CHERRY

haunt me, baby

[velvetchrry]

VELVETCHRRY 🍒

hi i’m cherry! under the cut you can find my works. all female reader unless specified otherwise.

note: this blog is 18+ only. works will be tagged appropriately when containing dark themes. read at your own risk.

johnny “soap” mactavish

IT REMAINS

johnny meets with a psychiatrist after being shot in the head

THISTLE AND BARLEY

outlander inspired. travel back in time to 1720s scotland.

one | two

simon “ghost” riley

PRETTY LITTLE BIRDS

simon meets the new medical professional on base.

one | two | three | four

REMNANTS

you release the brute from his cage. he claims his prize.

WRAITHCLIFF MANOR

1886 supernatural horror anthology.

one | two

MUSINGS

grim reaper!ghost x reader

ghoap

MUSINGS

hockey!ghoap x smm!reader

john price

THE COLLAPSE

john gets a new neighbor.

one | two

MUSINGS

priest!price x reader

[andrabeets]

Father Priceeee EEEEEE

Lives in my mind rent free

Idea from @evolbones 's Priest Price (Sorry for tagging you on two platforms D': just wanna give credit) Pose is from pinterest, if you know the model, lmk!

[velvetchrry]

priest!john price x reader

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.”

A droplet of sweat slides down your brow and you quickly wipe it with the back of your hand.

“Tell me, child,” you hear his strained voice through the latticed opening separating you in the confessional.

“I… I fantasize about an older man,” you spew out, pressing your thighs tightly together as your panties moisten. “A man in a position of power whom I greatly admire.”

You see him in your imagination. Last Sunday was a particularly hot day, and he spent a good portion of the sermon tugging on his collar, thick fingers wrapped tightly around the fabric.

“I fantasize about him now, Father,” you whisper, pussy fluttering as you press a few fingers against yourself.

A loud bang on the other side startles you, shaking the box.

“I’ll do whatever is required for your forgiveness.”

“I’m afraid your penance will take more than a few Hail Mary’s,” his deep timbre utters through the wooden slats. You shiver.

“My office, now,” he says with a clipped voice.

You step out from behind the curtain, following his tall, broad form. He keeps his back to you as you both enter his office. Only then does he close the door behind you with a gentle latch.

You see a podium in the corner and realize it’s his old pulpit — he replaced it with a new one last year. He steps up to it, motions you over.

You slowly walk to it and he holds out a hand. You nod and place your small hand in his. He pulls your arm, draping you across the pulpit. An enormous hand pushes into your lower back and against it.

“You come seeking absolution?” he leans in and whispers, beard bristling along your ear.

“Yes Father,” you breathe.

“You will do whatever is required to receive that absolution?” his fingers skim along the waistline of your skirt.

“Anything,” you murmur shakily.

He lifts up your skirt, taking a handful of flesh in his massive paw. The grunt he releases is the most masculine thing you’ve ever heard.

You’re positively soaked, and you know he’s going to find out shortly as he pulls it down your hips in one smooth motion and his own black pants fall to his ankles.

He enters you, dry and rough, and you feel every inch of him slotted inside of you.

“Dirty. Fucking. Girl,” he growls with every thrust, slamming so hard into you that your vision blurs. One hand is clamped on your shoulder — the other next to your waist, holding the old podium still as he drives into you with force. “Say it,” he commands.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…”

[chrometrashcan]

forgive me father for i have sexualized an older man

[cptkitten]

dude in the other side of the confessional, smoothing back his more salt than pepper hair, tugging at his collar, breaking into a slight nervous sweat that highlights his crows feet and laugh lines: Is that so?

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ IT REMAINS

pairing: johnny “soap” mactavish x psychiatrist!reader

4.3k. after being shot in the head, johnny works with a psychiatrist to get his life back. **contains dark themes - read at your own risk.

It’s a tick.

Nine. That’s how many hash marks make up the upper margin of your notes. That’s how many times Sergeant MacTavish has rubbed the spot on his forehead where he was shot months ago. If you listen closely you can hear the pad of his thumb race along the grown out hairs of his mohawk.

It’s how he gives himself quiet comfort. When you ask him a question that makes him feel squeamish, he absentmindedly runs his finger along it. You’d have more hash marks if you deigned to keep track at the beginning of your session but this is only the first time you’re meeting him. You’ve also gotten farther than any of his other psychiatrists thus far. 32 minutes in.

His first psychiatrist, Dr. Williams is great. Phenomenal, actually. Old school, nearing his late fifties — he showed you the ropes when you started here. You thought for sure his calm demeanor would be just what MacTavish needed. He made it approximately 17 minutes into the session.

You’re not even sure Dr. Williams was able to get an answer out of him that day. You were here; heard the raised voice of Sergeant MacTavish. Watched as one of the Lieutenants who accompanied him dragged him out. Dr. Williams left his office a few minutes after that, pink-faced and flustered. The only time you’ve ever seen him like that.

MacTavish went through two other psychiatrists before landing in your lap. Why me? you couldn’t help but think. What could I possibly have that they don’t? You’re the youngest psychiatrist here by a mile. Fresh meat. A larva who has yet to transform, metamorphose.

He’s been staring at the same speck on your carpet for a few minutes now. You saw this faraway look in his eyes at the beginning of the session. Those piercing blues fogged over, mist on the lake. Pupils pinpricked.

His leg bounces slightly. Sweat glistens on his upper lip. Talking about what happened, bringing up that day is what has set him off in other sessions before. You weren’t ready to breach the subject until a few minutes ago.

“Johnny?” you try again, gingerly. He didn’t like when you called him Sergeant MacTavish earlier.

“Doc?” he says calmly, as if you haven’t been waiting in silence for him to answer your question.

“Would you like me to repeat the question?”

He sucks his teeth. Ponders. You let him. If there’s anything you’ve observed about his behavior thus far is that he does not like to be pushed, likely due to the fact that he simply needs more time than before. With a TBI like his, it’s not shocking. Memory loss and concentration issues are almost a guarantee. Along with the other symptoms he’s been experiencing — mood changes, difficulty sleeping, sensitivity to sound — and that’s only what you’ve been able to gather so far from his own admissions this session and the notes from those very brief prior ones.

“I dinnae want ta talk about it,” he finally says.

“Alright,” you answer simply. Calmly.

His shoulders visibly slacken at that.

You wonder if he expected you to push him. And, had this not been your first session, you may have. But not this time. He’s not ready for that yet.

He does surprise you, however. When Sergeant MacTavish makes it the full hour, you award him with an honest smile.

“This is a great step forward, Johnny. I’m proud of you.”

You look down at your slightly smudged notes, the air still heavy with the scent of fresh ink. Notes on Johnny’s sisters, parents, home. How he imagines his life in the future — back home to the Highlands, maybe a little cottage in the woods, walking distance to his relatives. Surrounded by family — a wife, children. Animals. Fending for himself and his family. Providing.

It’s… sweet. His fantasy of the future. You imagine in different circumstances he might have been an ideal husband. He has a protective instinct that drives him in everything he does. A wolf defending his pack. Maw dripping with the blood of those who would stand to hurt anyone he loves.

“Thanks, Doc.”

He scratches the scar again as he stands up. It’s still raised — pink flesh that draws your eye in. He waits for you, maybe the most awkward you’ve seen him thus far. You stand and offer your hand. His engulfs yours. He holds it tight, like letting go of you will make him slip out of reality again.

“Next week, same time?” You hate the phrase as soon as it comes out, making you sound like every movie shrink ever, but routine is important for him right now.

He swallows thickly and nods his head, finally letting go of your hand. You walk him to the exit, to the waiting Lieutenant. He goes without a fuss.

You don’t run into any problems until a few sessions later.

He’s agitated, but hasn’t told you why yet. You give him time, give him space. Let him work out what he wants to tell you. The Newton’s cradle that usually occupies your desktop is shoved in a drawer. Silence envelops the two of you, other than his ragged breathing as he tries to get ahold of his emotions.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been holding your own breath but you allow some oxygen into your lungs. You feel like you’re standing at the door of an airplane and he’s the one strapping your parachute. Checking for rips and tears. Making sure the deployment handle is secure.

“Johnny?” you murmur. Wait.

He rubs his scar.

“Lonely,” he blurts out.

“That’s to be expected,” you hum as your finger absentmindedly brushes across the large CONFIDENTIAL in red ink that runs across his folder. He hasn’t been allowed to talk to any family or friends. They all think he’s dead until the man who killed him is in custody and — while you have your disagreements on whether or not that is the best course of action for him — you don’t outrank the military men who made this decision.

“Yer the only friend I get ta see.”

You hesitate and realize that was your error as soon as his face drops.

“We’re friends, no?”

You give him a genuine smile. “I’m your psychiatrist, Johnny.”

“Said ya wanted what’s best for me. Said ya cared.” He’s agitated, fist clenched and shaking against his thigh. He strokes his scar in quick succession with his other hand. His usually serene, handsome face is contorted, as if what he’s hearing is causing him physical pain. He is seconds away from another episode.

“That is true and I meant it when I said it.”

He unfurls his fist but his fingertip never leaves his head. “So we’re friends then?”

You shouldn’t placate him with confirmation. If it were any other patient, you wouldn’t. You would stop this in its tracks, before anything has time to bloom. Cut out the dead root before it rots the rest of the plant. But it’s him — and you can’t be another in a long list of people who have failed him.

“Yes Johnny. We’re… friends.”

He beams at you and you think you see a piece of Johnny from before the accident. The golden retriever energy you suspect made up his personality. The finger on the scar stills.

“I knew you were the right one for me, Doc.”

You make it through three months with him.

“Bonnie flowers,” he nods towards the vase on your desk.

Lily of the valley, baby’s breath and red roses encompassed in a simple glass vase with a lilac satin bow. No note, but it was your birthday week and you figured one of your friends or parents just forgot to add one. You’ll figure out who sent it later.

“Mmm, they are.”

You level him with a look.

“You’re avoiding my question, Johnny,” you remark. He’s had enough sessions with you, become comfortable enough for you to be able to challenge him a bit. He sinks further into the couch and you sit up straighter, closer to the edge of your seat, not letting him run away from the question with physical distance. “Can we talk about this?” you ask his permission.

There’s a tick in his jaw as he mulls it over, eyes never leaving the flowers. You wait, unsure what his reaction will be.

“Can I say no?”

You nod. “You can always say no to me, Johnny. Though, it’s easier for me to help you if you say yes.”

He looks down at his lap, hands folded neatly. The hair on his arms escapes from his long sleeve a little bit. He rubs a knuckle.

“Ya ken I trust ya, Doc, it’s just…” he pinches his brow together, eyes shut as he brings a hand to his head. He hunches over slightly.

“Johnny?” his name lingers in the air. The physical distress he shows gives you heartburn, acid creeping up your throat. He groans, and pushes his fingertips so hard against his forehead you’re sure it’ll bruise.

The bottle of water is in your hands before you realize what you’re doing — standing from your seat and sitting next to him on the couch in your office. You offer it and he lets his hand idle on yours for a second before removing the lid and taking a long sip.

He sighs in relief and lets his muscles relax, leaning backwards into the sofa. A warm, massive hand settles on your knee and you startle but don’t recoil. It would set him back if you pulled away.

“I’m not ready, Doc,” he croaks, and the crack in his voice breaks your heart.

“Alright, Johnny,” you soothe. You grab the back of the hand resting on your knee and squeeze before standing up to return to your chair. “That’s alright. Take your time.”

A knock on your office surprises you a few nights later.

It’s late on a Friday night — you should have been home by now, but you had few things to wrap up before your week off. Notes to finish, information to chart. You were only slightly worried about Johnny, hoping one week off wouldn’t regress him any. At the end of his last session, you made sure to spend some time telling him that you wouldn’t see him next week. You emphasized that you’d be back the following week and would resume as normal.

There’s nothing you hate more than disrupting his routine. It’s been paramount to his recovery thus far. Last week his physician requested an MRI to update his brain imaging, since there hasn’t been any since the incident and it set him off. He only calmed down once you were paged and arrived — stripped yourself of any metal, put on two different pairs of ear plugs and sat vigil next to him on the scanner — your hand brushing against his exposed leg in a soothing motion as his head was inside the tube.

You wonder who could possibly be here at this time of night. As far as you know, you were the last one, but someone else could have easily had a late patient that you weren’t aware of.

The doorknob turns before you can reach it.

Johnny stands in the opening to your office. He is visibly distressed, sweat glistening on his brow. His fingers flex and squeeze as he walks in and closes your office door behind him, hard enough that you jump where you stand.

“Hello, Johnny. What brings you here so late? Where’s your escort?”

He’s still looking off in the distance as he approaches you. You hold your ground, tilting your chin up slightly to look at him. Now that he’s in front of you it’s easier to see how ragged his breathing is, how hard he’s fighting for control over his emotions.

“Do you want to sit?” you try again.

He doesn’t respond, simply holds his ground as you talk. His eyes flicker back and forth as he ponders something. Is he trying to use the calming techniques you’ve taught him?

Your fingers twitch, almost reaching out on instinct to grab his wrist. He sucks in a large breath, his chest nearly brushing against yours as he does. The hairs on your scalp tickle as you feel his exhale caress your face. Patiently, you wait for him. You’re used to this. Sometimes he needs a moment.

“Ye cannae just…” he starts then stops, pinching his eyes shut as he gets his thoughts together. He inhales deeply again before continuing, his voice more desperate. “Why’re ye leaving me, Doc?”

“I’m not leaving you, Johnny. I’ll be back the week after next.”

The line of his jaw sharpens as he clenches his teeth. His fingers continue to flex and contract, half moons indenting the skin of his palm as he does. The thin wire holding him together is about to break and you’re standing in the middle of the debris field.

“I’ll tell ye about it,” he pleads. He brings his hand up to cup your jaw and you hold your ground. Johnny has never frightened you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him agitated. You know, down to your core, he would never hurt you — so you stay still, let him make physical contact. “I’ll tell ye everything.” He dangles the bait over you like you’re a starving animal. The thing you’ve been waiting for all these sessions. A thumb traces the slope of your cheek.

“Okay,” you agree, bringing your hand up to lightly hold against the one stroking you. You wrap your fingers around his and pull his hand off your face. “We’ll talk about it when I return, alright?”

Wrong move.

He snaps.

Before you can react, Johnny grips the back of your neck and pulls you firmly to his chest. His other arm locks itself around your waist. You gasp, breathing in the scent of him as your face is pressed tightly to his body. Your hands fly up to push yourself away but it’s no use. Johnny is carved from stone, immovable, statuesque. He doesn’t crush you, only holds you as his arms lock in place. Your stiffened frame moves with his chest, his rapid breathing competing over the sound of your own.

Panic creeps into your throat, tightening the noose. You know Johnny would never harm you, but you’re not quite certain the lengths he would go when he’s feeling threatened — and right now he’s feeling very threatened.

Fingers wrap around the hair at your nape as he pulls your head back. He kisses you hard and it’s a battle of teeth and tongue as you try to back away from it, remove yourself from the situation. You whine in protest and Johnny groans.

Finally his mouth releases yours. Panting, you gasp for air.

“Johnny… this is… highly inappropriate,” you wheeze.

He looks into your eyes lovingly, as if his stare could keep you in place forever.

“Kept the flowers I gave ye,” he breathes.

Your eyes widen in realization. “You? You’re the one who sent those to me?”

A wide grin splits his face. “My girl’s birthday. ‘Course I did.”

You try not to focus on the fact that he knew when your birthday was — something you definitely did not share with him. “Johnny… I’m your psychiatrist.”

“Yer my friend. Said it yerself. Said a lot of things, hen. ‘We’re in this together’, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to help ye’, ‘Rely on me, even on bad days’,” he leans in, nose pressed to your hair and taking a whiff. “Cannae let you go… no’ now.”

You try pushing yourself off him again to no avail. “Johnny…”

With both arms now wrapped around your middle, he lifts you with ease, setting your ass down gently on top of your desk. He brushes a stray hair out of your face. “Said I can ‘always say no’ to ye. I’m saying it now. Cannae let you go, hen,” he repeats.

“Johnny,” you echo, strained as you attempt to wiggle out of his hold. You try to keep your voice strong and even but it’s becoming more and more difficult the longer you’re stuck in his hold.

He shushes you before you can continue talking, a massive palm covering your mouth. “Know ye want it too, pretty girl.” His large knee forces your legs apart, bumping it against your clothed center. You startle and he chubs up — your jump barely moving you in the strong grip of his arm. “Take such good care of me. Let me return the favor,” he murmurs, pupils blown out wide as he replaces his hand with his mouth.

You try to push him away again as he kisses you, but it’s no use. You’d have better luck tipping over a skyscraper with your bare hands. Defeated, you submit — not by kissing him back but no longer fighting him either.

“Tha’s it,” he coos when he decides to back away. He takes you with him, sliding your bottom across the desk and supporting your body weight until your legs are firmly underneath you. Suddenly you’re turning around and he’s forcing your face down to the cool wood. The action causes you to screech and he lays his body against yours and shushes your cries, smoothing a hand along the exposed skin of your cheek.

“S’alright, pretty girl. S’alright. Nobody’ll ever touch ye again. Safe with me, always.”

A shiver races down your spine. Johnny hums in delight, his hips crushed firmly to your ass. His thick length is pressed against you and he shudders. Impossibly, he pulls you by the waist against him even more and wraps a massive paw around your middle to tear your pants down your body. Your panties come with it and you can’t help the moan that escapes at the sensation and sudden coolness.

“Johnny…” you start again, knowing that kissing him is beyond innappropriate but fucking him on your desk is a different monster entirely.

A few thick digits in your mouth quiet you and you gargle at the sudden intrusion. “Shh, bonnie,” he pacifies you, before wrapping his arm around your front and swiping a long stripe up your core with his spit-moistened fingers.

He braces your squirming body down with his large forearm. You yelp as he continues to swirl around your sensitive nub, the motion getting his fingers wetter and wetter as your body responds to his touch. He continues his ministrations with deft and experienced fingers that have your legs trembling underneath you. Eyes closed, you cry out in pleasure — and then come back to reality when you realize you’re about to be fucked by your vulnerable head trauma patient.

“Johnny! We can’t do this,” you plead.

“Why no’ hen? We both want it.” You can’t see him with how you’re positioned but you just know he’s doing that little head tilt thing he does when he’s genuinely confused.

“It’s not right, I’ll lose my job,” you whisper.

He huffs. “Don’t need it. I’ll take care of ye.”

A bulky finger slides into you and your knees knock together. “You’re my patient,” you reply, breathless.

“Gonna help me at home from now on,” he responds effortlessly, stretching you with another finger, continuing his slow, lazy pumps.

Home?

“W… what do you mean by ‘home’, Johnny?” your psychiatrist brain asks, waiting for your patient to define his train of thought like you would in any other session. As if you were across the couch from one another — instead of his fingers spreading you wide as your body is splayed on your desk.

“Home,” he replies simply, like the word should explain itself. A third finger enters you and you suck in a breath at the slight burn. You whimper.

“Pretty baby,” he coos, accent thicker than you’ve ever heard it.

Your nipples pebble but you attempt to resist giving him anymore physical responses. “We can’t do this Johnny,” you tremble — from his fingers or the situation you currently find yourself in, you’re not sure.

“This beautiful body is telling me otherwise, Doc,” he practically purrs, his fingers picking up speed.

“Please Johnny… I…” you gasp.

He rips his hand out and you bite down hard on your cheek to prevent yourself from crying at the loss of contact.

“Want more, baby?!” he beams, the sound of his zipper your only warning before his thick, warm cock rubs lengthwise against the entrance to your cunt, hard length massaging your clit as he pumps.

‘No,’ your mind thinks, but your traitorous body says ‘yes, yes, yes,’ as you draw in a sharp breath, legs pushing your ass back without asking your brain.

Johnny makes a pleased grunt as he continues, lubing his cock with your wet, pulsing pussy. You can’t help it — you moan. A sharp slap on your ass pushes you further into the wood and Johnny soothes the sting by hitting your reddening cheek with his sticky cock a few times in a row.

His hand wraps around the back of your neck, keeping you in place but he’s surprisingly gentle. “Meant to be mine,” he declares as he enters you slowly. You suck in a large breath. “Only good thing that came outta this,” and you know he’s tapping the side of his head with his other hand without looking back at him. You whine and he groans when he enters you to the hilt, squeezing the flesh of your hip with the hand not securing your neck.

That’s it.

You’re fucked.

In more ways than one.

Johnny’s fingertips dig into your skin as he picks up the pace slightly. You grip the side of your desk, not bothering to stop him now. It’s too late for that. Arguments die on your tongue as Johnny pounds into you from behind, the bony protuberance of your pelvis hitting bruisingly against the hardwood with every thrust.

You resort to holding on as best you can as Johnny slams against you, like his anger is seeping out of his skin by doing it. The slapping of flesh and your combined pants sucking the air from the room. Johnny bucks into you until his pace gets sloppy and then he stills, pulling himself out with frustrated groan.

His hands leave you and you lay there, boneless, but watch as he drags your chair around the desk, cock bobbing and glistening in the light as he walks. He supports your weight effortlessly as he places you in your chair, like a delicate piece of china. He grunts as he drops to his knees in front of you, and you watch with hooded eyes as his arms come up underneath your knees and pull you to the edge of the seat — right to his waiting mouth.

Johnny swirls and curls his tongue around the sensitive flesh of your pussy, wrapping a strong arm across your lap to keep your bucking hips down. It stings a little, his solid arm pressing into the bruises forming on your hip. You pant and whine, unable to control the noises spilling out of you.

He doesn’t stop, licking and sucking until that little bundle of nerves can’t take it anymore. With all your strength you try to back away from his mouth but the effort is fruitless. Tears stream down your cheek, the sensitivity making you plead with him. “I can’t… Johnny please… please…”

He hums, the vibration sending a shockwave up your spinal column. He slows down but only slightly and you see stars, head floating as you cum on his tongue. He hums again and you shiver violently in reaction. Pulling back now, he smiles drunkenly at you and kisses your pussy before standing and lining himself back up with you.

Your legs are firmly secured and he throws your calves onto his broad shoulders. He teases your entrance before he lets out a sputtered groan. “Bonnie little thing,” he sighs before spearing you on his cock. You're contorted at an impossible angle, one you’re definitely going to feel later, as Johnny relentlessly drives himself into you.

Voice cracking, you can’t stop the sounds of pleasure that escape from between your lips. Sweat drips down Johnny’s brow as he concentrates. One of your hands grips the arm of your chair and the other finds your lower stomach, feeling Johnny’s cock push into you. The thick hair covering his muscular body tickles but it’s barely noticeable over the pleasure coursing through your system.

Your toes curl as another orgasm rips through you, and you bite down hard on the forearm braced beside your head. Johnny whines in pleasure, hips stuttering before resuming their normal brutal rhythm.

“‘M close, bonnie,” he pants. His motions become more flustered as he approaches his climax. The hand gripping onto the arm of your chair now curls around his forearm as you hold tight to him.

He releases, his spend coating your walls in thick spurts and he drops his body on top of yours. You can feel him twitching inside of you as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

After a few moments, Johnny catches his breath and snakes his arms under you. He lifts you out of the chair and brings you to the couch he’s sat on countless times before, letting your limp form curl against his. He pets your head lovingly as you lay against him, humming softly to himself.

When you fall asleep, Johnny whispers his plans of the future to you. The house he’d purchased in the Highlands a couple of weeks ago is ready to move into. You won’t have to worry your pretty little head about a thing. The plane is chartered, and you’ll both be on it. He’ll be able to last longer next time, and you’re going to give him the most beautiful family — together you’ve already started to.

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ REMNANTS

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x f!reader

3.1k. the world falls into chaos and you find a savior in the brute locked in a cage. **contains dark themes - read at your own risk.

Wheezing. The sound prickles along the fine hairs of your inner ear. You swallow, thick and mucousy; it’s all you can hear. Wheeze, wheeze, swallow. Wheeze, wheeze, swallow. Your lungs are scratchy. The pressure builds.

What you wouldn’t give for a full breath of air.

But you can’t stop now. No. They’re close — hot on your trail. Peals of laughter behind you send bile up your throat. You don’t have time to vomit so you keep running. Wheeze, wheeze, swallow.

An outpost. You’re so close now. Only a few hundred feet more. You might be able to lose them inside. Might be able to hide. Find some food and shelter for the night. Find a weapon to fight back.

Wheeze, wheeze, swallow.

The doors are locked but you see an open window into the compound that you can climb to. It’s cracked just enough that by the time you use up the final remnants of your energy to reach it, you fall hard onto the floor below, breath rushing from your lungs. You’re already all banged up, what’s a few more bruises?

Once you’ve given yourself a moment to catch your breath, you look around the room you landed in. Some sort of security room. Monitors line one wall, lockers the opposite. You pick through the ones that are unlocked and shove what you think you might need in your bag. There’s a footlocker that’s locked up tight at the end of the row.

Cameras monitor every aspect of the compound — inside and out. Relief floods your veins upon seeing your pursuers run past, likely assuming you couldn’t make your way in. You thank whoever might be listening that you finally have some time. Formulate a plan. Rest. Eat. You take your first full breath in days.

The place has clearly been abandoned — you assume not long ago, considering the power is still up and running. With the way things were strewn about in the room, you are left to wonder if the people here left in a bigger hurry than they would have liked.

Motion on one of the screens catches your eye. The monitor says ‘LVL 0’ — basement floor maybe? You know you’re currently on LVL 1 based on the signage in the room. The pads of your fingers heat up as you wipe the smudges off the screen.

It’s a man. He’s fully nude, walking around a cell-like enclosure. Who is he? Why did they leave him here when he left? More importantly — can you leave him here to starve to death once you eventually leave?

There’s a talk button. Here goes nothing.

“Hello?” your voice cracks from underuse. You clear your throat before depressing the button again. “I’ll find a way to open the door.”

No response, but he does stop walking so you assume he heard you. Maybe the camera’s audio doesn’t work anymore.

You don’t have to look for long before you find a big red button labeled ‘door release’. A harsh buzzing rings and you scrunch your face at the sound. You look quickly back to the monitor to see if that opened the door for your friend.

He isn’t there.

He’s gone? But the door still looks closed. Did you imagine him? Was there even a man in there? You rub your eyes until you see stars. Focus.

Fine you’ll just… go check it out. Just to make sure. You will not let yourself turn into one of them. You still have a heart, still have a soul.

The elevator button still glows with power but you don’t feel like taking the chance when there’s a perfectly good set of stairs next to it. Your heart thunders in your throat as you descend to the lower level. It’s… strange down here. The air is stale, suffocating. Nausea creeps up from your gut and you swallow the accompanying bile.

The cage was clearly built into the design of the building, which makes you stop and wonder for a split second exactly what this place was. You pad lightly to the cage, unable to speak. Your teeth stick to the inside of your lips with every breath you suck in.

The door makes a high pitched squeak that damn near has your ears ringing when you open it gingerly from your spot just outside the cell.

“H… hello?” you chance again, a little quieter.

Nothing. The cell looks empty.

Your brow furrows. You were so certain you saw a man in here — but can be easily filed away as a hallucination with the lack of sleep and stress you’ve experienced over the past few days. Your feet move on their own accord as you step further into the cell, inspecting. Dried blood splatter coats the floor and wall, massive bloody footprints leading around the cell.

A noise from behind causes you to turn around at a speed you didn’t know you possessed. Your scream is choked off by the hulking hallucination from the monitor. There’s a wild look in his eye as he slams you against the wall, his massive paw gripped around your throat and cutting off your airway. You claw desperately at his hand, surely drawing blood as you struggle to take a breath.

Kicking and scratching and struggling. The man — who is not only completely naked but covered in dried blood, eye black smeared across his face — tilts his head slightly at you, something like recognition flooding his system as he releases your neck just enough for you to gasp in a raggedy half-breath.

You still completely at the sight behind him.

“Drop the girl, now!”

It’s them. They found you.

Too late. For them and you.

At least they won’t be the ones to take you.

At least you can finally rest. Sleep.

Yes. A dreamless sleep. Sounds kind of nice.

The brute drops you and you slide down the wall, landing so hard on your ass you’re sure your tailbone is bruised. The yelp that escapes from your lips is strange sounding, likely due to your cutoff airway.

It happens in slow motion and yet all at once. Your attacker — or maybe now your savior, you’re not entirely sure — throws the large rock you hadn’t noticed he’d been palming in his free hand and hits the one who spoke directly in the eye. You wince as the sound of gunfire erupts around the room and curl in on yourself. It’ll be over soon anyways, no need to watch.

A hand grips under your elbow and tugs you upward, almost ripping your arm out of its socket as you scramble to your feet. The sound of your raspy breath is all that fills the room as you're pulled up by the very man who almost just choked you to death. He towers over you, looking at you like he just asked a question and was waiting on your answer. He tilts his head slightly and begins to walk out of the cell. You do the same on wobbly legs and observe the carnage around you.

They’re all dead. Every last one. Other than the one with a massive eye wound, all seem to be killed in the same manner, gunshots to the head and chest.

He looks at you from the bottom of the stairs, waiting.

Your legs shake as you walk to where he stands. He starts walking up the stairs when you get closer, and you follow behind. Every step ignites your tailbone in fiery pain that threatens to take what little breath fills your lungs. Somehow, you manage to make it up the first flight.

You watch from the landing as he enters the security room, rummaging around in there. You can’t quite see what he’s doing with the door half closed but you can hear him opening the metal doors to the lockers. A loud, metallic clatter has your heart plummeting straight into your throat.

After a minute he comes out with a large duffel in his meaty grip. You blink up at him as he holds out your backpack to you in the other. You're not even sure when it fell off but you take it in your hands, comically small next to his as they brush against him. He starts to walk to the front door and forces it open.

When you don’t immediately follow, he turns to look at you.

You limp over to where he is, the pain in your tailbone growing with every second that passes. He walks to a pond just outside the compound, dropping his duffel and diving in expertly. What, this guy’s a serial killer and an olympian?

You're dumbstruck as he cleans himself off, large hands rubbing at the black around his eyes and the blood coating him. He walks out of the pond and you hastily find somewhere else to look besides his large, perfectly toned frame. The water must be cold.

The sound of a zipper hits your ears as you see him bend over in your periphery. He dresses quickly, efficiently. You may have only met ten minutes ago but you’re pretty sure everything he does is efficient.

His thick accent takes you more off guard than the fact that he deigned to speak to you. (To be fair, you did assume he was mute.)

“Why’d ya let me out, bird?”

You wonder what you look like to him as you glance up in confusion. He’s dressed now, black pants and shirt. Now that he’s not covered in dirt, grime and blood you can see he’s quite good looking. Rugged, menacing… but handsome in his own way.

“I… couldn’t leave you to starve in there,” you answer honestly, voice still strained.

You flinch as he pulls out a pistol and checks the magazine before putting it securely in the waistband of his pants. He slings a larger weapon around his arm.

“Why’re those men chasin’ ya?”

A gust of fall wind sweeps through and you shiver.

“How long have you been in that cage?” you finally inquire.

He grunts. “Not sure. A while.”

You swallow thickly. How do you tell him that in the matter of just a few weeks, the government was overthrown. Riots broke out. Militias took power.

“It may be a different place out here than when you went in.”

Another guttural noise leaves his throat. “Then we ‘ave failed our mission.”

Mission? What mission?

“Anarchy, is it?” he looks at you with those piercing brown eyes.

You nod.

He sighs and the rigidity in his posture softens a bit. He folds up the now empty duffel bag more neatly than you thought he could and hands it into you. You pinch your brows together but take it anyway, holding it between your hands.

He starts walking along the side of the road. Alert, eyes up and focused on the world around him. He stops suddenly, turning around to face you where your feet are still planted.

“You comin’ or wha?”

Shaking yourself out of your stupor, you trail after him as quickly as you’re able to. The more you walk, the easier it is to deal with the pain. He continues forward, always scanning the area around him.

He stops suddenly and you do too, tensing up. He grabs the duffel bag out of your hands and walks behind you, unzipping the backpack around you to place it in there.

You’re too stunned to speak as you start to follow him when he walks again.

The sun hits the horizon in an hour, and you’re still wandering along the road with your strange, large man. He hasn’t spoken since before you started walking but you don’t mind the silence. Your breathing is finally almost back to normal, though you can feel the tenderness of the hand-shaped souvenir you're left with along your neck.

There’s an overturned UHaul on the road ahead. You startle when he pulls the pistol out of his waistband and ensures there's a bullet in the chamber as he walks more purposefully toward it. You trail behind him as he walks around it. Clearly whoever was pulling it left in a hurry, as there’s nobody in the cab up front. Glass crunches under your shoes.

Your giant walks to the rear and smacks the side of the UHaul with such a force that you yelp and jump at the bang that follows. You flash him an apologetic look when you cover your mouth and he listens.

After a minute of silence, he opens the back. Things are strewn everywhere — boxes, a couch, and other home items. You watch mesmerized as he enters with the pistol ready to fire, making sure it’s clear.

He grips you around your waist and drags you in after reholstering his weapon. He points to a box labeled “BEDDING” and begins to pile the cushions of the couch that are scattered about. You slowly tear off the tape and open the box, pulling out some blankets.

Boxes are being piled around the entrance swiftly by him. He works silently, effortlessly. Then, he carries the cushions to the back wall and lines them up on the floor — really the wall, since the vehicle is tipped.

You stumble over with a large pile of blankets and he helps you spread them out. He turns on a flashlight when you’re done, pointing it up at the ceiling and leaning it against the wall before he walks over to the door and closes it.

A shiver trails down your spine when he walks back towards you. He’s crouched down, leaving the bottom blanket over the cushions but crawling under the rest.

“C’mon pet,” he orders.

You drag your feet to him and he grips your ankle, holding your foot in the air and taking off your shoe in one smooth motion, which he tosses next to where he lays. Once he leads your foot back on the ground he does the same with the other.

“In,” he demands, motioning to the empty spot next to him where he lays.

You stumble in, wincing slightly. The pain in your tailbone has subsided from what it was, but it lingers when you move too quickly. He pulls your back to his chest when you finally make your way under the covers, giving you a thick bicep to rest your head against in place of a pillow. You shiver in his grasp, his body heat surrounding you. He reaches out to click off the flashlight and darkness blankets the vehicle.

A large arm wraps around your midsection when you shiver again. Your neck warms from his hot breath. He pulls you in even closer and you feel something rigid against your back. Your giant trails his hand up, cupping your breast through your shirt. The shudder that comes is no longer from the cold.

A small moan escapes you and you press your thighs together.

Who are you right now? You don’t even know his name, and he nearly killed you earlier. Yet you trailed him like a lost puppy and are letting him touch you.

His hand slips under your shirt and his calloused hand roughly palms your breast. He drives his hips against you, groaning when his thick length presses into your back. You can’t help yourself when you push your ass back against him.

He did save you, after all. And he kept you safe after.

The waistband of your pants is pulled away as he now slides his hand down, trailing under your panties and to your sensitive bud below. Can he feel how positively soaked you already are? You assume the answer is yes when he chuffs and drags a wide finger across your slit.

This is what he deserves, right? Saving a pretty little thing like you.

You gasp when that wide finger enters you. He humps your backside as he drags it in and out, drawing soft pants from you. The two of you continue this for a while, assuming that this is all he desires until you realize he had an ulterior motive for warming you up.

He roughly tugs your pants down and off and does the same with his, lining himself up with your entrance. The arm you were laying on wraps around your collarbone and holds you firmly in place as he pushes in, the stretch almost unbearable.

There’s no way he’s more than a fraction of the way in and yet you’re not sure you can handle anymore. You struggle to find oxygen and he pets your head gently. More gentle than you thought he could be.

“Breathe, pet.”

You breathe and after a moment he brings two fingers to your lips. You open on pure instinct and he sticks them in, scraping along your tongue.

He rubs you with those coarse, wet fingers as he forces himself even further inside, arm still pressing down on your collarbone to keep you in place. You fight to fill your lungs as he fills you, a mewl escaping between your lips.

He’s slow at first, giving you time to adjust before he decides enough is enough and begins pounding into you. He covers your screams but leaves your nostrils open so you can still breathe, his grunts of pleasure all you can hear over the joining of your bodies.

He’s not gentle. It’s not his nature. He takes what he wants. That’s how it always has been for him. Since the beginning. You want it? You take it. You make it yours.

Your tailbone screams in pain with each thrust and tears track down your cheeks and wet his hand covering your mouth. You bite the inside of his palm to quell the ache and he praises you between thrusts.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

You clench around him and his movements sputter for a moment before he resumes. More than anything you wish he was face to face with you but you recognize what he is. He is not a man that whispers sweet nothings in your ear and kisses you softly while you make love. He’s a man who helps himself to what he wants.

He groans low in his throat at your reaction to his praise and he knows. It falls into place in his mind. You won’t run from him in the morning. His soft, pretty little prize. Sweet girl that will follow him around. That will let him bully his cock into you whenever he wants just for keeping you safe.

When you find your release, you bite down hard enough on his palm that you taste metal. He grunts, pushing into you harder and faster than you thought possible as he finds his — his hot spend coating your cunt. Finally he uncovers your mouth and you gasp for oxygen, wet breaths filling the air.

He pets your hair with a sticky hand and covers you back up with the blankets that had been displaced.

“Sleep, pet,” he instructs as he again pulls you into his chest.

You sleep for the first time in a week.

[yourxsoul]

+ bonus

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ WRAITHCLIFF MANOR

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x f!reader

1.8k. it is 1886 and you’ve just been married off, starting a new life in england. supernatural horror anthology.

You wondered what the town would think if you turned around and strangled her with the strings of your corset.

Who would write your life story in the paper? Surely some wretched, balding fool who returns home everyday to a wife he detests and insufferable kids he can’t wait to ship off to boarding school. Knobbled fingers click clacking away at a typewriter as he tells the unseemingly tale of a pretty young debutante turned murderess.

It leaves a soured taste in your mouth and it’s why you ultimately let your mother’s maidservant continue to stuff you into a surely too small corset without acting on your impulsive homicidal thought. Not that these delicate hands could, anyway. You’re fairly certain between you and her, she would have the upper hand.

Every inhale, every string she yanks on, makes the air seem rougher against the membranous lining of your lungs. She knows you’re aggravated, which is why the atmosphere in the room is silent. You’re thankful for it.

When you’re finally dressed and down the stairs, the lecherous look of your stepfather might make you question the validity of his claim that he desires to finally ship you off to a husband. Bile coats the inside of your throat at the glint in his eye, snaking its way up your esophagus from your empty stomach. He tuts quietly to himself and you ignore it, looking instead for your mother who is already drunk, lounging on the chaise in front of the fireplace.

“Mother, you’re not dressed…,” you note — not a question, never a question — voice pitched higher than you intended. She dons only a robe, wineglass stem rolling through her fingertips as she sloshes the red contents around the glass and stares longingly into the fire.

“Your father is chaperoning you tonight.” You bristle at her calling him your father. Though you remember very little of the man who was your father, the sting of the wound still feels fresh. You don’t bid her a goodnight as you assume she won’t remember it anyway.

Back straight, head held high, you keep your composure as you head towards your demise — a freshly painted carriage. The driver tips his cap to you before offering his hand to help you inside. Your stepfather follows soon after, acrid smell of liquor on his breath. One of his hands finds purchase on your thigh and you shiver at the connection, even through your many layers. Gooseflesh travels along every inch of your skin, making the fabric of your shift feel like canvas rather than silk.

The unfamiliar name of your host forces you to tune back into the words coming from his mouth. New money, you overheard one of the servants say earlier. From England, working on some business venture or another with your stepfather. Staying temporarily in the Laswell summer estate until he returns back to England. With a new wife in tow, you think bitterly.

The carriage pulls up and you brace yourself for the oncoming slaughter. Why pretty up the cow when the end result is the same? The frills in your dress, the light dusting of makeup will not change your fate.

You almost stumble when you see him for the first time. Like that new building you’d heard of in Chicago —skyscraper they call it — his massive frame towers over both you and your stepfather. If his ego wasn’t big enough on its own you’d assume your stepfather wouldn’t be comfortable around a man of his stature, much less work with him.

His light hair is slicked back haphazardly, a white y-shaped scar decorating his forehead and another slicing through his upper lip. The skin around his mouth looks freshly shaven, like he doesn’t opt to do it often. Is he unimpressed? Displeased? Inspired? It’s hard to tell by the look of indifference he sports. He’s rough around the edges but still brutishly handsome.

Imposing. Gargantuan. Hulking. The words flow to your lips, the ones currently pressed tightly together. You know he can smell the terror dripping off of you on your approach. You wonder if the tailor might double the fabric he uses for regular sized men on his garments when you place your hand in his — swallowed up by his large palm as you give a small curtsy before ripping your hand out of his and placing it back to your side.

“Simon Riley,” he introduces, voice as gruff as you imagined it’d be. His eyes are so dark you can’t tell if they’re actually brown or black when you give your full name back, craning your neck to look up at him.

The air stifles you, thick and suffocating as you enter the dining hall. You’re aware the weight of a heavy hand pressing on your chest is not from your corset’s impenetrable grip alone. It’s the emptiest you have ever seen this place, the few balls you've been to here over the years in comparison making it seem much more desolate.

He doesn’t speak much. Your stepfather instead fills the silence with chatter. You pick at your food like a bird. Trapped in her cage, about to be sold to the highest bidder.

His rough hand draws your attention. Hands that have known labor stare back at you. New money, you think again, but from what? You wonder what those hands would feel like on your delicate skin. Rough pads of his fingers trailing down your body. Would he be gentle or cruel? Touching you in places that should make you blush to imagine.

The mention of your luggage throws your mind back into the conversation at hand. You blink over at your stepfather as he explains how your essentials had already been packed up and brought over. That Simon will supply whatever need is left. Suddenly the bags at the back of the carriage that you paid no mind to earlier cause a small gasp to escape your lips.

Simon’s head whips in your direction for the first time since sitting down. “Did’n know?” he more so states than questions when his eyes meet yours. “We’re leavin’ for England tonight.”

On reflection of the moment, you’re quite certain your eyes were popping out of your head at hearing this. Your stepfather said nothing, his face emotionless at the news you were receiving.

You’re paralyzed for the remainder of the dinner, watching through glassy eyes as your stepfather signs your name and age in the marriage certificate that already bears the signature of the county clerk. He hands it off to Simon, who folds it neatly and stuffs it in his breatpocket. “Pleasure,” he says to your stepfather. Not you. Him. Of whom he hands a very large wad of cash to.

Now that the business is over, your stepfather stands. “She’ll make you very happy,” he comments to Simon, before trudging off without saying a word to you.

Simon gets up, talking quietly to a maidservant standing in the corner who you don’t recognize. She’s older, mellow — helping you rise from your seat and leading you through the estate. You’re in a room you’ve never been in before, where she delicately buttons a light coat over your frame before bringing you out a door to the backside of the estate. After she gets you settled in the carriage she places a blanket over your lap before sitting up front with the driver. Your new husband enters the carriage after that. You’re not sure how long you’d been sitting in there alone — ten minutes or an hour. It made no difference.

You see neither hide nor hair of your husband during your weeklong journey to England. Only the maidservant who you eventually learn is employed by the Riley’s and travelled with Simon to see to his new bride. Mrs. Upton. She’s incredibly kind, especially considering how frigid your demeanor is. Her graying hair is always swept up into an elegant bun when she attends to you, helping you to dress and brushing the knots out of your hair after another rough night of sleep. She’s the one who ensures you eat, bringing every meal to your lodging on the ship.

After Mrs. Upton settles you in the carriage that will drive you to your new home, you are again stunned by the sheer size of your husband as he takes a seat next to you. This is the first carriage you’ve sat in so far to be completely covered, and stuffing both of you into this tiny box reminds you of the unpleasant feeling every morning of being crammed into your corset.

The walls start closing in on you, claustrophobic and suffocating. Your breathing picks up to the point of hyperventilation and you throw the soft blanket Mrs. Upton laid upon you off of your lap. You’re flushed, a dribble of sweat snaking its way down your brow.

Simon says nothing as he reaches over — barely, as he is just as long as he is large — and opens the window on your side. You press your cheek against the grated wood in no manner of elegance, closing your eyes as you breathe in the fresh air coming through the slats in the carriage. The crisp fall morning fills your lungs and the headache that has been pestering you since you left home a week ago finally starts to ease its grip.

Nothing is said between the two of you on the journey. Half a day passes until the carriage begins to slow, finally coming to a full stop after climbing up a rather sizeable hill. Simon finally looks over at you, as if he was taking you in for the first time. The driver opens the door to the carriage, and you can barely make out a manor around the bulk of your husband.

Surprisingly, Simon is the one to offer you his hand on the step out of the carriage. The manor looms ominously above you, ivy mangled and twisting around the weathered exterior. Dead, rotten trees cast shadows along the house. The rooftops are adorned in pointed, intricate ironwork that has started to rust. Tall windows are set into almost every wall, a few shuttered off. The front door — a massive slab of timeworn oak — has faded significantly since its initial installation. You feel as if you’ve been transported into the latest penny dreadful as you stand there, slack jawed.

Something old and sinister lives inside these walls. A shiver trails down your spine at the thought. Even though you’re outside, the air is thick… musty. Time seems to have stopped entirely here. Forgotten secrets await to be rediscovered within the grounds — untold horrors from the specters within.

“Welcome to Wraithcliff Manor.”

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ THE COLLAPSE (2)

pairing: captain john price x f!reader

2.1k. you’ve been captured. **contains dark themes - read at your own risk.

John lets you out of the hand cuffs when you prove to him you’ve calmed down a bit.

Just the ones on your wrists though — the ones around your ankles are still keeping you firmly in place on the bed. He lovingly rubs a green salve into where the handcuffs have marred your delicate skin, talking softly to you as he does. You’re not quite sure what he says, you can’t help it when you tune him out. The part of your brain that tries to save you from trauma, you think.

You beg him, plead with him, to let you use a bathroom. Almost cry for it. He makes you go in a bed pan and it's then that you realize you’ve been nude this whole time under the blanket he's placed on you. It’s embarrasing — having to go while he watches and then him cleaning you up after, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if some part of him enjoys it. Like he was meant to be here to take care of you. You tried to clean yourself, rip the cloth from his hands, but he warned you in a low growl not to and it scared you straight enough to let him continue.

You’re too smart to ask him to let you go. That can’t happen yet. No — you’re going to have to earn your freedom, little by little, like you did with the handcuffs. You almost did beg him to let you go in the beginning, when you were still in hysterics. John is smart. He’s a planner. That much has been obvious from the start.

The first night John feeds you every bite himself. It’s homemade soup and bread and you hate yourself for thinking how good it is. You briefly considered a hunger strike but realize not only would he probably force feed you — you also wouldn’t accomplish anything from it. You need to keep your strength up.

It’s been a few days, as far as you can tell, and that’s only by keeping track of the meals John’s been feeding you. They are actual meals too. Breakfast is sausage or bacon with toast and eggs. Lunch varies, but usually something light (you found the soup from the first night was actually his leftovers from lunch that day). Dinner is a full, homecooked meal — meats, veggies, the works. John’s even promised dessert when you ‘earn’ it, but hasn’t said what that means yet.

He doesn’t seem to take issue with your silence. You’ve barely spoken to him since he brought you down here, but he’s also been relatively quiet — only saying what he deems necessary, only soothing when rubbing that damn stinging green paste on your wrists. It discolors your skin but actually seems to be working.

No matter how hard you try, you always fall asleep at night — you get tucked in after dinner, he reads to you from his book (he’s currently reading The Old Man and the Sea), and he ends the night by kissing you softly on the forehead, turning the lights all the way off as he exits. You wait about 30 seconds before scrubbing where his lips met your skin, facial hair leaving a slight burn behind.

On the fourth day after breakfast, John enters the room, a caddy in one hand and a bucket of steaming water in the other. You can just barely make out the tops of bottles and a rag or two in the caddy from where you lay on the bed. He kicks the stool over to the bed you’ve been calling home and takes a seat.

“Time for a bath, love.”

Your throat is scratchy from underuse, but you still let out a small thank you — even if it is just a whore’s bath and not a real shower, you’ll take anything. You sit up on one elbow and reach with you other hand for one of the rags. John tsks at you.

“No, darling.”

Eyes wide as saucers, you look up at him. “B.. but you.. you said I could have a bath.”

“You are havin’ a bath,” he states matter of factly, as he plops a rag into the steaming hot bucket.

John grabs a towel and rips off the blankets covering you. You can’t stop the shiver that ripples down your spine, the whine that escapes from low in your throat. He shimmies the towel underneath you, caressing your side with light touches as he does.

John reaches down to grab the rag and wrings out the excess. He wraps it around a bar of soap and gently, very gently, starts to massage it into your skin. He starts with your feet, working his way up and up and up.

He dips the rag back into the bucket just before he reaches the seam of your pussy and a fat tear rolls down the side of your cheek. He swipes it away with his big thumb without a second’s thought. “Shh, now. None of that love.”

The rag runs across the outside of your lips gently and you let out a muted whimper. John grunts and palms the tenting in his pants before continuing to wash you. When he gets to your breasts he takes extra care to clean them as delicately as he can.

Once he’s finished on top, his strong arms grab you to sit you up. He sits on the bed behind you and washes your back hurriedly compared to the rest of your body. Once he’s finished, he takes the other wettened rag and quickly wipes the soapy residue from your skin.

“If you’re a good girl, I’ll wash your hair too,” he murmurs, his scruff brushing against your ear. Your body shudders in response. “You gonna be a good girl for me?”

Your lip finds purchase between your teeth before you decide to nod in response.

“Good,” he practically purrs, before getting up from the bed. He pushes you down onto your back with a tenderness you didn't know was possible.

“Now for the inside.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “Wha-” you start, before you’re cut off. John’s warm mouth wraps around your folds, his tongue spreading you open. A whoosh of air releases from you and your hips buck up towards the ceiling. John reacts immediately and wraps a strong arm around you, effortlessly keeping you on the bed as his tongue assaults your sweet pussy. He laps up your juices like you’re the first water he's come across after days in the desert. Like he just found the fountain of youth between your legs.

You squirm and try to push yourself back towards the head of the bed, but it's useless under his firm grip. You’re not sure if your tears are because of just how insanely fucking good this feels or because you want him to stop. You should want him to stop… right?

“Sit. Still,” he growls, hot breath against your folds making you shudder. His tongue laps against you, splitting you open. It’s so wet. All of it. You feel the wetness pool against the towel beneath you; across your inner thighs; inside of you. John’s beard irritates your skin slightly as he assaults you.

John backs his mouth away from you only for a second to coat one of his thick fingers in saliva. He rubs it against you and you jump, a yelp escaping your lips. He hums to himself and he slowly rubs his finger up and down and around to your clit before he pushes his tongue inside of you again. You bite your lip hard enough that a metallic tang assaults your senses for a brief moment.

He splits you open slowly with that thick finger, dragging through your folds until he’s pushing inside. He’s purposeful in his movements. Once his finger is in to the hilt, he gives you a short lick. You whine. “Good little kitten,” he murmurs.

His finger rubs against your gummy walls while his tongue laps against your cunt with a ferocity you didn’t know existed. You can’t hold back your moans of pleasure now — you’re crying out for him. Screaming his name. Begging him to stop. Heat shoots up your spine and pools in your core. Your hips buck off the bed — or at least they try to but you can’t fight against the grip John has on your hips.

He only pauses for a moment to console you. “Shh, love. You can take it. Go on now, take it.”

He slips a second large finger inside of you and the stretch has you moaning. You struggle to catch your breath. Your toes curl, you grip the sheets hard enough to rip the fabric.

You ride out your orgasm on John’s face and fingers. Tears well in your eyes and spill down the side of your cheeks. John hums in approval the entire time.

His face is drenched when he sits up to look at you. He winces as he palms his stiffened cock. You suck in a terrified breath.

“We’ll start slow, love. Even though you let that wanker fuck you the first night,” he says with a growl. John unzips his jeans and pushes them along with his boxers off his thighs, flinching slightly when they catch on his thick length. His cock springs free and slaps against his stomach and your mouth waters. A shiver trails down your spine.

John approaches you like a predator approaching his prey. Steady, confident in his success. You know then that you’re absolutely fucked. You’ve known it for a while, in the back of your mind, but this solidifies it. Watching him saunter over to you, heavy cock palmed in his fist.

He pushes his head against your lips and you squish you eyes closed, mouth shut firmly. “Now, now pet… it’s my turn.” He brings his large thumb to your lips, his other fingers cupping the underside of your jaw as he pushes his thumb solidly into your mouth. His thumbnail grazes your gums as he forces your jaw to unclench and open around his thumb.

“No teeth,” he warns lowly, before slowly bringing his cock to your lips. Prespend wettens the tip and makes it glide into your barely open mouth. He pushes until he hits the back of your throat and you involuntarily choke, teeth barely grazing his fat cock.

He flicks your nose hard enough that you feel as if you just went underwater without holding your breath. “Watch it,” he growls. He goes achingly slow as he pulls back out, a string of your saliva the only thing connecting you two. Another tear falls and he gently wipes it away. The delicate skin on the side of your eyes starts to burn.

He fists some of your hair at the back of your head before pushing himself in again. You start to choke before he’s soothing you. “Easy, love. Breath through your nose,” he gently commands — voice low and scratchy — all while petting your hair. You do as he asks but only because you can’t get enough oxygen to your lungs.

“Little further,” he coos, slowly sliding himself again to the back of your throat. Your nose tickles on the dark coarse hair of his pelvis. He grunts at the squeeze. John watches you reverently in this position. He’s never seen anything more beautiful in his life. He can’t wait to break your stubborn streak, once he fucks your pretty little cunt. Can’t wait to stretch you open, feel your walls clench around him. You’ll be a good girl then. He just knows it.

Both of his large hands paw at your head now as he sets a steady pace. He almost cums just looking at the sight of you taking him. It takes every last bit of his reserve not to just blow his load right there. He grunts and shudders everytime his tip slams into the soft wall of your throat. Saliva runs down your mouth, tear tracks marking your beautiful skin. The prettiest sight he’s ever seen.

He fucks your mouth until he can’t hold on any longer. Ropes of his cum trickle down your throat and he pulls out faster than he would like to in order to keep your jaw closed completely. He watches you carefully as you struggle to swallow his load. Once he’s certain you have, he lets go of your face and you suck in a deep breath. You sputter, your lungs burn. The thick coating of him lines the inside of your mouth and you try not to gag.

“Sweet kitten,” he soothes, lovingly petting your head. “Come now, let’s wash your hair.”

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ THE COLLAPSE

pairing: captain john price x f!reader

2k. you move to the mountains of montana and meet your new neighbor. *tw: kidnapping

Your next door neighbor was admittedly a little weird.

You were pretty positive he was one of those doomsday prepper types that you heard of when you moved to the area — but you hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his 'bunker’ yet. You know some of them are pretty well hidden, and you’re a bit embarrassed to admit when he invited you over for a fish fry dinner after you first moved in, you totally went snooping around for it.

As strange as he might be, he seems like a nice guy. Genuine type of neighbor and you don’t want to piss him off, considering he’s your only neighbor. There’s nothing around the two of you for miles. That, and he’s actually been a pretty neighborly neighbor.

He always seems to know where you are but you figure it’s probably just because he’s clearly ex-military. When you catch yourself drinking coffee and staring at him from your porch as he fishes on the lake you share — he waves at you. When you’re trying to fix the fence on your small garden — he’s over right away with tools. When you’re struggling to carry your groceries inside — he’s around the corner, lifting over half of them out of your arms. Telling you that ‘you should really buy in bulk, love.’

And honestly, he’s right, you should. It’s been such a pain in the ass to get and haul groceries considering you moved to bum-fuck Montana — but oh is it ever beautiful. You get an absolutely breathtaking view every single day… but it takes away almost a full day from you in order to drive into the nearest town, load up, and then drive back home and unload them. By the time you’re done, you’re so tired you don’t have any energy to do anything else.

The power goes out one night. You’re not a child anymore, but it really is dark out here without any lights on. Eerie. You’re not from here. You don’t know what could be lurking out there, in the dead of night.

He comes by — of course he does. He’s got flashlights, candles, blankets and whiskey. Says the first two are to see with, the last two are to keep you warm. You let him inside just as the rain turns into a downpour.

You stay up most of the night together, talking. He tells you about his past in the military, you tell him about your writing, how you moved out here to focus and get out of the city. He pours you another drink and you have half a mind to refuse, but really you can’t let him leave yet. You’re a little scared to be by yourself out here tonight. He leaves when the power finally comes back on, only an hour before sunrise.

Loneliness seeps into your soul after a few months. You decide to invite some friends from college for a long weekend. You let him know of course. The plan is to do some hiking, but you’re sure you’ll end every night rowdy in your house. You tell him not to hesitate to show up if you’re all being too noisy.

He comes by that Friday morning, after everyone has arrived the evening before. Offers to be your hiking guide. You think, why not? You honestly aren’t much of an outdoor girly and can’t say you’ve ventured very far out here before. Might as well let the expert do it. He seems happy to — chatting it up easily with everyone, showing them little things in nature here and there.

When you get back to the house, everyone is so impressed by him they insist he comes by tonight for dinner. You almost can’t believe how easily he meshes into your group when he’s at least 12-15 years older than all of you. If you didn’t know better you would have swore he graduated with the rest of you.

He’s always on your team for any of the games you play and he's fucking good at all of them. Almost maddeningly so. You win flippy cup and pong easily. You team up in drunk Jenga and he makes you feel like he’s moonlights as an architect with how quickly you both become champions.

There’s no way he’d join you all skinny dipping in the lake — or so you’d thought. But as the rest of you tear your clothes off at the edge of the docks and jump in one by one, he’s there. Stripping down into nothing. Winking at you before he hightails it into a cannon ball. You hope what little moonlight there is doesn’t allow him to see the blush creeping up your cheeks. Doesn't allow him to track how your eyes move up his body — strong, sturdy, rugged.

One of the guys suggests playing chicken and he’s diving under and lifting you on his shoulders before you can fully register what’s happening. The soft, sensitive flesh of your pussy rubs against him with each movement and it takes every last ounce of your willpower not to grind against him like some sick fucking pervert. He’s your neighbor after all.

Winning was almost a guarantee with the two of you, even with you on top, because of how absolutely solid he is. Hands digging into your thighs, keeping you flush against him. It doesn’t matter who you’re up against because no one can push you off your perch on his shoulders. Your nipples perk, exposed to the chill of the night.

You’re fucking drenched and leaking onto him, you can tell. You just hope he’s distracted enough that he can’t feel your warm juices running down his back. You feel the prickles of his beard hair rub against your inner thigh and you have to bite down on your tongue to suppress a moan from escaping you. When he drops you back down into the lake after your undefeated streak and hits you with a whispered “that’s my good girl”, you almost try to hop back onto him then and there.

Fuck, you need to get laid.

Your friends leave once the weekend is up and it really hits you how well and truly alone you are here. Nothing can beat the beauty and serenity of Montana living — it wraps around your lungs like a creeping vine to take your breath away — but it makes you almost long for the hustle and bustle of the city you left behind. The trips to a girlfriend’s place for a glass (or bottle) of wine after a shitty day. Going out to bars and dancing the night away on a weekend. Hell, even just getting takeout when you don’t feel like cooking. All of it — the price to be paid for living here.

You can’t even begin to think about the detriment it is to your dating life. Sometimes — on the nights where you let your mind spiral — you imagine what it’ll be like living out here alone for the rest of your life.

Shockingly, you do meet a guy without even trying. Jake. Run into him. Literally in fact — you accidently trample over his foot at the grocery store with your cart. You feel so bad about it, when trying to make it up to him you find out he only lives a few miles away from you. He’s cute; outdoorsy type. Avid hiker, knows the area around your place. You invite him over for dinner tomorrow as an apology.

You go simple, not wanting to overdo it. Steak, cooked to a perfect medium rare, and baked potatoes. The two of you sit on your patio and chat until the stars come out and it’s too cold to sit any longer with soft breeze coming from the lake. Jake gets a fire roaring in your cozy little living room and you both curl up to it on the floor with a glass of wine.

He spends the night. You wonder — are you being too easy? Honestly… yeah, probably. But to be fair to yourself, you needed this… badly. You’re in quite literally the longest dry spell of your life. Living in the mountains hasn't helped that.

You jolt, waking up in a sweaty sheen that coats your skin. All night you’ve had the feeling that you’re being watched. It’s probably due to the fact that Jake, who is snoring lightly in your bed next to you, told you a few ghost stories about the mountain being haunted. That, and it’s easy to be paranoid living way out here.

Jake hangs around more and more. You go hiking, fishing, stargazing. Strangely, the more you see of Jake, the less you see of your neighbor. He’s not out on his boat on the lake anymore; you don’t see him grilling in his backyard or hiking the trails around your place’s. It’s… weird. He was such a solid fixture in your life when you first moved here.

It’s been over a month since you last saw him. The ghost of him lingers everywhere and it's starting to drive you crazy. When you’re tending your garden and you notice the part of the fence he helped to fix, you think of him. When you grill fish with Jake for dinner, your mind wanders back to him. Your mind plays tricks on you too — the back of your neck prickles and you think he’s going to be there when you turn around. But he’s not, he just… disappeared into thin air.

You decide you’re gonna go check on him today. It’s Saturday, and it’s a beautiful and sunny day. Typically a day you’d see him outside around the house. Jake’s coming over later tonight and you would like to introduce them to one another, especially after talking him up to Jake. Maybe he’ll come over for dinner?

When you get to his place and knock on the door, there’s no response. The door creaks open a bit from the force of your small hand. The house is dark and silent. You gingerly cross the threshold into his house, taking one tiny step into the foyer as you call out to him. It’s been a while since you last stepped foot in here.

You don’t want to intrude on him or his privacy but you’re honestly starting to get very worried at this point. What if he’s hurt? You push the door open a bit further and take another few steps in, again calling for him.

The house is just as neat as you remember from last time — nothing looks to be out of place. The dishwasher is running so that’s a good sign that he’s okay. You open your mouth to call out his name again when suddenly someone comes up to you from behind and presses a cloth to your face. You panic, limbs flailing wildly and inhale more of the slightly sweet, acetone-reminiscent scent. Your screams are muffled by the hand covering your mouth, and you scratch at it, feeling the hairy arm of whoever is behind you until the world becomes black.

When you come to, you feel a little foggy. You’re in… a basement? There are no windows, just industrial style lights. A bed resides in the center of the room — a bed that you are currently tied to — with each limb belonging to its own post.

Holy fuck… holy fucking fuck. Sheer terror spreads like poison through your body. This can’t be real. It can’t be. You’re too old to be kidnapped. You think you’re probably too old to sex trafficked… maybe? The rational part of your brain tells you to slow down and formulate a plan, but the other side of your brain — the one that’s currently reacting to the situation at hand — is kicking and screaming and gouging into your skin. The handcuffs on your wrists and ankles dig deep, biting hard into your skin.

You scream when you notice a shadowy figure hulking just out of eyesight. It moves slowly, so slowly. You throw yourself as far as you can to the other side of the bed, trying to get away from it.

When the figure steps into the light, your blood turns to ice. Sweat glides down your back in swift rivulets even as a chill seeps into your bones.

“…John?”

“Yes, love?”

[blushingrn]

There's something so precious about finding a new author that you absolutely adore 🥺

[velvetchrry]

wow hello thank you so much 🥹🤍

new chapter of the collapse coming soon too !!!

[vault21]

MODERN WARFARE II   ►   LT. SIMON ’GHOST’ RILEY

“Be careful who you trust, Sergeant.  People you know can hurt you the most.”

[brav0-6]

SOAP “NAUTILUS” SKIN 🧼 🧬

[velvetchrry]

You have single-handedly fed my dark John Price cravings. If you do write more for Collapse, I will devour it.

glad you liked it!! there’s another part coming at least, maybe a few more 🤍

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ THE COLLAPSE

pairing: captain john price x f!reader

2k. you move to the mountains of montana and meet your new neighbor. **contains dark themes - read at your own risk

Your next door neighbor was admittedly a little weird.

You were pretty positive he was one of those doomsday prepper types that you heard of when you moved to the area — but you hadn’t seen hide nor hair of his 'bunker’ yet. You know some of them are pretty well hidden, and you’re a bit embarrassed to admit when he invited you over for a fish fry dinner after you first moved in, you totally went snooping around for it.

As strange as he might be, he seems like a nice guy. Genuine type of neighbor and you don’t want to piss him off, considering he’s your only neighbor. There’s nothing around the two of you for miles. That, and he’s actually been a pretty neighborly neighbor.

He always seems to know where you are but you figure it’s probably just because he’s clearly ex-military. When you catch yourself drinking coffee and staring at him from your porch as he fishes on the lake you share — he waves at you. When you’re trying to fix the fence on your small garden — he’s over right away with tools. When you’re struggling to carry your groceries inside — he’s around the corner, lifting over half of them out of your arms. Telling you that ‘you should really buy in bulk, love.’

And honestly, he’s right, you should. It’s been such a pain in the ass to get and haul groceries considering you moved to bum-fuck Montana — but oh is it ever beautiful. You get an absolutely breathtaking view every single day… but it takes away almost a full day from you in order to drive into the nearest town, load up, and then drive back home and unload them. By the time you’re done, you’re so tired you don’t have any energy to do anything else.

The power goes out one night. You’re not a child anymore, but it really is dark out here without any lights on. Eerie. You’re not from here. You don’t know what could be lurking out there, in the dead of night.

He comes by — of course he does. He’s got flashlights, candles, blankets and whiskey. Says the first two are to see with, the last two are to keep you warm. You let him inside just as the rain turns into a downpour.

You stay up most of the night together, talking. He tells you about his past in the military, you tell him about your writing, how you moved out here to focus and get out of the city. He pours you another drink and you have half a mind to refuse, but really you can’t let him leave yet. You’re a little scared to be by yourself out here tonight. He leaves when the power finally comes back on, only an hour before sunrise.

Loneliness seeps into your soul after a few months. You decide to invite some friends from college for a long weekend. You let him know of course. The plan is to do some hiking, but you’re sure you’ll end every night rowdy in your house. You tell him not to hesitate to show up if you’re all being too noisy.

He comes by that Friday morning, after everyone has arrived the evening before. Offers to be your hiking guide. You think, why not? You honestly aren’t much of an outdoor girly and can’t say you’ve ventured very far out here before. Might as well let the expert do it. He seems happy to — chatting it up easily with everyone, showing them little things in nature here and there.

When you get back to the house, everyone is so impressed by him they insist he comes by tonight for dinner. You almost can’t believe how easily he meshes into your group when he’s at least 12-15 years older than all of you. If you didn’t know better you would have swore he graduated with the rest of you.

He’s always on your team for any of the games you play and he's fucking good at all of them. Almost maddeningly so. You win flippy cup and pong easily. You team up in drunk Jenga and he makes you feel like he’s moonlights as an architect with how quickly you both become champions.

There’s no way he’d join you all skinny dipping in the lake — or so you’d thought. But as the rest of you tear your clothes off at the edge of the docks and jump in one by one, he’s there. Stripping down into nothing. Winking at you before he hightails it into a cannon ball. You hope what little moonlight there is doesn’t allow him to see the blush creeping up your cheeks. Doesn't allow him to track how your eyes move up his body — strong, sturdy, rugged.

One of the guys suggests playing chicken and he’s diving under and lifting you on his shoulders before you can fully register what’s happening. The soft, sensitive flesh of your pussy rubs against him with each movement and it takes every last ounce of your willpower not to grind against him like some sick fucking pervert. He’s your neighbor after all.

Winning was almost a guarantee with the two of you, even with you on top, because of how absolutely solid he is. Hands digging into your thighs, keeping you flush against him. It doesn’t matter who you’re up against because no one can push you off your perch on his shoulders. Your nipples perk, exposed to the chill of the night.

You’re fucking drenched and leaking onto him, you can tell. You just hope he’s distracted enough that he can’t feel your warm juices running down his back. You feel the prickles of his beard hair rub against your inner thigh and you have to bite down on your tongue to suppress a moan from escaping you. When he drops you back down into the lake after your undefeated streak and hits you with a whispered “that’s my good girl”, you almost try to hop back onto him then and there.

Fuck, you need to get laid.

Your friends leave once the weekend is up and it really hits you how well and truly alone you are here. Nothing can beat the beauty and serenity of Montana living — it wraps around your lungs like a creeping vine to take your breath away — but it makes you almost long for the hustle and bustle of the city you left behind. The trips to a girlfriend’s place for a glass (or bottle) of wine after a shitty day. Going out to bars and dancing the night away on a weekend. Hell, even just getting takeout when you don’t feel like cooking. All of it — the price to be paid for living here.

You can’t even begin to think about the detriment it is to your dating life. Sometimes — on the nights where you let your mind spiral — you imagine what it’ll be like living out here alone for the rest of your life.

Shockingly, you do meet a guy without even trying. Jake. Run into him. Literally in fact — you accidently trample over his foot at the grocery store with your cart. You feel so bad about it, when trying to make it up to him you find out he only lives a few miles away from you. He’s cute; outdoorsy type. Avid hiker, knows the area around your place. You invite him over for dinner tomorrow as an apology.

You go simple, not wanting to overdo it. Steak, cooked to a perfect medium rare, and baked potatoes. The two of you sit on your patio and chat until the stars come out and it’s too cold to sit any longer with soft breeze coming from the lake. Jake gets a fire roaring in your cozy little living room and you both curl up to it on the floor with a glass of wine.

He spends the night. You wonder — are you being too easy? Honestly… yeah, probably. But to be fair to yourself, you needed this… badly. You’re in quite literally the longest dry spell of your life. Living in the mountains hasn't helped that.

You jolt, waking up in a sweaty sheen that coats your skin. All night you’ve had the feeling that you’re being watched. It’s probably due to the fact that Jake, who is snoring lightly in your bed next to you, told you a few ghost stories about the mountain being haunted. That, and it’s easy to be paranoid living way out here.

Jake hangs around more and more. You go hiking, fishing, stargazing. Strangely, the more you see of Jake, the less you see of your neighbor. He’s not out on his boat on the lake anymore; you don’t see him grilling in his backyard or hiking the trails around your place’s. It’s… weird. He was such a solid fixture in your life when you first moved here.

It’s been over a month since you last saw him. The ghost of him lingers everywhere and it's starting to drive you crazy. When you’re tending your garden and you notice the part of the fence he helped to fix, you think of him. When you grill fish with Jake for dinner, your mind wanders back to him. Your mind plays tricks on you too — the back of your neck prickles and you think he’s going to be there when you turn around. But he’s not, he just… disappeared into thin air.

You decide you’re gonna go check on him today. It’s Saturday, and it’s a beautiful and sunny day. Typically a day you’d see him outside around the house. Jake’s coming over later tonight and you would like to introduce them to one another, especially after talking him up to Jake. Maybe he’ll come over for dinner?

When you get to his place and knock on the door, there’s no response. The door creaks open a bit from the force of your small hand. The house is dark and silent. You gingerly cross the threshold into his house, taking one tiny step into the foyer as you call out to him. It’s been a while since you last stepped foot in here.

You don’t want to intrude on him or his privacy but you’re honestly starting to get very worried at this point. What if he’s hurt? You push the door open a bit further and take another few steps in, again calling for him.

The house is just as neat as you remember from last time — nothing looks to be out of place. The dishwasher is running so that’s a good sign that he’s okay. You open your mouth to call out his name again when suddenly someone comes up to you from behind and presses a cloth to your face. You panic, limbs flailing wildly and inhale more of the slightly sweet, acetone-reminiscent scent. Your screams are muffled by the hand covering your mouth, and you scratch at it, feeling the hairy arm of whoever is behind you until the world becomes black.

When you come to, you feel a little foggy. You’re in… a basement? There are no windows, just industrial style lights. A bed resides in the center of the room — a bed that you are currently tied to — with each limb belonging to its own post.

Holy fuck… holy fucking fuck. Sheer terror spreads like poison through your body. This can’t be real. It can’t be. You’re too old to be kidnapped. You think you’re probably too old to sex trafficked… maybe? The rational part of your brain tells you to slow down and formulate a plan, but the other side of your brain — the one that’s currently reacting to the situation at hand — is kicking and screaming and gouging into your skin. The handcuffs on your wrists and ankles dig deep, biting hard into your skin.

You scream when you notice a shadowy figure hulking just out of eyesight. It moves slowly, so slowly. You throw yourself as far as you can to the other side of the bed, trying to get away from it.

When the figure steps into the light, your blood turns to ice. Sweat glides down your back in swift rivulets even as a chill seeps into your bones.

“…John?”

“Yes, love?”

[lurrlonde]

highlandered & knighted

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ THISTLE AND BARLEY

pairing: johnny “soap” mactavish x f!reader

2.7k. during a solo trip to the scottish highlands, you find yourself transported back in time.

The chill of the evening air prickles along your skin. The spring breeze envelopes you, circling her prey. You are a rabbit, and she is a fox. She waits, patiently, until you are unsuspecting, and then sinks her sharp teeth into your soft skin.

It seems like you are the only one to really feel the chill — but you are an outsider. An outlander. A stranger. There are a few other foreigners here like you, but mostly it’s the residents of Inverness.

You get some relief when passing by one of the many bonfires littered through this valley. The entire night sky was alight — but not with stars. No, those are almost impossible to see compared to last night. There are enough fires lit in the valley to cause light pollution to seep through to the night sky.

Everyone here is clothed in a flowy, bohemian white gown. A beautiful crown of flowers rests atop your heads. Beltane. The official start to summer.

You didn’t know you would be here tonight until the last minute. The hostess of your bed and breakfast was the one who mentioned it to you this morning. It’s your last night in the Highlands so you figured, why not? Your solo travel adventures are about to come to an end. What’s one more night with no sleep?

A lit cave sparks your interest. It’s small, basically just an opening that goes 8 feet or so, but it’s lit up with candles everywhere. They're arranged in some sort of pattern, but you can’t make out exactly what it’s supposed to be. The air in here is even colder somehow — settling in your bones. You cover your upper body with your arms as best you can, unable to stop yourself from entering this ethereal place.

When you get closer to the wall, you see it has something painted on it. The paint is hard to see, even with the candle light. The same pattern is marked on the cave wall that the candles make on the floor. It’s old, flaking. You let out a breath and you watch as it rises in front of you.

The wall is shifting. Shimmering. It looks celestial. Like the night sky. You rub your eyes. It must be the heat from all the candles.

You turn around to leave but are startled by the sight of a woman at the entrance. You recognize her — it’s the owner of your bed and breakfast. A greeting almost escapes your lips but when you catch the look on her face you can’t seem to speak. Mouth hanging open, you just stare at her. She glides to you effortlessly, lithe for her age. Her fingertips are black as they reach out to you. It happens in slow motion. At least, that’s how it feels. She slowly reaches out to touch you and you stumble back, almost into the wall, just out of range.

“Yer where yer meant to be lass. Remember that. You have to remember. This was destined for ya.”

You shake your head to try and get a grasp on what she’s saying to you. Your tongue is suddenly heavy in your mouth. “Wh.. what?”

“Goodbye, lass.”

Before you can open your mouth to speak, she pushes against your shoulder with a firm hand. You stumble, and brace for impact into the cave wall.

Falling. You’re falling. It’s black.

There is no cave wall.

“D’ya think she’s a witch?”

It's morning, that much you can tell. Birdsong flits down to your ears and the sun is bright against your closed eyes. The grass caresses your body.

“Dinnae think so. Not sure what to make of ‘er.”

You try to remember what happened last. How you got here. Where you are. You brain is fuzzy, feeling like you’re suffering from a hangover. Wait — that’s not right, you didn’t drink last night.

“Let’s just leave her.”

Beltane. The celebration. That’s where you were. In the valley near Inverness. You were wandering. There were fires. Dancing.

“No. We’ll bring her to the castle.”

The cave. Oh god, the lady from your bed and breakfast. She followed you, she pushed you. She said something to you. What did she say to you?

“Yer off yer fuckin’ head, boy. What’ll yer Da say?”

You have to get out of here. You are supposed to be out of here. Your flight out of Inverness leaves this morning. How did this happen?

“I cannae just leave her here.”

Sunlight floods your eyes when they shoot open. A groan escapes you, and you cover your head with your forearm. You struggle to fully sit up, headache assaulting all of your senses.

“Aye, lassie? Ye hearin’ me?”

You rub your eyes and look up to who’s speaking to you. It’s a man in his late 20s. He’s wearing a kilt and it isn’t until you look around that you notice almost all of them are. You saw a few men in Inverness wearing kilts but, not quite like this. They look like an authentic historical recreation.

He’s… handsome. The one talking to you. Pools of blue eyes stare into yours, a hand reaching out to you. You gingerly take it, and he helps you stand. “Ye got a name, hen?”

Still in a bit of a daze, you give him your name and take a second to get your bearings. The cave you remember from last night is just behind you — but there are no candles, or paint on the walls. There’s no evidence anyone was in this valley last night. Where are the pits and scorch marks from the bonfires? What about the string lights that were strung along the tree trunks? Even the grass doesn't look like it’s been trampled on by a hundred or so pairs of feet.

“I’m Johnny of Clan MacTavish. May I ask, what’re ye doin’ out here hen?”

You swallow thickly. “I.. erm.. it’s Beltane. The party?”

“A druid.” The tallest one says. He’s one of the ones not in a kilt and has a deep British accent.

“Ah,” Johnny’s face lights up in understanding. “And yer out here alone?”

“I… uh…” you stutter. You’re not sure what’s happening. They really don't know about the party? Most of them look like and sound locals. “I guess… I am?”

“Where ya from?” one of them asks. He’s got a stout build and a thick set of facial hair.

“Well, I’m an American… I’m just… just traveling…”

You pause when you notice their interests peak.

“Which colony ye fae?” someone asks.

Your eyebrows scrunch together. “Colony?”

“She’s a British spy!” another shouts. You flinch.

“Ah, she’s no bloody spy. Look at her,” the tall one from earlier says. “Aye, we never had any spies like her before,” the stout one agrees, coming up to Johnny’s side.

Johnny hums. “I cannae leave you out here to fend on your own, spy or no. Can we take ye somewhere?”

You pause for a moment before speaking. “Inverness?”

Johnny nods and his men grumble, but go back to their horses. He motions for you to follow. You watch as he struggles to get up, wincing in pain and almost falling. The tall one comes up behind you and grabs you by the hips — lifting you ontop of Johnny’s horse and causing you to yelp. “Up ya go.”

Your body goes rigid as Johnny reaches around you to grab the reins. “Ain’t gonna hurt ye, hen,” he murmurs. He kicks the horse into gear and you’re off, still wondering what’s happening to you.

Maybe someone is filming a movie nearby.

You don’t have much of anything to hold onto, so you keep your legs clenched, body stiffened. Johnny notices this, wrapping his big arm around your waist for support. The group keeps a brisk pace, chatting with one another about things you’re unfamiliar with.

Panic starts to seep in when you see the River Ness, which bysects the city. “Where are we? Where’s the city? It should be visible by now.”

“Yer looking straight at it.”

Your breathing picks up rapidly and you try to focus on not hyperventilating. This was not the Inverness you had been in just yesterday.

“No…,” your voice is a soft whisper. “No, no, no… this can’t be right.”

The horse comes to a stop as Johnny tugs on the reins. “What is it, lass?”

The men start to grumble around you as the rest of the group comes to a stop. “Where’s the city? The buildings? Where’s the airport? This is… this isn’t right.”

“I dinnae ken what yer talking about hen but… that’s Inverness up ahead,” Johnny says softly to you.

“I… I don’t…” you stutter.

“Aye, what's goin’ on? Why are we stoppin’?” someone shouts out.

Johnny shoots him a look and walks his horse a little ways up to give you two a bit more privacy. Tears start to well in your eyes, and your nose has that familiar prickle like it’s gonna start running. You’re afraid to ask, but you have to know. “What year is it?”

If Johnny is confused why you’re asking, he doesn't show it. He speaks in a matter of fact tone when he says, “1724.”

No… how could this happen? You can just jump back in time 300 years… this is impossible. This can’t be real… this can’t be. But you saw — you saw right where Inverness is supposed to be. You recognized the landmarks. And it’s just… not right.

“Do ye still want to go to Inverness, hen?”

What are you going to do? There’s no aiport, hell — the America you’d go back to wouldn’t be the same. And what, do you hop on a boat for months and go back to a different world?

“I… I…” You suck in a shaky breath. “I don’t have anywhere to go,” you finally admit.

“I’ll take ye to the Castle,” Johnny states confidently. “Give ya a chance to figure out where yer going.”

A single tear slips down your cheek. Johnny calls out to the group that you’re headed to the Castle and you tune out the cries of them asking why the hell you were going with instead dumping you in Inverness.

The Scottish countryside passes by in a teary-eyed blur. It’s like you blinked and suddenly night is falling, the sun almost completely dipped below the horizon. Your stomach aches with hunger. You’re in an unfamiliar area, surrounded on all sides by trees. Johnny slows his horse, and the rest of his party follows suit. The tall one from earlier glides off his horse with ease and walks over to pick you up off of Johnny’s horse. You watch in a daze as he also gives Johnny a hand, as he struggles to get off his horse.

You look up at him after he is back on the ground. His white shirt seeps red near his bicep. You're not sure how you didn't notice it before. It’s got a brownish tinge to it now.

“You’re hurt.”

He waves you off. “Ach, jus’ a scratch, bonnie.”

He doesn’t stop you, just observes as you walk over to his side. You gently pry back the sticky fabric of his shirt. There’s a decent sized gash through his arm, red and angry. It looks like the start of an infection; like it might need stitches.

“It's not just a scratch if you need help on and off your horse. Did you clean this after it happened?”

“Clean it?” he tilts his head slightly as he asks.

“Like, rinse it? With water, at least?”

He shakes his head no.

You bite your lip as you contemplate. “Does… er… does anyone have any alcohol?”

Some of the guys burst into laughter. One hands you a flask. “Dinnae think you’d be one to get pished, lassie!” he exclaims.

You ignore him and get to work, ripping the bottom of your flimsy white dress. It tears easily under your fingers. You push it into Johnny’s hands and he holds onto the fabric unquestioningly while you uncork the flask with your teeth and again peel back his shirt.

“This is gonna sting a little,” you admit quietly.

He winces and grunts as you pour the alcohol down his arm, the men breaking out into cries of protest at the loss of booze. You place the cork back in the bottle and drop it on the ground. The man who gave you the flask quickly swipes it away from you before you can waste anymore.

Johnny places the ripped fabric of your dress in your outstretched hands. You tie it tightly around his arm, and while he grimaces, he doesn’t complain. You give him a gentle pat on the shoulder when you’re done.

“You’re probably gonna need stitches, but that should hold you over for a bit. Hopefully it’s not infected, or you're gonna need something stronger than alcohol.”

A voice from directly behind you makes you jump out of your skin. “Told ya she was a druid,” the tall one says.

“Aye,” Johnny agrees. “We could use someone with yer skills at the Castle. Our druid can’t…. well she ain’t as nimble as she used ta be.”

You aren’t sure what to say to that so you watch silently as the boys set up camp for the evening. “We’ll reach home come morning,” Johnny tells you at one point. The sun is gone now, the temperature dropping rapidly. The Beltane gown provides no heat and you scoot as close to the fire as you can without singeing off your eyebrows. You ditched your flower crown long ago.

The tall one hands you some food and you eat quietly while the rest of them chat around you. The stout one from earlier and the tall one sit next to each other and observe you, talking lowly to themselves. You try your best to ignore them.

Johnny walks over and sits next to you. “You should get some sleep, hen.” He’s close enough to you that his kilt brushes against your leg.

You swallow thickly and gnaw on your lip. You nod your head in agreement but you’re not sure if you’ll be able to sleep tonight. The reality is, these men are strangers in a strange time — even if one of them has been showing you kindness.

Johnny moves even closer to you and you can’t help but tense up. He's maneuvering his kilt around, tugging on the end of it.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting my plaid loose. Cannae let ye sleep in just that shift. You’ll freeze.”

You cross your arms, trying to keep in more warmth. “I’ll be fine.”

He covers your shoulders and instantly you feel warmer. A scent of musk and pine surrounds you, earthy and male. He opens his arm to you, waiting for you to lean against him.

“I meant what I said bonnie, I won’t hurt ye. I’m just keeping warm. Yer teeth chattering is making my bones rattle in my head.”

You can’t help the small chuckle that you produce hearing him tease you a little bit. It serves to make you feel even more comfortable around him. You nod and move in further under the plaid, while he wraps his good arm around you and rubs up and down your arm.

“Yer frozen solid,” he murmurs. “Why ye out here in just a shift anyway?”

“It was… uh… apart of the festival.”

He hums in response, still rubbing you arm up and down, up and down. You find a comfortable silence, leaning against him and listening to the conversations around you. Johnny adds his two cents every so often but mostly just sits beside you quietly.

You can feel your eyelids start to get droopy, your head nodding off every so often, but you fight it. You fight the urge to fall asleep. It’s so much harder now that you're warm. So hard when you’re feeling a small bit of comfort from the touch you're receiving.

You don’t even realize your head is on Johnny’s shoulder right away. You start to sit up, but he grips you a little more firmly to his side.

“Sleep, lassie. Yer safe with me.”

[velvetchrry]

barry is in the new sandman season??!?!?!