i think there is a huge maturity issue in the fanfiction community. below are some things i'd like to address.
minors in adult spaces you are not 'mature' for you age if you cannot follow a simple boundary. if you lie about your age, you are also endangering the adults you contact, it's not just about your safety. just because you yourself are comfortable or going through puberty and need to get off, it does not mean you should interact and cross a very explicit boundary. this also brings me to mdni blogs who pick and choose specific minors just because "they write good smut" or "they're almost 18 anyway". if you have a boundary, then enforce it. you are making the 'mdni' label seem like a joke. don't call yourself 'mdni' if you're not.
disregard on kink etiquette there is a difference between writing dark content and normalizing real, dangerous situations. do not interpret real life cases of abuse as inspiration for your fanfics. i remember some time ago, there was someone requesting about elvis presley and his history with a minor. also, if you are into unusual things and someone is against it, it's so easy to not interact. do not step over people's boundaries just because you feel like they have more morals than you. nobody cares what you're into as long as you keep it in your own space, it doesn't harm anyone, and you don't force it onto others.
talking behind people's backs i see no issue with shittalking as long as it's something you would say to the person upfront or have no intentions to interact with the person. to mock, belittle, and 'drag' someone behind their back is, honestly, strange. most of you are above middle school age, act like it. the issue is not with shittalking, but with pretending you are above it and do it.
whining about interactions it's okay if you're frustrated that a post isn't doing well, it's okay to post about it. readers these days on tumblr need to be reminded that to keep the fanfiction ecosystem alive, you should reblog. however! posting stuff like "omg, i'm gonna quit if i don't get 100+ likes" or "all of you better like rn" just makes you look odd. write for yourself or you always get burnt out.
sympathy baiting no, you cannot have bpd nor any cluster b disorder if you are under 18 unless you have an explicit diagnosis from a professional. no, you cannot post smut as a minor just because you were groomed and normalize sexual content. no, you cannot jump into adult spaces just because you're 'mature for your age'. no, adults are not the bad guys for setting boundaries. no, mental illness isn't a silly label to put in your bio for extra points.
trauma dumping without asking we are not your therapists, we are not licensed, and no one on here wants to play babysitter to someone at risk of self destructive behavior. if you need help, then seek it irl. if you cannot, then advocate for yourself. you will not get better by being a whiny bitch about it on tumblr. you will not get better if you complain about things in your control to stop.
if you do not have the maturity for at least most of these, you should not have a mdni blog (if applicable) nor be on the internet at all.
rAAAGGGGGHHHHH just thinking of medical malpractice times two in some hospital setting where Dr Easterman is my therapist who gives me “special treatment” during our appointments and the head of the hospital, Dr Gideon, instead of scolding him decides to join in cuz he’s been watching and got jealous that Easterman got to have all the fun to himself
God nerfed my ability to draw or write because he knew I would unleash the most obscene, deranged, unhinged, morally questionable, reality-breaking, brainrot-fueled, sanity-eroding, and logically-defying Victor Gideon content imaginable
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
okay hear me out. after much bedtime contemplation my new headcanon is that Victor has ADHD. this is mostly based on vibes just to be clear
fixated on certain topics (Grace, Elpis, Spencer) to the detriment of everything else. he genuinely doesn't have much of a life outside of those few things but that's how he likes it - he wants to be able to devote as much attention as possible to his obsessions
I definitely feel like Victor doesn't sleep much & would rather be focusing on work (which isn't really "work" for him as he genuinely enjoys his job); he's pulled all-nighters more than he could count & it doesn't drain him as much as it probably should
similarly, working long hours doesn't wear him down too much, he has a lot of stamina & gets restless if he doesn't have some outlet for it
prone to dopamine-seeking behaviors & easily bored. the nemesis parasite heightens this. Victor can barely make himself sit through meetings/conferences, would rather be dicking around in his private lab or riding his motorcycle to no particular destination
uses tobacco to self-medicate, he's too prideful to take meds (or even acknowledge that he might need them); can't sit still for very long unless he's smoking, craves movement + caffeine does nothing for him
moves on from feeling accomplished very quickly (the scene where he shouts "I've done it" & immediately storms off... what a goober)
major time blindness when it comes to his projects, he hates being forced to switch between tasks & does it begrudgingly
would procrastinate on exams in school until the night before (sometimes this backfired but Victor could usually pull it together through sheer willpower)
likes heavy music, it calms him
that's all I've got right now... thank you for your attention to this matter
summary: after being kidnapped from your hotel room, you wake inside of rhodes hill chronic care center. the only problem is that everybody is trying to convince you that you’re a patient here, having wild delusions after one of your alleged episodes. unwilling to stay trapped in this place, you try to escape. victor gideon isn’t so willing to let his favourite patient go.
tags & content: NSFW, rape/non-con, sexual content, drugged sex, non-con drugging, past kidnapping, gaslighting, groping, manhandling, aphrodisiacs, vaginal fingering, penis in vagina, size difference, female reader, probably inaccurate version of rhodes hill, pre-RE9
word count: 5.8K
A sluggish, chemical haze presses down on you at first. It was a struggle to fight it, like wading through water, clawing for distant clarity. You could feel yourself twisting weakly in the sheets, a thin thing that barely covered you, trying to get your arms underneath you. Sluggishly, you blink away the blurry haze in your vision. With a squint, you crane your heavy head up just enough to take in your surroundings.
The lights were dim, but the interior was bright. White and ugly, you thought briefly, before a sudden realisation jolted through you. Your eyes slid down to the IV nestled in the back of your palm.
“What…” You didn’t realise how lethargic your tongue was, struggling momentarily to even swing your legs off the bed. It made you hiss with effort, getting caught in the line of the IV and rattling the metal stand against the ground. Fear clawed at your lungs, making it a little more difficult to breathe.
This wasn’t your hotel. You remembered now, albeit a little fuzzy, the man who had broken into your apartment, stalked you, chased you down the corridor—
Your fingers shakily rose to your throat, the skin purpled and tight. His hand had encompassed the size of your neck like it was a toothpick, his fingers strong and thick as he’d squeezed until your vision had blackened in seconds.
Scared, you stumble to your feet. You had to catch yourself against the wall, frustration at your own weakness causing you to yank the IV out of your palm. It stung, and wet, fresh blood trickled down your fingers, but you didn’t care.
Struggling to get your legs into working order, you finally manage to make it to the door. You jiggle the door knob for a brief second before it gives way at the right angle, forcing your fingers into the gap to shoulder it open. It took some effort, but you find yourself standing in a long stretch of corridor.
Your eyes, blinking at the brighter lights, darted from right to left.
On one side, you notice what looked like two nurses wheeling a medical cart, chatting quietly to each other. Your heart immediately leaps into your throat at the sight of them, hand clumsily grasping at the wall and shuffling in their direction.
“Wait—” You try to call, your voice cracking. Your fingers flicker up to your throat, the uncomfortable tightness flaring for a moment before you call out to them again. “Stop, please, I need help—”
Your throat aches and the sting on your hand throbs, but at least the two women hear you. Their heads slowly swivel around, heels coming to a stop on the tiled floor. You feel a wave of dizziness wash over you, but you force yourself closer to them.
“Oh,” one gasps, her eyes crinkling with something akin to warmth and relief. “You’re awake.” Her gaze drops to your hand, and her eyes turn a bit sour. “Honey, you hurt yourself.”
You stammer over words, glancing at your hand. The wound stings, but it’s nothing serious, and you squeeze your fingers weakly to get rid of the few droplets of blood.
“I—It doesn’t hurt,” you squeeze out, swallowing the dry lump in your throat. “Where am I?”
The second nurse bends down to the bottom shelf of the cart, retrieving an alcohol swab and rag while the other’s smile returns to her face. She was a small thing, slim and non-threatening, her face full and cheeks rosy. You’re not sure if you’re in some sort of hospital, as their uniforms don’t resemble that of one, but you’ll take it if it means you’re far away from the man who tried to kidnap you.
“You’re safe,” the woman gently assures, and her calm voice eases the rod of tension in your spine. You don’t doubt you probably look a little wild right now, but appearances aren’t your concern. “You’re at the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. Do you remember that name?”
You wrack your brain, but it doesn’t provoke any familiarity. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head quickly. The second nurse had taken your hand, wiping the area where the IV had been. You don’t really feel it.
“No,” you answer quickly. “No, I’ve never been here before.”
The two nurses exchange a quick glance with once another. It was brief, but even in your disorientated state, you didn’t miss it. Your eyes squint with sudden, accusatory intent, something uncomfortable knotting in your tummy.
“What? What is it?”
The nurse by your hand, blonde, finished up mopping the blood around your fingers. She wasn’t looking you in the eye, blatantly avoiding your stern gaze. Your head swivels towards the other nurse, who remained as calm as she did before, though there was something in her eyes you couldn’t quite pinpoint.
“You were admitted here last night,” she sighed, tilting her head. “After another episode.”
You blink rapidly. You can hear the way your heart starts to pulse, stammering over the confusing admission.
“Episode?” You repeat incredulously, snatching your hand away from the other nurse. You take a couple steps backward, your fingers suddenly numb. The nurses glance at each other again, the way one might look after trying to care for a wounded animal. The fogginess of your head isn’t helping clear your thoughts, trying and failing to wrap around their insistent words. You shake your head again, realising this must be a mistake.
“You—You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” you press, like it’s the only explanation, clutching the front of your robe. “I wasn’t admitted anywhere. I was taken. There was a man at my hotel, he grabbed me and—”
The nurse quietly called out your name, snapping you out of your dazed rambles. Your head jerked up to look at her infuriatingly calm expression, like she didn’t believe a word that was coming out of your mouth.
“We’ve talked about this before, honey,” she sighs. Your lungs burn, and you stare at her.
“I never told you my name,” you whisper, your words frantic. “How do you know my name?”
“You’ve had similar experiences during previous breakdowns,” she continues, blatantly ignoring your question like you hadn’t uttered it at all. The other nurse is almost oblivious to the conversation, having already returned the medical supplies to the cart, discarding the rag and wheeling it the rest of the way down the corridor. You briefly watch her go before your attention snaps back to the woman in front of you. “You become disorientated, frightened, and you convince yourself that people are trying to harm you. But it’s alright, honey. We can fix you right up.”
“That is not what’s happening,” you snap, the agitation in your voice making the nurse close her mouth. Her brow raises an inch before she composes herself. You’re trembling now, the realisation that you had never escaped the horror dawning on you. That if they weren’t all in on this sick joke, then you were being mistaken for some crazy patient in a care center. Or painted as one.
“I was kidnapped,” you insist, your voice cracking as the fear returns in full force. Panic pierces through the fog more easily now. “From my hotel room, he—he broke in, and grabbed me, and—”
You suddenly remember the way his hand had engulfed your throat so easily, thick fingers wrapping and squeezing. You gasp, sweat building on your brow, moving your hair aside so the nurse can see the bruises more clearly under the light. Her eyes briefly flicker to them before returning back to your face.
“Can’t you see these bruises? These were from him, please, you don’t understand.”
The nurse smiled calmly. “Self inflicted contusions are quite common during episodes, sweetie.”
Anger bubbles in your chest. “Self inflicted? How can I strangle myself—”
Tears sting your eyes. You don’t know which emotion will win, but fear, panic, desperation and anger are all fighting to claw their way up your throat, overwhelming you completely. You swallow a panicked whimper, acutely aware of how uncomfortable and cold the tiled floor feels pressing into your bare feet. You barely suck in a shaking breath.
“You need to call the police,” you insist, wracking your brain for any information. You startle for a moment. “His name. He said his name was Victor Gideon.”
The nurses expression shifts with clear familiarity, the name known to her. But she doesn’t seem to say anything. Her eyes simply crinkle with this weary, sympathetic look. It drives you mad.
“I'm not crazy.”
“Oh, sweetie—”
“Call the police,” you beg, barely even able to contain the panicked sob. “Please, please, just call the police!”
Slowly, the nurse releases a long sigh, and finally steps towards you. You jerk back instinctively, but she manages to catch you by your wrist before you can get far. Even as you twist to get away from her, her strength completely knocks you off guard. She easily manoeuvres you back to the room you had come out of, despite your clumsy protests. She grips you in a way that doesn’t hurt, but you can’t escape it, either.
She pushes you into you room, having to catch yourself on the floor for a second so you don’t entirely fall over. Gaining your balance, you whip around angrily to face her. She stands like a silhouette in the doorway, her fingers curled around the handle of the door.
“I’m so sorry.” The nurse smiled again. “Dr. Gideon said to let you tire yourself out in here if you’re agitated when you wake. I’ll be sure to check on you later.”
Your heart drops to your stomach. Dr. Gideon. A part of you hopes you didn’t hear that right, but you’re not stupid. She closes the door smoothly, and a sharp clicking noise slices through the air like a gunshot. You throw yourself against it, but it doesn’t give way.
“No, no, no,” you mutter, your fingers twisting around the door handle frantically. You bang your fists against it next, feeling it rattle but remain in place. The window is narrow and foggy, leaving no discernible way to see what’s outside. Your voice rises to a scream. “Let me out—!”
You whip around, fists squeezing by your sides. You bolt over to the window, fingers scratching for any sort of purchase. The panes are frozen in place, no matter how you try to find their mechanism and unlock them. Frustrated, you run your fingers through your hair again. No, you know what happened. You know what you experienced was real, you know it.
You snatch the IV stand, your arms feeling shaky and weak as you lift it above your head. You wobble for a moment before letting the metal legs smash against the window pane, resulting in a loud, echoing bang. You stumble with the momentum, drawing it back clumsily once more to try again. Black spots creep along the edge of your vision, a frustrated scream tearing from your throat. The stand slips from your fingers and clatters sideways onto the floor, the fluid filled bag slapping against the tiles.
“You don’t understand,” you sob to nobody in particular, crouching into the corner of the room as if you can tuck yourself away from this nightmare. “I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy.”
Your heart takes a long while to steady in your chest. It’s all you’re accompanied by, the rapid thump thump thump like a drum in your ears. Your fingers twist into your gown, watching the occasional shadow pass the foggy window, but nobody came to check on you.
Your little stunt with the IV and your outburst had tired you out.
You’re not sure what they gave you while you were asleep, but sometimes, the fog worsens and you blink, having felt like hours had passed. You try to repeat a mantra in your head, but your thoughts feel like syrup when you’re alone like this.
It’s hard to take deep breaths, lazily piecing together a lackluster plan that you’re unsure will even work. When the nurse, as per her word, comes to check in on you again, you don’t move from your spot in the corner.
Her eyes scan the room meticulously, landing on the toppled over IV stand, before back onto you. A sympathetic expression passes over her face, clicking the door shut behind her. Her feet click as she moves over to the stand, setting it back straight on it’s feet. If she notices the little smudges and scratches on the window, she says nothing. After all, the windows aren’t a viable means of escape.
“Are you feeling a little better, honey?” The nurse croons, as if she were talking to a child. You fight the annoyance clawing up your throat, and, pretending to be dejected, nod your head. She pouts, dips her hand into her apron and shuffles over to the locked cabinet beside your bed. “Oh, don’t you worry. You’re a little late for your medication, which was probably why you were so agitated before. If you take these, you’ll feel much better. Dr. Gideon will finish your check up and perhaps you can spend a little time in the common room if you behave. Does that sound fun?”
She doesn’t turn to look at you as she rifles through the cabinet, stacks of bottled pills that makes your throat tighten. So instead, you force out your answer verbally.
“Yes,” you whisper, trying to appear timid and tired. The nurse seems happy to hear that, tipping three different pills into a paper cup, and walking towards you. You watch her wearily, eyes still a bit red from crying. You hope it makes you look a little more pathetic than you feel.
“Wonderful,” she praises happily, handing you the cup. “Once you take these, you will feel much better for your consultation.”
Taking the small cup, you feel your stomach lurch. Consultation. The thought of staying in this place any longer might truly send you crazy. The pills are tiny little things, but you don’t trust them with a single fibre of your being. Sighing weakly, you drag your gaze up to her awaiting face, lifting the cup to your lips.
“Can—Can you help me up?” You whisper, parting your lips to let the pills fall on your tongue. She only moves when you do, letting you use her arm as a crutch as you get your feet under you, her arm wrapping around your shoulder.
“Of course, sweetie,” she smiles,” just open your mouth and lift your tongue so I can—”
She doesn’t finish her sentence. Once you’re on your feet, you use the momentum to barge right into her, hard enough to knock her onto the ground with a thud. The nurse cries out, but doesn’t recover in time before you’re spitting the bitter pills out of your mouth and bolting for the door. Adrenaline rises hot and fast in your veins, yanking the door open with the sound of the nurse screaming your name angrily following you from behind.
You make a break for it, bare feet slapping against the floor as you race down the corridor as fast as your body can manage. A wayward nurse startles at the sound of you, and the one from your room just drags herself out in time to shout.
“Stop her!”
You pass her just in time, and whip around to shove the medical cart she was pushing into her. She lets out a shriek as it rolls over her foot, her ankle twisting as she quickly loses balance. You don’t waste another second ducking around the corner, trying to focus on creating as much distance as possible before the whole place is alerted to your escape attempt.
Frustratingly, the entire place lacks direction. It looks entirely the same, and you’re worried you’re going to be going in circles. When you find a set of stairs, you skid to a stop and scurry down them.
It’s a lot more work, and you can feel yourself slowing down with fatigue. The sounds of harsh shouting from behind makes you disregard your discomfort, leaping down a few steps just to keep your distance.
You crash through a set of double doors, eyes desperately scanning the new area. You flee down the corridor, checking the doors as you go. They rattle loudly but won’t budge.
“Come on, come on, come on,” you whisper frantically under your breath, eyes spotting one down the hall already open. You make a quick dash inside, your eyes roaming over a medical gurney and strange hospital equipment. It takes a second for you to realise it’s a dead end. But by then, the door had already slammed shut behind you.
You squeak and whip around, finding a hand pressed flat against the door. His rings glint precariously under the bright lights, and all at once the colour drains from your face as you look upon the man who emerges from the space behind the door. He looks at you calmly, quietly, lowering his hand from the door with a slow, deliberate motion.
“My dear,” he drawls, his voice deceptively soft. It makes your spine stiffen with panic, memories resurfacing violently. “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”
You gasp for air, skittishly taking a few steps backwards. You bump hard into the gurney behind you, throwing your arms out to catch yourself. Gideon observes with clinical interest, before his eyes crinkle with something akin to icy endearment.
“What a…pleasant surprise,” he mutters, the soft intimacy of his voice making your skin shudder. You can barely stammer a response, skittering around the gurney so it stands in between the two of you. You doubt it will make much difference, considering the ease he’d subdued you with before. Still, your fingers grip the metal bar until they turn white, cowering under his gaze.
You don’t even take your eyes off of him when the door suddenly lurches forward, and an out of breath orderly freezes when she spots you. Her gaze quickly flickers over to Gideon, who inclines his head slowly at the intrusion.
“Dr. Gideon!” She stammers, her hands clasped to her chest. “I’m so sorry, she—”
“That’s alright,” Gideon interrupts gently, his voice a pleasant murmur. His eyes drift back to you, lip sightly curved in amusement. “She’s just confused. Aren’t you?”
Your eyes crinkle into a weak glare, biting your tongue. The nurse swallows shallow gulps of air, clearly nervous in the tall man’s presence. She gains her composure soon enough, her voice turning firm.
“I’ll get her medication,” she says quickly, not waiting for confirmation before the door clicks shut behind her. You hadn’t realised how suffocating the room was with just the two of you, seeming to shrink. Your grip tightens on the metal rail of the gurney until your palms ache, the cold steel grounding you in a way nothing else in the room does. Gideon’s gaze never leaves you, following every shallow breath and twitch of your shoulders.
“Does that help?”
You flinch wearily, unnerved. “What.”
“The gurney.” His head tilts slightly. “Do you feel safer with it there? I can assure you, I have no intention of causing you harm. You’re my patient, after all.”
Your stomach drops violently, and you can feel your fingers start to tingle with numbness. It would be so easy for them to fabricate paperwork, medication, anything to make you believe that what they were saying was the truth. A part of you wishes he might gloat — to bask in his victory from the hotel, to tell you just how easy it had been to catch you in your moment of weakness. But he doesn’t.
“No,” you mutter, the words thick with frustration and fear. “No, I’m not. You’re not coming near me.”
He considers that for a moment, pressing his lips together lightly before they part in amusement. He takes one slow step forward, the movement deliberate and measured. You jerk backwards instantly, the gurney rattling loudly as it shifts between you.
“Stop!”
He seems content to listen, for now. Gideon stops closer to the gurney than you would like, the size of him engulfing the now minimal space between you. You remember he was strong, unnaturally so, and you know his long legs could eat up any distance you try to make faster than you can run in this condition. You try to think of something desperately, but all the thoughts keep slipping through your panicked fingers like melted sludge.
“You kidnapped me,” you shakily murmur, like it was comforting if you kept saying it out loud when nobody else would. “I remember. At the hotel, you were there.”
Gideon hums, the sound contemplative.
“Memories,” he drawls calmly, “are fragile when the mind is under strain. You misinterpret things, my dear.”
“Don’t,” you snap, levelling him with a weak glare. “I know what happened! You drugged me.”
“Your conviction is widely misplaced, if amusing.” His voice suddenly turns soft, quiet, a whisper that makes your spine shudder. “You always do this. Try to build something outside of my center.”
You open your mouth, then snap it shut. He’s just trying to rile you up, to rattle your already shot nerves. You keep telling yourself that, but your heart is pounding like a drum against your ribs regardless. Gideon made a sound that sounded sympathetic, like a mocking coo. His hand comes to rest lightly on the edge of the gurney. He doesn’t grab it, not yet, but the action feels uncomfortably invasive.
“You run,” he whispers, almost absently. “You hide. You insist you don’t belong here.”
His fingers tap once against the metal, a small deliberate sound. Your eyes jump down to the motion, before gliding back up to his face.
“And then you come back to me,” he purrs, in such a intimate way that it makes it seem as though your relationship transcends that of a doctor and a patient. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle, accompanied by a wave of cold nausea. Gideon wets his lips, attention sealed on you intently. “Right where you belong. Isn’t that right, my dear?”
You don’t get to answer, because the door behind him swings open again, and the nurse returns sheepishly. She holds another paper cup, shuffling towards Gideon’s side without wasting a beat. It takes him a slow, terrifying second to even take his gaze off of you, plucking the paper cup from the nurse without so much as a thank you. She doesn’t wait for one, and she doesn’t even cast you a sideways glance before she’s fleeing the room. The door click shuts behind you, and you watch Gideon’s fingers tighten against the rail of the gurney.
He starts to push it out of the way. You gasp, lurching forward to cling onto the metal with both your hands. Even while throwing all your body weight off centre to stop the wheels from rolling, your attempt does little to overpower him. The gurney groans as its shoved into the side wall, banging against the surface with a heart jumping thud.
The space between the two of you opens up like a rift, and you realise you have no choice but to try and run. You throw yourself as far away from him as you can manage, twisting around him in a fit of panic. You barely even make it a few steps towards the door before he easily catches you by the back of your gown.
A ragged cry tears from your lips as he wrenches you against his chest with enough force to almost knock the breath of your lungs. You try to dip your head so he can’t grab you, but he catches your jaw before you can. His skin is ice cold against your feverish softness, his hand so large it encompasses a huge portion of your face. You squeal, try to kick back at him, but he tilts your head back at such an awkward angle that your spine struggles to move without discomfort.
His thumb and forefinger digs hard into the hinge of your jaw, eliciting a soft whimper of pain. It hurts to fight it, tears stinging your eyes like hot coal. Against your better judgement, your mouth parts, giving a wide enough gap for him to tip the pills onto your tongue with little effort. Before your reflex takes over to spit them out, his hand releases your jaw smoothly, only to press firmly over your mouth. Your muffled protest barely escapes his palm.
“There,” he murmurs softly. “Easy, girl.”
You struggle to twist out of his grip, trying to press your tongue to the roof of your mouth so the pills stay trapped there. You can feel the plastic coating, and a part of you is pleased they won’t dissolve so easy. It doesn’t last long.
Slowly, Gideon’s free hand creeps along your bruised throat. The muscles there vibrate in fear, a low, intrigued hum purring in his throat. His fingers stroke along the flesh, seemingly adoring the way your muscles jump with every uncomfortable hitch, until he hits the hollow seam and begins to gently massage it. You feel yourself almost retch, fingers perching on his wrists but lacking the strength to make him stop. You feel him nuzzle your temple, lips pressing close to your hairline.
“Shhh, that’s okay,” he murmurs. Your throat spasms, and after massaging the right place, you automatically swallows the pills against your will. You give a strangled, muffled sob, squeezing your eyes shut. “Shh.”
He gives your throat a gentle, rewarding stroke, like he’s pleased with your so-called cooperation.
“Your medication will heal you,” Gideon murmurs, as if he’s trying to calm the rapid pulsing of your heart. “It always does.” His hand slides down your collarbone. “Make you warm.” It slips over your breast, making you jerk. “Soft.” His fingers splay over the length of your stomach, his fingers covering the entire width. “Pliant.” With deliberate firmness, his fingers press up between your legs, over your gown. “Wet.”
You squeal against his palm, trying to buck with more vigour now. Gideon releases a sound, similar to one amused by a sick animal, removing his hand to grip your shoulder instead.
What he gave you didn’t take long to take effect. A clammy heat spreads from the base of your spine, and that oppressive chemical haze descends like a fog over your mind. You muffle out scared protests against his palm, and feel your feet starting to lose their grip on the floor beneath you. Your head begins a slow, uncomfortable spin, staggering slightly when he begins to guide you towards the door.
You try to resist, but you can feel the strength slipping away from your muscles like sand through your fingers. Thoughts pull apart before you can truly form them, and the heat spreads through your body like wildfire now. It’s sickening, distracting you from the situation at hand, but the burn is unbearable and you can feel your thighs tingling whenever they rub together as you’re moved.
You’re barely walking by the time you make it back to your room. You can barely even tell that you’re there, your chest heaving so raggedly even the air feels like hot ash against your throat. You don’t know Gideon had lifted his palm from your mouth, but you’re whimpering more openly now. He eases his grip just to admire the way you wobble without proper support, your skin trembling whenever he traces an arm with his finger. It’s easy to guide you to the bed, but that’s not your true destination he has in mind.
“You underestimate my devotion, my dear,” Gideon hums, guiding your clumsy limbs so you stagger weakly over his lap. Your stomach gives a lurch when it presses into his legs, but the soft warmth of the mattress underneath your head threatens to ease the dizzying spinning, even just for a moment. The heat has intensified and amalgamated right between your thighs, a piercing ache that’s almost painful. “And I know you will feel exquisite.”
Pushing your gown over your thighs, Gideon shifts your hips a little higher, his fingers curling into you with a delighted sigh. You mewl, squirm, but through the chemical fog it’s all you can manage, reduced to the pleasurable sensations that ease the painful throbbing. His free hand dips under the gown to spread along your warm spine, soaking in the sheer heat radiating off your body.
“Do you even know how wet you are?” He asks in a intimate drawl, but he knows you won’t answer. His fingers prod further inside of you, the sound a hideous wet thing. Your slick pools around him almost immediately, and he can anticipate only weak flutters from your warm insides. He sighs quietly, almost fondly. “Poor girl.”
His fingers gently bully their way further inside you, reaching so deep you feel your spine crackle like lightening. You strangle out a weak moan, fingers curling clumsily into the thin sheets, but your body can do nothing but lie there and take it. Colours spin and dance, making it difficult to determine whether you’re face up or face down. Gideon’s fingers experiment with your insides for a little longer, before easing them out of you. You whimper in response, feeling empty, and Gideon gently brushes his fingers through your damp hair.
“I know,” he whispers, lifting your hips so he can get out from under you. “I’ll make you feel better.”
You sink further into the mattress, twisting slightly in discomfort at the loss of sensation. Your hand even clumsily tries to find your thighs, but Gideon’s knee presses next to your hip, and gently swats it away. Your eyes struggle to focus on the massive figure hovering over you, your terror blanketed by the chemicals. His silhouette is blurry, your knees weakly drawing up to try and keep him away. Even when you try to speak, you can’t get your tongue to cooperate.
Your squirming doesn’t deter him.
If anything, it emboldens him, reaching down to unbuckle his belt. He works himself into his hand with ease, and you squeeze your eyes shut in some vain attempt to get away from it all. The sensation bolts through you when you feel the head of his cock nudge between your folds, his hand braced firmly beside your head.
The pain is almost non-existent, your pussy welcoming him with an ease you must get have felt embarrassed about had you been lucid. Your relaxed and wet state makes it easy for him to shallowly thrust a few more inches inside of you, the size sending a melting pot of pleasure so intense your toes can’t help but curl.
“Exquisite…” He praises.
“Mm, fu…” You squeak, your hands clumsily dragging across the sheets until one bumps into his wrist near your head. You gasp for air, fingers curling weakly into the sleeve of his jacket. Gideon is slow, measured, almost torture-like. You can’t articulate that you need him to go faster, that it’s not enough, but the wriggling of your hips communicates it just fine.
Gideon doesn’t relent, however.
He watches your face with focused intent as he fucks you slowly, like he’s cataloguing each and every subtle flicker in your expression. His free hand even grips your cheeks, hot and wet with tears, and occasionally turns your face from one side to the other, his eyes half lidded with something akin to dark fascination. Every part of him is cold against your skin, even like ice inside of you, but the relief is temporarily cooled with every nudge of his hips against yours. He releases your cheeks with a patronising pat, drawing a soft mewl out of your trembling lips as your head tilts weakly away from him. His fingers glide down the soft length of your stomach, before his thumb traces the line of your cunt stretching around him.
“I wonder…” He mutters quietly to himself, small enough that you would have easily missed it. Even if he had been addressing you, whatever he’s saying is like relentless white noise filling your ears. “Would you take me so easily if you were lucid?” His head tilts an inch, contemplating. “Your body is particularly welcoming like this. But that is to be expected. An experiment for another time, perhaps.”
His thumb drags higher along your weeping flesh until it reaches your clit, rubbing it rhythmically. A choked sob catches in your throat, your spine bowing off the bed in a violent reflex. The nerves are shot from just a simple touch, the light pressure giving way for an egregious wave of pleasure through the length of your entire body. You can’t even form a plea, or so much as a moan, your throat tightening with the emergence of your orgasm. It’s violent, more violent than you might have expected. Spasms clench each little muscle in your body, thighs instinctively clamping shut in response. Gideon, however, leans back enough to take the weight off his hand, pressing it into the meat of your thigh to keep it open.
It seems to last forever, gasping for air that burns your lungs. The tingling residue it leaves has you collapsing onto the bed, your limbs clumsily falling still wherever they’d been before your nerves relaxed. You pant raggedly, your mouth dry and tongue like chalk. Gideon stills inside of you, and your stomach still feels weighted with the sheer size of him. The sensation of him easing out of you is the only thing you can process, your expression wrinkling with discomfort as it makes your nerves flare with stimulation you can’t bear right now.
The moment he’s out of your space, your body weakly curls in on itself. You feel uncomfortably empty now, still wet from your own fluids, and even though he didn’t fully satisfy himself, Gideon concludes he would prefer a little lucidity next time. The experiment is bland, if not provided a little stimuli. But he can admit there’s a fondness he feels for your state right now, a vulnerability that he wants to keep close. The man sighs deeply, tucking himself back into pants, and leans over to gently brush the damp strands of hair from your temple.
Your eyes flutter for only a moment, moaning weakly, before they close again.
“I took a sample of your blood while you were sleeping,” he whispers, tracing your hairline with gentle reverence. “The way your red blood cells react with t-virus is nothing short of…extraordinary. I’m so looking forward to your stay here, my dear.”
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