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dragonbe-writing · 2 months ago

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The worm @anjelicawrites (thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou) put in my brain from this post andncicnffjejeienrjrn hnnnnnnggggggg it started as a ramble and became this.

Woodsman John

Pairings: Price x Reader (reader has no explicit gender, but i write as an afab so it might seem that way?) WC: ~4500 Warnings: 18+ smut. nsfw. recluse!Price(?). oral, reader receiving. unprotected sex. Short Vers: Readers gets stranded in a storm and the resident town recluse/quiet woodsman takes them to his cabin to warm them up (winkwonk) and keep them safe.

The rain is coming down in sheets, thick enough to blur the world into grey smears and dark silhouettes. The kind of storm you hear about in headlines: washed-out roads, flash floods, people found days later in their cars. And yours… yours gave up half an hour ago, hood steaming and lights dimming until it finally sputtered to silence.

No signal. No sound but the storm. No houses you passed for miles, and the trees crowd the road like they’re trying to pull you under.

You’re walking now. Soaked through. Cold enough that your fingers hurt, your teeth won’t stop chattering, and your flashlight is down to its last weak flicker. The dark feels endless.

And then headlights, blinding and cutting through the rain like a blade.

You freeze, hand half-raised. The truck slows, a grumble of tires over gravel, the creak of the suspension when it stops just ahead of you.

The driver's side door opens. You don’t see him at first, just a shape, tall and broad, stepping into the downpour like it doesn’t touch him.

“Car break down?” he calls. His voice is low, not unfriendly, but not soft, either. Like someone who hasn’t spoken aloud all day.

You hesitate and take a step back.

“I—I don’t know,” you say. “It just… died.”

The man nods once, slow. His coat is soaked. His hair is plastered to his head. He doesn’t come closer, and somehow that’s worse. He just stands there, outlined in headlights and rain, watching you like he’s trying to decide what kind of problem you are.

You recognize him then. The man from the woods who only comes to town a few times a month. Always quiet, in and out, never causing a scene, like a ghost. You had offered smiles in passing, a small wave once in a while. He’d never do more than nod his head politely.

“You’re a long way from town.”

“I wasn’t trying to be,” you murmur.

Another pause.

Then he gestures toward the truck with a tilt of his head. “Get in. I’ll take you somewhere dry.”

You don’t move.

“I don’t usually get in cars with strangers,” you say, the words half-swallowed by the rain.

“And I don’t usually stop for them,” he replies.

It’s not a threat... You think... It’s just honest. That somehow makes it more terrifying.

But you’re freezing. The rain is getting worse. Your car is dead, your phone is useless, and this man—this huge, quiet man with eyes you can’t quite make out in the dark—is the only thing standing between you and something that might be warmer.

You climb in.

The truck smells like cedar and something metallic. The heater’s running, and thank God for that. The door thunks shut behind you, and you jump when it does. He gets in after, not saying a word, and pulls back onto the road like it’s just another night for him.

For a while, the only sound is the pounding of the rain and the wipers dragging across the windshield. You glance at him sideways. He’s older, maybe. Hard to tell in the flickering dashboard light. Beard thick, jacket worn at the elbows, knuckles scarred.

You wonder if he always looks this tense behind the wheel. Or if it’s just tonight. Or just you.

“Cabin’s ten minutes ahead,” he says, eyes fixed on the road. "You can get warm. Dry off. You can figure the rest out after.”

Still no name. No questions about yours. Just... a direction and a decision already made.

You stare out at the storm again and try not to wonder what kind of man lives alone this far from anywhere, in a cabin that doesn't show up on your GPS.

The drive is short. The wind howls through the trees, and every crack of thunder feels like it’s trying to chase the truck off the road. He doesn’t speak again, doesn’t look your way. Just grips the wheel like he’s done it a thousand times before, like muscle memory’s the only thing keeping him steady.

Then the truck crests a rise, turns down a muddy gravel path nearly hidden by overgrowth, and there it is.

The cabin's not large. Definitely not new. It’s tucked into the edge of the woods like it’s always been there, slouched under the weight of time. There’s a woodpile stacked neatly, a lantern hanging by the door, and a sliver of warm light leaking through the curtains.

He kills the engine and gets out without a word. You fumble with your seatbelt, nearly drop your bag, but he’s already circling the truck. When the passenger door opens, he doesn’t offer a hand, he just holds it open until you climb down, then turns for the door.

“Come on,” he says. “Cold’s worse when you stop moving.”

You follow him up the steps. He unlocks the door, pushes it open, and the smell of firewood hits you sharp and clean. The cabin is sparse but solid. Everything has a place. The hearth is still warm, like he banked it before leaving. He crouches without speaking, stacks a few logs, and coaxes the fire back to life with ease.

The light flickers, casting shadows across the walls. There’s a coat rack, a few mismatched chairs, a shelf full of books worn at the spines. It should feel claustrophobic, but it doesn't.

He stands, brushing ash from his hands, and disappears into a hallway. When he returns, it’s with a neatly folded pile: sweats, a soft long-sleeved tee, thick socks.

“Bathroom's back there. First door on the right. Bedroom’s next door, there’s space to change.”

You hesitate, hands still trembling around your soaked sleeves. He watches you for a beat, then adds, quiet but sure,

“Name’s John.”

It catches you off guard. Not just the name, but the way he says it. Like he wants you to have it, even if it’s all he’s offering.

“I’ll have tea ready when you’re out.”

And just like that, he’s gone again, heading for the kitchen, the soft clatter of a kettle and a cupboard door grounding you in a way you didn’t expect.

You glance down at the clothes in your arms.

John. Big, bearded, quiet, John... Okay then.

...

Morning comes slowly.

The storm is still letting loose, less violent, more relentless. Rain taps steady against the windowpanes, a sound that blends with the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional groan of wind through the trees. The world outside is grey and half-drowned, blurred by mist and water.

You’re not sure what woke you. The borrowed clothes are soft, worn thin in places, and the bed smells like cedar and smoke, but you can't fall back asleep.

You push the blankets back and pad barefoot across the wooden floor, careful not to let the boards creak. The air outside the room is warmer.

And then you see him. He’s in the main room, facing away from you, sitting low in a worn armchair. There’s a rifle across his lap—already clean, but he’s running a cloth down the barrel again, slow and methodical. He doesn’t look at what he’s doing. His eyes are locked on the TV in the corner, which buzzes softly with static. Just that white-gray flicker casting him in pale ghostlight.

For a moment, he's still. The only motion is his hand, steady on the rifle, and the slight twitch of his jaw.

He looks like a painting.

You move quietly as you can, but he hears you anyway.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says without turning. His voice is quiet. Raspy from disuse, like gravel rolled in smoke. “Tea’s still warm. Left it by the stove.”

You take a step forward, then pause. “You always clean your rifle this early?”

That gets a huff of breath. “Some habits are harder to kill than others.”

He sets the cloth down. He doesn't look at you yet, but his body language shifts. Loosens slightly. Like your presence did register, and it didn’t raise an alarm.

You move slowly. Pick up the mug from the stove, lukewarm but sweet, steeped strong with something herbal. You wrap your hands around it, letting the heat sink into your fingers.

“TV’s not working?”

His eyes finally cut toward you. Just a glance. Then back to the screen.

“Didn’t turn it on for the TV.”

You wait. But that’s all he gives.

You sit down across from him with your tea, the too-big sweats cinched at your waist and your sleeves rolled halfway up your forearms. He still hasn’t moved much, rifle across his lap, hand resting loosely against the grip.

The firelight casts shadows across his face, strong, weathered features softened by the flicker. His beard is a little too long, the grey at his temples catching the light. You wouldn’t call him handsome in a traditional sense, a little grizzled, older, but there’s something about him that sticks.

And god, his voice.

He hasn’t said much, but every time he speaks it sits low in your gut. Deep and worn, like it's used to barking orders but doesn’t have the heart for it anymore. Like maybe the world took that part of him and left this quiet thing behind. And maybe you shouldn’t notice the way his hands move—broad and sure, calloused fingers stained faintly with oil, tending to the rifle with the kind of care people reserve for old wounds or sacred things.

You sip your tea, but your eyes wander. Just a little.

Just enough to wonder what that voice would sound like saying something that wasn't a host's obligation. Just enough to notice how tall he really is, how he filled the doorway last night without trying. Just enough to think about how warm his cabin is, how warm his body must be under all those layers, how he didn’t flinch when you passed him on your way to the fire—just shifted slightly, like he was making room.

You shouldn’t be thinking about any of that.

You don’t know him.

But he’s not ignoring you, either. You catch the way his eyes slide toward you now and then, subtle, sidelong. Measuring, but not unkind. Curious. Like he’s still not sure what to make of you, but he's not sorry you're here.

The static hisses on the TV. The fire pops.

And when he finally speaks again, his voice is quiet and... intimate, somehow.

“Sleep alright?”

You nod. “Better than I expected.”

He hums. A low, thoughtful sound.

“Storm’s still goin’. Roads’ll be a mess ‘til late tomorrow at least.”

You take another sip. Feel the warmth settle in your chest. You meet his eyes and let the silence linger a little longer this time.

“That a roundabout way of saying I’m stuck with you?”

He looks at you fully now, and for the first time, the edge of a smile ghosts over his lips.

“Suppose it is.”

And damn it, that shouldn’t make your stomach flip the way it does.

You don’t mean to stare, really, but it’s hard not to.

The way he handles the rifle is practiced, almost soothing. He’s not really cleaning it—just going through the motions. Running the cloth over the barrel. Checking the sights. Like his body doesn’t know how to not do something.

You sip your tea again, then speak before you can second-guess it.

“Can you show me?”

He looks up, slow. “What?”

“The rifle. How you clean it. You’ve been doing it so automatically, it’s kind of fascinating.”

He gives you a look you can’t quite read. Not suspicion just… surprise. Maybe a flicker of something warmer behind it.

He tilts his head toward the seat beside him. “C’mere then.”

You set your mug down and cross the room, careful not to seem too eager. The floorboards creak under your bare feet, and you feel his eyes on you as you move.

You sit beside him, close enough that your knees almost touch. He shifts the rifle between you both, then turns it in his hands with the kind of care you’d give a sleeping animal.

“It’s nothing special,” he says, quiet. “Just an old bolt-action. Reliable. Got me through more winters than I can count.”

He shows you how he checks the chamber. Where to look for buildup. How to wipe it down without damaging the finish. His voice stays low and steady, that same gravel-and-smoke drawl, and you try to focus on the rifle, but his thigh is warm against yours.

His hand brushes your wrist as he passes you the cloth.

And when you glance at his face—close now, just inches from your own—you catch the way his gaze lingers on your mouth for half a second too long before shifting back to the task.

You’re both pretending not to feel it. But it's there.

It’s so there. damn it.

“I thought people who lived off-grid were supposed to use bows,” you tease. “Y’know. Quiet. Noble. Robin Hood vibes.”

That earns another real sound from him. A low chuckle, barely more than a breath.

“You think I look like someone who’d dress in green tights?”

You arch a brow. “I think you’d surprise me.”

He hums again, and this time when he hands you the rifle, his fingers rest against yours just a moment longer.

It's still storming outside. The fire’s still warm. And the way he’s looking at you now... it makes your skin feel too tight and your borrowed clothes suddenly way too soft against your skin.

You try to focus on the weight of the rifle in your hands. The way the metal’s cool even near the fire. You ask a quiet question, something about the scope, maybe, and he answers it with a small nod, leaning in, his shoulder brushing yours as he adjusts your grip.

“Like this,” he murmurs.

His fingers wrap over yours.

And maybe it’s the storm still raging beyond the windows, the firelight licking at the walls, the borrowed warmth of his clothes on your skin—but when his skin brushes yours again, you don’t move away.

Your breath catches slightly. You feel it, sharp in your throat as he shifts closer.

And then you look up at him.

John is staring at your hands. Or maybe past them. His jaw is tight. His eyes darker now, shadowed under the soft light.

“Been a long time,” he says, voice low. Almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.

You don’t ask, but he keeps going.

“Since anyone’s…” He pauses.

You shift your fingers slightly under his, threading them.

“I don’t mind the quiet,” you say.

His eyes lift to meet yours.

Something about that undoing is soft at first, silent and reverent, but then you see it. There’s hunger. It’s not desperate, but very very there.. Like it’s been locked up behind his teeth for too long.

And he kisses you.

God, he kisses you.

It starts as a breath. Then his mouth is on yours—warm, rough and needy—his hands cupping your jaw like he’s scared you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you still. His beard is coarse and sends tingles down your skin. His lips are firmer than you expect. He waits just long enough for you to kiss him back.

He groans softly into your mouth, like that single motion undid something in his chest. His hand slides to your hip. He kisses like a man who forgot how, like he’s remembering it piece by piece through the shape of your mouth, the wet heat of it, the way you press closer without thinking.

When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged.

He leans his forehead to yours, closes his eyes.

“I shouldn’t’ve—”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t ruin it.”

The rifle slides from your lap with a soft thump as you reach for him again, one hand at the collar of his shirt, the other curling into the back of his neck.

He exhales like the air’s been knocked out of him. Like he didn’t expect you to want this back. Like he doesn’t trust himself not to fuck it up.

He kisses you again, harder this time.

His hands find your waist first. His broad palms pressing in, dragging you closer, gripping like he needs the feel of you under his hands to believe this is real. He groans low in his throat when you push into him, your thighs brushing his, your mouth hot and open against his.

His beard burns a little, but you don’t care. You’re kissing him like you’ve wanted to for days, not hours. His tongue brushes yours, testing and teasing, and when you open to him, he groans again, this time deeper, rawer.

“Christ,” he mutters against your lips. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You tug at his shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists. “Then show me.”

His hands roam now, slipping under the hem of your borrowed shirt, callused fingers skimming over your skin like he’s desperate to feel more. He pulls you into his lap without asking, with a grunt that makes your breath stutter. You straddle him, knees bracketing his thighs. You press your chest to his as he kisses you again and again and again like he’s starving for it.

You grind down, just a little, and his whole body jerks like he wasn’t ready for that. His hands clamp down on your hips, thumbs digging into your sides like he’s trying to control himself.

“You sure?” he rasps, voice hoarse, barely holding on.

Your answer is in your mouth, your hips, the way your hand threads into his hair and tugs just enough to make him swear under his breath.

His control shatters with a sound somewhere between a growl and a prayer. Then his mouth is on your throat. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Hands everywhere, groping and needy, reverent but rushed. Like if he doesn’t touch you now, he won’t survive the night.

You bite his shoulder through his shirt and he groans loudly, hips surging up against yours, hard through his jeans, and it makes your pulse spike because fuck.

“Bedroom’s warmer,” he mumbles against your neck.

You kiss the pulse of his neck, then the shell of his ear and smile against his skin.

“Then take me there.”

Big hands slide under your thighs, and in one smooth motion, he stands—lifting you like you weigh nothing, like he’s done this a hundred times, like his body remembers how to hold someone this close.

You gasp, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, your legs locking behind his back as he starts toward the hall.

“Jesus—John—”

His grip tightens, and his voice rumbles right against your ear. “What, dove? Takin’ you there, aren’t I?”

The hallway is narrow, the shadows deep, but you barely register the creak of the floorboards, the storm outside, the faint hiss of the forgotten TV. All you can feel is him—his chest against yours, the flex of his arms, the heat bleeding off his skin even through the layers. He smells like firewood and smoke and sweat and soap that’s probably meant for dishes, and you’ve never been more turned on in your life.

He kicks the bedroom door open with his boot and sets you down on the floor like he’s trying not to drop you, like the moment your feet hit the floor, he’s failed somehow. He stands close, his hand barely brushing your cheek.

You grab his shirt and pull him close and drag it over his head.

It comes off with a rough pull, and then he’s bare before you, broad chest scarred and dusted with hair, stomach soft but strong, arms like something carved from years of hard living. You reach out and press your palms flat to his chest, feeling the thump of his heart.

He’s breathing hard. Almost like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

You reach for the hem of your own shirt, but he beats you to it—hands sliding under, palms rough on your ribs as he lifts it off of you, slow at first, then with a hunger he can’t quite hide. The shirt hits the floor.

His mouth finds yours again. Hot and desperate. One hand slides up your spine while the other cups your ass, dragging you against the thick press of him through his jeans.

You whimper into his mouth. He groans into yours.

Then you’re backing toward the bed—step by step, tangled in each other—until your knees hit the mattress and he lays you down, climbing over you.

He groans softly into your mouth and shifts downward, dragging his mouth along your throat, your collarbone, your chest. His hands are reverent now, spreading over your body like he’s trying to learn it by heart. He mouths at the swell of your chest, then lower, kissing your ribs, your stomach, groaning again as you squirm under the weight of his mouth.

Then he settles between your thighs.

Spreads them with both hands, palms firm but not forceful.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost like to himself. “You’re beautiful.”

And then he leans in. His beard scratches soft against the tender inside of your thigh as he kisses a slow path upward, and when his mouth finds you, you jolt. Gasp. Fingers twisting in the sheets.

He licks you slow at first, just one broad stroke of his tongue, then again, firmer and deeper. His hands anchor your hips, but he doesn’t stop you from bucking against him. In fact, the sound he makes—that low, guttural sound—tells you he likes it. That he’s getting lost in this as much as you are.

Then he adds his fingers. One at first, thick and slow as it eases into you, testing the stretch. Then another. He moves them just right, curling, dragging, learning what makes you twitch and moan and shudder. His mouth never leaves you. His beard is slick. His groans are muffled in the mess he’s making between your legs.

You’re already close, panting now, your hands grabbing at his shoulders, his hair, whatever you can reach.

“John—please—fuck—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips and beard glisten, his chest rising heavy with breath. His pupils are blown wide.

“You’re ready for me?” he rasps.

You nod. Desperate. “Yes—yes—please.”

He moves up, hand still working you, curling just right inside until you’re trembling under him, barely holding on. He kisses you again—messy, deep, all spit and heat and shared breath—and only then does he pull his fingers out.

You reach for him again, tugging at his waistband, breathless now.

“Off,” you manage. “Come on—John—”

He growls low, a sound from deep in his chest, and strips them off with shaking hands, dragging boxers down after in one rough motion.

And fuck, he’s hard. Big, flushed, heavy, already leaking at the tip—and the look on his face when he sees you watching him is nothing short of starved.

“You sure?” he asks again, even now, even half undone.

You pull him down to kiss you, deep and slow and yes. He lines himself up, one hand guiding himself to your slick entrance, and the other bracing beside your head as he sinks into you—slow, thick stretch, inch by inch, until you’re gasping, clinging, your whole body arching to meet his.

And he doesn’t move for a moment.

“Christ,” he mutters, voice gone wrecked. “Fuck—like I’m not gonna survive this.”

He moves steady, deep and a little rough, like he can’t hold back, like every thrust is dragging something buried out of him. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, your name low and wrecked in his throat every time he bottoms out.

He starts to move with a rhythm that’s more instinct than intention—deep, slow thrusts that hit every nerve, every aching spot inside you that’s been begging to be touched. Every time he pushes in, you feel the weight of him, the stretch that borders on overwhelming, and every time he pulls back it’s like your body claws at him not to leave.

It’s filthy, his moans mixing with your breathless whines, the contact of his skin against yours. The wet of him sliding in and out of you. His thick arms braced by your head as your arms wrap around his neck and your knees falling wider open.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “You take me so well—so fuckin’ good—so tight.”

You moan high and wrecked and he groans right back, dropping his head to your shoulder as he thrusts harder. The bed creaks beneath you both, the sound almost drowned out by your breathless gasps, his muttered curses, the wet slap of skin on skin.

He kisses your neck, your jaw, your mouth, sloppy, open-mouthed, desperate.

One of his hands slips between your bodies.

His fingers find you without hesitation, broad, callused, stroking hungrily and it making your whole body seize up.

“There,” you gasp. “Right there—don’t stop—John—”

He watches your face now, every twitch and moan and stutter of your breath, fucking you like he’s memorizing all of it, like he doesn’t want to miss a single second. Like he’s saving it for later. You can feel how much he needs this. It’s feral, possessive, and heated. How long it’s been. Every thrust, every drag of his hand against you, is soaked in need.

“I wanna feel you come,” he growls, low and wrecked. “Want you to fall apart for me, sweetheart—come on—I know you’re close.”

You’re so close, so tight around him, clenching, hips rolling to meet his every stroke, chasing that edge like it’s the only thing that exists. His fingers keep working you, relentless, wet and slick with you, and his cock hits that deep, perfect spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

“John—”

“Come on, love. Give it to me.”

And your body shatters.

It hits like a wave, hot and high and all-consuming, your thighs trembling, mouth open on a silent scream as you clamp down around him, your orgasm crashing through you in pulsing, gasping waves.

He groans, deep, guttural, nearly a growl, and fucks you through it, burying himself as deep as he can go, fingers bruising your hips, chasing his own edge now with abandon.

“Shit—fuck—gonna—where do you—?”

“Inside,” you breathe, drunk on the high, locking your feet around his back. “Please—.”

He growls something broken and filthy against your skin, then slams into you one final time, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a sound you’ll remember for the rest of your life. His body shudders over yours, all heat and weight and breathless need, his face buried in your neck as he rides it out.

You stay tangled like that, sweaty, shaking, chests rising together, his hands still gripping you like he can’t bear to let go.

And for a long, long moment, neither of you says a word, just the rain outside and the fire glowing down in the next room.

thanks for reading

#ohhhh i love hiding in the woods price #i love when he’s a loner #how cute

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