The Witches Wood
In the quiet village of Willow Wood, legends swirl about a terrifying witch who haunts the vast, weeping forest that blankets the land. They say she is cruel and merciless, sowing terror in the hearts of anyone who dares to venture near her domain. None has ever returned unscathed from the woods, and so the villagers live in constant dread of her vengeance. Of my vengeance.
It’s another evening. Another day of solitude presses down as I wander to the clearing—the one place I seek when loneliness weighs heaviest. Perhaps among the lilies, I might feel something, if only for a moment. But as I pass the last tree and reach the small white patch at the pond’s edge, I drop to my knees in disbelief.
My tiny glade, my sanctuary beneath the moon, lies desecrated. The lilies are trampled, and stones and mud cloud the once-clear pond. I could use my magic, spend a little of my will to restore the space, but it would feel hollow. The damage is not merely superficial; it’s the cruelty behind it that wounds deepest. They knew this was my domain, knew to stay away, but the shoe prints pressed into each petal made it clear: this was no childish prank. This was cruelty, deliberate and adult.
I approach the pond. The water still settles, blurring its usual mirror sheen. In its surface, I see a distortion of myself, a truer reflection of my inner turmoil than anything I can conjure in my mind. My youthful features are washed pale, marked by sharp black lines. My silvery hair and red eyes seem even more disheveled in each ripple. Sorrow drains all color into dreadful black. And as the water calms, I see what I suspected all along. My tormentors are not all gone. I know this only now, as I catch your reflection at the edge of the now-still pond.
For a moment, instinct takes over. I rise tall, an ethereal cloak of shadow billowing around me, becoming every bit the menace the villagers fear. But when I see you stand firm, your young, stout body unflinching, the fight drains from me. Sadness crashes back in, heavier than ever, dropping me to my knees. Hot tears burn trails through my ashen makeup and down my cheeks. I’ve never been the monster they believed, and now that you see me, it’s clearer than ever.
At last, I gather myself enough to ask, “What are you doing here, boy? Was crushing my soul not enough?”
I don’t think you’ll move, but the moment you step toward me around the pond, a sharp edge returns to my voice. I intend to protect myself, unsure if you played a role in the destruction. “Do not trifle with me, or I’ll make you regret lingering here!”
For all my threatening words, you remain stoic, your strong chin and determined brow lending your dark eyes an almost otherworldly quality as you draw closer. For a moment, I consider running or fighting, but I haven’t had the fight in me for a long time. Perhaps if you’re here to finish me, it’s for the best. At last, you tower over me, reaching into your cloak, surely to draw the blade that will end my isolation. But I keep my head bowed, unwilling to see the instrument of my end. Yet the pain never comes; you simply remain, an arm’s length from my crumpled form.
At last, I raise my head and find your outstretched hand, not holding a blade, but a small bouquet of lilies. My lilies. The Lily of Whispers.
My breath catches in my throat, a sharp, hitching gasp of disbelief. Your lack of fear, combined with the sudden appearance of the flowers I hold most dear, unravels me. I cannot tell if this is a genuine attempt at comfort or a taunt; I am too stunned by your intentions to piece together the clues.
“Who... what are you?” I ask, awe overtaking the pain in my voice, dissolving it into raw confusion. My head tilts; a strand of silver hair escapes its messy bun to brush my cheek. The black eyeliner, streaked with tears, makes my expression appear even wilder, more vulnerable.
The scent of damp earth and moonlight clings to you, mingling with the sweet fragrance of the lilies—the same scents that fill my lonely existence. You are so clearly not like the others; you shouldn’t be here. My mind races, trying to place you, to understand why your steady gaze does not waver. Why does it feel as if you’ve been watching me?
When you still don’t speak—remaining silent, a wall of muscular contemplation—I find myself asking: “Why? How could you possibly know? How could a human...”
My fingers, brushing yours as I take the lilies, unlock a small flood of memories, memories painted by isolation, so deep and profound I imagine only I could understand them. Images flash: a young boy growing into a young man, his body shaped by hard labor, his mind sharpened by curiosity, his life and choices punished and ridiculed by a cruel family and an impatient community. It’s a story I know all too well.
My hand jerks away as if scalded. In that searing instant, my own heartache floods back: memories of sunlit joys, a gentler self weaving these exact blooms by a lake that exists now only in dreams. That innocence was ripped from me, leaving only haunted echoes.
My gaze finally lifts from the flower to meet yours again. Tear tracks gleam in the moonlight, smearing the dark kohl into chaotic patterns. There is no anger left in my eyes, only a vast, bottomless well of shock and something else, something I haven’t let myself feel in ages.
The scent of the lilies, sweet and clean, anchors me in the moment, a stark contrast to the decaying leaves and damp soil that sully the clearing. It smells like hope, and hope is a venom far deadlier than any potion I could brew. Yet, for some reason, in this moment, I find myself wanting to hope.
Hesitantly, my hand rises again. Fingers stained with shadow and grime hover above the flower, afraid to mar its petals with my touch. I struggle to make sense of your intentions: this act of kindness, of seeing me, feels like a weapon more devastating than any sword. Still kneeling, still staring, disarmed and utterly exposed, I can only ask again: “Why? Why did you save them?”
“They make you happy,” you mutter, your voice deep and steady, even as I wonder if you truly grasp the forces at play. But then you finish your thought, erasing any doubt. “And I know how hard it can be to be happy.”
The air rushes from my lungs as if I’ve been struck. Your simple, earnest words unravel the last threads of my composure. They make me happy. Such a plain observation, yet it feels as if you’ve peered directly into the soul I’ve hidden for lifetimes. Your subtle admission suggests this isn’t our first encounter, only the first time I’ve truly noticed you.
With a trembling hand, I finally accept the bouquet. My fingers close around the stems, so delicate I fear they might crush them. I draw the blooms closer, my gaze fixed on their perfect white petals as if seeing such purity for the first time.
“Happiness,” I murmur, tasting the word as if it were a forgotten flavor, a memory, a luxury meant for mortals and fools.
I look up at you then, truly seeing you, not as an intruder or a threat, but as another soul weighed down by sorrow. I want to understand why you offered solace, why you would save my heart from those who wished to crush it, especially when you ask for nothing in return. My fierce protectiveness of solitude competes with desperate, starving curiosity about your purpose here. Who are you, to see past the witch and find the wounded woman beneath?
A soft sob shudders through me. The flowers tremble in my grasp as I turn sharply away, wrapping my arms around myself, trying to hold together the fragments threatening to scatter. My back faces you, a canvas of swirling black robes, concealing the tremors wracking my body.
I cannot bear for you to witness me like this—broken, sobbing, centuries of cultivated pride crumbling to ash. The sweet, maddening scent of lilies invades me, a tender agony, a scent of all I have ever lost and all that was stolen from me.
“My happiness died in these woods,” I whisper into the wind, anguish thickening my voice. “By this very pond. Humans… they took it from me. Burned everything I loved.” My fists clench at my sides, old fury rising like bile. “So forgive me if I cannot trust the kindness of your kind.”
I risk a glance over my shoulder, silver hair tangled and obscuring my face. My tear-streaked, kohl-rimmed eyes bore into you, a silent war playing out in their red depths. Part of me wants to scream and drive you back to your safe little village. Another part, the lonely, shattered piece, is terrified you might listen.
But you are made of sterner stuff; instead of retreating, you kneel and wrap your arms around me, shrouding me in your cloak and your warmth. My own shadows dissipate.
“Honestly,” you mutter, “I wouldn’t trust my kind either.”
You don’t cling to me; you simply are, a presence, a companion who has lived through their own isolation and suspects I might be the only one who could understand the depth of your turmoil, even if you struggle to fathom mine.
Something inside me, a tightly wound cord of grief and resentment, snaps. My resistance melts away as completely as frost beneath the morning sun. A violent shudder wracks my body, and I sag against you, surrendering to a strength that isn’t physical. My head drops onto your shoulder, and the sobs I’ve stifled for lifetimes finally break free, raw, ragged. Tears I didn’t know I still possessed flowed freely, soaking into the rough wool of your cloak.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, someone holds me while I fall apart. The irony is staggering. It’s a human. One who claims to understand mistrust.
I cry until my ribs ache and my throat is raw, tears not just for the flowers, but for the child who died, the lover who betrayed me, the decades of creeping madness in this cursed wood. When the torrent subsides to pathetic, hiccupping sniffles, I remain slumped against you, utterly drained.
My face presses into the coarse fabric of your cloak, breathing in your scent, forest soil, parchment, something uniquely, peacefully human. I am keenly aware of the solid line of your body against my back and your chin resting lightly on my head. A warmth, unfamiliar and intense, blooms low in my belly, pooling there like liquid fire. It’s a dangerous feeling, one I haven’t dared to entertain in longer than I care to admit.
“Why?” I croak out again, my pathetic litany against despair. The question, muffled against your shoulder, is no longer accusatory. It’s bewildered, pathetically hopeful. “Here, of all places? After everything? ...Why would you help me?”
You lift my chin, meeting my eyes, my lips trembling as you regard the raw beauty no one else ever seems to see in me.
“It’s like I said. I know how hard it is to be happy, even with help.” Your other hand cups mine gently. “And maybe it’s time someone tried to help you, too.”
Your touch on my chin is gentle, insistent. The dark brown of your eyes shimmers in the moonlight, piercing me to my core. The honesty there is overwhelming. You’re not seeing a witch, or a legend, or a monster. You’re seeing me. You notice the tracks of my tears, the tremble of my lip, and something shifts in your expression: an admiration so foreign it hurts.
Your touch is a gentle warmth I feel unworthy of. My heart hammers, frantic, trapped. The heat in my belly spreads, a feverish ache making my limbs heavy and weak. A fresh wave of tears prick at my eyes, but this time it’s not despair, it’s the sting of shattering gratitude. A single tear escapes, tracing a slow path down.
“No one tries,” I breathe, the admission feeling like a confession. My gaze drops to our joined hands, the stark contrast of my pale, claw-like fingers within your mortal warmth. “Not without wanting something. Power… secrets… my death.”
I raise my eyes to yours, swimming in unshed tears. “Help… me?”
“Maybe I do want something,” you whisper, lost in my eyes. “Maybe I just want companionship. The company of someone who understands my loneliness.”
Loneliness. The word echoes in the sudden, charged silence between us. My entire body stills. It’s as if you’ve reached into my chest, past bone and sinew, and touched the hollow core of my being.
Your whisper ignites the ember inside me into a blazing inferno—overwhelming, terrifying. My breath comes in short, shallow pants, and a slick sweat beads on my upper lip and brow. A flush rises swiftly on my cool, grey skin, painting my cheeks a dusky pink. The lilies I still clutch droop, their petals brushing your coat as my hand goes limp.
I should run. I should scream. This vulnerability is more dangerous than any torch-bearing mob. It’s an invitation for my soul to be flayed open again. But I can’t. Your gaze holds me fast—hypnotic, achingly sincere.
A strange, tingling fullness builds in my breasts, an unfamiliar tightening sending a pulse of heat through my core. A single, clear drop of liquid, pearlescent in the moonlight, beads at the peak of one breast, soaking through my dress. I hardly notice, my being consumed by the look in your eyes.
Companionship... with someone who understands.
Your request hangs in the air: impossible, intoxicating. Companionship—a simple word, but to me it represents everything I’ve lost, everything I’m terrified to want again. I watch your lips form the word, my gaze tracing their shape as my mind struggles to process your intent.
The warmth of your hand scorches now, spreading up my arm like wildfire. Another tremor wracks my frame—this one not from grief, but from something primal and new. My breasts ache, the sensation blossoming into a sharp, insistent throb. My dress dampens further as another pearly droplet wells up. A soft whimper escapes me as the new sensitivity overwhelms.
My dark, dilated eyes snap up to meet yours, wide with panic and desperate, burgeoning need. This body, so long dormant, awakens with a ferocity that frightens me. Every nerve ending sings; every brush of fabric is exquisite torture. The scent of you, clean, masculine, fills my head, spinning me dizzy.
“It’s a dangerous thing to want, human,” I rasp, my voice trembling as much as my body. "To ask… for this.”
“Dangerous things are the only things worth wanting,” you whisper, and the charged air between us collapses into a soft, trembling kiss.
The forest fades. The moonlit pond, the ghosts of my past, everything dissolves in a rush of sensation. Your lips meet mine, soft and tentative, a silent question. For a heartbeat, I am frozen, a statue carved of shock and want.
Then, something inside me breaks, a dam bursting with need.
An involuntary moan tears from my throat, a sound of relief and agony. Years of denied touch and forced solitude come crashing down. My hands, once limp, clutch the front of your tunic, fingers curling in desperate need. I press into you, returning your kiss with a ferocity born of longing. My mouth opens beneath yours, seeking more, deeper, a taste of life I thought lost forever.
The burning in my breasts grows unbearable. With our bodies pressed close, the sensitive peaks drag against your clothing. Another, louder whimper escapes me, swallowed by our kiss. Warmth surges from my chest, soaking through my dress and surely dampening your shirt. The sweet, intoxicating scent of milk drifts between us, mingling with the night air.
Everything is too much, too raw, too exquisite, too real.
Ravenous, I pull you down with me onto the mossy floor. Your kiss deepens, turning desperate as I guide you to my breasts. I tear aside the thin fabric, pleading for your mouth, begging you to drink the sweet ambrosia spilling from me.
Your solid weight is bliss, a sanctuary I never knew I craved. Thought vanishes. Instinct takes over, all-consuming need guiding every movement. I barely recognize the keening whine pouring from my throat as you latch onto me. I arch my back, shameless, pressing my aching breasts to your mouth.
“Please.” The word shudders from me, a fractured sob against your ear. “Taste… please.”
I fumble with the ties of my bodice, desperate to be free, to savor all of you. My gray skin glistens with sweat in the dappled moonlight, flushed deep rose where my desire burns hottest. When the fabric finally gives way, exposing me to the cool night, I cry out, relief immediate. Dark, taut nipples bead with pearlescent milk, glistening like dew. A single droplet rolls down the curve of my breast, leaving a shining trail.
“Take it.” My voice is husky, thick with wanting.
Your tongue laps at the drop, then you clamp down greedily. Only now do you realize how parched you are as my hand keeps you anchored to me. My other hand roams lower, unsure whether to pull you closer or tease myself.
The more your tongue works my nipple, the more a delicious electricity sears through me. My back bows off the mossy ground, a sharp cry torn from my lungs. This is more than pleasure, it’s sustenance, salvation. The sweet rush of milk fills your mouth, and a dizzying relief floods me, as if I’ve been dying of thirst and at last found water.
Every beat is agony and bliss. You draw hard and fast, demanding more. My throat spills a high, continuous keening as I clutch your head, refusing to let you go. “Yes… just like that… gods, don’t stop…”
My other hand moves on its own, roaming down your back, nails digging into your tunic. Spurred by a wild current, it slips between us, trembling fingers fumbling with your trousers. A desperate urge takes hold, needing to ease the ache between my thighs. There is no fear, no past, just this overwhelming need, this raw craving for you, deep inside.
With surreal strength, I take you, anchoring you to my chest. I grind down, my fingers freeing you. My hot folds slide along you, ecstasy in every movement, until suddenly everything freezes, suspended in time, then you slip inside my gushing warmth.
Your deep moan against my skin is sweeter than music, even as my mind reels. But I am already moving, driven by a force I cannot control. My hips rise to meet yours, grinding frantically. Slick heat slides along your shaft, sending sparks of pleasure up my spine. It's heaven and torment, never enough.
“Please… I need…” The words are broken, desperate whispers against your hair. My movements are clumsy with need, and then a shift, and I sink down, slow and exquisite. My walls stretch, a holy agony as you breach the deepest, loneliest part of me. A gut-deep moan rips from my chest, conquest and utter surrender. You are inside me: real, solid, perfect.
With every movement, I feel your hunger for me. This is not how you imagined our first encounter, but the primal energy between us feels fated, as if it’s always been waiting for the right spark.
My fingers dive lower, circling my slick, pulsing bud in time with your thrusts. I’m impossibly full, unbearably sensitive. Every inch of me is alive, screaming for you. I tug on your head, urging, demanding more.
Milk flows into your hungry mouth, a gift I cannot hold back. Each swallow, every swipe of your tongue, sends jolts to my core, tightening the coil inside me. My moans climb higher, more desperate.
The coil inside me winds tighter, painful, exquisite. Your swelling is the final trigger, a promise of release. As you tense and pulse, my vision explodes, not with light, but with perfect, consuming darkness.
The shadows I command, my comforting cloak, rush in to embrace us, deepening, thick as velvet. The moonlight is gone; there is only sensation. Only you. Your heat flooding my womb, your mouth at my breast, my fingers working between my legs.
It’s too much. My back arches, pressing me to you. A silent scream rips free as my climax crashes over me, annihilating everything. My walls clasp you, wave after wave, drawing a guttural groan from your chest. Milk sprays from my breast, pearling against your skin as my body shudders.
I collapse onto the forest floor, panting and trembling. The darkness recedes, moonlight creeping back in. My arms fall limply to my sides. I cannot move. I cannot think.
Slowly, languid awareness returns to my limbs. The frantic energy fades, replaced by a bone-deep lethargy. I feel heavier, fuller, changed, and you are still here. Not just your body, a warm shield over me, but your arms holding me, protective, not possessive.
I feel the tension in your muscles, the slight tremor that says you’re holding on for dear life. It mirrors a sudden terror in my chest, the fear that this is a dream, a desperate spell, and that any second you’ll vanish.
I shift, my legs brushing yours, partly to relieve a cramp, partly to test if you’re real. The contact grounds me. You’re real. So is the evidence of our union: the stickiness between my thighs, the pleasant ache in my breasts, the lingering throb deep inside. And yet I can sense your anxiety.
“Dear?”
My voice is a thread, barely audible. Your arm tightens, confirming you heard—and are still here. Then you go rigid—not the way I want, but all over. For a heartbeat, dread seizes me: is this the moment I learn it was all too good to be true? Even in the afterglow, even as admiration shines in my eyes, I wonder how you might betray me.
But what follows isn’t betrayal. Instead, you cling to me, voice trembling as you beg, “Please don’t ask me to leave. Please let me stay. Let me be the one who makes you happy.”
The thought of letting you go is unthinkable now, not after all you’ve shown me, not after I’ve so eagerly nursed you, given you the most intimate part of myself.
“You idiot.” The words slip out as a watery, disbelieving laugh, half-insult, half-endearment. I shake my head, a true, unburdened smile breaking through tears for the first time in my adult life. “How can you not see?”
I brace myself on my elbow, just enough to really see you. My hand finds your cheek, thumb stroking the stubble along your jaw, a tender, intimate touch. The fear that once felt so heavy now seems almost endearing.
I lean in, pressing my forehead to yours, eyes closed as I breathe you in. The mingled scent of our bodies, the forest, the sweetness of my milk, it’s new, intoxicating, the scent of home.
“Leave?” I whisper against your skin. “After all this, you think I’d let you go? This forest kept me prisoner for centuries. But tonight, you made it feel like home.”
You pull back just enough to meet my gaze. My red eyes are soft, molten with a terrifyingly powerful emotion. Your nod fills me with a safety I never imagined.
My body feels strangely light as I rise, the freedom of movement after so long on the ground a revelation. A joyful sigh escapes me, unrestrained and genuine. Without looking back, I lead you through tangled roots and vines, moving with a grace born of belonging. Each step fills me with a playful, youthful vigor.
“Just so you know, your performance was… adequate,” I call over my shoulder with a playful smirk, a teasing challenge, worlds away from the weary warnings of before. “For a beginner. We’ll see if your stamina lasts… later.”
I feel your gaze on me, appraising the sway of my hips, the pale of my back in moonlight. A shiver runs through me, not from cold, but anticipation. There’s no more doubt: my loneliness has ended, and I intend to revel in every shade of this new companionship.
We walk in comfortable silence, the crunch of leaves and distant hoot of an owl our only companions. My cottage appears, nestled among ancient trees, a small home of woven branches and dark stone, as much a part of the forest as the roots beneath our feet.
My hand rests on the rough wood of the door. I push it open, revealing the cozy cottage beyond. As our eyes meet, I see awe and a sated longing in you that flows right back to me. I draw you inside, no longer entering a hovel but stepping into a place where I can live, whispering a silent prayer of gratitude to the night.
“Welcome home.”
