[fictionalmendepartment]

Hi, I'm Laney

Quick intro: Female, 21 years old, Australian, she/her

I write smutty, angsty, and fluffy fanfic about fictional men.

all works are male character x fem!reader.

requests are open

18+ only. minors do not interact.

read responsibly-or don’t. ;)

Masterlist

[puppydogwhitaker]

PSA to fic readers, it is so hard to freak a fic writer out with your comments. we are just as crazy about the fic as you are.

tell me you love it. tell me it made you slam your laptop shut. tell me you brought it up at your college lecture about kink. key smash in all caps. quote the passage that made you think. i promise, we’ll love it.

we spend hours thinking about it, writing it, editing it. there is no such thing as over enthusiasm when you’re talking about our fics to us. we are sooooo weird about them, i assure you. you are just matching my freak. the freak bar is already set so high. feel no anxiety about enjoying something and letting the creator know.

[mast3rbait3r]

RE-FUCKING-TWEET!!!!!!!!

[fictionalmendepartment]

More than Survive

Pairing: Chris Redfield x Female Reader

Summary: Chris is trained to survive hell. When he meets you it makes him start thinking about what comes after, and he realizes surviving means nothing if he loses you.

Warnings: Smut, Near-death, Protective Chris

WC: 3.5k

Notes: I wanna bite his muscles!

The first time you met Chris Redfield, you thought he might actually be made of stone, emotionally and physically.

"You're the new recruit," he said, flat but his handshake was firm, and professional. "We start at 0600 tomorrow. Don't be late." That was it. No welcome, no small talk, no acknowledgment that you'd be spending the next several months training under him. Just the facts, delivered in that low, gravelly voice that suggested he'd seen too much and said too little about it.

Your department head had called Chris "the best" when assigning you to him. What he hadn't mentioned was that the best was also the most impenetrable human being you'd ever encountered.

The first week was brutal. Chris ran you through drills that left your muscles screaming and your lungs burning. He corrected your form with clipped demand, demonstrated techniques with practiced ease, and never once cracked a smile. When you tried to make conversation during breaks, his responses were short and when you asked about his previous missions, he deflected.

"Focus on your training," he'd say. "My past doesn't matter." But you noticed things. The way his jaw tightened when you took a hit during sparring, like he was fighting the instinct to step in. How he always positioned himself between you and the door during briefings. The split second of pride in his eyes when you executed a maneuver correctly. 

Chris Redfield might be made of stone, but even stone could crack.

By the fourth week, you'd started to find those cracks.

"You're getting better," he said one morning after you'd successfully cleared a training scenario. Coming from Chris, it felt like high praise.

"Thanks to you," you replied, catching your breath. "Though I'm pretty sure you enjoy watching me struggle."

The corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. "If I enjoyed your suffering, I wouldn't be correcting you."

"So you correct me because you care?" You were teasing, but something shifted in his expression.

"I correct you because mistakes get people killed." His voice was rough, but not unkind. "And I don't-" He stopped himself, shaking his head. "Just keep your guard up."

You wanted to ask what he'd been about to say, but he was already walking away.

During a night training exercise, you mentioned how you'd missed your sister's birthday because of the schedule, not as a dig, just a comment. Chris was quiet for a long moment, then said, "I missed my sister's wedding. For a mission." His voice was distant. "She understood, but... some things you don't get back. That’s the job." It was the most personal thing he'd ever shared.

"Do you regret it?" you asked carefully.

"I regret a lot of things." He glanced at you, something unreadable in his eyes. "Trying to regret less these days."

Another time, after a particularly grueling day, you found him in the gym long after hours, pounding away at a heavy bag with methodical precision. You should have left him alone, but something about the set of his shoulders made you stay.

"Can't sleep?" you asked.

He didn't stop punching. "Nope. Not much these days..." He trailed off, landing a particularly vicious hit. "Doesn't matter."

"It matters if it keeps you up at night."

Chris finally stopped, breathing hard, his knuckles red. "You should get some rest. We have an early start."

"So should you."

"I will." But you both knew he wouldn't.

You walked over, close enough to see the exhaustion etched into his features, the weight he carried in the tension of his shoulders. "Chris–"

"I'm fine." His voice was softer than usual.

"You don't have to be. Not all the time." Something in his expression cracked, just for a moment. Then he looked away, jaw tight.

"Get some sleep. That's an order." You left, but the image of him standing there–alone, and tired–stayed with you.

The weeks blurred together. Training became second nature, but more than that, being around Chris became easy. He started asking about your life before the department, actually listening when you answered. You learned he took his coffee black, that he had a dry sense of humor hidden under all that stoicism, that he noticed everything about everyone but rarely talked about himself.

One evening, after a successful training op, you caught him almost smiling.

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing. You did good today. Really good."

"High praise from Chris Redfield."

"I mean it." His voice dropped, serious now. "You're ready for the real thing."

"You think so?" Something warm bloomed in your chest. 

"I know so." He held your gaze for a moment. "I wouldn't let you out there if I didn't trust you."

Trust. From Chris…wow

"I trust you too," you said quietly.

His expression shifted to something that looked almost like hope. He opened his mouth, seemed to think better of it, then said, "Good. That's... good."

The moment stretched, then Chris cleared his throat, stepping back. "Same time tomorrow."

"Same time tomorrow," you echoed.

The mission briefing was straightforward. Intel gathering, minimal contact expected, in and out. Chris was confident as he walked you through the plan, his tactical mind sharp and focused.

"Stay close, follow my lead, and you'll be fine," he said. “This is what you've trained for."

"I'm ready." And you were. With Chris beside you, you felt ready for anything.

He nodded, then hesitated. "Listen, I know I've been hard on you. But it's because…" He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You're good at this. Really good. And I need you to know that."

The mission started smoothly. You moved through the facility with practiced precision, Chris a solid presence at your back. He communicated in low murmurs, his hand occasionally touching your shoulder to guide you. Professional, but there was a protectiveness to it that made you feel safe.

"Clear," you whispered, checking the next corridor.

"Good. Two more rooms and we–"

The explosion cut him off.

The world turned into fire and noise and chaos. You were thrown backward, slamming into concrete. Pain erupted through your side, sharp and overwhelming. Somewhere through the ringing in your ears, you heard Chris shout your name.

Then he was there, hands on you, checking you over. His face flashed with panic.

"Stay with me," he was saying, over and over. "Stay with me, come on–"

You tried to speak, but blood dribbled from your mouth. The pain in your side was spreading, hot and fast. You looked down and saw red, so much red.

"No, no, no–" Chris's hands pressed against your side, trying to stop the bleeding. "You're okay, you're going to be okay, just stay with me–"

"Chris–" Your voice was weak. "The mission."

"Fuck the mission." His voice cracked. "I'm not losing you. Do you hear me?" He choked on the words, and you realized with distant shock that Chris Redfield was upset. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to– God, please, just hold on–"

Your vision was blurring. "I'm sorry–"

"Don't you dare apologize." His hand cupped your face, desperate. "This is my fault, I should have– I should have checked, or–" His voice broke completely. "I can't do this without you. Do you understand? I can't– these past months, you've made me feel like maybe there's something worth living for beyond just surviving, and I can't lose that, I can't lose you."

You wanted to tell him you felt the same way. That somewhere between the training sessions and the late-night conversations and the way he looked at you when he thought you weren't watching, you'd fallen completely in love with him. But the words wouldn't come.

"Stay awake," Chris begged. "Please, Darling."

Darling. He'd never called you that before. You tried to smile, to tell him it was okay, but darkness was pulling at you.

"No!" His voice was raw. "Don't close your eyes, look at me, stay with me. I’ll get you out of here. Come on!"

You heard him calling for evac, his voice sharp with command even as his hands shook against your skin. Felt him lift you, cradling you against his chest as he carried you out. His heartbeat thundered against your ear, fast and terrified.

"I've got you," he kept saying. "I've got you, just hold on."

You woke to white walls and the steady beep of monitors. Your side ached, but it was distant, numbed by medication. For a moment, you couldn't remember where you were or what had happened.

Then you heard his voice.

"Hey." Chris was beside your bed, leaning forward in his chair like he'd been there for hours. He looked exhausted–dark circles under his eyes, his hair disheveled but his eyes showed relief. "Welcome back."

"Chris–" Your voice came out raspy.

"Don't try to talk." He reached for the water cup, cradling the back of your head, and helping you take small sips. "You're okay. You're–" His voice caught. "You're alive."

The memories came flooding back. The explosion. The blood. Chris's desperate voice as he held you.

"The mission?"

"Doesn't matter." His jaw was tight. "All that matters is you're here."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since they brought you in." He rubbed his face. "They tried to make me leave, but I..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I couldn't. I thought I lost you." The words came out rough, broken. "When I saw you lying there, all that blood." He stopped, swallowing hard. "I've lost a lot of people. Too many. But the thought of losing you?" He looked away, jaw working “Something changed."

"I'm okay. I'm right here." Your heart ached.

"I know." But his hand found yours, gripping tight like he needed to feel you were real. You wanted to say more, but you were so tired. Chris seemed to sense it.

"Sleep," he said softly. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Promise?"

"Promise." You drifted off to the sound of his breathing, his hand warm in yours.

Chris kept his promise. When you woke up, he was there, and the next time and the time after that.

He came every day, sometimes twice a day, fitting his visits around debriefings and paperwork. He brought you books, terrible hospital coffee that he claimed was "better than nothing," and stories about the team's latest training rounds to keep you up to date. He helped you sit up when the nurses weren't around, adjusted your pillows, and pretended not to notice when you winced in pain.

"You don't have to keep coming," you said one afternoon, though you desperately hoped he would.

"I know." He was sitting in his usual chair, close enough to touch. "I want to."

"Chris…”

"Let me do this." His voice was quiet but firm. "Please, I need to know you're okay."

So you let him stay and slowly, in those hours, the walls between you crumbled completely.

He told you about his past, about the nightmares that still woke him up. About his sister Claire, and how he worried about her constantly. About the years of missions that had left him feeling more like a weapon than a person.

"I forgot what it was like to want something beyond the next mission. To think about the future as something other than just... surviving until tomorrow." He admitted one evening, his voice low.

"And now?" you asked softly.

His eyes met yours. "Now I can't stop thinking about it, about what comes after." He paused, then reached out, his fingers brushing your hand. "About you." Your breath caught. "I know the timing is shit." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "You're in a hospital bed because I failed to protect you."

"You saved my life." You cut in quickly.

"After I nearly got you killed." His voice was rough with guilt. "I should have taken the lead, been in front of you, taken the hit."

"Stop." You squeezed his hand. "You couldn't have known and you got me out. You chose me over the mission."

"Of course I did." He said it like it was obvious, like there had never been any other choice. "You think I give a damn about some intel when you're bleeding out in my arms?"

The memory of his voice, desperate and broken, echoed in your mind. The things he'd said while you were dying. "When you were getting me out... I heard you."

He went very still. "What?"

"I heard what you said." Your heart was pounding. "About not being able to do this without me. About me making you feel like there's something worth living for."

He looked nervous, an expression you didn’t think he could show. "You weren't supposed to, you were unconscious."

"Not completely." You held his gaze. "Did you mean it?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then he stood abruptly, pacing to the window. His shoulders were tense, his hands clenched at his sides.

"Chris–"

"Of course I meant it. Every word. But you were dying, and I was terrified." He turned to face you. "I've spent years keeping people at arm's length. Telling myself it was safer that way, that caring about someone was just another liability. And then you showed up, and you just–" He made a helpless gesture. "You broke through every defense I had but I'm in love with you." The words came out fierce, almost angry. "I'm completely in love with you, and I don't know what to do with that because everyone I love ends up hurt or dead" His voice cracked. "And I can't lose you."

"Come here." You softly plead. “Please” He hesitated, then crossed back to your bed. You reached for his hand, pulling him closer. "Say it again," you whispered. "Please."

"I love you." His voice was softer now, reverent.

"I love you too." The words felt sweet.

His eyebrows furrowed like he didn’t believe it. "I love you," you repeated. "Even when you were being impossible and stoic and refusing to let me in. Especially then."

"I don't deserve–"

"Stop." You tugged his hand, pulling him down until he was sitting on the edge of your bed. "You deserve everything, Chris. You deserve to be happy. To have something beyond just surviving."

He looked at you like you were something precious, something he was afraid to break. "I don't know how to do this. I'm not good at this."

"Neither am I." You smiled. "We'll figure it out together."

"Together" He carefully leaned in and pressed his forehead to yours.

You brought your free hand up to cup his face, feeling the stubble rough against your palm. "I'm right here."

He then kissed you. Gentle at first, mindful of your injuries, but deepening when you made a soft sound of need. His hand came up to cradle your face, thumb stroking your cheek, and you felt the tremor in his touch–the fear and relief and love all tangled together.

When he pulled back, his eyes were bright. "I should let you rest—"

"Stay." You caught his shirt. So he did, carefully arranging himself beside you on the narrow bed, his arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest. His heartbeat was steady under your ear, strong and alive.

"I'm not going anywhere," he murmured into your hair. You fell asleep like that, wrapped in his warmth, finally safe.

The doctors cleared you for discharge two weeks later, with strict orders for rest and physical therapy. Chris insisted on taking you back to your apartment, carrying your bag, and getting you settled in, despite your protests.

"I was discharged cause I can handle myself, you know," you said as he unlocked your door.

"I know." He held the door open for you. "Humor me." 

Your apartment felt strange after so long in the hospital. Chris helped you settle on the couch, then hovered uncertainly.

"I should put these down, get you water, and let you rest–"

You tap the spot on the couch beside you. He sat beside you, close enough that your thighs touched. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't." You shifted closer, ignoring the twinge in your side. "I'm not that fragile."

"You were shot and nearly bled out." His voice was tight. "You're definitely fragile right now."

"Then be gentle." You laugh softly, looking up at him through your lashes. "I trust you."

"You shouldn't say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because I've been going crazy." His voice dropped, rough and low. "Sitting in that hospital room, watching you sleep, wanting to touch you and knowing I couldn't. Wanting to… God" He stopped himself, jaw tight.

"Wanting to what?" Your heart was racing.

His eyes met yours, dark with want. "Everything. I want everything with you."

"Then take it." You leaned in, your lips brushing his jaw. "I'm yours, Chris."

He made a low sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl. "You're injured–"

"I'm healing." You kissed the corner of his mouth. "And I need you. Please."

"Fuck" He turned his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that was nothing like the gentle one in the hospital. This was hungry, desperate, full of weeks of pent-up need. His hand slid into your hair, angling your head so he could deepen the kiss, and you melted into him. When he pulled back, you were both breathing hard.

"Bedroom," you managed. "Now."

He stood, then carefully lifted you into his arms. "Tell me if anything hurts." He carried you to the bedroom, laying you down on the bed with care. For a moment, he just looked at yu.

"You're so beautiful," he said quietly. "And I'm so lucky you're alive." He knelt beside the bed, his hands gentle as they found the hem of your shirt. "Let me take care of you. Please."

You nodded, and he slowly, carefully, helped you out of your clothes. His touch was worshipful, his fingers tracing over your skin like he was memorizing every inch. When he reached the bandage on your side, he paused, his jaw tight.

"Stop talking and touch me."

A rough laugh escaped him. "Bossy."

"You like it."

"I do." He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding over your skin. "I really do."

He undressed slowly and God, he was beautiful–all hard muscle and scars, a map of every battle he'd survived. You reached out, tracing the line of a particularly nasty scar on his shoulder.

"From Edonia" he said quietly.

You leaned forward,despite the pain,  pressing a kiss to the scar. You looked up at him. "I want to learn every part of you."

"Later." His voice was strained. "Right now I need you. I need to feel you alive and whole and mine."

You lay back, opening your arms. "I'm yours."

He settled over you, careful of your injury, his weight a welcome pressure. "Tell me if anything hurts."

"I will. Now please, Chris–"

He kissed you as he pushed inside, slow and careful, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was perfect, the fullness exactly what you needed. When he was fully seated, he paused, his forehead pressed to yours.

"Okay?" he asked, his voice strained.

"Perfect." You wrapped your legs around his hips, careful of your side. "Move. Please move."

He did, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had you gasping. His hands were everywhere–in your hair, on your face, sliding down to grip your hip. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were air, like he couldn't get close enough.

"I love you," he breathed against your lips."

"I love you too." Your hands slid up his back, feeling the flex of muscle as he moved. "Chris, please–"

He understood, shifting the angle until he was hitting that perfect spot inside you.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let go, baby. I've got you."

You came with his name on your lips, your body clenching around him. He followed moments later, burying his face in your neck as he shuddered through his release.

For a long moment, you just held each other, breathing hard. Then Chris carefully withdrew, pressing gentle kisses to your face.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, concern in his voice.

"No." You smiled up at him. "That was perfect. You're perfect."

"I'm really not." But he was smiling too, soft and genuine. He settled beside you, pulling you carefully into his arms. "I meant what I said in the hospital, and just now. I love you. And I'm not going anywhere."

"Good." You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Because I'm not letting you go."

His arms tightened around you. "Never thought I'd have this. Someone to come home to. Someone who makes me want to come home."

"You have it now." You looked up at him. "You have me. For as long as you want me." Outside, the world continued on–missions, dangers and uncertainties. But here, in this moment, wrapped in Chris's arms, you felt safe.

Chris Redfield had spent years learning how to survive. But with you, he was finally learning how to live, and that, you both knew, was worth more than anything.

[fictionalmendepartment]

Smut thoughts:

I wanna write for Ogilvie but torn between him being all nerdy, talking about each part of the human body while he drags your hands over his body/his hands over yours OR him coming home from his first day and you taking care of him, taking the lead (which basically never happens) and he gets super turned on and you basically numb him from the days events.

[fictionalmendepartment]

Every Second Matters

Pairing Jack Abbot x Female Reader

Summary: Between ED handoffs, bad coffee, and sleepless nights, you slowly become each other’s safe place. Then an accident changes everything, forcing them to stop pretending their connection is just friendship.

WC: 4.1k

Warnings: Angst, car crash, love confession

Notes: Not proofread!

The first time you met Jack Abbot, you were covered in someone else's blood and running on pure adrenaline from being on your first shift. You'd wheeled in a stabbing victim at 2 AM, rattling off vitals while he listened. He'd taken your handoff with efficient questions, his hands already moving to assess the patient before you'd finished speaking.

"Good work keeping him stable," he'd said, and that was it. Professional. Courteous. Forgettable.

Except you didn't forget.

About three weeks later, after seeing eachother only a couple of times, he'd remembered your name. You'd brought in a cardiac arrest, and after the patient had been stabilized and wheeled to the ICU Jack had found you in the hallway. "Coffee?" he'd offered, nodding toward the break room. "You look like you could use it."

You'd talked for twenty minutes about nothing important. The weather. The hospital's terrible coffee. How you'd both ended up where you were. His voice was lower when he wasn't barking orders, almost gentle, and when he smiled it transformed his entire face to something soft.

After that, it became a pattern.

Not every handoff, but enough. Enough that you started noticing things. Enough that you'd feel a small flutter of anticipation when you would head to Pittsburgh ??? instead of one of the other hospitals. Enough that you began timing your breaks differently, or lingering in the ambulance bay an extra few minutes, hoping.

He did the same. You were sure of it.

There were the conversations that stretched longer than they should have-late nights when the ER had a rare lull and you'd brought in a patient with minor injuries. You'd find reasons to stay, finishing paperwork a tad slowler while Jack charted nearby. He'd ask about your day, and you'd tell him about the elderly woman who'd insisted on bringing her cat in the ambulance, or the kid who'd wanted to keep the syringe as a souvenir. He'd share his own stories-the regular patients he knew by name, the impossible saves, the ones that still haunted him.

"Why emergency medicine?" you'd asked him once, both of you leaning against the nurses' station at three in the morning.

He'd considered the question seriously, the way he seemed to consider everything. "Because it matters," he'd said finally. "Every second matters. Every decision. There's no time for doubt or second-guessing. You just... act. Save who you can." He'd looked at you then, really looked at you. "I think you understand that."

You did.

There were the glances-the ones that lasted a beat too long, that carried weight you were both too careful to acknowledge. The way his eyes would find yours across the ER when you brought in a patient, that moment of connection before professionalism took over. The way your heart would skip when you heard his voice on the other side of the trauma bay doors.

There was the night he'd walked with you back to the ambulance bay after a particularly brutal shift. You'd lost a patient-a teenager, a car accident, nothing anyone could have done-and you'd been holding it together by sheer force of will. Jack had seen it in your face.

"You did everything right," he'd said quietly, standing in the amber glow of the parking lot lights. "Sometimes everything right still isn't enough."

"I know," you'd whispered, and your voice had cracked on those two words.

He'd reached out then, his hand hovering near your shoulder before settling there, warm and solid. "It never gets easier. But you learn to carry it." His thumb had brushed against your collarbone, just once, so brief you might have imagined it. "You're good at this. Don't let the hard nights make you forget that."

You'd wanted to lean into him. Wanted to close the distance between you and let yourself be held. Instead, you'd nodded, stepped back, thanked him. The moment had passed, but it had changed something.

After that, the awareness between you became almost unbearable. Every handoff felt charged. Every accidental brush of hands when passing off a patient chart sent electricity up your spine. You caught him watching you sometimes, his expression unguarded for just a second before he'd look away.

Your partner, Marcus, had noticed. "You and Dr. Abbot," he'd said one night, waggling his eyebrows. "There's something there."

"We're just friendly," you'd protested, but even you didn't believe it.

"Right," Marcus had laughed. "And I'm just friendly with my wife."

You'd wanted to ask Jack out a hundred times. The words had formed in your mouth during those late-night conversations, during the quiet moments when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world felt very far away. But something always stopped you-fear, maybe, or professionalism, or the terrifying possibility that you'd misread everything and he didn't feel the same way.

Except you knew he did. You could see it in the way he smiled when you walked through the doors. In the way he always made time to talk to you, even on his busiest nights. In the careful way he never quite touched you, as if he didn't trust himself to stop at casual.

You were both dancing around something inevitable, and you'd started to think that maybe, soon, one of you would finally be brave enough to name it.

The calls so far had been routine. Nothing dramatic. Nothing dangerous. Just another Tuesday night on the job.

You were heading to your next call-73 year old man with chest problems. Marcus was driving, and you were in the passenger seat, communicating with dispatch for additional information.

"Think we'll get a break tonight?" Marcus asked, glancing at you briefly before returning his attention to the road.

"Probably not," you'd replied with a tired smile. "But I can hope."

The intersection ahead had a green light. Marcus proceeded through it at a normal speed. That's when you heard it-the high-pitched squeal of tires, the sound of an engine revving at full throttle.

Your head snapped up just in time to see the headlights. A truck, running the red light at full speed, aimed directly at the ambulance's passenger side.

"Marcus-!" you'd started to shout, but there was no time. No time to warn him, no time to brace, no time for anything.

The impact was catastrophic.

The world exploded into sound and motion and pain. Metal making a horrific sound as it crumpled. Glass shattered. Your body was thrown sideways with brutal force, the seatbelt cutting into your chest as it tried to hold you in place. Your head snapped with the force, and darkness stole your vision.

The ambulance spun, tires screeching against asphalt. You heard Marcus shout something you couldn't make out over the chaos. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, everything went still.

For a moment, there was only silence and the sound of your own ragged breathing. Pain radiated through your side-your ribs, your shoulder, your hip where the door had crumpled inward.

"You okay?" Marcus's voice was shaky, urgent. He was already unbuckling his seatbelt, turning to look at you.

You tried to answer, but when you took a breath, deep pain spread through your chest. Broken ribs. Definitely broken ribs.

"I'm-" you started, but the world was already tilting, spinning. Your vision blurred at the edges.

"Hey, hey, stay with me," Marcus said, reaching over to grip your shoulder. "Don't move. I'm calling for help." But you could barely hear him. The pain was overwhelming.

The darkness was pulling at you, insistent and heavy. You tried to fight it, tried to stay conscious, but your body wasn't listening anymore. The last thing you heard was Marcus's voice, tight with fear, radioing for help.

Ypu heard muffled voices. You tried to open your eyes, but everything was heavy. The pitchy sirens were enough to comfort you, you are already in good hands. You'd heard that sound a thousand times from the other side. Never thought you'd hear it like this. Pain radiated through your left side, sharp and consuming. You tried to speak, but only a moan escaped.

"Hey, hey, stay with me." Colton, another paramedic you've worked with, came into view above you, his expression tight with fear. "You're okay, you're going to be okay. We're almost there."

"Stay awake," He urged, his hand gripping yours. "Come on, talk to me. Marcus was telling me about your friendliness with Jack, huh?" You felt like laughing, of course Marcus was airing out your business.

Jack was suturing a laceration in Bay 3 when the speaker crackled to life.

"PTMC, inbound with a priority one trauma-"

He only half-listened at first, focused on the neat, precise stitches he was placing. Trauma calls were routine. The ER was built for this.

"female, early twenties, MVA, ETA 4 minutes"

Lena, the charge nurse, calls out loudly. "The trauma is a paramedic, truck crashed into their ambulance." It made Jacks hands still, like the patient in front of him was no longer there.

"Jack?" One of the nurses was looking at him with concern. "Dr. Abbot?"

He couldn't breathe. For one terrible moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stand frozen while his mind screamed denial.

Not you.

"Dr. Abbot?" The nurse's voice was sharper now. He responds this time, handing his job of to one of the nurses.

Jack forced air into his lungs. Years of training, of discipline, of learning to function in crisis leading to moments like this.

"Trauma One," he said, and his voice only shook slightly. "Ellis, Henderson, Diaz with me!"

He was moving before he'd finished speaking, his body on autopilot while his mind raced. Four minutes. You'd be here in four minutes, and he needed to be ready. Needed to be the doctor you needed, not the man who'd been falling in love with you for months.

The ambulance bay doors burst open and Jack's world narrowed to a single point: your face, pale and streaked with blood, oxygen mask fogged with shallow breaths.

"Trauma One!" he barked, and the team moved as one, the gurney rolling fast through the corridor.

"Talk to me," Jack said, and his voice was steady, clinical, betraying nothing of the ice water in his veins.

"T-bone impact on her side of the ambulance," Colton reported, his words tumbling out fast. "Vehicle ran a red light at full speed—she took the impact directly. Brief LOC at the scene. She was conscious in the rig. BP's been trending down despite fluids-"

They crashed through the doors of Trauma One and transferred you to the bed in one smooth motion. Jack's hands were already moving, assessing, even as his mind screamed at the wrongness of this-of you lying broken and bleeding under the harsh lights, of your blood on his gloves.

"Pupils?" he demanded.

"Equal and reactive," one of the nurses reported.

"Get me a chest X-ray, FAST exam, and someone call CT-" Jack's hands moved over your ribs, feeling for the telltale crunch of fractures, or the asymmetry of a collapsed lung.

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused and confused. They found his face.

"Jack?" Your voice was barely a whisper, slurred. "Jack, it hurts-" Something cracked in his chest. He wanted to take your hand, wanted to smooth the blood-matted hair back from your face, wanted to tell you that you were going to be fine, that he had you, that he wouldn't let anything happen to you.

Instead, he said, "I know. We're going to fix it. I need you to stay still for me." Professional. Detached. Like you were any other patient. Except his hands were shaking as he prepped the chest tube insertion site, and he had to take a breath to steady them. Ellis was watching him with concern.

"Jack, I can take this if you need-"

"I've got it." The words came out harder than he'd intended. He forced himself to soften. "I've got it."He made the incision, and pushed the tube through. "Better breath sounds."

Jack allowed himself one second of relief before moving on. "FAST exam-I need to know if she's bleeding internally."

The ultrasound probe moved over your abdomen while Jack watched the screen with intensity.

"She's bleeding," he said flatly. "Page surgery. Tell them we need an OR now."

"BP's still dropping," a nurse called out.

"Hang another unit of O-neg and push fluids wide open." Jack's mind was racing through protocols, through options, and everything he knew about trauma surgery. Your hand moved, reaching for something. Reaching for him.

He caught it without thinking, his fingers closing around yours. Your skin was cold, clammy. Shock.

"Jack." Your eyes were clearer now, focused on his face with an intensity that made his heart stutter. "Am I dying?"

"No." The word came out fierce, absolute. "No, you're not dying. I won't let you." It was unprofessional. It was a promise he had no right to make but he meant it with every fiber of his being.

"OR's ready," someone said. "We can take her up"

Jack should have let go of your hand. Should have stepped back, let the surgical team take over. Instead, he held on for one more second, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

"I'll be here when you wake up," he said quietly, just for you. "I promise."

Your eyes drifted closed, and they were wheeling you away, and Jack was left standing in Trauma One with your blood on his hands and his heart in his throat.

Parker touched his shoulder gently. "Jack. You okay?"

He looked down at his hands-steady now, but stained red. "I need a minute," he said distantly.

"Jack-"

"I'm fine."

The surgery took three hours.

Jack spent all of them keeping himself busy but alone, his mind a relentless loop of what-ifs and regrets. He had commanded to be told when you were out of surgery. He'd wanted to tell you so many times-during those late-night conversations, when you'd laughed and made his chest ache, when you'd looked at him and mirrored what he felt.

When the surgeon finally came down to the ED, Jack was on in front of him immediaitley.

"She's stable," Dr. Reeves said, and Jack's knees nearly buckled with relief. "Ruptured spleen, Liver lac, and multiple rib fractures. No brain bleed on CT, just a concussion. She was lucky."

Lucky. A vehicle had run a red light and T-boned the ambulance, and you'd survived it.

"Can I see her?" Jack asked.

"She's in recovery. We'll move her to ICU shortly, you can sit with her." Reeves paused, his expression knowing, this was more than just care for a patient. "You did good work down here, Jack. You saved her life."

They moved you to the ICU an hour later. Jack pulled a chair to your bedside and sat, finally allowing himself to really look at you.Your face was bruised, a line of stitches across your forehead where you'd been cut. But you were alive. You were breathing.

Jack reached out with a trembling hand and brushed a strand of hair back from your face, his touch feather-light. He'd wanted to do this in the trauma bay, when you'd been bleeding and broken. He'd wanted to do it a hundred times during those late-night conversations in the ER.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner." His voice broke. He pressed his fingers to his eyes, trying to hold back the wave of emotion that threatened to overwhelm him. He'd held it together through the trauma, through the surgery, through all of it. But now, in the quiet of the ICU with only the steady beep of your heart monitor for company, his control finally shattered.

His shoulders shook with silent sobs. He'd almost lost you. He'd almost lost you without ever telling you that those late-night conversations were the best part of his day. That he'd started taking extra shifts just for the chance of seeing you. That somewhere between the first handoff and tonight, he'd fallen completely in love with you.

He didn't know how long he sat there, your hand in his, his forehead resting against the bed rail. But eventually, the storm passed, leaving him wrung out and exhausted.

"You have to wake up," he said softly. "You have to wake up so I can tell you everything. So I can tell you that I-"

Your fingers twitched in his.

Jack's head snapped up, his heart suddenly racing. "Hey," he said urgently, leaning closer. "Hey, can you hear me?"

Your eyes moved beneath your closed lids. Your hand squeezed his, just slightly.

"That's it," Jack encouraged, his voice rough with emotion. "Come on, come back to me." Slowly your eyes fluttered open.

Everything came back in pieces. Beeping of the heart monitor. Pain aching throughout your body. Warmth, someone holding your hand.

You forced your eyes open, The room came into focus slowly—white walls, medical equipment, the familiar setup of an ICU room. And Jack.

He was leaning over you, his face inches from yours, his dark eyes red-rimmed and intense. His hair was disheveled, his scrubs wrinkled and stained. He looked like he'd been through hell.

"Jack?" Your voice came out as a croak, your throat raw.

"I'm here." His hand tightened around yours, his other hand coming up to cup your face with infinite gentleness. "I'm right here. You're okay. You're going to be okay."

Memories filtered back slowly. The lights, the crash, the ambulance. Jack's face above you in the trauma bay, his voice steady even as his hands shook.

"You saved me," you whispered.

"You scared the hell out of me," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. You'd never heard Jack's voice crack before. You'd never seen him anything less than composed, controlled, professional.

"I'm sorry," you said, though you weren't sure what you were apologizing for.

"Don't." He shook his head, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. "Don't apologize. Just-God, when it was radioed in, when I realized it was you-"

He stopped, his jaw clenching as he fought for control. You could see him trying to pull himself together, trying to rebuild the professional walls he always kept so carefully in place.

"Jack," you said softly.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and something in his expression made your heart skip.

"I thought I'd lost you," he whispered. "I thought I'd lost you before I ever-"

He stopped again, but this time you understood. This time you saw it clearly in his face, in the way he was holding your hand like a lifeline, in the tears he was trying so hard not to shed.

"Tell me," you said. Your voice was weak, but your eyes held his. "Whatever you were going to say. Tell me."

"I can't do this anymore," he said, and his voice was raw, stripped of all pretense. "I can't keep pretending that you're just another paramedic. That those conversations we have don't mean everything to me. That I don't look for you every time the ambulance bay doors open."

Your eyes widened, but you didn't speak. Just listened, your hand still in his.

"I've been falling for you for months," Jack continued, the words spilling out now that he'd started. "Maybe since that first night when you stayed late and we talked about why we do this job. Maybe before that. I don't know. But somewhere along the way, you stopped being just a colleague and became-"

He stopped, swallowed hard. "You became the person I think about when I wake up. The person I hope to see during my shift. The person I-" His voice broke. " I can't imagine my life without."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Jack reached up to brush it away with his thumb.

"When you came through those doors tonight," he said, "when I saw you on that gurney, bleeding and in pain, I've never been so terrified in my life. I've treated hundreds of trauma patients. Thousands. But none of them were you. None of them were-"

He stopped, the words catching in his throat. He'd said so much already, but these words felt too big, too important.

"What?" you prompted softly.

Jack met your eyes, and in them he saw everything he'd been too afraid to hope for-understanding, acceptance, and something that looked a lot like love.

"Someone I love," he said simply. "I love you. I've loved you for months, and I was too much of a coward to say it. I kept telling myself it was too complicated, that we should keep things professional, that I didn't want to risk what we had. But tonight, when I thought I might lose you. I realized that the only thing I'd regret is not telling you," he finished quietly. "Not telling you that you're the best part of my day. That I'm a better doctor, a better person, because of you. That I don't want to spend another day pretending I don't feel this way."

Tears rolled down your bruised face. Jack started to pull back, worried he'd upset you, but your hand tightened around his.

"Jack," you said, and your voice was thick with emotion. "I've been waiting for you to say that for months."

His heart stopped. "What?"

A pained laugh escaped you. "I thought I was going crazy. All those late-night conversations, all those looks, I kept thinking maybe I was imagining it. That maybe you were just being nice, just being professional. But I felt it too."

"You did?" Jack's voice was barely a whisper.

"I was going to ask you out," you said. "After my shift tonight. I'd finally worked up the courage. I was going to ask if you wanted to get coffee. Real coffee, not hospital coffee. Maybe dinner." You smiled through your tears. "I had this whole messy ramble of a speech planned."

Jack let out a sound that was half a laugh, with a sniffle. "I've been trying to ask you out for three months. I must have started that conversation a dozen times."

"We're idiots," you said.

"Complete idiots," Jack agreed. He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I'm sorry it took almost losing you for me to be brave enough to say it."

"I'm sorry I got hit by a truck before I could ask you to dinner," you countered.

That startled a real laugh out of him, and suddenly you were both laughing and crying, the emotion of the night spilling over into something that felt like relief, like joy, like coming home.

"So," you said when you'd both calmed down, your eyes bright despite the exhaustion in your face. "When I get out of here... will you go to dinner with me?"

Jack's smile was radiant, transforming his whole face. "I'll go anywhere with you," he said. "Dinner, coffee, the hospital cafeteria. As long as I'm with you."

"The hospital cafeteria is really setting the bar high," you teased weakly.

"I'll take you somewhere better than the cafeteria," Jack promised. "Somewhere nice. Somewhere worthy of a first date that's been months in the making."

"It's a date," you said, and even though you were lying in an ICU bed, bruised and stitched and recovering from surgery, you'd never felt happier.

Jack lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles. "It's a date," he echoed. Then, more seriously: "But first, you need to rest. You need to heal. And I'm going to be right here the whole time."

"You don't have to-"

"I want to," he interrupted firmly. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm not on tonight." Your eyes were already drifting closed, exhaustion pulling at you. But you managed to squeeze his hand one more time. "Sleep," Jack said softly, his hand still cradling yours. "I'll be here when you wake up."

As you drifted off, you felt his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of your hand, and you heard him whisper, "I love you.." You wanted to tell him you loved him too, but sleep was already pulling you under. It was okay, though. You'd have time to tell him. You'd have all the time in the world.

[fictionalmendepartment]

Post DDBA Dex working under your father (president daughter or something), just bratty and manipulative. He just ignores most of it, finding it slightly entertaining. When you get physical for the first time hitting/punching him it turns him on and he dicks you down SO GOOD!

[fictionalmendepartment]

Say You’ll Come Home

Pairing: Leon Kennedy x Female Reader

Summary: Request (I accidentally deleted it) - Domestic bliss and pampering him when the kids go to school

WC: 5k

Warnings: Smut (Oral-m&f recieving / P in V / Anal fingering-f recieving)

Night settles deep over the house, wrapping everything in a kind of quiet that almost felt too still for the life you lived.

The kids are already asleep–doors cracked open, soft breaths filling their shared room, and the occasional murmur. You’d checked on them not long ago, lingering in the doorway a little longer than usual.

Now you’re curled up on the couch in the lounge, tucked into Leon's side. His arm wrapped securely around you, your head resting against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. The TV plays quietly in the background–some late-night rerun neither of you are really paying attention to. You soak it in.

Leon’s fingers trace slowly along your arm. There’s a heaviness in him tonight–something deeper than usual. You’ve felt it all evening.

You readjust yourself, sitting up slightly, and can't help when your eyes drift to his neck.

The dark, dry, bruise-like mark.

It peeks just above the collar of his pj shirt. You’ve memorised it without meaning to–the shape of it, the way it spreads. The way it's become worse with each day makes your chest tighten, but you don’t say anything. You just shift a little closer into him instead, your hand resting lightly against his stomach. 

After a few moments your peace is disrupted. 

His phone rings.

The sound cuts through the quiet. Leon freezes instantly–his chest tightening as his fingers stop moving against your arm. The number flashes on the screen sitting on the coffee table, the sharp glow lighting up the room. He already knows who it is, not moving at first. 

Leon exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself, before shifting just enough to reach for the phone. His arm slips from around you, the warmth leaving with it. He answers, bringing the phone to his ear. “Kennedy.”

You push yourself up slightly, watching and listening.

“Another?” he questions. Your chest tightens. Silence stretches on his end, his expression going still, eyes focused but distant. “Yeah. I’ll be there.” And then the call ends.

“Same thing?” you ask, even though you already know the answer.

Leon glances at you, just briefly, then nods. “Yeah, Same signs.”

Raccoon City Syndrome. You hate the name–it doesn’t even come close to what it actually is.. You hate what it’s doing, and what it’s already done, but most of all you're terrified of what it can still do, what it can take away. The words stay unspoken. They hang between you anyway, heavy and unresolved.

He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. His jaw tightens, then, like a switch flips, he stands, and starts moving.

You sit there for a second, just watching him, before pushing yourself up and following. He heads toward the bedroom, already pulling his shirt off as he goes. You stop in the doorway, leaning lightly against the frame as you watch him change. The bedroom light is soft, casting shadows across his back as he changes into something more practical.

Your gaze drifts to his neck again. 

“…Leon,” you say softly. He pauses for half a second, then continues, reaching for his gear.

“I know,” he says before you can even finish. You press your lips together, pushing off the doorway and stepping into the room. His hand comes up instinctively, brushing over the mark. “It’s fine.” He says it too quickly. You stop in front of him.

“You don’t have to lie to me.” For a second, he just stands there, gear in hand, something unreadable flickering across his face. Then he exhales, long and tired.

“I’m not,” he mutters. You raise a brow slightly. That earns the faintest, almost reluctant huff of breath from him. “Okay,” he amends quietly. “Not very well.”

That makes a faint smile pull at your lips, even if it doesn’t ease the worry. From the moment you meet Leon you could see through the comforting white lies he'd tell you.

“I know you have to go,” you say gently. “I’m not gonna try and stop you.” His shoulders drop just slightly at that.

“Yeah.” You step closer, closing the distance between you. Your arms wrap around his middle, pressing yourself into him, holding him tighter than you usually would. And a moment later his arms come around you, holding you just as tight. One hand slides up your back, settling at the nape of your neck, fingers curling there like he’s anchoring himself.

You close your eyes. “I hate this,” you whisper. His grip tightens.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.” You pull back slowly, just enough to look at him. Then you pressed up onto your tiptoes, and he leaned down, pressing a slow, meaningful kiss to your lips.

Your left hand slides higher, pressing flat against his chest, right over his heart.

“Just-” You hesitate, tongue pressing against your teeth like you can stop it.

You can’t.

Your gaze drops to the rings sitting there–engagement and wedding band glinting faintly in the low light. Proof of something real. Something you’re terrified of losing.

Your fingers press slightly, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm beneath your palm before you look back up at him.

“Just come home.”

His silence tells you everything. He understands why but he can’t promise you that. Not with that mark on his neck, and hands.

His hand comes up, cupping your face, thumb brushing gently along your cheek. There’s something soft in the way he looks at you. Then he leans in and kisses you again.

Like he’s trying to give you everything he can without saying the unwanted words.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your lips. It's not some loose promise, just the truth. Your eyes close for a moment, holding onto it. Leon presses one last kiss to your forehead before pulling away, sliding on his coat. “I’ll text when I can,” he says quietly.

When you nod, he steps past you, heading for the door. You follow, stopping short as he grabs his keys. There’s a pause. His hand rests on the handle.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” The door opens, and cool air slips inside briefly before it closes again. The sound echoes through the quiet house.

You lock the door behind him, checking it twice. Then you move down the hallway, pushing open the kids’ door just enough to peek inside. Evelyn has kicked the blanket off again. You step in, tucking it back around her carefully, brushing hair away from her face. Daniel stirs slightly, mumbling something incoherent before settling again.

You end up back on the couch, curled into the space he left behind, his warmth already fading. Your phone buzzes not long after.

Leon: On site.

You: Be careful.

Trying to sleep is useless. It’s restless, and broken. When your phone lights up at 4:12 AM, you’re awake instantly.

Leon: Body matches the others. I’m following a lead. Might be a little longer than usual.

You stare at the words, your chest tightening.

You: Okay. Be careful. I love you!

●◉◎◈◎◉●

When morning comes the kids come running out to the kitchen where you are pouring yourself some coffee. You kneel to their level giving them both hugs before telling them to sit down at the table. At first it is like everything is normal but when you only set out three bowls for cereal, they get curious.

“Where’s Dad?” Evelyn puts her hands on her hips.

You glance up from the kitchen, forcing a small smile as you bring the bowls across the table. “Work.”

They both look at you. You crouch down beside them, brushing your hand over one of their shoulders. “Daddy’s finding a bad guy,” you say gently. “Making the world safer for you two, darlings.”

That earns a small, satisfied nod.“Like a superhero?” Daniel questions

“Yeah! Exactly like a superhero.” 

The day drags on. You check your phone constantly but there's nothing. Not until late afternoon.

Leon: We have something big. I’m staying on this. 

You sink down onto the couch, reading it over and over.

You: Please don’t push yourself.

When Leon's not back by bedtime the kids are questioning you once again. 

“Why isn’t Daddy home yet?”

“He’s still working, sweetheart.”

“That’s a long time…” Evelyn whines softly, a pout on her little lips.

“I know.” Your voice softens, your thumb brushing gently along her cheek. “But sometimes the bad guys are harder to catch.”

Daniel nods. “He always comes back.”

“…Yeah,” you whisper. “He does.” You press a kiss to their foreheads, leaving them to play in their room. 

The house feels heavier that night. You don’t turn on the TV. You just sit on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, wearing one of his shirts. 

Your mind won’t stop. That mark and the way it’s been spreading. The way he couldn’t promise you that he'd come home. 

You try calling but it just rings, and rings. Then voicemail so you hang up.

●◉◎◈◎◉●

By the next morning every little sound makes your head lift. Every vibration of your phone sends your heart racing. It isn't until midday you get a message. 

Leon: I’m okay.

Another message follows.

Leon: Just need a little more time.

You: Leon, it’s been two days. I'm worried about you!

Leon: I know. I’m coming back. Just let me finish this.

The message sits on your screen for a long moment. You keep yourself busy, hoping that it passes the time. By 5 o'clock you've completed most of the chores you wanted to. The stew simmers gently on the stove, filling the house with the pleasant aroma. 

The kids are in the living room, some cartoon playing on the TV, their laughter echoing loudly every now and then. You check your phone again.

Nothing but then–

The sound of the front door unlocking.

For a split second, your brain doesn’t catch up. It feels like one of those things you’ve imagined too many times over the past forty-eight hours. But then the door opened, and he’s there.

Leon steps inside, exhaustion etched into every line of his face–but he’s here. Your breath leaves you in a shaky rush.

“Daddy!” The kids beat you to him. They’re off the couch in seconds, running full speed, crashing into him.

Leon drops his bag without a second thought, crouching just enough to catch them both as they slam into him, his arms wrapping tight around them. He lets out a quiet breath–something between relief and pain–and buries his face briefly in Evelyn’s hair.

“Hey, you two,” he murmurs, voice rough, but warm. Daniel’s already talking a mile a minute. “You were gone forever, Daddy! We thought you were fighting like–like ten bad guys-”

“More like twelve!” Evelyn corrects, very seriously.

Leon huffs a quiet laugh, and pulls back just enough to look at them, hands coming up to cup their faces like he needs to see them properly.

“Yeah?” he says softly. Then his eyes lift to you, and for a second, it’s just him–nothing else exists.

You don’t even remember moving, you're just suddenly in front of him, your hands reaching for him like you need to prove to yourself he’s real. He stands as you get close, the kids still clinging to him, legs and arms tangling around him. 

Then you kiss him. Your hands come up to his face, pulling him down to you, and he responds instantly, kissing you back. 

“Ewwww!” The high pitched response is immediate. 

You break apart just enough to laugh, pressing your forehead against his as Evelyn giggles. 

“Gross,” Daniel adds, sticking his tongue out. 

Leon exhales a quiet laugh against your lips, eyes closing for just a second like he’s soaking this in. Then he pulls back slightly. 

“I’m home,” he says softly. Your gaze flicks, instinctively, to his neck. The mark is gone. Completely.

Your breath catches. Your fingers come up without thinking, brushing lightly over the place where it used to be. Leon watches you, something softer settling into his expression.

“It’s over.” he says quietly.

You swallow, your hand still resting there. “You’re…?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” Suddenly you’re hugging him again, burying your face into his neck, the kids squeezed in between.

After some time you turn the stove off, the stew completely forgotten the second Leon walked in. It sits there untouched, as the four of you pile into the living room–kids glued to his sides like they’re afraid he might leave again.

He listens to every story, answers every question, lets them climb all over him like he hasn’t been running on nothing but adrenaline and willpower for two days.

You watch him for a moment from the kitchen. The way he smiles at them. The way they look at him like he hung the moon.

Your chest aches, but this time it’s something warm.

“Hey,” you say softly.

Leon looks up instantly. You tilt your head toward the kitchen. “Come here for a second?” He gently disentangles himself from the kids with promises of being right back, and follows you. The second he’s close enough, you reach for him again, pulling him into another kiss–slower this time. He exhales into it, one hand settling on your waist.

“I missed you,” you murmur against his lips.

His forehead rests against yours. “Missed you more.” For a moment, neither of you moves. Then you glance over at the stove and sigh lightly. “Well… dinner’s ruined.” Leon follows your gaze, then looks back at you, one brow raising slightly.

“…Pizza?” he suggests.

You smile and nod “Pizza.”

The rest of the night is easy. Leon orders the food, while the kids argue over which toppings are the best.

When the pizza finally arrives, you all end up on the couch together. Leon sits in the middle, Evelyn tucked into his side, you curled against the other, with Daniel pressed against you. 

His arm wraps around you, fingers tracing along your arm again. You rest your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. It's steady, and stronger than before, proof that he's better. 

●◉◎◈◎◉●

The house was silent, sun streamed through the blinds, stripes of golden light fell across the sheets and Leon’s sleeping body. You’d been awake for a while, just watching him, the rise and fall of his chest. 

After a while you’d gotten the kids up, made them breakfast amidst their sleepy chatter, helped them pack their backpacks. Evelyn had insisted on giving Leon a kiss on his stubbled cheek before she left, careful not to wake him. Daniel too before getting them in the car and driving them to school. “Tell Dad we said bye” Daniel said. “...And I love him.” Evelyn followed.

When you got home and saw that he was still asleep you did some routine tidying like cleaning the dishes, straightening the living room, and laundry.

A little after ten, you heard the faint rustle of sheets from the bedroom. You set down the towel you were folding and walked to the doorway. Leon was stretching, his muscles flexing beneath his skin. He throws one arm over his eyes, and let out a low, groggy sigh.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe. He moved his arm, blinking at you. A genuine smile spread across his face, it reached his eyes and lit them up from within. “Hey.” His eyes flicked to the clock. “The kids are gone?”

“Yeah. They didn’t want to wake you.”

He sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. The rays highlighting the defined planes of his chest and abdomen, the faded scars that told stories you knew only parts of, the mix of blond and brown hair that covered his chest, and trailed down from his navel.

“I should’ve gotten up,” he murmured, running a hand through his already-messy hair.

“No,” you said, firm but gentle as you walked into the room. “You shouldn’t have. You needed to sleep.” You sat on the edge of the bed beside him, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “How do you feel?”

He caught your hand, bringing your palm to his lips for a soft kiss. “Better. Feel like a million bucks”

“Good,” you whispered, your voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register. Your other hand came up to cradle his jaw, your thumb stroking over his cheekbone. “Because I have plans for you today, Mr. Kennedy.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of plans?” One of his eyebrows quirked, interest sparking in his blue eyes.

“The kind where you don’t move a muscle.” You leaned in, closing the distance between you, and kissed him. It started soft, a repeat from last night. But then you deepened it, your tongue sliding against his lip until he opened for you. Your fingers slid into his hair, gripping lightly. “I just wanna take care of you,” you breathed against his lips, and he nodded. 

A slow smile spread across your face. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then began a trail downwards. Your lips pressed open-mouthed kisses to the place where the mark had been, his adams apple bobs under your lips as he swallowed hard.

You continued your descent, your mouth blazing a path over his collarbones, the firm mounds of his pecs. You swirled your tongue around one flat nipple, then the other, earning a sharp intake of breath from him. Your hands weren’t idle either; they roamed over his chest, his shoulders, feeling every scar, and muscle.

“Just relax,” you breathed against his skin, feeling the rapid beat of his heart. You moved down further, kissing his abdomen tracing along his abs with kisses before sitting up. You tugged at the sheet around his waist, tossing it to the end of the bed. A tempting bulge straining against the grey cotton of his pants.

You hooked your fingers into the elastic and began to pull them down, slowly, revealing him inch by glorious inch. He sprang free, fully erect, thick and heavy against his stomach. A bead of arousal already glistened at the tip. You kissed along the length of him, from base to tip, using only your lips, feather-light and maddeningly slow.

“Baby…” he groaned, a plea.

Finally, you closed your lips over the broad head of his cock. You swirled your tongue, collecting the salty pre-cum, humming in pleasure at the taste. His hips gave an involuntary little jerk off the bed. You placed a firm hand on his hipbone, pinning him gently but effectively. “No moving,” you reminded him softly, your breath ghosting over his wet skin.

Then you took him deeper. You hollowed your cheeks and sank down, relaxing your throat until your nose brushed the curls at his base. You held him there, humming softly, feeling him pulse against your tongue. When you pulled back, it was with a slick, obscene pop. A string of saliva connected your lips to his glistening head for a second before it broke. Your hand came up to cradle his balls, gently squeezing. 

“Fuck,” he gasped, chest heaving. You smiled, taking him back into your mouth with an established slow rhythm, bobbing your head, using your tongue to press along the sensitive vein on the underside with every upward stroke. Your eyes fluttered closed, lost in the act of pleasuring him–the weight of him on your tongue, the muffled sounds of his stifled groans above you. “You’re so good at this Baby,” he rasped.

You could tell he was close. You increased the pressure of your mouth and hand, your movements becoming more urgent. “I’m gonna–fuck–I’m gonna cum,” he gritted out, a warning and a surrender. You took him deep one last time and hummed encouragingly, swallowing around him.

With a broken shout hot pulses of cum shot down your throat as you milked him through it, swallowing every drop until he was spent and softening in your mouth. You released him with a final, gentle lick, cleaning him off as he collapsed back onto the mattress.

You crawled up his body, kissing your way back up his stomach and chest until you were face-to-face with him again. His eyes were hazy with satiation, but they focused on you with awe. He cupped your face in his large, trembling hands.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You kissed him softly, letting him taste himself on your tongue. “Just the beginning,” you promised.

Lately you had to start giving him more time before a second round so you snuggle against his side, tracing idle patterns on his chest. It hadn't even been two minutes and you felt him hardening against your hip. Your head perked up instantly, looking down before smirking at him. You straddled his hips, your core hovering just over his erection. The thin cotton of your panties was soaked, and you ground down against him, letting him feel the damp heat through the fabric. 

You reached down and pulled your top off over your head. His hands come up to span your waist. You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and kissed him deeply. As you kissed him, you reached between your bodies, grasping his cock, which was already filling out again impressively fast. You guided him to your entrance, notched the head against your slick folds, and then, without breaking the kiss, you sank down onto him in one slow, breathtaking slide.

You both moaned softly into the kiss. The feeling of him filling you, stretching you perfectly after days of absence, was almost overwhelming. You stayed there for a moment, fully impaled, letting your body adjust to his girth, relishing the feeling.

Then you began to move. You started a gentle rocking motion, grinding your hips in slow circles against his, making sure he rubbed against your clit with every rotation.

You set a deliberate, sensual pace. Up and down, rolling your hips, taking him deep on every downward stroke. Your breasts swayed with your movements, and you pinched and tugged at your own nipples, watching his gaze lock onto them hungrily.

You leaned forward again, changing the angle so you could kiss him once more. Your tongues danced as your bodies moved together in a slow, deep rhythm. “Feel good?” you murmured against his lips.

“Unbelievable,” he gasped. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your back to pull you closer, palming your ass to encourage your movements. Pleasure coiled tight in your belly, a spring winding to its breaking point. You rode him harder, your thighs burning with the effort, but you didn’t care. You were chasing that peak, wanting to shatter with him buried deep inside you.

“I’m close,” you warned, your voice breaking.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.

You forced your eyes open, locking onto his intense blue gaze. Your orgasm crashed through you with violent, stunning force. Your inner muscles clamped down on him in rhythmic, milking spasms, a wordless cry torn from your throat as you convulsed around his length.

The feel of your tight, fluttering channel was his undoing. With a raw shout of your name, his own control shattered. His hips pistoned upward, holding you firmly in place as he emptied himself deep inside you in hot, pulsing jets. You felt every throb, every burst, and it prolonged your own climax, drawing it out into waves of aftershocks that left you trembling and weak.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you slick with sweat, gasping for air. His arms came around you, holding you tightly to him, his face buried in your hair. You could feel his heart hammering against yours, a frantic, synced rhythm slowly returning to normal.

For a few moments, you just lay there, tangled together, the only sound of your ragged breathing. The heaviness in your limbs was tempting you to stay there, but you weren’t finished. You had more to give. With a slow, deliberate movement, you lifted yourself off him, his softening cock slipping from your body with a wet, sensitive twinge. He made a sound of protest at the loss of contact.

“Shhh,” you soothed, kneeling beside him on the bed. You looked down at him, sprawled across the rumpled sheets, skin flushed, hair messy.  “I said I was taking care of you. We’re not done.”

He lifted a hand, reaching for you, his fingers brushing your thigh. “C’mere,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a fresh shiver through you.

“I’m right here,” you whispered, but you didn’t move closer.

His blue eyes, dark with renewed intent, held yours. “No. Come here.” His gaze dropped pointedly, then traveled back up to your face. The command was clear, unspoken but understood. It was a favorite indulgence of his. You giggled softly but were already moving, a flush of heat spreading across your skin that had nothing to do with exertion.

His hands came up to guide you as you, kneeling over him. You straddled his chest, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his head. The view from above was dizzying–his handsome face looked up at you with unadulterated devotion.

His hands settled on your hips, his thumbs stroking the skin. “Sit on my face, Honey, need to taste you.”

A soft, needy sound escaped you. You were already slick, a mixture of your own arousal and his release coating your inner thighs. The thought of his mouth on you, his tongue delving into the very heart of you, made your core clench around nothing. You braced one hand on the headboard for balance. 

He helped you, his hands firm on your hips, guiding you into position. You hovered over him, the heat of his breath ghosting over your damp folds. His eyes were locked on you, watching every subtle shift, every tremor that ran through you. With a soft sigh, you lowered yourself. One of his hands moved down, curling over the top of your thigh.

The first contact was electric. His tongue leaves a flat, broad stroke through your soaked slit from back to front in one pass. You gasped, one of your hands came down to grab his, the other white-knuckling the headboard.

His tongue focuses on your clit. He didn’t just flick or circle it; he sucked the swollen bud into his mouth, applying a perfect, rhythmic pressure with his lips while his tongue lashed it relentlessly. The dual sensation of suction and friction was overwhelming, a direct line to every pleasure center in your body.

“Oh, God! Leon…” you moaned, your head falling back. Your hips began to move of their own accord, rocking against his face, seeking more. He granted it willingly, his hands sliding to grip the backs of your thighs, holding you open. The scratch of his stubble against your sensitive inner thighs added to the overwhelming sensation.

He alternated techniques, keeping you teetering on the edge. Broad, flat strokes that made you see stars, to focused flicks that had you crying out, then thrusts of his tongue that made you clench around him. He hummed against you, the vibrations traveling through your core, and you nearly came apart right then.

“Please…” you begged, even though you weren’t sure what you wanted. One of his hands released your thigh and you felt his finger, slick with your own juices, press against your asshole. He didn't rush instead he waited like it was a question, and you answered it by pushing back against him, a wordless plea for more. He groaned into your pussy, and began to work the tip of his finger inside.

He worked slowly, agonizingly so, easing deeper. Each tiny advance sent fresh jolts through you. You could feel the resistance yielding to his persistent pressure. Your hips jerked instinctively, not away, but into the dual invasion, craving it. The stretch burned sweetly, amplifying every flick of his tongue, every hum, pushing you relentlessly towards your climax.

It was too much, your orgasm roared through you. You screamed his name, your body convulsing, your inner walls fluttering wildly around his invading tongue. You ground down against his face, and he held you through it. His tongue didn’t relent, nor did his finger, prolonging the shocks until you were sobbing with overstimulation.

Only when the last tremor had subsided, leaving you boneless and trembling, did he gently ease his mouth away. His finger withdrew slowly. He guided your limp body off of him, rolling you onto your back beside him. You were a wreck–sweat-drenched, breathless, utterly spent.

He loomed over you, his own face glistening with your essence. He looked feral, triumphant, and so deeply in love it made your heart ache. He kissed you, deep and slow, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmured against your lips.

●◉◎◈◎◉●

The rest of the day was domestic normalcy. You showered together–washing each other like it was sacred and making lunch–laughing and “forcing” him to dance with you.

When it was time to pick up the kids, you both went. Their faces when they saw him waiting by the car were everything. The afternoon was filled with backyard play, Leon pushing them on the swing set, getting tackled in a game of “zombie vs. agents” that involved a lot of giggling and dramatic death scenes.

Dinner was simple, both kids helping you cook. Story time saw all four of you crammed into Daniel’s bed, Leon doing the voices for every character until the kids’ eyes grew heavy.

Finally, the house was quiet again. You stood together in the hallway, looking in on your sleeping children. Leon’s arm was around your shoulders, holding you close.

Leon turned you to face him, his hands framing your face. In the dim hall light, his eyes were serious. “I will always find my way back to you. To this. No matter what.” It was a vow and you believed him.

Later, in your own bed, curled together in the dark, there was no desperate passion, only a deep, abiding connection. His lips brushed your shoulder, your spine, as he held you from behind.

The future was uncertain–with his job, it always would be–but the foundation was unshakable. As sleep settled in, everything beyond that moment seemed distant and irrelevant, like it belonged to another life entirely. All that remained was the quiet comfort of being exactly where you were meant to be, with him beside you.

[fictionalmendepartment]

I genuinely can't believe there isn't more Colter or Russell smut?

Gonna write it myself, for myself.

Self care type beat 🙂‍↕️

[fictionalmendepartment]

Glad to see someone else appreciates the sexiness that is Tim Bradford 😁😉😍

Damn right! 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Currently writing something for him, but feel free to send in any requests too!

[fictionalmendepartment]

Always Yours

Pairing: Leon Kennedy (RE9) x younger female reader

Summary: Leon doesn't do jealousy... Except when it comes to you.

WC: 5.6k

Warnings: SMUT (Oral / fingering / P in V), Age-gap, insecure Leon

Notes: Kinda proofread? Also my first long fic so sorry if it sucks.

The briefing room always felt too small when you were in it with him.

Not physically–there was more than enough space for the dozen agents scattered around the table–but something about the presence of Leon S. Kennedy made the air feel heavier. Maybe it was the reputation. Maybe it was the quiet way everyone deferred to him without realizing they were doing it.

Or maybe it was because you knew him in ways they didn’t.

You sat at the desk, near the middle, arms loosely folded over some of the files that were spread around. Across from you, leaning back against the wall like he had all the time in the world, Leon looked exactly like he always did during briefings: quiet, controlled, giving nothing away.

All sharp edges and professionalism.

It was almost funny.

Because less than two hours ago, he’d been anything but controlled with you. Hands roaming over your body, and soft kisses on your skin as you woke up. 

You swallowed the thought quickly, eyes flicking away before they could linger too long. That was the rule–no staring, no unnecessary attention, no romantic contact. Only a handful of higher-ups even knew about the relationship, and that was strictly on a need-to-know basis. Operational safety, they’d said.

Now, it was second nature.

“…intercept the exchange before distribution,” the handler droned on, clicking through slides that cast a blue glow across the room. “Bio-weapon shipment, suspected to be a modified strain. Both buyer and seller are considered hostile. You are authorized to seize all materials and eliminate all involved parties.”

Standard.

Your gaze flicked briefly to Leon again. He hadn’t moved. Arms crossed, one boot hooked casually against the wall behind him, head slightly tilted as he listened. God, he made it look easy.

“…this will be a three-unit operation.” That caught your attention. You straightened slightly.

Three?

You hadn’t been told that. The handler nodded toward Leon “Leon, you'll take lead.

Your third operative is-”

The door swung open and everyone looked up at the man who stepped inside, not looking the least bit apologetic.

He was younger–maybe late twenties–with an easy confidence that bordered on arrogance. His tactical gear sat comfortably on him, like he was used to wearing it, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who hadn’t yet learned how badly things could go wrong.

His eyes swept the room once, quick and assessing. Then they landed on you and stayed there. 

“Wow,” he said, voice light, amused. “It’s my lucky day.” You didn’t react. Didn’t give him anything. He stopped beside the table, gaze still fixed on you as it dipped–not subtly–down your body before coming back up again. “I get to work with a legend.”

You gave him a small, polite smile. “Try to keep up.” you replied with a subtle shrug. The man’s grin widened. Then, finally, he glanced past you–toward Leon. Leon hadn’t moved, still against the wall, just watching.

“…and a fossil.” the new guy added, tone teasing, almost playful.

You didn’t look at Leon. You didn’t need to. Leon pushed off the wall slowly, unfolding to his full height with that same unhurried ease that always made people underestimate him.

“Careful” His voice calm as always. “Wouldn’t want to peak during introductions.” A few more suppressed laughs. Tension broke, just slightly. The handler cleared his throat. 

“Agent Hayes,” he said, gesturing to the newcomer. “You’ve already been briefed?”

“On the drive over.” Hayes confirmed easily. “Intercept, seize, eliminate. Standard stuff.” His eyes flicked back to you. “Should be fun.” You ignored the way your skin prickled under his attention but Leon noticed the slight shift. 

●◉◎◈◎◉●

The target point sat on the outskirts of a crumbling industrial zone–abandoned warehouses, rusted fencing, dead security systems.

You crouched behind a stack of rubble–broken concrete, scrap metals, failed experiments–scanning the perimeter through your scope. 

“Two at the north entrance” you murmured into comms. “Armed.”

“Copy that” Hayes’ voice replied smoothly, casual but alert.

“The perimeter looks clean otherwise” you continued. “No visible snipers.”

“Doesn’t mean there aren’t any.” Leon said.

“Wouldn’t be a party without surprises.” Hayes added. You rolled your shoulders back, settling into position, looking through the sniper scope again. 

“Ready when you are,” You said, letting them know you're ready. 

“Move.” Leon ordered. Everything snapped into motion. Leon and Hayes broke from cover at the same time, fast and deliberate, closing the distance to the entrance before the guards could fully register what was happening. Their boots barely making a sound against the cracked concrete. 

The first guard turned too slow. Leon was already there. A quick, efficient takedown. No hesitation, no wasted movement. The man dropped before he could even shout.

Hayes handled the second with equal speed, though his style was a touch louder, more force behind it, a little flashier. Still effective. The guard hit the ground hard, weapon clattering beside him.

“Entrance clear.” Hayes spoke into comms. You kept your scope trained, steady and patient, sweeping across the terrain and building.

Then a third man stepped out from behind a rusted support beam, rifle half-raised, eyes locked into Leon. You didn’t hesitate. 

A single shot.

The crack of your rifle split the air. The man dropped instantly, crumpling where he stood.

“Third down,” you said calmly.

A brief pause.

“Damn. Remind me not to get on your bad side.” Hayes said, low and impressed. You ignored it, already rising from your position.

“Area’s still clear. No additional movement.” You descended quickly, boots finding familiar footing through debris and broken ground. 

Leon's gaze flicked to you, only briefly, but cautiously. You gave a small nod. Even after all the years, missions, him knowing what you're capable of, nothing ever stops him from checking in with you. Hayes glanced between the two of you, but it was gone just as quickly as it came.

Both men stepped towards the door and you followed without a word, slipping into formation beside them. 

“On me.” And just like that, you pushed inside.

Inside, the warehouse was dim, lit only by scattered overhead fixtures that flickered intermittently. Voices echoed from deeper within. 

You signaled the others.

Three.

Two.

One. 

You moved.

The takedown was fast, controlled chaos.

Gunfire cracked through the space, sharp and deafening. You dropped low, sweeping one target off his feet before disarming him, pivoting to fire at another rushing in from the side.

Where Hayes was loud, Leon was quiet. Where Hayes forced openings, Leon created them. Every movement was deliberate, every shot placed with lethal precision. You caught glimpses of him between targets. 

“Behind you!” Hayes’ voice snapped your attention back just as a man lunged from the side. You reacted instantly, twisting out of reach and driving your elbow into his throat before taking him down.

“Got it,” you said.

“Nice” he murmured, stepping closer than necessary. “You’re even better up close.”

“Focus,” you said.

He chuckled softly, and from across the room, Leon watched. He didn’t say anything but the next time you moved, he was there. His hand brushed your arm as he guided you back slightly, positioning himself between you and the few remaining targets. His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to.

Hayes noticed. You saw it in the way his expression shifted–just briefly. The remaining targets went down quickly after that. You exhaled slowly, lowering your weapon.

“Package secured.” you reported, moving toward the case in the center of the room. “Bio-weapons confirmed.”

“Extraction’s inbound.” Leon said. “Lets head out.” He lifts the heavy case with ease and headed towards the door.

“Not bad for someone who was taught by an old man,” He said lightly.

“Not bad for someone who showed up late.” you replied, with a shrug, and he grinned.

“Guess I made a good first impression.” From the smirk on his lips you could tell he was proud.

“Jury’s still out.”

He laughed. The distant thrum of helicopter blades began to build overhead. You moved toward the designated point, stepping out into the open yard as the helicopter descended, wind whipping around you.

Hayes moved in close again as you waited for the rope drop. When it did you grabbed it without hesitation, climbing up. Hayes followed, then Leon last.

The ascent was quick, the ground shrinking beneath you as the helicopter pulled away from the site.

Inside, the noise was loud enough to drown most conversation. Yet still Hayes tried. He leant forward in his seat.

“Drinks after this?” he called over the roar.

“Not usually my scene.” You shook your head.

“Didn’t say no.” He tilted his head slightly when you look over at him. You shook your head again, in a sense of disbelief, he wasn't giving up.

Leon didn’t look at either of you but his jaw tightened. The rest of the ride passed in relative silence.

●◉◎◈◎◉●

Back at base, the debrief was brief–Successful mission. Minimal complications. Objectives completed–Exactly what was expected.

As people shuffled out the room Hayes lingered. You acted like you didn't see him, gathering your gear, keeping your movements purposeful, aware of him approaching before he even spoke.

“So…” he said, stopping just within your space again. “You always turn down offers or?”

You slung your bag over your shoulder. “I don’t mix work and…whatever this is.” you said, gesturing between the small space between you. He studied you for a moment.

“Fair enough. I’ll wear you down eventually.”

You didn’t respond because Leon stepped in, joining the conversation. Standing close enough that your arms nearly brushed.

“Briefing’s over” Leon said coolly. “Surely there's somewhere else for you to be.”

Hayes looked between the two of you, a slight squint before going back to norm, like something clicked.

“Right,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome.” He gave you one last look. “I’ll see you around.” Then he walked off. You waited until he was gone before you let out a slow breath.

The room had emptied, leaving just you and Leon now. Silence stretched between you for a moment. 

“That guy’s a problem.” Leon muttered. You huffed a quiet laugh.

“He’s harmless.” You counter. Leon turned his head slightly, finally looking at you properly. You do the same before moving in front to look at him properly.

“He’s not harmless,” he said. “He’s reckless.” 

“And you’re not?” You tilted your head. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Not like that.”

“You were jealous.” You stepped a little closer, lowering your voice. His expression didn’t change but you felt it. 

“I was adjusting the situation,” he said, tone steady. You softly laugh, just an exhale through your nose. 

“Right. Just happened to put yourself between us.” You moved a fraction closer, testing, watching him. His gaze dropped to you, slow, deliberate. It made something tighten low in your chest.

“Didn’t think you were the territorial type at work.” You tilted your head slightly.

“I’m not.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Silence stretched for a moment. 

“He was pushing.” Leon said finally, quieter now. “Seeing what he could get away with.”

“And?” Your eyes searched his. It was normally like this, having to prompt Leon to get more of an answer when talking about feelings. His jaw flexed, just slightly.

“I didn’t like it.” He admits, slow.

“Didn’t think it’d bother you that much.” His gaze dipped for half a second, then came back sharper.

“It doesn’t,” he said. You raised a brow.

“Leon.” A beat.

“…It does.” That pulled a faint smile from you. “Don’t get used to it,” he said, voice rougher now. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You held his gaze, placing a hand on his chest. 

“We’re in public.” he reminded you quietly. You hummed.

“Barely.” You fob it off. “I meant what I said.” you flutter your lashes softly. “He doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know.” And he did. That was never the issue. The issue was everything else. The secrecy. The lines you couldn’t cross. The way you had to pretend none of this existed the second anyone else walked into the room.

You shifted back, moving your hand off of his chest. 

“Let's go home,” you said softly.

“Yeah.” He grabbed his bag and you walked out to the carpark, getting into your separate cars to go to the same location.

●◉◎◈◎◉●

The drive home was done in silence. The familiar streets blurred past Leon’s windows, city light and nightlife, but his mind wasn’t on the road. It was back in the warehouse, in the briefing room, on the helicopter. It was on Hayes.

He’s harmless, you’d said.

Leon’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, the new leather creaking under his fingers. He knew better. Men like Hayes weren’t harmless. Confident, entitled, seeing something they wanted and assuming the path to it was clear. He’d seen the look in Hayes’ eyes when he’d watched you move, when he’d stepped into your space. It wasn’t just professional admiration. It was hunger. A young, brash hunger that didn’t hide itself.

And why should it? Hayes was young, and talented. He had the physicality of someone whose body hadn’t been carved by decades of scars. He had a smile that was quick and still real. He could offer the kind of simple, open affection that Leon’s life had long since burned out of him.

The age difference had never felt so wide before. It was just a number, a fact. But tonight, it felt like a weight. Hayes’ teasing ‘fossil’ comment echoed in his mind, not as an insult, but as a reminder. Leon was a veteran of a war that reshaped him, built from trauma and resolve. You were… life. A vibrant, brilliant life. You cooked meals that filled the quiet apartment with warmth. You fell asleep on his chest, your breathing soft against his skin. You pulled him into slow dances in the kitchen when a good song came on the radio, laughing when he stepped on your feet.

These were the precious things Hayes likely still took for granted. The things Leon clung to with a quiet, desperate kind of devotion he could never say out loud. What if, one day, you wanted something easier, choosing a man without ghosts over one who carried a cemetery inside himself?

He pulled into the underground garage of your shared building, the engine turning into silence. He saw your car already parked, and the sight was both a comfort and a fresh twist of anxiety. You were home, and safe. You were his. But for how long?

The apartment was quiet when he entered, the only sound was the distant rush of water from the shower. You always showered first after a mission. Wash away the grime, the tension, the scent of violence and fear. He did the same. It was a way to leave the operational persona at the door.

He went to the second bathroom, stripping off the tactical gear with practiced efficiency. The hot water was pure relief, over knotted shoulders and the scattering of old scars. He scrubbed at his skin as if he could erase the memory of Hayes’ smirk, the proprietary glance he’d given you. He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles, letting the steam envelop him.

By the time he emerged, dressed in soft sweatpants and a worn t-shirt, the apartment smelled of garlic, ginger, and soy. You were in the kitchen, moving with a softness that was the direct opposite of your strict precision in the field. Your hair was damp, curling at the ends, and you wore one of his old sweaters that swallowed your frame.

“Stir fry okay?” you asked without turning, sensing his presence.

“Perfect,” he said, his voice rougher than he intended. You glanced over your shoulder, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Long shower.” You commented, not pushing for anything, just an observation.

“I needed it.” He had moved closer, placing a kiss on your cheek.

Dinner was had in comfortable silence while the tv played a nature documentary. Moving to the couch once you cleaned together.

You sat on the chaise, Leon settled behind you, his legs bracketing your body. You leaned back into him with a sigh, your head coming to rest on his shoulder. His arms came around you naturally, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other coming up to idly stroke your damp hair.

This was the peace he fought and killed for.

The documentary droned on. An older lion, challenged by a younger, stronger male from a rival pride. The narration felt targeted. The older male, though experienced, may no longer have the sheer physical power to defend his territory…

“Does it ever bother you?” The question was out before he could stop it.

You tilted your head back to look up at him, your brow furrowed. “Does what bother me?”

He hesitated, the words sticking in his throat. He gestured vaguely, his hand leaving your hair to indicate the space around you, then coming to rest on his own thigh. “This. Me. The… gap.” You shifted, turning within the circle of his arms so you were half-facing him, your expression now one of confusion. 

“What are you talking about?” You questioned it, but he couldn’t meet your eyes, he just looked at the television. 

“The age difference. I don’t have that… easy energy anymore.” He looked down at you, his blue eyes stark with a vulnerability he showed to no one else. “You cook for me. You fall asleep on me. You drag me into dances when I’d rather just stand and watch and I love it. I love all of it. But it’s your youth you’re spending on me. What happens when the newness of it wears off? When my quiet feels like silence? When my scars feel less like history and more like… baggage?”

Your expression had softened from confusion into something unbearably tender. You brought a hand up, your fingers tracing the line of his stubbled jaw. “Leon…” you whispered yet he pressed on. 

“One day, you might want someone who can give you a life that isn’t measured in mission cycles and security clearances.” He captured your hand, holding it against his cheek, turning his face into your palm. “The thought of you losing that feeling for me… of you looking at me one day and just seeing an old agent… it terrifies me more than anything else ever could.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your eyes searching his, seeing the raw truth of his fear. Then you moved. You pushed yourself up, kneeling before him, your hands coming to cup his face, forcing him to hold your gaze.

“Listen to me,” you said, your voice firm yet soft. “The moment I stop feeling the way I do the moment my heart doesn’t skip when I see you, the moment I don’t crave the weight of your arms, orI don’t look at your scars and feel proud of the man who made it through… that’s the moment I take my last breath because loving you is the one thing I know I’ll never let go of.”

A soft breath escaped him. He didn’t speak; his words were inadequate for what he felt. Instead, he moved forward, capturing your mouth with his in a kiss that was nothing short of electric.

It wasn’t gentle. It was all the words he couldn’t say poured into the meeting of lips and tongue. You met him with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could fuse your bodies together.

He broke the kiss only to whisper your name against your lips. Then his mouth was everywhere–on your jaw, down the column of your throat, nipping at the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder. He pulled the oversized sweater over your head. His hand came to palm at your breast, his thumb circling your nipple until it pebbled into a hard point. A sharp gasp escaped you when he pinched, and the sound went straight to his cock, which was already straining painfully against his sweatpants.

“Leon!” you breathed, arching into his touch.

In one fluid motion, he stood, pulling you up with him. He didn’t carry you to the bedroom; the distance was too great. He needed you now. He laid you back onto the chaise, your legs hanging off the end.

He yanked your panties off with urgency, and worshiped every inch he uncovered. He knelt down between your legs, kissing your stomach, then over your hips, and your thighs. His stubble lightly scratched along your skin. 

When his mouth finally found your core, you cried his name out softly. He didn’t tease. His tongue worked with a hungry, single-minded intensity, circling your clit before dipping lower. He savoured the taste as if it were the antidote to every poison he’d ever ingested. 

His hands held your thighs apart, his grip firm and unyielding. You tried to buck against the overwhelming sensation, but his hold was immovable. He pinned you to the couch, forcing you to feel every devastatingly perfect movement. He established a brutal, perfect rhythm. Long, languid strokes of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, gathering your wetness, then plunging back inside, fucking you with his mouth. You could hear the wet sounds filling the room, your own cries were layered over the top–whimpers, soft sobs, and repetitions of his name.

“Please…” you managed to gasp, though you didn’t know what you were begging for. He answered by shifting his focus, zeroing in on your clit. His tongue became a rapid, fluttering point of fire, circling and flicking so fast it was almost a blur of sensation. You moaned, your hands flying to his hair, not to push him away, but to pull him closer, grinding yourself against his face in a frantic search for release.

His hair was soft between your fingers, a stark contrast to the harsh, demanding pleasure he was wringing from your body. Just as you felt the first sign of an orgasm gathering deep in your belly, he stopped. You let out a soft cry. Your hips jerked up uselessly against the empty air.

He lifted his head, breathing heavily, his lips swollen and wet. He didn’t say a word. He simply watched the desperate frustration on your face, the slight tremor through your body.

Then, he lowered his mouth again, but not to where you needed. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh, his teeth nipping at the skin. He then traced the spot with his tongue, a soothing counterpoint to the sting. He moved to the other thigh, repeating the process, his hands still vise-like on your legs, keeping you achingly open.

“Look at me.” he commanded. You forced your eyes open, not realizing you’d closed them. Looking down the length of your body, to where he knelt between your thighs. The sight was erotic–his broad shoulders, the focus on his face, his mouth hovering so close to where you ached for him. He held your gaze as he slowly extended his tongue and gave one long, slow, flat lick from your entrance all the way up to your throbbing clit. You whimpered, your hips lifting off the bed.

He dove back in with renewed fervor. This time, he introduced his fingers. You felt the blunt pressure of one, then two fingers at your entrance, testing, circling, before pushing deep inside you in one smooth stroke.He crooned his fingers, finding the spot that made you see stars. He worked them in and out, in a counter-rhythm to his tongue on your clit.

The dual assault was too much. It was everything. The coil of pleasure, so tightly wound before, now snapped with ease. You shattered around his fingers, rhythmically, and his mouth never left you, feeling every pulse and spasm. He worked you through it, his tongue gentling to soft, lapping strokes, his fingers slowing to a gentle pumping, drawing out the aftershocks until they were tiny, sensitive shivers.

When the last tremor subsided, he finally withdrew his fingers. He placed one last tender kiss on your oversensitive clit, making you flinch with a residual jolt of pleasure. Then he released your thighs, his fingers leaving faint, red imprints on your skin. He moved up your body slowly, kissing his way up your stomach, between your breasts, along your collarbone. He was heavy and warm as he settled over you, his arousal a hard pressure against your thigh.

His breath was hot and ragged against your lips.

“You are everything to me.” he whispered, the words gravelly and raw, as if it was dragged from a place deeper than his soul. He didn’t wait for a response. He kissed you again, a consuming kiss that let you taste yourself on his tongue. 

Your hands came up, sliding under the soft cotton of his t-shirt, mapping the hard planes of his stomach, the ridges of old scars you knew by heart. You pushed the fabric upward, and he broke the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it aside.

Your fingers went to the waistband of his sweatpants, but he caught your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly above your head on the couch cushion. Holding your wrists with one strong hand, he used the other to push his sweatpants and boxer briefs down over his hips in one impatient shove. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed and beautifully hard, the tip already glistening. He kicked the clothing away, leaving him naked.

He released your wrists, but only to settle his weight more fully over you. He was so warm, so solid, so real. You wrapped your legs around his hips, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer until the hard length of him nudged against your entrance.

He slowly rocked his hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name like a mantra.

“I need to see you.” he rasped, more to himself, lifting his head. He braced himself on his forearms, caging your face, his eyes locked on yours. “I need to watch you take me.”

You nodded, breathless, beyond words. You reached between your bodies, your hand wrapping around his length, guiding him to you. The broad head pressed against you, and you both let out a shuddering sigh. With agonizing slowness, he pushed forward.

He watched your face intently, every flicker of pleasure, every wince of overwhelming sensation. He sank deeper, inch by torturous inch, until he was fully sheathed, his hips flush against yours. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He just stayed there, You could feel the tremble in his muscles, to hold still.

“Leon…” you breathed, your voice trembling. You shifted your hips, a tiny, instinctive movement, and it broke his stillness. A low groan tore from his throat. He began to move.

His first thrust was a deep, deliberate roll of his hips, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in with the same measured pace. It wasn't frantic, it was worship. Each stroke was long, deep, and achingly slow. He was making love to you with a focused, tender intensity that was somehow more overwhelming than any display of brute force.

“So perfect.” he whispered, his voice thick. “So tight for me. Taking me so deep.” He shifted his angle slightly, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders. A faint, satisfied smirk touched his lips. “There it is.”

He found that angle and held it, each slow, penetrating thrust now brushing directly over that sweet, sensitive spot deep inside you. Pleasure began to coil again, low and hot and insistent, but it was a different kind of build–deeper, slower, more consuming. It wasn’t a race to the peak; it was a deliberate climb up a mountain, and he was ensuring you felt every single second.

One of his hands slid down your body, his fingers finding the swollen nub of your clit. He didn’t rub frantically; he simply pressed the pad of his thumb against it, as he continued his deep, smooth thrusts. The dual stimulation was maddening in its perfection. Your moans became continuous, a soft, broken melody that filled the space between your ragged breaths.

“That’s it” he encouraged, his own breath coming in hot gusts against your cheek. “Let me hear you. Let me feel you cum around me.”

His pace began to increase. The slow, deep rolls became more urgent, the slide of his body in and out of yours creating a wet, rhythmic sound. The pressure of his thumb on your clit became a deliberate, circling motion, perfectly timed with his thrusts. Your legs tightened around him, pulling him deeper.

“I’m… Leon, I’m going to…” you choked out, the words fracturing into a gasp.

“Look at me.” he commanded again, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his own climax. “Come for me. Let me see it.”

You held his gaze as the wave broke. It crested not with a violent crash, but with a deep, rolling swell of pure pleasure. Your body clenched around him in powerful pulses, milking his length, drawing a ragged groan from his chest. Your vision whited out at the edges, but you kept your eyes open, locked on his, and you saw the exact moment your pleasure triggered his own.

His control shattered. With a final, deep thrust that buried him as far as he could possibly go, he threw his head back, a raw, guttural groan tearing from his throat. His nose scrunching softly, as he gritted his teeth. You felt the hot rush of his release deep inside you, each jet synchronized with the contractions still rippling through your own body. 

Slowly, the tremors subsided. His weight settled upon you, a warm, comforting heaviness. He was still inside you, as his breathing gradually slowed from ragged gasps to deep, even draws. He turned his head, his lips finding your shoulder, placing a soft, lingering kiss there.

For a long time, neither of you moved. The only sounds were the whisper of the television and the syncopated rhythm of your hearts slowing together. The couch was nothing but a mess of discarded clothes and tangled limbs, but at that moment, it felt like the most sacred of places.

Slowly, he lifted himself carefully off you, the loss of his warmth and weight made you shiver. But he didn’t go far. He gathered you into his arms, shifting both of you so you were lying side-by-side on the couch, your back curled against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around you. He pulled the soft throw blanket from the back of the couch and draped it over both of you.

He nuzzled into your hair, his lips brushing your ear. “I love you.” he whispered, the words simple, final, and carrying the weight of the entire universe.

You covered his hands with yours, lacing your fingers together over your stomach. 

“You’re thinking again.” you murmured, not even opening your eyes. A soft huff of breath left him, almost a laugh. 

“That obvious?”

“Always.” There was no bite to your reply. Just familiarity. You shifted slightly, pressing back into him more fully, your head tilting just enough to brush your lips against his jaw. “I’m here.” you added quietly, making his hold on you tighten, just for a second.

“I know,” he said, though it came out rougher than he intended. But you felt the truth in it. He did know. He just… needed to keep knowing. You turned in his arms until you were facing him properly. Your hand came up, resting over his heart which was still beating a little too fast.

“You don’t have to compete with anyone,” you said softly, your eyes searching his. “Not him. Not anyone. There’s no comparison to make.” His gaze flickered, like the instinct to argue was there, but he didn’t even open his mouth. “I’ve seen what’s out there, Leon.” you continued, your voice gentle but unwavering. “I chose you anyway. Not because you’re safe, or easy, or convenient…” Your fingers curled slightly against his chest. “But because you’re you.”

You saw that it meant something to him in the way his expression shifted, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction.

“You’re the one I come home to, or…with.” you added, quieter now. “The one I think about when things get bad. The one I want beside me when things are good.” A small, almost shy smile touched your lips. “You’re it for me.” And for a moment, he just looked at you.

Like he was trying to memorize every word, every expression, every piece of you that was offering him something he still didn’t fully believe he deserved. Then his hand came up, covering yours where it rested over his heart, pressing it more firmly there.

“Yeah?” he asked, softer now.

“Yeah.” You didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. He stayed close, eyes still half shut like he didn’t quite want to come back from the moment. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slowly, as something in him finally settled.

[fictionalmendepartment]

Labyrinth of Control

Chapter 2: Good Subject

Pairing: Dr. Victor Gideon x Reader

WC: 3k

Warnings: Smut (Non-con, restraints, forced compliance), Imprisonment, Power Imbalance

Notes: Hope this is okay, I struggled a bit ッ

Part 1

Not too much later the weight of his presence had vanished. It caused a subtle shift in the air, the absence of that deep, rhythmic breathing should've calmed you enough but sleep never came. Your body refused it.

Every time your eyes drifted shut, you felt it again–his hand on your skin, the slow drag of his thumb, the way he spoke about you like you were something to dissect. You lay there, curled tightly in the corner of the cot, the blanket wrapped around you like it could protect you from…what? Him? This place? Yourself?

The red light in the corner blinked steadily, reminding you that even alone, you weren’t alone. He was still watching. The hum of the machinery never stopped. A constant, low vibration that made it impossible to tell how much time had passed. Minutes stretched into hours.

Slipping off the cot as quietly as possible, bare feet silent against the cold floor, you approached the door with. There were no handles. No visible locks. Just smooth metal and a small panel embedded beside it. You didn’t touch it. His voice echoed in your mind.

The door is biometric.

Your hand hovered there anyway. Trembling, you pulled it back. You didn’t try. Instead, you returned to the cot. Curled back into yourself. Waiting.

The lights came on without warning. A harsh, blinding white that made your eyes snap shut instantly. For a moment, you thought something had gone wrong. Then you heard it, the generators were louder now. The hum deepened into a mechanical roar that vibrated through the floor, and through you.

Morning.

You squinted your eyes open slowly, vision adjusting to the sudden brightness. Your head throbbed faintly, exhaustion catching up to you.

A soft mechanical click broke through the noise. Your head snapped toward the door. It slid open with a quiet hiss, and he stepped inside. The light caught against the metal rig on his head.

He stopped inside, just watching you. You hadn’t moved from your corner. Still curled in on yourself, blanket clutched tight, like if you made yourself small enough he might overlook you.

Your throat felt dry when you tried to speak, your voice coming out smaller than you intended.

“Please…let me go.” The words were fragile and thin against the heavy air. For a moment, he didn’t respond. He stepped further into the room instead, the door sealing shut behind him with a final click.

“You have not slept.” he said. You shook your head.

“I couldn’t.” He paused a few feet away from you, head tilting slightly.

“Elevated stress response.” he murmured, almost to himself. “Expected.” Your fingers tightened in the blanket.

“I won’t tell anyone.” you rushed, words spilling out now, desperate and uneven. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t even know where I am, I just- Please, I just want to go home.”

Silence.

Then–

“No.”

It landed heavier than anything else he’d said.

“Why?” Your voice cracked despite you trying to steady it. “I’m not whatever you think I am, I’m not infected, I’m not–”

“I will determine that.” he interrupted calmly. Your chest tightened painfully.

“I’m a person!” you choked out, the words shaking. “You can’t just keep me here like this!”

“I can.”

The way he said it was so simple, and so certain it stole the rest of the fight from your lungs. He stepped closer, and you instinctively shrank back further into the wall.

“Your fear response remains heightened..?” he observed curiously. “Despite no immediate threat being present.” You stared at him.

“No immediate–” you let out a hollow, disbelieving breath. “You’re the threat.”

That made him pause.

“Incorrect.” he said after a moment. He turned toward his workstation like the conversation was already over. “Come here.” Your stomach dropped. You didn’t move.

“I- please don’t.”

“Come here.” It wasn’t louder. It didn’t need to be. Your body obeyed before your mind agreed to it. Slowly you pushed yourself up from the corner. Each step toward him felt heavy.

He was already preparing something when you reached him–one of the monitors flickering to life, lines of data scrolling rapidly across the screen.

“Sit.” You did. The chair felt cold beneath you. He turned to face you then, standing far too close. That overwhelming presence pressing in again.

“You are stressed and jittery.” he said, reaching for something in the cupboard. “This will help that.” You swallowed hard.

“What is it? Will it hurt?”

“Not significantly.”

Your fingers curled into your palms.

“Please.” you whispered again, weaker this time. “Just… let me go.” He didn’t answer.

“Extend your arm.” You reluctantly stretch your arm out in front of you, his hand closed around your wrist again, exactly where it had been the night before. A slight smile appeared briefly. "Good. Compliance will simplify this whole process.

His touch was firm, grounding in a way that felt obscene given the circumstances. He pressed the cool tip of the needle against the inside of your forearm. A tiny pinprick sensation made you gasp. "Relaxant" he murmured, watching the small screen that's still monitoring you. He released your wrist, making a note on the computer.

Each touch was impersonal, yet each one sent jolts through you. His proximity was torture. You focused on a rivet in the metal wall behind him, trying to detach, but your body betrayed you. Your skin felt hypersensitive, flushing beneath the loose fabric of the borrowed clothes.

Finally, he stepped back, writing more notes, before looking at you again. “You can go sit back on the cot.” You get up and sit on the side.

"Your compliance is noted." he stated, his voice losing none of its gravel but gaining subtle praise that hadn't been there before. "Minimal resistance during sample collection and vitals." He tilted his head slightly. "This suggests an adaptive response pattern developing." He moved towards the cot. Not threateningly, but purposefully. "A reward structure reinforces desired behavior.” He takes out the previously placed needles. “Lay back."

Then he turned to a cabinet near his desk, opening it. Inside weren't syringes or vials, but something entirely different: thick straps of leather attached to sturdy buckles. Your blood ran cold.

"W-What are you doing?" The whisper was barely audible. He didn't answer immediately. He selected four pieces. He walked back to the cot.

"I won't ask again.”

"No! Please, don't–" The protest died as he simply looked at you. The sheer weight of his expectation, the absolute certainty of his control, crushed your defiance before it could fully form. Tears blurred your vision as you slowly lay back on the mattress. You stared at the stained tiles of the ceiling, trembling uncontrollably. He gripped the waistband of your pants, untying the knot and yanking them off.

First, he grasped your right ankle, pulling your leg taut. The leather cuff felt cool as he buckled it snugly around your ankle, then attached the clip to the lower corner of the cot frame. The sensation of confinement was immediate. He repeated the process with your left ankle, spreading your legs apart as he fastened it to the opposite corner.

Next came your wrists. He lifted your right arm effortlessly. The clip closed with a decisive click, the leather inner lining surprisingly soft against your skin. Your left arm followed suit, leaving you spread on the cot, utterly vulnerable.

You pulled against the restraints instinctively. The clips held fast against your pitiful strength. The cot frame barely rattled under you.

"Cease unnecessary movement." he commanded, standing at the foot of the cot, observing your struggles with detached interest. His gaze traveled slowly, possessively, down the length of your restrained body. The oversized clothes had moved during your struggles. The shirt was resting high over your stomach; the pants were low on your hips.

He placed one large hand flat on your stomach, just below your ribs. His hand slid down slowly, deliberately, over your belly, and down towards the waistband of your pants. You squeezed your eyes shut, turning your head away, tears leaking down your temples into your hair. A choked sob escaped you.

You arched off the mattress with a strangled cry as his blunt fingertips brushed against slick folds you hadn't even fully acknowledged in your terror.

"Lubrication is plentiful" he stated matter-of-factly, his touch lingering, exploring without penetrating yet. His thumb pressed against your clit, a rough pad circling lightly, experimentally.

A bolt of white-hot sensation shot through you, shameful and intense enough to make you cry out. You tried to clamp your thighs together, but the restraints hold your legs firmly apart, so you stop trying. "You are learning." That word–learning–dripped with possessive approval.

He withdrew his hand, and you heard the rasp of a zipper, the rustle of fabric. You dared to open your eyes just as he stood and pushed his own pants down. His cock sprang free–thick, heavy, and already fully erect. The sight of it, so intimidatingly large compared to anything you'd seen before, stole your breath. Veins stood out along its length; the head glistened.

He gripped himself at the base with one massive hand, giving himself two slow, deliberate strokes as he looked down at you. He positioned himself between your splayed legs. The broad head of his cock nudged against your entrance.

You cried out as he breached you in one slow thrust that stretched you impossibly wide, filling you to a point bordering on pain. There was no gentleness, no preparation. He seated himself fully inside you with a low grunt that vibrated through his chest and into yours.

Then he moved.

It wasn't passionate, or soft; it was a relentless piston stroke driven by pure dominance and purpose. He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in with devastating force, knocking the breath from your lungs and making the cot frame groan against its constraints. Again. And again. Each deep plunge felt like it reached your core, stretching you brutally, rearranging you around his girth.

He fucked you with a focused intensity, his gaze remained fixed on where your bodies joined, before scanning up your torso to your tear-streaked face.

"Good." he rasped on a particularly hard thrust that made you whimper. His hand grasped your hipbone possessively, fingers digging in slightly as he anchored himself for a deeper angle. The praise was horrifying but as he continued the initial pain morphed into a deep pleasure that sparked unwanted sensations deep within you.

He shifted slightly, lifting your hips up with ease, holding you in place. There was a more intense pull on your arms, the new angle making his cock drag against a spot inside you that sent a shockwave of pleasure. A gasp tore from you, high-pitched and involuntary.

"Ah…" he mused, his pace never faltering. "An amplified response." He focused his thrusts there now with the same relentless and precise force. "Observe the way your head tilted back... increased vocalization..." His own breathing grew harsher, labored grunts punctuating his narration.

The shame was deep in your veins, warring with the build of pressure coiling in your core. The restraints rendered you passive; you couldn't move away from this violation.

Your cries became sharper, less protests and more ragged gasps as pleasure forcibly ripped through terror. You clenched around him reflexively as an orgasm you didn't want but couldn't stop began to surge up from that deep place his cock was ruthlessly hammering.

"I can feel your peak approaching." Gideon growled, his voice thick. He watched your face intently as he pistoned into you. “Let go for me.”

The coil snapped. Your back arched violently against the restraints as much as they allowed as an intense, shattering climax tore through you with humiliating force. You cried out, a sound torn between agony and ecstasy, as waves of convulsions gripped your core around him.

Victor didn't slow. He fucked you through it mercilessly, extending the sensations into overwhelming torture before finally driving deep one last time with a guttural groan that sounded almost like triumph. You felt him throb within you as he came.

He held himself buried inside you for several long moments, both of you breathing harshly in the otherwise quiet room. His weight pressed you deep into the thin mattress.

Finally, with a low grunt, he pulled out slowly. You felt impossibly empty and achingly sore.

He stood up beside the cot, tucking himself back into his pants without looking at you immediately. His chest rose and fell steadily as he regained composure rapidly.

"I'm proud of you, you were very good." he almost cooed. He began unfastening the buckles on your restraints with the same efficient movements he’d used to secure them.

Your limbs felt heavy as they were released; trembling uncontrollably. You couldn't meet his eyes as he freed each cuff in turn–ankles first, then wrists. You curled onto your side instinctively once free, pulling your knees up defensively despite the lingering pain between them.

He walked away towards the small sink in the lab area. You heard water running. He returned moments later holding a bowl of water and a clean white washcloth.

"I need to wash you now. Remove traces of the outside world.” He gently but firmly pulled you to the edge of the cot, sitting you up, legs dangling off the edge. His large hand remained on your waist, keeping you upright. He placed the bowl down beside you, wetting the cloth in the warm, soapy water.

He began with your face. It startled you more than anything else, flinching when it first touched your cheek, your entire body tensing instinctively. The fabric dragged slowly across your skin, wiping away tears, and sweat. His movements were methodical. You kept your eyes down.

The silence stretched as he worked. The only sounds were of the water from the cloth being dipped back into the bowl and the ever-present hum of machinery surrounding you. Once he was done he paused briefly before moving on.

“Arms” You lift them slightly, allowing him to clean properly. Each pass of the cloth was thorough, never lingering in a way that suggested anything emotional, but never rushed either.

The cloth traced down your neck, your shoulders. You forced yourself not to react. Your fingers curled weakly in your lap, nails pressing into your palms as you tried to anchor yourself. When he finished one arm, he moved to the other.

Then over your breasts, and your stomach. He leant you forward, resting your head against his stomach, so he could wash your back. He keeps a large hand cradling your head to keep you in place. Once that was complete he kneels down, cleaning your legs and the mess between them.

When he finished, he set the cloth aside and reached for the neatly folded set of clothes.

“Arms again” he instructed, guiding the fabric over your skin, adjusting it to sit right. He slid your pants on, to the bend of your knees.

“Stand.” You tried but your legs didn’t cooperate. The moment your weight shifted forward, your knees buckled, a soft, helpless sound escaping you before you could stop it.

He caught you before you hit the ground. There was no surprise in his expression. Just confirmation.

“As expected” he murmured. He adjusted the pants the rest of the way, tying a knot to keep them up.

Before you could protest–or really even process what he was doing–he lifted you.One arm behind your back, the other beneath your knees, holding you securely against his chest. The sudden change in position made your stomach drop, your hands instinctively clutching weakly at the front of his vest.

“What? Where..?” you managed, your voice barely more than breath. He didn’t answer, just started walking, taking you down hallways, past other rooms until he approached one, the mechanism responding instantly to his presence.

The light from the outside spilt into the dim room. Your eyes started to adjust as he walked in. This space wasn’t like the one you’d woken up in. It was larger.

More screens–each flickering with data, graphs, things you couldn’t understand even if you had the strength to try. The air smelled sharper here, more sterile.

At the far end of the room, someone else sat. The faint glow of monitors illuminated his face as he leaned forward slightly. He didn’t look up immediately, even as your presence disrupted the silence. It wasn’t until Gideon stopped–until the movement ceased entirely–that the man finally spoke.

“You’ve brought it out of containment.” His voice was calm. He lifted his gaze to look at you. There was something different in his expression. Analytical in a way that felt colder.

His eyes flicked over you, taking in everything. The way you clung weakly to Gideon, the instability in your posture, the exhaustion etched into every line of your body. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair.

“Interesting” he said. A pause sat between them. “It looks like compliance has increased.” Your grip tightened on Gideon's vest slightly without meaning to.

You didn’t like the way he said that, the way they were looking at you. The way he referred to you as “it”.

“Put her down.” The man requested, Gideon didn’t hesitate.

You were lowered into a chair opposite the desk. The chair felt unsteady or maybe it was just you.

Your fingers clung to the edge, knuckles pale, breath uneven as you tried to stay upright. Every part of your body felt heavy, like you might fold in on yourself. Across from you, the man finally moved.

“So…” he said quietly, studying you, “you’re the visitor. My name is Zeno.”

“I didn’t ask.” You force out though your nerves. A flicker of something crossed his expression.

“Good.” he murmured. “There’s still resistance.” He stood, stepping closer. His eyes moved over you, taking in every detail like it meant something. “You’re exhausted” he continued, a slight tilt of his head “…yet you comply.”

“I don’t have a choice.” you whispered. Zeno hummed softly, like he disagreed–but didn’t argue it.

“…Dr. Gideon” His eyes flicker to the figure behind you. “Leave us.” Footsteps echoed until the door hissed open, and shut again with a final, sealed click. Then Silence.

[fictionalmendepartment]

Behind the glass

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female! Reader

Summary: You meet the man who's history you've been sorting through when he decides you'll be a part of it.

Warnings: Smut (Noncon, virginity loss)

WC: 2.4k

Notes: I don't really like this but what's done is done

The air in the underground Vought facility was unusually cold, and smelt of antiseptic. It was a place designed to contain "legends" and you were a junior archivist, tasked with cataloguing the mountain of physical media-film reels, photographs, mission logs, etc.-all recovered from the recent… comeback.

You had expansive knowledge about "old" heros, which was why they’d assigned you to the Soldier Boy project. Sat inside the cramed file room, day after day, organising everything. You knew this history but didn't really know the man sitting behind the impenetrable polymer. He’d been mostly silent for weeks, a brooding, muscular presence behind the glass, observing the parade of scientists, psychologists, and Vought executives come in and out. 

Today, the executives asked you to sit in the observation area, while you continued your work. "We just want to see if he talks when someone new comes in. You dont have to talk to him." But you knew why, it's because of what he was like-the old fashioned mentality-send a pretty girl in and he wont be able to resist.

His eyes had locked onto you the moment you walked in, wheeling in the cart of files and photos. You felt his gaze like a physical weight, heavy and unsettling, but he didn't speak for a long while. You stood up, work in hand, pacing just to stretch your legs.

“You!” His voice was a low rumble, it filtered through the speakers but lost none of its gravelly command. You jumped, nearly dropping the paper.

“M-me?” Your eyes flick over to him. 

“No, the other girl in the room who’s been staring at my files for an hour.” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. He was wearing standard-issue gray detainee sweats, but they did nothing to diminish the sheer scale of him. “Yeah, you. You actually look at that stuff like it means something.”

“Uh, well...It’s history. My job is to preserve it.” You swallow hard, your throat dry. 

“History.” he snorted, a harsh sound. “That’s one word for it. A fucking highlight reel of bullshit.” He stood up, and approached the glass. You instinctively took a step back. His eyes scanned you from your sensible flats to the top of your head. 

“What’s your name, kid?” Without hesitation you told him, like it was forced from you. He repeated it, testing how it sounded to cone from his own mouth. “Cute. You’re what, twenty-two? Twenty-three?” You nod, it was close enough. “A baby.” A smirk played on his lips. It wasn’t friendly. 

“Never seen anything like me before, have you? Not up close.” You hadn’t. You shook your head mutely. “I’m bored!” he stated, planting his palms against the glass. “Bored of the tests, bored of the assholes in suits, bored of this fucking cell. Now here you are, with your little files, and photos and your nervous eyes. You’re not like them. You’re… soft.” Your heart hammered against your ribs. This felt dangerous. You should leave, pack up for the day, but your feet were rooted to the spot.

“I want something,” he continued, his voice dropping to a murmur that the speakers barely picked up. “And you’re gonna get it for me.”

“I… I can’t…” You shake your head quickly.

“You can. I bet it’s in your archive. Nicaragua, ’84. Uncut footage. Not the shit they aired on TV.” His eyes hardened. “I want to see it. And you’re gonna bring it to me.”

“That’s classified.” you stammered. “Highly restricted. I’d lose my job. They’d kill-” His fist hit the glass. 

“And what do you think I’ll do if you don’t?” he interrupted, his voice still quiet but now edged with a venom that froze your blood. “I’ve been very patient. But my patience is running out. You get me that reel. You find a way to play it in here. And in return…” He let the sentence hang, his eyes doing another slow, deliberate sweep of your body. “In return, I won’t make a scene. I won’t break through this glass-which I could, by the way, anytime I want-and cause a lot of problems for a lot of people, starting with you. And maybe… I’ll even give you a little taste of the history they don’t put in your archives.”

The threat was clear, it made your knees weak. What did he mean? A taste of history, kept from the archives? You didn't even give it a second thought when you locked eyes with him again. You just gave a tiny, jerky nod.

“Good girl” he purred. "Tomorrow night. Night shift. Make it happen.” The next twenty seven hours were a blur of anxiety and planning. You forged a senior analyst request form, nabbing a keycard for a short moment. The tape was in deep storage, but you found it, now you had to wait. The late shift was a skeleton crew. You convinced the night guard you had overtime cataloguing, your voice barely steady. The area in front of his cell housed basic monitoring equipment and, crucially, an old, robust projector used for reviewing evidence. It was your only shot.

Your pulse was a deafening drum in your ears as you entered the anteroom, locking the door behind you. Through the thick glass, you saw him already standing, waiting. He said nothing, just watching you as you fumbled with the projector. It whirred to life, displaying the the footage onto the wall. It was chaotic, gritty, nothing like the clean broadcasts. It showed a jungle village, smoke, panic. And Soldier Boy, but not the polished hero. This was a force of nature, brutal and efficient. The crack of bones were audible even through the tinny audio.

There were other things, darker things, actions that had no place in any hero’s story. You wanted to look away, but you were paralyzed.

You didn’t hear the inner door open. That wasnt even a possibility, they didn't open from the inside.  The first you knew of his presence was a massive hand grasping your shoulder from behind. You gasped, jerking around, but his other arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back flush against a chest.

“See that?” he growled directly into your ear, his breath hot. His chin gestured toward the screen where the on-screen version of him was doing something unspeakably violent. “That’s the truth. That’s what I am. Not a poster boy. A weapon. A king.” You were trembling violently, caught between the horror on the screen and the terrifying reality of the man holding you. 

“How did you..? P-please…”

“Shhh” he hissed, his arm tightening. His hand slid from your shoulder down your arm, leaving a trail of fire. “You held up your end. Now it’s my turn to show you something they’ll never archive." He spun you around roughly to face him. The light from the projector, providing you with enough to makw out his face. One hand gripped your hip, the other came up to cradle your jaw, his thumb brushing roughly over your bottom lip.

“You ever been kissed, baby?” he murmured, though it wasn’t really a question. He could read the answer in your wide, terrified eyes, in the untouched softness of your mouth. Before you could form a sound, his lips crashed down on yours. His tongue forced its way past your lips, mapping the interior of your mouth with skill. 

You made a weak noise of protest that melted into a muffled whimper as your body, against all logic, began to respond. Your hands came up, fluttering against his chest, feeling the impossible hardness beneath the thin cotton. He broke the kiss as abruptly as he’d started it. “Yeah” he grunted, a dark satisfaction in his voice. “Just like I thought. Pure.”

His hands went to the buttons of your cardigan, popping them open with sharp, efficient tugs. He pushed it off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Your blouse was next. A scattered sound filled the small room as he simply tore it open, buttons pinging against the equipment, walls, and floor. The cold air hit your skin, followed immediately by the scorching heat of his palms on your bare waist. 

He looked at your bra for a second, then hooked a finger under each cup and pulled down, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. “Perfect!” he breathed, more to himself than to you. He palmed one breast, his thumb circling your nipple, coaxing it into a tight, aching peak. The sensation was so sharp, so foreign, it ripped a sob from your throat. He bent his head, and his mouth closed over the other peak, sucking strongly. 

Your legs buckled, but he held you up easily, switching his attention to your other breast, lavishing it with the same worship. You were moaning now, small, helpless sounds you didn’t recognize as your own. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not pushing him away but clinging on as the world dissolved into sensation.

He straightened up, his lips glistening. Without a word, he turned you around again, your back to his front. The projector still played the grim acts of violence. One arm banded across your collarbones, holding you secure against him. The other hand slid down over your belly, past the waistband of your skirt. “Watch!” he commanded, his voice a gravelly vibration against your ear. His hand delved lower, cupping you through your underwear. You cried out, hips jerking involuntarily against his palm. “Watch the screen. That’s power. And this…” He rubbed his fingers firmly against the dampening cotton. “this is what power does.”

He hooked his fingers into the fabric of your panties and tore them aside with a single brutal motion, ripping them completely. Then his fingers were on you, in you, touching you in a way that no one had ever done. You gasped, arching back against him as he found your clit, circling it with a rough, unrelenting pressure.

“You’re so fucking wet.” he groaned into your hair. “Soaking for me.” He worked you with his fingers, a devastating rhythm that had you panting, your head rolling back on his shoulder. The images of jungle carnage blurred with the carnage he was wreaking on your body.

Just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, he withdrew his hand. A whine of desperate loss escaped you. He chuckled, a low, dark sound. “Not yet, baby.” he said. The arm across your chest tightened. His other hand-the one now slick with your arousal-gripped the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. He didn’t yank, but the hold was absolute, unyielding. He forced your head to the side so you could look at him. 

"Are you a virgin?" You blink up at him. "Come on, you're not stupid. Answer me."

"Yes" Your answer pleases him greatly. He pulls you back into his cell, tossing you onto his bed. He stands at the end of the bed, towering over you. Then his sweats are being pushed down. His cock was huge, standing fully erect, a bead of precum leaking from the tip. “You're gonna watch as I take what’s mine.” he snarled.

He leans over you, griping the hair at the nape of your neck. He yanks you forward, enough that the top of your back raises from the bed. He lines himself up and pushes the tip in, your eyes snapping shut. A gravely laugh leaves his lips at how you squeeze around him. "Open your eyes, gotta see this." You reluctantly open them and he continues to thrust forward until hes buried deep inside.

The pain was instantaneous and immense. Your body seized around him, impossibly tight. He was huge, stretching you far beyond what you thought possible, filling you in a way that felt like a violation. He didn’t move for a moment, letting you feel every inch of him lodged deep within your trembling body. His grip on your hair tightened just shy of painful, keeping your attention on him buried inside of you.

“See?" He pulled back slowly, an agonizing drag that made you whimper. “…this is what you needed.” He thrust back in, hard. The second time was different. The sharp edge of pain was still there, but it was blunted, mingling with a shocking, deep-full sensation that stole your breath. A broken sob escaped you.

“That’s it.” he encouraged darkly, beginning to move in a steady, relentless rhythm. Each inward stroke was a claiming, each withdrawal a theft of your sanity. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Your eyes moved past him, and back to the wall, the footage. Your tears blurred the image of jungle fire and flying debris into random,blurry streaks of light. Your body, traitorously, began to adapt, to clench around him not just in shock but as a welcome.

He fucked you like he fought on the screen: without mercy, without pause, with absolute focus on domination. The sounds were filthy-the wet slap of skin on skin, his guttural grunts in your ear, your own ragged cries and whimpers harmonizing with the chaotic soundtrack of gunfire and screams from the film.

“You feel that?” he gritted out, his pace becoming even more punishing. “You feel how deep I am? No one else will ever get this deep. No one else will ever make you feel this.” He punctuated his words with a series of short, brutal thrusts that made you see stars. “You’re mine now.” His words unlocked something inside you. The coil snapped. A climax tore through you with violent, unexpected force, wracking your body with convulsions. You screamed, a raw sound swallowed by the room’s soundproofing and the film’s harsh noise.

Your climax milked him, pulling a roar from his chest that drowned out everything else. He slammed into you one final time, grinding deep as he emptied himself inside you in hot, pulsing streaks. He held himself there for a long moment, both of you shuddering in the aftermath.

Slowly, he withdrew. The sudden emptiness was almost as shocking as the initial invasion. He released his grip on your hair, you slumped back onto the bed, as you tried to remember how to breathe.

You heard him pull his sweats back up. Then there was only the sound of your own ragged panting and the hum of the projector.

A large hand settled on the small of your back, warm and possessive even now. “That reel was classified material” he said, his voice back to its usual rumble, though slightly breathless. “I trust you’ll file this experience under the same heading.”

You couldn’t speak. You could only lie there, exposed, used, filled with him, as the reality of what just happened-what you had allowed, what you had felt-crashed over you in a devastating wave while he walked free. 

[fictionalmendepartment]

Do you write for resident evil Zeno, wesker or Victor ?

Definitely Victor, still contemplating the others!

[fictionalmendepartment]

May I add you to my resident evil writers list ?

Sure!

[fictionalmendepartment]

Are you a 18+ adult so I may interact ?

Yes! I'm 21! :) I'll add it to my welcome post.

[fictionalmendepartment]

Labyrinth of Control

Chapter 1: Unexpected Guest

Pairing: Victor Gideon x Female! Reader

Summary: The manor seemed like salvation from the storm until Victor Gideon decided you were worth studying.

WC: 3k

Notes: This will get smutty in the next chapter, I promise. I need that man.

Part 2

The first sign something was wrong was the dashboard light.

It flickered once before glowing steadily in a dull amber with a warning that you couldn’t quite remember the meaning of. You frowned at it, easing your foot off the accelerator as the narrow road curved deeper into the forest.

“Great” you muttered to yourself. Rain had started about twenty minutes earlier, first as gentle tapping on the windshield and now a steady curtain that blurred your vision.

The road ahead stretched empty and slick, a strip of asphalt cutting through endless woodland. You hadn’t passed another car in nearly an hour.

The engine coughed.

You stiffened, glancing down at the gauges.

“Come on.” you whispered, encouraging the aging car forward as if it could hear you. “Just a little bit further.”

The engine coughed again–louder this time–and the car shuddered beneath you. A couple more of the dashboard lights flickered.

Then the engine died completely.

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute.

Your headlights dimmed to a weak glow as the car cruised forward with its own momentum, tires crunching over gravel before finally rolling to a stop along the narrow shoulder. Rain drummed harder against the roof now, filling the quiet.

You tried the ignition.

The engine turned once. Twice. Then nothing but a dull clicking sound.

“Seriously?” You let your head fall back against the seat. You checked your phone again. Still no signal.

Fantastic.

For a moment, you just sat there, listening to the rain and the creak of trees shifting in the wind, their leaves rustling. The road behind and ahead looked equally empty, swallowed by darkness.

Then lightning flashed.

For a split second the forest lit up in stark white and you thought you saw something in the distance through the trees.

A building? Maybe a ranger station. A farmhouse. Anything with a phone.

You grabbed your phone before stepping out into the storm. The cold rain hit immediately, soaking through the fabric of your clothes within seconds. You turned the flashlight on, aiming it ahead of you.

You hesitated only for a moment before pushing forward. The forest swallowed you almost instantly. The ground was uneven and slick, mud clinging to your boots with every step.

Lightning flashed again and in that brief burst of light you saw it clearly for the first time.

A massive iron fence rose from the forest floor ahead of you, its rusted metal bars stretching high into the darkness. Torn warning signs hung from the wire mesh.

CHEMICAL HAZARD.

RESTRICTED AREA.

DO NOT ENTER.

The wind rattled the fence, making it groan softly. You swallowed. Just beyond the barrier, a mansion? Or what had once been one?

Its towering shape rose against the stormy sky like a dark monument to something long forgotten.

Okay, it looks creepy but it's shelter, and that's all you could think about. The rain was freezing. The woods were endless. Your car was dead back on the roadside.

The gate was half torn from its hinges,hung slightly open, so you slipped through before you could change your mind.

Each step felt heavier than the last, mud clinging to your boots as the storm intensified around you. You noticed a rusted sign, practically falling apart: Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center.

By the time you reached the massive oak doors, you were soaked to the bone and shivering violently. Yet you still hesitated. Something about this place felt wrong.

Another roll of thunder cracked overhead.

You grabbed the iron handle and pushed hard, the heavy door groaned open with a long, protesting creak.

Inside, darkness waited. A dim flickering light made you stop, questioning how there was power but you stepped inside anyway.

The door slammed shut behind you with a thunderous bang, Then came the sound of the locks, clicking into place on their own accord. A shiver ran through your spine.

A sudden sound echoed from the depths of the house. A footstep. Then another. The measured, powerful tread of something very large, and very much in control. Your heart hammered against your ribs, like a little bird trapped in a cage.

He emerged from the archway of a dark corridor, and your breath caught. He stood easily six and a half feet tall, his shoulders straining the seams of his vest. His arms, bare and corded with muscle.

A metal rig crowned his head–bolted plates and clustered lenses that hung over one eye. Greying strands of hair hung out the back of the metal frame. His skin was pale and rough, stretched tight over old scars. His vest was open down the middle, revealing the worst of it: a thick, jagged scar that began at his bottom lip, split down his throat, and continued in a brutal line along his chest before disappearing beneath the fabric of his pants.

He didn’t smile. He simply assessed you, his gaze was a physical weight that traveled from your mud-caked boots, up your trembling legs, the soaked fabric clinging to your hips and chest, and finally to your frightened face.

“Lost” he stated. His voice was a deep, resonant rumble. It wasn’t a question. You could only nod, your voice having deserted you.

“This is private property,” he continued, taking a step forward. The space in the foyer seemed to shrink with his advance. “A restricted area. Your presence is a contamination.”

“I…I’m sorry.” you stammered, finding your voice in a whisper. “The storm, my car broke down, the door locked…” You glance back at it.

“I am aware of the door’s mechanisms.” he interrupted, his tone flat. “They are designed to contain. To prevent precisely this sort of… intrusion.” He was close enough now that you could smell him, a strange muskiness. His presence was overwhelming. “You have seen the perimeter fencing. The signs.”

“You are a variable!” Gideon mused, more to himself than to you. “An uncontrolled element. I cannot allow you to leave, not until I determine you are not a host.”

“A host for what?” you asked, a new kind of fear coiling in your stomach. He ignored the question. His hand, large enough to cup your entire skull, came up. You flinched, but his thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away a streak of mud. The contact was startlingly intimate, his skin calloused and hot. “You are cold. Wet. A compromised immune system is a risk to my work.” His hand dropped. “You will come with me.”

It wasn’t an invitation. It was an order, delivered with the absolute certainty of a man who had never been disobeyed. He turned and began walking back down the dark corridor, not bothering to check if you followed. With legs that felt like water, you trailed after him, the echo of his heavy boots swallowing the sound of your own shuffling steps.

He led you through a labyrinth of hallways that contrasted sharply with the mansion’s exterior. The air grew warmer, humming with the sound of generators and ventilation systems. You passed closed doors marked with biohazard symbols and numerical codes.

Finally, he pushed open a heavy metal door into a room that was part laboratory, part living space. Stainless steel counters were lined with beakers and microscopes, papers lined with information, and samples. In the corner was a desk, with multiple monitors. In the other corner, a cot, and along the wall, another door, presumably leading to a bathroom.

“This is my primary observation post” Gideon said, gesturing vaguely. “You will remain here.”

“For how long?” you whispered.

“Until I am satisfied.” He walked to a cabinet, pulled out a folded stack of clothing–a simple, long-sleeved t-shirt and drawstring pants that looked like surgical scrubs. He tossed them onto the cot. “Remove your wet garments. They are filthy and will lower your core temperature further.”

You stared at the clothes, then at him. He had moved to the desk and was powering up one of the monitors, his back mostly to you, but you knew he was aware of your every move. The idea of undressing in front of him, a terrifying stranger sent a fresh wave of panic through you.

“I… I can use the bathroom?” you ventured.

“The facilities are there.” he said without turning around, distracted as data scrolled across the screen. “But the shower’s water system is offline for decontamination. You will change here.”

Although he wasn't looking, you turned away. Your hands shook as you fumbled with the buttons of your soaked shirt. The silence was crushing, broken only by the clack of keys and the hum of machines. You kept your back to him, peeling the cold, clinging fabric from your skin.

Stepping out of your jeans was an ordeal. They were plastered to your legs, you had to wrestle them off. You were down to your bra and panties, both soaked, but you grabbed the new pants anyway, when his voice cut through the room.

“All of it.”

You froze. A hot flush of shame warred with the cold. “Please…”

“The undergarments are saturated,” he stated clinically. “They will negate the purpose of dry clothing. Remove them.”

Defiance felt like a death wish so with trembling fingers, you unhooked your bra, letting it fall away. The air in the room was warm, but it still raised goosebumps on your bare skin. You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and pushed them down your legs, stepping out of them quickly. You stood there for one excruciating second, completely naked, feeling more exposed than you ever had in your life, before grabbing the oversized shirt and pants.

The fabric was soft but smelled strongly of industrial detergent. The shirt fell to mid-thigh on you, the pants were large, having to tie the drawstring tight, you finally dared to glance at him.

He was watching you now, having turned fully in his chair. “Better.” he grunted. He stood up, and once again his size dominated the room. He walked over to a small refrigerator and pulled out a sealed bottle of water and a nutrient bar. He held them out in front of him. “Consume these. You require calories and hydration.”

You took the offerings mutely, your fingers brushing against his. The contact sent an unwelcome, electric jolt through you.

“The cot is for your use.” he said, nodding to the narrow bed. “I have work to attend to. Do not attempt to leave this room. The door is biometric. You will not find the controls. Do not touch any equipment. Is that understood?” You nodded, clutching the water bottle to your chest.

“Verbal confirmation is required.”

“Yes” you whispered. “I understand.”

“Good.” He returned to his monitors, his broad back once again a formidable barrier between you and the world.

You sat on the edge of the cot, the blanket beneath you was surprisingly soft. You forced down bites of the bland, chalky bar, with sips of water in between. The adrenaline was fading as you slipped under the blanket. You watched him work for what felt like hours. He had a focused intensity, his large hands moving over keyboards and tablet screens with surprising smoothness. He muttered to himself occasionally, technical terms you didn’t understand, seemingly forgetting that you were there.

Eventually, your eyelids grew heavy, curling up on the cot, facing the wall. The last thing you were aware of was the soft glow of the monitors and the solid, imposing presence of the man who held you captive.

You awoke to darkness. The monitors were off. The only light came from the upper corner of the room, a small, red light, probably a camera. You lay still for a moment, listening. The hum of machinery was quieter now. And then you heard it–the slow, deep rhythm of breathing that was not your own.

You turned over slowly.

Victor was seated in his desk chair, which he had turned to face the cot. His arms were folded across his chest, his head tilted back slightly as if resting. You gasped, jerking upright, clutching the blanket to your neck.

“You talk in your sleep” he said, his voice a low vibration in the dark.

“I do?”

“Mmm.” He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, the chair creaking under his weight. “Inconsequential things. Names. Places.” He paused. “You also whimper.”

Your face burned. “I'm cold.”

“The temperature is a constant 72 degrees.” He stated. “It was not cold.” He studied you, his gaze like a physical probe. “It was fear. A natural stress response. Your heart rate spiked several times during your REM cycle.” He taps the screen beside the cot. “I’ve been monitoring your vitals.” You look down to see where you're connected to the machine, a few tubes in your arm.

The revelation was horrifying. How and when did he do that?

“Why?” you breathed.

“Data. To establish a baseline. To watch for anomalies.” He stood up slowly, unfolding to his full, terrifying height. He took two steps and loomed over the cot. “Your fear is… pronounced.” He reached down.

You shrank back, but there was nowhere to go. His hand didn’t go for your throat or your face. Instead, his fingers closed around your wrist, his thumb pressing against your pulse point. His grip was firm, unbreakable, but not painful.

“Elevated even now” His thumb stroked once, slowly, over the frantic flutter beneath your skin. The gesture was terrifyingly gentle. “A rapid, thready pulse. Dilated pupils.” He pulled on your arm softly, making you sit up, and leaned closer, his face inches from yours. “Fascinating.”

“Please let go,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“Why?” he asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. “My touch is not injurious. And your body’s reaction to it is the most interesting data I’ve collected all night.” His other hand came up to adjust his lenses, turning it to a different one, as if getting a better look. “The flush on your skin is not solely due to fear. There is a response indicative of… other arousal pathways.”

“No!” you denied weakly, even as a traitorous heat bloomed deep in your belly, shaming you.

“Do not lie to the data.” he scoffs. His grip on your wrist tightened a fraction, just enough to remind you of his strength. His thumb continued its slow, maddening stroke. “The body does not lie. Only the mind attempts to distort it.” His head dropped slightly to where the oversized shirt had slipped off one shoulder. “You are a small, fragile thing. Completely at my disposal. Your fear is rational. Your… other response is a survival mechanism. A submissive wiring, perhaps. An attempt to pacify the dominant threat.”

His words were cold, analytical, but they carved through you with brutal precision. You tried to pull your wrist free, but it was like trying to move stone.

“Still yourself.” he ordered, his voice dropping into a deeper, more commanding register. “Your struggling is introducing unnecessary variables.”

He released your wrist, moving to rest his hand on your side, just above your hip. His hand covered a huge area of your body. His hand slid upward, over the curve of your waist, his thumb tracing the lower arc of your ribcage. The shirt rode up with the motion, and his calloused thumb met bare skin. You jolted as if shocked.

“Observe the involuntary muscle contraction,” he said, his breath ghosting over your cheek. His hand stilled, his thumb now resting firmly on the sensitive strip of skin between your bottom rib and hip bone.

This was a nightmare.. He was cataloging your shame, your unwanted excitement, as dispassionately as he would note the growth of bacteria.

“Please stop.” you begged, tears finally spilling over.

He looked at your wet cheeks, his head tilted. His hand moved again, sliding around to the small of your back, pulling you a fraction closer to the edge of the cot, toward him. You were forced to arch your back slightly, your head falling back to look up at him.

“Your size differential is significant.” he mused, his eyes roaming over your prone form. “My mass is approximately 2.7 times yours. I am much stronger.” He said it not as a boast, but as a simple fact. “Your compliance is not a choice. It is a physical inevitability.”

His free hand came up and pushed the loose collar of the shirt further off your shoulder, baring more of your throat and the top of your chest. The red light painted your skin in dark crimson shadows.

“I have protocols for contamination” he said quietly, his voice now a rough whisper that vibrated in your core. “Quarantine. Observation.” His head dipped lower, his lips hovering just above the skin of your bared shoulder. You felt the heat of them, but he didn’t make contact. “Decontamination.”

You whimpered, the sound tearing from your throat.

“There are… methods.” he continued, his lips now brushing against the shell of your ear, making you shudder violently. “To neutralize a variable. To assert absolute control over an environment.” He finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “To ensure no trace of outside influence remains.”

He held your gaze for a long, terrifying moment. Then, with a final stroke of his thumb against the bare skin of your back, he straightened up to his full height, removing his touch.

“A baseline has been established.” he stated, his voice returning to its normal, deep rumble as if nothing had happened. He turned and walked back to his desk chair, sitting down, facing you again. “Now, sleep. Further tests will be required in the morning.”

You lay there on the cot, shaking uncontrollably, your skin ablaze where he had touched you, your mind reeling from his words and the undeniable ache that throbbed between your thighs. The darkness felt heavier now.

Victor Gideon wasn’t just your captor. He had become your experimenter. And you were his most fascinating subject yet.

[fictionalmendepartment]

Genuinely fighting with myself rn. The urge to write a Victor Gideon fanfic is so strong but it feels like an insane first post.