Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I am an oak with leaves that soak up sympathy from the sun.

“Fire, Water, Earth and Air” by Julie Felix

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 1

“It’s good to finally meet you, kid. Heard talk recently about the new girl out here walking the trail alone. Hope to see you out here again someday.” The older gentleman’s white eyebrows frame his kind, age-watered eyes.

Girl. You haven't been that in a while, but it’s not really worth the whole explanation a gentle correction would likely require. You’ve gotta hit the road.

“Believe me, I’ll be back. This place almost feels like home now,” you say, adjusting the strap of your pack with a light shrug. “Take care of yourself, Ed.”

Giving the man behind the counter a final wave and a little salute, you head out of the resupply shop, feeling lighter than you have in days. It’s good to see another face. Over the past three weeks of hiking the trail, you’ve mostly been isolated, meeting only the occasional hiker. So, you’ve been using the time for some much-needed introspection.

You told yourself you’d be more adventurous this year, and now that it’s happening, you can’t help but be astounded both with nature's immense power…and your own. Because you’re finally doing it. Finally hiking the PCT: The Pacific Coast Trail, just like your inspiration Cheryl Strayed. After you were laid off at the end of summer with three months of severance pay, there were no more excuses–it was time to start trying new things, being more adventurous.

Take more risks.

Your copy of Wild safely tucked away in your pack, you head back out into the trees and warm sunshine. It’ll be chilly later, but for now, you’re able to hike with your shirt and shorts, a plaid overshirt wrapped firmly around your waist. Black sports bra tight across your chest. It’s a beautiful day that promises a productive walk.

“Oh, sweet.”

It’s late morning by the time you approach another water source: a stream. Never waste a refill opportunity, especially one so close. Putting away your map, you walk the remaining distance there, only to find an additional surprise.

Another hiker. It feels like eons since you’ve come across another person outside of the resupply stations, and based on the frustrated, masculine sounds–it’s a man, and one who’s clearly having a difficult time. You’re hesitant to approach, until you hear the source of his frustration.

“This…ugh, filter! Come on.”

You can’t help but laugh internally, having had similar issues with yours early on. Maybe you can help. When you clear the trees, you spot him a few yards down, on the other side of the water: a trim, solo figure clearly struggling to fill up his water bottle.

“Hey there,” you call out, getting his attention so you don't spook the man.

But it’s too late–he startles, boots stumbling into the stream and sloshing water onto the bottoms of his pants.

“Oh, shit. Sorry!” you call over. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. Do you need some help?”

He looks dismayed as he observes his now wet pant bottoms, but seemingly no harm done. When he looks up and smiles at you chagrined, something in your gut sparks a bit.

He’s around your age, maybe a few years older, but he’s fit. Not generally your type, given the parts you assume he has, but you’d be a liar to call him unattractive–his beard is fairly short, only sporting the beginnings of overgrowth, and his dark waves are pulled up into a bun.

“Help?” he laughs, looking around at his situation. “It's a little embarrassing, but uh, yeah… Help would actually be great right now. If I don’t get this filter to work, then I can either die of dehydration now, or drink tainted water and die of dehydration later, and then–well.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” you say, warmth infused in your tone at his distress. “What’s going on?”

The hiker gives you a grateful look, breathing heavily with hands on his hips before gesturing to the plastic tool he's gripping. “I think it’s clogged or broken? It’s been one thing after another since I got here. Do I just pack it up now and head home, or is there hope for me yet?”

You remember that feeling well. “Don’t give up just yet, I might be able to fix that for you. That make looks familiar.”

If you can't, you can at least let him use yours for now. It should be enough to get him to the water tank along the trail. He looks a bit out of sorts, though, trying to find a clear path across the water to you.

“Wait there, I’ll come to you,” you say. “I’m heading that way, actually.”

Walking downstream a few yards, you see a much narrower and shallower trail across the stones that you can safely walk across. When you arrive, you realize how much perspective had played games with you–he’s taller than you thought. Sculpted shoulders exposed to the sun in his tank, sporting a nice tan.

Not as nice as your own, you think cheekily, though genetics are in your favor.

“Hey there, wayward traveler,” you say, waving as you approach. 

“Wayward traveler, huh? I usually just go by John.”

His demeanor lights up when he extends his hand to yours, deep lines forming in his cheeks with his smile. Okay, so he’s actually quite cute, especially with that pleased look on his face.

“Nice to meet you, John.” You take his hand in your own and feel strength in his fingers as he shakes your hand. “I’m Rusty.”

“Rusty?”

With a shrug, you point at your hair–a copper-tinged auburn that you’ve been maintaining for a couple of years now.

“Ah, Rusty indeed. It suits you…you look like a fox. One of the red ones.” Seeing your expression, he clears his throat. “Sorry–that, that was less awkward in my head. A compliment, actually. What I’m trying to say is… It’s nice, your hair.”

This must be an off day for John, because he’s an endearingly anxious mess. “Compliment taken–foxes are some of my favorite animals,” you smile placatingly, letting the awkwardness roll off. “So uh, have you been on the trail long, John?”

He rubs the back of his neck a bit, nose wrinkling, “No, not really. Is it that obvious?”

“Only a little.”

Now that you’re closer, you can see that John isn’t well-equipped for his hike. He appears to have all the right gear, in theory, as though he read magazines about what items to buy without getting the full story. Sporting new boots that will rub his feet raw with blisters. He’s definitely not moving fast, or far, in those. It’s a rookie move, one that you barely avoided by talking to a few experts while preparing for your own trip.

He's also carrying a camera bag over his shoulder. A photographer or a hobbyist, maybe? You are too, in a sense–thinking about the compact watercolor set and the thick paper you brought for your own hike. Small, lightweight, and easy to use as kindling if you need it. More practical than a massive camera, but you won’t fault the man for his passions.

“How about you?” he asks.

“I’m a novice, for sure, but I’ve been hiking for about…three weeks? This place is starting to make sense. Can I see?” You gesture to his filter.

“It’s been great, though,” you say distractedly as you study it. Not broken, thankfully, and should be able to be cleared out. The man– John’s gaze lingers on the side of your face as you work away at it. Focused, it’s several quiet minutes until it’s ready for use.

“Got it! There you go,” you say, handing over the filter and bottle again. “Try filtering smaller amounts at a time. I think you overloaded it is all.”

His relief is palpable. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“Bit of an exaggeration,” you say, rolling your eyes a little at his theatrics, while secretly eating it up. Something about him seems…warm, somehow. “Maybe you can buy me dinner later. There’s a great new place past that hill, there. Heard they have a pine-nut salad that’s to die for.”

There goes those adorable grooves again carving into his cheeks.

“If they have that roasted mushrooms on a bed of moss dish I’ve been hearing about, I’m sold.”

You offer him a smile, “Hey, uh, what direction are you headed, John?”

He points behind you. “That way. Please tell me that’s North, because if it isn’t, I’m really screwed.”

“I hate to say this, but…”

When he rubs his face with an exasperated, panicked look, you immediately fold. “Kidding! I’m kidding. That’s North. Probably a bad time for a joke.” With whatever awkwardness that lingered dispelled, you muster up enough courage to reach out. “There’s another spring a few miles up that direction worth checking out–easy refill for your water too. We could hike there together if you want? I could use some company.”

Admitting that you’re a bit lonely isn’t that big of an ask–accepting your own help from strangers during your time here has put you in some vulnerable, humbling positions. There are only so many more tree-related songs you can come up with, anyway, and ‘The Tree Amigos’ was the best you could come up with.

John’s nod is swift, though, as he drops to pick up his pack again. “I’d, uh, be real grateful, Rusty. Besides, it seems like I might need you.”

When he grins, you can’t help but meet him on equal grounds.

“Let’s do it, then,” you say, adjusting the shoulder of your pack. “You ready to go?”

Almost immediately, you fall into easy conversation with him, interspersed with musings about your surroundings. Idle as you bask in the glow of what's among the last warm days.

“So what’re you out here for?” His voice interrupts the silence.

Leaves crunch under your foot, punctuating each step. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone on the trail is out here for a reason. Not a lot of people go for extended hikes, y’know? Especially alone. You’re not escaping the law, are you?”

“Pff, tagged me real quick, huh? You must’ve heard about the local bandit attacks, then.” Your smile is wry as you roll your eyes. “Nothing so salacious as that. I’m…in-between jobs.”

Applying chapstick out of habit mostly, you notice how John’s dark eyes follow the tube’s trail, not minding the attention. You’ve been sneaking peeks at him, too. So what if there’s more than one reason you invited him along? He’s eye candy and you haven’t had a treat in ages.

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. 

You shrug. “It’s alright. Honestly, I was too afraid to leave it on my own. And they gave me a solid severance on my way out, which is what gives me the time to be here.”

You tell him about the book Wild and how Cheryl Strayed’s story has influenced you to take more chances, do good things for yourself even if they’re hard. Plus, the time alone has freed you of excess distractions and other bad habits.

“What about you, huh? What are you looking to find?”

He smiles a bit. “Honestly? Uh…looking for a piece of home, I suppose.” He goes on to tell you about needing to get away from corporate life and attune himself to nature. “It’s easy to start thinking that’s all there is, you know? It’s always go go go until you’re empty.”

That you can certainly sympathize with.

“Got any big plans for when you return?” he asks.

Oof. What are you going to do? “Haven’t really decided yet. I'm an artist, and I want to give it a real try when I get home.  The, uh, landscape here and the flora have really inspired me, though–maybe I can do something with that.”

His sudden enthusiasm is a surprise. “No way! An artist, huh? I dunno if you’ve noticed, but...”

He points at the obvious camera bag he’s been toting around like it’s a secret. Of course you noticed, and you’re curious what subjects and style he has, asking, “This might be a faux-pas as an artist, but do you think I could see some of your work later?”

His expression is full of mischief. “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“Dude, gross,” you say, lightly punching his arm. But you’re laughing anyway, because you’re a little gross, too. Is this his way of flirting?

“They’re mostly pictures of wildlife,” he explains. “But I’m not a professional. Promise to take it easy on me?”

He rubs at his neck sheepishly. Stopping in your tracks, you’re sincere as you touch your chest, right over your heart, and offer him your other hand. “Artist-to-artist, I promise to be gentle. Unless you want otherwise.”

Ah, you're definitely flirting now. And why not? You like men, even if you haven't really been with them before, but it's gotta be easy to pick up on what to do, right? This is supposed to be an adventurous trip where you can…let loose a bit–responsibly–and return to the real world with a renewed sense of self.

When John takes your hand in his, his thumb briefly caresses your skin and your heart misses a beat.

“It’s a deal.”

The afternoon rolls on, and once the sun begins its slow descent to the horizon, you find yourself still enjoying having someone else around. Maybe even reluctant to part ways so soon, but thankfully, he seems to agree.

“It’s nearly time to set up for the night,” he says, breaking you from your thoughts. “This might be forward, but I really like your company, Rusty.”

The feeling is mutual, as you explain.

“We could set up camp nearby each other or–or not! But we could have dinner and keep talking. Or none of that, of course, that’s probably too forward and I’m misreading all of thi–”

Endeared by his nervous fumbling, you cut him off with a hand on his arm. “Relax. Let’s camp together. Then we can see where tomorrow takes us, hm? Besides, you owe me dinner, remember?”

A dinner date in the forest with the cute, sheepish amateur photographer you met on a hike? Why not? He had ample opportunity to be creepy today, but he was a perfect gentleman the whole time. Maybe you’ll hike with him again tomorrow, if he doesn’t annoy you by then.

You grab his hand and herd his much taller form along. “C’mon. Let’s find a spot for the night and get some food going. I’m famished!”

Goosebumps pimple your flesh when his fingers curl around your hand in a firm grip, looking for a level enough clearing to park it for the night. You quickly agree on an area with lots of that blue flower that you've been seeing lately. It's lovely.

Once you’ve set up camp, John takes over the task of getting the fire going while you settle into your tent. You return more clothed–it’ll get chilly in the dying sunlight. The smell of smoke and something else hits your nose when you walk out. There’s a stickiness in the air that’s familiar. It’s amazing–what is that? 

“No way.” Plopping down on the log beside him, you realize what he’s got speared on a stick: a marshmallow. What kind of person would spare the pack space for a bag of marshmallows on a big hike? “What are you doing with marshmallows?”

He’s eyeing you carefully, as though you’re about to snatch the treat from his hand. He’s right to, because you just might. There’s almost always a slight hunger these days. Laughter floats over the crackling of the fire as he offers you the stick, amused by your eagerness. “I’ve got chocolate, too. And graham crackers.”

“Oh, get out! Really?”

“What, do you like s’mores?” he asks.

What a stupid question. You don’t like s’mores. You fucking love s’mores. It’s your favorite campfire treat, but obviously too unnecessary to weigh down your pack with the supplies. Besides, it would be entirely irresponsible not to help him lighten up his pack anyway, right? You're practically obligated to snack.

“Be careful, John,” you warn. “I have a sweet tooth. I’ll clean you smooth out.”

He’s laughing as he walks around, looking for another thin branch to spear the marshmallows. “I’m more worried about not feeding you fast enough. Do you bite?”

“Only if you get between me and what I want,” you say with a toothy grin. “I’m a little feral.”

“Are you now?” he muses. “That could be fun.”

The steady look he sends you puts a blush on your face. Your eyes fail you, dropping at the unexpected innuendo.

“Now, let’s get some sugar in you before you eat me up, Foxheart.”

You're sitting on a felled trunk beside John, thighs close but not touching. Enjoying the mutual silence as you watch the fire and steal occasional glances at him. You’re two s’mores deep before he brandishes another treat unnecessary for the trail from his tent–a bladder of wine.

“Stop! You really used some of your precious pack space for wine instead of a better water filter? Totally irresponsible,” you admonish. “You act like you’re on vacation out here.”

“I was actually planning for mulled wine. But no, no! By all means, enjoy your delicious, filtered water.” His voice teases as he gestures to your bottle.

“Excuse you, you aren’t planning to share? You would be dehydrated by now if it weren’t for me! Don’t you think you owe me?”

His hand flies up placatingly, “Okay, okay, your eminence.”

When he makes a grandiose scene out of brandishing a pot and a small bag of dried spices, your peel of laughter sets him off, too. He really went all out for this. He’s not out here for long, as he’d mentioned this afternoon, just needed to get a few things out of his system and get back home. No one would pack those items with the intention of being here for weeks on end, and you get to reap the benefits, lucky thing.

“Are you always this goofy?”

He grins, walking back toward the fire, “Only when I have such good company.”

“Really? Office life must’ve been doing a number on you, if you think trudging around in the dirt with a smelly stranger is good company.”

The look that earns you warms you up almost as much as the fire does. “You should give yourself more credit, Rusty. Today’s been the most fun I’ve had in years, to be honest.”

He may be speaking the truth, because there’s a certain relaxed way about him as he tends to the wine. His shoulders are loose and his movements slow as he adds dried cinnamon sticks, a few cloves, and a few packets of maple syrup to his pot. The fire makes quick work of the warm, spiced delicacy and you happily accept a large pour in your mug once it's ready.

Upon hearing his earnest words, the realization hits you that it might be the same for you, too. He looks shocked when you admit as much. “I’m sure you’ve got no shortage of friends back home.”

“Yeah, but–” you pause, taking in the smell of the drink, letting it flood your lungs. “Can I get real for a moment? Y’know, since we probably won’t see each other after this, anyway?”

His eyebrows raise at that and you can sense another joke below the surface that he stifles.

“I think sometimes all people see in me is sunshine and daisies, but uh… I wouldn’t be out here alone if that were true.” There you go, biting your lip in vulnerability. “It’s like I disappoint them when they find out that’s not the case. I mean, we all have our shit, right?”

You’ve been pushing people away lately, an old habit that reared up after you lost your job, but they didn’t need to see this dim version of yourself. You wanted to be alone on this trip, but already you’re wondering what another hike would look like with a close friend or companion. Maybe someone who’s even more than that.

Taking another deep inhale of the wine, the smell alone makes your mouth water before your first sip. It’s liquid comfort warming your insides. It makes sense how Edmund, a child dealing with food rations in the midst of war, denied even that simple distraction while the world fell apart around him, would betray his family for some Turkish delights given to him by the witch queen.

Okay, maybe your situation isn't quite so dire, but the wine is damned good.

It doesn’t elude you that he hasn’t remarked on your statement, which frankly, you’re grateful for, because it’s been too nice a day to ruin with moroseness, as unexpected as the confession was.

“Anyway, I thought the s’mores were a clear sign that I’d died and gone somewhere special, but after weeks of water?” Thank the goddess for refill stations that provided the occasional soda. You roll your eyes over to him and give an appreciative, exaggerated moan. “This is great, John. Divine, even. Thank you for this.”

But there’s a break in his voice when he asks if you’d like another cup, and it occurs to you how the moan you imitated could be interpreted. A smile teases at the corner of your mouth, opting to play along as he lightens the mood again. It really is proving to be one of the best nights you’ve had yet on the PCT.

“I thought you'd never ask, good sir.”

Something in his face perks up at that. It's cute. When he returns, you scoot closer until you're nearly touching, close enough to feel the heat of each other through your clothes. The pair of you are staring into the fire, sipping quietly, letting the chirp of insects and distant yips of nocturnal animals pass through.

“Some people find the sounds out here unnerving at night, but I like them,” he says. “This kind of stuff? It makes sense. The way we live in cities and suburbs is harder to understand.”

The urge to pester crops up. “We live in a society…”

“Stop,” he huffs, lightly pushing your knee. “I mean it. It’s ah, it’s exhausting trying to navigate all the rules people have. Although air conditioning and heating is pretty nice.”

He has a point, though. Looking over at him as he tilts his head up toward the sky, like he’s looking to the stars for an answer, he appears lost in his musings. There’s more depth to him, as well. Maybe you’ll get to find out how deep the well goes before this is done.

“All this coming from Corporate John, fresh from the office with the too-small boots? The trail is changing you fast, I see. Maybe this time next year, you’ll have a cabin and be living off the grid.”

Tearing his gaze away, he hazards a look at your flushed, teasing face. “Maybe so,” he says. “So, do I still get to see some of your art?" he asks.

“Wait, you’re actually interested? And here I was, thinking you were just trying to flirt.”

“Hey, I'll have you know that I am a gentleman! And you’ll know when I’m flirting.”

You're grinning now, nudging him with your shoulder. “Hopefully not too much of a gentleman. Wait here, I'll grab my book.”

Handing over your mug, you jet off into your tent. Confronted with a moment of solitude, you wonder to yourself, how is this night going to end with John? You’ve been flirting and teasing all day, and there’s surely some mutual interest at least. Whether it’s him specifically, or you’re just craving some intimacy, it would be nice to see where the evening goes.

You also take this moment to freshen up a bit, just in case, using a wet wipe and stashing it away in your waste bag, sanitizing your hands afterwards. It’s not a promise. It’s not. It’s just…a bit of a mood killer to stop in the middle of a makeout session for hygiene reasons. If you make out, of course, and that’s still a big if.

Smoothing down your curls, even though it’s fruitless without them being damp–it’s fine, you look fine–you grab up your sketchbook and out.

“Here ya go,” you say as you hand it to him, plopping back down on the trunk nonchalantly, pretending not to care much as he accepts the book and begins to flip through the pages slowly.

It's mostly close-ups illustrations of plants and the occasional stylistic insect, not a big deal, but he's enthusiastic with his praise at every turn.

“Rusty,” he says after a few pages.

“Yeah?”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’re an artist? A real artist. I really think you'd be able to make money off these. Why aren't you doing this full time already?”

“It's a little easier said than done,” you explain to him as old insecurities creep up. “You really think I could?” you ask as he finishes up your book, shutting the cover with care.

Handing your work back to you, he responds, “Rusty, these are so impressive that I'm a little embarrassed to show you mine.”

He's being good-natured about it at least. “Hey, no way I'm letting you off the hook. You promised me that I could see yours too, remember?”

When you waggle your brows, he throws his head back in laughter, throwing his hands up in defeat. “No, no you're right.”

“Another refill, first? It'll calm your nerves.”

He rubs your hand before standing, taking your mug with him. “As you wish, my dear. But I'll have you know, I'm easily taken advantage of.”

“Is that so? I did promise to be gentle, John.” You’re keeping your face carefully neutral, but there’s a knowing glint in his eye that suggests you aren’t as convincing as you thought.

“Alright, alright. I’ll be back. Keep my spot warm, yeah?”

He stands and your gaze bores so forcefully into his retreating back that surely he must feel the intensity of it. 

The distance gives you a blessed moment to reflect, too. That uncertainty he displayed earlier seems to have transferred over to you over the course of your time together tonight.

He was definitely flirting, right? You aren’t misinterpreting whatever has been building between you. People assume men are easier to figure out, but in your experience, women are the ones who communicate exactly what they want. With their words, their mannerisms, with the dozens of ways their pretty lips can turn. It's like dancing.

Men are the ones with hidden motives and expectations, really. It’s been different since you grew your hair out, but when it was cropped short, men barely gave you the time of the day. Now, though, they see the sports bras, the brazen way you approach them as an equal, not waiting to be pursued, and it puts them off.

Rubs their egos wrong.

Not that John has been that way, but it’s understandable that you’d have some trouble knowing exactly what he’s expecting tonight. Out of practice, awkward fumblings, unable to pick up the steps of this dance. How do you go from the camaraderie of a new friend to the potential of a lover, even for one night.

Inexplicably, you find yourself wondering what his initial impression is of this queer little mess who can carry a hundred-plus pounds of necessities, bramble-haired, wiry, and climate-callused at the moment. Maybe caring a little about how mutual the attraction is.

You wouldn’t worry about it quite so much if it had been a Joan you’d met today. Women, femmes, and everyone else in your community are definitely easier. But you’re here with John either way and you’re having a good time. John with his unblemished skin,  natural waves, and dark eyes. A not-ungroomed beard that frames his face nicely. You can imagine the way he’d walk in the corporate world, as sure-footed there as he was out of place here.

That in mind, maybe that’s what you can offer in this situation. Existing on the fringes, maybe this is your territory that John has stumbled into, and maybe it gives you a leg up, of sorts.

He did say he was tired of that type of life, right? Maybe something different is exactly what he’s after, and maybe a fringe sort of person like you is exactly what he wants. At least for tonight. 

Besides, what’s the worst that can happen if you make a pass at this lovely specimen of a guy and fumble it? The birds? Fuck those birds. You can just pack up your tent tomorrow and move on, and tell literally no one about the rejection until it stops stinging, and then you can laugh about it.

It’s worth a shot, right? Even if the men where you're from aren't really worth pursuing, you're still surprised by your interest in him. The dark mop of his hair is contained in a bun atop his head–practical for the trail, as long as he's sunscreening his ears. The curly texture catches the deep reds and oranges of the firelight. He looks good like this, bathed in fuzzy, warm colors, positioned against the darkness of night.

No, more than that.

He's striking. Pouty lips that lick downwards when he's concentrating and a soft jawline from what you can tell, drifting into a long, delicate neck. You haven't fooled around with a man in years–not since your early 20s. Never even got far enough to need a condom. Now, you're suddenly wishing you'd packed at least one for this trip, and blushing at the thought.

Goddess, you really have been lonely in new ways since starting this hike. There's been some human interaction, yes, but mostly in passing. Besides, how long has it been even before the PCT that you spent this long in someone's company? Especially not a six-foot-fucking-something surprise like John is.

Speaking of, Mr. Egregiously Tall returns from his tent with a sheepish look that’s awfully sweet on him, his fingertips fluttering around the camera he’s holding. It looks nice, but honestly you don't know much about cameras–it's big and has a digital screen. 

When he returns to his spot beside you, your head fuzzy with musings, it turns out that you aren’t the only one so affected, anyway. It's either the fire, the wine, the way you’ve been sucking sticky sugar off your fingertips, or that filthy sound you made earlier that's casting his cheeks all pink like that. Or a heady combination of all three, because your face is hot too.

He makes a sound that hums deep in your bones as he situates himself beside you. To distract yourself, you close your eyes and savor the drink, inhaling spiced steam and hugging your mug close to warm your fingers. It isn’t exactly cold out yet by most standards, but yours is a reptilian body that craves heat. Reopening your eyes, you find him watching you with even eyes, the intensity of which setting you alight. Suddenly, you’re grateful for the fact he can’t hear how your pulse speeds up.

“Be nice,” he cautions with a small smile. 

“Psh, that’s all I ever am. Now, let me see.”

John flips through a few images before showing you one that’s a photo of a squirrel. Nothing all that special, really, but you melt at the sight, seeing the way the light glints off the tips of its fur, its tail curled in curiosity as it forages. When he flips through a few more, you realize that they're all really good. Maybe they’re amateur photos, your skillset isn’t really with photography, but there's certainly passion in his approach.

He has a steadiness about him that animals seem to trust. He's able to get so close to them–some are even looking directly at him with curious eyes. The results are stunning. There’s even one of a red fox sitting in the meadow, almost concealed by the splendor of colorful wildflowers; its eyes closed as it basks in the sunlight.

Foxheart, your mind supplies.

Who knew that Corporate John had such an unknown talent hidden up his sleeve? You were expecting something more–well, you don’t know really what you were expecting, but not this.

“John…these are incredible.”

When you look up, he's got that soft, intent look in his face and it sweeps you right up. “You really think so? I could definitely improve my technique and I have so much more to learn about composition.”

“Stop–take the compliment. It’s so outdated to talk down on yourself. Seriously, I’d want prints of these. Assuming you survive the trail, of course, with your city sensibilities.”

A wry quirk of his lip accompanies his response. “You’re too kind, Rusty.”

“Hush, I'm just being honest.”

You’re caught up by the orange tone the firelight casts onto him as his hand comes to your cheek, just beside your mouth. Brows lifted in surprise as the pressure of it swipes across your cheek swiftly, the digit returning to his mouth where the wet flesh of his tongue sucks it in.

Oh. The pit of your stomach drops a bit, like the unexpected maneuver of a rollercoaster that leaves you with a strange cramp of excitement. The shock must’ve still been on your face because his response is immediate.

“Uh, sorry. You had some chocolate there and it was just instinct. I probably had too much to drink. That was weird, and I–”

It only takes a moment before your index finger halts his thoughts, lightly pressed to his mouth. A blush blooms hotly on his face, the bashful thing. He’s just so damn pretty with his cheeks all pink, framing the splendor of his Cupid’s bow mouth.

Bring your face closer, to where your lips are a hair’s breadth from his as your fingers trail across his cheek, down his neck. “You should kiss me,” you say, ichor in your veins and voice barely above a whisper.

With that simple statement, the dam breaks, and John’s entire posture relaxes. “Been dying to.” And as it turns out, maybe men aren’t so difficult after all.

His lips are just as soft as you'd hoped. They fit well over yours, the bottom one nice and plump. There's no waxy lipstick to contend with (though you're fond of flavored gloss). Instead, it's the soft bristles of his beard, which smells of sandalwood, tickling your face. It's different, but welcome. 

He bows to your tongue, allowing you to stroke his while being gentle, oh so gentle, just as promised. There’s sugary confectionery lingering behind his teeth that must reflect your own taste. Rich, semi-sweetened chocolate and cloying marshmallow. A hint of spice.

It’s addictive.

Even the pressure of his thumb, lightly rubbing your thighs as though asking for permission, sends a shiver through you. Goodness, it's been so long since you've been touched and secretly, you’d been hoping for him to do so all night . So you plant his hand firmly onto the meat of your leg, pretending not to notice how you both tense at the bold contact.

That softness continues to blanket the space as you lean into each other. The hand that’s been on your thigh, though polite, keeps your attention as it caresses a sweet pattern onto you, the heat of it bleeding through your pants.

His answering moan sends a flurry of nerves through your lower stomach, and you stay like this until you need to draw a breath. Eyes half-lidded as you observe each other. You're three mugs of wine deep and sugary comfort muddles your thoughts. 

“Should we go inside? It’s getting chilly out here.”

The rawness of his expression is so devastating that you don’t think you even needed the paltry excuse to get behind fabric walls. “After you.”

Standing up, his taller form is almost overwhelming, charged as it is with heat, with a broad hand splaying across the small of your back to keep you steady as you bend to get into his tent. Your nerves are dancing with wicked anticipation as you face each other, kneeling in the cramped space.

That lovely mouth of his returns to yours, beard burning your skin as he firmly cradles the back of your neck, keeping close contact as though you’ve got all the room in the world. It’s all sandalwood, spice, and smoke as you’re swept up in the current of his motions, hot muscles exploring the caverns of each other’s mouths.

Eventually breaking away to catch a breath and fuck, it’s so good to finally be handled like this again, especially by someone who knows what they’re doing. Except, it seems like he’s holding back. Hopefully, not for your sake.

Burying your fingertips in his beard, you gently scratch at his chin in affection. “You don’t happen to have a condom in that pack of yours, do you?”

He shakes his head. “Ah, I didn’t think I’d need any, but I’m definitely kicking myself for it, now.”

“Damn, me neither, and I'm not on birth control. But…we can play in other ways,” you say, trailing your other hand up his thigh, enjoying his shiver. “If you're okay with that?”

“Foxheart, I'm uh,” he huffs, looking down at the bulge on his pants. “Whatever you want.”

Oh, those are magic words alright, and the nickname is cute.  Maybe you can tease some more of that impulsivity out of him, though. Taking your time to unbutton your shirt, you relish the hunger in John's eyes as he devours each inch of skin that's slowly revealed.

“Help me with my bra?” you ask, turning around. Of course you don't need the help, but it’s a great excuse to get those hands back on you. Maybe it’ll break that spell he seems to have fallen under. He’s got to have an impulsive side in there, somewhere, the blend of corporate and creative that he is.

He sweeps your hair across a shoulder, palms lingering over the flesh there before trailing down to pull the material off your shoulders. Then he smooths your hair back into place and plays with the copper ends. It’s an affectionate gesture that turns you into sap, relaxing you into the warmth of his front, head resting in the crook under his chin.

Chest now exposed to the air, the nipples pebble into hard points that he very obviously ignores with a sweep across the sides of your breasts.

Come on, just grab me already. How can you ask him to be gentle and rough all at the same time?

He turns you and pulls you in for another hot kiss as your arms hook around his neck, allowing your breasts to push into him. Please. Leaning him back into a seat, you straddle his legs, both partially dressed, barely-clothed cunt pressed firmly against his trousers.

Your pajama shorts and his pants are a barrier, but one that provides delicious friction for you as you grind on him.

It answers that curious question you've been asking yourself since you met him–he's big, in proportion with his height, and he would hit deep. Suddenly you're wondering if you’re disappointed or relieved that you won't get to take him inside of you. 

“I don’t think you’d fit, anyway.”

It's a nervous reaction that has you babbling such things, but at the same time, a tried-and-true method of letting him know that you like what you feel. Men like to hear that kind of stuff, right? The way he groans, bucking up into you in response sends you into delight as you latch onto his neck, licking and suckling, careful not to bruise him since he didn’t give permission to do so. Leave no trace, right?

“You don't have to hold back with me, I won’t break.” Another grinding motion that rocks pleasure through your center.

He takes a shuddering breath. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” you say, mouth sucking at his neck. “Loosen your tie a little, yeah?”

Your hands drift under the hem of his shirt, smoothing over the planes of his stomach, tensed from your ministrations. Moving upwards, they finally catch on his nipples, rolling the small organs between your fingers.

“Harder, Rusty,” he says, sounding strained. Ah, there it is. That breaking point of his that he seems to be working through.

So you do, marking him as your own, groaning harshly against his throat as you pinch them. Most of your partners haven’t been interested in this kind of rough attention.

Large hands slide under your shorts and panties, spanning your backside as John helps you rub against him, letting you the terrain of his body. The fabric bunched up between you doesn't allow much finesse, but the broad massaging of your mound, the unspent sexual energy that's been growing tonight, and the unexpected eroticism of his musky scent work in tandem to build you up. That low ache becomes a persistent need.

“Oh, oh gods, please.”

Mouth closing to stifle the sounds that threaten the quiet, John's hand firmly smacks against your ass, the sting more surprising than painful, yet you still squeak.

“Go wild,” The rumbled command is almost a growl.

The sound that escapes you is embarrassing, but it's got John’s length pushing your underclothes against your clit. The friction feeds something primal in you–you're soaked and slippery with it. A few more minutes of this delicious friction gone feverish and you realize too late that you're climbing. Climbing fast and then–

Then falling so quickly and needfully that you barely have time to enjoy it. Just a quick, almost harsh wash of pleasure cramping through your lower half as you clench around nothing. The feeling quick as a flash and just as intense.

When you come back to yourself, the first thing you notice is how small you feel in John's arms.

He looks as devastated as you feel, and the sight is amazing. 

“Goddess,” you say, breathless.

“Needed that, huh?”

“Shut up.” Part mortified and part amused, you press your face against the side of his neck, breathing heavily, but you can't resist the urge to joke. “Um, this doesn't normally happen to me. It must be because I like you so much.”

John's laugh is loud in the small space. Being draped over him as you are, amusement shaking through you and you can't help but join in. Kissing him and promising dirty delights to his lips, “I did need that. You’re not done, are you?”

“Mmm, m’nowhere near done. Why? You want more, you greedy little thing?”

Obviously, he is–his hard-on is still at your apex. Poised and patient as you're practically hurting for a proper orgasm this time. One that's slowly steeped throughout your body until every nerve is weeping for release.

“Yes,” you respond. If the first one took the edge off, it left you lingering on the precipice, primed for another. 

Even though you've become very familiar, very skilled with your hands, it's been so long since you've had a partner. And John is nearly a foot taller than your last one, with hands that are proportional to his height. Hands with long, thick fingers, and…

Grabbing the hem of his shirt, you're pulling it over his head, throwing it aside. You notice, though, that his eyes track it as it falls in a heap. Neat freak, maybe? No matter, though, as his attention immediately returns to you, large hands approaching your chest. Both topless and mapping out each other's bodies.

His hands are warm, caressing your breasts and teasing the skin; taking his time with them.

“Like this?” he asks.

A quick, emphatic nod. “Yes. Please, yes.” No, no. Harder. More. But the words stay lodged in your throat inexplicably.

After a couple of minutes of rocking against him, less frantically this time, just savoring his attention to your chest, you pause. Unlikely to come again like this, now that the initial edge has worn off. Plus, you want to feel his weight on you.

“John,” you whisper.

“Mm?”

It’s fully night now and being topless, the chill is settling into your bones, despite your previous fevered movements. “Can we shift? I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m cold.”

“Of course. Let me keep you warm, then,” he says, sympathetically kissing the growing goosebumps on your skin as he lays you back onto his open sleeping bag.

“Take those off?” you ask, glancing down. “It can’t be comfortable wearing them still.”

He shoots you a grateful look before removing his pants, folding them carefully and setting them aside. And then his body is quick to return to you, completely covering you as he nestles between your legs.

There’s a brief moment of hesitation at the hardness there, an almost instinctive jolt of concern at how easily he could pin you down if he were to rest more fully. It occurs to you then, just how much trust you’re putting in this complete stranger, this man, not to take more than you’re willing to give. Yet, he doesn’t take advantage of that, doesn’t even let his full weight settle on you. He mostly supports himself on his elbows at this point, only keeping pressure where your thighs have been holding him in place.

It's only underwear separating you, and damn, you're really lamenting not having a condom. You’d probably let him fuck you at this point. Keening as he latches onto a nipple, rolling your other in his hand. It'll be okay–being rubbed and fingered to completion is great. Not to mention…even with your wetness, his size and girth would be a lot to take, and you're not as practiced in that department.

Hand on his chest, you're trekking along the tanned skin, seeing what reactions you can elicit from your diminutive position beneath him. He grinds against you a final time, pleading.

“Just hands, right?” It's a reminder, more than a question. Speaking of hands, they're lightly grazing along your hip. So very, very close to the apex between them. Teasing by denying you the touch.

“Only hands? Not my mouth?”

Oh. That is doing a lot for the returning urgency in your center, which he probably felt tremble through your thighs. His mouth is awfully nice to look at. And feel. Honestly, you hadn't considered that he might want to go down on you.

“I haven’t really been with a lot of men, so I’m a little, uh… You know what you’re doing down there, right?”

“I’m a quick study.”

He smiles reassuringly, his focus now between your legs as you struggle not to feel exposed, vulnerable. You're hairy–there's no need for a razor on the trail and shaving never was your biggest priority anyway. And when you came out as non-binary, it certainly didn't feel necessary to keep up with the requirements of proper womanhood; whatever that means.

Then he catches your gaze and licks his lips, biting softly on the lower one. You've got a devastatingly attractive man who toes the line between pretty and handsome about to bury his face between your legs, and you're worried about your bush.

Lord, Rusty. Let the man eat you out already.

Clearing your throat, trying to stay composed and not reveal exactly how desperate you are for his offer, you reply. “I’d like that. Please.”

It's a whisper, surprisingly soft for you, but you're nervous and beginning to feel… new for some inexplicable reason.

“Good. Good girl.”

And oh, that…that one. Why does that do things to you? Explanations of patriarchy, gender dysphoria, and internalized misogyny flit through your brain, but at the end of the day?

It's just fucking hot.

So you pull him in for a final, passionate kiss–velvet muscles dancing in your mouths, lips reddened from pressure–before sending him off. His hands are everywhere as he kisses his way down, leaving no region unworshipped. By the time he arrives at your pelvis, you're soaking with need, the gusset of your underwear bearing evidence of it.

It's been a long time since someone has done this for you. Longer still since it was a man. And they never had a beard. The beard will be…interesting. Rough texture scratching over the newly-formed calluses of your hips where your pack’s belt has been fortifying your flesh, only to be spotted by the warm tenderness of his lips.

“Lift up for me?”

With a deep inhale, you do as he asks and raise your hips, allowing him to slowly drag your shorts and panties down in one smooth movement, the fabric tickling as it travels across your skin.

You refrain from closing your legs at being completely bared before his face.

“Such a. Pretty. Little. Thing,” he says, punctuating each word with a kiss on sweat-slicked planes of your legs, pushing them apart before you have another thought against it. The stretch from them being butterflied out feels far too good to be sinful. “You're soaking.”

His warm tongue glides along the crease between your thighs and slit, leaving slick trails in the coarse hair there. Okay, so it really isn't a problem. That's a relief. Most of the nature-guys you've met seem more open-minded anyway. 

Wet lips dominate your inner thigh, enjoying the resulting twitches and quivers they elicit. You gasp when his attention moves to the opposite one, saliva turning cold in his absence. It's short-lived, though–his hand replaces his lips and grasps tightly, bleeding warmth into you.

“It’s been a little while for me, too. Tell me if you have any requests, okay?”

His fingers spread the ample slickness around. Eyes fluttering shut at the sensation, a slight moan escaping. “Yes, John.”

Hearing you say his name all soft and whimpered like that, he releases a dark, guttural sound. You can feel it on your flushed skin as his mouth descends, tongue flat and broad against you. He swipes a firm path up your slit, flicking your bud and making you squirm in overstimulation.

When he does it again, it makes you hiss, to his amusement. You nudge his head gently with your knee. Brat. You swear you feel his smile, too–mischievous man. Returning to you, no longer teasing when he laves determinedly between your folds.

He's flat on his belly like a serpent as he grips your thighs to keep them apart, granting him unfettered access to your cunt. Your hands are in his hair at the scalp. Having it down would be an inconvenience, but the desire to bury your fingers in those curls is stronger.

One finger plucks at the hair tie. “Can I?”

No words since his mouth is busy, but he hums and nods his approval in rhythm with his tongue. He’s hard at work as you carefully free his hair; untangling the locks and praising his appearance before tossing your head back and just feeling, trying to stave off another embarrassingly quick orgasm because you want this to last. So you try to let the pleasure build slowly, luxuriating in the glow of so much attention and touch after weeks of isolation.

You're at the mercy of his pace though, and when he quickens it, a tingling warmth spreads from your pelvis, the focal point being that tiny point of your organ that John’s focused on. Oh, but it's the firm sucks at it that turn you into goo.

His beard provides a friction you're unaccustomed to, keeping your vulva and inner thighs on edge. Desire curls deep in your core, demanding satisfaction, all while he licks on. Large hands come up to rub your puffy lips as he catches his breath.

You lose your own when he looks up at you, cheeks flushed, his lips swollen too, with his teeth poking out. His hair is messy from your tugging.

“...John?”

A pause. “Mmm?”

“You're really pretty.”

His soft laughter is a puff of breath on your cunt as he gets back to work. Sinking your fingers into his hair, there's no more time for humor as his tongue enters you, fully eating you out–waves of desire roll through you.

The sounds you're making would be a little embarrassing if you cared, but you don't. Not out here where only the mammals and the insects and the trees can hear you. And his own sounds are filthy and lovely–raw, unabashed gratification. He latches onto your nub and sucks, his determined tongue circling fiercely, pushing delicate flesh against bone, massaging at the root with practiced confidence.

That pleasure that was nearly denied you earlier returns. You're walking up another mountain, treading with determination and care, approaching the summit. Such euphoria comes from reaching the peak that it feels like clarity; liquid sunshine flowing through your veins.

“Just like that–please don't stop. Oh, it’s going to be so good.”

You feel unhinged in a way you never have. Toes curling with energy. Rolling your nipples to give your chest some consideration–John’s busy after all. He turns the pressure up, intensifying his rhythmic massaging, circling your clit with intent.

“That's it, Foxheart. Let go.”

Your hips are practically off the floor as you grind into his face. Huffing and puffing in this small space. Back arched, thighs straining with effort–your toes are dangling off the cliff.

“Give it to me.”

With a choked gasp, a warm flood of pleasure settles in as the first sensations hit you and you finally, finally come. This is the full extent of pleasure you were denied earlier when you finished so rapidly without the work to build it into something bigger.

You've earned this one.

“There you are. That's a good girl.”

“Fuck, John.” Sure, you can be his good girl in this context. The butterflies that phrase releases into your belly are undeniable.

The moan wrenched from you is quiet but drawn out. John's mouth continues its attention to your heated flesh, lips suckling hard and tongue circling the source of this delicious ache that rocks your tectonic plates. His hands are on your ass as he holds you in place–you keep trying to roll up and around, chasing something to fill you. Your back strains upward to accommodate for the bucking you want to do; and his mouth, tethered to you by pressure, follows each frenzied movement to prolong your pleasure.

You're boneless on his sleeping bag in the wake of such exhausting sensations. Your own panting is louder than his even though he was the one depriving himself of oxygen, and suddenly you remember why the French call it the little death. Because you fell over the cliff and nearly crashed into the crags below, but you held on, dragged yourself back up and your body feels returned from the otherworld itself.

And you’d gladly do it again.

“That was…thank you for that.”

“Pleasure was all mine.”

“That’s not quite true,” you huff, trying to catch your breath. “Hell, that was good.”

John’s face is red from exertion, his chest as puffed up as his lips at your praise. His beard positively glistens and the sight has you suddenly possessive. He made you feel this way, but you made him look this way. 

You pull him into a kiss–tasting, smelling, yourself on his face. It’s slippery, messy…it’s perfect. Then your hand is sliding down his hard, tanned form, feeling the soft, sparse hairs on his chest. Squeezing his thigh with the free one, enjoying the way his muscles tense and release, teasing the skin of the rock-hard length you find there.

“Foxheart, you don’t have to. I can finish myse–”

“I want to,” you interrupt. “I don’t–I’m comfortable with just my hands, though.” You had several unpleasant blowjob experiences in the early days of exploring your sexuality, and with this girth? You’re out of your depth, pun fully intended. Better to stick with your hands.

“Is that okay?”

He takes your hand in his, lightly kissing your knuckles. “More than okay.”

His erection strains against his boxer-briefs and he’s been so patient about it. Poor guy. Frowning sympathetically, you rub him through the fabric, eliciting a low groan from him. He lifts so you can remove the final cloth barrier between you, cock springing up upon release.

John’s as beautiful here as he is elsewhere. Delicate, flushed color over taught flesh. Cut, clean, symmetrical. Worthy of bragging about. Taking his member in hand, considering the weight. He’s indeed big–as long as you’d expect for his height. Your fingers can’t close around him. 

Drawing open your mouth, you hover over him and let your tongue hang loose, letting a slow, viscous line of saliva dribble down. Bless him, the man holds his breath as you spread the slick around him, continuing to lube him up with your spit. Covering your fingers in it before you really grip him and start a slow stroke from the base all the way up his shaft–closing your fist over the tip and circling it.

It makes him suck in a sharp breath through gritted teeth. You've done something right–his eyes are stormy, serious, and completely focused on you. Observing the heavy sway of your breasts as you work him, the slight hang of your lower lip as you inhale unevenly. His hands at his sides, opening and closing into fists like he isn’t quite sure where he wants them.

Or maybe he does and he’s afraid to ask.

“You can hold my hair, if you want.”

Almost immediately, they embed in your hair and scratch at your scalp. You keep your face low, right over his heated, turgid flesh as you cup it–holding his cock in place as you kiss the soft skin of his inner thigh, absorbing his scent into your cells.

“Foxheart.”

Your ministrations continue, stacking your hands to reach as much flesh as you can, working in opposite circles. Experimenting with pressure to find out what elicits the most reaction from him. He twitches every time your thumb teases his slit. And when you focus on his blunt head, fisting it repeatedly, his hips thrust upward and his member, so close to your face already, slides wetly along your cheek. 

Clenching up at the effect it has on you, too. Slathering the mess of your saliva all over his length to keep your strokes well-lubricated.

“Look at you,” he pants out, eyes locked on your face as you lick your lips. “You're something else, you know that?”

That else sure sounded an awful lot like the word filthy, but without any sense of judgement. Awe, more like. Is he wondering how your lips would look wrapped around him? Because you are. You imagine how he’d positively fill the caverns of that fleshy space with velvety heat, the muskiness of his groin in your nostrils as you work him.

Your hands pick up the pace around his shaft, spurred on by his praise, torso moving up and down in an imitation of a blowjob. John’s gripping your head, breathing heavily as he follows your movements.

“You have to slow down, or I’ll–”

“Do you really want me to slow down?” Honeydew eyes look up from under your dark lashes, warm breath on his cockhead as you continue your movements, not slowing down a bit.

He inhales raggedly before answering. “...No.”

Your thumb glides along his length, mapping the contours and putting pressure on the ridges, returning to pumping him steadily and firmly. “Are you about to come, John?”

A nod as he thrusts into your hands now.

“So do it.”

A rush of confidence soars through you and you give a close-mouthed kiss to the tip, right below the slit, he fists your hair and comes undone–hot, ropey strands hit your face and neck as you work him through it. He sounds ruined as you continue to milk him dry, slowing down as he trembles from the intensity. Sitting up, you stroke his thigh reassuringly as he recovers. He looks dreamy when his eyes reopen, a fond look on his face.

“Foxheart?” The pet name seems to have stuck. It’s kinda cute.

“Hmm?”

“Do you, uh,” he says, clearing his throat. “Would you like another drink?”

You nod and cackle–covered in his cum and the goof seems not to notice. “Yes, please. And a towel?”

He looks dazed, still, eyes drifting over your face and neck, over his mess. He suddenly grabs the back of your neck, hauling you into him as kisses you, tongue flooding your mouth, smearing his own spend onto his beard, and that–that–was the thing you’d been aching to inspire in him all night. That touch of roughness that showed just how much you could unravel him.

Goodness, it was just a handjob.

Then he licks his lips clean before getting up to dampen a towel. It’s your turn to look dazed as he wipes the remainder of his fluids off of you. He’s attentive–reverent, even. Then, stark naked, he exits the tent to check on the fire before returning with two mugs of wine and your water bottles.

“Thank you.”

“I think I should be the one telling you that one. Jesus, Rusty.”

Suddenly sheepish, you’re tucking your naked form in his lap, cradling your mug as you lean back into his chest, snuggled together with his sleeping bag around you. His tent has a window in the ceiling that unzips, allowing you to look up into the night sky.

You pass the time pointing out familiar constellations and making up stories about them, sipping the remainder of the wine. When the mugs are empty, you enjoy another round. You’re slow as your hands and fingers worship each other–and as John’s mouth worships you.

Both sweaty from exertion. Your abs and arms will be sore in the morning. It’s quieter this time. Just sleepy, desperate breaths exchanged under the stars that are now steeped in new meanings. On your sides, facing each other as he pets you this time, rubbing the root of your clit with his thumb as his palm works the swollen flesh beneath. Hooking your thigh around his hip, John’s cock is nestled into your sweaty, heated thighs.

When you finish, he swallows your cry and spurts of cum land warmly on your skin.

The towel gets used a few more times before you fall asleep.

The sun has been up for at least an hour when you awake with a pleased smile. More than pleased. Fulfilled. There's a slight chafe between your thighs that you proudly bear.

John peppers you with kisses.

“Say, you aren’t on a timeline for your trip, right?” he asks you, nibbling your neck. He’s spooning you now, hands caressing your side. Turning you into a puddle already this morning.

“Mmm, I’m not. Why?”

His nose is in your hair, inhaling lightly, almost like he doesn’t want you to notice.

“Well, uh… if you’re amenable, we could keep this camp another night. There’s that spring nearby–you could paint and I could take some photos. Have s’mores again this evening. What do you say?”

Why not? You’re a professional dilly-dallyer. He doesn’t need to twist your arm to stay in this little nook for another night.

“That depends–are you gonna make me breakfast?”

He grins, “Of course.” He leaves to gather more firewood and you take the moment to reflect.

Last night was amazing–John’s been providing your touch-starved self the kind of attention you need, and you get to spend the day making art and enjoying each other’s bodies. You’ll probably part ways after this, so you resolve to enjoy this day to its fullest. Maybe you’ll even give him your number before you depart. It’d be nice to have another friend, at least.

Spotting his camera, you decide to look at the photos he showed you last night. Standing up and stretching, you leave the tent with his camera, squinting against the daylight. Starting with the fox and reviewing them again, you’re curious what other animals he’s captured; you got distracted fast during the first viewing. He wouldn’t mind, would he?

Going further back, enjoying the random wildlife he’s photographed–it appears John showed you some of the recent ones he’s taken–you come across an interesting one. It’s a tree, but one that you remember seeing. In fact, you painted this tree. Its unique form struck you as peculiar. Looks like you’ve been on the same path at some point before meeting.

Click. Click.

It’s a series of small animals, mostly rodents. They’re cute, but nothing that’s worth a second viewing.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

This one…this one is familiar, too. It’s the lake where you went swimming a while back. It makes sense that he’d be drawn to it, but the photo…it’s not artistic like the others. It looks more like…like he was documenting it, somehow. It lacks the composition and contrast that the other ones have.

Click.

What…what is this? you think. Same scene, but closer. Close enough to witness a silhouette near the water’s edge. It’s small, but you gasp when you notice it.

Is that…is that you? No, that wouldn’t really make sense.

There’s a tremor in your thumb as you press the button, something wrong settling in.

Click. Click.

The next photo definitely is you. You’re sitting on a stump near the lake, your brows furrowed in concentration as you study the small watercolor paper before you. Painting away while the sun paints your hair into glowing red fire.

What…what the fuck is happening here?

Hands shaking, you press the button once more, ignoring the voice in your head warning you no, no, don’t look. But crippling curiosity demands more from you.

Click.

This one…this one makes your stomach drop. This picture shows a faint image of you lit only by the firelight. It’s nighttime. You remember that night–you decided to forego the tent, finding a nice clearing and setting up your sleeping bag under the ceiling of stars.

The photo is blurry from being zoomed in so much, but your expression is unmistakable: you’re mid-moan. Your hand pocketed away in your shorts, brushing aside your panties and seeking rapture.

You're out of your depth–you're in danger. You know you are, but somehow you still can’t comprehend what all you’re seeing. What is this? What the fuck is this? Has he been watching you? How long has he been watching you? Who is he? What does he want?

You need to go. Before he gets back.

Go, now.

Before you can consider your next move, the sound of branches break your concentration and you startle so suddenly that you nearly drop the damn thing, with the way your body has been rendered as stable as saturated paper.

“I found that stream that’s nearby,” a voice interrupts. “We should go together later. I think you’ll really like it.”

Quickly hiding the camera behind you as you turn to find him a few yards behind you.

“John.” Hot sickness twisting in your belly, you force a smile. “Hi.”

“Hi…Are you okay?” he asks, eyes narrowing. Is it your imagination or had they followed the way your hands disappeared too quickly to be casual?

A tear slips free and you hurriedly wipe it away with a hand, the other one clinging so tightly to the camera that an ache starts up in your blunt fingertips.

“Hm? Oh, I’m fine. Just allergies hitting me this morning. What was it you were saying about the stream?” you ask, wiping away the wetness from your face as your expression marinates in fear, surely turning it sour.

His eyes narrow. “Did something happen?”

Shit shit shit. Lie, Rusty. Think of something–anything. The fear has numbed your brain, though, and you can’t think of a single excuse suddenly, and your mouth hangs futilely. So you shake your head instead.

“What’s that behind your back?” He takes a step toward you, one that you instinctively reclaim with a step back, panic crawling up your throat. “Did you take my camera?”

“No.” It’s too quick to be believable, not that it would have mattered anyway. He knows, surely he knows. It's got to be written all over your face. You’re being too obvious–you have to stop.

“You're clearly upset about something, and I can't help if you don't talk to me.” Another two steps closer that you parallel. Your knees feel weak, like they could buckle at any moment. “Forget the camera, it isn’t a big deal if you went through my things while I was gone.”

Another headshake that loosens more tears carving hot tracks into your cheeks. He drops the bundle of wood he’d gathered, the sound shocking, so cacophonous in the early morning quiet that it startles you into nearly dropping the cursed thing.

John spreads his arms out placatingly. “Look, I’ve just picked up more wood for the fire. Let’s heat up some breakfast, okay? Maybe you'll feel better after you eat.”

There’s a peculiar look in his eyes as he continues to stare you down, looking at you with a coolness, a stillness that you wouldn’t have guessed was even in him. Where did that dopey man from yesterday go? His whole demeanor, his cadence, all of it is different. Like he’s a whole new person there who’s studying you. Calculating.

“John, I…” You shake your head, impossibly unable to think of anything else to do. “I can’t.” You can’t. The words are bubbly, they're soapy foam in your mouth that threaten to choke you if you breathe wrong.

“Can’t what? Why are you being so weird?”

He's wearing a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and it looks dreadful on his face. An awful, horrible feeling passes over you, old and familiar. One that you can't process right now because it all is too much. Suddenly, you’re on the balls of your feet, a thunk as the camera is abandoned to the leaves below.

Dimly registering the warning hiss of a snake that you nearly tread upon, telling you to back off, but no, that doesn’t make any sense because you haven’t even taken a step and–and the hairs on the nape of your neck are standing to attention, limbs are painfully stiff, so tense–poised, and ready to–

“Foxheart.”

Run.

Chapter Text

I fake it so real, I am beyond fake, and someday you will ache like I ache.

“Doll Parts” by Hole

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 2

Run.

The unspoken command in your body propels you in John’s opposite direction. A compulsion without any heed of where to go or what to do to ensure you get there. It’s a rare kind of excitement, the sharp sting of adrenaline driving you past trees so fast that your mind can’t keep up. There’s no logic to it, just frenzied panic boiling over so rapidly that it’s overwhelming. Can barely hear a thing past the frantic pounding of your heart against its cage, gnawing to be let loose because your frame–fleshy prison that it is–is far too slow.

Weeks on the trail have trained your body, burning the excess of your calves through necessity, building strength. Feeling your muscles work overtime, straining to push fast and harder as the blurred shapes whip by. But is it enough? When his legs are so much longer than yours, can cover far more distance with far more efficiency, and you lack even the decency of a pair of fucking boots.

Motivation and fear can only fuel the body for so long, and you, poor little fool, you were set up to fail before you even began. You knew it deep down that you never had a chance. Dead branches splinter under your vulnerable feet, cushioned by wool socks. How far have you even gotten? A mile, if that? That’s nothing in the grand scheme, right? He’ll be able to see the dread-trodden path of broken branches and disrupted leaves.

It feels like that’s the way it was always meant to be when it happens. If destiny exists, it’s got you tangled up in its thorny brambles, tightening with every effort made to dislodge yourself. Out of nowhere, you nearly step on a damn snake, little black head and part of its body poking out from the leaves that you mistook for a branch, and even considering what you’re running from, it still spooks you enough to upset your pace, overcorrecting your sidestep too much.

You stumble, and in an effort to recorrect your form, trip over a goddamn tree root that’s thick enough to halt your progress as a sharp crack of pain shoots through your foot, the obstacle sending you tumbling into the terrain. The world wastes no time here, spinning and teasing and mocking your failure because you’re a little fucking idiot who is out of their depth here. The ground releases you from its punishment, fed up with your pathetic self, suspending you in the abyss for what feels like an eternity but could only be seconds at most.

When it catches you again, knocking the wind right out of your lungs before cradling you in the softness of Autumn’s decomposition, you don’t even know where you are for a moment. Frayed edges of darkness framing your vision, head still spinning, logic ejected from the window in the crash. Landing at the base of a nearby tree, you’re catching your breath, trying to find your bearings and trying to stand. But a searing stab in your foot causes you to fall back down.

Fuck. Your big toe is injured, possibly broken. This is bad, bad, bad.

How close is he?

Before you can lament the fact that you're screwed, crawling away quickly becomes a futile gesture when the crisp sound of leaves being crushed reverberates loudly in your skull, and a tall form emerges and blocks the sunlight.

Looking up in abject horror at him while he has a fucking smile on his face. It doesn't belong there though. It looks like his other ones, but…is it your imagination, or does it fit all wrong somehow, like it's been plastered on? 

“There you are,” he says. “Now why did you take off like that?”

It seems that the fall didn't knock the stupidity loose from you, because you still can't answer him. You're just staring up at him like a snared animal, waiting to see if he'll be benevolent, show you mercy, or if he'll show his hand right away. And why are you looking around? John’s the first hiker you’ve seen in a week. There’s no one else out here.

Your gaze returns to him as he cradles your chin in his hand, his grip gentle but unyielding–gods he's so strong that it feels like he could crush your jaw if he wanted to.

“Oh,” you utter, tongue feeling thick and dumb as it settles behind your teeth. What more was there to say? In that singular revelation, you think you won't ever recall anything that will define you more than this moment. This day. You’ll never forget the drop in your belly at being ensnared, fully aware that you'll have no control for the next events to come, no matter how they unfold.

Assuming you survive this. You’ll get to live, right?

“Are you okay? That was a nasty tumble.”

John crouches to your level and instinctively you lean away, unable to scoot back with your injured foot. When he reaches for it, you jerk your leg out of his reach, unable to tolerate his touch.

He frowns. “I can't help you if you don't let me see. Is it your foot? You aren't even wearing boots, Rusty. Anything could've happened to you. What were you thinking?”

“I saw…”

“An animal, like a bear? What do you think you saw?” A raised brow, waiting for you to finish.

What’s going on–what is he playing at? You both know what’s going on, right? The urge to get clarification rears up but he's got your foot in his big hands now, and he could break it easier than he could mend it.

“Nothing.”

“You saw nothing and it made you bolt like a fox out of a henhouse?” Not even looking at you as he removes your sock, busying himself with wiggling your toes, one by one, before getting to the injured big one, a hiss escaping you when he brushes against it, tugging your limb away protectively.

“Okay, okay,” he says, letting it go. “It's either sprained or broken. You really need to be more careful. What would've happened if I hadn't found you?”

With more care than expected, your foot is back on the ground. His touch doesn’t leave you, though. Instead, it lingers, crawling up to cup the bottom of your calf, kneading a knot out of the muscle. “It's going to put you out for a few days at least. It's a good thing I have extra rations with me that'll get us through until you're better.”

Another dry swallow. “Us?”

“You can’t think being alone right now is a good idea. How are you going to do anything without making this injury worse? Prepare food, gather water…relieve yourself.”

A blush.

“No, you’ll need some help. Let’s get you back to camp, hm?”

A flinch when he reaches for your shoulder. “Don’t.”

He sighs like a disappointed father, already tired before the explanation. “You didn't exactly leave yourself with many options. You can take my help, or you'll stay out here without any shelter for the night, where you'll freeze. If something worse doesn't happen to you first. Be rational, Rusty. What would you rather have happen?”

That prompts a myriad of horrible scenarios to flood your mind, filling it with images of what could happen there. Cuticles flooded with viscous red, a mouth all grease-slick from marrow, pretty canines with shreds of sinew lodged between them. Tears, blood, pain.

Or…maybe not.

“Look, I don’t know what happened back there–what could’ve spooked you, but you need to let me help you. I can’t leave you out here.” He looks so sincere when he says it that you begin to wonder. Were you wrong about what you saw? Did your hungover brain misinterpret those photos somehow? Maybe they were just…opportunistic instead of predatory. 

Maybe he was weird earlier because he was embarrassed. You snooped through his private things and saw a man's morally weak moment.

Plus, it isn't like he did anything particularly harmful to you. Maybe John just needs to reacquaint himself with social rules. You inflated the context, overreacted and ran off without your boots in the middle of the forest, and he had to follow you to make sure you didn’t get lost or hurt yourself. Which you did.

“I…”

He leans in, ever patient. “Hm?”

How much do the not-okay photos matter when presented without other options? You do need his help, is the clincher.  It'll take you hours to hobble back to camp. The same camp where he's set up anyway. You have to go back there either way. It's not even an option to sleep without shelter. You…you could die of exposure overnight before you got the chance to starve.

Shit.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

Please, don't make me regret this. “Help me, John. Please.”

It’s the first time in your adult life that you’ve felt so utterly helpless, stuck in a meat grinder with the butcher’s hand as your salvation. An accidental injury out here can be fatal, let alone…no, better not to go down that route. Either way, it could take weeks, months, an eternity before someone finds you out here. You'd be long dead by then.

He smiles. “Attagirl. Come on, let’s get you up.”

An arm under your knees–

“Wait, wait, I can walk–”

–gentle as anything as you’re off your feet and gathered against a firm chest, instinctively leaning into the warmth found there. Tamping down on the concern at how your weight settles between his fingers, the digits sinking into the flesh.

It’s at least a mile, and the brief bit of pride you feel at the distance you managed to cover is swept under by the next revelation: he carries your weight the whole way. A substantial, demoralizing fact–how could you ever have thought you could outrun him.

The fire is still going when you return. It’s another matter of minutes before you have a hot meal in front of you, the bowl stinging your frigid fingers.

“Eat up, Rusty. It's been an eventful morning, and you need the energy.”

It’s mostly quiet as you chew, the sound reverberating in your ears. It’s a struggle to swallow past the anxiety, to keep the nausea at bay with your frayed nerves. Scanning the area between wooden bites, you find that the camera is nowhere in sight. The pit in your stomach deepens, because you know enough about digital cameras to understand that it could have displayed the most recent image viewed once he turned it back on. The one of you with a hand deep in their underclothes, eyes screwed shut.

Undeniably you, but maybe you have the context wrong. Maybe he was just…hiking in the same direction and just happened upon your camp. Weeks alone on the trail without any socializing and he let his intrusive thoughts win out, thinking no one would ever know.

You’ll go home and tell your friends about the creep you almost rode into oblivion. Then after their genial chastising about making risky choices with strange men, you’ll be able to laugh about how you embarrassed the guy when you encountered the gross photo he took for his spank bank. And how you spooked yourself so badly that he had to carry you back to camp after you broke your toe.

“How is it? Might not be diner-worthy, but it’s what we’ve got.”

“It’s good, John. Thank you.” Forcing a smile.

He collects your dishes when you’re done, leaning over to put them away. Unexpectedly, he bends to peck your cheek–a simple enough gesture that he’d been doing all morning before your little…excursion–and when you flinch away from him, head turning to the side to avoid the touch, it suddenly feels like you’ve made a mistake. The cough you force will hopefully be enough to convince him that you simply hadn’t noticed.

The silence that follows probably appears peaceful from an outside perspective, but there’s tension in the air. Borderline torture for you–you’ve never felt so on edge before, heart fluttering away, too afraid to properly thump in case it’ll make too much noise.

No, you can’t spend the day like this. Even if he was just being a bit of a creep, you don’t want to commit more time to his company. It’s been tainted. How do you convince him somehow that you’ll be fine with your foot, that he can continue his hike and leave you here alone, just for a couple of days, and then you’ll be able to go on by yourself to a supply station?

Can you get him to leave without giving yourself away?

“Are you ready to talk about it?” He interrupts the musings before they can get anywhere useful.

“About what?”

“What happened earlier? I mean you practically threw my camera and took off blindly into the woods, for Pete’s sake.”

A gulp. This is it, this is when the camaraderie ends. “I’m sorry. I…it didn’t break, did it?”

“No, no, it’s a little banged up, but it’ll be okay. Are you okay, though?”

“Me? I’m…fine, I–just a little banged up myself from the fall. I just…I thought I saw something out in the trees before and I got scared, but I must have been seeing things. Probably drank too much last night and got dehydrated or something.”

A forced smile. “I’m feeling much better, actually. My foot, too. It probably just needs to rest for a bit today, before I get moving again. Thank you for…for helping me and making breakfast. I think that’s just what I needed to get my head right.”

You stand, leaning heavily on your good foot, attempting to prove to him that you’re okay, ignoring the immediate ache that settles.

“Honestly, John, I…I feel like an idiot for being so dramatic earlier. You don’t have to stay here with me–I’d hate to hold you back on your trip just because I saw a shadow and got scared. I think I’ll just post up today and keep my foot elevated until the swelling goes down. Probably be able to walk again tomorrow.”

Even a short amount of time on your feet makes you grit your teeth against the pain.

“Are you sure?” he asks with a frown, watching you with concern.

“I’m sure.” Please believe me. Please go.

Before you can think of any more arguments, a wrong shift makes you suddenly buckle with a pained shout, only to be caught by strong arms.

“Whoa there, take it easy,” John says, slowly bringing you both to the ground. “Look, you need to stay off that foot today–no buts. I’ll take care of you, okay?”

No, no, no. He has to go, he has to leave.

“Don’t worry about me. Besides, we already planned to spend the day together. It only changes things a bit.”

Looking up at him with tears in your eyes that are only partly from the pain shooting up your leg. With a tender look, he sweeps the hair from your face, baring you to him.

“I’m not in a hurry.”

A watery smile, half coated in arsenic. “Okay,” you say, because maintaining this fragile balance seems essential. Even kneeling beside you, the man looms over you. He didn’t seem so monstrously tall yesterday.

True to his word, though, he’s patient throughout the day. Prepares meals for you. One time, he even takes you away from camp to do your business and gives you plenty of space to wallow in mortification. Ample opportunity to show his hand if he was going to do that, right?

You keep up with the topical conversation, strain to believe in the play you’ve suddenly found yourself in because whatever overt violence this can devolve into is something your mind cannot handle.

This isn’t an unfamiliar dance for you. Probably not for most women, either.

It isn’t until the sun sits low in the horizon, your favorite time of day, golden hour, that the wind begins to shift again. He brings out more wine, probably to keep you pliable. When you accept it, though, you hope it does; maybe it’ll make this whole experience easier.

“You know, Rusty, this isn’t what we planned for our day, but I’m having a great time, still,” he says affectionately. “You’re something special.”

He’s unbothered by your noncommittal hum and how you stiffen when he draws you closer to him, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

Gods, you want more alcohol. An awkward, self-conscious shrug. “I don’t know about that.”

“No, you are.”

His hand trails along your arm. It would've been a fun flirtation last night. Now, it feels like it's on fire, charring your surface. It's dangerous. Tilting your head to face him, watching how the firelight plays with the tones of his face. Orange and vermillion bleeding into dark shadows of his hair and beard.

His eyes are devastatingly dark. Dangerous. They seemed warmer yesterday when reflecting the sunlight, and here they’re almost black. Little puffs of warm breath on your face and pouty lips that hover above yours until your own eyes begin to flutter shut in anticipation.

Ready to let him, of course.

“Ah,” he interrupts. “I almost forgot–I have something for you. Stay there.”

“What is it?” you ask after him, watching him retreat into his tent, anxious curiosity seeping in.

How does he have something for you when you just met, you’d like to ask, but that would be bursting this fantasy bubble too soon, and so far, this has seemed manageably safe. You consider running, but you're unlikely to make it out of camp this time before he catches up. Plus, it’s getting dark and you’d be running injured and blind this time. 

The flap of the tent’s opening signals his return.

“This is a little embarrassing now after everything, but…” Whatever it is that he returns with, it’s small enough to fit in his fist. Slowly, his fingers peel open to reveal the item.

Lipstick. A lovely hue somewhere between wine red and violet. Something about the…gesture? if you can call it that, feels off. Sinister somehow, all contained in a small tube. Unease settles into your stomach.

“Oh,” you say. “I don’t really wear makeup.”

“You don’t need it, not really. I just want to see how you’d look in this. I think it’s your shade. Would you mind if I…?” he asks.

He uncaps the tube, twisting until the wax stick emerges. Lightly used.

Whose is this, John? And why do you have it?

A headshake and a tight smile to pacify him.

“My mother used to do this for a living. She was great at it. She would let me and Jane–that’s my little sister–play with makeup samples. I got a lot of practice with makeup as a boy.”

Cradling your cheek, thumb drying your lip from nervous spittle.

“Once I did a full face of makeup on myself and was so proud of it that I wanted to show it off to her. Let her know how much I’d learned from her. So I walked right into her room and…well, she was so upset and I couldn’t understand why. She slapped me right on the mouth and made me wash it off. I understand now why it was wrong, of course.”

His voice sounds different. There’s no playful cadence this time, tone falling flat and emotionless–must be easier to get the memory out this way. Methodical swipes over your lips to frame the outer curves. Your tongue rolls around the words in your mouth as you calculate how to respond.

“What was wrong about it?” you ask. You know the answer, but it seems like you're supposed to participate. A feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach.

He frowns briefly, careful to hold the lipstick away to avoid smearing it as you talk. “It’s not for little boys. Just for girls…women, really. She would've hated this color, though. Too bright. She would've thought it was whorish, which is ironic considering…” he trails off, eyes glossing over momentarily.

“Anyway.”

Quicker passes to block the color in. He rubs his lips together, releasing them with a light smack, instructing you to do the same to even out the application.

“There we go.” He looks over his work, appeasing your appearance, cleaning up a corner with his thumbnail. “It's your color, if you want my professional opinion.”

“Is it?” Is that really your voice, delicate as glass? “I'll have to take your word for it.”

“Mmhmm,” he says. “It brings out your eyes. They're beautiful.”

It's a shame that one of the few men to compliment the brownness of your eyes is…well, this. He's gotten closer, gaze studying you too closely, and you know he's about to make a move. How can you stop it?

“You know, Foxheart, I could just eat you up.”

“I wish you wouldn't,” you say with a little laugh to smooth it over, leaning away. Where do these fake things keep coming from? It's like an endless arsenal.

Fingertip tracing the corner of your mouth, nail scratching lightly to clean it off. 

“I wouldn’t.” Palm under your ear, cupping your neck, thumb caressing the plumpness of your cheekbone. “Not really.”

Guides you toward him until you can feel his eyelashes near your temple. He just…lingers there, feeling your skin on his. Your eyes are half-open because that feels natural, molasses confusion in your veins, thick and slow–an ear is close enough that you could take it in your mouth. Could suck on it, feel the pale hairs there between your papillae. Could take it between your teeth and bite it, gnash it and tear it from its home.

He leans in and you acquiesce because…he's being gentle, and for now, it's tolerable. It's just a kiss. Even if it jumpstarts your heart and keeps you on edge. He's careful with you, and it's just a kiss.

This time, you’re the one with the waxy lips that smear across his. Head tilted, noses skirting against each other as you explore. Say what you will about the man, but it would be a lie to say he lacks passion. He kisses you like he wants to taste your breath, let the molecules dance with his own until they reach the same vibration. Close enough that you can feel the thunderous rumbles housed in his form, a storm waiting to emerge and destroy.

He consumes you like you’re a meal found after the snow blankets the earth. A starving, ravenous predator thinned out from the hunt, lustrous fur gone matted, driven by ragged desperation. No one’s ever kissed you like this before.

Trying to regain your bearings, your sense of self when you part for air, ignoring the call between your thighs. Clearing the raspiness of your throat.

“John, I…there's something I need to tell you.” You had no intention of ever explaining this to him, but the mood has shifted and you know where this night is going. Maybe this will stem it. “I should have told you last night.”

His silence is permission for you to continue.

“The reason I’m not really concerned about makeup and stuff is that, well, I’m not–I’m not…a woman,” you whisper, hoping the softness will keep him appeased.

A raised eyebrow. “Come again?”

“I’m not a woman.”

“Darling,” he huffs out a laugh, “you can’t lie to me. Not when I’ve had my mouth all over that sweet cunt of yours.”

The word choice makes you gasp. You're no prude, but it sounds vulgar right now, especially coming from a man who's barely cursed in your presence.

“I’m not, I’m…non-binary.”

Furrowed brows as he takes in your confession. “What are you talking about?”

“It has nothing to do with my–with that. It means…” A breath. “It means I’m neither a woman nor a man. In-between. Or neither. It's different for everyone.”

“Non-binary?” he chews on the syllables slowly as though feeling them out, seeing how they’ll fit into his vocabulary. His face scrunches up as he mulls it over, while you wait with bated breath, eyes wide. It can be dangerous admitting such things to a man in an intimate context. Alone.

Please let it be a deterrent and not fuel for his anger.

“Your generation is so…creative,” he says when he finally speaks again, and the subtle condescension colors your face. “But woman or ‘non-binary,’ you’ve got the parts I like. And they are very nice parts.”

A hand still cupping your cheek so tenderly that you have to remind yourself not to relax into it just because it isn't a fist.

“It doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

Maybe another tactic. “Or that I’m usually…not into men?”

He finally looks at you properly. “That only makes us more special, right? Besides, you're not as subtle as you think.”

In any other context, coming from a friend, for example, you’d probably laugh because it’s true. You never were good at hiding that. Flocked too easily to the company of women, always sank into their comfort.

“Look at that,” he says, appraising the heat in your cheeks. “That lipstick matches your blush. It’s your color–suits you well.” His praise is razor-like, slipping almost unnoticed through the layers of your skin, unknitting your flesh and panging directly in your heart.

Another shuddering breath. “Thank you.”

How did he know what your blush looked like? The idea of you laughing about this day with your friends seems more and more like a pipedream. 

No, you don’t think you’ll be laughing about it at all when this is over.

“Now, I’d say we know each other a little better now, wouldn’t you?”

A nod. He draws your hand over the front of his pants at the same time that the fire pops, jolting you.

A dry swallow. “Oh.”

“‘Oh,’” he parrots. “You’re cute when you’re playing bashful.”

His hand plays with your hair.

“Would you mind, dear? It’s been a long day for me, too.”

You consider the weight of his words, the heaviness of his hand on yours. How easily he could use it to crush you. Ball it up and land it on your face until you can't deny him. You can give it, or he can take it.

It doesn't take long to decide.

Would you mind?

Yes. “Not at all. You’ve been…very kind to take care of me today, John. After I was so silly.” Because surely that’s what he wants to hear. There’s a tingle growing in the back of your throat and it’s beginning to sting. Your sinuses feel swollen.

Cold metal against your fingertips, you fumble more than what's probably alluring to undo the buckle. They feel stiff from exposure to the cold, and while your heart is working overtime to pump blood throughout your body, it must be bypassing the digits entirely in lieu of more important parts, like your cheeks, your lungs, your gut.

You must be taking too long, because he gently moves your hands aside, taking over it himself. The clink that follows is sharp, clear, and nearly painful in your ear, as he undoes the belt with a single hand, opening up the fly of his pants.

Nothing different than what you did yesterday, right? The flutter in the top of your stomach travels under your sternum, making it rattle. Hand trembling as your thumb skates atop his clothes, feeling the growing hardness beneath. You can do this much. Did as much last night, multiple times. Sure, it's different now, but how different is it really?

Hands. They're just hands. Just kisses and hands. Play it up, treat him nice, and send him off tomorrow. Then get the hell out of here, lock your door, and never look back. Not ever.

Together, you peel his layers down until he’s exposed. Sparing no time, the appendage twitches under your grasp and he sucks in a breath, probably because of the coldness of your flesh. Staring down at the ground, you quickly work him to full hardness.

There’s an array of leaves below. The colors are warm and vibrant, a contrast to some of the trees you’d painted when you first began your trek. It’s why you chose this time of year, since it was just on the cusp of the changing of the seasons.

“Ah,” a grip on the back of your neck brings you back to focus, stilling your movements. His thumb draws your lower lip down, slipping past your teeth just enough to startle your tongue before withdrawing. “I was actually thinking we could put that new lipstick to use.”

Suddenly, the makeup feels greasy and overwhelming. Coughing lightly to mask a croak. “Yeah?”

“It’d be a shame not to, wouldn't it? Suits you perfectly.”

Eyes darting around desperately while keeping your gaze down and out of sight. No, no thank you. “I, uh, I'm not very good at that, actually. Got a few complaints in the past.”

“I doubt that very much. Besides, you're a quick learner, judging by how you've handled yourself out here. No, I think you'll do just fine.”

As he beats away your weak excuses, what other choice do you have but to comply?

“Okay.”

He adjusts himself, spreading his legs enough for you to slot between them, resting on that array of colorful leaves. “Careful with your foot, dear.”

Nodding. Of course. As though you'd forget the damned appendage that's got you stuck in this predicament to begin with.

“Take your time. I’ll help you. Just mind your teeth.” A large hand on your face to remind you what it could do if you act up.

Biting your lip briefly, you mull it over. You’re already doing this much, how much worse can a mouth be? It’s just a blowjob. People give them all the time.

Taking a deep breath, you plant your hands on his thighs and lick your lips–a nervous habit but he clearly enjoys the sight–before taking him into your mouth. He sighs like he’s been waiting so long for this. There's nothing particularly offensive about his cock. A little big for comfort, but clean at least.

It’s fine. Okay, so it's not fine, but it could be worse.

Mind your teeth.

The fat mushroom of his tip resting on your tongue, you slide your head forward to take him in deeper. There’s only so much you can swallow, his girth already stretching your mouth to the limits as you try to fit him in. It feels like you’ve got several inches in before it reaches the back of your mouth, but there’s still so much of him exposed to you.

Maybe you haven’t done this much yourself, but you’ve seen enough videos to know how men like it. John wants it messy, so you use your hands to accommodate the length you can’t handle. Using the added wetness of your saliva to lubricate your hand, twisting and working the shaft as your mouth swirls over the first inches of his length.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he hisses through his teeth. “See? You know what you’re doing.”

The sounds he makes affect you–nipples reacting, despite your embarrassment. He doesn’t notice, though, distracted as he is. John’s eyes are half-lidded, threading his fingers into your hair and cradling your head as you work, keeping your hair out of the way.

Aside from the pressure on your knees, it becomes repetitive after a while, bob and twist, lick and suck–over and over again. Tongue occasionally dipping into the weeping slit at the top and tasting salt.

He breaks the silence again, his voice flat and raspy. “Did you…” Stops to collect himself. “Did you like those pictures you saw, Rusty?” 

Pulse quickens, sweat gathering on your forehead, hairs bristling. So he does know that you know and all this really has been a big leadup to what he’s really wanted, then. A warning clambers up your gullet with that revelation, something feral in the crawlspace of your mind sounding the alarm and you try to move up, to untangle yourself from him, but John’s grip on your head turns firm.

Panic immediately sets in while you've got a mouthful of cock. All that escapes is a muffled sound that needs more air to be recognizable. He allows you a quick moment to breathe.

“Shh, it's okay, calm down,” he says, smoothing your hair as he guides you back down, his spongey tip reaching your soft palate. “There we go.”

You try to struggle against him, but he's got you at a disadvantage. Nothing to look at except the coarse, dark hairs spread across pale skin that’s before you.

“I remember how red your cheeks were when I found you. Did they excite you, those photos?” he asks, letting out a soft groan, fingers threading in your hair.

Up. Breathe. Down, up. Breathe.

“I enjoyed taking them. Sometimes I imagined that you knew I was there. That you were watching me, too. Calling out to me.”

Another stroke of your hair. Breathe.

“You were outside that night. Did you know I was there? Did you want me to watch? To see you?”

Humiliated tears form in your eyes, but you refuse to look up at him because he probably would like the visual of your tear-stricken face. Down, up. Down, up. Breathe.

“It's okay, dear. I've got you now.”

Up. Breathe. Down. This time, though, he holds you in place. Down, down. Down until your fingertips claw into his skin, down until you're struggling to push him away from you. To push up.

Down.

You’re getting lightheaded from the lack of air and wish you could reclaim your throat so you could scream. Instead, you manage a whimper as you slap against his thigh. Up, up, up, you need up.

When he releases you, tears are cascading down your cheeks and you’re gulping in air, coughing out mucus.

“Hush, now, show me that you can take it.” A thumb against your cheekbone. “And don’t you dare get smart with your teeth, either. You won't like the consequences.”

Inhaling roughly, you wipe wetness away from your face–it’s futile, since your hand is wet too–and trembling lips engulf his rigid flesh again, covering your teeth like a good girl does. It’s in this moment, when you’re looking up at John in supplication with your face feeling bloated with warmth, that you've never felt smaller.

“You have to relax, dear.”

He continues this process, pushing in and going down further and further before letting you breathe.

Down, up. Breathe. Down, down. Hold.

Down. Hold.

Hold.

Eventually, your body makes sense of it, a survival tactic that picks up on the urgency and does exactly that–the back of your throat relaxing, gag reflex at bay as he pushes through your oral channel, seating himself deep in your throat.

It’s accompanied by a loud, throaty groan from him, a sound that heats up your core. Meanwhile John massages your scalp, sending thrilling little tingles throughout your head and down your spine. He can’t seem to keep his hands still.

Up. Breathe. Down. Down, down.

Hold.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take much longer for him to finish, now that he’s got the tight squeeze of your esophagus around him. When he comes, he presses in so deep that your nose pushes into the skin of his groin, smelling sweat and sandalwood and something so uniquely him. He holds your head in place for several long moments before his cock pulses and the first dribbles of warm fluid slide down the back of your throat.

But you need air and, in a panic, push him back while he's distracted, his spend filling your mouth instead so you can finally breathe through your nose. He doesn’t seem to mind the interruption, though, staring fiercely at your face as you catch your bearings.

The last bitter spurt on your tongue, you turn your face to try to spit onto the ground, but quick as a whip, John’s hand lashes out, fingers an unrelenting force on your chin. His eyes are as wild and raw as you feel while his essence sits on your tongue.

“Now, swallow it.”

You almost thank the brine blurring your vision because his face is the most frightening thing you've ever seen. He looks unhinged. Feral.

“Swallow it,” he orders again. The whites of his upper teeth stick out as his lip twitches.

Gods, he's terrifying like this, eyes clouded over with emotion you've certainly seen before, but never personally felt. So terrifying that the fibers of your being caution you to do exactly what he says, because he's clearly a man to be obeyed.

However.

However, the command is accompanied by another condescending, corrective pat on your cheek, becoming the straw that does you in. The weight of that moment bows your spine, threatening to snap it, burying your common sense under a multitude of offenses.

Incensed.

Suppressing a sneer as you follow his demand, making a big motion of it with your throat contracting dramatically. The tension visibly melts in the man as he finally sags a bit in relief, watching the muscles of your throat work.

Suddenly, two fingers are shoved into your mouth, over your tongue to ensure your compliance. He removes them to stare deep into the cavern he'd battered, seemingly fascinated by what it can take. The unexpected violation is somehow more demeaning than the act you just finished performing. Makes you feel like a fucking animal, and it takes everything in you not to snap your jaws at the things.

“Good girl.”

He gives you a quirky, lopsided smile, pleased when the corner of your mouth mirrors it.

That’s when you work up the mixture of saliva and cum you'd hidden underneath your tongue, bringing it to the forefront of your abused mouth and forcefully expel it.

Right into his endearing brown eyes.

As you watch the slimy mess dribble down his face, trickling into the coarse, dark hairs of his beard, your smile broadens. Stunned, John pauses to wipe off his face as best as he can while biting his lip.

He’s livid.

Instead of the hit you’re expecting, though, he grabs your hair at the root and grips it tight enough to pull you into him. It’s a searing brand when he forces his mouth on yours, sharing more of the bitter fluid with you.

“I’ll forgive that one, Foxheart, since you did such a good job.”

Fuck you, you weak-minded bitch. But the words remain shut up tight because he looks ready to hurt you again.

“You do look awfully pretty like this,” he says, his thumb swiping through the drool and cum still on your lips.

He leans in and instinctively, you jerk away. An offended, harsh intake of air. Fingers on your face again, forcing you to look at him. “Let’s try that again, hm?”

Then he devours you, takes the cinnamon coating your tastebuds from your last meal. This…this is how you remember men’s kisses to be. It’s the pressure, the immediate insistence to be let in that you didn’t miss. His lips part as he deepens the kiss, and out of habit, you roll his lower lip between yours, unintentionally earning a satisfied sound in response that heats up your ears.

In hindsight, what happens next isn't an effective method of lashing out, and it only puts you more firmly in harm's way. You aren’t sure why you do it. Whether it’s panic-driven or if the urge to fight couldn't be quenched once all the pretense had been dropped, but suddenly there’s pressure and then the taste of metal, warm and overwhelming as liquid floods your mouth.

A sharp slap, louder than it is painful, but harder than before. Much harder. Looking up to see a smatter of crimson on his mouth and chin, the victory is short lived. John points at you, wagging that finger like a disappointed father too pissed off to figure out which punishment to mete out.

“You know, we were having such a nice time. I carried you to camp after you were stupid enough to hurt yourself out there. Made you food, despite you being so rude to me, going through my private things. And this is how you act, hm? Spitting on me, biting me, like a child?”

He rubs his face, running frustrated fingers through his hair, tussling the bun. “You ruined everything.”

Dread sinks heavily in your gullet. Drying your face, he drags you up into his lap, ignoring your panicked squirming, and takes your mouth, smearing your chins red from lipstick and blood.

He still looks pretty.

“Stick out your tongue.”

A swift headshake that gets interrupted by his hands on either side of your face, holding you still.

“Out. Now. Or I'll rip it out myself.”

Slowly, you unfurl it from your mouth, a broad, flat shape that rests on your bottom lip. 

Quivering.

John doesn't take his eyes off yours as his jaw undulates and his lips purse. Then he spits onto it, and it nearly startles your mouth shut.

“No. Keep it out.”

The debasement sits ugly on your tongue, and this time, you'd rather swallow it just to make it disappear. His face approaches yours again and you can't keep your eyes open. You need to close them and regain some distance from this. But he takes that too, and the muscle is firmly cradled in his pretty mouth. It's an awkward, lewd movement as he sucks on your tongue, stripping it of his own juices. So disorienting that you catch yourself on the verge of a filthy sound too close to a whimpe–

When he bites down. Your hands fly up to his shoulders, unable to dislodge him from you with the sudden hold he’s got on the back of your head. It hurts enough to make you squeal as he digs into your tongue, sharp edges of his crooked bottom teeth snagging on the thin strip of tissue beneath. It's brief, but enough to make his point: that he can bite, too.

He releases you soon after and you choke on a shocked gasp, hiccuping pathetically. You aren't sure if the metallic taste that remains is his or yours.

“Shh,” he says, rubbing his bearded chin over your head. “I won't hurt you too much–and only enough for you to learn.”

“I’m sorry.” It's an instinctive, learned response because you both know it's a lie that has squirmed around your swollen tongue.

“No, you’re not, Rusty,” he says, softer than he has any right to. “Not yet, anyway. You see that log over there? I'm gonna bend you over it and show you what sorry feels like.”

John reaches for your arm, and you stumble back, jostling your foot. “No!”

“Come on, I think it's time we quit stalling.”

True to his word, he hoists you over his shoulder without much effort, and hauls you to that fallen tree, your breath leaving you in a single expulsion when you're plopped onto it stomach first. Pulls your sweatshirt up and off before you've reoriented yourself. You hadn’t thought to put on a bra this morning.

“Put your wrists together.”

Pulling the belt from its loops, he slaps your thigh with it. Again, sharp enough to catch your attention without damaging anything or causing lasting pain.

It ensures that he doesn't have to tell you twice.

Your wrists are swiftly bound together. Pants and underclothes pulled down in a swift movement, kicked away. The sudden exposure is so shocking, so obscene, that it steals whatever breath you'd recovered.

Before you can muse further, though, he begins. Fingers cupping your mound, re-familiarizing themselves with its shape, with its pulsing heat.

“Beginning to think some of your ‘no’s don't really mean no. You're soaked, dear.”

Your eyes screw shut in embarrassment. You'd tried to hold it back, but it must be the adrenaline that's causing this. Nerves scraped raw in the face of such danger without the ability to run, to exhaust the chemicals out of your system. Somewhere deep down, you know that it isn't your fault that this is how your body has decided to cope. That it's just protecting you, views John as someone familiar and attractive, but it doesn't soften the mortification at being found out in such a degrading way.

Those long fingers slip carefully through the growing slickness between your legs. Teasing at your bud before traveling away, along your slit. Then he begins, dipping in to let you know exactly what you’ve earned by messing this whole thing up today. There’s worse coming, you know it in your marrow.

At least it’s only his fingers. The same ones that you were praising half a day ago, but something prideful in you refuses to let him hear your anguish, though, accepting the violation mostly in silence. Teeth grit so tightly, a sealing of your mouth that only allows the occasional ragged pant to escape, mostly in time with his forceful movements. Tongue throbbing.

“You did this, Rusty. This, all this, could've been different, but you just had to snoop around. Kept pushing until you drove me to this. Did you want it this way?”

You must’ve screwed up your face in a certain way at that, maybe even shook your head a bit. “Yes. Yes, you do. You like it when a man treats you rough. You were begging me for that last night, remember?”

Another thrust, thumb chafing your clit, accompanied by him grinding his partially clothed groin against your backside.

“I was trying to be nice with you, and you practically drooled for something mean. Is that what you want, dear? Want me to hold you down and teach you who’s in charge until your no becomes a yes? Bend you over my knee until you feel better?”

He folds that freakishly tall body over you, planting his mouth near your ear to whisper awful things, some true, some not. “You can’t lie to me and say you don’t like this. Not when I can feel the evidence of it dripping down my hand.”

The bastard distracts himself by pressing his lips to your sweat-slicked back, and the smile you can feel there, the blatant and smug self-satisfaction sets alight that dangerous wick in you that’s gotten you into trouble time and time again. You know you shouldn’t, not when you’re pinned and vulnerable like this, but if he’s going to do what he wants with you anyway, if he’s going to force himself on you–probably kill you–you might as well go out with a bang.

With a groan that he likely assumes is pleasure that he’s pulled from you, your torso is balanced between bark as you support yourself on your hurt foot. You manage to draw up your good leg, getting some distance to kick backwards as hard as you can. It doesn’t land between the apex of his legs like you want, but it does fill you with satisfaction when he grunts and staggers, hand slipping out and leaving you exposed to the cool air.

“You…” he says, low and angry as he rubs the thigh that you hope has a footprint in it. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you? Stubborn little…”

Whimpering, you crumple, landing on the ground with a twinge in your wrists as you attempt to crawl away from him, but your bound hands are an obstacle. His boot plants on your ass, shoving you forward hard enough to knock the wind out of you again, leaving you to stare silently at the leaves in front of you.

A pause in which you recover your breath, and when you don’t feel his touch return, you flip over and sit up so you can at least see what’s coming. But he hasn’t moved from his spot.

“Come here.”

“No.”

“Come. Here.”

A headshake, sealing your doom.

“Then I’ll come to you, and you won’t like it.”

Defiance has settled into you, though. It has you frozen in place, waiting like a sacrificial lamb for him to do his worst because you cannot bear to give him another inch right now. True to his word, he takes that inch, approaching you so fast it makes your head spin.

It doesn’t require much force to push you against the damp-softened bed of leaves–even less to split open your legs, with that burning ache of your thighs intensifying with the evening’s straining activities. 

“Get off!” You try to hit whatever parts of him you can reach, however futile with your hands tied as they are. Sluggishness has started to drain away the nervous energy that once charged you, exhausting yourself against his mass. He holds you there until you’ve depleted all your reserves of energy.

No, don't give up on me yet. Please, you plead.

But you're tired, and he's strong. Relentless. It's a quiet moment, a peace that is the eye of a storm. Harsh breaths warm the air around as you await the next move.

“When’s the last time you were fucked, little fox?”

The question cements your stillness, the sudden obscenity of its image shocking you into silence as it sits like a stone at the bottom of your gut. Confused, you begin to speak, since he's expecting an answer. Eyebrow raised as his face looks above yours.

Hips pressed to yours.

“I…we, last night–”

But he cuts you off. “No. No, I mean fucked. Not by pretty fingers or a little toy. Have you ever been well and truly fucked? By a man?”

His eyes bore into yours for an answer. Mouth agape before closing around a sand-dry swallow so loud that surely it echoes. A barely-there side-to-side motion, unable to say the words.

“You haven’t? Not ever?” A huff, like he can't believe his luck. “Oh, you poor dear. No wonder why you’re frightened. This lesson should stick, then.”

He lifts up just enough to pull down his trousers, revealing himself more fully. Both familiar and alien.

“Please don't do this,” you beg. You finally beg. “Don't do this to me, John. Please, please, please don’t.”

A firm slap between your legs shuts you up.

“Shh, hush now. I think you've done enough today. Now, I'll be nice and finish you off, since it's your first time and all, Rusty. It’s special. Don't say I'm not generous.”

Leaning on his side, he brings the knee closest to him over his elbow, opening you up wide to him. His weight bores into you, and it takes some effort to reject the gratitude you feel from the warmth his body offers, a sharp contrast to the damp beneath you.

So this is it, then.

“That's a good girl. See how much easier this is when you lie back and relax?”

His fingers return, cold now, but quickly warming up in the wet heat of you. Last night, that hand was all soothing, persistent strokes, gently coaxing pleasure from you. It listened to your instructions on what you preferred, changing pace as needed.

Today is different. He sets the pace and expects your pleasure to catch up, fingering you in earnest. Giving you more good girls that regrettably get you to clench around his fingers every time.

“You like that, don't you? Not a woman, but you still want to be my good little girl, hm? Just for me?”

It does work, eventually. When the adrenaline left your body earlier, it left you more pliant, too tired to stiffen up any longer. Trying to find comfort in the small things, like the accidental brushes against your swollen clit as he explores your folds.

You're staring past him, up at the open expanse of darkening sky above you. How can such a beautiful, clear day be paired with such cruelty? Shouldn't it be overcast, weeping fat tears on you?

He shifts a bit and it's a relief because he was getting so heavy on you with his torso practically glued to your own, your knee up by your chest as he plasters hot kisses to your neck, breasts, your ear.

Confusing your body.

His other hand lets go of your bound wrists, loosening the strain from your shoulders. Sensation pours painfully back into your formerly numb arms, and in order to get more blood flow back in them, you long to lower them. Unfortunately, they lock around John's head by necessity, with the way his body is blocking any other avenue.

He groans at the gesture when he mistakes it for affection, the sound reverberating through the fatty tissue of your chest. His canines are there, peeking past that pretty Cupid’s bow of his upper lip to lock onto your nipple and bite down. Not as hard as you had expected, given his previous ire, but enough to leave a mark.

There will be a lot of marks on you by the time this is over. You can already feel them pressing their way to the surface. The intentional ones and the unintentional. Some will be visible and others, the worst ones, though, no one will be able to see. Those will stay lodged deep in the recesses of your heart, your bones, your psyche.

You’re so wet. You love this, huh? Why didn’t you just say so last night? Dirty little thing, fighting back so much because you’re too scared to ask for what you need.

His movements have faded into deep, slow thrusts of his hand into you that are so forceful he inadvertently rocks your body upwards with each shove. The triangular shape of his claws filling you. It’s as pleasurable as it is painful.

He's got what…three fingers in now? More than you're used to. Thicker and longer, too. They push past that delicious spot in your front wall to batter at your cervix. You can practically feel him knocking at your teeth.

Achieves his goal, against the odds. Gets your body to want it so much that it actually brings relief when your peak wracks through you violently. Even if it's not the kind of completion that you usually pursue. It’s intense, harsh, and it has to battle against the pain. It screws your eyes tight and forces you to cradle John’s head to your sternum as your free leg locks around his waist, denim chafing your calves as you demand more of his touch, sensations flooding through you. Crying out as he grinds into you with a moan, attempting to maintain pace until the last of the shudders have stopped.

It's accompanied by a ragged groan in your ear as he stiffens against you, pushing onto your thigh. Gripping harshly onto your mons, palm pressing into the flesh with enough pressure that it hurts. After several moments, he relaxes. Lets out a ragged pant as he pulls his hand out to wipe it clean on your skin, leaving behind a quickly cooling slick-trail.

“Good girl.”

It's worse afterwards, somehow. You almost miss the sensations, because now you're left to breathe and shudder in their wake without distraction. Left wading through the murky depths, the aftershock of such a profound thing in your life, when an awful sound begins to fade in. Low and pained, but growing stronger with its duration.

What is that?

Legs falling limply to the ground. The tang of copper lingers in your nose, strikingly subtle for its belying carnage. A fricative hanging harsh in the air before settling into a frustrated expletive that’s stuck on repeat.

“Fuck.” Over and over.

The wash of moisture on your cheeks turns cold and stinging in the crisp Autumn evening, cutting through the fog of your mind. Blinking, you realize that John is trying to get your attention. Your eyes are wild as you try to communicate that you can't hear him over that wounded animal nearby, would somebody please either help it or put it out of its misery already–it will threaten the fragile structure of your sanity if it doesn't stop soon.

Make it stop.

But you can't talk, can't suck in enough breath to even form the required shape for words, and your heart is seizing–goddess your chest hurts–and you don't know if you'll ever be pulled from the darkness that's creeping in at the edges of your vision.

“You're okay, shh, you're okay.” Who's he talking to? “Shh, shh, breathe. Breathe, Rusty.”

With no small amount of shame and confusion, it becomes clear that those gods-awful noises have been coming from you. Mouth agape, releasing the most base, pathetic sobs. Wet hands are on either side of your face, and a nose comes into sight, close enough to touch yours.

The absurd instinct to boop it bubbles up.

Steady eyes trained on you until your gaze realigns, and he's making a dramatic motion of taking a big drag of air in and back out. Repeats the motion until it becomes your motion too.

“There you go. You're doing good, Rusty. Keep breathing. In and out. Just like that.”

By the fourth attempt, air properly floods your lungs and the oxygen feeds your system, bringing relief. The blackness framing everything recedes until all you can see is John above you. Coming down, you realize that he hasn't even fucked you yet, and that revelation nearly sets you off again.

“No more...” Mercy, please.

But the growing clarity reveals that the appendage at his groin is soft now, and your thigh feels sticky and cold, so maybe you really are done for now.

“That's it, dear, come back to me.” Fingers pawing at your chin, guiding it upwards and the metallic scent only strengthens when a warm, slippery hand cradles your cheek. Is that blood?

“Shh, we're done. All done. You're okay, and you did so good.”

Did you? What did you even do?

It's all processed from a distance, a stranger watching it unfold from a dirty window when the remains of a ragdoll body are brought into shelter. With laughable gentleness–who bothers to be careful with a dirty, battered toy?–it’s tucked into the comfort of blankets and nylon, covered up with a funeral shroud.

Will he release you back into the wilderness when he’s done, or will your body be left to nourish the forest? Meat ravaged by the animals, the sinew and cartilage going to the insects and microorganisms. Bones bleached white by the sun?

A thought for another time–the zzzt of synthetic fabric as the nest gets jostled and a tiny prick in your hip that you barely notice. You fold and retreat into yourself. No trail, no woods, no hands. No John.

No Rusty.

Just blessed nothingness.

Chapter Text

You can take my body, you can take my bones, you can take my blood, but not my soul.

“At the Purchaser’s Option” by Rhiannon Giddens

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 3

Blink.

It's little flashes of clarity that come to you in between sleep. Little moments of awareness. You see John moving around the encampment, busying himself with boiling water for whatever else he's planning. You can keep an eye on him when you can, silent but too lethargic to move.

Eyelids feeling impossibly heavy and you’re just so damn tired.

Blink.

You awaken again, maybe just moments later, maybe hours. This time, the sting of antiseptic draws you back to consciousness, burning the abrasions from your fall, plus the ones on your stomach. Those couldn’t be from your tumble. You remember the feeling of rough tree bark underneath you.

Strong hands peel apart your thighs to pull down your underwear, fully exposing you, holding them in place despite your exhausted attempt to close them. Heart pounding as he maneuvers between your knees and touches you, but you’re too groggy to do more than lift an arm before it falls back down, useless.

Goddess, it’s like your veins are filled with lead.

There’s a warm, damp towel between your legs. An expressionless face as someone wipes away the fluids there with clinical movements. Soon after, you’re dressed in different clothes that blessedly feel dry and clean.

It’s nice, once the dizziness at being maneuvered finally wanes.

It’s through watery, sleepy eyes that you watch as he cleans your face next, scraping off the grimy combination of tears, dirt, and lipstick. Probably some other fluids, too. The hot towel remains on your face, soothing your chilled nose and relieving your swollen eyelids.

Blink.

You can’t tell if it’s this time when you’re awake or another time, but eventually your head is cradled in a lap as the rest of you remains tucked under the covers. A kind hand is smoothing down the mess of hair on your head, gently pulling out whatever knots it can. Blunt fingernails scratch along your scalp.

Is that humming?

Whatever it is, it sounds nice. No words, nothing that can help you determine what the melody is, but it helps to balance out the noise of the insects waking up. The fingers massaging your scalp help with that persistent ache in your head, too.

Blink.

The world is just flashing images of anxiety and terror. Branches whipping your hide raw as you run past; running and running and running without making any headway. The trunks loom impossibly large, pulsating with near humanlike life, passing quiet judgment upon you as they fill the space.

It's terrifying here. Cloying with the sickly rot of death.

The desire to escape this scene sends you away, and those hulking trunks melt down, down, down out of sight. Bedding beneath you plush as fur and touch featherlight, purposeful enough to send heat to your core, but soft enough to leave you needing more. Bristled kisses scratching at your chin and soft words at your neck, right under your ear. Soft curls tickling your stomach while a hot, slick tongue trails down your slopes; teeth scraping at the flesh.

Whispers, low and rumbling drifting over you while cinders prickle your flesh.

“So pretty, so soft, so ripe for the picking. All mine, all mine.”

Slick, wriggling forms curling around your ankles, your wrists, your neck, tethering you in place. The weight of them sinking you deeper into the mass, heavy, heavy, heavy until you can’t see anything else but waves and darkness. Feel anything other than fire at your toes.

Blink.

A snapping sound is what wakes you this time, and you’ve got enough bearings to understand where you are this time. You’re still in his tent, wrapped up under layers of blankets, and it’s a new day.

With the awareness of your surroundings comes that of your body as well. Shutting your eyes prevents the tears from escaping–you need to keep your sinuses clear so you can breathe around this damn gag. He fucking…duct-taped your mouth together. Your hands, your wrists. That’s…that’s what serial killers do.

I’m going to die here.

Ignoring the cramping pain in your abdomen, your gaze wanders around the tent–his bag is in the corner near you, but there’s nothing of much significance to look at. It’s been cleared out.

Except for the camera.

It looks like damnation, now. Would he really have parted ways without…forcing you if you hadn’t discovered his secret? If you hadn’t snooped? Does it even matter?

Stop, don't cry. If you start crying now, your nose will get clogged and you’ll suffocate before you get the chance to escape. Before John gets the chance to strangle you himself.

Goddess, your mouth is so dry and your head feels like it’s about to split open.

The sound of a zipper snaps you into focus. Thankfully, you’re facing away as the tent flap opens, shutting your eyes tight. The thunk of boots hitting the floor as he climbs into the tent, settling behind you.

Breathe. Slowly, so he doesn’t know you’re awake. Who knows what else he has planned for you once you wake up. He’ll probably pull down that pair of clean and dry underwear and finish what he started last night.

That body settles in behind you, pulling you into his chest. John’s nosing your hair, inhaling deeply and quietly. An arm snakes over your ribs to pull you into his firm chest. You cut off the frightened noise in your throat before it escapes and, stomach sinking, manage to remain still–trying to calm your breathing.

Pretend to be asleep and maybe he won’t do anything yet. Maybe he’ll stop. A few minutes of this, and it seems to be working. His hands stay in polite places, one tucked securely under your ribs, caging you in, while the other combs through your hair–tries to, anyway. After a couple of snags, he pivots to stroking it instead.

It’s…almost nice. Would be comforting without the obvious context.

“I know you’re awake, dear.” The words are whispered near your ear. “I can hear your heart.”

Damn. Of course he can feel that, so intimately pressed to you. Tears leak out as you squirm, trying to free yourself from his touch, but your head is still fuzzy and your movements feel sluggish. And your fucking head is going to kill you.

“Shh, shh,” he says when you try to resist, choking on your words as they all try to speak at once, only to be blocked by tape. “It’s okay.”

Tamping down the hysterical impulse to laugh. What the fuck about any of this is okay? You're going to die on this trail–not because of inexperience or an accident. No, because of a starving, dangerous predator that you let into your camp, into your bed.

But it's okay, right?

John kisses you right above your temple before guiding you to face him.

“Look at me,” he says, voice calm and low, waiting for you to meet his eyes. “I’m going to remove this tape now. And you aren’t going to scream or get loud or any of that.”

You nod along with him. Okay.

Helping you to sit up, he carefully peels off the tacky binding over your mouth, and that first big gulp of air is such a rush that you're actually grateful. It must be the sudden influx of oxygen that caused such a maddening thought.

He allows you the several long moments it takes to breathe properly. What are you supposed to do now? You can’t take him in a fair fight and you don’t have anything to use against him. You’re still tied up.

“Good morning,” he says.

You stare at him for a moment before his words catch up. “...Good morning,” you whisper, eyes wet.

“How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?” His expression looks sincere, like he actually wants to know.

Are we back to pretending?

Licking your lips brings you no relief. Your tongue is as dry as they are. 

“I…I could use some water, actually.”

Thankfully, he’s prepared, has a mug of it ready for you and holds it for you while you take in big gulps. Gods, you needed that. Watching him with guarded eyes as he puts the mug down and wipes the remnants of water from your chin.

“Thank you, John,” you say, surprising him. “For taking such good care of me.”

His response sounds as measured as yours, the words slow and calculated. “You’re welcome.”

Forcing a smile even if it makes you nauseous. A couple of fingertips crawling over to lightly touch the denim over his knees. “I, uh,” you swallow. “So last night got a bit intense, huh?”

His head tilts and there's a slight pull at his lip. “Intense?”

“Yeah,” you laugh a bit. “I hope…I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly?” Gesturing to his lip.

Confused fingers reach up to touch the newly-forming scabs. “No, it’s…it’s okay. Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine. We had fun, right? I don’t normally uh… play so rough, but I think we both got a little overexcited, huh? Must be something in the water out here.”

John still looks wary, trying to gauge where you are. “Yeah, maybe so. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Looking away at his scrutiny, shrugging. “I’ll be a lot better when you get me out of this tape, honestly. I’d like to stretch out this soreness.” Picking at your cuticles, smearing another smile on your face. “Not that I would mind being tied up for other reasons.”

Teasing the hard lines of his chest through his shirt with a nail attached to a finger attached to a bound hand. “Maybe not so tight next time?”

He frowns, looking between your hands and your face. “What are you doing?”

Smile faltering under his scrutiny. “Waking up? I’m not sure how to answer that.” A girlish chuckle as an offering on the altar.

“No, I mean what are you playing at?”

Don’t let up. “Playing? I’m not, but if you want to play, we can.”

“Is that so?” he asks, looking down your body and back up. “And what do you want to play, hm?”

“I can think of a few options.” A heated smirk. “It'll be easier with my hands free, though.”

Sliding your hands, so closely stuck together, over his shirt, down the flat, hard planes of his stomach, skimming over his zipper, biting the edge of your lip with a wink when he–

Takes hold of your wrists, not rough, not yet, ignoring your surprised yelp as he moves in close. Until you can feel his warmth on you. “Don’t lie to me, Rusty.”

Brings a finger under your chin until you muster the courage to look up.

“I…” That familiar feeling of panic is coming back, swells up your abused throat and makes your words all wobbly. “What the hell do you want from me?”

“There you are,” he says, corner of his mouth quirking up. “That pretty mouth of yours may be able to spin a tale, but your eyes can’t lie. I want you to tell me the truth.”

A swallow. Nervous. Frayed and jagged. “The truth about what?”

“How about we start from the beginning: are you okay?”

Eyes hard, a finger still under your chin, commanding your attention, never dislodging. The truth?

You shake your head. 

“Good job. How are you feeling?”

Mouth agape and all you want to do is run, forget the foot. “Bad. Scared.”

“Are you in any pain?”

You nod.

“Where?”

Trembling, because you’re afraid to misstep again. “Everywhere?”

He frowns again, dropping your chin.

“I’m sorry, I–”

But he’s digging through his pocket, bringing out a small bottle. Aspirin. He shakes a couple tablets out.

“Open up.”

Grimacing, you obey him without question this time, tongue flat along the bottom of your lip. He runs a finger atop it, flinching when you do as he brushes the swollen area where he bit it last night. Places those two pills on top and lets you go so he can bring the mug back up to your mouth for another drink.

“It’s extra strength. You can have more later.”

Swallowing them down and trying to wash down the feeling of John’s fingers in your mouth again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear and you fight not to squirm away.

A short period of silence passes, maybe just thirty seconds, but it's agonizing.

You're staring at the wide, gray tape around your wrists. “...John?”

“Mm?”

“Are you going to kill me?” Goodness, it’s a weak sentence that comes out of you. Childlike, frail. Soft. None of that bark that you drew upon yesterday, fat lot of good that it did you.

His brows furrow in confusion. “Kill you? Why would you–that’s not what this is.”

“What is it?” you ask. “What do you want?”

He settles before you again, knee to knee because there isn’t any goddamn room in this tent. “Right now? I just want to talk.”

Your pulse is racing. Here it is, the big villain reveal. No, he's not going to kill you. He's going to hurt you until he's tired of you, and let nature take over from there.

“I was beginning to miss you,” he whispers, hand on your cheek and the feel of it is like a hot iron branding you. It’s nothing but filth. “You slept for so long.”

“I don’t–”

“Did you miss me, too? From the noises you were making in your sleep, it sounded like you did.”

Ignoring the blush of your cheeks–now you have matching lipstick–you reply, “It was a nightmare.” He asked for the truth, after all.

“You have kinky nightmares, then. Not a surprise, considering the books you read,” he says. “I can go through things that aren’t mine, too.”

The smug bastard sounds amused as you avert your gaze, face burning with mortification. John licks his lips slowly, his cheery demeanor faltering as he takes you in, roving over the various bruises and bite marks he'd left on you. You just want him to stop looking at you.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “for ruining everything yesterday. I’m sorry I fought you, but I–please, please don’t hurt me. Please.”

“No, I…went too far,” John’s fingertips cup your chin to make you look at him again, “last night. That wasn’t my inten–this must be a lot for you to take in.”

While he sounds normal, puts on a believable image, the reminder of what he's capable of doing sends ice down your spine. Buried underneath your veneer of calmness is a volume of fear that could fill a quarry and still spill over. Sweat drips down your back.

A lot? What an understatement. You’re splintering under the weight of it. Your hands are shaking again, toes twitching, damn that big one, and you need to be able to move. Immediately.

“Rusty?” A voice filled with concern.

“Get me out of this tape. Now. I can't stand it,” you plead, on the verge of hysteria, gasping out breaths. “I won't fight you, I won't. I just…I can feel another panic attack coming on and I need it off. Please.”

Rocking keeps the worst of it at bay. For now.

“Please, John.”

He's shuffling around, and suddenly there's a big hunting knife in his hand. As soon as you open your mouth to apologize for anything at all–

I'm sorry.

–it slices through those thick layers of tape around your wrists.

“Don’t get any ideas, hm? I don’t want to regret this. You’re more likely to hurt yourself anyway. Again.”

Another swipe and your feet are free. Immediately scooting backwards to give yourself much-needed space, you’re rubbing your wrists and ankles, as though wiping away the memory. Hiding your head in the protective shell of your arms around your knees, drawn up tight against your chest. Maybe if you curl up tighter, you can blip out of existence.

Breathe in. Out. Hold. In. Out, hold.

Hold...

Mercifully, he waits until you lift your head back up to resume. “Better?”

Drying your face on your sweatshirt. “I think so.”

Another couple of minutes pass before he continues.

“Look. I don't want another repeat of yesterday, and I don't think you do either. Do you?”

Shaking your head profusely.

“I think I'm owed a chance to explain things,” he starts. “I just…I get so angry sometimes, you see. And you, Rusty. Yesterday, you pushed my buttons, to say the least.”

You’re not safe, Rusty.

“I was looking forward to our day together and it was spoiled. Then the way you acted…I just saw red.” He frowns like he's back in that headspace before he collects himself, giving a pitying look when he notices how you began to shrink again. "You were scared, lashing out, and I should have been more patient with you. I realize that now."

He encroaches on your meager space, hand lingering in the tendrils of your hair. The movement is too familiar, too tender. “This is just a hiccup. We had a nice time together, right? That first day.”

He's so close to you and knowing the type of pain he's capable of inflicting, you nod along with him. Yes, you did have fun. Foolish little idiot that you are, you didn't realize that you were merrily walking into the belly of the beast, following a trail laid out in literal treats.

Oh, what fun was had. Before he revealed himself, chased you, pushed you down and shoved his hand deep enough to inscribe his name on your uterine walls. John was here.

A hiccup, he calls it. The thing that has irrevocably changed your life is just a hiccup.

“Are you going to let me go? I won't tell anyone, I promise. I don't–I don't even know your whole name. No one will be able to find you, anyway.”

The realization hits you after the words leave your mouth. No one will be able to find him. Oh. There won't be any justice, will there?

“I will,” he says. “Eventually.”

Eventually? When?

“What do you want?”

He sighs as though you’re the one who’s being slow here. Like you’re the one who isn’t making sense. “What I want, Rusty, is for us to spend the next few days together in peace. We’ll spend our mornings together, have our meals together, and go to sleep together. Like we did before.”

That brine has returned to your eyes, balancing delicately on your waterline as you listen to his madness.

“I want…to prove to you that I can be good,” he says. His hands grasp yours. “I will. But I need you to let me. Stop fighting me at every turn.”

Taking in his message, marinating on its implications, it still doesn't make sense.

What's wrong with you? you long to ask, but something tells you that he wouldn't take well to it. So instead you ask:

“What's the point? Is it–is it just sex, because I don’t…understand. You could pay for that. There are people who will do anything you want, better than me, and I don’t…I don’t understand what this is supposed to be.” A willing victim? Someone so browbeaten that they’ll let him do whatever freakish thing he wants?

He makes a face when you mention something so distasteful as paying for gratification. “Because when money is involved, it’s just that: a transaction. It’s filthy and cold, and I want something more. I want–”

“Companionship.”

“Yes,” he answers. “Your companionship. Your company.”

“And my…body.”

“Yes.”

Sucking in a breath at that single word and all its implications. He's asking so much of you. Everything. “Will it hurt?”

Then he leans in, his clean breath making your scalp tingle. Fingertips gliding across your cheekbones as though memorizing the bone structure beneath. “Not unless you want it to.”

When you balk, he stops you with a palm up. “You want to pretend you like it nice? We can do that. I’ll be sure to warm you up properly first. Go slow, savor every nook, tease out every secret trapped there.”

His caresses become more bold, prickling your skin and setting aflame your heightened nerves. Forehead against yours now so you can't look away.

“Yes, I want you. You can’t deny that you want me, too. Knew it from the first time you grabbed my cock like it was yours–”

“Stop!” You cover his mouth before you can even think about it. Dropping your hand, you resist the urge to wipe it clean.

He wants you to be his willing plaything. A personal courtesan out here in the woods. He said he wouldn’t hurt you, but he's a liar, too. This…this will hurt you beyond belief.

But you can do it. Because the alternative is so much worse.

“For how long?”

“Oh, not long at all,” he says. “I won’t keep you forever. A few days, Rusty, is all I’m asking for. It won’t be like yesterday, I promise you that.”

No, no no. “How long, John?”

“Let’s say…five days.”

Five? No way. “One.”

“Four.”

“One.”

John runs a hand through his loose hair. “Y’know, you’re not really great at negotiating, Rusty.”

Taking his hand in yours so he can see the weight of this…this thing that he is asking of you. The same hand that you could recognize by feel alone at this point. “This is my life. People are expecting me. My family, my friends–they’ve been waiting to hear back from me.”

That lopsided smile. “The truth, Rusty, remember? You already told me that you’re not in any hurry, and people aren't exactly able to write home every day while out here. No, dear. I don’t think anyone’s expecting you any time soon.”

Damn. He’s right. Why did you tell him so much about yourself before? You didn’t even know this monster. You’ve been making so many mistakes without realizing it and he’s been cataloguing them all.

“Four more days,” he says. It’s not much, but a day could mean the difference between your life and your death.

“Including today. It’s been two days already, John. Please.” A gentle squeeze.

He looks like he wants to object, but refrains. “Four days, including today, you clever little fox. It should give your foot enough time to move on it again.”

Four days. A lot can happen in four days.

“How about this: if I could do one thing for you–within reason–what would it be?”

It doesn't take you but a moment to come up with an idea. It's an image that's been flashing through your mind in violent sequences. How he'd be engulfed until he's nothing but a foul memory in your therapist’s office.

“Is self-immolation on the table, John?” You spit his name like a curse and pull your hair out of his grasp. Before you can worry if you went too far again, the bastard laughs, really laughs from his belly that it’s startling and loud. His lashes fan out against his cheeks in crinkled amusement.

“You’re a little spark plug sometimes. I was hoping you hadn't lost that.”

Fuck you. You begin to hiss before checking yourself. No, no. Calibrate. Just keep him sated until you can figure out a course of action.

“I want–I need at least a day to recover, first,” you say, steeling your gaze when he opens his mouth for a rebuttal. “If you want me to be this…whatever it is for you, I need some time, first. Last night was–you, you made me bleed and I–”

Just relax as he carves you into his preferred image. Two lovers frolicking through the meadow, hand in hand. Have you ever been fucked? Copper in your nose, wet heat on your face, too thin, too slippery to be covered in any color other than red–

“Hey, hey–breathe, Rusty. Look at me,” he says, hands on either side of your face. “Come back to me. Listen: it's done. A day to heal.”

He comes back into focus, tanned face framed by dark hair and even darker eyes. Wondering where he keeps his horns. Shouldn't he bring them out for this kind of deal?

“...And if I say no to this?” You're whispering now.

John’s smile falters a bit. “I really hope you don't.”

Another pained swallow that reminds you of the stakes.

“If I do what you ask,” you say, leveling your gaze on him. Something about his entreaty bolsters your confidence. “If I do this, will you swear to let me go in no worse shape? You won't…you won't hurt me again or leave me to rot? Swear it.”

“You know, I wasn't serious when I said I’d leave you here. I wouldn't do something lik–”

Your mouth twists into a thin line, curbing the desire to bite his goddamned lying nose off. It’s not worth the retaliation, and if you've learned anything, it's that John does not take a slight well.

“No, I don't know. I don’t know anything about you. Your word, John. Convince me that it means something. Please.”

“You have my word: I swear on my sister Jane–whom I adore, by the way–I'll return you home safely.”

Fuck. Are you really agreeing to this? You’re not stuck between a rock and a hard place, no. This is an agreement made when your back is to the edge of a ravine. 

Say no and you’ll have a repeat of last night, only…only worse. Say yes and you’ve bought yourself time to figure out an escape plan before he touches you again. One day’s reprieve, maybe more. Maybe you’ll leave this place with all your limbs, maybe even a few pieces of your dignity.

You might actually live.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay? Is that a yes?” The relief that erupts on John’s face is palpable, forming deep lines of joy cut into his cheeks. This man is going to ruin you.

This is it, Rusty. May this not be the moment you close the door of your tomb.

“Yes.”

Three letters. It appears simple, easy even, this one word–yes–but it's bloated with dread. It's peeking out through the stretched holes of its seams, barely held together by thread.

All while John beams.

He carefully untangles himself from the tent’s close confines to step outside, holding the flap open for you. Thank the gods, because you need to get the everloving fuck out of this tent and get some fresh air in your lungs. You’re already sick of looking at nylon walls.

He holds out a hand and you secretly appreciate the gesture because your legs are moving like a newborn fawn–unstable and wobbly as you blink against the day’s brightness.

“Are you hungry? I'll reheat your breakfast.”

Standing reminds you of the deep ache in your core and you grip your lower abdomen with a grimace. The painkillers haven’t set in yet, but he at least has the wherewithal to look remorseful, fiddling with his pants like he needs a task to be useful. To be good. No teasing banter.

Watching as he prepares your meal because it's a great opportunity to study captor–your companion. It’s hard to imagine the man who washed your underwear and has them hanging up to dry as the same one who brutalized you yesterday. Hair loose and framing his face, humming as he stirs the pot.

He has good caregiving instincts when he wants to use them, as you hate to admit. Portraying himself as the perfect image of domesticity. While the conversation is mostly one-sided–only your soft “mm”s and the occasional polite nod–his gentle facade has your head spinning.

John makes your head spin. The moment you start to hold sympathy for him, you need only to tense your lower half, the dull soreness reminding you what he’s capable of. That you are being held captive. Remind yourself of who he really is underneath this boyish snapshot.

An imitator. A mimic.

Is this really the same man who crawled himself so deep within you that you're sure he’d lodged some piece of himself beneath your ribs?

It’s early afternoon when John breaks your reverie.

“So,” he says. “I thought we might visit that stream we talked about before. You could paint there.” He’s talking and gathering his thick, wavy locks before securing them into a bun again.

Really? Taking you away from camp to a water source that could potentially attract other hikers? For someone who’s clearly done this before, he’s sloppy. Overconfident. It’s a great idea. Carefully measuring each inhale and exhale, you nod. Sure, John. Happy to take the risk.

“That sounds really nice. Thank you,” squeezing his hand, you offer a shy smile. “Can I change first? I, um…I don’t feel presentable.” Grateful again when he nods sympathetically.

Do you really look that bad right now? Surprisingly, he helps you into your own tent, alone, even zips it up behind you so you can have privacy.

Fuck being presentable. Dropping to your knees, you scramble to your pack and look for your own knife, but it’s gone. So is your bear mace, and there’s nothing else you can use as a weapon. Damn. Damn him. He’s three steps ahead of you. Of course he is. He always was.

Peeling off your clothes is quick, just your shorts and shirt, but now you’re left bared, body and soul. With nowhere to channel your adrenaline now, your hands tremble as you’re simply stuck with yourself. Nervously running fingers through your hair and wincing at the snags. You also quickly wipe yourself down, sure to avoid the sorry sight of the marks John left.

Just another swipe across your eyes because it’s something you can’t deal with right now.

While selecting clean underclothes, a simple pair of pants, and a shirt from your pack, you wish you’d packed more concealing clothes. You also check out your toe. It’s gone purple with heavy bruising, but the good thing is that it still moves, even if it hurts like a bitch. But…that’s good. Very, very good.

The sound of the zipper opening again startles you, and John’s form comes into view.

“Everything alright?” he asks, looking down at your crouched position with an eyebrow raised.

Grimacing, you prod your toe with an exaggerated hiss. “Yes, it’s just…I think it’s broken.” Letting the tears well in your eyes is an easy task compared to keeping them at bay. Let him think it’s worse than it is.

He tuts at you–pathetic little girl, you imagine–but he seems convinced.

“Here. I’ve got you.”

When you’re ready for your little excursion, he kneels, offering his back. Trailing your gaze down, you see he’s got that hunting knife holstered to his hip. You could grab it…but you’d have to be fast.

Quick as lightning, you lash out and grab the handle, a flick of your thumb has it released from the holster. He’s too stunned to move away quick enough and with a confident push, the silver tip sinks, sinks into the muscles of his back like room temperature butter–

“Rusty?”

Blinking, you glance up and see that he’s got his head turned partway, looking back at you with concern.

It was a stupid idea anyway. 

“Yeah, I’m just…trying to be careful.”

“Good idea. Come on, I’ll help you balance.”

With a heft, he lifts your weight onto his back. Large hands are under your knees as you try to ignore the light sting of your scrapes. The urge to panic threatens you again, when you're on him like this. Your breasts against his back, the sore flesh of your core pressed intimately against him.

Loose tendrils of his hair so close that you can smell him–your stomach tightens. That familiar scent of sandalwood and possibly rosemary fills your nostrils, with an undertone of his musk. Likely something you'll never quite forget.

Arms around his neck, pretending you’re his girlfriend or something. The gentle, repetitive motions as he makes during the trek bring a surprising amount of comfort, though, and that drowsiness creeps back up. Impossibly lethargic still. Resting your head on his shoulder and letting your eyes drift shut.

Blink.

You wake up when you arrive, and it turns out that “stream” is actually a river with a fierce current in some places. John sets you down carefully, allowing you a moment to take in your new surroundings. 

It’s a marvel. You’re not far from the water’s edge, giving you a clear view of the area. While this side of the river is thick with tall trees, the other side shows more diverse vegetation. It’s flatter there, featuring a small meadow in the foreground before the terrain gives way to treeline.

He appears at your side. “So what do you think? Did I choose well?”

“It’s lovely.”

“Yes, it is,” he says fondly, eyes focused on you. The fondness in his voice makes that feeble little heart of yours double its speed. Would his words have the same effect if he hadn’t tricked you, hadn’t courted you as a different person first? Either way, he’s mean to talk that way…like his jaws didn’t rip you asunder until you fit perfectly into his palms. Like he isn’t planning to do it again.

“I’m glad we could come here together.” 

To your credit, you don’t flinch, not much anyway, when John draws nearer, towering over you and using the curl of his fingers to tilt your face upwards. As he takes you in, your heart pounds. You stare at the little wounds on his lip that match your canines, waiting for them to get closer and meet yours–instead, he considers you for a moment, before kissing your forehead sweetly. You can still feel the mark after his lips are gone, though, like a brand. John’s.

You’re settled into a spot that provides a view perfect for painting: this side of the river is well-shaded under the canopy of trees, the trunks framing a meadow across the way that looks like a field of gold with wildflower gems.

Yet, inspiration is on the backburner–you’re too distracted by your situation. What have you gotten yourself into, Rusty? Playing lovers? He mercifully gives you some distance, though, taking closeup shots of the greenery and sneaking photos of you when he thinks you’re distracted by your work.

Fucking creep.

Before long, after scribbled attempts at capturing the scene across the way, a new form emerges on your paper. Instincts take over, guiding your color selection and movements, just adding water as needed. So engrossed are you that you don’t notice when he appears at your side.

“Is that…me?” The low voice behind you startles you into turning to face the man behind you.

Looking down at your work, the red backdrop contrasts against the slender features in the foreground. Indomitable eyes with a darkness to them that pairs well with his beard and wavy locks. It's somewhat abstract, but very clearly him.

“Suppose that it is,” you respond carefully.

“Can I?” he asks, and you offer him the portrait.

He’s quiet, eyes tracing along the blended smears of color. You didn’t necessarily want to paint him, but for obvious reasons he’s been consuming your attention and you felt the need to just get him out of you. 

However, it’s a striking portrait: kohl-lined eyes enhance his smokiness, suggesting an amorphous ability to be labeled or pinned down…to be understood. The red tones are reflected with the hue of his lips, far too saturated to be natural, literally painted upon his lips.

In your untamed style, you may have portrayed a version of John who didn’t get slapped down for trying to express himself as a child. A man who learned to embrace the nuances of performance. Well, other nuances of performance, anyway.

It’s a timeline unexplored.

“This is…well, it’s nice,” he says after a while. “Is this how you see me?”

Rolling the answer around in your mouth, you respond, “...It’s one way.”

He probably wouldn’t appreciate the other ideas you had considered. The way the pretty color of lipstick he forced on you had smeared onto his own face by the end of it.

Besides, the abstraction of your feelings will take years to depict with accuracy.

“I think I should keep this.” John’s tucking the now-dry portrait away. He can’t let you leave here with an image of him, and certainly not one such as this.

Your shrug is casual. “It’s yours.” Just like everything else, right? Take it. Take it all until your belly is so full that it bursts, wolf.

“...Thank you.” He’s fiddling with his camera, scrolling through pictures, unsure of what to do with the moment.

Gesturing at his camera, desperate to relieve some of the awkwardness, you say, “Can I see?”

He crouches beside you and levels the screen before you, and it’s full of diverse textures of leaves featuring vivid greens, cheerful yellows, warm browns. There’s a few photos of you, as expected–there’s nothing left to hide, right? In them, you’re hunched over, focused on your work, contemplating the meadow far off. The sun casts sharp contrast over the frown lines of your face as you work.

Perspective that’s meticulously focused, with obsessive clarity.

“You have a unique view of the world.”

He teases warmly, puffed up at your words, “Is that a compliment?”

“It’s a fact,” you say. He nudges your shoulder with affection anyway and sits beside you like you’re old pals.

Your first day is wasting away, Rusty, and all you know is the direction to this other secluded place. No one else is in sight, no hope for finding another hiker, at least not today.

“Do you mind if I go toward the river’s edge?” you ask. “I want a better look. I’ll be careful with my foot.”

His smile is strained. “How about we both go? I’ll help you down.”

Smart man, because at this moment, you’re just as likely to jump in and take your chances with the current.

Slowly walking down the slope with John’s assistance, ignoring the shivers as he wraps an arm around your waist and plants a firm hand on your bicep, you arrive at the river that's both broader and faster than you had expected. Maybe you need a new map, because this is not what you were expecting. There are only a few potential places in sight where crossing is possible, but there’s no way you can outrun him when he’s mere feet away from you.

No, you need more time to plan an escape. You can’t take your pack–it’ll be too noisy to sneak away with it and the heavy thing will slow you down. Possibly, you could stash some essentials and hoof it, the damage to your toe could be dealt with later, but how would you slip away from John?

How, how, how? Think.

“A lot on your mind, Foxheart?”

Whipping your head away from the river, maybe you were staring too long, you find John watching you carefully.

“No, I just–the water is deeper than I thought.”

“Mm,” he muses, coming over to rest his hand on your shoulder, ignoring how the muscles tense. “It does look full, doesn’t it? The summer was unusually rainy, probably why we’re seeing so much vegetation still. Speaking of, we should fill up while we’re here.”

Handing over your water bottle, he crouches to refill his own at a spot where it’s calm enough. The impulse to simply push him into the water rears up, but that won’t do you any good. It isn’t deep here. He’ll climb right back out and catch you in no time.

Your agreement would be off and it’ll be a repeat of–no, you can’t bear that. You’ll have to be patient and strategic. Play along with his delusion for now.

After filling your bottle, he helps you back up the slope before hoisting you onto his back again, making the trek back home. The sun hovers low over the horizon, giving you just enough time to arrive at camp and set up the fire.

The golden hour beams pleasantly on your back and you try to ignore the soft comfort of his hair as your face rests against it; the firm grasp of his paws on your legs, so intimately wrapped around him.

You’re especially trying to ignore how the hilt of that hunting knife, slung low on his belt, occasionally rubs against your leg.

Does a predator enjoy the waiting period before pursuing their prey? Does it give them greater satisfaction whenever they inevitably get to chase whatever unlucky thing has crossed their path? After all, who wants to tumble headlong into the abyss of pleasure without the arduous climb beforehand as a comparison? 

How long did he plan this out? He has your favorite snacks after all. Were some of them at a supply station, or has he been trailing behind you this entire time? How many more victims of his desire would you find on his camera if you could get a longer look?

It’s been another night of dinner and ridiculous treats. True to his word, John has been worshiping you…as much as you’re allowing. He keeps touching you, playing with your hair, smelling you, like a stubby-fingered toddler who knows they made a mistake. Trying to get back into your good graces.

And if you secretly like the little apologies, the persistent attempts to regain your favor that you can righteously scorn, that’s a secret you’ll take to your grave. He’s the one who did wrong here, not you, but he’s so needy for affection, it’s a wonder he wasn’t an only child.

What was it like for Jane growing up with John as her brother? Is she older or younger? Do they still talk?

“John,” you say. “Tell me about Jane?”

It appears that the abrupt question has caught him off guard. “What do you want to know?”

“What’s she like?” Is she still okay?

“She’s…strong. One of the most resilient people I know. We grew up hard in a lot of ways,” he says. “But Jane made it bearable. She’s got a killer sense of humor, too. You know, you remind me of her in that way; you’d probably get along. She is…my saving grace, I think.”

His smile is quick, solemn. “We don’t talk much at the moment. We tend to lose contact when she’s in a relationship that’s uh, rather nasty.”

Keeping your voice soft, you ask, “What about your parents?”

“They’re gone,” he says simply. “Our father left us early on, but our mother…Mother died a few years ago, and uh, she wasn’t doing well by the end of it.”

Biting his lip, he seems uncomfortable with the confession. “What about you, hm? Did you grow up with a big, rambunctious family?”

Scratching the back of your neck, you reply, “No, not really. My mom has also passed away. It was when I was a kid, soon after my brother was born.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says softly. 

“Mmm.” He appears sincere, at least. "I remember her some. How she would braid my hair every Sunday night, how she smelled like flowers. After she passed, my dad…” you laugh a bit, “he would try to braid my hair the same way but it always turned out awful.”

Oh, Dad. You wish you had talked to him more before leaving for this trip that had felt so necessary at the time. Now, all you want is to be back at home on the couch with him, watching some mindless show. “Dad raised us as a widower, and he did a great job of it, too. It was just us and his parents.”

“They mean everything to me, John, and it would destroy me to lose them.” Biting your lip before you finish. “Just like they’d be destroyed if I didn’t come back home. It would hurt them to know that I'm hurting.” The last bit is a whisper, the words watery and weak.

He’s playing with your hair, entwining his hands in the curls. “I already told you that I won’t hurt you–”

You cut a sharp look at him.

“–Again.”

“We’ll see if you can keep your word,” you say, ignoring his wounded frown when you shift away, the movement pulling the strands from his fingers.

A tense few minutes follows the conversation, and you’re staring at the North Star, one of the few that you can identify. How many lightyears away is it anyway?

You’re lost in your musings again when he interrupts the silence. “Do you see that constellation?”

“Which one?” you ask. He’s pointing in the direction you’re already looking, but there’s no way to tell where he means.

Stiffening as he shifts over to you. “Up north there. It’s faint.”

At your helpless shrug, John quickly stands and disappears into his tent, leaving you to look around in confusion. Is he upset? Before you can get too anxious about it, he returns with a set of binoculars.

“These will help,” he says, smiling and returning to his seat beside you. After a few minutes of adjusting the lens, he hands them over.

It must be the fabric of your sweater, but it’s a well-timed jolt of electricity that shocks you when you touch, accepting the binoculars from him. A spark that means nothing, before you're facing the sky where he’s pointing again to no avail.

“Here, let me,” he says in a low voice, barely a murmur that flutters over you as he brings it back to your face, gently guiding your head into the right position. His hands are surprisingly warm in the cool night.

“It’s four stars in that milky cluster–they’re in a zigzag shape.”

You’re hunched over, staring hard at them as you scout out the cluster of stars. “Oh, there. I think I see it. What is it?”

“That,” he begins, “is the Vulpecula constellation.”

“‘Vulpecula?’” you ask. The word sounds familiar, at least part of it. Perhaps from your Latin lessons years ago. “As in...fox?” you ask, risking a glance his way.

He looks pleased, proud of you for some reason. “That’s it. ‘Little Fox.’ Smart girl.”

“Please, don’t call me that–I’m not a girl.” It's wrong, and it reminds you of the heated way he kept calling you his good girl yesterday after you told him otherwise. 

A wry smile that you once thought of as being dopey, but there’s nothing quite so innocuous in him. “No, I suppose not. Less…definable, huh?”

This praise sits wrong for various reasons, prompting a soft gasp that he hopefully doesn't hear, because this is the man you thought you had partnered up with on the trail.

“So what’s the story behind this one, then?” you ask, bringing the binoculars back up to your face as an excuse to avoid making eye contact.

“Hm,” he muses, and as if knowing what you’re doing, he lets his hand drift into your hair, twirling coils around his fingers again with familiarity. “Do you see that bright star in there?”

At your nod, he continues. “From Earth they look so close together that they appear as one, but they're really two stars. My binoculars aren’t strong enough to separate them.”

He moves in, thigh touching yours as he continues to observe the milky cluster. “One of them is a red giant. The constellation was discovered a few centuries ago–supposedly it’s a fox holding a goose in its mouth. A gift for the canine guardian of the underworld.”

“Wait–I thought you didn’t know any constellations?” You spent your first night making up patterns and meanings to them, back when you were starstruck and flirting. “I mean other than the Dippers.”

Affection teasing at his face. “Just the important ones.”

You aren’t even focused on the constellation anymore, just using the binoculars as a buffer at this point, scanning the celestial bodies. “You’re quite the charmer when you want to be.”

How many times has he used that to his advantage?

“Mm,” he murmurs. He’s still playing with the ends of your hair, bringing a lock up to his cheek a bit. Just finding any reason to touch, but at least he’s focused on the movements and giving you a reprieve from his gaze.

Staring into the fire now, you’re practically chugging the remaining wine in your mug. It dulls your wits, sure, but it helps your nerves.

Butterflies flit restlessly in the confines of your gut when John turns to look at you, to behold you in the firelight that casts his dark hair with red tones. It’s a strange, automatic reaction that has your eyes closing when his face lowers and he takes your mouth with his own. This is what he wants, you all moldable and willing to accept whatever he gives and takes.

It doesn’t really come as a surprise when he guides your mouth to his. This kiss lacks the frenetic need of your first night and the overt violence of yesterday. It’s meticulous, carefully played out. He manages to pull a reaction from you that you can’t quite hold back, not with the fluttery nerves that are growing in your belly.

The softness raises goosebumps in your flesh, and you’re hotly embarrassed when you separate, unbalanced in your own skin. He’s clearly going to map out your limits over the course of this arrangement.

It just leaves you unsatisfied and raw.

“Rusty–”

“Um, so I’m exhausted,” you say, blinking back the brine and letting loose a yawn that’s hopefully unexaggerated. “I can’t seem to shake it today. Is it alright if I head inside?”

“You should get some more rest. I’ve got something special planned for us tomorrow.” Taking your hand in his, he turns it over to drop a kiss on your palm. There’s hunger in his eyes, loosened by wine and the romanticism of a starlit evening.

It doesn’t bode well. Surely, he won’t consider your reprieve over in the morning, right?

“Something good?” you ask.

He smiles, “I think you’ll like it.”

Ignoring the gaze that burns a hole through your back, you return to the tent that houses your sleeping bags that are zipped-together. Twin coffins, side by side. Crawling into your side, you curl up on your side and try not to think about how a word like “tomorrow” could feel like a dreaded sentencing.

So you listen as he extinguishes the fire, pretending to be asleep when he enters. Listen as he removes his boots and slides in behind you. No wandering hands, just a firm arm wrapped around your middle as you’re drawn into him, fabric lightly snagging on the newly formed scabs of your abdomen, the back of your head tucked under his chin. You listen as he falls asleep like this, his breath slowing.

And if John’s quiet, consistent sounds beckon you into the abyss of sleep, that’s a secret that remains in this synthetic grave.

Chapter Text

Dancing with damnation is a ball.

"Tennessee" by Gillian Welch

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 4

{three days until release}

It’s another night of fitful sleep filled with feverish dreams–all ache, heat, and drumming confusion. A thin sheen of perspiration on your forehead when you awake, only to notice something tickling your scalp, only to meet flesh when you reach up to bat whatever it is away.

It’s John, of course. Petting your hair, your head cradled in his lap. Always suffocatingly near.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Wrinkling your nose at the moniker and licking your lips as you croak out, “What time is it?”

“Nearly ten,” he says, his tone casual, lackadaisical as he continues to fixate on your hair.

That wine-induced sleep hits hard, apparently–that and stress, surely. “It’s ten? Why did you let me sleep so long?” That’s just more time wasted away while John (probably) sniffed your hair. Precious time.

“It seemed like you needed the rest.” He's tracing your ear with light strokes, sweetly like a lover. “How do you feel?”

“I feel,” you say as you sit up, suspicious about what he’s trying to assess. There’s still a surprise for you today. “I’m managing.”

“Hopefully, you’re managing well,” he says, unaffected by your lack of enthusiasm, “because we’ll have to leave before long for what I have planned for us.”

Pulse racing when you ask, “Wait–where are we going?”

“It’s not a surprise if I tell you. After we eat, make sure to pack a towel and something you don’t mind getting wet.”

Now that you’re outside of the sleeping bag, today is proving a colder day than the previous ones. “Won’t we freeze?”

“Just trust me," he says. Playful.

Just trust me. It’s a big ask, but you expect nothing else from this man whose asks are larger than life. While you don’t know about swimming per se, since it's chilly out, you could really use a good wash. “Fine.”

Looking pleased, he pats your thigh with affection, “Great. I’ll let you into our other tent so you can pack.”

You mean my tent, you think bitterly. He’s taken to storing both of your packs in it, giving you ample room to share his during your…stay. He’s also taken to keeping it locked up with a fat ziptie, too. Although, you have no idea where he’s been storing the things you could use against him. Where the hell is your mace? Your hatchet? Your own knife? Are they buried nearby or hung up out of sight? There’s no way to tell because John’s been your shadow since your first meeting, that misguided, dreadful event.

Limping outside, you find that it’s a haunting, melancholic day that greets you, the fog settling low. I wish I had tea. The mundaneness of the statement strikes you as odd, like you aren’t being held captive in the wilderness.

Returning to your tent–no, John’s– It allows you a few precious minutes to yourself. It’s also when you notice an unpleasant throb in your lower abdomen. Clenching and pressing around your groin, it's apparent that this sensation is different from force-trauma. No, it's a dull, familiar sensation that’s deeply set, like when your cycle is approaching. It’s already late, adjusting to the PCT’s stressful environment has affected your body's schedule.

Just great. Another thing on your plate to deal with. Checking your pack, you find that your aspirin is missing as well. Damn. Another bit of agency that belongs to John now. He probably thinks you’d try to poison him with a lethal dose, and you probably would, given the chance. Then hightail it into town. Well, slowtail it with your foot the way that it is.

And how is your foot doing? You lightly prod along the fine bones and tendons to find it’s doing okay. Extremely sore and tender, the bruising persistent, but you can wiggle your toe. Wiggling is good. 

Quickly filling a lightweight tote with a towel, some toiletries, and your darkest set of underclothes to provide better privacy, you leave the tent before John comes to gather you. Being outside with him feels less menacing with the illusion of opportunity it provides.

You emerge with your increasingly riotous hair crammed in a bun. Hey, we’re twinsies today, John. What’dya think?

“I’m ready.” 

You’d think you were wearing something other than loose pants and a sweater with the look on his face. “There’s my sunshine.”

He's sitting on the log that's been serving as your temporary seat, reading a book. A closer look reveals that it's your book. Something about seeing your copy of Wild in his hands has you possessive. He has no right to it, none at all.

Forcing a smile, you thank him for the compliment and watch how his demeanor brightens. The man has an obvious praise kink, which is easier to indulge than his other, less savory ones.

“Is there more aspirin?” you ask.

His brow furrows, “Are you still in pain?” he asks, closing and setting aside your book.

Hopefully he’ll leave it at that, the nod that you give him. You don’t want to have a conversation about periods with him. Or any bodily processes really. It’s bad enough he has to haul you away from camp to relieve yourself, even if it’s the one time he gives you a wide berth.

John's up, looking like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it as he walks the short distance to his small bag.

The moment he's out of arm's reach, you're scooping up your book and clutching it to your chest. Maybe it's silly…Cheryl Strayed literally burned the pages of her book after reading them to lessen her pack weight. But it's always been difficult for you to let go, and you've taken great care of this copy, hardly even a crease. Just the ghost of his touch that haunts it. 

He makes no comment about it, depositing the pills in your hand.

Wild goes into your tote. Mine.

***

“Are you comfortable?” he asks.

“Mmhmm.”

His grip is firm under your knees again when you settle into his form, your personal wilderness litter. While your mind is clearer today than yesterday, better able to keep the directions in mind–left at the fork, then north, past the double gnarled tree–there’s still a haze present. Your thoughts are covered in a light, blurry layer in your mind, and it takes longer to process your surroundings.

It makes sense that it's called brain fog–it's disorienting, not a far cry from the actual fog that's around you. It tends to come upon you in the days before you bleed. If you are about to start your cycle, a silver lining is that it would sharply decrease your odds of conceiving when he–while with him. The little throbs in your womb mimic weak heartbeats, a painful reminder of potential consequences of this transaction, rubbing salt in the wound.

Shaking your head to clear the bleak course of your thoughts, you try to focus again on the trail. Though the slow, rhythmic drumming in your abdomen lingers.

It’s a decent hike to the river, maybe forty minutes or so, with his long legs and your added weight. You figure it could take you about twice that if you’re walking briskly. The water could put some good distance between you, if you can find a way across later. There’s got to be one.

Honestly, John is either a fool for not blindfolding you, or…or he’s just that confident in his ability to catch you again. He lets you down once you arrive, but stops you before you can unpack.

“We’re just filling up,” he says, brandishing your bottles. “Just a little ways left to go.”

Renewed concern crops up again, “Where are you taking me?” 

“It’s not a surprise if I tell you,” he says.

It does nothing to ease your apprehension. “Somewhere safe?”

“As safe as safe can be here,” he says. “I promise you’ll love it–be patient, Foxheart.”

Fine. Settling onto his back again, you resist the urge to pull his hair for being so evasive. Plus, you’re ready to be on your own feet again and get some space between your bodies. Your thighs ache from being stretched like this for so long. It’s worse than riding a horse.

This area is unfamiliar and with the low visibility today, it’s hard to track landmarks to remember where you’re going. John continues on and eventually, the chilly fog gives way to a warm mist. It’s not until you get closer that you see why, though–there’s a small pool of water offset from the river.

It’s a hot spring. How glorious.

It’s been weeks since you’ve had a real bath, and this small, private, hot pool is what you’d imagine an expensive spa to have access to. It’s great timing, too, with this overall sludge in your core that's slowly building.

“Now, this is more like it,” you say, eyes roving over the scene voraciously as he sets you down.

He laughs, and you resent how normal the sound is. Not the rumbling timber of a man hardened by life, nor the sinister cackle of a villain. Facing the water to avoid his face when stretching your stiff limbs. Your shoulders are still horribly knotted up from your arms being tied together.

“I thought you’d like it. It wasn't cool enough yesterday, but today seems perfect for a hot tub.”

“No, no, it’s perfect. Really.”

You’re already hobbling toward the warm pool, dipping a hand in and nearly buckling in relief as the hot temperature reaches your purple fingertips. There’s a deeper section blanketed by large boulders, creating an intimate space with low visibility. It’s like your personal little world, just yours and John’s, the only ones in focus, and you’re already hyper aware of him today, considering how his scent clings to you after the journey.

“I’ve been looking forward to bringing you here,” he says, setting down your combined bags near the bank and removing his shoes. 

“How’d you find out about this place? It’s not on my map. I would’ve noticed it.”

“One of the towns nearby,” he says, being purposely vague. “A sweet old lady I met at a diner told me about it. I guess she took to me, since she let this local secret slip.”

You can picture it: John among the general public, passing as normal. The way he would worm himself into their favor with his bashful smile, his casual, even dopey sense of ease softening his tall form, and his oil-slicked tongue, sharpened to a fine point.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, could I ask you a question about the Trail?”

Pausing before another bite of hashbrowns, the older woman’s defenses would have dropped when she saw John. Hair longer than that of the average man his age in town, but reminding her of her younger days when she and her friends with their pin-straight hair would bask in the sun on sprawling grass, passing around a joint and dreaming about days when war would be a thing of the past.

“What do you want to know?”

“Obviously, I’m an out-of-towner, but are there any routes on it that you’d recommend? Off the beaten path, maybe?”

He would have smiled, that cute, broad one that flashes his teeth, the front ones longer than the rest. Twinkling, saturnine eyes that speak to a deeply-spirited soul. Cutting an endearing figure begging her to open up to him.

Just like he did with you.

You shrug. “It’s like I said before, you’re a charmer.”

This smile of his is different, close-lipped and uneven. “A gift from my mother, I suppose. She was in sales–cosmetics, mostly, most of her life.”

His demeanor doesn't quite capture the lightness in his voice when he speaks. 

“But enough about that, it's way in the past, anyway.” Stretching his arms up, deflecting, he turns toward you, offering a more boyish expression. The playful one. “I don't know about you, Rusty, but I'm ready to get in that water.”

Then he reaches for the hem of his shirt and lifts and your eyes drop to watch how his stomach contracts with the movement. 

“You might want to look away, unless you want an eyeful.” Glancing up to see him amused by your obvious slip. “Not that I’d mind.”

Heart pounding as you do as he warns, pretending your lower half isn't throbbing with tension, too. He’s still painfully attractive. Maybe if you hadn’t been quite so smitten with him in the beginning, it would be easier to deny, but he’s got a feline grace to him that you envy. His movements are practiced and confident. Not that of a person who grew taller than their sense of gravity could handle.

It only takes a couple of minutes for him to fold his clothes, and after your initial peek, you’ve been staring at the trees to your right. Eventually you hear the first ripples of water. Waiting a bit longer, you check again–just in time to see the top of his toned backside, lighter than the rest of him without being pale, disappear. The fates must have a dark sense of humor to give someone like John so many…gifts.

His head peeks over a shoulder, catching your appreciative gaze again before you can hide it. So you glower instead, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Really, it’s his damned back that has you entranced. Overall, John cuts a slim figure, but his bareness reveals the sculpted breadth of his shoulders, and the muscles flex in just a small display of his strength as he departs. The visible way that they shift beneath his flesh is sinful. There are a few spots on it, pinker than the rest of his skin. Birthmarks?

Reaching up, he's pulling the tie from his hair, releasing the locks. He sinks underneath to dunk his head, long legs folding to allow the movement, and emerges with a little shake. Water drips obscenely off his sculpted shoulders, down the planes of his tan chest, down the slopes of his abs.

“Oh, Rusty, you will love this. The hottest water around for miles.”

Believe me, I want to get in there. Just not with you. It’s only partially a lie.

John calls over, “Are you coming in?”

Chewing on your lip, because you desperately long to be in a hot bath, but his nakedness isn't something you can ignore. “I’m not ready, yet.”

“Well, don’t wait too long, you’ll catch a chill like that.” He’s looking at your feet, bared from when you were prepared to dip them in.

He leans his head back, getting comfortable in his spot, and the envy in you builds to an excruciating level. You weren’t really all that cold until you suddenly had something delectably warm to compare it to. Now, that chill is indeed settling into your bones.

“Come on, I promise I won't bite,” he prods, teasing. He laughs a little when you shoot him a scathing look…because it's all so funny, isn't it? That you're too intimidated to get into a pool alone with him in a vulnerable state? Fucking hilarious.

“Lay off.” Goddess, he is so obnoxious sometimes.

The incendiary tone in your response has him putting his hands up in surrender, a bit bewildered at your sudden curtness. “Okay, okay, you're right. I'll stop. No more teasing.”

You're fiddling with your clothes, considering getting in, since you don’t imagine it’ll get any warmer standing outside in the mist like this, cool air sweeping through on occasion.

“Get in, Rusty, it's cold outside,” the siren beckons, voice imbued with sincerity. “You’ll catch your death out there.”

Squashing the retort that you’re far more likely to catch your death in there. With him. But your history of picking fights with him hasn’t ended well for you. Besides that, you're cold, sore, and getting grumpy. The water is too tempting to deny any longer.

“Fine, but don’t look.”

Ignoring his small, victorious grin, you look anywhere else while removing your pants, unsure if he bothered to avert his gaze. He’s seen it, of course, but it’s always different like this. Eventually standing like a foal, half-undressed with knees tightly pressed together. The hem of your sweater barely reaches the tops of your thighs, and your arms aren't doing much to conceal your bare legs.

Standing at the bank, ready to sink down into that glorious pool of warmth–

“You might want to remove your sweater first.”

Startled, you gasp. No. He hasn’t indicated if he’ll leave you alone for today, and you’ve been too afraid to ask, mostly because you don’t think you could bear to hear him say no. It shreds your nerves, knowing today might be the day when he expects you to perform.

“What? I need it–” you plead. 

“Easy now, Rusty, I don’t mean anything by it,” he says, leaning his head against a large rock and observing you with bemusement, scratching at his beard. “That material is thick, so it'll take a while to dry on its own. It’ll get all your things wet on the trip back–you really will freeze.”

You didn’t expect to actually get in water today, thinking you'd just wash yourself off with a wet cloth at the river, so you didn't bring extra clothes. This is why you don’t appreciate surprises. And never from John.

But he’s right, you realize with a frown, your fingers playing with the sweater’s hem. If you want to get warm, you’ll have to get in with only your underwear.

“Fine, but don’t look.”

Ignoring his victorious little chuckle as he turns away, you remove your sweater quickly and add it to your neat pile–telling yourself that your clothes are only folded in efforts to keep bugs from crawling into them, not because it would otherwise look sloppy next to John's pile. Exposed in your bra and panties now, you carefully wade into the water, mindful of your steps. He keeps his back to you. 

A pleased groan escapes you before you can catch it, but it’s such an immediate, soothing sensation that washes over your sore, frozen body that you don’t even have the wherewithal to be embarrassed. It’s been weeks of chilly, even frigid, rinsings in streams and wet wipes in a pinch. You hadn’t realized that you’d miss temperature-controlled showers and baths so much. More than ready snacks and television.

Nope, it was hot water.

Which thankfully hides your body when certain parts perk up at the pleasant sensation, because it’s hot. Luxurious. Perfect.

Drifting to rest against a submerged rock on the farthest side from John as you enjoy it.

It’s like wearing a swimsuit, try not to think about it too much. Plus, you’re only visible from the neck up, with your arms crossed protectively over your chest.

“You can look, now.”

He makes it clear that his eyes had been covered as he turns, but fails to conceal that impish upturn to his mouth in time–he probably loved that nasty little sound that you made upon entering the spring.

“It’s nice, right?”

“It’s more than nice. It’s hot,” you say, eyes closing in comfort.

It’s long minutes of this peace, just relaxation and the hug of warm humidity around you. You could almost forget your company like this. Almost.

“Rusty,” he says, interrupting your musings. “Are you planning to avoid me the entire time?” 

Startled, you look up to realize he’s staring at you, maybe was watching you the whole time. Pleased with himself with this treat he planned for you, because it absolutely makes up for the way his fingers gripped the curve of your skull as he forced it down onto his–

“I’m in the pool, John.”

He tilts his head–Really? you imagine–unconvinced by your meager excuse. The weight of his wet hair stretches out the texture as he shifts, lengthening the strands, adding to his marblesque beauty.

“Come on, now. I carried you all the way over here so we could have a good afternoon together, and I’d rather not have to yell to keep up a conversation. Please.”

Considering his request, tuck an errant curl behind your ear in a nervous gesture, before wincing at its dryness. It's time to comb through it–you’ve been putting it off, but you need to sort it out. If not, it’ll start to loc up, and will be a nightmare to untangle. Later is worth planning for, because it means there will be a time when you’re out of this mess and care about things like your hair again.

Stalling. “Fine, but let me get my comb first. I’ll be right back.” You start to get up, but he interrupts the movement.

“Wait–I’ll grab it. You’ll freeze out there.” Before you can argue, he’s already swimming across the surface of the water, strong arms bringing him across quicker than you would’ve made it. As he moves, you’re torn between feelings of shock, discomfort, and a twinge of amusement with his bare ass on full display, just as lovely as the rest of him.

He’s absolutely showing off.

It only takes him a moment to find your comb, also bringing out your leave-in conditioner. Which is not something you should be introducing to the ecosystem in here–

“Wait, not the product! It's bad for the hot spring.”

“I hear you–don't worry, we’ll be sure to keep it out of the water,” he says, heading back and reaching you quickly, balancing the bottle on a rock beside you. “It’ll help.”

You know that already. Still, you thank him before accepting the comb, pretending the goosebumps you feel when his skin brushes against yours are from the chilliness of his fingers, not the electricity of his touch.

Releasing your hair and dunking under the surface to escape John’s gaze, you briefly luxuriate in the warmth on your face, your ears, your nose, your lips. Then you emerge and begin the task of picking apart your wet hair.

Getting it braided before starting the PCT would’ve been more convenient, but you haven’t worn the style since your mom died. The thought of anyone else braiding your hair still feels wrong, somehow. What if they don’t do it the right way? What if they’re too rough with your scalp?

And you’re nothing if not obsessively sentimental–as a result, you’ve got a knot that’s pissing you off as you fiercely jab at it with the comb. Your eyes sting with frustration that nearly breaks you down, having no patience for it. Why can’t this one thing please just go your way?

“Rusty,” he says, a light touch on your wrist that grounds you. “You're tearing out your hair.”

You are, you know it, and normally you would take time to care for it, but everything seems so urgent, so necessary to complete as quickly as possible in your current situation. Like the rug could get pulled from you again at any point.

Angrily wiping at your eyes, it’s a petulant tone that comes out of you. “Who cares?” you sniffle. “It’s just hair.”

“Here, let me.”

You want to tell him no, that it’s yours, meaning it’s yours to tangle and rip, but you don’t actually want that. Handing over the comb, John settles behind you. A shiver passes through you when his hands brush against the wet skin of your shoulders to pick up a section of hair. 

He begins to untangle your locks at the ends, slowly working his way up, section by section, using sparing amounts of hair product and water. You pretend he isn’t naked, the horrifically violent thing that he is, only inches away from a body that’s very exposed.

“You have beautiful hair.”

You don’t need him to tell you that, but you remain silent, absorbing the compliment while he works. Eventually, after long minutes of his focus, your hair is tangle free.

A dollop of conditioner to moisturize it, careful not to let anything drip into the pool. There's a loose, rehydrated bun to replace the wild entanglement you’d sported earlier. It was probably looking ridiculous.

“Thank you,” you say earnestly. It’s a relief to have your hair in shape again, like maybe not everything is out of sorts.

He hums his response, following it with a you look lovely, before allowing you to relax. It’s quiet for a few minutes, but far from peaceful. There’s no peace in this. Not while he plays with the short curls at your neck. The touch keeps your body at attention, as if it weren’t already on edge with awareness. Overstimulated, fluttering. A mammal caught against the current, feeling its grating, persistent force as it rushes over again and again.

Resolve worn brittle as bone.

Before long, a thumb digs into a knot just behind the line of your shoulder, jaw dropping with the unexpected pleasure when it melts away.

“What’re you doing?” you whisper, acutely aware of his nudity even if he isn’t touching you with anything but his hands.

The problem is that his hands did plenty of damage before. There’s no other indication that he would right now, but it would be so easy to do. To simply grab you tight, push aside your underwear again, and–

“Just helping you relax.”

You have to relax, dear. You bite your lip, shivering at the raw memory.

The water splashes lightly around him, lapping gently at your shoulders as he moves. You hold your breath, mind going wild with possibilities as his wet, warm hands begin to massage along the fine bones and tendons of your neck. Staring wide-eyed into a gray abyss as his palms move down to your shoulders, callused thumbs digging into the muscles, working out the painful lumps.

“You’re knotted up with tension.”

Of course you are. “Can’t get a good stretch in when you’re tied up,” you reply bitterly. 

John adds a knuckle into the pained area, voice level. “Then it’s my responsibility to work them out, isn’t it?”

“I ought to return the favor and see how you like it.” It’s churlish, sure. You agreed to be his companion, but you never agreed to be agreeable.

“Be careful,” he says, slowly. “I might enjoy that.”

Your heart beats a rapid pattern at the dirty, wicked image that inspires, and you’re glad he’s behind you, unable to see the red-violet flush on your cheeks. Hazarding a glance behind you, steam flows off his heated skin, looking like a creature fresh from the sulfuric underworld. His dark features manage to cut through the pale mist.

That low pressure in your core simmers, low and warm.

Is he buttering you up to make you soft and gooey for him later? It’s…not the worst thing he could do to you, you realize. He’s already shown his hand, hasn’t he? Was that why he was so aggressive before? For everything else he does to appear mild–kind, even–in comparison? 

Surely, he whittled away at something within you that night. Something rash and spontaneous. Trusting. Did he plan it this way? To hurt and scare you to set the stage, to prop himself up as a war-weary knight now?

If he’d been like this after you found him out, cajoling while he gently ushered you into submission, you probably would have battled with him every chance. You wouldn't have been so compliant as you are…right? And compliant, biddable, even, is certainly who you are right now, as awful as it is to admit it.

It’s survival. You'll survive this.

“Where do you go when you do that?”

When John's voice pulls you back into the present, his hands have worked themselves deep into your lower back, leaving you squirming from sensitivity. Knuckles kneading and working. Please. But you don't know exactly what its pleading means. Stop? Lower? More?

Taking a moment to think, you respond, “Everywhere. Nowhere.” An honest answer–it helps that he can’t see your face.

“You…are a vexing man.” Beast, really, but you don't want to plump up his ego.

His question ghosts across you. “Hm, how so?”

Hopefully, he doesn't see your thighs tense when he whispers cozily into your ear, coarse hairs of his mustache tickling the delicate skin. So close but not quite flesh on flesh. “You’re like the river there, where hot meets cold. I never know what direction you’re going to pull me in.”

John must be considering his answer, because he’s slow to respond. “Some might call that surprising.” Affection filters through his voice, humming through your veins.

“You’re also bothersome, so I think vexing is more appropriate,” your voice is light to avoid offense, and you can hear the grin in his responding sound. At least he has a sense of humor about it. You’ll gladly prick at him like a needle if that’s all that he’ll allow. He seems to enjoy banter.

Another embarrassing sound of gratification leaves you as he rolls his fists along the muscles of your lower back, soreness melting away under his touch.

He continues massaging, rubbing, and rolling the stress from your back, shoulders, and neck. His movements only hindered by the strap of your bra. After the fourth time his hand snags on it, you wiggle your shoulder out of his touch.

“Too much?” he asks.

Without comment, you pull aside the straps until they’re just past the hump of your shoulders so he can get those areas, too. It’s the least he could do for you, after all, you admit with a frown. He only stops to briefly pop his knuckles and massage his palms before busying himself again. Working the tension from your arms, your calves, your ankles, your feet, being careful with your injury and additional bruises.

Over the next while, those strong, gentle hands guide your body through some much-needed pampering. You’re nearly asleep by the time he finishes, head lolled to the side, seated deep in the comfort of the water.

“How are you feeling?” John asks, the words a low rumble behind you as he pulls away. 

Amazing, honestly. The best you've felt since starting your journey. “I feel…good.”

So good, in fact, that you hope to come back. The hot spring may be a local secret, but there's still a slim chance you'll encounter other hikers here. The foggy weather likely deterred them today, but if you can convince John to bring you tomorrow, who knows? You deserve a little luck.

“This place is divine,” you say. “Could we…could we come back soon?”

“Maybe we can,” he says nonchalantly, not offering anything more except his lingering fingers on your skin.

“‘Divine,’” he muses. “You like that word.”

Oh. Disappointment rises from how he glossed over the request, but if you indulge him now, maybe you can sway him later. “Yeah, I suppose so. My, uh, my mom said it a lot…though she had a more religious use of it. She sometimes talked about our family having magic in our roots.”

She’d once told you that her great-grandmother was a healer of sorts, harkening back to ancestral traditions. The word witch likely lurked in the mutterings of her community–until someone needed help, of course. Goddesses, gods, ancestors, ghosts, guides, orishas, and everything in-between. Mom made it all sound real–some of her more sensational stories both frightened and excited you at the same time.

“This isn’t Christianity, mind you,” you explain, steeling yourself for the judgmental, even wary, expression you sometimes get when you talk about it. “If you believe any of that stuff.”

“And you don’t?” he asks. He doesn’t look put off or anything, just curious.

“I think if my mom had any connection to a higher power, her death wouldn’t have been so pointless.”

The curtness of your tone seems to shock him. His hands leave your shoulders.

“I’m sorry about your loss.” You shrug–everyone always says that, even though they don’t have anything to apologize for. John’s not the one who flew through a stop sign and t-boned her car. No, his misdeeds are nothing that apologies can help. “What was she like?”

“I don’t want to talk about her right now.” Not ever, not with him. She’s yours, too. “Anyway. I just…I don’t really like rules, and religions tend to come with a lot of them. I think…if divinity is some deep layer of truth or wisdom about the world, then I’d rather find it elsewhere. On my terms.”

Art and nature seemed like a good way to start that journey, but that’s not exactly working out well for you, is it? There’s no telling what’s in store for you in the future, if you’ll ever get to talk to another person. With that in mind, it would be easy to sink back into that morose headspace. Honestly, though? It’s exhausting. 

Your hair is clean and bouncy for the first time in weeks, you’re warm, practically floating here, and the scenery is an aesthetic that dreamy mood boards are made of. You’re feeling better than you have in a long time, despite your current company–whatever that means. Don’t you deserve to let yourself enjoy the moment?

Besides, your agreement was that you would provide company, and the more conversation you can maintain, the better. Taking a deep breath, you ask, “What about you? Is there a bible tucked away in your pack?”

Maybe it’s unfair, but you just assumed that someone who so readily takes what he wants would be conservative. Maybe a Baptist. The idea of him hurtling headfirst into Hell does bring you a cruel twist of joy.

“I’m not so sure what’s out there, myself,” he says. “I grew up in a Christian home–Methodist. Went to church wearing my Sunday best and all that. Even sang in the choir for a while. It stopped sitting well with me eventually, though.”

“Why is that?” you ask. It’s John’s turn to look uncomfortable as he shifts to sit beside you, avoiding eye contact, and you relish the moment of him being under the lens.

“I got tired of the hypocrisy,” he says with a shrug that jostles your arm. “People doing bad things, awful things…sinning all week long, only to go to a house of God every Sunday and lie.”

He touches his face lightly, as though remembering the ghost of something. A myriad of implications hang heavily in the air. His response speaks to deeper issues that your nosiness wants to dig up, if you can. What dirty little secrets linger in John’s past?

“Mother and Jane ate it up, though. Loved Jesus.”

Mother. You have a strong suspicion there’s a lot of history with her, more than that solitary slap that crushed him. That’s usually the case with men like him, right? Problems with his mom steeped with male entitlement, a Freudian wet dream.

You muse as he dips underneath the surface again, re-emerging and squeezing excess water from his hair. In him, you see a much smaller version of John, one that’s fresh-faced and innocent, who sits in a pew beside his mom and little Jane. Hair short and neatly combed out of his face. Cleanest fingernails in the congregation. Adorably pink Cupid’s bow singing His praises. Dark, hopeful eyes seeking a path to salvation.

What could’ve steered him so sharply away from the light? Did his desire to wear makeup evolve into other, even less acceptable ones that he needed to hide?

You’ll have to wait to find out, however. Levity returns as John steers the conversation to hobbies outside of art. He learns that you were actually a drama student long before you began painting, and you learn that John’s an avid fisher.

It’s an odd turn of events, but you suppose it makes sense in this world you’ve found yourself in: relaxing in a hot spring in the wilderness, having an actual conversation with your captor. But you sink into the discussion the same way you sank into the pool, hesitantly at first, before shedding those layers of doubt. Trying to see if you can tap into a trace of divinity in this connection, too, because it could very well be your saving grace.

It’s on your trip back, with your limbs gummy and loose, your demeanor sleepy but missing something, that the deep simmer in your womb reveals itself. It had been building throughout the day without you recognizing it for what it was. The sensitivity, the irritability, the discomfort.

You lay entwined with John, heavy on his back, bone-weary, warm, and almost satiated, when you realize what’s coursing through you. Hormones are flowing through your system, surely, because the ache that began this morning has morphed into a different type altogether.

No, this ache isn’t soreness at all. It’s craving.

It doesn’t help that you find this out after having to remove your wet underthings, knowing they’d only keep you cold, but now you’re very aware of the exchange of heat between your bodies. It also doesn’t help that your senses are positively flooded with John. His hair in your face, filled with his earthy smell, his grip under your knees, his taught, muscled back against the unguarded flesh of your breasts, between your thighs.

He’s pressed so intimately against your splayed core. It reminds you of another time when you were wrapped around him, when he was so sweet, so, so sweet when you melded into him and sought ecstasy, nearly grinding the man into a powder.

Only two days ago. Eons ago.

The way he’s knitted himself between your muscles and teased open your nerves, coarse friction burning a path across your terrain until you couldn’t see which one led to his pleasure or your own. Forked roads, forked tongues, and the abyss of release. 

“You’ve gotta stop doing that, Rusty.”

Startled, you snap to the present. “What?” you ask, sitting up straighter, pretending the flush of your cheeks is residual from the hot spring. Does he mean your drifting off?

“I can feel you, you know,” he says, voice huskier than normal. “Every time you tense your thighs.”

A thumb rubs the side of your knee, tickling the flesh with sensation, sending flutters through your lower stomach that make you clench and flinch–there’s wetness there. How long has that been gathering?

“What are you thinking about?”

Embarrassment crawls deep into you as you're taken aback. Have you been squirming on him? “I can't get comfortable.”

He stops and your chest pounds when he releases your legs, gently letting you slide down to the ground, hands lingering on you until you find a steady balance. When he turns around, his cheeks are just as hot as yours, eyes sweeping across your form.

“That's,” he starts. Pink tongue flicking out to wet his lip. “That's not quite it, is it, Foxheart? You were practically glued to me back there.”

Leaves crunch loudly as John takes a methodical step toward you, which you follow with a backwards step of your own. Over and over until your back is against a tree.

“Well, it's true,” you say defensively, eyes wide with the turn of events.

“Honesty, remember? I can believe that you’re uncomfortable, but I think you're denying yourself the full truth.”

Unable to look away from John, to let go of his gaze, feeling cornered, flushed, nervous, and hot all over–you ask in a quiet voice, “What's that?”

He leans over you then, a hand on the trunk behind you, the sense of isolation deepened by the way his tall form fills your field of vision. There's a hint of a smirk that licks at the corner of his lips, almost obscured by his beard. It's that cheek crease and the crinkle of his eye that gives the cockiness away. There’s more, though. He’s just as affected as you are, chest rising and falling with quickened breaths. Pupils dilated so wide that his eyes look black. He’s hungry.

“That you're starving.”

You see it coming, but you can't move away when John swoops down and consumes you. It's an impassioned kiss that leaves you mewling in his mouth, the sounds swallowed up by his maw. Goddess, you can feel the flames of hell licking at your feet. His body is so warm, near blistering from your combined heat, and you soak it up greedily when he presses into you, your nipples chafing against the fabric of your sweater.

You’re thankful that you don't have the air to protest when he slots a thigh between your legs, because you honestly aren’t sure if you would have at this point. Then he angles himself against you, your weight on his thigh pressing the seam of your pants up just right and with just the right amount of pressure.

Oh… Giving John access when he seeks entrance to your mouth, the bristles of his mustache and his practiced tongue sending fire down your spine, sharp cracks of it awakening your throbbing core. Your own tongue is still sore

Palms on his chest, unsure of your next move. Push him away? Draw him closer? They both sound like viable options, but only one of them will alleviate this burn that threatens your sanity.

Breaking away for air, John rests his forehead against yours, eyes so dark you can see yourself reflected in them. Panting each other’s wants. Tears prick at your eyes, making your lashes all spiky as he rolls against you because frankly, you're beginning to need it.

“Do you want this, Rusty? Will you let me help you?” His low timbre has your whole body clenching with tension. There he goes again, chipping away at your will. "You have to say it."

But it feels so good to feel good again.

“Yes.” It's small, shaky, and certainly coerced, but it's there: your acquiescence that mimics consent. “I want you.”

John sags with relief before shifting again. His hardened body drawing sighs, gasps, and moans from you before drinking them all down. Rough breath rumbles through your skin when he attaches to the crook of your neck to suckle the freshly cleaned skin there, a hand wandering up and over your breasts that strain against thick fabric.

“Oh…”

“Mm, poor thing just needs some attention, huh?” he coos, laving at the skin below your jawbone, the bristles of his beard your nerves into disarray. “All you had to do was ask. You've been moaning and whining all day, dear."

You can’t deny it, though, not with the way your body tattles on you. There’s no mistaking how slippery you feel, especially without any underwear on. Distantly, you wonder if you’re soaking your pants with the way they feel stuck to your skin right now.

You’re practically glued to me…

With a final, searing kiss, John adjusts. Baiting your breath, watching his dark mop of hair as he moves down, down, down the trunk of your body, clutching and grasping along the way. Until he’s kneeling before you, hand still massaging your breast through your sweater.

The other one clings to your hip, squeezing and rubbing the exposed flesh before tugging at the waistband of your pants. Your hand shoots out, though, to grab his wrist before he can pop the button. “No. Not inside.” Not yet. No.

You aren’t ready. Not to see his swollen mouth kiss the bruises inside your thighs. At your frightened look–you forgot you aren’t supposed to say that word–he nods, to your second surprise today.

“Okay, we’ll keep them up,” he says.

Then he plants his palm firmly on your mound, over the crotch of your pants, and begins to rub broad, controlled circles in the flesh. You cry out, head thudding back against the tree you’re pinned to.

It’s a mistake to look down. You’ve haven’t really looked at him properly since…for a while, and seeing him now, all plush with tenderness, he’s striking. The way his appetite inflames his skin, the flush of his cheeks contrasting sharply with the rest of his body. There’s a drop of sweat at his temple, a crystalline thing that glistens. A sudden urge to lick it off his face hits you, and you’re thankful he’s too far away for that. Instead, you watch, transfixed, as it drools its way down his face, disappearing into the line of his beard.

“Those dirty dreams you've been having. You don't even realize the sounds you make in your sleep, do you?”

The air is filled with your panting breaths, the flesh between your legs plump from his ministrations, wanting nothing more than just…more. You want to smell his sweat, you want to swallow it until it’s indistinguishable from your spit. You want to bite him until he bleeds as much as you did. Bury him in the earth under the topsoil of your fervor.

Shaking your head in response, and while it’s not entirely true–distantly, you know you’ve been whining in your dreams–but you want to hear him admit how much it’s been tempting him.

“Darling, they have been driving me wild,” he groans, pressing his face into your lower abdomen, pushing your boundaries when his nose shifts the hem of your sweater enough to give his mouth access to the sensitive skin above your waistline. His tongue swipes along a spot before planting a kiss, watching the way the region wobbles in response, caving away from his touch before seeking it again.

"But I'm trying to be good."

Oh, that clench of your stomach is bad, just sinful. The velvety, wet muscle traces the line of this boundary at your waist, arbitrarily drawn. Unhurriedly, John’s hand rubs lightly at your apex and you never want him to stop.

“Please,” you whisper feverishly.

He whispers just as softly, speaking it into your stomach. “What do you need?”

The flesh there is tickled by his beard, causing your stomach to dip and tremble pathetically. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I just–” It’s all foggy, hot, and confusing. “I need…I shouldn't–”

It doesn’t make any sense. When you hiccup, distress creeping forth, John shushes you. “It’s okay,” he says, “I’ll take care of you.”

And he does.

He keeps the heel of his palm right where you need it, kneading pleasure into your mons, pushing into the hood of your clit. The generalized motion combines with his fingertips that press into the softness of your lower belly, massaging over the source of that dull ache and–oh, it has you gritting your damn teeth to avoid spitting fire into the misty void as heat builds and builds within you.

“All you had to do is ask. I'll do this for you all day long, if you want.” Fuck.

Your fingers crawl into his hair, and it helps anchor you. The nails scratch, scrape, and tug at John’s roots, restlessly searching for release of their own. Feeling out of control in your skin, it’s becoming difficult to remain balanced, and John mercifully hikes your leg over his shoulder, taking the weight off your bad foot.

The fact that he thought about it sends another wave of want over you. The position also pushes you more securely into his palm, his strength supporting you.

“Goddess,” you whisper. Help me. You need help.

“I’ll help you, Rusty.”

Did you say that out loud? The thought flies off when his pace quickens, carried away by the intensifying trembles in your stomach. Tightening your grasp on his hair, you manage to meet his rhythm with your hips, letting the tension build and build.

That need is beginning to burn.

“Please. I'm close,” you whimper, silently thanking physics as gravity grants you the friction you need, grinding your clit into your pubic bone.

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” he responds in a rough voice, working at a furious pace. 

When you make the mistake of looking down again, you know you're done for. It's the sight of his hand. Watching it, corded with tension as it works…the bruising of a bite you don’t remember doling out.

“Give it to me.”

It sends you right over, releasing you from the terrain, letting you freefall into oblivion.

Letting you come so deliciously with a strangled sob, body trembling and grasping at John for leverage and support. It's all heat and thunder pounding through your ears, your veins, mapping pleasure in your core, your breasts–down and up your limbs. It aches, it releases, it feels like everything and too much all at once.

The syrup takes several moments to work its way from your veins. It’s several more moments before your eyes unscrew. Looking first at the gray sky above you, down to the tall canopy, down wooden, uniform trunks, down, down, down, before finally landing on John again. There are several loose, dark strands wrapped in your fingers as your spoils of war. The look on his eyes is feral.  

Despite the peak, though, despite the wetness and sweat that has pooled, the smoldering heat in your groin begs for more.

“Better?”

“...I think so.” Your voice is shaky and quiet, you're afraid to speak louder than a whisper in case it pops the bubble of tenderness you’re wrapped up in.

John rises to his feet, adjusting your leg with care until it's around his hip this time, before resuming his position between your thighs. “Let's make sure of that," he says, stroking your hip and outer thigh.

This time, when he pins you to the tree, your sweater snagging on the bark, you welcome it. When his clothed erection pushes into your begging flesh, the firm underside of his length against your swollen clit, your head knocking back sharply with a thunk!–you welcome it, too.

He tuts at you, poor little thing, before bringing his hand, the good one, up to cradle your head. You’re glad for it, because it stops you from doing it again when his mouth finds its way to your neck, nipping at the love bites he’d left before, soothing them.

He’s impossibly hard and twitches when you finally, finally respond in kind and shift your hips forward to meet his.

“Yes,” he moans. “There you are.”

He licks, nips, and savors your neck, mortar and pestle of his form grinding you into a gooey, raw paste of nervous desire.

The next one takes longer, your abdomen getting sore with exertion, scabs itching from the stretch and pull, but the effort you've put into building it up pays off when you come and come hard, tears leaking from your eyes. He drinks down your sounds and wipes the sweat from your forehead before taking your face in his grasp and kissing you, little pecks all over as you catch your breath.

“Perfect,” he says. “You did so well. Such a perfect little pussy.” Still softly thrusting against you.

Still hard. He hasn't come yet.

His hand stills your trembling wrist when it approaches his groin, preparing to undo his fly and reciprocate. As expected, right?

Startled, you find him smiling tightly before he shakes his head. “Today is for you.”

Oh, stop–you aren't feeling grateful to him, are you?

Unable to understand and unwilling to protest, you nod and drop your hand. After latching onto you in another heated kiss, mustache burning your sensitive mouth, John packs you up again and hauls you home.

***

And so you find yourself back in John’s tent later that night, ceiling flaps down so the stars can witness your undoing. You’re fighting yourself–fighting your trembles, fighting that urge to resist as John laps away at your cunt. An apology of sorts.

This time you are nude, sporting only your goosebumps after letting John peel off your clothes in the privacy of the twilight hours.

You're so beautiful, Rusty, so perfect. Perfect little sounds, all for me. Give it to me. A deep quake has settled in you and your body positively itches for friction. And oh, that latent urge to perform well, even now, even with him, embitters your bones.

You let him because it's nice to pretend you have a choice.

He lets go of your legs and removes the tie from his bun, letting that waterfall of waves cascade down to meet his beard, framing his face. Your eyes water and your breath hitches at his delicate sensuality. Then he makes that filthy, stuttering sound that your body clearly loves, nipples tingling as he releases your flesh, rising up from you.

“Mm…poor thing.” No, his low, condescending tutting while his beard glistens with your wetness absolutely does not have you clenching your thighs.

When he brings his head down to the apex of your legs and you feel the brush of his hair against your skin, you realize it does help you relax. It’s soft, gentle. Thick, bouncing strands tickle the crease where the thickness of your thighs are sealed against the plump skin of your groin, causing you to squirm and tense.

Oh.

The hair really, really helps, even though you wish it didn’t. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of your satisfaction, but your legs try to trap his head and you itch for something to grab–internal muscles clutching at nothing.

It’s a dark, beautiful mass that pools onto your abdomen, hair that you can't resist grabbing hold of for stability, to help guide them into the correct patterns, and to massage “thank you”s into the scalp.

You dig your fingers six feet deep into John and bite your lip against the moans that try to escape when his tongue does that rapid flicking motion, rubbing your clit into its hood, creating friction that he knows you like.

There's heat that builds. There's sweat that glistens between your legs, along the small of your back, between your shoulder blades. John’s pouty lips work, taking whatever they can from your responsive body, his grip bites into the flesh of your backside, pulling you closer as his meal.

Still, he licks on, velvety tongue flat and broad, persistently rubbing. He observes which sounds inspire trembling quakes from you–left, not right, with firm circles–and practices them like he’s trying to prove a point.

That he’s in control, and he'll make you feel exactly what he wants.

A whimper escapes once his tongue’s pace slows and really massages your slick, sweaty center.

“Those little mewls you make, Foxheart. God the things you do to me.”

The things you’re doing to him, responding in such a way under these circumstances, they’re dangerous, yes. The things you’d like to do to him, though, the unspeakable ones, the near-unthinkable ones? Those would burn you both up in damnation if it exists.

He continues to press tightly against your inner thighs, not enough to bruise them further, but enough to keep them out of his way. And he’s messy, indulgent with it–an unnecessary thing at this point because you’re marshmallow puffed up now. 

When your hips accidentally lift to grind against John’s mouth on their own, you know you’re done for–there’s nothing worth salvaging. He’ll get exactly what he wants. Burn you from the inside out.

Isn’t it full of nutrients anyway, the charred remains after the fire? Good for new growth.

John laves at your slit, suckles your core, and rubs sultry desire throughout your folds. His reddened mouth, the dangerous and delicate thing, guides you to a peak after several minutes on your clit–sucking methodically after hearing your strangled reaction to it.

When he shakes his head, it threatens to unravel you. The movement combines with his buzzing lips to draw you up into a panting, needy mess.

“Yes,” you say, aching for it.

Something in your belly coils tighter and tighter, it’s damn near agonizing with how it fills your guts, how your lungs are suffocating on smoke, sweat plugging your nostrils and then, and then–

And then he pauses... Both your forms are breathing heavily, and a frustrated whine keens in your chest as you slowly catch your bearings. So close, too close to stop now. You try to lift up to get more friction, but he plops an arm across your hips to stop you.

When the shivers relent and your desire begins to cool, his mouth finds you again. His tongue keeps at the root of your clit, locking in consistent pressure that makes your eyes roll back. It brings you back up to the edge of an orgasm again much quicker this time. Only to–only to stop again before it crashes over you.

Mean, cruel man.

And again, and again. Brings you up to that peak only to abandon you to the elements. Until you finally give him what he wants.

You beg for it. Please, let me come. Let me finish. Please. I need it. Need you. Over and over, you beg for it; over and over, he obliges.

And when you’re done, or rather he’s done, since he pulled a final release from you despite your halfhearted pleas for rest–you can give me one more–he rolls onto his back and tucks you under his arm, clutching you to his chest like he hasn’t had enough skin-to-skin contact.

His pulse is racing. You can feel it through his naked torso, pressed so close to yours, sweat becoming one. Your musk in his beard, your deviance moisturizing his lips, your breath in his lungs. That pleased grin on his face is all yours, too.

“Maybe you really are beyond gender, Rusty,” he says, “because this pussy of yours really is divine.”

What a stupid thing to say. The abruptness of your laughter startles the both of you; it’s anchored deep in your gullet, tugging on your heartstrings as it vibrates outward. It feels good to laugh.

“Oh, I missed that sound,” he says.

So did you. You didn’t think you’d laugh again any time soon. Initially, he’s confused, but soon joins you, hearty chuckles filling the small space.

They become soft tuts as you begin sobbing brokenly.

“Shh, it’s okay. I've got you.”

A freakishly tall idiot who doesn’t understand that’s why you're crying. He’s got you. Every little piece, even if he hasn’t unwrapped them all yet.

It’s late when you finally gather the courage to ask him the question that's been haunting your curiosity. Always were a nosy one. You're both exhausted and he's been languidly petting your hair and body. Nearly asleep after your unexpected fit, but the cool towel across your eyes helps.

"John?”

He doesn't pause his pampering, tracing the lines of your mouth. "Mm?”

“Did your mother ever…hurt you?”

He sucks in a breath at that, thumb stilling. Surely not expecting the topic. It's bold and maybe even rude to ask, but it's worth knowing anyway. You want as much information on him as you can uncover. Anything to help identify him later. Anything to take away as your own.

Anything to help this make sense.

He takes a moment to consider it. “All mothers hurt us, eventually.”

“I mean,” you say, walking on eggshells carefully, gently, gently, “more than a mother should?”

“And how much should a mother hurt her children, Rusty?” He pets you like it calms him. Centers him.

Clearly, he’s touchy about it. “I didn't mean–I’m just trying to understand.”

His voice is strained, “What's there to understand?”

You scoot backwards a little to get some space, because you don't like that tone. Furrowing your brows, you reply, “You. You're asking a lot of me, you realize? A lot. I think it's only fair that you let me in a little.”

He’s quiet for a long moment before answering. “...I don’t want it to ruin our day.”

“Okay.” It’s not okay, but you sigh and roll onto your back, looking up at the stars.

Last time you “ruined” your day, it turned out poorly for you. It's a battle of wills that isn’t worth fighting, because you’re most likely to get caught in the flames. Turning fully away from him and pretending to sleep. Forget it.

The quiet lasts a few minutes, interrupted only by the chirping of insects and the howls of faraway nocturnal creatures before you hear him take a steadying breath beside you.

“Yes,” he says, getting your attention. “She hurt us. She slapped us around some–mostly me, when she was upset.”

Although you were expecting this, the admission is still shocking. You turn around to find his face close to yours, eyes glossy.

He continues to caress your skin, your face now that he can see it, seemingly finding solace in the connection. “It was…bearable, until she made our house an unsafe place by inviting a lot of trouble.” 

Taking a deep inhale of your own, you ask him, “What did she do to you and Jane?”

His mouth is a thin line, and the dim lighting does nothing to hide the tension in his body.

“I’m not prepared to answer that right now,” he says after a pause, propping himself up on an arm. “It, ah, doesn’t make for good bedroom talk.”

“No, but what important things do?” you ask, resting a hand on his exposed bicep. “This isn’t exactly a conventional thing between us. Look, I shouldn't care, but I'm asking to get to know you, John. Isn’t that what you want? Or do you only get to peel me apart?"

There he goes with that frustrated hand raking through his own thick hair, rougher than warranted. Better there than around your throat, though. You're frustrated too, but it's time to back off. You’ve learned better than to push him when he’s emotional.

His arm tightens around you.

Backpedaling, touching his arm to offer a truce. “It's whatever, you don't have to say, of course. I'm just sorry that you weren't protected as a kid.”

“Thank you, Rusty,” he says, taking the out you offered him and replacing it with a weight that settles heavily in your gullet.

Disappointment simmers, but he pulls you closer to him, kissing the crown of your head and hugging you tight. This time, the embrace might actually be for both of you. When you tuck into his chest, tracking his heartbeat, you try not to think too much about it. No problem staying asleep, mind and body too satiated to bother with tormenting you further.

Today is for you, after all.

Chapter Text

Me and the devil walkin' side by side, and I'm gonna see my man until I get satisfied.

"Me and the Devil" (slowed) by Soap&Skin

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 5

{two days until release}

John has a methodical, near scientific understanding of your body. All practiced, intentional touches.

You don't know how long he's been watching you, but you suspect it's longer than just the trail. Sometimes, when you tell him something new, the knowledge seems to roll right off him, like he was already full of those facts.

Interested and attentive, yes, but unsurprised. He knew you love mulled wine and that s'mores were your favorite sugary campfire treat. Were.

Distantly, you wonder at the kind of man who would pack those delights to lure you in, but fail to bring things like, oh, say…condoms and lubricant. Your appalled gasp when you tentatively asked about that and heard his response in the negative. Fucking idiot. Monster.

He always knew how this was going to play out–knew he would be fucking you one way or another the moment he began stalking you in this isolated environment. This is just another way he wants to lay claim to you.

You want to be mad, but at the moment, his tongue works its way between the swollen flesh of your lower lips, the muscle hot in the coolness of early morning. Facial hair prickling at your sensitive skin, keeping it alive and alight as your thighs tremble around his ears.

Thanking his nose for pressing just so at your clit. Even though the attention is appreciated, it’s not enough to tip you over the brink. No, John's work is tortuous and slow, lazy in his exploration.

Where do we have to go today, anyway? it says. There's nowhere else. There's nothing but this. Little tears of frustration keep at the corners of your eyes, releasing when John finally plants his devilish mouth over your mound properly. 

When did your arms drift up to clasp your nipple and dig into his hair?

He chuckles a bit when you prevent him from moving, keeping him right where he needs to fucking stay if he's going to interrupt your sleep for this. Aside from the rumbles that warm your insides–and you'll pick at that later–he’s mercifully quiet.

Probably because his mouth is busy peeling you apart, flap by flap, exposing the softness of your vulnerable fruit. The tent is only filled with your whimpers, gasps, and whines as John takes your hand and guides you so damn slowly to the precipice. 

“Get a move on,” you practically growl. “Stop teasing me, you incorrigible man.”

You don't have to look at him to know he loves that you’re so worked up. His open-mouthed grin is plastered on your skin. He loves it when you're a needy little pile of damp moss in his palms. It's chilly enough today that there’s visual evidence of your uneven breaths as it fogs up the plastic windows of the tent.

John does oblige, though, mouth speeding up to match your aggression, head moving in small circles. Burning pleasure into your core. He bites, just lightly, over your clit, and the shock of it curls your leg around his head, pushing him so close to your sweaty flesh that you hope he can't get any air.

He doesn't need to breathe until he first makes. you. come.

“I need–I want more.”

A sucking sound when he releases you, raising an eyebrow. “Manners, Foxheart. Use them.”

“Please,” you grit out. Come on, it’s been nearly an hour of this.

You don’t have anything else to do right now, but still. You were dead asleep when he began his teasing in the dark hours of the morning. It even filtered into your dreams, dozens of slippery serpents slithering around your body, the weight of them pinning you down. Glossy and dangerous.

They receded at the sound of footsteps, though. Skirting away with a hiss as a quadrupedal form approached. Shambling, hulking. The drip, drip of its loosened maw, drooling onto you, making the serpents hiss in displeasure. You remained pinned by some unseen force, however. Found yourself wanting the snakes back, because somehow, it felt like they were protecting you by covering you so. Concealing you. 

No matter, because the new menace, the beast with blood-drenched fur, dragged its wet, cold snout up the inside of your leg, releasing puffs of hot air as it scented its way up, up, up the softness of your thigh.

“Please what?” he interrupts, reminding you of where you are. In a nest of blankets, protected from the outside world by synthetic fabric. He also stops, to your further frustration, waiting for your manners. “What do you want?”

“I want your fingers,” you say, aching for something to fill you. Remembering to add another please to make it polite.

Strong arms untangle that leg to free his head from its prison, but before you can protest, he's shouldering aside your thigh so he can trace a finger along your seam. Slowly, slowly sinking it into the dripping opening between your legs, right past knuckle one and two, up to the hilt–meeting no resistance as your spongy tunnel swallows it up. It's something to clench onto, but it still isn't enough, and another keening sound is caught up in the back of your throat.

John teases you with it, swirling and twisting with little effect as your muscles try to suck the rest of him in. When he adds the second finger, it’s more substantial, but it isn't until his wrist turns and those fingers curl that it's worth the effort.

The garbled squeak that escapes is too loud in this confined, quiet space. Your hips are slowly rocking against his hand, now, along for the ride. When John catches his breath again, his lips return from their break to aid his fingers, pressing a sweet kiss right on your nub before working it into a frenzy.

Goddess, the sweat trapped underneath your ass cheeks is enough to threaten his grip.

You’re needy. Needy, needy, fucking needy today. Hormones rage through your womb, combining with John’s desire to make you his little thing and your desire to punish yourself for enjoying this so much.

So yeah, you need to come. You need the distraction. You need it to hurt, too, to abate some of the ache under the branched bark of your ribs.

You like it when a man treats you rough.

“More, please. Another.”

When he adds a third finger, it gets you closer to your goal. Thick, broad digits stretching and expanding you. Maybe they're making room for that weaponized organ between his legs, that last place where he’ll be staking his claim.

He pumps his fingers in and out, not really attaining much depth because of their combined girth. Until you wrench his head up suddenly, out of the way, and grab his wrist, shoving his hand into you hard.

“Fuck!” Was that him or you?

It doesn't matter, but the next one definitely is you when John takes over and repeats the movement, muscles in his forearm straining, flexing. Hard, well-timed shoves with the pyramid of his fingers massaging the organ through your front wall.

Wetness coats him, squelching obscenely with each firm thrust of his digits. The new roughness doesn't pair well with his head as it gets knocked about, so he tries a new tactic. Breathing heavily, he sits up, bringing your legs over his own, heavy cock lying uselessly against your thigh. His palm lands on your mound, circling it in time with the slow, deep, and methodical movements of his other hand.

It's flesh on flesh in a battle of wills.

It's just what you require to wind you up. This isn't the usual type of orgasm you seek out, generally preferring external stimulation, but the way this one promises to take over you is too tempting to deny.

John curls his fingers then, all three of them coaxing you internally as the heel of his other palm assaults your clit, working you from the opposite side. A few minutes of this determination and you couldn't stop your body from unraveling even if you wanted to.

You're keening as come, cast into the flames and loving it. Hunger sprouts and blooms from your core and crawls into every vein and artery, soaking your cunt and his hand as he strokes you through the sensations, low grunts accompanying his thrusts as he tries to keep his little limbs from getting lost.

When you recover and open your eyes, he’s still between your thighs, wet grip stroking your thighs comfortingly, warming the dewy skin. The heat remains, same as it did yesterday. It's red-hot embers, just needing more oxygen to rage into the violent flames it wants to be again.

His gaze lifts from between your legs to observe your remains with pinked-up cheeks and flaring nostrils, your pleasure cooling on his beard. Over it goes, eyes raking over your wobbling stomach, your pert nipples that want to be ravished next, up to your face that's flushed.

“Good job,” he says. It's simple but reverently spoken. “The prettiest little thing when you come. Soft.”

He leans forward, covering your body as he suckles at your nipples, working you into a panting puddle of nerves again. His tongue slips past your lips to take your mouth this time, and the muskiness of your scent that has settled in his beard is far too gratifying to be healthy.

You wonder, then, with his hardened length resting on your belly, if he'll have you now. You wonder how it would feel to have a man carve into your flesh with his. Silicone has only prepared you so much for what that friction and force can accomplish when it's supported by a powerful body.

When you break away for air, John sits up, bunny teeth biting his lip as he lightly strokes his cock for a moment. Then he releases it. Your eyes follow his movements like a hawk.

Will he?

But he only rests on his haunches, licking his lips. Looking every bit like a drunk man, heady with delight. When he raises an eyebrow, slowly placing his hand over your center, playing with the hairs over your sopping cunt, asking, Would you like another?

You nod. You'd like another and another. So many more that you can't even think anymore, because thinking is getting exhausting.

His fingers slip back inside without any resistance. See, John? It could've been so easy for us, before. For me. But the thought fades away, as you become that pretty little thing again. It's so much easier like this. The serpents couldn’t hide you away from the bigger predators after all.

***

When you emerge from the tent on exhausted, fawn-like limbs, a dusty dampness hits your nostrils. The air is pregnant with the promise of rain. It spurs you into a quick wash, opting to use some of your water storage instead of wipes–the desperation to feel and smell clean more pressing than ever.

You'll be holed up with him inside that flimsy bedroom all day.

With two days into your agreement and only two days left before your release, you know he'll take you soon, probably today. He's been more patient than you would've anticipated. His naked form against yours kept you up too late, nervous of what he might do after you fell asleep, but from what you can tell, he did nothing but enjoy the warmth of your thighs against him.

When you awoke to the rigid thing this morning slowly grinding into the cleft of your ass, you held your breath so long you nearly passed out. Even then, he didn't push his way into your flesh, even if it would've been so easy with the slickness gathered during your sleep. Because he wanted to, and you secretly wanted it, too, aching for something to fill you and lacking your usual store-bought comforts.

You wonder if he's taken to relieving himself manually for the long minutes that he leaves you alone in the tent throughout the days. Taking in another deep inhale of this dense, fresh air, you know it's today. Time is running low, and the space between your bodies is too charged.

Can you forgive yourself if you enjoy it?

“You may want to get what you need from the other tent, Rusty. That storm is approaching fast.”

Looking up from your book, you can see the dark clouds approaching. Equal parts excited because you love storms and nervous at the proximity it will enforce. It's not much you need, or rather, have access to, but you grab some extra clothes and toiletries. Maybe you'll get bored enough to play with your hair. Find a new style.

The first droplets of rain hit after John has packed up the necessities, bringing delicate things inside. You're rushing out of the other tent with your belongings, hurrying inside your shared one as he holds the flap open for you, just barely making it in before the storm really drops.

The suddenness of the downpour has you giddy, giggling as he zips it up behind him, turning and sharing in the electricity of your joy. Tucking a wet lock behind your ear as you settle, heart racing and cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Sunshine and storms, huh?” John asks, watching you try to contain your glee at the thunder surrounding the tent.

It's a sheepish smile when you nod, a little embarrassed to be caught so unguarded. Tumultuous might be a good word. Manic is another one.

He’s steadily observing you as you wipe away the condensation at the plastic window to watch the fat raindrops pelt your shelter.

“It's probably going to rain for a while.”

You hum in agreement, disliking that you’ll be stuck inside for it instead of a dry spot where you can really watch it come down.

After a couple hours of reading–well, you’re reading and John has his head in your lap as he lightly snoozes–you put down your book, not wanting to finish it so soon. Looking down at the precious little predator using your thighs as a pillow, you wonder at how he can sleep so peacefully. Dark lashes kissing his cheekbones, hair thick and soft on your skin, lips still plush from their exertion this morning.

Gaze sweeping down to the slope of his lovely neck, you wonder how strong your hands are now. Out of necessity, you’re leaner after being on the PCT, but you’ve built some muscle, surely. Just not enough to squeeze the life out of a man a foot taller than you. Do you even have it in you to do it?

Instead, those traitorous appendages drift into his hair as he sleeps, smoothing it away from his face so you can get a better look, certainly not an excuse to play with the locks. It’s when the corner of his mouth curls a bit that you realize he’s actually awake. What a faker. His laughter chimes around you when you tug at his hair in irritation.

“Don’t stop on my account, it’s nice to be spoiled.”

Humorlessly replying with, “You’re far too spoiled already.” Spoiled with privileges you’ll never be graced with.

Opening his eyes, his dopey smile just grows, taking over his face, “Oh, come on, Rusty, don’t be sour.”

“I’m not sour, I’m bored.”

He perks up at that. “I can think of a few ways to spend the time.”

Thunder, well-timed, rumbles through your bones. “I’m sure you can, John.”

“And a lot of them include you saying my name just like that.”  

Seeing his grin, forehead gets a playful thunk. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe, but it’s just because I like you so much.”

He’s like a schoolboy with a crush, poking at you until you pay attention to him. Opting to ignore it, you ask, “You didn’t happen to bring any books, did you? I’m almost done with mine, but I want to save it.”

“Ah, no, I didn’t.”

“Not even one? How have you been entertaining yourself this whole ti–” you stop, forgetting yourself. You know what he’s been doing on his journey. He’s been busy tracking you. It’s moments like this when the fourth wall slips. Recovering poorly, you settle with, “You should read more. S’good for you.”

He hums, “Maybe I will.”

After a few quiet moments, he speaks up, shifting to his side and looking up at you, head still cradled. “Do you want to play a game?”

“...What kind of game?” you ask, suspicious.

“Seeing as neither of us brought any board games or cards, it would need to be a verbal one. How about two truths and a lie?”

Since it seems safe enough, you agree. You can take this opportunity to learn something about John, maybe enough to be identifiable and incriminating. If not, enough to satiate some of your “why?”s.

John sits up, facing you. “Great! Winner picks the next game.”

Wait, you didn’t agree to that. “Only children’s games. No spin the bottle or anything.”

“Only children’s games,” he agrees.

He’s directly under the window, so when a crack of lightning startles you, it illuminates his form, casting him in pale white for a startling, ethereal moment. You nod when he asks if you’re ready to start. Anything you can learn from him will be helpful when you report him later.

“Let’s see, uh…my favorite color is red. I was an Eagle Scout, and my favorite music is soul.”

Mulling over the information–red seems to track, as his tent is a deep shade of it. He has a healthy dose of survival skills, so the Scouts seems right. Must be…

“Soul music. Soul isn’t your favorite genre.”

He smiles, “Wrong. I was a Boy Scout–didn’t make it to Eagle. By the way, I love soul music. Why would you assume that was a lie? I mean, come on, the Four Tops?”

Oh, so that’s how he’ll play this game, then. “You’re as close to being a cheat as it gets! You knew I’d assume the Scout answer was right.”

His face drops at the word “cheat,” looking a little offended. “I’m not cheating, it’s how the game is played. If you want to win, you’ll just have to play harder. Anyway, it’s your turn.”

“Fine. I…studied engineering in college. My bedtime folktale as a kid was Little Red Riding Hood, and I’ve never left the country.”

John thinks for a moment before replying. “The folktale is a lie. Little Red isn’t your favorite.”

Damn. He’s right. You thought the school one would throw him off, but you changed a year into school, double majoring in art and literature.

“I don’t know how, but you got it.”

He’s happy with his little victory. “So what’s your favorite folktale, then?”

“It’s Bluebeard.” As a kid, you once came across the story in a collection of darker folk and fairytales. Aside from the gruesome horror of her situation, the rebelliousness of the bride stood out to you. Instead of getting punished for her disobedience, she broke the rules and won.

“The pirate?” he asks.

Shaking your head, you reply. “No, that’s Blackbeard. He was a real person–Bluebeard is a fictional nobleman.”

Tilting his head, “Maybe you can tell me about it later.”

“Yeah, maybe.” It’ll be good for him to hear it. How would he take it? “Your turn.”

“Let’s see,” he says in mock consideration. “I’ve never owned a pet. I’ve broken an arm. I wanted to be a pilot as a kid.”

“Pilot. You never wanted to be that.”

He grins. “You’re right. Good guess.”

“So what did you want to be? What did Little John dream about being when he grew up?” You’re curious now. This…whatever he is now probably wasn’t top of his list.

He grins, “An astronaut, of course. I was your typical boy who wanted to be a cowboy up in outer space. Your go.” John caresses your leg, waiting for your lie.

“Let’s see…I was terrified of the dark as a kid, I love sci-fi movies, aaand I’ve never ridden a horse.”

“The first one is a lie. Because you still are scared of the dark.”

Is it that obvious? Even though you don’t ask, he clarifies. “I figure with the way you cling at night. You’re restless when you sleep.”

It’s meant to be lighthearted, but goodness you suck in a breath at that.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper, looking dead at the new source of your nightmares.

He looks a little cowed at that, like he just realized what he said. “Rusty–”

“Your turn, John,” you say, looking away, ready to move on.

He coughs a little, gathering himself. “Okay, um…I play the piano. I got my front baby teeth knocked out during a baseball game, and I lived on a farm for a while as a kid.”

Looking at him again, you answer. “Teeth. You didn’t lose your teeth at a baseball game.”

He smiles. “You’re right.”

“Did you lose them naturally or another way?” you ask, wondering why he would add such a specific lie.

“That’s not how the game is played, Rusty.”

Throwing up your hands in a sudden fit. “You know what, I think I’m done with this one. You’re gonna win, anyway–I have a feeling you’ve got an upper hand, Mr. Photographer.”

The man doesn’t even have the shame to deny that he knows more about you than he should. Huffing and rolling your eyes upward at the dark sky above you. Listening to the harsh, violent patter of raindrops on the tent. Grateful for the additional tarp he put on as cover. He allows you the little tantrum, though, lightly teasing your ankle.

“So what’s the new game, then?” you ask.

“Truth or dare?”

Nope. You aren’t playing any dare games with him. “Absolutely not.”

“What if we modify it? Just truth?”

You look at him wanly, “You mean like a conversation?”

“One where we have to answer.” An eyebrow raised. “Are you up for it?”

Digesting it a bit, you consider it. This is a more surefire way to get answers. You should play, right? “Only if I go first.”

“Okay, shoot.”

Will this work? It’s worth a try. “What’s your real name?”

“You didn’t believe me?” he asks. “It’s John.”

“Really?” You guess John is a common enough name that he feels safe giving it out. “What’s your last name, then?”

“You didn’t ask for my full name. It’s null, now, since you asked out of turn.”

Indignation sprouts up, “Oh, bullshit, that’s not fair! You’re making up rules as you go.”

“It’s a new game,” he shrugs, eyes twinkling with mischief–tricky, dark, devious. Fae-like.

Rolling your eyes. “Whatever. You’re up next.” 

“Why do you observe the stars so much?”

You were expecting something more uncomfortable, less innocent. “Oh. Uh…I don't know, really. I've always liked stargazing. I considered working for NASA for a little while, but I don't have it in me to actually study space. It's more fun to romanticize it.”

“Is that why you switched majors in college?”

“Ah-ah. That's against the rules, asking a follow-up question out of turn. Null and void, John. And I get two questions now, because you broke your own rule.”

He laughs at you, your nerve, and acquiesces. “Fair enough. You're up.”

Licking your lips and pretending you don't care that he watches the movement heatedly, you ask, “How old are you? In years, preferably.”

“Thirty-four. Next.”

Okay. That's something concrete. “Where were you born?”

His eyes look sharp, shining as another crack of lightning cracks miles away. “The United States.”

“John.”

“It's the truth, aannd look at that: it's my turn.” Vexing. Bothersome. You'll have to be more specific.

He asks, “How old were you when you had your first kiss?”

“It was before I can remember.” His brow wrinkles in confusion. “I assume my parents kissed me as a baby,” you clarify, even though you don't have to, per his rules.

John's laughter is closer to a bark. “Guess I’ll have to up my strategy, cunning fox.”

“How old were you for your first kiss? Non-family.”

“...Nine.”

You smirk, “You've always been a charmer, huh? Okay, out of turn, so you don’t have to answer, but what was it? Did you practice with a friend?”

“Something like that.” His voice is evasive, with no trace of humor. With the vague idea you have of his mom, it’s a weird feeling that his comment leaves you with.

But it's short-lived as John pivots. “When did you know you were non-binary?”

Oh. You definitely weren't expecting that. He's been dodgy about your gender, like he hasn't known how to approach it. You just assumed that, like the few men you tried dating before, he worried what it meant for his own sexual identity.

“So, if I can't introduce you as my girlfriend, what do I call you?”

“Well, I’m not a girl, so you could just call me your partner.”

But that always struck them wrong, like their friends and family would assume they were gay or something inexplicable. They never lasted long in your life, and you were better off for it–ending your short stint of dating cis men.

“It was around puberty when I started to wonder, maybe twelve or so. I never felt quite right in my skin calling myself a girl. Got called a tomboy more than a few times, even though that didn’t fit either. It wasn't until college that I knew for sure. Reading about queerness and meeting other people like me, it helped me find the language for what I was feeling.”

John nods. At least he doesn’t look disgusted or isn’t trying to argue with you. Is he trying to understand? Your fingertips touch your lips, feeling the ghost of that lipstick he made you wear. It’s a color you’ll be avoiding in the future.

“When did you know you were a man?” you tease. It’s only fair, after all. Why should you always be in the hot seat about it?

He laughs at that. “Honest answer? Not until my mom died, I think, as bad as that sounds. She made me feel like I was just a boy caught up in her orbit. All the time.”

That statement rests uneasily in the stale air. Lingers there to let you wonder what it all means for him and for you. A man made small in the presence of his mom, a boy made to feel deviant for wanting to explore himself. A brother responsible for his sister’s safety.

The man before you who holds your fate over your head. He’s big here, with you. Practically fills the tent. Could hold you in the palm of his hand if he wanted.

Biting your lip nervously, now. No question is off-limits, right?

“Why did you leave me alone with your camera if it was so…private?” It’s been burning you to know: did he set you up?

It takes him off guard, like he didn’t think you’d be bold enough to ask. “That was, ah, an honest oversight. You're nosier than I expected. Who would snoop so far into a stranger’s things?”

Uh, lots of people? Not just you, if that’s what he’s implying. The slight rolls off your feathers. A little busybody like you. Especially someone who gets by in life being sneaky, concealing parts of themself for protection. Let this be a lesson for him–he may know many things about you, but he doesn’t know you, not really.

“Is that your question?” Raising an eyebrow, one in the chamber for your turn if it is: Who would need an unsolicited sneak preview in order to be decent in bed? Waspish, viperlike, ready to lash out if he’s going to have the nerve to judge you for being nosy.

Luckily for you both, he opts to move on. “No, I’m not letting you off that easily. This is supposed to be fun, so let’s spice it up.” He clears his throat and asks his next question, his hand drifting up to your calf and threading the sinews of your muscles. “When was your first sexual encounter with another person?”

A shifting of nerves–you don't particularly want to get into this, but you knew it would happen eventually. It would've been different if you'd played this game on your first night with the man John disguised himself to be. In his excitement to ruffle you, though, he made an error: specificity.

“A while ago,” you answer.

He grins. “That was my mistake.”

“Yup! So, same question, John. How old were you for yours?” you ask, smirking when his touch pauses on your leg. He probably wasn't expecting you to follow him down this route of inquiry. Thought you'd be too nervous or embarrassed.

It’s a game. You’ll have to play harder in order to win. That was his own advice.

The moment his expression shifts, you realize what you did. It could have been subconscious, but you really weren’t thinking when you repeated his question. Never would have asked about it like this. Remembered too late the dark vagueness of his childhood.

“Nine,” he answers after a few tense moments. You tried not to gasp, really you did, having expected something like this, but that's…that's young. “I was nine.”

“John, I didn’t kno–”

His mouth twists into something ugly. “How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

A sucker punch directed at you this time, winded without ever having been hit. Jaw open before you clamp it shut again to avoid looking so affected.

“Oh, that honor is all yours, isn't it?” you respond, a sudden, nauseating bitterness frothing at the corners of your mouth.

He looks away, but you catch the little self-satisfied glint in his eyes. Proudly thinking I'll be your first. Me. Such a bastard. Even if he isn't your first, not even close to it by your account, it still stings knowing that he thinks he's won, that he thinks he'll be claiming something from you.

“Don't look so pleased with yourself. You know, John, you’re not the first man to take advantage of me–don't be so foolish as to think that you're special.”

Eye to eye, horns locked in. A sharp, violent twist of the head.

“In fact, you're probably not even the worst.”

Something changed in his eyes at that, as though he sees that as a challenge, and you steel your resolve, preparing your next question with a sharpening of your blade.

“Well,” you announce with a clap and a flattened, broad smile. You smile, because he likes your smiles, even though this one bends the wrong way, too rotted to reach your eyes. Turns it into something nasty that he’ll resent. Lining your teeth with your tongue, sharpening the edges. Aching to hurt.

“Guess it's my turn. How old were you the first time you were fucked, John?”

His eyes snap up to yours, staring at you hard. Unwavering, furious, hurt. Until you start to squirm. He looks monstrous, teeth long and sharp, eyes cold. Ready to maim in return.

“I was ten.”

There's a small quiver in your bottom lip. How mad is he?

“Tell me, Rusty,” he starts, voice low, dangerous.

Hardening yourself for the blow.

“Do you always come that hard when you don't want it, or is that just for me? Maybe you think I’m special after all.”

Oh. “Fuck. You.” Ripping your leg out of his grasp, you shove at his chest–and he barely fucking moves.

You're staring at each other, cheeks flushed and panting heavily from the emotional wasteland. Blood dripping from your mouths. Not a hint of the humor you've been cloaking your misery in.

Turning away from him, and breathing hard, trying to stabilize your breathing, you stare at the wall of the tent. There's not much to see, but you cannot look at the smug satisfaction that's probably on John's face right now. So you focus on the sound of the storm, watch their silhouettes ooze down the side.

Licking your wounds.

“Rusty–”

“You win. I'm not playing anymore.”

“...Rusty, I–”

“Don’t.”

There's a strange feeling in your chest, like a deep, raspy growl that threatens to become a scream. Like if you aren't careful, it'll grow and grow until you burst. The silence is agonizing, and you don't bother to wipe away the angry tears from your face, because you don't want him to know that you're crying. It isn't fair that you can't get a single win out of this.

Running barefoot again.

“It was her friends,” he begins after several long minutes, his tone guarded.

Matching his even, thought-out cadence to ask what he means.

“My mother. She…ah, jeez.” Distressed. “She hosted amazing parties that were the talk of the neighborhood. Mostly it would be her girlfriends and their husbands. Those were the fun ones. Jane and I would watch them socialize and laugh. Dance at the top of the stairs…pretend we were invited. We'd daydream about what our own soirées would look like as adults.”

“And the other parties?” It's a hesitant question, but important. You're still facing away, but you can hear John scratching at his beard in discomfort.

“The other parties were...different. There weren't really couples at those–just men. We had to stay in our bedrooms while they all drank, smoked, snorted whatever was all the rage at the time. In exchange for money, jewelry, or uh, attention, sometimes she’d…”

Bated breath as he trails off again, gathering the words.

“She would let them into our rooms at night.”

No. Not her kids.

“I used to uh,” he pauses, collecting himself, “act out and get in trouble on purpose just to make her mad enough to send them to my room instead of Jane’s.”

Oh, John. The confession slams into you with tremendous force, upsets the serpents in your belly from their sleep.

“Mother loved us, I know she did, she did her best, but I–I think that deep down she resented being stuck with us after our father left. She was young and she wanted her life back, y'know she–she didn't want kids. It was obvious that she wished we were gone sometimes.”

“That’s…there are no words, John, but I’m so sorry,” you croak, wiping your face on your sleeve and risking a glance at him.

“She always said it would be just one or two times more. That was all she needed in order to get caught up on bills and debt that our dad left us with. It never was, though.”

Goddess, you knew it was bad, but nothing could have prepared you for that.

“You deserved better,” you say. Of course he did. “You shouldn't have gone through that.”

Slowly turning to face him again. The little lantern between you casts deep shadows into his expression. Studying him, he reminds you of a child, suddenly, with his eyes swollen and downcast, unsure of his footing.

He looks so normal. There’s a hesitancy to his posture, like he wants to draw you near but not frighten you off again. Trauma tends to do that, put people on equal footing after cutting them down. It gives you hope that maybe you can get through to him before this gets out of hand.

Well. Worse.

A hand on his cheek, heart pinching when he leans his head into your palm. “John, look at me.”

Eyes hauling up your face, over your chin, the fullness of your lips, the slope of your nose, until they meet yours.

“You’re not a bad person. I mean that. I hear it in the way you talk about your sister. How you’ve been taking care of me.”

A crack in his armor, slim, but within reach. If you can pry it open just a little more, just enough for a finger to get through…

“You aren’t too far gone, though. Not yet. There’s still time for you to be that good person.” 

…graze the soft tissues within, a real connection.

“I know you were hurt a lot as a kid, and you’ve done some things you probably aren’t proud of as a result. But the things you’re doing to me, keeping me here, they’re not any nicer.”

Both hands cradling his face when he starts to shake his head. They’re not. You can wrap it up in pretty bows, but they're not.  

“You can still choose to let me go, before this gets out of ha–”

“Oh, would you stop!” The words are practically barked out as he shoves you off of him, pushing you away.

You don’t know if it was the chafing from his confession, the rawness after being so vulnerable, or the abrasive sting of accountability, but you miscalculated and now you get to be scared again because rage pours off of him.

Upset men are dangerous men.

John continues with his heat-infused tirade. “I have been at your beck and call trying to apologize. I’ve been treating you right, trying to make up for hurting you, and you can’t seem to appreciate anything.”

Your look must look damn stupid with the wideness of your eyes, your jaw dropping at the sudden outburst as you cringe away from him. Shoulders curling in for protection.

“Not everybody gets gentle hands and apologies. You don’t have it that bad, Rusty.”

He means it, too, his expression unwavering, certain in his conviction. The lantern’s light reflecting ominously in his blackened eyes. Those damning words blow your head back–knock the very breath out of you as though you were physically struck.

There you are, you think. I was wondering when this side of you would return.

That wounded, starving beast with a fox in its jaws, hanging limply. There's something good in him, but whatever this is? It's bigger and fed by anger.  It’s over, it’s over, it’s over for you, Rusty. 

“Oh, John,” you say.

To your credit, it features none of the sharp cracks that are fracturing your ribcage. You rub at your sternum in a frail attempt to smooth the edges. Not so bad? You are destroying me. Chipping away at you piece by piece until you fit whatever mold he’s made. Wants to cram you into it, scrape away the excess, so he can get the perfect partner.

Maybe it’s the disappointment in your voice that extinguishes the sudden flame that’s reared up in him. He probably expected another fight, not for you to fold so easily. Either way, he cools off as he takes in your wounded visage.

The look he gives you is panicked, surprised at himself, maybe, like he wants to reverse the clock and try another route. “That’s…” he starts, “That’s not what I meant. I didn't–”

He reaches for your shoulder, but you bat his paws away. 

What happened to honesty? He knows what he’s doing to you–knows it’s wrong, and likes the way it distracts him from his own agony. “It’s exactly what you meant,” you begin carefully, resentment overtaking your tone with the same scalding temperature that's been licking at your core.

“You’re still hurting from what was done to you. It’s why you lash out like that–you lose control.”

He tries to deflect. “That's not true.”

Another lie. “Then what did you have to be sorry for the other day?” you ask.

Crawling into his lap, his halfhearted protests to your words stand in contrast to how he welcomes you, letting you fold over his curves and angles.

“You resent that darkness in you. That’s why you got so mad when I found you out–it broke the image you wanted me to have of you.”

You ruined everything.

“And you had to pivot, get me to be agreeable for you because you're the one who’s starving.”

Tongue clucking in disbelief. “You think you know me, huh?”

“Maybe. I know what you want, at least.” Even in this position, with you situated on him, your eyes are nearly at the same level. Equal footing, right? It reminds you of your first evening with him, when you were dripping want onto his legs.

His attention is all yours again. His grip on your ass, fingers flexing and relaxing like he’s trying not to bruise. It's going to be a hefty therapy bill later, with all the newfound complexities roiling under your skin. The storm that's raging above you is slowly seeping into you, too.

“And what’s that?” An incredulous huff that doesn’t quite conceal his piqued interest. Eyes never leaving yours.

Running your thumbnail across the roughened surface of his denim pants, over his knee and up his thigh. “You want to be touched.” 

“Everyone wants to be touched, Rusty.”

“Not in the way that you do.” Trailing your dry, warm lips over his trapezoid. “That's not all, either.”

“Is that so?” he asks, indulging himself in your tenderness, watching every move as if entranced.

“Mmhmm,” you say between little kisses along the line of his shoulder. “You want to be seen. It must be lonely carrying all those secrets.”

He shifts in discomfort, or maybe it’s need, because you’ve found yourself rocking small circles in his lap.

“I see you, John,” you say. His gaze meets yours, twin pairs of reddened eyes. “Can you accept that it isn’t on the terms you’ve laid out?”

No need to mince words. He's been craving your touch for days now, and you can tell now in the way he practically melts as you cup his face again, nails scratching lightly through his beard. His eyes are still heated, but it's different, simmering with tension and desire as you hover above him.

You wait until he nods before continuing.

“I think,” you start, slowly chewing on the words. “That you have forever altered my life’s path. I will…I will never be able to forget you.”

Curling an arm around his neck and hugging his head to your bosom.

“I won’t forget your smell…” Sandalwood and the musk of sweat. Intoxicating.

He moans and it reverberates raggedly through your chest, his mouth smothered between your breasts, forehead to your sternum. His face is a bit wet–you saw the unshed tears in his eyes, but you allow him the privacy that he hasn't allowed you.

You keep him there for a moment so he can feel the frantic rattle behind your ribs. His groping suits the rhythm of your heartbeat quite nicely.

“I won't forget the calluses of your hands, and how they have both the strength to hurt and the gentleness to soothe.”

His surprised gasp intensifies as you reach between your bodies, down to his groin to caress the hard length through the fabric of his pants–the sounds he's making are enough to reignite the heat in your belly. Grinding in his lap, his trousers rub at your cunt through the thin fabric of your shorts. It's not enough friction where you need it, but it's okay.

Tonight? Tonight is for him.

“I won’t forget the shade of your eyes, dark enough to lose myself in. Or how wicked your tongue is…or the–the breadth of you inside of me.”

Please, he entreats, not with words, but in how he thrusts against you when you finally unbuckle his belt, the metal clang disrupting the quietness of the tempest brewing between you. Feels like the endless possibilities of a new paragraph. Anything could happen.

“I won’t forget how hard your fingers have gripped me. How my bones have bruises on them.”

He hisses when you take him with a firm grasp, cock cradled before your thighs, his surprised sound quickly becoming a moan once you begin to stroke him, slowly moving the dry layer of his turgid flesh.

For once, he says nothing. He only looks up at you–not much higher, because even in his lap, the height difference works in his favor. His mouth drops, bunny teeth poking through when you lick your palm obscenely and continue to stroke him faster and faster, hips bucking with the rhythm.

“Fuck.” The word seems especially uncouth falling from his lips like this, having picked up on his general distaste for swears. Still, it makes you grind harder, slickening the base of his cock, stimulating his testicles and yourself in the process.

“How does it feel, John?”

“It's–it’s good,” he says. Pushing your shirt up, his mouth latches onto one of your breasts, suckling hard in a way that further awakens your own desire.

“Not perfect, though? What do you need, hm?” you tut. It's a condescending tone that surprisingly doesn’t trigger further ire. His hips buck up sharply at that–is he so unused to being taken care of by a partner? The poor fool.

“Slower and…softer.”

He sounds desperate for it, stares at you like you're the only source of air he can find. Your grip tightens enough that if you kept it at his base, he probably wouldn’t be able to release at all. It's tempting. Could you tear it off, if you wanted? Shove it down his own throat to see how he likes it?

He cries out, eyes shutting tight in what appears to be pain, but he says nothing. He definitely doesn’t ask you to stop. Slowly, you make a questing stroke with this harsh grip and he sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment. His moan is a broken, watery thing when you draw that pressure along the vein underneath and up, up, up to the tip.

A bit vicious in your request, “Slower and softer, what?”

“Please.”

Oh, that’s it. That begging ache you’ve been craving from him. Only then do you soften your grip, per his request, your lackadaisical pace matching the rhythm of your hips. The tent is filled with slippery noises and heavy breathing.

“Like this?” you ask, nosing his forehead until he tears his gaze away from where your bodies are joined to look up at you.

“Yes,” he whispers, mouth falling open into little pants and whimpers.

Not stopping your movements, you tilt his head to get better access to his ear and nip at it lightly between words. “See how you can catch more flies with honey?”

It's never really the point with assault, of course, but he should know that power can be exchanged in consensual relations, too.

Forearm burning from the tension, but you don't let it affect your pace, keeping it steady and slow. It’s borderline torturous, but he clearly loves it. Hips thrusting into your grip, falling into your rhythm with grace. He doesn't even complain when you focus on the sensitive tip, cradling it in the cup of your palm as you massage, staying there far too long to be comfortable.

No, he just takes it. Why wouldn't he, when he wants to prove that he’s good?

“You protected your sister when your parents failed you,” you say, suckling on his earlobe while your other hand pulls at his hair, enjoying the way the soft edge of his tip catches on the meat of your thumb with each upward tow.

“You should’ve been protected, but I’m here now–I’ve got you.”

His mouth searches for yours and you let him in. Ignoring the lingering tenderness of your tongue to map out the shape of his teeth. He tastes sweet, rich–and you resent that he snuck in a piece of chocolate without you. It’s uncontrolled and desperate. It makes you feel like you have the upper hand for once. Finally.

Your name, almost painfully spoken against your lips. He grasps at your hips, fingers clenching and unclenching, his rhythm getting erratic. He's close. Pulling away to enjoy the sight of your hand around his taught length, the way the head disappears in your grip, twitching, only to re-emerge weeping, caught between your slick palm and glistening folds.

“Are you going to come?”

He nods. 

“What do you need, hm? Tell me.” 

Thrusting up again in desire, he gasps out, “I need you, Rusty. Please.”

“Shh, you have me, John. Shh, that’s it,” you say, quickening your slide, tightening your hold as it passes over the ridge toward the top. Goddess, you're feeling heady with the effect you have on him. It's intoxicating. “You can let go now, because good boys get their reward.”

Taking his bottom lip into your mouth and sucking the wound that your teeth laid upon him.

Mine.

His back audibly cracks when he arches into your touch and suddenly comes like he does need it–more than air itself. Choked, strained noises that flood your cunt as you lightly fist the head, taking joy in the crassness of the growing mess.

For the first time in days, you feel victorious, even if the win is as hollow as the spot in your neck where his nose is buried. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, hips bucking into you. Little whimpers accompany each thrust of his hips into your hand.

You're shushing him and stroking his hair with your clean hand as he rides it out. Milky ropes whip across his torso to coat your hand as you jerk him to completion, making your strokes sloppy, just the way he secretly likes it.

People like John are called neat freaks for a reason, right? They fold their clothes up into crisp squares, organize their homes to the nines. Brush their teeth at the same time, twice daily. Their schedules are rigorously adhered to.

But when it comes to sex, they’re okay with having their own viscous cum dribbled onto their stomachs, filling the pocket of their belly buttons. And they especially love it when a barely-covered pussy smears feminine slick onto the crotch of their trousers.

The sensations must be long-lasting, because he looks exhausted as he finishes, completely drained. Eyes shut, wetness plastering his lashes to his cheek, trying to catch his breath. Looking down, you savor the view of his stomach as it quivers.

He really is beautiful when he's not being a monster.

Resting your head on the top of his as you catch your own breath before your final confession, “I won’t forget the way your face softens in rapture. And that is no small thing, John.”

Taking in his chin with your buzzing fingers, smearing fluids in his beard and meeting him eye-to-eye, you kiss him a final, chaste time, tasting your musky combination. Goodness, he looks so dazed.

“For better or worse, you've imprinted yourself on me. I’m sorry if I’m not grateful enough.” Wiping yourself off with a cloth before rubbing your sternum again because it aches.

“But you have your gentle hand and apology, for what it's worth.”

He watches as you remove yourself from his lap and settle onto your side, facing away from him, ignoring the unsatisfied throbbing in your core. You're done with this game, too.

There's a rustle of fabric behind you as he removes his sullied pants, tossing the item aside this time instead of neatly folding it this time. He uses the cloth on himself before quietly returning to your nest.

One arm wraps around your middle again, as expected, but this time when he pulls you toward him, he encourages you to turn around. He guides you to rest on his chest, wiping the tears off your cheeks before nuzzling them, murmuring endearments and kissing your crown.

“Thank you.”

The chances were always slim that you'd get out of here without John fucking you. It's just that the reality of it is harder to accept, so it's still a challenge to squash that part of you that wants to rebel, fight, run when the time comes.

But there's nowhere to go. He has expertly stolen any space you would need to gather momentum for a real plan.

So, when you awaken in the middle of the night, rain steadily thudding on the roof, with your leg wrapped over his and clenched so tightly that you wonder briefly if the hair on your legs is rubbing raw at his skin, and if it bothers him. The thought fades, though, and you aren't entirely shocked to feel fingers kneading the flesh under your ass, pulsing with energy.

“I can be good. Give me the chance to show you.”

There's a universe out there where that sentence doesn’t make you stomach flop in ways that cause concern over your mental fortitude. He's pushing your shirt up again, warm mouth unabashedly sucking in as much of your breast as he can. His hot tongue on the tissues, grown tender with how near your cycle you are by now, and it nearly convinces you to beg him to do exactly what he wants. 

Tightening your grip on his shoulders, you’re sleepily rubbing your raw eyes on his bare chest, trying to make your peace with what's about to happen.

You can do it. You can do it, Rusty. 

Coarse fingerprints trail along your side, your hip, over your soft backside and between, parting your lips to tease the seam to learn your secret.

Groaning. “Messy little thing, already leaking. You should’ve told me, so I could’ve taken care of you sooner.”

Two fingers slide effortlessly within you and quickly find a rhythm. Slow and shallow. He takes the opportunity when you gasp to swallow you up with his maw, too. There's no rush, because the pressure isn't enough to drive you nuts, so it's nice to simply luxuriate in the feel of it.

His tongue is just as lazy, stroking along your own until it's coaxed into play. Goddess, he's everywhere. Unbidden, your thigh creeps up and over until you're close enough to feel him where you want him: hot, hard cock nestled against your mons, your clit. You both gasp as you clench up.

Then his strong arm, stretched over your back, reaching inside you as deeply as he can with the confining angle, starts to move you against him, rolling and grinding your clothed flesh over his nude form. His filthy mouth is in the cook of your neck, so messy in its worship that it leaves you whimpering. That ache deep in your belly is slowly returning as the sleepiness dissipates.

The angle isn't helping his fingers to dig in the way you'd like, and when he adjusts himself against you in a way that molds his cells into you, it's nearly a mindless yearning that has you rolling onto your back, bringing him along to settle between your legs.

That mantra of support–you can do this–is proving less and less necessary, because at this point, you're going to do this and you'll be negotiating the terms.

Throwing a leg around his firm hips, a rush of arousal rolls through your belly when he thrusts against you, cock pushing your cotton fabric into your clit, all raw friction. Slickened fingers trail around, struggling to unstick your groins so a thumb can slide underneath your clothes to circle your nub. 

This position allows you to wrap an arm around his naked back, that damned back that you've grown so familiar with over the past few days. The same one that's been torturing you with its strength, with how much it can carry, muscles straining against the skin. Focused on that palm, imagining it can absorb the strength, mold it into something uniquely yours to use before shifting upward, fingers threading into his hair at the nape of his neck.

Pulling him down to meet your lips, coarse beard chafing your mouth. Dizziness licks at the edge of your consciousness until you break away to breathe. You're sharing each other's harsh pants, mere inches from each other and the intensity in his eyes has you smoldering.

No one's ever wanted you this badly. Needed you like this. Even outside of these circumstances, that desperation to have you would probably give you pause. Knowing how else he can channel that ferocity though? You'll take his need.

As long as he'll take yours, too.

Shucking off your shirt leaves you more vulnerable than ever, somehow. His thumb is moving far too slowly to feed your craving, though. He’s smiling against your throat, feeling the vibrations of the low whines you're trapping in there. When your head tilts back firmly, forcing your torso up, he slides an arm under you, lathering your breasts with wet affection.

A hand trails around to rejoin itself with your body, fingers slipping inside that pocket to scissor and stretch before stroking away the discomfort. Arousal is seeping out of you now, and you're beginning to feel feverish–body boiling up and surrounded by cool air.

“You'll be the end of me.” A raspy confession born from his lips. With any luck, it’s true.

He sounds as wrecked as you're feeling. Lust, ever anxious, humming in your veins–there's so much energy you need to release. His palm lands firmly onto your mound, grinding the heel into your covered clit, rubbing and massaging pleasure into you. You don't protest when he sits up, lightly grasping at your waistband to pull down your shorts and panties in one fell swoop.

The cold air hits your wet cunt like a slap, but before you can snap your legs shut, his face is pressing into you, hot tongue warming you right back up. Melting at the suddenness of such focused, warm, attention on your clit.

He's sloppy down there, his noises almost overpowering your own as he inhales your scent and savors your essence. He eats you out like it's his last meal. Desperately, thoroughly, fervently. Brings you up and dangles you again at the precipice, and as much as you would love to finish like this, you love this single-minded attunement to your pleasure more and aren't ready for it to end.

Before you can come, you push his face away and the man looks dazed, wondering if he did something wrong.

“Wh–”

“Not yet,” you clarify in a huff, trying to slow your pulse.

His grin is sinister, the wolfish grin of a predator when it clicks. “Little fox wants to play another game, huh? See how long they can last?”

Looking down at the menace between your legs and biting your lip, watching him watch that little movement.

“No, I–” Coughing a little to clear the sudden emotions building up. “I’m scared it will hurt.”

Oh, no. You didn't mean for that to sound as small as it did. Where did your bravery go? Torn between wanting him to find the right thing to tell you, to comfort you, and not wanting the pity.

“It's fine…I’ll be okay.” Women, people, do it all the time. Have always done this, even without condoms, without lubricant, like you–with partners far less accommodating. You can handle this.

Playing with his hair soothes you a bit. “You better get me soaking, first.”

“I can do that,” he says, wetting his lips again, and damn if it isn't the sexiest look on him.

“Show me.”

The devil chuckles when you push his head down, tired of looking at the lumps of coal he has for eyes. He takes his task seriously, though, trying to be a good boy for you.

You're beyond soaking by the time you ask him to stop and can feel your want for him dripping down your crack. All hot and wanton, just like you wanted. You still haven't come yet, wanting to be so worked up that you can't deny John his goal, because it’ll probably bring your release as well. It helps you to forget the reality of your situation. Helps you to cope.

“I’m ready.”

He’s been quite patient. Which is good, because he should learn self-restraint. When he props himself up on his arms, placed on either side of your head, locking you in, you can see his need: a bead of sweat–or is that your arousal?–dances at the end of his nose, his arms quiver, his cock impossibly hard and throbbing against your thigh.

He loves it, can’t quite mask his satisfaction at seeing you pliable and uncertain underneath him, and the resentment in you grows, even as you part your legs.

“That's it, Foxheart.”

Biting your already sore tongue when the blunt head of his cock, purple and angry, rests obscenely atop your pubic hair. Glistening with fluids. Rapid breaths get faster and louder at the sight.

“Shh, hey.” His touch is on your cheek, slick with your own craving. “Look at me.”

You blink and refocus, bringing your gaze up to find his, and they’re strangely comforting. “Keep your eyes on me.”

When he nods, you find yourself repeating the movement. His hand meets yours, entangling with your fingers. The gesture is so sweet, so domestic that you almost forget how inauthentic this moment really is.

Maybe it is authentic for John.

His heavy cock slides down, lubricating itself in your ample fluids, parting the folds before notching against your entrance–

There’s no such thing as sin, not with the orishas. There’s good and bad, but no sin. No hell. It’s okay. You’re okay. Your mother’s comfort from a world away. You hope she was right.

–slowly, slowly guiding itself in. A bit of pressure, and soon, the tip is in. He pauses after an inch or so, letting you adjust. Then he backs out, gathering momentum to offset the friction, feeding you an extra inch each time. Although you don’t have much experience to compare him to, you suspect he’s bigger than average, in proportion with the rest of him. Humbles the toys that you’ve used.

“You're doing great. Almost there, love.”

Gasping a little at the new moniker, because fake or real, it feels nice to hear it as you’re being speared open. Almost there. Pleasure battling with pressure and just when the latter begins to win out, bordering on too much, makes you consider asking him to pause, he stops.

Bottomed out, you realize with a shudder that pulses through you both when he adjusts and his coarse hair tickles at your still swollen clit. Hips pressed to the sensitive flesh of your groin.

“How are you doing?” The words sound like the beginning of a conversation when you’re catching up with an old friend, but not the way he says it. It’s filled with unnamed emotions. There are no words for this type of moment.

“Good. Full.” An experimental tensing of your muscles causes him to groan.

“Careful,” he says around a huff, mouth quirking to the side. The firm grip he has on your hand squeezes, and your stomach drops deliciously. “I’m trying to go slow.”

A sudden bubble of joy fills your chest, because it isn’t bad at all. The opposite of that, really, having been talked up so much in your mind, that it’s a relief to find it actually does feel good. The exchange of ragged breaths would be drowned out by the storm raging outside if you weren’t pieced together. 

He's just moving in small circles, trying to get you used to the intrusion. Split apart, thighs butterflied out to expose your clit to his grinding rhythm. It doesn’t take long for that smoldering heat to rise again, fed by the oxygen in the tent, flames consuming the kindling he’d packed together.

You need more.

“John?”

“Mmhm?” he says, holding himself up carefully on his elbows in an effort not to crush you.

“You can move. Please.”

He sags with relief, having hoped that you weren't going to ask him to stop, to get off you, to get out of you.

Would he have listened?

“You're so…” he groans, losing and recovering his voice. “You’re so hot in here, Rusty.” Sounding every bit like the self-satisfied man that he is. “Feels like I'll burn up.”

“I hope you do,” you say.

He finds humor in that, chuckling darkly as he dips his head down to suck in a nipple. You tighten up in pleasure, clenching around him and discovering that you love the feeling it brings, creating extra friction for John as his cock rakes the coals in you again.

But then he returns to fill the vacuum he created, and you choke around a gasp. Breathing through the incredible fullness. It permeates into your toes, to your womb, to the faraway crevices of your torso. There’s a John-shaped imprint in the apex between your inner thigh, now. It makes you think that you’re reshaping him just as much as he is you.

No, this isn’t so bad at all. Withdrawing fully, his cock pushes its way into you, inscribing his desire into your flesh. When you scrunch your brows together, still trying to adjust, he kisses your forehead reassuringly. Everywhere he touches, it feels like something is trying to grow, trying to stretch upwards, lift itself toward the sky.

“You couldn’t be more beautiful.” A guttural admission that makes your breath hitch. “Or wet, Jesus.”

Opening your eyes to find his face close enough that you could lick it. It doesn’t take much to let yourself cave into that impulse, licking a wide stripe up his surprised face before kissing his forehead. It's good, but it isn't good enough. You have to feel more of him. It only takes one shove to upset his supportive arm, sending his body crashing onto yours and knocking the breath out of you both. Feeling his hard pecs against your sensitive nipples.

“Hell,” he huffs. “You wild little thing.”

He hitches a leg up over his thigh, driving forward deeply and intentionally, relishing your moans, scraping his teeth against your throat. Sticking himself to you with the sap of your bodies. This angle allows him to stimulate your clit, each powerful thrust padding against the organ just right. 

“Just like that,” you gasp out. “Gods, fuck me.”

Leaning your head back, exposing your throat, letting him nibble the thin skin there.

“...Daddy.”

The stutter of his hips is well-worth it, the way he has to stop in order to control himself, not to embarrass himself by coming too soon.

“You're a filthy cheat, too,” he says against your neck.

Actually laughing now, enjoying this far too much as he grins at you before he smooshes kisses into your cheek, resuming his pace. The laughter dies down though, when those spikes of pleasure return, reminding you of what your real goal here is: to be fucked mindless.

“Deeper,” you murmur into him, tightening around his length, trying to swallow him up.

Wrapping an arm around his neck, you bury your face in there, too, wanting to wear his skin for just a bit. Shifting that leg up even higher until his arm takes it over, cradles it in the crook of his elbow to push it as far back as the muscles allow.

His hips comply, pushing forcefully into you, groin padding against your clit. Over and over with that methodical pressure and stimulation. Lewd, obscene sounds slapping your ears. Something is building, climbing there. More, more, more.

“Perfect, you’re perfect.”

His compliments trail into sweet little nothings that light you up into a liquid puddle of whimpering flesh, just the “ah-ah-ah”s falling from your mouth to accompany his thrusts. You're burning hotter and hotter, sweat plastering your brow to trickle down and join your tears.

Nerves buzzing, the impending release thrumming through every nook. Your toes are damn near tingling. You waited so, so long for this one. Been anticipating it the moment he pinched your pearl between his forked tongue, pointed tips agitating twin whorls around it, igniting shock after electric shock from you.

Been so good, holding it back to enjoy it with him instead, so you can pretend this means more than it does. It’s coming to relieve you though, the finish. The drapes drawing to a close.

“I'm gonn–don’t stop. Please.”

His responsive sound is dirty, pulled from the deep hollow of his gullet, filtered through his canines, and painted across your neck as he licks his way down to your sternum, sticking Cupid’s bow kisses there. Wicked fingers latch onto your clit, rubbing until you're practically begging for him to get you there.

“Say it again.”

The husky timber of his voice, so much lower than its usual register, interrupts the single-minded purpose that has overtaken you. Wracking the fog of memory in your brain: what does he want?

“Come on, Rusty,” he begs. Begs you, and it clicks.

Wicked man.

Exploiting the moment when he balances so carefully on the precipice of his own little death, on the edge of getting that thing he’s been salivating about since he first watched you dig your slim fingers into yourself. A wolf in the crawlspace of night, black eyes illuminated by the moon, compelled by a waxing appetite.

Howling for it.

You’re close, so so close. Just need a little push.

Tucking your tongue under his earlobe, pulling it between your lips to bite down softly on the flesh, “Make me come. I need more. Harder, daddy.” Gods, you really do.

His hand slaps down on the side of your rump hard, and that spike of pain registers at just the right level, in tandem with a well-timed thrust to cast your remains into the bonfire. Engulfed by flames, skin bubbling and popping. Burning so brightly you nearly blackout, arms locked around John’s head, pinning him against your breasts as you keen and whine your way through it.

He thrusts and grinds your flesh into your bones into your soul, sounding devastated as he joins you, thick muscle convulsing inside you as warm spurts of his cum fill your channel. You didn't bother asking him to pull out, because you know he wouldn't have. You hope he’s clean. Any other unpleasant remainders of him, you can get scraped out later.

The last sensations have you twitching in his embrace as his forehead drops to meet yours, sweat on sweat. Brackish water marking the perimeters.

You stay like this for a while, locked together and silent as you process what just took place. What you asked for. John's soothing you, chastely kissing everything he can reach, before focusing on your sensitive nipples. Eventually, he lifts up, allowing you to breathe unencumbered again as he withdraws from your well-used cunt. Taking his time like he wants to remember the drag of it.

You won’t forget it either. How your insides knit back together in the absence of his presence. You were both right. Him about being good to you, and you about the whole thing not really making a difference. Virginity not being a real thing. You aren’t changed simply because he bullied his cock into you. Nothing was taken from you by doing this with him. Nothing physical, anyway.

Not to say that you’re the same. You’re changing, sure, but that process began the moment your arms fell uselessly beside you, camera upsetting the nest of leaves below, and your calves tensed in preparation to flee. It’s been happening for days now, the transformation you beckoned before your first steps on the wide path of the PCT.

Leaves you wondering if you can accept that it isn't on the terms you'd laid out.

Who will emerge from the other side? What will that fetid, sinless thing look like? And will Rusty be left to decay somewhere along the way? Serpents abandoning the empty husk, nothing left to protect. Rusty, who–

Rusty…

“Rusty,” a voice implores again.

Your eyes crack open to see John watching you intently. Surely he isn’t ready to go again so soon? Tensing yourself. There’s little soreness, but there is a persistent thread of desire that a single orgasm wasn’t quite able to quench after being worked up so much.

“Rusty,” he repeats. Pushes some wet curls from your face. “Did I hurt you?”

Did he? No, you think, mind so tired it’s nearly mush. Not hurt. It’s far more nuanced than that.

Shaking your head, you find that he’s staring between your legs, seemingly frozen while observing the mess you've made. Brows furrowed as you try to understand what’s wrong, glancing down yourself only to see–

“Oh, that's…no,” you say, feeling flushed again, but from embarrassment this time. “I think…That's probably my menstruation.”

“It's been late,” you hastily add. But it's here now, which confirms why your hormones have been raging lately. “I'm sorry, I'll get a cl–”

“I've got it,” he interrupts. “Don't apologize–grew up in a house with women, remember?”

When he gets up, some of your blood is on his softened organ as well. Claiming him in return, you see. Returning with a wet wipe, the reverence with which he cleans you without any discomfort or judgment strikes you silent.

“Do you need an aspirin?”

Dumbly shaking your head.

“You're sure? You’re okay?”

And that's the one that makes your eyes burn from salt. You give him a watery smile and nod. “I'm okay.”

“I'm glad. That was…that was everything, Rusty.”

He finishes cleaning you both up before sidling up next to you as you lay flat on your back, nose deep in your hair, fingers playing with the sweaty tendrils.

“You're perfect,” he says, kissing your neck, cuddling into you.

Even though you disagree, the flattery is welcome, enriching the charred soil of your battered spirit. Maybe some of it will seep in, settle deeper into something substantial that will sprout.

That was everything.

It did feel that way, somehow. Something beneath those measurable layers that was given and taken. Shared. There’s no sin with the orishas, but there’s still bad. Is that what you are, instead?

“So,” you begin, sloughing off those unhelpful thoughts. “A daddy kink, huh?”

He throws an arm over his eyes to hide himself. “Don’t.” A mortified groan, almost a whine.

“Don’t what…daddy?” you tease, leaning over to peel his arm away, grinning at the embarrassment written all over his face. You’re all the same. You men.

He brings you onto his chest, using the momentum to flip you onto your back again, re-settling between your legs. Growing firmness grabbing your attention.

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish,” he says, fever overtaking his playfulness. 

You slide an arm around his back, pulling him down on you, throwing a leg over his hip.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

His mouth on yours, skin on skin on skin.

Rubbing his lower back, you feel three little raised marks. Uniform, each no bigger than a pinky nail. He tenses when you touch them, so you back off, opting to enjoy the glide of flesh over his muscles. Not for the first time, letting John's steady heartbeat bring comfort.

Blink.

Chapter Text

I am punished by love.

“Punish” by Ethel Cain

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 6

{one day before release}

“Where’re you goin’?” There's John's voice behind you, thick with sleep.

You're opening the tent flap, even though the rain is still steadily coming down.

“Just letting in some fresh air. You stink,” you add before you’re rewarded with a light toss of a sock at your head.

Truthfully, you’re a little jealous of how well he can manage his hygiene without plumbing. Meanwhile, you’re just happy for disposable wipes and water to wash with, always being a little self-conscious during your cycle. It’s effective, though, and John clearly doesn’t mind, happy to help you wash up after your activities, his caregiving tendencies in full force.

“Are you cramping?” “Stay there–I’ve got it.”

After what was one of the most intense, pleasure-filled evening you've had in years–even though you'd never admit it to him–the two of you have been alternating between sleeping, snacking, playing, and fucking. Feral in the way you've been licking the skin off each other.

Sticking a hand outside to just feel the fat drops pelt your palm, cold and stinging. Pierces your senses, cuts a slim path through the fog overlaying your brain. 

“I think it's gonna stop for a while yet,” you say, not sure if you’re disappointed.

It's supposed to be the last day of your agreement, and if it keeps up, you won’t actually be able to go anywhere tomorrow, not with how soggy and unstable the ground will be. Since you have no control over that, you focus on things you can affect.

Like the devil in your bed, who serves to keep you well-kept–

He rolls onto his side, resting his head under an arm, looking every part an indolent prince from a harem tale. Your eyes trail down his pleased, bearded face, down his smooth torso, hairless save for the delicious, dark little trail that leads to that house made of gingerbread and candied delights.

–and well-fed.

Once your flushed cheeks have cooled, you return to your nest, tucking in behind John so you can slide your hands over his beloved back, pausing when you get to that group of little scars, perfectly round.

“Will you tell me about these?”

He shifts, taking a moment to respond. “Later.”

Maybe he hears the gnashing of your molars because he says, “It's…not an easy story.”

“Will it make it easier if I tell you a story, too?” Sliding down, you press a kiss to the spots, relishing how he arches away from the invasion.

“Mm and what wicked tales do you have to tell?” That you don't already know, you mean?

“Stories are best told by a campfire, right? Think you can get one started for me later?” You’re thinking of the collection of dried kindling and wood that John thoughtfully has stored in your tent–a benefit of having a Boy Scout in your keep. You’ve just been sucking it up on the other rainy days when you were alone, but as you get closer to autumn, the heat will be welcome.

“If Rusty wants a fire, Rusty will get a fire.” He takes your hand in his, playing with your fingers before kissing them, one by one, first knuckle up to the third, while you sweep his hair away and expose his neck, crooning. Licking salt off the nape of his neck and watching him squirm.

“You're a dirty little thing, you know?”

“Yes.” The dirty little thing that you are is grinning as he flips onto his back, showing the evidence of how you’re affecting him.

That power is froth in your veins, sweet latté foam in your head. It combines with the knowledge that as of tomorrow, you'll be free. Tomorrow, you'll be on your way home. Tomorrow, you'll be all for yourself again.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

It demands good spirits, even if there's still today, and today still belongs to John. It could be much worse than getting licked and dicked down all day. Bringing a thumb over his face, across his brow, along the swell of his cheekbones, down his nose and pausing at his lips…parting them slightly in fascination.

You need to say something, since last days are for confessions, right? Guilt has been eating a little hole in you.

“I'm sorry for what I said yesterday when we were playing. I think…that on some level I knew what I was asking, and I shouldn’t have. Not like that.” Not being that type of person usually, it bothers you that he riled you up enough to stoop so low.

His brows furrow, like he couldn't imagine you apologizing for anything. Or maybe he really isn't used to hearing apologies.

“Rusty, I–” he starts. “I'm sorry for–”

Three fingers over his lips cut him off–shh.

“Not unless you mean it,” you whisper. 

He wants to mean it, that much you believe. To be sorry. He grapples with himself. You feel it in the tremors of his fingertips when he struggles not to grab you too hard. You hear it when his voice gets a little too high-pitched to be controlled. You see it in the moments where you’ve popped off a little too much and his jaw flexes, reigning himself in before he pops off, too.

There are startling glimpses into the other versions of him where more people gave a damn about him growing up, or where he learned to give a damn about himself despite the trauma.

One’s an astronaut, stretching the boundaries of the height requirement, because you’d have to origami fold that indomitable form to fit into a spacecraft. He’s bold and inquisitive–his mind always searching for the next thrill, exploring the man’s final frontier that has nothing to do with the materials of your body.

Beside him is a teacher, charismatic and fiercely protective of his students. He’s won Teacher of the Year several times and goes to therapy. He has good friends that he sometimes plays baseball with at a local park–none of them good at it, but all of them laughing and riffing each other. His hair is graying from the stress of public education, but he’s happy. Says his students are his family.

There's a social worker, a chef, an activist. On and on.

One of them, though–and this one is your favorite–really is a photographer. He freelances, so he’s able to travel when he wants, and hiking is his new hobby. But this John didn’t lie about his filter not working, didn’t have fake boots to lull you into a false need to protect and guide him. He never saw you before the trail–the forces of fate put him in your path.

He asked you for your phone number after a couple nights spent together–memorized it, in fact, because he didn’t foresee needing a pen and paper while hiking. He calls you up to take you out for a date when you were both done with whatever soul-searching you were doing out here.

He takes you to jazz clubs, and you let him usher you out of your comfort zone to go dancing together. In public. It was weeks, maybe even months before you learned about what he endured as a kid, and instead of anger, there was heartache. Even if you don't fit romantically, you make it as friends. You welcome his companionship, then.

He still has work to do, this John. He’s complex, though, and closer to a real person than the others.

All of them want to have a family and do it right this time.

So, no, the John before you can’t really mean any of his apologies, not while he’s holding you to the full extent of his proposal. If he were sorry, he’d have let you loose days ago.

No, Rusty–you’re unlikely to be his first victim, his first companion, and maybe not the last, unless the authorities are able to track him down from what scant information you’ve gleaned over the days. What you know about him just fleshes out the version that holds himself over you, the one who has to remind himself to be gentle with your fragile body lest he break you again. It’s not enough.

You woke up feeling off today, torn and aching in ways that aspirin can’t help. A steady throb knocking at your sternum. You didn’t sleep much, but when you did close your eyes, you kept hearing whispers that didn’t make sense. They were in an unfamiliar language, but you could understand them still.

The message was gone when you opened your eyes to the morning light, but the feeling remained. That anxious knot in you that kept getting tighter when you attempted to free it. Limbless, slithering bodies coiling inward, hissing and hurting. It reminded you of that feeling you got just before you bolted into the woods those days ago.

It didn’t help you, when you heeded the call before. It just made everything worse, and you wish you had ignored it altogether. Like you will this time. It’s only one more day and you’re free–you’re not about to mess that up because of anxious dreams. Heave ho, down it goes. Down to regions more acceptable for that ache. It’s a waste of a last day to be melancholy like this.

Fuck it.

Lying down and stretching your arms far above your head, stretching so much that the hem of your shirt allows a peek of the unbound chest beneath. Feet flat on the floor, knees raised into a tower, raising a brow. Insatiable. 

An invitation.

There’s that dopey, lopsided smile that sits so pretty on his face.

“Call me daddy again?” he asks, joining you to nose your cheek, feeling the lines of your collarbones, doing something with his index finger that feels almost like writing.

Pfft, not for nothing in return. “We’ll see if you can earn it.” Cheekiness to combat the salt in your sinuses.

“You’re on, Rusty,” he says, breath hot on your cheek. Then it’s all lips on lips, flesh parting to allow intrusion and far, far too wet as you dissolve into the abyss of want.

It's a good thing he's as competitive as you, because he accepts that challenge with fervor. The cool air you introduced swiftly warms back up with your heaving gasps. For all that is good in the world, it is sinful and it delights that ravenous nastiness that’s growing and eating away within you.

The other Johns watch from the sidelines, silent as the grave, and you wish you could mash them together into one person, instead of these fragmented possibilities. Instead, you part your legs and close your eyes against their haunting gaze.

An airy giggle as his beard tickles your stomach on its way down, serpents in your gut hissing but stayed, waiting to see what he’ll do. If they need to intervene.

Shh, you command. Let him work.

“Hey, hand me another ziptie, would ya?”

Tucked inside the tent with your waterproof gear on, you do as he asks, quick to get out of the rain again. John's working on an outdoor shelter so he can build your fire. This is the most dad move you've seen from him, yet. Pleasure simmers in your chest at the sight, watching him acquiesce to your demands for wilderness luxury.

Dry and with a handful of zipties that you're flicking with your thumb, contemplating. Surely, surely, he didn't count them before giving them to you for safekeeping. He wouldn't notice just one missing, right? One that you've got tucked away deep in your sleeve that you plan to stash away.

You never know what opportunities can come up, right?

After a few more minutes of wrangling the tarp in this sopping, weeping weather, he sits up on his haunches and observes his work.

“There we are. I'll have the fire going in no time.”

Fire. Heat. Warmth and the ambiance of an autumnal rain that’s overstaying its welcome.

Under the covers of your new extended porch, you’re perched on the log, just a few feet behind John as he fiddles with kindling and a lighter. Making sure he's entirely focused, you thank the goddess for the loudness of the storm around you as you single-handedly draw out the length of the tie from your sleeve, tucking it behind you, under the log and piling mud to conceal the crevice.

He works on, none the wiser. You don't even have a plan for the thing yet, but you'll grab at every resource you can sneak. When the fire is finally a roaring blaze, you jump up with glee, quickly warming your hands near it and releasing a pleased little sound from deep in your throat.

“Divine?” he teases, smirking when you roll your eyes.

You’re losing yourself in the molten heat, eyes seared red as smoke blows your way, but you welcome even that.

“You did good. Thank you, John.” Predictable man that he is, he preens.

“I hope you're ready for some hot food today.”

Grinning broadly now, because that sounds like the comfort you need with these cramps settling in.

“You don't happen to have anything salty in your pack like a bag of chips, do you, Mary Poppins?”

Settling in beside you, John flips back his hood and observes you, fog puffs leaving his lungs as he catches his breath.

“I’m afraid not. Are you hungry?” he asks, tucking hair behind your ear with cold fingers.

“No, just snacky. I could use a painkiller, and I need my supplies.” It's your menstrual cup, in case your flow gets heavier, as you explain.

“Anything else?”

“Nothing salty to eat, but is there more sugar?” Please, say yes. Your craving for decadence is gnawing away at your patience. If you were home, you would be cozied up on your couch, surrounded by a thick blanket. Watching a comfort movie with a heating pad over your stomach as you fill it with sweet and savory treats.

He grins, “Definitely. Wait here.”

Soon, you find yourself folded in John’s lap, two bumps on a log, eating roasted marshmallows from the wolf’s paw, because someone polished off the chocolate without you. He peels the bitter char off another piece and feeds it to you, all sticky and gooey. Up you go when he bumps you with his legs, upsetting your balance when the pressure of your teeth increases on his finger too much. 

“You’re rabid,” he says, bringing his own teeth to your neck and chuckling when you squirm.

“I’m hormonal and cranky, and the cold is making my foot ache. Wait, what’re yo–”

Carefully, John curls around you to remove your boots, exposing your socked feet to the air as he rubs heat into them. Ever mindful. Of course, you don’t let him know that your toe is getting better by the day–it hasn’t been long enough for the bruising to fade.

He stays like this for a few minutes, working his way up to your calves, brows wrinkled, focused. Something about seeing him attend to your feet like this has your vision glassy with want.

It must be apparent, because John's voice is incendiary when he catches you.

“Do you want something else?” he asks, a smoldering expression as he sits up to reestablish you on his lap.

With a nod, you bring his hand up your thigh. Yes. What else is there to do, anyway?

You both moan when your leg shifts, moving over his to splay over his thigh, giving him better access. John pops the button of your pants with practiced ease, confident fingers sliding beneath your panties to the growing wetness there. 

“This?”

You pant, resting your head onto his shoulder.

“Use your words, Rusty.”

You shake your head. No.

“Bratty today, I see,” he says, speaking directly into your skull, nose in your curls. “What do you want?”

A hand flat over you, lazy and lightly moving like it has all the time in the world. A close-lipped mumble in response, and the hand stops. Correcting yourself with a yes.

“Good job.”

It doesn’t escape you that he’s replaced his good girls with good jobs instead, and that fact shouldn’t delight you as much as it does.

Two fingers rest on either side of your little bud, rolling it between them as the others caress the surrounding flora as it swells. Another hand crawls up to your breast, careful in its ministrations of your growing tenderness.

Yes, he’s well familiar with this body. Lots and lots of practice.

That hand makes its way to your neck, not gripping, just resting, but curled around the trunk. 

“How do you manage to taste so good, little fox?” Sloppy kisses cover your neck, focusing on your nape.

Because I was made to be consumed.

The storm that's inside of you grows, too. Sharp, crackling energy and low roars as his digits dance upon your grave, disturbing your tired bones. It hits a crescendo when those fingers enter you, curling and pushing at your front wall while the palm works above them. 

He’s got them well-trained, working you so thoroughly, reverently. Your belly is getting sore from the effort to stay balanced, even in the cage of John’s limbs, and you quickly descend into exhaustion in the pursuit of ecstasy.

“You’re not getting tired on me already, are you?” His free hand on your stomach to stabilize you. “Come on, you can do it.”

The affirmation is crooned in your ear, and the challenge rejuvenates your tired spirit. I can do it is quickly becoming your mantra, and as your hips and core undulate to maintain the rhythm, it works again.

It’s a beautiful moment when you come. Rain pouring around your shelter, campfire crackling, smoke in your nose, thunder in your ears, John in your cunt. It’s ferocious, lascivious, and perfect. Another boom of thunder hits at just the right moment, drowning out your open-mouthed cries as you writhe in his embrace, legs so tense around his knees that they shut with a snap, toes curling.

“There you go,” he soothes. “So damn good, opening up for me like this. Pretty enough to eat right up.”

More fingers enter your mouth to feel how you come there, too. You’re so hungry that you’re salivating over them–for it all, chewing it up and absorbing it. Because whatever it is, whatever this is…it will stay in you forever.

“So do it, then.”

And he’s there for you, lightly caressing you until the last of your trembles subside, mouth sucking loudly at John's fingers. Opening your eyes again, you stare into the fire he gifted you, temporarily satiated.

Twisting your head to behold him as his fingers retract from your pants…eyebrows toward your hairline when he brings them up to his face, wet, glistening, and red, and slowly puts them into his mouth.

Watching him clean his fingers off with cheeks that are impossibly warm at the sight, because fuck that’s hot. There’s a difference between someone who grew up comfortable with period talk and someone who does this. When you lean into him, you realize you're still latched onto his other hand, and release the digits with a wet plop.

“Does anything gross you out?” you ask, breath huskier than you meant.

“Lots of things.”

“Yeah? Name one.”

Cheek to cheek. “Smoking.”

You laugh. “Really? It’s that bad?”

“It’s a filthy habit,” he says, playfully defensive.

His grin is in your periphery, blood filling the crevices of his teeth. Oh, John and his rules, but you're still laughing in the afterglow, pulling him into a kiss that tastes like pennies, teeth clacking together. There’s something about a campfire makeout that just makes sense, and you enjoy taking his mouth into your own, putting it to better use than his lies and double-edged charm.

“I might need another pill, too.”

“I’ll get it. Gotta take good care of you, right?”

You’d fucking better.  

Hours later, you’re still outside, wrapped in a blanket. You’ve got a mug of that spiced wine he makes–you should really have him send you the recipe later–relying on him for too much support. Head buzzing and giddy from alcohol and counting down the hours.

“You wanna play Truth again?” His voice is near your ear, breaking the quiet.

No, not really. Good moments like this shouldn’t be spoiled with compelled answers. Lolling your head against his shoulder, you’re close to a whine when you reply. Mumbling in the negative. “I’d rather just talk.”

You reach up behind you to dig your fingers into his hair, pulling lightly and enjoying his soft approval. He smells like embers–you both do–all smoke and burn. He agrees in that lyrical tone he sometimes adopts when he’s satiated. Happy.

Waiting for something probing, hopefully it’s not too bad. “What do you want to know?” What doesn’t he already know?

“What do you like most about being an artist?”

Cuddling further into him, you mull it over. “I like making things. It’s not only watercolors, that’s just for convenience on the trail–I like it all. You wanted to be an astronaut to explore other worlds, right? I wanna do that with my art.”

“What do you make when you’re not painting landscapes?”

“Um, lately, it’s a lot of portraits. I like doing portraits–you learn to be vulnerable when you sit for an oil painting for hours on end.” The alcohol is definitely flowing, because you’re feeling flirty. “Would you sit for one of my oil paintings, John? You seemed to enjoy the watercolor piece.”

“You’d want that?” His arms wrap around your middle, huddling in close and enfolding you in the fabric wings of the blanket that seem to spring from his back. “To watch me for hours?”

“Sure,” you shrug. “Is that so strange? You’re the most interesting person I know.” And it’s true–people like him are studied all the time…maybe people like you, too.

He smiles, then, as if the idea of you knowing him is pleasing. Of you seeing him. 

“What’s your favorite food?” you ask.

“Lobster.”

“Lobster?” you cackle. “That’s your top favorite? You have fancy taste.”

“Hey, I enjoy the finer things, too. It's not all packaged camp meals back home, y'know.”

Another gulp has you grinning still. Imagining him in a tailored suit, clean-shaven, freshly cut hair, eating in a five-star restaurant–c'mon. No, this man belongs out here, in the dirt, with his caveman ethics.

“I don't like seafood,” you say. Nice and crisply, not a hint of slurring, shaking your head. Bleugh.

He smooths the grimace from your face. “I think I could change your mind about it.”

“No way, and you're not the first to try.”

“Red fish over a bed of garlic mashed potatoes. You'd love it if I cooked it for you.” Not the first to tell you something like that either.

“Only if it's fried,” you say, and he damn near balks. “What's wrong with that?”

“The flavor, for one thing! All you'd taste is batter and oil.”

“You’re really gonna tell me that you don’t love fried batter? That’s basically all that’s on the menu at the state fair back home. You’re clearly not from the South, because it’s a delicacy there.” Where then, John? Here? Do you hunt close to home?

“I bet you eat your steaks well-done, too.”

Your silence says it all. “You do! You're a culinary heathen.”

“Medium-well, thank you! And you're gross, eating bloody meat like that. Like an animal or something.” You can't help the peels of laughter, mania bouncing between your bodies.

“What kind of animal would I be?” Those eye crinkles reappear, deep grooves of merriment cut into his cheeks as he turns your head, taking you in.

Without hesitation, you answer, “A wolf.”

“That was fast–what makes you say that?”

Should you tell him about the dreams plaguing your nights since you met? Slender limbs, dark fur, shining eyes. Hunger dripping from sharp canines. You recall the story of Little Red from your childhood collection of tales, who escaped a tragic fate by the skin of her teeth. How the story was intended to be a fable about predators with an appetite of a different nature.

Opting instead for a simple, “They’re determined. Protective. Loyal.”

“A wolf, huh?” He seems to like it–he likes nicknames after all. “I could be your wolf. Keep you safe.”

Whoosh goes your breath, because–because it's funny, how you can both dance around this whole thing so gracefully. The nasty truth of your relationship just under the surface and unacknowledged.

Safe from who, John? When he’s the thing women fear in the night.

Whatever. It's so close to tomorrow that you can taste it. It sits light on your tongue, an aperitif for your freedom.

John has to grapple to keep you both from toppling over when you suddenly turn in his lap. “Rusty, wh–”

But he falls silent, because your eyes are half-lidded, and your mouth is curled just like the little sleepy fox you are, tilting your head up and beckoning him to meet you. You shift a bit in his lap, bracketing your thighs on either side of his and feeling a familiar, hard shape in his pants. Well–two of them.

You latch onto his neck, tongue over his jugular as you push under his sweater to feel his chest. He’s smooth everywhere, except those little spots on his back. Snaking a hand around to trace them.

“Did someone burn you?” you prod.

He hisses, shifting uncomfortably. “Oh, uh. Yeah.”

“When you were a kid?”

Leaving a kiss on the corner of his mouth that asks politely for an answer, pleased when he nods.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

He coughs again–nervous tick–and avoids your eyes. “Rusty, I–”

“C’mon. You already know some of my secrets. It's only fair.”

John doesn’t like being confronted with the reality of your…relations unless it’s on his terms, but he takes in your face, soft with desire, giddy from wine and the promise of release. He can’t deny you.

“They’re from my mother. One day, I…She took Jane out early for a doctor’s appointment, but it, um, it was a special request. From a friend of hers. I didn't know. I was at school, we were at different schools that year, so I–I had no idea until I got home. She was thirteen. She…”

You kiss away the tear from his eye before it can drop, and John turns his face into yours, wanting the contact.

“Rusty, she was destroyed.” His head drops into your neck and you clutch at him desperately in an effort to absorb his pain.

“After I saw Jane like that I–I lost it. Not like how I–I didn’t hit or hurt anyone, but I smashed all of our mother’s perfume bottles. Cut up her favorite dresses. She was furious. She could be an awful person, but I've never seen her so hateful. I realized then just how much more she cared about her pretty things than she did us.”

A deep, ragged inhale that puffs his chest up. Collecting himself.

“She, uh, burned me with her cigarette for every dress I destroyed. I guess I wasn’t sorry enough still, because she pushed me down the stairs after and broke my arm. She said she didn’t like the look in my eye.”

Monstrous. You both stay locked in each other’s arms like that for a while, listening to the fire pop and the rain pour.

“You’re a good brother, John.” It’s the truth. Maybe the first entirely true compliment you’ve given him.

“Clearly, I wasn’t good enough because–”

“Stop,” you cup his face to make him look at you, the coarseness of his beard chafing the soft skin of your palm. “You’re a good brother, John. Don’t take on other people’s failings.” Not when you’re full up on your own–there’s no more room.

He wraps around you and pulls you in, embracing you tightly.

“What happened to your mom? You said before that her…passing was pointless?” He catches you off guard with his inquiry into a subject you assumed he was humoring you with before, but it turns out he was actually listening.

“Oh, um.” It’s been two decades, but it’s hard to talk about her. Mine. She’s mine, John. “It was a car accident. Rainy day. Another driver hit her. She, uh…”

You cough, trying to collect yourself. “She was out buying stuff for my birthday party, I think. I didn’t even want to have the party–my best friend and I were fighting over something stupid, and I wanted to call the whole thing off, but my mom convinced me to have it anyway.”

Ah–it’ll be good for you. Michelle is coming, and that’s that. It’s not right to be mean to people over a mistake, baby. Holding grudges only makes you feel worse.

You don’t even remember why you and Michelle were fighting, is the thing. That’s how insignificant it was.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Rusty.” This apology you allow, because he’s sincere. As sincere as these apologies can really be, anyway, lacking any fault or guilt. He never knew your mom. He wasn’t the driver who was speeding and changing out his tape while running a stop sign. 

“So…yeah, instead of my birthday party, we had a funeral. I was so mad at her for leaving me, mad at her trying to force the party on me when all it did was kill her–”

Burying your face deep into his chest, you wanna crawl and hide in there forever. “John, I didn’t go. I didn’t go to my own mom’s funeral.”

He’s shushing you, telling you it’s okay, because that’s what he’s supposed to say. It’s not okay, though. That decision is solidified into time–there’s no changing it. He's intimately familiar with that fact.

“Dad was so upset, but he had everything and everyone else to deal with–my brother, family, the arrangements. I just stayed home by myself, way too young to be left alone–but everyone we knew was saying goodbye to my mom. Everyone but me.”

Oh, and he's rubbing your back now, trying to be comforting.

“I, uh. I was so upset that I didn’t turn on the lights or anything. Just sat in the dark…mad, hurt, and terrified. For hours and hours, until my family came home.”

Petting your hair, encouraging you.

“I still kinda hate myself for it, if I’m being honest,” you whisper. Whispers are safe, right? “Mom warned me not to hold grudges, and I didn’t listen to her when it mattered the most.”

That’s it. The terrible thing you haven’t been able to let go of. Dad forgave you long ago–

You were a kid who was grieving, Rusty. I shouldn’t have left you alone that day. I should’ve done anything else but that.

–but you were old enough to know better, even then. You wanted to hurt him and hurt Mom and hurt everyone else you could reach. They all just left you.

“I think it’s why I relate so much to Strayed’s story. This trip was kinda meant for my mom. She loved nature, loved walking amongst the trees and wind and green, but life got in the way, and she never really got to take me with her.”

Now, it’s all about this new situation that you’ve found yourself in, taken over by the broken man before you. “I miss her so much, and I didn’t appreciate her enough.”

So ungrateful that even the rapist called you out on it.

It’s quiet for a while after your story. Busying yourself with wetting John’s shirt with tears. It isn’t like he can apologize for disrupting your plans for inner peace, for healing, because what can he say?

Instead, he spends long minutes supporting you until your hiccups subside, rubbing your back until you straighten up.

Takes in your swollen, red face and dries it on his sleeve. Drops a kiss on your eyelids.

“Hey now. Chin up, buttercup,” he says, prompting a smile. “We leave tomorrow.”

Nope, not good enough. “Where will you take me?”

He kisses your temple. “Home, remember?”

“No, I mean…where will you leave me, at a resupply station? And what about my pack? I don't know if I can carry it the whole way with my foot.”

He mulls it over like it’s his first time, even though you both know it isn’t. “The closest station is further north. We’ll need to combine resources. Leave a pack here. Probably leave some of the excess gear.”

You don't really have excess gear–you weren't the one planning on these excess activities.  “What about ‘leave no trace?’”

“That's what you're worried about?”

You flush, feeling silly suddenly for not letting that trail rule go. “A little.”

“Either I'll come back for it later, or…the police will.”

It's your turn to gasp, not prepared for John to be so frank, not after the illusioned bubble you've been dancing in. You’re not ready for this conversation. What if you say the wrong thing and he gets mad and–what does he want to hear?

“C’mon, you won't go to the police?” His gaze is intense, too probing.

Careful, Rusty. The hairs on your arms and the back of your neck are raised. “I haven't given it much thought.”

“I told you before, Foxheart,” he says, fingers under your chin until you look him in the eye again. “You aren’t a good liar.”

Oh, that’s not true. You’ve been lying to yourself all week, and it’s been pretty convincing.

“Been a little preoccupied, John,” you spit out, suddenly resenting his choice of nickname. Hating when he uses it to correct you. “I haven’t had a moment to think.”

The reminder that you're a threat to each other has your heartbeat racing, palms slippery with sweat. Two predators with different advantages.

Forcing yourself to calm down, you continue, “What even is the story anymore? That I invited you to camp, things got a little out of hand, and we made up? There’s nothing else to tell that anyone will believe, and–I’m not sure if I even understand what this is anymore.”

No, this story won’t make any sense to anyone else. Best to keep it to yourself when you get home to avoid the scrutiny and judgement. You’re used to doing that, keeping your secrets locked tight in your chest where they’re safe.

“Besides,” you add, eyes downcast and picking at your nails. “I don't think you realize the looks I get in some of these small towns.”

He's studying you now, but you didn't exactly lie. It's true. Growing up where you did, you're used to the looks you get in rural towns full of people who don't look like you.

“I–just wanna be home. I don't care about the rest. I miss my family.”

The deflection appears to work when his expression softens and he draws you in tight, his own breath dysregulated. “I know,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “I know. We're leaving tomorrow, Rusty. Going back home.”

Concealing your joy, because you don't want him to know how happy you are and confuse it for ingratitude.

“Okay, it's getting a little heavy,” he says, giving you a much-needed reprieve. “So, uh, what's your first meal gonna be when you get back to civilization? Not seafood, obviously.”

“Um…anything with fries. A burger? Nuggets? And a huge slice of cake. Chips, maybe?” Just the thought of it has you hungry, practically drooling.

He laughs, “You eat like a kid.”

“And you don't ever? What's your comfort meal, John? What do you eat when you feel like absolute dogshit?”

He makes a face at your crassness–weird line to draw–but considers your question. “Cinnamon rolls. From scratch, though, nothing packaged.”

“Aha! A staple where I’m from–you may yet make a fine Southern gentleman.”

He may not realize how you’re poking fun at him–your hometown still has a few statues up of gentlemen who are even meaner than John.

“Maybe you can bake them for me sometime,” you muse. “Pay me in pastries for painting you.”

“Don’t tempt me, now. You’ll be rolling out of the kitchen before I’m done.”

That prompts a bark of laughter from you. “Finally, a man who can cook. Keep it up and I just might wife you.”

“You’ll what?” he laughs.

“It's in you, I think, being a housewife” you say, poking a finger at his chest. “Yeah, just think about it. I come home after a grueling day at the office, enduring another one of Chris’s stupid jokes–”

“What office? And who's Chris?”

“Shh–the art office…and I’ve told you about him–everyone knows Chris. We can’t stand him. Anyway–so it's late when I come home. I’m hungry, was too busy at work and missed lunch and it’s well past dinner now. I kick off my shoes and head to the kitchen for a snack, and that's when it hits me: the smell of freshly-baked cinnamon rolls.”

Rolling your eyes in mock ecstasy as John’s face crinkles up.

“You come up to me, give me a sweet peck on the cheek. Loosen my tie for me–we wear those at the art office. You ask about my day, but I'm far, far more interested in what my Big Bad Wolf has been up to instead, all alone in the house.”

Another kiss that's all sweetness.

“Either the hay house or the stick house, because my art job doesn’t pay well, and my wife has expensive taste.”

His smile is something you quickly swallow up as his hands work on you, inscribing something in your skin again. You keep missing the first letters and can't decipher it, not with your head swimming with booze and arousal like this.

Is this even coping, anymore? The line must've fallen away, because you're genuinely enjoying this.

“And then what?” he asks, voice husky in your ear.

“We eat, since you worked so hard on dinner and dessert.” Another smile.

“And after?”

He shifts, and his anticipation for the after is evident underneath you. It's kinda fun, playing pretend in this bubble with your favorite version of John. Wiggling on his lap, gulping down his grunts.

“I pull the ties of your pretty red apron off–that’s all you’re wearing, by the way. Unwrap you so I can play with my gift.”

His wince at your foul language immediately disappears when you begin rubbing his hardness through the layer of fabric, feeling his desperate hands that grab at whatever exposed flesh you'll let him have. You're just as needy, pulling his beard until his lips are on yours.

You wonder, briefly, if he would consider you a whore, were he not on the receiving end of your wantonness.

The heat between you is dangerous, incendiary as you swallow each other, tongues battling for dominance. Drawing away, cheeks hot from fire and fervor, you stare at his mouth with your booze-fueled eyes and reach into his pocket, searching for that other thing that’s been poking you. 

Retrieving the lipstick. Why he keeps it on him is beyond you. Bringing the tube up between your faces, you raise an eyebrow, looking at him carefully.

He doesn't nod. Doesn't stop you either, though, which is worth noting, because if anything, he might actually have parted his lips–just a hint–for you. Watchful as you open and twist it. Impassive as you dab at his lips with the color, smoothing it out with your thumb.

His technique had more finesse, but yours is getting the job done.

“Makeup is meant for everyone. Even little boys. Even men. Your mom was just an asshole.”

His amusement is caustic, making you slip and smear your painting.

“Oh–and now you look like the Joker. Stop moving,” you admonish, voice rich with undeserved affection. “Y’know, I meant it when I said reading is good for you. It helped me figure myself out–maybe it would help you, too.”

It makes you want to melt, when you finish and observe how beautiful John can be. Delicate features overshadowed by brute strength. Hurt concealed by anger.

“I've also meant it every time when I said you're pretty.”

If you had a mirror, you'd show him how lovely he is, but he'll have to take your word for it. Then he pulls you in to kiss you, eyes half-closed, and surely you're wearing some of that lovely shade after you part..

“Only for you,” he says, allowing you to devour him in return.

“Red looks good on you,” you add, kissing his eye crinkles. “You’re hot like this.”

Goodness, he really is, though. Gently detangling his locks with your fingers…the way his dark hair and beard frame his lovely face is…well. He has some idea of how attractive, how charming he is, but he has no idea how goddamn devastating he can be to behold when he’s broken and soft like this, pliant to your whim. When he’s not trying to assert whatever masculinity means to him.

You’re wanting again, but it’s too damp out here to be comfortable. “Take me in? I'd carry you, but you're too big for me.”

“Seems like I fit just fine. Nice and snug.”

Wrinkling your nose, because that's more than a bit too soon when those jokes come from his mouth. But you don't say anything, because you’ll have tomorrow and all the days after it, but today? He can have today.

Pulling at the ends of his hair, enticing him to kiss you sweetly as you’re laid upon the nest of blankets and sleeping bags. This time, you take your pleasure from John and treat him nice, too. Unbuckling his belt, unzipping his pants ever so slowly, savoring the moment because this is your last day.

Where once, long ago, you were concerned about things like work, bills, and the other problems of your average life, the trail gave you exactly what you initially asked for: purpose. Your purpose now is to live. You’ll be free, and getting up in the morning will have flavor again.

Unsurprisingly, this scenario has flavor, too. It’s sweetness undercut with spice. Laced with bitterness, too, even if you don’t linger on that much. He only has a moment to divest you both of your shirts, preferring to be nude when he can, before you’re leaning him back. Throwing a leg over him and mounting up. 

“Hold on,” you warn him, pretending not to love it when he listens, grasping your hips.

Cradling his hardened length between your lips, lubricating him up with your fluids, uncaring that it's messy. Messy, messy, messy. He’ll clean you up later, anyway. Feeding from his needy whimpers and gasps as your body slowly engulfs his length, preparing yourself for a snug fit.

Goddess, and it is, too. No matter how many times you’ve accepted him into yourself, he still utterly fills you, stretching you to your very limits. He’s careful, though, making the uncomfortable burn of that stretch feel good. You both need a moment to collect yourselves once you're fully seated.

Thick and raspy, a needy voice asking, “Too much?”

Pleased when you shake your head, because it almost is, but not quite. His fingertips kneading and releasing, swollen, beautiful lips slightly parted. They want to be on your breasts; he's obsessed with the things, like a grubby-fingered infant.

Then you start to move. Shins flat on the floor, a hand on his chest for stability. It's a torturous pace that makes the muscles of your thighs strain and your abs sore, body sucking him up and letting him go, letting him explore deeper and deeper parts of you. Occasionally, there's a squelching sound that you want to cringe at, but when you see his eyes flutter shut, cheeks flushed, and painted mouth ajar to accommodate his panting breaths…there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

You’re new to this position, though. It isn't kind on your knees, as they press onto the hard surface of the Earth–this makeshift bed isn't exactly hotel quality. And your toe occasionally grazes the floor the wrong way. He must pick up on your grimace, though, because his legs reposition into a temple, giving you a more comfortable seat.

“Better?”

Nodding, “Much.”

When you shift and resettle, it also slots him deeper into you, causing you to wince as he reaches the muscles and tissue that have gone sore from your cycle.

“Am I hurting you?”

A headshake. “Only in a good way. Just…go slow, please. Stay deep.” You don’t want a lot of force like last night. Just consistent, gentle pressure to alleviate your cramps.

The way he’s positioned gives him the angle to help you with that. He acquiesces, strong hips lifting up enough to get leverage.

The first drive makes you squeak in surprise.

Your jaw falls open on the next one.

The third one has you scrambling to grasp his thighs as you fall back into them, head thrown in ecstasy.

“The sounds you make, Rusty. Don't stop.”

You couldn't if you wanted to. In an attempt to reclaim your rhythm, you're using John's thighs to your advantage, clasping them firmly while your hips keep at it. Glancing down, it's evident what a mess you're making on him, but instead of minding it, he relishes it, really putting the freak in neat freak.

When you bring his hands up to cup your breasts, needing his attention there, he wrenches himself up, a supportive arm around you as you're suddenly in his embrace. A wet mouth attaches to your chest, suckling and teasing your nipples and groaning.  

Still thrusting, still grinding, still keening.

It's several minutes of this, mostly quiet except the necessary noises. They’re obscene. The both of you sound so desperate, like you're trying to prove something. You're getting tired, and despite the fingers working furiously between your legs, he reaches his peak before you.

It could be an accident, because he seems beside himself at the moment, but he bites you then, when he comes, teeth firm on your breast–hard enough to bruise but not enough to bleed, lipstick staining your flesh, and that unexpected pain sends you spiraling into your own completion, and you cry out into John’s hair, gripping the locks firmly. Eyes shut tight so only a few tears escape.

“That…was great,” you say, adding a quick daddy just to feel his guttural sound reverberate through the fat of your breast.

Staying locked together as you fall forward, groin to groin, stomach to stomach, chest to chest. Heartbeat to heartbeat. Just breathing like this, endlessly.

Musing about how the pain in your womb has receded for now, even as the one in your breast becomes more noticeable. Do detectives still use bite marks as evidence in cases? Could they match dental records if the bruises are still there?

“What happened with your teeth?” you whisper, minutes, hours, days later.

“Hm?” He sounds tired as hell.

“Your teeth. Yesterday–you said that they were knocked out at a baseball game as a kid, but that was your lie.”

He laughs, “Oh, that’s–I slipped and hit them on the monkey bar.”

“You wha–” Expecting another big reveal or something, your sudden laugh is riotous in your little shelter, and it fills you with relief that the mood is light again. “Idiot.” 

John laughs, his grip returning to your ass and kneading gently. “I’ll have you know it hurt.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“A lot.”

“I bet. Here, let me see.” Pulling his upper lip up, you make a show out of inspecting his incisors, tapping on one before tugging at it. “They seem okay now.”

He bats your sweaty hands away, eyes crinkling and unbothered by the red staining your cuticles. “And you say I’m bothersome.’”

“You are. I thought I was ‘perfect?’” you tease.

The amusement fades as he holds you tighter. “You are.”

It’s probably the alcohol, but your heart really does skip a beat at that. Perfect little victim, maybe. Too trusting, too kind, too tempting to deny.

It's near twilight when there's finally a break in the storm.

Ceiling flap down, exposing the celestial bodies above through the plastic window of your–John’s–tent, nestled together and snacking on the remainder of sweet treats, when you speak.

“You asked me before why I watch the sky so much,” you say, and his attention immediately hones in on you. “I didn’t tell you the full truth.”

Liquid courage in your veins and the ecstasy of freedom before you.

“I began really stargazing after my mom died.” Tucking into his side, now. “It was the only way I could stand being in the dark without getting scared. I guess it felt like I wasn't actually alone. I liked to pretend she was up there somewhere, watching over me. Does that make sense?”

The orishas birthed the stars. The primordial goddesses and gods who created and ordered the cosmos. They’re still there. They're everywhere, now, supposedly walking the earth and seas, too.

“Makes perfect sense.” He's playing with your hair, stretching the curls out before returning them, only to start the process again. “I wanted to be an astronaut so I could escape home, and space seemed…peaceful. Safe, if lonely.”

Safe. Comforted. You'd forgotten how good it feels to let someone in, how soothing it is to have someone touch your hair like this. There's a wall there that allows you to ignore its rotten beginnings and just enjoy the moment.

Tomorrow, Rusty. In a matter of hours, you'll be walking your way out of here, on your way home. You'll never take your dad or your brother or your friends for granted again. Maybe you'll get your hair braided, finally.

It feels like peace right now, these final moments, and you wonder if he can feel it too. A tired sigh after an argument. The relief of knowing that a situation really is beyond your control, and someone else is responsible for the outcome. Leaving the stage after the denouement, boots drumming hollowly in the empty halls, interrupting the ghostly echoes of an audience long gone.

But because last days are for confessions, John has a few of his own to tell you, as it turns out. He’s atop you, down low with his head on your stomach. It’s intimate, this position, even after all you’ve shared.

You're dozing, drifting in and out of sleep when you hear them. Little praises pressed along the lower swoop, right over your womb, and for the first time today, you feel very uncomfortable with his attention to your body.

“What are you doing?” you hazard, voice thick with sleep.

“Just thinking,” he says, and you can actually feel the response with how his lips are pressed to you.

It sounds innocuous, probably would be coming from anyone else you’d allow to be so plastered to you. John doesn’t merely think, though. He plots. 

“About what?” Soft, flirty.

“The future.”

Those two simple words hasten your skin into gooseflesh. The flutters in your belly begin stirring again and it has nothing to do with the biology that’s been plaguing you the past few days. Something is about to happen. Is happening now.

A dry swallow. “And what’s so interesting about the future that it’s keeping you up so late? We have to get up early.”

“Just thinking about…families. Parenthood. Being a father, specifically.” Fingers wander over the slopes of your body, lingering over the exposed flesh over your womb. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re taking that daddy kink a little far,” you joke, laughing a little, trying for humor again–your common ground when reality sinks in a little too deep.

His grin is wicked. “No, that one’s reserved for you. I want a little one to call me dada or papa someday.”

Goddess, it makes you ill.

“You haven’t thought about it? Motherhood–parenthood,” he corrects.

Hackles rising, you lean up on your elbows to look down on his head of loose waves. His mood right now, it's one that you haven't seen in the past few days, but you don't like it. He's hard to read like this, something in his voice that's reminiscent of knowing something you don’t.

“You said you’ve been irregular, and you aren’t on contraceptives, right? By the time you get back to town, it could have taken already.”

Your heart stops. It's not that you haven't considered it, but the fact that he’s been entertaining the very thought you've been actively avoiding is the most frightening thing yet he’s admitted.

Lifting his head off your stomach so you can look him in the eye. “John, I…what? What do you mean by this?”

Brushing off the kisses he'd left there, masking it as a need to soothe cramps. This is a bad path, Rusty. It’s not on any map. You don’t know which trails will lead to a dead end, or a cliff, or which ones have rocks that will tumble out from underneath your feet.

“You’ll probably consider getting rid of them, but just think…if you didn't? They'd be beautiful. Your lips and my eyes, a mix of our hair? Dark and curly…untamed. It’s too bad that red isn't natural, because it looks stunning on you, Foxheart.”

They. Oh, John. You manipulative thing.

Head swimming and mouth dry, you try to formulate a response. “I um, that’s not really on my mind. M’still trying to figure things out. No job and all, remember? Wouldn't exactly make for a great parent right now.”

“You’ll make a great parent.” His eyes are steady on yours. “I know it. If not mama or papa, what could a non-binary parent be called?”

Everyone's different, some parents choose to those names still, but you like–

“...Pama,” you whisper, voice quivering. Stunned into honesty.

“Pama? So you have thought about it. Mm, it's unconventional, but I like it. It'll sound sweet coming from a little one,” he says, even though you didn't ask, because this is a dangerous conversation.

Oh, Rusty, what did you start here?

“This is just hypothetical, right? We’re just…just talking…right, John? A fantasy?” Please, say yes. Please laugh.

“No jokes this time, Rusty,” he says, keeping eye contact to ensure you understand that he's dead serious. “We can be a family together. A good one.”

Your blood runs cold. The dreamscape that's been helping you cope sloughs off, replaced by the dreadful sting of reality.

He's reneging on your deal.

“No, no no. John, we're supposed to be heading to the nearest station tomorrow.” Taking his face in your hands and pleading with him when he won’t meet your eyes. “I need medical care. I need a doctor to look at my foot, I…John, I need to see a gynecologist. You can't keep me forever, you can't–you swore–”

Oh, goddess, your heart is rattling harder than it has in days. A delicate, frightened thing trying to escape.

“I never said that I'd take you to town,” he says, eyes belying darkness.

“Yes, you did, we agreed that you’d–”

“No, I never did.”

No. No, he's lying, right? Wracking your brain, trudging through the fog of those first days, the realization hits you.

You have my word: I'll return you home safely. He never said whose home.

“Your home is with me, Rusty. And you're my home.”

So, the supposedly cunning fox made a deal with the devil and got tricked. What the fuck were you doing, playing house with this unhinged man? A stranger who stalked you. Who abused you, and you’re really surprised now that he lied to you about letting you go once his fantasy week was over?

You’re a fool.

“You knew,” you accuse with a shaky, dysregulated voice. “This whole time, you knew that you weren't going to let me go. I knew better than to believe you, but it wasn’t like you gave me any other choice.”

“Listen to me, Rusty. You won’t have anything to worry about–you can paint all day. Set up a spot so you can stargaze every night. I’ll cook for you. We’ll have each other. I’ll protect you, provide for you–all of you. I'll worship you. You’re just as lonely as I am. I’ve seen it, Rusty. Wouldn’t it be nice to never have to lie or hide again?”

Just fear me, love me, do as I say, and I will be your slave. Isn't that what the Goblin King, beautiful and wretched, told young Sarah in your favorite childhood movie? After he stole away her brother and put her through harrowing challenges? His obsession was unwarranted and cruel–she was only sixteen.

“John this is–” Crazy. Insane. Mad. “In what world could this actually happen? What happens when they find out who you really are?”

A broken, mean man. A liar and a thief. A rapist.

“Imagine, no–” Hysteria is taking over, and maybe you aren't as sober as you thought, because the words just keep spilling out. “Just imagine for one moment with me. Our child asks us one day how we met, our big romantic beginning. What am I supposed to say to them when they see me in chains?”

His face darkens, you know that you’ve definitely touched a nerve. You can’t stop the words, no matter how badly this could end for you.

“I’m so stupid. Was this your plan from the beginning? To manipulate me into thinking that you cared about me even a little–”

“I do care! More than you know, and that's why you can't just leave after everything. Just because you're scared!” he says heatedly.

The outburst isn’t quite a yell, but it matches one in its passion, leaving you to cower. Scooting as far away as you can in the tent’s confines, unable to look at him. Scared? Scared doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of what you're feeling right now.

What if he hits you, what if he puts his hands around that little neck of yours and squeezes until you relent? What if he decides you’re too much trouble after all and smashes you until you’re nothing but bone dust and viscera?

John lowers his voice, reining himself in again. He's too big, too damn tall to stand, so he stalks you like the predator he is, low to the ground on all fours. Gently taking your wrists and settling before you as you keep shaking your head.

Imploring.

“You raped me, John. How could I ever choose you?”

This look on his face is a new one, and you aren’t exactly sure what it means. “I didn’t rape you,” he says quietly.

“Yes, you did.” Fess up to it, you coward.

"Fingers aren't quite the same."

Your response is quiet, enough that he has to bend toward you to hear it. Good, because you want to make sure you have his attention.

"That's not what I was talking about."

His eyes widen. “No–rape…rape hurts, Rusty. It’s all force, and power, and making someone feel scared, okay? Rape is, it’s someone laughing while they push your face into a pillow so hard that you can’t even scream anymore. It’s waking up and washing the dried blood off of you because nobody else cared to do it. I'd hardly call what we’ve done that. Not when you’ve begged me for it so many times that I’ve lost count.”

The gasp that leaves you is sharp, piercing that hazy, iridescent bubble of denial that you’ve been surviving in. That troublesome, uncontrollable hand of yours is waving about wildly and you want to plant it right onto the trunk of his neck and pay him back for the grief he's caused you. Give him some olive-shaped bruises to match your own. What a pair you'd make.

Tears dancing on your waterline, smacking his hand away when it reaches for your shoulder.

“You want to know the real reason I called you a wolf? Because you’re a predator. Just like all the rest.” 

The infection in your belly is sour enough to infect the rest of your body, roiling and hot as John shakes his head in disbelief. You gave him what he wanted, your willingness in exchange for safety, and how goddamn dare he switch everything up on you, when you've got waxy, red smears of lipstick from his mouth all over your body.

“You should congratulate yourself, though. You had me there for a while. Convinced me that you’re anything more than a bad man,” you say.

A hand on his face. Staining your nails in the red color that’s smeared on his chin, raking a jagged pattern in the blood wax. “Wipe that lipstick off. You look ridiculous.”

There’s a rustling noise behind you as you turn away. You think he might be doing as you said. Or preparing to kill you for your insolence. You’ve witnessed some of what he’s capable of, but who knows what other secrets linger in his past? 

It doesn’t matter, not anymore. He’ll have to do it with your back to him, because he doesn’t deserve the effort it would take to turn around.

“I didn't…Rusty, I made a lot of mistakes with you, but I–I feel something for you that I didn't know I could feel. Am I supposed to just let that go?”

Yes.

“I shouldn’t have hurt you how I did.”

Throwing his words back at him from days ago. “How should you have hurt me, instead?”

“That’s not what I mea–listen, I know you’re upset, but hear me out: you can’t tell me that you don’t feel it, too. Aren't you tired of being alone?”

Shaking your head again, eyes closed. No, no, no, you don't know what he's talking about.

“You can't lie to me, Rusty, remember? I can see it in you. We see each other.”

It sounds like he’s trying to level with you about how you should return to whatever the fuck home he has or will build you and, and oh, he’s sick. He’s so sick. Maybe you both are, because for the love of all that is good in this world, it succeeds in pulling at something within you.

“You have been starving for love, too. Let me give it to you.”

Who the fuck isn’t starving for that? Why should you get singled out for it? Oh, your face is so hot again and you can’t keep it in anymore. Huddling into yourself as you gasp out horrific sobs. No energy to protest when you’re scooped up and into a lap, tucked under a chin, rocked back and forth.

“Come here, c’mere.”

It’s absurd, this thought. That maybe he’ll make a good dad someday, after all.

“You can’t keep me forever.” They're the most pathetic sounds you've cobbled together yet. Like he broke your damn heart or something. "I'll fall apart."

No matter how carefully he pets your hair, or how raw his voice is as he speaks destruction into your crown, desperation pours off this man, and that is a dangerous thing. This is obsession–this is what insanity looks like. It has you isolated and, and injured, encased in half-truths as it professes its love for you. 

He is so close to being regretful when he answers–so close to convincing you that this has anything to do with your benefit.

“I'll put you back together.”

And what thing will you be then? Replacing all the wood of Theseus' ship, plank by plank, is it still the ship of Theseus?

He's pawing at you again, wants to meld himself with you, wants to badger your soul until you understand. Brine blurs your vision as that index finger brands your chest again. This time you catch what it says:

M-I-N-E. That's…your heart fully in your gullet now as acid licks away at the tender organ.

His. All his.

There’s a distant hiss, but you aren’t sure where it’s coming from. Where did those dark, crawling things, wise and resilient go? They were supposed to keep the wolf at bay, but you dismissed them too many times, failed to heed their warnings, and they left. Found someone better to protect. Now, here you are. Heart aching under pressure, like it’s being squeezed. Alone, just like he said.

You want your mom.

Chapter Text

Gonna love you and make you love me.

“Ready or Not Here I Come (Can’t Hide from Love)” by The Delfonics 

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 7

I wasn’t always like this, but you probably know that. I was a normal kid with a normal childhood for a while. We went to church together every week–that was when it still made sense to me. Because of the word of God and the sacrifice of His son, people like us, believers, were saved. Wore His shield around my neck and knew I was protected.

Life was good. At least for Jane and me–clearly, it wasn’t great for our parents because one day our father left on a sales trip and never looked back. It was the first time I realized that there were things going on in the world that I didn’t understand, and that maybe we weren’t as protected as I thought.

Home was never quite the same after that. Suddenly, Mother’s part-time job that she mostly worked while we were in school to keep herself busy became her full-time one that barely covered the mortgage, bills, and necessities required for a single mom raising two children. She began seeking…other ways of filling in the financial gaps.

The other gaps in her life as well.

Click.

I remember that cross pushing into my cheek as I struggled to breathe through my pillow the first time that it happened. Sharp edges scratching and digging into my soft skin until it bled. It hadn’t protected me at all. No, it only hurt me worse. 

I threw it in the garbage the next day. The brand of it on my face stayed much longer, though.

The first time I fantasized about hurting other people–women, specifically, I was around twelve. Occasionally, it was one of her friends, but almost always, it was my mother at the other end of my arms, an intense hatred straining the grip of my young joints, turning her face all kinds of lovely, mottled shades of red and purple until that fat mouth of hers stopped running altogether. She was the one who held the key, after all.

No more empty promises and lies. This is the final party, okay? Just this last one to get us ahead of bills. You don't want us to lose the house, do you?  

Just peace. Finally.

I was a coward, though, for never actually having what it took to do the thing that would set me and Jane free. I was too weak, too small, and besides–what would've happened to us if we got thrown into the system? What if we were separated, and Jane went to a place that was just as bad, only I wouldn't be there?

It wasn't like there was a rulebook for these things, and the thought of making such a big decision, of murder, without knowing exactly how to escape cleanly was too big of a risk to take. If I got locked up, nobody would have been left there for Jane, and that was the worst-case scenario, leaving her to face hell alone, without protection. 

In my wilder fantasies, our father actually returned to save us. Each day that he didn't, though, I had to ask myself: could we wait just a few more years until I turned eighteen, when I could take Jane away from here myself?

What if Mother really did change the next day, and it lasted for longer than a week or two? Those times were almost good enough to make us forget the rest of it, the closest we felt to being a real family. Like when Mother would spend the entire day with us, take us shopping, help us with our homework as best she could, cook every meal. Either start or end the day with her homemade cinnamon rolls. She spent hours getting them right for us. She wasn't always bad, it was just…just that when it was, it was bad.

Still, if something happened to her, we would go to our next of kin, and I could never let that happen. The summer I spent at our uncle’s farm was enough to put that fear in me. I was sent away because of all the trouble I kicked up that year.

Bad behavior that resulted from my mother’s worse behavior–earlier that year was the first time she gave one of her friends a key to my room. My teacher didn’t know what was going on with me, just that suddenly the quiet boy in their class who never raised a fuss stopped turning in his work and started picking fights out of the blue. 

When the backtalk didn’t stop at home, either, I was hauled off to the farm.

Click.

I knew something was off about my uncle. He put his hands on me plenty. A hand on the scruff on my neck, shaking me like a dog when I dropped and broke one of his dinner plates while setting the table. Shoving me out of the way to finish something I was working on because I wasn’t doing it right. He popped me on the temple with the back of his hand with the same casualness way most people shake hands. 

But he never laid a hand on me like that, and that was the one thing I was grateful for in my time with him.

Look there, John. You see those horses out there rutting?

I did–it was violent and looked painful. I didn’t like it.

That’s what the world is like. Women, too. If you’re not the one fucking, then you’re the one getting fucked, and that’s how you gotta treat ‘em. There ain’t a man in your house to teach you these things, so you’re lucky you got me. You’re too soft, like a woman. It ain’t right. Gotta work that out of you before people start thinking you’re a fairy.

Uncle was all craggy edges. Gruff. He had weather-beaten hands, a large collection of guns, and a whopping lack of nuance to his violence. He would shoot first and ask your corpse what it wanted later. Even as a boy, I knew I wouldn’t stand a chance against him. The best thing I could say about that man was that his…predilections didn’t involve boys.

Though she never said it, I suspect that’s why Mother didn’t stay long when she dropped me off. She barely spoke a word to her older brother, even when he asked her to stay for the night and catch up for old times’ sake. Drove off so fast that her tires spat gravel into my face.

Now, ‘fore you leave, John, listen up: don’t you be giving your mama more trouble like that, you hear me? She’s a good woman. That don’t mean you’re not welcome back. Gets lonely out here and I could use a pair of young, strong hands to help me keep the farm up. Maybe next summer, you can come out again.

Bring your sister, too.

No, Jane could never go there. And I couldn’t let Mother send me away for another summer like that, either, because who knows what would happen at home while I was gone? Mother knew what she was doing by making me stay with her brother. I came back as an obedient boy–mostly, and she found more creative ways to punish me, instead. As long as it was me and not Jane. Not her door unlocking with a click that was quiet to anyone but her ears, a creaking followed by soft footsteps.

Not her blanket being drawn from her not-sleeping body as she faced the wall, hoping the pretense would deter him.

Click.

So I eschewed the initiative and chose the devil we knew over the ones we didn't, and for a while, I thought we could handle it. I could shoulder the brunt of what our mother subjected us to if it meant I was keeping Jane from experiencing any of the really bad stuff. Could grit my teeth and bare it as the only responsible adult in that house. I'd take their pain for as long as I needed to in order to keep her safe. It wasn’t perfect, but it was fine.

Until I found out that was no longer the case.

Click.

After Jane was hurt, it was different. Our mother had betrayed that unspoken dynamic, that tenuous arrangement that we’d had. What little security I’d built for us was proven to be a sham. It was a straw house, easily destroyed, exposing us to the wickedness of the world. My anger and my uh…urges began to really take hold. I shook with it, sometimes. Trembles from my wrist to fingertips that begged to be wrapped around something–someone–solid. Aching to pay it back.

It didn't help that I was finally growing into my own. My height seemed to sprout up overnight, but the structure of my growing form was all lankiness and ill-fitting bones. I realized, then, that if I were ever to protect myself and Jane, I would need strength, too. I started lifting weights at school and joined some teams. Baseball was alright as a kid, but I was never that accurate with hitting the ball. The basketball coach poached me immediately in my junior year, and while I was good at it, with my height, track was where I really excelled. I preferred to move. To chase that end goal.

The chase, oh the chase. Even in structured sports with rules, the thrill of outrunning an opponent, knowing you could overtake them at any point simply because you’re better than them? It stuck its way into the deepest recesses of my desires. I could run and run until the weakness dripped free from my pores. Could outrun anyone.

Things at home got somewhat better as I got older. Mother must've known there was a time limit on how long she and her friends could misuse a growing boy. In my teenage years, she resorted to mean words and halfheartedly thrown objects, all of which were nothing compared to what she'd already put me through. It was a heady, new kind of authority that I began to feel. All because I was big. Becoming a man.

The things a man could do.

I was rippling with newfound power, but my anger grew in direct proportion. Teenage hormones and trauma made for a bad mix, as it turned out. I was itching for something that I didn't have a name for. Some relentless need clawed at the underside of my skin, threatening to tear loose.

Click.

Initially, the urge to hurt manifested in little ways, especially at school. Picking on pretty little things with bleached blonde hair, clothing that emphasized their budding breasts, heavily painted faces, all popping gum as they tested their flirtatiousness, experimenting with their growing sexuality. Popular with the popular boys, which wasn't quite me, despite my status as an athlete.

What worked for me, though, was that they trusted me, since I was still a bit of an outcast. A shy but affable friend would never hurt them, right? They thought I'd be an easy source for their validation–which I fed into, of course. I'd start by buttering them up with compliments, building their self-esteem, before I cut them down.

Oh, you're really pretty and all, but I can only bring nice girls home, and I don't believe them, but there are some nasty rumors about you floating around, or People might take you more seriously if you wore less makeup.

Stacy was my first. It was my junior year, her freshman one, and we were at a house party. She kept batting her thick, gloppy lashes at me from across the living room, intent on getting the quiet, mysterious guy to open up. Probably wanted to tell her friends about me, not that she'd ever learn anything worth repeating. I was a much harder nut to crack, then. The loneliness of age must have softened me up.

She was drinking way too much for a girl her size. It was probably her first high school party, poor thing…she seemed nervous. After she struck up a conversation with me–So, how long have you been running track?–we found a quiet corner in the backyard, dark and isolated.

We had fun at first, chaste kisses and over the clothes-groping. It was when my fingers slipped under her skirt, the tight, too-short piece, that she began to squirm. Began to say no and that’s when I saw red. She kept saying no, though, even with my hand over her mouth to muffle her cries, until she wore herself out. Then I fingered her tight little hole until it was as wet as the tears that seeped under my hand.

No one would believe her, I told her afterwards. Not when they saw what a whore she was. I mean, look at how she dressed and drank, for crying out loud, I said. And what kind of good, respectable girl goes to a party full of boys all alone like that? She knew what looking for there and goodness, what a long, awful high school career with that reputation.

It worked to keep her quiet. Left her outside to wash up in the bathroom–couldn’t leave the party with cum drying in my pants.

Promptly vomited when I saw the blood staining my hands.

Alcohol and nerves rushed in my ears so loudly I could hardly hear, let alone think, but once the humming died down, I could feel. Aside from anger, I hadn't felt much of anything for years before that night, but what I felt, finally, was bliss. Better than any running match had ever brought me.

I wish I'd never discovered that shortcut to euphoria.

Click.

Power is accompanied by a certain loneliness, and while it protected me and my secrets, it ached not having anyone to confide in. Isolation chills the soul, and it was beginning to numb me again. How could it be a surprise that I'd flock to a source of warmth?

Jane tested out of high school early, graduating just a couple of years after me, and once she did, she was gone. Took off to another state to live with her boyfriend and didn’t look back on the place we’d called home. So I left, too. There was nothing there for me except haunted memories, frayed threads of the things I’d done, and Mother, who was getting worse and more miserable as she aged, shrinking inside of her once-beautiful casing.

It was years of roaming aimlessly, flitting from one job to the next, just working enough to fund my…hobbies. My passion. Staying on the move was safer, anyway, but I was always hungry. Famished. Craving something that was ultimately intangible, but worth pursuing its weaker forms just to keep me sustained. It gnawed at me, and I began to feel more and more feral with every failed attempt to satiate it.

Thought I'd live that way forever. Until I met you.

Click.

The copper coils of your hair, a maelstrom of searing sunshine, was what first caught my eye. They captured my attention with a fervor that I hadn’t experienced in a long while. Radiating warmth, burrowing deep and simmering.

There have been others, yes, who were beautiful, too. Easy on the eyes and easier on the tongue.

But not like you.

Some of them were sweet, others were sharp, some salty, but there was always something missing. An element that brought all the flavors into harmony. Something for every day of the week, ever changing, shifting unpredictably.

They typically shared a trait that reminded me of my mother–and I know how that sounds, dear, but we hardly get to choose our fixations–be it their age, the way they looked at me with distrust, the way they flirted so prettily. Dolls with push-up bras, glamorous as they walked through the world. All of them delectable, never giving me a second glance unless I molded myself to fit into their life with my charm, just like the girls in school when I was growing up.

Observing you with your shorter stature–perfect size to fit in my palms, into my pocket, even, where I can keep you close–fluffy hair, skin baked to a golden brown, nutmeg-freckled face, that lovely chest wrapped up so tightly as though it were a gift, begging to be unwrapped. You weren't my typical style, but you were comfort. You looked…filling.

My fingers twitched in anticipation, and my pulse raced with something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe it was time for a change. My usual order was starting to taste stale.

The outdoor goods store provided an excellent cover for me, lots of hustle and bustle on a busy weekend, and I could see your excitement in the flurry of your hands as you talked to the camping associate. Chloe was her name.

It was my first visit at her job, and I was in the adjoining section’s aisle, far enough not to be conspicuous, close enough to hear and see, only vaguely interested in their selection of paracords as I listened attentively to your chatter. Oh, dear, you were so over the moon for your upcoming adventure. You couldn’t stop telling her details, the two of you falling into a conversation easily.

Chloe was a pretty little sparrow with long, blonde hair who loved country music and going to the local drive-in with friends. She had four older brothers and a younger sister. Just got her own apartment after a break-up, and liked her job because she got a decent discount on gear. She also does this thing with her hair when she flirts, where she twirls the end of a lock around her index finger, before tucking it behind her ear. A self-conscious, cute move.

I was there for her, you understand. For Chloe. The plans were already in motion, but you stole me away. I remember it, the way I froze when you approached her for advice for reasonably-priced but durable packs. How you threw your head back in laughter at one of her comments, face full of mirth. Eyes crinkled shut, teeth sparkling, and it was so loud–you didn’t hold back.

Honey-sweet comfort oozed from you, my feet already tacky with it, stuck in place. So there, I stayed.

Chloe had the most darling pink flush tinting her cheeks as she lightly swayed, listening to you, playing with the ends of her hair. Moving it out of her face with a little head tilt, before tucking it back and–

Oh. She liked you. Unexpected, but that's okay, because I liked you, too. Would I have competition for your attention? Do you even like men? Usually, that wouldn't matter, but there was a strange desire for you to like me back.

Similar to Chloe, you also have a tick where you bite your bottom lip–nerves or habit?–and a bizarre envy grew in my gut at watching those little white bones nibble away. Wondered how they’d feel on my skin. Imagined how I’d make you feel mine, too. Make you whine as I pressed down harder to break the skin, before licking away the pain with apologies.

Dear, I was smitten. I’d forgotten the way my stomach could drop in anticipation like that. The stirrings in my nerves had me flustered like I was a hormonal teenager again, promising a hunt that could keep me full for a long, long while. If I was warming up just in the periphery of your glow, what would a direct blast feel like?

It consumed me, this new craving, and that wasn’t ideal, teetering on impulsiveness. Not a smart way for me to work. Impulsiveness usually leads to recklessness. Recklessness leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to an arrest, and…well, I can’t let that happen, can I? So, I tried to ignore it, because I wanted to stick with my original plans for sweet, pretty Chloe. Chloe who was already opening up to you about her horrible ex-boyfriend who broke up with her after she found out he cheated. Poor girl.

Doesn’t matter who the anonymous number was that forwarded those photos of her ex and his illicit paramour.

See? Familiar. Smart. Safe.

Then you smiled. Full lips that curled at the ends, coaxing their way into dimples that could only be described as adorable, belying the cheekiness you'd shown already. Playful. A Cheshire cat, perhaps or…no…

At the end of your conversation, you thanked Chloe profusely for her help, not obliging her obvious, if conflicted, interest, turning and missing her disheartened look–you were on a mission.

Not a cat at all, perched up in a windowsill, watching the world from behind the safety of glass, encased in the confined structure of domesticity. Rejecting new attachments when you were this close to a big, life-changing trip–too wild for that. No, you were something else.

A little fox about to make its way into the forest to find out how big a footprint its paws could leave behind.

“Hey,” you said, suddenly turning around and catching both of our attention. “Your ex is a dick, by the way. Assuming I survive this hike, maybe we can meet up sometime and swap horrible ex stories? I've got a few, myself.”

When you winked, Chloe shared in your amusement and nodded, her eyes trailing after you as you walked away.

As did mine.

You told me that I had charm, but surely, you know the effect you have, too. How could I resist?

There was time to think it over, though, as you had a lot more shopping to do. Lots of gear to choose out of options upon options. A little more embarrassed every time you had to explain to someone that yeah, you knew that hiking alone was not advisable for a beginner and don’t worry, you’re new, but you’ve done your fair share of research over the PCT, and you’re sure about it. Always thanking them before spinning their concern in a positive way–any personal advice for a newbie like me?  

I became your distant shadow, careful not to let the toes of my silhouette kiss your heels. Floating through the store, drifting lazily in your wake as though in a haze, entranced. Guided by the velvet rumbles of your laughter. Making you cry would be easy–plenty of practice there, and I bet you cry so prettily, just like the others. Could I make you laugh, though? The sudden drive, the need to find out wouldn't let up.

Would you fight me or tremble as I plucked you from the world and picked you apart, shedding all those unnecessary layers of clothing? How soft would your hair feel between the grip of my fingers? What noises would you make when I sank myself into you so deeply that your body would keep the burning memory of me?

I had to find out.

Click.

You went into the trip prepared, waiting another couple of weeks before you left. Researching and verifying information that the associates told you. Doublechecking your supplies, scrapping anything that wasn’t essential in an effort to keep your pack light. Inspired by your book, sure, but you weren’t planning to hike the whole trail. Not this late in the year, just a little more than a month. Enough to clear your head and hopefully reinvigorate your sense of self, before returning to the job hunt–as you’d told a few friends in your messages.

While you researched weather conditions and beginner’s tips, I researched you. There's a certain…lack of discretion about you that helped immensely–a lot of gaps between what you thought was safe and where you actually were quite vulnerable. Found your word document detailing your trail plans, the direction you were taking, which resupply stations you would visit, tentative areas to stop for the night. The way you lingered around the campfire treats and wine sections at the grocery store. Bit of a sweet tooth on you, something we have in common, and it’s just so adorable.

What surprised me to discover was that while you made friends or acquaintances easily, you didn’t have a lot of people close to you. Not much family around, and not once did I see you even call them. A few friends, but you primarily kept to yourself in the days leading up to your retreat. Maybe you were focused on your trip, wanting the emotional distance so that the physical one would be easier, but–you were so independent.

But it's dangerous out there for a thing like you. Especially when you think you've got it all on your own. Anything could happen.

I had to catch you to keep you safe. You–goodness, you didn't even realize how vulnerable you were, did you? No, you…well, dear, you didn't even notice me in the store, aisle after aisle, nor me hovering over you the weeks before you left. Didn't notice me during your time on the PCT, either, and darling, there’s hardly anyone else even out here.

Except for that first week, when there were a few very friendly men who gave you advice. Helped you locate the best terrain for setting up your camp, which supplies to conserve, and which to use up to maintain your energy. Can't say that I wasn't jealous at first. The way they looked at you, eyes lingering too long on what didn't belong to them. They wanted you–how could they not want to stare straight into the sun at its softest point…as the season drew toward winter? 

Did you want them back, just a little, even as they fell away from your attention? Was it your determination to thrive in your solitude here, to trek your way through it until it didn't gnaw at your chest anymore that had you declining their invitations?

Yet, you were so sweet to help me out. Eager to pay it back and lend a hand, like I’d anticipated. Too kind and–and trusting with a total stranger. A man, at that. Out here, all alone in the forest. Dear, you were so, so…open. Easy to read or grab–I had to help you, step in before something or someone worse came along, you see.

I bided my time as your unknown observer. Should've known my little fox was clever–button nose in a book most nights, firelight illuminating your lovely face as I tried to imagine what you were reading based on your reactions. Eyebrows rising when something surprising happened, a frown in discontent, a little curl of a smirk when you were pleased.

A hot-cheeked grin when you encountered something filthy. That was my favorite expression. Confirmed that you brought some dirty books, too. I perused your quaint collection later that day after I, after we…

Anyway. I liked those books, even if they were distasteful. They helped me find out what you liked. Being held so firmly that the skin glues together, being talked to sweetly. Being praised and kissed and worshiped and licked all over until red flush overtakes your face down to your chest. Passionate coupling that's intimate and rough all at once.

I watched you as much on the trail as I could without alerting you. Saw you on good days, with the light beaming down on your face, a smile mirroring that luminous gaze–proud of your progress those days. Saw your bad days too, evenings spent with your face cradled in your palms, shoulders shuddering with wracking sobs. I can't fucking do this, you’d say. Yes, dear, I saw you falter and struggle, and that's when I realized–

You weren't independent, not simply alone. You were lonely. Now, that I could understand. Loneliness and I are old friends.

I was also there the night you slept under the stars–probably not your safest choice, by the way–but luckily, it was only me out there. Couldn't help but snap a few photos when that mischievous paw traveled down the length of your clothed body, briefly playing with the exposed skin of your belly before disappearing into your shorts.

Ah, my little fox was hungry, too. Pretty lips falling open as your hand continued its ministrations. I found my own hand drifting into my pants, cradling the impossibly hard problem you caused without ever having looked at me. Held off on my release until you found yours, and that was a challenge, because the ache for you had married itself into my joints. Making me come without ever having touched me, right in my pants like a kid. That's the hold you have on me.

Dazed, catching our breath in the aftermath of ecstasy. Sleep resting heavily in my limbs like lead, and I still needed to get back to my camp.

In and out. In, then out.

In…

     …out.

Then…your hand shifted, and you started playing again.

And again, and again.

Click.

Starving. You were starving, and it made me starve, too. I shook with it, could hardly keep my camera steady as I zoomed in on your face to get a better look.

Skin glowing in the firelight, hair so bright in the reflection that it appeared to be aflame. Jaw quivering every time you approached your peak. You were intoxicating, Foxheart.

Began to dream of how you'd smell–vanilla and cinnamon, as I found out. How you'd writhe beneath me, claws sinking into flesh, torn between pushing me away and pulling me in deeper…how you'd scream for me.

It's bad, that lack of control. 

But I made my way through the woods, photographing other curious things that captured my interest along the way–figured I could show you how attentive I could be, how creative, how much I could fit into your life, even as I locked you into mine. Finally, we’d gotten far enough away from other hikers. I'd been patient, but…it was time to meet you. I couldn't wait any longer.

So, the trap was laid.

All it took was a pair of cheap boots and a purposely clogged water filter, and my eager creature was ensnared.

The first thing you did was smile at me, dimples digging into my heart like spurs. After weeks and long nights of waiting and imagining, dreaming of you, finally, finally, that smile was trained on me. It's so good to be patient. Makes the reward so much richer.

There you were. Windblown curls and the scent of autumnal trees dying on your skin. Still gorgeous, even while wearing the effects of hiking for weeks on end. It was a hot day, and all you had on was that thick bra over lovely, sun-kissed skin. I wanted to pull the golden, feathery hairs on your shoulders between my teeth. 

Getting to know you that first day confirmed that I was right about you. Knew you were playful and teasing from how you interacted with others, but I didn't realize how dirty you were. Crass, sometimes, but the self-awareness you have, you know exactly how it comes off and you do it anyway, a little inside joke with yourself. A little immature, but mostly cute.

I also didn't realize how much I'd enjoy your messiness. You aren't easily folded into a perfect square that fits nicely into a perfect box. The corners are all wrong, angles not quite what they seem, requiring customized arrangements. I usually prefer everything to be meticulously clean, pressed, and folded. In full order. Not you, though–mostly organized, if a little lax. Unconcerned. Free. Maybe that’s a balance that I need.

What really surprised me was how genuinely interested in me you seemed. Women find me attractive, yes, but generally, I still have to make the first move with the respectable ones. With you, though, we both seemed to just…come together so seamlessly. There was a real connection there–didn’t have to make up a whole persona. No, it was…just me. Well, me without the broken bits.

Were you a little entranced, too?

You were flooding my system with ambrosia. I was drunk on you. We were drunk on each other, really, because it didn't take you long at all to latch onto me, feral little thing, but I didn't mind it.

Didn't mind it at all.

Not with the way you gripped onto my beard–grew it for you, by the way. Never really kept one before. It itches, rankles against my upbringing, but I figured you'd like it, based on your porn history, naughty thing. All women-centered pleasure and sloppy head.

I would be that man for you, if you would be that lovely, messy, warm comfort for me.

Letting me unwrap the layers of your protection, inviting me right into your domain. And it was such a pretty, perfect little pussy you kept underneath that careful clothing. Molasses dribbling over velvet flesh, darker as it gets sweeter, and oh dear, could tuck myself away in there forever. The birdsong that escaped your lips, head thrown back in want, the way that you tried to rip off my scalp when my mouth was working at that hot, sacred place that quivered between your legs…

I would gladly drown myself in you, dear, for the promise of every last drop of ichor.

It's the first time I've ever regretted not having a condom–you would've let me have you right then and there, huh? Lips damp from your begging whimpers, sounding softer than you ever had, but condoms aren’t usually necessary for my process. When you returned the favor with vigor, I knew then that you really did like me. Didn't have to ask, didn't have to demand, no, little fox, you took hold and nearly melted me down with just your hands. Lovely appendages capable of creating such beauty on paper, of unspooling me into a puddle of nerves.

It struck me in the aftermath, what it was about you that really attracted me. When I saw my spend pooled over your heated, golden-brown softness, my head filled with the remembrance of cinnamon rolls, thick frosting melting over sweet dough.

Of good days where I didn't have to hurt anyone to feel happy. When I was still a good person. Of home. Found it hard to breathe, then, but I knew…

One taste wouldn't be enough.

Fell asleep with you curled into my side, warm, willing, and mine. Felt for a brief moment what life would be like if I were just normal–I could get used to it. Wanted to, even. I, uh, I really thought it could work. Could feel that filthy badness beginning to slough off, absorbed into the soil, and be the kind of man who makes you laugh so hard that the muscles of your stomach burn with incendiary delight.

In fact, I was already making plans on how to woo you once we returned to civilization. We’d slow it down once we were back among society, as is proper. Take you on actual dates, meet your small family, wait a few months before asking to move in together. Eventually, we'd become family ourselves. Wake up to find your honeyed eyes on mine, pepper your sweetness with kisses, until you're plumped up with want. Make you cry and beg for me before I house myself between your legs and never, ever leave.

And then…

Click.

…Then, you snooped through my camera. Those pictures were just for me, the nasty part you weren’t supposed to see. I would've kept the illusion going for so much longer. Forever, if I could. Weeks, Rusty, weeks of planning and the entirety of our future spoiled because you were just too curious.

I should've accounted for that, too, I suppose.

It’s unlikely that you’ll believe me any time soon, and I get why, better than most, but I really am sorry for how I treated you. How I…scared you. That wasn’t my goal, not my plan–not my preferred one, anyway. It’s just that I knew you’d leave me once you found out about my…unpalatable deviancies. Run and scream to the police, tell them what I looked like so they could lock me up forever. I refuse to rot in that stinking place, would do just about anything to avoid it. 

I have trouble sometimes, with that insatiable need for control, and I–I, uh, couldn’t quite rein it in, dial it back. Yes, I wanted to scare you, because I resented that I already lost you before I even had a chance to explain anything, to make you so enthralled in me that you could overlook some of my…tendencies, like a normal relationship.

But the bomb had dropped and its aftershock rattled that nastiness loose. It flipped an old, long-established switch when you caught me. You needed to be sorry for ruining everything, and the quickest way toward that is when it hurts, dear.

Click.

The chase. Oh, the chase. Reminded me of my time on the track team, long limbs slicing through the air, puffs of fog quickly dissipating in the chilly autumn wind. Damp flesh rippling, endeavoring, straining for escape in an elongated hallway that never ends. You were never going to get away from me. Not on those short legs and bared feet–suppose I should've given you time to put on your boots for a fair chance, but I was so angry.

There’s nothing quite like the high of catching your prey after an empty-bellied hunt. It’s a rush comparable to a well-earned, long-awaited orgasm. What I imagine the first draw of a pipe feels like.

I was furious that you spoiled it all, even though you tried so very hard to pretend you hadn’t. It couldn’t last, like that, even though you put up a good act. Maybe a small part of you wanted to go back to the way it was before, but I could see the bigger part of you that was just putting up with it until you could break loose.

That wasn’t going to happen. Not when I was so close to something real.

I had to paint you up until you bore even the faintest resemblance to Mother, just so it would hurt me a little too whenever the next part came. I wouldn’t let you hurt alone, after all. Oh, there it was–that look, that niche thing that reminded me of her after all. Contempt and fear all at once. She always showed up eventually. 

You looked so pretty with your lips stretched around me, trying your best to please me. It didn't take long for you to adjust, and every time you looked up at me with your pitiful eyes framed by spiky lashes, chin smeared with red, mouth stuffed full of cock, I swear my heart skipped a beat.

Quickly working me into a frenzy, because I'm sure your knees were in agony, unrelenting dried branches digging into them as you kneeled. Your foot was injured enough, and I didn't want to break you too much. Could see the bulge, feel it expand as you struggled to accommodate my release.

Then, you spat it out on me. In. My. Face. Almost lost it then, because even if I like that sort of thing, I prefer to be on the giving end.

Then you bit me, and I saw red again.

Click...

If you’re not the one fucking, then you’re the one getting fucked.

Rusty, I know that I hurt you. Knew I was hurting you during it, too. Took my pleasure in your pain–I even found ecstasy in your fear. It's, ah…old habits. Damned by wrath, it was no matter if your face was dewy with tears, eyes wide with fright, because your face was painted up like one of Mother’s whore friends, and I couldn't–simply could not tolerate that level of disrespect, Foxheart. Not even from you.

…It would be disingenuous of me to say that I didn't enjoy that look on you. You're pretty as a ripened peach when you’re flustered, but…it affected me in a way unlike the others. This is the part where I say that I'm sorry for not being the man I pretended to be. It's true. Seeing your face hot with tears and pain bothered me afterwards, which was new. Once the fog of anger lifted to make room for clarity, I didn't feel any bliss.

No, I felt bad.

It reminded me of when I watched the agony between those horses on my uncle’s farm. It didn’t feel right this time.

I should've given you proper time to adjust to the fact that you belong to me as much as I do you. Should've been kinder, even when you pushed me, when you peeped into my things, implied that I was some kind of a…a freak or a pervert, when there's so, so much more to me and…it's reductive, really, but you didn't know. You were just scared, but it's okay, because I’ve been frightened and hurt, too–and it made me a stronger person. Strong enough to catch you.

Resolved, then, to be strong enough to control my anger, too–keep you safe, even from myself. Look at us, now: more honest with each other than we've been able to with anyone else. There's so much more to you than what observing and researching could tell. You've opened up to me, dear, and in return, you actually see me, just as I see you–unlike any woman before you.

No, “not a woman,” as you'd said. Does it hurt when people get it wrong? The abrasive irritation against newly healed skin? I'll try to understand this part of you better. Society has a lot of different labels for me, too, that don't quite fit. Nothing ever seems meaningful enough…like they can't quite take into account all that life throws at us, and how those things can burn a path through our psyches.

I've been stuck on one of those trails, unable to move forward without an end goal in sight. Do you feel the same ache? Twin souls lost in the River Styx, loneliness pulling us into its powerful depths?

You see, I have this–there’s a gaping chasm in me that eats away at me. Standing in the mirror, I can see that pit growing in my chest, and it'll…it'll swallow me whole if it isn't filled. I'm not afraid of much, but the idea of disappearing into obscurity is a big one. Like you, I have trouble sleeping. That emptiness keeps me up at night like heartburn, but it's closer to heartache. Sweaty, tangled in my sheets, clutching at the nothingness beside me. It's been lonely, living like that. A man can't live that way forever.

I even tried dating when I was younger. Sweet girls who said they liked me, wanted me, until they decided my love was too much. I was too much. Clingy. Possessive. Broken. My appetite and needs were…too unconventional, too dark to maintain a relationship. When I opened up about my past, I made them uncomfortable. Either required or demanded too much, so I learned to keep my filthiness a secret fairly quickly.

It's a big secret to hold onto, though–it has me split, I think, between the digestible man everyone wanted me to be, and the one that, ah, the one I really am. Always worried that people could see the bad inside of me that I worked hard to mask.

From our first conversation, I could feel the sinews of that hole beginning to knit together again, an itchy process that threatened addiction. It hurt so beautifully. Must've been something about me that stuck you to my side, even after you helped me. I mean, you invited me to hike with you. You hadn't done that with the others.

Was I something special, too?

Could you sniff out the darkness lurking underneath, hidden under polite platitudes, silly smiles, and charm? Did it intrigue you? Make you curious how it would meld with your own?

Even the first questions you asked me were genuine, like you really wanted to know. Your small talk wasn't so small.

So what inspires your photography? What are your friends like? If you could live anywhere on the planet, money not an issue, where would it be and why? Do you travel much? Do you have trouble fitting in airplanes with that ridiculous height? Where do you see yourself in five–no, two years, hm? Do you have any big regrets in life? What changes do you wanna make about yourself?

Changes? No, dear, I wouldn't change a thing. Not that I've found you.

The way your sharp little canines dig into my neck when I'm buried six feet deep inside you, the thunderous quake of your thighs around me, never holding back, the vibrations of your laugh that reaches the deepest caverns of hell...passion fusing our limbs together. To have such intensity focused on me leaves me lightheaded. It’s as close to happiness as I’ve ever felt. Maybe I don't deserve it after all I've done, but there's no way I can let it go after having a taste.

I was right, though. Your tears are pretty, yes, but your smile is prettier. Just have to remind myself of that when that familiar dark urge whispers into my ear. I can stay in control, I think. I have to, because when your little heart is sheltered so close to mine, fluttering in fear and excitement, I almost feel normal. Worthwhile. Worth loving.

You drag something out in me that I thought I had lost after Jane stopped talking to me, but with every probing question, you manage to dig your claws deeper and tighter into me. Even if it hurts, I never want it to end, pain morphing into something good again. One day, you'll burrow yourself so deep that we can't tell where one of us begins and the other ends. 

Wayward traveler is what you called me on our first meeting, except I'm anything but wayward. No, dear one, I’m exactly where I want to be, and I know exactly what I want. I suppose if it's time to be totally honest now, I can say this: I knew I would keep you the moment that smile was fixed on me. Maybe I don't deserve it, but how would I let your comfort go? Especially when I've got the sweetness of vanilla and the spice of cinnamon lingering on my tastebuds.

This is my last chase–I'm ready to settle. I can't think of a better way to shed this loneliness that blankets the two of us.

It's time to take you home, little fox.

Click.

Chapter Text

If you don’t eat yourself, no doubt, the pain will instead.

“Eat Yourself” by Goldfrapp

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 8

There’s an ache in your chest as you walk behind John today, and it takes you a while to recognize where it’s coming from, but it reveals itself eventually. You’re homesick, and you don’t even know what exactly for. Your dad and brother are all that you have–no one close really stays in your life, because maintaining relationships has always been a challenge.

Eventually, people would find out how rotten you are in your core, and it crushed you, their disappointment at realizing the happy-go-lucky friend or partner they thought they had wasn’t actually so happy after all. The sharp barbs and the waspish attitude out of nowhere would surprise them. It was like you could see their discontent grow in real time and that’s what ended up gutting you.

“It's too much. I'm sorry, Rusty, but I can't do it anymore. You make it so difficult sometimes.”

“You won't let me in. How can I help you if you keep pushing me away?”

Little pig, little pig, let me in. Everyone wants through the white picket fence and into your home until they see how empty the walls are, and how threadbare the furniture is. How your hand-me-down woes are neglected and piled up in the corner. The spiders and their desiccated prey could stake a better claim to the place than you.

The fear of that inevitable falling out of love prompted you to keep it just out of reach. A bad experience with it in high school burned you good. Nothing all that special, really, in hindsight. Just a typical sort of story: the betrayal of a former best friend who was uneasy about her sexuality. Her parents had walked in on the two of you making out in her bedroom and made a fuss. You’ll never forget the way she had shoved you away so hard that your head hit the wall.

It was made worse when she got ahead of the rumor mill and decided to disclose to the entire school that you were gay, a “dyke” to be exact–and oh, how the boys better hold onto their girls when the freak was around. The sinner. The pervert. You knew they were wrong, but you couldn't argue that bisexuality was different, let alone that you didn't even think you were a girl, and not a boy either, because somehow that would've made you something else that was entirely incomprehensible. 

Every now and then, you could swear your skull still rattles with that crack. Maybe she broke something in there, too, pairing well with the empty husk where your heart should be.

And then there’s John.

Glaring at him as he walks ahead of you. A nasty feeling burrows deeper every time he pauses to readjust his overstuffed pack. He’s taken on several items from yours, mostly the necessities, but the combined weight of your large-scale water bladders has taken a toll on him throughout the day. The pack and tent were left behind. There was no way for you to carry them and safely keep your balance.

It was smart of him, too. People will see those remains and think you had simply gotten lost or caught up in an unfortunate accident. Just another underprepared beginner, happens all the time. A tragedy, sure, but no foul play.

You’re reminded of the first time you hiked together, right after meeting him under the guise of helping him. It was difficult to sneak glances at him with the difference in height, and you had to crane your neck to scout out the slope of his shoulders, the definition of his arms, the harmony of his features that shouldn't have worked but did.

Even sweat-stained from exertion, he still cuts a devastating figure, especially with how the sunlight sparkles on the fine hairs of his body, little golden pricks along his arms and legs. Your fingertips itch to brush along the delicate blades, to dance feathersoft atop John’s slopes as he walks ahead of you. A beautiful monster carved from Grecian stone.

It’s hard to appreciate though, with the way anger has housed itself in the fleshy tomb of your body. The foulness of it in the sprawling matrix of your nerves is beginning to fester within you–something long-forgotten, but familiar that coils within the vulnerable passages of your organs, your veins, like a ravenous parasite. A grieving, weeping spite so deep it threatens your sanity. Waiting to lash out.

Oregon is where you’re headed, apparently. There’s no way that you’re walking there, but he didn’t disclose any further details regarding how you’ll get there. Only that it has electricity and plumbing.

My, uh, my father left it to us when he died. Guess he felt like he owed us something at least. Mother kept it from us until she was on her deathbed and Jane didn’t want anything to do with it, so it’s all mine. Ours, now.

It’s on a few acres of land and is big enough for a family. Just thinking of it makes you sick. Children. There it is, that subject you couldn’t quite chew up into a swallowable bite, so your jaw occasionally gnaws on the word with futile movements, leaving a nutritionless mass in the hollow of your cheek.

You can see the restricted beginnings now: a shared phone line. Calls to your dad on speakerphone. Working your way up to supervised visits, if you can act right. If–when–there’s a child, you'll be easier to tame, of course. The ultimate collateral: a little one on your hip, unsure if he’ll use them against you, or manipulate them in his favor.

Lost in reverie, you hadn’t realized that John slowed down in order to close the small gap between you. He’s within reach, his tall body blocking the sun’s glare. You have to squint to see his features past the shade he’s casting.

“So, uh, I found these. They're for you,” a bashful voice cuts short your musings.

It’s a small bouquet of those pretty blue flowers you’ve been seeing on the trail. The kind that stacks upon the stem, heavy heads bowed under the pressure of gravity. So that’s what he’d been doing when he would crouch down periodically.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“I can see why you like them so much. It’s a nice color.”

A noncommittal hum in agreement.

Cornflower blue. The color nearly matches that of the fresh bruising across your thighs, your hips…your wrists where he's gripped you tightly over the past few days with the blistered fever of his intimacy.

“It's the color of my dad's eyes. And my brother’s.” Not yours, though. Your colors are found deeper in the earth.

“Is that so? I think brown suits you better.”

You laugh a bit, but it’s without any real humor. Oh, you were so envious of them both as a kid. They fit in with everyone else in your town, at your school. Your friends with their pin-straight hair that reflected the golden tones of the sun. Used to stare in the mirror and try to will them to change, fancying yourself a conjurer or something.

Bellyached about it sometimes so much that your mom, all clay-colored comfort, showed you the magic in your own body, so similar to hers. All you could think was warm, warm, warm, taking in the way your irises absorbed the sun’s rays. The dark hue of nutrient-rich soil, essential for growth, as she said. 

You are of my mama and my mama’s mama. On and on and on. You hear me? You are of me. You see how beautiful you are?

She was right, though. Mama was the most beautiful person you knew. The happiest, too–her laughter defrosted the hardened jealousy in your marrow. It was the kind that dripped into your sinew. You’d hear her peels in the early morning when your parents were still shut in their room. Her sound warmed the walls of your home. If only you could have bottled it up, kept it in your pocket forever, on standby for rainy days.

And the way your dad had looked at her? It was something you wish you could have bottled up, too, because he never quite looked the same after she died.

So, there you remained, gnarled and misshapen, an expanding shadow in the light of her fading radiance. It was hard without your mom–your brother had your dad, looked just like him, too, but you no longer had her, and she was the only one who got you. In the blink of an eye, she was gone, and the echoes of her laughter grew stale.

You've been chasing it ever since.

Dad didn’t know what to do with his emotional firstborn, how to handle the outbursts, the sudden flares of anger at always being different…the odd one out, wrong somehow, even in your own home, surrounded by cornflower blues and freckled fairness.

Coloring your hair this coppery red helped you to fit in with the scant remnants of your family, so you didn’t look like the adopted eldest with a miracle sibling–not that they were to blame. They just…meshed better.

It was okay for a while, but as you grew up, you realized how you weren’t quite like her either. She embodied femininity in all the ways you didn't. Where she was passionate, you were brash. Where she was soft, you were rough. She was steadfast and you were flighty, often succumbing to whatever whim swept through. She was easy to love, and…you weren't. Easy to like, sure, but not love.

John seems to think otherwise, though. You’ll be on pins and needles for when that floor falls through. When he sees how nasty you really are. It won’t just be tiny shards of skull matter, then. The entirety of you will be a bloody, shattered display.

“Is something wrong?”

His voice pulls you back to the present, where your head is down, staring morosely at the humble collection in your palm. The flowers should’ve died off long before now, but they didn’t. They survived this long, despite the growing chill, only to be cut down by a man who wants to…impress you? The absolute ego.

“No, just…did you have to pluck them? Can't you see something you want and leave it at that? Do you always have to take it, too?”

The disapproval in your voice sits wrong with him, sours his whole posture, because clearly that wasn’t the reaction he wanted to hear.

“You really are a bratty little thing, huh? Can't do anything nice for you without you spitting in my face,” he remarks, shaking his head. He adjusts his strap again and starts walking off, leaving you behind with your sad, dying gift. “Forget it. Let’s just go. Unbelievable.”

The barb stings, even though you try to avoid it. Eating the urge to apologize, you stash them away in your pocket. The now dry, wooden ends poke into your thigh. Trying to see past the blur in your eyes so you don't trip as you follow him. No, you aren’t easy to love at all, are you?

It’s a few miles later when you happen upon a clearing, and John stops to offer you a water bottle. “We should take a break.”

Plopping down on the ground, you chug down a deep gulp and hand the bottle back to him, wiping the excess moisture off your face. This much activity after being holed up for so many days is taking a toll on you, too.

Avoiding the observant gaze across from you, hoping that the lack of interaction will be a sufficient enough hint that you're in no mood.

Bratty little thing.

John was right. You’ve always been a brat. Ungrateful. Didn’t appreciate your mom when she was still around, and didn’t appreciate your dad’s efforts afterwards. You should’ve been easier on him before you left. Should’ve spent more time with your brother, too. You didn’t even tell them where you were going, only that you needed to reset something in your life and would be hard to contact for a few weeks.

All your life, keeping at a distance the only people in the world who could relate to the gnawing pit that your mom had left when she died. Your dad understood it even better than you did–your widowed father who never remarried, who barely even dated afterwards.

Dad who, when he thought you weren’t looking–he forgot that you’re a sneaky, nosy child–would nurse two fingers of whiskey while listening to your mom’s favorite songs on record. Who made you and your brother breakfast the next morning anyway, pretending he wasn’t nursing a hangover, because he wanted to keep the two remaining pieces of his soulmates happy.

Now, he was a person who was brokenhearted. You had known he was hurting, even when you were small, and you still didn’t make things easier for him, so stuck on your own shit.

Bratty. Angry. Different.

Maybe you deserve this after all. What were you expecting, anyway? You just…go home and pretend none of this happened? Maybe report John, maybe not. Either way, you'd keep it a secret from everyone you knew. Your family certainly doesn't deserve this newest bullshit.

This is a lot, even for you. Worse than when you messed up as a teen, ran away and got truly hurt for the first time. There's no excuse for an adult who repeats the same mistake. Stupid. So stupid.

Just a dirty fuck up. What kind of person doesn’t claw and fight until their fingernails have ripped off, teeth beaten out until they’ve been battered into submission instead of…whatever you’ve been allowing.

Coward. Nasty. Pervert.

In fact…in fact, maybe someone like John deserves to be saddled with a wretch like you, filthy and damaged like himself. That is, until he realizes you’re more trouble than you’re worth and decides to end it, hands around the trunk of your neck and tightening until stars explode behind your eyes, your vision growing dim.

This whole time, you’ve been eating shit, trying to survive on its scant nutrients, without even considering that maybe…

Maybe you just deserve to di–

“You're quiet.”

Fuck, you can’t even sulk in peace anymore. Is nothing sacred?

“Didn’t realize I was on-call for your entertainment,” you snipe.

He rolls his eyes in exasperation. Good. He doesn’t get to be gleeful when you feel like garbage.

“What is your problem, today?”

I dunno, John, there’s just something about being shepherded into a wooden cage that doesn’t make me want to smile.

“Ready to eat, yet?”

A headshake.

“You need to eat something.” Flat-voiced as he brings out an energy bar and takes a fat, graceless bite.

“I’m not hungry,” you say. It’s a lie, of course. You haven't eaten since the night before.

His look is calculating as he chews, his cheek engorged with food. “I'll make you if I have to. Is that what you want?”

He’s grumbling, now, no theatrical inflections to his tone this time after your venomous barbs all day. It’s nice knowing that you can get under his skin to let that prickly little thing inside of you needle at him, too.

Hell, you can annoy even the foulest scum on the earth, Rusty. Maybe they'll make an award in your honor.

“Mope, if you need to, but eat. Can't have you fainting on me because you're being stubborn.” He tosses you a bar and doesn’t break eye contact until the package is torn open.

Fiddling with it instead of acknowledging him. Wishing you would pass out just to inconvenience him.

“We've been really fortunate with the weather lately. Makes for good hiking.”

He must love the sound of his own voice, because he won’t stop. Christ.

“Y’know, when I was in the Scouts, we'd sometimes go on these long hikes. Some of the badges required us to camp out alone for a week at a time to test our resolve.”

Shut up, John. Just stop talking.

“I used to hate it, never really cared for being without air conditioning and running water, but as I got a little older, it was nice to have space for myself.”

I don’t care. I could not possibly care less. Not everything is about you.

“Although, I had to quit before making it to Eagle because of Jane–”

Body thrumming with heat, the words escape you before you can stop them. “Could you shut up for five fucking minutes? Jesus.”

His mouth snaps shut, blessedly, but it doesn't feel like a win. Does nothing to calm your frazzled nerves. It’s quiet for a moment as he gathers himself.

“Boy, you’ve got a mouth on you today. I ought to remind you about your manners, Rusty.”

Meeting his eyes, an intense anger overcomes you. It’s bad, this feeling, because it generally precedes an impulsive, unwise decision.

“Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?”

When a dark look passes over him, you pretend that the bead of sweat that slides down the back of your neck is from fear, not excitement. He holds your gaze with an impassive look that speaks volumes, until the rising tension has you wanting to drop your eyes, but you're not only mouthy today, you're reckless.

Holding your breath when he walks over to you, and suddenly your chin and wrist are in his unyielding grip. Hate and fear cursed back at him, you're sure, and you just…you want him to do it. Do something to prove you right about him.

“You keep that attitude up, and I’ll show you.” Eyes level with yours, looking ready to spit in your face.

A deep inhale so your next words are just as even. “So do it, then. Why keep me waiting in suspense?” Do it, John. Hit me.

There's a vein in his temple that you hadn't really noticed before, but it's pulsating so badly that it's distracting.

“I can tell when you're putting on a show, Rusty. Stop testing my patience. You're smarter than this.”

You’ve been called a lot of things, but smart usually falls somewhere below obstinate and reckless.

“Are you going to tie my hands together and pin me down? Slap me around again? What can you do to me that you haven't already done?”

His other hand clenches and unclenches at his side, grabbing your attention. Hit me, already.

“There are a lot of things that I haven't done to you yet. You'd do well to remember that.” Eyes like flint. “It can wait until tonight, since you want it so badly–we have too much ground to cover first.”

A sneer and an eye roll, because quitting while you’re ahead sounds too close to losing. “What can wait?”

“Your lesson,” he says, before dropping your chin like he touched something vile, returning to his spot to return your glare while he eats another protein bar.

Sucking in a breath at that when you remember your last one–searing pain and flesh stretched beyond its limits. What’s the matter with you?

Suddenly chastised, the words crawl into the caverns of your ears. You’re rubbing your eyes, because you’re so fucking tired. They’re burning and he’d be either pleased or disappointed to see you cry at this point. There's an ache in your throat that precedes a breakdown if you can't swallow it up first.

“Now eat. Don’t make me repeat myself, Foxheart, because–” He pauses to collect himself, releasing a shaky breath. “Because as cute as this little tantrum of yours is, I am losing my patience with you today.”

Another lesson. That’s what you wanted, right? What you pushed him for? Your fingers manage to rip open the packaging despite their trembling. Chewing, you try to mask how absolutely famished you really are. Hot ash in your molars as you swallow down the burn. He waits until you’ve finished licking the crumbs from the package, graciously without any I-told-you-so s before speaking again.

“Good job. Knew you could do it. We can probably cover a few more miles before sunset, if we're focused. Let me know if your foot needs a break.”

Muttering under your breath. Fuck you.

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Gods, you feel like a kid again. Except your dad never treated you like this. Never raised his voice, never made you afraid to tell him exactly what you were thinking. He was a saint. Even when you disappointed him, he was always full of patience. Maybe too much, as it turns out, because you never learned when you should shut your fat trap.

It’s time to move on, so you’re left to glare at his back as he picks up the trail again. What you wouldn’t give to sink a knife right into the beautiful sonuva bitch; payback for the ones he’s got lodged between your shoulder blades, just out of reach. He waits for you to catch up, relinquishing the space he had allowed you before.

Ah, so you did make him mad. Your hand is wrapped up in a firm grip, and you’d like to think it’s guiding, rather than tethering. Pretending the sniffles are just allergies.

“This should work.” John drops his pack with a heavy thud. It’s the first he’s spoken in hours.

The rest of the hike had proceeded in silence, neither of you in the mood to engage with each other.

He’s chosen a spot off trail to set up camp that’s surrounded by large trees still thick with leaves, bushes, and brush, unlikely to be seen by others, if anyone else is even in the area.

“No chance of another hot spring around, is there?” you ask, trying for levity as you stretch away the soreness from your limbs, feeling a low ache in your foot. It's healed, but the thing is still struggling with the added activity.

“Sure. There’s a spa resort just around the block,” he says with a wince, rolling his shoulders and eyes in tandem. “How’s your foot?”

“Fucking wrecked. Can we slow it down tomorrow?” Ignoring his disapproval at your choice in language. He chooses the strangest things to take the moral high ground over, with his canines sunk deep in your throat.

“No.” 

It’s delivered curtly; a reminder that he’s still irritated with you. He won’t even look at you properly–hasn’t since much earlier. Like you’re not even worth the effort of lifting his eyes to your face. Occasionally, he’d pause to listen for your footsteps, but that was just a half-glance out of his periphery to make sure you hadn’t strayed too far. 

The fact that you have a lesson scheduled for later looms heavily over your head. After the altercation, you kept your mouth shut to avoid upsetting him further, but it’s clear that you’re still in the doghouse. 

Doesn’t bother handing you a bowl of food after he prepared dinner. Lets you wobble on your angry foot–okay, maybe you were milking it a little, but he didn’t know that–until you plopped down by the fire, opposite him.

As the daylight slowly disappears, becoming what can actually be called tonight, your pulse begins to pick up its pace. The glow from the fire does nothing to calm you, with how it casts dark shadows upon his face that deepen the wrinkle between his brows and the downward pinch of his mouth. His stiff posture is palpable with irritation.

No, he hasn’t changed his mind at all, has he? What’s he going to do to you?

If he was just going to hit you, he would’ve done that already. What’s the point of smacking someone around after you’ve already stewed on your rage? No, that’s a dish best served hot. It’s got to be something far worse, a hurt much deeper than that.

Something that will stick.

You never realized just how much he dominated your daily conversations until he stopped participating. It’s…unsettling. John being in his head isn't good. What exactly did you want out of this again? What the hell were you hoping to gain, to make sure you weren’t the only one miserable?

He hasn't forgotten your offense, but maybe he's changed his mind about it. Any sensible person would have. You stand, intent on retiring to bed because the silence is agonizing and the longer you stay, the likelier it is that you’ll mess up and piss him off again.

“Sit back down.”

An unsteady breath. “I’m just going to bed.”

“No, you aren’t. Not yet. Sit.”

“But I’m tir–”

He doesn’t even bother to speak again, just silences you with a raised hand and a hard look.

Sit.

You remember that John is not a sensible person.

Tracing the lines of your teeth, you squash the urge to bolt, opting instead to take your seat. You have his attention now, and it’s far, far worse than being ignored. Where he was once slumped backwards, he’s now leaning forward with intent, looking every bit like a predator poised to strike.

The visage of a wolf emerging again.

You wanted a problem and now you have one. No, smart never was the first thing anyone has ever used to describe you. The opposite of that. As mindless with your insults as you are with your affection. Wearing everything on your sleeves, unguarded and ravenous, eating away at the threads until it has nothing left to hold onto.

The crackle of the fire grabs your attention and it’s a welcome reprieve from his gaze. Maybe…if he attacks you, maybe you can grab the unlit end of that piece of wood and whack cinders into his eyes. Scramble his brain. If you can be fast enough–if he doesn’t thrust your arm into the heat first.

If he doesn’t shove your face into the dirt until you can’t breathe and desperate gasps crowd your lungs with ash and soil. He could do anything then, take whatever sorry leftovers you have for his own.

Suck the marrow, leave your bones exposed so they can bleach white in the sun.

What is he going to do? It sits at the forefront of your mind until you can barely stand it. Then all too soon, you find out.

“Come here, Foxheart.”

No.

Unsteady fawn legs have you obeying, propelling your body upward and dragging your feet through the layer of dead leaves toward him. It takes considerable effort to stay the quaking in your limbs, not wanting him to see your weakness so soon.

He’s leaning back, close enough to reach out and touch but chooses not to do so. Simply traces the lines of your form from head to toe with his eyes. His face reveals nothing, it's only the heaviness of his lids as he observes you from underneath his thick lashes. Mentally recording how you pretend to be calm.

Several long moments see you standing there, uneasy in your own skin with the way that he’s stripping you down without any words or actions.

Does he like what he sees? You standing there all vulnerable and unsure, awaiting his next demand? A strange part of you does. The way his mouth isn’t quite sealed up tight, that little pocket of space between his lips suggests a certain pleasure in the position you've found yourself in.

Then he speaks.

“Pull them down.”

Pardon? You couldn’t have heard him right. Pull what down, your pants? A sinking dread in your belly at the implication. 

“Rusty.” Unyielding, even though he surely witnesses how you want to sink down into the moss below.

“Don’t make me.” A soft plea for mercy. Please, don’t.

“I’m not going to make you, because you’re just going to do it.”

A whimper as you stand before him, twisting your fingers and picking at your cuticles, digging your toes into the soles of your boots even though it hurts. He’s unmoved by your display, though, doesn’t drop his gaze from yours, no matter how much your face heats up from discomfort, no matter the way dread crawls up your ribs and into your throat.

Hands struggling to find purchase on the front of your pants, and it takes considerable effort to undo the button. Each and every tooth of the zipper resounds loudly against the silence. Even the woods seem to have shut up, awaiting your penance. You glance up, waiting for him to tell you it’s enough, to put your pants together, because that display was enough to make you regret what you said. 

But he doesn’t, not does he budge an inch, even when you sniffle.

Staring past him, far into the dark void beyond the firelight, your thumbs hook into your waistband. Must be hesitating too much, because an impatient clearing of his throat jolts you back into action. Startled eyes land on his and his intense expression raises the hairs on your arms and the nape of your neck. 

Licking your lips when you slowly begin to draw the fabric down, having to bend with the movement until they pool around your ankles. A shaky breath as you straight up again, waiting for your next instruction.

The backs of your legs tingling from how close the campfire is.

He pats his thigh.

Your chest hitches on a hiccup. He’s not really going to–surely he isn’t, right? You’re too old for something like this. Catch the way his back arches and slumps, rolling with movement as he gets more comfortable. His legs widen to give you a broader surface area to work with, and you have to peel your gaze away from the vacuum he creates that threatens to swallow you up.

“Bend over.” It’s a low command, but it echoes harshly in the quickly emptying space in your skull.

Biting your lip as you do what he asks. It’s…awkward. You nearly trip over your pants as you maneuver yourself, and you’re too long to balance well, scrambling to remain still and not tip over as you settle over him.

A long drag of air that’s expelled too fast to be calm. No, there’s no measure of stability within you. None of your next movements match the speed of your breaths, though. Your palms land on his thighs far too heavily, because you can track how they tense and flex under your grip to support you.

How your knees hit the dirt first before you can find the correct footing it takes to stretch your torso across his legs. How his knees dig simultaneously into the hollow of your stomach–too nervous to eat much–and the ribs just under your breasts. That one hurts the most, because there’s not enough flesh to cushion the tensions and bones between you. They’ll leave a sizable bruise and probably only on you.

It isn’t fair how your own weight gets used against you. Your head hanging like overripe fruit at the end of a branch. It should bother you how hard it is to breathe like this, but you haven’t been able to breathe properly since the last twinklings of sunlight fell across camp.

He waits until you’ve stopped moving to speak.

“You wanted this, remember?”

So do it. That’s what your idiotic mouth said earlier. Instead of speaking those words aloud, you should’ve kept them under your tongue until you could have written them down on one of your watercolor sheets, balled it up, and eaten them up.

No, you don’t remember wanting this. You wanted him to prove you right, that he can’t control himself when he gets angry. Wanted to see his eyes fill with regret after losing it and slapping you. This, though? This carefully-enacted punishment is nothing but control over himself.

And especially over you.

You’ve never, ever been spanked. No one ever raised an angry hand to you in punishment as a child, and the idea of someone doing that to you as an adult is absurd. Almost as absurd as the idea of you letting them. Staring at the red and black ground beneath you, heat bleeds from his legs into you, and the anticipation of what’s to come brings with it an unnameable ache.

“How many should I give you? I’m thinking one for every smart remark. Only today’s, though–I’m not a monster.”

A whimper. So do it.

How many does that leave you with? How many times did you mouth off to him today? At least seven instances spring up easily, and those were the ones you had actually meant.

“Hm?”

Oh, he’s expecting an actual answer.

“...Four?” One for every day of your agreement, to punish you for being so unabashedly stupid as to believe that he was ever going to let you go.

“Four? No, that can’t be enough. Try again.”

Finally, finally his hands come up from his sides to touch your bare skin and you nearly leap out of it. It’s only your sweater and panties protecting you, and they can only do so much against the storm. Lightly, fingertips rest on the back of your knee and it feels so much more intimate than when they’re secreted away inside of you. 

A dry swallow, tongue like sandpaper. 

“Until…I’m sorry?”

You can just hear the grin in the deep rumble of his voice. How can it change so much? “That sounds right to me. Until you’re sorry, then.”

His fingers brand the sensitive backs of your thighs, and you swear you can make out the patterns in his prints–his ring finger has a whorl and his thumb an arch.

What should you do with your arms? Keep them hanging limply by your head? The stretch of your armpit over his thigh feels good, but it will cut off circulation soon. Should you try to lift up so you can keep your grip on his legs?

Shifting, you can feel it–his erection pressing against your side. You gasp softly at the revelation. The absolute nerve of him to be getting off on this, having you frightened and vulnerable in his lap. At his mercy.

He’ll always be like this, you realize. No matter how much he fights against it. He’ll always crave something dark and at least a little mean. When that realization hits, a throb pulses through your core, causing your thighs to clench up. Maybe he didn’t feel it. You’ll never live it down if he did.

You can’t seriously–it is imperative that you do not enjoy this.

As his touch approaches your ass, you scrunch your eyes shut and prepare to endure. He doesn’t strike you yet, though. No, he merely explores. Rubs and massages the area, probably priming it with tenderness so it hurts even more when it’s stripped away with violence. Between the proximity of the fire and the obvious desire he’s got poking at you, you’re beginning to squirm with impatience.

Gods, you want to move. Need to. There’s so much energy building up in you that needs to be used somehow. All those chemicals coursing through your veins all day, and now you're expected to be still and let it happen.

Suddenly, both hands are flat on your cheeks, fat spilling between the fingers as he spreads them wide. The mortification is immediate. It leaves your center exposed to the chilly air, and while you’re clothed, the cotton does nothing to hide your shame. The gusset of your panties are drenched, probably dark at this point with how wet they are, plastered to your skin.

Fill me. Hit me. Do anything.

Hours pass by, surely. Filled only by two sets of ragged breaths that send mist into the frosty dark, fully aware of how turned on you both are, neither speaking. A thin line of drool escapes your mouth, reminding you to shut your sloppy trap.

Finally, his touch returns. It’s just a light caress and though your ass initially jumps in surprise, it’s a relief for not being the touch he’d threatened you with.

Another strained whimper pushes through the tight lines of your teeth when a thick finger traces the seam of your underwear, familiarizing itself with the wetness there. Is he looking at you? You’re too afraid to check, because if you did–if you were to look up and see the need on his face right now, you aren’t sure what you would do, but it would probably be something you could never admit to anyone else. Not ever.

Holding his breath and twitching at your side when he hears your mewl. Slipping that finger down and up the mess that’s leaked past the confines of your underwear, sending tendrils of pleasure through you. Your thighs must be shiny now and he hasn’t even started yet.

What is he waiting for?

A light tap at your mons, neither firm nor drawn out enough to provide any gratification. Resting there for several long moments, feeling the quickening pulse. A few more achingly slow swipes that have you fisting his pants.

It will definitely take more than a few swats to make you apologize, if this is the kind of punishment you’re due for.

Minutes more pass, and your mouth is open, no longer able to hide your want. He’s being so tender, so careful, and–

Just one could be nice, right? There are people who love it, and maybe it isn’t going to be so bad, once you get past the fact that it’s being doled out on his terms. You just really need him to get it over with, already. Even if you have to tell him. The anticipation is killing you.

“John–”

“No,” he says, tilting his head when his response prompts you to look up. His touch trails a wet line on the backs of your thighs as it leaves you, and your knees meet together in disappointment. “No, on second thought, I think you'd enjoy it too much to be effective.”

Embarrassment pulls at your face. You’re being mocked for something outside of your control–it’s just nerves and fear and familiarity and you can’t help that he’s attractive and at-once kind and cruel and confusing.

Gently pats your bottom and it’s as chaste as could be. “You look sorry enough. Go to bed.”

He leans back to give you the space to straight up, which you immediately reclaim. Nearly give yourself whiplash with how quickly you stand. Choking on a dysregulated gasp.

You–you fucking piece of–Oh gods, I almost–

“I hate you,” you manage to bite out between hiccups, and you’re clearly out of your mind at this point, because against your better judgment, it’s accompanied by a childish shove to his shoulders that almost pushes him backwards off his seat. His brows lift to his hairline in surprise before he catches himself, stupid little bunny teeth poking between his lips that you want to smash in.

I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. Face hot with humiliation as you pull your pants back up and scurry off into the tent before he can think to retaliate. Before you can look any more pathetic.

Wrapping yourself up tight in blankets and staring at nothing, ignoring the throbbing between your legs.

It isn’t the first time you’ve thought so, but at this moment, you mean it every time. You wish you could bite the smugness from his face. Tear his beard off. Punch in his nose. Throw him into a woodchipper.

You couldn’t do it, though, not really. Physical violence was never something you could stomach. Clearly. Avoided contact sports as a youth, found yourself pulling back your punches in the couple of kickboxing classes you’d taken. No, your words were all you had, and you wielded the poison-tipped weapons well enough.

He joins you some time later, squashing any hope that he’d sleep outside and freeze to death, so you angle away from him. The evenings are becoming colder, and he’s actually taken to wearing clothes to bed now. The layers still aren’t enough of a barrier though, and you’re stiff in his loose grasp.

It’s obvious that you’re awake–you’re doing a piss-poor job of mimicking sleep with how uneven your exhales are, how close you can’t really empty out your lungs before sharply inhaling again. Unable to stifle the little hitches with every attempt.

“I was never going to hit you.”

That bubble in your chest releases, causing you to deflate instantly. A muffled sob escapes you, and his arm wraps around your middle in response with several quiet shhs, drawing you closer. The coarse hairs of his beard prick at the crook of your neck, but it’s more comforting. Grounds you.

Something about the idea of the last person you may ever see being upset with you chafes your sorry spirit. Overcome by the urge to make up for your part in this, to smooth over the ragged edges of his attitude that you scratched up earlier.

Sleepily, you begin to slide a hand towards it to offer him relief and it aches how automatic the movement has become, how your body moves before your mind can catch up. Massaging him through his sleep pants until he grows against your palm. Before you can go further, though, the weight of his own hand pauses yours just as a blunt fingernail–you’ve picked up the habit of biting them again–teases the hollow dip of his now weeping slit.

Brows knitting together in consternation before rolling toward him. Maybe you aren't doing something right. This angle allows you to apply more pressure. He’s hard–he likes it, surely wants it. This is what you want, right?

It doesn’t last long, though. He takes your hand and moves your arm to his chest, letting you feel the thump of his heart, instead. It's strong. Racing. Maybe it’s not what he wants. Maybe he wants you to be sorrier first, but you couldn’t possibly feel more battered right now.

“Are you still mad at me?” Eyes locked onto his Adam’s apple through spiky lashes, still too embarrassed to look at him directly.

“No, dear, I’m not mad.”

It’s silly how good it feels to get that reassurance. You wanted him to be mad before and got exactly that. Why should it matter now? “Then why don’t you want me?”

“I always want you, but I’m also tired,” he says, dropping a kiss to your forehead, “and so are you.”

Can't you see something you want and leave it at that? Do you always have to take it, too?

Relief washes over you and you let out a breath you hadn't even realized you'd be holding. 

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks. The waver in his tone is pleasing, like whatever anger was in him today had sloughed off, leaving him just as unsure as you are.

“Yes,” you reply, managing to sound more honest than petulant.

At his laugh, unbidden affection leaks from the corners of your eyes, and you find yourself pulling his beard until you can secure his lips with your eyes closed. Grateful that he doesn’t remark upon how wet the kisses are, because while you really are exhausted, but you also need this comfort right now.

“Say it again?”

“I love you, Rusty.”

Something changed by the next morning. Too physically exhausted for nightmares, it’s the most rested you’ve been in days, and you feel something close to relief. You also realized that moping won't save you–you’ll be so busy licking your wounds mid-fight to realize that the jaws behind you are opening wider and wider for another round, preparing to close over your neck, bite down, and shake you apart.

No, it’s time to stopper that distress. To grit your teeth and seal every crevice, every crack, every nook and cranny with fatty marrow. Taking a deep breath of the wet atmosphere, sinuses stuffed full of loess and mossy soil and sorrow, you moved towards the man beside you.

Relatable and just…pathetically human.

Thankful for the early morning dark as your lips tuck into the canyon of his spine, reveling in how the notches startle away before returning to the source of comfort, recognizing the tenderness in your breath.

“John?” A whisper fragile as spun sugar. That soft thing that he likes.

The shifting of his muscles as your only response. He’s awake, but on the other side of a wall he'd built overnight.

“I…” you begin, licking your lips, licking his paws as you sidle up next to the bigger predator, rolling over onto your belly in subservience. “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting.”

A thick frost of tension blankets the surface of the conversation, glistening. “I haven’t been feeling like myself.”

He knows why, you don’t need to explain it. “I think I just need some time, but…I want to give you a chance. Us.”

He stills, holding his breath while your nose takes that time to trace gently along the bumps and ridges of his spine, old anatomy classes rearing forth. Gentle. Sweet. Beckoning. Neck bared.

T-1: wrists, fingers, hands– tethered together, skin chafing raw, nails chipping futilely at their restraints, but cutting deep grooves into the paper-thin skin over the wrist, over the pulse.

T-2: heart– thumping away rodent-fast, overworked and bruised. Duh-duhm, duh-duhm, duh-duhm.

Can he feel it? Hear it?

T-3: lungs– fighting for air despite the hot smoke steadily filling the space. A slow burn that hardens what it doesn’t render to ash.

“...You want this? Me?” A shaky breath released into your good graces.

“I wanna try.” The words are fragile, but you trust that they’ll be cradled carefully, coddled. “Um, this isn’t exactly…charted territory for me. I'm scared, if I can be honest, here.”

John turns around, shifting until he’s able to cup your cheek, trying to locate your eyes in the dim light. Dark, molten pools of fathomless graves. “We can make this work.”

“Yeah?” When you swallow, the sound burbles loudly between you.

“If everything goes right, we’ll be like other couples. Luckier, though, because of the pretty little thing I have.”

The pretty little thing that you are can’t contain the blush at his flattery, grateful that he can’t see it. It could take months, probably longer, but if everything goes right, if you can behave like a–

Good girl.

–you could forge some semblance of normalcy. What would that look like, a waxy, astro-turf life with him? This other version of John who mows the lawn shirtless, tan lines on his arms, his lithe form grown bulkier from the long hours of manual labor–a wolf that's well-fed and stationary now, after having claimed a mate, too busy providing for its household for selfish endeavors.

The need to hunt in order to eat and slake its lust becoming unnecessary, because there are things like grocery stores, a cozy home, and a warm cunt waiting for him. John who says he only wants to please you with his fingers and his mouth, but who always manages to charm his way into you with his cock, too. Would it really satiate his appetite?

However, he has his work cut out for him to convince you that he’s a better option than your freedom. When you tell him as much and he responds with that smile that you adore, your stomach actually flutters.

You’re screwed.

It’s a shorter hike the next day. After your fifth request for a break, John finally agreed that you really did need to settle in for the evening to keep from pushing your injury too far. That and you were completely out of sorts after he asked about your past. It’s been days since you’d mentioned it to him, when you foolishly said that he wasn’t even the worst man in your life, and he immediately proceeded to prove to you that indeed he was.

“You said somebody…took advantage of you before. What happened?”

“School was…getting hard for me, so I ran off when I was fifteen. He gave me a ride out of town, and he, uh…wasn’t as nice as he seemed. You can probably fill in the blanks.”

Maybe you’ll tell him more when he’s ready to be honest about the women he’s hurt before you, because there’s no way that you’re the first person he’s targeted. You don’t go straight to abducting a total stranger, after all. Suddenly, you're thinking of his sister, and that maybe this is why they don't really talk much. Maybe Jane knows more about him than he realizes.

You still aren't entirely sure if it was misery, mania, or desperation that corralled you into a thirty-year old’s car just weeks after your friend's betrayal. All you knew at the time was that you needed to get out of town and start life again with people who didn’t know you. Reinvent yourself, or whatever.

The first real inklings of fear began just a few hours in, as you pretended not to notice as his hand crept under your skirt while he kept driving. The snag of his calluses scratched uncomfortably along the sensitive skin of your thigh. You certainly weren't shriveling inside your casing when a fingertip knocked on the cotton door at your apex–a cutesy print of cartoon animals remained a stark reminder that you were just a kid.

Earned yourself a harsh chuckle disguised as a breath when you shut your knees tight and shifted away from him, feigning sleep while mentally thanking whoever was listening when his hand retreated.

Temporarily, anyway.

Mercifully, John hasn’t pushed you for more details. Trauma putting you on equal footing again, because he seems to understand that it’s not a story for today. Not with him, considering your situation. No, you’d rather not think about how you’ve failed to learn your lesson.

You’re learning all sorts of lessons while on the trail.

Between that brief reminder of your teenage troubles and the way he treated you last night, you’d do just about anything to work that nastiness out of your system. Yesterday, you were all claws and teeth, chomping at the bit to wound, but today, you want to be on the receiving end of it. It’s helped before, when these nasty feelings of doubt and shame crop up, and he’s the perfect source for it–gravitates to that sort of thing.

The problem is that he’s in a good mood tonight. The strenuous hike today tenderized him and he’s soft and malleable. He just wants it easy, to luxuriate in the simple touches with his fingertips locked in the fold between your ass and thighs. Wants to breathe you in like a lifeline.

The urge to be corrected damn well hurts behind your sternum.

“C’mere, Foxheart,” he says. He lifts your shirt over your head. “Let me be sweet.”

A little nip marks the thin skin over your neck to quicken your pulse. His tongue is doing a devilish dance along the shell of your ear.

That iridescent haze consumes your vision again, blurring the world in oil-slick pastels.

“Okay.”

If he notices how your voice stays low to the ground, ready to shovel its own grave, eating dirt until it's bloated, he doesn’t mention it.

Instead, he smiles when you settle yourself comfortably in his lap. “That’s it. Being so good for me.”

It’s a clear sky tonight and the stars burn brightly, making up for those nights when the clouds blotted out the moon and left you all alone in the dark with a bigger predator. As you tilt your head back to stare straight up–trying to find that damn fox constellation among the billions and billions of other little specks, just to prove that you’re special after all–he devours your neck.

Teeth dragging down the skin, licking at the red lines they leave behind, hurting just right. A hand smooths your hair back, startling you into focus, and you see his questioning face.

“Where’d you go?”

“Just…up there,” you respond, tilting your head away and up at the sky again, feigning nonchalance.

Harder. Bite me harder.

“Mmm, my little stargazer,” he muses. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He’s fixated on you, though, has no interest in the scene above you when he’s got you pocketed away here. His breath is a welcome comfort against the cool temperature.

“Could I convince you to come back down here with me for now? It’s been a long couple of days, and I miss you.”

Refusing to look at him, you huff. You’ve been right here the whole time. Always demanding more and more, as though he doesn’t have more of you than you yourself have at this point. “You can try.”

Maybe if he stops treating you like you’re made of spun sugar when you’re actually razor wire. His closed-mouthed amusement on your shoulder as he rearranges you in his lap so that you’re straddling a thigh. It’s just enough to get your pulse racing, but you contain a surprised gasp, because it’s still not as rough as you’d like.

But if you ask for more, he might decide again that you’d enjoy it too much and leave you panting for it like he did yesterday. When he splays his broad hands on either side of you to stabilize you, with fingers digging into the meat of your hips to grind you firmer onto him, it nearly causes a desperate, breathy sound to slip out–still.

No, not quite.

When he builds a rhythm, a slow back-and-forth keeping constant pressure between your legs, forcing flesh upon aching flesh, you bite your lip nearly hard enough to bleed.

Oh.

But then a hand sneaks its way under the stretchy band of your sweats, sifting through the spreading damp, and a finger rubs a circle around that ring of muscle that’s been unexplored so far. Your legs clench instinctively around him, startled eyes finally meeting his again.

“There you are,” he says. “Open up for me, Rusty. It's okay to like it. You don't have to fight. You can let go.”

You aren’t fighting it, you just want it to be more without putting him off for whatever reason he makes up. That…that could bring you the right amount of pain that you’ve been whining for. Though not audible, you gasp hotly when a blunt finger teases at the entrance, your muscles failing to suck it in, squeezing around nothing.

“Is this what you want?”

That finger rewards your nod, slipping down to collect some slick before returning to that ring to press past your defenses, past your discomfort, up to the first knuckle. A little back and forth and you’ve swallowed it up.

Head dropping to his shoulder, boneless and open-mouthed against his neck. That first groan is low, near agonized as it escapes, and your nostrils are filled with the scent of sweat, sandalwood, and fire. Exquisitely John, John–

John.

“I'll never get tired of hearing you say that.”

Fuck. Was that out loud? A single look confirms it–there’s a combination of self-satisfaction and utter torment on his face. He’s just as affected as you are. All from having a finger dug root-deep inside of your hole.

“I want another.”

He promptly withdraws, leaving you bereft and cold and you groan in frustration. Ready to snap at him. “Ah-ah, I need to be teaching you about manners.”

Pushing down the stinging reminder of last night, when he scared you into thinking he would actually do it. Actually discipline you like a goddamned child. Who’s being rude now?

His smile brands your neck before he teases your outer lips again, lightly swiping his knuckles across the wet flesh. Now, those slippery things return to kneading your backside, and he captures a breast in his mouth, tongue warm as it envelopes your nipple, soaking the fabric of your bra.

“Ask me,” he says. Beg me, his eyes urge. “It's only polite.”

You aren’t going to beg him to finger your ass. Some of your pride hasn’t abandoned you yet.

“You’re being mean.”

While the condescension burns, the baritone vibration of his chuckle feeds into your growing frustration. “Now, Foxheart, you know full well you’ve been rude to me the past few days. I’ll take care of you, good care of you, but you need to meet me partway.”

I deserve a little gratitude, don’t I? A voice from long ago. That haunting rattle in your empty chest is back.

“Or, better yet, you could take care of yourself, if you wanted. You’re an expert at that. I’ll be good and just watch.”

Surely, he doesn’t mean–but then he leans back and grins, cheeks flushed pink.

Oh. He does mean that. To touch yourself for him.

You think about that night by the campfire. Weeks ago, now. It had been a stressful hike that day–the hardest one yet. The foot-trodden path had all but disappeared, and all too easily you’d gotten off trail somewhere. Didn’t realize it until hours later when you had essentially walked in a big circle. It was a frustrating day. You wallowed in the pathetic failure of it for an hour before picking yourself back up and trying again.

After managing to get back on track, you barely got another mile in before you had to set up your tent for the evening. You were in a clearing, though, and it allowed you a clear view of the twinkling splendor above. It felt like such a relief: you made a big mistake, persevered, and your hard work paid off. It was also pleasantly warm that evening, enough so that you brought your sleeping bag outside and decided to let the sky be your canopy for the night. 

Stress and tension melting away under the euphoria of the cosmos and of getting things right, despite the odds. One of the most difficult days followed by one of the most enjoyable nights.

And he had ruined that.

The whole time, he had been tailing your footsteps, probably laughing at you while you made mistake after mistake. A novice out of their depth. Not only that, but he had to encroach upon your success, too. A lumbering beast at the edge of the tree lines, draped in shadow, ever watchful. 

Watched how your fingertips traveled down the slopes of your exhausted, weary body. Past the thin skin between the soft hills of your loose breasts, over the pebbled nipples, and into the dip of your quivering abdomen with a sigh. Then finally, finally, under the waistband of your shorts until you felt the source of your desire. How your wrist twisted and undulated, trying new things because this whole trip was meant to be an exploration to challenge what you’d been taking for granted.

One day, you swear that you’ll be home. Your home. You’ll be hurting, changed, scared, but you’ll be in your home, free of shackles, and you’ll want to indulge in that familiar and wet space between your legs without fear of performing or of masking or of hurting.

When that day happens, you don’t want the memory of glowing eyes and a drooling, hanging maw leering back at you. No, he’s taken enough. Not a lot of your things are yours at the moment, but that’s one you’ll fight to keep.

It’s yours. You may desire to hurt, but not like that. You’ll find another way to do it.

And goddess save you, you do.

There’s no sin with the orishas, Rusty.

“A picture says a thousand words, John,” you say. “You’ve got at least a few thousand words by now–don’t be greedy.”

Before he can protest, you're sliding down until your knees hit the ground before him, disrupting the dirt. “Besides, you’ve been working hard these last few days, and I haven’t been very grateful for that.”

Rude, rather.

A playful pinch to his inner thigh. “Why don’t I do you one better to show my appreciation, hm?”

He sucks in a breath. “And what’s that?”

He already knows what you mean, with you in supplication between his thighs like this. You’ll indulge him, though, because you’re about to get what you want. He’ll relinquish some of that control and feed into your hurt.

“I figure you could use a treat yourself.”

A meaningful pass over the front of his pants. Surprise in his face–he wasn’t expecting you to offer that service, not after how brutish he was before.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

Honeyed eyes looking up to find him barely concealing his pleasure at the prospect. Don’t protest too much, John.

“I’m sure. I’ll even wear that garish lipstick you love so much.” A teasing smile to offset the insult, like reducing vinegar until it sweetens to a glaze.

“Just keep your hands to yourself, this time. Please.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

He applies the makeup with the same meticulousness as he did before, but this time, his face is full of something like reverence. Like he had unveiled his bride after not getting to see her for hours, if not days. Smooths his thumb over your cheek afterwards.

Ignoring the stutter in your heart at the simple gesture, you settle yourself as comfortably as you can between his legs. His hands flex and unflex at his sides. The sight causes you to swallow and you curse under your breath, because you could’ve used that extra lubricant.

Thankfully, you get to set the tone and pace this time. Deciding to test his patience, you take your time rubbing your hands over his thighs, watching how his stomach tenses every time you tease at the soft, inner planes of flesh.

Resting your head upon that pillow, the minute twitches resonating pleasantly in your ear.

“What do you want, John?”

A deep inhale. “You. I want you.”

It’s exactly what you want to hear. Turning your head to the fabric covering him, kissing it chastely once, twice, before working the button out of its loop. Pulling the zipper down with your teeth and you can feel him stretch and relax with unspent energy.

His cock springs up from his underclothes with some assistance.

“You want my lips?”

Rewarding his nod with a sweet little kiss at the tip. Rubbing the head across your mouth and not allowing him entrance. Not yet.

“What about my tongue?”

“Yes.”

Licking a narrow line from the base to tip, not covering nearly enough surface for him to feel gratified. It’s the least he deserves for leaving you on the precipice last night.

“And my mouth?”

A frustrated groan. “Careful, Rusty, or I’ll pay you back.”

“I know,” you grin without looking up. That’s exactly the goal. His hands are balled up into tight fists now, but he doesn't touch. Good boy.

As brave as you’re feeling, it would be dangerous to speak those words right now. 

Instead, they’re engulfed along with him, and his filthy sound nearly has you slipping a hand down between your own legs. No, no, you don’t want to indulge in your own pleasure right now. This is about your–

Mouth being stuffed full–a tight, meaty grip on your hair, too far from the roots to be painless. You wore space buns that day, couldn’t imagine how they would be used against you in such a way.

“If you wanna eat tonight, you better swallow it next time.”

Nearly a day since your last meal, and hunger was gnawing at your stomach lining. The food was flavorless as you chewed, felt like gnawing on wood at that point. Your appetite had left you, though.

Hollowing your cheeks to suck him down, memorizing the ridges of his length with the sensitive skin of your lips, his flavor with the little bumps atop your tongue. Focusing on these sensations instead of how–

Later that night, he'd asked for payback for the price of the motel room, more expensive than what a simple blowjob was worth, you realized that he would continue to take and take and take until your bones were picked clean, the grease of your marrow smeared slick on his chin.

“One bed’s cheaper than two. Don’t see you coughing up any cash to help out.”

Cracking open your eyes to watch how the fat head of his length disappears behind your lips, cradling it on the flat of your tongue before it traces around the curved edge. It’s the first time you’ve actually enjoyed doing this. The effect it has on the man before you probably has more than a little to do with the experience.

All you’re missing is–

The span of his hand, wrapping around your wrists, so big compared to your own, pinning you firmly to the bed, his other palm over your mouth when you resisted. Thankfully, his fervor distracted him as he reached down, lifting himself up to open his fly, unable to stop you from biting down on the meat of his hand hard and screaming yourself raw once he let go.

Popping off, disoriented, a thick string of fluids a direct lifeline between your mouth and his turgid cock.

“Pull my hair?”

He hesitates, to your annoyance. Where was this side of him last night when he had you quivering in his lap just for the sake of frightening you?

“You told me to keep my hands to myself.”

“I changed my mind. Just…please?” It’s the pitiful plea that must convince him, because he takes a chunk of your hair in hand, wrapping around his fingers for good measure.

Then he tugs and it brings you back into the present for now with a relieved sigh, visible fog over the swollen organ in front of you, causing it to jump in your grip. Tongue reaching out to lick at the combination of your saliva and his precum, making note of the taste. Musky, clean, bitter. Rigid, demanding so much of your attention that you can forget how–

You kicked and scrambled your way to the door just as someone started banging on it. Pushed past them as you flew down the hallway, the stairs, the parking lot. As far away as your winged feet could take.

Bobbing. Up and down. Up and down. Holding sometimes. Embarrassing slurping sounds escaping you on your upward strokes. Stopping for a brief moment to catch your breath, cheeks hot, lips buzzing, cunt swollen and leaking.

A line of viscous fluid dribbles down his length and you’re quick to lick it up, enjoying–

The tang of iron lingering in the crawl spaces of your mouth when your dad picked you up at a gas station across state lines, just two days after you disappeared.

Your feet were bare and blistered raw.

You’re fine. Really. No, you don’t know what you were thinking. It was just a mistake, you’re allowed to make mistakes. No, he hadn’t touched you. Nothing happened. Can he please just drop it and take you home? You learned your lesson, already.

Huddled in the passenger seat, blood-crusted soles on the cushion, knees to your chest, pressed as close to the door as possible. Too ashamed to look at him. You recall the relief of the window, cold glass that pushed into your face to soothe the hot pain behind your flesh. Briny bitterness flooding your vision.

“...You need to see a doctor. We’ll go to the police. Please, honey, talk to me.”

“Dad, just leave me the fuck alone.”

Faster, holding yourself down over his cock as long as you can stand, eyes scrunched so tight you can see stars behind your lids, vision consumed by the cosmic splendor, pressure at your scalp, hands pushing you down deeper as he–

He did exactly what you asked, to your disappointment. Dad knew something awful had happened. Of course he did–he just wasn't the type to push you, even if it was the thing you needed. He gave you space, when what you really craved was for him to pull you in for a hug, arms wrapped tight around you so you couldn’t run from his safety again. That's what Mama would've done.

He knew you’d messed up again and gotten hurt this time, but he didn’t know that you deserved it, though. That you were dirtying up his car in a way that a washing would never clean up. He didn’t need to know about the specifics–it would’ve broken him.

“Rusty, I’m going–”

Cotton in your ears as you shove yourself down until hair tickles your nose, throat expanding around him as you drink down every single hot, bitter drop of pain. John shudders in your grasp, absolutely wrecked in the aftermath of your tempest.

He pants his praise. “You…you are exquisite.”

You smile.

That man…that man was so much bigger and meaner than you, Rusty. The whole world was–is. That's why you needed to run from it and its bleeding, broken ways. If there’s one thing that you’ve learned over the years, it’s that trusting anyone is a trap, overlaid with sweet promises. It’ll ruin you every time.

It’s safer to be ruined in this way instead.

Later on, after the desire to be hurt fades and you’re left with the cold wash of shame, John is worshipping you. Cock buried deep in your cunt, keeping his thrusts deep and pointed at that lovely spot within you, singing praise after praise into your dewy skin. You don’t deserve it.

When his grip on your wrist flattens, fingers spreading to intertwine with your own, springing forth tenderness…it’s too much. Embarrassment and vulnerability creep up, and you’ve turned your head away so he can’t see you cry.

“Don’t hide from me.” John brings his thumb across your cheek, wiping it clean. “When I told you I’d take it all, I meant this too.”

Through wet, spiky lashes, you’re almost too close to see him. His hair is down now, and the soft, dark spill of waves form a curtain around your intimacy. It's just you and him. His tongue paves a rapidly cooling pattern across your shoulder, and kiss-swollen lips whisper dark delights into the flesh there, seeping into your pores.

You shiver.

“What’s going on in that head of yours lately, hm?”

Nothing, it’s nothing, as you tell him.

“It’s not nothing–you know what I think?”

Shaking your head, waiting for him to tell you. He can’t resist it.

“I don’t think you want me to be mean tonight.”

Trading your sniffles for a cough because please, that’s all you’ve been asking of him since you started this.

“Look at me, Rusty,” he pleads. Waits until you do. His eyes look entirely black when it’s dark like this, you can only catch your reflection in them.

“You can’t scare me off with that attitude of yours. I know what you’re doing because I’ve done it, too. Be mad, be sad, but don’t hide from me.”

He resumes his movements, punctuating every little not-truth with a roll of his hips.

“Eventually, you’ll let me treat you the way you deserve and you’ll like it,” he mumbles, dragging his mouth across your collarbone. “We’ll go dancing and make the locals jealous of what a sweet thing they’ll never get to have. I’ll make dinner when my clever, nipping little fox is too tired from chasing after my pup all day. Build a burrow so perfect that they’ll never wanna leave.”

No, no, no. That’ll never be the case, will it? Caught between ecstasy and grief for the entirety of it, and it’s such an odd, overwhelming emotion.

It feels like the first time you’ve made love.

One benefit of that foul lipstick is that it has allowed you to leave your mark all over him. Even tried to leave one in every place you can feel a bruise, leaving him an absolute mess. Red smears over his pretty lips. He looks beautiful like this, ravished by a storm. Unmade.

Maybe you can convince him to shave the beard later. You’ve got a sudden desire to see the shape of his chin, and you know from the feel that it’s got to be a graceful slope down from his ear. A delicate jaw concealed by brush, and you want to see how soft he would look. Probably years younger, too.

There’s even a precious mole in there that’s barely visible.

As it is, though, you’ve got the mountain version of him. Hair a bit disheveled, demeanor a bit rough, even if you get peeks at something more underneath the surface. As you approach your end, hitching breaths coming faster and faster, you’re swept up in his arms and pressed so close to him you think you could slip between his cells, tucked into the expanse of his body.

Maybe you’re small in the world, but John has narrowed down your vision until something in it makes sense. It's little, consumable pieces that he's cleaved for you, foregoing a utensil and feeding them to you by hand. As long as you let him take little pieces of you in return. It’s only fair, right? It’s just a little piece.

You can take just this one bite, just open up wide and swallow, Rusty.

He's hungry, too, and can't help but sink his teeth into you, testing the length of his leash when he reaches his own little death. There will be marks again, temporary brands in the shape of his incisors. Filling the air with unconvincing protests when he digs in a little too deep, hitting bedrock.

“Are you getting wetter from me biting you?”

“Shut up.”  

He laughs and it’s so unguarded and pretty that you smile despite yourself, before surrendering to his kindness without further complaint.

It’s much later when you can’t sleep because of the gnawing pain in your foot that keeps you up–hiking for miles on end and kneeling for blowjobs may not be the best during recovery–when you finally relent and peel yourself away from the nest. 

“‘Vrything okay?” a voice asks, thick with sleep.

“Shh,” you sooth, kissing him on his cheek. “Just looking for some aspirin for my foot. I’ll be right back.”

Maybe it’s the confidence with which you approach the pack, like it’s yours, because he doesn’t question you getting up with the intention of rifling through it.

“It’s in the front pocket.”

You know that, have seen him open the front multiple times since you began hiking together to get you more. Conveniently, though, he forgot how nosy you are, and this is the first time you’ve been allowed to get into the pack without his supervision. 

Unable to stop yourself, you find yourself doing what you do best–the very activity that landed you in this position to begin with.

You snoop.

There’s a side pocket that you’ve been curious about, and it just requires some careful timing to unzip both the front and side at the same time. Reaching in, you rummage past the dried stalks of your flowers to feel something that’s like a wallet, but too big. Unfolding it quietly and letting your fingertips glide across to feel a pen-like item, paired with several small, glass bottles secured in place.

Something is…wrong with this picture, even though you can’t see past the frame. You haven’t had any personal experience with these items before, but they’re familiar. Watched enough true crime shows and documentaries to piece this puzzle together.

“Do you need help?” John’s voice from behind you, thankfully without having turned around, but it startles you into action. You quickly and quietly place the not-wallet back, grabbing the aspirin. Coughing as you time the zippers again.

“Nope, I found it,” you say, clearing your throat for good measure before rattling the bottle. Shaking a couple pills out and swallowing them dry before returning to your spot. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

Before he has another moment to linger on your hesitation, you tuck your frigid fingertips under his armpit to make him squirm. “Gods, I’m freezing now, though. Warm me up?”

When you’re pulled against his heated body, you focus on remaining calm, keeping any distress from leaking through your pores. There’s a sudden itch on your backside that begs your attention, and it reminds you of a sharp pain from a couple of weeks ago. After he…when he was so mad at you and hurt you and afterwards, he left you in his tent to rest. There was a sting there, but everything else hurt so much that it barely made a difference. Until now.

You…you don’t know what’s in those vials, but you’re certain of one thing that makes your blood run cold and your heart actually ache.

He’s been drugging you.

Chapter Text

My feet are not enough, oh, to save me.

“The Mysterious Vanishing of Electra” by Anna von Hausswolff

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 9

You’re wandering again, lost in the trees.

This particular dream is familiar. Been having it for months, and it’s always the same. You’re on the trail again, back to that day when you got so turned around that you worried you might actually die out there. You always end up aimless, getting more and more despondent. Anxious that something is hovering over you. Every time a whisper skims across your shoulder, your head whips around to find…nothing. It goes on like that for hours.

And every time, you wake up frustrated.

Only this time, the forest is still. Not…quiet or calm, but still. Uncomfortably so. No animals, no insects, no wind. Not a star in the sky to guide your movements. No paw prints marring the paths you’ve accidentally walked twice, leaving you with the creeping sense of being stalked. Hunted. Not a single disturbance–except for you.

You've been going in circles over and over. This time, you close your eyes, take a deep breath. Spin. Follow that direction until it reveals a split in the path. Blinking to clear your eyes because that can’t be right. That's never been here before. Is the game shifting?

Just ahead of the fork is a figure.

Tall. Masculine. A haunting guardian whose dark skin is swathed in blood-red fabric. Cowrie shells, metals, and gems draped over his face to conceal his features. He carries a long staff in his right hand that’s topped with three arrow-points, or maybe stars? You can’t tell from this distance.

His presence is unmistakably powerful, raises the hairs on your nape, even though he says nothing. Reveals nothing. Is he waiting for you to speak first?

“I know who you are,” you call out. “You’re Eshú. What do you want with me?”

The trickster god of manipulation, choices, and sexual prowess remains silent–merely stands there at the apex of the twin paths behind him, blocking your way. What’s he doing here?

That bonfire behind him wasn’t always there, was it? You would have noticed it, surely, with how tall the flames are, and the way they’re too confined to be natural, reaching high into the sky. Redder than natural, too. He still has nothing to say, and you can’t help the budding frustration at the sight of him.

“Why do you come to me now, when I’m like this? You could’ve stopped all of this before it even started. You did nothing to protect me from him, just like you did with her.”

Someone so vibrant and kind as your mom dying in such a pointless way. Really, a car accident? Her life had more meaning than that. She died at a crossroads, in Eshú’s domain of all places, and he just let her. When she was bleeding out, pinned between the seat and the steering wheel, legs crushed, metal cutting into her gut, nearly sliced in two–what would her last prayer have been?

Would she have called out to them for mercy? Would she have saved her last breath for you?

“She worshiped you–all of you. You could have helped her and you didn’t.”

Still nothing, but a slender, oil-slick serpent entwines around his legs, climbing up until it disappears under his robe. Shivering, despite the lack of wind. Bare toes dug into the soil. Feeling like a child in his unyielding presence.

Why is he here now? To offer you these paths and still refuse to guide you? He’s supposed to be the communication between people like you and powers even higher than him, and he’s still just…silent.

“You can't save me. None of you can. I’ll figure a way out of this mess myself just like I always have.”

Forget it. Ignoring how the bonfire rises to even taller heights, you turn your back to the spectre. It’s not like it matters, anyway, it’s only a dream.

As you do, a sudden sound shakes the very ground beneath you. It’s so loud it rattles your bones and brings you to your knees. Hands over your ears in a futile attempt to block it. The pressure of it feels like it will crush your skull. Nausea rocks through you. Your abdomen…your core seizes so hard that it makes even your legs weak.

Falling over to your side, curling into a tight fetal position, but it does nothing to stop the flow of crimson that stains your white nightgown.

Stop. Make it stop. Please, make it–

Pain. It’s all you recognize when you awake. Dizzying. Disorienting. Everything south of your ribs is all twisted up.

It’s dark. Still in the earliest hours of morning illuminated only by the cold wash of the moon. It’s humid, though, the damp quiet that precedes a storm. Your arm reaches out to slap at the sleeping figure beside you, who has the nerve to simply roll over when you call his name.

“John.” Another impatient shove. “Come on. Wake up!”

As you drag the blanket off of him, his dark eyes crack open, startled to find yours so close. Sweaty, pale. Panicked.

“Something’s wrong,” you whisper. A crack of thunder outside.

The fear in your tone has him sitting up, shrugging off the drowsiness as he snaps to attention.

“What is it?”

“I’m in pain. Bad.” If you keep it simple, he's more likely to believe you.

“Are you sick? Like the flu?”

Presses the backside of his hand to your forehead, searching for signs of a fever.

“No, I…it’s,” you start, taking a deep breath, tensing yourself. “I need to go to a hospital.”

Even your hands are shaking. John is quiet for a moment, like even the mention of the idea is distasteful. 

“...We talked about this, Rusty. You know we can't go to a hospital. Not after that last stunt you pulled.”

Ah, he'd never gotten over it.

“This isn't anything like…that, it's not a trick. Something’s wrong. It hurts.” You suck in a breath at the end of that, holding in the remainder of that insidious dread. It's true. It's true. It's true this time.

With great effort, you shift your legs over the bed to stand, hoping that it’ll relieve some of the hurt. Focusing on the familiar creaking of the floorboards under your feet. You haven’t felt pain like this in…maybe not ever? Everything from your core down is being stretched and pulled into opposite directions. Even your back aches.

A rush of dizziness surprises you, brings you down so suddenly that he doesn’t have enough time to catch you. Your knees thud heavily on the hardwood floor, causing you to cry out. Squeezing your thighs together, trying to physically fight off the agony, and something wet leaks out, followed by a tickling sensation.

The first drops of rain pelt the windowpane just as the moon disappears behind clouds. Your hand disappears under your shirt, sliding along smooth flesh. When it raises again, trembling, there’s viscous blood coating your fingertips.

You look up at him, eyes wide. Speechless.

He’s already beside you, one arm around your shoulders to support you while his other disappears below your stomach, where you’d expected it to go to support you. Instead, your face crumples in mortification when he prods at your mound to confirm the source of the blood, not trusting even that.

There are times like this when it hits you that no matter how often he comforts you, cradles you in the cozy tenderness of his embrace, it’ll never wash away the shame from being treated like livestock. The degradation of these moments.

“Shit,” he says. He removes the violating appendage and helps you to your feet.

“Did I pass the test?” Spite souring your tone.

“Okay, okay. We'll go. Come on, we need to get your coat,” he looks around, muttering it. Coat, coat, coat. “Where's your coat?”

Your coat is where you've always kept your coat, in the fucking main closet, as you bark through your teeth, gnashing them together against another cramp. He settles you into a nearby chair until he can get your things together. Your go-bag isn’t even ready yet–too early yet to pack it.

Oh, it's bad. It's got to be.

John’s moving as fast as his long legs can go, zipping around the cabin, but the pain has blurred your ability to focus, and soon it becomes all you can do to keep conscious. After a few minutes, he’s at your side. His own shaking hand wiping away the cold sweat from your brow before his arms wrap around you to help you up again. Gently as he can, he shuffles you into Bettie, the beat-up old truck that you love. Especially her robin’s egg blue paint mottled with rust.

As soon as you're seated, another wave seizes your guts so hard that it steals your breath. Gasping, gasping. Sucking in lungful after lungful only to hold them until it stops. He's at your door, leaning over to buckle you in when it hits, and his eyes widen at your obvious distress, immediately offering his hand for you to squeeze.

Surprisingly, you haven't broken his fingers yet, because your hands have nearly gone white from your harsh grip.

“I'm scared,” you whisper.

It's the first time you've admitted as much since the beginning of all this. In all the time you've been together, all you've been through since that morning your life was upended, nothing else has frightened you quite so much.

“I know, love. But I’ve got you, alright? You’re going to be fine. Both of you.”

He leans over to kiss your forehead, and the feeling on your drenched bangs makes your skin itch. Yet, you still find yourself missing his touch when he straightens up, strapping himself in and starting Bettie up. The cramps have temporarily eased, allowing you to breathe and think again. A few drops of sweat make their way down your face, darkening the pastel sleep shirt you have on.

You take the time to observe him as he quickly checks his mirrors, ticking off all the mental boxes–precious cargo, after all–before putting the truck in drive and rolling down the driveway. Watching him follow all the rules like an upstanding citizen brings a weak smile to your lips, despite yourself. He's been so excited about this process, despite your own feelings on it. But this moment was supposed to be two months off, yet. Not a sudden shock in the middle of the night.

Admitting the truth will be hard.

“How you doin’ over there, Foxheart? Talk to me.” He flicks his eyes over to make sure you're awake.

It hurts so bad. It’s not good, it’s not good. You’re going to lose everything, aren’t you? You should have listened to him. Eshú. He gave you options and you spat in his face before you even asked what they were.

When you shift, there’s a crunch in your raincoat. Checking the pocket, your fingertips come across a dry, brittle texture. It’s been so long since you’ve worn this coat that you’d forgotten these were in here. Bringing them out, they’re a little worse for wear, but mostly intact. The color has dulled, but they're still recognizable. Those pretty blue flowers John gave you last year.

You’d been wondering where they were. Found yourself missing them a few weeks ago, wanting a few petals to put in your notebook. Spreading your fingers over the bells, you’re overcome by sudden emotion. It wells up in your eyes, settles like a lump in your throat.

Biting your lip. “I need to tell you something, in case I…in case this is my last chance.”

“Hey, don't think like that.” His voice is distant, like he knows you’re speaking nonsense but wants to pacify you, keeping his eyes on the road while his hand rubs comfort into your thigh.

Mouth opening and closing before you can speak. “You know I love you, right? I don’t say it enough, because it–well, anyway, I do and I need you to know.”

Delirious. This is what delirium is. Tears blurring your vision, but you don't need to see him to know what his face looks like right now. You've seen all his expressions, spent so much time cooped up with him that you know them all by his voice alone. They're scrawled on the insides of your eyelids from all the times you couldn't stand to look at his fucking face anymore, so the images burned themselves there instead.

Even if it’s steady and controlled, that high pitch of his means that his mouth is probably slack, gaze probably darting around. He's out of his element, has no idea of what to do right now any more than you do, so he keeps rubbing your leg, afraid to add weight to your abdomen.

He's playing collected for your sake, but he's just as afraid as you are.

“You just need to calm down and breathe, alright? I love you, too. You’re the best thing that could have happened to me.”

Biting your lip and tasting salt. “You’ve been so good to me, and I did this to us. It’s all my fault…”

“Shh, nonsense. You didn’t do anything wrong, you–you couldn’t have.”

This isn't right. Nothing about this is. Goddess, it's excruciating. Instinct drives you to bring your knees up, wanting the comfort of the fetal position, but the heavy roundness of your belly prevents them from getting far. 

“No, I did, I–I used to pray for this to happen, and now it is, and I don't want it to, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Why are you answering me now? All these months later? Why wait until I wanted them, just to take them away from me?

“I made them mad, and they’re punishing me for it.”

“Who? Made who mad? You're not making any sense. Would you please just…just try to stay calm until we can get to the doc, hm?”

Dr. Hoffman. The retired family practitioner who probably hasn't delivered a baby in decades, but has steady hands and enough confidence that John was able to convince you that it would be safe. Not that you had another choice, after he refused your request for a doula…probably worried that she would ask too many questions. Dr. Hoffman, however, would be quiet about it. John probably told him you're undocumented–or on the run from someone bad, which is so ironic that it should make you laugh–and that's why you can't use a hospital, but the doctor is too polite to ask and too good to report you. It's not like you've gotten a moment alone with him, anyway. 

“Ah, I know! What about your favorite song, eh? Take your mind off it for a bit. Just lean back and relax, and I'll take care of it. Can you do that for me?”

You nod, leaning your head on the headrest. John removes his hand from your thigh to fumble around the dashboard, finally landing on the radio after pushing in an old cassette. Gods, this truck is so old. The gentle crooning of Roberta Flack fills the cab, a favorite of both of yours.

Breathing in and out. In and out.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Repeat.

Relax. He loves telling you to relax when it's the last thing you could possibly manage. Relaxation was abandoned months ago in the sprawling woods some five hundred miles away, when the bastard who got you into this whole damned predicament to begin wi–

Your belly shifts.

A knot in your throat. It moved. Not in the ways it normally has over the past few months. The gentle, sudden butterflies in your stomach of the early months. The experimental stretches and undulating of a forming body you've felt lately, no. No, it…it moved wrong.

In a rolling, encompassing motion it…it slithered.

The sickening feeling combines with the rocking and bumping of the truck down the unpaved path to make you lightheaded, nauseous by even the thought of such an alien sensation. Not just one, either. It's like a whole host of reptilian fluttering under the span of your flesh.

Swallowing down the bile, trembling fingers inch up the bottom hem of your oversized sleep shirt–another one stolen from him–to find that you aren't only imagining it. You can see…it's visible under the thin skin of your belly.

Why is there the sound of drums? Rhythmic, frantic. What song did he put on? It's unfamiliar, definitely not Roberta, not to mention it being the farthest thing from peaceful.

“John–”

“Twenty minutes. We just need to hold on for twenty minutes–fifteen if this storm lightens up any–I know you can do it, okay?”

His reassurances are barely audible over the rising dynamic of the drumbeats. Fervent staccato grating your senses, keeping your hackles raised, alert. So loud that it bears a physical presence. The pace speeds up until it matches your fluttering heartbeat and you’re in sensory overload. It’s too much.

You’re practically yelling, now, just to be heard. “It's too loud, I can't–can you turn it down?”

He does, only hesitating long enough to shoot you a confused look, but you pay him no mind. What your stomach is doing is far more concerning.

Thick bevels under your fingertips. They glide and press insistently before disappearing. You aren't imagining it. It didn’t feel like little arms or legs, no feet at all attached. 

“D-did you see that?” you ask.

“See what? Is there something on the road? Damn it, I can barely see past the headlights with this rain.”

A broken whisper that breaches the edge of madness. “No, it's…something is inside of me.” What’s happening? What is this?  

He hazards a quick look at you, not wanting to chance a longer stare before putting his attention on the road again.

“Inside you? You mean the baby?”

Another unnatural undulation rolls through you, stretching your skin taught with its arch before it disappears into your guts. The realization is a horror beyond what you can comprehend. Can he please turn off the fucking music?

“I don't feel the baby.”

“What?”

The subsequent cramp has you crushing his hand hard enough to hurt the both of you.

“Pull over–I think I’m going to be sick.”

Tires screaming as he pulls the truck off the gravel road. Rain in your ears, deafening. Cacophonous percussion that drowns out everything else, even your own frightened gasping. It's a racing, frenzied beat that bounces off the metal.

Even as the music overwhelms you, it feels familiar in a way you can’t name. Like you were born knowing it but forgot it in the decades of your time in the mundane.

What's happening?

It's made worse by the sudden spill of wetness between your legs. It surely hits the floorboards of John's precious truck, but you'll make it up to him later when all this is done. If you get the chance.

Did your water break? Is this just the panic set in by early labor?

But the smell of pennies greets your nose, and it's too thick to be anything but–

“Is that–that’s a lot of blood. Jesus, hey–Rusty, hey, look at me. Keep your eyes on me. Nonono, don't close them? I’ve got 911 on the phone, okay? We’re taking you to the hospital, but you have to stay with me.”

Gentle pats on your cheek that escalate to a slap. Regaining consciousness just long enough to realize you're wet from the hips. Cold. And when you look down, oh, you look and swear, swear there's a black tail slithering out from between your legs, the pointed, scaled end of it drawing a red pattern inside your thigh.

M.I.N.E.

That's when your mind abandons you, jaw hanging limp in the aftermath, eyes rolling back until it's nothing but white to balance all the oil-slick void below.

“Hey–stay awake! Rusty, look at me. Stay with me, baby. No, wake up!”

But you're sinking fast, and the expansive darkness promises peace finally.

“Wake up, Rusty!”

“Rusty, wake up.”

With a gasp, you do. Sit up so fast that your head spins.

Your lungs jolt into action first, gulping in air so voraciously that half of it is swallowed. Staring into his wide eyes with desperation as you beseech him for something you can't speak about yet as your surroundings begin to fade in.

There's building pressure in your head, sure to be a headache soon, and sour turmoil in your stomach.

Oh gods.

Feeling around in the dark. Flap. Flap. There. Perfect, but dammit, John has the stupid thing ziptied shut. You need to get out before–

“What are you–shit!”

Before that happens. And it happens again.

“Wai-wai-wait, no, not in here! Jesus!”

“I'm sorry,” you manage between heaves, thankfully dry now. “I'm sorry.”

Hands immediately reaching for your stomach–still soft with your usual pouch, you realize with relief–only to slump down bonelessly, thudding hard against your nest.

“Heeyy, hey, shh, it’s okay. I've got you, now. You're okay.”

Meanwhile, John pulls you into his chest and rubbing your back, bewildered himself after being startled awake. Numbly nodding with him at every you're okay, seeking out his hand so you can squeeze your fingers between his.

You're okay. It was just a dream.

When the panic has been exhausted from your nerves, when the hiccups have subsided and you've wiped the snot from your nose, it hits you what a mess you've made of the space.

Everything, really.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter pathetically. That sinking, guilty feeling from the dream hasn’t entirely left you.

“It's okay, just…let's just get you outside. Why don't you go and warm up by the fire while I clean this up, hm?”

Settling yourself near the flames, wrapped in a clean blanket and listening to the chirping of insects around you that haven’t died off in the growing chill. Resisting the urge to apologize again when you hear the sleepy, disgruntled mutterings from inside the tent as he gets to work.

You're dozing, body warm and fuzzy, head dropping occasionally by the time he's done. Waking to find him hunched before you, the back of his hand on your forehead.

“You’re not getting sick, are you?” he frowns, red reflecting in his dark eyes as the firelight licks at them.

No, you tell him. Something probably just didn’t sit right with you. The water filters should still be good, and there’s no fever or other symptoms of giardia. Hesitant to tell him about the dream that was so repellent your body physically rejected it.

You said that you loved him.

When you stand up to re-enter the shelter, he takes your hand in his to bring you close, dropping a kiss on the top of your head.

“I’m lucky to have you, you know,” he says.

Chuckling a bit at his sudden display of affection. If all it takes is a little vomit to put him in a sweet mood, you might get sick more often.

“Let's go back to bed, yeah?” you ask, stepping away and guiding him toward the tent by his shirt. "You know better than to get sappy with me before I've had coffee."

You need rest. Real rest. No nightmares, no judgmental beings, just nothingness. If only to get away from the guilt wracking you for feeling this way. The foggy edges of the nightmare have crystallized in your lashes, and you're afraid that it'll seep back in the moment you drift off again.

Settling in, you find yourself enclosed in his arms, despite being overheated, staring at his bare chest. “Talk to me? Just until I fall asleep.”

“What about?”

“Anything nice,” you yawn. It shouldn't take long. Anything to keep your mind distracted. You need to flood it with other images.

So, he tells you about the first time he caught a river fish with bait that he gathered. A whopping seven pounds, too. Cleaned and cooked it over a campfire he started himself. You learn what his favorite childhood movie was: Star Wars, hiding your surprise when he says Hans was his favorite character instead of Vader. Just a dorky boy. Normal.

He also talks about when he and Jane spent an entire summer perfecting a fort they made from an old shack in the woods. They secreted away their mom's–their mother’s–unused fabric from the attic to decorate the place. It was on an abandoned piece of land, and it was still there when he last looked for it. That was probably fifteen years ago now. Promises to take you with him if he ever visits the area again, even though it'll probably be long gone by then.

He’s still going–some things interesting enough to delay your sleep, like his time on his uncle’s farm, other things nonsense–when you begin to drift off, head leaning heavily against his shoulder. This time, you're dreaming about adventures in the stars, children in castles playing royalty, and a world where good and bad don't overlap quite so much.

The next couple of days are unseasonably warm, followed by seasonably chilly nights.

You're rolling your eyes when John grumbles for the umpteenth time about how it shouldn't be this hot, and how people are wrecking the environment. Ironic, considering how blasé he was about leaving your belongings behind, trashing up the trail. But you suppose leaving it behind makes for a better case about your disappearance having no foul-play. Police will assume you’d gotten lost while out and about, maybe after having an accident. Eventually, they'll stop looking for a missing person and will instead look for a body–before the case goes cold altogether.

Earlier, you found a source to refill your water and clean those sullied towels finally. Which is great, because the increasingly rank smell was not been helping you feel better. Even though it was a small stream, shallow enough to walk across, John still insisted on walking a few more miles away from it before setting up camp for the evening. Increases your chances of meeting another hiker, not that he’ll admit as much.

You're busying yourself with your sketchbook, trying to capture the prismatic way the fading sunlight breaks through the shrubbery when he interrupts. He'd been picking through your selection of books, reading more of Wild, which you tried not be annoyed at. He's just as nosy are you are. Nosier.

“So, what made you pick him?”

Not looking up from your work, you reply, “Pick who?”

“The guy you ran away with. Who–what was he to you?”

Your hand trembles, causing you to smear red paint. "Shit. Chris? Nobody. I barely knew him…just saw each other at my friend’s–” you know, the one who had broken your young heart “–house a few times because of her older brother. I think he was his dealer, maybe they were friends? I dunno. Why?” 

"And just like that, you dropped everything and left with him?"

You sigh and close your book. Goodness, what is this about? You don’t know…maybe because you were too scared to do it alone. You were desperate, and he had a reason to get out of your hometown, too? Oh, and he had a car and money. That was a bonus.

“Did you ever see him again?”

The man who wouldn't take no for an answer? Sure, you saw him around a few times, but not because you wanted to. The universe must have stepped in or something, because he died sometime while you were away at college. An overdose, apparently. Not a lot of people were sad about it, either. Least of all you.

Why, is John suddenly jealous?

“Good,” he says, chewing on his lip. “That’s good.”

“Yeah, it is.”

He looks away, shoulders slumped, unreachable. He has a unique ability to do that–make you feel bad for him, in spite of yourself. A dangerous man wrapped up in insecurities.

“Hey, I barely knew the guy. He didn’t mean anything to me, okay?” you say, shifting to look at him properly. “All he did was hurt me.”

Seems you've got a knack for attracting that, you muse with a frown. When you squeeze his hand reassuringly, paint trickles down your fingertips, staining red your bitten-to-the-quick nails. You move to stand in front of him, and he pulls you close, pressing his nose into your stomach, inhaling deeply.

“Will you leave me, too?” Comes the muffled plea.

You manage to catch the hitch in your breath but fail to school your expression. Thankfully, he’s still face-planted. It gives you the opportunity to rest your gaze on his mop of hair, untethered for the evening.

“You?" you murmur. "No, I'm not quite ready to let you go."

Palms pressing hard, mapping out the shape of his skull, drawing comfort from the way the strands glide between your fingers as you scratch his scalp. Fingers threading into the mess, tangled at the ends-he put it up in a bun before letting it dry again. You'll offer to brush it later to make up for the paint you're getting in it. He'll like that. 

After a few moments, he stills in your embrace, the warmth of his breath gone as he leans back to speak clearly.

“Even though I have...needs?” 

Needs. What a dangerous word that's becoming.

“What do you need from me?” you whisper.

“You. Just you.” He's backpedaling. Strong arms wrap around your back, squeezing.

“You have me. But there's more, isn't there? You have other needs, don't you? I've seen some of it." Staring over his head, into the growing dark between the trees. "I think–I can take it when you can't control it. If you can't."

He straightens, a near-imperceptible break of posture, before his grasp tightens on your hips. "...I couldn't ask you to do that."

It wouldn't really be asking, though, would it? And what are the other options, anyway? There's not going to be a therapist in rural Oregon. You're up and off again, doing a delicate dance with the rope around your neck, hoping you can maneuver around the stage props with enough finesse. Nerves made visible in the fog your lungs release.

“I'm offering. I need you to swear to me, though,” you start, swallowing dryly. “No one else. Ever. I mean it.”

"Never. I swear it."

The rope twists and furls, winding and escaping into itself. Chafes your throat. The stiff, fibrous sound crinkling with its winding movements until it has you surrounded. A threatening tug.

"Okay. Okay..."

“I get so mad sometimes and it–just takes over," he admits. “I didn't mean for you to see it, I swear. It's just...it's been in me for as long as I can remember. My, uh, Mother said that there was something wrong with me, that I was born bad like her brother and her dad. She saw it when she looked in my eyes. Was she right?"

Hadn't given it thought before now, but maybe John has nightmares too. Gods, what the fuck was wrong with that woman?

"Look at me, John."

Reluctantly, he drags his gaze up to look at you, or whatever of you he can see in the disappearing light. Your grip under his jaw as you inspect his eyes, turning his face left and right, getting a measure of him. At certain angles, your own frame reflects back.

"No, I don't think she was right. No one is all bad or all good, okay? There's no heaven or hell waiting for us when we die. It's just...us and our choices. You'll make better ones, won't you?"

Gnaws on his lip, mustache getting in the way-he needs a trim soon. Maybe you'll offer that too with the brushing.

"Could I ever earn your forgiveness?” he asks.

Oh.

"...With enough time, I think everyone can earn it eventually. Even you." 

John sags in your hold. Unhealed hollow of a man. Emotion burbles in your chest.

It's not real. He’s drugging you.

You’ve watched him like a hawk as he made your meals over the past few days and witnessed nothing out of the ordinary. So, how is he doing it? It sits heavily in your gut, not knowing exactly what has been put in your system. Nor for how long. Small glass vials that contain–well, who knows what. That's the whole point of an unlabeled container.

You had assumed that it was from the depleted adrenaline in your system, the way your sleep was far too sound after he revealed himself as your stalker, but now…remembering, after that horrible experience, the sharp sting of something that you couldn’t be bothered to consider at the time. A tiny stab deemed insignificant in the face of all that had been done. Until now.

What was it? 

Not a paralytic. As weak as you felt, your brain never had trouble connecting to your limbs, but maybe a low-dose roofie of some kind? Something to muddle your mind, make you lax and controllable. When was the last time you really felt…right? Not since that morning, no. Everything that happened after clicking through his camera has been filtered through a dream-like lens. Like watching yourself through a screen. All that you can recall is the grogginess that had followed that next day, assuming that you were aching and sluggish from dehydration.

Violence. Hours of sweating without a proper drink, too anxious to have anything in your belly except bile, but you still felt off. How long had that lasted again? 

Well. Shaking your head to clear your thoughts before they show externally. Back to it, then.

"Now, why don't you get a fire started for us so we can have dinner, hm? I'm starving, here. I'll even cook–I think we've got southwestern rice and creamy chicken and rice for our options. Gourmet quality, I'm sure."

He looks grateful to have a task to focus on, and you need a break, too. Sets himself to it, having to resort to his days as a Scout after he realizes he lost the ferro rod at some point during the day. Rubbing sticks together over kindling until the spark finally caught. Pure caveman shit. Frowned the whole time, clearly irritated with himself over losing such a vital wilderness item, but still. It’s impressive.

He gathers your bowls after you eat, ready to clean them before you stop him. “John?” 

“Never get tired of hearing you say my name like that.”

Amusement tugs at the corner of your mouth-he really doesn't have much game, does he? Says a lot about you, considering how he pulled you in a matter of hours.

“It's been a hard day, and I’m feeling like a treat. Drink with me? It’s all we have left since somebody finished the last of the marshmallows.” Just like he finished the remaining chocolate without asking. You're starting to think those snacks were actually for himself instead of you. He can have the last of the wine, too, then.

“As much as I would love to indulge you, I’m not in the mood. I'll be ready hit the hay, soon.”

It must be getting to him, carrying so much weight for hours on end. Also, he definitely seems to prefer the cold to today’s weather–which, coincidentally, has you in far higher spirits, charged by the sun as you are.

You pout. “Ugh, you’re no fun.”

“Rusty,” he warns. “I’m tired.”

“So, we'll sleep in. Listen, I’m being practical. Think of it this way: it’ll be less for us to carry for the rest of the trip.”

Less for him to carry, which seems to pique his interest.

“C'mon, I'll even make it for us this time. Besides, is this how you’ll be when we get home? Come home after a long day and just plant yourself on the couch? You promised me some fun, too, remember? Dancing. Other things.”

At the word home–and the way your finger teases at his waist–his ears perk up, “I did, didn’t I?”

"You did," you say, using his belt loop to pull him down to kiss you.

Hooked.

You’ve got a mug partially filled with spiced wine, a little chagrined that it didn’t turn out as well as how he makes it. Sipping carefully while watching him.

“There it is.”

“What?” you ask.

“That smile of yours.”

“Oh, stop, you big flirt."

It’s just small chatter for a while, and he indulges you for the next round you bring him. Declines on the third one, though, gently pushing the mug back into your hand.

“I think I've had enough.”

C’mon. “I can't finish the rest myself.”

“No, I shouldn't–a hangover will hurt tomorrow. Plus, I'm not a nice drunk.”

What a weird thing to say, considering he’d matched you drink for drink on those nights early on. In fact, he was a perfectly nice drunk every time you saw him. Unless. Unless he–

Oh, you rat bastard.

Unless he's been faking how much he's been drinking this whole time, either not filling his mug or dumping it out when you weren’t looking. Dirty, rotten bastard.

Well, two can play at that game.

Stretching your arms up high for good measure, making sure he's got an eyeful of how you aren't wearing a bra as you approach. “It’ll hurt more tomorrow if you have to carry that bladder of wine again. You're already walking at an angle, and that's why your shoulder is bothering you.”

His eyebrows raise at that. You're not the only observant one, John.

Sliding behind him, it doesn't take long to find a knot in there and roll it between your thumb and fingers. Taking a moment to enjoy his freshly-cleaned hair.

“Okay, okay. One more, though. The rest is yours to drink or carry.”

“Hey, that's not what I agreed to! You know I can't.” Smacking his arm playfully. “Besides, you're the one who brought it to begin with.”

He catches your hand at the second smack, using it as leverage to pull you over his shoulder until you land in his lap. A maneuver so surprising that you're left dazed for a moment, staring up at him. The firmness beneath you pairs well with the look on his face.

“For you,” he says, mouth soft. Pretty.

Baited breath, shivers under your skin as his hand trails down your torso, between your breasts, over your stomach, sinking into the meat at your hips. You gasp.

“For me."

You know that I love you, right?

Fingers threading into his beard in a familiar movement, coarse bristles tickling the thin skin. Cupping his chin until he looks down at you with a heated expression.

Draws his finger down your cheek, traces the line of your jaw. “Are you trying to start trouble, little fox?”

Heart beating faster. “Nothing I can't handle. Try me.”

It's like a magnetic draw, charged electrons compelling you to clash together. To suck on his full bottom lip with your wine-red mouth. Suffocated by heat and smoke and sandalwood, pressure from without and from without battling for territory.

Forcing yourself to separate, to focus, to feed your brain oxygen again, you peel yourself out of his lap, reveling in how his fingers linger on your skin.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to take advantage of me.”

That smile of his turns wolfish then, displaying the sharp point of his cuspids. Your tongue aches at the memory of how they dug into it all those weeks ago. Gorgeous teeth on him...could be a dentist in another life.

“I just want you to loosen your collar. Just one more, indulge me. Have you ever had drunk sex? You're missing out, if not.”

It’s easy to convince him to empty out the wine after that. The movement of your bodies makes way more sense that the headgames he's been playing with you.

You’re in his lap afterwards, exchanging sloppy, drunken kisses. Soaking yourself on the bulge in his pants. Your sweater pushed up over your breasts so he can suckle at them as he thumbs the slick space between your thighs. He’s still holding onto that thread of politeness, though. Teeth not digging in as much as you'd like, his fingers not root-deep inside of you.

“C’mon, John,” you beg. “I’ve been asking you since we met. Stop holding back, I won't break. Fuck me.”

The way his hands grab and tense, pause on your flesh before reminding himself to be careful. Maybe that's why he held off on that first night. He was afraid he'd wake something up, scare you off before he got a chance.

“I don't think that's a good id–”

His face snaps to the side as you tug his hair hard, smirking at how his neck pops.

“Ow–the hell are you doing?”

If you were smarter, the irritation in his tone would've given you pause. It's stupid to provoke him-you know some of what he's capable of, and it ought to be enough to stop you from trying to slap him next.

Again, no one ever praised you for being level-headed. Brash. Short-sighted. Consequences always a few steps behind. That's what got you into this predicament to begin with. Snatched up, your wrist feels fragile in his grip, more so when it's given a not-gentle squeeze. It's a warning. You don’t retreat, though, regretting that you didn't start with the slap.

“All fire tonight, aren't you?”

Northerly winds. For a brief, maniacal moment, the sight of the warrior Oya hits you. Imposing. Womanly. A storm so violent it tears through the terrain, wind ripping up trees, exposing tangled roots. Sharp snaps of breaking bark and dead trunks. She’ll catch that dry patch of brush over there, her turbulence fanning the flames until everything erupts into a red-hot fury of destruction.  Nothing but charred remains in her wake.

"Are you scared of me, John?" Blood in your teeth when you grin. Except he doesn't smile. No, his intensity lies in its somberness.

Drumbeats in the distance.

The victorious look on your face is wiped clean when unceremoniously you're suspended, hefted over his shoulder. Hands scrambling for purchase, finding nothing but his shirt to grasp, feet dangling in the air. Gods, you forgot how strong he really is.

A thud as you're dropped on the ground, winding you, a rock digging into your calf, body close enough to the fire to heat your skin. Or is that uncertainty that's coloring your cheeks?

“This what you want?”

Tight-lipped, but the truth is in your eyes.

Yes.

Oh, how you've been aching to fight. Can feel the hum in your blood. It lingers in the hollow of your mouth, the urge to smart off, make some quip about how you'll burn him first, but you find that you're already well on your way to the inferno with the way he's looking down at you.

He strikes a hulking, massive figure, dark eyes catching the light. Looking forged from hell itself. Tall, taller than anyone you know, broad-shouldered and straight-backed. Perfect, controlled posture. No jokes, no laughter, only a raw need to let his mask drop. He renders you speechless.

Be careful, Rusty. Wildfires are like the tornadoes back home. Once they catch, they can twist and turn suddenly. Don't get burned.

You've seen this look on him before.

Smirks when your thighs tense and press together.

Whore, he doesn't have to say.

“You need to be put in your place.”

Your belly dips. Uneven breaths visible in the coolness of the evening. Is this the same man who twirled you around the fire only hours ago, humming his favorite song? Candied your heart with sweetness?

“Don't move.”

His mind clogged with alcohol. It usually makes you happy, having it swirl endorphins through your veins, but it appears to have a different effect on him. Quietens him where you get loud. It makes you jovial. Content. But it turns his lips downward at the corners as he gets lost inside of himself.

His movements aren't sluggish, though. Every bend of his limbs serves a purpose. His vision cuts through the dark, can see details invisible to you. Observes the uncertainty in your body language and feels a rush as you squash down the urge to squirm under his rapt attention.

The chill in the ground is beginning to seep into your bones. After he's unzipped his disguise, unshouldered that civilized hide, neatly folding and putting it aside, he returns to you. Stern. Lithe body laid bare while still clothed, approaching yours on all fours, and even though the fine hairs on your forearm raise and your scalp prickles, you remain still.

You don't dare disobey.

Watching him with wide eyes, he's different than he's been before. It's in the tension of his arms–biceps firm, elbows locked–in the way he rests above you easily, watching every movement of yours. Waiting for you to do something that merits a reprimand. A correction.

A chase.

When you bite your lip, his expression tells you that he'd like to take it a step or two further. Bring your lip between his fangs and draw blood. Give it to you the way you did him the last time you fought.

There's a drop of sweat making its way to the end of his nose. You long to taste the salt from it.

“Last chance to tell me no.”

He can tell you over and over that he doesn't like this side of him, but you know the truth, because you're struck by a kindred affliction. Curious little fox who doesn't know when to tap out.

“No.” A cocky response paired with the licking of the sharp point of your tooth. Cupping him through his pants and squeezing.

Fuck me like you were made for it.

The drop lands on your throat, and it's followed by his tongue. Lapping at it desperately, sucking along your neck and at the little hollow in between your collarbones. Enjoys it so fervently that you can’t help but laugh a bit awkwardly in face of such tempest.

He still doesn't smile, and that shit-eating look of yours wavers with the concern that maybe, just maybe, you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. The wind picks up, invisible fury whipping through the trees, sending a rogue spark from the fire into your flesh, the pain sharp, quick.

“You're dangerous, you know that, Foxheart?” he says, lifting his face. “What trouble would you be in if not for me, hm?”

What do you say to that? Your mouth simply opens and closes. There’s a speck of dirt in his beard, just a small one that you suspect came from your body. When you reach up to remove it, suddenly both of your hands are in his grasp, pinned above your head, meeting the cold ground beneath.

His groin presses insistently against yours, a throbbing reminder that you have nowhere to go.

“This is what you asked for.”

Yes. Yes, it is. Quite viciously, too.

Your breath speeds up as you find yourself looking over his shoulder, eyes desperately seeking out familiar formations in the stars. There, Orion stands over you, one of the constellations your mom taught you. You remember the first time she put a name to him. It was in your backyard with mosquitos nipping at your pulse points–teeth on your neck–dry blades of grass between your fingers–no, wait, they’re damp, cold–an arm, comforting, around your shoulders–a forearm over your throat–his broad shoulders atop a confident stance, his telltale–

Remaining silent when you're drawn back to the present, a clink! cutting through the air. A brief worry about your Pavlovian reaction to the sound, the way arousal coats the gusset of your underwear. John's buckle is undone and his belt drawn through his pant loops, one, two, three. Keeps it in hand, playing with the leather while watching you with eyes hard as steel–that sweet puppy roundness long gone. It hits the ground heavily when it's cast aside.

“If you're good, you might get something out of it, too.”

Moonlight, cold and bright. Be good. You can do that. Staring up at the man in the sky, the way his sword hangs low as your underwear is pulled aside so John can notch himself at your entrance. When did he free himself from his pants?

You aren't ready yet. Wet, sure, but not stretched out by fingers this time. A sudden spike of fear has you closing yourself off, thighs burdened by his hips. Only serving to cradle him more securely in your folds.

“Wait, give me a min–” A plea broken off on a gasp, palms on his chest, but it does nothing to persuade him as he breaches you.

He takes his time, but it isn't easy to accommodate him. Can't quite sheath himself into you in a graceful move, unprepared as you are, so he does it in stages, opening you bit by bit with unrelenting force. Doesn't rock himself back to offset the friction, just persists along, burning hot against your inner walls.

Slow down, slow down.

It's overwhelming, as though you'd never gotten used to it at all over the past weeks. It punches the air right out of your lungs with a broken sound, body deflating. Only a whine escapes you. Animalistic wound. Thankfully, he pauses long enough for you to adjust to the intrusion once he's fully seated. Or maybe it's for himself.

“Jesus, you're–tight like this.” Boastful. Chuckles meanly when your muscles clench around him, cementing his point.  “Filthy thing.”

As much as you want to refute him, you are in the literal dirt right now. Breath bated, teetering on a wince when he withdraws, skin pulling taught until it's just his tip keeping your folds parted. Scrunching your face up for what comes next. The first thrust tears a squeal from your throat as your hands fly around his neck to hold on.

“Relax,” he says, breath hot on your neck. “You have to relax, or this is going to hurt.”

But the excitement coursing through his fathomless eyes contradicts his concern. Satisfaction in them, the upper row of teeth peeking under his mustache. The same look he wore every time he got an answer right in your little game in the tent all that time ago. He knew he had an upper hand, a leg up, every time you opened your mouth to lie.

Despite it, though, you know he's right. It takes everything to listen, because your body is telling you to resist the thing that's bruising you like old fruit. Overripe. Sweetness bordering on rot.

Tension fading as you find yourself thinking of your first night together, the way he smiled nervously, stuttered over his words while he let you take over. His hair spilling between your fingers and over your belly, tickling at your thighs, amusement and passion saturating the air.

“It’s just me. Let me in, Foxheart. Just…just like that–now don't spoil it by moving. I'll do all the work for us.”

You'd snort if you could spare the breath, because how the hell could you move, pinned and speared like this. Balanced over a spit, slowly roasting. You can feel him…no, he’s…he is everywhere. Consuming any sense of self you had, leaving you unable to tell where your ends have tangled with his.

Obscene noises spilling out of you with every violent slap of his hips against your flesh. No choice but to endure as he overtakes you. A piece of broken bark scratches the exposed skin of your lower back.

“Are you happy now? Getting what you whined so prettily for.”

His hair tickling your face as you nod mindlessly into his shoulder, so he doesn’t see how spiky your lashes are. You have been bellyaching for this for a while now. Wanting it hard enough to rattle your thoughts from your brain, allowing you to just feel. Finding yourself holding on, feeling winded and dizzy.

Until his face looms above, so probing and serious that it makes the fine hairs on your forearm rise.

“You didn't do it, did you?” he asks.

The abruptness of the question is surprising, and it takes a moment to draw you out of your thoughts, asking him a mumbled request to clarify. Do what?

“Sleep with him. Since you like it hard and all.”

His name. The acquaintance of sorts who tried to–well. Did you say something wrong earlier? Why is he making you think about this right now?

“No," you whisper.

“You aren't lying to me, are you, Foxheart? Telling me what I want to hear?”

The words stumble over each other. “No, he tried, but–I wouldn't…”

“You wouldn't. And no one else, right? Just me who's had you like this.”

Nodding, eyes wide, speaking into the sweat on his skin until he leans back, finally allowing you to see the dark silhouette of him, framed by deep red.

Witnessing him, you're struck again with the vision of Eshú before the pyre. A primordial force who offers the agony of choice.

Careful. Even though the answer he's looking for is the truth, he could misinterpret it, find some reason to take it out on you. Of course you've had partners before, just not in the way he seems to value. But he doesn't want nuance. Not from a bramble-haired creature he's got speared on a bed of needles and soot, frost nipping at their paws. No, he seeks indulgence from you.

“No one." Hot exhales moistening the air, turning your head away to get some distance, your ear pressed so firmly into the ground that the rapid beating of your heart feels like drums. “I...saved it for you."

You're drawn to face him again as he searches your watery eyes for any deceit. Holds your stare until he's satisfied with what he sees–your surrender?–forehead dropping to the flushed area between your neck and shoulder. Leaving you to grapple with the weight of him as he crushes you into the moss and pine.

He grabs the bulk of your ass, then, the fat pinched between his fingers as he resumes his thrusts, making you gasp. Your body hasn't fully adjusted yet, gripping him so tightly that it resists his backstroke.

"Just for you.”

"For how long?"

"Always." He's ruined you for anyone else.

Stilling, he presses as deeply as he can, sending a cramp through your core like he's trying to burrow in your skin. Or maybe you're cocooning him with how your knees bruise his sides and your nails dig into his back. A chrysalis, nutrients broken down, consumed and rebuilt.

Overwhelmed, your breath catches on a sudden sob, raw flesh pulling and dragging the first tendrils of pleasure when he kisses your skin just under your collarbone. It licks up your spine, those promising siren calls that cause your thighs to quiver. Sweat pools under your back, causing his grip to falter. Opting instead to grasp your hips, fingers digging in, buried up to the first knuckle with his fervor.

Your arms drop, fall between your bodies again, folding into yourself as you're hollowed out. Nails digging into his chest, searching for something to ground yourself in this relentless onslaught. Sinuses swollen, chin tucked under.

“Look at you. Beautiful, taking all of this for me. It's a lot, I know."

Whether he means what you offered him earlier, or the way he's toeing the line of your body's limits, you whimper at the praise. The pathetic sound causes his brow to scrunch up tight, and goddess forgive you, but you just want the chance to make it again. To be rendered nothing but a wet mouth and puffy cunt, glimmering ecstasy.

How many times had you told him that you loved him in that dream or...vision? Was he still drugging you?

Tears threaten to spill over with the repetitive press of his smooth thighs. Every roll of his blunt tip against your walls an unrefuted claim, every noise that falls from his lips a balm to your ache. He hits a spot deep within, bumps your cervix with his intensity, making your toes curl. Massages it again, this time with a grunt that rattles your bones.

“You fought it before, though. Was it so you wouldn't feel guilty?”

Stunned, you can only shake your head. That's not at all how it was, and he knows it. But then his hand buries itself in your hair and you hear it again. The hissing.

Where it once had been a faint sound, they're so close to your ears now, the shrieks, like he disturbed a sleeping nest when he grabbed hold. Medusa coils wrapping around his fingers, offended by his audacity as he wrenches your head up to look at him.

“No, no, tell the truth. Don't hide from me, remember?”

That's when he recounts some of your porn history, including the names of a few accounts you'd subscribed to. Burly men with much smaller women. Bondage and begging. But it wasn't like that. Wasn't like this. Even the ones who got rough cared for each other and took communication and aftercare very seriously.

He shouldn't know any of that anyway. What drawers hasn't he peeked into?

“You wanted me to fix you right the other night, huh? Put you over my knee and spank you until you couldn't sit without thinking of me? It’s okay–you don't have to be embarrassed. Not with me.”

Embarrassed. That’s one way to describe how exposed you’re feeling, paper-thin wings spread behind you, peeled open and exposed to his scrutiny.

“...Yes.” Quiet. Ashamed.

“Yes, what.” Another forceful tug of your hair to punctuate his demand, stinging your scalp. 

Is it not good enough that you're debasing yourself like this? Oh, you repugnant man. “Yes, sir.”

He pauses with a sudden moan, spice and ichor on his breath as he steadies himself. His teeth sink into your neck, causing you to cry out. It feels like war. A battle of wills fought with flesh and teeth, blood on the horizon.

You deserve this, don't you? All the times you've laughed at his jokes, admired the artistry of his sculpted form, enjoyed his company. Actually felt something for him beyond fear or pity, knowing what he is. You're just as bad. Just another drop in the bucket of actions to atone for. The pain in your chest rears again.

Oblivion. That will bring you some respite. You huff because just as it nears, it cants out of reach. There's some kind of interference blocking you from coming, even though your body is bloated from want. Desperate for something so damn close. Your hand travels down to combat the onslaught, but it's stayed by his own just as you begin to caress your mons. Whining about it, to his terrible amusement. 

"Don't be greedy. You'll take what I give you.”

“I can't get there. I'm sorry,” you start, cut off by another gasp. “I need…”

You're trying, you swear. A babbling brook of apologies encased in your breast. If it could all just…quiet down.

"What does my girl need?"

Goddess, where to start? A hand on my neck again, one on my cunt, my breast, everywhere. Whatever. All of it.

Sweat on your upper lip as he licks at the spot he just ravished, just under your jaw, and you find yourself turning toward his mouth, desperate and wanton, aching for a connection to bring you out of your head.

“Kiss me.” Remind me that I'm real. That you're worth it.

That's the one that does him in, flips some switch because he pauses for a moment to observe the sincerity and torment plastered on your face. Twitches inside of you at the admission.

“Is that all? What a sweet one you're being for me, now. Did that fire burn out so fast, or did I finally fuck it out of you?”

He punctuates the last question with a firm thrust that buries you further into the ground. Pulsing with desperation around his turgid flesh when he licks a stripe up your neck. He pauses to adjust before digging  an arm underneath you to pull you against him as he leans back, supporting you over his thighs. Wastes not a single moment in reclaiming the hot space between your legs, re-entering you with a slick noise that throws your head back and draws your thighs around his ass.

At this angle, the hard surface of his pubic bone meets yours, grinding into the area just above where he's got you speared. Gravity combines with your weight thats settled over him to provide just the right amount of friction. It might even be enough to finish you off, you realize with an open-mouthed sigh.

But he still hasn't given you what you asked for, and it chafes. Instead, his eyes roam to watch how your chest heaves, flushed red and streaked with dirt, pebbled nipples rising and falling. How your hands clench and unclench at your sides, dropping abused leaves below.

You strike a powerful image, you realize, biting your lip. Unmade and reformed by him. Ravaged by filth. Taking a moment to behold him in return while he's resting on outstretched arm, obscuring everything else.

“John," you entreat. “Please, kiss me.”

“When you deserve it,” he murmurs, eyes flicking down to your lips and back up, his words thick with syrupy affection. He tucks some loose hair behind your ears. "Be patient."

Another clench. Another twitch.

I've been patient enough.

Your hands tangle in his beard as you fall back–a grunt–pulling him down, taking his weight again as you claim his mouth. Wasting no time thrusting your tongue in it to taste cinnamon and tannins. Your sounds are pathetic, but you're beyond caring now.

Gods, you’re close. So much that if he stops now, you’ll have to kill him.

So, so, so close and a whisper, a flutter emerges and grows loud.

There.

The knot below your belly button tightens as your pelvic muscles start to spasm. Kissing him hard enough now that someone’s chapped lips are bleeding when the pressure snaps. Sparks rush through your core, catching the brush on fire as he praises you for how warm and wet and tight you are like this.

“Yes,” you cry out into his shoulder, thighs tightening around him, eyes scrunching shut, tears leaking through as you ride the sensations. Pleasure wracks through you until you're lightheaded, stars scattering across the void. Tasting metal.

When your pulse slows and you're able to breathe normally again, you realize that he hasn't finished yet. Seems to be having difficulty with it himself now as he rests there, breathing hard. Muscle softening up. If you were kinder, you'd hold him to your chest, cup his cheek to sooth him–don't worry about it, I'm worn out anyhow.

If you were braver, you'd tease–I see you can't handle your drink.

Or…maybe he needs–

Your hand on his jaw, pushing him away, burning your hand against the coarse grit of his facial hair. Slapping against his smooth chest, and the pain serves for both of your gratification. The sound of it echoes and the smell of fear cuts sharp through the crisp air.

Something shifts.

“Get off me.”

“You don't mean that. You never do.”

Ears flattened, teeth bared, those pretty, pointy things. Your wrists in a steel lock again, pinned on either side of your head. Only able to kick his calves with your heels.

“Open.”

What choice do you have but to listen? Obedience fucked into you, your mouth drops, knowing what's coming, welcoming it. That pretty cupid's bow mouth of his widens, curls prettily at the corner. Right as he spits in your mouth.

Last time, it was an expulsion of fluid, full of rage. This time it lacks force. It's a lazy, viscous line dribbling down. Confident. Takes his time letting it drop, stares at you throughout it. There's a brief moment when the string of saliva connects your mouths.

Hooks two fingers on your bottom teeth, knows you know better than to bite down.

John's presence is suffocating. He waits until discomfort settles on your expression at the lewdness of it before he lets you off.

“Swallow.”

This time you do it without complaint. No ulterior motive. Even opening your mouth so he can see it, lifting the muscle for good measure.

“That's my good girl.”

There he goes again with that, but there's little point in telling him again how you're not a girl. Not with how your lower muscles seize upon hearing his approval. His fingers rest over your mouth now, leading you to think it's there so he can feel your whimpers against his palm rather than silencing them.

It's not a sin. You're not in the pit, and you're okay. Will be, anyway.

His hand, sweaty appendage that it is, slips to cover your nose, too, on accident. It rises then, genuine fear, because it happened to move just as you were about to inhale, and your lungs can't hold on long enough. Pleasure bleeds out of you when your fevered brain catches on to what's happening. The wind, quick as a whip, shifts and feeds the flames and...and it's in your lungs now. It's catching and raging and you're burning, you're burning. Hairs blackened, skin bubbled, fat liquefied. Vision filled by red-hot fire.

Bucking against him doesn't nothing to dislodge him, and you can only hope that he thinks you're still playing, because if he knows that you're actually fighting against him to get air and he's refusing to stop, to even adjust a little? No, you can’t entertain that right now.

Beginning to see spots when he notices you've gone limp, eyes refocusing as he realizes the unsafe placement of his palm. Shifts until he's got the side of your face cradled–I'm sorry–but you're distracted by the cotton in your ears and charred sugar in your lungs.

He's hard again, you realize with a hiccup.

Sick, sick, sick.

You both are.

John resumes rutting into you with renewed vigor, mindless. Brow furrowed, consternation carving lines in his forehead. If he isn't careful, they'll stick and age him quicker. You long to smooth it out, but worry about interrupting him.

He cradles you close again, an arm curled under your armpit, cheek to cheek–a bittersweet imitation of how he holds you when he convinces you to dance with him. Clutching you while he ushers you around, ignoring your exhilarated, breathless protests when your feet dangle midair.

Don't drop me! Trying to sound stern around a smile.

“God, help me,” he whispers, hips relentless, faces glued together. “I can't stop.”

The misery in his tone wrenches sympathy from you, knowing what it's like to wish you were something different. Easier to stomach.

Other than a soft it's okay, you're quiet. You've unlocked something unpredictable in him tonight, and you don't want to set him off to where he plants his hand over your face again like that. He wasn't lying when he said he wasn't a nice drunk. His kisses have devolved into messy attempts to claim you. Sucking at your lips before you allow him in, letting him kiss into your mouth with the same fervor that he kisses into your cunt with.

Even if it isn't love, it isn't, there's no small amount of pride that nestles in your chest at seeing how unrestrained he's become during this, the both of you too far gone for masks. When his thumb snakes between your bodies to put pressure on the root of your clit, you're relieved, because even now, he’s got the presence of mind to do this for you.

Recalling his words, you wonder: have you been good, then? Did you endure beautifully?

...Was it real, though, when you said you loved him?

It doesn’t take much for him bring you up again. Despite his lack of technique, the firm, repetitive circles he winds around the organ has you reaching your peak again, and this one…Oh, this one draws you up so tight that you’re sure to hurt him in the process. Fingers rolling your nipple between them, pinching. Sore. Aching and greedy for more. Insatiable, covetous wretch hunting at the end of the season, sparse pickings.

“That's it,” he pants when you've released his cock, inner muscles relaxing. "There you are."

He still hasn't finished, you realize, the pit of your stomach sinking. Pleasure a distant prospect from how your nerves are overworked and sensitive. You need a break soon. He must hear your low whines though, because he kisses your hair even as your thighs begin to draw up and in, knees pushing against his abdomen.

"Shh, 'm almost done," he says, settling heavier in order to spread your legs again, rocking into you with deep thrusts, never quite pulling out. "Just hold on for daddy a little longer, hm? You've done so well for me. Haven't you?"

Nodding into his chest, starlight twinkling on your lashes. Just a little longer. 

"Now, what do you say when someone takes care of you?"

The words fall out of you before you can think.

“Love you."

...You were supposed to say thank you or something. Must've been so fuck-weary that it slipped out.

This isn’t real. This is just…chemical interference.

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. Then an–oh, fuck–he moans, hard exterior cracking as his head drops to bite your shoulder. His body stiffens with the first sensations, back arching so he can feed himself into you as deep as possible. Relief in your ear, too drunk to lower his noises, make them more masculine. Finally, finally he comes, emptying himself into your warmth. Hands roaming all over, like he hasn’t already mapped you out thoroughly, settling on your breasts to squeeze. Forehead dropping to yours, breath hot on your face as he thrusts one, two, three, four more times.

"Rusty."

Still for the remaining spurts and he's spent. Exhausted. He rolls over to catch his breath, just a body beside you.

Breathing in.

Out.

Repeat.

The aftermath is spent gathering yourselves. Both awake, but unsure of how to progress. His fists clench and unclench as you stare straight up.

Orion bearing witness to it all.

“Are you...was that too much?” he asks when he catches his breath, rolls over to look at you, still a little glassy-eyed from the drink. A hand on your cheek to get your attention. 

Was I too much? is what he’s too afraid to ask, seeking validation for the violence you’d played out. Although it takes time for you to respond, it feels honest enough.

“No." You press your fingers to his lips, contemplate crawling into the cavern there to tuck yourself away for shelter. Hibernation may not be in your nature, but you could easily sleep for a week or so.

“Good. That's good," he sighs, breathes deep. "Um, did you mean it? What you said."

Chewing on your lip and blinking away the moisture from your eyes as you process the question. Goddess forgive you, but–

"I...think so, yeah."

He kisses you so gently that you find yourself craving it in the wake of everything else. Cools some of the ache. His hand travels south, carving through the sweat and dirt and broken leaves to gently caress your pubic hair. Plays with the slick combination of your fluids before shoving two fingers deep inside, pushing them back in with a squelch, making you squirm with how raw your hole is.

Petting along your seam affectionately to murmur, “What if tonight is when it takes?”

Your stomach drops at the prospect.

"Suppose you should say something nice back, then."

His head resting on your chest as you hold him close, willing your heart to still.

"I never hoped to have anything like this before, Rusty. This is...everything."

He gathers your dead weight and brings you into the tent. Keeps the flap open, because it still needs to air out from the other night. The kisses to your hair get slower and more drawn out as he starts to drift off, his caresses stilling.

Ignoring the mess between your legs and wiping your cheeks as a light snore comes from him. He's tired, but not as exhausted as you need him to be. Your words waft over him, hand scratching the smooth skin of his chest.

“Don’t tell me you're already spent?”

Despite his weariness, there's darkness in his laughter, and he manages to rise to the occasion–after a few minutes, of course. Especially with the way your mouth works him up again.

Good. That’s exactly what you wanted.

This time he twists you, pushes you to your hands and knees, guides your backside up. A hand on your shoulder and one on your hips as leverage. Kicking your legs out before you can wrap your head around the new position–he usually prefers to look you in the face–and plasters himself to the skin of your back so tight that it feels like any movement could rip off your hide. He enters you with renewed vigor. Snapping jaws that drip drool. Stinging pain, searing pleasure. Hot, swollen flesh. You don't have much, not anymore, but what remains is taken.

An offering on the altar, hopefully not judged lacking.

That storm earlier made him lax. Broke past his controlled defenses as the fog descended over his eyes. Shifting with each slap of his body against yours, but you hardly notice. Instead, you're looking through the opening of the tent where you can spot his clothes outside in a loose puddle. His belt lies prone atop it, folded like a trampled snake. 

A wicked look overtakes you. Putty in your palms–took some effort, but he got sloppy. 

Your nothing-more-than-an-acquaintance was sloppy too. That's how you escaped him.

Chris. You’d heard he was in town again. There were some complaints from old circles of yours that had gotten back to you. Making passes at underage girls. Getting too handsy with young college students. Offered the hard-up ones alternative methods for payment.

So, he hadn’t changed.

He was surprised to see you again at his doorstep, snow flurries on your beanie, smiling shyly. Told him you were wanting something to get you through finals week, but it was also more than that.

No, you hadn’t told anyone about what happened between the two of you all those years ago. In fact, you wanted to apologize for how things ended last time. You were skittish and inexperienced, not ready for a man like him. You were older now, though, and knew exactly what you wanted. From the way his lascivious eyes-glassy, already high-roved over your more pronounced curves, he was still interested.

Moved aside to let you in, brushing your ass as you passed by. Disappointed at how you kept your clothes on-coat, hat, gloves, and all-even after he kicked up the heat for you. After a few strong drinks, that you only sipped at, finding opportunities to pour it down the sink when you could, you moved to something harder.

“You’ll like this one–it’ll keep you up for days.”

You smiled and asked for a sample, keeping it under your tongue until you could pocket it. 

“Maybe my tolerance is too high. Are you sure you didn’t get scammed with this batch? I’m not feeling anything yet.”

Bullshit, he had said. Placed another pill in your mouth before swallowing one himself. Rinse, repeat. Rinse. Repeat.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Until his eyes fluttered, his breaths became rapid, and his heart seized. You smiled, then-a real one, for the first time in what felt like years. Watched him convulse on the floor for after kicking his cell out of reach. Washed and dried your glass while he choked and soiled himself.

Collected your coat and left the moment he stopped wheezing.

He’d been cold for days by the time he was found. His phone must have been filled with texts from different clients, but a good client waits for an invite before coming over. It wasn't until he was late on rent that his landlord finally let himself into the apartment and was promptly greeted by the smell of decay–or so you heard. You were already back at school by then, finishing your exams.

No one mourned him. He was garbage. Waste. If anyone looked into it, they didn't find anything worth pursuing. One persistent problem in the area just resolved itself–no one cared about a scummy drug dealer who died of an overdose. Which is exactly what you'd been counting on.

He’d forced your hand. Just like John.

Your body shifts forward with a particularly rough thrust, breaking you from your reverie.

Focus, Rusty.

Blinking the memories back, it's not John’s belt that has your attention. It's the holster attached to it–the leather casing attached to it that conceals his hunting knife. Orion's sword. A hint of silver that catches the light when the wind shifts the fire.

White bone cuts through the dark as a smile sprawls across your face.

Chapter Text

I’m goin’ home to meet my mother. I’m goin’ home, no more to roam. I’m just goin’ over Jordan. I’m just goin’ over home. I know dark clouds will hover over me. I know my pathway is rough and steep, but golden fields lie out before me, where weary eyes no more will weep.

“Wayfaring Stranger” by Rhiannon Giddens

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 10

Dead leaves break under your feet as you sprint past the trees, cold wind ripping through your hair, arms pumping, lungs sucking in air to accommodate the activity. Faster and faster, knees rising higher and higher, torso bent to reduce resistance. You know you should be more careful, that tripping right now could be another debilitating fall, but at the moment, the thing that's driving you forward is bigger.

You just have to go. Go.

Go now.

Fast as you can. Chest is heaving from your lungs working overtime on low reserves, but it's worth it. There’s no other choice.

In this russet brown meadow with a few lingering dapples of green, your boots stomp and stamp and tromp through the short, wispy brush, carving a path from one patch of trees to the next. Eyes tracking left to right continuously. It’s too long of a walk around the meadow, and you need to gain distance quickly.

You're almost there. Gathering the rest of your steam, gritting your teeth as you press on. In the midst of the fervor, though, you realize that it just feels so good to run again, to have this kind of unrestrained movement and will that had been denied for weeks.

After several challenging minutes–your calves are screaming and there's a cramp in your side–you make it across the field. Once out of the open ground, you sag against a thick trunk and sink down, leaning your head back as you catch your breath.

In. Out. Until your heartbeat slows and your hands stop shaking.

That…was amazing. That rush of adrenaline not spurred on by immediate danger, used only to fuel your speed. And you didn't fucking fall this time–by the grace of whoever is watching over you. Taking in a final, deep inhale before getting up and stretching your limbs.

Release.

Has the air always been this crisp? It’s like you’ve been holding your breath for weeks, never able to fully empty your lungs. Always some stale wind in there on reserve, afraid that you wouldn’t get another chance to draw it in.

And when you come across a spring, it feels like someone is on your side. You need water desperately. Filtering and refilling your bottle, chugging it down like a frat boy with a red solo cup, gulp after gulp, until your belly is filled to the brim, too. Gorging yourself until you’re three sheets to the wind off it.

Your concern about it slowing you down wouldn’t allow you to bring along your water bladder, but thankfully this area has a lot of brooks and creeks. It’s been like this for the past few days since you got away.

Nearly a whole week now.

The first days were spent jumping at every rustle of brush, every snap of dead twigs, every sudden shift of a small animal in the distance. Constantly looking over your shoulder for someone unlikely to be following you. Unlikely to be able to follow you. You…you didn't want to dwell much on that. Despite the exhaustion, you barely slept that first night. Huddled against a tree for meager shelter, decently warmed by your sleeping bag around your shoulders. You kept your boots on and your pack beside you in case you needed to bolt at a moment’s notice.

The first morning was spent crouched at a creek, furiously swiping pine needles under your bitten down nails and ragged cuticles to get the dried blood out from them. Back aching, vision blurry, hands buzzing, throat burning with bile. Body sore from the previous night’s strain. The water pulsated with how your tears flooded its flow.

Then the guilt began to set in. You didn’t realize how numb you’d been until you weren’t anymore. It wasn't like this with Chris, and what he did barely scratched the surface of the grisly deeds John committed against you–so why were you feeling bad about it?

Maybe it was the way he'd looked at you right before you struck. Confusion and betrayal in his eyes before they closed. It was…more blood than you had expected. Something about that had sat wrong as you dropped the weapon.

You hadn’t wanted to do what you did. Not at all. But he left you no choice. He would’ve killed you–you know it. Maybe not here, since he was so stuck on his insane plan of an isolated life with you, barefoot in the kitchen, swollen with his child, readying dinner. Opening a creaking cabin door for him after his long day of work, greeting him with a kiss on his cheek and a to do list for the weekend.

He would’ve killed you eventually, if that dream or vision was anything to go by. Insufficient access to healthcare. No hospitals. Giving labor in a dusty cabin miles away from town. If not that, then the longer death: the slow, whittling away at everything that made you you. His fantasy of taking you into town for nights out was just that–a fantasy. He would never have chanced getting you in public, not with that fat mouth and unpredictable nature of yours.

No, he would’ve needed to lock you up. Nailed the windows shut. Changed all the locks on the doors so that they required a key to leave. Every time he left you alone, you would’ve been bed bound, literally, with a belly so heavy that it strained your organs and back from the angle you were left in. Your flesh gone pale and waxy from not seeing the sun enough, lips chapped from not giving a damn. Eyes red-rimmed and raw, the skin never fully healing from the liquid of your tragedy.

You did what you had to do in order to survive. That’s what you’ll tell the authorities if–no, when they find a lone man’s body in the forest covered in old blood.

He was a bad man. A bad man. Even if he wasn’t all bad.

When you dreamt, it was of a soundless forest with soil so blood-soaked it was black and of trees so compacted they had stripped each other bare of their bark. The self-repulsion didn’t wait much longer to set in.

What a fucking whore you grew up to be.

Found yourself walking with your shoulders hunched to conceal the fullness of your breasts. Despising the feeling of your legs rubbing against each other as you moved, as though still lubricated by a mixture of fluids, unsure if you'll ever be able to wash away the specter of his presence.

Your mood was compounded by the weather. Two days of overcast skies. The poncho you’d adorned helped protect you from the worst of the occasional rain shower but did little against the chill that settled into your bones. Then an algae-covered rock betrayed you as you crossed another creek, dunking your stupid boot into the depths and soaking your sock. You were being so careful, too.

It just confirmed that no matter how careful you think you are, you were still a fucking fool.

If you hadn't invited John along that first day, none of this would've happened. He was right–you really are so starved for attention that you'll take it from anyone. He was a literal strange man in the woods. Just because he said some pretty words and offered you sweet treats doesn’t change that fact. There are entire cautionary tales written to warn children from those dangers. Why did you think you'd be an exception? Exceptionally stupid you're lucky he didn't rape and strangle you right then and there. He could've taken anything he wanted from the get-go.

But he didn't. No, he flashed his pearly whites at you and bared that nice tan on his shoulders and you were ready to spread your legs for him. Easy. You were so easy. He said as much the morning after he attacked you. That's why he chose you. Not because you're anything amazing or special, but because he knew you were weak. If there's anything remarkable about you, it’s how simple you made it for him to do everything he ever did to you.

Foolish little degenerate.

Zero respect for yourself or your body, letting anyone do anything to it–like fuck it away from you piece by piece, until you're left with a husk. An empty-eyed golem available for any use. No, not special at all. What John saw in you was an opportunity. Drugs or not, you'd be anything for him, with the right motivation. Easy, easy, easy.

And to think, he wanted to make you his little wife who would give him a whole pack of kiddos.

A baby. Without John’s noise drowning out your thoughts, you’d been thinking about it more and more. You weren’t lying when you said four weeks ago–has it really only been a month?–that you didn’t think parenthood was for you. But…you also hadn’t really considered it before. Sabotaging your relationships, rejecting your friends during your crash outs, preferring to have them in private. 

You were a mess. The only things you took good care of were your houseplants. Sometimes better than how you cared for yourself. If you were to have a kid, it would be years, if not a decade off.

Pregnancy.

While always a possibility, it was on your mind more and more ever since that dream, vision, warning, whatever it was. An inexplicable part of you wished you had gotten a glimpse into the other months–it alluded to joyful times. A clump of cells could already be attached to the lining of your uterus. From the moment John took you, you’d known that you would get it removed as soon as you could.

But what if you didn’t? 

What if you were to let it continue to split and multiply and grow until it became something recognizable? A small, forming body that curled up the way you do when you’re vulnerable. One that got hiccups while in the womb like you did, bumping against the walls of its first bedroom.

As you considered it, this fantasy, your hands drifted up and over the swell of your breasts. They’d been tender since your cycle, so you were careful with the tissue as you moved. Down the road your hands drove, skirting around the teeth mark potholes surrounded by green and blue oil stains.

Until they reached your abdomen that you began to imagine full and taught with something other than yourself. Would they look like you? Would they have the russet hair of your dad and brother, or…would they have your mom’s singular dimple? Would they have her affinity for dancing, or your own for painting? Maybe they would blend their creativity with technology–charting the stars in search of new meanings of the cosmos or looking inward for them by solving the mysteries of the human body.

What would their laugh sound like?

When you caught yourself smiling into the darkness, your heart stopped, and your eyes opened to see the Big and Little Dippers.

“No,” you whispered, frustration leaving your cheeks in a puff. Made your hands fall away to land at your side. Anywhere else but that sullied area.

“No.” Firmer this time, more convincing.

John was right about one thing–you had been isolating for so long that you’d forgotten what a real connection was like. Maybe you didn’t know what the right reasons to have a kid are, but appeasing your own loneliness couldn’t be one of them.

Besides, one day, they’d ask about their dad, and you’d have to figure out how to untangle the sordid parts of this story into something palatable for a child. What would even be left, except a scorched trail of lies? Probably make yourself out to be something of a saint, even after they were old enough for the truth.

How often you feared he would kill you early on, while all the time conveniently ignoring the fact that you actually were a killer. Your hands weren’t clean just because you hadn’t pulled any trigger, hadn’t stabbed Chris. You deliberately manipulated him into a heart attack and never called the cops. Practically whored yourself out to him to do it, too. There are a lot of words for people like you. What would the good boys and girls of your hometown have called you–a jezebel? What would John have called you? A whore, probably. Definitely. Either would apply.

It’s laughable, how he wanted to make a mother out of a whore and a murderer.

With a huff, you turned onto your stomach, tucking those offensive hands under your head to bar them further access.

Stupid. Just stupid. What’s wrong with you?

You fell asleep with your arms and legs separated. Couldn’t stand the feel of your filth.

Those thoughts probably would’ve soured your mind for the remainder of the week had it not been for the interruption of your sleep that night. Something called you to awaken, opening your eyes to glittering, golden sunlight and warmth on your face. You were standing in the middle of a river. On it, rather.

No sounds other than the light trill of birds that you didn’t recognize and the babbling of water. Supernaturally still.

The orishas were visiting again.

She emerged from the water, her shape rising until the grandeur of her being was wholly visible.

Oshun. The goddess of sweet waters.

She must have heard your unspoken call, accepting your unorthodox offerings of tears and blood at the first creek you’d stumbled upon after escaping. She emitted a light that you hadn’t seen in a long, long time, and like a robe, your woe fell away under her power. Strength danced around your ankles, slipping between your fingers before you could grasp it. It was dizzying, prompting a breathless giggle and a flash of teeth from you.

The vibrant incarnation of the divine feminine.

Creative, passionate, and–sensual, yes, but it felt…right somehow. Where Eshú exuded sexuality so flagrant and unrestrained that it unnerved you, hers…well, it felt like your own. Or what yours had been before it had been warped and twisted by grief and pain and misuse.

It was the butterflies in your belly, confused, but excited, when your friend Jasmine bit her lip before giving you a peck on the cheek in the seventh grade. Lying on your backs on the football field, watching the late summer sun disappear behind an array of oranges, dusty pinks, and rich, dark hues of rose. Sorry, that was–don’t take that any kind of way. I dunno what came over me. When you got past your shock, you let her know that it was already forgotten. Even if it wasn’t. Even if you touched the spot of sticky lipgloss on your cheek well after you’d left for the night. Sucking it off your fingertip and tasting cherry.

It was the drop of your heart two years later when you told your best friend Michael that you liked him, really liked him, and wanted to try to know him on a different level–only to find that Michael really liked you too, but he thought he might like his science classmate Trevor a bit more. At least in that way. In fact, he might actually be gay–if that was okay. Oh. Recovering from your disappointment quickly. Well, I mean of course that’s okay, you had said. You don’t need my permission to be who you are. Water under the bridge, hm? What’s he like? Is he cute? The look of utter relief on Michael’s face soothed the ache in your chest. You held his hand the remainder of your walk home.

Like Eshú, Oshun’s face bore a smile, but hers was different. Where his had been a mischievous uptick at the corner of his mouth, cunning, ready for a riddle or a challenge, hers was gentle, soft. Innocent–if a little playful. Still, it was knowing, wise beyond your comprehension.

She approached you, walking across the water with gentle ripples licking at her feet. Silken layers of golds, yellows, and ambers draped from her shimmering, dark sun. She sparkled like the sunlight after a summer rain. Sunflowers and lilies adorned her hair, voluminous and free, a fan of peacock feathers for a crown, the bases of which lined with copper coins. They were along the hem of her robes, too, tinkling delightfully as she walked.

While there was a youthfulness to her face, her dark eyes reflected eons of stars newly born and stars long departed.

There’s a story about Oshun from the homeland. In this myth, the orishas Yemaya, Oshun, and Oya were mortal sisters, not yet bestowed with sacred grace. One day, the youngest sister, Oya, was taken captive by an enemy tribe. The eldest, Yemaya, was fishing in a faraway coast, too far to know about her sister’s plight. Oshun and Oya had been playing together in the river. Oshun, the middle sister, was swimming underwater, unable to hear Oya’s cries as she was dragged away. When Oshun emerged, Oya was gone. When she learned what had happened, that her sister was being held for a ransom of copper, she took immediate action. It would be days yet before Yemaya would return, and there was no time to wait. So, Oshun worked hard to earn the coin necessary to get her back as quickly as possible.

Ransom in hand, Oshun bravely entered into enemy territory alone to retrieve her little sister–only to be told that the price for Oya’s life had been doubled by the chief. The chief, as it turns out, was madly in love–obsessed–with Oshun, and presented an alternative offer to the distraught young woman: her virginity in exchange for her sister.

Oshun was put into a dire position, but she would never leave without Oya. So, she paid the price. She gave herself away to the chief for one night and proudly walked out of their camp with her sister the next morning, head held high. No one stopped them. They returned home together, hand in hand. By then, Yemaya had returned from her fishing trip and was distraught by the unexplained absence of her two younger sisters. Upon seeing them, she embraced them fiercely, relieved that they were alright. When they told her what had transpired, she took the copper coins her sister had earned and adorned Oshun’s body with them–along her head and arms. These were her glory, a symbol of her sacrifice for her family.

All the while, the chief of the gods, Olofin, had been watching the three sisters. He was impressed with their resilience, these orphans who took care of each other at all costs. Upon the fisherwoman Yemaya, he bestowed the domain of the oceans, seas, and motherhood, for she became their mother in the absence of parents. She became the Great Provider, the orisha who particularly protects pregnant women and children. Maternal power incarnate. To Oya, the brash, youngest sister, he gave her the spark. Known for her fierceness, she became a warrior herself, wielding a machete and tearing through the world in violent storms. Oya’s storms rip through the land, raining electric fire upon her enemies. No man would capture her again.

Oshun, however, retained her innocence, her sweetness, despite what the chief had demanded from her. She bore no shame. Olofin gifted Oshun the world of fresh waters, creativity, sexuality, love, and beauty.

What was absent from the myth, though, was how the chief had treated Oshun. Was he kind to her, despite his authority, when introducing her to the sensual world of intimacy? Or did he brutalize her as he imposed his love upon her body?

How many times did she have to bathe in her sweet rivers before they healed her pain?

I’m sorry I rejected you for so long, your heart said, dropping to your knees, splashing water. I didn’t want to see you. I wasn’t ready.

She was silent, but there was no need for words. Who could understand better the ransom you paid in exchange for your freedom than her? Instead, she bent her own knees to take you into her embrace, her smooth arms wrapping around you, bosom to bosom, pointed chin in the crook of your neck. Her skin was alive with a frequency not of this world–gooseflesh and shivers at every point of contact. Flutters deep in your belly. Awe at every nerve ending.

For minutes–an eternity–she held you like this. It didn’t matter what awful things you thought of yourself, because she still found you worthy.

The smell of honey and cinnamon lingered when you woke up, lashes wet and a soft, reverent ashé on your lips.

You felt cleansed.

It was with a renewed sense of purpose that you resumed your journey. Oshun’s visit revitalized you, comforted you enough that you let your shoulders drop away from your ears as you hiked. You began to notice the beauty of the sprawling wilderness around you again. Raw and dangerous, yes, but untainted. The terrain was changing, preparing for the cold seasons, and while you loved the hazy last days of summer, there was an excitement for these new colors and textures.

There were more garnets and bright yellows now, casting the world in vibrant jewel tones. It was too bad you didn't have more time to linger–you’d love to paint it. Instead, you seared it into your memory for later. Frost crystallizing on the edges of leaves in the early morning, a satisfying crunch under your boot. Every now and then, you'd pluck a frozen leaf from a tree and let the ice melt on your tongue, enjoying the cool drops.

The fog was your favorite part. It tended to roll in just after sunrise, and the world was a whole other place. Foreign, but familiar. There was magic humming in the ancient crawlspaces of this land, no doubt about that. 

So saturated that it even seeped into your pores.

That sprint put a delightfully warm flush on your cheeks. It’s a cold day, but more importantly–it’s dry. The sun manages to peek out from behind the clouds for twenty minutes or so at a time.

Okay, maybe you’re running more often than you likely have cause to–but it feels so damn good to do it just because you can. Slumping against a tree, you rest briefly enough to look over the map again to confirm you're heading in the right direction. A couple more days of rigorous hiking northward, and you should be able to make it to a resupply station. A phone. People.

Just two more days, and you'll be on your way home.

Back to your dusty apartment. There isn’t much waiting for you there, but at least it’s yours. The insects have probably moved in so permanently that you'll need to split rent with them, but that’s no skin off your back. You miss your plants. Hopefully Leigh, your old work friend, is taking good care of them in your extended absence.

No–friend. Leigh is a friend, not just from work. You’re doing it again, trying to compartmentalize important parts of your life. She's kept up with you since you got laid off, too. When you get home, you're going to take her out to brunch. Oh, maybe that Guatemalan cafe that you've been hearing amazing things about.

Oof. Hot food. You've got to stop thinking about that.

A harsh chill blew in late this morning, causing you to set up camp much earlier than planned. But it's okay. You've made decent progress and gotten decently far away from the grisly site of…well. Setting up camp for the night mostly consisted of popping your tent up and eating dried oatmeal in the shelter of its thin walls, concerned about lighting a fire. You have John’s ferro rod, but you’ve been afraid to get one started because it could signal your location.

Still, it was worth it for the frustration on his face when he realized it was gone, you remember with a grin.

This will be the first day you’ve really needed it. The previous nights had been okay enough once your body heat warmed up the little tent–not a long wait before your trembling stilled in your sleeping bag. The wind and temperature tonight feels like a cold front is moving in, which doesn’t bode well for you unless you can get some heat on your bones.

However, lighting a fire is a risk. That small part of you that won’t fully relax realizes that it could essentially signal your location, attracting unwanted visitors. But–it would be pointless to take the precaution if you got hypothermia overnight. What if it set in a toe? That injury could prevent you from walking out of here.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so risky if you light a fire just long enough to warm up the tent, especially during the daytime. It’s hours until dusk, so there’s enough time to set a fire, have a hot meal–just the thought of it has you drooling for it–and ready the tent for a good night’s sleep.

It’s cloudy, too, so that would obscure some of the smoke. 

Then you’ll close the flap to preserve the heat. Yeah. Yeah, that could work. Until then, you’ll post up near the fire and keep an eye out. That should be safe enough.

Oh, who are you kidding? You were convinced the moment you realized you’d have hot food again. It’s been a week–you’re safe. Oshun visited you and practically told you as much. Plus, it’s just for a short time.

It proves harder than you remember. A fairly new skill that backtracked quicker than you’d learned it, but you suppose two hours wasn’t the worst, even if your fingers disagree. It’s a gift when it finally catches, though, using the first chapters of Wild as kindling. Briefly, you remember the image of Eshú standing before it, imposing, offering you choices. You chose life, even if it came at a cost of equal value.

“Thank you,” you whisper into the sky.

After eating hot oatmeal, you grab your sleeping bag and lay it before a nearby tree to warm your limbs, tucking your hands under your armpits when the heat becomes a bit too much for them. Watching the fog escape your lips to meet the smoke. It’s going to be a bitter hike tomorrow.

The cold was never really something you could handle. Can't stand it, really, unless you're doing something fun out in it. Like that time when you were little that your family went on vacation to Colorado. Dad grew up skiing and wanted to get you and your mom to share his passion. Mom gave it a try for the first day, but found herself getting worn out fast–turns out she was pregnant with your brother and didn't know it yet. It gave you and Dad hours of time together, though. Just you and him.

You were small enough that he could grab you up by the scruff of your snowsuit right as you lost your balance. Squealing with glee every time as your legs dangled in the air. He was so good at that–knowing when you were about to fall and saving you. You used to think that he stopped looking out for you, but you realize now that you got just better at hiding when you needed help.

After your lessons, he'd sit you down by the fireplace to warm up. Remove your thick gloves and wiggle each of your pudgy fingers to make sure they were working, to your delight. Breathe into his cupped palms and rub them together with grandiose gestures before taking your small hands in his to share the warmth. The way your skin would tingle uncomfortably as the blood returned to them. How he’d pull you into his lap afterwards, wrap his arms around you and watch the fire crackle and pop as he hummed some old tune.

He was so good to you, always. You were so happy. 

In two days, you’ll be home. Or…on your way at least. Soon, you’ll be home and you can repay him by being a better child from here on out. 

Gods, the fire feels good, you think. Oshun, if you wanted to guide me to a warm source of water tomorrow, I would not be opposed.

Silence.

That was a joke. I promise that I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me. I just…I tend to joke a lot when I’m tired, or stressed, or nervous, and…well, I guess I’m all of those things these days.

A gentle breeze skates across your jaw and you smile. Oshun appreciates a sense of humor. Belly full, leaning your head back against the tree, letting the fire warm up your bones.

Almost home.

Bleary eyes open to the blackness of night.

No. You weren't supposed to fall asleep. It’s so dark…how much time has passed? Sitting up, the snap of a branch to your right draws your attention, head whipping to find a figure crouched beside your pack. A startled gasp gets trapped in your throat, making you cough before you can scream.

John.

“Cold tonight, isn't it?”

A whimper leaks out, and you bite your lip to prevent any more embarrassing displays.

“Poor thing just couldn't resist getting a fire started. You always did like it warm. I assume with my ferro rod?”

So that's how he found you after all–the damn fire. You’ve gotten cocky–too comfortable. Should've just let yourself freeze. It would be better than whatever he's got planned for revenge, judging by the strange look in his eyes and the sound of his voice–frosty. Controlled.

Dangerous.

The hair on your neck raises as you stare back at him, goosebumps prickling your flesh.

“John, you should be–”

“Tied up? Lost? Dead?”

“No, I wouldn't have–”

“Shh, don't talk. I have had enough of your lies, Rusty. Seducing me before bashing my head in with my own flashlight? You know, you can be a vicious little whore when you want to be.”

Whore. Whatever newfound peace, fragilely built, falls apart at the insult. Bad timing, really. The word twists you up, and you can feel a stinging under your lids. You swallow, watching him carefully with wide, desperate eyes. Thick-tongued, heart in your throat to the point it threatens to choke you.

If John doesn't do it first.

“I wouldn't, if I were you. Run, that is. You, uh…you are pressing your luck enough as it is right now, Rusty.”

With a grunt, he stands, his pace is slow and his gaze picks you apart.

“I don't think I would be very nice if I had to chase you down again. You see, I misplaced my good boots, and my feet are killing me now. It's been a rough week and frankly, I'm at the tail end of my patience here.”

“John–”

“No, don’t talk. Don't move. Don't try to run again, because I will catch you again. And I would hate to have to hurt you, dear. Hate it terribly, even if you don't have the same reservations.”

Even though it's dark, you can still make out the residual bruising at his temple. He managed to clean up the wound decently enough, just a ragged end peeks out from his hairline.

Eyes wide, you plead. “John, I–”

“Shh,” he whispers, standing up to his full height with a wince. Goddess, even with some feet between you, he towers over you. “Hush now. I've given you plenty of time to talk and be honest with me, but you–goodness, you are just full of tricks, huh? We have so, so much to work on when we get home.”

Panicked breathing fills the air when he approaches. Please. Don't let him do this to me. I can't, not again. Oshun, Yemaya, Oya, Eshú, anyone. 

Mom.

Instinct screams at you and suddenly you're up on your knees, nearly to your feet as you twist away from him, ready to sprint. Anticipating this, John bends and lunges, dropping to grab the back of your pants, wrestling you to the ground. Suddenly, his knees are on the backs of yours, heavy weight pinning you. There's a moment when you buck upwards that you think you've managed to dislodge him, but he only readjusts to grab your shoulders and force you back down, knocking the wind from your lungs. Your jaw knocking painfully against the hard earth.

“You never learn, do you?” he growls through his teeth, mouth lowered to your ear. His beard chafes. “You just won't quit. It's like you want me to hurt you.”

“I'm sorry,” you pant, nerves crawling up your gullet. Even now, you can't stop trying to wiggle from his grasp–even if it incenses him. Sparks of his rage fly off him to land on you. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry–”

“Enough. It's too late for apologies. You’ll make it up to me later.”

This is it, he's going to kill you. He'll rape you again to make sure you know where you belong first. Tasting soil as panic wracks through you, too dirty for even the worms to want your remains.

“Please, I didn't want to hurt you. I was just scared, and I-I didn't know what to do. Please, don't–I’ll be good.”

Repeating the last sentence into the ground–I’ll be good, I'll be good–frost tipped grass tickling your nose, eyes shut tight because you can't stand to see what horrors he's about to inflict on you. Your heart is going to stop soon, surely it is. The muscle thuds heavily against your sternum, the echoes of it carried into the dirt.

Knuckles brush across your cheek and you jolt, startled into glancing up at him. Instead of a fist, though, it's the palm of his hand on your cheek, pushing your frizzy curls behind your ear. Two fingers at your pulse point.

“No more tricks,” you whisper breathlessly. “I promise.”

He looks so disappointed. Why does it make your chest ache?

“That's a frightened promise, Foxheart.”

Despite his tone, there's a glimmer of relief as his weight leaves you. But when he only sits up to yank the waistband of your pants down and expose the meat of your backside, you can't stop trembling.

“No!”

Is he going to force you here, under the stark light of the moon and in temperatures so cold that there are crystals forming in the corners of your eyes? No agreements, no pretense of consent this time. Just a creature enjoying the spoils of a good hunt.

Sour liquid in your gut. No matter how you struggle, he can't be removed. Only falls forward until his chest lands on your back. It's even worse this way, because there's so much more of him on you.

He's always touching you.

You await the telltale clink of his belt, signaling its removal, but instead, his touch caresses your ass affectionately with palms gone warm from exertion. Rubs a pattern over the skin, though it does little to protect it against the cold.

The sudden strike across your cheek makes you yelp in surprise at the sharp pain. The flat of John’s hand. It repeats as he slaps once, twice–three more times in quick succession. Panic is all you can process at first. Your own hand, an audacious thing, is pinned against the small of your back–did you try to cover yourself?

“I told you. Not. To run.” The words spat out between gritted teeth. Punctuated with another hit. “You just don't listen.”

The first ones are swift, stinging like a correction. Once he gets his initial frustration out, though, he finds a different rhythm, grunts with the effort of each open-handed hit. There's a longer pause between them, which would have been a relief if they weren't so much more forceful. They'll bruise, judging by the deep ache already beginning to set in.

While he still has one of your hands in his vice-like grip, your free one bunches at the grass beneath it, grasping it like a lifeline. The next hit echoes loudly, the sound ricocheting off the trees. It sends a deep, aching wave up your back and through the fat of your ass.

Surely, this is not what you nearly begged him for before. There's no sensuality in this mad violence. It's...it's retaliation served up blinding hot. An affront to your humanity. This isn't a swatting–it's a beating.

He does it again over the same spot until rosy heat spreads, continuing to sting even when he isn't touching it. Just…just the anticipation of the next and the memory of the previous are enough to make your thighs tense and your toes curl.

Then he does it to the other cheek.

Somewhere around twenty-seven, you gave up on your mental count as the sobs and hiccups and cries overtook you. Then later, even those faded, and the only sound remaining was the persistent smack of flesh on flesh. You don't know how many more land on you.

I'm sorry.

By the time his gasps match the desperation of your own, you're nothing but tenderized meat. Even your bones feel soft. There's nothing you can say afterwards, the words stolen straight from your dry throat. In fact, neither of you speak for a while. It's just your ragged panting back and forth.

When the buzzing leaves your head–goodness, it's pounding now–you realize how close he's gotten. How he's…wedged himself between your limp legs. The way his arms tense afterwards and squeeze you while his hips press against you–hissing–his groin hard enough to loosen a watery noise from your throat–please, please don't. Not like this. It’s only a pathetic bleating, though. You can't manage to get the words out.

Over the course of those weeks together, you conveniently forgot how much he likes a chase. How he likes to punish. Until his nose presses to the back of your neck, just under your hairline as he takes in a lungful of you.

Until he says, “You’re intoxicating like this. Do you taste as good? I bet you do.”

Oh is all you can manage then.

John shifts down your body, his free hand tracing your spine through your shirt. The bounciness of his hair, escaping from its tie, tickles your bare skin when he reaches his goal, pressing his lips gently to your battered hide. Your nerves are hyper-aware, raw as they are, and a shiver skates across your pimpled and mottled skin, your hands balling into fists against the dirt. So scared that it sends painful signals through your system with how tense you are, but you can't even move. The fear and pain and cold have left you frozen.

Just when you begin to melt into his ministrations as he soothes you, he kisses tenderly the areas he'd just wrecked, but it's saturated in your embarrassment. Another intimacy that's been warped until it's unrecognizable. Still, though, it's so much better than what he had been doing to you. An apology of sorts, for losing his temper again?

A sigh leaves you, anticipating the slick heat of his tongue on your pain-swollen flesh–just as his incisors and canines sink in. A startled cry escapes you, and as you shift upward, he follows, hands on your hips to hold you in place, teeth digging deeper. It isn't like his love bites from before, firm but careful not to go too far. No, this one rips into you.

He bites down more firmly, despite your wailing, despite your pleas for him to stop because you're so sorry and you won't do it again. You'll do anything he says, just please stop. A scream when his blunt teeth break the skin, rivulets of blood trickling over your backside. Your hands are pinned down on either side of your hips when you involuntarily grab at his hair. A nail briefly bends back, momentarily distracting you from the more egregious injury.

Your eyes are so wet that you can't see, left to stare blankly into the dark. Pleading into the nothingness.

M-mom. Dad. Help.

Just when you think you'll pass out from the absolute depravity of the assault, he releases you from his maw. His tongue flicks over the bite to mop up the gore as his fingers dig into your hips, squeezing your meat with a soft, intimate moan before releasing the flesh. Quiet, like even he was taken off guard at his lack of composure.

But at least it's over. You allow yourself to relax under his weight. Focusing on the damp cold of the moss against your forehead.

In and out. Again.

Again.

That's how breathing works.

His hands caress and cup your bottom, gently, but they aggravate the tormented skin. Goddess, even your back hurts. Every sensation is too much–even the cold air is abrasive. His lips are a vulgar addition. How dare they kiss so sweetly the flesh he just ravished and…and mauled. The steel wool of his beard raking against your exposed nerves.

Another squeal, frightened, when his mouth moves to the other cheek to drop another kiss. Just a kiss, accompanied by the cold tip of his nose as he savors the contact. As you begin to relax again, to allow yourself to fit into the crevices of his grip–

He bites down–pain, pain, pain so loud and inescapable. A heavy forearm prevents your shocked squirms from gaining any traction, except for your arms that wiggle free. Elbows moving up to cradle your head, pressing hard against your ears to muffle your screams. To preserve your sanity.

This is it. This is when he consumes you.

When you think you're about to faint, so lightheaded that your mind is up in the stratosphere, he finally, finally stops. You can't stop screaming though–don’t even realize he's stopped until his arms come up to push yours away from your head. To bring you back into the present.

“Shh, it's done now.”

Cheek on the cold ground, eyes still shut tight. Heavy panting fills the silence, two sets, as your thighs twitch and your arms shake. Your sore thumb finds its way into your mouth, sucking on the aching nail bed for comfort, wishing you could curl up.

Twin brands. That’s what he’s left you with. His.

His hand is back, smoothing over the aggravated welts, avoiding the broken skin–shushing when your body jolts away from his touch. How many more times will he do this? But it doesn't linger there, opting instead to travel between your thighs, pushing against the denim in his way, increasing the tension of the fabric on your hips.

Ah, so you're back to this, a familiar type of savagery. This is a man who's spent the past weeks trying to convince you that he's complicated, when he's actually quite simple.

John likes to hurt.

And to think, he almost had you convinced that he loved you. Maybe that's what makes this so much harder to endure. His hand continues its exploration of your inner thighs, parting and teasing, making you nauseous with how it contrasts with the way he just used that same hand to hit you.

We can't keep doing this. It's a hazy, delirious thought that passes through your frayed mind. Your forehead carves into the ground, trying to dig your own grave, but he still finds you. With little effort, his fingers locate the edge of your panties, slipping through the damp. All too soon, they're coated with your shame.

You like this. You do, don't you, Rusty? his touch accuses. You like it when I’m mean, because you know deep down that it’s what you deserve. Whore. Murderer.

He plays with you like a beloved pet. A beautiful, kept thing. Gently stroking along the seam with no urgency, occasionally twirling damp hair with his fingertips. No pretty words to offer him that would sway him away from doing this, nothing of your body that he can't simply take.

You were almost free of this. A week wasn’t enough time for its taste. You tried and you failed. Again. The adrenaline that kept your form tense during the onslaught has finally drained though, leaving you so fucking exhausted.

Just relax.

So, he does take, even though he considers it a kindness. Inserts a thumb into you effortlessly, ignoring your protests, exhaling at how your heat swallows him up. Presses it along the soft, internal ridges that make up your sensuality until he finds that sweet spot to focus on. An expert at this by now. Pushes on the soft organ until your muscles relax and clench on it, seeking more. His middle and ring fingers drift up to scissor your clit between them, gliding the organ between the digits as his thumb continues to work from the other side. The calloused tip of his middle finger draws along the hood, circling the tissue, the touch both too much and not enough.

Slickness oozes out of you as you pant, writhing into the ground like an animal.

He's being painfully gentle. Warmth roots behind your bellybutton when his lips find the nape of your neck. A driving urge blooms outward and draws your thighs together to pin his hand there, but the sensation is like mid-July, when the heat is oppressive and uncomfortable. You can't help but have a thin, constant layer of sweat and oil on your face.

His smile brands a third mark into your neck.

There isn’t much to keep you from the wet onslaught that rushes over you minutes later. John’s triumph. There’s little relief to be found as you come with a weak sound, despite how your legs and hips shake. There you go. Let it out. The insidious words worm their way into your ears. His hand emerges from your pants to cup your jaw, surprising you into opening your eyes to his flushed face.

“Open.”

Doesn’t wait for you to do it on your own and shoves two wet fingers into your mouth, through your teeth, until you’re gagging on your own disgrace. Tasting the musky flavor of fear.

“Don’t tell me now that you don’t like it. Want another one, little dear?” Doesn't wait for you to answer. “Of course you do.”

Whore.

You can only close your eyes again as his hand returns to fondle you lazily. Every exhale of yours is burbled into the grass below your mouth without a sufficient enough inhale. Another and another and another. Until you've emptied your woes into the earth. Until your lungs burn. Your hand, now balled up, presses hard against your mouth, preparing to shove past your teeth to muffle the sound it'll make when you inhale next.

It slips out anyway.

“...Come again?” he asks, leaning in, enjoying his little joke.

Seeing stars behind your eyes from the bloated pressure in your head. A thread of spittle as you move your fist away to make room for the words.

“You’re gonna make a sorry father.”

He stills. An achingly long pause follows that bolsters your confidence to continue.

“My dad’s a good man. A good dad. He never would have done this.”

He balks. “I wouldn't–not to a child. How could you–”

You fucking idiot.

“He wouldn’t have done this to her. He would never have hurt my mom. He loved her–”

Silence, but the hand on you stills, emboldening you to continue. “He loved her. He never hit her, never hurt her, never got mad… Never ever ever ever. So, how can you–”

Hiccups rendering your words incomprehensible. Breathe.

Breathe.

“How can you do this to me?”

It takes him a while to work through your words. You can practically hear the wheels turning in his head, a well-oiled machine. Rolls it over in his head as he processes the high-pitched breathiness at the end of your sentences. An instinctive flinch when his hand shifts and withdraws–if he hits you again, you'll lose it. This horror show will make you go insane.

But he doesn't. Instead, the intrusion disappears altogether, and you manage a few ragged, relieved intakes of air.

“I can't protect you if you don't listen to me.” Continues despite your head shaking. “What if an animal had gotten to you, or you drank dirty water, or you had another bad fall, huh? I love you too much to let you hurt yourself.”

To let you leave, more like. Because that's bullshit–you were doing just fine before he came along. Where was he when you got lost for half a day, huh? Or the time when you couldn't get a fire started before dark and had to eat dry oatmeal for dinner? Where was John when you bruised the everloving fuck out of your knee because of a slippery rock? He was too busy spying on you to offer his help then. 

“I don’t need your protection. You’re the only thing I'm scared of out here. You don't… love me–you don't know how.”

“...I don't?” His head tilts as he scoffs. Unbelievable is what he’d said before in response to your lack of gratitude. “I was patient for weeks while you did your soul searching out here. Weeks longer before that. Uprooted myself to plan all of this. I am trying to build something with you, Rusty, but you keep knocking it down.”

You, you, you.

“I don't–look at me,” he says slowly, waiting for you to crack open a swollen, itchy eye. Nothing but shadows for a face. He’s still a ghost. “No one, not a single person knows what I have been through better than you, Rusty. Just you. I have bared myself to you, and I'd like to believe the reverse is true.”

You can share everything with someone and still be found lacking.

“You’re the one who's always running away, but you think I'm, what…lying about my feelings? How can you think that?”

His love is the thing that’s got you where you are now: bloodied under his paw.

“I dunno, John,” you sniffle, covering the exposed half of your face with a shaking hand, cooling the bloated skin of your eyelid. “M’just tired.”

This whole thing has exhausted you to the point of aging. He sits up with a sigh, weight still keeping you in your place. Stays there for a moment to observe your prone form as you attempt to gather your composure. The way you murmur prayers and beggings into the earth.

Please, help me. Please.

Rubs his face, scratching his beard lightly.

“You’re right. It's been a long week and it's late. We should discuss it in the morning.”

Finally, his weight leaves you as he gets to his feet.

“Stay.”

The command brooks no room for disobedience. Your jelly legs couldn't support you if you tried to run now anyway. Watching him warily as he fetches a first aid kit from his pack. You were kind enough to leave his kit with him just in case he didn’t bleed out. You were kind.

The rage seems to have poured out of him like gasoline when he returns. Weary bodies unable to meet on common ground. Even his tone is different.

“Stop fighting me, Rusty. Let me do what I need to do to take care of you, and I'll show you the kind of dad…the kind of partner I wanna be.”

You nod, lashes all spiky again. Gritting your teeth again the burn as he wipes an antiseptic pad over the bite marks. Dabbing at the more sensitive parts.

“Shh, shh,” he says, blowing his breath over the area to soothe the sting. “Almost finished. Don't want these to get infected.”

Then don’t fucking bite me like that.

After taping down gauze over the wounds, he pulls your underwear and pants back up, far more gently than when he’d torn them down. Tears are frozen on your face by the end of it.

“Oh, you look a mess. C’mere, sweetness.”

He manages to pull you into his lap, stilling when you cry out at the pressure on your abused flesh as he settles you into his lap–his thigh muscles too firm, pressing hard against your new wounds and forming bruises.

“Ow, wait, I can’t–” you plead with a sharp hiss. It takes everything in you, all your remaining energy and fortitude, to readjust into a position you can tolerate. Legs either side of his thighs, chest to chest, supporting as much of your weight on your knees as you can in order to avoid any intimate parts touching. Especially after you felt his lingering excitement beneath you.

To avoid looking at him–he always did enjoy a proximity that unsettled you–you rest your head on his shoulder and face the night. Staring into the fire until your retinas burn as hot as the tears tracing down your cheeks, soaking his shoulder. Arms folded around yourself, even if it offers no protection. Hissing again when the hand not rubbing your back hesitantly cradles your bottom, shifting away from it–into him–until he finds a more careful spot to rest.

“I’m sorry, but it had to hurt, don't you see? So that I wouldn't have to do it again. I won't have to, will I?”

“No, sir,” you whisper into his shoulder, swallowing around the salt in your throat.

A shiver passes through him. Destabilizes you briefly as he readjusts his legs. He speaks into your temple. “That's good. It hurt me too, doing that to you.”

The half-formed erection at your folds, still flushed, tells another story. You protest about it, lightly, afraid to set him off, but he only coos at you.

“We'll go to bed soon. I just want to hold you for a while,” he says, smoothing hair away from your clammy cheek, lifting the strands and pressing them to his face like a man starving. “Jesus, I missed you. I do love you, Rusty, more than anything. You have to believe that.”

He continues like that for a few minutes, caressing and soothing and taking in your scent that's gone sharp with sweat and fear and ash.

“So, so much,” he whispers into the nape of your neck, making you squirm from how his breath tickles the fine hairs there. “Do you still love me?”

Blink. Another nod, slow and careful.

“I wanna hear it. I need to.”

Ignoring the way your skin crawls, your head turns again to look at him, communicating the sincerity of your words. “I love you, John. I'm sorry…sorry I did this to us.”

Cutting your tongue on the barbed wire of your teeth.

“I know you are, and I forgive you. Give me a kiss to make it up, hm?”

Refusal isn't an option when the hand holding your hair moves to hold the back of your neck as his mouth, warm from exertion, breaches the pliant space of your own. His tongue explores, refamiliarizing itself with the cavern before coaxing your own tongue into play. Hollow-cheeked, irrationally wanting penance, you give him as much as you can.

It gradually becomes more heated, his hands searching for a comfortable place to grip and squeeze, but it’s his own fault that he can’t grab his favorite place. Settles one hand on your hip as the other cradles the back of your head, firm against your skull, snagging on the tangles in your hair–it was the last thing on your mind to maintain during your time away.

Dragging your mouth from his, you beseech him for more time. Your mind can’t handle any more invasions tonight. Palms on his chest, one over his heart, blinking your damp lashes at him with a soft pout. “Can we wait? Please, I’m so tired and sore.”

It takes some effort, but he acquiesces, drawing in a deep breath as his thighs tense beneath you.

“No, you're right–tonight isn't a good night. Think we'll need to have it sweet, anyhow, now that we've made up.”

Sweet. The only sweetness you need is that of honey and divinity.

His final kiss to your mouth is chaste, though it leaves behind the taste of pennies on your lips. Plants another peck on your nose, then your forehead, before leaning over to pick something up. That's when you notice it–a small flash of something hovering just above his hand, gossamer thin. When your eyes focus on it, you realize it's the glint of metal in the firelight.

A syringe.

“Hush, now. Don't start fussing again.”

“No, nono no, please, don't use that. I’ll be good. You don't have to do this.”

This is when you gather the courage to bring your face close to his, nose to nose, begging him with your eyes. Don’t, John.

“I want to believe you, Rusty, I do, but you can hardly blame me for having trust issues. If I don't use this, I'll have to sleep with one eye open. It’s not ideal, but…the both of us need a full night’s rest. Now, give me your hand, dear.”

With a whimper, you back down. He kisses your knuckles before turning over your hand to drop a kiss on your palm, too. 

“Goodness, you're freezing. No wonder you lit a fire tonight,” he muses, running his lips across the tips. “Let me make it better first.”

Without warning, he pops two of your fingers in his mouth while your lips form an O in surprise, eyebrows raising. Your belly clenches in arousal and fear, watching his plump lips wrinkle closed around your fingers. The memory of what his teeth–so close to the little bones and tendons of such an important, sensitive part of your body–can do hits you. The awful ache beneath you that hasn’t even fully set in. You can hear how your fingers would crunch under his molars. How he could tear them from their roots so you couldn't fight him anymore.

Cold sweat gathers on your brow and your heart races when the edges of his teeth skim along them. But he doesn't bite. No. Instead, he laves them with the wet furnace of his mouth–his own lips glistening with saliva. Cradles them in the firm, velvety muscle of his tongue; all of your fingers, bit by bit. Then the other hand.

After everything, it comes across as lewd. The occasional moan vibrates from his chest. Your cheeks and ears are burning and your thighs are tense around his hips from the act, and as the blood returns to them, your fingers tingle uncomfortably.

“But they're just gonna get cold again,” you whined to your dad between ski lessons. He'd taken your little hands in his again to warm them up, blowing on them with his breath, keeping them sandwiched between his palms. You were impatient about seeing your mom, grumpy that she was resting still. You hadn't gotten a chance to show off your improvement.

“Then they can be warm for now. Isn't that better, June Bug?” A nickname given because of the month you were born.

“Yes, daddy,” you smiled, eating it up.

It wasn't until later that you realized that Dad could've just had you run your hands under warm water or heat them by the fire, but instead did this because he liked spending the extra quality time with you, and you clearly loved it, judging by your shriek-like giggles when he would alternate between warming your hands and becoming the Tickle Monster–it was rare that he was able to peel you away from your mom's legs.

He really was a good dad. Is.

John’s tenderness is confusing enough to bring renewed tears to your eyes, especially with how serene his expression is. Like he's just so glad to have you in his grasp again. When he runs out of fingers to warm up, he keeps your hand pressed to his lips for a minute longer, drinking you in.

Then he stretches your arm, squeezing for the meatiest part, holds it still with a grip firm enough to be an unspoken warning not to fight him on it. He's tired, too. Had an arduous week of hiking with bad shoes, not knowing where you were, what you had gotten into–if you'd found anyone.

If you’d told on him.

Whatever anxious energy that had been keeping you on the edge has finally depleted, and you sag in his hold like a ragdoll, head facing away from the needle. You can't gain the upper hand right now.

You should have let yourself freeze.

That familiar quick sting, though relatively painless, strikes you, and he wipes away a tear from the corner of your eye. Comforts you with the low hum of his voice as your eyes flutter closed, head getting fuzzy. Maybe Oshun will be there to hold you again.

“We’ll start again tomorrow, little fox.”

Chapter Text

Last night, again, you were in my dreams.

We are praying I am the one to save you, but you don’t even own your own violence. Run away from home, your beard is still blue. With the loneliness of you mighty men, with your jaws and fists and guitars and pens…

Who made you this way?

“Go Long” by Joanna Newsome

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 11

You should’ve gutted him.

Especially after that horrific dream or vision or whatever it was that Eshú had plagued you with. He was a figure almost too intense to behold, but maybe he knew that you needed a hard kick in the pants to wake you up from your drug-induced fever dream where you almost—almost considered what it’d be like if you had complied just one more time. Let the man holding you captive take you to his cabin in the woods to start a family. John and Rusty sitting in a tree, desecrated image of domesticity.

But it was never going to work for you, not while you still had embers smoldering in your kindling, no matter how hard he tried to stamp them out.

The knife entered your thoughts shortly after.

You lied beside him after that wicked, debaucherous night, glued to the hip and musing about getting his weapon into your hands, how it was just outside, you only needed to sneak out from under his arm and grab it before he noticed you were gone. It seemed like the only way out of here. You'd been thinking about escape strategies since you found out about the drugs, but there just wasn't a feasible way to get out of there without an altercation. The man had over a foot’s height on you–you wouldn't be able to overpower him if push came to shove.

Once the murderous thought took hold, you couldn't shake it. Began thinking about what it would feel like as the weapon sunk into him. Would it be a hot knife through butter, sliding easily through the layers of fat and muscle, or the cold steel of a butcher’s blade, capable of powering through cartilage and bone? Could you be able to stomach either outcome?

With Chris, it was different–there was no…active participation in his destruction. You just…let him fall into it on his own. An unaffected observer as his soul sunk beyond the veil and that was that.

The little touches that made your skin crawl. Sure was convenient how often he needed to reach across your seat to grab something from the passenger door. Fingers that were stained with the smell of nicotine tar and an old, ratty hoodie littered with the logo of some shitty metal band. His five o’clock shadow that rubbed your face raw as he shoved his artless tongue between your teeth.

The trash that took itself out. Would you leave John to bleed out on his own, or would you comfort him until Oya came to collect him? Watch as the light left his eyes? He didn’t exactly leave you with options–you couldn’t allow him to continue molding you into his version of the ideal partner, drugging you and confusing you and picking at every scab you’d tried to let heal. Ludicrous.

So, you began to watch.

Watched the tendons in his hands strain while they sharpened the knife to a point of slickness that made you shiver. It was a reasonable enough belief that the edge was so finely-crafted it could slip between cells and they would simply fold back together without leaving a single drop of blood. Why did he even have it? It wasn’t designed for cutting down branches. It was well-maintained and until then, unused.

…Was it intended for you? A version of you who didn't roll over and expose their belly the moment danger presented itself? Who sunk their teeth in until they were knocked clean from their skull? Would he have been willing to raise a hand against you if you hadn't gone soft first? Possibly, and possibly was too big a risk to take.

Which was why you should have had no qualms in retaliating. You already let him take enough–he was not taking you to Oregon, and if you had to resort to violence, then so be it.

Except for one irrefutable fact that pulled at the seam of your resolve:

John had nightmares too.

Before anything else, you saw it in his face as he slept beside you, already dead to the world after your night of Bacchanalian pleasure. A light snore as he slept, hair plastered to his forehead. You had miscalculated. You thought the drink would have made his sleep easier, but instead, he was restless, agitated. Curled into his side, you watched over him, waiting for his breaths to even out so you could make your move: slip out from under his arm, grab the knife that he was too distracted to put away properly, and–

Then he shifted. Heart caught in your throat, you thought he was going to wake up for another round, and just the thought of it made your pulse jolt. Tenderized flesh squeezed to the point of mush. His fingerprints were already bruising your body, and then there was the absolute filth he kept burning your ears with–

Eyes on me, Foxheart. Open up, let me in. Open—that’s it, there you are. Goodness, what a picture you make, falling apart like this. Making a mess all over me.

Just for me. Only me, right?

Only you, John.

It made your core clench and cunt wetter than what was healthy, but you were used up and raw, and if you slipped, if he defiled you again in that moment, you'd lose your mind. No, don't wake up, don't wake up.

The adrenaline that clogged your throat when his mouth dropped open.

“No.”

At first, you thought it was you who had spoken, but it wasn’t. The plea, gentle bidding, had come from his lips. Still asleep, but his brows were furrowed in discontent. He looked pained. You considered sticking a finger into the canal of his ear, stretching it wide open enough to fit your contorted form so you could find out what the cause of his distress was. Peeling a hand out from where it was sandwiched between you, your shaking fingers smoothed the hair from his face with a gentle shush. Almost immediately, he settled, and you waited until the twitches slowly died out.

Fragile. Unmistakably human. You couldn't do it.

Which was how you ended up slipping your arms into your coat because fuck, it was getting cold out. It was a good thing you'd managed to squirrel away John's ferro rod to use for a fire of your own later, yours having gone missing at some point. You would freeze otherwise.

You gathered a meager sampling of your necessities, just enough to fit into your pack: water bottle and filter, a few days’ worth of food, and…boots. Those were slipped on last to avoid making too much noise. While you were haphazardly lacing them up, just enough not to trip and land on your face, you heard the sound of nylon shifting.

Your stomach dropped. Shit.

Standing up straight, you found yourself just meters away from the source of your fear.

“Where are you going?”

Calm down, he doesn't know anything yet. Don't panic, he'll smell it on you, you thought. “Oh, I, uh, just gotta go.” Forced a smile. “You know. Go.”

He gestured toward your side, raising an incredulous brow. “And you need your bag for that?”

“...I, uh, well, it's embarrassing, but yeah. I also need to clean up. I’m sweaty and there’s… other things all over me.” Plenty true. There’s a layer of crust in several places. “Go back to sleep, I'll be back in soon.”

The pieces fell into place for him quickly. You reeked of desperation, and you hardly needed a stuffed-full bag for any of that–it was a lame excuse, and he knew it. A step towards you that you quickly reclaimed, stepping back. The sleepiness faded from him as his expression snapped from confusion to anger, and that panic you were trying to stave off began to rise. Try again. Another step forward, cautious, like approaching a spooked animal, and an equally careful one back, afraid to provoke.

“Please, don't.”

Please, please don’t make me use this knife. I couldn't bear it.

He stopped to rub a hand over his face, releasing a drawn-out sigh. Frustrated. Trying to keep calm. “Rusty, what are you doing? Don’t mess this up again, not when we've gotten this far.”

“I can't do this. I can’t be what you’re asking of me.”

You never let up on the grip you had on the handle.

“Was it,” he swallowed. “...Was it tonight? I knew it was going to be too much–I shouldn’t have—I didn't do it right.”

“None of this is right. You—you need help, John, and you can't just—” Gods, how could you explain everything that you needed to explain with how quickly the space between you was disappearing? “I won't tell anyone about you, I swear, if you just let me go. I won't send the cops after you—I couldn’t. I don’t know your full name or where you’re from, and…can't we just leave it at this?”

His expression grew dark, causing your skin to prickle with unease. He looked like that man again. The one who threatened to bend you over a tree and—why couldn’t you unzip your skin and just fly far away?

Your heel struck a barrier before the rest of you followed suit and your progress was halted. Fuck. A tree. Fucking trees. They would really be the death of you out here, wouldn’t they? Your foot slid around the base to search for its roots. If you could step around it without taking your eyes off him, maybe you could regain some space, but it needed to be quick.

And he was always faster than you.

“Don't come any closer,” you warned, brandishing the knife you'd been clutching and feeling ridiculous. A character in a horror movie just moments away from slaughter.

John’s browline raised as he did a quick calculation of his mistakes that night that would have allowed for this. He licked and bit his bottom lip, features devolving into a hateful scowl. The nerve of you pulling his own knife on him.

“I don't want to hurt you.” You never did, your darkest thoughts had all been soft-toothed barks, but he just needed to— “Stop. Just stop.”

It was probably obvious—the urgency not to test your conviction, because you would fail. You wouldn’t do it, and he knew that. Just the thought made your knees weak. Just let me leave.

Three more large steps with those ridiculous legs and suddenly the knife in your hand was gone: a real predator could tell a bluff from a lesser one. There was no resistance when he knocked the weapon away, and it landed several feet away with a dull thud. You stupid idiot, why did you hesitate?

Then his grip was on your throat, nailing you to the tree, fire and fury lighting him up. Those whiskey eyes smoldered at your insolence, and his fingers tangled themselves the fabric of your collar to bring you close and, and he looked ready to snap your neck, to hurt you and–

Crack!

Your left arm swung up to collide with his temple.

Hard.

Before you realized what exactly happened, John went down. Stunned and on the verge of hyperventilating, you looked down to find that expensive flashlight of yours in your other hand that you forgot you were even holding. The one akin to police grade maglights. The heavy kind.

So heavy that his eyes rolled back and his body folded and the sudden quiet that followed was excruciating.

The reverberation of the impact echoed in your hollow limbs. It was the same sound your skull made against the wall when your friend's parents had caught you kissing, and she panicked, shoving you away. It was an act that triggered a series of events that drove you across state lines with a dangerous man. There was some irony there, at how it had come full circle.

He was unmoving. Dead still. There was more blood than you were expecting from a head wound.

Your body fell beside him, knees crashing to the ground as your limbs moved of their own accord. Unsteady hands felt out the wound at his temple, felt the immediate swelling that and tried to push his lifeblood back into him, because no-no-no that was not what you meant to do. Why couldn’t he have just let you leave? You didn’t mean to hit him like that. You didn’t mean to. Was that all you were? A horrible thing that maims and kills? Chris…well, he deserved it, but your mom—if she hadn’t been distracted by your attitude, maybe she would have seen the car running through the stop sign. Maybe she would’ve lived.

You just keep hurting people.

When the shock wore off, it became apparent that John’s chest was moving. He was still breathing.

Oh. Oh, goddess, thank you. Maybe there was hope for you after all.

But first, you still needed to escape.

After failing to drag his body into the tent—fucking heavier than he looked—you had to leave him outside with his hands and feet duct-taped. Scrambled for your belongings, hoping that he wouldn't regain consciousness while you tore down your tent and shoved the mess under your arm. At the last minute, you’d decided to leave him on his side in the event he got sick from the concussion. Maybe drowning in his own sick would be fitting for a man of his ilk, but you were being kind. You even threw his coat and an extra blanket over him.

These mercies appear to have cost you everything, soft-bellied idiot. The thing that could've saved you was in your hand, and you looked down your nose at it before saying pass.

The days are spent by his side. Tethered to him, quite literally. Wrists taped together with a short length of paracord connecting his waist to yours damn near like an umbilical cord. Every now and then, you consider pulling it just to see him stumble, but you know that wouldn’t be smart.

He talks. A lot.

Reveals some of the happier parts of his childhood. Those are the stories you pay attention to, one ear raptly attuned, contrasting with your neutral, unaffected presence. There was a teacher he had in the third grade that he adored. Taught the class how to grow bean sprouts from a seed and sparked his interest in plants and nature. Soon after, he begged his mother to let him join the Scouts and it became a great way for him to get out of the house and have some privacy. Safety, though the irony isn’t lost on you.

Earning badges made him feel more like the kind of boy he was supposed to be. Not the one who experimented with makeup or wanted to dress himself up in the same lace and pastel shades his sister got to wear. He never felt out of place when he slept beneath the expansive sky with only nylon and bark for company. Eventually, he learned enough carpentry skills to build that fort for Jane.

He talks about the things he would like to renovate in your cabin. A fresh coat of paint, re-staining the floors. Lots of plants, indoor and out. And y’know…maybe he’ll even start up a vegetable garden. It’ll be good for a new family, huh? The more independent you can be, the better. Oh, but don’t worry. Hot water is the first thing on the list, of course. A clawfoot tub, eventually, if he can get his hands on one. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

Distantly, it occurs to you how excited he is about your future together.

Sometimes you respond, mostly you don’t. It’s like you’re walking in a dream most of the time. The limbs that carry you across the terrain are unfamiliar; the wrists that chafe against the bindings aren’t yours; the body that lies beside John’s at night doesn’t belong to you. The wraith wearing your skin trails behind him, observing how the trees become more barren as the harvest season progresses. Soon, it will be dangerously cold out here, and you aren’t sure how much farther there is to go.

In the mornings, you wake up wearing an old shirt of his. It’s a Star Wars print, featuring the trio of Hans, Luke, and Leia, with Vader’s silhouette in the distance. It’s old. Like…he hasn’t fit it in a long, long time. Whatever that means remains a mystery.

His shoulders appear to be bothering him as though he may have pulled some muscles. You don’t dare ask, but it leaves you wondering just how the hell he managed to get free when you escaped. You can imagine what it was like when he awoke that next morning, shivering despite the blankets because the fire would have died out after not being tended to. His eyes blackened with fury when he caught up with his current condition. So mad that he probably didn’t even feel it when he bowed his back and overstretched his long arms to feed his legs through the loop. Lovely teeth tearing through layer after layer of duct-tape, ripping off arm hair and skin only to realize his wrists had been ziptied too.

And the not insignificant fact that you were gone.

No wonder he nearly tore you apart when he finally caught up with you. A week’s worth of pent-up rage finally able to be released. Despite being mostly healed, your body aches something fierce just remembering the force he used on you, delivering slap after slap after slap after slap. One for every minute it took him to free himself after you abandoned him on the ground.

You’re lucky that’s all he did, knowing what he’s capable of. A taste of it, anyway.

He hasn’t…touched you like again that since he found you. He hasn’t said why, and you haven’t asked, but you wonder if it has anything to do with what you said about your dad. Maybe that moment brought him a semblance of shame, the image of your doting parents that he could never live up to. You, either, at this point. You’re pretty sure that you’re spoiled for it forever. Either way, he’s kept his touches relatively tame. It’s only at night when he pulls that tether close, dragging you into his lap, your back sewn to his chest as you watch the fire burn and die. He breathes you in and you breathe him out.

Between the lines of your forms, you’ve got a piece of John forever inscribed in shiny, pink flesh.

Sometimes, your head even leans back to rest on his shoulders, so you can count the stars. They offer little reprieve these days. There was a brief, exhilarating time when you walked with the spirits, but they haven’t been back since you’ve found yourself in his unyielding clutches again. Did you do something wrong for them to have abandoned you?

Have you disappointed them? Perhaps, they deemed you too much trouble, too hardheaded, and they’ve moved on to someone more worthy of their time. You wouldn’t blame them. There was ample opportunity to fix your mistakes and get out of this place. The spirits wouldn’t have damned you for slaughtering him like the animal he is. In their world, the sacrificing of beasts serves a divine purpose. A wolf would have been quite the offering.

There’s no sin with the orishas, Rusty.

Perhaps with the spirits, even something as egregious as vengeance could have a purpose.

Oya of the Sisters Three did it, after all.

Born with a warrior’s heart and the vulnerability of a girl, little Oya spent days in the encampment of battle-hardened men. One can only imagine what she endured. She returned after her divine blessing, and behind her grew a storm, sudden and vicious, that struck down the region and carried the fragile bodies of the men in a mudslide. The sounds of their anguish only faded when the wet soil filled their lungs, and they could scream no more.

The chief was the last one to fall, forced to watch as his entire army of men was swept away, only to succumb to the same fate, knowing there was nothing he could do as the muddy depths swallowed him up, too. A remarkable stillness followed in the aftermath.

Oshun may have had the grace to forgive and move on, but Oya was young and rash, with retribution burning hot in her veins.

Still, so much death brings a staggering weight.

A girl turned woman in all her newfound power…she would have been the very guide for those men that she slaughtered into the afterlife. Did they remember her? What apology, ripped from their lips, would have sufficed as she took their sodden souls across the river and into the depths of the beyond?

Yes, Oya got her revenge.

But she is a goddess across skies, and you are just a mortal lost in the creeping dark of the Black Forest. Just bone and sinew and lifeblood and flesh prone to rot.

You didn’t need a storm—you had the only weapon you needed at your disposal, and you hesitated. And now you’re his again and the spirits are nowhere to be found. Even the snakes on the trail have gone dormant with the encroaching cold.

“What are you thinking about?”

Pulled from your thoughts, you blink to focus on John. He’s close enough that you’re surprised he isn’t speaking from your own mouth at this point.

“Or is today another day where you act like I’m not here and won’t look at me?”

You fiddle with your cuticles before flipping the page in Wild, pretending you were actually reading instead of staring at the same sentence, lost in thought. You just got to the part about her horse, and while it was emotionally wrenching, but you couldn’t stay focused.

“Why, is there something new about your face?” After an exasperated noise, you spare the man pestering you a glance. Nope. Still dogshit.

He smiles, the ends of his lips curling into his moustache. Gotcha. You want to roll your eyes, but instead, blow into your palms and rub your hands together. It’ll be another frigid night with you huddled close to him. Even if you had a choice, you’d be attached to his side to keep from shivering.

“How much farther do we have to go? It’s getting cold out here.”

And the rations are getting low. Dangerously so. You reckon between what the two of you packed, you’ve got less than a week of food left. Soon, water sources will begin to solidify—the shallow ones are showing the beginnings of ice in the mornings.

“Want me to keep you cozy?” When you wrinkle your nose, he stops teasing. “Just a matter of days. Don’t worry, I’ve got it mapped out. We should be out of here before any snowfall and on our way home.”

There’s no way he can know that with any certainty. And how in the world are you supposed to get to the boonies of Oregon?

“Is there a car waiting for us somewhere? Or are we walking to the haunted cabin in the woods?”

How is he planning to escort you around other people? It’s too risky.

“I said don’t worry about it. I’ve got it handled.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“Yeah, well,” he sniffs, poking at the fire with a stick. “Maybe you just need to trust me.”

The snort leaves you before you can stop it, and he shoots you with an irritated look. Patience has been thin between the two of you since your…reunion. It was an entire day before you would even grace him with eye contact, and it clearly bothered him. He didn’t press the issue though. Seems the wobble of your lip and tremble of your hands every time he got close was message enough.

Was he surprised that you didn’t trust him? How could you, when you couldn’t even sit down properly after what he did? Besides, it’s not like he trusts you either. Whatever camaraderie had been built, if only on the surface, evaporated over the past two weeks. You’re both too prone to hiding your hurt behind the violence of your smiles.

“There’s a plan. I just can’t tell you because…well, you know why. We have enough food to get us to where we need to be, and no, we won’t be walking to the haunted cabin. It shouldn’t take us long to get it up and running, either. My dad took good care of it until he passed. There’s a town not too far away where we can get food and other necessities. Soon, we can put living in tents behind us.”

“What about a bar?”

His brow raises. What?

“Does the town have a bar—dancing, remember? Or are you too self-conscious to do that in public, because you know you’re a bad dancer?”

“Hah!” he grins, warming up. “Bad or not, I’ll wipe the floor with you.”

You both know there’s no way you’re going dancing in public any time soon. Pleased by the proposal, a sign of your sugared mood, he leans back from the fire, smoothing the lines of his pants while the ends of his mouth curl upwards.

“We’ll figure something out—a promise is a promise. Now, c’mere, Foxheart. Let me love on you.”

Something liquefies in you at that, ready to be loved. A hurtful pang has been eating at you the past couple of days. It was easier when the orishas were visiting, because for the first time in a long time, you believed yourself someone special. Tested, sure, but guarded. Now, though? It’s like you’ve been forgotten again. It’s left you feeling hollower than usual. Your bones laid out to dry on a smooth, warm stone. Your organs cleaned and prepared for use. So, there isn’t a lick of hesitance before you fold yourself into his embrace when he opens his arms in invitation.

If there’s anything truthful about John, it’s that he won’t let you go no matter how hard you chew at your leash.

You try not to think too hard about the implications of that when you’re wrapped in his embrace for warmth while you listen to the sound of his heart. It’s slow at the moment as he’s deep in sleep, secure that you’re going nowhere with the rope that ties you to his middle.

Maybe it’s because you long so achingly for it, but when you drift into sleep yourself, you find yourself wandering into that liminal space again where the backdrop of the forest has blurred into indiscriminate shapes. It's been ages since you’ve dreamt, and joy burbles in your chest. The gods are back. They’re back, they hadn’t abandoned you after all. You’ve got another chance, now. They’ll reassure you that you’re not too lost and guide you on the next steps. This is your out, Rusty.

But as that oil-slick haze, that inbetweenness dispels your consciousness, you find that there are no ocean waves lapping at your ankles. No river waters to quench your growing thirst. No fires to light the kindling behind your sternum. No winds to carry those fires abroad over a trauma-drenched passage between continents. It's empty of agitated snakes with watchful gazes, empty of the riotous drums. Completely absent of the shhink of cowrie shells as larger-than-life ancestors greet you.

No, you’re being drawn elsewhere, pulled backwards into the depths. Fog clouds your mind, and the thick trees fall into darkness.

Beneath your feet that are confined by tight, uncomfortable shoes, there’s firm tile, and in your hands a gold-lettered Bible. You’re in a pew, blinking against the sterile, artificial lighting coming from the ceiling. Your knees are locked together and your body stiff with nerves, while you sport a cornflower blue dress you don’t remember owning. You never went to these churches as a kid—the ones that cropped up seemingly overnight in plazas between failing businesses—but when you look around at your unfamiliar surroundings, the funniest sensation, the inexplicable knowledge that you are not where you belong hits you.

This isn’t your dream.

A young boy sits beside you, long-limbed and knobby-kneed with hair as smooth as his face, parted on the side and secured by wax. His button-down shirt is ironed and tucked in, paired with a proper bowtie. To his left is a little girl with reverent eyes, her dark hair pulled back with light pink ribbons. She’s next to a woman, presumably their mother, with perfectly coiffed hair and perfectly applied make-up. They look like a Norman Rockwell picture, sans the father.

The preacher goes on, but your attention is stuck on the boy beside you. His face is resolute, far too serious for someone his age as he looks up at the podium. Redness frames his watery eyes like he refuses to blink on principle alone. Part of you wonders if it’s to avoid any of the tears shaking free.

You find yourself reaching out to lightly touch his arm, and he jerks away from you with a startled accusation on his face.

“Sorry,” you say. “Are you okay?”

But before he can answer, the walls melt down into nothingness. All of it does—the man at the pulpit, the pews, the people, the picturesque family. The last thing you see is the boy’s open mouth and something like recognition in his eyes.

What’s going on?

Wherever you are now, it’s dimly lit, and your adult frame is crammed under what appears to be a small table or desk. Are you hiding, and what from? Unable to shake the feeling that someone is definitely chasing you.

Suddenly, the rough wooden boards beneath you shift and your pulse spikes, body vibrating with nerves, anticipating getting caught. Laughter in the distance, softened by the not-quite sheer mauve fabric that conceals you. Arms wrapped around your folded legs, you squeeze them tighter as the footsteps approach. Sweat under your arms, palm over your mouth to stop yourself from crying out. Someone’s here and at any moment, you’ll be snatched up.

The fabric collapses in a soft heap on the floor, and you duck your head into the space your folded arms created, unable to handle the horror. Only when nothing grabs or slaps or mauls you do you find the courage to look out again. Knobby knees. That’s what you’ve been hiding from? A string bean of a kid? Those slim legs bend into a crouch, and a familiar smooth face is before yours again, whiskey eyes so close you can count the dark lashes framing them. The boy’s breath is warm on your face, laughter fanning across you as he lightly taps you on the shoulder.

Found you, little fox, he says. You're It, now.

Oh. A game. It’s just a child’s game. Relief floods your system when he smiles, and you catch your face returning the gesture. Is this the fort he told you about? Before you can accept the hand offered, though, the room transforms again.

Suddenly, you’re in a kitchen, seated at the breakfast table with a plush cushion beneath you, the morning sun putting the room in a pleasant glow. The smell of sugar, butter, and cinnamon fills your senses. Any other time, it would have been welcome, but the acrid scent of cigarette smoke undercuts the sweetness. Once again, you aren’t alone. The same boy is staring sullenly at his lap beside you, shifting in his seat like he can't get comfortable, while a slim-hipped woman hums and fusses about in the kitchen, the laced edges of her apron fluttering prettily. Then the timer buzzes, and she removes a pan of cinnamon rolls from the oven single-handed. She turns, blowing smoke into the air as she presents the treat.

“Come on, Pup, I made them special for you. You'll feel better afterwards. Now, eat up before your sister wakes up and takes them all.” She takes a long drag off her cigarette, filling the kitchen with a toxic haze. “You’ve been such a good boy for me, hm? Helping your mother out. You deserve a treat.”

He sits up straight when she pecks him on the cheek, neither shying away nor leaning into the maternal gesture. What in the mid-century is this? She’s a figure straight from a magazine. Her makeup is painstakingly immaculate for a morning in with the kids. Wearing heels while baking for Pete’s sake. She’s in such sharp contrast to your own mother’s lack of dressing in the quiet, intimate moments with family. A silk bonnet on her head, fluffy robe, and a freshly-washed face. Nothing wrong with being made up, but something about the image this woman projects, though, is…mask-like. From her artful curls to her hard-edged lipstick that’s a pretty, perfect shade of red. Her coldness takes your breath away.

Meanwhile, John chokes down every sickly, decadent bite, unsure whether he loves or hates her more, the corners of his mouth iced with resentment as the back of his throat stings with salt. When he’s done, he sits in silence again, looking hard at his empty plate, hands clenched into fists. All the lace, sugar, and red-lipped kisses in the world couldn't pull him from his thoughts, not with how heavily misery rests on his shoulders. It tugs at the soft tissue inside of you, seeing him—John—like this. Even if you don't want it to. You know enough about what he went through, and it…it isn't an excuse, but…

He doesn’t appear to notice how the first tear stains his collar, but you can’t miss it. His mother has her back turned, taking another hit off her cigarette, but you suspect that she wouldn’t want to see him crying after all the hard work she put into breakfast. Something nice just for him.

It’s excruciating to be only an observer.

He’s just a kid, you remind yourself. He hasn't done anything bad yet. And this is a dream, he can’t hurt you.

He needs help.

Not a bit of the man he would become, but you see how that hurt and rage within him will fester. How his heartache and loneliness will worsen over time with neglect. The things he would be able to accomplish when his body grows to match the size of his pain. At the moment, though, he’s just a kid who aches both to be seen and to disappear simultaneously.

After several minutes of deafening quiet from him, followed by more dark stains on his shirt, you make your decision. Biting your lip, you cover one of his fists under the table with your larger hand and squeeze. He startles—clearly, he didn’t realize you were even there. Initially, he pulls away, but when he looks up and sees you, there’s gratitude in his eyes. His little hand opens up to allow you to slip your fingers around his, and he squeezes back with just the smallest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

His hand is warm, tangibly so, less a dream and more like a memory. It occurs to you, as you bask in the comfort of the moment, that you may need it as much as he does. You stay like that for what feels like hours, silencing accepting each other’s company. For the first time, you’re actually bigger. It’s odd, seeing John as a boy. You expected to feel anger towards him, but now that you’re here, all that’s happened is a world away. He’s just a kid who wants to get muddy in the rain and play house with his sister, who craves a kinder, safer home than the one he’s been allotted. What could he have been with parents like yours?

You barely notice when the woman leaves, and it’s just the two of you in the room, your thumb running over his knuckles while your other one brushes stray hair from his face.

It’s okay, you want to say. One day, you’ll grow up and you can be far away from this place. You won’t have to answer to anyone but yourself, but you’ll also be the only person who can blame for your choices.

But that’s too much for a child of his age to conceive of, and you don’t have the time or authority to make such a notion stick. Eventually, the sky outside darkens, and the shadows creep in from the corners to interrupt your peace.

A chill passes over you, despite the air being still, and goosebumps roll over your flesh.

Click.

Your ear twitches.

Click-click.

Your spine locks in place, ramrod straight. What is that sound?

Sweat fills the slim space between your palms. Something scratches at the edges of your brain, and a deep feeling of unease tickles the nape of your neck. The echoes of his mother's humming is supplanted with the new sound instead: an artificial, electric humming. It makes your skin crawl.

Looking past John and out the kitchen window, the glow of a neon sign becomes visible: Vacancy. That…wasn’t there before. It doesn’t belong here at all.

You watch the door that leads outside, waiting for something to happen. For a beast to slam against it, rattling it off the hinges. For the knob to slowly twist until the door cracks ajar. For something, anything to jump out–but nothing happens. It’s still. Quiet. Except for the click-click, click sound that’s so rhythmic that you could resuscitate a person to it.

You start to get up, but the boy’s grip tightens.

“It’s okay. I’ll be right back. I just want to see what’s out there.”

Walking away, you pause with your hand on the doorknob. You look back to find that he’s terrified, and you have the strangest feeling that it’s for your sake. Still, your fingers fiddle with it until it creaks open.

He shakes his head.

“Don't.”

“Why? What’s out there?” you ask, mesmerized by the harsh orange light.

He shifts in his chair again. “Something bad.”

Confused by his sudden discomfort, you gaze into the night—sure enough, there’s a motel across the street. In the middle of a suburban neighborhood. Dream logic can be funny that way. “…What makes you say that?”

He shrugs. You can’t deny whatever is pulling you, though, and with a hesitant step, you’re stepping out into the night, staring at that sign. It’s familiar, somehow. You nearly bolt out of your hide when the door slams shut behind you, and no matter how hard you rattle the knob and pound on the door, it refuses to budge.

Here, in the ever widening dark, you’re more alone than you were on the trail. John’s small presence was a comfort, and you’re left empty in his absence. Some compulsion drives you ahead anyway. This part was his dream, after all.

What’s ahead appears to be designed for you, but you can’t shake the dread that settles in your chest.

You want John back. The adult version of him that’s big enough to wrap himself around you like a cloak and shield you from whatever is lurking out here. Because something definitely is. Its hot breath clings to the back of your neck, frightening you into driving ahead instead of turning around to face its maw.

Stepping into the dark, you cross the street without any issue. Doesn’t seem like anyone else is out here anyway. Those unsteady, nervous feet carry you up the concrete stairs as though knowing this path already. Fingernails scratching along the worn paint of the railing until you reach the right landing. Each of the rooms you pass has its curtains shuttered, dead inside, except for…the last one. A dim light amplifies the outdoor hall.

Click-click. Click.

A noise comes from the room at the end. It sounds like an AC unit struggling to keep up with the sweltering summer night. Sweat drips down your clammy temple.

There are…other sounds coming from there, too. Noises that make the hairs on your limbs rise, the warning call of deeply-embedded instincts that tell you to leave, that continuing on will cause irrevocable damage. You remember the boy’s plea to stay with him and know that something isn’t right about this. Not at all, but you didn’t come this way to turn back now.

You always were too curious for your own damn good.

When you approach, the smell of cigarettes hits you again, stale this time, making you sick to your stomach. Still, you press on, nosy little beast, finding that there’s just enough space between the thick folds of the fabric covering the window to peer through.

And so you do.

The glass fogs up where your face smooshes against it, the thin barrier keeping you exposed and vulnerable. Fabric shifts with the air current, and there. Now, you’ve got a clear view. Squinting, you press closer.

What you find in that room…what you see, it, oh—

It knocks you flat on your ass, and you scramble backwards until the iron railing behind you prevents you from falling over the edge. Your hands go to your mouth, agape in abject horror, trying to shove the scream back down your throat. Push, press, shove it down until you choke on it, because this isn’t happening, this isn’t real. This…this can’t have happened.

No.

No, oh gods, gods no, no, no.

Shielding your eyes next, longing to scratch them out of their sockets, to do anything to get the scene away from you.

But you don’t have enough limbs to cover your ears, too.

“It hurts, Chris.”

The curtains shut.

Click-click.

Click.

“Rusty?” His voice is gruff with sleep. “Wake up—your heart is racing.”

Gasping panic. It’s dark. Too dark. Anything could be out there. He could be there. He could get you again.

“…John? John, I can’t see—where are you?”

“Here. M’right here,” he says, pulling you back against his chest. Relief pours in as fraught energy drains from your veins, causing you to sag against him. “What’s wrong, another bad dream?”

Before he can ask again, you're curled into him, hands clutching at his shirt. The wet onslaught of grief slams into you, and your body bows under its pressure. The occasional low wail emerges when you manage to catch your breath between sobs.

A flash of bare skin and teeth and red violence. That’s all it took to knock down the walls you unknowingly constructed around those events of your past.

So that was it, the full reason for why your hands began to tingle every time you heard his name, even in reference to another person. Why the flat, heavy weight of a man’s touch left you sick. You hardly ever visited home after you moved away to college, armored yourself with plastic smiles, struggled to make eye-contact with Dad. The way he had looked at you after he picked you up that day. He knew, even if you wouldn't talk to him, but there was no training for handling that type of thing as a parent. Mom would have known what to do. Right? Dad tried, but when your mom died, she took an important part of him with her. For one reason or another, you both just…let the distance between you grow.

You should have accepted his help, but instead, you pushed him and your brother away, and then there was no one left to help you back up.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“…No?” Frothy, spattered with hurt.

You don't know how John would react to such a thing. He already thinks you're a liar and a whore, and the evidence against you keeps stacking up. At your silence, he holds you tighter, chin on your scalp while deep shudders wrack through you.

“Okay. It’s okay, you’re safe. I’m right here.”

Pathetic thing that you are, you’re grateful.

He notices how you can’t stand his touch the next morning.

At first, he tolerates it. Understands that it has something to do with whatever transpired during your sleep. But he’s off-kilter himself, worn thin from his own nightmares. If there’s a breaking point, you’re both hurtling toward it headfirst.

And what…was that, anyway? Were you in John’s dream, or did you somehow drag him into yours? Was it some limbo where you happened to merge your consciousness with each other?

Mom used to regale you with so many stories as a kid. Some of them were about the magic in the rings of your family tree: your great-grandmother’s ability to heal people; a distant cousin in the homeland who called forth rain during droughts; an ancient relative who made an art out of forging the strongest weapons from a simple flame. Conjurers, spirit-talkers. Dreamwalkers. Those who had special relationships with the divine thread that binds together everything in existence. Catalyzing change through ashé.

You would think that a sacred blessing like that would have exempted you from your current situation, but maybe hardship accompanies the gifts bestowed by the gods and spirits of your mother’s homeland—your homeland. Still, how could you possibly be stronger by the end of this? You aren’t…reading too much into it, are you?

“What’s going on with you lately? You’re all over the place.”

“I’m fine,” you huff.

“No, you’re not fine. Clearly.”

“What are you talking about?” Maybe he won’t notice the sweat accumulating on your upper lip.

“I mean that something upset you last night and now you’re like…this again, all agitated and jumpy. And now you’re being evasive.”

“And you’re being vexing again. You’re the center of attention for everything—you didn’t think that maybe it has something to do with you?” For the goddess’s sake, you’ve got countless marks littering your body from the man. He’s been holding you under his thumb for weeks. Why wouldn’t he be the source of your nightly disturbances?

“I doubt you would have been crying on my shoulder if that were the case. You’re sure to stay far away when you’re upset with me.”

That makes your hackles rise. You turn away and stare at nothing, just bark and moss and browns and trees and more trees more fucking trees.

“I think you’re avoiding something, and it won’t help anything by shutting me out. We only have each other, Rusty.”

“You may only have me, John, but you aren’t the only person in my life. I have an entire family who probably thinks I’m dead right now.”

That stupid face of his does that stupid thing where he thinks he knows more than you. “The same family that you didn’t bother to reach out to in any meaningful way before you left for a months-long trip? Yeah, you’re right, you sound real close.”

It wasn’t supposed to be “months-long”—you should’ve been home weeks ago.

“You want to know what I think, John? I think you're so lonely you'll try to fit into anyone's life. Or make them fit into yours. I think you saw an opportunity, because I was all alone out here and an easy target, and that's why I'm here.”

He saw the weak points in your body and knew how to make it fold.

“There's no divine connection here. Everything that's happening here is because you made it.”

He doesn’t rise to your goading, to your growing irritation. “And I think you’re deflecting so you don’t have to answer. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not nothing. You woke up in hysterics and you’re reverting back to old habits.”

Old habits? Every day he surprises you with his absolute nerve. “And what the hell do you know about my habits? You barely even know me for gods’ sake. Actually, you don’t know me at all.”

“Not even a little, huh? Well, you’re mutilating your fingers, for one. And the last time you woke up like that, you nearly broke my skull afterwards, so yeah, Rusty, I think what’s going on is my business.”

“It’s none of your business what I’m thinking about twenty-four seven. I can’t have any privacy around you. Why don’t you worry about yourself for once and shove off?”

But he doesn’t shove off. Doesn’t retreat, doesn’t give you any space.

“God—would you just stop that.”

It’s when his hand lands around your wrist to stop your picking that you lose it. Reeling around, you push him away, pleased when he stumbles back in surprise.

“Get your fucking hands off me!” Always close, always prodding. Always touch, touch, touching you. Pulling and manipulating the strings attached to your back. “You pick and you badger, and you don’t leave well enough alone. Stop pretending to care when you’re just like him. Worse, even. At least he didn’t trick me into feeling anything for him when he shoved me down and f—"

Oh, no. No, no-no. You weren’t supposed to let that slip.

John’s face darkens. “…When he what?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. Too quickly.

“This is about Chris, isn’t it?”

“No.”

“What exactly happened with him, hm? Why won’t you tell me?”

“Nothing.”

“You screwed him, didn’t you? I knew it. Unbelievable. It’s always something new with you. It wouldn’t have bothered me, y’know, if you hadn’t lied about it, but I’m starting to think that it’s just in your nature. You can’t even control it, can you?” He has the gall to poke you in the forehead, and you rub at the spot to erase his fingerprint. “What other dirt are you keeping in there, huh?”

Stays crouched like that, boring holes into your face with his scrutiny. The unease from your nightmare—memory, Rusty—crawls up your back. He doesn’t look stable, had a hard night himself, after all, and it’s difficult to tell if its better to answer or be quiet.

You messed up.

“How many other men have you spread your legs for, huh?”

“None,” you say, eyes stinging. “Stop it.”

When his fingers grip your chin, leaning in, you damn near snap your neck to shake him off.

“Won’t even let me touch you,” he huffs, mirthless laughter. “Perfect, pristine Rusty. You’re so nervous and new, aren’t you? Keeping something special locked up tight just for me, right? Y’know, I gotta hand it to you, Foxheart. You’re a better actor than I thought. I pride myself on reading people, but you had even me fooled. Who would’ve guessed that this whole time, you were just used goods?”

Used goods. Oh. Oh, that’s a new one. Your cheeks are wet now. Why does your chest hurt? You didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t your fault. If anyone’s used you up, it’s John.

“‘You’re either the one doing the fucking, or you’re the one getting fucked.’ That’s what my uncle used to say. He was a crass man. Tough, too. But he never lied to me, never abandoned me. Not like how Mother did, when she dropped me off with him at sixteen and never came back. Then died before I could confront her. After everything I did for her, she had the nerve to leave me. Jane eventually did the same thing. I spent so long protecting her, and she told me she would always be there for me, too. And where is she now, huh? Halfway across the country.”

He's pacing, hands in a flurry at his sides. You’re an afterthought as he loses himself in his misery.

“And then there’s you. You who said that you were scared because you never had done this before. You who said you wouldn’t leave, that you could handle…me. You even said you loved me. I wanted to give you time, because I knew that’s what you needed, but you said it first. I didn’t push you into it, never asked you to do that at all, but there it was. Out of nowhere, you told me you loved me. You lied to me about something so important right before attacking me. Then you left me. …You left me.”

By the end of his tirade, he’s flattened a path in the dirt. Plops himself down on the ground and stares into the distance in silence. So much of what he said wasn’t right, wasn’t even directed at you, not really, but that fact does little to mollify the way he’s worn down your defenses. Your chin is tucked behind your knees, and your hands cover your ears. Can’t bear to hear anything more about how soiled you are.

He's worn himself down, too, by the rough sound of his voice when he talks next.

“Nothing to say for yourself?”

Shaking your head with a wet sound.

“Come on. I know you’re not…you’re not a bad person. I’m just trying to understand why you’re keeping so much from me,” he says, situating himself between your legs, forehead close to yours, hands running up your calves. “Rusty, talk to me.”

It takes another minute before you settle on how to proceed. “…Why did you have s’mores?”

His stupid mouth opens in confusion, tension diffused. “What?”

“When we met.” You finally look up at him. “Why did you have the stuff to make s’mores, huh? Why did you bring snacks and wine for an extended hike? It’s a stupid thing to waste pack space for, no nutritional value. It was completely irresponsible, and you know that. You were a Scout, right?”

Your accusations are punctuated by firm slaps to his chest that he just absorbs.

“Why would you bring lipstick? You brought…John, you packed bad footwear. The audacity to make me feel bad for what you went through, all while you turned around and did those same things to me. You couldn’t even have the decency to bring condoms, knowing you were always going to have me pinned beneath you one way or another? Every time I feel sick, I don’t know if it’s stress, or malnutrition, or, or worse. You even lied about our so-called ‘agreement.’ You’ve been stalking me, drugging me. John, you’ve been tricking me from the jump—goddess, the cognitive dissonance with you splits my fucking head!”

A final, hard push and he falls on his ass. It would be funny, the look on his face, if he hadn’t reached out and pulled you to crash into him on his way down, winding you. Surprise and frustration in your fists as you struggle against him, trying to hit him anywhere else you can. Even though he’s lean, gone leaner from his time out here, he still overpowers you and with a few frustrated grunts of his own, manages to wrangle your arms and pin them to his chest. Keeps you there until you give up. While the urge to bite him makes your jaw quiver, there isn’t anywhere to turn to avoid his retaliation, so you keep your muzzle on.

Unable to do anything now, save catch your breath, the fight leaves you, and you’re left talking into his shirt. Good. You’re tired of his stupid face anyway.

“I didn’t have anyone to talk to. At school, they either didn’t believe me or thought I deserved it. My mom was gone, and Dad…he wanted to be there, but he was busy with my baby brother. He was already uncomfortable talking to me about those things, anyway. Most of what I learned about myself, about my body, I got from books.”

You remember now, how devastating the aftermath was. You tried to tell your friend, the one you had kissed, in a last-ditch effort to warn her, if nothing else. You met him at her house, after all, but the horrible things she had said…

What would someone like Chris want with a freak like you?

Freak. Deviant. Dyke. You’d heard it all before, but it hurt every single time. Instead of telling anyone, you just swallowed it and hoped it wouldn’t come back out. Who would you have told, anyway? Your dad?

The distance between you and him had grown so much over the years that you couldn’t admit the truth. So, when you told him to leave you alone, owl-eyed in the passenger seat, that’s exactly what he did, afraid to drive you further away. Stubbornly, you sat on a hill of mistakes so tall that you could barely see the man, and still, you couldn’t stomach the awkwardness he would try to hide from you. All you’d managed to do was fuck up his life, anyway. Got your mom killed and came home with problem after problem ever since.

“He—Chris was…awful. He was just supposed to be my ride out of town, and he… Gods, I was fifteen, just a kid. Like you and your sister. I didn’t know what I was doing or what he was capable of. There was no big brother to protect me.”

John is quiet, probably in his head after the mention of Saint Jane. What makes her so special? You haven’t even met the woman, but you resent her a little, because for people like you? There’s no sainthood. No feasts in your honor, no reliquaries or songs to remember you by. When your last breath is given up to the cold bone moon, no one will fight for the tattered remains of your blood-soaked clothing for a glimpse, a taste, of divinity on their tongue.

People like you encounter bad men who lock you into their hotel rooms or abduct you from the woods. People like you disappear all the time, presumed dead until it becomes true. No one, Rusty, will mourn you. Not like that. Except…

Except maybe John.

Who lies on his back beside you now, both drained and grief-stricken, miles apart as you look up at the sky. Is he disappointed by the loss of some arbitrary claim to your body? And why does it sting, if so?

When he finally turns onto his side to face you, a smear of dirt on his cheek, you long to wipe it clean, knowing he would hate that it’s there. Instead, you opt to crush the soil between your fingers, smoothing out your fingerprints with it. Smear and rub.

He coughs, a tick he does when he’s uncomfortable, voice raw when he speaks. “I know how, uh…how isolating it can be when the world turns its head away from your pain. I would’ve understood what you went through. Why did you keep it from me?”

“I didn’t remember. Blocked it out or something. I don’t know why, but last night it came back to me. This place has been…speaking to me in ways I didn’t expect.”

Especially since meeting him. If there’s anything positive you can gleam from this whole thing between you, it’s how much more present you’ve been with yourself. It’s painful, that kind of awareness, after being numb to it for so long. It’s not a bandaid or scab being ripped off—it’s the re-breaking of bones improperly set so that they can heal. That first breath you draw every morning pushes through the concave of your ribs, an agonizing inflation of the self.

“Is that so?” A question sent through the fingertips he threads through yours. “I think it’s been talking to me, too.”

Part of you wants to press him further, but you’re honestly too exhausted for it. Instead, you settle for listening to the fire crackle and pop as the clouds lazily pass by overhead. After what feels like ages, he gets up, patting away the grime before offering you a hand. The moment you’re up, his touch is on your hip to steady you, burning hot into your clothes. It’s the closest you’ve been in the bright of day in weeks, and the clarity is disorienting. A leaf is delicately plucked from the tangled mess on your head. He attempts to smooth your hair back down, as best as he can, but it needs a proper wash first. The cold has sapped away its moisture, and it’s nearly as dry and brittle as the desiccated husk it springs from.

But his touch, gentle spray of the after-storm, lingers, and you lean into it, craving more. Closer and closer until your nose is to his chest, inhaling dirt, sweat, and musk. There’s not a fiber in your being that wants to protest when his arms engulf you and his face presses firmly into your scalp. An aggrieved, unsaid apology that has you nuzzling him, the warmth of his palm radiating in the back of your neck. More than little drunk by the time you’re coaxed away, just enough for him to wipe the brine from your eyes. Seeing the wet spot on his shirt in the shape of your mouth and shuddering.

Capable of anything, even disappointment when it’s warm air that ghosts across your lips instead of a kiss. A possessive gesture that you didn’t think you’d end up missing.

“Do you love me, Rusty?”

“I don’t—”

“No, no. Don’t shy away from me, now. Answer the question.”

He thumbs your lower lip and watches it bounce back, mesmerized. The stickiness that had been building up clings to your skin, steam arising in the wake of his heated affection. The thought occurs that he may still be drugging you, but there’s no chemical that can make your heart beat for him the way it does. Maybe he has magic in his bones, too, considering the spell that you appear to be under. It leaves your legs unsteady and your head dizzy.

“I think so. Yes.”

His nostrils flare with a sharp inhale of air. Eyes half-lidded.

“Say it. I want to hear you.”

Your tongue, stubborn muscle, clings to the roof of your mouth, releasing it with a soft click!

“I love you, John.”

That’s it. The moment when he finally breaks down and kisses you, the ferocity of his desire staggering. Crying out, you try to step back to brace yourself, but his hold is stronger. Weeks of unspoken pain, fear, and longing are poured into that kiss. Bristle chafing your skin raw as he steals the oxygen from your brain and deprives you of rationale.

Everywhere, everything, is John.

Love you, love you, love you. Giddiness pressing you closer, trying to meld together, hide inside his bigger form where no one else can get you. Searing desire abrading your nerves, cauterizing as it scorches a trail down your spine. Your lips chase his when he finally releases you, not quite done with the euphoria of giving in.

“You aren’t going to tell me no tonight.”

No? No was never an option. Especially with this nothingness in you that begs to be stuffed with something…anything, just so that you don’t cave inward. The weight of John’s obsession ought to be enough to fill the quarry. Besides, the word no was left on the horizon the moment you invited him to your camp.

His touch is under your chin, awaiting your dutiful response so he can reward it with another kiss. You can barely tear your eyes away from his mouth when you answer. Bees in your skull and a knot in your stomach, you suck at the spot on your lip where his finger left a bit of dirt, salt…

Yes, you’re capable of anything, even a—

“Yes, Daddy.”

Chapter Text

Carry away my dead leaves, let me baptize my soul with the help of your waters. Sink my pains and complains, let the river take them, river drown them. My ego and my blame, let me baptize my soul with the help of your waters. Those all means are so ashamed, let the river take them, river drown them.

I will come to your river, wash my soul again.

“River” by Ibeyi

The Rustic Wild: Chapter 12

“Hey there, wayward traveler.”

There was a nervous skip in your chest when his mouth flicked upward, the corners disappearing into his beard. That impaired beating of your heart was probably the first sign that you were doomed from the moment you met him.

You took his hand, ignoring how that spark caught the dry grass behind you, sending signal smoke into the air. Instead of running, you smiled.

“What do they want? Your spirits.”

You’re pulled out of the near-sleep you were lulled into by his ministrations and low humming. He’s been curious about them, your spirits, ever since you mentioned the woods calling to you. Nothing of yours is allowed to remain that way, a secret to him.

You relax again over the makeshift basin that collects the runoff water he pours over your head. Nicely warmed, perfect for a wash. Maybe there isn’t another hot spring, but he’s putting in effort to pamper you for tonight. “They’re not mine—it’s not like they belong to me, but…I don’t know why they’re here now. Most of their visits have been in my sleep. I think it’s because we’re more open to the universe in that state. Closer to death, closer to other realms.”

He asks with that lovely lilt to his voice, “How do you know it’s not just a dream?”

Well…you don’t know, not with a sense of reason. There’s not exactly a rulebook for these things, just the remnants of your mother’s teachings. “They’re too tangible to be only a dream. They’re so real, it’s like a piece of them follows me when I wake up.”

He’s quiet after that, resumes massaging your scalp, softening you into putty in his palms.

“Why?” How much does he remember from last night? “Are your dreams talking to you?”

He huffs. “No, nothing so uh…nothing like that. They just remind me of things I don’t want to remember.”

“Are you sure about that?” you press. How can he not realize that something is reaching out to him, too?

“I’m sure.”

A shiver passes through you at the coldness in his voice, and an awkward silence follows. You don’t want him to get lost in those memories again, seeing how unsettled it’s left him. You’re both tired, but stress makes him more volatile.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, John?”

He chews at his lip. “I’m not sure. It’s not what I grew up with, obviously, but my church told us so many lies that I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

You saw that church. It seemed artificial somehow, like they’d lost the plot along the way. A message warped, used to gatekeep power instead of share it. “In my mom’s beliefs—ours, I suppose now—they believe in harmony. People don't ever leave us, not completely.”

The kids in school called it devil worship. Initially, it was behind your back, but when she died, they were more brazen, knowing you’d lost a key partner in your corner. There was never anything dangerous or bad about her beliefs, not that they cared to learn otherwise.

“She told me that we’re all connected: we’re part of the world, and the world is part of us. Same with the gods. She talked a lot about spirits. Sometimes it was our ancestors, and other times, she would refer to divine ones. It was like they were everywhere for her. ‘The goddess is walking with me today’ was one of her favorite phrases.”

Your great-grandmother visited last night, your mom once said, helping you get ready for school.

Not knowing what to say, you simply listened, waiting for her to continue.

That depends on who you ask, your mama laughed. I loved her, but she and my mother got into it all the time. Too similar to get along, I think. Both spitfires. Neither one of them liked backing down from a fight. You remind me of them, you know.

How your nose wrinkled at what didn’t sound like a compliment. I don’t fight! Ow—!

The brush caught in your tangled knot of hair with a hiss. Oh! I’m sorry, June Bug, but even your hair fights me. It’s good that you have that spirit in you—it'll protect you whenever your daddy and I can’t be there. You just need to remember to keep some water at hand. If you’re all fire, you’ll burn yourself up one day. You’re too good for that.

Are they gonna visit me, too? You remember fiddling with your fingers, worried what it could mean for you if they didn’t. What if you weren’t special like your mom?

It’s hard to say, but if they do, it means you get to be closer to the orishas than most, and what a blessing that is, hm?

“You believe me, though? You don’t think it’s…I dunno, crazy?”

“I think,” he begins carefully, “that there are crazier things than that going on in the world. A lot of religions have similar tenets about balance, energy in and energy out, that sort of thing. I’ve read a bit about Buddhism, and well… What I’m saying is yeah, I believe what you’re experiencing could be real. It could be a gift.”

“That’s what my mom would tell me,” you say, chilled bones soaking up the warmth. “But she didn’t tell me how hard it would be sometimes. I never wanted to remember…him. Chris. That’s why I buried him, but it’s like they’re pulling up weeds. It isn’t fair, because…”

He urges you to continue.

“Because how could they do that to me now of all times?”

Someone sucks in a breath and the air is still afterwards. A gentle touch on your face again, over your lids.

“Close your eyes.”

Dutifully, he disappears from you before warm water rains over your head, the sentiment washing away with it as John resumes his humming.

The sun doesn’t stay by your side for long these days, retreating earlier each evening. The trees shed their leaves, ready to hibernate, hoping that you’ll both be long gone by the time they re-awaken. Shadows burrow deep; the autumnal chill burrows deeper.

You return to him like a bride. The Star Wars shirt that you’ve claimed as your own beneath your oversized sweater. Exposed legs, knees ready to be run raw. Nervous and excited all at once as you climb into his lap before the fire. While this position isn’t new by any means, today it carries more weight.

You’re content to stay like this, muddy-minded and soaking him up molecule by molecule. Who doesn’t love an orgasm drawn from a good thigh ride? Maybe it’s the heat that’s burning through fabric that clues him in to how slick your joining is, because he suddenly tugs your hair until your mouth detaches with a noisy pop. Confused and more than a little irritated at the disruption, your half-lidded eyes scan the beginnings of a bruise you’ve made on his neck with your sucking while he puffs up.

Triumph in his expression. “I’ve barely even touched you, and you’re already this needy.”

“Am not.”

“No? And what will I find under your clothes?” His touch presses heavy between your thighs, cupping your mound, feeling the damp fabric.

He sounds so pleased by your behavior that you squeeze your thighs tight enough to crack a fucking walnut as you moan. You massage his bulge in return, and he inhales sharply. Got him. “I can be patient, too. Sit back, and let me give what you won’t ask for.”

Not because he’s too shy, no, but because he doesn’t ask—he demands.

His hair is down, a little limp and cold now from his own wash, the friction of his beard tantalizes every place it rakes across. Dark. The rosemary and sandalwood he used to smell of is long gone, replaced by musk and sweat and exhaustion. If you lived in a city, you’d buy him something nice for its upkeep. Tobacco is an absolute no for either of you, recalling the effects of that dream, but maybe something like amber and leather would be a good compromise.

It would pair well with a dark shade of red on his pretty, Cupid’s bow lips. Blood red.

Molasses in your limbs, you drag yourself out of his lap and he holds your hips to keep your bewitched body from toppling over. The insects have traveled to your veins, big groups of them buzzing at the end of your limbs. Knees kiss the ground as you kneel before him. He goes to undo his belt, but you quickly slap his hands out of your way. This is yours, after all.

Fanning your fingers across his belt buckle, slowly parting it so you can pop open the button. He strains against the denim, watching you through heavy lids, cheeks already flushed. He’s missed you. Good. That will make this all the more enjoyable.

Bowing down to kiss him through the fabric and he gasps, hands tightening into fists at his side. The point of your tongue traces the length of his zipper, tracing each tooth on the way back up until you get to the pull, taking it between your incisors. His gaze bores into you as you draw it down, the sensation vibrating through your mouth and echoing in the camp.

Through the V of his open pants, a wet circle on his underclothes is revealed. His resolve is tested when you kiss that spot next, sucking at the damp fabric until you taste salt. You could tongue it for the next hour, if your knees would allow, keep him on the edge of the fallen tree he’s chosen for his seat until he begs you to properly gobble him down. You would do it, but as you lather his erection through the cloth, he begins to unravel, pressing your head down as he grinds into your face.

“Foxheart.”

Hearing your nickname all broken and low like that makes you wetter. Okay, maybe you can’t be patient, after all. John’s hips lift to let you pull his pants down, cock springing forth, and you tug the legs down farther than what’s probably necessary, needing to see his thighs tighten and release and tremble as you work.

But now you have him again, his clean, symmetrical, beautiful cock in your hand. Openly weeping at the slit. Just as the edge of his head slips past your lips, he pulls your hair back, preventing you from engulfing him. “What—”

“No. You’ve got a look in your eye today that I don’t have time to work out of you. Tongue only.”

Really? He’s got you on your knees and he’s telling you not to stuff him down your throat the way he trained you to do? A bit of pride resonates in you at that—he’s uncertain about what you’re capable of. He still isn’t comfortable with you after your escape.

“Do I make you nervous, John?” you ask with a squeeze, his cock twitching against your palm.

“I’m scared of what I might do if you test me. Bite me and you’ll be drinking soup through a straw for the next two months.”

A surprised gasp escapes you at the brutal image. He wouldn’t do that. So far, all of his violence has been overtly sexually charged, but something like that—so crass, so base, he wouldn’t…right? A thin line of drool crawls down the corner of your mouth as he turns your head side to side, inspecting you.

Your hackles rise at the promise. How about you don’t push me. With only a quick flash of teeth, you acquiesce. Far be it from you to argue against breathing freely. “Your loss.”

He mutters something about having more than that to lose if he slips up, but it’s cut off once the wet heat of your tongue licks a firm, flat trail up his frenulum, liquid irises rolling into his skull. Such a simple offering you can give him. Your eyes can stay dry, meaning you have a full view of how the kitten licks have him biting his lips to trap his moans.

It’s hot, of course it is, but…

You want to hear them.

That’s when you learn that you can make him unravel with a simple gesture of hands and tongue. It reminds you of your first night together, when he was still dopey, endearing John. The guy who was a day away from giving up on the trail or dying of dehydration. The one who needed your help and offered your deprived self some much-needed company.

Back to it.

Settling yourself more comfortably, you end up with your thighs splayed on either side of his leg as he leans back on the tree trunk you’ve been using as a chair. His rumpled denim folded up at his ankles, pushing on your stomach and groin. Here, the pressure of his boot presses so nicely against your mound, and if you were to angle yourself better—oh, like that—it could rest against the hood of your clit, shielding you from the sharper sensations while stimulating the area more broadly.

One palm cradles him, supporting his erection as you slather it with spit, trapping the organ between two heated sources.

Could you make him cry from it?

Doubling down your efforts, John’s hands land in the thicket of your hair, pulling you closer and closer because you know, you just know he’s on the edge of breaking his stupid, actually quite clever, rule of not letting you swallow him down, because you might actually do it this time, eat him whole.

Instead, though, you keep at it. Near-innocent licks along his stone-hard length that tests your own resolve. It has to, it just has to, be putting him at his own limits.

With a sigh, you settle more firmly against his boot, and the way it pushes the gusset of your panties against your clit gives you some satisfaction. If you would just…ah, that’s it, move just slightly left, let that thin strip of fabric slot into your folds, then you could use it to give you a decent amount of friction to amplify your grinding.

If he doesn’t want to finish in your throat, then he can get the minimal touch that your tongue will provide. To your chagrin, though, he doesn’t seem to mind. His half-lidded gaze is heady, drunk, as it watches you, content to let you take your time. You suppose there’s not exactly any reason to rush, is there? You have all day.

So, you slow down even more, matching the syrupy pace of your hips, sticking yourself to his leather and letting your papillae explore every wrinkle and vein. No part of the smooth surface of his cock goes untouched.

Another man—Chris—would’ve impatiently told you to get on with it, to actually do something worthwhile, but John doesn’t. He’s a man set apart from all that, and you can’t tell if it’s because he’s happy you’re doing this at all, or if he understands that some things are meant to be savored.

Like his flavor, for example. He tastes of sin and ichor and pain and it’s the right combination of unholiness that you want to drown yourself in. The musk of it pairs well with the cinnamon from your oatmeal.

He was right. He never could have paid for a service like this. He doesn’t even need to ask for the extras. What was it that he called it? Cold? You don’t agree with that conclusion, per se, but—the kind of attention you can provide comes from observation. The type that allows him to notice how you struggle to get the pressure you need, followed by his foot tilting up until the toe presses hard against you. You emit a soft squeak, lips vibrating against his flesh as your hand unintentionally wraps around him, tugging a few times.

Your tongue covers the head, the tip dipping into the slit and your mouth widens around him, readying him for entry—only to be stopped by his grip again.

“Learn some restraint, Foxheart.”

He meant it when he said no, then. You thought that choice would be easier for you, but it’s proving more difficult than you anticipated. You never thought you’d find yourself in this position, practically begging to swallow a man’s cock like this until you choke.

“Yes, sir,” you mumble against his organ so he can feel your apology. “M’sorry, Daddy.”

His hold softens and switches to massaging your roots methodically, hips canting toward your tongue as it resumes its worship.

“Like that. Just like that. Good girl.”

A whimper, clenching up and releasing a breath against his warm flesh. Maybe you’re not a girl, but you can still try to be good. You both know it won’t last forever, but the moments when it works are sacred.

That’s when you finally lift your eyes up to meet his, and the fire, the absolutely depraved need in them strikes you. Your cunt aches. Taking it slow becomes a pipedream, and soon, your long, slobbering stripes up and down his cock match the rocking of your groin against the worn leather beneath you. The thin fabric separating your flesh from the animal hide of his footwear is soaked and bunched up, rendered useless except for the extra bit of friction it provides.

Mouth hung open, nipples begging to be touched, you keep his gaze as you grip him and rock back and forth, wondering how long his own restraint can hold. Rubbing your lips against the slit until there’s enough salt accumulated on them to lick clean. His bunny teeth are visible now, watching you revel in your own pleasure that you pull from his body.

“Beautiful.”

You preen, wet muscle twirling around the head over and over and over. Head bobbing as you resume your work with an intensity you hadn’t brought before, licking and suckling and kissing every inch so thoroughly that he might as well have been inside of your orifice.

Let me in, John, your eyes beg. Let me devour you.

You’ll lick him raw if that’s all you’re allotted.

Hands grasping at his bare thighs, squeezing and scratching and spreading the limbs.

It’s when you finally attend to the organs beneath his length that he melts down, eyes breaking away from yours in order to escape into the sensations overtaking him.

You work through the brush there, rolling over the rough texture of the boulders, his cock resting against your nose as you explore the nethers. No teeth, you remind yourself. Just lips and tongue and the occasional pass of your hand as you see fit. His bitter flavor rests in the corners of your mouth, though, not letting you forget how godsdamned good it would be to just suck him dry instead. Still, you’re being good, and spit so wantonly over him that it drips down his inner thighs and into the crevice of an area you’d love to map.

The lantern flickers on just as his fingers curl and tense in your hair, pulling harder and harder—he’s getting close. Why not give him a little payback that you can both enjoy? Your hand finally takes over properly and he moans when apply firm strokes around his length, adding pressure to the underside and tracing the spongey edge of his head. Popping a free index finger into your mouth and savoring the pre-cum you collected. Salty, musky. Intoxicatingly him.

Once it’s lubricated, it travels down and down and away, feeling sparse hair and smooth skin, until it arrives at a puckered bit of flesh. Initially, he shifts away, but when you gently circle it, he gasps and presses harder against you. Oh, he does like it, you realize, squeezing your thighs against the sides of his boot, rocking further and moaning when the heat there builds up.

Fuck, fuck, it feels so good, and he’s really going to let you do this to him?

You should’ve made him wear that slutty lipstick heyou loves so much.

Spit is a terrible lube, but with careful thrusts and twists, he opens up for you. You know it’s in there somewhere, that little organ that men like him are too proud to play with, but that you’re determined to find and milk tears from.

Focusing the ministrations of your tongue on his cockhead, he appears on the verge of overstimulation as you continue to search for it, and just as you begin to slip back out, you accidentally press against a part of his tissue that makes him cry out and buck up into your mouth, just a little, startling you.

Got it.

His hands tear through your hair to keep your head in place. He’s yours now, you realize. Your finger barely thrusts, instead, it massages and drives itself into that spongey area, rolling forward over and over as your tongue and hips mimic the movements. You’re close, too, aching for the pressure between your legs to snap and dissolve.

Fingers grip and pull harder as you continue, and you keep at it, chasing your own high as you push him into his own. He’s never quiet like this. Normally, he's a chatterbox, saying the filthiest things to you when you dance like this, but he appears lost in the sensations, even has wrinkles in the corners of his eyes from squeezing them shut. There’s a light sheen of perspiration on his forehead as he concentrates, pushing himself into your hands and mouth while the pad of your finger shows his prostate no mercy.

He's got to be achingly close by now. You certainly are, your lungs letting out a low, drawn out whine when your hips circle around the tip of his boot. You can’t finish until he does though, because you know his release is going to be so beautiful and you can’t miss a moment of it. If only you could pull that quivering lower lip into your mouth and gnaw on it.

Come on, John. You can do it.

Before he can protest, you pop the head of his cock into your hot mouth and suck, tongue swirling, your fingertip curling upwards. With a shout, he comes, the first of several strong spurts splashing the back of your mouth as he bucks into your warmth. There’s enough of his length exposed that you can watch every throb that seizes it, drawing his balls up in rhythm with his spasms. His hole squeezes your finger so tight that you worry for a moment that it’ll break. Face flushed, you work him through it, power coursing through your veins as his grip on your scalp turns stone-hard. Hollow-cheeked now as you suck his head, your hand wringing each spasm from the organ.

Even after he runs dry, it’s several long moments before his body slumps, turning into putty in your hands. Your finger withdraws from him, no worse for wear, and you lick up the final clear pearl drop that escapes. His eyes are closed tight, but there’s a single tear stain running down his cheekbone and into his beard. Beautiful man.

Triumph, bitter, greets you when you lick your lips.

Now free, your cum-coated fingers gently pet your clit, playing with the firm, sensitive point until you’re panting, quickly working yourself into a fervor. It only takes a few more hard rolls of your hips, of grinding the underside of the organ onto the surface of his foot to finish yourself off. It’s the kind of hard-won release that makes your feet curl and your eyes scrunch as you hunch forward, pushing it between your hand and his boot to maximize the contact.

You’re panting, damn near biting the skin off his knee as your peak hits you, heat emanating from your cunt to lubricate the worn leather. It slips haphazardly against you, making your movements sloppy, but you’re too punch-drunk to care. There’s drool and his own cum dripping down his leg. You mewl and whine and writhe until your shins bleed and you’re mentally thanking every god you can think of.

You’re tempted to climb into his lap and bring him properly into your body for the last spasms, but he’s still soft in your hand, completely spent.

When you both return yourselves, you look up and him and smile, ready for the gently rasped thank you.

“Don’t—” he starts, before pausing. A ragged breath as he collects himself. Considers what just happened. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

Confusion spikes sharp in your chest. Did you not do well? Oh, oh he meant the finger. “Don’t what, give you the best orgasm of your life?”

You gesture to the shiny mess all over your hands, your chest, his childhood shirt, your face.

“That’s not—I mean it, Rusty. Don’t you dare.”

Only slightly cowed, you shrug. Ah, okay. He feels guilty for enjoying being stuck. It doesn’t make him less of a man, or anything. Still, he looks sore about it.

“Okay, fine.”

Releasing your hair, he slumps back with a large exhale, the tension fading from his posture. Those happy hormones must still be flowing through his veins, much like yours, even if he won’t admit to it.

“I’ll wait for you to beg me for it next time.”

The sharp look he sends your way while he rights his pants does little to stay the amusement tugging at your face. He scans you up and down, gaze pausing when he spots the stains on his boots. The slickness you’d dripped there from your ministrations should have been embarrassing, but how could you feel anything but pride when he bends forward and swipes up your arousal, stringing between two fingers when he spreads them.

“Did you come from that?”

Triumph greets him.

“Maybe.”

“Jesus.”

You smile sweetly at him. No, John. There may be spirits filling up these woods, but He’s not one of them.

He plays with your slick a few moments longer, seemingly mesmerized, a heady, pink flush returning to his cheeks. A keen edge returns to him when the trance is broken, one that makes him bear a presence larger than life.

Monstrous paws pull you between his legs and coarse fingertips breach the seam of your mouth. “Clean up your mess.”

Without complaint, your lips swallow him up, and your cum mixes with the remnants of his essence in the cavern of your maw. Tongue slipping between them sucking on the digits the way you wanted to with his cock. He’s an idiot, entrusting such tender things to your teeth like this, all to make himself seem bigger. The moment your jaw widens, though, his other hand grips your chin, fingers digging into the weak hollows of your cheeks, shoving the soft tissues between your molars.

“It’s still there—that impulse, isn’t it?”

To bite? Yes.

It’s written all over your face, embedded in your posture: to rip, to tear. Everything you’ve been denied since you rolled over to display your soft belly, begging for a petting. Especially when he tells you no but won’t allow you the same courtesy. When you do him a favor and he shows no appreciation.

“I’d almost let you, but I can't trust you to do it without taking more than your pound of flesh. Oh, just look at you, all quivering teeth,” he coos. “Where would you take it from, if you could?”

That’s an easy enough answer. His hold won’t let you do much, but your eyes land flatly at his crotch, where his dark leather belt and open zipper frame your reward. The bastard has the nerve to laugh, digging harder into your face, soreness already cropping up. If he doesn’t let go soon, you’ll bite through your own cheeks to get to his fingers. Two months of soup would be a treat after all the shit he’s been feeding you out here.

“Guess I shouldn't be surprised.”

You smile in return, but the thing is twisted and sits wrong on your face like this. Open and ugly. A threat.

Finally, he releases you and leans back. Immediately, your hands massage your face, fingers clenching and unclenching as you bore holes into him.

“There's something dark in you, Rusty. Don't look so scandalized—you didn't manage to knock out the details from my memory when you attacked me.”

At his temple, there’s a raised section of skin concealed by his loose hair. The spot where you hit him. From deep in your gut, shame reappears unbidden, a lump lodging in your throat.

There was a part of you that truly wanted to kill him that night. The way he shoved you into the ground, dirtying you up while keeping himself pristine. Content to let you wallow in filth like a fucking animal as he debased you over and over again. Not even just that night, either. Even when he danced with you around the fire, or brushed your hair, or pointed out the stars to you, he was always making sure you were something lesser to be raised up by his hand.

“I remember how you looked when you said you loved me. You were just as surprised as I was, and it scared you. You wanted everything I did to you that night. Begged me for it. You want it now, too.”

Licking your lips at the memory of teeth scraping your neck, claws raking down your sides before digging in, and the searing pleasure-pain as his hips snapped against yours.

“You like it like this,” he says, warm and humid as he draws you closer, speaking against your cheek like a gentle lover. “I don’t doubt it for a moment, because you’re the sweetest thing, sometimes, and it—Jesus, it makes me ache.”

It makes you ache, too. They’re soft touches not designed to bruise or claim. Like someone you met at the grocery store, breaking into awkward laughter when you bump into each other in another aisle, pivoting in the same direction. Again. And again. Shyly exchanging numbers in the cashier's line. Someone you would tell lighthearted secrets to in the sleepy, early hours after your first time together. It catches your sensibilities in a web.

You do like it. Could eat it right up, drizzled over your breakfast pastries. But he licks his teeth, and you know a relationship like that couldn’t satisfy his hunger for long. Not yours, either.

“...But this? You need. Even if it scares you.”

His fingers grab your hair at the root, pulling your head back and making you cry out in surprise. It sends a flash through your core, fanning the embers of your lingering need and causing your unbound breasts to pebble beneath your shirt—his shirt. Your eyes flutter briefly and your tongue, unbidden, peeks out between your lips. It's dangerous, this type of desire. It will render you to ash.

“A vision,” he murmurs, the words syrupy. He takes a beat to absorb the puddle of a person before him. “I used to be scared of my…desires, too, after what they did to me, but it didn’t help; they didn’t go away. Eventually, I fed them, and that’s the only thing that made those nasty voices quiet down. That release is just so…”

He takes a moment to inhale your essence, grinding into you before composing himself.

“I know you’re still mad at me, Rusty. I can handle that for a while, because the truth is, I love it when you're like this. All hot and breathing fire—it’s practically pouring off you right now.”

The dark praise coats you in a sticky, simmering layer, festering behind your belly button. There’s still plenty of clothing dividing you, but it doesn’t prevent you from seeing how his cock visibly strains against his underwear, framed by the open triangle of his pants.

“You want to know what it was that drew me to you? There was nothing convenient about any of it. At first, I thought you were someone who would…I dunno. But I wanted to be normal for you, and I, uh, I…worried I’d just end up a big disappointment again. Relationships aren’t exactly my forte.”

The same goes for you and he knows it. You were lonely, teetering on the edge of something worse when you planned this trip.

“There is a special connection between us. I know you feel it, too. We’re kindred. You challenge me, and I can satiate those desires you don’t let others see. You’re tired of hiding, you’re exhausted. I see it. I am, too.”

It's all too much. Your mind can’t keep up with whatever he’s weaving around you. “John, I—”

“You've crafted me as a wolf, and I don't mind being that for you when that’s what you need.”

One, two, three little nuzzles he drops along the side of your face, salt on the tongue. The big, bad wolf. Someone who would keep all the nastier beasts away. Maybe one day, with the right incentives and positive reinforcement, you could get him to do your bidding, too.

He so desperately needs home training. A cage and a strap could work wonders on him.

“Spit, hiss, and bite all you want, little fox. I like that as much as when you smile and bat your lashes at me—sometimes more, because then I know it's real.”

The crack of your skull when your friend pushed you away, ashamed of herself and blaming you for it. The weight of Chris’s body when he showed you how much stronger he was. John’s sweat in your nose and his cock prying you open while you egged him on.

Every hand that's ever betrayed you, including the one bringing you to heel right now. No, you don't imagine you'll ever quite lose the vitriol that powers the spirit within. Temptations skim over you, odious, festering in the dark corners you'd hidden behind unpacked boxes:

What would you look like with a piece of leather between your teeth, secured behind your head? What words would flow over your skin as he unwraps his gift? Would he let you dress him up, too, let him wear the same painted lips?

You’re panting, emitting a broken whine when his touch begins to wander across your raw nerves. Flitting first down the ridges of your throat, then along your collarbone. Light as a feather, unhurried as it touches the side of your breast, thumb teasing whatever it can reach, hardened peaks pushing against the fabric. That faux timidness is only a cover for the voracious nature of his desire. That toothy hunger gnaws at the surface of your bones before burrowing, rooting deep enough to find something nutritious to feed from, grease-slick off the fat of your marrow pocket.

You’re desperate enough to agree to anything.

“You like this, Foxheart.” His hand wanders from one breast to the other, flames licking at the flesh. “Why do you keep fighting it?”

As angry, as resentful are you are, honey-sweet ambrosia strums a perilous melody with your nerves.

It’s not just because of the circumstances. You aren’t stupid—you know this is all so incredibly fucked up. You’re not…well. Known it for a while. You could even see yourself being with someone like John in the regular world.

You know how it goes. He pushes and you oblige. He pushes harder and you buckle. Eventually, the space of what makes you you shrinks little by little until everything you do, say, and think revolves around John. You would let him, is the thing.

You would dissolve in his will and call it love.

“I’m scared of who I am when I’m with you,” you whisper. “I don’t wanna lose myself.”

“You’re seeing things that you never have before. Remembering things you’d completely forgotten about. Something is waking up in you, Rusty—you’re not losing anything, you’re evolving. Of course it hurts.”

The maiming process of transformation. His own evolution must have been excruciating.

Still, you pull him into your bed of moss.

Dry lips on your neck make your head spin. You’re worn cotton on the clothesline, swaying at the whim of the gentlest breeze. Loose threads are pulled away, tossed into the meadow. Your—his—shirt is bunched up, just under the lower slope of your breasts, his touch trailing up and over them. Your body settles on a tremor, letting the sensation roll through your shoulders and down your spine.

“No chance of keeping my boots on?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

He tugs your socks back into place. “Too tempting for you to try and run again—I swear that spanking is going to look like child’s play compared to the next one.”

You aren’t sure what you did, but the look on your face must’ve been as molten as your insides upon hearing the threat delivered in a low, sawtoothed tone.

“Goodness, you’re dirty. Did that really just turn you on?”

“Am I supposed to believe that doesn’t excite you, too?”

“Of course it does,” he says, pulling your legs closer, making you lock your elbows to stay upright. “I am warning you, though, because you aren’t very good at listening.”

He talks a big game for someone who washed and brushed your hair not two hours ago. Your knee draws up and your toe rests against his sternum to feel his rapid heartbeat through the wool of your sock. “Thought that’s what you liked about me.”

“That’s not the word I used,” he says.

Your breath catches. No, it was another L word that he used. Giddiness overtakes you as you tap your toe against him, tracing a playful heart over his chest.

“What was it, again?”

He stays your wandering foot, the one that used to be injured, pretty lips pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of your ankle. “I love you, Rusty. I’ll say it every day until we’re both cold in this earth.” Looks up from the wool as his hold tightens, catching your attention. “But I’m not gonna take it easy on you anymore if you keep testing me. You need to learn when enough is enough. You hear me?”

You nod, wanting worship instead of admonition. “I’ll be good for you.”

His gaze softens.

“I have a better chance of winning the powerball than you being good. I just need you to behave.”

Before you know what’s going on, John’s palm lands on you and with a firm push, your body collides with the hard ground, forcing a laugh from your chest.

Ruin me for anyone else.

It’s moments like this when you’re grateful there’s no sin with your gods. An image of young Oshun lying beneath the chief flashes through you. Her decision was just as necessary, and if she found any delight in the desires of a love-hungry man, who could blame her? Who could blame you?

Your underwear is the last barrier, and it’s such an intimate gesture, it always is, that as his thumbs hook under the waistband that a sudden wash of embarrassment floods your system. Makes you cover your breasts from his view, until he reminds you to put your arms to your sides again. It reminds you of another time when you were smaller, more innocent, but no less vulnerable. Except those hands were never kind, never cared about your comfort. They raked sharp against your skin and flayed you alive.

But those thoughts aren’t helpful, not when tonight is meant to be a rebirth of sorts.

John’s hands move up to the tender underside of your knees, pleased by how easily your sweet waters part to his will. Pushes them farther and farther up until your knees crowd your breasts, forcing air out of your legs. Keeps you like that for a while, pressing his clothed, hardening cock against the bare skin of your cunt until you squirm. Just as you think he’s going to free himself and give you what you need, take what he needs, he slithers downwards.

Down, down, until you feel warm air on the swell of your lower stomach, a gentle kiss below the belly button—and you nearly bolt out of your skin. Would have, anyway, had you not been stayed by his hand.

“One day, we’ll finally have something that’s ours that no one can take away from us.”

It takes your breath away, him talking like that. He has to stop. It’s too stifling, too tempting.

His obsession with your belly makes your skin itch. It’s as though there’s something beneath the surface listening to his voice, doing a little flip when he uses that tone, the one that’s reserved for talking to small children. There’s a version of John out there in another universe where he does have kids and he’s great with them. What makes your heart hurt is that you could see how this version of him could be great with children, too. His playful, charming demeanor. It’s not always a façade.

The problem, though, is that he can’t maintain it. There’s always going to be a point where he snaps, and all it takes a single instance of that to sour every future interaction with a kid. They remember those moments…when a beloved adult flips on them, shows them a side they didn’t know they were capable of provoking. He’s done it to you time and again. How could that affect a child, someone whose entire existence rests on the benevolence of their parents? They would be crushed, squeezed smaller and smaller until their entire personhood turns inward.

Until they’re a fearful, resentful child with emotions they don’t yet have words for. That’s what you saw in John in that dream. He had nobody to help pull him back out of that miserable little fetal position so he could properly grow.

Your dad did it. Just once. It was the day of your mom’s funeral, when you refused to wear the dress he picked out and refused to do your hair the way he wanted, resulting in your refusal to even fucking go to the damn thing where every adult there wanted to tell you how sorry they were for your loss when they didn’t even have a single fucking clue what the depth of your loss really was. What you learned that day was that even your loving, doting father had his limits.

Especially when he had purple bruises under his eyes and the acrid scent of vanilla and smoke on his breath—whiskey, as you’d later learn. He apologized profusely for it when he managed to drag you from between the dusty boxes in the attic when the day had grown dark. Your heartbroken father.  But when he brought your small body into his chest for a hug, you knew that while you forgave him, you would never forget it.

Long after mom was gone, when you spied on him from the doorway during those late nights as he nursed a glass of the amber liquid and listened to her favorite songs, the measurements of your growing height marked on the doorframe beside your face, it was evident how badly he was hurting. You wanted to crawl into his lap to comfort him, because you were hurting, too.

You missed him so much whenever your fingertips ached in cold temperatures.

But you remembered that time he raised his voice at you. That singular instance when he told you what a stubborn little brat you were. How selfish you were being. It made you wonder how long he’d been keeping those thoughts inside. It was the look in his eyes, really, that lodged beneath your skin. Regret is the word you’d use now for it. Like he wished you were easier, more compliant. Like he wished you were good.

John’s looked at you like that, too. Your trembling hand attends to that spot between your sternum, trying to soothe the dull pang there.

He isn’t looking at you like that right now, though. No, not at all. He’s looking at you like you’re the Madonna herself, your temple the site of his salvation. Thick, dark lashes flutter prettily against the flesh just above your mound, his open lips just resting there as he inhales.

Your fingers card through his hair to distract yourself from how badly your cunt needs to clench down on something.

“Prove that you know how to build something instead of tearing it down first.”

“I can do that,” he says. “I will do that. I’ll build you anything you want.”

That’s a big promise, John. “I want to believe you.”

That dark mop turns so he can kiss the inside of your knee, close to a scrape.

“I told you before, Rusty: I’ll always give you what you need, even if what you need is a lesson. But I won’t give you more than what you can take.”

Large palms press against the squishy insides of your thighs to spread your legs outwards, exposing your wet slit to the cold air with a hiss. It occurs to you what his plan is. He’s going to lick and flick you until you’re sick with feverish desire beneath him, but you don’t want all that cherry-flavored medicine down your throat. It coats everything with syrupy artifice.

Goddess, the ground beneath you is icy. You just want the heat of his body over yours before you turn stiff. When the tip of his forked tongue breaches your seam, lightly stroking across the hood of your clit, your grip on his hair turns firm.

“Come up here and just fuck me—I’m ready.”

Hot breath on exposed nerves, making you shudder. “Not ready enough for what I have planned. You’ve got me so worked up, here, I don’t know if I can hold myself back.”

Sweet goddess above. Your knees nearly pop his head off his neck from how hard they squeeze.

He pauses, though, while you stare at his mop of curls. They’re not as bouncy as they should be. He needs some layers and different products. When you get home, you’ll have to show him how to properly care for—

No.

No. Stop that immediately.

“What if I want it to hurt?”

He exhales harshly, elbows failing him as his stomach drops, your thighs settling heavily over his strong shoulders. Kisses the smooth skin there, just before his teeth graze it, and you immediately tense up, grip tightening in his hair as you wait with bated breath.

A brief flash of teeth before he sinks into your skin, pushing into the meat until you begin to writhe. What’s he trying to gauge, how far he can go before you ask for mercy? That area is tender, even more so than the place he rendered into pulp after you escaped. The soreness has faded away with the bruising, but the phantom damage of that night still lingers under your flesh.

The sharp points of his canines dig in deeper, just as your own teeth dig into your lips to keep from grunting. He’s stronger, though, and eventually, you’re pushing his head away, crying out when your flesh tries to leave with him.

“Ah!” your breath hitches. “Ah! Stop it, stop!”

Surprisingly, he does. You’re startled into staring at the open sky above you, lower jaw still quivering. There’s copper in your mouth—did you break skin?

Nervous eyes slowly drag downwards until they meet his, and you swear, you swear they shined golden, if only for a moment. When you blink, though, it’s gone.

“You don’t want me to hurt you, Rusty,” he says, licking the reddened skin where the indentations of his teeth rest temporarily. “I can bet you that. So, let me do this and stop complaining.”

Glancing down, you see that he didn’t leave nearly as much damage this time. A bit chewed up, but not bleeding.

“First thing I’m doing when we get into town is buying you a muzzle.”

He doesn’t look up, but his mirth is apparent when you feel the smile on his face. Just before he kisses the spot he just mauled. “Make sure it matches the leash I’ll get for you.”

Your abdomen seizes and your thighs knock into his head. Goddess.

“Now hush. I’ve got some catching up to do with my girl.”

He kisses the outside of your lips chastely, making the swollen flesh tense up and away. Two fingers trace the line between them, slowly coating them in your desire before bringing them up to his mouth.

“Just perfect when you’re brought to heel.” Before you can protest and ruin the spell he’s woven, those fingers disappear behind the Cupid’s bow of his mouth. “And you taste as pretty as you look.”

Thankfully, he doesn't comment on how your stomach wobbles watching him, remembering the heat of his mouth around your own fingers the other night. Wet, hot, and spongey. Gore in the nooks and crannies of his maw.

Moments before he stuck a needle in your arm and the world fell away.

As much as it unnerves you, though, you want that mouth again. Need it. Everywhere. Want it to be nice, mean, slick, smart. However you can get it.

“Please, John,” you whisper, heels digging into his back to push him closer. “Give it to me.”

He laughs, cruel man, but before you can throw a fit, his thumbs spread you open and his hot, open mouth lands on your clit, and your mind falls away.

You’re lost in it, swimming in a sea of need, wantonness dripping from you at an unseemly pace. Moans, groans, and sighs fill the air as he licks, nibbles, and sucks the organ. His tongue moves side to side in that way you like, strumming the instrument of your desire until you’re barely able to hold back a scream.

One hand finds your nipple, rolling and pinching it between his fingers while his other hand angles your leg to support your knee over his shoulder. He works at you until his jaw is sore and then he just keeps at it.

It takes a lot of restraint, actually, but before you can come—those familiar trembles beginning to rock through your thighs, the spark behind your navel drawing up tight—you stop him. Pulling his flushed, confused face away from you, but you want to be left right on the edge of it so you’re so desperate that you’ll endure anything as long as he doesn’t stop.

You aren’t going to tell me no tonight.

You wouldn’t dream of it.

“I’m tired of coming around nothing. Fuck me, Daddy. Please. I need it.”

His groan is a full-body one, and it takes him a moment to compose himself enough to drag his body back up yours, leaving several wet kisses along the way. Stands to his full height to remove his clothes, his erection tenting his pants. It looks painful. When you drag your eyes away from it to meet his eyes, the raw need there is overwhelming—it mirrors your own.

You hold his gaze as the belt, the holster, and the knife that you know better than to even glance at are removed from his pant loops. It’s a rare time that John doesn’t take the time to fold his clothes neatly. They lie in a desperate pile as he stands fully nude, uncaring of the chill in the air. Rolling his shoulders back and stretching his neck side to side.

It’s when he drops the knife atop the pile that your attention is pulled from him, flinching at the sound. Only to have it returned to him when he returns to grab your chin again, gaze unwavering.

“Keep your eyes on me.”

An open-mouthed nod before you collect yourself.

Settling onto your back, pulling him onto you, legs wrapping around him as your cunt cradles his cock, gasping from the pressure that the excited hardness there adds against your swollen mound. You could come again like this, let him rub back and forth, while your face in his neck as you gasp and pant and cry your way to completion like the first night you met, when you invited him into your tent.

Back when he was just sweet, gentle, goofy John who was so bad at this extended hiking thing that you thought he needed your help to make it another day on the trail. When he asked instead of taking, letting you lead the two of you down a thornless path paved with easy smiles.

Now, your arm is around his neck as you lie there, straining to stay focused as he rocks against you, the tip beginning to part your ripe fruit. Ever perceptive, he notices your hesitance.

“Take a breath.”

“I’m fine,” you reply waspishly. “I’m ready. Just do it.”

You’re bluffing, of course. Got your eyes closed and all you can do is feel how your heart is ready to leap out of your chest. You haven't been fine since this began—been out of your depth the whole time, hoping that your missteps don't sink you. This will be the first time you’ve been together since the spirits revealed the truth of your past.

You wish he’d hold your hand again like he did in that dream.

“Hey, hey—look at me.” Pinches your lip and pulls it from between your teeth where you were worrying at it. Coaxes you until your watery eyes meet his. “This is us starting over. We’re leaving everything that’s haunting us in the past, you hear me? It’ll be just you and me from now on.”

The ball in your chest grows tight. “What if the ghosts come back?”

“Then we’ll start over again and again until they can’t find us anymore.”

He sounds so convinced. That’s actually why you came out here, right? To start over. But a question chews at the back of your mind: are the specters nipping at his heels only from his childhood? Or are there any of his own making, too?

“It’s just you and me. No one else.”

“Just us.”

He nods in reassurance. “That’s my girl.”

Your face cracks into a wobbly smile when he brings up his shortest finger. Pinky swear? Instead of taking it with your own, you capture it with your mouth, sucking it. When he’s distracted by the unexpected gesture, bold, cheeky, you reach between you and line him up with your entrance, lifting your hips until the head sinks into the velvet heat of your cunt.

It feels like welcoming him home.

“Oh.”

John holds his breath the entire way in, like he doesn't want anything to distract him from reacquainting himself with every internal ridge that engulfs his cock bit by bit. Neither do you. It's been so long, and you feel so full.

Despite your preparation, there is a delicious burn as he stretches your hole. It’s been a while, after all. There’s a moment where you pause, instinct having you skirt the idea of retreating and you swear—you swear—that his hold tightens for a moment to keep you there. It’s sick how it excites you. He presses on, longing and heat settling deeper and deeper within, stimulating your swollen channel until a weak moan escapes you. There’s that cute curl to his lip again, where his cheeks pull down and the corners pull up. His visage is of a man completely unraveled as he settles root-deep, eyes closed.

While you’d been staring at the hollow of his neck, he stops to look down at your joining, where you’re speared on his cock. Your nose nestles into his soft curls, a spark of warmth in your chest at how close to fresh he smells. Like he was making himself up for you. Even now, in the dip between your collarbones, he holds himself still to absorb the intimacy of the moment, arms wrapped around you. It occurs to you, then, the insanity of how this feels less like a violation and more like relief.

Several moments pass where he simply embraces you, palms pressed to your skin to savor any movements. It’s a challenge, judging by the quiver of his arms.

“D’ya miss me or something?” You smile, and a quiet puff of disjointed laughter is blown out into the frost.

He squeezes your sides, a warning. Too soon.

But the transgression is forgotten in the silky heat of your body as you encourage him to move, drawing your pelvis into his. Thighs tightening and releasing against his, hips rolling back and forth, grinding against him. Breasts teasing, taunting, as they push into his face. It’s always been a nice compliment, how they make his eyes glassy and his mouth slack.

“I missed you, too, you know.”

The subsequent silence is broken only by two pairs of shaky breaths as you slip under each other’s hide. It’s repulsive, this need. You know it is, even now, as you work yourself into oblivion with John’s body, sweat pooling at your groin, making your movements slippery and desperate—but it’s true. You missed him.

Before your hike, you had buried your sickness with school, work, deadlines…alcohol. Blurry nights in bars that were open well after the legal time, the occasional unmarked pill placed on your happy tongue, sharing wet kisses with nameless strangers before stumbling into someone’s bed.

When you first entered the trail, nervousness and excitement guiding your steps, something followed in your footprints. It hid above in the trees, watching as you settled in for your first night after struggling to start a fire. Tired, hungry, and unsure. Even as you adjusted, the sickness never left. Its presence became quieter, though, as your confidence grew. It was forgotten, if not lost, in the shift of your focus toward survival. Basic necessities like clean water, fire, and shelter required effort to maintain. Busyness kept it at bay.

Until routine replaced that anxious hypervigilance, the initial sense of accomplishment that encroached upon something akin to purpose to reveal itself: a loneliness so profound that it stole your breath in the dead of night. Sleeping outdoors night after night with nothing to distract you from your worst insecurities, aside from the occasional sounds of nature that you couldn’t identify. Stripped bare and vulnerable, you were this close to engaging with your grief over your mom and…and who knows, maybe Chris, too.

Then you met John and through the screen of a digital camera, it all reset.

Click.

Whatever fortifications you had built up during your time alone on the PCT came crashing down, and you were left with the abominable mess that was you again. So yeah, you did find yourself missing him and the flaws that distracted you from your own. Back in his iron-tight grip, there’s something comforting about how he doesn’t shy away from the unpalatable parts that make you up. He embraces it, instead, and it fills you up with unspeakable gratitude.

“Goddess, I missed you,” you repeat against his cheek, intertwining your fingers with his own above your head.

He holds you like that, everything else on pause as your sinuses get stuffy. Finally, he breaks his silence, pulling back to look at you properly. Your red eyes and swollen lips. A chill begins to seep into the short distance he gave you, and your exposed nipples are hard as a rock.

“Does that mean that you’re finally mine?”

It hurts when you think too hard about it, because…well, sometimes you want that, and it’s an exhilarating feeling. Especially knowing the effect it has on him.

“All yours, John.” The corners of his mouth curl in delight before he brings you back into him, hissing when your cold breasts reach his chest. The sinister thing inside whispers into his ear. “Can I have you, too?”

Suddenly, he bucks, hips driving between yours, the sharp thrust making your toes curl as he reaches a place deeper than before. Borderline painful. He sucks in a raspy breath like he'd want nothing more than that, too. Oh, but he should know—to be wanted is a terrible flattery.

“Little spitfire, you can’t scare me off.”

“Not even when I hate you?”

His response is spoken into the salt-coated crook of your neck. “You don’t realize what you’ve been doing to me these past few days, do you? I’d take your hatred over your indifference any day. Besides, Foxheart,” he says, before mouthing the area with sloppy kisses. “You don’t hate me. Not really.”

He’s right. You can’t hate him, not while you’re soaking the front of his crotch as you lose yourself in the familiar pleasures of his body.

“Now, show me how much you missed me. Go wild, Foxheart,” he implores with a firm slap to your lower cheek.

You gasp. Oh. Those are the words he told you during your first night together, aren’t they? It’s also a reminder of your nearly-healed wounds, his marks, while he echoes the sentiments of a man you met ages ago, who candied his way into your tent with languid, syrupy kisses.

Your legs drop from his waist, feet landing flat on the ground to crush the dead branches and mottled yellow leaves beneath you. It gives you leverage to meet his thrusts, back arching enough that it pops. The way your body sucks him in and how he moans into your neck. Goddess above, it feels so good to have him inside of you again. To share this with him without pretense.

“Needed this. Needed to have you again. You don’t know what it was like while you were gone. Wasn’t sure if I’d ever breathe right again.”

Your face rubs against the musky bristle of his beard, smelling yourself just before he kisses your eyelids.

“I love you, Rusty.”

Oh, your heart.

“I love you, John.”

It’s not a whisper this time. Not coerced with a hard look. It feels real. Your eyes close as he presses his forehead to yours, pushing into you so deep that he can’t find his way back out. So close to one another that your eyelashes intertwine and your spirits fuse together. Just his beautiful face above yours, panting and moaning.

It’s good like this, just two desperate people sharing everything.

For a while, at least.

As you work and sweat, a faint smell arises from this ancient relic of John’s, his beloved old shirt. A scent, sharp and acrid, that ties the two of you in this haunted vault you can’t seem to escape. You gag, tasting it in the back of your throat.

Cigarettes.

“What is it?” he asks. “Too much?”

Wrinkling your nose, you shake your head. “No, not at all, it’s—nothing. Just…got confused. I’m here.”

That molten heat builds, especially when he clings to you hard enough that the hairs of his groin and the folds of his flesh rub against your clit. Gods, the friction is incredible, and everything is so sweaty and slick slick slick.

The problem is that smell of aged nicotine won’t go away. That smell is in your nostrils, drifting from your pores. It chokes you, hits you over and over until you’re cracked open, and a dreadful thing takes the opportunity to slither into the invisible break in your skull. A serpentine thought that grows and multiplies in tandem with each rocking of your body. You can’t shake it.

A sick feeling settles in your stomach, and your head rolls up to stare at the clear sky beyond the canopy. The fresh air does little to soothe it, as the smoke clings to your senses. It’s in the broad hand over your nose and mouth—no, his hands are on your hips—the belt buckle that pinches your inner thigh—his belt is off to the right—the straight, blonde hair in your eyes—curly. John’s hair is curly.

Click-click.

When you pause again, distress on your face, he realizes that you're not quite with him. Not at all, actually.

“You’re drifting again,” he murmurs, touching your cheek. “Hey. Come back to me, dear. Stay here.”

But you’re lost, confused in a range of memories and sensations. Scratchy sheets beneath you, and the drumming of an old AC in your ears.

Snaps his fingers when you don't respond. It bothers him deeply, this lack of acknowledgement during something so meaningful. Your distance is an affront, a dismissal of his presence altogether that he cannot stomach.

“Rusty. Don’t do that, not now. It’s just supposed to be us.”

But the sky offers salvation from this. Her endless sprawl of dusky hues framing her golden glow. If you could only just…release the weight that’s holding you down, then you could join her up there.

“No, not with me. This isn't like that–we're not like that.” When that doesn't work, he grabs your jaw none too gently, forcing you to face him. “Dammit, Rusty, look at me!”

Between the spittle landing on you and the register of his voice, you’re pulled back into focus.

Click.

Your eyes snap to his, and the desperation there makes your heart rate spike. It's a palpable desire that pulses in your cunt. You clench around him, inspiring a throaty moan. He fills your vision, your periphery, you—all of it. Everywhere you look, it’s John, John, John.

You want him under your ribs, squeezing beside your heart so that you can’t confuse him for anyone else. Tugging on his beard until he drops down onto you, his heavy weight covering you.

There he is.

John, whose face relaxes upon seeing your smile. Shaking his head a bit with a huff. “You’re something else, alright.”

“Dunno what you mean,” you say, bringing your thighs around his hips, sensitive skin between you burning red-raw. “Ruin me.”

Oh, oh, that’s it.

His hand remains under your chin, directing you to maintain eye contact. Tries to bring you back into the splendor of what he’s sharing with you. He’s grateful to be where he is, sunk between your legs, the violence of rapture.

Desperate. Wretched. The both of you, and he was right: you do need it. You could do this for eternity until you're naught but another blip on the timeline.

But when you close your eyes in ecstasy, the smell returns. The cloying haunt of cigarettes and acrid sweat fill your throat until it’s all you can swallow.

Swallow it.

Suddenly, it isn’t John on top of you. His hair lightens, and when he gazes beneath his lashes, it's a pale, sickly blue that looks back at you. You wince, shaking your head to dislodge the image, but it won’t leave you.

There’s no beard tickling the sensitive skin of your face, just an abrasive five o’clock shadow. He kisses you tentatively at first, like he's testing out shark-infested waters, but the gentleness of it does little to soothe you—already lost in the memory of how pink-hued skin pushed you against cheap motel sheets and called you the worst names. How he forced and brutalized his way into resistant flesh. How an artless tongue shoved into your mouth, tasting of ash and waste.

You know what to do with such a thing.

Carefully, you coax the wet muscle out, sucking on it lewdly. It distracts him enough to upset his rhythm. His hips stutter, pause, and you feel the brunt of his weight as he rests upon you in order to lose himself in the kiss.

Oh, he really did miss you, you realize.

You need more. More of the desperate noises JohnChris makes against the pillow tops of your lips. More of his weight on you. More of him in you. You allow yourself to put everything into it, because you missed him. Missed this.

Vision blurry from the need, seeing blues and blondes and oh, the way he melts into your mouth, all soft and…and chewy. It clings to the roof of your mouth, threatening to suffocate you–

Click.

Bone sinks into the meat of his tongue.

Immediately, he tries to escape, hands in your hair to extract himself with minimal damage to his flesh, but your ankles lock around his slim hips like a vice, trapping him as you bite down harder. Somewhere in the distance, someone yells out.

Only when copper floods your mouth, nearly choking you, do you let go. John rears back like a startled horse, clutching his mouth with a wild expression. Blood on his chin.

“What the hell was that for?”

Oh. He looks ridiculous like this. It starts small, a smile that refuses to go away, the laughter that bubbles up unbidden. Hysteria, maybe.

“I don’t know, you just tasted so good, I couldn’t resist.”

The revulsion he exudes is palpable. Nasty beast. His face twists up, keeping his pretty mouth far, far away from yours. Shoves you back down with a thud, a crack to your head, and takes over. The only point of contact other than where one hand pushes your cheek into the dirt is where his hips pistons into you with barbaric force.

“You keep screwing everything up. I told you—I told you not to push me, but you never fucking listen. What is wrong with you?”

Something shifts in him. It’s there in the oily gaze that roves over your panting body. In the harsh, rhythmic presses into your body. The spittle that collects in the corners of his mustache from his feverish panting, top teeth bared in anger. How your fat spills between his fingers that grip tightly, practically fisted in your skin. In the way it hurts. How you begin shrink in the presence of overt savagery.

“Ah—!” you cry out, closing your eyes and hanging on while he wages a war with your body. You long to ask him to slow down, to take it easy on you, but…

But something takes precedence in this moment—a victory, of sorts.

He’s losing it.

It’s meant to be a punishment—oh, and it is, it is—but you find yourself grinning again.

“You little bi—you think this is funny?”

He hates it, he must, because now you’re laughing at how silly his words sound rolling off his swollen tongue. “I—mmph—thought you liked it when I hiss and spit and bite, John.”

Always been a brat, even when it served you little. You refuse to go down without sticking that last splinter under your opponent’s nail.

“Stop it. Stop laughing at me, Foxheart.”

It’s getting harder to focus on anything but how rough he’s becoming, but you try to push it to the back of your mind. The words slide across the red slick coating your gums. “You’re not in control of anything—least of all me.”

“…Don’t say that.”

Contorting your face against another forceful thrust, unseen contusion. You’re so full. Is this it? Is this truly the worst he can do? “Harder, John. You can do better than that. Give me the worst you got, if you can even manage it.”

A warning growl, his ears pinned back, canines flashing as his lip curls in the face of your caustic mirth. What’s he going to do? Bite you back? You’ve survived it before. His jaws may be stronger, but your teeth are sharper. You’ll dig them into his neck and never let go.

Something inside of you tears, a sharp sting accompanied by a burn, but it only galvanizes you. Pulling his hair, your heels contract, spurs digging into his hide to drag him closer as laughter, glass, crystal, breaks through your teeth again.

“I said harder!”

“Shut up, Rusty!”

“Make me—”

The mockery dies off, strangled in your wicked throat, as your airway is constricted by his hands, thumbs pushing deep into your trachea. It took a moment to notice it, so accustomed to having a collar around your neck these days.

There’s a frightening madness to his face, twitching in fury as he watches you struggle. Wide-eyed and foamy-mouthed. Not a ghost of a chance to plead for mercy. Your claws tear at the hands to dislodge them, scratching even at your own neck to no avail. Instead, they rest helplessly on his knuckles as he strips away your vision and remaining sensibilities. Gives you a shake or two for good measure.

Lungs screaming How many times will we have to go through this? How many, Rusty?

You gave him the noose this time. Is this what you wanted, your eyes rolling toward the Neptune sky, thick clouds of grays and desaturated blues blurring together?

Oxygen deprivation does a funny thing to a person in the midst of getting their brains fucked out of their ears. As it turns out, it heightens eroticism by blocking out the other distractions. Reduces the body to nerves, puts every sensation on a scale of low impact to high. What John feeds you is on the high end, and everything registers as good, despite the mean delivery.

Your desire builds, delicious pain, and your mouth falls open in a silent squeal as he forces a knee to your chest, carving his way deeper than ever before. He’s crawling into you, fingertips drumming along your ribcage, just like you wanted.

Push, press, pound.

Sigh, gasp, cry.

It heightens your senses, narrowing your focus to that point of painful stimulation. One, two, three more thrusts and it sends you over the edge, pleasure blooming from your core and down your legs, through your stomach and into the peaks of your nipples. Your head is so fuzzy, it barely notices the danger you’re in as you drown in ecstasy.

It begins as a flutter and pulse around his cock, pulling him deeper and encouraging more and more and more, before dovetailing into a vice-like grip, forcing his length against that spongey bit of your internal wall. If you had the air, you’d cry. As it is, you’re releasing quiet agonies while you ride out your high, flesh in sweet bliss as your vision gets spotty.

It feels…oh, it feels incredible. You’re floating in the void, fingertips dancing atop the white-hot of stars, tingling when they singe the skin. Millions and billions of them, now, so many that the edges of them fade into each other. Luminescent bodies shielding you from John’s maddened state. Goddess above, they’re so beautiful. How could you ever have found them cold? They’re warmer, more vibrant, than anything.

Not such a terrible place for your soul to rest forever.

It's only when everything has left your body, the high, the will, that your lungs ache with the sudden pressure of air again. Orion’s belt has loosened just as you reached for it, and your head, your throat, aches something fierce as you gasp, regaining consciousness.

Click-click.

It takes another moment for you to remember who you are, let alone where you are, your limbs tingling and colors bleeding into your sight again. You…your body is rocking rhythmically against the ground. Something, someone is inside of you. Dark curls obscuring your vision and the smell of sweat, nicotine, and John in your sinuses.

He continues to steal rapture in your fall from grace. A drop of sweat falls between your breasts, slipping down your belly as your body endures the force of his love.

And you were so close to being free.

No, he can’t dangle you low over the Styx until your toes tip into the frigid, still waters, let the howling souls clutch at your ankles only to yank you back up before they can pull you under.

He pats your cheek until your wandering eyes focus on him. There’s blood in the corner of his mouth.

“I could do anything at all to you, and you’ll still come so hard for me that you blackout. It would be revolting, if it weren’t so flattering. Do you really love me that much?”

Still a little dazed, eyes crossed from how close his face is to yours, you nod, and his heavy weight drops onto you.

Yeah, your heady mind supplies. I think I do.

Blood drips from his mouth to land on your face as he succumbs to his own release. My broken little fox. You barely register the warm cum pumping into your well-used cunt. He pushes so deep that you don’t think there’s any more room left for yourself.

Drums, hot ash, and cinder smoke. How long, Rusty? A month and a half to break down all the cells, firing of neurons, ancestral fibers, and sugar-coated kisses that have pruned you into existence.

To think, he wants to make a mother of a whore.

You cradle his face to your chest as he pants into your breast, trying to push out every last drop of release. Then the final twitches of his little death have passed, and it’s quiet. Until a hoarse chuckle rings through the air. Followed by another. And another. Until they’re indistinguishable and manic joy echoes around your panting bodies.

A new sort of high fills your mind as fresh air surges through you, fueling the hysteria. A sing-song accompanying your giggles. Couldn’t even finish the job, let you die properly. Lifting his head and looking him square in the eyes. Goddess, it’s all so fucking—

“Pathetic.”

In hindsight, you should have seen it coming; the forewarning was there in his face, the way betrayal morphed into rage. The flare of his nostrils. The embarrassed and incendiary flush coloring his skin. It was probably because you couldn't stop laughing, some wicked compulsion puppeting you. Sensibilities lost in the beautiful mania of the moment.

He never seemed like the kind of person who took well to being laughed at.

How many times have you tried to provoke him into doing it? Nearly downright begged for him once so that you could add the grievance to your list of reasons to hate him? And he never did it. Never actually raised a hand against you. No, he always managed to rein himself at just the right moment, coating any slip in composure with sucralose platitudes to soothe you. Endless days and nights of this treacherous dance. This negotiation of boundaries, empathies, and grievances. Faith that the spirits will pull his hand back just in time before it gets too bad for you.

But that one taunt dissolves that, your free will testing the limits of your endurance.

Pathetic.

It’s a complete shock when the explosion of pain rocks through the side of your face. It echoes, that crisp sound, mocking you with each crack against the trees as it flees the unhallowed ground.

Then it happens again.

And a third time.

You're both still in the aftermath. Eyes wide, a ligament pulled too taught in your neck, head snapped to the side, cheek against the cold ground as you stare at the empty space between the trees in shock.

He hit you. Close-handed. Hard.

It's called a punch, my dear.

Oh. Oh.

You’re rendered dizzy and, and—hss! ah, your poor ear… it feels tender and wrong. Mouth filled with molten pennies. Blood, and not just his, now. The inside of your cheek is chewed up, must've gotten caught on a tooth. Your tooth…

Of course it hurt. Of course it did.

No one's ever hit you like that. Not even Chris. Goddess. A whimper and the beginnings of a breakdown is the immediate response through your abused mouth. The next one is even dumber.

“…Y’not s’posed to do that.”

He sits back on his ankles, pushing hair from his face with a shaking hand as he pulls out of you, stunned by his own actions. You hadn’t realized you were still locked together—did it feel good for him when he hit you, still encased in your heat? He looks at his hand like it was the one in charge all along. Knuckles split open on your cheekbone.

Instinct has your hands blocking your face from another attack. Suddenly, nothing is funny anymore. No, that particular madness is gone. In its place, you’re given something else: another chance. And you know. You know you won’t be getting another, because…

John hit you. He hit you.

“Shit. No, I—you…I told you no games tonight, and you—”

You.

A hiccup stems the bile that threatens to burn through your esophagus, fear so acidic it’s palpable. The serpent hisses into your ear, Go.

Your legs kick out when he tries to fold over you, one heel digging deep in his gullet with a heavy grunt while the other aims for the shoulder that's been bothering him, and it buys you enough time to get away, scrambling through dirt and leaves and battered spirits to get some distance. Vision blurred by panic and tears, a mouthful of metal and brine and splintered bone.

Just a bit farther is all you need, only a bit while he's too dumbstruck by his own loss of control. He tasted you once, just enough to savor you. This time, he’ll eat you whole, and you’ll be forgotten in that sprawling stomach of his with the women who may have come before you for company.

You have the sudden knowledge that this will become a murder scene.

Sex and violence. The sharp stench of panic saturates the both of you. He'll hurt you, he has hurt you, and he'll do it again. Again and again and again. Until you're either scattered across this trail or buried in his garden. You’re too soft, Rusty, not yet callused enough to bear the points of his thorns, so you have to do it–you have to this time. Don’t hesitate again.

Fucking do it, you putty-spined coward. He’ll kill you, if you don’t do it first.

But before you can find what you need, he’s back up with a grip on your ankle, pulling you toward him with furious might. Your fingers dig into the ground to slow yourself down, and snap! fire bursts in your finger as the joint is forced too far backwards with a scream. Flames lick up through your hand, agonizingly hot. Still, he drags, undeterred by your flailing.

The clarity of pain propels you into action.

Dirt. There’s an arsenal in your hand.

Before dwelling further, you fling your treasure grab of soil and gravel into his eyes, and he lets go of you with a pained cry. Distracted by rubbing the grit from them.

Move, move, move, Rusty.

Squealing and kicking when he grabs your—his—shirt, trying to wrangle you as you become a mess of hands skating across the ground in desperation, barely registering the pain in your finger–where is it, it was just here, oh, come on, not now, where the fuck is it, where is i–

There.

Hunching over in relief at your prize, right as he successfully flips you over, pinning your legs and clambering atop you again. Your finger screams, and your cheek aches terribly. Hands push your shoulders as he climbs and claims and forces you down into the grave he made you dig.

“Get off me! Get off me!”

No more warnings.

“Be still, Rusty, so I can–”

His mouth drops, interrupting his wretched apology and he stares at you, wide eyes reflecting the horror you feel. Something’s wrong. You both know it. After everything, all this, something is—it’s wrong. Someone’s hurt. Really hurt. Struck dumb with shock, you steel yourself as you look down, fully expecting to see yourself gutted. What you weren’t expecting to see, though, is how the keen end of the blade has disappeared into John’s side.

Was that his or your quiet gasp that followed?

“What’d you do?” he whispers.

What did you do? You stabbed him. You…your hands are covered in blood. His blood.

A puppet now with a smooth, wooden handle in your palm. A horrible squelch and the knife is slid out of him again while you stand up on wobbly sticks. It’s odd, watching yourself make these movements as you hover above somewhere else. Easier this way, too.

Oh, goddess. Your last meal threatens to come up when he rolls off you, clutching the wound to stem the blood flow. Don’t get sick. You can’t get sick right now. Swallow it, Rusty. Swallow it down and you can let it back out later.

Rinse. Repeat.

A bloodstained hand cradles the wrecked flesh of your cheek, followed by an immediate wince that only makes the inflamed tissue burn hotter. He did it first. He started it.

You watch as your leg rears backwards, as far as you can while maintaining your balance, and your foot slams into him with a grunt. Then it does it again and again and again. Until you're red-faced and breathless and your foot—the good one, thankfully—is throbbing like hell. Just who is at the command center of your body right now? Because it sure as hell isn’t you.

The last kick lands in his gut, forcing him to curl onto his stomach. You lose your balance and fall back onto your ass while he twists, attempting to sit up. Where is it…did you seriously just lose the fucking knife? No, no, he’s closer to it now, seems to making his way for it despite his injuries.

You scramble backwards, dried leaves and muck sticking to your bloodied hands. He’s going to get to it first and turn it on you. Just as you flip around to bolt, maybe you can outrun him in his current state, your fingers graze something in the dirt—John’s belt.

Before you realize what you’re doing, your knees land on his spine, prompting a pained grunt, and you loop the leather strip around his neck and pull. Whatever he was going to do is abandoned in favor of trying to dislodge the belt from his neck, but your elbows draw back, fists tightly engaging either end of the accessory. The pain in your broken finger is registered only distantly.

The sounds he makes as you strangle him are fucking terrible. Is that what you sounded like just minutes ago?

When you passed out, and he just kept fucking you? This? This is a blood debt that you’re owed. By the time he stops moving completely, the joints in your hands ache from the painfully tight grip you’ve got on the belt.

Eventually, just as your biceps grow tired, his struggles grow lazy and his hands fall away from his neck, head dropping forward. The leather bites harder from the gravity of his position. Mouth slack, eyes closed, chest still. Only then, do you loosen your grip, the flaccid length of hide sagging.

Is he–

But when you catch your bearings and the drumbeats in your blood have gone quiet—it’s so quiet—you see that his chest is in fact rising and falling. Just in a slow, steady rhythm. He's unconscious, maybe, or deep in shock. All you know is that you have to work fast. Shaking limbs slipping through red, red blood, it's everywhere–barely able to untangle the belt from your aching fingers with how slick everything is.

You manage to get it around his wrists, once, twice, thrice, and knot it securely, ignoring how your injured hand throbs. Over your time together, you've learned a couple of things from him, how to securely bind a person being one of them.

It takes a lot of effort, but you’re able to shove him over, onto his back to order to pin his arms beneath his own weight. Grabbing the knife again, you perch beside him and wait.

You’ve caught you breath by the time his eyes flutter open. Quickly, clambering on him with a firm grip in his hair. Hopefully, he's too distracted by the angry edge of the blade pressed against his Adam's apple to notice how you tremble.

“Don’t do it—don’t you dare move or I'll open you from ear to ear,” you rasp, adrenaline rushing through your veins, gritting your teeth against the roiling upset of your gut. “I’ll cut you so deep that you'll have a new smile to show off.”

It takes him a moment to catch his bearings. He’s got a weeping wound, after all. Your knees tighten around his side with a squelch, and his face scrunches up in pain. It reminds you of how bad your own face feels. He punched you.

Goddess, your head aches. Everything does. Is it possible you’re concussed?

“Wait—just don't do anything drastic,” he says between gasps, bunny teeth poking out. “Oh, fuck, what did you do—just. Okay? Just…let's just put that down, yeah?”

“And give you the chance to hit me again?”

Teeth bared, you press harder against his throat–the absolute nerve to ask for leniency. Your thighs contract, and the way he writhes makes you want to do it again. So, you do. And again. This time, he yelps. He told you that you liked to be mean and nasty, and maybe he was right—at least a little. You never let up the pressure on his throat, and he has to bow his neck back, dig into the ground, tucking his chin in to speak. It comes out as a mumble anyway.

“What was that?”

He swallows–tries anyway, stayed by metal.

“It wasn't…ah—it wasn’t supposed to be like this—I’m trying my best for you,” he says.

“This is what your best looks like?” Disbelief coloring your tone. “Look at my face. John, I'm growing scars in the shape of your teeth.”

There's also blood in your gums, rage in your chest, hissing in your ears, and a madness to cull in your veins.

It would be so easy. So easy. And no one would have to know, just like with Chris. You could get away with it. Hell, you could blab to the world about what you did to him, and no one would bat an eye after learning what he did to you first. Your face drops into a lazy smile, your free hand tracing down the delicate slope of his neck, smooth and effeminate past the coarse bristles of his beard. The point of your new knife approaches his eye, fascinated by how it widens beyond what you would consider possible; the warm, russet hue of his irises illuminated by the late sun.

You can do it, Rusty.

Can’t you?

“Careful with that—let’s just think it through. Don't do anything you'll regret,” he implores again, eyes crossing with the effort to watch it.

Careful, as though not wishing to spook the blade. He should be more invested in not provoking you, though. The palm of your free hand, the one with the throbbing, fat finger, over his heart and the blade on his chin as you continue musing, your focus never wavering on the placements of his hands, the tension of his muscles, waiting for the slightest shift.

“Y’know, this whole time, I've felt like an insect under your microscope. I’m glad I get to see you spread open, too, before this ends.”

Now he's the one whose wings are pinned beneath your scrutiny, and what a lovely specimen he makes, humming with unease. Even like this, dirty and bloodstained, he takes your breath away.

“Gods, you're so fucking pretty, it makes my teeth ache. Maybe I should bend you over and see how well you can take me.” Lightly, you poke his chest with the point of the knife. “Would you like that?”

He remains stiff beneath you. Quiet. Eyes flitting between the cold steel in your hand and the liquid affection in your smile.

John.

His name chokes you on the way out, pushes its way through on a wave of emotion. Your throat is going to be so sore tomorrow. Everything is. “You made all these plans. So, so many plans, but…what could we have been if you'd just asked me out? You know you could’ve just done that, right? I probably would’ve said yes. That guy I invited back to my tent? He was really nice. I liked him. Was he real, even a little?”

Cupping his jaw tenderly, eyes half-lidded as you dip down for a kiss–which he positively melts into. It has to hurt, this split in his torso, you know it does, and your jaw is screaming from his own savagery, but he looks like he's finding bliss somewhere beyond the pain, something he taught you how to do well.

And that…filthy, guttural moan he releases into your mouth should be bottled up and preserved. It makes your thighs tighten and the heat from your slit burns his bare stomach, reminding you of your state of undress. It’s amazing how used to being unclothed you’ve gotten while with him. Behind you, his excitement for it is palpable.

“You can’t be getting hard from this. And you say that I’m nasty.”

An idea emerges then, twisted and gnarled, taking root until it must be entertained.

John's mouth pops off of yours with a hiss when your finger prods the split of his flesh—what are you doing—feeling the velvety walls of sensitive tissue swallow it up—stop, oh God, please—he squirms so much, he nearly knocks you off.

You growl in his ear. “Be still. Or you'll get my fist next.”

After a moment, his legs flatten underneath you. He wants to buck you off, but his restraint is admirable–he won’t risk getting his throat slit. In fact, he looks ready to bury himself to avoid your touch. That pretty mouth of his falls open in a cry, tears on his waterline as the digit bottoms out. Goodness, it's sickeningly warm in there, so much that the flush is visible on the outside. Even his chest has gone pink.

You’re slowly and tenderly exploring the pulp of his body. It's excruciating. It has to be.

“Do you still love me, John? Even like this?”

He can't nod at the moment, but if you look closely enough, there's a yes kept hidden beneath his lashes.

“Because I think I might actually love you right now. This…this is such a good look on you, baby. It suits you, I promise. You know, I was so scared that first time you caught me, and when you…it hurt, to be honest. It was so close to how it was with Chris, but you, John, you showed me that I could take it. That I was strong enough to handle anything, and I want you know that I think the same about you.”

White teeth peek through your own slow smile.

“How many fingers did you give me then? It was two, right, or was it three? D’you think you can take that many for me?” you whisper.

His eyes go wider as your middle finger slips in to join its sibling, and the drums muffle the sounds he’s making. There’s resistance, of course, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about yourself since being out here, it’s that you’re persistent. Eventually, both of those fingers sink to the root in fertile flesh as John’s waters finally part for you.

You gasp at the sensation, your own cheeks burning hot as that sacred space between your legs aches. It would be wrong to fuck each other like this, even if he wanted it, too. Oh, but it’s so devastatingly warm in here. Cozy. All those times you wanted to curl into him…this could be your chance. What if you…what if you took it further, nestled in so deep that your veins pumped blood straight to his heart? You could finally leave this place as one. That’s what he wanted, right?

So sweet is he, whining softly now, that you do stop at two. Okay, it has more to do with how because he looks ready to pass out and what would be the point in that? He’s openly crying by the time you remove your hand, but you’re impressed and sickened all at once by his doggedness.

Cradling his cheek to get his attention again, red slick joining the tears on his cheeks. “Didn’t you know you can get wet, too?”

It almost breaks you, composure faltering momentarily. Knife unwavering, you lean down for a kiss, and his tongue, precious thing, even reaches out. It turns you into sticky sap. He really can be a sweet man. All yours, if you wanted to keep him. A gossamer-thin strand of saliva connects you for a moment when you separate. Beautiful.

“I’ll remember this look for when I paint you later.”

You sit up, rolling your neck left and right to release some tension.

Click—

Artificial hums of neon signs, cigarettes, and sordid photographs. They all settle somewhere in the chaos of your mind.

“Okay, I think you're warmed up enough for the big finale. Be brave just this once more.”

—Click.

Baring your teeth as you raise the blade. John’s face locks up, and there's something written there that makes your hands hesitate. Betrayal? Only briefly, and not enough to change your mind. The headiness has already taken over you, froth in your mouth, buzzing in your veins.

The percussion, so close now, reaches a crescendo as Oya’s screams reverberate in your ears: Do it, do it!

“No, Rusty—don’t!”

Do it.

Hands—whose are they?—strike down, down, down.

Click.

A guttural exhale. An offering to the gods.

It’s both the easiest and hardest thing you’ve had to do.

Just like that, the knife is in. Buried to the hilt. Slumped over him, heavy with release. Goddess, it feels so good, so good, like a weight is finally off your chest. You hadn’t realized you’d been breathing with half-filled lungs this whole time.

You observe the body that had terrorized you for weeks.

The pallid face, a few flecks of blood on his cheeks, already dried. He felt nothing—told you I’d be gentle. He’s still warm, but that will change as his body continues to lie on the frozen earth. It’s quiet when he’s not busy talking so much. You expected more resistance, but instead, it sunk into its target like warm butter. Still, you're left panting with your hands trembling from residual adrenaline.

There's so much blood on them already. How much water will it take to wash them clean?

But…the restless music in your mind has ended. Serenity crests over the horizon, breaking the mad fervor that threatened to overtake you. A little stream of blood spills from his wound again, and you gather some on your fingertips to paint his lips.

“I finally found your shade,” you say.

Then his eyes crack open and your grin widens at his reaction. Immediately, he glances at the weapon that's buried in the soil beside his head and his gaze unfocuses as he processes what just transpired.

You spared him. You've been wondering the same thing, and in the peace that's come over you, understanding fills the soundless void.

“I’m not going to kill you. Not like this.”

It doesn't appear like he's got it in him to try speaking yet—his chest is still busy sucking in terrible gulps of air–but what he wants to know is why?

It’s hard to talk around the rapidly swelling flesh of your face. “I don’t want to see you dead, John. I want to see you in prison. That’s what you deserve.”

He remains quiet, which is refreshing. Maybe he’s just as surprised by what you’re capable as you are with him.

“You now, I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot on this trip, even more since we met. Well. Since you stalked and held me captive.”

It’s freeing, being able to speak so candidly for the first time in weeks. Is it months at this point? You stopped keeping track at some point.

“I didn't even tell her goodbye before she left, and then…there was the accident. She died all alone and scared. Her body was broken—she didn't deserve that.”

She should still be here. But she isn’t, and you can’t change that. She wouldn’t want you to dwell on it more than you already have. She would want you to let go.

“She was a good woman. I haven't always been the kind of person she would be proud of. Fear and anger made a lot of decisions for me. But I’m not like you, John, not in the ways that count. You want to make me into a monster, and that’s not me. I’m the good things from the people who love me, and…and even the bad things, too. But I’m not you. I’m too good to be you.”

Your dad’s soft-spoken patience. Your mom’s impeccable way of reading people, her ability to see someone's anger for the pain it represented. Your parents taught you mercy, even if you were too stubborn to appreciate it. The ends of John’s curls have found their way between your fingers, wrapping around the stems as you lock his head in place, blade secure against his trunk. His bottom lip trembles.

You have to quell the urge to roll it between the edges of your teeth and pull. Your cheek throbs angrily.

“You’ve taken so much from me already, and you’re not going to take anything else.”

Then there's the hardest part to believe.

“I told you that this place is special. You should’ve opened yourself up to it more, because I think it was trying to teach you something, too. That dream you had last night. I don't know how it happened, but I woke up with the oddest combination of smells in my nose this morning. Cinnamon, perfume, and…cigarettes. I think you did, too. What was it that she called you, your mother. Was it Pup?”

He looks shocked. Beyond that. Because what you're implying is something he can't quite comprehend right now, borderline mad in his current state. He never told you about his childhood nickname. What’s happening between you us unbelievable. You couldn't really understand it either at first, but he confirmed it just now with his reaction: you were there in his dream, a shared connection that transcends reason.

“That…doesn’t make any sense.” Sweat on his brow. “How do you know about that?”

“I was there, John. You tried to warn me in that dream, and I didn’t listen. But you know what? I needed to see it, what he did to me. It wasn’t doing me any good being locked away, because he was still hurting me all these years later.”

His blinks are lasting longer and longer. He’s about to drift off himself, again.

“My eyes are open, now. I see him and I see you, too. So, I know there’s something worth redeeming in you somewhere. It’s just that you’re not my fucking problem to fix.” You point the knife in his direction, and this time, the blade is steady. “Don’t make me regret this, okay? Because I’ll hurt you so bad next time, and you’re too pretty for what that might look like.”

His lips, purple now from the combination of blood loss and the red stain you’d painted them with, still open for you when you kiss him a final time, tasting metal, sorrow, and something uniquely John. Nobody’s ever kissed you the way he does—you’re going to miss him terribly.

But you have to let him go.

Loneliness, that cancerous mass, tethered itself to you ages ago, and now it threatens to tether you to him. It grew so subtly that you didn't realize how its maw was consuming you, stealing moments of joy for years. Mom warned you early on about such things, and it's time you listened to her. Despite the difficulty, you have to do it before you turn into him. Your mother’s child deserves better.

The way Chris’s movements slowed, body twitching as you gave him his last rites still haunts you. You're a fucking pig, and I hope you burn forever. The hard words of someone young and unable to anticipate just how long a concept like eternity can be.

It didn't…heal you in any meaningful capacity. Clearly. Since you just shoved all that pain into a closet. It's the same now. Killing John won't undo what he's done to you, nor will it erase the things you've been made to do. Chosen to do. You should abandon it now, before you cross a line you aren't prepared to breach. Maybe your waters aren't as sweet as Oshun’s—the pleasant tickle of blood as it drips off your fingertips reminds you of that—but you aren't fully capable of her sister’s roiling tempest either. The toes your mother helped you to grow have chosen to sink into the soft moss of that in-between, and for the first time in years, you know you’re making the right decision.

You're getting up, collecting a few necessities—his jacket, thicker than yours, boots, water, the ferro rod, the little mystery bottles—when he speaks between pained breaths.

“What really happened to him?” Chris.

“I already told you—he died of an overdose,” you say. “He did it to himself.”

Uneasily, understanding dawns on him. He makes no move to get up or stop you. John always was a perceptive man—he knows how clever foxes can be.

As you finish packing, an item in the tent catches your eye.

“I'm taking this,” you say, bending down to add his camera to your collection, before approaching the set of trees at the edge of camp.

“There isn't anything on there that will trace the police back to me,” he says, panic breaking through his wan face. “It won't make any difference. It doesn't matter.”

That hurts. “Of course it does.”

The photos of you drawing in the forest, where the sun painted your hair like fire. The ones of you by the fire with your fingers stuffed in your cunt that started this whole, dreadful affair. The ones he’s taken since your captivity where you're smiling carefully at him. There’s more, surely, than what you know about.

 It matters. All of it.

“You should tend to that soon—you look pale. If you pass out, you’ll freeze.” You toss the first aid kit his way as you retrieve your clothes and pack. Not in much of a rush, since he won't be going anywhere anytime soon, judging by the puddle of blood beneath him. He’ll probably hurt his shoulder again to get out of his bindings this time.

With your clothes haphazardly thrown on, boots loosely tied, and his broken down tent shoved under your arm, you begin to head west.

“Rusty, I...”

That halts your steps, and you glance behind you to see him sitting up, blood slowly seeping from his wound as he watches all that he had orchestrated fall apart around him. Seared in your mind is how small he looks, consumed by desperation and loss.

“Don’t go. Don't leave me alone. Stay with me. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you,” he swallows. He can’t even say it: he didn’t hurt you—he brutalized you. “I can do right. I can be normal.”

Normal? Would he be able to endure mundanity for the rest of his life? Somehow, you can’t see him stocking shelves at the grocery store, working up to a promotion as assistant manager.

“No, you can’t,” you whisper. “Violence follows you around, and you’ll always be suffering from it.”

Readjusting the strap of your pack, you ready yourself for departure.

“Bye, John.”

The knife is held firmly in your hand as you leave, just in case. Though swollen and filled with heat, your ear remains attuned to the landscape behind you—but the only sound is of wet breathing of a man who knows he’s lost.

That…and the quiet heartbreak of two lonely people.

You wish you could claim that you left with your shoulders back and head held high, but you don’t. Too chewed up and spat back out for that. Maybe you aren’t the epitome of feminist strength, bowed under the weight of everything as you are and with a resolve thinner than you want to admit to, but you still do it.

Without turning back, you leave him on the ground, and you do what you came out to the PCT to do: you walk.

You don’t stop until well after daybreak. It was slow moving, carefully carving a path through the full dark, but you had to get several miles of distance between you before taking a break. When you make it to a small brook, you nearly break down weeping. It takes all of your restraint—

Learn some restraint, Foxheart.

—to allow yourself to filter it before gorging yourself on it. It’s cold, nearly frozen through, and unlikely to give you giardia, but you can’t take that risk when just a few minutes of patience will ensure your health.

Water runs down your chin and throat, soaking your shirt and pimpling your flesh. Soothes your sore, swollen gums. That side of your mouth truly is fucked—one of the molars wiggles a little when you can handle prodding it. The drink is so damn cold it makes your good teeth ache and leaves a ball of ice in your stomach.

It’s perfect.

When you’ve had your fill, you’re rinsing your filthy hands in the stream, watching as it turns red. After several minutes of scrubbing at them, using a twig to dig under your nails, they’re finally clean again. They’re also numb from the frigid temperature, so you shove them between your legs to get some warmth back in them.

Unf—something about that feeling is…not good. And is that…cigarette smoke? Is it actually in this damn shirt, or are you losing your mind to the past again?

Just as the pressure of flesh between your thighs begins to overwhelm you, the memory of Oshun’s embrace returns. Honey-sweet, potent enough to cloud over the tobacco, and it calms the frantic buzzing in your veins. Your heart rate slows, and your breathing returns to normal.

Another ice-cold gulp clears your mind.

Sitting back against a tree, you finally rest your tired muscles after hours of tense hiking.

Judging by the markers of where you are on the map, it’ll be a few more days of intense walking to get you to a station where you can find a phone. You would’ve been there by now, but it appears that John shepherded you some distance from the nearest one.

…John.

Is he okay? The better part of you hopes that he was able to care for his injuries and is limping back to wherever-the-fuck he’s from. The worst part of you hopes that he slipped into unconsciousness and froze to death during the night.

And a different, more complicated part misses him. That’s the one that he wanted to foster—that secretly preened at the idea of being his kept thing, the object of his desires, ravished on the daily with little-to-no responsibilities. No chance of being a disappointment, because there’s nothing to fail at. You have a degree, you have talents, and still…

And still.

That’s the part of you that you have to leave in this place, though. It doesn’t serve you—it only hides behind cowardice. Yet, if he comes after you again, you’ll have to gut him. You’ll gnaw off your own foot to get out of his grasp if that’s what it takes.

Getting up and stretching, you get back to it. Wandering between ancient pines, feeling smaller but more connected than ever.

It takes two more days before you work up the courage to examine some of the things you’d taken with you. Like the camera. You aren’t sure what you’ll find. What if…what if there are photos of other women, other victims? What do you do with that knowledge?

With a deep breath, you turn it on. You’ve seen the most recent images before—they’re either of the trail, animals and plants, or they’re of you. You, smiling shyly at him. You before you met him.

An image of you before you even left for the trail. He really did watch you for weeks beforehand. You’re grocery shopping in one of them, smiling at your phone on the couch. At a bar for your final hoorah in this one, flirting with a stranger you had no intentions of seeing again. You can’t even remember her name—Sarah? Rebecca? There’s…there’s one of you wearing almost nothing as you walk around in your kitchen.

What did he do with all of these?

What you don’t find, however, are photos that seem to be any other subjects—women, specifically. Relief floods you, and you hope it’s for the right reasons. How would you have felt if there had been any other images of exposed skin, vulnerable moments, intimate smiles?

It shouldn’t matter. But it does.

That evening, with the tent flaps down so you can watch the stars, you lie on your back, examining the vials you’d taken with you. Something has been gnawing at you since finding out about them. As you stare at the clear liquid, turning the bottle from side to side, you realize something: it’s unmarked.

They all are.

Which means…they’re the same thing. The bottles are identical, with no labels. So, if one of them is a sedative, then they’re all sedatives, which don’t exactly muddy a person’s mind into believing they’re in love. That was you, Foxheart, all along. Nothing else to blame for your own fucked up nature.

You shouldn’t be surprised, but even with all things considered, this revelation stings. It’s lessened only by the cold air that blows over you, reminding you that you need to tend to the fire.

Fiddling with the pages of your book, scanning over your final parts of it now that you’ve finished it before throwing it onto the pyre, enjoying the quick flash of warmth that Cheryl Strayed’s story leaves with you, the flames bursting before your eyes. Sighing as the fire warms the injured tissue of your broken finger. You weren’t able to set it, but you did manage to get a splint on it for now. A minor wound considering the war you survived.

Your face, however, is another story. That tooth has been getting worse. The gums surrounding it are spongey, too soft to be healthy, when you prod the area. Your thumb and index feel around it now and ah!—it’s still bad off. Fuck. Tears immediately crop up in your eyes as you grasp it firmly.

However, it only takes a few agonizing twists to dislodge the molar, and soon, you’ve got a permanent reminder of John’s brutality in your grasp. With a sniff, you settle in before the fire, ignoring how you long for a soft lap to sit on. You pull a few things from the chest pocket: the dried flowers he gave you, crunchy and a little worse for wear now, but still recognizable. Your tooth.

A lock of his hair.

You aren’t supposed to miss him, but nobody has to know. It’s just you and the expansive wilderness here. Plenty of room for your secrets. Just looking at the limp bunch of hair makes your heart ache. Out of habit, you rub the spot over your heart, feeling a lump in his jacket that shouldn’t be there.

Exploring the inside of it, you discover an inner pocket. Inside that pocket is something soft and fluffy. Brows furrowed, you pull it out to reveal the item.

A lock of your own hair.

Jesus. You hear the exclamation in that lovely lilt of his voice.

Holding the little pile of russet-colored hair, hyper-saturated by the firelight, you can’t help but fucking cackle, laughing until tears spring up in your eyes and your stomach cramps and your cheek fucking screams from the stretch. Goddess above, maybe you really are cut from the same cloth.

You place your lost tooth atop the dried bouquet, securing it with both locks of hair. It should repulse you, this little keepsake, but you drop a kiss to it before putting it back in your pocket, wiping the wetness from your face and watching the fire until it dies out, the stark moon and stars as your only company. It’s blissfully quiet.

Later, while it’s still dark, something draws you out of your sleep. It registers dimly—pressure on your head, back and forth. Rhythmic.

Someone’s stroking your hair.

Panic crawls up your throat, burning with bile. John. He didn’t heed your warning and he’s back to get his revenge. Where’s your knife, where the fuck is it? It should be right at your side—you haven’t let it out of your sight since leaving.

You try to get up, to bolt, but you can’t. Some unseen weight keeps you in place, sluggish limbs. Did he drug you again? The bile in your empty stomach threatens to make an appearance, and a shiver crawls up your spine.

The touch never strays, though. It doesn’t do anything beyond but cradle your head and massage your scalp. It’s comforting…maternal, even. Trying again, you’re able to lift your hand enough to touch it, this unseen thing. It’s warm, definitely flesh.

Skimming across the knuckles, you come across metal. A ring? John didn’t wear jewelry. A memory in your hindbrain taps against glass, beckoning you closer. This time, as you approach the window, there’s no fear. No alarm bells ringing. Just the smell of shea butter and almonds. Heart racing, disbelief in your bones. It’s too good to be true. It can’t be real.

Feeling the jagged top of the ring, you find several stones. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven of them in a row.

Oh. You know this ring. It belongs to your mother.

How many times did you lie in bed with her while she petted your hair, humming a song she learned from her mom, while your chubby fingers played with her hands? You lifted them up, one at a time and compared the richness of her skin to yours, mapped out the wrinkles and creases of her much longer fingers.

Her left one was your favorite, though, because one of its fingers was adorned with gems. The colorful, glittering stones of her wedding ring always had captivated you.

“Why are there so many of them, Mama? Chrissy’s mom has just has one big one on hers. She said it cost a lot.”

She laughed. “I’m sure it did. I have seven on mine because the number seven is sacred, baby. That means ‘special.’ It’s from the homeland. Our first homeland. It protects and guides us. Gives us lots of divine blessings like that. When Daddy got it for me, he said he wanted to honor my traditions. Isn’t that sweet of him?”

You would just smile and play with her finger, watching how all the stones would sparkle like starlight. So sweet.

Now, in the dimly lit night, you find yourself in a warm embrace you haven’t felt since you were a kid. You want to ask her where she’s been for all these years, why she hasn’t visited you sooner, but you know it doesn’t matter, because she’s here now.

The spirits didn’t abandon you after all. They must be proud of you to have bestowed such a gift upon you. If she speaks, you’re unable to understand her. Maybe one day, you’ll be able to harness this ability better in time, with practice and guidance—but for now, her presence is comfort enough.

Time passes slowly as you hold each other and that, too, feels like a gift.

You don’t know at what point you fall asleep, but you awaken with a start in the morning. It’s got to be morning, because there’s a reddish haze filtering through your eyelids, even if you can’t open them, your tears have frozen them shut. It’s ice cold out, but still, a laugh is caught up in your chest as your fingertips break the crystalline barrier away from your lashes carefully. After a few moments of fiddling, you’re able to open your eyes to the bright, early morning sun. It’s breathtaking.

A light dusting of snow and frost coats the terrain, and every breath is a visible exhale into the crisp air. You ought to be freezing, and maybe on a physical level you are, but you feel warmer than you have in decades.

The next hour is spent in silence, taking in the sparkling world around you. Finally, the peace you’ve been seeking since stepping foot onto the trail overcomes you.

It’s time to go.

It’s beneath a cornflower blue sky that you find it: the resupply station that sits just beyond a growth of imposing northern pines. You did it. You made it. You spare a moment to express your gratitude for everyone who helped you get here. The orishas…your mother. Before you know it, your feet have propelled you forward and you’re stumbling into the shop, flinching at the shrill chiming of a bell when you enter and squinting against the artificial lighting.

It’s overwhelming, actually, being back inside hard walls and surrounded by so many things. You make your way through the narrow aisle, past packaged goods and metal tools, toward the back of the shop, feeling less and less like you belong in such a place.

But’s warm, and there are people. Concerned ones, at that.

A middle-aged woman in the corner turns to her companion. “Goodness, it’s freezing out there—did she camp like that? She barely has anything, what happened to her? Wait, is she that girl who went missing? Miss—Miss! Are you okay? Jesus, is that blood?”

You throw them a quick it's not mine as you continue on to the counter, asking to use the phone. The old man running the register doesn't hesitate, probably because you strike an appalling figure. Barely clothed except for your boots, pants, a tattered Star Wars t-shirt, and a jacket that’s covered in blood, soil, and frost.

Punching in the numbers and the old landline receiver is on your ear, a corded thing that's probably more reliable than any cell towers this far up. You're counting the rings, a classic sound that harkens back to your childhood. All your breath sits at the top of your lungs when the sound stops.

It's silly. You had rehearsed this moment over and over for weeks, now. You thought you had perfected your lines, but they all fall out of your head the moment someone answers.

“...Hi,” you say, the monosyllabic word still carrying a wobble. Don’t cry. There will be plenty of time for that later.

Immediately, the voice on the other end erupts into question after question. It breaks your tenuous hold on your composure, and you find yourself sliding down, back to the walls of the counter as the floor becomes quicksand under your feet. Shoulders tucked in as you huddle around the phone, its umbilical cord hugging you tight. The few people in the shop are still watching you warily.

In this moment, though, it's nothing but you and that voice. That beautiful sound. Two sets, now, warming your heart. You knew you’d missed them but hearing them again makes the longing ache fiercely. Oh—they’re getting hysterical, so you should probably respond.

“Yeah, yes, I'm here. Listen, I—I'm okay, I promise. …I love you, too, Dad. I can’t wait to see you.”