This is the sixth time you've tried to do this. You're sitting alone in your car half a mile away, dead certain they know you're out here twisting in the dark.
You hate yourself -- full stop, no nuance.
The mind-control device was the most terrifying thing you'd ever experienced. You'd watched yourself say things you'd never say, do things you'd never do, but it was all clearly over-the-top, darkly playful, making a point: they could make you do things that would hurt, that would ruin your reputation, that would destroy your psyche.
But they didn't. They let you go.
And in the middle of the night, when you should have been fighting off nightmares of your capture, you were staring at the ceiling, shame rising like the tide as you basked in the memory of the utter peace of being so completely controlled.
You've hardly slept since.
You don't remember getting out of your car. You don't remember the walk here.
When you reach a shaking hand out to ring the bell, the front door opens, creaking, into a dark foyer.
You roll your eyes. How very classic.
You follow flickering candles through the shadow-filled front room, up a curving staircase, and down a long, silent hallway where firelight dances on the other side of a half-open door.
They're sitting in an armchair at the far end of a large library; a thick book open across their thighs.
Now that you're finally here, the words die on your tongue. They look at you for a long moment, then go back to reading.
What the fuck is wrong with you, anyway? Being a hero is too damned stressful? Being praised for saving the day yet again is just too fucking much to bear?
Yes. It is. That's exactly why you're here: no one else understands.
You've only managed three steps when their voice -- strong, soft, sharp as it slithers across the room -- stops you in your tracks.
You should run. It's one thing to need a break, but this? They're demanding total and complete --
Honesty, you realize; with yourself and with them.
Do you need control or do you need to rest? You can't have both.
It's not about humiliation, or it wouldn't be just the two of you alone in the firelight.
You've hit your knees before you even realize you'd made a decision.
Putting weight on your hands will keep them from shaking so badly, you tell yourself.
When they turn several pages erratically, you discover that your fear is causing time to skip and jump.
When your wrists and knees start to hurt from being on the hardwood too long, you tell yourself they'll hurt less if you move.
A page turns almost every time your left hand moves forward. It's as fast as you can go with fear and shame clawing at your throat like burning bile.
You move another foot closer.
Your fingers tell you that you've reached a rug. Were your eyes closed? The shining black of their boot is in your view. Should you stop here?
A page turns. You move closer.
A page turns. You move closer.
You're directly in front of them. They could easily rest their legs across your back like a footstool, and the shame spikes as you calmly realize you would let them.
You feel like you should be startled as they touch your head, but it feels right. They run a hand slowly through your hair, down the back of your neck, across one shoulder, and then dip in to trace along your collarbones.
Their thumb slides one way and their fingers the other, and then --
The pressure starts: soft at first, gentle; giving you time to adjust, to recoil, to run.
They can't see it, but your eyes flutter closed.
The pressure increases. You can feel the blood backing up in your neck and behind your eyes.
The room starts to dim, but you don't move. The fear bleeds away with the light until all you can see is the reflection of the firelight flickering across the polished floor beneath your hands.
Peace fills you until every thought, every fear, every desire is gone; there is nothing left but your slow, deep breathing. You distantly feel yourself slump against their legs, head held up only by their hand around your throat. Their other hand strokes gently through your hair.
The fire crackles as time comes to a standstill.
