"A little too needy, a little too anxious, a little too compulsive."
All I Need (MDNI 18+)
Summary: There's something wrong with you and there's something wrong with him. You're perfect for each other. Pairing: Tim Drake|Red Robin/F!Reader (2nd person POV) WC: 6,374 Tags: Stalking, obsessive behavior, unhealthy relationships, explicit sexual content, stalker x stalker, loss of virginity, mentions of cannibalism, overstimulation A/N: This one is very gross. I'm gonna be honest. It's not for everyone. The reader is a stalker and I get very descriptive with the things she does so please heed the tags. I do not condone stalking or any of the behaviors depicted in this fic. Cross posted on AO3
There was something wrong with you. No denying it.
You’d known for a while. Even before the obsessions started. You had been an odd child. A little too needy, a little too anxious, a little too compulsive. Growing up didn’t shake these habits loose, no, it strengthened them. The first person you stalked was a girl from your high school. Being the desperate, friendless loner you were, any interaction—no matter how minuscule—would be filed away in your brain and ruminated over for days on end. You and her had been assigned to work together for a project. She’d been nice to you. Given you her number. Met up with you at the library. Nothing outlandish. All innocent. You latched onto that like a leech.
Suddenly, you were finding out her family’s history with alcoholism and discovering the Twitter account she secretly posted her nudes on. You could still remember the look on her face—confusion that slowly bled into terror—when you brought it up to her. The way her eyes welled up with tears, knowing if she told anyone she’d get in trouble too for posting underage porn. It didn’t matter. Your mom found what you’d been doing and made you switch schools. The girl had gotten what she wanted in a way. You were out of her life but you knew she’d never forget you and that thought warmed your heart regardless of the implications.
You’d been sent to a therapist for a while. Considered ‘disturbed’ and medicated with any number of antipsychotics. You didn’t find anyone to obsess over at your new school. You were even more isolated there than before. Special classes, lunch with the social worker, frequent check-ins throughout the day. Constant monitoring. Day in and day out. You had done some digging on the guidance counselor and found out she was having an affair with the principal but you didn’t really care about that. Just enjoyed the activity of knowing things you shouldn’t.
Then you started college. Coding was your intended major. Only so you could hack more efficiently. Gathering information had become a preferred pastime of yours, if not your only pastime. It’s what made sense. You didn’t understand small talk. You didn’t understand ‘getting to know someone.’ You wanted the hunt. You liked the undetected prowl. Sneaking in back doors and climbing through open windows. Finding secrets like tugging on a loose thread until everything unraveled in front of you. So when you found someone else in your second semester HTML course who shared that interest, you nailed yourself to him.
Tim Drake became your new obsession. He was a little easier to stalk given his very public life but you didn’t want public. You wanted to know his secrets. You wanted to be close to him. To know him better than anyone else. You knew his juvenile records, his medical reports—he’d gotten a spinal fusion for his scoliosis when he was 16 and the thought of him helpless on an operating table got you concerningly hot and bothered. But you'd learned from your past mistakes and kept it to yourself. You wouldn’t go and spoil it all by coming clean to him.
When you found out he was Red Robin you nearly screamed but held it in so you wouldn’t get caught snooping in his apartment. All it had taken was a lock pick gun and a week of stakeouts to get in when he wasn’t home. Then you found the uniform and so much clicked into place. You so badly wanted to take a piece of it with you but you knew Tim from front to back. He’d notice if something was missing and he’d find out who took it. He probably had tracking devices in each article. You couldn’t take that risk. You loved him too much to lose him to something as small as a mask or a pair of gloves. But you did press the suit to your nose with trembling fingers and did your best to memorize the scent. It was fresh, almost clinical but not quite. Clean laundry, leather, and a hint of sandalwood. In the end you took a pair of his boxers instead.
That’s when you started sending the pictures. Polaroid only and never with a return address. You were obsessive, not stupid. Always in a postbox, always wearing gloves, always with printed letters and sticker address labels. No sending anything handwritten, no matter how much you wanted to. Tim Drake was Red Robin and both of them were known for being ridiculously smart. Any slip up would end with you being caught and either arrested or receiving a restraining order. Which was a fate worse than death for all you were concerned.
The pictures were fairly plain and never contained anything identifiable. Usually it would just be of your hand in your underwear, smooth thighs and a little bit of tummy. Some nights, when you were feeling especially lonely or bold, you’d forgo the underwear and spread your cunt open with your fingers, being sure the light caught the gooey glisten of your cum.
The letters were never that simple. They were all love notes, poems almost, explaining exactly how you felt about him. The language would be flowery but not exaggerated in any way. They were your true feelings. Distilled and pure.
I want my ribs to split open so you can see the you-shaped hole I’ve carved into myself. I hope one day you can fill it. Pour yourself into me. Breathe life into my corpse. It is sick for you.
Every step you take I can taste on my tongue. Every breath you breathe is etched into my skin. Every word you speak has filled my lungs. You sustain me with your being and you’ll kill me with your love.
I’ve bled and I bleed to please you. You’ve done nothing wrong. I’m dying in the reeds of your pond. Fish me out and gut me. I’ll thank you for it and smile when my insides touch your knife.
I know who you really are. Beautiful Red bird against a deep, endless night. I dream of your hands, calloused and scarred, holding me down by my throat. I’m desperate for my death at your fingertips. I want to feel the justice in your touch.
The day you got a letter back, with a picture of a hand—Tim’s hand—pressed against a bulge in maroon boxers, you skipped all your classes just to look at it. You photocopied the Polaroid and printed dozens of copies. You tacked most of them to your wall. Ate a few. Blended some with ice and Lemon Twist Zesti—his favorite flavor—and drank it. You framed the original and put it on your bedside table. If the picture had you whipped up in a frenzy, then the letter turned you into a hurricane. You put it under document glass and hung it above your bed.
You’ve been paying close attention. I can appreciate such dedication. I am the hand and you are the pen. I write you. I spill your ink. Crimson life flows from your slit wrists and I dictate your path. My fearless predator. My silent hunter. My pretty little owl. Show me your wings.
He wrote the letter by hand. His handwriting was messy and stiff and there were smudges in the ink from where his palm had moved over the words before they had dried. At the bottom, he had left a thumbprint next to his signature. Crisp and deliberate. Meant for you. He wanted you to have his thumbprint. The first opportunity you got, you’d be scheduling a tattoo appointment to get it permanently inked on your skin. Did this mean he wanted yours too? No, you couldn’t get ahead of yourself. You weren’t deluded enough to think this was safe. You trusted Tim with your life but you knew what you were doing was considered a crime—as silly as that was—and he was someone who stopped criminals. You wouldn’t let him get in the way of your pursuit of, well, him. However, if he knew your address, he definitely knew who you were. And he still hadn’t turned you in. He could be waiting for more evidence. A thumbprint would be damning.
Still, you wanted to send him another letter and another picture. Maybe something with a little more in it this time? You sat kneeling on your bed, naked and leaning back slightly with your legs spread. The picture captured the length of your torso, your wet cunt, and just a sliver of the bottoms of your breasts. In your letter you wrote;
I’m so lucky to be in love with someone so clever and so perceptive. I am the axe in your door, waiting for you to come home. You are the shadows in the corners of my room and the dark that envelops me when I sleep. Touch more of me, please. Without you, I’ll die. Would you become a murderer? I’d thank the blade you use to cut out my heart. Can you keep a secret?
After you put the letter in the mailbox, spritzed with a bit of your perfume, you wore the boxers you’d stolen from him and masturbated to the picture he’d sent for the rest of the night. There was no shame in your actions, no second thoughts or embarrassment, just pure, unadulterated lust and need. You imagined it was his fingers sliding up and down your cunt, teasing your clit and dipping inside you. Calloused and skilled from years of vigilantism. Your own smooth hands weren’t enough to keep up the illusion but you’d be damned if you didn’t try. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, desperate to keep the conjured image of him hovering above you crisp in your mind as you came with a squeal. When you opened your eyes to a dark room and an empty bed, the waterworks gushed in full and you cried yourself to sleep, heart squeezing in a way that felt close to seizure and throat raw from wailing into your pillow.
More letters and more pictures came in the following weeks. Nothing new image wise. Still the same type of picture. A hand palming himself through his boxers. A peak of black hair trailing up to his belly button and scarred thighs spread invitingly. It was a tease and a challenge wrapped into one with a delicious bow on top. And you were diving after the bait, biting down on the hook and moaning when it pierced your lips. The letters were intoxicating, words pointed and knowing. He’d degrade you in some—call you scum, disgusting, perverted—and he’d praise you in others;
There’s nothing like your tongue. The wit it spits. The knowledge it distributes. I imagine that tongue on my skin. Between my fingertips. Between my teeth. Sliding under my cock as I gag you to tears.
You’re nothing. You’re the dirt I walk on and you beg me to keep stepping. There’s a sickness in you. Greedy and clawing and filthy. I would rip it from your chest but you’re too far gone by now. Would you let me purify you? Or would you run back to the dank hole you crawled out of?
I lay awake at night angry. You are cool water that soothes my burning skin and drowns me all the same. I want to choke you to death. Would you like that? Would you beg me to crush your windpipe? I yearn to know what your final noises would be.
Last night I dreamt we fell from a cliff. Our bodies smashed and mangled on the rocks. Our blood mixed. Blended into pure perfection. Your neck broke and you died with your eyes open, staring at me. There was cum in my pants when I woke up.
You’d gone almost completely into yourself. Classes, hygiene, and what little of a social life you had were thrown into the wind in the wake of his attention. You’d rather slit your wrists in the middle of the lecture hall than be gone when one of his letters arrived. There was no doubt in your mind that you would need to retake your courses, if you weren’t dismissed from school entirely. You didn’t care. Tim Drake was sending you mail. And you were corresponding to it. Still, you played it safe. Still typed. Still used gloves. Still kept your face out of the pictures. You were receiving a letter almost every day for nearly a month before something changed.
You’d been on the stairs of the entrance to your apartment building, waiting for the mail truck to rumble down the street. When the mailmail finally arrived, he sighed and handed you your letter from Tim. You scampered back up to your unit, bubbling, giddy laughter pouring out of you as you slammed the door shut and slid down it. You carefully eased open the envelope with trembling fingers.
No picture. Just a letter.
I need to hear you.
Breath left your chest in a staggering rush. So fast you lurched forward after it. The page was covered in something. Crusted little globs of- You pressed your nose to it and took a sniff. It smelled a little like ammonia and a little sweet. Almost like pears. You pressed your tongue to the paper. Salty. A bit mild. Sweet again, too. You hadn’t the faintest idea what it could possibly be. Maybe he spilled some kind of chardonnay on it? But that chemically smell was so unusual. And why would it be crusty? You nearly jumped a foot in the air when your phone began to ring.
You stared at the screen hesitantly. No caller ID. Usually, you’d ignore such calls but that morning felt… different. There was something in the air, like static electricity, tickling your spine. A voice in your head told you to answer it. So you did.
“Hello?” You muttered, voice scratchy and stiff from disuse. You weren’t sure you’d spoken to anyone in weeks. Unless you were counting yourself. And you were considering shrieks of joy as speech.
A sharp intake of breath on the other line. Shuddering and tense, almost relieved.
“Who is this?” You said as you straightened from your slump on the floor.
“Yeah, sit up more.”
You froze, something like fear clenched around your lungs but a shocked breath blew out of you. Your thighs fell open as your spine stiffened, heat filling every inch of your skin like an oven had been opened in front of you. The voice was crisp, maybe a little raspy. Heady, even, and exhausted. Wanton too. The words had nearly been moaned. But, overall, the voice was unmistakable.
Tim Drake had called you.
You hunched forward, both hands clutching the phone to your ear like someone was going to take it from you. Your face turned hot as your lips trembled around your next words.
“Tim?” Your voice was a whisper of a whisper. Barely there to begin with. “Is that-” You licked your lips. “Is that you?”
A moan, crackly from your shitty phone speakers. Another shaking inhale.
“Keep talking.”
If you weren’t hot before, you were on fire now.
“Can you see me?” You asked, careful eyes darting around the room, searching for a glimmer from a lens or a blinking red light.
No response.
“Tim?”
A beat, then; “Yeah.”
You struggled to stand. One hand braced behind you as you rose like a newborn fawn.
“Prove it,” you said on an exhale when you finally got to your feet, still leaning heavily against the door.
“You’re wearing shorts.” You huffed out another breath. “Little ones. Yellow. And a big Gotham U shirt. It almost looks like you don’t have pants on. And flip flops. Also yellow.”
You took a tentative step forward, still swiveling your head around to find some kind of hidden camera.
“Under the cabinets. Next to the stove. It’s small,” he said and you moved slowly towards the kitchen.
Sure enough, tucked beside the bar LED light illuminating the counters, was a little camera the size of a quarter. You carefully plucked it from its spot, stuck on with a glue dot, and gazed down at the dark lens.
“Oh, fuck,” he moaned through a ragged breath. “Say something. Please.”
“Tim,” you murmured and earned another low groan. “What do you want me to say?”
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself.”
You swallowed, face burning at his sharp reply. You placed the camera on your counter and perched on the kitchen table.
“Can you see me well?” You asked. “Should I adjust?”
“Do you really think that’s the only camera? I can see you perfectly.”
You whined and let your thighs fall open just to hear him moan again.
“In your letter, the one I just got, what did you put on it? I’ve never… what was that?” You asked as you trailed your nails over your leg.
“You don’t know?”
You shook your head before remembering he wanted to hear you. “No. I don’t.”
“That was… it- it was…” a shaking breath that bloomed into another groan, “that was my cum.”
Your eyes widened and you snatched the letter up from beside you, bringing it to your face with a whimper and breathing it in with more vigor than last time. Tim moaned again.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he said through gritted teeth as you licked a stripe over the paper.
“Where are you?” You asked.
Silence.
“Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?” You repeated, a little slower, letter still pressed to your nose.
More silence, then; “I’m outside.”
You scrambled off the table towards your window and tugged back the curtains. There was a plum red Porsche parked across the street with tinted windows and chrome rims. Horribly out of place in your nightmare of a neighborhood.
“Is that you?” Your voice was thin glass. “In the sports car?”
“Yes.”
“Do you…” A thick swallow. “Will you come up?”
There was a tense inhale from him, then a rattling exhale. More quiet and you worried you’d scared him off until;
“Okay.”
A whiny noise of something like glee pushed past your teeth as you watched Tim Drake step out of his car and into the crisp April daylight. He was wearing a baggy tee shirt and light wash jeans. You followed him with your eyes as he approached your building, furiously wiping away the fog your breath left on the glass until your buzzer rang. You nearly tripped over yourself to let him in and stood panting in front of the door, ears straining for the sound of his footsteps up the creaky stairs. Only one knock before you were yanking the door open, nearly ripping the thing off its hinges.
Then he was in front of you.
Timothy Jackson Drake stood in your doorway.
The phone dropped from your grip as he took two long strides towards you and pulled you into a kiss. The door fell shut as he pushed you further into your apartment and up against the kitchen counter. A hot and insistent mouth crushed yours, sharp breaths of air through his nose as he moaned against you. There was nothing delicate or tentative in his kiss. It was hungry and aggressive, nearly mean and completely greedy. You’d never kissed anyone before and didn’t know what you were supposed to do but he seemed to pick up on that and took the lead in elegant stride. Well, as elegant as his frantic, eager lips could be. His hands were everywhere, pulling at your clothes, slipping around your waist, gripping the back of your neck. His fingers slid under the waistband of your shorts and he moaned when he felt your cunt.
“No underwear?” He asked against your mouth between bruising kisses.
“I haven’t done laundry in weeks,” you admitted, feeling what could have been embarrassment in some other lifetime but not this one.
“Have you showered?”
“Not in a few da… days,” you said in a breathy voice as his fingerpads pressed against your clit.
“You’re already so wet,” he murmured as he tugged your shorts down with his free hand so he could look at you. “Spread your legs a little.”
You shifted on the balls of your feet until he could fit his hand between your thighs and slid a finger into you. A startled gasp punched out of you when he touched something that had never been touched before and you gripped his bicep.
“That feel good?” He asked, tone husky and dark and way too self assured.
You nodded. “No one’s ever- I haven’t had, um…”
“Are you a virgin?”
You nodded again.
An ecstatic sigh mixed with a breathless laugh. “Have you ever masturbated?”
“Yeah. Just with my fingers though,” you said and met his cornflower blue gaze, melting a little against the counter as his pupils expanded.
“That’s good,” he said and swallowed as his head slowly bobbed. “That’s very good. Fuck, you’re perfect.”
You whined something that was barely a response.
“Can I take your virginity?” He asked in a whisper, like the question was sin. It was sin. Technically. “I need to make you mine.”
You nodded your head fast, a strangled affirmative in your throat, and he kissed you again. Wet, slick lips pressed hard against each other. Mouths sealing together sent sparks buzzing over your skin like static electricity. Your chest and face were burning hot as his finger continued to languidly pump inside you.
“Let’s do this in your bed. Properly.” You nodded—anything he said, yes, yes, a thousand times yes—and stepped out of your shorts and flip flops to follow him to your bedroom.
You should have been embarrassed at the state of your room. Dirty laundry in a looming pile. Take-out boxes on your desk. Pictures of Tim on every wall from floor to ceiling. He didn’t seem to care. He was fixated on you. He threw the messy blankets off your bed and pushed you onto it. A breathless giggle bubbled out of you. You didn’t even have the capacity to be nervous. It still felt like you were living in a hallucination. You could’ve been for all you knew. You’d stopped taking your pills months ago.
He pulled your shirt over your head and whined. Whined. He dropped to his knees and pushed your thighs apart to press reverent kisses up to your cunt. You were dead. You were dead and this was heaven. His tongue darted out to taste you and you sighed and leaned back on your hands. While you weren’t anxious, you were afraid to touch him. As if you’d reach out and there’d be nothing but smoke and you’d be alone again. He snatched one of your wrists and yanked it towards him, pressing your hand to his hair. You gasped in a sharp breath at the feathery sensation. Smooth, ink black hair, soft as rabbit fur, glided between your fingers like silk.
His tongue was better than anything your feeble brain could’ve conjured. Warm and slippery with just a hint of friction. It was slow, relaxing even, and made your fingers and toes tingle. He was lethal with his tongue and a squeaky whimper pressed out of you when he curled his arms around your thighs to hold you tight to his mouth. You kept your hand in his hair, fingers flexing whenever he licked up your cunt with the flat of his tongue. Then you started to feel lightheaded as your stomach coiled. For the first time, fear stabbed at your throat. You felt like you were about to puke.
“Tim-” you started until a moan ripped out of you and the sensation bloomed into something bigger and weightless all at once.
Dizzy, you fell back, fingers bunched loosely in his hair as your thighs squeezed and shivered around his skull, more and more gasping noises pouring out of you until you started hiccuping. Tim pulled away from you, laughing before he licked his lips and wiped his wet chin.
“You’re so cute,” he mused as he leaned over you to skim his fingers up your stomach. You hiccuped again and an amused breath blew out of him. “Move up to the pillows. I’m gonna fuck you.”
You nodded, another hiccup bursting out as you shimmed back and settled, fingers tangling together in your lap, squirming as he watched you and undressed. There was something dark in his eyes, something dead yet bursting with emotion. It was hard to place exactly what but you didn’t care because then he was easing his dick out of his pants. You’d waited 33 long days to see that dick after being teased with its outline. You’d never watched porn and you’d never had sex, obviously, but you knew from high school health class the general idea of a penis’ appearance. Tim’s dick made your mouth water. Not very thick but not slender either. It matched him in a way. You hiccuped again and he smiled like a shark, all teeth.
Tim climbed over your steaming body, pressing kisses and mouthing bites as he went while you let your legs fall open to accommodate him. He took both your nipples and rolled them into a sharp pinch that had your back bowing off the bed as a pained mewl slid out of you. He laughed outright, cruelly, and did it again. Your thighs squeezed around his narrow waist when he kissed your mouth. This kiss was far slower than the others were, but rather than it being gentle it was more relieved, like he was getting a drink of cool water after a lifetime in the desert. He was savoring you, taking his time. It felt like maybe he was planning on killing you. You felt like a final meal for a death row inmate.
When he sat back up, you took in a shaking breath but another hiccup interrupted it and your chest stuttered like an old engine. He practically purred as he wrapped his fingers around your neck and squeezed lightly under your jaw.
“You look perfect like this,” he whispered, eyes nearly black from how big his pupils were. “You were made for me.”
You nodded, mostly because you couldn’t get your mouth to do anything but breath hard. He reached between your bodies and pressed his fingers against your cunt again. A squeaky little noise like a guinea pig’s chirp pressed between your lips as he circled your clit languidly before dipping two fingers inside you. The stretch was different from your own fingers and burned just enough to make your brows furrow until he touched that previously unknown spot again and you clenched around him.
“How does that feel?” He murmured and nosed against your cheek, taking a deep sniff of your hair and shuddering out a sigh as he curled his fingers.
A gasp punched out of you and you felt his smile on your temple as he stroked over that spot again and again. Unhurried, like the day would never end. He pulled back and watched you like he was going to be tested on your reactions later. Eyes lidded, lips slightly parted, head tipped back just enough so he could look down his nose at you. His stare would’ve felt condescending if you weren’t high on the drug that was Tim Drake and he wasn’t flushed pink from the tips of his ears down to the slope of his shoulders. His fingers tapped vigorously inside you and your breathing picked up as the familiar twist of an incoming orgasm lapped at your core. It felt similar to the ones you’d give yourself but it was like the font was italicised and bolded. Just enough to make you mangle the pillow under your head and press a strained squeal through clenched teeth as his thumb came down over your clit. It took one single flick over the pulsing little bud to send everything crashing down. Your back arched, your thighs quaked, and your throat screamed as you gushed around his fingers. Had you just pissed yourself? It sure felt like it. Tim laughed, an unkind, vicious sound, and pounded you even harder with his fingers until you were convulsing on the sheets and tears were streaming down your temples.
“‘M sorry,” you slurred when he finally slowed enough to allow you to speak. Your mouth felt like it was coated in wet clay.
“What for?” He hummed, pride painting his tone in bright colors. “For wetting the bed?”
You teetered up onto your elbows, still far too boneless to do much more than move a little bit further up the pillows so you could look down at the mess between your thighs.
“Did I?” You croaked. You hadn’t managed to sit up enough to see anything more than your heartbeat fluttering in your belly.
“You squirted, sweetheart,” he cooed and guided your face towards him. “Nothing bad. Just another way women can cum.”
“Oh,” you said, intelligently, and hiccuped.
He burst out laughing again, a manic little cackle, and smothered you with another kiss. This one was bruising, forceful, desperate, and he lined himself up with you as he wrapped his hand around your throat again. Not squeezing, just holding. Like you were an anchor. He slid inside you and you gasped into his mouth. The feeling was like nothing you’d ever felt before. A fullness that stung and stretched. He, very kindly, gave you a moment to adjust but you could tell it was the last thing he wanted to do. It felt like the only thing he’d done that morning for your sake. Like he really did want you to have a good time, even if he’d been being greedy for most of it.
He rocked his hips against yours softly, impatiently, a little frown squishing his features until you laced your fingers behind his neck and nodded. You weren’t actually sure if you were ready for him to move but you were eager and excited and desperately wanted to please him. It still burned and ached when he pulled out and pushed back in again but it was a little more muted than the initial intrusion. You chewed your bottom lip around pained noises and drew in sharp breaths through your nose as he went. The uncomfortable sensation subsided to make room for something far more magical. His hands fisted the sheets beside your head and his mouth dropped open once he started in earnest, puffs of blissed out breath blowing over your cheeks. You pulled him down to kiss you again and hiccuped into his mouth. A grin pressed to your lips and you ate his laugh before feeding him a giggle of your own.
“I knew you’d feel perfect,” he breathed into you. “I knew you’d be perfect. Gorgeous little owl. You’re lethal.”
“I used to fantasize about this,” you confessed against his mouth. “I used to practice moaning for you. I’d practice expressions in the mirror but I f-figured having them happen naturally would be better.”
He hummed and kissed your cheek, trailing his lips down your jaw until he nipped at the hollow of your throat.
“Tell me your other fantasies,” he rumbled against your collarbone and kissed back up to your face before licking a stripe up your cheek that pulled a rattly moan out of you.
“I used to imagine hitting you with my car so I could nurse you back to health like an injured bird,” you said and he groaned in your ear as he picked up the pace inside you. “Completely reliant on me, bedridden and waiting for me to get home from school or work or whatever bullshit kept me away from you. Then-” A whimper. “Then I’d ride you hard enough to break your ribs again. Maybe stick my fingers in your wounds and swirl them around in your blood.”
He breathed out an ecstatic sigh against your face, a little chill tickling your cheek from where he’d licked you. “What else?”
“When I found out you lost your spleen and got your tonsils removed I was so mad. There’s only so many disposable organs in a human body and I wanted to eat all of yours,” you huffed, a small pout pulling at your lips. “And you need both your lungs because of your asthma.”
“I still have both my kidneys. I could lose one for you,” he offered and you grinned as he pulled away to look at you. There was so much love in those ice cold eyes. “I can’t imagine a gallbladder would taste all that great and I’m gonna need my balls if you want me to consistently stay hard.”
“I’d never dream of taking your balls and I think you’re- oh fuck! R-Right about the gallbladder.” He smirked against your mouth as your thighs began to tremble. “Tim, I’m… about to cum.”
“Good,” he cooed and sat back on his haunches to grab your hips and tug you into his dick with a manic, wild grin on his face, one thumb rubbing rapid strokes over your clit.
You squealed and dug your nails into his forearm as that familiar twisting sensation coiled tight inside you. The headboard began to bang loudly against the wall. Once again, a similar feeling but it was like the volume had been turned up to eleven. Like you’d been using the free trial version and Tim had the top tier premium subscription. A blood-curdling, noise complaint inducing, guttural scream ripped out of you and your back arched cruelly off the bed as your legs locked tight around his waist, your hands flying to claw the sheets as your hips quaked against his all while he continued to jackhammer into you like some kind of feral creature. Tears stung your eyes when he didn’t stop. Even as overstimulation began to stab at your skin like a tattoo gun and your thighs fell boneless from his waist, he kept going.
“Tim,” you gasped. “Tim, it’s too much.”
“You can take it,” he growled, eyes locked onto where you were connected. “C’mon, pretty girl. One more. I know you can do it.”
Animalistic grunts sounded low in his throat until he gripped one of your legs and straddled the other, twisting you to fuck even deeper. A whimpering wail flew out of you as your head fell back. It felt like he was pushing up against your lungs, pushing air out of you with every thrust. That coil tightened again, faster than it had before, and you clenched around him hard enough to earn a stilted moan as you gushed onto his pelvis. A confused, exhausted little whine pressed between your teeth when he flipped you onto your stomach and pushed your back into a deep, unforgiving arch then started back up again, doubletime.
“One more. Last one. I promise,” he said between ragged breaths and held you down by your neck as your fingers curled in the sheets.
“I don’t believe you,” you managed to cry out, although your words were muffled in your pillow. He chuckled from somewhere above you and squeezed your hip.
His voice was right next to your ear, biting yet amused, when he whispered; “I’m not a liar, my little owl.”
You wailed, voice a wobbly, trembling thing, as you felt another wave approach you. A crashing, all encompassing sensation that had drool pooling around your teeth. You couldn’t think—you could barely remember to breathe—but the one conclusion your pointless brain managed to arrive at was; he had you exactly how he wanted you. That thought alone was enough to make you surrender yourself to him. If he wanted one, two, a dozen more orgasms out of you, he could have them. Anything for Tim. Anything for the love of your life.
The only noises you could make were short little whimpers until he slammed into you once, twice and a lascivious, nearly pornographic moan ripped from your throat. Then his dick was twitching inside you as a pleased, depraved sigh blew out of him. He rocked into you a few more times, drawing soft mewls from you, and pressed sweet kisses to your shoulders and back. A neckbreaking juxtaposition to the indelicate treatment you’d received just moments prior. When he pulled out, there was an instant gooey slick that slid down your thighs and Tim moaned before smearing his fingers over your abused cunt. He flipped you onto your back again and nestled himself between your legs. You pushed yourself onto your elbows to watch as he lowered his face into the mess he’d made.
As you carded your fingers through his hair, you said; “I thought that was the last one.”
“Yeah. With my dick. You gotta learn to ask more questions,” he said before licking a stripe through your puffy folds and teasing over your sensitive clit.
You sucked in a sharp breath when he plunged his tongue inside you and began sucking the cum out of you. Your face burned all the way down to your shoulders and your grip in his hair tightened enough to make him moan against you and pulled a shiver from your spine like the unsheathing of a sword. When he was satisfied with his job, he got up to grab the blankets he’d thrown on the floor and made the bed on top of you before slipping in and pulling you into his chest with a sigh. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck and spread a possessive hand over your womb.
“You should probably take a Plan B unless you wanna take care of my kid in nine months,” he mumbled against your ear, voice rasping and tired.
“While I love the idea, the practice probably wouldn’t be as much fun,” you mused and tangled your fingers with his.
He hummed and kissed your shoulder. He was quiet for long enough you thought he fell asleep but he spoke again.
“Do you wanna move in with me?”
Your answer was instantaneous.
“Yes.”
A/N: They matched each other's freaks and no one died! Hurray!!! This one kinda got away from me. I never meant for it to breach 3k words much less 6k. Good lord. Anyway, mandatory don't stalk people disclaimer. That's bad and damaging to both victim and perpetrator. Also the letters thing was inspired by Dinner in America. Banger movie but very vulgar. Okay toodles!!!!!
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