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rottingfern · 3 days

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“I make you tea and you track *mud* into my home?”

He’s soooooo real for this. Bunbun I cannot believe you made Jolly a 700 year old warlock and then gave him a sad boy floor mattress!!!!!!

Anyway I am on my knees for this fic everyone go read it

Blood Magic

The monster fucker is back, baby! In this installment of the Nocturnal Creatures series, you're camping along the Appalachian Trails when mysterious things start to happen in the woods and you meet a stranger with a funny accent.

Thank you to the beautiful amazing wonderful @throughwoodsanddirt for beta-ing this for me. I’m a better writer bc of her input 🫶💖

Warnings: nasty horny feral fuckin’, cnc if you really squint and the lights are off but I’m putting it in here bc reader does say she’s gonna die taking cock once or twice! Speaking of which, Jolly’s canon monster cock so size kink, oral (f receiving), this is the ass eating fic I mentioned so that’s in there (f receiving again), spanking, degradation (but also praise! dw I gotchu), dacryphilia!! Like a lot of it. He bakes for her and speaks Swedish, that needs its own cw. I think that’s it. As always, if I missed it, let me know! Eat ass smoke grass!!!!

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In hindsight, you really had no business being in this neck of the woods this late at night.

“I’ll be fine!” You told your fellow campers. “I left my water bottle right by the stream - it’ll take just a second to grab it.”

A second turned into 15 minutes, during which time you had not only failed to locate your water bottle, but also the stream it was supposedly located near.

You aren’t even attached to the damn water bottle itself. The stickers, though, you covet, and spent the last year painstakingly collecting. To part with them felt like the severing of an emotional bond, and you know you can’t handle any more of that this year.

Trish, a fellow camper and your best friend of 8 years, was hesitant to see you embark on your own. Her backwoods hick of a boyfriend - Steven? Samuel? - was downright derisive.

“You shouldn’t go into them woods right now.” Stuart - Solomon? Whatever his name was, he was giving you a warning look, entirely too serious for the topic of retrieving a water bottle.

Cocking a brow at him, you were more than happy to make your contempt known. “Why? You said there wasn’t any wildlife over in this part. And the chupacabra doesn’t migrate this far east.”

Trish attempted to hide her snort, coughing into her jacket to disguise the sound.

His expression didn’t waiver, though. “There’s worse things in the woods than animals.” He eyed you warily, before tacking on, “Don’t whistle back. And don’t run.”

Don’t run - yeah fucking right.

Rolling your eyes, your response was to wave your pocket-sized flashlight in goodbye as you walked away. You didn’t think you’d even need it, it wasn’t dark when you left. If you actually had any idea where you were going, you would have the stupid water bottle, adorned with its stupid stickers, and be happily scarfing down s’mores with your friends back at the campsite.

Where does this incessant need to prove yourself come from? You wonder. You think back to his cryptic warning, the genuine fear in his eyes. You heard of the Appalachian superstitions, sure, but you also know that half the hollers around here don’t even have internet. Superstition stems from ignorance, you reason, so the only thing to really fear is the mosquitos nipping at your legs.

Don’t whistle? You almost sneer at the memory. What kind of big scary monster hates whistling?

Experimentally, you breathe out a short tune through pursed lips, curiosity getting the best of you. You’re met with silence, broken up only by the buzzing of insects. Sighing, you continue with a longer melody you barely remember from your 5th grade music performance.

Your internal grumbling continues as you trudge through the thicket, whistling off-tune as you go. Nothing would have happened if you left the damned thing where it was. Who’s going to use it? A squirrel? It’s not like a deer would have run off with your fucking water bottle-

The crack of a twig snapping cuts off your internal monologue, your melody coming to a stop alongside it.

Head whipping up, your eyes scan the abyss around you for movement. Inside your chest, your heart starts thumping erratically, the hairs on your arms rising with some unperceived threat.

You realize too late that it’s completely silent - even the bugs have left. There’s no breeze, the air balmy and dense around you. As your stomach sinks, you come to the humbling conclusion that you may have fucked up bad.

You take one step back, staggering in your growing panic. The breaths you release are short puffs, getting more shallow with each passing second.

Chill the fuck out, You hiss to yourself, trying to subdue the twisting in your gut. It’s too dark to see anything beyond the trees immediate to you, but you can’t shake the feeling that something is watching you from beyond them.

Your lower lip trembles, unshed tears welling in your eyes. Frantically, you mentally catalog everything you brought with you, looking for some kind of defense: you don’t have your phone, but you do have a small lighter and -

The flashlight!

Patting down your jacket pockets as quietly as possible, you fish out the tool quickly, clicking the on button in record time.

The light is weak, barely illuminating the wall of trees surrounding you, but it's something.

Sweeping the treeline with the feeble light, your eyes race back and forth, unsure of what you should be looking for.

You take another step back, leaves crunching under your feet.

From the darkness, you hear a whistle.

Fury replaces your fear. That guy - Scott or whatever - was fucking with you. Don’t whistle back - God, you’re so stupid.

“Haha, very funny!” You call snarkily, shoulders sagging with relief.

Another whistle is all you’re met with.

“Oh, fuck off!” You’re fed up now; The temperature dropped and your jacket is nothing compared to the warmth of the insulated bedroll waiting for you back at camp. You’re about to voice your frustration when a third whistle interrupts you.

Don’t whistle back, Sean or whatever had said.

Part of you scoffed at the memory. He probably can’t read past a 3rd grade level and has just heard the town people crying about the Devil in the woods because they don’t believe in vaccines. He’s fucking with you.

Or, Another voice suggested, Maybe we should trust the guy who has lived here his entire life?

You remained silent as you debated your next move, the logical part of your brain battling it out with the primal fear that kept you and every other living thing alive since the dawn of time.

If you ignored the call? You stay in the woods overnight, wander into bear territory, and get eaten.

If you whistle back? Simon or whatever pops out of the bushes, says “Boo!” in between fits of laughter and guides you back to camp where you can have a s’more in your tent. No dying required.

It was a blow to your ego, but it beat staying out in the elements overnight.

Fine, you’ll play his stupid game.

You whistle back, trying your best to convey your impatience through the tune. It’s short and sharp, slicing through the night air.

There's a beat of silence before you hear anything. It’s not a whistle, though- it’s some kind of commotion, like a strong gust of wind carrying away a pile of leaves. It crackles unnaturally, like it’s breaking branches as it blows. You are trying to pinpoint what and where the noise comes from when realization dawns on you.

It’s not the wind.

The crackling you heard was, in fact, branches breaking. It’s something… running? Moving quickly through the thicket, disturbing the outstretched arms of trees as it goes.

It's getting louder. Cracking, snapping, rustling- it grows into a crescendo, all of the sounds tying together in an almost deafening cacophony. With your flimsy flashlight aimed out into the abyss, you think you see the commotion, debris flying up in a straight path, getting closer and closer.

It’s something running towards you.

Almost falling in your haste, you spin around where you stand, running back the way you came - or at least away from whatever the fuck was running after you.

Your legs propel you through the darkness, lungs burning with the effort. Behind you, the noise grows ever closer, a scratching sound like nails on a chalkboard following you.

You don't bother wiping the burning tears that stream from your eyes as you sprint, trying earnestly to avoid tripping over roots or tripping any bear traps. Hot, damp air ghosts against the back of your neck. You try and fail to convince yourself the feeling is just the wind, but the regular pattern of the gusts leaves no room for misinterpretation. It’s breathing down your neck, poised for attack. You suddenly understand with startling clarity that trying to get away is futile.

You are going to die out here.

Gasping for breath, you push yourself further, further -

And then it’s silent again.

I’m dead, You think. At least it was quick.

Slowing to a jog, you double over from the effort, breathing irregular and shaky. Your palms are slick with sweat, the chill of the night disappearing as you fled.

Trying to even out your inhales and exhales, you dare a glance around.

You’re still in the woods.

It’s dark, and you can’t make out anything more than a few yards away, but it’s definitely the same woods you were racing through ten seconds ago.

So, you’re not dead?

You’re trying to gather your bearings, make sense of what happened, when you hear them.

It's not a language you understand. You’re not even sure it’s a language at all, sounding more like a series of hisses and clicks.

Trees, you think. It sounds like a tree in a storm, leaves whooshing from their perch on outstretched branches, bark groaning in the wind.

There’s a figure, maybe two yards in front of you, standing directly in the path of where you were running from. Its back is to you, but it’s tall, easily six feet in height, and broad.

You think it's wearing some kind of cloak, or at least that’s what it seems like in the darkness of night. A person? An animal?

There’s worse things in the woods than animals.

Panic fills you once more. You need to go, keep running -

“Don’t run.” A voice commands, the formidable timbre of it ricocheting between your ears and your racing heart. Distantly, you feel some sense of comfort at the fact that it’s at least a human voice, though it does not belong to any of the men you know.

You freeze, rooted to the spot. Trying to lift your foot, you find it unresponsive, as if asleep.

The cloaked figure turns towards you, just enough for you to make out that it’s a person - So it is a man, you think.

“It likes chasing. Stop trying to run.” His words echo in the dark, though he doesn’t speak above a conversational volume.

It likes chasing?

He returns to his conversation, if that’s even what you could call it. He’s talking to something below him, tone hushed. Though his figure is blocking most of the creature, you can still spot a set of unnaturally long, spindly, humanoid limbs.

You surmise that it - whatever it is - is talking back, its voice akin to the scratching you heard chasing you earlier. The sound rises over the man’s shoulders, drifting to where you’re stuck in place.

After what feels like an eternity, the man straightens up, taking a step backward, towards you. The… thing takes off into the woods, back the way it came. You can’t see it clearly, but you catch a glint of something that looks like pointed, sharp teeth before it's gone.

Turning to you fully, the man stares at you for a long moment, or at least that’s what you think he’s doing. He’s almost entirely shrouded in darkness, features indiscernible. You don’t dare shine your light on him for fear of what’s lying within the shadows. “Why did you whistle back?”

The question takes you off guard. You answer honestly, unsure of how else to proceed. “I thought my friends were playing a prank on me.”

He straightens, back going stiff. “There’s more of you out here?” There’s a lilt to his voice that you can’t quite pinpoint- it doesn’t sound like the dialects or accents of this region.

Shaking your head quickly, you make a loose gesture over your shoulder. “No, they’re - they’re camping. I got lost and -“

“The nearest campsite is 15 miles south. No one told you to bring a local with you?” His tone is harsh, unforgiving. Distantly, you feel like a child being scolded for doing something very obviously stupid.

Continuing, you try to redeem yourself. It’s hard to sound confident, because your chest is heaving as you still fight to catch your breath. “We did! But he’s just a superstitious kook, said not to ‘whistle back,’ so I thought it was his idea of a game-“

“Someone explicitly tells you not to do something, so you go and do it?” He’s livid now, and if you weren’t so exhausted, you might be fearful of his obvious disdain.

Shrinking back at his words, you look down at your feet, opting to not respond.

With a tremendous sigh, he snaps his fingers at your feet. All at once, the bonds keeping you tethered in place disappear. You think you’ll fall, but then a hand on your arm catches you.

You look up at the stranger, who is finally close enough to you to roughly make out a face. You can’t distinguish features, but you get the vague idea of a nose, and a mouth - forming a sentence directed at you.

“Stupid girl.” A pause, like he was thinking deeply about something. There is a note of finality when he continues, “You’ll have to come with me, there’s no way to get you back this late-”

“I am not going with you.” The words escape before you even register thinking them.

You desperately wish you could see his expression in the beat of silence that passes before he responds. “I’m sorry, are you actively trying to die?”

“Being alone in the woods is just as dangerous as being alone with some weirdo who hangs out in the woods.” You point out matter-of-factly.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I was in the woods and able to save you from a wandering-“ A rustle nearby interrupts whatever condescending point he was going to throw at you. His face glances up quickly, so fast you almost don’t catch it in the low light.

You try to follow his line of sight, but are unable to pinpoint what’s caught his attention beyond the noise. You’re still craning your head to see around the trees when he speaks again.

“Come on. I’m not negotiating on your behalf again - keep up.” He turns on you then, cloak billowing behind him as he takes off into the woods, in the direction you were running away from. It feels counterintuitive, going deeper into the brush, but you think it’s probably better to follow someone who calls you names than something that wants to… what?

Eat you? Dismember you? You don’t think anything that chases has good intentions, so you take off behind the mysterious figure.

Struggling to keep up with his long strides, you manage to disrupt every leaf on the ground, breaking every twig within a three-foot radius of your path. In contrast, the stranger seems to float above the ground, his path untraceable to your eyes. He never glances back, just sighs loudly when another crack! ricochets around you both.

Unsure of how long you’ve been walking, you’re about to ask how much further you need to go when you step into a clearing. For the first time since you left your campsite, you can fully see your surroundings. Lanterns are stationed periodically along the fence encircling the clearing, spindly white flowers climbing out of the ground where the wooden posts meet the earth.

At the center of everything is a house - no, a cottage. The rocks that make up the facade are covered in moss, only patches of their gray exterior visible. The porch is made of wood, an obvious, newer extension of the original house, that features a single rocking chair and a small table. More of the same white flowers bloom around the structure, along with some kind of berry bush that grows in clusters around the porch. A chimney is blowing a steady stream of smoke, and your heart aches with the promise of the warmth awaiting you.

Beautiful, you think faintly.

As you grow nearer the house, your hand reaches out to brush the bushes, curiously -

“Don’t touch those.” Comes the accented voice, sharp.

Your hand snaps back to your chest, as if struck. “Are they poisonous?” You call to his back as he continues walking, not trying to hide the worry in your tone.

“No, they’re delicious.” He says flatly, tossing the words over his shoulder. He sounds… amused, almost. You think you can hear a smirk in his voice as he goes on, “And difficult to grow in this region. Leave them alone.”

Frowning, you don’t dare to reach out again.

The porch steps creak as you climb them, wind rustling the flowers so that they bend towards you, grazing your legs. They’re feather-light, and so smooth they almost feel like air. It tickles pleasantly, the sensation sending goosebumps up your legs, a shiver running down your spine. You wonder what kind of plant it is, not having seen it anywhere prior to entering the clearing. Its pale petals grow in a column, looking almost like fingers as they curl around your calf in a caress.

A snort above you draws your attention. You drag your gaze away from the blooms to look at the source of the sound.

He’s framed by the glow of a lantern on the porch, features still masked in darkness. It creates a kind of halo of light around him, flickering with every lick of flame in the lantern. You think you see the air pulsate around him, just once, but decide to chalk it up to the rustic quality of the lighting.

“What’s so funny?” You inquire, sounding too defensive for it to be unassuming.

He’s looking at you, you can tell, but it’s unnerving to not be able to directly meet his gaze. “They’re flirts.” He explains simply, turning away again.

Brow furrowing, you press him further. “Who?”

“The black snakeroot.” He jerks a thumb at the flowers, still barely brushing against your skin.

You look down at where the petals meet your flesh, studying their movements. Upon closer inspection, you find they aren’t guided by the breeze that makes its way through the clearing. You take a sudden step back, inhaling sharply.

“Relax, they’re protective.” He sounds bored as he says it, having reached the front door, scraping his fingers against the wood of a door in a way that appeared simultaneously random and very, very intentional.

The door unlocks with a quiet click, your guide disappearing inside without a word back to you.

You glance around, eyes running over the trees, the fence posts, the flowers, still outstretched toward you. With a sigh of your own, you follow him inside.

He’s nowhere to be found once you cross the threshold. It should have been unsettling, but the warm atmosphere distracts you as soon as you walk in. You take the moment of solitude to openly stare at your new surroundings.

In a word, it’s cozy. The fireplace you dreamed of outside is crackling comfortingly from the living room, a green couch covered in blankets sitting across it. The floor is some kind of stone, but covered in carpets so that it’s cushioned when you walk. There’s a set of stairs ahead of you, and a doorway to your left. The room is cast in a golden hue, thanks to the fire, and it feels worn-in without being old.

A bookshelf lined with ancient and dense looking tomes catches your attention. You wander across the room to it standing on your toes to peer up at the higher shelves that just barely escape your reach.

Most of them were leather-bound, in varying earth tones of brown and green. The language was some kind of Latin base, because you recognized the letters, but couldn’t understand the meaning. Words like “Växtmagi” and “Ört” stared back at you with utter unfamiliarity, while others like “Encyklopedi” could be inferred with a bit more ease.

You reach a hand up, unable to resist the curiosity of what the worn leather would feel like against your fingertips.

“Why do you keep trying to touch things?”

You jump into the air, hands snapping down to your sides as you whirl around to face the intrusion.

Your stranger is standing about four feet away from you, sans cloak, holding a mug of something steaming. He looks huge in this little cottage, head a meager foot away from the ceiling.

He is, you realize with a jolt, terribly handsome.

A high contrast face; Dark eyes, dark, tousled hair, perhaps longer than even yours. His face was thin, but not gaunt. Defined. He couldn’t have been more than ten years older than you, though the stubble along his jaw probably aged him considerably. His expression was unflinching, almost cold - but his lips held a softness to them that was hard to ignore.

Lips that were currently scolding you, again. “My cloudberries, my books - And your shoes are still on? I make you tea and you track mud into my home?”

You look down at your boots, which are, admittedly, caked in mud, leaves, and grass. Doing your best to tip-toe, you gingerly make your way back to the front door, sliding the shoes off carefully to avoid any more debris falling onto the floor.

Boots safely set aside, you straighten yourself, face almost colliding with a hot mug being held by an outstretched arm.

He still looks like he hates you and might kick you out for bringing in mud, but you suppose the tea is an act of kindness you can accept. If he wanted you dead, he could have just left you in the woods after all.

You take the mug with a quiet “thank you” that goes unacknowledged as he turns around, disappearing through the doorway you saw earlier. Gnawing at your lip, you’re unsure if you’re meant to follow. You are curious, after all, about what lies beyond the mystery doorway. You hear a soft clanking, then a dull thud, and your feet move before your mind can make a decision.

The first thing that hits you is the aroma. It makes you salivate, something spicy and warm that heats up the room and your fingertips. Your nose follows the delectable smell to a tray of rolls, striped and knotted in intricate patterns, sitting on the kitchen table.

“Are these cinnamon rolls?” You ask, peering at them over the rim of your mug.

“No. Kanelbullar.” His reply is curt. He’s grinding some kind of herb with a mortar and pestle, not looking up at you.

Lowering your mug, you try a different tactic. “Um, I’m sorry, by the way. For the mud and the books and the cow-berries-“

“Cloudberries.” He corrects you, walking to stand over a pot, stirring some kind of liquid. That must have been the clanking you heard earlier. He adds the herb-paste from his bowl into the pot, along with a sprinkle of some kind of jarred powder.

It reminds you of those old Halloween movies, where the witches make potions in great big cauldrons hanging over open fire. Only his orange Dutch oven is a bit less menacing than a proper cauldron, you suppose.

It takes your mind a moment to catch up with your ears. “Cloudberries? I’ve never heard of those.”

You can see him roll his eyes. “And because you’ve never heard of them, they must not exist? How very American.”

Your mouth gapes open, taken aback. “I never said they didn't exist.” Frustration bubbles up in you as you barrel on, “What’s your issue, anyways? If I’m pissing you off just by being here, I can go.”

Going was the last thing you wanted to do, but your wounded pride wouldn’t let you say that out loud.

Setting down his spoon with a huff, he turns to you, arms crossed. “My issue is stupid little girls wandering into the woods-“

“I am not a little girl.” You spit at him venomously. “I am a grown fucking woman who appreciates the help, but doesn’t need to put up with some know-it-all man who-“

He turns off the stove as he cuts you off. “‘Grown women’ don’t go on suicide missions to retrieve a water bottle-“

The air goes still as he realizes his mistake.

You set down your mug, slowly. Taking a shaky breath, the words come out steadier than you feel. “I never told you what I was doing in the woods.”

His dark gaze is cast downwards, refusing to meet yours. His fingers twitch, like he’s resisting the urge to fidget.

That emboldens you. “How did you know what I was doing out there?” Your eyes narrow to slits as the evidence begins to accumulate in your mind. “How were you there so conveniently?”

His mouth opens, closes again. After a moment, he speaks, voice softer than you’ve heard this entire time.

“The dandelions are gossips.”

Titling your head as if that will help you to hear better, your response is an eloquent, “Huh?”

He sighs, uncrossing his arms, hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It’s the dandelions - they gossip, all day long, floating around to try and chat up anyone who will listen-“

“You’re blaming the weeds for being a stalker?” Your eyes widen incredulously, voice steadily climbing in volume.

“I am not a stalker!” He has the gall to look insulted. “They told - they said there was someone. Someone new. Someone they liked.”

You blink at him once, twice, unable to form a cohesive string of words in response. What the fuck did you get yourself into now?

“I’m not crazy!” He insists, as if reading your mind. His eyes are wide, like if he opens them enough you’ll see the honesty there. His voice rushes as he continues. “Look, let me start from the beginning, okay? I’m not crazy.”

You can’t pinpoint why, but you want to hear him out, if only to satisfy your own curiosity as to what, exactly, is going on.

He’s grumpy, sure, but being a complete fucking wackjob is a surprise to you.

You wave a hand, motioning for him to continue. He sits down at the table, so you follow suit, the tray of pastries resting between you. Your eyes must linger on the rolls for a moment too long, because he sighs and pushes the tray towards you. An offering.

Delighted, you pluck one off the top of the mountain, tearing off a piece and popping it into your mouth. You have to fight back a moan at the taste: cardamom, sugar, and butter melting on your tongue. You understand his earlier disdain at your question, now, because this is infinitely better than a cinnamon roll.

He’s hesitant to speak, mouth opening and closing as you scarf down your roll, like he can’t find the right words to sway you. After a moment, he sighs. “So the dandelions -”

“Nope.” You cut him off around a mouthful of bread. “Try again, without the magical gossiping dandelions.”

He frowns, looking more petulant than upset. “They are gossips, have you really never spoken to them?”

Swallowing your last bite, you level a stare at him. His expression is earnest, genuine - you realize he is waiting for your answer. Briefly, you wonder about the flavor quality of peyote, thinking he’s absolutely laced your food with whatever he’s been snorting. You set down the remaining scraps of your roll before you respond.

“Um, no? I don’t really talk to plants?” It comes out as a question rather than a statement

The look he gives you mirrors your confusion. His eyebrows are knitted together tightly, like he’s trying to work out a particularly difficult problem. “Why?”

You’re getting nowhere in this conversation. Pressing your palms into your eyes, you continue, unable to conceal your exasperation. “Because plants don’t talk, big guy. I’m sorry to have to be the one to break this news to you-”

“Humans don’t talk to their plants?” He sounds less confused, more… Sad. His phrasing seems strange, though.

“Why do you say ‘human’ like you’re not one?” Your voice wavers more than you would like, betraying your nerves.

The sadness disappears, replaced by contempt that borders on disgust. “Ugh, because I’m not. I’m a häxmästare-”

“You’re a hamster?” You echo, ready to grab the tray of rolls and take your chances in the woods.

“No, I - Blessed be to the old gods and the new, shut up, girl.” His head is fully in his hands, and you’d be insulted by his exasperation toward you if he wasn’t bat shit crazy.

There’s a pause, as if he’s thinking over his next words. After a minute, he lifts his head. “Okay, here’s how we’re going to do things: You’re going to eat the kanelbullar, be good and stay quiet, and I’ll do the talking.”

Your mouth opens in protest, only to be silenced by raised eyebrows and a warning finger pointing at you. Your face furrows into something that definitely isn’t a pout, eyes narrow and lower lip jutted out, as you take another roll, tearing off a chunk with more force than necessary.

He seems happy enough with your response, straightening his posture before he begins speaking again. “The dandelions told me when you arrived in the woods. They got the snakeroot overly excited in the process - but that doesn’t matter right now.” His eyes are glazed over, unfocused as though he’s looking through you rather than at you as he continues. “They said you were new, and that they wanted to meet you. I think-” A wince, “I think they might have convinced the water sprites to steal your water bottle, so I apologize for that. They’re hard to keep a hold on.”

You chew thoughtfully, trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, but feel more confused than ever. He must recognize it in your expression, because he tries again.

“I’m a häxmästare, a ‘warlock’ is what your people call it, I believe. I take care of the woods and the creatures who inhabit it.” His expression is bashful, as if he’s embarrassed to be explaining himself like this. You can’t help but find it endearing. “They keep me informed of what’s happening, but I haven’t spoken to a human in awhile, so please be patient with me.”

He’s looking back at you now, as if to check if you are okay. His expression has softened, the corners of his eyes downturned as his gaze meets yours. You can’t help but notice how his mouth has the same pretty curve to it, a slope of sincerity that ends at a decline. You resolutely keep your mouth shut, silently urging him on with a wave of your hand.

“I had to check - just for preventative purposes, of course.” He explains hastily, eyes widening. “The people in the town have been trying to build some kind of factory or another out here for the last century. Usually nothing a well-placed missing persons report can’t fix, but -“ A shrug, “I still monitored the camping grounds, making sure nothing was amiss. I didn’t find anything remarkable, but then…” He trails off wistfully.

He’s quiet for long enough that you feel inclined to speak up. “Then…?” You prod.

Blinking, as if lost in his own thoughts, he looks at you again. His eyes look old - older than the rest of him, if the crinkles of crows’ feet are anything to go by. It’s as if you can see a millennium of sadness encapsulated there, swirling in pools of a brown so deep it appears black at first glance. Your heart aches, though you can’t pinpoint why.

The haze dissipates then, replaced with perfect clarity. His focus is sharper now, honed in on you in a way that teeters into the territory of being overwhelming. You resist the natural inclination to look away, to break the thread of tension that connects you both.

“Then I saw you.”

Your sharp intake of breath is thunderous in the heavy silence between you. It’s tense, charged - like the air before a lightning storm.

Swallowing thickly, you choose to press in. “And?”

His mouth is set into a thin line, eyes downturned, like he’s delivering the most heartbreaking news to you. “And I thought you were perfect.” The corners of his mouth turn up in a sad looking smile as his eyes scan you, studying your face closely. “The dandelions did you no justice.”

Your heart thumps erratically in your chest, threatening to escape through your throat. “What did they say?” You hear yourself ask.

He blinks at you slowly. “They said you were beautiful.” His head tilts slightly as he studies your face. “Not enough though. They could say it until the sun implodes and still not fully encapsulate what it felt like to look at you the first time.” A pause. He breaks eye contact first, looking down suddenly. You immediately miss the weight of his gaze on you, fearing you’ll float away without it to anchor you down. His hands are clasped on the table, fingers laced together. You’re wondering what it would feel like to be woven around the aforementioned digits when he continues shakily, “And every time after that.”

Your cheeks are hot as blood rushes to them, unfamiliar with this kind of praise. You had boyfriends, girlfriends - but none of them looked at you the way this stranger did. It was reverence, and despite the circumstances, you found yourself wanting to bask in it.

You realize your body is leaning forward, towards him - you’re closer now, him mirroring your posture, elbows resting on the table. “What else did they say?” The words fall from your lips without conscious thought, your tone betraying your need for more. It’s a new feeling, one that you can’t name for a moment. Searching your brain, you try to pinpoint the emotion, the need to have him talk to you, about you. Then, an epiphany: Desperation. That’s the feeling. Desperate for what, though, you’re still unsure.

He’s close enough now that you can feel the breath he lets out against your cheeks. “They said -“ he falters, eyes darting down to your lips before coming up again to meet your gaze. His voice is raspy, thick. “They said you are mine.”

Something about his tone has you fighting the urge to squirm in your chair, thighs pressing together unconsciously. The motion doesn’t go unnoticed, his eyes darting down to where your legs are hidden by the table. Briefly worrying he can see directly through the piece of furniture, you go completely still.

“What’s your name?” You croak, a pitiful sound that does nothing to distract from your fidgeting.

“Joakim.” Is his soft response, looking up from the table. “My friends call me Jolly.”

The irony isn’t lost on you, the two of you sharing a smile at the nickname. Feeling more relaxed at the interaction, you can’t help but goad, “You have friends?”

He faux-winces at your jab, the expression melting into a slight smile. “Not very good ones. Liars and beggars, vampires and demons, the like.”

You’re not sure if he’s joking, so you don’t ask - you’d rather not know if he’s in cahoots with evil beings at the moment. It does prompt another question, though. “So, you do… magic?”

His eyes brighten at the question. “Mm, yes. Mostly cottage magic nowadays. I’ve mellowed with age.”

The idea of this iteration of him being “mellow” makes you snort. Propping your chin on your hand, you lean back in your chair, thankful for the respite. “So you were doing crazy dark magic before? Summoning demons or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your tone, despite how quietly you’ve both been speaking.

He’s looking you directly in the eyes as he responds. “No, I did sex magic.”

That’s… you’re not sure what you expected him to say. It wasn’t that, though. And though you want to respond delicately, though you now have more questions than you do answers, all you respond with is: “Oh.”

He leaning even closer now, inches from your face. Your eyes settle onto your fidgeting hands in a poor attempt to cope with his heavy gaze.

“Would you like to know how it works?” His voice barely surpasses a whisper, but his breath fans over your face, and you might melt here and now.

Yes, your body screams. You want to look up, read his expression - is he just teasing you? To what end? Making you feel embarrassed, or making you want to know more? The threat of his eyes and the depths you may find keep you staring resolutely at your hands as you contemplate your options.

On one hand, not knowing will not hurt you. You can return to your very normal life, water your very normal plants (that do not talk!) and have a glass of wine in the evening after you figure out how to make those cannula-things.

It would be fine. But, for some reason, it sounds awful.

You already understood it now: The not knowing would eat you alive. You would always wonder what would have happened if you said “yes.”

Finally, with your eyes still fixed on your hands, you give him a short nod. He lets out a long exhale and, despite not looking at him, you can feel his eyes trail over you, hear his mouth open as his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Everyone has different intentions with it. I was stupid, and wanted to be immortal. Or something close.”

You brave a look at him, breath catching when your eyes lock with his blown black pupils, which contrast deliciously with his pale skin. His lips are tinged a faint shade of candy apple red, shiny and slick with spit from licking them. You almost wonder what they would taste like…

“You can’t just do the deed and have the potential for magic, though. Magic needs a… reserve, so to speak. Something to draw from.” He’s staring at your barely parted lips now, breath coming out ragged between them.

Unable to look away, you wait for his attention to refocus. You can’t help but think that he may be just as feverish as you are, skin burning just as hot under his clothes.

“The point of climax, release: that’s when the magic is at its highest potential, when it can be harnessed. Do it right and you can add ten, twenty years to your life span in one go.” His words are scientific, objective - but his tone is entirely different, rumbling and low. It feels like every word he speaks sizzles on your skinlike drops of oil in a scalding hot pan.

“How old does that make you?” You inquire, swallowing around nothing. You’re unsure if you want to know.

He grins, just slightly, a nefarious thing that makes your stomach clench in an unfamiliar way - like a roller coaster drop, but more caustic. “I’m seven hundred and forty-three.”

Your inhale is sharp, chest tightening. “You must be good at it then.” You say, tone veering towards flirtation. The implication is not unintentional.

He stands then, slowly, his figure coming closer until he’s looming over you. His fingers latch onto a stray tendril of your hair, twirling it around idly. He eclipses the overhead light like this; it illuminates him from behind, and you suspect he's fully aware of how unearthly it makes him look. Your breath catches in your throat at the proximity of his hand to your neck, wanting to lean into it until your skin touches his. You stay stock-still, though, and he sounds self-assured as he says, “I’m very, very good at it.”

You’re separated by about four inches of air, charged like a cloud in a thunderstorm. If you leaned up, your noses would touch. Any more and -

“Would you like me to show you?” His words make your entire body tense. Underneath layers of clothing, your nipples ache. Clenching on nothing, your jaw tightens in anticipation.

You want him to show you everything. His eyes are taking you apart systematically, separating skin from bone in careful strips. You feel raw, as though he really did free you from the that first layer of dermis, carving until you’re nothing but a ball of nerves and want, lying on his kitchen table. How would it feel for him to put you back together?

“Please.” Comes your wanton reply, high-pitched and whiny.

He gives you a demeaning smile, as if he’s won a prize, or bested you in an elaborate game. You find you don’t care if he’s at the advantage here - part of you relishes in being the one who lost.

He pushes in his chair then. You swear you feel the vibrations of it dragging across the stone in your flesh, like a bone-deep itch. Without another word, he extends a hand to you, giving you one final out.

It’s an escape you don’t take. As you slip your hand into his, you try not to shiver when his rough palms trail across your own.

His grip is firm but not overbearing as he guides you out of the kitchen and up the stairs. They groan as you step, but somehow, they conspicuously remain silent under his light tread.

Upstairs is less illuminated, but still visible enough for you to get around, even being unfamiliar with the space. A mattress is laid on the floor to the right of the room, a desk to the left. The back wall is made up of bookshelves, though how they stay upright from the sheer amount of books stuffed onto their shelves is a mystery. There’s more volumes stacked on the desk, papers covered with unfamiliar symbols tucked between the pages. Two empty mugs sit on the floor beside the bed, dried tea leaves stuck to their walls. A plate with nothing but crumbs and a lonesome bread crust sits atop a stack of books near the desk.

It’s kind of a wreck, you realize, and you hate how enamored you are with it all. It’s entirely too easy to picture him up here, reading until the early hours of morning, drinking tea and falling asleep before it can be cleaned up.

He at least has the decency to look bashful. “I would have cleaned, had I known I’d be having a guest. Nicholas is the only one who really stops by anymore, and his standards are in Hell.”

You flash him a smile you hope is reassuring. “I understand. Who’s Nicholas- should I be jealous?”

He shakes his head, huffing a small laugh. “No, he’s not really my type.”

You’re walking over to him slowly, speaking as you go. “Oh yeah? What is your type then?”

It’s a challenge, one he seems happy to accept. “Hmm, let me think.” He closes the distance between you both, hand coming up to push your hair past your shoulders. “Human.” He states plainly, unzipping your jacket and pulling it off your arms swiftly. “Kind of stupid.” A finger runs from the hollow of your throat to the top edge of your t-shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

You roll your eyes, but say nothing. He grins at your silence, leaning in so that his lips graze the shell of your ear. “In fact, I love stupid girls who clench their little cunts at the mere thought of me fucking them.”

It's a wonder you don’t collapse onto the pile of books nearest you. His breath fans across your ear, grazes your neck. When he’s this close you realize how large he actually is, frame towering over you. It makes you feel small, bordering on vulnerable, and part of you almost wants to run away- just to see what he does.

As if he can sense your instinct, one of his arms snakes around your waist, pulling you securely into his chest. “And you? What’s your type?” His eyes are half-lidded, gazing down at you.

“Hmm, let me think.” You mock. His lips twitch, as if fighting back a smile. “Weird. Old. Lives in Baba Yaga’s hut.” Your tone is flat, doing your best to give him an unimpressed look.

His returning smile is wicked, a glint in his eye making your heart flutter. “You are going to be so much fun to break.”

You don’t have time to gasp before his lips lock with yours, the hand on your waist pushing you impossibly closer. Your hands come up to brace themselves against his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt.

His free hand comes up to tangle in the back of your hair, jerking your head back so he has unfettered access to your neck. A trail of sloppy, wet kisses are left there, hindered only by your shirt.

Releasing you to grab at the bottom hem of the pesky garment, he yanks it over your head roughly. You can feel your hair standing up in every direction, but you find you don’t care as he works to unhook your bra, too, breasts swinging freely as the scrap of fabric falls to the floor.

His lips find your sternum, kissing down to your stomach as he moves to his knees, fingers working at he button of your pants now. The trousers and your panties come off in a single movement, so that you’re suddenly very bare in front of him.

He stops then, pulling back to survey you hungrily. You resist the urge to fidget under his stare, finally asking “What?”

“Hush.” Comes his response. “I’m trying to figure out what I want to do to you first.”

Your mouth goes dry at his words, toes curling into the plush carpet beneath you. “Well, are you going to do it, or are you going to just think about it?” As soon as the words escape, you know you’ve fucked up.

His dark eyes trail up your body to your face, leaving a burning path in their wake. With an unnatural ease, he shoves you up against the wall, still on his knees before you. “We need to fuck this rebellious streak out of you.” He informs you, running a single digit along the top of your bare thigh. “I bet you’d be docile, if someone just gave you what you need.”

You’re searching for a response, mouth opening and closing with unspoken protests. “I’m not a horse to break.” You finally stammer out, sounding much weaker than you had hoped.

“No, you’re not quite that wild.” He says smugly. “You have the potential to be a very good girl, though.”

You hate that it gives you goosebumps, hate that he’s so close he can clearly see them, hate that he can see how much you want.

“You can’t even lie, don’t even have it in you to pretend you don’t want to be taken apart.” The same finger is on your hipbone now, tracing circles. “I could do it, tutta. I could break you down so easily. All you need to do is ask.”

Your breathing is ragged, chest heaving with the effort. “Do it then.” You spit, trying not to to tremble.

He leans in, closer, closer, until he’s no more than two inches away from where you need him. When he speaks, his hot breath on your core makes your thighs shake. “Try again with some fucking manners.”

The strength leaves your body as you let out a noise that could be considered a sob. “Please.”

“Duktig flicka,” he sighs, hands diving between your legs to grip the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up the wall, your feet hovering above the ground.

You gasp in surprise, but it’s drowned out by a strangled moan as his lips wrap around your clit and suck. Your fingers instinctively find his hair, gripping onto the brunette tresses desperately.

His tongue makes a sloppy line from your clit to your hole, finding it wet and wanting. Your head collides with the wall as your neck snaps back when he plunges his tongue into your cunt, groaning like he’s the one receiving pleasure.

Mouth open and panting, your eyelids flutter at the sensation, almost unable to stay open. You can’t even grind into him, any leverage you have currently out of commission with your legs over his shoulders. It’s a feat he’s kept you up this long- though you aren’t going to complain.

As if you thought it into existence, he’s lowering your legs quickly, and you’re thankful they don’t collapse underneath you. There’s no time to celebrate your accomplishment, though, before he’s spinning you around to press you against the wall again.

His hands grip your thighs from behind, yanking your legs back until you’re bent forward ever so slightly, arms holding you up. You’re about to ask what he’s doing when he dives back into you, and-

Oh.

No one’s ever dared put their mouth there, and it feels so lascivious and depraved that you can’t help but grind back into it desperately. The noise you make is more gargle than moan, but you can’t bring yourself to be particularly invested when he’s dragging his tongue between your two holes, lapping at the taut skin that bridges them.

One of your hands blindly reaches behind you to pull his face impossibly closer, stretching to your tip-toes to rub yourself against him. You think you feel him grin into you, which you shouldn't find so hot, but a gush of arousal escapes you anyway. His tongue delves down your leg to lap what escaped him the first time, the streak of spit left on your thigh like a brand in its heat.

His hands are on your hips, pulling you farther away from the wall so that your arms are fully extended to keep you upright. His nose nudges between your folds, the friction making you dizzy.

“Want to see a trick?” He asks into your pussy, panting.

You don’t know if your heart can take any more surprises, but you still whimper out a pathetic, “Please.”

He hums approvingly, giving you a, “Good manners” before he goes back in, tongue following the creases of your pussy until he reaches your hole, which is embarrassingly clenching and unclenching around nothing.

His tongue darts in, pointed, and you sag with the relief of having something inside you. It extends, flexing, dragging against your walls deliciously. You think nothing of it until it keeps going, far past where a human tongue could go. Lapping at a tight bundle of nerves in you, it continues until there’s nowhere else to go, licking so deep inside you that your eyes roll back into your skull. You let out a guttural sound that’s akin to a dying breath, stomach so tense it’s a wonder you haven’t puked.

One of the hands gripping your hip comes down between the mounds of flesh on your backside, thumb dipping into your ass with ease. The newness makes you jolt, relaxing into the intrusion almost immediately. No one has ever done this to you before. You don't know how you ever came without it.

The fullness is what does you in. You feel stuffed to the brim, can’t imagine fitting anything else inside you even if you tried. Joakim replaces the tip of his thumb for the entirety of his index finger, thicker and longer, and your vision explodes into white.

He coaxes it out of you, finger working in and out of you in shallow movements, tongue still curled up inside your other entrance. Your legs are shaking, but you can’t stop fucking back against his face, staccato moans escaping you in a flurry as you twitch through it.

Eventually his tongue retreats, pulling out his finger simultaneously. The sensation alone makes you slide down the wall to your knees, spent. You vaguely register him taking off his shirt, unzipping his pants. Any other time, you’d want to watch, enjoy the process, but you can’t even imagine moving right now.

His grip returns to you immediately, though, repositioning you as though you were nothing more than a rag doll, shoulders pressed into the floor, hips in the air.

“What about the bed-“ You don’t get a chance to finish before you feel the blunt, wet head of his cock lining up with your pussy.

“I’ll fuck you on the bed when you can show me you deserve it.” As he speaks, he runs a calloused hand up your spine, pushing you further into the ground. “Until then, you get fucked on the floor where you belong.”

You’re going to protest- going to put up some kind of fight, but then his cock breaches your hole and the complaint on your lips turns into a pathetic mewl as your back arches to accommodate him better.

It’s big - it’s so big, and you can’t figure out if it’s a magical thing or a natural-born gift from the heavens, but your nails are clawing into the fabric of the carpet as he slides it into you. It’s unbelievably thick, and long enough that it leaves you wondering when he’ll bottom out. The stretch is wonderful, bordering on overwhelming in its bulk. You don’t think there’s enough room in you for it, but you’re willing to sacrifice a few organs to make it fit. Finally, after what feels like minutes, you feel the press of his pelvis against your ass.

“Breathe.” The softness in his tone betrays the nature of the command. You suck in a deep breath, unaware you weren’t doing so before, as he rubs your back soothingly. A puddle of drool has accumulated on your cheek, a result of your open, unbreathing mouth as he sank himself into you.

“You feel perfect.” He sighs, the hand on your back moving to grip at your hips, squeezing the flesh there. “So wet for me, huh? Couldn’t wait to get a cock in you.”

You’re focusing on breathing, chest heaving irregularly. Still, you manage to gasp out a, “B-big.”

He chuckles, the motion of it making him shift inside you, and you thank whoever above that is listening that you’ll likely die like this instead of in the woods, mauled by a bear.

“Ready for me to fuck you?” He asks sweetly, giving your hips another squeeze.

How could I be? You don’t say. You don’t think you’ll ever be ready, which is why you do your best to nod and whine, “Please.”

He pulls out slowly, too slowly, you fear you’ll go insane before he’s done pulling out of you. Then, with a snap of his hips, he’s stuffed back inside you in an instant.

You scream, tremors rock through your body as you’re jostled forward. Your muscles are tensing and relaxing sporadically, hands becoming claws, then fists, then spreading open-palmed where they rest on the floor.

“See what good manners get you?” He taunts as he ever so slowly slides out again. You almost collapse without him inside you to hold your lower half up, but his firm grasp on you keeps your ass in the air at a humiliating angle.

You’re seeing stars when he fucks into you again, so fast you don’t even have time to miss the feeling of his cock. His pace picks up, spearing into you rhythmically, grunts escaping him as he did so.

You almost wish you could be a more active participant, but the force with which he fucks you leaves no room for you to try and grind back onto him. All you can do is take, take, take, legs quivering from the constant stimulation.

Joakim is murmuring profanity behind you, some of it in English, much of it in whatever language he spoke before. You can tell by his inflection that whatever he’s saying is foul, degrading, and wicked. Desperately, you wish you knew what it meant.

“Gillar du det här?” On a particularly targeted thrust, his hand releases your hip to tangle in your hair, yanking you up so that your back arches at an impossible angle.

You keen, arms shaking in their quest to hold your body up. “Does your pussy like this?” He grunts, still holding a handful of your hair.

An animalistic moan is your response, open-mouthed and piteous. He pulls out, until just the tip remains inside you, then stills. You all but roar in protest, but a swift slap to your ass silences you.

“I asked you a question.” He says pointedly.

Your shoulder blades flex, elbows trying to bend despite the impossibility of the movement. “I wan’na cum, please, I’m so close-“

Another loud smack, this one leaves the skin stinging and hot in its wake. You choke on a sob, fighting back the urge to scream, cry, or spontaneously combust.

“I expect an answer.” He goads.

“Wha-“ Smack. A tear escapes your eye. You want to bang your fists on the ground in frustration, mind too muddled to understand what’s warranting this egregious mistreatment. Taking a deep breath, you think back to what he asked earlier.

When you answer, it’s a rush of words, like you can’t expel them from your body quick enough. “Yes, yes, yes my pussy likes it, please-“

“Awh,” His response is all taunting remorse. “Just ‘likes,’ huh?”

He still hasn’t moved. Tears are streaming down your cheeks now, desperation creeping up on you. If he doesn’t let you cum you’ll die, you’re sure of it. As it is now, you’ll never be able to fuck anyone else again. You’re ruined.

“My pussy loves it, please Joakim-“ Your words are cut off in a wet gurgle as he resumes his pace, as if he never stopped. You’re weeping from the pleasure now, sobs wracking your body. To an outsider, it would look painful - but you’re sure that if he stops again, your heart will stop with him.

“There she goes, that wasn’t so hard, huh?” Even he is starting to sound worked up, syllables coming out as puffs of breath. “Your pussy is mine.” He emphasizes the last word with a thrust that has your eyelids fluttering shut, unable to stay open any longer.

“All yours.” You slur, vision hazy when you open your eyes again.

Something is pulsating in your gut, seeming to grow with every second that passes. It’s not just your orgasm creeping up on you - it feels bigger. He must sense it too, because his thrusts get faster, sloppier. “Feel that?” He asks between gasps.

You try to nod, only to remember that he’s maintained an iron grip on your hair. Sweat and tears mix and run down your neck. “Yeah.” Is all you’re able to croak.

“Cum with me, käresta, you can do it.” His voice is in your ear, in your head, in your cunt. You don’t have any fight left in you, feeling emotionally spent. His voice is such a comfort to your raw nerves, you can’t resist doing as he says.

When you cum, it’s in a silent inhale, body convulsing almost violently on his cock. You can feel him cum inside you, feel it start to leak out as he fucks you through it. He’s speaking, something about “good girl” and “that’s it, give it to me,” but your foggy brain doesn’t register anything beyond those praises.

He lets you go slowly, gingerly helping your legs collapse fully on the floor. When he pulls out, a rush of his cum follows him, sliding down your thighs and splattering grotesquely onto the carpet. When you finally open your eyes, it takes you a moment to register the change to your surroundings.

Everything is tinged in a rosy glow - it’s warm, and you can smell jasmine in the air, like it’s growing from the vertices of the walls. When you lift your head, you’re awestruck when you see the ceiling has somehow been replaced with a summertime sunrise, golds and pinks mixing seamlessly above you.

Someone - Joakim, you think deliriously - is lifting you, setting you on something cushioned and incredibly cozy. He follows your line of sight to the ceiling, grinning when he realizes what you’re staring at.

“It’s a magic thing; If you don’t give it a specific purpose, it kind of just hangs out in the air and dissipates after a while.” He has a washcloth in hand, though you don’t know where he procured it from, and is gently wiping down the inside of your thighs. It’s almost too much, but he works quickly, patting you dry with a towel that must be made of clouds, it’s so soft.

He’s crawling over to lay next to you, then pulls you into his chest. He smells like campfire and woods and freshly mowed grass, a smell you find yourself burrowing into. One of his hands is rubbing your back, featherlight so as to not overwhelm you.

“You’ve ruined me.” You murmur into his chest.

You can feel the rumble of his laughter. “Oh, did I?”

Nodding, you pull back just enough to look up at him. “How am I ever going to go back into the real world? How am I supposed to ever enjoy sex again?”

His eyes darken, but his lips press a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Easy: Don’t go, only have sex with me.”

You giggle now, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Don’t say that. You’ve already fed me, you can’t fuck me too. I’ll keep coming back. You’ll be tempted to give me a name, then the kids will get attached -“

For the first time tonight, you see him laugh. Granted, it’s not much - more of a snicker through the nose. But it’s contagious enough that you break character and smile as you feel him smile into the kiss.

“Shut up, mouthy girl.” He moves from your forehead to cover your mouth with his, pulling a cover over you both so that the sunrise won’t disturb your sleep.

#author: cowpokeomens #bad omens fic #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #joakim karlsson fic #jolly karlsson fic #jolly karlsson smut #fic rec

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