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You’re in the hallway again.
The admin block, you think? The candles lining either side of the hall seem familiar enough. Your steps are slow and staggered, each movement forward being almost too much for your exhausted body.
Idly, you drag your hand across the wall you pass, feeling the still wet blood of Martin’s scrawled words and paintings smear beneath your touch. ‘God hates sickness’ is left smudged across the wall, your fingers dirtied with someone else’s blood. You can smell the smoke coming from behind you. The screams from the chapel are faint, but still lingering in the background of your daze.
You take another slow step forward, heaving out a low groan of pain. “And I don’t believe I’m going to miss him.” Your own voice rings out, but not from your mouth. The sentiment echoes through the hallway as you cough, inhaling another lungful of smoke. You need to move faster. You need to forget the bodies behind you- the men burning themselves alive for the sake of their own delirium. You need to forget about the man you’d left strung up to a cross. “He wants me to spread his gospel. I’ll tell the whole fucking world.” Your voice rings out again.
“Shut up- Shut up.” You smack your head. You drag your fingers down the side of your face, smearing blood across your cheek. You inhale again, only to wind up sputtering at the taste of smoke in the back of your throat. “Just-“ You heave again. You’re sweating under the heat, your knees threatening to buckle out from beneath you.
“My Mom’s lawsuit. How is it- Yes, I know.” A voice that’s estranged yet all too familiar follows your weak stuttering. “The blood dreams of Doctor Trager, yeah. They showed me the truth. How is it?”
You groan again, your hands now gripping at your hair. You’ve stopped moving, the effort of keeping up with your sluggish pace quickly becoming too much for you.
It’s too hot. Your chest feels too tight. Your vision is blurring.
“Killing you would be an act of kindness.” You hear yourself call again.
“She’s dead? No, she- She can’t be dead. She can’t be.” Someone else’s voice calls out. It isn’t a conversation. It’s snippets, echoing memories of yours and someone else’s pain.
“Fuck it all. Break it all. He has to die.” Your own voice rings in your ears again. Your words dig deep into your chest once again, the bitterness and desperation behind them leaving you shuddering. Coughing again, you heave up a weak mouthful of spit. Drool slips down your chin as you try to focus your gaze forward.
The hall is clouded with smoke. It’s growing thicker by the moment, hazy with the intensity of the fire burning just behind you. Up ahead is a set of double doors.
You know what’s behind them. You know who’s waiting behind them. The swaying chains, bloodied hands and snarled promises of release from all of this. You keep finding yourself thinking that it would’ve been better to take the soldier up on his reassurances. On his promises of ending the pain. Of letting you rest.
You need to keep moving.
Despite your own body fighting you, you manage to drag one foot forward. Then another. You’re shaking with the urge to just crumple there and die, to allow the rising flames to engulf you and end it all then and there. You don’t want to die like this. Neither of you want to die like this. ‘I want to go home’, a part of you thinks. You don’t have a home, you argue back. All you have is yourself. All you have is now.
You sputter again, slowly extending a hand, reaching outwards towards the door handle. The hiss of pain that rips from your lips is completely involuntary as you’re caught off guard by how hot the handle has gotten. The metal is burning to the touch, only growing in temperature by the second. Despite the way you feel your palm almost sizzling at the touch, you grip tighter with your remaining fingers and you turn it to the side. You practically throw yourself at the door, barreling through it, sure to land in the arms of a man who promised to make it all end. You know it’s certain death. You just need to escape the way the smoke threatens to suffocate you. You need anything but a slow death, spent choking on clouded air.
For a moment, you just fall forward.
When you make contact with the ground, your eyes snap open. The gasp you choke out echos for a moment as your unsteady hands assess the ground beneath you. Carpet. It’s just normal carpet, not streaked with blood or covered in puddles of wax from ritual candles left burning too long. The smell of smoke is gone, the ache of your burnt flesh is gone.
You blink, slowly, trembling as you drag yourself up and onto your knees.
You’re alone. There’s no one waiting for you. No hands waiting to tear you to pieces, no gritted teeth waiting to whisper more reassurances of a swift end.
You’re in the ward again. Not Mount Massive. Not the asylum. It’s been months since the asylum, you remind yourself. You’ve been sleepwalking again. “Fuck..” You mutter under your breath, taking a moment to inhale, trying to steady just how fast your heart is racing in your chest. The hallway is dark, only illuminated by a few glowing signs hung overhead, hung there to point staff in the right direction. The gentle red glow of their LED’s is all the light you have to assess the mess you’re in.
You’re in your sleepwear; just an oversized shirt, some socks and your boxers. Which, you come to realise the longer you sit in them, are soaking wet. As you settle further into reality, you’re becoming all too aware of the faint stench of piss coming from between your legs. The fabric of your underwear clings to your inner thighs, the mess of it running down your shaking legs. No doubt it’s already soaked into the carpet beneath you. “Fuck.” You mutter again, your unsteady hands reaching up, rubbing at your tired eyes, trying to fight off the sleep. As though waking up fully would do anything to shake the lingering distress from your nightmare.
You’re back in the ward. Where in the ward, though? You don’t entirely recognise this hallway. Glancing behind you, you spot a security door a few feet back. The automated and usually keycard protected gates are stuttering, its programming clearly bugged, damaged enough to have it sparking in a few places. How you got through that in your sleep, you’re not entirely sure.
“Breathe.” You tell yourself. You should get off the floor. Maybe try and find a staff member who can help get you back to bed. That tightness in your chest isn’t leaving.
‘We need to go home’, a voice in your head mutters. ‘We need to leave this place’.
“We don’t have a home.” You hiss out, before quickly correcting yourself. “I- I don’t have a home. There’s no where to go.” That voice isn’t yours. You know that.
Ever since you were taken from Mount Massive- you’ve felt hollow. Or maybe too crowded? It’s impossible to tell.
You’ll look in the mirror and see a face that almost looks like yours. Your eyes will meet with your reflection and you’ll take in the sight of a man who almost looks like the years worth of effort you’d put into your body, the product of your years spent on testosterone to shape yourself into something you felt confident in. You’ll see the worn expression of a man who almost looks like you, but you’ll see the eyes of someone else.
Ever since that fateful encounter with the Walrider, you’d had that voice in your head. The one who argues with you. The one who calls for you to leave, to go home. The one who whispers to you and shows you memories of things you couldn’t have possibly seen.
The voice always claims it belongs to Billy Hope. It always talks about its Mother. About wanting to go find her. You haven’t seen your own Mother in over a decade. She probably thinks you’re dead. Good, you think. You’d like to keep it that way.
Billy Hope died, you remind yourself. You had been the one to pull the plug on his life support. You’d watched him shiver and twitch in the confines of his pod, your camcorder raised to capture the very moment of his death. You had watched the way his starved, aching body twitched and shivered in the confines of the engine. You stood there, determined and eager to film the way blood spilled into the fluid around him, turning the interior into the deep, aggressive red.
There’s another pang in your head. There’s a flush of anger in your chest at the thought. Your hands involuntarily curl into fists, squeezing tight enough to leave your fingernails digging deep into your palms. Your feelings aren’t your own anymore. Sometimes it feels like your body isn’t your own anymore. You can’t keep control of yourself, you can’t fight the way the deep itching under your skin moves your muscles without your consent.
You groan, reaching a hand up, pressing it into your forehead. As though that’ll do anything to soothe the ache. It always feels like your head is threatening to split in two. Your chest only grows tighter as your head once again throbs. Your surroundings are growing bleary, the edges of your vision clouded by thin wisps of black smoke.
You can’t breathe. You can’t move. Your own body feels like it’s suffocating, too petrified to do anything but tremble. You’re so sick of running. You can’t keep going. You’re so tired.
“Little-” A voice suddenly calls from behind you. A hand sets itself on your shoulder. The weight of it is all too familiar. You’d felt it around your neck. Around your wrists. Grasping at your sides. You snap your head back, your eyes widening. “..pig?”
Chris Walker is right behind you.
He’s down on one knee, similarly clad in his pajamas of choice- just a pair of plain sweatpants. His hand is on your shoulder, the weight of it being just enough to suddenly drag you back into reality. You heave out a weak breath, shuddering as you eye him over in the poorly illuminated room.
He’s looking better every time you see him. His hair is growing back in, still short cut and close to his head. The scars embedded into his cheeks are lightening every day. The scarred over indent in the middle of his face becomes easier on the eyes each time you’ve caught sight of it.
Chris looks almost human.
And you feel less and less human with each passing day.
“..Miles? Sorry, I.. Didn’t mean to..” Chris is quick to mumble. The torn state of his lips leave him lisping his words. You won’t deny that hearing him call you ‘little pig’ had set you on edge. It’s all too vivid right now. It’s all too different to the dreams you keep having. It’s too real to have him in front of you again.
You’re not even supposed to see him, really. You’re not even meant to be on this half of the ward. The staff here had been insistent you keep your distance from anyone here who was particularly involved in your time in the riot. Namely; Chris. That hadn’t stopped you from catching a glimpse of him every now and again, watching from afar the slow transition he made from his twisted, monstrous self to something more meek and fractured; but still healing. “Miles?” He asks again as he gives your shoulder a light nudge, but you don’t respond. He knows your name. Of course he knows your name. Why wouldn’t he? You wonder for a moment, if you haunt his dreams like he haunts yours.
Is he even real? Maybe you’re still dreaming. He feels too real to be another dream.
That voice in the back of your head has gone dead silent, hushed under the sudden influx of panic. Everything feels too quiet.
“What’re you.. Doing here?” You finally ask, your voice cracking under just how tight your throat feels.
Chris is quiet for a moment, before he gestures to the open door on your right. You follow his gaze and peer into the room, able to just vaguely scout out the interior of a patient’s bedroom, nearly identical to your own. It hits you in an instant. You’d sleepwalked right over to Chris’ bedroom. How the hell did you even know it was here? He must have heard the blubbering fit you were having just outside of his door. “Fuck, uh.” You inhale, before trying to slowly pry yourself out from his hold. “Sorry. I’ll- I’ll go. Don’t mind me, yeah? Just-“
Chris doesn’t let up. His grip tightens on you in a way that has your whole body tensing. Your heart is racing in your chest, pounding against your ribcage hard enough that you almost feel faint. It feels petrifying to have his hands on you again. “Are..” He starts. His voice is low and soft, the same ragged way he would call to you in the asylum. Chris didn’t know your name back then. Instead he called you little pig, or Little rat. Little ghost had been called to you once or twice. You swallow again. “..Are you okay?”
The question catches you off guard. You feel like the meager amount of air in your lungs has been knocked clean out of you in an instant. “M’fine.” You manage to mumble. “I was just.. Just sleepwalking. I do that sometimes. I should go. Back to my room, I’m fine-“
Chris finally moves his hand from your shoulder. You watch with baited breath at the way he hesitates, before extending his palm towards you, offering you his hand to help you back onto your feet. The motion has you flinching at first, stiffening in place as he moves. You glance down at his extended hand, then back up at his face. Under the dim glow of the hallway signs, you can make out the nervousness in his expression.
Slowly, you reach out your own hand. You take Chris’ in yours, giving it a slow squeeze as you begin to finally hoist yourself off of your knees. Before you can even say anything, his other hand is moving to grasp at your opposite arm, using his own hand strength to steady you as you rise. It’s something you’re quickly thankful for, given how your unsteady legs buckle as you stand up.
You grimace for a moment, all too aware of the damp, clinging sensation running down your inner thighs. As you steady yourself, you feel your socked foot sink into a wet patch of carpet. Fucking gross. “Eugh.. Sorry, I just, uh.” Chris’ gaze trails down. The brief moment he spends squinting through the dark to see the soaked state of your boxers has your face flushing far hotter than you thought it could.
It’s the first time the two of you have spoken since the riot- and he’s just noticed that you’ve pissed yourself. Jesus, you’re a wreck. This is pathetic.
“Sorry.” You mumble again. “I should, uh. I should go. The doctors, y’know. Don’t really want me talking to you, or..” Your voice is wavering. It’s all excuses you don’t even want to make.
“..Do you want to come in?” Chris asks, his voice a soft mumble. You watch him glance from side to side, his eyes nervous as they flick from side to side, as though trying to observe anyone who would be listening in. You glance to your right again, peering into the open darkness of his room, before looking back at the man in front of you. The very same one who relentlessly pursued you through the worst night of your life, deadset on ripping your head clean from your shoulders.
You should be terrified at the idea. Or even repulsed. But you take a second to sink in the feeling of his hands on you. One cradling your own, the other firm on your shoulder to keep you from keeling over in your unsteady state. You sniffle, your free hand reaching up to wipe at your eyes, trying hurriedly to compose yourself. And you nod. “Sure.”
Despite your agreement, Chris doesn’t seem to relax. He nods, beginning to slowly steer you towards his room. He’s keeping himself slow, his movements cautious as though not to startle you. He’s treating you like you’re made of porcelain. It’s a far cry from how shamelessly he’s manhandled you in the past.
The hand holding yours was once wrapped around your throat, hoisting you off of your feet with minimal effort.
“Sorry. Like- Y’know, for if I woke you.” You manage to say as you step over the threshold. You can feel your damp sock squishing against your foot with every step. “I don’t even know how I ended up here.”
“It’s fine. I couldn’t sleep.” Chris says in turn. He finally eases his hold off of you, moving to close the door behind you.
“Maybe you knew I was coming.” You joke. It’s a weak comment to make. It doesn’t even prompt a pity laugh out of him. “Couldn’t wait for lil’ old me to come knocking.”
“Maybe.” Is all he says. The door shuts with a small click, leaving you enshrouded in darkness for just a moment, before Chris flicks the light. The room is quickly illuminated in the blinding light of the lamp overhead. In an instant, you’re all too aware of how confined the space you’re in is. He’s between you and the door. There’s no easy way out. You’re trapped again. You could wait until he moves again, then dodge past him and make a break for the exit. Assuming they’re the same style of door as your room has, they can’t be locked from the inside. You would just need to wait for him to move.
You’re staring across at Chris, taking in the sight of him. It’s difficult to come to grips with the fact this is the same man. The last time you saw him this close, he was covered in blood. It had stained his hands and arms, splattered up to his elbows. Streaks of it had spilled down his chest- which you’re only now realising is fully bared to you.
Your eyes trace down his chest, scanning over the scars left here and there. Some older, likely from his time in the military. Some fresher, no doubt inflicted over his time at Mount Massive. Further down you look, following the trail left by his chest hair. Your eyes rake over the sight of his muscled gut, down at the way it spills over the waistband of his plain sweatpants, over the sight of his happy trail, and- Christ, Upshur.
You quickly pull your eyes away. Being cooped up in here has not made you that desperate. You’re just dazed. You’re out of it. You’re delirious, or even just still asleep. You’re probably still dreaming.
“Do, you.. Uh. Do you want something to change into?” Chris’ voice cuts through your flustered, internal ramblings. You hesitantly allow yourself to look back at him, firmly keeping your eyes glued above his shoulders, despite how it leaves you craning your neck to do so.
“Dunno if anything you’ve got is going to, uh. Fit me, big guy.” You stiffen at the way Chris’ eyes seem to darken a moment at what you call him. You shift in place, the slight movement being enough to leave you cringing at the wet, cold feeling between your legs.
“Something oversized is probably better than sitting in your own piss.” He says, his tone soft, finishing off his sentence with a light chuckle. “Does that happen often?” Chris asks as he moves. He’s walking over the dresser he has positioned on the left, dragging open the top drawer. How the hell are you meant to answer that? ‘Oh, sure thing, Mr. I-can-rip-people’s-heads-clean-off-their-shoulders, I piss myself all the time. I’m sure you won’t do anything cruel or untoward with this information.’
“Sometimes.” Is what you settle on, watching as those large hands of his carefully sift through the mess of clothes nestled into the top drawer. “I get these, uh. Nightmares every now and again. Sometimes I end up sleepwalking around the place. Seems like I lose control of just about every part of me? I dunno. The doctors here say I ‘dissacociate’ or whatever. Not that I trust em’ any further than I can throw them. And it’s not like I could throw them very far. Not like you, ahah.” Shut up. Shut your mouth. Oh my God, you’ve been rambling for what feels like hours. You’re just embarrassing yourself more and more by the moment. “But, y’know. It’s fine. I handle it like a champ.”
“Like a champ.” Chris repeats. He’s in front of you now, holding out a plain white shirt to you. Slowly, you go to grab it, getting an unsteady fistful of fabric. “I’ll turn around.” He’s quick to say- and even quicker to follow through, turning his back to you. He even goes as far as taking a few steps back. You watch the shirt slowly unfurl from your grasp, hanging low. You weren’t exactly a small guy by any means, but something like this would hang from your frame like a dress.
With the thin air of privacy offered to you by Chris turning around, you allow yourself the indecency of ogling at his back whilst you pull your current shirt up and over your head. His back is just as intimidating as the front. You follow the subtle curve of his spine, your eyes tracing the ragged scars lining his skin, disappearing under the softness caused by his backrolls. Your own shirt slides off of your arms, pooling on the floor beneath you. You tug the borrowed t-shirt up and over, letting it sip in place.
Just as you suspected, the white fabric drapes across you. The too-wide collar is already sliding down one shoulder, though it provides more than enough coverage over your hips for you to comfortably shuck your soiled boxers off.
It feels exposing. Too exposing, despite physically being covered. Your face is still far too hot for comfort. “Thanks, man.” You say as you lean over, feeling the folds of fabric draping against your thighs. You grasp at the ankle of your damp sock, beginning the uncomfortable process of dragging it down and off. “You’re being.. Real nice. I dunno. I don’t think I should be surprised about it, but I still am. A little bit, I mean.”
You watch the way his shoulders tense. Your attention is stolen by the sight of his hands by his sides, his fists clenching for a moment. Your eyes rake over the indented scars running up his lower arms, no doubt left by the way his chains had rubbed his skin raw over the riot. Without them, he’ll move far too quietly, you think.
“It’s..” He begins, his voice low. “What I did that night. What I was planning to do to you, I..” Chris trails off again. You watch the way his fists clench again, squeezing themselves tighter as he musters up the words. “I’m sorry. For hurting you.”
Hurting you is an understatement. You almost want to laugh. Six broken ribs, shards of glass indented into the back of your skull. A fractured wrist. Bruises littering almost every part of your body. The first time you had encountered Chris, he had left the shape of his fingers indented into your throat.
The skin of your neck had been turned a deep, ugly purple, bruised so darkly you’d been convinced the marks would never fade. They had wrapped all the way around your throat. As though they were a collar, marking you as his prey.
“For scaring you. For trying to kill you-”
“Look uh. Walker-”
“It was all I could do. I had to contain it.”
“And I had to get it all out in the public eye. Could only do what we needed to, I guess.” You exhale for a moment, huffing out a weak laugh. “Now look at us.” Confined to another ward. Made to pull what little parts of humanity you had left, dragging them together to form a poor excuse for a person.
“At least it’s dead.” Chris says with a finality you don’t entirely agree with. The Walrider was gone for the most part, though little bits of it had sunk its claws into you. Where there used to be blood inside of your veins now felt like the cold, cruel whisperings of the engine’s tendrils filled them instead. It isn’t able to manifest. But that doesn’t stop it from trying to escape the confines of your skin.
“Yeah.” Is all you offer. You don’t trust him not to try to rip your head clean from your shoulders the moment you even hint that thing is still clinging onto you. “At least it’s dead.” You concede as you slowly rise back up, your socks now left piled on top of your discarded boxers on his bedroom floor. It’s an incriminating sight, to say the least.
The air in the room hangs heavy as the two of you let the conversation lull into an unsteady silence. Chris slowly turns his head, peering back at you. You can watch the way his eyes seem to widen a fraction at the sight of you in his clothing, his gaze tracing over the way the shirt collar was already beginning to slip down your left shoulder. There’s a question weighing on your mind. One that’s been following you around since the moment you’d first learnt that Chris was one of the other variants staying here. Do you dare ask it? Do you really want to indulge your own selfish impulses that much?
..Yeah.
Fuck it. Yes, you do.
“Have you been thinking about me? I mean- Ever since they brought us here, I’ve kinda been.. Uh.” You’re quick to trail off, before gathering your nerves again. “I’ve been thinking about you. Not just in my nightmares. In general, you know.”
“I have.” Chris finally answers. His brief reply has you quieting, giving him room to speak. He turns to face you, before he takes a slow step forward. “Everyday, I’ve been thinking about you. About what I was going to do to you.” He’s getting closer now. Instinctively, you take a step back. You’re being backed into a corner by the slow, steady pace in which Chris is walking towards you. “Thinking about how you felt in my hands. About the noises you made.” His voice is lowering as he approaches, his soft words dropping to a darker whisper. Your simple question was more than enough to finally crack the tension in the room, though you’re unsure if you like what was beginning to pour in.
He’s in front of you now. The wall of his bedroom is just inches away from your back. You’re almost flush against it in all of your panic. You swallow, trying to calm the rising nerves running through your already exhausted body.
“How does.. How does knowing that make you feel?” Chris asks. His eyes are searching yours, his voice strained. Those hands of his are slowly rising from his sides. Your heart skips a beat as you swallow, feeling a bead of sweat slowly trickle down the side of your face at the threat of them once again curling around your throat.
“Frightened.” You confess. “I feel scared, that’s-” You’re left choking on your breath as Chris sets his hand on your bare shoulder. The weight of it has you staggering, the sudden contact leaving you unable to breathe. His fingers brush against your bare skin as you feel a shiver crawl up your spine. “Look, uh. If you’re going to do something, just- Do it. Get it over with.” You tell him as you squeeze your eyes shut, taking in another deep breath to try and steady yourself.
“..Alright.” Chris mutters. You can feel the heat of his breath against your face, everything around you was now blacked out, leaving every sensation almost doubled in intensity. You can’t bear to look him in the eyes. Not now. Not when you’re so torn between your monstrous memories of him and the blatant reality of just how human he really was, beneath it all.
You flinch as you feel his other hand move to cup your cheek. For a moment, all you’re aware of is just how large his hand is, as it rests against your face. His thumb slowly strokes across your skin, caressing your face with how gentle the movement is. Just as you’re about to dare opening your eyes, you’re caught largely off guard by how Chris surges forward-
And places his lips upon yours. The kiss is sudden and rushed. It’s fuelled by the sheer heat of desperation on Chris’ side. The way he’s grasping you makes it impossible to escape the way he’s kissing you senseless. It’s all tongue and teeth, with his half healed lips not being anywhere near enough to soften the kiss.
There’s a low keen in your throat as you raise a hand, your fingers trembling as you grasp at his arm, trying to steady yourself as you slowly begin to kiss back. You surge forward, groaning against his mouth as you move your lips to meet his.
Okay, yeah. Maybe you are that desperate.
Or maybe- you think as you go to grab at his face in turn, reaching around to cradle the back of his head and draw him in for the kiss, keeping him close- maybe you’re so willing to indulge like this because it’s him.
To soak up in the raw, messy affections of the man who’s been occupying your mind for months. To truly indulge in the way his teeth nip at your lips, his tongue darting out to taste yours to make up for his inability to kiss you properly. To allow a man who hunted you down with the sole desire to take your life to have you like this? It has an undeniable rush of heat flooding through you, threatening to leave you crumbling under the intensity of his affection. You wonder for a moment, how long he’s wanted this from you. If all his anger and obsession towards you had twisted slowly into a repressed form of lust after he had been weaned off of the effects of the engine. “Hhah-” You exhale against his mouth, pulling back for just a moment to gasp, trying to catch your breath. “Walker..”
“Mm..?” He makes a hum of acknowledgment as he allows you to pull back. For a moment, Chris rests his forehead against yours. His scarred flesh rests against yours, as you inhale slowly.
“Nothing, I just.. Haha.” You laugh, your voice weak. You take a moment to swallow, your throat bobbing as you try to stifle your own nervousness. Don’t think too hard about any of this. Just enjoy it. Chase that feeling of indulgence. “Didn’t think you were, uh. Y’know. Gay.”
There’s a pause after your comment, until Chris breathes out a low laugh. You watch through half lidded eyes at the way his shoulders shake, exhaling out his amusement. His scarred lips are curled into a slight smile. He almost seems relieved at how light hearted your comment was. His hands slowly pull away from you. Your grip on him weakens as he pulls back, easily slipping himself from your grasp.
You’re left standing there, your lips flushed and wet from the kiss, your knees buckling under just how dizzy he had left you. You watch as Chris crosses the room, eventually coming to sit on the edge of his single bed. The mattress dips under his weight, the unsteady frame creaking. “Come here.” Chris beckons, accompanied by a firm pat of his knee.
What can you do but heed his call? Your feet are moving by themselves before you can even register that you’re walking forward. You shuffle across the carpet, until you find yourself standing in front of him. You’re about to part your lips to ask him exactly how he wants you, though Chris never gives you the chance to speak.
His hands make a grab for your waist, one holding either side of you as he drags you in. His strength is more than enough to leave you falling into his lap, easily guided into sitting atop one of his thighs, your legs spread to straddle him. The sudden fall into his lap has you all too aware of just how bare you were under his borrowed shirt, leaving you choking back a weak keen at the sudden pressure against your cunt. “Oh- S-Shit-” You manage to stutter out, your hips twitching, instinctively grinding down against the broad surface offered by his thigh. “Sorry, uh. S-Sorry.” You whisper, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were apologising for.
Chris breathes out a low, flustered huff of his own as he presses his leg up, leaving you keening as he firmly grinds his thigh against the swelling length of your t-dick. “S’fine.” He whispers again, keeping himself quiet as he runs his hands over your sides, getting a feel for your figure through the thin fabric of his shirt.
“I thought I was imagining it.” He mutters, his voice low in your ear as he squeezes down on your sides. Chris’ tightened grip acts as a force to guide you back and forth, slowly coaxing you into grinding against his thigh. It’s only now you’re really becoming aware of just how wet you are, each rock forward no doubt staining his sweatpants with the sticky mixture of your lingering piss and the slick of your arousal. Fuck, you’re filthy. You let your head hang forward, your mouth agape with another embarrassed groan of pleasure.
“I-Imagining what?” You manage to ask, despite how high your voice threatens to go as Chris presses his thigh up and between your legs.
“How small you were.” Chris mutters into your ear. You want to contest that- to argue with him that you weren’t small by any average means. Compared to him, though? You’re fucking tiny. The way his thumb strokes over your side, caressing the soft curve of your skin where your chest transitions into your stomach, makes any irritation in you crumble. Instead, you just moan again, panting as your hands fumble to grasp at his shoulders. “I thought I must have.. I assumed I exaggerated it in my head. That whole night is just so, so blurry. I thought I was dreaming about how it felt to hold you.” Chris punctuates his sentence with another tug on your side, pulling you into grinding your stiffened t-dick against his thigh. “I’m glad I’ve gotten the chance to do it again. I don’t know if I ever want to let go again.”
His breath is hot against your ear, his hands are tight against your sides. You can feel the heat growing in your stomach, pooling helplessly between your already sticky thighs and soaking shamefully into the fabric of his sweats. And you find yourself thinking; staying like this? Forever? Yeah. Yeah, you think you wouldn’t mind that. “T-Then don’t let go.” You tell him, your words coming out low and strained between another moan of yours.
Chris practically snarls in your ear. For a moment, you fear you might have invited in his more monstrous side.
And a second later? Your worries are confirmed. His hands fly to your shoulders. He’s shameless as he manhandles you, using his grip on you to throw you to the bed. Your back meets the mattress as you yelp- and Chris is on top of you in an instant. He’s propped up on his hands and knees over you, boxing you in underneath him, effectively trapping you in the small space offered by his single bed. “Little pig..” He mutters under his breath, calling it to you like it’s a pet name.
You hate how it makes you shiver. It’s the same name you’ve dreamt about for months now. The one you’ve heard in your nightmares. In your daydreams. In your wet dreams. Hearing it now, as Chris holds you down, his hands either side of your head, it’s making you crumble.
He leans in, burying his head against the crook of your neck. Chris’ tongue finds your throat, before he grazes it with his teeth, no doubt to make up for his inability to properly litter your skin with kisses. “F-Fuck. Fuck.” You whisper, your hands curling into fists, gripping at the sheets behind you as he sinks his teeth into your throat. Hard enough to leave a mark- but soft enough not to tear anything. You don’t doubt he’s more than capable of ripping your throat out, though the thought only makes you more aware of how gentle he’s being in comparison, with the way he sucks that deep mark into your throat. “Chris..”
One of his hands moves from by your head, once again tracing down the side of your body. You were unaware of how bad you were trembling, until you were made to feel the contrast of Chris’ palm against your side. He’s so steady, so strong, despite the rising heat in the small confines of his bedroom. “Shh..” He hushes you, as his tongue once again laves over the skin of your neck, feeling over the way your throat bobs as you swallow down your rising nerves. “Let me in.”
His fingers hook against the underside of your borrowed shirt, beginning to drag it up and over your unsteady thighs, letting it bunch around your hips.
You already feel far too exposed like this, but you do as he asks by slowly parting your unsteady thighs, spreading them as far as you can manage on the cramped space offered by his bed.
You can feel the way your inner thighs were practically glistening with the wetness of your own excitement. Your t-dick stands proud, twitching and desperate for attention. Your hole was similarly soaked, wet and ready between your folds. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, trying to block it all out to calm yourself down, even a fraction.
Your efforts are quickly dashed the moment you feel Chris’ hand slide between your legs. The thickness of his fingers is all too apparent as they trace over your cunt, dipping between your folds with the exploratory way he works you over, getting a feel for how you’re quivering underneath him. One of his fingers catches on your hole, leaving you keening as you bite down on your bottom lip, trying to stifle the embarrassing sounds threatening to slip from your throat.
A small part of you is half aware of the likelihood of people being asleep in the rooms either side of Chris’- and what might happen if you or him were to be too loud. This whole thing was objectively a terrible idea, you know that. “Ohh- Shit..” Those thoughts are all dashed as you choke on your own breath again, groaning at the pressure, before you feel his finger slowly ease inside of you.
“Let me in, little one..” Chris tells you again as he lifts his head, slowly working those little nibbles and licks up to your jaw, his words practically echoing through your head as you inhale, trying to relax. Slowly but surely, you feel the tightness of your cunt give way to the insistent press of his finger easing deeper inside of you. The thick digit crooks slightly, leaving you to gasp at the sensation of it dragging across your inner walls. “Good.” He whispers in your ear, beginning to slowly pull his finger back. Chris starts working it in and out of you in a slow thrusting motion, easing it in deeper with every steady crook of his wrist.
There’s a slight pain to the stretch, that much is undeniable. He’s far too big for you to fit comfortably, though the steady pace Chris is taking is enough to slowly ease your cunt open. He crooks his finger upwards, the pad of it tracing across the softness of your inner walls, exploring your body with every gentle rock. He’s panting above you, his breath coming out low and hot against your cheek.
You swallow for a moment, working up the urge to speak through the drool that was almost puddling in your open mouth. “T-Think about me often, huh?” You whisper to him- which Chris answers with a shift of his hips.
He presses forward- and you finally get to feel his cock, the way it’s swollen and throbbing against the pathetic layer of fabric offered by his sweatpants. The tip is poking out against his waistband, nudging against your bare thigh. It’s kissing at your raw skin, leaving a little smudge of precum in its wake. Fuck, he’s massive, you think. His dick is as thick as it is intimidating. Heavy, hot and raw. Just like the rest of him.
“All the time.” Chris confesses as he sinks his finger in deeper. It’s down to the knuckle now, leaving you gasping at just how deep it curls inside of your cunt. “Ever since I.. Ever since they brought us here, you were all I could think of. I kept getting more and more lucid, and still, I only thought about you.” Holy shit, you think, as he keeps talking. “I was in disbelief when they finally told me your name. Miles.” He calls to you, as he starts to work his finger a little faster. “Miles.” Chris calls again, calling to you, growling your name with an unspoken sense of possessiveness behind it.
As he presses the tip of another finger to your hole, you can only gasp as he slowly starts to ease it inside, until it’s firmly settled alongside the first. Your hands are shaking as you grasp at the bedsheets, trying to do anything to keep yourself steady under the way Chris pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy, working you over with the very same hands that sought to rip your head from your shoulders. “Holy- Holy shit..” Is all you’re able to stutter out.
Despite the trembling in your hands, you begin to reach down. Your fingertips brush against the underside of his stomach first, before you finally slip them under his waistband. You swallow, choking on another keen as Chris drives his fingers into you again. You can feel him still, his digits buried knuckle deep inside of you as your own trembling fingers trace over the head of his cock.
The mess of precum oozing from the tip slicks up your fingers, which leaves the way you trace your hand down the side of his cock far smoother, slicking up his throbbing shaft with his own excitement. You give his dick a light squeeze, unable to help the way you grin at the way Chris bucks his hips up, chasing the warmth of your own palm. “Don’t, uh. Don’t stop, yeah? C’mon, big guy, s-show me what you can do- Ah-!”
Chris snarls down at you, his teeth once again sinking into your throat as he pulls his fingers back- only to drive them deeper inside of you with a harsh thrust forward. In response, despite how unsteady you feel, you start to stroke his cock. Your fingers barely fit around his length, struggling to make a fist around the way he’s throbbing in your grip.
He doesn’t hesitate to start rocking into your strokes, thrusting into the warm, wet grip offered by your precum slicked fingers. Walker isn’t waiting to build up a gentle pace with his own thrusts, working his digits deeper inside of you in time with his own movements. “Little pig..” He calls you again- and you let yourself squeal for him, the embarrassing sound ripping almost violently from your throat as you feel his fingers once again ram into your cunt.
His cock twitches in your hand, and you can’t help but think about how it would feel inside of you. This was a terrible idea, a pitifully self indulgent one. Though it seemed to be that for both of you. From the way Chris’ fingers are moving, with how desperately he’s working his hand to fingerbang your cunt, it’s clear he’s been thinking about this for a while. You wouldn’t ever want to admit it to yourself, but it has always circled back to him.
The wet, slick noises of your dripping cunt getting fingered are echoing in your ears, accompanied by the wet smack of skin on skin from the almost feverish way Chris was fucking into the grip offered by your hand. He’s smearing pre-cum all over your palm, only making it easier for him to thrust forward as that tight, burning heat only continues to curl in your stomach.
It was always him. The thought lingers on your mind as you shiver, feeling his tongue drag across the bare expanse of your throat. From the first moment you’d stepped foot in the riot, he’d been there. Over the hours you spent running for your life, he was right around every corner. From the last fateful encounter you had in the underground lab. It was always him.
Always him.
“Fuck- Fuck, I- Chris.. Chris, I-” It’s embarrassing how quickly you’ve gotten this close. You’d like to blame it on your sensitivity. Or you could blame it on how long it’s really been since you’ve gotten off like this. You know it’s just because it’s him. Just because you’ve finally gotten a chance to indulge in your internalised obsession. He’s finally making the pain stop- if only by numbing your ability to feel anything but the burning heat of the pleasure he’s dragging you through. “Chris-!”
You don’t even have to move your hand. Trying to jerk him off is a waste of time. He’s all too happy to fuck the nice hole you’ve made for him with your fist. Your legs are trembling, your feet helplessly digging into the sheets beneath you. Your cunt is practically leaking, dribbling your own growing arousal out around his fingers and onto the bed. “Fuck..” Chris huffs out above you. He doesn’t dare let up, not for a second, not even as your noises grow louder and your pussy tightens around him. He’s fingerbanging you into a weak, trembling wreck.
“Little pig..” Chris once again calls you that name. It has you keening, your walls tightening around him at just the sound of it. “You’re mine.” He tells you. “Mine.” Chris calls again.
A more conscious version of you might be aware enough to realise how dangerous it was to agree to that. A more coherent, less fucked-stupid version of yourself might even reject the idea. But here? Now? With Chris Walker’s fingers buried knuckle deep into you and his cock hastily pumping into your hand? “Yours-” Is what you decide to call back. “A-All yours, yours, just- Fuck, don’t stop. Please, I’m- I’m gonna- I’m yours! Just- Fuck, let me cum, I need to-”
Chris growls again, his own moans coming out raspy and guttural. He’s shameless in how he matches your own cries of pleasure, all as he speeds up the pace. The way he fingers you is brutal, working you into a complete wreck, all without even once brushing your poor, neglected dick. That heat is only curling tighter in your stomach, leaving your vision blurring. All you can think of is him. Being his. Submitting to the man who’s been haunting your dreams for months now. You really shouldn’t be surprised that the first time you’ve properly encountered him led to this. Maybe some part of this was all inevitable. It was the sort of thing you’d have a chance to properly ponder when he wasn’t knuckle deep in your cunt.
“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck- I- I’m gonna- Please, I’m gonna fuckin’ cum-” That’s all the warning he gets, before you feel your entire body seize. You throw your head back against the mattress, a sharp cry spilling from your lips. Chris’ teeth once again sink into your already red and kiss-bitten throat, leaving another mark in his wake as your hips arch up and off of the mattress. Your squirt rushes out of you in a moment that feels both far too quick and too drawn out, messily spilling down your already messy thighs, soaking his hand as Chris continues to pump his fingers in and out of you, as though trying to coax out every last drop of your orgasm that you can give him. “Oh- Oh, God- Oh my fuckin’ God-”
Those fingers drive inside of you, before they slowly ease out. You’re left gasping, your pussy twitching, your walls still spread even in the absence of his thick digits. As you sink back into his bed, your shaking legs slumping into the sheets, Chris isn’t one to settle.
He’s moving, almost feverishly. Chris pulls himself out of your grip, letting the fabric of his sweats fall down his thighs. He’s panting as he sits himself between your thighs, forcing your legs to spread around him. The thick, twitching head of his cock presses against your cunt, sliding between your slick folds as he gasps. “Sorry, I- Just.. Let me.. Just sit still, little thing..” You watch, your own breath caught in your throat, as Chris takes his cock in his hand. Those thick, wet fingers slide around his own cock, gripping it tight as he wedges the tip against your twitching hole. He doesn’t put enough pressure on to sink inside of you, but he keeps himself firmly wedged against you as he begins to pump his own cock. “Sit still, good- good. Miles..”
Chris moans out your name. Hearing it from him, as you sit in the stifling heat and haze of your post orgasmic self, it leaves you unable to do anything else but keen. He’s leaning over you, those intense eyes staring down at you as he jerks himself off, his pre-cum oozing into the welcoming heat of your stretched out cunt.
“Miles.. Miles, Miles.. My- My Miles. Mine. You’re all mine.. Mine.. Nnh- Ngh- Fuck-”
Chris calls your name over and over again, whispering it into the heated air, all as his hand speeds up. He tenses above you, his body freezing for a moment as his cock throbs. You can feel it twitching moments before you’re met with the heat of his orgasm. Your own gasp is caught in your throat as your mind is suddenly blanked, overrun by the intense sensation of his load shooting inside of you.
The force of his orgasm has his cum pumping deep into your pussy, spilling into your waiting hole as he strokes himself, trying to milk out every last drop he has to give you, to fill you up. No doubt in another way to claim you as his own.
Eventually, the rush eases to a stop. Chris sinks back, letting himself pull away from you. You’re still trembling beneath him, slowly propping yourself up on your unsteady elbows to look at the sight between your legs, to see the mess of cum gently dribbling out of you.
You trail your gaze upwards, taking in the sight of Chris sitting on his knees above you, looking at the way his cock is slowly softening between his legs, before your gaze trails up, watching the way his chest falls and rises with every unsteady breath he takes in. You look up at his face, at the way his flushed expression quickly shifts into something a little more nervous as he meets your gaze, no doubt taking in the state he’s left you in.
“So, uh..” You trail off, taking a moment to clear your throat. You’re exhausted and worn, but you feel.. Good. Really good, actually. Despite the haze you’ve been left in, this might be the most clear headed you’ve been in weeks. “..Come here often, or..”
Chris snorts at that. It’s an odd sound, listening to the way a noseless man inhales his laughter, but you find it endearing nonetheless. He shakes his head, the seemingly growing tension in him melting at your ridiculous comment.
The bed sways slightly as he moves again, this time positioning himself to lay on his side. Chris’ arms are around you in an instant, dragging you into joining him. In seconds, he’s manhandled you onto your side, pulling you in to allow him to spoon you. Once again, you’re more or less being smothered by him, left to settle in the sticky mess the two of you had made out of his bedsheets.
This was something the two of you could deal with the consequences of tomorrow. This might have been a mistake, but it feels pretty good at the moment.
And you can’t remember the last time you’ve felt pretty good.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” You mutter, as your eyes slip shut, allowing yourself to sink back into the comforting embrace Chris was offering you.
You’re in the ward. You’re in Chris’ bedroom. And you’re in his arms.
And you feel safe.