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flowersforbucky · 1 month

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delirium

bucky barnes x reader (sex pollen trope)

summary: stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you.

warnings/tags: sex pollen, dub con, unprotected sex, oral, masturbation, angst, descriptions of physical pain, language, friends to lovers, avenger!reader, no use of y/n, reader is afab, 18+ only

word count: 4.1k

flashbacks are in italics

Sometime in the near future, there would be a case study conducted on how long a human being could burn from the inside without dying.

They would refer to you as exhibit a.

Doctors and scientists would lay your cold corpse on a colder table and use a scalpel to cut you from your thorax to your belly button. They would scribble notes about how your lungs had turned to ash and your esophagus to molten lava.

They wouldn't say it, but they would think it's a shame, because your driver's license states that you were an organ donor.

A harsh gust of wind snaps you out of the twisted fantasy and back to your reality - standing barefoot on the rickety front porch steps of a small cabin in Sitka, Alaska. You've only been outside for a few minutes but the snow is pouring down at a brutal pace, already covering the tops of your exposed feet.

The razor sharp chill of the ground below you and the air that surrounds you are the only things tethering you to what little remains of your sanity.

You never thought that you would be so thankful for your feet to be going numb, but after feeling like every fiber of your being is getting melted with a hot branding iron for - what? Ten? Twelve hours now? You had to resist the temptation to submerge your entire body in the multiple feet of snow that had accumulated since nightfall.

You hear the front door of the cabin creak open from behind you. You don't have to turn around to know that he's standing in the doorway with the same look of pleading desperation that he's been giving you since the two of you had realized what was happening.

“You need to come back inside,” he says delicately. His voice is muffled by the roar of the snowstorm, but right now with heightened senses, you hear him just fine. “You're going to get hypothermia.”

You don't respond. The mere sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth together so hard that you're surprised the tiny bones don't shatter.

He keeps to the doorway, scared that if he takes one step closer, you'll flee into the miles of thick woods that surrounds you in only a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He murmurs your name in a tone that begs you to come in from the below freezing temperatures.

“What time is it now?” You barely recognize your own voice - low and strained, it sounds like you haven't had anything to drink in days.

You clear your throat, though you doubt it'll make any difference.

“Just after four o'clock.”

Eleven hours into this hell, then. Best case scenario, another half a day of this. Worst case scenario, close to two.

Either way, you knew that these symptoms had yet to hit their peak. This would undoubtedly get worse before it gets better.

You stare out into the endless thicket of snow covered hemlocks and spruces. The illumination from the full moon makes the white powder on the branches glisten in the darkness.

Daylight was still hours away, and with it, hope for some means of communication with the rest of your team back in New York. The snowstorm had brought a widespread power outage across the city. Cell phone signal was nonexistent right now.

“Go on back to your room,” you tell him. “I'll come back inside in just a moment.” You continue to watch the blizzard before you, knowing that he's still just a few feet away from you. “I promise,” you add, hoping that he’ll believe you and return to the bedroom you'd been forcing him to keep to.

The drug coursing through your veins had amplified every one of your five senses. Even with him behind the closed door of the bedroom, you could still smell faint traces of the earthy musk of his deodorant and something warm that is uniquely him.

You wouldn't chance coming back into the house until his scent has dissipated from the entrance - not unless you want to feel as though all air is being stripped from your lungs.

Even simply standing here, with him behind you and the wind blowing his scent in the opposite direction, is nearly intolerable.

You hear footsteps retreat into the house, growing quieter and quieter as he makes his way back down the hallway, until you finally hear the click of his bedroom door. You exhale a breath that you weren't aware you had been holding in.

You have no doubt that he'll try to drag you back inside by the ankles if he has to, so you make good on your promise and return to the sweltering interior of the six hundred square foot log cabin.

A sharp, stabbing pain radiates from the center of your body at that thought - the exact kind of thoughts you were actively trying to avoid having. Thoughts of his hands digging into your thighs, his wet mouth on your throat, his bare chest pressed against yours as he fucks you into the likely thirty-something year old couch - those thoughts. Dangerous territory thoughts - the kind you didn't trust yourself not to act on if dwelled upon for too long.

Apparently, the thought of him putting his hands around your ankles and dragging you kicking and screaming falls into that category.

You settle onto the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest in an effort to alleviate the ache in your lower belly. You notice that Bucky has crammed more wood into the fireplace, which currently serves as the main source of light for the cabin, save for a few candles that have been placed sporadically throughout the small space.

Sweat begins to bead across your skin within seconds of sitting down in front of the fire. You know that Bucky is just trying to keep the temperature of the house from dropping below zero while also providing enough light to see during the middle of the night while you are in too much discomfort to sleep, but you feel like you are locked in a sauna after running five miles.

You think back to all of the times that you've given Sam shit for taking ice baths after his workouts. Now nothing sounds better than an ice bath.

Almost nothing, anyway. The only thing that could possibly feel even better is laying down behind a closed door less than twenty feet away.

And he'd offered - begged, actually, to take this pain away from you.

“Please,” he whispers, kneeling on the ground next to the couch, where you sit hunched over in pain. He's so close to you and it's fucking suffocating. He places his hand on your knee and you have to dig your nails into the suede upholstery to keep from whimpering. He notices the reaction and retracts his touch.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says louder, the pet name finally getting you to meet his gaze for the first time since you dropped the glass jar of the firetruck red powder in the former HYDRA warehouse two hours ago.

Big mistake. Looking at him is a big fucking mistake. From the way his blue eyes bore into yours with sincere concern to the way that his plump, pink lips are slightly chapped from the cold weather -

“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head into your hands. “I can't ask that of you. I can't make you do that. I would never forgive my–”

“You wouldn't be asking or making me do anything,” he tries to reason with you. There's sincerity in his voice but you're too delirius to hear the truth of his words. “I'm offering. Because I care about you. Because I don't want to see you in any kind of pain if there's anything I can do about it. Because I think you'd do the same for me if the situation were–”

“Bucky,” you cut him off in a strained gasp. “Your voice is making this so much worse right now.”

“Then let me help you. Let me make you feel good.”

His words alone are enough to have you clenching your thighs around nothing but the thick material of your sweatpants. You can feel your cotton panties becoming more drenched with each word he speaks.

“Not like this.” You're on the verge of tears - from pain, from anger at the entire situation, from how goddamn badly you need to feel him inside you. “It can't happen like this. I never wanted it to happen like this.”

His features soften, a look of understanding spreading across his face.

“When we fuck, I want it to be because we want to fuck,” you say as you jump up from your position on the couch, desperately needing to distance yourself from him before you do something you can't take back. “I don't want it to be because we feel like neither of us have a choice in the matter.”

“But we do have a choice,” he murmurs from where he's still kneeling on the floor next to the couch. “And I'd choose to go back to that HYDRA facility and infect myself with this shit, too, if it means you'd feel a little less guilty about saying yes.”

Your answer to that was, of course, a big, giant absolutely fucking not. The snow started pouring down shortly after, making his irrational proclamation an impossibility, anyway.

Almost half a day later, here you are. Surrounded by miles and miles of snow and ice in a town with no power or semi-functioning cell phone towers, just trying to endure the fire coursing through your veins until the effects of the HYDRA made drug have worked through your system.

You're coming up on the twelve hour mark now, and there's no denying that you're desperate for relief in one way or another.

Worth a fucking shot, you think.

You prop your feet up on the glass coffee table in front where you sit on the couch, spreading your thighs apart by a few inches.

You hesitate for a moment, listening for any kind of indication that Bucky's no longer in the confines of the cabin’s singular bedroom.

Dead silent, except for the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace.

You snake your hand down the front of your pants, past the waistband of your underwear and to your center that's been aching for hours now.

You stroke your fingers up and down your folds, stopping at the apex of your core to massage your clit in circular motions.

Your head rolls back on the couch at the sensation, immediately feeling the slightest sense of relief. You dig your teeth into your lower lip to keep from moaning - hard enough to draw blood, the taste of iron flooding your mouth.

You slip two fingers past your entrance, not requiring any foreplay to plunge them to the hilt. It feels good - the way you're working yourself with rapid scissoring motions. Really fucking good, actually. Better than fingering yourself has ever felt.

But only a mere minute into the ministrations, you fear that it won't be enough to satiate you in the way that the drug requires.

Still, you try. You yank your t-shirt above your tits, bringing your free hand to paw at your breast as you continue working your pussy with your fingers, the heel of your palm putting pressure against your clit.

“That's not going to work, you know.”

You yank your hand out of your pants, snapping your head to the side to see him leaning against the frame of the small hallway. You had been so immersed in attempting to find some amount of relief that you hadn't heard him exit the bedroom. He's looking at you with sympathy and concern, not judgment - you don't think you'd be able to find it within yourself to feel embarrassed even if he were. Not in your current state of discomfort.

“How do you know that?” Frustration is evident in your voice. You look away from him, back to the fire in front of you as you pull your shirt back down. The floor creaks as he steps out of the hallway and makes his way over to the opposite end of the small couch. He sits a foot away from you, close enough so that his scent and warmth invades your senses, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core.

“Because I've been through what you're going through right now.”

Your eyes break away from the ember that you've been staring at, your gaze snapping to him. You don't know why this comes as a surprise to you. It shouldn't, not with every other form of torment that HYDRA had inflicted upon him for over half a century.

“Why didn't you tell me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was embarrassed,” he answers with a small half-shrug, breaking your stare. “I didn't.. handle it as well as you are,” he continues, shame in his voice and cheeks rosy. “You’re doing everything you can to fight something that you didn't ask for. That's more than I can say for myself.”

“You were brainwashed, Bucky,” you remind him delicately. It's a risky move that makes your skin burn and belly clench, but you scoot closer to him on the couch - your outermost thigh brushing against his knee. If the two of you weren't both wearing sweatpants, the minimal touch might even aid in bringing you some relief. Instead, you’re left feeling desperate for more of him.

But you push the feeling down, wanting to do what little you can to comfort him - wanting him to know that you don't think poorly of him for what was forced onto him, and what is now being forced onto you, too.

“I would never judge you for anything they made you do,” you assure him.

“I know you wouldn't,” he murmurs, turning to face you again. His blue eyes glow in the low lighting of the fire. The closeness between the two of you is dizzying, and electrifying, and -

“And I want you to know that I would never judge you for giving into this torture,” he adds.

You snort a laugh. “I'm starting to think you want me to give into this.” You mean for the statement to sound light-hearted, but a sharp pang in your gut makes you wince in pain and your voice goes shrill. You clutch your lower belly, hunching over at the pain.

He leans in closer, putting one hand on your lower back and one on your thigh. You whimper at the pressure of his fingers against your spine and inner thigh. Even through your clothes, the contact feels like heaven compared to hell you've been enduring for the last twelve hours.

You lean into his touch - you don't even think about it, you just do it. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your forehead nuzzling the warm skin of his throat.

You take a deep inhale, attempting to steady your breathing, and you realize quickly that is a mistake - his scent is so euphoric, it feels like inhaling flames.

“Would it make it easier for you if I said that I do want you to give in?” His voice is low, his breath fanning across your face from his position above you.

“Fuck, Bucky, you can't say that to me right now,” you whine. You fist your hands into the fabric of his t-shirt, your eyes squint shut.

“Look at me,” he commands. You force your eyes open, pulling your head back enough to look up at him through your eyelashes.

“I want it to be your choice.” He brings a hand up to cup your jawline. His thumb skims the outline of your bottom lip. “But I would be lying if I said that I'm not relieved that I'm the one here with you, or that I wouldn't enjoy every second of helping you feel better.”

He brings his hands to yours, pulling them away from where they still clutch his shirt. You release your grip, allowing him to hold you by your wrists. He pulls your right hand up to his face, stopping just under his nose. Your brows furrow in confusion, until it dawns on you what it is he's doing.

He inhales deeply, then lowers your hand to his parted mouth. He slips the tips of your index and middle fingers past his lips, and then swirls his tongue around the two digits.

The exact two that had been inside your pussy not even five minutes ago.

Right now, you think you could come from him sucking on your fingers and nothing else.

You don't even try to stop the groan that slips past your lips as you shove your fingers deeper into his mouth. He moans around them as he finishes cleaning them off, the sound sending vibrations up your arm and throughout your body.

You pull your fingers from between his lips and immediately crush your own lips to his in their place. You feel the drug surging through your veins, but this time it's less excruciating - it now feels like pure adrenaline bubbling under your skin, spurring you on.

He opens his mouth to you, your lips and tongue moving with his in synchronicity. It's hurried and messy, and maybe not as romantic as you had imagined it in your head before this night - but it's exactly what you need right now.

He maneuvers you so that you're laying down on the couch, and nestles himself between your thighs. You can feel the hard outline of his erection through the thin material of his sweatpants. He ruts against you, dragging the bulge across your clothed center as he yanks your t-shirt up and over your head. He tosses it somewhere behind the couch before attaching his mouth to one of your nipples and palming the other with the cool metal of his left hand.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling the full weight of his body down against you. You stick your hands up the back of his t-shirt, scratching your nails down the skin of his back.

“I need more,” you gasp out as he pinches your nipple between his teeth, rolling it in his lips. The clothing that separates the two of you feels like a prison. “I need to feel you.”

He pulls away, leaning back to perch on his knees between your legs. Your eyes roam down the chiseled planes of his chest until they land on the defined “V” shape that disappears into the waistband of his low-hanging pants.

He hooks his fingers into your sweatpants and underwear and tugging them both down past your ankles, then throwing them somewhere across the room with both of your long-forgotten shirts.

His eyes trail your body from your breasts to your thighs, his pupils dilating in the firelight. He splays his hands across the meat of your inner thighs, pinning your legs open wide for him. He lowers himself back down on the couch, belly down so his face hovers just above your pussy.

“Bucky, I swear if you don't put your mouth–”

He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle before his tongue slips between his lips. It darts to your hole, licking a soft strip up to your clit. You exhale a sharp hiss of pleasure, your hands shooting to lace your fingers through tendrils of his hair. You arch into his touch, meeting the thrusts of his tongue with thrusts of your hips. He eats like you're the best thing he's ever tasted - like he's wanted this for way longer than this drug has been in your system.

You're coming on his face in an embarrassing amount of time, really. Thanks to the influence of the pollen, you currently have the stamina and endurance of a teenager losing their virginity. Your thighs are clenched around either side of his head, writhing above him as you ride out your orgasm on his face.

The relief that you feel as you come down from your high feels like years of pent up frustration leaving your body all at once.

You don't quite feel entirely like yourself - there's still a dull ache in your core, and your skin’s still feverish - though that could be due to the fire that the two of you are just feet away from. But you're now able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Come here,” you whisper, your voice low and honeyed. He crawls over you, his chest brushing against yours as he centers himself above you. His skin shines with a thin layer of sweat that mingles with your own. You reach a hand between your two bodies, palming his erection through the sweatpants that he has yet to shed. You keep your eyes locked on his face, watching as his eyes roll back into his head and his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as you massage him through the fabric. Your other hand juts down to the waistband of his pants and you tug them downwards, far enough to help him shimmy them down to his knees.

His cock springs forward and he takes himself in his flesh hand, pumping his length several times before teasing your folds with his tip. He collects your slick along his length, lubricating himself before nudging his head just past your entrance.

You're more than ready for him - hours of desperation in addition to already having come on his face leaves you needing no further preparation before he's filling you up with his impressive length and girth. There's a slight burn at the sheer fullness of it, but there's also a wave of relief that your body has been craving for hours.

He pulls out halfway, then rocks back into you. He starts slow - trying to hold back for his own sake or for yours, you're unsure. Gradually, he increases his speed, hitting your cervix at that sweet angle that not everyone knows how to work. You lean forward, raising your head enough to capture his lips in yours once more.

You taste yourself on him - a dichotomy of sweet and salty mixed with something entirely unique. He brings his flesh hand in between your bodies, lowering his fingers to your clit where he begins rubbing pressured circles. You moan his name into his mouth and he responds by biting your lip between his teeth, his movements becoming messier.

“You gonna come on my cock?” he asks in a low growl when he feels your pussy clenching around him. “Gonna fill you up and make you feel all better.”

His words send you tumbling over the edge for the second time - that telltale warm coil in your belly bursting at the same time that he begins spilling his warmth into you.

He collapses, pinning you between his body and the couch beneath you. Starting at your shoulder, he peppers kisses along your collarbones and up your neck until he’s finally eye-level with you.

“We can do that again,” he says in a breathy voice, still inside you. “If you need to, that is. Or if you just want you.” There's a mischievous grin spread across his face and a twinkle in his eyes. It's the most carefree you've seen him since the two of you left New York to come here for this mission. You put your hands on his chest, jokingly attempting to shove him away from you.

“Oh, I don't think I need to,” you jab at him. “I'm feeling pretty great now, but thank you for your services.” He laughs, pulling out of you and sitting back against the couch. He pulls you up with him, wrapping his flesh arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. “But I think I might want to again. You know, now that I'm no longer in excruciating pain.” He hums in agreement, stroking his flesh fingers across the side of your stomach.

“I'm glad you were the one here with me too, Bucky."

thank you for reading! i know sooo many people have done this trope, especially for bucky, but it's truly one of my all time favorites and i just needed to get this out of my system so i hope you all enjoyed

comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!

other works by me: oil & water • down bad • acquainted •

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes oneshot #bucky barnes one-shot #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction

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blast-door · 1 year

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Dining Room - Traditional Dining Room Example of a large classic dark wood floor, brown floor, exposed beam and shiplap wall kitchen/dining room combo design with gray walls

#ash floor #kitchen dining #hemlock timbers #horizontal shiplap paneling #spruce timbers

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cabinporn · 1 year

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Located on the non-ferry served Obstruction Island, the site was completely untouched and only occupied by a mature montane forest of Douglas fir, cedar, hemlock, and spruce. Before any construction was done on site, Carsten and his family camped on the property for two years to understand the hidden moments and seasonal changes of the place. During this time much care was taken to clear dead and fallen trees to only discover a church-like outdoor space, a mossy clearing surrounded by 150-foot-tall trees. This became the permanent location for the cabin, tucked inland so the building wouldn't be visible from the jaggy and rocky shoreline. The design and construction of the cabin was done together as a family. Aiming to strike a balance of simplicity and basic comfort in this weekend retreat, you get a feeling as though you are immersed in the natural elements of the forest. The materials for the cabin were carefully chosen and economized to fit onto two small lumber trucks coming in on barge. All materials were dropped at the top of the 2.5-acre site and carried down by hand, piece by piece, to the mossy clearing. The finishes are durable and simple. The 2x4 framing was left exposed on the interior with fire-resistant mineral wool insulation applied to the exterior, then clad with Alaskan yellow cedar boards with a Sho Sugi Ban finish. In the interior, a second life was given to a 1960 Danish fireplace and 100-year-old steel windows. The kitchen equipment is movable and interchangeable, just enough to cook healthy and tasty meals. The electrical and plumbing was kept as rudimentary as possible so to not rely on technicians coming in from the mainland. Architect - Carsten Stinn Photographs by @seanair More photos on @cabinporn.

#cabin

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forsakenmb · 3 days

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The beds we make

Pairings - Tobias E. Rogers x Reader

Word Count - 5.2K

Warnings - stalker! Toby, non-con/dub-con, murder, mentions of death, violence, choking, implied-somnophilia, knife play, humiliation, bondage(?).

Darkness enshrouded every corner of your mind, like an endless void sucking you into its depths: as it did every night for the last six months. A constant and overwhelming sense that someone is watching your every move at all time, the itch in the back of your mind consuming you in your most vulnerable state.

Suddenly, a loud pounding rapped on the wood of your bedroom door, waking you from your restless sleep. Your heart stopped in your chest for a moment, another wave of anxiety rushing through your body, goosebumps rising on your skin.

Then, a familiar voice called out to you from the other side of it. “Are you still sleeping?” Tara said, knocking on the door again.

“I'm awake” you responded, your voice scratchy and uneven as you slowly disentangled yourself out of the blankets. Begrudgingly, you trudged to the door, unlocked, and flung it open to reveal Tara Allen, your roommate and close friend since your freshman year in college.

Tara is undeniably beautiful, her long dark hair and dark eyes matching the tan complexion of her skin perfectly. She's always been quite taller than you, her slender figure standing at the door looking at you as if you were from another dimension.

“You look like shit,” she laughs, examining the dark circles under your eyes, the restless look on your face.

“Haha” you laugh sarcastically, walking to your bed and plowing down onto the sheets, “Very funny” you said, shoving your face into the plush comforter that rested on top.

“We have to get going,” Tara said, tugging on your oversized sleep shirt. “Traffic is gonna be awful,” she groaned.

Looking up through your heavy eyes, you saw that the sun was just barely peeking over the eastern horizon, darkness still settled over the skies. “It's like 5:00 am,” you said.

“Exactly. It's like 13 hours away” She said, almost enamored. turning around and leaving the room.

Tara's parents had given her the keys to a small getaway cabin they owned so you two could have a ‘girls trip’ after midterms. With school and the constant feeling of being watched, getting away was what you needed. The cabin was located in the densely wooded mountains far from the city and covered in a thick layer of snow.

Flipping onto your back, you stared up at the ceiling, the room still covered in a sheen of blackness. Your anxiety was beginning to spike up again, washing over you like ice water. You sat up, looking out your window at the streets below, ‘No one can see you’ the words rang through your head like a church bell, the small peace rushing the ever-growing anxiety out of your mind for now. A groan left your lips when you stood up and made your way over to your dresser.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

“Wake up,” Tara said, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching over and nudging your shoulder. “We're here”

A long yawn slipped from your lips, your brain slowly coming to consciousness. Looking out of the window, you noticed that the car had come to a complete stop in a parking lot.

The area surrounding it was densely forested. Pines, spruces, and hemlock trees covered the landscape, making it seem like you were hundreds of miles away from another living person. The different kinds arose above the ground, standing tall in thick columns.

A blanket of fluffy snow covered the ground and trees alike, more flurrying down from the clouds in a silent rain.

A little off to the side, you could see a pathway ascending through the trees and up the mountain, one that people used to hunt and trail along. The compact dirty frozen under the thick layer of frosty powder.

“It's a short hike from here” Tara said, slipping the key from the ignition and shoving it into the pocket of her coat.

Nodding in response, you zipped up your heavy jacket and tightened the laces on your shoes. The air was cold and frigid, like thousands of tiny needles puncturing your lungs as you stepped out of the vehicle.

“We're gonna have to drive to the nearest town for supplies” Tara explained, opening the backdoor and sliding her backpack out and onto her shoulders. “But we should be okay for tonight”

The weight of your bag was settled on one shoulder, the other hand carrying a small ice chest. The only sounds through the trek to the cabin was the ‘crunch, crunch, crunch’ of the snow beneath your feet, the rustling of branches in the harsh winds, along with the chatter of wildlife a whisper through the dense bushels of evergreen shrubs, winterberry, and hostas that littered the path, the gnarled underbrush covered in a pristine layer of sparkling white crystals snagging against the fabric of your sweatpants.

“Just up over this bend” she said, treading carefully over a patch of ice. The trail was becoming narrow, harder to see the longer you walked on. Approaching the bend, you saw a rustic cabin sitting on top of the hill, a small rickety porch sitting in the front, a large bay window next to the door. Dying vines had begun to reclaim parts of the exterior, crawling up the bricks of the fireplace only to die.

Snow began falling harder, blizzarding around you in millions of little clusters. The cold started nipping at your fingertips, turning them a bright red. “Let's get inside” you said, a shiver running down your spine.

The house looked uninhabited, an untouched layer of snow covering the porch. The screen screen door looked worn down, the mesh fabric peeling away from it and withering up. The wooden front door opened with a loud squeak of the hinges.

Inside of the cabin was almost completely barren, next to the door was a small dust ridden table. Walking down a short corridor to the living room, the only light coming from the windows lining the walls. At the end of the hall was a pair of double doors, leading out onto the snow doused back deck and into the yard, a winter wonderland.

The interior of the room only held a love-seat with a white sheet draped over the top of it and another end-table. Feeling along the wall for the lightswitch, nothing happened when you flicked it on.

Setting the ice chest down, you called out, “Powers out,” while walking further into the room.

“I probably have to reset the box,” Tara said, now walking into the living room. She walked to the fireplace next to which a silver box that hung on the wall, opening the box, she began flipping the circuit breakers. After a couple of silent moments, a low humming coursed through the small space as the light flickered on.

“The heat should kick in soon,” she explained, walking to a connected doorway. “Kitchen is in here” flicking on another light, revealing a small room. An electric countertop stove and a small mini fridge that sat underneath the counter on the wall opposite the threshold to the left was a countertop and a sink to the right, a small dining table.

“There's only one bed, but we can share it,” she said, walking back out into the hallway and to a closed room. Pushing the door open showed it was a bedroom.

A full-bed sat against the back wall, another white cloth decorated the mattress, a nightstand on each side, along with two massive windows and a dresser against the same wall. Two doors sat on the opposite sides of the room. “Closet and bathroom” was all she muttered before ripping the sheet off of the bed, throwing her bag down along with herself onto the mattress. The bed was adorned with pillows and a thick comforter.

Setting your bag down on the floor, you strolled back out of the room and to the backdoor. Stepping outside into the winter-woodlands, the sun was beginning to set, casting an orange and pink glow over the snow.

The wind was picking up, trees being jostled by the strong gusts hitting them. The chatter of animals was now gone, replaced by an eerie silence. Then, somewhere off in the distance, you heard the unmistakable ‘CRACK’ of a branch breaking underneath the weight of something, someone.

Your heart stopped, dropping somewhere in your stomach. ‘There's no one around for at least two miles’ the voice in your head refuted. Then, somewhere out of the corner of your eye, you saw a reflective orange glint, like eyes staring at you. Your body caught up with your mind, and you sprinted back into the house, slamming the door shut behind you.

Tara walked out of the bedroom, and a wary look covered her face. “What's wrong?” she questioned, walking closer to you.

“E-Eyes,” you panted, your breathing erratic and your heart beating violently in your chest. Taking a deep breath, you looked at Tara and said, “I saw a pair of eyes.” Tears began to bubble at your lash-line.

“It's probably an animal. We are in the middle of the forest” she said in a passive-aggressive tone, her eyes involuntarily rolling.

‘She's right’ the rational part of your brain thought. Taking long, deep breaths in and out, you could only nod and walk back into the bedroom, sitting down on the plush mattress.

A strong current of warm air began flowing through the rooms, heating up the chilly cabin. “Heats finally on,” Tara said, the edge in her tone letting on to her frustration.

Again, you could only nod, anxiety flowing through your veins, increasing your heart rate further. You know what you saw, but again the forest is full of different kinds of wildlife. “We should unpack” you stuttered out.

This time, Tara nodded and walked out into the hall. You stood up, picking your bag up from the ground and setting it on the bed.

The majority of the bag was just clothes and other miscellaneous items like an MP3 player and earbuds, a thermostat bottle, and a zip knife. The handle is a polished wood with gold colored stainless-steel trimming, the end of the knife curved upwards and into a hook. The sharp blade sheath in a washcloth, sealed with a rubber band. You bought it when eyes began watching your every movement.

You slipped the knife into the hoodie you sported and began putting away your belongings. Looking up, you saw the sun had receded; another bout of darkness consuming the world around you, threatening to eat you whole as well. The snow was falling harder than before, your visibility almost completely impaired. Looking out into the abis, your heart picked up, your pulse starting to quicken as your eyes adjusted to the dark, and what looked like the silhouette of a person became clearer and clearer. Coming closer and closer.

A gasp wretched itself from your throat, your feet scrambling to get away but tripping over each other instead causing you to crash to the floor.

Hastily getting up, you dash out of the room and across the hall to the living space, a hot inferno blazing in the fireplace, Tara cooking something in the kitchen, blissfully ignorant.

Turning around when you clamored into the room, she saw you hunched over, hands steadying themselves on your knees.

“Tara, there is someone out there!” You cried, tears running down your face.

Again, irritation was present on her features. A look of annoyance. “No one is out there” she blew off, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I'm telling you, there is” you stammered, “I-I saw it” More tears bled down your face, your entire body trembling.

“There isn't! I have put up with this for six months” she said, her voice rising alongside her anger, “I'm asking you for a weekend of peace” an ugly sneer spread across her face.

Stomping out of the kitchen and passing by you to the bedroom, Tara shoved her shoes on. “Since you insist” she started walking down the hall, “I'll show you”

Following closely behind her, you hadn't realized how angry she'd been with you. Rounding the corner, she threw open the door and trudged out into the snow and halfway down the slope of the trail, the snow falling heavier. Then, at the top of her lungs, Tara bellowed, “There is no one out here!” anger bleeding through her shriek.

You only went out as far as the last step of the porch, your shoes still on from your last excursions outside. “Tara, come back in!” You called back, voice trembling in uneasiness.

You couldn't see her, the snow falling too heavily from above, the wind hollering through the night, branched clashing together in a ferocious battle, and again she yelled out, “ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NO-” the sentence being cut off with a sickening ‘thud’, slicing through the air like a freshly sharpened knife. Nothing but the sound but rushing wind and a distinct ‘POP’ could be heard.

Your heart skipped a beat, catching somewhere in your throat. “Tara?” You croaked out, your tongue like a cement brick in your mouth. Stepping slowly off of the porch, you moved towards the apex of the hill to get a better view.

The thick clouds parted enough for a sliver of moonlight to peek through and let you take in the scene before you: Tara's unconscious- no, lifeless body laid face down on the frigid ground, the blade of an axe protruding out of her skull, her beautiful brown hair now black at the roots with blood as it seeped out around the weapon, her perfect tawny beige skin stained with red, painting the snow beneath her with blood. A person stood above her, a man.

Most of his face was hidden beneath a hood, but his lanky build was visible; the grayish-brown hoodie he wore was stained with blood, his jeans as well.

He stepped on her body, his boot-clad foot pushing it further in the snow then gripping the handle of the axe and ripping it from her head; the snow now staining crimson, the crevasse oozing more blood. The man's head slowly rose and through the light peering down from above, you saw a familiar reflective orange glint, and you knew he was staring directly into your fear-stricken face.

Tears crowded in your eyes, your breathing becoming heavy and erratic as you locked into a silent staring contest with the man who just murdered your best friend. The hand holding his weapon jolted in a fast motion, but did not come flying towards you like you had anticipated: still that knocked you out of your initial shock and you began barreling towards the treeline and into the snow-covered woodlands.

The forest was dark, a dense canopy of trees preventing any light from shining down, the thick underbrush cut at your ankles, low-hanging branches catching on your hoodie as you careened through the thickets of trees. Then you heard the thundering sound of heavy footsteps in pursuit, and you forced your legs to go faster to take you further away from this madman.

Struggling to breathe properly, you still kept running since you knew the moment you slowed down, he would be on you like a wolf and its prey. Suddenly the sound of whirling air flying by your head was audible before an axe was embedded in the trunk of a tree, pieces of bark and wood spraying out around it.

‘Faster! Faster’ your mind argued with exhaustion, as your legs struggled to flee. You'd never had to run for your life, not until now. A heavy cloud of fog began to roll in as you ran deeper into the woods, your vision even more impaired than before.

Zig-zagging through trees you soon realized you no longer heard his heavy footsteps behind you, but still you kept going further. The fog was getting too thick to see though turning everything around you into a misty haze, then the exposed roots of a tree caught your foot causing you to collide with the snowy forest floor and before you could think your body began rolling down a steep embankment you hadn't known was there.

Clawing at the solid earth to stop your fall was futile as the semi-frozen snow made getting an anchor difficult. Tumbling down the hill your speed only kept increasing, the steady decline seemingly going on to no end until suddenly your body stuck the trunk of a tree, cracking the side of your head against it; consciousness began to flee from you, the world around you being reduced to darkness but not before you felt the leering presence of someone standing over you.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

The cold winds nip against your skin, a chill runs down your spine while you're rocked further into oblivion, cuddling into the warmth of the person carrying you.

‘Wait-’ you thought, eyes shooting open, and shoving at the chest of the man holding you before impinging with the snowy ground.

Scrambling to find your footing, a hand reached out and entangling itself in your hair while yanking back. A sob escaped your mouth, a wordless plea to let you go. Gripping at his wrists, you attempted to pull his hands away from you, but that only proved to anger him more: his digits curled further into your hair, pulling your head back as far as it would go.

“Y-You done?” His voice cut through the air like an axe, the sound sending shivers up your spine and more tears to your eyes.

Looking up at him, you saw an upside-down version of the man behind you; his hood was up still, messy chestnut hair spilled out from the top, his orange-yellowish goggles now hung around his neck, and dark soulless eyes stared back at you, a mouthguard hung from ear to ear, concealing the lower half of his face.

Reaching into the pocket of your hoodie, your fingers went and grabbed for the knife only to find it missing.

“Looking for this?” he jeered, pulling out your weapon, the cool metal of the blade shining in the moonlight.

“Let me go! ” You cried out, your fear now turning to rage at his words. ‘You done?’ as if he hadn't chased you through the woods, as if he isn't trying to kill you. “You're fucking pathetic” you sneered, more tears welling up in your eyes.

“I-I'm p-p-pathetic?” he chuckled, his voice dropping an octave, the grip he had on your hair tightened. “Says t-the o-one on her knees” then he laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.

“You're disgusting” you grimaced, trying to pull away once again only to receive an emphatic tug, dragging you backwards onto the ground forcing another cry from you.

His hand left your hair, footsteps circling until he stood in front of you; crouching down so you were eye-to-eye, he reached out and gripped your chin and tilted it farther back. “You th-think I'm disgusting? That ‘fr-friend’ of yours is the the reason you're in t-this.” he growled, “But, I'll f-fucking show you dis-disgusting” he jeered, a deranged look in his eyes.

Uneasiness swirled in the pit of your stomach at the news, the surprise shown on your face.

His hand renewed its grip in your hair, aggressively pulling you up from the forest floor. “How about a game, hm” he said, a giddiness in his voice. “You tr-try and get ba-back to the cabin, if I don't c-catch you, I'll leave.”

“And if you do?” you questioned, your fear bleeding through into your voice.

“Well, I gu-guess you'll just ha-have to find out,” he said, the giddiness in his tone now replaced with something much darker, something much more sinister.

Your heart was thundering in your chest, your breathing heavy and erratic. You didn't need to find out, you already knew what he'd do: he'd kill you.

“I don't wanna play your fucked up game” you cried, knees threatening to give out underneath you. “You're gonna kill me anyways” now you were sobbing, tears streaming down your face, the cold winds chilling you further.

“Hey..” he cooed, his voice softening as if to comfort you. “I'm not go-gonna kill you” he said, his grip on your hair loosening “Not yet at l-least” then another sick bout of deep laughter filled your ears.

This time you couldn't stop yourself from collapsing to the ground, and sobbing into your hands. “I'm not playing this game, you fucking psycho!” you screamed, your rage and fear mixing together into a cesspool of emotions.

A sigh left him, almost as if he was disappointed. “F-Fine” he said, before the end of a blunt object struck you in the head and a familiar void spread around you.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Cold calloused hands ran up your thighs, giving them a rough squeeze, then to your hips and doing the same. Your mind began waking up, eyes slowly drifting open only to see him in between your now bare legs, hands traveling farther up to the waistband of your panties before receding and repeating the action.

His mouthguard was now gone, his eyes staring into yours. That's when you saw his full face; his skin a pale gray, snake bites adorning his bottom lip, and on the side of his face a large gash, one so deep you could see his porcelain white teeth from where you laid.

Your hands shot out, only to be stopped by a thick rope binding them to a headboard. “Y-You're finally aw-awake,” His grip on your thighs tightened, “Thought I'd have to fuck your unconscious body” he chortled, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Chills ran up your spine leaving goosebumps in its wake, another bout of sickness swirling in your stomach. Your legs moved of their own accord, kicking and thrashing about, hitting him on several occurrences until his hands gripped the back of your knees and pushed your thighs up to your chest, and held them there.

“What are you doing!” panic was laced in your tone, legs trying helplessly to get free.

“C’mon, I t-thought you were sm-smarter than that,” he sneered, settling one of his forearms across the backs of your knees, his now free hand sliding down the back of your thigh before traveling to your ass, giving it a harsh squeeze through the fabric of your panties.

Your leg shot out, connecting with his stomach causing him to fall back: in return a sharp slap was delivered to your face, a fiery inferno spreading across your cheek. Then he gripped your hips, his blunt fingers digging into the soft skin and flipped you onto your stomach, the rope cutting into your wrists and the headboard creaking lazily from the force.

His breath fanned against the shell of your ear, hips digging into your behind, pressing the bulge forming in his jeans into you. “I'm go-gonna fuck you s-so good, maybe you'll forget th-that your friend is the one w-who sold you like some wh-whore” he said through gritted teeth.

Tugging on your restraints to get free was proving unsuccessful, his hand slid down to your front, fingertips gliding up your abdomen and to the hem of your bra, playfully snapping the band. Your heart sped up, and you tried crawling farther up the bed only to be pulled back down by your hips.

“W-Wait” you gasped, squirming in his hold. “I-I don't know your name” it came out as a whisper, barely audible. Truly you knew it was a dumb question, but you just need him to slow down so you could think of a way out of this situation, to no avail.

A sudden burst of laughter filled the empty space around you, his manic cackles filling your ears. His breath fanned across your neck, “Toby” he said, his fingers back at your bra: they grabbed at the waistband and pulled roughly, breaking the clasp that held it together, the coolness of something sharp started tracing over your bare back.

‘A knife’ you thought. ‘My knife’ Now you were a crying, blubbering mess; weeps and wails escaping you as the weapon dragged across your back, to the strap of your bra and slicing through it, then repeating the action to the other strap. Your bra fell onto the bed beneath you, freeing your breasts.

The hand holding the knife discarded it, slithering its way across your stomach and up to your chest, grabbing and groping at the fat of your breast, pinching and twisting your nipple. A groan slipped from him, his hips rocking into your rear at an erratic pace.

His hand moved away from your chest, as did the hand on your hip. “S-So pretty, almost a sh-shame I'm gonna have to kill y-you” his words came out like venom, caused more tears to bubble up, and stream down your face.

“Please- I” was all you could manage, cries and wails racking through your body, you shook with fear, heart stammering against your ribcage.

“Please what, hm?” Toby purred, hands now dancing across the band of your underwear, fingertips just barely slipping in before retreating.

“I don't wanna die” you sobbed, head hanging low between your shoulders. You couldn't control your emotions any longer, your head was spinning and you thought you might pass out.

He cooed at you, a hand coming up and stroking your hair. “It's okay,” he whispered, “If you do good, we'll see what we can do” he began kissing and nipping at your jaw before murmuring, “How's that sound?”

As much as you hated him, your will to live took over and you weakly nodded. He continued kissing and sucking on your shoulder, his other hand slipping under the elastic band of your panties. He slid a finger through your folds, another deep groan was heard behind you. “Fuck, you're wet” he whispered against your throat.

His digits circled around your clit, rolling the bundle of nerves underneath the pads of his fingers, then sliding his lanky fingers through your wet heat and before long sinking into your slick cunt. Whimpers and uncomfortable whines left you as his cold fingers curled inside of you, before slowly pulling out and sliding back in, the palm of his hand teasing at your clit.

More tears crowded your vision as he drove his fingers in and out of you, “W-wait” you cried, pulling at the rope binding your wrists. The disgust in your stomach worsened as your walls squeezed around his fingers, the unwanted pleasure lighting your nerves on fire.

His hands retreated, the sound of rustling clothes filled the room. “You're doing so good, almost good enough to live” he said coolly, almost as if he wasn't threatening your life.

His weight settled back behind you, his fingers gripping the elastic band of your underwear, yanking them down to where your knees were planted against the bed. One of his hands gripped your hips, the other pumping his thick , veiny cock, then lining it up with your entrance. Pressing into you, the head of his cock slipped in your cunt, a dull-throbbing spread through your low body.

“Stop!” you sobbed, tugging at your wrists even as the rope began cutting into your flesh. You squirmed in his grasp, your hips trying desperately to pull away from him.

His hips slammed forward, pushing his cock further into you. “No” he said through gritted teeth, forcing himself the last couple of inches into you. “Y-You made your b-bed, now l-lay in it .”

Toby pulled out of you until just his tip remained inside, before ramming back into you. “Fuck, you're tight” he groaned.

It was like you were being split open, his cock sinking further into you with every thrust. Pain shot through your legs and up your spine, and sob tore from your sore throat. “Stop!-” you yelled, thighs shaking from his harsh abuse.

His hands disappeared from you, hips stilling as he grabbed at your hair and yanked back. “W-What the fuck d-did I just say” he snarled, his other hand coming up to your neck, the knife in it once again. “Now shut up, or I'll slit your fucking throat”

The hand knotted in your hair left, again gripping your hip and slamming back into you harder than before, the sharp blade still pressing harshly against your throat.

The pain began dwindling, pleasure blooming in its wake and twisting in the deep empty pit of your stomach attempting to consume you whole. A pathetic whimper escaped your throat, leaking into the air along with the lewd sounds of skin against skin.

The blade was withdrawn from the column of your neck, while he slowly pulled out of you, the hand brandishing the knife now clutched your hip along with the other and flipping you onto your back. “If-f I didn't know a-any better, I'd say y-you're enjoying t-this” he jeered, his lips curling upwards into a malicious grin while sliding your underwear the rest of the way off your body.

More tears slid down your flushed face, “No!,” you sobbed: shaking your head and tugging at your restraints with more fury than before, your hysteria creeping back in.

One of the hands on your hips snaked down to your cunt, rubbing lazy patterns on your clit. Electricity shot through your core and limbs, euphoria spreading throughout your body like a numbing static.

Then his cock tapped against your entrance, the head slipped back inside of you: a moan slipping free from your lips. His hips drove forwards, his cock stretching you out all over again before he pulled back and brutally slammed back in. More whimpers and moans spilled from your mouth like a degrading symphony.

He used your body like a toy, pulling you onto his length, then sliding you off until your legs were shaking and you were sobbing for him to stop.

A cold hand wrapped around your throat, cutting off your airways. “S-Shut up, and take it” he groaned, hammering himself harder into you. Your walls squeezed around his heavy cock, the head hitting against your spongy g-spot with every thrust.

Your stomach twisted with guilt and pleasure, guilty for feeling pleasure from this psycho, and for letting Tara die.

A knot in your stomach tightened every time Toby thrusted inside of you, incoherent whimpered and pleas spewed from your mouth as your orgasm raked through your body, eyes screwed shut and legs trembling around his waist. Toby's cock throbbed in your abused overstimulated pussy, hips driving himself into you roughly, then a warm sensation flooded through your walls along with the sounds of groans from the man above you.

His vicious thrusts slowed to lazily grinding into you, his heavy panting mixing with yours was the only thing heard in the small room, while his length stayed snug inside of you.

“I think” his voice was low as he spoke, his tone dark and malevolent. “I'm gonna have to keep you” and a low cackle was the last thing you hear before the end of something struck you in the head, and the world around you faded.

#smut #creepypasta #ticci toby #creepypasta smut #ticci toby x reader #dark fic #tw noncon

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yeyinde · 1 year

Text

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."

"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

#captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price #john price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #fae price #cod x mythology #bhhhhhhhh #ive been in halifax for the last week and it's been kinda rainy and weird and this was born

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