#tw captivity

Jack is nine hours into a ten-hour drive upstate, heading to his cabin.

It’s a long drive from Pittsburgh, but one he’s familiarized himself with. A landmark here and there, splattered roadkill, and the vast emptiness of miles and miles of open road ahead of him are all that his mind needs to remember why he’s doing this.

To get away. To forget, even just for one week, once a year, the smell of blood. The way the shine in a patient’s eyes dims when he can’t save them.

There are some memories so ingrained in him that he can’t forget. 

He’ll never forget the way in which that awful disease took his wife, then took her life. Then there are the memories overseas. But those are further away now, replaced by new, horrible ones created in the hospital of his current employ. 

Up in the mountains, there’s an eerie quiet that cascades its tendrils throughout the forest blanketed with nothing but green needles of fir. But it’s no worse than being surrounded by a cacophony of death. 

He needs this. 

His body aches. His mind? It fares far worse, but he tries to keep himself in check with a few pointless breathing exercises and under the surveillance of a therapist. It's not easy being an attending, though; no one ever said it was. He does it anyway.

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed interns and residents will always need a mentor—someone to guide them with a firm grip—and he supposes he’s the person for the job. He tells Robby that the two of them are like bees in this way, in charge of keeping the hive together and in control, even if it's not what either of them wants. 

Jack’s sure that, at the very least, he doesn’t. Not as much anymore as when he initially thought it would be good to do something with his life after his leg got blown off. But still, he stays. The job comes with its fair share of excitement, heartfelt teaching moments, but really, it’s because he has nothing else. Medical knowledge. Medicine. The language his body speaks when he sutures or cuts or debrides or removes.

It’s why he goes back into the Pitt after his escape. And it’s the Pitt that leads him back to the mountains every year.

It’s late afternoon. He’s weary, his residual limb is chafing, and he’s hungry—hungrier than he’s ever been. But this is well timed because after years of coming back here, he knows that it means he’s almost there.

He’s driving down the final, long stretch of empty highway when he sees you in the distance. You’re parked by the opposite side of the road, bawling your eyes out as you sit on the hood of your car. 

Jack pays close attention to details. He has to—has learned to—in the army. Otherwise, patients die, or he realizes too late that he’s drowning and needs to take a breath. And he desperately wants to avoid a rooftop attempt.

If there’s anything out of the ordinary or out of routine, he takes careful note of it. But he doesn't avoid it, because he’s learned to be quite good at improvisation. He’s an opportunist. He’s used to the chaos and uses it to his advantage, whether it be in the field or in the E.R. 

He lives in it.

It’s always a fight between the angel on his shoulder telling him he needs to stick to what’s correct and “standard” and the devil telling him it’s the radical and offbeat that he should embrace and pursue. 

Therapy isn't a catch-all, after all, and he can admit to struggling to walk along this razor’s edge. More often than not, the devil wins out—but in his favor.

He’s had many a complaint about him from some of his more strict peers, but in the end, it’s his quick thinking that saves lives.

He's not afraid to jump headfirst into uncharted waters. Whether it be trying his hand at a new, risky procedure or throwing himself into the beds of the women who’ll have him—he’ll do it with ease.

Routine is a good marker for stability, but all Jack’s ever known is for things to go wrong. He acts accordingly. Does what he must when the situation—or impulse—calls for it.

So when he decides to slow down and stop right beside you, not caring that there may be a stray car behind him—though he doubts it—it’s because this isn’t routine. 

Encountering people in this isolated strip of road with a broken-down car isn’t commonplace. And it sure is a precarious situation. Especially with the last vestiges of the sun already disappearing. Odd for a summer day, but maybe this is something like fate. 

Hm. 

Not quite fate—because he doesn’t want to believe anything but his own choices have led him here—but more like the catalyst for something he knows is coming.

He’s an E.R. physician. Was a combat medic. He’s programmed to help people. You need help. But he can’t help but wonder, is this obligation kicking in, or desire? 

Because he’s never been able to resist a pretty, crying girl, nor has he ever willingly left someone to possibly get hurt, but you’re not supposed to be here. 

His stomach rumbles, even louder now, as you make eye contact with him through his window, and he thinks this is simply impulse making itself known. 

He goes with his gut and rolls his window down. You wipe a few loose tears and get down from the hood of your car to approach him.

“Car broke down?” he asks. His tone is flat and neutral, purposeful so he doesn’t scare you off or betray that he’s affected by the low cut of your top and the swell of your breasts as you stand by the window of his truck. 

He hasn’t had anybody in his bed, not for some time, but it’s not any fault of his own, and his therapist wants him to try something new.

He knows he’s a catch. It’s not arrogance. It’s fact. He’s a respected specialist in his field, he has a dragon’s den of wealth, he’s handsome—aged like a fine wine and rich with experience. But he’s rough around the edges, a terrible flirt, and can barely speak to people without either rambling or giving them nothing back but stony silence. 

Sex is simple. Relationships are not. His therapist urges him to build more meaningful connections, but it’s something he’s struggled with since his wife passed. 

Connection. Letting someone in. 

It’s easy to excuse a quick tryst when he works such long hours in the E.R., but perhaps his therapist is onto something. A bee needs their queen, after all. 

Or something of that ilk. 

He’s trying to excuse the needling feeling in the back of his mind that this meeting isn’t just a culmination of his choices alone. But yours and his, combined—even if you may not realize it.

It’s a dangerous thought, because he’s a man of action, and he’s not afraid to break a few rules every now and then.

He’s a gentleman, first and foremost, however. Something his father wasn’t, but sure enough, he preached about it every day to poor Jack. The least he can do is hear you out before doing anything rash.

You sniffle. “Yeah, I—I was headed to my next stop, and my car just… gave up. I’ve been stranded here for a while now, waiting for someone to come by. There’s no cell service.”

He figured as much. He takes this faraway road up to the mountain year after year, and he’s never encountered another soul. But you found it, he found you, and he’s just glad that no one else got to you first.

“Let me take a look. It’s not safe for you to be out here.” He parks his truck and you step back to let him out. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You tell him your name, and he offers a simple “Jack” in response when you ask him for his. 

He’s never cared much for his name. It serves its purpose as something to identify him by. But with it comes a leaden weight that he bears on his shoulders every day. Jack, the physician. Jack, the decorated vet. Jack, the mentor. Labels he goes by that only give people more ammunition to rely on him. And also labels that don’t fully encapsulate him at all.

He’s also a trauma-and-grief stricken amputee. A physician who happens to be a patient. A helpless, hopeful, horrible romantic.

Not everyone knows, almost no one does know, the full extent of who he is. Maybe Robby. But even he—Jack’s only true confidant—is slipping away from him with his own slew of problems, and Jack’s too good a friend to burden him with his.

Jack’s never been a fan of playing the victim or reveling in his own pity parties. He’d much rather pack everything in—his inner turmoil like an abdomen—using avoidance and isolation to stop the hemorrhage of his fractured psyche. His therapist ought to quit him, but she hasn't, so he tries to let himself bleed. But in everyone’s eyes, he’s nothing short of a hero.

It’s a work in progress.

Jack lifts the hood of your car and turns his head over his shoulder to look back at you. You’ve stopped sniffling, but your eyes are red-rimmed and stained with tears. You’re still pretty. Even prettier up close. 

He realizes he’s at something of a crossroads. 

The connections to your battery are corroded, and you’ll need a jump start. He has jumper cables in his truck. It’s a simple fix, really. But it means that you’ll be out of here faster than he can blink.

All he knows is your name and that you’re traveling to your next stop. You’re younger than he is, at least twenty years or so. But that’s it. 

That can’t be it.

He doesn’t want to do the wrong thing yet. He has some restraint but also a sense that you’re someone special. Someone he needs. Irrevocably.

He really needs a sign now. Something that confirms the ache in his gut that keeps growing the longer he looks at you isn’t just because he hasn’t eaten yet. 

“Where’s home?” he asks. 

You raise a brow. “…Why?” 

You’re hesitant, wary about him—he sees that plain as day. And he wishes he could be honest, but that’d only serve to run you off. Though, you’d have nowhere to run.

He doesn’t tell you the truth because he wants you trusting of him. Not in fear for your life when he decides you’re his if you give him a sign.

Jack turns back around and fiddles with the insides of your car. “You seem familiar. Maybe we’ve met somewhere.”

“Really? Um… Pittsburgh. That’s all I’ll say.”

His ears perk up, and his fingers twitch against the frayed cord of the battery connection. Fuck. That’s all he needed to hear. “You’ve been running circles around me all this time, sweetheart?”

You go quiet, because maybe you don’t believe that you share a home city. Or maybe you don’t believe in such a coincidence. It doesn’t matter to Jack, though. It’s confirmation enough that his instinct about you is right. This seals the deal.

His therapist won’t like it, but he’s taking a shortcut. Falling hard and fast is more his style, anyway.

“You have jumper cables?” he asks.

“I don’t.”

He closes the hood and rests his palms on it, hunching over and turning his head to you again. “You’re traveling, on your own, for who knows how long, and you’re not more prepared?” 

He admonishes you because you deserve it, even if it doesn’t matter as long as you don’t get back in your car and drive off. 

He’s known for his preparedness. Jack “Go Bag” Abbot—another label he’s been given, but rightfully so, because he’s nothing if not ready for what life has to throw at him. 

It’s fine. More than fine. He’s with you now. He has to remind himself that you’re not one of his residents who needs to learn a lesson; you’re his…

He’s not quite sure yet. All he knows is you’re tethered to each other, and he’ll take care of you. You’ll want for nothing.

You furrow your brows and cross your arms over your chest. “Well, do you?” you ask, clearly offended by his dig.

“Doesn’t matter. The problem is the fuel pump.”

You scoff and stare at him for a few seconds before walking up to him and leaning against the hood. “What now?” 

You’re so close to him, he can smell hints of your balmy sweat clinging to your skin. He looks at you dead on, trying to force eye contact, but all you give him is your side profile. He takes in what facial features of yours he can, committing them to memory. “It’s getting late. Spend the night in my cabin.”

“What?” You shake your head and finally look at him. “I’m sorry, I’m sure you’re a nice person and all, but… could you just take me into the nearest town? Somewhere I can call for help?”

“Can’t. Don’t know how to get there, and especially not in the dark. You really got yourself in a pickle here.” Jack turns around and leans against the hood, then places his palm on your bare knee, giving it a gentle rub. “This is my vacation time you’re eating up here, honey. I’m offering you a place to stay out of the kindness of my own heart.”

“But, I can’t just leave my car here.” You stand, uncomfortable with his touch.

The corner of his lip twitches. “Sure you can. Let’s get it on the shoulder first.”

You eventually give in to him, because, Jack knows, you're sharp. You wouldn’t have been coming back from a conference you presented at if you weren’t. 

You also tell him other things. Like how you’re supposed to be back at work in a week. Like how you’re worried that your friends and family will think you’re missing when you don’t check in with them tomorrow. Like how you were supposed to have checked into your hotel room for the first part of your road trip tonight before heading back home.

But it just so happens that he’s your only lifeline, and those aren’t things he’s concerned about.

It does take him some time convincing you that he isn’t some unscrupulous man or a serial killer before you get into his truck. More time than he would like.

But after a few reassurances that he’s trustworthy, and a granola bar and a few sips of water later, you decide to take a chance on him. You’d already waited hours for someone else to arrive before he came upon you, and without any cell service, what else could you have done?

You eventually fall asleep, not because you trust him enough to, but rather because you’re exhausted from the day’s stress. He knows that, but still, he pretends it’s because you feel at ease around him.

As he looks over at your shadowed silhouette, he thinks maybe he’ll need to extend his short vacation. Lord knows he’s more than earned it after repeated double shifts over the years. It’d be another deviation in the routine, but it’s never stopped him before, and it's one he might need if you prove to be difficult.

A week isn’t enough time to do what he wants with you, let alone convince you that you want it with him too. 

Duty will call him back to the Pitt. It’s inevitable. But for once, he wants to put the never-ending cycle of his life on hold. Robby won’t be happy with him taking a leave of absence, but he’ll understand why. Jack will see where things lead. 

Maybe he’ll turn you around sooner than he thinks. Take you home. Put a ring on your finger. Fuck a baby in you. Not necessarily in that order.

Imagine that.

The road winds and twists, but he knows it well, and only the cover of night keeps him from stealing more glances at you. An hour passes before you arrive at the cabin. 

It's deep within the mountainside, isolated, but stocked with everything you two could possibly need for the next few weeks, or months if necessary. There’s no wifi connection, but that shouldn't be a problem. Jack has enough to keep himself entertained, especially with you around now to keep him company.

He runs the crook of his pointer finger over your cheek, and you stir awake. 

He whispers your name. “We’re here.”

Jack helps you carry in your things, and you watch him like a hawk as you take a seat on the couch. A small duffel bag with several changes of clothes and a purse with your work laptop and phone are all that you brought with you for the work conference and celebratory road trip afterward. He tosses your things into the bedroom before going back out to his truck.

After he’s spent no time unloading it with a few essentials he’ll need for the time ahead—mainly food—he closes the cabin door and sees you standing and shaking your leg against the floor of the living room, checking your phone for what he assumes to be a signal. 

“There’s no signal here,” Jack states, while carrying the last bag of food to the kitchen. 

With a frown, you put your phone into the pocket of your shorts and immediately ask, “So, you're driving me into the nearest town first thing tomorrow, right?”

He doesn't answer your question. Instead, he deflects. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Just relax.” He opens a cabinet and starts putting cans of food away, leaving two cans of soup for you both on the counter. “Let me make us dinner—I’m starving.”

You stomp up to him, keeping a few feet of distance away. “I can’t relax. I'm here, with a stranger, in a cabin in the middle of the woods, and I'm supposed to be at a hotel right now. Why can't you just tell me you'll help me?”

Jack puts his palms on the counter and cocks a brow at you. You’re being a bit too bold for his liking. He can't have you petulant. He wants you soft, sweet. It's a side of you he hasn’t had the chance to see yet, and he’d really, really like to. But you're not going to make it easy for him to get that out of you, are you? 

He’s not in the business of hurting people. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s okay with a little manipulation and coercion, yes, but it’s something he typically reserves for the students he can easily pick out from a crowd and know they're bendable to his will. 

It can’t just be him faking gestational age results for his patients to get an abortion or exaggerating their illness so they’re taken seriously, after all.

It’s not wrong or right. His actions nestle somewhere comfortably in the gray. It’s his mission to save. The mission is wired in him—even if he’s bending over backwards every day and nearly killing himself to follow through with it. And he can’t deny the rush he gets getting away with his schemes.

He debates on telling you another lie to make you more amenable or the truth. But now that he's got you where he wants you, he figures he can make do with being honest. It's his preference. It’ll get the hard-to-swallow pill out of the way.

And like he has to tell the family of his patients that slipped through his fingers and into the afterlife, he gives it to you straight. No frills. “Because I'm not going to, sweetheart. Once I'm on this mountain, I don't make a habit of leaving.”

You step back and nearly knock into a dining chair. “What? What're you saying?”

“You’re staying here. With me.”

You shake your head. “Wh—I’m—I'm not staying here! You're insane! You have to help me. Why would you want to keep me here?”

“We’re staying in this cabin. End of story. I don't mind that you're here. I don't usually have company.” He smirks, but you’re too out of it to notice.

You start hyperventilating, tears start flowing, and they would break his heart, but all they do is set him on fire. He wants this view, but with you sprawled beneath him, and because of how many times he’s made you come. Fuck, he shouldn’t think these thoughts. It’s too soon.

He can’t reasonably convince himself not to touch you, but at the very least, he won’t fuck you. 

He wants you begging for it.

“You’re… stranding me here? Because you're—you’re… lonely?” you squeak the last word out, anxiety affecting your ability to speak and making your tongue work against you.

He thinks about it.

He is lonely—has been for a long time. But you’re well worth the wait.

Since his wife passed, he hasn’t been interested in finding love again. He couldn’t commit to a long-term relationship if he tried. He has tried, in vain. She made him whole. She's gone now, and although his heart shrunk and mended together in a gruesome, amorphous blob, he's willing to make a you-sized hole to squeeze you into. It’s more effort than he’s put toward anyone in years. 

“I’m not changing my mind. But you should enjoy this. I’m not going to hurt you or let anything bad happen to you.” He stares you down, and your eyes widen noticeably through the sea of tears.

He’s an immovable force. And you’re stuck. The reality is sinking in, and that makes you grasp at straws. 

“M-my friends, family, coworkers. They’ll be wondering why I haven’t reached out. They’ll get worried. You’re not going to get away with this.”

You don’t mention having a partner. Whether you do or don’t doesn’t sway him in the least, but it does make things a little easier.

He huffs a laugh, and his smile lines ripple across his face. “Get away with what? Feel free to walk out that door. But you won’t. And what makes you think I care about the other people in your life? They won’t find us.” 

That snaps your mouth shut. He’s right, and he knows you know it. As long as he has the keys to his car—which he’s planning to hide in a very safe place—all you can do is sit pretty. You don’t have hiking gear. You don’t even know where you would go from here. There’s no way to contact anyone.

He tuts. “Imagine if no one else came by, sweetheart—what could’ve happened to you out there. This really is the best-case scenario. Just indulge me, yeah?”

“I can’t believe I trusted you,” you hiss. “You’re—you’re sick.”

He sighs, rolls his neck, and rubs his shoulder, massaging the tense muscle there. “I’m not sick. I’m hungry. My leg’s killing me. I’ve been driving all day.” He rolls up the pant sleeve of his cargo trousers and shows you the prosthesis on his right leg.

He’s not sure why. You would have found out sooner or later. He certainly doesn’t want your pity—and he doesn’t think he’ll get any from you. But maybe you’ll appreciate seeing him as someone who’s just human—not an all-evil, infallible monster. You certainly don’t see him as a hero, and he thinks it’s a nice change of pace for once.  

“I—is that supposed to make me feel bad?” you ask, but your bite is duller than it was before. 

“No. I’m just telling you what I’m feeling. I’m trying to open up to you.”

You cross your arms over your chest, and your brows pinch in frustration. “You can’t just… this is wrong! I don’t care if you’re hungry or in pain.” You shake your head. “I don’t want you to open up. I want you to let me go.”

Jack’s patient enough, but even he sees it’s pointless to argue. He’d rather not go back and forth in circles, if he can help it. “If you’re not going to eat, why don’t you take a look around the cabin, hm? It’ll be home for a while. We’re done talking.”

Jack opens another cabinet, pulls out a bottle of painkillers, swallows them down, and ends the conversation there. 

You stand stock-still in the dining room, angry, dumbfounded, scared, but when you see he's making no move to engage with you or relent, you rush past him down the hallway and further into the cabin.

There's a bedroom back there, a bathroom, and a doorway that leads to an outdoor deck, outfitted with a hot tub and lounge chairs for stargazing. 

Jack expects you to throw a fit once you find that there's only a single bed in the small, but cozy, room, but it'll have to fit the both of you. He refuses to give up the luxury of a comfortable resting place after being used to sleeping on hard, dirt-caked, earth and shitty on-call room mattresses.

He hears the bedroom door slam shut and the lock click, and he closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, easing the tension headache that's developed. His whole body is killing him now, even more than usual, and it's all thanks to you. 

He convinces himself that this is only a growing pain, that you'll loosen up as the days, weeks, and hopefully not months pass. He'll give you as much time as he can before his restraint splinters. For now, you can go without dinner. Though, he would have liked to share a meal together.

He'll know soon enough whether you'll eat out of his hand. 

Jack’s eaten. He cleansed and lotioned his residual limb. He's ready for bed and ready for what should be an interesting start to your experience together tomorrow. You've not come out from the bedroom since escaping to it earlier, and he wonders what you’ve been up to. It's best if you get some rest too. 

But when he pulls out the key from on top of the doorframe and unlocks the door, he sees you in bed, already asleep. 

It's fortuitous. If he's careful, you won't scream at him to get out. He won't. Not even if you beg. And he's sure as hell not letting you sleep on the couch, either. 

He silently—as much as he can with crutches against the hardwood floor—crosses the threshold of the room and sits on the edge of his side of the bed. He settles himself underneath the covers, flat on his back. He waits for what seems like forever before turning to you.

He can’t resist. 

You’re faced away from him. The sound of your breaths is soft, but he can see the strong rise and fall of your back through the oversized shirt you changed into. Moonlight pours in through the split seam of the blackout curtain and casts its light onto you. 

He presses himself to your back, throwing an arm over your waist, careful not to let his hand stray where his mind tells him to. He didn't think this possible. Being here, in this faraway cabin, with someone like you. With anyone else other than his wife.

Even the forest's haunted silence grows too loud sometimes, but the sound of your light snores eases his mind and calms his heart.

His hand betrays him. His fingers dip below the hem of your shirt, and he realizes you’re only in your underwear. His breath stutters, and all he can do is stuff his nose into the side of your neck and breathe in your scent to keep himself from doing something he’ll regret. 

You’re too reckless. Did you really think that lock would keep him from you?

His fingers splay over your lower stomach but travel no further down. It’s enough. For now. 

He drifts off to sleep and dreams of you.

Nearly a week has passed since you both arrived that nightfall. That first morning together, Jack awoke to a complete mess of the cabin. He hasn’t slept that peacefully or for that long in such a long time and was surprised to find you already up and at it, frantically searching for what you’ll never find. The cabin was stripped from wall to wall in search of his car keys. You couldn’t find them. You adamantly resumed your search every morning up until today, but the result was the same. He’s glad you seem to have given up, because he’s tired of cleaning up your mess.

Say you find his keys (impossible) and make it out of the mountain, where would you go? Jack knows the surrounding area like the back of his hand and where the nearest town is. It’s far. There’s no cell service for over half the journey there. He doesn’t have a map handy, either. 

He can’t fault you for trying, however.

You still refuse to eat. With him, at least. And when you do eat, it’s not much. He’s always thought of himself as a half-decent cook, but he’s deluded if he thinks poor taste buds are the reason why you’re not wolfing his dishes down. 

You've been holed up in the bedroom for the majority of the time here, with nothing but a few books and a miniature TV and DVD player to pass the time. For the most part, the only instances he sees you are when you rush out of the room to grab the meal he so generously makes for you or to use the bathroom.

Jack’s a reasonable man. He attempted—many times—to pull you out of the room with sweet words and reassurances that he wouldn’t do anything to harm you, but those all seemed to fail. There’s only so much patience in him, and it seems he’s run dry. He expected it would take some time for you to adjust. A week should have been enough. 

He'd much rather spend time together loved up than fighting you and decided today is the day to start up the engine. It won’t be a smooth nor slow traverse through the laid- out tracks, but as long as there isn’t a train wreck, you’ll reach destination him.

Jack is glad you’re “letting” him share the bed with you, at least, but it’s only because he forces himself under the covers and you can’t do anything but let him. It appears you’re both too stubborn to sleep on the couch, but he’s more than okay with that.

You do make sure to let him know your dissatisfaction about it. Not a day goes by that you don’t yap in his ear about how he’s been subconsciously grinding his erection against your ass in his sleep and that it’s disgusting. He has the same response every day. A grunt, a sloppy peck on your cheek, and a “Good morning to you too, sweetheart.” 

You huff and puff, but he makes no attempt to console you or tell you it’s just a natural reaction to the proximity. Because it isn’t. Even in his sleep he wants you. You’re lucky he’s done nothing more heinous to you while unconscious and completely at his mercy.

If he forces you to get along with him, he knows in his heart of hearts it will only lead to resentment and is counterintuitive to the reason why you’re here in the first place. But time is ticking, and he’s no closer to getting you loose and wanting for him. It’s clear he’ll need a more head-on approach.

You can’t comprehend the simple fact that he’s only doing this because he cares for you. The walls you put up are driving him further into madness; you refuse to hear him out, and you think you’re somehow above him for turning your nose up at his reprehensible morals. 

But he’s knocking down those walls tonight. It’s evening now, and he’s preparing dinner. For the both of you, and to share at the dining table this time.

He unlocks the door to the bedroom—to which he wonders what the point of it is if not to irritate him—startling you from where you lie in the bed, reading a tattered fiction novel. You drop it by your side and sit up straighter, covering yourself with the blanket. He realizes you're running out of fresh clothes because you’re in nothing but the same T-shirt you've been wearing for the past few days and your underwear. 

There's a washer and dryer in the hallway, but you're so unwilling to spend even a second in his vicinity that you’d forgo laundry. It's laughable. You’re so childish it only makes him want to discipline you more.

He crosses his arms over his chest and leans on the doorframe. “Come out. We're eating dinner. Together.”

“No,” you say, firmly. “I’m staying here until you let me go. Enjoy your vacation without me.”

“You really think I'd keep you here if I didn't want to spend time with you? Keep it up and you’ll never see your family again.” He casually throws the words out but tries not to dwell on how easily you bring out this side of him.

His deep-seated, ugly possessiveness. His obsessive nature. 

Jack realizes he’s been too lenient. He’s the one who has dominion over you, not the other way round, and he’ll be damned if you think he won’t take what he wants.

He cocks his head in the direction of the hallway leading to the kitchen. “You’ve had time to sulk. Now let's go. I won't ask again.”

“Or what?” you bark back. “What else could you possibly do to make things worse?”

You say the wrong thing.

He trudges into the bedroom and up to your side of the bed, fed up with your behavior.

Jack smiles, and your eyes narrow in suspicion. “If you want to act like a child, I’ll treat you like one, kid.” 

He drags you and pulls you into his arms, then throws you over his shoulder. He scoffs because it’s like lifting a sack of feathers, and yet, you thrash against him and pull at his curls in an attempt to make him let go of you. He grunts in annoyance at a particularly harsh pull of a few strands at the nape of his neck. 

If only it were because you were forcing him away from the tight clench of your cunt as he ate you out, but alas, that’s not the case. You keep up your puny attempts to fight him off, but he doesn’t give in, nor do they deter him.

In his free time, when he's not at work or wracked with panic attacks, he’s in the gym. It keeps his mind occupied, even for a short while, and his body in shape. He's always been fit, but once he became a below-knee amputee, exercise especially improved his coordination and balance on his prosthesis.

Your weight introduces an asymmetrical load to the left side of his body, slowing his gait and stretching out the relatively short distance between the bedroom and the dining table. But he takes it all in stride because at least you’re finally being dealt with.

Your legs kick against his torso at a bruising pace, and he sighs. “Stop. You'll just tire yourself out. Don’t make me spank you.”

It’d be really easy for him to pull your underwear to the side and spank your ass raw, but he’d prefer to have you over his knees for that.

“F-fucking—let me go! Don’t touch me!” You pound your fists against his upper back, but he’s finally back in the dining room and plopping you on a chair. You wince as the hardwood greets your ass.

Your chair is tucked right against the wall, and Jack uses that to crowd you in as he stands directly in front of you. “Sit there. I don't want to use force, but you’re making this difficult. Maybe I’ll tie you up if you don't want to listen. Plug your cute mouth with my cock instead if you don’t want to eat, hm? Would you like that?”

Your breath hitches. He hasn't used such vulgar language with you before. “Y-you wouldn't."

His rough palm settles over the nape of your neck, and you shiver, his touch sending a bolt of lightning through you. “Oh, I would, honey. In fact, I have some traction rope in my go bag right now. But I'm giving you a much nicer option. Take it.” His voice is deep, in a near growl.

The way he says it, you should know it’s not just a threat. It's a soon-to-be reality if you don’t listen.

He does truly consider getting the rope and restraining you that way. Tying you up should be no more emotionally taxing than when he tied the tourniquet around his right leg eons ago now. 

He would feed you your dinner, though. Just… in between mouthfuls of his cock. What he wouldn’t do to see the image of you, on your knees, servicing him between the plush of your spit-slicked and swollen lips and those eyes telling him that you can hardly breathe.

It appears he can no longer get away with not threatening you. You're just too fucking stubborn. He doesn’t necessarily enjoy it, but he would be lying if he said he doesn’t feel a sick satisfaction at the thought of having you under his heel.

He sees the way your eyes widen and gleam with the promise of tears as his darken with nefarious intent. It makes his cock jump in his shorts, and he knows you catch that too.

He should’ve done this a week ago. But his father’s voice rings in his ears, telling him no one will ever love him, especially if he doesn’t know how to treat a lady. But he was a hypocrite, his father, and yet, his mother stayed. 

He doesn’t want to think about the volatility of his upbringing.

He wants to focus on you. Snappy, hell on earth but a blessing in disguise, you.

You don’t have to do much to rile him up. His thoughts about you run away from him far and fast enough. Just you wait until he finally gets his hands on you the way he wants to.

“O-okay. I'll do whatever you say. Just don’t tie me up. Please.”

Jack gives your neck a light squeeze and pinches your cheek with his other hand. “Good girl,” he coos. “Let me serve you a plate.”

He stands in the kitchen for a few minutes, preparing both of your plates before walking back over to you. He sets them on the table before taking a seat himself.

Your plate is full with a steak, a fresh bed of side salad, and steamed potatoes. The steaks are perfectly done—medium rare—and just how he likes them. He brought a few slabs with him in a freezer for the trip and was glad to see you weren’t a vegetarian when you seemed to nibble on the other foods he made you that had meat on them. 

You go to pick up your fork and knife, but he tuts, bringing a hand over yours to stop you. “You've been such a pain in the ass this past week. I meant what I said. I'll feed you myself, since you want to act like a little baby.” 

Jack takes your fork and knife, cuts into your steak, but pauses for a second as he hovers the fork over your plate. He decides he’ll feed it to you by hand instead. Food tastes better that way. It’s more grounded. More intimate. 

He plucks the bloodied flesh off the prongs of the utensil and holds it in front of your mouth. 

“Say ahhh,” he prompts, in the most lighthearted and teasing voice he can muster while jiggling the steak in front of you to entice you. 

You gape, scandalized and embarrassed by his patronizing tone, but Jack uses the opportunity to stuff your mouth with the flavorful meat, dipping his fingers in between your lips longer than appropriate or necessary. Your teeth scrape against his thumb and forefinger as you try to bite down on the steak. Only when he sees you’re struggling to swallow does he pull his fingers from your mouth. 

He sucks on his fingers to clean off the excess butter and grease, and he hums at the taste. Piquant. “You like that? Tell me what you think.”

He sees that your eyes are lidded and you're licking your lips for any remnants of the flavor-packed juices. Your hands grip the tablecloth, and your body leans closer to his, ready for another bite. 

God, you’re a vision. So docile and under his control. 

He cuts up another few pieces, and you wait patiently for him to feed you another bite. He's happy you seem to enjoy what he made for you both. He prepared it especially well tonight, knowing that he intended to have you eat it with him and because you haven’t had a full meal since arriving.

You nod your head slightly. “Y-yes. It’s good.”

The corners of Jack’s lip curl up in a devilish grin. “Let me feed you just a few more bites, and then you can dig in yourself. I gotta eat too.”

He feeds you a few more pieces of the steak, making sure to give your lips a proper caress each time his hand draws back for another bite.

Once he’s had enough of touching your lips and fingering your mouth, he lets you scarf down the rest of the plate on your own. 

You both eat in peaceful silence, the sounds of chewing and the see-sawing of the knife slicing into the meat the only things to fill the gap. You outpace him by just a smidgen and wipe your plate clean. It’s not long before you both sit back in your chairs with your stomachs full. 

Jack thinks dinner was… quaint, almost domestic, in the way two lovers would share a candlelit dinner. 

Whenever he decides you can both go home, he’ll take you to a favorite restaurant of his.

He quickly gathers your plate and utensils and stacks them over his. 

Your eyes don't meet his as he stares at you with his fingers interlocked underneath his chin and his elbows propped up on the table. “What do you say?”

You clear your throat. “...Thank you.”

“Look at me.”

You do. 

“You’re not staying cooped up in that room anymore. You’re going to enjoy the rest of our time here. Got it?”

You chew on your lower lip before nodding. He sees your internal struggle. He hasn't touched you. He’s been giving you space and feeding you all the while. But Jack’s aware that this isn't what you want. Where you want to be. And especially not with someone you know nothing about. But he sees that you're less combative now, and maybe all you really needed was a decent meal and the threat of his cock in your mouth to set you straight.  

Jack stands up from his chair, and your head lifts up, following his movement. He sees your eyes flash with something—fear—but a little curiosity too. 

“Follow me. You haven't seen the deck yet, sweetheart. No point in having the amenities if we aren't going to use them, right?”

Jack takes a chance and holds out his hand. You stare at it for a few seconds before tentatively clasping yours in his, then follow his lead into the hallway.

He stops at the door leading to the deck and urges you to step outside. “Go sit on one of the lounge chairs. Wait for me.”

“What—” you start to ask.

“Gonna clean up the kitchen and do some prep for tomorrow's meals. I set up the hot tub already. Just turn on the jets.”

You shake your head. “But, uh, we—we just ate…”

He takes a glance at his watch. “It’ll take me about thirty minutes. Perfect timing. Can’t wait for me that long?” He smirks.

Your brows turn down in a frown. “Whatever.” You step outside, and Jack heads back into the kitchen.

Jack returns—with two towels—to you running your fingers through the simmering pool of water. You turn to him as he watches you from the door.

“The water’s ready,” you say.

“Good.” He closes the gap between you and sets the rolls of towels down on top of the tub steps. “Now let’s get you naked,” he mumbles. He starts to pull up your shirt by the hem, but you stop him by grabbing his hands.

“C-can’t I just, I dunno, keep my clothes on?”

Jack tilts his head at you. “This is a hot tub.”

He escapes your hold on his hands and pulls your shirt over your head, exposing your breasts to him. He starts tugging at your underwear, but you resist, a bit more forcefully this time. 

With one arm covered over your chest and the other pressed against his, you ask, “Please, just… not that. I—I’ll do it myself. Could you turn around?”

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” He tries to pull down your underwear again, but you step back into the wall of the tub before he can. He looks into your pleading eyes and sighs, acquiescing. “Fine. Only because you asked nicely.” Jack turns around and decides to use this time to strip himself as he waits for you to enter the water.

He hears a small slash, then turns around and goes to sit on the ledge of the tub, careful to keep balance while loosening his prosthesis and placing it on the topmost step.

With his prosthesis carefully set to the side, he lowers himself into the water and groans at the feeling of the warmth overtaking his aged body and seeping into his muscles.

The sun has already made its slow descent over the horizon, bringing on the soft, muted deck lights. You’re sitting on the opposite side of the tub, directly across from him. Only your head peeks out of the water, and your eyes are closed. Your face glimmers as the hot tub’s ranging LED lights bounce off the water, and it looks like you might actually be enjoying the moment. 

Your shoulders are loose, the typical pinch in your brow has disappeared, and you have a ghost of a smile flickering across your lips.

Thirty silent minutes pass in relaxation before Jack decides to make a move.

There’s only a few feet of distance between you two—as the tub is a modest size—but Jack still feels like there’s an insurmountable rift.

It's not insurmountable, though, because when he asks you to “Come here,” you open your eyes and hesitantly tread toward him as he gestures with his pointer finger.

He pulls you into him by the waist, and you squeak, not expecting to make chest-to-chest contact and be wrapped up in his corded arms. You place your hands on top of his freckled shoulders while his settle against the small of your back.

“Isn't this nice? Now that you’re not fighting me?” he murmurs as he noses the slope of your neck and lower jaw. He can feel your nipples, wet and pert against his chest, gliding across his skin and dog tags as you shift to get more comfortable in his hold.

“You threatened to tie me up and use me,” you deadpan. “On top of trapping me here. There doesn’t seem to be much room for anything else but compliance.” You huff and squirm a little as he licks up the water droplets along your collarbone.

Jack shrugs his shoulders and raises his brows in noncommittal agreement as he moves to nip at your earlobe. His teeth grate along your flesh, and you shiver.

You’re such a sensitive thing.

He turns his head so he can rasp directly in your ear. “Yeah. Well, you can’t deny I've been taking good care of you so far. Can see why it'd be frustrating for me when you act like that.” 

Your nails dig into his shoulders the slightest. “Why are you doing this to me?” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t respond—chooses not to. He isn’t sure what to say. Is it because he just happened to see you on that road? Well, yes. But would he have really taken them in if it were anyone else? Is it because he loves you? Surely it’s too soon for him to say that, but he certainly has an affinity for you. And it’s growing stronger by the day.

Instead of telling you about his conundrum, Jack’s hands trail from your lower back to the curve of your ass, but you attempt to pull back from his hold.

Your voice is shaky with nerves. “O-okay. I think it’s time to let me go. I got in. Now I'm ready to get out.” You push lightly against his chest but start flailing—splashing water everywhere—when he shows no signs of letting go.

Jack spins you around so that you're pressed between him and the wall of the tub. “No,” he says, plainly and with finality.

His hands are even bolder now, fully groping and spreading your ass between his palms. He sucks the curve of your neck, and you throw your head back as he grinds his hardening cock against your folds. 

He’s long. Thick. Bigger than you’ve ever had, and it’s not fully erect yet. You freak out even more because you don’t understand the clashing thoughts running through your mind about how he might impale you with it. 

“You—you can’t just—” you start to say, but your words are left hanging on a pathetic whimper as Jack bites the delicate skin between your neck and shoulder blade. 

He groans into the bite, then laves his tongue over the punctured area, drawing a light moan from you. More from pain than pleasure, he presumes.

Your cute noises only serve to make him rut against you faster, but this isn’t for him. He just wants to feel you up a little. Isn’t that okay? He’s been very patient so far.

You start to say something again, but he shuts you up with a forceful kiss and a rough squeeze of your tit. You gasp into his mouth as you try to tug his hand away from your chest, but he’s so much stronger than you, you give up. Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck to harshly pull at his hair. If anything, it makes him deepen the kiss.

He lets you break free from his lips only once you both need air.

Jack wills himself to pull back from your body just a bit more to fully look at you. 

Your eyes are watery but look hazy with lust, and tears have yet to fall. Your breaths are quick and ragged, and your hands move from the nape of his neck to return to his shoulders, nails scratching the freckled skin lightly. He’s wondering if you're more affected by his touch than you’re willing to admit. 

A single one of your tears ends up escaping you, plopping into the tub. 

Jack tries to console you. “Shhh, don’t cry. It's okay. I won't do anything you don’t like.” 

Your lower lip wobbles. “I…” You shake your head and blink back more tears. “We shouldn't be doing this.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Jack doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s leaning down and gently sucking one of your nipples into his mouth while rolling the other between his fingers.

You sink your nails into his skin and arch your back into his hand and mouth, hesitating on what to do as he continues to work his tongue over your nipple. In your hesitation, he starts tugging your nipple with his teeth and rubs tight circles over the other. You hold back from moaning out his name and instead force out a ragged, “Please. No—no more.”

Jack gives each nipple a wet kiss before finally letting go. 

He can’t say he isn’t disappointed. Frustrated. His cock is leaking pre-cum into the chemically treated water, but all he cares about is that he couldn’t get you off. 

There’s still time. There’s nothing but time. And he’s closer to you now than ever, so he guesses that this is an overall win.

He floats back to the opposite side of the tub and notices you look somewhat surprised. As if you can’t believe he has the restraint or the wherewithal to bide his time.

It’s not as if he doesn’t want to touch you. Fuck you. Make you fall apart and mold you the way he likes, but part of his desire is to make you want—need—him just as badly as he does you.

You’re the one person he wants to nag him, use him, submit to him, but you want nothing to do with him. 

It doesn’t mean he won’t keep pushing boundaries, testing your limits.

His voice is tinged with hurt as he dismisses you. “Towels are on the step. You can leave your clothes. I’m doing the laundry tonight.”

You give him a pensive look, then scurry out of the tub, draping yourself in a towel. You look back at him before walking through the door. “You’re really not going to let me go?”

When all he gives you is silence, you run inside.

Jack lies in bed later that night, and, for the first time since being here, does not fall easily asleep. 

But you do something unexpected. You turn, face him, and pull his body into yours. You give him a view of your face, soft and relaxed, and not your back. For the past week, he’s had to manhandle you into embracing him only once you’ve fallen asleep.

You're knocked out cold, your actions aren’t your own, you're under the influence of a dream, but still, you’re reaching for him. Jack’s disappointment dissipates just the slightest bit as he wraps his arms around you.

The next few days pass by in a blur, and now it’s the end of week two since the start of Jack’s vacation.

Since having dinner together and the bathtub incident the other day, you’ve been less up in arms about him—still reluctant—but overall more receptive to him. You’ve shared small talk over meals, got to learn that he was a combat medic, now a doctor, and heard the story behind losing his leg and wife. The words flowed easily from Jack.

He’s never shared as much and so quickly with anyone, but he supposes it’s because you’re you that he felt comfortable telling you these things.

He’s learned a bit more about you too. That you went to college for this. That you have interests in that. That you’re not really an outdoorsy type. That fact in particular made him smile because it reminded him of his late wife.

There’s no doubt you’re your own person. And he’s not at all trying to replace you in her image. Yet, he can't help drawing parallels between you two. You’re sweet. Only feisty because of the situation. You’re stunning. That’s more than obvious. 

You’re also just… good to be around. 

Not only have you shared meals, but you’ve also silently helped him clean up in the kitchen and clean the cabin, do laundry, and even joined him in his Shaolin monk breathing exercises out on the porch every morning.

Jack’s content with this. He knows you’re being diplomatic, careful not to upset him too much, or he’ll make good on his promise and have you posted to the bed. He's crossed your line and touched you, seen you naked, and he assumes that you’re fearful he might go even further if you cross him. 

He won't. He'll toe the line. As long as he doesn’t put his cock in you, he foolishly reasons that everything else is fair game. You may put up a little fight in the meanwhile, but his body is taut with all the restraint he’s had and is almost ready to snap. Letting you escape to the cabin after being in the hot tub together nearly killed him.

But he’s been happy to have you out and about and joining him in even the most mundane of things, so he hasn’t attempted anything else. Nothing all that dramatic, at least. He’s stolen a few kisses here and there and groped your ass every time he walked past you, but that’s all. You don’t seem too upset about it, or if you are, you keep it to yourself. 

It’s odd, because for as much as he would like to ruin you, he’s blueballing himself holding back from it; you are the first woman in a long while that he feels “patient” enough to wait before jumping into bed with.

It’s almost as if this might really work. That you’ll let him in and he’ll have something, anything besides his grief, the medicine, the past, the Pitt, to make his way through life with.

So it's quite unfortunate when you're sitting at the table and having breakfast together, when you say something that breaks the spell.

“Jack. You need to let me go.” 

He swallows down a piece of bacon and takes a sip of his coffee. Your face is grave and deadly serious. 

“What? Why are you bringing this up all of a sudden?” he asks.

You put your fork down and wipe your lips with a napkin. He frowns a little. He likes the sheen the bacon’s grease gives them. 

“I think we’re at a place now where we can have a somewhat normal discussion about this.”

Jack's mouth twists down and to the side. “I’ve been enjoying our time here, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

You scowl, and your fists clench on top of the table. “I have a life to get back to. People I care about. What am I, your pet?” You stop and take a deep breath, trying to gather yourself before completely blowing up at him.

“You're not my pet. You’re my other half.” Jack’s not quite ready to admit he loves you, but this is as close as he’ll get. If only you knew how much he’s already put his all into you. “I’m who you should care about. But you don’t see it that way, which is why more time would do us good, don’t you think?”

“Jack…” You’re pleading now. “I—I’ve been nice. I’ve spent time with you. Let you touch me. You’re…” You choke out your words. “You’re decent. I won't tell anyone anything if you just take me out of here. Just take me back to my car. I'll find someone else—“

Jack downs his coffee in one fell swoop and slams the mug onto the table. “—No. No. What do you think this is? We’re not friends. This isn’t some playdate.”

You stare at him with owlish eyes for a few seconds. “...So, what, we’re just gonna stay here forever? Is that even possible?”

“If that's what it takes for you to understand—we’ll spend eternity here. The day you open up your legs and beg for me is the day we can pack up our things and go home. Together.”

You bare your teeth at him like a dog poised to bite. “I won’t give in.”

But Jack doesn’t think that’s true. You’re not a feral dog. You’re strong. Self-assured. But slowly showing signs of weakness, which makes you more akin to a fussy cat. 

He’s noticed you curling into him more at night. Caught you peeking into the shower at him through the glass when he leaves the door cracked, just in case you might want to join him. Whenever he’s hard, leaking, and too tempted to touch you, he jerks himself off into the toilet, moaning your name loud and unabashedly, and he swears he can hear the floorboards creak and the door groan as if you’re right outside listening in.

You can bitch all you want, but you’re already giving in. It won't take much longer now.

“Me neither. Guess we’re both not getting what we want, are we, kid?”

Jack takes both your plates and walks over to the sink, while you stay seated in your chair, staring daggers into his back.

He turns on the faucet to do the dishes. “By the way,” he starts, “I think you’ll be happy to know that I’ll be gone for a few hours.” 

He sees you give him a suspicious look out of the corner of his eye. 

“You’re leaving me here?”

“Going on a hike. It’s something I've always done on the day before last of my vacation. This… I used to do this hike with my wife,” he says, with a wistful tone.

You're silent for a few seconds as you take in the new information. “But… this vacation isn’t ending.”

Jack chuckles. “It’s the thought that counts. Figured I’d get it out of the way now.”

You don’t respond, and he thinks the conversation ends there, but then you ask, “Can I come?”

He stops the faucet and turns to you, a surprised look gracing his face. He can see the gears turning in your head, but he can’t pinpoint what you’re thinking. Most likely nothing good. “You don't have any hiking gear. Wouldn’t be safe.”

“Please, Jack.” You get out of your chair to step up to him and grab his upper arm. “I need to see something else besides the inside of this cabin.”

The corners of his eyes crinkle as he narrows them at you. “You’ll run off.”

You shake your head. “I’m not stupid. I’ll die out there if I do. Please?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and contemplates. Maybe you do need some fresh air and a change in scenery. It’d be good to clear your mind. 

Who is he kidding? He can’t say no to you.

“You’ll be good? Do as I say?”

You nod, and then he’s pulling you in by the waist and giving you a sloppy kiss. You yelp in surprise into his mouth as he slips you his tongue, but then you’re kissing him back. 

It’s tentative. But he can tell you're just on the verge of doing it because you really want to, and not just to appease him. He’s stolen plenty of kisses from you, and none have felt this… honest. 

Your fingers grip the collar of his shirt but make no attempt to pull him away from you. He pulls away of his own accord. 

He huffs a laugh when he sees how fast you're breathing and how bashful you look. You’re so damn cute. 

“Don’t make me regret this. I’ll fasten a leash for you if I have to.” Jack’s eyes stare into yours and sparkle with something dangerous.

You gulp. “I—I won’t. Promise.”

The path Jack takes for his yearly hike on the penultimate day of his vacation has been marked in his mind over the years, but based on the overgrowth, it would look like it's never been explored before. 

The sun is bright and shines through the thick canopy of pine trees. The unnatural quiet of the forest is more muted at this time, the birds and buzzing of flies covering up the auditory vacuum of nothingness.

You’re trailing behind him, pace slow and careful, especially with your sorry pair of tennis shoes. Jack’s used to being the one people have to slow down for, so he doesn’t mind. But he really shouldn't have let you join him either way. It’s dangerous. And it’s a long way down the slope of the mountain and back up again. Even with all his practice and comfort on the trail, he’ll need to take a break or two every half hour. 

But he couldn’t refuse the look you gave him. And he’s curious as to the reason why you wanted to join him. Surely it isn’t because you couldn’t bear to be alone without him.

“You okay back there?” he asks. 

You grunt as you step up and over a dead tree. “Why do you care? I twist my ankle, and then I'll be really powerless against you,” you mumble under your breath.

“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to join.” Jack shrugs but stops and turns around, making sure you don’t fall too far behind.

He takes your comment on the chin. You’re right. A twisted ankle would take weeks or even months to heal, it would keep you off your feet, and most appealing of all, you’d need to rely on him to get on the other side of it.

But he wouldn't want that to happen. He really did mean it when he said he didn't want to hurt you. The same goes for if you were to get hurt indirectly by his hand. He's responsible for you now, after all.

“Be careful,” he tacks on as you catch up to him.

A little over two hours into the hike later, you and Jack happen upon an idyllic stream, which also happens to be where the stopping point is. 

Jack returns to this stream every year. And every year a complicated mix of emotions swells up in him. Mostly good, some sad, but all very bittersweet in the end. It’s the first time he’s had another person join him since his late wife, but he’s always said that she would be the last.

He can’t go through the heartbreak of coming back yet again with another dead wife. But it seems like you’ll be the exception.

He watches you as you squat on the stony embankment and peer at a dragonfly. You don’t look all that impressed by it. 

“Alright. We made it to the end. Let’s turn back,” he says.

You slap your knees and stand, following him as he walks ahead of you back in the direction of the cabin. No more than several hundred feet away from the streams and after what’s only been a few minutes, he stops. He doesn’t hear your footsteps anymore. He whips his head back to look at you, but you’re not behind him.

Shit. Weren’t you just there?

He realizes where you are when he retraces his steps and sees you in the distance near a landline buried under thick vines and surrounded by dense forestry. 

Of course.

He didn't think you would spot it, but this must be the reason why you decided to come. To take a chance and see if there happened to be a landline on this mountain. Which there is. But it's out of service and has been for several years due to its out-of- the-way location. 

Jack jogs up to you, just in case you decide to run off again.

He didn’t think you’d have the gall to disobey him, but truthfully, he’s just glad he found you.

He approaches and sees you sitting inside the booth with your head rested sideways on your knees and your arms wrapped around your legs. 

He bends down a little to get a closer look at you, but your face is completely hidden from his view. “I could’ve told you the phone doesn’t work.”

“Jack...” You lift your head up from your knees, and he notices that your hairline is bloodied. His heart jumps in his throat. 

“What happened?”

You lower one of your legs and wince. “T-tripped. Cut myself on that rock.” You point to it, but he doesn’t care. All he sees is the large gash right above your knee that’s currently bleeding out.

“Christ,” Jack spits out. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Why’d you run off? I told you to be careful.” His physician instincts kick in, and he reaches around for his backpack and unzips it to pull out his medkit and a rag. 

He tosses the rag to you and tells you to apply pressure to the wound. He grunts as he takes a seat by your legs inside the booth.

“Saw… ngh… what I was looking for. ’Course the phone’s out of commission. J-just my luck.” You look up from where you're pressing the rag to your wound and at him. “Are you going to punish me?”

Jack can’t help the guilt that rises in him when he looks into your eyes, so he instead focuses on your thigh. He reasons with himself that this is different, that you’re physically hurt, and that he shouldn’t feel guilty for taking you in. This is not the same. You would’ve been fine if you had just stayed inside.

“This is punishment enough. You should be more concerned about your leg. You’re going to need stitches.”

“Oh, so now you’re worried—”

“—Shut up.” Your lips press in a thin line while Jack opens the medkit and pulls out a pair of gloves, a suturing needle, and thread. “We’ll do them here.”

“You have that… in your bag?”

He cocks his head and raises his brows, crinkling his forehead. “I’m always prepared.” He puts on the gloves and starts to thread the needle, but his hands are shaky.

You watch him with wide eyes and worry. “Are—are you okay?” 

Jack looks at you. It’s an honest question. You’re concerned for you, whether he can keep you from bleeding out, but with that is an underbelly laced with concern for him too. He can see it in your eyes. It’s sweet. 

He sighs. “I have tremors sometimes. Caffeine this morning didn’t help.” 

He takes a few deep breaths, recenters himself, and attempts to thread the needle again, but his hands are still too shaky. 

“Jack, just take your time. I trust—... you’re a doctor, right? You can do this.” You give him a firm, confident nod, but you’re sweating bullets and your breaths are uneven. Not good.

But… maybe it is a good thing this happened. He can use it to his advantage, at least. Twist the knife a little more. Would someone who’s only bad really care to stitch you up?

He would, either way. It’s his personal mandate. But he’d do anything, especially for you. Maybe this will help you see that.

He gives you a quick glance, and you look at him like he’s just another normal person fixing you up. 

He refocuses on your thigh.

“We don’t have time.” Jack threads the needle after his third attempt. Maybe your encouragement and your budding change of heart is all he needs. “This is going to hurt. You ready, sweetheart?”

The hike back is grueling, even for all of Jack’s strength. You’re in no condition to walk two hours back all the way on your own, and you have to lean on him so he can help carry your weight.

Your wound is stitched up and has stopped bleeding through its bandage, at least. But he’s sure it burns, you’re weak, and you weren’t meant to be on this hike with him in the first place. 

He curses under his breath for the umpteenth time. “Couldn’t have tripped in the first few minutes of the hike?” He grunts as you both walk up a steep incline.

You don’t respond. You’re too out of it.

He slaps your cheek lightly with the hand not currently holding your arm over his shoulder. “Stay with me.”

You lift your head up from the ground to make eye contact with him. “Sorry. Just tired. Thirsty.”

Jack huffs in exhaustion. “Me too. Let’s take a little break.” You both reach a plateau, and he sets you down on a nearby tree stump. He pulls out his water bottle and a few painkillers from his bag, forces them into your mouth, and holds up the bottle for you to drink.

You swallow the pills and a few gulps of water down. He wipes your lips with the pad of his thumb before taking a few sips himself.

Two hours later, somehow, you both make it back to the cabin, alive. Drenched with sweat and covered with dirt, but alive.

Jack didn’t think he would be in this scenario with you and can’t help but chuckle to himself as you both walk through the entrance.

It’s a good thing he’s in your life now. He can’t imagine the danger you’d have put yourself in if you happened to go on that solo road trip.

He throws his bag on the couch, then leads you into the bathroom and sits you down on the toilet. “Gonna change the bandage now. Your stitches should hold.” He reaches for clean bandages in the cabinet beneath the sink.

You stop him by grabbing his wrist suddenly and with some force, feeling better now that the painkillers have kicked in. “Jack. Stop.”

He looks at you with a raised brow. “What?”

You chew on your lower lip. “Why are you helping me? I tried to call for help.”

“What do you mean? Stop distracting me. Let me do this.”

You push against his chest as he tries to open the cabinet again. “I don’t want you to!”

He grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you. “What are you fucking talking about?”

“You trapped me here. But all you’ve done since is feed me and try to talk to me and fucking suture up my wounds!”

Jack holds himself back from flashing you a devilish smile. So, he was right. Helping you out there, stitching you up, and carrying you all the way back changed your tune. Or at least, made you feel more conflicted about your growing feelings for him. He feels an unfamiliar warmth spreading through his body at the thought. It isn’t lust, though he does have enough of that for you, and in droves, but more like… a sense of accomplishment. Worth. Like you’re teetering on the cliff’s edge of his master plan to seduce you, and it won’t take but a gust of wind to knock you over.

“I told you. I wasn’t lying about you being mine to care for.”

You stare at each other, daring the other to say something first. You’re the bold one. “I wanted to find that phone booth. But when I realized it wasn’t working, well, I wasn’t too sad about it,” you murmur and look down at your lap. “I hate you less and less every day and it scares me.”

Hearing it directly from you does something to Jack. Makes him damn near giddy with affection. Makes him change his plans. He was willing to wait out another week before attempting to take the plunge, but why admit this to him if you don’t want him to do something now? He’s making his final play. 

Jack holds you by the back of the head and plants a kiss on your forehead. “It doesn’t have to scare you.”

You don't respond, and he takes that as a sign to redress your wound. He grabs a bandage from under the sink and applies it to your thigh with ease. You watch him with something not unlike appreciation. 

He pulls you up from the toilet by your wrist after redressing your wound. “Get in the shower. You’re disgusting. But you’re okay now.” The corners of his lips quirk up, and he breathes a small sigh of relief. 

You really are trouble. Worthwhile trouble.

“What about the bandage?” you ask.

“Waterproof. He gestures for you to lift up your arms so he can undress you. “Lift up.”

The hike wore you out, and you still have a bit of pain. So you do as he says. 

Jack peels off your grime-covered, tattered T-shirt and bottoms—to which you don’t object to—and also undresses and removes his prosthesis. He leads you into the shower and onto his bench with the help of a grab bar and your steady hand.

He sits you comfortably in his lap as he turns on the shower. 

“We could’ve showered separately,” you mumble, looking down at his cock pressed in between your bodies. It twitches under your heady gaze.

“Don’t really see the point in that. We shared a hot tub together, remember?” Jack reaches over the length of the bench to grab a bar of soap.

“Are you going to touch me again?”

He chuckles. You’re so direct except for when it’s to tell him you want him. “You’re already in my lap, and I’m cleaning you, so yeah.”

He takes his time with you at first, slicking you up with his soap and washing away the dirt on your skin collected from the hike—careful to avoid the bandage. But his touch soon goes from gentle to curious to greedy. He puts the soap aside, not bothering to pretend to wash you anymore, and instead gropes your breasts. 

His palms encompass them, squeezing and plumping the soft flesh to his heart’s content. You squirm in his lap and he gives one of your tits a harsh slap, drawing a moan from the back of your throat.

You don’t say anything, but your moans and hitched breaths do enough of the talking for you. You continue to wiggle on his lap, gliding your cunt over the underside of his length, but it’s more of an instinctual reaction to his touch than an intent to use him. It appears you’re still too shy for that.

He grunts. “Stay still.” 

He twists your nipples, and you cry out in pain, so you do as he says. Your hands move from your sides to on top of his shoulders, just to ground yourself to him. You can feel their steady rise and fall with every breath he takes.

His touch explores further down to your wet cunt. He splits the seam of your pussy with his pointer finger, making you reach back and pull on his hair with a single hand. It seems to be a habit of yours.

His voice is ragged with lust. “She’s so wet, honey.” He slips a finger inside, and you whimper in his ear. “So tight, too. You get like this for your captor, huh?”

“N-no, I don’t—”

He slips another finger inside your cunt, and you break on a moan. 

“What was that?” he teases. He removes his fingers from your cunt and pushes them into your mouth. Your eyes are lidded as you swirl your tongue around his digits and suck off your juices.

“Fuck, you look so good like this.” Jack doesn’t quite believe the sight he’s seeing. But he was right. He’s worn you down. And he’s the only one who’ll ever have the privilege of building you back up.

He pulls his fingers from your mouth and inserts them back into your cunt, massaging your walls and sinking them in as deeply as he can. They don’t fill you like he knows his cock will, but they’re good enough for now. 

His hands are rough and worn with the history and experience of saving lives, and his digits are thick, plugging you up just enough to make you want more.

With the press of his thumb, he strokes your clit in tandem with the rapid movement of his fingers fucking your hole. The noises coming from you and your pussy are lewd and loud, audible even over the spray of water.

The persistent rubs on your clit, his sweet whispers, and coarse, thick fingers inside you make you come undone. 

“J-Jack…” you breathe out as you come.

He watches you unravel before him with reverence. Your eyes are glazed over, your lips are parted in a cute “o” shape, and your moans make his cock thicken up and twitch against his abdomen.

He gives your clit a few more gentle rubs and a quick slap in gratitude for giving him that view of you.

Jack says your name and words of praise in between a few heated kisses. “You did so good. You’re so good.”

You’re spent, in more ways than one, and probably ready to head to bed, but he’s not done with you yet. He pulls you off his lap, and you stand on wobbly legs and reach for a towel while he shuts off the water.

You wrap yourself in the towel and help him up out of the bench so he can reattach his prosthesis.

He catches your eyes widening ever so slightly as you look down, and he chuckles. 

His cock is now fully erect, thickened up, reddened, and ready to snug into a warm, wet, cunt. 

He lifts your head up by the chin to look into your eyes. “You don’t have to help me, sweetheart. I got it.”

You shake your head and your eyes turn away from his. “I—I’m just trying to be nice.”

“You are, are you?” He smirks. “I wonder why.”

“Hmph. I’m not a monster, maybe?”

He hums, not convinced.

Once his prosthesis is reattached and he quickly dries himself off, he sweeps you off your feet—earning a yelp from you—and carries you out of the bathroom to the bedroom. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, pressing your palms against his chest.

Jack looks down at you with a gleam in his eye. “It’s time. I’m gonna fuck you.”

You look up at him with a nervous expression. “Jack—”

“—I saved you. Don’t you think I’ve earned this? Earned your trust?”

He kicks open the door to the bedroom and throws you ungracefully onto the bed. You try to scurry up the sheets, but he holds you by your ankle.

“I wouldn't be in this situation if it weren’t for you!” You try to kick your leg free, but it’s like trying to slip through a handcuff. His grip on you is tight, but he’s not even trying. 

You won’t escape.

Jack drags you closer to the foot of the bed and spreads your legs. “Has anyone else ever made you come that hard before? Don’t lie.” 

You try closing your legs, but Jack holds them open. “W-what does that matter?”

“I can give you so many more. Just say the word. Say you want me inside your cunt. Say you’re mine. That’s all I want.”

“J-Jack. No. No! This is wrong.” 

He leans over you and cages you in by his forearms. His face comes up so close to yours that he can feel your breath on his skin.

“It can be right for us. And you already came on my fingers. Your words don’t mean much.”

“Putting your dick inside me is something else entirely!” you screech and try pushing him away, but all he does is chuckle.

“Don't you know it was always supposed to be this way? You. Me. You underneath me. Don't fight it anymore,” he coos in your ear as he unwraps your towel and throws it to the ground.

He holds you down by the column of your throat as you start to thrash against the bed again.

It’s obvious you can’t fight him off. You’re expending energy you don’t have into thin air. You stop thrashing and look up into his eyes. “Jack. Listen to me. This—this isn’t something we can come back from. I…” You take a deep breath. “You held me here against my will for Christ's sake. I just—“ you cut yourself off.

“‘I just’… what?”

You cover your face with your hands and groan.

Fine.

Jack already knows what you’re getting at. You’re shy. This is immoral. You’ve fallen for someone you shouldn’t. Etcetera etcetera.

It does please him to see you battle yourself with this, and he would take the time to tease you more about it, but he needs to be inside you.

He’ll still try to get you to beg, but you might as well have already given him permission to do whatever he wants with you.

His hand trails from your throat to the seam of your cunt, spreading you open with two fingers. He huffs a laugh when he leans back and sees how wet you are. Even wetter now than when he fucked you on his fingers mere minutes ago. “You’re worried about how things look? Don’t be embarrassed, sweetheart. I’m handsome for an old man. And I’ve been nothing but good to you. No one would bat an eye at you falling for me. No one has to know, either.”

You peek through your fingers at him for a few seconds, then finally move your hands back to your sides, clenching the sheets.

Jack could come right there on the spot.

You’re looking up at him, with hearts in your eyes, but you’re chewing your lower lip raw in guilt, shame, humiliation. The contrast is… stunning.

“Here, I’ll make things easy. Decisions are just so hard, aren’t they? Just don’t think. I’ll take all the blame.” 

Jack raps the head of his cock against your clit and glides his cock along your folds to gather up your slick before slipping it inside your hole. He groans as he watches your eyes slam shut when you clench down on him, and he nearly crashes his upper body onto yours.

Fuck. You’re tight. How’re you going to take all of him?

You gasp, and your hands try to reach for him, but he draws his body back from you. “Jack, f-fuck, you’re—you’re inside me!”

“Yeah. I am. It’s good we got that out of the way. But if you want more, you’ll have to ask me like a big girl.” He pulls out of you, then drags the veiny underside of his length through your folds and pulls a whine from your throat. He uses his thumb to push the head of his cock inside you again but pulls out just as quickly, and taps your clit, your sticky arousal stringing with the action. 

He keeps teasing you like that while using his other hand to grope your soft skin. He pushes your hands away when you try to grab him—either to push or pull him into you—he’s not sure. But he won’t let you feel anymore than he’s giving you.

He pushes into your plush warmth once more, only feeding you the tip, and stays there. Unmoving. He holds you still by the waist when you try to grind down on more of his length.

“No,” you breathe out. “Jack, please—please do something.”

He leans down to nip at your neck. “Please what?”

“Please. Just—just…”

“C’mon. You can do it.”

You start crying as he plucks your nipples to get a response out of you, but all it does is distract him. He’s always been a sucker for your tears.

You relent only once Jack’s tweaked your nipples to the point where they’re throbbing. “O-okay. F-Fuck me, Jack. I want you to fuck me. I—I need you.”

“Hm. What else?” When you take too long to respond, he drives his hips forward, kissing a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars, then pulls completely out. 

He slaps one of your breasts—drawing out a high-pitched moan from you—then snakes his fingers down your body to fill the gaping hole where his cock once was. He grunts as he feels your cunt swallow up four of his fingers. Still, he doesn’t move.

His digits just sit inside you, and you whine, but you force out a weak response. “I… I want you to come inside me.”

Jack chuckles and cradles your cheek with his other hand. “Was going to do that anyway, sweetheart. What I mean is, who do you belong to? If we went back home today, would I have to worry about chasing you down? This won’t be a one-time thing. I won’t let it be.”

You shake your head. “I’m yours, Jack. Look at what happened when I tried to run. You don’t have to worry.”

“Do you love me?” he asks.

“…Yes.”

He slaps your clit, making you cry out and flinch. “You’re lying.”

You gasp as your clit twitches and you shake your head. “I… I think I could. I know I could. With more time.”

He hums. “That’s good enough, I guess.”

Jack leans over you and kisses you deeply. It’s a searing kiss. You moan into his mouth and dig your nails into his arms when he removes his fingers from your cunt and finally sinks his cock inside you. He shifts your legs so they wrap around his waist, and then he’s leaning on his forearm and caressing your cheek. 

He pulls back from your lips once he’s balls deep and sees tears springing from your eyes.

He coos at you and wipes your tears. “I know it hurts. I’m sorry. I’ll make you feel good, okay?”

He wraps you up in his arms and pistons his cock in and out of your hole. You’re wet, going dumb at his breakneck speed, and you're babbling his name and other things he can’t quite hear through the thick fog of lust.

He groans your name when you clench down on him after a particularly brutal thrust. “You feel amazing, honey. Well,” he grunts, “—well worth the wait.”

“Jack… fuck,” you whimper.

Your slick drips onto the sheets and coats his cock and balls, but he quite likes the mess. Your hands move from in between your bodies to the curve of his ass, pushing him closer and deeper inside you.

It nearly undoes him. How desperate you are for him now. And he feels a sick pride that his cock can knock you senseless like this. 

It won’t take much longer now. You're already pent up and sensitive from his teasing and the orgasm earlier, and he’s been wanting this since day one. 

He grinds his pelvis into your clit and thrusts into you a final time, hitting a toe-curling spot inside you that makes you moan his name as you come. You’re a shaking, wet, pathetic mess beneath him, and he can’t help but just stop and stare at you.

Jack is close too. Once you’re limp, pliant, and babbling incoherently, he selfishly uses your cunt and thrusts into you at a bruising pace, rhythm faltering as your cunt clenches on him tight with the aftershocks of your orgasm. But it’s your words that finally do him in. 

“Jack, please, come—come inside me. Now. I want it.”

You tighten your legs around his waist and dig your nails into his ass. He comes inside you with a rumbling groan, pumping his cum inside you for seemingly forever before it stops. Ropes of his cum spill from your battered cunt, and he scoops as much of it as he can back inside you. 

He kisses your lips and murmurs, “You’re mine.”

Jack ultimately decides on spending two more weeks at the cabin with you—making it an entire month—before you return home. 

He says it’s to really drill it into your head that he’s the only one who can get you to come the way he has and to ruin you for anyone else. 

Or, maybe he isn’t quite ready to return to reality. 

He’ll have to go back to work. You're not sure what your relationship will be like in the real world. But… it’s better to return to some semblance of normal if this fragile thing between you two has even a chance of panning out.

Though, you know you don’t have a say in it regardless. He knows you exist. What city you're from. Other things you let slip. It’s enough to know you’ll never be able to claw your way out from under his skin. 

You’re just hoping that things work out. Who cares how you guys ended up together, right?

Over the next two weeks, Jack uses all your holes, filling you up just the way he likes. You memorize the taste of his cum and the consistency based on the dribs and drabs that leak out of you daily, hourly. 

Your tune changes a little too easily over the course of these two weeks. You’re not as hesitant to admit that Jack has rewired your brain—making you see him in a somewhat better light. It does make him a little too arrogant, though, that fucking you on his cock so many times can influence you like this, but you’re beyond embarrassment.  

Let your cup runneth over. 

You’re sitting in the passenger’s seat of Jack’s truck as you travel down the road where he first picked you up. 

You’re headed home. To his home.

You sit up out of your seat when you notice your car’s gone. “Jack, look. This is the spot, right? My—my car’s gone! Someone took it!” You turn to him. “Does that mean someone else could’ve…”

He reaches a hand over and rubs your thigh. “You don’t know when they came by. It could’ve been today for all we know.”

“Didn’t you say this road is usually empty?”

“I did. It’s true. At least the times that I’ve been on it.”

You don’t know if you believe him. Maybe if you had waited for a bit longer someone else would’ve come by. But it doesn’t matter anymore. 

“You’re buying me a new car.” You cross your arms over your chest and pout. “I’d be surprised if I wasn’t fired from my job three weeks ago.”

What's the last thing you remember?

It takes a moment for your brain to search for memories. The fog is thick, hiding what brought you to this creepy room lit only by narrow red lamps on the walls. The floor is cold. You hear the roar of an engine that doesn't belong to one of the company's large haulers. The vibrations in the material of this ship are more penetrating, reaching into your bones. Weyland-Yutani ships sound different. They sound hollow and somehow... cheaper. Their ships sound like cost-cutting measures and a willingness to lose entire crews if it means saving a little money.

This is not a human ship. Its high-quality engine emits a deep growl that resonates in your chest like a steady purr. A purring monster made of metal, on its way to who-knows-where. You gasp for air as your brain finally locates the missing memory in the darkness. The Karattera. The strange cargo the company wanted to be transported to one of the research facilities back home. The crash on Vokila-2. And the black creatures that wreaked havoc. As this tidal wave of memories washes over you, accompanied by the lingering smell of blood, a trembling sob escapes you.

It's a sound as unstoppable as it is desperate. There are no tears, just the realization that the entire crew of the Karattera is dead. Just like the mining company team on the planet. You remember killing three of those black, fast beasts with long skulls using the Vokila-2 station's trash compactor. You heard the sound of bones breaking, of monsters screaming out in agony, of acid eating through metal - and then you sensed movement behind you, followed by a click and a growl. And then? Nothing. Only the floating emptiness remains, waking up in the cryo capsule with the stale taste of blood in your mouth. With trembling hands, you touch the back of your head, where there should be a wound because you were knocked down - or were you? It's the obvious conclusion to the blackout, to the lack of memories, but there's nothing there. Just a small bump that is hardly worth mentioning. The unanswered questions pile up in your stomach like a bunch of needles. What the hell is going on here?!

The door opens with a hiss. Every muscle in your body tenses in panic when you see the huge figure in the hallway. Ah, fuck.

It's a Yautja.

Rumors about these warriors - as fearless as they are brutal - have spread to the farthest corners of the company's colonies. People whisper on the freighters that these massive warriors are monsters who kill without mercy, whether with blades, plasma cannons, or their bare hands. They hunt for fun, pleasure, and the thrill of success. If that's true, then you're either a trophy or their afternoon entertainment. Double fuck. The Yautja makes harsh growling noises - it's a command, that much is clear. Given the situation, move your ass is the only logical conclusion. He's coming to get you. But why? And to where? With your legs trembling from the long, cold sleep, you stagger toward the door, trying not to appear threatening. Supposedly, the Yautja don't attack defenseless people: They don't attack the unarmed, the sick, children, or pregnant women. Hopefully, there's some truth to these rumors because you don't want to end up on the wrong end of that huge spear he's holding. Nevertheless, your pride demands that you lift your chin and walk as upright as possible. You make smooth movements despite the jelly knees. Don't appear threatening, but don't appear easy prey either. This phrase echoes in your brain over and over again like a mantra or a prayer to reason. The chance of survival is probably slim, but not zero. If it happens, it happens. At least take one of these bastards with you. This attitude was helpful when the black alien beasts overran the Karattera and Vokila-2. It kept you alive and gave you the courage to fight back. Maybe it'll save your out of luck ass again. The spaceship's corridor is long and empty. Several doors lead to other rooms, but they are locked, and you can't peek inside any of them. A rough, deep rumbling sounds from somewhere. It's an animalistic roar that echoes off the ship's walls until it becomes a distorted sound of rage. Your heart skips a beat in despair. Getting out of here alive is going to be difficult.

Suddenly, the Yautja grabs you with an incredibly strong grip. Before you can dodge his hand, the cold of the walls and floor wraps around your neck. There's a click, and something heavy hangs around your neck, pulling you slightly down. The weight and the realization what it is sends hot rage shooting through your head.

A fucking collar!  

"Hey, what?!" Your angry hiss is drowned out by the mocking growls and clicks of your opponent, who seems to be thoroughly enjoying your expression of stupor. Trembling, weak human fingers pull at the metal holding your neck like an iron grip of death. But the collar won't come off; it just rubs uncomfortably against your sensitive skin. With a fiery gaze, you look up at the Yautja, nodding slightly and twitching your shoulder in a demanding manner. "What is this? What's going on here?! Am I your prisoner?" The collar is beeping almost audibly, making you increasingly aggressive. Like a fucking time bomb around the neck. The Yautja raises and lowers his chest with a deep, flat growl and lets out a snort. Mocking and amused. Then, he pushes you toward the end of the corridor to get you moving. Apparently, there's a schedule here because he pushes you again, urging you to pick up the pace.

The corridor itself is long with a floor of metal grates that echo your footsteps. It leads to another corridor, then another, and finally, a last one that is significantly wider and shorter than the rest. This cursed ship is a labyrinth and must be enormous. How are you supposed to get out of here? Hide in a ventilation shaft if you can escape at all. And then what? Steal a rescue pod and drift off into nothingness? Honestly, the options don't look good.

"C'jit, this one's particularly unimpressive." Another Yautja approaches you and your guide. He's armed with a long spear as well, though he has a much more relaxed demeanor than the guy who's been pushing you around. The loud hissing of a door at the other end of the hallway drowns out the words whispered into your ear by the collar. It's a translation of the warriors' language. Granted, it's useful that this thing around your neck acts as a translator, though that's definitely not its main function. It's probably more like... a shock collar. Or a real bomb. Oh god, please don't let it be a bomb. The hissing of the double doors announces the arrival of more inhabitants of this ship. Heavy footsteps thunder on the grated floor, sending vibrations through your whole body until the inside of your ears starts to hurt. And the closer the footsteps come, the faster your heart beats. Three. Two guards and a monster that can only be described as such emerge from the gloom of the dimly lit corridor. The two guards stop and lower their heads as the third emerges from the dimly lit corridor.

Oh man... The newly arrived Yautja is massive. The chances of making it out alive are closing in on zero.  

His stature easily surpasses that of the others of his kind, and his cloak of bones and spines makes him look even bigger, more powerful, and more terrifying. The vertebrae protruding from his shoulders and upper back are a stark, ominous warning not to mess with this specimen, a warning reinforced when the other two Yautja take a subtle step back as he glances at them.

The urge to look away is so strong that your neck muscles tense up. However, looking away now would be a sign of weakness, and weakness is something you can't afford right now. These people crush the weak like bugs between their giant hands, amused by emotions like fear and terror. And yes, of course you're afraid. It would be stupid not to be. A few deep breaths, though, allow you to think somewhat logically. You clench that fear into a tight little knot below your diaphragm and think back to the mantra:

If it happens, it happens. At least take one of those bastards with you.

So, you straighten your back, pull your shoulders back, and stare stubbornly ahead.