Foxholm Syndrome

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/53979916.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Category: F/M
Fandom: The Price of Flesh (Video Game)
Relationship: Ren Hana/Reader
Character: Ren Hana
Additional Tags: Non-Consensual Drug Use, Plus-Size Reader, Canon-Typical Depictions
of blood and stuff, No beta we die like MC, Slow Burn, really weird slow
burn, Stockholm Syndrome, (that's why its named that), Masturbation,
alcoholism probably, Non-Consensual Cuddling, Mating Cycles/In Heat,
Extremely Dubious Consent, Mild Mindbreak, Cunnilingus, Knotting,
Biting, Weird aftercare, Breeding, You Are (Un)fortunately Not Immunte
to Virile Fox Sperm
Language: English
Series: Part 1 of Foxholm Syndrome
Stats: Published: 2024-02-22 Completed: 2024-05-02 Words: 21,461 Chapters:
5/5
 Foxholm Syndrome
by Deadbolt

Summary

Fox saves you, but keeps his distance. How long does it take you to find out why?

Notes

This fic will have a couple of parts, and I will add tags as I add them, but (spoilers) the last
chapter will be a dub/noncon scene. This is the first fic I'm posting publicly so go easy on me
:^)
There is also a 100% chance I will come back and edit this fic so if you see something
change, no you don't.
 First

[xx] days

That’s how long it’s been since the 'show’. Your last one. The one that led you to spend 3
days in an induced coma and another 5 on so many medications it felt like the same thing.

You try not to think about the recovery process.

The smell of your own body after being ripped to shreds and stitched back together; the way
it was always reeking of iron with an unfamiliar sweetness prevailing just under it. Wet
slapping of gauze being dropped in a bed pan as people whose names elude you but whose
faces you will never forget care for you around the clock to keep you from going septic after
working hard to keep you from going into shock.

You try the hardest not to think of the first time you saw your reflection after the show. It’s
easy, so you tell yourself, because you can’t remember much after screaming at the image.

You blame it on whatever they sedated you with, apparently to keep you from reopening all
of your wounds.

Again, you try not to think about it.

But it’s been [xx] days that you’ve been trapped here.

'Here' being Fox’s house. You’ve never been told explicitly, but it’s easy to assume. You can’t
imagine he’d stash you away anywhere else.

There aren't many rooms for you to explore, now or before; most are behind lock and key.
Besides you, the majority of its ever-changing occupants are Fox’s employees. The man
himself is an enigma, even in what you’re sure is his own home.

He hasn’t come around very often, or at least for very long. You can probably count his visits
on one hand.

The first time was a few days after they lifted you from the coma. Everything was still far too
bright; voices were far too loud. Someone had mentioned something being a week, which you
assumed was related to you. It was the only thing you could use to ground yourself, so you
found yourself counting from then on.

The memory is fuzzy, but you remember him speaking to someone in the hall first.

“Ungrateful fucks." is what drew your attention out of your own, easily drifting thoughts.
While your medication doses were being lowered, the way they overpowered your system
still made concentration difficult.

From what you could understand from the conversation just beyond the cracked door, some
of his viewers were dissatisfied with your ‘finale’.

“Those cheapskates just don’t understand the value of anything anymore. Like the value of
keeping someone like her.”

Some mumbling follows—vowels you’re completely unable to make out by a voice you
don’t recognize—but Fox’s response tells you all you need to know.

“ Of course I gave them refunds. You know I love to please .”

If you had been more familiar with Fox (and a little less doped up), you could’ve heard the
canine-baring smile that was on his face as he spoke back. He sighed, then continued.

“ My point is that the idiots shouldn’t have asked for them in the first place. Her show was
better than anything any of them could have possibly fucking dreamed of. ”

The agitation in his voice—you can’t help but feel like he means to direct it at you in your
raw, overmedicated state. The idea of being yelled at immediately makes your lip quiver and
your one good eye sting with tears.

Fox ends his conversation; his true intent of being in this part of the house—where they had
set up a makeshift hospital room—was to see you, anyway.

He slowly pushes the door open and steps in, not finding a point in knocking. You’d been
mostly unconscious up to this point.

Fox smiles softly, though, when he sees that you’re awake and approaches your bedside. The
wrinkles around his eyes are the most familiar part of his face to you, framing the jaded ichor
in the center of them.

His presence makes your heart feel heavy and your stomach churn. You’re not in a state of
mind to try to rationalize anything—trying to would make your head hurt.

With his tail curling behind him, he leans over your bed, reaching out to cup your cheek.
“Oh, sweetheart, what’s got you upset now?” You blink, setting off the heavy tear stuck on
your bottom lash line. It doesn’t get far as he wipes it away with his thumb, careful with his
claw.

“Are you in pain?” He looks behind himself towards the door, maybe hoping to spot a
passing medic, and then up towards the screens. Your vitals are fine, and the soft shake of
your head side to side assures him of what the problem really is.

Him. Of course it’s him.

You can’t form words, and the tears keep coming. You feel your still-bruised nose start to
run, but only on the right side.

“Hey, hey,” He tries to soothe, “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to see how you’re healing.”
His voice is soft. It doesn’t make your ears ring like they did before.

You look up towards him, your head feeling dizzy even from that small movement.
“Do you mind if I check you over? I’ll be careful. I promise.”
His smile is toothy. You shouldn’t trust him. You don’t, but there’s nothing you can do to stop
him from doing what he wants anyway.

You nod almost imperceptibly in his grip. Another set of heavy tears set off down your cheek.

“Good girl.” He coos, moving even closer somehow. Your brain is still struggling to adjust to
only having one eye to determine distance with.
He continues holding your cheeks in his hands, directing your face from one side to the other.
His gaze shifts just the same, not holding yours as you vacantly stare.
“Looking for swelling or redness, if you’re curious.”

You weren’t. You’ve already had your patch changed today, and they told you it was fine.
You just assume he’s looking for an excuse to make you uncomfortable. Sniffles break up the
silence.

“No matter how much I pay these people, sometimes I still think I can’t trust them to do their
jobs.” His seeming frustration confuses you. Your one visible brow furrows as you watch
him, now slightly curious. As long as it wasn’t aimed at you, you could probably stomach it.
He gently releases your face and sits on your bedside now, his weight on the mattress causing
yours to shift slightly.

“Healing beautifully anyway.” He hums as he adjusts his jacket briefly before turning back to
you. “Can I see your arm too?”

Once again, you nod. Despite the racing beat of your heart starting to sound on the monitors,
the medication keeps you in a fugue state, unable to resist.

He doesn’t wait for you to try to lift your arm, gently pushing his hand beneath it to cradle it
as he lifts, carefully stroking the skin left uncovered. You both know the carnage that lies
beneath the light wrapping.

They had to take skin from your inner thigh to cover it and help it heal faster. You were told
(while admittedly, barely conscious) that it would take a while for you to regain partial
mobility of your hand with that chunk of muscle taken out by your own teeth.
You wince as the thought comes forth. The heat of your own flesh on your tongue is still
fresh in your mind, and your thoughts take you back to that room.

Fox brings his eyes back to you, still managing a sly grin. “Oh, did I hurt you?” His tone is
almost mocking, like talking down to a child. You try to piece together a sentence in your
brain to tell him no, but even those letters couldn’t form themselves on your tongue to be
spoken.

He watches carefully as you shake your head instead.

“No? What was that little face for, then, pet?” It’s almost like he wants the beeping of the
monitor to get louder and faster as he leans in close enough for you to feel his breath against
your face.
“Fox got your tongue?” He smiles toothily, pulling away from you only to bark out a laugh
that startles you even further. It makes something bitter suddenly stir inside of you. He really
likes hearing the sound of his own voice.

Sneakers squeak in the doorway, drawing both of your attentions away from each other. You
struggle to make them out from this distance, but if you had to guess from the way his hair is
kept under a bandana, it’s probably one of the medics.

“Oh, I-” The medic starts—panting as he leans against the threshold. He obviously wasn’t
expecting Fox to be the cause of this episode. “Is she-?”

Fox laughs again, shaking his head at the younger man.

“She’s fine, just a skittish little thing.”

Still, the man doesn’t move. You can’t make out his face to tell what he’s feeling, but his
body seems a bit stiff—maybe unsure of what to do. The purpose of his being here was to
make sure you made it through each night alive. Fox could jeopardize that.

“You can leave. I’ll be done in a few minutes.” His voice takes on a slight edge this time.

“I- Yes, sir.”

The man books it from the doorway. For a moment, you wonder if you’ll ever see him again.
Then, when Fox turns back to you, you remember that you don’t have it inside of you to care.

Continuing past the disruption, Fox gently rubs his thumbs over the (mostly) unmarred
sections of your arm.

“You know,” He begins explaining something you didn’t ask him about. “I don’t even have to
look at your wounds to tell how they’re healing.” You furrow your brow again, silently
asking him what he means.

“I can smell it.”

He follows this statement by bringing your arm closer to his face as he does what he
suggested and sniffs it.
Your head tilts, and his ears perk up. He says something, but you’re zoning out.
Your attention was instantly drawn away from the weird thing he’s doing with your arm to
the lively twitch of his ears. He’s so close to you. You could just reach out with your other
hand and-

“Are you trying to pet me?”

You draw your arm back, not even realizing you were moving before. It creates a more
genuine wince as your injured shoulder takes the force of the uncoordinated movement.
“Oh, poor thing.” He soothes you with his voice, making you forget about the sharp pain for
just a moment. His eyes seem to shine a little brighter—whether it’s from you hurting
yourself or the fact you were trying to pet him, you might not ever know.

Still, he’s smiling so genuinely at you that it’s nauseating. “You can if you really want to.”
He leans forward after putting your arm back into its resting position to make the top of his
head more accessible to you.

You bring your hand forward again, and he interrupts you for a second time.
“But it’ll cost you.”

You purse your lips and pause the movement of your hand. The lack of contact makes him
turn his face back toward you. He’s still grinning, amused by the perturbed expression on
your face.
“I’m only joking, sweetheart. Go ahead.”

He returns his head to the previous position, allowing you to finally make contact. His hair is
soft and fluffy in some spots but slightly coarser towards the middle in the space between his
ears. It barely reminds you of human hair. It’s just fur.
With a mind of their own, your fingers find the curved base of one of his ears. It’s strange. Do
you pet him like a dog? You guess you kind of are anyway.
Your nails softly meet his scalp, just behind his ears. You notice they’ve come down a little,
not as alert as they were before.

Tracing just the edge with your thumb, they start to twitch. You hum, completely out of touch
with the reality of this situation. You’re petting your abuser. Your kidnapper. Your rapist.

Those thoughts are completely unable to surface in the moment. You feel calm and warm
now. You could do this for hours. Or at least until you fell back asleep, which you feel could
be any moment now. Some kind of soft noise is coming from Fox as you continue running
your thumb up the edges of each ear, feeling like you have to give them equal attention.

“You like them, huh?” He asks. You nod.

“I thought it was cute that that would be the first thing you asked me. It reminded me of
someone else.”

You don’t even take in his words. Why would there be someone else?
You start to pinch the center between your fingers, hoping to circle it with your thumb. Your
childhood dog let you do that with its ear, but that seems to be enough for Fox, who clears his
throat and pulls away.

“That’s enough.” He keeps his tone calm, not wanting to startle you.

He glances at the monitors again. Your heart rate is much closer to what it should be now.

Your eye is about to shut when he turns back to you, clearly close to nodding off, but you
correct yourself to try to make yourself more alert when you blink and realize he’s staring
right at you. He laughs softly. You’re still afraid of him after you’ve pet him. He was right to
keep you, the strange little thing you are.

You try to focus. You really want to ask him a question. You try to feel where your tongue
sits in your mouth to move it into the right position as your lips part, but it seems to be too
tall of an order. What did they give you?
Fox notices, looking surprisingly sympathetic, though equally curious.

“Here, darling. Think you can hold a pen?” He grabs a clipboard left at your bedside, rests it
in your lap, and offers a pen to you. You take it, but seem to have forgotten how to properly
grip it.

You pinch it strangely between your fingers, holding it at the bottom. This doesn’t feel right,
but it’ll work. It’s easier to remember how letters look than how they feel. Blinking turns
strategic as you struggle to keep yourself awake. You could be writing over other text for all
you could tell.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, you look at the scribbles from the angle you’re
resting at and determine that they’re legible enough, pushing the clipboard and pen back
towards him.

He takes them, squinting as he holds the page not far from his face. He raises his brows as he
moves it further away, trying to make out the small lettering.

“Are you going to hurt me?” He verbalizes for you, with some hesitation between syllables.
You realize he didn’t speak that entire time, giving you the ability to focus. He tosses the
clipboard and pen back on your bedside table unceremoniously. It makes you flinch.
Especially because of the question you now might regret asking.

He sighs, threading his claws through his hair and pushing it back out of his face. It looks like
he doesn’t want to tell you.

“The answer isn’t ‘no’,” he starts, sighing as he stares at the doorway. “But I can’t risk you
dying. I have something important planned for you.”
You give him an inquisitive look as he turns back to you. A smile immediately returns to his
face.

“Don’t worry about it right now.” he reassures you, reaching out to rub his thumb across your
cheek. Your skin is still tacky from the tears. “You’ll figure it out soon enough.”

There’s no hope in trying to formulate more questions in your mushy, tired brain. You’ll have
time to ask him about what he means later, but the promise that he won’t hurt you, at least
now, is comforting.

Your eye closes as the warmth from his hand starts to feel like it’s blooming down your neck
where your bite wound heals beneath a clean bandage.

The speed at which you drifted off made you feel like you were falling, but you let it take
you, unable to fight it anymore than you were able to fight him.

You slept dreamlessly through the night, unthreatened by Fox for the first time.
 Second/Third
Chapter Summary

Fox's intentions remain unclear.

Even as your senses clarify over time, you struggle to make sense of him and what he wants
from you.

When you first woke up, there was an intrinsic panic. Assuming the worst—that more torture
was in store for you. Despite his ‘promise’, there were obviously caveats, and it felt like the
more you healed, the more at risk you were. Unless you were unconscious, there was no
reprieve from the thought that Fox could come in at any moment and tear you open again in
more ways than one.

Your brain had initially prepared for it, constantly pumping adrenaline through your broken
body until someone came to increase your dosage, but over time you accepted that he might
genuinely not intend to victimize you—at least not in the same way—anymore.

_______________________

After an extremely short visit one evening (only to make sure you were eating and leaving
with your ‘nurse’ as they discussed your condition), you made conversation with an older,
comfortably dressed woman with a buzzcut. You could imagine her working anywhere else
and living any other life. You wonder if she chose this and why.

You warmed up to her faster. Maybe it was because you saw familiar scars decorating her
forearms as she rolled up the sleeves of her blouse before getting comfortable behind you. Or
the drawl she spoke with that reminded you of family you’ll never see again. Maybe the soft
features that mirrored yours would be deceitful in the end.

Regardless, your hair really needed brushing, and she was the only one you’d let out of your
line of sight.
It started simple enough. About the weather. She told you it snowed quite a bit the night
before. Then you tried to ask about one of the other employees—the one who hesitated.
Curiosity was always your worst trait. It’s why you picked Fox in the first place.

You weren’t sure she’d know who you were talking about, but apparently the sneakers were a
giveaway. You hadn’t noticed everyone else wore boots until then.

“Heard he got a talking to.” She clears her throat but doesn’t stop working through the kinks.
“Might not see ‘im for a while.” Short, sweet, and vague .

You hum in acknowledgement, already kind of bored of the simple, irrelevant discussions.

Something more important lingers in the forefront of your brain, begging to be asked. In spite
of yourself—or at least your better judgment—you ask.

“Does he …” A breath, or maybe a sigh, takes the place of the word that should follow as
you try to form it on your still-heavy tongue.
“Regret saving... me?” you ask as simply as you can.

You fidget with your fingernails, gently tapping the ones on your good hand against the ones
attached to your arm in a sling. They said it was precautionary, now that you’re able to sit up.

“What do you mean, darlin’?”

Perhaps it was too simple.

“I.. I don’t know... I guess I thought he’d care more. He doesn’t come see me much, and-"
You give yourself a break to refocus. She doesn't interrupt. " With all that m-money on the
line, I’m not sure what I’m here for.” Your voice takes on a monotone alignment—true
emotion sapped from you with the strength of the medications they’re still giving you.

“Oh!” She seems to understand now, pausing the maintenance of your hair to bring her hands
around you in something of a hug, though careful with your arm kept in a sling. It doesn’t
make you feel better.

“I can tell you for a fact he doesn’t regret a thing. He came in to see you every day after your
show. Guess it makes sense you wouldn’t really remember.”

She laughs abruptly. “Bit surprised you can sit upright even now, to be honest with ya.”

You don’t know if she means in regards to your actual condition or the medications they’re
giving you. It’s easier to assume both.
Hands rub up and down your arms in a gesture you recognize is meant to be familial and
comforting, but it isn’t. You try to bring your shoulders in and up in an attempt to get away
from the sensation, but it only earns you a shock of pain, causing you to wince as your
shoulder rolls in a way that aggravates the still-healing socket.

“Money don’t mean a thing to him, either. He’s just a bit...” Her hands are still as she hums,
thinking of a way to explain Fox’s behavior. “...Preoccupied at the moment’s all. You’ll see a
lot more of him soon, honey, I’m sure.”

For a moment, you wish she wasn’t.

Then, despite everything, you hope that she’s right.

The only thing that will make you less confused is talking to him. You just haven’t had an
opportunity.

“Though, it was a bit rough.” She clears the silence you didn’t realize you caused. “That first
week, anyway. Poor thing. Seemed genuinely afraid he’d lose his star.” She told you casually
as she returned to brushing the kinks from your hair.
Your stomach churned, being referred to as ‘his star’, but with so little energy, you can’t even
fight it mentally. The methodical way her fingers and the bristles worked down the length of
your hair kept you in the moment and out of your thoughts anyway.

“But we’re gonna get you fighting fit in no time. He wants you in good health, so try to be
gentle with that shoulder, hm? ”

_______________________

That was day 14, less than a week after your first semi-lucid interaction with Fox.
Ultimately, though, learning about this only served to make you more confused. Especially in
the evenings, when you had no distractions as you waited for your ‘night pills’ to kick in.
Once you were left alone with nothing but your thoughts at your disposal, it ate at you.

Why did he not want to see you as much now that you’re awake?

What was the purpose of avoiding you?

It couldn’t be guilt.

If he really felt bad, he’d let you leave.

Clearly, that’s not what it is.

Maybe she was being mostly honest. Maybe he was really busy.

You clearly weren’t the first human being he sold, and you weren’t going to be the last.

At least you could tell that time was passing. The window in your room might be useless for
escape, but sunsets and sunrises keep you at ease.

They were one of the few things that did here.

The other was reading.

It started with one employee bringing you a couple old beat-up books, you assume from their
own personal collection—ones they wouldn't miss. Though once they started seeing you so
happy to finally have something to do, even more employees began trading them in for your
good graces. They seemed to intuit your importance to Fox long before you did.

You were thankful and enjoyed them thoroughly, regardless of the genre. It was a good
means of escape. Your only means, truth be told.
The next time Fox visited you while you were awake and aware, you were reading from your
growing collection.

_______________________

Having been taken off the monitors this week, you were pleased with the newfound, albeit
minuscule, freedom you’d been granted.

They let you explore the house a little more and let you use the bathroom on your own, which
was a struggle with your scorched arm in a sling. Still, it’s one less source of humiliation.
Letting you sit on the floor was a bit more problematic, but they allowed it to let you dig
through the growing stack of books in the corner for one you wanted to read. The red cover
of one appealed to you. Some kind of trashy romance/conspiracy thriller, you assume from
the blurbs on the back.

Ultimately, you required the help of a guard and a medic to help you up and back to your bed,
but if they minded, they didn’t show it.

It’s easy to get lost in the rows of letters that provide your brain with such detailed visuals
that it almost acts as a movie.
So much so that you didn’t notice Fox standing in the doorway, watching you read for several
minutes.

He had the sense to knock on the open doorway, startling you, but less so than if he had just
appeared at your bedside.

For a moment, you almost think to hide the book, as though it were contraband and he was
the warden. It’s not that far off from reality, but the panic just leaves you with the instinct to
be still, aside from your head lifting to make eye contact with him.

Fox smiles, and you fixate on the wrinkles around his eyes again. They crease as his cheeks
lift—just as anyone's would, but it plagues you to have him look at you like that. Just as he
did in that room.
It’s over now, you tell yourself. Just don’t think about it.

So you don’t, and somehow manage to smile back at him despite a tremble in your fingers
that kept your page saved.
“I see my scheming employees are bringing you gifts.” He steps toward you. You force
yourself not to make yourself shrink.

“Do you like them? Did you tell them 'thank you ’?” You swallow at his accusatory tone,
struggling to hold his gaze as he steps closer.

Nodding as you shut your eye to avoid him even for a moment, you reply. “Y-yes, of course.”

“Good girl.” He shows his teeth when he smiles now as you renew your eye contact. You
smile back, baring yours. A twinkle in his eye tells you he enjoys your display.

This is all still a game to him.

“They’re all being very nice to me.” You add, feeling the need to defend them under his
scrutiny. “Y-You told me before that you didn’t trus- trust them, but they’ve been helping me
a lot. Mm-More than you probably expect them to.” You force your eye closed with every
word that comes out malformed on your tongue. Your nerves are getting to you; your stutter
isn’t this bad while making conversation with others.

It’s just him.

He barks out a laugh as he leisurely sits on your bedside, one leg crossed over the other, tail
flicking out behind him, settling partially in your lap.
“You don’t need to protect them, pet.” He assures you, “I know they’re behaving. I needed to
know that you are, too.” His hand moves from his own lap to gently squeeze your thigh. You
think he means for it to be reassuring, but it’s not.

He looks down at your lap, where your hand covers the book, originally only to keep it open.
“What are you reading, anyway?”

You swallow despite your mouth being dry, your cheeks tinting pink as you remember the
scene on the pages before you. It’s just after the spy confesses their feelings to the scientist,
leading to a passionate makeout scene that will probably fade to black. You’d tell anyone else
it’s a trashy romance novel, because it is, but you get the feeling he’s going to be far more
judgmental—find some reason to mock you. You wouldn’t normally feel so sensitive about it,
but being treated like a stupid child will make you feel like one.

“Um,” you struggle, not sure how to explain it to his liking. “It’s- A book?”. His expression
doesn’t change as he watches yours falter, immediately regretting not even trying. “S-Sorry,
I’m not good at explaining things.” You try to hand it to him to maybe read the back, but he
waves you off.
“That’s alright, pet. I probably wouldn’t like it anyway.” He starts, “I have a bias for more
visual means of storytelling. I’m sure you could tell, right?“, now looking back at you with a
grin, like he told a joke you’re not getting.

Sensing dejection, you stare down at your book. “Y-yeah.”

There’s a small change in his face that you don’t see, but you can tell in his voice that he’s
restraining himself.
“You have a penchant for looking like a little wet kitten, you know.”

You look back up at him, befuddlement present on your features instead of disappointment.
“Wet kitten?”
He laughs, softer this time.

He doesn’t even bother answering you.

“Cheer up, sweetheart. Things could be a lot worse.”

He stands, and you follow him with your eye. There’s something about him that makes him
hard to really look away from. Maybe in the way he carries himself or the ears on top of his
head that you wish you could pet again—if only to highlight the absurdity of the situation
you’re in.

Instead, he leans back over you to brush the hair from your face and place a kiss on your
forehead.
It’s chaste—just as fast as you can blink, but it leaves you feeling warm.

“I have somewhere to be.”

He returns to his normal posture, his arms held behind his back, but if you could tell
something by the way he flicks his tail, he seems amused. He smiles as he catches your gaze
faltering away from his face.

“Please don’t stay up reading smut. Your body still needs sleep to heal.”
Your lips part as you prepare a defense, immediately feeling the heat in your face, but he
doesn’t give you an opportunity to respond as he turns to leave. You blink and seem to miss
him stepping through the door, only catching his hand as he shuts it most of the way.

You close your mouth and huff through your nose. It’s not smut.

Looking at a clock, though, you do decide it is late, and you should probably stop after this
chapter.

Not because he told you to, though. You’re just a very reasonable person.
 ?/Fourth
Chapter Summary

Zoom call with Fox/Good Intentions

Chapter Notes

ONE MORE CHAPTER AND THEN SMUT I PROMISE IT'S LIKE 10K OF JUST
SMUT BEAR WITH ME

While you don’t feel like it counts, he did eventually start to fill in the gaps between visits
with something you ordinarily wouldn’t have stood for, but considering your circumstances,
it was better than nothing.

It started off as most Fox-related things do: with terror. You woke one morning, and before
you could even wipe the crud from your eye, a weird crackling sound alerted you to
something new. You couldn’t place it any faster than you could identify the voice that
followed. “Good morning, darling.”

You react by sitting starkly upright, not trusting your senses so soon after waking up. You
hear his voice again. “Did you sleep well?”

You look around for him, not spotting his very obvious silhouette anywhere in your room.

Resting your head in your hands, you groan. “I’m losing my fucking mind.”

The voice is more clear this time. “While that may be true, it’s not because you can hear me,
pet.”

Looking around again, now more awake, you look in the direction the sound came from. It’s
close to the door. Is he outside?
“Oh, so close, darling. Look up.” You do, squinting to make out the tiny black dot in the
corner. “It’s a camera.” Great. “We added a little speaker so I could talk to you while I was
out.” Even better.

You flop back down, habitually bringing your hands up to cover both of your eyes, before
realizing one wasn’t necessary and letting it droop pathetically over the side of your bed
instead.

“Don’t you have something better you could be doing than giving me a heart attack?” Your
tone is far less controlled, annoyed by being woken up so abruptly. You don’t feel the
impending doom you would have if he were in the same room. You sigh heavily, hoping he
can hear it. “Like, selling more people or something?” You uncover your face and look
directly at the camera, pursing your lips as a follow-up question prompts itself in your mind.
“Actually, do people prefer to buy people in the morning? Or evening?”

You hear the crack of the speaker as he connects. He’s mid-laugh when his voice comes
through. “Evening, darling, but lots of things still happen in the morning that I should be on
site for.”

You hum, feigning disinterest. Truth be told, you’re desperate for any information about him
and what he does. “Like what?” you suggest, making sure to sound moderately annoyed.

There's a short bit of time between your question and his response, leading you to think
maybe he got sidetracked from keeping you company.

“Human trafficking surprisingly comes with a lot of paperwork. Which I hate doing.” For
some reason, that makes you smile. Who would like paperwork? “Though some people
indulge impulsively, and I can account for that with some of my inventory, it’s easier business
to keep a catalog of buyers and their preferences over keeping an endless backstock of
product.”

You stare at your hands, flexing your fingers, trying not to think about the restricted
movement of your left hand or the idea that you might have been picked because of
someone’s preference.

“When I get in a product that would suit a buyer I have a file for, I coordinate to get them in
to see the product if they’re still in the market for it. That’s how most business goes.”

That makes sense. Probably. Having an endless supply of humans in cages like an
overcrowded dog pound sounds like a terrible headache. Of course, the question of why you
wound up in his ‘inventory’ lingers.

He answers the question before you can ask it.

“You, my star, were something anyone could enjoy. You were a part of my more limited
stock.” Briefly, you wonder how limited ‘limited’ really is. “An opportunistic find.”

Opportunistic? So no one was even looking for someone like you? You cut him off then.

“I was probably thrown into someone's trunk after a New Year's Eve party. Don’t make it
sound special.”

He doesn’t seem bothered, responding politely, "Oh, but it was. If you weren’t, I wouldn’t
have you now.”

“Fair enough.” You look at the camera, somehow managing to look amused. “I hope you
gave that guy a raise.”

His finger hadn’t left the call button, letting you hear his full laugh this time. “Would it
interest you to know that it was actually a woman?”

Yes ? “No.”
Another laugh at your quick response, “Fair enough.”

“I’ve got to get back into this headache on my desk.” You hear papers shuffle and a wistful
sigh. “Go get your breakfast, darling. Thank you for talking to me.” You don’t know what’s
come over you to make you feel so comfortable, but you politely wave at the camera, as if
you were saying goodbye to a friend over a regular video call.

After a moment to yourself when you're sure he's looked away, you wrinkle your nose at his
quick sign off, and maybe at your own casual tone with your captor. Even more are you
annoyed with yourself when you realize you didn’t get to ask the question that’s been
gnawing at you.

He didn’t bother you often, or really for very long, but it exhausted you to know he could be
watching at any moment. Still, it felt far more comfortable than talking to him in person.

Every time, you found yourself unable to pose the question to him for one reason or another.

It didn’t fit the flow of the conversation, which is usually casual. “How’s the weather there?”
you might ask, just to fill the awkward silence. “Disgusting. How it can be this humid this
early in the year anywhere in the world is beyond me. I’d much rather be at home.” ‘ with
you’, your brain senselessly fills in. You shake it off, and the question eludes you. What am I
here for? You so desperately want to ask, but it never seems like a good time to do so.

It disgruntles you more and more after each sign-off. He doesn’t have to wonder why you
seem annoyed. Who wouldn’t be after strange, spontaneous conversations with your
voyeuristic captor? What would it matter to him that you feel restless waiting to find out what
your purpose here is?

If he came into your room every night to use your body—as much as you hate to think about
it, it would make sense, wouldn’t it?
If he wanted to keep you as a source for fresh meat, taking parts as he wanted and even
sharing yourself with you like the cannibal in one of your books, even that would make sense,
as depraved as it sounds. Sometimes you tell yourself that it would be preferable to be
abused, because at least then you knew why he kept you.

The lack of answers is a source of tension that is apparently visible to the camera, keeping
you company. He has an idea to cheer you up.

As you ate lunch in the dining room, seated at the bar, you heard the sound of the main door
opening. Everything on this floor is still new to you, so you don’t know how often it’s
opened, so you decide to try to keep your head down. You don’t acknowledge the sound of
footsteps until you realize how abnormal the multiple sets of them are. Looking up from your
food to identify the source, you see Fox rounding the corner with a few faces you didn’t
recognize following just behind him with an assortment of things bundled in their arms.

Books carried by one, maybe clothes or blankets by another? A plant?

Wait, a Monstera. Your Monstera. You recognize it immediately as the man comes into better
view. He’s cradling the pot it sits in. A pot you hand-painted with a friend.

What the fuck is going on?

“It’s not very much, but it’s all we were able to retrieve from your family.”

You’re sure the look on your face told him everything you wished you could tell him with
your words. Fear, mixed with a pertinent amount of disgust, stains your features. Your family.
He met them? He got close to them? They’ll never be safe again. Why would you think they
were safe in the first place?

‘ How? ’ is the first thing you want to ask, but instead it's:

“Why?”, Your voice was hardly above a whisper. The tears threaten to overwhelm you, but
you’re too angry to shed them yet.

“Well, I wasn’t sure what you liked, and that it’d be easier to have someone play pretend for a
little bit.” He tells you the ‘how’ anyway: “We had them acting as an old friend who just
heard the news and couldn’t cope.”

Easier than talking to you? So full of it!

He waves his hand as if gesturing to say it was no big deal. To your growing horror, he
continues.
“Your mother is such a sweet woman. A little too trusting, though. I can see where you get it
from.” He laughs like it’s a joke. Someone else laughs too.

You don’t even realize your body has already slipped from the seat and is walking towards
them.

You can’t breathe.

You walk straight past Fox as he continues talking, saying something about a picture of you
when you were younger that he kept for himself. Your feet stop in front of another man
flanking him. You deliberately choose not to look at his face, reaching straight for the book
sitting on top of the stack he’s carrying.

You recognize it. You wish you didn’t.

It’s one you had on your nightstand before you were kidnapped. You open it to the page you
dog-eared it to, intending on coming home after celebrating New Year's to continue reading
it.

The tears spill, speeding down the curve of your cheek and falling from your chin.

“Why would you do this?” Your voice doesn’t carry. It’s small and broken in your throat. It
enrages you more that this isn’t the ‘why’ you’ve been needing an answer for. “This- She ”
You have a million racing thoughts in your head, all competing to fall out of your mouth.

Hearing the shuffle of fabric as he crosses his arms defensively makes you pause your
halfhearted attempt to form words.
“I already told you why I-”

“How dare you?!”

Your voice cracks as you scream. He should know what you really mean.

You turn to face him then. The smile you’ve become familiar and almost comfortable with is
completely gone, replaced with a deep scowl. Did he really think you’d be happy about this?

You lurch forward to shove the book into his chest, but his reflexes win over yours. He grasps
your wrist, causing you to drop the book. Neither of you look at where it’s fallen.

The adrenaline burning underneath your skin gives you an edge you don’t think you would
have been able to muster otherwise. You try to scold him.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want to me, but leave my family out of it!”

Immediately, you notice the small changes in his posture, his shoulders squaring as he lifts
his chin just slightly.

“Is that an offer, darling?” His eyes don’t change, but he shows his teeth to you. It’s nothing
like a smile. It’s a warning.
Completely ignoring the danger and being lulled by his behavior thus far, you try to match
his threat.

“Let go.”
Your voice breaks as it drops, in spite of your attempt to keep it level.

Holding his gaze and the threat that lies in it, you wait for him to do what you ask.

Your heart thuds in your chest as you realize your mistake.

You’re still caught in his grip.

It doesn’t take many more heavy heartbeats for you to regret this entire interaction—now
mentally preparing for the worst.

He remains still, watching as your eye widens and you tremble in front of him, the rage
morphing quickly into terror. It’s not the reaction he wanted from this, but it’s gratifying
nonetheless.

Fox breaks comparative silence, with the exception of your shaky breaths, holding his chin
up as he does so. This is what he does when he puts on a show. You feel yourself shrink,
instinctively trying to pull away.

“It’s wonderful that you’ve gotten so comfortable here,” You both swallow. It’s not
wonderful, you have the sense to remind yourself. His grip tightens. You whimper. “but do
not forget your place.”

He pulls on your wrist to bring you closer. Your bare feet feel heavy below you as you step
towards him to compensate, but support you nonetheless.

Nothing you’ve been through feels like it’s prepared you for the consequences of this.
Forcing your eye tightly closed, you wish to be anywhere else. You imagine you could just
wake up from this in the loving arms of your mother.

You can feel his breath, but you can’t see his mouth. You can hear his tail swish against his
jacket in agitation, but you can’t see it either. You’re too close .
“I can already do whatever the fuck I want to you. I’ve chosen not to.”

Claws threaten to break the sensitive skin of your wrist. You blink through the tears and
swallow harshly; not a single word is left in your terrified brain to spit back at him.

He leans into your ear now, lowering his voice, maybe enough that his staff can’t understand
him.

“Which, might I add, you’re making very difficult for me.”

His head rubs against yours in a gesture that terrifies you in the moment. You don’t know
what it means or if he even meant to do it. He can surely hear how bounding your pulse is.

“Don’t make me break my promise just because you’ve decided to throw a tantrum.”
He draws himself away from you and shoves your wrist back against your chest as he
releases you.

“Now go .”

You hold the wrist he’s likely bruised to your chest as you back away from him, stumbling
before ultimately turning and running to the best of your ability back to your room, nearly
missing it as you grab the frame and throw yourself through the doorway.
The door slams before you can think of how much that might enrage him even more. It
doesn’t lock, at least not from the inside, so you press your body against it and sink to the
floor.

You can’t quiet your sobbing as you hold your head in your hands, wracked with tremors as
you fear the worst.

No one follows, leaving you alone with your dread, at least for the moment.

Though as hours pass and you run out of tears to shed, no one knocks either.

It’s easy to pretend to others that you wouldn’t care that no one had, but lying to yourself is
becoming more trouble than it’s worth.

You liked having people to talk to. At least sometimes, on days you weren’t feeling moody
and stuck thinking about being held captive for the rest of your life. You learned to like the
gentle touch of his nurses cleaning your wounds and the guiding hands of his other staff.

Deeper in the recesses of your mind, you thought about his own gentle touch, requiring
precision to avoid catching your delicate skin with a claw.

As you nearly rub the skin of your wrist raw over hours watching the strained red bloom into
a blue, the thought that his claws should’ve sunken in and left marks of their own doesn’t
pass through your panicked brain.

Only that you’ve ruined everything.

You’ll be back in the red room tomorrow. That’s why you’ve been left alone. They’re
planning it.

You could’ve played it safe. You could've just done everything he asked—taken everything in
stride—and become someone he could trust.

Maybe that would’ve led to your escape one day.

You’re too tired to cry or feel any more fear. The thoughts of your impending doom, a fate
you tell yourself you’re ready for, seem to loop endlessly in your head until you fall asleep
there on the floor on your [xx] night prisoner.
 Fifth
Chapter Summary

you're having mixed feelings; fox is having mixed drinks

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

In spite of the immediate overwhelming feeling of disgust and terror that plagued you upon
receiving his gifts, you also had to have some kind of appreciation for them.

When you woke up the next morning and realized you weren’t dead, you peaked out of your
door to find that everything he intended to give you had been placed right outside of it, as
well as a water bottle and protein bars.

Why did it kind of break your heart?

You know he’s insane, and you can’t trust him. He’s ultimately threatened you with the
knowledge that he could show up on your family’s doorstep any time he wants and dole out
the consequences of your actions onto them.

On the other hand… You feel like it was supposed to be a nice gesture? Like a cat bringing
you a dead rat… Except, you’re the pet.

Nevermind that. You did miss your collection of books.

You were at a really good part and—if you remember correctly—were thinking about it as
you were unwittingly stalked in a parking garage.
You won’t be getting out of here any time soon, so you might as well indulge in simple
pleasures.

Like the sweaters he gave you. There were three of them. They all smelled like home.

You wish you had thought of that before you caused such a scene. Crying would’ve felt better
if you could’ve smelled your mom’s laundry detergent, but ultimately, you didn’t want to cry
at all and should’ve just taken his gifts in stride.

He seemed like he really was just trying to do something nice for you. You insulted him.

If you had gone out of your way for a gift for someone and they screamed at you, you
probably would have reacted worse.

It makes you think, again, that maybe he genuinely felt bad for you.

You can’t think of any other reason why he’s kept his hands off of you for so long after using
you the way he did.

He just doesn’t understand how you feel, maybe.

He was covered in scars, just like you are now. The memory barely comes forward, but you
remember him talking to you about someone. A person who made him the way he is.

You’d have to assume he was really the one to blame for all of this.

Maybe he’ll tell you about him one day.

The fifth time he visited you was not that day.

—
Curled up in your bed after a long day of stewing in your own thoughts, you continued to do
just that. Your guards weren’t chatty today, nor was the ‘nurse’ you did physical therapy with.
You finished the book from before you were kidnapped. It was the first book in a trilogy. You
regret finishing it now, because the only way you’ll be able to finish it is if you ask him for it.
He must have told his lackeys to stop trying to spoil you, because they’ve stopped bringing
you books.

You look at your collection now filling a bookshelf. They moved you to another room, fully
furnished, the week prior. You didn’t realize you were being held below ground until they
took you up on an elevator. Only one floor, but it made enough of a difference once you
realized how much larger the window in your room would be. You can actually see where
you are, though it doesn’t help you in any way. The dense forest is completely whited out.

You wish you could feel the sunshine on your skin again.

Sighing deeply, you sit up, careful to avoid straining either arm or your abdomen. You might
as well get ready for bed, since you have nothing better to do.

Your en-suite bathroom sometimes makes you feel like you could pretend you’re staying in a
swanky hotel. There’s a walk-in shower with a bench and a separate, almost comically large
bathtub.

The vanity features two separate sinks. You don’t think about it or your reflection above
them.

Instead, you think that a bath would serve you well tonight. Some of your muscles feel sore.
All of your bandages are off, so it won’t be any trouble to do it yourself anymore.

You pull a lever to plug the drain and turn on the faucet. As much as you used to love taking
excruciatingly hot baths, you’ve been told it’s better for your condition to not scorch yourself,
so you fidget between the water spouting into the basin and the handle until you get an
appropriate temperature.
It’s a little hotter than usual without someone to scold you for it, but you’re sure you’ll be
fine.

You stretch as you remove your clothes, a basic set of matching loungewear, tossing them
into a hamper kept by the door. You feel comfortable in here. As likely as it is that there are
cameras everywhere, at least you don’t have eyes directly on you.

The thought prompts you to begin looking around as you kick off your underwear, but you
don’t see anything that doesn’t look like it belongs in a bathroom or could hold a camera, to
your knowledge. It doesn’t really matter to you anyway. All of your dignity was stripped
from you the first time you woke up in that room.

It’s over now, you tell yourself as you pull a jar of some kind of scented salt? You don’t really
remember. The older employee brought it for you, telling you it would help soothe the ache
in your muscles.

You dump in a liberal amount, and the comforting scent of eucalyptus hits you immediately.
As you mix it through with your fingers, you feel like it’s already doing its job.

Carefully, you step in. You’ve been made to practice getting in a certain way to prevent strain
on either of your arms and not slip. It always felt so silly that they seemed to care so much
about your health after being made to show your guts to deep-web internet denizens. It’s so
absurd; you’ve had to laugh about it, and you do again. You feel safe here as you wait for the
water to come up to your neck, cushioned by some fancy bath pillow. No one’s here to judge
you for laughing.

Your left hand rests on your lower belly while you try to keep the other over the side. It
would probably be fine in the water, but you find yourself being overly cautious about it.

The deep fill of the tub makes you relax, perhaps more than you should given the
circumstances, but not having to tuck your legs a certain way or press yourself flat against the
bottom to be covered is... nice. As much as you hate to admit that anything here is nice.

You try to stay awake and aware while waiting for it to fill, not wanting it to overflow, but the
heat and heavy scent almost immediately start to consume you. Your thoughts and body seem
to drift from reality.

Your hand seems to do the same, resting lower between your legs. It’s not that you’re turned
on; no, you’re just… under-stimulated. That’s what you have to tell yourself before your
fingers part your lips, nestling between them as they rub against your sorely neglected clit.
Meticulously, you travel through your thoughts, looking for things to get this over with faster.
A video you watched, a crush you had, a story you read. It all blends together as your fingers
work faster and your thighs press together tighter.

You find yourself chasing thoughts of hands on your body; someone else’s replacing yours.
Kisses to your breasts and up your neck, open-mouthed and toothy. Goosebumps run up your
arms as you gasp. Being loved so much to be claimed by someone else. Instinctively, you
bare your neck for no one. Your thoughts stray from there—a bruising grip on your hips—
and how badly you want to be filled.

You bite your lip, or try to, as your body seizes, arching as the wave washes over you. A
short moan echoes in the room, reminding you to keep your lips tight. No one can know.

It’s over as quickly as it started, to your relief. You don’t need that in your system to cause
problems.

You relax back into the heat of the bath, against the smooth porcelain cradling you. You can
be anywhere else as long as you don’t open your eyes. So you don't—at least not until you
catch your breath.

The sound of water spilling over onto the floor unfortunately pulls you out of your daze. You
forgot to turn the water off. Fuck! You reach for the faucet, displacing more water. You’re too
easily consumed by your thoughts for your own good. Whatever. The drains on the floor will
take care of most of it. You can’t afford any guilt to eat at you here.

More carefully now, you nestle back into the tub, staying until the heat dissipates.

As the tub drains, you pull yourself from it, again, carefully. Practiced movements to keep
your body in ‘working order’, as someone put it. Your body feels much better, but your brain
is far more tired. You grab a stowed towel to quickly dry your body with, wrapping it around
your form. You were surprised the first time you did this, finding that it fully covered your
body.

He’s so tiny. He obviously went out of his way to buy these for you.

You shake off the thought of no one else wanting to take care of you like that and grab a
smaller one to dry your hair with. He’s insanely rich. It’s not going out of his way.

It’s the least he could do when he’s trapped you here.

You feel sluggish as you brush your teeth and take your nightly medications. You want to be
in bed already. Thankfully, the fogged surface prevents you from seeing your reflection. You
don’t feel like crying about it tonight.

Stepping out into the comparatively cold room, already wanting to be under the thick blanket
neatly set on your bed, you unfortunately find the idea of being woken up nude to be
unappealing.
You dig through the small dresser they’ve provided you, full of clothes that aren’t really your
style but that you have no choice in wearing. You’d generally choose something non-
offensive that covers as much skin as possible. Something vaguely protective, but the idea of
stepping into something offends you more. You finger through the silky, lacy garments in the
top drawer, previously untouched, settling on one that comes close to your favorite color.

Gently removing it to keep the others from unfolding, you hold it up in front of you. God, it’s
almost see-through.

Though you start to regret your decision, you sigh, deciding that it’s too late to bother with
anything else. At least it will come down to your mid-thigh.

You slip it over your head. You don’t have to tug it down at all—of course it somehow fits
you perfectly.

Bending over to collect the abandoned towel from the floor, you realize that the length didn’t
matter, as your ass is almost fully exposed when you do, but it won’t matter much when
you’re in bed. At least it’s soft, and will feel like you’re wearing nothing.

With heavy limbs, you make your way to your bed, climbing into it, and feeling exhaustion
hit you so quickly you can barely make it under the covers. You seem to sink into it, like you
and the sheets surrounding you are the same. Nearly every night, sleep takes you like frigid
water below a cliff’s edge. Never slowly. It doesn’t creep, and you don’t drift; you very much
fall .

Your heightened senses about your surroundings faded weeks ago. You mostly sleep through
the night now.

You’re comfortable enough that the creak of your door opening doesn’t wake you. Neither
does the mumbling that creeps closer, or the dull clink of glass being set on the hardwood
floor right behind you.

What does wake you is your weight being shifted by someone crawling into bed with you.

You don’t have any defensive mechanism besides thrashing, so that’s what you do as you
shriek, attempting to jerk away from the body threatening you with its presence. Is it one of
your guards? Don’t they know there’s a camera?

A hand clumsily reaches for you while another flattens over your mouth. Claws settle firmly
into the skin of your arm, holding you there, but don’t pierce.

Fox. Of course, it’s Fox.

Before you can start crying, he tries to reassure you. “I’m not gonna hu rrt you. I just-” He
sounds different. Less confident. There’s no show he can put on for you.

You swallow, breathing heavily through your nose, warming the hand still keeping you quiet.
In time, he shifts to sit in bed with you, leaning closer to you than you should be comfortable
with. His tail settles over your blanketed lap, and suddenly you remember what you’re
wearing. “Ju szt let me...” He slurs. You can smell his breath now. He’s wasted. “ Let me be
here. Please? ”

Your eye adjusts to the dark faster with the adrenaline still rushing through you, but besides
the rapid beat of your heart from the initial startle, for some reason you’re not afraid of him.

His hair isn’t pushed back, instead curling around his face, wild and untamed. It makes it
hard for you to spot how his ears are pressed down to the sides of his head.

Your gaze quickly flits down in an attempt to parse anything else about what’s happening.
He’s about as dressed as you are—bare from the waist up, only covered by breezy boxers.

The word rings in your head again. ‘Please ?’

You don’t have a choice either way, but this almost makes you feel bad for him.

Almost.

Carefully, you bring your hand up to slowly pull away the one covering your mouth. You
don’t want to startle him like he startled you. You bring it to rest in your lap, giving it a
reassuring squeeze.

You have a dozen questions you want to ask him. Why are you here? How much did you
drink? Were you crying?

For some reason, the only question you verbalize to your captor is:

“Are you okay?”

His head tilts, his ears lifting slightly from their position pinned to the sides of his head, and
after a moment, he puts on this strange, practiced smile. “Of course I’m okay, darling.”

You don’t know why he’s trying to reassure you when it sounds like he’s asking a question.

“Juszt wanna see my pet. That a crime ?”

Your nose wrinkles the same as his at his strange insinuation. You want to retort with
something equally offensive, but you know it won’t solve anything. You could benefit from
being the bigger person here.

“Well, no.” You control your tone. This isn’t your first time dealing with someone this
blitzed. You try to hold that perspective rather than acknowledge how menacing it should feel
to have him in your bed. “But it’s a little rude to just crawl into a girl's bed.”

You hope it’s enough to dissuade him—maybe even disarm him with how casually you scold
him. He obviously doesn’t want to acknowledge his upset.

“Hm.” He purses his lips, as if genuinely contemplating your words. “Counterpoint." His
hand squeezes yours as he leans forward. “I own you.”
Your expression turns stoney, now hesitant and unsure of his intent. You’re sure you would
have a physical advantage at this point if you had to try to subdue him, but you really don’t
want to think about it. You need to walk this back somehow.

“Your face is ador’ble like that.” He hums. You try to look more offended—he grins even
wider. “Couldn’ even be mad at you the other day. Yer so pretty when you cry.” He clumsily
reaches for your cheek, like he wants to wipe an imaginary tear away. You don’t like the idea
of his claw being so close to your face sober , so you gently grab it with your other hand,
redirecting it too to your lap too.

He doesn’t struggle, but his smile drops. “Why do you still hate me?”

You sigh. This is starting to feel dangerous. “I don’t hate you.” You tell yourself you’re lying.
“You’re just really drunk. I-I didn’t want you to scratch me.” You rub your thumb over the
back of his hand to reassure him.

Still trying to plead with a drunkard rather than Fox, you offer a suggestion: “Mr. Fox, you’re
really drunk. You… Need to sleep this off.”

Without missing a beat, he asks, “Can I- Can I do it here? Sleep?” Again, his ears perk up,
excited by the prospect.

Why is he asking? He’s clearly going to try to do it anyway.

You try to maybe say no, or at least express hesitance, but don’t get the chance.

“I-”

“Please?”

There’s that word again.

It’s alien coming from him. It almost doesn’t translate in your head.

He scoots closer, not giving you the option to say ‘no’ despite asking.
A shiver runs up your spine at the contact. “You look so cozy.” He pulls the blanket from
beneath him and off of you. Cold air hits your bare thighs and immediately reminds you of
what you’re wearing. “W-wait.” You scramble to try to pull the blanket back, but Fox all but
throws it to the floor. “ Oh.” The blanket is forgotten about, abandoned on the other side of
the bed. “Well.”

He tilts his head, eyeing you from top to bottom. Your barely covered breasts, nipples surely
showing through the delicate fabric. You notice him leering and cross your arms, but it only
pushes your cleavage up. “I can take back what I said-“ You reach out with one hand to grasp
his, already acting on the impulse. “No! No, that’s. okay. Uhm.” Caught in his gaze, you’re
overwhelmed. “You can stay just... Just sleep. Nothing else.”
You let him go, guiding his hands back down to his lap before you start to scoot over to the
other side of the bed, trying to give him a wide berth and tucking the lacy hem of the negligee
that you continue to regret wearing as far down your thighs as you can, but it only invites his
eyes further down your nearly exposed body.

He watches you intently, unmoving.

Compared to his exaggerated movements of just a moment ago, this is much more
uncomfortable. You feel like prey as you try to meet the amber of his eyes, noting how hard it
is to make out the color. You try to stay just as still, fighting the adrenaline starting to flood
you again as your instincts are telling you to pick between fight or flight, not knowing neither
is truly an option.

Maybe he notices the slight change in your posture as you start to lean away from him, or he
could hear your quickening heartbeat, but he blinks and practically lunges for you, only to
grab your arm before you can react. “Don’t. Don’t run.”

You hear his heavy breaths now. While you’ve still hardly had a chance to understand him
and what certain things mean, you’ve realized by now that his ears being pinned down like
this isn’t a good sign. “Stay still.” He squeezes his eyes shut, baring his teeth as he pants.
“Give me a minute.” You don’t know what’s happening, but you don’t want to make it worse,
so you hold still.

He looks so pained . You wish you understood. “Are you-”

“Quiet.”

You hardly dare to breathe now.

Still, he answers your aborted question. “I’m fine.” He says through gritted teeth, still
fighting to let... Whatever it is, pass.

Slowly, you watch as his shoulders relax and his ears seem to flutter before they do the same.
He sighs as he moves closer to you and gets himself comfortable. You still don’t move, like a
deer caught in headlights, watching carefully where he places his hands beside you, already
feeling the warmth of his body.

His hands reach over you, clearly trying not to startle you now, grabbing the blanket to draw
back over the both of you. He doesn’t acknowledge you until he’s settled himself into your
bed beside you, where you had laid comfortably and alone a few minutes ago.

"Thank you, darling."

You wait until he stills to try to shake off the unease. There’s no getting around it now.
Slowly, you tuck yourself back in, turning on your side away from him, putting yourself as
close to the edge as possible.

This endeavor is fruitless, as he shifts to move closer to you. You hope that’s all he’s doing,
but are once again proven wrong as an arm slinks over your waist and he tucks himself into
your back, pressing his body firmly against yours. An anxious voice in your brain makes you
 question whether or not you feel anything hard pressing against your ass, but you decide it
wouldn’t help you to know either way.

You find it difficult to relax, contrary to Fox, who adjusts himself to press even closer
somehow, his nose pressing to the nape of your neck and seeming to take in the scent of you.

“Didn’t want to be alone.” He whispers, making a chill shoot down your spine.

You feel a pang of something in your chest at his words. He’s just… Lonely? At least I’m
here now. Your nose wrinkles as the thought crosses your mind, more than it does when the
coarse fur on his chest tickles your back, but you can’t unthink something. You sigh, and

You struggle to fall asleep, even after Fox’s breathing evened out and his grip on you relaxed.
So many thoughts fill your head. All about the man you wish you could just understand. It’d
make it easier to sort through the ups and downs if you could make sense of anything he did.
Even now, despite the tension of the other day, you don’t seem to hold any sort of resentment
for his complete dismissal of your boundaries. You just feel... Sorry. First, you wonder what
made him drink so much, and then what inspired him to seek you out. Was he watching you?
God, that must have been it.

But still, all he seemed to want was to have you in his arms.

Is that really so bad?

Your hand reaches for his, tucking it more closely around you. You feel him stir slightly,
instinctively pulling you closer and rubbing his head against your nape.

When sleep does come to you, you don’t fall like you have been. The waters that take you are
warm and gentle, allowing you to drift.

The next morning, as the sun peeks through your window—waking you a bit sooner than
you’d like—you recall the warmth of an extra body in your bed, but when you look over-

It’s empty.

Chapter End Notes

I am DEEPLY sorry for the continuity errors i know exist in this one (i wasnt intending
to write this chapter when i first drafted everything out) I will fix them when all the
chapters are up i promise ugh
 Sixth
Chapter Summary

Something is wrong with Fox. Something is wrong with you.

Chapter Notes

TYSM to Tsunoba for betaing for me! This is literally the only thing I wanted to write
when I started this fic but wanted to fluff it out. I hope you guys like it!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

It’s now the morning of the [??] day.

You still haven’t figured out how long they had you prior to the ‘interview’, or how many
days you were unconscious between shows, but if you had to guess, it’s probably February.
Early March at the latest.

It’s snowing out.

You can feel the chill in your bones, deciding to throw on an oversized cardigan over your
thin pajamas. It’s one he retrieved for you, with familiar stains and frayed fibers. You slept
with it for a week straight, trying to wring every last little bit of home-smell out of it, but you
think it’s just about run out . Now it just smells like ‘here’.

Refusing to let the thought linger, you rein in the chaotic pathways trying to light up in your
traumatized brain. You grab your most recently started book from your nightstand, and step
out of “your'' room. It’s not really yours. It will never feel that way.

You pass through a hallway full of locked rooms and an elevator, entering an exceptionally
open room connecting the living area with the dining area and kitchen. The windows are
floor-to-ceiling and wall-to-wall. It’s furnished modernly, to the point where it almost feels
sterile. If you didn’t know better, you’d think no one lived here. Still, you like sitting out here
better than in your room to watch the snow fall. This is also probably the closest you’re ever
going to get to sunlight again.

Pushing the thought aside and knowing you can smell breakfast, you make your way to the
bar. They always set your food there, having figured out your seating preference. You like
swinging your feet beneath you as you multitask between eating and reading.

You set your book on the counter and climb up onto the bar stool. It doesn’t matter what it is
they serve you; the medications they lay out right beside your plate with a glass of water
make it all taste the same. It’s far fewer than what you started off with, but still too many for
you to make sense of. You’re almost certain they added a new one last week. You haven't
dared to think about not taking them. They might be the only thing keeping you somewhat
sane.

You swallow them down to get it out of the way.

Dissatisfied but at least grateful you’re full, you finish eating soon enough. You’re surprised
to not see anyone walking around today. There’s usually at least one guard here to keep you
company in the morning.

You took the initiative to clean your dishes today. They normally don’t let you, you assume
because of your partially immobile hand, but no one’s here, and it’s… rude to just leave it on
the counter.

The sink running should draw the attention of anyone if they’re around, but as you finish
drying them carefully and stow them back in the cabinet, you find you’re still alone.

That’s… fine. It makes it easier to focus on your reading without a chatty guard trying to talk
to you about sports or horror movies, neither of which you’ve been permitted to watch yet.

You settle into the extremely oversized couch that dominates the living room, wrapping your
cardigan around your body like a blanket and tucking your legs beneath you. Your scarred
thighs serve as a surface to hold your book while you keep the pages spread with your
fingers. Sitting like this eventually makes your body ache, but it’s the most comforting to
you. Besides, the pain is harder to pay attention to when you’re lost deep in a book. You
realized that very quickly.
The unusual quiet is completely disarming. The book draws you in far deeper than you could
account for, so the sound of a door slamming is even more startling to you. Quickened
footsteps alert you to something completely out of your routine.

You’re helpless to the way your heart immediately begins to thud in your chest before you
can even turn around to see Fox coming directly towards you. You start to draw yourself
away, almost thinking to run, but the safest choice is to stay still.

He reaches you, holding himself over the back of the couch, looking down at you. His face is
flushed, and he seems out of breath. Where was he running from?

“Sweetheart,” He pants, “My star. I need you to come with me.” He holds his hand out, and
you stare at his clawed fingertips before returning to his eyes. “Don’t ask questions. Come.”

You keep your book in your hand, pages saved between your fingers, standing and grasping
his hand. His grip tightens around yours as he pulls you along behind him. He’s not dragging
you for very long, stopping only down the hall in front of a locked room. This one is different
from most of the others, as it’s locked with some kind of biometric scanner, like something
from a movie.
The anxiety bubbles over all at once. He’s breaking his promise. He’s taking me back to that
room? You panic internally, partially releasing your grip on his hand, only for his to tighten
more, now painful. It’s worse than that, isn’t it? You clutch the book over your chest, like it’ll
protect you.

He turns to look at you only after hearing a solid ca-thunk of the lock mechanism unlatching,
his ears twitching at the sound.
The distress on your face is impossible to miss, and his eyes open a little wider, sympathetic.
“No, no, it’s n-not-'' He stutters? You look between his brightly colored eyes. They close, and
his brows furrow. He starts over. “It’s not the red room. It’s my-” He pinches the bridge of his
nose as he exhales and then opens the door.

Very dim lights automatically come on, just small lamps in two corners. Though you can’t
make out much of anything else in the room, he didn’t lie to you. It’s not the red room, but
you’re not sure what this is either.

He leads you through, letting go of your hand to push at your lower back.

The door shuts and automatically locks. You start to turn around, expecting to see him behind
you, only to feel his claws press against the middle of your chest and push you back against
the door.

He’s on you before you can even look back towards him—his leg separating your thighs as
an arm slinks around your waist to press you closer, forcing your back to arch. He makes a
quick glance at your lips before capturing them with his own.

You’re stunned, but don’t fight it. You know you couldn’t, even if you wanted to. You do
want to. Wanting to warn yourself against complacency, you remind yourself of the actual
circumstances.

On the other hand, trying to make this easier by not lying to yourself about desiring touch
shouldn’t hurt any more than refusing his advance now that you sort of understand what’s
happening. So you relax in his grip against your better judgment but in line with your baser
needs, gasping as he palms at your breast through your shirt.

Fox pulls away, panting. His sharpened teeth are nearly bared at you, his tail coiling behind
him in agitation.

“Your scent—fuck, it’s- You-” He abandons his train of thought and kisses you again.
Abandoning the softness of your breast, his hand comes up to cradle your face, using his
thumb to encourage you to part your lips and accept his tongue. You can feel his cock against
your thigh as he pulls you against him again. He was preventing you from seeing it by having
you follow him.

The thud of your book hitting the floor pulls you out of your thoughts and reminds you of
your baser desires and the arousal brewing in the pit of your stomach, where you should be
feeling fear . Without lingering on it further, you bring your hands up to grasp his suit jacket
as you take his tongue into your mouth and give in to him.

It’s instinct; you rationalize the way you cant your hips towards him, enticing him to press
himself against you even harder. You fully recognize how fucked up you have to be to want
to feel him after everything he’s done, but you’re sure you can deal with the mental
consequences later.

“I thought I was losing my mind.” He breathes against you. “I haven’t had- haven’t felt this
in years , but you- of course you would— fuck!”

Your body is being pulled away from the door, causing you to nearly trip over yourself with
the sudden action. You’re forced to release his jacket as he pushes you blindly deeper into the
room. It’s not a particularly large room; that much you could tell, but your eye still hasn’t
adjusted and your feet catch on something, sending you to the floor.
What you tripped on, you quickly realize, is a collection of blankets. They’re brought
together in a pile—maybe with a couple of pillows. It’s actually pretty comfortable. You push
yourself over onto your back with your ‘good’ arm. You can barely make out his face, but his
eyes shine bright in the low lighting.

He’s beginning to strip his jacket; you think he’s saying something, but in spite of your
arousal, you’re stuck on the shine of his eyes. You lose touch with your surroundings. Red,
everything is red. You’re in the room. Heavy- Your body feels heavy, like it’s chained to the
floor again. You can only see his eyes—the excitement in them for what he’s about to do to
you. Shit! You can’t breathe!

He’s calling your name. Your actual name, not a pet name this time. Your eye opens, seeking
first to look away from him. The dark is more welcoming at the moment.

He’s touching your face, trying to anchor you. “There you are, sweetheart, look at me.” You
have to follow his command. Your lungs start to burn with the oxygen remaining in them
spent, leading you to sharply inhale as your eye makes contact with his again.

“Did I scare you?” He grins, trying (failing) to soothe you with the repetitive motion of his
thumbs rubbing back and forth on your cheeks. Your lungs continue to fail you. They stutter
as you inhale. Are you crying?

“I- I don’t want to- to do this anymore.” You barely get out in a whisper as you try to turn
your head away from him before he can see the tears filling your eye, but his grip on your
face turns hard and biting, keeping you in place. “I want to go back to my room.” You
pitifully beg, to no avail.

Warmth trickles down your cheek, and you can’t be sure what it is with the sting of his claws
sinking into your flesh.

“That’s unfortunate to hear.” His voice changes into something that may be irritated . You
recognize it this time. “Because only I can unlock that door, sweetheart.” He releases your
face to shove you back down by your shoulders. “You don’t have a choice."

Only now do you realize that he was practically straddling you. Even in the dim light, you
can tell he’s ogling your body and the way your chest heaves with the terror bleeding through
you.
He squeezes the fat on your hips, digging the tips of his thumbs into the meat of your belly,
close to the incision you gave yourself—the one you can vaguely remember him holding
together with the same hands. Your stomach drops at the reminder.

Please, not again.

“I’ve been so patient with you,” he rasps, quickly losing the composure he managed to regain
in his abandoned attempt to comfort you. “Hardly laid a finger on you.”

He leans into you, breathing in your terror as he cradles his own head in the crook of your
neck.

You’re not expecting his hand to correct your head by grasping your jaw and pushing it in the
other direction to open up the soft canvas of your throat. You were subconsciously trying to
block it from him. You didn’t mean to.

“Kept my promise.”

His hot breath makes your skin feel raw. A grimace contorts your features, and you’re unable
to hold back a whimper as his tongue makes contact. His teeth meet your skin briefly, a
sensation to distract you from him licking a wet stripe from your collar bone to just below
your ear.

Lips press against the junction of your neck and shoulder, opened wide and threatening it
with his teeth again .

He makes a noise from his throat and pulls back, leaving you trembling and… confused?

“Ah, not yet.” He pants against your throat. His voice is quieter—less demanding. You’re
sure he’s talking to himself.

His hand still cradles your jaw as he sits up. His expression changes as soon as he sees yours.
A toothy grin. Fake sympathy.

“Oh, poor thing.”

His claw traces down your neck, catching on your shirt. He runs the sharpened point just
beneath the buttons. He’s trying to tease you. It just makes your throat close up.

“My little wet kitten.”

You’re confused for a moment, unable to recall the conversation. It just feels like an insult.
Maybe it was supposed to be.

“You were so cute, all cut up like that. All for me. Because of me.”

Fox moves back down your legs slightly, sitting on your knees.

“It was so hard to restrain myself.”

Claws drag down beneath the pajama shorts and underwear that had shifted down. The sound
of cloth tearing breaks the silence, which he fills as he monologues. “But it was either that,”
The waistbands rip apart as he yanks, and all your limbs go cold as he begins exposing you.

“Or, you would’ve wound up with your guts all over the floor anyway.”

You try to watch his face for any sign that what he just said was some kind of sick joke, but
his lips aren’t pulled in the slightest. After what he did do to you—why would it be?

His mouth hangs open as he breathes. His saliva-coated fangs catch the dim light.

‘Not yet’

He starts with the button at the bottom. You hear a pop of the thread being ripped, and the
button falls to the side.

You try to pull away from him, but it just exposes you more, bringing your shirt higher above
your belly. There’s a tremble in your breath. Your fingers too, but you’re losing feeling in
them.

“S-stop.”
You mostly just want him to stop talking. You cover your ears, and then your eyes, dislodging
your patch in the process, and then your mouth. You know you can’t keep him from touching
you, but you can pretend you’re somewhere else if he- Pop

Just

Pop

Stops

Pop

Talking.

“Oh, my star, I thought you wanted my attention?”

And he doesn’t.

Something like embarrassment washes over you. Of course they would’ve told him you were
asking about him.

“You’ve got it now, don’t you?” He pops the last one and the sides part, revealing your
breasts fully.

You try to shield them with your arms, but he promptly pries them off and pushes them into
the plush fabric beneath you. You don’t fight him on it, but your breathing becomes more
erratic.

His claws tickle your sides as they trail down again. The sensation causes you to sharply
inhale and squirm beneath him.

He lifts his own hips to drag your legs out from beneath him. For his size, his strength would
impress you if it weren’t horrifying in this circumstance. Fox seems pleased with the squish
of your thighs in his grip as he pushes them against your chest.
The grin splitting his face is manic, and the dilated pupils of his eyes remind you that he
really is just an animal running on instinct.

“Why don’t you be a good girl and hold your legs, just like this?” He coos as he pushes them
back just a bit farther, encouraging you to follow his instructions. Without much of a choice,
you do, gripping the back of your thighs with your trembling hands.

“There you go, still so good at following my instructions, hm?” He grins toothily, cradling
and then rubbing his face against the side of your calf as it dangles.

He grazes the skin with his teeth, causing you to jerk in his grip, but he ignores it, moving up
towards your knee and then down your thigh, warming your chilled flesh with his heated
cheek. You tremble, squeezing your one good eye shut, trying to ignore the sensation.

“Look how pretty your pussy is like this.” He runs his thumb up between your labia,
separating them. Your cheeks burn hot at the slick sound they make. Feelings of guilt start to
build in your chest. Why did you let him turn you on before? What is wrong with you?

He doesn’t let you stay inside your own head, filling it with his own voice.
“I bet you taste even better than you smell.” His voice borders on being raspy. He moves in,
pushing your thighs apart just a bit further for his tongue to gain better access.

The moment you feel the heat of his maw on you, something in you that you thought was
already broken breaks again.

You don’t want him to make you feel good.

You don’t want him at all .

It’s a lie, but one that shouldn’t be.

Instead, it’s like a voice in your head is telling you to-

“Relax.”

You strain to keep your legs in place, holding your breath as you do. You anticipate some
kind of pain—on edge and knowing intimately how easily his teeth can tear—but it never
comes.

Instead, he’s licking from your core up and around the nerves nestled between your labia,
keeping you spread with his (surprisingly careful) thumbs. He’s not following a pattern,
seemingly just intent on tasting as much of you as possible.

Sharply inhaling as your thighs jerk from the pressure appearing against your clit again and
again, you realize you’re not going to be able to stay like this for very long. You’re going to
have to spread your legs to relax them.

With his persistence, you do, slowly lowering each to the side. It’s okay. You can just pretend
you’re somewhere else. You can tune out his praise as you open up for him, giving him
greater access. He wraps his arms under the chub of your thighs and grasps your hips, as if he
were trying to get even closer.

Don’t think about it.

You’re just with an old partner.

That’s what you swear to yourself as he sucks your clit into his mouth and laps at it with the
flat of his tongue.

Your lips open by memory, habit, instinct—anything other than your own desire to moan for
him.

Mortified, you clasp your hands over the betrayer—your mouth. You try to replace the sound
replaying in your head with a sob, but the humiliation already burns from your face to your
chest.

He lifts his head from your slickened core, resting his cheek against your thigh.
“Come on, princess, there’s no point in hiding it now.” He places a wet kiss on your inner
thigh, where the scarred section is more sensitive than it should be.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” You jump again as he presses his thumb against your clit,
maintaining the stimulation as he keeps you in the moment with him.

You shake your head, trying to deny him gratification, but he knows.
“Don’t be like that.” He laughs breathlessly. “Give an old man a break.”

With that, he returns to his ministrations, now dragging his fingers lower to press inside of
you.

You gasp at the intrusion—because it startles you, not because he immediately begins
massaging the soft spot just a few inches past your opening. His fingers and tongue work in
tandem to break your resolve so much faster.

You keep your mouth covered, remaining tense as your thighs begin to tremble for a new
reason. You hate this! You hate him !

He hums against you, drawing you out of your head and making you whimper. You realize
your body is moving against your wishes, your hips grinding back and up into his mouth and
fingers.

It was creeping up on you, but now it feels like you’re hurtling towards it. Fuck!

“Mm- No!” You cry as your hands reach for him. He catches one with the hand resting on
your belly, holding it there. The other makes it to his head to push, but the fight is lost as he
begins suckling again. You only manage to loosely pull at his hair as your hips buck into the
sensation.

The sound he steals from you as you come is pornographic. It almost sounds fake . You wish
it was, but as you come down, it plays in your head on repeat, only added to by your heaving
breaths and the sticky-wet sound of his fingers trying to wring out every last twitch and pulse
of your orgasm.

As soon as your clit lays still against his tongue, he pulls away, letting your hand drop almost
lifelessly. You think he says something like ‘Told you’ as he licks his lips, but the heavy beats
in your eardrums deafen you.

You hate yourself more than you hate him.

The room isn’t cold, but the comparative chill from his hot maw is unpleasant, so you bring
your legs back together for the moment. You’d curl up into yourself if you didn’t know what
was coming next.
You’re tuned into the sounds of him feverishly pulling at his own clothes. It brings back the
memory—the terror of hearing his zipper the first time back in that room. Humiliated in front
of an audience. The shame burns hotter now that you’re alone and reconciling with
something in the back of your brain that tells you it’ll feel good .

If he wanted to hurt you, he would have done so already.

It makes you realize he isn’t commentating like he was. Maybe he realized it was making it
worse.

He pulls you back into the current moment by parting your thighs, squeezing them, and once
again marveling at the squish beneath his fingertips as he sighs. He’s completely bare now.
You don’t dare look at his face, knowing the fear it triggered the last time, so instead your
gaze follows down the trail of white fur to his strange cock. It’s already swollen at the base.

You hope it won’t hurt as bad this time.

He doesn’t delay much as he presses his freed cock to your pussy, dragging it between your
lips to gather the mixture of slick and saliva, spreading it down to the slightly bulbous base
with his slender fingers. His eyes flit to yours as he pushes the head in. You try really hard
not to gasp, but the stretch as he fills you feels... Rewarding? Why? It’s more upsetting that it
doesn’t hurt as he continues to push and fill you more.

He doesn’t bother trying to push the base in yet, content with how you feel around him as is.

You feel disgustingly primed for his abuse. You can’t help that your body makes it easy for
him because he makes it feel good.

The sound of his cock drawing back out of you—the stickiness you- he created is- Fuck!
The luxury of thinking is drawn out of you with a gasp as his tongue makes contact with your
breast. You were trying so hard to stay in your head that you didn’t notice him move.

Fox sucks the hardened nub into his mouth, groaning as you arch into him. He can surely feel
your pussy tighten as pleasurable sparks travel up your spine.

You can’t even feel his teeth as he lavishes your breasts with kisses and hickeys. Why is he
being so soft?

Tears begin to fill your eye—a perpetual condition of this arrangement. It seems to juxtapose
the broken sounds you make as he starts bullying the thicker base of his cock inside of you.

His voice takes on a grave edge in his throat as he reassures you…or himself, “I know you
can take it.”

You shake your head. It doesn’t hurt, but you’re afraid that it will. Even more so, are you
afraid that it’ll feel the opposite.

Pushing himself back up while maintaining the modest pace of his thrusts, he takes stock of
your fragile state. You still hold your lips tight, afraid to let him know how good you feel, but
the flush consuming your body, your furrowed brows, and your fingers gripping the plush
like it’s the only thing keeping you still tell him all he needs to know.

You can absolutely take his knot.

A gasp is ripped from you before you can open your eye. Fox hoists up both of your legs and
presses them back, spreading you wider.

“W-Wait!” You try to stop him, despite not moving an inch.

He grins. “I’m only doing what feels good, darling.” There’s a moment where he seems to be
testing the new position, maybe to find what will be comfortable for him. “You just have to-“
He forces his hips to meet yours. It elicits a cry from you before he can finish his sentence.
“Trust me.”

The stretch burns—your mouth is held agape as you try not to whimper. You hate that he was
right. You hate that it feels good. You hate that you want him to move . He’s holding you
there in his predacious gaze, despite the needy throb that throws your better judgment out of
the window. You can’t tell if he’s doing it for you or for him.

Blinking away the tear stuck on your lash line, you try to sneer at him—tell him off to just
curb the shame—but it just comes out pathetic and needy.

“What-” you get out between your pants. “are you waiting for?”

You watch as he bears a vicious grin at you. “Didn’t you just ask me to wait?” Right. “Is my
star getting impatient?”

You ignore the burn in your cheeks and continue to stare him down indignantly.

Fox carefully draws his cock back out. You try to hide your gasp. “That’s okay. I’ll give you
whatever you want.”

He fills you again.

And again.

And again.

Fuck!
The bulge slips in and out of you more easily every time, adding to the sensations making
you delirious each time he bottoms out. You can’t pretend it’s someone else—no one else is
shaped like him. You can’t pretend you’re anywhere else—every sense you have is occupied
by him. Despite how badly you tell yourself you don’t want to, you can feel your body trying
to chase the feeling again. Shame burns hotter than your desire, but your back arches
regardless, wordlessly expressing your want to the man willing to give it to you.

The next pant you hear from him almost sounds like a laugh. You open your eye to see him
grinning, his own fixated on the motion of your breasts. At least until he notices you’re
looking at him. You want to look away but feel trapped by the intensity. You feel like his
expression mirrors yours: lips parted, brows slightly furrowed, clearly trying to control how
quickly pleasure takes him.

Sweat starts to make his hair stick to his face. Some kind of latent lust scorches a path from
your chest to your dripping pussy as you realize how much you like the way it falls and
frames his more angular features.

He catches your gaze and grins, making it worse. He doesn’t stop the pump of his cock,
intent to watch you crumble as a result.

You drop your head back, afraid of how intensely he was looking at you had made something
sick but hot bloom in the pit of your stomach, ignoring the pleasurable sigh you made as you
did.

“You can’t get away from me. Come here.” Fox commands, releasing one of your thighs to
draw your head forward, meeting him in a kiss. He doesn’t even give you time to try to reject
him as he angles his hips up, forcing you to gasp and take his tongue into your mouth. You
forget how to breathe, struggling against the rapture threatening your mind and body.

You taste yourself on his lips as you’re inclined to match his fervor. The last threads of your
sanity are at their breaking point. You whimper and whine into his mouth, drawn out of you
by each thrust of his cock. You can tell he’s proud of himself, seeking more sweet sounds
from you as he pulls away to have his hips meet yours harder and faster, firmly gripping your
thighs as leverage. You can’t focus on being indignant—your brain far too full of pleasurable
static as you arch your back and try to meet his thrusts.
“Ah! Oh -!” You cry as your head hits the plush again. The tremble in your legs returns, an
unmistakable symptom of your complicity in being taken like this. You don’t have to tell him
—he already knows you’re close.

His hand presses on your lower belly, which initially you find strange, until his thumb finds
your clit. You gasp and arch, begging for him to give you what you wish you didn’t want
with your body, but it’s not enough for him.

“Ask nicely for it, darling.” He pants, slowing the speed of his thrusts to bring you back
down. You whine and shake your head. “Be good for me. Let me hear you beg.”

No, no, no , no - “Fuck! Please!” You give in before a heaving breath, and words just seem to
fall out of your mouth. “‘m so close , please , please, please !”

Your eye flutters closed the moment you feel the forgiving pressure of his thumb pressing
down, preventing you from seeing the grin splitting his face, proud of the fact that he’s had to
do so little to get you so pliant.

“ That’s it.” His soft praise rings in your ears and sends a shiver down your spine.

You practically sing as he works you up to your peak, circling your clit . It’s so much more
intense this time as he slams into you, some of his restraint falling away—moaning too as
you squeeze around him. Instinctually, you reach for him, but somehow you think better of it,
latching onto your own thighs instead.

You can’t justify the rapture that contorts your body further into him, but you don’t have to.
Not here. Not anymore.

He shows no signs of stopping as you spasm around his cock, arching your back against the
sweat-soaked blankets beneath you. Your nails dig into whatever they can, eventually finding
purchase on Fox’s thighs as your lungs continue to struggle for air harder than you struggled
to stop him.

“Please!” You beg breathlessly. The sensitivity is forcing you to inhale in sharp little gasps. “I
can’t!”

He doesn’t respond with words, but he responds with the pace of his thrusts slowing, showing
you mercy even if you can’t recognize it. He laughs lowly, mostly to himself. “Fuck, you
don’t just cum, you cream .” He hums, pleased—cock moving slowly in and out of your hole
as he fully takes in the sight of your messy cunt. You’re only just beginning to catch your
breath. “I wish I had the time to appreciate this before.”

At this point, you’ve resigned yourself to the experience—not unlike your first time with
him. You really just want him to stop talking. It’s like he wants to narrate everything as if he
were streaming it still.

“Now you’re mine forever.” He continues, watching your burnt-out body—now the rise and
fall of your chest, still shining with spit. “We’ve got all the time in the world, sweetheart.”

Outside of this room, it might’ve sounded like a thinly veiled threat, but your brain is
operating at a much lower capacity even as some of the pleasure-seeking static clears.

He pulls out of you, giving you the short-lived delusion that he’s done. That in a moment,
he’ll let you go back to your room to try to compartmentalize everything he’s done to you
and what you’ve done to be complicit until his clawed fingertips tap your thigh. “Turn over,
darling.”

You take in the visage of the man still between your thighs, stroking and squeezing his cock
while he impatiently waits for you to do what you were asked.

You follow his instruction, not accepting that you may have had a choice. He could probably
flip you over himself if he really wanted to, given how he’s handled you so far. Maybe he
likes how degraded you feel and look as you come down from the haze of your second
orgasm and reenter reality.

Your body burns hot with embarrassment, displaying yourself to him like this. You arch your
back and spread your thighs. You don’t want him to have to correct you.

“There you go. So obedient.” His words feel like they run down your spine, or maybe you’re
feeling his claw as it traces down from between your dimples, reaching your waist and
beginning to deviate around the raised skin spanning across your upper back.
“You healed so well.” You feel him position himself behind you, gripping your ass with one
hand while the other thumbs over the sensitive tissue. You can’t help but arch more.

“It was worth waiting to see it like this.”

The hand from your back is gone, at least letting you no longer be reminded of the scarring,
but it's only so that he can line himself up. He doesn’t push himself in slowly this time,
slamming into you as soon as the tip slips in. A yelp reverberates back into your ears, and it
takes you a moment to realize you made that sound. Brutish thrusts and his panting bring you
in and out of focus, for better or for worse.

You’re already starting to fall apart again, struggling to keep your thighs parted and your
back arched the way he wants. You’re not sure how much longer you can do this. Some part
of you is thankful that the hands on your hips drag you back onto his cock, so you don’t have
to think about it.

It’s not fair.

You’ve spent the month you’ve had partially lucidly placating yourself—attempting to cope
with the fact that your torture is online, even if it's somewhere below the surface few people
will see. Those people are still sharing a video of you coming on your rapist’s cock in front of
an audience and getting off on it. You were just trying to save yourself. It wasn’t your fault.

But now you’re in a completely different situation. There is no immediate concern for your
safety. He promised not to hurt you anymore. You’re still going to cum on your rapist's cock
for the third time.

“Still tight .” He groans against your back—His head pressed into the valley between your
shoulder blades.
“Gonna cream on me again so soon?”
A whimper is your only verbal response, but the tremble in your legs and the arch of your
back is just as much of an answer as any.
“Fuck, good girl. Such a good pet.”
You preen at the praise, dropping your head as you whine.

Fox still seeks something else, you realize as he lifts himself from your back, the tackiness of
the sweat between you making his skin stick to yours.

He seems to give you a moment of reprieve, but it’s just to watch his own cock slowly breach
you over and over again while making nearly inaudible comments about how wet and warm
you are. Nearly. It makes your cheeks burn and your stomach twist.

The sound made by the broad base of his cock as it’s slotted in and then pulled back out of
your pussy is eating away at your remaining sanity. Fox panting and saying filthy things in
your ear would be easier to sort out of your memories than this .

You might consider yourself lucky, as your few lingering thoughts are forced out of your
head quickly. He adjusts his position behind you slightly before pressing down on your
shoulders, pushing your face into the plush fabric. His hips meet with your ass slowly as he
tests the new angle with a few long strokes, but he gives you no chance to get used to it as he
speeds up to a far more desperate pace, achieving the goal of abusing your cervix with the tip
of his cock.

Holy shit

You clench around him, making it more difficult to pull his growing bulge back out of you.

“There you go, princess. Fuck , cum for me. Say my name.”

You open your eye as much as you can, trying to focus to make sense of his request. You
don’t know it.
“I-I don’t- Nnh- You d-didn’t-“ You get cut off by your body betraying you in response to a
particularly rough thrust of his cock, gripping the blanket and crying out. Despite the spasm,
you’re still being held right on the edge. He watches as you struggle, rekindling the devious
fire in his primal gaze, even if it’s not one you can hold.

You struggle to keep your hips up against his thrusts as he starts to falter in his pace, aiming
only to fuck into you as hard as possible. He holds them still, digging his claws into the meat
of your hips and ass.
“That’s right.” He grunts as he sheaths his cock inside of you fully—holding still, just
enjoying the heat of your walls as they tighten around him. “Never told you, huh?”
You think for a moment that he’s finished until he pushes down on your hips and adjusts his
position to straddle your thighs, continuing his rapid, desperate thrusting. You can tell his
stamina is waning as the claws sinking into your hips and spreading your ass cheeks tremble
—his breaths come out a bit faster too. At this point, you’re not even thinking about wanting
it to be over—just how badly you want to cum.

You’re even making it easier for his cock to slide into you by angling your hips up and
arching your back as much as the position will allow. Your thighs press tightly together,
adding the pressure you need against your clit.

“Don’t- Hah - Worry ‘bout it. Just scream for me.” He commands as he forces the bulge in
one last time.

And you do, coming completely undone beneath him as you try to hide in the plush before
correcting yourself to let him hear you. He’d like that more. The thickness at the base of his
cock seems mostly stuck inside of you, growing and rubbing against your spasming walls in a
way that forces you to keep crying out, extending your orgasm.

Your body feels like a live wire.

Every rock of his hips sends waves of white-hot pleasure up your spine. You’re in no state to
recognize the danger you’re in as drool begins to hit your upper back. Even less are you in a
position to escape as you feel him lean forward, bracing on your arms, pinning you down.
Even still, you don’t expect him to move in to latch his teeth into the meat of your shoulder,
overlapping the scar tissue already present in the same space.

Finally, you feel his cock twitch, and heat begin to flood against your womb as he groans,
loud and feral. Tears spill freely from your eye as you express the pain you’re in—the
betrayal, wetting the blankets beneath you as your blood does the same. You can’t take
anymore. The beating against your ribcage and the searing pain feel like one in the same. You
wish you could just pass out. It’d be easier, but you don’t. You hold still, not wanting to make
the wound worse while he’s latched, groaning, and pumping his hips shallowly as he fills you
with his seed.
You should have expected this. You’d be in less pain if you just paid attention. This must be
your fault somehow.

His tongue licks over the flesh, though probably more specifically the blood between the
wounds while hes still latched. You have a vague recollection of him doing this the last time
too. It just hurt significantly less.

“Please!” You beg, unsure what for. “Hurts!” You inform him, sure that he knows.

His jaw releases as the movement of his hips nearly stops. There’s still something driving
him to keep rocking into you, but he’s satisfied with the new mark he’s left on you.

The tip of his tongue prods at and into one of the larger holes made by his inhuman canines,
sending a jolt of white-hot pain down your spine.

“‘m sorry, sweetheart.” He says breathlessly between swipes of his tongue. You pant as you
try to tolerate the sharp pain and ignore the oozing blood. “Had to do it right.”

Your broken sobs make it hard enough to breathe.

While he’s not very heavy, his weight on top of you is starting to make you feel
claustrophobic. Suffocated. The heat of his skin on yours suddenly makes you feel like
you’re burning.

You hope you’ve been placid enough with him that he doesn’t take offense to your request.
“Can you…” You hiccup—your shoulder still aches horribly. “Get off, please?”

He takes a moment and clears his throat between heavy breaths. “Yeah, Ah-“ He presses his
palms beside you to push himself up. “You’re gonna want to move with me.”

You’re not sure what he means until he starts to pull away from you. He’s completely stuck
inside you.
You almost want to panic, but you don’t have the energy. “Ca-Can’t you just pull it out? Like,
the other time?” Still, your hips follow his. Your shoulder throbs and blood beads down your
arm as you have to use it to push yourself onto your side.

He settles back against the raised edge of his blanket pile, grasping your hip to help guide
you. “You were already torn and high on endorphins. It would hurt more this time.”

You sniffle and resign. “Okay.”

You try not to sound pitiful, but it probably does anyway.

Skin meets skin again as you press your back against his chest. His hand moves down from
your hip to rest on your belly. A claw gently traces the scar there. The memory doesn’t cause
panic this time. It makes your heart forget to beat in the same rhythm as you think of Fox
holding you together.

“The swelling will go down in a few minutes.” His nose presses to the back of your neck.
You don’t know if you like how perfectly he seems to fit there. “I’ll get you cleaned up
after.”

Cold air chills the sweaty patch of skin as he seems to breathe you in, like he did the night
before.

“Fuck, I’m so glad I kept you.”

You don’t comment—too focused on the various gentle sensations Fox is providing you with
to try to distract from the throbbing coming from different points of your body and the drying
blood on your neck. Somewhere in your brain, the voice that seems to become smaller and
smaller tells you that this is more uncomfortable than having your fingers broken, but if you
could think logically, this is preferable. You breathe, closing your eye as you both seem to
wait for his inhuman physiology to free you.
It felt longer than it probably was, but finally you feel Fox shift, wordlessly pulling his still
partially swollen cock out of you. He rises from the bedding, and you follow him with your
eye. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He turns towards the door, his tail flicking out behind his bare body. You think about all the
guards usually walking about and how he must really have no shame, but remember that
there didn’t seem to be anyone today. Did he make them all leave?

He unlocks the door the same way as he did on the outside, looking back at you as he steps
through, maybe to make sure you weren’t going to make some half-cocked attempt to escape.
As though you can’t be trusted still. He seems satisfied, and the door shuts, leaving you alone
with your thoughts.

You lie still, if only for a moment, to keep from further irritating your shoulder. The
throbbing and aching are hard to ignore, but nothing like what you felt in that room.
Exhaustion should be eating at you, but your usual restlessness takes precedent.

You use this opportunity instead to be curious—to look around this room. It’s pretty small for
a house of this size. Not that you’ve been in any like it, but it just doesn’t seem to fit. Your
eye has adjusted to the dim light enough to tell the few things that happen to belong in it.

A loveseat and a coffee table are to your right. A laptop, loose sheets among stacks of paper,
and an empty liquor bottle peak over the surface. Was that from the other night? Last night?

Despite the soreness in your body and the otherwise overwhelming desire to just sleep, you
work to push yourself from the bedding. You can’t help yourself. It’s why you got into this
mess in the first place.

You hover over the table, skimming through the scattered papers full of numbers. Some with
dollar signs—conversions to and from. Some are labeled under ‘accounts’ and others seem to
be price tags. There’s… So many. You can’t make sense of just the few you can see without
moving anything out of place. How can he sort through any of this?
The click of the door unlatching is the only warning you get that Fox is back, just as your
fingers begin reaching for the lid of this laptop. Evidently, he didn’t want to leave you alone
for long.

You don’t even try to make it back to the floor bed, instead opting to make yourself look
extremely comfortable with the fact that you’re snooping.

You look up as he steps through, noting that the blood smeared across his face is gone.
Trailing down, you see that he’s holding a small box and a water bottle.

“We’re going to have to work on your listening skills.” He speaks deadpan. “You’re bleeding
more.”

You didn’t even notice. “Oh, I’m- I’m sorry.”

You try to look at your shoulder and then down your chest. Streams of blood continue to
make their way down your body. “It just hurt, and I f-forgot why.”

Fox hums at your interesting choice of words.

“Will you listen if I ask you to sit?”

You nod. You think for a moment to sit on the loveseat, but you don’t want to ruin it, so you
lower yourself to your knees between it and the table. His smile makes you feel warm. You
no longer wish it didn’t.

“You could’ve sat on the couch, but this does make it easier.” Fox tells you as he approaches
around the table, seating himself beside you. He hands you the water bottle after setting the
box on the table, disregarding the papers beneath it. “Go ahead and drink. I’ll get this set up.”

He’s going to clean you up, you suddenly remember. You twist open the cap and nod before
taking a sip, otherwise staying still as you watch the movement of his hands as he unlatches
the box and starts pulling things from it. A small bottle of something, gauze, tape. You
curiously note a lack of needles. You don’t need stitches for it?
He opens a sheet of gauze, laying it flat over his hand.
“You know,” He starts as he brings it towards you, pulling your hair out of the way with his
other hand. You pull the bottle back to your lips to try to distract from the pain you know
you’re about to experience. “If I caught you when I was younger, I wouldn’t be able to do
this.” His hand firmly presses the gauze to the wound. You wince. It almost feels bruised
already, on top of the sharp pain. You swallow and look to redirect as he stops the bleeding.

“What do you mean?” You ask, strained.

He smiles, teeth gleaming in the dim light, as he’s delighted by your intent to push through
the pain. “You may be surprised to hear me say that I was even more of a beast when I was
closer to your age.” He readjusts his hand over the wound to be more comfortable. “My heats
made it even worse. I might’ve gone a week without a single thought in my head outside of
my instinct to maim and/or breed.” You watch his other hand as he gestures while he talks,
but reframe on his face. The word ‘breed’ makes your cheeks feel pinker. Of course that's
what he was trying to do. You think he's too old for it, though, isn't he?

“The older I got, the less intense they were.” He lifts the dressing to check for more bleeding;
seeming satisfied, he lays it on the table and starts to prepare another sheet of gauze with
whatever the bottle of liquid was. “If you couldn’t tell, I wasn’t expecting a heat.” He begins
blotting the wound. You expect it to sting, but it doesn’t. “I haven’t had one in years.”

You watch him as his face comes closer, squinting to ensure he’s cleaning the wound and the
blood from around it, trying to make out where it starts and ends. The gauze becomes filthy
fast, being ditched like the last. Another wetted square of gauze cools the heated flesh around
the wound.

“The need is still there, but I’m able to think at least somewhat rationally.” You assume the
wound is clean enough as he begins wiping off the drying blood that’s run down your back
and chest. He cups and lifts your breast to be thorough. “So I can take care of my mate
properly like this.”

You hum only to acknowledge that he’s speaking before the word finds its roots in your
brain.

Mate .
You pose a question before you can think of its potential consequences.

“What does ‘mate’ mean to you?”

He laughs through his nose, tossing the gauze onto the table and resting his hands on his
thighs for a moment as he takes you in. You and your questions.

“Something a lot different now.”

You look between his eyes, noting how much softer his expression is now. You know he’s
being vague on purpose, and don’t probe further, looking back down and sipping from the
bottle to break the eye contact that was making something strange bloom in your chest.

Still, you watch his hands return to the business at the table, finding another few sheets of
gauze and layering them in some way. You like his hands. They remind you of a magician's,
as he seems to do everything with some odd degree of skill. He presses the packed gauze to
your shoulder firmly. “Hold it like this.” You set the bottle down and swap his hand for yours.
Your fingers feel warmed by his as they brush against each other.

Seeing him pick up the tape brings forth the question you had earlier. “Ah- I- Does it not
need stitches?” You remember that you did the last time. You look up to see him shake his
head. “You only needed them before because it was done wrong. It was a little embarrassing,
actually.”

You cock your head and try not to grin. Embarrassing? What on earth could embarrass him?
Is it a joke?

“Too impulsive.” He explains, knowing you want him to. “It tore too much.” He lays his
hand on top of yours as he secures the packed dressing with tape. “It’s the only one I’m not
proud of.”

You think of all the other scars he put on your body. The heart on your back. The circular
discolorations littering your limbs. The raised curves running along your thighs and hips.
He’s not proud of the only one he didn’t give you for his viewers.

No wonder he wanted to ‘do it right’.

His eyes crease as he smiles, but not the way he did before or in that room. It’s like you’re
seeing something new. His fingers curl beneath yours to grasp them, pulling your hand into
his lap to cup it between his.

“This one should heal a lot better.”

Your lips part as you acknowledge his gentleness. You think you should find this absurd, but
it’s not. Not anymore. You think you understand now.

He’s never gotten the chance to be like this with anyone. It’s all new to him.

Is this the answer you’ve been wanting?

“You kept me to be your mate.” You affirm, and he nods. He can see the gears in your head
turning.

The strange aching in your chest makes you ask, “Why me?”

He hasn’t stopped smiling. Is it okay for you to smile too?

You can tell he’s prepared an answer for when you’d inevitably ask.

“You were already a work of art before I got my hands on you.”

What?

It sounds too poetic to really be about you. You’re just a random person he happened to
victimize, aren’t you?

You cock your head, confused. “I think I told you that you were something anyone could
enjoy, right?” You nod, recalling also how the conversation made your stomach flip. “I’m
obviously included in that, darling. You’re beautiful. Why wouldn’t it be you?”

Your breathing stutters. You hope he didn’t notice.

“There was also something special about you that I could sense. Even when we first brought
you in,”

You can feel the dull throb from your shoulder in your chest now. Or maybe it’s for a
different reason. You shouldn’t be feeling this way. It must just be your shoulder.

“And then you wanted me to take you. I should have realized it then.” He looks lost in his
head as he speaks now. “You were made for me. Destined for this.” He almost sounds wistful.
You feel like a voyeur as you watch him stare above you, not vacantly, as if he were really
seeing something else.

You’re not sure how you feel about the idea of your entire life leading to this converging
point. Your childhood—the love you had for and showed to others. The love that still exists
for you elsewhere. The years spent wasting your time seeking something or someone else.
Only for none of it to matter, because now you know he’ll never let you go.

You open your mouth to ask a follow-up, but he stops you, pulling himself out of his thoughts
as he smiles down at you.

“No more. We can talk about it another time. Okay?” Okay . “Okay.”
You swallow as you can’t help but feel awkward kneeling in front of him still, unsure of what
else to do since there’s nothing else you could say.

He offers you something, but you don’t immediately recognize it as such.

“Could you make it easy for me and stay?”

Stay? Do you have a choice? Do you want to have a choice? It’s like he can hear your
thoughts, or maybe you just look confused again.

“There’s a little more to ride out. It won’t be as bad. I’ll take care of you.”

He traces down your arm with his fingers to find his grip on your wrist, pulling you as he
stands. You rise with him and follow without a thought in your head to do anything but.

He stops at the edge of the bedding and releases you. “One second, sweetheart, let me- Ah,
make this more comfortable for you.” You stand idly, watching as he strips the bloodied top
layer off, revealing what’s underneath. You didn’t expect to see clothing lining some parts of
it. Some appear to be nothing more than scraps. You don’t know what to make of it. Who do
they belong to? Do you want to know? He disappears behind you and makes his way to a
closet to pull out another blanket to replace it.

“This one is my favorite, anyway.” He tells you, strained, as he drapes the blanket back over
the top of his strange collection, not even bothering to acknowledge the perplection on your
face, but you snap out of it soon enough to help him. You watch the way he tucks it under
both sides of the pillows and do the same.
The smile on his face makes your heart flutter again. You turn away to hide your blush.
“Having a mate help me nest really is the dream, isn’t it?” He chuckles as he works around
the other side, doing the same before crawling into the center and laying on his back. You
watch as he opens his arms, motioning for you to “Come.”

Still blushing, you do, mostly shuffling on your knees to not strain your shoulder. You’re not
sure what he wants you to do, though. He can sense your hesitance and pushes himself up to
 envelope you in his arms, bringing you back down with him and cradling your head against
his chest, his other arm guiding yours to the center, where you idly stroke his fur.

You can hear his heartbeat. It soothes you.

“Thank y-you for taking care of me, Mr. Fox.”

You feel the rumble in his chest as he laughs. “You can call me Ren, sweetheart.”

Ren.

Fox is the man who tortured you in that room. Who gave you a new definition for the word
‘pain’. Fox is the one you would have nightmares about if you were capable of dreaming.

Ren is… Someone else. Ren is the one who thoughtfully bought all of those things for you.
The one who controlled himself around you to make you feel safe. Ren is the one who held
you together because he saw something in you that no one else had.

Ren is the one who (mostly) kept his promise.

“Thank you, Ren.”

Chapter End Notes

💚💚💚
I'm so sorry about being bad at wrapping up smut fics, but there WILL be a part 2! I
promise!
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!