#Willow Sap

[amethysia]

Wanted to draw a cute little something with Paulie and Willow~ (it's McRib season, gotta draw Willow) Do they have coffee? Cocoa? Tea? Whatever they have, hopefully it's warm!

If Willow's neck looks weird, I had to use a little paper, cuz I made an oopsie in pen there ^^; And I realized, looking at references of Willow, I have been doing his hair wrong this whole time XD my brain says feathered ends, but in reality, it's more like...well, not feathered lol. And the peacoat that Paulie is wearing is a little more on color to the sport coat that inspired his creation~

Willow Sap belongs to Clown aka PartyCoffin. And Paulie is my oc!

[poilrk]

quite by chance I saw it in one place and fell in love with its design - how well the clown comes up with them for his characters...

[willowser]

step dad touya ☹️☹️ i can imagine him living in you and your daughters life now with quite some time- traces of work pants, cologne and heavy black shoes that all lay within your house, so even when he's not there, you get reminded of him 🥹 and the same for his house too- little hair ties, your sweater and some other goodies from you that he just swells up whenever he sees 🥺🥺 u think he's one of those weirdos that sniff the pillow cause it still smells like your hair mask treatment LMFAOAOA

but imagine your daughter lamenting about how everybody in her 1st/2nd grade class has a little sibling- somebody to run around and play with! knock cases over, throw baseballs over fences and climb them (without permission) to get it back, perfect for her mischeavous demeanor!! tells you while you guys are having dinner that she wants one, someone to get in trouble with. a sibling!!

and touya, being the idiot he is, just smiles goofily- and it contradicts the intimidating tattoos and piercings he has in his lip, and just looks over to you, but instead of eyes full of lust, he gives y out the biggest puppy eyes ever.. AWHGG

omg 🥺 the details in how your lives intertwine 🥺 i really, really enjoyed the way you laid this out for us, friend !!! especially bc — i don't see you and touya living together right away !! he stays over often, but moving in is big thing !! full time !!!! but i love the idea that his laundry gets mixed in so easily with ours 🥺 maybe we even hang it up for him in the closet, too 🥺 his boots are taking up a big chunk of the tiny shoe rock, right next to some little pink sneakers 🥺 your daughter finds a little ball-bearing on the bathroom floor 🥺 AND THEN HIM !!! finding the little hair ties !!!! he finds barbie doll clothes stuffed into his pockets !!! he takes some of his clothes home and they smell like your shampoo !!! WAAAAHHH SO CUTE AKFBSJAAK

omg and her wanting for a sibling 🥺🥺🥺 i imagine that she says it and he's kind of stunned !! and you both just kind of laugh it off or whatever, but when you're laying in bed later that night, you can tell something is on his mind !!! and you're worried that it'll scare him off 🥺

but he's staring at the ceiling, saying, "i don't know," giving a half-hearted shrug. "didn't think i ever would be here, y'know?"

"i know," you tell him, pressing your cheek into his shoulder until he looks at you.

grinning.

"sounds like a good idea t'me."

[luveline]

Hotch request w Jack and new baby!!! Coming back from the hospital and reader is in bed with new baby and Jack while Aaron is in another part of the house (maybe making food in the kitchen) and reader starts crying because she’s in pain and jack is all concerned and sweet and goes to get Aaron??

thank you for requesting, sorry I messed up where everyone was! fem, 1.3k

“He’s gonna stab him!” 

You blink from the spot you’d been staring at, pain momentarily forgotten. “What! Where’d you learn that word?” you ask in surprise. 

Jack leans back against his big velvet pillow, blue with silver stars, looking as though he’s in the lap of luxury. “At school.” 

The cartoon mouse on the TV raises his fencing sword high in the air. 

“He’s not stabbing anyone, they’re fencing,” you say, reaching for his hand to hold. “Stabbing… that’s pretty scary. How did that make you feel?” 

“Well, I’m not gonna stab anyone,” Jack says. 

He’s confused that you’re making a fuss, just old enough to realise you’re poking around for his feelings. You worry lately that you aren’t paying him enough attention because of his new brother, and the word stab isn’t exactly age appropriate. 

But maybe that’s what the boys his age are talking about? You frown more, your hand slipping along his arm to curl behind him. You pull him toward you. “Come on, handsome. Cuddle me.” 

You’re too sore to move, so Jack has to come to you. He crawls across the couch until his arms can wrap around you and his cheek can rest against your chest. Stab is an apt word for the feeling in your stomach. Jack’s arm squeezes at you and the pain worsens, so you move it up your front and curl your arm around him. 

“Is it a bad word?” he asks. 

“No, it’s just like hit or slap, I guess. And I know you’re not gonna do any of that to anyone. You’re too gentle.” 

“Gentle is a good word.” 

“Yeah.” You kiss his forehead, a moment of self indulgence. You love your stepson, and he is oh so kissable. “Oh no, look at the mouse.” 

Charlie sleeps in his swing seat, the soft whirring of its constant motion almost as comforting as the sound of his soft breaths. You watch him for a while, Jack climbing up at your side to press his face to your neck, leg on your thigh, slowly pressing against the tenderness that is your abdomen. “Uh, Jack,” you breathe, trying to pick him up, “you’re gonna have to climb off of me, my tummy hurts too much.” 

“Sorry,” he says quickly, slipping off of you and onto the couch cushion. His foot kicks out as he rights himself, a jamming of his toes against the pain like a spike. 

You take a deep breath. Ouch. 

“It’s okay,” you say, groaning softly as the pain thrums, hand on your stomach as though your touch can make it stop, “just a tummy ache. I– I’m okay.” 

“You got little tears?” he says, his voice going wobbly. You try to blink away tears and end up with a straggler curving down the slope of your cheek. “I’ll go get dad!” 

“Jack, I’m okay,” you say. 

Too late. Jack scrambles from the couch and away from you, up the stairs to find his father. You’re not sure what Aaron’s up to, he’d only said, “I’ll be right back,” twenty minutes ago. You’d guessed laundry. 

You’re glad Jack’s run upstairs when you realise the pain isn’t going away. It’s not bad, not half as bad as your contractions had been, but the whole labour process has sapped you, and you feel weak as a willow branch in bad weather. You shift heavily onto one leg and cross them, uncross them when the pain spikes again, letting out a weird and breathless whine as it turns to a full blown cramp. 

Jack returns with Aaron in tow. His hair is dripping wet, soap suds on his neck and his shirt stuck to his chest. He’s rushed out of the shower to see you. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks as he rounds the couch. “Jack told me you’re not feeling well.” 

You hold your arms out for a hug. He doesn’t falter, simply does as you want, his hair wringing wet and dripping onto your shoulder as he gathers you in his arms. 

You hold onto him like a lifeline. The cramp curls, and tightens, has you seizing up against him. 

“What is it?” he asks softly. “Stomach pains again?” 

The nurse said it’s your uterus shrinking. Whatever it is, it’s sudden agony. You shudder into Aaron’s shoulder until the pain pangs and fades, leaving your stomach a tense mess. It hurts to move, so you stay clinging to your husband and let him hover over you. 

“Are you okay?” Jack asks.

You sniff. 

Aaron pulls away to take your face into his hands. He holds you with care, his thumbs under your jaw, index fingers running diagonally under each eye, tips at your brows. Just a stolen few seconds for him to check you over. No tears to be wiped away. 

“Still hurting?” 

You shake your head, eyebrows pulled down in a bad frown. 

“Okay. Alright. Motrin?” he asks. 

“No,” you whisper, “can you just stay here?” 

Jack says your name. 

You peek past Aaron’s body. “Jack, sorry.” 

“Are you okay now?” 

You grimace, “I’m gonna be fine, it just hurts sometimes and I didn’t have any medicine today. That’s all. Sorry, I scared you.” 

“You didn’t scare me,” he denies. 

You can’t help smiling, then. “Okay, I didn’t. Thanks for getting dad for me.” 

“He’s our hero,” Aaron says. He sits down beside you carefully, his voice quiet and his hand gentle as he holds your thigh. “I’m glad he did.” 

Jack climbs into his dad’s lap. Aaron wraps an arm around him, the other at your side, fingers tapping at you. 

You rub your forehead. Tip your head back and take a deep breath. 

“Jack,” you whisper, breathing out, “I’m sorry if I startled you. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” 

“It wasn’t scary, I said that already.” 

“Oh, you did?” Aaron teases. 

“It was okay, I just don’t want you to hurt.” 

“Only baby pains,” you say. 

For a few minutes, you and your small family sit there in silence. Aaron works a hand behind your back to hug you, Jack snuggles into his chest, and Charlie stirs in his swing seat. The quiet calms him, and he goes back to his soft snoring seconds later. 

“I’m sorry about your shower,” you whisper. 

“It’s okay. I’m sorry about my baby,” Aaron whispers back, drawing circles into your lower back, “he didn’t mean to chew you up.” 

“Ugh, I know.” 

Jack raises his nose. “What? Chew? Do babies bite?” 

“It’s an expression, babe.” 

“Oh.” He looks at his baby brother with suspicion anyways. “He doesn’t even have teeth?” 

“Buddy, it’s just a joke,” Aaron says, laughing as Jack slips out of his lap to go and look at Charlie in the seat. 

“Maybe he did have teeth,” you say. 

Aaron ushers you toward him, rests his cheek on your forehead. “It’ll feel better soon. You need to rest, that’s all.” 

“Your hair is so wet.” 

“I was in the shower.” 

“Sorry…” 

“Don’t be,” he says. “Don’t be.” 

You reach up to tousle his wet hair. “Miss showering with you.” 

“We showered last night.” 

“No, I stood there and you helped me wash my back, that’s not the same.” 

“Well, I enjoyed it.” 

“I bet you did.” 

Your fondness attracts many, many kisses, his nose nuzzling your cheek. You settle under the weight of him and watch Jack where he frowns at Charlie, big brown eyes squinted, waiting for a show of teeth that won’t happen. Aaron brings a hand to your tense stomach, waiting for you to lean back before he begins massaging the tensed muscle there with a slowness that borders unmoving. 

“Tell me if it hurts too much,” he says. 

“You can go finish your shower.” 

“I was finished. M’gonna start pressing in, okay?” 

You wince as Aaron begins, but slowly, slowly, the tenseness from your cramp softens. It still hurts, but he makes it manageable. Jack delivered your rescuer, and your rescuer loves a soft touch.

[sainttropic]

an update to my ghost rogue/warlock korbat for the neopets campaign I’m in, with her little guy, Sap!! Sap is our accountant, gets us all the promo codes every day to save us money. The best little guy, I reckon.

(excuse the quality, tumblr is being a bitch on this day)

[ultravi0lence14]

ABANDONED GARDENS

COLLEGE!DEAN WINCHESTER X GOODGIRL!READER

WARNINGS: drug use, crude language, angst

SUMMARY: as the good girl on campus, no one would expect to see you wandering around the area’s where the stoners hung out, but not dean winchester, he knew you too well.

WORD COUNT: 1.5k

autumn air whirled around the uc berkeley campus, blowing your hair in 40 different directions. finishing your last class of the day should’ve elicited a happy feeling in your stomach, but knowing that your boyfriend mark was waiting for you at your apartment sent a shiver down your spine.

mark was a product of what your parents wanted, what everyone viewed you as; the good girl, straight A student who was going to uc berkeley to become a doctor. your family was wealthy, way too wealthy for even yourself to imagine, and they kept you on a tight leash when it came to how you were portrayed in the public.

they set you and mark up, sent a generous donation to berkeley so you could get into their medical program. nothing you ever did in life was at your accord, and you hated every second of it.

an escape was all you needed sometimes. just a small one though, one that allowed you to feel the liberation of freedom before the reality of your life came crashing down on you. the spot behind the abandoned flower garden was perfect for that. it was pretty far away from the main campus, and it had a beautiful willow tree that you enjoyed to sit and read under.

so that’s where you went. you didn’t tell mark you wouldn’t be showing up until a little while later then expected, and you didn’t really plan on it. he’d end up blowing your phone up, begging you to come keep him company.

which usually resulted in you lying on your back, pretending that the fingers he put inside of you gave pleasure other than boredom.

when you sat yourself beneath the weeping willow beside the abandoned garden, you felt your tense shoulders fall, the turmoil in your stomach settle, and all the stress and worries lift off your shoulders.

the feeling might not be permanent, but it was a good feeling for a little while.

with a book perched in your hand, you smoothed down the material of your black skirt and shifted the creme coloured sweater on your shoulders. as comfortable as you could get, the words on the page engulfed your senses as you found yourself taking a deep breath; letting all the nerves and stress leave your body.

you’d been too engrossed in your book, to lost in the story it provided, that you didn’t notice the group of three wander behind the abandoned garden.

they weren’t quiet, yet somehow your keen concentration and lack of care when it came to that group garnered you unaware to the three boys sharing a joint a couple of feet away from you. it wasn’t until one of their voices called out that you snapped your head up and noticed who was intruding into your safe space.

“well, well, well. if it isn’t the virgin mary herself.”

immediately, your head snapped up at the voice, mouth opening like a fish out of water when you made direct eye contact with dean winchester.

you knew him — obviously, for his name always floated around campus; and not for the right reasons.

as cliche as it sounded, he truly was the bad boy on campus. always with a cigarette between his lips, you never understood how dean even got into a school like uc berkeley. apparently he was apart of the business program, yet you couldn’t see him being apart of anything that didn’t contain weed, smokes, or aggressive violence.

he was always picking fights with someone. always found outside brawling with the poor sap who decided that a fight against dean was a good idea.

you loathed the man. he was everything you wished you had; freedom. you didn’t subscribe to his life choices, yet you wished you grew up with parents who gave you a semblance of individualism.

clad in dark washed jeans in a tight fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dean winchester looked everything that came out of a girls dreams. while at the same time holding a tongue that came out of one’s nightmares.

“oh, fuck off winchester. why don’t you go find a jail cell to rot in?” you spat. just because you had a good reputation didn’t mean you couldn’t stick up for yourself. a backbone was important to have, and it was one thing you learned not from your parents but the real world. they wanted you to sit back and look pretty, you thought that was a wad of shit.

smirking at you, dean ignores the snickers from his two friends and quirks his eyebrow up at you. “who knew immaculate mary had a tongue on her? must be when that dope of a boyfriend isn’t around. trailing after you like a fly to shit.”

“did you just compare me to shit?” you sneered, watching in disgust as he pulled a drag from the cigarette dangling from his lips.

“if the shoe fits, sweetheart.” his words were condescending, and the urge you had to smack that smug look off of his face was getting stronger and stronger.

shaking your head, you don’t even register the scoff that leaves your lips before you are grabbing your book and backpack and walking away from the walking migraine. he was always hassling and jeering at you when he had the chance, and it always contained something about your status, your relationship with ‘mark the asshole’, or how your legs were so tightly clamped shut not even a the strongest of men could pull them open.

you didn’t care that you were a virgin, and you didn’t seem to understand why dean cared either. in all honesty, you had no idea how he even knew, but in the end, his words and blatant insults just got annoying rather than hurtful.

having sex or not was your business, and it would be a cold day in hell before you allowed dean winchester to get under your skin about the notion.

“hey, wait up princess, i wanna keep talking to you.” scampering away from his three smoking buddies who you vaguely remembered as max and stephen, dean continued following after you like a dog to his owner. “does that posh asshole of yours know you’re hanging around the burnout area? or is he too busy with his head in between camille silvers’ thighs to realize.”

it was no secret that your ‘perfect’ boyfriend mark had a wandering eye, and it was no surprise to you when rumours started spreading that he was shacking up with his childhood best friend camille.

usually in these situations, the person being cheated on would be devastated, immediately breaking up with their significant other and weeping over how they broke their heart.

in your case, you really didn’t give a fuck.

if it was anyone other than mark, there is a high chance you would be upset and fly off the handle. but again, it was mark, and he was the furthest thing from your endgame in life.

the front your parents wanted you to show everyone was far from who you actually were, and mark sadly had to be apart of that front. as much as you wanted to rip his nuts off and shove them down his throat.

halting in your steps, you turned around and crossed your arms over your chest, giving dean your weariest glare imaginable. “i don’t believe that is any of your business dean. it doesn’t involve weed or screwing over random girls, remember?”

throwing his head back in laughter, dean’s face leaned closer to yours, the smell of cigarette smoke wafting from the stick in his left hand. “aww. is the princess mad that i haven’t given her a chance?” his words were followed by his pointer finger twirling around a strand of your hair, and you had the urge to upchuck all over both of your shoes.

“i’d rather shit in my hands and clap than sleep with you.” the words came out of your teeth gritted, and when your hair was coiled tight around dean’s finger, you saw him smirk as his eyes stayed put on the silky strand of hair around his finger.

letting the tendril loosen from his finger, dean used his free hand to push the strand behind your ear before speaking to you with an even bigger grin on his face. “well, when your mind inevitably changes, you know where to find me.” his hand waved aimlessly around you, and with the move followed a cloud of cigarette smoke around the two of you like a grey haze.

you knew he was insinuating the abandoned garden, but you didn’t really care. this area always had a special place in your heart, and it didn’t matter how many potheads and junkies came to ruin that. when it was just you, it was peaceful, and you enjoyed that semblance of calm.

“don’t worry,” you spoke through a sickly sweet smile. “it won’t.” with that you turned around, hair whipping with you as you strutted away from dean winchester.

shaking his head, dean walked back over to max and stephen, both men looking at him with matching smirks on their faces. “what was that about?” max voiced around a joint, head tilting in the direction you just walked off in.

“yeah,” stephen chimed in, confusion etched on his face. “by the looks of it, you seemed like you wanted to mount her right here and now.”

“that girl man,” dean huffed, taking in a long drag of his cigarette. “she drives me fucking crazy.”

TAGS: @starzify @whisperingdaze @titsout4jackles @daylighted @deansbeer @bluemerakis @sunsbaby @beausling @deanswidow @deanangel @gibson-g1rl @haunteres @honeyryewhiskey @figthoughts @florchids @adrienneleclerc @dulcescorderitas @slyregg

NAT BABBLES: i’m picturing dean looking like jensen in dark angel for this series🙏🙏

[cloudyskydreams]

Someone.making S/O cry UT,UF,US,HT

Hi! This one was fun to write. I think my favorites were the HorrorTale brothers they have fun personalities.Requests are open! As always I hope you guys enjoy!

Undertale:

Sans:

He's not happy to say the least. He stands by you and frowns at the dude his usual smile no where on his face as he sizes the guy up. Trys to diffuse the situation and tells the dude to basically fuck off but he's ready for a fight if it comes to that. He'll have a comforting hand on your back rubbing small circles and shapes into it. He trys to distract you with his puns and jokes and takes you somewhere comfort to chill for a bit.

Papyrus:

Oh boy. Papyrus is immediately lecturing the dude about how that isn't nice and you shouldn't make people cry. You will be getting an apology he won't be satisfied until you do. After an apology is delivered Papyrus himself apologizes to you for the situation and whisks you away with the goal of cheering you up. He takes you somewhere he knows you like and hopes to create a good memory to replace to old one.

Underfell:

Red:

First reaction is anger he's ready to go if someone made you cry. He goes in yelling getting in the person's face, he doesn't get physical right away more standing in front of you and the person protectively to create distance. You might have to reel him in because he won't back down he will die fighting for your honour. He's in a grumpy mood the rest of the day but he's still pretty sweet to you just bitey towards other people.

Edge:

Death glare shuts the person up real quick and has them going pale in fear. He separates the two of you roasting the person while he does and simply leads you away reassuring you that that trash has no idea what garbage he was spewing.He gets you a little treat and treats you extra sweet the rest of the day careful of your feelings. He's a bit more protective of you and glares at anyone who interacts with the two of you the rest of the day, which he normally does cause he has a resting bitch face but this time it's on purpose.

Underswap:

Stretch:

Hates confrontation but he won't stand for this. He comforts you wrapping an arm around your shoulder while making a snide remark about the person more complaining to you loud enough for them to hear. He then leads you away needing to remove himself from the situation as well as you before his emotions get the better of him. Takes you home and trys to take your mind off of everything by goofing around and doing stupid things like shoving whipped cream in his nose and having it come out his eyesockets. It's uncomfortable but if it makes you laugh it's worth it.

Blue:

He steps in and separates the two of you quick. Stands in front of you and very politely tells the person off and to mind their own business before doing damage control and getting you out of there. He talks to you gently and reassures you while trying to take your mind off the situation with some spontaneous activities. He's determined to turn the day into a positive one in the end.

HorrorTale:

Axe:

He doesn't really remember what was happening before this but all he knows now is his mate is crying and he's absolutely glowering at the person who did it while standing behind you. He sets a hand on your shoulder gently to comfort you while scaring the ever living shit out of the poor sap who made you cry. For the rest of the day Axe brings you little items like rocks or pretty leaves and items that bring him comfort hoping they'll help you feel better.

Willow:

He is immediately at your side with comforting and reassuring words. He picks you up and removes you from the situation, his biggest concern is pacifying you at the moment. He says the other person needs to be taught manners and if he wasn't so concerned with you they would have a very lengthy lecture to listen to right now. They would too, he's just an older version of Papyrus with way more anxiety he would have bitten into them with a nice lengthy lecture and then proceed to think about it for the next few months at 3 am when he can't sleep.

[foundtherightwords]

Fallen Empires - Chapter 18

Pairing: Geta x OFC

Summary: Having done the unthinkable to secure his throne, Emperor Geta rules with ruthlessness and paranoia. Now, after escaping an assassination attempt, a badly injured Geta is saved by Daphne, a young widow, who takes him back to her remote village without knowing his true identity. As Daphne nurses the former emperor back to health, attraction blooms between them, and Geta discovers a soft side he didn't know he possessed. But can their love survive his thirst for revenge and his desire to reclaim power?

Chapter warnings: violence, blood

Chapter word count: 3.8k

Prologue + Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17

Chapter 18

He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't care. He only wanted to get far away, as far as he could, and to push himself until he could no longer think, could no longer see Daphne's horrified face in his mind's eyes.

In the end, that was what had made him leave. Not her fear of assassins��though he had to admit the thought had crossed his mind, that whoever was hunting him would hurt her, to reach him—not her anger at his lies, nor her disgust at his crimes. It was the look of utter betrayal in her eyes, completely devoid of warmth and affection and love, as though she no longer recognized him. That was when Geta knew no amount of begging or threats could have changed her mind. That was when he knew he had to go.

Fool, fool, fool! He should have told Daphne the truth months ago, when she had first found him. It might have made her afraid of him, but at least she wouldn't have hated him. Would she? Would she still love him then? Or would she simply leave him to die? 

He tried to focus his mind on the matter at hand to distract himself, or else he would break down on this road, and he couldn't have that. If nothing else, he still had his dignity. He may have lost his life, his power, and even his love, but he had to hold on to his dignity. Some precious dignity it was.

Where could he go? To Adala, and trying to find passage from there to Hemesos? He had no money left, though perhaps in Adala he could sell his ring to pay his way. His ring... Geta looked down at his hand with a humorless smile. Some poor sap would be holding the power of the entire Empire in his hand and wouldn't even know it.

And if he was able to reach Hemesos, what then? Find his aunt, if she was still alive, raise an army, and challenge Macrinus for the throne? At the thought of Macrinus and the throne, Geta was momentarily overwhelmed by a feeling of disgust, almost physical in its power. He no longer had any desire, or indeed any stomach, to rule, to seek revenge. Here his thoughts came back to Daphne, like ships flocking to the lighthouse of Alexandria, despite all his effort to keep his mind away from her. How unfair it was that she should discover the truth just as he decided to give it all up for her! But... what if he was to defeat Macrinus, not for the throne, but only to protect Daphne, to reassure her that no assassin would ever come for her? Would she take him back then? And even more importantly, could he come back to her then? If he did all that, would he still be the man she loved? Would he still be worthy of her, or would he revert to the tyrant he once had been, like a drunkard who had vowed to stay sober, only to fall back on excessive drinking once a drop of wine touched his lips again?

He walked until sundown. A brackish smell and the shaggy shapes of willow bushes rising out of the shadow told him he was close to the stream, which now must have been reduced to just a series of mud-filled pools due to the summer heat. The stream was on his left, so he was on the right path to Adala, only it was too dark to continue. The wind died down, and the maddening buzz of mosquitoes around his head got louder. He broke off a tree branch to swat at them, but they still landed on him and bit him until itchy welts broke out all over his arms and legs. The thought of the stream made him realize how thirsty he was, and with thirst came hunger as well. Strange how the body still craves sustenance even when the mind has no appetite for it.

He sat down next to a willow bush and continued to swat at the mosquitoes while listening to his stomach growl. He wondered if he could hunt a rabbit or a bird, until he remembered that he had no means to start a fire to cook it. Besides, he didn't know how to hunt. In Rome and Antioch, his past-time of choice had been racing, not hunting, while the "hunts" he'd often watched in the Colosseum were little more than staged executions, spectacles put on to satisfy the Roman thirst for bloodshed, utterly removed from real life.

For the first time since escaping his assassin, Geta found himself at a loose end, without knowing where or how he was going to spend the night. Before, he had always been taken care of by someone else, the slaves, the soldiers, or Daphne. Always Daphne. It was a bitter dose to swallow, this realization that she could very well live without him, but he couldn't live without her. What a useless, pathetic fool he was! Did he fancy himself a great military leader and a powerful emperor? He couldn't even survive on his own.

But sitting here feeling sorry for himself would not fill his stomach or save him from getting eaten alive by the mosquitoes. It was out of the question to go into the village—that would draw unwanted attention to himself. After some consideration, Geta struggled to his feet and walked further down the bank of the stream. He remembered when he and Daphne made their journey to Adala, they had run into a few shepherds and their dust-colored sheep along the way. Shepherds had to sleep and eat as well, so he hoped he may come across a shepherd's hut, where he could ask for food and shelter without raising too much suspicion.

His hope turned out to be futile, for there was no sign of habitation anywhere around him, no flickering fire, no soft bleats of a herd of sheep settling down for the night. What he did find though, was a wild fig tree, its branches laden with fruits, some so ripe that they had split open, sweet juice clinging to the purple skin like drops of honey under the pale starlight. He gorged himself, thanking Bacchus for the bounty. Although this hermit's meal did not fully satisfy him, the fruits soothed both his hunger and thirst. The wind picked up again, and the mosquitoes finally left him alone, so once the last fig had been consumed, he wrapped himself in his cloak and lay down amongst the willows.

Now that the discomfort of his body had subsided, he became aware of another pain, a strange weight on his chest, different from the breathlessness and the tightness of his lungs in the early days of his injuries. It took him a moment to realize that it was his heart that was wounded and bleeding this time. The sweet, gentle ache he often felt around Daphne had now turned agonizing with their separation, and his heart was crying out for her, crying and yearning in vain, until exhaustion sent him into a sorrowful, restless sleep.

***

He was in his mother's chamber at the palace. Outside, the riot raged on, the crowd chanting the names of the traitorous Acacius and his wife Lucilla, drowning out even the screams of those being cut down by mounted soldiers. Geta's hand shook as he pushed back the curtain to look at the heaving of torches and bodies at the foot of the Palatine Hill. There had been riots before, many since he and Caracalla took the thrones, but none as bad as this. He knew he'd made a mistake, executing the hero of Rome in such a public manner, but what else could he have done? Acacius and Lucilla had committed high treason, and examples must be made of them. Behind him, Julia Domna was trying to soothe his nerves, suggesting different ways to calm the crowd, perhaps getting out of Rome until the people had forgotten their anger. But Geta refused. He wouldn't run away. He couldn't have the people doubt his ability to rule. Their ability to rule. And where was his co-emperor now? Caracalla had gone somewhere, hidden like the coward that he was. 

And suddenly Caracalla was there in the chamber, looking ridiculous in his fancy clothes and jewelry, waving a blade in his hand. What a fraud. Caracalla didn't even know how to hold a sword, let alone use one. The old hatred surged within Geta as he took in the sight of his brother, temporarily eclipsing his fear. No. That hatred wasn't real. Caracalla couldn't help what he'd become, couldn't see beyond the rivalry that their father had unwittingly caused between them by forcing them to share everything. But Geta could. And he must convince Caracalla of that, so they could stay united and be a family, so they could weather this storm...

"You lie," said Caracalla with a snarl, gold tooth glinting. "You always lie!"

Before Geta knew what was happening, Caracalla rushed forward, sword drawn. The blade slashed across Geta's palm, yet he felt nothing. Their mother screamed. Geta shouted for the Praetorians, who ran into the chamber, only to pause and look between the two brothers in confusion. Which Emperor to save? Geta grabbed Caracalla's hand, wrestling for the sword. Their mother was shouting at the Praetorians to break them up. No, this wasn't real. The anger, the blood, none of it was real. Geta pleaded with his brother, reminded him of their childhood, anything to break the spell. But he could see that it was too late. Caracalla had gone mad. Perhaps Geta had gone mad as well. The whole world was mad, so why not them too?

The Fates, Nona, Decima, and Morta, were watching them from the shadow, scissors poised over the twin threads of their lives. Which one would they cut? Not mine. Not mine.

Gathering his strength, Geta wrenched the blade out of Caracalla's hand and pushed him off. Next thing Geta knew, Caracalla was cowering in their mother's arm, blood splattering his purple toga. Who had struck the fatal blow? Had it been one of the Praetorians, or had it been Geta himself? Geta didn't care. He bore down on his brother and raised the sword. Kill, or be killed. Be a soldier, not a weakling.

Snip. Morta's scissors snapped shut over the thread with a sharp sound that sent chills down his spine.

He felt it, the moment the thread was cut, the moment sword met flesh. Only it wasn't his brother's flesh. It was his own. He was lying in a crimson pool, and, standing over him, was Macrinus, his earring glinting in the torchlight.

"You'll never be emperor," said Macrinus, voice dripping with disdain just as the sword in his hand was dripping with blood.

Geta tried to get up, to tell Macrinus that he didn't want to be emperor anyway, but he couldn't open his mouth, couldn't move. A wave of fear washed over him, holding him down, pinning his limbs to the cold marble floor, drowning him.

Then, as he continued to struggle against the invisible bond around his body, a soft voice spoke in his ears, "Romulus? Come back to me."

He looked up and saw Daphne's green eyes. As if by magic, the fear of Macrinus, the anger at his father, the guilt over his brother, the sorrow for his mother, drained out of him, to be replaced by a wonderful peace. Macrinus, his brother and mother, the Praetorians, were all gone. Only Daphne remained, and that was all that mattered. She was all that mattered.

"I want to come back, carissima," he told her. "But you won't let me."

She shook her head, impatient. "You aren't trying hard enough."

"Tell me what to do then," he pleaded, grasping for her hands. "Tell me how to get back to you."

"The gates of Hell are open night and day," Daphne whispered. "Smooth is the descent, and easy is the way." Geta looked up at her in fear, but she was unchanged. Her eyes remained tender and her voice soft, as she leaned closer, lips brushing his. "But to come back and view the cheerful skies," she continued. "In this the task and the mighty labor lies."

Heedless of his mortal wounds, he strained toward her, desperate to catch her kiss, but already she was retreating, fading away, and he only felt cold air on his lips.

He woke with a start. He was still lying by the willow bush, stiff and sore from the hard ground. It must be nearly dawn—or so he guessed, from the light gray of the sky and the cold dew that had settled on his hair and his cloak while he slept. The dream was still vivid in his mind, and as he sat up to rub some life into his limbs, he could almost feel the sword going into his flesh again. A remnant of the fear was still there as well, and that fear also brought shame. Why should he be so afraid of Macrinus? He should be furious, he should be ready to run that traitor through with his sword...

But he couldn't. He no longer had it in him. The thirst for revenge, the anger, the desire for power, they were gone, evaporated in the light of the rising sun like the ghosts of his dreams. Only one thing endured—his love for Daphne.

The poem from his dream came back to him then.

The gates of Hell are open night and day, Smooth is the descent, and easy is the way. But to come back and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.

Virgil, the Aeneid. He had never paid much attention to the poetry lessons in his youth, but those lines he remembered. He'd once heard them from the mouth of a slave, spoken in defiance and veiled threat, but now, when he imagined them in Daphne's sweet voice, they became sobering, rallying words.

Well, he had been to Hell. And now he would come back. He was not going to Hemesos to chase after some wild hope that he might regain the throne. He would come back to Daphne, as she had bidden him in the dream. She was his cheerful skies. No matter how hard the task, no matter how mighty the labor, he would come back to her.

With that new resolve in mind, he got to his feet, feeling much more hopeful than he had when he'd gone to sleep the night before. He could even ignore the gnawing hunger in his belly, and his feet were steady as he made his way back to the village.

***

The sun was high above the hills and spreading its warmth on the path by the time the first cottage came into view. Geta hesitated a little. He'd decided that going straight back to Daphne would be a mistake, when his betrayal was still so raw in her mind. Instead, he could appeal to her mother. The old woman liked him. He could tell her that he and Daphne had had a quarrel, and perhaps she would convince Daphne to give him another chance. Yet now he just realized he didn't know where Daphne's family lived. He could ask around, but how to do it without drawing attention to himself?

An acrid smell of smoke and the sound of metal striking metal brought him to the smithy. A group of men sat around the hut, drinking and drawling around bowls of almonds and olives, while the red-faced smith wielded his hammer over a lump of red-hot metal behind them. Geta recognized a few of them as Daphne's patients.

Trying to hold himself more humbly, not so difficult now after everything he'd been through, he approached the men. "Excuse me," he said. "Can any of you tell me where Attikos, son of Timon, lives?"

They turned to him. One of them, with the leathery skin of a shepherd who spent all his youth under the merciless desert sun and a long, white beard that gave him an air of wisdom, stood up. "I am Kavos, the village chief," the old man said. So this was Master Kavos. "What business do you have with Attikos?"

Geta was prepared. "My name is Romulus," he replied. "We know each other from the army. Attikos told me to look him up if I ever find myself in these parts. My travels brought me here, so I thought I'd pay him a visit."

That seemed good enough for Kavos, who pointed down the path. "Follow this lane to the north end of the village, and you'll find Timon's house on your right. It's one of the last huts on the lane, with an almond tree out front. You can't miss it."

Geta nodded his thanks and was about to go on his way, when the smith, dropping the blade he'd been shaping into the nearby bucket of water amidst a cloud of steam, spoke up. "You won't find anyone at home, lad."

"How so?" Geta asked.

"I ran into Attikos' brother, Mikkos, early this morning," said the smith. "They've all gone out looking for Timon. Seems the old fool hasn't been home for days."

"Timon's never home," one of the men chimed in. "He's probably lying in a ditch somewhere, drunk as a piper."

"Well, that's all the more reason to find him, isn't it?" said Kavos.

"I don't see why they bother," the other man continued. "They would all be better off if he's dead."

This appeared to be too cruel a jab for the other men, who all made gestures to ward off evil. "Musa!" chided Kavos. "That is unkind." He turned back to Geta and cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed at such a display in front of a stranger. "In that case, perhaps it's best if you join us and wait for them here. They're bound to come this way sooner or later."

Geta hesitated. On the one hand, he was impatient to get back to Daphne, and if he sat here with these graybeards, he might let slip something that raised their suspicion. On the other, it would be even more suspicious if he just left. Besides, the wine looked inviting, and he was terribly thirsty.

"With pleasure," he said, sitting down. Kavos poured him a beaker of wine, which he gratefully downed in one gulp. "Thank you," he remembered to add.

"And where are you headed?" Kavos asked, fixing Geta with his sharp gaze.

He was prepared for that as well. "Home, in Syria."

One of the men laughed. "A Syrian lad named Romulus? Your parents have a sense of humor, don't they?"

Geta grinned. "My father was Roman," he said, by way of explanation. It was a lie, but the less he gave away about himself, the better.

The men didn't let him off that easily. "So you served with Attikos in Baras, then?" one of them asked. "Saw any action there?"

Geta wracked his brain, trying to recall if his army had ever been to Baras. It was a city in Sophene, and, as most cities in the area, a point of contention between Rome and its neighbors, Armenia in this case, but he couldn't remember it being of much consequence. He shrugged and was about to answer when his attention was caught by a figure staggering up the lane. As the figure drew near, Geta recognized those heavy features, those shifty eyes, and that red, bulbous nose. Timon. The man was dragging his feet toward the smithy, swaying slightly, a hand gripping his side as if he had a stitch there.

Following Geta's eyes, the elders saw the drunk man as well. "There you are, Timon," Kavos said. "Your family has been looking for you—" The old man paused, and a look of concern came over his face.

Geta realized something was wrong. At close quarters, Timon didn't look drunk. Instead of the flush of alcohol, his face was as white as chalk. Something dark was welling up under the hand clutching at his side and dripping down the front of his tunic, onto the dust of the lane. Blood.

Geta jumped to his feet. "He's injured!" he shouted. At that moment, Timon collapsed to the dirt.

There was a great commotion as the men ran out and crowded around Timon. Someone took away his hand, and they all gasped to see his palm covered in blood. Timon lay on his back with his mouth open and his tongue lolling out, looking as though he was already dead. There were flecks of blood around his lips. Geta had seen such sights so many times on the battlefield, there was no mistaking it. Daphne's father had been dealt a fatal wound.

"Somebody, fetch help!" Kavos said. "Get Daphne!"

Hearing Daphne's name, Timon roused himself. "No!" he croaked, clinging to the front of Kavos's robe. "Don't bring her here—he's after her—"

"He's delirious," someone said.

Kavos knelt by the dying man. "What happened, Timon? Who did this to you?"

"Bastard—pierced ear—" Timon choked out. Then his eyes settled on Geta, who was hanging on the edge of the group, and widened in shock. "You!" Timon hissed. "He's after you too!"

The men whirled around to stare at Geta curiously, but he was no longer afraid of their attention. Timon's words had driven a much bigger fear through him, turning his bowels into ice.

"What do you mean?" he said, yanking Timon up by his tunic. "Who is after me?" Timon grimaced as his wound bled anew, only Geta was past caring. "Tell me!"

"I—gambling—the merchant caravan—" Timon said, gasping as though each word pained him. "He saw—Roman coins—asked where I got them—told him about you—stuck me with his knife—he's on his way there now—to Daphne's—"

Geta didn't stop to hear the rest. The fabric of Timon's robe, already soaked with blood, slipped from his hands, and Timon fell to the ground. Geta turned on his heel, but Kavos seized his arm. "Wait now, lad! What's this about?" he asked.

"I have to warn Daphne," Geta said, shaking off the old man's grip.

Kavos's bushy eyebrows went up. "How do you know her?"

Geta looked around the men, torn between wanting to avoid suspicion and the urge to get to Daphne. "Ask Attikos," eventually he said. "He'll explain everything. If I'm not back in half an hour, send someone to Daphne's."

Leaving others to tend to the dying man, he ran toward the hills in the distance, praying to Mercury to lend swiftness to his tired legs, praying to Minerva and Diana and Juno to protect Daphne, praying to all the gods that he was not too late.

This, along with the prologue, was the chapter I had to rewrite most extensively to tie it to the movie - namely, I added a brief mention of Acacius and Lucilla, rewrote the confrontation between Caracalla and Geta to be closer to the movie (though I still had their mother present and no Macrinus), and added the lines of the Aeneid recited by Lucius. In my headcanon, after killing Caracalla, Geta just had Lucilla and Lucius quietly executed to avoid further outcry, so I can safely ignore the rest of the movie :P

Taglist: @sheneedsrocknroll92, @justnobodynothingmore, @barcelonaloverf1life, @myotakureprieve, @flawssy-227, @itsrainingbisexualfrogs, @deliciousfestsalad, @charmingballoon (if you want to be tagged or removed, let me know!)

[welcometowillowsworld]

[willowsworld] Snap a picture of me (advent day 21)

Willow's World Advent - Day 21 Ready to take silly pictures of your beloved toddler? With these poses they will be ready to sap lots of pictures

DOWNLOAD HERE -> https://www.patreon.com/posts/116368950

If you want to use these poses in game, make sure you have Andrew's Pose Player and the Teleport Any Sim mod. Otherwise the poses won't work.

Link to the mods you need: https://sims4studio.com/thread/2617/andrews-studio

T.O.U   do NOT claim as your own   do NOT edit and reupload (editing for personal use is okay)   do NOT reupload or put behind a paywall

Please tag me when you use my poses, I'd love to see your pictures! Instagram: welcome_to_willows_world_

Wanna have a chance to win poses or decide an upcoming posepack? Enter the Willow's World Advent Giveaway! You can enter this giveaway, no matter if you are from Patreon, Instagram, Pinterest or Tumblr. If you won, I will contact you through you prefered choice of contact (which you can let me know while signing up). You can sign up from december 1st - december 24th!

There will be multiple winners, so you'll have more chance to win. Goodluck everyone!

LINK TO THE GIVEAWAY -> https://forms.gle/3bfja8QRh1jBTutw8

[astrolovecosmos]

The Planets & Random or Obscure Associations

~Sun~

Creativity, vitality, head of state, the father, games, yellow and orange clothing, articles of value, jewelry, gold, brass, power, diamonds, citrine, topaz, jasper, amber, rhodochrosite, mistletoe, almonds, citrus, succulents, sunflowers, fevers, heart, back, spine, grapes, walnuts, rice, chamomile, frankincense, juniper, saffron, marigold, rosemary, rue, palaces, towers, luxury.

~Moon~

Eternal, cycles, silver, aluminum, pearls, moonstone, opal, selenite, chest, glands, lymphatic system, nervous system, emotions, mother, ancestors, nurture, rebirth, tides, baths, ocean, brew, boat, sap, willow trees, succulents, pale color plants, white flowers, cucumber, cabbage, lettuce, melons, shellfish, pumpkins, lakes, fountains, ports, fishponds, pools, springs, sewers, dairies, toys, reflection, blankets, objects of comfort.

~Mercury~

Communication, journal, pen/pencil, any writing tools, wings, phosphorous, mercury, agate, tiger's eye, brain, nervous system, eyes, respiration, thyroid, speech, hearing, intellect, vehicles, money, bills, paper, books, pictures, parties or social gatherings, scientific instruments, butterflies, messages, mail, hazel, mulberry, myrtle, seeds, aniseed, dill, fennel, lavender, liquorice, marjoram, parsley, valerian, hazelnuts, beans, mushrooms, pomegranates, carrots, celery, libraries, schools, markets, fairs, public spaces, tennis or badminton court, studies, banks, bowling greens, offices, blue, white, or light colored flowers.

~Venus~

Love, relating, lust, high-quality fabrics, copper, bronze, sodium, malachite, tourmaline, emerald, rose quartz, kunzite, sapphire, pastels, throat, kidneys, lumber region, art, music, aesthetics, social life, fashion, jewelry, wine, pleasure, alder tree, fruit trees, paint, ash tree, birch, pomegranates, early flowering, daisy, mint, marshmallow, meadowsweet, mugwort, plantain, tansy, roses, thyme, vervain, yarrow, potatoes, strawberries, wheat, sugar, nectarines, ballrooms, bedrooms, dining room, gardens, fountains, wardrobes, theaters, looking and feeling good.

~Mars~

Lust, conquest, desire, flaming sword, red things, fights, iron, brass, bloodstone, carnelian, cinnabar, pyrite, magnetite, ruby, garnet, hematite, muscles, reproductive organs, blood, kidneys, immunity, heat, action, arms, pepper, sharp instruments, cutlery, attacks, scissors, weapons, physical intimacy, bites, stings, scalds, burns, accidents, hawthorn, pine, thorns, cactus, aloes, anemone, arnica, belladonna, garlic, ginger, hops, mustard seed, nettles, wormwood, chives, onions, leeks, radish, rhubarb, tobacco, labs, furnaces, distilleries, bakehouses, ovens, smiths, butchers, fields, anger, passion, self-focus.

~Jupiter~

Expansion, optimism, religion, religious sites, tin, seduction, turquoise, chrysocolla, topaz, citrine, jasper, liver, pancreas, pituitary gland, sciatic nerve, excess, abundance, prophecy, philosophy, knowledge, universities, foreign travel, luggage, honey, oil, silk, fruit, distinct clothing, merchandise, horses, domestic birds, gambling, indulgence, entertainment, oak, dandelion, sage, endive, chervil, asparagus, figs, churches, temples, palaces, altars, courts, mansions, woods, orchards, winery, cornucopia, connecting with the soul.

~Saturn~

Limits, boundaries, father time, lord of death, shadows, lead, iron, steel, calcium, asbestos, sulphur, diamond, onyx, calcite, skeleton, spleen, skin, teeth, nails, joints, structure, crystallization, old age, blockage, anything dark, wool, heavy materials, agriculture, wheelbarrows, spades, farm houses and buildings, cold, laws, aspen, blackthorn, buckthorn, cypress, elm, toxic plants, hemlock, henbane, belladonna, hellebore, barley, beetroot, safflower, parsnips, spinach, deserts, woods, valleys, caves, church yards, ruins, coalpits, sinks, wells, mud, institutions.

~Uranus~

Eccentrics, mavericks, invention, genius, revolution, change, trends, disruptive science or tech, uranium, magnesium, lapis lazuli, sapphire, aquamarine, azurite, chalcedony, electricity, neon lights, plaid, nervous and circulatory system, pineal gland, chaos, violence, upheaval, astrology, steam engines, coal, machinery, coins, baths, fishponds, dangerous places, computers, magnets, quantum physics, research, welfare, humanity, hypnotherapy, railways, banks, gas, psychiatric hospitals, offices, hospitals, dispensaries, fortified places, chemicals, mingled/mingling, spirit and matter.

~Neptune~

Illusions, veils, diffuse, deception, water, oceans, mysticism, enlightenment, artistic pursuit and understanding, zinc, potassium, amethyst, fluorite, jade, sugilite, coral, aquamarine, pineal gland, lymphatic and nervous system, spine, mental processes, addiction, psychoses, disease, photography, music, substances, gas, religion, poetry, mimicry, chameleon, anesthetic, telepathy, empathy, dancing, psychic gifts, places near water, hospitals, places of healing, jeweler, painters, brewers, musicians, visionary.

~Pluto~

Power, influence, darkness, new life, what's hidden underneath, seeds, volcanoes, deep earth or ocean, bury, explosions, eruptions, abduction, plutonium, smoky quartz, obsidian, jet, pearl, deep reds, reproductive organs, the unconscious, nuclear, transformation, death, birth, rebirth, underworld, riches, earthquakes, big business, murder, detection, detective, invisibility, sneak, enforced change, hidden places, underground, drains, sewers, radioactive places, the occult, black magic, sacrifice, renew.

[amethysia]

Happy Valentines day!!!

Have a self indulgent doodle xD

Wanted to draw something fun with my Welcome Home oc, Paulie, and one of my favorite characters that belongs to Clown/Party Coffin, Willow Sap.

They're wearing outfits inspired by Sonny and Cher~ The red was achieved with an LED we had, but darkened with a filter, lol.

Meant to be a "pal-entines" pic~ even though I'm an absolute degenerate that has Paulie pine for Willow even though he knows Willow's one true loves are the Electric Mayhem and McRibs xD

[pampushky]

Foot of the Gallows

trafalgar d. water law/reader - chapter 6 - 2.3k

ao3 link | masterlist | series masterlist | next chapter

6.) willow's tears

the concentrated syrup made from the sap of a swamp willow. to wound these trees is considered treason, so every drop of this substance is precious, and harvested when the rare occasion arrises that one must be cut down, or when one has fallen in a storm. the fully processed syrup is potent, and is known for helping wounds heal faster, as well as warding off infection.

please keep an eye out for my next post to talk about creature & the general fic upload schedule!

It’s ungodly awkward for a day. You’re making tea in the kitchen and ignoring Law as he shuffles through the living room. Oddly enough, he has a box with him, and as he sets it on the low table in front of the couch, you realize that he’s placing things along the shelves and on the plant tables in front of the windows. Little idols, you think at first and don’t really care. It’s only as you’re watering some of the plants that you get a closer look at them. 

They’re idols, yes, but of a story that Law had always adored. You remember him constantly babbling about it. A kingdom with five children who worked as mercenaries by night and royals by day. You’d always thought it was silly, but never told him that, just happy to let him talk about it whenever he wanted, because it made him so happy. 

Gertrude lifts one of the little idols carefully when you put it down, as if your own careful look at it wasn’t enough. Some of their leaves rustle, as if they’re disgusted. You have a few idols— the Earth Mother, Grandfather Rivers, the Lady Lake. All tied to your practice and worship, the same of your family. All deities you whisper prayers to as you hike to gather your herbs and mushrooms. 

“Why is Gertrude lifting up my figurines?”

Law’s voice makes you jump, and you swing around to look at him, your watering can nearly tumbling from your hands. Law is wearing one of his new tunics, the yellow hooded one with embroidered details in black thread…. Predominantly one with Corazon’s personal crest across the chest. 

“We’re just… looking at them.” You mumble, eyes fixed on the crest. The circle with the toothy grin and simple black dots for eyes and a nose.

“My eyes are up here.” Law covers his chest, scowling at you, making the crest wrinkle, now looking distorted. “Looking at my tits,”

“Fuck off, you don’t have any.”

“I resent that, because I worked quite hard to get them!” Law then looks at the pothos plant that has quickly become his nemesis. “Don’t you dare, you overgrown weed!”

You look over your shoulder and find your beloved plant, wondering what on earth could be making Law so prickly.  Gertrude is still holding a figurine, but rather carelessly. As if threatening to drop it.

“Gertrude, please don’t, I just swept the floors,” you sigh, and hold out your hand for the plant to place it on your palm, which they do, begrudgingly. “Thank you, darling,” 

Law hates how the plant seems to shake, almost smugly. As if rubbing in his face that you’re fond of them, and not him. 

“Brave Warrior of Sora, really?” You tilt your head, examining the figurine. It’s honestly rather beautiful. Well carved and painted, with quite a bit of care put into its making. “And here I thought you’d taken up worship of the gods.”

“Absolutely not,” Law snatches the figurine from your hands, checking it over for any damage. “Bepo brought them over. They’re working on bringing my stuff over, for the room. And to set up a proper practice.”

“You mean just continuing to do the shit that almost got you executed?” 

“Well–no, but—” Law pauses, and looks at the figurine. “Maybe? Okay, don’t give me that look—”

“You’re lucky I don’t punch you,” You take a menacing step forward, and Law steps back, holding the figurine protectively. “Have you learned nothing?!”

“I have learned! I’m not getting caught this time!” Law snaps, and has the audacity to look at you as if this is the most obvious thing ever.

“Oh my gods, I fucking married you,” You throw your hands in the air, before dragging them down your face, “I fucking married you to save your ass because I thought, ‘ Oh! He’s such a good doctor, the people need him and he’s so smart!’ Only for you to go and prove to me how dumb you are!”

“You think I’m a good doctor?” Law blushes, looking at you with wide eyes, holding one of his hands to his chest, almost appreciatively.

“That’s what you gathered, from my shouting?” 

“You also think I’m smart.”

“I’ll kill you with my own hands. Right now.”

“No takebacks, you know that!” Law takes a step back, but he’s grinning as you glare at him. “You complimented me! Twice!”

One menacing step forward. Another step back. Using the figurine to point at you like some sword. You look utterly annoyed with him, hands on your hips, which is when Penguin and Shachi decide to walk in on all of this, both holding boxes in their arms, looking a bit shocked at what they’re witnessing. Gertrude shaking unhappily amidst the entire scene. 

“Should we… give you space?” 

“She called me a good doctor!” Law trumpets proudly, crossing the room to Penguin and Shachi, and taking one of the boxes. “And she thinks I’m smart!”

“That is not what I said!” You snap, and Penguin looks over at you, almost empathetic as if he can relate to the fact that your husband is twisting your words, much like his own does. “You proved to me what a dumbass you were! You’re starting your practice again!”

“What else did you expect him to do?” Shachi frowns, as you turn on your heel to glare at him. The ginger pales a bit, but holds the box he’s still holding tightly to his chest. “Hey— you keep that wild weed of yours away from me!”

“Gertrude,” Law supplies, his voice echoing slightly from his separate room, until he pokes his head out again, grinning. “Their name is Gertrude.”

“Oh, gods, what have you done to him?” Shachi looks rapidly between the two of you, with his eyes wide. “You’re insane. You’ve changed him!”

“Obviously not enough to steer him away from what nearly executed him.” You mumble bitterly and stalk down the stairs. “If he gets arrested, don’t call me! I’m using volatile powders today, and you all need to use the back stairs to move his shit in.” 

So for the next four hours, you only hear the scrape of furniture being moved. Things set onto the ground and the clinking of large bottles being placed together. You twitch. This is not how you wanted to do your work. Your work was important. Volatile powders, however dangerous, were important. A single drop could change the dosage. Make a medicine kick in quicker. But how Law had reacted to the lion’s bane yesterday— it makes you wonder if perhaps your medicines even need the volatile powders. 

The swirling pale yellow of the liquid of the changed state of the powder draws your gaze. Powder was the best way to store willow’s tears. The tears of the empire. Only permitted to be harvested by the Empress herself. The product of treason, if done by human, yet the blessing of the gods when nature deemed it be necessary that some be harvested. 

So you throw in the towel and carefully pack everything away. You can’t focus. There are too many things that are wrong today. So you can’t work as you normally would. 

Why not check on Law if you can't do anything for yourself?

Law has quite a bit more pep in his step as he’s sweeping up the floor of his room. All of his equipment is in order and placed where it feels best. You stand at the doorway, frowning. It almost seems a bit cramped, like he should have more space. 

The bed he’s sleeping on certainly takes up most of the space, pushed into the corner of your former childhood room, exactly where it had been when you still slept there. Sturdy shelves hold volumes upon volumes of medical journals and grimoires, some of which you can see Law’s handwriting on the spines. He’d written those himself, likely with dozens, if not hundreds, of breakthroughs for treatments. 

Your throat tightens, almost sharply, like a wire is wrapped around it, when Law turns back to look at you when he’s done sweeping. He almost looks a bit shy, staring back at you, and holding the broom like a thin, flimsy shield.

“Looks… cramped.” You cough into your hand, trying to wave the tension out of the room, as though it were gathered smoke, thickening in the air until it nearly choked you.

The wire tightens around your neck, mentally making you shudder for a second, a hand fluttering to your neck. Law’s gaze narrows, and he takes another step forward. He drops the broom with a clatter, and the tension around your neck snaps, gone in a second. 

You hadn’t realized your knees had hit the ground. Or that you’d fallen, your palms pressed to the ground as you try to steady your breaths. Law is beside you, one hand on your back and the other on your chest. Make sure you’re breathing. He’s shaking too. Sweating. He looks clammy as he examines you. 

“Are you okay?” His voice has a note of worry. Heavy anxiety. He’s worried about you.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, chest heaving. “It felt like— like a wire. Around my neck.” 

Law stiffens at that. His touch grows a bit tighter on your back and front. Not quite crushing. But enough that you feel yourself tightening, your lungs constricting, as though dozens of razor-sharp wires are wrapped around them. You gasp, the panic already turning your normally so calculated movements uncalculated and random. Like a worm pierced on a hook.

“ Leave her out of this! ” Law’s grip becomes unbearable on your chest. On your back. He’s screaming in your face. Just like he had nine years ago. Looking down at you. “ Doflamingo! ”

You can feel the mud on your skin. In your throat. Sliding down the hollow organ that supplies you with life-giving air. The same organ that helped you take place in your first act of life— a breath inward that was your first wail. Squirming and writhing.

Now you shake. Unable to move. Being screamed at as Law looks into your eyes, holding onto you with his hands on opposite sides of your body. Roaring. A string of spittle connecting the teeth in his mouth.

You see seventeen-year-old Law and twenty-six-year-old Law in the same way as you writhe in pain and simultaneously freeze in place. A baby, a teen, a grown woman in the same body. The wires around your lungs snap as you force yourself to breathe. The mush of your anxiety still clouding the way you’re looking at the world around you.

A strange blond man, far, far from you, collapses, one of his wrists shattered. Pink-shaded glasses crumble from his face. The room around him sounds as though hundreds of strings are being cut. 

The thin, invisible line of wire around your neck forever leaving a perfect circle of red that only seems to enrage Law more. There’s nothing there anymore, except the bleeding circle. It’s such a shallow cut that it likely won’t even scar, as long as it doesn't keep opening. 

Wide, furious eyes look at you. Storm-cloud grey. He’s still screaming at you. Your throat tightens. The mud is sliding past your lips. A new birth, a new first act of life.

“Please stop,” The mud isn’t there. It never was. This seems to snap Law from his furious trance. But it feels like your tears are clearing tracks down your face. The imagined sensation of the dried clumps on your skin are enough to utterly lock down any self-defense. 

A second act of your new life after the rebirth. You sob, collapsing onto Law’s lap, as his chest heaves. You’re terrified of him. You want him to leave and never show his face to you again. Yet you don’t want him to leave again. You never want to be parted from his side. Wanted to make sure his fury was never turned onto you again. 

“Fuck,” Law holds you closer. Both hands on you— one cupping the side of your head as he adjusts you to lay against him. His other hand is on your hip. You can feel his lips against your temple as you stare off into the distance. 

He’s warm. 

“Please,” Your voice is hoarse. As though you’d been screaming for hours upon hours until it bled. “Please don’t scream at me like that.”

“I’m so sorry.” Law’s lips move against your skin. Slightly damp. Or is he crying?

There is a presence at the back of your neck, right where your head and neck join together. Full of regret and something that feels like fire. 

Love. 

“It hurt.” You whisper. Recognizing that you’re disassociating and that nothing will feel real for a few hours. “Like a thread. Tightening.”

“What?” 

“Around my lungs. My—My neck,” You can’t move your hands. But you blink. There’s a texture on the walls you’d never noticed before. The hidden, slightly-raised texture of a deer that your mother had painted for you is barely visible under the dark green you’d repainted it when you were sixteen. A year after Law had hurt you. 

Law’s hold on you tightens. 

“We— we need to talk.” His whispers. The dampness on your temple grows. It’s tears, you realize. “This is all my fault. The wires, I mean. I…. I owe you an explanation. For the past nine years.”

He’s not sure if you’ve heard him. But he’ll make it up to you, somehow. 

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober (2024) Day 28 - Sex Pollen

Kink: Sex Pollen

Pairing: F!Reader x F!Plant Monster

Other Kinks: Light Bondage, Slight Sweat Kink

Warnings: Dubious Consent

Word Count: 1457 words

Kinktober Masterlist

Sometimes, curiosity really does kill the cat.

That’s the last coherent thought you had when you stumbled onto the bush, falling to the ground as plumes of alien pollen quickly fill the air around you. Your panic makes you take in deep heaving breaths, practically snorting the foreign contaminant like a drug.That’s probably why they recommended wearing the gas mask at all times, even if that atmosphere on this planet was comparable to your own.

Fuck, fuck!

Maybe it’s just placebo, but already your body temperature has gone up, your heart rate increasing, more and more of the pollen stuffing up your nose. You have the wherewithal to shove your shirt collar over your face, but not before your legs give out from under you.

You lie flat on the ground, ensconced in ankle-height vegetation as the yellow dust settles onto your clothes, coating you like powdered sugar. Your vision is starting to haze, your body in an absolute panic as it tries to move, but can’t. Your muscles feel sluggish and heavy, some kind of burning sensation under the skin sapping all your energy.

It’s so….hot.

The panic begins to slip away. You’re still hot, your heart still beats, but it’s more…pleasant. It sends goosebumps down your spine, has your body relaxing and legs spreading open. Something long and slippery rubs at your thigh and you don’t even react, just sink into the touch.

“Well, aren’t you a cutie?”

Something in the shape of a hand grips your jaw, breath exhaling across your lips as your eyes struggle to catch focus.

The pollen must be a hallucinogenic, because your eyes swear there’s a woman on top of you. You can’t see her that well, vision still spotted and blurry, but her curvaceous form is unmistakable.

Your mouth is open, words dead in your mouth, only a faltered breath coming out. Something nudges against the crotch of your pants and makes your whole body flinch. Woah, since when have you been so sensitive?

“It must be my lucky day.” The seductive female voice purrs in your ear, chases away your anxiety as more and more tendrils wrap around your arms and legs, pulling you to lie spread eagle. You still struggle to see in her entirety, even when she straddles your waist. “I snared such an adorable little thing in my trap.”

The vines constrict, shooting an aching feeling straight down to your core. You become aware of just how wet you are, the center of your panties soaked through and sticking to your khakis. Your thighs try to close and rub together, provide some friction, but only makes the vines tighten. A keening whine comes from the back of your throat, your hips canting upward.

“So receptive already.” The figure lets out an airy chuckle. “You didn’t huff that much darling.”

The hand moves up the side of your face, the backs of knuckles brushing along your jaw. Your vision has begun to clear up, the vague shapes of a face registering in your mind. Just certainly not a human face.

The creature’s ‘skin’ is a light shade of green, her lips painted a sultry red, less like lipstick and more like a warning sign for wayward bugs. Something brushes against the side of your neck, hanging of her head like hair, but feeling far more like the leaves of weeping willow.

You’re more coherent mind would be fascinated, asking a billion questions about this new creature, about this new species you just discovered. But your drugged mind is a little more focused on one thing, and it's the vines currently trying to pry open your pants.

“A-ah!” something jolts up your stomach when a bold vine sneaks down the crotch of your underwear, slotting itself between your pussy lips. It writhes against your cunt like a massager, already drenched in your slick. Your hips roll against the pressure, your clit throbbing against it.

“Hmmm.” The creature licks her lips, revealing a long and ribbed purple tongue. The thought of that on you makes your thighs clenched, legs hugging the side of the vine like it’s a stripper pole. “You taste good.” The creature hums, licking a stripe up the side of your face. The entanglements of vines shudder around you, the connected whole of this creatures body soaking up every inch of you. Something not too different from a hand grabs at the bottom of your shirt, forcing it past your sports bra so more vines can encircle your waist. The creature moves her face down from yours to your chest, nostrils flaring as she takes a deep whiff of your pheromones. “So good.” She whispers to herself, tongueing at the sides of your bra. It’s the most soaked from your hike through the forest, the salty sweat clinging the fabric to your sides.

After she’s sucked on the fabric long enough, the creature pushes up the bra, mouth latching onto your perked nipples and swirling her tongue around. Like a kid in a candy shop, she indulges in her treat, more vines joining to grab at your other one.

“Mmmph.” The creature coos, nuzzling her face into your boobs. Nails dig into the fatty flesh, making you jolt and forcing your hips against the vines. Another shock travels up your core, fresh slick gushing from your cunt. You don’t think you ever been this wet in your entire life.

The creatures licks down and down your stomach, her eyes going cross as she tastes more and more of you. Once she reaches your mound she nuzzles into your pubic hair, taking a deep whiff before the vine on your pussy movies out of the way. All of the vines shudder, wrapping tight around your extremities and pulling you open.

“Eek!” You yelp when her hand pushes back at your labial hood, covetous eyes admiring your bulging clit. That swirling tongue taps at it, rewarded by another flood of your juices.

“All for me.” The creature purrs, diving tongue first into your pussy, only focused on getting more of the taste in her mouth.

“O-ohhh.” Your mouth hangs open, breaths heavy and panting as the alien feasts on your cunt. Those ribbed sides do just as intended, stimulating your gummy walls and making you gush onto her jaw. It feels like she’s setting off firecrackers in your belly, writhing that long tongue and trying to find your g-spot.

“Oh, fuck!” Your hips roll onto her face, your clit nudging right against her nose. You can feel her lips curling up into a smirk. Seems she found it.

Her tongue is just a prehensile as her vines, pressing hard onto the sensitive spot, curling backwards and making your vision go spotty. Vines curl around your tits, pressing them together, forcing your sweat to pool at the valley in between. Like snakes they slither in between, constricting and teasing your areolas. Your body feels like it’s melting, the heat slowly cooking your brain, a profound ache settling deep in your stomach. God, why does it feel so wonderful?

“Ah-ah-ah!” You desperately grind against her tongue, the creature and her vines letting you. She seems to enjoy watching you succumb to her trap, watch you come undone. Her nostrils flare against your pussy lips, tongue now drawing shapes onto your g-spot.

You’re so desperately close, the precipice of an explosive orgasm robbing you of words and coherent thought. The creature’s keen senses make her aware of it before you do, vines pulling taut and forcing your limbs to stay rigid, offering no escape from the overwhelming feeling. You’ll come on her tongue, that she is sure of.

“I-” You slur, the needed vocabulary robbed from your drunken mind. Vines tug at your perked nipples, make every hair on your body stand on end.

Cum.

Something whispers in the back of your mind, too delirious to realize it’s not your inner monologue but her, this fascinating creature. Another ability to add to the research log.

“Fuck!” Everything convulses when your climax hits, the sudden spray of your cum on the creature’s tongue making her wiggle with joy. You’ve never squirted before, but it seems this planet is introducing you to a lot of new experiences. The creature nuzzles her face into your pussy, coating her face in your juices, lapping at your spent hole like she’s in the desert and you’re her oasis.

Your senses return to you, but slowly. You vaguely recall the creature sidling up to your side, soft curves and vines wrapping you in an even softer embrace. Hands rub at your scalp, plush lips kissing the sude of your face. The pollen’s effects have weakened, but you’re still so hot.

“You’re all mine.”

[breelandwalker]

Happy Turning Day!

This is the movable holiday in my personal calendar when the approach of autumn is celebrated. Turning Day marks the day when reddening maple leaves are first observed prior to the autumn solstice. In my area, this typically happens in early September.

Maple trees tend to be the first trees to display seasonal changes. They blossom in late winter/early spring, their seeds begin to drop in early summer, they often show the first signs of color change in early autumn, and their sap runs in winter the minute the weather starts to turn toward spring thaw. Thus I look to them in my practice as harbingers of change and the cycles of life, growth, and harvest.

Other personal holidays in my calendar include:

First Robin Day - the day on which the first wild robin is seen following the winter solstice, heralding the spring

First Flowers Day - the day on which early blooms are first observed in local gardens before the spring solstice

Planting Day - the day on which I plant my first round of seeds for the year

Dandelion Day - the day on which the first yellow dandelion appears in my yard in springtime, heralding the summer

Falling Flowers - the period during which blossoms from cherry or myrtle trees start to come loose and drift on the wind or collect in piles

Spirit Day - the day on which the local Spirit Halloween opens

First Frost - the day on which frost is first observed on windows ahead of the winter solstice

(Due to climate change and my local climate zone being different from the one I was raised in, seasonal changes are a bit off-kilter and solstices and equinoxes don't always directly align with the type of weather I grew up knowing. So watching for these little signs helps me to celebrate those changes and have something to look forward to.)

Note: This is my UPG (Unshared Personal Gnosis) and thus is not subject to peer review or approval, nor do I expect it to fit perfectly into or account for the beliefs of others. That being said, the creation of personal holidays and observances is a practice as old as humanity and I happily encourage others to try out the idea themselves if they feel so inclined.

(If you’re enjoying my content, please feel free to drop a little something in the tip jar or check out my published works on Amazon or in the Willow Wings Witch Shop. You can also check out my show Hex Positive on the Nerd & Tie Podcast Network and wherever fine podcasts are heard. 😊)

[pupsmailbox]

MINECRAFT ID PACK

NAMES︰ alex. amber. amethyst. ash. azalea. blaze. block. briar. brick. brielle. brier. brook. carver. celeste. clay. cobble. cree. crystal. daisy. dawn. dusty. ember. end. eve. flint. flora. forge. garnet. gemma. granite. grayson. harper. hazel. hero. holly. hopper. iris. ivy. jade. jett. juniper. lapis. laurel. lilac. lily. magnolia. maple. marigold. mason. meadow. miner. mira. moss. nova. oak. onyx. opal. pearl. pebble. poppy. prairie. pyre. quill. red. reed. river. rocky. rose. rowan. ruby. sable. sage. sapphire. selene. shale. sky. skye. skylar. slate. smith. spruce. steele. stella. stephen. stone. sunny. terra. thalia. timber. torch. violet. wade. willow.

PRONOUNS︰ a/axe. adventurer/adventurer. allay/allay. ar/armour. ax/axe. bam/bamboo. bat/bat. bee/bee. biome/biome. birch/birch. bla/blaze. blaz/blaze. blaze/blaze. blo/block. block/block. build/build. bun/bun. cake/cake. chest/chest. clay/clay. cob/cobble. copper/cooper. cow/cow. cra/craft. craf/craft. craft/craft. cre/creative. creep/creeper. creeper/creeper. dark/dark. deep/deepslate. deep/slate. dig/dig. disc/disc. drown/drown. ely/elytra. elytra/elytra. en/end. end/end. end/eye. ender/ender. ender/enderman. enderman/endermen. explorer/explorer. fight/fight. flint/flint. for/forge. fox/fox. ghast/ghast. glow/stone. goat/goat. grav/gravel. heal/heal. hive/hive. hun/hunger. husk/husk. hx/hxm. hy/hym. ice/ice. kaboom/kaboom. kelp/kelp. lav/lava. love/love. magma/magma. mi/mine. mine/mine. mob/mob. mod/mod. moosh/mooshroom. mooshroom/mooshroom. musicnote/musicnote. nether/nether. nostalgia/nostalgia. nostalgic/nostalgic. oak/oak. ocean/ocean. ore/ore. over/overworld. over/world. pearl/pearl. phantom/phantom. pi/pick. pig/pig. pig/pigstep. pig/step. play/player. ram/ram. red/stone. sap/sapling. scream/scream. sculk/sculk. sea/sea. shea/shear. sheep/sheep. sho/shovel. shulk/shulker. shx/hxr. shy/hyr. skele/skeleton. skeleton/skeleton. skulk/skulk. slime/slime. sme/smelt. smp/smp. snow/snow. spawner/spawner. spec/spectator. speed/speedrun. spider/spider. spruce/spruce. sta/stack. sto/stone. strider/strider. surv/survival. survivor/survivor. swo/sword. tele/teleport. terra/terracotta. thxy/thxm. thy/thym. tnt/tnt. tor/torch. tree/tree. ve/vex. vwoop/vwoop. warden/warden. warp/warped. warrior/warrior. wat/water. wit/wither. wither/wither. wo/wood. wolf/wolf. xp/xp. zomb/zombie. zombie/zombie.

[yeyinde]

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go."  "Why?" You asked, blinking at her.  "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore. 

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach. 

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap. 

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement. 

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it. 

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him. 

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home. 

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear. 

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz. 

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores. 

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches. 

Gaz was unique, different. 

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community. 

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood. 

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright. 

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it. 

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant. 

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him. 

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear. 

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head. 

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon. 

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten. 

You think about him often. 

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name. 

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play. 

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull. 

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere." 

You leave, and you don't look back. 

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed. 

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat. 

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead. 

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to. 

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you. 

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses. 

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed. 

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing. 

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her. 

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror. 

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away. 

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay. 

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea. 

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet. 

It's a dangerous place to get caught in. 

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock. 

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen. 

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst. 

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil. 

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head. 

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock. 

All is quiet—except the sea. 

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea. 

Another step. Another. 

For a moment, you're free. 

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality. 

It's peaceful. 

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back. 

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing. 

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine. 

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue. 

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love." 

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself. 

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw. 

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic. 

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue. 

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat. 

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?" 

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face. 

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet." 

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time. 

You blink. Blink again. 

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before. 

They didn't say anyone new moved to town. 

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?" 

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him. 

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar. 

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard. 

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway." 

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty. 

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins. 

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay. 

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do. 

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm. 

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north. 

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company. 

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think. 

You wonder if he was expecting you. 

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question. 

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts. 

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water." 

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big. 

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick. 

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body. 

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders. 

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory. 

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly. 

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice. 

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh. 

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath. 

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you. 

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush. 

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud. 

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you. 

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire. 

You should. 

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer. 

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own. 

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest. 

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words. 

"So I did." 

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil. 

"Got some time tonight?" 

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read. 

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love." 

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?" 

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead. 

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of." 

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes. 

And so, you kiss him. 

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips. 

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you. 

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest. 

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw. 

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm. 

You never want to let go. 

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left. 

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth. 

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking." 

Price shudders. 

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips. 

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you? 

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls. 

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver. 

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?" 

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no.��

It can't happen. It can't.  

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together. 

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out. 

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor. 

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag. 

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more. 

"Waiting for a ride?" 

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears. 

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead. 

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat. 

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision. 

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe. 

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark. 

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you. 

Like he knows. 

And maybe, he does. 

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell. 

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard. 

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom. 

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror. 

You can't remember if it's you. 

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic. 

Stupid. 

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths. 

The door rattles. Clicks. 

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke. 

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror. 

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him. 

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared. 

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders. 

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price." 

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so. 

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out. 

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter. 

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear. 

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees. 

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner. 

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does. 

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much. 

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern. 

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend. 

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know. 

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers. 

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter. 

The woods are dangerous. 

You don't want to go. 

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together. 

"You want to, don't you?" 

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway." 

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering. 

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea. 

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion. 

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato. 

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision. 

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry. 

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase. 

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head. 

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it. 

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge. 

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge. 

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed. 

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave. 

One slip, you think. Just one. 

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince. 

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him. 

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest. 

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go. 

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces. 

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to. 

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet. 

Two more. Two more. 

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go. 

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside. 

You don't know why you're here. 

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body. 

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead. 

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived. 

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic. 

You are—

"Foolish." 

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug. 

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb. 

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear. 

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped. 

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves. 

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure. 

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?" 

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw. 

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love." 

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all. 

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears. 

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know. 

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep. 

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers. 

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine. 

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?" 

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams. 

"Did you ever give me a choice?" 

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head. 

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine. 

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin. 

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you. 

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair. 

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance. 

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood. 

When he speaks, the world falls silent. 

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go. 

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins. 

You don't know what you're doing. 

The whispers in your head go silent. 

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go. 

You think of him, and you know. 

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there. 

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems. 

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go. 

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee. 

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly? 

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul. 

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever. 

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm. 

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home. 

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting. 

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow. 

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver. 

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow. 

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin. 

"Welcome home."

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." 

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her. 

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't." 

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name. 

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse. 

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me? 

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE