tivosstuff

[tivosstuff]

How do you think Shigaraki would react to a s/o who’s into him being a horny goblin around them? Like he gets caught sniffing their panties and they’re like “ah that’s all good, I sniff your boxers when you’re not around too.”

You know, it's been so much easier to creep on you since you moved into his quarters.

Before, he had to sneak— slink like a rat through the darkness of his own headquarters— just to get a peek at you. Sure, he saw you at meetings and occasionally around the building, but it wasn't enough to slake his needs.

Eventually, he needed more. And coincidentally, you moved up the ranks, taking on assignments from the boss in person. What an honour it must have been.

What an honour indeed.

Being the big head of the PLF had its perks. He had access to all sorts of information— including the dorm list. He was just curious, is all, to see how you lived. You were all business whenever he saw you. He just wanted to know the real you. He needed to know if it was what he imagined it would be like.

Besides, you have no idea how humiliating it is. He had to teach himself lockpicking just to gain access. Do you know how hard that is to do with only four fingers? It took five separate kits, since the others turned to ash.

He almost lingered overlong in your space. It smelled like you— your sheets, your clothing, the very essence of the room. Your computer, your books, the papers scattered across your desk, all of it the key to getting to know you.

Your closet taunts him out of the corner of his eye. He's never considered himself a filthy perverted creep, but he understands how it works. The soft silks and linens you keep tucked away beneath your uniform are soft to the touch, and it takes active effort not to rifle through to the bottom.

He resigns himself. It's happening, and he may as well come to peace with it. His legs won't move without something. Something more personal.

He needs something you won't miss. Perhaps something that got lost in the laundry.

The bin is filled with dirty uniforms and socks and various shirts, but that's not what he's looking for. If he's going to cross this line, he may as well fully cross it. He finds what he's looking for at the bottom of the whicker basket.

A small pair of cotton panties.

He bunches them in his hand, careful to keep his pinky away as he delves in, nose first. Gods above, there's nothing like it. The little glimpses and small scents he gets day in and day out are nothing compared to your pure essence, undiluted and straight from the source of his most wretched fantasies.

His iron will keeps him from abusing them right then and there— you'll be back soon, after all— and so he leaves your room exactly as he found it... Mostly.

Plus, he wants to savor them before he ruins them. Wear out your scent entirely before he defiles them with his own.

You seem none the wiser to his antics. You don't stare at him or look at him any differently, still saluting him and obeying his orders without question. That's why it takes him by surprise when you approach him one night with a request.

"Bold," he says, blinking slowly as he stares you down from his throne. "Of you to ask such a thing from your boss."

"I know!" You smile, some sly glimmer in your eyes. "You're free to say no."

"In case you've forgotten, we're wanted villains in the middle of a war. Do you think now is the best time for such a foolish request?"

"That's why I asked. Never know if we're going to see tomorrow. Might as well ask for what I want, right?"

He doesn't say no. He couldn't, even to keep up the facade.

"I'll think about it. I'm busy."

"Very well, sir," you salute him, turning on your heel. He doesn't see the smile on your face.

Dinner. You wanted dinner with him.

He doesn't allow himself to get excited. He was right, after all. He's Japan's most wanted criminal overlord and villain, and frankly, he should be focused on more important matters. Not to mention this could be business related. Maybe you're after a promotion (oh, he'd give it to you) or maybe you want something from the PLF (and fuck, he'd make you earn it.)

He accepts, like he always knew he was going to.

God, you're lovely. Out of your uniform and in some silly little black number that you must've saved for such an occasion. He wonders if you have another pair of lacy panties on underneath, and just how he can get his hands on them—

(The other pair is soiled with his seed, and he's overdue for his daily dose of you.)

He can't exactly take you out somewhere nice— it's not his style anyway— but he can try to impress you with his power. He settles for a nice dinner outside of the cantina, in his personal quarters.

It's chilling to have you so close to where he sleeps— to where his dirty little secret is stashed in the nightstand drawer next to the lotion and box of tissues.

"Forward," you grin. "Bringing me straight to your room."

"Don't need prying eyes," he offers up nonchalantly— he hopes. "And there's no where nicer than my personal rooms in the base."

"Oh, I'm not complaining. It's nice in here. Nicer than our rooms. Not to imply that you'd know what those are like, sir."

He doesn't turn red beneath the curtain of silver hair. He doesn't.

"You can call me Shigaraki, seeing as it's under the circumstances. Or Tomura, if you'd like."

"Okay, Tomura," you smile at him, and he wants to hear your name from his lips all over again. Over and over and over, cried like a chant to some dark God.

Dinner goes well, he thinks. He says next to nothing. Neither do you. Perhaps you're nervous (he isn't, he is not. He's the leader of the PLF and the most notorious villain and he doesn't get nervous over dinner with a girl.) You smile coyly at him every so often, something behind your eyes that he can't make out.

He excuses himself for a moment. He needs to breathe. The wretched butterflies in his gut won't allow him rest, and he needs to recoup and restrategize. All of this is so new to him. He's never been on a date before, and there's so many questions. All his knowledge is secondhand.

What if you just like him for his power? Are you looking for a free ride? You don't seem the type of girl, but humans are deceptive creatures. What if you're just after free food? What if you're a spy or an assassin sent to get him alone or relay information to the heroes? There's too many variables.

He resigns himself to outright asking. He should be able to glean if you're lying.

As he steps out of the bathroom, he sees you, and by all things unholy, he could just fall dead on the spot.

You're sitting on his bed, holding your sodden panties between your fingertips, staring at them with a strange expression. You'd rifled through his belongings and found his secret.

He nearly dies of embarrassment, only the tactical part of him remaining calm. He can't afford to have this get out. He'll have to kill you before you can scream. It's the last thing he wants, but he cannot jeopardize everything over this. Wait, maybe he can lock you away—

"What do you think you're—"

"Dirty boy," you simper playfully. "I had a feeling when I lost them."

"You aren't—" Tomura pauses, totally blitzed by your reaction and unsure of what to do. He steps forward, but doesn't go to ash you— not yet.

"Angry? Not at all. Surprised, actually. I wasn't sure what you were doing in my room when I saw you on my computer camera. I thought you might think I was a spy or some kind of turncoat. I wanted dinner to try and talk things out before I got turned to ash without even being able to try to talk some sense into you. Seems like it's something a little more personal, though."

So you're not a spy. That's a relief. What isn't a relief? The unknown factor of the situation. How you're going to react.

"What now?" He swallows hard, so out of his depths that it isn't even funny. He never thought in a million years this would happen. He thought you'd be furious. Thought you'd try to go to the brass beneath him and file a complaint immediately. He thought he'd have to lock you away forever—

"Well," you set the panties back on the nightstand, standing to face him. "I have a few ideas. I could turn you in for being a total creep, or—"

He's ready to defend himself as you lunge at him. What he isn't prepared for is your lips smashing against his, your arms around his neck. He gasps in sheer shock, and your tongue slowly worms between his teeth, mingling with his own. His hands find your waist, oh so careful to keep his pinkies away even as he longs to drag you deeper into him.

"I don't mind, Tomura," you sigh between kisses. "I never thought you'd notice a girl like me, so below your station. Below you."

He says nothing— he can't. He's too lost in the taste of you on his tongue. He holds you close, tugging you into his chest, savoring the feel of you pressed against him.

"If you want me, I'm yours," you sigh into him.

Never in a million years did he think it would go this way.

"Why?" He manages to ask through heaving breaths. "I don't understand."

"Because you're you— you're strong and capable and intelligent and right. I've always been on your side, but being around you— I like you, Tomura."

"Even though I—"

From what he knows, girls aren't usually fans of people who creep on them.

"What can I say? Maybe I like them a little creepy and perverted," you giggle, and he stares at you through round, shocked eyes. "Maybe I am too."

It had been like that ever since. You moved from your cramped quarters into something closer to his. He had an old supply closet converted into a bedroom for you in his personal area— he didn't want to pressure you into staying with him too soon, but he wanted you close— and safe. Girls don't like guys who pressure them, but they like men who keep them safe... Right?

(all his knowledge of girls comes from the internet and porn— which is to say no knowledge at all. He doesn't want to fuck this up royally, but he's so eager—)

Not that it much mattered anyways. He hadn't seen you much. The war had been ramping to a head, and he'd been busy trying to command his armies and keep the place sane. You'd been sent off on an undercover mission for weeks now, and every day you didn't return, his anxiety swells and his urge to kill everyone in his path to find you gets little stronger.

It isn't until he returns to his room one night, exhausted and damn near ready to combust from accumulated stress and over-worry that he finds you there, sitting on his bed—

—in nothing but your panties.

"You made it back," he says, vocal inflection not giving a single hint as to how out of his mind he was only moments prior. "And in one piece."

"Went a little over schedule, but everything went as planned."

You speak casually, as if you're not topless in your boss's personal room.

"And I wanted to see you."

"I see plenty," His dry humor is apparent as he scratches at the rounds of his neck, unsure of what to do with himself. His mediocre knowledge of relationships hadn't prepared him for this. Porn certainly did— but he didn't want to push. You being in here naked could mean a lot of things, right?

"Good," You stand from his mattress, skipping over towards him with a mirthful bounce to your step that makes your tits jiggle gloriously. Grabbing his hand, you place a gentle kiss to his fingers. It almost gives him a heart attack how nonchalant you are with the most dangerous hands in the world, and yet you're entirely unafraid— trusting that this villain would never hurt you.

"It was long. I thought of you every night," you whisper demurely. "I don't like being away for that long."

"I don't like it either."

He's trying so hard not to stare. It feels like walking a razor's edge. He feels like a creep; like some undisciplined little boy frothing at the mouth over the thought of a naked woman.

You roll your eyes at his denied curiosity, shoving him hard onto the bed and straddling his lap. "I want you to look, idiot. You think I showed up here with no clothes on accidentally?"

"But—"

"Here," You grab his hand, forcefully placing it on your breast. "Let me help you then."

It's soft and warm and tender in his hand, his thumb brushing gingerly over your nipple. It tightens into a bud as he does, a soft moan coming from your lips. You grind down on him, feeling him harden beneath his slacks, his cock straining against the zipper.

"There, see?" You heave, voice croaking. "Not so bad."

Not so bad, you say, not understanding just how dark and insistent his urges are and how terribly difficult it is to resist. If he had his way, he'd throw you over and take you again and again until you couldn't walk— couldn't even speak.

"Is this what you want?"

You chuckle, a devious grin overcoming your features. "What I want, Tomura, is to ride you until your knees buckle and you pop like warm champagne. My training gave me muscles you can only dream of, and I want to use every single one to drain you dry."

He's just about at his limit.

"Do you think you could do that for me, Shigaraki?" You hiss in his ear, gyrating your hips against his, teasing his hardness with your warm apex. "Do you think you could indulge all those nasty little fantasies I know you have kept locked away? The ones you think of when you cum all over those panties of mine?"

His eyes darken, and his hand finds your throat. You squeak in partial terror and excitement as he rolls you over, his other hand tearing off the flimsy fabric that keeps your cunt separated from the air.

"I think I could do that."

[tivosstuff]

tw - unreality, eldritch!yandere, prolonged captivity, implied nsfw, and voyeurism.

You might’ve been the only one left.

If there was another living person in town, they were either too assimilated or too well hidden to find. Everyone else – the unliving, the possessed, the altered – had that glassy sheen over their eyes, that thoughtless smile painted over their lips, that sense of connected omniscience that meant you could walk into a café you’d never visited before and the beaming barista would already know your name, your order, and your mother’s address. There were no strangers anymore, not really, no differentiation between your closest friend and your coldest acquaintance. Everyone knew everything, especially about you.

You still went to work, for some reason. There wasn’t really a point. What few responsibilities you had as a professional pencil pusher dried up months ago, leaving you in a state of white-collar limbo. Occasionally, you’d get an email, but the message was always disjointed and nonsensical, like filler text in a bad office simulator game. Sometimes, your phone would ring, but there’d only ever be heavy breathing and the muffled sound of wet flesh hitting stone on the other side. After a while, you stopped answering.

Your boss would stop by your cubicle, make small talk over lukewarm coffee. He was the attractive, older type – all grey-streaked hair and tailored suits. He used to hate you. You couldn’t remember when he change his mind.

“We’re grabbing a round of drinks on the company card tonight,” he explained. “To celebrate the end of another tough week.”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“It’s the least I could do. You’re such a hard worker, (Y/n).”

You glanced up from the sticky note you were currently folding into a paper crane. This would be your forty-seventh attempt. “I am?”

He laughed as if you’d said the funniest thing in the world and rested a hand on your arm, leaning in a little too close for comfort. “So, you’re coming?”

“I’d rather gauge my own eyes out.”

“Sounds like a date.” He squeezed your shoulder before drawing back. “We’ll be waiting.”

You didn’t go. You would stop coming in a few days later, but the phone calls followed you home.

Not that ‘home’ had ever meant safety. The infection had seeped into the architecture, gotten control of the roots. There were swaths of days where you didn’t – couldn’t – leave, every door disappearing and every window sealing itself shut, trapping you in. Others, it almost seemed to force you out – every wall suddenly glass and every door hanging open despite your best attempts to keep them closed. You’d find a fully stocked fridge suddenly empty, or every word of your favorite paperback abruptly replaced with encouraging messages to stretch your legs, get fresh air, go outside. Once, you even tried to leave town altogether. Your car broke down after the first mile, so you walked in an endlessly straight line, never turning, never looking back, never stopping. Somehow, you found yourself on your own doorstep, door open wide as if welcoming you back.

You spent that night on your lawn, sobbing into the grass while your neighbors formed a uniform circle around you, watching. Guarding. Smiling.

Things devolved quickly. You tried your hand at burning down a local bookstore, but the clerk stood beside you all the while, snuffing out every match you managed to light. You poured yourself drinks at up-town bars and slept in velvet-lined booths, never so much as attempting to pay your tab. You skinny-dipped in a mall fountain during peak hours, bathing under cheap plastic skylights and harsh fluorescents. No one paid you a second glance. There were no kids in town anymore, and everyone seemed to glow with a sort of unnatural, off-putting beauty. Like they were grooming themselves to your preferences. Like the town was preening itself to better capture your attention.

You sat in the corner of an old-fashioned diner, staring silently at the table while a handful of other customers pretend to talk amongst themselves around you - the inflections familiar but the words gibberish. Thirty minutes passed before a waitress wandered over, notebook in hand and smile wide enough to strain. “What can I get for you, darlin’?”

“I want to leave.”

“Afraid that’s not on the menu.”

“Then tell what you want. Why you’re keeping me here.”

“Coming right up, sugar.”

A silver platter too nice to be in a place like this was brought to your table. A golden wedding band stood solitary one side and, on the other, bridal lingerie, nearly folded and white as a dove.

Your stomach dropped. You considered getting up, going home, but that wouldn’t have made a difference. You were surrounded, cornered, imprisoned.

And eventually, you would have to reckon with the needs of your warden.

[tivosstuff]

I tried.. 🥀

[tivosstuff]

My vision didn’t come out how I wanted and I’m never trying lighting again 💔

[tivosstuff]

Come Down to the Black Sea VII

Summary: As far back as you can remember, the sea has been the singular source of calm in your life so long as you follow one simple rule: Never wander into the ocean after nightfall, no matter how tempting it may seem. Little do you know, it’s not the ornery tides or the tricky undertow you should fear. It's something that lurks deep beneath the black waters; Something sinister with a piqued curiosity and ill intent. Unfortunately, you've got his interest now. For better or for worse.

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Mentions of violence, blood, attempted assault, sexual content, one very pissy, overgrown fish and bad writing. It's getting worse folks, much much worse. Soon there will be plenty of uh debauchery for all. I swear. I know what you lot are here for.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Ao3 Mirror

Lisa has gifted you a trump card, but more than that? She inadvertently offered you something infinitely more valuable: Courage. 

You saw fear in his eyes. You know you did– and that is something you can work with. 

As you shut the door, he immediately starts towards you once more, claws brandishing, wrought iron fury born anew, his mind locked on a singular purpose: dealing with you. It’s clear he’s eager to pick up right where you left off, locked on you for tears and blood and his macabre form of revelry and revenge. 

Heart rabbiting in your ribs, you steel yourself. There’s just enough distance between you that it gives you a modicum of confidence. It isn’t much– not much at all with him hellbent on closing the gap— but you’ll just have to power through the shards of ice that fear pulses through your veins. 

“Touch me, and I’ll scream,” You snap, summoning every bratty damsel from your mental movie catalog for strength. “You know what her showing up here means? This building is on aware now. If she doesn’t call the police this time, someone else will. You might be able to kill me, but you can’t kill everyone here, and clearly everyone in the vicinity has heard your little tantrum.” 

That gives him pause, but only for a moment. His eyes narrow on you as he realizes allowing you to answer the door has inadvertently fucked him. He looks murderous and it almost fells you on the spot. It's only through sheer will that you manage to speak. 

“You can't kill me now, so let it go,” you say with a shaky voice, raising your palms up in a gesture of peace, unsure what else to do with your listless, quivering hands. “If Lisa heard it, our fight was loud enough to put the entire apartment on high alert. You'll never make it out alive. You'll be exposed– and you know what happens then.”

You hear him growl, practically shaking with fury. You’re backing him into a corner, and you know he despises that– and there’s nothing more dangerous than a cornered predator. 

“But look, I'll just— I'll walk you out now. We can pretend everything is normal. You can just leave. Go home. We can— we can forget about this– about each other. You can pretend you killed me or whatever and I’ll– well, do what I do.”

You see his chest rise with a sharp inhale, teeth bared. The glow of his eyes in the dark is like a dim light in wintry fog: ominous and foreboding. Even as he hasn’t said it yet, you can tell he’s digging his heels into the proverbial sand. 

“I'm not leaving.”

“You have to!” You practically whine, so eager for this to just be over. Though adrenaline still pulses through your veins enough to make you nauseous, your body remembers the unrelenting tired that had taken hold and is running ragged on raw fumes alone. 

“No.”

“Why! What is your problem? I didn't do anything to you!” Anger sparks, your hands now furling into fists, knuckles blanching white. “You show up here, attack me for no reason for the— like the third time– unprovoked! I don't even know what's happening! You claim to hate me. Why do you hate me so much?” 

He says nothing, only continues to stare you down. His lip ticks in a snarl, twitching ever so slightly. You get the inkling he doesn’t quite know what to say, so rather than digging the hole deeper, he opts to remain quiet… For once.

“I don’t know what your fucking deal is!” Your fear is slowly feeding into your self-righteous anger, weeks of confusion and isolation and exhaustion coming to a head. “You’re all over the damn map! You try to kill me, you won’t leave me alone, you think you own me–” “You knew our deal.” “I don’t belong to you! You don’t get to throw a fit when I do things!” You point your finger at him in an accusatory fashion, other hand still curled into itself. “What fucking deal? I never agreed to shit! I don’t even know where you got that idea! You just threw the world’s biggest hissy fit when you saw me with my friend–” “He wasn’t a friend.” “It doesn’t matter! It literally does not matter! It’s none of your business! Your entire gimmick is you want to eat me! I don't know how they do things where you come from, but that's not how shit works here! You don't get to— to claim me. You don't own me! My life isn't yours to take!” His expression blankens, switching from furious to oddly passive in the moment. He blinks at you eerily, head cocking slightly to the side. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Yes, you are!” “No.” 

That stubborn impudence returns and you can tell he settles it in his mind with a shake of his head, arms folding over his chest, infuriating smile crooking on his scarred lips at his sudden realization that he’s irritating you— and greatly enjoying it. 

Well, at least he isn't trying to choke you out anymore… you guess. Not that this is much better, granted. 

He might not be able to kill you, but he can sure as hell make you wish you were dead through sheer annoyance. 

“No! Nuh uh! You do not get to come into my apartment, try to kill me, and then refuse to leave!” “Too bad.” 

“Does your species hyperficate and die if you don't or something?”

No answer. 

“Jesus, what do you want?” “I told you. I’m not leaving until I get it.” 

“Well, sucks for you. You’re not eating me.” “Then I’m not leaving,” He shrugs. “I’ll keep myself entertained in the meantime.”

“God, get out!” You point at the door, about to send your own skin off your bones. “Go back home! You can’t be here!” 

“Already here, and I came all this way, gave myself this sickening form. I'm not leaving, whether you like it or not. I'm not leaving empty handed.”

“I told you I'll scream!”

“And then your neighbors will find me here. I'll tell them I'm your boyfriend and you'll go to away for a long time for— what is it? Harboring a fugitive?”

He seems legitimately unsure that's the phrase, and any other time, you'd find his ignorance comedic.  But for now, you could kill him, so his lack of knowledge of the human world isn't nearly as charming or endearing. He could very well do that— that's a very real threat. He's in your house. It would be your word against his, and even if you weren’t guilty, they’d find out what he is, and you’d have a lot of questions to answer– in interrogation. 

Sure, you could claim ignorance, but Tomura could do worse: He could tell them the truth. There are no laws against befriending a sea creature, and that’s why they’d do the kind of disappearance that doesn’t stem from laws.

About to straight up cry from frustration, you throw your head back in a frustrated groan, agitating your already tender throat. “Fucking leave!” 

“No.” “Well, then you’d better pony up your half of the rent!” “....Rent?” His brows furrow. “What is a rent?” You stare at him incredulously, frowning. “I am not explaining all of this to you.” 

“Fine. Then don’t.” 

“Tomura,” You sigh, exasperated and exhausted. “I don’t know what your deal is. This has been a very surreal day, and now you’re here, and you’re a murderer, and you’re trying to murder me too. I can’t deal with this right now. Just please go back to the beach. Go back home. I can’t deal with all of this right now.” “Can’t,” He grins, revealing piercing, pearl-white fangs. “Place is crawling with humans. You said so yourself. Couldn't leave if I wanted to. So you can come willingly or I'll just stay here.” 

Jesus. He really didn’t have a plan. Between your stymying of his initial ideas of coming here, and his stubborn refusal to leave, you have both trapped him here against your will. “So– wait, what exactly was your plan? You kill me, and then– what? Just chill here for a few days? Hope no one comes looking for me and finds you here with my corpse?” You try to calculate some semblance of logic from it all, but arrive at nothing. “Christ on a bike, you genuinely didn’t have one, did you?”

You’d been bluffing when you suggested it. Apparently, you weren’t wrong. 

“Basically,” He leans against the wall, shrugging, but you can tell he’s a bit miffed at your suggestion that it simply wouldn’t have worked out in his favor without any forethought on his part. 

“Good God, you are bad at this murderer shit. You put the entire island on alert with your horrible stunt last night. You really think you’d just get away with all of this?”

“I made it here, didn’t I?” 

“Holy hell.” You almost collapse on the floor at the realization that whether you want it or not, you’re tied to the crime now. You know who perpetrated it, and they’re in your fucking house refusing to leave. You can’t call the cops, you can’t tell anyone, and that terrible isolation comes crawling back. Tomura is getting exactly what he wants in the way of revenge, even if he doesn’t know it.

“Get used to it. I told you, I’m not leaving until I get what I want. And besides,you said it yourself,” A smug smile tugs at his lips. “I can’t leave now. Too many humans here. Can’t have them seeing me leave your home, can you?” He slips closer, just a bit, and your entire body stiffens. “A stranger no one knows? Leaving your apartment just after the crime? Oh, that wouldn’t look well for you, now would it?”

You eye his ragged clothes, the blood matted under his nails and in his hair. He is suspicion embodied. In an apartment complex like this, people see everything. Small communities don’t have much going on, so anything out of the ordinary becomes a spectacle. It’s a miracle that he wasn’t seen getting here. An abnormal man of uncanny height, silver hair, red eyes, clad in stolen clothes and covered in blood. It really is a modern fucking marvel that the cops hadn’t swarmed the complex the second he stepped foot on it, especially with Lisa guarding the property like a hawk. How did he even manage it?

God, he’s right. If he’s seen leaving your apartment less than a day after the murders–

“Still want me to leave?” He sing-songs. 

“God, just– shut up. Shut the fuck up and let me think!” 

He can’t stay here. He can’t. You’ll wake up with him trying to strangle you in your sleep. He’s a vicious mythical creature capable of hells know what, and he’s made his intentions clear. 

But trying to force him back home right now is a death sentence. For both of you. 

“Okay– okay– Let me– let me think– get out of those clothes! Now!” His brows shoot into his hairline. “Forward. I didn’t know you were that type of girl. Was it the choking or–” “The blood! The blood, you moron! You’re leaving evidence all over my place! Hell– We need to clean them and then get rid of them! Like yesterday!” 

“Calm down,” He rolls his eyes. “The cops aren’t here–”

“Yet! Off! Quit– quit touching things!” You push past him, storming back into your room. “I’ll get you something else to put on, but get those off!”

He makes an exasperated sound, but you ignore it, opting to tear through your closet instead. You don’t have much in the way of men’s clothing, but there has to be something that will fit him. You settle on an oversized black shirt, and a pair of sweatpants that will likely be too short in the legs. Him looking absurd isn’t your concern right now. You need to make him look as normal as you physically can. This entire scenario gives you whiplash, fighting for your life not even 20 minutes ago, but you can’t focus on that now. 

Back in the hallway, you’re about to chuck the clothes at him, and you notice he’s entirely shirtless. His clawed hands fumble with the zipper of his too-large stolen jeans, clearly frustrated and about to give up and simply pull them straight down his bare thighs. His skin has the same inhuman silvery sheen, evident in just the moonlight. Just under the curtain of long, wintry hair, you can make out the slight cut of closed gills on his throat, his ears abnormally pointed beneath the stringy locks. The fins are gone on the lengths of his forearms, but there’s the glimmering of translucent scales still there across the flanks. He is broad and bony, just like you remember, lean muscle under the stretch of alabaster, almost iridescent flesh. 

You can’t help but stare for a moment. It takes a second for you to shake yourself clear.

“God– Not in front of me!” You cover your eyes, tugging your head away. “And get the bloody clothes off the fucking floor!” “Nag-nag,” He scoffs. “I’ve been here five minutes and already you’re a blushing bride. It’s a body. Who cares? Besides, you didn’t mind in the ocean.” “We aren’t in the ocean! You’re a weird guy in my apartment! Here, just– just put these on!” You wave the clothing at him like a child offering a treat to a rabid animal. “And put the other ones in the bathroom!” 

“Whatever.” “And you need to bathe!” 

“....bathe?” 

“Fuck, man, just put the goddamn clothes on! We’ll deal with that later!” 

You hear the rustle of clothing, and rather than stand there awkwardly, you keep your eyes covered as you make your way into the kitchen, throwing on a pot of water to boil. You’ve never cleaned murder evidence out of clothing before, and forensics isn’t a strong suit, but you’re hoping enough hot water, vinegar, soda water and lemon– and then fire– will be enough to absolve your conscience. 

You doubt it. 

There’s the uncomfortable feeling of being watched, and you notice Tomura is leaning in the doorframe, watching you fumble around the kitchen. You were right: The pants are too short in the legs, and they look almost like floods on him, but he doesn’t seem the type to care about fashion. His feet are large and clawed, just like his hands, and you shiver at the slight tinge of blood on his nails. 

“I cannot fucking believe you, Tomura,” You say, almost like a disappointed parent. “They were kids–” “Oh, whatever,” He rolls his eyes, your effort at guilt rolling off of him like water on a duck. “They were not kids. And they would have killed themselves drunk driving anyway. They were– how you say it– scumbags. The filth of the earth. You think I just walked up to a random group of people and started slaying?” “That is literally exactly what I think.” “Well, yes. But also no. I watched them. I know their type,” He spits it with a certain animosity that has you believing him. “Frat.” “As much as it pains me to say it, not all frat boys are scumbags, as you so delicately put it.” 

“These were. Drunken, moronic frat boys, pressuring uncomfortable women into sex–” “Oh, you are just so not one to talk!” 

“I’ve never made you fuck me,” He scowls, almost indignant at the accusation. “And any humans I’ve fucked, it’s been entirely consensual.” “Until the murder.” “Until that, yes. But even then, they wanted it. Begged for it, even.” “So frat boys lacing drinks is so different from your– your abilities?” “Yes. They have a choice in their evil deeds. Do you get angry at the shark for attacking the wayward human that fumbles into his waters? I’m a predator, and you are beneath me in the food chain, as your scientists put it. It is in my nature.” “Well, the shark thing– kinda– I mean, I don’t, but there are humans that do–” “And this is why we hate you,” He snarls. “You come uninvited into our home and have the audacity to act shocked when we act on our very nature. You know nothing of the ocean and yet you think it belongs to you.” “You’re one to talk,” You huff beneath your breath, bringing the water to a boil in the pot. “And what does that mean?” 

“Firstly, you’re not in the ocean right now, buddy. You’re in my apartment, wearing my clothes, taking up my time.” 

“Compared to your boats and harbors and divers and surfers? Do not get me started on your military and your industrial dumping–” 

“It’s not the same! I don’t control those!” “No, but your kind do. And you control your own actions. You strayed by the water, and now you are upset you are marked by one of me. I shouldn’t expect any less from those who put down animals who taste of human blood.” 

“I didn’t expect a stalker when I went to the water! And I wasn’t hurting anything! I don’t litter or–” “And how many fish have done nothing to you? How many dolphins and whales? How many of my ilk have you murdered?” “So…. does that mean you’re related to a mackerel?” 

He isn’t amused, but you are, snorting at your own joke.

“Survival of the fittest. That is the motto of your kind, no? Well, here I am, one link above you. And you can do nothing to stop it.” “You’re awfully afraid of our police force for such tough talk. They could sure as shit stop you.” “And if my kind wasn’t so fucking– weak and useless, we could have driven you away eons ago!” 

There’s bitterness in his words, and buried somewhere beneath it, pain. It's skant, and ancient, but still there beneath layers of old scars. Something he has let accidentally slip. You can't imagine he'd be so obvious on purpose. It's not his forte. 

“So, there are more of you? Your kind, I mean?” 

You need to tread carefully. It’a apparent from his expression and the way his body tightened that this is a sore subject. Still, curiosity gets the better of you. 

“Obviously, dumbass,” He huffs, running a clawed hand through his hair, flicking the shed onto the floor. “I’m not an anomaly. I was obviously born from something.” “How, uh, how many? Like are you a society or–” “Better than yours,” His arms cross once more over his chest. “And if they weren’t so passive, things wouldn’t be like this.” “What do you mean? Passive?” “They refuse to do anything about you, even as you ruin and desecrate our homes. They look at you like kittens– children. Destructive because you are young. That one day you’ll learn, and it won’t be like this. But I know better. I know what you are.” 

“And what’s that?” “A fucking blight. You ruin everything you touch, and you put your grimy homunculus hands on everything! The sea wouldn’t have you, so you made your colonies on land, and we allowed it to happen. We could have ended it right then and there!” 

“How– how old are you?” 

“I told you once, you sprang from us. The rejected offspring of the ocean. We could have crushed you in the cradle, and we didn’t, and now this.” 

You sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment, trying to wrap your head around his words. If what he says is true, it turns everything you knew upside down. There are more of him, evolution theory is ever so slightly off apparently, and more than that, it seems it’s only by the good nature of his people that you’re still alive. 

“Where are they? The others, I mean?” “Fuck if I know. They fucked off ages ago to let your spawn and breed your merry way across the land. Somewhere deep, I imagine.” 

“And– you stayed? Here?” 

“Duh,” He sighs, but his eyes dart to the side as he scratches at his chin. Something tells you he didn’t have a choice. “Some of us were right about you. Some of us knew better. And we paid for it. Everyone else just– just let it slide. But those of us who knew, we just couldn’t.” “You’re an outcast,” You mutter under your breath, almost pitying him. 

“I left because I wanted to! Because I couldn’t stomach another fucking second among those that would just let it happen! After everything you’ve done to us, tearing us apart,murdering us–” Suddenly he clams shut, eyes rabid and frantic. It takes him a moment, but he seems to calm himself down, lips furling into a scowl once more. 

“We left because we wanted to. Because we wouldn’t just let it slide off our fins anymore. You and your kind, you’ve done enough. Given the opportunity, you’d destroy everything. So why shouldn’t we destroy you first?” 

“So your answer to murder is murder?” You look over at him, the very embodiment of hate and rage, and realize something terrible must’ve happened to him to make him this way. “I don’t know anything about how they– we hurt you. But you’d fixate on me?” 

“That’s just my nature. You are insignificant in the grand scheme of things. It is what you represent that set you in my sights. We do what we can where we can, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” 

“So you came here to wreak wanton havok. Kill off a human or three to sate your need for revenge?” “Revenge?” He laughs derisively. “I am so far past revenge that you don’t even have a word for it. Our kind live long, and revenge is short lived. I am doing what I must.” 

“But you risked it all to be here. To kill insignificant me.” His jaw slams shut again, eyes burning with barely contained anger. You don’t want to provoke him again, but you want answers. It’s a deeply uncomfortable tightrope. 

“I don’t just let my marks walk away. I am not weak. You resisted somehow, and that isn’t something that I can have you breeding into the populace.” “Oh, ew! Do you think I’m just– just whoring it up on main?” “Well, from what I’ve seen–” “Go to hell.” 

You shove past him, into the bathroom where you carefully pick up the wadded ball of incriminating evidence before returning to the kitchen, throwing it in the soup of every godforsaken remedy of evidence destroying that you can think of, grabbing bleach for good measure. As you close the lid on the noxious concoction, you notice him staring at you again. 

“What are you, exactly?” 

You can’t help it. You need to know. It’s been weighing on your mind for weeks, and just when you think you grasp it, he turns everything on its head. 

“I’ve told you, you have no true word for it. Siren, I believe, is the closest thing you have to it. We never revealed ourselves to you intentionally.” “You did.” “Hmph.”

“So… Like beautiful women, singing on rocks to lure sailors to their deaths?” 

“Teenagers out for a midnight snack,” He rolls his eyes again. “Or sport. Even our kind get bored, and the younglings can be a bit reckless.” 

“There you go again, making yourself look like an old man,” You chortle. He opens his mouth to insult you, no doubt, but you cut him off. “But you– well, look human now– mostly. Legs and everything.” You gesture to his comedically ill-covered legs. 

“We are much more advanced than you. We can walk on land when we want, but we don’t because it’s filthy,” His face scrunches as he kicks his feet. “We are the true apex predators. We are faster, stronger, more intelligent, and more resilient. Your weak human biology won’t allow you a choice. We choose the ocean.”

“Does it– does it hurt? To change?” “Worse than anything you’ve ever experienced,” He deadpans. “Less so when it’s frequent, but I don’t make a habit of this.” 

“But you did it anyway? To be here?” 

Again, he falls silent, glaring you down with an intensity that makes you shift. 

“Well, thanks for being so candid with me, I guess. And for not using your abilities on me again.” You have so many more questions, but you’re edging too close to the water– no pun intended. You hope you get the opportunity to ask them before you wake with his hands around your throat. 

“Who says I won’t?” He blinks at you, face softening, and again, it hits you just how lovely he is. “You’re resistant– not immune.” 

“Stop it,” You snap at him, threatening him with a wooden spoon that you’ll almost certainly have to throw away after it’s cavorted with the damning evidence currently cooking on your stove. “You try it, you go to prison, remember?” 

“For now,” He stretches, suddenly seeming intent on making himself comfortable. “I’m hungry.” 

“Oh, that’s my problem now? Even after your beach fiasco? Didn’t you get your fill?”

“Yep. Your problem. And no, I told you, I was saving my hunger for you, you selfish brat.” 

“What am I, your mommy now? Cleaning up your messes, feeding you– Fucking– fine. Help yourself to anything in the fridge.” “I don’t want human food.” 

“Well. that’s what I got, so…” You gesture to yourself as if to say ‘because I am human, dipshit.’

He makes a disgusted noise, but turns to rifle through your fridge. Judging by the sound he’s making, he’s not impressed. “Do you at least have any meat? I can’t do whatever this is.” He throws a container to the floor, and you could strangle him. 

“Check the freezer– and pick that up!” 

He ignores you, throwing open your freezer with a careless motion before pulling out some raw, frozen steak you had tucked away. 

“If you want me to cook it, you’re going to have to wait. My stove is currently a crime scene, thanks.” 

“Cook? Foul. My stomach isn’t so weak as yours.” “Oh, please don’t tell me–” 

“I won’t eat it frozen if that’s what you’re wondering,” He chucks it onto the counter where it lands with a clack. 

“That is just so not what I was wondering.” 

Half an hour passes with a tense sort of silence. He flips between staring at you seemingly unblinkingly, and occasionally prodding at the thawing steak on the counter, eying it with both suspicion and slight disgust. Eventually it must thaw out enough for his liking, because he slices open the plastic with a quick flick of his nail, and immediately sinks his teeth into the raw cut. You are thinking the same thing he says. 

“This is disgusting,” He mashes it between his fangs. “You eat this?” “You eat people! Okay? You eat. People! And it’s fucking raw!” “Human is delectable, even raw,” He forces down another bite. “But I don’t suppose–” “No! I don’t have any bodies lying around for you to fucking eat!”

“Well, there is one–” 

“No.” “I’m amenable to either way,” He purrs, moving closer again. 

“I just watched you sink your teeth into raw cow. I have never been more turned off in my life– and even if I was, still no.” 

“We’ll see,” He shrugs, ripping another bite out. 

“We will see jack shit, that’s what we’ll see.” 

“And I need water.” “Sink is right there, and you’re a big boy.” “I can’t sleep in a sink.” “You–” You stop and stare at him incredulously. “You need water to sleep?” 

“Need? No. Want. It’s more comfortable.”

“So you’re really just going to fucking stay here, huh?” 

“Unless you want to go to human jail.” “It’s just jail.” “Whatever.” 

“Well, I had a goldfish once, and you’re welcome to try and fit in his terrarium– bowl” 

“Is that one of your jokes?” “Yes, and no,” You sigh, kneading your temples with your fingers. “I guess– fuck, fine, you can use the bathtub?” 

“Bathtub?” 

“Yes, sadly it’s the only thing I have that can accommodate his highnesses demands at my five-star hotel since he didn’t call ahead of time!” 

“Fine.” 

You carefully remove the pot from the stove, already mourning the loss of one of your favorite pieces of cookware as you dry out the clothes as best you can, dumping bleach on them before sealing them away in a garbage bag which you quickly wrap in several more garbage bags. You’ll need to dispose of it tomorrow, and quickly. Thankfully, you think you have a solution to both of your problems. 

“We’re going to the beach tomorrow night. You’re going home, and we’re burning this,” You kick at the bag on the floor. “No one will care in the dark. I’ll drive you to the beach, and be rid of both of my fucking issues at once.” “Told you I wasn’t leaving,” He yawns, flicking his tongue at his teeth. 

“You’re not moving in, and you can’t stay here forever, but God, can we please do this argument in the morning?” “We’ll see.” 

“Just shut up and get in the bathroom. I’m locking you in.” 

“Don’t trust me?” He grins, obviously amused at himself. 

“Not even fucking close. I’m not waking up with your fangs in my throat, thanks.” “You never know, you might like it.” “Can promise you that even if I was into it, I wouldn’t be into it with you.” “That’s hurtful,” He faux-pouts. “Didn’t your daddy ever teach you manners? Do I have to?” 

“Do not. Go there. Right now,” You growl at him. “I am exhausted, I am stressed, I am about to kill you myself.” “I welcome you to try. We could have a fun little session.” 

“Stop it. With the flirting.” 

“Nah,” He waves you off. “But I’m tired too, and your kitchen smells rancid.” “You just ate raw meat and you’re going to lecture me about– you know what? Fuck you.” 

Shoving him out of the way, you turn into the bathroom, flicking on the light and running lukewarm bathwater for your unwelcome houseguest. He enters behind you, watching as you shake your head and swear under your breath. He reaches to remove his shirt, and you just can’t have that. 

“Wait until I leave to get naked! And when I wake up in the morning, you’d better be fully dressed and out of my fucking tub. You will sit quietly until dark while I do what I need to do, and at sunset, we’re going to the beach. You are going home, and I am going to pretend this never happened.” 

“What if I like it here and don’t want to leave?” “I could not– and really hear me out here– care less.” “I told you I’m not going anywhere ‘til I get what I want,” He removes his shirt anyway, and you sigh, turning your head away. 

At this point, you are seriously considering having sex with him if it’ll just get him the fuck out of your hair. There’s the matter of what comes after, but you aren’t entertaining that thought ever. 

“Yes, well, life isn’t fair and I don’t want a siren renting out my bathroom.” 

“These things are coming off, so unless you want to stay and entertain me, I’d suggest you get out,” He slips his thumbs into the waistband of the pants, pulling them just below his V line. 

“Three seconds! Three goddamn seconds!” You shut off the water before standing up, covering your eyes. “Do not leave the bathroom until morning. Do not come near my room. Do not make a mess.” “Yes, mother.” 

“I’m serious. If I hear you come near, I’m shooting you.” He cackles, throwing his head back. “If you had one of those, you’d have tried to use it already.” 

You really wish you’d gotten your concealed right about now. You’d dump him in the trashbags with the other evidence. 

“Goodnight, Shigaraki,” You sneer. “I am so fucking serious, do not–” “Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

You catch a glimpse of pale thigh before you slam the door shut, nearly collapsing against the door after you do. Your head is spinning and you hear him slip into the bath before you manage to make it down the hall, avoiding fractured pieces of your life that he’d managed to ruin in his short time here. A broken picture frame, a shattered mug, a fucked up bed– 

Things you’ll need to worry about tomorrow. 

You shut and lock your door, wedging a chair behind the knob for good measure. You doubt you’ll get any decent sleep knowing that the apex predator, as he calls himself, is lurking just outside the measly wooden frame, but it should be enough to actually wake you if he tries something. 

Flopping on the bed like a dehydrated starfish, you try very hard not to consider the day's events– or tomorrow’s. Right now is between you and your pillow finally after hours of insanity long beyond when you wanted to fall asleep initially. Maybe you’ll wake up in the morning and this will all have been a bad dream. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get so lucky. 

Or maybe Shigaraki will make good on his threat while you slumber. 

“Just don’t wake me up for it,” You say out loud, muttering into your duvet. 

A dreamless sleep overtakes you, your mind too tired to even concoct anything more absurd than your life already is at the moment. 

[tivosstuff]

[tivosstuff]

Title: The Freeze Incentive.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 6.8k.

TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Kidnapping + Prolonged Imprisonment, Mentions of Past Suicide Attempts, Lasting Suicidal Ideation, Age Gap (Reader is Mid-Twenties, Bruce is Late Forties), Obsessive Behavior, Masturbation, and Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three]

You were released from the hospital after forty-eight hours exactly. Bruce never ate, never slept, never left your side. You didn’t speak to him, but he didn’t force you to.

His hell spawn kept their distance. Once, the first time you fell asleep, you thought you might’ve seen Cassandra in the doorway as you drifted off, but it couldn’t have been her. Even she wasn’t slippery enough to come and go under the vigilant radar of your new, raging paranoia.

By hour forty-nine, you were being shepherded into an apartment on the opposite side of Gotham. “The walls and windows are bullet-proof,” Bruce explained, as you shuffled through a long, narrow entryway. There were two doors – both made out of a brilliantly silver, blindingly reflective metal and requiring some combination of facial recognition, fingerprint scan, and physical keys to unlock. That apocalyptic level of security might’ve made you feel a little more safe if you hadn’t already known that the people you were afraid most of would be able to come and go as they pleased.

“The ventilation system is on its own rig, and there are cameras in every room – dormant. Just raise your voice above a normal speaking volume if you want to activate them.”

You coughed out a laugh. “Why? Trying to get baby’s first assault on film?”

Bruce didn’t answer. Your tour ended abruptly, and he held you in a vice-grip against his chest as he made up for two days’ worth of sleep.

The penthouse was, for lack of a better point of comparison, not all that you’d imagined it would be. Floor to ceiling windows encircled the living room, providing an unending bird’s eye view of the city. The second guest bedroom had been converted into a makeshift art studio, stocked with materials for every hobby you’d ever had and most that you hadn’t. All the bedsheets were in your favorite color and all the mounted art was to your tastes and there was a poster of your favorite local band in the kitchen – an design they’d only sold once at a concert that’d happened years before you discovered them. But, all the walls were painted an unfeeling shade of off-white, and the balcony door had been sealed shut, and the band poster had been framed – locked behind glass and hung with a perfectionist’s precision.

You would’ve used glue-dots.

You had the poor thing pinned to a countertop, butterknife in-hand as you tried to pry it out of its entrapments, when you noticed Tim.

Dark and lanky, looming in the corner of your vision. He was dressed in his civilian clothes – all over-sized pullovers and ill-fitting jeans. He smiled when you glanced over your shoulder, but his expression fell as you whipped around, holding out your butterknife like it was ex-fucking-calibur.

“Bruce!” You called into the penthouse, keeping your back pressed against the edge of the counter.

“There was a fire in the warehouse district. We traded posts early.”

Of course. You weren’t sure why you’d expected him to say goodbye. “Touch me and I’ll slit my own throat.”

“With that?” He laughed, the noise airy. “We had the edges of the cutlery dulled. Anything sharp enough to break skin is—” Tim cut himself off, shrugging. “You’ll have to ask, if there’s anything you want to use. Standing flight-risk and all.”

God. If you’d known trying to kill yourself would cause this many problems, you would’ve made sure to get it right the first time.

Tim took half a step closer. You squared your shoulders.

“I’ll hang myself with the bedsheets.”

“Tear-away. They can’t hold anything heavier than fifty pounds.”

“I’ll drink boiling water.”

“The stove is bioencrypted. And the microwave. And the kettle.” Tim smiled apologetically. “I’m not going to do anything, I promise. The others, they’re a little—” Another abrupt pause, this one followed by a dry swallow. You wondered if Bruce had briefed him on what to say to you, or if his siblings had been the one to put a script together. Your little stunt probably didn’t help with that, either. Proving you could get hurt put the idea of protecting you into their minds. It gave them an excuse to treat you like something fragile, something that didn’t know any better. The narrative could be rewritten, their fixations tailored to better fit the new angle. You wondered if the Oedipus complex of it all would crack and give way under the added pressure, but ultimately decided not to hope for silver linings in rock-bottom scenarios.

“—overzealous,” Tim finished, finally. “I get it, though. You need your space. I’m just here to keep an eye on you.”

You scowled, wearily. “That doesn’t sound like giving me space.”

“Give me a chance.” His grin brightened. “You won’t even know I’m here.”

You were always going to try and pretend he wasn’t, obviously. That didn’t necessarily mean he’d make it easy.

You kept the butterknife with you, even if it was too blunt to puncture and too small to inflict substantial trauma. Never more than thirty feet away, Tim followed after you as you wandered through the apartment, trying to pass the time without letting your guard down. You flipped through the clothes overflowing from your new, Bruce-tailored closet. Tim watched. You sat in front of a window, trying to make out the world miles below. Tim watched. You tried your hand at embroidery. Tim cringed every time you pressed the needle into fabric, and he watched.

You were pretending to read a book (a low stakes romance, more fluff than substance, something Bruce would’ve picked out with distraction in mind) when Tim broke the tense silence.

“You’re supposed to take a shower, now.”

You eyed him wearily. “You know I'm almost a decade older than you, right?”

He grinned, his face going a telling shade of pink. Okay, that was on you, but still – gross.

“Whatever.” The master bath seemed the most private, the most tucked-away, so you fled in that direction. You were a few inches away from slamming the door shut when Tim’s hand caught the edge, pushing it open despite your best attempts to stop him.

“Bruce’s orders,” he explained, shrugging. Like that made up for the red now steadily creeping towards his ears, the way his breathing seemed to hitch as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Like he’d ever listened to Bruce a day in his life. “You have to understand why he’d be touchy about bathrooms.”

The anger was hot, thick, and immediate. You didn’t have to understand anything. It’d been your body folded up and lifeless on the tile floor. All he’d done was call the ambulance.

“Either you leave or we spend the night here.” You crossed your arms over your chest. “Get out.”

Tim chuckled. “You’re being so stubborn.”

“Out.”

“Take your time.” He propped his back against the door. “I’m not going anywhere. We have all day, literally.”

Butterknife be damned. You were going to kill him with your bare hands.

You took a long moment, evaluating your options. Tim had always ranked on the lower side of your danger scale – creepy and perverted, but too buttoned-up and close to Bruce to ever do anything more direct than stealing your panties or planting mics in your bedroom. Their new arrangement would change things, sure, but Bruce’s ongoing denial that kids were here to do anything but protect you seemed to have a dampening effect, keeping the scales from tilting quite as dramatically as they might’ve, otherwise.

You were also, undeniably, scared. Scared of testing the waters so quickly, scared of finding out how Bruce would handle disobedience, scared of who might be taking over after Tim. You pictured Cas, undressing you with care, then Jason, smile cutting into your throat as he forced you under freezing cold water. Tim wasn’t good, but he was preferable. The lesser of many, many evils.

“Face the wall. With a towel over your head.” Tim’s smile quirked, but he complied. You waited until he was fully turned towards the door, pitch-black fabric blocking his peripheral, to go on. “Bruce has every room bugged. If I scream, he’ll be here in minutes.”

A lie, but a fair one. Tim nodded slowly, as if processing new information. Bruce must’ve been keeping a few of the penthouse’s security measures to himself. Even he didn’t trust his kids when left to their own devices.

Getting undressed was the worst part. You were caught between the logical awareness that ripping off the Band-Aid would ultimately prove less painless and the gnawing instinct to cling to what might keep you safe for just a little longer. Forcing your conscious mind to a distance, you kept things military – water, soap, rinse, repeat – and let yourself think only of how thankful you were to finally wash off the hospital grime. You were only a minute or so away from being done when you heard something over the water’s rhythmic pattering. A clicking sound, except it was a little too wet, a little too off-beat. For a second, you were delusional enough to consider that one of the pipes in Bruce’s ten-trillion-dollar apartment might’ve sprung a leak.

Then, dread cold and hollow in your chest, you looked to Tim.

He wasn’t facing you. Thank God, he wasn’t facing you. What you could see of him like this, though the fogged glass of the shower stall, was bad enough. He was hunched over, his forehead pressed against the wood of the door. His left hand was planted at the same height while the right worked between his legs, moving in time with that awful, repetitive noise. The towel had fallen to his shoulders, but you could see that his eyes were clenched shut, like he was still trying not to violate your one boundary. In his mind, you were sure this didn’t count as an overstep.

Vaguely, you remembered Stephanie saying something about Tim being the voyeur type. You wondered if the fact that he wasn’t technically looking made this any better.

Your original goal was immediately forgotten. You stayed where you were until the water went cold, until you could hear Tim’s strained breathing and see white dripping from his hand. You waited for him to clean himself up before moving on to the salvage – towel, clothes, etc. You kept your eyes low, your lips pursed, but Tim wasn’t as stand-offish. He orbited around you as you shrugged open the bathroom door and stepped out, his voice chipper. Giddy. “Feeling better?”

“When’s Bruce coming back?”

“Can’t be sure. His schedule’s the hardest to pin down.” He rested a hand on your shoulder by way of apology. Your skin crawled. “Barbara has the next shift.”

You mumbled something affirmative. Still fully dressed, you crawled into bed and pulled the sheets over your head.

Tim watched.

~

You were right. Bruce’s insistence on the pretense of deniability put the others on-guard, all reluctant to be the one to condemn their father’s favorite lamb to death.

Some were worse than others. Barbara let you watch a season’s worth of some perfectly generic, perfectly mindless reality T.V. dating show in one sitting, only occasionally looking up from her laptop and paperwork to yell at the screen on your behalf. Cas pawed at your tits through your shirt while cuddling until you were too sore to lay on your chest. Damian took advantage of the art studio to paint a terribly forlorn, but relatively flattering portrait of you while you struggled with a crochet hook. Stephanie had you try on three shopping bag’s worth of lingerie, snapping pictures all the while. Kate told you every piece of gossip she’d picked up during Gotham’s social season. Jason stayed away, which was the worst thing he could’ve done. Even serial killers had the decency not to leave their victim’s corpses to the scavengers.

And Dick…

Dick let you out.

Never to go very far, never for very long, and always to somewhere mind-numbingly civilian - a café, or a boutique, or the nicer stretch of docks tourists tended to flock to in the summer. Like the rest, he’d established his own set of boundaries, as defined as they were irrational. He never talked about Bruce, to Tim, or any of the others. He kept his distance when you two were alone and held your hand when you weren’t. If you had to say anything, he said it for you. It was weird, but nothing you couldn’t live with. No – your fears were more abstract than that, more likely to take the form of ticking clocks than groping hands. Things were bad, now. You could live with that. You understood that.

You were just having trouble keeping yourself sane while you sat around, wasted time, and waited for things to get worse.

“Don’t like the view?”

Ah. You must’ve been lost in thought again. You glanced towards Dick, your head resting gingerly on his shoulder, then outward, to the grassy plains of the local park. It was a good day (or Gotham, at least) so you weren’t entirely alone. Couples jogged. Families picnicked. Children played. It might’ve been nice if Dick hadn’t decided that you’d spend the day rooted to a bench on the outskirts, a half-eaten cup of ice cream melting to your side, his arms slung over the backrest and some part of you always making contact with some part of him. So he could be sure you didn’t run, he’d claimed. As if any amount of distance would be enough to get you away from him.

“Just wondering why you’re doing this.”

He chuckled. “What do you mean?”

“Taking me outside. Making me look at happy, smiling people.” Delaying the inevitable. Giving you false hope. “It’s a little mean, considering I’m just going to be rotting again in a couple hours.”

“Better than leaving you locked up all day, right?”

You scuffed your heel into the dirt. Dainty kitten heels – nothing you’d ever been able to run in. “I guess the fresh air is nice. And the lack of security cameras.”

At that, Dick cringed. You were still testing for sore spots, trying to find holes in the fabric that held your captors together, less as part of some future plan and more to keep yourself busy. Bruce’s near-constant invasions of your privacy was, rather transparently, one of Dick’s. “Tell me he’s not recording you.”

“He’s not supposed to be,” you sighed. “I think Stephanie might’ve gotten into the system, though. She’s been on an amateur photography kick.”

It was his turn to sigh, to groan, to let his head collapse onto your shoulder. His arm found its way around you, hauling you that much closer to his chest. “…I don’t like it,” he admitted, his reluctance layered on so thickly, it was hard to believe he didn’t choke. “You know I don’t like it, right?”

“How the others treat me?”

“That they know you exist.” Another groan. You kept your eyes trained straight ahead. “B told you I was the first, right. I… I think I’m always the first. He knows I can handle the deep-end.” And then, more sentimentally, “He knew I’d fall in love with you at first sight.”

Hands curled into fists. Eyes forced open. You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t blink. “Please don’t say things like that.”

“But it’s true. I used to let myself into your apartment at night – you always left the door unlocked. And remember the last time you went out with your coworkers?” You did. One minute, you’d been at the dive-bar closest to your office, happily accepting another round of shots bought on the company card, and the next, you’d been waking up in your own bed, undressed and hung over. You’d figured you’d managed to get yourself home despite blacking out, but the way Dick was grinning against your throat suggested otherwise. “It should’ve been like that all the time. Just you and me – taking care of each other.”

You couldn’t blink. You couldn’t blink. You’d fall apart the second your eyes closed, and you couldn’t keep letting them break you like that.

“B’s mind works on a switch,” Dick explained. “He can turn it off whenever he wants to, but I’m not like that. I can’t decide when not to love you.” He paused, smirked. “Even if you could be a little nicer to me, some—”

“Help me escape.”

The sound of your own voice caught you off-guard. Dick jolted against you, raising his head, equally surprised. Your face suddenly felt warm, and your heart was beating too quickly. It was by someone else’s – someone stronger, someone dumber - volition that you went on, digging your grave that much deeper. “If you hate the way I’m treated, if you think you love me, then help me leave. I’ll go wherever you want to, I just—” The air hitched in your throat. “You know I can’t stay here, any longer.”

For a second, Dick didn’t respond. For a second, he stayed there, pressed against you, all-but unmoving.

Then, he straightened and laughed, taking your hand in his. He squeezed gently, like he was trying to show you that he cared. Like he loved you.

“Bruce’s shift is coming up. We should get you home, right?”

You let your eyes fall to the ground. Not blinking hadn’t helped – you could feel tears forming in the corner of your eyes, regardless.

“Right.”

~

It rained on your walk back, despite the clear sky. Neither of you had brought an umbrella, and the downpour was too sudden to seek cover, so you were soaked by the time you reached the apartment. The artificial chill clung to you like a second skin, turning your body to shell hostile to its contents. In hindsight, you probably should’ve taken it as an omen of things to come. Or, maybe you just should’ve expected calamity in general – predicted or otherwise.

You were late, too. Bruce was already there by the time you finally made it through that suffocating entryway – sitting on the foot of your bed, a suit jacket hung over his knee and the first few buttons of his collar undone. With a nod by way of acknowledgement, you moved to scurry past him and find something dryer to wear, but he caught your wrist on the way by. “Can you stay for a second, honey?”

Absolutely not. No way in hell. You’d rather die. “…I guess so.”

There was a gentle squeeze by way of gratitude, then he turned to Dick. “Be honest with me. Have any of you touched her?”

Dread formed a bottomless, pitch-black well in your chest. Even Dick seemed reluctant to answer – setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders. Making himself into one of Bruce’s soldiers, rather than his son. “No. Not like that.” He swallowed. “Not since Jason.”

“Good. I was hoping we could talk, first.” With his free hand, he waved Dick closer. Silent and unquestioning, Dick obeyed.

The blocking of your little scene was awkward. You were too close to Bruce and Dick was too close to you while the distance between them was left deliberately more vast. Dick didn’t touch you. He never would, not with Bruce watching, and Bruce seemed to know that. “It’s alright,” he said, with the same stoicism he might’ve showed to a wild, rampaging animal. “Go on. I want to see how you handle it – if you can handle it.”

Dick glowered. “This isn’t something you can train out of me, old man.”

“I’m not trying to.” You made a half-hearted effort to pull your hand out of Bruce’s hold. His grip only tightened, in response. “Show me that you know how to put your hands on something without breaking it.”

There was a second’s worth of hesitation, but not much longer. One of Dick’s hands wrapped around your forearm, replacing Bruce’s, while the other caught your chin. He kissed you – messy, sudden, hard – and you wondered if you really did die on the bathroom floor that night, and this was your own special brand of hell.

When Dick came up for air, there was no pretense of consent, no pause taken to assess you for the mutuality Bruce always seemed so desperate for. His lips pressed into the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the corner of your throat – lingering there while his hands dropped to your waist, pawing at the fabric of your sundress. On instinct, you thrashed, shoved at his chest, dug your claws into his chest. Dick only laughed, pulling you that much closer against him. “C’mon, sweetheart, we’re just making up for lost time,” he mumbled into your ear, his breath warm and tacky against your skin. “You remember what I said last time, right? It’s just you and me – you don’t have to think about anybody else.”

“I don’t even want to think about you, little prick complex-having fucking bast---” Your hissed insults were cut off by Dick’s hands on your hips, by your feet suddenly being torn from the ground as he half-lifted, half-threw you onto the bed. The collision was rough, sudden, knocking the air out of your lungs and giving Dick time to get on top of you. Two fists found the collar of your dress and tore, cold air rushing over your chest, your navel, your legs. You tried not to think about the technicalities of it – how planned it seemed, how little hesitation there was, how his grin stretched wider with each inch of mutilated fabric. Your mind was more focused on broader concepts – the all-encompassing hateyou felt for both of them, the acid sitting heavy and thick on your tongue. The fact that you’d already showed Bruce what you do if your life ever turned from unpleasant to unbearable, and the haunting awareness that he was sitting there and watching it happen again, this time from the comfort of his own bedroom.

Dick wasn’t helping. You hadn’t expected him to, but there was still a fresh sort of sting to the feeling of his mouth on your neck, to the sound of his voice in your ear. “So pretty,” he muttered, cupping your cunt through your panties. You lashed out at random, scratching at his chest, but Dick only chuckled, leaned into your assault as if he could pretend it was the sweetest, most saccharine form of affection. “So perfect, and all mine. Could’ve been doing this months ago, in a better world. Would’ve, if I had it my way.”

His thumb pressed harsh circles into your clit, made coarser by satin fabric. You let out a miserable whine, and Bruce clicked his tongue. “Too rough. She’ll bruise.” He moved closer to the side of the bed. “Use your mouth. She prefers it.”

Dick nipped at curve of your throat – another pitchy, humiliating sound. “I don’t hear any complaints.”

“Have I ever told you that, when I first brought you home, Alfred suggested having you neutered? Less hormones that way. A smoother rebellious phase, when you hit teens.” He drummed his fingers against his knee. “I wonder if it’s too late to reconsider the offer.”

Dick grumbled, but the message was clear enough. With one more lingering kiss, he was on his stomach between your legs, head buried between your thighs and tongue drawing shapes into the seat of your panties. You tried to keep your eyes shut, to imagine you were anywhere else, and when that failed to blur the images of claustrophobic car interiors or stop Dick from pulling the now-soaked fabric to the side, you went rigid and tried to sit up. Emphasis on tried. Bruce was already there, of course, holding your shoulders, easing you back down. He always seemed to be at your beck and call when you didn’t want his help.

He wasn’t smiling. You could still feel Dick’s as he ground the bridge of his nose into your clit, but Bruce wasn’t smiling. His gaze bore into your expression appraisingly, occasionally flitting to Dick to make sure his grip was still loose, his teeth kept behind lips. It took seconds for him to break, and even then, the extent of his falter was a sigh, a new set of crow’s feet on the corners of his eyes as he leaned down, pressing his lips into your forehead. “You’ll be the death of me,” he muttered, pulling away. As if you cared. As if he hadn’t already been yours. “Keep that pace. She’s getting closer.”

You weren’t. You really, really weren’t. But, you’d gotten so used to Bruce touching you every minute of every day, and you hadn’t even touched yourself in weeks, and Dick was moaning unabashedly as he fucked his tongue into your cunt – the reverberation steady and pulsing. You didn’t let yourself cum. You wouldn’t let yourself cum, but your thighs kept trying to shut around Dick’s head, and your skin felt like it was on the verge of melting away, and Bruce wouldn’t stop looking at you with the same slight, softened expression he put on whenever you tripped over your own feet or cried after a spanking. Dick’s fingertips bit into the plush of your thighs, and Bruce’s hand came up to cup your cheek. You tried to push him away, but even lifting your arms off of the mattress felt like a waste of energy. You wondered if playing dead would be more effective, would make them stop. You knew it wouldn’t. It hadn’t the first time.

“So beautiful,” he mumbled, leaning down to kiss you. His lips were chapped, and his teeth scraped against your bottom lip too roughly, too clumsily. “And so generous, too. I always hoped you and the kids would get along but—” He paused, chuckled. “It might’ve gotten a little out of hand.”

You tried to open your mouth, to tell him he and his hoard of orphaned sex fiends could go to hell, but all that made it past your lips was a cracked, trembling sob. Bruce hushed you with a low coo, calloused fingers carding through your hair. “Daddy’s right here, honey. Just lie back and bear with me for a little longer, alright?”

As if you were having a tooth pulled. As if his oldest son didn’t have his head buried between your thighs, as if he wasn’t tracing his own name into your cunt over and over and over again. The flat of his tongue ran over your pussy, your clit, and with a stifled gasp, you were pushed over the edge, sent plummeting into an abyss of heat and tension and bright, white lights. Dick nursed you through your orgasm lovingly, but hastily, and Bruce turned his attention away from you to ruffle Dick’s hair. You tried not to linger on the gesture longer than you absolutely had to.

Eventually, Bruce moved aside, and Dick was on top of you again, his chest pressing into yours as he rushed to pull his shirt over his head, to undress in a way you hadn’t been given the choice to. You thought about calling out for Bruce, reaching for him, begging him to make it stop, but you were really too old to be entertaining fantasies. He’d already told you what you needed to do: lie there, shut up, and take it.

Dick wasn’t so pragmatic. He pushed a long, open-mouthed kiss into the side of your neck, sucking and biting until you could be sure that you’d wear the bruise for weeks. You felt something hot and blunt slot against your entrance, but did your best to pretend it was only your imagination.

The contact was too much, too hot, too stifling. Dick’s tongue ran over your cheek, then he dipped lower – hiding his face in the crook of your neck. “I love you.” And then, again, like there was a quantity of desperation that would make you believe him, “I love you.”

He might’ve believed it. You almost did, but then hips were grating against yours, his cock thrusting into you, and suddenly, you weren’t in a state to believe in love at all.

~

It was dark by the time you were allowed to leave the bedroom. Bruce insisted on a long, well-monitored bath and Dick held you against his chest like he was afraid you might be taken away from him, but eventually, Bruce took a call from Barbara and Dick fell into a deep enough sleep to make slipping away something more than a delusional, escapist fantasy.

Once free, you made your way to the kitchen, tore the framed band poster off the wall, and smashed it against the tile floor until the glass shattered. Dick found you less than a minute later, trying to pick up a few of the larger pieces with your bare hands.

He was still grinning. The expression seemed more off-kilter jagged than it should’ve been in the dim light, more patronizing as he lifted you onto the counter, checking your hands over for hairline cuts or other micro-injuries before squeezing them in his. “Stay right here. I’ll get something to clean up with, and—” His eyes moved from your hands to your face, and his voice cut out abruptly. “You’re so perfect,” he sighed, leaning down to press his lips into the apex of your wrist. “Let’s do it.”

Something sharp and hot stabbed into the back of your throat. More out of self-preservation than curiosity, you asked, “…do what?”

“Leave. Run. Get out of here.” Another kiss, this one to the base of your ring finger. It wasn’t hard to picture what kind of life he was imagining for you. “I’ll get a new place in Bludhaven. You’ll lie low for a little while. We’ll be together.”

You grit your teeth. Bruce and his ilk weren’t the type to play mind games with you, but only the most idiotic man you’d ever met, so deeply entrenched in his own delusions that there was no hope of ever dragging him back to the surface again, would’ve believed you had any love in your heart for him after you’d called him so many awful names. After you’d spent hours practically catatonic in his arms. After tonight.

Thankfully, the most idiotic, delusional man you’d ever met was standing in front of you right now. Little miracles, you guessed.

“You make me so happy, Dick.” You ran your fingers through his hair, and he melted into your palm. “It’s just – there’s one thing I’d like to do, first.”

“Anything. Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

“I think I should talk to Jason.”

Immediately, Dick’s expression fell. “Why Jason?” 

“Just to tie off loose ends. Make sure I’m not leaving anything behind.” You forced yourself to smile, letting your head tilt to the side. “And then I’ll have the rest of my life to spend with you, right?”

You could practically see his eyes glazing over, the same way they had when he found you reading to Damian or chiding Duke for getting himself hurt. Your current reality immediately substituted for a glossier, more appealing replica – or, more appealing to Dick, at least.

“Right.” And then, with one last kiss pressed into your knuckles, “I love you.”

For once, the words didn’t taste so bitter on your tongue.

Dick was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar. Bruce clung to you for the next few days – monitoring your diet, watching you sleep, fucking you with more care and more fervor than he ever had before. When he was forced to leave, he held you up until the point he absolutely had to go, then spent another few precious seconds promising Tim would take his place in twenty minutes. That didn’t matter, though. Jason was there in five.

“I love you.”

~

You found him in the living room. He’d come through the balcony, left the door ajar and everything. A handgun was strapped to his thigh, and his helmet sat on his knee. He’d never worn it around you, not so far as you could remember.

Ever the coward, he left it up to you to break the silence. That was fair, in a way. You were the one who wanted to talk.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“You look like shit.”

He rubbed one of the dark, sunken circles under his eyes with the back of his hand. “B can’t keep us all trapped inside and sedated. Some of us have to be outdoor dogs.”

“Guess so.” You let a measured beat pass, then asked, “Wanna get out of here?”

There was a twitch at the corner of his lips, a spark of something familiar. By the time Tim was due to arrive, you were on the back of a black and red motorcycle, miles away from the nearest sky-scrapper.

Jason’s apartment was just how you remembered it – albeit, slightly less intimidating in daylight. Bloody clothes and dented body armor laid over couches and cluttered and tables. Drawers filled with bullet casing and pocketknives sat open, on display, while anything comforting or sentimental remained hidden in safes or behind closed doors. His corkboard had gained a few more pictures, and in the corner, there were new sketches of Dick and Bruce. They looked recent.

Steering clear of the makeshift bedroom, you collapsed onto a worn leather couch, sinking into the beaten cushions and savoring the feeling of a well-loved piece of furniture. Jason skirted around you, never lingering, never edging too close. You followed his erratic pacing in the corner of your eyes while you spoke.

“You haven’t visited me.”

One step forward, two back. Both hands shoved into pockets. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“You should be. I’ve been bored to tears.” A pause, a breath of a laugh. “I didn’t realize how much I relied on you, back at the manor. The only people I can talk to now are either in on it or completely oblivious. I’m pretty sure Damian thinks I’ve driven his father insane.”

“He was like that before he met you.” A lap around the couch, then to the nearest window. “They all were. Dick can’t stand being along and Tim would jerk off to a cardboard box if it looked at him the right way.”

“It’s the girls now, too. I think Steph’s just having fun, but Cas…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “I feel a little bad for her. I mean – she’s so young, and she’s already been through so much. It’s hard to blame her for taking after a marathon of bad examples.”

That was enough to have Jason turning on his heel, making a beeline for the front door. You caught his wrist as he passed by. “Slow down. You’re acting like the building’s on fire.”

“Sorry, I just—”

You squeezed, and he sucked in a harsh breath, shutting his eyes. You did your best to keep your voice light, gentle. “When was the last time you got any sleep, Jason?”

“It’s been—” He opened his eyes, his gaze landing on you before quickly moving away. The answer was obvious enough. “—a while.”

“C’mon, Jay. You can’t live like this.” You tugged on his hand. “Why don’t you lay down for a few minutes? I don’t want to watch you fall apart on me.”

He swallowed, his shoulders squaring. There was a moment of reluctance, of hesitation before he asked, “Can I…?”

It wasn’t hard to guess what he wanted, not with his eyes trained so intensely on your lap. Smiling, you nodded, and in an instant, he was on his knees, limp and clutching at your ankles as he laid his head over your thighs. The position was awkward – he was too stiff, too tall – but you tried to make the best of it, running your fingers through his hair. At least he’d asked, this time.

“I’m sorry.” And then, again, his voice raw enough to break, “I’m sorry. I thought they’d back off, or we’d run away together, or—”

“You didn’t want to run away with me.” With your free hand, you patted down your jacket pocket. “And that’s alright. You’re a part of a family. I was never going to ask you to leave them.”

You could practically feel him try to deny, try to say that if you ever asked, he would’ve in a heartbeat. In the end, though, it was all he could do to sigh, sinking further into you. “I love you.”

How many times had you heard that, lately? You tried to remember if Bruce had ever parroted the same phrase. “I love you too, Jason.”

Tucked inside, your fingertips brushed against something hard and jagged. You curled your hand around it. “Every day, I had to watch them pretend they felt the same way about you, watch you pretend to tolerate it. It was like having to rip my own heart out of my chest.”

A sharpened edge sliced into your palm, breaking the skin. You ignored it. “That must’ve been hell.”

“I shouldn’t complain. You had it worse. Obviously, you have it worse.” His nails bit into your calves. “I’ll kill them. If they’ve so much as looked at you, I’ll kill them.”

You hated it when they lied to you.

You couldn’t wait any longer – didn’t have a reason to. In one motion, you tore the long, ragged piece of glass out of your pocket and stabbed it into Jason’s shoulder.

You’d managed to hide it before Dick found you huddled over the broken frame, stowed it away on your person as soon as you realized Bruce was going to take his eyes off of you. Reflexively, Jason jerked back, clamoring for the gun on his waist, but he was staggered, caught off-guard, and you weren’t. Your fist was already curled around the grip, already dragging the weapon out of its holster and forcing the muzzle against his stomach. Your index finger rested on the trigger, the safety disabled, but you didn’t shoot.

“Please,” you whispered, instead, as Jason froze against you. “Don’t say anything, don’t stand – just back up. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he did as he was told. Staying on his knees, he edged back, giving you enough space to push yourself to your feet. You kept the gun trained on his chest, never once turning away. His distraught expression had twisted into something more raw, something more angry. Not hateful, but hurt, betrayed. You knew the look well.

“Drop it, (Y/n). You don’t know what you’re doing.”

You tilted the barrel down, shut your eyes, and fired. There was a crash of deafening noise, the pure force of recoil, and then Jason’s muffled cursing. By the time you could bring yourself to look, he was  clutching his ankle, fresh blood seeping through his fingers. “I spent a lot of time with Alfred. I mean, a lot. Basically whenever I wasn’t on the verge of getting molested by you and your gang of traumatized fetishists.” You took a step backward, then another, inching your way to the door. Eventually, your back pressed into wood. “I know you keep cash on-hand – for when Bruce finally cuts you off. Slide it to me.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” His laugh was awful, barking, pained. “Go ahead, baby. I’ll finish the job myself if you leave me.”

He wouldn’t. Jason wasn’t that directly self-destructive, none of them were.

Thankfully, you’d always had a little more motivation.

The muzzle was hot against your skin where you pressed it into the underside of your jaw. Jason’s expression didn’t drop, but it changed, stilled, every thought save for those of preservation erased in a fraction of a second.

You didn’t have to make your demands twice. He rummaged one of the holsters on his belt, and then, a stack of hundred-dollar bills was lying at your feet, secured by a single band pulled taut. You let the gun drift from your jaw to your temple as you bent to pick it up, watching Jason all the while.

Finally, you grappled for the knob behind you, sliding deadbolts out of place and turning locks until you stood in an empty doorway. You were free to leave, free to go, but you lingered, keeping your eyes on Jason.

“If you ever really loved me,” you said, fighting to keep your voice even, your hand steady. “You won’t try to find me.”

He might’ve said something. He looked like he was going to, but you were already over the threshold. The door was shut before he could try to convince you to stay.

Once safe on the other side, you lowered the gun to your side, took a deep breath, and started to run.

[tivosstuff]

recovery (this is gojo lives au)

[tivosstuff]

Art by The Unclean

[tivosstuff]

i wish i was more of a lover girl because why am i fantasizing about a fictional man drugging me instead of like. cooking me dinner

[tivosstuff]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔈𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔬𝔣 𝔖𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔰

PAIRING: Erasmus Eyre x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Being surrounded by monsters that want to eat you doesn’t help your mental health, but the Witch of the North thinks he has an alternative outlet for these self destructive tendencies.

TAGS: smut, bdsm, HEAVY SADISM & MASOCHISM, age gap relationship, dilf character, poor coping skills, self-harm & self-harm ideology, anxiety attacks, yandere character, choking, master!erasmus, submissive!reader (names used: pet, painslaut), spanking, face slapping, impact play, tit slapping, riding crops, praise kink, masturbation, aftercare, smoking, non-penetrative sex, tentacle bondage, implied prior hook up, low key manipulative character

A/N: so this was originally written for a selfship in another fandom but I thought it would make a good nightmare rewrite. It was between Adam and Erasmus, but Adam wouldn’t feed in to your self destructive behavior unfortunately. Is it unfair that Erasmus got a full fledged fic before Adam? Maybe, but that’s life. Also don’t let this bitch fool you he’s so two faced.

WORD COUNT: 4.6k

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

"What's the matter?"

You jerked up with a gasp. Erasmus Eyre, the Witch of the North leaned against the stoney exterior of the garden shed. With one leg crossed over the other, dressed in all black, you were unfortunately reminded of how handsome the older witch was. The strands of silver in his hair glinted under the floating orbs of light.

He took a drag from a strange looking cigarette, casually blowing it from the corner of his mouth. You appreciated the modicum of respect, especially since you appeared to be intruding on his time.

In retrospect, having a melt down and expecting some supernatural creature not to show up was a bit naive.

"Amalitrice isn't here right now,” you stammered.

"I know," said the witch. Ash fell from his cigarette. "Is everything alright, darling?"

You laughed at the absurdity of his question, too breathy and high pitched to be normal. Of all the days he had to come, why now?

"I-I don't know when she'll be back, and Adam is out, too, so..."

"I thought I'd stay and find you. We never finished our conversation."

"You can't convince me to leave them," you said, knowing where the conversation was going.

Erasmus quieted, gaze dropping to your damp cheeks. "Did they hurt you?"

"I ... um ..." You smoothed your hands over your skirt to hide the tremors. "No, I just ... I needed some quiet."

Erasmus said nothing. His silence, however, was contemplative—not uncaring. He took another puff of whatever he smoked—it smelled earthy and dark—then released the smoke through his nose.

You stifled a cough.

"Do you smoke?" he asked.

"No."

"Good." Erasmus waved his hand, and the cigarette vanished. "It's a terrible habit."

Were you in a better state of mind, you would have laughed. Even the great Erasmus had self destructive habits. How very ordinary of him.

You flexed your hands, fighting the urge to dig your nails into your scalp or arms. The darkness was growing impatient, utterly impossible to ignore like a low buzzing in your skull. Even surrounded by fresh air, you couldn't breathe. The words grew louder: hate, hate, hate, I fucking hate—

Erasmus touched your chin. "You're clenching your jaw."

The urge passed, if only for a moment. You take a deep breath. Erasmus scrutinized you, narrowing his slate gray eyes.

"Sorry." You don't know why you're apologizing.

"Come."

It's not a request, though it's not unkind either. He offered his hand and you had no choice but to accept. You hardly register that he isn't leading you through the shed door when you arrive some place new.

It was a rather large room, filled with books and tables and a cauldron over a fire. A handsome sofa sat against the dark stone wall, its velvet the color of twilight. The room smelled vaguely smokey—like burnt herbs and incense. Every curtain was drawn, leaving only a few candles and the fire to illuminate the space.

Erasmus's study, you surmised. Which meant you were in the North, a place most monsters spoke of like it was hell itself.

"Sit."

Delicately, you perch on the sofa. Erasmus leaned against his desk, folding his arms. The silence feels accusatory, and to your horror, you can feel the tears start to well up again.

After an overdrawn pause, Erasmus spoke, "Talk to me."

"About what?"

Erasmus deadpanned and you immediately drop your gaze.

"It's nothing, I swear."

"It's clearly not nothing, darling. I've known you long enough to tell the difference." Erasmus pushed off the desk with a pitying sigh. He knelt in front of you, voice softening. "Tell me what's bothering you. You know I'll listen."

You chew your inner cheek and bite harder than necessary. Erasmus was right. He had seen you in plenty more vulnerable positions, and he never judged. Despite that prickly exterior, he was a good listener—even when it came to petty things. He never mocked, never laughed unless it was warranted. You knew he could be trusted.

Still—the words couldn't be dislodged. Admitting them made it real, made you pathetic.

You cleared your throat and pushed through the layers of discomfort. The burden of every terrible though weighed your tongue down, and you're ashamed before you even speak.

"Sometimes, when I get overwhelmed, the only way to make it stop is through ... pain." You pick your nails. "And ... I'm trying really, really hard not to do that right now."

Erasmus asked, "What's going through your head?"

"It's like—just an endless loop of 'I hate myself' because I-I don't know what to do. I'm shit because I can't do anything right, and I can't do anything right because I don't have magic, and I don't have magic because I'm a stupid human trapped in this goddamn world again. I'm a burden to everyone. I'm always in danger. And this feeling keeps building and building and the more I think, the louder these thoughts get, and I just want to—slap myself to make it stop!"

Erasmus climbed onto the cushion beside you, having determined the situation required a more personal approach. He took your wrist, prying it off your knee to reveal the deep, crescent moon indentations you had made. He turned your hand over, observing the scores you had inflicted on yourself earlier. They weren't deep enough to cause serious injury, but they wouldn't go away any time soon.

"Darling..."

"I need it to stop, Erasmus, and it won't," you breathed. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Come here.” He opened his arms, beckoning you to crawl into his lap.

You buried your face in his neck. It was a familiar position - you had been in it in a not so distant past. Erasmus laid his cheek on your forehead, cupping your nape.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Take some deep breaths for me.”

Your throat tightened, pain pricking the soft, fleshy insides as if you were choking on a vine of thorns. “I don’t wanna think anymore, but it won’t turn off.”

No matter how hard you pretend, nothing changes. Sleep came in fits, if it even came at all, and you could hardly eat or breathe without recalling a memory and your brain blowing it out of proportion. No one understood what it was like to be the alien freak from an alternate dimension: no powers, no money, no fucking documentation. You didn't belong. Literally. Your very existence in this realm spat in the face of everything Amalitrice and the other witches strove for. Creatures either wanted to eat you, or hunt you for sport, or worse.

Despair grew, bloomed, and burrowed deeper in your sinew. It was loud and unyielding parasite, building with every heartbeat and threatening to snuff you out. You needed to claw your skin—no, bury yourself in dirt and keep crawling deeper until there was nothing but worms and soil and silence.

You wanted to hurt.

You needed to hurt.

You need it to stop.

Distantly, you became aware of Erasmus’s lips on your crown.

“Do you want me to turn it off, pet?”

Your reaction to that word was Pavlovian.

You clenched your thighs together to strangle that a low tingle of need pooling in your core. A stray tear escaped your eye accompanied by a whine and Erasmus gently swiped his thumb across the tract, then pressing the tip to your lips. You tasted its salt, the fruit of your pain. 

“Please, sir.”

Your voice didn’t sound like your own. It was weak and chock full of self-loathing. You choked on those vines full of thorns; your mouth tasted like blood. 

“I can do that.” Erasmus coaxed your face from his neck, forcing you to look him dead in the eye. “Come back to me, sweet girl.”

You inhaled, breathing in his cologne and the aftermath of his cigarette. But it’s difficult to focus. Erasmus opened a dam—asking for help left you raw and puny—and your self-inflicted insults bounced in the echo chamber of your mind like a stray bullet, eager to find a tender spot it hadn’t yet made bleed. 

“I want you to hit me,” you begged.

"If I do, you must do something for me in return." He grabbed both sides of your head, as though physically holding you together. "Do you understand?"

"I understand, sir."

He softened. The sight of your wet, pleading eyes and pouted lips must have been a spectacle. Erasmus petted your neck, feeling your pulse beneath his fingers.

You hated how your first thought was that you wanted him to snuff it out.

A sharp, crackling scent pricked your senses—the stench of magic. A binding pact, one that wove its invisible strands around your person like a cocoon of promise. He would fulfill your needs.

Erasmus asked, "Watchword?"

"Pumpkin," you croaked.

"Good girl."

You shuddered. In Erasmus's arms, you were living conundrum; a pathetic, snotty dog and the most cherished human alive. You hated yourself, yet you had never felt more adored than when he kissed he forehead.

Magic rippled across your skin like pure electricity, shocking the weeds of self-hatred at the roots, preventing them from spreading deeper into your nervous system. Erasmus must be a powerful witch if he could kill a piece of your sadness with the softest kiss.

Erasmus stroked you like he was trying to comfort a feral animal. "Where do you need me?"

"Please, smack my face, sir."

Erasmus delivered one last caress before taking the tip of his glove between his teeth and unsheathing his palm. "After every hit, you're going to repeat after me. Do you understand, my sweet?"

"Yes, sir."

You couldn't keep the ache of desperation from your voice. He could have asked to become your keeper and you probably would have agreed. Anything to make it go away.

Erasmus slapped you, but not nearly as hard as he could have.

The sting was still fresh on your face when he grabbed your chin. "Say, 'I am stronger than I realize.'"

"I-I am stronger than I realize, sir."

He smiled. It was all teeth. "Good girl." He reeled back and cracked you on the other cheek, harder than before. "Again."

"I am stronger than I realize."

The next slap was quicker, and you groan as delicious pleasure filled the hollow ache inside.

"Again, pet."

"I am stronger than I realize."

"Say it like you mean it." Erasmus emphasized his point with another hit.

You shouted the phrase, words slurring despite yourself. "I'm stronger than I realize, sir!"

"That you are, my dear." He rubbed his bare thumb against your hot cheek "Such a good girl. You haven't a clue how absolutely beautiful you are when you beg for pain. Does my sweet girl want more?"

You nod, bottom lip wavering. "It's not enough."

"Still have those nasty thoughts in your head?" Erasmus cooed. "I suppose I'll have to make you scream louder than them. Where shall I go next, hm?" He pushed his thumb between your lips, and you enveloped it eagerly. "I know you don't want to think, but I need you to tell me where I can go. Should we stay here, or do you need me elsewhere?"

He did you the courtesy of removing his thumb—Erasmus didn't plan on humiliating you this night—and allowed you a moment to collect yourself. You focused on the crystalline strand of saliva that linked your mouth to him, then it snapped, slapping your neck.

You whispered your request.

"Louder. I can't hear mumbles, darling."

"My chest, sir," you repeated.

Erasmus's lips tugged upward. "Your voice is so sweet. Don't drop it again. When you speak, do so with confidence. There is little I would deny you." He stroked your vest. "Shall we take these off?"

You help him unbutton your vest, then shirt. Nightmare lacked the undergarment advancements of the modern world, and while you didn't mind a corset, they tended to make gardening difficult, so all you wore underneath was a breast band. Thankfully, Erasmus didn't remove it.

It was nothing special: an off-white strip of fabric with no ruffles or frills—nothing that should have been attractive to him. And yet, Erasmus cooed softly as if you wore the finest lace.

"My pretty little girl. How can you expect me to let you go back when you look like this?"

A shadowy tendril caressed your cheek and you gasped. Erasmus had only used this strange magic in front of you once before, in the thick of a fight, and it terrified you. Darkness rolled off the witch in endless waves, unfurling into half a dozen tentacle-like formations that hugged and stroked your skin. He retrieved an item from his desk—a riding crop. The same crop he'd won from the Watcher.

The sharp pain of his slaps faded into a dull throb, but even that spark simmered, unraveling your self-restraint.

The tendrils coax you off the couch. Two of them wrap around your wrists.

"Good girl," Erasmus purred. You're painfully aware of him behind you. The tendrils force your shoulders back, making you arch your chest.

You start to curl your fists inward, digging your nails into the meat until they threatened to cut, but Erasmus slammed the riding crop against the desk.

"Release," he bellowed.

Immediately, you unclench, but the damage was done. The injuries sting, and blood thinly trickles down your finger tips. Erasmus took your throat in hand, his crop threatening your thighs. The grip isn't tight, but it's a warning.

"You asked for my help, so if anyone will be hurting you, it is me. Apologize."

"I-I'm sorry, master, I didn't mean to."

You can feel his snarl against your skin, but he didn't make you grovel.

"Some other time, I'll give you a lesson in self control. First, we need to train that mind of yours." Erasmus kissed your temple, then released your neck. You mourn his absence. "Kneel on the sofa, pet, and remember to repeat what I tell you."

The tendrils aid your awkward clamoring onto the cushions. One curled around your upper thigh, another following suit on the other leg. It is the ghost of pressure, something that is there and is not. You knew, if Erasmus wanted to, he could have torn you limb from limb like this, but his servants stayed docile.

He dragged the tip of the Watchman's crop across your décolletage, teasing the swell and the valley before drawing back. A rush of air preceded the crack of leather on skin; you would have doubled over from euphoria had the tendrils not kept you upright.

"'I am treasured,'" Erasmus prompted.

"I'm treasured," you gasped.

The second hit comes as soon as you utter the last syllable, blossoming a band of sweet agony across your breast bone.

"Again," he barked.

Erasmus unleashed a barrage of hits, each one smarting more than the last, and scratching that insatiable itch for misery. You practically shouted the phrase back to him each time, tears spilling from your eyes, a watery grin pulling on your mouth. Your body shook with each thwack, the arch of your back bowing as you begged for more. The shadows rubbed soothing circles against your skin, rubbing your spine, and still holding every limb firmly in place.

The burn from the riding crop would forever be imprinted on your flesh, creating a mosaic of raised, crisscrossing lines across your breasts.

An errant hit landed frighteningly close to your nipple, ripping a whine from your throat. Mortified, you glanced at Erasmus.

"That's a good pet," he said. His voice was liquid sex, pouring into the void in your mind desperate for his approval. "Don't hold back your noises. I want to hear them all. Say it again."

"I'm treasured, sir."

"And?"

"And I'm stronger than I realize."

Erasmus rewarded you with two more swats in quick succession, both landing on your stiff nipples. Your clit pulsed.

"Thank you," you sobbed. "Thank you for hurting me, sir!" Brain beaten to mush, you didn't have it in you to hide any longer. "I-I need more, please, master. Hit me more. I'll be so, so, so good for you. Whatever you want, please, don't stop."

Erasmus teased the welts with the tongue of the crop and he chuckled. "You beg so well. Where should I strike next, pet? Your pretty little rump? Your thighs?"

Frantically, you nod. "Please."

"Alright. Come here, darling."

You had no choice in the matter. His tendrils bent you over his desk. The cold wood stung your tender chest, and you jolted, but his shadows stifled further movement. Erasmus groped you through your skirt. It was a long, beige thing that you saved for non-working occasions. You had once thought of it as pretty. Now, you wanted it gone.

As if he could read your thoughts, Erasmus gripped the fabric and yanked it down, hard, leaving you in your underwear. He grabbed a fistful of your ass.

"Stay just like that," he muttered. "You have no idea how lovely you look, presenting yourself like that. It's criminal."

Erasmus spanked you for good measure, and you yelped.

"Cute. The same rules apply. Are you ready, sweet girl?"

"Yes, sir."

Erasmus brought the crop down on the seam where your ass met your thigh. You had thought the pain enjoyable before but this—here—is where you swore you would burst.

He draped his body over yours, keeping his voice low as he spoke in your ear. "Say 'I love myself.'"

"I..." You groaned. The words tasted foul.

"Speak, pet."

"I-I love myself," you said.

Erasmus sneered. "When I tell you to bark, you bark. Refuse me and this stops."

Your breath hitched.

"Did you think I would hurt you more if you disobeyed?" His hand fell to your hip, mockingly massaging it. "Why would I, when that's exactly what you want? My pretty little painslut."

You arched into him, and your ass brushed the evidence of just how pretty he thought you were. You had only felt it once before, when he came to your aid during an assault. The creature poisoned you, and Erasmus made the choice to act alone. You had never told Adam or Amalitrice the full story and you never would. All subsequent encounters had been too brief or exposed to allow him to penetrate you like that, but you were alone now. You didn't care if he took you as long as he made it hurt.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"I know, darling." Erasmus kissed your nape. "You like being good for me. It's nearly as exciting as getting hit."

"Yes."

He asked, "Then will you follow the rules?"

"I will."

Erasmus gave you another moment to collect yourself, then separated from you. The leather tongue ventured between your legs, patting you at the apex, and you shuddered.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Say the same as before. 'I love myself.'"

"I love myself, master."

The hit came a millisecond later, smacking straight across your thigh, briefly kissing your cunt.

You shouted the phrase again, each time it sounded more like a moan, until your voice was raw and the words lost all meaning; each time his crop danced closer to your clothed pussy. Your depravity soiled your underwear; you could feel it clearly as the cold air kissed the gusset, conforming the paltry fabric against every hill and valley of that swollen flesh.

One of the tendrils not secured around your limbs slithered between your thighs, and you held your breath, praying it would have mercy and stroke your clit. Instead, it wiped away a pearl of arousal that had escaped confinement.

The Watchman's crop clattered to the ground as Erasmus fondled the globes of your ass.

"You did beautifully, my precious girl. I'm so proud of you." Erasmus traced your underwear hem. "Such a messy girl, too. Did you enjoy our toy that much?"

Gasping between sobs, you nodded.

"I think you ought to take care of this. Reward yourself for being so obedient."

His shadows pulled you off the desk and unwrapped themselves from your body. Erasmus brushed the tears from your eyes. You sucked in a deep breath, crushing the throbbing arousal between clenched thighs. You needed it, badly. Every ounce of your being was alight with a wanting you didn't fully understand. Erasmus held your face in his hands, beaming down at you, like you were a precious gem meant to be adored even with all your flaws glaringly on display.

You touched his wrists. "Will you choke me as I do it, master?"

"Of course, pet." Erasmus leaned against the desk and opened his arms for you once more. You turned, resting your back to his chest. "I will always take care of you."

He teased your still aching collarbone then encircled your neck. It rested comfortably near the hollow of your throat, so big and so perfect. You relaxed into him and brushed your underwear aside, finally granting your clit the attention it needed.

Your hips buck into your touch, and Erasmus tightening his grip in response. You stifle a moan of satisfaction between your molars.

"Remember what I said about being quiet? Let me hear you. I deserve to, after all I've done for you."

Your head fell onto his shoulder as you worked your fingers faster. Erasmus kissed your forehead, watching your expression with rapt fascination. Oh, how lovely he looked. His silver eyes were but a thin ring around his pupils, dark strands falling across his forehead from exertion. It was a hungry look, bordering on rage. Erasmus moved the hand that wasn't around your throat to your abdomen, drawing small circles with his thumb that matched the pace at which you rubbed your clit.

"You're already so close. It won't take much, will it? Maybe a few moments more and you'll cum. You deserve to feel good after all that. Such a strong, beautiful, sweet girl."

"Sir."

Erasmus squeezed the sides of your throat, cutting off your air. "You don't need to think or speak. You only need to cum. Will you do that for me, darling? Will you make yourself cum?"

Your cunt fluttered in response. Erasmus rubs his thumb below your naval even faster, and you mirror him. Or perhaps it was part of the spell, and you were nothing but the puppet and he the master. Erasmus's control over your body was absolute. For the first time in weeks, your self-hatred was nonexistent, and your mind utterly blank. There is only one objective and that was to cum.

"It could be like this all the time," purred Erasmus. "I would never leave you wanting. I could take you away from all of it."

Blood rushed through your ears as you strained to breathe. You fell over the edge calling his name, "Erasmus!"

Your hips stutter, but Erasmus flattens them against him. The combination of your orgasm and restricted air left you light headed. You're floating, and yet you have never been more grounded.

"Keep going," he muttered. "You deserve it."

You rub until you're raw, until every last aftershock left your system, and you sobbed. Erasmus turned you around, pressing your face into his neck as you came down. He held you like the pain was something to be shared, like he could absorb the burden from your shoulders.

"You make my name sound so lovely," he said.

You groaned, clinging to his black robes. You could have stayed like that forever, but there were places you had to be ... People you needed to be with.

Reluctantly, you untangled yourself from his arms and walk toward the full-length mirror. You're wrecked. Thoroughly. Yet there was a beauty in it. Comfort, even, knowing that Erasmus had done it as an act of service.

Erasmus appeared behind you with a jar of salve and a damp cloth. "Let me clean you."

He dropped to his knees and used the cloth to clean between your legs, correcting your underwear into their rightful place. The salve cooled the burn left from the crop.

"I knew you liked pain, my dear, but I never realized how much," he muttered.

You cracked another wobbly smile. "Me neither."

He finished with your lower half and stood. All amusement vanished from his face.

"I'm worried about you," he said. Your unstable grin faltered. "I don't want to think of what you might have done if I hadn't found you."

Erasmus rubbed a dollop of cream between his hands to warm it, then dabbed it on your chest.

"I..." you looked away. "I would have been fine, eventually."

Erasmus slowed the circles, paying extra attention to a welt on the fat of your breast, just below your band. It would bruise.

"You're a good liar, darling, I nearly believed you."

"I wouldn't have done anything serious."

"But you would have done something." Erasmus nudged your chin with his index finger. "There are a great deal of people who care for you, including myself. I would prefer to keep you in one piece. The fact that you were so distraught and all alone makes me doubt you're safe in Amalitrice's care."

Thankfully, you had purged most of the negative feeling out and you were much too tired to lob more insults at yourself. It didn't mean you weren't tender, though. Erasmus tore open your most ugly self and you were an open, bleeding wound. A husk. Your insides laid exposed with nothing to sew them back up again.

"I can't burden her with more than I already have." You looked at his chest, vision blurring. "Everything is falling apart. I don't know what to do."

"You come to me."

"I can't do that forever."

"And why not?"

You scoffed and shook your head. "I won't be a burden on you, too."

"You, my dear, are the greatest thing that has happened in five millennia." He finished rubbing the salve in. "You renewed my purpose, and you have made innumerable people extremely happy. If that is burdensome, then yes. You are a burden I would happily carry."

You had nothing to say after that.

He guided you back to the sofa and sat down first, pulling you into his lap. You were grateful for the position, as you doubted you could sit.

"Leaving would break Adam," you said.

"He would struggle, but he lived thousands of years without you, before."

"Still ..." You laid your ear upon his chest and listened to his heartbeat. "I can't do it."

Erasmus sighed wearily. "I suppose I'll have to be more persuasive."

You had considered it before, but the North was as dangerous as the main land, more so considering you knew next to nothing about its inhabitants.

You fight a yawn. With your adrenaline gone, you notice how heavy your eyes have become. The steady thrum of his pulse lulled you into serenity.

"You should rest," said Erasmus.

"But—"

"I can handle Amalitrice and any other pest that comes looking for you. And when you wake, I'll ... take you home," he said, less than pleased at that last part.

The shadows appeared again, lifting you off Erasmus's lap so he could escape, and laying you back down. With a wave of his hand, he conjured a glass of water and a blanket. He watched, expectantly, as you drank the contents then draped the blanket over you.

You curled your arms under your head. There was no point in fighting him.

"Erasmus?"

"Yes, darling?"

"Thank you," you yawned. "For everything."

With your eyes closed, you couldn't see his smile, but you could hear it. "It was my pleasure."

[tivosstuff]

Not sure if you're into noncon/dubcon but would any of the bros be tempted to take advantage of a drunk sugar in the bar au?

CW for discussion of noncon, dubcon, cnc, somnophilia, intoxication, and yandere characters (obsession, possessiveness, entitlement over another person, etc.) If any of this makes you uncomfortable or upset, do not read. If you click read more you acknowledge that you will engage with potentially triggering content. You are responsible for the media you consume.

I haven’t discussed in-depth noncon and dubcon before, it’s always been hinted at, but I don’t have a problem talking about it.

So the answer depends on the level of intoxication. If you are black out drunk, passed out, Wilbur and Rowen won’t touch you. They want to see you react to what’s happening and if you’re asleep they can’t get that. Bruno, on the other hand, would. He was put in charge of getting you out of the main bar after you passed out and he can’t help himself. He has to touch you. It’s no different than some of the nights that he’s visited while you’re asleep. But one touch leads to needing more and pretty soon he’s hunched over you like a dog panting and gasping as your tight hole hugs him.

Wilbur and Rowen would prefer for you to be semi coherent and alert if they’re going to mess with you.

Wilbur will tease you through your jeans and ask if you feel that. He likes how your conflicted expression melts into pleasure when he finally gets his hand beneath your waist band. He will make you cum in front of everyone he doesn’t care. He teases you for being so drunk that you let him, practically a stranger, touch you like this. (You protest that he’s not a stranger and he says, “You don’t really know me, sugar.”) When he’s finished, he pops his fingers in your mouth and makes you suck them. If you ask for another drink after that, Wilbur shakes his head. “No, baby, I think you’ve had enough.” But Wilbur won’t order an Uber for you—you’re going upstairs with him to sleep it off.

Rowen likes to hear you say ‘stop.’ He’ll stand behind you, pretending to help you walk but really he’s pressing his erection to your ass. He walks you into the back room and lets his hands wander. You’ll giggle—you think he’s playing, and you tell him to knock it off but he says no. You change your tune when you’re bent over a box as he fucks you so good your eyes cross; Rowen makes you ask him to stop even though you will cry if he does. But he’ll edge you until you comply and threaten to leave you back there for his brothers to find.

[tivosstuff]

How exactly do Wilbur and Rowen humilate Sugar after Kidnapping them? I mean maybe Rowen doesn't let them use their hands when they eat, or he makes them crawl. Or maybe Wilbur bathes them, hand-feed them, etc.

You're on the right track. They do similar stuff when trying to humiliate and break them down.

The first thing to go is clothes - Wilbur may give you cutesy/flouncy lingerie to wear if you ask for something to cover up with, otherwise you're naked. This is for control purposes so your moral is low and you're not as keen to fight or escape. When they do give you 'big' clothes (or 'people' clothes in Rowen's case) nine times out of ten it's from their closet so you associate their scent with warmth and safety.

With Rowen, you will be in the cage. It's a big dog crate that he'll 'furnish' if you're obedient, but starting out, you won't have a blanket or padding in there, just cold metal. If you're outside of the cage, you're on a leash and more often than not, you're crawling. Pets don't walk like people.

Wilbur doesn't want to be as strict as that, but if you prove to be a flight risk, he'll keep you bound. Unlike Rowen, though, you have a whole room to play in. Wilbur won't make you crawl but you have to hold his hand wherever you go.

Without getting graphic, bathroom time can also be a punishment. Wilbur isn't making you wear a diaper but he will watch you go. Rowen does the same but he will make you go outside while you're on the leash. Once your spirit is broken enough, they'll let up on the bathroom stuff.

Wilbur makes you sit on his lap during meal times and he gives you baby silverware to eat with so you don't try to stab him with a fork. If you're really bad, it will go one of two ways: you're still on his lap being hand fed by him, but your arms are bound OR you're bound to the bed and Wilbur hand feeds you there.

With Rowen, it depends how bad you've been. If you're really really bad, he makes you eat from a bowl like a dog. If you're docile, he hand feeds you. He plays mind games with you though and will force you to eat out of a bowl even if you've behaved, making you wonder what you did wrong.

But the biggest humiliation tactic is how they talk to you. They will treat you like you're just a dumb baby/puppy. They're both manipulators so they'll talk about how you can't survive without them and things of that nature so when they're through, you're reliant on them.

Wilbur wouldn't want this to be a permanent thing. He would actually hate it, tbh and views this punishment as correcting bad behavior rather than creating a new personality. He wants a loving partner, not a drooling baby. Rowen, on the other hand, wouldn't mind if the change was permanent. He will get bored with it eventually and want you to change things up, but he's short sited and doesn't realize that.

[tivosstuff]

Impasse.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader

Warnings: Yandere themes, unhealthy relationships, captivity, Reader makes a joke about dying, discussions of parenthood, some not SFW implications. Word count: 2k.

Chrollo has been acting strange today. 

You’ve been hesitant to acknowledge this shift. For better or for worse, the two of you have fallen into a routine. It’s a strained routine, yes, but it provides a degree of stability otherwise missing from your upended life. To put it simply, you bother him and he bothers you. There’s some nuance — for instance, your schemes are limited in scope, owing to a power imbalance so unfair you think the universe owes you a solid. Nonetheless, you’re proud to say you’ve hurt his feelings once or twice. Then there’s his part. He specializes in picking your brain, making you uncomfortable by pretending he’s normal, and making you uncomfortable when he quits pretending. 

He's abstained from any of these behaviors since this morning. This pushes you past the ‘uncomfortable’ threshold, now you’re nervous. 

This is made worse when he looks you dead in the eye and asks, “Have you ever wanted children?” 

“Children?” You repeat, your voice not dissimilar to a mouse’s squeak. “Like, kids?” 

There’s a brief glimpse of amusement on his countenance, but he’s quick to redirect your focus. “Whichever word you prefer.” 

You study him. Presently, you’re sitting atop a barstool overlooking the area’s living space, while he leans against a nearby support column. He’s changed into his evening attire, a loose white shirt and gray sweatpants. You’re not so fortunate. You’re still paying for an indiscretion committed earlier in the week. Consequently, your wardrobe has been reduced to his preferred aesthetics. You’re wearing a black nightgown with thin spaghetti straps and lace embellishments.

Given your vulnerable position, risqué outfit, and his not-so-subtle interest in wooing you, the potential implications inspire discomfort. You shrink into yourself. What is he getting at? You’ve managed to avoid most of his physical advances, but you’re not delusional; if he willed it, you’d be at his mercy. You always feared he was operating on an invisible timer known only to him, each passing second bringing you closer to— 

“You’re overthinking things,” he notes. “I have no ulterior motives. I’m simply curious.” 

“Curious?” you repeat back, cautious. 

He nods. 

“What brought this ‘curiosity’ about?” 

Chrollo stares at you. You can feel his eyes dissecting everything, from your closed-off body language to your barely concealed hostility. 

“... I see,” he eventually says. “You won’t trust me without context. Very well. It’s nothing so grand. Though, in return for my honesty, I expect yours. Does that sound fair?” 

Feigning nonchalance, you shrug. “I guess.” 

He stands to his full height and walks over, pulling out the barstool to your left. He doesn’t intrude on your personal space, but his proximity has you shuffling to the right. He allows you your meager defiance. 

“Last night, I had a dream,” he starts. Then, a pause. He’s giving his word choice unusual consideration. “In it, we were married… or maybe not. Whatever the case, it was a far more conventional lifestyle. You had to take a phone call — with your mother, I believe — so you asked me to watch over two names I’d never heard before. They bore such a resemblance to you. Aside from their eyes, that is.” 

You wonder if he’s aware that he’s smiling. 

Chrollo clears his throat. “As I said, it’s nothing so grand.” 

It’s your turn to scrutinize him. You might not be a virtuoso in the art like he is, but you have your methods. What strikes you is how much of himself he revealed, unwittingly or by design, although the latter suits him better. He must have decided it was a worthwhile sacrifice for any insight you’ll give. 

“Kids… they always sounded nice to me, in theory. Except for when I was a teenager. I was vehemently against the idea then,” you can’t help chuckling at the memory. “I don’t know. I guess I came around to the thought again, but… it’d only be after I established myself. Solid career, housing, whatever. And, of course, the right partner.” 

You’re sure your side eye doesn’t go unnoticed. 

“Not that any of that is in the cards anymore. You’re not delusional enough to think otherwise, right?” 

The skin beneath his eyes crinkles. “And if I was?” 

“I’d fling myself off a balcony.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t say such things.” 

You begin picking at a stray thread on the hem of your nightgown. “Yeah, well, I wish for a lot of things that don’t come true.” 

“I suppose we’re alike in that regard.” 

“Gross,” you make a face. Pursing your lips, you hesitantly ask, “Was that really all you had on your mind? You’ve been so…” 

“So…?” He repeats, matching your inflection. It goads you along. 

“Pensive? Gloomy? Something to that effect. It’s like there’s this little rain cloud floating over you.” 

You motion to the space above his head where the proverbial rain cloud would be. 

“A few days ago, you said some choice words,” Chrollo recalls, much to your displeasure. You were hoping he’d leave that in the past. “They left an impression.” 

You swallow thickly. “I’m sorry.” 

Chrollo gives a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Lying isn’t one of your strong suits; I suggest avoiding it.”

While shifting around in your seat, you wish you could turn invisible. 

“During your little outburst, you asked if I was ‘happy’ with how things are. An interesting question, to say the least. I’ve given it some thought.” 

Svelte fingers graze your jawline. You stiffen up, every muscle seizing into place, as if you’d been paralyzed. His touch is gentle, almost featherlight. Your pulse quickens like you’re a lamb awaiting slaughter. Staring straight ahead, you desperately search for some object to fixate on. You settle on the support column. An avant-garde clock sits high on it, the bottom half of its frame drooping, as if it were paint splashed against a wall. 

You count the seconds as they pass. Two, four, ten… 

His fingers tighten around your jaw and he turns you to face him. 

What a sight you must be — cheeks squished together, eyebrows high, lips agape. And then there’s him. He’s frowning, but aside from that, you can’t get a read on him. The intensity of his gaze holds you captive. Without warning, he leans forward, tilting his head slightly as he does so. You squeeze your eyes shut. You can feel his warm breath fan against your face, how he strengthens his grip, likely anticipating resistance. 

“How can I be ‘happy’ when you’re still so adverse to my touch?” Chrollo whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he talks. You fight the urge to cringe.  “What will it take to have you where I want you?” 

After what feels like an eternity, he lets you go, but doesn’t move back. 

You reopen your eyes. You’re more familiar with the man sitting before you, if only by a fraction. Even then, an unnerving atmosphere lingers, speckling your skin in goosebumps. You wrap your arms around yourself and exhale. The consequences from that day’s lapse in judgment have been manageable until now. 

Your day-to-day existence is defined by a lack of control. Over where you’ll go, what you’ll do, even what you can wear. Chrollo is the composer of your life and you’re his pièce de résistance, whom he always makes adjustments to. You must match his tempo or scramble to catch up. This paradigm has slowly yet surely eroded you, sanding over your harsh edges until you’re soft to the touch. 

You wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel what jagged pieces remain, but now that you may have accomplished just that, you’re burdened by regret. 

Not for what you did. 

No, for what you possibly started. 

“Chrollo.” 

“Hm?” 

“How much of me are you willing to destroy to get what you want?” 

Chrollo lets out a low hum, as if the hypothetical you presented him with was nothing so unthinkable. This alone stokes your anxiety. Sometimes you wonder if this is not already the path you’re being ushered towards. He’s amassed victories, some small, others sizable. You’re far more docile now compared to when he first took you. Back then, you could barely function, panic ruled your every waking thought and seeped into your dreams, denying every respite. 

“You have the wrong idea,” Chrollo asserts. “I don’t want to destroy any element of you. All I’d like is a change in perspective.” 

You gawk at him. “Huh?” 

“Haven’t I proven I’m not as terrible as you feared?” he questions, tilting his head. “I could’ve been every bit the monster you imagined me to be, if not worse.” 

“Should I— do you expect gratitude, or something?” 

Mirth dances in his eyes like flecks of ember. “It wouldn’t hurt, but no. All I’m suggesting is that you cease torturing yourself for the sake of pride.” 

“I don’t get what you’re talking about.” 

“Don’t you, though?” he challenges, his confidence vexing. “Patience is one of the few virtues I have, but it’s finite. Your love of testing it grows tiresome.” 

You watch as the thread you were tugging at snaps off, fluttering to the marble floor. Your trembling fingers long for another task to occupy themselves with. He sounds as composed as ever, yet beneath the façade, microscopic fissures are forming. You’ve been chiselling at him in your own way. Testing what you can go away with, what remains taboo. Have you finally stumbled into the latter? 

Or was it something else?

Recalling the muted delight on his features when he recounted his dream, you frown.

You’ve always believed the human mind’s capacity to dream is its cruelest gimmick. 

Nightmares are no stranger to scorn — those phantasmagorias that play feature length-films of your fears and insecurities. You’re made to be an unwilling member of the audience, every frame composed with malicious intent. These night terrors deserve their ill-begotten reputation. 

What doesn’t get enough credit for hurting just as much, if not more, are lovely dreams. The idyllic, the picturesque, the unobtainable. They are a heartache you gladly hold the door open for. Once inside, your inner world is redesigned. The spectacle is so dazzling that you come to prefer it over reality. Dreams, both good and bad, are destined to end. For every long nightmare you awake from, there is a paradise you had mere seconds to explore. 

From the corner of your eye you glance at Chrollo. 

For such a greedy man, the dream he fondly recounted is so unremarkable, you almost find it pitiful. 

“That’s quite the conundrum,” you murmur.  “Oh?” 

“You don’t want me to be debilitated by terror, but I’m still supposed to fear you enough to stay in line.” 

“How astute.” 

“Is there really no other way?” You ask, scrunching your eyebrows together. “Couldn’t you just let me go and share in my joy? Surely, that must be better than having me glare at you twenty-four seven.” 

Chrollo chuckles, as if the suggestion you presented is a nonsensical fantasy. 

“I’m not a good enough man to do that, love. You never noticed all the things I did. People are drawn to you. You’re equal parts endearing and naive, it’s an alluring combination. I can’t stand idly by and watch others take from you what I want most.” 

“... How long were you stalking me, exactly?” 

He gives an enigmatic smile. “I’ll leave that to your imagination.” 

Before you can do just that, he gives your thigh an unwelcome squeeze. 

“Let’s call it a night,” he says, his casual tone belying how the statement’s an order. “Tomorrow will be a busy day.” 

You don’t bother voicing your newfound apprehensions. Instead, you wordlessly hop down from your seat, scanning your surroundings for a path to the master bedroom. The home is sparsely lit, but you manage to find your way. You pause at the lack of a second set of footsteps. Chrollo had gotten into the habit of walking audibly at your request, as you found his former silence ‘off-putting.’ 

You discover he’s yet to get up himself, seemingly lost in thought. “You aren’t coming?” 

“In a moment,” he responds. "Go on ahead."

It feels like his eyes are on you even after you’ve left the room. 

[tivosstuff]

Bruno and Wilburs' history seems so tame compared to Rowen's 😅 i have so many questions about this cult

I’m going to be updating the Caffreys backstories soon

[tivosstuff]

He taps your jaw, and you correct your gaze, meeting those dark brown eyes of his.

That wordless soft command is so so sexy and so daddy!Wilbur 😍

Also this little exchange -

"You need to stop being so - so ..."

"Hot."

I think that often when I'm reading through your oc asks 😂

wilbur x afab!sugar | cw: afab!reader, suggestive, dirty talk, inexperienced!reader, (can be read as being a virgin or shy), hints of BDSM, hints of daddy!wilbur, impact play mentioned, implied thigh riding

"Wait, just-" You pull away from Wilbur, inhaling shakily. His mouth chases yours for half a second before he catches himself.

Brows furrowed, he studies you. "Are you-?"

"Yeah, no, I'm okay."

You force a laugh, discretely wiping your mouth. Wilbur's gaze burns through you, his concern mounting by the second.

"Did I do something?"

"N-No!" The words rush out and you grip his wrist. "I mean - I just - I need a second." Cheeks hot, you can't look at him when you add, "You're really good at kissing."

It's been a couple of months since you've officially started dating your favorite barista. There was flirting before that - and lots of it - but the physical aspect of your relationship progressed at a snails pace at no fault of your own.

Wilbur readjusts his glasses, those long lashes of his fluttering as he takes you in. A dusting of pink colors his cheeks and he bites his swollen lower lip to keep from grinning.

"I see..."

"Please don't tease me," you lament. "I'm pathetic, I know."

Amusement taints his voice, "I didn't say that."

"No, but you're thinking it."

"Not at all." His voice dips to a place so unfairly seductive that it doesn't help your current predicament. "Hey?" He ducks his head, trying to meet your eyes. "Can you be honest with me, sugar? Are you wet?"

You nod, burying your face in your hands.

Being near him was impossible. You were bound to be ruined when he finally gave you more than a little peck. That's all it's been for ages - he didn't even kiss your cheek until the second date! And in the privacy of his apartment - on his couch - with his mouth doing sinful things against yours, you're powerless against the budding need blossoming between your thighs.

Wilbur swears under his breath.

"Yeah?" He all-but chuckles, but there's more to it - a rasp you've only dared to imagine when you're alone with your lecherous thoughts. "It's okay, sweetheart, we can take a break."

A whine peels out of you, without your consent, and that time he does laugh.

"What?"

"You need to stop being so - so ..."

"So...?"

"Hot."

Wilbur blinks, then rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

"I'm sorry," he says. Wilbur rests his arm against the back of the couch. "You're making things pretty hard, too."

You peek through your fingers, perverted as you are, but that's exactly what Wilbur wanted. He tips your chin up, clicking his tongue. His lenses are a little foggy.

"Now who's being unfair?" he chides.

You gulp. The topic of sex rarely came up, aside from a few lewd jokes here and there. You always assumed it would come up naturally - no point in forcing something as sensitive as this, right?

But, fuck, you were sensitive. Your sex pulsed, the pang made even worse as Wilbur's are you wet? played on loop in your mind. You are wet. Devistatingly drenched, if you're honest. And witnessing Wilbur's erection, so plainly printed against his pants, caused a fresh wave of arousal to gush into your undies.

"Do you, um ...?" You tuck your hands against your chest, eyes dropping despite Wilbur's command. "Want some help?"

He taps your jaw, and you correct your gaze, meeting those dark brown eyes of his.

"Do you?" he asks.

Breathing turned laborious. You can picture Wilbur's pale hands mapping out your body, gripping flesh, sliding under your waistband, delving into you -

Too much. Wilbur smells divine this close, and his body is warm and solid and perfect beside yours. You're practically shaking when you answer him.

"Y-Yeah."

He strokes your knee, slotting his other hand with yours. Your foreheads were practically touching. "What do you want?"

"Whatever you want."

Wilbur shakes his head. "If you can't say it, you can't have it."

"Anything," you stammer. "Everything. Whatever would make you happy."

"Lot of things would make me happy, sugar," Wilbur murmurs, "but that's not what you want. Now that I've got you, I don't plan to scare you off so soon. I'd be happy if we kept kissing."

"You can't get rid of me, Wil."

"Won't hurt you, either." He sighed, gazing his lips against your cheek. "Not unless you ask me to."

"What, like, you'd spank me?"

You mean it as a joke as you can't picture Wilbur mean, let alone cruel, but instead of denying it his blush deepens.

"If you wanted it."

"Oh."

Your skin tingles, imagining those broad hands of his slamming against your ass ... wrapped around your throat ... God, you're getting even more pathetic by the second. You clench your thighs and pray that Wilbur would take pity on you. Ravish me, damnit! you want to scream, but your vocal chords seize up. Your lower lip quivers. It's no secret that Wilbur was your first real boyfriend, and like you said before, he's hot. Whatever boldness you might have eked out earlier diminished into nothing but air. You always thought when you got to this point that you would be able to sit tall and seduce him, maybe throw in a saucy roll of the shoulders or teasing hair twirl. Yet, here you are, staring down the beast and all you feel is fear. Not of Wilbur, but of yourself. What if you're not good enough? What if you suggest something he doesn't like? What if he gets turned off?

"You're so pretty, baby," he says, quieting the voices in your head. "Let's save this for another time, okay?"

"B-But-"

Wilbur arches an eyebrow.

"You're not going to leave me like this, right?" you ask. Frustration and desperation are an ugly, poisonous concoction.

The corner of his mouth tugs upward. "No, baby, I won't." He kisses you slowly, pulling away before you devour him. "We'll take it slow, okay? Climb in my lap?"

You mutter something about not wanting to crush him and Wilbur shushes you. He pulls you by your belt loops into his lap, situating your two trembling thighs how he wants them, 'til your straddling one of his legs.

"Please?"

"I'll take care of you," he assures you, running his hands up and down your spine. He presses his thigh against your core and you wonder if he can feel the heat. "Until you know how to ask for what you want, this is what you'll get, okay?"

[tivosstuff]

“You're not still mad are you?” There’s a mocking lilt to Rowen’s voice that has you grinding your teeth.

You are. You’re furious, but it’s over run at the moment by terror and the deep aching throb of your ankle, so you keep your mouth shut and settle for just glaring at him.

“We didn’t want to do this, but you brought this on yourself Sugar,” Wilbur sits on the edge of his bed, hand resting close to your knee but not quite touching.

“I did nothing! And you, you,-“ You glance at your ankle again, biting down on the insults that want to fly from your mouth. “I thought you liked me.”

“Oh Baby we love you,” Wilbur’s fingers finally trace up your knee, his grip tightening when you try to pull away. “That’s why we had to do this.”

“What are you talking about??”

“Bruno heard you sugar,” Wilbur sounds a mix of hurt and disappointed. “You want to leave town? Leave us? It’s dangerous out there.”

You swallow hard. You had mentioned leaving to one of your friends, but just in passing, more an idle fantasy than an actual want. The thought of how Bruno had possibly overheard that doesn’t even cross your mind as the denial starts to leave your mouth. “I’m not leav-,” You cut yourself off in exasperation. “I wasn’t going anywhere!”

“Don’t. Lie.” His words are sharp, bitten out between clenched teeth before he takes a deep breath. “You don’t get to leave us. Ever.”

You can’t seem to get a grasp on what is genuinely happening. They both seem so calm, so nonchalant about everything. You want to cry, your breathing becoming shallow as you try to hold back the sobs threatening to break through. “Please Wil, I just want to go home.”

"Baby, baby, ssshhhh,” the patronising tone is at odds with the painful grip he has on your knee. “You are home.”

“Fuck you.” You regret it immediately, a flash of something dark flicking across his face but Rowan’s movement distracted you.

The slap takes you by surprise, making you bite down on your tongue. The copper tang of blood floods your mouth and you try pointlessly to fight back more tears. the pain turning into a deep ache as Rowen’s fingers gripped your chin, turning you back to face him. “That’s enough.” His fingers flex, digging into your jaw hard enough for you to whimper in pain, tears finally starting to overflow and drip down your cheeks. “Cute.” He lets go with a small smirk, readjusting his belt as he stands up.

“I have to go open up,” Wilbur stands, giving your nose a gentle poke. The movement making you flinch back and cry even harder, on the brink of hyperventilating. “Be a good girl for Rowen Ok?”

You’re starting to feel incredibly detached from the situation, with them both acting like this was normal. You let yourself cry, ignoring Rowen’s murmur of your name as he sits down next to you.

“Sugar?”

“Go away.” You speak before your brain can stop you and his hand immediately grabs your throat, slamming your head back down against the mattress so hard you see stars.

"Rowen plea-" 

He squeezes, choking you until you're clawing at his arm, but he doesn’t relent, doesn’t seem affected by your attempts to hurt him. 

"Relax," he leans over you, bringing his face close to yours, forcing your attention to focus on him and nothing else. "Relax Sugar and I’ll let go."

It's terrifying, your lungs screaming for air but you force yourself to try and relax. You let your hands drop from his arm and as you do he loosens his hold. It lets you breathe, and you choke in desperate gulps of air as he continues to loosely hold your throat.

"You’ve been a bad puppy," He slowly releases you, but you don’t dare move, his fingers tracing the tears still falling down your face instead. “And bad puppies don’t get treats, they get punished.”

AAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!

Fucking—shout out to you, nonny. Thank you. I don’t know if I’ve ever had someone send me a drabble like this of the boys!! This is great!! and also so accurate because Rowen is the brother that cares the least about the shop so of course he would be the one to stay with you.

Bruno lurking always kills me, we have papa Wilbur, and king sadist Rowen. Chefs kiss, you’re a beautiful person.