♡ synopsis: now happily married to the kind of woman sammy could only dream of before, he's a very satisfied man. but... something seems to be bothering you tonight. once you're finally in bed together, you divulge the reason for your quiet disposition this evening. afterward, you prove to him yet again just how smart he was for wedding you.
♡ content: misogyny & internalized misogyny, anti-tammi, reader is a pregnant housewife, blowjob
Sammy often calls you his guardian angel. Because coming home to you is blissful heaven. There's no shouting matches, unhinged hysterics to deal with because you did something ridiculous while he was at work earning a paycheck and putting his ass on the line to provide for you, or a wreck of a house to clean up when he walks through the door.
No, just peace and quiet and calm.
Vacuumed carpet, mopped hardwood floors, polished countertops, laundered uniforms, a fresh assortment of fruits and vegetables in the kitchen, and faintly flickering candles on the coffee table which is complete with tidily organized stacks of magazines for your own respective interests.
And there's always toilet paper under the bathroom sink.
After his mess of a divorce, he was lonely, sure, but also very reluctant to ever get involved with someone ever again. After all, what if the new woman he chose turned out to be just as unstable as the last one—if not more so—and took him for all he was worth yet again, simply because he was trying to do the right thing by being a hardworking man?
Going on a reluctant search was never necessary to begin with, though, because there you were all along... From the very beginning, ahead of his filing for legal separation.
Before Sammy made you a happy little housewife, you'd been a waitress at a local diner, which he soon began to frequent after every shift, in an attempt to unwind and decompress before going home to a wife he resented.
You were a balm to his ragged nerves. Always sweet and sociable, and willing to lend an ear to listen to his woes when he actually had the energy to speak.
It gutted him that you were working ten hour shifts—and on sneakers that were being held together with naught more than duct tape, at that (he always felt guilty anytime he left you less than a $30 tip, even if all he ordered that evening was a glass of ice water). Meanwhile, Tammi was at home getting high with a damn teenager who stole something he stretched himself so fucking thin over to provide her with in the first place.
He should've known photography was going to be another whim just because she was bored.
At that, instead of being thankful, she instead reminded him of how he wasn't enough—or doing enough—when she harped on and on over the phone about wanting to move into a house he could never dream of affording while he was just trying to do his goddamn job.
Pushing it all down, his anger manifested in other ways before long.
It made him seethe watching other men put their hands on you when you came by to refill their coffee, or bring them their ordered meals because they somehow felt entitled to you.
When he started pulling his badge to get them to back the fuck off, or leave altogether, is when he knew that he was absolutely whipped.
Whenever Sammy would try to flirt, though, your eyes would always drift to that bothersome gold band that he desperately wanted to flush down the toilet and forget about entirely.
He was fucking terrified of losing you.
So, he filed and risked half of everything—his savings, pension, personal property, and financial assets—just for a chance at having something better by your side before the day finally came where you either disappeared from the diner's outdated interior in search of more favorable prospects elsewhere, or you slipped through his fingers altogether while another man put a wedding ring on one of yours.
No more does Sammy come through the front door and toe off his black rubber boots before you suddenly appear before him. Pressing yourself affectionately to his chest, you wind your arms tightly around his neck and grant him a soft peck on the lips.
"Welcome home," you whisper. Running your fingers through his soft auburn curls, you rest your forehead gently against his. "How was your day?"
Snaking his arms around your waist, your husband gives you a careful squeeze while a contented smile crawls its way across his lips and feeling of uncontainable warmth fills his heart. "Better now."
Sliding a heavy palm over your swollen belly, the corner of Sammy's lips twitches when your little one kicks excitedly.
"He missed his daddy as much as I did," you murmur.
Falling back a step, you tug Sammy past your two's cozily decorated living room. "Go ahead and take a hot shower. Dinner's just about ready."
He smooths a hand down the back of your head. "Did you—"
"Grocery list is all checked off," you remark with a confident nod. "And the gentleman at the auto store even changed my wiper's for me."
He frowns slightly. "I could've done that, baby."
You pad into the kitchen. "Think it's just something they do," you state with a shrug. "One less thing for you to worry about."
Squeezing your backside, you squeak quietly while Sammy chuckles and heads back to the bathroom to wash up.
It's always the little things that she would've never even dreamed of considering which repeatedly confirms that he made such a great fucking choice in his second spouse. Like a carefully folded pile of clothes waiting on the edge of the bed for him to change into after bathing.
Happy wife, happy life indeed.
While Sammy is all too happy to be chowing down on a heaping plate of steaming hot wings, and sipping from a cold bottle of beer in-between hearty bites after suffering through a grueling day amongst the crime-riddled streets of LA, he's acutely aware of how quiet you are tonight.
Maybe the grocery shopping should've waited until he could make a trip out this weekend instead. You already do so much. What, with cooking and cleaning and growing his baby in your womb...
Tacking on a trip to Sam's Club was a task that should've been placed on his calendar, he thinks, not on yours that's already so full.
When it came to Tammi, what he wanted mattered little, if at all. But he fears with you—since you never tell him no—that you somehow feel obligated to meet his every demand because he's the breadwinner in the relationship.
You even went so far as to encourage him to sign a prenup incase he "decided he made a huge mistake" and "wanted to undo it with no financial fallout."
Sammy refused to allow papers to be put between you, though. Not a single one.
No way in hell, because he was sure this time.
He just hopes that you don't feel...trapped.
Are you happy? Do you feel safe, loved, protected, and appreciated? Worshipped?
He nudges your socked foot beneath the round wooden dining table you're both seated at, and smiles when you look at him. "You okay, baby?"
You nod and nibble on a piece of chopped celery that's drenched in ranch. "Just tired."
Sam's well of worry deepens.
"Alright," Sammy groans while dragging you into his lap now that you're both in bed. "You gonna finally tell me what's been on your mind all evening?"
Your eyes flit to his and he immediately takes note of the look of hesitation he finds within.
Curling your fingers against the warm, freckled skin of his bare chest, you worry your lower lip between your teeth.
"Is it...somethin' I did?" he questions warily. "Are you—"
"No," you state softly while cupping his stubbled cheek tenderly in your hand. "It was something that happened at the store. I planned to tell you. I just... Wanted you to be fully settled in for the night before I did."
Gripping either of your hips, he leans back against the fluffed pillow behind him. "I'm all ears, angel."
"So..." you begin while resting a hand over his shoulder. "I was done shopping and went into the baby aisle to browse for a bit before I checked out. And..." you sigh exhaustedly. "Tammi was there."
He sits up the least bit straighter.
"Nothing happened, though," you swiftly reassure. "Apart from a verbal confrontation."
"Tell me," he insists.
"I felt like I was being stared at. Turned out I was right when I looked over my shoulder. There was a moment of recognition, which she commented on: Good, you know who I am," you relay in a snide voice meant to mimic her own. "I told her that I've seen photos. When she saw that I was pregnant, she sort of flew off the handle. Started screaming that I was a whore who stole her husband from her and destroyed her life. That I was a homewrecker, a slut..."
You shake your head while blinking back unbidden tears.
"Thankfully, an employee was nearby. He broke it up and threatened to call security on her if she didn't leave. Her being forced out of the store when she wasn't done shopping only set her off further. She was yelling the whole way out the door."
He squeezes his eyes shut to force down a broiling torrent of pent-up rage. "I'm so sorry, honey." Opening his eyes again, Sammy cups your shoulder—adjusting the strap of your nightgown where it's slipped down your arm. "Why didn't you call me?"
"I had food to get home and put away. If I did, I knew you would've come running." You chew your cheek. "Or you would've made things worse by having it out with her in the parking lot."
"This bitch..." he murmurs. "Sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, I'll never be rid of her."
"I wanted to tell her that it wasn't what she thought. That you and I never had an affair, but—"
"Not entirely true," he interrupts. "No, we never screwed before my marriage was dissolved, but there was definitely emotions being exchanged."
You rest a hand atop your belly. You've tried to give her grace; understanding in her numerous issues. But you think you've finally reached the end of your rope with it all.
No wonder he was so eager to have you instead after all the bull she put him through. She nearly made a monster out of a good man, but you've done your wifely duty and healed his troubled heart.
"Cunt," you whisper.
Sammy barks a laugh and leans forward. "I'm sorry, did my perfect little do-gooder wife just say what I think she did?" he inquires with an amused, toothy grin.
You study him from beneath hooded lids while smirking salaciously. "She never deserved you," you continue. "I'm the better woman."
Now it all comes out, he thinks with satisfaction.
"Yes you are," he rumbles while cupping your ass cheeks in both his hands and kneading the plump skin. "In every way."
"Mhm," you hum while slowly nodding. "Actually know how to keep house," you add. "I have dinner on the table every night, and I spend your hard-earned money wisely. Except for when you spoil me," you murmur with a shrug while grinding down against his semi-erect cock. "I do whatever you tell me to like a good girl."
"Shit," Sammy rasps while throwing his head back.
"I'm thankful for the home you've provided, and all the nice things you give me," you continue while leaning forward and trailing soft kisses along his chin. "I'm so lucky to have such a good man who gave me his last name. Who put his baby inside me where it belongs."
His cock stirs against your thinly-clothed pussy.
"Let me help you relax after such a long, hard day," you mutter while tugging off your nightgown.
Lying on your back in the middle of the bed, Sammy is resting back on his haunches while continually sliding his swollen, twitching cock between your shimmering lips.
Gripping the velvety shaft firmly in your fist, you plant a wet kiss atop the oozing mushroom tip before circling it lazily with your drooling tongue.
"Fuck, such a good girl for me," he utters.
You open wide, and Sammy eases his erection into the back of your throat. Cradling the base of your scalp in his palm, he rocks his hips and moans when you eagerly swallow what he gives you, just like always.
"You're right," he whispers while gazing down at you with unabashed adoration. "Better in every fuckin' way."
Gagging happily on his hard length, your eyes flutter closed when your husband sinks two calloused fingers between your slick, pulsing walls.
Follow Up to:
The Loophole: Dark Wedding
A Solstice Sacrifice
The Debut
Little Bite One: Spend. His. Money.
Mating Rituals
MUST READ:
Little Bite Two: The Nightmare
Summary: in the wake of bad news, another Danforth cousin's wedding and post-wedding ritual brings you and Titus closer than ever, and you finally see why he has his reputation for violence.
Tags: age gap, blood sacrifices, human sacrifice, extremely graphic violence :)))), descriptions of bodily injury, lots of blood, sexual arousal over violent acts (duh), really bitchy and mean family members, more ursula background and sister behavior with reader :)))), slapping, biting, rough sex, choking, all that usual stuff, ritual sex (again!), sex on an alter table (trying again!), sex covered in your victim's blood!!!, unprotected sex (duh), mr le bail is kind of a pervert......
A/N: that summary kinda sucks but we're doing a duel! you really should read the nightmare drabble that is linked above or you'll be kinda confused about the beginning and missing some context needed! this is the second to last full part!!! couple more little bites coming tho!!!
this thing is 20k words y'all.............
AO3 Link if that's your preference
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
So.
You’re not pregnant. It’s totally fine. It doesn’t bother you at all.
It doesn’t bother you so much that you ask Titus to make appointments for both of you with the best fertility doctor in the world, just to be sure there’s nothing wrong with you.
It doesn’t bother you when that doctor makes a house-call, runs a million and one tests, and comes to the conclusion that both of you are perfectly healthy. This is just one of those things. Of course, she doesn’t know that you two performed an ancient ritual that has worked hundreds of times to create an heir for countless families, thanks to the dark magic of the literal Devil.
It doesn’t bother you to think about how Le Bail had his hands on you, how he looked at you from the fire and...for some reason felt he shouldn’t give you an heir.
It doesn’t bother you so much that you haven’t had sex with Titus in...well it’s been about three weeks. It feels like a year.
At first, you retreat from him. You push yourself into your work with the Foundation, you disappear into your garden and your conservatory, you end up in bed next to him each night, smiling and talking about your days but distant the moment he puts his hands on you.
It doesn’t really hit you how long you’ve been in this slump, until Titus is getting ready to leave on his final trip to the West Coast Lodge construction, the last one he needs to do before the site is officially ready to be opened. The one he was supposed to take with you.
“It’s a whole week, Baby,” Titus says as you help him pack his bags, teeth gritted, hands clenched, whole body tense the way it has been since the night you realized the ritual had failed, since you’d woken up screaming from a nightmare you still haven’t told him about. “You don’t have to be there the whole time, but I want you there this weekend.”
“Well I...” your voice fades as you feel his arms wrap around you from behind, like waking you out of a trance. He doesn’t need to vocalize the part where if you don’t go on the trip, it will push your ‘break’ from sex to a month. “I’m just not sure...that I’m ready.”
Titus lets out a long, impatient sigh. He's been worse with his attitude lately, never directed at you of course, he turns his brattiness and petulance to anyone else he can, but you know it’s because of lack of connection to you. “Baby, you can’t keep punishing yourself like this.”
“I’m not punishing myself, Titus.”
“Whatever it is you’re doing in your mind that’s making you stay away from me, it feels like a punishment.” He turns you around, holding your hands in place at your side. “I want to fuck you.”
You roll your eyes. “Fucks sake Ti—”
But Titus cuts you off with a hand to your jaw. He makes you look at him, at how hungry he is. “Enough, Little Lamb. You’re keeping yourself from me. You’re the one making yourself unhappy. So, the ritual hasn’t worked yet—"
“It didn’t work—"
“It hasn’t worked yet. That doesn’t mean we did anything wrong. It doesn’t mean I don’t want you just as much as I have since the moment I first laid eyes on you. Why are you punishing yourself?”
Your lip starts to wobble, and your eyes grow sparkling with tears, chest tightening. “I feel like a fucking failure. Why would...why do you still want me?”
“Baby,” Titus sighs, mournful furrow in his brow. “I love you. I’m fucking obsessed with you. I don’t just want to fuck you to make a baby, I want to fuck you because every time I look at you, I see the one person in the world who’s just as much as monstrous animal on the inside, and I want to fall to my knees and worship you. Before you, sex was a hobby, just something I did for fun, to fill an urge, not something to bring me closer to another soul. I fucking miss you, you’re so far from me.”
Your heart breaks at the cracking of his voice, the way his volume rises to almost a broken yell in his desperation. His eyes are wide, and as you look in them you can see a lifetime of loneliness, the handsome boy who everyone was too afraid of to truly get close to, unless they were trying to use his family’s power in some way. The boy who scared his own twin sister at times, now has finally found the one person who not only never fears him, but embraces and craves his terrifying nature.
Your existence had been lonely so much before him, too.
“I’m sorry,” you finally whisper, brushing your hands up his chest, digging your fingers in so he can really feel your presence with him. “You’re right, I was so fixated on this but...I miss you too.”
“Then come with me like we planned, the jet will wait for you to pack your things,” Titus urges, voice sounding so youthful, hopeful.
“Well I...” you want to throw it all to the wind and say yes, of course you’ll come with him now, but you’d thrown yourself into work during your slump, you can’t just leave Ursula hanging so last minute now. “Urse and I are planning the Foundation’s Halloween Benefit, and we just sent out RSVP’s for the Family’s Winter Solstice Banquet...I do need to work.”
You feel his hands tighten their grip on you again, a flash of annoyance on Titus’s features, which quickly fades to acceptance. “Alright. Finish your work, I guess it will make it easier to focus on mine out there...but then Friday, come to me, Little Lamb. Let me show you what I built for you.” Then, leaning down to nip at your ear, kiss at the sensitive skin right below it, Titus whispers, “I can’t christen it all by myself.”
You bite your lip, color comes back to your face as you feel the skip in his heartbeat right under your hands. Like waking from another horrible dream. The lingering anticipation of whatever Titus has planned for you, makes you feel like yourself again.
+
“Three weeks?” Ursula yells, falling into a fit of laughter so big she almost knocks her food off her desk.
“Hey! Not so loud!” You snap, looking over your shoulder through the glass walls of her office.
You’re having lunch in her office between your duties for the Foundation, a habit you’ve gotten into since she moved you into the corporate offices a couple months ago. You have your own office, of course, but it’s so much more fun to eat with Ursula, she has all the gossip.
It’s less fun when your sex life is the topic.
“I’m sorry, ha, I'm so sorry,” Ursula waves her hand, pulling herself together from her giggles. “I mean, that explains why there’s been less servants on my side of the Estate lately. You know when you two get going they all run to the East Wing to get some peace and quiet?”
“Oh my god,” you whine, covering your face with your hands to try to hide your embarrassment. “I really don’t want to talk about this with you.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to hear about your weirdo sex life either, but you brought it up,” Ursula says, shaking her head and clicking her teeth.
Actually, you tried very hard not to bring it up, but she asked why you were so down and wouldn’t stop pushing and pushing until you told her about the ritual. And how it didn’t work.
“Okay well...sorry for that, I guess,” you roll your eyes. It’s hard to actually be sorry for having really great sex with your hot husband, not matter how disruptive it is to the household. “But I just...I don’t understand. I thought Le Bail liked me. I’ve seen him twice.”
Technically three times but you don’t think Ursula wants to hear about Le Bail making an appearance during the sex ritual.
“You won two of his games, of course he likes you. Probably more than he likes me and Titus,” Ursula says nonchalantly.
“Then why...” your voice trails off sadly.
“It’s not a guarantee that you’ll conceive a child, it’s a request,” Ursula says with a shrug. “The ritual didn’t work the first time our parents tried it as well. They waited a whole year to try it again, and that’s when Titus and I were conceived.”
“Really?” You ask, voice laced with disbelief.
Titus hadn’t mentioned that part. He made it seem like it was so easy, like him and Ursula were some gifts easily bestowed upon Chester and Violet Danforth being such great rulers in the High Seat. Maybe that’s why he’s not as worried about this...
“I wish he told me that,” you mumble, taking a big bite of your sandwich.
“Well that’s Titus for you, all action and no thought,” Ursula says, eyes flicking up and down at you. You were his biggest no thought action so far, not that Ursula is mad, she loves you very much.
“How did you find out about you and Titus?”
“One of our aunts told me, she was very close to Mother,” Ursula explains. “They figured Le Bail felt they weren’t ready yet, maybe that’s what’s happening to you. I mean...you guys have only been married for a few months. Mr. Le Bail probably just wants you to like, chill. Have some more fun. You’re not even out of the honeymoon phase.”
You let out a light laugh, shaking your head. “When you put it like that...I sound a little crazy.”
“You joined Satan’s literal organization, so you are crazy,” Ursula says with a smirk. “But you need to take it down a few notches, alright? Adapt to our way of living a little, and then you can add more little Danforth's to the mix.”
“Right, thank you,” you say sincerely. She has no idea how much better just her words have made you feel.
“Speaking of honeymoon phases,” Ursula starts, face dropping into an annoyed frown. “I assume you and Titus received the notification of Felicity’s wedding?”
“Oh, yes he mentioned something about that, don’t we have to host it? As the High Seat branch of the family?” You ask. You’re pretty sure this means you’re going to get to see a Danforth Wedding duel, and you really, really hope it’s Titus’s card that’s pulled.
“Yup,” Ursula sighs, pursing her lips. “Did he tell you about Felicity at all? And me?”
“No,” you say, carefully studying her face. She’s looking down at her glass, jaw tight, something like an angry fire forming in her eyes. “He said I should ask you about her.”
That makes her eyes snap up to you, with a look that almost makes you afraid to cross her. “Well, let’s just say this isn’t her first marriage.” Then in a lower mumble. “Attempt at a marriage, anyway.”
Your brows raise with curiosity. “Urse...you can’t just leave me hanging. I told you something deeply personal.”
“Yeah a sex thing about my twin brother.”
“Okay, fair. How about this, when we met, you tried to kill me multiple times.”
Her mouth drops open in a scoff. “Okay, I had to do that.”
“Hmmm, okay that’s also a good point,” you bite down on your lip, looking at Ursula with squinted eyes. “Okay, how about this? Your power hungry, psychopathic, murder and violence loving brother loves me so much, he’s actually so busy trying to make me happy that he’s agreed to share the High Seat of ruling the entire world with you.”
Ursula opens her mouth to retort, but can’t find a good enough argument against that. “Fuck, that’s a good point.”
“Yes,” you exclaim in victory. “Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me—"
“Alright!” Ursula cuts you off with a deep sigh. “Okay. Felicity is one of our cousins, obviously, just a few years younger than Titus and I. And she has terrible taste in men, slimy losers who want to marry into our family for connections and all those gifts from Le Bail. Well, her parents don’t usually approve of her marrying anyone, because they’re all awful, except for her first marriage. He was...” her face falls. “He was different.”
There’s a moment of silence hanging in the air, as you watch the emotions play out over Ursula’s face, and you realize this is something deeper for her. “Who was he?”
“He was my first love. My high school sweetheart.” Her voice is too calm, too controlled. She’s looking down at her food, poking at the salad with her fork, staring down at the way the prongs of the fork pokes holes in the leaves. “We...we were together for a long time, and I loved him very much, but I made it clear I did not want to be married. Ever. We could live a life together, do whatever we wanted, be successful, but I didn’t want to marry him. I didn’t want to risk him having to duel Titus, or worse at that time, my father. I told him everything about us, Mr. Le Bail, the marriage game, and I thought he understood why he could never officially be in the family.
But then...well, during the fall after we graduated from college, he proposed to me during Thanksgiving dinner.” Ursula lets out a long breath through her nose at the memory of him standing up, in front of almost all of her family and his, and got on one knee as he pulled out this gorgeous emerald and silver rose cut ring. Everyone in that room had cheered, except for Ursula, Titus, and Chester. Titus looked like he wanted to kill the guy, which...
“Well anyway, it was ugly. I ran out of the room and we fought, and then he finally let me know that I was being selfish trying to keep all of my family’s gifts from him. Turns out he really wanted in on all the Danforth and Le Bail deal-with-the-devil fortune after all. But I just...I knew if he had to duel then he would die and I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn’t accept it. He accused me of not thinking he was good enough. Didn’t really leave me much choice, and I was thoroughly disgusted by him, so I broke up with him.”
“Oh Urse...I’m so sorry,” you say, reaching out your hand to hers. The frown on her face jumps into shock momentarily when you touch her, but her body quickly deflates into relaxation at your warmth. It’s a level of intimacy she’s not used to.
“Thank you,” she replies sincerely. “I got over it, you know, but then...I found out he’d started seeing Felicity as soon as she turned eighteen. Two years after I broke up with him, we got the invitation to their wedding.”
“Let me guess, he did the ritual and pulled Titus’s card?”
“Oh yeah,” she says with a small laugh. “Felicity was so smug about that whole day, pretending she was so sorry and things just worked out the way they were meant to blah blah blah, she really thought Le Bail would let her have him. The duel can go all night if needed, but Titus had him hog tied and beaten to a pulp in under twenty minutes. I think it’s the record for the whole family.”
Damn, you really want to see that. Thank god this family started recording all of these the moment video cameras were invented.
“Felicity threw such a fucking hissy fit over it, we didn’t have to see her at family events for like a decade,” Ursula says with a smug smile. “I can only imagine what kind of dreg of society she’s convinced her parents to let her attempt to push into the family this time.”
“She sounds like a cunt,” you say bluntly.
Ursula nearly chokes on her drink in her fit of laughter. “Yes, oh my god she’s the worst. Listen we have like a million cousins, and half of them are annoying as fuck, but Felicity...she’s always been jealous of me. She basically wants to be me. I was so angry about it for so long, but I guess it’s a good thing she does shit like this. Makes me look even better. Got rid of a terrible man from my life for once and for all.”
You watch as the sadness leaves her face entirely. She looks so much like Titus right now, the way she can mask any hint of pain behind a smug demeanor, behind the knowledge that she’s more powerful than pain itself. You’ve spent so much time with both of them, together and separate, and without meaning to, you’ve studied their dynamic. They annoy each other, poke at each other, she babies him, he brushes her off like a bratty child, but...there is love there. They’re twins, brought into this world together. “Titus killed him for you.”
“Hm,” Ursula muses, clicking her tongue. “Le Bail had him killed for me, Titus made sure it hurt.”
And the way she says it, sounds like that’s more important than the act of killing in itself.
“So, is that why you never got married? You didn’t want to send them to die?”
Ursula shrugs. “That’s how it was with him, I really thought I loved him. But...I already knew I was going to have to share my power with Titus one day, I’ll be damned if I have some man walk in and think he can take a piece of it too. Besides, I sort of realized I’d rather be independent. I have several lovers, and none of them expect anything more from me. The second they do, they get dropped. And if they don’t like that...well let’s just say there’s been a few of our seasonal guys that have been exes of mine that demanded just a little too much.”
Her tone is so casual it actually almost shocks you. You’re so used to Titus being the openly cruel and violence loving one, you forgot that Ursula has been raised to be just as vicious. She’s so much better at hiding it.
“Wish Titus would have done that with Priscilla,” you mumble.
Ursula bursts out in laughter again, eyes flicking up and down your form with an amused smile that reminds you so much of the one you constantly get from her brother. “Unfortunately I think Titus kind of likes watching people get pathetically needy over him, and when he makes them leave he doesn’t really think twice. That man dumped Priscilla last year for the last time and wasn’t ever going to look back.”
There’s a beat where you two share a look, both thinking about the memory of putting her in her place back at the gala. Ursula had laughed harder than you’d ever seen when you told her everything that happened that night, from Priscilla catching you and Titus in the conservatory, to you bashing her face into glass.
“You know,” Ursula starts. “My brother stayed a bachelor all this time because he honestly never thought he’d find someone who understood him. Even Priscilla, for all her nastiness, always talked about how if they married, she expected him to settle down with the Danforth traditions. No more, hunting, and fighting, and certainly none of that gross stuff I know you two are into.”
“Really?” You ask but a big part of you already knows she’s telling the truth. You feel it swirling inside your heart, the spirit of something that calls to the demonic force that was born in Titus Danforth. It was always going to live restlessly inside him, unsatisfied, unhappy, until you came along.
“Oh yes, don’t let him know I said this, but I think my brother has always been a bit of a romantic. Just, his form of romance is a very specific acquired taste. He never let himself search for it until you were put in our path.”
The sincerity in her words only highlights what she really wants you to hear. You are the key to her brother’s happiness, just like she said the night you all met. Just as he is the key to yours.
Why are you sitting here moping with her, when you should be truly happy across the country with Titus?
+
The jet got you to Washington in the middle of the day on Thursday. You didn’t tell Titus to expect you a while 24 hours earlier than originally anticipated.
No, it is way more fun to show up, tell the workers to take you to Titus Danforth’s quarters, not say a word on threat of death (which they know is literal), and then leave a trail of your clothes for him to the bedroom.
The text you’d sent him about how nice the room is, how soft and comfortable the bed is, while he was trying to finish a meeting had been unexpected but pleasant. He certainly was able to stay professional and continue on with finishing up his work.
And then about an hour later you sent a picture of you laid out on the bed with your fingers teasing the entrance of your soaking pussy and he was very much forced to call it a day.
The black panties you left on the doorknob were very quickly stuffed in his pants pocket for safe keeping.
“So good to have you back, Baby,” Titus moans into your mouth, fingers replacing yours inside you, as he braces himself for your first pleasurably sleepless night in a month.
+
Over time, you and Titus find your way back to each other, just like you had been since the start, hot and heavy and obsessed, magnets pushed together by all the world’s forces.
The West Coast Lodge has its grand opening just in time for the Holidays, when you and the Danforth Twins host the family’s annual Winter Solstice ritual. This year, however, there was an added bonus of participating in a ceremonial hunt for the family’s sacrifice. Most of the extended branches of family were too put together in their fanciest clothes to want to partake, but a party of about twenty, including you and Titus, took to the woods around the Lodge to hunt down the victim.
The sacrifice was some guy who tried skimming off the Danforth’s profits from their new vineyard. The one they acquired after the untimely demise of the Le Domas family. Since it is technically your vineyard, Titus took it as even more of a personal offense, to the point you were surprised the man even made it to the Solstice.
Naturally, you and Titus caught him first, kissing over his dying body after Titus let you smash the guy’s legs to bits with his Warhammer. This is also after Titus shot him just below the spleen. You’d found it very amusing how he’d still tried to run away.
Almost the entire family, the branches you had yet to meet, got a very clear lesson on just who you were. Many were terrified the twins managed to snatch up someone so similar to them. A few were happy Titus now has someone to focus all of his infamous psychopathic tendencies on.
Not everyone was there, however. The most notable absence was Felicity. According to one of her sisters, a quiet, mousy girl closer to your age than Ursula’s, she was spending the holidays with her fiancé in Australia, borrowing one of the Danforth villas all for herself. Ursula had half a mind to call their property manager to have her kicked out, but you convinced her to let it go for now.
After the family festivities, you and Titus retired to the Master Suite where you gave him a small present. He’d thought it was hilarious that you gave him a Christmas present, but was stunned when he’d opened the tiny box to reveal a gold pentagram pendant hanging from a gold chain. It’s intricately hand carved with the face of a goat in the middle, and tiny little rubies.
He loved it so much and since he didn’t have anything for you, he returned the favor by going down on you for an hour. You came so many times you lost count and basically passed out.
Time went on, you and Titus spent New Years in Granada at the cottage you purchased, breaking in every surface just like he’d promised, neither of you caring if it resulted in a baby or not. You were determined not to worry about that anymore, to enjoy the time and love between you and Titus just as you are.
Between all the sex and holidays and working, Titus also gets you in with his trainers, because if Felicity’s new husband pulls whatever card gets assigned to you, he wants to make sure you can truly beat him. You argued that you won two whole hunts without any training, but he wouldn’t hear it.
Secretly you think he just wanted an excuse to watch you shoot a gun or wield a sword and daggers, or even better, roll around and dominate an expert fighter in nothing but a sports bra and tiny shorts.
He liked it even better when you practiced on him.
+
February 14th.
Ursula found it incredibly cheesy and lame and tacky that Felicity would choose Valentine’s Day for her wedding, and if it were anyone else you might have defended the decision.
The West Coast Lodge, that Titus had built in your honor, designed to embody everything that reminded him of you, is dolled up in pink and white, like a cheap candy dream. You liked pink and white, Titus had bought you entire sets of knives and hand-crafted pistols in those colors, but something about seeing so much of it in ribbons and banners and gaudy flowers of all kinds leave a sick taste in your mouth.
At the rehearsal dinner, Felicity had tried to argue with Titus about staying in the Master Suite, since it was to be her wedding night after all, but he threatened to shut the whole thing down and send them to a sleezy chapel in Vegas instead. Nobody but you and him were allowed to ever stay in that suite, not even Ursula. Granted, he made sure his sister had her own personal quarters in the Lodge as well.
Felicity mostly ignored you, beyond an overly polite introduction, and venomous, sharp eyes directed at Ursula. She kind of looked like Ursula too, full lips, round eyes, long blonde hair, but there’s this sense of alertness in the way Felicity holds herself, like she’s trying to force her way onto a pedestal that Ursula was born into. Like she’s aware that nobody in any room that Ursula is in would look at her twice.
Maybe that’s why she stole Ursula’s boyfriend all those years ago, or rather placed herself into Ursula’s role with him. The Danforth name is the most powerful in the world, but not being born to Chester means you are still a lesser person, especially in the eyes of Le Bail.
You’re pretty sure you catch Felicity trying to flirt with Ursula’s date when nobody is watching. Graham, a concert pianist who has been one of Ursula’s many steady lovers over the years, made eye contact with you from across the room, rolling his to show how he could see right through her act.
The ceremony takes place in the afternoon in a Chapel next to a mass garden that Titus had filled with your favorite breeds of flower. The Lawyer is there to officiate, with his usual too cheerful smile.
His speech is much different to the vows you’d had to make with Titus in the Black Temple, a show for the guests attending who had no idea about Le Bail, and the fact that the Danforth’s aren’t just the richest family in the world, but in fact the ones who pull every string.
He is happy to see you, even gives you a wink as you take your seat in the front row.
The ceremony is quick, to the point, Felicity’s Fiancé, now Husband, Fitz Harrison, gives some overly syrupy dribble about finding the love of his life and belonging in her world, blah blah blah. Many of the guests ooooh and ahhh over it, but you see right through his words. The implication that he is meant to be part of the Danforth family’s deal with Le Bail.
You start to see what Ursula and Titus say about her.
The early evening reception goes by in an almost monotonous blur. Sure, plenty of guests have a good time, many are dancing and drinking, you even take to the floor to dance with Titus, but mostly you are waiting around until the guests have all gone, and the only thing left to do with the family is the duel.
Much of the reception goes along the same lines as your time at your first Gala, with people you’ve never met and never heard of coming up to essentially pay tribute to the wife of Titus Danforth. There are significantly less openly rude people this time, the rumors of just how you’d put Priscilla in her place having spread under the breaths of almost everyone in high society.
“I hear the wife is a total psycho.”
“No, please, she’s nice. Nicer than Ursula, anyway.”
“Not what I heard at all! You know at the double or nothing, she caused the entire El Caido line to be exterminated, when she could have just gotten away with killing the father and running off with Titus.”
“She was fighting for her life, I hardly think that’s fair.”
“I’ve seen the footage, the girl is an animal. Three high families gone completely because of her. Those poor Le Domas’s...”
“That’s on Alex. You know, I heard he didn’t even tell her about any of the contracts. It’s not her fault she had to survive.”
“Well she survived like an animal. No wonder Titus liked her so much, he’s just as bad. There’s something seriously wrong with that girl.”
You overhear some of the cousins, who think they’ve found a hiding spot off in the corner, out of earshot of any other guests. They have yet to notice you standing off to the side, as you wait for a refill on your drink. Maybe you should be insulted, but their petty comments just make you smirk, quietly chuckle to yourself.
“Didn’t you see what she did to Priscilla? Poor thing. That girl is a monster, she could snap at any one of us.”
Okay, yeah that pisses you off. If Priscilla is telling everyone what happened between you two, it seems she left out the part where she tried to fuck another woman’s husband.
You’re about to turn and set them straight, when Penelope appears at your side and sweeps you away, having heard their little annoying chirping as well.
“She was invited to this, you know,” Penelope says, in her usual blatantly excited to gossip tone. “It’s probably not a surprise, but Priscilla and Felicity are actually pretty good friends.”
You smirk at her from behind your wine glass. “Oh? Why ever would she stay home then?”
“Several little birds have told me that Priscilla is banned from any and all Danforth owned properties, probably from risk of death.”
You almost choke on your wine in your effort to hold in your laughter. “So where is she?”
“My aunt said she’s somewhere in Europe recovering from reconstructive surgery, but I also heard they can’t erase the entire scar.”
“Good, it will be a nice reminder for her not to try to fuck things that aren’t hers,” you say with a shrug.
“Ha!” Penelope lets out a loud giggle, covering her mouth and turning away from the faces that turn to the two of you. “You guys are so fucking crazy, I love it.”
Your giggling together dies down as you’re joined back by your husbands, Titus wrapping his arm around your waist as he flicks back the sleeve of his dress shirt, peaking at his watch. He lets out an impatient huff, jaw tight and lips pursed. You think he looks adorable.
“Relax, dear Brother,” Ursula cautions, sauntering up next to you, small glass of whiskey in her hand, she’s gripping it so tight her knuckles have gone white. “The sun is almost down, this shit show is on its final minutes.”
“Well it needs to hurry the fuck up, I’m ready to get this over with,” Titus snaps, hand tightening on your side. “Also, the cake was dry. Felicity and this fucking guy leech off our money and they can’t even get a decently made cake?”
“Is that why you’re going to take pleasure in...whatever you’re going to do later?” Penelope asks, sly smile on her face. She won’t be allowed to watch, as she’s not in the family, but she’s very familiar with the Wedding Rituals of Mr. Le Bail.
Titus snorts. “It will be one of the reasons, that’s for sure. If it’s even me, maybe this time Le Bail will let Ursula do the honors of ruining Felicity’s fun."
“It would have been more fun if I got to do it the first time,” Ursula mumbles, before glancing at you. “Maybe Mrs. Danforth will get to do her first one.”
You look up at Titus excitedly, as he smiles down at you sweetly. He licks his lips before giving you a small kiss on the cheek. “Now that I would enjoy very much.”
You’re about to say something to agree, when a cheerful, sing-songy voice cuts in. “So sorry to interrupt, Ms. Danforth, Mr. Danforth,” The Lawyer says as he walks up, looking at you with a more intense smile as he finishes, “Mrs. Danforth. I will need Titus to escort me to the Black Temple, as the architect of this...opulent resort, he will need to assist me in preparing for tonight’s final event.”
Holding in his frustrated sigh, Titus isn’t interested in being parted from you for too long tonight, as per usual, your husband reluctantly lets go of your body, gritting his teeth. “Of course, happy to show you the way.”
“Lovely to see you again, by the way, Mrs. Danforth. You seem to be assimilating to the High Seat quite well.” Then, in a lower voice, The Lawyer leans in to tell you, “Mr. Le Bail is very pleased.”
And even though a small, horrible voice in your head tells you not to believe him, your heart still swells with warmth, nerves racing. “Th-thank you.”
You give Titus a quick kiss as you let him go, and the Lawyer gives you a wink as he turns.
“Fuck, that tiny little man is so creepy,” a grating voice with a valley girl-like accent says in a disgusted tone behind you.
Your face falls into a frown, and you look to your side to find Ursula scowling. She sucks in a silent breath through her nose, covering her annoyance with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and stiffly turns around. “Felicity, my goodness you really make the loveliest bride.”
“Even better than the first time wouldn’t you say,” Felicity hums, her eyes sharp like a viper, satisfied bragging in her tone.
You don’t miss the way Ursula tenses. “Well, hopefully tonight goes better for your new man.”
The grin that has been sitting firmly on Felicity’s face for two days faulters for just a moment, before her eyes widen in her effort to keep control on her expression. “Fitz is much more suited to Le Bail’s lifestyle, believe me. He already runs successful businesses all around the world, multi-millionaire even without any deals.”
“Oh,” Ursula says mockingly. “My gosh, that’s so impressive.”
She lets the part where the Danforth’s are billionaires who could buy and dissolve any of his businesses just for shits and giggles stay unspoken.
“Hm,” Felicity hums, choosing to ignore the obvious sarcasm in Ursula’s words. Finally, her attention turns to you.
Her eyes rake up and down your body, studying you, calculating the perfect thing to say to someone who has been given everything she has ever wanted for her life. In her mind, you’ve had it easy. You just had to marry Titus and you were handed everything the highest seats in the family get. She doesn’t even consider the violence you had to endure in such a short time to get here. You’re a bug that belongs under her boot.
“Lovely dress,” She says, though there’s no kindness in her voice.
You look down at the lilac colored dress that Titus had picked out for you. It has layers of sheer fabric on the skirt, and a corseted bodice that hugs your waist and pushes your breasts up. He also picked out the white pearls that sit in three layers on your neck. You know you look beautiful, and it must kill her.
“Thank you,” you say, glancing down at her own dress. White and basic but covered in Swarovski crystals to make it look more expensive. It’s probably a ten thousand dollar dress, but it could have been bought at Macy’s for $150.
“So sorry I haven’t had the chance to properly welcome you into the family, I simply was too busy this year with my own engagement to attend all the Danforth events. Congratulations on winning over my cousin, Titus can be a hard man to please, and I know so many of the women who have tried.”
She’s trying so hard to push you, but it’s not anything you haven’t already heard from the other jealous girls of High Society.
“I’ve been welcomed plenty, trust me. Ursula is teaching me everything I need to know.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Felicity grins, toothy but no emotion in her eyes. “I’m surprised, though, Ursula was never one to take someone under her wing, even her own family.”
The look she shoots at Ursula would be lethal if given to anyone else, but it’s only met by an exasperated laugh from your sister-in-law. “Oh you have got to be joking me—"
“Urse!” Graham’s voice interrupts as he walks up from the side, holding two very full champagne flutes in his hands. The sound of his voice instantly calms the fight brewing inside Ursula. “The Governor and his wife are asking for you, they want to say goodbye for the evening.”
“Wonderful,” Ursula grits, snatching one of the flutes and downing its contents in one gulp, before glaring back at Felicity. “I’ll see you soon.”
Felicity just rolls her eyes as they walk away, then turns her attention back to you. “I see she hasn’t changed at all, still the snotty, self-centered brat she’s always been.”
“Funny, she says the same things about you,” Penelope scoffs.
“Relax, Pen, what’s a little playful insulting amongst family?” Felicity says, eyes still firmly scanning up and down you. “Speaking of which, I think I'd like to spend a little time getting to know my new cousin, if you don’t mind.”
But she doesn’t leave much of a choice when she grabs you by the elbow and snatches you away. You turn back to Penelope with a pleading look in your eyes, but she just sighs and throws her hands up in defeat as you’re dragged across the hall.
“You know, I’m sure those two have filled your little head with all sorts of horrible things about me,” she starts, patronizing. “And I’m not going to deny any of it, but you’re new here, so I’ll give you my own lesson in what it means to be a Danforth.”
“I can’t imagine I have anything useful to learn from you,” You spit, shaking your arm out of her grip. You could walk away, go off to find Titus or join Ursula and Graham, maybe even run back to Penelope or Elton, any of the allies you have in the room, but something in you tells you to stay. The little monster inside is curious about just what Felicity’s game here is.
She scoffs. “How about the perspective of someone from outside the main branch of the family? You got fucking lucky joining them, you know? I just happened to be born from the wrong Danforth brother and because of that, I’m cursed to a lifetime of second best.
What did Ursula tell you about my first husband? Hm? That she loved him and was so disappointed when he wanted nothing more than what every single person in this room would want? A piece of the power over the whole world? Oh, how awful of him!”
You look around as you stand in the middle of this room filled with old money blue bloods, new age elite, and various members of government, world movers. How many of them are part of Le Bail’s organization? How many of them would kill to be? It’s something so secretive that you may never know every single family that is a part of it. And...you sit at the very top of it. By complete happenstance.
If you hadn’t pushed Alex Le Domas to marry you, this would never be your life at all. A twinge of pain begins to stab like a needle at your heart, as you realize whatever Felicity has to say about you could be right.
“I don’t care what the twins have said to you, I loved that man, and I had to watch Titus bash his skull in on what was supposed to be the happiest day of my life.”
You can only imagine the glee on your husband’s face as he did. “Are you really throwing a bitch fit thirty years later, because of something everyone who marries into the family is at risk of?”
Her face contorts, jaw locking and twitchy as her emotions move from fiery anger to a calm that barely contains it. “Everyone but you, right?”
You hold in any response you can think of. You don’t owe her an explanation, she already knows everything you had to do to join the family. Nobody who has ever married into the Danforth’s has had to kill as many people as you have.
“I wouldn’t look so smug about your little kill record, or Titus’s, by the way,” Felicity sneers. “Fine, I want what the twins have, I want that high seat. And yes, we’re allowed to kill family members, but there’s only one time where killing that family member guarantees you the High Seat.”
Your face hardens, cold anxiety shooting up your spine. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You and the twins didn’t think I’d get married to someone who could be so easily defeated by one of you again, did you?” Felicity says with a patronizing laugh. “Fitz is a world class athlete. Golden gloves boxer, Olympic medalist power lifter, trained in archery, javelin, sharpshooting, you get the picture. You’ve seen him, he’s twice the size of you and Ursula, and younger than Titus, more fresh. No matter which one of you he duels, he will crush your bones into dust. And I will get that High Seat. Then whichever two of you are leftover, I’ll have fed to the dogs.”
“You fucking cunt—" you hiss as you raise your hand, caught between wanting to deck her in the jaw or strangle her in front of all these people.
She steps back with a wicked smile. “Ah, ah, ah, you can’t do anything to me until after the duel. Hasn’t Titus told you any of our rules?”
You freeze, stilling the movement of your hand with every ounce of self-control that you have. Eyes from all around start to hone in on you, the small scuffle between you and Felicity bringing in attention from various guests.
She doesn’t seem to care as she continues to taunt you. “Hm, I can see why Titus likes you so much, you’re a feisty one. And I would have thought Le Bail would like you too, but from what I hear, you might have fallen out of his favor.”
“Wh-what the fuck does that mean?” You scowl at her.
“Well, it’s my understanding that you and Titus tried a little ritual recently,” Felicity sneers, stepping into your space, looking down at you. “And it looks to me like it didn’t exactly work, hm?”
You gasp, eyes widening with horror, lip shaking. You look around the room, at the eyes on you, unsure if they can hear your conversation, but a horrifying voice screaming at you that they can. They know, they all know you’re a failure.
“H-how did you...” but you can’t force yourself to finish the question.
“How did I find out? Ha,” she laughs, shrugging. “You need special materials for that ritual, and there’s only so many people you can get them from. Fitz and I...we want to make an heir of our own. I’m getting a little...” she purses her lips tightly, “...older, so we are going to ask Le Bail for his blessing and, well, the Dark Priest we went to mentioned he just filled a similar order for the heads of the Family. But, well, you don’t look pregnant to me.”
You want to scream. You want to shove her on the ground and beat her to death with the closest blunt object. You want to rip her hair out and shove it down her throat. But you stay still. You let our deep breaths, doing your best to not let her see just how much she’s getting to you. But you’re failing at that too.
“Fitz and I will be trying it on that lovely alter table in the black temple, as soon as he’s killed...well, whichever one of you who’s card he pulls but fuck,” Felicity licks her lips. “I really hope it’s yours.”
“Felicity!” Titus’s gruff, booming voice breaks through the noise of guests, music, and her vile words. She jumps slightly, eyes snapping up over your shoulder to where your husband and the Lawyer approach. When you turn to look, you see his dark eyes narrowed, with an intense hatred you don’t think you’ve ever seen before. “When it comes to speaking about Mr. Le Bail, or my personal business, you better hold your tongue around outsiders,” he spits, putting a protective arm around your waist, “or I will let Mrs. Danforth cut it out.”
You look up at him with a smile, eyes twinkling under the light as all cold and anger melts away from your body. “Let?”
Titus smirks down at you, as though to silently say, let me pretend I have a say.
Behind you both, the Lawyer looks at Felicity with a stern frown, shaking his head. “Mrs. Harrison, Mr. Le Bail is very clear about how he feels about discussions of the organization in public places. If you continue, he will be...very upset.”
The visible gulp in her throat, a sign of genuine fear, brings a sick delight to you.
“O-of course, sir, it won’t happen again,” she assures him through gritted teeth.
The Lawyer keeps his frown at her for just a moment longer, before instantly changing it to a much too perky smile. “Well, I believe things are winding down here anyway, shall we prepare for the rest of tonight’s events downstairs?”
The three of you nod, and Titus sends out a message in the family text to alert the others that it is almost time, before guiding you gently out of the ballroom. You feel Felicity’s scheming eyes on you the whole way.
+
The Black Temple in this Lodge is much grander than the one at home. Twice as big, in the shape of an oval, with black marble flooring and a pentagram shaped table at the center. The stairs descend down in a spiral around the room, framed by a black metal railing that’s been intricately twisted and carved to look like thorny vines.
On the opposite end of the bottom of the stairs is a large fireplace, jutting out from the dark grey stone of the wall, in the shape of a screaming goat, the horns twisting symmetrically in curves along the wall. The eyes are dark onyx that shines in the light of the fire.
In front of the table sits a small circular gate in the ground, the opening to the goat pit, which currently sits empty.
Pyres line the walls, filling what should be a cold basement room with rich warmth. There are dark wood shelves lining the walls, filled with old spell books, crystals, candles, herbs, and all sorts of other materials needed for various rituals.
It’s beautiful, every piece of it made specifically to what Titus thought you would love.
As you enter the room, arm in arm with Titus, you notice a set of items sitting on one of the shelves. You recognize the heart candle for the mating ritual, and your throat starts to burn with bile that you swallow back down.
Most of the family retire to their rooms in the hotel section of the lodge, but a few of the extended branches join you in the Temple. It’s not a requirement for every single Danforth to be there, but most enjoy being witness to the duels, the ones who are almost as cruel and sick in the head as Titus.
You are soon joined in the center of the room by Ursula, Felicity, and Fitz, who gives you a twisted smirk. He drags his eyes up and down your body, licking his lips, like a predator planning his next meal. You cringe and look away, holding on tighter to Titus’s arm.
The Lawyer waits for everyone to gather around, Mr. Le Bail’s book carefully laid out on the alter table, open to a blank page, as he pulls a set of golden playing cards from his pocket.
He looks up around the room with a giddy smile. “Well, everyone all set?” The room falls silent at his question, you suck in a nervous breath. “Excellent! We gather here today to honor a possible new edition to the Danforth Family, by performing the sacred tradition, the duel.
For those who may be unfamiliar, I will go over the rules as agreed upon by Mr. Le Bail and William Danforth the third, the original signer of this illustrious family’s contract.” He looks at you, tilting his head as his lips close in a more friendly smile just for you. “A face card from this deck,” he holds up the golden cards, showing them to the room, “is assigned to one of the heads of the household, in this case, Ursula and Titus Danforth as they are twins and sharers of the High Seat, and Mrs. Danforth, as their equal. The spouse will draw a card, and if it is one assigned to a head of the house, that family member must participate in the duel. If they draw a numbered card, the Spouse is automatically entered into the family, per Mr. Le Bail’s wishes.
The duelers are permitted to use any weapon at their disposal, from any era. They will begin at exactly midnight, and continue until the death of one of the duelers. After which, the sacrifice will be taken back down here to the alter, their blood emptied into the goat pit, along with their body, in offering to Mr. Le Bail.
If the spouse is the winner of the duel, their branch of the family takes over as head of the household while the former head and other branches...” he pauses, smile faltering for just a moment as he watches your eyes widen, the memory of the total annihilation of the Le Domas’s flooding back to you. “Well. I’m sure you can all guess. As is the fate of the entire Danforth line, should neither dueler be successful in killing the other by sunrise.”
Murmuring fills the room, and again you feel everyone’s eyes fall to you. They also remember what happened the nights of your first two weddings, the complete destruction of multiple High Council families. This time, however, it’s not judgement you read from their faces, but rather fear. So much death caused by such a little, young thing, and now she stands ruling their family with Titus.
“Because of the realignments of the head of the Danforth family because of the passing of Chester Danforth, we will begin tonight’s ceremonies with a reassignment of the cards. Then, Mr. Fitz Harrison will draw to determine his fate, if he draws one of your cards, you will have half an hour to prepare before we must meet on the dueling grounds. Understood?”
The main group of you all nod, and you watch as The Lawyer lays out the cards on the table, face side down.
“Step forward each of you, and select your cards. These shall be your cards for any future marriage rituals, until the day another reassignment must be made.”
You, Titus, and Ursula step up to draw your cards, each of you placing a hand down on one at the same time. After a count from The Lawyer, the three of you pick your cards up simultaneously.
Ursula draws the Jack of Clubs, you draw the Queen of Diamonds, and Titus draws the King of Hearts.
He chuckles when he sees Ursula’s card. “Demoted.”
She rolls her eyes, elbowing him in the side. “It’s not a demotion.”
“Hail Satan!” The Lawyer interrupts, sending the twins a warning with his eyes. “As Le Bail has wished, the cards are assigned. Mr. Harrison, please step forward to learn your fate.”
Felicity makes a show of kissing him first, pulling him in by his cheeks and moaning into it, earning an annoyed groan from each of you. Fitz turns to the Lawyer with a cocky grin, as the cards are all put back and shuffled. The lawyer spreads them out on the alter table, in a gorgeous gold circle, then steps back to allow Fitz to make his pick.
As he steps up, looking directly at you from across the alter table, there’s a wild, hungry look in Fitz’s eyes. You wonder what kind of things Felicity has told him about you three, why would he be singling you out? Because your fights are already family legend? Or because Titus took Felicity’s first spouse...so that debt can only be paid by Fitz taking his.
Either way, his look makes your skin crawl. It reminds you of how the High Council families looked at you when fighting for the seat, the little lamb for their slaughter, the one obstacle between what they all had truly wanted. Everyone except Titus, who had looked at you with deeply immense sadness, because what he wanted was you.
Fitz places his hand on one of the cards, keeping that same overly delighted smirk directed at you, until he flips his chosen card over. The smile shakes, so minutely that you almost miss it, as he picks up the card.
The King of Hearts.
An excited hum fills the room from the other family members, as Ursula and Titus chuckle, and Felicity lets out a frustrated whine.
“Titus Danforth, Mr. Le Bail has tasked you with the duel. You have half an hour to prepare in any way that you need,” The Lawyer says, as he writes out a small contract for the duel on the blank page of the book.
He takes Fitz’s hand and pricks his finger, directing the man to sign his blood, and as Titus does the same, he looks at Felicity with a grin filled with fake pity. “So sorry, dear cousin, you seem to have just the worst luck.”
“That’s what you think, Titus,” she grunts, snatching her husband away as soon as she’s able to.
It should bring you relief to know that Titus will be the one taking the field. He’s the most experienced with duels, after all. He’s the violent twin. He’s the one just as brutal as you are.
But.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, the image conjured up by your dreams, your nightmares, of him laying in the grass covered in his own blood, fills your every sense.
+
The Master Suite is dark, with only the light of the moon shining through the windows, and the orange glow from the fireplace. Titus sits on the edge of the bed, securing the buckles of his black hunting gloves to his wrists. You stand against the door across from him, as you have been for the last twenty minutes, silently watching him prepare.
On the way up to the room, Titus had tried to comfort you, to joke around and point out that you wanted to see him fight, but your anxiety prevented you from finding the humor in it. When you entered your quarters, you’d given him a big kiss, held on as tight as you could to his arms, his neck, his face, memorizing every piece you could with your touch.
Now you lean against the door, taking in the look of your husband, scanning every inch with your eyes.
“Think I’m going to break my duel record tonight, bet I could have him finished in under ten minutes,” Titus says, voice almost too casual for your current comfortability. “Sometimes I let them go on for fun, you know? I’ll let them run away and hide to build up the suspense, make it better for me when I finally get the kill, but I don’t think Fitz deserves that.”
You don’t respond. The silence hums between you. Barely a breath escapes your lips. You don’t think it’s all that funny.
He took off his tuxedo jacket, laid it carefully on the back of the vanity chair off to the side, but he’s kept on his white button up shirt and black dress pants. The chain you gave him glimmers in the light from the fireplace. Your eyes follow the path of it down his neck.
Over his shoulders sits a black leather holster that holds two giant hunting knives that sit easily accessible on either side of his waist. His war hammer is strapped to his back, and he throws a bandolier around his shoulder as well, as he sits and loads an old family hunting rifle.
You think he looks...well he looks fucking hot. First off. The way he carefully loads the rifle, clicking it into place and checking it over, the way his silver curls still sit perfectly styled, practically shining in the moonlight, the way he bites his bottom lip as he concentrates. It’s almost upsetting how sexy he is.
“Little Lamb,” his voice breaks through the foggy silence of the room again, as he looks up at you. “Come here.”
You glance at him with nerves you thought you’d left behind long ago. But you do as he asks, sliding into his lap, one hand around his shoulder, as the other pushes into his soft curls. His eyes flutter shut and he leans into your touch, smiling softly. You’ve done this a thousand times by now, calmed him by petting him, showing him an affection he hasn’t had since he was just a young boy.
“Do you think you’re ready?” you ask, voice quiet.
His eyes flash open, and he looks at you with a frown. “Baby, this is what I do. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m not I just...Felicity was saying some things...”
Titus snorts. “Yeah, I’m sure that bitch was saying lots of things to get in your head, but you shouldn’t—”
“She’s doing the mating ritual.” You say bluntly. “You heard what she said—"
“She’s not doing shit because that man is not making it off the grounds alive,” Titus says sternly. He gently pushes a stray strand of your hair back behind your ear, leather-covered thumb caressing the soft skin of your cheek. “I know you like to think it’s you, but I'm the strongest in this family. I’ve been waiting for a chance to really show you what I can do.”
And that finally earns a little smile from you. “Well...when you put it that way...”
“Mhm,” Titus hums with an amused grin. “I know you want to see me rip that man apart. I know I’m bringing all this, but I’ll do my best to strangle the life from him with my bare hands, I know that’s what you really want to see.”
An excited shudder races up your spine, as you let out a shaky breath, heat blooming between your thighs. “Fuck, yeah, I really, really do.”
“Course you do,” Titus chuckles, tightening his grip on you, fingers denting into your jaw, just on the edge of pain that you love. “I’ll make sure to give the cameras a good angle when I choke him out, but I don’t know actually...I could kill him like that, but wouldn’t it be more fun if he died bloody? Leave bits and pieces of him on the green for the grounds men to clean up.”
Your body contracts at the thought, the image of Fitz spitting up his own blood in Titus’s hands. “Kill him however you want, just make it hurt.”
“That’s my girl,” Titus grins, pulling you in for a kiss.
You moan into it, slipping your tongue into his mouth and tasting the alcohol and cigar smoke leftover from tonight. Your teeth latch onto his top lip and you bite and pull hard, Titus whimpers as a cut is formed, and his blood drips into your mouth. You suck it in, eyes rolling back in your head from the taste that sends electric sparks deep into your body.
You want him to feel it when he’s out there. You want him to touch it with his tongue while he fights to win the sacrifice, a physical reminder of who his blood belongs to.
A soft alarm interrupts your kiss, much to both your annoyance. There’s only a couple minutes of prep time left, which means he has to make his way to the dueling ground.
You slip off his lap to stand up, but Titus pulls you to him again, kissing the swell of your breast just above the line of your dress, before resting his head against your chest. He brings a hand up to your stomach, pressing his fingers into the soft fabric. “We can try again, you know. After I win, after I kill that motherfucker for you. Felicity was so nice to gather everything we need for it.”
You suck in a breath, fingers finding the gold chain, and you gently pull it form under his shirt, twiddling with the pentagram nervously. “I-I’m not sure...”
“It’s okay, sweet baby, you can decide during the duel and tell me after,” he says, standing up so he can tower over you, darkness filling his features. “Because I am coming back to you. I told you I would kill a hundred people for you, well I’d destroy this whole fucking world to be in your arms again. One pathetic man will never keep me from my Little Lamb.”
+
The duelers are led out to the fields on the rear side of the Lodge, surrounded by hedges and tall trees, small bushes of flowers and soft lanterns lighting the paths. The first time you’d walked it with Titus, you thought it was so romantic, but now it stands as a field of death.
The family members who wish to observe are taken to the club room, where a wall of various tv’s shows every single inch of the fields, in full high-definition color, with working microphones. A major improvement to past Danforth Wedding Duel viewings.
You sit in the middle of the room, not trusting your feet to hold you up enough to stand like everyone else.
Ursula brings you a short glass filled with their finest Danforth Whiskey, neat. Something to calm your nerves.
+
“Gentlemen, please take your beginning stances,” The Lawyer’s voice booms over a loud speaker across the field.
Titus and Fitz stare at each other from about 50 yards away, Titus pulling up his rifle, and Fitz placing his hands on two handguns in his waist holster. It’s practically silent, barely a brush of wind or sound from forest animals to distract Titus from the blood pumping in his veins, rushing through and heating his body.
“The duel will begin in 3...2...—” The sound of a grand clock striking midnight rings throughout the club room and the field, and instantly after the first bell tolls comes the sound of a gunshot.
Titus shoots a second time, swearing to himself, as Fitz dodges by rolling to the ground. Titus gets another shot off, and then loads another as he stomps across the field, teeth gritted as he watches Fitz roll towards the tree line.
“Fuck,” Titus hisses, shooting again as he watches Fitz duck behind a tree, missing again. He was expecting a little bitch of a challenge, was hoping for it so he could really give you a show, but he didn’t expect Fitz to be so quick. Titus catches him leaning over to try to get a look out at him, and aims quickly before shooting again, splintering the tree but missing Fitz again. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
+
“Fitz is so fast, he was on multiple Olympic track teams, you know? And All State in high school and college,” Felicity brags, earning interested hums from the other families in the room. She looks down at you with a pleased smirk, basking in positive attention for once.
You want to scream. You want to throw the glass in your hand at her and slit her throat open with the shards. You want to get in her face and remind her that Titus is a monster. He’s killed dozens of men and women like Fitz.
But you stay in your seat, downing the last drops of the whiskey as your eyes stay glued to the screens.
Ursula gives a nod, and an attendant comes over to fill the glass again.
+
As Titus goes to load his rifle for the third time, he hears a rustling from the trees, and looks up just in time to see Fitz raising his own guns at him. Titus drops to the ground before Fitz can get a shot off, pulling the rifle into his chest and rolling onto his front.
He squeezes an eye closed and aims again, this time managing to hit one of Fitz’s guns out of his hand.
“Ahh! Fuck!” Fitz shouts in pain, dropping the smashed gun to the ground. His hand burns, wrist stinging, and he quickly leans back behind the tree as he clenches that fist shut. His face breaks into an amused smile. “Good shot, old man!”
“Not that much older...” Titus mumbles, loading another round into the rifle. He shoots towards Fitz’s tree again, more as a warning shot to keep him back than anything actually meant to maim.
With Fitz still stunned, Titus takes the opportunity to jump up from the ground and run to the trees. He's not going to go right for the other man, he’s still got one good gun, and inside the forest it’s going to be harder to get a clear shot with his own gun, but he wants to get closer. He can do the most damage with his hands.
He doesn’t bother to stay quiet as he moves through the trees, wants Fitz to know he’s coming, and when he circles enough to spot the man leaning up against the trunk, Titus raises his gun with a smirk. “Gotcha.”
“Fuck,” Fitz swears, eyes wide as he ducks again, just in time for Titus’s shot to hit the spot on the tree right where his face had been a second ago. He yelps as he lands on his bruised wrist, but manages to still himself in time to get a couple shots off his other gun.
One of which rips right past Titus’s arm, grazing the skin with a painful force that enough to knock him over. “Ahh!” Titus yells, dropping his rifle and grabbing at his arm, where a small cut bleeds through the white of his shirt. He pulls his hand back to stare at his own blood, eyes dark with anger. “Little punk.”
There’s no time to sit a stew over it, because Fitz starts shooting again, and Titus twists his body behind another thick tree, chest heaving and jaw tight.
The gun goes off until it’s out of bullets, and Fitz is swearing and throwing it to the side.
+
“Ha! First blood spilled tonight is Titus!” Felicity giggles, the sound like nails on a chalkboard to you. “Perhaps my dear cousin has lost his touch.”
You’re on your feet in half a second, without even thinking, eyes wild as you stare her down with barely contained rage. You want to scream that actually the first to spill Titus’s blood tonight was you. In a kiss, the only way it should be spilled, in an act of love. By the only one who deserves it. The one who owns his blood, his soul, his heart. You’re about to leap across the room to strangle her, when Ursula shoves you down by the shoulder.
She leans down and whispers right into your ear. “You cannot touch her until the duel is over. Get it together.”
With a deep breath, you close your eyes, and remained in your seat, fingers going white where they grip the glass.
+
With no way of knowing what else Fitz has armed himself with, Titus uses the moments of near silence to take his chance, and break into a run towards the other man. He jumps over bushes and fallen branches, ignoring the leaves and little twigs that scratch at him as he runs, raising his rifle again.
He shoots again once Fitz is in view, just barely missing the man’s shoulder, and then he’s on him. Titus grips the barrel end of his rifle, smashing it into Fitz’s cheek, a loud crack echoing from the breaking of the man’s nose.
“FUCK!” Fitz yelps, ducking a grabbing his nose, his own blood pooling in his hand. He manages to dodge Titus’s next hit, grabbing the rifle and using all of his strength to keep Titus from hitting him with it again.
They both groan from the exertion of fighting for control over the rifle, teeth gritted and voices rumbling. Fitz is able to win out, twisting the rifle in Titus’ hands, forcing him on his back on the ground, and Titus lets go. He quickly rolls away, as Fitz lets out a wild yell, throwing the useless rifle somewhere far off into the woods.
“Nice try, old man—"
Titus scoffs at the taunt again, spitting up at Fitz, the saliva staining his cheek. As he stands again, he reaches to his sides, hands gripping both of the large, serrated hunting knives.
The light from the moon is bright as it shines through the trees, combined with the orange and yellow glow emitting from the Lodge. It’s enough for the high-tech cameras to catch all the action, but to Fitz’s human eyes, Titus’s silhouette comes through as a hulking figure, something monstrous. Something not human at all.
Fitz blanches, eyes widening as he wipes the spit from his face and backs up. His hands shake as he reaches behind, swallowing a large lump in his throat.
“Talk all the shit you want, one of us has won dozens of these duels, and the other is a fucking idiot who thinks a few little tricks are going to impress Le Bail.” Titus’s voice is low, gravelly, menacing. It almost sounds like two voices in one, the other growing from somewhere deep within the fires of his soul.
+
You stand up, eyes wide as you walk closer to the TVs, with your free hand you press your finger on a screen with an overhead shot of your husband. Even from all the way out here, you can see his true form. The shadows make it seem like he’s walking through black smoke, the knives in his hands shine, and you wish more than anything that you could have a closer view.
What you wouldn’t give to be standing alongside him, still allowing him to take the lead in the right, but able to see every detail of his power up close.
Behind you, a few murmurs reach your ears, Felicity snickering and goading them on. They’re all watching you in this trance, and they’re...laughing. Taunting you like they’d done during the reception.
Your hand clenches, and you turn back to her, straightening your spine with your jaw clenched. “Your husband looks a little scared,” and your gaze moves to the other cousins that had dared to join her side for even just one small moment, “don’t you think?”
Several faces fall from their smiles, terror growing in their places, as the cousins all look away, nodding to agree with you instead.
+
Fitz backs up with that same wide-eyed expression, injured hand held up in the air, not in surrender but rather to keep some sort of barrier between them, while the other remains behind his back. His back hits the trunk of a massive tree, thick and winding and old, and he sucks in a breath.
“Enjoy your final moments kid, I know I will,” Titus smirks, stopping only a meter away from the man, holding one of his knives up in line with his face.
He slashes the knife, Fitz yelps and ducks, and Titus slashes again, managing a deep cut on the man’s arm as he tries to get away. But before Titus can strike again, Fitz pulls the weapon he’d had hidden behind his back, an antique crossbow.
“Or I’ll enjoy yours, fucking bastard!” Fitz yells, carelessly shooting his first arrow.
It swipes past Titus’s face, sharp point just barely grazing his cheek, a line of red staining his freckled skin as he hisses. His eyes narrow as he wipes the blood with the back of his fist, keeping his knife raised as a shield against the next arrow flying towards him.
He breaks into a run in a circle around Fitz’s body, avoiding the barrage of arrows that follow in quick succession.
Once behind Fitz, Titus launches into him, slashing his bad arm with the knife again, cutting deep, and blood splatters onto both Titus and the ground.
Fitz screams in pain, but he gets upright again, running in the opposite direction. Titus throws one of the knives this time, nailing Fitz right in the leg, and the cut is deep as Fitz reaches down to yank it out.
“Get back here and fight me like a fucking man, you pathetic little child,” Titus screams as he chases after him. Fitz disappears into the dark of the trees and Titus stops short, chest heaving as his breaths come out ragged, a tiny smile on his lips. A little droplet of blood trickles down his cheek from the little cut, but he can barely feel the pain from it now. “Where the fuck are you?”
+
Anger boils from somewhere deep in your belly at the sight of your husband’s blood trailing down his beautiful face. You have half a mind to turn around and take it out on Felicity, who has gone back to postering about her man.
But everything else about Titus is so fucking erotic to you. The power he displays, the lack of fear, the hunger that had flashed in his eyes when he’d spilled Fitz’s blood. Your body heats up, eyes growing black, and you bite your lip to keep from moaning.
+
Titus stays low as he moves through the trees, eyes scanning the shadows to find any sign of Fitz hiding from him. He really thought this was going to be a harder fight.
A soft crack sounds from behind Titus, and he snaps his body around to chase it, grunting and growling, like a feral wolf zeroing in on its prey.
Another arrow zooms by, and Titus knows he’s close by the sound of the crossbow clicking coming to his ears. He runs through a row of trees and into a clearing, where Fitz is crouched on is good knee, teeth gritted as he does his best to keep his strength up and shoot off a few more arrows. He yells a cry like a falling warrior as he presses the trigger over and over again, until finally he runs out of amo.
Before he gets a chance to reload, Titus throws his other knife, and it lands smack into the mouth of the crossbow, rendering it useless. Fitz swears, loud and broken and desperate, as he throws the crossbow as hard as he can at Titus.
It hits him roughly on the shoulder, a few splinters of wood cuts into his skin through the thin dress shirt, but Titus isn’t deterred.
He has one weapon left, but he’s saving it.
Fitz clearly came unprepared, as he scrambles to his feet and runs at Titus full force, no more weapons for him to choose from on his person. At the last second, Fitz throws a handful of rocks at Titus’s face, who squeezes his eyes shut for only a millisecond to avoid being blinded.
But’s just enough time for Fitz, Titus grunting from the pain, and then Fitz is on him.
+
You gasp as you watch Fitz tackle your husband to the ground, and their hands meet in the air, Titus pushing up and Fitz trying to break free from his grip to punch him.
“There we go,” Felicity says delightfully, smacking her lips. “Titus really is out of practice, this is where my Fitz really shines. I’m going to enjoy this very much.”
You rear around again, and again Ursula stops you, stepping between your body and Felicity’s. “Ignore her. This is where Titus shines too.”
+
Titus is able to launch Fitz back off his body, and both men race to their feet, raising their fists.
It’s Titus who makes the first move, swinging a hard punch to Fitz’s left, then following it with an uppercut when the first attempt is dodged, nailing him in the jaw.
Fitz yells, then starts swinging wildly. Both men exchange blows, and punch to the cheek, to the nose, both bruising spitting out their own blood, but neither really getting the upper hand.
Again, Fitz launches into Titus, yelling through the pain of Titus punch him over the shoulder as he uses all his strength to force the man into the closest tree. Titus’s back hits it with a heavy thud, and his head snaps back, smacking against the trunk as well, sending him reeling.
Finally, for the first real time tonight, Fitz gets the upper hand in the fight. He knees Titus in stomach, doubling him over, and he spits blood down at the man with a triumphant grin. He grabs Titus by the hair, yanking his neck back, slamming his face into the tree, the wood cutting more little lines into his skin.
+
“No,” you whisper, raising a hand to your lips. It’s not supposed to be like this. The cut you gave Titus is still the biggest bruise left there on his lip, but the sight of his blood spilled by someone else gives you flashbacks to that sleepless night.
Behind you, Felicity giggles. “Yes.”
+
Fitz tosses Titus on the ground, kicking him in the stomach as hard as he can while he’s down. “This is who I was supposed to worry about? Huh?”
“Fuck you,” Titus coughs, choking blood up from his throat, still dizzy from the hits to his head.
“Pathetic old man,” Fitz growls. He grabs Titus by the neck, one hand wrapped tight around it and he rears the man up, bringing them face to face again. “All this for your cunt sister? And that whore wife of yours...thinks she’s one of us? What could you possibly know what to do with a pretty young thing like that, anyway? From what we heard, you couldn’t even knock her up. Useless.”
And that... that breaks Titus out of his daze real quick. Words against him and Ursula are an annoyance at best, but you? No sleazy piece of shit, lower than dirt human will raise their tongue against you and expect to live. Titus’s heart starts pumping double time, and he sucks in deep breaths, hands clenching into white knuckled fists at his sides.
“Maybe before we’ve drained you, I’ll ask Le Bail if I can keep her for myself. As soon as I win, I’ll make it a command that I can have as many wives as I please,” Fitz says with a low, menacing laugh. “Already got Felicity so I can have the power, I’ll take your sister, and your little bride. Show her what it’s like to have a real man.”
The moment of taunting laughter from Fitz is all Titus needs to make his move. He punches hard down on the knife wound on Fitz’s leg, grabbing it and squeezing, as the man’s scream rips through the night, and he lets go of Titus’s neck.
Cracking the exhaustion out of his neck, Titus slowly stands tall, towering over Fitz’s pitiful body, and he reaches over his shoulder to pull out his final weapon.
The Warhammer comes down hard on Fitz’s already injured leg, smashing the bone to bits and breaking it entirely. The man’s strangled cry is music to Titus’s ears, and he licks his lips.
The hunger grows in his belly, the scent of blood and bones floods his senses. Titus’s body starts to vibrate, the sickly sweet adrenaline coursing through his veins causing a smile to break out on his face. The shadows and moonlight create an image, to both Fitz and you watching through the screen, of an angel of death.
+
“Shit!” Felicity screams, throwing a glass on the ground from her own bratty frustration, the fragments shatter across the floor. “It’s not fair!”
Her snooty, bragging smile had left the moment Fitz started talking about taking you as a wife. She knew not only did he mean it, but that saying it to Titus would mean his end.
You had twisted with disgust in your throat, but it’s reformed into something completely different now. You watch as Titus raises his warhammer, and slams it directly into Fitz’s ribs, and the crunch of bones is so loud you can hear it through the camera’s microphone.
Your eyes go wide in an eager smile, saliva forming under your tongue. Your thighs clench and you know you’ve soaked through your panties already.
+
The sound of bones breaking echoes through the trees, as Titus jams the warhammer into Fitz’s spine, most likely snapping it in two.
Titus lets out a thrilled laugh as he watches Fitz crumble in front of him, and he drops the weapon to the ground. There’s still a little bit of life left in the man, but Titus will snuff that out soon.
He rips his leather gloves off with his teeth, pocketing them before wrapping both hands around Fitz’s neck. There’s no fight left in Fitz’s fading eyes, as Titus squeezes his throat, crushing the veins under his hands. He wants to feel the life fade from Fitz without a barrier. Small, choked out breathes escape the man’s lips, eyes and skin turning red from the blood vesicles popping, tongue lolling out to the side.
“You’re a worm of a man and I am a fucking god,” Titus groans, voice deep, dark. “You’re never gonna get these hands on my wife. Or yours ever again.” Then Titus brings his lips right to Fitz’s ear, hissing as he declares, “I’ll see you in hell, when I come to rule it.”
His hands press down on the man’s throat until he hears a distinct crunch, and all the light leaves his eyes, as a final breath is caught between the bones.
His body falls to the ground with a heavy thud.
+
Felicity lets out a roaring scream, falling to the ground in a fit of tears.
You bring your whiskey back up to your lips with a satisfied, needy smile.
+
After a few moments of staring down at Fitz’s spent body, blinking as he takes in the pathetic form of his latest victim.
Then, without much more thought, Titus picks up his warhammer again, fingers tapping the handle before wrapping around it tight. He knows there’s a camera hidden in the tree right across from him, and somewhere in the clubroom where you’ve been forced to wait, you’d have the perfect view of him. You saw every part of it. You heard the vile things this piece of meat had to say about you.
He raises the warhammer above his head, and lets out an animalistic yell as he brings it down on Fitz’s head, smashing his skull to bits. The blood splatters up on him, staining his white shirt with beautiful red splotches, and smattering over his face in an arching pattern.
Titus looks right down the camera, as though piercing right through to your eyes, and he licks his lips.
+
The glass presses into your bottom lip as your mouth is dropped open, eyes wide and hungry, staring at how your husband eviscerated Fitz’s skull with his warhammer.
“Yup,” is all you can say, attention never leaving the screen. You want to get this part over with. You stare at the screen at Titus, covered in blood, looking like a demonic king. His muscles ripple through the lines of his shirt, and you want to get your hands on him more than anything. You want to scratch down his chest, leave red marks with your nails, spill his blood onto your hands, and then you want to clean him off with your tongue.
Ursula giggles, “Gross.”
She glances over at Felicity, who is sobbing hysterically, hand covering her mouth as she watches in horror, as for the second time in her life, Titus Danforth has killed her husband. “You are fucking monsters, all of you!”
Ursula starts to take a step to her, but you beat her to it, finally dropping the glass and forcing her to move back until she hits a wall. “You’re pathetic for ever thinking you and that piece of garbage could take our place. We have the High Seat, not because Titus and Ursula were lucky to have been born to the right branch of the family, and not because I got lucky being thrown at them like a fucking sacrificial lamb. We have it because we are the strongest and the most vicious. Le Bail doesn’t settle for anything less. You are a lesser being.”
Felicity’s mouth opens and closes a few times, but no words of response seem to come. Her hands clench at her sides, fingernails like claws that look ready to pounce. And as much as she’s allowed to do it, she knows very clearly now that it’s a fight she will lose.
“Now, now Danforths,” The Lawyer’s chipper voice breaks through the tension. His smile reaches wide to his ears and all the way into his teeth, toothy like a cat. “We must retire to the Black Temple and complete the rituals. Mr. Le Bail does not want to be kept waiting.”
The room begins to clear out, with Felicity running out first, wiping the tears from her eyes, sobbing and calling for her mother. The others look at you, eyes full of fear and reverence, and you just know they finally get it. Not only are you one of them, you’re the best of them.
“If only Titus got to see that,” Ursula whispers to you with a wink. “Come on,” she says, wrapping her arm in yours, and guiding you out of the room.
You give her a smile, but your mind is elsewhere. It races with images of the fight, memories of every night you’ve spent with Titus, the feeling of how your power has grown within your own body, thanks to yourself, yes, but through him. Your mind is made up.
+
By the time you enter the Black Temple, it’s already filled with about fifty other Danforth family members, the ones who wanted to be there for the final part of the ritual.
Titus stands in the middle of the room, Fitz’s dead body laying on the ground with a trail of dark red blood from where Titus had dragged him into the room. He hasn’t bothered to clean any of the blood off his face or arms, he knows this is how you’ll want to see him, the spoils of his fight.
And your breath is taken away as you emerge at the top of the stairs, giddy and buzzing and relieved, and so fucking turned you feel aggressive. You want to scream at everyone to leave so you can rip Titus’s blood covered clothes from his body and take his cock in your mouth or you pussy or wherever he wants you, however he wants you.
You run down the steps, Danforths parting left and right to stay out of your path, and you leap into his arms. Not a care is given to the blood that now stains your lilac gown, as you catch him in a deep kiss, tongue licking into his mouth, teeth biting down on the mark you’d given him, as you both whine into it.
You give no thought to your audience, as you glide your fingers into his soft hair, sweaty and wild from his duel. He smells like the woods, the blood, his own natural musk, and you just want to get your tongue all over him. You want to kiss the cuts on his cheek and arm, the bruises on his body that someone else put on him, replace every single one with a mark of love from you.
This is how he felt the night you got married, and had traced over every war wound you’d received.
A cough comes from behind you, not impatient, just the Lawyer trying to move things along. Ursula appears at your sides, giving Titus a soft pat on the back.
Titus carefully lets you down, but keeps you close in his arms as the Lawyer goes through the steps of the ritual. He leads the room in a few chants, a few Hail Satans, and he pulls out the ceremonial knife, handing it to Titus.
With a devious smile directly to Felicity, who stands angrily staring the three of you with her jaw clenched, Titus drags what’s left of Fitz over to the open goat pit. He holds the body just over the mouth of the pit, yanking the neck back so it’s exposed, and as The Lawyer reads the last of the rites, Titus slits the skin of its neck, and fountains of blood pours into the pit.
The room breaks into a chant of HAIL SATAN! And the fires of the wall sconces, candles, and grand fireplace grow to greater heights.
The last drops of blood are drained from the body, and Titus kicks it into the pit, then raises his knife in a triumphant pose, as cheers break out through the room.
Your eyes shine as you take in the scene, the entire family giving praise and thanks to a successful duel. The whole reason they’re all still standing here and not blown to bits of bloody goo, is because Titus won. That is who the three of you are to the Danforth clan. It’s more than just head of a family or a kings and queens.
Your heart thumps deep in your chest, and you wrap a dainty hand around Titus’s hard bicep, bringing his attention back to you. And he can see it in the rise of your chest, the look of sheer hungry fire in your eyes. You need him.
“Mr. Danforth, congratulations on another successful duel, Mr. Le Bail is very proud, you of course have his approval again,” The Lawyer says, as you both turn back to him. His eyes meet yours again. “Both of you.”
You suck in a breath, gaze moving to the set of shelves just beyond him, to the heart candle and ritual materials that Felicity had gathered. “Titus,” you sigh, tugging on his bloody sleeve, looking up him with a pleading expression. “Titus...I can’t wait any longer.”
A puzzled frown settles on your husband’s face for just a moment, until he realizes what you mean, and the excitement blooms as heat in his chest. “You sure, Little Lamb?”
You nod, then look over at Felicity, who stares pitifully down into the pit. “Just one more thing, and then...”
As though reading your mind, Titus cuts you off with a kiss, placing the family knife in your hand.
“Everyone OUT!” Titus shouts, hand tracing up your back, thumb rubbing impatiently on your skin.
“Not you, Felicity,” you snap, as she tries to leave through the crowds of family members. A few stray eyes remain on the group of you, but they all know better than to try to stop what will inevitably happen next.
Ursula is the one who blocks her path, twisted smile on her face. She understand what the two of you had planned, but she’s the one who’s been waiting decades for it. “Sorry, did you think you would be walking away from this?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Felicity spits. Mascara has run down her face, her lipstick is smudged where she’d rubbed it around while crying, and her hair sits out in wild strings.
She’s never looked worse. Ursula is so happy. But she waits until the other witnesses from the family have left you all alone. “Those things you were saying to my dear sister-in-law today about her and Titus, and me even? In fact, the shit you’ve been saying about me for years? You’re done getting away with it. You are the weakest, most pathetic, branch of the family tree, and we are done trying to nourish you.”
“I wanted to cut you off years ago, after your first marriage, actually,” Titus says with a shrug. “But this guy today? Wow. You really know how to pick ‘em. You weren’t even good enough for him alone, you heard what he said about taking my wife and my sister? That thing didn’t even like you that much.”
You giggle as you watch the red hot anger seep into her expression. Titus gives you a small pat on the back, encouraging you to step forward. That feeling deep inside, that voice that goads you on, reminds you how good it feels to split someone’s skin, to take a life, it is screaming at you. It fills your veins with electric venom, and you look to The Lawyer for quick approval.
He smirks and you and bows his head.
“We’re allowed to kill family members.”
The last thing you see before pure red and white fills your vision is the look of horror on Felicity’s face, the last thing you hear is her blood curdling scream echoing through the temple. You black out completely, and when you come to, Felicity’s body lays at your feet, twenty stab wounds covering her, red blood staining her wedding dress and your own, the knife clangs to the ground.
The feeling of Titus’s hand on your back brings you back. “Wonderful, my little lamb, I’m so proud of you.”
Ursula kicks Felicity’s body into the pit with her husband’s, and then brushes her hands clean. “Well, that was our best wedding since...well yours I guess. Mr. Lawyer, shall we? I think the happy couple needs some alone time.”
She reaches out a hand and The Lawyer takes it, assisting her in exiting up the stairs. Ursula throws you one more wink, before shutting the grand doors behind her, leaving the two of you alone.
There’s only one second of quiet, one humming pause in the room filled with thick tension, before Titus is on you.
His mouth crashes into yours and his hands grab all over, digging into the fabric of your dress, mixing the blood stains from Fitz and Felicity. Titus pulls down on your dress until it pools at your feet, and you’re surprised he didn’t just rip it to shreds.
You’re about to make a joke about it, when Titus lifts you and carries you over to the alter table, biting down on your neck. He whimpers at the taste of blood on your skin, and places you down gently. You moan at the feeling of his warm, hard body against yours.
It’s all frantic, the way you grab at each other, the way you kiss and bite all over, the way your hands push at the leather holster on his shoulders. You shove it to the ground with a clunk, then grab at his blood-stained white shirt, the force of which pulls apart the buttons.
With a whimper, Titus lets you rip the shirt open and scratch down his chest, as your lips move to kiss over each little cut left by the trees on his cheek.
Mournfully, Titus pushes back, just by a foot, to get a better view of you. Both your chests are heaving, rising and falling from the rapid breaths you both release, the same rapid beating of your hearts, but he can’t take his eyes off the white lingerie set, lacy and soft, that you put on just for him.
“You look like an angel,” he says breathlessly, eyes full of awe.
Even if you weren’t covered in little splotches of blood, you’d still find the comparison to be hilariously ironic, in a place like this. You reach out, fingers wrapping around the pendant you gave him, and you tug him forward with the chain, pulling his warmth back into you. Your tongue licks at the cut you’d left on his lip.
“Titus, stay with me,” your voice is low, velvety. You link your free hand with his, spread your legs just slightly, and bring the hand between them. “When I was watching you out there...fuck. It was everything I wanted, everything I thought you’d be. You’re so fucking strong, so fucking terrifying, my big powerful man.”
“Yeah?” A wicked, toothy smile breaks on your husband’s face, eyes wild. “I look like a monster?” You’re nodding before he even finishes asking. He flattens two fingers against the thin layer of lace that covers your slit, soaked through completely. “That monster is all yours. I told you I would kill for you, my love. They could make me fight a gauntlet of a hundred fucking useless vipers like that thing, and I’d destroy them all for you.”
“I know,” you moan. “I loved it. Everyone in that room could see it, they all knew what I wanted to do you, to thank you...to reward you.”
“You don’t need—"
“Shh,” you let go of his hand, press those fingers to his lips instead. A shudder runs through you when he reacts by rubbing his fingers up and down your pussy, and your hips buck into him, voice cracking when you continue. “Titus, I want to try again. It’s all I could think about watching you. I wanted you so bad, I was ready to rip my clothes off and run through those woods completely naked so you could fuck me next to his body, I didn’t care who was watching.”
“Fuck,” Titus’s voice shakes, and his eyes roll back, body contracting even closer to yours.
“I’m ready to try again, you were right,” you whimper, yanking harder on his chain to pull his attention back to you. “She brought everything here for us. We gave Mr. Le Bail two sacrifices, showed him why we’re the strongest, the most worthy of holding his high seat,” your face falls down into a pout, “and I want you to fuck me, like how you killed your prey, here in the temple you built for me.”
And Titus hears it in your voice but there’s something else in it. Something rumbling and shadowy under the words, something reverberating in your voice. Something pulls him into a trance, mind zeroed in on only you.
“Yes, Little Lamb, let’s make an heir.”
It’s cold when Titus rips himself from your body, running quickly to the shelf to grab the materials, and you rush to grab the knife from the ground. You hear Titus mumbling out the spells as he draws a messy pentagram with chalk in the center of the table. There’s no careful placement of materials tonight, no ceremony about it, Mr. Le Bail will have to forgive you.
Titus’s fingers shake as he lights a match to set the heart candle ablaze. When everything is set, as good as it’s going to get tonight, he pulls you into a deep kiss, ripping the bralette from your body. He just can’t stop himself from leaning down and wrapping his lips around one of your nipples, as your back arches into his touch.
You tear the rest of his shirt off, careful not to irritate the cut on his arm from the fight. His mouth doesn’t leave, moaning and whimpering as he sucks the hardened nub into his mouth. One of your hands slides into his hair, scratching at his scalp, holding him to you for just a little longer.
He finally lets go and snatches the knife from you, quickly pricking both of your fingers, kissing you as he draws the symbols on your bodies; a pentagram on his chest and one over your womb.
You reach down to unbuckle his belt, and you’re about to wrestle him out of his pants, when the memory of a sick thought from earlier shows back up in your mind.
“Titus, c-could you, um,” you bite your lip, almost too excited to even say it.
“What, Baby? Whatever you want, you can have.”
“Can you wear the gloves?”
A devious smirk cracks onto Titus’s face, and he stands up straighter, looking down at you curiously. There’s no argument when he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the black leather gloves he’d dawned earlier, eyes never leaving your aroused face as he carefully slips them back on. Titus leans over you until your body hits the edge of the alter table, and your back arches on it. His hands land flat on the table on either side of you, strong, muscled arms bracketing your body, trapping you.
“You want me to fuck you with these on? Oh, Baby,” He laughs, cruel and teasing, and so fucking turned on. “What me to bruise you with these on? Hm?” He grabs your face and you moan at the feeling of the rough leather on your jaw, eyes shutting from the pleasure. “Want me to treat you like a piece of meat? Like some thing I’m hunting in the forest? Can I spank you with these on too? Hm? Bet it’ll be so much easier to mark you up with leather rather than just my hands. That what you want?”
“Yes,” you whine, grabbing at his forearms, not to move him, but rather because you already feel your legs going weak, and you need the anchor. “Please, Titus.”
He does what you want, rears back his hand to give a slap on the cheek. It's lighter than what he’d normally do, but you still react beautifully to it. You let out a quick squeak, eyes going wide but dark, wanting, and your body pulses from the impact.
“Fuck, look at you,” Titus moans, and he suddenly turns you around, pushing your front onto the table. “So needy for it,” he says, voice quiet, mostly to himself, and full of admiration. Somehow, a small part of him still can’t believe someone like you exists, just for him. He drops to his knees behind you, and tugs your panties down your legs, wrapping them around his wrist for safe keeping. “So needy for me.”
He slaps your ass, and the leather creates such a delicious sting on your skin. You hiss and he spanks you again, then gives one of your cheeks a quick bite as he stands back up. That makes you gasp and squeak again, and you look over your shoulder at him, eyes wet and pleading.
You don’t get a chance to beg before he’s spanking you in that same spot again, and as the skin heats, you just know a deep mark is already starting to form. You whimper as he hits you again and again, pussy leaking as you writhe into his touch.
His hand comes down for the umpteenth time, you haven’t bothered to keep count, and then it grabs your ass, squeezing where he’s left a handprint on you.
Then, digging his fingers in hard, Titus starts to rake his hand up to waist, and with both he leaves a deep trail on your skin with the gloves. The leather drags and leaves goosebumps as he slides up your sides, over your tummy, up to your chest to grope your breasts, and then back around to your back, up your shoulders, until they stop on the back of your neck.
With a grunt, Titus, shoves you back down on the alter table, face pressed to the cool, onyx stone. His voice comes out low and scratchy, but with a steely resolve as he continues the ritual, “With thy assistance, may the seed grow in your wisdom and your strength.”
Your fingers are flat on the alter table, and you feel him move quickly behind you, the sound of his buckle clinking open echoes through the room, reaching your ears like a melody. When Titus presses against you again, you shudder at the feeling of his dress pants on your thighs.
He didn’t bother to take them off, he can’t wait any longer. He kicks your legs open more for him, and grabs you hard by the waist with one hand, while the other grips his cock. He rubs the head into your dripping entrance, biting his lip at the view of it glistening, overflowing for him.
“With me, Baby,” Titus grunts, pushing the head of his dick inside you.
You’re both breathless as he shoves his cock in all the way, chanting together, “Shemhamforash.”
Titus whines at the feeling of your tight, hot pussy taking him in, practically whimpering as he follows up with, “Hail Satan.”
He doesn’t give you a single moment to breathe before he’s pulling out and quickly driving back in, hips meeting your ass with a delicious slap. He’s spent the last ten months memorizing every little thing that drives you crazy, and he proves it every time he’s inside you.
“Nobody could ever fill you like this,” Titus grunts, setting a brutal pace, as a hand slides up the ridges of your spine until it twists in your hair. He yanks you back hard, ripping a surprised yelp from you, then swats at your ass again. “Hmm? Who were you fucking made for?”
“YouYouYouYouYou, Titus,” your voice breaks, cracking deliciously as you chant his name, already so taken apart by him.
“That’s right, fucking made for me,” He shouts, voice cracking beautifully into a whimper, like he’s desperate to not only remind you, but any force or spirit that could be listening. “You’re mine, my fucking wife, and this is my soaked pussy, and I’m going to fuck you full of my fucking seed.”
He’s fucking you hard enough to make it hurt, to make bruise, so you’ll feel it for weeks, just the way he knows you love. The way that always got you through when he had to leave you for business. The way that no other woman who’s ever taken him as been able to handle. None of them, no matter how rough he may have gotten, have ever had the true full force of Titus Danforth, but you’ve craved it since you’d met him.
“Please, Titus, want it so fucking bad,” you mewl. “’m all yours.”
Any other night, any other context, you’d be slapping him and shoving him back and showing him just how much he belongs to you too, but the ritual requires submission, and fuck it just feels so good to not have to think too much.
But he already knows what you want to hear, and he’s always happy to show that he knows too. “’nd I’m yours, sweet lamb, body and soul. My sick little monster, I’ll give you everything in this world that you want.” He lets your hair go and you drop to the alter, as both his hands grip hard at your hips as he leans over your back, chain tickling your skin. “Money, homes, my cock, my love, a baby, you’ll have it all.”
Adrenaline pumps through your veins in thunderous echoes, mouth dropped open as cries release freely. You must look like animals, like a pair of demonic mates fucking covered in blood, moaning and grunting in perfect harmony.
Your eyes glaze over, only the feeling of his hard cock fucking hard into you, his fingers digging into your skin, his grunts like a drum beat, can break through the jolts of pleasure that ripple through you.
Titus heaves in deep breath after breath, as his gravely, scratchy voice continues on with the latin parts of the ritual, drawing in the powers of the devil to fill you. The room grows hot as fires grown around you form every sconce and candle and the fireplaces. It’s as you remember from the first time you’d tried it, a new presence entering your space. Your cheek presses to the alter table as you look directly into the fire across from you.
Even in your trance, your brain a fuzzy cloud consumed only by thoughts of Titus, eyes hypnotized by the flames dancing in front of them, you see something in the fireplace.
There are eyes staring back at you. Eyes you’ve now seen a few times, and a crooked, fanged smile in the flames. This time you don’t stare in awe at him, no, your wide eyes are filled with determination. This time you beg him.
“Please, please, please,” your voice is whiny and desperate, raw from screaming. “I want it so bad, I need it. Please,” your voice raises, both in volume and tone, and you wonder if Titus even registers your pleas are not for him. “Please, give us an heir.”
Behind you, Titus only moans louder, hips hitting into you harder, hands gripping down on you harder, the pendant you gave him bounces against your back. He pulls you up to his chest, one hand wrapping around to hold you there by your tummy, the other glides up to grope at your breast, pinching your nipple between his middle and pointer finger.
In front of you, Le Bail’s smile grows with the flames, as you feel the blood of your victims begin to shimmer and heat on your skin. This time, you feel a hand wrap around your throat and force you to look upwards.
You can’t see him, there’s no face in flames looking back, but, as tears slip from the outer corners of your eyes, running in cold tracks down the side of your face, you hear a deep, velvety voice in your mind, “Ask me again.”
“Please,” you choke out. “Give us an heir.”
The hold releases and you feel something soft like lips kiss the center of your forehead. You hear laughter and crackling, like little sparklers going off all around you, and then the presence is gone.
Titus is moaning in your ear, and he licks up one of your tears, lips staying at your temple. The movement of his body into yours hasn’t stopped or slowed down at all, as though he wasn’t aware anyone else was here with you. His hand takes its own place on your neck, forcing you back to look at him instead, finding your eyes distant. “You with me, Little Lamb?”
“Yes,” you moan, touching your own hand to his, putting enough force to let him know you want him to squeeze down.
He does so, face twitching into pure admiration, and he cuts off the supply of air and blood to you for a few seconds before releasing, taking in your heaving breaths with a kiss.
Finally, his rhythm becomes erratic. He shoves you back onto the alter and reaches his hand between your legs. The feeling of thick leather rubbing circles onto your clit sends charges of pleasure up your spine. Your cunt flutters, legs shaking as a peak builds in your stomach, and your breath comes out high and breathy as Titus takes you closer and closer to the edge.
“With me, baby, with me,” he whimpers, “Come with me while I fill you, sweet girl, fuck, come with me.”
“Yes, yes, Ti, I-I,” you stutter, words trapped in your throat, and with one particularly hard slam into your cervix, you scream out your husband’s name, begging him to fill you, as your pussy clamps down tight on his cock, and you come with a loud cry. “Titus, fuck!”
He swears, thrusting into you only a second later one last time, coming deep inside with a moan of your name, body convulsing as he fills you to the brim. “Oh, baby, my sweet lamb, shit, that’s it, took me so well, always take me like a good fucking girl.”
The fires around you reach their great heights, and a rush of hot air bursts around you, before the lights drop back down again.
You twitch and whine as you feel him empty in you, warmth filling you as your spent body deflates, and the two of you whisper in unison, “Hail Satan.”
Your fingers curl up softly, tapping the table as though you’re trying to wake some life in you. Titus kisses up and down your spine, the back of your neck, your shoulders, as he removes the leather gloves and drops them to the ground.
His bare hands soothe your arms and sides. The touch of his fingers makes you shiver, goosebumps form in their paths, and you wish you could just stay like this all night. You want to keep him inside you, warm his cock until he’s able to go again, maybe let you ride him on the table this time, not for the ritual, just because you want to.
But you don’t have all night. Titus knows this as he pulls out, turns you so you’re facing him but leaning against the table. You start to let out a whine in protest when you feel him leak from you, a spike of anxiety over wasting it pierces your heart. He can feel that energy from you, and he shoves the come back inside with two fingers.
The feeling is so good and so right you almost beg him to make you come again like this.
“Hold on, baby,” his voice is soft, cutting through the needy madness in your mind. You bite your lip as you watch curiously while he unwraps your panties from his wrist with his teeth. Titus drops to his knees, looking up at you with a soft smile. “Lift your feet for me.”
He peppers soft kisses on your knees as he slips your panties back on, lips trailing your legs, and he pulls his fingers out once they’re all the way in place. He kisses your lower stomach, right over your womb, humming his only silent plea to Mr. Le Bail, as you run your fingers through his sweaty, silver curls.
“I know it worked this time,” he says softly.
Just the smallest bit of fear remains in you. His lips meet the place on your tummy where, in your nightmare, Priscilla had pushed the knife in.
But you shake that doubt out of yourself. Titus is looking up at you with that boyish wonder, that grin that makes him look so young, despite the crows feet around his sparkling eyes.
“I think so too.”
Your gaze trails around his body, over each of the freckles that stand out darker than others, the bruises and scratches, little leaking blood droplets from his injuries, and the blood left by his victim from the fight tonight. He must have felt some pain, right? It was a hard fight for a bit there, and Fitz got some blows in, so Titus...he must have been pushing down any pain, for you.
Your place your hands on his cheeks and pull him until you’re the one looking up again. You kiss his jaw, trail your lips to his, and you both sigh into it.
“Ti,” you say, rubbing circles on the little cuts on his cheek. “You always take such good care of me. Tonight, will you let me take care of you?”
He looks unsure. “I was very rough with you—"
“You won a duel to the death,” You interrupt, voice just as stern as the look you give him. “Now I’m not asking. You’re going to let me take care of you.”
He purses his lips petulantly, pressing down any argument he’d very much like to make. “Fine.”
You smile brightly, “Good. Better enjoy it while I’m feeling generous, you know. Because if it took, then for the next few months you’re going to be doing everything for me. Right, Daddy?”
You’re pretty sure you feel his dick twitch where it’s pressing up against your thigh, and you smirk.
“Down boy,” you whisper, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can talk about a round two in our suite. You know, just in case.”
“Fuck, I love you,” Titus sighs, wrapping you in his strong arms and lifting you while you giggle. This is the you he was missing, sweet and playful and a little mean. And all his, most importantly. His little Lamb, his monster.
+
DANFORTH COUPLE EXPECTING
Mr. and Mrs. Danforth made an official pregnancy announcement, PEOPLE has confirmed.
This is the first child for Titus Danforth, only son of late billionaire businessman and political lobbyist Chest Danforth, who passed a little over year ago.
Mrs. Danforth is said to be in her first trimester, and everyone in the vast Danforth family has been extremely supportive of the couple. Ursula Danforth made a statement congratulating the couple on their “wonderful gift” on her Instagram and is said to be looking forward to transitioning to her new role of Aunt and most likely God Mother.
The announcement comes as a light in a time of healing for the Danforth family, following the tragic death of the couple’s cousin Felicity and her new husband Fitz. The newlyweds had sadly passed the night of their wedding after crashing their vehicle off a bridge in what police suspect to be an incident of drinking and driving. Their bodies have not yet been recovered.
“We are brought together as a family in the form of new life after a great loss.” Ursula Danforth concluded in her Instagram post.
The couple are expecting this fall and are said to be very thrilled.
I hate that I have to be that person on release day, but if I see you all passing around the Shawn Hatosy “Yes, Chef” audio like a Google Drive heirloom, I am going to personally call Shawn Hatosy to snitch on you…
Quinn is a small, woman-owned platform built to pay writers and voice actors. Quinn is a team of 11 people! This is not like Netflix where pirating it is sticking it to a corporation. It is directly cutting the people who made it out of getting paid. It also violates their terms and can get content taken down, which ruins it for everyone.
Also, these audios are intimate. Voice actors are performing vulnerability and desire for an audience that is choosing to be there. They’re mature, interested, and engaged. Leaking that outside of that space is invasive. Do not leak it. Do not be a creep.
If it is good enough to be foaming at the mouth over within hours, it is good enough to pay a few dollars for. Do not be strange about art you claim to love.
T/W: financial imbalance, age gap, mentions of domestic abuse
A/N: yesss 2 chapters in 1 day enjoy!!
Previous chapter 18
Next chapter 20
The restaurant was a study in understated elegance. Soft, amber lighting cast a warm glow on tables draped in cream-colored linen. The air hummed with the low, sophisticated murmur of conversation and the faint, melancholic strains of a jazz trio playing in the corner. It was the kind of place that required a certain dress code, a certain demeanor. You had played your part perfectly, arriving in the blue dress your siblings had approved of, your hair swept into an elegant chignon that was both professional and chic.
But the performance was wearing thin. Across the table, Victor was a monolith of shadows and pale skin, his golden eyes unreadable in the dim light. He had ordered for both of you a vintage Bordeaux and a seared scallop dish that was probably exquisite, but tasted like cardboard in your mouth. The silence between you was not comfortable it was a thick, heavy thing, saturated with the memory of his humiliation and the lingering sweetness of a cake you refused to eat.
He swirled the wine in his glass, his movements precise and economical. "The scallops are not to your satisfaction," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"They're fine," you replied, your voice clipped. "I'm not very hungry."
A flicker of something annoyance, maybe crossed his features before being masked again. "I see. The residual irritation from our last interaction is impacting your appetite."
You put your fork down with a soft click. "I'm not irritated, Dr. Gideon. I'm a professional. I'm here because you requested my presence."
"Indeed," he said, his gaze intense. "Which brings me to a point of data that requires clarification. In my analysis of our arrangement, I've identified a significant anomaly. You have never requested an internship at Rhodes Hill."
The question hung in the air, an insult wrapped in the guise of intellectual curiosity. The warmth you'd felt shopping with your siblings evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp anger.
You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. "An internship? You think the only reason I'm with you is to climb some corporate ladder? That I'm just waiting for you to hand me a career?"
He blinked, genuinely taken aback. "It would be the most logical progression. Your skills are being wasted at The Daily Grind."
"My skills are my own," you shot back, your voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I've always been able to push forward on my own. I've fought for everything I have. I'm not used to this," you gestured vaguely at the opulent restaurant, at him, "being able to just... rely on someone. And maybe I like my job. Maybe I like having something in my life that isn't connected to you."
You took a shaky breath, the words pouring out of you now. "And what you did at my work? Showing up and talking to me like I'm a broken piece of equipment in front of my friends, in front of your own employees? That is not okay. You don't get to do that. You don't get to humiliate me and then act like it's just a 'protocol review.'"
You expected him to retreat, to put up his wall of cold, clinical logic. Instead, you saw something new. A crack in the facade. He looked... lost. The arrogance in his golden eyes was replaced by a raw, unsettling vulnerability that was more disarming than any anger.
"I... see," he said, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "My analysis was... incomplete. I am... new at this. Human interaction. The intricacies of social contracts. They are not variables I have had much experience with."
You stared at him, your anger faltering. "What are you talking about?"
His gaze dropped to his chest, a subconscious gesture that drew your eyes to the faint, silver glint of the neck stitch you now knew so well. "The parasite. The Nemesis-γ. I implanted it in my chest."
Your eyes widened. "You... what? Why?"
"It was a necessary risk," he said, his voice flat, as if discussing a lab rat. "Prolonged exposure to the T-Virus has... consequences. 'Raccoon City Syndrome.' The parasite was the only way to survive. To achieve Spencer's vision. It grants me superhuman strength, heightened durability, a prolonged life." He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "But it costs me things. Basic emotional cues. The ability to... connect."
You looked at him at his unnerving stillness, the way he seemed to observe the world with an almost alien detachment. And a small, ridiculous thought popped into your head. "That explains your height," you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the first real smile you had ever seen from him, and it transformed him. It wasn't mocking or cold. It was... human. It made his golden eyes crinkle at the corners, made him look younger, less like a gothic lord and more like a man.
"I was tall before the parasite," he said, his voice laced with a dry, unexpected humor.
The tension in the room dissipated, replaced by a fragile, tentative curiosity. You found yourself smiling back, a real smile this time. "Good to know."
You took a sip of wine, the courage it gave you warming you from the inside out. "Can I ask you something?" you asked, your voice softer now.
He nodded, his gaze steady.
"That night," you began, your heart starting to beat a little faster. "In my apartment. When you... when you almost kissed me. Why did you stop?"
The smile faded from his face, replaced by a look of profound seriousness. He was quiet for a long moment, the jazz trio's mournful saxophone filling the silence.
"Because," he finally said, his voice a low, hesitant rumble. "You asked to know me. And in that moment, I was terrified that there was nothing there to know."
You stared at him, the raw honesty of his confession hanging in the air between you. The jazz trio seemed to fade into the background, the murmuring of the other guests dissolving into meaningless static. All you could see was the man in front of you, the man who held your father's fate in his hands, admitting he was afraid of his own emptiness.
"What do you mean, there's nothing there to know?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "That's... insane. You're Victor Gideon. You run an entire hospital, a research facility that's on the verge of... I don't even know what. You're brilliant. You've built an empire."
He let out a short, humorless laugh, a sound that was more like a sigh. "An empire of steel and glass. A collection of assets and data points. That's not a person. That's a resume." He looked away, his gaze fixed on the flickering candle in the center of the table. "But... there was... there is more."
His voice was hesitant, as if he were navigating a foreign landscape, one he hadn't explored in years. "My mother," he began, his voice quiet. "Her name was Elena. She was... everything I am not, in many ways. She was a surgeon. One of the best. She came from a long line of searchers, of scientists and doctors. It was in her blood. But she was also... warm. Caring. She held the hearts she operated on with a reverence I've never been able to replicate."
He paused, his golden eyes seeming to look through you, into a past you couldn't see. "She was always pushing herself, wanting to better her craft, to save one more person. I looked up to her. She was the sun."
A shadow crossed his face. "And then there was my father. He came from a working-class, blue-collar family. He saw my mother's world as... pretentious. Weak. And he saw me as an extension of that weakness."
His voice grew colder, more detached, as if he were reading from a case file. "My intellect manifested early. By the time I was five, I was reading medical journals. By ten, I was correcting my father's simple arithmetic. It was not a source of pride for him. It was a threat. Everything I did to impress him winning science fairs, acing every exam, composing symphonies in my head it was never good enough. It was just more evidence that I was not his son. That I was hers."
He took a slow sip of wine, his hand perfectly steady, but you could see a tension in his jaw, a subtle clenching. "My mother, she would encourage me. She would take my complex theories and show me how they could be applied, how they could heal. She was the one who gave me a lab when I was twelve. 'The world is a puzzle, Victor,' she would say. 'And you have the gift to see the pieces.'"
His gaze became distant, his presence in the room seeming to flicker. He was here, but he was also somewhere else, in a memory that was clearly painful. "My father... he was not kind to her. He saw her passion as a neglect of her 'duties.' He saw her intelligence as an affront to his authority. The arguments... they were a constant in our house. A low, simmering violence. He never hit her, not where it would show. But he broke things. He broke her spirit, piece by piece."
A strange stillness came over him. His face went blank, his eyes losing focus, as if he were watching a scene play out on a screen only he could see. He was dissociating, his mind retreating from the emotional weight of the memory, even as he continued to speak.
"I remember one night," he said, his voice flat, monotone. "He threw a glass. It shattered against the wall. My mother didn't flinch. She just knelt down and started to pick up the pieces, her hands bleeding. I tried to help her, but she told me to go to my room. To study. She said... she said my mind was a weapon, and I couldn't let him dull it. That my science was my escape."
He blinked, slowly, as if coming back from a long journey. He looked down at his hands, at the long, pale fingers that had performed miracles of science. "I threw myself into my work after she was gone. It was the only thing that made sense. The only thing that didn't hurt. I thought if I could just solve every problem, cure every disease, unlock every secret of the universe... I could somehow bring her back. Or maybe, I could finally be the son my father wanted. The strong one. The unfeeling one."
He looked up at you, and for the first time, you saw it. The ghost of the little boy who just wanted his father to be proud, the shadow of the son who watched his mother's light dim. The parasite hadn't made him empty. It had just fortified the walls he had built around the emptiness that was already there.
"So, you see," he concluded, his voice barely audible. "There's not much to know. Just a collection of failed attempts to connect with people who are no longer here."
The silence that followed his confession was profound. It wasn't the heavy, oppressive silence of before, but a fragile, sacred space. You looked at him this brilliant, broken man who had built a fortress of logic around a little boy's pain and the last of your own walls crumbled into dust.
"That's not nothing," you said, your voice soft but clear, cutting through his self-deprecation. "That's everything."
He looked up, his golden eyes searching yours, a flicker of confusion in their depths. "It's just data. A history of failures."
"No," you said, shaking your head slowly. "It's a reason. It's the reason you are the way you are. But it's not all there is."
You took a breath, the words feeling both terrifying and necessary. "I'm here."
He just stared at you, not understanding.
"I'm right here," you repeated, a little stronger this time. "And I'm listening. You're not alone in this."
You saw his defenses begin to rise, the familiar mask of cold indifference sliding back into place. You couldn't let him retreat. Not now. You had to meet his vulnerability with your own.
"You know it’s... it's been hard," you began, your voice trembling slightly. "Since my mom died. And then my dad got sick." You looked down at your hands, clasped in your lap. "I had to grow up so fast. One day I was worrying about prom and passing my driver's test, and the next I was worrying about oxygen tanks and whether my little brother had clean clothes for school."
You felt a tear slide down your cheek, and you angrily wiped it away. "I see people my age on Instagram, posting about spring break and college parties, and I feel... this ache. I missed out on all of it. The milestones. The stupid, carefree moments you're supposed to have. I had to become the adult when I was still just a kid."
You looked up at him, your gaze unwavering. "And it's hard. God, it's so hard sometimes, knowing that everything rests on you. That their entire world, their happiness, their safety, it all depends on you not breaking. The pressure is... crushing."
You let out a shaky breath, the confession lifting a weight you hadn't even realized you were carrying. "But I do it," you said, your voice filled with a fierce, unwavering love. "I do it because I love them. I love my family so much. They are my entire world. And I wouldn't trade them for anything. Not for all the money in the world. Not for a 'normal' life."
You looked at Victor, really looked at him. "So don't you dare sit there and tell me there's nothing to know. Don't you dare tell me your story doesn't matter. We're both just trying to survive. We're both just trying to protect the people we love, even if it means breaking ourselves in the process."
Victor was completely still. He was looking at you not as an asset, not as a subject, but as a mirror. He saw the same fierce love in your eyes that he had seen in his mother's. He saw the same crushing weight of responsibility that had defined his entire life. For the first time, he wasn't analyzing data. He was feeling. And it was overwhelming.
He reached across the table, his movements slow, hesitant. His fingers brushed against yours, a touch so light it was almost nonexistent. But it was electric. It was real.
"I... I don't know how to..." he started, his voice rough with an emotion he couldn't name.
"You don't have to," you said, your voice soft. "You just have to let me in."
He didn't pull his hand away. He just looked at you, his golden eyes filled with a terrifying, beautiful vulnerability. And in that moment, in the warm glow of a restaurant you never wanted to visit, you knew that everything had changed.
The air between you had shifted. The charged silence was no longer a void but a space filled with unspoken understanding. Victor's fingers, still resting near yours on the table, were a point of intense, focused heat. He hadn't pulled away, and that single fact felt more significant than any grand declaration.
You took a slow breath, the scent of the Bordeaux and the faint, clean smell of him filling your senses. The walls had come down, just a crack, and you found yourself wanting to see what was behind them. Really see him.
"Victor," you said, your voice soft, testing the new intimacy of his first name. He looked up, his golden eyes locking onto yours, the raw vulnerability from moments before now carefully banked, but not extinguished. "What do you like to do?"
He blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his features. "Do?"
"Yeah," you said, a small, encouraging smile touching your lips. "When you're not... saving the world or running a hospital or fixing espresso machines. What do you do for fun?"
The question seemed to short-circuit him. He opened his mouth, then closed it. His brow furrowed slightly as he accessed a mental database you couldn't see. It was as if you'd asked him to solve an equation in a language he didn't speak.
"I..." he started, his voice hesitant. "I read."
"What do you read?"
"Medical journals," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Genomic research papers. Historical texts on surgical techniques."
You laughed, a soft, genuine sound that made the corners of his eyes crinkle in confusion. "Okay, that's work. What about... not work? What do you do that's just for you?"
He stared at you, and you could see the gears turning, searching for an answer that didn't exist in his neatly ordered world. "I... don't know," he finally admitted, the words quiet and heavy with a sudden, stark realization. "I've never... considered it."
The admission was so honest, so utterly heartbreaking, it made your chest ache. This man, who could unravel the secrets of human DNA, had never taken the time to discover his own simple pleasures.
"Okay," you said, leaning forward slightly, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Let's find out. I'll start. I like... old movies. The black and white ones. I like the way the rain sounds on my window at night. And I love the feeling of putting on a pair of socks straight out of the dryer."
You saw a ghost of a smile on his lips, a flicker of amusement in his golden eyes. "Thermal comfort. A logical preference."
"It's more than that," you insisted gently. "It's a small, perfect moment in a day that's usually... not perfect. What about you? What's a small, perfect moment for you, Dr. Gideon?"
He was quiet for a long time, his gaze distant. He was thinking, really thinking, not just processing. You watched him, mesmerized by the subtle shifts in his expression, the way the candlelight caught in his hair.
"The moment of discovery," he finally said, his voice low and thoughtful. "When all the data aligns, and a hypothesis is proven true. The world... clicks into place. For a second, everything makes sense. It's... quiet."
You nodded, understanding. "That's your version of warm socks, then."
A real, genuine smile touched his lips this time, transforming his face. "I suppose it is."
He looked at you then, his gaze intense, unwavering. The air grew thick, charged with a new kind of energy. The emotional intimacy of the conversation had shifted, coalescing into something else, something magnetic and undeniable. He slowly, deliberately, turned his hand over on the table, his palm facing up. An invitation.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. You knew this was the precipice. You could take his hand, and you would cross a line from which there was no return. You could step back, retreat to the safety of the professional arrangement.
But you didn't want to be safe anymore.
You slowly placed your hand in his. His fingers were cool, but his grip was firm, sure. He laced his fingers through yours, a simple, possessive gesture that sent a jolt of electricity straight through you. He raised your joined hands to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. It was chaste, but it was the most intimate thing you had ever experienced.
"I should get you home," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated through your entire being.
You nodded, unable to speak. He released your hand, the sudden coolness a stark contrast to the warmth that had bloomed in your chest. He signaled for the check, his movements once again economical and precise, but you could see a new tension in his shoulders, a coiled energy that hadn't been there before.
The ride home was silent, but it was a different kind of silence. It was filled with the weight of what had been said, the promise of what had almost happened. You could feel his gaze on you in the dark, a palpable weight that made your skin tingle.
When the sedan pulled up to your building, he got out with you. He walked you to your door, his presence a solid, comforting shadow in the dimly lit hallway.
"Thank you," you said, your voice barely a whisper as you fumbled for your keys.
"For what?"
"For dinner," you said. "And for... telling me."
He didn't answer. He just stood there, watching you, his golden eyes dark and intense. He was so close you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could see the faint pulse beating in his throat. You wanted him to kiss you. You wanted it with a desperation that scared you.
He leaned in slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips. The world narrowed to this small space, this breathless moment. Your heart hammered in your chest, a frantic, hopeful drumbeat.
And then he stopped.
He straightened up, a flicker of something conflict, restraint in his eyes. "Goodnight, (y/n)," he said, his voice tight.
You stood there, your key in the lock, your body thrumming with a tension that had nowhere to go. He was leaving. He was pulling back.
"Goodnight, Victor," you whispered.
He turned and walked away, leaving you standing at your door, your lips tingling with the ghost of a kiss that never happened. You were disappointed, aching with a want that had no release. But as you watched him disappear down the hall, you realized something. He wasn't just leaving you wanting more. He was leaving himself wanting more, too. And that was a power you had never had before.
Summary: You’re a breakout popstar on your first headlining tour. Fame hit fast, sold-out shows, screaming fans, and nonstop momentum. But behind the scenes, it’s overwhelming. You’re struggling to keep up with the pressure and pace. At your Pittsburgh show, you collapse on stage and is rushed to the ER, where you meet Dr. Jack Abbott.
Warning: Age Gap (mid 20’s/early 50’s,) Mentions of mental health struggles, discussions of suicidal thoughts/behavior
A/N: Mainly wrote this just to get my feelings out there. Some OOC probably. Just take that as part of my headcannon. ✧ദ്ദി( ˶^ᗜ^˶ )
˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗
A/N: May just turn this into a full Cecil X Reader or Cecil X OC
A/N: BTW, partially inspired by Wrench by Tortillaspecter on Ao3
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Let’s set the stage for who you are. You work for the GDA as a super agent (you have powers but don’t work as a hero). Mainly as a personal “shadow” to Cecil. You handle more stealth and rescue missions. Gathering entail, taking out powerful targets from the shadows, all that fun jazz.
▶︎‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•
If you’re interested in a power set—Your powers are supernatural stealth, intangibility, invisibility, shadow mimicry, short-distance teleportation, and the basic enhanced physiology (you know, such as strength, endurance, stamina, . . . flexibility, ehem, all that stuff).
▶︎‖ •၊၊||၊|။||||။၊|။•
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You got taken into the GDA from the streets. Just a homeless nobody using their powers to survive. Reports of your powers caught their attention. After a thorough interrogation you were dubbed an acceptable candidate.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You went through various test on your body and grueling training. Eventually you were allowed a field run. On this field run you caught Cecil’s attention. He began to personally look after your training. He saw your potential while handling a monster attack in a city.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Your feelings for Cecil developed just four years into your partner ship. It was after you injured yourself while training. Of course he reprimanded you for acting reckless. But then, he sighed and gave you a bit of a pep talk. He knows you’re pushing yourself because you failed to rescue someone because you couldn’t reach them in time.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Cecil tells you about the origin of his scar. How he kept it to remind him of his failure. Cecil tells you not to let this failure destroy you. Let it become a motivator, a strength. To study and learn from the mistakes you made. He knows you understand your powers better than this. He then tells you to rest up and to never try that again. You really appreciated how he opened up to you. It left you yearning to know him more.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You spent several years as Cecil’s shadow. Always lurking behind his back. You spent a lot of time alone with him. In those several years you became close to Cecil. It wasn’t intentional of course. You are supposed to be able to trust each other to an extent. But, this “closeness” started to morph into something more.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Eventually after a bit of drinking after work this complicated partnership turns into a situationship. You initiated the first kiss. It was hungry, lustful, somewhat sloppy. Cecil was surprised but when you tried to pull away to apologize he pulled you closer. He started to kiss back with vigorous passion and want.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ After your little “tour” around his office. You also took a “tour” of his bedroom after a quick teleport. The morning after you both would have a talk. It was complicated, sort of awkward. Eventually a set of rules would be placed on how this “relationship” will move forward.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ The rules were simple. This wasn’t a romantic relationship. Hell, Cecil wished he could fire you or get rid of you. But, since he’s had a taste of you he can’t bring himself to get rid of you yet. He wants things to remain professional. No romantic gestures or special treatment. There will be no dates or anything like that. You will have a code to contact each other to meet up and have a “private meeting”.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You both lack the back bone and or emotional intelligence to confront your true feelings for each other. You just accepted the intimate closeness you now shared behind closed doors. Free to share your vulnerabilities. Cecil was content with the tranquility of his mind while at your side.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Sure, you had a few concerns when entering this fling. The age gap (late 20s to mid 30s for you, Cecil, in his 60s). . . Also the boss and employee dynamic (And maybe that mentor and mentee dynamic).
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Your little entanglement with Cecil goes on for three years. Your hookups started off at shady hotels and motels. Eventually you would find yourself at his home more often. And, you would often just keep each other company rather than just accompanying the bed together. For example, you would share music taste quite often. He would be entertained by your passionate lip syncing.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ In this false sense of bliss you would begin to believe Cecil might actually return your feelings. The talks you shared were the most vulnerable you’ve ever been with someone. Cecil hinted that he felt the same way. Just spending time with him at his place was enough to brighten your whole week. You also got to enjoy the pet names he calls you.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ But, this whole fantasy would blow up when you fell pregnant. After looking at your fifth positive pregnancy test, of course you panicked. Your job is extremely dangerous. How could you possibly raise a child in this field of work? You weren’t too far along so there was a bit of time to decide on what to do.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ The first step you took was to hide it. Cecil keeps a close eye on you as one of his closets subordinates. You had to use your powers to steal some pregnancy test. You try going on as if everything is normal until an incident occurs. (You either faint while aiding the GoTG or You faint while training). By the time you wake up in the med bay you got a very pissed off Cecil to deal with.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ An argument is had. Lots of yelling. Certain words are thrown around. Mainly by Cecil. You were called a liability, compromised, a hindrance. He called your situationship “A lapse in judgment” and “Just stress relief”. When you argued that he had been honest with you he just laughed. Gullible is what he called you. Cecil’s stare was icy. He chastised you for hiding this condition and putting yourself in danger.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ When all went silent. The two of you had a stare off. Both searching for something in the others eyes that they refused to reveal. With a sigh, Cecil stepped back. He then gave you the choice to take a paid leave while you dealt with the situation. Abortion, adoption, or just keeping it. He just wanted no involvement as a parent. In that entire “conversation” he only referred to you as Agent (L/N). He was already distancing himself from you.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Cecil then leaves to go back to work. You are left devastated but do your best to remain stone faced. Once you’re cleared from the med bay you pack up your desk and take your leave (you deny the pay). After that you say your farewells to a select few coworkers (excluding Cecil) then head home.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ To give yourself some peace of mind (and maybe wanting to get back at Cecil a bit) you remove your tracker implant. Then you proceed to get rid of any other ways Cecil had of tracking you for a short period of time. In that time span of him trying to reestablish a connection you move away.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ Since you’re a highly trained government agent (with super powers) and a mastery in stealth, it was easy for you to gain a new identity and appearance. Especially when it came to moving to a cozy small town.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ You would spend a happily boring three months in this town. Your pregnancy was progressing at a healthy manner. You had the chance to learn your baby’s gender but you decided against it for now. A part of you wanted Cecil to be there. To see what his reaction might be. You snap out of your thoughts and hurry home.
ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִִֶֶָ🥀་༘࿐ In the quiet of your home you often find yourself daydreaming. Mainly about the father of your little one. Concern for his safety still plagued you. There was no way he would risk getting another “shadow”. Can’t risk a repeat situation. As if, you know you left a lasting impression on the director. You can rest happily knowing that.
Hit me as hard as you can | Cecil Stedman/f! Reader
“Please– please, I just–”
“Kid, what's–?”
“Cecil, please, I-I just– I can't–”
“Kid, breathe! Now tell me what's wrong, what do you need?”
You gasp, inhaling deep, sucking in lungfuls of air scented with his cologne as you look up into his eyes, pretending you don't feel the way his heart is racing as you grip onto his jacket, pretend you don't notice you're scaring the shit out of him right now (no no no, never him, he can't be scared of you– you'll help him stop being scared of you) after you barged into his office and latched onto him with just enough strength to snap bones with ease.
“You.”
Cecil's eyebrows jump at your harried, desperate tone.
“I need you.”
—
Or—
You want to be forced, want to be fucked by someone capable of keeping you in control.
Cecil Stedman, your handler and Director of the GDA, is more than up to that task.
Tags: NSFW/smut, CNC, reader is Mark's older sister/a Viltrumite hybrid, age gap (reader is early-mid twenties, Cecil is sixty), power dynamics (boss/employee, powered/non-powered), fingering, blowjobs, spanking/belting/impact play, rough sex, stomping(?)/stepping on someone, nonconsensual voyeurism and mutual masturbation, BDSM, sub reader/dom Cecil, reader has a slight crush on him, first time, they're both freaky.
6.4k words
Somebody needed to do a psychology study on powered individuals and how it relates to their kinks. Because as much as you've looked around for any correlation, for any hint that what you feel is normal… you haven't found anything.
Obviously, you've found plenty articles and forums on kinks and yes, you know it's normal to have them. So long as it's safe and everyone consents, no kink is wrong or bad.
That doesn't mean you stop feeling weird about it though, because how can you ever begin to explain this… urge to be pushed down and taken? How can you ever date someone and tell them that you want to be held down and hurt, to pretend to be powerless as they take and take and take what they want from you? Especially if they know your superhero identity? It just wouldn't work.
They'd think you were weird. And you do feel weird for it, left in silence wondering if the others feel this way, if other heroes have ever wanted to be the weak victim in the bedroom, wanted to know what it was like to be overpowered and out of control without actually not having control.
Every time you get close to asking, something stops you. An emergency. A sudden moment of anxiety. The words catching in your throat.
Always something that prevented you from finding out if you were truly normal or just another freak in this fucked up universe.
You don't feel like a freak at the moment, though.
Lying in bed, eyes shut, room bathed in darkness; it's easy to pretend like this. Hand slipping into your shorts and stroking, rubbing yourself while imagining every taboo scenario your mind can come up with to get yourself off.
Your breathing picks up a little, otherwise you're silent, overly aware of the other occupants of the house. The more you came into your powers, the more your senses grew. And the more they grew, the more aware you became of yourself.
You couldn't imagine your brother's horror when his get stronger and he realises you and dad had probably heard him a couple of times. Something to tease him about if he ever truly pissed you off.
That aside, you're quiet, focusing on yourself, senses piqued, picking up on the distant sounds of the house and others in the neighbourhood. There's a rustling a few yards down, and a car honking in the distance, and…
There's this faint buzzing sound. It kind of reminds you of a light-bulb or a refrigerator, actually. And you've only noticed it recently, not long after your dad was attacked, in fact.
Sometimes, you like to listen to it and pretend it's like the internal buzzing of a camera, that somebody is watching you, microphone picking up on the soft shlicks and your breath hitching on the rare occasion.
It's hot. Makes you feel hazy, out of control. Weak.
The thought once again makes you cum.
Not long after getting your powers, you began to work for the GDA.
It wasn't long into your new superhero career that you began to grow bored with beating up the same villains who alwaysbroke out of prison after you put them there. Maybe it was the growing frustration coupled with teenage hormones, or maybe your morals had always been wonky, but after a certain point, you stopped pulling your punches, started hitting harder and leaving the villains so injured they were forced to stay in prison longer.
But, as always, they inevitably broke out again and the cycle repeated, though at that point they began to avoid you, choosing to run and hide rather than fight you.
… it shouldn't have been a surprise when your reputation tanked, whispers filling the streets and comment sections under clips of you full of fear and worries you were going to go villain.
Your dad told you to ignore them, that what you were doing was fine, okay, even. That somebody had to say enough was enough and fix things permanently.
You'd only been fifteen at the time, already having the power to play judge, jury, and executioner. It hadn't seemed right to you, even with the anger and frustration you became intimately familiar with.
Your dad had just ruffled your hair, a comforting weight on your head.
“We're Viltrumites, sweetie. We're the only ones who can decide what's right or wrong.”
Despite the reassuring words, the doubt lingered, the worry you might go too far. Or… no. Not the worry you'd go too far, but that you'd hurt someone who didn't deserve it. It was one thing to kill a murderer, it was another to kill someone who was only a criminal out of necessity. You didn't want to be that person.
That's where the GDA came in.
Even then Cecil had kept a close eye on you, seeing your power and your wavering morals and seeing the warning signs ahead of time. So, like he always did with potential problems, he stepped in.
Your dad would've told him to fuck off. Your mom would've warned you to never trust him. Mark… your baby brother probably would've said to listen to your parents.
Yet when Cecil Stedman appeared before your blood soaked form, a pile of flesh that was once a body beneath you, he stared you straight in the eye and offered you a hand.
“You look rough, kid. Come on, let's get you cleaned up.”
There he was, a completely ordinary man, weak and vulnerable, alone with a rabid beast. Yet despite the blood dripping from your hands and teeth, this weak human man had gently laid a hand on your shoulder and took you away.
You'd never felt so grounded, so… so…
It felt a lot like your dad, actually. Not familiar or comforting, no, but just as powerful, just as guiding, as controlling.
It felt like if you tried to lash out, he'd grab you by the scruff and go no, bad girl, and would hold you there until you stopped and listened.
It did something for you. The knowledge that Cecil would guide you, that he wouldn't let you become a monster…
Yeah, you liked that a lot.
Back then it had been normal, of course. Platonic, a hero-handler bond. Just listen to the voice in your ear and you don't have to worry about hurting someone with a baby at home, someone who's being forced to do these things.
Listen to Cecil and you can go home with a lighter conscience.
It had been normal.
And then you turned twenty and something in your brain clicked when you realised just how much power Cecil had over you.
You, a super powered hero. You, a Viltrumite hybrid. You, who can redirect meteors and blast through mountains with ease.
And yet one scruff on the back of your neck or a warning glare made you back down. Made you listen to Cecil like some well trained dog.
Yeah, you were totally normal about this. So normal in fact that after you started exploring your weird over-powering/force kink, you had to bat thoughts of Cecil away while you got off because otherwise you wouldn't be able to look him in the eye for a while.
Which you didn't want. He had such beautiful eyes– wait, no—
Once again, you wish there was a study done on this sort of stuff. Not your kinks this time, but on if it's normal for heroes to be so… hmm, submissive towards their handlers. So smitten.
You couldn't help it. Not when Cecil kept you in check, when he knew just what to do to help you. Nor did it help that you found him attractive, his competence and maturity and confidence all making you starry-eyed whenever you saw him in action.
You wanted that. You wanted that all the time. Not just on the field, but at home, too. Wanted Cecil to instruct you on how to do tasks you were still figuring out, wanted him to order you around on the days your mind was empty yet buzzing, leaving you frozen and unable to do anything because you just couldn't think.
You wanted Cecil to grab you by the scruff and to push you down. You wanted him to hold you down with his abysmal strength and force you to take it. You wanted him to use you not just as a weapon, but as a piece of warm meat as well, to empty all his stress and frustration into you until you were dripping with it.
You wanted to be crushed under his dress shoes and feel lesser than a pathetic human past his prime.
(… someone also needed to do a study about Viltrumites and their adoration for humans. Y'know. Someday.)
But how could you tell him that? You couldn't. You were too scared to. Just in case he rejected you, looked at you differently. You didn't– you couldn't risk it. Not with him. Not in case he put distance between you, if he handed you off to another GDA official, someone less able to keep you grounded and controlled.
Not that you'd allow him to. You only wanted Cecil. Nobody else. If necessary you'd force–
There it was again. That word. That urge to do what you wanted, fuck the consequences.
Killing, hurting, taking what you wanted, it was all the same in the end, no? Especially when you were too strong to be contained. And you know this. Cecil knows this. That's the whole reason why you have the Director of the GDA himself as your personal handler, both because he couldn't trust anyone else to be in charge of such a deadly asset and because you didn't trust or judge anyone else capable of keeping you in check.
And it just– it goes in circles. Round and round and round as you lie in bed or stand in the shower, eyes heavy and mind hazy as you want– want to be beneath him, want to be taken by him, want to be forced by him– and yet know you can't, can't risk it, can't ruin it, can't even begin to make yourself even imagine telling him because it's so shameful, so embarrassing, and so you–
You just–
The electrical buzz. A prickle on your skin. The tension in the air as it feels like the GDA is keeping a much, much closer eye on your dad, your family.
You lay in bed, naked, and pretend you're being watched, pretend somewhere in this room, Cecil has a camera watching you and can see the way your plump lips part around your fingers, stroking through your folds and making yourself blossom open for him as you touch yourself, quiet despite the need to moan and scream and beg as you thrash under someone you trust enough to play weak with.
You pretend even as you start to wonder if they really are watching you. It would be such an invasion of privacy if they were, you'd feel ashamed, dirty, if anyone at the GDA saw you like this…
Right?
Right. You would. Definitely.
You ignore the faint bit of hope in your heart, dumb thing stuttering at the thought that Cecil might be watching.
You also ignore the fact that you cum faster now, harder, with the almost guaranteed fact you might be being watched.
Afterwards, you blink slowly, cleaning your fingers off and turning onto your side, nuzzling your pillow. You listen for anything as you fall asleep, and you swear you hear a faint shift in that ambient buzzing.
Far away, sitting in a dark office, a man shuddered, cock jerking in his fist as he stared at the screen with heavy-lidded eyes.
Stroking himself slowly, milking the last of his pleasure, Cecil breathed a heavy sigh, grabbing a tissue to clean up. He did so quietly, waiting to feel some shame, but… well. He'd done worse than spy on a hero under his care masturbating.
Much worse.
So he didn't feel too bad about it– it's not like anyone would ever know– as he tidied up, zipping his pants back up, still staring at the screen where you were now asleep on your side, leg hitched up just-so that Cecil could see the sticky shine on your cunt, plump lips pressed together and covered in a fine layer of fluff.
You had a pretty pussy, he couldn't help but think. Really pretty.
“Too pretty for me,” he muttered with a sigh, exiting the camera feed and standing up to head to bed himself. He needed to get whatever rest he could.
At least his nightly sessions with you tired him out plenty, so it wasn't long after his head hit the pillow that he was falling asleep.
Your head felt hazy.
Not surprising, since you haven't slept in days, too busy helping in Chicago.
With your brother still in a coma and your mom staying by his side, you decided to get out and actually do something. You just couldn't sit around and twiddle your thumbs, knowing the world was still reeling, that people were still suffering from what your dad did.
Your head felt empty, thoughts slow and foggy; your body was filled with a restless energy, leg bouncing as you sat, watching Mark's heart monitor with unseeing eyes.
Cecil had entered, said some words. Then–
Long fingers and a warm, rough palm grip and press into your neck; Cecil holds you by the scruff and grounds you, pulling you back down to earth immediately.
“Go on, kid.” He'd said, giving you a gentle squeeze; you revelled in it, quickly soaking up as much of this touch as you could before he pulls away. “Get some air. Do something.”
“Will you… be here?”
The question is far too telling, you feel. Vulnerable and hopeful. Despite the situation and the amount of stress he's under and the amount of work he must have to do, you're still asking him to be the voice in your ear, to hold your hand and guide you.
Pathetic. Yet you need it. Especially now, after… after everything.
Cecil gives you a look, not a particular long one, but one heavy with something. You can't help but stare at the bags under his eyes.
Oh, Cecil…
Finally, he sighs.
“Yeah,” he looks away. Drops his hand. “I'll be here, kid.”
Maybe he needed a bit of normalcy too, in the face of such a great betrayal from someone you both trusted.
The aftermath of Omni-Man’s betrayal changes things, especially for the people closest to him.
After seeing the sheer destruction your father caused with so little trouble, your fears about your own abilities resurge.
I could do the same, you think as you clear rubble. I could do all this and more. Right now if I wanted to.
And who would stop you? Mark was comatose, most of the heroes capable of stopping you dead…
It would be so, so easy.
And that scares you. It scares you so bad that the carefully applied walls you've put up begin to crumble, begin to fracture with every day that passes and you help clean up more and more dead bodies.
You look at them, at their faces if they still have them, and try to keep yourself grounded, keep your heart open and feel sympathy and empathy.
Yet it is so hard to keep doing it. Emotionally exhausted, you start to feel nothing as you gently place a child's corpse among the rest. And when you realise that, horror strikes you, cold and sudden and you just– you—
“Please– please, I just–”
“Kid, what's–?”
“Cecil, please, I-I just– I can't–”
“Kid, breathe! Now tell me what's wrong, what do you need?”
You gasp, inhaling deep, sucking in lungfuls of air scented with his cologne as you look up into his eyes, pretending you don't feel the way his heart is racing as you grip onto his jacket, pretend you don't notice you're scaring the shit out of him right now (no no no, never him, he can't be scared of you– you'll help him stop being scared of you) after you barged into his office and latched onto him with just enough strength to snap bones with ease.
“You.”
Cecil's eyebrows jump at your harried, desperate tone.
“I need you.”
Cecil had always known you had an attachment to him.
Some would say it was an unhealthy attachment. Cecil would say better unhealthy than nonexistent. Because at least this way he had the second strongest person on earth on a leash.
Well. The strongest now that Nolan had left.
It was normal, really. Superpowered individuals always ended up clinging to their handlers one way or another. He just had to look at the GDA’s records to see the proof.
Sometimes the attachments, the relationships between powered individual and handler, were platonic, familial, friendly. Other times they became romantic, sexual. Just another way to keep such powerful beings human, another tool to keep them doing their job and saving lives.
Cecil wasn't going to lie, he somewhat expected this to happen at some point. Though he expected it to happen much later. He was so much older than you after all, but with recent events…
Well, he couldn't blame you if you suddenly gained some daddy issues, now could he?
So yeah, he'd expected this to happen one of these days.
He just hadn't realised you'd always felt this way towards him.
A mistake on his part. In hindsight, it was obvious that you'd had a thing for him for a while now. Something to look for in old footage later. For now, though–
“Kid…”
“Cecil, please. I just– just hurt me. Hold me down. I-I need it.”
He'd sighed, stared down at your knelt form, hands in his pockets like this was just another moment between you and not like you were begging him to force himself on you.
(Like he'd said before though, he'd done worse.
Much, much worse.
So what was a little game of pretend?)
“… fine.”
The pressure was exquisite.
Heavy, on the edge of painful, cold, even. The heel of Cecil's dress shoe dug into your skull for a moment as he shifted his weight, then the toes were digging into your temple, pressing down, crushing your head into his carpet with all the force he could muster.
Which wasn't a lot. But that was fine. You were happy to pretend you were powerless, happy to set all your strength and invulnerability aside for something you've been aching for.
A hum catches your attention, and your eyes flutter, struggling to open as the pressure on your skull increases, brain squeezed pleasantly. For anyone else it would be painful. For you, it felt like a hug.
Looking up, you were blinded by the ceiling lights for a moment before your eyes adjusted, able to see him and not just his silhouette. Cecil stared down at you with all the coldness he usually reserved for others, one hand in his pocket while the other gripped a gun. You were familiar with the design, had it tested against you before. It tended to sting.
The thought of him using it against you right now had you dripping.
“Look at you… who would've thought.” He says, tone heavy as he pressed harder again before lifting his foot. Before you could rise up, he stomped down onto your back, forcing the air out of your lungs as his expensive shoe pressed between your shoulder blades. “I shouldn't be surprised though. Not really. Heroes always do weird shit in the bedroom.”
Well, that answered that question.
“Though I'll admit, I never expected this from you.” His foot dragged down your back, leather digging into your spine. “I honestly would've thought you'd like to dominate your partners, being a Viltrumite and all.”
Your mind feels blissfully empty, cheek squished against the carpet as your body lays pliant on the ground.
You hum quietly. “Don't wanna.” You murmur, words slurred as you drift off somewhere else, feeling so, so pleasantlyweak. “Could hurt someone.”
You can feel his eyes stare into the side of your head. A shiver goes down your spine.
“You're something else, kid. Honestly, it's a good thing.” He says, faux casual, right before shoving the front of his shoe right into your cunt, grinding the toe of it along your split.
You might scream from the shock of it, jolted out of that soothing headspace from the sudden ache of something hard and rough spreading your lips open and digging into your hole before roughly dragging down and pressing into your clit.
There's nothing nice about this, nothing pleasurable. And yet it sends sparks of heat through your body anyway, making your hips stutter, unsure of wherever to push back or away.
Cecil takes the decision off of your hands by grinding his foot harder against you.
Whining, you gasp when his hand suddenly grabs your hair, wrenching your head back and making your spine arch uncomfortably. Sparks of pain litter along your skull, small bursts that zap across your brain and make that need inside you purr with delight.
“The way you are… it's good.” Cecil assures you in that drawling, cold tone of his, conflicting with the praise of the words he says as he wraps your hair around his wrist. He tugs, pulls, tests what you can take and listening to your startled whimpers with hidden delight.
Sue him, but having such a powerful being literally under his foot… it did things for him.
“Really.” He continues, rubbing the hard sole of his dress shoe against the plump mound of your pussy through your suit, the shape clinging and showing off your cameltoe. “After what your father did… we need all the assurances we can get that you won't turn out the same way.”
His honesty was appreciated even as it chilled you; you'd hoped you'd already proven yourself to him over the years.
“And you grinding your foot against my vagina does that how exactly?”
Your snark earns you a rough tug on your hair, one that bends your neck back enough for you to meet his cool glare.
“For one, it shows you don't have that fucking holier-than-thou attitude.” He snaps, getting into character. Or maybe he was actually snapping, letting out all his frustrations with you.
Good. You wanted it to be as real as possible.
“And secondly, it lets me know that if I ever have to take you down, it'll be much easier and cheaper than when we tried to take down Nolan.”
His foot pulls back and you yelp as he yanks you to your feet by your hair. Still gripping it tight, Cecil shoves you towards his desk, slamming you down against it.
Funny how if you'd used your own strength, the thing would've shattered.
“After all–” he grunts, yanking down your pants and underwear, baring your ass to him, “–all I'll have to do is take you over my fuckin’ knee.”
His hand snaps down and cracks against your ass before you can even register what's happened.
You tense up, taken by surprise, but once the pain registers and warmth blossoms against your cheek, you relax, going limp.
Seeing the way you immediately give in, Cecil exhales softly, amused.
“See? A good, submissive girl. You only need a strong hand to settle you.” He crooned, stroking your cheek before slapping it again. “That's all you've ever needed, huh? Someone to bend you over and fuck the attitude out of you? Hmm?”
His palm cracks against your other cheek twice, giving no break between strikes and making you tense up and shudder.
“Hell, sweetheart, you should've told me sooner. I would've made sure you were too docile to ever lose control.” He rubs your ass, squeezes the soft flesh before slapping again, watching it ripple with interest. “No more worries about hurting anyone. I would've had you well-trained, breaking you in until the mere thought of disobeying caused you pain.”
Skin hot, you press your face harder against the cool wood underneath you, sucking in shaky breaths. Your backside stings while your cunt throbs, leaking and clenching around nothing. And his words…
The thought of being Cecil's attack dog, being used by him however he wanted…
God.
Behind you, Cecil takes off his belt.
You can hear it, the metal clasp jingling and the muffled swoop of leather being pulled free. Your eyes widen as your heartbeat speeds up.
There's no warning. Not even a muttered “Prepare yourself”.
One moment everything is fine. And the next–
A sharp crack splits the air as his belt strikes across your ass, making you scream out and jolt.
“Cecil!”
“Shhh, shhh, that wasn't so bad, was it?” His words lack any care, cold and cruel. You almost don't like it. “Come on, I've seen you take worse than a bit of leather to the ass. You can handle it.”
And handle it you did.
With each sharp strike to your backside, you whimpered and yelped, sniffling as tears welled up in your eyes, mind emptying with each strike.
Your ass burned, sore and hot. Your inner thighs however were shiny, cunt dripping and making a mess.
You were limp on his desk by now, laying there as you absently stared at random knickknacks on his shelves.
In the distance, you hear his belt hit the ground, muffled by the carpet.
“Still with me, kid?”
His hand is warm from exertion as he cups your cheek, guiding you to look at him.
You blink softly, like a cat, feeling… something. Content, maybe. You feel… you feel perfectly beaten, if that was even a thing.
“Words, sweetheart. You want more or do you want to stop?”
At least he didn't ask if he went too far. Now that would've been insulting if he had.
“Hmm. I… I wanna…” You think for a moment, brows knitting together as you went over past fantasies. Slowly, your eyes lowered to his slacks, seeing the bulge there. “Can… can you force me to suck you off? Please?”
Something in his face softens, and with another sigh, Cecil pets your head.
“Course.” He mutters, the moment between you two soft and almost sweet. It lasts for a few more seconds, Cecil allowing you to recuperate, to push up and stand before he grabs the gun from earlier and presses it to your temple.
“Now, on your knees.”
You can't stop yourself from grinning even if you tried.
Hot and heavy on your tongue, Cecil's cock has a funny taste to it.
Fleshy, musky like sweat, but also something vaguely… sharp-sweet-bitter. Like chemicals.
You love it.
Bobbing your head as the gun presses between your eyes, you suck and slurp, eagerness making up for inexperience as you look up at him, unable to hide your heart-eyes even if you tried.
Cecil just panted, biting his knuckles and trying to keep up the act you asked for, but fuck him it had been forever since he'd last gotten a blowjob so he was really struggling to keep cool here.
“Fuck, that's it…”
“Such a good girl…”
“Might have to make you do this more… order you in here and keep you under my desk when you're not needed elsewhere.”
Each word hit you where you needed it most, clit hard and pulsing, begging for relief at this point. It even would've accepted the shoe again, anything to relieve the pressure.
You sucked on his cock and pulled back to swirl your tongue around his tip like a bright red lollipop. Then you'd move lower, lathering his sack with messy kisses that made him wish you wore lipstick. The image alone would've gave him enough material to jerk off to for weeks.
All the while you worshipped him, the gun remained against your head, an empty threat that had your heart skipping a beat regardless every time you felt or looked at it.
For so long you'd been weak, mortal. A gun had just been another thing in the world capable of killing you with ease. Just because you'd gotten your powers doesn't mean that fear had completely gone away. On an irrational level, it remained, giving you a dirty thrill every time Cecil ‘threatened’ you with it.
You wouldn't mind being fucked by one someday. Maybe record it and send it to Cecil? Or was that too much for your new arrangement? You'd ask later. For now though…
“Kid–” Cecil stopped you, yanking your head back. “Stop. Anymore and I'm gonna cum. And I'm too old to go multiple rounds.” He warns, cheeks flushed as he catches his breath, cock still twitching in your face.
You eye it hungrily but listen, remaining knelt between his legs like the submissive creature he was turning you into little by little.
Once he's not at risk of painting your face in white, Cecil speaks.
“So, what now?” He asks, setting the gun aside, practically a prop for all it could actually do to you. “Any ideas, kid?”
You frown, hands curling into fists as you try to ignore the pulsing between your legs.
“I… I dunno. I've never done any of this before.” You admit, making Cecil pause before sighing into his hand as he rubs his face.
“Of course you're a– fuckin’ forgot–” he cleared his throat, eyeing you before pulling you up with a hand around your throat. You come willingly, relaxing into his hold.
You'd kicked your pants off earlier, so as you straddled his lap, his cock was pressing against your puffy lips, tip smacking against your folds as you two adjusted, shivering at the contact.
You looked down, then up, meeting Cecil's gaze. You looked so cute like this, innocent, like you weren't incredibly dangerous and an apparent freak in the sheets.
Fingers flexing, Cecil squeezed your neck, watching the way your eyes fluttered briefly.
Looking down at your puffy pussy, Cecil couldn't help but think it was even prettier in person. Gently, he ran his fingers through your split, seeing how soaked they get with your sticky arousal.
“Anything in particular you want me to do here?” He asks, voice low as he circles your clit, feeling your tremble from it. Damn, but you were needy. Your poor pussy had been so neglected that just this had you ready to tip over the edge. “Because otherwise I'm just going to ‘force’ myself on you like you asked.”
You rapidly nod.
“That's it? You just want–? Okay,” he exhaled softly, almost amused at the pleading look you were giving him. Despite what they were doing and what you wanted, you were still so fucking cute.
Pushing his chair back, Cecil shoved you off his lap roughly, still gripping your neck, though now it was more of a choke. He felt you swallow as he stood, towering over you before he lifted you up (thank God for your powers otherwise this whole thing would've been impossible) and shoving you back down on his desk.
You writhed like a bug stuck on its back, eyes wide as he squeezed your throat while he began fingering you roughly, fast paced to prepare this tight little hole for his cock.
You choked a bit, gripping his wrist and pulling weakly at it, feet kicking wildly but nowhere near him.
“Calm down.” He snapped, landing a swift smack to your already puffy cunt, making you jolt. You stop squirming, allowing him to shove your legs up and out of the way. “Good girl. Now hold yourself open.”
You listened, gripping the back of your knees, looking up at him with faux nervousness as he scissored his fingers within you, hole swallowing them up and clenching hungrily.
“Jesus, kid,” he muttered, pulling them out– barely– and grasping his cock, “you're going to fucking choke me, aren't you?”
“You're the one with his hand around my neck, sir.” You murmur innocently, earning another squeeze for it; you go back to pretending you don't want this, whining as he tries pushing in, his veins bulging as he grips your neck tighter for leverage before finally, he pops in.
Your thighs tremble at the sensation while Cecil just gasps, taking a moment to breathe because… Christ on a stick, you're tight. Viltrumite muscles are all super strong apparently.
Staring down at you, Cecil loses himself for a moment, simply drinking in this pretty view he's going to be seeing a lot more of now. Shit, for once his luck was looking up. At least one good thing was happening after everything, even if it was mostly good for him.
As Cecil's hips slot against your ass, you let out a slow breath, dazed as you stare up at the ceiling.
You feel so… full. Full and stretched and warm. Yet your mind is blissfully quiet. You don't have to think or worry, no point in fighting– Cecil has already won, after all. His grip around your neck is firm, grounding; it let you know without a doubt that if you ever lost control or tried to hurt anyone, he'd be there to scruff you and crush you underfoot again, pressure on your skull until everything went quiet and all you could feel was him.
You'd never doubted he was perfect for you. Not even once.
You just hadn't dared to hope.
Pulling back, Cecil feels himself shudder as your walls try to hold onto him, to pull him back in. He couldn't recall the last time he'd actually slept with anyone, so it was a challenge not to blow his load then and there.
But once he regained control of himself? Once Cecil was sure he wasn't going to blow his load like a virgin? He snapped back into you and began to thrust.
Slow and steady at first, hips rolling forward to grind his tip against your g-spot with every plunge, then faster as he found a good rhythm that had your head falling back and eyes half-lidded, gaze distant and unseeing as you clenched around his cock and soaked his table with more arousal than he thought possible to produce.
Another part of your Viltrumite biology?
Regardless, it wasn't something he was going to complain about– much. His desk was probably going to smell like pussy for a while though.
All the while Cecil fucked into you, his hand remained around your throat like a brand, almost managing to bruise you. Each time his fingers flexed and adjusted their grip, you'd flutter around him, a sound warbling in your throat.
Considering the amount of teasing you'd received, it didn't take long for you to cum. Cecil felt it, cock gripped like a vice as your walls rippled around him, pulsing with heat and liquid as you jolted under him, mouth opening in a silent scream.
Cecil took a calculated risk and slapped you. Light, not able you harm even if he put his all into it.
A small gush of squirt escaped you.
“Fucking hell, kid, you really do like it rough.” He gruffly said, focusing on his breathing and pace, jaw clenching as he felt his balls tighten and draw up. “Next time you need this, tell me, and I'll prepare some bondage for you. Bet you'd like being tied up and incapable, yeah?”
You whimpered, legs encircling his hips.
“Yeah.” He nodded, hunching over you, thrusting just that bit faster to reach his finish. “Don't worry, kid, I'll handle everything. You just keep being good, and I'll give you what you need.”
His ragged words were cut off by a groan, and Cecil fell on top of you, forehead sweaty and pressing against your shoulder, holding onto you as he came. Thick ropes filled you, each pump stuffing you with (thankfully) unviable sperm.
Once done, he began catching his breath, turning his head so he wasn't panting directly in your ear. He also released his hold on your neck, shaking his hand out.
“Christ, I think that was more painful for me.” He muttered, slowly pushing up. “You alright?”
You just blinked slowly, an affectionate look on your face as you gazed at him, body limp and radiating satisfaction.
Huffing in amusement, Cecil slumped back into his chair, simply taking a moment to calm down, his old heart giving him its complaints.
When you sat up some time later, you looked down, embarrassed.
“Thank you for doing this, Cecil.” You whispered, voice somewhat hoarse; he had no doubt it would be fixed in less than an hour. “I… I know it's weird–”
“Damn right it's weird. But so are most kinks. And believe me, kid, yours is on the lighter side of the spectrum.” He said, wiping himself clean before tucking himself back into his pants. “So don't kick yourself over it. You hardly heard me complaining or needing convincing.”
You gave him a shy look. “You… like pretending to force your partners?” You ask almost hopefully.
With a sigh, he stood again, gently stroking your hair back.
“Not quite. But I do cross the line most of the time.” He hesitated, then, “… I've been watching you. At night. While you were getting off.” He admitted quietly.
“… you watched me masturbate?”
“Mmm-hmm. And I, uh, joined in.” He awkwardly admitted, but you deserved to know he was just as, if not more, perverse than you.
You stared at him, then shuddered, lips pressing together as your eyes fluttered shut.
“Kid?”
“… I think I just came again.”
Jesus.
You cleared your throat. “Uh… anyway, that's hot and I fucking knew I was hearing something, but uh… feel free to keep watching.” You offered him a slightly less embarrassed smile. “I don't mind.”
Cecil just chuckled, partially in disbelief and partially in shock. You just kept surprising him, huh?
“Sure thing, sweetheart. Now… how about we go shower?” He suggested, feeling filthy.
“Yeah! Ooh, and if it's alright… can I tell you about some of my fantasies? For future reference, of course.” You ask, Cecil withholding a smile at your eagerness.
Would you ever stop being so adorable to him?
“Yes, just don't expect me to act on any of them. Again, I'm old. Be glad you even got this much from me.”
An eternity wouldn't be enough | Cecil Stedman/gn! Viltrumite! Reader
>> There is a bond around your rib, tugging and pulling you towards your other half. You've always had it, have always wanted to meet the person on the other end.
Assigned to head to Earth and coax Mark Grayson into doing his duty to the Empire, you meet the man the universe has decided is your perfect match.
Cecil Stedman, Director of the GDA and your soulmate.
Aka, a longer version of that one drabble I did.
Tags: soulmate au, manipulative & morally grey Cecil, minor blood/injury, suggestive, mentions of sex, reader being whipped for Cecil, some fluff.
5k words
Hovering above the planet and staring out at deep space, your expression is closed off, arms crossed over your chest as you stare into the infinite distance, focusing on that taut feeling around your rib.
Gently, subtly, you trail your fingers down to it, rubbing your skin, picking at that invisible string and playing with it.
From somewhere far off, you think you feel something. An echo of an echo, string reverberating with something you can't distinguish.
It annoys you. You want to know, to understand what it means, what they're feeling, far, far off on their planet wherever that may be.
As you hover outside Viltrum’s atmosphere, you're joined by another, bigger and stronger and older.
You and Conquest hover in the silence of space, two lone figures bound by the same secret hope that you've buried deep under a thousand other secrets and lies, nestled deep and hidden from any chance of being discovered.
— You are being sent to Earth. — Conquest’s voice reverberates in your head for a moment, and you nod.
— I am. — You hesitate. Then, — If I discover my mate there… I will not return. —
Conquest must chuckle, based on the way his shoulders bounce and chest ripples. He shoots you a look, one barely different than his usual dangerous looks, but one you know from experience hides something else beneath it all.
— Good. I wouldn't either. — He says bluntly, the both of you staring out at the vast abyss, only distant stars offering comfort. — If you fail to return, I will be sent next. Don't forget that if you happen to find your mate there. —
— And if you come and discover your mate as well? — You ask, glancing at him.
He silently chuckles again. — Well then shit, Earth will have turned three Viltrumites into traitors. —
That's all he has to say for you to know you're both on the same wavelength, even if neither of you will say it aloud.
They should've known something bad was going to happen, yet everyone was still caught off guard by your sudden appearance.
Wearing Viltrumite white, you descended from the heavens, interrupting Mark’s date– because of course it was always when he was on a date– and all but threatening to kill Amber and everyone else around them. You didn't say it, but the way your eyes trailed over each weak, human body in your vicinity spoke volumes.
Up in the sky, with Cecil's voice in his ear, Mark listened as you tried to “reason” with him, explaining all the good a bunch of alien conquerors could do for them.
And somewhere deep inside, he wishes it were true. That your people could come here and fix all these issues and everything would be good.
But that's not how life works. Viltrumites want something with Earth and will kill thousands, maybe millions in the process of “helping” them; and even then, humans deserve to fix things themselves.
When he says as much, your expression sours.
“And what ‘fixing’ have humans done?! Even from space I can see your planet is dying! We have the power to end wars forever, to heal the land and oceans and make this world perfect. Why resist? Just so humans can make more mistakes?”
“It's not that simple…” He sighs, unsure of what to do, muscles already tensing for a fight as you get more and more frustrated with his refusal.
Before things can go bad though, Cecil is in his ear again, telling him about a cruise ship under attack and to invite you along– both to see if your words are true and see how strong you are.
He tells you.
You follow.
And then you watch as Mark Grayson, Invincible, fails to do any damage. Watch as humans scream and scurry. Watch as nothing changes and then sigh, rolling your eyes–
And shoot straight through the kaiju.
Blood flies off of you as you come to an abrupt stop, the creature's body soon dropping into the ocean, splashing water and blood everywhere.
Slowly, you turn, staring at Invincible.
He smiles awkwardly, earpiece silent.
Far away, in the GDA's headquarters, Cecil stares at the screen with carefully hidden weariness, glancing at the guesstimation of your strength, speed, and endurance levels.
Before long, the both of you are guiding the sinking ship to land, working in silence. Mark hates to admit it feels like you're doing most of the work.
How the fuck is he supposed to stand against you?
On the beach, Mark can tell your patience is almost up, face stuck in an annoyed scowl and tone saying more than your words do. Then–
“Kid, just lie or something. Our scans show you will not win this fight. Lie and say you'll do it.”
Your eyes snap to his ear, squinting a bit. Slowly, the tension in your frame fades a bit.
“There is a man speaking to you.” You state, cutting through any thoughts he may of had. “… where is he? Have him brought here. Now.”
What?
“Uhh–”
“Now what do they want me for? Ask, Mark.”
He blinks, swallowing as he adjusts himself as subtly he can. “Why? He's not. Y'know. Emperor of the world or whatever.” He says, earning himself an annoyed sigh.
“I wouldn't care if he was.” You snap, then take a breath. Gentler, you say, “I believe he's of interest to me. I wish to see him with my own eyes.” You hesitate. “Please?”
A Viltrumite saying please. That's a new one.
Standing in the surveillance room, Cecil contemplates this decision, weighing the pros and cons, mulling over the risks before finally coming to a decision.
In a zap of blue and white, he's gone.
Appearing on the beach, he looks around, briefly squinting as the bright sun bears down on him.
“Alright, I'm here, now what do you–”
For a moment, Cecil thinks he's made a mistake, that he's gambled wrong as he watches, stares, the world slowing down to a split second as you shoot towards him in a burst of speed.
His heart skips a beat, pure fear filling him.
Mark watches, too far to help, to slam into you and redirect your path.
But he doesn't need to.
Just as Cecil braces for impact, eyes squeezed shut, you stop.
It takes him a moment to realise you have, eyes snapping back open to stare at your openly stunned face as you hover in front of him. You look him over with something that looks a lot like hope. Shakily, he breathes out, holding your gaze as your brows furrow then relax, blinking a few times before you drop.
Your feet hit the sand, and then so do your knees as you kneel at his feet.
The sight shocks him silent. Never in his wildest dreams did Cecil ever imagine a Viltrumite kneeling for him– or any human for that matter. It almost seems antithesis to everything Viltrumite.
Knees sinking into the sand, head bowed forward, palms turned upwards and facing the sky. Your knelt form screams submission, practically screaming that you're not a threat.
Cecil doesn't know whether to believe it or not. He shouldn't believe it at all, period. Yet it's just so… odd for you to do at all after everything, that he can't dismiss the ever so slight possibility that this is authentic somehow.
So he doesn't dismiss the possibility this is real. Not yet, at least.
Slowly, after your submission has been noted, you lift your head to look up at him, holding his gaze for a long moment. Something shines in your eyes, like light filtering through the cracks in a stone wall.
"I have waited millennia to meet you." Your voice is hushed, full of reverence. Carefully, you reach for him, laying hands capable of crushing steel on his hips, wrapping around him; he feels your palms slide up and down his spine, caressing reverently. Your forehead presses against his belly, nuzzling, almost. "My mate."
What?!
Your words hang in the air, the two earth men sharing a look before Cecil looks back down, focusing on the Viltrumite at his feet.
He tries not to enjoy the view too much.
"Mate? What's that supposed to mean?" He asks, cursing how little they know about Viltrumites– and Mark is barely any help, not knowing much of his heritage let alone his own body and abilities.
You shift your head a bit, cheek squished against his belly and gazing up at him with puppy-dog eyes. Silently, you reach to pinch the air in front of your chest. You tug, and Cecil gasps, feeling...
It was like a string around his rib, being pulled each time you make that tugging gesture. He feels something through it, like a reverberation of feelings; warmth and elation and hope.
His gasp makes you smile, tugging ceasing.
"We're soulmates. Chosen for each other." You explain, nuzzling your cheek against his thigh and far too close to his dick. "I have waited so long for you...
"And now I pledge myself to you, my mate." You declare, bowing your head once more, still pressed against his belly and hip.
Well, shit.
Considering it, Cecil slowly rests a hand on your head, mind already working on how to use you. Weird as this was– and he still needed to figure out what being mates meant exactly– at least this meant they had another Viltrumite on their side. And one apparently willing to follow all of Cecil's orders. It could be worse.
Tentatively, he begins petting your hair, watching you relax, giving him such a soft look Cecil felt sure that he could control you. Especially with the whole “soulmate” thing.
Now... how does one have a relationship with a Viltrumite again? He might have to ask Debbie for advice. Maybe she had some clue what you were talking about.
Back at the GDA, you sat with your arms crossed as multiple scientists and doctors moved around you, expression displeased. Despite that, you remained in place, allowing them to do their tests. Only because your mate had asked you to, though.
Cecil stood close by, watching as his people worked. Occasionally they'd stop to point something out to him, the man nodding along while giving you considering looks. Each time his eyes landed on you, you'd straighten up and preen, subtly flexing your muscles to show off.
He… was reluctantly impressed. And somewhat flattered. When was the last time anyone had shown off for him, after all? Here he had a younger looking (but incredibly ancient) attractive alien putting on a show all for him.
But above that, he was focusing on the fact you were seemingly all his.
He tried not to let it get to his head, but for a man all about control and keeping the world safe by any means necessary, the power of having a Viltrumite to follow all his orders, and one much more powerful and well trained than Mark, was a heady thing.
Nothing else compared to it. Cecil knew himself well enough to know this could go to his head, so he'd need to keep himself in check, maybe have Donald ready to remind him of what was really important.
Not that he thought it was likely he'd go mad with power over having a Viltrumite attack dog. He'd lasted this long without letting his power as director of the GDA get to his head, after all. But still. Better safe than sorry and all that.
“Are we done yet?” Your voice breaks through his thoughts, beginning to sound annoyed. “This is a waste of time. I doubt you're even getting anything interesting from all this.”
Sighing through his nose, Cecil tries something and lays a hand on your shoulder. Immediately, you relax, and he notes it in the back of his mind.
“This is important. We need this information for the future.” He says in lieu of an actual explanation; he's sure you can figure out what they'll use it for anyway. And if not… well, you don't need to know they'll use your stats to begin brainstorming ideas on how to take your kind down.
Your expression might be softer, but your eyes still crease into a slight, halfhearted glare.
“All you've done is do basic medical tests and scan me.” You state, eyeing the multitude of screens and equipment with something that reeks of superiority. “You haven't even drawn blood. Is that not a basic component of this type of research?”
A few looks were exchanged before one doctor reluctantly speaks up.
“We would, except we don't have any equipment that can pierce your skin. Viltrumite skin is just too dense to puncture.”
Your stare was just deadpan, unimpressed. Then, with a low huff, you brought your hand up to your mouth and, with a muffled crunch that made multiple people flinch, bit off two fingers.
“Here,” you mutter, blood dripping from your lips and open wounds.
Horrified looks aside, they quickly grab a sanitized jar to shove your digits in. Another holds a dish under your hand, collecting as much blood as you allow before you jump off the table.
Cecil just blinked, staring at you.
“Is that some Viltrumite trick we don't know about?” He asks dryly, brows raised to his hairline. Staring at the chewed stumps, he can't help but feel a moment of queasiness. It's not that he hasn't seen worse, it's just so…
It was like having something shoved under a nail compared to being stabbed. One was undeniably more painful and deadly but the other one made you cringe more.
You just shrug, taking an offered cloth to bind your fingers with and slow circulation a bit, bleeding slowing.
“I've had worse. Biting into my flesh is easy in comparison.” With that said, you now look up at him with those familiar puppy-dog eyes once more. “Now, I wish to claim you.”
Cecil was thankful he'd lost the ability to obviously blush after his accident, otherwise his research team would've gotten a front row seat to seeing their director go tomato red at your blunt words.
Which was fucking weird in of itself, considering Cecil hadn't been flustered in so long. Was it the “bond” between you two that made him like this? Or did he just genuinely find you attractive enough to be flustered so easily?
“Not so fast.” He said, pressing a hand between your shoulder blades and leading you back to your seat. This time he joined you, which immediately soothed you. “I still want to know what this whole ‘soulmate’ thing is.”
You sigh deeply but nod. “And then I'm allowed to claim you?”
“Yes,” he reassured you, rubbing down your spine.
You nod and exhale softly, nodding. “Fine. What should I do?”
A tablet of some kind was held up in your direction by one person in white. Others crowded behind a computer, a large camera aimed your way.
“Please, do what you did before. The tugging gesture.”
Silently, you did, reaching for the rib closest to your heart and tugging on the invisible string only you could sense.
The machinery beeped after a moment, catching something. None missed the way Cecil twitched, still unused to that sensation. You just sat and waited, playing with the bond, looking up at your mate as you twirled it around your finger.
Cecil focused on steadying his breathing, feeling…
Sonovabitch. He swallowed, really feeling hot. “Claim” him indeed. As you played with the invisible string connecting you both, Cecil could feel what could only be your desire for him flowing across it. It wasn't helping with his already unsteady state.
Cecil wasn't bothered by it, but he knew he was old, unattractive– not ugly, but he certainly wasn't a looker anymore.
Yet here was a godlike alien, sending feelings of arousal so strong he was surprised he was still able to pay attention to what was happening around him, because they were attracted to him.
Jesus Christ.
“Got something!” Somebody said, breaking the silence.
Snapping out of it, Cecil waited for them to approach, feeling oddly impatient.
The tablet was handed over to him, and Cecil could see the outline of both your bodies, a golden light wrapped around your ribs.
“We used a mixture of radiography and ultraviolet light filtering to get this.” He was told, staring at the proof of this bond. “It didn't show up under any of the other filters we used. It doesn't seem dangerous, it doesn't emit any energies our sensors deem harmful, so you're all clear in regards to that.”
You peer over his shoulder to look at the image, humming.
“I could've told you that myself.” You quietly mutter, still playing with the string.
“And… it seems to flare every time it's touched.” The scientist adds, eyeing your actions with mild interest.
Sensing your growing impatience through the bond, Cecil is quick to wrap things up. By now your fingers have mostly regrown, and the feelings of want and desire have grown so strong he's genuinely worried he's going to pop a boner like some teen boy in the middle of class.
So, leaving them to continue messing with this new data, Cecil teleports you both to his office. The second you're alone, Cecil is at your mercy, shoved into his chair with you in his lap, hands carefully touching him all over, experimental and explorative. Gentle.
He's brittle, after all, old. So much weaker compared to you. And the both of you know this, Cecil's heart hammering as he stares up at you, your body hovering over his, eyes drinking him in with a desperate thirst.
Yet despite that desperation, your hands are light, caressing and sliding down his arms and up again, groping his pecs through his shirt, squeezing his waist before trailing lower to his hips.
Leaning back, you lower yourself once more into that reverent, submissive pose, between his legs and looking like something straight out of an office porno. Your fingers trail over his legs, back and forth, nails dragging along the material of his trousers; your temple laid on his thigh, eyes wide as you stared up at him. It was eerie. For all that you were knelt between his legs like some slutty secretary, Cecil knew you were actually the boss in this scenario.
You held all the power, only putting yourself in the “lesser” position because you felt like it.
He knew this. You knew this. And anyone with half a brain would know this if they ever saw you two together.
Swallowing dryly, Cecil parted his lips, adjusting his tie.
“Is this a part of the claiming?” He asks lowly, that analytical part of himself unable to turn off, always wanting answers.
You glance down, tapping at his belt curiously; he's pretty sure Viltrumites don't wear them, so it must intrigue you momentarily.
“No. I just wanted to touch you.” You admit simply, turning your face to kiss his inner thigh. “I have waited most of my life to find out who was on the other end of this tether. And to discover you here… it is a miracle unlike any other.”
You rise up again, sudden and swift, sat in his lap lightly as fingers make a home in his hair.
“I just want to be alone with you for a bit.” You say, expression blank yet calm. Through the bond, now that he's aware of it and knows what to look for, Cecil can faintly feel satisfaction and a gentle happiness. “I think I am owed that much.”
Hands finding your hips, Cecil tests you, squeezing as much as he can. Thick and soft, yet there's resistance too. Something nothing on this planet can penetrate.
“Well, you did save over three thousand people from a kaiju,” he murmurs, peering up at you with a (sarcastically) raised brow. “And you aren't preparing to enslave my people anymore, so I guess you're right.”
A small smile appears on your lips. The satisfaction burns hotter.
Hands moving, Cecil catches the way your breathing hitches, watches your pupils dilate as he strokes your flanks, then higher.
Hmm…
“I think…” He trails off, dragging the sentence out as he thumbs over each rib, pressing until he finds the bond; electricity tickles down both your spines, a gasp leaving him as you sigh softly, “that earns you a reward.”
Your eyes alight with interest.
“Hm? A reward?” You lean lower, staring deep into beautiful icy blue eyes. “And what does my mate have in mind?”
Hand sliding back, he grabs you by the scruff and yanks you in. You come willingly, not a single sign of resistance from you.
Good.
Humming, Cecil nudges his nose against your own, lips brushing as he speaks, murmuring a low, suggestive, “I can think of a few things.”
He feels your heartbeat spike at his words, and withholds a smirk.
This was going to be easier than he thought.
Cecil always knew he had control issues. Even before he became a soldier, an agent, back when he was still a teenager surrounded by other teenagers– annoying, loud, messy teenagers– he'd hated not being in control. It started off small, wanting to be in charge of group projects and such.
It only increased over the years, got worse the more power he gained, the more things he had control over.
It shouldn't be a surprise that he sought ways to control even the greatest heroes of their world.
It didn't matter if it was Darkwing or The Immortal. Age, power level, race, sex, morals– none of it mattered to him, none of it stopped him. They could be the kindest, most moral hero in the world and Cecil would still seek a way to control them, to collar and leash them, preparing contingency plans and seeking ways to hurt and contain them.
Which wasn't bad considering it was his job to do so, but still. This part of him had existed long before he'd gotten this job, and his need for control had only worsened over the years– especially after Nolan. Especially after Chicago.
All of this to say that when you appeared, Cecil had felt that itch. Assess the threat, learn everything he could about them, then figure out how to defeat, contain, and tame it. He could practically feel the collar in his hands as you knelt before him, nosing at his crotch like a horny dog, heart shaped pupils staring up at him with desperate affection. Desperate for affection.
Yet for once in his life Cecil hadn't had to force a collar around someone's neck. For once, someone had tilted and bared their neck, guided his hand.
“Just love me.” You'd said, copying his kisses and pressing closer, loser. “Just have me. My mate. My eternity.”
Laying in bed beside you, reviewing recent footage from the missions he'd sent you on, Cecil kept his arm wrapped around you, idly stroking your arm. It was good, he thought, scrolling forward. You did good, far more efficient than even Nolan, more eager to please, even if you didn't want the join the Guardians. And he understood, you did, in fact, work better alone. Your efficiency went down when you had others to keep an eye out for.
And all Cecil had to do to keep you working was love you.
Easiest thing he's ever done.
It must be the bond. Or rather the bond just made things come together. You claimed every pairing fit together perfectly, that there'd never been a bad pairing ever recorded.
By all rational and irrational measures, he and you were perfect for each other, slotting together like two puzzle pieces; complimenting one another like colours– beautiful on your own, but better together.
It wasn't at all hard for Cecil to give you what you wanted, to kiss you and take you to bed to be made love to. It didn't at all bother him to have you hover around him as he worked, your presence more a comfort than a distraction.
It was fascinating to witness, and the small team assigned to observe and make notes of this soulmate phenomenon found it even more so. They always had some new observation to share, even if it was just a likely theory or proof your presence reduced his stress levels and made him more efficient.
One of those theories– backed by your own affirmation– was that children born from soulmate unions would be superior. Stronger, faster, smarter; nature's own form of eugenics– though much less cruel in its operation. It was the logical aspect of the soulmate bond, the physical. And it was the only reason your kind still valued such bonds. After all, why would Viltrumites care about something like love?
When he learned of this, Cecil couldn't help but mull it over.
He hadn't wanted kids since he was young, before he was married to his work and had lost any and all personal time. Yet now, at the knowledge he and you were so compatible…
It would take years, but he and you could create Viltrumites inherently more powerful than average, simply because of the cosmic string tied around their ribs. He could make an army, loyal to Earth and to him. Not to any self-serving government. Not to some corrupt politician. Him. Him and the GDA.
The idea was too tempting to resist.
And as you lied beside him, curled up and resting on his chest, Cecil tried to figure out the most efficient way to go about it.
Would you want to raise them? Or did you not care for children? He'd have to ask you before going forward. For as much as he wanted to be coldly pragmatic, the love he now felt for you prevented him from doing anything that would hurt you.
He couldn't even make himself consider putting a chip in your brain (and that was without considering how he'd get in there in the first place), it just… bothered him too much. His tiny conscience finally kicking in.
It was annoying. Yet it couldn't be helped. Not when love was involved.
If he was being honest, Cecil was kind of glad for it. It showed he was still human, that he wasn't too far gone yet. He wasn't sure what it would say about him if he was even willing to hurt somebody he truly loved.
So… annoying, but bearable.
Sighing, Cecil finally turned the tablet off and set it aside, rubbing his face tiredly. Looking down, you were still resting, holding him tightly yet carefully.
Gently, Cecil ran his finger along the curve of your jaw and down your neck, skimming over your pulse and towards your neck. There, he squeezed, fingers enveloping your neck gently.
Loyal and loving and all under his command. Just how he likes it.
Yeah, this soulmate stuff truly was perfect.
Gazing at your mate's profile, you listened to his heartbeat through his skin, head resting on his shoulder.
Ba-bump, ba-bump. What an addictive sound. You could listen to it forever.
A shame your mate didn't have forever, though. But that was fixable. Very easily, in fact.
As Cecil made his argument, as he asked you to become a part of their underground breeding program– kept under-wraps and hidden from most people in case they find it offensive and take issue with it– you gently touched his scar, finger gliding along the cracks, the old, delicate tissue.
“I'll agree.” You say, more than happy to provide him with offspring regardless of the method; but you wouldn't be matched with him if you couldn't also play the game. “So long as you agree to one itty-bitty favour, mate.”
Eyeing you, he hummed low in his throat. “Let's hear it then. What do you want?”
You smiled coyly, sitting up in his lap and grabbing his tablet. You tap for a bit before pulling up footage of the Maulers.
“You, my mate. I want you. An eternity with you.” You say. “These two can make new bodies, yes? I want you to use them to make you a new body. A Viltrumite body.”
His eyes widened, clearly not expecting that.
“And I'll provide as much DNA as is required to do so.” You say, setting aside the device to nuzzle him, adoring and gentle with your other half, your perfect match.
He swallows, hand on your back.
“It doesn't transfer consciousness, though. It makes a copy–”
“And I'm sure they can adjust that with some help from the GDA.” You cut him off, kissing him the way he'd taught you to, soft and sweet, warmth igniting the bond. “I have waited all my life to find you, Cecil, I'm not going to lose you after a few measly years.” Your expression darkens, holding his gaze and trying to convey to him just how serious you are.
It would drive you mad to lose him so soon. He was already sixty. How much more did he have in him before he passed? And you'd be left with a limp bond, forever alone.
“So, figure it out and then have the procedure. I'll give you a hundred children if you only do this for me. Please.”
His gaze, blue like ice, like the hottest stars in the night sky, stare into you, considering and thinking. Not that he does so for long, not truly.
You know your mate, after all. Cecil Stedman liked power. Wanted to have power over others and wanted power for himself. It was why he was so addicted to teleporting. It was his own sort of superpower.
So even as he pretends to think about it, you already know his answer way before he opens his mouth.
“I'll have a team start working on it immediately.” He says with a sigh, acting like this was all some big chore for him, and not something he himself would suggest instead.
Smiling victoriously, you settle your head under his chin, already imagining him as a Viltrumite, teaching him how to fly, being able the let loose with him…
T/W: financial imbalance, power imbalance, age gap, sugar daddy/ sugar baby dynamic 
A/N: sugar daddy AU
Previous chapters: 1 2
The sterile silence of Victor's lab felt like a reprieve after the cloying opulence of the club. The scent of antiseptic and ozone was his air, the hum of machinery his music. But for the first time, the sanctuary felt... insufficient. The data streams scrolling across the holographic displays failed to capture his full attention. Zeno's words, insidious and pragmatic, echoed in the sterile quiet.
A biological pressure valve... an asset...
It was illogical. It was a frivolous expenditure of time and capital. Yet, the concept had lodged itself in his mind like a shard of glass, a persistent, irritating anomaly. He wasn't tired, he told himself. He was simply... recalibrating. His neural pathways were saturated, running inefficient loops. A brief, controlled deviation might, in fact, optimize his overall performance. It was a hypothesis, and Victor Gideon was nothing if not a man who tested his hypotheses.
His focus snapped back to the holographic display, a complex protein sequence for Project Ashcroft rotating in three dimensions. He needed to isolate the receptor binding site, but the letters and numbers swam before his eyes, blurring into meaningless static. With a growl of frustration, he swiped the projection away. It was no use. The suggestion, the idea of a simple, biological solution to a complex problem, was a contaminant in his pristine mental environment. He had to excise it.
He needed air. Not the recycled, filtered air of his lab, but something else. He found himself walking, his steps purposeful, toward the chronic care wing. It was a place of predictable decay, of slow, measurable decline. It was orderly. He stood in the observation gallery, looking down through the one-way glass at the quiet, still figures in their beds. This was reality. Not the glittering fantasy of a nightclub.
"...poor kid," a voice drifted from the nearby nurses' station. It was Maria, the senior RN, her voice laced with its usual mixture of exhaustion and sympathy. "I saw her at The Daily Grind this morning. She looks like she's about to break."
Victor's head tilted, his attention captured. The variable was unexpected.
"Who's that?" a younger nurse asked.
"The girl at the coffee shop. What's her name... (Y/N)," Maria replied. "I was asking her about school again. She lied to my face. Said everything was fine. But I saw the letter on the counter when I walked past. Final notice from the nursing program. She's going to have to drop out."
Victor remained perfectly still, his body a statue, but his mind was processing, filing, cross-referencing. He knew the coffee shop. It was an inefficient but necessary caffeine procurement point on his rare trips outside the center.
"And that's not the worst of it," Maria continued, her voice dropping. "Her dad's back in St. Jude's General. Pneumonia, on top of his COPD. He's been in and out for months. Can't afford a place like this, obviously. The bills are just piling up. She's trying to take care of her two younger siblings, too, since her mom passed. It's a damn shame. She's a good kid, just drowning."
The pieces clicked into place with a chilling, satisfying clarity. St. Jude's. A public hospital, a sinkhole of debt and subpar care. The contrast to his own facility was stark. It wasn't just a hypothetical solution anymore. It was a specific, tangible opportunity. The universe, in its chaotic, random way, had presented him with the perfect test subject for Zeno's theory. A person on the brink of systemic collapse, whose entire existence could be stabilized with a simple, targeted infusion of capital. The ultimate triage.
He turned away from the observation window, the frustration from moments ago replaced by a cold, sharp sense of purpose. This was no longer a distraction. This was a data point. An experiment to be conducted. If Zeno's theory was correct, acquiring this... asset... would eliminate the mental noise and restore his cognitive function to one hundred percent. It was a logical, necessary step. He would prove the hypothesis, and then he could discard it and return to his work with renewed focus.
The bell above the door at The Daily Grind jingled, a sound that usually signaled a trucker needing a refill or a nurse grabbing a quick caffeine fix. You didn't even look up from the sink where you were scrubbing at a stubborn coffee stain, the image of the latest bill from St. Jude's General Hospital burned into the back of your eyelids.
"Be with you in a sec," you called out, your voice weary.
"Take your time."
The voice that replied was nothing like you expected. It wasn't the gravelly tones of a trucker or the hurried speech of a nurse. It was low, calm, and imbued with an unnerving stillness. You froze, your hands submerged in the lukewarm, soapy water. That voice. You'd only heard it a few times, always giving clipped, precise orders. You turned slowly.
Standing by the counter, immaculate in a tailored black suit that seemed to absorb the dim light of the shop, was Dr. Victor Gideon. He wasn't wearing a lab coat, which made him seem even more imposing, like a panther that had shed its disguise. His yellow eyes, fixed on you with an unnerving, analytical intensity. He wasn't looking at you as a person he was looking at you as a specimen.
"Dr. Gideon," you stammered, quickly drying your hands on your apron and moving to the register. "I... I didn't recognize you out of your coat. What can I get for you? The usual black coffee?"
"No," he said, his gaze unwavering. "I am not here for coffee."
Your heart hammered against your ribs. This was wrong. This was terrifying. "Oh. Is... is everything okay at the center?"
"The center is operating within optimal parameters," he stated, as if reading from a report. He took a step closer, and the small space behind the counter suddenly felt claustrophobic. "I am here to make you a proposition."
The word hung in the air, cold and alien. "A... proposition?" you repeated, your mind racing. Was this a job offer? A multi-level marketing scam?
"I am aware of your financial situation," he continued, his voice dropping to a near monotone that was somehow more menacing than a shout. "Your father is at St. Jude's General. His treatment is not covered by his insurance, and his inability to work has resulted in significant debt. Your tuition for the upcoming semester is due in three weeks, a sum you are currently incapable of paying. Your siblings are dependent on your income. You are, to put it simply, on the verge of systemic collapse."
Every word was a precisely aimed dart, hitting the most vulnerable parts of your life. How could he possibly know all this? A cold dread washed over you, followed by a wave of humiliation. He saw you not as a person, but as a set of failing statistics.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," you lied, your voice trembling.
"Don't," he said, a single, sharp word that cut through your denial. "It is inefficient and insults us both. I have a solution to your problems. All of them."
He slid a thick, cream colored envelope across the counter. It was heavy, expensive, and had no address. You stared at it, your hands refusing to move.
"In exchange," he continued, "you will provide a service. You will be available to me when I require. You will accompany me to certain functions. You will be... decorative. And you will be discreet. Your role is to be a pleasant, compliant presence. Nothing more."
Your blood ran cold. This was it. The moment your life turned into a bad movie. The stories Maria told you about him, the warnings from other staff, all of it flashed through your mind. He was a monster in a expensive suit.
"I... I can't," you whispered, finally finding your voice. "That's... I'm not..."
"The envelope contains a cashier's check for one hundred thousand dollars," he said, ignoring your protest completely. "Sufficient to settle your father's immediate hospital debt, clear your outstanding student loans, and secure your tuition for the remainder of your program. A second payment of equal value will be made at the beginning of next month. Consider it a retainer. For your services."
One hundred thousand dollars.
The number didn't even seem real. It was a joke. It was a fantasy. It was more money than your father had made in three years. It was a number that could erase the constant, gnawing fear that had been your companion for as long as you could remember. It could pay off the mountain of debt that was crushing your family, ensure your father got the care he needed, keep your siblings in their home, and allow you to finish the degree that was supposed to be your ticket out of all this. It was everything.
He saw the flicker of calculation in your eyes, the moment the desperate need warred with your self-respect. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his lips.
"You are a nursing student," he said, his tone almost conversational now, as if discussing the weather. "You understand the concept of triage. You assess the situation, identify the greatest threat, and allocate resources to address it. Your greatest threat, right now, is financial collapse. I am offering the resources. The choice is simple biology, really. Survival."
He straightened his already perfect tie. "I will be here tomorrow at closing. I expect your decision. Do not disappoint me."
And with that, he turned and walked out, the bell above the door jingling his departure. You were left alone, staring at the envelope on the counter. It felt like it was glowing, a beacon of salvation and damnation all at once. Your hands shook as you reached for it, the crisp paper feeling impossibly heavy in your grasp. The world had just offered you a devil's bargain, and as you slid your thumb under the flap to break the seal, you knew, with a certainty that shattered your soul, that you were going to take it.
pairing: cecil stedman x fem!hybrid!reader
word count: 11.3k
summary: it's unfortunate that you, a hybrid superhero, just started your heat. it's even more unfortunate that cecil ends up being the solution to your problem.
warnings: superhero reader, hybrid reader, afab!reader, hybrid heat, perv!cecil, boss/employee relationship, power imbalance, fingering, unprotected sex, creampie, degradation, morally gray cecil stedman, minor stalking (if you squint), ethically dubious decisions
beta readers: @justden1 @emocean-is-trash, thank you so much for the countless hours spent reading my cecil bullshit
a/n: there will be a part 2 to this eventually! thanks for your patience (this is barely proof read as well sorry i'll come back and edit LOL)
Cecil Stedman hates texting. Maybe it’s the old man in him, but he actually despises it.
With a life as disorganized and chaotic as his own, he desires a conversation either through his earpiece or face-to-face. Those forms of communication are more efficient, in his mind. For good reason, too. When he’s talking to someone in person, Cecil can accurately dissect body language, facial expressions, tone of voice, the whole nine yards. Is using his earpiece perfect? No, it can only get him so far, but it’s still much better than having to squint at a small screen, struggling to get his scarred thumbs to cooperate long enough to type out coherent words.
If somebody doesn’t have the urgency to pick up the phone and dial a number, or flip a goddamn switch on their high-level government owned headset, then the situation at hand must not be a drastic dilemma. At least, not one that Cecil thinks he has to concern himself with.
Does his rapid sense of urgency come off as rude, maybe even self-centered? Absolutely. These conversations can be used as weapons, according to Cecil. He doesn’t care about other people’s feelings. He doesn’t have the time to. His work at the GDA is business only. That’s all his life is built around now. Cecil barely survives the legal battles that come with managing superheroes. Not even legal fights, physical ones too.
Texting is a nuisance to Cecil, plain and simple.
So when you, the new superhero recruit, send him a text message at 2:00 AM on a Friday, Cecil flat out ignores it.
Well, at first, anyway.
He doesn’t even read the words when they pop up on his smartphone (one he really doesn’t care for, but it was purchased for him by the GDA, so he feels obligated to carry it around).
It was actually a miracle he even saw the notification in the first place. The phone was faced up towards the ceiling, discarded on one of the desks in the control room. His eyes had been glued to monitors, actively picking apart videos of Invincible’s fight earlier that day, the older man’s thoughts consumed with worry that the boy might end up like his father. When the screen lights up and a familiar ringtone chirps, all he sees at first is your name. With that, he immediately glances away and goes back to staring at the machines that hum quietly in the near empty room.
Ignoring your text was easy, but ignoring the way his stomach dropped was near impossible.
Maybe the age gap is to explain why you’re one of those people glued to your devices. Cecil is much older, so he genuinely doesn’t get the hype. On the other hand, you clearly do. You bother him all the time with random shit, especially over text. Any boundaries that the director tried establishing in the first place were long gone. Actually, there were none to begin with. That might partially be Cecil’s fault, but he likes to shift the blame to you as often as possible…which is all the time.
It’s more than your age, though. You don’t just do this for fun. It doesn’t help that you are practically all by yourself in this world. No known family, barely any friends. Even the other superheroes found it hard to hold conversation with you due to your lack of social skills. Which makes sense given how Cecil found you. What used to be home was the operating table that some fucked up scientist utilized to perform far too many tests on you. The same deranged experiments that resulted in your cat-like ears, tail, and claws.
It was quite the sight to see you unconscious on the floor after the GDA busted the lab. Debris was scattered around your naked feet, brushes of dirt splayed across your barren arms. Any furry part of your body was covered in a layer of filth. Cecil wasn’t sure what the hell to make of you at first. He couldn’t deny the fact you looked fascinating, though. A specimen he was completely unfamiliar with. It’s not often that GDA directors come across hybrids. Even though the original mission was meant to collect data on whatever the hell this scientist was producing, there was much difficulty in trying to pry his eyes away from your limp form. Cecil Stedman had no idea he’d be taking home a goddamn pet.
To make matters worse, Cecil was the first face you saw when you came out of your coma. The moment your eyes fluttered open and he met your timid gaze, Cecil knew he was fucked. Your face was already pretty enough, why the hell did you have to have beautiful eyes too? Seeing your worried expression under the bright lights, hearing the pathetic little whimpers that snuck past your lips, it only complicated things further for the old man. It was at this moment he realized that you weren’t like any of the others. No, not even close.
Despite being poked and prodded by multiple GDA personnel, he was the only person who didn’t treat you like livestock. You were never a science experiment to Cecil. He had faith in you, hopes for your future.
What he didn’t know, at the time, was that those dreams of seeing you flourish into a successful superhero came with a price. One that left his heart skipping a beat each time you’d reach out to him.
Cecil has genuinely lost count on how many times he’s told you to stop bothering him with these stupid texts. For one, he thinks they’re annoying. Another reason is that he doesn’t want you to rely on him for every little thing. He knows why you’re doing it; you’re alone. But, your life was never in any type of distress that was genuinely concerning; you just liked having someone to annoy. His reactions always make you laugh, so it was practically entertainment at this point, just something to motivate you to keep moving forward in this fucked up world.
That being said, it was completely normal for you to ignore Cecil’s protests and send message after message. What was unusual, though, was the timing.
Never in the last year had you sent him something this late in the night…or, early in the morning? Whatever, Cecil knew it was strange to begin with. That’s what made his stomach churn and mind consumed with irrational thoughts.
The command room’s atmosphere is chilling; the cold air seeping through the man’s expensive suit makes his skin prickle with bumps. The occasional beep from a distant monitor brings him back to reality. Cecil had been enjoying the brief quiet of his workspace given there were barely any employees present. Now, there’s this uneasy feeling settling on his shoulders and traveling down his spine. Any attempt to relax was completely out the window. You occupied his mind instead.
He’d been here all day catching up on Invincible’s stats as of late. Essentially, Cecil wanted to ensure there wasn’t anything he was missing that might come back to bite him in the ass. He had dismissed a handful of employees to go enjoy a quick break elsewhere just to enjoy some silence. Being surrounded by people for hours on end, he thought he deserved it.
But then his phone is dinging, then once more. Twice in a row it alerts Cecil that there’s someone else on the other end that is in dire need of his attention.
Cecil walks away from the desk towards a holographic map to put distance between himself and the wretched smartphone. He hears it go off a third time as his fingers type away at a keyboard, opening a 3-D blueprint of Chicago. The glow emitting from the advanced technology could not hide the device resting in his peripheral. He couldn’t even focus on the casualty reports for more than ten seconds before he hears that goddamn smartphone go off for what he can only assume is the fourth or fifth time. What on earth did you want?
The older man contemplates his next decision once, twice, then a third time just for extra measure. While it might be imperative Cecil educates himself on the recent structural damages in the city, he finds himself silently admitting that curiosity of your current whereabouts was getting to the best of him.
He can’t believe how easily he caves into your obvious demands. Before he knows it, Cecil angrily grunts mumbled words under his breath as he returns to his previous spot at the desk. He reaches out and picks up the smartphone, unlocking it in an instant. Squinting in the dark room, he mutters the texts only loud enough for himself to hear. Then, Cecil’s heart drops within seconds.
All the texts were begging him for help. In rapid succession, you continue to spam him with frantic, panicked pleas. There was an easy pattern to follow right away; you were injured.
“cecil, PLZ i need help. i dont know what to do!!!”
“i know u can see these. plzzz cecil :((( help!”
“it hurts so bad”
“i dont know how much longer i can take it”
In an instant, he’s pulling up your coordinates on the monitor. That fateful day when his team discovered you all alone and exhausted to the point of passing out, he instructed his men to put a chip in the back of your neck. The process was pretty routine for other heroes he works with. If you, God forbid, tried running away at some point, he’d be able to track the movements. Your body was in enough pain at that time, that the insertion didn’t even wake you from your coma. Eventually, you did end up finding out about what he had done…and paid no mind to it at all. Cecil was a bit thankful you weren’t so mad with him. Sometimes the superheroes gave him pushback; the older man appreciated how docile you could be.
Despite the messages clearly indicating some form of danger, your coordinates showed you were well rested in the comfort of your apartment. It’s a tiny little place downtown, hidden from the rest of the city, but it worked to meet your needs. Cecil would have preferred if you just stayed at GDA headquarters instead, but he knew that you needed privacy at the end of the day. That being said, only a handful of workers at the facility even knew of it, one of them being Cecil himself. There are a multitude of security measures on top of that to protect you from unknown dangers. One of which being that anyone who enters the premises that’s neither you or him, an alarm would be triggered and GDA personnel would be informed immediately.
A totally normal precaution he definitely does for all the other superheroes…
The first question that crossed his mind was, had you been compromised? Were you in the process of being kidnapped, or worse? Then again, if that had been the case, you would have definitely tried contacting him via earpiece; there’s no doubt about that. Even when you want to bother the shit out of Cecil with these goddamn texts, you knew well enough that actual emergencies meant urgent communication.
Yet, here you are, spamming him instead.
Cecil fights the urge to roll his eyes.
For the next few seconds, Cecil opens a different tab and begins typing your full legal name in the search bar. The chip in your body not only keeps track of your approximate location, but it also acts as a sensor that transmits any strange spike in your otherwise normal health readings. The little box of text showed the latest update on your vitals. He cocks his head to the side, noticing how unusually all over the place they are.
You’re on extreme alert, perhaps just as much as you are when sent out on a mission. What stuck out to the man was seeing the accelerated heart rate; 115 beats per minute. That particular number was something he usually saw spike this high during your workouts. Next, he’s furrowing his eyebrows at the sight of your temperature matching that of a low-grade fever.
At this point, he’s growing more and more worried over your safety.
“Sir? Is everything alright?” a familiar voice asks from behind the director.
Cecil glances over his shoulder just long enough to see who was speaking to him, even though he already had a clue based on the voice. His sharp eyes observe the personal assistant standing only a few feet away, noticing how Donald’s arms were clutching a variety of thick portfolios. They’re filled with paperwork that Cecil will need to sign at some point tonight, but he can’t even comprehend taking time out of his schedule to do that right now. He’s entirely focused on you instead.
The director ignores Donald and continues investigating the monitor. He’s scrolling through anything else he might have missed from your health report. The screen gives him the same concerning numbers that had been plastered on there a couple minutes prior, as if he was hoping they would somehow go away and cease to be his issue. Cecil keeps looking at the logged data nonetheless, trying to find a pattern of some sort that might hint what you’re dealing with.
Meanwhile, Donald takes a careful step forward. He notices the name of the file a few seconds later, causing his eyes to widen ever so slightly underneath his sunglasses. He asks with a careful tone, “Is she in trouble? What’s her latest update?”
“I don’t know for sure. I feel like she’s just trying to annoy me,” Cecil explains, as though your pain was literally meant just to get on his nerves.
Another chime from the phone dings. The atmosphere between both men freezes for only a second or two. Cecil angrily picks up the device again and scans the notification.
“i don’t know who else to talk to about this. can u plz call me?”
Donald’s eyes seem to burn in the back of Cecil’s head. He wonders aloud, “Do you want me to…do anything, sir?”
Cecil pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly. The tension in his jaw is still there despite his feeble attempt to calm down. “Fuck if I know.”
It doesn’t seem as though Donald is concerned about you. The distress in his voice feigns more worry for his boss than anything else, as if he is more concerned about the way Cecil was reacting than your health and safety. But then, he makes a comment that might explain the peculiar behavior.
“It could be something to do with her hybrid DNA, if you catch my drift, sir.”
Cecil did not catch the drift, actually. Because he’s an old man and needs these things explained outright. Obviously.
He likes order. He likes routine. He likes knowing what’s wrong with his superheroes without having to guess. So he blurts out, “What are you saying, Donald?”
“Just call her. I’m sure she’ll explain,” Donald replies with a soft sigh. He walks away to give Cecil privacy, only to turn around once to drop the stack of portfolios on the desk.
Those damn papers need to be signed. He knows that. Cecil knows better. But he keeps looking between the assigned workload and the text he just received from you as though, maybe, he has better things to do. He’s genuinely surprised he’s contemplating putting off his duty as the GDA director just to help you. Then again, aren’t you considered part of the job, considering he’s your boss?
It doesn’t take long to weigh the options. Cecil dials your phone number a few seconds later, holding the device to his ear while shoving his other hand deep into his suit pocket. The moment you pick up, his heart skips a beat.
“Oh, Cecil? Are you there? Thank God!” you express, gasping at the realization he was on the other line.
“What’s going on? Are you hurt?” Cecil asks. He musters enough courage to sound as careless as possible. Deep down, he’s anxious as hell to get an update.
“Well, yes and no? I don’t know how to explain this without it sounding…weird.”
Cecil raises an eyebrow, “Huh? Spit it out, kid. I don’t have all night.”
He notices your hesitation and grows annoyed, almost snapping at you again before you finally reply, “I-I think I started my heat.”
The anger dissipates, replaced by a different emotion; Cecil’s stunned.
His breath catches in his throat and he has to cough into his hand. The command room feels smaller, the air still, only the sound of his pulse throbbing in his ears. His mind races with possibilities as to what this can mean, how this affects your duties as a superhero. None of your workload matters now though. What matters is ensuring you’re safe, protected, and above all, going to survive.
“So? You’re on suppressants, aren’t you?” Cecil quips back.
He hears you take a deep breath. The brief moments of silence already tell him the answer, but the truth digs deeper in his chest, like he’d just been stabbed with a knife. “No, I don’t. When I left the lab a month ago, I told them I didn’t want those pills because I thought I could handle it.”
“And?...”
“I don’t think I can handle it, Cecil. I’m freaking out,” you explain, almost to the point of whining.
Cecil should have seen this coming. With all the experiments that fucking scientist performed on you, the director had been informed that it was possible that you would eventually experience some sort of heat cycle down the line. However, your hormones were already so all over the place, the GDA found it was best to suppress any of those risks of ovulation. So why the hell did you think you were enough of a big girl to take this on like a champ? Were you just trying to prove something to yourself?
Or, maybe, prove something to him.
“Kid, what the hell do you want me to do? Get the lab to give you those suppressants-”
“Yes! Please! That might help!” you exclaim miserably.
He sighs heavily, clutching the phone tighter than before. “You do realize that no one is in the lab right now, right? They’re all home or working on actual life-threatening problems. Did you not fucking see Invincible today? I have bigger fish to fry.”
He hates having to put you down like this, but Cecil needs you to understand the reality of the situation you’ve placed yourself in. The timing is horrible.
You exhale through your nose and say, “Please, there has to be something! I’m-I’m in so much pain.”
Hearing you admit that breaks his heart. But Cecil can’t get emotionally involved. He refuses.
“Take care of it like other people do.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Then, you question him, “What do you mean? How do other people take care of this?”
“You know exactly what I mean. It’s on those reality shows you watch all the time. Just figure it out and please don’t bother me again with this. I have bigger problems on my plate.”
“Do you mean…oh. Oh. That’s what you mean?”
He ends the phone call and discards the phone on the desk, face flushed a deep red.
It’s over. The phone call is done. Quick, simple, easy. Definitely for the best. He doesn’t need to actually help you through this. You’re a big girl, you’ll figure it out.
Well, he hopes so anyway.
But, what if you got confused about what he meant?
Shit, now he’s pacing back and forth, staring at his feet while that goddamn phone call plays on loop in his head. You sounded so weak and hurt in ways he could never imagine. The hybrid abilities came with both pros and cons. This is one of those situations where it was definitely a con.
But you should have known better. You should have asked for those pills the GDA used on you while they briefly kept you in testing. Cecil chalks up this entire situation as a natural consequence. Nothing more, nothing less. You’d find a solution to your problem and be on with the rest of your night.
Except, he keeps asking himself if you truly understood what he meant. Obviously you knew he meant just to masturbate, right? He couldn’t bring himself to say that out right. That would be so inappropriate to suggest to his employee. Therefore, he knew he had to dance around the idea instead. However, for a split second, Cecil’s heart drops at the theory that you might be going through with something else instead.
Should he…do something about it? Should Cecil call you again? Or should he…
An idea crosses his mind.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it would be overstepping.
Except…that’s the thing. There aren’t any lines to cross. There has always been a lack of explicit boundaries between either of you. Even when he’d tell you to stop bothering him, you kept up with it. You push and push, and he just lets you. If you’re allowed that kind of freedom with him, maybe he should be permitted to do the same.
The plan Cecil conjures up in his head isn’t the best, but how else would he know for sure one of his favorite superheroes was genuinely following his orders correctly?
Perhaps, for just a quick second, he could view your search history. He knew your phone was also owned by the GDA. He’d be able to hack it no problem.
All Cecil craves is to know what’s on your mind through the use of personal internet archives. It would give him an inkling as to what you might be doing this very moment, especially since he can’t see for himself what you’re up to. He briefly regrets not installing cameras in your living room…or bedroom, for that matter.
The mere thought of invading your privacy in this way results in Cecil’s eyes narrowing at the computer screen. He exhales slowly, licking his lips slowly as he weighs the pros and cons.
Cecil isn’t usually this much of an overthinker. He’s the type of man who follows his gut instinct. When that might fail him, or at the very least cause him to double-check his options, he mentally reviews past experiences in his head and picks a previously similar choice that seemingly worked out well for the situation at hand. Cecil will forever aim to achieve an accurate result, even if the means of obtaining such are morally gray.
He’s fucking dug into the depths of hell for some of the superheroes that work at the GDA. There was no part of their history left unturned by him and his team. Never before has he had to second-guess whether or not he should be looking up one’s search history. It’s not like there are any boundaries he can’t cross in the first place, right? There isn’t anything advising him to not do this.
Maybe Cecil tells himself that he’s just…curious about what you choose to do. That excuse falls thin just as quickly as it’s conjured up in his mind. Because then again, is he really being courteous in the first place when his mind has already pictured you in the different positions you might be in right now? One of which flashes across the front of his brain…
Cecil adjusts his tie once, then twice.
Why does the thought of you all flustered in a mess of sheets have him acting like a damn teenage boy?
His hand hovers over the mouse on the desk. He’s practically twitching just thinking about what to do next. Cecil glances at the keyboard in front of him. It’s begging him to follow through with his plan. It’s for your safety, right?
While the circumstances are slightly problematic, he ultimately decides on looking up your latest searches. He flies through all the necessary safeguards on the monitor, his fingers moving at a rapid pace. Right after logging into the appropriate system, Cecil purposely hunches over the screen to hide the evidence. Regardless of his pure intentions, Cecil has this strange voice in the back of his head suggesting that his subordinates would not exactly find what he’s doing to be a great choice.
He ignores that little guilty twinge in his gut and continues typing away. After sorting through a mess of files, Cecil discovers what he had been searching for all along. The monitor’s bright, white light shines across the man’s scarred, pale face. The little pop-up window displays your search history in a neat order from oldest to most recent.
Cecil’s eyes carefully scan what you had put into your search bar within the last five minutes. He’s thankful there’s even anything there to begin with, but he knew you better than most and figured you’d be glued to your phone.
Upon reading the text on the screen, Cecil’s heart drops. Another chill runs up his spine at the realization of what you’re getting yourself into.
“bad hybrid heat solution”
“best ways to relieve heat pain”
“does sex help with heat”
“hook up apps”
“sneaky one night stands near me”
The warmth in his blue eyes evaporates, replaced by a cold stare. Cecil’s blood boils.
He’s fucking livid.
The director was under the impression you knew better than this. Gosh, he was convinced you were smart enough to see the obvious red flags that come with doing something so reckless. There’s so many reasons why it’s a horrible idea. You’re putting your safety at risk just for the sake of relieving some pain.
Cecil’s head is throbbing at the thought of some complete stranger tending to your needs. He simply cannot let you go through with this.
Rarely does this man experience, let alone show, such raw emotion. A man with a chipped past like his own can’t display signs of weakness. But that’s what you are to the man; the reason he has the slightest loss of strength. Cecil hates that you are his kryptonite, because now all he sees is red.
The sounds of the command room dull away, replaced by a ringing in his ear.
Before he can process another thought, Cecil’s body is engulfed in energy and manipulated down to the cellular level. With your location at the front of his brain, his body rapidly reforms outside your apartment. He’s slightly disoriented when he comes out of it, and curses at himself for costing the GDA millions just because of his ridiculous emotions. Why did he feel so strongly about this to begin with? Regardless, there was no time for reflection.
He comes face to face with your apartment door. Its brown, steel frame has various dents from past tenants. The number twenty-two sits under the peephole in a gold font. Cecil doesn’t even bother raising a hand to knock. He simply stands there in the barren hallway. The noise of the city outside these walls continues, but Cecil doesn’t pay any bother to them. His eyes are glued to the door as he impatiently waits.
Maybe one minute passes, then another. He crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall opposite of the entrance. Suddenly, his ears perk up. He hears shuffling inside. There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled up, perhaps from a jacket or other article of clothing. Something heavy hits the ground, then there’s the sound of your feet stumbling around.
When the door swings open, Cecil clocks your genuine surprise immediately. Your pretty eyes widen with fear, but he also catches the faintest blush dusted across your nose and cheeks. The baggy clothes cover any cat-like features, but he can see the way your cat-like ears twitch under the hoodie of your jacket. The air goes completely still for at least five seconds. Then, he finally gives you the only order appropriate for the situation.
“Get your ass back inside, now.”
The world seems to stop moving at his words. Both bodies are completely still. Meanwhile, Cecil tries his best to ignore the rapid pulse in his ears. You remain quiet for a bit, apparently weighing how much trouble you’re likely already in. The GDA director doesn’t want to stand around and wait for you to figure it out though; you need to understand you’re already in deep shit.
“Are you fucking deaf?” he asks, “I gave you a direct order, kid.”
He catches sight of a clear shudder running down your spine. The man’s request implies that this is a mere warning of what is to come, but it’ll get a whole lot worse if you don’t obey him. With a shaky inhale, you tentatively step backwards, attempting to shut the door in the process.
Suddenly, with a loud bang, Cecil’s hand slams against it, making the door come to a complete halt right before the doorknob could click back into place with the frame. Your eyes widen, body jumping simultaneously. Completely unamused, he shoves himself into your private space without warning, closing it behind himself with another loud echo.
He crosses his arms again, ignoring how much this space smells so strongly of you. There’s barely any lights on besides one in the kitchen around the corner. In the dark shadows, he juts his chin towards you and snaps, “Tell me exactly what you were about to do.”
“ I don’t know what you’re talking about-” you stammer, composure chipping away with each word.
He cuts you off before you even have a chance to lie, because he knows that’s exactly what you’re about to do. “Shut and tell me. I already fucking know, I just want to hear you admit it to my face.”
The way he talks makes you freeze. You stay there, unmoving, taking in the underlying threat. Suddenly, anger takes over. With a displeased expression, you sneer, “You can’t be serious, Cecil. I’m in pain. Wh-What do you expect me to do?”
He quips back, “I expect you to act smarter. Going out at 2:00 AM for a one night stand with a stranger? You’re a goddamn superhero, you need to start acting like it. Getting in contact with an outsider, someone you don’t even know, to help you with your…your heat…it’s not-”
Cecil can’t bring himself to finish his harsh reprimand, because all of a sudden you’re bawling your eyes out. The tremble in your shoulders was a clear indication you wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon either. That alone makes his heart drop to his stomach.
“I-I-” you sputter, crying rather forcefully. Each tear that streams down your cheeks is a reminder of the fact he has essentially cornered you into this position since he won’t let you find a solution in someone else. You wrap your arms around your body and look towards the ground, “I don’t know what to do anymore, I’m so scared and it hurts and…fuck, I don’t know!”
For a brief second, Cecil closes his eyes, as though seeing you fall apart in front of him was too much to bear. He only faintly feels bad for this predicament; just a smidge.
He exhales and scratches the back of his head, awkwardly trying to figure out an appropriate way to go about this dilemma. He stares at you, gulping quietly as you continue to drown yourself in a burst of emotions.
Cecil steps forward to close the gap. He lifts his hand and hesitates, then allows his fingers to curl themselves around your shoulder. You’re warm to the touch under all these layers of clothes. You stop your anguish and shoot him a confused look, sniffling away any remaining tears.
He’s already decided what he’s going to tell you.
It’s just that once he says it, there’s no going back.
“Listen, you…you need to understand how dangerous it is to do something like that, okay? I can’t let you leave this apartment and risk your life,” he explains, absolutely sure that his argument is completely logical and not at all personal, “How about I try to get you something to help with the pain. You just have to promise me you’ll stay here, got it?”
Coddling a superhero after disobeying orders isn’t his usual motive. Cecil would rather someone shoot him in the head than be seen protecting you from what should have been natural consequences to your actions. You should be held responsible for any endeavors that clearly put your life on the line; for Christ’s sake, you’re an adult after all.
But there goes that lack of boundaries again.
You were different from the other superheroes he is in charge of. There was nothing that could change that truth.
“What can we do? I don’t have anything that can, well, you know,” you trail off, mind drifting to the throbbing discomfort in between your legs.
Cecil has to force himself not to stare at the way you so obviously press your thighs together. Despite the strong willpower, there’s still a faint rush of blood somewhere it shouldn’t be.
Goddamnit, he’s so fucked for this.
But it would be cruel to leave you without at least offering some form of help.
He tells you, “Go lay down, I’ll figure something out.”
The older man watches as you take in a great big breath. There is no immediate change in your appearance, given your eyelids are still so puffy and your breathing remains uneven, but it only takes a few more seconds til you meekly nod and step backwards. As you turn to walk towards your bedroom, Cecil notices your tail has snuck its way out of the baggy clothing. It appears limp, apparently tucking itself under your frame. He’s not sure he’s ever seen it so slack before. Usually, you’re swinging that thing around like it’s a toy.
It’s only more of a confirmation of how under the weather you truly are.
Cecil needs to help you, and fast.
He waits until he hears you round the corner, and only then does he pinch himself on the wrist. The little nip at his weary skin tells him he definitely is in your apartment, helping you with your heat, finding a solution to your problem because how else would he be spending a Friday night. This isn’t a dream. Or is it? No, the thunderous pound in his chest from his accelerated heart rate was enough to convince him that he was not hallucinating this ordeal.
Cecil needs to act like this is normal.
Because he’s sure that others in his position would do the same.
Right?
He’s just helping you, that’s it. So like a wild dog trying to pursue prey, he scouts your apartment for anything that could be of use. What exactly was he looking for? He didn’t even know himself, but Cecil figured that he would come across some item that would give him an idea. He likes to think he’s smart enough to come up with something on the spot like that.
So when he finds absolutely no resources of value in your space, he begins to freak out.
There aren’t any medications in your cabinets that would help with such specific symptoms. Actually, there’s a lack of any drugs in this place to begin with. He dives into drawers, underneath couch cushions, even behind furniture to try and find literally anything that might help, but he comes up dry. The only thing that he assumed might be of help was the hairbrush left on your bathroom counter. Its large handle could be of use in ways that Cecil really tries hard not to imagine, but then his mind wanders and he’s red in the face.
He doesn’t want to give up. Especially on you. This is his mission right now and he’ll be damned if he fails. But before long, Cecil approaches your bedroom and knocks softly. He hears your frail voice telling him to enter and doesn’t waste another second.
Standing in the doorway, he finds you sat upon your mattress. The blankets have been shoved to the furthest corner of the bed, sheets in a tangled heap. Only a couple pillows are left, as the rest had been discarded on the floor. Cecil notices rips in the fabric of the fitted sheet. They’re all in the shape of familiar claw marks he has seen during your missions time and time again. However, what makes his breath hitch is the little wet patch on your pants.
It’s so obvious. You’re a goddamn mess.
Cecil has to physically mold himself to the fucking floor to not overreact.
But then, he smells it. There’s a very specific, lingering aroma in your room that he can’t quite place at first. It’s musky, completely rich in a way that makes his spine tingle. The odor is overwhelming on levels Cecil swears is giving him sensory overload.
Then, it clicks.
It’s the scent of your arousal. Your desperation. Your heat.
At this point, he’s trying so hard not to inhale deeply and let himself get carried away.
“Did you find anything?” you ask, eyelashes clumped together from your previous crying session.
“Uh, n-no I didn’t,” Cecil explains, averting eye contact by staring at other parts of your room, “I already told you the lab won’t have your pills ready for a little while longer. We have bigger problems to deal with right now.”
“It’s fine, I get it,” you huff, pushing out your bottom lip.
That little pout was going to be the death of him.
“You haven’t tried to, I don’t know, do it yourself?” Cecil asks, sparing a very quick glance in your direction only to look away again.
Without missing a beat, you wave your fingers in the air. Moonlight from the window makes your sharp claws glisten. “Does it look like I can?”
“Shit, sorry, I knew that,” Cecil’s eyebrows furrow together, momentarily forgetting how unnaturally long and edged your nails are, “you seriously don’t have anything to use to get yourself off? Nothing at all?”
“Cecil-” you begin, posture suddenly straightened at his implication.
“Kid, I know it’s fucked up for me to say this shit in the first place, but you put me in this position.”
Your cheeks flush a deep red. He wishes so badly he knew what on earth was going on in that head of yours. “So what should I do?”
Cecil pauses. Hair on the back of his neck raises as he realizes he simply does not have an answer for you. He sighs and drags a hand down his face, closing his eyes to think over what to tell you.
Then, he takes a step back. Not that he wants to, but because he thinks he has to. Maybe this is in your best favor, because what else is there to do anyway?
“You’ll just have to deal with it. You got yourself into this mess, you can suck it up.”
The grimace on your face makes him wish he could take away all your suffering with a simple snap of his fingers. You look down at the heap of blankets and sheets at the edge of the bed, completely lost knowing the only person you thought could save you ended up leaving you high and dry.
Cecil doesn’t wait for a response. What he told you makes him feel guilty enough. So with that, he simply edges away from the door and closes it behind himself, pausing a while to replay this entire situation in his mind. Those wide eyes stay at the front of his brain. He can’t get that look off his mind. But this is what’s for the best, right?
He’s just about to walk away for good, maybe return to his duties back at the GDA, when suddenly he hears you cry again. Those deep, shallow breaths are loud as ever despite the bedroom door being completely closed. His morale cracks and he’s left almost grinding his teeth at the mere thought of you sitting so pathetically in there, all by yourself in agony.
Fuck.
Seconds pass as impatience begins to grow heavy within his ribcage, weighing him down like an anchor, leaving him completely stuck in place right there in the middle of the hallway.
He’s supposed to be the one who supports you, the managerial figure who protects you from conflict out in the field of superhero work. But right here in this small, downtown apartment, Cecil Stedman does not find himself battling with an alien or evil scientist; he’s experiencing an internal fight with his responsibilities as GDA director. Realistically, he should just evaporate out of here and leave you to find your own solution.
But no, Cecil can’t do it. He can’t leave you like this. It would go against his role, his job, his ethics. He can’t even believe he was so annoyed with you less than an hour ago. Truthfully speaking, it was all a front. Cecil could never be mad at you, or so he likes to think. Perhaps after tonight he just might be. The way he’s acted in the past was to protect his image, a very purposeful act to convince himself that he didn’t care about you more than a boss should for their employee.
But he does care for you. So much so that he wants to make you feel better as soon as humanly possible.
It’s at this moment Cecil wishes he was a superhero himself, with a specific power that could get rid of this misfortune.
Then again…perhaps he doesn’t need to be a superhero for what you desire.
Once more tonight, an idea crosses his mind. It’s completely wrong, perhaps morally gray, but if he didn’t go through with his earlier idea, he would have never stopped you from hooking up with a stranger. So he thinks he has to be doing something right.
Right as Cecil reopens the door, his heart jumps. You’re still obviously crying, but something else catches his eye sight; you’d discarded some layers of clothes, now only covered by pajama shorts and a thin t-shirt. You rest against the only pillow left and stare absentmindedly at the ceiling. Not only that, but your hand slows down from its previous motions against your clothed cunt. You’d attempted to get rid of your issue to no avail. Shooting him daggers, your voice trembles with obvious desperation.
“The fuck do you want, Cecil?” you spit at him.
He narrows his eyes at you, and only then do you go quiet. He continues traveling towards the middle of your room with an intense stare. Even though he hadn’t spoken a word yet, it was like you could tell his sudden impatience and annoyance had since disappeared. This makes you sit up straight and clutch the sheets. The sound of thread ripping underneath your claws makes his jaw tense up.
“It’s really that bad, huh.” Cecil’s tone isn’t accusatory. It softens slightly. Still, your cat-like ears perk up at the change.
With a quick sniffle, you reply, “Nothing I can do helps. It still hurts. I just want it to stop!”
Cecil is about to give you a snarky response when he catches sight of how bad your bottom lip tremors. Your voice wavers as the distress of the situation finally begins to catch up to both of you. This was serious, and there was only one resolution that Cecil could think of to make this gut-wrenching experience go away, even if it’s just momentarily.
Cecil slowly approaches the side of your bed and sighs. While admiring your beauty in silence, he shakes his head and mutters something under his breath.
Before he can think better of it, his hand ghosts over your cheek. His thumb wipes away at the tears that continue to fall. His slight tenderness is enough to send your heartrate skyrocketing, and he swears he sees you press your legs together a moment later. You place your own hand on top of his to anchor him in place. Never had he been so intimate with any of his superheroes, let alone you. But Cecil doesn’t give a shit how out of line this is. He continues to hover quietly.
“...Cecil?” you whisper.
He can’t tell if it’s the tone of your voice, or the way you said his name like a prayer on your tongue, but Cecil suddenly grasps your hand and yanks you up from the mattress. You stand on wobbly legs and follow him.
He guides you to your desk in the corner of the room. Before you can ask what he’s planning, he places both hands on your waist and lifts you to sit on the edge of the piece of furniture. A small squeak leaves your lips at the sudden movement. Then, he’s caging you in, moving both his hands on either side of you and pressing them deep into the wood. His expression is hard to define due to how low he bows his head.
“Cecil?” you ask again. When you get no reply other than a deep inhale, your fingers poke his arm. “Can you at least look at me? I feel like I’ve done something wrong…”
Your soft tail comes up and wraps itself around his other arm, and only then does he finally look directly at you.
His pupils have engulfed the blue of his eyes. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat as you tug on him, gently using your tail to pull him closer. He stumbles into you, moving to rest his forehead against your shoulder. The contact causes your breath to hitch and tail tighten around his limb.
He practically mewls your name when he begins to say, “It’s nothing like that. It’s…fuck…”
His words begin husky and end barely at a whisper as he breathes in. He shudders at your sickeningly sweet scent, something he already wishes to never go another day without. Instead of flinching when your hands grab his back, he draws you in. As your claws pierce the material of his suit, he emits a sharp breath from the feeling of his skin being poked, grip growing tighter as a result of the sting. He would rather experience it than risk the chance of letting you go.
It’s from that moment onward that Cecil seems to make his final decision.
“Fuck it. Use me.”
Your eyebrows raise in response.
“Use…you?”
He leans back, staring intently as his fingers leave the desk and clutch your knees. He spreads your legs apart and stares down at the obvious arousal coating your thighs. Cecil licks his bottom lip before resuming eye contact. The look on his face is almost unrecognizable, like he’s gone feral.
“Use me,” Cecil murmurs your name in a sultry tone, “use my fingers.”
“What?! I-I can’t- fuck, this is wrong-” you begin to explain but the reasoning falls short the moment his hand comes in contact with the curve of your sensitive pussy. The gasp you release makes him nearly groan and he’d barely done anything yet.
“C’mon, kid, use me. It’s the only way to make you feel better,” he mocks, fingers digging deeper into the shorts that cover your most vulnerable body part. He leans forward, lips hovering near your earlobe when he whispers, “Take these off, sweetheart.”
Without hesitation you follow his instructions, tail losing its grip around his arm at the same time your hands fly to your shorts to tug them down. The clothing is gone within seconds, but your shirt remains with two obvious mounds he knows damn well are your nipples poking through. Cecil doesn’t even bother assisting, he merely observes.
A slight flare of amusement lingers on his lips. There’s something indulgent in the way he watches you so carefully. It’s as though he anticipated you would act like this.
"Eager," he says in a quiet, satisfied voice.
The pajama shorts, along with your soaked underwear, pool around your ankles. Your desperation is on full display now. Cecil spaces himself for only a couple seconds so that you can discard them on the floor.
Heat rushes to your face and you let out a small whimper, “What? What’s funny?”
The man nearly combusts at how fast you spread yourself for him. He sees you properly now, and a knowing smile pulls at his lips.
You’re fucking beautiful.
Cecil clicks his tongue, the weight of his gaze on your pussy makes you whine. He shushes you by settling between your legs. The moment his fingers graze the hot skin of your inner thigh, you groan softly under your breath. His other hand rests comfortably on your waist to anchor himself in place. He whispers in your ears once again, “Pretty funny this is the one time I asked you to do something and you actually listened. Didn’t have to repeat myself.”
You ignore the teasing and bite your lip, palms sliding up the front of his suit and locking themselves around his neck. If only slightly, you accidentally jerk your hips forward when he inches closer to the fat crease between your thigh and lower stomach.
Cecil knows this is painful for you. Waiting longer than necessary would simply be inhuman of him. So with that, his middle finger toys with your wet lips, grazing your clit. The stickiness of your arousal immediately coats him. He presses a kiss to your shoulder the moment he pushes past your entrance and curls his slender digit inside your heat. It’s no surprise that your increased body temperature feels rather unnatural, but he knows he must be doing something right the moment he feels your legs quiver.
All you can do is moan in response, hugging him tighter into your chest like your life depended on it. With a sharp inhale, you mewl, “Oohhhh, fuuuuck me-”
Cecil shuts you up the moment he’s slipping his finger in and out of your cunt at an agonizingly slow pace. There’s a brief pause in your words, then you’re moaning again and he swears he’s high off that sound alone. He can already feel your gummy walls tighten around him and he’s barely done anything yet. The glossy sheen that covers his hand triggers a large outline to form in the man’s trousers.
“Was this what you needed, sweetheart?” Cecil jokes while smirking. He shoves a second finger inside without warning. The action makes you gasp and arch your back ever so slightly.
“Please!” you cry out.
He picks up the pace and starts to stretch you, which only prompts you to dig your claws deeper into his shoulder blades. The roughness of his movements emits a pitiful cry from your pretty lips. The same ones Cecil wishes to kiss. His belt buckle knocks against the wooden desk as he absentmindedly thrusts towards your soaking heat. Fuck, he’s already getting carried away. But the feeling of your wet folds at his fingertips, the moans that echo off the walls, and how hard you cling to his frame makes him damn near dizzy.
The director’s hand, the one not busy fucking your cunt, travels from your waist to your lower back. Once you notice the small change and look towards him, eyes blown out from nothing but pure lust, Cecil collides both your lips together in a messy, heated kiss.
This action alone stirs the tight knot that had been forming deep in your belly. Your sudden orgasm washes over your body like a drug, a strong tingle starting in your spine and trickling all the way down to your toes. Your fluffy tail shoots upwards towards the ceiling, twisting and turning like it had no true destination. The near silent scream sent directly into his mouth, alongside the contraction around his digits, gives Cecil the confirmation that he had done exactly what he needed to do.
But he was far from done with you.
His jaw aches from how hard he devours you. You’re thrown off guard but continue to kiss him back nonetheless, cupping his face like he’s something delicate, careful not to scratch his scarred cheeks. The man curls both fingers inside you harshly, pushing against that spongy spot that makes you so, so sensitive. Still coming down from the first high, you practically yelp, “Cecil!”
He ignores the plea. Sure, it would be smarter to slow down, but he doesn’t care. He’s too far gone. All he can think about is making you come again just from his fingers alone.
Cecil adjusts his hand so that his palm comes into direct contact with your clit, digging into the little nub while his digits rub that sweet spot repeatedly. Each little hair that grinds against his surface reminds him of how cute you really are even during such lewd activities. Before fingering you senseless, he made sure to stare eagerly at the trimmed strip of fuzz above your pussy. Somewhere deep down, Cecil had a feeling you kept yourself groomed in this way, like the good girl you are.
He pulls away from your mouth, stumbling forward to grip the desk so he does not lose balance. Cecil stares into your eyes as he increases the speed. He hums in time with his thrusts. “You can do it, I know you can. One more time for me.”
“Fuck!”
Perhaps embarrassed from how easily he’s able to control you during such a vulnerable state, you shove your face into the crook of his neck, sniffling and crying from the intensity of your second orgasm. Just as the first time went, the impact makes your entire nervous system shake and you practically vibrate in his palm, tail brushing against his leg in the process.
He eats all of it up. Every single second, because he’s not sure when the hell he’ll ever get to see something so beautiful again.
Cecil slows his movements and takes a few seconds to play with your overly sensitive self, poking at the tender walls and listening to your whimpers. He’s so pleased with the mess he’s made of you. After letting you catch your breath, he slowly trails his soaked fingers out of your cunt and places his hand back down on the desk, just on the other side of your thigh. He leans in closer, lips hovering above your own. You continue to hold his face and look back at him like you were being treated exactly how you needed to be, like he had done something right.
He could close the gap. Right here, right now. Kiss you again and again like he was meant to, because at this point you feel so close to heaven that Cecil might be convinced the two of you were supposed to cross paths in life. Maybe he could stay here in this same spot for the rest of the night into the bleeding hours of dawn, fingering your sweet pussy and inhaling the scent of your arousal.
But then your hands leave his face.
And all of a sudden Cecil’s belt buckle comes undone.
His eyes widened out of surprise. Straightening his back, his hands grab your wrists and halt you from being able to move further. You stare back at him out of surprise, and maybe even genuine confusion.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snarls, failing to nudge you away from his trousers. Your superhero strength definitely was not helping at this time.
“...you…don’t want to fuck me?” you ask with furrowed eyebrows and flattened ears.
Cecil’s heart drops into his stomach much harder than any other time earlier this night. Both your bodies grow rigid, too overwhelmed to move. The old man’s heart hammers and there’s a temporary loss of focus for only a few seconds.
How dare you speak so vulgarly to your superior…because, truly, it only makes him want to drill you. But then he’s reminded of how unethical that would actually be.
“I’m not doing that,” Cecil begins to protest, tilting his head to meet your worried gaze, “I've already violated so many GDA rules. I’ve stepped out of line. You don’t need me to-”
“Yes I do, I need you so bad. I’ll just be in pain the rest of the night if you don’t help,” you plead, urgency laced in your voice.
He lets out a small gasp at your words. That goddamn imaginary boundary, the one that never truly existed in the first place, had already been crossed, if one could even argue that. Cecil replays what he did tonight and realizes that he has tattered your work relationship to a degree that couldn’t be fixed. He’s fucked. Well, both of you are.
What’s going to happen if the rest of the GDA finds out? How would the public react? Shit, how are Cecil’s superheroes going to treat him? They already hate his guts most days of the week. He’s never exactly been on their good side. If they catch wind he’s fucking the only superhero he’s been subconsciously doting on for the last year, they’ll freak out.
However, something else overpowers these anxieties. All the outside commotion, those oddly specific sounds of this criminal-ridden city, have been nothing but white noise since Cecil appeared on the other side of your apartment door. He’s not sure he can recall the last time that has ever happened. You are like some sort of magic spell, drugging him into a cloudy psychosis where you do nothing but plague his thoughts.
So when Cecil looks down at your hands, still resting on his belt buckle, and then glances at your puffy folds leaking that slick juice, his throat goes dry.
Maybe you do need a thick cock afterall. More specifically, Cecil Stedman’s. Because it’s to help you with your heat, right? And what kind of director would he be if he left you to writhe in agony the rest of the night?
Cecil is completely stunned for a brief period of time. Then, he lets out a very slow breath and lets go of your hands to grip your bare thighs. As he speaks, his look is deadly serious.
"You always act like a slut, or is it just for me?"
You smirk, tail swishing back and forth behind you. “Just for you.”
He nods towards his bulge, eyes shooting back up to meet your own. “Well, go on then.”
Your hands are pulling the belt off right away, operating at a speed nearly as quick as you did earlier when you were discarding your pants. Before you can even unzip the article of clothing, Cecil reaches for your thin shirt and pulls it over your arms and head, finally catching sight of the hard nipples that had been poking the fabric earlier. He cups your breasts, pinching your precious skin as you pull him in for another kiss using your tail.
Cecil hears you purr under your breath in between each movement. The cold air in the room seeps through his boxers once his trousers finally begin to wiggle past his crotch. Cecil doesn’t separate from your mouth as he helps you with the burden of taking off his garments. He hooks his fingers around the waistband of his briefs and tugs them down above knees.
His throbbing cock nearly smacks his lower stomach the moment it springs free. Cecil stops the assault on your lips to look at your face, admiring your reaction to how large his member appears. A little whimper sneaks past your lips at the sight. He swears he could replay that sound on loop forever and never get bored.
Cecil’s thumb caresses your cheek, noting that you can’t tear your gaze away from his cock. “C’mon, sweetheart, this will help.”
Suddenly, his fingers are digging into your side and pulling you to the very edge of the desk. Your ass barely hangs over the side, but the discomfort doesn’t even matter because Cecil’s gripping his length and hovering over your pussy. The moment he glides his mushroom tip through your wet lips, though?
Fuck.
He is so, so fucking hard.
You give the man a miserable moan, whining like you were some sort of wounded animal. Your legs wrap around his lower half so he can only move forward, which is exactly what you begin to beg for. He watches the way your tail wraps itself around his wrist as though to encourage him to work at a faster pace.
“Yes, yes, yes, please put it in me,” you pout, completely in awe at how girthy Cecil is. You just know from the sight alone, he’d fill you up in all the right spaces.
Cecil loves watching how you arch your back to his touch. He experimentally rolls his hips a few times, cursing to himself at how fucking wet you are. It oozes out nonstop, covering him in enough slick that he’s positive he could just slip it in now and have no problem. He slowly rubs his tip against your clit just to earn another whimper from you. He travels down your folds, stopping right at the hole that aches to be filled. He’s thankful for the little glimmer of moonlight that shines a perfect light on your pretty pussy.
Actually, Cecil can’t believe this is still real and very much happening. His jaw twitches from restraint, trying to soak up this moment and prolong it for as long as possible. But then he hears you whine again and knows that at this point, he’s just being a dick.
“Cecil, please fuck me, I can’t wait much longer,” you huff, extremely worried with how many seconds had passed since he started teasing you.
“Fine, fine, whatever you say,” Cecil says sarcastically, mouth forming into the shape of an ‘o’ when he finally pushes inside.
You cry out in surprise, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your cunt finally feels that satisfying stretch. Each inch that drives deeper into you causes you to forget to breathe momentarily, your fluffy ears fluttering at the top of your head from the overwhelming sensation. Cecil, on the other hand, actually stops breathing all together.
Because how the hell are you this perfect?
You’re so snug around his member, taking him like a good girl. Cecil grunts and tightens the grip he’s resumed on your hips. He throws his head back once he’s completely inside you, relishing in the feeling. He exhales, “Fuck, you’re so tight.”
“Cecil,” you gasp, your inner walls contracting around him just from the compliment alone, “need you to move.”
While Cecil is used to being the one to give out commands, his heart skips a beat at the way you so eagerly ask him to fuck you.
A low, possessive growl crawls up from the back of his throat and he finally gives you what you’d been craving all night. He draws his hips back and thrusts forward, over and over again. He’s so deep and both of you are a mess as a result.
“Uh, uh, uh!” you moan in time with each blunt thrust. Your entire body shakes, causing various items discarded on the desk to fall to the floor.
“Always knew you were a slut. Fucking knew it,” the older man groans, staring at how you take him so well. Cecil fucks you on his cock with the type of energy he didn’t know he still had within him. It was the kind of vigor he was sure was left behind in his younger years, seemingly alive now that he has you caged here on the desk with nowhere to go but to continue pushing against his long, thick shaft.
The rhythm of his punishing strokes pushes air from your lungs. Your tail has since left his arm and now lazily sways side to side next to you, ears completely flattened while you practically drool. You cry out, “Hng- oh- holy fuck!”
Cecil can’t seem to stop. He keeps drilling into your pussy to the point he swears you’re dripping on the pile of clothes near his feet. Each time his cock splits you in two, it’s thorough, but messy. Harsh, but necessary. Everything he does is as desperate as you.
Once Cecil somehow musters up enough energy to quicken his pace, you fall backwards onto the desk and groan loudly. The movements make your breasts bounce, causing Cecil’s cock to twitch. With the intensity increasing, it’s no surprise the two of you approach your orgasm fairly quickly, but he’d be damned if he didn’t get you to finish before himself.
Cecil doesn’t stop moving. With a thin layer of sweat building on his forehead, one of his hands leaves your hip to rub your clit in constant circles.
“Ah!” you yelp. Cecil’s finger expertly swivels around the bundles of nerves like he knew exactly what movements were going to make you melt like putty. Your head lulls to the side, eyes closed as you focus intently on the rhythm of his hips snapping against your own. Accidentally, you murmur, “so-so fucking big, holy shit.”
Cecil hears the comment anyway and it boosts his ego to a new level. He smirks and mutters back, “Yeah? Who knew you needed my cock to feel better.”
“Sh-Shut up, Cecil, please I’m so close!” you exclaim, looking back at him with the most fucked out face he’s ever seen on anyone.
Cecil presses down harder on your clit, narrowing his eyes. He leans towards you, listening at how your breathing is beginning to grow more labored and uneven. He growls, “Come for me, sweetheart.”
The words trigger an explosion within you. Your walls tighten around Cecil’s cock, which was still rapidly ramming into you at an extraordinary speed. The orgasm tears a low scream from you, your entire body going limp on the desk from the sheer intensity of it all. He begins to pant, chasing his own high moments later. His hand leaves your clit to play with your breasts, squeezing the warm flesh. He praises you, “Yes, just like that. Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”
“Hng, please, need it,” you beg, staring at him with flushed cheeks.
Cecil is completely worn out, which doesn’t surprise him, so he quickly resorts to laying on top of your body, suit pressing against your hot and sweaty skin. His lips attach themselves to your neck, sucking like he was marking his property. He whispers, “So pretty like this. Could fuck you all night, you know. Just might have to.”
Your claws clutch his shoulders, puncturing the fabric. You gasp at the mere idea, pussy clamping around Cecil once again. He comes moments later, spilling into you and pumping you full of his seed. He knows he’ll regret doing that in the morning, or maybe even minutes after this, but right now he doesn't care. It seemed you didn’t either. You actually moan at the action, grinning at how the warm liquid seeps past his member and down your bottom.
You faintly feel Cecil smile against your neck.
You’re both quiet for a moment, panting ever so slightly. Cecil’s grip on your entire body finally eases. He pulls away and looks down at the mess he’s made; you, laid on the desk, red and full of him. Your eyes are droopy, either from drowsiness or lust, he wasn’t sure. Your hair is evidently knotted as well, a true sign of getting fucked nice and hard.
Cecil momentarily worries he’s in worse shape, but before he can even take a glance in a mirror, he hears that all too familiar ring in his earpiece that work is summoning him. Now.
Then reality settles back in and Cecil realizes just how fucked he is.
Hi Knight I LOVE your Blood Suckers Series! I have an idea in my noggin about Cecil and a Viltrumite!Reader where they take one look at him an go "I need that human as a Mate". If you want, can you write something about that idea; it can be anything.
!! I'M SO SORRY IF I MISSED ANYMORE, PLEASE JUST LET ME KNOW, SOME MAY HAVE SLIPPED!!
(I’m so glad you liked Blood-Suckers and thank you so much for being my very first request (: I didn’t know if you wanted smut but I wanted to be better safe then sorry.)
When you touched down on earth accompanied by Nolan what you didn’t expect was to find one of the most peculiar humans with a scar taking up most of his face. The man introduced himself as Cecil and explained how it was his job to protect earth from threats, while obviously sizing up Nolan and yourself. Of course, you were prepared to let nothing stop you from fulfilling what Viltrum expects of you, but you’d already calculated that this mission would be time consuming and taking a mate while you were here might not be such a bad idea and your eyes were already set on this man trying so hard to get a handle on the situation.
Here you are 2 months since you’ve landed on earth and you are still learning more of what Earth has to offer. You’d started taking requests from the GDA, Nolan felt it was useless work, but the more you saw Cecil the more you knew you just had to have more of him, you wanted him to yourself. The best method was to be upfront, there’s no need to beat around the bush, doing what any logical person would do, you stopped by his office where he was joined by Donald and as if you were telling him the sky was blue, you simply said.
“Cecil, I wish to mate with you.” His eyes widened, clearly taken aback, perhaps your wording was off. “Have I misspoken ? I’m still getting used to your plant's norms, I want to have sex with you.” You clarified, yet his face had yet to change but there was a slight redness appearing on his check that was only deepened when he turned to Donals whose mouth was gaped open
“Donald, get out..” Cecil’s demand was met with no argument as he quickly made his way out the door. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Maybe you offended him, his stoic demeanor was already back.
“Did I say something wrong, Stedman? I want you.” He stayed silent and searched your face for a sign of you lying but was only met with that determined look in your eyes. You slowly made your way towards his side of the desk, his eyes never leaving yours as his chair turned to face you. You stopped in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder, leaning down, inches away from his face, dragging your hand from his shoulder to his tie, removing your eyes from his to look down at it while you twirled it around in your finger. You gently pulled on it, allowing your lips to connect to his, keeping your grip on his tie, your other hand gripped his jaw softly making it so he opened his mouth allowing your tongues to meet, the kiss continued until he pulled away panting.
Your face was painted with a smile while he went back to trying to read you.
“This is not how we do things here, y/n. Or at least not how I do things. ”
“..Do you propose we court each other? I don’t understand why you waste time, you humans have so little of it.” His eyebrows frowned with irritation. “Whatever you wish, I suppose. I will see you later tonight.” And with that you were gone, leaving Cecil feeling conflicted about the situation, some alien had just come into his office, asked him to mate with him then made out with him yet the real kicker was the fact that it made him unbelievably hard.
Later that night, the two of you met at a restaurant, it was hardly formal but Cecil had taken to planning the night, dinner went by quick since the two of you made good conversion even though he was still skeptical of your intentions with both him and earth, he’d ask you questions about where you had come from which you’d gladly answer, making sure to keep out the parts of plants you've conquered in the name of your own, he didn’t need to know that though, he wouldn’t understand. He walked you home, one that was given to you by the GDA most likely as a way to keep taps on you, both of you stopped at your door and he started to say his goodbyes only to be cut off by your lips gently finding his, your hands found their way to his chest then his tie, wrapping you hand around it.
You pulled away from the kiss but only so you could open the door and pulling him by his tie into your home, making your way to your bed room, pushing Cecil onto the bed before climbing on top of his lap and going back to kissing, his hands found their way to your hip, trailing his hands up and down slowly almost like he desperately wanted to feel the skin under your suit while your hands made their way down his chest to the bulge that was poking your hole. You began to unbuckle his belt only to be stopped when Cecil’s hand grabs your wrist, you pulled away from the kiss, the two of you making eye contact, you didn’t understand, he should feel so grateful to be able to lay with a Viltrumite, why’d he make this process so long, perhaps he was worried maybe he needed reassurance.
“Cecil..you can trust me.” His expression didn’t change yet you felt his body tense, he knew no matter how much he wanted to, he could never trust you, yet it was so hard to fight that urge to fuck you till you were screaming his name and begging him to never stop which is why he let go of your hand which allowed you to pull his pants down before taking off your own. You lifted yourself slightly, so that you could line his dick with your hole, you were trying to be gentle as you slowly sat down, allowing his dick to make its way deep inside you. The two of you were grunting and groaning as you started to move up and down on it, leaning down, you started to kiss each other again, tongues dancing with each other as his hands explored your ass, you could feel his moans vitrating your mouth which did nothing but turn you on more.
“Fuc-k..y/n..you need to slow down.” He’d tried to moan out but his plea fell on deaf ears, one of your hands found their way up to his neck, your grip wasn’t tight but it was noticeable. You’d started going faster, muttering his name as he muttered yours, both of you getting closer and closer to your climax. Cecil’s hands tightly wrapped around your waist, thrusting himself into you while whispering curses to himself as he got closer. “Shit.I’m-m..going t-to..c-cum.. Fuck” and with that, he was filling you up with his cum, yet he continued to thrust which caused you to to yelp out his name as you reached your climax, making your shake you close with pleasure as you as Cecil slowly stopped, using his hands to rub circles on your back with on hand as the other held, it was unusually comforting…maybe you could get use to this life style on Earth.
Lord almighty I got carried away with this one… RE9 has done irreparable things to my brain and I fear I’ll never be normal ever again. Not that I was but you know… enjoy!
Summary: You are a Medical Assistant for Doctor Victor Gideon at Rhoades Hill Chronic Care Center. You take your job seriously, and execute your orders flawlessly. In all the years you’ve worked for Doctor Gideon you’ve harbored feelings for him, though tonight those feelings have risen to the surface.
SPECIAL thanks to @mothhball and @twentytomidnight for always being so willing to read and brainstorm with me <3
MDNI
Your heels clacked against the checkered-marble floor of the care center as you made your way to Victor’s office. You had spent a good portion of your shift scouring through files upon files and research notes, all on one specific young woman who had ties into all of… this. Whatever this was.
In your grasp was a rather thick manilla file folder. On the front, stamped in red ink was the bold word “CONFIDENTIAL”. You clutched it tight to your chest, like precious cargo. Well, you supposed it really was. If Victor needed anything, whatever reason he had was good enough to take the utmost precaution with your task.
You didn’t dare pry too deep into what he asked of you. You simply nodded and did what you were told. You were his assistant, and knowing just what he was capable of was enough to just smile and nod at his commands, and execute them flawlessly.
The clacking of your heels turned into soft clicks as the floor changed from the marble to herringbone patterned wood. You were close to his office now, you just needed to take the elevator to the third floor.
You didn’t expect tracking information on one person would take up half the day; but you didn’t expect this person to be woven so intricately into this web of connections. Curiosity gnawed at your mind. Who exactly was this woman? What importance could an FBI agent hold? Was she close to uncovering something? That had to be it, right?
You never mulled over a task Victor gave you, and the fact this was still on your mind had been bugging you. Why did you care so much?
Oh, right. You thought. Because you were jealous.
You sighed deeply as you pressed the up button on the elevator, stepping back as you waited.
You scoffed aloud to yourself, “Jealous… Ridiculous.”
But deep down, you were hurt; your heart ached, you were starved for his attention. For his touch. In truth, you had fancied Victor since you started working for him a few years ago. Though never so bold as to make a move or even playfully flirt with him. Your relationship was strictly professional, and clinical. Nothing more or less.
The Elevator softly dinged as the metal doors slid opened. You stepped inside, and pressed the third floor button.
Your thoughts resumed. Now solely focused on the giant Doctor you worked for. To anyone else he may be off-putting. His appearance uncanny, horrific, even. But to you? He was a sight worth drooling over. His height for one, was already enough to have you lusting over him. He easily stood a good two to three feet taller than you. His hands were large, and you so desperately wanted to feel them engulfing every part of you. You had often spent long, agonizing nights imaging what resided between his legs. The thought was plenty to get your juices flowing. The memories of your interactions; the stolen glances between the two of you, his soft and gentle tone he took with you, all of that coupled with your wild imagination had you over the edge in no time during your solo nights of self-pleasuring.
Your cheeks burned now, and your stomach fluttered with giddiness. You took a few deep breaths to regulate your erratic heart beat, and to hopefully calm down your mind.
The elevator doors opened quicker than you’d have liked and you stepped out, quickly making your way to Victor’s private office. You just had to hand the file over to him, and then you can go home. Easy enough. Get in, get out. You’ve done this a million times before.
So why were your legs shaking? Why was your heart hammering against your sternum?
You ignored all the feelings, and admittedly the red flags that popped up. You silenced the alarm bells ringing in your head and knocked on the thick wooden door, your fist shaking as you did so.
You chewed your quivering bottom lip as you waited for the ok to enter Victor’s office—or for him to open the door. You sucked in a shaky breath, trying—and failing miserably— to calm your nerves. You wished you had the courage to say something, anything, about your harbored feelings. Yet, you also wished he’d say something, even if it was to tell you off, to remind your of your place beneath him.
Oh God, how you wished you could be beneath him in the literal sense.
Christ! You scolded yourself mentally. What the hell has gotten into you? Why were you having these beyond inappropriate thoughts at work? You always were able to shelve them until you were by yourself in the comfort of your own home. But today? Today was really testing you.
The large door creaked open, and there he stood. Doctor Victor Gideon. He towered over you, having to crane your neck upwards to make eye contact. His head gear was on, his lenses obstructing his eyes from you.
“Ah, please, come in.” He gestured with his arm.
You quickly slinked past him, still clutching the file tightly against your chest. “I brought what you’ve asked for.”
“Ah, wonderful. Truly wonderful. I had no doubts.” He praised you.
You almost whined at his words.
“Well, may I?” He held out a large hand.
His tone was gentle. It was always gentle with you. It was no wonder you would bend to his every whim. You’d do anything he asked, and without question.
“Wha-OH! Yes,” you handed the file over, “sorry.”
Victor quickly thumbed through it. His gold teeth glinted, as his scarred lips stretched over them into a devious grin. “Perfect.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes narrowing at the folder. Your nervousness was quickly replaced with a thick feeling of resentment for an unknown woman. You felt… ridiculous. It wasn’t like you and Victor had anything going. Yet, you still vied for his attention, and seeing him focus it all on someone else hurt.
You leaned back against his desk, crossing your arms over your chest. Victor was still reading as he made his way to his chair, and sat down. “This is her. The one we’ve been searching for…”
Hearing those words fall from his lips stung. Your brows furrowed, your face twisting in anger, "what's so important about her anyways?" Your tone dripped with malice.
Victor closed the file before turning to look at you, "She's the last piece of the puzzle. She's the key to everything."
You didn’t dare meet his gaze, mostly for fear of betraying yourself and crying on the spot. You kept you eyes glued to the floor, to hide the hurt on your face. But he sensed it. He always sensed the slightest shift in your mood. You never understood how he did it, and part of you didn’t want to find out. There were a lot of things about Victor, his work, and this Care Center that you swept under the rug. The less you know, the better. Or at least that’s what you’ve convinced yourself to believe.
Victor stood up now, and still you kept your eyes away from him. His black boots stopped just mere inches from the toes of your heels.
Victor's large, cold hand gently grasped your cheeks, turning your head towards him, "You'll see. All in due time."
Your brows furrowed, you stuck your lips out in a small pout. You knew you were being childish, but you couldn't hide your feelings for Victor much longer. You'd hope he would dismiss you so you could run home, and hide under your blankets all weekend.
Victor tutted at you, "my Dear, what troubles you?"
Your expression softened, your eyes watered. "I… I don't know, Doctor."
"You don't know?"
"I'm… well I'm not sure." You sighed.
"Hmm. You seemed fine—more than fine— when you sauntered into my office."
You looked away ashamed. You hoped he wouldn't connect the dots of your unspoken feelings for him, but you knew he would somehow. That's just how he was. He seemed to know and solve everything.
"Then you handed the file over, and"-Victor clicked his tongue behind his teeth-"Now look at you. What is it then? Your task is over, is it that you feel you're of no use to me now?"
"N-no. No that's not… the reason."
Victor adjusted his hold on you, his large hands now gently cradling your head. "Oh. So there is a reason? What is it then? Is it the files? Is it my work?"
You didn’t know how to answer. “I… don’t know.”
Victor gently brushed his thumbs along your cheeks, sending goosebumps over your flush. Your nerves lit up with electric waves with each touch he gave you. All of which shot straight down to your clit, bringing on a new rush of arousal.
Victor cocked his head almost immediately, as if he sensed it.
“Ah, might you be… jealous?”
“J-jealous? You-you think I’m jealous?”
“Are you… not? You seem to have calmed down a considerable amount once my focus turned to you.”
Your eyes widened as your brows raised. Your mouth opened yet you had no words of defense or denial. You’d quickly shut your mouth. Victor chuckled so low it could have been mistaken for a scoff.
“No? Not jealous? Then what would you call it?”
he was taunting you now Goddamnit.
"Fine! Fine, I'm jealous, ok? I'm jealous!” Your voice cracked as you raised it, “Is that what you wanted to hear!? I'm jealous of her getting your attention! I… I need to go…"
Victor erupted into laughter, "Oh, is that all? You want my attention. All you had to do was ask."
"Wha-what do you mean!?”
"You think I haven't noticed the way you look at me? I look at you the same way, you know."
"You… do? But I'm… just your assistant."
"No. No, no, no. You're more to me than that. I couldn't trust another like I do you. I was just being a gentleman, I was waiting for you to come to me." Victor slid a hand to grab your hip, shuffling a bit closer to you.
“So do enlighten me, what is it you want?”
You swallowed thickly, no sense in denying anything now, “I want… you. All of you. I crave it. I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t know what’s come over me. All I know is I need you. In every way.”
“Ah.” Victor’s grip tightened a little more on your hip; just enough to send those same sparks through you, “Attention is one thing but… being… intimate, if I’m assuming correctly, is another thing entirely.”
You only nodded. Your hand went to his wrist, gently grasping the snake skin sleeve that covered it. “Please?” You were so close to having him, you couldn’t let him out of your grasp now. “Please.”
"you don't know what you're asking for."
"I-I do. Please? I want this—I want you—Victor."
Victor smiled at you. In your haze it seemed sweet, to any other, it was dangerous. Like a predator that finally caught his meal and was about to feast.
His cold lips quickly caught yours in a fervent kiss. One in which you happily accepted. You kissed him back, greedily. His tongue slithered into your mouth, exploring you.
Victor let up, “if you insist,” he moved to place chaste kisses along your jaw before moving down to your neck, “then my Dear, let me tear you apart"—His scarred lips continued to pepper your neck in soft kisses—"Then let me stitch you back together."
You moaned at his kisses, at his words, at the way his large hands gently held you. How could you say no to him?
"Please Victor-Doctor!-please, I'm all yours. Do as you will." Your hands gripped the sleeves of his snake skin trench coat.
"Ah, perfect. A beautiful, perfect specimen. And all for me."
"Of-ah!" You moaned at the way he sucked at the soft skin of your neck, "of course! Anything. I’ll do anything—be anything—for you.”
Victor smiled into your skin and hoisted you up onto his desk as if you weighed nothing. He wasted no time in claiming your mouth once more with his, allowing his hands to roam over every inch of you.
You moaned into him. Noises in which Victor greedily drank. He only spurred on your arousal by being gentle. But you didn’t want gentle. You wanted him to claim you, to rip you apart, to leave permanent reminds of who you were with.
You gripped the labels of his snake skin coat, hungrily kissing him, forcing your tongue into his mouth. Victor allowed it, and savored the taste. You were ravenous for him. You coaxed his tongue to your mouth, and when he granted it to you, you began to suck on it. Your lips closed around his forked tongue, the flat of your tongue working the underside of his.
You peered through your lashes up at his head gear, finally releasing his tongue with a slick slurp. “I can’t keep waiting, Doctor. I need you in me.”
Victor curled his lips into a snarl, “Be careful what you wish for, My Dear. Sometimes we bite off more than we can chew…”
You bucked your hips, your groin catching on his metal, double ouroboros belt buckle. You whined at the pressure it gave you. “I’m willing to accept whatever consequences come with this.”
You reached down to hike up your skirt, giving Victor an eyeful of your soaked underwear. Victor’s hands immediately went to your hips, his fingers gently tracing the lace of your panties.
And yet, he still made no move to claim you.
You swatted his hands away, hooking the waistband under your thumbs and slowly slid the fabric off your lower half. You kept your thighs pressed together, if Victor was going to be slow you would be too.
You kicked free from your underwear, knees still pressed tightly together. Now that your cunt was exposed, Victor could smell your heady arousal to the fullest extent. Your scent filled his olfactory receptors, his tongue flicked out just shy of his lips to get a better smell. You were sweet, tangy, and everything he knew he was missing.
“My… All for me?”
You pressed your lips together, trying to keep the smile off your lips, “Mhm. Wanna see?”
“May I?”
You nodded, and Victor pried your knees apart. Your cunt was so wet he could hear your folds part with a soft squelch. Your cunt was fully exposed to him now. Drenched in your silky grool, he watched as your cunt clenched around nothing, your clit twitched with need.
“Please Victor… I’m losing my mind.”
“Patience is a virtue, one that’s well rewarded.” Victor dropped to his knees, pulling your legs over his shoulders.
Your breath hitched in anticipation as you watched him press soft kisses to the plush flesh of your inner thighs. He ended each kiss with a tender bite. The higher he brought his lips, the more you ached with need.
After indulging himself in your skin, he finally moved to where you needed him most. He placed his chapped lips on your clit, giving a firm kiss. You groaned at the feeling of the pleasure coursing through you.
His grip on your thighs tightened as he brought your hips flush to his face. His tongue snaked out, collecting all that leaked from you. He slid up from your hole, flicking the forked end of his tongue over your clit, causing the nub to sting in a pleasant manner.
“Oh! Fuck!” You cried.
Victor only responded by dragging his tongue in between your folds, before teasing your hole. He licked up to your clit again, running his tongue back and forth over it.
Sweat began to bead along your forehead, as your stomach contracted. Pleasurable heat pooled in your lower abdomen, before burning white hot along the rest of your nerves.
“D-Doctor Vi—oh god!” You clenched your thighs. Your orgasm had approached and ripped through you faster than you expected, well, really, faster than you had ever experienced. Even when you fucked your self.
Victor’s tongue had entered you now, gliding against your walls, and sliding along the spot that had you seeing stars.
“I, I can’t! Please I can’t I’m too sensitive!”
Victor only shook his head ‘no’ and continued licking a path through you. Each pass of his tongue over your G-spot brought you closer and closer to a second orgasm.
“W-wait-wait! I’m gonna-ugh, fuck!” You tensed up, squeezing your eyes shut as you came again.
Satisfied, Victor stood from you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “I told you. I’m going to tear you apart and stitch you back together. When I’m done with you, you’ll never know pleasure the same way again.”
Victor undid his belt know, unzipping his pants and freeing his erect cock from its fabric confines. Your eyes went wide at the sight. You knew he was big, but you didn’t expect between his legs to match.
His tip was thick, bulbous. His shaft was long, and girthy. It looked heavy resting in his hands. He gave a few tugs along the length, catching the precum from his tip and slicking himself up.
“There’s no way you’re fitting inside me…”
“I think I’ve warmed you up. It’ll be a stretch, yes, but a desirable one I think you’ll find.” He stepped closer to you, slapping his cock against your pussy.
The lewd tapping noises were deafening in your ringing ears. You couldn’t help but tense up at every slap of his dick. “Go… go slow, ok?”
“Of course. I’d hate to ruin you our first time.”
The tip of his cock caught your entrance, and you flinched. You held a bated breath as you waited for him to enter you. His tip was flush with your entrance now, and with one, smooth rock of his hips, his cock plunged into you.
You yelped as your walls split open around him, desperately trying to accommodate his thickness. Your mouth hung open in a silent scream, your hands clenched the edge of the desk.
“Perfect. You’re doing remarkably well.”
With a gutteral moan you responded, “God! Oh fuck, it’s too much!”
Victor pushed on despite your protests, each inch had you beyond full. It was a delicious stretch, a pleasurable pain that had you weeping arousal. With one final push, Victor had managed to sheath himself balls deep inside you.
You looked at Victor, with tear-filled eyes. You saw his golden teeth biting his lower lip. His chest heaved, his grip on your hips became bruising. Your cunt clenched and Victor drew in a hiss.
“Patience, we don’t… want to end this quite yet, do we?” Victor steadied himself in you.
You shook your head no, laying yourself down on the desk, waiting for Victor to finally start fucking you.
Victor’s hands slid up to your waist, and to answer your silent prayers, began to thrust his hips. His cock slid halfway out of you, before he was flush with your hips once more. You were already close to your third orgasm.
“You… can go… faster.” You breathlessly encouraged him.
“If I do-“
“-please! I’m so close! I want you to come too, I want to come around your cock. Please?”
Who was he to deny such a sweet thing like you?
Victor picked up the pace, being careful not to brutalize you in the process. He’d save that for the next time. He had so many things he wanted to experiment with you. God he hoped for a next time. And a time after that.
The sounds of skin and slick, and mixed moans filled the office, the smell of sweat, sex, and something chemically sweet permeated the air. Victor gave a few more pumps, each had his tip battering your cervix, before his final thrust. With him buried to the hilt inside of you, he came. His thick release flooding your cunt. The feeling of his cold spend filling you pushed you over the edge, your pussy clenching tight around his softening dick.
You were panting heavily now, your skin sweaty and your head fuzzy. Victor pulled himself from you with a shlick. His cum quickly gushed from your used cunt in a puddle of pearlescent liquid on the floor beneath you.
“From now on, I’d like for you to seek me out the next time you get… the urge.” Victor fixed himself back into his pants.
And how could you say no? Everyone was ruined for you now. No one had ever made you come consecutively like that before.
“I will.” You pulled your skirt down over your hips.
Victor grabbed the file off his desk, “Next time I’ll properly bed you. No hasty office romp.”
You smiled at him, delirious in the aftermath of sex. He placed a quick kiss to the top of your head, and for a brief moment, you’ve felt the most at peace since you started working for him all those years ago.
victor gideon x fem! reader | tws! smut (Sex, breeding kink, implied curvy reader), stalking, obsession, detailed acts of violence, not against the reader, victors lowkey creepy but like your into it man idk.) Word Count: 5k
.✦ ݁˖ An outbreak at the Rhodes Hill Care Center results in you getting loose, almost eaten, then saved by your oh so handsome doctor. Who promises to keep you safe.
“ What the- what the hell-?!” your voice comes out in a shaky shriek as you patter down the hallway, your bare feet cold against the pristine marble floor, trying your best not to slip on the blood caked on the bottoms of them. A sense of intense dread washed through you as you heard the gurgling of the undead behind you. It was a former fellow patient, now horridly disfigured. Blood poured out of its mouth, one of its eyeballs hanging out of its socket by the nerves, the rancid smell of death filling your senses.
Today had been completely normal, happy even, until about 9 at night. You were in your room when the alarms went off, you were shaken awake by a nurse who escorted you and a few other patients out. You all were barely out of the doors into the main hall before you watched this- disgusting creature pounce on her. It was covered in blood, its humanoid head blossomed into what looked like a giant blister. Its movements were heavy, but quick. It had her by the jugular before she could react. After that, all you and your fellow inmates could do was run.
You had darted into the East Wing, down hall after hall. It was overwhelming, the dread. You were running now, up a flight of stairs as another one of them chased you. It was slow, but unwavering, and you were in no condition to fight. The doctors had taken your blood earlier, done a few tests, you were weak, and tired. Any energy you had was all put into your feet as they carried you as fast as they could.
“ I'm.. s–ssoorrry.. “ the creature behind you groaned, but you couldn't pay attention, much less take it to heart. Were the zombies talking? Were they even zombies? You had heard of something like this before, a few years before you were born the neighboring city, Raccoon City had been taken over by some virus, then bombed. Was this the same thing?
But it wasn't something you could focus on right now.
You ducked into a nearby room. The door was wooden, strong, hopefully. You ran back, ducking under a pile of boxes and medical equipment. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, attempting to tamper the sound of your panicked breathing. The door swings open, you dare to peek your head out and it's that creature. It lumbers through the room, before stopping, and just standing. It just stands, and groans. Blood drips out of its mouth, an orange, almost yellow substance leaked out of one of its orifices, whichever one was unclear. It dripped down its body, pooling underneath it.
You held your breath for a long, long time. Until you couldn't anymore. You took a tentative, slow breath, desperate to be as quiet as possible. But it didn't move, it just stood there, slightly bent at the hip, leaking blood. Hesitantly, you looked around for something to defend yourself with. There was a glass bottle, an IV, a potted plant, and.. Half of a pair of scissors. It was tapped to provide a steady handle. You took it in your hand, the blade juuust sharp enough to pierce the skin. If you were getting out of here alive you would have to fight for it.
Carefully, you crept up. It was zoned out, a low rumbling coming from its rotted mouth. You consider your options, before you decide on stabbing it in the head. In zombie movies you always gotta destroy the head, right?
You lifted your hand up, and sunk the scissors into the back of its head. The creature stills for a moment, before turning around, lunging at you. A shriek leaves your mouth as you fall to the floor. The creature is much heavier than you, pinning you to the ground.
“ oh shit-!! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck get the hell off of me! “ Your voice is shrill as you scream, panic and dread mixing into your voice. You struggle as best you can, holding it by the forehead as you attempt not to get bitten but god it's not doing much. “ HELP-! Fuck someone please help mee.. “ your voice trails off into a sob of deep helplessness washes over you.
The pit in your stomach grows, you're doomed. This is how you die. You're going to get eaten alive by a zombie. It's going to devour you, tear out your organs, break your bones all while you're alive. You were supposed to go to Rhodes Hill to be helped, you were hoping to leave a new, healthy and happy person but no, this building is going to be your grave.
However, just as you were about to give up, bracing yourself the pain, the darkness, the weight if lifted off your chest, literally. You stay still for a few moments, maybe it just got up to get a better angle at your neck but.. no.
When you open your eyes the intense, blinding lights fill your vision. When your eyes finally adjust you find yourself to be okay, relatively unharmed. The zombie, or what was left of it was on the floor a few feet away from you. It looks like it had been decimated, ripped apart. Its head had been torn in half, its brains, now a pale yellowed ivory, leaked out of its skull. A large chunk of the zombie's flesh had been ripped away, now laying a few feet away from the corpse, but that doesn't bode well for you. Whatever killed it, it's in here with you. And then, like it's on cue..
“There you are, my dear. You’ve run rather far from your room,” the voice you hear is steady, calm and familiar. You look up to see the familiar visor of Dr Victor Gideon.
He was the director of Rhodes Hill, and the entire reason you're even here. He personally had you transferred from another facility. He’d been your doctor for a few months now. He’d always been.. Offputting. He had some.. Condition, he told you. He was almost two meters tall, pale, almost purple skin, with a scar that runs down his mouth down his chest. He’d always been.. Kind, so you could never complain, especially after he’d saved you from that monster. Wait, was he the one who did that?
“ It's alright, you're in a state of shock, I won't ask you to speak, “ he says with that cold, disconnected tone. He gently sat you up, his visor whirring as it adjusted, cogs inside turning. “ But I do ask you to come with me, you don't want to be someone's lunch do you? “
Without thinking, you shook your head. You felt yourself dissociating, simply letting him stand you up, a hand coming to your lower back to lead you.
“ Where are we.. “ you trail off, before looking around. “ We- we can't go through there.. That..thing that killed the nurse is still.. in there-” you start, but his soothing, deep voice shushes you, it's oddly reassuring.
“ Don't worry, my dear. “ he says, and refuses to elaborate. When he takes you through the doors you see it. The nurse is on the ground, blood gushing out of her throat. The creature that had killed her was long gone, but a few zombies were feasting on her leftovers like dirty vultures. Panic overwhelms you as he leads you to it, but his grip on you doesn't waver.
As he approaches them, one of them stands up and without a thought he lifts his hand, wrapping his large fingers around its head and squeezing. It pops. Blooding splats on you and you cringe, almost vomiting. You wipe your face on your arms, trying not to gag. He lets out an amused huff, guiding you through the walls.
“ Doctor.. Whats.. What's happening.. “ Your voice comes out embarrassingly meek, barely above a whisper. He doesn't answer for a moment.
“ I will be getting you to safety, “ he says steadily. He brings you up a few flights of stairs, leading you into what seems to be his office. He gently leads you to sit on one of the couches, guiding you down with a strong push of his hand.
The sofa under you was frustratingly comfortable. You were panicked, terrified, but you sunk into the cushions. He didn't move for a moment, just staring at you. Strangely enough, it made your cheeks warm. Were you blushing? Why were you blushing??
“ I have a car waiting for us,” he said as he swiftly made his way to one of the adjacent rooms, packing up a few items into a briefcase. After a moment he ushered you into the room.
“ What about the others- i.. I think I saw a few people in the west wing-? “ you stutter quietly, your voice grating against your hoarse throat. He hummed quietly.
“ They are no use to me. “
He didn't elaborate. He never elaborated, but as cryptic as it was, it reassured you a bit. That meant that at least.. You were important enough to keep alive. Maybe.. Maybe he meant you were developing more with your treatment.. Making more progress? You knew, deep down, that that wasn't the reason, you could hear the sinister undertone to his voice.
After a moment you observed your surroundings. The room was painted a bold green, polished oak beams, cabinet doors, a marbled green table. The lamp in the corner gave the room a soft, yet warm glow. It was comfortable, for now at least. The Doctor himself was in his ordinary attire, a button up with his long snake skin coat on, visor polished to perfection. However, you do notice that he doesn't smell as.. unique as he usually does. He never smelled.. particularly good, but it was at least tolerable now. You felt out of place in such an ostentatious environment. Your outfit was a pale white blouse with a long white skirt, both slightly dirtied from prolonged use. Neither of them had been your first choice exactly, but it was cooler in the warmer months so, it wasn't that bad. Some patients wore straightjackets 24/7 so you couldn't exactly complain.
“ Miss? “ you hear him ask, you must’ve zoned out. When you look back to him he has opened what appears to be a secret door, leading to a grey, much more sterile looking environment. His smile spread when you looked at him, his golden teeth shimmering in a mix of saliva and the warm light from the lamp. “ I do encourage you to keep up, lest you get left behind and I have to crush another skull. “ When he said that this sick, almost perverted smile spread across his face, teeth grinding together as he waited for you to follow. And follow you did.
You have to keep a good pace to keep up with him, his tall stature resulted in him being much, much faster than you. You didn't wanna think about how scared that made you, how easily he could crush you if he wanted too. He led you through the winding hallways through a door leading to the front of the care center. There was a black car pulled up to the front, he led you to it, He opened the back door for you, ushering you in quietly. You were shaking.
The car was warm, soft jazz music playing as you watched the doctor enter the passenger seat, closing the door as the vehicle rocks from his large frame. The driver is a man you don't recognize. The two discuss something you can't hear. The car starts driving, and not a moment passes until you're starting to nod off. Before you do though, you glance up into the rearview mirror and the last thing you see before you lose consciousness is his eyes. Victor's golden red eyes meet yours, his lips pull into a smile, that for some reason, reassures your mind as you fall asleep.
You woke up strapped down to a gurney, your hair hanging in front of your face, obscuring your vision. You feel warm, uncomfortably warm. When you eventually focus your eyes and get a grip on your surroundings you assess the room you're in. The room seems to be opulent, it smells warm, like eucalyptus and lavender. The walls are a deep stained wood, shiny with the seal. The room is lit with oil lamps, a few sconces decorate the walls. It's a bedroom, a large canopy bed with dark sheets and thick black curtains.
“ Finally, you're awake. "The short, steady voice of the doctor flowed into your ears, into the mush of your brain. You look up to him, who was standing only a few feet to your side, you could barely make him out in your peripherals.
“ Doctor Gideon? “ you ask shakily, your voice barely above a whisper. He chuckles heartily, as if he thinks what you just said was the funniest thing he's ever heard.
“ Please dear, just Victor. Formalities aren't needed between the two of us. “ he says like he's asserting something. He's Victor to you, no more doctor, but Victor. You nervously dart your tongue out to wet your lips.
“ Why am I tied up? “ you ask carefully. He steps into your vision, his face flat, unmoving. He gently approaches you, and without explaining anything he just trails a hand down your face, caressing oh so gently.
“ Have I ever told you you've always been my favorite patient? “ he asks, blatantly ignoring your question. You can hear the visor whir as it zooms in on your face, like he's studying you. At a loss for words, you simply shook your head, he simply hummed. “ My dear, you’ve always been my favorite. Your purpose is true. “
You paused as he said that, your purpose? What was your purpose? Why is he unable to elaborate on literally anything he says??
He chuckled to himself, gently leaning into your space. He was cold, you noticed. Extremely cold. When his skin touched yours it left you shivering. His hand came up to hold your face, one of his hands could engulf your entire jaw, his thumb caressing your bottom lip oh so gently.
“ You see my dear, you are perfect. “ he asserts. Before you can question, or object, he quickly continues. “ I can do almost everything. There is little I need from the outside world but you, you have the one thing I need. “ he says, before boldly reaching his hand down to your cunt. You shriek, when did you get naked?? He lets this loud, boisterous laugh ring through the room. “ Shhh don't be scared. I've done nothing but keep you safe, and I intend to do that for a long time. “
His middle finger slithered down, parting your folds gently, the cold metals of his rings sending tingles through you. You were oddly aroused, you could feel yourself soaking his hand. What the hell was happening? Why did you enjoy this? A finger rubbed at your entrance, never daring to dip in, while his thumb tenderly rolled your clit.
“ Everything about you is pure perfection. You're the perfect age, young, but mature enough to healthily deliver. Your body contains a healthy balance between estrogen and testosterone, you intake a healthy amount of Vitamin C & Vitamin B-Complex, all of these aiding in fertility levels. “ he stops after a moment, “ I've had my nurses track your menstruation cycle. Hence why I had you taken off your birth control back in March, your body should be ready now. “
He says this casually, like this isn't some of the creepiest shit you've ever heard. He's been tracking you to figure out the optimal time to fuck you so you get pregnant? What the fuck? … if you are so worried creeped out by him, why does his hot and heavy gaze feel so good? You’d been a patient going in between psychiatric institutions for years now, no one's ever given enough of a shit about you to take care of you, much less to put this much time and effort into you, even if it were for his own good.
You had always been a bit flustered around him, as you were to any doctor. Any tall, strong man with deep voices and an intense clinical attitude scares you, it happens after facing so much medical abuse. So eventually you chalked it up to nerves, but you’d be lying if you said his attention doesn't feel good. He spoke to you with this genuine care you’ve never heard before. Maybe he's finally brave enough to speak this to you, maybe he's just being kind to the mother of his future child.
When you look back up to him you don't get a chance to speak as his lips collide with yours. You take a moment to consider your options, either resist, or enjoy it- embrace it even. Fuck when his forked tongue slid into your mouth you didnt even consider the former. You let yourself kiss him back, his lips are painfully chapped, they scratch and scrape against yours but it doesn't matter. He hums, pleased with your cooperation. He pulls away slowly, his tongue flickering against your lips.
“ Oh my dear. I've waited too long for you, “ he mused quietly, before he gave you a hug? It's awkward, his arms wrapping all the way around the gurney, then you realize he's untying you. You fall into his chest and he takes no time steadying you, making sure to look down at you, tilting his head ever so slowly.
He led you to the bed, a hand on your back, controlling yet steady. He gently pushes you back, guiding you to lay down in front of him. He looks down at you, towering over you.
“ So small, so tiny. “ he says almost kindly, carding his big fingers through your hair, “ I'm glad you’ve come to your senses, darling. I’d hate to have to force you, “ He doesn't explicitly say what forcing you would entail, but you could figure it out pretty easily.
He gazed down at you, particularly at your breasts. You hear the visor whirr under the warm machinery, taking in the sight of. Without thinking, you lift up your hands, cupping his face in yours. Your hands looked tiny on his face, barely being the size of his cheek.
He pauses when your small hands cup his cheeks, your warmth sinking into his skin, a foreign feeling. The sound stills, and so does he. Hesitantly, you smooth your hands up against his scarred, flaky skin, tenderly brushing your thumbs up and down against his temples. With careful hands you lift the visor off of his face. As much as you’d love to fuck him with it on your sure there would be time for that late. A hand shoots up to stop you. He softly speaks your name.
“ I do not suggest you do that, my dear you.. Wont like what you see, “ he warns, steady strong hands holding you in place, you shake your head.
“ You doubt my judgement? “
“ No, no not at all.. “ he says softly, his sweet, sexy voice rumbling through your body. “ But I weigh my options completely on facts. You won't like what you see. You.. are a sweet, pretty young girl, and I am no more attractive than the monster under your bed. “
Disagreeing, you shook your head. You didn't care about that, you never would. What he looked like didn't matter, not when he touched you so tenderly, not when he showed you love and care like you had never before. He had kept you safe from those monsters, you can still picture his gaze on you after he had practically ripped a zombie in half, and a rush of arousal ran through you now knowing his intentions retrospectively. He kept you safe so he could breed you.
“ Victor please.. I do not care what you look like. I want you to look me in the eyes while you make love to me. Please? For me? “ you do your best pleading eyes, your bottom lip sticking out a bit. Reluctantly letting go, his hands drop to your shoulders, running them up and down your neck, huge hands wrapping around it effortlessly, but he was ever so gentle.
The metal of his visor was artificially warm from the machinery inside of it, your hands shakily lift it off of his head.
His face is the same purplish pale color his skin is, his eyes are a sharp yellow, spotted with deep red. He's clearly an older man, with his hairline receding into his mangy hair, his skin wrinkled and cracked. He has a bigger nose, thick brows, a round face, with small red marks on his skin from where his visor sat. He wasn't unattractive; something deep inside you made you.. attracted to him. He was an old, perverted man who had you on your back.
He looked a bit embarrassed, his cold demeanor turning a bit flustered, he obviously not a fan of his own looks. But god you could help but be attracted to him. You tilted your face up and took the shot, pressing your lips against his again. He pauses, and stills. After a moment you pull away, your cheeks turning a deep pink. He was looking down at you, his eyes heated, needy.
He ducked down again, capturing your lips with his again. This time the kiss is wet, sloppy even. He's needy as he slithers his forked tongue into your mouth, allowing yours to press against his. His big hands creepy down to engulf your breasts, he pulled away to gaze down at them, fingers rubbing your nipples gently.
“ Perfection. "He states, “ You will be perfect, you're the next step to human evolution. Your body.. It's optimal in every way possible. “ he praises you clinically, “ One day your body will take to my seed, and you will become a lovely mother. These pretty breasts will feed our children. My dear it will be two of us against the world, “
His head dips down, tongue flickering out to brush against your nipple, it sends shockwaves through your body, soft muffled noises coming from him. He was enjoying this just as much as you were. Slimy, wet muscle swirled around your nipple as he engulfed it with his entire mouth, his chapped lips gently scratching the sensitive skin of your breast. Gently, he suckled, like mimicking a babe drinking from its mother.
Big hands were placed at the side of your hips, rubbing a thumb up and down against your soft skin. He was so, so much bigger than you are. You can only imagine what's under his dress pants as he grinds his bulge against your thigh.
He pulls away from your chest, giving it a small kiss, muttering something inaudible, his fast words tripping over each other, interrupting himself with a flicker of his tongue.
When he returns to reality he tilts your head up. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment it's like the world slows to a stop. The only two things you can feel are your racing heart and throbbing pussy. His iris’ are a sharp yellow, pupils cut into slits, and the most captivating thing; his scleras were pitch black. You could see your own reflection in them, naked, sweating and panting. Holding his gaze feels almost overwhelming. The warmth seeping into your cheeks indicated you were blushing.
“ Forgive me, I am usually a patient man, but I can not wait for you anymore, “ he said, his voice dropping in octaves as he positioned himself almost laying on you. You wasted no time in stealing soft, sweet kisses from him, distracting him from his task at hand- taking his belt off.
When he finally unbuckles it he doesn't bother fully taking his dress pants off, he simply pulls them down. Too scared, or maybe too bashful to look down, you keep your eyes on him. His flaky, yet mesmerizing skin wrinkles as his eyes stay trained on your cunt. His skin almost glowed, it was dull, but his scars looked purple in certain lighting, he looked like his scars were simply cracks, and whatever had mutated him was slowly leaking its way out.
You’re pulled back into reality when you feel the head of his cock draggg down your slit. A gasp leaves your mouth without meaning too, drawing a deep chuckle from him. He slowly murmurs to you as he slowly pushes in.
When you feel him you finally gather the courage to look down. His cock is just as you had imagined (in which, yes you had imagined this before). It was big, bigger than a normal human’s would be, and it matches his skin tone, a bit darker around the head. You realized that the scar that ran down his chest actually didn't run down the middle of his cock as well, it stopped a few inches above it.
His hips gut forwards as he thrusts into you, immediately filling you up, before pausing for you. It feels like a sharp, throbbing pain, but also it was delicious. He barely gives you time to adjust as he fills you up, up, up..
When he finally bottoms out it's intense, for the both of you it seems. For you, it's pain and pleasure all at once. He rubbed up against you fucking perfectly, it was the best feeling you’ve evee felt. The pain edged you on, like aggressively scratching a bug itch; it hurts, and it won't feel good later, but at the moment it satisfies you fully. For him? You obviously cannot tell how he feels but his face at the moment is very expressive. His eyebrows are knit tight, his eyes closed tightly, biting his bottom lip oh so slightly. It was strange, you had never seen him so expressive before.
He pulls out once, and gently rocks his hips, pushing back deep into you. You moan, you cant help yourself, it feels so fucking good. He does it again, and again, and again and again, and he speeds up.
Hes properly fucking you now, you can feel the slow drag of his thick cock against your walls, your arousal had leaked, covering the inside of your thighs in a way that would usually make you cringe, but right now you couldnt physically care.
It felt heavenly, like something you’ve never experienced before. Sure you have had a handful of sexual experiences, but nothing like this. Nothing like him
Because it felt like more than sex. He had passion, pure passion, deranged passion. He's obsessed, delusional- but is it delusional when it's reciprocated? You hadn’t denied him, you had no right to criticize yourself, especially not when he was rearranging your insides.
“ God– Victor… oh god, “ you whimpered pathetically. You pretend you dont hear your own whimpers, too embarrassed to care as he fucked into you. He simply grunted in response, bending down to press his body against yours, pinning you down underneath him on the mattress. You couldn't escape now. Not that you wanted too. His skin is cold, eerily cold, it makes you shiver when he presses against you.
“ My- oh my love- you must forgive me. I have not indulged in human pleasures of this sort in- hnng years.. I will not last much longer, “ he apologizes quietly groaning as he speeds up, using his thick fingers to rub soft little circles on your clit, trying his best to stay in rhythm as he fucks you.
“ dont- dont apologize to me Victor, im.. im sure i wont last long either-.. “ you sigh in pleasure. everytime he thrusts into you it's a warm pleasure that spills into you. And just like that, his thrusts speed up, erratic and uneven, and his thumb speeds up. He rubs and rubs and rubs and it drives you crazy.
Your body feels like it's been struck by lightning as you cum, intense waves washing over you as you feel him follow suit. His cum is thick, and there's almost an uncomfortable amount. When he pulls out it slowly gushes out of you and you can feel yourself physically cringing.
Silence follows the both of you, neither of you speaking up besides from deep pants. He's the one to pull away, lifting his head to gaze down at where the two of you are still connected. His hand glides down your stomach, before using his middle finger to penetrate your folds, gathering his cum on his thick finger and pushing it back in.
“ I've waited a long time for this, I'm not letting it go to waste. “ he asserts softly. His tone is gentler, and sweeter. A side you’ve never seen from the doctor before this strange incident. He slowly rolls you over so you're in the middle of the bed, head resting on the pillows. He silently cleans you up, wiping your sticky thighs down methodically.
“ Would you like some clothes to sleep in? “ he offered, and you realized that yeah you probably would. Your sweaty body pressed against his mattresses wasn't exactly the most comfortable feeling. He dressed you in panties and what looked to be an old undershirt of his, considering the size of it.
The room goes quiet as you can already feel yourself begin to nod off, your eyes closing without telling them too, and your head lolling back onto the pillow.
After who knows how long you feel the bed dip, and a thin blanket is pulled over you. When you open your eyes you meet Victors. They're tired, but at the same time it's the most flattering look you’ve ever received. He looked happy, content even. He leaned in to kiss your lips gently.
“ Goodnight my love, we shall bathe you in the morning after breakfast. I'm sure we have many, many things to get done in the coming weeks so, I wish to get you acclimated to my home, “ he states as he moves closer to you. He's in a similar undershirt, and a pair of thick pants. “ I love you. “
That catches you off guard, but in a pleasant way. You tilt your head to look at him and snuggle closer, “ I love you too, Victor,”
CW: NSFW, minor dubcon/somno elements, gender ambiguous reader, Victor beimg a bit of a pervert and watching you sleep
He couldnt help himself. He never could help himself when it came to you.
You. Darling, precious, you.
He had let himself into your room in the care center, his keycard allowing him easy access to any room he pleased.
“…..” he tilted his head, split tongue flicking out slightly to taste the air. He couldn’t help but grin as you shifted in Your sleep, his eyes locking onto the arch of Your back as you stretched before settling down again.
“Beautiful…” He rumbled, kneeling down to get a closer look. Each breath, each little twitch had him watching in open fascination.
Victor reached up to carefully brush some hair away from your face, a shudder running through him. You were so warm, so alive under his touch. The scent of you, the feeling…
He knelt down by Your bed, Still towering over you. He laughed softly, in awe. You were still asleep, still helpless, still unable to say no to him.
“I’ve missed you, my dear.” Victor cooed softly, pressing his nose against the crook of your neck. “It’s been so so long….” He shuddered as he huffed Your scent.
You squirmed and he grinned, a wicked curve of his lips pressed against your armpit.
“…d.. Dr. Gideon?” You rasped, attempting to sit up. He quickly pinned you back down, his giant hand wrapping around your throat.
“Shhhh…. Shhhh….” He smiled, not yet squeezing, but just… guiding you back down.
His gaze softened under the visor as he saw how quickly you submitted. You were his favorite, a star patient, such a good little pet.
“Don’t move…” he rasped, “I just need to give you a quick checkup…”
His hand moved down Your side, tugging up your sleep shirt. His hand rested on your tummy, kneading. Nice and soft…
When you don’t protest, don’t start crying and squirming like the others, it emboldens him. He gently pulls it up and off, leaning down to press his head against your chest.
Your heart is beating so fast…
“How cute….” He chuckled, his fingers ghosting past Your thighs. “You truly are such a precious thing, you know.. always so… reactive.”
You lifted your hips up, allowing him to tug down your sleep shorts past your thighs. “Mmm… Dr. Gideon…”
“Shhhh….” He pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek, chuckling as you blushed. “You’re eager, arent you?” He teased, his fingers teasing over Your entrance.
“My good little patient…” he grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks between his thick fingers. “Youre my favorite, sweetheart… I do hope you know that.”
He kissed you. His mouth tasted odd, but you let him lap at the inside of your mouth anyways. The feeling of his golden-covered teeth knocking against your own making you squirm.
His split tongue flicked against yours, drawing a strangled gasp as his fingers slowly curled against your entrance, slowly pushing in.
“-!!” You gasped and pulled back, a strangle little mewl leaving your lips. This earned a low, indulgent chuckle from the man above you.
He looked so smug, grinning down at you. Victor tilted his head, his pupils scanning over your face, drinking in every reaction as he spread you open.
“There we go…” he crooned, chuckling as you whine and squirm under him. “My darling… does that feel good?” He teased, forcing the pads of his fingers against your sweet spot.
You keened, eyes fluttering and hips bucking as he carefully worked you open. His fingers felt so big inside you.
Though… he was just a suffocating presence all by himself. Something about how the doctor carried himself, the way he commanded the room, commanded you.
It made it all too easy to just give in, to spread your legs wider as he loomed over you like some night terror given flesh.
“You’re… oh, my dear, how you haunt me.” He purred, pulling his fingers out and bringing them up to his mouth. You could only watch in flustered silence as he licked your essence off the thick digits, his split tongue curling around them. “I have missed you… missed your body..”
He slowly undid his belt, each clink of metal against metal making something inside you pulse and twist.
“You were only gone for a few days…” you couldnt help but tease, and you were rewarded with a deep, rumbling chuckle.
“And those days were torture…” His cock thwapped out as he pulled down his zipper, the thick shaft standing painfully erect.
It was big. Of course it was big. Just like the rest of him— a solid 9 inches, thicker than your wrist, the only reason you could take it was because he had trained you to.
The stretch of his cock entering you made you gasp.
“Shit-!!”
He held you down with ease, his hand spanning across your chest. “Shhh….” He smiled as he felt your thundering heartbeat. “It’s alright, my dear…. You’ve taken me before, you can take me again….”
He rolled his hips slowly, forcing a low, keening whimper from your lips. It felt like he was in your lungs, stirring up your guts.
Victor loomed over Your impaled form, his face mere inches from yours. He smelled like antiseptics and blood. It was a smell that haunted you, following your every waking moment.
Victor tilted your hips up, forcing his cock deeper. “Mmhh… fuck…” he nuzzled into your temple and inhaled. “You’re lovely… perfect… you’re going to stay with me forever, arent you?” He prompted sweetly, and you nodded.
“Y—- yes-! Yes, Dr. Gideon—!” You gasped, eyes fluttering as the head of his cock bullied against your sweet spot. “Nnn- g— never leaving you!” You babble helplessly, legs wrapping around his waist.
The growl he let out had your stomach twisting, a whining keen escaping you as you came. Victor was close behind, pinning you beneath his massive weight as his cock pulsed inside you, cum filling you up until your tummy swelled.
A/N: I was gonna make it a 2 parter because I wanted to simmer the dynamic. But it’s a one parter but we do see sweet lil Dr Gideon. I did research, for all the medical talk and a science joke lol also request are open teehee!
Word count: 36747
The fluorescent lights of the Umbrella Corporation labs hummed with a sterile, relentless energy, a sound you were quickly learning to associate with both profound discovery and deep seated dread. It had only been a few months since you’d graduated, your degree in virology a crisp new addition to your resume, and landing a position at Umbrella felt like seizing lightning in a bottle. This was the pinnacle, the place where the brightest minds converged to push the boundaries of science itself. You still walked through the corridors with a slight sense of unreality, your keycard feeling impossibly heavy with the responsibility it granted.
Your latest assignment confirmed it you were being transferred to the T-Virus research division. A thrill, sharp and cold, shot through you. This was the main event. Only the most promising researchers were even considered for the project, and you, fresh from academia, were being invited to the table. You squared your shoulders, smoothing the lapels of your white lab coat as you approached the high security airlock. The hiss of the pneumatics and the heavy click of the magnetic lock sealing behind you was a sound of finality, of crossing a threshold from which there was no return.
Your division head, a woman with a perpetually tired but sharp gaze, gave you a perfunctory smile. "Welcome to the team, Doctor. We're glad to have you." The tour was brisk and efficient, a whirlwind of cryostasis units, centrifuges humming at impossible speeds, and holographic displays of viral structures that shimmered like malevolent jewels. She led you to a sleek, sterile workstation, its surfaces gleaming under the unforgiving lights. "This will be your station. You'll be working directly under Dr. Victor Gideon on the cellular regeneration protocols."
The name sent a ripple of recognition through you. Victor Gideon. You’d seen him around the sprawling complex, a figure of quiet authority who moved with an unnerving stillness. He was older than most of the hotshot researchers, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties, with a long, severe face and hair the color of polished steel tied back in a neat tail. He never seemed to rush, yet he was always present where it mattered. His politeness was a wellknown commodity, but it was a cold, distant sort of courtesy, the kind that created more space than it closed.
Ah, the new addition," he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried easily over the hum of the equipment. It was calm, as you’d been told, but there was an undercurrent of something else there something vast and patient, like the deep ocean. "Dr. Gideon," you replied, trying to keep your own voice steady as you extended a hand. He took it, his grip firm and cool, his skin immaculate. "A pleasure. I trust your division head has briefed you on the gravity of our work."
"She has, sir. I'm eager to contribute."A flicker of something amusement, perhaps crossed his features. "Eagerness is a valuable fuel, but it is precision that forges results. We are not merely unlocking the secrets of cellular regeneration we are attempting to dictate the very language of life itself. The T-Virus is a demanding tutor." He gestured to the sophisticated equipment surrounding your station. "This is the finest technology Umbrella has to offer. It will respond to your skill, but only if your approach is flawless."
For the next hour, Gideon personally walked you through the protocols. He was a meticulous teacher, explaining the complex sequencing with a clarity that was both illuminating and intimidating. He spoke of the virus not as a disease to be eradicated, but as a tool to be mastered, a force to be harnessed. You found yourself hanging on his every word, your initial nervousness slowly being replaced by a profound sense of intellectual awe.
As he was demonstrating a delicate procedure on a sample, a faint, melodic phrase drifted from the small speakers built into the lab console. It was a piece by Bach, a cello suite you recognized instantly. You must have tensed slightly, because Gideon paused, his head tilting with birdlike curiosity.
"You have an appreciation for classical music?" he asked, his tone shifting subtly from instructional to inquisitive."I do," you admitted, a little surprised. "My mother was a concert pianist. It was the only thing she insisted I learn alongside my studies."
A genuine, if rare, smile touched his lips. It didn't warm his features so much as sharpen them, making him look more predatory. "An excellent foundation. The baroque masters understood complexity and order better than any modern scientist. Bach's counterpoint, for example... the way multiple independent voices weave together to create a perfect, inevitable whole. It is not unlike the mechanisms of a viral genome. Each part has its function, its own logic, and when combined correctly, they create something transcendent."
He looked at you then, truly looked at you, and for the first time, you felt like you weren't just a new hire, but a potential peer. "We will get along well, Doctor. In this line of work, a mind that appreciates both the beauty of a cello and the elegance of a mutating retrovirus is a rare and valuable asset."
The days that followed settled into a demanding but fascinating rhythm. You arrived early, stayed late, and absorbed everything Gideon was willing to teach. He was a demanding mentor, his standards impossibly high, but his praise, when it came, was more rewarding than any formal commendation. You learned to anticipate his needs, to have the data sequenced and projected before he even asked. You learned the language of his silences, the subtle shift in his posture that signaled frustration, or the rare, almost imperceptible softening of his gaze that meant he was pleased.
You found yourself lingering after hours, not out of obligation, but because the quiet hum of the lab in the empty building had become a strange sort of sanctuary. It was during one of these late nights that the walls between you began to crumble. You were both hunched over a holographic display, a complex simulation of the T-Virus's protein folding patterns spiraling in the air between you. The simulation had been running for hours, and a persistent anomaly was frustrating your attempts to isolate the regenerative sequence.
"It's behaving like a quantum particle," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "The moment we try to observe its function directly, the entire structure collapses into a different state."
Gideon didn't look up from the display, but a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Ah, yes. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, as applied to virology. We can know its location or its velocity, but never both at once. Perhaps we should stop trying to observe it and just ask it politely what it's doing."
You blinked, then a small laugh escaped you. It was the first time you'd heard him make anything remotely resembling a joke, and the absurdity of it caught you off guard. The sound seemed to hang in the sterile air, fragile and out of place.
He finally turned his head, his pale eyes fixing on you. The smile that touched his lips this time was different. It was still sharp, still intelligent, but there was a flicker of something warmer, something almost human in it. "I was wrong about you," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.
The statement caught you completely off guard. "Wrong about me, sir?"
"I had you pegged as another ambitious academic. Bright, certainly, but... predictable. Textbook. I see now that's not the case." He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms, a gesture that seemed to make him more open rather than closed off. "Not many people get my humor. It tends to be an acquired taste. Too niche."
You felt a blush creep up your neck, a strange mix of pride and embarrassment warming your cheeks. "I just... I see what you mean. It's like the virus has a personality. A stubborn one."
"Exactly," he affirmed, his smile widening by a fraction. "A stubborn, chaotic personality that refuses to conform to our models. It requires a certain... flexibility of thought to appreciate." He held your gaze for a moment longer than was strictly professional, and in that moment, the vast, imposing authority figure seemed to shrink, replaced by a man who was simply sharing a moment of connection with a likeminded soul. "You have that flexibility, Doctor. Don't ever lose it."
The air between you felt different then, charged with a new and unspoken understanding. The professional barrier of mentor and protégé was still there, but a chink had appeared in its facade. You were no longer just a student; you were a colleague, someone who could see the world and the virus through the same strange, complex lens as he could. And as you turned back to the simulation, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was the beginning of something far more dangerous, and far more compelling, than just research.
The latenight sessions became your shared ritual. The lab, empty and bathed in the cool glow of emergency lighting, transformed from a workplace into a private world that belonged only to the two of you. It was in these quiet hours that the formidable Dr. Gideon shed his armor, piece by piece. He’d speak of his past, not in detail, but in fragments the sterile rigidity of his own education, the frustration of brilliant ideas being stifled by lesser minds, his unwavering belief that the T-Virus was not a weapon, but the key to unlocking humanity’s ultimate potential.
You learned of his fondness for sweets through a casual comment one evening, a lament about the bland, pre packaged pastries in the executive lounge. It was a small, humanizing detail that stuck with you. The next time you planned a late night, you brought a small tin of homemade lemon shortbread cookies, the kind your mother used to bake. You felt a bit silly, a gesture almost quaint in the hightech environment of Umbrella, but you set the tin on a console anyway.
Gideon noticed it immediately. He paused in his explanation of a cellular mitosis anomaly, his gaze fixing on the simple tin. "What is this?" "Oh, just... cookies," you said, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "I remembered you said you liked sweet things. I baked them."
He was silent for a long moment, just staring at the tin as if it were an alien artifact. Then, with a slowness that was almost reverent, he lifted the lid. The scent of lemon and butter filled the sterile air. He picked one up, examining it with the same analytical intensity he’d apply to a viral sample, before taking a small, deliberate bite. The effect was instantaneous. The hard lines of his face softened, and his eyes closed for a fraction of a second. It was the most genuinely unguarded you had ever seen him.
"These are... exceptional," he said, his voice thick with an unfamiliar sincerity. "Thank you, Doctor." He used your title, but the way he said it felt more like your name.
From that night on, the dynamic between you shifted. The intellectual camaraderie remained, but it was now laced with a deliberate, playful tension. You found yourselves competing over who could brew the better pot of coffee, leaving obscure musical references for the other to decipher. Your conversations began to stray from virology to literature, to art, to the hypothetical futures you were both trying to build. His compliments became more personal, no longer just about your work but about your insight, your perspective, the way your mind worked.
Weeks melted into a comfortable, charged routine. You were leaning over the central console, side-by-side, trying to isolate a specific protein marker. The holographic display cast a blue, ethereal light on your faces. "If we could just stabilize the lysosomal chain," you murmured, pointing to a strand of light, "it would prevent the cellular degradation."
"Agreed," Gideon said, his voice a low rumble beside you. "But the bonding agent is too aggressive. We need to introduce a buffer." He reached for the data-slate on the console at the same moment you did.
Your fingers brushed against his.
It wasn't a dramatic collision, just a fleeting touch of skin on skin. But it was like an electric current surged through the quiet lab. His hand was warm, surprisingly so, and the contact sent a jolt straight up your arm. You both froze.
You pulled your hand back as if burned, your heart suddenly hammering against your ribs. You risked a glance at him, expecting his usual unreadable calm, but you were met with something entirely new.
For the first time since you'd met him, Victor Gideon was flustered.
A deep, uncharacteristic blush spread across his cheekbones, a faint pink that was shockingly visible against his pale skin. His composure, his impenetrable wall of control, had vanished. He looked away from you, his gaze fixed on a meaningless point on the far wall as he cleared his throat, a rough, awkward sound. He ran a hand through his silver hair, a gesture of agitation you’d never seen him make.
"My apologies," he said, his voice strained and tight. "I... I should have watched where I was reaching."
The sight of him so discomposed, so utterly human in his awkwardness, was more disarming than any calculated charm could have been. The formidable, untouchable scientist was gone, replaced by a man who seemed as startled by the simple touch as you were. And in that moment of shared vulnerability, you knew with absolute certainty that your relationship had crossed a line from which there was no turning back.
The weeks that followed the accidental touch were a dance of deliberate near misses and charged glances. The air in the lab crackled with an unspoken question, a tension that was both exhilarating and exhausting. Your late nights grew later, your conversations more personal, yet he never again crossed the physical threshold. The memory of his flustered reaction became a quiet, private anchor for you, proof that beneath the controlled scientist was a man who could be moved.
You were both running on fumes. A particularly grueling 72hour cycle had just ended, leaving the lab in a state of organized chaos and you both in a state of profound exhaustion. It was a rare, synchronized day off, a quirk of the scheduling system that felt like a small miracle. As you stumbled towards the breakroom in search of the strongest coffee available, your eyes felt like they were lined with sandpaper.
Gideon was right behind you, his usually impeccable posture slightly slumped. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced than you'd ever seen them, a testament to the hours he'd poured into the project. You both reached for the coffee pot at the same time, another in a long series of choreographed coincidences. This time, however, you both pulled back with a hesitant awkward chuckle.
"I think we've earned this," you said, your voice raspy with fatigue.
"Immensely," he agreed, his gaze lingering on you. He seemed to wrestle with something internally, his jaw working slightly as he stared into his coffee mug as if seeking guidance from the dark liquid. He took a breath, a deep, steadying inhalation that seemed to cost him considerable effort. "Doctor... (L/N)," he began, correcting himself with a slight stumble. "I was wondering if you are not otherwise occupied this evening... if you would perhaps like to get dinner with me."
The question was delivered with a stiff, formal awkwardness that was utterly endearing. It was the ask of a man who had spent decades devoting every fiber of his being to his work, a man for whom social rituals were a foreign language. He looked almost pained by the effort, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that was both vulnerable and hopeful.
A slow smile spread across your face, chasing away some of the exhaustion. "I'd like that very much, Victor."
A wave of visible relief washed over him, his shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. Emboldened, you decided to push a little further. "Actually, there's an exhibit on Dutch Golden Age painting that just opened at the city museum. I've been dying to see it, but I haven't been able to find the time." You watched his reaction carefully, adding, "I know it's a bit of a stretch from virology."
To your surprise, his expression lit up with genuine interest. "Not at all. Rembrandt, Vermeer the masters of light and shadow. The way they could render a simple moment with such profound depth is a form of science in itself. The manipulation of pigments and oils to create an illusion of realit it's not so different from what we do, just on a different canvas." He looked at you, his smile now confident and warm. "I would enjoy that immensely."
"Then it's a date," you said, the words feeling natural and right.
The drive into the city was a world away from the sterile corridors of Umbrella. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were part of the normal world. The museum was quiet, a hushed reverence hanging in the air as you walked through the grand halls.
He was a different person outside the lab. Gone was the mentor, the authority figure. In his place was a man who could discourse for ten minutes on the revolutionary use of chiaroscuro in a Rembrand portrait, his voice low and passionate. He pointed out the subtle details you would have missed the delicate glint of light on a pearl earring, the intricate weave of a lace cuff. He saw the art not just as beauty, but as a complex system of technique and emotion, and sharing that perspective with you felt more intimate than any touch.
Dinner was at a small, quiet Italian restaurant he'd chosen. Over glasses of red wine and plates of pasta, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You talked about everything and nothing you’re favorite books, your childhood dreams, your frustrations with bureaucracy. He, in turn, shared small, carefully chosen pieces of his own life, his loneliness, his singular focus, his quiet awe at the world he was trying to understand. He listened to you with an unwavering intensity that made you feel like the only person in the room.
As the evening drew to a close and he drove you back to your apartment, the comfortable silence between you was filled with a new, deeper understanding. He parked the car, the engine ticking softly in the quiet night. He turned to you, his face illuminated by a nearby streetlamp, his expression soft and open.
"Thank you, (Y/N)," he said, his voice sincere. "I..I had forgotten what it felt like to spend an evening like this. To simply be."
"It was my pleasure, Victor," you replied, your heart swelling with an emotion that was too powerful, too terrifying to name. "I had a wonderful time."
He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers lingered for a fraction of a second, a deliberate, tender touch that was worlds away from the accidental brush in the lab. It was a promise. "I hope," he said softly, "this is the first of many."
The next few months were a carefully constructed secret, a life lived in the stolen hours between your professional obligations. Your romance bloomed in the quiet corners of the world outside Umbrella in dimly lit restaurants, on rainy afternoon walks through city parks, and in the hushed reverence of museum halls. Victor was a devoted, if sometimes formal, partner. He remembered details about your conversations with an uncanny precision, surprised you with first-edition books he thought you'd love, and held your hand with a fierce, protective grip, as if afraid the world might try to pull you away.
But within the sterile, watched environment of the lab, you were colleagues once more. The easy intimacy you shared outside vanished behind a wall of professional necessity, replaced by coded glances and the subtle language of shared understanding. It was a frustrating duality, and as your feelings for him deepened into something profound and all-consuming, the strain began to show.
You were in his private office, a space you were now privileged to enter, late one evening. A rare thunderstorm was rattling the windows, the sound a stark contrast to the hum of his computer. He'd been quiet all evening, a thoughtful stillness about him that was different from his usual focus.
He finally turned from his monitor, his pale blue eyes finding yours in the low light. "This duality is becoming untenable," he said, his voice low and serious. "This separation of our lives. The Victor who walks through these halls and the Victor who dines with you they are beginning to feel like two different men, and I find I have no desire to be the former anymore."
Your heart gave a nervous lurch. "Victor, what are you saying?"
He stood and crossed the room to where you sat, taking your hands in his. His grip was firm, grounding. "I am saying that I wish to make this official. Not just to ourselves, but in a way that acknowledges what this is. I want you to be my partner, in every sense of the word."
The words you had longed to hear were spoken, but they were immediately followed by a cold wave of fear. "Victor, no," you whispered, pulling your hands back slightly. "We can't. If anyone at Umbrella found out our careers, everything we've worked for... they'd separate us. They'd reassign one of us, or worse. It's against half a dozen corporate protocols."
He didn't look surprised by your reaction. He simply watched you, his expression calm and analytical, as if he had already run the probabilities. "It is a calculated risk," he stated, his voice even. "I have weighed the variables. The probability of discovery is low if we are discreet. The potential consequences are significant, I grant you. But the alternative the alternative is to continue this fractured existence. And I find the emotional cost of that is far greater than any professional risk."
Before you could formulate another protest, he leaned in, closing the small distance between you. His lips met yours, not with the gentle, tentative warmth you were used to, but with a fierce, desperate passion. It was a kiss born of months of restraint, a kiss that tasted of forbidden desire and absolute certainty. It claimed you, silencing your fears with a force that left you breathless and clinging to the lapels of his coat for support.
When he finally pulled back, his breathing was slightly ragged, a rare sign of exertion. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a moment. "My apologies," he murmured, his voice husky and strained. "That was perhaps too forward."
You shook your head, unable to find your voice.
A faint, selfdeprecating smile touched his lips. "It has been a long while," he confessed, his honesty disarming you completely. "A very long while since I have allowed myself to be with someone. I seem to have forgotten my own restraint."
The vulnerability in his admission, the raw, unguarded need he had just shown you, shattered the last of your reservations. The risks were real, but looking at him now, seeing the man who had built walls around his heart for a lifetime letting you in, you knew you couldn't turn back. You reached up and cupped his face, your thumb stroking his cheek.
"Don't apologize," you said softly, your own voice thick with emotion. "Just don't let it be such a long while next time."
The official announcement came via a memo on a crisp Tuesday morning: a mandatory, all-hands-on-deck meeting with the Umbrella executive board to discuss the Raccoon City trials. It was a rare summons, one that pulled even the most dedicated project leads away from their work. Victor, ever the dutiful soldier, straightened his tie and gave you a look of profound regret.
"I'll be back as soon as I can," he murmured, his hand lingering on your shoulder for a moment too long. "Lock the lab behind me. Don't let anyone in without proper clearance."
"I'll be fine," you assured him, though the idea of being alone in the highsecurity lab without his steady presence was unnerving. "Just focus on your meeting. Try not to tell them they're all idiots."
A rare, genuine grin touched his lips. "I make no promises." With a final, lingering glance, he was gone, the heavy door of the lab hissing shut behind him, leaving you in a silence that felt suddenly vast and empty.
The other researchers, a handful of junior scientists, were engrossed in their own workstations, their focus absolute. The lab hummed with a low, productive energy. You turned back to your console, pulling up the latest sequencing data. You had a new hypothesis to test, a potential vector for slowing the T-Virus's aggressive cellular replication. It was delicate work, requiring the utmost concentration.
You were transferring a concentrated viral sample from the cryo-stasis unit to a petri dish for observation. The procedure was routine, something you had done dozens of times under Victor's watchful eye. But as you maneuvered the cryo vial, a fellow researcher at a nearby station dropped a beaker with a loud clatter. The sudden, sharp noise made you flinch, your hand jerking just as you were uncapping the vial.
Time seemed to slow into a horrifying, crystalline nightmare. A single, microscopic droplet of the shimmering, silver-green liquid, invisible to the naked eye, arced through the air and landed directly on your wrist, just below the cuff of your glove. It was nothing, a speck so small it was instantly absorbed by your skin. But in the sterile, deadly environment of the lab, it was everything.
A cold, paralyzing horror washed over you. Your breath caught in your throat, your heart seizing in your chest. You stared at the spot on your wrist as if you could will the contamination away. For a terrifying second, there was nothing. Then, a faint, tingling coldness began to spread from the point of contact, a sickeningly familiar sensation you had only ever read about in pathology reports.
Your career was over. Your life, as you knew it, was over. They would quarantine you, dissect you, and you would become just another cautionary tale in an Umbrella file. But the most soul-crushing thought, the one that sent a wave of nausea through you, was Victor. You had just promised him a future. You had just let him breach every wall he had ever built. And now, you were a walking time bomb, a betrayal of everything you had just sworn to him.
Panic, pure and undiluted, threatened to consume you. But then, his voice echoed in your mind, calm and rational even in the face of chaos. The probability of discovery is low if we are discreet...The emotional cost is far greater than any professional risk.
You had to be discreet. You had to be rational. You couldn't let them take you. You couldn't lose him.
Taking a shuddering breath that felt like inhaling glass, you forced your trembling hands to move. You calmly removed your gloves, disposed of them in the biohazard incinerator, and quickly sanitized your hands and workstation, your movements precise and practiced, a mask of normalcy you had to maintain. The other researchers hadn't noticed a thing.
But you could feel it. A strange, alien energy was beginning to thrum just beneath your skin, a low hum of power that was both terrifying and, in a horrifying way, fascinating. You had to work. You had to use the time you had.
Your mind, sharpened by desperation and months of his tutelage, raced through the data. You couldn't stop the infection, not completely. But you could slow it. You remembered a failed experiment of Victor's, a retroviral inhibitor designed to put the T-Virus into a dormant state. It had been deemed too unstable, its side effects unpredictable. It was your only chance.
With a speed and precision born of pure terror, you began synthesizing the compound. Your hands shook, but your focus was absolute. You worked frantically, pulling up Victor's old notes, cross-referencing the molecular structures, making tiny adjustments on the fly. It was a race against your own biology. Finally, you had it: a syringe filled with a murky, unstable-looking liquid. There was no time for proper testing. Without a second's hesitation, you plunged the needle into your arm and injected the entire vial.
The effect was instantaneous. A searing, agonizing pain shot through your veins, as if your very blood was on fire. You doubled over, biting back a scream as the retroviral agent warred with the T-Virus inside you. It felt like you were being torn apart and stitched back together at the same time. After a few moments that stretched into an eternity, the pain subsided, leaving you weak, trembling, and slick with a cold sweat. The alien hum under your skin was still there, but it was quieter now, muffled. You had bought yourself time. You didn't know how much, but it was something.
You had just cleaned away all evidence of your frantic work and slumped back into your chair, your body aching, when the lab door hissed open. Victor strode in, his expression grim and tired. "The meeting was a waste of time," he said, rubbing his temples. "They are fools, all of them. They cannot see the..."
He stopped mid sentence, his eyes fixing on you. The mask of normalcy you had so carefully constructed felt like it was about to crack. You forced a weak smile, hoping the dim lighting would hide the pallor of your skin.
"Rough meeting?" you asked, your voice sounding thin to your own ears.
He crossed the room in three long strides, his gaze narrowing with analytical concern. He saw you then not the competent researcher, not the secret lover but a version of you that was frayed at the edges. "You look unwell," he stated, his voice low and serious. "Are you feeling alright?"
"Just tired," you lied, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "I was trying to push through that new inhibitor protocol and I think I overdid it. A headache."
His expression softened from concern to something more tender. He reached out, his cool palm coming to rest against your forehead. The simple, caring gesture was like a dagger to your heart. "You're burning up," he said, his brow furrowed. "This isn't just a headache. You need to rest."
"I'm fine," you insisted, pulling back slightly, terrified he would feel the subtle, unnatural thrumming beneath your skin. "Really, Victor. Just a long day."
He studied your face, his piercing blue eyes searching yours for the truth you were desperately hiding. For a heartstopping moment, you thought he saw it. But then, he seemed to accept your explanation, attributing your state to the exhaustion he understood all too well.
"Alright," he conceded, though he didn't look convinced. "But we are done for the day. I'm taking you home. And tomorrow, you will rest. No arguments."
You could only nod, a wave of guilt and relief washing over you. He thought you were just overworked. He didn't know. As he helped you from your chair, his arm a strong, supportive presence around your waist, you leaned into him, a silent, traitorous part of you drawing comfort from the very man you were lying to. You had kept your secret. You had bought your time. But as he led you out of the lab, you felt more alone than ever, a prisoner in your own body, with the clock inside you quietly, relentlessly, ticking away.
The next three years were a fragile, stolen paradise, built on the foundation of a terrible secret. Your love for Victor had become the single, bright point in your life, a sanctuary against the encroaching darkness of the T-Virus dormant within you. He remained your devoted partner, your intellectual equal, the one person in the world who felt like home. He saw your occasional fatigue, the moments when you’d zone out, the low-grade fevers, and he’d simply wrap you in his arms, blaming the stress of your work, never imagining the truth that was slowly rewriting your very cells.
That fragile world shattered when the subpoenas arrived. The official seal of the government tribunal glowed on the data-slate, a stark harbinger of doom. They were calling key Umbrella personnel to testify. Your names were on the list.
Victor read the message, and for the first time since you’d known him, you saw raw, unadulterated fear in his eyes. It wasn't for himself, but for you. The data-slate trembled in his hand before he set it down with a sharp, deliberate click.
"No," he whispered, the word a vow. "They will not get their hands on you. I will not let them take you."
He began to pace, his movements sharp and agitated, a caged animal protecting its most precious treasure. "They don't care about justice. They want scapegoats. They want to parade us before the world, tear our lives apart, and when they're done, they'll throw us in some dark hole and forget about us. I know how these things work. I know what they do to people." He stopped in front of you, his hands gripping your shoulders as if he were afraid you might vanish. "I will not let that happen to you. I would burn the world to the ground before I let them lay a finger on you."
His voice cracked with an emotion you had never heard from him, a desperate, protective fury that was both terrifying and deeply moving. "They can't force a spouse to testify against their partner. It's one of the few legal absolutes they respect." He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks, his gaze searching yours with an intensity that stole your breath. "I know this is... sudden. But it's the only way. Marry me. Here. Now. Let me protect you. Let me be your shield."
This wasn't about strategy or legacy. This was about you. Seeing the raw terror in his eyes, the visceral need to keep you safe, you knew there was only one answer. You nodded, your own eyes filling with tears. "Yes," you whispered. "Yes, Victor."
A wave of profound relief washed over his features. "Thank you," he breathed, before pulling you into a fierce, desperate embrace. "I love you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "God help me, I love you more than I have ever thought possible. You... you see me. You understand the parts of me I thought were dead. You get my mind, my obsessions, my silences... you get it all in a way no one ever has. I cannot lose that. I cannot lose you."
Two hours later, in a quiet, sterile municipal office, you stood before a magistrate. There was no one else in the world but the two of you. When Victor slipped the simple platinum band onto your finger, his touch was reverent, his eyes locked on yours. The words of the ceremony were a blur, a distant hum. The only thing that was real was the promise in his eyes: I will keep you safe.
As you left the office, his arm was a steel band around your waist, holding you close. "Phase one," he said, his voice regaining its customary calm, though the emotion still lingered beneath the surface. "Now, we disappear. We need a fortress. A place where they can't find us, a place where I can build a world for us."
His target was the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center. It had been a premier facility, owned by the Spencer Foundation, but had fallen into disuse after the Foundation's collapse. It was perfect isolated, self sufficient, and equipped with laboratories that were far more advanced than anything the public knew about.
Using the vast, hidden resources he had meticulously accumulated over the years, Victor purchased the entire institution outright. It wasn't just a building; it was a fortress, a sanctuary, a promise.
A month later, you drove through the imposing iron gates of Rhodes Hill. The main building was a grand, Gothic structure of stone and glass, standing silent and solemn against the sky. It was a ghost ship, but to you, it was an ark.
As you stood in the grand, dustchoked lobby, Victor came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder. He held you tightly, as if you were the most precious thing in his new kingdom.
"They will never find us here," he murmured, his voice a low, intimate rumble against your ear. "This is our home now. Our sanctuary. I will spend the rest of my life making sure nothing and no one ever hurts you again." He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. "You're safe now, my love. I've got you."
The first few months at Rhodes Hill were a whirlwind of purpose. Victor threw himself into his new role with a singular focus, transforming the dusty, forgotten hospital into a fully staffed, state of the art research facility. You worked beside him, channeling your nervous energy into creating a home. The stark, sterile walls were soon covered in rich tapestries, the cold labs warmed by soft lighting, and the grand lobby filled with comfortable furniture. It was a strange, beautiful hybrid of cutting edge science and personal sanctuary, a castle built to keep the world at bay. For a while, it almost felt normal.
The illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon. You were in the main library, a room you had personally decorated, trying to catalog a new shipment of medical texts. A wave of dizziness washed over you so suddenly you had to grip the edge of the table to keep from falling. A low, familiar hum began to thrum under your skin, a sound only you could hear, growing louder and more insistent. The room swam in and out of focus, the titles on the book blurring into meaningless shapes. Then, the world simply went black.
You woke up to the soft, rhythmic beeping of a monitor and the sterile, antiseptic smell of a hospital room. But this wasn't just any hospital room. It was one of the private suites at Rhodes Hill, one you had personally overseen the decoration of. Your gaze fell upon the bedside table, and your breath hitched. A crystal vase, filled to the brim with your favorite flowers beautiful blue irises and white lilies sat there, their fragrance a stark contrast to the clinical environment. Victor had remembered.
The door opened quietly, and he stepped inside. He had discarded his lab coat, his expression unreadable, but his eyes... his eyes were hollowed out, ravaged by a grief so profound it seemed to have aged him years in a matter of hours. In his hand, he held a datapad, its screen displaying a complex, double-helix structure that was sickeningly familiar.
He saw you were awake, and he simply stood there for a long moment, the silence in the room heavier than any accusation. Finally, he spoke, his voice a low, rough whisper, stripped of all its usual composure. "All this time."
Your eyes welled with tears, blurring his form. "Victor, I..."
"Why?" he asked, the single word cracking with a pain that went straight to your heart. "Why didn't you tell me?"
Tears began to spill over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. "I didn't want you to be worried," you choked out, the excuse sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "I was so scared. I thought... I thought I could fix it. I didn't want to lose you. I couldn't bear for you to look at me the way you're looking at me now."
He crossed the room in a few strides, setting the datapad down on the table with a sharp click. He didn't touch you, but his presence was a tangible force, a storm of anguish and fury. "Lose me?" he repeated, his voice rising with a devastating, heartbroken incredulity. "You thought I would leave you? You thought my love was so conditional, so fragile, that it would break because you were hurt? I swore an oath to protect you, and you were dying right in front of me, and you didn't trust me enough to let me help you!"
He turned away, running a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I have spent months building this fortress, this entire world, to keep you safe. And the entire time, the enemy was already inside the gates. And you let it in, and you didn't even give me the chance to fight it with you."
When he turned back to you, the fury was gone, replaced by a bottomless well of sorrow. He sank into the chair beside your bed, his gaze fixed on the flowers as if he couldn't bear to look at you. "I swore to you I would find a cure," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, but resonating with a terrible, unshakeable resolve. "I swear it again. I will tear this world apart, molecule by molecule, if that's what it takes. I will not let you go. Do you understand me? I will not lose you."
The discovery of your infection broke something fundamental in Victor. The careful, controlled scientist was eclipsed by a man consumed by a singular, allencompassing purpose: to save you. In his frantic research, he unearthed a project so deeply buried it was practically myth: Project Elpis. Named for the Greek personification of hope, it was Spencer's most ambitious and horrific initiative—a program dedicated to forced evolution and cellular regeneration, using human subjects as raw material. It was a Pandora's Box of unethical experimentation, and in his desperation, Victor was willing to open it.
Rhodes Hill, once a sanctuary, transformed into a place of quiet horror. The lower levels, once storage, were converted into sterile, windowless laboratories. People began to arrive transients, the homeless, those who wouldn't be missed lured by promises of shelter and work. They became his test subjects, his raw materials for Project Elpis. You were confined to your hospital suite, a gilded cage growing more gilded as your condition worsened, the sounds of muffled screams and the scent of antiseptic sometimes wafting up from the floors below.
Victor became a grim, spectral figure in your life. Every day, without fail, he would visit you. He would arrive with a single, perfect red rose, replacing the one from the day before in the vase by your bed. He would sit with you for hours, reading to you from books on genetics and philosophy, his voice a low, steady drone against the weakness that consumed you. He would tell you of his progress, his words a careful mix of scientific jargon and desperate reassurance, but you could see the truth in his eyes. Each failure etched new lines of sorrow onto his face, each dead end chipped away another piece of his soul.
Your strength faded with the passing weeks. The virus, though slowed by your initial injection, was relentless. Getting out of bed became an impossible feat, your muscles too weak, your bones too heavy. You were a prisoner in your own body, and Victor was your warden, your savior, and your tormentor all in one.
One evening, he came to you not with a rose, but with a grim finality. He looked haggard, his lab coat rumpled, his eyes burning with a feverish, unholy light. He sat on the edge of your bed, his weight a familiar comfort, and took your frail hand in his. His touch was gentle, but you could feel a new, raw power thrumming just beneath his skin.
"I have been experimenting," he began, his voice raspy. "The human body is too fragile. Too slow. My mind is willing, but my flesh is weak. I cannot afford weakness. Not anymore."
He slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and your breath caught in your throat. In the center of his chest, a brutal, angry scar was carved into his flesh, a jagged starburst of red and black tissue. At its center, something pulsed with a faint, sickening bioluminescence.
"I have implanted myself with a newly modified Nemesis-γ parasite," he said, his voice devoid of emotion, as if discussing a simple surgical procedure. "It is... a symbiotic fusion. It grants me the strength, the durability, the accelerated healing I need. It allows me to retain my mind, my will, while giving me the body to endure what is necessary. To protect you."
Tears streamed silently down your face. He had done this. He had turned himself into a monster, all for you.
He leaned closer, his pale blue eyes burning with an intensity that was both terrifying and deeply comforting. "I want you to listen to me, my love," he whispered, his grip on your hand tightening. "I do not care who I have to hurt. I do not care how many people have to be sacrificed on this altar. I will tear down every law of God and man to find your cure. You will not leave me. Do you understand?"
You could only manage a weak nod, your heart aching with a love and terror so profound it was indistinguishable.
"You will make this," he vowed, his voice cracking with the weight of his promise. "You will hold on. Because I am coming for you. I am coming to rip this disease out of you, and I will burn this entire world to ashes to do it."
"Your tears are of no relevance to me", Dark!Snape, dead dove, non-con, underage, read the tags on Ao3 carefully!
Reader’s father is one of the Death Eaters responsible for the attack on the Department of Misteries. You are are given to Snape as his own personal toy to do with as he pleases. Very smutty.
Stood-up, three-part series, former student!reader
Your former professor saves you from embarrassment. Smut with some plot.
Cigarette smoke, Profanities and stolen kisses, Slytherin!Student Reader,
Top of your year and Slytherin prefect, you decide to quit your good girl act and pursue that which you really want - Snape. Pure smut.
Various Oneshots:
Speckled Blue Mushrooms
Ministry Documents
Severus and his Sunshine
Petrichor
His Little Pure-blood
Snape x fem!OC
A Stain Upon the Malfoy Name, part of a bigger, not yet written series, friends to lovers, consensual voyerism,
Severus has a dark fantasy he cannot seem to shake - Theodora is very willing to assist him with it.
Snarriet (Snape x fem!Harry Potter)
Between Intrigue, Iced Chai Lattes and Cowardice, ongoing series, OnlyFans!Harriet, shy Severus Snape
Severus Snape is a weak, pathetic man who cannot get enough from this one adult content creator.
Harriet Potter meets an awkward, shy fan and is instantly smitten.
Death of a Fawn, ongoing series, Severitus to Snarriet, Voldemort wins AU, some Harriet/Voldemort
After James is sentenced to Azkaban, Lily surrenders herself to the mercy of Severus to safe her daughter's life. Harriet grows up under Severus' and Voldemort's watchful eyes, loyal to their ideology. Until getting her tongue pierced changes everything between her and her 'stepfather'
Harrie tries to cope through meaningless sex with strangers and Snape decides in order to keep her safe from depraved men only wanting to exploit her he has to become one of them and make it worth her while.
The Perdition of his Redemption, Muggle AU,
Snape is Harrie's godfather, both have developed an inappropriate and persistent crush for each other. Snape's dark past catches up with him and threatens Harrie
La Petite Mort, Muggle AU,
After ending the war, Snape becomes a sex worker, wanting to bring people pleasure rather than pain or simply to numb his own until, one day a new client, damned to die young by a curse, makes him want to live.
Various Oneshots:
The Challenge
Fortunate Misfortune
"Sorry for disturbing you, Mr Demon", Muggle AU
Fuck me, teach, Muggle AU
A Scaly Menace
Snarry
The next best thing
Snapemort (Snape x Voldemort)
Whiskey, Weed and Venom
Snarrietmort (Snape/fem!Harry/Voldemort)
When lightning turned to blood, ongoing series, Muggle AU, Mafia AU, established relationship between Voldemort and Severus
Harriet, the only survivor of infamous serial killer Voldemort, works behind the bar of the popular club Imperius in Camden Town. Lord Thomas Gaunt, knighted philanthropist and crime boss of the biggest international crime syndacite takes an interest in her and everything changes.
A Most Unexpected Turn of Event, Voldemort-wins AU,
Harrie has had enough of being Dumbledore's sacrificial lamb and through a series of unexpected events falls in love with Voldemort. They both set out to seduce Snape.
The Scent of Betrayal, ABO
19 year old Auror Harriet tries to hide her status as Omega from the world with the help of a snarky Potion master. Minister of Magic Thomas Gaunt, who hides a dark past, does his best to tear it all down.
Amsterdam, dead dove
what never belonged to angels (would never belong to men)
Severus Snape x reader x Barty Crouch jr.
Conequence of Deception,
You have been sleeping with two of your professors. What you don’t know is that both have discovered your little scheme, tracing your steps back to each other.
They decide a punishment is in order - but to what extent you could have never foreseen
Severitus
The Enemy of my Enemy, Harriet x Ansgar (OC),
This is Severitus in only the barest sense of Severus & Harriet, but idk where else to put this oneshot lol.
— Victor Gideon x Fem!Reader (Resident Evil Requiem)
Pairing: Dr. Victor Gideon x Fem!Patient!Reader
Fandom: Resident Evil (Requiem)
Word Count: 8k
Synopsis: You’ve been a patient at the Rhodes Hill Chronic Care Center for months now, and despite their constant “treatment”, you never seem to improve.
When a fellow patient points out that the center's director seems to have an eye out for you, you fail to notice ...
Until he makes it clear just how much he knows about you.
Warnings: Explicit 18+, Fem!Reader but not explicitly described, Victor Gideon is a warning on his own, creepy behavior, mental health issues, medical abuse, non-consensual medical procedures, implied past suicidal attempt, implied self-harm behavior, depression, doctor/patient power imbalance, predator/prey dynamics, non-sexual nudity, but he's hella creepy, non-consensual touching, kinda dub-con?, emotional detachment, mentions of childhood neglect, probably inaccurate virological science (idk),
A/N: I need to establish a better taste in men from games, but that voice tho ...
“Nurse Bethany has been giving me a nasty side-eye all morning.”
Whether or not you’re actually paying any attention to what she’s saying, Selena Corey either doesn’t seem to particularly notice or care. She just prefers to speak when there’s someone around her, and today - like most days - it happens to be you.
And you don’t have the energy to deject her.
In her defense, between her and the rather lackluster breakfast presented in front of you on the table, she’s the more noticeable addition to your morning. Exactly what she wants, no doubt.
“Nurse Bethany?” You prod with as much interest as you can be bothered to garner while scooping your scrambled eggs to the left side of the plate. “Doesn’t she always look like someone pissed in her cereal?"
Maybe you could give this mush to either Timothy or Thomas. They’d slurp it like it was a delicacy, no chewing required.
Selena leans closer to your ear, as if to whisper, but her voice doesn’t dim in the slightest. “I bet she’s envious of me.”
A not-so-subtle giggle - like a child - pushes past her lips, and a few strands of her bright-blonde hair tickle your cheek at the exhalation.
“I had Dr. Beckett sneak me that nice bottle of shampoo the other night. You know, that really expensive kind from that fancy store in Wrenwood. She can probably see that. That's why she's looking at me like that. She wants it too.”
You briefly glance at her hair from the corner of your eye, and truth be told, you really can’t spot much a difference. Like always, her hair looks good. Annoyingly good.
She smells fresh, too - floral and sweet. Too sweet, and too strong. Soap and lotion of a fancy kind. A stark contrast to your sterile surroundings.
Smelling salts would've been more merciful to your nostrils.
Selena has always been beautiful - anyone with or without a prescription can see it, but mentioning it aloud might just cause more problems than you're comfortable with. She thrives on attention, and even if you give it to her by the crumbs, she'll inhale it like cocaine.
And if you’re at this center, it’s a given that you already have problems in dire need of specialized, professional aid; you don’t need to tip the scales that determine whether or not you can get out of here at some point. Even if you have no urgency to leave.
You stab your fork through your toast, and force it into your mouth while you reflect on which kind of answer to provide her with that won’t blow out of massive proportion. “Must be that, then.”
Her eyes beam with validation you’re not sure you intended on giving, and she leans even closer to your personal space than you’re comfortable with. The warmth from her body clashes against your own cold temperature, and the sickeningly sweet scent only further irritates your sinuses.
“You see it too, right? I knew you could! It’s so obvious that's it!”
Her shoulder bumps hard into yours, and given what the last doctor said about your iron levels, you’re confident you’ll develop a bruise in a few hours.
“She just can’t stand the fact that she’s past her prime, and I’m flowering into mine!” Selena voices haughtily, almost without a care if anyone could hear and interject with their own opinions on the matter.
You peek over to look at the aforementioned nurse, hoping that your observations will shed some light on the situation you've unwillingly been pulled into.
Nurse Bethany observes the patients from the entrance like she does every day, scribbling on her notepad, seemingly or willfully oblivious to Selena’s typical outbursts. Maybe she’s just used to them? Most of the inpatients and staff here seem to be.
You know you are.
Bored as the charge nurse looks, however, she doesn’t seem to be in a scrutinizing mood based on jealousy. The likelihood is simply that she has a resting bitch face.
But you don't mention it to your table-companion.
“You know,” Selena says - yet again -, her tone now more wistful and airy than moments before. “You can probably borrow some of it, if you want? I think you’d look really dashing if you started caring a bit more about your appearance. I know how to look pretty, and I can help you.”
As she says this, she raises her hand to draw her fingers through your hair. Her nails lightly graze the surface of your scalp, and for a moment, you envision her severing the skin underneath. There's no knowing when her mood might take a turn for the worse, but at this point, you really couldn't care less.
After all, it's the first time anyone's touched you outside of medical necessity.
She probably means well, you think to yourself. In her own special way.
In all the time you’ve known Selena since you first got to Rhodes Hill, she has struck you as someone who knows how to keep her appearance pristine regardless of the resources available, with alarming precision.
That, and her penchant for … charming the male staff members doesn't go entirely unnoticed either.
You can't help but compare her to those girls in fashion magazines with shiny, flawless skin and voluminous hair who write tips and tricks on how to take care of yourself.
And given how you’ve let yourself fall victim to sleepless nights in the time you’ve been here, and even long before, you require neither mirror nor Selena’s comments to know you look like shit.
You're not like her.
“Thanks,” you try your best to give her a simple, albeit tired, smile. Even lifting your lips feels heavy. “But I think it suits you better, Selena. Don't waste it on me.”
“It’s no problem at all.” She pulls her hand away and smiles in that way only she can manage at a place like this without looking too eerie. Like she’s completely somewhere else, and nowhere at the same time. “Dr. Beckett is quite easy to convince. I could … talk to him, for you. Get him to get you a bottle of your own. If you took a little bit better care of yourself, maybe you wouldn’t be so down all the time.”
Down?
That’s what she calls it.
Down.
A superficial but surprisingly accurate word to describe your persistent mood, at least by comparison to your own subjective descriptions of it.
Down in hell.
Down in the cellar.
Just generally down.
The doctors, nurses, and those other specialists have other names for it:
"Major Depressive Disorder" and "Complex PTSD"
That's what they call it.
That's why you're here. To flourish and return to your "normal" self, even if no one here has any idea of what you're like. If you’re honest, you’re not sure you wholly fit the bill for that diagnosis, but you don’t bother to outright fight the allegations.
You have no cash, no family, no other place to be.
You were orphaned following Raccoon City. Your dad was a researcher at Umbrella, and your mom wasn't around.
You vividly remember seeing one of the infected take a chunk of his jugular, and after that, you were alone, and with no other family left, you were quickly thrown into the system to be bounced around at the whims of others. Apathy struck you first, then the anhedonia (phrased perfectly by another shrink), and then the inability to care much about what happened to you.
You just … didn't care anymore. Whether that qualified for a depressive diagnosis or not, you've long since let it be what it is.
You've been hit, kicked, punched, talked down to, and yet none of it has stuck more than a mosquito bite would. You remember being bitten by one of the infected. One of those … monsters - the same one who offed your dad - bit you on the skin surrounding your shoulder, and yet you just … kept living.
Kept going, just as you are now.
Not even the pain registered properly until you somehow got out of there, and it's a miracle no infection took root.
After that, things just ceased to matter.
And now, you are just … here.
By the social worker’s phrasing, you are fortunate that the Rhode Hill Center is a charity care that favors less than financially stable folks.
In fact, the director himself, Dr. Victor Gideon, seemed to personally have wished you here. He was apparently contacted by your PCP at the time, and he didn't waste time accepting you to Rhodes Hill. You hadn't even formally met the man at that point.
If even half the practicing doctors in the world were as enthusiastic about having a new charge as he was, the world would probably be a merrier place.
A philanthropist who, according to the publications, was personally struck during the tragedy of Raccoon City and opened this center as a way to heal the wounded population. It's not every day that an esteemed doctor of his decree takes an interest in you, so what options were you left with?
Between here and nowhere at all, you couldn't afford to be picky.
And among all the other psychiatric facilities you've been admitted to over the years, Rhodes Hill stands out as the best one yet. Good food, decent staff, and individual rooms for its inhabitants. Hell, they even have a casino.
Patients are encouraged to engage with each other socially, and the ones who can't interact with others aren't wholly excluded either, just adjusted to.
All in all, it's a nice enough place.
If Selena’s miracle shampoo from Wrenwood could fix your problems and make you maybe start caring a little more, you might have taken her up on that.
But you don’t, nor do you have the good conscience to let her blow a member of staff to get it for you.
Even though it shouldn’t be physically possible, Selena manages to lean even closer into you, sling her arm around your shoulder, and inch her lips closer to your ear.
“Maybe even Dr. Gideon would look a little longer if you fixed yourself up some more.”
If anything she’s said in the last ten minutes has made you visibly react, it’s that.
Confusion paints your face in a narrowed hue. “What are you talking about?”
She smiles until her teeth - perfectly white, and pearly - are on show, and pulls a little back from you. "He looks at you the most. I don't know why, but I can tell that he does whenever he stops by to greet us. It's like he's … put in a trance."
Her smile threatens to depress at the mention of someone's attention being on someone else other than herself, but she quickly replenishes her strength to keep going with ... whatever it is she intends to keep talking about. "Imagine if you could score the director himself. I bet he could give you a lot of pretty things."
"Score" the director?
For as long as you've known Dr. Gideon (if you can even call it that), he's always struck you as … something else. Not cold, or cruel, or focused solely on the clinical, or whether you're responding to the medication more than he needs to. You're experienced with shrinks of that caliber, but you can't say that he quite fits the bill on that front.
He asks you specifically how you are, most of the time. Asks questions none of the other doctors have, and seems to have an insatiable curiosity regarding you and your history.
He stands out from the other staff with his overwhelming stature and the sole fact that he basically runs this place. His voice is smooth, his skin pale, and he never seems to get caught off-guard by the many … events that sometimes occur. Unperturbed, even when Thomas Jackson once threatened to eat him whole.
He never raises his voice to anyone - a testament to his experience in this field.
And the times he's directly touched you, usually in relation to blood work and tests, his skin feels inexplicably cold against your own.
Too cold, like he had nothing but ice resting underneath.
Maybe you should have noticed more, like Selena claims?
If you were to put a word to Dr. Gideon, it would be … odd.
Not bad, or condescending, or creepy in an inherent way apparent to you.
Just … odd.
"I'm just one of his patients," you tell her, as neutral as you can while shoving your plate a few inches away. The food is supposed to be exemplary - a luxury compared to what they provide other psychiatric patients in the rest of the county. But the taste is … bland, and unappealing to your palate. Might be the medication they've put you on that's fucked with your tongue. "He cares as much for me as he does the rest."
You can already tell that she doesn't find your answer satisfactory. She wants you to affirm her observations. With words. Always words, and if you do it with a complimentary smile, she might offer to kiss you.
You're afraid that if you agree with what she's said without any scrutiny, she'll consider you her one true love in this world.
"He stares a lot. I notice."
"You notice a lot of things, Selena."
"I notice the way people look at me." Her frown deepens. "Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."
If it's true what she says - which you somewhat doubt - you haven't noticed it.
Before anything else can be said by either of you, you feel an overwhelming figure cast a shadow over the table where you're seated.
"Are you going to eat that?" Timothy asks, salivating at the sight of your barely touched breakfast. The crumbs on the edges of his lips suggest he's already finished his own, but between the options of him and the trash, the choice is easy.
You push the plate towards him. "Have at it, Tim."
The overweight man doesn't even have the time to properly say "thanks" before he's already forcing the scrambled eggs and toast into his mouth with his fingers. In fact, you doubt he's even chewing it properly.
Selena scrunches her nose at the rather unflattering display.
"Mr. Jackson!" Nurse Bethany yells as she approaches your table. "You have already exceeded your 500-calorie limit for today's breakfast!"
You take this cue to get up from your seat, not wanting to be here in case Timothy gets aggressive about his food. Again. "Thank you for the meal."
As you're leaving, you can hear Selena intruding upon the already fragile situation, as per usual.
"Oh, let him eat. He's a big boy; he needs the energy."
"Please return to your seat, Miss Corey."
"Why? You've been jealous of me all morning, and now you think you can just order me around? Is that it?! Who do you think you are?!"
"Sit. Down. Miss Corey!"
"Don't you — LET GO OF ME, YOU BITCH!"
By the time you shut the cafeteria doors behind you, you hear shouting and screaming, and you have to quickly move to the side as several additional nurses rush past you to de-escalate the situation. Something shatters, Selena's screams resonate through the walls, and you can safely assume that sedatives are a must.
You look back over to the entrance to the kitchens, and while you can't tell what's going on, your best guess, given Selena's declining whines, is that she's already gotten her shot. Again.
"I see Miss Corey needs to have her dosage adjusted."
You should have been able to sense him before he even spoke; that coldness that seeps through the fabric of his coat into the air around you. Yet, you don't properly register his presence before he steps next to you, dwarfing your size by comparison.
"Dr. Gideon." You think that passes for an appropriate greeting, flat as it sounds.
"Good morning, my dear." He looks down at you with a polite yet relaxed smile, his arms folded neatly behind his back. The unnatural amber hue of his eyes pierces through your own with a sharp precision that only comes naturally to doctors. "I do hope Miss Corey didn't interrupt your meal. I've read reports that she tends to float in your vicinity, early in the mornings as of late."
"I'm good," you answer and shift your attention back to the cafeteria entrance.
On cue, the doors open, and both you and Dr. Gideon watch as several members of staff escort a rather dazed-looking Selena out. She's smiling and singing and airily caressing any male staff she can get her hands on, letting her fingers graze their ironed shirts while humming softly as they transport her back to her room.
There is blood coated under her nails, and Nurse Bethany sports a fresh set of three superficial scars running down her left cheek.
Ouch.
"Dr. Gideon," Nurse Bethany calls, out of breath, but impressively composed. "How would you like us to proceed with Miss Corey?"
"Yes," Dr. Gideon says, staring at her. More specifically, the scratch across her face. Transfixed, you would call it, but you're probably mistaken. "I'll look over her Lithium dosage, just make sure she's ... comfortable."
Nurse Bethany nods, then shifts her attention to you. "I saw you speaking with Miss Corey. Did you talk about anything in particular that might shed some light on this …?"
"Not really," you answer. "She basically said I could afford to look better, and that you were jealous because she's pretty."
The charge nurse frowns, mumbles something incoherent under her breath that vaguely resembles cursing, then leaves to rejoin the other staff members in escorting the aforementioned patient.
Your eyes follow them until they disappear around the corner.
"It's a shame," Dr. Gideon says, vaguely disappointed in a way that doesn't properly show on his countenance. "I initially believed she had finally begun responding to the treatment."
"If it's any consolation, our conversation did revolve around shampoo for a minute."
"Oh?"
"It was calm, for the most part. She had recommendations."
He takes a whiff of the air above him, and his mouth curls a little, like he doesn't like what he's smelling. "I thought I scented something different than the center's standard array."
"That's most likely it."
"You wouldn't happen to know how she acquired said product?"
"I have an idea, and I think you do, too."
If a scowl spreads across his lips, it's a subtle one that evades your notice. He heaves a sigh under his breath and looks over his shoulder to where the staff was previously. "Men are fickle things. Too easily distracted from their assignments once matters of the flesh are presented to them. It seems I will need to do a thorough investigation if Miss Corey is to yield results with her treatment."
Matters of the flesh? Slightly outdated way to speak of giving head if you're being honest, but you don't point it out.
He looks at you again, and his expression softens slightly. "Otherwise, how are you, my dear? Have you been resting adequately?"
You spend a second thinking of an answer that will satisfy him. "I'm … adequate?"
Kind of true, but also not. You're either sleeping too much or not at all.
If you go to bed too early, you're susceptible to waking up early in the night with an aggravating inability to fall back asleep.
If you sleep for too long, you still don't feel rested at all by the time you wake up.
At this point, you've settled on a routine where you just let your head hit the pillow and let your body do what it wants.
If he sees through your lie, he doesn't mention it. Maybe he already knows you're not being entirely truthful, and just elects to leave it be. Not typical for the standard kind of doctor you've visited in the past, but then again, Dr. Gideon is hardly of the standard stock.
He says your name, soft yet firm, like an exasperated parent who's caught their child up past their bedtime. Ironic as that comparison is, it's hard not to feel small when he's towering over you the way he is. "For us to have success with your treatment plan, I need you to be forthcoming with me."
Well, when he puts it like that …
"I do get some sleep," you admit after some careful thinking. Why bother lying when it's clear that he sees through it? If you didn't know any better, you'd think he wore some kind of visor to see past bullshit barriers. "Sometimes a few hours, sometimes the entire night. I just don't feel … rested. Thought the mirtazapine would help, but it just makes me fall asleep quicker, not longer."
He takes a step closer to you, which only further establishes the height difference between you. You're convinced that if he were to try, he could encompass the entirety of you. The unmistakable smell of antiseptics and other chemicals for which you have no name overwhelms your sinuses to a stinging degree. More so than Selena's shampoo ever did.
You remember your father smelling of the same stuff whenever he came home from work, when you were awake to catch him.
Dr. Gideon slowly raises his finger to your face and just barely touches your cheek. Even with a distance, you can still feel the cold spread across your face. It would only take a marginal shift for him to physically touch you, but he doesn't.
"Periorbital edema is always a good indicator."
He tilts his head slightly to the side, like he's observing you.
He is observing you.
Selena's words resurface in your mind: "Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."
You try to pinpoint the exact way he's looking at you, but nothing comes to mind.
He doesn't look at you like Dr. Beckett looks at Selena when he thinks he's being discreet.
He doesn't look at you the same way Timothy or Thomas looks at their food. Insatiable. Desperate.
But he is looking at you in some kind of way; you just lack the vocabulary necessary to describe specifically what kind of way that is.
"If you wish, I can prescribe you a low dose of zopiclone." He promptly lowers his hand again, but his eyes don't leave you. They never do.
"Thanks, but they already tried that at the facility back in Wrenwood. Didn't really do much for me but give me migraines."
"Nevertheless, it is prudent that you get enough REM sleep. I've also been informed by the nurses that you rarely finish your meals."
You offer a shrug that just barely passes for one. More of a lift of the left shoulder than a gesture of indifference. "I've never had much of an appetite."
He looks at you, and you look at him. A minute goes by without any of you saying anything, but you can tell that he's doing his best to suppress a sigh akin to the one he produces when Selena's having another one of her episodes.
"I wish to take some tests, if the timing is convenient for you."
Before you can answer, he puts his hand on your back and starts guiding you towards the laboratory. While his touch is light, you doubt you could physically resist him even if you put all your muscles into it (which you don't have a lot of).
"… Sure."
The edge of his scarred lip tilts upward by a fraction.
───
Maybe Selena had a point to her rant, rare as they are? Maybe you should start paying more attention to the way he's acting around you?
You don't even feel the needle as it pierces through your skin, nor does the sight of your blood filling several tubes do anything to rattle you. At this point in your life, you've probably become anemic with all the blood that's been taken out of you over the years alone.
You don't even question why he seems to take more than the standard kind of blood tests you've grown accustomed to.
"It's just to see whether your thyroid is functioning properly," he assures you. "As well as a CBC."
Looking at him looking at the vials as they fill up, it's almost like he's … expectant of something.
With your head resting in your other hand while he does his job, you ignore the way his fingers linger on the exposed skin of your arm. Goosebumps have already erupted across the entirety of your arm like wildfire. "Thought my blood work looked good enough last week?"
"It did. Slightly elevated CRP levels, and mild anemia, but nothing too alarming."
"I'll live, then?"
"Hmm …"
Once the third vial is filled to the brim, he gives it a few gentle shakes before replacing it with another.
As the new vial gradually fills, you notice that he gives the filled one a closer look. Pointed. Analytical. Curious. It's like he has questions, and only the crimson liquid in your veins can provide answers.
"You should never underestimate the lengths your body will go to keep you alive." He doesn't look at you as he says this, just maintains focus on the tube like it's the patient, and not you. "You were vaccinated as a child, correct? Your medical journal doesn't tell."
You nod. "My dad did it himself. Perks of being a researcher with an MD. Saved us trips to the hospital."
"How … fortunate." He puts the vial back on the tray to join the previous ones. Four vials now out of (five, six …) seven, enough to make you wonder what other kinds of tests he's taking, if you were the kind to wonder.
"What did his research entail, might I ask?" he continues.
"Not sure. All I knew was that he wasn't around too often, so it must have been interesting."
Truth be told, the memory of your father isn't sour, but it's not inherently sweet either. He was up before the sun, and back around the same time. He didn't hug you, or say much to you, really.
He was there, and then he wasn't.
Injecting you with those vaccines was probably the closest thing you ever got to a father-daughter activity. It was the only thing he seemed to want to spend time doing himself with you, rather than hiring someone to do it for him, as he did with everything else.
One of the previous shrinks you visited suggested that your apathy towards life is directly linked to his absence, both before and after Raccoon City. A bold assumption, but like with everything else going on, you don't bother to debunk it.
Dr. Gideon finishes with the rest of the vials in complete silence. Had it not been for his chest heaving with each breath he takes, you might have guessed that he didn't require air to function.
When he's done, he puts a cotton ball over the injection side. "I should have the results by tonight, and if there are any significant deficiencies, I'll let you know before I clock off." He puts the vials aside. "However, considering that your previous tests revealed some vitamin deficiency, I'm going to give you a shot of B12 before I let you resume with your day."
"Another one? That bad, huh?" It's the third one this month.
"Less than ideal, I'm afraid."
As he reaches for something in the cabinet by the door, you watch his back and find yourself - for once - wondering.
How come this doctor - this one specifically - seems to be the only one in the last decade or so who genuinely seems to have a regard for your well-being? Your previous ones never put this much time and effort into you, even when you were younger and significantly more impaired.
Hell, not even your old man cared that much, and maybe you'd have been a little more well-adjusted if he did.
The pulse heaters you continue to wear to this day - even years after that little misstep you made when you were a teen - prove it.
You didn't get it. You still don't.
He's not like Dr. Beckett, who gives privileges to Selena if she gives him a good mouth-to-mouth demonstration.
He's never struck you as the salacious kind of person - though, to be fair, you probably wouldn't have cared if he were.
So, why all of this extra effort?
"If it's that bad, I'll try to get my Five A Day," you try, and for once, there's a genuine attempt at humor lodged somewhere between the letters. Weak, but present nonetheless. More than Selena's ever managed to get out of you. "Best to save your shot for someone who actually has one, Dr. Gideon."
He pauses for a moment, then slowly looks over his shoulder at you. There's something … unsettling in his eyes this time, as though you've insulted him in some way, without meaning to.
He doesn't blink, doesn't seem to breathe, and he doesn't speak. It uncannily reminds you of the way a snake looks just before it strikes its prey.
Once again, Selena's cryptic words make a reentrance in your mind.
"Dr. Gideon doesn't look at me like he looks at you."
Softly, he asks: "My dear, whatever do you mean?"
Tempted as you are to look away and focus on something other than those unnerving eyes of his, you don't.
"Treatment is for appreciative people," you explain, placid despite the weight behind your words that would've made an ordinary psychiatrist grow pale with occupational concern. "People who can actually contribute to their surroundings. I'm … Well, no one. I have nothing and no one. Me dying wouldn't affect anyone. So, why put so many Band-Aids over a gaping wound that refuses to close?"
You remember saying something similar to your psychologist in the past. For that, you were put on an involuntary psychiatric hold for three days, deemed a danger to yourself, and only allowed to eat under supervision and with those horrible wooden utensils that rendered the taste of your food just as wooden.
It's not like the fact that you're alone makes you sad. Not anymore. There's something slightly liberating to know that even if you were to pass on, from an accident or an illness or by simple happenstance, the world will keep spinning after you're gone.
No one is chained to you in a way that matters.
You look at Dr. Gideon, and he just keeps staring at you. Whether he's surprised, cautious, concerned, or even angry, you can't tell. He's never been easy to read, and now, you find yourself curious as to what he thinks.
Maybe he'll finally deem you a lost cause, like so many others have?
Maybe he'll confine you to your room in restraints and pump you full of drugs until you physically cannot do anything to yourself, even if you wanted to?
Maybe he'll discharge you to another care facility?
The sound he makes next almost makes you raise your eyebrow in confusion.
"Oh,"
Like always, his tone is mild, but now, it feels deeper somehow. Like he's pitying you without really pitying you. As if he's seeing something so obvious that it's a tragedy that you can't.
"You have no idea how special you truly are."
You can only watch as he procures a pre-filled syringe from the cabinet and closes in on you. His steps are measured, slow, as though he's approaching an animal in a trap that's grown weary of fighting against the sharp edges. It's a good thing you've long since outgrown your fear of needles, because that image would've otherwise made even the bravest soldier quiver.
"There's no one in this world like you." He whispers your name like it's a secret only he truly knows of. "I can assure you that if you were to pass, I would be devastated."
Then he does something that makes you damn-near short-circuit.
With his unoccupied hand, he reaches forward and places his fingers gently on your cheek. Not a caress, not truly, but intimate nonetheless in ways you are unaccustomed to. It's not like Selena, whose touches and caresses feel consuming and overwhelming despite being considerably smaller compared to Dr. Gideon.
It feels light … and genuine, in a way you can't describe or properly understand.
The chilly temperature of his digits spreads from your face down to your toes, yet you don't move away.
You can only continue to look at him.
"Even if you do have your reservations, I have no intention of letting you die. This, I swear."
And the strangest thing yet: You believe him. You believe that he will not allow you to die, even if you were to attempt it yourself. An animal in a gilded cage cannot harm itself without the handler noticing.
He removes his hand from your face, slowly, then gestures for you to fall into a position you've already grown used to.
You're not sure if it's your brain messing with you or not, but you swear that this injection feels … sharper.
───
That night, you lie shivering in bed with a fever spike of 104. The Tylenol the nurse administered just a few hours ago didn't work for shit when you first began to notice that you were coming down with something.
You never come down with anything, not this intensely. Every fever you've ever had has been mild at worst, or subfebrile. It passes quickly and never settles long enough for you to notice.
But now you do.
Reluctantly, you called the nurse, and before you knew it, you were surrounded by all kinds of staff who took different tests, blood work, vitals, and hung up a liter or two of saline. You've never been susceptible to infections, but judging by the nervous look that the new intern got on his face when they took your vitals, you got an inkling that something was seriously wrong with you.
Well, outside of the usual, that is.
Everything hurt.
Everything is a blur.
Your body is soaking through all of your covers.
You taste blood in your mouth.
Needles poke your arms at a rapid interval, but they are a kindness compared to the ones already piercing through your organs and your head.
If you were truly dying, you might have had some more reservations about it if you knew it was going to hurt like such a bitch.
More blood is drawn, more staff appear whose faces you can't even register beyond the haze of your mind, and then, everything turns dark.
At first, it's overwhelming. You feel hands touching you, large ones, grasping at you with bruising intensity like you're dangling above a cliff and they're unwilling to let you descend into the abyss.
But it's too much … too intrusive. You don't like it.
Let go.
Let go.
LET GO!
You claw, and you grasp, and you scratch. Like an animal. Like a rabid beast in need of euthanasia.
Warm wetness coats your nails. You hear your own shriek reverberating around you, and yet the invisible hands don't relent at all.
They keep clutching you, undeterred by the physical mutilation of their flesh.
Then you hear it, quiet yet loud at the same time.
"Shhhh …"
"Rest now,"
"We have much to do."
And then you disappear.
───
When you wake, you don't feel pain.
You don't feel cold or soaked anymore.
You feel … fine.
That's what surprises you.
Exhausted. Depleted of any kind of energy, but … fine.
The more you stir, the more you gradually begin to notice.
Something is carefully stroking through your hair. Gently. Like they're braiding through something fragile of significant worth. No one has ever stroked their fingers through your hair before, and it feels … strangely soothing.
You want to fall back asleep and hope that you can get a full night's sleep for once.
"Are you finally awake, my dear?"
You blink once, then twice, and the room - and figure seated by your bed - finally aligns in your vision.
Dr. Gideon looks down at you, a gentle smile spread across his lips as his fingers continue to weave through your knotted strands. "I was almost worried that you wouldn't wake, but I'm glad to see that you continue to pull through as you always have."
You try to say something. Anything. But your throat is dry, and despite evidence of an IV in your arm, the bag of saline that's connected to you has partially failed to do its job. The words you attempt to pronounce instead come out as incoherent gargles that promptly force you to cough for several harsh rounds.
"Here."
You don't fight him when he leans over to tilt your head back, his hand firm against the back of your skull, nor do you object to the feeling of cold water intruding upon your mouth. You cough and gag at the first drop, but it doesn't take long before you're all but inhaling the liquid.
"There, now," Dr. Gideon coos as he pulls the empty glass away, waiting for you to catch your breath again with a pleased look in his eyes. "Doesn't that feel better?"
"What—" You struggle to gather and recognize your own voice, your thoughts still hazy and disorganized. "What … happened?"
Dr. Gideon spends another minute just … staring at you, tilting his head to change angle now and then, like he's looking for something. Anything. You don't know what it is he's searching for, but after a short while, he finally decides to answer your inquiry.
"Something truly … miraculous. You are miraculous."
You don't feel miraculous. If anything, you feel a flicker of annoyance at his intentional inability to elaborate.
Though your body feels like lead, you still force yourself to sit up. The position is crooked and likely doomed to fail, but it provides a window for you to properly look at him now.
"What happened?" you ask again, more forceful this time.
Dr. Gideon releases a soft hmm through his nose, looking completely in awe at what's presented in front of you. You don't know why he would. Even if you don't have a mirror, you can only assume you look like shit.
You think he will deflect again. Say something cryptic that only he knows the context of.
"Did you know that your father was a prominent researcher for Umbrella?"
You didn't expect that.
"What?"
"Oh, yes. He wasn't much liked, but you couldn't deny his efficiency."
"… What does that have to do with anything?"
He leans closer, as if to whisper a secret only you can know.
"Everything."
He gets to his feet and starts slowly circling your bed. A vulture, you imagine him as. Soaring over prey that has yet to expire.
"I only ever met the man once. We worked at separate divisions, but his reputation was … recognized. A scientist of unrivaled decree. No one knew much about him, nor did he seem like the sort who willingly engaged with people outside his designated area."
He stops and looks to you again, as if alternating between different inclinations might give him more information. "To discover that he had a daughter he left behind was … unexpected."
You want to say something, but you imagine that he'll take your silence as permission to continue, so you don't bother with interrupting him this time.
He rests his hand on the bedpost, dragging his fingers slowly from one corner to the other. "Have you never wondered why you've never been sick? Physically, I mean. No long-lasting records of bacterial or viral infections in your history? No acute case of appendicitis? Or meningitis? Or even a simple staph infection from using a bottle shard to sever your skin. Now, isn't that odd?"
You briefly glance down at your wrists. The heaters are gone - probably taken off to check for viable veins to insert the IV. The doctor assigned to you following that incident said it was fortunate that you survived, and you never gave thought to how or why. Only that you failed.
It was just … miraculous, by his phrasing.
You're really starting to dislike that word.
"When Umbrella declared bankruptcy years ago, numerous documents were confiscated and eradicated. A contingency in case someone of my Master's caliber decided it was worth picking up. Many have, and so far, none have succeeded." He frowns as he says this, and this time, he looks truly displeased. "Idiots, thinking they could simply replicate Spencer's work."
It only lasts for a second before he resumes.
"However, I managed to get my hands on several of them before the government seized the remaining assets." He opens the inside of his coat to pull out what looks to be a document of sorts, text invisible to you as he lets his eyes drift across the content. "Your father managed to do what few had done before. He managed to develop a serum to completely counter the effects of the T-Virus."
The T-Virus?
"What is that?"
"My Master's greatest work, and the cause of his downfall. Partially, the reason why Raccoon City was sterilized in the manner it was."
Spencer?
T-Virus?
You swear you've heard these names and words before, but you can't recall. Maybe your old man mentioned them sometime in passing?
You should have questions, a hell of a lot of them. They are circling your head, a whirlwind of who and what and when and whys, yet none manage to gain coherence.
What did your father do?
What did he do to you?
What is all this?
But you don't ask them. Not yet. You just keep looking at him through a narrowed lens, hoping he will come to some kind of point.
Dr. Gideon puts the document down on the bed by your feet, expecting you to take it. Though you eye it warily, torn between caution and curiosity, you don't pick it up.
"Your father's serum, however, was flawed. It could not erase virus in hosts already infected, nor could the immune systems in adults tolerate exposure in the way he desired. Every attempt, every procedure, was doomed to fail. The bodies broke, time and time again. He went through thirty-six before he elected to turn to a different approach altogether."
When he looks at you next, you can somehow already tell he's implying.
"He had you. The moment you exited your mother's womb, he had his work cut out for him." He bends a little to tap pointedly at the document. "Introduction to the antigen before you were even a day old. Controlled exposure to a modified strain, repeated again and again. Letting your body adapt to it as you grew.
Every injection, every exposure, every test, every drop of blood drawn, he had it documented. No cognitive impairment, no physical deformity, no mutation."
His smile spreads further and further with every word he says. "Isn't that miraculous? You were reportedly found with a prominent bite mark by the paramedics who rescued you, and yet, you had nothing more than a mild fever at worst, and a full recovery without intensive care."
He sits down by the edge of the bed, and the hinges creak loudly at this added weight. Without having to lean too close, he carefully pulls the collar of your shirt to the side, exposing the residual scar that's served as a constant reminder of your survival for almost twenty years.
The smile on his lips suggests he finds the view pleasing, and he can't keep himself from letting his fingers drift over it.
"Near-complete immunization."
You don't look at him, even as his cold fingers slide across your skin with what you can only assume is manic glee.
The revelation that you were not born, but bred, should send you into some kind of existential shock.
Anger. Resentment.
You should curse the man who gave you life only so that he could determine the outcome.
But you don't.
Your father is dead. Has been for years. His skeletons remain his own, however deep they're buried, even if you are the ones having to carry them in you.
You look at Dr. Gideon from the corner of your eye. "Did you do something to me?" you finally ask, vaguely surprised by your ability to stay subdued, even now. "Is that why I got sick?"
His hands stop just above your clavicle. "Modified strains of the T-Virus. Different from the kind your father used, but necessary for me to confirm my hypothesis. I've used mild doses up until yesterday, but I had to be certain, and I was right."
You fully turn your face to look him directly in the eyes, and now, you understand.
"You've been infecting me all along."
Your presence here was not because of an altruistic doctor who saw an impoverished patient and decided to step in to provide aid and stability.
Everything was designed for this outcome.
You are not a patient. You were never a patient.
You are a subject.
You were always a subject, from the moment you took your first breath.
His fingers lift from your skin, but he doesn't move away. Not entirely. Seated as he is now, you're not sure you could evade him, even if you tried. "You were difficult to track down. Patient confidentiality, you see, can be a nuisance to bypass. I tried for years to locate you, yet you were like a moth. Never at the same light twice. So, when Dr. Henry from Wrenwood Facility himself wrote to me about a possible transfer with your name, I knew it was meant to be."
Meant to be? Weird way to phrase it, like divinity had some part to play in this whole situation.
You're not devout in the slightest, and you're not about to start now.
"I can see you have questions, but first," Like before, he takes a deep breath through his nose. Of your air. "you need a bath."
A bath?
Just as he stands up, the door opens, and Nurse Bethany enters. Upon seeing you awake and alert, she looks visibly relieved.
"Nurse Bethany, would you be so kind as to prepare her a bath downstairs?" Dr. Gideon asks, courteous as ever, with no evidence of what's just transpired on his face.
"Of course, Dr. Gideon." She gestures for you to come with her.
───
The water scalds your bare skin as you descend into the tub, yet it's a comfortable kind of scalding. Not warm enough to hurt, just enough to make you come back to the reality of your situation. Soap has already been added, coloring the water to a white hue, and effectively blocking the view of the rest of you.
Thoughts come and go, more questions, no answers.
Umbrella.
Your father.
T-Virus.
Raccoon City.
Immunity.
Apparently, you're not entirely normal. You've never been entirely normal, and you don't know how to feel about it.
The cells in your body were altered, adapted, and used to fit the whims of a man who is no longer around to claim credit for his product. Everything was planned, and you had no part in it. No autonomy. No choice.
Your body is not your own. It never has been.
What should you feel about it? Is there anything to feel about it? Your body recovers, and your mind has to pick up the weight as compensation instead.
Maybe your head is so heavy because your body isn't?
So, your old man decided to play god and fuck around with your immune system to survive some kind of fictitious-sounding virus that turns out to be the cause for your home city being blown to shit.
So, the director of your hospital turns out to be an odd scientist with a penchant for subjecting his patients to experiments?
It doesn't change anything in a way that matters to you.
You're still here.
You dip your head under the water, and you don't resurface for what you hope is a while. You stay under until your lungs threaten to give in, until you feel the pressure in your head threaten to break open your cranium. It doesn't sound anatomically correct, but what does it matter?
What matters anymore?
Just as you start to feel light-headed, a loud slam ruptures in the bathroom, and you quickly resurface with a gasp.
Dr. Gideon stands in the entrance, his coat folded neatly in his arms, looking like he's exactly where he's supposed to be.
"Personally, I find death by drowning in a bathtub to be terribly wasteful."
You drag your hand over your face to wipe off some of the water. "Wasn't planning on it."
"Good."
You stare into the water, even as you hear his measured steps echo around until he's right behind the bathtub. Right behind you.
You continue to stare even as you feel his cold, long hands clamp down on your shoulders. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to ground.
And you continue to stare ahead, even as you feel him lean forward and place his head right next to your own.
"I made sure to purchase a specific brand of shampoo from a store in Wrenwood," he whispers, smooth and inviting. The picture of domesticity. "Miss Corey recommended it."
You don't answer.
"While her behavior might be rather incendiary on occasion, she is right about one thing." He raises his head to look further down at you. "We need to take care of ourselves and the bodies we are born with, regardless of the circumstances life might throw at us. We are born with one, and we die with it."
His left hand lifts off your shoulder, only for those freezing fingers to travel down the slope of your back.
"I know you have had difficulties with it, and you feel lost, but you need not worry anymore. I will take care of you. You might not be the key to Elpis, but that does not diminish your worth. Not to me."
You finally turn around to look at him from over your shoulder, and you finally understand it.
The way he looks at you.
The obsession painted behind his irises.
You notice his arms. They are covered in scratches, some patched and sutured, others uncovered and unhealed.
On display like battle wounds he wears with pride.
"What happened to your arms?"
"Oh? These?" He raises his right arm, looking over them with inexplicable fondness. "Just a scared cat, is all. A frightened, lonesome little critter, digging through the garbage." A glint of his teeth peek past his lips. "But not to concern yourself, my dear. I found it a good home."
He gazes just as fondly back down at you.
"It is exactly where it belongs."
For the first time in a long one, for just a moment, you feel ...
