R O T T E N

You were sitting inside your office, going over some paperwork before your next client. The last days had breezed past you, your memory reduced to a blur of faces and diagnoses. A breath entered your lungs, exhaled with a sigh when you realized who your next client was.

"Ronin Beaufort."

The dull sound of your voice was just loud enough to call the, no doubt waiting, man. You wished that you didn't have to. He marched into your office like he wasn't in a prison, letting himself fall into the chair across from you with a roll of those dark brown eyes that you've come to know in the three years that you had spent being his therapist. There were many more to come without a doubt.

"Well you look awfully excited to see me, don't ya?"

You had to actively try not to roll your eyes back at him, reminding yourself that he wasn't just a friend coming by to annoy you, but a convicted serial killer and you were his therapist, obligated to stay within your professional boundaries. Snapping back at him would not help the situation either way.

"Tea?"

You asked, standing as you made your way over to the water kettle. Tea was a privilege that you had to fight the warden for back when you first started working here. You found that it helped the people in your chair to open up if they felt more normal, and the tea did exactly that. It gave them a feeling of familiar warmth. Most of your clients needed that, to defrost, so to say. Ronin on the other hand had always been too eager to talk about anything at all. Well, aside from his actual issues.

"Course, darlin'."

For once you were glad to have your back to a criminal. The flicker of annoyance on your features was hidden from view. You were long past trying to teach him that those sorts of nicknames were inappropriate in this setting.

The water was hot by the time that you had poured it into the two mugs, another thing you had fought for. Dangerous, because of course it was, but most of the people here were not necessarily violent people. Dealers and people who had fallen on hard times and reacted the way a cornered animal would. Ronin was not one of those. Hurt? Of course he was, but not cornered. You had learned in those years that he was in control whenever he wanted to be.

"There you go."

You slid one of the mugs over to Ronin, the other placed in front of yourself. The warmth of the liquid soothed you as you took a sip of it, playing pretend that this was just a normal conversation. It was what worked best for him. These sessions resulted in nothing most of the time, unless deflection and switching subjects counted as something. In that case they were effective.

When he made no move to speak, you spoke once more, a practiced smile making its way onto your lips.

"What brings you in today? Anything in particular you want to talk about?"

The words were easy for you, nice and steady in the way that they should be. You had said them so many times that it felt like a habit by now. You were on edge though. Ronin wasn't your everyday client and with him, you always had to expect some quip or remark. He had a way of turning your words back to you, to pry for more information when the conversation was actually about him. It was delicate to navigate, but you had spent years learning and you were prepared to handle him.

"Just here to check in on ya."

Ronin's words were a harsh purr, but you didn't let it get to you. He had leaned back in his seat, swirling the tea in his mug, although his eyes never left yours. There was something different about him, a hint of something that you had not yet learned to place. Deciding to keep an eye on it for now, you turned the conversation back to him.

"There is no need for that, but how do you feel today? These sessions aren't mandatory, so there must be something."

The question was dry even to your own ears and Ronin looked, well, almost bored. That however did not matter, he was not supposed to like you, he was supposed to open up to you. Now that you thought about it, people usually opened up better in relationships that were mutual. This one was not, that much was obvious, yet you decided to give him an inch. After all, you had to make some progress with him somehow.

"Would you like to talk about something that is bothering you? You know that I am here to help."

Ronin's gaze remained on you as he took another sip of his tea, a glint in his eyes that reminded you just in time who you were talking to. He would make you regret that inch, that much was certain. The only question was if this time he would crack just a little. You prayed he would.

"Sure you are, but will ya be able to take honesty, darlin'? Think you're strong enough?"

You were ecstatic, an emotion you were thankfully careful not to betray to him. He was actually about to say something for once. A breakthrough, although it was one you could only achieve by playing his game. Some clients need that, someone to play into whatever their mind saw the world like. To Ronin, it was a twisted game that no one but him was allowed to win. In all your thinking, you had forgotten something crucial though. You were already three steps ahead in your thoughts; if you leaned into this just a bit more, maybe you could-

The mug hit the ground with a crack, porcelain shattering against concrete.

Time seemed to stand still as you watched it break, your eyes drawn to the sound on instinct.

Fuck.

A breath later, a measured one to make sure the surge of adrenaline in your body didn't show, you were crouching down to pick up the pieces of the now broken mug. It was fine. In three years, Ronin had never done anything to you. His attempts to turn therapy into casual conversation excluded, he'd been a model inmate. He wouldn't hurt you. Would he?

Now that you thought about it, you noticed that the room had fallen into silence. The only sound that reached your ears were your nails scraping against the floor as your hands picked up the pieces of your mishap.

You had done the one thing you were not supposed to do. You'd taken your eyes off of him. It was a mistake you hastened to correct, but when you looked up, you found his chair empty, his own mug discarded on the table, steam still rising from it.

Standing felt like the only logical thing. It would be easier to run that way, to press the button hidden on the bottom side of your desk that told the guards that there was an emergency, that you needed help. You only realized that it was too late when a hand landed on your shoulder.

Ronin turned you around with it, a motion that felt way too easy, like you were putty in his grasp. You felt your stomach drop, bile rising in your throat as if your body was protesting against the simple notion of it all. Not because he was hurting you. What unsettled you was that he had not done that. Not yet.

His free hand settled on your waist. His expression was so casual that you assumed that standing so close made perfect sense to him. Finally, you looked up far enough, into dark brown eyes that had caught your glance before you were given a single chance to grasp the situation.

"Careful, darlin'. Turning your back to a killer isn't smart, you know better."

He was scolding you. He was actually scolding you, the self-satisfied smirk on his lips too small for how much weight it carried. He looked. No? Did he? He looked disappointed. Like you had just committed a grave sin and he expected better of you. The irony of a serial killer scolding you about safety precautions was lost on you. His hands were warm, his hold on you gentle in a way that you had not accounted for.

You had a plan for violence, for force, but this? You did not know what to do with this. You shook your head, reminding yourself that you had to get out of this unharmed somehow. You had to get out of this without losing your job too, but that was a concern meant for a version of reality in which you survived this, which was still not certain.

"This- this is not appropriate. Let me go."

That earned you a chuckle, a deep sound that went straight through you, sending a chill down your body. Were you numb or feeling too much at once? You couldn't decide. Then again, you had time to figure it out later, or at least you hoped you did. You held his gaze, not backing down at the playful way he watched you. He was toying with you. Of course he was. He spoke before you had the chance to break free by yourself.

"You really think I'm going to let you down easy?

He paused. The silence stretching endlessly in the space of those few seconds.

"Say please."

Each word he said was a taunt, goosebumps rising on your skin with each syllable. When he kept on speaking, his tone dropped once more, turning into something you liked even less. You had read his file, knew how he was raised, knew what he had done. Your body was telling you to flee, to run, to call for help, but you knew better. It was a gamble, one you had to take to get out of this situation, one you would have liked to avoid.

Thinking was getting harder and harder, considering the fact that he was standing so close to you that each breath he took fanned over your face. Something he did on purpose, according to the way his eyebrows raised when you tried and failed to back away once more. You had no choice, that much was obvious, so you swallowed your pride, the word reluctantly slipping out of your mouth.

"Please."

He was laughing now, plain and bright as daylight itself. You were unsure if it was your tone, the slight delinquent hiss in it, or the mere fact that you had given in to him that delighted him so much. He took his time, but eventually he dropped his hands from you, fingertips grazing your hip and your neck in the process, resulting in a full-body shiver that you failed to conceal.

You started walking before your mind had thought the idea through. It was protocol, pure and unaltered autopilot. If there was anything out of the ordinary, press the button. The process drilled into your mind by hours upon hours of practice.

Your steps were uncertain at first, but when you were at a distance you deemed proper, they became quicker, fueled by the panic that lingered in the very marrow of your bones. You still allowed yourself a small sigh, relief flooding your system.

You had gotten out of one and, although you did not know that yet, navigated yourself right into the next crisis of the day. It was your second mistake of the day. Your hand pushed itself under the desk, fingers splaying on the wood, searching for purchase, for that godforsaken button. You couldn't find it.

Through all of it, you kept your eyes on Ronin, who was standing in the middle of the room. He had not moved an inch, hands resting in his pockets. His audacity never failed to unsettle you.

It allowed you to find it though, or at least it would have if you had been capable of doing so. Wood. Screws. Dust. You must have looked ridiculous, eyes wide as you realized that you could not reach it from where you were standing, and wider yet when you realized that Ronin had moved.

You took a step backwards, but the only thing your frail attempt to run did was bring forth pain as you backed yourself up directly into the desk.

No.

No, no, no.

You could still go around it. You tried to move once more, but your feet refused to oblige, planted on the floor with a force that mirrored glue. Freeze. Of course that had to be your survival state of choice right now. You almost wanted to laugh at your body's stupidity.

It would have been fruitless either way; his hands already planted themselves on the desk, caging you as he leaned in ever so slightly. His warmth surrounded you, although uninvited, and you were sure that you would have seen the satisfaction in his eyes if you had looked at him.

"Why are you doing this?"

You asked, eyes on the floor instead of him, your voice too shaky for your own good. Habits died hard, especially when they were your occupation. You weren't getting out of this for now, but you weren't ready to give up.

"Still so curious."

Ronin raised one of his hands to your chin, two fingers lifting it with the same gentleness they had used to hold you captive before. Although, if you were being honest to yourself, it did not feel gentle. It felt like a command. You were proven right when he was tired of waiting for a response from you.

"Look at me."

You did. What else could you have done? Risk actual violence? No, that wasn't an option. You raised your eyes to his face, your knees threatening to buckle. He was closer than before, so much so that you did not dare to breathe.

"Just tell me what you want."

You pleaded, your words tinged with fear that you no longer tried to hide. He did not like that. You could not find a trace of that dislike on his features, yet you felt it in the way his fingers twitched on your skin, gripping you harder before he stopped himself. It was strange. You thought he would have wanted to hurt you more instead of less.

Silence, you had noticed, was becoming your worst enemy in this situation. It gave you the illusion that you had time to think, just for him to break it like you had broken that cursed mug.

"Do you have to make thinking in the loudest possible way your whole personality?"

You were more insulted than scared, like your senses were slowly dropping survival as a concept, your limbs unlocking just enough for you to try a sidestep to get out of the cage he'd built for you with nothing but his body. It only resulted in his hand slipping from your chin to your throat. His fingers were wrapped around it, sinking into your skin just enough to sting. It pulled a gasp out of your mouth against your own will. Quiet, so quiet that it would have gone unnoticed to anyone but Ronin himself.

"Oh?"

Ronin was taunting you, tone dripping with mock surprise as he pushed himself closer to you. You had to bite your tongue or else you would have had trouble stifling the urge to kick him as his body pressed against yours, his eyes holding yours captive. It seemed like he did not know how to do anything but that.

"You like this, don't you, darlin'?"

You didn't. Of course you didn't. Did you? Your heart was racing, but that was a normal fear response. You stilled for a moment, remembering something. You had hands. You were trapped, yes, but your hands were not. Perhaps if you would do something, anything, he would let go for a moment?

You acted. It was a quick thing, a punch. A proper punch that you did not know you were capable of throwing. It landed on his nose, snapping the bone with an ugly cracking noise.

There was a pause, a small space that you used to recalibrate your mind, then a smile.

"See, the cat does have claws."

He wasn't smirking anymore. He was smiling, blood dripping from his nose and onto your face, looking every bit like the devil that he had once been, drawing the situation in hot streaks of red against your skin. It was a fracture in his usual demeanor. To him, this was all a game. One he intended on winning and then, in that small smile, you realized that if you wanted to leave this situation unharmed, you had to play it too.

He had been close the whole time, so it wasn't really an effort to do it, your hand rising once more, hesitantly threading into his hair. Waiting for him to react wasn't as time-consuming as you had anticipated, his lips twitching right back into a grin. You looked like you were entranced, that part was pretend, you had convinced yourself it was, high on adrenaline.

"I don't know what I'm doing."

A lie, a sweet lie that, to your surprise, sounded believable. You had taken acting classes in high school. Back then you were convinced it was a useless skill to pick up. Oh, how wrong you had been. His pupils were blown when he looked down at you, when he crossed that last inch of distance that separated the both of you.

Surprise ran through you almost immediately. There was no gentleness to it; he was all that he had not been before, pure, unaltered violence. When his teeth grazed your lip hard enough to draw blood, you learned that his previous gentleness was not by nature, but by restraint.

You felt the heat of his mouth before you had the time to register it properly, but it did not catch you quite as off guard this time; you were getting used to it. You allowed him to bite, allowed him to lick, to draw those strangled noises out of you that seemed to spur him on even more, your blood mixing with his on your tongue.

You swallowed the urge to gag at the taste. He drew back, his forehead resting against yours, breath ghosting over your lips, which were cold with the lingering reminder of blood and spit. If he looked for too long he would see it. You couldn't have that.

"Are you sure you don't know exactly what you're doing, darlin'?"

Panic rose in your chest once more, showing its ugly face, but you disguised it as something else. Shame, anticipation. You pushed yourself up, your ass planted on the desk, leaning back onto your now-free hands. The look in your eyes was not calculated; you could not show that, but daring. Curious, maybe a little helpless. It was designed to pull him in, and it did.

"I have an idea. That's true."

You were certain that he did not know what exactly your idea was. His hands grazed over the skin on your thighs, your lips parting as he slotted himself into the middle of them. He did not wait, his mouth already back on yours, your back hitting the desk with a dull thud. Perfect. You tried to keep your mind running; that alone was an effort you would have done well not to underestimate. You needed to keep it together now.

Still, you could not help but lean into him; apparently your instinct had decided that friction was more important than thinking for the moment. You sucked in a breath, the air in your lungs clearing the fog of heat that had encapsulated you. It was a slow movement, your hand bending painfully as it shifted to reach under the desk.

You could only hope that you would find it before Ronin found out what you were doing, and for this one time, your prayer was answered. Plastic, finally. A simple push was enough, the sound of the alarm sending Ronin backwards immediately.

You followed suit, your eyes on him, his own gaze meeting you in the middle. He was appraising you, like you were some sort of meat. A prized cut hanging in the butcher’s store. He was proud.

It did not take a full minute for the guards to barge in. You weren't looking at them. You were looking at the broken porcelain in Ronin's hand. The rest of it was a blur to you, the memories fleeing from your grasp each and every time you tried to recall it.