Property Of
Warning: kidnap,isolation, noncon/dubcon….
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Chris Redfield
Note: I couldn't resist...
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You check your phone again. Delayed. The bus has shown that for nearly twenty minutes. You suppress a sigh and let your arm fall straight, clutching the cell in unspent frustration. It can't be helped but it doesn't mean it's not annoying.
You clasp your wrist with your free hand and rock, tempering your patience. You peer down to where the bus should turn but as you peek back the other way, another figure startles you. You don't know how you didn't hear or sense the man.
He's tall, burly, and stoic as he stands barely a foot from you. He stares straight ahead. He doesn't look at all concerned with his commute.
You look at your phone again. The estimated arrival is even further away. You shake your head and chew on your anxiety. You're going to be late. Another X on your performance review, you're sure.
"Pretty early to catch a bus." The man says.
You flinch and glance at him. He keeps staring off across the street.
"Kinda, I guess." You agree.
He checks his watch. You look around. You wish anyone else was here.
"You hate your job." He says.
You shrug. Who doesn't?
"You've been waiting half an hour for a bus to go to a place that makes you miserable." He states plainly.
You shake your head. "Do I know you?"
He clears his throat. "You do now." He finally looks at you. "Chris."
He offers his large hand. You stare at it and curl your shoulders. You step back.
"No need to be scared. If I had any I'll intentions, I could've carried through on them by now." He says.
You gulp. "What?"
"Out here. Alone. Every morning. You get your return on the next block. You walk down Myron then turn through the lot on Ash." He says evenly. "About 16:51 on a good day. 17:34 on a bad one."
Your lips part. "Can you... Stop?"
"Your boss emailed you last night. He said you need to redo your report by the end of today. If the bus shows in the next ten minutes, you'll still be an hour behind."
You step further away.
"There's nothing wrong with the report. He just doesn't like you. And you don't like him either. Just too polite to say so."
You gape at him. A chill courses through you.
"Like you're being so polite right now," his voice drops. He says your name with less edge than his previous words. You gasp.
"What do you want?" You eke out.
"To give you what you want. What you need." He gets closer. "And I suspect you don't even know what that is.”
You feel hollow. This man knows too much. As you look him in the face, you swear, he can see into your mind. You shudder.
“Well… are you going to tell me what that is?”
He tilts his head slightly and one corner of his lips lifts slightly. He gets even closer. He brings his large hand up and you shy away. He hushes you like a wild animal and pets your head.
“Me.” He intones.
Your lip trembles and you suck in a sharp breath. “What?”
His eyes flick up and down and his hand frames right below your ear. He comes closer and pulls you to him. His grip slips around the back of your head as you press against his thick stomach and wriggle. He’s too strong.
There’s a prick right in the muscle along your neck and shoulder. You whimper. He shushes you again.
“Don’t think about it too much. Just rest.” He growls as your head lolls back heavily.
🎀
You wake up with a start. A peppery smell tugs at your nose. You know that smell. That man at the bus stop.
You sit up and your head spins. You clutch your skull between your hands and blink furiously. Your vision clears and you look around the space.
You’re in a large bed; king at least. The sheets are a dark blue-gray, the comforter black, and the pillows dressed to match. The blankets bunch at your waist and you look down at yourself.
You’re no longer in your work attire. No beige trench with the stain on the left pocket, no blouse, no dress pants, no uncomfortable wedge heels. It’s all gone. Instead, you wear a rose pink sleep set with a dainty red trim around the collar, sleeves, and legs. Along the elastic waist, there’s a small rose sewn in. Your soft tummy peeks out between the top and bottoms.
You shiver as you scan the room. There’s a rack secured behind glass on one wall. Inside, there are various firearms; shotguns, pistols, semi-automatic. You don’t know much about the things; only what you’ve seen in movies. What you can say is they look very real.
Below the gun rack, there’s a desk. A tablet sits on top of a metal folio, beside a picture of a group in tactical gear. You can tell just by the broad silhouette which one is your captor.
You squeak. He brought you here. He just snatched you off the street. You look down. And stripped you of everything. Dressed you up like a doll.
You turn to take in the rest of the room. Simple, practical. The walls are an off-white grey, the floor is hardwood, and a rectangle area rug is spread under the foot of the bed. There’s a bookshelf too; filled with well-worn spines and a military style chest on the third level.
You push yourself across the bed. You drop your legs over the edge but before you can stand, the door opens. You look at the man as he enters. He does not react to your consciousness.
“Your head is foggy.” He states. “You’ll be clumsy for a bit too.”
You grip the edge of the bed and waver. You stare at him.
“You’re confused. You didn’t listen to me.” He crosses the room and faces you, leaning on the desk as he kicks one foot over the other. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
You snivel. “Why am I here?”
“Again. Not listening. You should try to listen to me.” He warns as he folds his hands calmly above his belt.
His arms bulge under his black turtleneck. His cargo pants are held up by a thick leather belt, and bloused into his military boots. His shoulders are bound in an empty gun harness with a strap under the rounded muscle of his chest. The clinging fabric of his turtleneck emphasizes the thickness around his middle.
His brownish hair is speckled with gray, thicker at the temples, and his beard is dusted around his jaw with silver. He hums and crosses his arms.
“I want what’s best for you and I know what’s best for you.” He says.
“You don’t know me–”
“I know enough.” He insists as he pushes away from the desk. He nears and bends to look you in the eye. “I know you’re the right one.”
