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rileyverse · 4 months ago

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Not mine, but subscribe to the patron, y'all. you won't regret it. Def not as ~cruel caregiving~ as Rileyverse, but hits the *button*.

leftovers - 1

content: bully butch/femme victim, post-apocalyptic setting, finger suckin, hair-pulling, kidnapping, masturbation, noncon/rape, scent kink

9.2k words -> second part to come.

I'm posting this early to direct traffic to my Patreon. Things like this are accessible a month before I post them for free. It's $5 or $10. This is also unedited and kind of an exercise in dialogue lol so sorry if it's different than what's expected, I promise it's gonna get nasty.

In her dreams, there are sharp, staccato footsteps trailing behind her. Urgently familiar, but she can't place her finger on why.

Everything is fuzzy around the edges. Something pushes her forward, keeping her eyes anchored on some unknown point in the distance. She attempts to squint and see better—no luck. Repressing these memories is impossible. That's what they are, at the end of the day. Memories dredged up from the deep sediment that's gathered in her mind since everything went down some fifteen-odd years ago.

This must be one of those golden oldie recollections. Some oily, uneasy feeling creeps over her. When she manages to look down, she almost expects to see a pool of tar at her feet, slowly rising to swallow her whole.

There is something terribly familiar about this and when she turns, there's the sneering and triumphant face of her teenage torment.

Isabel.

Right—that's her. Abruptly, as she's grabbed, perspective flips and she's watching herself from outside her body. Isabel watches herself, some dreamy, gossamer iteration of herself, get pulled back. There's that lithe hand, squeezing her shoulder unkindly, and forcing her to follow. We have shit to do, let's go.

Isabel's stomach drops. Then, there's an odd falling sensation, her stomach doing flips, head spinning with vertigo—

—and she's awake, being carried over a shoulder. Her dad? One of the guys?

It's no matter, the next thing that claims her internal questioning is the heat. Everywhere she looks, there are flames. What was once a secure, safe farmhouse is now a death trap.

Isabel regains control of herself and attempts to lift her upper body. "What's going on?" Smoke curls in her lungs and her voice is half the volume it needs to be. Try again. Isabel hacks up a lung and calls out, "Can someone tell me what's going on?"

Her carrier grunts out a vague answer she can't hear. Isabel watches the fire devour a wall, the flames dancing along the panels and licking the ceiling as their strength compounds.

A shrill shriek threatens to escape her and she contains it until it becomes something manageable. She repeats her question, "What's going on?" No matter how she twists, she can't seem to catch a glimpse of her companion's face. She feels a narrow, thin shoulder digging into her and she's so frazzled she can't think of who this could be. He's tall, too and each step he takes makes her queasy.

"Talk to me?" She tries. Her voice is high and wavering. "I'm freaking out a little."

He clears his throat and she attempts to get a look at him—no luck again, but she does get an answer. "Calm down," instructs a hoarse voice. From the smoke and exertion, probably. "We need to get out of here."

Isabel goes limp and watches the floor transition from wood to stone—the stairs leading to the ground level of the main house. The smoke is permeating the air now and there is likely no clear space left. Everything begins sinking in for Isabel and she is distantly grateful to be carried right now. If she were alone, dropped in this hellfire with no guidance, she'd probably curl up in a ball and rock herself until catching fire.

All of this can be processed later, she decides. It is almost too easy to squeeze her eyes shut and think of better times. What was she going to do tomorrow?

Her carrier reaches the top of the stairwell and throws the door open. Somehow, the fire is worse up here. Isabel clings, still upside down and nauseous, to his shirt. Everything reeks of smoke—him most of all and noting this brings her more questions than anything. However, it is hard to question him when he's whisking her to safety. Isabel is appreciative despite the discomfort.

Flames run across the floor, leaving smoldering wood in their paths and her carrier is forced to maneuver through a minefield that was once a common area. Isabel belatedly notes that she could help out a little if she was put down, but keeps her mouth shut when a harsh snap echoes above her and a piece of the ceiling comes down.

Her savior, her carrier, kicks down the front door and fresh, clean night air floods her lungs so quickly that she nearly chokes on it. The arm tightens around her waist before depositing her on the ground.

Isabel hacks into her fist, eyes watering and lungs stinging from the smoke. Her coughs sound phlegmy and she is unsure if she should worry.

Then, she glances up and her savior is masked, suddenly eclipsing her vision and invading her space.

Isabel does not recognize his fiery blue eyes and the tan freckled skin visible through the mask's eye holes. The alarm sinks in a moment too late—she's too discombobulated from everything else happening. As she sucks in a massive breath, preparing to scream, he shoves something in her mouth and it swallows her shrill yell.

He holds her gaze for a moment, shaking his head, before groping around his jacket for something.

This can't be happening. Within ten minutes, Isabel's world has been flipped on its head so fast she's still reeling. This is not too unlike the initial collapse those years ago. It's the same sort of abrupt disaster.

While he's distracted, Isabel glances over her shoulder and watches more of the roof cave in. Paint bubbles, siding cracks, and shingles catch fire, spreading the curse of heat to the entire house.

The window of doing something has closed. He ties her wrists together with a painfully tight knot. As he finishes restraining her, a pair of black-clad figures step into the clearing they're in. He stands and walks to them, jumping into a murmured discussion they're blatantly keeping her out of. A part of Isabel struggles to understand if this is real or not. This is too outlandish—maybe she's still dreaming.

All of the men are masked. Isabel finds no kindness in their eyes, just a shifty, scary glint that makes her skin crawl. One of them has deep blue eyes, another brown. It seems a cruel joke for them to have such nice eyes. Since she's gagged, there is not much she can do besides look at them pleadingly. In the back of her mind, she understands this will do nothing for her. The malicious light in their eyes does not bode well.

Behind her, the fire rages on, crackling and causing her to sweat. She's acutely aware of how little clothing she wears. When she went to sleep early last night, she didn't expect to be torn from her bed and hauled from her haven.

The men are muttering to each other, keeping their voices low and gesturing to her. If it weren't for the fire, it would be too dark to make out what they're indicating. One of them points to her gagged mouth, then her lap. Isabel feels like she may vomit.

Then, one of them steps toward her, and she flinches so violently she fears her heart's stopped. That earns her a cruel, rasping laugh and the man grabs her by the throat. "Quiet down," he murmurs, deceptively soft and high. This is the one with the blue eyes, like the cloudless sky, or the ocean. Vaguely familiar, though that may be the adrenaline talking.

Isabel prays her eyes are conveying everything she can't say. Don't hurt me/I'm scared/Take me back. No use, he advances, only pausing to glance at the shadowy companions over his shoulder.

He says, "I'll go first," and slides a hand over her hair.

"Hey, hold on."

The hand leaves her hair and the man rises, staring down his companions while Isabel attempts to wriggle out of the rope. It's horribly frayed, so the fibers dig into her, tearing the delicate skin of her wrist and simultaneously dirtying the wounds it leaves. Perhaps if she shifts into the thicket, she can find something sharp to free herself while the dipshit trio argues over who gets what hole.

Then, she hears one of the others say, "Who the fuck are you?" She looks up and watches as one of them pulls the mask off the blue-eyed guy, and he stares at her, sneering, so horribly familiar in some way she can't place. It's on the tip of her tongue.

Isabel squints at his angular face and his cropped copper hair. In the span of a blink, he reaches for something in his jacket, turns, and raises a sawed-off shotgun. The way he stands with his feet apart, shoulders angled toward the masked pair, reminds her of watching basketball in high school.

A lifetime ago, Isabel played clarinet for her school's band and part of the requirements were going to games. He's standing the same way they did on the court, poised and ready to launch the ball. Then, it clicks and Isabel can't stop the despairing groan that escapes her.

Mercifully, none of them hear, too preoccupied with each other.

"Fuckin' vulture," one of the masked guys says and the redhead—somehow the same person who caused her so much grief in high school—points the gun at him.

"Give me all your shit and I'll tell you where I put your friend," he hisses. Isabel can't recall his name, but back in the day, he was definitely not a he.

Through her fading, fuzzy memories, Isabel drags something to the surface. The redhead back then, cornering her after school as they left their respective extracurriculars, and forcing her to eat the butts of cigarettes they found. At that time, he was a girl a grade above her, and relentlessly cruel for reasons unknown. Isabel never did anything about it, just took it and retreated home to bury herself under her blankets. What are the odds he'd find her now, after so much time, and so much destruction?

Then, her musing is interrupted as a gunshot shatters the delicate quiet, and softly crackling fire. Isabel instinctively presses herself flat against the ground, panting, heaving in fear. Her heart feels like it's rattling around in her chest like a fly trapped in a jar. She forces herself to take big, calming breaths and pointedly does not look at whatever's going on. Hearing it is enough, what little she can through the ringing in her ears. There's a struggle, another deafening gunshot, and someone's screaming. It sounds like when an animal has its leg caught in a trap.

Finally, she manages to look up. One of the masked men is lying on the ground in a heap. His face is turned toward her and in the faint red glow cast by the distant fire, she can see the blank eyes staring through the mask. Something dark pools around his head and Isabel averts her eyes in favor of watching the present struggle.

The remaining masked man is currently pinned under the redhead, who straddles him and holds the shotgun inches from his face. It is too difficult to see what exactly is going on, but Isabel thinks she sees the barrel shoved between his lips, his mask discarded, making him look like the young, scared man he is. However, it is difficult to feel bad for him when they were discussing minutes ago how to divide her up between the trio.

While they're distracted, Isabel attempts to wriggle into a seated position. It's difficult with her hands bound behind her back, but her legs are thankfully free, and she uses them to maneuver. Once she's seated, she watches the redhead squeeze the trigger and again, her ears are plunged into a ringing, stinging vortex of pain. She has no idea how he can keep a level head right now.

He stands, lingering by the fresh body for a moment before turning to her. Somewhere behind her, the flames surge higher and the light shines on his face. An hour ago, she dreamed of him, dwelling on those painful memories of when he was a vicious teenage girl. It seems like he's become much worse now and as he advances, Isabel's heart sinks into a black tarpit of despair.

"Hey you," he says and crouches in front of her. He reeks of sweat and gasoline. Isabel silently prays to anyone listening he won't recognize her, but there's a sinister glint in his eyes telling her otherwise. Then, he pulls the spit-soaked gag from her mouth and tosses it over his shoulder.

Isabel remains stubbornly silent and takes him in. One of the last times she saw him was a few weeks before graduation. She was still a junior, intent on keeping her head down and surviving the remaining week or so of school. Then, the source of her torment would be gone, and graduate, and go straight to an out-of-state university.

He has the same look in his eyes as he did when he shoved her to the ground years ago, forcing her to taste the gravel, cackling the whole time. It's difficult to recall if she ever tried to do anything about it. Maybe at some point, in the beginning. It's too distant now and there are more pressing matters at hand.

Isabel warily asks, "Did you do that?"

"Do what?" He's hardly listening to her, just examining her in a way that makes her feel like a piece of meat.

"The fire. Or was that your friends?"

He scoffs and reaches for her, pausing to laugh under his breath when she flinches back. "Chill out—I just need to get you out of here. And no, they weren't my friends." That does not answer her question but she stifles more questions.

Isabel recalls one of the masked assailants calling him a vulture and she curses her limited knowledge of the outside world. Being so sheltered is biting her in the ass. She does not know the first thing about this desolate wasteland and she has no one to blame but herself. How many times was she invited on scavenging missions or asked to help outside the fence? How many times did she turn those offers down in favor of remaining within the safe boundaries? Fear made her docile and it is time to reap what she's unknowingly sown.

It is no matter—he grabs her face and holds her jaw with a hard enough grip to make her wince.

The silence is awful and the ringing in her ears has barely subsided, so she hesitantly asks, "What's your name?" After so many years of weak attempts to repress painful high school memories, she finds she can no longer recall his name.

His mouth twists up in a smile. His teeth are in a sorry state, and it suddenly hits her that she's been living such a cushy, privileged life compared to everyone outside the fence's borders. Her ignorance floors her, and she averts her eyes.

"Not what it used to be," he replies vaguely and tightens his grip. Isabel knows she'll be bruised later, but it's likely the least of her problems. "I know you though. You're that fuckin' loser." He grins and shoves her face away. "Let's go."

Isabel remains on the ground, praying it opens up and takes her somewhere better. But the universe is cruel and allows him to haul her to her feet and push her forward. The darkness does nothing to conceal the sight of the two bodies and he forces her to step over one of them. The hot muzzle of the shotgun pokes her back and she's abruptly aware of her clothes—well-loved sweatpants, thick socks, and a loose shirt. This might be the worst traveling attire the world has ever seen.

It seems he's not interested in conversation, but as they walk further from the blazing farmhouse, Isabel grows more and more nervous. The quiet becomes a tangible thing, wrapping around her shoulders and filling her with sticky dread she knows she won't shake for days.

Before it becomes too much to bear, Isabel speaks. "Where are we going?"

There's a soft scoff as though he can't fathom that she'd speak up. "None of your business. When's the last time you got out anyway?"

Shame steals her words and she can't bring herself to admit she's lived out most of this horrible apocalypse in relative safety. As though he's reading her mind, he continues, "I can tell—you're all soft," and he punctuates himself by grabbing a generous handful of her ass through the shitty protection of her sweats.

Isabel's face burns long after his hand leaves her in favor of pushing her forward.

They walk into the cover of trees and Isabel knows the fence will be in sight soon. It feels as though her brain is full of tiny Isabels, each of them keeping her emotions at bay until she's safe. One of her sage little helpers tells her it may be a while until she's safe and Isabel glumly has to agree.

"So," he begins behind her, his tone sly and dread-inducing. "Tell me about that place. Did y'all think no one would ever find it, or what?"

Isabel purses her lips and is grateful he can't see her face. It seems despite her best efforts, she may crack in his presence. Eventually, she answers, "I'm not sure. I didn't pay close enough attention." Hearing herself say that makes her want to slam her head into a wall. This is all your fault, insists a voice from the back of her mind. You could have been more involved, and more prepared, but instead, you relaxed and thought everything would stay the same forever.

He shoves her harder and she stumbles, nearly tripping over the rough terrain. Hatred glares through that gesture and when Isabel rights herself, turning to look at him in shock, he's scowling at her. "Of course. Why would you if you had everything you needed?"

Isabel takes him in, letting her eyes travel up and down. Even in the darkness, she can tell he's dangerously underweight and likely hasn't bathed in days. He's wearing a loose black shirt riddled with holes at the seams and his scrawny arms look like they've been put through the wringer. It is hard to tell how bad things are when she turns a blind eye to it.

He holds her gaze for a few tense moments before waving her off. "Whatever. C'mon. We need to go."

As he clutches the back of her neck and forces her along the vague path, she wonders if some of her little community survived. It would explain his urgency. Fear keeps her silent. If he is anything like he used to be, which, he likely is, she is not keen to be on the receiving end of that anytime soon.

Then, she hears it. The low growl of distant engines. The pair from earlier likely had friends. As Isabel looks for any signs of life over her shoulder, her captor snaps, "Don't even try it."

Her brows furrow with confusion and she promptly looks away. "Try what?"

He sighs and her recollection of him grows a little stronger. He was always sighing, looking down at her like he'd rather be doing anything else with his time. Maybe she misinterpreted it.

"Calling for help or whatever you were gonna do," he says matter-of-factly as if she should know this. "I promise the gangs are worse—well, maybe not in terms of what happens physically."

Isabel's hackles raise when he says that, his voice all gravelly and eager. It sounds like he's seconds from expelling a lung. Did he have a habit of smoking? Or is this just the remnants from breathing smoke? It's too distant of a memory. She's left with her theories to go off of and what little he tells her.

"Don't worry." When he speaks, his voice is much closer, his thin lips nearly brushing against her ear. "I'm saving it for tomorrow."

Before she asks, he continues, "I'm gonna have to make you go back to sleep for some of the drive. At least until we get to more coverage. Can't have you scheming a way back!" He pauses, likely examining the path behind them. "There probably won't be much left after those shitheads finish up, though. Too bad for you."

Isabel only processes some of that statement. Her heart is still in bed, in her room underground, and she stops walking.

"Jesus—come on."

She stubbornly turns and wonders if she could manage a sprint with her wrists bound. Then, there's a sigh, the sound of him digging through his pockets, and the foulest smelling rag she's ever encountered is slammed over her mouth. Isabel slumps to the ground, her vision fading, and the last thing she sees are his wild blue eyes.

-----

Isabel's eyes open and for a few precious moments, it feels like she's waking up in bed. Her head is angled toward the sky and the sun is high enough to indicate it's late morning or early afternoon. Everything seems still and quiet until she turns. Then, there's the sharp pain in her back from being balled up in the seat, the rough rope burns on her wrists, and her captor's shit-eating grin.

"Mornin'."

Isabel fails to hide her scowl and he reaches over to smack her without missing a beat.

"Don't fuckin' look at me like that," he hisses and looks away, shaking his head like he's scolding a child. Isabel can't help but shrink back despite one of her stronger inner voices insisting she stick up for herself. Then what?

Instead of saying anything, Isabel directs her attention outside the window, where there does not seem to be anything but flat, scorched earth. Cheek throbbing where his hand connected. They're still in the region—the dirt is red and the same sorts of trees are speckled here and there, but other than that, there is no indication of their location. Isabel is unnerved to find that she recognizes nothing. For now, she will have to stay with him, for better or worse.

Discouraged by their surroundings, Isabel looks around the car, studying the beat-up dash and odd gauges she does not recognize.

He catches her staring and scoffs. "What? When's the last time you were in a car?"

Isabel feels her face doing that thing again—the automatic scowling, the are you fucking serious? expression she wears so well. This time, she's rewarded with an impressive eye roll and a dismissive, "Nevermind."

While he speeds down the empty road, Isabel considers his profile and tries in vain to dredge up any recollection. It has been years. Years of repression and moving on. Trying to build a life within the confines of the fence. Even as she thinks it, she knows she's lying to herself. Her life was stagnant—this is the most exciting, and unwelcome, thing that's happened to her since the early days after the collapse.

He looks vaguely the same. Same long, aquiline nose and ferocious blue eyes. Big hands with spider-leg fingers and knobby knuckles. Cropped hair as red as the last time she saw it. As she examines him, a memory surfaces. Him on the court, tall and crimson, launching a three-pointer. Isabel always hated basketball games because he'd always track her down after, make her suck on her clarinet reed while talking down to her about how gross it was.

"The fuck are you staring at?"

His snappy tone makes her reflexively look away. She's a grown woman, she should not feel this timid. She should be kicking and screaming and scheming ways out of this.

Instead, she asks, "What's your name?"

"I thought you were fucking with me when you asked earlier," he scoffs and reaches over to her, grabbing a handful of her thigh without hesitation. "You really forgot, didn't you?"

When the silence persists, he throws his head back and cackles. "No fuckin' way," the cruel laughter dies off and he sighs. "Well, I still remember we used to call you dickabel, which in retrospect, what the fuck was that?"

Isabel's heart sinks hearing that. That was one of the many things she forced to the bottom of her mental tarpit. Somehow, she manages to dryly snap back with a curt, "Yeah, very clever of you."

His hand leaves her thigh and her skin crawls where he touched her. For whatever reason, he still declines to answer.

"Well, it'll be just like old times." He turns to her and grins unkindly. The tight expression does not reach his eyes. "Cal, by the way."

"What?"

"Wow, you're still dense. My name."

Isabel glowers at him. "Okay. Thank you."

Cal mimics her expression and returns to staring out the window. Still acting like a shitty teenager. It doesn't seem like he's changed much in the past several years. Isabel does not know what to do with the revelation and is unsure if it will lead to anything good for her.

Now that she's awake, Cal seems hellbent on bothering her.

"Are you gonna ask where we're going?"

The stony look she gives him goes unnoticed. Up ahead on the road, a plume of smoke trails into the sky. Something's burning, but they're still too far away to see it in detail.

"Never mind—I don't wanna tell you and I gotta switch gears anyway."

Isabel wordlessly watches as Cal turns off the road, launching the car onto the rocky, unstable terrain.

"No, what're you gonna do?"

Cal snorts. "It's a reunion, it needs to be a surprise."

"That's not fair," she says stubbornly, and her voice traitorously wavers. Keeping up the mask of bravery may not last long.

"Nothing's fair out here. Maybe you'd know that if you had to live it."

There's a bitter note in his rough tone. On top of his blatant desire, and their thorny history, it now becomes apparent to her he's envious of her previous safety. It's wildly misdirected—Isabel was not in charge of anything, but she wouldn't have let him in if she was.

After debating whether or not she should answer, Isabel says, "I'm sorry stuff has been so bad for you, really." She's lying—truthfully, she's scared, exhausted, and nauseous from morbid anticipation. "There's no reason to take it out on me."

Saying that earns her another dry laugh. "What do you think I was doing in high school? Oh, my dense little punching bag. Just think about it for a second."

Isabel's brows pinch together. This is not something she wants to think about, but it's too late. "Don't justify all that."

"No, I'm not justifying anything. I just wanted to watch you cry and walk around all jumpy—like a skittish deer."

Something in her throat burns and she finds herself unable to speak.

Cal presses as the silence persists. Nothing but the low engine's rumble and the deep breaths she takes in a vain attempt to calm herself. He continues, "It's a nice coincidence I found you, though. It's been a while since I got my dick wet."

Even as Isabel's thoughts offer up plenty of horrible imagined ideas of what he's implying, she still asks, "What do you mean by that?"

Cal looks at her and his eyes trail down to her chest. It feels as though he's looking through her, watching her heart race erratically. "Don't tell me you're still a clueless, stupid virgin. You're already dense, this is too good."

Heat blooms in Isabel's face and Cal emits a disbelieving sigh. He sounds almost wistful when he continues, "I've been following those guys—the dead ones," he says as if she needs the clarification. "I did not expect to see you, so trust me, it really is a coincidence."

Knowing chance is responsible for the unwelcome reunion does nothing to ease Isabel's mind.

She changes the subject. "Is that what they meant when one of them called you a vulture?"

Cal chuckles. "Ah, yeah. I guess I kind of have a reputation around here."

Isabel uneasily picks at her nails. The skin lifts and she scratches at it until she's bleeding.

"There's not much to do but follow people around," he says unprompted. "And sometimes, they lead you right to the treasure." He grabs her chest hard, holding one of her tits through her shirt. "Damn! Didn't think you'd ever grow out of having those little mosquito bite tits. Congratulations."

Isabel struggles to ignore that and asks, "Do you do this a lot?"

"What?"

"Like, to have this reputation."

Cal shrugs. "It depends on what you think my reputation is."

The way he dodges questions and throws smug looks her way is having its intended effect; she's thrown off and flustered, and it's beginning to affect her judgment.

"Just be honest with me and tell me what you're gonna do or where we're going," she spits. "You're gonna do to me what you've been doing out here, aren't you?"

Cal grins, looking very pleased with himself. The car lurches, taking a shakey path into a massive plain—grasses of varying heights part before the jeep's grill.

"Maybe you're not so dense," he muses, raising a brow and looking her over appraisingly. "But, yes! You are just one of many lucky ladies."

When Isabel stares wordlessly, he continues, "So, what I do is, I follow these gangs around for a while, tracking them, tagging along when they raid a little community like yours, and then," he waves his hands around. "Y'know."

"No I don't," Isabel sighs and mimics his hand waving. It does not have the same effect with her hands bound.

Cal rolls his eyes. "Right. You're somehow still a virgin—"

"It's a little hard finding time to fuck when everything's in shambles," she snaps.

"I'm doing just fine. That sounds like a personal problem," he scoffs. "I always make sure to take a girl to go."

The few times Isabel sat in on her community's strategic meetings, she heard talk of scavengers that lifted more than resources. One woman in an allied village they traded with was kidnapped and was not found until weeks later. Her remains were too decomposed to bring home. Their scavenging parties were always warned to steer clear of any areas where vultures had been sighted.

"So you're a murderer," Isabel says bluntly, mostly forcing herself to acknowledge the facts. It's hard to know if this will help her, but she does know denial is not the way to go.

"Oh, c'mon. I'm much more than that. I make sure to appreciate each one before I get rid of them. The murder part you're so hung up on isn't why I do it."

Isabel suddenly does not want to keep talking about this. She knows it's immature, but she looks out the window and attempts to tune him out. It's a beautiful day that does nothing to distract her. The road carries them up, twisting around the Arbuckles, and bringing them higher so quickly Isabel's ears pop. Destroyed wind turbines litter the rolling hills. A lifetime ago, Isabel vacationed here with family. She wonders if the springs and waterfall are still here, someplace untouched by the scourge of people on the land.

"Hey, listen to me," he whines and guns the engine, the movement so abrupt it makes Isabel flinch.

"What?"

Cal swerves on the road and she looks over at him—he's too busy staring at her chest instead of where he's going. "You remember that last time we hung out?"

Hung out is an insane way to describe what they did.

"No," Isabel answers truthfully. "I kind of made myself forget everything." When she speaks, she sounds very small and it's unnerving to hear herself like that.

Cal hums thoughtfully and Isabel does not miss the amusement in his voice. "Guess I'll just need to remind you." He does not sound upset about that at all.

He coughs into his elbow and continues, "Well, it was right before I graduated. I was still pretending to be a girl." He cringes when he says that and catches her staring. "I know, freaky. Anyway, we were all in the auditorium for the rehearsal—or walkthrough, I don't fuckin' know. I guess you wouldn't know either since you never got to graduate."

Each thing he says somehow makes her feel more and more hopeless. She turns and slumps against the window, watching the clouds slow dance across the sky.

Not looking at Cal only encourages him and his hand rests on her thigh once more, this time not moving. His clammy palm feels damp and hot even through the protection of her sweatpants.

"But I skipped out early. It was a waste of time and I knew you were in the band room fucking around," Cal smiles as though recounting a fond shared memory. "I knew I wasn't gonna see you again after graduation, so I wanted to make the last time a good one, y'know? I'm sure you'd do the same."

Cal pauses, as though waiting for Isabel to say something, and the silence is nauseatingly awkward. Outside, the cliff faces rise around the road, flanking them from either side and Isabel feels more trapped than ever.

When she declines to answer, he shrugs and sighs, "I guess not. Whatever. I can't believe you don't remember this."

Isabel rubs between her eyebrows. Smooths the wrinkles forming there. It is impossible to come up with something to say.

"I had you leave your group and got you in the bathroom. You remember that?"

Flashes, maybe. There's the smell of stale disinfectant, bleach, and the low hum of old fluorescent lights. Isabel shrugs and will not give Cal the satisfaction of laying eyes on him.

"You should tell me what you're thinking about."

His voice has lowered as though he's holding back a cough and the odd tone makes her look over. Cal is evenly holding her gaze and a soft smile graces his lips. Despite the blatant intent to disarm her, it does the opposite, causing her skin to crawl with unease.

"I don't remember what you did," she says—a half-truth.

His eyes drop to her chest before he looks back at the road. "You remember how tiny your tits used to be?"

It finally hits her. Being backed into a stall, her heart pounding like she was about to die, face furiously burning but being too petrified to do anything. Cal was bigger then, too, smiling eagerly down at her as he pulled her shirt up.

"I took a picture."

Isabel remembers that now, too. The flash from his phone and being shoved back. Holy shit—are you sure you've started puberty?

What did she do then? It feels as though her mental walls have grown stronger in the second she's realized this. Battering against the barriers sectioning off her mind does nothing.

Cal continues, unaware and staring at the road. "I was gonna do it back then, y'know."

Although she does not want to know, Isabel finds herself asking, "What?" Her eyes are hopelessly locked on his face, even as he does not look at her and her stomach churns with unease.

Cal releases a scoff and his eyes briefly dart her way. "You'll find out soon enough," he says bluntly and Isabel is too unsettled to respond. She tucks herself against the door, as far away from the driver's seat as she can be, and closes her eyes in a futile attempt to nap. She does not know what else to do.

-----

By the time Isabel wakes, groggily rubbing her eyes and slowly coming to her senses, it is much later in the day. Almost sunset. Isabel always loved going topside to watch the sun fall and the many colors it would grace the sky with. It always made her feel a little childish, like her adoration for bodice-ripping romances and chick flicks, but the trivial nature of them grounded her. Kept her sane while some of her peers descended paths of violence and vengeance, never leading to anything fruitful.

In sleep, her face shifted until it rested completely against the window. Now, Isabel blearily opens her eyes to the sight of the reddening sky. She pretends she's waking from a nap on the hill outside. In a second she'll hear her sister calling her back in. Get back into the mundane swing of things.

But there's a hand on her thigh, jostling her too hard to ignore. Isabel reluctantly turns and meets Cal's sharp eyes.

"Good mornin'," he greets. Isabel gets deja vu and declines to respond. A glare will suffice.

That gets her a harsh laugh, more of a bark. It does not seem like he's been domesticated yet.

"Why the long face?" Cal mockingly pouts at her and cackles at the face she pulls. When he's done, he gestures to a pile of wreckage on the side of the road. "Pit stop."

Isabel squints at the dash. They're low on gas.

Cal skids to a stop a few feet ahead of the wreckage and fixes her in place with a glare.

"Don't even think about it," he snaps as he gets out, then holds up the same shotgun he used to kill two men, Isabel cringes away from it.

Then, the threat is gone and Cal circles around the jeep. Isabel looks over the seat and watches him crank the rear window down to grab an empty tank. He shoots her a wink before walking toward the crushed vehicle.

Isabel is woefully out of her depth when it comes to cars. It looks like it was a nice one before getting put through the wood chipper. The sun is lowering, sending a red glow across the horizon. Cal's hair blends in with it and he turns for a moment, assessing their surroundings, and Isabel has to begrudgingly admit her attraction. It's a stupid, irrational thing, but she's sure it will harm her if she does not acknowledge it. So, she harbors her festering feeling and contains it. This is the can of worms she will not open—all that repression was for a reason.

Cal dips out of view thankfully. Isabel shifts back in her seat and stares out the window until he returns. Her wrists are so secure she's losing circulation. Testing their strength only tightens them and it's futile. Isabel feels like a crushed flower, hunched over in her seat when he throws himself back in the jeep.

"Hey—wasn't too bad, huh?"

Isabel faces him and manages to keep her face neutral. Cal studies her for a moment, his eyes darting around her placid face, before he sighs, "You know what? You're right—I'm bored too. We should do something before we lose light."

Isabel feels her placated mask faltering. "What? I wasn't saying I was bored."

Cal throws another feigned pout in her face and leans into her seat, stretching across the center console like a centipede. "Well, maybe I'm bored. Did you ever think about that?"

Isabel scoffs and rolls her eyes in sheer disbelief. She can't believe herself or him. This is ridiculous. "Okay, fine. I'll bite," she snaps back, intending to stand up to him for her younger self who couldn't. "What're we gonna do since you're so bored?"

Cal pauses, pretends to think, then backs out of the door before slamming it hard enough to rattle her teeth.

Just as Isabel begins to regret poking the bear, he opens the door and hauls her out.

Cal pushes her to her knees and the rough pavement digs into her kneecaps. The sharp ache stemming from that is short-lived once his hands go to her hair, tangling and gripping her at the root. Delirious from the relentless, sudden heat and the multiple points of pain, Isabel sways, barely able to hold herself up. She supposes she should be grateful for Cal's grip on her, in some morbid, roundabout way.

When she looks up through her stringy fringe, there's nothing but the massive falling sun and the endless waving fields. The crops are dead, just husks moving in the wind in a way that makes the brown grass shimmer. The fading warm light catches on the blades and the breeze turns them and they seem to wink out of existence. Isabel's eyes stay glued to the horizon. Hopefully, the sun will burn her and she won't have to see what else Cal has in store for her.

As though he hears her thoughts and intends to punish her for them, he takes her face, holding her tenderly as though she's made of glass. To him, she likely is. When he's touching her like this, she can't help but look at him. His pale eyes are focused on her face and he turns her, examining her in the dying sunlight. Red rays cast across his face, bathing him in an unnatural warm glow. It makes his eyes look like burning coals set deep in his skull. Her staring must be getting to him—she's suddenly facing the ground, her scalp stinging from his harsh treatment.

Despite the allure of the sunset and the warmth bathing her, Cal does not allow her any peace. Cal holds her jaw and drags his bony hand down his body as she gazes at the spectacular, multicolored sky and the beams reflected from the clouds.

It's blisteringly hot, so he's wearing very little already and it does not take much for him to reach between his legs and cup himself. His other hand remains anchored to her jaw while he grinds down on his curled fingers.

There is no noise aside from the perpetual droning chorus of insects. No birds, they aren't all gone, but hearing birdsong is very touch and go now. The quiet slowly creeps into Isabel, possessing her from some deep place within, until she's unable to sit still.

The squirming gets him to speak to her, finally. "What's your problem?"

What's your problem? Isabel could give him a list. Instead, she bites her tongue and looks up at him. Her eyes landing on him causes him to take his hand away from his dick and run it through his short copper hair.

"What? You wanna suck my dick or something?"

Isabel has no idea how he reached that conclusion and her distaste must show because he scoffs, "Don't look at me like that."

If Isabel had a death wish, she'd fire back like what? but her nerves keep her silent.

Cal grimaces at her and grabs her face, stepping closer and pushing his crotch against her face. Immediately, there's that thick, musky smell from his cunt and a sharper note of sweat with it. Isabel gasps and attempts to pull away from him, but the hands cradling the back of her head are firm, insistent.

"Yeah," he groans, feeling up her skull and pulling her closer, rubbing his dick through his jeans all over her face. "You do, don't you? Just gaggin' for it."

With her arms restrained, there is little she can do but take it. Tears threaten to spill and Isabel stifles them the best she can. Through grit teeth, she endures.

The barrage of sensations she's put through makes her head spin. There's the slowly fading heat, the scent of Cal's cunt, and a stinging throb in her kneecaps and scalp. Isabel can't help but breathe in deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The only issue with this is her proximity to Cal's crotch—he's still grinding on her face, angling his hips so his clit pushes against her nose or chin. Every time she regains the courage to glance up, she's met with the same sight; his eyes screwed shut, mouth hanging open, trails of saliva drooping with gravity.

Isabel makes the mistake of inhaling again and involuntarily squirms. There's something about smelling someone else that's making her stomach churn with unease. There's familiar heat spreading from between her legs, but it can't be that. Cal grabs her harder and the force makes her jaws feel like they're about to pop out of the socket. He's getting excited and this doesn't lead to anything good for her.

"C'mon, pull my dick out and get to work." Then, he glances at her bound hands and barks out a laugh, mutters, stupid slut under his breath, and unzips his jeans. He's so thin the jeans practically fall off his bony hips and Isabel is suddenly presented with his densely hairy cunt. Cal hangs over her, sneering and looming while she takes in the sight of him.

"Suck your dick?" Isabel doesn't know what to say or do. Cal's hands are still cradling her face, his blunt nails biting into her, so her head is locked in place.

"Yeah," he murmurs and his face is abruptly closer. His hands slide from her face to rest on her shoulders and she instinctively relaxes. Then, he takes a hand and pulls at his labia, showing off a hard clit and leaking cunt. Distantly, Isabel can't help but note the carpet does match the drapes.

Isabel hesitates before leaning forward, silently praying this is what he wants. The temperature seems to drop the closer she gets and by the time her cheek is pressed against his prickly thigh, the sun is out of view, hiding somewhere behind the hills. It won't be long until the moon rises to take its place and Isabel is grateful for the coming darkness. She won't be forced to look at his sneering face or the hypnotic allure of his cunt. She swears to herself she's just curious, even as she angles her face closer, breathing him in.

Cal takes her chin in one of his hands while the other rubs his clit. Long, spindly fingers work their way between her lips. Stubbornly, Isabel keeps her teeth clenched in a weak attempt to hold onto her pride. She won't allow this intrusion, even as he starts pushing against her teeth. Some small voice in the back of her mind demands she do something to retaliate. Bite his hand, rear up to headbutt him, anything.

"I guess I should be more specific," Cal says with a bit of amusement, oblivious to her conflict, and his thumb attempts to pry her teeth apart. "Anything can be a dick if you want it to be. Pieces of plastic, my fingers. So, open up."

Isabel looks up, dragging her cheek against his thigh. His pale eyes are locked onto hers and he scowls. "Open."

Swallowing her pride and whatever is left of her dignity, Isabel opens her mouth wider, and Cal wastes no time. Two of his thin fingers dip experimentally into her mouth, pressing on her tongue, making her gag. He tastes like sweat, grime, and whatever he's picked up after being out all day. Inches from her face, his other hand rubs his clit. The sounds are obscene.

"See? Wasn't too hard," Cal groans and pushes the two fingers deeper, running them over her molars, feeling her bones through the inside of her mouth. "I see how you're squirmin' around though. Acting like you don't want it when your virgin pussy's all sensitive—I see you."

Isabel is not allowed the privilege of standing up for herself. Her mouth is too busy accommodating a third finger, courtesy of Cal. That musky cunt smell seems stronger now too, cloying and so close to her face. It's too hard to breathe through her mouth, so she's forced into inhaling him, slowly growing more restless with each breath. She remembers high school and hotboxing her sedan when she should have been in class.

"Now, suck on me," he demands and Isabel does not want to know what would happen if she refused. Obediently, she hollows her cheeks and flattens her tongue, taking them too deeply and she gags. This feels a little stupid, but when she glances up, Cal's eyes are hooded, his lips parted.

When he meets her eyes, a sly smile stretches across his face. He starts slowly stroking her tongue, dragging the pads of his fingers over it, smile deepening when she squirms with something other than discomfort. Acknowledging the odd warm feeling this gives her feels like crossing a line that should remain uncrossed. To fight the unwilling excitement, Isabel screws her eyes shut and refuses to meet his eyes.

"Nah," he goads. "Look at me. I wanna see what I was missing out on."

Isabel obeys and squints at him in confusion.

"I could've fucked you back then, is what I mean."

Without bothering to check if it's allowed in Cal's unspoken set of rules, Isabel pulls away from his fingers and asks, "Why didn't you?" In her eyes, he did so much, it seems odd he didn't take that from her as well.

Cal shrugs and wipes his damp fingers on his shirt. His other hand has not stopped toying with his clit, rolling it under his deft fingers. The fingers previously in her mouth go to her hair, tangling in the dense curls he finds there, and twisting in the roots until her eyes water.

Once he snaps out of the daze he slips into watching her writhe in pain, Cal answers, "I don't know." His satisfied smile falters, then slumps into a frown. "Didn't want people up my ass about it, I guess."

Isabel vaguely recalls the group of basketball players and cheerleaders he ran with. The girls' team, of course, and a few from the boys'. Oddly enough, none of them showed her any special attention other than Cal. Other people were fair game but he must have declared her off-limits.

"Like they weren't for what you were already doing?"

Cal scoffs and takes his hands away, releasing Isabel's hair and pulling his pants up before crouching before her. "I don't know if you remember, but no one really gave that much of a shit," he says bluntly.

Isabel does not need the reminder. The harassment began her freshman year when she was new to the area and already beside herself with anxiety. After the first time she was followed home, she attempted to bring up the issue with the school's counselor and was met with an apathetic shrug. That's the sheriff's daughter—not much we can do about it but I'll tell him.

There were other times. It is difficult to remember through the years spent trying to forget. Being followed, forced to eat things off the ground, shoved into lockers. At some point, everything blurred together in an alternating set of nauseatingly tense and total despair.

As the silence persists, Cal studies her face and emits a quiet huh.

Isabel blinks. "What?"

"Let's go," he snaps and stands, dragging her to her feet by her hair. "Don't wanna be out here after dark," he remarks lively.

Isabel stumbles over her feet as Cal half drags, half leads her to the jeep. Like a perfect gentleman, he opens the door and pushes her inside before slipping a bungee cord through the rope binding her wrists. With a snap, Isabel is secured to the door.

While Cal circles the jeep, checking the back and sides for whatever, Isabel stares at the darkening sky. Stars wink into view without the sun outshining them. Light pollution has not been an issue since those early days after the collapse, but the sight never fails to floor Isabel. This will be her first full night with Cal. Being forced into unconsciousness last night was a blessing she doubts he'll extend a second time. Her stomach churns with unease. Hunger is a secondary concern since she's preoccupied with Cal.

The driver's side door slams shut so hard it rattles the jeep. Isabel struggles to get comfortable on the cracked leather seat. With her wrists still bound and now raised from being tied through the little metal window frame, it's impossible.

"Stop fuckin' squirming."

Isabel shoots him a glare and reluctantly complies. There isn't much she can do about her situation, especially once Cal gets on the road.

The relatively calm quiet they find themselves in does not last long. Cal begins, "So, since we didn't have time to really get into it back there, you get to just hang out for a while. It's your lucky day, maybe."

Didn't really get into it. If that wasn't really getting into it, Isabel is not eager to find out what he's like when he's into it.

Again, she's compelled to ask, "What's gonna happen to me?" Rationally, she knows she's in for some more non-answers but what else can she do?

Cal rolls his window down and with both open, the jeep is flooded with fresh night air. It is not fully dark yet and the moon is large enough to provide light as Cal navigates into the dense woods surrounding the mountains and rolling hills. Isabel's skin crawls for more reasons than the guy driving her. Growing up here, around these woods and springs and lakes, people were always going missing. Her parents instilled that fear early on and it seems to have stuck.

The darkness grows more tangible as Cal advances into the trees. The low engine's purr echoes back to her until it's all she hears.

Finally, Cal answers, "I don't know yet."

"What do you usually do?" It's morbid curiosity. It's her trying to keep her eyes off the moving, speeding shadows outside the window. It is not because of the lingering discomfort—the unfulfilled feeling that's bothering her.

"Ah, depends," he says noncommitedly. "Always take them apart at some point. I thought about doing it to you a lot. Back then, I mean."

This does not surprise Isabel. All she can muster is a half-hearted shrug. "Maybe you should have."

Cal throws his head back and laughs. "Yeah, but then I wouldn't get to experience this." He waves his hand around to indicate their present situation. "It's very satisfying."

Isabel averts her gaze and watches the warm glow from the headlights. The hypnotic pattern of the dashed center line. This feels oddly reminiscent of a road trip.

Cal continues, even though she isn't looking, and says, "Whatever I decide, it'll be good, so don't worry about that."

Isabel scoffs. "I wasn't worried."

"Hmm. You should be."

Unnerved, Isabel falls quiet and focuses on the dark thicket flanking the road. It looks like the type of thicket to hide all sorts of things. Wild animals race through her mind as she attempts to recall the dangers of these woods. Then, she wonders if Cal's been living out here alone all this time.

"How much longer?"

"God," he sighs and rolls his eyes. "Soon. Just chill out."

Isabel purses her lips and holds her tongue. There is not much to see aside from the road. Deep shadows make the ditch flanking the road impossible to make out and if she stares too hard, her eyes start playing tricks on her. Things move in the darkness and Isabel wishes something would whisk her away.

Maybe she should be more careful what she wishes for.

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