#dol x reader

You were just beginning to nod off to the steady sounds of keyboard clacking and tape-recorder whirring when he called your name. Begrudgingly, you raised your head and found Harper smiling toward you as he nudged a small stack of documents to the edge of his desk with a pen. “Walk these to the archive for me, would you?”

You frowned, but sat up. “Don’t shove your work off on me, old man.”

“You don’t seem to be terribly busy with your own.”

“I’m a patient. I’m supposed to be resting.”

“Technically, according to the schedule our orderlies so lovingly put together, you’re supposed to be in the middle of a group session at the moment.” He cocked his head to the side. “Would you prefer it if I asked you to make your way down to the rec room, instead?”

A chill ran up your spine at the thought of sitting through another group therapy session. They weren’t worth the effort it took to attend. Most of the patients were so heavily sedated, they couldn’t remember their own names, let alone why they were here. Those who’d escaped their introductory appointment with minimal medication, like you, were similarly unhelpful. The questions posed were meaningless, the responses a never-ending onslaught of violence and rape and trauma retold in disjointed, half-remembered bits and pieces. You wanted to be sympathetic, to nod and coo and heal, but you couldn't take it. You’d all come from the same miserable town. You didn’t need more suffering. You had plenty of your own.

And so, you pushed yourself to your feet, marching over to Harper’s desk and snatching the documents away. He leaned back, his grin cat-like in its utter and complete self-satisfaction. “See?” he asked, in the same tone he used during your private sessions, when you finally divulged the intrusive thought or traumatic experience he’d been attempting to pry out of you for the better part of a week. “Was that so hard?”

“You’re a tyrant.”

“I am a doctor merely trying to see that my charge stays active.” And then, almost purring, “Would you have me do less for my favorite patient?”

The praise was half-hearted. Worse than that, it was cheap. The same kind of flattery that you’d employed across a hundred odd-jobs to milk marginally bigger tips out of a thousand love-starved clients. You knew that, and yet, heat rushed to your face all the same, the inside of your mouth going dry and cottony. You rushed to turn away from him, muttering an excuse as you made a run for the door. It wasn’t until you were safely across the threshold that you stopped, sucked in a deep breath, and allowed yourself the smallest, faintest possible smile.

You didn’t like it here. You hated the people, the staff, the chill. You couldn’t wait to leave.

But a tiny, guilty part of you was thankful that, if nothing else, you had Harper to make it all just a little bit easier.

~

You never had night-terrors before the asylum.

You hadn’t really dreamed at all. You hadn’t slept enough. Robin used to find you curled up in empty classrooms, trying to get a few minutes of shut-eye in before a semester-defining exam. Bailey would have to pick you up from one of your many part-time jobs at least once a month because you’d passed out from sheer exhaustion in the middle of your shift. In the asylum, you couldn’t work yourself to the brink. You were never sleep-deprived enough to lull yourself into that dreamless, pitch black, death-like sleep. Most nights, you didn’t have anything better to do than to sleep. It was awful. It was a waste of time. It wasn’t like you.

Worst of all, it meant you dreamed. They were awful, vicious things; all shifting colors and whispering voices and grabbing hands. Sometimes, you’d get lucky, be able to enjoy a couple minutes of some half-remembered schoolyard scene or a pleasantly ungrounded fantasy before things devolved and you found yourself pinned to a tile floor, fingertips biting into your hips as some heavy, amorphous mass with molten gold hair and acid pink eyes. It was an unfortunate coincidence that the monster in your worst dreams resembled Doctor Harper. It wasn’t his fault you were here. You only had yourself to blame, for that.

Not-Harper’s unoccupied hand found its way to your neck, the heel of its palm biting into your nape. The floor was so, so cold and the thing on top of you was so, so hot. There was a voice whispering in your ear - detached and disorienting - and below that, another sound, more melodic, more predictable. Something harsh and solid ground against you from behind. In the corner of your eye, the needle of a syringe caught the light, its tapered point angled toward your neck. You tried to squirm away, but the tile was slippery and the mass was so heavy and it was all so, so hopeless. The needle plunged down, down, piercing the side of your throat and—

And you woke up screaming. Your voice echoed off of the bare cement walls of your room, unswallowed and unanswered. You bolted upright, clinging to your paper-thin blanket. Pathetic. This was all so pathetic. You were alone in an insane asylum miles and miles outside of town. The orderlies weren’t on patrol and the nurses didn’t care. No one was coming to—

Three sharp knocks against your door, evenly paced and just short of forceful. A voice called your name, soft and masculine and achingly familiar.

Harper.

“Come in,” you managed, after a long beat. A latch slid out of place and your door swung open.

He must’ve been working late. It had to be closer to sunrise than sunset and he had the look of a man who’d spent the night burning the candle at both ends. His lab coat was missing and his shirt had been unbuttoned two degrees past the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The fact that he was still in the building at all surprised you. You’d assumed he lived in town.

Your confusion must’ve been obvious. In place of a greeting, he offered an explanation. “I was passing by and heard the commotion. Are you alright?”

You nodded hastily. “Just a bad dream.”

“Ah.” And just like that, he was a man of science again, latching onto the first scrap of evidence you provided and jumping to the most rational conclusion. Pulling your door shut, he crossed the room and fell onto the foot of your bed. There was no hesitation, no pause to seek permission. He was acting like he owned the place - which, to be fair, you were pretty sure he did. “You know,” he started, adjusting his glasses. “Dreams can often signal to areas of tension within in the subconscious. Your brain might be drawing your attention towards, say, fresh trauma you haven’t allowed yourself to process.”

You grimaced. You knew what he was dancing around. Lately, Harper had lost interest in your miserable upbringing, pitiful social life, and self-destructive coping mechanisms. Rather, he’d taken to asking after the reasons behind your interment incessantly. And, if you’d been able to, you would’ve given him what he wanted gladly. You would’ve laid out every thought, every feeling, every factor that left you stranded in his care. But you couldn’t. You wanted to, but every time you opened your mouth, you just—

You couldn’t.

You shrank into yourself, dropping your eyes to the sheets. “I… I’d rather not talk about that, right now.”

“I see.” Immediately, the softness in his voice was gone, replaced by cool professionalism and the slightest trace of disappointment. He stood, starting for the door. “I suppose we’ll see how you’re feeling in the—”

You acted on reflex — lashing out and catching his wrist. To his credit, Harper didn’t flinch. He didn’t even seem all that surprised.

“Can you stay?” The question was a slurred rush, too embarrassing to properly separate into distinct words. “I mean, just for a few minutes. I don’t want to— I can’t—” You forced yourself to pause, to breathe. “I don’t know if I should be alone, right now.”

Harper regarded you for a long moment. In the darkness, he was more shadow than not. A stock silhouette in place of anything more recognizable, anything more welcoming. “You understand that I’m not on duty.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“And I really ought to be using this time to tend to personal needs. For my patients’ sake as well as my own.”

“Right. Of course.”

“Then again, if there was some way you could help me…” He trailed off, clicking his tongue. “I might be able to make an exception.”

Your mind was a blank expanse. You knew he was alluding to something, but you couldn’t begin to guess what.

“Help with… paperwork?”

A breath of a laugh, thin and sardonic. His eyes fell to your lips, then his belt. Understanding dawned on you immediately.

A bottomless pit opened up in your stomach. You couldn’t help it. You laughed. “That’s a little unprofessional, doctor. Even for you.”

He shrugged. “It’s perfectly natural. Most practitioners end up leaning on their favorite patients more than they should, in times of stress.”

Again, there was that rush of warmth, that bone-deep satisfaction. The word played over in your head, again and again. Favorite. Favorite. Favorite. Your hands were on his belt by the time you thought of a decent justification. You’d done more for worse men. He wasn’t forcing you, or blackmailing you, or even really pushing. You didn’t want to do this, but you wanted him to stay. You’d do whatever you had to, if it meant not having to spend the rest of the night alone.

You moved swiftly, mechanically. Unbuckle his belt, undo his fly, ease his pants down just far enough to free his cock. He was already hard enough to wrap your hand around. Rather than consider the implication, you decided just to be thankful he’d made your job that much easier.

And, for what it was worth, he had a pretty dick. Longer than average, too thick to be considered lean but not bloated enough to make you massage your jaw on reflex. No prominent veins, thankfully — those had always left your throat sore. The tip was a nice, rosy pink. You might’ve appreciated the color, had you been in a state to appreciate anything.

You made a point not to look at him as you brought your lips to his head. This would be easier if you were clinical about it, so that was what you tried to be. You divided your work into neat, impersonal steps. Lap the flat of your tongue over his tip then take him into your mouth. Wrap your hand around his base and pump. Try (and fail) not to cringe at the taste of his bitter pre-cum. All perfectly doable. All perfectly normal.

You were just starting to bob your head when you felt his palm against the back of your skull, urging you lower, deeper. You obeyed as much as you could — swallowing him down until he hit the back of your throat. Your gag reflex had been trained away years ago, but still, there was only so much you could do to suppress biology. Tears formed in the corners of your eyes, a low whine bubbling up from your chest. All to be expected. You were at your limit. Harper was smart. Harper would see that.

Except, he didn’t. He pushed harder, and you felt his cock nudge into your throat. Immediately, you floundered, your hands lashing out to catch his dress pants. You glanced up before you could stop yourself, finding Harper’s face. His expression was impassive, bordering on curios. His lips were curved into a smile, the same one he wore during your appointments, all gentle compassion and tender patience. But his eyes—

It might not have been so bad, had they not been so intently focused on you.

"Breathe, love.” His voice was enough to pull you back into reality. Again, his admission echoed in the back of your mind. Favorite, favorite, favorite. “Almost there, just—”

His hips jutted forward and you choked around him. His cock twitched in response, an airy groan slipping past his lips. You wanted to do this right. You wanted to make him happy, to make him proud of you. Your tongue swirled where it was trapped underneath his shaft, your throat convulsing as you forced yourself to take him that much deeper. You were fully crying, now, tears dripping from your chin onto your thighs. Harper shut his eyes, his nails biting into your scalp. That meant you were doing a good job. That meant you were his—

Cum flooded down your throat, hot and searing. You could feel it moving through your chest, burning a hole in your stomach. Harper didn’t thrust, or jerk, or move in any way. He just held you there — close and safe and loved.

That night, you fell asleep to the feeling of his hands petting over your hair.

Somehow, it wasn’t quite the comfort you thought it would be.

~

For whatever reason, you expected sucking his dick would be enough for Harper to stop asking the only question you wouldn’t answer.

It was not.

You were exposed to all of his tried-and-true methods, first. Writing in private journals that he always found an excuse to read, reacting to increasingly bizarre prompts all vaguely reminiscent to your life outside of the asylum, answering prying questions for hours after your session was supposed to end. Eventually, Harper got frustrated. He scowled more often, spoke to you more coldly, withheld praise he used to dull out like medication. Then, when you failed to meet his agitation with compliance, he got creative.

“I wanted to try something new, today.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach. You had to fight not to bolt from the chaise lounge you were currently laid across. You understood why you couldn’t see him in his personal office for your actual appointments, but awareness did little to endear you to the counseling room. It was too big. The lights were too bright. You always seemed to be freezing.

“Do I get to say no?”

He laughed and stood, neglecting to answer.

You focused on the ceiling. You could hear him approaching you, feel his shadow block the light. The cushion below you dipped as he propped a knee next to your hip. “It’s called recovered-memory therapy, with the added help of tactile stimuli.”

“Tactile stimuli…” You blinked slowly. “Like a therapy dog?”

“Close, dear.” You weren’t looking at him, but you didn’t have to. His smile was more than audible. “Can you roll over for me?”

You couldn’t. You didn’t want to. You started to sit up, but Harper only took it as a sign that further assistance was needed. He caught you by the waist, turning you over and forcing your stomach flat against the lounge. Your breathing picked up, teetering on the edge of hyperventilation. You did your best to wrangle it back to a steady pace.

“This was the position you described in your dreams, yes?” He straddled your thighs. His chest pressed into your back, too close. Too warm. “How did you say your attacker was touching you, again?”

You hadn’t. You wouldn’t. But Harper sighed and frowned and looked so, so disappointed and you couldn’t stop yourself, the words spilling out before you had a chance to patch the leak. “They were holding my— my neck, and their hand was on my— my—”

“Right. Of course.” His hand fell to your hip, then hesitated. “If you’d feel more comfortable touching yourself, I’d understand. If not…”

You shook your head vehemently. You would do whatever you had to so long as it meant he wouldn’t put his hands on you. You couldn’t take that. Not again.

He helped you onto your knees. Slowly, mechanically, you worked a hand between your thighs and began to rub circles into your clit through the thin material of your uniform. The action was without sensation. You might as well have been brushing your teeth.

He rested a hand on the back of your neck. He wasn’t cruel enough to choke you, but he wasn’t kind enough to give you space, either. “Good. Very good. Now, tell me about the day you realized you needed my help. Start from the beginning.”

It felt as if you’d swallowed a needle. You did your best to speak around the obstruction. “I was— I had to visit you. Something happened at school, but that’s not important. You gave me a shot, and it made my head a little fuzzy, so you left me—” Your wrist slipped, and you applied a little more friction than you meant to. Something dull and electric ran up your spine — just strong enough to be mistaken for pleasure. “So you left me alone to wait it out. Just for a few minutes. You said you’d be back in a few minutes.”

“And I was.” He knew this part as well as you did. This retelling was not for his sake. “But, what got to you first?”

“A nurse, I think.” Someone in a uniform. Someone who worked at the hospital. Someone who meant to do you harm. “I don’t know. I can’t remember his face. I just— I was on the ground, and he was holding this— this thing up to my neck, and he must’ve gotten me because—”

Your voice hitched. Harper bowed his head, pressing his lips into your temple. “It’s alright. You’re safe, here. You can tell me anything.”

It would’ve been easier to believe that if he hadn’t literally been pinning you down.

“I don’t know what happened,” you said, sincerely. “I blacked out. When I woke up, the body was gone, the cops were there, and I was covered in blood.”

“A psychotic break.” He’d never sounded so pleased. “Do you know what that means?”

You shook your head. You didn’t want to know, either, but he told you anyway.

“It means that you need much, much more care than we initially anticipated.”

You tried to pull away, to go slack, but his hand slipped between your thighs, cupping your own. He pressed your middle and ring fingers into your clit, guiding you into an awkward, vertical motion. You let out a distressed whine, squirming underneath him. “But— We’re fin—”

“I know.” Another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. “This is a reward. You did so well.”

You wanted to argue, but he applied more pressure and suddenly, you were too busy melting underneath him to do much of anything.

It was humiliating — how quickly you came. You hadn’t been touched in months. You were sensitive, and deprived, and so, so afraid. Harper hummed as you jerked and twitched underneath him, only letting go of your hand once the last of your spasms had died out and you were no more fun to play with than a toy after its batteries had been drained. Even then, he held you there, his grin biting into your cheek.

Your nightmares were immediately forgotten. Whatever landed you here in the first place, no more than a distant concern.

You had to get out.

~

Surprisingly, as your release date approached, Harper retreated. He reverted back to the way he’d always been — calm, collected, careful not to push the boundaries of your patient-doctor relationship. Sometimes, you’d wake up to his silhouette in your doorway, but there were no more late-night requests, no more innovative new strategies to your care. When you began to skip your appointments with him, he didn’t say anything. When you stopped coming to his office in your downtime, his only response was to give you a wide berth, in return.

On the morning of your release, he came to fetch you himself. You were already wearing — had been since the night you before — the sundress you’d arrived in. It fit poorly, which made sense. It’d been months. Hospital food and a largely sedentary lifestyle meant your body had changed, lost definition, gained new curves. Still, you felt safer in the remnants of your old life, your real life, than you ever had in your stale uniform. Harper regarded with narrow eyes and a pleasant smile before turning on his heel and signaling for you to follow.

You expected to be taken to the front gates. That was how you saw the other patients leaving, as rare as it was for the asylum to actually let one of its patients go. Instead, Harper led you down the familiar route to his office, pausing outside the shut door. '“You know,” he started, slowly, adjusting his glasses. “I do mourn that our time together has ended so quickly.”

You forced yourself to shrink, to simper. “I’m sorry, doctor.”

“There’s no need to apologize. It’s really very selfish of me.” And then, leaning down, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial murmur, “Can I tell you a secret?”

You wanted to cover your ears. You wanted to say no. You wanted to run.

You nodded.

“I’m afraid it’s rather selfish, but—” He paused, his grin widening. “No doctor has ever truly wanted to let their favorite patient go.”

Immediately, you relaxed. Honestly, it felt a little silly to have ever been scared at all. What else did you think he was going to say? Of course you were his favorite patient.

He’d always been your favorite doctor.

Without another word, Harper opened the door and ushered you inside. Bailey sat on one end of the well-worn sofa, elbows braced on his knees and mouth twisted into a distinct grimace. You perched on the other end, pulling your legs up and tucking them underneath you. You’d always been so comfortable here, so warm. It was difficult to remember why you’d stopped coming by.

Bailey shot you a frown. “Don’t get comfortable, brat. We’re leaving as soon as the doctor signs your paperwork.”

“About that,” Harper said, leaning against his desk. “I believe my patient has something to say to you.”

You did? Oh, of course you did. How could you be so absent-minded?

“I don’t want to go.”

Your voice was bright and clear. This was the most sure of yourself you’d been in months.

Bailey seemed less convinced. “Run that by me again?

It was hard to imagine how you could’ve been more clear. “I don’t want to leave.”

He looked to Harper. “Get out.”

Harper didn’t move. “Please, Bailey. We’re all friends here.”

Bailey didn’t respond. He held his ground until, with a sigh, Harper rolled his eyes and left the room. Once the two of you were alone, Bailey went on. “Look, kid.” He sounded exasperated, as if this was chore that had already run long. “Whatever he told you, don’t believe it. Harper’s full of shit. Whether it was about new treatments or hallucinations — just forget about it. There’s nothing he can do for you in here that he wouldn’t have already done out there.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

He groaned. “Yes, you do. I didn’t drive my ass all the way out here just for you to—” He broke off, running a hand over his face. “Robin misses you.”

Oh, god.

Robin.

Several things became undeniable at the same time. You didn’t want to leave. You had to go. You hated the asylum. The asylum was good for you. You’d been kept here for months with no progress. Your treatment wasn’t over, yet. Harper was a good doctor. The best doctor. You were so, so scared of him. He hated you. He was bad to you. He hurt you. You were his favorite—

There was no good way to describe the feeling of being suddenly aware that half your thoughts were not your own. It was a little like believing, firmly and undoubtedly, that your head was above water, only to blink and find that you were already drowning.

You took a deep breath. You were fine. You were in control of yourself. You wanted to leave. All you had to do was tell Bailey that. All you had to do was say the only thing you’d been able to think for weeks, now.

“I don’t want to go.”

Your tongue tasted like sulfur. You could feel the blood boiling underneath your skin. You tried again.

“I don’t want to go.”

Bailey sat up. You pressed your thighs together. Again.

“I don’t want to go.”

Again.

“I don’t want to go.”

Again.

“I don’t want to—”

“Alright, kid, I get it.” He gestured dismissively, then called for Harper. “You can come back now, freak.”

Immediately, the door swung open and Harper sauntered across the threshold. His grin was wide and fanged, dripping with fresh venom. “I believe my patient has made the necessity of our work clear.”

“Crystal.” Bailey stood, but hesitated before exiting. He fished something out of his front pocket - a business card for the orphanage, its edges soft and its corners bent. A phone number was printed neatly along the bottom. His office landline.

Wordlessly, he held the card out to you. You stared at it blankly for a second, then another, before reaching up with shaking hands and grabbing his wrist as tightly as you could. Bailey jerked back on reflex, but you held on, letting him drag you to the floor. The business card was gone - no longer a matter of concern. You wouldn’t let go. No matter what happened, you wouldn’t let go. Not until you were home. Not until you were far, far away from Har—

“That’s enough, dear.” Instantly, your body went slack, your hands falling to your sides and your arms going slack. Bailey stumbled back as Harper cocked his head to the side, feigning a pout. “I’m afraid you might have to leave. Your presence seems to be causing quite a bit of agitation.

There was a sneer, the beginning of a snarl, but Bailey caught himself before things went further. With no emotion more apparent than schooled apathy, he turned and left — slamming the office door behind him. Leaving you alone.

Harper let out a low, breathy sigh. “Good riddance,” he said. He bent down, picking up the card Bailey had dropped. His eyes skimmed over it before, with no small amount of delight, tearing into pieces and letting them flutter back to the ground. “Never did like that one. He can be awfully possessive with his toys for a man who casts them into the world so carelessly.” And then, to you, “It’s a good thing that you landed in my care, isn’t it?”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. The only words you seemed capable of saying were still heavy on your tongue, and you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of repeating them again. Harper didn’t seem to mind. With no great urgency, he gathered you up in his arms and set you down on the edge of his desk. Your body, still limp, collapsed against his, but he only laughed and wrapped an arm around your midriff, holding you that much closer to his chest. For lack of an ability to speak your mind, you groaned — the sound throaty and thoroughly miserable. Harper’s smile bit into the side of your skull.

“Something on your mind?”

“I hate you.”

“I thought you might say that. It’s an occupational hazard, you know — something they warn you about in school.” His fingertips skirted up your back, following the curve of your spine. “I hope you appreciate that hatred is something I’m still allowing you to feel.”

Allowing. Like he had total control over you. Like your free will was a privilege you ought to be thankful not to have been stripped of. You thought about shoving him away, but every time you tried to move, your vision blurred and your body grew heavier, as if you were suddenly on the verge of falling asleep. As if you were back on the hospital floor, dead weight on top of you and a needle in your—

The realization was sudden and jagged, as obvious as it was sickening.

“You’re the reason I’m here.”

“Of course.” He made no attempt to deny it. If anything, he sounded a little smug. “It’s clever, isn’t it? Hypnotism is so finicky, and no matter what I do, it always seems to wear off sooner than I’d like. This, though—” He bowed his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck and inhaling deeply. “This works. One injection, a compelling trigger phrase, and you’re as suggestible as a newborn lamb.”

“But— But I hurt someone. All the blood, and the—”

“There was blood, certainly. Compliments of our generous donors. And you worked yourself into such a frenzy, I doubt the powers-that-be would’ve questioned it if I’d asked to have you locked away for the next, oh, twenty-five years?” He paused to chuckle. The sound was thin and airy and cruel. “It lasts, too. You’ll be able to go months between doses. Just think of the applications. No need to break-in cattle, not when two shots a year will have them so wonderfully obedient. And the brothels, Briar’s been complaining about worker retention for—”

You cut him off with a low, warbling sob. You didn’t want to cry in front of Harper. No part of you wanted to give him the satisfaction. You’d managed to hold it in for weeks — through probing and prying and late-night check-ins. But there was something about his tone, so eager to strip away your free will and sell you off to the highest bidder. It was the happiest you’d ever seen him. It was the proudest you’d ever made him.

The dam broke open. Tears streamed down your cheeks, hot and humiliating. You clenched your jaw, grit your teeth, but you couldn’t seem to bite back the pitchy whines and miserable whimpers that bubbled up from some deep, primal cavity. You couldn’t cover your mouth. You couldn’t even raise your hands to try.

Harper’s expression dropped. He pulled back, already cooing, already peppering kisses over your cheeks. “Now, now, there’s really no need for that. You, my dear, are far too precious to give away.” He pulled you into his arms, letting your body slump lifeless against his chest. Rounding the desk, he fell into his chair and arranged you to straddle his lap, a knee on either side of his hips. “What would I ever do without my favorite patient?”

Sudden, searing agony. The room went blurry. Your vision flashed white. You collapsed against him willingly, now, burying your face in his lab coat just to block out the world as it spun around you. Harper sighed, pressing a long kiss into the top of your head. His hands found their way to the back of your sundress. Fabric shifted, a button falling out of place, and you felt the bodice go slack.

“Raise your arms for me, love?”

With all the obedience of a programmed machine, you raised your arms above your head. Your dress pooled at your waist, as limp and as useless as the body that was no longer under your control.

There was no attempt to undress you properly. He worked efficiently, slipping his hand underneath your skirt and cupping your cunt. The pad of his thumb circled your clit once, twice before his interest drifted and he pulled your panties to the side. The insertion was abrupt — bordering on painful. Three fingers at once with minimal prep. You’d had things shoved into you before, often roughly and never with your permission, but you’d never had it done so slowly or with so much care to soak in each little pained sound you offered by way of response.

It would’ve been better, had he been a little more rushed. Unfortunately, even at his most monstrous, Harper was still a man of science. He moved at a languid pace, pumping his wrist lethargically, pausing often to stretch or curl or grind against the walls of your cunt. It should’ve stayed that way — dry and harsh and uncomfortable — but despite the lack of pleasure, you could feel yourself getting wet, hear the slick squelching as he moved inside of you. “So resilient,” Harper praised. “It’s impressive, really. Even trapped, you try to make the best of things.”

Not that he was helping. The heel of his palm came up, grating against your clit. The room suddenly seemed too hot. Your face wouldn’t cool down. You felt sticky all over. How you’d ever taken comfort in this was a mystery. You would’ve preferred to be left out in the cold forever, if it meant not having to bear another second of his warmth.

And your stupid arms were still stuck above your stupid head. You whined, clenching and unclenching your fists, and Harper took pity on you. “Around my neck, now.” And then, when your hands moved to wrap around his throat, “Nicely, please. The way you know you should.”

Glowering, you draped your arms around his neck. The closeness was terrible. The fabric of his dress shirt was coarse against your bare chest. He spread his fingers apart and you lurched into him, attempting to seek shelter in the source of your agony. It was awful, but bearable. You’d survived worse. You’d even come out the other side with your dignity more or less in-tact. You just had to stay calm. You weren’t here. You were somewhere else. You’d left the asylum. You were with Bailey, back at the orphanage. You were going to see—

“It’s alright, dear.” Harper’s voice was a hook, piercing your mind and dragging you back into reality. “You deserve it. You can let go.”

He was so fucking calm. That was the worst part. He was so calm, so put-together, so unaffected, and you weren’t allowed to be. The moment the words left his tongue, your body was on fire. There was no bliss to it. The pleasure was scalding and invasive. The physical symptoms, ungraceful and involuntary. Your mouth fell open, but any sound you might’ve made was cancelled out by your sudden inability to breathe. Your hips rocked against his hand, trying in vain to prolong the intolerable. Your thighs snapped together, pressing into his sides with enough force to make your muscles ache. He watched you all the while, eyes half-lidded and head cocked to the side. The same way he might’ve looked at an especially endearing lab rat, or a patient report that was just a touch more interesting than he’d expected it to be.

Eventually, thankfully, the last embers of your involuntary climax burnt themselves out. You slumped against him — too exhausted to need mind-control as a pretense for your reliance. For a long time, Harper let you stay like that. Unmoving and unthinking. Even that mercy, though, was eventually withdrawn. His hands found their way to your sides, his fingertips massaging circles into your back. You whimpered at the contact, but he only hummed.

Slowly, his touch drifted north. Untangling you from him, he eased you away from his chest. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” His gaze fell to his belt, lingering for a moment before darting back up to meet yours. “Whenever you’re ready, dear.”

You might’ve laughed, if there had been any part of you left in a state to appreciate the irony.

It was a small kindness that you didn’t have to think about what you were doing. You watched from a measured distance as your hands undid his belt, as a fist mechanically pumped over his cock until he was leaking onto your knuckles. There was no reluctance, no emotion to it, only a dull understanding of the steps that needed to be taken and the awareness that with or without your mind, your body would see the task through. Harper’s hands fell away from you entirely as you shifted onto your knees, aligning the head of his cock with your abused entrance. He leaned back in his seat, putting that much more distance between you and him. Giving himself a better view.

Even if you’d had more control, you doubted you would’ve been more gentle with yourself. You bottomed out in the first stroke, your hips settling against his as his cock filled you to bursting. Adjustment was unnecessary. Discomfort was a part of the treatment, not a symptom of your condition. It didn’t fade as you rocked and ground against him, only sharpening into other, more acidic byproducts. Pain. Overstimulation. Pure and utter loathing.

Harper made no attempt to help. He seemed more than satisfied to let his experiment run its course untampered with. His hands kneaded at the arms of his chair, curling and flexing in-time with your mechanical bouncing. A blistering red spread over his cheeks, although you couldn’t be sure if he was getting off on what you were doing or the fact that you were doing it at all. He was moaning unabashedly — little, breathy, lilting noises that would’ve had you assuming he was the one being tortured. Worst of all, there was this look in his eyes. Not love, not really, but something tangential. Adoration. Fascination.

Sickness.

Sick and desperate. You rolled your hips and he buckled into himself, letting out a rough groan. Immediately, his hands were on your hips, guiding your ministrations, forcing you to move faster, to take him deeper, to somehow bend even further to his whims. You felt him twitch. A moment later, Harper lurched against you, his mouth finding your throat. You could feel his breath, hot and humid, then his drool as he lapped over your skin. It was disgusting. It was horrible. It was—

“Cum,” he ordered, his eloquence lost to pleasure. “Like you want this. Like you love me.”

And you did. Holding him tight, crying his name, making it seem like there wasn’t anywhere in the world you’d rather be. Harper followed shortly — desperate in spite of his composure. There was no attempt made to pull out. He dragged you flush against him, keeping his cock buried inside of you as he came undone, leaving you full and heavy and tainted. Claiming your mind wasn’t enough, apparently. He had to leave his mark on your body, too.

He didn’t let you go, after he finished. Part of you hoped that he would — that you’d be allowed to steal an unsupervised shower and slink off to your cell to sleep away the misery. Instead, he clung to you, draping himself over your rigid body as he panted and trembled. Eventually, he seemed to pull himself together, regaining just enough of his composure to grin and reach for something behind you.

You heard a drawer slide open, metal clack against wood as he removed a long, rectangular box. “…I have something for you,” he started, the words slurring into one another. “I thought I ought to give it to you later on, in a more controlled environment, but—” A pause, a laugh. “I suppose I’ve gotten rather sentimental, haven’t I?”

He placed the box on the arm of his chair and, with a single hand, pulled the lid off. You recognized the contents at a glance. A syringe — its needle infinitely long and the fluid in its barrel an acidic shade of pink. He took it up gingerly, resting his thumb over the trigger and holding it up to the light. You didn’t ask, but he told you anyway. Still playing doctor, even now. “Your current dose should last another month, but I thought it best to re-up now. To ensure that our relationship remains as productive as it has been, so far.”

He brought the needle to your neck, aiming for the patch of skin his mouth had sought out time and time again. You were shaking, in spite of your paralysis. It took everything you had to speak, and even then, you could only manage a few pathetic little words.

“Please don’t make me.”

Harper’s grin widened.

To your credit, the first week of your disappearance wasn’t your fault at all, but the fault of a hysterical Kylar prodding at your recent changes.

Yes, recent changes. Because why in the world have you suddenly grown a soft tail and pair of ears resembling that of a fox? You know that Gwylan also has these traits, but it never occurred to you that they could spread to you. Does he also have some kind of magical property in his cum like the rest of the wildlife in the forest? How ridiculous!

Being away from him for so long feels like torture. Home is wherever he is; you have a bad case of homesickness. There’s a Gwylan–shaped hole in your heart that you’re eager to fill now that you’re free.

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, the forest is even more beautiful than you remember. Flowers always beg for an admirer, and the birds for a listener. You’re more than happy to fulfill their wishes as you make your way home. 

After twirling a flower in your hand and whispering an apology for pulling it from the Earth, you start plucking each petal.

“He loves me.” 

Pluck. Images of the first kiss he has ever initiated with you drift to your mind.

“He loves me not.” 

Pluck. What about the time you asked him to say I love you back and he responded with: I’ve lied to you enough?

“He loves me.”

Pluck. Your collar feels warm—the same one he crafted specifically for you, the same one that keeps you safe from some of the advances of others.

“He loves me not.”

Pluck. Well. Is there any reason to doubt his love for you other than the fact he can’t directly say it to you?

“He loves me.”

You pluck the final petal off as you arrive. It’s a childish and inaccurate way to get an answer, but the result fills you with happiness regardless.

The shop’s wooden door opens on its own with a loud creak as a way of eagerly greeting you. With all the clattering noises coming from inside, you get the impression that furniture is being scrambled around. A sweet smell drifts over to you the second you step in, one so thick it feels like it’s enveloping you whole and sweeping you off your feet. You stand there in a daze, heart thumping wildly beneath your ribcage.

When you come back to reality, you’re on your back with a familiar figure hovering over you. It’s none other than your—

Master! 

“There you are.” His cheeks are flushed, he’s barely managing to restrain himself from putting you into a mating press right then and there. “Where have you been, dear? I’ve been waiting for you, the shop’s been so lonely without your sweet stories.”

Your insides are burning with a flame that can only be put out by him. Being around him has always made you feel dizzy, but it’s never been this strong before without the help of the hallucinogens he uses during his rituals. “Gwylan, I—”

“I know.” 

“But how?”

“You smell different. In the past, you’ve entered my shop sharing the traits of wolves, cats, birds, cows, and yet…I think this is my favorite. Don’t be shy, show yourself to me.” 

Resisting him is no easy feat now that you’re this lost in him. Your ears and tail immediately appear out of thin air. 

His legs kick behind him, he’s clearly giddy. “So, how did this happen?”

“From having so much sex with you! How else could it have happened?”

“Ah.” Gwylan isn’t surprised in the slightest, and he doesn’t have an ounce of shame either. “Seems my pet has a bit of an attitude today. I’m the one who should be irritated, you owe me an explanation for disappearing on me.”

“Did you miss me?”

He stares back at you in unsettling silence. There’s no shift in his eyes—not one of surprise or agreement—and it makes your heart drop to your stomach. There have been so many conversations between the two of you where he reminds you that what he has for you isn’t love, and that you’re not the first to harbor his affections. If he can’t say I love you to you, he can at the very least say that he missed you.

As he continues to say nothing, you look away in shame. Trying to put on a poker face is futile when your ears give you away by turning downcast. 

Gwylan, on the other hand, is completely exasperated. Did he miss you? What kind of a question is that? Did he not just pounce on you? Do you need everything to be said to you? He holds you so dearly to his heart that it would crumble if you didn’t come visit from time to time. In the grand scheme of things, after all the loss in his previous lifetimes, three weeks is basically nothing. He can bear the pain but is by no means unaffected by it.

Before you can tell him to forget it, he leans in and captures your lips into a kiss that soothes the sting of rejection you had felt just now. White roses fill your vision, the brightness of them make your descent into an abyss of questions feel like a heavenly experience. It isn’t until he pulls away that you feel the need to breathe.

He averts his gaze away from you as rosiness blossoms over his cheeks. “I missed you, of course I missed you. Didn’t I once tell you that I’d miss you if you were to stop coming around? So, don’t ever be late again.”

I missed you so much that the entire world seemed just as tainted as it was before I started cleansing it. I missed you so much that the shop covered the windows to stop me from looking out to check if you were coming. I missed you so much that it felt like I was drowning underneath the strongest of currents all alone.

Gwylan, of course, leaves this all unsaid. He tries so hard to act stern even though he wants nothing but to coddle you. “Now, explain.”

“The day I woke up looking like this, the first thing I tried to do was come home—I mean, to the shop. I unexpectedly ran into Kylar, or I guess that’s not unexpected because hello? It’s Kylar. Anyway, things escalated and I found myself under his basement again.”

Gwylan casts you an unimpressed glance but lets you continue. 

“I think he was already prepared for me trying to escape after last time, so it was even harder this time and it took me longer. When I finally managed to get out, I hurried back to the orphanage and of course Bailey just had to be in the hallway at that time collecting everyone’s rent. I barely had enough money, and then I had to work as much as I could to make it all back and it…took a lot of time.”

“You’re forgiven, but you need to make it up to me.” 

“Okay!”

At this, he finally breaks and giggles. “You’re not even going to ask what? Keep being so obedient and I’ll consider bringing your pet bed back out.”

“You took it away?” Hearing that upsets you, it’s the only bed you’ve ever felt safe sleeping on.

He chooses not to explain why, instead appeasing you by petting your head. You melt under his palm, whining blissfully as his attention turns towards your ears. The sound of calm ocean waves and some distant whispers are all you hear for an unknown amount of time. 

Something pulls on your collar. 

You’re completely naked in the garden, just like Gwylan (except for the large hat atop his head, like usual). A thin string of green light connects your collar to his index finger.

“Oh good, you’re back! Sit.”

You drop to your knees on the comfortable blankets. From this angle, you get a closer look at his erection. You’ve seen him naked so many times, but it never makes it any easier to not get hot and bothered. It’s not like he isn’t aware of his effect on you, given the seductive smile on his face.

Gwylan hums, satisfied. He rubs underneath your chin to give you a small treat before carrying on. “Good kit. Now, turn around. On your hands and knees.”

Your tail wags as you follow his instructions. You feel him get behind you and prep you with lube.

His quiet panting easily reaches your ears. As much as you hated being away from him, the knowledge that you’re able to make him so sexually pent-up that he sounds like this while simply touching you is exciting.

“I’d usually play with you some more but…forgive me, I don’t have much patience right now.”

Slowness and gentleness are a forgotten concept when lust goes unattended for too long, even more so when mating is part of your instincts. 

You feel his fingers quickly draw something on your lower back, and the next second, he’s buried inside you. You’re just grateful there isn’t a headboard in front of you or you’d be at the risk of a concussion from the pace of his thrusts.

This is hardly the time to be as equally amused as you are aroused, but you can’t help it. You might as well speak your mind before all coherent thought slips from it. “Someone was pent-up.”

You can’t see it, but his tail beats in irritation. “This is your fault, dear. You…drive me mad.”

This is the same person who looked entirely unaffected the first time he had sex with you—stoic and calculated like it was purely for the sake of the ritual. Oh, how times change.

“It must’ve…ah!” It seems like he’s thrusting harder just for the sake of shutting you up, but it doesn’t work. “It must’ve been so hard without me.”

“Stop it.”

“Did you use the fox plushie I bought you to get off?”

His breath hitches and he immediately leans down to bite your neck, right beneath your collar. It always hurts when you don’t have a transformation, but at the moment, it feels like nothing more than a mark of love.

You try to apologize, but nothing comes out. It feels like trying to speak under water, just bubbles come out. In this case, the bubbles are moans and whines.

“Don’t be surprised, you were being rude. Consider it a time-out.”

It isn’t easy to make Gwylan lose himself during sex. Before he met you, he had held countless rituals on his own—and even then, the most he would do is let out a pleased sigh and feel his face flush during his act. Intimacy with you is an entirely different world altogether, a dream he painted as a nightmare for ages in order to make it seem unappealing. But with you, he has no control over his whines and yips that fill the forest.

He’s as passionate about you as an artist is with their creative outlet. His hands itch to be on you at all times, just like a musician with their instrument. He has every detail of your body committed to memory, just like a sculptor with their finished work. 

You feel his desperation all over you. His hands are electrifying and practiced as they caress your body, the tips of his fingers dedicate more time to the places you have any kind of marks or scars. 

You’re close already, it’s impossible to hold out when you’re with Gwylan.

But he always uses his knowledge of your reactions to his advantage. He comes to a stop immediately. “Not yet.” 

He always does this, and yet it feels like a surprise every single time. No matter how much effort you put into trying to move your body back against him, it won’t budge. You look back at him, eyebrows knitting with frustration.

“Aww, that’s a mean glare you’re giving me! Where does my pet want it?” He places his hand on the curve of your ass. “Here?”

Mind melting with want, you quickly shake your head. There’s no other option but for him to come deep inside you, you won’t settle for anything less.

“Mm, here?” He leans down to tap on your lips.

You instinctively take his fingers into your mouth and briefly suck on them. Regardless, you shake your head again. “Mm–mm.”

“Really? What a shame, you’re awfully skilled with your tongue. What about…on your chest?” 

“Ah…” Your nipples harden under his touch, pert and attentive to each swipe and tug. Another shake of head.

His palm slides down to your stomach and slowly makes its way to your pelvis. Your tail starts wagging immediately.

He whispers into your ear. “Do you want me to breed you?”

Just the thought makes your vision all starry. He once told you that foxes mate for life and now you understand. No one else will ever come close to eliciting the same thrill that he does. You want to take everything he has to give and be bound to him in every way possible. You want it so bad that you’d feel heartbroken if he denied you of it. 

Just how long have you been nodding for that it has Gwylan giggling in between heavy breaths?

“Someone’s eager—I like it. Beg for it.”

The word please is replaced by a drawn-out whine.

“G-Good kit. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you’re full of my litter by the end of this.”

He resumes his pace and kisses you. The closeness is still so utterly terrifying to him—it feels so good, too good. If he lets himself be swept away by the feeling of your lips, he won’t be able to withstand all the emotions that come with it. He worked so hard to shield his heart with stone walls just for it to crumble so easily.

Each round reminds him of all the other ways he has had you in the past.

One. His head dipped between your thighs, the tug of his hand on your leash to keep your eyes on his. Tongue swiping all the way up so he can press gentle kisses on the most sensitive part of all. A deep flush spreading over his cheeks when you run your hands through his hair and pet his ears. 

Two. The times during rituals where you’ve managed to overpower him both physically and mentally. Gwylan always has so much to say, but all that leaves his mouth when he’s on his back are yips and breathless demands for you to go faster. He submits oh so easily, turning into putty in your hands and quivering with pleasure.

Three. Pinning you down in the deeper parts of the forest after a fun chase. Pawing at your clothes and rutting against you like he can’t help himself, like he’ll die if he isn’t able to take you on the spot. 

Four. Softly moaning each time his tip hits the back of your throat. He doesn’t stop stroking your head for even a second—how can he when you’re being such a good pet for your master?

“One more.”

Somewhere between the rounds, your ability to speak came back to you. Not that it was of much use, though.

“I can’t…” You weakly shake your head, on the verge of tears from the constant waves of pleasure. He has coaxed you through so many orgasms that all your limbs feel sluggish. “I really can’t anymore.”

Noticing that your arms are about to give out on you, he tugs on your leash to bring you up so he’s chest-to-back with you.

“Nonsense.” He flutters kisses all over the nape of your neck. “You’re strong, I know you are. Be good and give me one more.”

“But—ah!”

Your back arches as he resumes his pace. If it weren’t for his arm around your torso and his pull on your leash, you’d be face-down on the ground right now. You’re so full that some of his cum leaks out with each thrust, it makes you wonder how he has more left.

Reaching to hold onto his forearm, your nails dig into his skin just the way he likes it. “Gwylan…” 

“There you go, let it out for me.”

There’s nothing you love more than listening to him. You let yourself sink into the ocean with him one final time—there are no thoughts of rising for breath or reaching the shore. 

His lips are against yours and you taste salt. Are those his tears or yours? He brings you back down towards the ground. Your insides feel warm with each rope of cum he spills, but there’s something missing. 

It isn’t until you regain your bearings that your bleary eyes suddenly widen and you frantically try to move away from him when you feel something else trying to force its way in. “W-Wait—”

It’s no use. Grabbing your hips, he holds you still and presses deeper until his knot is fully inside.

There’s the missing puzzle piece. 

You let out a single cry, thighs still quivering from the orgasm you haven’t recovered from. Your head drops down onto your folded arms.

Panic washes over him at your abrupt silence. He made sure this wouldn’t be painful for you by drawing a shape on your back beforehand like he does every time he penetrates you. Or did he simply imagine himself doing so? 

“Oh dear…does it hurt?” 

“No.” You murmur shakily, sounding like you’re about to start sobbing any second now. Your tail swishes. This feels natural, things were always supposed to be like this. “I like it. I really like it. I just don’t understand how it happened.”

He came inside you multiple times, after all. How come this didn’t occur during all the other rounds?

“Don’t think too hard about it.”

There’s a lot about Gwylan that you don’t completely understand. “I’ve had one of your tentacles inside me before.”

His face reddens. “…Was there a point in you saying that? How do I get out of you?”

In spite of his complaint just now, he starts gently grinding against you, ears twitching as they pick up on your faint whimpers. Leaning down, he fishes one of your hands out and slots his fingers between yours. 

“Are you in control of this? The…knot, I mean.”

“I try my best to hold back. Being with you again felt really good, though. I couldn’t help myself.” 

“Don’t hold back anymore.”

He nuzzles against your shoulder. “I won’t.”

When his knot deflates and he pulls out, you turn over to face him, pulling him into a deep kiss that he immediately reciprocates. It doesn’t last very long, though—kisses never do with him, but you always cherish what you can get from him.

“Am I officially forgiven?”

“Of course, dear. You did so well!” He pats your head and helps you get up. “Let’s go get cleaned up.”

In the bath, you sit on Gwylan’s lap and cling onto him as he gently scrubs your body all over. You feel so safe in his presence that it’s hard to not doze off on the spot.

“I’m so happy.” The apples of your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“And why is that?”

“I already felt really close to you before so I didn’t think it was possible, but I feel even closer to you now. All the transformations I’ve had in the past were helpful in some ways, but the attention they brought was enough for me to always hide them. With this one, though…well, isn’t it all the better to love you with? I won’t hide it from now on.”

He blinks his tears away as soon as they start gathering in his eyes and pulls you into a tight hug. He truly doesn’t understand how a heart as kind as yours was drawn to him, he doesn’t feel worthy of it.

There’s so much he wants to say to you, so much he has to confess about his feelings towards you. He isn’t quite there yet, but he trusts you’ll be patient with him. “You have a beautiful way of thinking, dear. Never change. I can’t imagine not having you by my side.” 

His words echo in your head like a catchy melody. Driven by instinct, you start lapping at his fox ears to groom him, content that his hat isn’t in the way now.

He’s completely flustered by the unexpected move and tries to shy away from it, though he knows he won’t have the heart to do so in the future—being groomed by his partner is a dream come true. “Stop that, I already cleaned them. Turn around and let me wash your tail.”

“Fine, fine…” You do as you’re told and face the other way.

He stares at the back of your head for a moment and gets even more emotional, just like a dog owner does when seeing the back of their dog’s head.

“You did a good job brushing your tail, I don’t feel any matted areas. What kind of shampoo have you been using on it?”

“Just the regular human kind. I figured you’d know more about how to care for it and I didn’t want to risk wasting any money since I was hiding my tail most of the time.”

“The shampoos and conditioners at the pet shop work well enough. Some brands are better than others, though. I can write you a list of them later along with which brushes to get. If you’re aiming for a sleeker look, though, you can always come to me. I’ve been working on making my own shampoos and oils over the years, I’d be more than happy to share them with you and teach you the recipes.”

A loud moan suddenly escapes you when he presses his fingers above the base of your tail.

“Sorry.” 

He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest.

“All done. You can turn around again, I want to get a proper look at you.”

It takes you a second to focus again, but you eventually turn back around.

His thumb brushes over your bottom lip. Once you obediently open your mouth for him, he prods at your sharp fangs. “I kept feeling them during our kisses and I…really liked it.”

His inspection continues until he’s finally satisfied, he stabilizes his breathing.

Worried, you ask, “what if I accidentally hurt you with them, though? Like when I’m—you know, when I’m…down there.”

“Silly pet, a little pain is nothing to me. And with enough practice, it won’t be an issue. You’re sweet for thinking of me, though.”

His gaze then goes to your ears.

He quietly whistles and watches them immediately perk up. When he speaks, it’s in an indecipherable language to you. Your ears remain facing forward, but they twitch a little and your head tilts to the side.

The more he stares at you, the faster your tail starts wagging, making the water slosh behind you.

“Now you’re just playing with me.” You grumble.

“You’re so cute, dear!” He pinches your cheek for a moment before bringing you in close, rubbing the side of his face against yours. “And very…very alluring.”

Even when he lets go, you lean back in, resting your head nice and snug atop his shoulder. Somehow, you feel ten times clingier than you were before.

He happily encourages your behavior, stroking your head and humming a tune to lull you to sleep. For a moment, the forest seems livelier—like it’s celebrating the sight of him with his cherished companion. The trees have witnessed all of his solitude-filled years, after all. 

Your hips twitched involuntarily, thighs trembling. Slowly and shamefully, you lowered yourself until your dripping folds pressed flush against the leather. The first grind was tentative. A shallow roll of your hips, testing. The texture was wrong. Too smooth, too hard; but the friction sparked anyway, a jolt straight to your clit. You bit your lip to stifle a whimper. He chuckled at the sound. “That’s it. Pretend you don’t want it. We both know you’re lying.”

Your breath hitched. Another grind, this one deeper and harder. The leather warmed beneath you, slick with your wetness now, the obscene sound of it filling the room. Your hands braced against his knee for leverage, nails digging into the fabric as you began to move in earnest.

Up and down. Back and forth. Chasing the pressure, the burn, the filthy wrongness of it.

“Faster,” he ordered, voice sharp as a whip. His free hand came down to grip your jaw, forcing your face up so he could watch. “I want to see that pretty mouth fall open when you break.”

Your rhythm faltered, then surged. Hips rolling desperately now, clit dragging over the ridge of his shoe with every thrust. The humiliation fueled it. His sneer, the way he watched like you were nothing, the wet schlick of your cunt smearing across his pristine leather. Your thighs shook violently. Your back arched while a broken moan spilled from your throat.

“Please—” you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for.

His eyes glinted. “No.”

That single word shattered you. Your body seized, cunt clenching hard around nothing as you came with a choked cry, squirting in messy, forceful pulses that soaked his shoe; dripped down the sides, pooled beneath your knees. The leather glistened, utterly ruined. He released your hair only to step on your head, smearing your face against the wet mess you’d made, grinding your cheek into it.

ALEX panic attacks, crying, kinda basing this off how i have attacks, remy slander til the day i die.

The day had started out incredibly normal. Sure, there was this constant itch in your chest, and it kinda felt like you couldn't take deep breaths, but it wasn't anything you needed to worry about! Everything was fine! You're fine!

Your hands were shaking, but it wasn't a big deal. You were still able to work without much trouble. Besides, if you were in any real distress, Alex probably would've commented on it, right? So clearly, whatever weird emotions were building up inside of you weren't a big deal.

The day would be over soon, and you'd prove to yourself that nothing was wrong.

But then the gunshot rings through the air.

It's something that happens often. Remy's way of trying to make life on the farm difficult, the pathetic bastard they are. It causes the animals to freak out, and it's always a bitch trying to calm them down. But it's something you'd gotten used to in the months of being here.

At least, you had thought it was something you got used to. But it echoes in the air. Lingers in your mind. Your hands are shaking. In the back of your mind, you're aware that you need to help calm the animals down, but your legs give out on you, and suddenly, you can't breathe.

You don't even register Alex's presence until he's dropping to his knees in front of you.

His hands are grabbing your wrists. You'd been clawing at your throat, apparently. His lips are moving, and you can make out the words he's saying, but you can't understand them. They're like white noise to you, just something that makes you feel worse.

Alex is wrapping his arms around you. It's not much of a hug, but more of an attempt to make you feel secure. The tightness of his embrace serves to help ground you.

"You gotta breathe, angel," His voice finally pierces through the haze of panic clouding your mind, heavy with concern as your fingers dig into his back, "Inhale, exhale, yeah? As easy as that."

To help, he takes slow and steady breaths as well to encourage you to mimic him. It takes a few moments, but you're able to take a breath without choking on it. It takes another moment to stop the tears that'd been falling, and you're left feeling utterly drained and numb.

No words are spoken, not from you. You're not sure if your voice would even work. But Alex didn't ask you to speak; he just hoists you over his shoulder and takes you inside.

"You stay here as long as you need," He says as he sets you down on your shared bed, gently brushing away a few stray tears before pecking your forehead, "I'll wrangle all the animals and make you some dinner, okay?"

HAK JIWOON pre-fog, sickness, nausea, throwing up, ambiguous relationship.

Being sick is by far one of the worst experiences a human can go through, in your opinion.

Even the smallest cold has you feeling like absolute shit, and you want nothing more than to shrink down into your immune system and personally beat up whatever stomach bug is causing you this agony right now.

Jiwoon finds you in your bathroom, hunched over your toilet, and his face scrunches up just a bit in disgust as he drops a small convenience store bag onto the ground next to you. Medicine and a bunch of random snacks that are supposed to help with nausea.

Your relationship with Jiwoon was odd. It wasn't necessarily official that you were dating, but he also never went out of his way to say that you weren't. It was this weird in between, and you're not sure where you stood with him.

The man has an ego the size of the Eiffel Tower, and he's made it abundantly clear that he doesn't really care for anyone but himself. And yet, here he is on a random Thursday night, getting you medicine and inviting himself into your home, all because you told him you were sick.

He doesn't say anything.

He stares down at you for a moment, and his brows pinch together for a split second like he just had a thought that annoyed him.

And then he's leaving the bathroom. You half expect to hear the front door open and shut, and, honestly, you really wouldn't be surprised if he had just decided to leave you alone.

You don't hear the door, though.

Instead, Jiwoon returns with pillows and blankets. He says nothing as he drops them on the ground or rearranges them into makeshift beds.

"You don't have to stay," You manage to finally say, your throat tightening and your stomach churning as you force yourself not to gag. Just speaking was enough to make you want to vomit your insides out.

Jiwoon scoffs at your words, sitting on the ground with his back pressed against the tub as he directs his attention to his phone, "I know." He says, short and simple.

The two of you spend the rest of the night in the bathroom. It takes almost an hour for you to feel better enough to take the medicine that Jiwoon had bought, and you ate one of the small bags of chips he'd gotten as well. Sleeping on the bathroom floor certainly wasn't what you'd expected to end up doing, but you understood the logic.

Luckily, thanks to the medicine, you didn't throw up again. You woke up in the morning to Jiwoon making you breakfast, and... you feel like you understand where you stand with him a bit better, now.

GRACE ASHCROFT post-canon, nightmares.

Nightmares were a fairly common thing in your life. You've had them a bunch ever since you were a kid, for one reason or another. They're manageable, but sometimes you have moments where they get really bad.

It's not something you ever really spoke about with anyone, not even your girlfriend, Grace. It's not because you didn't want to talk about it, but...

Grace has her own nightmares. You met her shortly after everything that happened to her, and even now, years later, she still wakes up in tears from the trauma.

And not to mention the nightmares that Emily has, too. You've woken up in the middle of the night to the poor kid screaming, and Grace rushing out of bed to comfort her.

It makes you sick, not being able to do anything to really help them. Comforting words and touches didn't feel like enough. You refused to burden either of them with your own nightmares, so you kept it to yourself.

But tonight was one of those nights. You wake up in a cold sweat, your heart racing and your stomach churning. You can't remember your nightmare, not entirely. But there's this lingering sense of panic, and the overwhelming urge to run was just too much.

You found yourself sitting on the kitchen floor, not wanting to risk waking Grace up as you worked to calm yourself down. Of course, your girlfriend somehow has a sixth sense to when you're around because not long after you sat yourself in the kitchen, Grace was appearing next to you.

Neither of you says anything for a bit. Grace sits down next to you, back pressing against the cabinets as her head rests on your shoulder.

"...Do you wanna talk about it?" Grace eventually asks, breaking the silence. You didn't even have to say anything for her to understand what was wrong.

You shake your head, "I don't even remember what happened," You murmur, your head resting atop hers.

Grace hums a bit, and her hand grabs yours, your fingers intertwining. The contact makes your heart race, even though you've been dating her for years already. You live together, and yet you still get butterflies.

"Wanna go back to bed?" She softly asks. You shake your head, and Grace nods, "M'kay. We'll stay here as long as you need."