#just something to sedate what has been going on lately

[z0mbiekin]

Saw this

Then made this

[thepencilnerd]

And Through It All

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: What starts with years of coffee, rooftop conversations, and quiet closeness unravels in the aftermath of a violent patient attack. As the hospital reels, so does Robby—until everything he’s buried comes to the surface. warnings: depiction of violence towards women genre: slow burn, pining, angst, fluff, you both suck at feelings word count: 3.6k a/n: yes this show still has me in a chokehold, this man is old enough to be my father, and protective/emotionally constipated Robby has consumed my every waking thought. also someone please sedate me because I don't know how I'm going to make it between episodes.

p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | Feels Like Trouble) if you're interested

Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch always clocked in just after you.

It started as coincidence—years ago, when you were a new year-2 resident fumbling your way through charting and sleep deprivation. You’d arrive blurry-eyed at 5:58 AM, and two minutes later, he'd walk through the side door with two cups of coffee. One always ended up in your hand.

"This is my warm welcome to the pit, I’m not on coffee rounds," he’d grumbled the first time.

"Yet, my savior, here you are," you smiled, taking the cup. "Thanks, Dr. Robby."

He gave you a look, dry and fond. "Don’t get used to it."

Needless to say, you both did.

Now a senior resident, you’ve long since earned your stripes—but the morning coffees kept coming. So did the banter.

"That differential on bed 7 was a mess," Robby muttered one morning.

You sipped from your cup. "I was experimenting with chaos as a teaching strategy."

He stared, deadpan. "Rein it in, Nietzsche."

Late nights sometimes ended on the roof—shoulders nearly touching, silence stretched long between you. The rooftop was a liminal space: above the noise, between shifts, between you and him. You'd talk about patients. About medicine. About what the job takes and what it leaves behind.

One night you’d murmured, "Do you think we make a difference? Or are we just putting out fires that never stop?"

Robby didn’t answer right away. You could hear him breathing. "Some burning buildings are worth running into," he said eventually, voice low like he was admitting something he'd carried a long time.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t not. You were close—so close it blurred. You never noticed how often he drifted into your orbit. But others did.

"So... you and Robinavitch—what’s the deal?" McKay would tease with a grin.

You furrowed your brow, genuinely confused. "What do you mean?"

She leaned on the nurses' station, unbothered. "C’mon, you really don’t see it? The way he looks at you? Brings you coffee every morning? Steps in before anyone else can when the ball rolls downhill?"

You waved a hand dismissively. "He just… cares. That’s his job."

McKay raised an eyebrow. "Sure. Except he doesn’t bring me coffee. Or look like he’s going to deck someone if they so much as raise their voice at me."

You opened your mouth to reply—but the sliding ER doors slammed open. A gurney rushed in, shouting echoing off the walls. Without thinking, you turned and ran toward the trauma bay.

"Saved by the bell," McKay called after you, but you were already gone.

But you didn’t see how his eyes tracked you in a crowded hallway, lingering just a second longer than necessary—guarded, but unmistakably drawn. How he'd appear at your side before anyone else when things turned sideways, voice calm but stance protective, like he was positioning himself between you and whatever chaos had just erupted. The way his jaw would tighten when residents spoke too casually around you, especially if their tone dipped into flirtation. The moments when his voice dropped low, quiet and edged with something softer, when asking if you’d made it home safe after shifts—always phrased like a passing question, but one he never failed to ask.

Earlier that week, Robby had been leaning against the counter in the break room with Dana and a few of the nurses clustered nearby. He was sipping bad coffee and flipping through a chart when Dana nudged him lightly with her elbow.

"You know," she started with a smirk. "You're getting pretty soft on that senior resident."

Robby didn’t look up, adjusting the frame of his glasses. "Yeah? What makes you say that?"

Princess glanced at Perlah, who grinned. The two exchanged a few rapid lines in Tagalog—something teasing and full of mischief. Robby raised an eyebrow.

"Just because I don’t speak Tagalog doesn’t mean I don’t know exactly what you’re saying," he said dryly, finally taking off his glasses and staring at the nurses judgementally.

Dana just about cackled. "Come on, Robby. You bring her coffee every morning, you hover when she’s in a tough case, you barely let interns breathe near her."

Perlah added, "And you always look at her like you’re trying not to."

Princess laughed. "Sir, that’s not just coffee—that’s courtship."

Robby rolled his eyes, biting back a smile. "You all have too much time on your hands."

"We're just saying," Dana said as she turned toward the door. "If you're gonna pine, at least be subtle."

He shook his head and muttered, "Back to work, people."

Then came the day everything cracked.

The patient had come in hostile—angry at the world and bleeding from a cut above his brow—muttering about how no one respected him, how women thought they were better than him. According to his chart, he had a record of violent outbursts and a chip on his shoulder the size of the hospital.

"You think you're smarter than me, don't you?" he sneered when you entered the bay, his arms crossed and chest puffed like a bull ready to pick a fight.

You kept your voice calm and professional. "Sir, I'm just here to update your chart and make sure you're getting what you need."

He laughed—sharp and bitter. "What I need is for people like you to stop looking at me like I'm some kind of freak. All you female doctors think you're so much better."

You froze for just a second. "I'm here to provide care. Nothing more."

"Don't lie to me!" he spat. "I see how you talk to the others. You think you're above me like some queen. But you're not. You're just another stupid cunt—"

"I'm going to get another physician to help with your case," you said quickly, trying to disengage, stepping back toward the call button.

"You walk away from me, and I swear—"

The second he was out of your peripheral vision, he lunged.

You cried out as his weight slammed into you, sending you hard to the ground. Everyone around you scattered, the staff protecting patients and patients protecting themselves.

Your elbow struck tile and pain bloomed across the crown of your skull. Your head snapped back like a slap bracelet. He loomed over you, shouting a string of vile insults, hands grabbing at whatever they could. Another set of fingers clamped around your throat. A scream pierced through the air shouting, "Robby!" Only after a set of doors burst open did you realize it was yours. 

Before you had time to process what was happening, he was there.

Robby knocked the patient off of you with brute force that stunned the entire hospital staff. Without help, Robby pinned him to the floor facefirst with practiced strength, knees braced, and jaw clenched. "Security!" his voice thundered.

Subduing the attacker by his wrists, Robby's knee dug into the man's back thigh without mercy, making him cry out in pain. "Collins! Dana!" he barked, voice sharp and commanding, reverberating through the trauma bay like a shockwave.

You were on the floor, dazed, breath knocked out of you. The two women rushed to your side in the blink of an eye. All around, med students and residents stood frozen, eyes wide.

They had never seen Robby like that.

No one had ever seen Robby like that.

The patient struggled once more before Robby leaned in and drove his knee harder into the attacker’s thigh, his grip unrelenting, voice low and deadly calm. "Stay down."

Security took over a moment later, but Robby didn’t move until he was sure it was safe. Then he stood, exhaled once, and turned to Dana and Collins.

"I'll be over as soon as I can, brief me later," he said. "I'll assess her myself."

Dana crouched beside you, one hand firm on your shoulder. "We've got you," she said gently, then glanced over her shoulder. "We'll be in 4."

Collins helped you up with care, guiding you slowly down the hall while Dana kept close at your side. You were still disoriented, a sharp ringing in your ears, but you caught a glimpse of Robby speaking to security. He didn’t even glance your way—focused, furious, deadly calm.

In Exam Room 4, Collins set you down on the cot, already checking your pupils with a penlight. "You hit your head?"

"Yeah," you managed, wincing as you moved. "Elbow too. Think I caught most of the floor on the way down."

Dana pressed a cold pack into your hand. "You’re in shock. Just breathe. We’ll handle this."

Collins nodded, gently examining your face and palpating around your ribs. "No obvious trauma, nothing broken. Expect some bruising around your throat the next few days. We should get you in for a head CT just to be safe. You took a hard hit."

"I'll get that booked ASAP," Dana said, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze before stepping out to handle the order. She paused at the doorway just long enough to exchange a glance with Collins—an unspoken check-in—before disappearing down the hall. 

Moments later, the door opened again. Robby stepped in, his expression unreadable but his eyes scanning you like he was cataloging every mark, every breath.

"I’ll take it from here," he said quietly to Collins.

They exchanged a glance, then wordlessly stepped out.

And then it was just you and him.

He crossed to your side, kneeling. His hands moved automatically, gently tilting your chin to check for swelling, eyes flicking to your pupils, then the scrape along your cheekbone. "Can you look up for me? Good. Follow my finger."

His voice was low and clinical, but his touch was careful—too careful.

"Headache? Nausea? Double vision?" he asked, bringing your hand into his and turning it over to assess for any injuries.

"No, just a little dizzy," you murmured.

He nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as he assessed your elbow, then the bruising along your neck. Then the questions stopped. His hands stilled.

He just looked at you—really looked at you—and the silence took hold.

His jaw flexed, like he was trying to say something but couldn't. Something had cracked open in him. Not just from what happened. From what it revealed.

And you could feel it—the weight in the room. Something unsaid between you, thick as blood and twice as loud.

You tried to fill the silence. "Dana said she'd put in a rush order for a head CT. Collins didn’t think anything was broken, just some bruising and—"

"Don’t," Robby said, almost too softly.

Your words faltered. You watched him—how his shoulders stayed tense, how his eyes didn’t move from yours, how still he was, like saying the wrong thing might make everything unravel.

"Robby," you said gently. "It's okay, I’m fine."

His jaw clenched, masseter muscles carving his sunken cheeks like a marble sculpture. "No, it's not. You’re not."

He said it so quietly, like he hated the truth of it. Getting up, he ruffled his hair and shook his head, voice still quiet but heavy. "Just... give me a second."

It wasn’t the injury that had shaken him—it was the realization. That in those terrifying few seconds, the worst thing he could imagine had nearly happened. And it wasn’t because you were his resident. Or his colleague.

It was because you were you.

You watched him pace as the silence dragged, your heart still pounding faintly in your ears. "Robby," you tried again, softer this time. "I'm okay, really..."

Still, he said nothing.

You gave a half-scoff, half-sigh, trying to shake off the tension. "I’ve had worse nights. Dana and Collins already cleared me—CT’s just precautionary. Nothing to worry about."

His movements stilled and eyes didn’t leave yours.

"What is it?" you asked, finally, your voice gentle but steady—like you already knew the answer but needed to hear it.

That cracked something in him. He looked away for a beat, jaw flexing again, his breath hitching as if he was holding back something too big to name. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, raw—nothing like the sharp, composed attending everyone else knew.

"I didn’t know it would feel like that." 

He rubs the back of his neck, a self-soothing gesture in an effort to hold back whatever threatens to overflow. "Seeing you on the ground. Hearing you scream. For me. I’ve seen worse—God knows we all have. But nothing’s ever felt like that."

You froze.

His eyes met yours again, and the walls he always held in place—stone and steel and professionalism—weren’t there anymore. He looked at you like he wanted something he had never allowed himself to want. Like he was terrified of the feeling and already grieving it.

You felt the shift like gravity tilting. Like the air changed around you. It was as though the ground beneath you had tipped on its axis.

And suddenly, everything between you was different.

Not unspoken anymore, just unbearable to say aloud.

You felt yourself retreating into the space between what you wanted to feel and what you needed to believe. The part of you that ached wanted to lean forward, close the distance, tell him you felt it too—that terrible, awful, beautiful clarity.

But another part held you back. The part that lived in hospital hallways and stared at name badges and remembered what it meant to be professional. To be younger. A resident. His resident. The part that convinced you it could never be more.

You searched his face, trying to decode what this moment was, or if it had always been there, hiding in quiet coffees and rooftops and restrained glances. And still, he said nothing. Maybe he was waiting. Maybe he didn’t know how to cross that final line either.

So you just sat there in the quiet with him, suspended between the ache and the boundary—between what was true and what you were still too scared to say.

Eventually, you broke. Your voice came out barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brows furrowed instantly. "For what?"

You shook your head, feeling heat rise behind your eyes. "I don’t know. For not calling for help. For being alone in there. For... allowing this," you gestured between the two of you, "to happen." You sniffled. "For letting myself—"

"Don’t," he cut in sharply, but not unkindly. "Don’t you dare apologize for any of that, you did nothing wrong."

You blinked.

He leaned in slightly, voice steady now, like he needed you to hear every word. "You did everything right. You followed protocol. That man was unstable, and what happened wasn’t your fault."

Your lip trembled, but you didn’t speak.

His voice softened again. "And if this is about me... if you think you’ve done something wrong because of how I feel about you—how I care about you—don’t."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was everything neither of you knew how to name. It sat heavy between you—thick with the ache of things buried too long and the sharp edges of everything that couldn't be said. You could feel it in your chest, pressing against your ribs and threatening to claw itself out, the unspoken confession of a man who just laid bare more than he meant to, and your own desperate need to pretend you didn’t hear it.

But you had. You’d heard it in his voice, in the way his hands had trembled just slightly when he touched your face, in the way his eyes wouldn’t leave yours even when they should’ve.

And now, as your chest rose and fell too quickly and your heart tried to find steady ground, all the small moments you’d buried—or maybe just refused to examine—rushed back like a crashing wave. His hand guiding yours during your very first incision, firm but not overbearing. The coffees every morning—always your usual, always on time. The time he’d found you on the stairwell after you lost your first patient, sobbing uncontrollably, and he didn’t try to fix it—he just sat there beside you until you could breathe again. The rooftop shifts when you couldn’t quiet your incessant thoughts, he somehow always found you there.

The silence that needed no explanation.

It had always been there. A quiet, steadfast presence. Not loud, not showy—but constant.

And now, undeniable.

And maybe you were still trying to find the line between what had always been there and what had just changed—but the silence was no longer uncertain. It was waiting.

You decided to break it.

"Can I kiss you?" you whispered, eyes searching his, breath catching somewhere in your throat.

Robby didn’t answer. Not with words.

He leaned in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. His eyes searched yours, one last moment of hesitation flickering there—one last out, if you wanted it.

But you didn’t. Instead, you met him halfway.

His lips brushed yours, featherlight at first, reverent, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed. His skin was warm against yours, soft in a way that surprised you. Your fingers found his jaw, the roughness of his beard brushing your palms as your hands slid down slowly, until they came to rest at the curve of his neck—right where his pulse thrummed hard beneath your fingertips.

The kiss deepened a breath later, quiet and aching, full of everything you’d both held back for far too long. His hands rose to cradle your face, holding you like something fragile, like if he wasn’t careful, you might break. His thumbs grazed the corners of your cheekbones, grounding and gentle, anchoring you both in the impossible tenderness of it.

There was nothing hurried about it. Just warmth and softness and the quiet admission of something real. Something that had lived in the silence between you for years.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, exhaling shakily.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a confession.

He let out a breath, rough and shaky against your cheek. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that," he murmured. His voice cracked just slightly at the edges—like the truth cost something to say. And maybe it did.

You pulled back enough to see him clearly, your hands resting on his neck, feeling the steady, trembling pulse beneath your fingertips. He looked at you like the moment might vanish if he blinked.

For years, probably. You just hadn’t let yourself admit it. Not through the early mornings or the long nights. Not even when he stood too close, or when his voice turned soft just for you. Not even when your heart always found him in a crowd. But now, with his breath still warm against your lips and his hands still cradling your face like something precious, you couldn’t pretend anymore.

You’d been his and he'd been yours, long before either of you were brave enough to say it. You pulled back just enough to look at him—really look—and gently stroked his cheek, admiring his freckles like newly formed constellations in the sky. 

His eyes drop ever so slightly. "I'm old," he starts. "My work-life balance is absolute shit. You deserve someone who can give you what you need."

You stare at him, puzzled. For a second, you think he’s serious—like he's about to start building walls where they’d only just crumbled.

Then you catch the flicker in his expression. The barely-there smirk at the corner of his mouth. He’s only half-serious. Nervous. Teasing you.

You grin, easing the weight with a well-aimed jab. "At least you're not old enough to be my father. And it's not like my hours spent outside work ratio is any better."

He scoffs, ducking his head before shaking it all too lightheartedly.

"And for the record," you add, tapping his chest with a pointed index finger. "This is not some personification of daddy issues, I'll have you know that my father and I have a very healthy relationship."

"Well, that’s a relief," he murmurs, his smile softening as he encloses his fingers around your hand.

You sit back, playful. "I’ll keep you up to date on all the hottest trends the youths engage in. Like cat cafés and strawberry milk matcha lattes. And emotional vulnerability."

He groans, rubbing his face shyly. "God help me."

You grin, careful not to laugh too hard, and lean into him again. "Too late for that, Robinavitch. You’re stuck with me." 

"Yeah," he whispered. "I really hope I am."

Outside, the hospital buzzed as it always did—pages overhead, heels echoing on tile, lives beginning and ending behind curtain walls. But for a moment, the noise faded. The only sound was your breathing, his.

And the quiet hum of something long overdue settling into place.

You didn’t know what came next—how this would unfold outside the safety of Room 4, outside of bruises and adrenaline and low-lit confessions. But for now, with his forehead still resting gently against yours, and the weight of unspoken feelings finally aired between you, it didn’t matter.

You had time.

Until a round of cheers and high fives broke the stillness like a confetti cannon bursting into the air.

Both of you jerked apart, startled. Just outside the half-closed door to Room 4 stood a cluster of med students, nurses, residents, and paramedics—huddled together like a peanut gallery, barely containing their glee.

Fire. Fire beneath your cheeks igniting your face like the depths of hell and embarrassment. You buried it in Robby’s chest as he turned around slowly, one hand instinctively coming up to rest on your back as he started to laugh.

Langdon, of course, was the ringleader. He held up a neon orange post-it like a trophy, waving it proudly as the group chuckled and whooped behind him. In black Sharpie were the words:

UNPLANNED CONFESSION - Langdon & King—the bet circled and underlined. And below it: $7/week. Scribbled in tiny pen just beneath that, barely legible, was a date—six months ago.

He high-fived someone out of view next to him just before giving the two of you an exaggerated thumbs-up, grinning like he’d just won the Super Bowl. On cue, Mel stood up from beside him and gave you a quick wave and a shy smile, arms held tightly by her sides.

You groaned, still pressed into Robby's chest. "I swear to God, if they made a bracket—"

"Oh they definitely made a bracket," Robby said, laughing into your hair.

You peeked up at him, still mortified but grinning. "Are we seriously the plot twist in someone’s trauma bay soap opera?"

"Apparently," he muttered, pulling you closer. "Should we give them something to talk about for next week's episode?"

You scoffed, swatting lightly at his chest. "Take me out to dinner first, will you?"

Outside, the group began to scatter—some called back to rounds, others still giggling as they walked off. But you stayed there, tucked into Robby’s side, warmth blooming in your chest despite the chaos. Whatever came next, you’d figure it out. Together.

And if the hospital had front-row seats to your slow-burn becoming a soft landing? So be it.

[starmaidengarden]

Hey so you know Floyd, Riddle, Jack howl and Epel got their own tsums. Their s/o has a weird calming affect on the tsum that was previously rolling around like crazy:, Floyd tsum squeezes his s/o arm and his s/o’s just like “boop -*pats it gently * awwe. Not too tight ok. You can sit here with me”. S/o peels it off their arm and sets it on their lap And the floyd tsum doesn’t know what to do with itself.?

— floyd: x gn!reader. no cw/tw. established relationship. dividers: uzmacchiato.

The Lounge was anything but peaceful. Floyd's tsum zipped and bounced around like living marbles on the floor, particularly a certain Floyd tsum—a chaotic blur of soft fabric and unrestrained energy. Small and squishy, yes—but it rolled like a cannonball, bit like a plush piranha, and had a disturbingly strong grip for something made of cotton and pure chaos. It bounced off walls. It chewed on chair legs. It once got tangled in Jade’s shoelaces and refused to let go until it was bribed with a shrimp-shaped keychain.

It was, in every possible way, a tiny, adorable disaster. “Floyd, get it off the chandelier,” Azul hissed one morning as the tsum swung above the lounge in a victorious display of acrobatics. Floyd, sitting upside down on a couch with a lazy grin, only laughed. “He’s just havin’ fun~! Look at him go~!” Then you walked in. You had barely stepped into the room when the tsum, mid-swing, let out a high-pitched squeaky noise and launched itself off the chandelier like a fuzzy missile.

It clamped onto your arm like a baby squid, limbs locked tight, making a delighted little chirring sound as it clung. You blinked down at it, unbothered. “Well hello there, lil’ buddy.” The tsum gave you another affectionate death grip. “Too tight, now. Easy.” You gently patted its squishy plush head. “Boop. There we go. You can hang out, but let’s not cut off circulation, okay?” Carefully, you peeled the tsum off your arm like a stubborn sticker and set it in your lap.

It blinked up at you. Then it blinked again. And did nothing. No biting. No rolling. No screaming. Just… sat there. Motionless. It was as if the physical embodiment of Floyd’s chaotic spirit had been sedated by the simple power of gentle affection. You began stroking its head, and the tsum made a little purring sound—then slumped into your lap with a heavy plush sigh. Utterly content. Floyd watched the whole thing with a slow blink. “...You broke him,” he finally said, sounding both amused and mildly sad.

You. Sitting on the couch. Calm as ever. His tsum. Usually a squeaking blur… now peacefully curled up in your lap, squished into your hoodie like a sleepy gremlin. “…Whatcha do to him?” Floyd tilted his head. “He ain’t even bitin’ no one.” “I just gave him a pat,” you said with a smile. “He got all cuddly after that.”

The tsum gave a sleepy chirp of agreement. Floyd blinked. Then burst out laughing. “AHAHA—wow~ Even mini-me likes you more than me now?” resting his head against your shoulder. The tsum immediately gave a grumpy squeak and attempted to shove him off with its stubby body. Floyd smirked down at his own tsum. “You little copycat, stealing my Shrimpy.” The tsum squeaked again, curling tighter into your lap. It was now full-on glaring at Floyd, which only made him cackle louder. “Jealous of me?” he teased. “I am you, y’know!”

Floyd grinned, sharp teeth flashing. “Tch. Don’t let him fool ya~ I can be squishier. Wanna see?” Before you could respond, Floyd had wrapped himself around you like a lanky human blanket, arms draped over your shoulders, chin resting atop your head. The tsum let out a squeaky protest, trying to reclaim its place.“Too late,” Floyd murmured, smirking against your hair. “I called dibs first.”

[have-you-seen-my-sanity]

Heeey! Would you write possessive yandere Joe Goldberg smut? Joe captures reader and puts her in his cage. After some time she starts to develop feelings for him. You know...the good ol' Stockholm syndrome😏and they end up having sex in the cage like in the show

No pressure ofc 🥰

Hiii! :D

I've got this😈

YOU are my everything

YOU masterlist

Yandere!Joe Goldberg x fem!reader

Cw/triggers: Joe Goldberg is his own warning, nsfw, kidnapping, captive reader, smut, p in v sex, impression of stalking, Stockholm syndrome.

There you are, so innocent, walking home and giving me the pleasure to watch you while you do it.

Ever since Joe bumped into you at some random store he became infatuated with you. Your eyes, lips, how friendly you were to him, everything!

I don't even know if I was lucky enough to stumble upon you or if you are lucky that it was me. But I'd like to think both.

Joe adjusted his cap and moved to stand at a tree opposite from your window where he could get a look inside just nicely.

He has broken into many homes by now and yours were no different, so he watched the place carefully. Joe returned later when it was rather late and he figured out you must have been asleep already.

Joe was careful and mindful, moving slowly before efficiently sedating you and gently carrying you out to Mooney's without raising suspicion.

After you've been placed into the cage and securily locked up Joe walked back upstairs to get some things done.

It was a few minutes later when you woke up drowsily and confused. Immediately you felt lightheadedness come over you and your head ached a bit. You looked around, feeling panic rise up as you realized you were in a cage. You stood up slowly, trying the door but it wad locked. Screaming wasn't smart because your kidnapper might hear you and instead you kicked the strong glas but it held strong.

"What sick asshole puts people inside cages like animals?" You thought to yourself.

Then a key getting inserted into a lock could be heard before the lights have been turned on and slow steps descented to the room you are in.

The person came into view, with a bag in his hand and you looked puzzled while he just looked back at you with a small but persistent smile.

"I brought you something." He started, moving closer to the small movable plate next to the door and placed the bag on for you to take.

"Who the fuck are you?" You ask.

Joe stepped back while you eyed the bag with suspicion. "Don't you remember me? I was the guy you bumped into couple days ago. I'm Joe."

Joe. You remember him, he helped you with the groceries which had falled on the ground and apologized sincerely. He seemed kind.

You frowned. "And why the hell did you lock me into this?"

He moved closer once more. "Because I felt something between us, don't you too?"

You shook your head. "No! You're just a guy I bumped into, a stranger!"

Joe's gaze darkened. "Just a stranger? A stranger surely wouldn't do all the things I would do for you."

You let out a half nervous half frustrated laugh. "Are you serious?"

Fuck, you're so hot when you're angry.

"Yes." He nodded. "There is nothing I wouldn't do for you. For us." Then he gestured to the bag he gave you. "There's a sandwich, water and some painkillers."

"Why am I here?" You ask.

Joe simply smiled. "Because I love you. I would do anything for you."

"You should think about us." Were his last words before he made his way back upstairs.

How the hell did that happen? What did you do that this Joe is so in love with you? You carefully opened the bag and grabbed the bottle of water for some freshness.

You tried getting some rest on the makeshift bed but it wad hard with all the things going on but eventually you fell asleep. The next day you woke up to the surprise of Joe sitting outside the cage, watching you sleep.

"Were you watching me sleep?"

Oh yes

Joe slowly stood up. "Yes," he moved closer now standing infront of the door, "did you think about us?"

You frowned at him. "No, I-..." you didn't finish the sentance and looked down on the ground.

"Think about all the ways your life will be so much easier with me in it." Joe started softly. "All the ways I would love you, spoil you or care for you." Then he placed his palm flat on the glas, seemingly waiting for your hand to do the same. "Please." He pleaded quietly.

Your emotions are going nuts inside you, frustration, fear and even pity?

You slowly walked towards him and placed his hand right where his was. Joe's gaze was fixed on yours.

"Will you let me love you?"

Something inside you couldn't bring it on to say no, something made you want to say yes, be loved by the man who brought you here.

"Yes." You whispered.

As soon as Joe heard you he reached into his pocket, getting the key out and opened the door. With every step inside, you took one back, unsure what will happen now until your back met with the glas behind you and he stood right infront of you.

Joe placed a hand beside your head. "Don't be scared." Then he moved closer, nearly pressing his body against yours and leaned in. You didn't pull away, instead when his lips met yours you leaned into his touch, his other hand moved to your hip as he kissed you.

You felt him grind against you, the outline of his hard cock met your core, making wetness pool inside your panties.

When you pressed yourself against him, Joe quickly moved to undress you and helped you lay down on the cool floor.

"Are you ready?" He whispered huskily.

At your nod, Joe spared no time in pulling your panties off and fishing his hard cock out of his boxers. He positioned himself between your legs and brought his cock up to your wet pussy.

"Tell me you're mine." He demanded softly, pressing the tip of his cock inside you making you gasp.

"I-I'm yours.." You gasped when he pushed deeper, slowly until he bottomed out.

Joe set a slow pace, he felt you getting wetter with each thrust and he couldn't help but groan. "Fuck."

Your head fell back as you arched into him, his thrusts getting harder.

"Do you belong to me?" He asked suddenly and you felt his cock hitting you just right, causing you to become cockdrunk. You could only moan in response but Joe leaned in and asked again, "Do you. Belong to me?"

"Yes, yes!" You mewled, wrapping your legs around him, feeling your peak getting closer and closer.

"That's my good, perfect girl." Joe cooed, pounding into you faster, feeling his orgasm approach aswell.

"Joe I'm about to cum!" You warned breathlessly. Joe looked st you with a small grin, "Then cum for me as I cum for you."

And just like that, your pussy clenched around Joe's invading cock and gushed your juices all over him.

"That's my girl." Joe groaned, thrusting into you one last time with a loud groan before spilling his hot cum into you.

Joe collapsed onto you, breathless and pulled out and rolling off beside you. He turned to look at you lovingly, and brushed a bead of sweat off your brow.

"Will you let me love you?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

[sugary-strawberry-shortcake]

Hi how are you? You can ignore this if you want it’s okay!

This is such a random question but what would happen if one day reader gets sick like before she escapes and because of that in her sick state she just talks and accidentally reveals her plans or the family finds something about it while trying to for some reason determine how she got sick? (I guess you could say an AU or just an overall divergence from the main plot line)

How would the family react to her getting sick? Would they coddle her and be over dramatic about it? And when she gets better what happens than? Also random question but if given the chance who would she willing cuddle or go to for comfort after maybe realizing that she can’t really escape or whose more forceful or pushy about spending more time with her and giving more physical affection.

I REALLY HOPE THAT YOU HAVE AN AMAZING DAY (I KNOW I ASKED FOR A LOT AND KIND OF WENT ON A TANGENT IM SO SORRY)

hiii!! So sorry for the late response, I just had to edit a bit of the newest chapter. Thank you for the long and quite interesting ask!!

So to answer your question:

If the reader got sick before she escaped, I think they would be worried—more worried than they would have been in the original timeline since they started to slowly develop their yandere tendencies. HOWEVER, I do think they wouldn’t be as overbearing or worried about her as they would later on. And the reader definitely wouldn‘t seek them out since the reader still has the goal of getting as far away from them as possible. And sorta resents their presence.

But if it’s after the escape and when they find the file, then yeah it would be a chaos of fear, concern, and fights in the Wayne manor.

Because Alfred is the only one who’s familiar with the reader being sick, he would be the most calm about the situation. The rest? Not so much. Dick would go in full mom mode. Damian would belittle her for getting infected (somehow blaming it on her) while also forcing her to eat her soup. Tim would seem like the most normal one, but proposes ideas like sedating her to get her to rest. Jason would not let her go, always fearing the worst when she just so much sneezes. Bruce would literally hire the best doctors in the world, threatening them to cure his sweet little princess IMMEDIATELY.

but for more detail, I will write a oneshot about it and tag you then!!

- love poppy💗

[glimmeringtwilight]

Gilded Cage (Part Three)

ok. i'm not going to try to come up with a clever name for this one, this is just. part three. please send an ask or a DM if I missed any CW's! been a while.

Pairing(s): Dottore/Reader, Pantalone/Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

CW: NSFW, drugging (painkillers and other ment), rough sex, biting, threats of mutilation (mild. but it's Dottore), yandere themes, noncon/dubcon, AFAB reader, overstimulation, humiliation

Dottore has been on edge lately. 

You can tell. You can see it in his jaw when he’s sedating you as you lie on the operating table, eyes burning and dark as he stares through you at something presumably only he can see. You can see it in the way his hand sometimes twitches slightly– which bodes terribly for you– as he makes a small incision into your thigh, or your stomach, or your arm.

Most of the time, you think he just cuts into you simply because he can. Because he likes to watch the blood welling from the wound, dripping down your skin. He’s been doing it a lot more lately, sometimes forgetting to sedate you, sometimes forgetting to give you something for the pain, sometimes cutting too deep.

It feels like there’s a storm brewing that you can’t see; curtains drawn so you can’t look out the window and see the magnitude, brace yourself for wind or rain.  

His clones seem to be affected by it, too; usually it’s only ever the younger clones of his that lash out, but even the supposedly older ones are starting to show signs of agitation. You haven’t seen the same test subject twice in what feels like weeks. All of them seem to enter and leave the lab only once– something that should horrify you more than it does, whenever you watch them wheeling the covered bodies past. 

It’s this way for weeks. Dottore stalks around his lab like a harbinger of death, practically oozing poison and malice despite the deceptively calm mask he dons. 

You find out what it is that’s been agitating him when he opens the door to your cell one morning. Not a clone. Not the occasional trembling Fatuus. Him. His eyes burn into you. You can’t make out the emotion in them, but the complete coolness in his expression makes your stomach sink. You wonder, briefly, if he’s going to finally kill you– would that be a mercy, at this point? Killing you? Perhaps not. Knowing him, he’d draw it out. Make it hurt. 

Still, despite the terror that curls its fingers around your throat, you follow him quietly out of the cell and into the lab, staring at the back of his head as you walk and wishing you could read minds so you could at least brace yourself for whatever this is.

The two of you enter the lab and you finally realize what it is that’s crawled under Dottore’s skin, sat at the desk in the corner as though he’s not terribly out of place in the sterile environment. 

Pantalone sits comfortably in one of the chairs near the desk Dottore rarely seems to use, smiling as though he’s received a warm welcome and a parade. Dottore, meanwhile, looks palpably annoyed as he strides past the banker and takes a seat behind the desk, motioning for you to follow. 

It’s… Intensely uncomfortable, to say the least. You rarely find yourself sitting at Dottore’s desk, considering the doctor usually prefers to be conducting experiments rather than sitting and compiling data; he usually delegates that to his clones, who bitch and moan about the boring task. 

So sitting in a chair, next to the two men who’ve each held you captive at different points, as Dottore practically radiates anger… You don’t know what to do. You fold your hands in your lap, avoiding looking at either one, even as you can feel the two of them just… staring. 

You feel like you’re under a microscope, worse than any other time before when you’d been laid out on the operating table under Dottore’s invasive prodding.

Pantalone speaks first, breaking the charged silence. 

“I take it you don’t mind if I verify that this one’s real,” He says, rising from his chair and smiling at the way Dottore visibly bristles. “After all, I’m paying for this, aren’t I? I deserve that much.”

It takes you a moment to realize he’s talking about you, and the demeaning way in which he’s referring to you as though you’re some object that might be counterfeit is both unnerving and irritating. You’re careful not to let it show on your face as Pantalone approaches you. 

“What-” You start to ask, but you’re swiftly interrupted by gloved fingers prying open your mouth, prodding around in search of something that isn’t there. You feel them press down on your tongue, ghost over molars, then press against the back of your throat until you gag. 

Somewhat satisfied, the banker pulls his fingers from your mouth and grips your chin firmly with a now-damp glove, turning your head this way and that and ignoring the obvious discomfort painted on your features as the action smears drool on your skin. What is he doing?

You shoot a glance towards Dottore, who is still just watching. He’s obviously pissed– you can see a vein popping in his forehead, belaying his anger on his otherwise blank face. 

Pantalone lets go of your chin in favor of grabbing you by the arms, pulling you up from your chair and motioning for you to spin around in a circle. You do, though you’re still confused, unsure of what’s happening as the banker seems to be appraising you like a precious gem. It’s a different type of poking and prodding than Dottore’s usual tests and checkups, but it’s invasive nonetheless. It’s doubly unsettling that this is the first time you’ve seen the banker without his usual smarmy smile. 

Hands find your shoulders and stop you again, and you bristle when they trace the curve of your spine, exposed thanks to the open back of the hospital gown. You feel them stop, tap something just to the left of one of your vertebrae, and Pantalone spins you back around to face him, clearly pleased. 

You try not to flinch when he takes a lock of your hair in his hands– it’s gotten so long since you’d been brought back to the lab– and brings it closer to his face. His nose crinkles, palpable disgust on his features, and he mutters something about “that vile soap he makes you use”– likely referring to Dottore– before turning around to face the man in question. 

“Are you done ogling?” Dottore asks, his tone clipped. You can’t see him around the banker, but you’re sure he still looks as pissed as before. 

Pantalone tilts his head slightly, smiling, then glances over his shoulder at you. “Perhaps not yet, but I’m satisfied enough for now. You’ll get the funding for your little… project, and I expect to see this one at my doorstep every other month from now on.”

Every other month? You frown. Is this some sort of… custody arrangement that the two men worked out? You don’t know if you want to laugh or not at the absurdity of it all; like you’re the unfortunate child of two divorced bastards, except this is much, much worse.

“Fine,” Dottore grits out, in a tone that suggests it’s anything but. He gets up to shoo the banker out of his lab, but Pantalone merely tuts and makes his way back over to where you’re standing, confused, and rests one hand heavily on your shoulder.

“One month starting today, of course,” Pantalone continues, “It’s only fair, after all, when you’ve been hoarding my poor pet this whole time. I have to make up for lost time, after all.”

He delivers those words with a smile that only seems to irritate Dottore further, red eyes boring holes into him as Dottore visibly seems to be contemplating murder. Pantalone speaks up again before he does anything, however, offering a hollow consolation: “Of course, I’m not cruel. How about a farewell? A parting gift, to… tide you over while they’re gone?”

You don’t like the sound of that, and Dottore seems to pick up on the banker’s suggestion as you’re spun around once more and ushered towards the exam table you’ve become intimately familiar with for the last several months. 

For this supposedly being Dottore’s “parting gift,” Pantalone is awfully remiss to keep his hands– and commentary– to himself. 

“Ah, what a cute noise that was,” You hear him coo, a finger tapping your nose with just enough force to startle you so you flinch, “Don’t you think you’re being a bit rough though, Doctor?”

“Quiet.”

You jostle against the table, gripping the edge of it for support as hips snap into yours with bruising force. Dottore’s fingers are gripping your hips so tightly you’re sure they’ll leave bruises– that’s probably the point, honestly; he’s fucking you like he intends for you to feel it for the entire month you’ll be absent. 

Pantalone’s comments aren’t helping things either; despite the banker’s comment about roughness, it only seems to have encouraged the doctor to go even harder. 

Thankfully, you were given something for the pain, but not from Dottore. Pantalone had pressed a pill into your gasping mouth when Dottore had started, telling you that you were going to need it, and though swallowing was a struggle, you’re glad he did. 

Dull pain and sharp pleasure mingle together, and you’ve long since lost track of the orgasms that have been dragged out of you. You’re starting to numb, honestly, overstimulation bleeding into pain, and you gasp into the table with every sharp thrust into you. 

“Tsk– don’t pass out now,” Pantalone chides, fingers curling around your jaw and biting into your cheeks when your eyes threaten to flutter shut, and Dottore snarls something about cutting your spinal cord if you do; something you sincerely hope is an empty threat, given the black spots dancing in your vision. “You still have another thirty minutes to go.”

You don’t remember there being a timer set, much less a time limit, but you certainly know you can’t last that much longer. Your knees have already long since given out, and Dottore had to hoist you up further onto the table so he could continue, leaving your feet dangling a few inches above the ground. 

You feel weight against your back, heat, smothering you as Dottore leans down to sink his teeth into your shoulder as he spills inside you once more, and you shudder through another weak orgasm in response, your eyes rolling back and your vision blacking out for several long moments. 

Pantalone shakes you back awake before you can slip too far, and you sob as Dottore starts to move again. You already know that you won’t be able to walk for the next few days, if not for the next week. 

Tears blur your vision, the world spinning around you as a gloved hand comes to rest against your head, petting you in what’s likely intended as a comforting gesture but only seems to frazzle you further, overwhelmed and overstimulated as you are. 

It must be Pantalone, because Dottore lets out an irritated noise, sinking his teeth into your skin to leave a new mark as he resumes the harsh pace he’d set earlier. Another hand, this one not gloved, curls around your throat to dig two fingers into your racing pulse as he tries to engrave himself into your flesh through means slightly less violent than cutting you open. 

You can barely keep track of who’s doing what– your vision is too blurred and you’re too far gone to fully piece together a coherent thought before it and the breath are knocked out of you by another snap of Dottore’s hips. One of them reaches down to rub circles into sensitive nerves, and you sob as another climax is ripped unwillingly out of you. 

You black out for longer this time, shaken awake once more by Pantalone. He’s cooing something at you that you can’t make out, drowned out by the rush of blood in your ears and the sound of Dottore’s ragged breaths mixing in with your own. 

It feels like you’re burning up, shivering weakly under Dottore’s crushing weight as the man seems to be pouring every ounce of frustration into his thrusts, and darkness encroaches on the corners of your vision with every movement. 

Another shuddering orgasm. You twitch weakly through it, your body registering the sensation more than your mind does. 

The world seems to tip, swaying like a vessel rocked by choppy waves before finally capsizing. Your vision goes, and you’re pulled into a sea of static. 

It smells like lilacs. 

It’s the first thing you notice when you slowly come to, a stark contrast to the smell of bleach and copper that you’ve become accustomed to. You’re also dressed in some proper clothes– or rather, ”proper,” compared to the usual paper-thin hospital gowns you’ve worn since being brought back to the lab. 

Opening your eyes, you’re greeted with the familiar luxuries you remember seeing when you were last in Pantalone’s care, and the sight would nearly be a relief if consciousness didn’t bring with it the unbearable ache in every inch of your body. There’s a budding headache building behind your temples, stinging pains from various bites and bruises littering your skin like brands.

It aches most between your legs, but there’s an ache in your thighs and your stomach like you’d pulled every muscle within; you probably did, honestly, but you try to push back the memory invading your thoughts and you sit up in bed. 

“You’re awake,” A silky voice drawls from behind you just as you sit up, and you turn around to see Pantalone sitting in an armchair in the corner, one leg folded over the other as he reads a book. He doesn’t look up as he addresses you; he just pats his knee, indicating he expects you to come to him. You’re not sure you can walk…

Climbing out of the soft bed hurts, various muscles protesting the movement, and you’re not surprised when your knees give out on you the second you rest your weight on your feet. Pantalone simpers at you from where he sits, amused, but he makes no move to help you stand up or walk. He just pats his thigh again, smiling at you. 

“I can’t walk,” Even talking hurts, evidenced by the crackling of your voice when you speak. 

“Then crawl.”

He says it so simply, as though you should have already known the answer. Your ears burn with humiliation. You don’t move.

“Don’t make me punish you on your first day back,” He says, setting his book down so he can properly address you. His tone is disappointed, but you don’t miss the way the bastard’s smile widens at the idea. 

Pantalone’s punishments aren’t nearly as severe as Dottore’s are, at least in terms of pain. Rather than physical punishments, he seems to prefer humiliation. You’re tempted to try your luck, but… everything hurts. You don’t want him to decide you haven’t earned the privilege of clothes– or find something equally humiliating and degrading– on top of the pain you’re already in.

Crawling hurts. Every muscle protests the movement, yet again, but you force yourself to ignore the aches, to ignore the humiliation burning beneath your skin at being made to crawl over to him. 

When you finally reach him you sit up unsteadily so you can climb into his lap, but you’re surprised when he stops you by pressing a gloved hand firmly against your head to keep you planted on your knees in front of him. 

Instead of addressing your confusion, Pantalone merely smiles and takes hold of your wrist, raising your arm to inspect the scars and bruises littering your skin from the months spent under Dottore’s care. His face twists with disgust, shifting into faux sympathy when he addresses you again, “Poor thing. Look what he’s done to you…”

His free hand comes to rest on his knee as he straightens up, uncrossing his legs, and you hear a steady tap tap tap as he drums his index finger against his knee thoughtfully. “Aren’t you glad I’ve brought you back from that wretched place?”

It’s a leading question. You know he expects you to answer correctly, and you get the sense he’s leading into something; a demand. “...Yes.”

“I knew you would be.” He says, dropping your wrist and leaning back comfortably in the armchair. He looks down at you, clearly pleased with the position you’re in. He props one elbow against the arm of the chair, resting his head in his hand as he smiles down at you. “Why don’t you be a good pet and show me just how appreciative you are?”

The implication isn’t lost on you, but whatever hope you’d had that he might mean something else is dashed as he spreads his legs slightly further apart to make room for you between them, and you don’t miss the growing bulge in his dress pants. 

Your hands are numb as you reach for his belt, and you barely flinch when his hand rests heavily against the back of your hand as you take him into your mouth. 

One cage for another. You’re not even sure you’re relieved, because every part of you still aches from the reminders Dottore had left you with. 

His hand presses against the back of your head, guiding you to take him further into your mouth, and you struggle to breathe around his length. You nearly gag as he pushes you down further, pushing back in resistance, and Pantalone clicks his tongue in disappointment but thankfully, lets up. Maybe he doesn’t want to ruin his pants. 

“I’ll get you something for the scarring,” He murmurs, fingers curling in your hair as you bob your head up and down his length. “And those garish bruises.”

Whether it’s an insult towards you or Dottore, you’re not sure. You try not to focus on it, instead focusing on the task at hand. You lave your tongue along the base of his shaft, earning a small shiver and a heady sigh from him. 

He’s silent for a few minutes as you continue to pleasure him, but you feel him boring holes into the top of your head. You don’t look up at him; you don’t want to. You’re trying to get this over with, and hoping that his silence means you’re doing well. 

The hand on the top of your head leaves, and you flinch when you feel him trace his fingers over one of the scabbed over bites left by Dottore, nearly biting down in surprise. You swallow, suppress the urge, resuming your pace even as he traces the outline of every bite left littered along your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders.

Pantalone straightens up a little, pressing his hand against the back of your head again to force you to take more than you already can. This time, he doesn’t relent when you push back, just holding his hand still until you stop whimpering and you manage to swallow back the urge to gag. 

“Hush.” He tells you in response to your muffled noises, groaning quietly at the way your throat vibrates around his cock.

You eventually relax, eventually get used to the feeling, and he lets you pull back slightly before he’s pressing down again, repeating until tears are spilling down your cheeks as you struggle not to reflexively bite down each time you gag slightly around his length. 

“How would you feel about something… permanent?” He asks, and his fingers are tracing the bites again. You try to pull back to answer, but his other hand stops you and he rocks his hips lazily into your mouth. A rhetorical, then; he doesn’t care for your answer.

You try to blink back your tears as you resume the pace you’d set, sucking lightly on his cock as his hand curls into your hair. It’s hard to focus on what he’s saying as his hand keeps threatening to force you down farther than you can take, and you’re focusing on stamping down the swelling nausea. 

“Something- hm-” He hums, and you can tell he’s getting close now, with the way his breathing is starting to deepen, his hand tightening its hold on your hair- “something tasteful. Not like those eyesores he leaves you. A collar is- fuck- too… too easy to remove.”

You don’t like where this is going, but humming your dissent only earns you a pleasured hiss and a rumble of praise spilling from his lips before he’s curling his fingers around the back of your neck. 

It’s the only warning you get before he shoves your head down, holding you there as cum spills into your mouth and down your throat. It takes everything in you to relax your jaw, and you pull back gasping and sputtering the second he relents.

By the time your vision clears and you blink back the tears spilling from your eyes, he’s already tucked himself back into his pants and is just watching you struggle to catch your breath. He doesn’t even comment on the mess of cum and drool that spilled from your lips onto the floor. 

It takes you a second to realize he’s not staring at you, but rather at the marks left on your skin. 

After a minute of tense silence, he smiles again, patting his lap this time in invitation for you to sit, and you ignore the familiar sting of humiliation as you obey. Again, one of his hands curls around the nape of your neck, tracing some pattern into your skin. 

“Right here,” He murmurs, though he doesn’t elaborate when your brows pinch together in confusion.

It takes you a second to realize he’s tracing invisible letters across your nape, then another few to realize it’s his name that he’s tracing into your skin. 

Something tells you that Dottore isn't going to be pleased to see you again at the end of the month.

[frogsinflannel]

Hi! For the make me write: 🎲🎲🎲

Ahh, thank you for this! HOW EXCITING, so full of possibility. Hmm, I do want to make some progress on "until I wrap..." so. Here we are! 💚

"until I wrap myself inside your arms I cannot rest" - this part rated M for suggested sexual content

[ first | second | third | this part ]

“Buck.”  Karen, already tipsy, giggles behind her hand.  “What is that on your neck?”

“Oh! Uh…”  Buck flushes and cups the side of his neck.  He hadn’t checked before they’d left, but he knew Tommy had been… enthusiastic.  It was why they’d been late.  “I–I mean, it’s… it’s nothing.”

Hen tilts her head down and gives him a look.  He feels his face heat up further as Tommy chuckles beside him and puts an arm around his shoulders.  “That’s an awful big nothing there, Buck.”

“She’s right,” Tommy says.  Buck whips his head over to look at him and Tommy gives him a sedate smile, his eyes sparkling.  “Can’t believe you’d go out in public like that, Evan.  With a hickey that big?”  He clicks his tongue and shakes his head–like it wasn’t his damn fault in the first place.  “Baby, you should have left that behind in high school.”

He jerks away from his hold but Tommy just laughs and tugs at his hair.  And well.  It’s not like Buck doesn’t like it.  He huffs and rolls his eyes.  “Okay mister we-have-time.  Mister don’t worry, Evan, I won’t leave a mark.”

“Hmm.”  Tommy’s eyes go half-lidded and his smile curls up, pleased with itself, tinged with heat.  The hand in Buck’s hair makes him zing with pleasure as it scritches with slow, blunt nails at his scalp.  “Did I say that?”

“Boys.”  Karen gives them a look clearly meant to be chastising, her mouth in a flat line and her brows raised.  “Veering way too close into I-don’t-want-to-know territory with that one.”  Tommy, of course, feels absolutely no shame, but Buck is repentant.  Just long enough for Karen to hiccup and ruin her stern demeanor completely.

Hen laughs and puts her hand over her wife’s on the table and gives it a gentle squeeze.  “And you might be veering into last glass of wine territory.”

“Must be some good wine, hmm, Mrs. Wilson?” Tommy asks.  Karen smiles at him like they’re sharing a secret and Buck is so in love and so warmed–and so turned on that he kind of wishes he could suck his dick about it.

“It is,” Karen says.  She takes another sip, letting her eyes wander over to Hen, giving a little shimmy as she lets the rim of her glass linger at her mouth.  “Very good.”

“Okay,” Hen says.  She holds her hand out and Karen hands her the glass and she sets it on the table.  She’s using an I-have-to-be-the-adult-here voice, but she doesn’t sound too put out about it.  “I think we’re all veering into a little too horny territory.”

“Sorry my love,” Karen murmurs, leaning in close and kissing Hen’s cheek.

“Sorry,” Buck parrots.  He grins, cheeky and broad, putting a hand on Tommy’s thigh under the table.  “I’ll behave.”

“Huh.”  Hen snorts.  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“Don’t worry,” Tommy says.  He presses his leg into Buck’s.  “He just needs the right encouragement.”

“Uh-uh,” Hen snaps, pointing a finger at Tommy.  “Do not start with me, Kinard, what did I just say?”

“Sorry,” Tommy murmurs, barely managing to fake contrition.  He takes the neck of his beer between two fingers and tips it up to his mouth.  Buck watches, eyes intent and lips parted, aware that he’s proving Hen’s point but not caring. “In my defense, it was Karen who brought it up.”

Hen rolls her eyes up to the ceiling.  “Jesus,” she says.  Then she laughs.  “You like it.”

Tommy grins and Buck rolls his hand inward to press his fingertips to the inseam of his jeans.  “I’m choosing not to respond to that.”

Karen shakes her head. "Possessive much?"

Which. Is not something Buck has thought too much about but he's surprised to find how much he likes the idea of it. He shifts in the booth and hopes no one notices.

"I don't think of it as being possessive," Tommy shrugs. "I know Evan's mine." His eyes cut over to Buck for half a second and Buck has to bite back a whine, knowing he's all but panting. Tommy knows exactly what he's doing. "He just looks good when he shows it."

Yours, Buck thinks. I'm yours. It makes something inside his chest roar to life and he lifts his hand, presses hard against the bruise on his neck. He sucks in a breath. Tommy notices, of course he does, and Buck clears his throat.

"Hey, uh... Sorry to cut this short Hen, but. Uh, Tommy, we should... I-I left something in your pants--I mean, your truck---"

"We took an Uber here, but okay."

Buck scowls. "At the house then. And I think we should go get it?"

Tommy finishes his beer off and then stands. "Oh definitely. It sounds urgent, Evan, we should leave right away."

Buck is already sliding out after him. Tommy's such a bitch. Buck loves him so much. He's going to suck his brains out through his dick and then throw him on the bed and fuck him silly. And Tommy's going to be a little mean about it, just how Buck likes, pulling his hair and saying Is that all you've got, baby? Such a good boy for me, huh? So desperate voice all honeyed and condescending. And then Buck's going to come so hard he cries. He can't wait.

"Please leave," Hen says, fed up with them. And it's like Buck can blame her. He grabs Tommy's hand and starts leading him away as Karen boos, leaning into her wife, wine-drunk and soft. Tommy walks a step or two backwards, waving at the Wilsons. Then he turns and swoops around, pulling Buck in by the waist and taking the lead through the crowded bar.

Buck grins. Maybe he'll get a matching mark on the other side.

[lazycats-stuff]

Hey cats, I was the one who sent you that anon that's alright with me, I don't mind but is an gen z reader yeeted to the dc verse be okay? I could picture Bruce almost growing white hair because of reader who is an epitome of ✨unhealthy coping mechanism✨

Oh yeah, a reader just yeeted in there... Some universe doing some shit and Bruce adopts him... While also losing his mind. I love it. Lets go. It's a bit short, but... I like it.

Summary: (Y/N) is Gen Z. Bruce is loosing his mind.

Warnings: unhealthy coping mechanisms, Gen Z ones at that.

Bruce knew that each generation is different. They have different opinions, don't like to be told what to do exactly, although that's more specific to the newer generations. That is something that Bruce knew all to well. Gen Z wanting to have a balance between work and personal business. Bruce could respect that. But one other thing that shocked Bruce about Gen Z is the fact they have so many unhealthy coping mechanisms.

How would Bruce know?

He has adopted a teen who simply got, according to Jason and other younger heroes, yeeted into their universe. Universe where Justice League and it's heroes are real. And where DC comic universe is real. (Y/N) was forced to explain to the entire Justice League what DC is, what does it contain. And that has only applied to comic books. Then he had to explain cartoons, movies, video games... Absolutely everything.

Bruce found it to be interesting, the entire multiverse essentially, all of them are carefully planned out... Bruce found them to also be a great source of information. What to avoid, what to do... It was an incredible well of information and has decided to investigate this even more.

And while doing so, keep (Y/N) close to make sure that he has the information he needs.

And while (Y/N) is a nice kid, he has some unhealthy... Coping mechanisms as he calls them.

First one being jokes. Humor is something that can help a person if they feel down. Or if they simply want to deflect. And (Y/N)'s sense of humor is rather... Dark, to say the very least. Bruce would more often than not get gray hairs if he heard (Y/N) joking about his will to live being gone. He knows that (Y/N) is not suicidal... Right?

Humor is simply used to deflect... Right?

Bruce didn't quite like how (Y/N) was chronically online. Sure, teens spend time on their phone, but this is borderline an addiction. Bruce has tried to solve the problem with putting restrictions, taking the phone away. Put settings that don't allow (Y/N) to be online from certain times. That was to try to make (Y/N) sleep better, since he's clearly online into the late hours of the night.

Bruce simply wants the only child in the house who is not on patrol to have a normal sleeping schedule. Is that a crazy thing to ask for? It should be a normal thing to ask for, right? Being chronically online is far from good. Far, far, from good.

Also, hyper fixation.

(Y/N) was more invested in fiction rather than reality. Which would be fine. If it didn't interfere with his life. In what way, I might hear you asking? He's been neglecting his hygiene, gets angsty and anxious if he is not near his hyper fixation. Bruce never knew that Gen Z is this... Bruce shouldn't say annoying, but this was getting out of hand. Rather fast.

Bruce had to take action.

Otherwise he would get a lot more grey hairs. Way more. Way more.

" (Y/N), go to sleep. " Bruce pleaded, suited up and ready to go on patrol, however, he can't go, knowing that (Y/N) won't go to sleep. And everyone needs their 7 to 9 hours of sleep. Besides Bruce and the boys that are... On their night job. To put it mildly.

" I'm not tired Bruce. "

A common response in the most recent days from (Y/N) to Bruce.

" I swear to God, I'll sedate you with ketamine if you don't go to sleep. I'll knock you out with it to the point you'll be sleeping for days. " Bruce threatened and then came the infamous two words.

Alright, bet.

Bruce was seeing red at the mere thought of those words. They were both taunting and dismissive. Not something to be saying to an already stressed father anyway. And while Bruce has grown to love (Y/N) as his son, he was going to lose his mind with him.

" Alright, here's a deal. You go to sleep and sleep through the night and I'll take you to see your favorite artist. "

(Y/N) tilted his head, frowning.

" Promise? "

" I promise you. I swear it to you. I'll get you VIP tickets. I'll make sure to take you myself and pull strings. But for the love of God and everything else, go to sleep! "

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Fallen Snow AU, Chapter One, Fossilized Memories:

(Warning: This fic contains dark themes such as abuse, neglect, self-harm, mentioned/contemplated su*cide attempt, sedation, creepy fluff, and platonic yanderes. You have been warned...)

If you're being honest with yourself, you don't remember most of your childhood.

If you're being honest with yourself, you don't want to remember most of your childhood.

Everyone has their reasons to forget things or to ignore them. You have yours. Yet late at night, or early in the pre-dawn hours, it sometimes comes to haunt you.

It's not an easy ghost to be rid of. There's several you'd rather never think of again. But the nightmares... For thr last four years, those nightmares have kept you awake. They've made you scream, cry, shake, even stay awake just to avoid having to go through them again and again. It was too much. It was always too much.

They didn't happen once a month, or once a week, or every few days. It was every. Night. For months now. And you were at your rope's end.

So thats why you're here, in a small diner at the edge of town, trying to drown your sorrows and your sleepiness with coffee and eggs. Coffee burned your tongue and kept you awake; eggs fsatiated the hunger that always gnawed at your insides, that restless pain that clawed at your guts and bit at your ribs. It was just the way it was. You didn't ask to be born with the X gene, and you didn't ask to be a mutant.

Of course you're a mutant. Couldn't be something normal like a student or an assistant or a librarian or a baker. No. You just had to be the one in a thousand person who has some weird power and is universally hated by most humans.

But you'd made it work for you, these last four years. People in a small town don't trust strangers, no... but when that stranger takes any kind of pay, doesn't ask questions, and does some hunting for you and yours... well, they tend to not throw that person out, odd or young or strange as they may be. The town isn't all that bad. It's small, nestled in the snowy clearing between the endless woods and the long, thin road, but it kept its secrets and kept yours, too. The prey here was plentiful enough, the place was fairly quiet, and as far as anyone could tell, you were the only "odd one" around for miles. It was a win-win.

It wasn't hard spending most of your time alone out on errands. The woods offered quiet respite; the lake offered fish; the town offered some company; and your old cabin, nestled in deeper in the forest, offered you relief from the cold and the snow and when people were too much.

The cabin was nice enough. A few boarded windows, the rest draped over with blankets or rugs or drapes, a wooden floor that squeaked when you moved, an old fireplace that kept the place warm, and the old couch you'd found, covered in a nest of blankets and pillows, as close as you could get it to the heat of the fire. It wasn't much, but it was your home, your refuge, and it was all you had.

It was better than what was before it, and that was what mattered...

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You don't know why you decided to get involved when some strange kid wandered into town.

The people here weren't being very open or friendly, even less so to them than they were at first to you. Them being some poor kid covered in a jacket, with blue hair and odd yellow eyes, and currently trying to find anywhere to go to wait out the snowstorm approaching.

"Please... I just need a place to stay for a few hours. I v'ont be here any longer than that. Just to vait out thr storm... please..."

Maybe it's the way he's curling in on himself. Maybe it's the sad, desperate tone in his voice. Maybe you're just tired of being out here yourself.

"He can stay with me... I'll keep him out of trouble," you mutter, pushing forward to glower at the crowd, then at the kid. You sigh, but offer a hand.

You're surprised when he takes it.

You don't show it.

"Come on, my cabin isn't too far. Any broken windows are covered, and I can get a fire started so we don't freeze to death," you grumble as you both trek through the snowy forest floor. The air is clean here, the cold stinging your lungs and the wind biting at your hands and face. The kid doesn't seem quite as bothered, but considering he's a little more covered than you, maybe he's just more cold natured.

When the cabin peeks through the flurry and trees, you drag him along, being careful not trip over the wooden steps or slipping on the icy boards. The moment the door opens, he's inside, shivering and shaking like a dog to get the snow off himself. You snort, but leave him be.

Setting some dry, dead wood in the fireplace, you strike a match, then toss it in. You barely smile at the scent of fresh woodsmoke and the soothing crackle of the flames. You turn sharply when you hear your guest clear his throat.

"Um... thank you... That vas... very kind of you," he says quietly, rubbing his shoulder. You nod, not saying a word. You feel a small teinge when he sits on the cold floor, and find yourself going over to the couch. You drag off a larger pillow and a few blankets, then toss them over him. He yelps, and you can't help but smirk a little.

"Vhat? Vhy'd you do that!"

"You're cold. You need to stay warm. Sit on the cushion, and drape the blankets around you. If you stay lioe that and stay close to the fire, you'll be toasty as a marshmallow in no time," you explain. You gesture at him to move closer to fire, then flop onto the couch. You don't wrap up in your nest, but you lay there, keeping an eye on the kid and the burning wood.

He doesn't look like he's dangerous. No claws, no fangs, nothing out of the ordinary. He's certainly not bigger than you. And as far as you can tell, he's not hostile or sinister. So as far as you're concerned, he's not a problem.

It becomes a problem when he starts talking to you.

"So... are you alone here? It's very quiet," he asks. You narrow your eyes, but answer.

"Eh... it's not a problem."

"But..." He looks upset for a moment, but quickly changes his expression. "Vell... vhat is it like around here? It seems very cold."

You let out a dry laugh at that. "Yep. Cold, freezing, unfriendly. It's normal. Not any worse than anywhere else I've seen."

That doesn't reassure him. If anything, he looks more worried, like you just told him someone hurt kittens around here or had run over their grandma.

"T-that is so?"

"Yeah... but eh, it's not bad. It just takes awhile to grow on ya," you say uncomfortably. You didn't want to upset him, and now you're worried if this kid is about to cry. "The fish here is great. Plenty of trails to walk, lots of cool animals to see, clean snow and fresh air too."

He nods, looking pensive. He stays silent for a few minutes, but goes back to asking questions after a few minutes.

"Hmmm... does my host have a name?"

"Yeah... it's Reader..." It's been ages since you've said your name, or referred to yourself by it. It feels odd, as though adding a small bit of personhood back to you.

"Reader... So, Reader, vhy are you alone out here?" He means it well, you think.

You sit still for a minute. You don't really talk about what happened... It's never done you any good, and it haunts you every night. Why should you think about it in the day? But... well, a little of the truth can't hurt. (It's not because you're lonely, or hurt, is it?)

"Bad crowd. They didn't like me or want me, so I left." No names said, no blame cast. No one needs to know, no one needs to see.

"Oh..." Is it just you, or does his eyes seem to glisten in the light? "I'm very sorry... you seem very nice..."

Nice? Has anyone ever told you you were nice? Or needed? Or helpful? Or even wanted-

No, no no. Do not go there. Now is not the time.

You think your eyes are glistening a little too now.

"Thanks..." you whisper into the warmed air, falling silent after.

The rest of the evening is quiet, as you both try to stay warm and curl in the blankets. You end up going through your rations to give him some jerky, and eventually drift off after hearing him recite some kind of prayer in a different language...

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When you wake up in the early morning hours, he's gone.

The blankets he borrowed are folded neatly, and stacked on the pillow you gave him. There's no trace of his jacket either. When you exit the home to look for him, you find a few tracks... but then they disappear, as though he vanished into thin air. The scent of sulphur wrinkles your nose, but otherwise... no clue to where he went.

You try not to let it bother you, but in the end, you can't help but worry for the poor kid... maybe wherever he is, someone's watching out for him... maybe they love him, and are taking care of him now that he's not here...

With that, you decide to go to go on a walk... maybe the icy winds will keep you awake, and keeps your fears at bay...

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Kurt was happy to be back home. Of course he was! His friends had missed him, so had his pack and his mother and sister and their family. But well... he was worried for his new friend... They weren't in a good place to stay. They were in a cold, lonely town. And they had no one with them, to care for them, to help them or keep them safe or warm...

It didn't sit right with him. It didn't sit right with him at all.

But he didn't even know where to go to find them again, or how to help them.

It took a week before he discovered something odd.

He'd never noticed it before, but there was an old picture hanging in the halls underneath the mansion, the one that led to some of the old sleeping quarters and safety rooms and training halls. Except... well, he knew the faces of his family, of his friends, Scott and Jean and Rogue, Wanda and Pietro and Evan, even Storm and Logan and Victor and Mr. Lehnsherr and the Professor... but there, nestled in the photos as well, was a face he also recognized... a younger version of thr same person he'd only met a week ago... Reader...

And now, he needed to ask the adults a question.

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@hermesserpent-stuff @sugar-soda @vivid-bun @danniloversugar @thewickedweiner

[sunnie-angel]

Always and Forever

jason todd x f!reader

ao3 link

summary: jason tries to end things after a bad patrol. you won’t give him up without a fight.

tags: f!reader, smut, kissing, biting, piv sex, unprotected sex, fingering (mention) cock warming, orgasm denial (kind of), belly bulge, size kink (if you squint), overstimulation, creampie (if you think this is misproperly tagged please let me know) minors and ageless blogs do not interact

rated e (mdni) | wc: 5.5k

a/n: this is my first time writing smut (or a fic of this length) so please be gentle! if you find jason a little ooc, i’m still working on getting his ‘voice’ right, so just consider him one of the many versions we’ve all come to love. this started as a single smut scene and grew feelings and a bit of plot from there. this was definitely a labour of love so i hope you all enjoy it!

“We’re done. Us. All of it. You’re free to leave.”

The modulated voice of the Red Hood startles you. It’s nearly six in the morning, and you’ve been up since three when Jason didn’t return from patrol like he promised. He’s still in his Hood gear, hasn’t bothered to take off the helmet or even the boots crusted in who knows what. The leather jacket has taken a beating, and in the dim light of your apartment living room it glistens damply like he was caught in the earlier rain. He won’t even look in your direction, hands fisted at his sides, the darkened leather of his gloves taut across his knuckles. Jason didn’t come home like he promised and now he can’t even bear to look at you as he tears your heart in two. It’s understandable then, that when your voice returns to you and you can breathe around the lump in your throat, that your voice shatters the silence.

“Look at me. Look. At. Me.”

Only the way that his body locks up, somehow tenser than before, deflates you. A whole night’s worry and frustration drained away.

“Jay? Please take off the helmet and look at me.”

His black curls are matted to his forehead with sweat. His one white streak is dark with it,. Somewhere along the way he must have ditched the domino mask, because the sight of his bare face twists something tight in your chest. His beautiful eyes are red rimmed, tear tracks still staining his cheeks. His lips look bitten raw. He looks at you the way a dying man looks at salvation. Realization dawns slowly for you.

“You didn’t get caught in the rain, did you?”

A sharp nod, jaw clenching, but he doesn’t look away. Now you’ve noticed, you can’t stop. There’s a faint blood spray on the front of the helmet, barely visible from where Jason’s placed it on the counter. The leather jacket is soaked through with blood, darker splotches on his tac pants from where it’s followed gravity. The grime on his boots now looks rusty, though that might just be your imagination. Jason’s come home hours late covered in blood and is telling you to leave. This time, your voice is startlingly gentle.

“Jay we talked about this. You promised no life altering conversations when you’re covered in blood, remember?”

At the time, had been a joke. A promise made after a close call, when Jason was still loopy from sedation and painkillers and insisting he was going to duel Doc Leslie for your honour. Finally lucid, he had sheepishly promised no more dramatic ultimatums when he's covered in blood.

“But you need to—“

“No. You promised. What’s going to happen is you’re going to leave all your gear at the front door and we’ll deal with it tomorrow. You’re going to tell me if you’re injured and let me fix you up if you are. Then you’re going to shower. Then, and only then are we going to have this discussion.”

“I don’t—”

“Please.”

He caves at the way your whole body sags under the weight of one word. Carefully toes off his boots and socks, peels the stiff tac pants off, and lays his top and jacket on top of the whole pile. Reveals a smattering of bruises down his arms and along his rib cage. To get to the ensuite he has to walk past you and through your shared bedroom. The heat of him passing by has you turning after him, a star caught in his orbit, words curling to ash on your tongue. It’s only when he’s firmly out of sight that you allow yourself to collapse into the couch. Head lolling back, gaze fixed on the ceiling. Blankly you watch the headlights of passing cars loom and fade across the ceiling.

You do your best not to cry but wet trails burn down your face. You dash them away, but it does nothing to make you feel better. You don’t know if you’ll survive the coming conversation, a litany of “he doesn’t love me anymore, or at least not enough to keep me” is running through your head. Something is wrong, you think. Usually after a rough night, Jason can’t get enough of you. He comes home to your shared apartment and holds you, needs to feel the touch of your skin and the heat of your breath to truly know you’re alive. He's never the most talkative on the worst nights, but he always reaches out. Mumbles into your throat just to hear your replies, get you to distract him with chatter about your own day. He’ll act like he’s touch starved, press his split knuckles to the back of your hand, pull you into him until his nose is buried in the crook of your neck, pet and touch whatever bare skin is in reach. You're used to shaking off the vestiges of sleep to Jason between your thighs, fingers and tongue skillfully opening you up before he slides his cock inside, splitting you open just to feel you tighten around him. Tonight he hasn’t even reached out to hold your hand.

As if summoned by your thoughts, Jason stands in the doorway to your shared bedroom. Wet from his shower, the streetlight filtering through the curtains illuminating the water still beading on his skin. The bruises look less stark now. You look at him and feel love. You look at him and see the man you gave the most vulnerable parts of yourself to, ready to hand them back to you on a platter. Rolling your head to look at him properly, you notice he hasn't bothered to dress, wrapped in a towel like he couldn't wait to put off this conversation a moment longer. Your eyes meet, and it snaps whatever trance he's in. He shuffles over to you, eyes asking for permission to join you on the couch. The couch dips under his weight, and you turn on your side to face him, legs curling up to your chest.

"I'm glad you're home."

You reach out to brush his face, aching to remind yourself that's he's real but he shies back from the motion, denies you both the comfort of contact.

"Don’t. I'm not— I'm not good for you. We can't— I'm not gonna do this to you anymore."

"Do what to me Jason?" you ask, genuinely puzzled "Be us? I chose this, I chose you, and I have kept on choosing you from the beginning. I don't understand." By the end, you're truly pleading, begging with your voice and eyes and body for him to explain this to you. To explain why he's trying to make this choice for you.

"Bein' with me puts you in danger," he says slowly, carefully. "You think you know what you've signed up for but you don't. Not really. I painted a target on your back and now the worst of Gotham are gonna come sniffin’ at your door. You're never gonna be safe with me and I don't want to be the reason why you're hurt. You deserve better than me and a life of looking over your shoulder. I can't give you that, I'll never be able to give you that."

And oh, that hurts. The way he says it, dripping with self-loathing and certainty, cracks your heart open. It speaks of long held fears and convictions that he will never be good enough, that he is too broken and too dangerous to be loved.

"Did something happen tonight?" you ask, searching for a reason, anything, that would have brought old wounds to light.

"What?" Tension laces his body tight. There's a wild look in his eyes, shifting closer to green than blue.

"Jay, you made all of those risks clear to me before we were even real friends. So, what happened tonight to make you so sure that you'll be the death of me?"

Something about the way you state the question so matter of factly unsettles him enough to reply. "Heard some chatter down at docks about Black Mask setting up a new warehouse. Tonight was just supposed to be easy. Just about fuckin' with him, get B and Wing time to gather evidence on his new operation. He was waiting for us, probably set the whole thing up as a trap. Did a whole melodramatic monologue too 'bout how if we were gonna threaten his operation — the only thing that means anything to him — then turnabout’s fair play."

He's paused in his remembered anger, hands flexing against the couch cushions. You nod, trying to encourage him, not wanting to break the spell that got him talking in the first place. But you really don't like where this was headed. When he speaks again, its in a whisper.

"He knew your name. He knew who you are to me and he knew your fucking name."

The fear that jolts through you at that statement is matched by the intensity in his eyes. Distractedly you notice that you can’t feel your fingers. Heart racing, the only thing grounding you is the weave of the cushion under your cheek.

"Okay, we can— we can handle this. It'll be difficult but I can—"

"He's dead," Jason interrupts.

"He's what." All trains of thought come to a crashing stop.

"I killed him."

Its a confession and a plea for forgiveness wrapped in one. He can't quite look you in the eyes anymore, his whole demeanor screaming shame. Stunned and wide-eyed all you can do is drink him in, this incredible, ridiculous man. Car headlights cut through the shadows, lighting up the planes of his face and catching on the still too-green of his eyes. Somewhere along the way you've moved closer. His face is only a breath away and in the silence it feels unbearably intimate.

You can't help blurting out, "Can I kiss you?" The thought of being unable to touch him any longer is utterly unthinkable. Not when he's right in front of you, lips parted and waiting for you to pronounce judgement over him. He nods, shyly, and then you're in his lap. His face is cradled in your hands, eyes wide as he looks up at you. His lips are warm when you finally give in to the urge to taste him. They're rough from where he's bitten them but they're pliant against yours. Drawing back, you rest your forehead on his, unwilling to be any further apart.

"He had your name in his fuckin' mouth and I couldn't let him live for that. So yeah, I killed him. Him and every one a his lieutenants in the room that heard." Jason pauses, tries to gauge your reaction, continues on more self-consciously. "B and Wing couldn’t stop me and I didn’t want them to. He was a threat to you and I didn't know. You could have died and I wouldn't even've known what to protect you from." He tries to pull back from you, but you don't let him. Lets his motion pull you along with him, hands still cradling his face.

"Is that where all the blood is from? You're not hiding any injuries besides the bruises from me?" you ask worriedly. He's done it before, but you'd hoped he'd learned to trust you better. Jason goes to remove your hands from his face and you don't resist. He presses soft kisses to each of your palms before folding them to his bare chest right over his heart.

"Fuck sweetheart, I tell you that I've just killed a roomful of men and you want to know if I'm okay? You're not angry that I killed, again?" And oh he looks so ready for you to reject him. Waiting for you to turn away, to call him a monster, for your love to turn to horror.

When you speak, the words come out slowly, each syllable weighed out with care. "Am I bad person if I say that I'm grateful?" You can feel his heartbeat speeding up under your hands as you speak. "Because I am Jay, I'm so, so grateful. I'm grateful that I'll never have to worry about a bullet in the dark or getting taken off the street. Mostly I'm grateful that I won't be used to hurt you. But I'm also so very sorry Jay that you had to kill again." He shudders at that, closes his eyes and squeezes your hands tight tight tight. "I know that you were trying so, so hard not to kill, to live by your family's rules and I'm so sorry that you had to break that promise to yourself. Can you forgive me for putting you in that impossible position?"

"I— I don't need your forgiveness, not for this. But don't you see? I'm the reason you were danger. If I hadn't a been quick enough, if there's ever a day when I'm not fast enough, then you'd've died." At that he stops, swallows thickly, like he's considering a world where he doesn't save you. "This doesn’t end just ‘cause Black Mask’s dead. It’s every enemy the Hood has ever made knowing that my heart’s walking around outside my body.” And that, that makes your breath catch in your throat. Stuns you enough that you’re not fully prepared for what he says next. “So this, you and me, it's gotta be done. I'll move out tomorrow, pack things up later. I won't leave you unprotected, I'll— I'll still patrol but you won't have to see me again. You can have a clean start."

Now, now you are angry. Pushing off his chest you lever yourself upright, forcing him to look up at you. Straddled across his lap your balance is precarious at best but you need him to see you, to realize that what you say next is what you mean with every wretched part of you.

"No."

"No?" He's looking up at you, glazed eyes and mouth open wide with shock.

"No. Jason Peter Todd you do not get to make this decision for me." With every word you push your finger into his chest for emphasis, your whole body shaking with the force you're putting behind your words. "I knew the risks because you told me about them. I decided that I could live with them if it meant having you. I told you always and forever. I meant it then and I mean it now. So this, you and me, it’s over when I agree it is. I gave you my fucking heart and this is me not accepting it back. You tell me I’m free to leave anytime, well I’m not.” His hands have fallen to your hips where they clench and unclench. “You haven’t been able to keep me out of your sight lines for more than three minutes tonight. You can’t go a day without touching me, feeling me up and getting your cock wet. I know you don’t sleep half so well if I’m not in your bed and neither can I. I know the way you look when you think nothing you’ve done has ever been good enough and the face you make when you feel like a hero. I know you to your bones and you know me. You want me to live a life that you’re not a part of, well I won’t." Suddenly fed up with the chafing of the towel on your poor inner thighs you try to shift, when you feel him hard under the thin layer of the bath towel. You feel Jason freeze up, time crystallizing around you before speeding back up like a poorly wound tape.

“Off. Off now” You start pawing at the blasted towel unsuccessfully, before giving up and going for your own sleep pants. You’re half way through wiggling them off before Jason’s brain catches up with you and then he’s scrabbling to tear the towel off and get you bare. You grab his hardening cock and guide it to the entrance of your cunt. You’re still not slick enough for this, didn’t spend ages getting opened up on fingers first, but you’re desperate enough to make it work. His hands around your thighs are like iron, clinging to you like a life preserver. You take it slow, letting gravity do the work of spearing you open on his cock, unable to take him to the hilt in one swift motion the way you ache to. Jason’s a big man, always towering over you in size, and his cock is perfectly large to match. Already the stretch is just the other side of painful, the thickness of him cleaving you in two. You gasp like you’ve been punched with every inch downwards. By the time your hips meet his pelvis his stomach muscles are clenched and twitching from the effort of not just fucking up into you and taking what he wants. His fingers are buried in the couch cushions. Deliriously you wonder if the cushions will still be intact by the end of this conversation.

"So tell me again," you pant, "tell me why you think you can just walk away from me and all the love we have like it's nothing." Jason groans at your words, buries his face in your throat, hips still twitching with aborted thrusts.

"Please, please baby. Let me move— shit, let me make you feel good. God, sweetheart you're so fucking tight, so fuckin’ perfect for me." The growing roll of his hips is distracting. He's so fucking thick, this position making him feel like he's somewhere in your stomach, every flex of his muscles bullies him deeper, threatens to shake all the thoughts out of your head. That just won’t do. You take back control with a soft hand on his chest pushing him back until he's leaned right back against the couch cushions.

"You started this conversation Jay. It’s not done until you finish it. Besides, you’re the one that wants to put a stop to all this." You punctuate your words with a single calculated grind of your hips, make him claw at your hips with abandon. Revel at the weight of him inside of you. Trail your hand up his chest so you can thread your fingers into his damp curls. "Why should I let you move, hmm? Give me that list of reasons, and maybe I'll let you fuck me when we're done talking." His pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the colour of his eyes anymore.

It takes a few false starts before he can put a coherent thought together. "Being— being with me makes, oh god, makes you a target. People'll go through you, tryna hurt me. You're gonna get hurt cus'a me, could die fr'me." He's trembling all over now, words slurring together and gasping for air. He settles a little when you run your other hand down his chest to trace his y-shaped scar, lean in and kiss him slow and sweet. Nip and tease at his already abused bottom lip.

"Love that ship went and sailed the first time you talked to me," you say. "There's no putting that back in the box and hoping everyone will forget that we were us." Taking your time, you mouth along his jawline, feel his hand slide under your shirt to come settle on the small of your back. "Say we split up, what then? Doesn't matter how often you swing by, someone'll always try and find a way. Tonight was just a reminder. How does breaking both of our hearts make that go away?" Nuzzling into that sweet space below his jaw, you can feel the way his pulse races and cock twitches in you. All the while you keep your hips tortuously still, warming his cock with your cunt, enjoying the stretch of him. A tug of his hair gets him talking again.

"I'm not a— not a good man. I've killed a lot a people, don't even regret most a'em." He can't look at you as he says it, eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder. His hand on your back flexes, fingers tightening around your hip bone.

"Didn't we just go over this? Jay I'm glad you killed those men, and if that makes you a bad person so am I." This time its him that goes in for a kiss, latches on to the plush of your lips, licks his way inside. Cradles your skull and pulls you closer, has to stop kissing you to gasp when that shifts his cock inside of you.

"Sweetheart, you're the best person damn person I know," he breathes into your mouth. Traces over your cheekbone with the tip of his nose. "You're the best fuckin' thing to happen to me. But you shouldn't hafta decide if you're okay with me killing people. Shouldn't be something you gotta think about at all." There it is again, that tinge of self-loathing. And that's what it’s really all about isn't it?

"You're not making me do anything. You think I didn't know who I was saying yes to when you asked me out to dinner? That I was unaware of Hood's brand of justice? That unlike your family, I didn’t already approve of your methods? Love, I was grateful for you before you'd even walked into my life." Its a confession you hadn't said out loud before, but maybe you should've. Something about your faith in him has Jason whining at the back of his throat like a wounded animal. He tries to buck his hips but freezes when the hand in his hair forcefully tugs his head back, exposes the vulnerable line of his throat.

"Can't just say that sweetheart. Can't just say that and not let me fuck you full." Another tug at his hair has him moaning, the cords of his throat standing out. "C'mon, c'mon. You're so wet and so warm for me. I'll make you feel— feel so good." On the last word he tries to thrust up but you were expecting this, dig your knees into the couch to leverage up off of him at the same time he moves forward. You bite down on the soft skin of his throat before pressing a kiss to the forming bruise. Let go of his hair to clasp the side of his neck, rub your thumb over the hinge of his jaw. Let his head fall forward to your chest, resting his brow on your collarbone.

"I said after our conversation, didn't I? And those aren't your only reasons, are they?" you tease. "You can fuck me whenever you want Jay, you just have to be honest first."

He’s torn, you can tell. Caught between chasing his pleasure at the steep price of his darkest fears, but also wanting to do right by you, as misguided as this attempt is. But he’s been so truthful so far, deserves a reward for how good he’s been. So you clamp down, hard, feel his cock brush against that soft part of your gut that makes you shiver with pleasure. Enjoy the punched out sound that wrings from him. Grind your hips down in a filthy circle, once, twice. Then just as suddenly stop. Let him pant and shake, breath warm in the contours of your throat.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so small you can barely hear him. "M'scared." He shudders as he says it. Something in the curve of his spine screams vulnerable, sparks an itch in your fingers to touch and so you do.

"Think 'm too broken for you to love. Think 'm too broken to love you right. Scared one day that the pit's gonna burn too bright and I'll hurt you." Like a broken dam, the words come tumbling out so quickly now. All you can do is keep stroking his back, this giant of a man rendered so small in your arms. "That I'll wake up one day and it'll be my hands covered in your blood." The hate and self-loathing is almost palpable, an oil slick shadow creeping along the floorboards. You could cry from the way his voice shakes and cracks.

“Oh, love.” And this time it’s your voice cracking. “I’ve never thought of you as broken. There’s never going to be a day where I think you’re too broken for me to love. If the day ever comes that you do break, I’ll pick up all the shiny pieces with my bare hands if I have to. I’ll put you back together again even if it cuts me open because that’s what we do Jason. You don’t think there aren’t parts of me I’d rather smooth out too? You don’t have to love me perfectly to love me right.” He’s straightening up now, trying to get a better view of your face, needs to see the truth of your words. His arms have moved around you like a vice, holding on as if you’ll disappear if he lets go. “You’ve never hurt me Jason. Scratch that, you’ve never hurt me before tonight and your stupid, noble attempt to break up with me. But not once have you laid your hands on me and not once have I been afraid of you.” He tries to interrupt, opens his mouth to speak but you’re not finished. You lay finger over his lips, force him to let you say your piece. “But I know that the problem isn’t my trust in you, it’s yours. Besides Black Mask and his thugs, did you hurt anyone else tonight?” At the shake of his head you continue. “There you have it. Even tonight, when you had every reason to spin out of control you didn’t hurt anyone you didn’t mean to. So talk to me. We’ll figure this out. Hell, we’ll find you a therapist if that’s what you want. So trust me, at least, even if you can’t trust yourself.”

You’d swear there were tears in his eyes if you didn’t already know never to trust the early morning light. It’s past dawn now and in the silence Jason looks like something out of a fairytale. The weak golden light makes him look so alive, so vibrant. He sits there still as stone, holding you tight in his lap, dumb with the weight of your love and acceptance. His grin, when it breaks over his face, is a little watery but possibly the most precious thing you’ve ever seen.

“There’s really no scaring you off, is there?” It’s a weak joke, but he’s trying.

“No. There isn’t.” If your words don’t convince him then the tone of satisfaction ringing through them would. Pushing at his shoulders you maneuver him as close to lying down as you can manage on your old couch. Tearing off your oversized sleep shirt (stolen from Jason of course), you’re finally as bare as he is. Perched over him, you enjoy the view of him splayed out like an offering. Reaching for his arm, you find his hand, place it on the curve below your belly and lace your fingers over the back of it. You push his palm down into you to feel the hard swell of where his cock is curving you out, carving out a place in your guts and moulding your cunt to the shape of his cock. You can see the exact moment his restraint snaps when he realizes he’s feeling himself through you. Let him jack knife up into you, feel the way his hardness moves under his palm. Enjoy the way it feels to finally have him drag his cock through you. But he’s trying to be respectful and you haven’t given him the go ahead yet. He restrains himself to shallow rocking motions, unable to stop himself completely, but the effort this is costing him is clear by his straining muscles and wide eyes.

“You paying attention Jay? This—” and this time you clench down on his cock as you press his hand to the shape of your womb just to hear him choke, “is yours. And you left it aching and empty for hours. You made such pretty promises earlier.” For this last part you lean down real close, brace yourself with an arm over his shoulder, wanting to make sure he doesn’t miss a thing. “And our conversation just ended.” He takes it as the permission it is and slams into you, deeper than before like you can feel him in you throat. Hands an iron grip around your waist, pulling you down to meet each sharp rolling thrust. Bullies his cock into you until he finds the angle that has sparks running under your skin, keeps hitting that angle with all the precision and aim of a sniper with his marksmanship. At this angle, his head’s at the perfect height to mouth at your breasts. You can feel him smiling around a nipple as he listens to you moan, only detaching to give the other breast the same kind of enthusiastic attention. Your arm finally gives out, falling down onto his bare chest. Limp, you let him manoeuvre him how he wants you, a rag-doll for your mutual pleasure. All the while he doesn’t stop fucking into you, any semblance of earlier control gone.

“Fuck, sweetheart you don’t know— don’t know what you do to me.” He’s gasping between each word, but the meaning of them still makes their way to your blissed out brain. The slick drag of his cock head along your clenching insides making everything else fade away. You can feel your orgasm building, heat pooling and growing with every thrust. Jason can feel you tightening up around him, knows the signs of your body so well. He starts circling your clit with his fingers, alternating pressure with his thrusts. The long drag and stretch of his cock, almost too much for you to take, never falters. It bumps up against your cervix, fills you up so completely that there’s room for nothing else but it and the pleasure it rips from you. Your release tears through you like wildfire, and for a moment dark spots cloud your vision. You know that you’ve clamped down, tight and hot and slick by the punched out groan from Jason, the way his head falls back onto the couch. But through it all he still keeps pumping into you.

He bites and sucks at your throat, a distraction from your over sensitivity. He leaves your clit alone, stops assaulting all your senses so viciously. Listens to you mewl from how sore and sensitive you are from having taken his cock nearly dry, having held it in you for so long before getting your cunt battered by it. “M so sorry sweetheart. Didn’t wanna hurt you. Gonna— gonna make it up to you. For the rest a m’life.” Now he’s rutting into you, all rhythm and finesse gone in pursuit of his own pleasure. Fire is running through your veins, gathering in your cunt and burning you whole. Your legs are weak and trembling where Jason’s placed them, hands trailing down your thighs to hook under your knees and pull your legs wider. Like this you’re trapped, pinned against him by the spread of your cunt, clit wet and grinding against his pubic bone every time he fucks back into you. You’re so close to another orgasm, quicker than you’ve ever been before.

“Please— Jay please, don’t— don’t stop. Need you. Need you har— harder. Jay. Jay” Jason being Jason, obliges. Your whole body jolts from the force of him inside you. You’re so frustratingly close, dancing on the knife’s edge of oblivion. Jay’s close too. You can tell by the way his breathing speeds up, the way he wraps one arm over your shoulder to keep you in place as he fucks your cunt raw. What sends you both over the edge is Jason taking his other hand and pushing down hard on the swell of your abdomen, the both of you feeling his cock kick and spurt inside of you. Heat paints your walls, and it’s that combined with all consuming pressure of his cock remaking you in his image that has you crying out your orgasm. Jason doesn’t pull out right away. Stays inside you and lets himself grow soft. Kisses featherlight over your face and eyelids. Strokes your flanks and combs his fingers through your hair. Soothes you into a light sleep.

When you wake up, it’s to full sunlight streaming into your bedroom. Turning your head, Jason meets your gaze, propped up on an elbow to watch over you. The both of you are still naked under the blankets but he must have cleaned up the mess between your legs. He pressed a kiss between your eyes before you can get too swept up by your thoughts.

“Hiya sweetheart.” The corners of his eyes crinkle up when he smiles like this. You think they’d make him look kind when he’s older. “I’m not going anywhere now, I promise.”

“Always?”

“Forever.”

[julieverne]

Maura thinks of Jane every time she has a human heart in her hands. Severed arterials, the scrape of a snapped ribcage, the blood that no longer pumps through a circulatory system.

Maura misses Jane; more than she should, as they have been polite colleagues more than friends for the past few years. She'd thought Paris was going to be Something, that Something would finally happen, but Jane just kept looking at her with those big doe eyes and never said anything. Never touched Maura. Never once, in eight - nine years - never once said she loved Maura.

Maura didn't know what love felt like. She knew attraction and affection, she knew anger and disappointment. She knew what a human heart felt like, cradled in the palm of her hand. Mostly because she cradled one gently right now, examining the tear. An undiagnosed hole. She knew how it felt; metaphorically, of course, because her chest scans had all come back too perfect to explain this pain in her chest since Jane had left.

She works longer hours than she used to. She sees Susie in the shadows sometimes, her beautiful dark eyes watching Maura slice everyone else open. She's good, if macabre, company.

Maura contemplates the heart again. So fragile it needs a cage to dwell in, but so strong it sends blood hundreds of miles every hour. She doesn't believe in miracles, but the heart comes pretty close.

"That might as well be mine, the way you hold my heart," a familiar voice comes from nearby. Maura doesn't flinch; it's her thirtieth hour at work. She often hears Jane's voice haunting the halls. But when she weighs the heart and makes note of the location and depth of the tear in the connective tissue, she sees Jane.

She's in a suit - a proper one, tailored to her hips and waist. There's a visitor's badge on her hip instead of a gun, which means this isn't a hallucination. The Jane of her dreams wears a gun and sometimes little else.

Maura slides on fresh gloves and continues emptying the abdominal cavity.

"You're not happy to see me." Jane's voice is flat and disappointed. "Well, I guess I deserved that. And worse."

Frost doesn't show up in the morgue; he'd always hated it down there. He shows up at his old desk. The blue gardian action figure never moves around; Frankie inherited it and Frost's desk.

Maura doesn't see dead people. She's just very, very tired.

"I'm working, and you shouldn't be in here," Maura says. Her voice is sterner than she intended but also more resigned. "Visitor's pass is only good for my office."

Jane slinks away like Maura has yelled at her. Maura completes the autopsy and scrubs up after putting the body in cold storage with the help of Todd. He prefers nights. He doesn't like people, although he tolerates Maura. He liked Jane.

Maura liked Jane. No, Maura loved Jane.

And Jane is in her office. Maura can sense her pacing before she even opens the door, but Jane is sitting sedately on the couch, looking down at the scars on her hands. Maura has assumed it's night but her watch tells her it's day again and she wonders how long she's been working.

"You look exhausted." Jane's voice is concerned. "When did you last sleep?"

"Tuesday?" It's a question. It's a guess; Jane loves those. She doesn't love Maura. Maura feels a fist slowly clench around her heart. "I don't see how it's any of your business."

"You are my business," Jane says, her voice so low that Maura's heart cracks. It's too late. Jane is relying on a shared past rather than their current relationship. They're acquaintances, if that. It was Jane's choice to pull away, and Maura let her.

"Not any more," Maura says. Her voice is steady. She could use some sleep but Jane is on the couch. She wants, more than anything, to lie down with her head in Jane's lap and have those strong fingers smooth through her hair, to rub the stress from her forehead and shoulders. Instead she sits at the desk, the sturdy wood between Jane and herself. "What do you want, Jane?"

"What I've always wanted. I want you."

Maura shakes her head. Hallucinations are common after a certain number of hours awake. Even though Jane is dressed and wearing a visitor's badge doesn't mean she isn't a hallucination. Jane would never say something like that. Jane has never, never wanted her.

"Can I take you home? You shouldn't drive like this."

"And you shouldn't drive at all. You're not real. You're not really here. You're not here."

Maura panics and calls Washington. They say Jane is on leave.

Of course they'd say that. Maura is nothing to Jane. She's not next of kin. She turns back to Jane.

"I loved you, you know," she tells Jane's ghost. "More than I ever thought a human heart was capable of. I thought it was all hormones and chemistry but it was my heart."

Jane looks worried. There is a reddish brown stain at her waist and her throat and her hands; all her old wounds are breaking open and bleeding on Maura's floor and couch.

Jane always was a slob, was Maura's last thought before darkness took her.

+++

Maura wakes on her own couch to the smell of roasted coffee. She wakes to hushed voices arguing. She wakes to Jane's face peering anxiously down at her.

"Ma said you'd thrown yourself into your work when you came back. She's worried about you. I'm worried about you."

"You've never cared about me." Maura takes the coffee and avoids the look on Jane's face; she might as well have slapped her.

"I might not have been able to say it, but you know I care about you, don't you?" Jane says. She crouches at Maura's feet, looking up at her. "It's why I'm here."

Maura's lived a life feeling unloved and lost. She doesn't know what to say.

"I don't."

"You don't care, or you don't know I care?"

Maura shakes her head and drinks her coffee, avoiding Jane's gaze. She remembers now all the things Jane used to do for her. Her comforting touch, the way she'd stay with Maura when something bad had happened, the way Jane used to hold her.

Used to, as in not for years.

"I'm a coward. You know that."

Maura has seen Jane throw herself off a bridge. She's seen Jane shoot herself. Jane's no coward.

"I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know how to even admit it to myself. But it's always been you, you know that, right?"

She still hasn't said anything, still hasn't admitted anything. Maura sips again; the coffee is good. Jane paid attention to the details.

"I - Christ. I -" Jane doesn't manage to say what she so wanted to say. She reaches for Maura's hand instead. "Why is this so hard?"

"Because you're not really here," Maura says. "I'm hallucinating again. It's common in people who don't sleep, and I haven't slept since you left. I haven't felt safe since you left."

"I'm a hallucination, huh?" Jane's lips twitch as though she finds that amusing. "I think you should go back to bed."

Maura checks her watch. She should be working. But none of this is real. But she should be working; it's the only thing that makes sense since Jane left. It's the only thing that fills the void Jane left.

"Will you come with me? I'll keep you safe. I promise."

Maura nods; she always believes Jane even though she knows Jane lies. She lets Jane help her to her feet and up the stairs, and then out of her shoes and dress and onto her big soft bed. Jane even uses the facial wipes Maura keeps at the bedside for nights too late for skincare. Jane hovers over her.

"As long as I'm a hallucination," Jane says, and then her eyes soften. All her shields drop and she looks at Maura like she is the single most precious thing in the world. Jane leans down and kisses her, just a press of lips against Maura's. "I've always loved you," Jane whispers, her fingers brushing Maura's hair out of her face. "I was scared. I've been so scared. But a life without you in it isn't worth it. I had to tell you. If you hate me I can leave again, knowing I tried. I'm a coward because I never tried; I had so much to lose. You were too much to lose."

Maura's eyes slip closed. Hallucination Jane is kinder than Jane ever was. She always is.

+++

Maura wakes nearly a full day later. She's cold; her immune system hasn't been coping with her long hours. She shivers and digs out a big, fluffy robe that Angela bought her for Christmas one year. It's not her aesthetic, but it's thick and soft and warm. She showers, aware of the smell of her own body. She puts on pyjamas and calls out sick, then heads down to the kitchen for some hot lemon water. There should still be lemons in the bowl on the counter; they're about the only fruit TJ won't eat.

Jane's there. She's not watching the tv or doing anything. She's just there. Haunting Maura. Maura needs to call Washington again; if they've told Angela she'll need to be comforted. Everyone will be devastated, but Maura is numb.

She's been numb since Jane left.

She makes lemon and honey and yawns so hard she feels her jaw shift. Jane watches, the way Susie does in the lab.

Maura knows Jane will haunt her everywhere. She was in every element of Maura's life; her home, her car, her work. Boston is filled with the ghost of Jane.

"I missed you," Jane says quietly and Maura shrugs.

"I didn't go anywhere."

Jane chuckles but she's hurt rather than amused. Maura wonders who got to cut her open, if they were careful with her magnificent heart.

"I shouldn't have left."

"You shouldn't have." Maura would never have said this to Jane when she was alive. But she's not so it doesn't matter. She vaguely remembers a kiss. She wants to remember a kiss, so she takes one from Jane. She closes in on her and sets her mug down, pushing Jane against the counter. She looks up into a face she once knew so well and sees only -

An emotion she doesn't know. She sees all the love Jane had hidden over the years, all the cues Maura didn't take to confess her own feelings.

She's angry at herself, at Jane. Her mouth is hard and closed when it meets Jane, like a bullet into flesh. She wonders where Jane's body is, if she's in cold storage somewhere. If she's being cut open at that moment.

Jane kisses her back so softly that Maura's entire heart shatters in her chest. She knows it's not real but Jane is soft and warm and yielding in Maura's arms; she kisses like it's something she's wanted to do for a long time.

Maura can't stand it. Her brain has failed her once. She can't stand it. She pulls away.

"I've always loved you," Jane says, and her voice is so tender and honest, her fingers gentle on Maura's cheeks. "Always."

"And you waited until you were dead to tell me."

Jane looks surprised, like she doesn't know she's dead yet.

"I'm not dead," Jane says. "I came home because I was worried about you. I came home because I felt so guilty."

Maura rolls her eyes.

"Why do you think I'm dead?"

"I see Frost, sometimes," Maura says gently. "Susie, too. I figure it must have happened when I saw you last night. Washington said they couldn't locate you."

"They're not supposed to give out my location. But I assure you, I'm not dead. You're seeing dead people? Is that to do with your Chiari?"

Maura shrugs; Jane doesn't care. Jane isn't here.

"What can I do to convince you this is real? Or should I take you to the hospital?"

"Probably the hospital. I don't feel very well. You can't drive though; you're not real."

Jane doesn't complain this time.

+++

Maura wakes. There's an IV in her arm and Jane holds her hand. Jane is slumped in the same suit she'd worn to the morgue, asleep with her head lolled back against the single chair in the room. Maura head hurts.

A doctor comes in and explains the surgery they did. Maura explains that she can still see Jane.

"Of course you can. She's been here all night."

"You can see her?"

The doctor nods and makes a note on her chart.

+++

Maura wakes. Jane is smiling down at her. The smile broadens when she sees Maura looking up at her.

"Hey."

Jane helps her sit up.

"They fixed it. They missed something last time."

That means no more sweet Frost, no more smart Susie. Not that they were ever really there but they'd been good company in Jane's absence.

"You're really here?"

Jane nods and lets her fingers brush Maura's cheek.

"I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," Maura says, and she falls back asleep.

+++

It takes weeks for Maura to adjust to being alone in her own head. She watches Jane hawkishly but she never shows any signs of not being real, and Angela and Frankie respond to her in ways they don't respond to Frost. Maura had seen Frankie sit on Frost at least twice, but Frost had always joked about wanting a lap dance anyway.

It's hard. She feels alone, even though Jane has moved in with her. Jane always looks on the verge of saying something but she never does. She just watches Maura with wounded doe eyes and Maura wonders if there's something she's forgetting.

She remembers the kiss too late. Almost too late.

"I kissed you," Maura says one night. Jane is in soft cotton clothes to sleep in and her hair is its old untamed mess. Jane doesn't meet her eyes. Maura's heart sinks. "Oh. Oh. I'm sorry."

Jane's eyes snap to hers. Her mouth tightens like she wants to say something, then her shoulders slump.

"Don't be. I was too late, wasn't I? I'd already hurt you. And it wasn't like you thought I was alive at the time."

"I just figured there was no way you'd have let me if you were alive. And all the rest. I don't know. I don't really remember."

"That's a shame," Jane says lowly. "It was really nice."

"It was?"

"It was everything I'd hoped for. And I'd hoped for a lot. It was worth coming home for, even if your brain is fixed now and you don't need me. I'll find somewhere else to live soon, once you've fully recovered."

"I don't want you to live anywhere else," Maura says before she can think about it.

Jane's smile is tentative, like she knows she can't fix everything overnight. But she's not running away any more.

"It's always been you," Jane says, and she sits up. She looks at Maura's mouth, then back up to her eyes. "And now that I'm real, I'd like to start making it up to you."

Maura tilts her head in consent, and Jane cups her cheek and wends her fingers into Maura's hair. She exhales and Maura feels it on her lips, in her lungs, in her heart. Jane's lips brush hers and Maura's breath and heart catch, then resume. Jane's lower lip caresses Maura so gently that Maura's eyes water with the tenderness of her touch. Maura finds herself moving closer, finds her lips and heart opening to Jane. Jane feels so good; her touch is gentle and reverent and her lips are soft and delicate.

Jane pulls away; not far she presses her forehead against Maura's.

"I missed you. It felt like I broke my own heart." Jane's tone is low and raw and honest, and Maura pulls herself close, forcing Jane to hold her the way she used to.

She settles her head against Jane's chest and listens to the healthy heart of the woman she loves.

[sugoi-and-spice]

Chapter Thirty-Two - One Step Forward and Three Steps Back

Summary: Tomura Shigaraki was her dad’s boss’s son. He was the creep that stole girls’ underwear and tried to grope her in his room. But it’s not like he could get her Dad fired just because she wouldn’t sleep with him, right? …right?

CW: Quirkless!AU, Explicit Smut, Dub-Con, Coercion, Blackmail, Cheating, Sexual Guilt, Humiliation, Unhealthy Relationships, Power Play, Hate to Love, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Slow Burn, Racism (New, This Chapter) Suicidal Ideation, Psychiatric Wards, Forcible Sedation, Depiction of a Suicide Attempt

A/N: I'm alive!!! Thank you all for your patience during my bigger than usual gaps between chapters. As I've said in a few posts here (as few and far between as they've been) this has been a pretty crazy Winter that's left me with very little energy to write. I just had to take ANOTHER sudden trip to Florida only five days after I got back from Philly. Rip my sleep schedule TT_TT But I never stop thinking about Play Nice! So I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and thank you all again for your constant support. ❤️

Read Full Chapter on AO3

[excerpt]

She had to admit, Iguchi went above and beyond the call of duty as far as friends go. 

The rain had only gotten heavier by the end of their talk, but he still drove her home to Setagaya, stopping at a Uniqlo on the way there so that she wouldn’t be walking into her house wearing his oversized clothes. He even paid, since her wallet was trapped back with the rest of her possessions in Shigaraki’s room. It was definitely necessary, she could only imagine the ridiculous explanation she’d need to come up with for walking into her house this late at night, wearing some boy’s clothes without any shoes, after hours of missing her parents’, no doubt, countless calls. But it still felt like more kindness than she deserved at this point.

Never before had she felt so guilty over a knit sweater and yoga pants.

Luckily, she wasn’t in quite as deep of shit as either of them might’ve expected. Her dad was away on a business trip this week. And while her mom certainly wasn’t happy to be up so late waiting for her daughter, nursing a cup of tea at the dining table, she did at least take her explanation of “losing track of time at Shigaraki’s and losing her phone at school” at face value.

Or maybe she just noticed the puffiness of her daughter’s eyes and sunkenness of her shoulders, and decided to postpone the consequences to a day where she didn’t look so utterly broken.

Given the fact that she went straight to covering her with a blanket and pouring her a fresh cup of tea, she had a sneaking suspicion that it was the former.

They sat in silence as they sipped their tea, the same brand she’d just left cold at Iguchi’s, she noticed with a sad smile.

She looked up to her mom across the table. The woman was clearly bothered. She wanted to ask her daughter what the hell was going on. Why was she getting in so late? Why was she spending so much time away from home? Why was it that every other time she saw her, she was either crying or about to cry?

Why wasn’t she talking to them anymore? 

But she didn’t push. After all, she was a good mom, and an even better person. Understanding beyond belief when it came to isolation and hurt in particular. Because she’d gone through a world of it.

“People like you, like your father… They mean the world to those of us who’ve been broken.”

The similarity between her mom’s past and Shigaraki’s was definitely a line that she’d drawn before. They both came from foster care, both didn’t like to talk about it. Because of that latter part, it was something she never told either about.

She definitely considered telling Shigaraki, particularly the few times that he’d opened up about his past, but ultimately, it didn’t feel like it was her story to tell. Especially given the fact that she really didn’t know a lot about it. 

Regardless, there was definitely something similar about him that her mother had managed to pick up. Whether it was the exact shared experience or a worldview more nebulous, she wasn’t sure. But it was clear that she held a lot of sympathy for him. And an understanding that she just couldn’t fathom on her own.

An understanding she needed.

“Hey mom…”

Her mother looked up, unable to hide her eagerness to tackle whatever her daughter was struggling with.

“Yes sweetie?”

Her hands tightened around the mug, letting the warmth seep in, hoping that it could give her some strength.

“I… I need to ask you about something…”

Continue on AO3

[n6ptunova]

gamer boy • chris sturniolo

a/n: can’t stop thinking abt gamer chris someone sedate me.

summary: giving chris head while he streams fortnite and tries to keep quiet.

warnings: idk if this counts as smut but suggestive content, blowjob, mentions of sex, not proofread

og fortnite dropped recently which meant your boyfriend has been more occupied than usual. it was seriously an addiction for this man, he stayed up for hours, forgot to eat, and worst of all- in your opinion- he barely paid any attention to you nowadays. you’ve had enough tho, so tonight you’re changing things up.

you sat on one side of chris’ bed, out of frame, since him and his brothers decided to stream today. you were mindlessly scrolling through your phone waiting for them to finish but it was taking too long. you looked over at chris and he’s never looked more fine, his hair was messy underneath the headset, his eyes serious and focused on the screen, his mouth parted- occasionally licking or biting his lips- you wanted him, you missed having chris all over you, his lips on yours, his dick inside you, you needed him. bad.

fuck it. you thought to yourself getting down on the floor and crawling quietly towards chris’ desk without being seen or heard. he briefly glanced down at you, not thinking much of your position, you’re probably just looking for something.

you put your hand on his knee slowly pushing his chair back so you could get underneath the desk fully. once you sat down on your knees you pulled him back so his crotch was right in front of your face. now he was confused. he couldn’t say anything since he was livestreaming with his brothers so he resorted to furrowing his eyebrows and giving you a quick questioning look- immediately looking back at the screen so he doesn’t look suspicious- or lose.

you put your pointer finger on your lips indicating for him to be quiet and started to slide both your hands up his thighs reaching for the waistband of his shorts. he was caught off guard by this causing him to lose the game, “NO FUCK- bro one second i need to use the bathroom.”

he turned off his camera and muted his mic, “what the fuck are you doing?” he didn’t sound annoyed or angry just confused.

“i miss you, chris. you haven’t been paying any attention to me lately,” you pouted.

“i’m so sorry babe but can it wait? i promise you’ll have my full attention when i’m done.”

“no.”

“no?”

“no chris. i’ve ran out of patience so you’re gonna play your stupid game with your dick in my throat. don’t make a sound so no one catches on ok?”

“i- ” he hesitated for a moment, stunned, before deciding he liked the risk, “yes ma’am.”

he stood up allowing you to pull his pants down to his ankles and as he sat back down he made sure his lower half was out of frame before unmuting and opening the camera, “i’m back guys.”

as they started another round, you wrapped your fingers around his dick causing him to suck in his breath, and very very slowly you started to pump him, hands sliding up and down. he let a faint moan slip out and quickly closed his mouth shut. this was going to be hard.

you brought your face closer and licked a stripe going up his dick, your tongue flat against it. “ooohhh my god,” he groaned trying his best to disguise this as frustration from the game but truth is, he was losing his mind over the sight of you on your knees about to suck him off in front of thousands of viewers.

you repeated the same motion, tongue gliding up but this time once you reached the top you took him whole in your mouth, the tip briefly nudging your throat, coming back up you swirl your tongue in circles on his tip.

“oh fuck,” he almost rolls his eyes and head back, trying to control his breathing but he’s running out of breath, twitching and breathing heavier everytime his tip touched the back of your throat. you started getting sloppier with it and you could tell he was close.

“chris bro fucking focus that guy was right in front of you! you could’ve easily killed him!” matt yells at chris after losing again. chris can barely keep his grip on the controller- let alone play properly.

“ughhh i c-can’t with this stupid game, i need a drink brb.” he uses this as an excuse to turn off the mic and camera again.

the moment he did, he slumped far back into his chair, his head and eyes rolled backwards as he let out a sigh mixed with a moan. he bucked his hips upwards and tangled his hand into your hair.

“fuckfuckfuck please don’t stop,” he begs as you continue doing what you’re doing, enjoying the heavenly sounds coming out of his mouth until he finally releases his load into your mouth, whining and whimpering at how good it feels. you swallow whole and stick your tongue out to show him.

“you’re fucking insane. i love you.” he cups your face with both of his hands and leans down to give you the most passionate kiss wasting no time to deepen it with his tongue in your mouth as you sit yourself on his lap, running your hands through his hair. you pull back to catch your breath and you’re loving how fucked he looks right now.

“i love you too,” you giggle, “now get a win with your brothers already so we can finish this in your bed, you owe me.”

“anything for you ma.” he gives a quick kiss before you get up and go back to your original place on his bed, thinking about riding him next time he games with his friends with the camera off. this is gonna be fun.

[cheralith]

Hiii hope you're having a good day/evening, please ignore this if it makes you uncomfortable. I’m still in love with your cannibal au and thank you so much for feeding us with hiori content.

My heads bin so stuck on karasu as of late (also one of my best boys) after your cannibal au head canons. I can’t stop imagining karasu forcing his readers head into the nape of his neck and making her drink his blood to get her to calm down.

I might be projecting as a shy person that loves someone taking care of me when I don’t realize I need it. But do you think this is something he would actually do?

🍡 - anon

cw: mild violence, blood, cannibalism!au, cannibal!reader

oh very much so . VERY MUCH SO. the entire dynamic between karasu and his reader vs. kaiser and his is almost the weird mirroring of themselves, but also almost a foil (more on karasu and ksr!reader's end rather than the cannibals)? if that makes sense; i'll explore more of them later.

karasu's reader has a harder time trying to adjust—as most new cannibals do. they even refuse to eat even the small, dried pieces of meat that karasu provides for them to relieve their hunger in place of a medication that he's still trying to gather all the ingredients for.

it's not like karasu doesn't want them to resist, that's the main goal of his rehab after all. but he's doing it in the way where they build resistance against their instincts while still being in sync with their nature. reader does it in a way that's basically torturing themself and not allowing their new self solace, thinking that if they resist against it enough, they could maybe... just maybe go back to their normal life.

but in the way of life, nothing good comes from denying yourself life in the way you're supposed to live it. so when reader goes completely feral one day during meat training, breaking out of the restraints and chair and leaping towards karasu with their teeth bared, eyes a fiery red, and saliva dripping from your chin, he thinks he's really in for it.

he's a strong guy—he puts up a good fight and manages to tackle you down, the impact of your head hitting a wall so hard it makes you regain your consciousness. at the sight of a rugged-breath karasu whose shirt is tattered from your nails with a couple of scratches and bruises here and there, along with how wet your own shirt was from your saliva, it doesn't take you too long to understand what happened.

so you cry. you sob and wail and blubber apologies at what you've done (or nearly did), finally coming to an epiphany that nothing will be the same as it was before you attacked that poor high schooler after your brother's funeral, the grief you felt back then now coming back to you tenfold.

karasu worries that you might spiral back again, especially since you've been so depleted of a food source to stabilize you, so he shoves your head down into the crook of his neck where the blood is most succulent and tells you to bite down and drink his blood. you argue and resist at first, but he's insistent and tells you to do it before he sedates you.

"it's just the blood," he commands, hand gripping your hair tightly, but not painfully. just to keep you in place. "it'll help—ya gotta trust me."

he can feel the hesitation from your breath when you open your mouth, teeth shyly gripping his skin before they sink down enough where blood from underneath the layers begins to draw. he hisses at the feeling, fighting his own instincts to push you away, and groans when your tongue glides over the pierced skin, lapping up his blood.

and you and him just stay there for awhile; you on top of him, eyes closed and relaxed for the first time in weeks, breaths steady. karasu stares up at the dim light, hand still cradling your head, and trying to understand what to do with you to distract himself from the pain.

[iteratorsex]

what's your take on the specifics of the benefactor ascension process?

personally, the setup going on in the watcher's ascension temple made me assume that they leave their dead in coffins where their matter is left to slowly trickle down into the void fluid as the body breaks down and decomposes, though that implies ascension is actually quite a long and gradual process so I'm not certain how correct this perception of it is.

I actually imagine it to be a similar process to how the philosophers stone might've been made (at least with George Ripley's Gates)

While yeah there's a LOT of disagreement on the steps, generally it ends with the same thing. The body becoming so perfected by the Void Fluid that the essence can escape

First, they are likely sedated and mercifully killed and then embalmed, to keep the body pure and the essence trapped for the rest of the steps Shaded echo mentions being embalmed

Then the rest of the operation would begin

These steps were likely... unnecessary. And changed between cultures. I'm sure by the time of the late-iterator era, they simplified it and weren't as intensive about purification

So those steps would basically be...

Calcination - Burning of the embalmed body for purification into an ash

Solution - The ashen body is added to the void fluid

Separation - Separation of mortal body and immortal mind/soul in the solution

Conjunction - Recombination of the two

Putrefaction - Festering of the solution, and allowing the body to truly dissolve in the fluid

Congelation - The moment when the golden substance appears within solution in a congealed mass

Cibation - Addition of more void fluid

Sublimation - The letting off of necessary materials that may have made it through the initial processes

Fermentation - A second batch of dissolving, this time free of all impurities, and allowing the essence to "bloom"

Exaltation - I'm uh... kinda lost on this one. But I believe it has something to do with activating all the elements, in this case the essence. Through what means? Fuck idk man

Multiplication - Usually a repetition of the processes of congelation, cibation, and fermentation. Just to REALLY be sure.

Projection - The moment the final solution is poured through the grate. The solution has become so pure at this point that the essence is so lightweight and effortless its able to fly away and truly ascend alongside its memories that it carried

(Sorry I definitely struggled with trying to understand these steps to their fullest extent! Really, however you wish to interpret them in this case is ok)

[bluebellhairpin]

Erwin Smith X Wife!Reader

Summary: Wrath, Gluttony, and Lust. Apart they're dangerous, together they're deadly. All together, you've found they have a name - Erwin Smith. (word count; < 8k)

Warnings: Dark content, 18+ MINORS DNI, NSFW. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT (if you don't like it, don't read it). Cannibalism. Descriptive murder of unnamed characters. Blood and gore. Sexual themes and Smut (Blood kink (menstrual included). Choking. Oral - receiving. Marking. Unprotected sex. Penetrative sex. Mirror kink. Creampie. Cockwarming.) Reader; eats meat (animal and human), drinks wine, has female anatomy, has periods (mentioned), is called 'wife', wears dresses.

Listening to: 'It Will Come Back' by Hozier - "Don't be kind to it, honey don't feed it - it will come back."

Series Masterlist || AO3 Link || Masterlist || Ko-Fi || Fright Night Bash 2023

"Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same." - Emily Brontë, 'Wuthering Heights'

Erwin had always been perfect. 

Picturesque and put-together - it was like a man made just for you walked right from your dreams into reality. 

He was charismatic, a gentleman with enough old-fashioned values to be charming. He made you feel like the only person who mattered in the world - something quite foreign to you prior to meeting him - and to him you really were the only person who mattered. Erwin loved you, and there was not a single doubt about it. 

You didn’t know he wasn’t perfect - that he wasn’t, in every way, flawlessly carved and molded by gods - until you moved in with him. By then it was too late to back out. By then you didn’t want to - you liked how the ring on your finger looked too much. 

Actually, for the first week things went smoothly. Like clockwork. None of it bothered you - too high on finally getting what you wanted to realize how in danger you were. At the time, your rose-colored glasses were blood red. Nothing was a problem until you started wanting to take them off.

Mainly because Erwin wasn’t letting you. 

Meals were always cooked by him - which at first you liked, but he wouldn’t let you make anything just to be nice, if you wanted something he always made it. He barely let you put things from the fridge onto the bench. 

“All you have to do,” he’d say, pressing himself in between your legs as you sat on the countertop next to the sink, “is sit there and look pretty.” His hands would move up from your knees to your thighs, sinking into the meat of your hips to pull you closer. “You do it so well for me.” 

Then he’d kiss you for all your worth, still with his apron on and shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and you’d forget why you wanted to do anything else except watch in the first place. 

It was like that for a lot of things. Cooking and washing. Even work or shopping - the only time you went out of the house together was for dates, otherwise outside of your home he was never with you and you were never with him. You’d pout about it, kick up a fuss, and he’d sedate you with a few carefully placed words, hands, kisses, and occasionally his cock. 

Each time it worked. Because you let it. 

But months went past, and you didn’t want to keep playing the naïve and pliant partner. Because while you were most content being pliant, you weren’t a naïve person. 

You wanted to know what was going on. 

Erwin had taken an afternoon of work at home. He retreated into his study an hour ago and the house had been quiet since. 

But you sat in the living room watching the embers of the morning's fire finally die off, and your mind was anything but quiet. There was something about Erwin, about this house, that didn’t quite feel right. Like something was missing - and it wasn’t a fucking child.  

You wanted to know what it was. You needed to know. 

You slowly moved from the leather couch, and like a ghost you went and stood in Erwin’s doorway. 

He was standing also, near the window at the back of the room, reading over a handful of papers. He didn’t look like he noticed you there, but you knew he knew. Erwin always did. 

“Do you need something?” he asked quietly, not looking up. You stood with your arms at your sides, unmoving. 

“What do you do without me?” You surprised yourself at how saccharine your voice was. It made Erwin’s head lift, and he looked at you - finally - with a frown as he set the papers down. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Why don’t you let me do things with you.” you said, “You’re keeping secrets and I don’t like it. I feel like they’re too big for you to keep keeping them hidden.” 

“You deserve to not have to worry.” he said, starting to step forward. You knew what he was going to do - he’d done it a hundred times to get you to stop asking questions - but this time you weren’t going to let him. You weren’t playing dumb anymore. You took a step back. 

“That answer is so rehearsed, Erwin.” you said, “It’s good to stick to one story, helps avoid suspicion. Normally. But I just want you to be honest with me.” 

You watched his storm blue eyes as they tracked your face. Soon he was mere inches away, and his fingers came up to graze your cheek - you would normally lean into it, but not right now. You had a point to prove. 

Seeing this, his fingers moved lower, his hand wrapped around your neck - his palm on your throat, and his fingers pressed into the muscle under your jaw. If you closed your eyes it would be all you could feel, but right now it was like he was barely there. 

“You want to know?” he asked. Your pulse picked up but you weren’t afraid. It was a show of strength and control, but you weren’t bending, you weren’t breaking. Not yet. “You’ll never see me the same way, I want you to remember me like I am now.” 

“I want to know you as you really are.” Erwin’s hand moved from your throat down to your ribcage, resting warm on your side as he leant to press a kiss to the corner of our mouth. 

“If you’re so sure,” he said, nose brushing your cheek, “I think then I’ll finally let you see our basement.” 

Erwin never let you in the basement. 

He said it was either too cold, or too dark for you to be allowed to go in. His precious little wife couldn’t be getting sick or hurt because of something that could be avoided. 

In all honesty, you’d never had an interest in the basement anyway - months passed and you’d never once thought to go down there. All that was there was the boiler and a few chest freezers you used to store meat - both things Erwin looked after or did himself. 

But now you were at the bottom of the stairs, watching as Erwin pulled on a leather butchers apron, with dust collecting around your feet. 

It was cold in the basement. Dark too, even with the single bright white light on. 

“I meant to deal with this carcass this afternoon,” he said, watching you watch him. You weren’t sure if to believe your husband's little secret was that he liked butchering animals on the side. As cruel as it sounded, it was still perfectly normal. “It might be nice having some company. They’re not really very conversational.” 

That set off a little bell in the back of your head. Like ‘hey, that’s a little weird’ - like ‘hey, that's what you’d hear from someone who worked in a morgue not in a butchers cool room’. But like all the other alarms, bells, and flags, the red danger signs went right over your head. 

Erwin approached one of the freezers - you watched as he lifted the door with one arm (and noted how his shirt strained over his shoulders, but you were still making a point, so it was set aside for later). The door propped open, then Erwin leant down and grabbed the carcass inside. 

When it slung over his shoulder, you weren’t met with the beheaded shoulders and skinned muscle of a sheep - or even a goat or small deer -instead there was a face. Open eyed and lifeless, with a face drained of color and covered in frostbite. 

You watched, with some morbid curiosity - or shock - as your gentle and doting husband effortlessly hung a lifeless human body by his jaw from the butcher's hook on the ceiling of your basement. 

It slowly dwelled on you what exactly had been happening these past few weeks. That this had been happening the entire time you’d known Erwin Smith. 

It was strange how you didn't notice it before. Watching now though, as he carved through muscle and sinew with a practiced and surgical ease, that he was not just dismantling this man for the sake of being able to hide his remains easier. He really did look like a man working in a slaughterhouse - and how he spoke of this man like he was an animal born and bred to be eaten. 

Your thoughts went to the first time he served you venison - you said it tasted strange. He said it was an acquired taste - but you had been raised on fresh deer from your uncle's farm for years. You knew you loved it. 

He gave you beef - likewise you asked where he got it from. His excuse at that time was that it was different when it was newly slaughtered. Again, for the same reason, now you knew it was a lie. 

You couldn’t look away from how he skinned this man, how he knew which sections to carve away and keep, and which to throw away. He worked at it like a well oiled machine - all the while talking to you as if it was the most normal, casual thing in the whole world. 

You thought you were going to be sick, you could even feel it sitting in your throat. All you did was slowly sit down on the stairs behind you, and kept on watching. 

Dinner was made equally by the both of you that night. 

Although you didn’t once touch the meat - not even to cook it. You knew where it came from - you saw this flesh pulled right away from its bones just hours ago. You remembered what Erwin looked like as he carved up another collection of meat you would’ve been eating from for the next few weeks - how his hair was mused and his pupils were blown wide. And as the body thawed, how he slowly became covered in more and more blood. 

That night you could swear his reflection in the dining room mirror had horns. 

And you saw how Erwin looked when he collected your plate after you finished, you saw the look in his eyes when he realised what you thought about what he’d done. What you thought about him. 

There were no secrets now - and seemingly everything was still going over smoothly. You hadn’t made a fuss, you hadn't run away, you hadn’t called anyone, you barely even mentioned it, but there was just something. A little nagging something. It was telling you that not everything was right between Erwin and you anymore. 

Like you weren’t quite sure if you were going to be safe with him or not. 

Sat at your vanity, you slowly worked through your nighttime routine as Erwin dressed for bed behind you. You were caught between keeping an eye on Erwin and completely focusing on your task at hand. A question that had been sitting in your stomach since that afternoon bubbled into your throat. 

“Who was that man?” you asked quietly. 

“You didn’t recognise him?” Erwin replied, surprise in his voice as he turned to you. “I found him hard to forget.” Figures - Erwin did kill him, you’d expect him to remember. However, why you’d know him went right over your head. 

“Of course I don’t,” you said, quietly speaking as Erwin’s hands rested on your shoulders, kneading at the tense muscle underneath them. You only just managed to stop yourself from flinching at his sudden touch. “Should I?” 

“No,” he said. You saw him smile as he lent to litter a few small, soft - almost shy - kisses along your neck. “I wouldn’t want you worrying about a man who did such a vulgar thing.” 

“What do you mean…” Your breath was taken by lips mouthing under your ear before you could finish your sentence. Heartbeat and eyes both fluttering on habitual instinct at the hands that had now wandered to tempt the delicate skin hidden under your shirt. 

“Don’t worry.” He said, sounding like a command - having had your curiosity shocked into submission, you folded like you normally would. 

After all, with his wandering hands, smooth words, and suckling mouth, who would worry. 

Erwin once told you that pleasure was the best distraction from pain. Most of the time he was right. It had worked so far. 

But that night after he fucked you long and hard and deep, as he lay dead asleep to the whole world, you lay awake. There was still a dull ache between your legs - still sticky too - and parts of your bare skin stuck to his from sweat left mostly unattended, but those weren’t the thoughts on your mind. 

You remembered who the man was. 

There was a bar you and Erwin went to only a few days ago - one of those perfect dates procured by a perfect husband. A dimly lit building, with tall tables you had to stand at. You’d dressed per Erwin’s request - a little dress that had you wanting to feel yourself as much as he was feeling you. 

However it was gaining more attention than was appreciated. 

A man - the man who’d met his demise at the hands of your husband - had indeed been quite vulgar. You weren’t quite sure how you forgot about it - perhaps the shock that there was anyone in your basement freezer had all other thoughts leave your mind. 

But at the time it happened, you were sure something downright horrible could’ve happened to you if Erwin wasn’t there. That man was not kind or polite. He was no gentleman. He wasn’t going to treat you right, how you deserved to be treated. He wasn’t Erwin. 

Like the knight in shining armor he always had been, Erwin was there - he dismissed the man and worked twice as hard to make sure you both forgot all about him. You certainly forgot, he however clearly did not. 

It made you wonder how many other meals Erwin had made of men or women who treated you less than he thought was due. 

You felt yourself curl into Erwin’s side. Your leg lifted over his, and even in his sleep his arm held you even tighter. Despite everything, he wasn’t going to hurt you. You felt safe with him. Most of all, you trusted him to keep you feeling safe. 

He would do anything to keep you safe. 

Erwin was quite understanding about you going completely off red meat. 

For a while he really couldn’t blame you. However he was a little concerned. The sudden change in your diet was starting to show - physically and emotionally. His way of trying to get you to eat properly again was taking you out when he went to get groceries. 

Normally he liked this time for himself - he found it calming, sorting through fruits and vegetables, picking and choosing the best for both him and you. Having you with him was different - but he found he liked you company just the same. You had a good eye, one he’d have to utilize more. 

His main reason was proving to you that there were meats you could eat - look, there was beef and lamb both in the cart. All pre-packaged and perfectly normal meats to cook and serve for dinner - you’d have them tonight, he decided when he saw your eyebrows raise at the sight of them. 

What you hadn’t known about his grocery trips, and what he had forgotten to tell you on that morning, was the cashier that always worked registers on the days Erwin was shopping. 

She was a little older than you, but only half as pretty (although Erwin was sure that was debatable to some - not to him). She had a habit of attempting to make advances at him - all unfruitful, and all a little embarrassing to watch. Erwin thought nothing of them, perhaps he felt annoyed on occasion, but otherwise paid her no mind no matter how persistent she was. 

He half hoped that bringing you along with him would make her cease. She just acted like you weren’t there at all. 

However she clearly had caught you completely by surprise. 

For a moment, Erwin caught a look on your face. Dark and unlike anything he’d ever seen on your features before. Something about how you held yourself was always so soft - but this was sharper than a razor's edge. He always liked your softness. He liked this too, but again it was different. He may have liked it more. 

He didn’t even realize that the cause of the change was because she bothered you more than she bothered him. Not until much later. 

You’d learnt two things from being married to Erwin. 

One was that you could get away with anything. You could ask Erwin for anything, and it would be yours as soon as humanly possible. You could ask the same from others and they’d listen  - not just because of who you married, but also because you just had a face that could get away with it. 

The second was exactly the same thing - only it held a brand new meaning after finding out what secrets were held in the basement; you could get away with anything. Even murder. 

Erwin was out for dinner - something he hated, but business must do what business does - and so were all your closest neighbors - holidays or dinners, as was the routine come around Friday night. You had the house, the whole neighborhood almost, to yourself. 

But after a strategically placed grocery visit two days prior, you were not going to be alone tonight. 

You almost laughed at her - the foolish cashier who’d so eagerly agreed to coming over to dine with you tonight - because of her cluelessness. Because she couldn’t see danger when it was standing right in front of her. 

Besides from the company, it was a nice night out - hence why you took it outside on the barbeque table. Well, aside from the fact it would be easier to clean up outside than inside. 

“What is this?” she asked, carving out a hefty piece of the steak you prepared and eyeing it. 

“Wagyu. Japanese.” Your foot swayed carelessly from where your legs crossed, the grass tickled the bottom of your bare foot. “Some of the best you’ll get your hands on.” 

“Really?” She said, believing you and putting it in her mouth. Even though she worked in a supermarket, she didn’t know any better - you were betting on it - and she couldn't tell otherwise anyway. “You’re not going to have any?” 

“Oh, no.” you said, smiling into your red wine, “When you have it so often you lose your taste for it.” 

That was about the most truth you’d said at once the whole night - from the happy greeting to just now. Of course the steak you served wasn’t Wagyu - if it was you’d definitely be eating it. In reality it was one of the last cuts left of the man you’d seen Erwin first butcher. 

You really hoped he wouldn’t mind you using it up - after all he would be getting a whole new carcass in return for one steak. In your mind that was a very generous trade. 

“It’s actually quite amazing,” she said, leaning back on the bench seat opposite you, “You’re such a good cook.”

“I learnt from the best.” you said, adjusting the knife on your place set and putting your glass down. “Would you like another glass?” You asked, standing to take her empty whiskey tumbler in your hand. 

“That would be great.” she said, then turned back to her food. You walked away with a smile - it disappeared as soon as the sliding door shut behind you. You poured another shot into her glass - not wasting another top shelf liquor now she wasn’t around to see the difference - and eyeing her through the glass door with a look that could kill. 

Before you went back outside, you took a trip down into the basement. Erwin always kept the kitchen carving knives sharp - but the ones downstairs? You knew they moved through flesh like it was warm butter. 

Erwin swore he heard a broken scream as he pulled his car into the driveway. 

There was an unfamiliar car in the driveway too, and you were home alone - and it made him very, very worried. 

He grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, then made his way inside without wasting any time. His bag was dumped carelessly right by the door, and he called your name, multiple times. 

At the end of the hallway, beyond the sliding door that led outside, he saw you walking up the deck stairs from the barbeque table. He practically ran to you, but stopped just beyond the kitchen doorway when he really, truly saw you. 

You stood just outside, one hand on the glass door frame while the other held a knife - one he knew lived in the basement. Blood ran down your arm onto the silver blade - blood was everywhere. It was all over your face and satin dress, one he loved to see you wear on dates, and now it was ruined. 

Well, ruined was a harsh word. If he were being honest, he'd say it had quite improved now. He liked the look of blood on you. From the twitching in his slacks, he really like it.

“You’re home early.” you said. His lips parted, partially in shock at how casual you were acting, and partially because he just couldn’t quite believe the implications of what he was seeing. 

“You wanted me gone longer?” he asked, breathless. He watched you shift from one foot to the other - watched the fabric of your dress glide over the flesh of your stomach and the plush of your thighs, watched a drop of blood slide from off your chin down between your breasts. His jaw went slack, chest filled with a longing to follow the red trail with his tongue. 

“Actually no,” you said, still playing aloof, gesturing behind you with the knife, “I don’t think I can move her on my own.” 

“‘Her’?” Erwin found his voice still came out soft, unbelieving. He felt like he just walked into a dream. 

“Your little supermarket girlfriend.” Your lips curled up into a snarl as you spoke - your eyes held the return of that dark look he’d only seen once before. You were angry. You were jealous. He’d never wanted you more. 

“She was not my -” 

“- It doesn’t matter what she was or wasn’t. Not anymore,” you said, looking at him with enough force to have him rendered mute, “Just help me move her downstairs.” 

The knife was thrown carelessly onto the dining table - red droplets scattered on impact - before you turned on your bare heel and walked back in the direction you came from. Only once he watched you walk down the stairs did he manage to move. He was sure this wasn’t really happening - it was far too good to be true - yet if this were a fantasy he wanted to see just how far it went before he woke up. 

Erwin’s suit jacket and die was discarded on the wooden decking the moment he saw you with the cashier’s body. You stood over her with her chin in your hand, her head tilted back so you could get a good look at the clean gash that ran from one side of her neck all around to the other. 

He watched you in a daze as you stood straight up, her wrist between your bloodied fingers, and waited. You’d never looked more in-control than you had now - for the first time he found himself standing quite dumbstruck, waiting for you to tell him what to do. 

“Heart’s slowed.” you said, “Should’ve lost enough blood to be fatal. Freezing her will help.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Cut both carotids.” you said. You looked up at him though your eyelashes, head low and voice soft. You looked like a devil. “Honey, I’m not stupid.” 

Erwin had never been more in love. 

There had been a freezer cleared, you knew that already, and despite the fact you would’ve struggled carrying someone your own size inside and downstairs - Erwin did so with little effort. 

While he was busy, you couriered the remaining dinner dishes inside to the sink, and swaddled the blanket the cashier was sitting on inside to get washed. The thing was an absolute mess, soaked through in places. It’d probably be easier to get rid of it. 

You had just finished outside when Erwin returned to meet you in the kitchen. His whole effort took less than ten minutes. 

He had stained his shirt - chest, arms, all down his back - and his hands were slick. There was even a mark of it on his cheek. A mark of her. 

You walked over, intent on wiping away the red herring, but found your efforts only made it worse. Your hand was covered in blood too. There was an unusual anger rising inside you. One the rivalled frustration but burned white hot. 

But Erwin’s hand slid up from your forearm and gently wrapped around your wrist - he mirrored your position and pressed your palm into his cheek. His other hand pulled your body close to his, and your free arm hung dumbly at your side. 

“What are you doing?” you asked - this time you were the one that sounded breathless, although you didn’t completely understand why. Maybe the adrenaline wore off, maybe you were realizing what you had done - but really it was neither of those things. 

You saw that look in Erwin’s eye - you knew yours looked exactly the same. 

“I’m processing.” he said, eyes fluttering about but never once leaving your face. His cheek was so warm. “Processing how my wife is even more beautiful now than on our wedding day.” You felt your feet shuffle closer as he pushed you back so your waist hit the counter’s edge. 

He was hypnotising you, lulling into a cloudy haze with his movements and with his eyes and it lay thick and heavy on your tongue - but its bitter weight had never tasted sweeter than it did now. 

“Kiss me,” you whispered. 

The kitchen tiles and the marble countertops were not a pleasant place to be intimate. You knew it, and so did Erwin. Hence why he pulled you across the room with hungry, wet kisses onto the dinner table.  

Your dress had been pushed up above your hips so fast it almost tore the fabric, and Erwin hadn’t wasted any time honing in on the wet spot on your underwear. One he seemed intent on making as large as possible. 

He knelt at the end of the table - the chair had been hastily kicked aside - and had eased you to lie down with your legs thrown over his shoulders. As his teeth and tongue worked at making a wet mess of your inner thighs, his hand wandered up your dress to cup your breast, mindlessly toying with the bud in between two fingers. 

The blood from his cheek smeared into the spit on your leg, and as he groped the fat at your chest he could feel the sticky red catch under his fingers. 

You couldn’t help the way your eyes fluttered closed at feeling him all over you in such a way - an action that hadn’t gone unnoticed by your husband. 

His mouth moved from your thighs to over your clit, hidden under your panties, and he laid a kiss there so gentle that it made your entire body jolt. Then his mouth opened, and he treated your lower lips with the same generosity previously granted the ones above. That was what you had been waiting for, it was what you were most craving, and he was reading you like an open book. 

Unlike your dress, Erwin’s urgency to rid his current workspace of fabric was less than enthusiastic - the drag of thin cotton and elastic was slow, achingly so. He was teasing you, and as your frustrations grew so did your longing. He knew it. 

The slow drag of his tongue up your slit to your clit almost had your back keening right off the table. It was enough to feel, but it wasn’t right. You needed so much more. Driven by need, both your hands went to his head, gripping to his hair for dear life as you urged his face closer to where you needed it - blindly angling your hips up to meet his waiting mouth. 

Eventually, his mouth met the place you needed him most. Bare, open, wet and waiting. His lips went right to your cunt, opening over your core and his tongue dove right in. His nose pressed up to your clit, and you heard him breathe in deep. 

The sounds he was making were absolutely sinful. 

Erwin barely pulled away to speak, mouth still connected to your cunt with the slick he was conjuring - he was speaking into you as much as he was speaking up at you. 

“Getting to have you like this is perfect.” He sounded like he was going to cry. “I’ve been waiting so long. So long.” 

And then, as if his mouth even left you, he returned with twice the vigor. His shoulders shoved into the backs of your thighs, but his grip on your hips pulled you in further, pressing the curved line of his nose deeper into your slit. The sudden intensity made your thighs quiver. 

“Erwin, p-lease.” you moaned, voice broken and choking on nothing but air as your fingers pulled relentlessly on his once-perfect blond hair. 

“Yes, c’mon baby,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering open and closed - unable to decide on focusing on pleasing you or watching how pleased you were - “Use me. Please. Show me you need me.”  

“Need you.” you breathed, legs curling over his shoulders. “Need you so bad Erwin.” 

All he did in reply was hum - the feeling spread from your cunt all through your body, washing in waves down to your toes, and up to your head, making everything fuzzy as your eyes closed in pleasure. You were content to stay exactly like that for the rest of the night. 

But Erwin was never one to do things quietly - he went above and beyond - and he always had such a mouth on him. He was intent on making sure all his energy was pushed towards pushing you to release. His fingers and mouth, the muscles in his thighs keeping him knelt just right for you, and his thoughts never slept - he needed you to know exactly what he was thinking - as if he knew how much you loved knowing what he wanted to do with you. 

“Just imagining how good you’d taste -” he groaned, pulling away and replacing his face with his fingers, two slid right in with very little resistance, “- when this blood on my hands is yours.” 

Your mind went to the woman in your freezer. 

Eyes slowly opened to glare as Erwin stood over you. With the different angle your hands moved - one down to where his wrist was pressing against your clit as his fingers curled inside you, the other around his throat, tensed around the veins that ran either side of his windpipe. 

The same ones you cut to kill that woman in your freezer. 

“If you kill me, I’m going to fucking murder you.” You hand pressed harder, enough that if you took your hand away there would be a white mark where the blood was forced to leave his perfect skin. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.. I could never hurt you like that.” he said softly, unbothered by your hand around his throat - the look in his eyes told you he was more than pleased at how rough you were being. He leant over you and mounted the table with a knee pressed to the underside of your thigh. “No, instead what you can give me is much better than her blood. Neither of us have to do a single thing in order to have it, and that makes it so much sweeter.” As he spoke his lips rested over yours, his breath was in your mouth and if you licked your lips you’d taste as much of him as you would of yourself. 

His hand curled down, pressing your joint arms between your bodies at an odd angle, letting his fingers move in such a way that had your eyes rolling back and mouth opening in a silent scream at the pleasure and pain his fingers started to bring. 

Like an open invitation, his mouth was on yours. As he stuffed your cunt with a third finger, his tongue worked into your mouth and spread the taste of your slick all over. It was intense - how all you could feel was him inside you and his hand around your ribcage; all you could taste was the salt you gave him, the kind he craved; all you could smell was him, oak wood and leather, and the smell of your sex that he'd pressed his entire lower face into. 

There was no other place in the world like this - nothing compared to being pressed into the wood of your dining table by a man who completely adored everything about you. Now, you decided, you could stay right there forever.  

His lips moved again, from your mouth down your chin to your jaw. They landed on your throat, and you moaned at how his teeth sunk into your skin and sucked. Once he felt sedated at the size and color of the bruise there, his tongue went to work once more - starting right down on your breasts and licking all the way up to your jaw. 

Erwin was cleaning you. Drinking you clean and leaving you bare of the red splatter that once painted your skin imperfect - for he suddenly found the one thing he loved more than seeing you covered in blood was being able to clean it off you. 

His breathing was heavy, and he groaned into your skin as his knee gave way so his hips could roll down into yours despite his hand blocking his way. 

“Oh sweetheart, the things I would do for a chance to be between your legs while you bleed life right into my mouth.” His admission - along with the constant pressure of his wrist moving on your clit - was your final push. Your stomach tensed, pussy clenching over his fingers and sucking them in tight. “That’s it, yes that’s - perfect. You’re so perfect.”

In blind pleasure, eyes glossy and looking right past his head to your ceiling, your hands freed from their vice grips on his wrist and throat to move to his hips. As your hips bucked up into his hand while you rode out your orgasm, your new purchase had him rolling down into you even more. 

Oh, if the size of his cock spoke it would tell you how he must be completely aching inside the slacks he wore. 

“Show me,” you said between catching your breath and coming down from the release Erwin brought you, “Show me how you’d fuck me if this blood was mine.” 

From the way his teeth sunk into your shoulder - so hard you swore he’d rip a mouth-sized chunk of flesh right from your bones - you had definitely said the right thing. 

With his mouth still leaving borderline painful marks on your neck, his hands worked on slipping your dress off - the slick from his fingers left painted cold lines on your skin as he dragged the fabric off, blood spread thin over your body, and with a flick of his wrist the dress was gone completely. All in one piece, too. 

But the same courtesy was not given to his own clothes - thread and buttons tore, and soon before you stood your perfect, bloodied, naked husband. He seemed to take a moment to look at you, chest heaving and looking like he’d just run a marathon. 

Your thighs pressed together, and the sticky wet left strings webbed between your legs as he pried your knees open. His hands were big, and warm, and for the first time you really noticed how calloused his palms were. Before you could dwell on it long, his hand wrapped around to press your leg up into your chest - as it moved so did he, languid and calm, and he was above you again with your knee pressed to your chests and his palm at your throat. 

He was looking at you with such an intensity that you knew in that moment that you would do anything he asked of you. Without a word, his eyes told you to stay exactly how you were - so you did. 

You could feel your heartbeat in your ears, watching Erwin though lidded eyes as he leant away and his hips lowered and the leaking tip of his cock touched your stomach. 

Your other leg raised to hook around his waist, an attempt to urge him into the place you needed him most. But he was nothing if not steadfast in getting what he wanted too. 

“Tell me. Show me.” he said. “Let me know that you want it.” 

But you couldn’t speak. The ability to form words had completely left you, partly from imagining how good the slow drag of him would feel inside you, and partly because the hand around your throat stopped most noise from going further than underneath them - you could barely swallow without Erwin having to give way to the movement. So you did all you could do. 

Your hands scrambled for a place to hold, a place to sink your nails into and never let go - a place where the skin was so thin it dragged and curled and caught under your fingernails. It was an action you had done many a time before, but this time it was different. Your ferocity ran deeper, harder, he would bleed and hurt and he would wear these lines for weeks instead of days. The thought made your hips buck up, swivel in yearning and pure want. You were showing him how deep your need ran. 

 “Yes, hurt me.” he said, open mouth covering yours and swallowing every silent noise of want and relief as he angled his body to finally press into your core. He always felt so big, and he was harder than you ever remember him being. He was hot, and he slid right into your warmth like he was always meant to be there. Like it was his home, the one place in the whole world meant to be just for him. 

“Erwin,” you mouthed, eyes unable to stay open anymore at the feeling of him stopping right against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes and warmth pool in your stomach. 

“What is it?” he hummed, releasing the pressure on your neck enough so you could speak properly. For a few agonizing moments all you could do was pant and squirm as his other hand pressed down on your womb to keep you still under him. 

“I need it, I need it.” 

“Need what?” he asked, moving over you again to press  too-gentle kisses to your cheeks, “I know you’re feeling a lot right now sweetheart, but I need you to talk to me. Can you do that?” 

“Yes,” you said, eyes caught watching him watch you, and you swallowed thickly. “I need you to do what I said. I need you to fuck me.” 

Your voice came out stronger, more collected and coherent than you thought it would. Even the way Erwin’s eyes widened slightly told you he was as surprised at your admission as you were. But it wasn’t an admission - it was an order. 

“Anything for you.” he said, pressing his lips to yours. His hand moved from your abdomen to your hip bone, and you knew you finally - finally - got what you wanted. 

From how eagerly he gave in, and how enthusiastic his movements became, Erwin had been waiting for this too. To have you exactly as he was right then. 

The squelch from his thrusting into your cunt, and the rapidly cooling slick that spread from your core onto your thighs only served to urge you on further - it had your back arching and pussy clenching over Erwin’s cock. Both your hands flew to his wrist, not to stop his hold on your neck, but to ground yourself as you mindlessly bucked up to meet his thrusts. 

“Oh baby yes, look at you.” Your eyes opened, mouth waiting and expectant for another consuming kiss - but Erwin was not looking at you. Not directly. His head was turned, and you felt how his hips picked up speed at what he was seeing in your dining room mirror. 

Your head turned, and you had to fight to not roll your eyes back into your skull at what you saw. You couldn’t want for anything more than the man above you. 

His grin was almost all teeth, jaw slack, and he looked nothing short of an animal. Erwin almost laughed at how pleased he was with how he had you. 

His hair a mess, and parts sticking to his forehead at the effort he was putting in to please you. Even from your angle you could see the welts over his shoulders where, at his command, you had stripped him of his skin. Blood was still practically everywhere, and he looked like an absolute mess. A very pleased mess. 

While one arm had your leg almost up over his shoulder while his hand gripped your bloodied and bit-ridden neck, the other was all over your other thigh - keeping it pressed around his hips, and your heel dug into the dip below his hips to encourage him as deep inside you as possible. 

His thrusts weren’t letting up, and the sight of him watching you watch him had you moving as much as you could just to meet him. To force him as deep as he could go. 

And then there was you. Laid equally bare and equally covered in blood - and completely at the mercy of your husband. 

Your hair pressed down onto the table beneath you, bite marks and hickies littered your neck, dried spit and blood all over your chest. Your whole body felt like it was on fire. Hot and wanting - all you wanted was to come undone.

Lower still, thanks to your leg being lifted to the high heavens by a man who was now mouthing and panting at your ankle, was a perfect view of where your bodies met. With the way his cock sunk in and out of your pussy, and your white slick coating the wiry hairs at his base. With such a lewd sight as that, it was no wonder he became so frantic. 

One of your hands went to your clit - swollen and aching, the fair brush of Erwin’s hairs as his hips met yours wasn’t going to be enough for you. You needed more. You were going to take it for yourself. 

But Erwin, still keenly watching you in the mirror, saw. The hand on your hip moved down between your bodies, laying atop yours and guiding your fingers in a rhythm you didn’t even know - but one he knew would bring you to release, even if you didn’t. 

Your grip on his wrist tightened, nails pressing crescents into his skin. Your mouth opened again, eyes unable to stay open for the feeling that built inside you took over. You were so close that it was all you were thinking about. 

Erwin - he was all you could feel. He was consuming you. You were consuming him. 

“That’s it, that's my -” he choked, words caught in his throat, feeling how you clenched around him tighter with a cry of pleasure - it went straight to his head. “That’s right, yes.” he said, eyes closing as yours fluttered open to watch as his face contorted in pleasure. 

A new warmth burst into your stomach as Erwin’s movements slowed to a stop, hot and thick. As you laid there with the last waves of your own pleasure - and the complete feeling of being filled to the brim - lulling you into a sense of complacency, you watched as your husband opened his eyes again. 

He smiled at you, his hand finally moving off your throat to the side of your jaw, brushing your hair further away from your face. The pressure of his arm keeping your leg up left, and it moved down to wrap around his waist too. 

With a light groan, and a little assistance from Erwin, you sat up. Together you moved so he stood at the edge of the table, while you sat on it. You shuffled slightly closer, thighs tightening around his hips as the angle pressed him deeper inside you again. 

Erwin’s tightened grip on your hip was a warning - one you were planning to follow. You didn’t think either of you had it in yourselves to go that far again that quickly. 

Well, maybe you could - but you were more than happy not to. 

But at that moment all you wanted was to just stay as close to him as possible. 

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, breasts pressed flush to the hairs on his chest, and his grip on your waist moved down to under your thighs. He lifted you off the table, and with a few carefully placed steps, he backed into the seat he previously pushed aside. 

With you now in his lap, he held you properly. His fingers traced the curves of your back, and one stayed there to press you into his warmth while the other continued to wander up your ribcage. 

“I love you,” he murmured, nosing your cheek and pressing a soft, slow kiss to your lips. Your fingers found their way to the back of his skull, itched past his undercut and found a home fixed in his blond locks. 

Your chests pressed together, breathing still unsteady, but you’d never been so calm. So sedated. In that moment, as you looked at Erwin, all you could think of was how the flush on his cheeks made his freckles completely disappear. Your insides felt like a slow pour of the sweetest honey. 

“I love you too.” 

“But we need to talk about what you’ve done.” Erwin had barely broken away from you to speak again, but the idea of what exactly you did wasn’t clicking. He could see it on your face. 

“I didn’t do anything.” you said with a pout - it took everything in him to not take your lip between his teeth, but he would be content just being inside your pussy. For now. 

“Oh but you did.” he said, keeping his voice soft and movements slow, “Sweetheart, I think you’ve killed someone for me.” 

He watched you frown, then watched as it deepened in realization. Then, like when he caught you in his button-down shirt for the first time, you shied away. Your face found a place on his shoulder so he couldn’t see it, and then you answered him. 

“She deserved it.” you mumbled. “And if you were planning on finding someone else to fill your freezers then tough luck. I got there first.” he felt your fingers tighten on his hair, and he was slightly glad you’d hidden your face on him. 

That way you couldn’t see the pleased smile that broke across his features. He was going to speak again, when you beat him. 

“And if you think anyone besides me is going to carve her up, then you’re dead wrong.” When he realized what you’d said, his grip on you tightened even more. “I can’t wait to butcher her up like the pig she is. Bet she’ll taste awful though.” 

He had to purse his lips together - an effort to keep his mouth closed and no sounds coming out. At your admission he became absolutely ecstatic. 

Weeks ago he never would have thought you’d feed into his habit - he never even planned on ever telling you about it. He was content with having you clueless to his true nature. Perhaps once or twice, he fleetingly dreamed that you might happily join him when he dined on the flesh of the people who wronged you. 

But this was better. This was so much better. 

You had changed since he married you. His slow patience had worn off and he held in his hands the fruits of his labor - filled to the brim and painted red. Now you could do it together, whole-heartedly and in every aspect. From the slaughter to the meal, he had you. And you had him. 

Now the moment you said so, he would believe you, and if you wanted someone dead he would happily, proudly bring them to your feet all for you to feast on. He’d take it even more seriously, and he would kill anyone you wanted him to. Anyone at all. And you’d do the same for him. 

Turning his head, and kissing your temple, he let you feel him smile against your skin. Now he knew he really had you all to himself.

You had always been perfect for him.