#baby trapping... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

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

2K notes · View notes

revehae · 6 months ago

Text

rose creek motel

pairing ↠ jaehyun x (f) reader

genre .. warnings ↠ smut, age gap (18+), drowning, noncon, baby trapping, unprotected sex, oral, angst

summary ↠ after eighteen years of complying with the rules of your domineering parents, you finally decide it’s time to wipe the slate clean and move away. rose creek motel is nothing in the grand scheme of your life, especially with a history of serial killers lurking around, but when you meet jaehyun, you decide that you’re not in any hurry after all.

wc ↠ 15.8k (i…dont Know)

a/n ↠ okay tbh i intended for the last smut scene to be Darker but you have to understand i was listening to horizon and forever only giggling and smiling and shit. cut me some slack pls. before you read, heed the warnings. i do not intend to glorify age gaps or predatory behaviors.

don’t like it, don’t read.

after a three-hour train ride to another city and another hour of wandering, you were thrilled to stumble across a motel before dusk. at first, there didn’t seem to be any nearby.

it was a smaller one, not part of any major chains throughout the country. there didn’t appear to be many staff nor customers. there was one dude who checked you in at the front desk and maybe a handful of cars in the lot.

not that it mattered. you wouldn’t be here long enough to be concerned about the sheer size of the place. a few days, maybe less, but certainly not more. the grand city of newark was waiting for you and you were borderline impatient to get there. but on the other hand, you wanted to savor this little trip.

it would mark the first of your own, and the true beginning of your lifelong journey to find yourself.

any other person most likely would have been desperate to kick off their shoes and head to their room for the night, but the creek across the road from the motel caught your eye. you rushed over in spite of your aching feet as though it wouldn’t be there tomorrow, ambling along the riverbank.

the waters rushed and crashed into slew of rocks, and you closed your eyes as you took in the sound. you could hear birds singing late afternoon songs and the rustling of trees in the early march spring.

footsteps behind you startled you out of your peace. your foot slipped and your body lurched forward. had not a pair of big, burly arms clasped around you tightly, you would have slipped into the tiny creek.

you glanced up in shock, meeting a handsome pair of innocent eyes. “sorry, i didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, pulling you away from the bank.

when you were safely on your own feet again, the handsome stranger released you. you straightened your skirt and smiled up at him. “it’s fine. thank you for catching me.”

“no problem. it would have been my fault if you fell.” he introduced, “i’m jaehyun. i work at the motel across here.”

you glanced back at the motel, as if you hadn’t seen it before. “oh,” you said, surprised. but the uniform clinging to him gave that away. “not much staff, huh?”

jaehyun smiled. he had deep, adorable dimples. “well, we are a pretty small motel. we do what we can with what we have.”

“do you get a lot of visitors?”

“usually just people with a road trip gone bad,” jaehyun said. “i’d ask what a girl like you is doing out here by yourself, but i don’t want to seem like a creep.”

you laughed, wondering how that would be possible. when you were as handsome as this boy was, it would’ve been more difficult. “no, it’s okay. i’m actually not having a car trouble. i got here by train. i’m on my way to newark.”

“newark,” jaehyun repeated, seemingly interested. “where from?”

“boston,” you chirped. “i’m starting afresh. my birthday was a few days ago and as my parents like to put it, i’ve ‘gone rogue.’”

jaehyun’s eyes went a little wider in surprise. “happy belated birthday,” he said. “how old are you now?”

you shrugged, deciding not to reveal too much information. you were maybe naive to a fault, but not a complete idiot. “that’s a secret. i’m an adult, though.”

jaehyun snickered. “that’s obvious. you checked yourself into the motel, didn’t you?”

well, that was true. but the exterior of the building seemed so shady, you’d initially doubted they would even bother with identification. you were grateful they didn’t require you to be twenty-one. a second longer of wandering and you would have collapsed on the side of the road.

ignoring his question, you gave one of your own. “how old are you?”

mocking you, jaehyun put a finger to his lip and said, “that’s a secret. but i’m an adult, too.”

you shook your head, but there was an amused smile on your face. “fair enough,” you mumbled, turning towards the creek.

jaehyun’s attention shifted with yours. “it’s called rose creek, our namesake,” he told you. “not much to see out here.”

“that’s not true,” you disagreed. “there’s a ton to see in nature. you just have to open your eyes and look.”

jaehyun seemed amused, giving you a look.

noticing his furrowed brows, you pointed towards the middle of the water. “look,” you said softly. “there’s a cute little baby turtle right there. they love creeks, because they’re an easy place to find tasty victims.”

jaehyun’s eyes focused, landing on what he had thought was a rock and only noticed upon further inspection was indeed a turtle, chilling in its leathery shell. “damn, you’ve got a good eye.”

you giggled. “i grew up near a creek. you learn to pick up on those sort of things.”

“ah,” jaehyun replied, nodding his understanding. “should we name it?”

“what would we name it?”

jaehyun shrugged. “squirtle.”

that almost prompted you to roll your eyes. “that’s too cliché.”

“then, what do you suggest?” jaehyun asked with a grin, crossing his arms.

“i don’t know,” you mumbled. “donatello.”

jaehyun snickered. “and that’s any better?”

you threw up your hands. “okay. fine. how about… archie.”

well, that was different from the other suggestions. “why archie?”

“because turtles remind me of that one studio ghibli film about the red turtle,” you told him, lowering your head shyly as you explained yourself. “and when i think of red, i think of that guy from riverdale.”

“isn’t that that show about teens dying?”

you shrugged. “don’t know. never watched it.”

something about that was amusing to jaehyun and he decided that your suggestion was fitting. “alright. then, archie it is.”

you beamed.

“well, it’s getting dark. i don’t think i have to tell you not to wander too late. you seem like a smart girl,” jaehyun said.

you glanced around at the shadows falling onto the rustling trees and the last gleams of today’s light shimmering on the creek. “you’re right. i should head up,” you replied, turning to face him. “have a good night, jaehyun.”

when you turned away, jaehyun realized he never got your name.

after a long night of trying to catch up on some much-needed sleep, you decided to head down to the pool. it was nice to see a motel with a couple of accommodations. they would make a good enough resting spot before you returned to your travels tomorrow.

there were a number of lounge chairs facing the pool, but instead you chose to climb into a hammock a few feet away from it. it was a nice spring day, neither too hot nor too cold, and you folded your arms behind your head while fighting the urge to close your eyes.

there weren’t a lot of people staying at or near the hotel, so you weren’t surprised to be alone. to think of it, you hadn’t seen anyone but a couple of staff. although you did walk past a room blasting heavy rock.

you heard footsteps, and turned to see jaehyun, sporting his burgundy uniform. he had a cart of towels, probably coming to restock. “jaehyun,” you called out.

jaehyun blinked up in surprise, likely not expecting to see you there. but when he did, he smiled and started to step over. “hey,” he said, digging his hands in his pockets. “you never told me your name.”

“whoops. silly me,” you replied, then told him your name.

you watched him process it, as if he was deciding in his head whether he liked it or not. he repeated it quietly to himself and said, “that’s very pretty.”

“thanks,” you replied, bursting into giggles. “how’s work going so far?”

“oh, you know,” jaehyun started, gesturing over to his cart with his shoulder. “nothing new. i never thought i would complain about not having enough work to do.”

you snorted. “i get what you mean. i was a camp counselor one summer. those kids drove me mad, you know. but when they were gone, i cried.”

there was a shimmer in jaehyun’s eyes. “do you like kids?”

“yeah. they can be a handful, but they’re delightful. honestly, i don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like kids. how can you be mad at someone so innocent and full of life?”

jaehyun nodded his agreement. “i realized a long time ago that people who don’t like kids are always bitter and unhappy with their own lives.”

that made you snicker, and the more you thought about it, he was probably right. “look at that. projection at its finest.”

“can i ask a personal question?”

“sure,” you said reluctantly. “what’s on your mind?”

jaehyun seemed to hesitate, battling with himself in his head for a long minute before he asked, “would you ever have kids?”

that wasn’t so bad of a question. you hummed, not really having to think about it. you already knew your answer. “i’ve dreamt of settling down and having kids with the right person since i was young.”

jaehyun gawked a bit. “really?”

“yes, really,” you told him, laughing at his astonishment. “i guess you can say i’ve always had big dreams. is that surprising?”

“no, it’s…,” jaehyun trailed, finding no words. “those big dreams of yours. they couldn’t happen in boston?”

now that was a bit more personal. you blew out a breath. “well,” you began, glancing at the unnervingly still pool. “i just wanted a new environment.”

jaehyun was tempted to press, to figure you out even more, but he didn’t want to risk startling you off. “maybe you were fated to stop by a really old motel in the middle of nowhere.”

“and meet you?”

something about that made jaehyun smile. you were so smart. “and meet me,” he repeated.

by now, you knew that jaehyun was kind of into you, the same way you were kind of into him. so, you decided to test the waters. “too bad that i’m leaving tomorrow,” you murmured quietly.

jaehyun heard you, and he frowned, though there was nothing he could do. it’s not like he expected you to put your whole life on hold for a guy you’d just met.

or maybe there was something he could do. “what if i gave you a couple of days on the house?” jaehyun asked.

your eyes flitted up at his deep brown pair. “really?”

jaehyun nodded. “what’s a few days?”

he had a solid point there. what was a few days? newark would still be there later on, and plus you had been taking your sweet time to make it there anyways. you weren’t in a hurry to get to this new life.

“then, i guess i’d stay,” you said, grinning wildly.

jaehyun mimicked a victorious grin. “i think i’d like it if you stayed much longer than that, but i know you’ve got big plans.”

in all honesty, that surprised you a little. he was talking to you as if you had been here weeks, and not less than twenty-four hours. “what would someone like me do in connecticut?”

jaehyun shrugged. “we’ve got… yale.”

you snorted. “and what makes you think i’m smart enough to get into yale?”

“actually, a lot of things. but i’d better get to work before i get caught slacking on the job,” jaehyun said, pointing to a camera projecting from the side of the motel that had a complete overview of the pool.

you gawked. “those things work?”

jaehyun laughed at your surprise. it was addictively cute, seeing his dimples deepen and his eyes sparkle. “you’re surprised?”

“a little bit,” you confessed quietly.

to your surprise, jaehyun’s hand softly brushed your arm. it was so gentle, so fleeting, you could’ve convinced yourself it never happened had you not felt a lingering tickle where he’d touched you. “see you around,” he said to you featherly.

“see you,” you replied in a small voice, having lost it all. your eyes were fixed to his back as he walked away.

damn it, you were wanting more of this guy you barely knew.

almost half an hour passed before you eventually decided to head back up to your room. you wanted nothing more than to get to know jaehyun better, but you would never interfere with a man’s pay. plus you were pretty confident that he would come to you when he was free enough.

there was a guy hovering over the railing next to your room, because he had been staying in the one beside yours. there was a joint between his fingers, although you had noted a couple of signs prohibiting it, not that anyone seemed to care. the stench of marijuana was all you could smell when you passed certain doors.

you had expected to slip past him and enter your room without interruption, so imagine your shock when he said, “i wouldn’t walk around here wearing stuff like that if i were you.”

like first nature, you tightened the towel around you. “excuse me?”

the man didn’t look at you, facing the world. you could see the creek from here, and that was where his gaze seemed to be rooted, too. “when you’ve lived as long as me, you know things,” he told you. “you see that creek over there? a lot of bodies used to turn up there in the eighties. young girls that stayed here a night or two.”

you said nothing, because you had nothing to say. the obvious discomfort on your face was enough.

“i’m just saying. you look like you’re alone. wouldn’t want anything bad happening to you,” he said, putting out the joint and walking away.

well, that was single-handedly the weirdest interaction you’d had at this motel so far. you hurried to unlock your room, immediately locking the door behind yourself.

you tried not to think much of it as you changed clothes, but you couldn’t help but wonder if that man was telling the truth or if he’d just had a little too much to smoke. either way, it was over twenty years ago. jaehyun had mentioned nothing to you about any serial killers.

then again, he was clearly trying to get you to stay. the last thing he would’ve wanted was to scare you off.

chill the fuck out. just don’t hang around any old people. like that guy, you told yourself, comforting.

given that you didn’t go out again that day, you didn’t see jaehyun at all until you finally emerged from your room the next afternoon in pursuit of a late breakfast. but when you glanced across the railing, you saw a figure all too familiar facing the creek.

forgoing breakfast for now, you raced downstairs and headed the road. they weren’t busy at all, although you still had a habit of checking before you crossed.

jaehyun heard you approaching, but didn’t turn around to face you. “how come i just know that it’s you?” he asked.

you snickered, but it wasn’t like too many people would be strolling around this creek out of a curious interest. “maybe i have really distinguishable footsteps?”

laughing, jaehyun finally met your eyes and beckoned you closer. you obliged, cautiously stepping to his side.

it was quiet for a moment, but it wasn’t awkward. the two of you were marveling at the beauty of nature together, enticed by what you saw. it was sunnier today than it was yesterday and sunlight filtered through the trees, shimmering on the water.

“i’ve been thinking about what you told me,” jaehyun finally said after a minute or two. “when you said there’s a lot to see in nature. and ever since, i’ve been looking and appreciating the little things i didn’t notice before. you were right.”

“of course, i am,” you replied, but the cockiness was to hide the flutter of your heart. “when i’m sick of human nature, it’s always nice to come back to earth. it’s beautiful.”

jaehyun bobbed his head in agreement. “archie’s over there.” he pointed somewhere along the far end of the creek. “it likes the sun.”

“yeah. sun basking is, like, a turtle’s favorite hobby,” you said, poking your head out to spot the cute baby turtle. you were grinning from ear to ear.

“what a simple life,” jaehyun said, lightheartedly shaking his head in envy.

you burst into giggles. but that reminded you of one of the many curious thoughts you had about jaehyun, and you figured now was a great time to ask. “hey, i didn’t want to ask this before because i didn’t know how you take it. but you don’t look like the typical guy in motel business.”

from the look on his face, jaehyun was anything but offended. “it’s my parents’ business,” he explained. “i just work here part-time.”

“ah.” you nodded your understanding, finding that a satisfactory answer. but it only made you want to know who jaehyun was when he wasn’t hard at work, donning the family uniform.

then, you remembered what that guy told you about the murders and realized that perhaps jaehyun knew more about if they genuinely existed.

jaehyun beat you to a word. “by the way, are you going to tell me how old you really are? because adult could mean you’re twenty-four or forty-two.”

you rolled your eyes. he was being funny. “i’m eighteen.”

“damn,” jaehyun said, wincing. “i’m nine years older than you.”

that was totally surprising. “really?”

“you don’t see the wrinkles?” jaehyun asked, pointing to his smooth, wrinkleless face.

god, he was alarmingly handsome. not to mention his skin looked literally poreless. “please. i thought you were twenty-three at the oldest.”

“that’s funny,” jaehyun said with amusement. “i thought you were at least old enough to drink. damn, you carry yourself like you’re older.”

that wasn’t the first time you had heard something along the line of those words, but damn, this guy was pushing thirty?

jaehyun seemed to have sobered a little the next time you glanced at his face, like he was worried about something. “is it weird now?”

“no,” you told him too quickly, maybe because you didn’t want it to be. “not unless you make it weird.”

it seemed like time stopped and the world was no longer spinning for a minute as you and jaehyun gazed into each other’s eyes. and the closer he came to you, your noses nearly brushing, the less you could breathe. “am i making it weird?” he whispered.

you couldn’t speak, so you simply shook your head, gaze lowering to his perfect lips.

everything happened in an instant. one second, you were thinking about how he was perfect from head to toe, and the very next, your heart was soaring as his lips met yours. your eyes fluttered closed, and you felt as if you were being whisked away into a wonderland.

the two of you kissed with heat and passion, overcome with the urge to swallow one another whole, and jaehyun was somewhat surprised by how talented of a kisser you were. the feeling was mutual. you had kissed a handful of boys, but never any with this much finesse.

maybe you had been wanting to kiss jaehyun this whole time, and never knew until you had him.

jaehyun broke away after a moment or two, impressed that you weren’t the first to tap out. something about kissing you was addictive. damn, it made a pretty picture in his head, your arms thrown around his neck and his on your back.

“damn, baby,” jaehyun said, catching his breath. “where’d you learn to kiss like that?”

you peered up at him with a smile, wondering if he somehow got even handsomer in the time your eyes had been closed. “you say i carry myself like i’m older than i am. well, my folks would beg to differ.”

that answer was vague as hell, but jaehyun understood what you meant perfectly. “ah, teenage rebellion? you make out with a lot of guys to piss your parents off?”

“sure, let’s go with that,” you mumbled, still none too keen on disclosing what was officially your old life. then, you caught a glimpse of his lips, and burst into laughter. “you’ve got a little something there.”

“yeah?” jaehyun asked, swiping his thumb over a lipgloss stain that you’d left on the corner of his mouth.

“a little bit to the left,” you told him, trying - and failing miserably - to keep a straight face. “no, my left.”

jaehyun pretended to get annoyed, grumbling, “if i kiss you again, will it matter that i wipe it off?”

at the thought of kissing jaehyun again, your heart skipped a beat or two, but you tried not to show it on your face. “i think that would defeat the purpose.”

jaehyun smiled, and before you knew it, your lips were pressed together again. all you could hear was the obvious wet smacking of your lips, the soft murmuring of the wind, and the quiet rippling of the water.

but you could feel his touch, his hand gingerly falling from the middle of your back to the apex of your thighs. jaehyun pulled away from your lips again, but only to kiss you on your jaw and neck. and everything about it made you feel hot inside out, as if you were scalding.

feeling you tensing beneath his fingertips, jaehyun grinned smugly. he leaned into your ear, whispering, “how about we head up to your room, yeah?”

you were no idiot. it was plain what that meant and a kind of nervous excitement settled in the pit of your stomach like a kaleidoscope of butterflies. “okay,” you replied, letting him take you by the hand.

almost the second you were safely behind closed doors, jaehyun pressed you against the nearest wall and kissed you fiercely. although you were taken by surprise, you returned the kiss with the same amount of fervor, slightly sticking your tongue into his mouth.

mischief curled onto jaehyun’s lips, pleasantly surprised by all the little things you were initiating. his hands slowly wandered down your body for a minute, one hand at your ass and the other cupping your breasts over your shirt. you made a soft breathy noise that had jaehyun scorching with the itch to fuck you, and it only increased tenfold when he noticed your eager hands fumbling with the buckle on his belt.

while your fingers were hard at work, jaehyun’s were too, waiting for the perfect time to slip underneath your shirt. you shuddered when the tips of his fingers brushed against your stiff nipples, whispering jaehyun’s name.

“come over here,” jaehyun said, leading you over to the bed.

he gently lowered you down onto the mattress and started to undress you piece by piece in between kisses, pressing his lips against every bit he exposed. it was all you could do to contain your agitation, holding your breath as his face crept lower.

to keep the more uneasy thoughts out of your head, you focused on jaehyun, asking, “aren’t you on the clock?”

“that’s the thing about working for your parents,” jaehyun said without looking up, giving his undivided attention to your legs as he yanked your skirt off. “what are the odds that they’ll fire their only son?”

“oh,” you said. he did look damn fine in that burgundy uniform, but you would’ve liked to see him without it on.

the more naked you became, jaehyun saw the way you shuddered nervously, and chuckled quietly to himself. “you’ve never done this before.”

he wasn’t asking. that was clear by his tone. it was an astute observation that you couldn’t even deny.

you frowned. “is it obvious?”

“a little bit,” jaehyun replied honestly, smiling at you. “i was a virgin before, too.”

you grinned bashfully. not a second later, your eyes made the mistake of glancing down and getting a eyeful of the imprint of his dick, and you looked away, swallowing the lump in your throat. “i don’t mind kissing assholes, but they say that your body is a temple, and i’ve never met anyone worthy, i guess.”

jaehyun raised a brow and pressed, “until now?”

that made you chuckle. jaehyun was very good at reading in between the lines, like you. “until now,” you repeated. “you’re my first.”

“and hopefully your last,” jaehyun flirted.

the stupidest smile was on your face. it was a foolish thing to hope, all things considered, but it made you feel pined after. “jaehyun, what was your first time like?” you asked.

jaehyun seemed a little grim when he heard your question, but before you could apologize for potentially overstepping, he replied, “it was with someone i had been with for a very long time, and thought i would be with forever.”

there was no doubt in your mind that it had been someone jaehyun loved and lost, and you couldn’t help but feel for him.

not wanting the mood to shift, jaehyun quickly changed the topic back to you, and everything he wanted to do to you. “trust me,” he said. “i’m going to do everything i can to make sure that even if you go, you never forget me.”

you barely had time to respond before jaehyun tugged your panties away, dragging a pair of fingers through your wet folds. you made a tiny noise as he used them to gauge how wet you were. dissatisfied, he sank to his knees, lips meeting your folds.

jaehyun darted his tongue out, circling your sensitive clit immediately after. you hadn’t expected the sensation to be so sharp, especially so soon, and you gasped, thighs tensing together. jaehyun got a hold of them and kept them apart as he pleased, making you take every second.

“jae,” you rasped, unable to get his full name out.

jaehyun grinned, lips curling against your pussy. damn, you were a sensitive one. if you were reacting like this already, what would you do when he got inside you?

you squirmed as jaehyun continued to go down on you, but it was useless. he was so strong, holding you in place as your body reacted to every single swipe of his tongue against your bundle of nerves. it was too much stimulation and yet jaehyun didn’t seem to be bothered, thriving on your pleasure.

god, every sound you made was a whimper of jaehyun’s name. he couldn’t deny that it made his dick twitch in his underwear, aching to be buried balls deep inside you, but he was holding out for your sake. as badly as he wanted to fuck you senseless, he wanted your first time together to be unforgettable for the right reasons even more.

if he didn’t, what would make him any different from those assholes you let kiss you purely to make some kind of rebellious statement?

jaehyun didn’t want to be a statement, the thing you fell back to after all else had failed. he wanted to be the answer, the one to stitch you back together, the one you crashed into when the tides got high.

you had never felt anything like this before in your entire life. of course, there had been plenty times where you had gotten yourself off, but you had never known pleasure of this magnitude until now. your own hands had nothing on jaehyun’s and his damn skilled mouth.

jaehyun liked how sensitive your body was. it was all too easy to get a reaction out of you, and he was so attracted to how you couldn’t help but respond to every suck and lick, shuddering in his grasp without control.

“jaehyun, i can’t…,” you trailed, fingers desperate to clasp something, to anchor yourself. you would have wound them through his hair, but you were afraid of accidentally hurting him, and settled for the sheets.

“yes, you can,” he said, pulling away from your dripping cunt for a few seconds. “you’re doing good, baby. cum on my tongue.”

it felt as if you were going to burst from the inside and you didn’t really want him to stop, regardless of how incessant the pleasure was. no matter how hard you tried, it was impossible to keep still. you wanted more than you knew your body could handle.

to say nothing of the fact that jaehyun was doing everything in his power to drag you to your breaking point. he knew exactly what to do to have you crying out his name. for a moment or three, he had you convinced that he was everything you ever wanted. now, it was too hard to think.

in a matter of minutes, you were coming undone with a whimper so sharp you were certain your temporary neighbor would come knocking on the door.

“that’s it,” jaehyun crooned with the slyest fucking grin on his face, replacing his tongue with a pair of hefty fingers.

you tried to shove his hand away, the stimulation tearing you to shreds, but jaehyun was keen on breaking you down until you couldn’t be destroyed any further. until he had ruined you for any other man.

your bare chest heaved violently as you fought to catch your breath, blinking a couple times to clear the wet daze of your eyes. there was nothing you could do except silently gawk at jaehyun like he had singlehandedly just stolen your heart.

he finally pulled away, smugly asking, “need a break?”

after a few seconds of gathering your bearings, you rose to your knees and grabbed jaehyun by the back of his head to bring his lips to yours, pulling him down to the creaky mattress beneath you. jaehyun was surprised, but he liked how assertive you were, resting his hands at the back of your legs and letting you sink your weight onto him.

it was criminal how good of a kisser he was. and if that didn’t already have you dripping, then the way he touched you all over would have. you felt his hard dick against your thigh and couldn’t think of a time where you had wanted anything so badly.

“take these off,” you said to him when you pulled away from his mouth, tapping his underwear. “and i want to be on top.”

jaehyun snickered in amusement. “whatever she wants,” he said, reaching for his underwear the second you climbed off.

your mouth ran dry the moment you caught a glimpse of jaehyun’s intimidatingly thick length and you were certain that he was going to split you in half. you desperately didn’t want to come off as a shy virgin, but every second that passes made you slightly antsy.

fortunately, there was something to steal your attention away from jaehyun’s impressively large size, and your entire demeanor shifted. “wait, fuck. do you have a condom?”

“close your eyes,” jaehyun said.

you immediately furrowed your brows, wondering what he was up to.

noticing your wariness, jaehyun added reassuringly, “five seconds. come on, i won’t do anything weird. i promise.”

reluctance was written all over your face in a large bold font and you had your doubts, but you chose to trust him, watching the back of your eyelids and counting up to five in your head.

when your eyes fluttered open, jaehyun was grinning like an idiot with a condom between his fingers.

you gawked, astonished. “where’d you get that from so fast - up your ass?”

jaehyun burst into laughter and only said, “a magician never reveals his secrets.”

“give me this,” you said, taking the condom packet out of his hands to tear it open.

“bossy,” jaehyun mumbled under his breath.

that made you giggle, gingerly placing the condom over the head of his cock, and jaehyun noticed how your bottom lip stuck out when you were heavily concentrated.

you were too enamored with his dick to notice that he was staring at you as though you were the prettiest thing in the whole universe. for some odd reason, the more you looked at it, the less scary it seemed. “it’s actually kind of cute.”

jaehyun wasn’t expecting to hear those words and it completely snapped him out of his little daze. you glanced up at him when you heard him quietly snickering. “you’re something else, you know?” he asked.

“i know,” you replied, having heard many things along the lines of that statement. “you ready?”

it was ironic that you were the one asking him, but jaehyun played along anyway. “show me what you got, baby.”

you moved to straddle him again, raising yourself over his size and grabbing him in your hands to steadily lower yourself. the two of you sighed together in unison as your slick walls clamped around him.

there was one reason why you firmly chose to be on top and that was because you wanted to directly control the pace in case things got to be too much for you. you took your sweet time to sink down deeper and deeper, never too keen on doing too much too fast. in spite of the great lengths jaehyun went to prepare you, it was still a tight fit.

it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you, as if you were choking on your own breaths, and your heart was pounding louder than ever.

“that’s it, baby,” jaehyun said, gathering your soft thighs in his big hands. “is it too big for you?”

you shook your head, having your pride to protect and defend with your entire body. “no, i can take it.”

jaehyun grinned proudly. “i know you can. that’s my girl.”

now that was a sure-fire way to get you hot and bothered. your heart fluttered at the praise and you hid your smile in your elbow, tempted to ride the soul out of him.

you were maybe somewhat impressed by how deep inside of you jaehyun was and definitely plenty aroused. you had feared how far he could go, but now that your cunt was involuntarily tightening around him, gushing around him hotly, it was everything you wanted.

jaehyun was as astonished by you as you were by him, watching you take his cock like a fucking champ. you may have been fighting to let all of him inside, but you were doing a mighty good job, all things considered. there weren’t too many girls he’d had with your determination to ride.

you had finally found a comfortable pace and although there was a little pain, the rapture on your expression was something that you couldn’t deny. you were watching jaehyun watch you, noticing his face tense in a similar manner beneath you.

and it was to die for.

“oh my god,” you moaned, hands falling down onto his naked chest.

jaehyun couldn’t help but think the same thing with how you were gripping him for dear life and he was barely holding it together. to say nothing of the way you were crying out his name again like it was the only word you knew. he couldn’t help but think about how nobody else had ever heard your lips part open to whimper their name.

and he would be keeping it that way, no matter the measures he had to take to ensure he kept you in his big, strong arms.

you leaned into jaehyun, pressing your lips to his as you fucked yourself on him. the tiny room was overwhelmed with sound, the bed creaking and your lips locking, and your bodies meeting in a loud wet smack. something about it turned you on more than you thought you were capable.

jaehyun thought he could watch you on top of him for hours upon hours. his hands wandered to your breasts as you kissed him, tenderly fondling them and brushing his thumbs over your stiff tits. you were riding him into the night like there was no tomorrow, like you had something to prove, and he loved every second of it.

the softest of whimpers escaped your mouth when you pulled back, brushing your hair behind your ears. you couldn’t fathom the ecstasy hanging over you, blindsiding you. maybe it was in your head, but you swore you could feel him in the pit of your stomach, and you didn’t know whether that was normal or not.

jaehyun affectionately gathered your hands in his, holding them as you desperately tried to anchor yourself and make sense of the many things you were feeling at once.

it wasn’t an overstatement to say that you were seeing stars. you and jaehyun were getting each other off, every guttural sound he made taking you to the moon, and every twist your face made sending him crashing into the atmosphere.

you were flush against him, kneading his cock perfectly, and that made jaehyun mumble curses underneath his breath. “goddamn, beautiful. slow down,” he said.

but you didn’t want to slow down the pace, you only wanted to keep the fire burning. you laughed breathlessly and teased, “why? is it too much for you?”

jaehyun chuckled and swore as he closed his eyes, not wanting to admit that you were unraveling him quicker than he’d expected. if this was your first time, why did it feel like you were deflowering him, exposing him to a kind of euphoria that was unlike anything he had felt before.

he had been intent on dragging things out, but you were making him weak underneath your fingertips. damn, he wanted to thrust his hips up into yours, but he had a feeling you wanted to take the lead, for your own sake.

“maybe it is,” jaehyun confessed, much to your surprise. “maybe you’re getting me off too fast and it’s hurting my pride.”

“cum, baby,” you whispered sultrily, wanting to see a guy like him fold under pressure. it would be like making a grown man cry. “i want to see it.”

jaehyun sucked in a breath at those words, accepting his fate. you were bringing him closer to the end and there was nothing that he could do about it, even if he wanted to.

you were glistening in coats of sweat from head to toe, and your thighs were starting to ache, but all you had to do was hold on for a little while longer. it was obvious that jaehyun wasn’t far from the finish line, and in truth, neither were you.

it didn’t help that jaehyun was unintentionally imagining things that would get him off sooner. thoughts of you were all that occupied him, picturing how it feel to fuck you raw and hard, holding you squarely beneath him. you were pretty on top of him, but he was enamored with how you had squirmed and cried out underneath him, too.

you had forgotten about everything else in the entire world while you rode jaehyun to the ends of it and back. no part of you thought about your hectic life back home, about the life you’d planned in boston, and everything in between.

the only thing on your mind was jaehyun and in spite of being totally consumed by something, it was the most peaceful your thoughts had been in months.

you could feel jaehyun’s eyes rooted on you and glanced down to meet his gaze, noticing him smiling up at you. when he looked at you like that, he made you feel so wanted. you were naked and bare in front of him, in a literal sense, and he’d accepted every piece of you.

“what are you smiling at, silly?” you asked in between thick breaths.

“you,” jaehyun replied, like it was obvious. “you’re so damn beautiful, you know. i could fuck you forever.”

not wanting to show how much that had gotten to you, you quipped, “i think i’m the one doing the fucking here.”

jaehyun chuckled, and you thought it was because of what you had said, but he had felt you pulsing around his cock, and he was amused by how easy it was.

the room was getting hotter than ever and it was becoming harder to breathe with the stuffy air. you almost thought that your skin was on fire, and you were scalding on the inside. you were going even harder now, chasing relief.

jaehyun was losing his self-control and he couldn’t help but lift his hips into yours, making you gasp loudly. your head leaned back as you both rocked your hips, desperately trying to finish yourselves.

“jay,” you cried out again, tightening your hold on your hands to ground yourself like you thought you might fly off somewhere.

“i’m right here, darling,” jaehyun crooned, holding your hands firmly. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you nodded your head, trusting him, giving in to him.

everything after that was almost a blur. the rapture had you lightheaded, and all you remembered was the heat spitting through your core and your toes curling.

but jaehyun remembered so much more than that. he could picture the exact look on your face that did it for him, unraveling him, sending him cursing at the stars. the tremble that shuddered through his thighs as his cock twitched. he remembered the way your pussy throttled him as you orgasmed, moaning his name.

when it was over, you collapsed onto his chest, panting and heaving as if you had ran a marathon together.

neither of you made a move to shift positions for a long while, jaehyun simply admiring the feeling of your bodies sticking together. “are you okay?”

you weakly nodded your head. that word was an understatement, but you didn’t have the strength in your bones to muster a better one yet. few pleasures came close to the kind you were currently reaping the afterhighs of.

god, you weren’t stupid enough to throw everything away for some boy you’d just met, but he made you want to.

jaehyun preciously kissed your neck and shoulders. “go to the bathroom,” he whispered. “i’ll go in after you.”

“okay,” you replied obediently, starting to peel yourself off him, until you had a thought. “are you gonna stay?”

jaehyun’s brows furrowed. “do you want me to stay?”

of course, you did. you had just lost your virginity to him in the best way possible, exposed yourself to him in a way no one else had ever seen, including yourself. not only that, but considering you were a young girl in the middle of essentially nowhere, being around a kindhearted, strong guy made you feel safer.

“please,” you said, wanting to be nowhere else but in his arms for the meantime.

jaehyun smiled and kissed you again, the corner of your mouth this time. “okay, but i have to leave early in the morning. i can’t slack off forever.”

you did the same, throwing your arms around his neck, before bringing your lips to his neck and whispering, “couldn’t you?”

“you drive me insane, woman,” jaehyun groaned, sensing himself getting riled up again.

you giggled, finally crawling off him and heading towards the bathroom, but not before demanding, “don’t move.”

jaehyun had no place else that he’d rather be, even if he was in some moderately crappy motel that was understaffed and a playground to creeps. you were there, so it might as well have been like home.

when you returned to the room, jaehyun was still there, only he had disposed of the condom now and he was no longer naked. he went in after you, like he said he would, and came back to also find you redressed.

well, sort of. beyond putting back on your bra and panties, your efforts were a little more nonexistent.

“well, now i feel overdressed,” was the first thing jaehyun said when he came back.

you burst into giggles. “because you are.”

with that, jaehyun stripped down to his undershirt and boxers and came to join you on the bed, melting into your side. he couldn’t help but steal a few more kisses, completely under your spell now.

the two of you got comfortable. it was clear that jaehyun had no intention of returning to work tonight and had the motel been busier, you would’ve urged him back to his shift. rose creek would be fine without him for a few hours, maybe longer.

you were more important, and jaehyun seemed to think so too, eager to know you better. “so,” he started. “does your family know you’re in connecticut right now?”

you couldn’t help but laugh. “hell no. as far as they know, i just vanished in the middle of the night. i didn’t tell them i was going to boston, either. i probably should’ve picked somewhere down south, or on the west coast, but i don’t think they’d bother looking.”

jaehyun frowned the more he heard your words, displeased by how much strife it seemed you had with your own blood. “why not? disobedient soul or not, you’re still their flesh.”

try telling them that, please, you thought, but didn’t say. “because i’m the black sheep,” you explained. “i’m the child that didn’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer.”

“what do you want to be?” jaehyun asked, pulling you closer. looking at you as if he genuinely wanted to know.

it surprised you, because rarely did you meet anyone who seemed to have cared. “a vet,” you grumbled, feeling stupid.

“now that’s a surprise,” jaehyun replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. and when you smiled an inch, he felt like he was getting somewhere. “but i think it suits you. you’d be a great vet.”

your cheeks were burning. it was embarrassing and heartwarming at the same time to have your aspirations validated for once. it was too strange for you and you said, “i’m talking about myself too much. what about you? you said this was part-time. do you have a full-time job?”

“to be honest, i haven’t really worked a lot since i graduated. my parents own a lot of property in the state and this is just one of them. the others are better, i promise,” jaehyun said.

for some reason, that made a lot of sense. jaehyun seemed a little too extravagant for this sort of environment. “you know, that clears up a lot questions i had about you. but then, why work here instead of someplace better?”

“in case you haven’t noticed, hardly anyone comes out here.”

you snickered to yourself when you realized the appeal of working here for a guy like jaehyun. fewer crowds, fewer interactions, and more excuses to be sleeping around with pretty girls instead of legitimately working.

“but i do work for certain things. i didn’t have everything handed to me,” jaehyun said to clarify. “i’ve been trying to settle down. i know it doesn’t look like it right now, but i have. and i want to give my future family everything.”

that didn’t surprise you either, but it did garner your attention. “oh?”

jaehyun nodded. “yup. my parents have been begging me to bring a girl home for three, four years now. they said that they know i’ll be married someday, but they’re not as confident that they’ll be around to see it.”

considering that jaehyun did come across as slow and steady, for the most part at least, you laughed, because the only reason they weren’t right to be unconfident was jaehyun’s good looks and charming personality.

you tossed an arm over him, peering into his eyes. “what’s stopping you?”

jaehyun shrugged. if he had it his way, he would’ve brought someone home forever ago, but he’d found that few things went according to plan in his love life. “haven’t found the one, i guess.”

that was fair. you wanted a family too someday, but never in your life had you met somebody that you would let do more than kiss you, until jaehyun.

“the thing with love is that it’s trial and error,” jaehyun told you, coming from a place of obvious experience. “so many girls i thought were perfect, until they showed me their true colors. and it hurts to cut them loose, but you have to.”

“i wouldn’t know,” you mumbled. “i’ve never been in love.”

jaehyun’s eyes fell down to your gorgeous hand that was resting above his happy trail and smiled to himself. “you will be, i’m sure. i think love is out there for all of us, patiently waiting.”

you furrowed your brows, like those were the last words you expected to here out of his mouth. “so, you’re one of those.”

the look on jaehyun’s face matched yours. “one of what?”

“a hopeless romantic,” you sighed, but there was a smile on your face.

jaehyun laughed. “i guess you could say that, but i just tell people that i’m ambitious.”

“well, mister ambitious,” you said, stifling a yawn. “i’m sleepy, and you’ve worn me out for one day. promise to tell me more about yourself tomorrow?”

jaehyun nodded, then leaned in to kiss your cheek. “i promise. i get off early tomorrow, so we’ll have more time together. goodnight, baby.”

“goodnight, jaehyun,” you whispered, snuggling into his chest.

like he couldn’t get enough of you, jaehyun gave you one final kiss on your forehead before he turned off the lamp on the nightstand. he had his arms around you, your back flush against his chest, and you stayed that way until night’s end.

it was some of the best sleep you’d gotten in a long time. being in jaehyun’s arms made you feel comfortable, protected. you weren’t certain why, but it was like no harm could reach you there. you were untouchable and you didn’t have to worry about anything.

when you woke up, you were surprised to still find him there, barely awake himself. “you’re still here?” you asked, unexpectant.

jaehyun grinned at you when you turned to rest your head on his chest and replied groggily, “i thought i’d stay to hear your pretty voice one more time before i left.”

you rolled your eyes at his obvious flirting, but there was a huge beaming smile on your face and you were kissing him affectionately merely seconds later.

one thing lead to another. you swore you didn’t know how it happened. slow, sweet kisses were met by languid, intentional touches, until jaehyun was on top of you, fucking every bit of sleepiness out of your body.

the tiniest moans escaped you as jaehyun rocked his hips into you, slow and gentle, and you clung onto his forearms to anchor yourself back down to earth. he was whispering dirty little nothings in your ear, telling you how good you were to him, unraveling by the minute.

it just felt too good having him inside you, filling you to the hilt and making your bodies seem inseparable. you loved being tangled together, limb to limb, pleasuring each other like there was no other option. it was the first time you had craved someone so desperately.

you didn’t want to get out of bed when he was gone. you had all the energy in the world, but you were unfathomably sore. somehow, in a good way. you liked feeling the traces of jaehyun in your bones long after he had slipped away.

deciding not to rot in bed while you waited for him to return, you got up to take a shower and rinse away the scent of sex from your body. it would be a while, anyway. jaehyun had mentioned something about going back to his place for a minute.

part of you wanted to feel guilty for keeping him overnight, but you couldn’t. not when you knew that he had enjoyed it as much as you had. you wanted jaehyun, and he wanted you. there were no doubts.

drying off, you noticed that you had used the last towel and you would need more to cover the last two days of your extended stay here. you got dressed and headed down to the main lobby, requesting some from the guy that had been working the desk since you got there.

you leaned against the wall while you waited, your thoughts naturally wandering off to jaehyun and his handsome face and stupidly adorable dimples. and maybe his unthinkably talented cock, but only for a second or two. maybe three.

it was strange that he had been the only thing you knew your entire time here, and even then, you barely knew him. under different circumstances, you would have wanted to know all there was to know about jaehyun. you would always remember him, even when he was forever gone.

“those towels you wanted,” said the guy working the desk, snapping you out of your daydream.

you walked up to the desk, smiling kindly as you accepted them. “thank you. sorry for the inconvenience.”

“it’s fine. have a good day,” he replied, smiling back suspiciously wide.

you didn’t comment on it, wishing him the same and heading for the door.

before you could reach it though, you heard his voice again. “by the way, i heard you getting it good when i was making my rounds,” he told you slyly. “how much for the inconvenience?”

dickhead, you thought. your smile dropped and you switched on a dime, shooting him a hefty glare. “i’m not for sale,” you grumbled, storming the fuck out of there.

god, why were the interactions you had with men at this motel getting increasingly weirder? had not jaehyun been keeping you around, you would have been on the next train to boston days ago.

you were angry as hell at being propositioned for sex by some random stranger, but you tried to let it go. although you would definitely be ranting to jaehyun about it later. speaking of, on the way back to your room, you noticed the door to one a few rooms down was ajar.

it was frequented by jaehyun, you’d accidentally noticed. sometimes, you would see him come and go, way too often for any customers to be staying there.

you didn’t mean to pry. you had only gone up to check if he had already arrived, but there was no sight of him anywhere. the one thing that was clear was that he spent a hell of a lot of time here.

there weren’t too many things, considering he didn’t live there, but there were a couple of uneaten snacks sitting on the table. and a purple hair tie that you barely paid any mind to. on the nightstand, there was a framed picture of jaehyun with some girl you’d never seen.

it seemed like they were pretty close, all things considered. he had an arm wound tightly around her, and her head was resting on his shoulder. you weren’t jealous, especially considering he looked nearly a decade younger in the picture, and you instead found it cute that he looked so different and not at the same time.

given the different trends at the time, his hair was in a completely different style. his cheeks were a little rounder. but he still had the same silly, goofy smile.

realizing what you were doing was definitely a major invasion of privacy, you scurried out of there with your towels and headed back to your room to restock.

jaehyun came knocking way too many hours later, but the second you heard, you leapt up, swinging the door open and throwing them around his shoulders. “what took you so long?” you asked sullenly.

jaehyun was pleasantly surprised by the abrupt display of affection, embracing you. “i decided to get everything done so that i could come straight to you, and didn’t have to leave.”

well, that made sense. when you pulled back, you noticed that he wasn’t in his uniform for a change. “this is my first time seeing you in normal person’s clothes. you look different. good different.”

“thanks, beautiful,” he replied, sticking his hands in his pockets. “may i come in?”

you stepped to the side, letting him enter, and shut the door behind him.

jaehyun seemed amused when he noticed the television was on, showing some anthropology program he had never watched. “did i interrupt?”

it took you a second to realize what he meant, but when you did, you were all giggles. “no, you’re way more important.”

jaehyun was glad to hear that. “by the way, did you have fun sneaking into my room?”

the sudden accusation startled you, but you didn’t deny what you had done. he somehow clearly already knew that you’d nosed around, and you weren’t one to make excuses nor lie. “that was rude. i should’ve asked for your permission. i’m sorry.”

something about your sincerity made jaehyun smile and wave it off. “it’s fine. i don’t have anything to hide.”

either way, you still felt a little guilty. you wanted to ask him who that girl in the picture was, but you decided that you’d done enough snooping.

noticing the shame on your face, jaehyun beckoned you over, commanding, “come here.” and when you promptly did as told, he smoothed his fingers through your hair and reassured, “i told you, it’s fine. forget about it. now, talk to me.”

you melted into jaehyun’s touch, and forgave yourself, forgetting about what you had done, forgetting about all of the awful parts of your day that were no longer relevant now that you were comfortable in jaehyun’s arms.

minutes turned into hours before you were ready for them to, and you almost couldn’t believe how easily you had made a friend out of jaehyun. he was just so easy to talk to, getting you to confess about your less than happy past and chat about your hopes for the future like you were lifelong buddies.

and to your surprise, he made no attempt to try and sleep with you that night. it seemed that jaehyun was fully intent on getting to know you for the young woman that you were.

every now and then, you got the feeling that he was more into you than it was safe for him to be, and more than you could fathom him being so quickly, and knowing that you would be leaving soon, it crushed you. no part of you wanted to see his face when it was time to say goodbye.

but when you woke up the next day, you were smiling. jaehyun had slipped away, something about having errands to run unrelated to work, and you were counting down the seconds until he would come back.

it was your last full day together.

the thought saddened and excited you all at once, overwhelming you to the core. you had convinced yourself that although jaehyun had made you feel something nobody else ever had, you would move on the second you got a step closer to bringing your dreams to fruition. but until then, you were a little heartbroken.

you had to be real with yourself for a second. could there be a way for a guy almost a decade older than you to be someone you spent the better half of your life with?

you didn’t think so. you and jaehyun led different lives. and while you hoped he would soon find the girl he had long dreamed of, you knew that she wasn’t you.

who were you to keep him down, when he could be searching for her?

not to mention you weren’t even ready for such large of a commitment. you wanted to complete school and graduate, eight years of your life at least that you would be hard at work, studying your ass off. jaehyun struck you as the marriage and kids kind of boy, none of which you were prepared for.

he’ll be fine. you’re acting like he’s in love with you or something, you told yourself, sitting on your empty bed. there was no way someone as handsome as jaehyun hadn’t had his fair share of short-term flings.

at some point, you quickly became bored of waiting and decided to go on your phone, which you shockingly hadn’t been giving much attention lately. there were some texts from your friends, the only ones you had mentioned connecticut to, and you promptly messaged them back.

there weren’t any notifications from your family, but whether that was only because you blocked them or not, you didn’t know.

then, you opened google and started to search random questions, as you often did when there was nothing more exhilarating to do. you had a couple of questions about toothbrushes, a word your friend had sent that you had never seen before, and finally, the motel itself.

you didn’t know why you hadn’t googled any information about it sooner. most likely because you didn’t think you would be welcomed for so long, but either way, it should’ve been one of the first things you’d done.

out of weary curiosity, you typed the name of the motel into your search engine, and the first thing you saw was a picture of the front exterior.

the next thing you saw, however, was a little more appalling. there was a news article from a little more than a month ago reporting the death of a girl named alyssa gardner.

rose creek, named in memory of rose bellori who was found there after being tragically murdered thirty-eight years ago, suffers another victims, says local police department. twenty-four year old alyssa gardner was found in the creek three weeks after being reported missing. her last known location prior to her murder was rose creek motel, according to her bank statements.

once you read the first sentence, you couldn’t stop, remembering what that old man had told you about the bodies that turned up in the creek. and as you continued to look into the murder, you froze, reading something about how she had last been wearing a purple hair tie.

there had been a purple hair tie in jaehyun’s room, you remembered, because it was on the table beside the snacks. it could have been a coincidence, but although his hair was long enough, you had never seen jaehyun tie up his hair.

now you had to know. there was a picture of alyssa wearing the tie and it was so specific, there was no way you wouldn’t know if they were the same just by looking. but you had no clue how you would get in there. after your invasion yesterday, there was no way jaehyun would reasonably make the mistake of leaving it open again, even if he claimed to have nothing to hide.

you slipped on your shoes, brainstorming on your way to the room, considering jaehyun wouldn’t have been back for a few hours, according to himself. your first thought was the guy at the front desk, but if he did do you a favor, he would want something in return that wasn’t cheap. nor were you selling.

fortunately, another man started to walk by, an employee, judging by his uniform. “excuse me, sir,” you said, donning your most helpless voice. “is there a way you could help me get in this room? i left my key inside by mistake.”

obviously believing you, the man said, “yeah, of course. i have a general key card right here.”

and just that easily, he opened the door for you.

“thank you so much,” you told him, expressing your gratitude before closing the door to jaehyun’s room behind yourself.

you felt bad for lying, but your gut was screaming at you right now and you were tempted to trust her now more than ever. you raced to the table, shoving the snack box out of the way, and gawking in horror when you found what you were looking for.

it was the purple hair tie, and not only was it the exact same color and design as you had seen in the picture, but there were traces of hair on it that didn’t match the dark color on jaehyun’s head.

you backed away, the blood freezing over in your veins. the shock was too cruel, too icy, and there were a billion thoughts racing through your mind.

but at the forefront of them all, you were thinking, i’ve got to get the fuck out of here.

you stepped out of the room, clearing the hallway before you made a beeline for yours, making a call and shoving your things into your suitcase. you weren’t supposed to be leaving until tomorrow, but you figured it was in your best interest to escape before things had the opportunity to go wrong.

there was no time to think about how your judgment could have been so awful, because all you wanted to do was go far, far away from this place, where you would finally be safe from all the things in this world that wanted to hurt you.

the second your belongings were packed, you checked out at the front desk, noticing that the dude from yesterday was strangely no longer there, replaced by a woman you had never seen before. but you didn’t ask questions, didn’t press.

because the second you were free to go, you were dragging your suitcase to the road and praying that uber would get here before jaehyun could.

until you felt something cold pressing into your back, and every bone in your body went stiff. “leaving without saying goodbye?” asked a familiar voice, coming out of nowhere.

tears began to sting your eyes, fear making your blood run cold. you couldn’t see him, but your whole body knew who it was. “please.”

“let’s take a walk,” jaehyun said nonchalantly, pointing with the hand that wasn’t discreetly holding a gun to your back.

given the circumstances, there was no way in hell that you wouldn’t do as told. you walked to the right of the motel with your suitcase in tow, far out of sight of any cameras that might’ve been privy to your predicament, willing yourself to breathe lest you fell apart then and there.

it had never been more of a struggle to walk, and it was like you had nearly forgotten how to put one foot in front of the other. your brain was hyper aware of the weapon not even an inch away from you.

through your blurry vision, you could make out a car coming into view. jaehyun asked, “do you have your license?”

you nodded, afraid to speak.

“good. this suitcase could’ve been you,” jaehyun said, taking the suitcase out of your hands to throw into the trunk. “you’re driving.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat. it terrified you how indifferent jaehyun seemed, walking you over to the driver’s side of the car and opening the door for you, meanwhile you looked as if you had seen a ghost.

only when he got in on the other side did he hand over the keys, still pointing the gun at you and calmly ordering, “drive. i’ll tell you where to go.”

and that was exactly what he did, telling you directions as you made every turn he told you to, not that there were very many.

every second was spent fighting tears and trying to keep your thoughts from racing. you could’ve never seen something like this coming. you had felt so safe, so secure around jaehyun, and now he was threatening you with a weapon.

god, you didn’t even want to think about what he was going to do to you. would he murder you in cold blood like that girl in the news article?

your first thought was to try and coax your way out of it. as if killers listened to logic and reasoning, outside of their own. “jaehyun, you don’t have to do this. you can let me go.”

jaehyun laughed, although you were dead serious. “so that you can go straight to the police? or worse, leave me here by myself?”

“it doesn’t have to be like that,” you whispered. “i like you a lot, jaehyun.”

“i like you a lot, too. that’s why i have to do this, darling.”

“i don’t understand.”

“i know,” jaehyun replied coolly. “it’ll all make sense soon.”

that statement didn’t make you feel any better. instead, you were enveloped by a deep feeling of cold dread, sensing that the worst had yet to come and you needed to brace yourself for the inevitable.

no more than thirty minutes of driving later, jaehyun told you to pull into the driveway of some house along the creek. you wanted to scream when he pulled you out of the car, but the house you were at was isolated from the rest of the world. nobody would have ever heard you even if the cry came from the very tip of your lungs.

but you noticed that he had left his gun in the car.

you tried to break out of his grasp, but jaehyun was tremendously stronger than you, and he didn’t seem to like your actions much, hissing, “i don’t want to hurt you, but don’t think i won’t.”

no part of you believed that he didn’t want to hurt you, not even for a second. “let me go. i want to go home!”

“no, you don’t,” jaehyun shot back, tightening his clasp on your bicep. “you want to be anywhere but there. don’t act like i haven’t been doing you a favor.”

“don’t act like you know me,” you snapped, still trying to wrest your way out of his hold.

jaehyun laughed, but it was mirthless. “honey, i do know you. you told me enough about you. i know what you like, and what you don’t like, and how vicious your parents are to you. i know that you don’t ever want to go back home.”

you didn’t know what was worse between being here right now and being home, and that thought made ache spring into your chest ravishingly.

“i should’ve known you’d find out sooner than i’d hoped,” jaehyun said. “you’re a smart woman, but that’s one of the many things i love about you.”

tears continued to well your eyes, but they were angry now. “let go of me!”

jaehyun began to become exasperated, dragging you over to the edge of the creek, but you didn’t stop demanding to be freed, flailing and thrashing.

not until you finally exclaimed, “if you’re going to kill me, then kill me already!”

to your surprise, that made jaehyun root in place for a moment or two. “i think you’re confused.”

you were glaring up at him. “wasn’t that your plan?”

for an unsettling amount of time, jaehyun just stared at you emptily. then, he began to laugh heartily, amused to no end. “now why on earth would i want to do that?” he asked.

you said nothing, startled and baffled altogether.

jaehyun smiled at you. the sight warmed your heart no more than a day ago, but now, you were thoroughly unnerved. “baby, you’re perfect. you’re everything i’ve ever wanted. you may be a little younger than i usually go for, but maybe that’s where i went wrong. with you, it’s not too late to fix the little things. like all this resistance.”

nothing could have prepared you for the sudden change in him, for him to throw you to the ground and submerge your head underneath the water of the creek.

it felt and sounded like the whole world had stopped for a moment before the panic started to settle in cruelly, and you inhaled more water than you had been prepared to. your body desperately missed air, and every time it tried to breathe, only more water entered your mouth.

when jaehyun yanked you back up by your hair, you spat out a load of water, and began to cough. he asked, “learn your lesson?”

you said nothing. you couldn’t at that point.

jaehyun took it as defiance and lowered your head back underneath the water again, giving you no time to recover from the previous plunge, and your entire body fought against it, but your efforts were in vain.

and like before, he pulled you up and asked, “learn your lesson?”

“fuck you,” you spat as belligerently as you could between breaths, even though it hurt to talk.

jaehyun said nothing, throwing your head back down.

at this point, your lungs were scorching and your nose was burning. your chest was smoldering with pain and panic and everything in between. helpless, your mind was begging for mercy, but the more you prayed for the water to escape, the more you inhaled.

your muscles were screaming for air and you genuinely thought that you were going to die, that this was the end. you would never know the life you had long dreamed of, the life you had risked everything to have, and the one you had always wanted.

it felt like an eternity had passed when jaehyun brought you back up to the surface and asked you again boredly, “learn your lesson?”

you said nothing, spitting out more bursts of water and gasping for breaths that burned your throat.

jaehyun was about to submerge you again, but at the very last second, you blurted, “okay, okay! i’m sorry. i learned my lesson!”

“good,” jaehyun said, pulling you up and dusting his hands off. “let’s go inside.”

you didn’t dare disobey, letting him lead you inside the house, which you assumed he owned. there wasn’t any time to marvel at the sheer beauty of it before he was tugging you downstairs to the basement where there was already a mattress waiting for you.

whether that had been prepared for you, or leftovers from the last victim, you didn’t want to know.

jaehyun took one look at your flushed, tear-stained face and softened. he brought a finger to your cheek, but you lurched away from him, like a startled animal in a cage. which, to be fair, wasn’t too far from the truth.

he frowned. “i wish you didn’t have to be so nosy, baby. i didn’t want you to see me any differently than before.”

it’s too late for that, you huffed to yourself. you fell to the ground beside the mattress, hugging your knees.

jaehyun glanced down at you sighing, debating coming over to join you, but decided against it. for now. “but you don’t have to worry anymore. you’re safe with me. nothing can hurt you as long as i’m here. god, i’ve made sure of it. it angered me to no end when i saw that guy in the lobby flirting with you.”

you immediately remembered what had happened in that lobby, something you had been intent to mention to him but forgot, and the blood drained from your face. “what did you do to him?” you asked.

“what do you think?”

you shook your head. no wonder there had been another person working the front desk earlier. you hugged your knees tighter and cried, “he was just some jerk, jaehyun. you didn’t need to kill him.”

“yes, i did. i would kill anyone who ever dare dreamed of touching you,” jaehyun insisted darkly.

now that you thought about it even harder, there was no reason for jaehyun to even know that that whole ordeal went down in the first place. he hadn’t been there when it happened. you slowly glanced up, asking, “how did you… know?”

jaehyun chuckled. “because i’ve been watching you, silly. how else?”

no shame, no guilt. he seemed proud of himself, grinning from ear to ear. the sight made you sick, but not as sick as it did to know that he had been essentially spying on you in his free time. you remembered, only a few days ago, asking him if the cameras were really functioning.

your stomach churned. that was why he always seemed to know where you were, to always drop into the places you were. that was how he knew you has been in his room, and how he knew you were fleeing.

even though you felt like vomiting the more information you learned, you needed to know the truth. “why did you kill that girl?”

“which one?” jaehyun asked, which made your heart stop in absolute terror. “if you’re talking about alyssa, i found out she was addicted to drugs. god, everything was going so smoothly until all of that.”

if you could’ve convinced yourself that you were only in a nightmare, you would have, but the pain in your chest and throat was too aggressive. “i bet you killed that girl in the picture too,” you replied hoarsely.

jaehyun’s eyes darkened, but it was less anger and more of a morose kind of emotion. “no, that’s not true. she died in a car accident.”

given the pain tensing his features, you believed him, but you couldn’t bring yourself to have any sympathy.

jaehyun continued, “we were eighteen and we had just graduated. she was the girl everyone wanted me to be with, and the one i thought would always be with. then one day, she was just gone. i’ll never forget getting that phone call in the middle of the night.”

the words he used made you remember something. you had asked him what his first time was like, and jaehyun had told you something along the lines of it being with someone he thought he would spend forever with.

that was her, the girl he had loved and lost.

“i’m sorry you went through that,” you whispered, feeling as though you were obligated to console him in some way.

“i am, too,” jaehyun mumbled. “but life goes on. and i found you. god, you don’t know how many times i had to go through this to find you, but it’s over now. you remind me of her a lot.”

you froze in your own skin, suddenly having an epiphany. you didn’t understand before, why jaehyun was doing all this, but it was all coming together now.

life may have moved on, but jaehyun had not. instead of getting over the girl he had lost so many years ago, he was trying to recreate her, to get her back in some sick, twisted way. you would be the vessel needed to resuscitate her, and the girls before you were the other candidates that didn’t meet the mark.

he had told you that. not outright, but it was what he’d meant, and the confession went right over your head. so many girls i thought were perfect, until they showed me their true colors. and it hurts to cut them loose, but you have to.

jaehyun wasn’t killing girls out of some sadistic hatred. matter of fact, he didn’t even want to kill them, but he felt obligated to eliminate the unworthy. he was killing because they ultimately didn’t meet his standards.

which implied that someway, somehow, you did. as he put it, you were everything he’d ever wanted.

“why me?” you asked, rubbing your eyes clear of tears.

jaehyun at last approached you, and although you wanted to back away and hide, there was nowhere for you to go. “easy. from what you’ve told me, you’re the black sheep of your family. you didn’t even tell them where you were going. nobody is going to look for you. nobody will miss you. you’re perfect.”

those words were crueler than he intended for them to be, but jaehyun wanted to be truthful with you, because that was the key to a long-lasting relationship. he wouldn’t hide from you, and he wouldn’t allow you to hide from him. you would be perfectly honest with each other.

“we’re going to have kids together someday,” jaehyun rambled, holding your cheeks in his hands gingerly, almost with affection. “i’m going to take you to meet my parents, and they’re going to love you, because i love you. and we’re going to stay in this house.”

you glanced around. “here?”

jaehyun sported a beaming smile. “it’s perfect, isn’t it? you love nature, and we’ll live right here along the creek. it’ll be just like how you grew up, except you’ll be accepted here.”

perfect, you repeated in your head bitterly. jaehyun seemed to be as obsessed with that word as he was with you. he couldn’t stop saying it, and that revealed even more about his intentions the more he used it.

noticing the tension in your face, jaehyun squeezed your hand and tried to console you. “don’t worry, i’m not going to keep you from your dreams. but you’re going to stay in this basement until you understand that you belong to me, and i belong to you.”

“i’m not your fucking property,” you hissed with unadulterated vitriol.

obviously, jaehyun was growing exhausted of having to put up with your less than meek behavior, and before you could apologize, he hauled you up and tossed you onto the bed. you made a tiny, broken noise when he began to squeeze your throat instead. “i will whip you into shape if i have to,” jaehyun growled. “i will fuck you into shape, everyday, if that’s what it takes, dear. i already made up my mind. you’re mine and i won’t let anyone else have you.”

your throat still ached from the pain of nearly drowning three times over, sorely pleading for quiet remorse, but jaehyun was nothing short of committed. he would stop at nothing to bend you into submission, no matter the price needed, because when he wanted something enough, there was nobody that could tell him that it wasn’t his for the reaping.

not his parents, not you, not anyone.

true to his word, jaehyun began to force one his hands underneath your pleaded skirt. he liked that you wore them, initially because he found them strangely cute on you, but now because of the easy access he had to everything he wanted.

you thrashed again enervatedly, sore from head to toe, but you told yourself endlessly that you weren’t a quitter. you couldn’t let him break you, not until he had broken all the fight out of you first. it would go against everything you stood for, everything you believed.

“behave,” jaehyun said. “behave, or you’ll only make it worse on yourself.”

you roared expletives into his palm that jaehyun couldn’t understand, nor did he bother to. not after he had caught a glimpse of your precious cunt and he had already begun to imagine making sweet love to you. the lingering picture was all he could think of.

how you had gripped his biceps, brows tensing together, calling out his name and his name only. jaehyun knew you reciprocated his pining. he had seen the proof, felt it dripping and pulsing around his cock, milking his release out of him even quicker than he had hoped.

and really, honestly, jaehyun didn’t want to hurt you or cause you any needless pain. one day, you would understand that he was only doing this from of a place of love and endearment. you gasped for breath when the hand on your throat finally slackened, sucking in the sharpest one you had ever inhaled, and could feel the basement reeling.

while you were busy blinking the misty daze out of your eyes, jaehyun ran a hand between your legs, touching your clit. “jaehyun, stop,” you rasped.

“shh, let me make you feel good,” jaehyun crooned softly in your ear.

it was maddening that your body still reacted fondly to his deep voice and tender touches, and you hated every second of it. you resisted him, pressing your thighs together, but it took little to nothing for jaehyun to spread them apart again, and your body naturally liked his strength, too.

still, you tried to swat his hand away. now that you knew the truth of who he was really was, what he really was, you couldn’t stand to let a monster like jaehyun to touch you.

jaehyun sighed irritably, and the look on his face made you shudder. “you’re just going to keep being a bitch about it, aren’t you?”

he only wanted to pleasure you, for fuck’s sake. why wouldn’t you let him?

“i don’t want this,” you whimpered, peering up at jaehyun as you welled up with tears.

“yes, you do,” jaehyun told you, as if he was trying to convince you of something you already knew wasn’t true. “you do want it. remember?”

you shook your head, defiant. “that was before. it’s different now.”

“nothing has changed between us.”

“everything has changed!” you cried out, bursting into sobs. “you’re not who i thought you were. you… hurt me.”

“i didn’t want to. i promise that i didn’t, honey,” jaehyun whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead. “and the sooner you listen to me, the sooner i can make you feel better.”

he started to do exactly that, returning between your legs, this time sticking his face beneath your skirt. jaehyun went to town, pulling out all the stops that he remembered had you singing his praises.

not a moment later, you slumped in defeat, too weak from your unwanted orgasm to deny him any longer. jaehyun smirked when he noticed you twitching from the aftershocks, licking his wet lips that had gotten soaked with your arousal.

“that’s it, baby,” jaehyun said, proud of himself. he liked worshiping you, and even if you didn’t want to admit it, he knew he brought you to elysian heights. “ready to take my cock?”

you shook your head wearily, but jaehyun didn’t believe you. only the day before yesterday, you had been so eager.

“come on, don’t be that way. you know you love this dick,” jaehyun said. he had never looked more sure of himself, not hesitating to step out of his clothes.

although you wanted nothing more than to defy him, to spring up and make a beeline for the nearest door, you couldn’t bring yourself to. there wasn’t even time for you to tell him to stop before jaehyun was spreading you open, prodding your entrance with the head of his cock.

and you were so wet that in spite of his size, he slipped inside with ease.

jaehyun grunted at the first push of his cock inside you, slowly coaxing his way deeper. he slipped his fingers through yours, knowing that you liked to use his hand to anchor yourself because you quickly got overwhelmed by his size.

but he noticed that each time you were taking him even better, and jaehyun liked the thought of successfully breaking you in. to him, it was the perfect fit. it was a sign that you were made for him to fuck and breed. your vice-like walls were gushing around him, kneading him, swallowing him whole. only him.

“that’s good, baby. don’t run from it,” jaehyun crooned in your ears before sealing your lips together.

jaehyun didn’t notice that you weren’t kissing him back. when his eyes were closed and he was buried some inches deep inside your pussy, it became easier to convince himself anything. because you may have denied him, but jaehyun thought the body never lied, and yours was calling out to him.

the weight of your body rocked in tandem with his thrusts and jaehyun, wanting a better view of you, started to tug your shirt off. he already knew how to make you weak for him, sucking at your breasts.

every cry of protest you made fell on deaf ears, because all jaehyun heard was that familiar breathlessness in your voice when he was making you feel good.

and that was more than enough to jaehyun. because if he had you, and you had him, nothing else mattered. why would you need some other guy in some faraway place when he had made you feel things you never knew you were even capable of?

he never even thought about how of those feelings he had plucked out of you, something could’ve completely overpowered any pleasant feelings you ever had.

it surprised you when jaehyun grinded to a halt and pulled out of you, but you should’ve known better than to think he was finished. “get on top of me,” jaehyun told you, overcome by memories. “i want you to ride me. like how you rode me that day.”

jaehyun had this dazed look in his eyes that made him look more dangerous and unhinged than he ever had, and that was the sole reason you were so quick to scramble on top of him, but jaehyun smiled, because he only saw it as unadulterated desire.

you grabbed his shoulders as you forced yourself to mount him, his hands slipping down to your backside, supporting you with his palms. it hadn’t been too long since they were someplace you could feel secure for the first time in a long while. and now that comfort was gone, and you had nowhere else to go, nothing else to turn to but yourself.

maybe you had been naive to think that someone could genuinely, truthfully like you. whatever jaehyun felt for you, or at least thought that he did, was purebred obsession and without it there would be nothing left.

it was the one thing keeping you breathing, and yet the one thing killing you slowly.

something wet dripped onto the pillar of jaehyun’s shoulder and he saw that you were sobbing. tears of pleasure, he told himself. he remembered the wet glaze in your stare when the two of you had fucked the other day, too. nothing as theatrical as this, though he was certain it didn’t make a difference.

but jaehyun wasn’t afraid to hurt you, that much was clear. he may not have particularly liked it anymore than you did, but he would use it to justify everything. it’s okay if it hurts, because love hurts, he would console himself, telling himself that you would be okay.

“one day you’ll understand that i’m doing this because i want what’s best for us,” jaehyun whispered, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “i’ll make you happy every day until you die. anything you could ever want, i’ll make it happen, i promise.”

the way he spoke, you knew that he believed it in his very bones, and that only made it scarier. someway, somehow, jaehyun had convinced himself that you were god walking, and now you weren’t sure what lengths he wouldn’t go to for your sake.

tenderly kissing your jaw, jaehyun continued, “i love you.”

you shook your head, knowing that it wasn’t true. “you can’t love me, jaehyun. it’s only been five days.”

jaehyun disagreed. he thought he had loved you from the second he laid eyes on you, a beautiful girl ambling along the creek line. he could smell your sweet scent on him and it made him remember catching you in his arms, pulling you close, and breathing you in for the first time. “i loved you long before i met you. you may not feel it right now, but you will soon. i’ll make sure of it.”

you exhaled a breath. there was no arguing with a mad man.

“i’ll make sure you’ll never want to live without me again,” jaehyun whispered, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “that you can’t live without me.”

all you wanted was to get away from him. you were wishing you would’ve never came here, never gave him or this godforsaken place the time of day.

jaehyun was nearing the threshold of what he could take and it was plain on his face. you weren’t fucking yourself on him with the same amount of fervor as you had in the none too distant past, but he was too close to the edge to complain, driving his hips upwards into yours.

he was no longer listening to the pleas falling from between your lips, imagining that you were begging for him never to stop, never to let go of you. because he knew that deep down, that was what you wanted. you would get over these temporary, tiny frustrations. the same way he had gotten over them over and over.

did you think it was all fun and games for him? if you knew how many times he had been crushed and disappointed, how many times he had to let of something he wanted more than anything, you would finally understand that there nobody who understood you more than jaehyun.

in a way, you were completing each other. he would give you the family you needed, and you would give him the relationship he always wanted.

“jaehyun, you have to pull out,” you said to him, remembering he had gone in without a condom. “you have to…”

“shh,” jaehyun shushed you, pressing your back to the mattress again, and seizing control.

when you tried to speak, jaehyun just clamped his hand over your mouth to keep you silent and pliant, wanting to hear none of it. “didn’t i tell you? we’re going to build a family together, right here in this house.”

there was total, chaotic horror in your eyes. you hadn’t thought he meant so soon, so quickly. you were barely an adult and still sometimes felt like a child yourself, and you tried to tell him as much, but every word bled together and died on his palm.

with a few more unrelenting smacks of his hips into yours, jaehyun leaned over and clamped his teeth into your shoulder as he came. and when he stilled, he kissed you, ignoring the taste of tears that had ran onto your lips.

“it’ll always be you and me now,” he panted, breathless. “you can’t leave me. you can’t.”

you lay there, helpless and hopeless, feeling something like bile scorching up your throat as you stared at him in disbelief.

“i’ll fuck you every day, i will,” jaehyun said with every bit of conviction. “if it means that one of those days, i put a baby in you.”

there was nothing that you could say that your face wasn’t already saying for you. never in your life had you felt more used and violated, and that said a lot.

and jaehyun didn’t seem to be bothered. he lay down beside your shaking body, tightening his arms around you, loving the way the layers of sweat made you stick to each other, and made you a dirty promise. “don’t worry, i’ll take care of you both,” he said. “i swear.”

you closed your eyes, screaming inside your head, but having none of the strength to really do it. he had stolen it from you, stolen everything from you. your body wasn’t your own anymore.

“say it,” jaehyun prompted, nibbling gently at your neck. “say you love me.”

you didn’t, and there wasn’t a single bone in your body that did, but jaehyun terrified you now. this would haunt you more than the gun pressed to your back, or the throwing your head underwater. compared to now, those things seemed mild.

so you sucked in a breath, trying to will yourself to stay still even though there was no possible way with how close he was to you, and you lied, “i love you.”

jaehyun grinned from ear to ear. “i know.”

#tw: noncon #tw: baby trapping #jaehyun smut #nct smut #jeong jaehyun smut #jung jaehyun smut #nct 127 smut #nct 127 hard hours #nct 127 x reader #jaehyun scenarios #nct scenarios #revehae fics

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