Lovin some evilness

While you’re at work, he breaks into your house early, going through everything throughout a couple of days. After an hour or two (sometimes three if he is feeling cheeky) he leaves, going to the shop to see you. He has time off before the next mission, what else is he supposed to do?

And is that a diary? Oh my, how convenient for Price, he needs to know his sweetheart's thoughts after all. And boy, does he learn a lot of fun things in that little book of yours

He becomes obsessed with very specific things in the following days — the way you write the letter J and P. The way you organize the fridge, the way your socks and underwear smells - so sweet, so perfect. All you. He liked how you read a lot of romance, how you always drank dr. Pepper every Friday evening. 

Okay, so you might prefer coffee, but don’t worry, Price knows he can fix that! You just need to taste actual tea, good tea, not the dog piss he drinks at the coffee shop almost every day by now.

He pulls a few strings and gets access to all of your electronics and oh isn’t it fun to see what you do on your phone every day, what music he needs to get on CD, because a silly lass like you can’t be trusted to have a phone when you get together in the future, can you? Not at first at least, maybe you can earn back the right with time.

Dark!Price loves seeing what kind of porn you watch. Loves seeing what your search words are, whether it’s kinky or not.

Especially after reading in your diary that you are a virgin! It has him frothing at his mouth, the urge to take you instantly, overwhelmingly strong when he sees the words for the first time.

Of course he always makes sure to put everything back in the exact same spot and way as he found it. Can’t have you stop writing in your sweet diary, it’s his favorite book already!

The first mission he goes on is awful. Sure everything goes smoothly and even though he has installed hidden cameras all over your apartment, it isn’t the same as being there.

Dark!Price who proudly shows you off to his team - the boys need to see who their captain is in love with after all. And he trusts his men, knows that they’re just as fucked up as him — they coo at the sight of you, of the few photos he has dared to take of you while you slept. Not his fault that you live in an apartment that is embarrassingly easy to break into, is it, pet? 

Dark!Price who feels so proud as his men drool over your soft curves, talking about your tits and ass and when Price mentions that you’re untouched, he is pretty sure Soap and Gaz almost come in their pants. Possibly Simon too, Price knows him, but he pretends he isn't as affected by the words - As if Price can’t see the man’s erection in his pants.

He gets everything ready, his little house in the middle of nowhere gets fixed up. He always imagined he would move into the house much later, when he actually retired but he can’t wait that long to have you. He loves the idea of having his missus all ready for him whenever he returns from work. All his. He would never let you go, you would always be his. He would take care of you forever - he already imagined bringing you to his mom, bless her. Old and sick, but you would charm her, he is sure.

Price who asks you out after two months of coming regularly to the coffee shop, putting on his best charming smile - and of course you, his future bride, says yes! All shyly, barely able to look him in the eyes, but there is a jump to your step afterwards and you’re grinning like you won the lottery.

Price, who is the perfect gentleman at the date, he takes you out somewhere nice, pays for everything despite your protests, soaks in all of your attention, who loves every second he spends with you. He is ready to declare his love for you at the end of the night but he knows it’s too early. He doesn’t try to kiss you, doesn’t even imply he wants to get in your knickers, despite his strong urge to do so. No, no need to scare you away.

so imagine Dark! Price’s reaction to seeing your diary entry the day afterwards - you describe him as too sweet, unsure if you’re ready for a relationship - almost upsets him, until the last line. He would probably be a nice person to lose my virginity to. That’s as good as a love confession to him! A bloody proposal almost and despite not having planned to move things along this quickly, well he has to, doesn’t he?

It’s embarrassingly easy to kidnap you together Gaz. He just happens to drive by you on your way home after a long shift, and saying “want a lift, sweetheart?” is all it takes.

Gaz who was hidden in the backseat and the moment the doors closes and locks, he sits up and uses one of those fancy syringes to stab you. Don’t make a fuss, don’t be silly, birdie, it’s all good! Just take a nap, eh? 

Nikolai and the rest of the team are almost finished packing up your things - they’ve been at it all day after all, dark!Price has personally packed the most important parts of your home, like that nice diary of yours, sextoys and underwear and all those nice photo albums you have. Nothing is getting left behind! You need to feel at home at his house after all. The boys almost deserve to have their fun with you at some point in the future.

He is there when you wake up, smiling happily at you, as you groggily take in the basement you’re currently in; See how some of your furniture is down there, the nice green color he painted the walls, how it’s your own lampshade hanging from the ceiling. He lets you take in the wedding dress hanging proudly in front of the wardrobe, the little bathroom not too far from you - the cameras that hang everywhere, not even attempting to be discreet. He has to make sure you’re behaving after all.

Dark!Price who gets incredibly turned on when you realize you’re wearing a metal collar and chained to the wall - the way your eyes widens and how confusion visibly changes into fear. Like a little prey releasing they’re in a trap - and unable to get out.

he is extremely proud over how he doesn’t take you right then and there, despite how much he wants too.

Oh how adorable your attempts at attacking him are! Even though you’re still groggy from those nasty sedatives, you hit his chest and try to claw at him. Screaming and crying, throwing a proper tantrum! He can’t help but laugh as you threaten him. “sure you’ll go to the police, pet” he agrees while he easily catches your fist that was aiming for his nose, “but no I’m not letting you go.”

you scream bloody murder, as if he has done you anything. Ridiculous. But Price patiently (and easily) fights you off all day. Teasing back, pointing out that it’s not that bad down here, trying to explain that the two of you are going to be together forever.

Price who lets you run out of energy that first day, until you’re a sobbing mess - gathering you into his arms, promising you that he is never gonna leave you, that you’re never getting rid of him. Not like all those other people in your life, no don’t worry, princess! Price will be your daddy, he will make sure you have everything you need! You’re not even going to work at that lousy job anymore, pet, don’t worry, he already quit it for you. 

Dark! Price, who is all sweet and gentle as he comforts you, kissing your forehead and temple, muttering about how silly you are - that he understands that you might feel a little overwhelmed - but look at how pretty your wedding dress is, sweetheart! All in the different sizes as well, don’t worry, he has taken your measurements and bra sizes and everything, his missus doesn't have to worry about anything. He saw your Pinterest boards, Gaz and Soap showed him how the website works, and saw all the different dresses you had dreamt of. Isn’t this perfect? Just for you!!

Dark! Price who doesn’t outright admit to having read your diary, breaking in or stalking you, despite all those accusations of yours… no no, he didn’t he just … got ready for the two of you to be together - but of course he knows so much about you sweetheart, he has seen the daddy kink porn you watch regularly, yeah he knows you’re a virgin. No no, he won’t rape you, what’s that all about? No, you’re saving your virginity to marriage, you’re a good girl - the two of you can wait another week, that’s nothing.

and after everything, how nice he has been and how he has sat everything up in the basement you’re still angry with him? Don’t be absurd, sweetheart, you would come around soon - you were going to be his missus after all, what kind of wife would you be if you didn’t want to talk to him?

Something something, he ends up pushing you to the floor, holding your hands down as he takes his time to properly smell you. Your pussy, over your clothes, don’t worry - your armpits. Grabs your ankle and sniffs your foot too. Sweet all over!

dark! Price who loses control of his anger when you throw the entire tray of breakfast that he made for you, at him. The tea is not too hot because of the milk, but still. You made a mess and that isn’t nice. He takes you over his knee for that, slapping your arse and upper thighs sore, leaves you an absolute mess. He apologizes afterwards of course, not really because he feels bad about it, but because you made him do that. He has to make sure you understand that there are consequences for your actions! 

Dark!Price who keeps you downstairs in that little basement of his, while you get your worst fits over with. He expected these, you’re a strong woman after all, you just need to understand that the two of you are meant for each other. Next week the boys will swing by and they’ll be witnesses as the two of you get married - isn’t that grand?

No, the shop won’t be looking for you, bird, don’t worry about that! You already quit immediately - had to move home for a family emergency, but you were very sorry about it. You already terminated your apartment lease too, moved out already! Pesky family emergency again, innit? No no don’t cry pet, Price knows you don’t have any family you’re close with, it’s okay. Nobody is hurt! All is good! You’re just being silly, you don’t know how good all of this will be for you. How you will be a perfect missus!

He will threaten and hurt you all week, but not touch that sweet pussy of yours - grope you? Sure, but nothing more than that. You’re not married yet after all. 

Price who sweetly explains that he knows you love him, even if you can’t say it out loud yet! That’s alright, sweet pet, you will be able to soon!

Dark! Price who happily makes it clear to you that making any kind of fuss at the town hall and they will kill everyone. You won’t have to wear the beautiful dress at the town hall, no, Price got you something much more simple, they don’t deserve to see you at your most beautiful - it will be quick anyways, don’t worry sweetheart. Just sign the papers. No fuss, remember? No protest - look, all the boys dressed up nicely in suits - and look! They’re all armed as well. Would be a bloody shame if you were guilty of getting so many people killed, wouldn’t it?

dark! Price who kisses you for the first time after you sign the papers, who almost wants to lick off the tears rolling down your cheeks as the workers of the town hall coos, thinking you’re crying from happiness. And you are, but you’re also a little overwhelmed, aren’t you, pet? Better get you home again.

dark!price who dresses you up at home, forcing you to swirl in your dress in front of his men, Nikolai and Laswell. All of them ignore your attempts at asking for help and you’re a quick learner - you figure out that they’re not going to help you after a few attempts. You’re his girl, his sweet missus, and you’re handcuffed as you sit on his lap during their dinner at home, being fed all the nicely made dinner from a fancy restaurant. You don’t even throw a fuss as you eat all together, so you’re rewarded with some champagne and wine. Good tasting, aren’t they?

Dark!Price who grins as he sends his guests on their merry way, while you begin to cry again, begging to not be left alone with him - aw, you’re so sweet when you’re getting nervous. Is the wine getting to your head?

Dark! Price who throws you over his shoulder then, not bringing you down to the basement but instead into your new shared bedroom. Laying you down on the bed, taking in the sight of you like this. In your wedding dress, surrounded by rose petals, painted all warm colors by the sunset. Cooing at you as you hiccup and cry and hide your face behind your hands, saying you don’t want to. Don’t worry, he will be nice! All gentle for you, pet, it will feel good!

Dark!Price who cuffs you to the bed, pushing up that nice dress of yours to expose your bottom half. Looking at the pretty lace he forced you into earlier, praising you for how beautiful you look! He kisses your thighs, keeping your legs open with his strong hands, taking his time. Finally the two of you are married. You’re going to be his in every way now! With a ring on your finger, a new name — losing your innocence to your husband.

Dark! Price who eats you, Mrs. Price, out all lovingly, enjoying the sounds that escape you against your will. Loving your taste, loving the way your legs shake, the way you cry as he ducks on your clit. He makes you come on his tongue and then fingers, and you’re perfect! Squirting for him! He is lapping up the sweetness that pours from you! See, he will make it feel good for you. He even frees your hands. 

Dark! Price who shushes your cries as he pushes his fat cock into your hole, ruining your sweet pussy for everybody else; he can feel how wet you are for him, croons at how good your cunt feels. How daddy will take care of you, just breathe. Yeah, just like that, c’mon princess, look down to see how the two of you are connected! He pushes in the last couple of inches the moment you look down, taking in your cry with pride, drowning in pleasure and ownership.

You’re so wet and warm around his big cock, he couldn’t help himself, lass! His perfect wife with a perfect cunt, feels so good - he is going to fill you up, don’t worry, but not until he has made you come again and again.

dark!Price who whispers “i know I know, pet,” as you whimper over how it feels weird, how it hurts because his cock is so big. Who drinks in the sight of you as he licks two fingers before slipping them in between the two of you, gently rubbing at your clit and oh, that feels nice, doesn’t it?

Dark! Price who finally begins to fuck you then - no, he isn’t fucking you, he is making love to you. The first round is all sweet and gentle, he is claiming you, taking his time. Covering you in kisses as he rolls his hips, touching all those soft places of yours. He wants to run his tongue over those stretch marks, wants to fuck his cock in between those two breasts of yours. But for now he fucks you as you deserve, enjoying your little moans and whines that grows stronger and louder, the way your body shakes and the way you grab onto his shoulder and back. How those sweet nails of yours digs into his skin.

Dark! Price who makes you come twice, cooing in your ear about how you wanted it after all, how you’re his wife forever now - before he comes himself, hot cum shooting deep inside of you.

The second round isn’t as gentle in any way - it’s after twenty minutes of holding and kissing you, cuddling you and declaring his love, that he takes you again. He fucks you, properly. He makes the bed rock as he fucks into you, making you scream and trash, before surprising the both of you by squirting again. 

Following that night, time ceases to be linear.

On the surface, it doesn't feel like much has changed.

You still wake up (even as unpredictable as your sleeping pattern is), still attend your therapy sessions as scheduled, still take your meds without looking too long at them. Never mind the fact that they might not be your ordinary batch anymore.

Dr. Gideon hasn't talked to you one-on-one for a while, either. Maybe what happened was just a fever-induced dream? Maybe there's no immunity? No ulterior motives behind your father's avoidant tendencies other than the fact that he simply didn't like you.

No fake vaccines.

No shady shit.

Nothing to indicate that you're not somewhere you'd rather not be.

Dad, did you really hate me that much?

Or did you feel nothing, like I do now?

Am I the legacy you intended?

"I heard you almost died."

Once again, Selena disturbs the fragile tranquility of your morning.

Once again, your breakfast ceases to appeal to you.

"But I didn't."

She sits next to you, too close for comfort. Given the fact that she seems to be back to her normal self, if such a description could ever be applied to her, you'd never have guessed that she attacked the staff a short while ago and had to be sedated.

You should probably feel uneasy with having her at such proximity, knowing the damage those nails of hers can deliver.

You're not exactly in the spirit for any unnecessary outbursts, and the fact that you didn't sleep at all last night doesn't help improve your mood much either. Best not to test her too much.

"An alarm went off, you know." She leans her cheek atop the palm of her hand, elbow firmly planted on the table top as she stares inquisitively at you. "It was so loud, and there were so many people running to your room. All those people, just for you."

You couldn't have been paid to keep your sarcasm in check at that point. "Weird. It's almost like we're at a care facility where they're supposed to keep us alive."

It falls on deaf ears.

Selena doesn't bite. "So, what's wrong with you?"

"That night, or in general?"

"Were you sick?"

"Probably." You don't specify what kind of sickness it was.

It just so happens that the director himself is weirdly fascinated by your biology, and intentionally injected you with a monster-making drug just to test a hypothesis. Turns out your life is a life and that your old man made you some kind of mutant who can't get sick for shit. No big deal.

Yeah, no. You're not going to touch that can of worms with a ten-foot pole. Not on an empty stomach. Not with Selena Corey sitting right next to you.

"Just a strong fever."

Selena doesn't look too concerned with you, but she does look a little skeptical. Scratch that, her stare is prickly, but you decidedly ignore it for the sake of resuming with what you hope to be the remainder of a normal morning.

As you reach for your coffee and prepare to rejoice in one of the few things in life that can still release some dopamine in your system, a nurse promptly emerges and takes it from your hand. You don't even get to question it before she puts another identical one in your hand.

"Decaffeinated," she clarifies, at the sight of your arched eyebrow. "Dr. Gideon's orders."

"… Why?"

"It might improve your sleep."

You don't have a lot of enjoyments left in life, and he's seeing fit to deprive you of one of the few things that might just lift your mood, if only by a margin?

Really?

"It's really for the best," she adds, with a smile that borders on patronizing in nature. "Dr. Gideon knows what he's doing, and if he believes that decreasing your caffeine consumption might have a positive effect on your sleep, then there's a reason for it."

You take a cautious whiff of the drink she just handed you. It smells like coffee, tastes like coffee, so instead of making a big fuss out of nothing, you decide to let it slide.

The nurse smiles brightly, content with the results of her intervention.

"Do you have a cup of coffee for me, too?" Selena asks, beaming with anticipation. If she were a dog, her tail would swing strongly enough to knock a chair off its balance.

The nurse gulps nervously. She's probably already aware of the kind of danger she's putting herself into by contradicting Selena's demands. "I'm sorry, Miss Corey, but I'm afraid that Dr. Gideon specifically prohibits her from drinking caffeine. He's made no specifications regarding your diet."

Undoubtedly outraged, Selena prepares to shout something, but before she can get as far, the nurse is wise to leave and resume overseeing another patient at another table. Martin, you think his name is. Poor guy with a hypersensitivity towards everything related to sounds. Probably not the best idea to put him in the same room as Selena, given how he already looks on edge where he sits, but that's not your responsibility.

Selena yanks you by the shoulder. "What was that?"

"Coffee?"

"That's not what I mean." She scrutinizes you with something akin to accusation engraved in the corner of her eyes, and you can feel her nails start to dig into the skin underneath the fabric of your shirt. "What does Dr. Gideon suddenly want with you?"

"He's a doctor." You manage to take another careful sip of your beverage. If there's something else mixed into it, you can't taste it. "Doctors treat people."

"Yeah, but why does he treat you now?"

"Don't know."

She glowers. "You're lying. Come on, tell me the truth. I'm your best friend!"

Best friend? When was that established? How come you are the last one to know of this unexpected development?

"I'm not lying."

"You so are!" She stands up so that she can look down at you, and her grip on your shoulder doesn't lessen. Probably thinks the height difference might make you cower and give in to her demands. "He doesn't treat me to a cup of coffee!"

"He didn't —"

Then she says something so outrageous that it's a miracle you don't choke on your drink where you're sitting.

"You're fucking him, aren't you?"

"No —"

"Yes, you are! I can tell by your face! You so are!" Her lips part to display a near-manic grin, like she's the first one to learn of something scandalous. "I knew there was something there. I mean, I don't really get it, but surely he must be packing something long for it to win you, of all people, over."

Now she's really starting to get on your nerves, and you like to think you have a high tolerance for shit. You're halfway tempted to bite through the paper cup. "No. It's not that."

"Then why doesn't he see me when I'm feeling bad? I had a temperature of almost 100 last week, and he didn't even visit me!"

You sigh and put the cup down, careful not to position it too close to her. Hopefully, it will become lukewarm before she has a chance to weaponize it, if she intends on doing it. "Maybe he thinks that since Dr. Beckett is taking such good care of you, he doesn't see the need to interfere with what can only be a successful treatment plan?"

At the mention of Dr. Beckett, there's something vaguely resembling somberness adorning her countenance, and the grip on your shoulder mercifully lessens. A slight slip of the anger, but it doesn't make it go away entirely.

"Dr. Beckett hasn't visited me in days. He's probably off fucking someone else!"

Alright, too much information, too loudly. Doesn't she know that there are staff around to hear her openly admit that she's been screwing one of the primary physicians in the building?

Then again, subtlety has never really been her forte.

"And I'm almost out of shampoo."

Now that she mentions it, you haven't seen Dr. Beckett for a short while, either. Not even in the hallways when the physicians go on rounds.

You don't have much time to linger on the question before you have to physically keep yourself from wincing as you feel her manicured nails press even deeper into your skin.

"Did you tell him that we were fucking?" she asks, face closing in on you, and this time, she's uncharacteristically quieter.

Uh-oh.

"Tell who?"

"Dr. Gideon."

Technically, you didn't. You might have implied something, but you never outright said "Selena's fucking one of your subordinates". If he got that, he did so on his own, and that has nothing to do with you.

"I didn't tell him anything."

"Yes, you must have! You probably did it while he was buried deep inside your cun—!"

"Miss Corey."

Even if he didn't intend it, just the sound of his voice is enough to command the atmosphere of the kitchens. Selena included.

Dr. Gideon stands there, tall as ever, authoritarian. His coat is neatly ironed, his greying hair slicked behind, his countenance calm, but governing in a way that does not permit chaos.

His eyes flicker between the two of you, lingering on you for a concise moment, before finally settling on her. "I'm afraid I must ask you to lower your voice, Miss Corey. You are upsetting the other patients."

Selena visibly recoils, like a child being scolded for being too loud. You can see her teeth grind against each other under her lips, and her fingers clenching and opening several times before she finally answers him. You swear you can even spot blood under her nails upon release.

"It's not fair," she whispers under her breath, unable to look at him as she lets the long blonde strands of her fringe partially conceal her expression. Maybe it's embarrassment or shame that keeps her from loudly exclaiming what she previously said to you.

Dr. Gideon raises an eyebrow, as though completely oblivious to the spark that ignited this entire situation. Something in you doesn't buy into this ignorance he portrays.

"What is not fair, Miss Corey?"

"It's not fair. Why do you pay so much attention to her?"

You take another gulp of the coffee while you watch the spectacle. It's less warm now, but decent enough temperature-wise.

Dr. Gideon tilts his head a fraction to the side, observing her. There's a smile on his face, entertained, but far from pleased. "Because she is my patient, just as you are, Miss Corey."

"But it's not the same." She points an accusatory finger at you, and if it were a gun, you might have felt encouraged to feel more on edge. "She doesn't need you that much! She can't be feeling that sad all the time; she doesn't even cry!"

Then she proceeds to place both her hands on her chest. "I'm sicker! I need help! Every facility I've ever been to has dismissed me like I'm lying! They've written me up like I'm just this attention-seeking bitch! You don't do that."

She steps closer to him, and her voice threatens to break into a sob. "You actually listen to me, Dr. Gideon. You treat me like I matter. I just want to be taken care of. Is that too much to ask? I just want help."

Jesus H. Christ.

Dr. Gideon doesn't say anything at first. The placid smile stays on, but his eyes are … void. Even as Selena is gradually getting closer and closer into his personal space, he doesn't move, nor does he react in any visible capacity.

He's just … studying her.

"I understand why you might think that way, Miss Corey."

Selena smiles, and it's a genuine one despite the tears building in the corners of her eyes. Admiring, appreciative, like the way you might look at someone handing you a bottle of water after wandering the desert.

"You do? You really do, Dr. Gideon?"

"Hmmm, I believe so."

You don't believe so, but in place of a verbal noise, you take another sip. The coffee's cold now.

Selena exhales something of an amalgamation between a sigh and a nervous giggle, like all her fears have been put to rest. The change in her mood is something you don't believe you'll ever get properly used to. One moment, you're "best friends", and the next, she hates your guts.

She's an oxymoron personified.

She feels too much, too often, too quickly.

You feel too little, too infrequently, too late.

Maybe, if you were a little more tuned in to your emotions, you might have paid some more attention to the stuff going on around you before it was too late?

Or maybe you would have deliberately decided to ignore it regardless?

"However," Dr. Gideon adds, warningly in the subtle way that will undoubtedly evade Selena's suspicions. "I must ask you to abstain from aggressive behavior towards your fellow patients. This is still a care center, and as such, violence and harassment will not be tolerated in any capacity. Is that understood?"

She gasps, as if she had just been caught forgetting her manners. "Oh, I wasn't being aggressive towards her, I promise! We're best friends, right?"

She spins around and all but begs you to affirm her statement with her eyes alone.

Now, you have two options:

You can reject the notion, and possibly suffer a worse consequence yet. Or you can affirm it, and next time won't be any different.

You suppress a sigh. "… We're good."

Selena shines with relief. "See?"

You just wanted a normal breakfast, if one could call it that. A normal breakfast, a normal cup of coffee, and a normal morning void of any unnecessary additions.

Shame on you for getting your hopes up, rare as they are.

"Good." Dr. Gideon doesn't look convinced, but the smile masks any evidence suggesting as much. "Now, Miss Corey, I must ask that you return to your room for a few additional vitals. There were some abnormalities in your blood work that I wish to be further examined, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Of course not, Dr. Gideon! Whatever you say!"

Whatever you say …

You're almost envious of her cluelessness to what it is he truly has to say. You almost want her to demand more of his attention and time. Demand again that he pay the same amount of attention to her as he does to you.

Beg a little more.

Say more.

Ask more.

Come on, you're good at that kind of thing, Selena.

Sing for him.

Dance as you do at the lounge.

Just distract him long enough for you to get your hands on a cup of normal coffee.

But she doesn't.

She… walks past him, letting her hand lightly grace the sleeve of his coat, and just … leaves the kitchens. No screaming, no demand that he personally escort her, no tantrum whatsoever.

The doors close behind her.

Damn it.

As soon as she's out of the vicinity, Dr. Gideon brushes his hands over the fabric of his sleeve a few times, as though dusting off invisible particles only he can notice.

Then his eyes are on you again, and the placid smile that previously donned his lips turns sincere as he approaches your table. This time, he is truly pleased.

"I apologize for depriving you of your preferred beverage," he says, not sounding apologetic in the slightest. "I believe it is essential that you decrease the daily amount of caffeine you consume. It might be a contributing factor behind why you are not getting enough rest."

Sure, it's the coffee's fault …

"Yeah, the nurse mentioned that." You glance down at what remains of your drink. You're unlikely to finish the rest. "But I did sleep … some."

You didn't.

He doesn't look to be buying that, but the smile doesn't diminish. "Is that so?"

"So and so."

He doesn't need to know that you spent the first few hours lying in your bed, looking at the ceiling, and then the rest walking around to ease your restless legs. He doesn't know about the many hours you spent thinking through everything that had happened, the existential questions, the quiet acceptance, before eventually coming to terms with them.

You suppose a stable person would've tried to escape this place the moment you resurfaced from your fever-induced delirium. Break the window in your room, jump out, and never look back.

So, why didn't you? Why don't you?

You're not quick, but you've learned how to evade health care workers before, if you've really put your mind into it.

You can hide, wait for the coast to clear, and take a chance.

Sure, they always caught you in the end and injected you with sedatives as preventative measures, but the attempts still gave them a run for their money.

You can incite a hospital riot. You know, ignite Selena's temper to volatile lengths just by telling her "Your hair looks like shit", or dangle a piece of toast in front of either Tim or Tom and throw it towards a staff member like one would a bone with a dog.

If you really want to, you can make a mess. When you were a teen and didn't have half the kinds of meds in your system as you do today, you could exhibit quite a temper at the health workers' expense.

You used to act out in retaliation for their dismissal of you - they didn't understand what you felt. Didn't know what you knew, didn't know what you'd seen.

You thought that, by acting out, they would finally understand.

But they never did. They changed the circumstances, but never your situation.

You doubt that it'll produce a different result with the staff at Rhodes Hill.

By now, your ire has declined, and so has your will to do anything about it.

You just … don't see the point.

Even if you could run - this facility is listed among the best and most secure ones in the county. Where would you even go? Who could you go to?

Nowhere, and no one.

It's no longer a matter of "What will you do?", but rather "What can you do?"

Nothing.

Dr. Gideon's attention trails down to your breakfast; it consists of one apple, a piece of toast that's already begun to harden beyond chewability, a poached egg, and your almost-finished cup of (decaf) coffee. So far, before his arrival, you managed a bite or two of the toast, half the egg, but your teeth never even graced the shiny surface of the apple.

Balanced, nutritious, and hardly touched.

The starving population in the world would've cursed your name had they known.

"I thought we had an understanding." The emotion nestled between his words balances on a thin line between dismay and disappointment, concealed entirely behind the filter of softness through which he always speaks. "I don't believe I need to remind you of the nutritional deficiencies your body is currently suffering from?"

He doesn't. You both know he doesn't have to remind you of anything to get the point across.

"I'm just ... not that hungry today."

He tuts in a way that suggests he sees this as nothing more than a childish tantrum at worst. "Nobody benefits from your declining health. As I've said before, we need to take care of our bodies, or someone else might feel the need to do it for us."

You've heard it before from other doctors, long before you even became acquainted with this one.

But unlike the other doctors, you know he won't let it go. No, he intends to see it through, even if he has to do it himself.

You observe him from the corner of your eye, then let your eye trail down to your plate. It should be easy, you think. To just eat it. Make him and the nurses happy with any kind of progress. Something in the forefront of your mind tells you that it will make him, most of all, extremely content.

He'll be content, and you can get through with your day.

Without a word, you reach for the apple and bury your teeth into its red hide. Juices splash across the edges of your mouth, probably an unflattering and undignified sight to behold, but it lets you chew off maybe a fourth of its total mass. You don't even mind the seeds that join the bite, either, bitter as they are.

Is this what it felt like for those monsters back at Raccoon City to tear through the flesh of their prey?

Ignoring the way the flesh threatens to lodge in the back of your throat, you swallow all of it in one go.

Personally, you don't understand how either Tim or Tom can afford not to chew their food before ingesting it. It's not pleasant, it's uncomfortable as it slowly descends your throat,

But like with everything else in your life, you endure it until the bite has probably settled somewhere in your stomach, and wipe the juice off your mouth with the sleeve of your shirt.

"One of my Five A Day."

Dr. Gideon looks satisfied, even if his face doesn't change much. It's the crinkle in his eyes that suggests that, while he's not entirely amused by your display, he takes his victories in whatever small measures he can.

You almost fail to catch it, but you hear it just barely, hidden under his breath.

"Good girl."

He turns around and seems about to exit the kitchen, but then stops just as you were about to hope, and peeks over at you. "Why don't we have a little talk in my office?"

"I'm supposed to meet with Dr. Richardson shortly."

"Oh, it's no trouble. He was able to reschedule you for Friday." He gestures with his head to the doors. "Shall we?"

Seeing it as you have apparently no other option, you can only nod as you get up from your seat.

───

You ignore the inkling of discomfort that washes over you as you enter his office, with him following closely behind. "I would prefer not to get another 'B12' shot, if it's all the same to you."

He chuckles. "Rest assured, the test has been concluded. I won't harm you."

That's the first thing he says as he closes the door, leaving you entirely alone with him. Separated. Isolated.

His office is located further up on the upper floors to ensure maximum privacy, so even if you were to talk louder than at civil volume, you doubt many would hear. "I cannot fault you for being skeptical. I'll admit that my methods were rather … extreme. I apologize for that. That must have been uncomfortable for you."

You watch as he walks across the floor to his desk.

"Or perhaps you feel angry? Betrayed? Lost? Restless? It is perfectly understandable, you know? You won't be in any trouble if you decide to act on it." Not an assumption, but an observation rooted in truth you don't know how he acquired.

He gestures for you to sit on the plush chair positioned in the corner of the room while he circles to his desk.

You look at the seat, yet you can't feel an urge to sit despite how comfortable and welcoming the material looks. Velvet, if you are to guess. Probably primarily reserved for colleagues or other associates, not patients like yourself.

Taking your silence as permission to continue, he abides by it. "I'm well experienced with how grief can affect human behavior."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" you ask, finally sitting down but not looking entirely at him. "Grieving?"

"How can you not?"

From one of the drawers in his desk, he takes out what you can only guess by the sound of shuffling papers to be documents. "Your father discarded you in life, long before death claimed him. Those incompetent fools at the facilities you frequented deemed your behavior irrational,—" He turns a page as he reads. "— Unstable. Dysphoric. Lethargic. Put you on more medication than I've ever known of, and I know of quite a few."

You hear his fingers tap sharply at one specific place upon the page, his voice shifting to a profoundly bitter shade.

"Clinically despondent." He scoffs. "As if they knew a semblance of the truth behind who you are."

"Do you mean that I'm not really sick, then?" You ask with a smidgen of sarcasm and will yourself to finally look at him in his entirety. "That everything they wrote is wrong? Or that it's all just a side-effect of something else? Something only you know of?"

Is he implying that everything you're feeling, and not feeling, for most of your life, is just a huge pile of misdiagnoses due to doctors not truly seeing the bigger picture, as he apparently can?

That the one thing that you believed belonged entirely to you, even if you did not want it, was falsely labeled?

Dr. Gideon glances sympathetically over at you, akin to the way an owner would look at a miserable dog. "Would it make things easier for you if you were?"

"… No."

"No, I do not believe so either." He puts the documents down atop the desk, as if he finds their content to be as intellectually stimulating as the morning newspaper. "I believe that the fools previously responsible for you did not know what they were truly studying, and that led them to neglect you, whether it was their intention or not. In fact, I do not believe your placement in the system was due to any mental diagnosis. Not at first."

You hold your breath as you process what he's telling you as best you can.

"A young girl, alone, orphaned, telling people she saw the dead rise up and eat people. You weren't eligible for any kind of NDA given your age, and you could go around babbling about what really happened, so where else could they put you, save for an institution to keep you contained and discredited?

What they did not understand, they confined you for it. They may have truly thought that they were doing it for your benefit, but ignorance does not equate a lack of responsibility." He rests his hand atop the table surface, his many rings illuminating with light from the corner lamp. "But you were alone, in a world where few know what you are, and where even fewer know your true value. How can you not grieve, even if you have no word for what it is you are truly grieving for?"

Grief?

The space in your lungs as you stop breathing doesn't hit you at first. The message he supplied compensates for that.

Is he suggesting that everything so far - every misdemeanor, every moment of neglect, every act you've committed, regardless of severity - has been a byproduct of unprocessed and unacknowledged grief? It's been theorized before by another shrink, but not in the same context as the one Dr. Gideon presents.

To other psychiatrists, it's been:

Grief brought on by your father's absence and subsequent death.

The destruction of your home city.

The violence and terror you witnessed.

The solitude of being confined to restricted spaces for the majority of your formative years.

But never loneliness. Not the kind he is proposing.

"Do you think you will have better success?" you ask, and you think it's a fair question, all things considered. Judging by what he's already committed himself to in terms of "understanding" you, you both doubt it and not. "A lot of different doctors have tried to understand me. To learn me. Why do you think you'll have better luck?"

"Oh, my dearest, luck has no place in my work." He seems almost appalled by the fact that you would even suggest such a preposterous thing. "It's because I've already learned in the last six months what they have spent years trying to scratch the surface of, and they never even scratched at the correct place."

He tries to conceal the smile you can already see stretching across his scarred lips. His hand leaves the table, and you watch with some tension in your body as he steps closer. Measured. "The matters of why and how are irrelevant. You are here now, exactly where you are supposed to be. Where you were always meant to be."

The finality in his tone leaves no place for objection.

Still, you ask. "Why here, of all places?"

He doesn't stop until he's positioned right in front of you, casting a shadow over both you and the chair. The absence of light does not grant him any favors in terms of appearing less menacing, if that were ever his intent. "Because I am not the only one who knows of your existence. I was just the first to find you."

Your eyebrows ascend a few inches, and the apple-bite you previously consumed feels heavier now in your belly. "… What do you mean?"

"While I did manage to recover most of your father's notes, I unfortunately failed to collect them all." Dr. Gideon looks genuinely regretful of what he just admitted. "A few previous members of Umbrella's faction got their hands on the rest. Insignificant people, but powerful in the currency the world dictates."

He must have noticed the shock spreading across your body; the emotions you so rarely let show on your face, in plain view in front of him, because despite the severity of his words, and the reaction you have towards them, he still manages to maintain that self-assured smile. "People, I can assure you, who would not hesitate to cut you open from navel to neck in order to take a look inside."

His left hand finds the back of your chair, effectively trapping you between without having to close the distance.

"To pull out and put in what they wish. Keep you locked up, chained, starved, and disposed of, once they deemed your usefulness ... expired."

He kneels until his head is level with yours, and whispers: "People who I can guarantee are far less lenient than me.”

The realization dawns on you only completely then.

You're being hunted.

You have always been hunted.

Your organs, your blood, and your head; all of you has a pre-existing price in a bidding war. Reserved for the highest bidder, like a beast at an auction. Like a pelt on display from a recent hunt.

The recovery of one of Umbrella's hidden trophies.

You just didn't realize until one of the hunters was already in front of you.

The feeling of Dr. Gideon's cold, large, yet gentle hand carefully positioned around the left side of your neck and cheek is what snaps you out of your overwhelming thoughts.

«But I don’t want that for you," he says with promise, soft and warm in contrast to his freezing grip. "I need you to understand that, despite the reservations you might have." His face leans closer into yours, nose inches away from making contact with your own.

"I want you content. To be free to walk around the premises as you please. Comfortable. Satiated."

You count the many times his fingers stroke your cheek. One, two, three … It grounds you, but while you know that you could easily escape his hold if you were to inch your face away, some subliminal implication remains in his fingers that won't permit resistance. "I will ensure that you will want for nothing. Doesn’t that sound like a much kinder option, my dear?”

If you have an answer to that question at that moment, which feels much more like a predetermined one on his side, you have no time to pronounce it.

“With me," he continues, "here, you will be perfectly safe. You will suffer no unnecessary harm, as I am sure you are accustomed to. I will not allow it. As to whether or not you indeed do have a diagnosis, I will admit that I find your demeanor, and opinion of yourself … concerning.”

He tilts his head a fraction to the side.

"We will have to remedy that, won't we?”

Remedy it?

A life of contentment, that's what he's promising you.

In exchange for what? Subservience? Compliance? Haven't you already provided those in spades, before even knowing of his true motives?

You're not like Selena, or Tim, or Tom.

You don't have the energy to fight anymore, or run, or fawn, or reject what happens to you.

You've spent years trying it, long before your shadow ever darkened the doors of Rhodes Hill.

Dr. Gideon injected you with viruses from a dead man's stash for half a year before admitting it, and you were none the wiser or caring before or after learning the fact.

He could've continued to conduct his research in secret without ever telling you, and you wouldn't have raised a brow.

And yet, here he is, telling you anyway.

Why?

Despite how often the doctors' notes have tried to depict you as such, you're no idiot. You know a cage when you see one, as gilded as it may be. You've already been tested on, confined, controlled, and measured one way or the other. It did not start with Dr. Gideon, and you doubt it will end with him.

However, based on what he's told you, there will be no one after him either. Not if he has it his way.

You can't distinguish whether that serves as a kindness, a promise, or a threat, but at this point, would it even matter?

Is any alternative better than this one?

You've been to other facilities and "treated" by other doctors. Some meant well, others couldn't care less. Some were kind and approachable, others felt more inclined to summon security, regardless of what you did and didn't do, and resort to medication to mold your behavior as they saw fit. You're not even sure you can properly recall how you were before all this.

If there was ever a before.

When you read your father's documents later the day they were presented to you, you learned the truth of your existence.

As a subject.

But when you look into Dr. Gideon's eyes, at the determination and finality in them, you can't remember ever seeing that kind of resolve in another doctor's gaze before.

You know he'll experiment on you again; there's not a shadow of doubt in your mind. He'll take more tests, conduct more research, but at least you will be provided for. You will, to some extent, be safe. Safe from the uncertainty that might pursue you if you ever were to try to leave.

Worse snakes are hiding in the grass, but this one permits you to look at him. To know what he is. A snake that will deliberately tell you before it bites.

Not even your own father could afford you such a luxury before he died.

The rest of the world you've experienced has tried to shield you from knowing their true motives, but Dr. Victor Gideon provides you with the truth as it is. Bare, uncomfortable, but honest.

What other choice is there to make?

You take a deep breath through your nose before you grant him a singular nod. Maybe one day, you will regret your choice, if there ever was one to begin with.

Now, you are tired.

"Alright."

At the sound of your acceptance, Dr. Gideon freezes for a split second, as if he did not expect this without further questions, or probing, or even a fight. It only lasts for a moment before something euphoric wholly takes over him.

He produces a noise from the bottom of his throat that might have sounded obscene to anyone walking outside his office, as would the depiction of that smile.

"Wonderful, my dear."

If it qualifies as a warning or a threat, you're unable to reach a proper conclusion before you feel your face being pressed tightly into his chest, the scent of chemicals and antibacterial soap borrows itself into your nose while his arms wrap around the entirety of your back. Wrapping around you entirely, as if shielding you from the rest of the world, yet ensnaring you against him all the same.

Tight.

You've never been fond of tight spaces. After all the involuntary psych admissions you've been confined to, all the padded cells that served to protect them more than they did you - even with or without any obvious hostile behavior on your side - you grew to associate them with entrapment. Restriction. Imprisonment.

You should feel that now, too.

You should.

You do.

Dr. Gideon fits all the criteria: Large, cold, suffocating; constricting your body the same way a boa would.

But despite the cold emitting from the body, the promises you know he will abide by, the studies and experiments you know you will have to endure, you don't feel it.

You feel … held, even if it's in a smothering embrace.

Seen, even if only under a scope.

Warm, like entangled under a cold blanket.

His large palm strokes through your hair and down your back, and you're surprised that someone so immense as he could exhibit such restraint.

For the first time in your life, you feel safe.

When was the last time you were hugged? Truly?

It must have been long because you can't even remember.

How could you not lean into that, if only a little? How could you not let your face rest against his chest when it feels so … good?

"My poor dear," Dr. Gideon whispers close into your ear, and just by hearing his voice resonate through your ears the same way a lullaby would, you swear you could fall asleep against him like this.

“Nurse Bethany has been giving me a nasty side-eye all morning.”

Whether or not you’re actually paying any attention to what she’s saying, Selena Corey either doesn’t seem to particularly notice or care. She just prefers to speak when there’s someone around her, and today - like most days - it happens to be you.

And you don’t have the energy to deject her.

In her defense, between her and the rather lackluster breakfast presented in front of you on the table, she’s the more noticeable addition to your morning. Exactly what she wants, no doubt.

“Nurse Bethany?” You prod with as much interest as you can be bothered to garner while scooping your scrambled eggs to the left side of the plate. “Doesn’t she always look like someone pissed in her cereal?"

Maybe you could give this mush to either Timothy or Thomas. They’d slurp it like it was a delicacy, no chewing required.

Selena leans closer to your ear, as if to whisper, but her voice doesn’t dim in the slightest. “I bet she’s envious of me.”

A not-so-subtle giggle - like a child - pushes past her lips, and a few strands of her bright-blonde hair tickle your cheek at the exhalation.

“I had Dr. Beckett sneak me that nice bottle of shampoo the other night. You know, that really expensive kind from that fancy store in Wrenwood. She can probably see that. That's why she's looking at me like that. She wants it too.”

You briefly glance at her hair from the corner of your eye, and truth be told, you really can’t spot much of a difference. Like always, her hair looks good. Annoyingly good.

She smells fresh, too - floral and sweet. Too sweet, and too strong. Soap and lotion of a fancy kind. A stark contrast to your sterile surroundings.

Smelling salts would've been more merciful to your nostrils.

Selena has always been beautiful - anyone with or without a prescription can see it, but mentioning it aloud might just cause more problems than you're comfortable with. She thrives on attention, and even if you give it to her by the crumbs, she'll inhale it like cocaine.

And if you’re at this center, it’s a given that you already have problems in dire need of specialized, professional aid; you don’t need to tip the scales that determine whether or not you can get out of here at some point. Even if you have no urgency to leave.

You stab your fork through the toast, and force it into your mouth while you reflect on which kind of answer to provide her with that won’t blow out of massive proportion. “Must be that, then.”

Her eyes brighten with validation you’re not sure you intended on giving, and she leans even closer to your personal space than you’re comfortable with. The warmth from her body clashes against your own cold temperature, and the sickeningly sweet scent only further irritates your sinuses.

“You see it too, right? I knew you could! It’s so obvious that's it!”

Her shoulder bumps hard into yours, and given what the last doctor said about your iron levels, you’re confident you’ll develop a bruise in a few hours.

“She just can’t stand the fact that she’s past her prime, and I’m flowering into mine!” Selena voices haughtily, almost without a care if anyone could hear and interject with their own opinions on the matter.

You peek over to look at the aforementioned nurse, hoping that your observations will shed some light on the situation you've unwillingly been pulled into.

Nurse Bethany observes the patients from the entrance like she does every day, scribbling on her notepad, seemingly or willfully oblivious to Selena’s typical outbursts. Maybe she’s just used to them? Most of the inpatients and staff here seem to be.

You know you are.

Bored as the charge nurse looks, however, she doesn’t seem to be in a scrutinizing mood based on jealousy. The likelihood is simply that she has a resting bitch face.

But you don't mention it to your table-companion.

“You know,” Selena says - yet again -, her tone now more wistful and airy than moments before. “You can probably borrow some of it, if you want? I think you’d look really dashing if you started caring a bit more about your appearance. I know how to look pretty, and I can help you.”

As she says this, she raises her hand to draw her fingers through your hair. Her nails lightly graze the surface of your scalp, and for a moment, you envision her severing the skin underneath. There's no knowing when her mood might take a turn for the worse, but at this point, you really couldn't care less.

After all, it's the first time anyone's touched you outside of medical necessity.

She probably means well, you think to yourself. In her own special way.

In all the time you’ve known Selena since you first got to Rhodes Hill, she has struck you as someone who knows how to keep her appearance pristine regardless of the resources available, with alarming precision.

That, and her penchant for … charming the male staff members doesn't go entirely unnoticed either.

You can't help but compare her to those girls in fashion magazines with shiny, flawless skin and voluminous hair who write tips and tricks on how to take care of yourself.

And given how you’ve let yourself fall victim to sleepless nights in the time you’ve been here, and even long before, you require neither mirror nor Selena’s comments to know you look like shit.

You're not like her.

“Thanks,” you try your best to give her a simple, albeit tired, smile. Even lifting your lips feels heavy. “But I think it suits you better, Selena. Don't waste it on me.”

“It’s no problem at all.” She pulls her hand away and smiles in that way only she can manage at a place like this without looking too eerie. Like she’s completely somewhere else, and nowhere at the same time. “Dr. Beckett is quite easy to convince. I could … talk to him, for you. Get him to get you a bottle of your own. If you took a little bit better care of yourself, maybe you wouldn’t be so down all the time.”

Down?

That’s what she calls it.

Down.

A superficial but surprisingly accurate word to describe your persistent mood, at least by comparison to your own subjective descriptions of it.

Down in hell.

Down in the cellar.

Just generally down.

The doctors, nurses, and those other specialists have other names for it:

"Persistent Depressive Disorder" and "Complex PTSD"

That's what they call it.

That's why you're here. To flourish and return to your "normal" self, even if no one here has any idea of what you're like. If you’re honest, you’re not sure you wholly fit the bill for that diagnosis, but you don’t bother to outright fight the allegations.

You have no cash, no family, no other place to be.

You were orphaned following Raccoon City. Your dad was a researcher at Umbrella, and your mom wasn't around.

You vividly remember seeing one of the infected take a chunk of his jugular, and after that, you were alone, and with no other family left, you were quickly thrown into the system to be bounced around at the whims of others. Apathy struck you first, then the anhedonia (phrased perfectly by another shrink), and then the inability to care much about what happened to you.

You just … didn't care anymore. Whether that qualified for a depressive diagnosis or not, you've long since let it be what it is.

You've been hit, kicked, punched, talked down to, and yet none of it has stuck more than a mosquito bite would. You remember being bitten by one of the infected. One of those … monsters - the same one who offed your dad - bit you on the skin surrounding your shoulder, and yet you just … kept living.

Kept going, just as you are now.

Not even the pain registered properly until you somehow got out of there, and it's a miracle no infection took root.

After that, things just ceased to matter.

And now, you are just … here.

By the social worker’s phrasing, you are fortunate that the Rhode Hill Center is a charity care that favors less than financially stable folks.

In fact, the director himself, Dr. Victor Gideon, seemed to personally have wished you here. He was apparently contacted by your PCP at the time, and he didn't waste time accepting you to Rhodes Hill. You hadn't even formally met the man at that point.

If even half the practicing doctors in the world were as enthusiastic about having a new charge as he was, the world would probably be a merrier place.

A philanthropist who, according to the publications, was personally struck during the tragedy of Raccoon City and opened this center as a way to heal the wounded population. It's not every day that an esteemed doctor of his decree takes an interest in you, so what options were you left with?

Between here and nowhere at all, you couldn't afford to be picky.

And among all the other psychiatric facilities you've been admitted to over the years, Rhodes Hill stands out as the best one yet. Good food, decent staff, and individual rooms for its inhabitants. Hell, they even have a casino.

Patients are encouraged to engage with each other socially, and the ones who can't interact with others aren't wholly excluded either, just adjusted to.

All in all, it's a nice enough place.

If Selena’s miracle shampoo from Wrenwood could fix your problems and make you maybe start caring a little more, you might have taken her up on that.

But you don’t, nor do you have the good conscience to let her blow a member of staff to get it for you.

Even though it shouldn’t be physically possible, Selena manages to lean even closer into you, sling her arm around your shoulder, and inch her lips closer to your ear.

“Maybe even Dr. Gideon would look a little longer if you fixed yourself up some more.”

If anything she’s said in the last ten minutes has made you visibly react, it’s that.

Confusion paints your face in a narrowed hue. “What are you talking about?”

She smiles until her teeth - perfectly white, and pearly - are on show, and pulls a little back from you. "He looks at you the most. I don't know why, but I can tell that he does whenever he stops by to greet us. It's like he's … put in a trance."

Her smile threatens to depress at the mention of someone's attention being on someone else other than herself, but she quickly replenishes her strength to keep going with ... whatever it is she intends to keep talking about. "Imagine if you could score the director himself. I bet he could give you a lot of pretty things."

"Score" the director?

For as long as you've known Dr. Gideon (if you can even call it that), he's always struck you as … something else. Not cold, or cruel, or focused solely on the clinical, or whether you're responding to the medication more than he needs to. You're experienced with shrinks of that caliber, but you can't say that he quite fits the bill on that front.

He asks you specifically how you are, most of the time. Asks questions none of the other doctors have, and seems to have an insatiable curiosity regarding you and your history.

He stands out from the other staff with his overwhelming stature and the sole fact that he basically runs this place. His voice is smooth, his skin pale, and he never seems to get caught off-guard by the many … events that sometimes occur. Unperturbed, even when Thomas Jackson once threatened to eat him whole.

He never raises his voice to anyone - a testament to his experience in this field.

And the times he's directly touched you, usually in relation to blood work and tests, his skin feels inexplicably cold against your own.

Too cold, like he had nothing but ice resting underneath.

Maybe you should have noticed more, like Selena claims?

If you were to put a word to Dr. Gideon, it would be … odd.

Not bad, or condescending, or creepy in an inherent way apparent to you.

Just … odd.

"I'm just one of his patients," you tell her, as neutral as you can while shoving your plate a few inches away. The food is supposed to be exemplary - a luxury compared to what they provide other psychiatric patients in the rest of the county. But the taste is … bland, and unappealing to your palate. Might be the medication they've put you on that's fucked with your tongue. "He cares as much for me as he does the rest."

You can already tell that she doesn't find your answer satisfactory. She wants you to affirm her observations. With words. Always words, and if you do it with a complimentary smile, she might offer to kiss you.

You're afraid that if you agree with what she's said without any scrutiny, she'll consider you her one true love in this world.

"He stares a lot. I notice."

"You notice a lot of things, Selena."

"I notice the way people look at me." Her frown deepens. "Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."

If it's true what she says - which you somewhat doubt - you haven't noticed it.

Before anything else can be said by either of you, you feel an overwhelming figure cast a shadow over the table where you're seated.

"Are you going to eat that?" Timothy asks, salivating at the sight of your barely touched breakfast. The crumbs on the edges of his lips suggest he's already finished his own, but between the options of him and the trash, the choice is easy.

You push the plate towards him. "Have at it, Tim."

The overweight man doesn't even have the time to properly say "thanks" before he's already forcing the scrambled eggs and toast into his mouth with his fingers. In fact, you doubt he's even chewing it properly.

Selena scrunches her nose at the rather unflattering display.

"Mr. Jackson!" Nurse Bethany yells as she approaches your table. "You have already exceeded your 500-calorie limit for today's breakfast!"

You take this cue to get up from your seat, not wanting to be here in case Timothy gets aggressive about his food. Again. "Thank you for the meal."

As you're leaving, you can hear Selena intruding upon the already fragile situation, as per usual.

"Oh, let him eat. He's a big boy; he needs the energy."

"Please return to your seat, Miss Corey."

"Why? You've been jealous of me all morning, and now you think you can just order me around? Is that it?! Who do you think you are?!"

"Sit. Down. Miss Corey!"

"Don't you — LET GO OF ME, YOU BITCH!"

By the time you shut the cafeteria doors behind you, you hear shouting and screaming, and you have to quickly move to the side as several additional nurses rush past you to de-escalate the situation. Something shatters, Selena's screams resonate through the walls, and you can safely assume that sedatives are a must.

You look back over to the entrance to the kitchens, and while you can't tell what's going on, your best guess, given Selena's declining whines, is that she's already gotten her shot. Again.

"I see Miss Corey needs to have her dosage adjusted."

You should have been able to sense him before he even spoke; that coldness that seeps through the fabric of his coat into the air around you. Yet, you don't properly register his presence before he steps next to you, dwarfing your size by comparison.

"Dr. Gideon." You think that passes for an appropriate greeting, flat as it may be.

"Good morning, my dear." He looks down at you with a polite yet relaxed smile, his arms folded neatly behind his back. The unnatural amber hue of his eyes pierces through your own with a sharp precision that only comes naturally to doctors. "I do hope Miss Corey didn't interrupt your meal. I've read reports that she tends to float in your vicinity, early in the mornings as of late."

"I'm good," you answer and shift your attention back to the cafeteria entrance.

On cue, the doors open, and both you and Dr. Gideon watch as several members of staff escort a rather dazed-looking Selena out. She's smiling and singing and airily caressing any male staff she can get her hands on, letting her fingers graze their ironed shirts while humming softly as they transport her back to her room.

There is blood coated under her nails, and Nurse Bethany sports a fresh set of three superficial scars running down her left cheek.

Ouch.

"Dr. Gideon," Nurse Bethany calls, out of breath, but impressively composed. "How would you like us to proceed with Miss Corey?"

"Yes," Dr. Gideon says, staring at her. More specifically, the scratch across her face. Transfixed, you would call it, but you're probably mistaken. "I'll look over her Lithium dosage, just make sure she's ... comfortable."

Nurse Bethany nods, then shifts her attention to you. "I saw you speaking with Miss Corey. Did you talk about anything in particular that might shed some light on this …?"

"Not really," you answer. "She basically said I could afford to look better, and that you were jealous because she's pretty."

The charge nurse frowns, mumbles something incoherent under her breath that vaguely resembles cursing, then leaves to rejoin the other staff members in escorting the aforementioned patient.

Your eyes follow them until they disappear around the corner.

"It's a shame," Dr. Gideon says, vaguely disappointed in a way that doesn't properly show on his countenance. "I initially believed she had finally begun responding to the treatment."

"If it's any consolation, our conversation did revolve around shampoo for a minute," you feel the need to point out.

"Oh?"

"It was calm, for the most part. She had recommendations."

He takes a whiff of the air above him, and his mouth curls a little, like he doesn't like what he's smelling. "I thought I scented something different than the center's standard array."

"That's most likely it."

He raises his eyebrows in a "you know something I don't?" kind of way. "And you wouldn't happen to know how she acquired said product, would you?"

"I have an idea, and I think you do, too."

If a scowl spreads across his lips, it's a subtle one that evades your notice. He heaves a sigh under his breath and looks over his shoulder to where the staff was previously. "Men are fickle things. Too easily distracted from their assignments once matters of the flesh are presented to them. It seems I will need to do a thorough investigation if Miss Corey is to yield results with her treatment."

Matters of the flesh? Slightly outdated way to speak of giving head if you're being honest, but you don't point it out.

He looks at you again, and his expression softens slightly. "Otherwise, how are you, my dear? Have you been resting adequately?"

You spend a second thinking of an answer that will satisfy him. "I'm … adequate?"

Kind of true, but also not. You're either sleeping too much or not at all.

If you go to bed too early, you're susceptible to waking up early in the night with an aggravating inability to fall back asleep.

If you sleep for too long, you still don't feel rested at all by the time you wake up.

At this point, you've settled on a routine where you just let your head hit the pillow and let your body do what it wants.

If he sees through your lie, he doesn't mention it. Maybe he already knows you're not being entirely truthful, and just elects to leave it be. Not typical for the standard kind of doctor you've visited in the past, but then again, Dr. Gideon is hardly of the standard stock.

He says your name, soft yet firm, like an exasperated parent who's caught their child up past their bedtime. Ironic as that comparison is, it's hard not to feel small when he's towering over you the way he is. "For us to have success with your treatment plan, I need you to be forthcoming with me."

Well, when he puts it like that …

"I do get some sleep," you admit after some careful thinking. Why bother lying when it's clear that he sees through it? If you didn't know any better, you'd think he wore some kind of visor to see past bullshit barriers. "Sometimes a few hours, sometimes the entire night. I just don't feel … rested. Thought the mirtazapine would help, but it just makes me fall asleep quicker, not longer."

He takes a step closer to you, which only further establishes the height difference between you. You're convinced that if he were to try, he could encompass the entirety of you. The unmistakable smell of antiseptics and other chemicals for which you have no name overwhelms your sinuses to a stinging degree. More so than Selena's shampoo ever did.

You remember your father smelling of the same stuff whenever he came home from work, when you were awake to catch him.

Dr. Gideon slowly raises his finger to your face and just barely touches your cheek. Even with a distance, you can still feel the cold spread across your face. It would only take a marginal shift for him to physically touch you, but he doesn't.

"Periorbital edema is always a good indicator."

He tilts his head slightly to the side, like he's observing you.

He is observing you.

Selena's words resurface in your mind: "Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."

You try to pinpoint the exact way he's looking at you, but nothing comes to mind.

He doesn't look at you like Dr. Beckett looks at Selena when he thinks he's being discreet.

He doesn't look at you the same way Timothy or Thomas looks at their food. Insatiable. Desperate.

But he is looking at you in some kind of way; you just lack the vocabulary necessary to describe specifically what kind of way that is.

"If you wish, I can prescribe you a low dose of zopiclone." He promptly lowers his hand again, but his eyes don't leave you. They never do.

"Thanks, but they already tried that at the facility back in Wrenwood. Didn't really do much for me but give me migraines."

"Nevertheless, it is prudent that you get enough REM sleep. I've also been informed by the nurses that you rarely finish your meals."

You offer a shrug that just barely passes for one. More of a lift of the left shoulder than a gesture of indifference. "I've never had much of an appetite."

He looks at you, and you look at him. A minute goes by without any of you saying anything, but you can tell that he's doing his best to suppress a sigh akin to the one he produces when Selena's having another one of her episodes.

"I wish to take some tests, if the timing is convenient for you."

Before you can answer, he puts his hand on your back and starts guiding you towards the laboratory. While his touch is light, you doubt you could physically resist him even if you put all your muscles into it (which you don't have a lot of).

"… Sure."

The edge of his scarred lip tilts upward by a fraction.

───

Maybe Selena had a point to her rant, rare as they are? Maybe you should start paying more attention to the way he's acting around you?

You don't even feel the needle as it pierces through your skin, nor does the sight of your blood filling several tubes do anything to rattle you. At this point in your life, you've probably become anemic with all the blood that's been taken out of you over the years alone.

You don't even question why he seems to take more than the standard kind of blood tests you've grown accustomed to.

"It's just to see whether your thyroid is functioning properly," he assures you. "As well as a CBC."

Looking at him looking at the vials as they fill up, it's almost like he's … expectant of something.

With your head resting in your other hand while he does his job, you ignore the way his fingers linger on the exposed skin of your arm. Goosebumps have already erupted across the entirety of your arm like wildfire. "Thought my blood work looked good enough last week?"

"It did. Slightly elevated CRP levels, and mild anemia, but nothing too alarming."

"I'll live, then?"

"Hmm …"

Once the third vial is filled to the brim, he gives it a few gentle shakes before replacing it with another.

As the new vial gradually fills, you notice that he gives the filled one a closer look. Pointed. Analytical. Curious. It's like he has questions, and only the crimson liquid in your veins can provide answers.

"You should never underestimate the lengths your body will go to keep you alive." He doesn't look at you as he says this, just maintains focus on the tube like it's the patient, and not you. "You were vaccinated as a child, correct? Your medical journal doesn't tell."

You nod. "My dad did it himself. Perks of being a researcher with an MD. Saved us trips to the hospital."

"How … fortunate." He puts the vial back on the tray to join the previous ones. Four vials now out of (five, six …) seven, enough to make you wonder what other kinds of tests he's taking, if you were the kind to wonder.

"What did his research entail, might I ask?" he continues.

"Not sure. All I knew was that he wasn't around too often, so it must have been interesting."

Truth be told, the memory of your father isn't sour, but it's not inherently sweet either. He was up before the sun, and back around the same time. He didn't hug you, or say much to you, really.

He was there, and then he wasn't.

Injecting you with those vaccines was probably the closest thing you ever got to a father-daughter activity. It was the only thing he seemed to want to spend time doing himself with you, rather than hiring someone to do it for him, as he did with everything else.

One of the previous shrinks you visited suggested that your apathy towards life is directly linked to his absence, both before and after Raccoon City. A bold assumption, but like with everything else going on, you don't bother to debunk it.

Dr. Gideon finishes with the rest of the vials in complete silence. Had it not been for his chest heaving with each breath he takes, you might have guessed that he didn't require air to function.

When he's done, he puts a cotton ball over the injection side. "I should have the results by tonight, and if there are any significant deficiencies, I'll let you know before I clock off." He puts the vials aside. "However, considering that your previous tests revealed some vitamin deficiency, I'm going to give you a shot of B12 before I let you resume with your day."

"Another one? That bad, huh?" It's the third one this month.

"Less than ideal, I'm afraid."

As he reaches for something in the cabinet by the door, you watch his back and find yourself - for once - wondering.

How come this doctor - this one specifically - seems to be the only one in the last decade or so who genuinely seems to have a regard for your well-being? Your previous ones never put this much time and effort into you, even when you were younger and significantly more impaired.

Hell, not even your old man cared that much, and maybe you'd have been a little more well-adjusted if he did.

The pulse heaters you continue to wear to this day - even years after that little misstep you made when you were a teen - prove it.

You didn't get it. You still don't.

He's not like Dr. Beckett, who gives privileges to Selena if she gives him a good mouth-to-mouth demonstration.

He's never struck you as the salacious kind of person - though, to be fair, you probably wouldn't have cared if he were.

So, why all of this extra effort?

"If it's that bad, I'll try to get my Five A Day," you try, and for once, there's a genuine attempt at humor lodged somewhere between the letters. Weak, but present nonetheless. More than Selena's ever managed to get out of you. "Best to save your shot for someone who actually has one, Dr. Gideon."

He pauses for a moment, then slowly looks over his shoulder at you. There's something … unsettling in his eyes this time, as though you've insulted him in some way, without meaning to.

He doesn't blink, doesn't seem to breathe, and he doesn't speak. It uncannily reminds you of the way a snake looks just before it strikes its prey.

Once again, Selena's cryptic words make a reentrance in your mind.

"Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."

Softly, he asks: "My dear, whatever do you mean?"

Tempted as you are to look away and focus on something other than those unnerving eyes of his, you don't.

"Treatment is for appreciative people," you explain, placid despite the weight behind your words that would've made an ordinary psychiatrist grow pale with occupational concern. "People who can actually contribute to their surroundings. I'm … Well, no one. I have nothing and no one. Me dying wouldn't affect anyone. So, why put so many Band-Aids over a gaping wound that refuses to close?"

You remember saying something similar to your psychologist in the past. For that, you were put on an involuntary psychiatric hold for three days, deemed a danger to yourself, and only allowed to eat under supervision and with those horrible wooden utensils that rendered the taste of your food just as wooden.

It's not like the fact that you're alone makes you sad. Not anymore. There's something slightly liberating to know that even if you were to pass on, from an accident or an illness or by simple happenstance, the world will keep spinning after you're gone.

No one is chained to you in a way that matters.

You look at Dr. Gideon, and he just keeps staring at you. Whether he's surprised, cautious, concerned, or even angry, you can't tell. He's never been easy to read, and now, you find yourself curious as to what he thinks.

Maybe he'll finally deem you a lost cause, like so many others have?

Maybe he'll confine you to your room in restraints and pump you full of drugs until you physically cannot do anything to yourself, even if you wanted to?

Maybe he'll discharge you to another care facility?

The sound he makes next almost makes you raise your eyebrow in confusion.

"Oh,"

Like always, his tone is mild, but now, it feels deeper somehow. Like he's pitying you without really pitying you. As if he's seeing something so obvious that it's a tragedy that you can't.

"You have no idea how special you truly are."

You can only watch as he procures a pre-filled syringe from the cabinet and closes in on you. His steps are measured, slow, as though he's approaching an animal in a trap that's grown weary of fighting against the sharp edges. It's a good thing you've long since outgrown your fear of needles, because that image would've otherwise made even the bravest soldier quiver.

"There's no one in this world like you." He whispers your name like it's a secret only he truly knows of. "I can assure you that if you were to pass, I would be devastated."

Then he does something that makes you damn-near short-circuit.

With his unoccupied hand, he reaches forward and places his fingers gently on your cheek. Not a caress, not truly, but intimate nonetheless in ways you are unaccustomed to. It's not like Selena, whose touches and caresses feel consuming and overwhelming despite being considerably smaller compared to Dr. Gideon.

It feels light … and genuine, in a way you can't describe or properly understand.

The chilly temperature of his digits spreads from your face down to your toes, yet you don't move away.

You can only continue to look at him.

"Even if you do have your reservations, I have no intention of letting you die. This, I swear."

And the strangest thing yet: You believe him. You believe that he will not allow you to die, even if you were to attempt it yourself. An animal in a gilded cage cannot harm itself without the handler noticing.

He removes his hand from your face, slowly, then gestures for you to fall into a position you've already grown used to.

You're not sure if it's your brain messing with you or not, but you swear that this injection feels … sharper.

───

That night, you lie shivering in bed with a fever spike of 104. The Tylenol the nurse administered just a few hours ago didn't work for shit when you first began to notice that you were coming down with something.

You never come down with anything, not this intensely. Every fever you've ever had has been mild at worst, or subfebrile. It passes quickly and never settles long enough for you to notice.

But now you do.

Reluctantly, you called the nurse, and before you knew it, you were surrounded by all kinds of staff who took different tests, blood work, vitals, and hung up a liter or two of saline. You've never been susceptible to infections, but judging by the nervous look that the new intern got on his face when they took your vitals, you got an inkling that something was seriously wrong with you.

Well, outside of the usual, that is.

Everything hurt.

Everything is a blur.

Your body is soaking through all of your covers.

You taste blood in your mouth.

Needles poke your arms at a rapid interval, but they are a kindness compared to the ones already piercing through your organs and your head.

If you were truly dying, you might have had some more reservations about it if you knew it was going to hurt like such a bitch.

More blood is drawn, more staff appear whose faces you can't even register beyond the haze of your mind, and then, everything turns dark.

At first, it's overwhelming. You feel hands touching you, large ones, grasping at you with bruising intensity like you're dangling above a cliff and they're unwilling to let you descend into the abyss.

But it's too much … too intrusive. You don't like it.

Let go.

Let go.

LET GO!

You claw, and you grasp, and you scratch. Like an animal. Like a rabid beast in need of euthanasia.

Warm wetness coats your nails. You hear your own shriek reverberating around you, and yet the invisible hands don't relent at all.

They keep clutching you, undeterred by the physical mutilation of their flesh.

Then you hear it, quiet yet loud at the same time.

"Shhhh …"

"Rest now,"

"We have much to do."

And you disappear.

───

When you wake, there is nothing.

You don't feel cold or soaked anymore.

You feel … fine.

That's what surprises you.

Exhausted. Depleted of any kind of energy, but … fine.

The more you stir, the more you gradually begin to notice.

Something is carefully stroking through your hair. Gently. Like they're braiding through something fragile of significant worth. No one has ever stroked their fingers through your hair before, and it feels … strangely soothing.

You want to fall back asleep and hope that you can get a full night's sleep for once.

"Are you finally awake, my dear?"

You blink once, then twice, and the room - and figure seated by your bed - finally aligns in your vision.

Dr. Gideon looks down at you, a gentle smile spread across his lips as his fingers continue to weave through your knotted strands. "I was almost worried that you wouldn't wake, but I'm glad to see that you continue to pull through as you always have."

You try to say something. Anything. But your throat is dry, and despite evidence of an IV in your arm, the bag of saline that's connected to you has partially failed to do its job. The words you attempt to pronounce instead come out as incoherent gargles that promptly force you to cough for several harsh rounds.

"Here."

You don't fight him when he leans over to tilt your head back, his hand firm against the back of your skull, nor do you object to the feeling of cold water intruding upon your mouth. You cough and gag at the first drop, but it doesn't take long before you're all but inhaling the liquid.

"There, now," Dr. Gideon coos as he pulls the empty glass away, waiting for you to catch your breath again with a pleased look in his eyes. "Doesn't that feel better?"

"What—" You struggle to gather and recognize your own voice, your thoughts still hazy and disorganized. "What … happened?"

Dr. Gideon spends another minute just … staring at you, tilting his head to change angle now and then, like he's looking for something. Anything. You don't know what it is he's searching for, but after a short while, he finally decides to answer your inquiry.

"Something truly … miraculous. You are miraculous."

You don't feel miraculous. If anything, you feel a flicker of annoyance at his intentional inability to elaborate.

Though your body feels like lead, you still force yourself to sit up. The position is crooked and likely doomed to fail, but it provides a window for you to properly look at him now.

"What happened?" you ask again, more forceful this time.

Dr. Gideon releases a soft hmm through his nose, looking completely in awe at what's presented in front of you. You don't know why he would. Even if you don't have a mirror, you can only assume you look like shit.

You think he will deflect again. Say something cryptic that only he knows the context of.

"Did you know that your father was a prominent researcher for Umbrella?"

You didn't expect that.

"What?"

"Oh, yes. He wasn't much liked, but you couldn't deny his efficiency."

"… What does that have to do with anything?"

He leans closer, as if to whisper a secret only you can know.

"Everything."

He gets to his feet and starts slowly circling your bed. A vulture, you imagine him as. Soaring over prey that has yet to expire.

"I only ever met the man once. We worked at separate divisions, but his reputation was … recognized. A scientist of unrivaled decree. No one knew much about him, nor did he seem like the sort who willingly engaged with people outside his designated area."

He stops and looks to you again, as if alternating between different inclinations might give him more information. "To discover that he had a daughter he left behind was … unexpected."

You want to say something, but you imagine that he'll take your silence as permission to continue, so you don't bother with interrupting him this time.

He rests his hand on the bedpost, dragging his fingers slowly from one corner to the other. "Have you never wondered why you've never been sick? Physically, I mean. No long-lasting records of bacterial or viral infections in your history? No acute case of appendicitis? Or meningitis? Or even a simple staph infection from using a bottle shard to sever your skin. Now, isn't that odd?"

You briefly glance down at your wrists. The heaters are gone - probably taken off to check for viable veins to insert the IV. The doctor assigned to you following that incident said it was fortunate that you survived, and you never gave thought to how or why. Only that you failed.

It was just … miraculous, by his phrasing.

You're really starting to dislike that word.

"When Umbrella declared bankruptcy years ago, numerous documents were confiscated and eradicated. A contingency in case someone of my Master's caliber decided it was worth picking up. Many have, and so far, none have succeeded." He frowns as he says this, and this time, he looks truly displeased. "Idiots, thinking they could simply replicate Spencer's work."

It only lasts for a second before he resumes.

"However, I managed to get my hands on several of them before the government seized the remaining assets." He opens the inside of his coat to pull out what looks to be a document of sorts, text invisible to you as he lets his eyes drift across the content. "Your father managed to do what few had done before. He managed to develop a serum to completely counter the effects of the T-Virus."

The T-Virus?

"What is that?"

"My Master's greatest work, and the cause of his downfall. Partially, the reason why Raccoon City was sterilized in the manner it was."

Spencer?

T-Virus?

You swear you've heard these names and words before, but you can't recall. Maybe your old man mentioned them sometime in passing?

You should have questions, a hell of a lot of them. They are circling your head, a whirlwind of who and what and when and whys, yet none manage to gain coherence.

What did your father do?

What did he do to you?

What is all this?

But you don't ask them. Not yet. You just keep looking at him through a narrowed lens, hoping he will come to some kind of point.

Dr. Gideon puts the document down on the bed by your feet, expecting you to take it. Though you eye it warily, torn between caution and curiosity, you don't pick it up.

"Your father's serum, however, was flawed. It could not erase virus in hosts already infected, nor could the immune systems in adults tolerate exposure in the way he desired. Every attempt, every procedure, was doomed to fail. The bodies broke, time and time again. He went through thirty-six before he elected to turn to a different approach altogether."

When he looks at you next, you can somehow already tell he's implying.

"He had you. The moment you exited your mother's womb, he had his work cut out for him." He bends a little to tap pointedly at the document. "Introduction to the antigen before you were even a day old. Controlled exposure to a modified strain, repeated again and again. Letting your body adapt to it as you grew.

Every injection, every exposure, every test, every drop of blood drawn, he had it documented. No cognitive impairment, no physical deformity, no mutation."

His smile widens further and further with every word he says. "Isn't that miraculous? You were reportedly found with a prominent bite mark by the paramedics who rescued you, and yet, you had nothing more than a mild fever at worst, and a full recovery without intensive care."

He sits down by the edge of the bed, and the hinges creak loudly at this added weight. Without having to lean too close, he carefully pulls the collar of your shirt to the side, exposing the residual scar that's served as a constant reminder of your survival for almost twenty years.

The smile on his lips suggests he finds the view pleasing, and he can't keep himself from letting his fingers drift over it.

"Near-complete immunization."

You don't look at him, even as his cold fingers slide across your skin with what you can only assume is manic glee.

The revelation that you were not born, but bred, should send you into some kind of existential shock.

Anger. Resentment.

You should curse the man who gave you life only so that he could determine the outcome.

But you don't.

Your father is dead. Has been for years. His skeletons remain his own, however deep they're buried, even if you are the ones having to carry them in you.

You look at Dr. Gideon from the corner of your eye. "Did you do something to me?" you finally ask, vaguely surprised by your ability to stay subdued, even now. "What did you do to me?"

He tuts gently. “Nothing that hasn’t already been done to you before.”

His hands lingers just above your clavicle. "Modified strains of the T-Virus. Different from the kind your father used, but necessary for me to confirm my hypothesis. I've used mild doses up until yesterday, but I had to be certain, and I was right."

You fully turn your face to look him directly in the eyes, and now, you understand.

"You've been infecting me all along."

Your presence here was not because of an altruistic doctor who saw an impoverished patient and decided to step in to provide aid and stability.

Everything was designed for this outcome.

You are not a patient. You were never a patient.

You are a subject.

You were always a subject, from the moment you took your first breath.

His fingers lift from your skin, but he doesn't move away. Not entirely. Seated as he is now, you're not sure you could evade him, even if you tried. "You were difficult to track down. Patient confidentiality, you see, can be a nuisance to bypass. I tried for years to locate you, yet you were like a moth. Never at the same light twice. So, when Dr. Henry from Wrenwood Facility himself wrote to me about a possible transfer with your name, I knew it was meant to be."

Meant to be? Weird way to phrase it, like divinity had some part to play in this whole situation.

You're not devout in the slightest, and you're not about to start now.

"I can see you have questions, but first," Like before, he takes a deep breath through his nose. Of your air. "you need a bath."

A bath?

Just as he stands up, the door opens, and Nurse Bethany enters. Upon seeing you awake and alert, she looks visibly relieved.

"Nurse Bethany, would you be so kind as to prepare her a bath downstairs?" Dr. Gideon asks, courteous as ever, with no evidence of what's just transpired on his face.

"Of course, Dr. Gideon." She gestures for you to come with her.

───

The water scalds your bare skin as you descend into the tub, yet it's a comfortable kind of scalding. Not warm enough to hurt, just enough to make you come back to the reality of your situation. Soap has already been added, coloring the water to a white hue, and effectively blocking the view of the rest of you.

Thoughts come and go, more questions, no answers.

Umbrella.

Your father.

T-Virus.

Raccoon City.

Immunity.

Apparently, you're not entirely normal. You've never been entirely normal, and you don't know how to feel about it.

The cells in your body were altered, adapted, and used to fit the whims of a man who is no longer around to claim credit for his product. Everything was planned, and you had no part in it. No autonomy. No choice.

Your body is not your own. It never has been.

What should you feel about it? Is there anything to feel about it? Your body recovers, and your mind has to pick up the weight as compensation instead.

Maybe your head is so heavy because your body isn't?

So, your old man decided to play god and fuck around with your immune system to survive some kind of fictitious-sounding virus that turns out to be the cause for your home city being blown to shit.

So, the director of your hospital turns out to be an odd scientist with a penchant for subjecting his patients to experiments?

It doesn't change anything in a way that matters to you.

You're still here.

You dip your head under the water, and you don't resurface for what you hope is a while. You stay under until your lungs threaten to give in, until you feel the pressure in your head threaten to break open your cranium. It doesn't sound anatomically correct, but what does it matter?

What matters anymore?

Just as you start to feel light-headed, a loud slam ruptures in the bathroom, and you quickly resurface with a gasp.

Dr. Gideon stands in the entrance, his coat folded neatly in his arms, looking like he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

"Personally, I find death by drowning in a bathtub to be terribly wasteful."

You drag your hand over your face to wipe off some of the water. "Wasn't planning on it."

"Good."

You stare into the water, even as you hear his measured steps echo around until he's right behind the bathtub. Right behind you.

You continue to stare even as you feel his cold, long hands clamp down on your shoulders. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to ground.

And you continue to stare ahead, even as you feel him lean forward and place his head right next to your own.

"I made sure to purchase a specific brand of shampoo from a store in Wrenwood," he whispers, smooth and inviting. The picture of domesticity. "Miss Corey recommended it."

You don't answer.

"While her behavior might be rather incendiary on occasion, she is right about one thing." He raises his head to look further down at you. "We need to take care of ourselves and the bodies we are born with, regardless of the circumstances life might throw at us. We are born with one, and we die with it."

His left hand lifts off your shoulder, only for those freezing fingers to travel down the slope of your back.

"I know you have had difficulties with it, and you feel lost, but you need not worry anymore. I will take care of you. You might not be the key to Elpis, but that does not diminish your worth. Not to me."

You finally turn around to look at him from over your shoulder, and you finally understand it.

The way he looks at you.

The obsession painted behind his irises.

You notice his arms. They are covered in scratches, some patched and sutured, others uncovered and unhealed.

On display like battle wounds he wears with pride.

"What happened to your arms?"

"Oh? These?" He raises his right arm, looking over them with inexplicable fondness. "Just a scared cat, is all. A frightened, lonesome little critter, digging through the garbage." A glint of his teeth peek past his lips. "But not to concern yourself, my dear. I found it a good home."

He gazes just as fondly back down at you.

"It is exactly where it belongs."

For the first time in a long one, for just a moment, you feel ...

Soft Reins

His voice followed you down the wet sidewalk as you made your escape, striding in long reaching steps to put more distance between yourself and your apartment. 

“C’mon, bonnie! Ye cannae walk in this shite. It’s pissin’ down. Bonnie!”

You waved and smiled up at Soap as he hung over the balcony of your shared space, a deep frown pasted across his mouth as he tried to dodge the raindrops. 

Living with the boys, as you lovingly called them, was full of challenges. For one, they seemed to be oblivious to deep cleaning of any kind, and if you didn’t have the primary school style chore chart hanging on the fridge, your whole house would descend into chaos. The only exception was their captain, and his standards were thankfully on par with your own. 

But, even worse, they were nosey. They seemed to love to be in your business, always making excuses to join you on nights out, standing in an all-too-intimidating pack when you brought home dates from said outings. Even Price was not above casually bullying an unsuspecting potential someone. It was enough to drive a girl mad.

You never got a call back. Any bloke brave enough to follow you back to your place, flanked by your surly entourage, was only as courageous as he needed to be to get his dick wet. After that, he’d ghost you. There were plenty of eligible partners who had much less intimidating roommates. 

In the past year, the longest relationship you had was with a man who didn’t make it over to your house for nearly four months. You had gone through all sorts of trouble to keep the boys from finding out about him, and you guarded his address like it was the nuclear launch codes. You thought you were in the clear when the team had to leave for another deployment, but one morning — when you were wearing only your boyfriend’s tee shirt — they decided to come tromping back in, totally unannounced. 

It was all over, then. Back to the drawing board. 

Gaz was the worst offender by far. Once, when you had planned a spa date for yourself, you’d been treated to all sorts of services that you didn’t order. The staff kept insisting that it was complimentary, but you knew in your heart that it wasn’t. By the end of the visit, you were left fretting about the bill. But, when you walked up to the counter, you discovered that it had already been paid. 

 “Oh! Your mister called it in. Already paid.” The clerk’s smile was blinding in only the way a clerk’s smile could be.

“And who is the mister?” You smiled to yourself, not with much joy, shoving your credit card back into your wallet.

“Well, he said he was your mister. A Mr. Garrick?”

Of course. 

You had only to turn around to see his shining red Beamer revved and waiting to take you to lunch. Gaz’s sunglasses gleamed in the daylight as he grinned down at you, standing over his car, his elbows resting on the roof, smug as could be.

You met him in the parking lot, bags and bags of essential oils and spa creams, heavy in your hands.

“Kyle,” you said curtly, “What did you do?”

“Nothin’, babes. Get in. We’ve got a table at that sushi joint you like.”

You complained that Gaz was overstepping. You moaned about Soap being heavy-handed. You lost your temper when you found the fourteenth Air Tag that Ghost had sewn into the bottom of your trainers. It was too much. You hated feeling trapped, and you thrived in your independence. But, living with these men meant that your desire for freedom was directly at odds with their desire for control. 

It wasn’t their fault, really. That was who they were. They were good at their high-profile special operation world-saving careers because they were good at control. It was what made them great soldiers. 

But, one of them was far better at it than the others. 

Captain John Price didn’t follow you down the street. He didn’t chase you in his shadowy, blacked-out Evija. And he certainly didn’t need to hide trackers in your clothes. No; his control was insidious. It made your blood boil, and it had you questioning your every move. He had a way of making you think that what he wanted was what you wanted, and when you ultimately discovered his plans, you could only blame yourself. Price was the king of control, but that wasn’t the worst part. 

The worst part was that you liked it. 

You hadn’t been home for the holidays in years. Ever since lockdown, and your huge workload at your office, you just couldn’t find the time to make it back. International flights were hard to plan, expensive, and it seemed like something always came up. When you mentioned it off-handedly to Price, he’d comforted you, 

“Tha’s alright, sweetheart. I’m sure you’ll find the time this year.”

That was in June. By December, your boss had mysteriously found out that you had a full week of extra paid time off that you needed to take, and your credit card called you to let you know that your airline mileage points had doubled. It was as if everything in the universe had aligned so that you could make it back to your family. 

You’d told the boys over dinner one night, and they celebrated with you, happy for you to be able to finally live your dream. Then, Price had grabbed your phone, reading the email and going over the fine print. 

It grated on you, but you needed to learn how to pick your battles in this house. So, you waited for his approval, tight-lipped. 

“Double miles… ah, there’s a catch,” his voice rumbled in his chest, low and even. 

“What catch?” You panicked. Nothing could upset this perfect balance you’d achieved.

He pointed down to the conditions, and you read it for yourself as he told you,

“Says here they granted double miles for two tickets purchased.”

“Two? Who the fuck am I going to get to come to Saskatoon in December?” You sighed, head in your hands, trying to figure out how you were going to make it work.

“Well, the boys are heading up to check on MacTavish’s mum, but Kate’s got me on a leash. I can ask her to make me remote on this project, if you want.”

His tone wasn’t sly. It didn’t sound like he was hiding something. If anything, he sounded earnest, and it was such a kind gesture of friendship that he would be willing to join you in order to help you see your folks. 

But, that’s what wormed its way under your skin. You knew it was him. You just couldn’t prove it. Months of God knows what kind of backdoor, black-market dealing and manipulation, all orchestrated just to…

Just to what? Make you happy?

Inwardly, you struggled against your bindings, the invisible ropes he’d so carefully weaved just to have you come to him of your own free will, bent on your hands and knees, obedient and eager for your reward.

“Jonathan…” You started to resist, to rebel. Every time you started your sentence, you were stopped in your tracks by the cold, hard truth: He didn’t force you to do anything. You’d done it all of your own free will. 

That was how it had started. But, holy fuck had it escalated. 

Price was the perfect gentleman on your flight over, mysteriously charming his way into business class seats. He downloaded some of your favorite movies onto his iPad, even though you didn’t remember ever telling him that they were your favorites. He even snuck his way back to the flight attendants’ galley, laughing and joking with them, procuring you two extra desserts from the carts since you were such a fan. 

Then, he met your family, and he fit in perfectly. It was as if he was the missing member, a long lost kin, just waiting to be reunited into the fold. Your mother couldn’t figure out what had you so bothered. 

“About time you brought a good one home. Even your Uncle Billy likes him, and Billy —”

You rolled your eyes, 

“And Billy doesn’t like anyone, I know. I know.”

“Honey,” your mother looked at you with a sternness that she didn’t often muster, peering at you over her rose-rimmed glasses, “Why can’t you just let someone take care of you for a change? He’s a good man.”

A good man. 

John Price was a killer. No, he was worse. He was a CIA-funded, black ops, government-overthrowing war machine, capable of literal atrocities. You hadn’t heard much, but you’d heard enough. If any of these people knew how quickly he could turn a crowded room into an empty one, none of them would be looking so fondly at the way he snuggled with the dog or complimented your dad’s knife collection. 

But, that wasn’t why you protested, was it? If you were really being honest with yourself, the reason why you were so against letting Jonathan War Machine Price run your life was that it was yours to run. You didn’t need anyone’s help.

You didn’t need it.  

You could handle things on your own. 

You liked being able to spread your wings, fly your own path…

You were nobody’s puppet.

But, you were starting to like the way he was pulling your strings. When he would take the pressure of choice away from you, after you’d already been making a million other decisions at the end of a long day, it eased something inside of you in a way that nothing else could. It was like he was using those huge, rough palms to massage the hurt out of your head, to show you that it didn’t need to be such a battle, you didn’t need to keep fighting. He would do the fighting for you, and he was determined to show you that he was good at it. 

Even now, as you stomped through the rain, you knew what you were running from. You told yourself you were avoiding John, that you wouldn’t let him see you struggling to hold yourself together. After a much needed switch into a different position at work, the stress of your own expectations weighed heavy on you. But, you wanted them to. You wanted to know that you could still make it alone. You didn’t need John Price. 

But, you’re wearing the slicker he bought for you when yours got left in a cab.

So?

But, you smell like oud, saffron, and bergamot; the perfume oils he found for you at that local boutique you love. The same one he always compliments when he smells you wearing it. 

So?

But, you’re tired and wet and cold, and all you want is for him to tell you what you want.

So?! 

The soft, amber glow of a cigar stopped you in your tracks. A man was sitting on your bus stop bench, his arm slung over the back of the seat, his legs spread wide, taking up as much space as he liked. He was smoking slowly, enjoying every breath, savoring the flavors. Flavors you knew all too well: vanilla, licorice, sweet cedar, and whiskey. 

His sharp, blue eyes only met yours when you let out a labored sigh.

“What are you doing here, John?”

He took another drag, letting the ashes smolder, their warm glow making him look more and more like the Devil, a fallen man bathed in the light of a fire he lit all by himself. And damn proud of the blaze, too. 

“Just waitin’ for my ride,” he smiled in the way that a cat must smile at a mouse under its paw, “Do you wanna sit down, sweetheart?”

“No! I don’t wanna sit down,” you threw up your hands, “I want you to stop meddling in my life. You’re not allowed to keep making me feel like… like I need someone… some — Like I need someone’s fucking help. I don’t need anyone but me.”

His tone shifted in a sudden heat, like a flash in the pan, unexpected,

“Do you think I have any bloody help?”

Price let the question sink in before standing in front of you, his gaze never leaving your eyes. His voice was soft and gravelly, thick with smoke, and yet each and every word cut into you as sharp as a blade,

“Do you think anyone comes to help me when I’m deep in some bullshit, fuckin’ around in Rammaza? Just me, is it? By myself?”

“I don’t… no, I don’t know…” You hated how small your voice sounded in this tiny bus stop hut, the pounding rain drowning out your words. 

John looked at you as if he was waiting on you to find another answer, and then his face softened. He flung the cigar onto the pavement and crushed it out under his boot, smashing the tobacco into the cement without mercy. The object of his affection, once consumed, now snuffed out under his own power. 

His hands wrapped around your shoulders, caging you in, warm and safe from the wind blocked by his broad back. He sighed, his mouth drawing a tight line across his face, 

“Of course I need fuckin’ help. I have my men, and they have me. And I keep you here,” he jammed a finger hard into his chest, “Deep inside me, remindin’ me what I need to come home to. I’m not… meddling in your life, love. I’m trying to put you in mine. I thought…” 

He pulled away, sitting back down, looking up at you with a unique look on his face, 

“I thought that’s what you wanted. If I’m wrong,” he let out a dark, bitter chuff, “You need to tell me right now. ‘Cause all my plans have you in them.”

The rain made the plexiglass roof sound like it was shattering, over and over, the concussive slam of the storm created an oppressive din. He was waiting there, looking at you, asking for your next move. What was your plan?

“Am I wrong, sweetheart?”

You waited, trying to see how many steps ahead he was in front of you. If you said yes, if you said no; what decisions had already been made for you? Did he know what you were going to say before you did? And the real question: Why were you fighting so hard against something you wanted so badly?

You shook your head back and forth, just enough for him to see. HIs eyes lit up with hope and energy, a renewed flame.

“Then, come home with me. Quit bein’ so bloody hard on yourself. Let’s get you dry, love. C’mon.”

So, you obeyed. 

Nothing was more humbling than climbing into a squat little sports car when you were drenched to the bone. You curled yourself right into his cage, feeling silly for ever wanting to escape from it. Why were you pulling so hard against such soft reins? Couldn’t you see that he wanted to take care of you? To remove all of your barriers, to clear your path? You would be more powerful under his wing, soaring far beyond what you were capable of on your own. Why deny yourself a bite of the apple? It was ripe, the snake had promised, and sweet. 

He helped you up the stairs to your flat, walking you past his men as they gathered together in the kitchen, speechless, for once. None of them dared question their captain’s choices, and he had chosen you. More than that, it was clear that you had chosen him. 

Once you were in his room, behind a locked door, he held up a hand and stopped you in the entryway, shivering and dripping by the door. 

“Wait here.”

You waited. 

You waited some more. 

Just when you thought you would turn around and take yourself to bed, he returned dressed in a dry tee and a pair of running shorts. He carried two large, fluffy towels, and his face was set into a serious mask. All business. 

“Take off your clothes.”

You hesitated, looking at him to make sure you heard him correctly. 

He met your gaze, standing so close to you that you could feel his breath against your cheek. His chest was inches from your face, and you had to look up in order to meet his eyes.

“Take.”

He grabbed your phone out of your hand and dropped it on his entry table.

“Off.”

He rucked the jacket off of your back, peeling it down your arms and letting it fall to the ground with a wet slap.

“Your.” 

His fingers pulled the tie out of your ruined braid, letting the elastic roll onto his wrist. 

“Clothes.”

His hands went back to his side. It was up to you to do the rest. He wasn’t here to do everything for you. You were not his plaything. You had to choose to obey him. He wanted to watch you choose to follow his orders, not because you needed to, but because you wanted to.

Slowly, and a bit unsure, you began to shed your layers. You started with your shirt, almost knocking into him with your elbows since he was towering over you, standing in your space. Then, you writhed out of your jeans, peeling them off of your legs, kicking away your shoes in the process, stepping gingerly out of your socks, needing to hold onto his thick trunk for balance. 

Now, in just your bra and panties, you waited, hoping he’d hand you a towel. 

“What did I say?” He asked in a hushed tone, the timbre containing just enough warning to make your cheeks hot. 

“No, John. The boys are here in the kitchen!” You protested, whispering in a low hiss. 

This was beyond what you expected from him. You’d been keeping him at arm’s length, despite his constant pressure to be in your life. Sure, there had been moments of weakness. You’d shared a kiss, and you had let his hands wander when you watched a movie together on the sofa last weekend, but that was as far as things had gone. Stripping naked in the bright light of his apartment suite was something else entirely. Not to mention what sort of noises would seep out under his doorway if things got out of hand. 

“Stop,” he grabbed you by your face with both hands, making you look at him, “Stop fighting me. I am in this. All the way. The only time I wanna hear you tell me no is when you really mean it. If you say stop, I will immediately stop. Do I make myself clear?”

You nodded. He released you and put his hands on his hips, impatient. 

So, you slid out of your bra, slowly letting the cups pull away from your breasts, the lace cold and damp on your skin as it joined your outfit on the floor. As you rolled your panties off of your hips, stepping out of them and shoving them under your jacket with your toe, you felt more than just naked. You felt vulnerable and a little scared. 

What would he say? What did he plan to do? You realized, with a chilly shudder, that you didn’t even know his personal preferences. He’d never even given you a cursory glance into his mind, and reading his thoughts was impossible with that serious poker face. Most men wore their thoughts right across their eyes, or some (like Soap) even muttered them aloud, unconcerned about any judgment or scrutiny. If a man wanted you, you’d know. They were an open book. 

But the captain was very hard to read. 

Suddenly, as you stood back up, warring with your own mind, you were surrounded in fuzzy, comforting warmth. He was drying you off, wiping your arms and legs with reverent care, squeezing the rain out of your hair, using the corner of the cloth to wipe your face, holding you in his arms when you felt weak, off-balance, exhausted. 

It seemed as if the more you relaxed into him, the more power you gave up, the more it began to stoke his fire. While you became soft and pliant, he shifted into a fierce protector, covering you with his hands, bracing you with his heavy bones.

Price wrapped your hair into a high bun with an unexpected level of skill, and he carefully stretched your hair tie around it. When he turned to face you, you caught him staring at your body, raking his eyes over your breasts and studying the curve of your mons. It was as if he was groping you with his eyes, and each swipe of his gaze felt like a lick from his warm tongue. It was enough of an invasion that you wanted to put your hands in front of yourself, to hide out of some sort of shame.  

But when you made a move to cover yourself, the look in his eyes was enough to make you stand with your hands at your sides, allowing yourself to be on full display for him and that ravenous glare. He hadn’t even needed to chastise you. His mere desire was enough of a correction. 

Then, almost like a reward, he wrapped the towel around you, letting you hold it tight to your chest. 

“Tell me what’s goin’ on inside that pretty head,” he commanded you, his voice quiet but firm. It was just a simple question, but you knew it was loaded. So, you brushed him off, tossing out cheap bait, wrapping the towel a little tighter around yourself, hoping he’d drop it. You shrugged,

“Just cold.”

His jaw set with a click, and that soft purr became a warning growl,

“That’s one,” he held up his finger, “The next lie will cost you that towel, pretty girl.”

You stared at him blankly, trying to find a way through this labyrinth he had — apparently — custom built for you, sending you down twists and turns and dead ends as if he knew exactly how you’d try to steal back some control. But every way out seemed like a worse fate than simply allowing yourself to trust him. Nevertheless, you tried again. 

“I am cold, and I’m tired. It’s been a long day, John,” you sighed, shifting towards him, trying your best to take back the lead to his strange dance, “C’mon, don’t you wanna take me to bed?”

You reached out a hand and snaked it under the hem of his shirt, exploring untouched skin, letting your nails scrape through a dark patch of thick hair, right above his waistband. Your fingers got as far as his navel before he snapped. 

The cold absence of him ripping the towel away from you felt worse than you expected it to. In fact, you hadn’t actually taken him seriously. You protested, indignant,

“Hey! What —-“

“You think this is the same game you’ve always played,” he snarled, throwing the towel away and shoving you to your knees, his hold crushing and cruel on the nape of your neck, “You think, because those lads will eat any scraps you throw to them,” he nodded behind you, gesturing toward his men only a thin wall away, “That I’ll be satisfied with a taste, hm?”

His tone was mocking, and there was an undercurrent of darkness that lingered between each word like a warning, like the red of a poisonous berry that shouldn’t be picked and yet sagged ripe and ready on its stem. 

“You always get your way with them, don’cha? You know that a bit of skin and a little attention will keep them on you for days. And they reward you for it. They text you at all hours of the fuckin’ night, beggin’ you for just one more look, one more bite,” his mouth was right next to your ear, bending over you, casting his shadows across your face, and all you could do was kneel there, fully under his control, unable to move against his immense strength, “But, that’s not what I want.”

Your eyes dared to slant over to the growing monster that pressed its warm body against his shorts, hanging heavy and stretching the fabric, and you dared to hiss at him, even in your compromised position, using his title like a knife, aiming to scrape him with it,

“Seems like you do, Captain.”

He smirked, you could feel his smile against the sensitive skin of your earlobe, and you could see his almost infernal expression out of the corner of your eye. Even though you were trying to get under his skin, it made you feel like you were playing right into his hand yet again, helpless to his will. 

He stood up, never letting go of his grip on your neck, pinching the muscle like you were a caught rabbit, his writhing prey. Then, with a force that made your stomach drop, Price shoved your cheek into the crotch of his shorts, bringing you face to face with the outline his swelling shaft. Your nose was buried in the fabric, and you could smell the soap of his detergent as well as the musk of his sex that throbbed underneath. 

Then, he rucked down his waistband to show himself to you, pressing his length along your cheek, the softness of his skin surprising you just as much as the size of his thick, hefty prick. 

He held your neck in one hand and his cock in the other as he began to stroke himself up and down, letting your temple  and cheekbone feel the slip of his velvet foreskin. You could hear soft, wet clicking sounds as he coated himself in his own fluid, using the clear, dripping pearls as lube. 

You tried to move your jaw to taste him, eager to know if the heady, intoxicating smell of his skin matched his precome, hungry for his reaction to your mouth. But he stopped you, tightening his grip and scolding you like a naughty pet,

“My body wants your body, love. I’ll admit that,” he chuckled, not halting his lurid, jerking pulls, using your cheek for friction, “But I want more. I don’t want a taste. Or a bite. I won’t be satisfied.”

He frowned a bit, shrugging off his confession before he continued, 

“I want you to trust me. Trust that I’ll be here for you, that I’ll always be here. So,” he tugged on your flesh, forcing you to meet his fiery gaze, “Tell me what you thought.”

What were you supposed to say? That you were insecure about your looks? That you weren’t sure if he’d approve? That you were either too much or not enough and you weren’t sure which?

You turned your mouth as much as you could, trying to at least lick along the warm underbelly of his rod, aching to taste him, but he jerked you back into place, laughing at the disappointment on your face,

“Lips to yourself, love. Only good girls get fed.”

You rolled your eyes up to him, and you knew you had to make a choice. He was joking, but it was a façade. He was using it like a shield, waiting to see if you would actually relinquish your control or if you’d cut and run like you did with everyone else. 

So, you decided to trust him, giving him what he wanted, a full confessional on burning, bent knees, eyes cast up at your new master, praying for his communion, your tongue eager for his body and his blood and his love.

You made sure his eyes were locked on yours as you spoke softly, unflinching in your resolve,

“I was worried you wouldn’t like what you saw. I needed you to want me. I was afraid.”

The relief that washed over him was nearly palpable. His whole body responded to your admission, all of that tightly-wound uncertainty melting away in the heat of your submission to him. 

“That’s it. Good,” his voice was heavy with his relief, and he almost seemed like he was slipping into a trance, rubbing himself in steady, long strokes, shuddering against your cheek, “And what now, hm? You want me to let you go? Let you free? Or are you gonna let me in?”

You didn’t break your eye contact with him, but you wavered, sure of your decision but overwhelmed when you had to say it out loud. You squeezed your thighs together, feeling the slick mess he was forging between them, trying to find some comfort. You took a breath and told him,

“I’ll let you in, John.”

His throat held back a long, low groan, the pleasure of your surrender or the pleasure of his hand forcing it from his chest. You weren’t sure which. 

His grip loosened on your neck, but he didn’t let go. His voice was barely above a whisper as he told you his rules in hushed, broken phrases, holding himself back from the edge,

“You belong to me, now, sweetheart. You might be in charge at your bloody job, but everything else is mine. Do you hear me?”

You were going to answer him, you’d even planned to tack on a cheeky little yes, sir, just to show him you were playing along, but he had other plans. Always a step ahead. Before you could even breathe to speak, he pressed the tender head of his cock between your lips and deep into the warm hollow of your mouth, his wide form forcing your jaw to fall open to let him inside of you. It shocked you to be taken that way, not roughly but so certainly, with such surety, as if there was no other choice but for him to take you. You shifted, but with his knuckles tight against the base of your skull, you couldn’t retreat. Other than lolling your tongue along the body of his shaft, or swallowing against its drooling tip, you were powerless. 

His face twisted into a hungry sort of smear full of teeth and lips, grimacing at the feeling of being surrounded by you. Every inch that he drove himself deeper, his breathing would halt until at last, as he buried himself into your clenching throat, his lungs had emptied, and he was sighing with a ragged, guttural cry. 

“When you’re with me…” He continued his dark promises to you, the words choppy and broken, only threaded loosely together between panting gasps, “Even when I’m a fuckin’ world away, I promise that I will take care of you,” he pet your cheek with the softest affection, admiring you like a work of art, “All of you. You will sleep when I say. You will eat when I say. You will come when I say,” he smiled a little more cruelly at that, watching your eyes widen. And, as you began to wish for air, planting your palms against his firm, muscular thighs, ready to push away, he looked down at you with a lurid satisfaction, “You will breathe when I say.”

You were choking. You could hear yourself in the quiet of his room, your throat gurgling, full of your own viscous drool, escaping where it could along the stretched line of your mouth, running down your chin and neck. You felt the flare of panic rise up within you, and you tried to pull away in earnest, writhing against his grip, trying to escape from him and failing, turning your body in shameful futility. 

Price bent his face toward you, folding himself to whisper his lustful words, making sure your eyes met his, pressing your nose into his soft pubic hair,

“You. Breathe. When. I. Say.”

He kept himself contorted like that, keeping his face low to watch your eyes, to witness your struggle, and you felt hot tears burn down your face, the effort overcoming you. But, you wanted to show him that you could obey. You wanted to trust him, to show him that you were willing to give him your freedom, knowing that only he was worthy of such a gift. So, you swallowed deeply, watching as it made his eyes flutter, and again, and again. Over and over, you closed your throat around his steel-hard length, choking when it became too much. 

Still, he kept you there. As brave as you’d been with partners in the past, even those moments were fully eclipsed by this one. You had never even thought that you might be capable of holding your breath for so long. 

You were sobbing wholeheartedly now, your eyes reflecting your desperation, tears pooling and spilling across your face. He was watching you cry, whispering breathless nothings, soft words of encouragement,

“I’m so proud of you, sweetheart. You’re so fuckin’ good. My good girl.”

Just as purple and blue spots began to obscure your vision, he pulled himself out of you in a terrible, wet departure, leaving you clutching his hips, sobbing into his belly, watching his hard cock pounding, swaying at full height, swollen with blood and eager for its finish. You could feel those same soft, dark hairs matting down as your tears soaked into them. He ran his fingers through your hair, keeping the fallen strands out of your face, still holding you at your nape, but just to comfort you. 

You imagined him letting go, and you felt… sad, somehow. He would have to release you at some point, but you were in such a submissive state, just the idea of him leaving you without his guiding hand was too much to bear. 

Your cries turned to a twisted kind of grief, and when he heard your tone change, he dropped to the floor with you, holding you to his chest, rocking you back and forth, shushing you and talking to you in a hushed voice,

“Shh, baby. Tell me to stop. Tell me…”

You grasped at him wildly, uncontrolled, holding onto whatever part of him you could, shaking your head,

“No, no. Don’t — don’t let me go. Please, I can’t… I need… I need you to touch me.”

You planted one of your hands across his, covering the one that gripped your neck, pressing it like a plaster, like it was keeping a wound healed, like it was a dam in front of your frothing, vengeful river; it was a lifeline and you were adrift. 

“Sweetheart,” he sighed, “I’m not gonna let you go. I’m right here. Shh. Shh. It’s alright. I’m here. C’mon. Come with me.”

He lifted you, helping you walk on sore, shaking legs, your nerves sparking across your skin. Then, with his hand still firmly planted against your neck, he led you like a shepherd with his lamb, marching you to his bedroom. As you approached the bedframe, your thighs hit the mattress, and Price guided you forward until your body lay flat against it. The duvet was cool and smooth against your belly and breasts, and you tucked your arms into yourself, looking for warmth. 

You felt John plant gentle kisses across your back, trailing them down your spine, and after the overstimulation you had just gone through, even his lightest touch was electric. 

Your tears had stopped, but still you panted, sniffling, trembling from the shock of his careful kisses, waiting for whatever would come next. 

You felt his hips press against your exposed ass cheeks, his shorts now missing, and all you could sense was his warm, furry skin. You sighed into it, happy for the connection. 

“Spread your legs,” he commanded.

You complied immediately, all of your tortured resistance gone from you now, ready to trust him to take care of you. 

The unknown was what made your belly swarm with butterflies, and as you waited for his next move, your mind raced with possibilities. 

Would he be cruel? Would he punish you for your lying when he had first taken you in? His hand might strike your tender flesh, slapping your ass and leaving red, angry marks. 

Would he be lustful? Your mind fed you imaginary moments where he would press his cock into your pussy, skipping any foreplay, simply using you like his warm, wet toy. You thought that he wanted more, something more intimate, but if not, you would let him. You were his to use. At this point, you were so pliant, so open to his will, he could use you over and over and you would take him. It was a dark confidence you had never known until now. 

Perhaps he would simply stop. Maybe he perceived you as weak, as if you couldn’t take what he wanted to give you. He would simply comfort you, pitying you for your wrecked state. It was this thought that turned your stomach. Surely, he knew you better than that. John Price was not the pitying type. 

As the base of his cock lay nestled in the cleft of your ass, still as hard as a stone, his long shaft was shoved up against his lower abdomen, pulsing with unslaked desire. Then, as he settled himself, pleased with your spread display, John began to slip the very tips of his fingers into your pussy. He was just feeling your softness, plucking at your petals, laying them open with his hand, using your own wetness to paint your lips and the tight muscle of your hole, preparing you for more. 

His voice broke the trance that his touch had put you in, 

“It kills me when I have watch you putting yourself through hell. You are so strong, but you deserve to have everything you want. Everything you need, I’ll make sure you have it. I promise.”

He was so sincere, and his voice sounded so sure. It was like he was sharing an old memory, something he knew by heart. 

“John, please…” You whispered, feeling yourself slipping, slowly becoming untangled by his touch. You needed more, but you had no words. You could barely concentrate, and your mind was swimming in a liminal space, trapped in a loop of mounting bliss. 

“What do you need, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“I don’t know,” you felt your tears return, and although you were desperate for something, you couldn’t find the answer. 

“Shh, shh, shh. You’re alright,” John rubbed your back with his free hand, smoothing your skin with his warm touch, “Does my pretty girl need to come?”

You nodded, daring to glance over your shoulder at him as he worked on you, his finger now sinking deeper into you, gently prodding your walls in long, aching circles. His other fingers were cradling your folds, slipping between them with each undulating thrust, brushing beside the swelling body of your clit and making you throb with need. 

He felt it, and you saw a warm smile spread across his face,

“I can feel you needin’ me. So wet for me. Fightin’ me so bloody hard. Thought I’d be wantin’ you forever. Do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of havin’ you under me like this? Fuck, I need you so badly, baby.”

You felt his grip tighten on your neck again as he pressed you deeper into the soft mattress, his prying hand picking up the pace. His thick finger finally slipped down to the knuckle of his fist. As he fucked you on his hand, you could hear your body’s slick as it softened for him, submitting to his power just as you had done, your body at peace with your mind. 

He pressed a second finger beside his first, twisting them together, curling the tips to rub you from the inside, making you feel the deep ache of your orgasm building within your belly. 

You tried to find more friction, rocking your hips against the bed, squeezing your legs together, needing more but completely helpless to his pace and pressure. 

Price stopped, pushing his fingers right into the tender flesh of your neck as a warning,

“Open,” he shoved your foot away, spreading them for you, “You keep fighting and fighting… fine. I’ll give you something to fight for, hm?”

You tried to twist your knees together again, but his legs stood apart, holding you open. Then, you felt his threat. He put the head of his heavy prick against your greedy hole, dipping it into your wetness like a seal into warm, melting wax.

“C’mon,” he squeezed your nape hard, once, just enough to get your attention, “You wanna drive? Fuckin’ drive, love. You think you can fuck yourself better than I can fuck you? Prove it.”

You narrowed your eyes, glaring at him, watching the muscles ripple and pop in his forearm that held you down, unwilling to give you full control, and yet allowing you to set the pace. You saw his other hand rub the curve of your hip, dropping lower to grope your ass, egging you on. 

Unwilling to beg, you thrust yourself down onto his shaft, gasping from his girth, only managing to fit half of him inside of you, physically unable to go any deeper on your own. But, you tried again, lifting away, sinking back, repeating your movements and reaching between your legs to rub your clit as you fucked him.

But, it wasn’t enough. You felt so close to the edge, and yet you couldn’t tumble over it, losing your rhythm, chasing it down, too weak to reach the peak you knew was right within your grasp. 

You grunted in frustration, and his cruel laugh made you turn back towards him again. 

He shrugged,

“I thought you wanted to be in charge. Does it feel good, sweetheart?”

“Fuck!” You gasped, trying to catch your pleasure and feeling it slip from you yet again, humping your hips against the bed shameless and desperate. 

“Tch,” Price gripped the inside of your ass cheek, shaking it and rolling your soft flesh in his hand, “Too bad, love. I wanted to give it to you. Shame, really.”

“John! Please,” you caved, sobbing out a short moan, begging him impatiently. 

“Please, what?” His question came just as he decided to press himself deeper into your body than you had been able to go, sinking into you like a hand into a glove, a tight, all-encompassing fit. 

You whined, rolling your fingers over your clit faster, feverish, ready for relief, 

“Please make me come.”

“You will come…” He stretched you, giving you no warning, the sharp feeling of his invasion making you catch your breath, “When I bloody tell you to.”

Then, as if to prove it to you, he stuffed his length into your pussy, never pulling back very far, choosing instead to massage you with his cock, using his base to stretch you wide before rolling away. The sensation overwhelmed you, and his size made your mind go blank. Any words that formed in your mind turned to whining cries of pleasure on your tongue.

There were no sounds of lewd pounding of flesh on flesh. All of Price’s work was deep and wet, churning inside of you like a volcanic sea, hot and untamed. He, however, made plenty of noise, praising you in every way he knew how, speaking in half-clipped phrases, losing his sentence to a groan of relief as he fed himself to you, filling your pussy like a hungry mouth. 

You felt yourself getting closer by the moment. Each grinding thrust was pushing you ever nearer to that gleaming, crackling fuse. He had lifted you, unintentionally, unable to understand the effect of his strength, and your toes could barely scrape the floor. You could feel your sacral core clenching around him like a delicate vice, grabbing for his cock, trying to hold him within your belly, some twisting grip of nature used to ensure that his creamy come ended up where it belonged, soaking into your womb.

Your clenching made him pause, which, in turn, caused you to cry out to him, wordlessly babbling, begging for him to return, to keep his pace. 

“Don’t you dare, sweetheart. Don’t you dare come,” his voice was like rattling brimstone, smoky and burning within his throat. 

“Please…” You whispered, unable to lift your raspy, keening voice. 

With shallow, teasing thrusts, Price used his cockhead to softly pop in and out of your soaked hole, swollen from being well-fucked. Just hearing a vibrator would have sent you over the edge at that point, and you fought him, trying to get any sort of power at all, rolling your body like a caught snake. 

“Stop,” he said curtly, “Stop fighting. Be still.”

You quieted yourself down, breathing heavy, sweating into his sheets, shivering like you had a fever, burning up from the inside out. 

For the first time, you felt his hand leave your neck, and his fingers twisted themselves into your hair at the base of your skull. Slowly, carefully, he lifted you by your head, forcing your back into a vicious arch, letting your breasts hang freely, your arms trying to balance you, mostly worthless since Price had full control of your torso in this position. 

His free hand slid around your front, groping you wildly, plucking your nipples and filling his palms with the meat of your breast. Then, he replaced your fingers with his own, pressing beside your sensitive clit, rolling it softly in long, firm strokes. 

You heard yourself make a new sound, one you’d never made, an animal’s grunting, something reckless and feral. 

Then, Price took up his stretching rhythm again, fully in charge of everything you were sensing. To you, he may as well have been in control of your mind. It was no use to you; you were at his mercy and it was everything you’d ever wanted. 

“Do you trust me?”

Your thoughts swam, unable to even consider anything but the truth, and amongst all of your vocalized ecstasy, you managed to reply,

“Yes.”

“Don’t come. Keep it. Just like that.”

“J-John!”

“Wait, wait, wait… good girl. Good.”

“Ohhh, fuck…”

His next words seemed barely human, snarled at you through bared teeth,

“Now. Come for me. Come f— fuck! Holy fuck.”

When you felt him spill into you, you had almost no control left over your own orgasm. Your heart felt like it had leapt into your throat, and all you could experience was your shining, explosive finish. You heard no sound, and your eyes went white, rolling back into your head. You couldn’t breathe, or scream, and if it wasn’t for John’s immense body holding you tight, you would have crashed into his bed, all used up.

His orgasm was as long as yours was, and he finished in slow, fearsome thrusts, burying his head into you as deep as he could reach, smearing your lips with your mixed fluids, caring nothing for the mess. 

“C’mere, love. Come to me,” Price held you to his chest, finally pulling himself from you, holding you as close as he could, laying beside you in a sweaty, spent tangle of arms and legs. 

You lay your head on his chest, catching your breath, only to tumble into a dreamless sleep with him, your body exhausted from your effort. 

When you woke up the next day, you could feel him all over you. He had left you alone in the bed, and yet your skin and bones kept his imprints. You could feel the ghost of his fingertips on your neck, and you were sore in places you weren’t sure how you could be. Everything was a wet mess, and just when you worried about how you’d cross the apartment without yesterday’s outfit, you saw that John had left you a note. 

Training day on base. I'll be back tonight. Dinner on me. Wear this. xx

Under the note, Price had laid out his favorite dress of yours, a blue satin slip of a thing, and (with the tags still on) you found a matching lace set of bra and panties in the same pretty color, just your size. You couldn’t see the price, but when you searched for the brand online, you couldn’t help but blush. He'd spent more than just a pretty penny on this outfit. You couldn't help but notice that the delicate lace would show through the thin fabric of the dress, making little raised ridges where your nipples would be.

Whatever you’d just agreed to when you said you’d let John Price into your life was about to get very, very interesting. 

He saw how Price’s signature little smile rested on you whenever your explanations turned a little rambling, the look of pride in his eyes when you cracked a hard encryption- he’d called in a favor from Laswell to recruit you after all. How the Captain didn’t scold you when your work outfits were outside the civilian regulations (which was often), not that Price minded the view when you’d drop something and bend over to pick it up in your pretty skirts and heels. 

He saw how Gaz would lean over your shoulder, just a hair too close to be friendly, and watch in a little bit of awe as you worked, how the two of you spoke in code (literally) to each other. He would watch Gaz get a little hot in the face with your flirty little quips over comms, voice a little tight as he returned them. How the sergeant would bring you little pastries or coffees on days they were on base, how prided he seemed when your face lit up, and when you’d unexpectedly touch him- grab his hand or bicep with your pretty painted nails? Simon would notice how Kyle would excuse himself to go do something else, sometimes dragging Soap off with him.

And Johnny. He tried not to show it, the Scot was as loyal as they came. A dog, Simon called him often, a mutt when he was being obnoxious. Simon’d noticed Johnny literally sniffing around you, his head following the lingering scent of perfume and shampoo when you passed. He was touchy with you, passing it off as being friendly, hugging you just a bit too tight to feel the squish of your body against his- a kind of softness Simon, Price, and Gaz just couldn’t replicate. It was a sport for him, to get you to blush or stutter. 

And, fucking hell, the banter. Your voice, slightly crackly through their headsets, leading and chiding them through missions. Something about the distance or facelessness of it made you bold and teasing. Soap would egg you on over comms, sending you both down teasing explicit rabbit holes, until Price would remind both of you that the brass had access to these audio files, and you’d get shy and go quiet, but not for long.  Gaz was fairly smooth with it, not often getting out of hand until you clicked off and he’d adjust his pants and collar mid-op. Something about Price’s authority kept you a bit tamer on him, but sometimes you would slip, and the way you got all shy and apologetic, Price’s chest would puff up a bit, beard twitching with a smirk as he’d ’scold’ you. 

Simon’s men wanted you, bad. But none of them were going to be the first to admit it, none of them wanting to be the first to want more. Their loyalty to each other was their greatest value, but it was holding them back this time. But Simon had a plan, all he had to do was plant the seed. 

__

The 141 had holed up in a grungy safehouse to rest and recoup before moving on to the next portion of this assignment. ‘House’ was a bit generous- there was no central heating and it was little more than a kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom, the living room was basically just the foyer with a pull-out couch that took up the entire floorspace when pulled out.  The mission hadn’t gone to shit, but it was proving tedious, and stretching into a longer commitment than they’d planned for. Price was miffed about the time commitment, but it wasn’t anything new, it happened all the time. 

Waiting for transpo from Nik and information that you were working on. Even Simon felt the sting of disappointment when you’d told them you’d need them to quit calling, that the data Price requested from you was proving to be a challenge that needed undivided attention. They were bored. Price and Gaz had slipped off somewhere so the Captain could work out some of his irritation, which in turn got Soap huffy and touchy. 

Which was why the Scot was sitting, spine curled into Simon’s side, laid across the sofa still in full gear, long legs over the side while Simon simply sat up straight ( "s’too fuckin’ cold f’ this shite", he’d muttered after they’d found the wood for the old fashioned wood stove was both wet and molding, "Body heat it is, fucks sake." ), military-issue tablet using the secure network you and Gaz had set up. Too tired to do much of anything, too mission-wired to truly relax, restless and a little homesick.

Simon wasn’t surprised that it only took two rounds of solitaire before the Scot switched to the browser and started to look through the homepage of a porn website he didn’t recognize. They both knew this strategy, get yourself off a few times and your brain releases enough ‘good’ chemicals that you might be able to get some sleep. Johnny did seem uncharacteristically indecisive, getting quickly squirmy and irritated, as he continuously clicked ’next page’ waiting for something to catch his eyes.

A sniper always sees a good shot when it lines itself up, time to plant the seed. 

"Give it ‘ere." Simon gruffed, plucking the tablet out of Johnny’s hands, only smirking at the coarse language Johnny offered in return, though he didn’t attempt to get the tablet back. Waiting curiously and not so patiently for whatever Simon was going to produce, what a good dog.  The lieutenant took a couple minutes to find the right seed to plant, using key phrases that produced the results he was looking for. 

He let Soap peruse his yieldings. The actresses had some things in common, familiar hair and eye colors, familiar because they shared them with you. And the actors doing such filthy things to them? Well, that was the seed (double entendre not intended) Simon was planting, the bone he was throwing to Johnny, all the actors were Scottish.  The sniper knew his shot landed when Soap muttered under his breath, taking the tablet back, hips shifting a bit subconsciously as he scrolled, watching the thumbnails give little snippet previews, "Steamin’ Jesus, Lt…" 

"Seen you sniffin’ around our analyst. Pretty bird." Simon shrugged but his eyes were just as fixed on all the thumbnails, girls that looked vaguely like you in all sorts of positions getting rammed on Johnny’s- sorry, the actor’s cock. He saw the look of (Catholic) guilt on the sergeant’s face, swirling with lust and a pretty flush under his stubble, so Simon swooped in with another seed, motioning to a thumbnail where an actress with the same hair as you was moaning, "Bet our bird'd look better, bet she’d sound better." 

The guilt was gone, the seed planted and flourishing in the Scot’s brain, Johnny’s lips growing into a wicked grin as he settled on a video, not bothering with headphones or squirreling away in the bathroom.  One video turned to three, the two men taking turns chiding and teasing the other, and when his sergeant finally burst, it was your name he called out. 

Yes, his plan was going to work beautifully. 

___

For a quick two-minute search with the sole purpose of quickly getting Soap off, Simon hadn’t been displeased with his results. Neither had Johnny if the spring in his step and uptick in screen time was any indication. The actresses shared features with you, but he was positive there was a closer match out there. And since he couldn’t exactly ask you, their lass in the chair as Soap called you, he turned to their other tech guru and the next part of his plan. Kyle. 

He was a bit more straight-laced than either Simon or Johnny, he’d be harder to convince. Simon didn’t know if he had it in him to debate the morality of purposely seeking out a porn star that was as close as physically possible to you… Or how that might affect the relationship amongst the 141… Ghost wasn’t known for being the moral backbone of the task force, and this wasn’t an issue that could exactly be bullied to be won.  

So, when first met with some resistance even if Garrick’s face was flushed and he was shifting in his seat, ("Simon, that’s… I don’t know what but it’s not right. What if she finds out-") he delegated some orders to Johnny. 

Simon didn’t know what the Sergeants got up to- that’s a lie, he had a pretty good idea, and he expected a repeat performance later- but when they came back, Kyle’s eyes were still a little glazed and his shoes were on the wrong feet. 

"Well?" Simon raised an eyebrow looking up from the rifle he was meticulously cleaning. Johnny was smirking smugly, belt still undone, nudging the other sergeant to remind him to answer their lieutenant. Gaz was nodding wordlessly for a moment, running a hand over his hair, slumping back in front of his military-issue computer, and opening a private browser. 

"Yeah… Yeah, mate, I’m on it." Kyle was practically still panting from whatever Johnny had done to/for him. Simon smirked, going back to his rifle, until after a moment when Kyle’s voice was more level, he added his requirement, "If I find her-" 

He paused, cheeks heating a bit as he reworded himself a bit, "A look-a-like, I mean, I get to taste her first." 

Simon could work with that. 2 down, 1 to go. 

____

Lastly, John Price. Saved him for last for a reason, but he was also the easiest. Simon waited until the assignment was on the up and up again. Summit fever to push through and go home had its claws in all of them. He knew it was a good time because, after the last firefight and subsequent march through the woods to a safe zone, all the boys were too tired to fool with each other... much. Price was sitting against a tree, that ridiculous hat of his resting on his propped-up knee, face illuminated by his cigar and the light of his phone.

Wordlessly, Simon crouched beside the captain and held his hand out expectantly for the phone. Price blew his smoke with a quirked brow but was curious to what the sniper had in mind, placing the device in the waiting gloved hand. 

"What’re you up to, Simon?"  Price inquired suspiciously, lowering his eyes to the light of the screen as it was handed back to him. His blue eyes, older looking than the captain really was, widened for a second before darkening in the low light of the forest, "So this is what the Sergeants’ve been on about, uncanny…" 

Price watched the very short prelude, a woman who looked so much like you, wearing something a little racier than you’d wear to the office but as blood rushed elsewhere, Price found the realism didn’t matter much when if he squinted… it was you stripping off a cardigan and letting some sort of authority figure pop the buttons of your blouse before shoving you under a desk with your pretty painted lips wrapping around his- sorry, the actor’s throbbing cock… 

Seeing the way John’s expression shifted, Simon smirked under his mask, raising back to his full height and returning to where he’d stashed his gear. His plan was almost complete, they were in the final stretch.

___

Simon was watching over Johnny’s shoulder, his hips occasionally rutting through his clothes into the scot’s back, a video that the sniper had chosen. Soap thought it was really funny that it happened to be from your doppelganger's Halloween playlist, but now was just as entranced watching the tall domineering figure clad in all black and mask absolutely ruin you her. The bed was a perk of finally making it to an actual base, with officer’s barracks, waiting for the official expo back to you home.

“Fuckin’ hell.” Simon groaned, biting Johnny’s shoulder through his mask and the sergeant’s t-shirt, as gloved hands twisted into hair just like yours. It was hard not to insert himself into the fantasy. A knock on the door made him growl, pulling him away from the delicious video and friction that Soap’s weight against him was providing. With more force than really necessary, Simon whipped the door open, only relaxing a little bit when Price was standing there with Gaz, both of them with their strategizing faces on. So, he wasn’t the only one making plans lately.

“See the new video that got posted?” Gaz questioned, looking down to unlock his tablet undoubtedly sharing it over to Johnny’s laptop still playing on Ghost’s bed. Both Lieutenant and Sergeant shook their head no. Johnny clicked on the share notification, releasing a breath that puffed his cheeks and raised his eyebrows as he read the title alone, the video still loading in the base’s less than ideal wifi (the 141’s latest habit undoubtedly eating up most of the bandwidth). 

It was your doppelganger’s stage name accompanied by the words Barrack’s Bunny Gets Gang Banged! 

“Fuckin’ Hell.” Simon repeated, words almost snarling his jeans chafing him as his cock twitched in his still buttoned jeans. 

“We’re having a dinner at mine.” John decided cooly, seemingly unrelated, leaning in the doorframe. His demeanor was its usual casual confidence, but his eyes were dark with the kind of want that spelled disaster for anything that stood between him and his goal. The seeds Simon had planted were growing like invasive weeds, wild and quick, “She’s invited.” 

“How’re we playin’ this?” Simon questioned relinquishing the reins to his captain, he was just as much of a soldier as the rest of them, he took orders well, watching as Gaz joined Johnny at the foot of the bed, both Sergeants watching the video together, hands already starting to wander, gear being unbuckled and unsnapped. Price smirked at the sight, adjusting himself through his camo cargos. 

“Cooly. Don’t wanna spook th’ sweet thing.” He smiled, mostly to himself making himself comfortable on the tiny futon that had been cramped in Simon’s room as an ‘officer’s luxury’. The captain dwarfed it, and patted the limited space beside him for his lieutenant to join him, “We’ll have ‘er eating out of our hands. And then we’ll have her.”

Price said this with the same easy decisiveness as he’d have busting a terrorist cell, but the curl of his lip, how his legs spread to accommodate the growing erection in pants noted the difference for Simon, his captain nodding towards the Sergeant’s watching the video, their breaths already getting heavy. Kyle’s hands fisting the bed's blankets like he might slip away and Johnny’s hips were already rocking a bit. Price’s smirk grew, eyes flicking to Simon before looking back forward, “You’ve been busy, Simon. Never miss anything, do you?” 

It was a mix of praise and teasing that, from his Captain, made Simon’s affirmative grunt a bit lower, something twisting in his gut, like a pet that wanted to be stroked more. Price chuckled deeply, nodding, “Bet that thick head’a yours hasn’t considered why you noticed alluv our infatuations with our little analyst, ‘ave you?” 

Simon didn’t respond, watching how Johnny’s eyes lit up much in the same way they did when he was presented a puzzle (bomb) that caught his interest, how he moved Kyle’s hands aside and rewinded the video, once, twice, three times at something your lookalike did that scratched his brain just right. Mutt, Simon thought, waiting for Price to continue, knowing that the captain couldn’t resist teasing him just a bit. He’d expected as much, maybe a vulgar comment or two. He was not expecting a truth bomb that turned him both introspective and horny. 

“Only reason you noticed how much we liked ‘er, cause you’re always watching her. You watch her just as much as y'watch any of us, wonder what that might mean?” Price shrugged, one hand working at his belt buckle before motioning for Gaz to turn the volume. The Captain actually laughed at the look in Simon’s eyes that most would miss before nodding back to the video and the Sergeants, “Now, watch the show."

Fucking hell. 

__

Maybe it was that little bite of introspection or the flight home where they fleshed out every last detail of their plan to get you, the real you. (“Gaz and Johnny’ll do the leg work, play up the charm, and Ghost and I’ll work the opposite angle, strong and silent.”). Maybe it was how eagerly excited Soap was or how Ghost spent his extra time scrolling through your Instagram. Maybe it was the two brief interactions with you upon returning to base- how pretty your eyes were looking up at him through your lashes, how good you smelled, the movement of your skirt as Johnny spun you around, how you got jittery under his slightest touch in the briefing room… 

By the time he found himself on Price’s couch, he was impatient. Knee bouncing, checking his watch, making Gaz track your location. When you’d been sitting out in your car for more than fifteen minutes, he all but growled, snapping at Soap, “Go get ‘er.” 

And when Soap guided you inside, pulling one of those bright smiles out of you with his own jokes, and Gaz was helping you out of your coat like unwrapping a present, your cheeks already flushed all pretty from the Sergeants’ tag team flirting routine… He didn’t think he could wait for Price to put the steaks on the grill, he needed something to sink his teeth into, sooner rather than later. He was sure if he bit the curve of your neck, it’d be a lot like biting into a ripe peach… supple and sweet. Just like you. 

Oh, his plan had worked, the seeds were planted and growing and overtaking every other thought in his mind other than making sure him and his boys were sated at dinner tonight, and you were on the menu. 

____

To quote Sir Mix-A-Lot, "Little Does she know I'm a nasty DAWG."

Y’all are getting this because my writing app deleted what I had done on Search History pt 2. Reminder- the reader is loosely based on Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds. The physical description is pretty vague, but lots of skirts and heels and makeup are mentioned, and I might have gotten carried away and implied

Once again: thanks to any and all tags and comments, i collect them and they will be buried in my pyramid when I die. seriously, they inspire me to keep going and I screen shot them to show to my friends :))))

Also so sorry if you got tagged twice im bad at taglists!!

In the field, comparatively speaking at least, Johnny’s the impulsive risk taker that relies on Ghost to come to his rescue with his superior experience. If anything he’s gotten worse since they started working together - it’s easy to let loose out there, knowing he’s got Ghost on his six. But here, in the so called real world, Johnny is the smoother operator. And that means he occasionally has to step in to help clean up Ghost’s messes. 

Like talking down Ghost’s landlady when the odd hours, strange noises and unpleasant smells make the neighbours complain. Like convincing pretty little things not to get so worked up over a few too... matter-of-fact compliments, the few times Johnny can convince the man to join him for a pint and some mutual wing-manning.

Well, dig a good ditch and you get a bigger shovel. Just by the number of texts Ghost is sending, Johnny can tell he’s bringing him a bigger mess than usual. Whether it’ll require an actual hole being dug remains to be seen.

Ghost: “Goddamn son of a bitch.” Ghost: “Scared her off, I think. Got impatient.” Ghost: “Twitchy little thing, couldn’t even handle one phone call without pissing herself.” Johnny: “Jumped the gun, did you?” Ghost: “Fuck you, Johnny.”

Then, five minutes later, “Yeah. A bit. Couldn’t help myself. Wanted her to hear me.”

Soap: “How many times do I have to tell you, Don Juan? No-one likes the heavy breathing.” Ghost: “Yeah, yeah. Just help me calm her down.”

Ghost has no interest in dating in the traditional sense - he has his own approach to meeting women. One where he meets them, in a manner of speaking, but they never meet him. Not unless they get very unlucky.

The usual pattern - and he seems incapable of deviating from it as far as Johnny’s been able to piece together - is this: he spots some random bird (often someone too plain or lonely or odd to catch anyone else’s eye), stalks her for a bit, projects all sorts of perfect traits onto her to justify his obsession, then inevitably loses interest when she turns out to be just about as special as the next civilian. 

People have called Ghost a sadist, and he probably is by most definitions, but even so he never seems to enjoy it much when his little crushes fall apart like any normal woman would under his kinds of attention. Crying, hysterics, begging and pleading, appeals to his mercy... none of that does it for him, apparently. Maybe it used to, once, but it’s clearly played out now. Repetitive. He already knows he’s terrifying and if he wants his ‘girlfriends’ to reassure him, it’s not like that. So his focus on any one woman only lasts until he finds out she’s too much like the rest of them.

Johnny knows the feeling. Most girls are predictable once you get close - they either bitch and moan when they find out what he’s like, or they take his shit and make excuses for him (blaming his mum, blaming his religion, blaming his career and his friends) because a quarter of a lifetime of men not a whole lot better than he is has already taught them to expect rough handling. 

That kind of repetition doesn’t bother Johnny so much. As long as they’re pretty enough to look at, as long as they put out without too much effort on his part, he’s happy to take what he wants and tune out their talk. After all, if he wants intelligent conversation, he’s got friends for that. And he gets more than enough surprises through his work to keep life interesting. 

But for Ghost, the physical ins and outs (so to speak) just isn’t enough. Johnny isn’t sure he ever gets around to letting things get physical - he’ll visit brothels sometimes like the rest of them, but the rare times Johnny’s been bored enough to put his ear to the wall he’s heard nothing. Ghost has needs like any other man, but whatever makes him hunt like this isn’t driven by the calls of the flesh. 

No, Ghost is, truly and honestly, in his own special way, looking for the one. True love. His other better half. And Johnny loves him too well not to indulge him.

“How spooked are we talking, then?” “Counter surveillance-spooked.”

Wow. Ghost really must’ve come on strong... Johnny shifts the lollipop he’s working to his other cheek and texts back while he walks down the pavement, forcing the other milling pedestrians to step off the curb to get out of his way. “She gone to the cops yet?”

“Nah. Doesn’t think they’ll help her.”

Johnny raises his eyebrows, pleasantly surprised. Maybe this one is a little smarter than the last few, after all...

Then another ping. “Play the concerned stranger?”

Not the first time he’s had to step into that role to help his friend out. Not difficult, either. Compared to Ghost, Johnny’s a social savant. He isn’t going to lie to himself and pretend he’s put out by the request - no, he likes it when they hunt in pairs. It’s like a fun little team building exercise in the boring lulls between deployments, and it gives Soap another chance to understand exactly what makes his superior tick. So far, he hasn’t really seen the attraction in any of his quarries.

Ghost forwards him the details, along with a photo of you. A terrible photo, blurred by the stacking layers of a greasy phone lens and a couple of layers of glass - he clearly took it through a pub window on a particularly damp evening, steam fogging up the panes. But there you are, head thrown back, mid laugh, surrounded by people. 

Ghost’s lamb. Happy, carefree, safe and at ease, without a care in the world to speak of. Johnny smiles at the sight. It’s so clearly a “before” picture. Before insomnia, before jumping at shadows, before whatever a civilian woman thinks are good safeguards against a would-be kidnapper. Before Ghost, in other words. He almost hopes you’re a true crime fan - they’re always fun, almost flattered at first to have their paranoid, callous little daydreams turn into reality, so sure they had the know-how to fight back... then inevitably and thoroughly humbled.

When he tracks you to the run-down shopping centre you’ve fled to and rides the escalator to the second floor, he gets to see the “after” in the flesh. There you are, taking a breather on a bench by the food court, take-away cup in hand. 

Johnny stands half hidden about eight metres away at an angle where you can’t easily spot him. He’s got Ghost in his ear - just a little earpiece hidden under his beanie. Ghost himself might be miles away, parked in some Flowers By Irene-looking van or in some villainous control centre with ten different feeds of your dinky flat. He might be in the building itself for all Johnny knows...

“I’ve got eyes on the target,” he says aloud.

The transformation from the you in the photo and the you, here, now, actually isn’t too startling. Sure, you bounce your knee to vent the nervous energy and you watch the crowd with eyes that slide from face to face without really seeing any of them, like you’re comparing them to the height and build of a certain someone. Working your way up to a thousand yard stare already... 

You’re wearing sneakers and fairly nondescript clothes, which might mean you’re prepared to run, or it might just be your usual style. But then your make-up is pretty neatly applied and if you’ve lost much sleep, he can’t tell at first glance. 

Johnny watches you from a safe distance, head cocked to one side, wondering just what about you had left Ghost so entranced. Sure, you’re pretty enough, but not stunning to his mind. And not soft. You don’t look frightened as much as you look tired and angry. Well, that’s certainly a clue.

Even so, it’s strange because for the last six months, you seem to have been the only thing on the Lieutenant’s mind. He’s never one to talk much but he has talked, and talked voluntarily, about you. Usually, getting Ghost to say anything about any topic other than work is like pulling teeth, but on the subject of you, of his lamb, he’s got what for him is almost tantamount to verbal diarrhoea. 

“Watched her pick another fight when she was out last week. Every time she goes out, like clockwork.” That, he’d said with a laugh, like he was proud of you for being a belligerent drunk. “She’s gonna get herself killed even without my help...” Apparently, any guy who tried so much as to start a conversation with you got nothing but shit for it. How charming.

“I’m telling ya, she’s different. Should hear the shit that comes out of her mouth. It’s foul.” Cynicism always seemed to attract Ghost. He didn’t like ‘em sweet, that was certain.

And that’s nothing compared to what Ghost would say in his sleep. Less wordy, but much more to the point. Even in the first month since he’d first found you, he’d been dreaming about you loud enough to wake Johnny up with it sometimes. 

“Sound so good when you choke.”  “My pet. Miss ya, birdie...”  “Bet you’re loose enough to take me, fucking whore.” 

In fact, it’s a lot of ‘cunt’ and ‘slag’ and ‘whore’ in general. It always makes Johnny’s ears go red with second hand embarrassment when Ghost talks in his sleep. He sounds almost... earnest.

Whatever your actual name is, that certainly isn’t what Ghost ever calls you, not even in his own head... but that’s fairly typical for him. He always has someone in his crosshairs and they come and go so often, it makes sense they all bleed into one another. It’s like he can see his own inevitable disillusionment coming, and the individual girls aren’t as important as the ideas they represent. Then again, that seems to be the case for every fool in love.

Knowing how fickle the man usually is in the long run, Johnny hadn’t paid this crush much attention either until around month three. It’s rare that any of them last that far, first of all. But Johnny really knew to sit up and pay attention when Ghost gave you a name.

Lamb. 

Of course he hadn’t explained where that had come from - he’d just grinned his cadaverous grin as if this was a joke he and you shared, one he didn’t care to let Johnny in on.

Looking at you now, Johnny understands the pet name less than ever. You don’t look especially innocent or sweet or tender. If you wobble when you stand on those legs, it won’t be because of youth; it’ll be because Ghost had already made you run too hard. 

No, there’s nothing precious or sacrificial about you. Sitting there, taking another swig of your drink, you just look sharp-eyed and bitter and exhausted. 

Oh well. As even Ghost himself would admit, there’s only so much one can learn by watching from a distance.

Johnny sits down beside you on the bench with a heavy thud and takes out his phone, sighing loudly and glancing around, playing the part of a man stood up with the kind of broad telegraphing that would usually net him at least a smile of polite sympathy or a concerned question from whoever he’s aiming for. 

He has to play a part, after all. He needs to seem a little pathetic at first glance, like he’s approaching on the back foot because in your current state, he can’t just strike up a conversation without some disarming preamble - you might bolt, scream, maybe pepper spray him if you’re jumpy and prepared enough. 

Even as tall and imposing and striking as he knows he is, Johnny also knows he can be damned easy to feel sorry for when he puts his mind to it. Maybe it’s the big baby blues, maybe it’s the real insecurity he’d once felt about being the perpetual newbie next to the men he worked with. Maybe it was the years of practice of manipulating relatives and teachers and nuns and cops into overlooking his many sins... either way, it works for him. He knows how to look harmless.

But even as he feels your eyes on him, his nervous sigh, his bitten lip and his puppy dog eyes trained searchingly on the escalators are all for naught. There’s no reaction, no comment, no sign that any of it meant anything to you. 

Even when he ‘catches’ you looking and turns his face to you with a sheepish little grin, you just stare up at him blankly for a split second before breaking eye contact and turning back to watch the crowd. Either your recent scare still holds all your attention, or the sight of a gorgeous young man in distress leaves you completely cold. Maybe when Ghost called you a bitch, he’d really meant it. 

Still, he’s beside you now, near enough to touch. Near enough to smell what might be perfume or shampoo - fresh and sweet and citrusy. You clearly still have one foot in your usual routine, then, despite Ghost’s eagerness. He isn’t even sure how far Ghost has already gone - has he let you see him? Was it really just a phone call, or has he sent notes, texts, gifts?  

Up close, Johnny has to admit you’re more attractive than he’d thought at first glance. Clearly, you didn’t choose your style for mainstream appeal. It seems a waste of such a pretty face, but then he supposes you’ve already gotten more attention than you’d bargained for... 

After a few more moments of forlorn fidgeting to no effect, Johnny pretends to get a disappointing text and sinks down in his seat with a pained groan. 

Still nothing. In fact, you look like you were getting ready to leave - knocking back the last of your drink, patting your pocket to feel for a phone or a wallet, glancing around as if looking for a clear path between the bench and the electronics shop you’re eyeing. Shite. He won’t get another chance without coming on too strong...

As if on cue - or as if he can see the same thing Johnny sees - there’s a click as Ghost switches on his microphone and speaks into the earpiece. “Engage before she bolts.”

Johnny lets your movement draw his eye as if it’s the first time he’s really noticed you, and decides to just go for it.

“No offence, hen, but you look like you’re havin’ an even worse day than I am.” Soft spoken, half joking at his own expense. Sympathetic.

You turn to face him again and it’s clear you haven’t really looked at him before. Now your eyes scan his build, his clothes, his features, quick but careful. 

“What?” you ask, like you didn’t hear or understand him the first time. 

“Sorry, that was rude. You just... you look a little stressed, maybe.” He flashes a smile, as if it pains him to feign good humour. “None of my business, I know.”

“Yeah,” you bite out, jaw twitching. Eyes a little too wide. Like you’re torn between wanting to bite and wanting to beg him, beg anyone, to help you. “Stressed. You could say that.”

He turns a little towards you and smiles, more warmly this time but still beleaguered. He knows better than to break the character he decided on too quickly. Holds out his hand, warm and steady. “I’m Johnny, but my friends call me Soap. You look like you could use one right about now...”

All he gets for his trouble is another, sharpening, stare and a stiff little smile, like you’re forcing it just for the sake of keeping everything nice and polite and civilised. There are rules to socialising, after all. He should know - he’s made a life long game of exploiting them. What idiot wouldn't? It's truly incredible, how far out on a limb most women will go, trusting those rules to go both ways. 

“Johnny. Right.” You’re weighing him up now, and he can practically see the moment you decide against burdening him with your troubles. In other words, you're not going very far out on a limb at all. Maybe you can already hear the branch groaning, threatening to snap... “Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got plenty of friends already.”

Johnny blinks with surprise. This isn’t how this usually goes... or if it does, it’s usually a lassie playing hard to get, not turning him down flat with with a tone like acid. But he’s too quick to let it steer him far off his course. “Oh, I’m sure you do, hen. But they’re no’ here at the moment, are they?”

It’s not a threat, couldn’t be in that soft and playful tone of his. “What’s got you so nervous, then? At least tell me that - I’m a good listener.”

Ghost’s warning comes through the earpiece too late: “you’re being too nice, Johnny. She don’t respond to nice.”

And, as if on cue, you turn fully to face Johnny just long enough to fix him with a narrow-eyed glare. “I don’t know what you’re trying at, Johnny, but I’m not interested. Go sniff after some other dog.”

Before he can even react, you’ve jumped to your feet, rolled your shoulders forward and stalked off without a backwards glance. This time when he sinks down into his seat, it’s with genuine frustration... and an amused grin.

“Well, that was a bust,” he says quietly as you slip into the shop.

“You laid it on too thick, that’s why.”

“You asked for the ‘concerned stranger’. Could’ve given me a little more to go on, since you know her so well.”

Ghost snorts. “I talk about her enough already. You just tune me out.”

“Maybe,” Johnny replies with a shrug. Truthfully, he doesn’t tune Ghost out nearly as much as he should - he really is curious about you, especially now. He just figured Ghost had been exaggerating about your charming personality. 

“She’s a feisty little thing, Lt, I’ll give you that. Hissin’ at me like a cornered cat...”

There’s a gravelly hum of approval on the other end. Speaking of cats, Ghost sounds like he’s practically purring. “Yeah,” he says, voice heavy with an almost sickening warmth. “I told ya. She’s a cunt.”

Whatever reddit threads you’ve been scouring for tips, they’re clearly written by complete idiots. Watching you agonise over the paltry choices the electronics shop offers is almost enough to make Johnny laugh, but in your defence it looks as if you’re realising the folly of this shopping trip all on your own. Consumer grade tech isn’t going to do much, and it doesn’t look like you’d have the know-how to make it do even what it could do. You’d be just as safe, and a lot richer, if you hanged a cross over your doorstep and prayed for protection. Maybe some garlic, too - Ghost is as close to undead as you’ll ever meet.

But you came here with a list, and you seem determined to work your way through it, step by step. Maybe just so you can tell yourself, when it all goes wrong, that you did your best. That kind of thing seems to matter to people. He watches from a distance, biding his time. Reporting your every purchase back to Ghost, just for the pleasure of talking to him.

When Johnny ‘accidentally’ bumps into you again, it’s in a bookshop and he almost expects you to be leafing through a copy of “counter-surveillance for dummies” or some pop psychology guide to dealing with psychopaths. But no, you’re just taking a breather off in a corner with little traffic, looking like you’re struggling against a panic attack. He offers a disarming little smile but doesn’t approach again, pretending to respect your wish to be left alone.

You’re lost. You know you’re lost. The whole day has been a blur like clear plastic covering your face while you suffocate. Sweaty and sticky and blinding. Stopping and starting, with peaks and valleys of flurried activity between breaks to stare into space and go ever more numb with dread. Research, panic, searching the flat for cameras, panic, making lists, panic. Debating with yourself whether or not to ask for help. If you turned to your friends with this, would it put a target on their backs?

The only positive thing that has come out of today is the knowledge that you hadn’t been paranoid. Or rather, that you’d been both paranoid and correct. You did have a stalker. That shadow you’d kept catching when you turned your head quickly enough was bound to a real person. A man, flesh and blood - and Christ, he had so much of both. He’s at least a head taller than most other normal people and he had to have wanted you to see him to let you catch him more than once. 

The first time you’d seen him properly (back when you were still telling yourself it was all in your head, one too many late nights drinking making you feel nervous and targeted) your eyes had met across a crowded pub, all romantic-like. His eyes were all you could see between the hoodie, the baseball cap and the black surgeon’s mask and they’d crinkled with warmth as his head did that Jason Voorhees tilt. He’d kept eye contact while your heart gave a horrible squeeze, barely blinking and his gaze had spoken volumes. Yes, I’m real. I see you... and now you see me.

He’d toyed with you for another few weeks in ways so subtle it felt like he was trying to break your grip on reality. You’d come back to your flat and some of your things were not where you’d left them. You’d left your bed made and found two indents, like handprints on either side of your pillow. Those sheets had gone straight in the wash... after you’d held them to your nose and caught the scent of cologne on them. You’d woken up from a nightmare and gone to look out your window and there he’d been, looking up at you like Romeo, his trigger finger twitching by the side of his massive thigh.

And last night, after bringing home a one night stand to distract yourself with, you’d found a note slipped through your mail slot, scrawled with blocky letters, “I’d fuck you harder.” There was a black smudge on the paper that reeked like oil. That had been the final straw and you’d flipped the a4, written on it in capitals and sellotaped it facing out your window: “QUIT TOYING WITH ME.” Impulsive, stupid, but you’d gotten so sick of being jerked around - surely anything was better than this vague feeling of being watched, of waiting for the shit to hit the fan.

He’d called this morning from a number you didn’t recognise, breathing deep into the phone, sounding so warm you could practically feel the dampness of his exhale rolling over the skin of your neck. “Hello, lamb.” Such a deep, dark, rough voice, he had to be putting it on at least a little. It’d sounded beautiful and tough and guttural and it’d made you sick - you’d hoped he’d sound pathetic, weak. Surely a strong person would never have to resort to something as sad as stalking. Surely.

“You’ve been following me.”

“For quite some time.” 

“How long?”

“Months. You’re not that observant, are you, lamb?”

The insult had made your temper flare up - always quick to anger when cornered, even when the smarter choice would be to flee or fawn. “Lamb? Why the hell are you calling me lamb, you fucking creep?”

He’d made sharp sound that might have been a laugh. “Reminds me of our song, that’s all. Was playing the first time we locked eyes.”

“Our song? I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“’m not surprised. You were pretty pissed, first time I saw ya.”

“Must have been a day ending in ‘y’,” you’d replied irritably. “‘Pissed’ doesn’t narrow it down much.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re just... pretending to know all about me cuz you’re trying to scare me.”

Another almost-laugh. “If that’s all I wanted, you’d be crying by now. And we wouldn’t be having this chat over the phone, believe me.”

And the tears had been threatening to spill by that point. “What do you want, then?”

“You know what I want,” he’d purred. “Want you. Want to own you. Want to make you scream under me ’til your lungs give out.”

You had had to sit down, then, not to risk fainting. But you’d still fought, carried by the initial wave of anger that came with the adrenaline. “Not going to happen. I won’t be anyone’s pet.”

“You already are. Wild or tame, it don’t matter. I still own you.”

He’d waited for a few moments to give you a chance to respond. When no reply came, he’d pressed on. “Speaking of which, keep your legs closed in future.” “Or else what?” “Or you’ll have blood on your hands.”

And with that, the line had gone dead. 

And now here you are, shaking like a leaf in the corner of a badly stocked bookshop, fighting against the umpteenth panic attack of the day. Just when you feel like you’re getting control over your breathing again, forcing your lungs to expand, constrict, expand, constrict with a focus that makes the very process of breathing feel alien, you glance up and spot him again. Not him, not your stalker, not the one - this man is massive, sure, but not as hulking as the shadow you’ve caught trailing behind you. His posture is different, leaning forward and tense with a restrained energy, like a dog straining on a leash. His voice and accent is wrong, too. Nothing like the exaggerated gravel on the other end of your phone. 

No, this guy - Johnny, was it? - is pretty and very well aware of it. Well dressed, in a mainstream way that aims so straight down the middle it almost loops back around to being pretentious - you wonder if he took a ruler out to make sure the logo of his hat sat right in the centre of his forehead. In fact, all his clothes look like they’ve only just had the price tags removed... apart from the boots, which don’t fit somehow. Just by his aura alone, he seems for all the world like he thinks he’s god’s gift and because your rage has no nearer target, you want to punish him just for existing, so put together while you’re falling apart.

Stupid. He’s just some random part of the chorus who’s wandered onto the stage during the villain’s first big number. It’s hardly his fault you’re having the worst day of your life. (Cynicism offers up the caveat: the worst so far. Let’s wait and see what else your mystery man has planned...)

Well, you’re not ready to give up on what you owe your fellow humans just yet. So as annoying as it is to have to do it, you force yourself to take a step closer to him and apologise. The longer you can hold on to normal life, normal human behaviour, the longer you’ll hold on to your sanity.

“Sorry for being such a bitch earlier.”

Johnny’s smile is wide and a little amused as he looks down into your upturned face. “Not one to mince words, are you, pet?”

“Not usually, no,” you reply without any amusement whatever. Your hackles couldn’t raise any higher, and you’re in no mood to be teased, no matter how playfully. Hearing the word ‘pet’ again so soon certainly doesn’t help. “Anyway, I shouldn’t have bitten your head off just for trying to check up on me. So I’m sorry. That’s all.”

“You’re apologising, but I feel like I’m being dismissed again. Can’t make up your mind?”

God. Banter like this is exactly what you were hoping to avoid. 

You open your mouth to respond, and then, without the slightest warning, the world... tilts. Jamais vu. The sharp LEDs running over the bookshelves catch on the glint of his blue eyes and suddenly there’s an edge there you can’t believe you missed. Why the hell is he being so friendly? 

You realise then what his carefully nondescript, too pristine clothing reminds you of. It reminds you of being at a party and spotting the sort of plainclothes cop that even the stupidest dealers would know to avoid on instinct.

Maybe you’re just being paranoid. But so far, lately, your paranoia has been dead on the money and you decide to roll the dice.

“He sent you, didn’t he?”

Johnny’s pretty blue eyes widen just a fraction, pupils narrowing in on you like all of a sudden you look different, too. 

He’s good though. Really good, skating past that first reaction so fast you would’ve forgotten it yourself if you hadn’t been focused by mortal terror. His brows furrow, head cocks to the side, like what you said was such a non-sequitur he’s not sure he even heard you right. “Pardon?”

You wish you could believe it. You wish you could tell yourself a man like your stalker wouldn’t have friends to come help him, or that there couldn’t be more than one masked killer on your trail. You wish you could’ve led the kind of life that’d make you look at a handsome, charming stranger and see something other than the worst. But you’re sure, and you shake your head, tears already burning in the corners of your vision, splintering your vision into a nauseating kaleidoscope. 

“He did, I know he did. He sent you. A guy like you, checking in on someone like me?” Your laugh sounds crazed. Crazed and a little wet as the first tears threaten to turn into snot-bubbly bawling. “That shit doesn’t happen, not to me. You’re too... clean.”

Johnny tries for it all the same, and his look of concern is completely insulting as he frowns softly and asks, “and what’s that supposed to mean, ’a guy like me’?” He has the gall to look almost hurt. “I was just trying to be friendly, lass. Bloody hell, you must’ve had some rotten luck to be so suspicious.”

“Fuck off,” you snap. “Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. Why are you helping him?”

Johnny blinks with perfect confusion and parts his lips to insist on his innocence. Then, as if something has interrupted his train of thought, he stands up straighter and a grin splits his face open. Sheepish and crooked, genuine for once. 

“Why?” He hums, as if he’s asking himself the same question. You realise you’re relieved he’s dropped the act because at the very least it means you haven’t completely lost your touch. You reach out to grab hold of a shelf for support and Johnny continues speaking. “I’d follow him to hell and back if he asked me.”

“Why? He’s nothing but a sick fuck who gets off on torturing people.”

“Birds of a feather,” Johnny says with a self satisfied little smile. “Besides, Ghost’s a lot more than just that, bonnie - this cat and mouse thing is just something he does to fill his time. A hobby.”

Your eyes narrow. You could practically hear the capital G there, denoting a name. “Ghost?”

“Oops.” He smiles sheepishly, like he actually didn’t mean to let that slip. “Aye, Ghost. What, you don’t think it suits him?”

“It sounds stupid as hell,” you spit out. “Like a bargain bin slasher villain.”

“Oh, he’s going to have fun bringing you to heel, I just know it...” Johnny laughs. “And you might think it’s just theatrics but trust me, hen, he’s earned the name.”

You chew over this information, wanting so badly to interpret it all as silly. But something about that phrase, that Ghost has ‘earned the name’... it niggles at you. Johnny stands in front of you, so clean, so straight, so perfectly at his ease with having this conversation right out in public, like nothing can touch him. Soap to his friends. Friends like Ghost... 

“How did he earn it?” you whisper. It feels like another shoe is going to drop - or perhaps a steel capped boot is going to come swinging right towards your temple. You glance down again. His look suspiciously practical. Too ugly for the rest of his look.

“You’re clever. Take a stab in the dark.”

You shake your head. You don’t want to. You don’t want to say what you’re thinking because you don’t want to be right. “Fuck off, no.”

Johnny leans on the same shelf you’re leaning on, tilting his head again and looking down at you like he’s starting to see the appeal. “I think you’ve guessed it.”

He might just be teasing you, now, not saying what you’re supposed to have guessed, like a palm reader getting you to fill in the blanks with whatever you hope - or dread - most to hear. 

You bite down on your tongue, determined not to fall apart at the mere suggestion of something so horrible. You need certainty, not hints. Johnny adjusts his posture to shield your shaking frame from the few other shoppers weaving between the shelves. Good thing he cornered you in the fashion photography section, rather than the booktok display up ahead, or someone would’ve interfered by now. 

“Fuck you,” you grit out when you finally find your voice, “prove it. If you’re that shameless, show me some ID, some dog tags, anything.” You sniffle, swallowing down snot and blood, and watch in numb horror as Johnny actually pulls out his wallet and... yep, there it is, behind a clear plastic window. His military ID, held up in a grip that shows the photo and the hologram while obscuring the last name. Even so, the fact that he feels confident enough to show you that much makes you reel.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” you mumble.

“There, there,” Johnny says and passes you a bottle of water which you bat away with a clumsy movement of your hand. 

You are screwed. Because he’s right here, in public, harassing you with impunity. You have no recourse - he knows it, Ghost knows it, you know it. Who could you ask for help? They’re soldiers and you’re a nobody. You start to cry in earnest, shoulders shaking and tears dripping noiselessly onto the carpet between your feet.

“He’s a soldier, too?”

“Oh, aye. The best o’ the best. And before you get any silly ideas about reporting him, you should know he’s rated highly enough to get a lot of leeway when it comes to his, uh... extracurricular activities.”

You sniffle again. “I wasn’t going to go to the cops.”

“Smart girl.”

“Why me? Why did he pick me, when he could’ve picked anybody?”

“Beats me, hen. I never know what the bastard’s thinking.” His pretty eyes twinkle as he watches you like a bug on its back, clearly not feeling any need to be careful about his words. It’s gotten so familiar over the last month, the weight of a gaze on you... “Should hear him talk about you, though. Head over heels, he is.”

“Shut up. I don’t want to know.”

“No?” He laughs. “Not the least bit flattered? You know, he’s your picture stuck over his bunk and everything.” When that fails to get the reaction he wanted, he continues. “It’s a bonnie picture, too, with some lacy little number. Really shouldn’t get changed without closing the blinds.”

You yowl with rage, finally snapped out of your panic and grief by pure anger. You might fear Ghost, but right now you hate Johnny more. He’s here trying to pick on you and he hasn’t even put the work in. It’s like he’s trying to get sloppy seconds before you’ve even been fucked. Without even thinking through the decision you reach into your pocket and dial the number Ghost called from.

Ghost answers so quickly you could swear he was already holding his phone in his hand.

“Lamb.” His voice is dark, smooth, pleased, like it’s a relief to finally hear you again.

“Would you please tell your fucking lackey to back off?”

He makes a little sound that might be a laugh. “Johnny not behaving himself?”

“No. He’s being a disgusting little shit.”

Johnny’s staring at you now, clearly hearing every word and looking less than comfortable with where this is going. He must’ve thought he could push you to tears without you pushing back...

Ghost speaks again, humming with agreement. “He has that habit.”

“Why did you send him, Ghost? If you want to torture me, do it yourself instead of sending some pathetic minion after me.”

“A minion?” Ghost replies, sounding amused. “That what you think he is to me?”

You growl with anger, sick of being jerked around. “I don’t give a shit about your band of brothers. Just tell him to go to hell!”

“You think I’d let another man near ya if I didn’t want him there?”

With the phone almost crushed by the tension in your hand, you pinch the bridge of your nose and struggle for breath. This is beyond humiliating. You’d really thought Ghost might tell Johnny to back off, to leave you be - you’d thought he might take your side, or at the very least be too jealous to want anyone else to see this side of you. “I really hate you,” you whisper into the phone.

“I know, pet.” Jesus Christ, he sounds like he’s out of breath, ragged and strained, and the implication makes you sick to your stomach. Of course. Of course this would be nothing but flirtation to a man like him and he’s reacting like an animal that’s been starved of attention. “She crying, Johnny?”

“Gushing like a burst pipe, sir.”

You stifle a scream just barely, staring up at Johnny with pure, impotent rage. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ghost purrs into your ear and you catch yourself laughing, finally losing your grip enough to slip into hysterics.

“You hard?” You ask, sniffling pathetically and knowing full well that’ll only make it better for him. Some sick part of you can’t help wonder if you aren’t laying it on a little thicker than necessary, like you want to make it good for him. Whatever, you tell yourself - that’s not encouragement, that’s just faking it to make the guy come faster. Any woman who fucks men has had to resort to that at one point or another. It doesn’t mean you enjoy it. That sick tension in your gut is fear and rage and nothing more.

“Yeah.” His moan sounds pained and satisfied all at once, like this is torturing him as much as it is you. “Aching for ya.”

You fix Johnny with another stare, not looking away this time as you decide to let it rip and fully commit to playing the worst game of chicken of your life. “Do it, then,” you tell Ghost, almost incoherent through your constricting throat. “Jerk off to this, you pathetic, sick fuck.”

What’s the point in caring about consequences when you can’t do anything to protect yourself? Ghost can hurt you, he can kill you, but you’ll be damned if you don’t let him know that you see him, that you know his type. He’s not cornering some innocent here - damn it, you know what he is.

Ghost makes a noise like pure longing, an almost soft sigh that would be beautiful from any other man under any other circumstances. The poetry of the moment is spoiled somewhat when you hear him move his mouth to gather spit and the ‘tuh’ as a blob of it leaves his lips. Your cheeks burn. “Way ahead of you, lamb. Fuck, keep talking.”

Then his other hand speeds up to the point where you can actually hear it, wet and quick and practiced - the sort of careless, matter-of-fact masturbation someone does on their own, not when they’re trying to put on a show for an audience. The fact that he feels that comfortable with you is just another insult to add to the ever lengthening list. It should be disgusting. It should be pathetic. But it’s just another challenge he’s meeting, pushing you to push harder.

Johnny, meanwhile, is staring back into your eyes like he’s witnessing the inverse of a miracle, speechless, shocked and struggling against laughter. Clearly he can hear Ghost too or he wouldn’t have been able to answer earlier, but if he’s bothered by the noises of his superior officer jerking off he doesn’t show it. “Fuckin’ hell,” he snorts, shaking his head.

“I hate you more than anything else in the world,” you hiss, letting your desperate fury drip into the phone like pus from a wound. You’re so far beyond fear now, you can’t begin to worry how much further this will spiral out of control - all you want is to drive your hatred home so Ghost can feel it. “I’d give anything to kill you, you know that? You sound fucking disgusting.”

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” Ghost breathes. “Filthy fucking slag, knew you’d know me. Talk me through it.”

It’s a wonder the phone doesn’t snap in your hand from how tight you’re squeezing it. “I’m going to kill you. Do you hear me? I don’t care what I have to do - I’m going to kill you. I’ll put my thumb through your fucking eyes...”

Ghost makes a choking sound, raw and guttural - like he’s putting on a show, like he wants you both to hear him... or maybe he just is that enamoured with you. Then suddenly the sounds of movement still as he gasps out “you little whore...”

“Yeah, you know it, asshole. You’re a cliché.” You hang up the phone on impulse. Then you cringe when you realise it might make him angry. Cringe worse when you realise you’ve already let him train you to react that way at the thought of upsetting him. 

You shudder with panic, disgust, grief the second your phone is back in your pocket and second thoughts send creeping shivers down your back. What possessed you to talk to him like that, to encourage him?! And there’s Johnny, still standing rooted to the spot not an arm’s length away, staring down at you with a look of shocked and amused disbelief.

“Well, that was quite the little performance,” he says after a quiet moment. “You’re not like the others, that’s for sure.”

“Did they survive?”

He hums, like he’s not sure. “I think so, aye. He got bored with them too soon. But you?” Johnny laughs. “You fucked him over the phone right in front of me.”

“Whatever,” you reply, shuddering with shame and queasiness. “Would you please fuck off now? I need to go throw up and I’d prefer to do it in private.”

Johnny shrugs lazily and steps aside. “Run along then, bonnie. It was nice to finally put a face to a face - I’m starting to see why he’s so attached.”

Twisting the knife - he can’t resist doing it, clearly. You shoulder check him on the way past just to score a little victory of your own and walk out on legs that ought to buckle any second now.

The shopping centre is a blur of people and moving screens until you slip into the women’s bathrooms at the end of the hallway. They’re empty, thank God - it’s somehow still too early on a weekday for the place to be packed. Of course, that doesn’t mean you can be sure it means you don’t have an audience. 

Methodically, mechanically, you put your phone on the loo roll dispenser, push up your sleeves and kneel in front of the toilet and finally, finally let it all out in a wet, rushed splatter. One heave, then gasping, whimpering and a weak hiccup. A second heave. A third and then your stomach is empty, with nothing but acid burning your throat, your stomach muscles cramping reflexively even as you try to will them to calm. 

Your phone pings with a new message and you blink away fresh tears to check it - rushing to pick up the phone, fingers trembling to unlock it. Hurry, hurry, it might be from him. You can’t remember the last time you were so eager for a guy to text... the realisation makes you feel sick all over.

And it is him again, of course. “Sweetheart.”

“Were you listening?”

“Always.” 

Then an image loads and you feel yourself flush, glancing at it with your head half turned away like you’re afraid to look the monster in the eye. And it is a monster, too. His cock looks massive even in his equally massive grip, still hard but clearly spent, veins coiling like entrails under skin that looks pale pink and silky soft. The foreskin is half pulled back like he’s mid stroke, white-translucent come practically dripping from the black glove. Jesus, he’d tear you in two. 

Your cunt tenses, sucking inward at the very same time as your stomach spasms with the useless urge to vomit when he’s already taken everything you had. The constrictions stutter against the rhythm of your racing heart. So many pathetic responses you can’t control, one part of you trying to expel him, one part of you trying to draw him in. It shames you, no matter how unconscious they are. You can’t tell if it’s the flattery, a knee-jerk reaction to the surprisingly impressive picture or just your cunt trying to prepare for worst with the minimum risk of tearing, but you can feel you’re wet even as you spit out the last bit of sick and your stomach complains. He’s left you feeling empty in more ways than you can count...

“Flattering,” you text back eventually with shaking fingers. “Still wish you were dead.”

“Liar,” comes the response a second later - he’s clearly got his fingers (the fingers of one hand, at least) hovering over the keyboard just like you. “You’re wondering what it tastes like. Fucking slag. Can’t help yourself.”

Asshole. “I’d bite down until my teeth met.”

“That’s my girl.” 

(You may have forgiven him. He’s even accepted that you have, merciful as you are. But that doesn’t change the truth of what happened – that he failed you. That he left your side, and then almost didn’t return. You’ve forbade him from hanging himself with “almost,” but that doesn’t mean he can’t feel the noose around his throat.)

You’re long since healed and recovered under Nikto’s devoted watch. Nurturing may not come naturally to him, but he’d bend himself into any shape for your use. So, he made himself into your caregiver. Weeks of helping you sit up, walk, bathe… until you were back in the gym, right by his side, gritting your teeth through physical therapy.

A scar is all that’s left now, silvery and tender. The only sign that Nikto’s world nearly bled away on dirty concrete. A reminder of his failure, his disgrace. How could he possibly deserve a place at your side, when he couldn’t even protect you? When he thought, for even a moment, that vengeance mattered more than your life?

Still, he returns to your side. Because you told him to, all that time ago. Because he has so much to make up for after everything. And because you haven’t given him leave to be anywhere else.

(He prays that you don’t the only way he knows how. Through meals from his own hand while you grin, nipping at his fingers. Through tea shared from one cup. With fragrant products in your wet hair while you sigh. You haven’t told him he could be anywhere else, beckoning him into a bed bigger than the one on base, still tucking in close like one of you might fall off the edge.)

It’s not that he thinks you incapable now. He would never blaspheme that you are anything other than utterly competent. It’s just that every blink superimposes pools of blood over his vision, a strobe of you near death.

In his most selfish, private thoughts, he imagines taking you away from it all for good. Tucking you away warm and safe in the cathedral of your off-base apartment, where a god belongs, in their own house. He soothes himself on visions of devoting himself to you fully and wishes he were a prophet. But for all you’ve given him, visions of the future are not one of them.

You were eager to return to duty, nearly cornered O’Conor once you got final clearance from the doctors. Nearly shook him down for a new assignment – for the both of you. Even if he had reservations about sending you to duty so soon, an opportunity to keep Nikto and his temper away a little longer was too tempting. (The bruises Nikto left on his throat were long gone, but the memory clearly was not.)

And so here you both are, in the gym of an SAS base, sparring with Task Force 141.

“Oi, lass! Care for a match?”

“Bring it, MacTavish!”

Nikto stands back to observe as you and the sergeant square off.

The 141 has been cooperative, despite previous tensions with KorTac. You, Nikto, and Konig have managed to build a decent working rapport – though most of that work has been yours. Their captain seems to like your friendly personality and straightforward professionalism; their lieutenant has been cordial. But the two sergeants (especially the Scottish one) have taken a liking to you.

“Fuck!”

Nikto jerks as you get taken down on your bad side – no, it’s not your bad side anymore. You’ve fully recovered; he must remember that. Interrupting a sparring match would be unwelcome and unnecessary. Not just overprotective on his part, but disrespectful to you as well, as if he doesn’t think you can hold your own. Still, he balls his hands into fists as you struggle against the sergeant.

At least you’re laughing, breathless and curse laden as it is.

“She is okay, ja?” Konig asks.

Nikto grunts the affirmative, eyes sharp as he watches you knee MacTavish’s side. Good, he thinks proudly as you twist to get on top. You’ve been working tirelessly to improve your groundwork techniques, learning all the different ways you can use your smaller stature against bigger and stronger opponents.

“He is… friendly,” Konig continues.

Another grunt of agreement. Most people are with you. It’s a natural reaction in the face of divinity; to reach out to a smiling god. It worked on Nikto, anyone else would be helpless. It’s just the natural order of things like green grass, blue skies, or gravity.

There’s a pause that starts to prickle the back of Nikto’s mind. Disinterested as he may be in socializing, he understands how it works. A program that runs in his mind – body language, tone, inflection, facial expression. A complex algorithm that computes to emotion, conversation, feeling. It’s just not an equation that applies to him, or that he can apply to himself anymore.

And right now, Konig is trying to imply something. Nikto cuts his eyes to the side, meets Konig’s.

“Too friendly, don’t you think?” he adds.

Nikto snorts and turns back to the match – where you are just tapping out. MacTavish is unwinding his arm from your windpipe. You’re sat between his legs, back to his chest. A tough position to get out from in a fight. As you’re scooting away, the sergeant pats your hip, leans to say, “good match” in your ear. You shoot him a grin over your shoulder and then push to your feet, sauntering back to your own team.

“Whose turn is it?” you ask, wiping sweat from your brow.

You don’t see MacTavish’s eyes darting up and down your body, zeroing in on the sliver of skin revealed by your lifted shirt. But Nikto does.

“Mine,” Konig answers, stepping forward.

You smile at him, bump fists with him. “Kick his ass for me, yeah?”

“Ja.”

He shoots Nikto one last, pointed look before stepping onto the mat. But Nikto has no interest in watching his match. Not when you’re right in front of him, a sheepish look on your face.

“I can’t believe I lost like that,” you groan. “Guess I need more practice.”

“We will practice,” he promises.

You beam and knock the back of your hand gently against his.

Like an insidious weed, Konig’s observation takes root and sprouts. Sergeant MacTavish’s friendliness.

It’s almost like Nikto is hallucinating again – or perhaps that he has just stopped. A veil pulled away from his eyes. A creature camouflaged in the brush, his eyes skipping over the landscape until an irregularity in the pattern was pointed out to him. And now he cannot stop seeing it.

MacTavish saying hello to you first every morning, asking how you slept with a twinkle in his eye. He offers to accompany you to training sessions, often chooses you first for cross-team drills. In downtime, he’ll invite you to socialize (with the rest of the 141, sure) and always save you a seat or a spot. Usually right next to him.

And it is not that he doesn’t acknowledge Nikto or Konig. He is amicable with both, works well with either of them when paired up. But there is always a tilt to his mouth when he speaks to you, a lilt to his voice. A subtle incline to his shoulders that makes every interaction seem just that slightest bit intimate.

A week into the assignment, and he is touching you freely. First a hand tapping elbow or shoulder. Then an arm around the back of your neck. Platonic, commiserating. Within a day, that arm drops to your shoulders and he’s leaning the side of his head against yours, something a bit warmer than a hug.

One morning, he scoops you up in a hug, your toes nearly off the ground. You seem surprised, reciprocate with a pat to the back before you’re set down and offered a chair.

And the sparring… the sparring gets worse. Not just an exchange of blows and a chance to improve skills with a new partner anymore. It’s become a game of teasing you, joking with you. Tagging you with hits to coax you into going after him. Wrestling with you on the ground and dragging it out while he grunts and huffs against you.

And Nikto… Nikto burns.

This is not hell, he knows; but maybe this is some form of purgatory.

He has no place, no right to suffer. Knows that trying to claim you as his own would be like trying to cage the sun. It wouldn’t just be selfish; it would be heresy. You’ve already given him a miracle; you told him you love him. That is far beyond anything he could deserve, anything he could hope or dream or long for. To take after all that, to demand more of the time, attention, energy you pour into him like holy water…

And yet.

And yet he wants to claw his skin off when MacTavish winks at you. Wants to set the world on fire when that accent purrs “bonnie” or “hen” at you. An awful, deafening static scream fills the fractures of his mind when you smile at the sergeant, when you wish him a good morning or evening.

“How are you with a sniper, hen?” MacTavish asks one day.

You hum, glance over at Nikto. He’s been training you with his own rifle for months now – though it’s obviously been on pause since your injury. “Well, I’ve been working on it, but I definitely need some improvement.”

MacTavish crosses his arms, biceps bulging against the sleeves of his t-shirt. “I wouldn’t mind giving you a few pointers, if you want to come down to the range with me some time. Promise I’m a good teacher.”

You blink, hesitate. Then lightly, “Yeah, maybe!”

Nikto can’t hang himself on an “almost,” but he’s gutted on a “maybe.”

That night you come out of the bathroom frowning. There’s a furrow between your brows that you only get when you’re both frustrated and worried; if it stays, you’ll have a headache within the hour.

“Nikto?”

He glances up from the knives he’s polishing. You stop, eyes darting all over him, towel frozen in your hand.

“Hm?” he prompts.

You don’t answer. Instead, drop the towel carelessly on the floor and stride across the room. Towards him. He only just manages to shove his equipment out of the way by the time you reach him. And you don’t stop, climbing onto the hard desk chair he’s in, straddling his lap. Your fingers curl so tight in his chest straps that he can hear them creak.

He’s trapped as much by your gaze as your weight. Something swimming in the pools of your irises that he hasn’t seen in them before. Doesn’t know how to name or how to tame.

“What’s going on?” you ask.

He jerks back in surprise, but you’ve got a solid grip and there’s nowhere to go.

“Did I… do something?” you ask. “Or… or not do something?”

He stares. “What?” he asks, mouth gone suddenly dry.

Your eyes are still darting between his, like you’ll find answers playing peekaboo between them.

“You haven’t been right the past few days. Maybe even a week,” you explain. “I’ve been giving you space to tell me, but you won’t. And I’m sorry, I’m not trying to pressure you, but please just talk to me.”

Now his brows furrow. “I haven’t been…?”

You sit back a bit, assured that you have his attention – as if that isn’t guaranteed.

“You’re not eating the same. Didn’t even take the green beans I put aside for you,” you say. “You’re not sharing my tea or letting me wrap your hands. You keep leaving for a smoke in the middle of the night. Hell, you’re wearing your mask in our room.”

It dawns on him like apocalypse. That he has been worrying you, affecting you.

“And you’re not… you’re not talking to me.” Your white-knuckled grip eases a bit as you run out of steam, sadness tinging your expression. “I know we don’t talk the normal way but… I haven’t been able to read you. You won’t look me in the eye or press our legs together. You’re even pulling away in your sleep.”

His heart is trying to claw out of his ribcage, wants to crawl into the palm you press to his chest.

“So… if I’m doing something or not doing something… you can tell me. I promise I won’t be upset. I just miss you.”

He crumbles.

Weeks under torture, but he breaks at four words.

You gasp as he rips the gear off his face. Try to help, but he just pushes your hands away. Knows he’s aggravated the old wounds, but a balm is at hand, pressing his face into the crook of your neck.

“моя любовь,” he whispers fervently. “моя надежда. моя богиня.”

You curl around him instantly, arms around his shoulders, fingers fluffing through the fuzz of hair at the back of his skull. Gentle and kind and everything that sinners and saints would fall on their swords for. And yet all you ask of him is to speak, to confess.

“I fear,” he rasps into your skin.

“Fear what?” you ask.

He is your protector, your disciple. Yours to command, to damn, to sacrifice if you so wished – and he would gladly spill his corroded innards at your feet, careful not to bloody your shoes. And he fears that you won’t ask him to.

“You are not mine, but I fear losing you,” he admits. You suck in a breath, arms tightening around him. “If not to MacTavish, then to the world. I will be left here without you again.”

He squeezes his eyes shut as the scars sear all over again, crushes his crooked nose against your collarbone.

“I am yours,” he whispers, lungs burning, “and I cannot be that if you are gone.”

You shift, pressing closer, tighter. Lay your cheek on his head and squeeze him so tightly he wonders if you’re not inviting him inside your ribcage.

“I thought you understood,” you whisper, and even that cracks with emotion. “I’m sorry, I thought I made it clear. I thought you knew…”

You urge him back. He wants to resist. Wants to stay right there in the hollow of your neck, breathing in the soap you two share, basking in your warmth. But you are bidding him to do something, and he is a weak man to your command.

Your eyes are shiny, but there’s a smile on your face when you look at him.

“You’re mine,” you assure him, “you will always be mine. I will never turn you away.”

His eyes flutter with relief. Always. He has no business questioning the truth of that. You’ve said it; it is so.

“I’m yours too, Nikto.”

His eyes snap open again, but you hold him still, hold him right there.

“Our love isn’t a cross for you to bear,” you murmur. “I belong to you the same way – the exact same way – that you are mine.”

“I don’t—”

“You remember what I told you in that car all those months ago?”

Don’t deserve it? That’s not your choice. Don’t understand? You don’t have to. I just do. It wasn’t a choice I made.

Your word is genesis. It is revelation. It is creed and commandment, redemption and atonement.

You’ve said it; it is so.

“Here.”

You snatch a pad of black ink from one of the desk drawers, grab at one of his useless, hovering hands.

“What are you—”

You smear his bare fingertips across the damp pad. Then press them to your forearm. He jerks his hand back, but it’s too late. His smudged fingerprints stain your skin in inky little pools. When he looks up at you, you’re grinning. Wide and beautiful and so damn proud of yourself.

“C’mon,” you coo. “Do it again.”

He hesitates. But his eyes are drawn back to his fingerprints on your skin. His mind echoes with your declaration.

You are his. You are his.

To deny you this, to deny your belonging, would be beyond blasphemy. Beyond sin.

You have said it; it is so. You. Are. His.

You beam as he takes the inkpad and gets his fingers wet again. Begins leaving marks all over you. Along your arms, over your collarbone. Lean back to get palm prints on your thighs. Sits you on the desk to smear lines up your calves. You even tug your shirt up, giggling all the while, so that he can mark up your stomach.

He pauses at the gunshot. Places his blackened thumb over the entry scar. Pulls it away to see the whorls of his fingerprint covering it.

You soften, kind hands cupping his jaw and guiding him up. Up and up… until your plush lips are slotted against his. His own stained hands land on your hips – likely ruining your little sleep shorts – and pull you as close as he can get you. Infusing himself with the taste of you, of your love, of your belonging.

“Yours,” you murmur against his mangled mouth.

“Yours,” he repeats.

The next day, you walk into the mess hall with Nikto’s fingers hooked into your belt loops. There’s a single black smudge on your jaw.

First | Previous | TBC...

Nikto X Reader

Bloodsucker NSFW

Sick

Denial

Drabble #1

Drabble #3 NSFW

Drabble #4 NSFW

Drabble #5

Drabble #5 Pt2

Nikto X Dog!Hybrid Reader

Nikto X Donut (OC)

Nikto X Lonely Reader

Lavender

Broken

Sacred (Chapter 1)

Sacred (Chapter 2) NSFW

Scared (Chapter 3) NSFW

König X Reader

Cockwarming NSFW

Drabble #2 NSFW

Ghost X Reader

Ghost X Male Reader NSFW

Other

COD characters when you cry

NiktoKreugerReader Pt1

NiktoKruegerReader Pt2

NiktoKruegerReader Pt3

Omegaverse Beta Headcanon

KorTac's Bat!Hybrid Reader Pt1

KorTac's Bat!Hybrid Reader Pt2

for tomodachi life specifically, make sure you set a timezone in settings! you can have it match your pc's time for simplicity.

there are ostensibly keyboard controls, but they're a little wonky to figure out. if you can, plugging in any controller should work just fine. just make sure to select it in ryujinx's input settings! (you should also still be able to use your mouse for things like drawing facepaint!)

graphics settings will be on a per-pc basis, depending on your pc's strength. it's worth it to experiment with them and see what gives you the best performance. ryujinx will explain what each setting does if you hover over it!

the game crashed?

that's very likely to happen! on first time loading a scene, the emulator can sometimes struggle. it happened to me the first time i opened the mii editor, and the first time i opened the news station. you should be able to relaunch and everything will be fine. if it's happening super frequently, though, you may need to adjust your graphics or cpu settings!

a sixth thing i didn't think of?

feel free to leave a reblog with comment or send me an ask! if you need more specific guidance, i'll be happy to help! i'm not an expert on emulation, but if nothing else, i can try to point you towards a reddit thread that is more competent than i am