smearing your juices and lighting up sparks where he touched. You felt him pull away, heard a thump before his fingers were replaced by his hungry mouth.
You arched back into the sheets, neck exposed and legs limp. You couldn't help but moan, couldn't help feeling a little dizzy and confused as his tongue lapped at your most sensitive parts. He groaned into it too, pressing so close you felt his nose bump against your clit as he tried to force his tongue up inside you. He traced it around your hole, warm and wet and making you flutter against the invasion. Thin lips closed tight against you, almost kissing you as he tried to draw more slick. He trailed his way up, sucking and licking until he reached your clit where he teased with short little laps. You wanted to close your legs, to push your hips into his face, but Soap held you still. Loyal and obedient as he jealously watched your face. Your furrowed brows and open mouth.
'She likes it, Simon. You should see her face,' you yelped as he began to suck hard at your clit, making Soap laugh. 'Do that again, fuck, she's all wiggly.'
You strained hard against his grasp but he held firm, fingers biting hard into you. You'd be bruised tomorrow, chewed up and spat back out. You thrashed your head, whining in the back of your throat as they pulled pleasure from your body against your will. Against all reason. Your tears had dried up, face hot from desire not fear as shame trickled into something thrilling. The feeling dripped down, slow and rolling in your core as you clenched your innermost muscles. They knew it, too, Ghost still sucking at your clit and bringing his fingers to tease at your entrance. Two blunt, thick digits split you open, burning as they shallowly breached barely to the first knuckle. The slight sting had you gritting your teeth, quaking a little as you imagined taking more. The stretch, the friction, the warmth of his mouth all pushed you further into that rolling tide until you were pulled under.
You cried out, sharp and aching as you came. Your nails scratched at Soap's scalp, unable to push Ghost away so settling for the closest thing.
'It's too much, stop, stop-' you tried to wriggle up the mattress but it was futile. Ghost merely hushed you as he licked up the wetness he'd drawn forth. You'd just have to endure, wait until the beasts had had their fill.
'Let me have a taste, go oan,' he let go of your thighs, leaning to the edge of the bed and grasping at the short, blond hair of his partner. 'Need to- fuck- can't-'
He cut himself off by pulling Simon up and kissing him. Still weak and trembling, you couldn’t help but push yourself up on wobbly elbows. You watched, dark meeting light, as their heads clashed together. It was all tongues and teeth, nothing pretty or soft in the kiss. You could see the Ghost's face now, a little. He was pale, textured. Scars carved into strong features like a weathered cliff. His lips were thin and etched into a permanent sneer by a silver line bisecting the top. His crooked nose bumped against Johnny's as he pressed their foreheads together, breathing hard. You could only see the back of Soap's head, his overgrown mohawk, but you imagined the look of devotion in his eyes would match Simon's. You lay there, naked and legs-spread, but embarrassed by the intensity you witnessed. You looked away.
'Dinnae be jealous, birdie. It's your turn now,' Soap turned back to face you, eyes bright and pupils blown.
He scared you, something savage in him flickering below the surface. He was an agrestal being, growing wild in cultivated places like thorny bracken. He stripped out of his trousers and crawled over you, pressing you down with his bulk. His arms were tensed by your head, thick thighs keeping yours open. He was bestial, even his body. All wide, bulging muscles and coarse dark hair. You couldn't look him in the eyes, couldn't stand to see the fervent desire written across his face. He was feverish with it, sweat beading and eyes shining as he looked at you. It infected you, making you feel equally hot. It should be repulsive, sickening, but the chills that broke out only fed the flames of your desire.
Your eyes widened as you looked down, catching sight of his lust. His cock hung heavy and dark between his thighs, already slick with precum. It was big, girthy. You couldn't call it pretty, not with the angry, purplish veins and flushed glans peeking out of his foreskin. A white drop beaded at the tip, weeping with desire. Weeping for you. You shook your head, lips twisting as he dipped his hips and pressed against your cunt. Your thighs were tense, body repelled by the thought of this thing inside you. You'd split open, body reshaped as he forced you to make space for him. You shook with it, even as more slick gathered between your legs.
'No, no, you can't,' you babbled, 'you're too big and I can't, really. I'll - we can do something else just don't make me take that. '
He was lost to his own desire, heady as he pressed his lips to yours and tasted your trepidation. He groaned, kissing at the soft spot under your jaw as he ran his length up and down your open centre.
'Ye dinnae want to go for a ride?' he smirked, 'Ye liked it so much earlier. Were really screamin' for me.'
You tensed, eyes wide on his as you thought back to your nightmare. The wind and branches biting into you as you cried and clutched on to the thing below you. How could you escape such a being? How could you outrun something that could twist nature to its whims.
' Johnny ,' A warning. Ghost loomed over the bed, hand running along Soap's spine. Petting him. 'Gonna talk all night?'
Just like earlier, you could only hold on and try to endure. Thankfully you were slick from Ghost's attentions, hot and sensitive from the aberrant hunger they awakened in you. Your breaths caught, hitched as you felt just the tip press at your opening. It burned , the fingers earlier doing little to prepare you for something this thick. Your skin stretched thin, wetness the only thing easing his entry. Your pitiful little ah mixed with Soap's grunt as his hips stuttered. He didn't - couldn't - press in fully yet. Could just rut against you, thrusting slowing. Withdrawing and pushing in inch by inch. So slow it was almost sweet. You were almost grateful, relieved that he was being considerate as he forced his way inside.
His head dropped, hands fisting the sheets as he exhaled. 'She's so wet, Simon, fuck. Thank you . Warmed her up for me. So perfect, so wet-'
He babbled as he pressed further, halfway in. You whined, supine, body stretching to accommodate his. Your inner muscles fluttered, welcoming and straining against the intrusion as he found space for himself. You squeezed your eyes shut, little patterns dancing behind your lids as you rode waves of pleasure-pain. A light slap to your cheek had you crying out, more surprised than hurt. Ghost leaned close to you, big hand stroking over the sting left by his palm.
'Gonna thank me too? Thank me for getting you all warmed up.'
You nodded jerkily, voice stolen by sensation as Soap finally thrust home. You shook, feeling shivery and full as his heavy balls pressed against your ass. He stayed there, savouring the feeling as he arched his neck back like a howling dog. You felt something wet drip on your forehead and realised it was sweat. Sweat rolling from the man above you, dripping down his temple and onto yours. You whined, disgusted and hot in equal measure, as you took it. Took the heavy cock stretching you open, took the nasty, filthy praise spilling from his mouth. Took even his sweat, his musk. It was foul how it made you ache.
'You can do better than that,' Ghost didn't like your silence, slapping you lightly again before pinching your cheeks until your mouth popped open. 'You've got manners, I know you do. Say 'thank you'.'
'Thank you,' it was whiny and pathetic, warped by the pressure on your cheeks. 'Thank you for getting me ready.'
'Johnny too. He's bein' so nice to ya. Been panting about this for weeks. Thank him for startin' so gentle,' he shook your face slightly, smirking as you mewled.
Your face burned as you were made to thank him for not tearing you apart. Like he was doing you a favour.
'Good girl,' with a final pat to your cheek he released your flushed face. You saw him reach down between your bodies until he reached your cunt, spreading your lips and dipping down to where Soap thrust into you. He rubbed, wringing moans from you and Soap as he gathered your wetness and played with your throbbing clit.
'Steamin' Jesus, she's clenched up all tight. Grippin' me like a vice. I knew it, knew she would. Wanted this as much as we did, fuck .'
He lost himself to your heat, thrusting hard as he opened you up to him. It ached, pressure blooming like bruises inside you as he hit at spots deep within your core. You felt wild with it, wild as he was, as gorged himself on your body. Gouged out pieces and filled the holes with his flesh. It was brutal, the drag of his head inside you sparking pleasure that streaked up from where you were joined. Coruscations sparked all over your body, little flashes of light that made you pant. Ghost removed his glistening hand to stroke himself, letting Soap drop lower. Let him curl over you like he was guarding a meal from another animal, keeping you tight against him. His wiry hair scraped your throbbing clit, pleasure cresting too high and too fast. It hurt, delicious searing pain making you shiver. He surrounded you, inside and out. Too full, too intense.
He shifted, throwing one thigh over the crook of his arm and pressing even deeper. You cried out, overcome by the stretch. There was no finesse, no skill to his lust as he sought to fuse you together. Rooted within you, he grunted as he hit your cervix. Hammered it, hard and fast and bruising. You swore you could feel him in your stomach, could feel him making a home for himself, forcing himself into every part of you. Your woods, your home, your body. He curled around you tighter, coarse hair rubbing into your nipples. Slick head nuzzling into your neck before he bit down. You screamed, clenching hard as the pain pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He mouthed at the bite, sloppily kissing and licking at it as he reached down to circle at your nub. Rough, clumsy fingers had your legs shaking, cresting higher and higher until you fell. A spiraling, violent climax.
He followed soon after, spurting hot and thick inside you. Leaving a part of himself in you, hoping it would take root. You turned your head to the side, moaning at the sting of your ruined pussy. Of your spread thighs and aching neck.
'Fuckin' made for us, Simon. You haftae try,' he slurred into your neck as his bulk pressed you down into the mattress. Lazy and spent, he reached for Ghost's hand bringing it up to his mouth to taste your slick and Simon's musk.
You whimpered a little, pushing him. You felt wrecked. Carved hollow, scared that the man on top of you would worm into what was left of you. Thankfully he shifted, rolling off and to the side.
But it wasn't over.
As you turned you caught sight of Ghost rising up. His scarred, wide chest was just as rugged as his face. Craggy with muscle and deep slashes. Piercing holes that healed up to keloid scars. You shivered at the thought of what could leave those marks on a creature like him. You followed the light dusting of hair low, past the belt of Adonis, to the weapon between his thighs. It was bigger even than Soap's. So heavy that it didn’t jut out fully, just hung thick and flushed and ready. Your lips trembled, speechless, not sure whether to beg him to spare you or spew out more pathetic thank you s that he let Soap go first.
'Up ya get, birdie' his lips curled as he palmed at his cock. 'Turn around and give Johnny a little kiss for treatin' you so nice.'
Pleading eyes met his dark gaze. You wanted to deny him, wanted to keep this thing in your sights. All your instincts screamed that if you turned your back on something so dangerous creature it surely swallow you whole. But the sight of his heavy-lidded eyes, black pupils bleeding into brown, sapped you of your will. You hated yourself, hated how you'd let them slip into the lacuna of your life. The empty spaces in your - lonely -lovely cottage. The liminal space of your dreams. They filled up all the blank spaces, writing their will over every choice, every interaction you had in this village. You were a palimpsest, their desires and hands imprinting on top of the surface they'd scraped clean.
He smirked, triumph gleaming in his abyssal gaze as you pushed yourself up on shaking arms. You leaned down, back arching as you pressed trembling lips against Soap's. A butterfly kiss to match your fluttering heart. Your fluttering stomach. Soap lay back like a sleeping lion, tongue lazily tracing the seam of your lips as he enjoyed his meal. Even focused on the beast in front of you, you couldn't forget the one at your back. You presented yourself, thighs slightly parted and dripping with the spend of another man. A hot, heavy palm pushed at your back, arching you further into them both. You felt him step up behind you, thick, girthy length sliding through the mingled wetness between your legs. You gritted your teeth as he pushed in, still difficult to take despite being loosened up. He just kept pushing and pushing, having so much more to give you than you could take.
Your belly ached. Your walls fluttered as they were forced apart again. You lay pliant below him, whining against Soap's lips as you submitted to these ephialtes made flesh.
'Fuck, birdie,' Ghost's voice dipped lower, rough and covetous, ' Never lettin' you go.'