// play nice
cw: f!reader x price. but also ghost. kind of. 18+. blood. injury/implied violent off-screen death (not reader). nudity. forced marriage. reader gets very spooked by a Big Ass Dog. made up magic stuff and werewolves!
very long blurb that i typed on my phone bc my job is to chuck wips and unfinished shit into the abyss until something lands. no clue how long this is! also. rushed ending, bc i said so.
you’ve been running through these woods for a long, long time.
trees hurtle past you, wind slipping between the branches with a hiss and pressing into your eye sockets with their fingers. yours are too busy bunching up your muddy skirt to shove them away.
blood pounds in your ears, mingles with the sweat on your back. so much of it, yet not nearly enough to rival the butchery that you’re certain still clings to the teeth of that…thing. a cheap imitation flashes behind your eyelids: a child, leaning curiously over a pile of sweet cherries, hands red and sticky from exploration—but the unwilling participants have been mangled to the point where their original forms are left up to chance.
a sob bubbles up the cavern of your ribcage, spills out over your lips as a soft exhale to keep your hysteria contained.
hells.
they were good men. too good to be flanked by some idiot girl looking to prove her mettle. you knew better—will know better for eternity and then some if you manage to make it back to the village before whatever mutilated them sinks its claws into you.
you chance a wild look over your shoulder. relax minutely when you see nothing, tense back up because you can still feel everything.
but survival comes first. turning a corner, you shoulder through one last dense pack of trees and into a large clearing.
any other night, and it’d be beautiful. you peer up at the sky before surveying your surroundings. magic was fickle out here, wards especially so due to the unfamiliar terrain. but if you knew these stars like you think you did—
—there.
in the distance sits an angular boulder, one you’ve laid hands on only once before. but that one instance was enough. the very tip of it points toward the north side of the territory about a mile out.
home.
lungs burning, calves near ready to burst, your feet send you toward your pillar of safety. you’re so elated—so blinded by the relief hanging on your bones that you barely notice the darkness that begins to coagulate a few paces behind you.
you sink to your knees once the mile marker finally scrapes against your palms. a gentle warmth begins to wash over you, high tide calling your body back into its depths.
they work. the wards work. you can tell them they work.
(home, home, home, homehomehome—)
but something just beyond your line of sight flickers to life. its absence is sore when your eyes attempt to seek it out voluntarily, put a face to a feeling. your eyes dart from one thing to the next until the disturbance decides to make itself known again.
the soft glow of firelight winks in the distance, inconspicuously tucked between the trees at the opposite end of the clearing. you have to squint to see the faint outline of the small home that it emanates from.
your brows pinch.
they’d said that nobody lives out of bounds. and the next settlement was miles away.
frowning, you tuck the knowledge away for later and clamber to your feet, setting off on shaky legs in the direction of the village.
of home.
tonight’s nightmare will cease to exist if you can just get home.
but, you’ve got terrible luck. or so you’ve been taught. because somewhere in the back of your addled mind, a question sings:
where are the birds?
a snarl erupts from behind you, and you bolt.
you make a break for the cabin, cares lost to the wind.
“h-help! somebody, please!”
your legs pump harder, and it god does it ache. flesh made fire, breaking you down while the vegetation lashes at your ankles.
“HELP!”
not for the first time, you consider giving up. for every ten of your footfalls, the beast shakes the very ground with two. you can practically feel its body tearing through the open field. but the light in the window seems to get brighter the harder your feet pound into the earth, so you push. hard.
it takes all of the energy you can gather to try and leap over a cluster of bushes,
only to feel teeth hook into the hem of your skirt.
the world crashes. your head hits the dirt with a thunk and your lungs punch out an airy wheeze.
one heartbeat and it’s looming over you. drooling over your flailing limbs. but you can’t look—you just can’t—so you kick blindly, wincing when your heel makes contact with hardened muscle. its jaw releases just enough for you to try and find the leverage to push up onto your elbows, but you’re not quick enough; two clawed hands dig into the meat of your shoulders and slam you back down.
the impact makes your head go fuzzy.
it occurs to you, as your body is poked and pawed at, that your fate was inevitable. proving nothing to no one until the very end, and just close enough to all you’ve ever known for it to sting. you linger at the precipice, now. somewhere between total surrender and whatever lay one step below it.
teeth nip at the pulse point in your neck again and you whimper. shake your head. give a weak push with your foot before going limp.
it’s only then that you hear a door fly open, and a skull-splitting whistle cuts through the numbness.
the weight above you goes stock still. it takes a second screech for the claws at your sides to go bounding off into the night behind you with a wretched howl.
a split second later and an arm is hauling you up. tucking you into a steady heartbeat and pressing a heavy hand to the back of your head. each time you shiver you’re pulled closer and closer. he’s got a fur pelt draped over him—likely wolf, by the feel of it against your forehead.
you hear a short tsk. “damned dog.”
man. he is a man.
“i—i called for help,” you hiccup. half to yourself, half to the part of you that had been smart enough to stay inside. to know your limits. “i called fo—hck—for help.”
the man’s fingers travel from the back of your head to the base of your neck, rubbing slow, easy circles. “shh, shh shh. easy there, love. deep breaths for me, mm?”
you follow his command with little resistance and he begins to hum something familiar. off-pitch, but familiar. it rattles your brain around in your skull. you feel drowsy. his voice reminds you of soft soil. he smells of smoke.
you inhale more of him. exhale more of you.
“settled?”
no. not really. everything is happening too fast, but you nod anyways.
his hands begin to pull away and you finally work up the courage to peel your eyes open and look up.
there is, admittedly, a bit of confusion. because you’re no longer outside beneath the stars, but a roof. there’s a fireplace going, crackling loud against your eardrums.
the man is smiling down at you, evidently amused by your lack of understanding.
“how did—”
he takes your face in his hands. spits into his right one before he begins to wipe at the dirt caked on your cheek. that strange drowsiness begins to peck at you again, and your eyes go hazy.
you’re pulled into his chest again, any thoughts you’d housed beforehand turned to mist.
“my name is john,” he supplies. soft. unsuspecting. “what made you come out this far?”
“i was running.”
he hums. “from what?”
you shrug lazily and he chuckles. his hands resume their petting, and you sigh. sink lower and lower.
“i don’t get many visitors. how’d you find me?”
(visitors. people coming and going. would you be going?)
“the stars,” you mumble. “i used the stars.”
an awareness begins to seep into your senses the moment you say it. you start to realize just how tightly john has been holding on to you. his next question comes out of nowhere. from nothing.
“you the one that’s been marking up my woods?”
cold water. flooding your veins, scraping at your insides. “your…your woods?”
he nods. “my woods.” you begin to squirm, and he squeezes tighter. rests his chin atop your head. “looked like you’d been carving your sigils with a fingernail. but we’ll have time to remedy that, won’t we?”
you attempt to push back, but his arms are too tight. too strong. the most you can manage is angling your head towards the door.
the door.
an exit.
home.
you were going home.
“i—i didn’t mean to,” you whisper, half-crazed. but it’s a half-truth: you hadn’t meant to, per se, you’d been made to. but john didn’t need to know that. “i have to go home. they’ll be looking for me.”
you can almost see him frown. his thoughts are loud, but unintelligible. you begin to panic when he pulls something from the collar of his tunic. he holds it in front of you, as if that were enough of an explanation.
recognition flutters to life just as he turns you fully to the front door, his body pressed to your back like a hot furnace.
it’s a whistle. wood the color of a walnut, carved with care and attached to a leather cord.
“i’ve been looking for something, y’see.” john brings his mouth to your ear, voice laced with a heady rasp. “something that was promised to me ages ago when i got the…deed to these woods.”
he taps your cheek. slots the whistle between your quivering lips. when he covers your ears, he offers no instruction. the implication is loud enough:
blow.
the door handle clicks.
another man walks in, stark naked and barrel chested. he has none of the kindness you thought you’d seen in john’s eyes before—only cruelty.
he lumbers into the room, and your heart nearly stops.
his hands are stained red. his cheekbone sports a purpling bruise.
and his gait is fixed with an appetence you’ve seen once before. felt before.
“welcome back to the land of the living, simon.” john makes quick work of pulling you back into his chest. “we’re a respectable sort, so i’d appreciate it if you put on some fucking pants in front of the lady.”
simon snorts, but obliges. you hear some shuffling and cloth being tugged against skin as john continues.
“i expect you’ve brought good news?”
good news.
you hear simon grunt. “she’s fae, sir.”
fae.
they carry on as if you’re not there.
“you’re certain?”
“nose don’t lie.”
“wonderful. that’ll make this much easier.”
john finally decides to bring you back into the fray. he takes your face in his hands again, smoothing out the fear that’s begun to tighten the muscles in your cheeks.
“simon’s an old friend of mine.” he ignores the second grunt of the evening. “one whom i expect you’ll come to know very well. i owe him a great debt.”
you shake your head. no, no, no. you want to hit him. slap him. gouge those stupid blue eyes clean out from his head.
you can’t.
“i have to go home.”
the more you say it, the less real it seems.
“let me go home, please.”
john looks sad. pitying, almost.
“i want to go home.”
you know it’s not true.
(your blubbering quiets down, after a while. you’re back in his chest and breathing him in and trying to come to terms with whatever it was he wanted you to come to terms with.
“well then,” he says. a finality. a neat bow on a bloodless lamb. he takes your hand in his and begins to lead you toward a long, long hallway. it grows, and grows, and grows.
“we’ve got much to discuss, wife.”)
