bear 🐻

It’s not every day that Oscar wakes up spooning another man, let alone Lando Norris. But as the rays of the early morning sunrise fill the bedroom, blinding Oscar as his eyes peel open, it’s exactly what’s happening. He lay on his side, his pale legs intertwined with Lando’s smooth bronzed ones, while his toned arms wrapped around Lando’s smaller frame. As Oscar came to, he finally grasped just who he was actually laying with, while also noticing the heavy and throbbing erection between his legs. 

Some time throughout the night, Lando kicked the sheets off the bed. He must’ve been telling Oscar the truth when he said that he often got hot at night. With the duvet discarded on the floor, it left Oscar with no choice but to use Lando as his furnace. 

The blood rushing to Oscar’s cock made him ache, with every pulse sending a shockwave of pain throughout his core. The only thing giving Oscar any sense of relief was Lando’s firm backside pressing back into him, providing Oscar with euphoric yet agonizing friction when Lando shifted in his sleep. 

Oscar could tell from the sunrise that it was early morning, earlier that he would’ve liked to wake up. He could lay like this for hours, with Lando’s warm body entangling his own. Oscar remembered going to sleep with a shirt on, but now it was nowhere to be found as he lay with Lando skin-to-skin. Oscar’s fingers splayed out on Lando’s impressively toned abs, he wondered when Lando found the time to go to the gym with such a busy work and party schedule. 

Lando’s quiet snores broke the silence in the room, clearly knocked out from a very eventful night. Oscar felt terrible about what happened, he couldn’t believe someone Lando was in a relationship with last week would try to drug him at Max’s party. Oscar was grateful that he was observant enough to notice Lando’s avoidant body language towards his ex. If Oscar wasn’t so focused on Lando that night, it’s possible that no one would’ve stopped him from leaving with the man. 

But Oscar didn’t want to think about that, especially not when his lifelong crush was in his arms with his face illuminated by sunlight; Lando looked heavensent, like an angel they sent to bless the Earth. 

Oscar was also trying not to think about the way he could feel the curve of Lando’s ass against his dick, even through their boxers. Oscar knew that he wouldn’t be able to get his erection down before Lando woke up, he had to handle it somehow. Figuring a shower was needed anyhow, Oscar decided he’d cleanse himself of his sins by washing them away.

Relieved of her offals, she swings empty-bellied from her hind legs, which are bound by too-tight rope that cut into her ankles. Her hooves reach for the dying grass beneath her, dead eyes looking longingly at the earth she can no longer smell, but the dew on her nose has you believe that she's trying to sniff the dirt and all the petrichor it has to offer.

Simon stands beside her armed with a knife. He doesn't bother to don gloves as he makes a cut around her neck, throat giving away easily beneath the blade, allowing him to shove it through her so he can get his fingers under her skin. Cold blood stains his nails as he pulls at her hide. It comes of sickeningly easily. You suppose he's used to the gore—the blood and the smell of a fresh kill. When he gets to the bullet wound in her chest, he stops and presses his forefinger to the hole. He wipes his face afterwards, and you swear you see him lick at the ichor before he continues.

You feel hollow as you watch him work. Hunting is only natural; you certainly have no quarrel with the act of it, but there's something about him. He's enjoying it too much. The thrill of the kill. The flesh in his hands. As he discards more parts of her, punctured lungs and blood clots larger than his palm, the crows feast on it. A wretched circle of life. One that leaves the contents of your stomach spoiled.

Most of all, it sickens you that he's desecrating the one thing you've felt has been truly yours in this place. That tree. Swinging vines of a willow, weeping for the blood that now soaks her roots. The iron will rot, but the tree will stand tall with the memory—the scar—of what Simon did to her. That poor doe who has now lost her head, yawning neck already becoming a fun meal for the crows to play with.

"Bonnie."

Johnny's hand lands on your arm, soft and gentle. Pride would swell in your chest at such a feat if it weren't for the disgust that overwhelms you at his mere presence. You've been training him well over these last few weeks, treating him like the dog he's become, and your only relief is that it's been paying off, at the very least.

When you turn to face him, you find one of your sweaters in his hand. You blink. It's the one your mother gave you for your 21st birthday. Pristine condition, its the same as it was when you left it in your closet months ago—before all this happened.

"Figured you might need this," he offers.

Smiling, you take it from him and slide it over your shoulders until the zipper is snug under your chin. You've done a lot of pretending lately. An A-list actress madly in love with the human dog who keeps her caged; sometimes it makes you feel better to pretend that all of this is exactly how you want it to be. So you smile, and laugh at his jokes, and take interest in his artistry, but there is a line. A line that blurs every day. One that you make certain not to wander too far past, lest you lose yourself for good.

"Ready?" Johnny asks with a lopsided smile.

You nod. "Ready."

This is the first time you've exited through the back door without a rope tied to your collar like some wild animal. It's uncannily close to freedom. The wind toys with your grown out hair as the redolence of dying foliage fills your nose. The trees are burning. Fiery red leaves wave at you from their too-tall branches while the finches hop along the slender arms, chirping as they build their nests for the incoming winter.

It's cold, but it's nothing your jumper can't bite away as you wrap your arms around your torso. The edge of the property is lined with the gaping mouth of the forest that you've resided in for the last handful of months, and you're not deaf to the way it calls to you. If you're treated like an animal, you may as well act like one. A scurrying rat along a bed of leaves, wild fox hopping from burrow to burrow, a sparrow taking flight high enough where no man can reach you.

This fleeting idealistic hope vanishes as the zephyr changes. You smell her—the doe. Strung up and decapitated, legs bound by a rope it'll never escape. Her meat is strong and fresh. The game of it is so tangible you can feel the raw flavor washing over your tongue already, and it's enough to make you shiver.

Simon's attention lands on you and Johnny as you approach his working area. His bloodied hands curl around his knife as he warily eyes the two of you. Even after all this time, he doesn't seem to care much for you. Much like the cat your father always claimed to have never wanted, yet unlike your father, Simon hasn't warmed up to you at all in the slightest.

"Bonnie and I are going for a walk," Johnny says. You're surprised at the finality in his tone. He's not requesting, but informing.

The brute glares for so long you think he might growl. Send you back inside. Lock you in the kennel you've narrowly avoided for so long. Instead, he turns back to the doe and begins to slice at her hind legs. "Be back within an hour, hear me?"

Armed with his journal in one hand and you in the other, Johnny leads you into the woods. Stale grass quickly becomes padded with fallen leaves and bending twigs as you follow a lightly worn path through bramble and stale berry bushes. He talks about the trail markers, and you find that—for once—you aren't annoyed with his voice.

There's a notch in a tree, digging through the bark, that reminds him to turn. Another tree that's fallen reminds him to climb over the body, something he graciously assists you with. You palm old ant trails and gawk at the way the sun has bleached the once rich color from the wood.

Eventually, the shaking of leaves is joined by the quiet bubbling of a stream that slices through the forest like an old scar. Rocks protrude from the earth, some as small as gravel, others large enough for you to find refuge on as Johnny drags you to sit down. His babbling stops the moment he flips open his journal and arms himself with a pencil. You watch the way his face tenses with concentration. Graphite to paper, strokes bleeding onto the canvas. You hate to admit the talent he has, but you could watch him do this all day.

After a handful of time passes, you realize you've seen this place before. The bed of this stream is one you've noted in Johnny's drawings months back, and now you're able to witness the numinous talent in which he captures his muse. The change of the water, how it flows over smooth stones—a little piece of nature hung up in prison.

"Do you like this spot?" you ask, interrupting the hum of the forest. "You've drawn this creek before, haven't you?"

"Reminds me of home," Johnny admits.

You try to mask the way your brows raise, but you can't scoff at the opportunity to dive into him, to carve until you hit a major vessel. "What was home like?"

Like he usually does with your question, Johnny pauses. You can see how far he has to reach into his brain, to wade through the mush, in order to find a coherent thought. A simple memory that hasn't been shattered by the bullet that tore through him. Pencil resting flat on his journal, he leans back until his face greets the sun. He's trying his best, but nothing bubbles to the surface.

"I had a cat at home when I was a kid," you share. You're not sure why you expose yourself in such a way, but you know there's a good chance he'll forget this knowledge sooner or later. "She was a grey cat named Misty. Every morning she would wake me up by dropping her toys on my face until I got up to feed her breakfast."

Johnny's subject of drawing has changed now, attention back at his journal. Shapes morph into figures. The beginnings of a cat. You don't know why you allow a smile to pull at your lips.

"She had big ears that always faced forward. Mum always joked that she could hear our thoughts, but her eyes were twice as big, pupils always so wide," you indulge. "She stole some of my ice cream once. Left it on the table to let it soften one summer. Her entire face was smothered."

Johnny chuckles and you watch as your childhood cat comes to life on paper. "What kind of ice cream?"

"Vanilla." Your voice softens. "It's my favorite."

There it is—another piece of you lost.

Your conversation is cut off by the sudden eruption of wooden cracks. It's as if a giant has grabbed the strong trunk of a tree in his hands and begun to bend it, sending splinters of wood and bark to rain throughout the woods. The cracks come rhythmically and in quick succession. There's a short burst, then a stretch of silence before they continue once more.

Eyes closing, you listen to the strange sound. You've run into it before.

"A woodpecker," you hum.

Just as you've named the creature, it sounds again. Rapid fire taps, then stillness. Humming, you look to Johnny who's paused his art to listen to the music. His gaze stares at his journal, nearly piercing through the pages while his hand forms a fist around his pencil. You hadn't realized it before, but now you note his breathing and how heavy it is. Even his shoulders move with each inhale, growling on the exhale.

"Johnny?" He doesn't move, doesn't react. He's wide-eyed and motionless, a statue trapped in a human body. Cautiously, you reach a hand up to rest on his shoulder. "Hey, everything alright?"

The moment your palm presses against the taut muscles on his arm, Johnny swings. His elbow drives into your sternum, sending out all the air from your lungs as you topple backwards, body rolling along the ground until leaves and twigs are stuck in your hair.

Sputtering, you wipe the grime off your face as you prop yourself on your elbows. Johnny's journal falls to the ground as he stands, nails pawing at the side of his head. The woodpecker works once more and his arms raise, bent slightly at his elbows. It's as if he's holding a gun. A rifle. A weapon of destruction.

Panting, you slowly rise to your feet. Pain screams throughout your chest as you press your fingers against your sternum, hissing at the blood that pools between the skin and bone. Johnny's pacing now. Head tilted to the side, it's as if he's got a target in sight—something he's ready to kill.

It hurts to swallow, but you force it down anyway. As you begin to sneak backwards, your foot snaps through a twig. Like the keen dog he is, Johnny's head snaps to the side until his eyes land on you, cold and calculated. You do not recognize this man before you. Not the hard line of his brow, or the malevolence that soaks his gaze. You watch as his finger twitches. He huffs when there's no recoil.

You know well enough to run when he stalks toward you—dog turned wolf, you suppose a predator is always a predator no matter what clothing it wears. It was silly of you to think you could soften him, and you curse yourself for it as you pant along the trail, legs pumping for all they're worth.

Johnny doesn't say anything. He doesn't coo your name like he usually does, or beg you to come back to him, he simply gives into the chase. Still, you hear his voice echoing in your head as you follow the trail back to your prison. You note the blur of each fabricated sign that marks the trail as you run for all you're worth.

Never in a million years would you have figured you would be running to Simon for help, yet here you are, being chased as if you're another doe to be hung in your willow tree.

But you've been caged for so long that you've forgotten how to fly. Your lungs scream with each stride, and you can taste blood in your mouth as they begin to choke. Still, you pump your arms and legs even as your vision begins to darken. Dark, tunneled walls close in on you, squeezing you tight, throwing you underground as if you're in a cave, a coffin, your final resting place.

Johnny's hand catches the collar of your shirt. It tightens around your throat, forcing you to stop in your tracks as you're quickly yanked back, tumbling back into the earth. The back of your head collides with with a flat stone which sends shockwaves throughout your skull. Your vision flashes. Sunlight through the canopy of leaves glitter like stars in the sky. You think you could lay there all day to enjoy the view if it wasn't for Johnny looming over you.

Messy strands of hair stick to his sweat slicked forehead as he huffs down at you, shoulders rolling as if he's in pain. You've never seen his eyes so wide before. He's soaking you in. Not allowing a single detail to escape him.

Your cataplexy leaves you the moment he drops to his knees, thighs straddling around your hips, weight pinning you down. There is no sexual fervor to his movements. There is only the imposition of his pelvis against yours and his hands on your shoulders.

"Okay… Okay Johnny, you win." A game. That's what this is. That's all anything ever is to him. You try to let him down easy as you push against his chest, but as always, he doesn't budge. "You can stop now."

But this isn't Johnny. Not really. The narrowing look in his eyes doesn't belong to him, nor do the hands that wrap around your throat. "Who the fuck do you think you are, calling me that?" he growls. Each syllable bites. He sounds more like Simon than he does himself. "Fucking Russians know everything now."

Pressure snakes around your throat, throwing your vision into pulsing patterns as Johnny's fingers squeeze you. As his weight falls against your trachea, you feel the sudden and violent urge to cough, but when your lips part to inhale, you can't get anything. There's a squeak. The leather of your collar pinches your neck. You try to pry his fingers off of you, but he rocks forward.

You didn't think it would end like this, with Johnny staring down at you in fear. You always imagined it would be Simon to bring about your demise. Still, you're glad it's happening outside. Here in the forest and not in that prison.

"Johnny? The fuck're you doing?"

His voice. Rough like nails scraping along a chalkboard. They rumble in your brain as the world begins to darken and your legs start to thrash through the foliage. Johnny's fingers still refuse to give.

Finally, you realize you don't actually want to die. Not now. Not like this. You're gonna break her. Not with him watching. Not with that woodpecker still hammering in the distance. Gonna break your fuckin' toy? Your palm presses against his face but he only shakes you off, even as you pitifully slap against him. She was a pain in the arse to get, don't fuckin' break 'er. You search through the leaves. Get off of 'er Johnny. Something cold presses against your palm. Fuck's wrong with you?

You slam the stone against the side of Johnny's head, allowing it to kiss the keloid near his temple. Yelping like a wounded animal, he falls to the side and rolls in the dirt and you can finally breathe. The first breath you gulp feels like ice in your throat. Too fresh. Too real.

Before he can change his mind or regain his strength, you begin to crawl backwards on your elbows, crab walking until you feel the distance between the two of you is safe. He's writhing on the ground. Fingers curling into his head, forehead pressed against the soil, groaning out something that sounds like a growl but feels like a sob.

Just as you go to rest, something yanks on your collar. You wince, fresh bruises already being toyed with, and the redolence of gore fills your nose. Simon's bloody hands hold you steady as he glares down at you. You've never seen his eyes so wide before. Sallowed with fury. The blood of his freshly gutted doe slathers along the underside of your chin. He likes the way that color looks on you. You fear he might want to cover you in more of it.

"Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't break your fuckin' neck," he demands. His tone drips with poorly restrained anger.

You're floundering. It's hard to get the words to form when your throat throbs the way it does, soft palate sticking together each time you swallow. "He was… gonna kill me."

"Really think I'm that fuckin' stupid, huh? Wouldn't've let 'im get that far." He leans closer, and the scent of death only grows stronger. You wouldn't be surprised if he had sneaked a few bites of the doe while you and Johnny were wandering on some pretend date. "I handle the discipline 'round 'ere. I let your mistake slide the last time you laid your hands on 'im, but you're only growing more disobedient."

"Yeah, well, you can't really afford to get rid of me."

Simon's head tilts to the side but his grip only grows stronger. Even you're surprised at the words that come out of your mouth, slurred in a half daze, deoxygenated brain blabbering without thought. His silence stretches for longer than it should—he's waiting. Slow and patiently waiting to see what a pathetic mutt like you pukes up.

"You'll have to start all over. Convince Johnny that I left, but he's grown too attached to me for that. He's gonna wanna find me, and you can't afford to let me go yapping to the authorities either, so you'll have to kill me, but Johnny won't let that happen. You can't stand to break his heart." Grabbing his wrist, you convince yourself to lean closer despite the way your abdomen burns trying to keep your torso off the ground. "I might be a pathetic mutt, but I'm still human underneath this collar. You might've convinced Johnny, but not even you can kid yourself out of that you sick, stupid—"

Your world goes black. Something snaps your neck to the side and a bell blossoms in your ear. Your cheek stings like you've been stung by a wasp. When you blink, Simon's fingers are pinching your jaw, forcing you to look at him. The muscles in his jaw flex, dancing beneath his skin, but he doesn't speak. Maybe he agrees with you. Or—more likely—he doesn't think he could hold himself back from rendering your neck a boneless mess if he spoke.

Johnny's wince brings Simon back down to earth, and his fingers relinquish the grip he holds on your collar, sending you falling backwards. Huffing, he steps back and stares down at you. Bloodied fingers curl and uncurl as if they're trying to recall what your flesh felt like between them.

"Pick yourself up," he demands. "We're goin' home."

Despite the pounding in your head and the ache in your throat, you nearly smile. It might not be a clear victory, but you've certainly never gotten Simon to tuck tail like this before.

As he turns his attention to Johnny, you sit on your haunches while mustering the most saccharine voice you can manage. Still, your eyes are filled with too much discontent to truly mean it when you say, "Yes, Simon."

It’s not every day that Oscar wakes up spooning another man, let alone Lando Norris. But as the rays of the early morning sunrise fill the bedroom, blinding Oscar as his eyes peel open, it’s exactly what’s happening. He lay on his side, his pale legs intertwined with Lando’s smooth bronzed ones, while his toned arms wrapped around Lando’s smaller frame. As Oscar came to, he finally grasped just who he was actually laying with, while also noticing the heavy and throbbing erection between his legs. 

Some time throughout the night, Lando kicked the sheets off the bed. He must’ve been telling Oscar the truth when he said that he often got hot at night. With the duvet discarded on the floor, it left Oscar with no choice but to use Lando as his furnace. 

The blood rushing to Oscar’s cock made him ache, with every pulse sending a shockwave of pain throughout his core. The only thing giving Oscar any sense of relief was Lando’s firm backside pressing back into him, providing Oscar with euphoric yet agonizing friction when Lando shifted in his sleep. 

Oscar could tell from the sunrise that it was early morning, earlier that he would’ve liked to wake up. He could lay like this for hours, with Lando’s warm body entangling his own. Oscar remembered going to sleep with a shirt on, but now it was nowhere to be found as he lay with Lando skin-to-skin. Oscar’s fingers splayed out on Lando’s impressively toned abs, he wondered when Lando found the time to go to the gym with such a busy work and party schedule. 

Lando’s quiet snores broke the silence in the room, clearly knocked out from a very eventful night. Oscar felt terrible about what happened, he couldn’t believe someone Lando was in a relationship with last week would try to drug him at Max’s party. Oscar was grateful that he was observant enough to notice Lando’s avoidant body language towards his ex. If Oscar wasn’t so focused on Lando that night, it’s possible that no one would’ve stopped him from leaving with the man. 

But Oscar didn’t want to think about that, especially not when his lifelong crush was in his arms with his face illuminated by sunlight; Lando looked heavensent, like an angel they sent to bless the Earth. 

Oscar was also trying not to think about the way he could feel the curve of Lando’s ass against his dick, even through their boxers. Oscar knew that he wouldn’t be able to get his erection down before Lando woke up, he had to handle it somehow. Figuring a shower was needed anyhow, Oscar decided he’d cleanse himself of his sins by washing them away.

Relieved of her offals, she swings empty-bellied from her hind legs, which are bound by too-tight rope that cut into her ankles. Her hooves reach for the dying grass beneath her, dead eyes looking longingly at the earth she can no longer smell, but the dew on her nose has you believe that she's trying to sniff the dirt and all the petrichor it has to offer.

Simon stands beside her armed with a knife. He doesn't bother to don gloves as he makes a cut around her neck, throat giving away easily beneath the blade, allowing him to shove it through her so he can get his fingers under her skin. Cold blood stains his nails as he pulls at her hide. It comes of sickeningly easily. You suppose he's used to the gore—the blood and the smell of a fresh kill. When he gets to the bullet wound in her chest, he stops and presses his forefinger to the hole. He wipes his face afterwards, and you swear you see him lick at the ichor before he continues.

You feel hollow as you watch him work. Hunting is only natural; you certainly have no quarrel with the act of it, but there's something about him. He's enjoying it too much. The thrill of the kill. The flesh in his hands. As he discards more parts of her, punctured lungs and blood clots larger than his palm, the crows feast on it. A wretched circle of life. One that leaves the contents of your stomach spoiled.

Most of all, it sickens you that he's desecrating the one thing you've felt has been truly yours in this place. That tree. Swinging vines of a willow, weeping for the blood that now soaks her roots. The iron will rot, but the tree will stand tall with the memory—the scar—of what Simon did to her. That poor doe who has now lost her head, yawning neck already becoming a fun meal for the crows to play with.

"Bonnie."

Johnny's hand lands on your arm, soft and gentle. Pride would swell in your chest at such a feat if it weren't for the disgust that overwhelms you at his mere presence. You've been training him well over these last few weeks, treating him like the dog he's become, and your only relief is that it's been paying off, at the very least.

When you turn to face him, you find one of your sweaters in his hand. You blink. It's the one your mother gave you for your 21st birthday. Pristine condition, its the same as it was when you left it in your closet months ago—before all this happened.

"Figured you might need this," he offers.

Smiling, you take it from him and slide it over your shoulders until the zipper is snug under your chin. You've done a lot of pretending lately. An A-list actress madly in love with the human dog who keeps her caged; sometimes it makes you feel better to pretend that all of this is exactly how you want it to be. So you smile, and laugh at his jokes, and take interest in his artistry, but there is a line. A line that blurs every day. One that you make certain not to wander too far past, lest you lose yourself for good.

"Ready?" Johnny asks with a lopsided smile.

You nod. "Ready."

This is the first time you've exited through the back door without a rope tied to your collar like some wild animal. It's uncannily close to freedom. The wind toys with your grown out hair as the redolence of dying foliage fills your nose. The trees are burning. Fiery red leaves wave at you from their too-tall branches while the finches hop along the slender arms, chirping as they build their nests for the incoming winter.

It's cold, but it's nothing your jumper can't bite away as you wrap your arms around your torso. The edge of the property is lined with the gaping mouth of the forest that you've resided in for the last handful of months, and you're not deaf to the way it calls to you. If you're treated like an animal, you may as well act like one. A scurrying rat along a bed of leaves, wild fox hopping from burrow to burrow, a sparrow taking flight high enough where no man can reach you.

This fleeting idealistic hope vanishes as the zephyr changes. You smell her—the doe. Strung up and decapitated, legs bound by a rope it'll never escape. Her meat is strong and fresh. The game of it is so tangible you can feel the raw flavor washing over your tongue already, and it's enough to make you shiver.

Simon's attention lands on you and Johnny as you approach his working area. His bloodied hands curl around his knife as he warily eyes the two of you. Even after all this time, he doesn't seem to care much for you. Much like the cat your father always claimed to have never wanted, yet unlike your father, Simon hasn't warmed up to you at all in the slightest.

"Bonnie and I are going for a walk," Johnny says. You're surprised at the finality in his tone. He's not requesting, but informing.

The brute glares for so long you think he might growl. Send you back inside. Lock you in the kennel you've narrowly avoided for so long. Instead, he turns back to the doe and begins to slice at her hind legs. "Be back within an hour, hear me?"

Armed with his journal in one hand and you in the other, Johnny leads you into the woods. Stale grass quickly becomes padded with fallen leaves and bending twigs as you follow a lightly worn path through bramble and stale berry bushes. He talks about the trail markers, and you find that—for once—you aren't annoyed with his voice.

There's a notch in a tree, digging through the bark, that reminds him to turn. Another tree that's fallen reminds him to climb over the body, something he graciously assists you with. You palm old ant trails and gawk at the way the sun has bleached the once rich color from the wood.

Eventually, the shaking of leaves is joined by the quiet bubbling of a stream that slices through the forest like an old scar. Rocks protrude from the earth, some as small as gravel, others large enough for you to find refuge on as Johnny drags you to sit down. His babbling stops the moment he flips open his journal and arms himself with a pencil. You watch the way his face tenses with concentration. Graphite to paper, strokes bleeding onto the canvas. You hate to admit the talent he has, but you could watch him do this all day.

After a handful of time passes, you realize you've seen this place before. The bed of this stream is one you've noted in Johnny's drawings months back, and now you're able to witness the numinous talent in which he captures his muse. The change of the water, how it flows over smooth stones—a little piece of nature hung up in prison.

"Do you like this spot?" you ask, interrupting the hum of the forest. "You've drawn this creek before, haven't you?"

"Reminds me of home," Johnny admits.

You try to mask the way your brows raise, but you can't scoff at the opportunity to dive into him, to carve until you hit a major vessel. "What was home like?"

Like he usually does with your question, Johnny pauses. You can see how far he has to reach into his brain, to wade through the mush, in order to find a coherent thought. A simple memory that hasn't been shattered by the bullet that tore through him. Pencil resting flat on his journal, he leans back until his face greets the sun. He's trying his best, but nothing bubbles to the surface.

"I had a cat at home when I was a kid," you share. You're not sure why you expose yourself in such a way, but you know there's a good chance he'll forget this knowledge sooner or later. "She was a grey cat named Misty. Every morning she would wake me up by dropping her toys on my face until I got up to feed her breakfast."

Johnny's subject of drawing has changed now, attention back at his journal. Shapes morph into figures. The beginnings of a cat. You don't know why you allow a smile to pull at your lips.

"She had big ears that always faced forward. Mum always joked that she could hear our thoughts, but her eyes were twice as big, pupils always so wide," you indulge. "She stole some of my ice cream once. Left it on the table to let it soften one summer. Her entire face was smothered."

Johnny chuckles and you watch as your childhood cat comes to life on paper. "What kind of ice cream?"

"Vanilla." Your voice softens. "It's my favorite."

There it is—another piece of you lost.

Your conversation is cut off by the sudden eruption of wooden cracks. It's as if a giant has grabbed the strong trunk of a tree in his hands and begun to bend it, sending splinters of wood and bark to rain throughout the woods. The cracks come rhythmically and in quick succession. There's a short burst, then a stretch of silence before they continue once more.

Eyes closing, you listen to the strange sound. You've run into it before.

"A woodpecker," you hum.

Just as you've named the creature, it sounds again. Rapid fire taps, then stillness. Humming, you look to Johnny who's paused his art to listen to the music. His gaze stares at his journal, nearly piercing through the pages while his hand forms a fist around his pencil. You hadn't realized it before, but now you note his breathing and how heavy it is. Even his shoulders move with each inhale, growling on the exhale.

"Johnny?" He doesn't move, doesn't react. He's wide-eyed and motionless, a statue trapped in a human body. Cautiously, you reach a hand up to rest on his shoulder. "Hey, everything alright?"

The moment your palm presses against the taut muscles on his arm, Johnny swings. His elbow drives into your sternum, sending out all the air from your lungs as you topple backwards, body rolling along the ground until leaves and twigs are stuck in your hair.

Sputtering, you wipe the grime off your face as you prop yourself on your elbows. Johnny's journal falls to the ground as he stands, nails pawing at the side of his head. The woodpecker works once more and his arms raise, bent slightly at his elbows. It's as if he's holding a gun. A rifle. A weapon of destruction.

Panting, you slowly rise to your feet. Pain screams throughout your chest as you press your fingers against your sternum, hissing at the blood that pools between the skin and bone. Johnny's pacing now. Head tilted to the side, it's as if he's got a target in sight—something he's ready to kill.

It hurts to swallow, but you force it down anyway. As you begin to sneak backwards, your foot snaps through a twig. Like the keen dog he is, Johnny's head snaps to the side until his eyes land on you, cold and calculated. You do not recognize this man before you. Not the hard line of his brow, or the malevolence that soaks his gaze. You watch as his finger twitches. He huffs when there's no recoil.

You know well enough to run when he stalks toward you—dog turned wolf, you suppose a predator is always a predator no matter what clothing it wears. It was silly of you to think you could soften him, and you curse yourself for it as you pant along the trail, legs pumping for all they're worth.

Johnny doesn't say anything. He doesn't coo your name like he usually does, or beg you to come back to him, he simply gives into the chase. Still, you hear his voice echoing in your head as you follow the trail back to your prison. You note the blur of each fabricated sign that marks the trail as you run for all you're worth.

Never in a million years would you have figured you would be running to Simon for help, yet here you are, being chased as if you're another doe to be hung in your willow tree.

But you've been caged for so long that you've forgotten how to fly. Your lungs scream with each stride, and you can taste blood in your mouth as they begin to choke. Still, you pump your arms and legs even as your vision begins to darken. Dark, tunneled walls close in on you, squeezing you tight, throwing you underground as if you're in a cave, a coffin, your final resting place.

Johnny's hand catches the collar of your shirt. It tightens around your throat, forcing you to stop in your tracks as you're quickly yanked back, tumbling back into the earth. The back of your head collides with with a flat stone which sends shockwaves throughout your skull. Your vision flashes. Sunlight through the canopy of leaves glitter like stars in the sky. You think you could lay there all day to enjoy the view if it wasn't for Johnny looming over you.

Messy strands of hair stick to his sweat slicked forehead as he huffs down at you, shoulders rolling as if he's in pain. You've never seen his eyes so wide before. He's soaking you in. Not allowing a single detail to escape him.

Your cataplexy leaves you the moment he drops to his knees, thighs straddling around your hips, weight pinning you down. There is no sexual fervor to his movements. There is only the imposition of his pelvis against yours and his hands on your shoulders.

"Okay… Okay Johnny, you win." A game. That's what this is. That's all anything ever is to him. You try to let him down easy as you push against his chest, but as always, he doesn't budge. "You can stop now."

But this isn't Johnny. Not really. The narrowing look in his eyes doesn't belong to him, nor do the hands that wrap around your throat. "Who the fuck do you think you are, calling me that?" he growls. Each syllable bites. He sounds more like Simon than he does himself. "Fucking Russians know everything now."

Pressure snakes around your throat, throwing your vision into pulsing patterns as Johnny's fingers squeeze you. As his weight falls against your trachea, you feel the sudden and violent urge to cough, but when your lips part to inhale, you can't get anything. There's a squeak. The leather of your collar pinches your neck. You try to pry his fingers off of you, but he rocks forward.

You didn't think it would end like this, with Johnny staring down at you in fear. You always imagined it would be Simon to bring about your demise. Still, you're glad it's happening outside. Here in the forest and not in that prison.

"Johnny? The fuck're you doing?"

His voice. Rough like nails scraping along a chalkboard. They rumble in your brain as the world begins to darken and your legs start to thrash through the foliage. Johnny's fingers still refuse to give.

Finally, you realize you don't actually want to die. Not now. Not like this. You're gonna break her. Not with him watching. Not with that woodpecker still hammering in the distance. Gonna break your fuckin' toy? Your palm presses against his face but he only shakes you off, even as you pitifully slap against him. She was a pain in the arse to get, don't fuckin' break 'er. You search through the leaves. Get off of 'er Johnny. Something cold presses against your palm. Fuck's wrong with you?

You slam the stone against the side of Johnny's head, allowing it to kiss the keloid near his temple. Yelping like a wounded animal, he falls to the side and rolls in the dirt and you can finally breathe. The first breath you gulp feels like ice in your throat. Too fresh. Too real.

Before he can change his mind or regain his strength, you begin to crawl backwards on your elbows, crab walking until you feel the distance between the two of you is safe. He's writhing on the ground. Fingers curling into his head, forehead pressed against the soil, groaning out something that sounds like a growl but feels like a sob.

Just as you go to rest, something yanks on your collar. You wince, fresh bruises already being toyed with, and the redolence of gore fills your nose. Simon's bloody hands hold you steady as he glares down at you. You've never seen his eyes so wide before. Sallowed with fury. The blood of his freshly gutted doe slathers along the underside of your chin. He likes the way that color looks on you. You fear he might want to cover you in more of it.

"Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't break your fuckin' neck," he demands. His tone drips with poorly restrained anger.

You're floundering. It's hard to get the words to form when your throat throbs the way it does, soft palate sticking together each time you swallow. "He was… gonna kill me."

"Really think I'm that fuckin' stupid, huh? Wouldn't've let 'im get that far." He leans closer, and the scent of death only grows stronger. You wouldn't be surprised if he had sneaked a few bites of the doe while you and Johnny were wandering on some pretend date. "I handle the discipline 'round 'ere. I let your mistake slide the last time you laid your hands on 'im, but you're only growing more disobedient."

"Yeah, well, you can't really afford to get rid of me."

Simon's head tilts to the side but his grip only grows stronger. Even you're surprised at the words that come out of your mouth, slurred in a half daze, deoxygenated brain blabbering without thought. His silence stretches for longer than it should—he's waiting. Slow and patiently waiting to see what a pathetic mutt like you pukes up.

"You'll have to start all over. Convince Johnny that I left, but he's grown too attached to me for that. He's gonna wanna find me, and you can't afford to let me go yapping to the authorities either, so you'll have to kill me, but Johnny won't let that happen. You can't stand to break his heart." Grabbing his wrist, you convince yourself to lean closer despite the way your abdomen burns trying to keep your torso off the ground. "I might be a pathetic mutt, but I'm still human underneath this collar. You might've convinced Johnny, but not even you can kid yourself out of that you sick, stupid—"

Your world goes black. Something snaps your neck to the side and a bell blossoms in your ear. Your cheek stings like you've been stung by a wasp. When you blink, Simon's fingers are pinching your jaw, forcing you to look at him. The muscles in his jaw flex, dancing beneath his skin, but he doesn't speak. Maybe he agrees with you. Or—more likely—he doesn't think he could hold himself back from rendering your neck a boneless mess if he spoke.

Johnny's wince brings Simon back down to earth, and his fingers relinquish the grip he holds on your collar, sending you falling backwards. Huffing, he steps back and stares down at you. Bloodied fingers curl and uncurl as if they're trying to recall what your flesh felt like between them.

"Pick yourself up," he demands. "We're goin' home."

Despite the pounding in your head and the ache in your throat, you nearly smile. It might not be a clear victory, but you've certainly never gotten Simon to tuck tail like this before.

As he turns his attention to Johnny, you sit on your haunches while mustering the most saccharine voice you can manage. Still, your eyes are filled with too much discontent to truly mean it when you say, "Yes, Simon."

Johnny won't stop messing with his pen. Repetitive tinks echo in the small space in his art room as he hunches over his journal, shading away at some image just beyond your view. It's distracting. That slip of plastic against plastic. It's not as acidulous as a firing pin striking metal—nor is it nearly as dangerous—but it's enough to get the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Enough to make you remember the weight of an empty gun biting into the palm of your hand. It's unforgiving, like a bad dog.

Brain too perforated to properly concentrate, you tap the eraser of your pencil against the notebook in your lap. The scrawlings of a madwoman taint the paper between its faded blue lines. It's a gift from Johnny. Shoved it into your hands the other day because he said you looked bored. Told you that you fidget too much without something to busy yourself with, and he needs you to sit still in order to draw you properly. It was unusually astute of him to notice something so small about you where he usually is blinded to any morsel of discomfort that you display. You've descried something more than just a lowering haze over the sapphire of his eyes, but you're unable to put it into words.

He's different these days. You don't know why.

Either way, you are grateful for the escape. You've repurposed this old, fading notebook into a diary of sorts. Some place to pour your thoughts out to something that has no other choice than to listen—something that cannot bite you in return for being soft. For so long, you have carried too much inside of you; not just the pain and fear, but the little things, too. You nearly cried when you realized you finally had a place to put it—this weight—down.

It wasn't until you flipped to the first page that you realized you don't know what the date is. Your passage of time has been warped again and again. A tablet dissolving in your drink made you lose days. Johnny taking you on the floor while a football game droned in the background made you lose years. You try to count the time in other ways. The length adding to your hair. Golden leaves catching fire on the fringes of the forest. An algid whisper on the wind dancing through the open window. The way summer dies with a sputtering pule.

These days, you measure the turn of the earth by feel. Months. Hours. It doesn't matter to you how long you have been trapped here; you only care about how much life you have left to live once you escape.

Johnny. John? Soap. Like the bar. Never feels clean. Never makes me feel clean. Scottish. Tattoo on forearm. Some coat of arms? Military. Military wannabe? Scar on head. Shot? Simon said so. When? Who? Matching scar.

No. Never

Simon. Simon. Just Simon. English. Manchester? Guns. Hunter. Big guns. Fucked up nose. Fucked up everything. Scars. One on ribs. Butcher? Smells like blood. Hate him. Animal. Too many tattoos. Took me as a pet for Johnny. Mad man. Bad man.

Me. Not Bonnie. Something else. Someone else. Bartender. How old am I? Need haircut.

Miss my jumper.

Miss my mum.

Miss ice cream.

Had an interview before I was taken. What day? Missing since…. June? Summer. Hot. Need a better job. Wonder if they're looking for me. Is anyone looking for me? Always called mum on Sundays.

Does her phone ring now that I'm gone?

No. Not gone. Not yet. Not ever.

I hope her phone rings.

Scribbles muddle the margins between fractured words and thoughts. You can conjure nothing more than empty, uneven eyes and dried flies lining burnt window sills. What creativity lingers in the fringes of your mind stays in the mess of grey matter; never something to brand the off white paper in your hands. Masterpieces cannot be created in a cage. You save what little energy you have for dreaming. You dream of a day when your teeth grow long enough they don't whittle down to sand when you try to sharpen them.

"Bonnie?"

Johnny moves quietly. That, or your ears are growing old. Too busy trying to recall sounds you used to love; unable to make sense of the cacophony that constantly surrounds you in this tomb. He's already eye level with you by the time you look up. Crouched next to your plushy chair, a wide hand sits on the armrest that props your elbow. He's got his journal in hand, and you are very aware of the way he curiously eyes your own. You slam it shut with the pencil between the pages before setting it aside.

He's taken so much from you—you won't let him take this, too.

His eyes follow your hands with question, but he says nothing as he turns his own journal for you to see. Truly, Johnny has a talent you've rarely seen others show off. Meticulously crafted sketches brand the paper, etching your likeness in grey graphite. He captures every curve of your body as you lean in the recliner, eyes narrow with concentration. You're drawn with a smile on your face, but those muscles in your cheeks have been dormant for so long you're not sure you could conjure the expression if you tried.

"That looks lovely," you compliment. It's not a lie, but it rolls off your tongue like it is.

"You're lovely," he fires back. Playful. Light.

There it is again. That look. Heavy lids threaten to smother the blue hue of his eyes—weighted with a concupiscence so thick it's palpable in the air that separates you from him. You hope one day it solidifies—turns into some protective barrier—but it never will.

It starts like it always does. The slicing of the threshold, brittle like eggshells and bones. You don't think about it as he presses his lips to yours. You keep your mind full of other thoughts because if it's empty, there's more room for worse things. Bitter things. Sharp things to shove into your empty skull. A man can only stare at a meal for so long before his hunger consumes him. You are liquid. A flowing being molding into the shape of his body as his torso pins your legs against the recliner. It's easier to give in. Hurts less. Angers Simon less. Even with that monster gone you behave because the walls have eyes. Dark brown irises that do nothing but stare and smirk.

"Ow!"

But you still have your limits, and your body aches more often than it is numb these days. Johnny's hands haven't grown any softer. He paws at you with claws that can't retract and you wince. Your breasts are sore from weeks—no, months—of abuse. They're silent wounds that will not heal and always, always scream.

Then, it stops.

Johnny's hands retract from your body at the same time that his lips do, leaving you breathlessly dumbfounded. Blinking away the confusion, your eyes settle on him as he retreats back to sitting on his haunches. Blue eyes shimmer in the late summer sun as he shifts. For once, you are the one above him instead of the other way around. He looks up at you as if you're an angel—

—as if he's begging for forgiveness.

"Did I hurt you?" he asks.

"Erm… a-a little bit," you admit stiffly.

"I'm sorry."

There's something in his eyes that unsettle you. You think back to that night when his body thrashed and squirmed next to you on the bed, fear reverberating through the mattress. Panicked and screaming; unable to rip himself from some nightmare. How he screamed about wanting to go home. Your stomach twists at the very thought, and it only gets worse when you realize that—for once—he looks more human than mutt.

"It's okay. I… I know you didn't mean it," you whisper.

"Never. I would never hurt you," he concurs. A breadth of stillness freezes the room and for the longest time you hear nothing but the chatter of birds. Johnny reaches for you with a singular hand, and rests it on top of your leg, heavy and warm. "Bonnie, are you afraid of me?"

Vocal cords turning to stone, your throat seizes as you attempt to answer. "No," you lie. Cautious eyes flicker to the walls around you like they'll crumble at any moment. Something slices through the prostration in your chest, and a strange cogitation flickers in the back of your mind. It's as strong as it is terrifying, but you find your body executing it before you're able to stop it. "But… Simon does. He terrifies me."

Johnny's mouth fills with well meaning mirth. "He's scary alright, but he won't hurt you. Simon's not like that."

"I'm still worried he might," you admit. A hesitant hand reaches out and rests over Johnny's. The smile on his face quickly melts away into surprise as he stares up at you with parted lips. "But you… you wouldn't let that happen. Right?"

"Never." His response is quick. Sharp and eager as he leans closer. His other hand comes up to rest upon yours, sandwiching you into a small embrace. "Can't ever let anything bad happen to you."

Something shudders in your chest. Your diaphragm, maybe. It quivers and quakes as if you hold a bird's nest within yourself. Foreign words begin to scratch at the back of your tongue, tickling your throat. You know well enough to bite them back, but as you stare at Johnny's smile—lips pulled wide—someone stronger chokes the words out for you.

"You're so good to me, Johnny," you whisper, voice whiny as you scoot forward n the recliner. Slipping your hand out of his grasp, your palms instead reach up to cup his face. His smile fades into parted lips and bated breath as your thumbs rub against abrasive stubble. You don't think you've ever seen his eyes dilate so wide before. "Such a good boy, aren't you?"

"I try to be," he swallows.

"I know you do."

It takes an eternity for your lips to meet his. Just when you think you've halved the distance, it only grows, and you're unsure if it's because of the scream of betrayal in your chest, or something worse. He groans when your bodies finally reunite, and you play into the fantasy his sick brain is infested with. Precious Bonnie. So supple and pliant in his hands. If only he knew you were this soft because muscles cannot properly tenses around broken bones.

You pull Johnny onto the recliner by his collar, but you ensure that you're the one to land on top. Legs spreading wide to accommodate his thighs, your knees squish into the sides of the arm rests, sending journals and pencils flying to the ground. When he paws at your chest again, you bite back the urge to push him away. To slice your nails through the back of his hand. Fingers pressing into tender flesh, he stares up at you like he's finally able to feel the heart beating beneath his palms.

"You wanna fuck me?" Those words sting on the way out, but you attempt to distract yourself from the pain as you grind down onto Johnny's lap. He nods, hips pathetically bucking up. "Yeah? Ask me, then."

Thick brows pinch together has he parts his lips. It's as if his request is on the tip of his tongue, but his hands have a mind of their own. Wandering. Grabbing. Pinching.

"No," you chastise. "Use your words, Johnny."

"Please. Please, Bonnie." It's pathetic. He says the words like he's speaking to Simon.

"Good boy," you coo. "Gentle now. Gentle, Johnny."

He fumbles with the fly of his jeans, all too eager. His cock hardly has time to spring free before he's already making a mess. Precum drips everywhere, staining the band of your shorts as his reddened tip slaps against you. Too worried about keeping your power, you don't bother to properly remove your clothes. Instead, you move the gusset of your shorts and panties to the side before sinking down onto him. This has to be quick. You promise yourself that it will be.

All the while, you remind Johnny to be gentle, gentle, gentle.

Even when you're in control, it still hurts. There's that stretch and sting as you split yourself open, but you take it slow. Steady. Unlike Johnny, you allow yourself to adjust. He's panting beneath you by the time you fully take him. You feel so full of rot it upsets your stomach, but you try to mask your trembling with a gentle rock of your hips. His moan is cacophonous, and your fingers itch to dig into his throat and render his vocal cords useless, but you relent.

Always, always relenting.

There is an intense appetency for blood that writhes in the back of your mind. Even as you fake your moans and rock your hips, you want to take your hands and dig. Fingers piercing through flesh, cutting through bone; you wouldn't stop until Johnny's heart is in the palm of your hands. Still beating. Still fresh. You could squeeze it for an eternity and it still would only be a fraction of the pain you've been made to endure.

You hate him. You hate him like a mother hates her daughter. Like how eyes hate mirrors. How the sun hates flesh.

"Johnny?" you choke out. "Do you love me?"

It takes a moment for him to catch his breath, mouth stuck open as he stares up at you. "Aye. So much, Bonnie."

"Yeah? So you'd do anything for me?" you challenge. You try not to wince as he butts up against your cervix, but you know you can't afford to stop.

"Yes."

"Anything I ask?"

"Anything you ask. Fuck, Bonnie, I'm-"

"I love you, Johnny." It's acid. Pure bile on your tongue. You nearly choke on the words, but you repeat them again. "I love you so much."

You hide your face in the crook of his neck when he comes. Thick fingers dig into your hips as you hold still, allowing him to spill inside of you like he always does. His pulse throbs against your lips and you restrain the urge to take the artery into your maw and bite down. There's nothing in your mouth but pathetic, brittle teeth. You don't even thing you could break through his skin. Still, you dream of it. Running the tips of your fingers along his jaw, you yearn for the day when you have weapons and tools to free yourself. It's a long, agonizing process. One you're not sure you have the patience for.

And so, when you lean back to look at him, you stare at his lips. Soak up the way the delicate skin parts as he smiles up at you, allowing you to catch sight of his teeth. You might not have sharp canines, but he does. You know first hand the way they can dig into your lip and draw blood from skin. Fingers twitching, you yearn to pull the canines from his mouth, to wield them for yourself, but you know you're not strong enough.

But maybe—someday—you can be the guiding hand. Point a finger and say go fetch and have Simon's head delivered to you. That day is too far over the horizon for you to view, but the vision of it is so clear in your mind that it's enough for now. You've taken the first step.

"Good boy," you croon as you thumb over his bottom lip. "Good boy, Johnny."

You'll just have to keep walking.