#along old willows

[uwhe-arts]

along old willows . . . | uwhe-arts

[willowser]

sometimes i get the very strong urge to write a comes back ??? fic for bakugou but the more i think about it, the more i realize how emotionally taxing and honestly horrifying it would be.

you and bakugou spend a few years in that weird will-they-won't-they stage before you officially start seeing each other seriously, and then it takes some time to adjust to having a pro-hero for a partner — so it's not always easy. until the time goes by and you have a break up scare or two and things finally level out, and you figure out how to talk to each other and you fall into the beautifully warm comfort of just being together, in love.

and then he fucking dies. in a heart-explodey, blind-in-one-eye kind of way.

the two years that follow are just — time passing, like pages in a chapter you can't understand the words to. you know grief in a way you never could have comprehended before, you wonder what it's all for and how you'll go on. you're angry at him for sacrificing his stupid life and angry at the world for taking him from you, but you're so deeply, down to your bones, heartbroken over losing him.

and you're not the only one; more than any of his friends that you see, deku is the one who is there for you the most. calls you daily and pulls you out of bed, makes sure you eat because he knows that's what kacchan would want. lovingly flings out a few gruff insults that make you laugh until you're both crying in your kitchen. it means something, maybe, that you both can just mourn in the presence of one another, without judgement or care.

your relationship gets a little — dependent. not romantic, at least not for you, but it's like you need the other person for the bits of bakugou they hold that you don't. the memories and the laughs and the bad times as well as the good. the secrets katsuki would never tell you, and the tenderness izuku was never shown.

it never gets easier. every day is just another day. if you think about it for too long, it all comes crumbling down. you're almost having to disassociate through your life just to make it, and that's hard when the whole city mourns him, too. but you do it. every single day, even on the worst of them.

izuku calls you a little more than two years after, in the middle of the night.

sounding way too awake and out of breathe, though you don't think that's necessarily out of the ordinary, considering his profession. he's a very hyper-fixation kind of guy; you can only imagine what hobby he's picked up and also mastered in the last 48 hours.

he asks if he can come pick you up from your apartment because he "needs to show you something important" and you agree, even if it doesn't feel like it usually does, when the nights are long and you both need someone to talk to. this feels — urgent. a bit worrisome.

you don't know where he takes you, but he's quiet the whole way there. in an old sweater, hair mussed, bags under his eyes like he really hasn't slept in the last 48 hours.

("stupid flighty fucker," katsuki would say, sometimes, when the weight of the world was weighing too heavily on the number one hero's shoulders, and even if he would huff and puff and grit his teeth, you'd notice him checking his phone more often than usual. taking every phone call that came without hesitation.)

you almost want to tell izuku that, in the car, because that's what you do, that's how you've kept him alive between the two of you; kacchan would make a point to tell you that's not how generators work, in the shitty horror film you and deku go see, that kacchan wouldn't dare sit through.

("no, he would," you argue, solemn as the lights in the theater warm back to life, as it empties. "he would."

and after a long, heavy beat, izuku would agree. "yeah. he would.")

izuku brings you somewhere that's too clinical to be as quiet and as dark as it is: inside, the walls and floors are sterile with anti-septic but the lights are off, in every hallway. the only visibility comes from a small lamp that's in a lobby of sorts, and there is a small handful of people you don't know, at all, already there. waiting.

you say his name in a small, concerned question, and when he takes both his hands in yours, they're warm and too wide and sweaty. his eyes glow, but in a way you don't recognize. everything he says to you is — gibberish, a mish-mash of worry and half-sentences and all the warning bells are going off in your head.

"y-you can't freak out, okay? you have to—i can explain all this when...when the time is right."

"you said that you would give anything to have kacchan back, remember? you said—you would do anything."

"i know this sounds—i know how this sounds, okay? but nothing is impossible!"

"i just need you to trust me."

and up until now, you had no reason not to. but you're not sure when he slept last, or even when he ate last, or why he's muttering things about his quirk, how he and katsuki are connected somehow, in ways he's not able to explain.

or why you can faintly hear the steady beeping of a heart monitor just beyond the only closer door in this wing of the hospital.

[scham-wcan]

The Day After at the Manor

Ruby, with a big box of Halloween Decorations inside: Woof! What a great night!

Cinder, with a similar box: Tons of fun, can't wait for next year already

Ruby: Well, Halloween and my birthday is in fact the best holiday of the year

A melody echoes from the grand staircase, making Cinder and Ruby poke their heads curiously out into the hall The Melody: I~.... Don't want a lot-

Ruby: Oh... no...

Cinder: Gods-

The Schneeblings, with a boombox from the top of the grand staircase: There's just one thing I need~! I don't care about the presents, underneath the Schneemas Tree~!

Winter, a TV Remote pretend Microphone in hand: I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know~!

Weiss, with a very similar duster pretend microphone in hand, back to back with her sister: Make my wish come true, all I want... For Schneemas

Whitley, cranking the boombox louder above his head:

Winter and Weiss, turning down the hall to see Cinder and Weiss, pointing with Jolly intent: Yoooouuu!

Cinder: EVERY GOTH FOR THEM SELF

Ruby: RUN

[richhietozier]

very vaguely working on a buffy the vampire slayer au fic rn (that i think will be centered around steddie) where nancy is the slayer, eddie is a vampire, and steve, robin, and jonathan are nancy’s scooby gang

[toji-girl]

31 & 37 for that smut prompt thing, but with Midoriya. You know that broccoli headed little angel is nothing but a savage in the the sheets

SJKns YES!! I love him so much! I will always think of Izuku the sweet-faced man who is so good to you, but in the bedroom? I feel like he can be such a dom or sub, whatever you want that man will be! this is not my best work djn - prompts

tags: 18+ only content - mdni + fem reader + Izuku got dusted with sex pollen + overstimulation + kitchen sex + creampie + all characters are over the age of 21

Monday started off like most days.

You woke up before your husband to pack Izuku some lunch for his shift, then you bid him goodbye with a hug and kiss that he always treasured and asked for more because he never knows if he's making it back home to you or not, so he's extra with his affection.

However, it wasn't a normal day though, during your self-care routine your phone vibrated on the bathroom counter, it was your husband.

He never called during the day unless it was super important, but if you ever rang him then he'd answer, Izuku prefers to send a quick text to tell you he was thinking about you, but this? This is new.

Jabbing the screen you answered it and wiped off your cream face mask. "Hey babe, you okay?" You asked leaning into the mirror.

On the other side of the phone you could hear him breathing raggedly, your name rolled off his tongue hoarse and thick.

"Is the front door unlocked?" Izuku asked ignoring your question.

After you wiped your face off you made your way to the front door making sure it was unlocked for him before going to the kitchen in need of something to drink. "It is yes, what's the matter Izuku?"

Instead of getting an answer he hung up on you which only made you more confused, then a few moments later you heard the front door.

Heavy footsteps sounded throughout the house that came closer to you. "Izuku?" You called out a little worried and confused about why your husband was acting like this until he finally showed himself.

He stood tall and strong like a willow tree leaning against the doorframe breathing raggedly as he stared at you, his chest rising fast as he closed the distance between the both of you.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your dress as he buried his nose into the crook of your neck as got you naked, his lips following no pattern as he peppered you with wet kisses while groping your ass.

"Babe? What is going on?" You asked with a slight gasp as he kneeled in front of you to tug your panties down. With your hands on his shoulders, he looked up at you with pink cheeks and wild eyes.

Izuku leaned in to inhale the musky scent of your pussy on bare display for him, his tongue lolled out to taste you as his hands stayed glued to your ass. "Villian." He muttered giving you half an answer.

With his mouth suctioned to your cunt there was no way you wanted it now anyway as you leaned against the counter to stay upright as you spread your legs hoisting one up over his shoulder as your fingers threaded through dark and green hair tugging slightly with a moan.

His tongue stroked over your clit over and over again bringing forth a type of pleasure that made you dizzy with it, all you could do was focus on the pressure he was using to bring you to climax.

As you stared down at him he looked like a feral man when he pulled away to lick his lips cleaning up your slick with a soft growl as he stood to his full height to rip his uniform off quickly. "Deku!"

Usually, when you used that name he would look at you like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar but this time he ignored you as he shredded the material until he stood stark naked in front of you.

Scars that looked like lightning were scattered along his body from years of training, now at twenty-eight years old he only gained more from his time in UA. Your eyes widened at his erection that stood up.

"It's so big. How the hell are we gonna make that thing fit?"

His cock was bigger and thicker, curving a little to make sure it hit the perfect spot to have you creaming, the head was swollen and dripped with thick pre-cum, something you'd never seen before.

Izuku wrapped his fingers around the base and jerked himself off as he turned you around making sure you braced yourself before he pressed the tip against your fluttering hole. "A little bit of patience."

With the sex pollen that was dusted over him and the group he was in, it seemed that Izuku got the worst of it and he didn't have time to shower like everyone else did, and right now he didn't have any patience, his mind was swimming with one thing only: you.

He rested his hands on your hips once he pushed inside while leaning forward to nuzzle his head against your shoulder as he thrust all the way in. "Feels so good, gonna drown myself inside your pussy."

His voice came out gravelly as he rutted against you like a virgin not really thinking about anything else but the way your warm silken walls hugged him tight made his stomach ripple with pleasure.

You spread your legs wider for him feeling him go even deeper if that was possible making you gasp and push against him grinding down on him fucking yourself now as he transferred the pollen to you.

The both of you fucked each other like wild animals snarling and mating, his fingers curled into your dress again ripping the fabric until it hung around your frame in shreds with missing chunks.

Izuku pounded you from behind his hips were sure to bruise your ass and you both were going to be sore tomorrow as he hunched over you more kissing and biting at your neck and panting your name.

You lost count of how many times you came coating his dick in w a white creamy essence that he begged you to suck clean then he'd eat his loads of cum from your gaping cunt until you were empty.

It was only right that he filled you up again.

"I'm not done with you. Get back here." Izuku growled pushing himself back inside you to rid of that pollen that made his blood boil when you attempted to pull away for a moment.

[enha-doodles]

Omg sjsksk I love your works and i was wondering if you can write head canons or reaction of Slytherin boys reacting to their darling being from gryffindor 👀👀

SLYTHERIN GUYS REACTION TO YOU BEING IN GRYFFINDOR | ✧⁺。

Pairing : ( Mattheo , Tom , Theodore, Lorenzo, Draco ) x reader

Note : tysm for the request lovely !! I'm glad ppl are enjoying these ✨✨ wrote this quickly because I hit 500 and i wanted to post something for it sksjdhkdk

Warnings : none

Mattheo Riddle

Mattheo couldn't give a flying Snitch about house rivalry because he's head over heels for you. Still, he can't help but grumble about those Gryffindors, muttering how the Sorting Hat must've been napping when it put you in the wrong house.

He's like, "You? A Gryffindor? Nah, you're Slytherin material, love. Just look at how cunningly you stole my heart."

Tom Riddle

Tom's all about that subtle domination, like a cat playing with its prey. He'll casually drop hints about your Gryffindor status whenever he can, but it's all in good fun... mostly.

It's like he's saying, "Oh, you're a Gryffindor, darling? Well, just remember who's the real king of the castle here , who your lord is"

Theodore Nott

At first, Theodore's perplexed , wondering why on earth the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor. Stupid ass hat . Lowkey blames it on the hat being old and not having the same sense "maybe it's lost its power to sort along with its sanity"

But then he's like, "Eh, whatever. House smouse, as long as I've got you cara mia." He'd rather spend time cozying up with you than waste energy fussing about house rivalries.

Lorenzo Berkshire

Lorenzo's not one to beat around the bush Whomping Willow. He straight-up asks you to beg Dumbledore to switch your house. Very annoyingly continuosly.

He'll be like, "Come on, babe, it'll be easier for both of us. Slytherin's where you belong." But hey, even if you stay a Gryffindor, he's still all heart eyes for you.

Draco Malfoy

Draco's the drama queen of Slytherin, whining about your Gryffindor status like it's the end of the World.

He's all, "You're not seriously a Gryffindor, are you? Ugh, next thing you'll tell me is you're besties with Harry Potter." But deep down, he's just a lovesick puppy, willing to overlook house drama for your sake.

。　　　　✧　　　　⁺　 　 　。

[ectologia]

♱ ˖ ࣪࿐ 𝒯𝐻𝐼𝒩𝒦𝐼𝒩𝒢 𝒜𝐵𝒪𝒰𝒯 . . .

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 ؛ just sleepy emotional boys, embarrassing sex scene

𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 . . .

Big, powerful, stoic men who come home so tired and exhausted that they just can’t...

His hair is mussed, his eyes heavy lidded with dull purple rings encircling them, shadowing his features gravely when he looks up at you with sunken brows.

He has to bow to enter without hitting his head on the door frame, climbing into your home like a giant intruding on an ant’s nest. His arms barely extend into the air, more a subtle twitch of his fore fingers beckoning you to him, silently asking, begging for a hug. Or at least some type of affection.

You poise yourself on your toes, slinging your arms up and around his shoulders while he arches into you with the likeness of a withered old willow tree.

No words are exchanged as he picks you up by your rear, propping you on his hip like one would a child. You assume he wants you in bed, so you cling to him. Interlocking yourself around his body with your ankles hooked at the base of his spine.

To your confusion, the inevitable groan and creak of the staircase never comes, only a grunt of frustration, and the clang of a belt buckle that has your ears perking.

You’re pinned to the nearest wall within an instance, yelping as picture frames jounce and ornaments shudder. He wastes no time in pulling your underwear to the side, wanting to be as close as possible as he bathes the warm, velvety tip of his dick in your slick, rolling it’s throbbing warmth around in your own with a broken whimper.

He has no desire to stretch you open and spear himself inside you today, perfectly content with rocking back and forth lazily with weak thrusts and humps, forehead and hands plastered against the wall behind you with laboured breaths leaving moist patches against your shoulder and neck.

Neither of you are moving, left with your legs dangling limply as he pushes himself up and down against the delicate softness of your little pink slit.

You brace yourself on his shoulders, hanging off of him like dead weight as his hips move with the weakest of pulses, barely thrusting with the bob of his ankles and tense of his ass assisting him.

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.” He chants like a prayer through grit teeth, voice breaking and shattering as though he was on the verge of tears, teetering on the edge and torn between cumming and crying, croaking out tiny pleas as droplets bubble along his lash line and sink to where his throat closes up.

His knees almost unravel from their locked position and give way when you shush him, stroking up his nape and carding through the thick locks layered with sweat, cooing at him sweetly that he doesn’t have to finish tonight, and neither do you.

He collapses at that, crouching down on the floor and taking you with him. He must look so silly, sobbing and sniffling into your hair, hunched with his boxers around his ankles and his manhood swinging between his knees half hard. No less with you crumpled beneath him, twitching muff puffed out bare with your legs tangled over his thighs like a contortionist, waiting patiently for his tears to subside.

“Tomorrow”, he promises. Tomorrow he’ll be better. Tomorrow he’ll fuck you till’ you cripple, he’ll eat your pussy and he’ll finger you till’ you squirt then he’ll do it all again for you, he promises. He’s sorry.

But he knows he shouldn’t be, by the way you shake your head light heartedly and smile. You let him cry as long as he wants, bringing himself to his knees and cuddling your chest as though he wasn’t twice your size and height, squashing your partially nude form into the floor until he’s all tuckered out and sleepy beyond comprehension.

You’d carry him to bed if you could, wanting to repay him for all the times he’d done so for you. But instead, you just stay. Moulding and bending into whatever position he demands of you as he rests his weary head against your stomach, snivelling until two blinks become one, and one blink becomes zero.

𝓉𝑜𝓂𝓊𝓇𝒶 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓀𝒾, 𝓀𝒶𝓉𝓈𝓊𝓀𝒾 𝒷𝒶𝓀𝓊𝑔𝑜𝓊, 𝒹𝒶𝒷𝒾, 𝓀𝑒𝒾𝑔𝑜 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝒶𝓂𝒾, 𝒾𝓏𝓊𝓀𝓊 𝓂𝒾𝒹𝑜𝓇𝒾𝓎𝒶, 𝑒𝒾𝒿𝒾𝓇𝑜𝓊 𝓀𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓂𝒶 + 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝓋𝑒𝓈 !

[keanoble]

Huntlow week day 6

prompt : Opposites

i couldn't decide which one to finish T-T so have a bunch of them!

this is based off an old au i made (if you can call it an au) where willow is captain of the gold guard/emperors coven along side hunter

(cause belos forbid a woman solely be in-power)

[awkwardwhims]

🤍 Yearn For Fern 🤍

Introducing Fern Hargrave | Age: 26 | Pronouns: She/They

Fern grew up in Willow Creek & was bounced around to different foster homes when her parents both passed away. Once she was old enough she spent her days globetrotting, learning skills & finding herself.

Along her journeys she never once had a significant other, just her companion, Bandit & a rescue horse named Derby.

This clumsy, kind hearted, adventure seeker would love to settle down with someone & maybe even have a family of her own.

Entrant Guidelines:

Humans only (I'm not big on occults).

Female or male sims are accepted.

Young adults are preferred.

Skills & aspirations can be whatever you want. They don't need a job.

Should have hobbies, likes & dislikes.

Include their traits (keep them game only, no custom traits). Entrants can't have the romantic trait & at least one negative trait.

Give your entrants their own style. But Fern's favorite colors are earthy tones.

CC (just be mindful of how much cc you use) is okay as long as it's maxis match. You must be comfortable with slight changes to fit my style (ie. default skinblends/eyes, etc)

Tag me @awkwardwhims in your entrant post or use the hashtag #yearnforfern so I can find you easily!

Contestants i. Rowan by @theosconfessions ii. Eloise Anderson by @droolski iii. Mike Casey by @saartje77 iv. Merle Defossé by @kirsicca v. Gabriel Vasquez by @aniraklova vi. Andy Wiles by @minamill vii. Amara Wilson by @doodle-dee viii. Stephen Colbert by @itcrescentcrow

Please send the tray files & cc to my inbox, if you haven't already! You have ONE week at the latest to get your sim to me; otherwise I will choose a different contestant.

Deadline: Closed!

[badingsm]

Mama DADDY Natasha — The One With The Baby Shower!

Warnings: Some Melina appreciation, alcohol, pregnancy.

"Babe, if I wasn't married to you, I might just love your mother like-"

"What?" Natasha raised her brow at you in warning. "Like what?"

"Like how I love my mother! Duh!" You chuckled nervously, looking away from her intense gaze. "Love, I was just, um, joking."

"You know I'm jea-" She sighed, kissing your temple while rubbing your bump with her warm hand. "Nevermind. Do you need anything? Are you hungry, baby?"

"Nah, I'll probably just talk to your mother," You said while she glared at you again. "And Yelena and Alexei, of course!"

"I'll go get you some water, okay?"

"Mhm, thanks." You nodded, staying in your place while caressing your 7-month-old baby bump. Just then, when you were about to go around and look for your best friends, Melina came trudging by your side with an affectionate smile, seeing you blooming with your second babies. "Melina! Hi! How have you been? How's Ohio? Willow missed you!"

"Yeah, I can tell, she wouldn't let me go." She laughed, and you stood there trying not to get flustered by how beautiful this woman looked (not that you're cheating, just more on admiring and stating facts). "We're good in Ohio. You?"

"We're okay here." You nodded nervously with a grin. "I mean, it would've been better if you moved here."

"I'm sorry, what?" Melina raised her brow when she didn't quite catch your low mumble. "Were you saying something?"

"Oh, no, no." You playfully hit her shoulder, earning a frown from her. "I'm just saying that we're good here. Willow loves to play with Morgan and Peter."

"Good," Melina agreed as Alexei joined the both of you. "Where's your granddaughter?"

"She's with her aunt Yelena," Alexei answered, his voice thick with a Russian accent. "How have you been, huh? Baby number two and three are coming near! And soon, baby number four is coming too!"

"Yeah." You laughed with wide eyes. "We're not really sure with number four yet. Willow and these babies are just, um... surprises..?"

"So, none of this is planned?" Alexei frowned, gesturing wildly towards your stomach, and somewhere else, "I didn't raise my daughter, Natasha, like this! Everything should be-"

"It's because you didn't raise us!" Yelena butted in, looking over where she came from while you followed her vision of line, only to see Kate holding Willow in her arms. "Hey, Y/n/n."

"Lena." You acknowledged her with a gentle smile. "Hi!"

"Hi!"™ She greeted back, her head tilted slightly to the side as she prolonged the vowel.

And it went like that, catching up with the Russian family until Natasha came back with a glass of water and clingy Willow in her arms.

"Everyone!" You heard Tony's voice on the microphone. "We're gathered here today to celebrate another life and another journey with the Romanoffs! Let's give them a round of applause!"

Everybody clapped loudly, with Willow clapping happily along with the guests while you scrunched your nose due to the sensitivity of your ears. Nonetheless, you felt your heart leap in joy as you looked through the room filled with your loved ones.

"Natasha and Y/n, may we hear some speech from here?" Tony asked, making you groan dramatically while Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Baby, we don't have a choice; you know him," Nat comforted. "I promise, after this, I'll give you a foot massage, okay?"

You pouted, "Promise?"

"Cross my heart, my love," Natasha confirmed, guiding you as you walked onto the stage. Being the gentlewoman that she is, she gave you the microphone first.

"Okay." You sighed over the speaker, and the guests laughed. "I just want to thank you all for the effort of coming here. I hope you live for as long as you'd like."

"Baby," The redhead chuckled lowly beside you, shaking her head at your antics while it's her turn to speak. "Thank you very much for coming. We appreciate all the love that you give to our children."

"Not much of a talker, you two." Tony pursed his lips when he grabbed the phone back from Natasha. "Back to the party!"

-

"Hey, are you okay?" Wanda sauntered towards you. She had just come in because she also needed to be a mother to her children. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I brought a gift."

"Nonsense." You brushed her off. "You shouldn't have. It's okay."

"Nah, I insist." She scrunched her nose adorably, handing you the gift that she wrapped perfectly. Just then, Yelena and the group entered with some alcohol in their arms.

"Lady Yelena!" Thor greeted, "I've brought the Asgardian Ale!"

"This is why I like your company, Thunder." Yelena smirked, grabbing the bottle from the Asgardian while passing it to the others, such as Kate, Carol, Bucky, Sam, Gamora—you get the gist. All of them drank some of the hardcore liquor until all of them stumbled groggily along the hallway except for you and Natasha, of course.

Because Natasha didn't let you when you tried to sneak a little gulp.

"Baby, you're pregnant!" She chastised, kissing your pout away.

"Oh, come on! Let her have her fun!" Tony (the most drunk of them all) drunkingly uttered with a slightly loud voice, making Natasha glare at him with her infamous look. "Fine! Make her sad and old!"

"Shut up, will you?" Natasha mumbled impatiently with gritted teeth before turning back towards you, gazing at your most pitiful look. "I'm sorry, baby, but no."

"Fine." You sighed dramatically. "Wanna go to sleep."

"Okay, let's go." Natasha nodded, standing up when you did as she placed her muscular arms securely around your body.

You raised your brow at her. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I thought we're sleeping?" The redhead stared at you confusedly. "Where else would I go?"

"Oh, you're not sleeping with me tonight," You said with finality as you began walking your way to your shared room. "Go find your place somewhere on the couch—if you could even do that considering those Avengers who thought so highly of themselves when they drank that liquor without giving me some!"

Natasha protested as the others laughed drunkly, "Baby!"

"Night, Romanoff!"

[willowser]

i talk a lot about things i'm working on, bc i'm working on a lot of things ! but just want to set out a reminder (and promise) that pleased to meet you and southern charm are my main focus right now; everything else is just being developed in the background, when i have some spare time but not enough to actually sit down and write.

[arc-misadventures]

What are those: wallow decided to go to beacon academy with winter to go see how wiess is doing but instead meet with jaune

The Dragon’s Diamond

A small bullhead flew through the air towards, Beacon Academy. It was a privately owned airship that belonged to the, Schnee Dust Company, and right now it was carrying an assortment of precious cargo: The daughter of the founder of the, SDC, Willow Schnee. Her eldest child, Winter Schnee. And a locked cased filled with diamonds of various sizes, and quality. At least what they assumed were diamonds. For they had come here to see if they were in fact real diamonds.

Winter: I’m sorry mother, but I must protest; Why did you have to come along to handle this simple endeavour; you could have simply handed over your, and my diamonds to, Klein, and let him handle it. Why did you have to come along?

Willow: I needed a vacation. This seemed like a reasonable excuse why to do so. Besides, it also gives me an excuse to be around my daughters. Is there something wrong with me desiring to be with my family my dear?

Winter: …

Winter: No, no there isn’t anything wrong with that, it’s just unexpected is all.

Willow: I understand, but being away from home also keeps me away from drinking. I’ve managed to at least reduce the amount I’ve been drinking substantially, but being around your father long enough will lead me back to drowning myself in the bottle again. I cannot allow that to happen.

Winter: I… I’m sorry, I thought you chose to leave for different reasons.

Willow: Like trying fine, Valian wines?

Winter: Ahh! Yes… Yes I thought so.

Willow: Well, depending on what, and where we’re having dinner I wouldn’t mind a suitable wine to go along with it, but I have to stop drinking. Not so much for myself, but for you, your sister, and your brother. I… I want to stay a part of your lives, to see you grow old, and start families of your own in the future. It would be a shame if I am to deny myself these opportunities because I drank myself to death…

Winter: Thank you, Mother. Hearing you say that means a lot to me. But, if you want to give up drinking, why are you looking forward to having wine with your meal?

Willow: I’m slowly weaning myself off drinking. Not everyone can just go cold turkey now can they?

Winter: I would prefer it if you did.

Willow: Well, it would probably be for the best if I did, but… Oh, we’re here, let’s continue this discussion later, and find your sister.

Winter: Very well then, Mother.

As the ship landed the mother, and daughter duo grabbed their luggage, and made their way towards the academy. As they neared closer to the tower, Willow couldn’t help, but take in the sights around her.

Willow: Oh my… Beacon Academy is such a lovely place.

Winter: Yes, the warm breeze, and vibrant greenery give this place such a relaxing air to it.

Willow: I know, Weiss went to, Beacon to escape father in, Atlas. But, do you suppose this rich atmosphere contributed to it?

Winter: I believe it was more so her desire to escape, Father. But, this is a nice benefit.

Willow: I hope she is feeling happy here.

Winter: Me too.

Willow: But, where do you believe she is?

Winter: I have no idea, there should be an information desk up front we can ask.

Willow: Or, I suppose we could ask him if he knows where, Weiss is.

Winter: Who?

As they drew closer to the, Academy they saw the statue out front, and a student sitting on the base of the statue. They noticed that he was seemingly mumbling to himself as he ran his hands through his golden hair as he evaded the white horns poking out.

Winter: A faunas?

Willow: Excuse me, young man?

: Hmm, what? Oh, hello.

Willow: Hello. I was wondering if you could help us.

: With what?

Winter: We’re looking for my sister, Weiss Schnee, do you perchance know her?

: Weiss Schnee? Yeah, I know her, we’re friends after all.

Willow: Excellent, can you please lead us to her?

: Sure I can… I can…?! Hurk?!

His hand quickly came up to cover his mouth, seemingly trying to repress a gag. His luck failed him as he continued to dry heave until a he opened his mouth, and a belch of fire erupted from his mouth before he fell into a small coughing fit as small jets of flame escaping his mouth with each cough. As soon as his coughing fit ended he popped a small white marble into his mouth, before turning to address the duo.

: Jacques you cheap bastard! (Cough!) Ahem, sorry about that, upset stomach. Hehe…

The duo looked at him in stunned shock, taking a moment for themselves to collect themselves. Willow seemingly able to keep her wits about her.

Willow: A-Are you okay?

: Yeah, I’m fine.

Winter: But, you just belched fire?

: That’s a semi-common occurrence.

Willow: But…?!

Winter: Wait, Mother… Male, blue eyes, blond hair, horns, and can breath fire… You’re the, Dragon King, Jaune Arc, aren’t you?

Jaune: That’s me, well mostly. I’m not a king of any sorts, but I am a dragon faunas. Anyway, my name is, Jaune Arc, nice to meet you.

Jaune offered his hand for the pair to shake as they introduced themselves in kind.

Willow: Willow, Willow Schnee, it’s a pleasure to meet you.

Winter: Specialist Winter Schnee.

Jaune: So you’re, Weiss’s family? That explained the smells.

Winter: Smells?

Jaune: I have a highly, highly acute sense of smell. I can smell familiarity’s between people, to the point I can tell if someone is related to another.

Winter: That sounds like an impressive ability.

Jaune: It has its downsides… Like my little sister trying to use me as a bloodhound…

Willow: You said you are friends with my daughter, Mr. Arc, can you lead us to her?

Jaune: Uhhh… No, no I can’t. She went into, Vale with the rest of her team just a little while ago.

Winter: She did, why?

Jaune: I don’t know; I left to ‘throw up,’ and when I came back she, and her teammates had disappeared. My sister said that they had made an emergency trip to, Vale, and that was all there was to it. Do you want me to call her, and let her know you’re here?

Winter: No… Well, maybe we should.

Willow: Oh dear… I was hoping to surprise her with our sudden visit.

Jaune: You can still do that if you want.

Willow: We can, how?

Jaune: Weiss, and her teams room is just down the hall from my teams room. You can wait there until she arrives.

Winter: What do you think mother?

Willow: We might as well, this young man has graciously offered us his place to us while we wait for your sister to return. We won’t be in there for a few hours at most.

Winter: Very well, we graciously accept your kind offer, Mr. Arc.

Jaune: My pleasure, and please, just call me, Jaune.

Winter: Very well then, Jaune.

Jaune: Even if you rejected my offer you’d no doubt be taken to my room anyway so I could inspect those diamonds, and any other gemstones of yours. If there are any that is…

Winter: What are you talking about?

Jaune: Two things: Those are, Fortress grade safe-boxes, made by the, Gem Refinery. To which I own, I know my merchandise. Especially the safe-boxes…

Willow: Wait, you’re the owner of the, Gem Refinery?

Jaune: Yes, I am. Second I over heard, Weiss… screaming to her father on how she wanted her entire families precious jewels so they can be appraised. And, who is that appraiser, me: Jaune Arc, the Lapidary Master!

Willow: You’re the, Lapidary Master?!

Jaune: Yep!

Willow: I don’t believe you. You’re just a teenager, and you’re supposedly the worlds most renowned fine cut gem grader?

Jaune: Oh, just you wait, and see darling! Now then, lets go look at some pretty stones!

~~~

Jaune: Hmmmm…?

Jaune hummed in speculation as he examined a rather large diamond on a gold ring with a jewellers magnifier. Willow looked on in a chair besides him, while, Winter look on from his bed as, Jaune worked.

Willow: That was the engagement ring my husband gave me, he said it is one caret diamond ring.

Willow: …

Willow: It is a diamond ring… Right?

Jaune looked at, Willow, back to the ring, and then back to her. Their eyes stayed locked for a moment before he threw it into his mouth, and a hard crunching sound soon followed this action.

Willow’s face fell into her hands as she groaned in disbelief at what she had just witnessed, again.

Willow didn’t believe, Jaune when he started sorting her diamonds into two piles, one labeled real, and labeled fake. The ‘fake’ pile had grown considerably larger then the ‘real’ pile to the point she doubted he was actually genuinely grading her diamonds, and was trying to steal them. To prove his innocence, he grabbed a sizeable real diamond, and bit it. The sound it made was akin to bitting a jaw breaker: hard, and solid, as if one smacked their head against a wall.

Jaune, then grabbed one he deemed a ‘fake’ and bit into it. The sound was like someone bit into a hard candy, and wanted to chew it up, instead of sucking on it; Loud, and crunchy.

He made this a habit whenever she doubted his expertise, as a master gemologist. A habit she had come to dread because of the details that followed with it.

Luckily that was the second to last diamonf he needed to inspect, and she knew for certain that the last one wasn’t fake.

Willow: At least tell me the ring was made of gold?

Jaune spat out the piece of metal next to the pile of fakes, she grimaced as she looked at him as he regretfully smiled at her.

Jaune: Well… Pyrite, isn’t called ‘fools gold’ for nothing… hehe…

Willow: Gods dammit… My husband bought me a fake engagement ring?! How cheap of a man is he?!

Winter: More so then we could possibly believe…

Jaune: I doubt he was in this case.

Winter: What do you mean?

Jaune: Well… From what I’ve been told your father is a greedy whore. Uhh?! N-No offence.

Winter: None taken.

Willow: Please, feel free to continue badmouthing my husband at your leisure.

Jaune: Okay? Anyway, your husband is a greedy whore, from what I’ve seen. And, from what, Weiss has said about him is that he doesn’t commit to anything that doesn’t have a shiny price tag attached to it. I think he acquired these gemstones as a future investment. Liquid assets as you would put it.

Winter: That sounds like something father would do, but why would he buy fakes? My father is a greedy bastard, and will do everything to save a chip. He wouldn’t buy fake diamonds, there’s no value in that.

Jaune: Maybe he didn’t know he was buying fakes?

Winter: You believe someone swindled him?

Willow: It is a logically sound idea when you think about it.

Jaune: I’m well aware of several infamous gem pedlars. Give me a list of your sellers, and I could identify who is a legit seller, and who is not. Because there are some real ones here, so maybe he bought the fakes from one person, and the real ones from another.

Willow: I believe they were all acquired from one person, at least the vast majority were.

Jaune: And, that person’s name is?

Willow: Cartiff… Cartiff… Oh, I forget his first name.

Jaune: …

Jaune: It wouldn’t happen to be, Quintin now would it…?

Willow: Quintin… Yes, Quintin Cartiff, that was his name. How did you know?

Jaune: Quintin… Quintin Cartiff…

Willow: J-Jaune? Is everything okay…

Jaune: Quintin CARTIFF!!!

Winter immediately jumped in front of her mother pulling her mother back. Her hand stayed on her blade as she saw a truly terrifying sight. Within the space of a blink the calm, and happy boy revealed a monster of fire, and ash. His head realed upwards as he scream his name in a bloody rage. Winter got to see first hand the hidden fang he hide behind that warm, and inviting smile of his. The way his mouth shut, terrified her knowing full well he could bite down into someone in mere seconds, and could easily pierce through aura, and flesh like it was tissue paper. She marvelled at the sight of blue flames erupting from clenched fangs. The reports she had seen about the dragon faunas were fragmented, and vague, but even those brief insights paled in reality at the sight before her.

The flames, erupting from, Jaune’s teeth slowly fettered out as a finally deep exhale escaped his lips, he shook his head as if trying to shake off some sort of ill feeling upon him. He leaned back in his chair to look at the mother, daughter duo as he gave them a nervous, and embarrassed smile as he awkwardly scratched the back of his head.

Jaune: Ah haha… Sorry about that… I didn’t expect hearing his name to set me off like that… Hehehe… Sorry…

Willow: It seems you are well acquainted with this individual?

Jaune: As well as I would like to be. The bastard is an infamous counterfeiter, specializing in fake jewels. Particularly diamonds. I met him years ago after I just started out my… passion for collecting precious gemstones. He sold me some nice diamonds the first few times, but then he came back again, and the ‘diamonds’ he brought were all fakes. He denied it of course. Then I ate his ‘diamonds’ to prove to him that they were all fakes.

Willow: Oh, so eating fake diamonds is not a recent habit you’ve developed. I thought it was just for show.

Jaune: Well, yeah it kinda is. I mean what better way to prove if a diamond is a fake?

Winter: Do you often eat precious stones?

Jaune: No, I tend to eat, Dust more so then cubic zirconia, and the like. That’s why I was belching fire earlier, Weiss fead me some, SDC Dust that made me sick to my stomach. Jacques is such a cheap bastard…

Winter: Wait, you eat, Dust?!

Willow: And, what does my husband have to do with that?

Jaune: Okay, one box left to examine!

Jaune simply ignored the ladies questions as he took out the last box. It was a seven inch cube box covered in various locking mechanisms that, Jaune was quite intrigued on opening it himself. But, in the pursuit of time he just handed it over to, Willow who opened it herself. And, upon it’s opening, Jaune beheld a beautiful sight. The one diamond he had been hoping to see for ages.

The famous, Schnee Diamond.

The diamond was cut into an orb with a with a three diameter, roughly making it the same size as your average baseball. It shimmered, and sparkled like a star under the light of his desk lamp. He extended the talons on his hand as he picked it up, and inspected this prized jewel. Turning it over as he marvelled in its beauty.

Willow: …?

Willow: Do you like it, Mr. Arc?

Jaune: …

Willow: Do you like it, Jaune?

Jaune: …

Willow: Jaune!

Jaune: Huw? Oh yeah, It is such a marvellous diamond… I’ve been dreaming of seeing it, holding it within my hands to marvel in its splendour since I first saw photos of it, and I must say those photos do it no justice in its magnificent.

Winter: Are you sure it’s real?

Winter cheekily remarked as, Jaune was lost in the beauty of the diamond in his taloned fingers. Her smile fell as she heard the most beautiful ringing sound she had ever heard as he tapped the diamond with his talon before turning to face her.

Jaune: Hear that? Humans can’t here this sound, most faunas can’t hear it either, but I can. Most diamonds are too small to make this an audible sound for most people to hear it. But, this diamond is big enough for anyone to hear it singing. Only a real diamond can make such beautiful sounds.

Willow: It is such a beautiful sound, I had no idea such sounds can come from a diamond.

Jaune: Only a few bare such elegance… Oh I wish I could have this diamond for myself… But alas, I doubt your open to selling it. Are you…?

Willow: If I was… Hypothetically speaking, how much would it be…?!

Jaune: Three billion Lien.

The duo looked at him astonished at the thought that, that diamond was worth, Three Billion Lein. The sense of unquestionable authority as he stated this didn’t make them question the possibility that he was gaslighting them so he could get it for a fraction of the price.

Willow: Oh my… I… I did not expect that…

Jaune: Didn’t you have it graded before?

Willow: Decades ago, and back then it was nearly a billion lien. But, to imagine the price has gone up that much… it’s unbelievable…

Jaune: It would be the worlds most valuable diamond, but that title was taken away from it a few years back.

Winter: Oh really? What took it’s place?

Jaune: This…

As if appearing from thin air, Jaune held out before the duo a diamond; A diamond cut into a sphere with a diameter of five inches across. Winter’s breath was stolen away as, Willow at the beauty presented before her. She carefully took it from him, fearing the validity of the rumours that he would gut her if she touched it. But, it appeared as if he was offering it to her to hold, so she took it.

She was amazed by its hefty weight, as she saw the light sparkle across it surface. She was amazed when her father showed her the, Schnee diamond, but the splendour of this diamond put it to shame so thoroughly she couldn’t find it in herself to complain about it in the slightest.

Willow: The Translucent Apple… Oh she is absolutely gorgeous~!

Winter: You’re the owner of the world’s largest diamond…?! That makes sense because you’re such a gemstone lover… But wait, where did you pull that out from? Do you just keep it hidden on your person at all times.

Jaune: Not in the shower.

Winter: What?!

Willow: It is truly a marvellous diamond. It was an honour to hold it. Winter, do you perhaps?

Winter: Nnnno, no I wouldn’t. If our family’s diamond is worth three billion, it terrifies me to hold something worth…

Jaune: Five billion Lien.

Winter: Five billion Lien… Wait, what really?!

Jaune: I am not considered one of the richest men in the world for nothing.

Winter: Five billion… And, he just has that up his coats sleeves?!

Willow: Well, it was a pleasure, despite the sheer disappointment of it all, no fault upon you, Jaune. I thank you for grading our families diamonds, and other precious stones.

Jaune: My pleasure… If you want, I can set you up with a jeweller from my company. I can confirm whole heartedly their validity as the genuine article.

Willow: I would appreciate that very much. But, there is something I would like to ask you…

Jaune: That being?

Willow: I heard you were offered gemstones as a dowery of sorts… Does that offer still stand?

Jaune’s burning focus of ingraining the beauty of the, Schnee Diamond upon his mind had finally been broken. Not even offering up the, Translucent Apple for, Willow to marvel at had broken his singular concentration of the diamond within his talon fingers. But, that one question broke him from his stupor like a gunshot to the heart. For he knew all to well what the dowery for this proposal would be.

Jaune: A-Are you offering me this diamond for your daughters hand…?

Willow: Indeed I am.

Winter: Mother no!

Winter exclaimed in shock as she looked at her mother as if she had lost her sanity. And, worry as, Jaune eyed the diamond with a new burning intensity trapped deep within the very depths of his soul.

Jaune: This… This is a priceless family heirloom, you wouldn’t simply give it away for me to accept, Weiss’s hand in marriage would you?

Willow: The diamond would still be in the hands of a, Schnee if you married my daughter, so it wouldn’t be lost. And, I never said anything about you marrying, Weiss now did I?

Willow looked to her eldest child with a smile as, Winter’s voice failed her. She was dumbfounded that this conversation had taken such a drastic turn. Was her mother seriously offering up the family’s prized heirloom for her hand in marriage?!

It was unthinkable. That her mother would do this to her on seemingly a whim. It scared her. But, what truly terrified her was the deafening silence that followed as, Jaune looked between her, and the diamond.

At her, and the diamond.

At her, and the diamond.

At her, and the diamond.

And, then at her, and only her.

Winter gulped in fear at the sudden turn her life was about to make.

[dumbawesomev69]

Why the Arc's are the breeders of remnants

Jaune was sitting in Ozpin office with team rwby parents along with pyrrha mother all staring at him while on the other side we're team rwby and Pyrrha all with pregnant stomachs.

Ozpin: now Mr arc you know what I called you here.

Jaune: uh to make sure I take responsibility?

Ghira: *try lunging* IM GOING TO KILL YOU!!! *Kail and qrow hold him back* let me go! Let me go!

Kail: No honey I won't let our grand kittens be fatherless!

Ozpin clear his throat as he looks at jaune. "Mr arc please tell me it's just team rwby and miss nikos."

Jaune: well.... I can't lie because...

*door opened*

Glynda (pregnant): sir miss Neon, team ndgo, Reese, may, arslan, Velvet, coco are parents have arrived to talk also I may need paternal leave

Everyone: *slowly to face jaune*

Jaune: well their you go that's everyone.

Glynda: oh I forgot I received a message from Raven, ironwood, Roman and the white fang something about Mr arc take responsibility

Jaune: alright maybe their more.

Willow scrolls rings and she answers. "Yes oh winter I'm just talking to- your what! And Whitley too.

Everyone's eyes widen as jaune gulp as Weiss looks at jaune. "you fuck and impregnate my brother!"

Jaune: I though it was you!

*door slams opened*

Bleiss (pregnant): Guess who's back Bitches!

Jacques: Oh shit not her!

Willow: bleiss! You return! *Hugs her* and your pregnant as well.

Jaune was sweating. "Alright so I think that's everyone."

*Door slams opened again*

Pietro: I just want to talk to him

Penny (pregnant): why do you have a shotgun?

Pietro: I just want to talk to him.

Penny: Dad this is ridiculous.

Pietro: I just want to talk to him.

Penny: put that gun away.

Pietro: I just want to talk to him.

Penny: it's not his fault.

Pietro: I just want to talk to shoot him.

Pietro makes it close to jaune and points his gun. "ALRIGHT SAY YOUR PRAYERS!!"

Jaune: ALRIGHT LOOK I SAID ILL TAKE RESPONSIBILITY!!! WHY DO EVERYONE WANT TO KILL ME!!

*Portal opened*

Jessica, vixen and wonder woman walk through each pregnant. "Hey jaune remember that time in the closet well and the training room."

Jaune: alright so I'm pretty thier more to come so let's wait.

*another portal opened*

Salem (pregnant): Hello arc it seems our time together have reunited my old life as a mother which both cinder and Emerald are exited to be a mothers as well.

Jaune: uh so that what dad meant that we Arc's are the breeders of remnants.

Everyone who's pregnant: you think!

[campoverlook-if]

Welcome to Camp Overlook, Where We're Stronger Together!

DEMO LINK ll Updated: 4/26/24 ll Wordcount: 70k [W/O Code], 16k [Average]

-----

Secrets are all around you in the small town of Crescent Cove, and its local summer camp, Camp Overlook. A place where childhood memories mix with the unsettling realities of the unknown.

A place once known for freedom and friendship, is now shrouded in flickering lights crawling around the woods and campers vanishing into thin air. Far hidden in Hudson Forest is the truth of any person's most horrid nightmares.

As a counselor, you are entrusted with guiding a group of youngsters through their formative days of self-discovery as you grapple with the disturbing circumstances around you.

Whether you are a newbie or a returning former camper yourself, the secrets of the woods are still ominous and crippling. Among the cheer of camp, eerie events unfold before you.

Is Mr. Adams, the cheerful camp director, still a jolly man, or is there something now hidden beneath the surface? Is Crescent Cove, the quiet little mountain town, hiding a secret so great that it will do anything to keep it covered? Are the campers, lovable and rebellious, exhibiting behavior that goes against their nature?

Camp is supposed to fun, so why are you running for your life?

-----

Setting: Crescent Cove, USA (Fictional Small Town)

Genre(s): Horror, Mystery, Drama, Romance

Warning(s): This is an 18+ story for depictions of violence, death, sexual themes, and child endangerment.

-----

Customizable MC - Name, gender, appearance, sexuality, and personality are all choosable aspects to make your counselor.

Get To Know Your Little Campers - The kids look up to you at the end of the day and their relationships with you reflects on the story.

Discover The Mystery of Crescent Cove - Learn the truth on what exactly happened thirty years ago that changed a small town forever.

Find A Summer Lover - Choose from thirteen ROs all looking for someone to love. Maybe you’ll find more than just one...

Meet Your New Best Friends - Create lasting friendships that survive the test of time. Or lifetime rivals that are ready to hurt you at any chance.

The Camp Needs You - Save your friends and protect the camp, or watch it all disappear before your eyes.

Lucas [M] - The King of the Woods

Stuck up, arrogant, and just one half of an irritating duo. Lucas always has to have the last word and the last thing anyone needs is to hear him whine about not getting it. It doesn’t help that the staff like him, the liar. Just be sure to stay out of his way or else.

Asher [NB] - The Sleeping Angel

Completely checked out of life, or at least, that’s what Asher wants everyone to think. There’s just a little something more hiding under that quiet exterior but Asher isn’t the type of person to open up to just anyone. They’ve got demons in their closet, and they’ve come along to camp for the ride.

Jack/Jasmine [M/F] - The Wise Old Tree

If anybody can round up a group of rowdy kids and teens together its this counselor. Calm and collected, they're there when the situation loses control and everyone needs to be working together on the same page. But this personality wasn’t perfected over night and even the calmest of seas can swallow those around them below.

Ethan/Ella [M/F] - The Friend of None

What some may call everyone’s best friend, they're at this camp for one thing and one thing only. To make a summer that’ll last forever. Leader of the pack, they know how to get the populous together and have a good time. But even the party animal has to get tired at some point and it's those moments when the real them emerges.

Ruby [F] - The Little Red Hen

Soft-spoken, polite, and kind to a fault. Ruby is the person you want when you need a comforting hand. A true healer and guiding life even if she is a little shy around others. But all healers have a story, Ruby just doesn’t have the cure to make it all go away.

William/Willow [M/F] - The Undisguised Wolf

They say if you gaze into the abyss, it tends to gaze back and tells you what you’re made of. That’s how it feels when this quiet storm enters a room, the room grows cold and the fun dies out. No one knows what lurks behind those eyes, and no one knows for sure if they’re the eyes of a monster.

Oliver/Olivia [M/F] - The Two-Faced Lover

Excitable, sweet, just the happiest bubble around. Around most people at least. But really, they're just an actor who knows how to play their part. No one knows the real them and maybe that's starting to have a toll on them. But it’s not like they can suddenly do a 180 and show the world who they really are. At least that’s what they like to think.

.....and seven others to discover! (Character Bios Here)

[yeyinde]

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaz was unique, different. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For you."

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

Missing, they said, but not forgotten. 

You think about him often. 

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

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

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

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

"You're hurting me, gran—"

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

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

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

(Clawing at the walls.)

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

You leave, and you don't look back. 

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

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

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

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

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

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

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a dangerous place to get caught in. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

All is quiet—except the sea. 

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

Another step. Another. 

For a moment, you're free. 

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

It's peaceful. 

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back. 

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

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

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

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

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

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

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

"You—"

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

Visceral terror. Panic. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once upon a time. 

You blink. Blink again. 

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

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

They didn't say anyone new moved to town. 

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay. 

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

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm. 

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

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

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

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

You wonder if he was expecting you. 

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

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

"Um, a vodka soda—"

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

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

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

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

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

Big. 

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You should. 

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

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

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest. 

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

"So I did." 

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

"Got some time tonight?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so, you kiss him. 

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

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

He devours you. 

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

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

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

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

You never want to let go. 

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

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

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

Price shudders. 

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

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

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

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

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

You try not to shiver. 

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

"You okay?" 

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

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

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

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

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

It can't happen. It can't.  

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

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

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

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

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

"Waiting for a ride?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It happens again. And again. Again—

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

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

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

He stares at you like he's indulging you. 

Like he knows. 

And maybe, he does. 

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

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

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

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

You can't remember if it's you. 

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

Stupid. 

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

The door rattles. Clicks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price." 

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

You are. Painfully so. 

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

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

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

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

"Come home," he rasps in your ear. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does. 

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

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

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

So much. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The woods are dangerous. 

You don't want to go. 

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together. 

"You want to, don't you?" 

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

"I'll keep you safe."

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

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

"Price—"

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

"What—?"

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

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

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

It's Gaz.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

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

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

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge. 

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

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

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

One slip, you think. Just one. 

But—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two more. Two more. 

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

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

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

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

You don't know why you're here. 

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

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

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

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

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

You are—

"Foolish." 

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

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

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

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped. 

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

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

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

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?" 

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

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

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

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

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

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep. 

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers. 

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

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

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

"Did you ever give me a choice?" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he speaks, the world falls silent. 

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

Despite his words, he lets you go. 

And you run, run, run—

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

You don't know what you're doing. 

The whispers in your head go silent. 

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

You think of him, and you know. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Welcome home."

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

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her. 

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

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

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

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

"I will."

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

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

[aris-ink]

I need step brother jungkook fcking sister in a tesla driving home pls 🥵

I know this wasn't in my wips but I was listening to ordinary life by the weeknd and here we are

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: forbidden romance, step!siblings au

warnings: mentions of violence (not towards the reader), slight allusions to murder and corruption kink, pseudo incest, oral sex (road head 💀), soft dirty talk, tiny bit of degradation, lots of praise, car sex, creampie, as always this turned out soft

The trees passing by looked like ink, branching out against the pink and orange brushes of dusk in the sky. Jungkook's hands tightened around the wheel, the feeling of your lips on his neck caressing him like a gentle gust of wind, causing goosebumps to erupt along his spine. He leaned his head back against the leather seat when you left a kiss below his ear, one hand landing on your thigh.

It was so difficult to find a moment where you could be alone together like this. He couldn't exactly kiss you or hold you out in the open, because what would people say? Personally, Jungkook didn't give a fuck. He never hesitated to bury anyone who bothered you deep in the ground, and therein lay the problem. You gave a fuck, and seeing as he was your brother, he would have to burn the whole city down, starting with your parents. Somehow, he doubted that you would have liked that.

Not that ultimately he wasn't going to have to take care of this issue anyway. But for now, he was happy to just fuck the tears and the doubts out of you, until you understood that you were his and he was yours.

And it seemed like you were beginning to understand, little by little. His cock hardened as your warm lips brushed up against the silver cross on his neck, your nimble fingers working on undoing his zipper. He wished he could open the window to cool down, but he wanted to hear you clearly, each breath you took and each soft hum you let out.

Heat bubbled in his stomach, a sharp intake of breath following the feeling of your hand wrapping around him, easing his cock out of his jeans. Inked fingers tightened on your thigh, eyes trained on the road stretching out before him. Even when you leaned down to swipe your tongue across the tip.

He twitched at the feeling of the wet warmth, the veins in his hands more prominent the tighter he squeezed the wheel.

"What are you doing?" He murmured, unable to help the flutter of his heart and his eyelids, his back straightening when your lips wrapped around him.

The only answer you provided him with was a small suck as you lowered your head further, taking his cock deeper into your mouth. Jungkook groaned, restlessly searching the outside scenery for a place to park. Instead of continuing down the highway, he made a turn into the forest that stretched for miles from both sides, where the old oaks and willows could conceal you from any prying eyes.

The path he entered was rocky and uneven, the unexpected bump causing your teeth to graze against him. Jungkook hissed, slowing to a stop, not caring enough to drive deeper into the woods. As soon as the ignition was off, his hand buried in your hair, head tilting down so he could look at you. He grunted, taking in the way half of his cock disappeared inside your mouth, the way you tried to take it deeper, sloppy and wet and tight.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Oh, what a good girl."

He finally let himself throw his head back and close his eyes, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, tongue running over his piercing. The small moan you let out around him made his cock drip, and you sucked on it like you needed more. Jungkook whined, tugging on your hair softly to get your attention.

But when you lifted your head, spit shining on your lips, his hand cupped the back of your neck and he pulled you in for a messy kiss.

"Get in the back," he muttered. "Go."

It shouldn't have been surprising that as soon as you did as he asked, he was sliding your wet panties down your thighs, ready to bury his face in between them. Smoothing one hand over your spine, he bent you over the seat, the other hand busy tucking your underwear into the back pocket of his jeans.

"I'll be keeping those, baby."

Your hips rolled when you felt his lips brush your inner thigh.

"Need you inside, please," you sighed, resting your head comfortably against the seat.

Jungkook pressed himself against you, shielding you with his warmth, hard cock rubbing in between your slick folds.

"Yeah?" He groaned. "Be more specific, baby, because you know I'd give you anything. What do you need? My tongue? Fingers? Tell me, pretty angel."

You shook your head, a shiver running through you when he started kissing your neck, his lips soft on your heated skin.

"Come on, you can do it. What do you think you deserve, baby?"

You took a deep breath, eyes closing, his strong hands rubbing your thighs.

"A-anything I want," you whispered.

Jungkook hummed.

"Mm, that's right. You deserve anything you fucking want, angel."

The tip of his cock nudged your entrance. The feeling of your walls trying to suck him in made him suppress a shudder, but he didn't let up, sliding one hand under your shirt.

"And why do you deserve anything you want, hm?"

He circled your nipple with the pad of his finger, feeling it harden instantly under the touch. As if to motivate you, he pushed in a few inches deeper, stretching you out slowly.

You gasped.

"Because I'm- because-"

Another inch forward, his hips pushing closer to your ass.

"Because?" He coaxed breathlessly, wrapping his entire hand around your breast to fondle it.

"Because I'm your good girl," you whimpered. "Please."

Jungkook slid all the way in, teeth biting gently into your throat, strong arms enveloping your frame. A low moan left him as your pussy clenched around his cock, pulsing and leaking.

"Mhm," he breathed out slowly, immediately setting up a rhythm, his thrusts starting off hard and deep, pushing you into the seat. "Tell me more."

He didn't care if you had trouble speaking, or if he had to fuck you and edge you all night to hear what he wanted. You knew that by now, because as much as you struggled to answer him, you didn't hold back like you have before, even if your skin burned with embarrassment.

"Be-because I'm your pretty baby," you moaned. "Please, faster."

Jungkook provided you with just that, lewd, smacking sounds beginning to mingle with your soft whines and his groans.

"Yeah, that's right, look what a smart, good girl I have here. Fuck, you're so tight. Missed this perfect pussy so fucking much, fuck."

The last word came out as a grunt. No, a growl, something more feral spreading through his veins, making his cock ache as he fucked you.

"You wanna come?" His breath tickled your ear, voice raspy, arms tightening around you possessively. "Tell me. Want me to ruin your little cunt?"

You only whined in response. Jungkook knew you like the back of his hand, and oh, there was no doubt left in him that you were on the verge of giving in and letting go. There was no mercy left in him either, his cock pounding you faster, balls tightening with every thrust.

"Please, please, please," you mewled. "Please, Jungkook!"

He gritted his teeth.

"Say it first, baby. Fucking say it or I'll stop right now."

You shook your head weakly, groaning.

"No! Please, I want to come. Make me come."

With a strangled moan, he sneaked his hand in between your legs, pressing into your swollen clit.

"Yeah? You wanna come? My pretty little baby is gonna fall apart on this cock like a good slut? Huh?"

He could see stars explode behind his eyelids when your cunt convulsed around him, his jaw set tight, glistening with sweat. The way you moaned his name made his stomach twist, his cum shooting deep inside of you and painting your walls white. It felt hot, wet and messy, his hips grinding into yours unsteadily, his body tingling from head to toe.

He held you close to him, not knowing how else to satisfy his endless cravings, nor how to silence the constant demands of his bleeding heart. It always called out for you.

Maybe you weren't a good girl, certainly not after this. Even though your parents knew nothing of this little secret, it was almost impossible to please them, no grade or job ever seeming good enough. And Jungkook couldn't replace the acceptance he knew you craved from them; but he could fill you up with his own love, and continue to fuck your insecurities out of you. Maybe you weren't a good girl, but-

"What are you, angel?" He whispered into your neck, his body slumped against yours, knees numb from being pressed into the seat for too long and cock still buried inside you.

"Your good girl," you sighed again, the words stumbling out with more ease, almost absentminded.

Jungkook smiled, pressing a kiss into your shoulder.

"Yeah. My good girl."

Another kiss, then one more, tender and sweet.

"My good, little angel."

That was all you needed to remember.

💌 taglist: @imnotlauriane @baalsgurl1913 @bucketofhiros @silv3rswirls @osakis-gf