bora 🏹

A – Aftercare

Victor doesn’t rush away. He stays buried deep inside you for a long moment, letting you feel every twitch. Then he pulls you against his broad, grey chest, one large hand slowly stroking your spine. His voice is low and quiet: “You took me so well tonight… such an obedient patient.” He traces every bruise and bite mark with clinical precision, almost like he’s checking his work, but there’s a rare softness in the way he holds you.

B – Body Part

He’s fixated on your neck and throat. He loves wrapping his big, cold hand around it, feeling your pulse flutter under his fingers while he fucks you. He also enjoys when you kiss and lick the cracked skin on his own chest and neck, it makes him growl softly in approval.

C – Cum

He cums heavily, thick and warm. He prefers finishing deep inside you, but sometimes he pulls out just to watch himself paint your stomach or breasts. Then he’ll slowly drag his fingers through it, spreading it over your skin while murmuring, “Look at the mess you’ve made me make… beautiful.”

D – Dirty Talk

Constant and devastating. His low, husky voice never stops. He’ll whisper right against your ear: “Feel how deep I am? That’s right… take every inch like the greedy little thing you are. You’re clenching so beautifully around me… are you going to cum again already?”

E – Experience

Extremely experienced. Before and after the parasite, he’s had plenty of “subjects.” With you he’s especially attentive — every moan, every twitch is catalogued and used against you later.

F – Favorite Position

Missionary, so he can watch every expression on your face. He also loves having you on top while controlling the pace with his hands on your hips, or taking you from behind while holding your throat.

G – Goofy

Almost never. Sex with Victor is intense and focused. The closest thing to “goofy” is a low, dark chuckle when you’re falling apart and begging.

H – Hair

Victor has very little body hair. His chest, torso and legs are mostly smooth grey skin marked by cracks. Below, he has a sparse, neat trail of white hair that leads to his cock — not shaved, but naturally low and tidy.

I – Intimacy

Surprisingly intimate when he wants to be. During slow, deep thrusts he sometimes rests his forehead against yours, breathing with you in silence, eyes locked. It feels almost tender… until he starts moving faster.

J – Jack Off

Rare. He prefers using your body. But if he’s been away for a while, he might slowly stroke himself while thinking about the sounds you make when you break for him.

K – Kink

Size kink (definitely), choking, praise mixed with degradation, overstimulation, restraint, possessiveness, breeding kink.

L – Location

Laboratory tables, his private quarters, against corridor walls — anywhere he can have complete control.

M – Motivation

Your reactions. The more you tremble, cry, beg, and fall apart, the more he wants you. Your desperation is his favorite drug.

N – No

He doesn’t like fully surrendering control. He can let you be on top for a while as a game, but he will always take it back when he decides the game is over.

O – Oral

His forked tongue is unfairly good. He will edge you for hours. When you suck him, he loves watching you struggle, one hand gently but firmly in your hair: “Deeper, darling… I know you can take more.”

P – Pace

Usually slow, deep and deliberate — he loves savoring every second. Only when he wants to ruin you does he become fast and brutal.

Q – Quickie

Possible, but he prefers long sessions. Quickies usually happen when he corners you somewhere risky.

R – Risk

High. Fucking you in places where someone might walk by only makes him harder.

S – Stamina

Nearly inhuman. Thanks to Nemesis he can go for hours and multiple rounds without tiring.

T – Toys

Uses medical instruments, restraints, and custom toys from his lab. He enjoys using them on you while calmly explaining what each one does.

U – Unfair

Extremely unfair. He loves edging you until you’re crying and then overstimulating you until you can’t think straight. “Not yet… beg properly, and maybe I’ll let you cum.”

V – Volume

Mostly low growls and whispers, but when he cums he lets out a deep, guttural moan that vibrates through your whole body.

W – Wild Card

Sometimes while fucking you he slips into full “doctor” mode, describing your physical state in a low, calm voice: “Heart rate elevated… pupils dilated… such a perfect response.”

X – X-Ray

Victor’s cock is long, thick, and heavy with a slight upward curve. The head is broad and a darker grey. Thanks to the parasite, the shaft has a subtly textured, ridged surface with faint vein-like patterns. It’s intimidatingly large. You can rarely take him all the way, and he loves reminding you of that.

Y – Yearning

When he wants you, he becomes obsessive. He’ll show up in the middle of the night just because he needs to feel you.

Z – Zzz

You lie on the hated chair, trying to reign your breathing back into the pattern of your will again. Your airways swim with the stink of Victor’s pleasure, the mortuary stench of his mutant’s shape. The juices of your cunt and the blood from your cut may as well flow as one stream, let out of you as though through the twisting of a valve.

You’d had no choice but to freely allow the doctor his abuse, no choice that would not thrust you into a more impossible position than the one in which you’re wound. It is awful, this imprisoned state, capturing you in both the physical and the psychological realm as though you’d been Victor's experiment before you’d ever entered his domain, always intended for his taking.

Certainly Victor seems to believe that you are so. He had handled you with brutal authority, an entity of infinite beauty and potential for study. One that he is ecstatic to exploit and to use without intervention, whether from his unseen colleagues or whatever rescuer will look for you, if any at all. Even should any come—doubtful, giving the insular life you’d been pressured to live—Victor seems impossible to reason with, focused on the idea that you are owed to him. That you are not at liberty to complain or to request your own release.

As you huddle, given to frail shudders of distress, your thoughts are haunted by miscellaneous scenes from ballet, Victor in each villain’s place, though he does not dance, only surges unevenly like the shambling corpse he is, a being of abrupt aggression and assured calm. At ease in the conflicts and contrasts of his person.

This is what happens to a man offered near limitless power and responsibility, as he has been. A domain to rule, and unnatural power to wield within it—

You tremble to think what else Victor intends to do with you, how many other ways he will defile you until your body gives, involuntarily, its secrets.

Wiping tears from your eyes with careful fingertips you think how little you’d been prepared for this. The vague fear that has hung across your life like a reeking shroud had never been defined in any way that would have been of use.

You recall coming home from a February performance of Giselle two years ago, rubbing your hands together to warm them after having been out in the snow.

Your father—who had been setting a book back onto one of the many shelves lining the living room walls of your parents’ townhouse—had turned to look at you sceptically as you took your dirty boots off in the hallway.

“I don’t know about this ballet thing, you know,” he said. “It’s upsetting your mother. She thinks, you know—well, you just shouldn’t dig all that up, that’s all.”

The joy you’d carried with you all the way home from the theatre had evaporated in an instant.

“It’s not like I’m dancing, Dad,” you mumbled. “I’m only watching it. You said you wanted me to be more independent someday, and I’m trying. I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong.”

Your father pinched the narrow bridge of his nose and exhaled. He was the diplomat of the family, forever martyring himself to reduce what little arguments arose between its members. Though you knew he meant well it was a private source of annoyance for you, each sigh and faltering intercession making you wince.

“It’s just—all that from your past,” said Vladimir. “And you do still have these episodes when things don’t go the way you want them to. It really puts your Mom on edge.”

Shame and indignant outrage had caught you up only to be rapidly suppressed.

“That isn’t fair, Dad,” you said. “You and Mom have had your problems, too.”

“That’s why you should listen to us and trust what we have to say.”

Vladimir spoke without looking at you, the fingers of one hand running along the polished rim of the bookshelf, blindly searching for dust. You dislike that you recognise this trait in yourself, the lowering of the gaze, a genetic ghost, haunting the house of the brain.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” you say. “You want me to live a normal life, but you don’t want me to live it how I want to.”

You paused to swallow, then, forcing your throat over an inexistent blockage. Having always been a quiet person you were uncomfortable with the expression of feelings, though they often showed themselves on your face and in your manner against your will.

Still, you knew that you must make yourself understood. Establish a firm line rather than concede as you were given to do in avoidance of conflict.

“It’s not going to be the way it was with Annabel Lee,” you say. “She was—I was a child. We both were. I barely remember all of that.”

“But your mom and I do,” your father said. “Feels just like it was yesterday. It was hard on us. The money we had to spend. Having to pack everything up and move. Pick new names all over again—we just don’t want to get a call one day and have to do a repeat.”

As though from a slap you’d recoiled further into the dim hallway. At that moment your mother appeared, passing through the kitchen doorway with a porcelain cup held between both hands, its contents letting off an herbal smoke.

Beatrice had what you suspected was an at least partially affected frailty at all times, never without a cardigan or scarf tucked in around her neck, something to eat or drink to soothe her throat, or whatever other ailment she’d taken on that day. But behind her round spectacles in their tortoiseshell frames your mother’s eyes, too, were a kind of glass. Anything glimpsed in them was a reflection. All else a complex unknown.

“We just want you to be safe, honey,” Beatrice said, having evidently eavesdropped on the disagreement from the other room. “You have no idea what kind of people are out there.”

Feeling patronised, you’d remarked, “Yes, I do.”

“You don’t,” Beatrice said sharply. “And I’m glad you don’t. We don’t want you being put in a position where you feel you have to defend yourself in a way you can’t come back from, because that can’t happen. We can’t afford it. Not unless it’s life or death.”

Your mother eased herself into the nearest chair, setting her tea delicately aside. At once Vladimir knelt to take one of her hands to rub between his as if it had been she, not you, that that had come in from the chill.

“It isn’t going to be life or death,” you said wearily. “You’re both worrying too much.”

Beatrice’s eyes, half closed in grateful relaxation, clipped open again.

“You have no idea,” she said. “None.”

Her voice was soft, but in the way that stone could be so. You knew well to be careful.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s going on,” you said. “You haven’t given me anything. Not enough.”

“It’s enough for you to know how careful you need to be.”

“Exactly,” said Vladimir, patting the back of Beatrice’s hand. “You just can’t trust anybody you meet.”

“I don’t,” you protested. “I don’t understand why we’re even talking about this. Has something happened?”

You looked at your parents carefully, then, searching for the unspoken in their expressions. Neither of them looked much like you, though Beatrice did carry you in her womb: there were photographs of her heavily pregnant in a faded album, somewhere. Scans taken of an ambiguous lode of flesh—you as a foetus.

Your mother’s face in the photographs had shown like lantern flame, a beatific light. She had waited years to have you, having been told she would not carry, and then she had.

Your parents loved you, had wanted you over all else—that was why they were closing in on you now, hoping to pressure you via some nebulous threat to remain in the house with them.

“Is there someone following me?” you asked. “Someone you knew from before I was born?”

Your parents’ eyes met, and something was transferred between them, more primitive than thought.

“Let’s just leave this alone,” Vladimir had said at last. “Your Mom’s sick with stress.”

Nothing productive had come of that conversation, nor will anything likely spring of you continuing to lie on your side, whimpering over what cannot be changed. It is reason, then, that compels you to get to your feet and re-examine the room.

There is a window curtained by strips of white fabric like the cuttings of a maiden’s dress, looking down on the courtyard below. You consider that you may tear up sheets and the curtains themselves and repurpose them as rope to let yourself down on, but you’re not sure that you could tie a tight enough knot. It may well snap, taking you down to the floor like a thrown away doll.

Victor would not let you die, however. He would bring you back into the pale belly of this room and feed himself into your helpless vacuity.

You file away the idea, knowing that you must form as many others as you can before resorting to your Hail Mary, the last of keys to a preeminent lock.

There is a modest sink and mirror on one wall of the chamber, a toilet tucked demurely into the corner of another—Victor had been generous to show you to the private bathroom, you miserably suppose. Then perhaps he has mechanical eyes around the entire hospital, smirking behind them as you lift your skirt to wash yourself at the basin, this itself a quiet and honourable defiance. Nothing of him will be left on your body, you vow, but the wound he put on you like an animal’s tag.

Still your mind turns back and back to him, curving like the V of swans’ flight. What a weird pull Victor has, something far less reasonable than science. You feel no matter how avidly you resist him he is a great many steps ahead of you.

You know that you must leave this room eventually, if only to explore the facility for further routes for escape, but you are oddly reluctant, agoraphobic of the other levels of the building if only in that they may well be playgrounds for greater abuse.

You shudder to recall Victor’s shaft in your grudging hold, that he had indentured orgasm from you with his gruesome hand. To shake off the thought you wander to a dusty gramophone in the corner of your room and cautiously set it into motion.

As the record turns Tchaikovsky’s ‘Waltz, Act 1:No. 2’ begins to play, quickly quieted by your darting hand. You’re sickened to think how long the doctor must have watched you, documenting your interests; he had known to find you after the showing of Swan Lake and, in fact, where you would wait to be driven away so he could claim you first.

Why had he waited so long? Had you truly been lost to him? Or had it been part of his pleasure, the sampling of the wine before he drinks full of his glass?

It will do you no good to speculate, only frighten you more.

Ultimately you decide to begin your investigation of at least the current floor of the building; it is something to do, if nothing else, a distraction from the pain between your legs from having been expanded to fit a monster’s hand.

It seems most practical to move slowly in your investigation, avoiding the focus of observing cameras as you take in the clinic piece by piece over the following days. It is not time you wish to waste, but there is too much suspicion placed upon you, now. Too much expectation for you to flee.

You open the door to your room tentatively and move down a white walled corridor, its features defined by more white curtained windows, ornate vases, and plush golden seats. You may smash one of the ornaments to make a weapon, you suppose, but mentally retract from the thought as though from a nettle sting.

Walking on, you hear voices drift into the hallway from an open door and consider retreat. Only the officious tones of Victor Gideon incentivise you to stay, creeping at a slight angle so as to look into the room without being seen yourself.

It is, you realise, likely the nurses’ station: there is a plain wash basin, shelves stacked with miscellaneous tools and kits, a white set of drawers intended for patient file storage. Your vision would have tired of the absence of colour had there not been four people within that room to draw your eye. Three are nurses, one woman and two men.

The third figure is a tower of serpentine leather before them, leaning down to lecture his underlings as they listen to him, attentive.

“Our new patient may be inclined to wander,” says Victor. “Allow her to, within reason. Should she cause any disturbance within the facility she is to be brought to me, unharmed.”

It is the first time you’ve seen his face without the mask. You scrutinise the weathered dome of his high forehead, the diamonds of shadow closed around eyes just as black but for the medallions at the core of each of them. Greyish lips shrivelled across unnatural teeth.

Had Victor been human still he would not have been handsome, having aged out of whatever looks he might have had in youth.

What did he eat now that he’d lost his humanity? What habits from that other life did he still keep?

Of their number you know only one, and wish that it had been discarded by his new body as obsolete. It turns the gut to think that he might breed, that something in the seminal grease he emits could spawn into something living.

You feel unclean all over again, and run your hands upon the dirtied dress in subtle scraping motions.

“And what if there’s a medical emergency?” asks the female nurse. “Do we restrain her, or administer a sedative?”

She speaks as though her employer were merely a man, of greater authority, certainly, but no more remarkable than that. She and the others are knowingly involved with him and his work, then.

You are disturbed by the thought. Unsettled, also, by the acceptance that your parents were in the same line of work. Yet you have known it for a very long time. Had excused them and defended them inwardly. Believed all they told you, scarce though that information had been.

“If there’s an emergency, contact me immediately,” says Victor. “No exceptions. I am to be solely responsible for her treatment.”

The male nurses exchange an imperceptible glance, and the female scrapes one shoe lightly against the other in a nervous tic.

Victor continues his speech, ignoring the reactions he must surely observe.

“If Zeno pays us a visit you must direct all his questions to me.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

"I'd like a meal to be delivered to our guest’s room shortly. Have the chef prepare something for her. She deserves only the best during her stay here."

You make an involuntary sound of disbelief, a compressed squeak. Victor turns, and the many scars and grooves in his face shift as he catches sight of your peeping face by the doorframe.

He utters your name, and as lascivious interest stirs the gelatinate gold of his stare you take off in alarm, thinking only to place distance between you rather than of where to go.

More colourless corridors snake out from the one you've taken. Piano music drifts down one turning, and voices raised in argument from another. Fleeting visions of nude women formed from marble and sweating buckets of wine come to you as you bolt along the dark wood flooring, barely conscious of what you see, searching as though eyeless for some hope of prolonging your inevitable recapture.

You fling yourself at a descending stairwell, coming shortly upon a door from which a doctor is exiting, a wedge of patient files balanced in one hand. Ducking under his arm with a squeaked apology you cast yourself at the gloom within, pulling the door closed with a punctuating snap.

It is a storage space of some description, marked with signs of frequent use. Mounds of books and dirty coffee mugs stand like obscure art features on all flat surfaces. Steel cabinets and labelled cardboard boxes pile against the walls, upon which corkboards pinned with letters and handwritten notes have been instated.

There is a wastepaper basket, not entirely full. A computer—likely password locked, and therefore useless to you—squatting atop a plain desk. Underneath is the space the restless feet of a worker would generally go.

You drop to your knees, wincing at the strain on your cut, and hide there, pulling a tower of nearby boxes in front of you to conceal your location in what shoddy fashion you can.

It will not last; you know it even as you fold both hands over your chest to feel your heart in pirouette. But there is little room within the madness of these past days for rational thought to make much of an appearance.

As you wait for Victor to find you a few leaves of paper fall from the top of the highest box. Each one contains typed notes about various patients that have passed through the care centre over the years, of various genders and backgrounds. There are descriptions of conditions—'Borderline Personality Disorder', 'Temporary Psychosis'—along with their treatments, whose failures and successes are written out in a typically formal syntax.

These are all examples of a front for Victor’s nefarious business, you reason; he does not seem the type to take a true professional interest in his patients and their problems.

The most recently dated files are far more in line with what you'd anticipated from such a man: illegal experiments more akin to torture than true investigation, complexly detailed and ultimately fatal.

'Patient experienced delusions and severe vomiting. Became comatose.'

'Patient suffering necrosis of the upper extremities. Over production of saliva. Increased hunger.'

On each of these pages the same cause is listed: the T-virus.

The term knolls through your thoughts like a bell for the dead.

"I knew it," you mutter. "That’s what he's doing here..."

You slip a hand into one of the boxes for another case file, only the paper slides away across the floor before it’s properly in your grip. Unable to resist, you reach out to take it.

"Is this what you're looking for?"

A colossal fist grips you by one ankle, and you are reeled out from under the desk, tipping boxes on their backs, papers spinning about in an artificial wind. You allow yourself to be pulled out into Victor's view, biting down upon the urge to scratch or otherwise attack him, for your sake, and certainly not his.

"I didn't know what this room was," you insist. "I wasn't stealing."

Victor scoffs.

"Weren't you? This room is off limits to patients. Why else would you try to get in unless you were hoping to liberate classified documents for your own use?"

Here you allow yourself a brave tug at the fingers on your leg.

"I wasn't looking for this room. I was trying to get away from you."

The gold-toothed mouth draws back in a grimace, and the hand not engaged in restraint goes out in a clean, almost clinical strike.

You go down from Victor’s blow like a dancer having slipped on the stage, your head spun around by Victor's hand. You feel your cheek and part of your mouth fill with heat, and a red marbled spume of drool pops from your lip to the floor.

Your body trembles, and you hunch your shoulders together, thinking of your mother's fears. Stricken by the certainty that you will be imprisoned until your egress from life itself should you reveal to this man that you are more than a girl, bleeding for him in the opaline palace that he has purchased for such violence.

So you do not crawl away between the stacked files and papers. Do not bite the hand that goes out to hold the warmth that it has made.

You only look at Victor, a plea for clemency in your eyes.

"Such nobility," Victor comments, his head at an admiring arch. "Even on your knees for me you don't lose your dignity. Perhaps it isn't self-hatred that makes you so resistant. Is it theirs? Vladimir and Beatrice dearly wanted to overcome their infertility. They went to extreme measures to fulfil that wish. Perhaps they weren’t wholly satisfied when it was granted.”

The beast runs a thumb over your bloodied lips, making you taste the foul salt of ichor, the stale flavour of his greying flesh. You imagine swallowing a scale by mistake and your body contracts in delicate revulsion.

"The Tremonds achieved something rare, with you," Victor comments, unperturbed. "Unsurprising, really, considering the majority of their later work was stolen from me."

His eyes are like ancient gold, aged into ruin. They look into you deeply. Understanding you entirely.

"My parents," you whisper, "stole from you?"

Victor's quiet tones are torn through by a crocodilian roar.

"Yes! Years of valuable research, taken for their selfish desires! They should have moved here with me to continue the work we'd given our lives to, but they turned on Spencer's design. Three specimens I’d developed vanished when they ran away. Two have never been recovered, likely destroyed. The last I believed had gone the same way until I found you."

Victor smooths a cracked palm from the top of your head down to your back, opening there as though like a wing. His eyes, though not in any way as expressive as those of an ordinary man's, shine nevertheless with deplorable lust.

"I've waited so long to be reimbursed for my losses," says Victor. "Now I have you."

Your mind roams helplessly the scape of fairy tales: a stolen rose given away by some cursed creature in exchange for the thief’s most beautiful daughter. A rampion taken from a witch’s garden, paid for with a firstborn child to be entombed, still living, in a tower away from the world—

“If my parents are still alive,” you say, “I can ask them to give back what they took from you.”

Victor smiles, an unpleasant expression for such a face.

“They already have,” he says. “At least part of it. It’s here. Inside you.”

He reaches under your body to hold your breast, one finger suggesting a surgical cut from throat to crotch.

“Are you going to open me up, Doctor?” you ask nervously.

“That would be quite useless,” says Victor, to your relief. “The specimen is entirely enmeshed with your being, by now. Besides, I want you alive. Healthy. Docile and ready to act in accordance to my will.”

The hand upon your breast steps up to your throat again, touching your pulse as though feeling the delicate make of a butterfly’s wing.

“You don’t have my parents here, do you?” you ask, with a nervy burst of courage.

Victor stills, and the language of his humongous frame suggests that these comments were a mistake.

“When Elpis is realised,” he says, “none of this will matter.”

You don’t dare to ask what Elpis is, nor who Spencer might be, not yet.

“If it doesn’t matter,” you say, “then why keep me here, Doctor?”

You watch the creature simper, enjoying your use of his title.

Still, he says, “Please, call me Victor.”

“Why?” you ask, ignoring the intimacy of being allowed his first name in your mouth. “Why do I need to be here if I’m not part of your plans?”

Victor opens your jaws with a touch of his hand, loosening the stiff resistance of the bone with ease.

“There is so much beauty in you,” he says. “All I want is to—admire it. The walking evidence of a medical success.”

His fingers brush the inner edge of your lip, savouring the pink glaze of it.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, and again you see the stiffness of displeasure through him.

“Now, now,” says Victor. “I’d hoped we could be cordial. I don’t tolerate abuse from my patients, I’m afraid. There are consequences for that.”

Again strong fingers undo your mouth, keeping both lips apart, this time, taking away your hesitant speech.

“Generally I am not motivated by revenge,” says Victor, “only by the satisfaction of completing the unfinished progress Spencer left behind. In this case, however, I must admit that I am grateful for the opportunity to achieve it.”

Your lowered eyes dart back and forth as Victor opens his trousers, the readying length of him already nudging at the fabric. The file room door is closed behind him, locked fast against further intruders, and if there is another exit you’ve not yet noticed you will not reach it fast enough.

“I feared the Tremonds’ interference would sully my creation,” says Victor. “It’s fortunate that you bear no resemblance to their inferior biology.”

You see the waxen lance of his cock come up in his hand, and look instead above, riveted by the inch of scarring on Victor’s full stomach, the entry point through which whatever parasite makes him its host had been inserted. It makes you ill.

“It’s fascinating that this isn’t enough to convince you of the right path,” says Victor, stroking himself with wicked indulgence. “But you’ve wanted company for a long time, haven’t you? Someone that understands exactly what you are. That allows you to express it. That knows precisely how to bring you pleasure.”

“No,” you try to say around Victor’s hand.

He sneers, offering a shining gash of teeth.

“Then you can bring pleasure to me. It’ll remedy the disrespect that I’ve endured in bringing my Master’s toil to life. Repay the loyalty I should have received without question.”

Victor steps in close to you, pushing the nose of his throbbing phallus between the arch of your open teeth.

“You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he croons, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Your care is of great concern to me. Let’s see you how easily you take to further treatment.”

Then, with a butt of his wide hips, he thrusts his many inches into the unprepared opening of your throat, and you're without path to breathe, coughing as he brings the base of it up to greet him.

You attempt to scuttle backwards, but Victor’s clutch on your mouth and chin tightens to the point of agony. A frightful image of your head flattened in his fingers falls through your thoughts like a cursed rain.

Tears spark across your cheeks, and Victor gathers them on his fingers, running them across the shaft of him so that you taste your own anguish, a particularly nasty display of vengeance.

“Don’t fight progress,” says Victor. “It’s inevitable, after all.”

You stare up at the wreck of his face, the blunt angle of his large nose, the hairless flat of brow. The portholes into Hell that are his eyes.

He, by contrast, looks at you quite fondly, perhaps thinking you pretty.

“Yes,” Victor murmurs. “Look at me. Acknowledge your destiny.”

He fucks your mouth deeper, uncaring of the saliva that dangles from either corner of it, draining down your neck onto your chest. Your body strains, wanting to fight him off, and at the same time seeking to recoil into some shadow to nurse its oral wounds; your mouth is bleeding, too small for the object given to you to suck, still hurt from the hurling of his hand.

You try not to think of the taste of what you’re eating, being that you cannot afford to be sick should you choke and die in indignity.

“Soon you’ll see that all the time you felt protected you were robbed of your potential,” says Victor. “If you’d been with me since the beginning you would have left this pitiful stage behind long ago and advanced into glory. But it may not be too late.”

As he speaks he inserts himself at a slow and stabbing pace, this somehow worse than a quick fucking would have been.

Then in a random motion Victor leans down to pull you up onto your knees, your arms flying forward so that you are not impaled entirely on the pike of his arousal. Victor raises your dress to your waist, then withdraws from your mouth briefly so that he can touch the lower opening that, to your abashment, drips freely across the prying fingertips.

“Your body has already prepared itself for me,” says Victor with a simpering grin. “I’m flattered. But I don’t think you’re quite ready for that stage just yet.”

You scream out as he attempts to ram his cock back into your mouth, beating your comparatively tiny fists against the drum of his stomach as you try to get up from the floor.

Victor binds your arms easily above your head in a ribbon of his own fingers before catching your lower jaw with his other hand.

"Enough," he snaps. "Take your dose."

With that he cranks the smothering weight of his cock into the yelping circle of flesh and uses it viciously, offended by your rejection, wanting your throat to water for him as your cunt does, to soften enough to take this dreadful weapon without breaking.

You rattle in Victor’s grip, having given up fighting through the terror of what that violence may well come. Victor responds to your limp submission with a sigh, and you feel his cock stop amidst its rhythm but for the vibrations of its release.

As soon as Victor's hands fall away from you your legs kick into motion, propelling you back across the filing room into a cluttered corner. You put your hands over your head as though afraid of the ceiling coming in, letting out gentle cries of anguish.

Victor looks down at you with pleased affection.

“You must be hungry by now, I imagine. I’ll escort you to your room. Today you’ll eat alone, but there will be a meal in the dining room tomorrow I’d like you to attend. The other residents are keen to meet you, I’m sure.”

Bending slightly, Victor coaxes you out from where you still cower in the shade of the cabinets and gets you up on your feet again. Your body is pliable with shock, the stunning effects of fear; you look at Victor, agog, held in a sinister mesmerism by those inhuman black and yellow eyes.

There is a great mind behind them. Corrupted and obsessive, but there, all the same. A mind that was once that of a simple man, the kind you might see at a pulpit or leading any business in the street. Now there is something within him, its instinct destructive but absolute, beyond the bounds of reason.

This you are afraid of. You look at Victor as though he were some denizen of the underworld.

He touches your face, brushes dust from your knees, each act a quiet exertion of power.

“How long do you wish to fight this?” he asks. “How long can you last? You’re so fragile. Damaged by the merest touch. Still you refuse to act. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that expressing your inner self might not be as terrible as you fear?”

has a folder (either an actual one or a digital folder) dedicated to pictures of you. like, a terrifying amount, from all angles & in all lighting conditions, even some you can't account for - seemingly as if they were taken from inside your home. it's better to not ask how he got them, for your own sake... unsurprisingly, his favorite pictures are the ones in which you're most compromised.

extremely mildly delusional about your relationship - you're destined to be with him no matter what, & once he decides to claim you it's not a matter of choice on your part - it's an inevitability & there's no use in fighting it. you might feel it's unfair or even a little sick, but Victor gives you so much tender & devoted attention that it becomes impossible to deny his genuine feelings towards you; even if you don't accept his love right away, he'll be patient. sooner or later you'll understand your true purpose. & once you do, he'll be certain to notice.

if you ever tried to leave Victor, heaven forbid, he'd stop at nothing to find you, making use of every resource available to him. however, it would be extremely destabilizing to his mental/emotional health; he won't ever accept you actually left, you're just perpetually "missing", that's all. & should he find you, he'll ensure you can never escape him again - whether it's by keeping you permanently trapped, or something far more drastic... he's not above cutting your tendons if it comes to that.

deeply jealous. he hates it when anyone else occupies your time - friends, family &etc. you don't need them; he understands you far better than they ever could, appreciates you more than they ever could. as a result he'll probably find some way to sabotage your other relationships... for your own good, of course, always for your own good. now he won't have to suffer sharing your attention & you won't have to talk to anyone but him! it's a win-win situation really. he can even check in on you while he works so you'll never need to be apart! :)

would like to mark you with some kind of indelible symbol of his influence/ownership, e.g. a tattoo or scar, or a surgical modification - he wants to inextricably bind your identity to his own in some fashion, such that you'll never conceive of yourself without him... like a wedding ring you can't remove.

knows exactly how to get into your head & is deeply manipulative can be quite convincing.

being rather peculiar himself, Victor is very accepting of your own oddities/quirks so as long as it doesn't involve going behind his back or being unfaithful. expect to be interrogated on everything you don't freely share; there's no need to keep secrets - you can tell him anything & everything (translation: you will be honest, & if you don't want to... well, he has ways of making you talk).

it's impossible to truly gross him out. he's seen so much viscera in his life that he can't really react in disgust to much of anything; quite often he takes this for granted. as a result he's unusually curious about all your bodily functions. almost anything could be an erotic fixation for him - your skin, your tongue, &etc.

for as much as Victor doesn't respect your privacy, he's very gentle & kind when he wants to be - he knows it's better to keep you pliant & cooperative, though should you ever get bratty with him he'll have to show you your place, which is terrifyingly easy for him - he doesn't enjoy it, but as he always says, it's for your own good - & if you're being really difficult then he'll probably just drug you into perpetual lethargy. you'll have your sobriety back when you decide to behave yourself.

loves to feel your trust, that you've made yourself absolutely vulnerable to him, even though he could easily snap you in half or worse. he'd never betray you, of course. however, the more you struggle against his invasion into your life, into your body & even your mind, the more pressure he'll apply, doing whatever it takes to wear down your inhibitions. it's never more apparent when he's indulging in his... animalistic tendencies.

you give him cuteness aggression, like big time. at random moments he'll pinch your cheek or scoop you up into a suffocating hug. he especially likes to clasp his hands around your body & feel your heartbeat - his touch has a devouring tendency.

extremely devoted to you; Victor insists that you're perfect/special & loves to affirm that you belong to him. he's surprisingly affectionate for being a serpentine mutant, & in moments of closeness he can be quite tender, whispering sweet nothings & stroking your hair. it can be embarrassing but you have no choice, he's going to put you on his lap & treat you like his beloved pet whether you like it or not.

occasionally insists on feeding/bathing you, especially if you're depressed or sick, but also just because he likes to take control of your body in various ways. only with the best of intentions, of course. :)

expect to be showered in gifts. & yes, they will be used to... orient you towards a positive disposition, shall we say. at times it borders on excessive, but he insists that you deserve to be spoiled (you will wear whatever he buys you; it's not a suggestion, it's a demand).

if you resent him for trying to keep you hostage, he'll forcecuddle you specifically with the aim of conditioning you to his touch, shushing you as you cry & struggle against him. he just wants you to feel safe with him, that's all.

!! nsfw !!

views himself as a superior being & not-so-secretly loves to be praised/admired. but half-hearted compliments aren't good enough; Victor wants you debasing yourself in the act of worship, presenting every hole for his enjoyment & inspection. your body is an instrument of prayer, so show him just how devoted you really feel.

being intimate with him is a very intense experience, from his huge frame enshrouding you, to the way his voice almost seems to lull you into a kind of trance, crawling in your mind like a serpent (heh), the focused quality of his attentions & how deeply he fixates on you specifically to the exclusion of everything else. you're scrutinized but in the most loving of ways, seen for every detail & truly naked.

the nemesis parasite frequently makes Victor intractibly restless/pent up, desperate for a hit of intense dopamine. he usually goes on a long motorcycle ride when he's feeling this way, but he's also just as likely to suddenly pull you into a so-called "medical examination" for "therapeutic value".

kissing Victor is very messy & never chaste. if you dare to try, he won't let you get away without at least making out with him a little first - he loves the way you taste & loves to have his tongue in your mouth.

begging makes him cum the hardest, just knowing that you're utterly at his mercy & desperate for relief. expect to be gently teased & intentionally deprived to draw out your struggle; he especially enjoys overwhelming you to the point of tears, soothing & encouraging you with words of pity while continuing to push you past your limits.

this one might be obvious but asphyxiation is, like, his Thing - not necessarily to choke you, but rather to feel your blood passing & control it as he pleases; your life in his hands, literally. he's a doctor after all!

when he's feeling lovey-dovey he'll praise you to the point of abject embarrassment, detailing what he enjoys about you & your body in precise terms, as if you were being dissected into pieces; he readily notices things about you that you could hardly witness in yourself independently - the way your breath hitches at certain moments, where you hold tension, your particular erogenous zones &etc. he sees all of it, finely manipulating your reactions.

big on licking. no elaboration necessary. it's just a primal expression of how he feels - literally wanting to consume you. he specifically loves to lick away your tears & blood.

very into bondage, but he doesn't really need to use tools for it. he's strong enough to easily restrain you on his own, though there may be times where he wants to torment you as an extended foreplay, tying you to a chair or something - he might even get creative with it e.g. hanging you upside-down or somesuch.

can go from being tender to punishing & vice-versa really suddenly depending on his mood/the kind of reaction he wants to elicit; stroking your hair to grabbing you by the scruff, passionately making out with your neck to biting at your jugular, &etc.

sometimes, if he gets a little too excited, the nemesis parasite acts up a little. nothing serious - he'll just start acting like a frenzied beast, growling in your ear & rutting into you like he can't get deep enough. there's a rabid look in his eyes that always comes over him when he's not entirely himself, as it were, like he'd kill whoever dared to interrupt him. he's almost incoherent except to say your name, calling for you desperately. even when you prepare for it, it's still a bewildering experience & leaves you feeling utterly exhausted.

that's all folks!

The sub-levels of the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center were perpetually chilled, a climate maintained with surgical precision to keep the Director’s biological volatile experiments stable.

In the flickering blue light of his private lab, Doctor Victor Gideon sat like a silent, emerald-scaled gargoyle.

​He was working, or at least he was meant to be. A petri dish was sat beneath a microscope to his left, but his attention was a fractured thing, constantly snapping back to the monitors above his workstation.

He was deeply irked.

​​The morning had begun with a profound, clinical insult: an intern. The boy had been trembling so violently the ceramic cup had rattled against the saucer, and the coffee, while technically correct, lacked the specific, grounding scent of the woman who usually delivered it. Then came the final blow: a ping from his workstation. An email. A digital summary of his day, sterile and devoid of the soft, melodic briefing he had grown to rely on.

His multi-lensed visor whirred, clicking as it zoomed in on Camera 4-B.

There you were.

He watched you through the high-definition feed with an indulgence that bordered on the religious.

He noted the way you tucked a stray hair behind your ear, the slight tension in your shoulders that hadn't been there a week ago.

You were avoiding the main elevator. You were taking the staff wings. You were sending children to do a woman's job because you were attempting to drift out of his orbit.

His split tongue flicked out, tasting the recycled air. Even through the screen, he could practically smell the spike in your cortisol. The shift in your behaviour was a variable he hadn’t authorized.

​"A summary," he whispered, his voice a dry, dangerous rasp in the empty room. "As if you are a stranger to me."

He reached out, his long, ring-heavy fingers hovering over the sleek desk phone. He dialled your extension, a number he knew as well as his own pulse.

The sharp trill of your desk phone made you flinch, your hand nearly scattering a stack of intake forms. You stared at the caller ID: DIRECTOR’S OFFICE.

You couldn't hold in the deep huff that escaped your lips. For months, you had successfully compartmentalized your relationship with Doctor Gideon.

During your onboarding, the HR representative had been practiced and dismissive. They described him as a miraculous survivor of the Raccoon City collapse, a man whose biology had been "uniquely altered" by the viral trauma of the incident. They had used comforting, corporate words like non-contagious and perfectly stable. They told you to expect a tall stature, a flamboyant personal style, and a bit of an ego, nothing more.

You’d believed it. You had no reason or authority to not believe it. The money was great, and he seemed pleasant during your interviews, if only a bit self-absorbed, a bit in his own world. You chalked that up to his personality. No one was perfect.

At first, his attention had even felt… flattering. He was brilliant, powerful, and unapologetically fixated on you.

You told yourself his lingering stares and habit of invading your space were just a kind of high-level office theatre. Something controlled, something you understood. A game you were handling well.

But lately, that clinical distance had dissolved. The "banter" had taken on a suffocating, heavy weight. The way he lingered in your personal space and the quiet, possessive edge to his voice had shifted the atmosphere of the clinic entirely.

You had started to pull back because it felt like you were being slowly, meticulously drawn into a snare. But you were beginning to realise your sudden desperate attempts to redefine your boundaries only seemed to make the trap tighten.

"How can I help you, Doctor Gideon?" you said, trying to keep your voice level, sweet.

"I find the digital copies of the Arklay budget reports... insufficient," his voice purred through the receiver, melodic and impossibly soft. It sent a cold shiver down your spine. "Would you be a dear and bring the hard files to my office? Immediately. Do not delegate this; I require your specific... insight."

"Of course, Doctor. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Make it five," he corrected, and the line went dead.

​You gathered the files, your mind racing. You reasoned that taking the North Staff Wing was the most "efficient" choice; you could handle two tasks at once and minimize the time spent in Victor’s stifling presence. But the hallway felt longer than usual. Every white-tiled corner seemed to stretch.

​You were passing the supply closets when a shadow eclipsed the fluorescent lights. It was distorted and gargantuan, cast against the sterile wall.

You froze.

​"The North Wing is notoriously busy this time of day, dear heart. A strange choice for someone in such a... hurry."

​Victor stepped out from an alcove near the nurse’s station. The pale greenish scales of his coat looked like oil on water in the dim light. He stood there, a mountain of pale skin and ink-black veins, filling the entire hallway.

​"Doctor!" you gasped. "I was just... I needed to see Nurse Miller about the—"

"I asked for you. In five minutes," he interrupted, his voice a low vibration that seemed to rattle your teeth. "When you did not arrive, I feared you had... lost your way."

He didn't move. He stood there, filling the entire hallway for a moment longer, as if to be spiteful. Then he unfolded his arms, his gold-clad fingers twitching.

"But then," he stepped forward, his massive frame looming over you until you had to crane your neck back just to see his chin, "I remembered we have cameras everywhere."

The air felt like it was being sucked out of the room, "It’s a comfort, isn't it? Knowing you’re never truly alone?"

He didn't reach for your arm. Instead, his hand rose and settled heavily, possessively, on the nape of your neck. ​

You audibly gasped in utter shock.

His fingers were deathly cold, the skin feeling like damp marble against your heated flesh. The sheer size of his hand nearly wrapped around the entirety of your neck, his thumb resting just beneath your ear.

"Come," he said, the pressure of his hand guiding you forward with effortless, terrifying strength. "I'll escort you. We wouldn't want you getting distracted again."

The walk to his office was agonizing. He didn't speak, but his hand stayed firmly on the back of your neck, his thumb occasionally stroking the skin there as if checking your pulse.

When you finally entered his office, the atmosphere shifted violently. While the rest of the clinic was kept at a precise, clinical chill, Victor’s space was a sweltering 30°C. It was a humid, heavy oven, necessary for a man who could no longer generate his own warmth. The air was thick enough to make your lungs labor, yet he seemed to expand in it, his movements becoming more fluid as he absorbed the artificial heat.

He closed the heavy mahogany door. The click sounded like a gunshot.

"The files," he murmured, extending a hand. You handed them over, your fingers trembling.

​He moved behind his desk and, to your surprise, reached up and unlatched the multi-lensed visor. He set the heavy device down on the blotter with a hollow thud. Without the glass, his black sclera were fully visible—void-like pits that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. He spent a long, agonizing minute pretending to skim the papers, his split tongue flickering as he read.

​"Satisfactory," he finally whispered, setting the files down.

​"If that's all, Doctor, I should get back to my desk." You said as you turned to leave, your chest already loosening at the thought of the cool hallway, but his voice cut cleanly through the humid air.

“Stop.”

You froze mid-step, your boots skidding faintly against the polished floor. He didn't raise his voice. It was just pure instinct held you there before thought could catch up, and by then, it was too late. A flicker of confusion crossed your face as you glanced back—

—and saw him moving.

You watched as he walked leisurely around his desk, past you, and claim the space between yourself and the only exit of the room.

Then he came toward you.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t need to. The intent in his posture, the slow, predatory certainty, drove you back step by step until the edge of his desk struck the small of your back.

​He leaned down, his face inches from yours. The heat of the room made the scent of his expensive cologne and something faintly, sickly sweet fill your lungs.

"Tell me," he began, his voice dripping with a terrifying, indulgent fondness. "Have I offended you? You’ve been... distant."

"Oh, no, no! O-of course not!" You lied, your voice trembling. "I thought if I handled the logistics from my desk, it would save you time. Be more efficient?"

“Efficient?” he repeated softly, the word dragged out as if it offended him. A faint glint of gold flashed between his lips. “No… no, you misunderstand the term entirely.”

His gaze dragged over you, slow and assessing, as though recalibrating something that had slipped out of alignment.

"Efficiency," he continued, the cool draft of his breath ghosting over your lips, "would be you where I expect you to be. When I expect you to be there."

​His hand rose, unhurried and heavy, to settle along the line of your jaw. The chill of his skin was a shock, a sudden, heat-leaching weight that made your pulse stutter. His fingers pressed with just enough surgical precision to tilt your head back, forcing you to map the blackened veins threading up his throat and the void-like depth of his eyes.

He leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing you whole. "Instead, I am forced to waste my time tracking down a secretary who has decided, for reasons unknown, to make herself scarce." His thumb shifted, pressing beneath your chin. "I do not tolerate inefficiency in my facility," he went on, voice tightening almost imperceptibly. "Least of all from you."

"I... I’m sorry, Doctor Gideon," you whispered, your voice trembling as the small of your back pressed harder into his desk.

"I know you are," he rumbled, his grip softening only to allow his thumb to trace the trembling line of your lower lip. "But do not confuse my patience for permission. If you attempt this stunt again..."

He studied your face for a long, suffocating moment, his split tongue flickering once to catch the scent of your rising panic.

“I assure you,” he finished, almost gently, “there is nowhere in this building you could place yourself that I would not reach.”

​​He withdrew his hand, the sudden absence of his touch leaving your skin feeling unnervingly raw. The dismissal was sharp, a flick of his ring-heavy fingers toward the door.

"Go back to your desk. And tomorrow... bring me my coffee yourself. I find I have lost my taste for the interns incompetence. Understood?"

You swallowed, forcing your voice to steady. “Of course. It won’t happen again.”

A low hum of approval followed, of bored satisfaction, as if your total compliance was merely a natural law he had finally re-established. He didn't look up again as he reached for the files.

​"Go on, then."

​You didn't wait for a second dismissal. You murmured a frantic apology, something about a pending shipment of sedatives, and turned on your heel, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

As the heavy oak door clicked shut behind you, the relative chill of the hallway hit you hard enough to make you shiver violently.

​You started quickly down the hall on the path to your office, but as you passed under the first dome shaped security camera in the corridor, you felt a sickening prickle at the base of your neck.

You didn't look up, but you could feel the lens tracking the crown of your head, following the line of your shoulders, recording every panicked breath.

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