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yeyinde · 4 months ago

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STRAW HOUSE, STRAW DOG

Baby Trap + Soap x Fem!Reader : or, Johnny finds a wife in the woods and decides to take her home.

18+ | DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT: noncon, kidnapping, breeding/baby trapping. somnophilia. implied stalking. obsessive behaviour. forced reliance/dependency. non-con drug use (implied). vulnerable character (injured reader) being preyed upon by an opportunistic scavenger.

Somehow, getting hurt in the remote wilderness of Nahanni National Park without any immediate rescue is the least of your worries when a rugged man shows up and claims he's going to help. Out here, you've been told your biggest fear should be bears, steep canyons, and a swift death with fangs and claws.

But maybe you should have been more concerned about strange men with crowlike smiles and blistering eyes.

ADDITIONAL TAGS: descriptions of injury. implied head trauma. bearded Soap. smut. this is my love letter to NWT and a what not to do in a national park.

BABY TRAP MASTER LIST | AO3 LINK

It happens in an instant.

The trek up the fjord narrows suddenly. Chossy growing slick from rainfall the night prior. You pace yourself, stepping carefully on the wobbling slate, testing its resilience before you take another step. Climbing higher. Higher.

There's a storm brewing in the distance. Its burgeoning pace grows rapidly, nipping at your heels as cool winds whistle through the steep valley below.

The park wardens at the visitors centre warned you about it when you set out into the rugged wilderness of Nahanni this morning. Brows pinched, wary, when you'd come to them—all alone—and signed your name on the barren ledger collecting dust on the counter. A fact that drew your attention when you flipped through the empty pages.

Don't get too many visitors around here, the man murmured, eyes cresting in apprehension at your question. Not the most isolated or remote, no. That's probably higher up. Quttinirpaaq, maybe? Heard from some buddies up there that they had no visitors last year. We do pretty well. About one thousand a year? Usually filmmakers and the like. Adventurous types. Gets kinda lonely up here. Ain't no Banff, that's for sure.

They added that the weather was unpredictable this time of year. All year, really. Nahanni is known for sudden swells and white-outs, for weather that can turn in an instant, going from calm to cataclysmic within seconds.

(“Storms,” the man huffs, and you think the sigh was meant to be a laugh. One that falls flat when he takes in your hiking boots (too big, but the sales lady at the sporting goods warehouse assured you it was fine, that you would grow into them), and your cheap Lululemon knock-off tights. Your flimsy rucksack. The tinge of green around your ears; the stench of an overeager novice. “And, uh, it’s urban legends.”)

Valley of the Headless Men, he intones, squinting up at you when you ask about them. Adding: be careful out there when you turn to leave.

Dauntless, you still set out into the park, determined to at least make it to your campground before it set in. But the majesty surrounding you on all sides distracted you from your pace. Eyes caught on the Xanadu of an untempered wilderness slowing your trek to a crawl as you took in the steep, rolling batholiths reaching high into the aether, their sides sloping down in a dizzying, vertiginous drop to a lush valley below of scheele’s green below. It all looked so perfectly symmetrical from the high point in the valley where you stood, breathing in the scents that perfumed the air. With the rugged mountains cupped around a winding white line where the river sawed through.

A lone moose grazed at the bottom of a rolling fell. The sight of her stopping you in your tracks long enough that the plume of darkened clouds—all a terrifying burnt sage—had time to catch up to you, crackling overhead as thunder rumbled through the canyons.

Your campground is at the top of this ravine. Three nights spent inside a cabin with nothing but yourself and several paperbacks for company. Into the Wild amongst them—a morbid parting gift from a friend on what not to do—and its inspirational predecessor, On the Road.

You won't read it. You never do. But it sits, a humourous paperweight, in your rucksack as you clamber up the ravine. An anchoring comfort. A piece of home. Something that reminds you you're not completely alone even though you are.

The book, your friends, and the encroaching loneliness that you feel prickling behind your eyes, all weigh on your mind. Spooling out before you in loose, loop threads. You follow them eagerly, glad for something to abate the unnatural silence, and—

A sound.

It comes from the left, hidden in the thick tangle of furze. A click. It shatters through the eerie quiet of the sprawling boscage. An animal, maybe. Hopefully.

It must be, you think, heart hammering thunderously in your chest. There's a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. You hold your breath. Eyes glued on the thatch of green shrubs lining the base of the dense forest.

Nothing happens. You blink, shifting on your feet—

A red line pierces through the gap between the leaves, aimed straight at your ankle. It's thin, diaphanous. Slips over the scraggy rock like liquid.

It's so out of place here that it takes you a second to familiarise yourself with its unexpected presence. A laser—

An explosive boom fills the ravine the moment the thought connects. A rifle. Aimed right at you. It happens fast. The world turning over itself, spinning right off its axis. You fall against the ledge in a crumpled, heavy heap, legs so close to dangling off the precipice.

Gravity is a choking weight on your sternum, pushing you down, down, toward the jagged, rocky shoreline. A fall like that—

You curl into yourself instinctively.

“Ah, shite—” is all you hear amid the roar in your ears. “Y’alright? ah didnae see ye thare—”

In your tear-stained periphery, a man appears. He stands into the glare of the waning sun, limned in a halo of gold. There's a pinch between his dark, thick brows. A steep ravine. He's ragged. Wild. Tuffs of black hair hang loose past his ears and nape, curling slightly at the ends. It blends, almost seamlessly, into his thick, scraggly beard. He pushes a hand through the top, grabbing a fistful in his palm.

“Easn't expecting anybody oot 'ere. Nae this far intae th' woods.”

He seems to be speaking to himself more so than he's talking to you. There's anger writ in the fine lines of his face, but this ire isn't turned toward you. It's inward. Self-admonishment. His eyes darken when they flicker down to your ankle, as if reminding you of the hurt there when you'd been so focused on how out of place his accent is in the Northwest Territories.

The ache in your ankle brings you crashing back into reality. The pain seems to vibrate from within your marrow, riveting up your bones.

You chance a glance—

You swallow down the drum of panic. A trick of the light. It must be.

A dream. A nightmare.

But the man appears. His hand falls onto your knee, holding you steady.

“Ah will hae tae put oan a tourniquet. Will hurt a lot, doe.”

Absently, you nod. Keep nodding. Can't stop.

There's a hole cut through your ankle. Tore thro' yer Achilles, he's saying, words water in your ears. He instructs you to wiggle your toes.

"Ah know it hurts, but just dae it fer me, okay?"

You do. You—

Nausea buds in your guts, churning your stomach. The apple you ate earlier is choked out into the bushes dotting along the ravine. Insides purging themselves, replacing everything—food, water, coffee from earlier, bile—until nothing but shaky panic remains. It tastes like iron in the back of your throat.

“Ah know, doe,” he's saying, fingers knotting into your slick hiking trousers. Lululemon knockoffs from an outdoor warehouse in the city. A pocket knife follows, and cuts a seamless line inches below your hip.

Sad tae see ‘em go, he murmurs, accent thickening around the words. Saturating them in a drawl that's too liquid for your unpractised ears to catch. He makes a mournful sound when he slides the blade down your leg, adds, “hugged yer arse like a dream, doe.”

Another trick. The mountains do funny things to sound, you know. It must be all in your head. All—

“Don't worry,” he's shushing you now as he peels the fabric off your legs, groaning low in his throat. “Ah have ye. Ah will take care o'ye, tae, doe. Bonny thing, aren't ye? a' alone. Nae anymore, doe. Jus' me 'n' ye now. Jus' us —”

You always thought you'd have your wits about you in a traumatic situation. Be able to think clearly, rationally. Make appropriate decisions that befit the situation unfolding. Life saving ones. Practical.

To gear up for this trip, you watched survival videos on YouTube. How to make a fire. How to make drinking water. How to build a shelter. Tips on weathering down for a sudden storm. Tucked it all inside your head, and thought, I got this.

Had to, really, because everything you've read about Nahanni says it's unpredictable. Calm weather, gorgeous views one moment, and then a sudden deluge the next. Snow falling quicker than you keep up with. Animals blend in seamlessly with the landscape. Slips, falls. It's so easy to get lost, someone wrote.

But as he uses the scrap of your trousers to wrap around the wound on your broken, mangled ankle, you realise all that planning was for nothing. This was one of those moments when you discovered just how much you bit off. That panic made you mute, made you freeze up.

The pain is almost secondary to the surge of adrenaline. Fear.

You need to go home. You tell him this, slowly. Muttered through numb lips.

There's something almost like pity in his eyes when he glances up at you.

There was a mix-up, he says, slowly. Cautiously. You got yourself turned around in the opposite direction. There's no campground on the fjord above. All the lodges and cabins are in the opposite direction.

Y'got lost, he tells you. Turned the wrong way out. Ye'r in th' backcountry.

“I'll go back,” you press, urgent. Insistent. Panic is acidic in your throat. Corrosive. It burns when you swallow. “Please, just tell me which way to go, and I’ll—”

"Cannae dae tha'."

“Why?”

“Storm,” he points in the distance where a plume of cloud gathers. So dark, they're almost black. Ominous. “Gonnae skelp solid. Na choice but tae git oot."

“I don't have anywhere to go—”

He rakes his hand through his hair. “Ah kin take ye tae mines. Git a cabin in th' woods. Juist ootdoors o' Nahanni Butte.”

“No, I—”

His hand squeezes tight around your ankle. The pain makes itself known in a visceral, awful throb that travels up your leg, curdling at the base of your spine. Wrong, wrong. Something is wrong. Your body is trying to reject the agony. The breaking of your bone. It's foreign, it doesn't belong. But there's nowhere for it to go.

Pain pulses in tandem with your heartbeat.

You don't realise you're screaming until you hear the echoes of it rebound against the limestone walls. And then there's a whisper in your ear. You feel the scratch of his beard against your cheek.

"Shush, bonnie. Cannae let ye go oot oan yer own. Gonnae take ye home, yeah?"

Home. Home. You nod furiously, and it's only when the scraggly black curls covering his chin and jaw catch on damp skin do you realise you're crying.

He leans away from you, arm stretching toward the rucksack behind him.

The rifle leans against it. You feel sick all over again.

“Drink this,” he says, unscrewing the cap. “It'll make ye feel better.”

He presses the lip to your mouth, a hand slipping over the back of your head, tilting your chin up. “Drink,” he says again, and it's firmer this time. A command. “Ah promise ye'll feel better, doe.”

It tastes bitter. You swallow it down. Keep swallowing.

“Good,” he rasps, hand sliding down the length of your spine until it rests against your lower back. “Keep drinkin’, sweet thing.”

It pools in your belly, sloshing uncomfortably when you move, but it washes the bitterness from between your teeth. You keep drinking. Swallowing it down. You know you shouldn't, that you might get sick again, but it's a distraction from the mess that is your ankle—bloody, twisted, mangled—

Nausea swells. You choke it down until you can breathe without feeling as though you were going to be sick again.

“You'll be okay,” he's saying, moving around you with a practised efficiency for something so broad. It's almost graceful. Agile.

He patches you up as much as he can with the supplies he has, but you refuse to look again at your ankle. It's broken, that much is clear. You can feel your bones grinding, sliding against each other. The sensation is horrific. Wrong. You turn your head to the ledge you were standing on just to distract yourself from the agony of it all.

You're surprised you're not crying. Screaming. The urge is there, just beneath the surface. But for some odd, unfathomable reason you find you can't. Your chest feels heavy. Lungs sluggish. Slow.

It must be an adrenaline crash, you think. Why else would you feel so tired, so exhausted.

“I'm—” you start, but you feel dizzy. “‘m—”

“Shush, doe.” He mutters, and it sounds far away. Garbled. “You need yer rest. Had a traumatic accident. But don't worry. Ye can trust me. A wouldnae let anythin' ill happen tae ye ever again."

“Yeah,” you breathe, nodding. Nodding. You can't stop, can't—

“Lay back. Git some rest. A'm almost done, 'n' then ah will hae ye back home in no time—”

You come to on a groggy whimper, head buried in the messy locks curtained over his nape. There's a soft, pulsing thud in the back of your head when you try to lift it up. It feels heavier than it should. Leadened. You groan again, fighting against the currents dragging you back down to those soporific depths—

Your head is a slurried marsh. Thoughts ephemeral, broken. Fragmented. They slip through your fingers when you reach for them, diaphanous wisps you can't seem to catch.

“Don't worry, doe—” your world quivers when he speaks. Words vibrating through your chest, catching on the heavy rails of your ribs. The seismic vibrations rumble in your ear, coming to life as a mere echo in your head. “Ah will keep ye safe.”

It's comforting. A raft in squall, something to cling to as the waves make futile attempts to drag you under. Your arms, dangling loosely over his shoulders, sluggishly flatten to his chest, linking over his chest.

He grunts at your touch, palms slick on your skin.

“Thank you,” you slur, words thick in your throat. Sluggish. “Thank you for helpin’ me. Fer savin’ me—”

Your body shakes when he trembles. With your forehead against his nape, you hear his thick swallow. The air ghosting out of his lungs in a soundless whisper.

His hands flex around the backs of your knees. Squeezing tight. The man doesn't say anything for a moment. In the silence, the pursuing somnolence catches up to you. It digs heavy fingers into your eyes, dragging you back down into the sticky, thick tar.

Sleep finds you in an instant.

You try to read his words in the quiver of your bones when he speaks. Make sense of the tremble reverberating through the hollow gaps, tangling in the pulpy mess.

But there's a mistranslation somewhere. A missing decibel. A forgotten wavelength.

It almost sounds like he says—

“Wouldn't leave mah wife alone in th' woods like tha’.”

How funny, you think, and hide a giggle into the hardened ridge of his shoulder blade.

Cognisance is a transient flicker.

You're not sure how long he matches through the thicket with you on his back, navigating the unending chaparral with an ease that feels innate rather than practised. You stare down at the ground, world hazy around the edges, and think, suddenly, intrusively, that you ought to remember the steps. Every left, every right.

You get to seven lefts, three rights—a small ravine, a flattened coppice; a gnarled spruce sat alone in a valley of lush green and clumps of topaz podzol—before your eyes are too heavy to keep open. They slip shut. And you think, only for a moment. Just a second, I just need to rest my eyes, and then come to at the sound of a groggy engine growling to life.

The world morphs from a dense forest intercut with sheer cliffs looming, indomitable, in the grey distance, to the faded beige felt covering the ceiling of an old truck.

Your blink is a slow crawl, lashes weighed down by anchors dredging over the seafloor. Gritty, raw. It hurts, now, to hold them open. A furious throb jabs at your temple. It aches like a bruise. But it's nothing compared to the nauseating agony that floods your core each time your foot is jostled. Nerves being lit aflame in an endless throe of pain unlike you'd ever experienced before.

Your mouth feels sealed when you go to speak. Lips glued together. Sluggishly, you squeeze your tongue through the crack between your teeth, licking along the seam.

A plastic bottle appears in your periphery, nozzle tipped toward your mouth. A hand curls around the body of it. Fingers overlapping. It looks small in this big hand. Tiny. Long wisps of black hair cover their ruddy knuckles, spreading in a dense crop up their forearm, growing thicker at the wrist.

Their skin is pale, tinged slightly pink. Even through the brume, the lambent light of the sun catches on their skin. Illuminating small scars, cuts. Little scratches from the snagging furze.

Their hand shakes. The dark veins that branch off from the white-capped peaks of their bent knuckles pulse under the thin skin when they move.

“Drink, hen,” he murmurs, bringing the bottle to the jut of your lower lip. “Ye’ll need it.”

A plastic bottle is an odd choice to bring into the backcountry, but as you peer through the translucent skin, you find the water inside is cloudy. Chalky.

“Donnae worry—” he gives the bottle another shake, disturbing the sediment congealing at the bottom. “It's electrolytes, ken. Nothing fishy.”

Your teeth ache from the cold when he slips the rim between your lips, prying them apart. With your head already tilted back in the seat, the water slips in. A slow trickle. He feeds it to you, humming in appeasement when you swallow.

“Tha’s a good girl.”

It carves a jagged tunnel through the murk in your head. The praise slipping in, liquid, until it coats your burgeoning trepidation in a sudden swell of endorphins. With their unpractised, gauche hands, they paint a mockery of Sargent in the gaps of your synapses, stuffing the spaces between with oversaturated hues of teal, white, yellow, orange, and pink.

Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose.

But despite the shoddily crafted pastiche, it works.

Your eyes flutter, bones growing heavier, heavier, as they're forced to carry the weight of your liquified flesh. This molten heat in your chest turns your insides into putty.

Water dribbles down your chin. He sees it and coos.

“Ah, doe. Right mess ye are now. Ah will hae ye home in no time. Git ye a' cleaned up."

The idea of home melts you further. You sigh in the seat, soft and drawn out, and shake your head slowly when he wriggles the bottle in front of you again.

“Get some rest, doe,” his hand falls, heavy and warm, on your thigh. Thumb stroking along the curve of your leg, fingers curling into the seam, digging deep. Resting there.

It's too high to be appropriate. You know this. Went through lesson upon lesson in school of bad touches and what's considered friendly, polite. But when you try to open your mouth to say something about it, you catch the spread of his palm over your flesh. Wide, broad. Masculine. It catches in your throat, and gets tangled in the mush at the base.

It should be fine, you think, dizzy over the way his hand swallows you whole. He saved you, after all.

But it burrows. Digs deep. Some sense of wrongness permeates out from the firm grasp he has on you. It feels possessive. The sort of thing you might expect between people who are intimate with each other. A couple. You've known him for—

Hours, maybe?

Most of it was spent in a pain-induced hypnagogia.

It curdles in your stomach. Rotten, spoiled milk.

But—

He saved you.

You'll choke yourself on it if you keep thinking about it. So, you don't. You push it down. Cover it beneath the sediment, and bury it deep.

He's just a man.

Kind. Helpful.

As you dig a hole for this unease, he keeps his hand fixed on your thigh. The other is pressed against the steering wheel, the ball of his palm under the curve at the top of the wheel. Relaxed. Easy. You try to adopt his nonchalant disposition and glance out at the blurry world around you.

You feel exhausted. Unsettled. The sort of fatigue that comes with a raging fever. There's sand in your mouth. Your throat is dry.

You don't ask for water.

In the lull, he pitches the truck forward with a grave rumble. The silence is broken by the crunch of vegetation and gravel beneath the wheels as he ploughs forward.

There are public roads to get to Nahanni. The floatplane you entered into the park on was chartered by Parks Canada. And yet—

He commandeers the truck around a flatbed of rock and dirt. Muskeg dots the tops in some places, and he veers expertly to avoid them.

It's less of a traditional road and more so a forged desire path. You know the highway has to be close by, the link between Fort Liard and Fort Simpson, but as you peer out the window, the world around you looks overgrown. Wild. Alien.

Sloping hills in lush green stretch out into the distance, meeting with the dense montane forests dotted along the stretch of land. The grassy coppice under his wheels is matted down, and interspersed with clumps of brown, wet muskeg and crushed slate.

Over the grey peaks of the mountains in the distance, a thick, black cloud looms. The sky turns gunmetal, almost indistinguishable from the monoliths jutting beneath them.

At some points, he takes his hand off your thigh to navigate winding turns better, but it always ends up back on you. And always a little higher than it was before.

Your mouth is filled with lead. Tongue thick, malleable. Tensile like mercury. You can't speak. So you just ignore it. Dig your crown into the headrest, and breathe in the woodsy scent of him. Laurel, tree moss. Coumarin. Rotting pine. Sweet acacia. It tickles the back of your throat. Sticks there, glued in the syrupy mess.

You'd hoped it would get easier to ignore, but it stays there, a constant weight, even as the world outside fades into a hazy twilight.

In the hush of the cabin, he squeezes your thigh. “Cannae wait tae get ye home, doe.”

Against the staggering backdrop of a black, jagged mountain, a doe stands in the talus. Her fawn fur and tuffs of white spots stick out against the charcoal-coloured cliffs, and you watch, some distance away, as she bends down to fossick through the scree in search of food.

With the looming clouds of gunmetal and ash gathering around the craggy peaks, her presence here feels dangerously out of place. Jarring. She shouldn't be here. She doesn't belong.

But the beauty of this moment is breathtaking. Mesmerising. You stare in muted horror, awe, as she grazes in the rubble, slender neck bent in a graceful arch. The sloping handle of fine china. Her wet, black eyes are so open, so kind. Puddles of ignorance, naïvety, as she flicks her tongue out against the desolate rock, a fruitless search for grass in which to mull on.

Thunder crackles over the snow-capped ridges. Her ears flicker, but she doesn't run. You should warn her. Scare her away. But you can't move. Can't speak. You're a mute spectator, a piece of dross on the ground watching the approaching calamity without a mouth. Horror churns. You want so badly to tell the doe to run—

An impossibility, you know. It's much too late for her to do anything at all.

Around the doe’s leg is a shackle.

Your skin rips, tears, as you force your jaws apart, blood pooling in your mouth. If you can make a sound, she’ll—

A boom echoes through the canyon's cradle.

The scream gurgles in the back of your throat.

Agony rips through your leg—

—you wake with a gasp.

Sputtering, choking on the saliva pooled in your mouth. It tastes bitter, brackish. You feel something gritty between your teeth. It sticks to the backs, granular specks that dissolve, sour and chalky, on your tongue when you run it along the ridges of your gums.

You swallow it down, grimacing at the acidic taste.

“Awake, aye?” His voice chips through the dense fog. You blink the haze away, glancing sideways at him through bleary, heavy eyes.

His profile is lit by the harsh glare of high noon. The sharp jut of his ball cap. The curve of his nose set in the thick bushel of his scraggly beard and moustache. His broad chest concealed most of the view from the driver's side window. The lax bridge of his arm, knuckles loosely curled around the steering wheel.

He tilts his head toward you. “How're ye feelin’?”

Sluggish. Awful. There's sand in your eyes. Cotton in your head. You feel like you've been left out in the hot sun all day. Dizzy and sunburnt. Feverish. Heatsick. Your throat is dry, but you don't ask for water. You don't answer him at all. Can't. Your tongue is laden. Lips numb.

It takes you a moment to reorient yourself, squinting through the glare of the sun—

That reels you back. Breaks through the fog.

You know that the concept of day and night in the summer is different here. Twenty hours of daylight with twilight lasting all night. But even with the skewed perception of time and the heavy molasses thickening around the edges of your cognisance, you know that something is wrong.

When you left the park, it was close to five in the evening. It should be twilight, not—

Your gaze lists sluggishly to the clock on the dashboard. Through the haze, the unmistakable gleam of one-fifteen stares back at you.

It was the right time last night.

“Wha—?”

You're not sure what you're asking. It's not even really a word, but a garbled sound. A noise of distress, confusion, in the back of your throat.

He seems to understand it all the same.

“Park had a bad storm,” he answers, pitch far too light for the severity of your situation, of what you're feeling. It makes you frown, sharp and sudden. “Washed through th’ river. Where ye were—well. Wouldnae ‘ave made it out, ye see. Would’ve gotten all torn up in th’ storm—”

You read that storms in Nahanni are vicious, sudden. Weather can turn in an instant, going from moderate to devastating in a blink. But—

What he's saying doesn't make sense. You remember bits, pieces, from earlier. He said you got turned around. Wandered too far off the trail, lost in the deep wilderness of Nahanni’s sprawling valley.

“Where are we?”

“Nearly home.”

You push the wave of nausea down. “I need to go to a hospital.”

“Can't dae tha't'.”

“Why not?”

He doesn't answer for a beat, eyes fixed on the dirt path. Unblinking.

Finally, he mutters: “had tae leave th' park oan th' opposite side when th' storm came in. No roads take us tae town.”

“I have—” you're not sure where your bag is. You hope he had the wherewithal to snatch it up after you fell. Hope. “I have a satellite phone. I can just call—”

“Sorry, hen. Yer bag flew off th' ledge. Ah coudnae grab it 'n' ye. Ah dinnae hae a phone oot 'ere. Never needed one—”

Hopeless. Hopeless.

“How—how could you survive out here without one?”

“Nahanni Butte is a few hours awa'. Go intae town when th’ winter road is open. Inaccessible now. Th’ rivers flooded it. Cannae cross it. Can hunt, 'n' ah hae everything a'm needin' oot here.”

“So…” the reality of your situation is beginning to dawn on you. Helpless. Hopeless. “I'm stuck here until—winter?”

“Ah hae a friend flying oot fae Yellowknife. Comes tae drop off supplies 'n' th' lik'. He'll be 'ere in two months—”

“Two months?” This whole situation feels impossible. Wrong. You're so close to people—Fort Liard, Nahanni Butte, Fort Simpson. How could you be stuck here for two months? The idea of it is absurd. “You're not—you can't be serious.”

“Aye. I am.”

There's a pinch between his brow. You wonder if it's meant to convey the severity of the situation, but as it grows deeper, deeper, you have the sudden sense that it's not an emotional decree of his sincerity. That it's, instead, a sudden twist of anger.

It scares you.

“I want to go home.” You mean for it to be forceful, but it comes out in a whimper.

The man nods. The punch in his brow lessens. “Aye, me tae.”

“Where are you from?” You pry, needing the distraction from the endless trawl of green and slate and permafrost enclosing in on you. “You're not from around here, are you?” At the gentle raise of his brows, you add, hurried, rushed: “you just. Have an accent, and I—”

“Fae Scotland,” he answers, and there's a quick grin on his face. Roguish. Charming. The sight of it has your start thudding in an uneasy gallop. “Edinburgh."

“Oh. Far from home.”

“Aye—” the grin fades, twisting into something ugly. “Had an—accident,” he spits the word out, brows pinching once more. Anger is writ in the hard clench of his muscles, his jaw. His knuckles blanche around the steering wheel, and you think you should have just kept your mouth shut. “Sent me here.”

There's a multitude of questions you want to ask. Vying for the top is the most obvious—why did this happen? why isn't he letting you go?—but what comes out instead is, “why?”

Just that. Nothing else.

“Military.”

He adds nothing, either.

“Military?”

A nod. “Go’ hurt. Had rehab. Sent me here tae clear ma heid, and well—” his eyes flicker to you. You can't read his expression. “Got a fresh mission, dinnae I?”

“You don't—”

“I cannae leave ye. Both oo' us are stuck 'ere 'til someone comes tae pick us up, 'n' take us home.”

The idea that somehow he's just as trapped as you are hasn't occurred. Why would it when he has a rifle, a truck, freedom—

But what good is all of that when you're landlocked in a place known for winter roads. Permafrost. The forced shift in perspective doesn't quell the anxiety roiling in your guts, but it lessens it. Somewhat.

“Two months?”

He nods. “Aye.”

“And you have no cellphone? No satellite?”

“Ye can check it—” he makes a flippant motion toward the glove box in front of you. “Deader than ever.”

You hesitate only briefly. Long enough to level him with a searching look that yields no results before you reach for the compartment, gingerly pulling it open, and—

Sometimes, things get overlooked by their surroundings. Swallowed in the vacuum. Blending seamlessly into the muddle, the commotion.

This isn't like that.

It sits on top of a manila folder. Sleek black and cold silver. You're not terribly well-versed in guns—the extent of your knowledge stemming mostly from formulaic crime shows aired late at night; CSI, NCIS, Criminal Minds—but you recognise this one instantly. Some sort of handgun. Police issued, you think. It's bigger than you'd expected. Looks heavier, too.

Your heart stutters. The air galloping out of your lungs in a stammering rush.

He makes a noise, soft and nonchalant, as if keeping handguns in the glove box of his old, burnt orange truck is perfectly normal.

“Fer protection,” he mumbles. You catch the jerk of his chin in your periphery. “Forgot I had it in here. Been usin’ th’ rifle fer huntin’ mostly. Or th’ shotgun.”

Three guns. You swallow. “Why—” your voice comes out in a brittle whisper. You clear your throat. “Why, um, why do you need three?”

“Not fae around here, are ye?” He echoes your words with a wry twist of his mouth, eyes slanting in the sunlight. “Tha’,” he takes his hand off your thigh to jab his finger at the handgun. “Is fer wolverines.” His index finger falls, his thumb juts out. He jerks it over his shoulder. “Tha’ is fer huntin’. The shotgun back home is fer bears.”

You try to move out of the way when his hand falls back to your thigh, but the pain radiating up your leg immobilizes you. There's not much you can do in this situation but endure.

Military. Wounded in action. Three guns. Touchy.

You're not sure what to think. It would be easier if you couldn't.

“What do you hunt?” You ask instead, glancing out the window to the barren landscape rolling out around you. There doesn't seem to be much in the jagged hills, and towering mountains.

“Gettin’ hungry? Donnae worry, doe. Go’ tha’ pesky hare I was tryin’ tae shoot oan th' ledge fer dinner tonight.”

It's not much of a comfort. The idea of being injured—by accident, he claims—to such an extent over a rabbit makes you feel a little sick.

“That's it?”

“I can make a mean steak oot o' anythin'. Stews fer tougher meat. Fish—whitefish, arctic grayling, and lake trout. Learned how tae make a nasty fishfry from th’ locals in Nahanni Butte. Bannock, too. Got berries ‘round ma cabin. Caribou, Moose. Taste better in tacos or burgers. Mountain goat, Dall’s sheep. Been eatin’ better ‘ere than ah did at home.”

“And you're—just allowed to hunt them?” The website advised about a permit through some special outfit needed to hunt when you requested your pass into the park. Said that only aboriginals were allowed to do so. “You're not—”

“Aye,” he cuts you off with a small nod. “No huntin’ in th’ park. But. We're nae in th' park anymore.”

“Where are we?” You ask again, firmer this time.

“I told ye. Nearly home.”

“And where is home?”

The way he sucks his teeth makes you recoil slightly. Wet. Irritated. As if he's tired of this conversation already.

“Close.”

You don't let his flat tone deter you. “Are we—are we still in the Northwest Territories?”

“Thereabouts.”

It's not an answer. It doesn't reassure you in the slightest.

You open your mouth to say so, words curling on your tongue when he jerks his chin toward the handgun, brow furrowed.

“Thought ye wanted tae check oan th' satellite phone.”

His tone is severe. A growl curdling the ends, pitching it down, down. Displeasure, irritation, blooms in the gnarled petals of witch hazel when he narrows them into slits.

You swallow, wrenching your gaze from the storm brewing over fields of wheat, and set your jaw. Masking your fear for annoyance. Confidence.

But your hand shakes when you reach for the black box shoved into the corner. Palms slick with sweat. You try not to touch the gun, doing your best to curve around it. It feels—

Real.

A real gun. In the real world. In a place you came to get away for a weekend, experience something you'd never had before. Freedom. Reliance on nobody but yourself. And now—

Somewhere in the Northwest Territories. Injured. Locked inside of a truck with a man who wavers between warmth—an unending heat, a furnace; a beacon of light—and severity like a swinging pendulum. You feel safe with him. You commit every turn to memory. He's in the military. He's going to take care of you. You think he's lying to you. He'll—

He'll let you go.

You're sick. You're paranoid. You're taking all of your grievances out on this poor man who is just as trapped as you are, turning him into a monster for no reason at all. At the end of this, when he drops you off at the airport in Yellowknife, you'll have to grovel on your knees for his forgiveness. Sorry I thought you were a bad man.

It could be worse, you suppose. He hasn't done anything untoward to you—touching your thigh like he's owed the right aside—and you shove it down. A problem to deal with later even though the suspicion tucks itself into your head, folded up against your skull. Metastatic. It eats all of his expressions, turning them over and over again for hidden clues.

If he does something, you'll run.

You'll—

“Almost there,” he murmurs, and you hear the rasp of exhaustion glued to the hinge of his jaw. You wonder how long he's been driving for. And why didn't he just go back to Nahanni Butte. Flooded he said. Too deep into the park. Never would have made it.

If that's the truth, you suppose you should thank him.

It sits in the back of your throat. You swallow around it, reaching for the phone instead.

There's a small thread of hope in your chest that it'll work. That he's wrong, doesn't know how to work it, and all you have to do is press a button and it'll crackle to life. Freedom within reach.

But when you press down on the button, the phone doesn't even whimper. Broke, as he said. Dead.

“Can you—can you charge it?”

“Tried. Must’ve blown somethin’ inside. Fried it.”

His words are a prison sentence carrying a punishment of two months. You knew this, of course. He said so himself. But the reality of it breaking over you is different from blind belief. The realisation of your predicament is a jagged knife cutting through tissue, letting corrosive panic entrench you as it spills out.

This is the sort of thing you’d only read about. Novels, and biographies. Memoirs. Movies. An extraordinary event that could never happen to you. Never.

And you're aware of it. Optimism bias. The not-me fallacy. But everything in your life thus far had been so unequivocally mundane that the possibility of it not happening seemed to eclipse any chance of it occurring at all.

The crux of the bias, you suppose. Though it does little to stem the disbelief surrounding it all. Even when you told your friends, and your family, that you were going on this trip, the most mordant of them said you'd get eaten by a bear or end up lost in the wilderness.

Injured, unable to walk, and stuck with a man you only marginally know (trust) seems like the plot of a lifetime movie.

But—

Two months.

You're sure in the meantime, someone will notice your absence. Raise the alarm. Call the police. They'll launch an investigation, and come searching for you. It's just a waiting game.

And—

(You glance at the man once more, his profile limned in a halo of gold. The rim of his hat casts shadows over his face, eyes concealed in the thickening tenebrous that enshrouds him down to his broad chest, dense with corded muscles. Athletic. Trim. Big.)

—staying alive.

Survival.

If only for just two months.

But the facts are cold, unforgiving. You are alone with a man you don't know. A man with three guns. Military. His experience in this wilderness vastly eclipses your own.

He's fine. Fine. Touchy, sure. But he hasn't asked for anything.

—his hand is on your thigh—

You'll be okay.

It hurts to swallow. “Thank you,” you murmur, hoping the conciliatory lilt eats the panic you feel. “For saving me.”

His gaze darts to you so sharply that the truck veers slightly to the left, tires crunching over thick beds of furze that line the forged road. The action is sudden—surprised, maybe, by your reedy gratitude. A deviation from the demeanour he'd shown you so far—calm friendliness. Affability. It jars you. Scares you. You grip the seat cushion tight in your fists as he mutters something sharp you can't discern under his breath.

It only takes him only seconds to correct, rippling his hand away from you to commandeer the truck back into the centre of the beaten path. Even keeled now. Almost as if nothing amiss had happened at all.

But it's undeniable. Congeals in the air, tense and unignorable. A vacuum that siphons the breath from your lungs. It sits in the whites of his knuckles, arsenic bones jutting from thin, rough skin, demanding to be seen; the terse set to his shoulders. To the grind of his jaw as he clenches his teeth.

You take him in with bated breath, swallowing whole each microcosm that buds to the surface of his demeanour. Wary. Watchful. Squeezing the satellite phone tight in your hands. But he doesn't meet your wide-eyed stare, choosing instead to keep his gaze fixed on the dirt road. Knuckles popping, brows furrowed. Silent.

But it's heavy. Oppressive. The same unrelenting chill as outside. You fight back a shiver in the blooming cold, wishing you'd packed more than just a pair of hiking tights (in tatters, now) and a thermal windbreaker for the trip.

The hum of the engine, and the cracking of rock and muskeg crushed under the wheel, are the only noise that fills the cabin. You stifle your breath. Hold it in your throat. Skewer your eyes to the landscape yawning out around you. The deep, thickening sense of unease grows in the pit of your stomach. Metastasizing.

Outside is a sprawling taiga forest. Emaciated spruce, balsam fir, jut out from the muskeg, dusted in a sparse layer of sphagnum. You can almost hear the trickle of a stream. The dirt road is wet under the tires now. A creek must be close by. A river. Flat River. South Nahanni. Further out might be Slave River. The Liard. Little Buffalo. Great Slave Lake, even.

Narrowing it down seems impossible when nearly the entire south corridor of the Northwest Territories is wet marsh and snaking bodies of water.

It both worries and reassures you at the same time. Getting to Nahanni alone was a challenge. With most of the surrounding area limited to a few year-round highways, there are not many places he could go without reaching dead-ends or winter roads closed for the season, inaccessible in the warmer summer months as the snow melts.

Though—these highways arch as high as they can. From Yellowknife to Tuktoyaktuk, right on the coast of the Arctic Ocean.

But he hasn't driven on any stretch of highway since you woke up. The road is unpaved, wild. You're confident you're still south, but the exact location eludes you. Northwest Territories. Yukon. Northern Alberta. It's overwhelming. Daunting.

You try to commit the geography to memory. Sifting through an endless trawl of nothing to find something familiar. A mountain range. A sign. Anything. Anything—

“Ye mean tha’?”

The sound of his voice draws your attention, raspy. Hoarse from disuse.

He swallows. There's something raw in his expression, fractured. Yearning, you think. For something. What that something is, however, you can't place.

It stays on as he slowly slides his tongue out, licking over the bristles of hair covering his lip.

You offer a shallow nod, unsure why this matters to him suddenly.

“Yeah, I'd be—”

You pause, words turning to smoke in your throat. Uninjured, is the first thought. Without him, your leg wouldn't be—

Whatever it is. Ankle broken. Achilles torn. A gunshot wound clean through tendon and tissue.

But at the same time—

All turned around, he said. Lost. He was hunting, too. You must have somehow wandered outside of the park limits. Must have because the sound of a rifle would have drawn attention from nearby wardens. They'd have come to investigate.

You swallow down the bloom of unbridled panic. The aftertaste is bitter in your mouth. The thought of being outside of the borders, all on your own—

“I’d be dead if it wasn't for you.”

The hush that falls is immediate. Your own mortality dangling by a thin thread. Happenstance keeping you alive.

He clears his throat again. Your fingers tighten around the metal until it hurts.

“Names Johnny.” He twists in his seat, facing you. “Johnny MacTavish.”

It's a bit late for introductions, but you take it in all the same. Johnny. Johnny.

(saviour—)

His eyes grow wide when you slowly, haltingly, breathe yours out. Letting it sit in the air where it dissolves into the silence, the weight of it somehow more damning than being alone in the woods. There's power in a name. In knowing it. Military. You're not sure why it matters, but it does.

You fight another shiver when he says it back after a beat, much too fond, adoring, for the sparse companionship you've barely begun to build.

“I'll keep ye safe,” he says your name again, accent curling in between the bridges of each letter. There's a heat in his eyes; pyretic. A sickness. “Don't hae tae worry aboot anything.”

He turns back slowly, angling the wheel around a sudden bend in the thicket. The path is clearer here, looking more like an established dirt road than a sparse coppice. It twists upward, cutting a meandering line through a dense cropping of spruce. The canopy above—as thick as it is—curls over the road, enclosing it in a bed of conifers branching overhead. Concealing it from view.

The sight fills you with a new bloom of unease. How quickly the wild swallows you whole, shielding you from prying eyes, prickles against the nape of your neck, dripping like hot oil down your spine.

“Where are we?” It comes out in a whisper.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. In your periphery, you see him lift his hand off the wheel, but sit, paralyzed, when he brings it down to your thigh, giving what attempts to be a pacifying squeeze.

“Home,” he answers, making the turn.

A log cabin comes into view. It’s situated at the end of the clearing, covered by the same dense tangle of trees as the path. The forest seems to bend around the single-storey home, enclosing in a cradled embrace of intermixing wry jack pine, bold tamarack, dark spruce, and white birch. Trembling aspen peaks above the heads of the other trees, hiding the smoked black spruce roof from view above.

It might look homey under different circumstances, but the thick, stripped logs—made of varnished white spruce—jutting out half-crescents to form the walls seem brooding. Claustrophobic. It's small—just a storey and a half. A camper's cabin not meant for longtime use. It wears its age in wood rot and peeling varnish. The scent of wet wood clings to the air when he rolls the window down, coming to a stop a few paces away from the single step leading to the porch.

Firewood stacked high to the awning on both sides of the blue door, encased in metal to keep it dry. Moss-covered concrete foundations lift the house off of the ground, keeping it from melting the permafrost below. The remains of a snuffed, charred campfire is perched to the left of the winding path leading to the door. Felled lumber lays on its side, the top whittled down onto a seat. A wooden rack leans against a tree close by. The hide of an animal is stretched taut across the panels. Leather-making materials sit in a bucket beside it.

A metal box—bear-proof, you're sure—is half-buried in the soil. Storage, perhaps, for the unusable remains of the animals he hunts.

It's fairly standard for a cabin up north, you think. But something about this place makes you feel anxious. Trapped. You can't see anything at all through the dense cluster of trees, but you can hear the sound of running water. A river, maybe. A stream. It splashes against the rock, the current too quick for you to even think about swimming in it.

It only adds to your unease.

“This is home,” he says, jerking his chin toward the house.

Home is a cabin nestled somewhere in the unorganised wilderness of the Northwest Territories. Nahanni National Park is several hours in another direction. Too few communities exist on highway seven for you to even stumble onto them—

Assuming, of course, that you could walk there to begin with.

The lingering pain in your ankle, the heavy bandage wrapped around it—it's an immediate certainty that you can't walk. Broken, you know, from the glimpse you'd taken before. Milkwhite against raspberry red—

You don't think about that.

You don't think about much at all.

“Right.” You murmur. This place is the furthest thing from home you could imagine.

He moves in your periphery, reaching for you. You jerk back, driven by instincts. The need for distance, space—

The jostling of your foot makes you hiss in pain, and he offers a conciliatory hum.

“Ye’ll be alright, bonnie. Lets jus’ get ye inside now.”

The inside is made of varnished wood. A mix of black and white spruce. It's cosy, you suppose.

It opens up to a living room immediately upon walking in the door. A mat sits under your feet. A small closet to the right with the door slightly ajar. Along the length of the left wall is a doorway spilling into a small kitchen. From your vantage point, you make out a sink, and then another door to the right.

Along the back wall beside the arching doorway is a brick fireplace. Soft fur is spread out on the ground in front of it. An old, weathered couch is pushed against the left wall, a shawl tossed over the back.

There's no television. A stack of books and magazines sit above the couch—used more for an end table than entertainment, you note, spotting the glass of water resting on the pile. A pack of cigarettes beside it. An ashtray on the floor. Bottles of beer sit on the small table shoved under the window. One of the chairs is covered in clothes.

It's lived in, you note, but lifeless.

There are no pictures on the wall. No personal artefacts littered around. It's—

Perfunctory.

He comes home, shucks his boots off by the front door, and drinks warm beer on the couch until he falls asleep. An inference, of course; but as he carries you further into the house (his insistence—ye cannae walk oan tha’, doe, stop bein’ stubborn and lemme carry ye), your notion gains credence. It's sparse. Threadbare.

There's a single plate in the sink. The old stove, separated from the sink by a small countertop, is covered in a layer of dust. A fridge is pushed against the back wall.

The door you glimpsed in the kitchen leads to the washroom. It's tight. A shower, a sink, a toilet. No windows. A towel is hung over the curtain rail, still damp from his shower before. A single mat covers most of the tiled floor below. A tube of toothpaste sits in the porcelain basin of the sink.

Beside the washroom is the master bedroom. The bed is unmade. An untouched glass of water is left on the end table beside a worn leather book and a bible.

An open closet sits across from the bed. The window is open. The breeze flutters the old, jaundiced curtain.

He gives you his room and says he'll take the couch. Under normal circumstances, you might have fought it. Insisted that he sleep in his bed. You're a guest. You couldn't put him out like that. But the door has a lock.

“Thank you,” you murmur, and he seems to tremble at your words before nodding.

“O' coorse.”

Johnny places you on the bed before he sets to work rebandaging your ankle. You're all too aware of the fact that you need to know. You need to see what you're dealing with, and how bad the damage is, but the pain that cuts through you when he rests your ankle—as gingerly as he can—on top of an extra pillow makes you yowl in agony.

It's vicious. Whitehot. The pain rattles through your bones.

He shushes you as he unwraps the clumsy brace he put on in the park, murmuring incomprehensible things under his breath that you think must be Gaelic. Words of comfort, perhaps.

You feel none of it except an uneasy dread pooling in the empty pit of your stomach.

“How bad is it?”

He hums, brow pinching tight. “Th' hare took most o' th' damage,” he says, eyes tracing along the congealing blood on your ankle. Dark cherry red. You swallow down a gag. “Tore yer achilles, though. Clean. Doesn't seem tae be any fragments. Broke your ankle, though. But,” he taps your calf, just above the bend of your foot. It doesn’t hurt. “It’s a clean break. Maybe just a fracture. Shuid heal up in no time.”

“And what about infections?”

“Got some stuff oan hand if that happens,” he leans back, and gives you a wink. It feels out of place considering the severity of your predicament. Garish, almost. “But ah was a good nurse. Patched ye up nicely.”

You don't ask anything else, and silence trickles in as he refocuses his attention back to cleaning your wound and redressing it. The bed is soft under you. Giving. You lean back, staring up at the log ceiling, and will yourself not to think at all. Each slight jostle of the wet cloth running along your ankle feels like fire licking at your skin. If you had anything at all in your belly left, you might have thrown it up on the side of the bed.

This pain is consuming. Persistent.

Your fingers knot into the soft blankets below, gripping tight until your knuckles ache. A futile attempt to exchange this pain for a lesser one. Something you can ignore, forget.

Through the open window, you can hear the playful caws of a raven searching for food. You want it to distract you, to pull you away from the sickening sensation of your ankle separating from the heel, but it doesn't.

All you can think about is the fresh pain. Your flesh ripped apart. Torn achilles, he'd said. You feel it as he moves, washing away the dried blood, the viscera. The break in your tibia. It's a nauseating feeling. Visceral. It screams at you that something is wrong, reverberating through your bones.

The raven caws again.

“Gonnae ‘ave tae stitch yer heel up.”

You make a sound—a pathetic whimper choked in the back of your throat.

“Fine,” you rasp, tensing. “Just—”

Get it over with.

Johnny seems to understand, offering a consolatory pat on your shin. “Ye'll be fine. Ah know what am doin’.”

You glance back at him, avoiding whatever is happening below his elbows. Refusing to look.

He reaches up, fingers stained pink with your blood, and pulls the ballcap off his head, shaking the matted hair loose. His hair is thick, curling at the ends. Dark brown. Soft. You take in his expression, him, as he works, using it to churn your thoughts away from the prickling sensation of him pressing your torn skin back together, readying it for the needle.

He's intense, focused, as he works. Eyes lidded to half-mast. Long lashes fanning out over the dark circles beneath his eyelids. Bruises that speak of long, sleepless nights. The empty bottles of beer and the full ashtray within arm's reach make a little more sense as you see the extent of his fatigue.

It doesn't concern you. You rip your gaze away from the thin, twisting rivers of red that snake through the jaundiced whites of his eyes; the possibility of his vulnerability notches something inside your chest you don't want to think about. Can't.

Your saviour, you think again, veering sharply on the edge of too cruel—

“Might pinch a bit, doe,” he mutters low, soft. His thick, even brows pull together at the centre. You feel the prick of the needle pushing through your skin—

Down his brows. The oblique curve of his nose. Bottled to a point. The thick bed of hair beneath his nostrils. Thin, pink lips jutting from the thatch of black bristles. The wisps curl down the slope of his neck, thinning at the hollow below before thickening back into a dense crop on the scant patch of his skin visible from his unbuttoned shirt.

Another prick—

A thin, gold chain loops around his neck. Tucked against his sternum is a Latin cross. It's plain. Traditional. Solid gold, maybe. But not purely for decoration. Where the arms meet the body, the surface is smoothed down. Worn. In the reflection, you can see the thin, circular lines of a fingerprint.

The bible on his dresser makes sense. You glance over at it, taking in the folds and creases on the leather cover. Aged and well-loved. Used. Pages are dog-eared. Waterlogged. Scotch tape holds the spine together.

The Holy Bible gleams in faded gold lettering. Douay–Rheims is etched into the surface.

The sight of a worn-down book and thumbed cross shouldn't relax you, but it does. A good ol’ boy, then. You turn back to him, eyes caught on the gleaming gold flush against tanned skin. It's tight to his sternum. Hung delicately around his neck.

Seeing it now feels a touch voyeuristic. It wasn't intentionally bared to you. Wasn't offered up willingly for you to gawk at, mind looping around thou shalt not kill and do unto others as you yourself would want done unto you, and finding comfort in the ordered morality of its symbolism—however fickle that could end up being.

You know a man is not as moral as his religion demands of him, but he looks devout.

A good Catholic boy.

Still—

You peel your gaze away from his chest as the thread slides through. The sensation is uncomfortable. Ticklish. Forcing your attention back to him, well above the neckline. His nose. Nostrils flaring when your knee jerks. His hands close over your shin. Mouth parting slightly just to say, keep still, doe. Donnae want tae hurt ye.

His hair is slightly greasy near his scalp. Sweat from earlier dampens his locks, flattening it tongue head. It's longer at the top compared to the sides. An odd, asymmetrical hairstyle that doesn't feel like an aesthetic choice at all. Maybe he had a mullet. Or—

You see it when he tilts his head down, chin angled toward your foot.

A scar stretches from his temple back, thinning the hair that lines his scalp on the right. The flesh is jagged, uneven. Cratered. It forms a ravine. The canyon walls clumped scar tissue. The nullah in the centre is all pink and raw.

You think of a shooting star. Meteor showers in the indigo sky.

You think of his words from earlier—ah know what am doin’—and the depth of his medical knowledge. It stands out now. You suppose he would, wouldn't he?

The thought has shame dripping down your spine like hot, slick oil. Burning. Tarry. You remember what he said in the truck about being wounded in action, the misery in his words, the anger, and choke yourself on the regret that swarms your throat.

He looks up, then, catching whatever awful amalgamation of self-hatred, shame, and regret makes of your expression, and the words—sorry, I'm so sorry—tear through your throat until it's bloody and raw. Pulp. Unspeakable, now.

It dampens his brow, but there's no embarrassment in his eyes when he holds them to yours. Nothing except an intense, dizzying sense of curiosity. Of—

Intrigue.

It doesn't have a place here, and the sight of it is sobering.

Why is he looking at you like that when you're gawking at his injury? Confusion knots deep. Uncertainty coiling around your ribcage. Maybe he didn't notice. Doesn't care.

Is too used to it to worry about whatever conclusions you might draw from the jagged skin barely knitted back together. But his eyes flash. Understanding edging out the unfathomable greed lurking in hazel plains, nestled, restive, in the shade that falls over the sloping boscage.

You almost miss the shadow when it appears. Wrought with Leashed ghosts. Tempered anger. Wild, frenetic. The chains holding it at bay tremble. Shake—

And then it's gone.

Dissolve back into passive cordiality. All ire stayed behind a wall.

You want to apologize, but the words are ash in your throat. Unspeakable. Johnny doesn't address it. He dips his head down once more, silently refocusing his attention to your ankle, and offering no explanation for the scar on his head.

You don't ask. Don't pry. It's not your place. But your eyes are still glued to it.

It's a horrific injury. Survival from such a terrible wound seems like an impossibility. A gunshot, you're sure. Seeing the small chasm carved into skin, narrowly missing his eye socket, fills you with a blistering sense of pity for this man, and you quietly, quickly, peel your eyes away from the jagged surface, letting your gaze run across the room. A meagre sense of privacy, you're sure, but it lets you breathe a little easier when you can't see the way his temple split apart to make room for a bullet—

“Had a mohawk,” he says. “They cut it off when this happened.”

A mohawk. The asymmetry of his hair makes sense now, and you can almost picture it as you stare at him. The edges shorn, the top long. Unruly. His hair has a slight curl to the ends, but is mostly straight for the first few inches.

As wild as he looks now—untamed, rugged; the thick tangle of uncharted wilderness—the mohawk must have made him roguish. Boorish. With his broad shoulders, thick biceps, and piercing blue eyes, the mohawk would have added to the playful appeal. Boyishly charming with his cropped hair and puckish grin. The draw of a bad boy, a vandal.

But as you try and shape this around him, you catch the strain in his shoulders. The terse set to his jaw.

“You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“Was shot.”

It's said without a preamble as if he was waiting for you to ask. But the words are spat out like they're something foul in his mouth; like he's ridding the taste of it between his teeth. The anger, the aggression cows you slightly, but you offer a small, warbling smile you hope is conciliatory. Apologetic.

“I'm sorry,” you offer around a stuttering exhale. You can't imagine what that must be like. Shot in the head. The idea is unthinkable. Improbable. And yet, the evidence slashes across his temple; a meteor shower carved into his flesh.

He lifts his chin, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose. “Wasnae yer fault, doe.”

“I know, I just—”

Johnny gives a nod in response, ending the bubble of words and apologies building up behind your teeth. It is what it is, he mutters when you blink at him, flummoxed. This sort of reveal seems like it should necessitate a bigger conversation, a deeper one. Questions buoy to the surface—from prying (how did it happen, how did you survive) to intrusive (what did it feel like, does it hurt still)—but you trample them until they sit, a building mass lodged in your throat.

He seems content, then, to continue with what he was doing, and says nothing more about it. And it's not your place to pry. To chisel into his trauma.

You let it pass. Let it moulder.

The raven caws once more. You lean back in his bed, staring through the fluttering curtains, mind reeling at this discovery.

Stupidly, you feel more at ease in his presence. As if this show of vulnerability somehow negated the distress of your predicament, and the infeasible nature of how you ended up here, in his home. Gazing through the thick canopy of green to the golden sky above. A whole world away from your home. Broken. Injured. But the cross, the thumbed-through bible, and his human fragility seem to curl along the vicious dread curling inside your guts, soothing over the distrust with gentle, sweeping brushes.

Quelling a frightened child after a nightmare.

How strange, you think, but let yourself relax in his presence all the same, breathing in the scent of stale smoke, sweat. Coumarin. Tree moss. Fresh pine. It smells like the valley. Soft, waning detergent. Masculine.

You pretend you're watching for the raven as you sneak small glances at him. Taking in everything with a new perspective. The broadness of his shoulders. The thickness of his waist. There's power in his arms, in his thighs. Sculpted musculature, honed and refined. Despite the thickness of his fingers, he has a delicate touch. Deft and sure, as if he's used to working his bulk around small parts.

He's unkempt. The ballcap hid most of his dishevelled state, but he's not sloven. It reminds you of the outdoorsy explorers. The hikers you met on your trip out. Roughhewn and unconcerned about their overgrown beards and their tousled hair.

There's something potently masculine about it, and you can't deny that even with the garish wound on his head, all mangled scar tissue, he's handsome. Rougish. The scar elevating it somehow—a testament, perhaps, to his resiliency.

He catches your stare on the next glance, holding it as he leans back with a quirk of his lips. It's not quite the grins he aimed at you before, but the shadow of it lingers.

“Now,” he utters, the severity in his tone makes you flinch. Sobering quickly under the weight of his solemnity. “Th' bad part.”

“Bad part?” You echo, confused. “What could be worse than that?”

He taps two fingers against your swollen ankle, urging you to look. You swallow and force yourself to glance at where he rests his fingers.

With your split heel stitched up and wrapped in bandages, the sight of your leg doesn't make you want to curl into the fetal position and cry. But it's still horrifying to look at.

A mass half the side of a baseball juts out from your skin.

“Ankles dislocated,” he murmurs, sliding his fingers over the mound. “Gotta pop it back into place.”

“That's not—” you shake your head. “That's impossible.”

“S’okay, doe. I gotcha.”

“That's not the point. That's not—”

“Look,” his pitch lowers dangerously, firm now. “Gotta do it or you'll have problems later on. Much worse than a bit o’pain.”

“But—”

He inhales sharply. “Can't let it go, doe. Gotta fix it.”

You understand the logic in that. Leaving a dislocated ankle will undoubtedly cause problems later on. But—

“Will it hurt?”

Your fear quiets the irritation brewing in steeled hazel. “Aye. I won't lie tae ye, doe. It will hurt.”

You swallow around a whimper.

“But,” he leans over, his hand sliding over your cheek. Cradling your face in the palm of his hand. “I'll do mah best tae be quick. Ah won't hurt ye, doe.”

It must be the way he carries himself that puts you at ease, so assured in his abilities; confident in what he can do without any sense of grandiosity.

“Fine.” The word is juttered out of your chest. “Just—”

His thumb catches the tears that spill over your lashline, swiping them away with a tenderness that makes you shiver.

“Ah’ll be quick.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out two chalky white pills. Tylenol, he mutters, catching the furrow of your brow. It abates the unease somewhat, and you let him drop the pills into the flat of your palm, rolling them over with your thumb as he grabs the water on the end table. They're circular with a slit down the middle.

“It'll take the pain away.” He says, holding the water up to you. “Ready?” It's uttered so severely, so seriously, that your breath hitches in your lungs. Mirth blooming between your teeth.

“As I'll ever be,” you rasp out before popping the pills into your mouth, cradling them on your tongue protectively as you reach for the glass he holds out. They're bitter.

You wash it down with a mouthful of stale water before leaning back on the bed, letting the scent of his sheets wash over you once more.

Outside, the raven trills.

The pain of popping your ankle back into place leaves you a weeping mess in his sheets, but Johnny doesn't seem to mind the shuddering sobs. He pets down your back, shushing you quietly under his breath as he mutters something in Gaelic that you're sure is meant to be soothing.

“Ye’ll be fine,” he says, tracing figure-eights down your spine until the Tylenol kicks in, and the agony tapers off into an aching throb. “Jus’ breathe. Ah’ll get ye somethin' tae eat.”

He leaves soon after. You let the numbed, drowsiness of the pain medication lull you into a doze, listening to Johnny move in the kitchen. The squealing slide of unvarnished wood rubbing against old metal. The thud of a knife. The scent of hot oil. Muttered curses. A playful raven's caw.

You're not sure how long you slip in and out of this dreamless state, but Johnny appears in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest as he leans against the frame. He watches you with hooded eyes, a small, secretive smile tugging on his lips.

Blearily, you yawn, somehow still exhausted despite how long you slept between yesterday evening and today. Trauma, you suppose, and say nothing at all about it when he helps you sit up in the bed.

Dinner consists of leftover bannock—the fried dough soft in your mouth, the flavour buttery; smokey—and hare stew. He pulls a chair from the living room into the bedroom, eating on the edge of the bed with you.

He's sloppy about it. Slurps all the meat and potatoes out of the bowl before sopping chunks of bannock into the gravy, shoveling it into his mouth with a grunt. It dribbles down his chin, and dirties his beard. This slovenly display might have churned your stomach before, but you're just as ravenous.

And it's good.

The bread leaves grease stains on your fingers, but the toes on your uninjured foot curl when you bite into the crispy surface, teeth sinking into the pillowy dough below.

“This is bannock, you said?” You ask, dabbing the napkin he offered with a wink when you finish. At his nod, you continue. “It's good.”

“Aye,” he grunts around a mouthful. “S’the best. Make it every mornin’ so ah go’ fresh bannock tae go.” He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, slurring out: “s’good wit’ jam.”

“Did the locals teach you how to make it?”

He nods. “Scottish dish, originally. Made wit’ oats. Drier, too. But—fuck. S’good—nae. Better like this. Ol’ couple taught me when ah first came. Paler ‘n’ shite, they said. ‘n didnae ken a fuckin' thing about surviving oot ‘ere. Big man, Jim, taught me ‘ow tae hunt. Where tae fish. An’ ‘ow to cook it. Made this cabin, aye. He, ah, and his son. Offered ‘er up tae me when they realised ah didnae come wit’ shite all but a bad attitude.”

“That was nice of them.”

“Most folk up ‘ere are. Quiet, ken? People take care’a ‘emselves, most. Take care’a others, too.”

You mull over his words as he leans back in the chair with a satisfied groan, legs spread wide. His hands folded over his belly. The picture of ease. Contentment. This freedom of motion makes you slightly envious.

“An’ wha’ about ye?” His eyes are lidded, leonine, and fixed on you. The intensity is always on the side of too much. Too dizzying. Consuming.

You stamp it down, running your thumb along the inseam of his gingham throw. “What about me?”

“Why’d ye come here?”

His question throws you off balance. “It’s a pretty park,” you offer with a shallow laugh. “Who wouldn't come here?”

“Lots of pretty parks. Why this one?”

“Dunno. It was—”

“‘ave ye ever been tae any other parks? Anything like this?”

“I hiked a bit, and, um—”

He sucks out a piece of meat from between his teeth. “A bit, aye?”

“Yeah. A bit. Why—”

“Ye came all the way here fer what? A pretty park? With no experience at all? And alone?”

The shift in his posture reads as angry, irate. You blink, bewildered by this sudden change.

“Well. It was supposed to be an experience.”

“An experience, aye? Survival skills of a lemming.”

It's derisive, cutting. You bristle through the sting of humiliation, grappling through the slurry of fatigue to cobble together some form of defence against this lambasting of your—admittedly—ill-thought adventure, but he's already moving on. Fingers tapping an off-rhythm beat against his belly as he levels you with a sober look. More serious than you'd ever seen him before.

“An’ yer family? They just let ye come here oan yer own?”

The mention of your family makes guilt well to the surface, buoying above the indignant anger at his mocking words. Cowed, you shrug.

“Sure.”

Something cracks in the severe mein he carries; fracturing through the blatant disapproval. Cutting it like a knife.

He sighs through his nose before reaching up and scrubbing his hands over his face. “Shite. Ye really needed me, aye?”

You blink at the odd choice of words, brows drawing together in a tight knot. It's indefensible, of course. In many ways, he's right. If he hadn't found you—

Well.

You temper that thought before it forms. You're too out of it, spatially unaware and unmoored, to let yourself fall into an existential pit of despair when you know you won't be able to climb out. Thinking of your assured doom out there, all because of a misstep somewhere along the path, makes dread bloom in the pit of your stomach. Nauseous, roiling. It froths over the basin, ready to spill over and drag you under.

Swallowing around the surge of panic—mortality a fickle thing in a place like this—you offer a despondent shrug in response. Unable to scrape together any sense of a defence that won't make you sound childish and idiotic.

You ready yourself for more mockery, having become the very thing the park rangers tried to warn you about when you showed, alone, in hiking boots much too big for you.

But then he's shifting, expression clearing. The anger folded back behind a quick grin.

“Pretty here, isn't it?”

You're not sure what to make of his mercurial temperament; emotions cascading by, quicksilver and sudden. The flashes of anger, intensity, curiosity, and this, all happening within such a short period. It's overwhelming.

It unsettles you. But—

“Yeah,” you mutter, unable to stem the awe from leaking through.

The change in conversation is freeing. Sometimes it's just easier to let sleeping dogs lie, and that's exactly what you do. Tucking his odd behaviour behind a plexiglass of indifference, pretending it wasn't there, lurking just out of sight. Something to unravel later, when your heart wasn't on the verge of buckling under the strain of your anxiety. When your chest didn't feel like it was slowly being crushed. Your stomach is all twisted up in knots too tight to untie with your bare hands.

It's easy to let yourself heave through jittering lungs, and pretend you couldn't feel the rot festering on the sides of them. Eating holes through delicate tissue.

The majesty of this place hasn't quite worn off, and you use that as an excuse to drift. To close the doors on the overwhelming deluge of hysteria creeping up on you.

You still think of the jutting fjords instead. The steep ravines, the moose in the distance—her colours sharp against the green backdrop—and let the untempered sense of reverence split you down the middle.

It comes out in a flood, then—as if you've been biting back the words this whole time.

You tell him about the valley. The waterfall. The white river. The marmot you saw poking its head out. No bears, you sigh; the forlorn lilt to your tone seeped with a touch of relief, an aspect he pokes at with a crooked smirk until you huff, rolling your eyes to the ceiling at his gentle ribbing. Huffily, you admit that as much as you want to see a bear, you're not quite ready to face them in the wild.

Lots’a bears ‘round ‘ere, he taunts, rolling his knees out further as he sinks deeper into the chair.

He dodges your next question of where, exactly, is here with a silky grin and a need tae know rolling off his lips before they tug downward in a sudden frown.

You must be acclimating to the strange ebb and flow of his emotions because the lour grimace on his face doesn't deter you as much as it did moments ago. You pick up the slack when the conversation lulls, telling him about the places you've been and how they compare to Nahanni.

“They just—don’t.”

It's hard to encapsulate the scale of it all into simple words; digestible pieces someone else can swallow. The park isn't too far from Yellowknife, and yet it feels like a world on its own. The remoteness, the vastitude of it all, is hard to describe, but Johnny seems to understand.

He listens with a slight quirk to his lips. A smile you'd almost call fond. He gets it, you know. The words you can't say. The ones that feel too lacklustre when you do.

“That really why ye came?”

You hesitate for a moment, looping a loose thread around your finger. Contemplating. Mulling it over. You've never told anyone the reason for the trip outside of a new experience for yourself. Testing your mettle. But with Johnny—

There's a sense of kinship, you find. An understanding.

“It seemed so—” he waits for you to find the words. “Lonely, I guess.”

“Lonely,” the way he says the word is ruminative. Rolling it around between his teeth; testing the weight of it. “Ah suppose it is.”

“You don't think so?”

“It's—” he pauses, eyes listing to the side as he mulls over what he wants to convey.

He does this sometimes, you think. Gets lost. Loses himself. Retreats inward. You can't help but wonder if this is a manifestation of his trauma—a head injury such as this would be classified as a traumatic brain injury, wouldn't it? You're not well-versed in this area, and it feels a little mean, cruel, to have this thought, but it blooms as his eyes fog over. As he struggles, almost, to find the words he wants to say, to give voice to what he feels, thinks.

“Lonely, aye,” he grinds out after a beat, but he looks frustrated about it, and glares down at his lap, silently fuming. Annoyed. “Big.”

The word is ripped out from between his teeth, and you nod, hastily, to both quell the looming anger brimming in the terse set to his shoulders and to let him know you understand. Can read between the lines—if only just.

“Is that why you came?”

The shrug he offers is noncommittal but you can see the tension pooling in his brow despite your efforts to quash it. “Couldnae go home after this—” he lifts his hand, tapping his fingers against the scar tissue on his temple. “Wasn't safe. Had tae give up everything after. Maw. Da. Sisters. Cannae ever see them again.”

It doesn't make sense. None of it does. The innate understanding between you is shattered by the impossibility of this moment, and his half-formed words. What you gave up seems paltry in comparison to what he's confessing to. His family. His whole family—

“Might see them one day. Once that fuckin' prick is in th' ground, but 'til then—” he shrugs again, easy. As if the look on his face wasn't cataclysmic in its anger. It's rage. Sorrow. Hatred. You flinch back as if the blackhole of these awful emotions will eat you alive.

Johnny sees it, and reaches for you, making soothing noises under his breath as his hand wraps around your thigh. “Ah, doe, don’t worry. He wilnae find us—”

You're not sure what to say to that, but the grip he has on you is firm. Unyielding. There's a scowl etching over his lips, as if the mere thought of such a thing fills him with disgust, fury, and you shake your head slowly.

“I'm not—I’m not worried.” You don't know how to tell him that this phantom prick from his past isn't what made you reel back, but the intensity of his wrath. The sudden infliction of his ire. So you don't. You give in with what you hope is a conciliatory smile. “I, uh, I trust you.”

It's loose. Shaky. Your conviction wanes around the edges, falling flat and hollow when it trembles out. If Johnny notices the brittleness around it, he doesn't show it. If anything, he seems to take it as a sudden gospel.

“D’ye—” There's a crack in his voice. He swallows, then. Adam's apple bobbing harshly against the skin of his throat. You wonder if you've upset him. Angered him. But he's leaning down, eyes widening. Feverish. Blue lagoons. “Ye trust me.”

It's not a question, but he poses it as such. You nod slowly and unsure.

Johnny ducks his head, then. Lifts one hand to rub at the bristles around his chin and upper lip. Lost in thought, maybe—

It's when he reaches around, scrubbing at the nape of his neck, do you see the flush peeking out from beneath the thick bed of hair covering his cheeks. The sight is jarring. Unexpected.

You're not sure what to make of it. Of this strange reaction. But it passes almost as quickly as it started. The red is replaced by a wide, blinding grin. He squeezes your thigh.

“Hah, doe. Ye really know what tae say tae cheer me up—”

You haven't said anything at all, but this, too, goes unacknowledged. And before you can even try to draw attention to it, he breathes in deeply as he sits up in the chair.

“Ye finished?” He motions to the bowl and plate on the bed. You nod. “Alright. Ah'll put ‘em away. Get ye some tea.”

“Oh, I'm fine—”

“Nah, hen. Tea is good for ye. Will help ye heal.”

He leaves without another word, carrying away your dirty dishes. The unfinished conversation lingers in the air around you, but beneath the loose strands of everything unsaid, you feel something tangle inside your chest as you replay his words in the back of your head.

All alone in Nahanni, unable to see his family. You're sure the prick he's referring to is the one who gave him that horrific scar, nearly taking his life.

Somewhere in the loop, a knot of pity begins to take shape.

Johnny brings you Labrador tea—a speciality he learned how to make from Ethel and Jim, the couple from Wrigley who took him in. It's good. It tastes sweet, earthy. Honey and pine. You sip at it as he grabs sleep clothes from his dresser, watching him with a muted sense of listlessness.

You can't imagine the next sixty days that loom before you. Restlessness, claustrophobia—it coalesces into this strange, itchy feeling that sits, uncomfortably, atop your chest; an increasing pressure. You wish you could pick it off like a loose scab. Dig your nail under the hard clot and tug—

Peel it all off until just silken new skin remains.

Johnny looks antsy when you finish the tea. Eyes bright. Wide.

As you contemplate the surrealism of your predicament over Labrador tea, he grins like a shark and tells you he only has one toothbrush.

“Dinnae mind sharin’, doe,” he offers, too jovial, eager, for the notion of lending his toothbrush to a stranger he met less than twenty-four hours ago. Ah ‘ave good hygiene, he adds, as if that might make this any better.

Putting away the disgust, the idea of sharing a toothbrush feels much too intimate to you. Something befitting a long-term partner, or kin, before a man you know only the bare bones of.

But like most things lately, what choice do you have?

Johnny grins brightly at your acquiescence. All teeth. He hands you an old sweater—his favourite football team, he adds with a wink when you blink at it—and then moves toward you with a wicked gleam in his eyes you try to pretend is just overeager hospitality.

“Wait—” you start, jerking back instinctively as he looms over the bed. “What are you doing?”

A dip forms between his brows, and he cocks his head quizzically at you. “What're ye talkin’ ‘bout, doe? Need'tae brush yer teeth, don't ye?”

“I—I can walk—”

He snorts. “Oan yer broken ankle? Will only hurt yerself more.”

Despite the truth in this statement, the flippancy in his voice stings. Prickles under your skin. Your loss of mobility, of being wholly dependent on another person, is a bitter thing to try and swallow. Especially when you're here for the literal antithesis of it. To be free. Self-reliant.

Not needing anyone at all except the grit in your bones and the determination to see things through.

Having all of that ripped into pieces in front of you, by a man who says it with such nonchalant disregard—as if your efforts were meaningless, insubstantial for what it got it—is humiliating.

You can't remember the last time you needed someone for something so simple as walking to the washroom to brush your teeth, to wash up. The loss of this minute freedom makes you want to cry; to break down. Rage. Break things with your bare hands just to show the world you still can. To fight against these shackles locking around your ankles, and run—

Johnny's hand falls on your knee, thumb brushing the torn edge of your tights, grazing the skin beneath the loose threads with each pass.

“Don't worry. Ah'll take care 'o ye.”

That's the problem, you think, chest burning. This awful feeling inside is churning. Frothingly acidic, corrosive. You don't want him to. You don't want to need this man at all. Ever. For anything.

But—

“Thanks,” you choke out. It tastes like iron. Like defeat.

He carries you to the washroom, cooing the whole time about how ye ‘ave nothin’ tae be embarrassed ‘bout while you blister from mortification, from shame.

You came here to be self-reliant. To grind your mettle against the wilderness and come out on the other side victorious and better for it. But what you've accomplished so far is getting lost, getting hurt, imposing on a man you barely know—

One who has to sit down on the ledge of the bathtub with you cradled in his lap like a child, injured foot elevated on the lid of the toilet seat. He cups his hand under your mouth as you scrub at your teeth, trying to catch any of the foam from the toothpaste that spills from your mouth.

It's mortifying.

You've never felt so vulnerable in your whole life.

“Sorry,” you choke out around the brush—his brush—as he slowly commanders the weight of you around enough to spit in the sink.

He waves you off with a noise. “S’alright, doe. Ye can lean oan me all ye like.”

So he says. But you feel the rapid inhales behind you. The soft pants spilling from his lips, lungs expanding, broadening his chest into your back. Exertion, you think, slightly cowed and humiliated. Desperately trying to hold some of your weight on your uninjured foot.

“Nah, ah,” he breathes, arm slinking around your middle, tugging you firmly into his lap. “Ye jus’ worry about gettin’ ready tae go tae bed now. Ah got ye.”

He soothes his palm up and down the length of your arm as you finish up in a fruitless effort to calm your nerves, but it doesn't work. Can't. Because you know what's coming next.

“Can I, um—” your tongue is thick in your mouth. “I need to use the washroom to–to, uh, washup, and stuff—”

His thigh jerks beneath you. When he speaks, his voice is rougher than normal. “Okay.”

But he stays where he is.

“I think I can do it on my own—”

“And if ye step oan yer leg?” He tuts, arm tightening around you. “Only gonnae hurt yerself more, doe.”

“I'll be careful, but I really have to—”

“S’okay,” he coos. “S’only me.”

That's the problem, you think wildly. Hysterical. That's the whole problem, isn't it?

“No, you don't understand. I need to, um, go.” He makes another noise, soft. Agreeable. Fuck. “I need to pee.”

It comes out in a hiss. Feral, like a cat. Embarrassment turns you into more animal than man.

Again, he hums. “I know, doe. Donnae worry, ah’ll hold yer leg.”

“Can't I just keep it, um, on the ledge?”

“No, no. If ye put weight oan it, doe, ye’ll be in serious trouble. Dislocated. Broken. Jesus, ye cuid slip the bone out of place—”

No. No.

The idea of him holding your ankle as you piss is beyond any measure of shame you've ever felt before. You like your privacy. Crave it, sometimes. You don't think you've ever done this in front of someone since you were a child.

You need—

A moment.

Time. A pause.

But he doesn't give you a chance.

Johnny's other arm loops under your knees, and with a small huff he stands, holding you aloft with an arm anchored across your belly. It's quick. Mercilessly so. He steps back and lifts his foot to toe the lid off the toilet seat, unbothered by the loud clang it makes when it hits the tank.

“There we go,” he mutters, and sounds almost breathless for it. “Let's get ye ready.”

It should be awkward. Clumsy. But he moves with a surprising agility that belies the firmness of his muscles, the bulk. He lets your uninjured leg drop to the floor, murmuring for you to put some weight on it as he cradles your shin in his hands, careful not to let your foot move more than it needs to.

The strange dance ends with him holding your shin in his hands, stretching your thighs out more than they'd ever been before. An image that might have been comical under different circumstances but just makes you flounder at the suggestiveness of the pose. Added, in large part, by the firm hold he has on you. There's not an ounce of give. No threat of falling.

You gasp when he moves, shuffling backwards to pivot you around until the back of your shin meets the cold porcelain.

“Alright now, doe,” he motions toward the seat as he slowly bends down to a crouch on the floor, your foot still held in his grasp.

You follow him down until you meet the seat, trying to avoid his gaze as you clumsily paw at your tattered pants, slipping the down your thighs in a hurry. Your panties follow after a moment of hesitation.

When his breath catches, you say nothing at all. Pointedly avoid whatever face he might be making as you stare, fixed, at the panels on the wall behind his head. Wallpaper. Probably moisture-resistant. It's peeling in some places. Decades ago, it might have been a soft canary yellow.

His breathing is shallow. You ball your hands into fists and press the flat of your knuckles against your thighs.

It's hard to focus when you can feel the scorching heat of his body bleeding into your leg, your knee. Close enough that all he has to do is bend down a little more, and his face would be pressed against your thighs.

There's no room, no privacy.

You close your eyes and pretend you can't hear how his breath seems to fill the entirety of the small washroom, ghosting over your skin. Virginia Falls comes to mind—a roaring rush of water—but even in the solitude of your mind, you can't ignore the way his stare drills through your skin.

You swallow. You can't do it. Can't do this.

“Can you—” back off, go away. Stop breathing so heavily because you might get the wrong idea, like this whole thing excites him somehow—

His voice is rough when he speaks. Ragged. “Cannae ah what, doe?”

“Turn the tap on? I can't—I can't concentrate.”

“S’only me, bonnie girl,” he murmurs, but does what you ask. Leaning over you, broad torso swallowing you up entirely under his bulk. You can feel the soft give of his belly on your knee as he presses it into you, but it only lasts a second before you meet a wall of solid muscle beneath. He braces a warm, rough palm on your naked thigh, leaning in as he reaches over to the sink above.

It's barely a fraction of his weight but the drag of it makes you blink in surprise. His skin is burning. Redhot.

Opening your eyes brings you close to his chest, nose only a hair away from the tanned skin stretched over his collarbones. The metal chain gleams in the flushed light hanging overhead, sitting in a golden contrast to his sunkissed flesh. Its reflection casts beads of glittering lambency over the slope of his neck.

Pretty, you think, watching as it coruscates in a mesmerising dance each time he moves.

The faucet turns with a metallic squeak, breaking you from your reverie. Water gurgles up from the pipes, spitting into the basin with a hiss. You pull back, twisting your head to the side as heat floods your chest.

“Thanks,” you mutter, unable to meet his stare.

His fingers tighten around your flesh. His voice is raw when he mumbles, “anytime.”

The trickling rush of water reverberates around the room, and it's easy to close your eyes and pretend you're alone.

So that's exactly what you do.

His palm grows slick on your skin. Damp. But you ignore it, focusing on nothing but the urgency of getting this over with as quickly as you can. It works, marginally—

(Johnny makes another noise in the back of his throat.

That, too, you ignore.)

“Finished?” His voice is thick, wet. You nod slowly, peeking out from the sliver between your lashes to paw at the wall for the toilet paper roll. “Here, ah’ll help ye out of fer pants—”

Your head feels heavy. Limbs laden. The embarrassment crushes you into a fine powder; malleable, putty. You let Johnny take the lead after. Let him slip your tattered tights down your thighs, and say nothing at all when too much of his palm glides along your skin as he pulls. Needlessly, of course, when just two fingers would do.

But it's fine. Fine. Maybe he's never taken off tights before. Maybe the material is too thin and he's worried about it catching on the scrapes over your knees, the bandage wrapped up to mid-calf.

Your shirt, too. When he slips his fingers under the hem, splaying them wide over your belly before dragging them up until it bunches around his wrist. Tugging, tugging. Hands gliding over your skin, fitting along the contours of your body.

He keeps one hand moulded to your neck, fingers brushing your jaw, as he gingerly pulls the shirt over your head. The ragged pants in your ear, the soft groans when you slip into his old shirt—

It's exertion, really. Must be. He's tired from holding you up the whole time you brushed your teeth, washed your face in the sink. It's all fine. He's being gentle. Doesn't want to hurt you.

He's just being nice.

(And when you notice that your panties are missing from the pile of dirty clothes he shoves into the corner behind the door, that, too, you ignore.)

Exhaustion takes you soon after Johnny tucks you into bed, dragging you under once again. He tells you he'll be on the couch. To holler if you need anything. Sluggishly, you nod. Thank him when he places a glass of water on the bedside table for you.

(Bite your tongue when he brushes his fingers over your cheek as he bids you goodnight.)

Through the gossamer of sleep, you can hear the floorboards creak in the doorway, but when you look, there's nothing there. Just an empty kitchen. The soft flicker of the fireplace smouldering in the living room.

Nothing, you think. It's nothing at all—

There's a weight on your chest.

Warm, searing. It dampens your skin where it sits, heavy, on your breast, cold air ghosting along the sweat building up each time it moves.

You stir. The pressure takes shape. A hand. A man's hand. Rough, calloused, and hot. In his palm, he holds your breast, thumb brushing along the curve of it. Sliding, sliding—

You come awake with a gasp.

There's a twinge in your ankle when you move, and the pain grounds you, silences you. His thumb twitches on your nipple, but he, too, stills. Quietens. An impasse.

And you suppose this would be where you'd scream. Rage. Slap him across the face, rip his hand off your breast. Curse at him for being a creep, and a pervert, and nasty, disgusting man because there's nothing at all that could justify the reason for why the shirt he gave you to wear to bed is tucked up over your chest. The bruising press of something hard digging into your hip negates any excuse he might try to give. This is unmistakable. You should scream, cry, and—

Leave.

This is what glues your lips together. Keeps you from moving at all, from making a sound. Where would you go? How would you even get there to begin with?

It's this—the uncertainty, your vulnerability—that paralyzes you. Keeps you still, silent, as his hands brush over your skin, touching, fondling. His palms are rough, calloused. Pyretic. He squeezes, kneading your flesh in his sweat-slicked hand like he's owed the right to touch you. Like he's allowed.

He pants against your temple, breath warm, humid on your skin. Heaves like a dog in your ear, grunting low as he ruts his hips into your side, smearing something hot, tacky across your skin. Something you try not to think about, to inch away from. But he catches you quick, and stops your meagre protests before they form.

His thumb and forefinger close over your pebbled nipple, pinching softly at your budded flesh. The shock of pleasure is unwanted. Awful. It churns your stomach, and you fight the urge to weep—

He leans up, ragged exhales growing heavier as he moves until milk-warmed breath shudders over your bare breasts. His excitement throbs against your hip. You swallow down around the sudden wave of disgust, the sickness knotting itself together in your belly. It devours the lingering pity you'd felt earlier. The safety, the comfort, that brimmed inside of you for him.

(bleeding heart—

he gorges himself on it.)

Stay still, you think. And maybe he'll go away.

But he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't.

Johnny leans down, mouth closes over your nipple. It's all searing heat. Wet, soft. A sudden jolt of pleasure shoots down your spine when he sucks in tandem with the soft, rolling pinches he doles out on your tiger nipple, and you hate your treacherous body a little bit more for it. For how good it makes you feel when he flicks his tongue over your hardened peek, laving it sloppily. Messily. Drooling all over you—the big fucking dog—

You wonder how long he's been doing this. Touching you in your sleep. The thought sits like hot oil in your guts; sloshing against the soft lining of your stomach until it aches. Burns. You blame it on that when he grunts against your breast, the vibrations send a shiver down your spine. Have to, don't you? Because the alternative is to admit that you're slick, soft between your thighs already; folds soaked, inner thigh damp. Wet. Blame it on him, and the burden in your chest eases when you feel the stirrings of desire, lust, thicken in your lower belly. Bodily reaction becomes your clutch, your lifeline when he lays his upper body against you, the weight, the heft, of his bulk forcing the air from your lungs.

Johnny lifts his head suddenly, eyes drilling into yours before you can feign sleep to avoid looking at him. You don't want this. Your body thrums with reluctance, with fear, but you can't drag your gaze away from him. The rapturous look in his eyes, burning in the low simmer of a never-ending twilight, is paralyzing. Electric. You can't remember a time in your life when another person has ever looked at you with such raw want. Desire. Need. It's covetous. Ugly. Marbled with heady streams of hunger, of awe, as if he's not sure whether or not he wants to eat you alive or savour you for aeons. Taking bites, nibbles, when this urge becomes too burdensome to bear; when the ravenous chasm in his guts threatens to devour itself, bones and all, like a man-made black hole. Under this heavy, unrelenting stare you wither. Submit. Your head rolls until your cheek is pressed against the pillow, neck bared. Offered up to him.

(anything, you think, to run away from the naked want on his face. because with his mouth slack, lips slick, glistening with spit, he looks predatory like this. animal. bathed in gloam and flushed a deep roseate.)

He props himself up on his elbow, watching you. Feasting. Your quiet submission makes him moan; hips juttering at the slow reveal of your vulnerable neck. A paroxysm. As if he just can't help himself to hump against you like a beast in rut.

He swallows. You watch his throat work from the corner of your eye, Adam's apple bobbing up and down, up and down—

Then:

He lifts himself up higher, angling his body until it's bracketed over you. Sliding between your legs until your slit is pressed against the coarse hair that covers his thighs. He keeps his elbow propped on the pillow, sliding up, up, until his forearm comes to rest beside your face. It boxes you in completely under his weight, and the position forces your legs to spread open to accommodate him. Not given up freely, of course; but your compliance in this is inessential, it seems. He moulds you how he likes, mindful of your injured ankle the whole time. A kindness that makes something molten thicken in your throat, stifling the scream that claws its way up your esophagus.

You try not to stare when he clambers over you, chest bare against yours. Hips chiselling a gorge between your thighs wide enough for him to fit. To press his fattened length on the insides of your sticky thighs; groins drawing together. Your legs slung loosely around his tapered waist. A dreadful pastiche of lovemaking. Intimacy.

But even as a mockery—bastardised as it is—it’s embarrassing how easily you open up for him. Legs falling, spreading further apart. Hot, sticky at the apex of your thighs. Wanting.

Blame it on sleep, on this endless hypnagogia you've been feeling since he leaned over you on the cliff edge, and said, pretty thing, aren't ye? All alone. No’ anymore, doe. Jus’ me an’ ye, now. Jus’ us—

You swallow, fighting the urge to cry. Blinking rapidly against the tears that pebble against your lashline, but you're helpless to stop the flood even though the levee doesn't break, doesn't spill over. It just sits, a sorrowful lagoon with nowhere to go.

In your attempt to hold back the deluge, you let your gaze wander away from the piercing blue that drills into your face—seemingly unbothered by the tears in your eyes, the ones that clot over your irises, stinging and hot—and stare down at his broad chest. A mistake, maybe, because you catch sight of the gold cross dangling around his neck. Like a pendulum, it swings. The motion is mesmerising. Hypnotic.

It distracts you for a moment. Or maybe you've just grown accustomed to his touch, to the heat of his hand on your skin. Whatever the reason, it's enough to pull you away from the feverish trail his fingers leave as they make a steady drag downward. It's only when they dance over your belly button do you realise the muted tickle is Johnny, and by then—

“Shush, s’alright, doe,” he's cooing, warm breath ghosting over the plains of your face. It might be comforting if he didn't rest his weight on his elbow, freeing his other hand just to bring it over your mouth, thumb brushing under your eye. A warning maybe. Don't scream. “Ah go’ ye. Ah’ll make ye feel so good—”

There's a fever in his eyes. Wildfires spreading through the yawning boscage, burning everything in sight. The heat is hot enough to char bone; to blacken meat into a dessicated husk. Eating away at everything in its path.

You know, almost immediately, that Johnny's beyond reason. Or, rather—

He's gone, turned inward; delusional enough to think that this is something he has to do.

You'd seen all the warnings of the kindling fire before. Something you'd decided to ignore even as the hunger in his eyes surged; as the shape of it morphed into a frothing devotion that felt ill-fitting for two strangers stuck together like this.

Stupidly, you thought you could outrun it. That he was a good man beneath it all, and wouldn't succumb to touching you in your sleep, to lulling you into a false sense of security—

Except. He hadn't, had he?

He'd been blunt about it all since the beginning. My wife—

How silly, you thought.

But the humour fades when he teases over your hips, resting his palm over your mound, middle finger perched above your clit. Just holding. Touching. The possessiveness of the action is unmistakable, unignorable.

It shouldn't send a shiver down your spine when you'd rather he didn't touch you at all, but it does. There's something about him, you think. Electric. A lightning storm. It crackles in the air around you, humming low in the atmosphere; this unavoidable surge, natural phenomenon. Maybe that's what he is.

More storm than man. A force you can't outrun, but can only endure—

His eyes flash when he slides his fingers further down your slit and finds your skin soft, hot. Drenched. When he groans your name out, it sounds like a prayer. An orison.

“So wet, doe,” he's heaving out in a whisper, eyes nearly rolling back into his head as his touch grows bolder, more insistent. As if the softness of your flesh, the wetness that sticks to your inner thighs, is all the consent he needs. “So fuckin’ wet fer me, aye? Been waitin’ fer this, haven't ye?”

You want to shake your head no but it's futile. He drops his head to look down the chasm between your bodies, watching his hand slide along your skin. Legs spread around his waist, inviting. He curses foul under his breath when he sees how wet his fingers are from just a touch, words mangled in the back of his throat. They sound less coherent as he roams your body, parting your folds and stroking through the slick spilling out of you, dragging it up to your clit.

His voice is closer now. Lips bruising against the shell of your ear. Butchered English. Gaelic. An amalgamation of low whines, and rasping grunts. He sounds more animal than man. A booming thundercloud groaning above you, as if touching you is enough to please him, too. Siphoning it from your body as he presses his fingers against your clit, circling, stroking.

It’s good. So good. And that's the problem, you think. It's easy to give in like this when he pets your pussy like the feeling of your fluttering heat on his hand is enough to make him cum. No one has ever touched you like they were starving for it. Needed it as badly as you did.

The sensation is almost too much. The notion of it getting tangled in the back of your head, looping around the part of you still screaming to run. To go home. To push him away.

(your arms are laden. your tongue is a puddle of mercury in your mouth—)

But just as the pleasure blooming in your belly raises with each pass of his thumb, he pulls away. Slides down, down—

Circles your hole with the tips of his slick fingers, petting with the same desperation he showed your clit until he deems you soft enough for him. He slowly sinks his finger inside of you to the knuckle, stretching your walls around him as he moans into your ear about how good ye feel around him, all tight. Hot. So fuckin' wet, do. So wet fer me—

He pulls out just as slowly, shushing the soft gasp you make when the ridge of his palm catches on your clit.

“Ah told ye, didnae ah? Ah’ll take care’a ye.”

He presses two fingers inside of you as he peppers kisses over your cheek, cooing low about how badly you need him. Only him.

Johnny fucks you slowly on two fingers. Gently. Deeply. Sliding into the last knuckle, petting against your slick walls, like he's owed the privilege and not touching you in your sleep.

He brings you to the edge, takes you right there, and—

Pulls away. His fingers slide down as your hips flit, lifting to make them catch on your clit again. It's embarrassing how badly you want him to touch you. Shameful.

He leans up and catches your mouth in a messy kiss. It's all tongue, wet, no finesse. The wild, unkempt tangle of hair abrades your skin, rubbing it raw as he devours you. Scoops out your tongue with his own, enticing it into his mouth. His teeth close on the thick of it, lips pursing. Sucking on the tip.

His kisses are doglike and obscene. Leaves drool dribbling down your chin, soaking into your neck. He can't seem to decide what he wants to do, so he tries to do it all. Everything. Biting your lips, trying to choke you on his tongue. Slurping up the taste of you until his mouth is stained with it. Beard matted down, drenched.

Despite it all, he's a good kisser. His pace is fast, breakneck. You can't keep up, but you try. Struggling along as he seems hellbent on eating you alive. But it's sporadic. He pauses just long enough to settle into an easy rhythm that makes you arch into it, silently begging for more as he fucks you on his fingers. Nips your tongue as he slides in a third, swallowing the gasp you let out, savouring your moans between his teeth.

Johnny ruins you with just a kiss. Leaves you panting, unmoored. Mouth slack, open wide for him to do what he pleases because the taste of him is divine.

“C’mon,” he urges, spreading his fingers inside of your cunt until you keen, whining his name. “Suck my tongue, bonnie.”

It's disgusting. You do it, anyway.

Your quiet acquiescence makes him moan, hips rutting against you. The hard press of his cock into your skin is bruising. It aches. Your inner thighs are tacky with your slick and the smears of pre-cum he leaves behind as he humps against you.

He sounds mournful when he pulls away, mouth messy with spit, and whispers, “fuck, wish ah could taste ye again, doe—” You don't know what he means until his eyes drop down to his hand, working insistently between your thighs.

Your stomach drops. Plummets. You thought this started when he was touching your chest, when you woke up to his hand on your breast—

“Ye didnae wake when ah did it before,” he says, as if sounding mournful, sad, over the fact that you didn't wake up to him eating your pussy while you were asleep, was normal. “Must’a had too much tea—”

You wish, so suddenly, so viciously, that he'd stop talking. You can't hear this. Can't bear to listen to him confess to all the needling worries that bloomed in the back of your head, ones you stamped down with a heavy foot and a potent sense of guilt, shame, for condemning a man who was just trying to help.

It makes you want to cry.

“Oh, doe, don't cry—” he coos the words out, contrite and conciliatory, but you can feel the way his cock twitches against your thigh. The unmistakable heat mushrooming in his eyes as the sight of tears streaming down your face.

He seems to take it as misery over not feeling his mouth on your cunt, a plaintive assertion he whispers into your ear (poor thing, jus’ wannae feel ma mouth on you, aye? wannae feel me lick yer sweet pussy again?), and decides to rectify your sorrow by kissing his way down your body.

His fingers slip out when he moves, resting them on your knee as he kneels back on his haunches.

You spare a glance toward him, nervous with trepidation, and—

This whole time, his cock had been this phantom sensation against your skin, bruising and hot. Leaving wet smears over your thighs. Hidden from view. But like this, it's the first thing you see as it hangs, heavy and thick, from between his thighs.

The sight is—

Something.

You don't want to think about the heat in your belly. The nervous flit of your heartbeat.

A pearlescent strand dribbles down the weeping, slick head, dropping to the sheets below. The shaft of his cock is similarly drenched, smeared with what seems like a copious amount of precum. It gathers at the base, a startling contrast of thick, black hair and globs of milky white.

Something about it makes you recoil. Almost instinctively, primal.

Your flinch just makes his cock twitch, spitting more out.

The motion seems to unveil more of it to you, adding to the growing unease you feel because his cock is the furthest thing from pretty.

It's flushed a daunting vermillion and purpling like a bruise around the engorged glands. Thickening at the base. Streaked with dark veins that run the length of it, like rivers intersecting and jutting up from his skin. Blotches of red, pink, purple, and peach make up the colouring of it. Marbled like a black eye. A busted lip.

It bobs when he moves. Ugly, garish. You don't want it anywhere near you—

But Johnny’s wet hand on your knee keeps you from moving. Holds you in place as he bends down, resting on elbow to bring his face as close to your pussy as he can get.

Johnny stares—unabashedly—at your bare cunt when he finally settles between your thighs, widening them further to fit the broad stretch of his shoulders. Eyes lit with a heady greed, a hunger, that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Missed ma mouth, didnae ye?”

For a moment, you think he's talking to you. Confusion colours the panic you feel, dampening the dread down until it's flattened by sheer bewilderment when you realise his eyes haven't left your slit.

“Such a bonnie girl,” he purrs, breath ghosting over your cunt. “Been so lonely without me, aye? Poor thing.”

It heats you up from the inside out. The mesmerised, almost unfettered look of pure adoration shaded alongside the raw want on his face twists a sense of desire inside of you. Has anyone looked at you with such naked need on their face? As if the idea of not having a taste was somehow the most agonising thing they could experience? The way Johnny looks at you is enough to make you ache. And with anyone else, having him address your pussy instead of you would be awkward, humiliating, but somehow, him doing it makes you burn white-hot. Makes you want—

“Johnny,” you whisper, paper-thin, and his head shoots up, brows inching high on his brow. You're acutely aware that this is the first thing you've said since this started. Since you woke up to him groping you, touching you, in your sleep. And it's his name. Johnny.

Not no, don't. Stop. Please. Just—

“Johnny.”

It's not consent. You're not sure you're fully capable of doing so right now, if ever. But it's the closest you think you could come to saying yes. Admitting that you want his mouth on you, even though the situation leading up to this still makes something ugly and awful twist in your guts, is as much as you can give. He seems to see this. To know.

But Johnny takes it between his teeth as an unequivocal yes despite that, groaning low in his throat, midnight eyes rolling back into his head. The hands on you tremble. Shake.

He breathes in deeply through his nose, the sound whistling as a great plume of air is forced through small channels, filling his lungs. Perfuming them with the heady scent of you, of sex, clotting in the air.

“Fuck, doe. Gonnae give ye what ye need.”

And then he bends his head, eyes lidded still, half rolled, and without any preamble, glues his lips to your drenched slit, forcing it between your soft folds.

The first touch of his tongue is molten. Soft, tensile, he laves it over the whole of your slit from the sensitive skin beneath your hole, to the crest of your clit. Digs his tongue in, swirling it over and under your folds leaving no part of you untouched. Feasting. Devouring.

It makes you mewl. Your back arches off the sheets, ankle throbbing in a heady, pulsing pain at the sudden movement, adding to the shrill whine in your voice.

He notices, and pets your knee once before sliding his bicep under your leg, looping his hand around to secure your thigh in the crook of his below. Locked in tight. Immoveable. The other he pushes down with the flat of his palm, until your joints ache from the stretch. Your knee is almost flush with the mattress. Widening you further for his searing, eager mouth.

If his kisses are dogish—wet, messy; sloppy with drool—then the way he eats your cunt is foul. Slobbering down his chin, slurping up the mess he makes with a series of chewed-off moans and muffled whines. He paws at you as if he was denied the pleasure of drink for aeons, feasting like a man half-delirious and starved. There's no finesse. No skill to speak of. Just a desperate man lapping at you like a beast. Worshipping you.

He nuzzles his chin and cheeks against your cunt, drenching himself until his beard is matted to his skin. The feeling of his coarse hair grazing your sensitive flesh is overwhelming. Too much. Too ticklish. But—

It feels good.

The contrast of his fleshy tongue rolling over your clit, and the rough brush of his hair when he nuzzles you with the point of his chin, cooing softly about how pretty this little pussy is, getting him all wet, is cataclysmic. The heat floods your belly, and you clench around nothing. Achingly empty. Moaning at the feeling of him bringing you right there, right to the brink, with nothing by the hair on his cheek. It's unreal. Inescapable. Your head drops, mouth lax, open wide as you pant and whimper through the madness of Johnny MacTavish trying to find a way to suck your clit and fuck you with his tongue at the same time. An impossible goal, you know, but he doesn't seem to care about logic or reason with his head buried between your thighs, mouth never leaving you once. He merely nods his head up and down, refusing to pull away.

It's divine. It's worship. It's—

He pushes two of his fingers inside of you, lapping at your taut rim to stem the sting of his sudden intrusion, and you think, for a moment, that you see Nirvana behind your eyelids.

It's embarrassingly how quickly he brings to you the brink, slurping messily as he drills his fingers into your hole, petting against your walls in a mockery of what he'll do to you once he's had his fill. Satiated his hunger with the taste of your pussy.

Something he can't seem to get enough of.

Your thighs draw together, crushing him between your legs. Arching into his mouth, nearly smothering him as you rut clumsily against his face, moaning at the rough scrape of his beard against your skin. You're not normally so aggressive, but he loses himself in it, eyes rolling as he grabs your hips and pulls you closer to his wanting mouth, encouraging you to use his tongue, his lips, to meet your end as you see fit. Riding his face as much as you can with your leg locked tight between his shoulder and bicep.

And it's in between his loud grunts, his whines—almost caterwauling into your slit—where you shatter. The sound of his pleasure, the feeling of his mouth on you—it’s all too much. You break when he sucks your clit into his mouth, keening in the back of his throat as he works another finger into you. It feels good. Too good.

Johnny works you through it. Lets you take, and take as your muscles spasm with the force of your release. Fingers digging into his shoulders, fisting the sheets. He moans along with you, eagerly lapping at your cunt until you whine, begging him to stop. You've had enough. Can't take anymore—

He only pulls away when you melt into the sheets, shuddering with the aftershocks bubbling through your body. Leaning back on his haunches once more, the hair around his mouth slick and wet. The evidence of your pleasure dripping down his chin, droplets still clinging to his beard.

He crawls over you once more, eyes boring into yours. Pits of coal. An endless black hole.

In this strange space, liminal, you lose yourself. Shed pieces of who you were before when he slots his hips between your thighs, cock heavy in his hand, and presses it to your slit.

This is happening. He's going to fuck you.

You wish the thought didn't make your knees fall apart a little wider for him. Make your hips flit, lifting slightly into the air. Eager. Hungry for it. For him.

It's loneliness, you think. Desperation.

Madness is addictive. It feeds itself and infects those around it. Noxious. An all-consuming black hole that eats, and eats. It must have bitten you, too. Dug infectious teeth into your skin, severing flesh to imbed its jowls in your marrow. Clinging. Poisoning you from the inside out.

There's no other reason for why you reach for him, hands sliding over his sweat-slicked skin as he falls into the open brackets of your arms, grunting when the head of his cock catches on your rim. He's a wall of heat. Firm muscles. Your nails dig into the thick cords of his shoulders just to feel the reluctant give of his skin.

Nothing about this man is soft. His waist, his thighs, his chest, his arms, the hard ridge of his cock. It's all unyielding muscle. Burning. Searing into your skin when it drags against his.

“Gonnae fuck ye, doe,” he whispers, words pitching low. Damp wood, felled timber. Rough. You shiver from the heat of it. The warning, the plea; both extremes coalescing together to make truism more potent. Weighty. “Gonnae fuck this pretty pussy, and yer gonnae beg me fer it.”

Despite the surety in assertion, he doesn't wait for you to plead with him to split you apart, taking the initiative instead to sink the head of his cock into you. The stretch stings already, and only his glands have sunk in, a fact he grunts into your ear as he drives forward another inch. Another—

You don't think you've ever been this unmoored before. Rendered this docile. A mere domicile for him to burrow inside of; to carve a home from the sanctum of your walls wrapped tight around him. And carve he does. Splitting you apart as he grunts with the efforting of forcing his cock into you, feeding it further with blunt jerks of his hips, his hands feverish on your skin. Sweat slicked already even though he's barely halfway inside of you.

“Feels so good,” he slurs into your ear, face pinching. Twisting up as pleasure blooms over his brow. “So fuckin’ good, doe, fuck—”

It does. Beyond the blunt pressure of him forcing his cock inside of you, the sting of the stretch, there's an intense, dizzying pleasure in the fullness you feel. In the press of him notching against something inside that makes heat bloom in your belly, turns your bones liquid. It might be the previous climax rendering you oversensitive, but the feeling of him splitting you apart is euphoric.

It's aided by the moans he lets out as you take more and more of him, as if the sound of his pleasure is funnelled into yours. By the look on his face, eyes widened, feverish, as he darts his gaze between your face and your pussy, unable to decide if he wants to watch his cock disappear into you or watch your face, pinched up in pleasure, in flickering pain, as you take him fully.

This sort of bliss, this pleasure, is addicting. Narrowed down to the sharp nudge of his cock grazing places inside of you that light your nerves on fire, burn through your synapses until your thoughts are muddled, mush. No coherency, no logic—just the fat length of him bludgeoning into your walls; the tap of his heavy, full sack slapping against your ass as he finally, finally, roots deep.

He must feel it, too. This strange, overwhelming pleasure loops around your lower belly, twisting itself into knots because when he pushes the last few inches inside of you, he nearly collapses on top of you, his whole body shuddering. Trembling. Presses his damp face to your cheek, matted, slick hair tickling your skin, and groans from deep within his chest at the feeling of you wrapped around him. The noise shivers through you. His pleasure is enough to make you clench down, tightening up around him. Already on the verge and all he did was slide his cock inside of you.

A fact he seems to luxuriate in, huffing shakily into your ear as he quenches himself on the soft, fluttering pulses of your walls around him. Content to grind his hips into yours in shallow gyrations that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. The tension in your belly coiling tighter and tighter, the pleasure ameliorating the shame you'd felt before, burning it into cinders.

As long as he keeps his cock inside of you, as long as he keeps pushing the blunt head into that spot that makes your vision whiteout, you think could cum just like this. Right now—

He doesn't.

Johnny lifts himself off of your chest, elbow coming to rest beside your head, taking the brunt of his weight. His eyes are bright, burning. He stares down at you, and the look of sheer adoration on his face is daunting, overwhelming. It threatens to eat you alive. Devour you whole. Pure rapture. Devotion.

You flush, face stinging with embarrassment. Prickling with unease. No one has ever stared at you like this, so hungrily, and the fact that it's him makes your head spin. Looping endlessly in circles of disbelief and fear.

He might be omnipotent, you think, with the way his lips tug sharply downward, brow bunching together as if he can hear your thoughts, taste your disquiet in the air.

Johnny rolls his hips back slowly, inching out of you with a hum until just the tip remains. The loss has your hands scrambling down his chest, fingers tangling in the coarse, drenched hairs at the soft incline of his belly. The other sliding around the thick breadth of his ribs, nails digging into the slick skin covering his spine. Pressing. Biting.

More, you don't say. Please.

The knot in his brow dissipates. Eases into something almost playful, impish.

“Want ma cock, doe?” He whispers it waggishly, like a cloy secret, and you pretend the tease in his voice doesn't make your heart lurch in your chest. “Didnae anyone teach ye some manners? Gotta ask politely.”

You won't. You won't.

Your reluctance makes him sigh. The chain around his neck swinging when he moves. His hips pull back, and he reaches down with his free hand, and grabs his cock, pulling it out of you, and sliding it against your slit. The head bumps into your clit, and you nearly choke on the gasp that's ripped from your chest. The pleasure is too much, too—

He pulls away, denying you the euphoria of release.

“No, no, please,” you babble, resolve crumbling into ash. “Please, Johnny, please—”

“That’s more like it,” he coos, and lets his cock dip back inside of your fluttering hole, rim stretched taut around him once more. The sting is lessened now, but still there as the thick glands force you open for him. “Sound so pretty when yer desperate for ma cock.”

He leans down, catching your mouth in another sloppy kiss as he slams his cock back inside of you hard enough to bruise. To make you see stars. Cockhead bludgeoning into your cervix in a dizzying amalgamation of pleasure and pain that makes you whine, the whimper snatched up between his teeth as he burrows them into your lip with an echoing groan.

He fucks you hard, working his cock into you at a maddening pace. Bestial, now. All animal. The tenderness from before dissolves into an choppy desperation. An eagerness to seek his own end as you fall to pieces beneath him, shaking from the force of taking him over and over again, each piston, each hard thrust driving the thoughts from your head until all you have left is sensation. An absence of everything except the way he feels above you, inside of you.

Sweat builds up along your hairline, gathers at the base of your spine, and soaks the sheets below. You feel liquid under him. A ragdoll for him to sink his jowls into, to toss around as he likes.

Johnny is all sensation and a cacophony of sound.

He ruts into you clumsily, groaning in your ear. Moaning out how good you feel around him. Pretty pussy made just for him.

“Oh, fuck, doe—” he moans, arching into the next thrust. Drool dribbles down his chin when he curves his spine, dropping his forehead onto your temple. “Feels so good. Feels like my cock is meltin’ instead ye—”

The lewd squelch of his cock pistoning into you seems to echo through the room, louder somehow than the ragged moans that spill from his mouth.

“Been so long,” he shudders against you, rooting his cock deep. Burying himself inside of you as his cockhead bullies into your cervix. The flash of pain is whitehot, blinding, but the bloom of pleasure eats it whole before it can pollute the puddle of bliss pooling in your belly. “Been savin’ it all jus’ fer ye—”

His hand slides from your hip, burrowing between your bodies as rubs at your clit. It feels so good that it nips sharply into pain, into agony. Too much, too much—

But he doesn't relent. Fingers toying, circling your clit in time with each jarring thrust, tightening the coil inside of you until it whines from the tension, the pressure—

It snaps when he growls into your ear—cum fer me, doe; wannae feel this pussy squeezin’ ma cock—and releases in a flood, a deluge of molten heat. Back arching, toes curling. You're barely cognisant of the ache in your injured foot, the throbbing pain. It's swallowed by the surge of endorphins roaring through you, ringing in your ears. Blotting everything out except the way you pulse around the thick of him still lodged deep inside of you.

You barely have time to come down before he starts again, forcing you to take him as he thrusts in harder than before, mindlessly seeking his own end as you gush around him, nails raking across his flesh.

He's babbling above you, spitting words into your ear about how he's going to take care of you. All of you. Take you back to Scotland with him so you can raise your children—

It slices through the haze, ripping a hole through the fog clouding your mind.

“No,” you whimper, devastation flooding your chest alongside the vicious pleasure still rolling around inside of you. “No, please—”

Children, he breathes like you hadn't spoken at all. Lots. Lots of them. Brothers and sisters. Two, maybe three, of each. But he's not picky, bonnie, he'll take whatever you give him. And keep fucking you over and over again until he gets what he wants. A whole family to raise. To surround himself with. Been lonely, you think he says. Needed something to keep him busy.

You don't want this. Can't. But he doesn't stop, doesn't relent. He breathes life into the picture he paints with the soft flutter of your cunt clenching tight around him at words, once again betrayed by your own body.

Despite the nausea that bleeds to the surface at his words, your eyes roll back into your head once more, driven mad with the thunderous pleasure that rips through you as he forces every last inch of his cock into you.

Johnny grinds his hips against yours, moaning, loud and untethered, muscles jerking, twitching, as he cums deep inside of you.

The aftershocks of his pleasure make him tremble, body spasming as he drives himself tight against the seal of your womb. A new heat grows inside of you as Johnny slumps against you, panting in your ear.

“Ah’ll be so good tae ya,” he promises in a rasping growl, shoving his head into the crook of your neck. Gyves close around you as he nuzzles his mouth into your flesh, licking at the sweat that beads on your skin.

“All mine. All fuckin’ mine—” The confessional is tainted with the sickness that leaks from the craggy hole chiselled into the side of his head. Obsessive devotion hewing ruinous dogma into the fibrils of your head. Tenderised, softened, by the blunt, unyielding touch of his hand. A slurry that this polluted notion slips inside, tainting your resolve until it's thickened into his whim. His wants.

You sob into his chest as he wraps you up in his arms, shackled against the man who carved a place inside of you just wide enough for himself to fit. Who spat poison in the hollow crevasses, and called it absolution. Love.

All you can do is heave through corrupted lungs as he smothers you under the weight of his madness.

“No’ gonnae let anyone touch ye. Ah'll kill anyone who tries to tae take ye away from me, doe—”

The conviction in his tone is bound in steel. In feverish blue.

“Ah’ll take care’a ye,” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Donnae worry about a thing, doe.”

“Will you let me go?”

He doesn't answer at first. Just digs his nose into your hairline, breathing in deep until the wide breadth of his chest expands across your back. Mulling it over, maybe. Coming up with an excuse for his behaviour. Something to negotiate with on reasons why you shouldn't call the police the moment he does.

And for a moment, a startling, terrible moment, there's hope. The assurance wells on your tongue. Some unfathomable amalgamation of please and i’ll never tell. Maybe you were going to tell him he was an honest man who did something bad. That there was still good within him. All of those hideous clichès bubble up through the cracks—

But it's all dashed when his hand drops down from its perch beneath your bare breasts, sliding over your skin until it curls possessively over your lower belly.

He breathes out and the hope inside you is snuffed under the gale of delusion, his obsession. “Why would ah do a thing like that?” He prompts, and the genuine confusion in his voice makes you shiver, as if the idea of it is so outlandish, so absurd, it negates everything he'd done to get to this point. You feel hollow. But not—

Not empty.

As if he hears the thought thundering in the ruins of your mind, he presses a tender kiss to your temple that you think is meant to be soothing. Shushing you softly when you begin to shake. “After it took me this long to find ye, doe. Am no’ lettin’ ye go fer the world, ken. Yer mine. All mine.”

And then he closes his jowls around your throat.

Time feels artificial here.

You wake up several hours later, groggy and disoriented, but the sun doesn't seem like it moved from where it was perched last night at all. Fixed in place. Lost in some strange, eternal twilight zone where the sun is a warden, watching you tirelessly through the window.

Cardboard cutout hung amongst the stars.

Your ankle aches horribly—an agonising throb. You must have turned in your sleep, jostled it. You're further away from the spot you were last night, too. Rolled over in your sleep, maybe. The burn brings tears to your eyes that you swallow down with a groan.

As you awkwardly settle your leg in a way that hurts slightly less than it did before, you let cognisance slip back in to keep your mind off of the horrible ache that tremors through your bones. Your neck.

Between your thighs—

It's then that you hear Johnny.

He's whistling in the kitchen. You peer out through the crack in the door, catching the broad expanse of his naked back as he works over the stove. Flexing. Muscles bunching. He hums a tune you can't recognise as he scrapes the spatula over the cast iron pan.

His grey sweats sit low on his hips. The divots above the hem—dimples of Apollo, you recall—are stark against the hollow ravine of his spine. You can't help but stare. Gawk. Limned in the soft light of the morning sun that spills through the open window, he looks almost ethereal. Unreal. Like something out of a magazine and not the middle of nowhere in Canada where the sun doesn't set this time of year.

He feels surreal. A man too good to be true. All sculpted musculature that looks like it could just as well be handmade by an amalgamation of both David’s by Michelangelo and Gian Lorenzo Bernini. All sharp, angled lines; beautiful in their fluidity.

It's unfair, you think suddenly. To be stuck with a man you feel nauseous thinking about but can’t seem to take your eyes off of. Some paradoxical madness. Retribution for a time in a past life where you swindled fate and got away unscathed. All of your karmic sins pile down on top of you as the events last night flicker past, drenched in seafoam. Ghosts linger in the cracks; in memories.

The phantom weight of something slung over your waist, knotted tight between your breasts. Scorching heat glued to your spine. A heavy hand cradling your lower belly. Words whispered into your nape—

He turns, then. Catches your eye like he knew it was there the whole time. Stands there like the picture of ease, of a satiated man puttering around a small space while his sweetheart lounged in the bed, lazing the day away.

Like this wasn’t illegal. Immoral. He treats you like a lover even though you’d only met less than a day ago—

And already his cum was drying on your inner thighs, thick and sticky. His madness pooling in your head, words uttered into your ear about this cabin he has back home, back in Scotland. He’ll take you there, he said. It’s time he came home, he thinks. His head is on straight again, and he finally feels like he can breathe without shattering into a million pieces—

(He put your hands on his head last night, palm cradling the ugly scar on his temple, and whispered, fervent and insane, ye keep ma head together, doe. Ye make me feel whole again—)

Knows a man, he told you. A good bloke who’d help him get you home, too.

His smile is bright. Blinding.

“Mornin’, doe. Ah made breakfast.”

#johnny mctavish x reader #soap x reader #baby trap anthology #the kinks in this are just #wow #UM proceed with caution lmao

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mysterious-moonstruck-musings · 3 months ago

Text

Closed Position: Week 5 (Rumba Part 3)

Closed Position Masterlist ||| Main Masterlist Dieter Bravo x OFC (Katarina)

Series Summary: Dieter Bravo, now sober, was looking to change his bad boy image after hitting rock bottom. His team hoped that having him join the nationally televised family friendly dance competition, Dancing with the Stars, would be a good first step, if they can keep him out of trouble.

Katarina Stamos expected her last season as a professional dancer on the show to go the same as it had for the past thirteen seasons. That all changed when she was partnered with the infamous Dieter Bravo.

Dieter and Katarina are reluctantly thrown into their partnership and must learn to work together to succeed in the competition. In the process they form a deeper connection beyond the dance floor that neither anticipated.

Chapter Word Count: 13.5k

👉 Warnings: Themes dealing with intimate partner violence (not by or toward Dieter), past alcohol abuse, and past drug abuse. There will be fluff, tears, spicy language, and smut. This will be a slow burn. Read at your own risk. Dieter Bravo comes with his own warnings.

👉 Chapter Warnings: Dieter being a menace, improper use of a seat belt, Dieter with a guitar, serious sexual tension, improper ballroom dancing, Dieter's mouth, blasphemy (because of Dieter's mouth), smut, aftercare, fluff, and maybe a smidge of angst

Chapter Quote: “You know you wanna do it with me. Let’s cause a scene.”

Kat's POV

On Friday, I awoke sweaty and aroused. I was almost certain I had been having a sex dream…about Dieter. That was a new experience. I was equal parts mortified and angry that the alarm woke me up before the climax.

I sat up and stretched before reaching over to grab my phone and water bottle from the nightstand, unscrewing the lid and taking a long drink as I unlocked my phone. I turned my attention to email first, opening the app to make sure I didn’t have any new marching orders from Stacia and Joe. I didn’t, but there was an email from the medical clinic indicating that my test results were now available. I figured everything was probably fine, but that didn’t make it any less nerve wracking as I logged into their portal to check. I sighed in relief as I skimmed down the page, all negative. At least that was one less thing to worry about. I closed that app, then noticed there were new Instagram notifications. Dieter had apparently posted a couple of new stories. The first was a picture he had taken of me last night before dinner. I balked when I saw the included text said “My dance partner is hotter than yours,” with the hashtag #YourLoss.

(Click pics to enlarge. More after the jump.)

That didn’t do anything to help my current state of arousal. The fact that he absolutely did not give a fuck was a serious turn on. However, I knew it was going to cause some raised eyebrows.

I sent a quick reply to the story, “Dieter, seriously?🤦🏻‍♀️😂”

My eyes rolled at his ridiculousness as I moved to take another drink of my water. I nearly choked, spilling half of it down the front of my shirt as his next story popped up on the screen. It was a mirror selfie of him sitting on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but his black boxer briefs and brown leather jacket. Once I finally stopped coughing, I audibly groaned. He looked so fucking good. Without a second thought, I took a screenshot, just as there was a knock at my door. I quickly locked my phone as I yelled “come in”, realizing too late that I probably looked like a hot mess. Dieter popped his head around the door, “Hey sleeping beauty…what in the world happened to you?”

I looked down at my shirt and rubbed aimlessly, “I spilled my water.” Because of you, you beautiful fucking tease. “What’s up?”

He looked amused, “I’m gonna go grab us some breakfast. I’ll be back.”

I gave him a deadpan stare, “I hope you found your pants.”

He snorted, “Unfortunately for you, I did.”

Fucker. I narrowed my eyes and chucked a pillow toward his face, “Shut up. Get out of here.”

He laughed loudly as he pulled the door shut behind him. I heard the main door to the suite open and close a few minutes later. I screwed the lid back on my water and put it on the nightstand, huffing in frustration as I fell back onto the bed. His mere existence was making me crazy. At least we only had two days left here because I wasn’t sure how much more I could handle. I sighed, pulling up the screenshot of his story. Something about it caused the ache between my thighs to become almost painful.

I scoffed, “Oh fuck this. I can’t take it anymore.”

I tossed my phone down beside me, then settled back into the pillow and closed my eyes. One hand sliding up my shirt to knead my breast while the other found its way under the waistband of my sleep shorts. I was soaking wet to the point that it was embarrassing. I couldn’t remember the last time I was this aroused. It was almost shocking considering it was over something so small. Or was it? Maybe it had just been building all week and was finally at a breaking point.

I fought it at first, trying to think of anything but Dieter, but my mind kept going back to him sitting on the edge of the bed, thick thighs spread wide with that smoldering look on his face. Then my thoughts shifted to his large hands being the ones touching me. Now knowing how good he was with his hands had me craving his touch over every inch of my skin. I could only imagine how good it would feel for him to massage other parts of my body. Something told me he wouldn’t disappoint.

I could feel the tension building, stretching so tight that it had me sweaty and gasping for air, but wouldn’t progress further than that. I was stuck on the edge, unable to finish. I think part of me knew allowing my thoughts to wander down this path was a terrible idea and was still fighting it. I stopped my ministrations, huffing loudly from frustration. Setting up, I sought out my suitcase to find the small vibrator I had brought. I should’ve just started with that.

After searching it out, I settled into bed again, trying to get back in my zone with light touches, working my way up to it. Now that I allowed myself to freely think of Dieter, I seemed to get to the edge a lot quicker this time. Just as I turned the vibrator on, I heard the front door open and slam shut, followed by Dieter yelling, “Food’s here!”

I turned the vibrator off and shoved it under my pillow, kicking my legs, groaning, and wanting to cry. How the hell is he back already? If I didn’t do something about this soon, I was going to spontaneously combust.

I rolled out of bed, pulling my hair up into a messy bun as I walked out into the living room. Dieter stared at me with furrowed brows.

“You good? You look flushed…again.”

Fuck. “Y-Yeah, I was just doing some yoga.”

His brows arched, “You could do that in here ya know…where there’s more space. I promise I won’t gawk…too much…but maybe avoid the downward dog. I don’t need to see that.”

I could feel the wetness on the inside of my thighs, suddenly thinking about how a little yoga session could turn dirty really fast under the right circumstances.

I shook my head to clear that thought, remembering his last comment.

“Why don’t you need to see that?” I asked.

His face turned pink as he chuckled nervously, “Seriously? I’ve already told you that you have a nice ass. I wouldn’t be able to look away.”

So, he’s an ass man. Got it. I snorted, “Well, at least you’re honest.”

My eyes raked over the spread of food that he was now pulling out of bags, “Where did you go for all of this? That was super-fast.”

“There’s a diner just around the corner. I called it in and it was ready to go when I got there.”

I nodded. That explains it. Of all days to get something quick…damn him.

We sat down to eat. It took everything in me not to be distracted by the burning urge at my core. It eventually passed as we discussed the day’s schedule. Then I had to rush and get ready to head to the studio with him. It was dress rehearsal day, which I was pretty excited about. I couldn’t wait to see Dieter in action.

Most of my day was spent standing around, watching Dieter and the cast go through the skits. During breaks he would come over to ask me for feedback. Overall I thought he was doing amazing. The way he could just turn it on and go into character fascinated me. He was so witty, and his timing was spot on. I could already tell the show was going to go well if it turned out to be anything like the dress rehearsals. I did appreciate that he took any suggestions I made as being constructive. He didn’t seem offended and even welcomed the input, giving my ideas a try on the next run through.

By lunchtime, I was beginning to feel achy. The week’s chaotic schedule was catching up to me and I had hardly taken any self-care measures to avoid it. I’m sure the pent up tension I had been feeling didn’t help matters either.

Dieter came to sit next to me at the table with our DoorDash delivery and began pulling food out of the bag as he eyed me popping two anti-inflammatory tablets.

“You feeling ok?” he asked.

I slumped back in my seat and puffed air out through my cheeks, “Yeah…I’m just getting a little run down. My joints are protesting and determined to ruin my day. I think I may take advantage of that soaking tub tonight. It might help.”

Dieter gave me a sympathetic look, “Anything I can do to help? I can go get you some herbal tea. Turmeric, ginger, and white willow bark are good anti-inflammatories. I drink those when my back bothers me.”

I was surprised he offered such a thing, but I really shouldn’t have been. The man knows his plants, of course that would carry over to herbal remedies. He also seemed to have a tendency to try and take care of me.

I reached over and squeezed his knee, “Thank you, but I’ll be fine…I think. I’ll keep it in mind though.”

He looked disappointed as he took a bite of his sub sandwich, chewing thoughtfully for a moment.

“We’ve still got a few more skits to rehearse. Why don’t you go relax in my dressing room for a bit…get off your feet…we can do the monologue run through last.”

I made a pouty face as I picked at my sandwich, “But then I won’t get to watch you rehearse.”

“I mean…you don’t have to, it was only a suggestion…just wanna make sure you're not hurting. I need you on top of your game after all.”

I smiled at his meager attempt at a joke, “You know what, I may actually take you up on that offer. At least long enough for the pain meds to kick in.” I would never admit it to him, but I was actually starting to ache bad enough that it was getting hard to ignore.

He nodded, “Good.”

That seemed to placate him for now. I did appreciate his concern. At least he showed me that he cared. It was more than Alec ever did.

After I finished my sandwich, I stood and perched against the table beside Dieter, who was now scrolling on his phone.

“How long do you think it’ll take you all to finish up?”

Without looking up from his phone, his hand reached out toward me, slipping around my lower back before pulling me into his side. His hand came to rest on my hip as he finally looked up at me from where he was still sitting in the chair.

It took me off guard, but I didn’t hate it. I responded by leaning into him and resting my hand at the nape of his neck. My fingers inched toward his curls, hesitating briefly before moving to scratch lightly at his scalp. It had to be one of the most casually intimate interactions we had ever had. I wanted more.

When our eyes met, my breath hitched. God, he’s so fucking beautiful. I could feel his thumb running across the small area of exposed skin where my shirt had ridden up, causing goosebumps to form over my entire body. It would be so easy to crawl into his lap and kiss him right now. I exhaled slowly, attempting to focus my thoughts on something else.

Dieter seemed to have been momentarily distracted too, but eventually gave me a small smile, seeming to remember that I had asked him a question.

“I’ll come get you during our next break. Feel free to take a nap if you want. The leather sofa is pretty comfortable, but I can’t promise how clean it is. No telling who has been in that room…”

I snorted out a laugh, “Noted.”

I moved to leave, but his hand tightened on my hip. His gaze turned more intense, “Promise you’ll let me know if you need anything? I’ll go get whatever you want.”

I smiled at him and ran my fingers through the top of his hair, brushing it away from his eyes. It felt strangely satisfying to do. “Don’t worry, I will. I promise. It’s not that bad, really.”

He studied my face for a moment, seemingly satisfied with my response before dropping his arm. I was suddenly feeling much better and didn’t want to leave him after that exchange, but I didn’t want to try and explain my sudden recovery because it had everything to do with him.

After that, I made my way to his dressing room and immediately sunk down onto the plushy leather sofa. There was a blanket draped over the back that seemed questionable, but I sort of didn’t care, wrapping myself up in it as I settled in for a nap. I was out as soon as I laid my head down. Hazy dreams that I wouldn’t remember followed. Only traces of the way it made me feel would remain - warm, safe, loved, and blissfully happy.

I awoke sometime later to Dieter sitting on the edge of the couch beside me, his hand on my hip giving a gentle shake. He was looking at me with a smirk as I groaned and wiped the sleep from my eyes.

“Time to wake up, sleeping beauty. How you feeling?”

I moved to sit up, his hand sliding down to rest on the side of my thigh in the process.

“Better, I think. I didn’t realize how badly I needed that.”

He nodded, “Yeah, I think we’ve both been a little sleep deprived the last few days.”

He stood, “You ready to go over the monologue?”

I laughed nervously, “I suppose. This is about to be a disaster…”

Dieter shook his head, “Nope, you’ve got this. Just focus on me and the cue cards if you need them. Forget anyone else is in the room.”

That’s easy to do. I do it often enough. I stood and followed him out to the stage, both of us taking our places. The first time through was…rough. By the fourth time, I relaxed into it some, creating a playful banter between us, which was the goal. Dieter’s facial expressions to my joking insults were so on point. It was hard for me to keep from laughing. I really hoped I could keep it together during the live shows. The fifth and final time, we managed to nail it, which left me feeling much more confident about the whole thing.

Dieter and I were standing just in front of the stage exchanging notes on our last run through when one of the writers, Judy, came over and invited us out for open mic night at a local blues club. I knew there would probably be alcohol there, so I was tempted to decline. I glanced over at Dieter with a questioning look, “I’ll leave that up to you.”

Dieter shrugged, “We could spare a couple of hours, right? I wouldn’t mind getting you up on stage...” A mischievous grin was now plastered across his face as I started to shake my head.

“Nope. Not happening, Bravo.”

Judy’s eyes lit up, “Wait, do you sing?”

Dieter bumped his shoulder against mine, still smiling, “She sings and plays. She’s amazing.”

I was still shaking my head, “Dieter, no. I refuse.”

He put an arm around my shoulders, hugging me against his side as he leaned in close to my ear, “I’ll do it if you will.”

I sighed, “Now you’re playing dirty…asshole.”

Dieter snorted out a laugh as Judy grabbed my arm, “Come on Kat, it’ll be a good time. It would be amazing to see you two do something like that together.”

I puffed air out of my cheeks, “Alright fine. We can go…but I’m not making any promises.”

Dieter bear hugged me, shaking me from side to side as he yelled “Yaaaaasss” a little louder than necessary. I laughed and rolled my eyes at his enthusiasm. Judy snickered at Dieter’s antics, “Great, I’ll let everyone know you’re coming. You can share a ride with us if you don’t mind being squished in. It’s not that far away.”

Dieter glanced over at me, a smirk on his lips, “That’s fine, Kat can sit on my lap if need be.”

Fucking hell. Why is he torturing me like this? I narrowed my eyes on him as Judy chuckled, “Cool, I’ll go gather everyone up.”

After she walked away, I leaned over to Dieter and quietly asked, “You sure this is ok? You know they’ll probably be drinking…”

He sighed, “I’m gonna have to be around it at some point. It’s inevitable.” He gave me a soft smile as he took my hand and entwined his fingers with mine, “Besides…you’re gonna be there with me, so I’ll be fine.”

His eyes crinkled around the edges as his smile grew. I could tell that he believed what he was saying. It caused butterflies to form in my stomach when I considered the possible implications behind his words.

A short time later, a group of us squished into the back of a black SUV. Dieter sat in the very back corner. I hopped in behind him. Just as I was about to settle into the seat, he pulled me onto his lap, sitting me at an angle across his thighs. He wordlessly reached up behind him with his left hand to pull the seat belt out and motioned for me to fasten it around the both of us. Judy and one other person slid onto the bench seat beside us as he wrapped his arms around my middle and hugged me against his chest.

Dieter’s proximity caused him to completely invade all of my senses. His face was close enough to mine that I could almost taste his lips. I was cocooned in his smell and warmth, causing me to melt into his embrace. I could feel his hot breath blowing against the side of my neck and hear it hitch as I smiled shyly at him. The sight of his rounded brown eyes gazing deeply into mine made my heart skip a beat. For a brief moment, the world fell away, and it was just us getting lost in each other's eyes. He tucked his bottom lip between his teeth before turning his attention to Judy who had apparently asked a question.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” he said almost in a daze.

“Do you play too?” she asked again.

Dieter shrugged, “I guess you could call it that.”

I smiled down at him, “He plays the guitar and sings. He’s really good.”

A smile tugged at his lips as a blush crept across his cheeks. He squeezed me a little tighter as he leaned his forehead against my jaw.

Judy clapped her hands excitedly, “This is gonna be so much fun.”

I wished I shared her enthusiasm, but I couldn’t. Dieter laughed, his eyes meeting mine again.

“You gonna have some fun with me, Kit Kat?” My brow arched. Fucking tease.

I shifted to put my arm around his neck, “Depends on which definition of fun we’re talking about.”

His left hand that now rested on my hip gripped a little tighter as his eyes roamed over my face. I could tell he wasn’t sure how to take that comment. Good. Stew on that one. One side of his lips tugged upward, “I’m open to trying any definition of your choosing.”

My jaw nearly dropped. What. The. Fuck. Is he doing? I glanced around the car, worried someone was going to hear us, but everyone now seemed engrossed in one of the multiple conversations happening between the occupants. I could feel myself relax knowing that they all seemed distracted.

He shifted to lean in closer, causing his right hand to slide up my jean covered thigh a few inches. His lips grazed the shell of my ear as he spoke in a low gravelly voice, “We gonna rehearse for a bit after this?”

When he pulled away I couldn’t help staring at his pouty bottom lip briefly before my eyes flicked up to his. I nodded, “I’m not gonna let you get out of it that easily. You still need a little work.”

He chuckled, “Right…Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

I gave him an admonishing look over the pet name as he fought a smile. We were interrupted by the opening of doors, having arrived at the club.

The club wasn’t really what I was expecting. The walls were dark, but it was hard to tell what color they actually were because every inch of the place was bathed in a crimson glow from the red lantern like light fixtures hanging overhead. A decently sized stage sat in the center of the room with equipment scattered about. The stage was surrounded by tables and plushy booths where people sat enjoying meals. A bar lined the wall on the far side, which made me cringe a little, but overall the atmosphere seemed very chill. It didn’t give off any sort of party vibe.

We were seated at a large table next to the stage. Judy sat on one side of me, Dieter on the other. I sat in silence taking in my surroundings while Dieter chatted away with one of the cast members seated on the other side of him. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits and eager to engage with him. It appeared that whatever damage he had caused during his previous time with them had been repaired. It made me happy that he was making progress in that area because I knew how worried he had been about it.

A server soon appeared and began taking everyone’s drink order. To my surprise, not a single person ordered alcohol. I briefly wondered if that was something they had discussed as a group beforehand or not. Either way, I appreciated it. Dieter was still chattering away so I’m sure he hadn’t even noticed.

I had just started flipping through the menu when, without a word, Dieter grabbed my chair and pulled me closer to his side. I looked up at him with furrowed brows. He gave me a cheesy smile as he rested his arm along the back of my seat, “I didn’t get a menu. Gotta share. What are we getting?”

I gave him a disbelieving smile and rolled my eyes, tilting the menu toward him so he could look at it with me. By this point in the week, we had gotten into the habit of picking out meals that we both wanted to try so we could sample each other’s dishes. I settled on the blackened chicken carbonara while he went with a Cajun chicken and shrimp pasta.

After ordering, his arm remained around the back of my chair as he leaned in closer to talk to Judy on the other side of me. His full attention seemed to be on her, yet his fingers had found their way to the back of my hair, lightly stroking through it as he talked. I tried to be present during their conversation, but it was hard to focus on anything other than his soft touch. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure what the hell they were talking about.

Our attention was soon drawn to the stage as open mic night got underway. The host of the evening, Brian, was already badgering people to go sign up before it even started. Before he introduced the first performer, he caught sight of Dieter sitting in front of the stage. He stopped mid-sentence and changed course, “OH Damn, we got Dieter Bravo in the house tonight y’all!”

His eyes shifted to me as the room whooped and whistled, “AND Kat Stamos is here too! Y’all shouldn’t have sat next to the stage. Imma be giving you hell all night.”

We all laughed, but I felt like I was dying inside just a little bit. I hated being the center of attention like this. Judy took that moment to yell out, “Get them up on stage!” Fucking hell.

Brian’s eyebrows arched, “Oh you guys gonna perform for us?”

I shook my head as Dieter tried to laugh it off. He must have sensed my nervousness because his free hand found its way to my thigh and squeezed gently.

Brian laughed, “I’ll come back to you later. I’m not lettin’ that go.” Everyone cheered. Fuck. This is not how I saw the evening going. The host finally moved on to introducing the first performer just as our dinner was served. Aside from taste testing each other's food, we ate mostly in silence, enjoying the soulful blues performances taking place mere feet from us. I thought we had escaped the wrath of Brian, but I was wrong. Just as we were finishing up, Brian was back on stage asking if anyone wanted to fill the next open slot. When no one came forward, his eyes focused on us.

“A little birdy told me that Dieter and Kat have some hidden talents. I think this would be a good time to get them up here!”

I glanced over at Judy, who looked guilty before her nervous smile turned to an encouraging one. I felt a sudden adrenaline rush coursing through me as I turned to Dieter. A small part of me really wanted to see him sing and play on stage.

“Go on, get to it. You said you would do it,” I teased with a smile.

He shook his head, “No, I said I would, if you did. You gotta come too.”

He stood up, which seemed to get the crowd riled up further, “Come on Kit Kat. You know you wanna do it with me. Let’s cause a scene.”

I laughed. This is NOT what I wanna do with you, sir. I puffed air out of my cheeks. “Fine…but you owe me a solo performance too.”

“You let me pick the song and I’ll do anything you tell me to,” he replied with a dimpled smile. Fucker. I couldn’t pass that up.

He grabbed my hand, tugging me up out of the seat. The cheers in the room were almost deafening as he pulled me up onto the stage. He grabbed one of the acoustic guitars from the stand, taking a minute to strum and tune it as he chatted with the house band. Brian walked over and offered me a wireless mic before disappearing. The handle felt slick in my sweaty palms as I turned toward Dieter who was moving toward the mic stand in the center of the stage. He gave me a sneaky grin as he worked to raise the stand to his height. I smiled at him nervously as I raised my mic to speak, “Alright Bravo, what's it gonna be?”

Dieter was still smiling at me as he strummed a couple bars of the opening notes, waiting for my realization to kick in. It didn’t take long. It was the song I had been humming along to on Wednesday. The one he said that he wanted to hear me sing right before we had the almost kiss, or whatever the hell that was. I chuckled, rolling my eyes at him. He turned to his mic, “I hope you’re ready to have your minds blown by this beautiful and talented woman standing on stage with me.”

I could feel the heat creeping up my cheeks as the audience responded with whistles and applause. I couldn’t help hiding behind my hand. I could hear Dieter’s deep rumbling laugh through the sound system. It vibrated through every inch of my body as I took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for what we were about to do. I had sung in front of crowds before, but that was during family gatherings. This was different, almost daunting. Especially since I knew videos would inevitably find their way online for the world to see.

Dieter turned toward me and leaned in to ask, “You good?”

I gave him a nervous smile, taking another deep breath as I nodded.

“Focus on me if you need to,” he said. I nodded again.

He bumped his shoulder against mine, “Ok, here we go.”

I watched as his thick fingers began to pluck out the opening notes to Blood on a Rose. My eyes met his sultry gaze just as the words to the first verse left my lips. 🎶 (Song link for reference)

Your voice in my ear / The world disappears / So I'll fall again / You can keep me right here / Haunting my soul / A beautiful thorn / You rapture my heart / Leave me broken and torn

The lyrics were suddenly taking on a new meaning for me. He WAS haunting my soul, and I was torn between keeping things professional and completely losing myself to him. I was inching closer to him now, singing only for him. We had seemingly become completely entranced by each other as I moved into the chorus.

This love is killing me / The pain must be part of the cure / It's so hard to breathe when I need you so bad that it burns / You are the fire, love is the blood on a rose

I felt every word of it. This game we were playing had turned into nothing short of torture. My desire for him was reaching a new peak as the electricity crackled between us like it never had before. We were connecting in a new way that suddenly felt more intimate than the dancing. Maybe because we could both sense that there was some truth to the lyrics. I couldn’t keep myself from reaching up to brush the curl away that had fallen down over his forehead, then settled my hand on his cheek as I began the next verse.

Lost in your eyes / These ties that bind / Body and soul / Leaving nothing behind / Don't know how to stop / Don't know how to stay / These chains might break / But you like it that way

And lost in his eyes I was. I don’t think either of us had broken eye contact since the first note of music sounded. We were standing so close together by the time I went into the next round of the chorus that I could have easily leaned in to kiss him if there hadn't been a guitar between us. After a short building instrumental interlude, he shifted, angling the guitar in front of me. He leaned in toward the mic just as I started the final two refrains of the chorus and joined in.

The rush that I felt from his closeness was insane. My entire body was tingling and covered in goosebumps with his face now inches from mine, our gazes still locked as he belted out the words, harmonizing perfectly with me. Sharing this moment and this part of myself with him was waking something up inside of me. A craving unlike anything I had ever felt, and he was the only one that could satisfy it.

When the song ended, we just sort of stared at each other for a few beats as applause and cheers broke out around us. He smirked as he pulled me into his side and kissed me on the cheek. Just as I pulled away, the crowd began to chant “One more!”. I laughed, shaking my head as I raised the mic to speak, “I think the next one is on Dieter. I’m done.”

Dieter gave me his best sad puppy dog look. I shook my head again, “Nope. I’m done. It’s your turn.” He rolled his eyes as I turned to exit the stage, receiving praise as I went. I politely smiled in thanks, moving to take my seat at the table directly in front of where Dieter was now standing.

I could see that he was feeling anxious as he fidgeted with the guitar strap, then adjusted the mic, “Well, I don’t have Kat up here to make me look good anymore.” He laughed nervously, “So, you all better take it easy on me.”

The audience filled with quiet laughter as he turned around, briefly speaking with the house band one more time before returning to the mic. His voice started with the music, slow and deep. Bluesy guitar riffs intermingling with his somber tone. Every word was laced with emotion as his eyes focused on me.

🎶 (Song link for reference)

Bright lights with the side of passion / Nightlife, welcome the attraction / Her satin gloves wrapped all around / She lift me up, then, she knocked me down / I fell in love, she showed me how / She takes a puff and it's curtains now

I was happy to be sitting, because my legs would have given out on me if I hadn’t been. He was literally taking my breath away. This was way more intense than the first time I had seen him sing. I could feel it in my bones - in every cell. I couldn’t handle how fucking perfect and beautiful he was.

Judy grabbed my arm, “I had no idea he sounded like this. He’s so fucking good!”

All I could manage was a small nod, not taking my eyes off him as he transitioned to the chorus.

She drives a camera crazy / I think she knows it / There ain't no one above her and she ain't afraid to own it / The glitz and glamor slay me / But is it hopeless? / This goddess of a woman really gets the people going / Close up, zoom out / From every angle, yeah, she lay me down / Choked up, no doubt / She hard to handle, but she'll keep you 'round

His anxiety appeared to have dissipated. He now seemed slightly cocky even. The rawness and passion in his voice was seriously doing something to me. My thighs were now clenching together under the table. The ache at my center went from zero to painful in an instant. I sighed. This may very well be what finally breaks me.

As he moved into the second verse, something about his expression changed. It was more playful as he fought a smirk, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip during the brief lyrical pauses. His eyes were borderline seductive as he continued to focus on me. Something told me he knew what he was doing, and that thought only made me squirm more. I couldn’t help questioning his song choice. I found myself wondering how much truth was behind the lyrics.

Might bite when they call for action / Shines like she'll evoke reaction / I feel it jump, heart starts to pound / She pulled the plug, really show me now / We fell in love, she showed me how / Hands are cuffed as I slowly drown

By the time he hit the chorus again, he was in full performance mode - sliding the guitar behind his back and gripping the microphone between both hands with confidence. It had to be one of the hottest things I had ever seen. A confident Dieter seemed to be my new weakness.

Everyone in the room collectively lost their minds when he finished. I could hear murmurs around about how amazing he sounded and how surprised everyone was by his talent. He was shocking people left and right this week and I was loving every second of it. I was proud of him and suddenly understood the urge of wanting to show him off. He was MY dance partner after all. If he could use that as an excuse, then so could I.

After a shy “thank you” to the audience, Dieter rejoined us at the table and was met with fist bumps, claps, and pats on the back. He had a dopey grin on his face as he finally sat down beside me. When he noticed me looking at him, his demeanor shifted, seemingly unsure of himself now. I gave him a comforting smile, reaching to lace my fingers with his.

“You did such a good job. I’m a little speechless.”

He huffed out a relieved chuckle, shifting to put his arm along the back of my seat as he leaned in next to my ear, “You were amazing. I could listen to you all night.”

It was my turn to be embarrassed. I could feel the blush creeping up my cheeks, but I still managed to pluck up the courage to ask, “Those were some interesting song choices. Why did you pick them?”

Dieter leaned back into his chair and took a drink of water with his free hand, seemingly weighing his response. He finally shrugged, “They seemed to fit the mood of the evening.”

He’s being cryptic with that answer. My brows pinched together, “What does that mean?”

A cocky grin spread across his face, “You tell me.”

My mouth opened to speak, then snapped shut. I don’t know what to do with that. What is he insinuating?

We were suddenly interrupted by two younger women who asked to take a selfie with us. We agreed, of course. After they spent a few minutes fawning over us, they thankfully left. Dieter immediately turned his attention back to me, smiling as he draped his arm back around my shoulders.

“I’m almost afraid to check social media after this gets out. You know there’ll be videos,” I said.

He snickered, “Well, let’s beat them to it. Story time!”

Dieter shifted to pull out his phone and snapped a quick selfie of us, then posted it to his Instagram story with a smirk. I’d have to check to see what ridiculousness he added to it later. After setting his phone down on the table, his hand found its way to my thigh and rubbed gently as he asked “When do you wanna head back?”

His gaze locked with mine as I reveled in the sensation from his touch. The thigh touching was new, he did it so casually now and I was loving every second of it. I wanted more.

“Umm, lemme run to the ladies room, then we can go,” I finally said.

Judy’s attention was drawn to me as I got up. I motioned that I was going to the bathroom which prompted her to stand and join me. We had to wait in line for several minutes, quietly chatting amongst ourselves as we did so.

“I’ve gotta say, Dieter has shocked us all this week. He’s like a completely different person. He’s actually been pretty amazing to work with,” she said.

I smiled, “Yeah, I know he’s been working really hard. He was excited to be asked back.”

“I’ll admit, a lot of us were not happy about him coming back at first. He was an absolute asshole last time…when he wasn’t trying to get laid that is. He was a mess.”

That probably shouldn’t bother me, but it sort of did. I had to remind myself that he hadn’t kept his past a secret. I knew he used to sleep around. Maybe it was just starting to hit me differently after the Alec thing.

“Being sober has done him good though. I think you're having a positive impact on him too. He seems much more relaxed when you're around,” she added with a knowing look in her eyes.

My brows furrowed, “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, “I dunno. He just appears to be…happier maybe? You seem very in tune with each other.” She leaned in closer, “I’ve gotta ask…because I honestly can’t figure you two out…Do you have something going on? Like…are you together?”

I scoffed, “No. Absolutely not. I mean, sure, we’ve gotten close…I understand what he’s going through because my dad had the same issues…And this show and all the drama that comes with it is putting us through the wringer. We’ve just become good friends through all of it.”

She didn’t look convinced, “All I’m gonna say is…he was tryin’ to get with anyone that would give him the time of day last time he was here. Now, he only has eyes for you. That man is one hundred percent into you.”

I laughed nervously, “No he’s not. It’s not like that with us.”

She gave me a doubtful look as she moved to take the next open stall, “If you say so, honey.”

I stood there, a little dumbfounded for a moment. Maybe I wasn’t imagining things?

I tried to put Judy’s words out of my mind as I walked back to the table. I was still trying to convince myself that she was wrong. Do I think he flirts sometimes? Yes. But he’s Dieter fucking Bravo. That’s just how he is. To say he only has eyes for me is a whole other level that I was not fully convinced of yet. Of course, now that I was thinking about it, I couldn’t actually recall having seen him flirt with anyone else. Not even in a joking manner. That had to be because he was comfortable around me though. Right?

As I approached the table, I realized Dieter was saying his goodbyes. He turned to me with a soft smile on his face, “I took care of our bill, and our ride should be here any minute.”

Damn, he didn’t waste any time. I nodded, then turned to bid my farewells to everyone for the evening and thanked them for inviting us. Once finished, Dieter grabbed my hand and led me through the crowd to the exit where we found our Uber already waiting.

The ride back to the hotel was oddly quiet, but I could still feel a strange electricity crackling between us. Something had definitely changed between us tonight. I couldn’t keep my eyes from shifting in his direction and roaming over his profile as he stared out the window of the car. The city lights occasionally illuminated his face in various shades of white, blue, and pink - emphasizing his aquiline nose and pouty lips in a way that was making it hard for me to breathe. I knew I should look away, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could ignore the feelings I was having toward him. Being with him as much as I had this week was causing a raging monster to grow inside of me, and it wanted him. After tonight, I didn’t think I could lock it away any longer.

Once we reached the hotel, I linked my arm with his as we walked inside toward the elevators. After the elevator doors closed, his arm shifted to wrap around my waist, tucking me into his side. I was suddenly surrounded by the scent of him, earthy and woody with a soft citrus undertone. It was intoxicating and I had to remind myself not to lean in to inhale him. His husky voice broke through my thoughts, “Do you still wanna rehearse some tonight? I guess we probably should, huh?”

I raised my head to look at him, startled by how close his face was to mine. Fuck. He’s beautiful. I cleared my throat, staring up at him through my lashes, “Yeah, I mean…maybe we can just run through it a few times with the music.”

The elevator doors opened to our floor. I moved away from him to exit, “I’m just gonna run and change first. Tight jeans are not ideal…” I added with a chuckle, swiping into the room as I spoke. He nodded, agreeing that he was going to change as well.

I changed into black leggings and a matching zip front sports bra, then met Dieter in the living room. We stuck to our routine of rehearsing on the terrace. It wasn’t a cold night but being up on the top floor definitely made it a little chilly. Dieter made some sort of comment about keeping the blood flowing to stay warm and my thoughts spiraled. The fact that we were stuck doing one of the most intimate dances this week was not helping matters. I suddenly had butterflies in my stomach realizing what we were about to do while I was in my current state. I don’t know if I can do this and keep it together.

I queued up the music using the small Bluetooth speaker and my phone, then hit play on my watch once we got into position. On our first run-through, I messed up several times because I couldn’t concentrate, but we managed to make it through in the midst of laughter. Dieter was completely throwing me off my game with his new found confidence and intense focus. His hesitation with physical contact had disappeared only to be replaced by a cocky smirk and playful glint in his eyes, which was beyond distracting. I felt like he knew what effect it was having on me too.

On our second run-through, we shook off our giggles and managed to focus, if that’s what you could even call it. The electric current between us was buzzing at max levels as we channeled the intimacy of the dance. Our touches became more sensual and less playful, the looks between us now lingering, the space between us disappearing. Instead of just our foreheads touching during those more intimate moves, our noses were now nuzzling against each other with our lips centimeters apart. Every nerve ending in my body was like a livewire, shocking me where our skin touched. By the time the song came to an end, the vibe between us had completely shifted. I stepped away, laughing nervously, “Well, that one went much better. I think we have a pretty good grasp on it. Do you wanna call it a night?” I need to get away from him. Now. Or I’m gonna lose what little control I have.

Dieter rubbed at the back of his neck as he peered up at me through his lashes, the corner of his lip twitched upward before he spoke, “I dunno, I think maybe we should go through it one or two more times…at least. If you’re feeling up to it…of course.” I could feel his chocolate eyes boring into me as he fought a smile. What the fuck is this? Why does he keep looking at me like that? His words from a few days ago popped into my head, “I’ll behave unless I’m told to do otherwise.”

Surely, he’s not…no. Is he? I felt like he was trying to get a read on where I was with things. Did he feel the shift too? My intuition was telling me that if we kept rehearsing right now, something was going to happen. This whole situation we had been thrust into was setting us up for this and I was falling for it. My gut told me he was too. My head was telling me to call it a night, but my traitorous lady bits were throbbing at the possibility of seeing what else Dieter Bravo could do with those loose hips of his. I suddenly felt like everything was hinging on my response. I must have taken longer than I realized to answer him, because Dieter’s brows furrowed as my name slipped out between his lips. My attention snapped back to him as he asked, “Is everything ok?”

My eyes widened, meeting his, “Yeah, sorry. I was thinking through the ending. I’m not sure it feels right.”

He arched a brow as the smirk returned, “I agree, it’s almost sort of… anticlimactic?”

I nodded, “Yeah…I agree.” Maybe with a new focus, the tension might dissipate some. “Are you good to do another lift?” I asked.

He shrugged, his eyes were almost smoldering now, “I’m good with whatever you wanna do.”

I felt like his words had a double meaning behind them. I tried my best to ignore my thoughts as I worked through the moves in my head, “Alright, I’m not sure how to explain this…ummm…as I turn, allow me to complete the turn into your side while lifting me up onto your hip. You’re gonna bend your leg slightly for me to rest on as you dip me backward, run your hand down my side then snap me up for the final pose.”

He stood staring at me with a confused look etched on his face. I sighed, “Ok, hold on.” I moved to pick up my phone, closing my eyes for a minute to think where I had seen that move before. I somehow managed to pull it out of the recesses of my mind and quickly found it on YouTube to show him. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he watched, then nodded, “Yeah, I like that better.”

We tried it several times and managed to get it down after some struggles and laughter. Then we decided to go through the whole routine again with the new ending. The tension between us quickly returned - pretty much picking up where it left off. Especially when we hit the first lift. From my position on the floor, I raised my legs and hooked them over the tops of his thighs. He slowly lifted me off the ground as I rolled my torso upward and hooked my hands around his neck pulling his face up to meet mine. Our lips grazed against each other this time. The position that we found ourselves in felt more intimate than it ever had as he did a full turn, and I released the hold my legs had around his waist to plant my feet on the ground. We stayed in the embrace a few beats longer than we should have but kept going after finally breaking apart.

Our lips continued to lightly brush against each other throughout the rest of the routine. This was new. We had never gotten this close and intimate during a dance. It was causing blood to rush to my aching core. There was no way we could keep this up or else I was going to burst into flames. I could feel my control slipping away with each passing second.

By the time we reached the end with the final lift I was hanging on by a thread. When I turned and he lifted me onto his hip for the dip, he didn’t just run his hand down my side. He started by caressing my neck, skimmed the center of my breasts, then down my side to pull me upward toward his face. Instead of just resting my hand on the back of his neck, it seemed to have a mind of its own as it moved upward and fisted in the curls at the nape. I could feel his heated breath rush out against my lips as he closed his eyes from the sensation, a quiet whimper escaping his throat before nuzzling his nose with mine. He pulled back slightly, allowing his gaze to settle on me. He looked dazed as I continued to slowly pull away to stand. His hand slid down my arm and gripped my fingertips until they were out of his reach.

I turned away, brushing my hair back off my face and inhaling deeply in an attempt to compose myself. Fuck, I’ve never felt anything this intense before. It was really messing with my head. He was like a magnet pulling me in. There was no way I could fight this for seven more weeks. The pull was too strong. If it didn’t happen now, it was going to eventually unless something changed.

His voice broke through my thoughts, “One more time?” He asked. His voice sounded off. Smoother and deeper somehow. Like honey and sex. I turned to look at him, his eyes widening slightly, “Or, we can call it a night…if you prefer.” He could sense my reluctance and was giving me an out. Deep down I knew he was testing me. I could sense that he wanted it just as badly as I did.

I shook my head, “N-No…one more time should do it. Our timing was still a little off. I think we can get it right this time.”

One corner of his lips tugged upward. Did I have a double meaning behind my words now? Fuck. What am I doing? We got into position as I started the music again. The last of the frayed threads that had been holding us back were finally pulling apart. After the first turn, he placed his hands on my hips and pulled my back tightly against his front. I could feel every inch of his broad body pressed against me, including the stiffness in his pants. There was no polite space there this time as I reached up behind me with my right hand to the back of his neck, grasping at his curls. His fingertips slid down the underside of my arm as his lips lowered to brush against the shell of my ear, then trailed down my neck before transitioning to the next move. I could still feel the blazing path of his mouth on my skin, even after it was gone.

Our touches continued to intensify as we got to the first lift. This is when the threads finally snapped. After I rolled my torso upright and pulled his face upward to meet mine, he stopped moving. His breathing was noticeably shallower as I cupped his cheeks and stared into his darkened eyes. Slowly leaning in further, and without thinking, I placed the lightest of kisses on his lips before pulling back to meet his gaze again. His eyes searched my face as a conflicted expression overtook his features. I loosened the grip my legs had around his waist so he could set me down, which he did, but his hands kept me pulled snugly against his chest as they caressed over the bare skin of my lower back.

He pressed his forehead against mine, I could tell he wanted to kiss me, but he was holding back. His words popped into my head again, “I’ll behave unless I’m told to do otherwise.” I realized then, he’s following my lead in this dance. I pressed my lips against his again, his response was tentative and gentle. Almost like he was afraid he might scare me away if he moved too quickly. My hands slid from his cheeks into his hair, pulling him in closer and deepening the kiss. His lips parted, allowing me entrance. It was soft and sensual the way he massaged my tongue with his. God, he’s such a good kisser. I had never really thought that about anyone in the past, now I realized why. There was an art to it, and Dieter Bravo had mastered it.

My thighs clenched together, the throb at my center was now unbearable. I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew there was no fighting it at this point as my hands dropped down to the hem of his shirt and lifted it over his head. The soft fabric was replaced by my fingers splayed across his bare chest. He leaned in and kissed me briefly before pausing and placing his hands on either side of my neck with his thumbs resting on my chin, gently stroking my face. He pulled back, his intense eyes locking with mine. “Are you sure about this?” he asked.

I nodded in response, but then he continued, “If we do this…it changes everything. I-I can’t go back to the way things were before. It’s all or nothing for me.” He was deadly serious as his eyes bore into me, unblinking as he searched mine. His intensity took me by surprise, and only seemed to spur me on. I let out a shaky breath, his vehemence causing my heart to pound in my ears. I nodded again, “I’m sure.”

He must have found what he was looking for as his eyes danced around my face, because it was like a dam had broken when his lips finally crashed against mine. He was suddenly full of passion and need. His hands roamed over the length of my body as he walked us backward toward the open door to go inside. Once we passed the threshold, he turned, pressing me up against the curtain covered floor-to-ceiling window. My leg hooked around his hip as he rutted against my center, nearly causing me to come undone from the contact.

His lips made their way down my neck, but he still seemed hesitant in touching me where I wanted him to. I grabbed his hands and brought them to my breast, encouraging him to have his way with me. He gave them a tentative squeeze, before groaning against my jaw. One of my hands fisted in the top of his hair as the other moved to the front zipper on my bra, “It’s ok to touch me, Dieter. I want you to…need you to…please.” I begged through heavy pants.

He whimpered against my skin as I pulled the zipper down, his hands immediately reaching for and massaging at the soft exposed flesh as I managed to slide the bra off down my arms. He raised his head, his tongue quickly plunged into my mouth as one of his hands began to move downward at a painfully slow pace until he was finally rubbing against the spot that I wanted him most. It was my turn to whimper into his mouth now. It wasn’t enough, I wanted more. My hips bucked against his palm. He seemed to understand, moving to dip his hand into the front of my leggings, his digits sliding over my slick folds, expertly caressing and teasing me. I quickly turned into a quivering mess as he licked and sucked on my neck and worked me over with his thick fingers.

He suddenly withdrew his hand, now sliding both down my sides and hooking his fingers under the band of my leggings, he paused quietly whispering into my ear, “Is this ok?” I let out a breathy “yes” as he continued to pepper me with kisses, slowly moving down my body with his mouth as he removed the rest of my clothing, completely exposing me. I was burning for him. I couldn’t remember ever feeling like this before. The hungry look in his eyes as he sucked a nipple into his mouth only exacerbated the feeling.

Dieter sank to his knees, lifting my left leg over his shoulder as he pulled away from my breast with a pop. He turned his attention to kissing and nibbling at my inner thigh, dragging his patchy stubble against my skin as his lips made a fiery path to the apex. His teasing touches were maddening. I knew I wasn’t going to last long. When he finally moved to my folds, licking up the center with the flat of his tongue, my legs nearly gave out. He hummed against me before latching on to the sensitive and throbbing bundle of nerves, sucking and flicking his tongue in tandem as his hands gripped my ass and held me firmly against his mouth. I doubled over almost immediately, my hands fisting in his hair for balance. Fucking hell, how did he do that? The loud moan that escaped my lips was almost embarrassing. I somehow managed to get myself upright and grabbed onto the door facing to my left for support. I was already covered in sweat, breathing heavily, and thighs shaking from the building release. Another quick jolt of pleasure ran through me, nearly causing me to double forward again. A breathy, “What the fuck!?!?” escaped my lips. I’d never felt anything like this before.

I could feel the deep rumble of his chuckle as he broke away with another pop, looking up at me through his lashes, “Everything ok, sweetheart?”

My eyes narrowed at the pet name. I could tell he was using that word purposefully. His defiance only further stimulated my arousal. “I don’t think I told you to stop.”

That cocky smirk was back again, “Yes, ma’am.”

He dove back in, more enthusiastic than before - groaning out profane sounds as he worked. I was fairly certain he was sucking my soul out through my cunt. His mouth should be considered the eighth wonder of the world. He should be worshiped. My debauched thoughts were already sending me to hell, so why not add the worship of a false god to the list?

I couldn’t help grinding and arching into him, it felt so good it was almost painful. My release hit out of nowhere, my vision going dark before filling with bursts of color behind my eyelids. My ears began ringing, muffling all sound. The primal cry that came from deep within my chest shocked me. My whole body was shaking to the point that I could hardly stand. I could feel Dieter in front of me now, nuzzling his slick covered nose against mine with his hands around my waist, holding me tightly against him for support.

I snorted out a breathless laugh, “I think I just blacked out for a minute.”

I could feel him laughing against my throat. “Somebody was wound up tight,” he said between kisses. I knotted his hair in my hand and tilted his face upward to meet my gaze, “I don’t think I’ve ever come that fast, or hard…”

He smirked. “You can wipe that smug look off your face,” I added through a chuckle.

He shrugged as a cheesy grin spread across his face, “You know Kit Kats are my favorite thing to eat. What did you expect?”

I snorted, “You DID NOT just say that.”

He laughed loudly, “I totally did, and I’ll never not say it again. It’s too good.”

I smiled against his lips before pulling him in for a deep kiss, tasting the after effects of his handiwork. I wasn’t done with him yet. My right hand slid down through the light smattering of wiry hair at the base of his abdomen, then down the front of his gym shorts, rubbing his hard length. He melted into me as I swallowed his moans, pushing his shorts and boxer briefs down, exposing him to me. His size was as I suspected, girthy and above average in length, but not in a ridiculous way. He was perfect and I was aching to feel him. I NEEDED to feel him. I hooked my leg around his hip, encouraging him to rub against my slick center. He paused suddenly, his forehead dropping to my shoulder, “What’s wrong?” I asked.

He raised his head to look at me with a grimace, “I…uhhh…I don’t have any condoms. I wasn’t expecting…this.”

His rounded brown eyes were full of regret and maybe a little embarrassment at his admission. God, he’s perfect. I gave him a small smile, “I think I would’ve had more questions if you did have them.” He chuckled as I cupped his cheek, “It’s fine. I got the all clear and I’m on birth control…I trust you.”

His brows arched upwards as he shook his head, “I haven’t…with anyone. I swear”

I smiled against his lips, “I know…I told you, I trust you.”

He huffed out a sigh of relief, kissing me once more as he grabbed my ass and lifted me. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he walked toward the bedroom. He continued kissing me as he sank to his knees on the edge of the bed, managing to make it up far enough to lay me back on the pillows. He hovered above me on his elbows, fingertips in my hair as he kissed gently on my forehead, my nose, then my lips. He stared down at me for a moment, his eyes full of emotion, “I just want you to know that…with you…this does mean something to me.” I could feel my heart beating out of my chest from his admission. I kissed him back, deeply, before mummering a quiet “I know” against his plump bottom lip.

He gave me a soft smile, then sat up on his knees, his hands gently rubbing and massaging down my torso as he moved. His eyes followed their path, taking in every inch of my flesh. Seeing him like this, completely bare before me as he began stroking himself between my thighs, was easily the most erotic sight I had ever laid eyes on. His shoulders somehow looked broader from this angle, the muscles in his chest and arm flexed as he slowly slid his hand up and down his length. His messy curls were now hanging down over his lustful gaze, adding to his sexiness.

The way he looked at me was nothing short of obscene as he reached to rub at my inner thigh with his free hand, gently grazing his fingertips down to my ankle, then lifting my foot to rest on his shoulder. His hand continued to rub from the tips of my toes down my calf as he nuzzled his cheek against the inside of my foot. The softness of his touch juxtaposed with the scratchiness of his beard in such a sensitive spot caused a surge of electricity to course through my veins.

My cunt was suddenly aching to be touched. I couldn’t wait any longer. I surprised myself when my right hand found its way down to my folds to rub at the small bundle of nerves. My fingers briefly dipped down to collect some of the slick to smear around before continuing in my endeavor. My left hand moved to squeeze my breast. I was already feeling that familiar tingling sensation again with very little effort. Something about Dieter made me feel brazen and uninhibited unlike ever before. I never felt safe enough to be like this with Alec. I never felt any of this with Alec.

Dieter’s teeth sunk into his bottom lip as he watched me arch into my hands. His eyes flicking up from the apex of my thighs to meet my gaze ever so often to watch me, watching him. Neither of us said a word, our connection allowing us to silently communicate our feelings and needs as we shared this moment of mutual self-pleasure.

His hand moved to caress my ankle, his thumb pressing THAT spot again just below the ankle bone, causing jolts of pleasure to shoot through me. He tucked his chin, opening his mouth to graze his teeth against the spot his thumb had just vacated, causing a new prickling sensation to creep up to my aching core. I whimpered quietly at the feeling, his gaze meeting mine as he began to gently suck the area. His eyes shifted down to my center, now watching my fingers at work. I watched as his head dipped further, spit dripping from his mouth onto his cock as he continued to leisurely stroke himself, his thumb swiping over the sensitive tip as he moved. Something about his actions made me feel feral. It wasn’t a want anymore. I needed him.

Dieter must have sensed my growing need, suddenly lowering my leg and sliding his large hands around my hips. With a firm grip, he lifted them up off the mattress and notched himself at my entrance. I watched our reflections in the mirrored ceiling as he slowly sank in, stretching me around his length. The sight and feeling of him forced incoherent sounds from my lips. He let out a loud hiss through his teeth as he sunk in to the hilt. His eyes fluttered shut as his jaw went slack, his head briefly dropping back in ecstasy. The position he put me in had opened my hips up in a way they never had been during sex, allowing him in deeper, eliciting a pleasure I had never felt.

He leaned forward slightly, tucking one arm around my lower back, causing it to arch further, increasing the friction of his movements against my center. He set a steady rhythm, rolling his hips and thrusting upward in a way that hit all the right spots perfectly. His free hand slid up my abdomen to knead my breast and roll my nipples between his fingertips causing my skin to pebble all over. He let out a quiet moan at the way my body responded to his touch. I soon found myself fisting the sheets and coming undone again before he had even broken out into a sweat.

A satisfied smile slid across his face as I clenched down around him and groaned loudly with my release, “That’s it sweetheart, let it go.” His breathy voice was deeper and more husky than I had ever heard it. It was so fucking sexy. I wanted to tell him to stop calling me sweetheart, but deep down, it was only stoking the flames further. I think he knew it too, which is why he kept saying it.

He gently lowered my hips to the bed while I tried to catch my breath. He shifted to hover above me on his elbows, somehow managing to leave us joined through it all. His fingers worked to brush away the stray hairs that were sticking to my sweaty face, his lips trailing behind them. I caught his mouth with mine, kissing him deeply as my hands wandered over his body. He began moving again, tucking his knees under my thighs to slightly elevate my hips. I arched up into him as he hit just the right spot deep inside of me. The way he moved was causing the base of his cock to rub against my clit in a way that was already making my whole body quiver and shake toward another release as my legs tightened around his hips. One of his arms slid underneath my lower back, holding me snugly against his chest, further increasing the friction as he continued to massage my tongue with his.

All of his movements seemed to be calculated. Every touch and every angle were done with a single purpose - to give pleasure, not take it. He knew exactly what I needed and how to get me there. I didn’t have to tell him, because he was reading the cues. He was working my body in ways I never thought possible and satisfying every craving that I ever had that had gone unfulfilled. Yet, he was awakening a primal hunger that I didn’t think would ever be satiated.

He began to quicken the pace of his thrusts, which finally sent both of us over the edge together. The room filled with sounds of our heavy breathing and loud moans as he finally spilled into me. Our eyes remained locked on each other through our releases. It was intimate and unexpected, making my heart skip a few beats. He wasn’t afraid to show the vulnerable side of himself as he lost control - not holding back any of his soft whimpers. I found myself wanting to see it again and again.

Dieter nearly collapsed on top of me, burying his face in my neck as he worked to catch his breath. My fingers instinctively combed through his messy curls as I did the same. Eventually, he moved to kiss me again, nibbling on my chin as he pulled out with a groan to lay at my side. He was quiet for a few minutes, now seeming unsure of himself as he finally spoke up, “Do you want me to leave now?” His words came out almost in a whisper, sounding sad, like it was inevitable. He didn’t look my way, instead he stared toward the doorway as he waited for my response. I could see his expression in the mirrored ceiling. He looked sad, like he was fighting back his emotions.

I could feel my brows pinching together, confused by his sudden change in demeanor. “Why would I want you to leave?” I asked.

His lips set into a tight line as he shrugged, “Because people usually don’t want me to stay…after.”

I shifted to lay on my side so that I was facing him. I placed my hand under his chin, turning his head so he was looking at me, “I never want you to leave me after…”

He stared up at me with his sad puppy eyes before turning his body to face mine, burying his face in my side and hugging my thighs against his chest. “Is this ok?” he asked against my bare skin. My fingers moved back to strum through his hair, “Of course it is. It always will be.”

I suddenly felt sad for him, wondering what had happened in his life that would make him ask those questions. I had the overwhelming urge to shower him in affection. I had a feeling he hadn’t gotten a lot of that, in recent years at least. Then again, I hadn’t really had that either.

I felt his hand rub up and down the back of my thigh, his head suddenly popped up to look at me, “Did you still wanna soak in the tub? I know the last few days have been tough on you. I don’t want you to be sore or anything. I can get it ready for you…if you want?”

I glanced at the clock, it was almost 11:30 PM. “I dunno, it’s getting late.”

Dieter kissed my hip, “If you wanna sleep in, I’ll go grab us some breakfast in the morning.”

I smiled, “You’re making that really hard to turn down, Bravo.”

He was massaging my hip now, with a small smile on his lips. It felt amazing.

“I wanna take care of you. Gotta keep these hips in working order,” he leaned down and kissed where he had just been rubbing as his hand slid down to grip my ass cheek.

He’s definitely an ass man. I laughed, “Ok, fine. You win, but only if you join me.”

He smiled against my skin, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I stretched out on the bed, watching as he moved around the room to prepare the bath, still completely naked and confident. As he waited for it to fill, he gathered towels from the bathroom then added salts to the water, occasionally checking the temperature. Once it was halfway full, he stepped in and sat down, “Oooh fuck, this might be too hot.”

I laughed, “That means it’s perfect then.”

He shook his head, muttering out, “Nope. Nope. Nope.” Then he moved to adjust the temperature of the running water.

Once he settled against the backrest, I got up to join him, piling my hair up into a messy bun along the way. He spread his legs wide so I could sit between his thighs and lean against his chest. I scoffed, “Nope. It could be warmer.” I sat up to adjust the temperature again while he laughed. We were quiet until the tub was full. I reached to shut off the water then got comfortable against him. His thumbs moved to massage into my neck, then down the back side of my shoulders. After several minutes, the rest of his fingers joined in, digging into the top muscles. His motions elicited a quiet moan from me as my head dropped back to his chest. His fingers made their way to the front side, massaging around the base of my neck, then moved down the sides of my arms.

My eyes drifted closed, “Mmm, I wasn’t aware that a massage was part of this.”

Dieter’s lips brushed against my ear, “I told you, I wanna take care of you. That position I had you in can do a number on your neck and back.”

I sighed, “I’m not really sure what to do with this. I’m not used to aftercare.”

He scoffed, “That shouldn’t surprise me. I hope he was at least a decent lay.”

I laughed, “No. He wasn’t. He fucking sucked. I usually had to take care of things myself. He was a very selfish lover. Always wanting and taking. Half the time I just felt like his plaything to be used as he saw fit, then discarded when he was done. He typically didn’t stick around after either.”

Dieter nuzzled into my neck, “That’s a terrible feeling that I know all too well. I promise, I’ll never do that to you.”

I turned so that I could see his face, “I’ll never do it to you either…People would really ask you to leave after?”

He pursed his lips in thought, “Yeah, I mean…it was just hookups. It was never meant to be more than that. Either they asked me to leave, or they would leave without a word. It was better in a lot of ways…didn’t have to go through the awkward morning after thing. It’s just sort of what I’ve come to expect I guess.”

I turned away, now staring at the water, “Why did you do it?”

He sighed, squirming under me a little, “Ummm, that’s more complicated. Most of the time I was so coked out I’m not even sure if I knew what I was doing. Other times, it was an escape…to feel something else and nothing else at the same time…but there was never any connection there. It was just about forgetting my problems and having a fun time.”

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, suddenly worried that’s all this was to him. An escape. He must have sensed it because his arms tightened around me as he leaned his cheek against mine, “It’s not like that with you. Don’t worry. I told you…this means something to me. You’re making me feel things I didn’t know possible…want things I’ve never wanted because I was too afraid.”

His voice wavered, which took me by surprise. I turned to face him again, searching his sad eyes. “What were you afraid of?” I asked.

He reached to entwine his fingers with mine on his chest, his eyes turning glassy as he stared at them, “In simple terms…rejection, abandonment, pain, loss. I didn’t feel like I was worthy of being loved. There’s a lot to unpack there, and I don’t wanna do that tonight. I just wanna be with you.”

I smiled, releasing his hand and reaching to pull his face toward mine so I could look at him. We took each other in for a moment before he leaned down and captured my lips with his. I shifted to straddle his thighs as his arms snaked around me. We spent some time making out as our hands explored each other. It never progressed beyond that. I couldn’t remember the last time I had an intimate moment like this that didn’t turn sexual. It was actually kind of nice just being together. When we finally broke apart, Dieter buried his face in my chest, and hugged me tightly. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, my fingers instinctively going to his fluffy curls. He sighed contentedly, “I can’t believe this is happening right now.”

I chuckled, “I honestly can’t either…”

“You fought a good fight. I wasn’t sure if you were gonna give in or not,” he mumbled out against my neck.

I scoffed, “Excuse me? You didn’t know I was into you.”

I felt his rumbling laugh, “Oh I one hundred percent did.”

I tugged his hair to lean his head back so I could look at him, “Since when?”

He shrugged, “Since last week for sure.”

My head shook from side to side in disbelief, “And here I thought I was doing a good job at hiding it.”

He laughed, “Maybe for a little while, but no, not recently…I think the water is getting cold.”

I puffed air out of my cheeks, “Yeah it is.”

I slid back off his thighs, then he moved to stand and grab a towel. After helping me to my feet, he began drying me off. Once he was satisfied, he tucked the towel in around my torso, then gave my ass a squeeze as I stepped out of the tub. I squealed, reaching for his towel, then turned to return the favor of getting him dry.

As I rubbed the towel over his chest, I suddenly felt shy as I asked, “Are you gonna stay with me tonight?”

He smirked, “If you want me to…I mean, I was kinda planning on it…”

Relief flooded through me. I couldn’t meet his eyes as I spoke, “Good. I wasn’t sure…”

His fingers found their way to my chin and lifted it upward so that I was looking at him, “I’m gonna be wherever you are until you tell me to fuck off.” I couldn’t help laughing. He always had a way with words.

We didn’t even bother to get dressed before snuggling into bed, tangling our limbs together and making out like a couple of teenagers. I wanted to feel all of him as I drifted off to sleep and I made sure he knew it. He didn’t hesitate to wrap himself around me once we finally settled down. It was the best night’s sleep I had had in a very long time, and I knew it was because of him.

Next: Week 5 (Part 4)

A/N: Are you all screaming right now? I'm screaming because FINALLY! Took them long enough, right? Could that build up have been any slower? Dieter was taking a chance when he asked to keep going...it was a rather delicate dance on his part. We will hear from him in Part 4, which I currently have no ETA on as I haven't started it yet. (I know, I'm SORRY!)

Poor Kat just couldn't catch a break in this chapter. Just when she was finally going to do something about her little ache, Dieter had to ruin it. He was literally driving her crazy in every way possible. 🤭

What do you think about Dieter's song choices? Was he trying to make a statement?

Can we talk about how much he wants to take care of her (and honestly enjoys it)? He's too damn cute.

Also, can we talk about the sex? Do you think he's about to give Kat some new experiences? If so, how open do you think she'll be to them?

We got some small revelations about Dieter's past. What are your thoughts on that? We have more to unpack there...

✨This chapter's video is a little different. It was made by two of the dance professionals from DWTS (who are married in real life). I love watching these two dance together because their chemistry is off the charts. They are dancing to the same song that Dieter and Kat will be dancing the Rumba too. Honestly, I think their version is better than the one from the actual music video. Give it a watch and enjoy!

Click HERE for the video.

✨THE LIFTS: I’ve included gifs for reference on the lifts. The first two gifs go together. I had to split them because tumblr has a ridiculous size limit.😒

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