The Forest Priest
I’m nestled deep in the warm, cum-stained fabric of Joren’s underwear, the musky heat of his body wrapping around me like a second skin as we trek through the dense forest toward the Lesbian Realm portal. The canopy above dulls the light to a cool, damp green, shadows flickering across the path in eerie, shifting patterns, and the air sits heavy with the scent of earth, moss, and something else—something wrong. It’s a sterile edge, barely there, prickling at the edges of my senses, a sharpness that cuts through the natural decay like a blade through flesh. I can’t ignore the way it crawls under my skin, an itch that burrows deeper with every step. I fidget against Joren’s thick shaft, feeling the dried cum crackle under my small hands as I shift, my mind torn between the fragment I caught back at the tower—a jagged piece of something I can’t yet name—and the urgency thrumming through the crew like a taut bowstring.
“You’re restless,” Joren murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his body and into me, resonating in my core. His hand shifts, fingers brushing over the bulge for a fleeting moment, a ghost of a touch as he adjusts mid-stride, the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric.
“Air’s off,” I mutter back, pressing my face into the warm weave of the fabric, tasting the salt of old fluid on my tongue, bitter and familiar. “Smells like… nothing. Too clean under the rot. It’s not just the forest. Something’s been scrubbed out of existence here.” My voice is muffled, but I know he hears the edge in it, the unease I can’t quite pin down.
He hums, a sound I feel more than hear, deep in his chest, and through the bond, there’s a flicker of agreement, a shared wariness. “We’re close to Lirael’s site. Keep sharp.” His words carry that steady warmth, the kind that anchors even when I’m half-distracted by his cock shifting with each step, the heavy length pressing against me with every movement. “Anything else catching you?” he adds, voice quieter now, probing gently.
“Not sure,” I admit, shifting again, my small hands tracing the dried flakes along his skin. “It’s like a gap in the air, a void where something should be. Makes my core buzz wrong.” I don’t say more, not yet, but I feel his attention sharpen through the bond, a silent promise to dig deeper later.
Ahead, Vesper strides with purpose, his long legs eating up the trail, a cigarette dangling from his lips as smoke curls lazily into the damp air, mingling with the earthy musk. He tosses a quip over his shoulder, voice bright but a touch too quick, betraying the nerves beneath. “If this portal’s as welcoming as the last, I’m packing extra lube. Just saying.” A second joke follows fast, almost tripping over the first. “Or maybe I’ll charm it with a sonnet. Worked on Garrick. Hell, I’ve got a whole anthology ready if this forest tries to screw us over.”
Garrick, perched on Vesper’s shoulder at thumb-size, snorts dryly, his tiny frame barely shifting. “You screamed. That’s what worked.” His small voice cuts clean, a quiet jab that carries warmth, and I catch the way Vesper’s grin widens, though his eyes dart to the shadows of the forest, scanning the undergrowth with a tension that belies his humor. “Keep your sonnets, poet. Eyes on the trail,” Garrick adds, his tone steady, steadying Vesper’s flippancy.
I chuckle against Joren’s skin, the sound muffled by fabric, the vibration tickling my chest. “He’s jittery. That vision’s still under his skin. Can’t blame him—seeing something ‘in transit’ isn’t exactly a bedtime story.” My words are half to myself, but I feel Joren’s agreement through the bond, a subtle nod to the shared unease.
“Mm,” Joren agrees wordlessly, his hand brushing the bulge again, a fleeting ghost of pressure as he steps over a gnarled root, the movement jostling me against his warmth. I feel the bond nudge me, his silent way of saying he’s noticed too. Vesper’s vision of something in transit—something coming—has us all on a tight wire, pushing through this endless green to reach Lirael before whatever’s coming does. The forest seems to close in tighter with every step, branches creaking like whispers, the damp air clinging to my senses with that sterile undertone that won’t let go.
The air grows heavier as we near the communion site, the sterile edge sharpening into a taint I can almost taste, like glass dust on my tongue, bitter and invasive. The ancient trees loom into view, giants older than realm memory, their trunks wide enough to swallow a house, gnarled roots sprawling like ancient veins across the earth. But they’re wrong. Their bark glints with crystalline patches, not sap or frost, reflecting light in jagged, unnatural streaks that seem to pulse faintly in the dim light. It’s just there, embedded, a corruption that doesn’t belong, an alien scar on something sacred. My core twists, a soundless vibration stirring deep as I stare from the safety of the nest, a cold dread pooling in me at the sight.
“Joren,” I whisper, voice tight, almost a hiss. “You seeing this? It’s not just wrong. This thing is waiting for something.”
His stride slows, boots crunching on the mossy ground, and through the bond, I feel his focus snap tight, a predator’s alertness. “Yeah. Not natural.” His voice is quiet, but there’s gravity to it, the kind that means he’s already deciding what to do. He doesn’t need to say more—I feel his resolve like a heartbeat, steady and unyielding. “Stay close, Spark. Don’t poke it yet,” he adds, a low warning that carries care beneath the command.
In the clearing at the heart of the site, Lirael sits cross-legged before the largest tree, silver hair tangled with leaves and dirt, gold eyes half-closed in ritual focus, his pale skin almost glowing in the dim green light. He’s mid-chant, old-tongue words rolling from him in a low, resonant hum. *Sylthar*, *vrenkaal*. The forest seems to lean into the sound, trembling in response, even as the corruption glints around him like a mocking frame. He doesn’t see it. Four months deep in communion, and he’s blind to the taint encircling his sacred space, oblivious to the crystalline shards that seem to hum with a life of their own.
Vesper stops short, cigarette falling from his lips to the damp earth with a faint hiss as his humor drops like a shattered mask. “Fuck me,” he breathes, voice stripped bare, raw with disbelief. “That’s not bark. That’s… echo-adjacent. Primordial shard material, but older. Unmade lineage, maybe. No, wait—there’s a resonance here, like it’s been pulled from a void state, pre-realm even. This is a fracture in the fabric, a piece of something that shouldn’t exist here.” His words come fast now, no jokes, just the scholar clicking into place as he crouches to peer at a glinting patch, fingers hovering just above it, as if afraid to touch. “I’ve read fragments about this—texts from the First Collapse. It’s like a memory of unmaking, embedded in the living. How the hell did it get here?”
Garrick shifts on Vesper’s shoulder, growing slightly to get a better look, his small form tense. “Check him first,” he says, voice steady and dry, nodding toward Lirael with a practical edge. “Theory later. If this stuff’s active, he’s in the middle of it.” His focus cuts to the elf, prioritizing over arcane speculation, and I feel a flicker of respect for the way he centers on the immediate need.
Joren doesn’t wait. He crosses the clearing in three strides, boots heavy on the earth, crouching before Lirael with a hand on his shoulder, grip firm and unhesitating, the warmth of his touch cutting through the chill of the corrupted air. “Lirael. Break it. Now.” His voice cuts through the chant like a blade, no room for argument, even knowing the cost of snapping a four-month ritual. Through the bond, I feel his decision's gravity—interrupting this could shake Lirael to his core, fracture something deep in his spirit, but leaving him blind to the corruption isn’t an option. “Look at me,” Joren adds, softer but still commanding, his thumb pressing into Lirael’s shoulder with a steadying pressure.
Lirael’s gold eyes snap open, haunted and disoriented, a tremor running through his pale frame, his breath catching in sharp, uneven gasps. “*Vrenkaal thar…* What—” His formal tone falters, old-tongue slipping as he blinks at Joren, then at the trees, his gaze darting wildly. “This… I did not sense…” His voice cracks, pride warring with vulnerability as he takes in the crystalline patches, hands trembling as they press to the earth, fingers digging into the moss as if to anchor himself. “How could I miss this? Four months, and I… I failed to guard my own anchor.” The self-reproach in his tone cuts deep, raw and unguarded.
“You’re compromised,” Joren says, softer now, hand sliding from shoulder to back, steady heat steadying him against the trembling. “We’ve got you. Come with us. You’re not facing this alone.” The warmth in his tone isn’t forced. It’s just Joren, the anchor no one questions, his presence a bulwark against the creeping wrongness of the site. Through the bond, I feel his certainty, a quiet vow to pull Lirael through this, no matter the cost.
I can’t stay still. Against Joren’s silent warning through the bond, I flit out of the nest, growing just enough to hover near the corrupted bark of the largest tree, my small form buzzing with tension. Up close, the crystalline material isn’t just reflecting. It’s listening. It hums at me, a soundless vibration that hooks into my core, sharp and personal, ignoring everyone else. My small body trembles with it, a resonance I can’t name but can’t escape. It’s the fragment from the tower. It’s Vesper’s vision. This is the third piece of a pattern, and it’s mine alone. My essence pulses in time with it, a connection that feels like a hook in my being, pulling at something I don’t yet understand. Why me? What does it want?
“Spark,” Joren’s voice cuts through, low and firm, a tether snapping me back. “Back. Now.”
I shrink and dart to him, settling on his shoulder, but the hum lingers in me, a burden I don’t voice, a cold thread weaving through my thoughts. He feels it anyway—through the bond, there’s a flicker of concern, a silent question. His hand moves, deliberate and slow, cupping the bulge through the fabric, fingers pressing firmly along the thick shaft, tracing the ridge of the cockhead with a slow, steadying stroke. I’m pressed flat against the warm, veiny length, precum leaking fresh through the weave, sticking to my face as I brace against the pressure, feeling the wet heat smear across my skin. It’s a tactile touch, a moment of care, and I lean into it, tasting the salt, feeling the pulse beneath.
“Got something to say?” he murmurs, thumb circling the ridge through the cloth, a quiet nudge, his voice low and steady, coaxing without demand.
“Not yet,” I mutter, voice muffled as I lap at the fresh bead of fluid, the sharp tang steadying me briefly. “Just… it’s watching. Me, specifically. I don’t know why, but it’s locked on.” I don’t say more. Not about the pattern, not about the fragment, not about the growing burden I’m carrying. He doesn’t press, but I feel his silence shift, the kind that means he’s waiting, patient but unrelenting.
Lirael stumbles to his feet, silver hair wild, gold eyes darting as the full scope of the corruption sinks in, his pale hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. “This place… my anchor…” His voice is formal again, tight with containment, but his hands shake, betraying the fracture beneath. “I have nowhere else. This was my tether to the realm, my purpose. Without it, I am adrift.” The admission slips out, raw and unguarded, and I feel the ache in it, the loss of something sacred.
“You’ve got us,” Joren says simply, hand still steady on his back, his touch a constant warmth. Through the bond, I feel his resolve double down—Lirael’s one of ours now, no question, a commitment carved in stone. “We’re your anchor now. Lean on it,” he adds, voice quieter, a promise wrapped in certainty.
Vesper straightens, brushing dirt from his knees, a forced grin creeping back as he lights another cigarette, the flare of the match briefly illuminating his sharp features. “Yeah, elf, stick with the weirdos. We’ve got better rituals. Less chanting, more drinking. Maybe a few questionable life choices thrown in.” His tone’s playful, but his eyes linger on the crystalline patches, the scholar still working under the jest, cataloging every detail for later dissection. “Seriously, though, we’ve got your back. Let’s get you clear of this mess,” he adds, softer, a rare sincerity breaking through.
Garrick hops off Vesper’s shoulder, growing slightly to hover near Lirael, gaze sharp and assessing. “You’re rattled. Let’s clear it. Then talk. One step at a time, priest.” His voice is dry but warm, cutting to the practical with a steadiness that balances Vesper’s edge, his small form a quiet reassurance at Lirael’s side.
I flit back to the nest, curling into the musky heat as Joren leads us away from the compromised site to a cleaner clearing, a fallen log under dappled light offering a steadying space, the air here softer, less tainted. The forest trembles with something alive rather than wrong, a faint breeze carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, a reprieve from the sterile edge. Lirael kneels in the center, stripping with priestly grace, his pale, sharp body catching the faint light as he presses hands to earth, fingers splaying wide against the moss. His vulnerability is raw, pride shaken, and I feel the pull to anchor him, to weave him into the crew through care, to mend what the corruption fractured.
Joren kneels opposite, hand moving from shoulder to back again, steady heat radiating from him, his presence a silent bulwark. I grow to ten feet, matching Joren’s height, stepping into the ring the crew forms around Lirael, the air between us humming with intent. My hands settle over his trembling shoulders, channeling the sacred warmth I carry from the nest—memories of Joren’s cum, his heartbeat, the endless nourishment—into Lirael’s frame. He shudders under the touch, formality cracking as a low moan escapes him, gold eyes fluttering, his breath hitching in sharp, uneven bursts.
Vesper steps in, shedding his own shirt with a flourish, fingers tracing Lirael’s spine with deliberate care, cigarette still smoldering between his lips, the faint scent of tobacco mixing with sweat and earth. “Easy, priest. We’ve got layers to peel. Let’s strip that ritual haze off you, piece by piece.” His voice is warm now, humor softening to something real, his touch light but intentional, mapping the tension in Lirael’s frame. Garrick perches nearby, small and watchful, his gaze steady as he tracks Lirael’s state, a quiet sentinel in the circle.
Lirael’s chant softens, old-tongue words slipping out—*sylthar*, *vrenkaal*—and the forest trembles alive in response, the air shifting, less wrong with each syllable, a faint ripple of energy spreading through the clearing. My energy dips mid-act, and I shrink involuntarily to a smaller size, curling against Lirael’s side, tongue flicking to his neck, tasting salt and the quickening pulse beneath his skin, the heat of him steadying me even as I falter. Joren hums approval through the bond, a sound that steadies me as I press closer, hands roaming Lirael’s trembling frame, steadying him with every touch, feeling the fine tremors ease under my care.
“Feel us,” I murmur, voice thick with devotion as I lap at the sheen of sweat on his skin, the taste sharp and alive. “You’re not alone here. We’re your tether now, Lirael. Hold to it.” My words are unguarded, raw, and Lirael’s breath hitches, a crack in his composure as he leans into the warmth of the crew, his body softening under the collective care.
Joren’s hand finds mine briefly, squeezing before returning to Lirael, his presence a constant bulwark, the heat of his skin a steady pulse against mine. “We’ve got you,” he repeats, voice low and certain, and I feel the bond hum with his intent—Lirael’s joining isn’t just ritual, it’s earned through care, a bond forged in shared strength. “Keep breathing, elf. Let it settle,” he adds, his tone a quiet anchor, guiding Lirael through the storm of his shaken state.
The purification stretches, time slipping as we pour ourselves into Lirael, hands and warmth and whispered reassurances weaving him back to himself, the air around us growing lighter with each passing moment. His trembling eases, chants growing steadier, each syllable of old-tongue resonating deeper, until his gold eyes clear, a flicker of his old pride returning, softened by something new—trust. I shrink further, energy sapped, nesting against his thigh as the ritual winds down, my small body buzzing with the effort but content with the result, the warmth of the crew’s unity a tangible thing around us. The forest seems to exhale with us, the dappled light softer now, less oppressive.
Vesper steps back, wiping sweat from his brow, grin returning as he sheds the last of his clothes with a dramatic flair, the rustle of fabric loud in the quiet clearing. “Fuck ceremony. Let’s welcome you proper, elf. No more chanting—just good, messy connection.” His tone shifts to playful irreverence, eyes glinting as he grips Lirael’s hips, still sweat-glazed on the log, pulling him up and spreading his arse with casual expertise, fingers firm and unhesitating. Lirael’s formality is gone, gold eyes eager, his body shifting from meditative to shameless in a heartbeat, a low groan escaping him at the touch.
Vesper’s tongue dives in, wet and relentless, the sound noisy in the clearing—sloppy, eager, unapologetic, a wet rhythm that fills the space. Lirael gasps, hands digging into the rough bark of the log, back arching as his breath comes in sharp bursts, each sound raw and unguarded. Vesper narrates his delight, voice muffled but clear between licks. “Fuck, elf, you taste like forest and sin. Should’ve done this months ago. Could’ve skipped all that chanting nonsense and gone straight to this.” He chuckles, the sound vibrating against Lirael’s skin, and I can’t help but grin, flitting closer, drawn to the messy energy of it all. “You’re melting already, priest. Good boy,” Vesper adds, teasing but warm, his hands kneading Lirael’s thighs as he works.
I grow just enough to join, small hands bracing on Lirael’s thigh, tongue lapping at the overflow of spit and sweat where Vesper’s mouth works, the taste sharp and mingled on my tongue. “Greedy,” Vesper mutters, pulling back just enough to smirk at me, his lips slick and shining in the dim light. I laugh, unashamed, darting in for another taste as Lirael moans above us, body trembling with the intensity of the welcome, his voice breaking on a shuddering breath. “Share the wealth, Spark,” Vesper teases, flicking his tongue alongside mine for a moment before diving back in.
Joren watches from the side, hand resting low, fingers brushing the bulge in a ghost touch as his eyes track us, dark and steady. Through the bond, I feel his quiet approval, a warmth that steadies me even as I revel in the messy, playful bind we’re weaving with Lirael. His fingers shift, another fleeting ghost of pressure, tracing the base of his shaft through the fabric, and I press into the weave from inside, hungry for the connection even as I focus on the elf, feeling the heat and pulse beneath me as a constant anchor.
Vesper pulls back finally, panting, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as his grin widens, sweat beading on his brow. “Your turn, priest. Garrick’s got dibs. I’ve warmed him up plenty—don’t say I never did anything for you.” His voice is rough with delight, stepping aside with a mock bow as Garrick emerges from his perch, small and deliberate, growing just enough to hover before Lirael, his presence quieter but no less intense.
Garrick’s mental warmth precedes his dry words aloud. “Your turn, priest. I’m bonding. This isn’t play—it’s permanence. You ready for that?” His tone is steady, ritual care rather than jest, and Lirael nods, trust flickering in his gold eyes, his breath still uneven but his gaze focused. Garrick shrinks again, slipping inside with precision, a deliberate act. Lirael tenses briefly, a sharp inhale escaping him, then relaxes, shuddering as Garrick settles briefly within. It’s a serious advance, the first bond beyond Vesper, and I watch as Lirael’s disorientation clears, gold eyes focusing with newfound clarity, a quiet strength returning to his frame.
Garrick emerges after a moment, perching on Lirael’s shoulder with a dry quip. “Stable now. Don’t make me regret the rent. I’m not a cheap tenant.” Lirael’s laugh is quiet but real, raw in a way that confirms he’s fully with us, the integration sealed through depth rather than jest. I flit to Joren’s shoulder, energy still low, feeling the burden of the rituals but also the warmth of the crew coming together, a unity that hums in the air like a living thing. “He’s in, Joren,” I murmur, voice soft, a quiet confirmation of what we all feel.
Joren’s hand shifts again, a beat of pressure as he rolls his balls through the fabric, slow and absent, fingers pressing gently at the root, while he watches Lirael steady himself. “We’re whole now,” he says simply, voice carrying that unhurried certainty, a quiet strength that anchors us all. Through the bond, I feel his quiet satisfaction, the crew’s cohesion a tangible thing, a bond forged through shared care and raw connection. “Good work, all of you,” he adds, his tone warm, a rare verbal acknowledgment that settles over us like a blanket.
But as we prepare to move, Lirael mutters something under his breath, haze of interrupted communion still clinging to him, his voice distant. “The trees told me someone was coming back for what was left behind. A shadow returning for its shard.” He blinks, confused, as if he doesn’t realize he spoke aloud, his gold eyes unfocused for a moment. Vesper snorts, dismissing it as ritual residue, waving a hand with a smirk. “Elf’s still half in dreamland. Shake it off. Too much old-tongue’ll do that to you.” Joren lets it pass, thoughtful silence settling over him, his brow furrowing slightly, but I don’t dismiss it. The words lodge sharp in me, alongside the fragment, the hum, the growing pattern I can’t name but can’t ignore. Another piece of a puzzle I’m withholding, even as Joren’s bond senses the burden I carry, a quiet tension building in me.
“Spark,” he murmurs, hand brushing the bulge once more, a ghost touch as we turn to leave the clearing, fingers tracing lightly over the shaft through the fabric. “Whatever it is, I’m here. You don’t carry it solo.” His voice is quiet, warm, but I feel the question beneath it, the waiting, patient but persistent, a tether I can’t ignore even as I wrestle with what to reveal.
I press into the fabric, tasting the fresh precum seeping through, the sharp tang a fleeting distraction, and mutter back, “I know, Master. Just… not yet. I need to piece it together first.” The hum from the crystalline corruption lingers in my core, a personal resonance tied to me alone, a cold thread of purpose I can’t unravel. What is it? Why me? The crew is whole now, Lirael grounded and with us, but this new pull—this hidden purpose—sits heavy as we trek onward, the Lesbian Realm portal waiting, and something unseen listening for me in the shadows, its presence a whisper I can’t escape. My small form trembles faintly against Joren’s warmth, the forest closing in around us once more, the air still carrying that sterile edge as we move forward, bound together yet haunted by what I can’t yet name.
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