prose pervert

Maybe you do need a sign, something in you agrees, leaves rusting all around you, like something big has just passed by.

A bear, maybe?

Or a wolf of some sort.

You aren't really willing to slow down and see for yourself, not when it is still so dark and you are this tired.

Stopping on an empty road is stupid, stopping on an empty road in the middle of the night can be deadly which is why you aren't doing it today. No, thank you.

Only the bright orange of hazard lights is the first thing you see rounding the next turn. Still somehow working to alert you to danger, flash of them pulsing like a live thing in the dead of the night.

The next thing you see is the car — slammed into a thick tree, the front of it compressed, glass of the windshield smashed open.

Bloody hell, did someone get sent flying through it during the crash?

It's a bad luck stopping at night on an empty road. But someone apparently had even worse luck today.

The least you can do is check to make sure if anyone needs help. With no service in this neck of the woods, you can either leave them here or take them to get help if they are in any shape to move around.

You sigh, pulling in a park a few feet away from the wreckage. No good deed goes unpunished, but it's not something you can just ignore. Even if you really really want to get to your next stop and sleep finally.

Woods are quiet around you, not rustling with a single leaf when you roll down the window — coward's substitue of gettting out of the car. You really don't want to die with someone in this place, even though worrying about folk legends now seems a bit like a reach.

Cool evening air kisses your cheeks, strokes your head when you peek out, trying to gauge your chances here.

Anxiety sizzles under your skin, slow uneven spread of it through your chest sinking around your heart and pulling it down in a quicksand of fear.

The totalled white Hyundai Sonata flickers at you, mudded and scratched all over the place.

The driver's seat is empty.

Fucking spectacular.

You sit in silence for a few more minutes, tapping on your phone to find it suddenly dead and unresponsive.

Okay. Alright.

So the question now is, how badly do you want to help someone?

You swallow, mouth dry and tight because no one is watching. You could just leave.

You could drive away and contact the sherriff's department when you are passing through whatever small settlement you'll see next. Smart thing to do.

Your fingers flex around the steering wheel, when you groan, softly hitting your forehead against it. Lord, grant some protection to your lost sheep with the set of ethics that might kill her today.

"Evening." Someone's voice suddenly chirps on your left and you jolt, scream dying in your throat when you see the man standing there.

Bloody and torn up all over, his tshirt tight over his chest, eyebags dark under his blue eyes. He smiles at you, braces his forearms on the rolled down window and tilts his head.

Big dog trying to squeeze himself in through the opening.

You don't like dogs.

You aren't sure you like the bloke either.

As if hearing your thoughts, his eyes crinkle, teeth — moist and white flashing when his lips can no longer hide them with a grin this wide. You can feel someone's eyes on the back of your neck, even though the only person on this road is looking right at you.

He's got blood caked above his brow, splash of it darkening his buzeed hair right above the temple. Whatever has happened to him, it must have hurt like hell. Only the stranger doesn't even winces when he absentmindedly scratches at the dried up blood.

"John MacTavish." He introduces himself after another minute of staring, his eyes warm and excited about something. What is he so happy about? "Apologies for the sorry state of me, bonnie. I didnae expect to have a meet cute."

That's probably adrenaline and relief clashing, you think to yourself. He has just gotten in a car crash, seeing a friendly face surely is a reason to be happy.

There is still an insistent feeling at the back of your neck that something is moving closer to you, only you can't turn around and look.

That would mean you have to leave John behind your back.

You stare at the flxing muscle of his forearms and don't want to find out whether his arms are long enough to reach for your throat from where he is standing.

"You've had…a hell of a night." You finally muster up, hand twitching to lock the doors of the car and Johnny hums, nodding, his too wide smile starting to get on your nerves. "Do you need help? A lift, maybe?" You offer before you think it through and his eyes crinkle in the corners.

He is handsome.

Rugged and bloody and weirdly happy, he is handsome in the same way big dog breeds are. Not quite wolf, but something close adjacent. Close enough to hunt and get hunted.

Wonder what hunted him down today, passes through your mind as you stare at the bleeding gash on his temple. A little more and the injury would have taken a chunk out of his skull.

He got really lucky today.

"I'd appreciate it." He nods slowly, his neck either stiff or injured, his eyes blinking every once in a while. Like he is not completely here in this moment, like his head hurts enough to give him a migraine.

You unlock the car doors, nodding at him to sit in your passenger's seat and try not to flinch when he practically drops into it with a grunt, his shoulder clicking when Johnny reaches for the seatbelt.

The drive to the police station is uneventful safe for the unnerving tension of him sitting right beside you, too big for your car, his shoulders hunching when you offer to move his seat to give him some legroom.

"I also have Ibuprofen." You say, before you can think of it and he turns his head to you even slower. Blinks, like he isn't sure he heard you right.

God, he must be really out of it after a crash like that.

"For your head, I mean. It must hurt." You gesture at the blood on his temple and Johnny blinks at you again, before the corners of his lips twitch and slide into a smile so wide you quickly look away.

"Ye're very nice. But I've had it worse." He smiles, instead of thanking you properly, not moves an inch as you reach over him to pull the lever and shove his seat back.

You can feel his eyes on the top of your neck with every tiny hair that goes up, when he suddenly huffs out air. Dry and amused.

Like you are doing something funny.

When you glance up at him, the look in Johnny's eyes is almost enough for you to crawl out of the car and walk on your own legs to the nearest town. You don't do that only because he seems very much in need of urgent medical attention.

You don't do that, because your still dead phone doesn't turn on and the radio is all static too, no way to contact anyone. As much as he makes you uncomfortable, Johnny is probably just high on adrenaline.

Probably nothing weird, you reason and swear that he chuckles again. Only when you look back at him, Johnny tilts his head to the side, eyes curious.

Probably just your imagination. Probably nothing.

"A shame we can't call 999 and get you asessed properly." You mumble under your breath, pressing on the gas to speed up down the road. If police stops you, then maybe you can pawn off Johnny onto them or just gesture at him silently. People ought to cut some slack to a car crash victim on his way to his other possible car crash.

"That's okay." Johnny murmurs, shoulder slumped against the door, eyes soft when you look back at him. He did not say a word about the speed of your driving, didn't complain about occasional hole in the beat up road that shook him a couple times already.

Anxiety pounds on the inside of your chest when he closes his eyes, probably trying to rest. But if there is something you know about bleeding people is that you are not supposed to let them sleep till you get them to the hospital.

"Johnny, look at me." You meant to pat his knee, but probably forget to take into account the length of his legs and how close he is, instead smacking his thigh.

Johnny visibly flinches, eyes flying open — startled and wide, he looks at you like he doesn't know how to react.

"Don't fall asleep till we get you some help, okay?" You try to sound stern, only your voice shakes a little when he just stares at you. God, you really don't want someone to die in your car tonight, you have a reservation at hot springs in fifteen hours. "Just…keep your eyes on me. Please."

Silence stretches between you — thick and tense, his shoulders suddenly sinking down, tension you didn't know was there evaporating.

"F'course, bonnie." Johnny's voice is softer than you expected, warm in a way that makes your cheeks burn because damn him and his handsome face. "I'll keep 'em on you."

You roll up to the urgent care, ready to get out of the car and help him in. Only he stops you, shaking his head slowly.

Smiles at you like it's not a 'goodbye' but a 'see you' and you don't know what to do with the urge to turn back and check your backseat for him without looking like a raging lunatic because the bloke is clearly right there in front of you.

Still, you did all you could to take care of him. Now you should take care of your suddenly dead phone.

Probably just need a new charger, given how quickly your old ones die one by one, capitalism be damned for the lack of warranty and shitty quality.

Luckily there is a place a couple blocks away from the hospital, god bless gas stations and all they do for the travelers and multitude of things that can go wrong during the bloody road trip.

Doesn't take you long to get a new cable from a caffeine-energised cashier, quickly checking it to see your phone powering back to life. Surprisingly with no battery wasted.

The screen shines bright white and absolutely no bars of reception, somehow not able to get any connection even here.

But free wifi gives you a chance to quickly text your friend that you are still alive and had a wild encounter just now.

That's when your car alarm suddenly goes off, making both you and the cashier flinch as you fumble for keys, turning it off.

Weird.

But not looking to push your luck and see if there is anyone who'd like to pick the locks on your car tonight, you say your thanks and wish the cashier good night before the warmth of their space closes behind you with the chime of their doorbell.

Night is cool and quiet, your headphones muffling everything as you turn on the downloaded playlist. No need to stay in one place for too long when you still have a long way to go.

You glance back at the gas station, and shrug off the prickling sensation of eyes on your nape, not finding anyone staring.

You really really need to sleep, you think, starting to walk to your car, your shadow flickering on the pavement under your feet as you walk by the first lamp post, shivers running down your nape to your back.

Unease swallowing your cool head and making you shiver again. You'd love to say that the night is just colder than usually.

That you are just really tired.

Only you can't.

There are steps behind, you suddenly realise.

Music dying in your headphones, the ringing silence coating your nerves till they are sharp and buzzing under your skin.

Someone is there, you think, finding the handle of the flip knife in your pocket. A tiny fucking thing, but better to have a small knife than none at all.

The car is barely a dozen feet away, dark and dead, not a flicker of light or a movement inside. Safe and quiet, it stands alone in the midnight parking lot.

You speed up, killing the music in your headphones, ears straining because the steps, they are right there. Right behind you and they are faster than you are — closing in quickly, your heart pounding in your ears when you turn back, knife gripped.

No one is there.

The tears burn your eyes, throat tight, because this is worse.

Someone was there, you know that someone was there, you could hear them!

You turn back to your car and suck in the breath, head white-clean with panic.

Your car is at the end of the parking lot, your car is a dozen feet away from you.

Your car was a dozen feet away from you.

Not anymore, it isn't. Sitting in the exact same place, but you are just not close to it anymore. Back at the other end of it. Empty and quiet parking lot, no one in sight — not a place to hide.

Unless you count the one under your car, voice in your head chimes in, reminding you about the horror stories and podcasts about abducted people and—

Fuck, this is so unhelpful.

The parking lot is empty, you repeat to yourself. Nothing is there, you checked yourself and you do need to find motel soon to have some fucking sleep before more hallucinations follow.

Only the car feels so far away now. You'll need to cross the entire place before you reach it and it is completely deserted. Light of a lamp post flickers above your head and you take a breath in.

Can't stay in one place for the rest of the night, you need to stop thinking this much and get in the bloody car. Maybe call someone who's not asleep this late in the night to talk to while you drive.

Your shoulders slowly drop down as you take another few breaths. Could have been imagination and good acustics of this place. Nothing really is there, you know there isn't.

If anyone wanted to attack they'd do so while you were calming yourself down, trying not to cry.

Okay, one final stretch and then a short stop to get a treat — something to keep you going till morning or the cheap motel with decent bed.

Whichever comes first, you reason and will your heart to stop sinking in the rippling waters of your mind like a bloody fishing float.

You take the first few steps, checking over the shoulder which feels silly, but something in you still waits for a mysterious person to follow you again. Nothing, just like you checked.

It's okay, you breath in and out, we are just really really tired, right?

After a few more moments of breathing in and out, you squeeze your phone and start walking across the parking lot, keeping your eyes on the car. There is only one pair of footsteps that you can hear.

Crisp, a little heavy, the rubber heel of the boots hitting the pavement, as you walk, trying to distract yourself with the list of things you can get at the nearest gas station. A Red Bull, that's for sure, you think and huff our air.

It comes out with a whoosh, your ankle twisting when you place your foot on the slippery part of the pavement, almost twisting it with a hiss. Pain blooms — sharp and sudden, nearly enough to deafen you when the parking lot falls silent again.

Nearly, you regret immediately, your heart cold and heavy when you pretend to check on your ankle, massaging the aching part. Fingers trembling.

The sound of footsteps stoppped a second after you did.

You don't want to turn back, you try to calm down, blinking quickly, eyes watering which is a luxury you cannot afford right now. Not like this.

When you start walking again, your ears catch the moment, when the foosteps start again. This time falling out of rhythm with yours on purpose.

Whoever they are, they noticed.

You try to swallow the knot, not wanting to run because everyone knows that as soon as you run from the dog — it will chase you and it will bite you and it will get you, because you are never going to be faster than it.

It's not a fucking dog, that much you know for sure, but you squeeze the keys in your pocket, finding the one from your car and do the only thing left.

You start walking fastering, hearing the footsteps behind you hurrying up immediately. Moving quicker than yours, because now they know that you know it too. Now there isn't really a reason to hide.

Forgetting all previous reasoning, you hiss out air and bolt, dashing across the remaining dozen feet, heart pounding, because they follow immediately. Someone's feet hitting the ground faster than it should be possible, closing in on you, phantom presense heating your back when you turn the car alarm off and wrench the doors open.

Fail inside more than anything, slamming the doors shut, right when the steps should have hit the back of your ankles, kicking you down. The car locks click on immediately.

The devastation isn't something you expect when you dare to glance at your window.

The parking lot is empty. No one is standing there next to your car.

You heave in the darkness of your car, heart pounding against your temples, your hands shaking. Someone was there.

Someone was following you and you couldn't see them.

Your brain plays back to the sound of someone running after you, heavy-footed and unnervingly quick, approaching rapidly to force you to either turn back or get caught.

Like a big dog, you think, rubbing your biceps in attempt to soothe the goosebumps rising all over your skin, like a big dog if it walked on two legs and wore some heavy fucking boots.

You take another deep breath, locks still shut on your doors. There is no one there. The parking lot is empty with no places to hide. No one is really there.

But you have heard someone, you think, choking down the strong urge to whimper, because you cannot go mad like that, it can't happen to you.

It had to be your lack of sleep, your imagination, the trick your brain played on you to double the set of footsteps. No one could be there.

"No one was there. It's fine, it's okay, we are fine." You mutter to yourself breathing in and out, fingers trembling when you fish out your phone out of the cup holder, the white-blue light of your skin litting up the space. "I need to fucking sleep before I lose my mind." You continue talking to yourself, because your voice filling the air is better than silence again.

Better than imagining someone crawling their ways up to your car, limbs deformed and too long.

Moving faster than any real being should.

"I just-" You take a deep breath in and adjust the silver amulet swaying on your rearview mirror. Some knick knack you got gifted for 'safe journey', not that it can be of any use, you'd think if your mind didn't go quiet immediately, words dying halfway up to your mouth.

There are eyes in your rearview mirror — crinkling with excitement you left down at the precinct, unblinking and dead in the sharp light of your phone.

You know these eyes, you think, scream bubbling in your throat when you blink and he doesn't disappear.

Sits right behind your driver's seat, leaning a little too close so you'd definitely notice him there.

He is not breathing, something in you cries, you did not hear him, because Johnny hasn't been breathing all this time.

Tears make you half blind and terrified, because you cannot stop looking at him, because if you look away something might happen like that time in the forest.

Because you are locked with him in your car and you don't know how he got in.

"Never left, bonnie." Johnny shares, finally blinking, like he has remembered he needs to do that. "You promised me a lift."

Panic wails in your head like an air raid alert, moans with ambulance sirens, rings with church bells.

"I- I gave you a lift." You choke out, voice cracking in half when he shakes his head slowly. Moving like his body is too stiff for it, like it takes some effort to turn his head freely. "The police station. I gave you a lift there." You try to explain, swallowing a sob because you don't want to die, not like this, you don't want a big man with too dead eyes to make you hurt.

You don't want it to hurt if he does it, but it will, you can see it in his eyes that it will.

Can sense the phantom feeling of a blowtorch brough to the ribs, of dogs biting at the heels and ripping into the meat of the calves, of hands pinching you in all soft places — mean and rough, so you don't black out before it is actually time.

"I didnae want a lift there." He says simply, leather of your seats creaking when he leans closer, props his chin on your seat — right above your shoulder and keeps looking you in the eyes through the rearview mirror.

"Where do you want a lift to?" You ask, gripping the suddenly dead phone in hand, his eyes not blinking at you. He probably forgot to do it. Again.

"I'll tell ye." Johnny responds, tone casual when he turns his head, no longer looking you in the eyes and instead talking right in your ear. His voice feeling the same way pine branches do when they graze your face. "Donnae worry, bonnie. I'm a good passenger."

You don't want to think how you still cannot feel his breath when he is speaking, even with Johnny so close, even with his voice screwing into your ear. There is nothing, no tickle of air against your skin, no shiver induced by the hairs on your skin moving.

It's like having an audio recording talk back to you.

You swallow again and look in the rearview mirror, because the alternative is turning your head to look at him and then it's real. Then he is there, in the backseat of your car.

"Okay." You try to catch his eyes in the reflection and when he lets you, the blood drips off his brow onto his cheek. Slow and viscous, it should never move like that.

"I'll pay for gas." Johnny says, tone almost gentle, like this is your biggest concern right now. The money. "And for whatever else ye need. Like I said, I am a good passenger. Just need ye to be good to me back and that's all." He leans a little closer, resting his arms on the shoulder of your seat. Like a kid asking you to stop at McDonald's on the way home. "Can ye do that for me, bonnie?"

"Yeah." You breathe out, slowly nodding, your chest tight and pounding from inside out, pressure mounting and pressing on your frontal lobe. Will come back to you as a migraine and a halo, punishing for today's exertion. "Yeah, okay, I…I can do that."

You don't really have a choice there.

"Good." Johnny smiles finally and the relief that fills you brings red-hot feeling to your face, blood burning under your skin. Shame curdling your trembling spine into a spiral for you to use when you are going to slide all the way down into a full blown meltdown.

Fawn or die, right? No other way here with someone as big as him.

You slowly shift your eyes on the road, half expecting him to lean over and tear your bloody jagular with his teeth. Getting what he probably came for and leaving you to bleed out.

Probably the same thing happened to the last guy that picked him.

But Johnny doesn't want to kill you.

If he did, he would have done so back in the woods — would have sent your car into the underbrush and watched how you bleed out in a place with no cell reception.

Instead Johnny talks your ear off whenever radio doesn't work and ever since he got into your car it stopped working alltogether, same as your phone.

You stop minding at some point, lazily bickering with him on your way to your airnbnb, because better talk with someone that have the unending buzz above your ear for three hours.

"Do you ever wish to sometimes have a pass to just murder someone and get away with it?" You ask him, parked by the 24 hour gym because the police do not take kindly to people loitering in the middle of the night, even if it is purely to get a very late night ice-cream. But you heard that around this parking you should be okay.

Maybe. If you are lucky.

Johnny sits with his legs on your seats, back leaning on the passenger door on the side across from you so he can watch you eat.

"I donnae ken, bonnie, do I?" He chuckles, rolling his eyes. Steals a fry from your paper bag even though you aren't sure you ever saw him eat it.

'Can eat other things, bonnie', his voice announces inside of your head and you chew quicker. You are going mad and he is at fault. 'Donnae need ice cream when I could just eat the box, bonnie' It adds very unhelpfully as you push another spoonful in your mouth.

God damn his big mouth and honesty bordering on vulgar.

Johnny is ex-military, he tells you, very vague about what it is he used to do there. Although on the very next day he steals the lighter from your glove box and plays with it whenever you fall silent. He either gets bored easily or really likes the flame, you think and when you glance back at him — his eyes are laughing.

Probably both.

"So you never wished you could just kill someone with no consequences?" You press on and he gives you a half hearted shrug. "Not a person you'd come back to haunt out of the goodness of your big heart, Johnny?"

The taunt usually helps to get him to talk, only this time, when you stretch out the vowels of his name, Johnny hums, watching you through the lashes, his fingers interlocked, resting on his lap.

Something in his eyes is not the usual amusement or warning. Something there makes you pretend you are suddenly very hungry and not at all nervous to look at him.

The hoarse chuckle he lets out makes your ears burn.

Bloody hell, he is insufferable.

"And yet ye suffer and persevere." He huffs out, laughing out loud when you stare up at him, looking a lot like a deer in the middle of the path of incoming truck. "Gets written all over yer face when you sulk, bonnie, don't have to be a mind-reader."

"You might as well be one." You grumble under your breath, pretending not to notice his arched brow. Not opening this can of worms either. "Why do you even talk with me if you don't want to answer my questions?"

Your question would be weird for anyone but him, because, Lord, does your passenger like to talk.

And not just to himself, you quickly realised. Johnny loves having debates, says the wrong thing on purpose and watches how you speed through fear of his retaliation to polite attempt to correct him to genuine annoyance you push down to telling him that he doesn't know what the fuck he is even saying.

Doesn't like being called dumb, though, which is something you also very quickly found out. Made a mistake of throwing it his way in a heat of the moment and Johnny's entire face went blank, muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Don't call me that, bonnie. That's not nice." He said, knees suddenly pressing into the back of your driver's seat, pushing you chest first into the steering wheel. Not yet enough to send the two of you into the ditch, but close enough.

"Okay. Got it. Sorry, mate. I'm sorry, won't do that again." You quickly breathed out, grip tightening because if you crash the car in the middle of the night in some dead-dark woods, it's an entirely new can of worms to open.

And you don't want to get stuck with Johnny in this place. Frankly, you wouldn't want to get stuck here even if you were on a tourist bus of 52 people, but no one really is asking you.

"Johnny." He correct you a minute after, pressure of his knees finally getting off of your lower back. Oh, thank you Jesus, for the man has surprising sharp kneecaps. His eyes are unblinking in the rearview window when you glance at him through it, but he is no longer frowning.

Stuck between wanting to talk to you again and driving the point across.

"I'm sorry, Johnny." You repeat, glancing him in the eyes, slowing down as you do. Both your speech and your car in case he actually changes his mind and decides to kill you for being a little mean to him.

"It's okay, bonnie. Ye didnae mean it, right?" He apparently chooses mercy because he slings his arm around the headrest of your seat, his fingers grazing your sweater. "Just got carried away. Happens to me all the time."

You nod quickly, confirming that no, of course, you didn't mean it. You don't want to die gruesomely in the place with nothing around after all.

"I like yer reactions." he shrugs after another moment, snapping you out of it. Tilts his head to his other shoulder, eyes narrowing. "Thinking about something?"

Johnny likes having your eyes on him and doesn't like when your mind wanders somewhere he cannot follow, because to his great displeasure he cannot crawl into your head and cannot open you up without dealing some permanent damage.

"Nothing in particular." You lie and he nods slowly, before swinging his legs off the backseat, suddenly so much closer. Suddenly filling up the space of your car, his face close to you when his palm squeezes the back of your head and smashes your mouth against his.

Grins in your lips, when you yelp and try to pull back.

No way but through, is there, bonnie?

Johnny, licks into your lips — filthy and messy, squeezes your cheeks with his other hand to force your mouth open so he can push his tongue in your mouth. So he can growl into your teeth when you whine, palms pressing against his shoulders. Not distracted now, are you?

He is hungry and blood-hot, he doesn't kiss you like a normal person, instead practically climbing into the front seat to devour your mouth. Nips at your tongue, like a bastard he is when you finally relax.

"Gonna bite harder if ye lie to me again." Johnny murmurs and coos for you open your mouth back.

So he can kiss it better.

I hate him, you think, gripping the steering wheel and his grin in your rearview mirror stretches from ear to ear, when you lick your lips without realising it.

Do you now, bonnie?

Do you really hate him?

"Bonnie." Johnny whines two hours into the drive through the outskirts of a small town you don't even remember the name of. "Bonnie, c'mon, ye can hear me."

"Wish I couldn't." You reply without thinking, eyes dry and aching, your mouth tasting like wet toilet paper and not the fresh kind.

God, you do need that bloody stop and a nightful of sleep.

Johnny's silent for the remaining hour of your aimless wandering until you finally spot a place where you can get a room for the night. Where he is not going to hover over your shoulder every step of the way.

Does not help much, because when you come back in the morning, refreshed and mostly on your feet yet again, Johnny's cold fingers on your nape nearly give you a bloody heart attack.

Bastard laughs when you flinch, noses at your neck — his tongue following in a way that makes the hungry heat between your legs pulsate, some sick part of you itching for him to bite down, so you can finally get a proof of his teeth.

"Will you tell me where you want to go so I can drop you off?" You ask after a beat and he huffs out air, licks your nape to taste the shower gel he can smell and salt of your skin, practically purring with satisfaction.

"No." Johnny says, easy and gleeful, all too happy to make your life harder. "But ye can drive around the place and see if anything work for me, bonnie. Maybe ye'll get the spot right and I'll leave ye for good."

Wouldn't that be something?

You don't want to bring Johnny back to your apartment or even to your city, given his ability to follow you through your travels, completely disregarding whatever flimsy protection the silver amulet was supposed to give.

In any case, other than rest you didn't have much plans and since he does not plan to leave, you might as well take some time to explore the surrounding settlements, no matter how small or boring.

You came for the views, did you not?

Views, my ass, you think grimly, standing near your car in the middle of the night, gas station cheerfully-shiny behind your back.

Johnny is a nocturnal creature, you found out quickly and he does not fancy exploring the lakes or whatever else nature has to offer, instead egging you on to take him for a joyride as soon as the sun sets.

So here you are now. No one but you and that reefer that pulled up just a few minutes after you — it's driver watching you a little too intently.

You have been eyeing him for the last couple minutes, praying that it's just paranoia, that you are just tired or that the guy is just sleep deprived.

He is a big man with heavy eyes, when he passes you for the first time, glancing at your car.

He is smiling in a way that makes your heart drop somewhere down in your feet when he finally approaches, covers the exit with his frame and angles himself toward you.

"You are a sight for sore eyes. Passin' through or visitin' anyone? I could help with the routing if you're lost. God knows it's easy 'round these parts." He laughs, expecting your tension to ease, only it doesn't happen.

You don't like strangers and you don't like when the trap you against your car while you are just trying to load up on some bloody gas.

"I'm quite busy, sorry, we are leaving soon. Appreciate the offer, though."

It's a common bloody occurrence, because you travel alone, because you look like an easy catch, because you don't like making a fuss and maybe, this sort of men notice it from afar.

Only the man crowds you, smiles knowing that you have nowhere to run and no one to turn to. He has seen that you got out of the car alone, that you paid for gas all on your own, that your front passenger seat is empty.

It's a chance and probably there aren't that many of those around these parts, you think grimly, familiar terror of "freeze, just stay still, just keep smiling, just play dead" circles your brain like filthy water the drain.

"Don't see anyone with you, love. C'mon, you could give me a little help…" He makes a gesture with his fist and you have to swallow the scream that never comes out anyway. What's the reason to make a sound when there is not a person to hear your tree getting sawed down?

What's the point if it just makes them angry and makes them mean and makes you cry?

"Bird said she's busy, you daft cunt." Your saviour isn't a knight in shining armour, not even a human when he sneers his words out, somehow so much bigger than you remember.

Johnny is a dark monstrous thing when he drags the truck driver away from you, his grip breaking the guy's shoulder because the anguished wailing cuts through the midnight air, making you flinch.

You didn't know a human being could sound like that. You didn't want to know that they could.

But the uncomfortable sticky feeling is still inside of your chest, settles in your urge to pull the collar of your t-shirt higher, makes your skin itch with the vulnerable 'i need to cover up' that you squish immediately. You didn't do anything wrong.

You have nothing to be ashamed of.

But Johnny catches the look on your face, stares for a long moment before his face morphs into something horrifying — skin wax-stiff and eyes dead, he smiles like the creature of nightmares.

His hands too long, his legs unnaturally twisting when he smashes the man down on the wet asphalt.

Johnny is a monster that you don't know and never wanted to see, because anger presses him down on all fours, his human body twisting to move with terrifying speed when he is no longer bipedal.

He crawls to the wheezing terrified truck driver and you don't make a sound, because whatever he is, you don't want him to remember that you are still there.

Johnny smashes the man's skull against the pavement — once and hard, before he closes his maw of a mouth on his nape and drags the unconsious bloke under the truck parked nearby.

He does not get off of all fours, his wrists turned in the opposite direction as his palms wetly plap on the pavement when he scurries in the dark with his…evidently, dinner.

You can't see him but still feel his eyes on you. The familiar prickle at the back of your neck, the tears burning your waterline because you cannot get in a car with that.

You won't, you'd rather just stay on the sidewalk on this empty gas station and sob your soul out into the instant ramen or whatever they have to offer.

Johnny re-emerges in twenty minutes, seemingly calm, even though one of his legs is still twisted at an angle that should not be possible.

You try your best not to look at his left arm, knuckles of which brush the pavement.

Nope, see no evil, perceive no evil, acknowledge no evil.

His eyes crinkle when he sees you anxiously loitering, obviously waiting for him to come back, and without thinking much — he sways forward — noses at your jaw and cheeks, huffs out air in your ear, smiling when you shiver, trying to shake off the tickling feeling.

"Could've left without me, bonnie." He says, smile widening when you blink at him, terror easing its clutches on you when he laughs, warm and hoarse. "Didnae think about it, did ye? I'm flattered. Come on, get in the car, I cleaned the trash up." Johnny adds conversationally and when he grins at you, his teeth are bloody.

You swallow the urge to retch, bile rolling up to your throat and nod quickly.

You know that he knows how much it unnerves you.

You know it amuses him.

But alongside revulsion there is a strange sort of relief. The comfort in knowledge that no one is coming back to leer at you. No one is going to be touching you tonight, you won't need to fight anyone.

Johnny took care of it, voice in your head echoes and you swallow, pulling the pump nozzle out and putting it back. Your hands trembling as you screw your gas cap back on, trying not to think too much about anything.

Johnny has saved you.

The rest…the rest doesn't matter.

He is happy and chatty the rest of the drive to your airnbnb, stretches out in the backseat talking to you about tours he did in various parts of the world.

When you risk another glance back at him — his limbs are back to normal. He looks like a person again.

He looks like Johnny again.

Chuckles when you breathe out a sigh of relief, sinking back into your driver's seat.

Squearmish much, are we, bonnie?

"What happens if we don't get to where you wanna be dropped off?" you ask him later, watching Johnny's legs stretched out on the backseat.

He is still sitting right behind you, back resting on the passenger door.

Your passenger is silent for an uncharacteristic minute, before you hear him move — stretching his stiff neck, vertebrae popping in the silence of your car.

"Then death will not part us, bonnie." He says after another minute, slowly, like it's a joke he thought about for a while now and finally got a chance to tell. You can hear the glee of anticipation coursing in his tone. Waiting for your reaction. "But there's no rush. None at all, I've got all the time in the world." Johnny adds, casually and peeks from behind of your driver's seat so you can see his excitement and not just hear it. "So ye take yer time."

You sigh, more shuddering out a breath than letting it out. You need to figure out where he wants you to drop off or he will stay forever and you don't think you need this big wolfhhound of a man in your backseat.

"What happens if the car's gone? Like, totalled in the crash or anything?" You ask him before you have the chance to really think whether you should and Johnny is silent for an uncomfortably long moment. You expected his smile to melt off his face or for his eyes to harden or something else to happen, that would indicate his displeasure.

Instead he just seems glad that you asked.

"Ye'll need to ride something, bonnie. A bus, a cab, hitching a ride from a friend or a stranger. Hell, even the elevator. I'm your passenger. I'll follow." He shares, bracing his forearms on the knees to lean forward so you can see his big head better. So the scent of wet soil and blood hits you in the stomach.

Bastard, he knows how much you dislike the smell. Does it on purpose anyway.

He can in fact follow you to the bus, you checked exactly one time, finding his hulking carcass of a body right next to you as soon as you took a ride. His paw of a hand squeezed your thigh in warning.

Riding up dangerously close to your crotch to give you a hint.

Johnny has no shame and Johnny knows that people won't look his way twice unless he wants them too — he has all the opportunities world has to offer to indulge in public sex or groping if he feels like it.

Gives you a chance to think if you really want to try out what is going to happen when he isn't just kissing you with the hunger of a starved stray dog, but unzips your jeans too, getting you into his lap.

Bus is gonna bounce a little, bonnie. It's a rough drive. Sure you are up for it?

You are decisively not up for it so you get off on the next stop, his coarse thumb rubbing the sweat at your nape.

See? Nice and easy. No need to make it any harder for yourself.

"Can you even drive?" You ask him suddenly days later, still not rid off your passenger, still driving around the region to see if he finally decides to leave.

No such luck so far, but Johnny pauses, tilting his head to you before his eyes even follow, still stuck to a dark underbush on the side of the road.

You can see the moment his brain catches up to your question, smile spreading on his face slowl and imminent. Too happy.

"Aye." Johnny nods, easy and ready, long fingers playing with the stray thread poking out of your ripped jeans, his touch dancing close to the naked skin of your thigh. "Would ye like to be my passenger, bonnie?"

You don't want to investigate the ripple that goes through your chest, anxiety rising its head, intoxicating urge to just give in without a thought curling around your temples and filling your mouth with saliva.

You could use a second driver. You could use some rest.

"What happens if I let you drive?" You ask, casting a sideways glance at him, feeling the motion of his fingers acutely.

"We'd be each other's passengers." He shares innocently. That sounds child-like, almost sweet, but something in the phrasing of it makes you pause.

"What does it mean, Johnny?" You try press on but he just huffs out air in your ear, his fingers suddenly working at your belt. "What are you even—", gets swallowed when he tucks his paw of a hand in your pants, pushes in — the fold your belly now pressed against his wrist — his palm cupping your mound shamelessly.

Makes sure you can't push your thighs back together and can't hit the breaks, not when his finger strokes the inseam of your pussy almost affectionately.

"Ye worry a lot, bonnie." He hums, his eyes staring at you through the rearview mirror when you glance up and swallow, throat working audibly in the quiet of the car. "I can take care of ye. I will if ye let me."

It is painfully obvious what he means by that when his hand moves up and instead of leaving your cunt alone, he just slides his whole palm in your underwear. Nudges your lips open with his knuckles — the heat of you sending a shiver through Johnny, sweet ache unrolling in his stomach.

The fat of your pussy cushions his fingers, makes his vision swim with the urge to send the car in a nearest ditch and then take his time licking every scrap and wound clean. Licking you clean, head squeezed by your thighs.

Could fuck you nice and hard on the site of the car wreck, could make your head empty and your electronics dead, could keep you happy and his.

But that can wait. Maybe he'll do it later, when he knows you'll survive the collision.

"Eyes on the road." Johnny murmurs, words the coarse wool that makes you sweat, something in his tone choking down the resistance on the tip of your tongue.

Okay, whatever. He can do what he wants, like always.

"You are insane." You breath out, air coming out with a hiss when he chuckles, stroking you up and down. Dips the pad of his finger against your hole to retreat with a disappointed sigh.

He'll need to get you wetter for that.

"Ye like it." Johnny states, even if it sounds like a question, his attempt to fish for praise would have been cute if he didn't stroke your clit when he did. "And ye like me." He adds, dragging his middle finger around it, noses at the side of your neck. Curls himself around the back of your driver's seat like a hungry barnacle. "Do ye like me, bonnie?" Is breathed out in your skin, hot and humid, hot and needy — his voice creaking with want. "Tell me ye like me."

You don't respond immediately, too focused on not letting your eyes close when he strokes your clit again, making your knees twitch.

"Tell me, bonnie." Johnny insists, pressing down harder and you almost let go of the steering wheel. "C'mon, say it. Do ye like Johnny, hm? I want to hear it."

Your mouth is dry and numb, face burning because you just want to stop this bloody drive and you want to grind on his hand and you want him to shut up and never answer a single other question when he asks them in that voice.

"Yeah." Is more of a breath than an answer, but Johnny is close enough to feel your heartbeat — he catches it immediately and makes a low gleeful sound. Halfway to the giggle, his nose grazing the column of your throat. "I like you, Johnny." You add quickly, chest heaving because he is everywhere — touching and stroking, nuzzling into you like a big dog he is.

Johnny collects the slick from your hole, brings it back up to your clit so that the next time he strokes it, your mouth falls open. Breathing stopping somewhere up your throat.

"And ye're gonna let me drive, aye?" He purrs in your ear, his fingers holding you open so he can touch you exactly how he wants, pulling out the first whimper. "Ye'd be my passenger and ye'd let me drive, so I can take care of ye. Right, bonnie?" Johnny breathes out, drags his tongue up your neck and laughs when the car swivels on the road, because you were dangerously close to let go of the steering wheel. "Just say it, bonnie."

The heat drags through your body like a way, your thighs twitching to close when he finally sinks his fingers into you. Always so greedy with everything he wants to take from you.

Because you pick him up and the world isn't as dark anymore. You pick him up and he has company again. You pick him up and you give and give and give.

You run from the biggest dog in the world so it can chase you, because you like when he does that. You have to like it, bonnie, Johnny knows you must like it.

"I- okay." You breathe out when his fingers curl inside of you, his thumb rubbing your clit again. Faster this time, feeling the way you clamp down on him and soaking every bit of it in. "I'll let you drive, Johnny. Next time we stop, I'll let you drive."

"Thank ye, m'eudail." He breathes out, moving closer, his frame filling up all the space in your rearview mirror, his eyes adoring and slightly apologetic. "I promise I'll kiss it better, okay?"

You don't have the time to ask what did he mean by that, because Johnny works his fingers deeper into you and bites at your nape, Johnny wraps his other arm around you to keep you against the driver's seat.

You don't notice the intention until Johnny's forearm suddely presses against your throat, hard and immovable, his voice soothing when you thrash, fingers of his right hand sinking in your hole. Mean and greedy, eager to touch you all over while you are still burning hot and angry.

"You…arsehole-" You choke out, vision swimming, cold terror thumping in your head, diluting the heat of his touch when Johnny's teeth graze your cheek, shy of biting a chunk out of you.

He smooches you, happy and giddy, eyes crinkling in the same way they did on the late night gas stop when he killed a truck driver.

"Easy, m'eudail, easy." He coos, like you are a stubborn horse, like he is not being a fucking maniac when his thumb strokes your clit and the pressure on your throat gets heavier, constricting your airways. "Let me take care of ye. I promise I can be good." Johnny strokes your clit again, his grin widening when you spasm around his fingers, cumming.

Only his forearm tightens around your throat, sends your brain into a frenzied overdrive because you can't breath at all now, you can't talk and can't scream, your hips buckling against his hand, vision quickly darkening.

It's not nice to die like that, Johnny knows it. But the orgasm should have taken the edge off of your terror and the pain of crushed windpipe.

But you will be good as new when you come back.

You see, bonnie, being a passenger means that you will always need someone else to take you places. Someone else to take the lion's share of work and nowadays it gets harder and harder to get anyone to pick him up.

Much less like him the way you do.

But if you can take turns, then it changes everything. You can get as many vacations as you need and he can finally see the lads again.

You two can always stay together, Johnny thinks wistfully, one hand of the steering wheel — the road unrolling in front of the burning gaze of car's headlights. Good thing you hit the brakes when you were losing consciousness, instead of sending the car into a tree.

Would be a real hassle to find a new driver for two passengers instead of just one.

Johnny glances at your slumped body in the passenger seat, cheeks aching with the force of his smile. It has been such a long time since he had companions and you know, for what it's worth, he has always been romantic.

And even if he wasn't very lucky in life, ending up shot and tossed out of the moving car — he sure as hell scored with you, when you tried to make him ache less. When you gave a dead man Ibuprofen and took him to the hospital, lamenting about the blood and the pain and the shock.

Aye, I got really really lucky with this meet up on an empty road, Johnny thinks, palm warm on your cool nape, thumb smearing the sweat at the base of your hairline.