Archive of Our Own

You don't believe the rest of the town folk when they whisper of the monster in the woods - a horrendous fiend that haunts the mountain's edge looms on the horizon, blocking out the sun during the winter months. The rumors had started a year ago, whispered in the local diner as hunters clutched their coffee cups. The tails of traps set to catch the men who travel too far when hunting doesn't turn you away from fantasies of roaming the mountain's edge, of pushing farther through the forest than anyone else in town has. Even your father's warnings that he wouldn't come to save you if you decided to do something reckless didn't push the thoughts out of your head. 

So when the leaves start to brown again, and the trees start showing their bare patches, you leave. In the middle of the night, you shoulder your backpack, your dad's pistol situated in the waistband of your jeans and a flashlight tucked into your back pocket. The sounds of your family sleeping, of your mother's soft snores, aren't enough to get you to turn back as you step out of your front door, locking it behind you against whatever phantoms travel the night. The air is crystalline around you; the dense forest floor muffles your footsteps as you walk. The sound of the forest fills the air, and wraps itself around you; in the distance, the mountain never grows closer as you head towards it. Behind you, the lights from town disappear between the pine boughs. 

It takes two days of walking, of sleeping in a thin blanket underneath pine trees, before you reach the first sign of someone living in the woods. You're exhausted, and there's a blister forming on the edge of your pinkie toe when you stumble across a felled tree. Hunger gnaws at you and for the first time you think about the life you left behind; you think of your mother's venison stew and thick bread served in the same bowls your grandmother saved during WWII. An axe, free of any rust, leans against a section of the log. You trace your fingers against the handle ( is it a trick of your mind to feel the warmth on the wood or is it that someone just got done cutting tonight's firewood and they're only a little ways ahead of you in the forest? ).

You think for a moment about shouldering the axe, about how it may come in useful later. But the press of your father's gun - the once cold metal warmed by its two days pressed against your skin - reminds you that whatever is in the forest: monster or bear, won't be stopped by the swing of an axe. And besides, how would explain to the owner that you stole their axe, stole their way of providing themselves warmth if it came down to it?

So you leave it, leaning against the fallen tree for whomever it belongs to, to find it again tomorrow. 

Dusk begins to fall when you see the smoke in the sky. It's almost romantic, the way the smoke curls, tendrils disseminating in the clouds. You imagine a quaint little cabin in the distance, the smoke curing from a squat chimney; imagine yourself stepping inside and being greeted by the warmth from the fire, cutting through the chill that's starting to take over. Distantly, thunder rolls, and the steel gray sky threatens a storm. You know that if you want a shelter for the night, you have to find the source of the wood smoke and hope that whoever is there is benevolent enough to let you sleep inside for the night. You think of the monster that haunts these woods ( and what kind of monster would need a fire to keep it warm at night? ) and wonder if this is it.

You press ahead, toward the smoke. Only a hundred yards have passed when the sound of a tree branch snapping makes you freeze. You've lived near the edge of the forest and hunted the animals with your father long enough to know that unless what dwells in the forest wants you to know it's there, you won't ever hear it. Whatever is behind you is bigger than you, and not scared that you know it's there. Adrenaline's sharp edge starts in your veins, and your hand twitches towards the handgun at the small of your back. You steady yourself with a deep breath and press on, trying to let whatever is behind you think that you don't know it's there - that you still believe you're all alone. That you aren't a danger to whatever it is. 

You barely make it ten feet before you're yanked to your back. The contents of your backpack and the gun dig painfully into your skin; you feel something cut through the thin flesh of your hip bones as you hit the ground. Your head is spared only by your hands that reach up instinctively, but it feels like every knuckle on your right hand is broken when it slams against the ground. Stunned, you lay there, prey with its belly exposed as your eyes water and distort everything in your vision. Something monstrously huge leans down over you, blocking out the last bit of sun that remains. You try to blink the monster into sharper vision, but can't. Fairytale visions of werewolves, blood dripping from their maws shiver through you.

A warmth presses down on your chest, keeping you pinned to the ground. Through the pain, you can feel it's a hand, large enough to cover you from sternum to throat. 

"What are you doing here?"

The monster speaks in a low growl, and you realize it's just a man pressing you into the dirt and leaves. He doesn't give you a chance to answer before he yanks you to your feet, the hand at your chest gripping your jacket enough that you can feel the strings in the collar popping underneath the pressure he's putting on the fabric. 

Your feet dangle, your toes barely touching the ground as he shakes you ( you want to tell him to stop, the pain in your head is enough) . You grab his wrist, pulling him away from you. To your surprise, he recoils at your grip, dropping you to the dirt again. You land, for the second time, painfully in the dirt. This time you have enough wits about you to pull the pistol from your waistband, to raise it towards him as you stand. 

And the man just stands there, hands loose at his side. He towers over you, large enough that you have to look up at him, to take him in. Your hand doesn't shake against the trigger fingers as you take him in - dark jeans and scuffed boots, black shirt, and balaclava. The faded white outline of a skull covers the mask; in normal circumstances, you might think to laugh at it, but here in these strange woods you feel a tinge of fear for the first time, for the first time thinking back on the monster stories the locals would sit around and tell each other around night fires. You can imagine the white of that skull shining through the moonlight, around the curve of a trunk, and how terrifying that might be.

"I asked you a question," he growls out; the sweat on your palms makes the gun slip, just incrementally, on your hand.

"I'm the one holding the gun." Your voice sounds unnatural and weak after not speaking for two days. 

"If you were going to shoot me you would have done it already."

You hope he doesn't register the look on your face - the one that says he's right; you don't have any intention of shooting him as long as he just stands there. You never even had the stomach to shoot deer with your father when it came time to put food on your family's table. 

"I just came for a walk in the woods; nothing illegal about that."

He still doesn't speak. Your shoulder throbs from where you hit the ground; the gun falls just an inch. You half expect him to take advantage of this, to rush you and wrap his fingers around his throat until you're nothing but a half-memory in his mind, but he stays where he is at.

"I don't see how it's any of your business anyway."

"You're on my land."

"No one owns this land."

"I do."

Your arm falls another inch. This time, he pounces. One of his hands wraps around your wrist, pulling it to the side enough that you lose your grip on the gun. The other holds your shoulder - more gently than you could have imagined a mountain of a man to hold anything. 

The gun hits the forest floor silently. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise, to keep from letting him know that he's hurting you; the taste of iron coats your tongue. Up close you can make out every blonde eyelash of his, make out all the gold flecks in his iris. His breath is warm through the balaclava; he smells like woodsmoke and vaguely vanilla. 

"I don't think you came out here for a little walk, love."

The first raindrop falls between you two, crashing against the earth with a force that nearly knocks you over. Your skin burns you where he touches, the callouses on his hands rough against the sensitive skin of his wrist. 

Another drop falls, this time, landing on his fingers. You watch it roll to his wrist, to the sliver of tattoo-covered skin that you can see as the sleeve of his shirt pulls away. The thought to reach out and trace the path of the raindrops with your tongue flashes in your mind; you feel yourself smile slightly and try to repress the feeling. The corners of his eye crinkle, you know he's frowning at you, eyebrows knitted together as he tries to figure out why you're here. 

Without speaking, the man pushes you forward; in your peripheral you see him bend down and pick your father's gun up before tucking it into his own waistband. You think about how angry your father would be at him touching your father's gun, at touching you - someone other than him, some other man, touching something of his. You're not sure if the shiver that runs down your spine is from the thought or from the biting cold air that blows through, bringing more raindrops with it. 

You walk towards the smoke in the distance, the man's hand pressed into your shoulder, forcing you to walk faster than usual.

"What's your name?"

"Why?"

"Well, I should know the name of my kidnapper and potential murderer."

He lets out a sound that lets you know he doesn't appreciate your description, but he doesn't dispute it. He doesn't speak again until you stumble over a root, and his hand is at your elbow to straighten you up and force you to keep walking. 

"It's Ghost."

The cabin is nothing like you expected it to be. It's not even really a cabin - more of an abandoned witches' house, ivy trellising up one side and wrapping around the chimney. It could have once been described as Victorian, but now you're not sure if that description would do it any justice. It's two stories, bigger than what you'd expected it to be here in the forest. A dog with thick brown and black fur is curled up beside the front door; its ears perk when it spots you and Ghost but doesn't move towards you.

When you pass by, however, the dog reaches out to sniff you, his tail wagging. Ghost reaches out with his free hand to pet the dog once before reaching around you to open the door, his back pressing against yours for just a moment.

The rain falls harder against the two of you as he pushes you inside, the door falling shut behind him heavily. You listen for the sound of a lock shutting but don't hear one. The dog shakes the water out of its fur before leaving the two of you alone in the foyer, disappearing down the hallway. 

You watch Ghost as he pulls his boots off; you follow suit, kicking yours off. Your feet throb, the pain of non-stop walking for two days finally catching up to you. You're barely able to catch your balance before Ghost's hands are at the straps of your backpack, pulling it off of your shoulders and dumping it to the ground beside your shoes. 

With one hand presses firmly into your back, he leads you down the hallway, pointing out each part of the house you might need. 

"Why are you showing me around, what if I want to leave?"

"You can leave whenever you want. But you can't go back to the town."

There's nowhere else for you to go ( he must know this ). The thought should chill you, but it doesn't. Ghost stops outside of a heavy oaken door, his hand pausing on the doorknob before pushing the door open.

"You can sleep down here."

You take in the room - dust-covered but clean. The bed is massive, and covered in more pillows than you think you've ever seen in your life. the air inside is stale, you know that no one has touched anything in this room for years. 

"Where do you sleep?" You've asked the question before you even mean to. The hand on your back curls just enough that you can feel the bite of Ghost's nails in your back. 

"I sleep up the stairs. You can go anywhere you want in the house, just not upstairs. Do you understand me?"

The nails in your back threaten to break through your skin; you're not afraid, but you know that Ghost hasn't shown you half of the strength he does have, and that does scare you. You nod, silently; Ghost's hand leaves your back, leaving an emptiness in its place. 

It rains for days - a torrential downfall that washes down the mountain; Ghost lingers around the house, and the two of you circle each other - planets with opposing orbits. On the third day, you find the library tucked away in the back corner of the house. It's attached to an empty solarium, the glass washed clean from the rain outside. 

That day, when Ghost comes to find you to tell you that he's finished cooking he finds you on your hands and knees, scrubbing the dirt and dust away from the mosaic tiles with cleaning supplies you'd found tucked away in an unused backroom.

"What are you doing?" He asks, leaning against the doorway. Riley, always stuck to Ghost, sits at his feet. 

You don't look up at him as you speak, sweat dripping down your forehead. You watch your hands swirl across the tile, releasing the years-old dirt from the grout.

"I figured if I'm trapped here, I might as well put myself to work."

"Who said you're trapped here?"

You can barely hear Ghost over the rain on the solarium walls. Leaning back on your heels, you wipe your forehead on your shirt, trying to think about what to say to him. You choose your words carefully, chewing on them until they feel right.

"You would really let me leave?"

It's Ghost's turn to think about his words; you can feel his eyes boring a hole in your back. 

"No."

You don't say anything else to him as you turn back towards the floor. 

"Don't you think your family will come looking for you?"

"Probably. But they won't go any farther than the forest edge. They're terrified of the monster that lives here."

"And you're not."

"Not yet."

When the rain finally stops, Ghost disappears. He leaves Riley with a stern warning to guard the house before disappearing into the woods. You watch him leave from the kitchen window. The thought that you could escape teases you. It wouldn't be hard, you just needed to run down the mountain faster than he could realize you were gone. 

You leave that thought at the window. The lights flicker above you; Ghost had briefly explained about the solar panels at the backside of the cabin and you wonder if he installed them himself. The cabinets are nearly bare, but there's evidence that he leaves sometimes: name-brand can goods and a sack of bread flour. You wonder if you had ever walked by him in town, his mask off, and you never realized. The thought thrills you, that he could have been hiding in plain sight from the same people who whispered fearfully of him.

When he comes back, it's to the smell of fresh bread. The kitchen is clean, cleaner than he'd ever seen it; he watches as you turn the bread out of a pan and wrap it in a clean town. On the stove, a pot sits, something simmering inside. 

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

You can tell by the set of his shoulders that he doesn't like that - doesn't like the sarcasm that rolls easily from your lips. You turn to stir the stew on the stove, waiting on Ghost to say something, anything to fill the silence in the kitchen.

"Why are you cooking?"

"Because you're keeping me here captive for free. I figured it would nice for me to do something for you."

"You don't live here."

You know what he really means is that you don't need to make yourself comfortable - don't need to pretend that this arrangement is domestic.

You want him to hear you when you're curled up in your bed. You left the door open intentionally - an invitation if he would take it. Your fingers dip into your own cunt, pumping at a pace that is barely enough to satisfy you.

You hear the sound of the floor outside your door creaking; you can imagine Ghost out there, cock in hand, stroking himself at the sounds of you finger fucking yourself. Your breath catches in your throat when you moan out his name, face pressed against a pillow as you bite down on it, imagining if it was him.

The floor creaks again, and for a moment you think you see the curve of his shoulder in the doorway. You pull your hands out of your panties; lick the taste of yourself off of your fingertips. The shape of him is gone from the doorway in a flash. You fall onto your back, breathless from your orgasm. 

Heavy footfall on the stairs is heard from the hallway, followed quickly by the sound of a door shutting.

The weather turns for the worse as the weeks pass. The morning you awake to the first layer of snow on the ground, a letter is left on the counter beside the coffee pot. 

Gone to get winter supplies.

You're alone. Again. Riley pads into the kitchen lost without Ghost. He follows you across the house, nearly tripping you pressing himself so close to your feet. You intend to work on the solarium again - the weeks had seen you turning it into some recognition of its former glory- but you pause at the bottom of the stairs. An intense curiosity overtakes you - you want to go upstairs, to see what Ghost is hiding there from you. Your foot lands on the bottom of the staircase, when the sound of a car door slamming shut pulls you out of your thoughts. 

Your heart crashes in your chest, thinking of all the people who could have stumbled across the house, who could be forcing you back home. You press yourself into the banister, one hand outreach to bury itself in Riley's fur when Ghost steps through the door. 

Instant relief washes over you as his figure blocks the doorway. For a moment, you think about rushing towards him. He leans forward to place the grocery bags in his hands on the ground; you can see his eyebrows knitted together even through the balaclava. 

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing."

You worry that you speak too quickly, too suspiciously. You worry that he can read your thoughts, read how you almost betrayed him. So you press towards him, coffee cup landing on a small table right inside the doorway, trying to move the conversation away from your almost betrayal.

"Do you need help carrying everything in?"

"No."

But you want to help, want to get your mind off the thought of upstairs. You ignore him, and step outside, shivering in the cold air. An old truck you've never seen before is backed nearly up to the door, the back loaded down with supplies. 

"Is this all for the winter?"

"Once the snow starts falling we won't be able to get down until it thaws again."

It's all the explanation you need, but a new question erupts from you before you can stop it.

"How many winters have you had up here?"

"Enough."

The snow is thick when you've finally finished the solarium. Without you asking him to, Ghost dragged your bed to the room, followed by the dresser full of someone else's clothing that you've been wearing. It's where he finds you when he comes looking, curled up on a loveseat you'd found in an empty room in front of the fireplace. 

"Yes?"

You speak without your eyes ever leaving the book in your hands. You hear Ghost shuffle in the doorway. 

"Can I come sit with you?"

Without speaking you pull yourself in tighter, making room for him on the other side of the loveseat. He shuffles into the room, sitting down gently near your feet. He doesn't speak to you as you flip the pages. 

"What are you reading?"

"Bulfinch's Mythology."

"What is that?"

The question makes you smile, and for the first time since he'd walked in, you pull your eyes away from the book. Ghost isn't looking at you - he's focused intently on the flames dancing in the fireplace. He's tense, wound tightly enough you can almost see his muscles tense underneath his shirt.

"It's a translation of Greek mythology. It's your book, you don't know it?"

"I bought the house with everything in it."

"So none of this is really yours?"

Ghost doesn't answer, his hands are fisted tightly on his thighs. You know you're pushing it, asking him too much about his past. You shift, pressing your toes into the seam on his thighs, feeling his warmth through the denim. 

"How about I just read to you? Do you know the story of Cupid and Psyche?"

Ghost's only answer is a shake of his head. You flip through the pages, looking for the page you want. When you read, Ghost doesn't speak. His hands loosen, the one closest to you dropping onto your ankle. When you feel his touch against your skin, you stumble over your words. 

His touch makes you bold; you shift, never pausing your reading, to sit up and slide one foot onto his lap. His hand follows your ankle; when you've moved too close, his grip on your ankle tightens you, telling you that you've gone too far, too fast. 

You read over the soft sounds of snow falling on the glass, of the crackle of the logs in the fireplace. Softly, Ghost begins to draw patterns on the top of your foot. The feeling of his touch is starting to wind something inside of you. When you finish, you let the book fall closed in your lap and turn your attention to Ghost. He speaks quietly, barely louder than the ambient noise around the two of you.

"So she still loved him? After all of that?"

"Yes, after all of that."

Ghost's nails dig gently suddenly into the soft skin on the underside of your ankle. You can tell he's struggling to say what he wants, his mouth opening and closing beneath the balaclava before he finally speaks, his words desperate. 

"Would you still love him after everything?"

His voice is tight, his nails dig harder into your skin. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, can feel the tension in the air. 

"What if I said no?"

Ghost's hand twitches against your skin, his grip suddenly painful. But still, he keeps his eyes trained on the fireplace, never looking towards you. 

"I suppose you would have to find your way home."

You let the book slide off of your lap and drop heavily to the floor. The fluttering in your stomach quickens at the heaviness that hangs over the two of you. When you speak again, your voice cracks - Ghost finally looks at you, eyes dark and burning.

"Of course, I would still love him after all of that."

Ghost nails disappear from your ankle; his hand slides up to your thigh before pulling you closer. You lose your balance, you fall back and before you can pull yourself back into a sitting position, Ghost is pressing his hand onto your abdomen, pressing you into the soft cushions. He slides one of his knees in between your thighs and presses it against the seam of your shorts. Your cunt throbs at the feeling; you whine, but keep your hands down at your side, worried that if you touch him, he'll run. 

"Do you want to stay here? With me?" He whispers, not lowering himself down onto you like you want him to. 

His warmth feels like it's drowning you; you squirm trying to rub yourself against his thigh- Ghost pulls away just enough that you can't reach him. He doesn't have to say what he wants, you already know it without him saying anything. 

"Of course, I want to stay here. With you."

You know it's not a lie when you say it; you hadn't thought of going home since you'd first stepped foot into the forest. And now, with Ghost pressing himself against you, you can't imagine leaving this place, leaving Ghost behind to go back to your family, back to everything you once knew. 

His knee presses harder onto your cunt and you grind down, trying to find some release. His hands' hook on the edge of your shorts, pulling them down, past your knees until you can kick them off. Your hands search for skin, dipping underneath his shirt. You dig your nails into his back as he trails his nails up your thigh, the feeling sending a shiver through you. He wraps one hand around your knee, hitching it around his waist until he's pressed against you. You can feel his erection through his jeans. He grinds into you, the rough denim rubbing against the soft fabric of your panties.

"Please." You don't know what you're begging for, just some sort of release from the tension inside of you. Maybe for him to touch you more, maybe for him to grind into you again.

Ghost presses his lips to your neck, the fabric of the balaclava warm against your skin. His hand sneaks between the two of you, fingers teasing your clit through your panties. You pull him closer, trying to press yourself into him, press his fingers into you. He keeps himself pulled back away from you, not letting himself sink into you.

"Why did you come here?"

He whispers in your ear, fingers pulling away from your clit when you don't answer. You try to find his hand and put it back, but he pushes you back down, a promise he won't do anything until you speak.

"I wanted to- to see if the rumors were true. I wanted to see if you were the monster everyone said you were."

You can feel the hint of a smile against your neck before he speaks again.

"Is that it?"

"I wanted," you swallow around the words, trying to pick which ones to use, "I wanted to get away from home."

His fingers dip under the waistband of your panties, teasing you. 

"Am I the monster you were expecting to find?"

You shake your head, burying your face in his chest, and bite down on the moan that escapes you.

"Are you going to leave me when the snow thaws? You can if you want. I won't stop you." His voice is rough, almost tired. You hear a hint of sadness as if he already knows you're going to say yes, that you're already planning your escape.

You shake your head; his fingers start to pull away from you when you realize what he wants from you.

"No; never."

That's enough for him. He buries two fingers inside of you; you hiss at the sting, but it quickly turns into a moan when he pumps his fingers inside of you. You're not wet enough to take him, but you know that you will be in just a moment.

"Close your eyes."

You do as you're told, and you feel his lips press against your collarbone through your shirt. You turn, seeking his lips, eyes still pressed tightly closed. Ghost knows what you want, you can feel his nose trailing up your neck, the feeling of the balaclava pushed up around his nose. 

"You won't look?" He whispers against your lips, and you nod.

"I promise."

When he kisses you, you taste the coffee from earlier; his canines snag against your bottom lip as he pulls away to breathe. His fingers inside of you are working you into a release, faster than you've ever reached on your own. When it crashes into you, you cry out; Ghost whispers soft soothings to you, his free hand pushing your hair out of your face gently before fisting it to pull your head back and expose your neck just quick enough for him to press a kiss to your jugular. 

He disappears for a moment; you want to look at him, to watch him as the sound of his belt coming undone and falling against the floor reaches you, but you don't want to betray his trust, don't want to do anything until he tells you to. His hands are gentle on you as he rolls you over onto your stomach, pressing your face gently into the cushions so you can't see him. His hands trace the valleys of your body before he pulls your panties down to your knees, forcing them together. 

His fingers dip into your cunt before pulling away quickly; you hear the sound of him licking the taste of you off before his wet fingers fall on your ass, tracing patterns into your skin.

His hands grip your hips, pulling them up so he can place his cock between your folds. He doesn't push into you until you push backward, your hand between your thighs trying to guide him in. 

You moan when he presses his cock into you, the sound muffled by the cushion. He's larger - larger than anything - anyone - you've ever taken before. The feeling of being so full of him, so stretched out by him twists you and pushes you towards an ecstasy that you've never felt before. You mewl for him, pressing back into him as much as you can.

He's quiet, the only sign he's enjoying this is his bruising grip on you. He's soft at first, and you beg him for more with each stroke, but he ignores you. You can feel him holding back, feel that there are inches of cock still waiting for you to take it. You beg for more, beg for him to fuck you properly.

"Look at you, begging for the monster in the woods to fuck you harder."

On his last word, he slams into you; the pain of it makes you instinctually try to scramble away from him. He holds you, one hand at your grip and one at your shoulder, keeping you pinned to the couch. 

"You were just begging for this, remember? Don't run away now."

He fucks you with a brutal pace, hands not leaving you until he folds himself over you. One of his fingers traces a small circle around your clit as he bites into your shoulder. You cry out, hands gripping the cushions. 

"Ghost, I can't - I'm going to - fuck ."

"That's it, baby - come on my cock like a good girl."

His words push you towards your orgasm, and when you crash again, he fucks you harder. You squirm underneath him, trying to get away, to get a break from his relentless pace - from this brutal fucking that you want more desperately than anything else in the world.

"Stop running."

His hand snakes under you, to grip your throat loosely. His chest presses against your back, his breath warm on your neck. You can feel another orgasm building up inside of you; you keen, pressing yourself into Ghost. You can't remember a time when anyone has ever fucked you this good - a time you've ever wanted someone the same way you want Ghost.

"I'm going to finish inside of you," he growls in your ear, movements bordering on erratic. "I'm going to make you mine."

You can't do anything but pant out a 'yes'. You feel it - the warmth when he finishes inside of you, but he doesn't stop pushing himself inside of you - he keeps fucking you, pushing his cum deeper into you until he finally stills. 

He stays on you for a breath before pushing himself up. You can't move, can't do anything but lay there and try to catch your breath. You feel him hook your fingers in the waistband of your panties once again, but this time he pulls them up, hand smoothing across your back. 

His hand traces the pattern of your spine before burying itself in the hair at the nape of your neck. You try to catch your breath under his touch.

"I meant it earlier when I said you can leave."

"I know," your say as you turn your face towards him, catching just a hint of the chin as he pulls his balaclava down. 

"I want to stay."