M/M raunchy crackfick dark romance featuring evil Theo Raeken disregarding everyone else’s notions of free will. Extremely dubious consent (regarding celestial space magic granting him the ability to dominate whoever he wants)…Proceed if that’s your thing! Will eventually lead to a twisted HEA for all parties. Aka everyone will be happy (thanks to mindfuckery).
Read it on AO3
Jack Apricot
Under a midnight sky, Theo Raeken sat alone on a fallen log. The sky was darker than usual, even for a New Moon. “I hate New Moons,” he said aloud to nobody but himself.
Theo’s mind was heavy with resentment and unfulfilled ambition and loneliness. The pack had rejected him again, leaving him to sulk alone. A sudden streak across the sky caught his eye—a meteor? No, something smaller, weirder, hurtling directly toward him. Before he could react, it struck him square in the crotch, a searing pain exploding through his body. The rock, glowing with an otherworldly energy, burned through his clothes, reducing them to ash. Theo collapsed. His vision blurred as heat undulated through his veins, reshaping the very fabric of his being. The last thing he remembered the taste of ozone and iron.
He awoke at dawn, bare naked. He felt alive. His body felt sturdier but more agile, more powerful. His muscles glistened with sweat, his chest broader, his jaw sharper. But it was lower that the change was most profound: his cock, once average, now swung thick and heavy between his thighs, veined and insistent, already half-hard with an unfamiliar ache. A rut, he realized dimly through the fog clouding his mind. “Werewolves don’t get ruts anymore,” he thought to himself as a flicker of curiosity emerged in his hazy mind. Heat and ruts and mating cycles were ancient history. His dick twitched at the thought of mating cycles. He needed to claim, to dominate, to breed.
Then, footsteps. Laughter. Theo’s head snapped up, nostrils flaring. Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale, hand in hand like lovesick puppies. Derek, that brooding mutt, was making Stiles giggle—giggle like a damn bitch. The sound grated against Theo’s raw instincts, igniting a possessive fury. They were his. No, Stiles was his. Derek was a game to play.
With a growl that rumbled from deep in his chest, Theo launched himself from the shadows. He tackled Derek first, the older werewolf slamming into the dirt with a surprised grunt. Derek’s eyes widened in shock, but Theo’s enhanced strength pinned him effortlessly. Claws extended just enough to shred Derek’s clothes, exposing his flawless olive skin to the morning light. Derek struggled briefly, his alpha instincts going haywire, but Theo’s presence was overwhelming, a tangible aura that pushed him down like gravity. Derek’s resistance crumbled. He whimpered, a pathetic whine escaping his lips.
“He’s mine,” Theo rumbled. “Stiles is mine.”
“Yes, Alpha.” Derek’s voice was pitched higher than Theo had ever heard it. His eyes were wide, his pupils as dark as last night’s new moon. “He’s yours, Alpha.”
“Call me, sir.” Theo warned. “I’ll decide if you’re worthy enough to call me alpha.”
“Yessir,” Derek choked. “Yes, sir.” In a surprisingly brave display, Derek bared his neck in submission.
Theo paused, caressing Derek’s exposed throat feeling the pulse quicken under his touch. Derek smelled needy, scared, but…hopeful?
Theo licked his own thumb, before smearing it over Derek’s throat. The contact sent Derek’s big floppy dick into a frenzy. It twitched to full mast, leaning precum like a broken sink.
He used the remnants of Derek’s clothes to bind him to a nearby tree, wrists and ankles secured tightly, leaving the naked werewolf exposed and helpless, his own cock twitching traitorously in response to Theo’s command. Derek could’ve easily torn through the makeshift binds. Both Theo and Derek knew that. They both knew, more importantly, that Derek wasn’t going anywhere. He’d stay put until Theo released him.
Meanwhile, Stiles had bolted, panic fueling his lanky legs as he crashed through the brush. It was serendipitous, Theo thought, that Stiles had gotten a head start. Chasing the bitch with his newfound preternatural speed was a fucking blast.
He tackled Stiles from behind, rolling them both to the forest floor. Stiles fought, flailing and cursing—“Theo, what the fuck?!”—but Theo’s body pinned him down, hot and unyielding.
“Theo…relax.” Stiles voice sounded far away. “Clearly something is…not right…with…”
Theo buried his face in Stiles’ neck, inhaling deeply, then began to scent-mark him: rubbing his jaw along Stiles’ skin, licking the sweat from his collarbone, grinding his massive erection against Stiles’ thigh. Theo could feel the energy from the magic space rock augmenting his pheromones, making his scent intoxicating, hypnotic. Stiles’ struggles weakened, his breaths turning shallow and needy. Wider eyes met Theo’s, shock melting into pliancy, a dazed submission taking hold as the rut’s influence seeped into him.
Theo hauled Stiles over his shoulder like a war prize. The sweet-smelling boy dangled over him like something beautiful
Theo carried his prize away to their new home, leaving Derek alone…bound and whining a bitch.
___
The loft—Derek’s loft—loomed ahead. Well it used to be Derek’s loft. Now, everything that belonged to Derek belong to Theo.
It was Theo’s loft.
He reached into Stiles pocket and plucked out his key ring. He could’ve just kicked the door down, but there was something heady about using Stiles’s own set of keys to get inside—the place where Theo would claim him for the first time.
Stiles mumbled incoherently against his back as he keyed inside. Theo’s vision turned red as he stepped inside. The intermingled scent of Stiles and Derek infuriated him.
He was going to claim every inch of this place, fuck Stiles into utter submission in every room, marking it all as his own.
Living room first. He draped Stiles across the wide leather couch, spreading his long legs apart. He spit into his palm. Thought it it wasn’t necessary…his cock head was slick with thick precum, and Stiles’ hole winked in anticipation. He lined up, and drove in with one deep thrust. Stiles moaned. Raw, wrecked, back arching as Theo split him open. He savored the way his pussyboy stretched for him, feeling the tightness contracting around his dick. When Stiles made a needy sound, Theo couldn’t hold back. He fucked like a piston: deep, primal strokes that slapped skin on skin, balls smacking Stiles’ cheeks with every plunge. “Take it,” he roared, fingers digging into narrow hips. “Fucking take every inch, princess.”
Stiles sobbed, clawed at the cushions, but his hole clenched greedily, milking Theo’s cock like it was starving. Theo leaned down, bit the back of Stiles’ neck, and came with a roar. Hot, thick spurts flooded his bitch’s channel, marking the territory from the inside. Still rock-hard, Theo pulled out, flipped Stiles onto his back, and sank back in, watching his pretty eyes roll as he was stuffed again.
Kitchen next. Stiles bent over the granite island, wrists pinned behind his back in one massive hand. Theo fucked him standing, hips snapping so hard the countertop rattled. Stiles’ smaller cock (now noticeably tinier, flushed and dripping) bobbed uselessly with every thrust. Theo reached around, pinched a nipple, and growled, “Look at you. So fucking beautiful when you’re broken.”
Bedroom last. Derek’s bed. Theo threw Stiles onto the sheets, chuckling at the way his princess landed with a squeak. The alpha spread him wide, and mounted him missionary…slow at first, letting Stiles feel every ridged inch dragging against his walls, then faster, harder, until the headboard cracked against the wall. Stiles was babbling now, wordless whimpers of gratitude and devotion, body shaking through orgasm after untouched orgasm.
For the next umpteen hours, Theo claimed him in every position. On his knees, riding reverse, face-down-ass-up, until the mattress was soaked and the room reeked of sex and ownership.
Hours later the rut finally ebbed. Theo’s mind cleared in slow, syrupy waves. He remembered the rock. The magic space rock. The burn. The cosmic power still thrumming in his veins like a second heartbeat. He looked down.
Stiles lay beneath him, wrecked and beautiful. His cock was even smaller now. Cute, petite, dainty. More of a cocklet than anything…flushed pink and spent. His eyes were shining with bright vitality, pupils blown so wide they looked black. His cheeks were flushed, lips swollen pink and plump. His expression soft and easy. In other words, he’d become a living manifestation of Theo’s wet dreams.
As his clarity continued to rise, he grew curious about Stiles’ perspective on his new life. The boy had gone through a lot over the past few hours. As his alpha, it was Theo’s job to make sure he was okay.
“Stiles?” Theo’s voice was raw.
He responded with a tiny, needy whimper.
“You good baby girl?”
Stiles nodded dreamily. His eyes crossing at the motion.
The realization hit like lightning: he’d fucked the human’s mind to pieces. He’d literally fucked his brains out until nothing clever, sarcastic, witty, or bratty remained—just a sweet, empty vessel eager to be filled by his alpha.
“Oh, Stiles. You’re perfect like this.”
The boy whined his approval, struggling to nod his head and bare his neck at the same time.
Everything hit Theo at once. The image of Stiles fucked stupid. The knowledge that his dick was responsible for literally transforming the brat into his sex toy. The loft smelling like Theo’s essence, no other Alpha musk anywhere near his new home. He’d fucked Stiles into submission. He’d wrangled Derek into subjugation. Theo’s balls drew up tight. The magic space rock’s energy surged, white-hot, and he came without warning. Harder than he’d ever come in his life. Thick ropes of cum erupted from his cock, painting Stiles’ chest, throat, face in heavy, pearlescent streaks. It splashed across parted lips, dripped into wide eyes, soaked hair and sheets. Theo roared, hips jerking through the aftershocks, emptying every last drop until Stiles was drenched, glistening, thoroughly claimed.
He collapsed beside his dazed claim, chest heaving. He dragged a lazy hand through his seed on Stiles’ skin. The loft was his. Stiles was his. Derek, that fucker, was naked and bound to a tree…waiting to be his.
The magic within him pulsed softly, promising more. Theo smiled, slow and dangerous. This was only the beginning.
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance, kidnapper x victim
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, self-harm, dead dove do not eat
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 40: Autopsy
Alina stood in silence.
The stillness felt obscene after the wreckage of seconds before. Her chest locked tight around a breath, like exhaling too fully might shatter whatever fragile thing was currently holding her together.
Minutes dissolved before she finally moved. One bare foot eased toward the door, the old boards creaking beneath each step. At the threshold she paused, hand hovering over the knob, then slowly pulled it open.
The hallway yawned back at her—empty, indifferent.
She crept toward the living room, hand trailing cool plaster. At the corner she pressed herself against the wall, squeezed her eyes shut for one useless second, then looked.
Nothing.
No mocking smile. No whisper of smoke.
The windows stared back, still shut and latched. The front door sat in its frame—deadbolt thrown, exactly as she'd left it.
Jack was gone.
She stood there, waiting for something to resolve. But the room held its shape around her, ordinary and quiet, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator.
The world should have stopped. The walls should have crumbled. But the refrigerator hummed on, steady and indifferent, while dust motes drifted through the morning light as if her soul hadn't just been razed to the ground.
She was alone. She had won.
But relief didn't come.
As she stepped farther into the living room, her eyes caught on the coffee table—and something inside her dropped clean through the floor.
The Tupperware container sat askew on the wood. A few lonely muffin crumbs scattered across the surface like debris from a wreck. Beside it, the mug—his mug—sat there with a mouthful of coffee still left at the bottom.
He was just here.
The man who had aimed a gun at her heart—and the man who had sat on her best friend’s sofa eating muffins.
The man who had ruined her life—and the one who had held her through the night like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
She walked toward the couch, her legs feeling disconnected from her body, and sank into the cushions.
The fabric was still warm.
Alina made a wrecked, breathless sound, her forehead dropping into her hands.
She hated him. Hated him with a purity that burned in her veins. She had meant every word she'd hurled at him—she wanted him to bleed, to stay gone, to suffer for what he’d done to her.
And yet her hand reached out anyway.
Her fingertips brushed the rim of the mug, and the way her heart clenched made her want to hurl it across the room.
She should have scrubbed the table raw. Torn the cushions apart. Purged every trace of him from the apartment before Emma came home.
But instead, she stared at the stupid crumbs he'd left behind and felt something inside her cave in completely.
Because some devastating, humiliating part of her wanted to gather them up like relics. Wanted to press the lingering warmth he left back into her chest and keep it there.
“God, I hate you,” she choked out into the silence.
But the air didn't answer.
The empty room just watched her—watched her sit there in her underwear, grieving a monster, losing her mind in the space between I’m free and please come back.
She'd finally cut the tether—had finally said everything she’d ever dreamed of saying to him.
Now, she was just floating in the dark, waiting for the oxygen to run out.
---
After a long while, she finally moved. Slowly, mechanically, she pushed herself off the floor and began erasing him.
She washed the mug first. Emma’s chipped little coffee mug with the fading Golden Girls decal. She scrubbed it too hard, fingers trembling around the sponge as near-scalding water ran over her knuckles.
She didn’t notice.
Then the Tupperware. The crumbs. The untouched half of the blueberry muffin—she swept it all straight into the trash bag, tying the plastic knot with tight, jerking motions as if she could strangle the memory of him inside it.
She righted the pillows. Folded the blanket.
As if restoring the apartment to its proper shape might somehow restore her too.
Rain started to whisper against the windows as she dragged herself toward the bathroom.
She brushed her teeth without looking in the mirror.
Couldn’t bear to.
Couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her own face and recognizing the woman staring back.
The shower was quick. Mechanical. Barely warm.
She washed herself with frantic hands, scrubbing at skin he’d barely touched this time, though her body still felt marked by him somehow—like fingerprints pressed beneath flesh instead of on top of it.
When she stepped out, steam curled weakly through the cramped bathroom. She wrapped a towel around herself and stared resolutely at the sink instead of the mirror.
After dressing in her room, she crossed the hall back into Emma’s bedroom to retrieve her phone from the dresser where she’d abandoned it yesterday.
But as she scanned for it, her eyes met something else first.
The comb.
Resting exactly where he’d set it down after dragging it through his damp curls with that infuriating, casual ease.
Alina froze—then picked it up without thinking.
Her thumb brushed the spine absently as her eyes drifted to the teeth—
A strand.
Dirty blond, catching sickly green when the light hit it just right, still faintly curled from dampness.
Jack’s.
Something sharp twisted low in her stomach.
For a second, she just stared at it. Then slowly—carefully—she plucked it free. The strand clung briefly to her fingertips.
So stupid.
So tiny.
And somehow it hurt more than the crumbs had.
More than the mug.
Her fingers curled instinctively.
For one horrifying second, she almost kept it.
Pressed between pages. Tucked into a drawer.
The realization made nausea rise hot in her throat.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered shakily.
Then dropped it into the wastebasket beside the nightstand like it had burned her.
That’s when her foot brushed against something soft.
The pillow.
The one she’d hurled into his chest.
The one he’d slept against the night before.
She bent automatically and picked it up. And the second she hugged it against herself—she smelled him.
Smoke.
Rain.
That deep masculine warmth beneath everything else.
Jack.
Her composure shattered instantly.
A broken sound tore from her throat as her knees gave out beneath her.
She slid down beside the bed, back hitting the mattress hard enough to jolt the frame. The pillow stayed crushed against her chest as if it were a part of her.
Then the sobs came.
Ugly, gasping sobs that shook her shoulders raw as she buried her face in the pillow and inhaled him like something starving.
Because he was gone. Because she had told him to go. Because she meant it. Because some ruined part of her still wanted to run after him anyway...
She cried until her throat burned. Until her head pounded. Until the pillow beneath her face turned damp and cold.
Her breathing hitched weakly in the aftermath as she sat limp against the bed, hollowed out and aching.
Then she opened her eyes.
And saw a trail of white dust across the floorboards.
Her gaze lifted—tracking upward—to the source.
A small crack split the plaster just above shoulder height, jagged and fresh. Flecks of paint still clung to the edges like peeling bark.
And down below, slumped crooked against the baseboard, lay the brush.
Emma's brush.
The one she had thrown across the room with everything in her. She hadn’t even looked to see where it landed—but clearly, it had hit the wall hard enough to leave a mark. Now it sat there, wooden handle dull against the floor.
And then she saw it all: The cracked picture frame. The shattered candle jar. Glass scattered like ice across the rug.
Panic surged like a wave.
She didn’t think—just moved.
She stood and grabbed the first thing she could—a towel slung over the edge of the bed—and dropped to her knees, frantically pushing it across the floor, trying to gather the mess.
“God,” she whispered. “Shit—fuck—”
She darted into the hallway closet, flung the door open, yanked out the broom.
Glass scraped as she swept. She collected the shards of the frame, the shattered candle. Her hands trembled with every movement.
She looked back up at the wall.
The crack in the plaster was worse than she thought. A hairline vein spread downward, like a wound beneath the paint.
How the hell was she going to explain this to Emma?
She stood frozen, chest heaving, both hands tangled in her scalp—pulling so hard it hurt. Sharp little jolts like needles piercing behind her eyes. But she didn’t relent. Didn’t even notice the pain until the pressure gave way to a sudden, sick stillness.
And then—
Movement by the windows.
Not much. A tremor. A breath through Emma's white, gossamer curtains.
Alina watched as the fabric lifted, slow and ghostlike against the still room. Cool air brushed her skin—damp with the lingering breath of the storm.
She blinked.
The storm.
Her breath snagged high in her throat.
The storm!
Perhaps... she’d left the windows open without thinking. The wind had been wild, slamming through the city like a tidal wave.
A candle could have fallen.
A picture frame could have shattered.
Glass could have scattered across the floor.
Her pulse quickened.
She could feel the idea forming like a thread thrown across a chasm—thin, trembling, but just strong enough to hold onto. It explained almost everything.
Everything but the crack in the plaster—but maybe, maybe if she—
She spun and ran.
The hallway blurred. She dropped to her knees in her room, heart thrashing like a trapped bird, and flung open the cardboard box she’d unearthed yesterday. Shoved aside old sketchbooks, broken pastels, fossilized tubes of paint.
Too slow. Too slow.
Charcoal tin—empty. Ragged apron. Brushes stiff with oil.
Then—
Titanium white.
The cracked cap barely held, paint crusted like dried bone at the edges. But it was still pliable. It would do.
It had to.
She grabbed it. Then ultramarine blue. Alizarin crimson. Yellow ochre. Raw umber. Her fingers knew the rhythm—cool to balance warmth, dark to hush the light.
She scraped up her old palette from beneath a nest of old rags and bolted back to Emma’s room.
Dropped to her knees, breath coming in short, frantic bursts.
Her supplies fanned out in a messy arc around her—brushes, palette knife, tubes.
She snatched the palette and crushed it against her lap like a shield, trembling as she squeezed out color after color in quick, uneven bursts. Her thighs ached, toes curling hard against the floorboards.
Up close, the damage felt louder. The crack wasn’t huge—but it was unmistakable. A jagged vein just above waist height, the plaster bruised beneath the paint.
Her throat tightened.
God.
She squeezed a line of white onto the palette. Added the faintest touches of the others—mixing with quick, precise strokes. Her eyes flicked constantly between palette and wall.
Back and forth. Back and forth—
Too light.
She added umber. Still wrong. Too brown. Panic flared again, hot and breathless.
She forced herself to slow.
Then—blue. Just a touch.
The color shifted. Cooler, quieter. Her chest eased, just a little.
She dipped a brush and stood, then dabbed it over the crack with surgical care, each stroke like stitching skin. Softening the edges. Muting the violence of it. The paint clung fast, clotting over the evidence. It dulled the contrast. Quieted the eye.
But it didn’t erase it.
By the time she stepped back, the wall looked… passable. Ordinary. The kind of imperfection no one would notice—
Unless they were really looking.
Alina squinted her eyes. The light caught the edge just so, casting the faintest shadow.
Like a memory that refused to fade.
---
She didn’t remember crawling into bed.
Only the moment the adrenaline gave out—when her knees buckled and her body simply obeyed gravity, surrendering without argument.
She didn’t undress. Didn’t brush her teeth. Didn’t turn off the lights.
She just folded.
Face‑down onto Emma's mattress, the scent of plaster dust and paint still clinging to her hair, her clothes, her skin—like evidence she couldn’t wash away.
When she woke, it was with a sharp inhale and a wince, the pale morning light pouring through the tall windows like a personal offense.
Sunday.
The word landed heavy in her chest.
Emma would be home tonight. Around four.
The thought made Alina’s stomach twist—tight and sick, a pulse of nerves that had nothing to do with not wanting to see her friend. She wanted to hear about everything. The baby. The train ride. Every small, ordinary detail.
What made her feel ill was the lies she knew she'd have to tell. Because she already knew that the guilt would be unbearable.
But there was no way she would ever tell Emma what had happened. No way.
Not about the break‑in.
Not about the tears.
Definitely not about the sick, disorienting relief she'd felt when she realized it was him—
How he’d held her so carefully.
How he hadn’t taken. Hadn’t forced.
God.
She wouldn't say a word about the muffins—how he’d insulted them like it was nothing.
How he'd used the shower—probably even Emma's special lavender shampoo.
How he’d stood in this very room like he belonged here, casually running Emma's comb through his disheveled curls.
And never about the rage.
The sudden, unhinged fury that had ripped through her at his entitlement. After what he’d done. After everything.
The way she’d hurled Emma’s things at him like daggers—like she needed to draw blood just to stay standing.
And never—never—about the way he’d looked at her when he finally understood she wasn’t going with him.
That look.
Like something inside him had cracked open and bled.
But most of all—she would never tell Emma how much it had hurt. How every part of her had to fight the instinct to give in.
To fold.
To let him take her again—anywhere, anywhere—just to make the ache stop.
The guilt sat in her chest, dense and barely breathing—quiet, patient, waiting for her to look directly at it.
She turned her face into the pillow instead.
---
After finally wrenching herself out of bed, Alina went through the motions of getting ready for the day like a condemned soul walking toward the block.
Up.
Brush teeth.
Shower.
Moisturize.
Don’t look in the mirror.
Don’t think—
Eat.
Milk. Cereal. Tasteless.
Silence.
Everything felt thick. Slowed. Like walking through molasses.
Just get through the next minute.
Then the next.
Then the next.
Because if she let herself think—
His face. Unguarded. Cracked open. Devastated.
And if she let herself feel—
His hands wiping away her tears. Strong arms around her, warm enough to make her forget—for one terrible second—all the reasons she shouldn’t want them.
The ache that opened in her chest when he whispered, I just want you.
Fuck.
That was the worst part.
The way he'd said it. So bare. So sincere.
The one thing she'd always wanted, even before she'd known it.
Because it was everything she had once ached for—
Said too late, by the wrong mouth—in the wrong life.
---
She cleaned up fast after breakfast—moving blindly, desperate to stay ahead of her own head.
She stripped Emma’s bed first, ripping the sheets from the mattress like she could tear the memory of their bodies out with them. She made up the bed with clean linens, shoved the cleaning supplies back into the closet, and did one final sweep of the bedroom floor for phantom glass.
After she was finished, she stood broom in hand, surveying the job she'd done, trying to steady her breath.
It looked ordinary. Still.
She pressed her palms briefly to her eyes, grounding herself by force.
Okay.
Okay.
Storm. Wind. Window left open. Candle knocked over. Frame fell.
She rehearsed it silently, shaping the lie until it almost sounded plausible.
Almost.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. She startled hard enough that her shoulders jerked.
A text. She went to Emma's bedside and picked it up, a knot already tightening low in her gut.
Emma: Train’s pulling in early. Be home in about twenty.
Alina went cold.
Twenty minutes.
She looked around the room one last time—the swept floor, the bare space where the frame had been—and the patched up crack in the plaster.
Still there.
Still watching.
“Please,” she murmured under her breath.
“Please just… don’t look too hard.”
---
The sound of the deadbolt sliding open twenty minutes later felt like a starter pistol.
Alina stood in the center of the living room, her hands smoothed flat against her thighs, her spine rigid. She had spent the last ten minutes pacing, changing her positioning, trying to find the exact spot to stand that looked the most natural. The most ordinary. But the moment the key turned, every posture felt like an admission of guilt.
The door nudged open an inch, sticking against the frame.
“Alina? Ugh, these bags weigh a ton—can you grab the door?”
Emma’s voice broke through the suffocating quiet of the apartment like a splash of cold water. Loud. Bright. Utterly grounded in the real world. A world of train delays, heavy luggage, and family gossip.
“Yep, I got it,” Alina called out. Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears, a paper-thin shield, but she forced her legs to move.
She hurried to the threshold, swinging the door wide just as Emma was about to hoist a massive, bulging duffel bag over the welcome mat. Emma’s curls were wild from the train ride, her cheeks flushed pink from the damp Gotham air.
“Oof, thank you,” Emma gasped, letting the bag drop to the floorboards with a heavy thud. She immediately threw her arms around Alina’s neck, hugging her tight. She smelled like wet pavement, cheap train station coffee, and the familiar, comforting scent of her lavender laundry detergent. “God, it feels like I’ve been gone for a month. I missed you so much. How are you holding up? Did you sleep okay while the storm was passing through?”
Alina stiffened for a fraction of a second before forcing her muscles to go soft, returning the embrace.
The comforting warmth of her friend felt like a trap. Images flashed behind her eyelids—Jack standing at the foot of her bed, damp curls clinging to his forehead, the casual way he’d invaded this sanctuary like he belonged there.
“I missed you too,” Alina murmured into Emma’s shoulder, pulling back with a practiced, fragile smile. “I'm... I'm okay. A little tired, but alright. Let me help you with the rest.”
“Don't worry about it, that's everything,” Emma said, kicking the door shut behind her and immediately shedding her wet coat. She began unlacing her boots, talking at a mile a minute. “The baby is absolutely beautiful, Alina. She has these tiny little fingers, and she smells so sweet, and my brother is just a total sap now. He cried like three times while I was there. I took a million pictures, I can't wait to show you! But tell me about you. Did the police call again? Did anyone bother you?”
“No,” Alina lied smoothly, her throat tight. “No calls. It was... really quiet here.”
“Good. Thank god.” Emma picked up her duffel bag, lifting it with a small groan. “I'm just going to toss this on my bed and change into some sweats, and then I want a full breakdown of your weekend. Did you actually eat the food I left?”
“Emma, wait—” The words popped out of Alina's mouth a little too fast.
Emma paused, the heavy bag slung half-over her shoulder, looking at Alina with a slight, curious lift of her eyebrows. “What's wrong?”
Alina swallowed the lump of glass in her throat. She forced her hands into her pockets so Emma wouldn't see them shaking. This was it. The thread across the chasm.
“I’m so sorry, Em. The storm the other night... it got really bad while you were gone,” Alina started. “I stupidly left the window in your room open because it was so hot before the rain started. The wind was insane—it blew over the candle jar on your nightstand, and when it fell, it knocked into the framed photo of your parents.”
Emma’s face softened into immediate sympathy, her eyes widening. “Oh no! Is the frame broken?”
“It shattered,” Alina said, her heart hammering against her ribs like a fist against a door. “The glass went everywhere. I swept it up, and threw the broken frame out so you wouldn't step on anything. I feel terrible, Em. I'll replace the frame, I promise.”
“Oh, sweetie, don't worry about that at all,” Emma sighed, setting the duffel bag down on the sofa instead and stepping closer to rub Alina’s arm. “It was just an old cheap frame anyway. The photo itself is okay, right?”
“Yeah. The picture is fine. I put it on the kitchen counter,” Alina answered.
“See? No big deal. It was just a storm,” Emma said with a warm, dismissing wave of her hand. She picked up the duffel bag again, turning toward the hallway. “I'm just glad you didn't get cut trying to clean it up. Let me just drop this off—”
“I can take it in for you,” Alina offered quickly, reaching for the handle of the bag.
“Alina, stop, you're treating me like a guest in my own house,” Emma laughed, a genuine, easy sound that made Alina’s stomach violently churn with guilt. “I've got it. I'll be right out.”
Alina stood frozen in the living room, listening to Emma's footsteps disappear down the hallway.
She counted the seconds.
One.
Two.
Three.
She waited for the sharp intake of breath. For the pause that would mean Emma had caught it—the faint chemical smell of paint still clinging to the air, the slightly indented patch of plaster just above waist height...
“Hey, Alina?”
Every muscle in her body tensed—toes curling into the floorboards exactly as they had when she was mixing the paint.
“Yeah?” Alina called back, her voice barely a whisper. She cleared her throat, louder this time. “Yeah, Em?”
“Where did you put the broom?” Emma asked, her footsteps muffled as she walked back toward the doorway. “I think I see a little bit of glass under the dresser, I just want to sweep it up before it tracks somewhere.”
Alina let out the breath she’d been holding, the relief so intense it made her feel faint. Emma hadn't noticed the wall. She hadn't seen the scar.
“It's in the hallway closet,” Alina said, her voice suddenly bright. “I'll get it for you.”
“No need,” Emma said, stepping out of the room. She had already changed into an oversized fleece sweatshirt, her red curls pulled back into a messy bun. But as she walked past Alina, she paused, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked down at Alina’s bare legs.
“What's that on your leg?“ Emma asked, frowning as she pointed toward Alina's upper thigh, just below the hem of her shorts.
Alina's heart stopped. She looked down. In her frantic, panicked rush to paint over the crack in the wall, she hadn't realized that a tiny, jagged smear of Titanium White and Raw Umber had rubbed off her palette and onto her skin. To anyone else, it looked like a smudge of craft paint.
But to Alina, it looked exactly like the color of a bruised wall. It looked like the color of a lie.
“Oh,” Alina stammered, her mind racing, searching for another thread, another cover-up. “I... I dug out some of my old art supplies yesterday. While you were gone. I was trying to paint to pass the time, and I guess I got a little messy.”
Emma looked at the smear, then up at Alina's pale, drawn face. There was a long, agonizing beat of silence where Emma’s eyes didn't just look—they searched.
“You were painting?” Emma asked softly, her tone shifting from casual roommate to the protective, worried friend who had pulled Alina out of a media circus. She stepped closer, her eyes dropping to the faint, purple-green shadow of a thumbprint-sized bruise on Alina's wrist—a remnant of Jack's grip from the day before. “Alina... did something happen while I was gone? Truly?”
The kitchen refrigerator hummed. The evening light shifted, casting a long, cold shadow across the floorboards between them.
Alina stood on the edge of the chasm, the weight of the secrets—the crumbs, the tears, the phantom heat still lingering in her skin—threatening to pull her under.
She forced a breathless, self-deprecating laugh, pulling her leg back slightly.
“No, Em. I swear,” Alina said, her voice steadier than her racing pulse. She lifted her hand—carefully keeping her sleeve down to cover the faint bruise on her wrist—and gestured vaguely toward her bedroom. “I told you, I dug out some old paints. I... I had a bad night. The storm, the news... everything just got so loud inside my head. I started painting like a manic person just to keep distracted. I guess I just made a mess of myself.”
Emma’s eyes didn’t leave Alina’s face. “Lina,” she repeated softly, her brow furrowing as she stepped a fraction closer. “You’re white as a sheet. And you’re shaking.”
“Because I barely slept, Em,” Alina countered, adding a sharp, desperate edge to the truth. She let her shoulders drop, let the exhaustion show—that part wasn't a lie, at least. “The storm was so loud. Every time the thunder cracked I thought—” She swallowed. “I kept thinking I heard someone in the room. That he'd come back.“
Emma’s expression broke. The suspicion melted entirely into deep, aching guilt.
“Oh, God. I shouldn’t have left you,” Emma whispered, wrapping her arms around herself. “I knew it was too soon. I knew being here alone would trigger something. Alina, I am so sorry.”
“Don’t,” Alina said, the guilt slicing through her gut like a razor.
It was too easy.
Manipulating Emma’s kindness felt monstrous. But she had to do it. If Emma knew Jack had been in this apartment—if she knew he had slept in her bed, eaten her food, sat on her couch with damp hair and a crooked grin—
Alina couldn’t bear to imagine what would happen.
To protect Emma, she had to let her believe she was falling apart.
“It’s not your fault,” Alina murmured, forcing herself to cross the small distance between them and rest a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I wanted you to go. I’m glad you went. I just... I need to clean up my mess, and I need to wash this paint off, and then I just want to hear about the baby. Please.”
Emma swallowed hard, looking at Alina’s hand on her shoulder, then up into her eyes. Slowly, she nodded.
“Okay,” Emma whispered, rubbing a hand over her tired face. “Okay. Go wash up. I’ll... I’ll sweep up the rest of this glass, and then I’ll bring the pictures into the kitchen and make some tea for us.”
“Thank you,” Alina said.
She turned and walked down the hallway, every step a calculated effort to remain upright. When she reached the bathroom, she shut the door, locked it, and leaned her back against the wood.
The silence of the room closed in on her, heavy and absolute.
---
The kitchen was too quiet.
Even with the kettle beginning to mutter on the stove and the glossy baby photos spread out on the formica table, the silence between them felt brittle, like a thin pane of ice waiting for a heavy boot.
Emma was trying—God, she was trying so hard—to chatter about her niece’s tiny socks and her brother’s ridiculous new dad tears, but her eyes kept darting to the hallway, then to the rain-streaked window, then back to Alina’s pale face.
“It's just too quiet in here,” Emma muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. “It feels like we're hiding in a bunker. Let's just... let's put on some white noise. A cooking show or something. Just so I don't feel like I'm whispering in a church.”
She reached for the little under-cabinet black-and-white TV tucked near the toaster, flicking the plastic dial.
The screen crackled through a wash of static before sharpening into the harsh, high contrast image of Gotham Evening Pundit.
Alina’s breath hitched.
It wasn't a cooking show.
Three talking heads sat behind a curved glass desk, but the center seat belonged to a man whose navy suit looked crisp, his hair perfectly shellacked into place, completely recovered from the sweating, trembling wreck he'd been just days ago.
Kip Farthington.
The graphic beneath his face read: LIVE CALL AFTERMATH: JOURNALISTIC BRAVERY OR CRIMINAL OBSESSION?
Alina went cold.
Emma muttered, “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” reaching for the dial again—
But Kip started talking.
And something in Alina froze.
“Now,” Kip continued smoothly, fingers steepled beneath his chin, “before the outrage brigade begins sending letters, let me make something very clear: Miss Vale is, first and foremost, a victim.”
A breath.
“But…”
There it was.
That awful little pause he loved.
The one that made people lean in.
“One has to acknowledge the unprecedented nature of this case. Gotham has seen hostages before. Survivors before. But this?” He smiled faintly. “This is different.”
One of the female panelists shifted uncomfortably.
“Kip, I think we need to be careful not to speculate about a traumatized wom—”
“Oh, I agree,” Kip interrupted instantly, all practiced concern. “Completely. Which is precisely why people deserve honest discussion instead of sanitized PR statements.”
He turned slightly toward the camera.
“We are talking about a woman held in isolation with the Joker for nearly four months.”
Alina’s stomach tightened.
“She returns home…” Kip continued, voice measured, “and he risks exposure to call into a live broadcast the moment she appears distressed.”
Another pause.
“Not angry. Distressed.”
Emma’s hand slowly lowered from the television dial.
Kip leaned back in his chair.
“That is not the behavior of a man protecting an asset. It’s the behavior of someone emotionally invested.”
A woman on the panel frowned. “Or obsessive.”
Kip gave a thin smile.
“Well, obsession and attachment often overlap in psychologically distorted individuals.”
The panel gave uneasy little chuckles.
Alina felt sick.
“And frankly,” Kip said, smoothing his cuff, “the public is asking questions law enforcement seems unwilling to.”
His eyes sharpened slightly.
“What exactly happened down there?”
Emma whispered, horrified, “Oh my God…”
Kip spread his hands in false innocence.
“No, really. We’re expected to believe the Joker—arguably the most sadistic criminal Gotham has ever produced—kept a beautiful young woman hidden away for months and simply… played cards with her?”
A few nervous laughs from the panel.
Alina’s face burned.
“He called her doll on live television,” Kip continued. “Not ‘hostage.’ Not ‘Miss Vale.’ Doll. A term of intimacy. Possession, arguably affection.” He tilted his head. “And unless we’re all willing to suspend reality entirely… there are implications there.”
One panelist cut in quickly, visibly uncomfortable. “Kip, I really think implying sexual coercion on national television when the woman herself has not disclosed—”
“I’m not implying anything,” Kip said smoothly. “I’m saying the dynamics here are… complicated.”
His gaze slid toward the camera again.
“And frankly, some of Miss Vale’s responses during the interview raised questions.”
Alina stopped breathing.
The blood drained from Emma's face.
Kip’s voice softened into that faux-sympathetic cadence.
“The way she reacted to his voice. The emotional response. The visible attachment.” A tiny shrug. “Trauma bonding is real. Dependency is real. We have to ask whether Miss Vale is entirely reliable regarding her captor.”
The kitchen seemed to tilt.
“She may very well still be psychologically under his influence.”
Emma snapped, “I'm turning this shit off—”
But then Kip said the one thing he should never have said.
The thing that crossed from invasive into unforgivable.
“Because at a certain point,” he said thoughtfully, “one has to wonder whether Miss Vale is frightened of the Joker…”
He smiled faintly.
“…or frightened of how much she misses him.”
Silence.
Even the panel looked stunned.
One woman immediately said, “Okay, no. That’s deeply inappropriate—”
But Kip kept going, riding the momentum now, too intoxicated by his own insight to stop.
“I’m serious. Watch the footage. The tears, the body language, the way she responded to his attention.” He leaned forward. “People don’t want to say it because it’s uncomfortable, but emotional dependency between captor and captive is well documented. And frankly?”
Another tiny smile.
“I think Gotham deserves to know whether the Joker’s favorite hostage came home missing him more than fearing him.”
Emma lunged for the television.
The set clicked off hard enough to rattle the cabinet.
The kitchen dropped into dead silence.
Emma stared at the blank screen in disbelief.
“That smug, disgusting piece of shit,” she whispered, her voice cracking with protective fury as she turned toward Alina. “We’re suing the network. I'm going to ruin that bastard. Alina, don’t listen to him. He doesn’t know anything.”
Alina didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
Barely breathed.
Because somewhere beneath the horror, beneath the shame, beneath the sick violation of hearing her private devastation dissected on live-television like gossip—she couldn't ignore the truth.
Kip’s words weren’t a lie.
They were an autopsy.
He had reached through the screen, peeled back her skin, and pointed directly at the rot.
And now she had to live knowing everyone else could see it too.
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N:
I’m so sorry for the long wait. This chapter took forever for reasons that were part real life and part writer paralysis. No idea why the Emma-coming-home scene was the thing I kept procrastinating on, but apparently it had to fight me personally.
But I’m still here. This story is still alive. Alina and Jack are still haunting me daily. 😭
Thank you so much for waiting, reading, commenting, and caring about this story even through the long gaps. It means more to me than I can properly say!
I’ve got the next two chapters mapped out, and I absolutely CANNOT WAIT to write them. I’m so incredibly grateful to you all for keeping me motivated. No matter what happens, I WILL FINISH THIS.
I’m still completely and utterly obsessed with these two, as you can probably tell by the drawing I started. Like, do I have a child, a marriage, a life, goals, responsibilities, and approximately forty-seven other things I should be doing? Yeah. Am I going to sit for hours and draw a fictional clown and his even more fictional lady love instead? Hell yeah. 🖤
See you guys in the next one, which will hopefully be WAY sooner than four months. 💜💚🖤
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)
TW: dubcon. Also remember Shanks isn’t a reliable narrator
Shanks POV
Shanks was a little sad your heat was finally abating after five days. Your demands for his touch and comfort were coming in increasingly longer intervals and you expressed a desire for food and drink. On one hand, he was glad it was ending. You looked worse for the wear, run down, and exhausted. Hongo had been right that the heat would be challenging for you physically. Heat had caused your appetite for food to be completely gone and in conjunction with the intense physical activity you’d lost weight off your already malnourished frame. You had dark circles under your eyes and had scratched at your healing neck wound until Shanks had Commanded you to stop touching it. You’d be able to recover after the heat was fully over but it was dragging out over the course of long hours.
On the other hand, he had enjoyed your heat - maybe a little too much. Through sheer force of will Shanks hadn’t descended into rut and was able to keep his immense power contained. He’d fucked you in every conceivable position that kept you under him and even had allowed you on top once. But the real reason he’d enjoyed it so much was because he’d Commanded you to love him. A Command he repeated quite a few times, most of the time if he actually stopped and thought about it. Shanks was addicted to the way you’d look up at him through your lashes, pulling him in for tender kisses with your tongue meeting his own. How you’d moan his name, not his designation when he made you come on his cock or tongue. How you’d smile at him when he came in you, urging him to cuddle with you afterward, to hold you closer for just a few minutes longer. You’d laugh when he told you sweet nothings into your ear, happily giggling as his stubble tickled your cheek. When he Commanded you to love him, your body language changed - you were carefree, sweeter, and more romantic.
It was like a glimpse into a world he’d heard about but never experienced before. Shanks had fucked thousands of times before he met you, it wasn’t anything new for him. He’d even made love a few times when he found a stable someone to enjoy it with. But every new beginning came with a prescribed end. No matter how sweet the love or how rough the tumble, Shanks would be leaving in the morning, the Red Force would be sailing away, and his newest lover would remain where they were. He didn’t have the time to let himself get attached or to let anyone really enter his life beyond his crew since he was always leaving, the future uncertain. There was no question about the inevitable outcome, fucking only granted him a few hours of respite from the loneliness that threatened to consume him whole.
Shanks had long felt like there was something in his heart that was missing or somehow walled off from everyone else. Like there was a piece of glass wedged in, separating his true emotions from those he held dear. He hadn’t always felt that way - as a child, his life was filled with love. He had Roger, Rayleigh, Buggy, tand he whole crew always with him to provide support and guidance. But Roger died, Rayleigh abandoned him, Buggy left, and the whole crew blew away like dust after Loguetown. Shanks had no one and nothing, only the memories of the world’s most hated pirate and the loss of his family. He’d eventually found Beckman while at the bottom of a bottle and had built himself a crew and a name for himself. But the feeling of aloneness, of never wholly belonging to anyone or anything had become a permanent scar on his heart. He’d tried to find a connection through Luffy but he ultimately had to abandon the kid all the same.
But you - you were different. You weren’t able to leave him, not now or ever. He had kept his word, he hadn’t marked you this heat. It had been incredibly challenging, every fiber in him wanting to bite down on your soft flesh to warn off any Alpha who would dare look your way. Shanks had persevered, you could walk away at any point and he would have no physical claim over you. Except you had nowhere to go. You couldn’t reintegrate back into society with so many people knowing your designation and your Beta cover thoroughly blown. You couldn’t go to the Marines, they’d turn you into the Celestial Dragons who would make a slave of you. You couldn’t join another pirate crew, no one was powerful enough to challenge Shanks for you and win. No, you were his and his alone. He could keep you and you’d always be with him, no matter what.
He looked down at you as you slept tucked into his side facing him, your hair a mess after so many days without bathing. You looked like a fallen angel, innocent but ruined under his hand, his marks littering your skin like a series of tattoos. He’d been purring for you for the last few hours, keeping you relaxed and sleeping until one of the final rounds of heat. Hongo said that once the heat ended you would want to clean up but Shanks hoped you kept at least a little of the copious amounts of cum on your skin. There wasn’t an area on you that he hadn’t bitten or marked or rubbed his cum into or kissed; he’d consumed you whole. He trailed his fingers down your side, making you jerk in your sleep. Really, he should let you rest. But his cock had other ideas and well, Shanks was always one to listen. He thought by the end of five days of heat he’d be sated but every movement you made had his cock throbbing like it was the first time.
“Love, do you need me? You were moaning in your sleep,” Shanks said quietly in your ear while pushing your hair off your face. Your eyelids twitched but you didn’t open them. Shanks rolled you gently onto your back as you mewled a small protest.
“Shh, it’s alright. I’ll care of you,” Shanks rumbled through his purr. It wasn’t exactly fair to keep purring while he attended to you but he knew you’d want what he was going to give you. Shanks parted your legs, your tired thighs falling to either side. He kissed a bite mark he’d left on your inner thigh, pleased it was still there after four days. Seeing the healing bite from Kid in the crease of your leg made him scowl at the other Alpha’s mark - he’d have to work on that one later. Settling himself on his stomach between your thighs, he set one calf over his shoulder followed by the other. Your glistening core was bared to him and still weeping with the cum he gushed into you mere hours before. Shanks gave you one long lick up your slit, making your thighs tighten around his ears. Your muscles were shaking from exhaustion but one more round wasn’t going to hurt you.
“Alpha?” you said groggily, rolling your head on the pillow with your eyes still closed. You brought your hands down to run your fingers through his hair, as if in question that it was truly Shanks.
“Shh, just let it happen, I’ll help,” he assured you while remaining in his position. You whined but didn’t protest further as Shanks sucked gently on your clit. He knew it had gotten a lot of his attention but the swollen bud was calling to him. Shanks was gentle this time, lapping at you with care and ease as he wound your desire tighter. The taste of his cum mixed with your slick was like ambrosia for his taste buds - he needed to have more. Fucking his tongue into you, he tried to gather as much of the fluid as he could. You’d still produce slick after your heat fully ended but it was a touch sweeter during your heat. Your hole started to throb again, pulsing around his eager tongue.
“ Aah aah…Alpha - I -” you said, your voice straining under the onslaught of pleasure he was giving you.
“ Call me Shanks ,” he Commanded you, pulling his tongue out of your hole to speak before continuing to tongue your swollen clit.
“ Sh-Shanks - I -I’m g-gonna -” you stammered, your thighs clamped tight around his head. Ah, you really were coming out of heat. Previously you didn’t have control over yourself, coming when he made you either on his cock, fingers, or tongue. A few times he’d made you ask him or beg for it but he found it wasn’t as fulfilling for him. Sure, he liked making you whine and squirm but Shanks found he liked it even more when you came naturally, when the amount of pleasure he gave you was so overwhelming and intense that you had no choice but to come.
Shanks pulled back to halt your progress toward your climax. Resting his chin on your pelvis, he smiled at you - and you growled back. He kissed your outer thigh but let you feel his canine teeth press against your soft flesh in warning to remember your place around him.
“Al- Shanks, please?” you asked, now deferent to him. He smiled at your submission, it was always a fine treat to enjoy. You tried to use his designation but were unable to under his Command. Shanks idly wondered how long the Command would last - would it extend beyond your heat? He hoped it did.
“Of course, all you need to do is ask,” Shanks replied before giving the silky skin of your lower stomach a kiss. He wondered if you had gotten pregnant from this cycle, though he doubted it. Hongo said the first few heats weren’t generally productive and you weren’t in optimal health to begin with. The idea of your stomach swelling with his child had him kissing your stomach again. He hunkered back down between your legs, applying pressure to your clit in the way he knew you liked after so many times together. You moaned in pleasure, Shanks sliding two of his fingers into your hole to find that spot that made you gush.
“N-not - ah I can’t - it’s too much hah hah -” you protested, now using your hands to try and push him away. He clicked his tongue at you - you were not to tell him what to do, he was the Alpha and you the Omega. Ignoring your cries, he curled his fingers and continued to pump them in your aching pussy, rubbing against the slightly rougher spot on your walls. He wished he had his other hand to push down on your stomach to intensify the sensation but you were shaking even without it. Sucking a little harder on your clit, he felt the moment of your release as your cunt tried pulling his fingers in even further. Slick gushed from you and he slurped up as much as he could while continuing to move his tongue against your clit. He was grinding against the bed while watching you fall under the spell of his bliss, he’d satisfy himself in a little bit. He showed you no mercy as you yelled out his name like a war cry. Finally, your pleasure wound down, your chest heaving and your eyes tightly shut.
“There it is, that’s my good Omega, such a good girl for me,” Shanks cooed at you as he removed his fingers from your body and pushed them into your mouth. You sucked them obediently, as he’d trained you to do during heat, only stopping when he took them out. Crawling back up to you, Shanks pulled you towards him again, letting you curl up into his body heat. Pulling the blankets back over the both of you, Shanks resumed purring. After a few minutes, he felt your body go limp as your breathing evened out. Yes, he’d be sad to see your heat go.
There was always next time to look forward to.
Your POV
You felt like you were waking from a long, vivid dream as you regained your sense of self after your heat. It felt like memories were almost in your grasp, disappearing like vapor when you tried to hold onto them too hard. You could recollect only bits and pieces - you remembered kissing Shanks deeply, your arms wound around his neck as he fucked you slowly. You remembered crying out for him to help you, your body burning with need only to be reassured by his touch immediately branding your skin. You remembered him pulling orgasm after orgasm from you easily and how he had you crumbling under his slightest touch. You remembered his calloused hand running gently down your back to rest on your hip as he fucked you from behind. You thought you remembered telling him that you loved him, though that memory was hazier than the rest.
What you did know was that Shanks had kept his word and hadn’t marked you during the heat. You truly hadn’t expected him to keep his promise, fully expecting that you would come to with a Claiming Bite on the non-infected side of your neck. Your neck still hurt from Kid’s bite with the incision now an angry red and covered in scratch marks. Hongo would want to see it, you thought, but you wanted to shower off the gunk covering your skin. Looking yourself over, you grimaced as you saw the marks from Shanks’s attention during your heat. He had gone to get you food and water after saying you needed to keep resting in the bed. And truthfully, you agreed with him.
You were tired, a bone aching kind of tired you hadn’t felt since you were on the run from Marine patrols, sleeping only when you’d found somewhere safe to hide. You couldn’t leave the bed if you wanted to, opting instead to let Shanks take care of you. Shanks? You thought to yourself. When had he become Shanks and not the Emperor to you? Probably after a few dozen rounds of sex, you decided. He didn’t seem to mind being called by his first name, that’s what the crew did. He still called you “Love” or “Omega,” but you weren’t going to correct him.
Looking out the window in the cabin, you saw it was morning as soft light fell across your face. Shanks told you that you’d been in heat for five days, quite a considerable length for a first-timer. Curling back up in your now destroyed but perfectly smelling nest, you thought about asking him to visit the island after your next nap.
About a day later, you were finally able to get out of Shanks’s bed. Throwing your legs over the side of the bed, you stretched your arms upwards and felt a lingering ache in your back and limbs. You were sticky with residual fluids, sweat, and slick and wanted to shower. Shanks watched you stand up, following you with his eyes as you headed toward the bathroom. You heard the bed creak and felt his body heat behind you as you reached to turn on the shower in his en suite. He leaned down and kissed your shoulder with the action making you jump with the unexpected affection. You weren’t sure how to act around Shanks now that your heat was over - not that you ever did to begin with. Obviously, you’d been intimate with him many times but that wasn’t you. You hesitated now, your returned senses leaving you unable to act as freely as you did under the influence of heat.
“Relax, it’s ok. I’m gonna come in with you,” Shanks said into your skin, peppering your shoulder with small kisses. You nodded as you remained facing the shower, you had been looking forward to alone time but weren’t all that surprised to find him joining. Shanks considered you for a moment then gathered towels and placed them on the counter for when you’d need them.
“Nothing’s changed. You’re still safe, you’re still here with me,” Shanks said, leaning against the sink. You looked at him, knowing he’d want to hear and see your understanding.
“Thank you, Shanks,” you said, looking into his eyes. “Thank you for keeping me safe d-during heat and um, helping me, and ah, not g-giving me the bite,” you said, dropping your eyes in the middle of your sentence. He wasn’t your mate, you couldn’t maintain eye contact with someone so much stronger than you on the designation scale. Shanks gave you a small smile instead of the broad flashy one he usually did.
“You’re welcome, Love. Now, let’s get in before the hot water runs out,” he said while ushering you into the shower. He followed immediately behind you, allowing you the majority of the hot water while he stood behind you, pressing against your backside in the small space. He grabbed a clean washcloth and lathered it up.
“Arms up,” he said, holding the wet cloth. You blinked - he was going to wash you again? You turned to face him but your eyes only made it up to his muscled chest.
“I c-can do it, I’m not that tired,” you sputtered in a failed attempt to exert some autonomy. Shanks had seen and touched every inch of you but that was during your heat. Now you were lucid and a little less afraid - he didn’t need to take care of you as much as he had before.
You thought about protesting but instead raised your arms. It wasn’t that big of a deal and you wanted to save your battles for when they mattered. He began rubbing you down quickly with the mild soap. You didn’t think he did as thorough of a job as when you were in the bath but you could always clean yourself again later. As you ran your fingertips over your hair, you thought about his promise to let you cut your hair short. Detangling the rat’s nest would be a much faster process if you cut off about 8 inches.
“Um, Sh-shanks? Were you - um, can I still get the um, haircut? That you mentioned?” you asked with a trembling voice while watching him run the washcloth over your stomach. He hummed but didn’t answer directly, continuing to soap you down. He was efficient, not lingering on your breasts or cunt like you expected.
“We can check for a hairdresser but I don’t think there’s one on this island. And trust me, you don’t want Beckman cutting your hair. You’ll end up with something like Hongo’s. You can get one at the next island,” he said with a hint of mirth.
“Alright, that - that makes sense,” you said and looked away while doubt crept in at his flippant answer. In your mind, you couldn’t think of any island that didn’t have at least one barber. You watched the suds fall down the drain as he finished washing your torso. He crouched down to wash your legs in the single person shower, which was made even more challenging by his broad shoulders. You were crowded into the back corner, the water still pounding your skin as Shanks ran his fingers up your calf. You could see his cock bobbing even as he crouched down, already erect and leaking at the tip. Of course, you’d seen it before but not in such vivid detail that you could remember.
“Put your foot up on my thigh, I want to check your injury,” he said calmly while still rubbing down your lower limbs. Leaning your back against the shower stall, you lifted your foot as he asked. Shanks was a tall man, so you had to hike your leg rather high to accomplish what he’d asked you. It was a little lewd exposing yourself to him so plainly, but you were glad he was taking a look at your cut. You had worried it would get too much friction during your heat and get infected like the one on your neck. Shanks finished scrubbing you and put the washcloth over his shoulder, using his hand to move your thigh to where he could see your wound. He prodded at it lightly, looking it over closely. Leaning forward he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh and stood back up. You jumped from the contact but he was already standing up by the time you processed what happened.
“Your turn,” he said with a smile before handing you the washcloth off his shoulder.
Shanks POV
Shanks watched patiently as you took the washcloth from him with shaky fingers and wide eyes. It was like he was handing you a loaded gun with how nervous you were. Your smaller fingers took the offered item as you turned to cover it in more soap. Shanks almost felt bad for making you feel so skittish but you needed to work through your fear of Alphas. Now that your heat was over, Shanks wanted to have to work to get you back to how you were, to feel you on his skin again. No matter how much coaxing it took, Shanks always got what he wanted.
You tentatively began washing his chest and gained some confidence when he began to purr softly for you. You were absorbed in the task and taking it seriously, using your lesser strength to scrub his skin. Shanks hadn’t tried to wash you very thoroughly with a part of him hopeful some of the scent and fluids would remain on your skin. If not, he could always replace them. Shanks was enjoying watching you take care of him, even if he had foisted it upon you. Now finished with his stomach and chest you passed the washcloth over his stump, washing it with care. He didn’t think you noticed but your tongue was peeking out of your mouth in an enticing way as you concentrated. You washed his back and legs, his full arm and hand, which he used to cup your face when you’d finished.
“Doing so well, thank you little Omega,” he said, kissing you on the forehead. You flushed adorably at the bit of praise and he couldn’t resist giving you a small smile. After all that he’d done with you, you still were embarrassed by praise and simple affection. He wondered if he was the first person to offer you any in your sad life before him. You certainly hadn’t had any with Kid, but maybe you’d been as lonely as he was when you were living incognito. You wouldn’t have been able to have intimate relationships or let anyone in too close for fear of your secret being discovered. Plus you were weak, unable to defend yourself, so it made sense you would have hidden yourself away from others. It had all worked out in a cosmic way, he was as perfect for you as you were for him. You were wringing out the washcloth from soap while Shanks mulled over this new thought. Oh no, you weren’t getting away that easy, he thought to himself .
“Wash all of me, Omega,” he demanded without a Command behind it. You were obedient enough that you’d do what he said without force even outside of your heat. Your face flamed again and you steadfastly avoided his eyes. He’d have to break you of that habit, he thought, he enjoyed seeing your expressive face when he talked to you. It might come in time, he supposed. After all, you hadn’t spent much time with him outside of the heat; you barely knew what he was like. He could tell you he wouldn’t hurt you and that he wanted the best for you, but you’d have to see it for yourself by his actions. So he allowed you to look at his feet while shuffling your own.
Shanks took hold of your hand that was closed into a tight fist and gently pried your fingers open. He grabbed the bar of soap from its holder and put it in your hand.
“Easy Love, nothing you haven’t done before,” he said softly, kissing the top of your head. You finally started moving, lathering up the rag and replacing the soap in its spot. There wasn’t much room in the small space but you brought yourself closer to him before raising your hand to his hard cock. You wrapped your slimmer fingers around his shaft with the rag in between, trying to quickly soap him off. Shanks covered your hand with his own larger one, keeping your hand wrapped around where he wanted it most. He pumped your hand up and down over his cock, letting the rag drop to the floor as the movements continued. It was heavenly to be stroked in your soft hand so unlike his own. You made timid movements like you weren’t sure exactly what to do.
“A little harder, aah , there aah - good girl,” Shanks bit out as you increased the pressure on his cock.
“Don’t stop,” he ordered as he removed his hand from atop yours. He cupped your chin in his hand and leaned down to kiss you as you continued stroking his cock. You allowed him to dominate the kiss, to do what he wanted to you without protest. It was pleasant but not the same as when you were in heat. During heat you reciprocated in delight, making it less of a kiss and more of a dance between lovers. Now you were accepting but not participating and Shanks didn’t like it.
“ Kiss me back,” Shanks Commanded you, wanting to relive what he’d had previously. You gave him a worried look but were unable to refuse as your body took over. He knew you’d eventually see that he loved you and that your fates had been written in the stars, he just had to lead you a little bit further. You hooked your free hand around his waist, bringing him even closer so there was no room between you. Your fist kept pumping as you began kissing him with passion, tongue thrusting against his own. Shanks moaned as you gently bit his lower lip before tilting your head to allow him to deepen the kiss.
“I’m close, Love,” Shanks said, pulling away for a moment to lean his forehead on your shoulder.
“You want to be my good Omega, nh ? Then don’t make a mess,” Shanks bit out as he rode the edge of pleasure. He picked up his head and put his hand on your shoulder, pushing down gently. Understanding his silent cue, you got to your knees and put his cock head in your mouth while continuing to pump his aching cock.
“That’s hah that’s my girl - hah - a little more - ahh -” he mumbled as you sucked his tender tip then pushed forward so his shaft hit the back of your throat. He’d throat fucked you during heat but he refrained from putting his hand on your head out of consideration. Training that fear out of you meant being gentle when you weren’t in heat. Shanks could barely hold back as your tight, hot throat grasped him almost as well as your cunt.
“G’na come in - nngnh fuck fuck fuck swallow it all, that’s it, to the last drop,” Shanks stammered through his orgasm and you did your best listen, your throat bobbing as you swallowed as much as you could. He watched as the overflow from his massive load started dripping out the sides of your mouth. His finger swept across the edges of your lips when he cleaned up your face as you swallowed his cum.
“Open,” he said, his eyes half lidded and hazy with spent desire. He pushed his finger into your warm mouth, allowing you to finish cleaning him off. Removing his fingers from your mouth, he pulled you to standing and turned off the shower.
“Let’s dry off and see if breakfast’s ready, yeah?” Shanks said while handing you a towel. Unfortunately, drying you off wasn’t something he could do efficiently before you got cold. You nodded as Shanks leaned down to kiss you on the mouth once more. You hesitated but ultimately kissed him back with a touch of affection. Yes, he missed the heat version of you who loved him back more easily.
Maybe he’d ask Hongo if there was a way to speed up the intervals in between your heats.
not a kink i see from a lot of people but i like how you write trans chars in general would you consider writing forcemasc stuff (wihtin that context)??? dont wanna ask fpr something your not comfortable with tho
This really means a lot to me - I still don't have a ton of experience writing trans characters, so I'm so glad you've liked what I've managed so far. ❤️
This is not a kink I am at all familiar with, so I did my best! Big thanks to @frumious-bandersnatch-ao3, who really held my hand through the brainstorming process; most of the stuff that happens in here came directly from him.
(Also lol that this wound up being posted on Valentine's Day. I guess it's fitting; it's about someone not only seeing and loving the person you were meant to be, the person you actually are, but forcing you to see and love them, too. I think that's kind of beautiful, and I like it as a core of JonElias.)
“Hey, —?” Sasha’s knuckles rapped gently on the door frame. “Elias wants to see you.”
“Right.” Jon heaved a testy sigh, shoving himself to his feet and crushing the small dart of pain that came with hearing his name. “Not as if I were doing something important or anything…”
“He does that,” Sasha said sympathetically. “Sometimes I swear he can tell when you’ve just sat down to something.”
Jon grunted as he passed her. It wouldn’t surprise him.
He headed up the stairs, lifting the hem of his skirt with one hand so he wouldn’t trip over it and go sprawling; he’d already had that happen twice when he was still getting used to working in the Institute’s basement, and was not keen to repeat the humiliating experience of everyone gathering around him in concern and ignoring his repeated, irritated I’m fine, I’m fines. It wasn’t a terribly long walk to Elias’s office, admin tucked in towards the front of the building.
“Go right on in, —,” Rosie invited as Jon passed her desk. “He’s ready for you.” So Jon did.
Elias’s office had always reminded him a bit of a magpie’s nest. It was a large space made smaller by the clutter, a certain degree of bureaucratic disorganization that spoke to a mild incompetence Jon had never felt entirely comfortable assigning to Elias. There were the usual things one might expect to find in the office of an academic institution’s director: boxes of research materials with bygone years scrawled on them in marker, filing cabinets, shelves stuffed full with books and files both, degrees and certifications hanging on the walls, portraits of the previous directors. But there were certain oddities, too. A mirror with an ostentatiously-worked frame, all peacock feathers and moths, and a misty glass. Some of the books were grimoires; there were a great deal of taxidermied insects. A fully-articulated human skeleton Jon swore was real hung in the corner. But perhaps all of that was usual too, given the Institute’s stated area of study.
Elias sat in the middle of it all, bent over the paystubs he was signing with a scribbled flourish. He was always working on something else whenever Jon entered. If he were ever to actually be ready and waiting for him, Jon thought he might have a heart attack.
“This’d better be - ” Jon began, irritated, but Elias cut him off.
“Hello, Jon,” he said pleasantly without even looking up, and Jon stilled to the point he wasn’t even totally sure his heart was beating.
Elias left him like that a long moment, before finally looking up at him, smiling. “‘Jon.’ It suits you very well, you know,” he commented. “Much better than —.”
Jon swallowed. He was achingly, awfully aware of his body, in a way that he had spent years trying to insulate himself against, swaddling his form in layers and layers of mental cotton. It had all been stripped away now - along with his skin, it felt like. As if the line of his bra lay on wet, flensed muscle. As if his breasts had swollen monstrously larger without everything holding them back. As if the throbbing absence between his legs -
He could not breathe. His lungs were crystal. But finally, eventually, he took a shattering gasp and managed, voice gone hatedly high and girlish, “H-how did you - ”
“Oh, Jon.” Elias looked disappointed as he rose from his desk. “I know you’ve gone to great lengths to hide it, with this…costume…”
He stepped forward, and Jon could not give in to the urge to shy away from him as Elias walked a slow circle around him, plucking here and there at his clothes. The long-sleeved blouse, the vest. The long skirt. Old-fashioned armor that simultaneously covered and exposed, that proclaimed loudly and defensively that he was supposed to be what he’d been made. Head archivist. A woman.
“But it’s obvious,” Elias continued, stopping in front of Jon. “To me, at least.” And then he started to take off his suit.
This time, Jon managed half a step back, an offended “I - ”
“I know, I know,” Elias said, almost soothingly. “This isn’t that, I assure you. I just want you to look at what you could have had by now if you weren’t such a coward.” He shrugged free of jacket and shirt. “At what you are going to have.” Jon stared at the flat chest above the slightly-rounded belly, at the long-healed, silvery threads of scars that ran from the patch of salt-and-pepper hair between the pectorals into the armpits. “Because it is getting ever so tiresome. Watching you slink around my Institute fidgeting in your panties, hating your cunt.” He unbuckled his belt. “At least you won’t have it much longer.”
“Elias, I’m not - I don’t know why you think - ” Jon started, groping for the comforting heat of indignant outrage.
“Jon, do shut up,” Elias said pleasantly, dropping his trousers, “and get on your knees.”
Jon did not want to, or told himself he didn’t, but he found himself there anyway, kneeling on the thin carpet, feeling the nubbly grain of it dig through skirt and stockings to press itself upon his skin as he stared at the thing between Elias’s legs. The long cock, under the thatch of wiry pubic hair, the same color as the hair on his chest. At the head of it, at the scrotum behind.
He couldn’t even see the scars.
“Go on,” Elias said, “acquaint yourself with it.” And how shocking, Jon thought, to see his own hand, with its chipped and peeling polish on the nails, wrapping around the thing, lifting the hot heft of it. Feeling desire awaken in him, a hot and yawning mouth - not sexual. Of course not.
Jealousy.
“You will go private,” Elias was saying. Jon could barely hear him over the roaring in his ears. “Extremely talented surgeons of my…very personal acquaintance. No waiting lists - though we will wait until testosterone has swelled your clit out some. Ever so much easier when there’s already a little cock to work with.”
Jon swallowed, and let his hand drop. He fisted them both in the fabric of his skirt. “Elias, I - ”
“Come with me,” Elias said, stepping back, out of his trousers, returning to his desk. Jon went to rise, but: “Stay on your knees.”
Jon shuffled forward, head bowed, eyes fixed on the carpet, hearing Elias take something out of a drawer. And then he felt Elias yank the pins out of his hair, the bite of them against his scalp vanishing, the braids they’d been holding up unraveling. He felt the warm heavy weight strike and tumble over his shoulders, and then Elias took a handful, pulled it up, too hard, Jon’s scalp stung as he yanked. Jon cried out, and then -
Snikt.
The pain vanished. And Jon knelt there panting and trembling as Elias chopped his hair back to inches, dropping long, silver-streaked hanks into the wastebasket as if he were disposing of used tissues or empty wrappers, something mildly unpleasant and entirely useless. And then he brought out the clippers.
It was as bangs prickled Jon’s forehead and the air raised goosebumps on his neck and the back of his close-faded scalp that Elias set his tools aside and looked down at him.
“Starting tomorrow,” Elias told him, “no more skirts. No more makeup.” Jon swallowed. The thin smear of lipstick on his mouth, the weak attempt at mascara, burned as if ground glass had been mixed in. “You’ll take the rest of the day off, and familiarize yourself with the wardrobe I’ve had sent to your flat. The binders, the briefs. The trousers and the button-ups. And when you come in tomorrow morning, you will not be — anymore. Not to anyone.” He leaned down slightly. His cock swayed, and his eyes glowed in the darkness of his backlit face. “You will be Jon.”
“What if I don’t?” Jon asked quietly, and Elias smiled.
“Then what little leash I’ve allowed you will be reined quite suddenly and unpleasantly in.”
Jon left, scurrying out of the Institute with hair itching in his bra. He considered simply not coming back. But the next morning, he found himself arriving in pressed trousers and a sweater over a tie and button-up over a binder, and with his hair combed and parted in a way he’d always liked.
The gray was much more apparent this way, he’d noted in the mirror this morning. He looked older, sharper. He looked…
Male.
Elias was waiting for him when he arrived, proud smile sowing heat somewhere in Jon’s ribcage. They entered the archives together.
“Oh, —!” Sasha exclaimed when she saw him. All the assistants were here; usually Jon beat them, but today, he’d taken longer than usual, the binder a devil to do up. “Are you trying out a new look?”
“Suits you, boss,” Tim said with a smile.
“Actually,” Elias said pleasantly, a hand coming down on Jon’s shoulder as he swallowed hard, “I believe he’d prefer to be called ‘Jon’ from now on. ‘Jonathan,’ if we’re feeling formal.”
There was a pause, during which Jon wished with terrific force he had not come in or had worn a skirt or perhaps simply passed away in his sleep. Then Martin, secondhand joy breaking across his face, said, “Oh - oh! Oh, congratulations - Jon!”
There were more congratulations all around, Sasha offering to make sure it got round the rest of the Institute as if aware Jon may die if he had to do this more than once, Tim suggesting they get a cake and celebrate, Elias seconding that idea with mild enthusiasm, Jon shutting it immediately down even as he somehow knew Martin would bring him a cupcake or something later anyway. And then things moved on.
On Jon’s lunch break, Elias made him take his first shot of testosterone.
He had him draw it up himself, in Elias’s office. As Jon held the small bottle in one slightly-trembling hand and the syringe in the other, he muttered, “This isn’t yours, is it?” There was no prescription label on the bottle itself.
“Oh, no. All yours,” Elias said, hand once again on his shoulder. “It’ll come through me, though. Now, trousers down, alcohol wipe…it’s dried, needle in…it’s quite thick, so it’ll sting like the devil…ahhhh.” Jon could hear the proud smile in his voice. “There’s a good boy.”
He stroked his newly-shortened hair as Jon slowly depressed the plunger, a whimper riding the back of every breath. And when he was done, small bead of blood wiped away and belt done up again, Elias guided him to the mirror, and stood behind him, hands on his shoulders, chin just barely tucked in atop his head as they both looked at Jon in the glass. It was just clear enough to see the two men standing there.
“Your breasts will empty,” Elias murmured, “and your hips will narrow, too, fat redistributing itself to your abdomen - you’ll get that effect in its extremes, I believe. Your hair follicles will change, thicken, darken. Your voice will deepen, your muscles become more prominent…although not much, given the lack of exercise I assume you intend to continue.” He sighed heavily. “An absolute shame you lied to yourself for so very long…and everyone else. Pretending to be a woman. Not that you were terribly good at it, were you?” Jon swallowed as one of Elias’s hands moved from his shoulder to his throat, then down the much-lessened swell of his chest. “At least now you’re allowing yourself to be shaped into what you always were. I’ll teach you how to shave, how to manage with your cock when it comes in - and I’ll see you through your surgeries. We’ll go shopping for cologne, don’t think I don’t smell that bloody rose still on you.” Hand over Jon’s stomach, he smiled. “And then the real work can begin.”
sweet release (james sunderland/bubble head nurse)
summary: then he saw it. one of the bubble head nurses, another name he coined himself.
it was draped over the grungy operating table, its body writhing in what seemed to be agony. its hands, which would have normally been brandishing a rusty metal pipe or blade ready to go in for the kill, were empty, gripping onto the edges of the metal surface. it was in pain.
its legs were spread in a way that james could only describe as tempting. white thighs apart and exposing white underwear below its skirt, long legs laying as if they were just asking to be grabbed and wrenched apart.
helpless.
james felt his cock harden in his pants.
sick fuck.
a/n: this one is a bit different than the stuff i normally write and definitely a lot more DUBIOUS so if you're not into that sort of thing please do not read lol.
i also have been obsessed with silent hill 2 recently (obviously) and i wanted to explore some dubious morals as well as unreliable narration, so i figured why not?
ANOTHER TW: references to r@pe, non-con, and extremely dubious consent
-------------------
james was tired. he didn’t know if it had been hours, days, weeks, or even months since he got to silent hill. his limbs were heavy like they were filled with lead. his clothes were caked with blood and god only knew what else, and he was slowly losing hope.
every step he took blurred together, every twisting dark hallway and locked door after locked door, an endless purgatory for him to wander aimlessly.
he killed because he deemed it necessary. these things came at him with force, with an unprovoked violence that called for nothing but violence in return. his finger ached from pulling the trigger, his arms weak from swinging that fucking metal pipe. the squelch of guts and porcelain and the putrid stench of vomit permeated his senses until he was unable to do anything but kill. put them out of their misery.
and he still found no sign of mary.
well, the real mary.
the few lives in this hellish place were the only things that kept him grounded, angela and eddie and laura and…
maria.
fuck… maria.
was she placed there to tempt him? brought to him to remind him of who he lost, who he was searching for, who he missed the most? or was it some sick fucking joke that this town wanted to play on him?
she was beautiful. she was– well, she was mary– but different. she had her face, pleading eyes and shy smile, but her voice was seductive and uncanny in a way that he couldn’t quite describe.
he settled on the theory that she was there to tempt him. to draw him off course.
that way it was easy. straightforward. don’t let her get to you. don't let her make you weak. she isn’t mary.
but why did she smell like her? why did she give off a sweet, deep, musky scent that reminded james of some old memory, a first date, maybe even a first fuck?
why— when the chilling breeze caught her smell and brought it to him like it was teasing him with her pheromones— did it make him ache like he did all those years ago?
it had to be a sick joke.
as hard as it was, james resisted her. he acted like he didn’t feel some otherworldly magnetic pull to just give in and pretend she was mary because she was close enough , maybe even better in ways he didn’t want to admit. even when she got tired and weak, a sudden sickness hit her that made james’s stomach twist with familiarity, she lay down on the dirty mattress and the first thing james wanted to do was touch her. as he turned to leave he saw her knees, covered in the sheer nylon of her tights, propped up and suspiciously, teasingly open, as if waiting for him to pull them apart.
he was a sick fuck.
this place must have been getting to him.
but, like all things in this forsaken place, maria was killed. not by his hand, but by the mysterious creature james coined as pyramid head, an unrelenting beast that sought him out. this executioner plunged his spear through maria’s stomach, and james watched the life drain from her body. in that moment, she looked more like his mary than she ever had.
james was tired . exhausted to the point of delirium, alone again to roam in the dark, decomposing halls of the hospital. as he walked, he thought back to what he could have done. if he was a different man, he would have taken advantage of the opportunity; a beautiful woman attempting to seduce him, a woman who looked exactly like his late wife… deep down james felt that it was a dream come true.
a dream that he passed up. and now he regretted it.
he could feel himself aching as he recalled her pink lips, her top teeth digging into the plump bottom one for a brief moment, the way she slowly blinked and looked up at him. the way she touched him, ever so casually, and left his skin burning for minutes after she had recoiled.
he imagined her knees propped on the bed again, except this time he imagined turning around and spreading them, pulling off her boots and running his hands up her calves, her thighs…
james inhaled sharply and tried to push the thoughts from his mind.
but these halls were so quiet, so empty, and he was so fucking lonely .
he imagined maria gasping in surprise as he touched her, and in her sick and fatigued state, not bothering to push him away. she had wanted this after all. maybe he would rip her tights, push up her skirt, put his mouth on her. maybe she would have tasted just like his mary too.
james was startled out of his thoughts when the radio in his pocket sprung to life, the jarring sound of muffled breaths and static making his stomach drop.
he realized he was growing hard from thinking about maria. he continued on, turning the corner into one of the open hospital rooms as the feedback from the radio grew louder, making him wince with its high-pitched frequencies.
and then he saw it. one of the bubble head nurses, another name he coined himself.
but this one was… different.
the nurses were normally hostile. they would twitch and stumble towards him, swing at him with malicious intent, but this one was… weak.
it was draped over the grungy operating table, its body writhing in what seemed to be agony. its hands, which would have normally been brandishing a rusty metal pipe or blade ready to go in for the kill, were empty, gripping onto the edges of the metal surface. it was in pain.
its legs were spread in a way that james could only describe as tempting . white thighs apart and exposing white underwear below its skirt, long legs laying as if they were just asking to be grabbed and wrenched apart. it had thigh-high white tights on that were held up by a garter belt, the straps disappearing under its skirt, and against his better judgment, he wanted to rip them off.
if james didn’t have the context of the world around him, he would have assumed this faceless nurse was caught in the grip of pleasure, its body open and ready for the taking.
docile, weak, helpless.
james felt his cock harden in his pants.
sick fuck.
mary was gone, maria was gone… he didn’t know if this place was just getting in his head or if he really was just that desperate.
james kept his gun up, shakily on it as if all his attention wasn’t occupied with the throbbing below his belt, the intoxicating thud of his heart in his chest and his ears.
but the nurse just lay there, squirming, its back arching and its legs dangling from the table, white high heels not even touching the ground.
though it didn’t have a mouth, struggled inhuman gasps came from its throat, a wail that almost resembled the rattle of death. it sent chills down james’s spine, but he reached forward, placing his hand on its cold knee.
it didn’t even look up. its head was thrown back, faceless and wrapped with rotting cloth, its breasts bulging from its dress and rising heavily with each gasp it took. james licked his lips, his breath catching in his throat.
i’ll help you. he thought. just let me do this. it’ll feel good, i promise.
when he placed his gun down on the table beside it, he knew there was no going back. he was already imagining if it even had a pussy, and if it did, what it would feel like to plunge his dick into it as deep as humanely possible.
he ran his fingers up its thighs, his brows pinched together and his lips parted in pure desire as he felt its flesh. it was flesh . soft and plump, like a real woman. if he closed his eyes, he could pretend. maybe he could pretend it was mary, or maria, or some strange amalgamation of them both.
this thought only made him harder.
james attempted to pull its legs further apart, but it seemed stiff, as if its body was old and worn out.
the nurse choked out a pained rasp as james pried its legs apart, pushing them up as he yanked it closer to him. as he bent its knees, he was reminded of the pyramid head man, the way he wrenched the mannequin legs apart sadistically, toying with them. was he any different at that moment?
the only difference was that james wasn’t toying. he had one thing in mind, and it still wasn’t putting up a fight.
Hello! You can call me Whimsy~! I'm a sick bitch that writes disturbing and fucked up fantasies. Sometimes when writing isn't enough, I will draw art inspired by it for my and my followers' visual pleasure (my art is mostly canon x oc centered!). I possess the most vile and unhealthy kinks so beware! If you don't like dark content and it makes you uncomfortable, leave and find something else to immerse yourself in.
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Asks/Inbox always open. Hate and you will be blocked.
An idea that only works if all the turtles are identical like in mirage.
But! Leonardo gets hurt and has to sleep it off for a few days and tells his brothers to make sure his lover 1. Doesn’t worry and 2. Is taken care of.
And well following his instructions to the word would just make them good brothers wouldn’t it?
So what if they take turns dressing up as him when you’re around? You can’t worry if you don’t know Leo is gone.
And what if they fuck you a few times? Leo always talked about how worked up you’d get without it. As long as they don’t come inside you it doesn’t count right? Well as long as they eat it out of you after. Eh, it’ll wash off whenever you shower.
