Chapter Text
As time marches forward, all the excitement of that summer several years back settles and the world mostly forgets the Catton family, their tragic fates, and the kind family friend that inherited the Saltburn estate. The elaborate rooms echo with emptiness, the hydrangeas start to die back, and Oliver begins to come to terms with the fact that he’s bored. Worse than that, even, he’s bored and lonely. At first, it was buckets of fun—digging around in all their personal items, wearing Felix’s boxer shorts, reading Valentia’s diaries—but eventually he ran out of privacies to intrude upon, and the all-too-familiar ennui that is the curse of immortal beings the world over starts to dull all of Oliver’s exceedingly keen senses. At least he still has Duncan haunting the estate—the sentimental bastard couldn’t bring himself to leave when the rest of the staff fucked off; most of them feeling, rightfully, uncomfortable with the amount of death hanging dark over the home. Loyalty can be a real bitch but his loyalty eventually paid off, depending on how you look at it.
The night Oliver turned Duncan, the air outside had a distinct, stale smell to it that made even the deer in the surrounding forest itch with discomfort. Perhaps he had been building up to it, or perhaps he simply couldn’t take the sadness anymore—either way, Duncan took his shot, quite literally. When Oliver woke up to an antique revolver shoved under his chin, he wasn’t all that surprised—Duncan had been acting exceptionally skulking and, though his mind-reading skills weren’t quite as honed as his manipulation skills, it didn’t take a genius to get the sense that he was up to something. At first it was self-defense, and even though Oliver was quite certain the revolver contained a run-of-the-mill, brass and gunpowder bullet, a wound of that size would be a real bitch to heal.
The first hit put him on the ground. The first bite made him scream. The second bite was a bit more selfish. After subsisting on a lean diet of postmen and scrawny animals that wandered into the woods behind the estate, Duncan’s rich, coppery blood tasted like milk and honey pouring from a divine goblet, and Oliver’s self-control was, admittedly, frayed at the edges. Unfortunately, vampires are still cursed with the emotions of the human psyches they were born into, and as Duncan’s pulse started to slow with each gratuitous slurp, Oliver started feeling a little guilty. Duncan hasn’t done anything deserving of such a bleak ending—only ever loved and protected the Cattons. And besides, wouldn’t it be nice to have some company in this eternal abyss? He might have preferred someone who liked him a bit more than Duncan did, and possibly someone less homicidal, but relentless immortality means making concessions once in a while—so Oliver bit into his wrist and let Duncan sip at the putrid, viscous fluid that ran through his veins. The next morning, after he woke up in a pool of sticky, browning ichor, Duncan served a light breakfast, as he did every morning, and never spoke to Oliver about what had occurred, never asked questions about what he was—simply carried on with the same haughty attitude and only occasionally allowing himself to exercise his powers and seep into the foundations of the house, peer into the dark corners and up into the half-rotted rafters, wrap around each beam and nail and crack in the floor tiles, listen to the futile, echoing mists of rich men and servants that walked across the gilded thresholds ten generations ago. Good for him.
Despite being well on its way to becoming a den of blood-sucking monsters, the external vision of Saltburn—the day-to-day mundanities—has remained the same. On this particular day, that feels as normal as the last six hundred or so odd days Oliver has spent puttering around the house and the grounds, the sun beats down on the hot cement around the pool, making it hard to walk across. “Might as well be a church,” he thinks, as he spreads a towel across a plastic lounge chair and drags over a large umbrella. Contrary to what myths would like you to believe, no vampire has ever been burned to dust by direct contact with the sun, but rather, it’s a simple matter of preference. With darkness comes more freedom, more places to hide, and more open hunting grounds. Tales of night stalking, blood-sucking demons have painted a pretty fearsome reputation for people like Oliver that seems to come in handy when the need arises. A healthy dollop of fear goes a long way.
When Oliver first adjusted to his new life and his new body, it terrified him—the idea that a simple slice of sunshine might singe his skin and scatter his cells to the wind—but the braver (and more bored) he became, the less fear he felt, until he finally stepped out on a bright, cloudless day, only to find that it felt…good, in a way. His nerves lit up from the bottom of his feet to his scalp, and it was as if he could taste the sunshine, like he had tendrils growing out of every pore that wrapped around each photon, tracing the pinpoints of energy back to the black hole that created them. He could feel the whole universe around him. It was all-consuming, entirely overwhelming—like coming during sex but not stopping, fucking through the pleasure until it’s almost pain. Perhaps it did make more sense to avoid it entirely. Still, Oliver felt the unmistakable desire to embrace it, so he practiced—took walks through the foothills, bathed naked on the rooftop, became wholly unaffected by the way his molecules vibrated and spread his body across the land like butter. In time, he would learn how to weaponize this particular side effect of his demonic affliction and find that, if he focused just enough to follow the spread, chase after it like a greyhound sprints behind a fake rabbit on a track, he could see into the places it reached. This proved to be a very useful way to spy on the humans he would often live with and taught him how to properly manipulate their soft, squishy brains into doing his bidding for him. It was almost as if the exposure unlocked an ancient power inside of him and, still, he often wonders if they’re all affected in this way. Be it an abnormal side effect or a mutation of his ashen DNA, walking out into the sunlight that day was one of the best decisions he can remember making.
Oliver sinks into the squeaky vinyl chair, letting his eyes flutter closed and his mind wander the same path it always did in all the expansive, empty time he now enjoys every day. Being here at Saltburn—adorning himself with Felix’s former life—means that the boy constantly lives behind his eyes, pressing long, slim fingers into his sockets just to remind Oliver of what he lost—what he chose to lose. Maybe he was in love with Felix. He certainly loved Felix, but even if that were true, he has no regrets about moving forward with his plan to slide into the void the Cattons left—to occupy the empty space he so meticulously created. Felix was one of a thousand boys and girls that he’d loved since crawling out of the dark, stone house he was dragged into that bright afternoon almost two hundred years ago. It almost feels like a dream now, to recall that foolish, simple boy—the poor son of a shepherd who dreamed of silly things like leaving his father’s farm, attending Oxford, and learning to read. A little smile twitches at the corner of his lips as he marinates in the self-satisfaction of life now lived.
Diary of Oliver Quick
17 June, 1899
It’s been fifty years to the day that I’ve existed in this world and tonight, as I pour wine and watch out the window of my London apartment at the supple bodies of young women and the loose joints of drunk men, I realize I’ve never put to paper the story of the day I became what I am. Perhaps I’ve been afraid to see the words looking back at me, assuring me that my life will continue to be this aching, expanding vacancy. Nevertheless, there are facts to convey and myths to dispel, and I believe now is no better time than any to recount the details of how a man can become a monster.
My father never understood my desire to find more. He discouraged my mother from sending me to school, insisting that our family trade was more important than any book could be, but her tenacity and love for me won out in the end. Every day, I would walk through the cow fields and down dusty paths to reach a small, brick building, surrounded by nothing but dark woods, to find refuge in pages of poetry and prose and thick bindings that held our history. The woman who taught me to read was patient and soft-spoken—dark-haired and pink-cheeked and likely no more than a few years older than I. I sat with the younger children to sound out consonants and vowels and scribble out looping O’s and dotted I’s. It became a habit, for me, to take books out to the low riverbed set several hundred feet back in the woods after studies had ended for the day, desperate to be alone, to be anything I wanted, to be anyone but a poor shepherd’s son.
On that fateful afternoon, as I sat against a tree and sounded out the proper pronunciation of the word “veritable”, a boy, who looked older and clean and sharp around the edges, appeared at the edge of a dark tree line. It wasn’t like me to stare at a stranger, but his sinewy arms stretched and his blonde curls bounced as he approached me, and I felt the distinct churn in my stomach that I felt whenever I saw the neighbor’s daughter outside hanging linens in just her bedtime frock. When he was close enough, I could see his eyes—impossibly dark, like a cow’s eyes, wide and endless. I was hypnotized.
He sat beside me, asked my name, and told me he lived on the other side of the trees. I asked how far he walked to get here, and he replied, “Not far.” We sat shoulder to shoulder as the fire in my belly was fanned by the softness of his voice and the way he touched my arm to emphasize his assertions on Shakespearean comedy or Dante’s depictions of hell, stories I’d only heard of, books too thick for my infantile understanding. My eyes fell shut when he manifested a small parchment from a linen pocket and read aloud, “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me.” Dickinson. In my small handful of experiences, I had never felt a pull like this—each word he spoke tugged me closer to an edge that I knew I was approaching but couldn’t will myself to step away from. I wanted to learn. He taught me.
The sun started to set and he asked if I was hungry—promised me a table of hams and puddings, a warm hearth, and dark brown ale. Our palms came together as he effortlessly lifted me to my feet and told me he enjoyed the company of equal minds. He stayed pressed into my fingers as we walked along the dry, powdery riverbed, moving deeper into the blackness as the sun fell below the treeline behind us. Time slipped away and the world outside the woods faded. The house was a small rectangle with a sharp, tall roof. It looked out of place, tucked between towering, spindly tree branches and jagged brush. He pulled me inside and laid me across a soft cot. He put his lips on mine and ran his hand beneath my cotton shirt—touched me in places I had only ever touched myself. We sweat and groaned and moved together like anchored boats rocking on the gentle sea as he whispered to me “Stay here, stay with me.”
“Yes,” I answered, and he dipped into the crook of my neck, dragging sharp teeth across the veins that throbbed with fear and anticipation. When those daggers breached my skin, my body erupted. It hurt, but the pleasure blooming in my core overtook the discomfort as my eyes blurred into the world around me, blackening with each passing second.
I remember asking him to stop, the pain beginning to seep in, and I felt my muscles untying—loosening. My breath came in short gasps, my body slick with scarlet liquor, as he pulled away, leaving me cold and weak. The room became dark and soft around the edges and I was overtaken with exhaustion—unable to move my limbs. He pressed his wet wrist to my mouth and asked me to drink. I obeyed. “You’ll feel better,” he cooed, stroking my cheeks as I lapped at the sap pouring from his body into mine.
There’s not much to recall after that. My new master cleaned and dressed me as I lay, cold and shaking, in front of the smoldering hearth, my stomach twisting with a pain not entirely unlike hunger, my skin burning from the molten blood rushing beneath it. I slept for three days. When I finally awoke, I was still cold and my hands lay like icicles across my bare chest. He stayed by my side, tending and coddling, pressing frigid kisses into my wound. Over the next several weeks, I learned more.
Halithan was his name and that year marked four hundred and twenty since his turning. He taught me how to hunt and how to eat, how to sharpen my focus and listen to the way the Earth spoke to me. He held me when I grew fearful of myself and kissed me down into the cot when the heat inside my stomach became too much to bear. We only left the house at night, at his insistence. One snowy evening, at least a dozen months after my transformation, he left on his own, never to return. At first, I cried. I lay around the cabin feeling sorry for myself, sorry for the love that I lost, crazed with a lack of closure and consolation. Eventually, I left too—abandoned the life we created under the protection of a hundred midnights.
Since then, I have curated my own litter of young vampires. Some of them come to me hungry for immortality. Most of them find themselves in my bed, receiving the same violent mercies I was given. I always leave them, the same way Halithan left me, as all vampires must forge a path through eternity independently. They all must learn what it means to be utterly alone in a world not made for them. I have learned and, as surely as my black heart pumps thick molasses through my constricted veins, I will continue to love and to leave.
As the late afternoon sun continues to beat down on the textured tile and hard cement around him, Oliver considers how he’s changed since that time. No longer does he run. No longer does he hide, cowering in shadows, fearful to show the world what he is. Saltburn—this opulent home, this sprawling estate built on the backs of slaves and low-born men like himself, is the keystone of the world he’s spent so much effort and diligence creating for himself.
When Oliver first decided to attend Oxford, a dream he’d carried since his mortal childhood, it took precise planning—the amount you might assume would be necessary to pass a two-hundred-year-old vampire off as an eighteen-year-old college student. Moving to the United Kingdom was easy. Forging the necessary documents—identifications, birth certificates, transcripts—was even easier. Manipulating an entire family of humans into believing he was their child since birth, weaving himself into their dynamic, playing the role of the dutiful son—that was where the difficulty lay. Asserting your will via mind control on a single, oblivious man was one thing. Twisting around the psyches of an entire family, implanting falsehoods in their fallible memories, staying focused at all times—that was another thing altogether.
Occasionally, it was nice. For the first time in a very, very long time, Oliver was part of a family. People took care of him. The fleeting moments of happiness served to push him forward with his plan to create his own everlasting family—and the plan, all of the carefully orchestrated pieces, are falling into place.
As a self-satisfied smugness spreads across Oliver’s face, he lets his mind rest. The past is very much the past, and he’s never felt more certain, more hopeful, about his eternal future.
A hand pressed to the top of his shoulder wakes Oliver with a start. His eyes fly open to see Duncan, stiff-faced and devoid of all emotion, peering down at him with a blank stare.
“Shit, you’re terrifying, you know that?” Oliver pants, having been pulled prematurely from a dream where he was drinking wine with Halithan at the pub in town—his gentle hands ran along the back of Ollie’s neck and he was whispering between drinks, “I’ll find you again”. It was lovely.
“Apologies, sir. You have a visitor.”
A visitor? He squints up at Duncan, puzzled by his announcement, and his dull pulse quickens. At first, there were visitors constantly. Family members paying respects, curious neighbors, tourists looking for a unique, macabre experience at the deadliest estate in the United Kingdom. Duncan turned most of them away. Some would stay for tea or lunch, asking Ollie all about himself and how he came to be in such a lucky position. A few, mostly those traveling far from home, would end up satisfying his and Duncan’s appetites for a few days. Others, some of the lovelier ones—the younger ones—would stay for a drink or two, would let Oliver seduce them without protest, would follow him into his bed, and let him fuck them relentlessly. Those, he always let go without harm. A few stayed in contact, but none of them ever visited a second time.
He follows Duncan through the atrium and into the belly of Saltburn, quietly moving across the cold floor tiles, from one room into the next. They emerge in the front gallery and Oliver studies the back of a tall, slender, dark-haired man. He sucks down a gasp and his limbs go all numb and useless when he recognizes the golden design of an unmistakable signet ring. The all-too-familiar arms and legs turn to meet Ollie face-to-face.
“Oliver fucking Quick, as I live and breathe.”
It’s been quite some time since Oliver gave any thought to Farleigh Start. After Felix died and the entire family was led to believe that his drugs played a primary role in the tragic events of that night, Farleigh was shipped back to America to live with his mother and finish school at some tiny, no-name, liberal arts university and eventually disappear back into the middle class. It was shocking, to say the least, to see him standing on the grounds of Saltburn, looking just as cutting and devilish as he did the night of Oliver’s birthday party. The words he spoke that night would rattle around Ollie’s head for years. “This is my house,” is all he heard as he licked at the wounds on Venetia’s hemorrhaging wrists and held Elspeth’s frail, limp body as her pulse faded into the past.
He lets them both sit in the overwrought smog covering the house for a while, searching for a witty or cunning response.
“You’re looking fit, Farleigh.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Farleigh scoffs and rolls his eyes as his body language tenses and his crossed arms come untangled. He steps closer to Oliver. “I honestly didn’t believe it when everyone was saying you were Elspeth’s caretaker. You ?! And that you convinced her to hand over Saltburn like you were someone to her. Like you’ve done anything but fuck with my family since the second you stepped foot in my house.”
It’s comforting to see that Farleigh hasn’t changed a bit. Still bitter. Still weak. Still clinging to the shredded gossamer of Saltburn and her innocence.
“Your house?” Oliver asks, somewhat rhetorically. He lowers his voice to just above a whisper and closes the gap between the two of them. “You never loved them—Elspeth, Felix—none of them. Tell me, Farleigh, how did James convince you to run back to your mum so quickly? He threaten to press charges? Put you away for killing his son? The way I see it, I was more kin to the Cattons than you ever were. I earned what I got from them. You could only ever beg for it.”
They’re close enough now that Oliver can see the fire raging behind his tight pupils and braces to dodge a hit, if necessary. It’s been a long time since he’s seen anger spill out of a man like this. Farleigh’s body shakes, but his voice is deep and certain when he leans close to Oliver’s ear, breathing hard into the shell.
“You can’t scare me, Oliver.” He roughly grabs a fistful of Ollie’s jumper and pulls him close, pressing up against him, firm and tense. “Because this is my house. My ancestor’s blood is leached into the dirt it’s built on. No matter how hard you try, you can’t change that.”
Oliver pulls back and looks up into his eyes that ooze with venom and poison.
“Well, I’m not planning to roll over and let you have it simply because your last name is written in a few books on the library shelves.”
An unsettling air of intensity and oddly comfortable intimacy flows around them as neither offers to break the stand-off between the two Catton family bastards. Without moving, Farleigh announces loudly, “Duncan! Please take my bags to Felix’s old room. The one across from Oliver’s.” His voice drops back down and a wicked smile curls at the corners of his mouth. “Unless you’re sleeping there now, you love sick fuck.”
Oliver continues to hold himself in place, beating back the instinct to attack, to bite, to kill. It’s been lonely, living here at Saltburn with nothing but books and a small cable TV to keep him company, and more than lonely, it’s boring as all hell. Perhaps it won’t be too sinister if he allows these unexpected events to play out, let Farleigh think he holds some of the cards. This opportunity might be precisely the one he’s been waiting for.
The unstable, staticky energy Farleigh brings with him to Saltburn makes it impossible for Oliver to get any sleep—he has too many questions, too many open-ended plans, too many deep-seated desires. It’s become a routine over the last few years for him to walk the perimeter of the grounds whenever the backs of his eyelids feel more like old friends than pieces of his own skin. It always worked for Venetia. God knows how many times he saw her wandering across the courtyard in the middle of the night, sometimes crying, always smoking. Tonight, the cool air is swollen with moisture. The dark clouds look like black holes against the already darkened sky and hang heavy with the imminent threat of rain. As Oliver paces the fences and the treeline, he turns over the events of the afternoon in his mind, hoping to see a clear path forward.
The bottom line is that Farleigh wants to take Saltburn back—for himself and the rest of his family. It’s a noble pursuit, Oliver affectionately thinks. It’s hard not to have respect for a man’s willingness to show up—unannounced and angry, driven by retribution and revenge—and potentially put himself in harm’s way to take back what he believes belongs to him. Unfortunately for Farleigh and his side of the Catton family, the ownership of Saltburn runs deeper than a few legal documents can define. The way Oliver sees it, no one can own Saltburn anymore. Its ancient walls hold more than just drywall and peeling wallpaper—they contain life. Moving, changing, evolving, breathing life. And Oliver is a part of it now. He’s sunk into the tile grout and the trussings, every grain of mahogany and every slab of ten-thousand-year-old marble. A simple human force like Farleigh can’t change that.
As his bare feet compress into the soft sod, he finally concludes that there are two choices at play. One, he could kill Farleigh. It wouldn’t be hard—the man is tall and virile, but a lifetime of privilege and power has left him weak. Ollie could walk the stairs to his room right now and put a knife to his throat—fill his guts with his warm juices, look him in the eyes as his life circles and rushes down the drain, relish in the fact that he’s won.
The second and more preferred option would be to welcome Farleigh into his world—push open his bedroom door, kiss his lips, touch his cock, feel the hot burn of his skin as it breaks under his piercing canines. He would be scared, at first, but Oliver would show him what to do, how to live. It would be his choice, then, if he wanted to stay at the estate or try to venture into the world, more alone than ever before. The choice, Oliver hopes, would be easy for him. He treks back into the house and wanders through a maze of dark hallways, taking a few minor precautions on his way. He visits the garage first, to disable the rental car Farleigh arrived in. As he passes through the foyer, he snips the main line that leads to several antique telephones around the home. When Oliver stops at Farleigh’s bedroom door, he’s overtaken by a desperation to be inside, under his sheets, pressed against his fiery skin. A rush of urgency and lust fill his senses, so he places his flat palm on the smooth wood and closes his eyes, focusing narrowly on what’s on the other side.
The image comes in clear. Farleigh is asleep and spread wide across the king-sized bed wearing nothing but a pair of tight briefs. His chest rises and falls with mesmerizing rhythm and Oliver feels a swell of affection for the man—peaceful and unknowing—and suddenly, he’s desperate to see past this moment and into the future—a day, a week, a hundred years—wanting his predetermined destiny to make the choice for him. Continuing to scan the contents of the space behind the closed door, Oliver finally sees what he’s come for and slowly pushes the unlocked door open, careful to step soundlessly over the wooden planks. Next to the bed sits Farleigh’s mobile phone—his last connection to the outside world, his only lifeline. As Oliver lifts it away and disconnects it from its power cable, he pauses to soak in Farleigh’s calm, vulnerable body. He really is lovely—soft and almondy skin, lean muscles, scant tufts of dark body hair—and Oliver has to fight back the urge to cradle his head in his hands and stroke his cheek. Conflict swirls around his mind and makes his eyes feel sore and heavy, so he steps quietly back into his room, soundlessly latching the door behind him, and crawls underneath his thick blankets, willing sleep to come. The immediate choice, he decides, is to make this decision tomorrow’s problem.
The following morning, Oliver wakes before the sun comes up. Overnight, he dreamed of Farleigh and couldn’t believe how beautiful he looked—eyes darker than normal, long fangs, mouth glistening with fresh, wet blood. A little bit of clarity is coming into focus and Oliver makes the definitive decision to turn him at the first opportunity and convince, possibly beg, him to stay. When he finally pulls himself from the sheets, he’s surprised to see Farleigh already sitting at the table in the dinette, holding a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other.
“Good morning, Ollie,” he greets pleasantly, but it sounds, to Ollie, more like the cruel, patronizing type of plesantry—a fairly common communication style for Farleigh.
“Sleep well?” Oliver asks as he sizes up Farleigh’s attitude and tries to suss out more of his motivations. When Farleigh sets the newspaper down and clears his throat, a pang of anxiety that he had been caught sneaking into his room last night clenches in Oliver’s gut.
Farleigh shoots a piercing gaze in Oliver’s direction. “I always sleep better at home.”
They dance uncomfortably around the unease that flows between them, exchanging skeptical glances and pushing bites of quiche around the bone China plates, locked in a tense, silent battle. After several minutes of unspoken back-and-forth, Farleigh sets down his fork and looks inquisitively at Oliver.
“You haven’t happened to see my cellphone, have you? It's the funniest thing,” he says in a way that doesn’t sound funny at all, “when I went to bed, I could have sworn it was right next to me.” His cutting eyes search Oliver’s face for any minute signs of fear, but Ollie simply shrugs his shoulders and reaches for the teapot in the middle of the table.
“Maybe you should ask Duncan.”
They continue to eat a silent breakfast together, only occasionally glancing up from their plates to make electric and sinister eye contact. Like most of his days at Saltburn, Oliver doesn’t have much to do, but he desperately needs space from the situation, from Farleigh, or else he isn’t sure he’ll be able to control himself. From what, exactly, he remains unsure of as he drags an antique wool blanket and a thick copy of Pride and Prejudice out to the golden, sprawling field on the south side of the grounds. It’s a comfort to lay naked under the sun the way he had years ago when he was surrounded by love and kindness and family, when the cracks in his plan hadn’t started to fill in with violence quite yet. The sun shines down through the thin ozone and coats Oliver’s back with prickly awareness. The book is with him mostly for show, as he’s read it so many times he can recite all his favorite lines and monologues. Sometimes he imagines himself as Mr. Darcy—intelligent and forthright—vying for the affections of Felix’s Elizabeth—soft and witty and painfully earnest. The daydreams make him hyper-aware of the massive gap in their social status and the withholding of truths and honesties that will eventually boil over every time.
His eyes close, weary from a lack of sleep, when he senses a shift in the atmosphere—a reverberating quake through the ground that means someone is walking his way—and turns to lay on his stomach so he can watch for movement across the field. Soon enough, he sees Farleigh in the distance, and Farleigh sees him. Awkwardly, he approaches the edge of the grassy expanse with his own rolled-up, woven blanket tucked under his armpit. He’s wearing thigh-length shorts and a yellow polo. Oliver recognizes it from Felix’s closet but bites back the urge to call him a hypocrite.
“I had a feeling you still came here,” Farleigh says, factually but with an air of sympathy that Oliver can’t wait to exploit.
“I do,” Oliver affirms, “and all the rules still apply.”
Farleigh rolls his eyes, but reaches for the hem of his shirt regardless, and pulls it off. It falls to the ground and he fingers open the button on his shorts, pushes them down his long, thin legs, and steps out of them toward the center of the field where Oliver is lying. While his feelings about Farleigh are conflicted, to say the least, the only thing he feels looking at him right now—watching the way his muscles pull and shift, the way the sun bathes his brown skin in golden hues, the way his cock moves from side to side as he walks closer—is want. This feeling, however, quickly fizzles out when Farleigh lies beside him on his back and opens his fucking mouth. Christ, if he isn’t easy to despise.
“You know, I hired a private investigator a few years ago. Tried to find out where you were, what you might be doing, what lies you told to my family.” He turns his head to speak directly at Oliver, clearly not planning to pause for a reaction. “And he couldn’t find anything, not a single piece of paper or public record with your name on it, except for your transcripts from Oxford. Isn’t that weird? I told him there was no way, that you were a kid with deadbeat, druggie parents, probably bounced around the system a few times. Told him there had to be hospital records of negligence, court documents, or something. No way little Ollie escaped that childhood without a few paper trails.”
Oliver realizes he’s been holding in his breath since Farleigh’s footsteps rattled across the yard and feels a rush of relief when he finally lets it go. He’s got nothing to worry about—a professional couldn’t even weave together the sticky web of lies he spun to achieve his goals. It gives him confidence—dangerous confidence. The style of confidence that led him into Farleigh’s bed that night, years ago. Oliver tucks his arms underneath his chin and stares into the tall grass in front of him.
“Just lucky, I guess.”
“Come on,” Farleigh pleads, frustrated and exasperated, “you don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”
“No, obviously you’re right, Farleigh” Oliver confesses. “At eighteen years old, I was able to manipulate an entire family of lords and ladies into trusting me and then I picked them off, one by one, in an elaborate scheme to occupy their giant, empty mansion.” The confidence swells again—he knows the truth is too unimaginable to be real and hopes he’s using the right level of sarcasm and playfulness to cover up the underlying reality. Farleigh rolls his eyes once more and looks back up into the clouds.
“I know you’re not a fucking murderer, okay? But you have to admit, things don’t seem to be lining up. And I think I’m expressing a healthy amount of concern for my dearly departed loved ones. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
Ollie tries to hide the smirk on his face, but can’t cover up the irritated way his voice comes out.
“You paid someone to stalk me,” he recalls slowly, emphasizing the absurdity of Farleigh’s assertion. “And I’m the dick.”
Farleigh presses his wrists into his eye sockets and groans. “Ugh, come on Oliver! I feel like I’m going fucking insane over here! You have to give me something, please. Just tell me the truth, once. One thing about your life that’s actually real.”
A little bit of empathy permeates Oliver’s shriveled heart and he figures that the kind thing to do is to admit to at least one of his lies—offer Farleigh a taste of closure that will hopefully satisfy his hunger for the truth.
“Alright,” he begins, “you remember when the Cattons accused you of stealing? When James got that call from his friend at Soethby’s?” He lets the question hang in the air for a moment and gives Farleigh the chance to think back through all the madness of that summer.
“Oh my god…” His eyes go wide with realization. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“I’m sorry.” Oliver tries his best to sound convincing. He does feel sorry, a little bit, that Farleigh ended up being collateral damage in all of this. “I was jealous. And you were right—that summer was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I didn’t want to have to share it with you.”
Farleigh sits up on his elbows and takes in a deep breath. Oliver isn’t sure if he should be bracing for a fight or running away—the molten anger building up pressure behind Farleigh’s eyes feels like it’s about to erupt. He sits up and tucks his feet under his knees, turning so that his back is to Oliver.
“That’s really fucked up, dude.”
When he has nothing else to add, Oliver presses on.
“I know. I didn’t say you deserved it.” He focuses his energy on the amber sunlight that’s beginning to dip below the treeline, trying his best to make the admission sound sincere. “I was devastated to see you welcomed back so quickly. To know that they’d all rather let a thief into their home than cause any sort of public rift…to realize it was all for nothing.”
Strangely, he lets out a huff that could nearly be described as a laugh. “That’s pathetic,” is the last of Farleigh’s commentary on the revelation and he pushes himself up onto his feet, leaving the blanket where it is, “I’ve got to go get ready for dinner.”
Tradition is tradition, and Oliver is in no place to deny as precious a tradition as dressing for dinner at the Saltburn estate. A comforting reminder of home is the least he feels he can do for Farleigh since, technically, he did have a hand in the premature demise of several of the boy’s family members. Plus, no one has utilized the grand dining hall since Elspeth and James’ anniversary party four years ago. Almost no one came, and those who did sat awkwardly around the table, trying to keep the conversation light while their eyes darted around the room, hoping to suss out any salacious details of their children’s tragic deaths.
Oliver may not have been there, but the house remembers—tells him all about that night when Elspeth had taken so much Klonopin that she could hardly form a complete sentence. The pity it felt for James who sat by her side all night, monitoring her heart rateas she took shallow, shaky breaths. It’s funny, to Oliver, how two people who hate each other so much can care so deeply about one another. Maybe, he muses, that’s what he could find with Farleigh. One thing is certain as they sit on opposite ends of the sprawling dinner table, taking cautious bites of pork belly and mashed potatoes: Farleigh will not be leaving Saltburn any time soon, and it certainly will not be in the same body he arrived in.
“So what’s your plan, then?” Oliver cuts the silence, uninterested in playing some strange game of niceties. Neither he nor Farleigh were born into this culture of masks and polite denials of reality; they can’t paint over and ignore the dramatic nature of Farleigh’s arrival and Oliver’s persistence. They are so much more similar than either would like to admit.
Farleigh answers, “Missed my dear old friend, Duncan, obviously.” The sarcasm dribbles from his tongue and he continues. “The real question is, Oliver, dearest, what the fuck is your plan?”
Oliver takes the cloth napkin from his lap, dabs the corners of his mouth, and lays it across his half-eaten plate. The stiff, antique chair scuffs painfully when he pushes himself back and rises to his feet. Farleigh is watching him closely, trying to predict his next move, running through a thousand different scenarios in the back of his head, but unfortunately for him, you can’t often predict the moves of a predator. He closes the distance created by the long, oaken dinner table. When he reaches Farleigh, he steps behind him, placing his hands on his shoulders and dipping down close to his ear. His breath comes out hot and damp, and he can smell the lingering scent of sweet cologne settled into the soft patch of skin on the side of Farleigh’s neck. It makes his head spin with hunger and lust.
“My plan,” he begins, as he moves his thumbs in gentle circles between Farleigh’s shoulder blades, “has changed a bit, due to your unexpected arrival.” Oliver dances his fingertips down Farleigh’s jawbone, lightly taking his chin into his hands and tipping his face to the side so that Oliver’s lips are just centimeters away from his. “But I don’t see why we can’t pick up where we left off.”
It’s cute, the way Farleigh tries to hide the hitch in his breath. Oliver focuses on his eyes and pushes his senses into the objects around them—the chairs, the table, the chandeliers. They respond with a familiar buzzing, an insistence. He blends his thoughts into the hard, tangible things around him and uses them to reach into Farleigh’s head—desperate to unearth the truth that’s fighting its way out through a layer of hate and anger—and he’s pleasantly surprised to find them sitting right on the surface. It’s going to be so simple to get what he wants. He’s almost there.
“I’m going to take a bath,” is his final word—a taut line with a sharp, silver hook gleaming on the end—and Oliver can feel Farleigh’s confliction burning a hole into the back of his head as he strides out of the dining hall.
The bathwater sears Oliver’s skin, just barely on the right side of too hot. It’s funny to consider the man he was when he first saw Felix fucking himself right where he currently lies. There’s a small pang of pity in his chest when he remembers the boy so blinded by want for his friend that he lay on the floor of this very tub and lapped at the spoiled water, frenzied and desperate to have a piece of Felix inside of him—to hold him, safe and settled, in his belly.
He chases after the extension of his mind, through the hallway and the library, down the stairs, and back into the dining hall where he can see Farleigh still sitting at the emptied table—uncomfortable, stiff-backed, and tingling. It’s too far to see into his thoughts, and his senses are too distracted by the persistent heat to reach into his nervous system and pull Farleigh towards him, but he trusts the pathetic, carnal nature of men—feels it himself, even. His face is sunk into the water, with only his glowing blue eyes remaining on the surface, and he feels unmistakably like a crocodile silently stalking a buffalo, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The moment is coming. He can feel it.
When his fingers and toes begin to prune, Oliver resigns to the fact that Farleigh isn’t coming to claim him, naked and wet in the bathtub. Not this time, at least. He pulls the plug free and watches the water spill down the drain, carrying bits of his patience away with it. The short, fluffy bathrobe Duncan keeps clean and hung by the door is soft and inviting, and it helps soothe away the tense anticipation he’d allowed to build. He brushes his teeth in the mirror, running his tongue along the blunt-tipped canines that grow and swell whenever he thinks about Farleigh’s velvety skin and the warm blood that runs beneath it. Just as he goes to reach for the doorknob and retire to his bed, the door behind him releases a deep creak and the unmistakable sound of bare feet plodding across the hard floor sends a spark down his spine. Locking eyes with Farleigh through the mirror he asks, “What took you so long?”
“Look,” Farleigh begins, stepping further into the room, “I don’t know what you think is going to happen here, but all that weird shit between us is in the past.”
Oliver looks down at the sink and smiles to himself. “The past, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Farleigh stands a few feet behind him, and Oliver can sense his resolve starting to slip away. “I’m here to help my family. To get my house back for my mom.”
“That could be true,” Oliver assures and turns around to face him. “But I know you haven’t forgotten how my hands felt on your cock, know you’ve thought about what I would feel like inside of you.” He puts himself just inches from Farleigh but doesn’t reach out, simply looks up at him—a question sitting right behind his eyes.
Farleigh’s voice is breathy and shaking. “You don’t know that,” he asserts.
They’re inching forward, tension running hot between them as Oliver attempts to poke holes through it. He reaches up and slides his hand behind Farleigh’s neck, running his fingers up into his curls and tightening down.
“Oh, but I do,” Oliver is insistent. “You think I’ve forgotten what a good boy you can be? How you cried for me when you came?” Farleigh’s mouth is hanging open, brushing so close to Oliver’s that he can smell the stale, red wine on his breath. “Think I haven’t been imagining what your tight cunt might feel like?”
The electricity between them unravels in an instant, and Oliver climbs into Farleigh’s mouth, running his tongue along his teeth and pulling him closer. They share a gasping moan as Farleigh grabs hold of Oliver’s hips and pushes him up against the sink.
“I fucking hate you, you know that?” Farleigh chokes out as Ollie grinds into his thigh. He grasps for control, feeling wild and manic and dizzied by his reality. He shoves a hand up Farleigh’s button-down, clawing at his bare skin.
“And you’re still going to let me fuck you, aren’t you?” Farleigh’s body responds for him, and he reaches beneath Oliver’s robe to palm at his half-hard cock. They spill into Oliver’s bedroom, the same room he has occupied since his initial arrival at Saltburn, and Ollie makes quick work of Farleigh’s shirt and belt while letting his meager coverings slide off his shoulders and onto the floor. He mouths at Farleigh’s collarbone, treading lightly along his neck, trying to control himself—holding out for the right moment. They let their hands wander over lean muscles and swollen cocks as Farleigh leads them towards the bed, tripping over their tangle of legs. When the backs of his knees bump against the soft comforter, Oliver lets himself fall to a seat. He knows he shouldn’t do it—knows it’s not the most moral way to get what he wants in bed, but it’s thrilling to search through the confines of Farleigh’s mind, to let him think he has some semblance of control while, in reality, Oliver is orchestrating his every move from the inside out. It only takes a second of focus and Farleigh’s pliable mind gives in. He sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed and places a soft kiss on the side of Oliver’s rigid cock.
“Mm,” Farleigh rumbles, sounding pleased with himself. “Hello, old friend.”
Oliver tips his head back and lets his eyes fall shut as Farleigh slides his tongue along the shaft and sucks his cock into the heat of his wet mouth. What Farleigh lacks in likability, he makes up for in spades with his strong, dexterous tongue that milks a wanton moan from Oliver’s lips. He swallows Oliver down as far as he can, drooling over his hand that’s making up for what he can’t fit inside of him. The wet gag he lets out when Oliver thrusts into his throat nearly has him coming prematurely, but Farleigh must sense this, and he tightens his fist around the base of Oliver’s dick, quickly stifling the impending orgasm.
“Come here,” he gasps. “Come get on your hands and knees.”
Despite the way he’s inclined to arch his back to authority, Farleigh seems eager to obey Oliver’s demands. The way his cock strains between his legs and dribbles onto the sheets underneath him as he pushes his face into the pillows tells more truth than his mouth ever would. Oliver admires him from behind, rubs a hand over his soft cheeks, and traces his fingers down the cleft of his ass.
“You’re going to do what I want you to, aren’t you?” Oliver asks as he circles his thumb around Farleigh’s spread hole.
His answer is muffled by the thick pillows, but it’s clear nonetheless.
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to stay here, at Saltburn, with me. As long as I want you to.”
“Yes.”
As a reward for his obedience, Oliver sucks his middle finger into his mouth, pumping it in and out gratuitously, putting on a show for no one but himself and the walls of Saltburn. It returns to Farleigh’s eager muscle, wet and slippery. Farleigh gasps when he pushes it inside, their desperate moans echoing each other. He starts to grind back into the intrusion and lets out a put-upon groan when Oliver leaves him for a moment. The click of a bottle opening quickly stifles his impatience, and Oliver returns with two, slicked digits and takes his time opening Farleigh up slowly, gently, rocking into his backside and dragging his desperate cock along his fuzzy thighs. Once he feels almost no resistance, Oliver pulls out entirely and hooks his arm around Farleigh’s middle, flipping him roughly onto his back.
“Please,” Farleigh begs. Oliver pushes the small bottle of lube into his hand.
“Get it wet for me,” he commands and Farleigh eagerly drizzles the cool liquid into his hand, reaching between them to slick Oliver’s cock and his entrance. When Oliver finally pushes inside of him, Farleigh releases a shuddering sigh.
“Does it hurt?” Oliver asks, like he nearly cares.
Farleigh nods his head.
“Do you like it?”
Another silent affirmation.
Oliver sinks deep into Farleigh’s body and feels the pleasurable sting of sharp fingernails clawing down his back. He focuses on the acute line of Farleigh’s jaw, the swell of his Adam’s apple, and the soft throb of his jugular vein as he sets a rhythmic pace, breaking down the tension between them with each thrust. Oliver wraps his fingers around Farleigh’s throat and presses a surprisingly gentle kiss to his mouth, squeezing tight enough to feel him swallow tensely. It’s intoxicating, and Oliver feels entirely wasted on the smell of sweat and sex and the anticipation of stinging, bloody release. As his climax builds steadily inside of him, he senses that the moment is coming closer. Farleigh squirms beneath him, gasping from the pressure of Oliver’s hand on his neck and the pleasure of his huge cock pressing against his prostate. He knows it’s time when Farleigh reaches between them to stroke himself, arching his back in response to the touch.
“I need you, Farleigh,” Oliver whispers into the crook of his neck. “I need you here with me.”
The moment Farleigh begins to shake and spill across his fist, Oliver lets himself go as well and sinks his protruding fangs deep into Farleigh’s sweat-flavored flesh. The delicious sap that flows from the punctures coats Oliver’s throat and hurdles him over the edge as he comes inside Farleigh’s gaping body, fucking into him as he screams and fights and heaves in deep, panicked breaths.
“Ollie!” He cries, and Oliver gives the poor man a moment to breathe while being bled dry. He releases the torn, mangled flesh and looks him in the eyes, grinning through the sparkling, scarlet liquid darkening the lower part of his face.
“Don’t worry,” he tells him. “I won’t let you die.” He pulls his softening cock out of Farleigh’s spasming body and lays along his side, watching the blood pour steadily from his throat and biting into his arm to create a matching waterfall of foul ichor. “Quite the opposite, actually.”
It’s difficult to coax the fluid down Farleigh’s throat as he coughs and chokes and his lungs fill with more blood than oxygen, but his body, clinging desperately to life, accepts it dutifully. Oliver digs a handkerchief out from the bedside table and presses it firmly to the fresh puncture wound as he watches Farleigh’s eyes glaze over and slowly close. He licks and kisses at the last few drops of wet blood sliding down the man’s neck and chest—feels his breath grow shallow and, eventually, stop altogether.
Oliver lays his head on the pillow next to Farleigh’s cheek and rests a hand on his chest, soaking in the last of his soft, fleshy warmth.
“Still such a good boy,” he sighs into Farleigh’s rapidly chilling skin and brushes back some stray hairs that cling to his forehead. “You’ll feel better come morning.”